Another young guy jumped into the melee, pushing against the surging crowd of Chavistas. A few more young men jumped in too, though it was unclear if they were trying to rescue the guy on the ground or were taking the opportunity to kick some Chavista ass. Either way, it was turning into an ugly brawl, though a few of the older activists, including the woman who was speaking, were able to duck out of the group and safely shout from the sidelines.
The cops finally sprang into action, running toward the crowd with batons drawn. They began beating anyone not wearing red, including a young woman who was taking pictures of the fight. A short, stocky policeman hit her in the midsection with his baton, then grabbed her camera and smashed it against the ground. As she keeled over he hit her again, then cuffed her wrists with a plastic zip tie.
Taylor was still holding on to Brodie’s arm, and she gave it a firm squeeze. “Stand down, soldier.”
Brodie didn’t reply. This wasn’t the first time he’d stood on the sidelines witnessing injustice on an overseas assignment, and it always felt like shit. Being an infantry soldier sucked too, but at least there, the moral choices were clearer. Or the adrenaline made it feel like they were clear. But being a CID agent meant you stood on a different part of the stage, in the dark beyond the klieg lights, choosing the right moment to step out of the shadows.
The Chavistas backed away from the brawl as the cops moved further into the crowd, batons flying. A few of the young men knelt and covered their heads for protection, and received hard hits to their backs before being kicked and cuffed. One guy fought back furiously, repeatedly bashing his fist into a cop’s helmet visor and kicking at his shins. He got a baton cracked across his jaw in response, and a long rope of blood and spittle splattered against the plaza’s black marble. The cop’s buddies joined in and they all laid into him.
A few policemen seemed interested in Brodie and Taylor, and Taylor pulled Brodie away from the brutal scene into a building on the square. It wasn’t until his eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight that he realized she’d brought him into a church.
It was a tall Romanesque cathedral with a large central nave containing rows of wooden pews and lined with arched colonnades on either side. A few people were sitting in the pews closest to the altar.
Taylor led him toward a side chapel. Behind a metal railing was a statue of the Virgin Mary on a gold-painted throne, with Baby Jesus sitting on her lap. There was a vase of yellow flowers on a table at her feet, and a rack of votive candles stood near the railing. About half of them were lit. Taylor approached the candles and looked for a tinder stick on the rack, but since this was a country with a shortage of everything, there were none, though a resourceful parishioner or priest had made a stack of tiny twigs that had probably been sourced from the plaza. Taylor lit one of them from an existing flame and lit another candle. She offered the burning twig to Brodie.
Brodie had been raised with no formal religious instruction, though he did recall many summer nights lying in the grass stargazing with his parents while Mom and Dad shared a funny-smelling cigarette and debated the existence of God. His grandparents on his father’s side were strict Lutherans, though they were also cruel and miserable, so religion didn’t seem to be doing much for them. And one time in college he’d gotten serious with a religious Jewish girl and openly entertained converting, but he had no religion to convert from, and he’d dropped the idea and the girl.
“Brodie?”
He took the burning twig and lit a candle, then joined Taylor at the railing. He closed his eyes and tried to quiet his mind, but the muffled sounds of violence outside found their way in.
Whom did he light the candle for? He wasn’t sure. Maybe for those people outside—the young guys venting their rage at the fate of their country. Or for the cops springing into action to preserve their dollar-a-day jobs. Maybe even for the people draped in red for their dead idol who, by all indications, was a charismatic con artist who’d promised heaven on earth and delivered hell.
Maybe he lit it for Andy Rucker, a squad-mate from his time in Iraq. Andy had been a reservist from a small town in eastern Pennsylvania. He was doing reserve duty as a part-time gig to help support his family, but he got called to active duty—like so many reservists and guardsmen at that time—as the war that was supposed to be over in six months stretched into years.
Andy wasn’t a warrior. He wasn’t there for a cause, or a thrill, or to takeout his anger issues on some hadjis. He was as brave as he could possibly be, but at the end of the day he was a sensitive soul in the middle of a meat grinder. When they were in the thick of it and a mortar round landed near them, it shook Andy a little extra. And when their unit lost a guy, it took a little more out of him too.
Andy Rucker survived the war, but he brought it home with him. Brodie did too—they all did—but Brodie liked to think he’d left at least some of it behind in the desert. Andy did not.
Andy drank. Andy gambled. Andy called Brodie and other old Army buddies at all hours of the night from bars and bus stops and train stations along the eastern corridor, sometimes asking for money, sometimes for a ride. Sometimes he just needed someone to listen to him. They all tried to help, but Andy didn’t want help. Andy wanted to die.
His funeral service had been at a little Presbyterian church in his hometown two years ago, and it was the last time Brodie had set foot in a house of worship. It was a small and modest service, and he saw people from Andy’s life that he only knew from stories—his mom and dad, his younger sister, his high school sweetheart he’d once been engaged to. All of them there, all of them diminished by time and grief.
Brodie had bowed his head in prayer then too, eyes closed, listening to a solemn hymn, angry at how things had turned out for Andy Rucker. Angry at a world that had no place for things that were precious and too easily broken.
“Scott?”
He opened his eyes. Taylor was looking at him.
“You okay?”
He looked at his hands gripping the railing, white-knuckled, trembling. He let go and stepped away. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
CHAPTER 17
They sat in Luis’ parked car about a block away from Museum Plaza, which was obscured by a dense ring of trees. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows. It was ten minutes before their rendezvous with Raúl, and Brodie had broken it to Luis that they were not here to take in Caracas’ fine museum culture.
Luis said, “Torre David is very dangerous. It is a place for thugs.”
“Good,” said Brodie. “We’re meeting a thug.”
“I will come with you.”
“That’s above your pay grade, amigo.”
Luis couldn’t seem to let this go. “Then you must take my pistol.”
Brodie looked at Luis, who had genuine fear in his eyes. “We’re both armed,” said Brodie.
