Roachkiller and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

waiting for me in a hotel in San Juan. But he wants to make sure it comes with a certificate of authenticity. That is why we are here.”
    “So you stole this?” I waved the stone.
    “Please be careful with that.”
    “It’s a rock.”
    “It’s a cemi. It’s sacred. The Neo-Taino movement needs money to buy back land. To take back what is ours. This carving is a great sacrifice, but it will be worth it.”
    “And what’s a Neo-Taino?”
    “According to DNA, more than half of Puerto Ricans still have Taino blood in their veins.”
    “That doesn’t make them Indians. They’re selling quenepason the side of the road, not doing rain dances.”
    Her lovely hazel eyes rolled. “Listen, the buyer will pay one million dollars for this cemi.”
    “For this?” I whistled. “So, why not just rent a car? Why did you need me? Or was it just an excuse to get to know me better?”
    “Ay, negrito. I didn’t want to do this alone. Don’t you understand?” she said and got out of the car.
    She went through the trees. I followed. The soil was wet and squished under my feet. We came to a wooden fence. With her boots, she began to kick it down.
    “Let me do that,” I said. With a few kicks, I opened a space big enough for an SUV.
    “You didn’t have to destroy it.”
    “I don’t know my own strength,” I said.
     
    *  *  *
     
    We came out into a wide clearing. On one side were several rectangular spaces of cleared dirt. Around it were stone carvings, one foot to five feet high, with faces and figures in white. Animals, people, and people that looked like animals.
    “That is a batey court,” she said, “where the warriors would play in order to settle disputes between different villages. We were a wise and peaceful people.”
    “What did they play? Tennis?”
    We circled the courts. Light rain began to fall. “There’s that tropical storm,” I said.
    “Have you heard the story of Juracán, who was there at the creation of the world?”
    “Nope.”
    In the distance there were a few straw huts. Cone roofs, small doorways.
    “He was the brother of Yucahú and the son of Atabey,” she said, “and he was created from elements in the air and therefore without a father.”
    “Like me.”
    “Juracán became envious of Yucahú when he saw his brother create the race of humanity, and so he tried to destroy his brother’s creations. He became known as the god of strong winds—you get the word ‘hurricane’ from his name. The Tainos feared him. When the hurricanes blew, they knew they had displeased Juracán.”
    “Then something must be pissing him off today.”
    She was headed toward what looked like an office building when we passed a hut. She turned and saw something and ran toward it.
    The way she gasped, I could tell something was wrong. Then I saw it. Next to the hut, a man lay faceup on the ground. His face was stuck in a grimace of pain. A line of blood led from a small hole in the man’s bright white guayabera to a black-red pool.
    “It’s Dr. Arroyo,” she said. “He was supposed to give me the certificate.”
    I was about to bend down to enter the hut, when I heard something moving in the grass behind him. I turned. Somebody hit me.
     
    *  *  *
     
    I was kissing dirt. I heard talking, but it wasn’t English or Spanish. It was strange, rhythmic. Almost like a drumbeat.
    I tried to move. My hands were tied. I looked up and saw the flat-headed man from the wedding coming toward me with a big stick like a giant pilón. His other hand was cupped. The man put the hand on my face, covering my nose and mouth. He said something in that strange language. There was a rotten-smelling powder in the man’s hand. I tried to shake loose but I couldn’t help inhaling the powder. I opened my mouth to breathe and more went in. It hit me like another smack to the back of my head. I began to vomit, all the eggs, platanos, mango slices, and buttered bread. He came at me with a knife in his hands and cut the