Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

point of paranoia. Yet to save a few dollars on Manuel’s salary, dollars that the General could well have afforded, having left the capital with a suitcase full of gold bars, he allowed a stranger, and a mysterious one at that, to live within his gates and beyond his immediate oversight.
    There was no physical danger, of course. The General’s two bodyguards, Hector and Jesus, were always vigilant. One or the other was perpetually on duty, and at some point, it would surely please the General to throw the old man into the street. Yet from a strict security standpoint, Manuel’s residence in the garden, even briefly, was unwise.
    If asked about this, the General would have said that Manuel was a wonderful gardener who would get the place into shape. The orchids, the lilies, the flowering cacti, the bananas, the bamboo, all the various ornamentals and tropicals thrived under his care. Every time the General went into his garden, he was reminded of his patio back in the capital and of evenings sitting with friends under the palms.
    But, as with so many aspects of the General’s life, the situation with Manuel was complex. Even in retirement, the General had considerable business dealings and still retained influence back home. He was absent a good deal, and Alejandro, who was lonely, had taken a great liking to Manuel and a great interest in the operation of the garden.
    At home, the General would have put a stop to that at once. The son of the General was not training to be a gardener. But here, things were subtly different. The boy missed his adored mother and none of the housekeepers or cooks had won his heart to the degree the old gardener had. When the General was away, the boy spent hours down in the garden shed talking to Manuel and learning the mysteries of propagation and pruning.
    One evening the General asked Alejandro what he and Manuel found to talk about, the old man being, as the General knew, quite illiterate.
    “We talk about the plants,” said the boy.
    “Nothing else?”
    “This and that. He comes from the highlands.”
    The General pricked up his ears at that, and it came into his mind to fire Manuel instantly.
    “He says,” Alejandro added, “that you were a great man at home, and one day I’ll understand the sort of man you are.” The boy gave a smile of such trust and sweetness that the General was disarmed. There were, after all, some good people in the highlands, faithful, sensible souls. Even there.
    Just the same, he began to take a greater interest in Manuel and in what Alejandro was learning in the garden. He had the boy show him which plants he had pruned and how the small orchids — propagated, as even the General could see, with delicate skill — were progressing. Sometimes in the evening when Alejandro was in bed, the General would wander through his garden, smoking a thin cigar, thinking of this and that, of days in the capital when his power was supreme, and of earlier days in the mountains when his word, his every impulse, was law.
    Often as he strolled along the immaculate paths, the General found his way past the plots holding chilies and cilantro, yams, jicamas, beans, tomatoes, and corn to the little potting shed. There was a pipe for water, and some fastidious former owner had installed a small toilet. Manuel or one of his predecessors had acquired a hot plate and a barbecue, and on some nights the General smelled bracing, peppery concoctions or, more rarely, the scent of meat or chicken bathed in herbs.
    It was on these nights that the General thought of the back-country, so terrible and beautiful, and of what he had done and ordered there. Sometimes, the smells were so intense, so delicious — as if they were the scent of memory rather than the cookery of an impoverished gardener over a few charcoal briquettes — that the General imagined a single mouthful of such food would restore him to his old headquarters deep in the past.
    I’m getting old
, thought the General one evening. He felt that it would be wise to fire Manuel that night, that very moment, and yet he did not. In fact, he found himself drawn more and more to the night garden and to the shed, which always seemed dark to him, though he knew for a fact that it was wired for power, and he sometimes saw a faint light emanating from it when he looked out his bedroom window at night. He told himself that he could have the power cable disconnected, just as he could fire Manuel. There were always