The Woman Who Lost Her Soul Hardcover (16 page)

Even so, concerning all things Jackie, he found himself frequently lapsing into a
form of preoccupation that seemed without shape or content, unalert and dull, distracted
by the inability of his own mind to cease its rummaging with no purpose through a
bin of images that the woman had left behind in his life, sucking him inward like
a dark force. Conrad Dolan had stopped talking and Tom, not listening, knew he had
just been told something earth-shattering but he could not yet summon the mental energy
to align the pieces into a logical whole. I don’t have a stellar intellect, he often
reminded himself as a way of taking his bearings, I simply have one well-calibrated
to manage an endless assault of practicalities, so let’s get to work. But what was
before him now seemed beyond him, this gathering of shifting shapes, foremost his
own, inspired, if that was the word, by Jackie. He felt dreamy and stupid and wasn’t
going to embarrass himself by asking Dolan to repeat the story and so he cracked and
peeled the shells off his soft-boiled eggs and sprinkled their tops with pepper and
unconsciously gagged himself, an entire egg stuffed in his mouth.

Counselor? said Dolan.

Tom nodded and kept nodding, his mouth full, not chewing for some reason that made
him feel childish and queer. Without regard to Conrad Dolan, Gerard broke the silence,
speaking again in Kreyol. The second thing, Gerard told him, was that he had never
said anything to the Americans about the day they all went to Saint-Marc, when the
woman called herself Jackie. And Tom, the third thing is this: I took the woman myself
to Bòkò St. Jean’s, not once but many times. Tom nodded, his eyes widening with curiosity,
still unable or unwilling to chew or swallow. He raised an imaginary camera and clicked
a picture. Gerard shook his head and said maybe but he didn’t know, he would stay
in the car or sometimes leave her there and spend the night in Saint-Marc and return
for her in the morning.

Harrington, said Dolan. What the fuck are you doing?

His eyes bulging, Tom nodded energetically at Dolan, then across to Gerard and back
to Dolan again, never having known himself to behave like this, the egg sealed behind
his lips like a concealed bomb, and rising from his stomach to block its descent a
dread telegraphed the obvious, that whatever happened next would trigger his dissembling.
He needed to be away from Haiti to have this discussion, he needed to be in his office
in his own friendly chair at his own desk with a notepad on the blotter and pen in
hand, glancing in front of him at the framed photographs of his family and Dolan across
from him in another chair, the air-conditioning cooling down their imaginations, the
walls lined with the books of his ideals and his assistant bringing them coffee, and
files and the safe and familiar vista of downtown Miami and its circling buzzards
out the window. They needed neckties and briefcases to get through this. They needed
talking points and an agenda and a realizable goal. He should be able to pick up the
phone and say to Dolan,
Sorry, I have to take this call
.

But here they were, Tom nodding with less and less composure, Dolan opening his mouth
to speak again but closing it prudently when Tom expelled the egg into his hand and
sat there wild-eyed and breathing like a runner, massaging the egg until it began
to fissure and ooze orange yolk, saying nothing but feeling that there seemed to be
no limit to his capacity for aggression because it had become clear to him that the
only possible thing to do with the egg was smash it into Dolan’s face. Yes, he was
listening despite himself; yes, he had heard. Dolan had made a crack about fucking
the girl. Dolan had just explained that Parmentier had killed Jackie Scott—didn’t
he say that he was protecting a client whom he knew beyond reasonable doubt to be
a murderer? Hadn’t he heard Dolan confess he knew his client would murder the girl
and had spent no effort to stop it. They were frozen, baleful eyes staring into each
other’s regret, until Dolan said, Hey, are you all right? Drink some water or something,
and carefully removed the egg from his hand and replaced it with a napkin and Gerard
took Tom’s arm to get his attention and said the last time he had taken the woman
to visit Bòkò St. Jean, the man came from the north to meet her and when Tom heard
this he slammed back into himself.

Her husband?

No, said Gerard. This man was the army man.

A soldier? An American?

The same one, confirmed Gerard. The one who took the woman to you in the north.

Special Agent Woodrow Singer arrived for an appointment that Tom Harrington could
not remember making, appearing like a seraphic messenger at the top of the staircase
to proclaim Jack Parmentier’s innocence, a tall but heavyset sandy-haired American
whose arid western voice clucked with feigned disappointment. Oh, how the mighty have
fallen, he said, extending his hand to his erstwhile supervisor, lowering it and the
chummy grin on his face a moment later when Dolan said, Kiss my ass.

Connie doesn’t understand that I’m on his side, said Singer, pulling an extra chair
next to Tom.

What side is that? said Tom.

Singer removed his sunglasses and looked across the table at Gerard with penetrating,
unfriendly gray eyes. Who is this man?

What brings you around, Woodrow? asked Dolan. I thought you didn’t like to be seen
with me. To Tom he said, I embarrass him.

He’s my driver, said Tom. What’s the problem?

Ask him to leave.

He’s eating his breakfast, said Connie. He’s not going anywhere.

I’d like to speak with Mr. Harrington in private.

That’s up to Tom, said Dolan. I’m eating my breakfast too.

What side? Tom asked again and Singer nudged his chair closer to Tom’s and said Parmentier
was an innocent man.

Tom glared at Dolan, who was intent on eating, and said, Innocent? You arrested him.

Point of fact, said Woodrow Singer, speaking under his breath to explain that Justice
took Parmentier into custody, not the Bureau. You can describe this as an interagency
misunderstanding. A young and ambitious prosecutor who has not paid attention to how
things work. There is some zealotry involved. These misunderstandings will straighten
themselves out, and it’s my opinion, Mr. Harrington, that you have a role to play
in that process.

No. Not me.

You’re bringing fresh eyes to the game.

Connie thinks Parmentier’s guilty, said Tom.

I never said that, said Dolan without looking up from his plate.

You fucking well did, said Tom loudly.

I’m confident that Jack’s in the clear on this one, said Woodrow Singer, rapping his
knuckles on the table, his eyes requiring consensus.

Dolan raised his head to beam contempt. Let’s all get down on our knees and pray for
Jack’s deliverance.

Jack loved his wife, said Singer. He would never harm her.

Gerard sat poised, clutching his fork and knife in opposite hands, keeping his eyes
down to protect his dignity as he muttered in Kreyol. Tom, this man just told you
a lie. When Gerard continued muttering about the time he drove the newly married couple
to Jacmel, Singer became perturbed and demanded to know what was being said.

He says you’re a liar, said Tom, watching the agent’s face blanch.

Son of a bitch.

Okay, Tom persisted, Parmentier’s innocent. Who are we talking about then? Drug lords?
Arabs? He paused to think for a moment. What’s the deal with the Arabs?

Singer pointed at Gerard with his sunglasses. Get this bastard out of here.

Can you tell? Tom said to Gerard. Guy loves Haitians.

Dolan fished in his pocket for keys and asked Gerard to fuel up the rental for the
drive to Saint-Marc. Singer’s unforgiving eyes followed him across the veranda and
down the stairs and then he angrily scraped his chair away from Tom’s and said, I
think this would go much better if we could speak in private.

What’s Parmentier have on Connie? Tom asked Woodrow Singer.

Nothing, snarled Dolan. Himself. His existence. Nothing but the fact of himself, that
I was protecting him. Now I guess that would be Woody’s job.

I want to say something to you both, said Tom. Here’s the picture I’m getting. Let’s
imagine it’s better for both of you if Jack Parmentier never comes within a mile of
a plea bargaining situation.

I think you have a very clear idea about that, Mr. Harrington, said Woodrow Singer.
And I also think you have a clear idea about who murdered Jack’s wife, and why.

He looked from one man to the other, their identical blank expressions, unable to
see them as anything but fabulists and conspirators. Am I supposed to guess?

Let’s all guess, Dolan said derisively. I guess the
cocaleros
.

Connie, Singer warned, stay in the box.

Who am I supposed to guess? said Tom. Lecoeur’s people?

Not them, said Woodrow Singer. Not possible.

Why not them? asked Tom.

Those people were gone. Disappeared. Vanished. Singer had told the team sent down
from Miami the same thing but they were fixed on a motive of revenge.

How can that be? Gone where?

Bad things happen to bad people, said Woodrow Singer. Connie didn’t tell you? It was
all in the report. I thought you knew.

I’m fairly sick of hearing about this report. Somebody tell me who wrote this report?

It was a standard military sit-rep, said Singer. Author’s name redacted.

Wait, said Harrington, this wasn’t a Bureau report? and Singer told him there was
one of those too.

That leaves us with the Arabs, said Dolan. What kind of a mess have you got yourself
into with the Arabs, Woody?

That is not a Bureau project, said Special Agent Woodrow Singer.

Horseshit.

We are facilitating. That’s all I can say.

What about this gallery owner? wondered Tom. Did you speak to him yesterday, Connie?
but Dolan stared past Woodrow Singer with undisguised loathing and wouldn’t answer
yes or no.

Tom shrugged and assented when Singer asked one more time for the opportunity to talk
in private. His head tipped, Singer spoke under his breath even though they were alone
on the far side of the veranda, saying to Tom that Jack Parmentier was not so fallen
a sinner that he was not deeply disturbed by what he saw here in Haiti. If you’re
a Christian, said Singer, you understand what I’m saying.

I haven’t a fucking clue what you’re saying.

And I told Jack that this was no place to bring a woman in Renee’s condition.

What condition? asked Tom.

Look, Singer whispered, Connie’s a good man but without the faith that would allow
him to recognize root causes. He sees bad apples. He never thinks: bad tree.

What condition?

She was in crisis, whispered Singer as if in prayer. Spiritual crisis. Jack adored
Renee, and only wished she would bring the Lord into her heart.

Tom looked at Singer, the agent’s hands clasped below his jowly chin and his lids
quivering over closed eyes, the unpleasant tip of his tongue sliding at intervals
across the purple swell of his upper lip, and he felt a perverse expansion of sanity,
hearing Jackie’s own insanity confirmed by this modern Shakespearean madman assigned
to speak the truth.

She told me she had lost her soul, Tom said to Singer. You’re a man who would believe
that, aren’t you?

Singer’s voice strengthened as he proclaimed that was indeed her undoing, that any
righteous man could not fail to see she had been possessed by demons.

Demons? said Tom, and Singer nodded grimly. Why do I have this bad feeling you know
who killed her.

The devil.

Exorcists, proselytizers, crusaders wearing suits and shoulder holsters, lobbyists
for the blood of Christ, data analysts of the apocalypse—who else was the government
hiring these days?
thought Tom, unable to respond with anything but an expression of mockery, but Special
Agent Woodrow Singer was not to be deterred from his revelation.

The devil and his worshippers, Mr. Harrington. Now you understand what I’m saying.
If it were in my power I would destroy in the name of God the entire blasphemous cesspool
of this island.

Without another word, Tom Harrington walked off the veranda and went back to his room
knowing he could not ignore the marvel of this convergence, Woodrow Singer and Gerard,
unknown to each other, dialing in the same coordinates. He stretched out on the single
bed with his hands behind his head, watching the ceiling fan and its lethargic rotation,
surprised that he was not surprised to learn Jackie had threatened her husband, because
there was something vicious in her, a terrifying unstoppable wildness, and he had
seen it, and he had suffered from its consequence. But the distance between
vodou
—Singer’s devil worshippers—and whatever went wrong—Arabs. Arabs?—in the misbegotten
relationship between Jackie and Parmentier was inhabited by a fog bank of government
skullduggery and infighting and cynical misdirection that made his brain twitch when
he stared into its mists, looking for the connections.

I’m not going back down, he told himself, a right and reasonable decision that lasted
all of ten minutes.

Someone knocked on his door and he barked back,
Go away, go to hell,
but it was Gerard, not Dolan, asking to be let in. Tom assumed Connie had sent him
but Gerard denied it, the white men didn’t know he had returned to the hotel, and
they sat on the bed together in the stifling musk of the room while Tom pulled on
his socks and leather boots, obliged once more to listen but for once to someone he
knew to trust, a Haitian and a friend and an honest man.

The day Gerard took the woman to Bòkò St. Jean’s
hounfour
on the outskirts of Saint-Marc it was understood that he would drop her off and come
back in the morning but Jackie—she had a new name, said Gerard. Renee—was unusually
happy and excited this day, said Gerard, and she encouraged him to stay to observe
the ceremony, already in progress from the day before. They’re killing bulls, she
told him with a broad smile.