There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) (10 page)

As she continued along the ridgeline, her eyes explored gingerly and observed the different types of strata and soil. She noticed a large gash in a rock face. She stopped.
That might do
.

Upon closer inspection, the crevice was five inches across at its widest, and dark inside, so that she couldn’t gauge its depth. There was a natural outcrop at its top that would shunt rainwater away.
Yes, this could work.
Hovering her hand at its threshold, she hesitated before sliding her fingers in. Her right hand and forearm were soon enveloped by the rock. She pushed deeper.

— Beware of that crack!

She jumped at the voice and jerked her arm out. Two men were walking toward her. She noticed dampness at their armpits and down their chests. Bunches of newly slashed green sugar cane rested on their shoulders. They stopped and watched her, and she eyed them.

—
Poukisa
? she finally called. Why?

— A man’s hand is trapped in there. We had to cut off his hand to free him.

Her left hand unconsciously began rubbing at her other wrist. They continued to watch one another without speaking further.

They were so similar in size and shape, the pair had to be father and son. The older looked like a version of the younger that had aged decades in an instant. He was gray and wore a sweat-stained trilby on his head. The skin of his face sagged, though his muscles were taut and defined. He held a hoe with the cane stalks while his son carried cane on one shoulder while grasping two
koulin
blades, each longer and thinner than machetes. The son was dressed like Prosper and had a nervous quality that made him look wispy and sad.

She gave a meek nod as she left them, limping back down the hill toward Magdala’s. Despite the old man’s admonition, the scar in the rock wall did not leave her thoughts.

When she was in view of the house, she heard Magdala call out.

— I thought you’d left with Prosper. Magdala was still busying herself, this time pulling pebbles from rice in a shallow basket on her lap. She would not look at Libète directly. Betrayal underscored her words.

Libète came close. No–I just went for a walk with him. He showed me Foche. We . . . had an argument. And he left.

— If not for that boy’s mother . . .

Libète stood there, biting her lip.

— You’re back, then? Magdala said.

— I’m back.

— That’s good. Magdala gave a sad smile, relieving Libète. Magdala’s hands returned to their searching, and her mind to its heavy thoughts.

Dorsinus was not to be seen. Only curled flakes of wood from his whittling lay where he’d been overnight. She glided over to Saint-Pierre, who was so very still, so very bored. The ass was tied to the mapou tree by a fraying rope, really just a few strands of sisal. He surely could have broken free if he wished to escape. Instead he stood there, dutifully, as his tail occasionally flicked at flies.

She stepped close to meet the beast’s deep brown eyes. They seemed unflinching, and empty of will. She patted down his neck. She coughed twice, which startled Saint-Pierre, and she covered her mouth.
Both of us are tied to this place
,
non?
she whispered, regret tinging her smile.

Saint-Pierre said nothing.

Libète’s mind involuntarily dipped again into her well of fears.

Engine’s growl before fierce roar

Fire, white and hot

Counting breaths before death

Pulling herself back into the moment, she found herself gripping Saint-Pierre’s rope with all her strength. She moved inside, out of the beastly Sun, looking to busy her hands so that her mind might not wander.

She decided to tidy what she could. She swept the shack with a small hand broom before noticing the small plate of spaghetti and ketchup, kept safe from flies under a red plastic cover. A glass of water had been left as well. Magdala had prepared them for her.
I’m an ingrate, leaving without a word this morning.
She sighed. She ate. She slept.

A bell rang, reminiscent of the one back at school in Cité Soleil. Its location was indistinct as the sound echoed. She rose and looked outside, wondering if she had perhaps imagined the ringing like the distant drums the night before. By now the Sun was in retreat and the shadows stretched long, awaiting their chance to blend into dark and run free.

She saw Magdala descending the hill, and the fear of being left alone claimed her.

— Madanm Magdala! Can I come with you?

The woman cocked her head. She wore a nice dress, a mellow blue.
One probably meant for church
. But it was only Wednesday. With that Libète remembered.
Félix’s sentencing
. Magdala nodded. Libète, rubbing her eyes, set off to follow.

They walked along the road, Libète staying behind the woman as they passed homes and followed the sound of the bell. Some neighbors stared. Others looked away in displeasure. Yet others turned away out of something else
–
compassion? Libète hated the looks, all of them, until she realized they were directed at Magdala.

— What shall I be to you, Madanm Magdala? Libète said abruptly, out of nowhere.

— What’s that?

— I must tell others who I am. Why I am here. They will ask, I’m afraid.

— The truth, Magdala said absently. Why not just tell the truth?

— Ah, but the truth–I told you–it’s no good. For you or for me.

Magdala mumbled a few words. Libète realized her mind longed to be elsewhere, wandering the hills, maybe. Not ready to confront what they were plodding toward.

— What if I’m a visitor? Libète said.

— Yes, a visitor . . .

— A family member? Maybe a niece?

— A niece. That would be nice . . .

They walked without speaking for some minutes.

— I’m sorry to hear about Félix.

The woman’s shoulders sank. I’m sorry too.

— Do you want to talk about it?

She shook her head. Libète was grateful. There was solace in things left unsaid, and in that solace, a bond.

After ten minutes they approached the church that housed the sounding bell. The structure was deep and wide, built of spartan gray block and sheathed in rusted tin.

They climbed a small hill and stood off from the threshold. The inside of the church looked dark, like a mouth ready to consume them.

Magdala took a deep breath. Let’s go in, Sophia. My niece.

She put her arm around Libète and the two walked in, no longer alone, but together.

On the ride back to the school, Brown unsettles her and Jak. He blathers on his cell phone, discussing vacation plans to Puerto Rico, shaking with asthmatic laughter over a joke told by whoever was on the other end of the line.
As though there isn’t
a dead girl in the hospital
.

— Where’s Stephanie Martinette? Libète interrupted. Our guardian.

— She’s been contacted, he said brusquely. He returned to his conversation. Libète’s hand found Jak’s. The boy squeezed back.

The sky turned mackerel-colored as the Sun dropped from view. Brown turned off Route 9 and idled at the campus gate as Véus slid it back. As they drove through, Véus could not meet Libète’s eyes.
The poor man
.
He blames himself.

— Secure them, Charles, Mr. Brown ordered. Charles cocked his head and gestured toward the children. Come along. Please. Won’t you?

The children slid from the backseat and followed him.

— Where are you taking us? Jak asked Charles.

— I am . . . we’re going . . . ah.

He marched them to a block of rooms on the school’s second floor. Libète couldn’t rouse herself to demand more of an answer; her thoughts were still lingering on the memories of Didi laid out, the sound of her parents’ grieving, the hospital’s antiseptic scent. Charles deposited Jak in one room and slid a chain through the door’s external handle and a padlock through the chain. He took her to another down the hall.

Before entering, she saw Brown ascend the stairs. A renewed fierceness cut through her languor. Why are we being separated? she asked.

—
Safety
,
Brown replied. Charles pushed her in and closed the door. She heard the chain slip into place and a lock click shut.

— Bah! she spat, and banged on the door. Though the room was an unused teacher’s apartment, it felt like a jail cell.

They could have at least let Jak and me stay together.
To commiserate. To mourn. To shake and tremble. She saw it so vividly: Jak in a quiet panic as he was shut in his room, as if being locked alive in a tomb.

— Oh, God! Libète cried out.
Didi. Poor, poor Didi.
She prayed for her friend.

Hours passed.

She moved from the rigid chair in which she had been sitting and praying and laid on the room’s bed and cried into its pillow. Suddenly, the lock clicked and the chain fell and the door opened.

—
Manje
, Charles said, entering. Eat. He deposited a steaming bowl of porridge on the floor and left. The bowl would remain there long after its dancing wisps of steam had vanished.

A knock. It came from nowhere. Another rap.

— Just leave me alone, you idiot! Libète shouted at Charles.

Another knock. Charles I am not, a voice replied. You don’t know me.

Libète recoiled. The voice was feminine.

Rushing to the door, Libète pressed her ear against it. Who’s there? What do you want?

— To talk. To you. I have questions.

— About?

— Lots of things. Didi. Notes. Poison. The voice paused.
And numbers
.

Libète trembled.

— I heard about the radio show, the voice said. I think I can help you. The words were smooth yet earnest; they compelled trust.

— Who
are
you?

There was another pause, a long one. A friend. Most assuredly a friend, she said. My name is Maxine.

— Even if I wanted to open up, you can see the door is locked.

— Ah. But I have the key.

— Then why knock?

— Respect, my friend. Respect. May I enter?

Libète ran her hand over her plaits. Y-yes. Libète stood up straight.
Yes
, she repeated, with more certainty. The lock came undone, and Libète stepped back. Low light from the hallway limned the woman’s form as she slid in and closed the door.

— The lights, Maxine asked. Must they be out? The dark is so uninviting.

— No, Libète murmured. She slipped back to the bed, leaned against the wall, and pulled her legs to her chest.

The woman glided over to a desk lamp and flicked it on. With a quick turn of the chair, she sat down. Woman and girl each took in the other.

Face
: Round, pretty, gold hoop earrings

Skin
: Mahogany

Hair:
Straight, cropped to shoulders

Age:
Middle

Fashion
: Impeccable

Libète could not bring herself to look and assess the woman’s eyes.

— So you’re the
petit prophète
, eh?

The girl nodded. Maxine smiled, showing a beautiful set of teeth framed by lovely, wide lips. She wore a strapless dress that was patterned and smooth. She reached out her hand, and thin silver bangles sashayed around her wrist. Libète met the hand with her own, and shook it.

— Now that we’re acquainted, you can call me Max. Friends do that.

— I don’t understand what you want.

— I know Brown. He asked me to come.

Libète straightened, disdain on her face. You’re
friends
with him?

Maxine’s cheek puffed as she thought. Let’s just say . . . he calls me ‘Madanm Maxine.’

— What’s your game, then?

— Game? I don’t play games. I’m a truth-seeker. A professional one. A question-asker.
A digger
.

— A journalist? I’m not talking to the press. Not now.

— I don’t deal in the written word, no.

— What then?

—
Mwen se
yon
anketè
. I’m an investigator. Of a type. She leaned forward. I find hidden things. Dig up truth.