There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) (33 page)

— A heavy thing, indeed. You’ll go?

— I don’t want to.

— But you must. The Sosyete stands on the edge of a blade, between good and evil. Those who cross them suffer. You’re fortunate they summoned you and didn’t steal you in the night. This, this is a blessing.

— But I have nowhere to go. No one to go to. Foche, it’s become my home.

Janel’s expression was steely yet compassionate. She gave the girl a bracing hand.

— This is an injustice, to be sure. You’ve been accepted here. A risk, they said? What risk could you possibly pose, Sophia?

Libète cringed at this particular use of the fake name, knowing very well the risks she posed. Madanm Janel, I come to you with hope. I was thinking about something else Legba said. Foche is theirs to control, I understand that, but he said the order to go came from one even higher.

— What are you asking of me?

— To intervene. To save my life here.

Janel stood up and paced. Now this,
this
is a heavy thing. To make such a request
. . .
it can be dangerous! She looked at Libète, who looked emptied.

— I’m sorry I came. The girl rose, looking downward. Of course I couldn’t ask this of you. Threatening your place here, when you do such good, to protect myself–it’s a selfish thing.

Janel stopped Libète halfway toward the door. But an understandable one. And I will do what I can.

Libète swelled with new hope. She took the woman’s hands. Thank you, thank you,
thank you.

— It’s all right. Sophia, I don’t know you well, but when I see you, I see
strength
buried down deep. You remind me of myself, just about to discover how much power you have.

— Mèsi. Mèsi anpil.

— If I can keep you here, I will. But prepare yourself for the worst, while hoping for the best.

Libète nodded, wicking away tears.

— And thank you for coming to me with this, Janel said. For trusting me with it. I want you to know–

Three knocks on the door made her pause. Mother?

— I’m still with Sophia, Prosper.

— I think you need to see this.

They can hear the dull rumbling before feeling the ground shake with small tremors.

The two walk toward the door together. Janel was restored to her regal bearing. What is it?

Prosper looked at Libète warily. The guards – he signaled with a slant of his head to the large truck that was parked nearby – they have someone for you.

— Some
one?
Not some
thing
?

Janel stepped out toward Cinéus and Wilnor. They stood in the truck’s bed, hands on their weapons.

— Madanm, Cinéus called out with a deferential nod. We’ve caught a thief on the road. He was trying to make off with a car, and it turned out to be the local houngan’s down the mountain. We took him at the mayor’s request for fear a group might rise up and kill him. We thought you’d protect him here.

— How
. . .
helpful of you. Janel was genuinely surprised.

— You can come close, but be careful. He has some sort of sickness. He’s in and out.

— Out right now, Wilnor called. He’s all over the place.

— Delusional, Cinéus said.

— Right. Delusional.

Janel walked up and inspected him. Well, what do you want me to do with him?

— Lock him up. Foche has a shack for such people near the market, no? When the police come through in a few days you can hand him over.

— That’s a big responsibility. Why don’t you keep him locked up at your camp?

— The bosses wouldn’t have that, Cinéus said.

— Not at all, Wilnor added.

— Take pity on him, won’t you? He’s in a bad way, even if he’s a thief, Cinéus said.

Janel looked askance at the ailing man and sighed. Her body shielded him from Libète’s view. Something in the man’s state seemed to prick Janel’s conscience. We can handle him for a few days. Prosper, go with them. Get the key from Jeune and unlock the shed. We haven’t had to use it for some time. She said this quietly, just loud enough for Libète and Prosper to hear.

— Not since Félix, Prosper whispered.

— Sophia, please go with them. Maybe your healing hands can do some good to keep this one alive for the next few days?

Libète looked at the guards: Cinéus with his lascivious eyes and Wilnor with his dull ones. Libète gave a nod. Of course. I’ll do what I can.

Prosper climbed over the lip of the truck bed and extended a hand to Libète. She took the help and joined him.

She sat down and crossed her legs. She took in the accused’s gnarled form, his scarecrow limbs. His feet faced her, and she could not see his face.
Whatever he has is a bad disease.

The man mumbled something and shifted to his other side.

She convulsed at the sight, her heart’s palpitations as loud in her ears as the truck’s revving engine.

Before her, laid low by his illness, was Lolo.

The End of Hope

Se pa bon pou yon moun konnen twòp.

It’s not good for a person to know too much.

Dimanche hides his motorcycle under a ratty tarp while Stephanie parks nearby. He is already sitting on a crate and tending to a ripped net when the other three walk up.

Libète takes in the surroundings. The stately palms and pebble-laden beach and lone, leaning shack set back from the water and a boat that was Dimanche’s own–it all smelled of dead fish.
This is his exile?

Dimanche threads nylon through nylon. He took a large knife and cut a new strand of filament.

— Dimanche, we need to talk. Stephanie says. Alone.

He grunts, finishes tying a knot, lays his work down. As you wish. He brushes his hands off and follows her into the shack.

— Look, Libète! Jak says. One of the caged traps is propped up in the shadow of the shack, and within it are three pigeons. Libète nods and then paces, her arms crossed.

She watches the water as it slides in and seeps out.
A never-ending give and take
. Jak prods, analyzing the stack of traps and equipment Dimanche had accumulated. Dimanche’s boat was all white, bland compared to others down shore awash in primary colors. A rope hangs from a cleat at its back, and paddles lean against the boat. Its only flourish is the name
MARCEL
printed on its side. It gives Jak pause.

Shouting erupts from inside the hovel: ‘We have no choice!’ They are Stephanie’s words. Jak and Libète look at each other.

Dimanche sweeps the curtain hanging in the entrance aside. His face says nothing, and he’s back to his nets without a glance or word. The children step toward the shack. There is sobbing within.

— Don’t, Dimanche orders. He recommences his careful threading. She needs some time, he says.

Libète’s eyes are slits. So you’re a fisherman? She realizes how little she knows about the man when his uniform is stripped away.

— I wait. And I catch. Yes.

— Your boat, Jak says. I’ve seen it. Libète looks at Jak in surprise.

— Have you now?

— You’re the one who sits out there on the water near the villa. Late in the day. The only boat, Jak says.

Dimanche gives a tight smile. Keeping watch, he says. You’re still observant, Jak.

— You have birds too?

— Ms. Martinette brought them to me. We kept in touch that way, and with the Monsieurs Martinette. The ‘Pigeon Post.’ He chuckles.

— Why are you messing with those stupid nets at a time like this? Libète blurts.

Dimanche reflects for a moment, looks at her through tired, red-webbed eyes. I understand them.

— Jak and I need protection. I get that. But from the truth? Not from the truth. What’s going on here?

He searches the children’s eyes in turn. These troubles . . . He sighs, laying down the broken net and choosing his words with care. What we know: Benoit wants you dead. Indisputable fact. And he has tried numerous times to effectuate that will. Also fact: despite an initial belief to the contrary, this woman Maxine is not with Benoit. She remains an open question, as is who directs her. Whoever these people are, they want you alive. Very much so. So much that she and her people thwarted Benoit’s attempts to find you after you left Cité Soleil. I have seen them even go so far as to kill Benoit’s thugs.

Libète cannot make sense of it. But if they’re helping us, then why–

— They do nothing for your benefit. Whatever happened on that radio show, the call, the Numbers uttered by the murdered man on the other end of the line: this spurred them to action. Dimanche darkens. This information, these Numbers entrusted to you, are of great value to someone.

Libète balks. This is all . . . just because of . . . they can have the damned things! If it will make it stop, the world can know! 2563–

— Silence! he shouts. Not another soul can know! Not me! No one! Forget them if you can, any mention. Benoit is a monster, but he is forced to occupy a public spotlight. This limits him. But these others, I have observed them carefully. They are not constrained by light. Dimanche stares off toward the vast, vast sea. He winces. They are cruel, through and through. Shadows of men.

— But we never
saw
you these past years. Not once!

— The fatal car accident that missed you on the road to Jacmel? Two years ago? You remember?

— Yes.

— It was an attempt to collide with Ms. Martinette’s vehicle. To kill you all. And remember Jak’s spelling bee, at Hotel Karibe? How you were locked in a room and the door mysteriously opened?

— Yes.

— And the eviction protests at the Sylvio Cantor camp? When you were almost crushed by the bulldozer?

— Yes.

— And the night of the Numbers, at the radio station. The
malfèktè
’s knife that slipped through your window?

— Of course.

— I made sure it went no further. And then my card–

— Your card?

— ‘Enemies are at your door.’ I had it passed to that doorman.

— That
. . .
was you?

He gave a short, sad nod. It’s the one time I wish I hadn’t stayed in the dark. I knew something foul was up. My informants in Cité Soleil told me as much. But I didn’t want to reveal myself to you or anyone else, not yet. I was too cryptic. Your little friend paid the price for that mistake.

The memory of Didi writhing felt like a poke at a healing wound. How long did you know
. . .
he
. . .
was there? Plotting. She couldn’t say Lolo’s name.

— I didn’t know, not then. I just knew someone was making a move. Like you, I had always believed he was innocent. Jak kept Lolo’s involvement in Claire and Gaspar’s deaths a secret from everyone. I didn’t pay attention to Lolo until it was too late and you’d tripped his trap. Those hours you were missing in Cité Soleil were
. . .
unsettling.

Libète was seized by new disbelief. By God! We’re talking about
years
, Dimanche!

— You didn’t have eyes for anything but the surface of things. Where everything seemed safe and under control. I kept that illusion up for you.

— How did you survive, then? Libète said. Steffi knew you were there all along? Looking after us?

— She did, after a time. I let her know. But you two children, we decided, should not live in fear if you didn’t have to.

— But that means she didn’t bring you into this. Who would pay for you to ensure our safety if not Steffi?

His lips stayed tight. It’s a condition of the job that I cannot reveal your benefactor.

— Is that so? Her brow furrowed. Who. Else. Would.
Pay . . .
Ah! Ah ha! It’s Moïse! Moïse Martinette. Isn’t it? She laughed smugly. Of course it is. There’s no one else who could afford to do so. She looked at Jak, who shrugged. It sounds possible, he said.

— He’s a good one, that Moïse, Libète said. Dimanche let her revel in her conclusion and the momentary bit of satisfaction it brought.

Libète felt a set of eyes on her. She turned to see Stephanie waiting in the doorway to the shack. With her composure regained, Stephanie walked out toward them.

— Libète. Jak. The decision has been made. We are going to separate. Jak with me, Libète with Dimanche. Get your things. It’s time to go.

Cinéus and Wilnor carry Lolo into the shack like he’s a dead man. Libète does all she can not to run far and fast.

They lay him on the ground. There’s a dirty bucket thick with calm flies, and the men’s careless shuffling sees the flies rise and then return to the bucket’s filth. Libète hovers behind the guards, outside. She palms at her throat, and then her chest. She feels another bout of coughs coming on.

— I’ll go and get him some water, Prosper says.

Libète’s face tightens. She does not hear the words.

Lolo. Here.

It is incomprehensible. The intersection of her parallel lives makes the world seem like it might implode.
I can never get away. No matter where I go. Nothing I can do
–

— He looks like death, Cinéus says to himself. Don’t you catch what this one has, girl! We wouldn’t want to see you in such state.

— Are you all right being left with him? Wilnor asks.

Libète sniffs and nods without speaking. The odds were impossible. How could this be? A cruel coincidence? God’s judgment for running, hiding, and spurning him?

The two men left her as she stared at Lolo, a husk of a man. Prosper returned with a lidded plastic bucket full of water. He laid it down.

— What a disease. What do you think he has?

— Tuberculosis. She spoke the word as a reflex.

— Yeah? How do you know?

She didn’t respond; only knelt before the sick man. Lolo’s breath was shallow, rasped. Her thoughts flew again before returning, like the flies.

— What can you do for him?

— I’ll
. . .
need to try to wake him before long. Give him water. Try to get him to eat some food. He needs rest. His body is shutting down because of the illness. She suddenly realized that the stains on Lolo’s shirt were dried blood.

— Sophia. I
. . .
I just want to say that
. . .
I can’t imagine what you’re going through.

She spun. How could Prosper know who this man was? What his presence here meant to her?

— I know you’ve been told to leave Foche. And I just want to say, I think it’s wrong.

Libète snapped to attention. She rose. You listened to my conversation with your mother? But you couldn’t have. You left when I arrived
. . .

It dawned on her.
You were there
, she whispered. She looked at his eyes; registered them. They were the same ones she had seen behind her escort’s mask. You’re one of the Sosyete!

— I’m an initiate. I have no power. If I did, I would speak up for you. It’s wrong what they’re doing.

— Who? Who are they? Others from Foche?

— I
. . .
can’t say. The words pained him. You know I can’t. But I hope you know that I want to.

Thoughts of remaining now almost made her laugh. With Lolo here, everything was changed. Flight was a necessity. Unless
. . .

A new, terrible thought came to her.

— Wash your hands when you get home, she ordered.

— What?

— I’ll stay with him.

— I can’t leave you alone with this one.

—
I’ll
stay with him.

— He’s a thief! What happens when he wakes?

She felt flames rise inside her chest. So many repressed feelings; they were the air to give this fire life.

— I don’t
need
you, Prosper. She rose up. I don’t need someone as weak as you. As pathetic as you. Creeping in where you’re not wanted, living in the shadow of a great mother. You need to
go
, and you need to go
now
.

Prosper’s jaw clenched. Each sentence was a new slash and cut, ending his hopes that she might want him, might care for him. He deflated. She could see her words had her desired effect.

He left, simply floated away.

The coughs arrived again, making her heave, bringing her to her knees. She wiped at her mouth with her wrist, pulling it away in horror.
San.
Blood.

She too had Lolo’s disease. Contracted when and how she did not know. All of these months since arriving, she had been without medication. She had finished most of the treatment cycle, thought it might have been enough to keep her latent form of tuberculosis from becoming full-blown. She had felt no real change in her health, only a tugging at the back of her throat these past months. There had been mild fear of infecting others, but she was close to none but Magdala and had willed herself, despite the evidence, into believing she was well. And now, Lolo’s arrival seemed to aggravate the condition. His presence tore down every bit of fictive protection and health she had built around herself these months.

There was nowhere she could have peace unless his threat was stamped out.

She undid her headscarf and balled it in her fist. Her mind was blank, her face empty, raw impulse motivating her as her conscience’s influence was rendered null.