“Decomposition. Once a body is removed from the water, it undergoes rapid decomposition. If the autopsy is delayed for even a few hours, the classic signs of drowning will not be found to any great extent.”
“What else?” she asked, scribbling rapidly.
“How long did it take the US Coast Guard to find the bodies? If there was a significant delay from the time of death to the time the bodies were recovered, you have the same problem—no obvious signs of drowning.”
She was scribbling so fast, her hand was cramping. “Anything else?”
“In certain types of drowning deaths, you wouldn’t see the classic signs at all.”
“Like . . . ?” she prompted when he seemed to get lost in his own thoughts.
“If the person is drunk or suffers an injury that prevents him from struggling—or when death is caused by vagal inhibition.” He held up a hand in anticipation of her question. “Vagal inhibition is—”
“I actually know that one,” she interrupted. “Vagal inhibition is when you stop the heart by stimulating the vagus nerve in the neck. If you apply the right amount of pressure in the right spot, it leads to immediate loss of consciousness—or death.”
“That’s right,” he said, giving her a half-admiring, half-wary stare.
She could have told him that her knowledge came from the numerous self-defense classes she’d taken over the years, but she didn’t. All she said was, “The most common causes of vagal inhibition are pressure to the neck—as in hanging, strangulation, or a karate chop; an unexpected blow to the larynx, chest, abdomen, or genitals; or extensive injury to the spine. None of that has to do with drowning.”
Eric’s look was now more wary than admiring. “Vagal inhibition can also occur from a body’s sudden immersion in cold water. When cold water makes contact with the skin, the shock of it can cause an immediate loss of breathing control.”
Renée put down her pen. “These people may or may not have died from drowning?”
“Yes,” Eric agreed. “To distinguish between death caused by drowning and death by other means, the examiner must conduct a microscopic investigation into all of the organs of the non-putrified bodies. Without this evidence, we cannot say conclusively how these people died. But the author of this trash must have known that.” He shook the report for emphasis. “Why is there no histological or toxicological analysis? Where’s the blood strontium determination—or a diatom test, for that matter?”
The words were lost on Renée. “Maybe it was an oversight?”
“It is absolute incompetence,” Eric insisted. “This is the work of a first-year science student—and not a very good one.”
She leaned back in her seat with her arms folded across her chest. Now what? Merely discrediting the report was not enough. She needed an alternate theory of the case that would explain eighteen deaths. How the hell was she supposed to do that?
Eric cleared his throat. “Can I make a copy?” he asked, holding the file in one hand. “I would like to consult with my professor at UWI. He is a renowned forensic pathologist and could be of great help.”
“I don’t want this information getting out.”
“I would be discreet,” Eric promised.
Renée hesitated. Could she trust him? Secrets didn’t remain that way for very long on this island, and she didn’t want word of her legal strategy getting back to Adam Hartmann. But as things stood, she didn’t have much of a legal strategy to speak of. If she lost this case, Rose Fleurie would immediately be sent back to Haiti. US law imposed a mandatory bar on the grant of asylum to murderers.
She stared into the young man’s guileless eyes for a moment longer. What choice did she have?
“Do it,” she said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
She Is Not One of Us
For dinner, I prepared chicken thighs so plump I did not recognize them. They were neatly packaged in clear plastic with all signs of blood and death erased. Who decided to butcher so many chickens and sell only their thighs? It was like a spoiled child who wanted everything the same. When I worked at the National Palace, we prepared the whole chicken. From thighs to breasts, necks to gizzards, nothing had been allowed to go to waste—and leaders the world over could be found licking their plates at my table.
I would never understand Americans. How could they have so much and so little at the same time?
With the plump thighs, I would serve diri kolé ak pwa—red beans and rice. It was a spicy dish with more heat than the meal I had prepared for Renée, but this guest was used to such things.
I set the table for two and dished out the rice and beans onto a large plate. Just like that, I was transported to my mother’s kitchen in Saint-Marc. This was the meal I had made for her on our last night.
It was shortly after my eighteenth birthday, and the priest of my town had lost his patience. “Rose is not of God,” he warned my mother. “You must send her away.”
I was in our small garden, picking herbs still wet with morning dew. I was making soup joumou for our neighbor, Madan Tivan. The pumpkin was simmering in a large pot on the stove. I had flavored the beef with garlic, onions, bell pepper, and a packet of Maggi seasoning. The potatoes and carrots were washed and peeled. I needed only the right combination of herbs for my mortar and pestle.
The back door was open, but I could not see where my mother sat with her guest. Our house had grown from the single room we once inhabited. We now lived in a palace with a dining room, two bedrooms, and a big sunny living room.
Though I could not see into the living room, the images played in my mind. My mother would have prepared coffee and served it in our gold-rimmed porcelain cups. They would take their seats, the priest and my mother, on opposite ends of our imported American sofa. It had been a struggle for her to accept this gift. She protested the expense, but I knew she loved the feel of red velvet beneath her touch. On a wall high above the sofa, she hung her prized possession: a framed picture of Jesus with blond hair and blue eyes—also an American import.
There they sat, sipping coffee beneath Jesus’s watchful eyes, their voices drifting out the open door. “Rose loves the Lord,” my mother said, her words tripping over themselves.
“Her work is of the devil,” the priest said. “We must fight Satan with every breath.”
I had taken care of my mother and the people of our village since I was five years old. I prepared their meals when they were sent home to die with no more than a prayer for Last Rites: May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.
When these same people took their seats at church on Sunday, the priest would send me a murderous glare. I was being insubordinate.
“She is a good girl,” my mother protested. “She is not what you believe.”
“I believe she serves the master of darkness. I believe you have tried to raise her with a fear of the Lord, and it is to your credit that she does her work in the dark. She is ashamed. But no one can be both Vodouist and Catholic. The Catholic should be pure Catholic, the Vodouist pure Vodou.”
I could hear my mother’s muffled sobs.
“If you insist on sheltering her, the church will act against you,” the priest continued. “The sacrament of Holy Communion will no longer be yours.”
My mother’s sobs grew louder. “Where will she go? What will she do?”
“She is not one of us,” the priest said sharply. “She does not belong here.”
He was right. I did not belong, we all knew it. The neighbors showered us with gifts: eggs, chickens, the best cuts from their freshly slaughtered goats, and an endless supply of okra, squash, and pumpkins. But they never invited us for a friendly game of cards. No boys stole kisses from me at Kanaval. No girls shared their deepest longings for love and strong children. I had grown rich from their gratitude, but I was not one of them. It had been that way for a long time—since the day I was meant to die.
“Without her, I will be all alone,” my mother sniffed.
; “It is better to be alone in this life than to spend an eternity in hell. You must send her away if you are to be judged blameless in the eyes of Papa Bondye.”
I knew then what I had to do. My mother could not be made to choose between the love of her child and her devotion to Papa God. I went in search of the young boys who were just coming home with the day’s catch.
For dinner, I rolled codfish in eggs and flour and then fried it to make marinad—a melt-on-your-tongue fritter. I also made chicken—the whole chicken—and diri kolé ak pwa, boiling the kidney beans until they rendered the water an earthy reddish-brown. Into that, I poured the rice, a pat of butter, salt, and pepper. We sat down to a meal that would surely have pleased Jesus.
“Li bon,” my mother said. It’s good. A smile lifted her cheeks but did not shine in her eyes.
I spent the hours after dinner calculating and pacing. When darkness came, I tiptoed to my mother’s room with my things stuffed in a large sack. I kissed her brow and pretended not to see her eyes flutter rapidly beneath her closed lids. She pretended not to feel the wetness of my tears on her skin.
I arrived in Port-au-Prince a few hours later. Forty-six miles separated Saint-Marc from the bustle of the capital city. Forty-six miles, and a lifetime of experience. I stepped off the bus wide-eyed, with my mouth hanging open like moun mon—a hillbilly.
Jagged mountains loomed over the city, stretching from sea to sky in a single breath. On the mountaintops, the tiled roofs of elaborately styled mansions jutted toward the clouds, and nestled at the foothills were clusters of cinder block houses painted in shades of white, blue, gold, and pink.
I saw all this not as shadow but in full glorious light. I had never before seen streets all lit up against the darkness. In Port-au-Prince, there was no difference between the hours of dawn and the hours of night. I could finally find my way.
A bittersweet smile curved my lips as I relived the memories of that young woman, long dead. What would she think of my life? Of the choices I had made?
I would soon have my answers. Death was coming for me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
17.4 Miles
Renée stepped out of the shower just as a knock sounded at her front door. She grabbed her robe and stifled a yawn. It was only seven a.m., but she was already drained. It had been another long hot night, the first half of which she’d spent poring over files, the second half fighting sea monsters. She understood nightmares, had battled them for years, but this was different. This nightmare was so real, she’d awakened to the taste of seawater on her lips.
She crossed her bedroom and opened the front door just as Gigi raised a fist to knock once more. “Morning,” Renée said, ushering her startled guest inside.
Gigi was as beautiful as ever. She wore a flirty scarlet sundress that revealed almost as much as it concealed. Her tousled hair and sleepy eyes hinted at a night of pleasure, while her broad smile gave it all away.
It pained Renée to think of Adam Hartmann as a red-blooded man instead of a soul-sucking vampire.
“Adam asked me to tell you that you have a two o’clock appointment with Ms. Fleurie,” Gigi said.
“Thank you.” It was an easy enough message to convey by telephone, so why had Gigi shown up in person? Renée had her suspicions, which were soon confirmed.
“I heard you had a run-in with a banana rat,” Gigi said, doing nothing to hide her laughter.
It was clear that someone had regaled her with details. Had Eric told her himself? Or had he told someone who told someone until the story landed in Gigi’s lap?
Renée allowed herself a resigned sigh. There were no secrets on this small patch of land. “I hate rats,” she said with a shudder.
“Well, you’d better get used to them. There are a lot of banana rats around here.”
“Why are they called banana rats? Do they eat bananas?”
Gigi laughed until twin streaks of tears rolled down her cheeks. “They’re officially named hutias, but US soldiers call them banana rats because of the shape of their kaka—their shit.”
“Lovely.” She wished she hadn’t asked.
“They won’t hurt you,” Gigi assured her. “They are abundant because they don’t have any natural predators. People say Cubans outside the fence line hunt them and cook them in a big pot with wild nuts and honey, but this is probably a lie. Many things around here are lies.”
Renée’s stomach lurched. “Can we change the subject?”
Gigi nodded, fanning herself with one hand. “It’s hot in here.”
“I’ll open a window.” She had kept them closed all night, suffering with the noisy fan. It was easier to fight the heat than her four-legged nemeses. She strode to the window and jiggled the latch until it gave way. A soft ocean breeze filled the room. When she returned, Gigi was perched on her desk, flipping through her legal pad.
“You are quite the artist,” Gigi said, her gaze dissecting Eric’s drowned stick figure.
“Give me that.” She snatched the pad from the other woman’s grasp.
Gigi’s smile faltered, and a hint of pain flashed in her eyes. “I did not mean to pry,” she said softly.
For a moment, Gigi’s sophisticated veneer slipped, and Renée caught a glimpse of the hurt child underneath. Instantly she felt a stab of remorse. She hadn’t meant to hurt this woman, but Gigi was the girlfriend of the man who could send her client to hell.
“I’m sorry,” Renée said, clutching the pad to her chest.
“I’m not going to tell him anything,” Gigi assured her. “Adam and I have a strict policy. We keep our work and our personal lives separate. It’s the only way to protect our relationship.”
Renée was skeptical. If Adam fed his girlfriend tidbits from his report, why wouldn’t she return the favor?
Gigi seemed to read her mind. “This isn’t about some contest between you and Adam. It’s about the hundreds of Haitians sweltering in those tents out there. The coast guard picks up fifty to a hundred more every day. By the time this crisis is over, we’ll have tens of thousands of people in this glorified prison camp.” She paused and stared at Renée. “I want to help. We’re on the same side.”
“You’re right.” Renée laid the pad on the desk. At some point, she had to start trusting somebody. She needed allies. Still, she was grateful when Gigi made no move to pick up the pad.
“You are a guarded woman, aren’t you?” Gigi said, as if seeing her for the first time.
“I’m a little cautious,” Renée had to admit. The last time she’d trusted someone, he had torn her heart out and fed it to the dogs. “When you grow up in New York, it comes with the territory.”
Gigi shook her head. “I lived in New York for many years. My father was posted to the UN.”
“I don’t mean the Upper West Side,” Renée said dryly.
“I forgot—you’re from the big bad streets of Flatbush Avenue.” The other woman’s smile took some of the sting out of her words. “I didn’t grow up in Brooklyn, Renée, but my life wasn’t nearly as perfect as you seem to think.”
Renée gave Gigi a humorless smile. “If we’d met a few years ago, my mother would have been your nanny.”
Gigi frowned. “My mother would have been the drunk strung out on the couch, while my father worked himself into an early grave. So what? We are not our parents.”
Gigi didn’t understand. How could she? She had grown up in a world where being different was expected—celebrated even. As a child, Renée caught only glimpses of that world. When her mother’s babysitting options dried up, she would drag Renée to the Upper West Side to mingle with her employer’s children. They were diplomats’ kids who had passports as thick as novels, spoke more languages than God, and generally felt entitled to be as different as they wanted. Gigi and her kind wouldn’t know anything about fleeing from a bully who thought being different meant not belonging.
Renée cleared her throat. “Forget I said anything.”
There was an awkwar
d silence before Gigi forced a smile and said, “What are your plans this morning?”
Renée shrugged. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“I knew you’d say that. I refuse to take no for an answer.”
“What’s the question?”
“There is no question,” Gigi said. “It’s my day off, and I’m headed to the fence line. You’re coming with me. We’ll be back in plenty of time for your meeting.”
Renée glanced at her file. She knew its contents down to the smallest detail and was as prepared as she would ever be for her interview with Rose, so why not spend a few hours away? It would clear her head. Besides, she was curious to see the demarcation line between the US and its Communist Caribbean neighbor.
“You’re on,” she said. Her stomach growled loudly.
Gigi laughed. “Get dressed, and we can have breakfast. Who knows? Maybe they’ll serve banana rat.”
#
The fence line separating Communist Cuba from US-controlled territory was thirty feet high and 17.4 miles wide. Along the northeastern section, an eight-mile barrier of Opuntia cactus bloomed in shades of red and yellow, like a preening hen in a drab landscape of scrub brush and prickly pears.
The “Cactus Curtain”—along with some judiciously placed land mines—was Cuba’s version of the Berlin Wall. Cuban soldiers planted the field after Castro came to power to prevent their own people from seeking refuge on the American side of the island. Observation towers dotted the landscape like wooden sentinels in a geopolitical chess game, with armed men on both sides guarding the status quo. The Berlin Wall might have come tumbling down, but the Cold War raged on in the Caribbean.
Renée stared out at a desert landscape that was more American Southwest than Caribbean, studiously ignoring the hum of conversation around her. A swarm of marines hovered over Gigi like the proverbial moth to a flame, and Renée quickly found herself edged out of the circle.
What was it about Gigi and men? Sure, the woman was beautiful, but the level of male attention she attracted was almost comical. It was particularly strange to see these battle-hardened marines, with their guns and their camouflage, fall all over themselves to impress her.
When Death Comes for You Page 6
