#
If Liz Albright was unexpected, her boss was even more so. The first surprise was Captain David Mason’s office. The décor was what one might expect of a high-ranking military officer—dark furniture, a parade of flags, maps and world clocks, and medals pinned in glass cases. Beyond the standard fare, there must have been a dozen childish drawings taped to the walls, pictures of rainbows, lopsided houses, and families rendered in stick figure. Each drawing was painstakingly lettered with the words, I love you, Daddy or #1 dad.
Renée felt a stab of homesickness so sharp it was painful. She’d spoken to Marie-Thérèse several times since her arrival on Guantanamo, but the telephone was no substitute for holding her daughter in her arms.
Captain Mason stood behind an imposing wooden desk and held himself with the chest-out-shoulders-back bearing that was common only on a military base. He was younger than she had expected, late thirties at the most, athletic, with a deep tan that suggested he didn’t spend all his time locked in his office.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. François,” he said, gesturing to a chair directly across from him. He spoke with a hint of a Southern accent, nothing as overt as a drawl—and it was mostly covered over with the clipped intonation of an expensive New England education—but it was there nonetheless.
He waited politely until she had taken her seat before he regained his own. “Can I get you something to drink? Water, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.” She squirmed on the hard wooden chair, the ache in her ribs a constant reminder of last night.
“Are you all right?” His gunmetal-blue eyes raked over her, missing nothing.
“I had a small accident. It bruised my ribs.”
“You should have that checked by a medic. It could be fractured or even broken. Broken ribs cause a mess of problems.”
“I’m fine, sir. I’m actually here to talk about—”
“I know why you’re here,” he interrupted. “You’re here because Adam Hartmann is an ass.”
She stared at him, caught off guard by his bluntness. “You heard he postponed Ms. Fleurie’s hearing?”
“And the refugee applications.”
He’d called them refugees. Not migrants. Not “boat people,” but refugees. Renée suddenly felt more hopeful than she had in a long time. “Well, then you understand my problem, sir. I have to stop him.”
He leaned back and stared at her. “Adam Hartmann might be an ass, but he is not under my command. I can’t force him to cooperate with you.”
“I can get a court order on behalf of Ms. Fleurie. I just need more time.” It was becoming clear that a lawsuit was her only option.
“Which brings us to the reason for our little meeting,” he said shrewdly.
She wasn’t sure what to make of him. He was direct and plainspoken. Should she respond in kind? It could backfire, or it might work to her advantage. It was at least worth a shot. What did she have to lose?
“Yes, sir, I’m requesting permission to extend my stay,” she admitted. “I’d also ask that you allow unobstructed access to my client. I can’t adequately prepare her case when Mr. Hartmann won’t let me see her.”
“You realize this wouldn’t go over well in Washington?”
There was no getting around that fact. This was an election year, and the Haitian refugee crisis was a political issue. The politicians didn’t want to make life easy on a plaintiff’s lawyer. “You would be doing the right thing, sir.”
“The right thing?” He gave her a wry smile. “Ms. François, my family and I bleed red, white, and blue. My grandfather was a marine. My stepson goes to bed every night praying to be a sailor like his dad. On the battlefield, I know exactly what to do. The lives of my men and the people I am sworn to protect depend on it. But this? Politics?” He shook his head. “I haven’t the first idea what to do.”
“This isn’t politics, sir. It’s about human life. I may never have been on a battlefield, but I’ve also taken an oath. I’m sworn to protect the Constitution and the laws of the United States. We are a nation of laws. If we forget that, everyone loses.”
“We’re violating the law?”
“Yes,” she said, matching his bluntness with her own.
He stared at her for a moment, as if reevaluating her. “The camps might not look like much to you, but I’m damn proud of the work my men have done. GTMO is a navy base. It was never intended to house civilians. But when we got the order to prepare this place for thousands of people fleeing their country, we obeyed. That’s what separates us from what’s going on in Haiti. We obey orders.”
Renée listened, but while she respected his position, it could not change some difficult facts. “You have an AIDS camp here, sir. You have very sick people living in tents. It’s crowded, the sanitation is terrible, and they can’t get the kind of medical attention they need.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Captain Mason picked up a stack of files and allowed them to fall back on his desk with a heavy thud. “These reports are from my medical officers. We’ve got several refugees with T-cell counts of two hundred or less. That’s full-blown AIDS. We don’t have the facilities or the specialists to handle those cases. My officers tell me those people should be medically evacuated to the United States. We’ve made the INS aware of the gravity of the situation, but we can’t get them to act.”
“Can’t you build more housing? The sick ones are likely to be here for a long time.” Maybe forever, though she dared not voice that terrible possibility.
He shook his head. “We have a capacity problem. Castro shut off the water supply to the base in 1964. We built our own desalination plant, of course, but we have a cap on the number of bodies we can support. There’s not enough water to sustain more than twelve thousand people. Between our servicemen, their families, and the Cuban exiles who live here, it doesn’t leave much room.”
“There are Cubans living here?”
Captain Mason nodded. “We call them Special Category residents. They used to work here as caretakers—gardeners, mechanics, housekeepers. When Castro declared his allegiance to Communism, they sought our protection. We gave them safe harbor until this mess could be cleared up. They’ve lived here since the 1960s.”
“I didn’t know.” Thirty years of temporary asylum might have sounded like a long time, but human rights conflicts often took decades to resolve, if they ever did.
“There is much the American people don’t know about what goes on here. That’s fine—it’s our job to keep them safe.” He pointed above his head to a map showing pockets of land in a sprawling ocean. “You see that? We are the last naval station in the Caribbean theater, and because of GTMO, the US military—the US government—will never have to ask permission to keep our people safe. We will do whatever is necessary.”
“I’m not asking you to jeopardize US security,” she said. “I’m simply asking for more time to build my case.”
“A case where you claim my servicemen and women aren’t doing their jobs?”
“No, sir,” she replied honestly, “I have the utmost respect for the work you do. But it doesn’t change the fact that we have an obligation under the law. We cannot take people fleeing persecution, dump them here, and forget about them.”
Captain Mason shifted his gaze to the wall of childish drawings, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips. “My stepson made those. We’ve only known each other a few months, so when my wife and I told him they would have to evacuate, he worried I might forget him. He cried for hours. Drawing those pictures was the only thing that made him feel better.”
Renée didn’t know what to say, so she remained silent, watching him carefully.
A moment later, he added, “You may have the luxury of forgetting the refugees, Ms. François. We do not. It’s costing us our families.”
She stared at the drawings, then at the man who held himself so erect his shoulders dared not droop under the weight he carried. “I also have a child Captain Mason, a daughter. A
few weeks ago, I was preparing dinner while she watched TV just a few feet away. It was a Superwoman cartoon. I wasn’t paying much attention. I had a problem with some corporate client demanding a loophole.
“The next thing I knew, my baby was sobbing. I ran to her, expecting to find blood or burns or something horrible. She was crying because images from the news had flashed on the screen. She’d seen a little boy standing in a crowd of stampeding adults. The child was screaming for his mother, but no one noticed, no one helped. They were too busy running from the Haitian soldiers firing at them.”
By now, Renée was breathing hard, the memories coming quick. “My daughter asked me to save that little boy. She said I could do it because I was her Superwoman. I quit my job and got on a plane. Now I’m here. Trying to save as many as I possibly can.”
He looked at her for a long time. She didn’t flinch or look away.
“This is my family,” he said, turning a picture frame on his desk so that it faced Renée. There were four people in the picture. In jeans and an IZOD shirt, Captain Mason looked like a tourist. An older man stood next to him, frail and thin. Mason held tightly to the shoulders of a beautiful woman in her early thirties. The young boy at her side grinned so broadly, you could see the gap where he’d lost a tooth. The two men were white, the woman and child black.
“I met my wife last summer in Haiti. I was there with my grandfather. He was stationed in Haiti during the US occupation in the ’20s and ’30s, and he wanted to see the country one last time before he died. My wife was there for her first visit in years. She was a famous opera singer under the ‘Baby Doc’ Duvalier regime, but that idiot claimed her songs were too political. He drove her out of the country.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. It was a familiar story.
“My wife and my grandfather, they bonded over their love of a place that was falling apart. I couldn’t understand it.” He turned the picture frame to face him once more. “I guess they had hope.”
She leaned forward. “Please, Captain Mason. I’m not asking you to fight this battle. I just need a little help.”
He grabbed a pen and signed the form on his desk with a flourish. “Your stay is hereby extended for an additional three days. You’re free to meet with any of the refugees whenever you please.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He handed her the form. “Don’t make me regret this.”
It was a warning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ke-Ke-Ke
Renée practically floated out of Captain Mason’s office. The extension of her stay was only a small victory, but it was an important one. She flashed Liz Albright a triumphant smile as she breezed past her desk. The secretary’s bewildered frown was the cherry on top of a perfect sundae.
Renée stepped outside to find John leaning against the jeep mumbling into his cell phone. How did the man manage to stay cool wearing long-sleeved khaki shirts in ninety-degree weather? She looked like a wrung-out dish towel.
He glanced up and gave her a forced smiled. “We’ll talk about this later,” he growled into his phone, abruptly ending the conversation. “How’d it go in there?” he asked.
“I got it.” She waved the form Captain Mason had given her, and John held her door open with a deep bow. “You know what this means?” She snapped her seat belt in place as he moved to the driver’s side door. “It means I don’t need Adam Hartmann’s permission anymore. You have time to take me to the bungalow?”
He gave her a thumbs-up and pointed the jeep toward Camp Bulkeley. With his attention on the road, she couldn’t resist a sidelong glance. Something was wrong. John had been acting strange all morning. He’d hardly said a word when he’d dropped her off at the MP’s station earlier. When she finished with them, he had picked her up in an obvious funk. Now this phone call.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
He didn’t pretend ignorance. “Wife’s filing for divorce.”
She was surprised—not so much by his announcement, but by the way it seemed to affect him. From what she saw, his marriage had been in trouble for a long time. Divorce was no easy matter, though, particularly when kids were involved. “I’m sorry. I know how hard this is.”
“She threatened to claim adultery.” He jabbed a finger on the steering wheel. “I got almost ten years in the navy. It’ll kill everything I built.”
“Why?”
“Adultery’s a crime. It will destroy my career.”
Not if you’re innocent. There was no way she was asking the question, and he didn’t volunteer an answer. “I know some great lawyers. I’d be happy to give you a list.”
“Thanks.” He didn’t sound hopeful. “How about you? How’d it go with the MPs?”
She stared at the water. It was as still as a sheet of ice. “They weren’t particularly interested in a break-in with no casualties.” The guy who took her report was a fresh-faced recruit who yawned his way through the interview. She asked to speak to the naval investigator but was turned down. The recruit promised to pass on her statement regarding Monica’s whereabouts. His tone implied it was a don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you situation.
“They got their hands full,” John said. “Between the riot and a murder, GTMO’s starting to feel like Boston.”
“How cold is that water?”
By now, he had adjusted to her conversational leaps and didn’t bat an eye at the abrupt change in topic. “I’d say about eighty degrees.”
“Does it ever get down to sixty?”
“In the Caribbean Sea?” He shook his head. “Never.”
She stared at the water, silently begging for answers. When none came, she turned back to John. “What do you know about Vodou?” If she hadn’t been looking for it, she might have missed the way his eyes narrowed and his hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“Why do you ask?”
She told him about the Voodoo doll.
“Damn. I seen a couple of those on base—somebody’s idea of a joke. Sorry that happened to you, but that’s got nothing to do with Vodou.”
“How do you know?”
He glanced her way. “My adopted family, they were into that. Not zombies or black magic or any of that shit. For them, it was a religion like any other. They took us to Sunday mass in the morning, and they might take us to a ceremony that night.”
“Really?” That surprised her. “What was it like?”
He shrugged. “Nothing like what you see in the movies. My wife’s family, they’re Holy Rollers, Pentecostals. They catch the Spirit and everything. It looked like that, except Vodouisant say they’re riding a horse or being mounted by a horse.”
It was unnerving that this redheaded white man knew more about her culture than she did. It was also fascinating. “I was reading a book about Erzu—”
He coughed. It sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
“What?” she demanded.
“Nothing.” He grinned at her. “Go on, you were reading a book . . . ?”
She peered at him but couldn’t make sense of his amusement. She shrugged it off. “It’s confusing. I can’t figure out the various groups and how they work.”
“Manny and I thought of them as a dysfunctional family,” he said. “On one end, you got your Rada Spirits, which came from Africa. They’re considered benevolent and creative. The Petro Spirits were created right here in the New World. They’re badasses known for being loud, rowdy, and aggressive. The Ghede are somewhere in the middle.” He laughed suddenly.
“What?”
“We used to try to remember them by their colors. Manny and I called them their ‘gang colors,’” he said with a chuckle. “The Rada were associated with the color white, the Ghede black, and the Petro were red all the way.” The memories were bittersweet for him. There was a wistful, almost childlike look on his face.
“What do you know about Erzulie Fréda and Erzulie Dantor?” she asked.
“They’re family. They fell for the same guy, Ogo
u, the Spirit of war. Damn near killed each other fighting over him. Dantor shoved her dagger in Fréda’s heart. Fréda pulled out that dagger and carved two deep scars in Dantor’s face.”
These Haitian Spirits were hell with knives. “Did you know Eric was stabbed to death?” she asked.
John shrugged. “I heard, but it don’t mean nothing. Lots of people die from stabbing.”
“Yes, but—”
An iguana darted onto the roadway. John braked hard, and Renée pitched forward, the seat belt snapping against her ribs. She yelped in pain.
“You okay? Didn’t see the damn thing ’til it was almost too late. If you hit ’em, it’s a couple hundred bucks in fines.”
“I’m okay.” She managed a wan smile as she rubbed her rib cage.
He started driving again, though now well below the twenty-five-mile speed limit. “Ribs hurt?”
“A bit.”
“I’ll run you over to the hospital once you’re done with Ms. Fleurie.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll be fine in a few days.”
“I’m taking you,” he said, making clear it wasn’t a request.
They arrived at the bungalow a few minutes later. “You want to wait inside?” she asked. “It’s getting hot out here.” It was almost noon, and the sun was merciless.
He shook his head. “I should check on my kids. I’ll be back in an hour.” He was gone before she had even made it to the front door.
She strode into the bungalow without bothering to knock. Rose was in the kitchen. The window behind her revealed the tranquil waters of the Caribbean Sea. A few lazy waves rippled across the horizon, and a beam of sunlight streamed into the room, glinting off the edge of Rose’s chef’s knife.
“I have made soup joumou. Pumpkin soup.” Rose stood at her worktable, her hands a blur of motion as she moved a sharp blade across wilting leaves. “It will be ready soon.” Her voice registered no surprise at Renée’s presence, though she couldn’t have been expecting her.
When Death Comes for You Page 15
