When Death Comes for You

by Marjorie Florestal

  A man stepped up to join them, offering a wide smile as he thumped Renée on the back. “Meci,” he said.

  In an instant, a small crowd gathered around them. Everyone insisted on shaking her hand. She was starting to feel like a politician.

  “Renée!” A tiny voice sounded through the noise. Lucie managed to push her way to the front of the crowd.

  Renée bent and kissed the little girl on top of her head. “How are you, honey?”

  “I’m fine,” Lucie said, though her eyes were even more shadowed. “The people say thank you. You are their hero.”

  “Is that why everyone wants to shake my hand?”

  Lucie nodded. “You fight the government, and you win. Before, they did not believe this was possible, but now they do. They say you are very powerful.”

  Renée turned to the crowd with a shy grin. “Can you tell them I will come to them shortly? Right now, I need to talk to your father.”

  Lucie said a few words, and the crowd dispersed. “Papa is over there,” she said, pointing to a cot several feet away before dragging Renée over by the arm.

  Pierre lay huddled on the cot, a thin figure of a man wrapped in a white sheet. He looked as if he had shrunk in just the few days since his wife’s death.

  Lucie gently nudged her father’s shoulder. “Papa, Renée vini pale avek ou.”

  Pierre opened bleary eyes to stare at Renée. He sat up and began to cough. Lucie poured him a glass of water from a small pitcher by the cot and urged him to drink.

  “I didn’t mean to wake him,” Renée said.

  “He wasn’t sleeping,” Lucie replied. “He must lie down because he is weak from . . .” her brow furrowed in concentration. “Vomit,” she said, proud to have remembered the word. “He is weak in the stomach.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” Renée offered Pierre a sympathetic half smile. He didn’t respond. “Has he seen Dr. Cosgrove?”

  The little girl nodded her head. “She came to the camp and gave Papa lots of medicine, but he will not take it.”

  Renée swore under her breath as she sat cross-legged on the floor across from Pierre’s cot. She wanted to yell at him for not taking the medicine, and she prayed he was not self-medicating with seawater. But she had no control over those things. She could only hope to give him a reason to live.

  “Tell your dad I’d like to talk to him about his case.”

  Lucie translated, and a moment later a faint gleam appeared in Pierre’s eyes. He said something to his daughter.

  “Papa said, ‘Now that Madan Fleurie is going to America, does that mean we will get visas too?’”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that,” she said gently.

  “Poukisa?”

  “Why?” Lucie translated.

  How did she answer that one? Pierre’s story was at least as compelling as Rose’s. The only reason he wasn’t allowed to enter the United States was because of his HIV status. She didn’t want to bring up that contentious issue, so she settled on a half truth. “Rose had connections to the Aristide government. It helped her case.”

  Pierre said a few words to Lucie. He was clearly agitated.

  “Papa said that he has given more to the Aristide government than Madan Fleurie. If it wasn’t for his work, his family would still be safe and Manman would not have died.” Lucie’s lips trembled and tears came to her eyes, but she continued. “He said it is not fair that Madan Fleurie should go to America, while we are left here to rot.”

  “I’m not abandoning you,” Renée said, looking straight at Pierre, willing him to understand. “Tell him I won’t stop fighting until all of you are safe. I will file a lawsuit on behalf of the Camp Bulkeley residents as soon as I return to the United States.”

  “How long will that take?” Lucie asked without consulting her father.

  Should she be honest? She wouldn’t have hesitated in speaking directly to an adult, but was it too much for a child to handle? Damn it, if only she spoke Kreyòl. When she got back to Boston, she would look into some classes. If she was going to help her clients, she needed to speak their language—her language.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It could go as fast as a few months, if the government doesn’t appeal.”

  “And if they do ap . . . appeal?” Lucie asked, stumbling on the unfamiliar word.

  Renée stared at the ground for an instant. “It could take several years.”

  When Lucie translated her answer, Pierre said something loud and mean. She blinked and responded softly. Pierre’s words were sharp. He pointed at Renée. Slowly, Lucie turned, the corners of her mouth drooping. “Papa said . . .” She cleared her throat. “Papa said Madan Fleurie won her case because she serves the devil. That she is a bad person, but her magic is strong.” Lucie paused, but Pierre tugged insistently at her arm. “Papa said if you work for her, you are probably just like her.” The little girl hung her head and added softly. “He does not wish to work with you anymore.”

  In the ensuing silence, Renée could hear the faint roar of noise in the auditorium as English and Kreyòl voices mingled with one another. “Tell him I’m sorry he feels that way, but I won’t stop fighting for him—for all of you.”

  Lucie conveyed the message. Pierre only grunted. He lay back on the bed and pulled the sheet over his head.

  Renée stood there for a moment, unsure what to do next. Words weren’t enough to bridge the divide. She glanced at Lucie, who had a worried frown on her face. “Don’t worry, honey. Everything will be fine,” she said, gently smoothing the little girl’s forehead. “Would you help me talk to the others?”

  Lucie nodded, and they spent the next hour signing up new clients. Unlike Pierre, the other refugees were only too happy to hire her. She took down names and supporting information on a legal pad. She would have to send formal retainer agreements later.

  How would she manage with all of these indigent clients? Litigation was expensive. She let out a small, frustrated sigh. This case was turning out to be one long game of whack-a-mole. She pounded one problem into the ground only to have another rear its ugly head.

  “Renée.”

  She looked up to find John staring at her. He was so pale his red hair glowed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Are you Ms. François?” A thin but attractive Asian man stood behind John. He was dressed as a civilian in a dark suit and tie that would have seemed normal in a Boston office building. On Guantanamo, the look was strangely ominous.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m with the Naval Investigative Service. I need you to come with me, please.”

  She looked from the thin man to a pale and shaken John, and her stomach lurched. “What’s this about?”

  “We have a few questions concerning the death of Adam Hartmann.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Blood Will Flow

  Adam Hartmann was dead.

  Renée sat in an interrogation room in the back of the MP office she had visited just a few days earlier. The room was small and bare with a shaky wooden table and two chairs positioned across from each other. There were no windows, making the place feel like a converted broom closet. There weren’t any mirrors either. She noted all this without conscious effort, her mind racing in shock.

  Adam Hartmann was dead.

  How was she supposed to feel about that? She couldn’t pretend to grieve—there hadn’t been much good in Adam. In fact, she had been plotting his death since the moment they’d met. But that was in her imagination; she hadn’t really wanted him dead. Incapacitated, maybe. But not dead.

  Gigi. The thought of her friend was enough to dispel her ambivalence. She might not be grieving, but Gigi would be devastated. Damn. How long before she could get out of here and help her?

  The door swung open. The thin Asian man strolled into the room with a paper cup in hand. He had a crop of silky black hair with a cowlick that—on anyone else—would have seemed boyish. But he was all business, even when he was trying to play Go
od Cop.

  He strode to the table and handed her the cup. “Thought you might like some water.”

  “Thank you.” She took a long swallow, trying to chase the light-headedness away. Maybe it was the clairin—or maybe it was the shock of Adam’s death.

  “I can get you some more,” the thin man said with a rueful glance at her empty cup.

  “I’m fine. What did you say your name was?”

  “Special Agent Brian Chen.”

  “I’m not sure why I’m here, Agent Chen.”

  He took the seat opposite her and drew a small pad and pen from his breast pocket. “We think you’ve got some information that could help with our investigation. If you’re willing, that is?”

  “Of course.” What else could she say?

  “Good.” He wrote down her name, the date, the time, and then he looked up. “Can you tell me the last time you saw Adam Hartmann?”

  He already knew the answer to that question or she wouldn’t be sitting in this room. “This morning, around eleven.”

  He nodded and scribbled something. “Where was that?”

  “At the Pearl of the Antilles.”

  “And what was he doing at the time?”

  “He was manhandling his fiancée.”

  He leaned forward, his gaze steady. “Manhandling?”

  She suddenly got a queasy feeling. Could Gigi have . . . ? “What happened? How did Adam die?”

  “What did you mean he was ‘manhandling’ his fiancée?” Agent Chen said, ignoring her question.

  “He and Gigi were having a small . . . disagreement.” If she wasn’t careful, she might end up implicating her friend.

  “I see.” He scribbled something illegible on his pad and continued. “To your knowledge, did Mr. Hartmann have enemies here on the island?”

  She snorted. “Three thousand, at least.”

  He gazed at her with a single raised brow.

  “The refugees,” she clarified. “He postponed their asylum hearings indefinitely and left them to rot in their tents. He wasn’t exactly a hero.”

  “Are you suggesting one of the migrants killed him?”

  She stiffened and glared at him. “Of course not. You asked me if he had enemies. I was simply answering your question.”

  He laid his pen on the table and watched her carefully. “You weren’t on friendly terms with Mr. Hartmann yourself, were you?”

  “What are you insinuating?”

  “I’m not insinuating anything,” he said with a shrug too casual to be real. “Just trying to figure things out.”

  “If you’re asking whether I liked Mr. Hartmann, the answer is no. If you’re asking whether I killed Mr. Hartmann, the answer is still no.”

  He leaned back in his chair and tapped a finger gently on the table. She started to feel like a specimen caught under glass, watched and probed.

  Tap. Tap.

  “If you don’t have any more questions—” She started to rise, but his next words had her sinking back into her seat.

  “Adam Hartmann was stabbed seven times. He bled to death in his office.”

  The room was suffocatingly hot, the air like a cloying thing grasping at her. “I don’t . . .” She paused, took a deep breath, and started over. “I don’t understand.”

  He was watching her the whole time, gauging the impact of his words. “You had a fight with Mr. Hartmann this morning.” He paged through the small pad. “You landed him flat on his ass, from what I hear.”

  How could he have known about that? “He was coming after Gigi. I stopped him.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “He was still alive when I left.”

  There was a sharp rap on the door. A young man walked in bearing a file folder. He approached Agent Chen and whispered something in his ear before handing him the folder. A moment later, the young man was gone.

  Brian stared at her without a trace of emotion. “You were saying?”

  “Look, Agent Chen I know how this works. This is your Perry Mason moment. You’re going to pull something out of that folder that somehow implicates me.”

  “How could I have something that implicates you, if you didn’t do it?”

  She gave him a cynical smile. “I’m a lawyer, remember? I know exactly how facts can be twisted to fit our theories.”

  “Is that right?”

  Her eyes kept darting back to the folder that lay so innocently in front of him. She couldn’t help herself, she had to know. “Open it.”

  “You’re an eager one.” He flipped the file open and pulled out a legal-size yellow pad. “Go ahead and take a look.”

  She immediately recognized her own handwriting. “You searched my room. On what authority?”

  “This is a military base,” he replied, as if that was answer enough. He tapped on the pad. “Can you explain this to me?”

  She glanced down. “It speaks for itself.”

  “Yes, it does,” he agreed. “‘Seven stabs of the knife, seven stabs of the sword. Hand me that basin so I can vomit blood. Blood will flow.’ What did you mean by that?”

  There was silence in the room for a full breath. “It’s a translation.”

  “Of what?”

  “A book.”

  He pulled something from the folder. “This book?”

  She found herself staring at the gift Gigi had given her—the book on Haitian Vodou. “The words don’t mean anything.”

  “No?” He flipped through his small pad. “So it’s a coincidence that Adam Hartmann was stabbed exactly seven times?”

  She shivered. “I’ve got dozens of witnesses to vouch for my whereabouts. I was at the elementary school meeting with the Camp Bulkeley refugees. Before that, I was with Captain Mason.” It couldn’t hurt to throw the base commander’s name around, could it?

  He only stared at her saying nothing.

  “Is this all of your evidence?” she waved a hand at the folder. “Because I can tell you, it won’t hold up in court.”

  “Did you know a man by the name of Eric Higgins?”

  The question stopped her in her tracks. “Yes, I did.”

  “He also turned up dead by stabbing. Seven times, as I remember.”

  “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “Before your visit, I don’t think we had a single stabbing death in the last decade. Now we’ve had two. How would you account for that?”

  “I can’t,” she admitted.

  “I can’t either,” Agent Chen said. “Unless . . . ?”

  “Unless what?”

  He twirled the pen in his hand and made a show of reviewing his notes. “Well, Ms. François, here’s what we’ve established so far: Adam Hartmann was no friend of yours. He postponed your client’s asylum hearing, and he ‘manhandled’ your friend. If I were you, I might stick a knife in his heart and watch him bleed.”

  “Well, you’re not me.”

  “That’s certainly true.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Arrest?” he affected a tone of innocence. “We’re just having a friendly conversation.”

  “In that case, I’ve told you everything I know. Either arrest me or let me go.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Flies on a Dung Heap

  When Renée walked out of the MP’s station, John was leaning against the side of the jeep waiting for her. The rain fell in a steady downpour, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She scrambled into the jeep. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “They think I killed Adam Hartmann.”

  He jumped in and lurched out of the parking lot. “They have no proof.”

  She shot him a look. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Of course,” John hastily replied. “I just meant, they would have locked you up if they had proof.”

  After an awkward pause, she said. “I think Gigi believes I did it.”

&
nbsp; “What makes you say that?”

  She told him about her fight with Adam. “Agent Chen knew about it. Gigi’s the only one who could have told him.”

  John shrugged. “They interviewed her. She probably thought she had to tell them everything. She wasn’t trying to get you involved.”

  “They searched my room.”

  “Okay.” He drew the word out as one long syllable. “Did they find anything?”

  She glared at him. “I told you, I didn’t kill Adam Hartmann.”

  He threw up a hand in surrender. “I’m not doubting you. It’s just . . . they must have found something or we wouldn’t be here.”

  She slumped against her seat. It was hard to think. The facts were jumbled in her head, and everything seemed so far away, almost misty. “A few days ago, Gigi gave me a book on Haitian Vodou. I was trying to understand it, so I translated a passage as best as I could. That’s what they found in my room.”

  “What did you translate?”

  “‘Seven stabs of the knife. Seven stabs of the sword. Hand me that basin so I can vomit blood. Blood will flow,’” she said, keeping her eyes on him.

  “It’s the chant for Erzulie. So what?”

  “Adam was stabbed seven times. Just like Eric.”

  He let out a low whistle. “Some coincidence.”

  “Agent Chen thought so,” she said dryly.

  “You think Gigi told him about the book?”

  “I can’t think of another reason why they would search my room.”

  John shook his head. “It could have been—”

  “I know the two of you are lovers,” she interrupted, tired of the pretense.

  “What?” he sputtered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  He tried to hold her gaze but finally hung his head. “How’d you guess?”

  She let out a mirthless laugh. “You mean besides the doe-eyed looks you send her when you think no one’s looking? It’s your scent.”

  His head shot up. “My scent?”

  “The day you took me to the hospital, you gave me your T-shirt. Remember?”