“It can be fixed,” he said. “Everything can be. Even my head, according to qualified medical professionals. Now all we need to do is find a cab.”
A moment later, a startling peal of thunder broke over Port Louis, and it started to rain. The sudden tropical downpour drove them to shelter under the awning of a restaurant. Inside, a card game seemed to be in progress. A few people walking in couples or groups looked at them curiously as they passed, but no one said anything. She took out her phone and then hesitated, wondering if Rudy would be in bed by now. Then she noticed a yellow Ford that had seen better days taking the corner too quickly, rocking wildly on its ancient shocks.
“Is that him?” Joe asked.
It was. Rudy’s taxi pulled up, and its owner jumped out, followed by Hyacinth. Apparently, news of the ‘crazy stuff going on at the cove’ was all around town. Rudy had just picked up his sister from her hotel job, and now they were insisting on the Hansens staying with them.
“There is always a warm welcome at chez Mendoza!” Rudy added, with a grand gesture, as if inviting them to a chateau.
The Americans started to politely decline, but Rudy and Hyacinth insisted.
“You don’t want to go back to that place tonight,” the girl insisted. “Even though Lemaitre has probably taken his…”
She hesitated, looked down at her feet.
“She means he is forbidden to take more than one,” Rudy explained, more subdued now. “But, of course, if Lomax was not taken… Best not risk it.”
Joe’s injury combined with tiredness made him a little grouchy, but he did not protest much as the siblings fussed and chattered around them until they got into the cab. On one level, Sara was sure that Lomax had been taken. On another, it seemed absurd. Either way, Rudy was right. She did not want to go back to the cove, not after the night’s ordeal.
The Mendoza family home was on the northern edge of Port Louis, not quite in the shanty area but close. Even at night, it was apparent that the building had seen better days. But it was a pleasant home, not the least thanks to Mrs. Mendoza, who insisted her guests call her Marie and was full of concern for Joe.
“You must have some tea!” she insisted. “The cup that cheers but does not inebriate!”
“Mama, they are American, you got to make coffee!” Rudy rebuked her.
“Nobody needs caffeine after a night like this!” Hyacinth protested.
There was much discussion of this and other details. Sara had to smile at how keen each member of the family was to be as hospitable as humanly possible, even if this meant arguing with the other two at high volume. She felt this was a household where sweating the small stuff was common. In her experience, people who bickered over trivial things all the time seldom fell out over bigger matters. In fact, she felt more at home after five minutes in ‘chez Mendoza’ than she had after a week at the pristine new bungalow.
“The spare room is always ready,” Marie said. “You can freshen up while I make some tea—girl, don’t just stand there, show our guests upstairs!”
Joe and Sara exchanged smiles and allowed themselves to be looked after. Joe used the bathroom first while Sara put on pajamas and a fluffy blue bathrobe offered shyly by Hyacinth. The teenager was taller and slimmer than Sara, but the fit was okay. Rudy was several sizes smaller than Joe, though, so some of the late Mr. Mendoza’s garments were found for him.
“I think I’ll turn in,” said Joe, with an apologetic smile. “Doc said I should rest, and believe me, I am bushed.”
Sara sat with him for a while until he started to doze, trying not to worry about the injury. She wished she could be sure that the medics in Port Louis were as good as those back home.
But this is our home now, she reminded herself. We chose this. We can’t back down, or back out.
Downstairs, the Mendozas didn’t ask any questions, merely bustled around pouring tea, offering her cookies, asking if Joe needed any aspirin. But the pressure of questions unasked felt intense to Sara, especially when her hosts finally sat down and tried to make small talk. She decided to approach the issue head-on and asked what the rumor mill was saying about them.
“They say the Devil Ship was seen,” Marie said in a stage whisper, nursing her teacup. “Seen off the west coast by fishermen. She was heading away from the cove.”
“If the ship is seen, it usually means a soul has been taken,” Hyacinth put in. “They say it was the policewoman this time. The commissioner’s daughter.”
Sara confirmed that Lomax was missing, then asked what the commissioner was like, and meaningful glances were exchanged.
“Not a good man,” Rudy said finally. “Sticky fingers, always in the cash register. Not a man you can trust.”
There was another pause in the conversation. Three faces looked at Sara. Again, unasked questions were pressing.
“I don’t remember much about what happened,” she said, smiling apologetically. “But I think that there was someone else in the room, apart from the cop and Joe and me. And that—that other person took Charity Lomax away.”
The image of a shining blade appearing out of the detective’s chest flashed into her mind. She set down her teacup hastily, spilling hot liquid over her fingers.
“Then she is one of the disappeared,” said Hyacinth.
Mrs. Mendoza nodded sagely and spoke with awe. “Les Disparus.”
“That ship is getting awful crowded below decks,” Rudy joked, but no one laughed.
Sara took a breath and asked some more questions. Popular belief had it that Lemaitre could only take one wicked person per full moon, and sometimes, he took no one. There was even an explanation, of sorts, as to why his powers were limited. As Marie Mendoza put it, the original exorcism could not keep out Lemaitre’s evil entirely because ‘like calls to like’, and evil will always find a way into any community. But ‘the Good Lord above’ limited the damage the pirate could do.
It made a kind of sense, Sara thought, insofar as any legend did. It was one thing to enjoy a folk story in a book or on TV, quite another to find yourself living in the middle of one. And with that, she decided to wish her hosts goodnight.
***
“You okay?”
Joe was looking down at her. The room was lit by rich, tropical sunlight filtered through half-closed blinds. Thanks to the partially open window she could hear the sound of traffic. She reached up and drew him in for a kiss.
“You didn’t sleep well,” he said. “Thrashing around some. Elbow in my ribs. Like when we first moved into the apartment from hell, remember?”
They joked and reminisced about their early days together as they got dressed in borrowed clothes. Joe put on a pair of bright green Bermuda shorts to go with a lurid orange shirt. Sara described his choices as ‘interesting, in the worst possible sense’,
which prompted some horseplay. Then Joe asked the question Sara had been expecting.
“What happened to Lomax?”
She told him everything she could remember, including the details of her strange nightmare. He listened patiently. But when she finished, he smiled in a way she knew well. He simply could not accept something that far out.
“After all,” he said, “we were both unconscious when she vanished. And if she was stabbed to death, where was the blood?”
“But how did she get out of the bungalow if she didn’t use the door?” Sara demanded.
“She’s a professional; I don’t know how she did it, but she did.”
Sara pointed out that Banks, formerly of Scotland Yard, had no explanation.
“That asshole?” Joe said. “He didn’t get assigned to a backwater like Sainte Isabel because he’s a genius, Sara!”
Sara wondered if Joe was right. It didn’t alter what she had seen, felt, and heard. But it offered Joe a kind of escape clause, another reason why he didn’t have to believe in curses or ghosts. She asked why Lomax would simply give up when she had both of them at her mercy. Joe shrugged.
“I believe a crooked cop cha
nged her mind about murdering two Americans with influential friends and went into hiding. Her daddy probably helped her escape to, I don’t know, Venezuela? That’s a short boat ride away.”
It did make sense, or at least a lot more sense than the supernatural did to a guy like Joe. But Sara was insistent about her own experience, and they reached an impasse. Eventually, Hyacinth knocked tentatively on the door and said that breakfast was ready.
“If I see real evidence of paranormal stuff going on,” Joe said, “believe me, I’ll admit I was wrong. But for now, let’s eat.”
Seated around the table with the Mendozas, Sara felt oddly empowered. They had friends, people who cared about them. This was no longer an island of strangers, where the only people they had contact with were employees or cops or officials. They could make it their home. She said something to that effect, and Joe clutched her hand under the table, squeezed it.
“Okay,” she said, brandishing a piece of buttered toast, “priorities. We’ve got to get work restarted at the cove. We’re just hemorrhaging cash if we don’t. How can we do it? No negative answers accepted. Rudy can’t fail—so neither can we, right?”
Rudy looked over at his mother, then shrugged.
“It’s the boucaniers, they are the ones you need to square,” he said. “If people know they are okay with the project, no problem getting workers and keeping them.”
“People will be queuing round the block,” Hyacinth added, before leaving for work.
“So, who do we talk to?” Joe asked.
Rudy was reluctant to get involved with the boucaniers at any level. But he clearly cared about Sara and Joe enough to be badly conflicted. He hemmed and hawed for a while, as Sara tried to cajole him into opening some kind of line of communication. Then Marie Mendoza, who had been almost silent that morning, gave her son a significant look. After that, he agreed to do what he could. Then he took them back to the bungalow.
The police incident tape was being removed, and they were told all forensic work was done. Banks was there looking sheepish, and he even offered a muted apology for detaining them. He also dropped some not-too-subtle hints that influence had been brought to bear in Washington.
“If our American allies say something to the government back in London, somebody makes a call to the governor here,” he added. “You’re lucky to have friends in high places. But remember, this is a small island with some complicated politics, and people do bear grudges for generations.”
“You still haven’t tucked your shirt in, Inspector,” said Sara, with a false, sweet smile. “Imagine what the commissioner will say if he sees you looking slovenly. Don’t want to endanger that nice fat pension, do we?”
Banks scowled but tucked in his shirttail before driving off. Rudy, who’d been watching the reef, pointed to a white shape. Sara knew what it was. Joe was already cursing in frustration. The salvage operation was still underway. For all they knew, Sara thought, it could go on for months.
“Hey,” said Rudy, “why get mad when you can get even?”
He held up his phone, pointed it at the Deep Star.
“I could make a little movie right now, get a friend of mine in Trinidad to put it on YouTube, nice and discreet. Raise a bit of a stink. People learn about a war grave being messed about, they get annoyed, right?”
Sara smiled. It was such a simple idea, direct and impossible for anyone to ignore or suppress. Joe looked dubious, though.
“What if we get sued?” he asked. “Or something even worse, given what Lomax tried to do.”
“You said yourself,” Sara pointed out, “that she thought better of it. And if we get media attention, that’s protection of a sort. And… well, shit, we should do something to hit back at all those corrupt bastards!”
Joe made a frustrated gesture.
“Okay, but you’ll have to do it.”
Sara had enjoyed amateur dramatics at college. She quickly checked her hair and makeup, then went over a few ideas about what to say. They agreed that she should simply stand on the beach with Wreckers Reef in the background, and Rudy could zoom in on the Deep Star over her shoulder as she was talking.
“Okay,” she said finally, after a couple of dry runs. “I’m ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille!”
It was just an amateur video on a cheap phone, but Sara felt the old excitement she had gotten from the curtain going up and the audience falling silent. She smiled at Rudy, who gave her a thumbs up, then made a ‘rolling’ gesture. Joe called out a question.
“So, what’s going on?”
“Good question!” she said. “This is the lovely island of Sainte Isabel, where some people say corruption in high places is leading to the desecration of a British war grave…”
Chapter 11: Into the Green World
The following day, Rudy called just after breakfast and said he had permission for them to go speak with ‘someone in authority’. Joe was determined to cut a deal, keen to finally meet someone with real influence face to face. Sara—while more cautious—was eager to find out as much as possible about the island. She said nothing about Lemaitre or Lomax’s disappearance but felt sure the boucaniers would know something.
Rudy turned up an hour later. The place could be reached, he said, simply by trekking into the jungle from the beach. He followed the Hansens around as they got together suitable clothing, insect repellent, and their solitary machete. Rudy tried to veto the big blade, but Joe insisted. Rudy shrugged and said their destination was maybe an hour’s walk inland, assuming they made good time.
“What is this Fort Vauban?” Sara asked. “I thought the only fort was the old one by the harbor.”
“No, there’s a fort in the jungle, though it’s not easy to find,” Rudy explained. “Vauban is a stone fort some French governor built to try to pacify—that is, control—the boucaniers. And it cost an absolute fortune, bringing in tons of stone, building walls, digging ditches, all of that stuff.”
“I’m guessing it’s not a luxury hotel now?” Sara asked.
“It was a massive failure—classic vanity project. Man, they might as well have tried to build a wall around the jungle,” said Rudy. “The garrison was unable to get supplies of food or water or ammunition because of guerilla warfare. Cut off from Port Louis and the coast, the soldiers got dysentery, plague, you name it. The fort was abandoned, fell into ruin.”
“So, the site of their great victory over France is still a kind of meeting place?” asked Joe.
Rudy nodded.
“It’s where the boucaniers turn up to have—I suppose you’d call them conferences, to decide things. In this case, to hear your petition.”
“Like their version of congress?” Sara asked.
“A little like one,” Rudy said dubiously. “But remember, these are intensely superstitious people. If you show any disrespect to their old gods, they will not like it. And whatever you do, don’t mention Lemaitre, the Devil Ship, or anything like that. Not unless they bring it up. For them, that old pirate is the only hero they have.”
“Do they have an actual leader?” asked Joe, rubbing insect repellent over his arms and face. “Or at least some spokesman we can talk with?”
“They call her Mama Bondurant,” said Rudy, lowering his voice. “She’s a kind of priestess in the local voudon. One scary lady, they say. But I’ve never seen her; she never comes into town. Some say she is blind but has second sight.”
“Great, we have to talk business with a blind voodoo priestess,” muttered Joe. “Still, we’ve got to cut a deal, and in my experience, so-called spiritual types care as much about money as anyone. More, usually.”
“Don’t go into this being too cynical, Joe,” Sara warned. “Don’t assume we’re dealing with someone who’s corrupt, or naïve. If she’s in charge, it’s because she’s won people’s respect. Or she terrifies them. Either way, this is not some contractor trying to gouge you for a few extra bucks.”
Joe sighed and then hugged her.
“
Keeping my feet on the ground, as usual,” he said quietly. “I’ll be careful. I’ll do that active listening stuff. I even took a course, remember?”
Ten minutes later, they stood at the margin of the jungle. There was no obvious path. But then, when Rudy pointed it out, Sara saw a small gap in the undergrowth. It was not far from the tree where Laplace had been strung up. Joe noticed this, too, and mentioned it.
“That might mean Lomax wanted to implicate them,” Sara pointed out.
“True,” Rudy said. “And they are careful never to be too violent. Apart from the law, there is Lemaitre. No matter how highly they think of him, none of them want to join his crew.”
Joe grunted skeptically but said nothing more. Then the Hansens and Rudy set off from the cove and made their way inland. Rudy led the way, followed by Joe. Sara was content to follow, letting Joe slash away at dangling vines. She knew he enjoyed doing something decisive and that he was working out some frustration on the plant kingdom.
At first, Sara had expected them to have to hack through all the way, but once they’d gotten through the small opening, they walked onto a well-trod path that wound among huge, vine-covered trees. Screeching birds crashed through the branches above them, and clouds of insects swarmed around her eyes and mouth. A few went up her nose. She spluttered in disgust, tried to breathe through her mouth for a few seconds, and swallowed more bugs for her efforts.
“Dab some of this stuff under your nose,” said Joe, handing her a tube of ointment.
It worked, though Sara thought the stuff smelled disgusting. But now she could concentrate on what she was walking through, and it did not inspire confidence. She had seen plenty of jungles on TV, in nature documentaries. But it was another thing to be inside one and find every line of sight blocked by greenery. She recalled her English professor talking about Shakespeare and the ‘green world’—the idea that when characters in some plays entered a forest, they were somehow magically transformed.
“You okay?” Joe asked, pausing to look back at her.
“Yeah, just thinking about Shakespeare.”
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