Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Prologue
Island of St. Noel
Lesser Antilles
The Caribbean
February 10, 1955
It’s funny when you consider how quickly the place you call ‘home’ can turn from paradise to a hell on Earth. It can happen in the blink of an eye. Or in the amount of time it takes for someone to slip a mickey in my cup of joe. If anyone knows, it’s me.
Right now, as a matter of fact. Although I’m not quite sure why yet. My brain’s still fuzzy. I’m lying face down on a hardwood floor. That much, I’m aware of. But I haven’t opened my one eye yet. I’m afraid if I do, it’ll pop straight out of my head. That’s how much my head’s pounding right now.
My ears are working fine, though.
There’s a commotion all around me. Shouts. Angry, nasty shouts. Boots shuffle along the floor around me. There’s a struggle—more yelling, and the sound of fists hitting flesh and clothes ripping. It’s somewhere behind me, but I’m not sure how far away. All I know is that people are angry. And the inside of my head feels as though a million bees are swarming around my gray matter—stinging every inch of it as they pass.
I groan. I can hear that, too. Feel the dryness of my throat, like sandpaper rubbing along even sandier paper.
Oh, I need a drink.
Then again, there’s a sneaky part of me that says that’s how I got into this mess to begin with. Rum.
More boots scurry past me, but I don’t have strength enough to lift my head to see who it is.
No, it wasn’t rum. It was the coffee. It had to be. It was that molten hot caffeine-laden cup of coffee that did this to me. I’m sure of it. So, where does that put me? Home? Eubank, Kentucky? If I could, I’d shake my head at the thought. I haven’t been back there since before the war. Only other person I know who can make apple pie moonshine the way my mom could is…
My eye snaps open, but I still don’t move.
“Chief, he’s waking up.” The voice sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
“I’ll kill ’im!” Another familiar voice says. A voice I’ve called friend for several years now. So, why can’t I place it? “I’ll kill ’im for what he’s done!”
The voice is angry. Mad with grief. And although I’m not sure why, I know that anger is directed squarely at me.
I groan again and try desperately to place my hands against the wooden floorboards to lift myself up. But I can’t, for two reasons. First, my arms feel like rubber. There’s no strength in them at all. But that’s not the bad part. The second reason is the bad part. I can’t place my hands against the floor because they’re behind my back and can’t move.
Tied?
No. I hear metal against metal as I shift my arms. Someone’s put me in irons. Shackles or handcuffs, I’m not sure. I try to turn my head, but now all I can see with my burning eye is a pair of shoe soles moving to and fro around the small room.
The room.
What room am I in?
I can feel a nice gust of cool air washing down over me, along with the gentle thump-thump-thump of an overhead ceiling fan. My one good eye searches for more clues. Wood paneled walls are all around me, covered here and there with red velvet curtains pulled back with gold-tasseled ties. A bookshelf filled with a healthy selection of leather bound books is to my right.
The room is starting to take shape and, like the angry voice, it’s familiar. I’ve been here before. Lots of times. Lots of pleasant memories are hazily edging their way in from the back of my mind.
Though I can’t see it properly from my position on the floor, I know with certainty that there’s a round wooden table a few feet away. A table with a bowl filled with water and tea leaves resting next to an ornate crystal ball.
The ball is purely decorative. The tea leaves aren’t.
“Get him off da floor,” an authoritative voice says. That one, I recognize immediately. Chief Fidel Armad, the commanding officer of the St. Noel Police Force.
What’s he doing here?
Before I can ponder the question properly, two sets of beefy hands take hold of me by the armpits and haul me to my feet. They’re not gentle about it either.
“Take him to the station for questioning,” Armad continues. “And contact Martinique when you get there. The Inspector will want to hear about the murder.”
Murder? What murder?
My head still feels as though the New York Philharmonic is playing Beethoven’s Fifth inside my skull. My eye struggles to focus. I look down at my feet. My Colt .45 is lying casually on the floor, as if it’s been there since the day it was first produced.
I don’t remember pulling my gun. Though I’m still struggling to piece together where I am, I know that in this room, I’d never need to use it. Not here. Never here.
But I can now smell the distinctly acrid scent of gun smoke hanging in the air. It’s unmistakable. So I must have fired it.
Right?
“I swear to all da loa, you will suffer for what you did to ’er, Joe!” The same angry, but familiar, voice is shouting at me in that typical singsong lilt of the islands. “Da loa will give me my revenge! I swear to you!”
What did I do? And to whom?
I wish my head would stop throbbing. Wish I could focus. Maybe I could explain myself, if I could only think straight.
The police officers behind me begin to whirl me around to the parlor’s open French doors. As I turn, I see her.
Angelique Lagrange.
My knees buckle at the sight. If the officers weren’t gorilla-sized lugs disguised in sharp uniforms, I would have dropped to the floor. Angelique Lagrange, the Candyman’s wife, lies on her back on the other side of her fortune-teller table. A gruesome red hole has been carved into her skull, just above the wide, staring eyes. Blood pools underneath her caramel-hued, voluminous body, staining her pretty floral-print dress with its crimson ugliness.
Oh, God. Angelique.
I turn my head toward the doors. Darkened paper lanterns hang sadly from lamp posts throughout town. The streets are covered in multi-colored confetti, empty rum bottles, and vomit—all telltale signs of the festivities the night before. The sky is overcast and gray, but the heat of the morning smacks me across the face in an instant splash of perspiration.
My eye surveys the street just outside the French doors, and my heart skips a beat. Behind the sawhorse barricade and amid the crowd of wide-eyed gawkers, stands Jacque ‘the Candyman’ Lagrange in all his immense glory. The man I’ve called ‘friend’ for nearly a decade. Now, he has murder in his fiery eyes, and it’s directed entirely at me.
The officers escort me through the doors and into the teeming street. Shouts and howls fill the early morning air. The islanders are just as angry as Jacques. People I’ve called friends for the last decade are all looking at me like I’m the devil incarnate. In their eyes, I’ve betrayed them all. Killed their mamba—voodoo priestess—and the wife of the high priest. There’s no greater insult. Especially from someone they’ve welcomed with open arms.
I try to speak. To offer an apology…an
explanation. But my mouth is numb. I don’t know if it’s from the drug that knocked my lights out or from the shock of seeing poor Angelique as cold and as unmoving as a tombstone.
The officers push me through the street, and they’re not too keen on keeping me out of the reach of the angry crowd. Hands grasp for me, tearing at my hair and my clothes. I swivel away, only to draw closer to other hands, equally as eager to slice off a piece of me.
My eye wanders the crowd. A few sad, concerned faces pop out among the throng. Good old Nessie—the unofficial matriarch of the island—stands off to my left, her head bowed in silent prayer, except for the brief moment she looks up and offers a brief nod of encouragement in my direction. Trixie Faye is standing next to her, her arm resting comfortingly over Nessie’s shoulder. Trixie’s blonde curls are radiant in the morning light, like the halo on an angel. Her brow is creased with worry, and she refuses to look me in the eye.
Not that she has much time to do so. The coppers jostle me forward, until we reach the waiting police car. They shove me in the backseat and begin driving toward the police station. It’s not the first time I’ve been a guest there, but it’s certainly going to be the first time I’ve been there under suspicion of murder. The murder of a dear friend at that.
What happened last night? Why can’t I remember?
As the car barrels down the dust-filled road toward the station, my eye catches another set of faces. Three well-dressed men in black suits stand toward the back of the crowd, watching the drama with great interest. As we drive past, they each look at me through the backseat window. Two of them have nice purple shiners under their eyes. Another has a busted lip and a bandaged head under his fedora. Curious grins stretch across each of their faces. I have memories of those faces, too. And they’re not fond ones.
I lean back in my seat, close my eye, and focus on remembering everything.
1
Thirty-eight hours earlier
Before we get started, first thing you should know is that the name’s Joe Thacker. ‘Captain Joe’ to the locals of St. Noel, the Caribbean paradise I’ve called home for the last ten years—ever since the War. To a thirty-five-year-old, retired Navy pilot , born and raised in the landlocked hills of eastern Kentucky, St. Noel is probably as close to heaven as anyone could get with his feet set firmly on ground or ship’s deck.
With only two seasons—warm and breezy—the island is almost always paradise. The jungle’s lush and vibrant with life. The beaches are white sand and crystal blue water capped in white foam, with scantily clad natives frolicking in the waves. The islands have flowers with colors I’ve never learned the names of, and there’s seafood that’ll make your mouth water just from the smell coming from the grill.
And then, there’re the people. God, how I love the people here. Being from the southern United States, I was raised with a certain set of values. Hospitality was up toward the top of that list, and the citizens of St. Noel, despite their meager means and being under the thumb of the French government by means of a greedy governor, are nothing if not hospitable to most outsiders that come to their island refuge.
So, when I pull The Ulysses Dream, my forty-two-foot Wheeler Cruiser, into Port Lucine and tether her to my slip, I’m not at all surprised to be greeted by the beaming smiles and waving hands of almost twelve children running up the dock.
“Captain Joe!” they shout as they run. Their chocolate and caramel-hued bodies glisten with perspiration from working all day in the sugar cane fields, but their energy as they approach seems to know no limits. “Captain Joe! Ou se tounen!”
Others in the group repeat in English, knowing I haven’t become fluent in their Creole language just yet. “You’re back!”
I laugh, moving aft and hefting four large wooden crates I’ve been hauling onto a dolly cart. Then I wheel them down the gangplank onto the dock before waving back at the kids.
“Bonjou, timoun yo!” Rough translation? ‘Hello, kids.’ It’s one of the few Creole phrases I know.
I give them a wave after adjusting my eyepatch, to ensure the scarred, gaping cavity that once housed my eye isn’t showing. The kids are fascinated by the injury, but I’m in no mood to regale them with stories about how I lost it for the thousandth time. Besides, I can never remember which story I’ve told them. And quite frankly, I have too much work to do to get sidetracked by tall tales.
Checking to ensure I’ve unloaded all the cargo I brought back from Havana, I move back onto the boat, slip my Colt .45 in my shoulder holster, and withdraw the boat’s key from the dashboard. Then I give a short whistle with my thumb and forefinger pressed against my lips. A moment later, a tiny, black, fur-covered face pops up from the cabin belowdecks.
“Come on, Moe,” I say to the three-year-old vervet monkey that adopted me against my will a few years earlier, when I was visiting Mozambique. “We’ve got work to do.”
The monkey scowls at me before glancing back down to the cabin.
“No, you can sober up out here just as easily.” The kids’ excited shouts amplify when they realize the monkey is above deck. Ignoring the children, Moe hurls a sling of screeches at me. “Oh, no. You shouldn’t have snuck into the whiskey, you banana head.”
He shrieks at me again.
“Don’t take that tone with me. You’re not staying, and that’s final. I don’t trust you to be drunk by yourself, after that little fiasco on St. Thomas.”
Moe lets out a disappointed raspberry, then scampers across the deck, up my leg, and finally onto my shoulder. He wraps his tail around my neck, then glances down at the kids on the dock before leaping down into their midst for a barrage of belly rubs and ear scratches.
“Hey, don’t encourage him,” I say, as I climb onto the dock. “That flea bag’s hard enough to deal with, without you guys spoiling him like that.”
I watch in secret delight as they continue playing with the monkey, giving me time to light up a cigar and enjoy the smooth tobacco as it wafts down my throat. A moment later, I notice a sudden hush along the dock. I look down to see all the children staring at the crates with wide, eager eyes.
“Oh, no. Uh-uh,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t even think about it.”
They look from the crates to me, then back again. A few of their little bare legs begin to bounce up and down excitedly, their smiles stretching to impossible lengths as the sudden realization of my cargo begins to manifest in their greedy little heads. The boys, all wearing cutoff shorts and no shirts or shoes, are covered head-to-foot in grime, dirt, and flecks of sugar cane. One of the boys, Malik, stands there with his baseball mitt on one hand and an old wooden bat I gave him for Christmas in the other. The girls, ever so demure with their hands behind their backs and offering coy smiles as they look up at me with saucer-sized eyes, are dressed in pretty flower-print dresses they received from missionaries last year. The dresses are already stretching uncomfortably over their growing, but emaciated frames.
“I said no… I can’t…”
They turn their pleading eyes to me again before the entire dock explodes in a round of excited shouts of joy. Around twenty-four hands instantly shoot up toward me, tenaciously begging for a taste of what I’ve just hauled back from Cuba.
I take another puff from the cigar and give them a sly wink with another shake of my head.
“You know I can’t give you any,” I say, grabbing the dolly from the deck of my boat and sliding it under the crate nearest me. Moe, curious as to why the children have suddenly abandoned him, jumps up onto the crate and takes several sniffs. His own eyes swell to nearly twice their size as he smells the confectionary treats inside. “Candyman’s voodoo will turn me into a toad, or a goat, or something, if I hand out his stash to the lot of you.”
The children moan, their excited faces melting into masks of disappointment. I stare at them disapprovingly for a second or two, wanting to savor the moment for as long as I can. Of course, this is a game we always play whenever I get back from a run, and
they play their parts to the nines.
After another few moments of delectable torture, I allow myself a grin, still clutching the cigar between my teeth. I dig into the pockets of my leather flight jacket, and pull out heaps of foiled candy in the palms of my hands.
Their faces light up when they see the colorful bounty, and their feet begin stomping the deck in anticipation as I begin passing out pieces of chocolate, hard candies, and licorice sticks to each of them. With nods of genuine thanks, they dig into the candy, just as the island’s chief customs agent and a porter make their way up to my boat.
“Cap’n Joe, you spoil d’ose childr’n too much,” the customs agent says, as he extends his hand. I accept it and give it a firm shake in return. I keep my eye trained on both men as best I can, while feeling reassured by the gun hanging from its shoulder holster on my left side.
I can’t believe they’re here. After the last haul, I thought we’d come to an arrangement.
“That’s funny, Monday. I was just sayin’ the same thing to them about the monkey.”
Monday Renot, Port Lucine’s chief customs agent, is a bear of a man, standing a little over six feet tall and weighing an easy two hundred and fifty pounds. He’s darker skinned than most on the island, who typically have mixed blood to some extent or another. He also has a reputation for being a mean drunk and a nasty brawler, when he isn’t flitting his usually ill-gotten money away in the local gambling dens. Even worse, as the chief customs agent, he’s one of the many corrupt public servants working for the despot governor the French government sent. And I trust him about as much as I could pick him up and throw him.
That being said, he isn’t all bad. We’ve shared a few games of poker over the years and have always gotten along decently enough. His greed and his general laziness have been major boons for my business on more than one occasion. That is, until the Governor’s and the Candyman’s lifelong feud flared to life again a few months ago. Since then, Monday’s been a thorn in my side at every turn—even confiscating my cargo completely, on my last trip.
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