by Diane Capri
“Stop. Put your camera away.” He whispered formally and he didn’t request. “You may not take pictures of them.”
Jordan immediately obeyed.
“Who are they?” The dune buggy disappeared into the woods.
“Did you see how they took those packages from the plane, and no one said a word?”
Jordan nodded.
“We have had people come here before. People who didn’t leave. Do I need to say more?” Saint Louis delivered the warning but he stared toward the woods, as if reliving a solemn, distant memory. “Those men are members of the Tonton Moun Nui. We call them tontons.”
“What do they want?”
“Respect, mostly. But they will steal and even kill to get it. Pull your hair back.”
She pulled her hair into a ponytail.
“Keep it that way. Less tempting. You cannot predict what they will do. Your camera. They would love that. Not only is it worth money but also, it is symbolic.”
“Of what?” Jordan asked. “The media and its influence or something?”
“Exactly. And the photographer’s presumptuous, voyeuristic ways are not welcome here. Not you. It is not personal. Symbolic.” The tontons were gone from view now. Saint Louis turned to look at Jordan directly. “Don’t forget what I’ve said. Take no chances.”
“Do you think they noticed me taking pictures of them?” Clearly here unseen danger could easily ambush her. From this point forward, she’d be hyper-vigilant. Pay attention to everything around her. All the time.
“Come along.” Saint Louis gestured for her to board the van through the rear door.
Before she could climb in, Dr. Ross called, “Jordan. Come meet Dr. Peter Wren, Dominique’s father.”
CHAPTER 15
Sabatier, Haiti
Dr. Ross said, “Dr. Wren, this is Jordan Fox. She’s a journalist at Channel 12 in Tampa. She’s here with us to replace our documentary photographer. We hope she’ll give us positive publicity to help raise funds back home.”
He stepped forward and extended a large, clean, well-manicured hand. Jordan shook the firm flesh. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Fox.”
“You, too, Dr. Wren. It’s easy to see where Dominique gets her distinctive features,” Jordan said.
“You’ve met Dominique?”
“And I’ve heard her sing. Twice. You must be very proud of her. She’s an amazing talent,” Jordan said.
He lowered his lids and his chin. A gesture Jordan interpreted as appreciation for her compliment.
“It’s exciting that she’s auditioning for Instant Pop Star,” Jordan said. “I’m hoping to do a feature story about her. She could win. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”
Instead of pleasure, his face reflected something Jordan interpreted as anger. “No,” he said.
“I’m sorry?” Jordan asked.
“Dominique will not be participating in a television game show.” He said game show with distain, the same way Jordan would have when she was assigned to cover Instant Pop Star.
“But her talent is amazing. She could easily win. And a win could launch her international singing career.” Jordan saw her Instant Pop Star story evaporating before her very eyes. Richard would be livid.
“I’ve made my position clear, Ms. Fox. My daughter will not defy my wishes,” Dr. Wren said. “It’s been nice to meet you. The clinic here will benefit from your work. Thank you.” He turned then to resume his conversation with Dr. Ross.
Bewildered, Jordan moved to join the rest of the team, already seated in Saint Louis’s van. The van had been hollowed out. Instead of factory-issued cushioned seats attached to the floor in parallel rows, hard benches were mounted along both sides. Jordan took one of the last empty seats, directly behind Saint Louis.
A few minutes later, Dr. Chelsey Ross climbed into the van and settled into a seat. The Silver Fox closed the van’s back door. Apparently, he was the official door closer.
The team rode across the rocky terrain of Sabatier and into the town’s mountainous countryside. Jordan snapped scenic pictures along the way. Up ahead, through the camera’s viewfinder, she spotted smoke and fire contained on the side of the road. Jordan squinted to see through the smoke, which she discovered was rising from burning tires.
Why would anyone burn tires?
Before she could ask, she saw something else. She gasped. It was them. Not the same men who had ridden to the plane on a dune buggy, but them. Tontons. Several men in straw hats, black t-shirts, jeans, and black sunglasses positioned themselves across the road like a barricade, arms crossed.
Saint Louis leaned back toward Jordan. “Stuff your camera in your duffle bag and push the bag out of sight.”
He slowed the van carrying Jordan and the team and stopped when they reached the burning tires. “Aretez, zanmi.” the tonton said.
“Oui,” Saint Louis replied. The tonton peered into the vehicle. They looked each passenger up and down, examining. But looking for what?
No one inside the van said anything. Jordan noticed the six members of the medical team had bowed their heads and seemed to be praying, which caused her stomach to do a dozen back flips. Saint Louis kept his hands on the wheel and his right foot near the accelerator, but he had also lowered his chin and gazed at the floor.
Jordan sat perfectly still, head bowed, hands clasped, holding her breath. Her heart pounded loud enough to be heard outside the van and her mouth was so dry she couldn’t possibly scream. If they searched her bag, they could find the pictures of the other tontons on her camera. Then what would they do?
Each of these tontons approached the van’s windows and looked the team over several times. When they finally seemed satisfied, the first tonton approached the driver’s window. Saint Louis and said something in Creole that Jordan didn’t hear.
Saint Louis pulled twenty American dollars from his pocket and passed it to the tonton without response. The man nodded, stepped back, and signaled the roadblock tontons to move aside.
Saint Louis lifted his left foot from the brake. The van rolled away from the burning tires and Jordan was finally able to exhale.
“What was that about?” Jordan asked, after they’d gained some distance and she’d had a long drink of water to wet her throat so she could get the words out.
“We paid the fee. Routine,” Saint Louis shrugged and watched the road ahead as if tonton barricades might be posted around every corner. Perhaps they were.
“A fee? For what?”
“The tontons must know who is going in and out. They are like your street gangs. We pay them for our protection. It is worth it.”
Jordan chuckled, attempting to disguise the fact that she was terrified for her life. “So they’re not going to kidnap me in the night.”
Saint Louis frowned. His mustache dipped down, accentuating the downward curve of his lips. “The protection fee covers other gangs only. They offer no protection from themselves.”
Nothing else was said inside the van for the remainder of the drive because the entire team was still deep in prayer.
Jordan’s legs bounced on the balls of her feet without her conscious control. She felt the dampness on her palms as wet as if she’d washed her hands. Once again, why didn’t you go to Jacksonville?
Forty-five minutes after leaving the ambitiously named airstrip, they reached the little white clinic she recognized from the materials Dr. Ross had given her. It was a small building, about the size of a typical American two-bedroom home. Next door to the clinic was the dormitory, a plain yellow building, slightly larger than the clinic.
Saint Louis parked and escorted the group inside. No one brought along more than one duffel bag and each carried the bags they owned. Team members had been assigned to private rooms before they arrived.
“Jordan, your room is at the end of the hall,” Dr. Ross said with a kind smile, as if she realized the trip had been harrowing but didn’t want to say so. She patted Jordan’s shoulder and gave her a little squeeze.
“Don’t worry. You can’t possibly get lost. Yours is the only unoccupied room we have left. After you find it and drop your bag, feel free to take a look around the dormitory. Get the lay of the land.”
Less than three seconds later, Jordan stood at the doorway to the small space she’d call home for the rest of the mission. The room was eight feet by ten feet. Bare walls and floor. Furnished with a narrow cot and one wooden chair. A window allowed light into the room along with a welcome breeze and probably every bug in Haiti because it stood wide open.
Jordan saw a lock on the door. Good. As for the window, she’d find a way to lock that before bedtime, too. She dropped her duffel on the bed and explored the rest of the dormitory building.
In addition to the bedrooms, she found two bathrooms off the same hallway. The dining room was near the main entrance. Dr. Eric Lee stood just inside with a bottle of water, staring out the window. Without turning around he said, “Group meeting here in ten minutes.”
“Thanks.” She walked back to her room, closed her door and tested the lock, which seemed sturdy enough. She inspected her window. It closed easily. She found a screen under the bed and popped it into place. But no lock. She’d have to rely on prayer and finger-crossing again until she could find a better solution.
Jordan grabbed her sling bag and made her way to the dining room again. Her stomach rumbled with hunger instead of nausea, which made her feel more normal. A couple of hours ago, the last thing she’d wanted was food. But now, the late dinner she’d been promised filled the air with a heavenly combination of bread and something more she couldn’t identify by aroma alone.
She’d arrived before the others, but she was in the right place. Three rectangular tables, each draped with a white cloth tablecloth, defined the simple room with cement floors and two large windows as the dining room. She glanced outside, curious about what Dr. Lee had been so interested in earlier. All she saw was totally uninteresting overgrown grass and weeds.
While she waited, Jordan sat at the middle table and pulled out her camera. She found the picture of the first group of tontons and pressed the delete button. But when her camera asked her to confirm that decision, she changed her mind and pressed cancel instead. Keeping your options open. You never know.
Saint Louis sat beside her. “What did I tell you about that?” He inclined his head toward her camera.
“But the tontons are gone.” Jordan purposefully widened her blue eyes to the most innocent size she could manage.
“Don’t be stupid.” He nodded subtly in the direction of the windows. “Just because you cannot see does not mean they are not there.”
Jordan’s eyes widened further.
“Do not flash expensive things.”
Jordan blinked and nodded because she couldn’t summon speech.
“It’s my job to keep my charges safe. I’ve only failed to do so once in my life. I do not intend to fail again.” He looked at her a bit more kindly, maybe. “Understand? Do what I say and you will go home again. Otherwise, I cannot promise.”
She was being watched at all times, whether she could see the spies or not.
“Understand?” Saint Louis asked again.
“Yes.” She understood she’d placed herself into another situation totally out of her depth. With luck, she’d survive her own choices.
She could be in Jacksonville right now. With Claire. Listening to Dominique Wren’s lovely voice. What the hell were you thinking, Jordan Fox?
Jordan ate silently, barely tasting the meal, and listened while the others planned tomorrow’s work. After dinner, she went to her room where she lay down on the hard narrow bed with the scratchy blanket and rough sheets that chaffed her skin. Exhaustion swallowed her into an oblivion tormented by bouncing airplanes, tontons, burning tires, and an attractive Haitian doctor wearing a sport coat.
At last, a thug with deep scars on both cheeks chased her until penetrating shrieks jerked her from nightmares to consciousness.
She sat straight up, breathless, heart pounding.
She ejected from the strange bed, panting, eyes wild.
Her head whipsawed and she turned to scan every inch of the room.
Piercing screeches bombarded again and again.
* * *
Keep Reading! Jordan’s thrilling adventures continue in
FALSE TRUTH 5
A Jordan Fox Mystery
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Excerpt from
CHAPTER 1
Sabatier, Haiti
Piercing shrieks pulled Jordan from deep unconsciousness and jerked her to the middle of the floor. Frightened. Disoriented. Thick-headed. Her body was clammy and her heart pounded like a sprinter. She could barely catch her breath.
After three terrifying seconds she grasped that the piercing screams and shrieks were not invading her bedroom.
The real fight was outside.
Her arms crossed her chest and one hand grabbed each shoulder. She stepped closer to the window and peered through the screen into the hazy dawn. Instead of murderous, machete-wielding Haitian killers called Tonton Moun Nui, she saw raucous hens and roosters attacking each other while they clucked and crowed as if they were at war. Something had happened out there to set them off. But what?
Jordan’s jumbled dreams remained vividly alive, though. The Tonton Moun Nui leader’s face, branded by deep scars on both cheeks and filled with rage, still terrified her. In real life, she’d seen him only once, yesterday at the Sabatier airstrip. Once was more than enough.
She sat heavily on the bed and blinked until her eyes stayed open and her heartbeat eventually returned to normal.
“Time to join the here and now,” she said, simply to hear a human voice, which didn’t help to dispel her unease. She knew three voices that would make her feel better. But her mother died five years ago and her dad and best friend were unreachable.
She fumbled her phone off the bedside table anyway. As expected. No signal. In this rural Haitian village, she’d be offline until she made it back to Florida, probably.
“He’ll be fine. He’s not home alone. People are with him.” Jordan actually believed this. Mostly.
But what about Claire? She wasn’t fine. Not even close. She’d been frantic yesterday. Claire said her boyfriend Salvador was “gone,” but she couldn’t have meant Sal had literally disappeared. Could she?
Sal had planned a business trip, Claire said on Saturday, when they attended the Plant University soccer game. Surely, that’s where he was. “But why would Claire have been so upset about a business trip?”
Jordan groaned. Her brain was still roiling and too foggy to unravel Claire. The war of the screaming fowl continued outside her window, which made it impossible to hear herself think, anyway.
“Hang tight until I get back,” she whispered to the two people she cared about the most in the world. She squared her shoulders and put some heft into her tone. “Talking your feelings aloud is a bad habit, Jordan. Knock it off. You were over-tired and you had nightmares. That’s all. Time to get to work.”
She had a lot to accomplish here in Haiti if she was going to win the cutthroat competition for her dream job back home. And a very short time frame to make it all happen. Keeping busy would distract her from whatever was going on there, too.
She’d pitched three good stories to her boss to justify this Haiti trip. She hadn’t been here ten minutes when one of the projects got shot down. Purely bad luck, Dr. Peter Wren was at the airstrip yesterday when Jordan arrived in Sabatier. He said his daughter would not be allowed to compete in the Instant Pop Star contest. Jordan had intended to feature Dominique and to shoot video while she was in Haiti for support.
“So what are you going to do? You promised Richard a story.” Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Jordan showered and dressed in the mint green medical scrubs she’d been assigned to wear, pulled her hair back as instructed, and reached the dining hall fifteen minutes later. The six members of the medical missionary
team were already seated.
On each of the three dining tables, the kitchen helpers had laid out bowls of freshly-cut pineapple and bananas. Jordan saw coffee, a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, a pitcher of milk, a tray of toasted white bread and a basket of homemade rolls. She found a seat near Dr. Chelsey Ross, the medical missionary team leader and the only person Jordan really knew here.
“Everything is so…fresh.” Jordan’s mouthful of pineapple fairly burst with flavor. The juice ran down her chin. She swiped it with a napkin. “This might be the best pineapple I’ve ever eaten.”
The orange juice she sipped next was bursting with flavor too, but not in the delicious way Jordan expected. She wrinkled her nose and sipped the tart nectar sparingly.
Dr. Ross chuckled at Jordan’s reaction. “It may not have the added sugar you’re used to, but it’s the freshest O.J. you’ll ever drink.”
“I just not what I was expecting.” Jordan felt her face burn hot. “I haven’t traveled much.”
“You sure plunged in head first. This place is about as far from a pampered United States lifestyle as you can get.” As he’d done on the Cessna flight yesterday when she thought she might pass out, Dr. Eric Lee came to her rescue and turned the conversation in a different direction. “The chief cook here was trained to prepare American Style meals for missionaries like us. If it weren’t for her training, you’d be eating goat meat.”
Jordan’s empty stomach clenched. “How will we know we aren’t being served goat meat?”
“Faith.” Dr. Lee grinned. “And we pay well. Our cook wants to do a good job.”
Jordan saw no scrambled eggs, bacon, or cereal. “What do you mean she cooks American Style?”
“You’ll notice the American Style more at other meals. Mashed potatoes, spaghetti, and they make a mean thin crust pizza. Dough made from scratch? You can smell that crust baking from a mile away. You’ll see them kneading it throughout the day.” Dr. Lee didn’t smile before he added, “And, you know, no mud or leaves or mush on the menu.”
