Tonton

by Billy Kring

  The servants left at a motion of Dessaline’s hand. He pulled the laptop beside his plate, flipped it open and watched the security video. When he finished, Marc filled his plate with the breakfast. Both men ate in silence. When they finished and the plates were taken away, the two men watched the video once again.

  Marc said, “We will help them.”

  Ringo said, “Yes?”

  Dessaline told him his idea, pausing for bites of breakfast as he talked. When he finished, he said, “Begin tonight.”

  Bazin nodded, “And Baimby?”

  “Watch her, for now. Nothing more. We have too much business for the next month to waste any of our time.” Marc rose, “Tomorrow will be a most interesting day.” He left the table and disappeared into the home.

  Ringo took his time, lingering with the last of his coffee. He thought about Agent Kincaid, and how she reminded him of a young leopard the way she moved. He felt a stirring in his loins and let his imagination wander about what he wanted to do to her, what her flesh would taste like.

  ~*~

  John Quick sat with a black man who wore a Dolphins cap, and he nodded as Hunter and Andre walked into the food court area. They stood when the two reached them. John said, “Hunter, Andre, this is Mr. Young Anson.”

  Young shook their hands and said, “From what John has told me, we have some interesting things to discuss.”

  Hunter said, “I know next to nothing about this, so any help you give will be appreciated.”

  Young said, “Let me get some food, and we can begin.” While they ate, Hunter showed Young the images taken at Jean Claude Villard’s home.

  “It is an altar to several deities.”

  Andre said, “I thought it might be Petro, black magic.”

  “It is. I can’t see enough from this photo to tell exactly whom he, or they, represent, but it is clear that there are both male and female figures. I’ve seen similar things before in Haiti, but not here, although I understand they are around.”

  John said, “What about the human skull?”

  Young said, “Owning human skulls is not illegal, so I doubt you can draw any inferences, other than it appears that potions are made in the skull. The adult skull appears to be old, too, and there is no evidence in these images to show origin, or if it was obtained legally.”

  Hunter said, “So, it could be illegal if it was from a murder?”

  “Yes, and if you could tie it to the crime. There is no way to tell from the photos. But I imagine it is a legal purchase. They are not prohibitively expensive, Miss Kincaid.”

  “Would you call me Hunter, please?”

  Young smiled, “I shall, Hunter. And I am Young.”

  Hunter touched a photo of the alter and said, “Since I have no clue on this, could you give me a cram course?”

  Young said, “A very short one. Each item represents something. Colors, items, beadwork, symbols, and in what color they are drawn. In this photo, there are several goat skulls, and they represent black magic. These white marks here”, he indicated thin white lines making a plus sign, with a small white filigreed circle around the juncture of the lines, “indicate a female loa, a spirit who is a sòsyè, a witch, and most probably a sorceress of vodou. I think it is Marinette Bois Sèch, a very powerful and evil sorceress, violent and unpredictable. The male is probably Agaou, sorcerer god of lightning, hurricanes, and earthquakes. One of the most violent, dangerous ones.”

  John said, “Thing is, this isn’t illegal.”

  Young said, “You are right. Still, this is alarming. There are also symbols of several Djab, devils of black magic, and other things I can’t make out.”

  He glanced at the other three, “Bad things are being planned, I can tell you that. I have seen these in association with the Tonton Macoute,” he pronounced it as if one word and emphasized the last syllable so it was pronounced tontonmahCOOT.

  Andre said, “They’ve been gone for years.”

  “On the surface. The names changed several times to disguise them. First, under Papa Doc Duvalier they were the Milice de Volontaires de la Sécurité Nationale, the voluntary national security militia that Papa Doc formed after he disbanded the military and police after they failed in a coup attempt. It wasn’t long before the people gave them a different name: Tonton Macoute, the Bogeyman. They were set loose under Duvalier’s protection with orders to kill, torture and instill fear in every person in the country until there was total subservience to Duvalier. They could, and did, murder, rape, and steal, torturing anyone they chose and needed no provocation to do so. They acted with impunity.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Hunter said.

  Young continued, “Even their blue denim uniforms, straw hats and sunglasses, along with the machetes they carried caused dread when people saw them approaching. A conservative estimate is that the Tonton Macoute hacked to death over 60,000 people in the first year or so of their existence. The real numbers are probably double that, maybe even higher. Their names changed through the years and different regimes, but to the people, they were always, The Bogeyman.”

  “And they’re here, too?” Hunter asked, indicating the photos.

  “Many of them came to America, to Florida. Luckner Cambronne was one of the most brutal. He was their head until the early seventies, when he came to Miami. He was known as the Vampire of the Caribbean. He died in Miami in 2006.”

  John said, “I heard he got that name because he drank the blood of his victims.”

  Armand said, “That may be true, and he was also said to eat human flesh. The main reason, though, was that he sold so much Haitian blood and cadavers to the West.”

  “Like for medical services?” Hunter asked.

  “Yes. It is highly probable that he sent his men out to murder people so he could sell their corpses, and his men forced people to give blood. Cambronne’s company had terrible hygiene standards and was probably the conduit of AIDS into America through tainted plasma sent here.”

  John said, “I didn’t know that.” Hunter and Andre looked somber.

  “Did he practice vodou?” Andre asked.

  Yes, and so did his men. Do not forget that vodou is the national religion of Haiti.”

  Andre said, “Was he considered a bokor, a sorcerer?”

  “I do not know. He was an evil man, and that was enough.”

  Hunter said, “He was never charged with any crimes?”

  “No.

  “Is he the only one who came to the States?”

  “Oh no. Many came, and then, in the Haitian exodus where tens of thousands of Haitians came to Florida on boats and rafts, others came.”

  John said, “We’re talking the Tonton Macoute coming, mixed in with the others.”

  “Yes, hiding in plain sight as it were.”

  Hunter said, “Do you think these photos indicate that Jean Claude is Tonton Macoute?”

  “No way to tell for sure, but he is certainly associated with the way of the Macoute, maybe an associate or follower. The Tonton Macoute is not recognized by law enforcement as existing here. I can tell you something else, there is someone more powerful involved in this. The Bokor who this one serves,” Young pointed at the photo of the altar, “is supreme in the hierarchy of their group.”

  John said, “And you’re telling us that local law enforcement is wrong.”

  “Perhaps I should have said, officially recognized.”

  Hunter looked at the photos again, “So, these evil spirit gods you mentioned, Marinette Bois Sèch and Agaou, they might be indicators of Tonton Macoute?”

  “Maybe, but there is no way to be sure from only them. Or these photos. You would need more than that. Besides, they are not official, but a shadow group in Florida. Haitians do not like to mention them.”

  Andre said, “I remember my father talking about how the vodou priests and priestesses are possessed by these type gods and then the gods speak through them.”

  “Yes, they are called Houngan, for the male high pr
iest, and Mambo, for the female. These two then pray to these gods and are possessed by them. They can either direct others to do things, or act themselves.”

  Hunter said, “So, this Agaou, he would bring an earthquake or something.”

  “Maybe only lightning, or a bad storm. It depends on the power of the priest, and the thing to be accomplished.”

  John said, “Like lightning to kill someone.”

  Young said, “It is not so direct, but in a sense, yes.”

  Hunter looked at the photo on her phone again, “How about the boar’s skulls with the big snake skeleton draped on them?”

  “The snake represents Damballa, the oldest of all and the creator of the world, but since it is a poisonous snake, I assume the purpose is for dark things. That, with the boar skulls, reinforces this.”

  “Would you know if that snake skeleton is a Gaboon Viper? I thought it might be, because of the fangs.”

  A twenty-something black man and woman suddenly bumped into the back of Young’s chair. The young couple appeared embarrassed and the woman said with a slight Caribbean accent, “Oh, we are so sorry.”

  The young man said, “It’s our honeymoon, and we are getting a little crazy, I guess. We’ll move away.”

  Young said, “It is no problem.” He noticed their camera and said, “Would you like for me to take a picture of both of you together?”

  The woman said, “Would you? That’s so nice, Mr…?”

  “Anson. Young Anson, and it will be my pleasure.” The couple introduced themselves to the others at the table, shaking hands and saying how nice it was to meet everyone.

  Young posed them, then snapped four photos and gave the camera, a Canon Powershot, to the woman, who thanked him again.

  The couple continued moving around the food court, posing for photos as the other snapped away, and then switching roles and places for different poses.

  Young returned to the table and answered Hunter’s earlier question, “I think so, yes. Gaboons are from Africa, as is Vodou. It would be a link to the original religion.” He rubbed his chin, “The old ways, where the worship and practice of dark magic and spells originated and were strong. Reports of some incidents that occurred there are almost beyond belief. There are different versions of vodou: African, Haitian, and New Orleans, and each is different in some ways from the others. But having said that, all vodou originated in Africa.”

  Andre said, “Vodou is also for good, too.”

  “It most often is. The Haitian people practice it that way as their religion. The loa are spirits and can be good or bad. If worshiped as rala, the peaceful way for life’s happiness, the loa are white magic, for good.” He pointed at the image, “This, though, this is from angry loa, evil loa, called petro. And the ones represented here are black magic.”

  “And yet still not illegal,” John said again.

  “Correct.”

  “Unless we find that this ties into the Haitian ship that he captained.” Hunter said.

  Andre said, “If he’s the captain. We haven’t proven that, yet.”

  Hunter nodded, “Yeah.” They sat there in silence, each with their own thoughts.

  Young said, “I have to return to work. If I can be of help, all you have to do is call.” He stood; as did the others and they all shook hands.

  After Young left, John said, “Keep digging, that’s about all you can do.” He tapped Hunter’s forearm with his index finger, “And you, don’t trespass again. You’re going to get your butt into a crack.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ll be good.”

  Andre snorted, “Sure you will.”

  All three chuckled. John checked the clock on his phone and said, “Gotta go, the office is calling.” He looked at Hunter, “You coming over later?”

  “Sure. Should I bring anything?”

  “Nah, I’ve got it all ready. Andre, you want to come? I’ve got seafood gumbo going in the crockpot.”

  “Thanks, but it’s date night for me and the wife. We’ve already locked in the babysitter.”

  Hunter said “Good for you.”

  Andre said, “Thanks.”

  John said, “See you later.”

  He waited until reaching his car before reading the earlier text from Randall, still in New Mexico.

  It read: call me when u can.

  John started the car and turned the AC on high, then called Randall.

  “Do I have any mangoes left?”

  “Green ones only. It’s all Hunter’s fault.”

  “I bet. How are things going?”

  “We just met with a man named Young Anson, to meet with Hunter and Andre, her partner, to go over things.”

  “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “About Hunter’s case?”

  “Sort of.”

  John turned an air vent toward his face, eased back in the seat and said, “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

  ~*~

  Randall drove his grandfather to the small, neat prefab home near where Snow Canyon intersected highway 70 a few miles from Ruidoso and parked on the cleared area in front. Randall got the suitcase from the trunk and followed his grandfather, who was striding right along at a good clip.

  He stopped at the steps, and then began looking around. Randall asked, “What is it, Grandfather?”

  “The keys. I kinda tossed them at the steps when I left the other day.”

  Randall wanted to keep it light, “In a hurry, huh?”

  “They were calling from Whitetail, and said for me to come fast, they couldn’t stay around long.” He turned to look at Randall, “I know you’re not big on this, but things are different here on the rez, and you’ve been gone a lot of years.”

  “I’m listening, Grandfather, I’m not doubting you.” He put down the suitcase, “Let’s both look. They’ll turn up.”

  Grandfather bent down by the dirt at the lower edge of the step. He reached into a coffee cup-sized clump of brown grass, and then stood holding the small ring of keys. “Here we go. Come on.” He opened the door and Randall followed him inside.

  “You haven’t been in this one, have you, Grandson.”

  “No Grandfather, first time.”

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s nice. Neat as a pin, too. You hire a housekeeper?”

  “Haha. I keep it this way.” He pointed at a space by the sofa, “Leave the suitcase there. I’ll put my things away later.”

  Randall did, then his grandfather said, “Come back here, I want to show you something first, before we talk a lot.” He led Randall to a bedroom and opened the door. Indian artifacts – Apache artifacts, lay scattered around the room and on a small desk. In the center of the floor was an old saddle.

  “That saddle? It was your ancestor’s.” Randall looked at Grandfather, wanting him to continue. He did. “It was Victorio’s. When the Mexicans killed him and seventy-seven others at Tres Castillos, the Mexican scout, Juan Mata Ortiz, the devil who led the Mexican forces to them, took Victorio’s saddle and other items as prizes for himself.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “There you are, rushing the story like a white man.” Grandfather had a twinkle in his eye when he said it. “I will continue now.”

  He walked to the saddle, knelt and touched the saddle horn. “Juan Mata Ortiz was proud of himself, and put the saddle on his own horse. Nana and the others, who were not at Tres Castillos at the time of the battle, later walked the scene and read the tracks to learn each individual story of the fight. They knew Juan Mata, and followed his sign. The Apaches dodged the military, took revenge on everyone in their path, and caught up with Ortiz months later. They forced him to dismount and escape on foot up a small hill, which was Nana’s plan all along. The warriors surrounded the hill, and then crawled up it on their stomachs, rolling large rocks in front of them so Juan Mata Ortiz couldn’t target them. He fired many, many times, but only hit rock. When the Apaches got close enough, they rushed and captured hi
m.”

  Grandfather patted the saddle and stood erect, “In the end they left small parts of Juan Mata Ortiz scattered across the hilltop like so many pieces of confetti. They took his horse and the saddle with them and then it kinda got lost in the big surrender and leaving Arizona.”

  “But you tracked it down.”

  “Not me, but some people I know. They’re good at that kind of thing. It took them a while. You can see a couple of bullet holes in the leather, and some faded markings that are Apache.”

  “Are you sure it isn’t fake? People do that for money, Grandfather.”

  “People do, but not this time. Come here,” Grandfather motioned Randall to the saddle and lifted the leather blevins above the right stirrup and pointed high up underneath where it joined the saddle. There were three smears of a faded ocher color.

  Randall said, “What is it?”

  “What’s the name of our people? Our Apache name?”

  “Chihinne.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “The Red Clay People.”

  Grandfather continued like a teacher asking a student, “Why?”

  “Because of the red clay near the sacred warm springs. The People used the clay to paint and ornament their bodies and other things.”

  Grandfather pointed at the three smears. “This was put there by Victorio, to mark it as his. We know this as the mark he used.”

  “I’ve never read that anywhere.”

  “Hah, read it, you say. Our history has more unwritten than written. This is one of many that we passed down only by mouth. There’s much that our people will never share. It is for us to know, and no one else, because it can still be used against us.”

  “Even today?”

  Grandfather said, “Even today, in the twenty-first century.”

  Randall squatted, Indian style by the saddle and ran his hand along the polished leather. It was a strange feeling, touching this saddle where his famous ancestor sat. He lifted the leather flap and put his fingertips in the air over the ocher colored marks where the Apache leader drew his three fingers. He didn’t touch them but let his digits hover an inch above them. Their fingers appeared to be the same size, Randall thought. So close to him. Separated only by time. He thought that, a minute earlier, an hour even, and it would be the same as this; still only time. Not space, not distance. Randall felt closer to his Apache ancestors than he had in years, as if Victorio himself was leaning over his shoulder, watching him and approving.