by Billy Kring
Grandfather said, “You know he’s here.”
Randall stood, “Grandfather…”
“It’s okay. I know you felt him, and not as a bad spirit, not a Chinde. Some things about the white people I like. The fact that they believe the ghosts of ancestors can also be good. The pinda-likoyee did all right with that one. I choose to believe it.”
Randall knew Grandfather called them white-eyes, in his native tongue, but Grandfather often lapsed into using phrases or Apache words in his English sentences. That was just him, a man of two worlds, and too old to change, or want to.
Grandfather said, “This will be yours when I’m gone.”
“Thank you, I value it already.”
The old man grinned and walked by Randall to return to the living room, saying as he passed, “I’m glad you didn’t think about doing it like the last saddle I gave you.”
“I was eight. I didn’t know that cutting off the stirrups was a bad idea, I thought it would make me faster.”
“I’m glad you remember.”
Randall shook his head and grinned. This century-old man still had his wit and sense of humor. But now, it was time to talk. He motioned toward the sofa. “Let’s talk about things for a while, okay?”
“Sure. It’s time, and you need to know that what’s comin’ is the scariest thing I’ve seen in my lifetime.” He sat at one end and propped up his feet on the coffee table, then pointed at the cabinet above the stove. “There’s some whiskey and glasses up there, and ice in the fridge. I don’t want to get hoarse while talkin’.”
Randall fixed them drinks; Jack Daniels and water, and when he sat on the sofa, Grandfather began his story.
“I’ve been getting signs for a while now. Like in the mornings last week when I went outside to watch the sunrise. Two snakes were mating by the woodpile, and the next morning, two bucks fought by the driveway, really clacking horns and going at it. Then a black bear charged them and all three ran into the pines.”
He took a small sip from the glass and waited some seconds before continuing. “The third morning, a big bull elk stood under the big pine and watched me. It didn’t graze or move, just watched me. In the top of the pine was a red-tailed hawk, biggest one I ever saw. It had a rattlesnake in its talons and the snake was wrapped around it while they struggled.”
Randall asked, “And it means something, you think?”
Grandfather looked sad for an instant, then said, “Wait here, I’ve got something else for you.” He walked into his bedroom and rummaged around, then came back to the couch. He had two hand-sized leather pouches. Opening one, Grandfather pulled out a loop of handmade cord three feet in diameter. “Izze-cloth,” he said. “I saw you don’t have the one I gave you a year or so ago.”
“I lost it,” Randall said, thinking about the terrible fight with Prendell Taylor and his men. “I’m sorry.”
Grandfather waved it away, “It is okay. That one served its purpose. This one I’ve been making you for a while.” He handed it to Randall.
The entire loop consisted of three strands of hand-twisted strings, with each strand half the thickness of a small, round shoelace, but longer. Tiny shells and bits of petrified wood were interwoven in the loop and regularly placed along the length. A small leather pouch the size of Randall’s middle finger was also attached. Yellow grains were on the strands, and Randall pointed at them and asked, “Hoddentin?”
“Yes, cattail pollen. It’s in the pouch, too. I’ve strengthened this every way I know. I want you to wear it when you return to Florida. You remember how, right?”
“Over my right shoulder and on my left hip. Under my shirt.”
“Good, good. And attach the tzi-dalti to it where that loop is on the pouch. Now that you have these, let me tell you what I’ve seen in my dreams, and what Dahteste said.”
Grandfather talked through the afternoon, and as the sun dropped below the hills, they built a campfire outside and then he continued. When he finished, Grandfather said, “You have any questions?”
Randall didn’t talk for several minutes, then said, “That’s a lot to absorb, and to make sense of. I’m going to work on it, think on it some more, and I won’t forget, Grandfather. I know you’re telling me all this for my own good.”
“Not just your own good. John’s involved, too, and the woman, the shooter.”
Randall still didn’t understand how his grandfather knew about Hunter. He hadn’t mentioned her, and they never met.
Grandfather said, “You can sleep on it. These things take a while to filter into you. When are you going to Florida?”
“I haven’t made a reservation yet. I’ll stay until you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. And you should take off tomorrow. They need you in Florida.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Oh yes. I’ll have Jeffrey check on me if that makes you feel better.”
“It would.”
“Good. Now, it’s my bedtime, so you need to leave. Call me when you get to Florida.”
“I can come by in the morning.”
“No need. We’ve talked, and it was good to see you. But I need some alone time. Oh, take the saddle with you.”
“I can’t do that.”
“It tells me it needs to be with you. Don’t make me mad by saying you won’t take it. I put it in a big duffel bag for you already.”
Randall grinned, “All right, Grandfather. Good night.”
Randall made reservations for a straight through on American Airlines to Fort Lauderdale International. Good, he thought. I’ll be home in no time.
Randall packed everything so he could leave early in the morning to drive to the airport in El Paso, and then tried to go to sleep. He dozed off, and then spent the remainder of the night awakening to fight animals and snakes made of smoke and floating faces over and over. The clock read 3:20AM when he finally gave up and left the hotel, driving through the night to El Paso.
Chapter 4
The young newlywed couple that took photos at the Food Court sat across from Marc Dessaline as he looked through the images. He said, “You have everyone identified correctly?”
“Yes sir,” the young woman said. “We shook their hands and they told us their names. We also followed them to their work.”
He looked at one photo again, “Young Anson, an ethnologist, and John Quick, a Homicide Detective from yet another department. This is becoming tedious. Who was pushing the conversation?”
The young man said, “The female, Kincaid. What we overheard is that she asked for the meeting and Detective Quick arranged it for her and her partner.”
“And the ethnologist, he is Haitian?”
“Yes, but very little accent.”
“Was he guessing, or…”
“He knew of our practices, mentioning certain events in Haiti that are not common knowledge, and, I think, referred to you without knowing your name.”
“What did he say?”
“He talked about Haiti’s history, and he mentioned the Tonton Macoute, at length.”
Marc put the photos down and said to the couple, “Thank you. My assistant will pay you as you leave.”
The woman hesitated, and Dessaline said, “Is there something else?”
“Would you bless us?”
“Ah.” He reached into his vest pocket and took out a card, handing it to her. “Come by this address at ten tomorrow night.”
She took it as if the card was gold, “Thank you.”
When they were gone, Ringo raised his eyebrows in question.
“I may want to use them.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“No. At least not yet. The young woman, though, she is attractive.” He stood and looked out the window, “You’re meeting the ship tonight as scheduled.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Call me when you’ve unloaded. And don’t let him back on the ship to leave. He stays here.”
Ringo nodded and left the room.<
br />
~*~
Jean Claude sailed the old Bertram into the mouth of the Miami River at midnight, then cruised at four knots until he spotted the unoccupied slip just beyond where the Seybold Canal joined the Miami River. The Spring Garden Point Park was in front of the bow and no one was in sight. Perfect. He hopped to the small dock and snugged the lines to two cleats, then re-boarded and ushered the eighteen Iranians up and off the ship. Leading them into the park so they were under the tree shadow, Jean Claude handed them a phone and said, “Straight ahead to the street. Call, and hide until they pick you up there.”
He watched them move across the grass and find cover in the brush near the street. When Jean Claude turned, Ringo Bazin materialized out of the shadows. Jean Claude’s heart froze in his chest. Ringo said, “Come.”
“But the boat…”
“Come.” Ringo gripped the man’s bicep so hard Jean felt nerves screaming from his shoulder to his fingers.
They walked in the shadows to an older model Chevrolet Impala, where Ringo released the man’s arm and pointed at the passenger’s door. Jean Claude thought about running, but changed his mind and got into the car. Ringo circled to the driver’s side, got in and started the engine. He didn’t look at Jean Claude as he said, “Dessaline has plans and you will trust him.”
“What plans?”
“He will tell you.”
“And if I don’t like them?”
Ringo turned his head slowly and looked at the man. “Imagine the worst thing that can happen to you.”
Jean wiped his mouth, but didn’t speak the rest of the trip. When they arrived at Dessaline’s home, he balked, but Ringo forced him through the door where Marc waited in the living room. He said, “Sit,” and pointed at a chair. Jean obeyed, shaking as he plopped down.
Ringo stood behind him, and Jean kept trying to look around at him until Marc said, “Look at me, and listen.”
Jean sat at attention as he was told what would happen in the next days.
One hour later, a cab picked up Jean Claude and drove him from the premises.
~*~
Hunter Kincaid pulled into the office parking lot when her phone rang. She looked at the number but didn’t recognized it, and let it ring a second and third time before answering. “Hello.”
“Agent Kincaid, how are you?”
She recognized Dessaline’s voice. “I’m at work.”
“You made good time on your commute this morning. I assume there was light traffic on the roads?”
Hunter thought, Now how did he know how much time it took? She said, “Light traffic. What’s on your mind?”
“I have information for you.”
“Okay, spill it.”
“Do you have something with which to write?”
“I’ve got a good memory, go ahead.”
“Call me when you have a pen and paper.” He hung up.
Hunter looked at her phone, then got out of her car and went inside the office. She’d arrived before Andre, so she retrieved two cups of coffee, placing one on his nearby desk and sipping on the other as she sat down, pulled out a lined yellow legal pad and clicked her ballpoint pen. Then she called Dessaline. “I’ve got a pen and paper, shoot.”
“I am a respected person in the Haitian community here, and was troubled by the tragedy surrounding the deaths of so many of my countrymen on the ship you are investigating, so I have had people ask questions, and I have something for you, but only you.”
“I’m not sure what we’re talking about here, you’re being kind of nebulous.”
Dessaline said, “Then I will be clear. I have the residence of Jean Claude Villard for you.”
“No good, Mr. Dessaline. We already have that, and have checked it out. He’s not there.”
“I don’t think we are talking about the same thing.”
Hunter said, “I’m not going to debate you on it, but I personally went there.”
“You went to the home in Pompano Beach?”
She thought, What is it with this guy? “Yes, the very one.”
“I thought so.” Dessaline let a pause fill several seconds, then said, “That is his rental house. One he rents out.”
Hunter sat up, “If you know something, how about telling me.”
“I am trying to, Agent Kincaid. I received a phone call from Jean Claude Villard this morning. He wishes to turn himself in, but only to someone he knows. He is afraid for his life.”
Andre walked into the office and Hunter motioned to his coffee. She pointed at her phone, giving him a thumbs-up sign. She said to Dessaline, “Okay, who does he want to surrender to? I’ll see if I can set it up.”
“Why, you, Agent Kincaid. He remembers you, very clearly.” Hunter thought he sounded like he was smiling while he talked.
“Have him come in.”
“He is afraid for his life. He wants to surrender to you at his residence.”
“And that’s not the Pompano Beach home.”
“No. His actual residence is in Pembroke Pines.”
Hunter said, “When we did property searches, he was only listed in Pompano Beach. Not in Pembroke Pines.”
“And for a reason. He told me that the Pembroke Pines home was one he purchased for his stepson several years ago, and when the stepson died last year, Jean Claude moved into the house. He is still grieving and hasn’t felt the desire to change the ownership papers to his name. The house is still under his stepson’s name.”
“What’s the address?”
Dessaline told her. “He said he will surrender only to you, but you can have your partner wait in the car. No one else or he will not give up.”
“You want to give me his number so I can call and tell him we’re coming?”
“I will tell him. Ring the doorbell and he will come out. If you knock on the door, he will not. That is how he will know I talked to you and we are in agreement. What time do you anticipate being at the address?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“I will call. Thank you, Agent Kincaid. The Haitian people also thank you.”
He hung up before Hunter could say anything. She said to Andre, “We’ve got a good one to check out, you ready to go?”
“I’ve got a Danish in the microwave, can’t we wait thirty seconds?”
“One Danish?”
“No, duh. I’ve seen you eat. There’s one for you, too.”
Hunter grinned, “Okay, we’ll wait, but we’re on the clock. I need to make a quick call and meet you at the car.” She started out the door, “Bring a couple of paper towels, I don’t want to get gooey on the steering wheel.”
“Gotcha.”
Hunter dialed John Quick’s cell as she walked to the sedan. He picked up on the second ring and said, “Hey.”
She filled him in on Dessaline’s phone call, then said, “Something about this feels a little hinky. If you aren’t busy, could you come over and unofficially keep an eye out from down the street, just in case things go south?”
“Sure, give me the address.” He wrote it down and walked out of the police station for his car. “I’m on my way.”
John parked where the residential street made a slight bend and left him with a little foliage to hide the car. He beat Hunter and Andre to the area and settled down to scan the other homes and yards for anything that stood out.
And there it was.
John thought at first that what he saw was a tall mannequin, almost hidden between two large oleanders. But the more he looked, the more sure John became that it was a man, a man who was looking in the same direction he was, and maybe fifty yards closer to the address.
He moved the car at an idle down the street, stopping again maybe twenty yards from the man in the oleanders. The man never turned to look. Hell, John thought, he never even twitched. A car pulled up to the address and John watched as Hunter got out of the driver’s side and walked to the front door. When he glanced back at the tall man in the oleanders, there was no one.
Hunter rang the bell and Jean Claude opened the door before the chimes stopped. Hunter was close to him now, maybe three feet, and his eyes were still creepy, although she could now see that the outer edges of eyeball were a muddy brown, not black like his irises. She said, “Jean Claude, you are under arrest. Please turn so I can handcuff you.” He turned and she ratcheted on the cuffs, turned him and started to give him his Miranda rights when a slender white man stepped from inside the house to stand beside Jean Claude.
He said, “I’m his attorney, Jack Woodson,” he handed Hunter a card. “No need to Mirandize him, I’m already here.”
Hunter was a little surprised, but not much. “I’ll finish giving him his rights, just so it doesn’t come up in court that a failed to do it.” Hunter gave the Miranda, and Woodson nodded, smiling a little. She thought something had been left unsaid in her conversation with Marc Dessaline. She said, “Okay, how do you want to play it?”
“Oh, I’ll follow you to your station, and be with him through the entire process.”
“You trust him to be with us in the car?”
“Yes. He is innocent, Agent Kincaid. I am merely a precaution to ensure fair treatment under the law, and I feel sure you won’t abuse your authority in the next ten or so minutes while we drive to your station.”
“Fair enough.” She escorted Jean Claude to the car, put him in the back seat and slid into the driver’s side.
Andre said, “Who was that?”
“His attorney. He’s following us to the office.”
Andre said, “You want me to call so the circus can start?”
“Sure. In the next half hour we’ll probably have more Justice Department Attorneys and FBI Investigators at the station than we have Agents.”
