Byrd touched an elevated red area of his forehead and grinned.
“He used a lamp when I wasn’t looking.”
Henri did not holster the Browning. His mind raced. Who fired that rifle at me? If it wasn’t Byrd, then who?
He returned to the present.
“All right Hugh, fasten the clip on your holster and we’ll talk. Just remember, I won’t let you touch Smets. Denise needs him.”
At the mention of Denise Guerry, Hugh became more compliant. Besides, he was sure that Henri would shoot only if challenged. He snapped the Glock’s holster closed.
“OK, but I still want to talk to him. You can understand that. Where have you hidden the good doctor?”
Henri held the Browning ready and pointed to the rear door.
“Come with me. He’s out back in the tobacco shack.”
***
The path to the shack was overgrown with brambles and weeds among which small prickly junipers strove to survive.
Hugh forged ahead while Henri lingered a step behind. The door hung by a single rusty hinge that squealed when Hugh pulled it wide. He leaned in.
Even standing to the side, the moldy air assailed Henri’s nostrils. He did not go in, but scanned the nearby fields.
Inside, Hugh peered into the shadows as his eyes acclimated to the dim light. He turned back to Henri.
“He’s not here. What are you up to Duval?”
Henri shrugged and gestured towards a dark mass in the field beyond. As if on cue, the mass split apart as two vultures launched themselves upwards, their clumsy wings flapping.
“There’s something over there. Follow me.”
They pushed through the knee-high broom grass and brambles and reached the body of a man, face down against the soil.
Hugh Byrd rolled the body over.
It was Gilles Smets.
His face, caked in dirt and blood, had been hacked by a sharp instrument. Deep bloody wounds on the shoulders, chest and arms evidenced repeated slashing.
Henri shuddered. A panga? Memories of the Rwandan nightmare swamped his brain.
He struggled to regain focus. What was that?
Something was tied around Smets’ neck.
A vary-patterned rag faded yellow, green and blue.
Henri choked.
The torn fragment of a Hutu Interahamwe shirt!
***
Henri looked up. Hugh Byrd sported a wide grin.
“Looks like somebody besides me did not like the good doctor. How will you report this to your ‘lovely’ Denise?”
Henri launched a “chasse lateral” kick to the front of Hugh’s thigh followed by an American roundhouse right hand to the jaw. Twisted with pain, Hugh collapsed.
Henri pointed his Browning at the fallen figure.
“Get up. You have no idea what this is about. Touch that Glock and you’re a dead man. Now get out of here before I change my mind. Be glad it’s me you’re dealing with and not Denise or her uncle. Now go.”
Hugh went around the side of the house to his car. Henri called after him.
“And this is not about Denise. I know she had nothing to do with this and you either. Just go!”
Henri crouched beside the body to finish his thought.
But who did?
***
An agitated Hugh Byrd drove fast down the lane from the farm house. Byrd you’re slipping. You let a damn Wop beat you. No, wait, Duval is French, a damn Frog. Hell what’s the difference!
He chuckled and settled his thoughts. Smets was dead. Someone had done him a favor.
He gritted his teeth.
Henri had bested him, but only physically. Byrd was alive, thanks to Henri’s scruples. What a sap! And that pitiful effort to assure Byrd that Denise Guerry would not blame him for the doctor’s death, Henri was a moralistic fool! Don’t think Denise will reward you. She needs me dead, and you let me go. Why do you think she chose you to guard the doctor?
Byrd fingered the clip on his holster. If he’d had the upper hand, the vultures would be picking at Duval’s carcass along with the doctor’s.
Hugh hesitated as he thought of Smets’ body, and the cloth about its neck. Duval had been shaken at the sight of the mutilated corpse. What was that about?
Hugh cleared his mind. Clearly his alliance with Denise Guerry was finished. Yet he and she both needed to recover the papers to protect themselves from exposure.
But Ryan had the papers and now Hamm too!
Hugh could deal with Denise Guerry later. He must recover those documents.
He set his jaw.
The Ryan woman was now the target.
***
Contrary to Denise Guerry’s conclusion, Jeannine Ryan had headed south, not north.
Thanks to the gas in Wayne Johnson’s Buick, she had reached Dillon, South Carolina, without stopping and with a few gallons to spare.
Now she guided the Buick down a tree-lined street with residences and broad front lawns that, in Spring time, featured beds of bright Azaleas shaded by dogwoods and tall pines. Next to Jeannine in the passenger seat, Bill Hamm slept, as he had for most of the drive from the hospital in Jacksonville. His breathing was regular, his limbs relaxed.
Jeannine turned into a driveway that led to a brick two-story house set back among the trees. She drove to the rear of the dwelling and cut the motor. Here Wayne Johnson’s Buick was safe from prying eyes. Except for the house itself, the back yard was otherwise bordered by thick growths of tall long-needled pines.
She walked to the passenger side of the Buick and opened the door.
“We’re here Bill. Let me help you.”
Bill opened his eyes and leaned outwards. She seized his arm at the elbow. He hesitated.
“Where is ‘here?’
“Here is ‘Dillon, South Carolina,’ at Mary Dean’s mother’s house. Rob and Mary live in Columbia now. They rent this place, but it’s not occupied at the moment.”
Rob Wilson was a retired FBI agent. He and his wife Mary Wilson (née Morton, and Tom Dean’s widow) had helped Jeannine and Bill to uncover and foil an assassination plot several years earlier. Tragically, Mary’s mother had died at that time.
Bill offered a weak frown.
“He could get in trouble for this.”
“Rob doesn’t care. Besides he can deny knowing we are here.”
She went to a reddish rock at the corner of the house. She leaned and turned it over. When she stood up a metallic object dangled from her fingers.
“See, I have the house key. We’ll say he told us where it was a year ago.”
Bill knew that phone records could prove the recent contact with Rob, but he was too exhausted to dispute the point. He dragged himself to the sofa in the front room and collapsed.
Jeannine felt his forehead. He was not feverish. She picked up a bottle of water along with a plastic vial of antibiotics that the hospital had given her at Bill’s discharge.
“Bill, it’s time for your medicine. Here swallow these.”
Bill held his head up. She popped the capsules into his mouth. He fell back and shut his eyes. Jeannine stood by him until his breathing settled into a slow rhythm. Then she went outside to the car. She popped the trunk, and picked up the briefcase, her laptop, Wayne’s shotgun and a box of shells. Carrying the load with both arms, she pushed through the door. Once inside she locked it.
Arms limp, she sat facing Bill. God, please help him. I can’t do this by myself!
She broke the shotgun open, took a shell from the box, and shoved it into the barrel. She snapped the weapon shut and cradled it in her arms. That simple effort exhausted her.
She sat, watching Bill’s chest rise and fall. In just moments, her head nodded and her eyes closed.
She slept.
***
******
Chapter 14
Sunday, August 26
The South Carolina sun was bright and high in the sky when Jeannine Ryan opened her eyes. Bill?
&nb
sp; She looked about, put the shotgun aside and sat upright in the stuffed chair. She had fallen asleep watching Bill. He was still stretched on the sofa, his eyes closed. She stood up, stretched, and focused.
At that slight movement, Bill rolled to one side so that one arm hung loosely off the couch, but his eyes stayed closed and his breathing remained regular. She felt his pulse. His rate was normal.
She sighed in relief.
Jeannine put her laptop on the coffee table, took several documents from the briefcase and laid them open on the table. She squinted to study the texts, but could not concentrate.
Damn. This isn’t working. Coffee!
She went into the kitchen. She tried the cabinets and found the needed filters. Soon the smell of roasted Arabica beans filled the kitchen.
Cup in hand, she returned to the living room where she sat and examined the documents. Her eyes cleared, now she could read the fine print. In minutes, she was lost in thought.
On the couch, Bill did not move.
***
In her apartment in Florence, South Carolina, Angelique Uwimana threw herself on the bed and sobbed into the pillow.
She had run all the way from the Catholic church.
At Mass, she had been fine until the congregation stood to recite the “Our Father.” As she began to speak the words, “Forgive us … as we forgive those who trespass against us,” her tongue had refused to move and she could make no sound.
Paul Mutabazi’s photo of the Belgian doctor had released a nightmare of memories. Choking, she had pushed past the others in her pew and fled down the aisle. She had run all the way to the apartment.
God, I tried to forgive him, but I couldn’t!
She had not “forgiven,” but only “forgotten.” When she had identified Dr. Smets’ photograph, she had seen hatred in Paul Mutabazi’s eyes. He was going to kill Smets, but she did not care! Old feelings of rage and revenge had overwhelmed her. Smets deserved to die.
Dear God, look at what they did to my little Augustin. I can’t forgive. Help me!
Remember, I am your daughter.
Angelique’s parents, overjoyed at her birth, had named her Uwimana, “Daughter of God.”
But her father and mother were dead, both at the hands of the Interahamwe, and like her parents, she believed God’s words. His forgiveness depended on hers!
But I can’t, … I won’t! Dear God, help. I can’t handle this.
She dug her nails into her hands and closed her eyes.
***
The girl was ten years old. She was running. Behind her she could hear the horrible clatter of pangas dragged sparking against the stones of the roadway. Hutu killers! Sure of their prey, they followed purposely. The men, many clad in dirty yellow, green and blue shirts, were of mixed ages, some not much older than the girl herself.
United in purpose, they chanted in unison.
“Death to the snakes. A baby snake grows into a snake. Death to all snakes. Death to the snakes. A baby snake grows into a … .”
The girl held her little brother close. Augustin was not yet three.
She turned the corner. There, in front of her was the clinic. The Belgian doctor, her mother’s friend, stood in the doorway.
She dashed forward and held out her brother. She mustered her French.
“Sauvez-nous. Mama always said you would help us.”
But the doctor’s eyes were cold.
“Angelique Uwimana, you are Tutsi. We do not help cockroaches here. Go away.”
“But, Mama was Hutu.”
“Your worthless father was Tutsi, you are Tutsi.”
The doctor pointed to the boy in her arms.
“And so is that ‘thing’ in your arms, Tutsi.”
The girl turned to run. Too late!
The killers rounded the corner with yells of triumph!
Someone tore Augustin from her arms. Angelique did not see the club that struck her senseless.
***
It was dusk when she awoke. The Interahamwe were gone.
Covered with blood, she pushed herself from under a woman’s body that lay atop her. Angelique felt her head. No cuts, the blood was not her own.
She stared to the side. Augustin’s body was a small mangled heap at the edge of the road.
Numb, she crawled off the roadway into the bushes.
She lay on her back, dry-eyed and trembling.
***
A groggy Angelique Uwimana lifted her head from the pillow. She had slept for over an hour, the once-soaked pillow case was now merely damp.
“Brazzzz.”
That noise, stop it! But the harsh sound persisted.
“Brazzzz, Brazzzz, …, Brazzzz.”
The door buzzer!
She slid from the bed and struggled to the door. She flipped the speaker on.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“It’s me, Henri Duval. Are you all right? Let me in.”
“Henri. Give me a second, I’ll buzz you up.”
Angelique dashed to the bedroom, stepped out of her rumpled church dress and slipped into a pair of jeans. She donned a loose green blouse and returned to the door in time for Henri’s knock.
She undid the safety chain and pulled the door inwards.
A breathless Henri stood before her.
“Henri, why are you breathing like that?”
“I took the stairs. The elevator is stuck up on six.”
She stared. Henri’s brow shone with sweat. He had come up four flights, and the stairwell was poorly ventilated.
“You’re lucky the door from the stairs was unlocked.”
He grinned.
“Your security is bad. Someone had wedged it open.”
He took a breath.
“I thought I was in better shape. I try to run every day. Maybe I’ll increase the distance.”
“Come in and sit down. I’ll get you some water.”
She stepped to the kitchenette and took a plastic bottle from the small fridge. She handed it to him.
“He grabbed the bottle and swallowed. I don’t have much time. I have to return to North Carolina.”
Angelique took the bottle from him. There was a haunted shadow in his eyes she had never seen. She drew back a step, but he took her arm.
“I want you to look at this.”
He held out a torn piece of bloody shirt. The cloth was faded and dirty, but the colors were clear, the yellow, green and blue of the Interahamwe!
Angelique recoiled. She gasped.
“But where? How did you get it?”
“From a dead man, in North Carolina.”
“Why show me?”
“I thought you might know something. The man was chopped with a panga. This was tied around his neck.”
Angelique froze. Henri kept on.
“He worked for my company. He was Belgian, a medical doctor. He ran a clinic in Kigali during the genocide. He was an ally of the Hutu government. He supported them after president Habyarimana’s assassination.”
She stood trembling. His tone softened.
“Angelique you told me about your baby brother, Augustin, and a Belgian doctor who turned you out to the Interahamwe. His clinic was in Kigali. Was his name ‘Smets?’”
Paul Mutabazi’s words echoed in her mind. “…he is nearby, in North Carolina.”
She shuddered.
My God, Paul, you used a panga on him! Are we no better than they?
She collapsed to her knees and sobbed. Henri knelt beside her.
“Good God, Angelique, you do know about this! Who did it? Tell me!”
***
Hugh Byrd’s phone call to Denise Guerry had gone as expected. If she was surprised that he was alive, she gave no indication of it. The conversation was brief and pointless. Each party feigned that their alliance was intact, while in fact each understood that henceforth each was on his or her own.
After that call, Hugh considered his options.
Henri Duval was still a danger,
but less so thanks to his sentimentality. Hugh would exploit his misguided emotions. Stewart Marks had become a true threat now that he suspected that Hugh was involved in the attack on Johnson’s Topsail house.
But the main threat, as always, was the Ryan-Hamm combo. They had evidence that could send Hugh (and Denise Guerry) to the penitentiary for the rest of their lives.
Damn you Hamm, why didn’t you leave well enough alone. We weren’t hurting you!
Denise Guerry had not told him, but Hugh knew that she had shifted “resources” to intercept Ryan and Hamm in Maryland. Stupid! Hugh had underestimated Ryan once, he would not do so again. Let others think she would retreat to familiar haunts in Maryland, Hugh knew better.
Ryan had headed south.
But where? She had not used either her or “Walter Harmon’s” credit card since leaving the hospital. How much gas had been in Wayne Johnson’s Buick? All right, Wayne, you may not be the brightest bulb on the block, but you will lead me to Ryan.
He grimaced.
Johnson must know where Ryan had taken Hamm.
***
In Dillon, South Carolina, Jeannine Ryan helped Bill Hamm off the sofa and to the kitchen. She studied his eyes. They were clear and alert.
She handed him two pills and a glass of water.
“Here, take your antibiotics.”
Next she placed a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of him. He grimaced.
“Jeannine, I’m hungry. I need some real food.”
She did not back off.
“This is real food, but OK, I’ll sweeten the pot.”
She put a fistful of wrinkled raisins on top of his mush.
Bill sighed, but after the first bland spoonful, he ate vigorously.
“This isn’t bad.”
Of course it isn’t. I want you on your feet.”
Bill emptied the bowl and looked up at her. She shook her head.
The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) Page 10
