by dannal
“The small plane my father was piloting crashed off the coast of St. Croix. It was a seaplane, and he was at two thousand feet when the engine failed. My father lost control. He died.”
“I’m sorry,” Max said. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Vivienne said. “I came back to the island to raise my siblings—my brother and two sisters—the way I knew my father would have wanted them to grow up. In a stable home, as normal as possible.
“Sure, I wasn’t alone,” Vivienne said, her eyes welling with tears. “But there were a great many times when I felt alone.”
“What difference would it make if I wasn’t here anymore, Vivienne?” Max said somberly. “There’s nothing left. There’s no one left for me. Just a deep, aching, heart-sick pain.”
“I care about you, Max,” Vivienne said. She put her arms around him and held him. She chuckled a little bit. “I’ve only known you a few days, Max. But it’s been more than enough time to know that you are one of the great friends of my life. And Colonel Travere cares about you, Max.”
“Travere?” Max said with a smirk. “He’s probably itching to put me behind bars.”
“I ran into the colonel the other day at a grocery store in Sainte-Marie,” Vivienne said. “I had never met him before, but he knew who I was. He introduced himself to me. He would not shut up about you; must have gone on and on about how great you and your rum were for like fifteen minutes or something. He really admires you, Max. Don’t sell him short just because he’s on the other side of the line from where you’ve been walking.”
“What if I’m going to prison for the rest of my life?” Max said, sounding as if his mind was racing a thousand miles a second. “Wouldn’t I be better off checking out now?”
“You know what my priest tells me all the time, Max?” Vivienne said, still holding her arms around the vulnerable man. “He says the purpose of life isn’t to be happy. It’s to be useful, honorable, compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.” She looked at Max thoughtfully. Maybe she was trying to let the words sink in.
“I don’t know why he quotes Ralph Waldo Emerson,” she added with a tender smile, “and not Scripture, and I’m sure I botched the quote. But I believe it, Max. Maybe the rest of your life won’t be as happy as you want, but it can still have meaning to those who are still left around you. Even if you are thrown in prison for the rest of your life, I believe that God will redeem your life, and make something good out of it.”
“Priest?” Max asked.
“Don’t be so surprised. Almost everyone on the island is Roman Catholic. I am no exception.” Vivienne let go of Max and looked him in the eyes. “It’s all going to be okay. Really. Even if you get locked away forever. I won’t leave you behind. Not ever.”
Max’s eyes glistened. She hoped she had said enough, and that she had said the right things to convince him not to take his life. It did seem absurd that she had come to like a man so much in such a short time. Especially one who treaded on the fringes of the law, when her life’s purpose seemed to be about following the rules, and standing up for justice. But she could tell that deep inside, Max was a good man.
“Let it go, Max,” Vivienne said, rubbing his back.
“I would have liked to have seen you in that Catholic schoolgirl uniform,” Max quipped.
“Don’t get any ideas, Mister.”
Max’s phone rang. He reached his hand into his pocket, Vivienne guessed, to silence it, because he pulled his hand right back out without the phone. “Hello?” Max’s pants said in a robust, masculine voice. It reminded Vivienne a bit of James Earl Jones. “Hello, Max? Have you finally picked up the phone after all this time?”
Max absent-mindedly reached into his pocket and took out his phone. He put it close to his face, even though it was obviously on speakerphone. “Hello, Terry?”
“Ahhhh, Max,” the other man said. “I’ve been trying to reach you for, well, forever now. I am so pleased to have finally connected with you.”
“I’m sorry,” Max said. He looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry I haven’t been taking your calls.”
Vivienne wondered if it was the same guy who always called Max, though he never answered. He must be a significant person in Max’s life; or at least he had been at one time.
“I kept calling, Max, because I knew you would pick up the phone when you were ready to talk,” Terry said. “How is everything going in your life? Anything new happening?”
“A bunch of gangbangers tortured and killed my best friend, Josue. I set up a ruthless drug-dealing hitman to kill two of his men. I watched the same man kill a millionaire cigar magnate and drug trafficker, and then I fought my nemesis—the man who killed Lovelle, Lucy, and Lionel—to the death; but I didn’t kill him. Someone else did before I got the chance. I would have done it, though. I was about to.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a long time. And then, “If all of these things have been going on in your life, Max, I wish you would have contacted me. At least to talk about some of these things. You shouldn’t go through them alone.”
“I might have called you, Terry,” Max said, “but most of those things happened today.”
Again there was a long period of silence before Terry said, “Well, I’ve got you now, and I just felt like telling you today, Max, that you are not alone. I’m here for you, and I care about you. Somehow I felt like I needed to tell you that.”
Vivienne saw Max’s eyes water and his chin quiver against his will. And then Max raised his pistol and pulled the trigger.
“What?” Terry shouted into the phone. “What was that? Is everything okay, Max?”
“Everything is wonderful,” Vivienne said, taking the phone out of Max’s hand. She looked at the smoking pistol in Max’s hand, and she smiled.
The fateful bullet Max had carried around with him for years, the one he had believed was either meant for the man who killed his family, or else was meant for him, sailed harmlessly toward the open Atlantic Ocean. Max had fired the bullet into the air to get rid of it.
Then Max tossed the Smith & Wesson pistol over the side of Everest Walsh’s yacht.
“I am Max’s friend, Vivienne Monet, sir. And something tells me that your message for Max was just what he needed to hear today.”
“She sounds pretty,” Terry said. “Are you and Miss Monet dating, Max?”
Max smiled, and Vivienne could see the genuineness of the gesture. He really was okay.
“What was that shot?” Colonel Travere asked. He trotted up to stand between Max and Vivienne. “Are you two okay? Are there any more hostiles on board?”
“Just the crew,” Max said to the colonel, “and I think they’re pretty harmless without Walsh and de Losa around, although they are strapped.”
“I’m going to go now, Terry,” Max said into the phone. “Maybe for a long time. But I promise to call you later tonight, and we’ll finish our conversation. I promise to tell you everything. I do get at least one phone call, right?” Max said, looking at Travere.
Colonel Travere nodded.
Max hung up the phone.
“I’m ready,” Max said. He placed his hands behind his back, and looked over his shoulder at Colonel Travere.
“What are you doing?” Travere said, running his fingers through his graying hair, his P90 dangling in front of him from a one-point sling.
“Aren’t you going to cuff me?” Max asked, as he unbuckled his tactical belt and handed it to the colonel.
“You watch a lot of police movies, don’t you? I would like you to come to the station for questioning, Max. You are not under arrest at this time. These men killed your family, and now they are dead. You are going to walk off of this boat as the man that you are.” Travere nodded his head at Max. “After you.”
Max woke up on the uncomfortable cot in a tiny room inside the Gendarmerie de Martinique building in Fort de France. He wasn’t certain, but it
didn’t seem much like a holding cell. The room, approximately eight feet by eight feet, held the cot, a rack of gendarme uniforms, and boxes and boxes of copy paper and toner cartridges. It struck Max as a supply closet, or maybe a room where a gendarme who’s been on shift too long can sneak away and catch a nap. But for the past twelve hours, it had been Max’s prison. Other than a couple of requested bathroom breaks, and the one time when a young cadet had brought him a box of takeout Chinese food, he had been secured inside.
Max recalled how earlier, before he and Colonel Travere had left the Snowy Lady, Max had whispered to Vivienne about the bag of cash he had gotten from Everest Walsh. He had asked her to find it, and take it off the boat discreetly. He knew that if she hadn’t, all of the money from the sale of his rum would be seized by the French government, and he would never see a dime. He wondered if she had succeeded, not that he cared a great deal about it.
Max got it, though; there was a lot to sort through. Multiple crime scenes. The catamaran, Walsh’s cigar lounge, Tito’s room, Chuy’s room, the ocean floor beneath the yacht. Max had told Colonel Travere everything he knew about everything that had happened, holding nothing back, including his own involvement. The colonel had videotaped the entire conversation, and made copious notes on a fresh legal pad, before finally locking Max away in the room.
It was a strange kind of solitary confinement. Max considered putting on one of the Gendarmerie Nationale uniforms from the coat rack, just to freak out whoever walked in next. Instead, he sat on the cot, whistling, and it was only a half-hour longer before the door opened, and Max saw Edgar Travere’s face looking down on him.
The colonel was accompanied by another guy. Dark-skinned, gray-haired, brown suit, he was likely a prosecutor or lawyer, and very likely an island native.
“If you would come with me, Max,” Colonel Travere said, “there are just a few more things to go over with you before we proceed to the next step in processing you.”
Max stood up from the cot. He wore a fresh black Columbia shirt and coordinating nylon pants that Colonel Travere had brought him from his villa. A paramedic had treated the bullet graze above Max’s hip, irrigating it with an antiseptic and closing it up with butterfly bandages and a gauze pad. As he stood, the closed wound pulled a little, giving him a stab of pain in his side that made him wince.
But he followed the head of the Gendarmerie to a well-lit interview room, and took a seat across from Travere and the other man. Max noticed that this time, Colonel Travere did not bother to turn on the video camera, which sat on a tripod behind the colonel’s chair.
“This is Roger Devilleneuve,” Travere said, and Max noted that he used the French pronunciation, Roh-jay. “Monsieur Devilleneuve is the chief prosecutor on Martinique. He and I have been reviewing the details of what events have transpired recently on the rented catamaran off the coast of Le Robert, as well as those onboard the yacht of Everest Walsh.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Craig,” the prosecutor said. He smiled a friendly smile and put on a pair of reading glasses. He seemed like a nice enough fellow.
“Hello,” Max said. He was too tired to keep up with the French affectations.
“After reviewing all of the evidence, Max,” Colonel Travere said with deep gravity in his tone, “I am afraid that we are going to have to charge you with the distribution of unregulated rum and the possession of several unregistered firearms.”
Travere pulled a stapled document out of his briefcase, several pages thick. “This is a plea deal from the chief prosecutor,” Travere said. “He and I are very much on the same page in our approach to law enforcement. If you sign the agreement, you will plead guilty to having operated an illegal still, and being in the possession of a couple of unregistered semiautomatic firearms which were found on your property. As part of the agreement, your sentence will be reduced to time already served. Oh, you will also be required to turn over any evidence in your possession of the criminal activities of Everest Walsh and his associates.”
“That’s it?” Max asked. He was dumbfounded.
“Monsieur Craig,” Roger Devilleneuve said, “these are some serious crimes which you have been charged with. I would advise you to not take them lightly.”
“Monsieur Devilleneuve has consulted with me at length before preparing this plea deal which, if you sign, will allow you to go free with time already served. You will not be allowed to continue to produce unregulated rhum agricole, and your unlicensed weapons shall be seized by the Gendarmerie Nationale.”
“But I only spent twelve hours in jail,” Max said. “I killed people. Shouldn’t I be held a little more accountable for that?”
“You’re not making a very good case in defense of yourself, Max,” Travere said, scratching his fingers through his short hair. “It is fairly common for individuals in your shoes to argue with us for lesser charges.” Colonel Travere shared a smirk with prosecutor Devilleneuve.
Travere pushed the papers toward Max. He gave the haggard rum runner a big-brotherly look that told him, “This is the only chance you are going to get.”
Max quickly flipped through the pages, his eyes quickly browsing the copy. “Pen?” he said, holding out his hand.
Devilleneuve reached into his coat pocket and handed Max a very fine-looking Parker fountain pen. Max signed the plea.
“Monsieur Devilleneuve,” Travere said. “I believe we have everything taken care of as far as Maxwell is concerned. Thank you very much for all of your guidance and willingness to consult with me at such ungodly hours of the morning. I believe you are free to enjoy the rest of your day.”
The prosecutor stuffed the signed agreement into his briefcase and shook hands with Colonel Travere. He left the interview room, closing the door behind him. Travere looked Max squarely in the eye.
“Let me ask you this.” he said. “When you tried to save Josue, did you engage the individuals on the catamaran with your firearm first? Or did they first fire upon you?”
“Soon as they saw me they started slinging bullets,” Max said. “But I killed ‘em. All of ‘em. Except for that little guy, Deege, or something. And I didn’t kill that kid with the Xbox controller. But shouldn’t I at least get manslaughter or something for that?”
“That little guy, ‘Tiny Deege,’ is actually named Derek Jerome Labat,” Travere said. “From Miami. Despite the fact that you stabbed him with a throwing knife and hog-tied him with zip-ties, his account actually corroborated the fact that you acted in self-defense. He’ll be facing prosecution as an accessory to the torture and murder of Josue Remy. I hope that gives you a tiny measure of comfort.”
Max stared off into the corner, where two walls met the ceiling. It was hard to believe that Josue was gone. The gentle soul had been like a brother…or a son to Max. It broke his heart that he would never see that bright smile with the pearl white teeth ever again.
“Did you kill Chuy Mendoza?” Colonel Travere asked.
“Um, no,” Max said, considering for the first time how Chuy’s death might have a bearing on his legal culpability. “But I did plant two kilos of coke in the guy’s gym bag. Everest Walsh found it, thought Chuy stole it from him, and capped him twice. Dumped his body with weights directly below the Snowy Lady. I believe I’ve got some video from my security cameras I can turn over. Maybe not the best video, but you can see the two flashes of light when Walsh fires his gun in the guy’s stateroom.”
“And Tito Fuente?” Travere asked.
“Josue stole, I mean, I stole a cell phone from the mistress of Marquise de Losa,” Max said, not wanting to implicate Josue in anything, despite the fact that he was dead and couldn’t possibly face any charges. Now that Josue was gone, Max could only protect the deceased young man’s reputation.
“I planted the phone in Tito’s pocket. De Losa tried to call his mistress, heard the very specific ringtone belonging to his girlfriend’s phone singing from inside Tito’s pocket, and he went nuts with his machete.”
“S
o you are guilty of moving Everest Walsh’s cocaine from one room on his yacht to another, and stealing a cell phone,” Travere said, his left eyebrow raised. “Maybe we should lock you up and throw away the key.” An obvious facetiousness spread across the lawman’s visage.
“I shot de Losa in the chest twice, trying to kill him. His bulletproof vest stopped the bullets. Then I grappled with him, tried to stab him, I was about to cut his throat before you took away my chance for revenge. What the hell were you thinking, Edgar?” Max asked, genuinely dismayed by the gendarme’s actions. “You knew de Losa’s life was mine to take, and you took it anyway.”
“Marquise de Losa’s life was no one’s to take, Maxwell,” Travere said seriously. “I arrived at a moment when he was trying to kill you, and when my shot became clear, I took it. I wasn’t trying to keep you from getting revenge. I wasn’t trying to save you from the burden of having taken the man’s life, something you would have to live with for the rest of your days. I saw the shot, and I took it. I did my job.”
“I was trying to kill de Losa when you took the shot,” Max stated flatly. ”How come the shot didn’t kill me?”
“I made a call, Max,” Travere said, leaning back in his chair. He folded his hands together behind his head.
“Can I get something to smoke?” Max asked.
“Some cigarettes? Certainly.”
“No, I mean a halfway decent cigar, maybe,” Max said. “I’ve been smoking Everest Walsh’s rolled-up newspapers for the better part of a week. I think I might already have developed emphysema.”
Travere smiled. He pulled a leather cigar sleeve from his briefcase. He handed Max a Fuente Fuente Opus X. He slid a cutter and torch lighter across the table.
“Are you sure?” Max asked.
Travere nodded. “I would say you’ve earned it, Max.”
“How’s that?” Max asked, blazing the Opus X to life.
“A lot of my fellow law enforcement professionals have changed with the times, you see. They value sensitivity and rule-following in order to keep themselves from getting in trouble or ever offending anyone. Whereas I prefer to take a much more practical approach to crime-fighting. I value a results-based technique much more highly than a by-the-book one.”
