Bluewater Voodoo: Mystery and Adventure in the Caribbean (Bluewater Thrillers Book 3)

by Charles Dougherty

  "That would be kind, señor. I would appreciate some fresh air."

  "Then you may have free run of the ship, houngan. If the zombie stays behind when you are out, you must lock the door from outside, yes?"

  "Yes, señor. I understand."

  ****

  "Phillip and I could take the two soldiers, no problem," Dani said, looking around at the group in Racine’s sitting room.

  "But they are armed men, trained for violence," Richard DeMille protested. Racine had invited him to the meeting this morning, explaining to the others who he was and how he had come to be in the bateye. He had just spent several minutes describing the bateye and the situation there.

  "Yes, I’m sure," Dani agreed, watching his eyes as they took in her diminutive stature. Unable to sit still, she had begun to pace as Richard had told them what he knew. "That’s no worry. We could handle them, but I’m not sure where that would leave the houngan. What’s his name, by the way?"

  "Henri Giscard."

  "Good. Henri, let’s call him. You’re a houngan, too. Names will avoid confusion. Those two soldiers probably don’t know where in Florida this Martinez character is taking them," she continued.

  "Why not call the authorities?" Lilly asked. "Why is this our problem?"

  "Indeed," the professor agreed.

  Racine cleared her throat. "You must understand what would happen if we called the ‘authorities.’ I assume you mean the police, but it wouldn’t really matter who we called. The people in the bateye are what you Americans would call ‘illegal immigrants,’ I think. They are here without permission, and the government turns a blind eye because they are a source of cheap labor. They do jobs that no one from Martinique wants, and they are tolerated as long as they don’t draw attention to themselves. Officially, the government must arrest them and deport them if they are noticed. The fact that they are victims of a crime is of no import to ‘the authorities.’ They do not officially exist, so they have no rights. We would do them a disservice if we caused the government to become involved."

  Lilly and the professor were both frowning. Richard spoke. "You are right in thinking that overpowering the soldiers would not help the houngan. Sorry, I mean Henri, and the soldiers are not a problem, so far. They are just young men away from home. They flirt with the girls, and the old women feed them. Now that they are settled in, I think they won’t harm anyone. They are from poor families, just like us. Being in the military is a way for them to make a living. Perhaps not all their fellow soldiers are like that, but I think we can live with them for now. That avoids provoking this Martinez into harming Henri."

  "Martinez is supposedly some kind of Venezuelan spy," Liz said. "Why would he kidnap Henri and a zombie?"

  "Excellent question, Liz," Racine said. "What do we know about Martinez?" She swept her eyes around the room.

  "Phillip’s friends who questioned the marine that we captured told us everything that we know about him so far. He’s connected high up in the Venezuelan government, maybe directly to Chavez. He supposedly works from Miami. Phillip asked a friend in Miami, a retired police official, about him, but the man couldn’t find out anything. All we have is his last name, so it’s hard to track him down. We don’t even know what he looks like," Dani said.

  "Wait," said Richard. "Some of the people in the bateye know what he looks like. He had a meeting with Henri Giscard, the houngan, and Henri showed him the zombie."

  "Where did they meet?" Dani asked.

  "I don’t know, but several of the men were involved in arranging the meeting. I can ask them."

  "I’ll bet he did it the same way he met me," the professor said. "Pick up in the bar at the hotel, taxi ride, hike through the jungle to an abandoned shack in a cane field. Three or four men besides the bartender were involved."

  "That’s probably right. I’d like to come to the bateye with you and ask some questions," Dani said.

  "I don’t think so," Richard said. "Me, I’m another Haitian who comes and goes, as far as the soldiers are concerned. You, I think they would notice. They are staying in Marie’s house watching her children, and the children have told her that they talk every day to someone on a cell phone. Possibly it is this Martinez. Let me learn all that I can about Henri’s meeting with Martinez. If we need to, I can bring some people to meet you outside the bateye, away from the soldiers."

  "Dani, we can talk to the bartender," Liz said. "He might have met Martinez."

  "Right. Good thinking, Liz."

  Dani exchanged cell phone numbers with Richard, and the meeting broke up. Racine arranged for a taxi to take Dani, Liz, Lilly, and the professor back to Ste. Anne.

  Once the taxi was on the road, Lilly said, "It is uncanny how much Racine and you resemble each other, Dani. I can’t believe she’s 80, either. Amazing."

  "She is amazing," the professor said. "I can’t wait to visit with her after this is over. She said she would share as much as she knew about Petro and the bokors. That’s really the dark side of Voodoo, and it’s never been studied or documented."

  "But I thought she didn’t dabble in the dark side of Voodoo," Lilly said. "What could she know?"

  "I guess we’ll have to wait to find out, but as long as she’s been involved, she probably knows more than anybody outside the Petro initiates. Maybe Henri Giscard will help after he comes back, too, and he’s definitely been trained as a bokor. How else would he know how to make a zombie? This could be huge, Lilly."

  Chapter 18

  Martinez stared at the horizon, his elbows on the rail of the bridge deck, his hands clasped. Henri Giscard was in his cabin with the zombie, having managed to rouse the creature and medicate him. He had told Martinez that he didn’t want to leave his charge unattended until he was sure the sedative would keep him quiet and seizure-free. Martinez was annoyed with himself for overlooking this. A man who owed his success to attention to minute details, he was upset that he had missed this aspect in his planning. He had a prodigious memory, and he clearly recalled Henri telling him about the regimen of medication during their first meeting. He had simply forgotten that detail in his haste to spirit the zombie and his master away. Henri had been unable to offer any assurance that the Ativan would work as a long term solution. He was only sure of the old ways, as he explained to Martinez.

  Now, Martinez thought, he would have to find a source of the herbs the houngan required. He had asked the man to give him a list, and Henri was willing, but they quickly agreed that the list would be worthless, as the houngan knew most of the ingredients only by familiar names. Martinez had faint hope that he would be able to find what was needed in the endless swamp of the Everglades. It was possible that there might be a source in the Haitian community in Miami, but Martinez wasn’t happy at the prospect. He knew from Henri that several of the ingredients had no other use in folk medicine, so the very act of seeking them could draw unwanted attention. The one critical element in the initial potion, the extract from the liver of a puffer fish, was the only item that wouldn’t be a problem. Puffer fish were easy enough to catch, and Henri knew how to extract what he needed from the liver to produce a diluted version of the well-known neurotoxin, tetrodotoxin. His fallback plan was to have one of his people fly to Martinique and simply take all the herbs from Henri Giscard’s house, but Henri seemed uncertain of the quantities that he had on hand. As he pointed out to Martinez, he was accustomed to replenishing his supply at will. Martinez moved on in his thoughts, having exhausted the possible solutions to this problem. He would wait until they arrived at the base camp in the Everglades to decide on a course of action.

  ****

  Senator Rufus O’Rourke stared across his desk at the flat screen television mounted on the wall of his office. He had last seen the heavily lacquered hair of the female newscaster on the pillow beside him this morning. She looked much better on television, he thought, as he tuned in to her mindless message, delivered in an expressive, animated voice. She was doing an interview with some liber
al priest, talking about the increasing restlessness among America’s homeless.

  "Everyone is certainly aware that the homeless have become more aggressive, more vocal in their demands. There have been rumors of violent confrontations, but have there been actual incidents of violence, Father O’Malley?"

  "Kathy, it’s important to remember that these unfortunate people are victims in all this, not perpetrators. The only incidents of violence I’m aware of were directed against these poor folks – we shouldn’t blame them for violence directed against them by others."

  "Father, it was Jesus who counseled, ‘The poor you will always have with you,’ was it not?"

  "Yes. Those are his words from the gospel."

  "So can you help us to understand why they are suddenly more visible and vocal, if they have always been with us?"

  "Well, Kathy, it’s clear that our current political climate is one of escalating indifference to their sad plight. We can see it right here in south Florida, where our own Senator O’Rourke is basing his presidential campaign on the notion of further isolating the disenfranchised: the poor, the immigrants, the people who are only marginal members of society. They have always made excellent scapegoats for demagogues like the Senator. What’s different today is that everyone has a voice on the Internet. We're witnessing democracy in action. The disenfranchised are disenfranchised no more; they are making themselves heard."

  "God damn it, Kathy!" O’Rourke roared and turned off the television, throwing the remote control into the screen with such force that its case flew apart.

  "Get a grip, Senator," James Evans, his chief of staff said, getting up from the chair beside the Senator’s desk. He picked up the pieces of the remote and reinserted the battery, snapping the cover back in place with the ease born of practice.

  "The bitch has no loyalty. I give her free access and this is what I get in return. She gives a commie priest the platform to attack me."

  The intercom on his desk chimed. He turned in his squeaky leather swivel chair and smashed the lever down. "What?" he asked in a loud grunt.

  "Mrs. O’Rourke’s on line one, Senator," the staffer in the outer office said in a syrupy tone.

  "What’s that girl’s name again, James?"

  "Sarah, Senator. Sarah Newton."

  "She’s hot, ain’t she? Ah shit, sorry. I forgot you don’t like women. Just as well. I know you ain’t sniffin’ around her. I’m gonna try her out here pretty quick. That goddamn Kathy Conners is a dried up old hag. Oughta sue her ass for false advertising."

  "Don’t forget your wife, Senator?"

  "What’s she got to do with it?"

  "She’s holding on line one."

  "Shit. Thanks, James. Tha’s why I pay you the big bucks."

  Turning back to his desk, he pressed down the lever on the intercom again. "Sarah, sugar, did my wife say what she wanted?"

  "No, Senator. Should I ask her?"

  "Nah, I’ll take the call. She don’t never call less’n she wants somethin’. Ain’t nothin’ but the voters keepin’ us together, if you get what I mean."

  "I understand, Senator."

  "I thought maybe you might, honey. Looka here, le’s you ‘n me have lunch today; nice long lunch, jus’ the two of us."

  "Want me to make a reservation, Senator?"

  "Yeah, babe. Pick somewhere expensive, and private, ‘kay?"

  "Yes sir. I’ll take care of it. Don’t forget your wife’s on line 1."

  "Okay, babe. Thanks."

  The Senator turned his chair around to face his credenza, reaching for the phone, as James Evans made an unobtrusive exit.

  ****

  Carmen Madrid logged off her computer, waited for it to shut down, and then removed the 128 gigabyte SD card that contained all her personal files. She grasped her gold neck chain and pulled a small gold bar from her ample cleavage. The bar was marked "Credit Suisse, 20 g, fine gold, 999.9," on one side, and was embossed with a likeness of the Statue of Liberty on the other. Using a thumbnail, she popped it open, slipping the card into the custom-fitted compartment hollowed out of the center. She dropped it back between her breasts, smiling as she thought of how many times her lover had played with the necklace and how surprised he would be at its contents. The thought made her impatient to be with him, and she sauntered out through the empty Internet café. She saw his car across the street as she reached down to open the door. She paused a moment, undoing the top buttons of her silk blouse and checking her appearance in the reflection from the glass door. Satisfied, she went outside and pulled the door closed, locking it carefully and then deliberately dropping the key. She bent from the waist to retrieve it, feeling her short skirt slide up over her hips as she flashed the driver of the car across the street, sure that he was watching her. She stood slowly, taking time to put the key in her purse before she smoothed the skirt into place and turned to approach the car.

  As she crossed the street, the driver’s window of the Porsche slid down and Jerry Smith gave a low, appreciative whistle. Carmen smiled and walked up to the window, leaning in to give him another view of her considerable charms.

  "Looking for a date, hot stuff?" she asked.

  "How much?"

  "You a cop?" she wanted to know, into the game now.

  "Not me. You?"

  "Me neither."

  "So, how much?"

  "Depends on what you want, but for a hot guy like you, I’ll be reasonable."

  "Get in, Carmen. I’m gonna lose it right here if you keep this up."

  As she walked around the car, he leaned across and pushed her door open. Starting the engine as she got into the low bucket seat, he watched eagerly as she settled herself. "Let’s go to your place tonight," he suggested.

  She nodded, purring deep in her throat, her left hand high on his thigh as he pulled away from the curb.

  "How’s business, Jerry?" she asked, as her hand wandered.

  "Okay. I see from Kathy Conners’ newscast this morning that your whisper campaign is taking hold, too."

  "Yeah, it’s working out. It’s just about running on its own power, now. I’m worried that it’s going too fast. If Martinez doesn’t get moving, it might begin to fizzle out, you know?"

  "Could happen. It’s pretty viral right now – gotta feed it something or it’ll starve. You ever figure out why he wanted to find zombies?"

  "No idea. I don’t know why he wanted all this stirred up about the homeless veterans turning violent, either. I don’t ask. As long as the money gets deposited, I’m happy. Not like I’m really doing anything illegal, even."

  "Oh? What about all the money you’re hiding from the IRS?"

  "That’s not illegal!"

  "Sure it is."

  "Well, okay, technically, but it’s not like the stuff you do."

  "Me? I don’t do anything illegal."

  "Yeah? Hacking all the classified government databases?"

  "I’m not doing that. Some autonomous code somebody else planted just happens to be using my server to store and forward stuff."

  "Right, Jer."

  "Hey, that reminds me, I found the tracks where somebody else was looking for zombies a few days ago. They were all over the same places that I found when I was looking for zombies for Martinez."

  "Maybe you got hacked."

  "C’mon. Couldn’t happen. Nobody’s that good but you and me, Carmen."

  Jerry pulled into the underground garage of her condo building and parked the Porsche in a space reserved for guests. He set the brake and walked around the back of the car to open Carmen’s door.

  Chapter 19

  Martinez and Henri Giscard sat at the scarred table in the main cabin of the little freighter, having just finished eating a rough lunch of stale bread and fatty, canned luncheon meat.

  "So, houngan, how is the patient?"

  Giscard shrugged. "Alive, señor Martinez."

  "Has he recovered consciousness?"

  "Yes. When the medication wears off, he b
ecomes somewhat alert, and I am able to feed him, then. I crush the pills and mix them with his food, so that he soon goes back to sleep."

  "Do you know the Everglades, houngan?"

  "I think this is a big swamp in Florida, no?"

  "Yes. Do you think that you could find the herbs that you need in the Everglades?"

  "I don’t think so, señor. I look for them in the dry, shady places in the mountains. Mostly, they grow in the volcanic soil."

  Martinez considered this in silence. He was growing frustrated with the impediments to his plan, but he was a man who dealt with frustration by taking constructive action. The information from the houngan made the Everglades much less attractive as a base of operations.

  "Excuse me, señor. I must see to my patient. It is about the time that he awakens."

  "Yes," Martinez said, lost in thought, as Giscard left the cabin. He rummaged in the drawer under the table, finding a pad of paper and a ballpoint pen. He began doodling as he thought about his plan. The Everglades wouldn’t be a good place to create zombies if the houngan couldn’t find his herbs nearby. Martinez thought it was possible that he could find the things he needed in Miami’s Little Haiti, but he really didn’t know. The more traffic there was between the base camp and the city, the more attention they would attract. The freighter offered an alternative, he thought, and it had the advantage of mobility. Giscard could do his work aboard, and they could remain in the islands, close to a familiar source of the things Giscard would require.

  He would fall back on his earlier idea about smuggling the zombies into Florida. If he kept the freighter in the Caribbean, well to the west of the islands, they would be practically invisible. A high-speed launch like the ones the marines had used to cross to Martinique from St. Lucia would allow night-time rendezvous with small float planes on the lee side of some of the thinly populated islands. Flying the planes into Florida was risky, but flying them into the Bahamas would be no problem. They could land in the calm water on the Great Bahama Bank, to be met by another high speed boat. Such a boat could make the run from Bimini to Miami in an hour or less, and the risk of detection was slight.