by Jon McGoran
The last item was a production memo, also marked CONFIDENTIAL, that proposed reallocating production resources to accommodate an increase in Early Rise corn production from forty thousand tons to four hundred thousand tons. That was pretty much all it said.
I looked back at the sales memo. The Soyagene was new, so there was no historical data, but all the others, including the Early Rise corn, showed only gradual increases in production over the previous five years. Nothing to suggest an explosion of demand. Seemed like a bold increase in production, but I guessed Energene was an aggressive company.
The thing that stood out most was a secret memo that talked about allergenicity. It was mostly unintelligible, talking about target allergenicity, factor density, and minimum parts per million for symptomology. But it seemed relevant to whatever Miriam and Ron had suspected was happening.
I stared at the documents for the rest of the flight, but I didn’t come up with anything remotely like a clue, not even in the high school slang sense of the word.
When I finally put down the files and rubbed my eyes, we were circling in a slow descent over the Haitian coast. Two hours had passed.
We came in over a small mountain. It was peppered with tiny houses, getting denser and denser toward the bottom. Then I saw Cap-Haïtien International Airport. Charlie had said it was much bigger than the airport back in Everglades City, but at first, it looked about the same. As we descended, though, it grew bigger and bigger, and I realized he was right.
The runway was surrounded by a wide, grassy field. A meandering path worn across it continued unimpeded through the surrounding fence and out into the countryside. I tried to memorize its location as the plane descended and the landscape flattened out around us.
I poked my head into the cockpit. “So how long are you going to be here?”
Charlie pulled up one of his headphones, turning to look at me like I was crazy. “Are you kidding me? I’m out of here, man. I’m not hanging out. I’m going to fuel up enough to get home, and then I’m gone.”
“What if I need—”
He shook his head. “Unless the Haitians detain me for aiding and abetting an asshole, I’m out of here, man. If Sable needs me, he knows how to reach me. Otherwise, you’ll never see me again.” He put the headphone back over his ear and went back to landing the plane.
The touchdown was smooth as silk. Things got rougher after that. I could hear Charlie talking to the tower, trying to keep the stress out of his voice. The runway seemed to extend almost to the horizon. What little I knew about turboprops included their efficiency on short runways, their ability to use reverse thrust to stop short. But the plan was for me to slip out at the end of the runway. Charlie had already delayed touchdown until we were a third of the way down the runway, but even so, he had to keep the throttle up, or we would have run out of momentum before the end, even without the reverse thrust.
I couldn’t hear what the tower was saying, but I could hear the agitated tone, and Charlie, increasingly defensive as they continued to tell him he was doing it wrong. At one point, he turned and glared at me, furious at having to pretend to be a lesser pilot in order to accommodate my half-baked plan.
Finally, we reached the end of the runway and halfway through the turn, we came to a stop. As Charlie looked at me, I could hear the tinny sound of the tower nattering away at him through the headphones down around his neck.
“Okay,” he said to me. “Get the fuck out.”
I gave the hatch a push and stepped out before it was fully open.
“And Carrick,” he called out after me.
I paused and looked up at him.
“Good luck, man.”
37
I closed the hatch and started running. The air was thick and hot, and the land fell away from the tarmac at an excruciatingly gentle slope. Running flat out, I’d almost given up hope of finding the path when I realized I was already on it. Not much of a path.
Up close, the grassy area was vast, probably five times the size of Everglades City Airpark. It was also parched. Behind me, clouds of dust hung in the air, kicked up by my feet. Hope was dimming that I would ever reach the fence, much less get through it, but I kept running and the fence drew slowly closer. And no one stopped me.
I was worn out and starting to wonder if I’d have to take a break along the way, and then I saw a little dip in the dry soil, under the fence.
By the time I reached it, I was so out of breath I would have been on my hands and knees even if I hadn’t needed to crawl under the fence. Once on the other side, it took a great effort to get back on my feet.
I looked back through the fence, relieved there was no horde of Haitian police coming after me. Still, I knew I couldn’t afford to let up, and I set off at a fast trot.
The path turned into a streambed, dry except for occasional patches of damp soil running down the center. It seemed to be a de facto property line, separating the backs of a series of scraggly, dried-up farm fields. Old tires, plastic bottles, and other debris mixed with the dusty rocks and branches that lined either side of it. I didn’t know what I was doing or where I was going, but I knew I needed to put some more distance between me and the airport, so I kept going.
My plan involved relying on my high school French just enough to help me find someone who spoke English. I’d keep asking “Parlez-vous anglais?” until someone said “Yes.” Then I’d ask for help finding Regi Baudet at the Ministry of Health.
That was my plan.
The streambed had dried up completely by the time it disappeared into a culvert under an actual road. I was pretty dehydrated, as well. A thin coating of dust had stuck to my sweaty skin. Climbing the banks up to a narrow street of tiny stucco homes, I practically bumped into an old man, maybe eighty years old, rail-thin and bent but with a wry sparkle in his eyes. He had on an Old Navy T-shirt.
“Parlez-vous anglais?” I asked him in my clumsy accent.
He shook his head and replied with a burst of Kreyol peppered with words I vaguely recognized but hadn’t a hope of understanding. Then he directed another burst over my shoulder.
I turned and saw a starched white shirt and blue pants with a gold stripe. And a badge. The officer’s dark skin was shining in the hot sun, but he looked crisp and cool nonetheless.
He looked at me with a gentle smile. His name tag said, BAPTISTE.
“Bonjou, monsieur,” he said.
“Bonjour,” I replied with a casual smile. I turned to walk in the other direction. Cops are cops, even when you’re a cop. I thought about playing the cop card, but I didn’t think it would do me any good. Best thing would be to get far away as fast as possible, try to get my bearings until I could get a line on Regi Baudet.
“Ou pale franse oswa kreyol?” he asked after me. I was pretty sure he was asking if I spoke French or Kreyol.
“Un peu le français,” I replied in bad French. A little French. Then I tried once again to walk away casually.
“You seem lost,” he said in English.
“Just going for a walk.”
“Can I see your passport?”
Crap. “Sorry,” I said, patting my pockets. “I left it at the hotel.”
He smiled patiently. “And what hotel is that?”
I smiled back. “The Hyatt?”
38
The room they put me in was definitely not at the Hyatt. Turns out, there is no Hyatt Hotel in Haiti. Instead, they put me in a lovely little place sometimes referred to as the Graybar Hotel.
Baptiste had raised an eyebrow when he saw my badge. He was very polite as he put me in handcuffs and led me down the street to a black-and-white SUV with the word POLICE on the side in big red letters. I was pretty sure no one I knew was going to see me, but it was still embarrassing.
It was a short drive to the police station, but enough that I got a quick look at the city. Run-down, for sure, but lovely in places, as well. The streets were narrow, bumpy, and tightly packed with small one- or two-story buildin
gs that sagged wherever there should have been a straight line. They were plain, mostly gray cinder block, although some were brightly painted. Mixed in among them were grander structures, three or four stories, with balconies and architectural flourishes that reminded me of New Orleans.
Automobile traffic was light, motorcycles were plentiful, and pedestrians were everywhere.
The police station was a white stucco building with glass block windows. Baptiste brought me into a dingy squad room that smelled of mildew.
The room had a handful of desks and a row of support columns down the middle, holding up the water-stained ceiling. The cinder block walls were painted a drab, faded green. The floor was almost the same color, linoleum that had molded itself to all the bumps and depressions of the uneven surface beneath it.
Baptiste handcuffed me to a metal chair that was in turn chained to his desk. Once I was secure, he said, “I will return in one minute.” And he disappeared.
I thought I was alone, at first. Then I heard laughter. On the other side of the squad room, a door was partially open. The name LT. SIMON was printed across it. Now that I was aware of it, I could hear several voices.
One of them sounded familiar.
Leaning back, I could just see into the office, but I couldn’t see who was in there. I tilted the chair and craned my neck, peering around one of the pillars in the middle of the floor.
The voices grew louder, and when the door to the office opened fully, I almost tipped over backward. Throwing myself forward, I righted the chair and shifted to the side so I was hidden behind the support column.
I recognized the voices even before I glimpsed them—Royce and Divock. They were talking to a heavyset Haitian with a leering smile. He looked to be about fifty. Lieutenant Simon, I presumed. I looked at my wrist, at the chain holding me in place, helpless.
I shouldn’t have been shocked—Miriam said she had seen them in Cap-Haïtien. I didn’t know what kind of relationship they had with the police, but they were sharing a hearty laugh, and I was chained to a chair. I had a strong suspicion things might go rougher for me if they spotted me here.
Their voices dropped to a murmur, then they went silent. I pictured Royce or Divock catching sight of me, coming closer for a better look. I was squeezing myself behind the column, as tightly as I could, when a voice called out, “Detective Doyle Carrick!”
I thought I was totally busted, but when I looked up, I saw Baptiste staring at me, confused. I peeked around the pillar and saw no sign of the others. The office door was closed. When I turned back to Baptiste, he said, “I should contact the American consulate, yes?”
I smiled and shook my head. “No, thank you.” It was important that Miriam’s movements couldn’t be traced, and her pursuers had already found her twice. It seemed I should be taking similar precautions, especially with Royce and Divock here. “I am here to see Regi Baudet, the deputy health minister.”
His eyebrow went up again. “Regi Baudet?”
I nodded.
“And he knows you?”
I shook my head. “Not well. Tell him I know him from the University of Pennsylvania. I came here just to talk to him, and it is very important.”
“I see,” he said, with a grave nod, pretending to take me seriously. “And you’re sure you wouldn’t like me to contact the consulate?”
“That’s right.”
“As you wish. I’ll have to lock you up in the meantime.”
* * *
To their credit, the guards regarded me without open hostility. They confiscated all my possessions, including my wallet and badge, my phone, Ron’s files, even my shoes. When I protested, they made it clear that if I caused trouble, things could get worse in a hurry. I had backed up my phone a few days earlier, but not since the interview with Brian Hartwell. Reminding myself the recordings were hosted on a server somewhere, I turned the phone off and handed it over.
The guard who took me from Baptiste was condescendingly dismissive, biting back a smile as he escorted me into the sweltering maze of rank, decrepit cells.
Perhaps the fact that I was a cop meant they were treating me a little more gently than I might otherwise have been. There was a handful of other prisoners, and a few of them called out halfheartedly as we walked passed them, but I couldn’t understand the language or decipher the intent, or even if their comments were directed toward me or the guard. I could feel the grit on the floor through my socks.
Halfway down the row, we paused in front of an empty cell. The guard took out a key and opened it, his smile finally breaking out as he extended his arm, welcoming me inside.
It wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. A cot in one corner, a seatless toilet in the other. The walls were crumbling, inadequately held together by a thick coat of vivid blue paint. The floor was a mess. When I walked in, I could see I wasn’t alone—it was teeming with insect life.
The cot probably was, too, but I willed myself not to look too closely as I sat on it. I thought about Miriam Hartwell’s squeamishness in the Liberty Motel, and I hoped she was somewhere better than this.
I barely had time to start a rudimentary inventory of all the day’s missteps before a tall, strikingly attractive young woman appeared outside my cell. Her skin was very dark, her shirt bright white, and her sneakers an almost fluorescent yellow. Her eyes smoldered with resentment.
“Who are you?” she demanded when I looked up at her.
“Doyle Carrick. Who are you?”
“I am the assistant to the deputy minister of health. Why do you wish to speak to Regi Baudet?” She seemed impatient, as if she’d been drawn away from something important.
“I have something urgent to tell him.”
“He has more important work to do than to play riddle games with you. I doubt very much whatever you have to say is important, but the only way the deputy minister will hear it is if you tell me first.”
“It’s about Saint Benezet.”
Her eyes narrowed but burned brighter, as if some volatile new fuel had been added to the fire. “What about it?”
I stepped closer to the bars, and she stepped back. “Tell Baudet it’s also about Miriam Hartwell.”
She glared at me for a moment longer, and I sensed that her resentment now was less about being interrupted from her work than about being kept out of the loop. She turned abruptly and strode away, her sneakers slapping against the concrete floor.
As I watched her go, the place suddenly seemed even more drab and depressing than before. My stomach grumbled and I realized I was intensely hungry, although looking around, I couldn’t imagine eating in that place. I decided I’d refuse to eat and I’d call it a hunger strike. I was trying to come up with a good cause, when I was startled by a quiet voice asking, “How do you know Miriam Hartwell?”
He was thin and handsome, with dark skin and a gentle, weary face.
I got to my feet. “I don’t know her well. She asked me to help her. You’re Regi Baudet?”
He nodded and raised a dubious eyebrow, leaning against the bars of the empty cell across from mine. “To help her do what?”
I took a step closer and lowered my voice. “To help her prove she didn’t kill her husband. And to tell you what she and Ron had learned about Saint Benezet.”
His eyes widened, and he stared at me for a moment. Then he pushed away from the bars and strode off without a word.
39
Ten minutes later, Baudet returned with two annoyed-looking guards. One of them used a large cluster of keys to open my cell.
They all stood back, and Baudet motioned with his head for me to come out of the cell. I resisted the urge to ask what was going on—they would have told me if they’d wanted to. I also resisted the tiny fear that they were going to shoot me in the back and say I was trying to escape.
Flanked by the guards and followed by Baudet, I walked back past the other cells, through a heavy steel door that led to the intake area.
Baudet spoke sharply in Kreyol
to the officer behind the window. They went briefly back and forth. Then a nearby door opened, and another guard emerged. He handed me a plastic bag with my belt and shoes, my wallet, and my keys.
I put on my shoes, put my keys in my pocket. I opened my wallet, relieved only the cash was gone. “I need my phone,” I said to Baudet. “And my papers.”
He turned to look at me, his eyes dropping to the empty wallet in my hands.
“The phone was new,” I said. I lowered my voice and stepped closer to Baudet. “The papers were very important.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I couldn’t tell if he was irritated at me for my first-world problems or at my jailers for being such thieves.
He snapped a few more words, directing them toward the guard who had given me my belongings as well as the one behind the window. The one behind the window snapped back, shouting now, banging his fist on the ledge below the window, glaring at him menacingly.
Baudet turned and gave me a tiny shake of his head. “It may take some time to get back your phone and your papers.” He motioned for me to follow him. We walked through another heavy steel door and a waiting area, a dozen plastic chairs on a concrete floor surrounded by cinder blocks and bathed in the dim glow of near-dead fluorescent lights.
Then we were out on the street, a bustling jumble of cars, motorcycles, bikes, and pedestrians. The sunlight was blinding after the dim light of the jail. It may have been even hotter outside, but the dusty air felt fresh and alive.
Baudet turned up the street without breaking stride, and I fell into step beside him. He gave me a sideways look, studying me as I slid my belt through the loops of my jeans.
I got the sense it wasn’t time to talk yet, so I kept quiet.
At the end of the block, he looked back at the police station. “I’m very sad to hear about Ron,” he said. “I didn’t believe it when you told me, but I looked it up online. It’s terrible.” His eyes seemed to focus more intently on me, like he was looking inside me. “Do the police really think Miriam killed him?”
