Dust Up: A Thriller

by Jon McGoran

  There, darting around Elena, closing the distance between us in a heartbeat, was Nola.

  84

  I almost fell back under the force of it as she wrapped her arms around me and peppered my face with kisses. I tried to keep up with her, tried to anticipate her lips, put mine where I thought hers would be, but I couldn’t. She was too fast, too thorough, covering every inch of my face, not stopping until she landed on my lips and kissed them deeply.

  I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed, holding her to me, lifting her up. I didn’t want to put her down. I didn’t want to let her go. The reaction I felt at seeing her—the relief, the joy, the love—it bubbled up from somewhere deep with an intensity I didn’t want anyone to see. Not even her.

  I held her tight and surreptitiously wiped my eyes on her shoulder. I don’t know if anyone else saw it, but Nola wasn’t fooled. She pulled back and reached up with both hands to cup my face, using her thumbs to wipe away the moisture under my eyes.

  I did the same to her.

  “Hey,” I said, my voice husky and croaking.

  “Hey,” she said, her voice as soft as the rustle of sheets.

  “Hey!” said Toma, stepping up.

  Elena was looking on with a broad smile. I got the impression she approved. Toma was looking at Nola with a different kind of smile, and I got the sense that he approved too, in a different kind of way.

  “Sorry,” I said, clearing my throat. “Nola, these are my friends Toma and Elena. This is my girlfriend, Nola.”

  They exchanged hellos, and Elena gave Nola a kiss on each cheek.

  I looked down at her, grinning, trying to keep my hands off her. “How did you get here?”

  “I gave her a lift,” said a voice with slight accent that was not Haitian.

  Standing in the front room drinking the other cup of tea was a short, dapper-looking man in his late fifties. He had the unmistakable sheen of lots of money.

  “Doyle,” Nola said, stepping back and holding out her arm, “I’d like you to meet Gregory Mikel.”

  Mikel put down his tea and came toward me, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carrick,” he said as we shook. “I’ve been looking forward to it for some time.”

  I had no idea what that meant. “Nice to meet you too. This is Toma.” They shook hands and exchanged greetings.

  “And I guess you both already know Elena.”

  She was already back in the kitchen. I couldn’t help thinking she must be exhausted. I was exhausted.

  Mikel nodded and held up his cup of tea as evidence of having met her.

  “I brought your passport,” Nola said, handing it to me.

  “Thanks,” I said, smiling down at her sparkling face. I kind of wanted to tear off all her clothes and get back to the kissing, see what came next. She reached out and put her hand on my chest, touching me, but also holding me back. She knew me so well.

  “Gregory gave me a lift when I told him I was bringing it to you,” she explained.

  Gregory. Now she was on first-name basis with a billionaire. I turned to look at him.

  “Nola brought me the papers you faxed her,” he said. “Very compelling stuff. Things seem to be changing pretty rapidly on the ground here. Is some of that your doing?”

  “It was a group effort,” I said. “Elena helped. Toma here. And Regi Baudet, who is the new acting minister of health. Most of all, Miriam Hartwell. We could use some of your, um, clout, to help her. They have her in prison here, awaiting extradition.”

  Mikel held up a hand. “She’s fine. I’ve brought in Fritz Schultzman, one of the best extradition lawyers around. He’s with her right now.”

  “What about when she gets back to the States? The case against her is bogus, but it’s pretty strong. Anything you can do about that?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flash drive. “As it turns out, yes.”

  85

  Mikel’s computer screen showed a grainy picture of a block of brick row homes at night, looking diagonally across the street. It took me a moment to recognize my own house near the middle.

  It seemed far away, a different world from the one in which I’d been living. I felt a sudden yearning to be there, to be home.

  In the foreground, a black SUV drove up and stopped at the curb, brightly illuminated from above. The windows were down. It was too dark to see the driver, but I could see the passenger. He turned and looked right at the camera.

  Fucking Royce.

  In the background, looking small in the distance, a man walked onto the street from the right, crossing toward my house. Ron Hartwell.

  A pit opened up in the bottom of my stomach, and I felt like I was falling into it. Hartwell stepped onto the curb, looking around furtively.

  From the motions of their heads, the gestures of their hands, it looked like the two men in the SUV were arguing.

  Hartwell reached my steps, climbed them. As he banged on my door—bang, bang, bang—the car surged forward. Upstairs, I knew, I was getting out of bed, pulling on my pants, wondering what was going on. Watching the video, I could feel myself urging me to react just a tiny bit faster, unable to resist the feeling that somehow the outcome could be changed, could be different.

  Hartwell turned and saw the car, turned back, and banged on the door again, harder, frantic, again and again. The car was speeding almost directly at him. Watching it happen, I couldn’t help wondering, where the fuck was I? Why wasn’t I there? Why wasn’t I opening the door and pulling him inside?

  Hartwell kept pounding on the door as he twisted around to look behind him. The SUV didn’t skid, didn’t shimmy, but it stopped hard in front of my house. There was a flash, and Hartwell jerked and fell back against the door, a dark dot in the middle of his chest. Immediately, there was another flash, another dot, another flash and another dot, grouped within inches of each other, growing and merging.

  The SUV was gone before Hartwell’s knees even buckled. It drove off and disappeared. As he finally slid to the ground, another car flashed past.

  Miriam Hartwell.

  My front door opened, and there I was. Standing there, useless, looking down at Ron Hartwell’s last breath.

  The sight of myself looking down at Ron Hartwell’s death sent a chill through me.

  Toma had been captivated by the video, gradually leaning closer and closer. He muttered something in Kreyol that sounded like a cross between a curse and a prayer.

  Nola looked away for the entire thing, although her hand was wrapped tightly around mine, grasping it, squeezing it, crushing it.

  Mikel watched me watching it.

  “That’s the security footage from Albert’s, the deli on my block,” I said.

  He nodded. “It is.”

  “Homicide said it never recorded.”

  “It recorded. Someone erased it. We were able to recover it, but it wasn’t easy. I had just gotten it back when I got Nola’s message.”

  “Have you shown it to the police?”

  “I’m showing it to you.” He let out a sigh. “I don’t know who to trust. I’m hoping you do.”

  “I hope so too.”

  “Do you recognize the man in the car?”

  “His name is Royce. He works for Energene.”

  Mikel nodded. “His partner’s name is Divock.”

  “They’re here now.”

  That surprised him. “In Haiti?”

  I took a deep breath, and I told them everything. By the time I got to the part about Gaden and Saint Benezet, the room was very still, utterly quiet except for the sound of my voice.

  Mikel was seething, a quiet rage building up inside him.

  “They’re monsters,” Nola whispered.

  Mikel nodded. “That’s why we have to stop them.”

  When I got to the part about my visit to Pearce’s boat, Mikel held up a hand. “Have you listened to the recording yet?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. My phone died.”

 
To be fair, I had been kind of busy, but I realized how stupid that sounded. Mikel opened his mouth, possibly to point that out, but we were interrupted by a crash and a squeal coming from the kitchen.

  Toma sprang to his feet, but when he got to the doorway, he turned around beaming. “Cardon is on television. Regi is with him!”

  86

  President Cardon looked somber, dignified, and very much in control. Standing behind him looking equally somber but noticeably more nervous was Regi Baudet. He appeared scrubbed but exhausted, dressed in a nice suit that didn’t quite fit him.

  We were crowded into the kitchen, watching on a tiny television perched on the counter. Toma translated as Cardon described the nature of Ducroix’s coup attempt and the fact that it had been thwarted. He did not say how. As the crowd in Port-au-Prince applauded the news of the coup’s defeat, Toma leaned over and kissed Elena on the cheek.

  Cardon announced that elements involved in the coup were also involved in the trade ministry, and because of that, the CASCATA trade vote scheduled for later that day had been postponed. He then explained that some public health matters had come to his attention, and he was very pleased to announce the appointment of Monsieur Reginald Baudet as the new acting minister of public health. He said Regi was uniquely suited to usher in a new era of public health in Haiti.

  As Regi spoke into the microphone, Toma continued to translate, but his voice sounded tighter, hoarse with emotion.

  “He says there is no Ebola in Haiti. He says that was a lie concocted to hide the murders of the people of Saint Benezet and Gaden.” Regi’s voice seemed to crack when he said it. Toma’s voice cracked, as well. “He says President Cardon will bring the murderers to justice but to rest assured—there is no chance of catching Ebola.” He paused to wipe his nose. “He says there is a health risk, though. There is soyflour called Soyagene from a company called Energene and Stoma-Grow corn from a company called Stoma, and if you eat the Soyagene or you eat Stoma-Grow corn after eating Soyagene, you could get very, very sick.”

  He described the symptoms and what steps should be taken by anyone who experienced them. Toma tried to keep up, but he started stumbling before giving up altogether. I made a mental note to tell Regi: brevity is the soul of wit. But even if he wasn’t the most riveting public speaker, I was sure he would be an excellent minister of public health.

  Toma looked exhausted, his lids heavy. He was standing next to Elena, and he slouched down and let his head rest on her shoulder. He looked for a moment like a little boy.

  Elena reached up and patted his cheek, tears starting down her face as she looked back and forth between her brother and her nephew, and the pride overwhelmed her.

  The exhaustion was hitting me, as well. As I put my arm around Nola, she whispered in my ear, “It’s good to see you, Doyle Carrick.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Nola Watkins,” I whispered back.

  Even as I looked down at her, I felt another pair of eyes on me. I looked over at Mikel, standing in the doorway staring at me. I felt the unmistakable tension of impatience being resisted and contained. He wanted to give us a moment, but he also wanted something. I was pretty sure he wasn’t used to waiting.

  I raised an eyebrow at him, and he cocked his head toward the front door.

  He wanted a moment alone.

  87

  The sun was up, people were walking down the narrow sidewalks, cars were going back and forth—and side to side, for that matter. A normal Sunday morning in Haiti, I thought, except for the coup that had just been narrowly averted. Maybe that wasn’t too out of the ordinary, either.

  “You’re to be congratulated,” Mikel said, standing on the bottom step. I was standing on the sidewalk so we were roughly the same height.

  I shrugged. “Couldn’t have done it without a lot of people. Without you, for that matter. Or Sable.”

  He nodded and sniffed. “He was a good man, Sable. He made the world a better place. Literally, you know? He fought the good fights. He won a lot of them.”

  I nodded. “So Royce and Divock—we have those guys on video, pretty cut-and-dried. With luck, we’ll be able to put them away. The other two, the ones that came after Miriam and shot Sable, one of them is dead. But it looks like the other one got away?”

  Mikel thought about it. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Well, I hope not. I hope that with your help, your testimony, maybe we can find him and bring him to justice.” He paused, chewing the inside of his lip. “But there’s always going to be guys with guns. And there’s always going to be other guys waiting to take their place. It’s the guys who hire them, who send them to kill Ron Hartwell or Dave Sable, who send troops to wipe out entire villages. I mean, yes, the people who pull the triggers are guilty—I’m not giving them a pass, no way. But the ones directing them, they’re even more to blame. They shouldn’t get away with it, either. Don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do.” I looked at him sideways. “Miriam told me that Ron was coming to tell me what he suspected, because they didn’t trust anyone else. They wanted to tell me first. How did you know about it ahead of time?”

  “We didn’t. We were as surprised at what happened as you were, as Miriam was.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He smiled. “We weren’t surveilling Ron Hartwell, Mr. Carrick. We were surveilling you.”

  “You were spying on me?”

  “We were keeping an eye on you.”

  “So Sable was there when Ron Hartwell was shot?”

  “No. But we became aware of it very soon after.”

  I stared at him but didn’t say anything.

  “Have you heard of Beta Librae?”

  “The Northern Claw. Yes, it’s your shadowy environmental group.”

  He laughed. “Well, I don’t know about shadowy. I’d like to think we’ve been … discreet. And yes, it is a star, and it’s sometimes called the Northern Claw, but it’s also known as Lanx Borealis, part of the northern scale of Libra, meaning balance. More important, it’s the only star in the sky that appears to be green.” He paused for a moment, as if he was expecting me to comment on the cleverness of it all.

  I was really, really tired.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “Beta Librae was Sable and me. With a little temporary help now and then, people like Charlie, the pilot. We were a very small operation with a lot of work to do. I thought it was time to expand. I’d heard about what you did in Dunston, then on Martha’s Vineyard, as well. I heard some stories about what you had pulled off, fighting against some of the same forces I’ve been working against. I sent Sable to check you out.”

  “To check me out?” This time, I laughed.

  He folded his arms and looked at me in a way that made me feel smaller than him. I regretted letting him take the higher ground and thought about stepping up next to him. “Do you enjoy your work, Mr. Carrick?”

  “I’m a cop.”

  “I know. It’s an important and noble profession. But are you doing what you thought you’d be doing? Making the difference you thought you’d be making?”

  I’d become a cop in large part for the dental plan, so in that sense, yes, being a cop had lived up to expectations. But I knew what he meant. “What are you getting at?”

  “Mr. Carrick, how would you like to come work for me?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about going after the big fish, the ones the cops are too scared to go after, the ones the FBI and the feds are too scared to go after or that are too big for the cops and the feds to even know about. I’m talking about putting together cases against the people who are committing the serious crimes, the big crimes, cases that are so solid and compelling the feds can’t ignore them, that the press won’t let them ignore. I’m talking about making a bigger difference.”

  I laughed and shook my head, feeling suddenly light-headed. I didn’t know what to say. “I’m a cop,” I repeated simply.

  “Think
about it,” he said, clapping his hand on my shoulder. “Dave Sable was a friend of mine, and I’ll mourn his death in my own way, on my own time. But he was also an important part of Beta Librae. I was looking to expand this thing because there’s so much work we need to do. Now I’m just trying to keep it going.”

  88

  I stayed outside for a moment, wondering what had just happened. When I went back inside a moment later, Mikel was already on his phone, pacing, talking to his lawyer about Miriam Hartwell. Toma and Elena had disappeared. Hopefully, they were finally getting some sleep.

  Nola was waiting for me. “What was that about?”

  “I’m not sure I really know. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “You look awful,” she said, her blue eyes looking up into mine.

  I laughed. “Thanks.”

  “In a hot kind of way, of course.” She laughed, too, but then she turned solemn. “Seriously, though. You look exhausted. The others are getting some sleep. You should, too.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, taking her hand. The thought of sleep was suddenly irresistible. As I pulled Nola to her feet, I eyed the stairs, wondering if I had the energy to climb them. Still, I managed a lascivious smile. “Your room or mine?”

  She gave me a sexy smile combined with a dubious raised eyebrow. Before she could answer, Mikel paced back into the room. “Okay,” he said crisply. “It’s all set up. Schultzman told Miriam Hartwell about the security footage. She’s going to allow extradition as long as it’s Detective Carrick escorting her. Judge Pauline Greenberg has agreed to an emergency hearing to look at our video evidence as soon as we land in Philadelphia. Schultzman is very confident the murder charges will be dropped.” He paused and looked back and forth between us. “What? This is good news.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s get moving. My jet’s here at the airport. We can be in Port-au-Prince in an hour.”

  I wanted to point out to him that I hadn’t said yes, that I wasn’t working for him, and that, essentially, he was not the boss of me. But getting Miriam out of a Haitian prison, getting her name cleared and her charges dropped so she could escape this nightmare and get on with the nightmare of mourning her murdered husband, that all seemed more important than a nap.