by Rob Swigart
At 6:05 they picked up their four red diving equipment bags, went downstairs and waited for a taxi. They could hear the voice of the desk clerk in the back office speaking on the telephone, but the early-evening lobby was deserted.
The taxi dropped them at the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor. The leader consulted a piece of paper, then pointed. They walked to the end of the westward pier and waited in a stolid block for several minutes beside a sleek cruiser. Finally, a heavy balding man in a tattered blue sweater and shorts came out of the cabin. He nodded, and the four men tossed their bags onto the deck and leaped aboard. Within minutes the boat was headed out toward the open sea. No one spoke.
She made a good eighteen knots over calm seas with gentle six-foot swells. The sun set in a blaze of orange and gold, leaving streaks of lavender and green across the sky, slowly fading into brilliant starlight. A few small clouds floated three or four thousand feet overhead, turned silver by light from the waning moon just showing over the horizon in the east. The boat rode easily, and by eleven forty-five they could see lights. Half an hour later, they were tied up at the Kaumualii boat basin at the mouth of the Wailua River.
They threw their bags onto the deserted pier. The fat captain stood by, shifting nervously. “I don’t speak French,” he said at last. The entire trip had passed in silence.
“No matter,” said the leader. A scar on his neck below his right ear pulled at the lobe, giving him an off-balance and vaguely menacing look. “I speak English. You will find it all here.” His English was heavily accented, and the captain had to strain to understand.
“He said I’d get paid,” the captain said. “Four thousand, cash. Dollars,” he added.
“Of course.” The English speaker unzipped his windbreaker and handed over a gray envelope. Inside was a thick stack of twenty-dollar bills. The captain counted them carefully.
“All right.” He paused. “This isn’t enough,” he added. His face, tilted to one side, glistened, as if his venality showed on his skin.
“Not possible,” the Frenchman said. “Count again.” He looked impatient and a little bit bored.
“No, no. I mean, four thousand isn’t enough. I don’t think you fellows want me talking about this little trip.”
“Ah, you want a bonus,” the man said. It was not a question. He took out another envelope. “An extra thousand? That would be enough?”
“Yeah, that would be enough.” The captain took the money and turned toward the cabin. The man who had paid him nodded at one of the others, who bounced slightly on the balls of his feet before his foot lashed out in a lightning strike to the side of the captain’s head, which snapped sideways. He slumped to the deck, head at an odd angle, and lay still.
The other two carried the body into the cabin. One rapped the dead captain’s head hard on the corner of the galley table. They found a bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon in the galley and poured some into his mouth and onto his clothes. The man with the scar laughed a little as he wrapped the captain’s hand around a glass. Then they dropped the body on the galley floor and left the boat. The whiskey bottle, overturned on the table, poured what was left of its contents onto the dead man’s shirt.
The harbor was deserted. Music from the Coco Palms dance band sounded faintly from up the beach. They carried their bags toward the highway and settled down to wait in the trees alongside the road.
Traffic was light. Headlights swept over their position, but no one stopped.
From time to time, the leader checked a large military chronometer with an illuminated dial, and said a few words to the others.
Half an hour passed.
Finally, the leader stirred, and the four men lifted their bags and began hiking down the road. Whenever a car approached, they melted into the shrubbery or trees at the side. Within an hour, they were in the town of Kapaa.
A few couples wandered around a small park by the ocean at this late hour, enjoying the night breezes. Across from the park, a cafe was lit up. A few people stood in the entrance listening to the music from a small Hawaiian band, electric slide guitar and ukulele, drums. The music was plaintive and maudlin; the four men ignored it. They sat on a bench in the park.
A car approached slowly, then parked with a squeal of brakes. A big man got out, pausing to mop his forehead with a white handkerchief. He looked around after he locked the car door, and walked over to the bench. “Jean-Marie?” he asked. It sounded like John-Mary. The leader nodded without getting up.
Vincent Meissner sat down on the end of the bench and sighed. “It’s late,” he complained. The others said nothing. “Almost two.”
“We have been here,” Jean-Marie said shortly. He did not elaborate.
“Yeah,” Vincent said. “But it’s after my bedtime. Mr. Sangier set up a meeting with some guy named Cavanaugh. He said you’d have something for me.”
“I do not know Sangier,” Jean-Marie said. “Cavanaugh brought us here from Polynésie. We are to tell you there are those in France who wanted to kill your crew. Soon there will be a communiqué, tomorrow perhaps, from the terrorists who committed this awful act.”
“A communiqué?”
“A group acted on behalf of the French people. They will be denounced by the French government, of course, which would never condone such an act. The troublemakers of the Gaia Foundation have found they cannot act with impunity, invading French territorial waters to spy on legitimate actions of the French people. I think that is how it is going to sound. My English is not perfect.”
“Close enough,” Vincent muttered. “These other guys have names?”
The other three stared at him impassively and said nothing.
“Okay. Do you think anyone is going to believe this so-called communiqué? The United States government, for instance, are they going to believe it? The world press?” Vincent felt no relief from the cool night breeze. He was trapped, and he knew it. Gaia could publicize the French government’s assassination of his crew, and the French government would counter that Gaia engineered the deaths and tried to pin the blame on the French. It would be a standoff. The outcome would depend on who could manufacture the most convincing evidence. Vincent did not believe in manufactured evidence. Usually there was enough real evidence to get Gaia the publicity it wanted. Cavanaugh had not offered him anything concrete.
“Look,” Vincent said after a moment of silence. “I hope you’re right, I really do. I hope your fictitious group delivers its fictitious announcement, and everyone falls in line and believes it. It doesn’t help us much, but it doesn’t hurt either. But I think this whole thing is going to blow up in our faces. First of all, the police here aren’t stupid. Given time they’re going to figure out what really happened on the Ocean Mother. I know we didn’t do it… I want to know who did.”
“We are taking care of that,” Jean-Marie said softly. “Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry? Jesus Christ, you people are really something, aren’t you?” Vincent stood up. “I’ve half a mind to call the FBI in Honolulu about this. Or, I don't know, the CIA. I think the United States government is interested in stopping your bomb tests.”
“I wouldn’t advise that, Monsieur Meissner. We are meeting you to tell you we are taking care of everything. Cavanaugh called us here to contain the problem. By tomorrow night it will be contained.”
“I do love the way you guys talk. Contain the problem? You think this is some little oil spill or something? Seven people were killed by some kind of venomous goo on my ship. Someone killed them. Seven people! Sangier thinks his pal Cavanaugh can cook up a convincing little lie for the world about some right-wing French group trying to discredit Gaia and then announce it? I don’t believe this. You were supposed to get me evidence of the group, not have them issue a fucking communiqué, for Christ’s sake. I got a crew dead, and you’re telling me some simple-minded terrorist scenario is going to convince anyone. No one attacks environmental groups, you moron, except governments or corporations. Not right-wing fanatic
s.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Jean-Marie shushed. “It will be fine. The police will lose interest in the investigation. They will have other things to think about.”
Vincent stared down at him. “What are you talking about?”
Jean-Marie stood up and faced the shorter man. “We will take care of everything.” His eyes glittered in the faint light falling into the park from the street. Across the highway, a couple went into the cafe, allowing the Hawaiian music to spill across the road.
“I don’t like it,” Vincent said. The dark man leaned down and unzipped his dive bag while Vincent was talking. “If they traced you here, the police are going to know I was involved. The whole story will blow up in our faces.”
The dark man had casually drawn a dive knife with a ten-inch serrated blade. He leaned sideways a little and touched the point of the knife to Vincent’s neck, just by the shoulder.
Vincent recoiled. “What the hell are you doing?”
Jean-Marie shrugged. “You’re going to take us for a ride,” he said softly. “Just five friends out for a drive.”
“You can’t do this,” Vincent protested weakly.
“In your car.” He prodded Vincent with the tip. “Now.” Vincent complied.
Jean-Marie, seated in back, shone a pencil flashlight at his paper again. “We are going north.”
Vincent was frightened. “You won’t get away with this,” he stammered. “I’m the head of an international foundation.” He glanced at the dark blade at his neck. The Algerian sat with his arm on the seat back, holding the back of Vincent’s collar.
“Shut up.” Jean-Marie folded the paper and pointed straight ahead past Vincent’s head. He put the car in gear.
The four Frenchmen said nothing. Vincent, responding mechanically to Jean-Marie’s directions, turned left, then left again, then right. Mountains, darker black against the black sky, loomed behind a small house, itself at the end of a mile-long dirt road. They parked in front of a sagging porch. Only a glimmer of faint light seemed to seep through the windows.
“Get out.” The knife moved fractionally and Vincent yelped. He stood shivering in the darkness. Jean-Marie said something to the others and got out. Vincent was breathing heavily. “Inside,” Jean-Marie said.
“There’s no one here,” Vincent protested. He climbed the steps and tried the front door. It swung open.
“Come in.” The voice came from the darkness beyond the two candles stuck on the floor. They cast a pale yellow light in small circles that revealed only the bare wooden floor. Shadows stirred outside the circles of light.
Vincent shielded his eyes, trying to see into the gloom. “Who is it?”
“Come in,” the voice repeated, sharply this time, and Vincent stepped through the door, which closed behind him.
“Cavanaugh?”
“Sit.”
“No. I want to know who this is. What am I doing here?”
There was no reply. Slowly a figure moved forward. He was wrapped in burlap, a wide-brimmed floppy hat hid his eyes, but when he tilted his head back, Vincent saw that he had thick wads of cotton stuffed into his nostrils. Somehow the effect was not comic at all; it was terrifying.
“I am Baron Samedi.” The voice was deep, heavily accented. “From tonight you are reborn.”
“You’re Cavanaugh. What do you want?” Vincent reached for the handle of the door behind him. The figure took a step toward him, and Vincent stepped back. He found the handle, turned it. The door was locked.
Baron Samedi crooked his finger. “Come.” Vincent took a halting step. “Now sit.” Vincent sat.
As his eyes adjusted he could see the ceiling was crisscrossed with string. Small flags dangled from it, along with what could have been photographs of human skulls. Behind the looming figure was a large cross made of bamboo and wrapped in a webbing of thick rope and scraps of crimson material. Dozens of bottles were standing at the foot of the cross, many of them holding the stubs of candles. “I don’t believe all this, you know,” Vincent said. “You’re Cavanaugh. I know you. I don’t believe all this mumbo jumbo.”
“Of course. You are a Western man, aren’t you? A skeptic. That is all right, Monsieur Meissner. Baron Samedi does not require a believer. Have you been to Haiti, Monsieur Meissner? No? Well let me tell you what you could learn in Haiti is what is going to happen to you tonight. It requires nothing but your presence. Look around you.”
Shapes were forming on the walls now. Did the candles flare up, grow brighter? Vincent could not be sure. He could see gargoyle shapes, devil faces without horns. Red tongues hung from their mouths, pierced by crudely drawn daggers.
“Baron Samedi is the Guardian of the Cemetery,” the man said. Vincent thought it was the man he had met earlier as Cavanaugh. Now he was not so sure. “We will go there soon, Vincent. You and I. To the cemetery. It is just down the hill from here. Very, very old, this cemetery. No one uses it any more. Except you. You will use it, tonight.”
“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The figure shook his head, sending wild shadows leaping on the walls and ceiling. The door opened, and the four men filed in. Now they were dressed in burlap robes and red bandanas. They moved around the edges of the room and sat cross-legged, staring at Vincent in silence. Their faces were flat, dead, their eyes expressionless.
“You have spoken with others, have you not, since you met Cavanaugh?” Baron Samedi asked quietly.
Vincent decided he would not answer. “Yes,” he said, despite himself.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. A Frenchman, Duvalois, something like that.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him what you said, you were going to the Big Island. You were going to help me. I thought you worked with him.”
“Duvalois! No, it is all right. You did well. I am going to help you. I’m going to do it all. Believe that.”
The men seated around the room picked up small drums and began to tap. Vincent closed his eyes, and somehow not seeing was worse than seeing, so he opened them again. The figure of the Baron Samedi was seated before him, large eyes staring into his. He felt the first tendrils of panic twitch at his heart.
Suddenly the figure leaned forward and hissed. “You will die tonight, Vincent.”
The drumming grew louder.
“Why?” Vincent tried to think, tried to grasp at something that made sense.
The figure laughed. “They always ask why, Vincent. Because this is Power, and I possess it.” He lifted his hand; it held a teacup. “There is a powder in this cup. It gives death and takes it away. You will wish for it soon, Vincent. You will beg me to give you this powder that gives death.” He held up his other hand, and in it was a clear plastic bag. “Here is another powder, Vincent. It is the concombre zombi. It comes from a very common plant, growing wild all around you. You will have this, too, Vincent, and you will be mine. You will be reborn; you will have a new name.”
“I don’t want…”
The drumming increased in speed, grew louder. The flames on the candles flickered and danced in time to the erratic, syncopated beat.
The Baron Samedi put down the plastic bag and poured some of the powder from the teacup into his palm. He looked at it thoughtfully. Vincent stared, fascinated. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, though the other man was not even looking at him. It was as if he were not even there. Suddenly, the man leaned forward and blew the powder in his palm hard into Vincent’s face.
Vincent gasped, and with that breath the nightmare truly began.
They chanted something guttural and dark, and he could not move. He thought once they were lighting more candles, and now he could see, on shelves along the rear wall, row after row of human skulls staring with empty sockets into Vincent’s soul.
Another time the man was talking to him in a conversational tone as if they were old acquaintances just met after a long separation. He was telling him about his death as if it were a c
ommonplace. “You cannot move, of course,” the man said. “You are, in fact, dead. Soon you will float away from your body. It is very pleasant, to leave the body. You will enjoy it, for a time, but I will not let you go far. That would be very bad. You will look down on your body and think it is a worm; you will want nothing more than to leave it behind. But I will call you back.”
And later. “Now we will bury you.” Vincent wanted to scream, but his eyes were wide and staring, and he could not talk. They carried him outside and, with one man on either side, supported him down the narrow trail, slippery with a passing rain. A strange light led the way, and Vincent thought it might be a torch that threw red shadows into the trees.
The cemetery was as empty as Baron Samedi said it was. Baron Samedi was the Guardian of this place, and he pointed with his long finger at the ground, and they fell to digging. The others put Vincent in a box, and he died.
When he came to life again, it was dark and close, and he heard the sound of something falling above him, above his face. He wanted to reach out to push away the heavy presence, but he could not move, and his mind fell to singing nursery rhymes over and over. And then his name, and then no name at all, no words at all, only senseless sounds from before speech.
Suddenly, he was facing sky, and the man was bending over him, the cotton in his nose, the burlap wrapped around him, and he dusted Vincent’s face with powder again, and Vincent did scream then, and the scream echoed and echoed and made no sound at all.
He looked up and saw the elongated shadows of the five men standing in a circle around him. They bent down with a strange jerky motion and lifted him up, and they led him over to another crude cross that looked familiar, wrapped in ropes and red cloth, and they baptized him, giving him the name of Baka, the spirit of evil. And when the sun came up, he sat and stared at it in wonder because he did not know who he was.
