[Jordan Fox 01.0 - 04.0] False Truth

by Diane Capri

Claire sniffed. “There’s nothing you can do. It’s over. I’ll check on your dad while you’re gone. Don’t worry.” The call disconnected.

  Don’t worry about what?

  The first leg of the Haiti trip was a smooth and on time one-hour flight to Miami in a fully loaded Airbus A319 commercial airliner with 129 passengers. From there, they flew to Haiti’s capital, Port-au-Prince, in two hours aboard a half-full Airbus A320. The Port-au-Prince airport was small and in fine condition, but it was a far cry from Miami’s overcrowded chaos. Still, flying was a piece of cake. No problems at all.

  Until the third leg of the trip.

  Jordan watched the plane that would take them from Port-au-Prince to Sabatier roll onto the tarmac near the gate. The Cessna 206 Stationair looked no larger than an SUV. The peeling and missing paint looked like it had weathered more than a few storms. Whether that was the good news or the bad news was yet to be determined.

  Inside the cabin, Jordan found eight passenger seats set into two columns of four seats, with one aisle in between. Bags went down into the cargo hold below. Bob Vetter pulled the door closed when everyone was seated. Jordan heard the door snug into place and prayed he’d closed it correctly.

  Ten minutes into the flight, Jordan felt her body getting uncomfortably warm. She pulled off her sweater. If her dad had a severe reaction to his medication could Amy take care of him? Jordan would never forgive herself if something happened to her dad while she was away.

  Twenty minutes in, she was sweating. She grabbed a paper napkin to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. Her stomach started to turn. She breathed deep and forced her lips together, just in case.

  And then she flipped out.

  She was a long way from home. Her cell phone wouldn’t work. What the hell had she been thinking when she persuaded Richard to send her on this trip? She could be in Jacksonville right now. Great hotel. Clean sheets. Modern communication.

  Stop it!

  Focus. Think about gravity. Soon, the ground will be parallel with life again.

  Hold on. She hugged her stomach with both arms across her body and clenched her teeth. Don’t vomit. Whatever you do, don’t do that.

  Jordan’s head throbbed. It hurt so much she could barely open her eyes. She released her stomach and held her head in her hands instead.

  “You okay?” the man seated across the aisle asked her, touching his hand to her back. It was Dr. Eric Lee, the team dentist. She turned her head slightly to the left and opened her eyes enough to see his concern staring back at her.

  “I’ll be okay. Headache. And nausea. Do you know—” Jordan stopped to swallow a dry heave “—where our waters are?”

  She couldn’t breathe and dry mouth caused her words to stick together.

  She closed her eyes and focused on lengthening her breaths as she waited for an answer. How embarrassing.

  “Water’s down in the baggage hold. Below us.” Her eyes were still closed, but his bedside manner felt reassuring. Good skills for a missionary dentist.

  “I’d ask a flight attendant for a cold cloth for you but…” he trailed off.

  She started to speak again and gagged.

  “Yeah. There are no flight attendants,” Eric said. “You’ll be all right. We’re almost there. Promise.”

  Jordan held her head in her hands for the remainder of the flight until the plane thumped the ground. Then thumped again. And again.

  The plane bounced along, slowing with each hard thump. Jordan looked out the window to her right. It was no runway. It was an overgrown, grassy field. She looked at Dr. Eric Lee. “We’re here?”

  “This is it,” he said. “Welcome to Sabatier, Haiti.”

  They rolled to a stop. The Silver Fox, who had closed the door in Port-au-Prince, performed the reverse as handily as before. Everyone filed out onto the best feeling solid ground Jordan had ever walked upon.

  As soon as their luggage made it out of the hold, Dr. Lee handed her a water bottle. “Sip slowly.”

  She sipped and felt better with every swallow. Her headache receded and she managed to open her eyes behind the dark sunglasses she’d donned before she deplaned.

  To her left, she saw grass. To her right, more grass for about 100 yards, and then woods. Where was the city?

  Jordan glanced around the grassy airstrip. She noticed seven passengers waiting to board the Cessna for the return flight to Port-au-Prince. Dr. Ross stood talking to a tall black man wearing a pale grey sport coat, which made him seem overdressed. His skin was the color of dark caramel. He was attractive enough. He might have been an actor or a model.

  She looked at the mountains in the distance, feeling almost normal again. A big dune buggy came bouncing along the grassy terrain, rushing up to the arriving plane. In addition to the driver and passenger, she saw two people hanging off the sides of the dune buggy and a third person hanging off the back. All five wore straw hats, black t-shirts, jeans, and black sunglasses. Almost like a uniform. Or gang colors, maybe. They had machetes hanging from their belts. The two in the back held guns loosely across their laps.

  The dune buggy motored up to the plane and stopped. Three passengers got out. One large, black man with deep scars on both cheeks stood aside while two others transferred two big packages from the dune buggy onto the plane. They took two packages that had been offloaded from the plane and hoisted them into the dune buggy. The scarred man might have been their leader. He glanced around at the passengers. Jordan thought he nodded toward Dr. Ross’s handsome companion who nodded in return, but she might have misinterpreted the exchange. The two package lifters returned to their seats. The leader also went back to the dune buggy and they motored back the way they’d come. No words were exchanged during the entire process. No one made any effort to help or hinder the men, either.

  Jordan quickly pulled her still camera from her sling bag and raised it to take a picture before the dune buggy disappeared into the woods. As the shutter clicked, a wrinkled black hand moved into the frame. Jordan pulled back.

  A sturdy black man dressed in khaki slacks, work boots, and a red plaid shirt stared at her with almost palpable disapproval.

  Jean Saint Louis, the profile she’d received from Dr. Ross had said, was the local Haitian handler. He routinely handled teams at the clinic. He was a combination driver, guard, guide, friend, interpreter and concierge, as near as Jordan could figure out from the sketchy profile.

  His job right now was to get the Americans from the rustic airstrip to the little clinic in Sabatier safely, which was still about forty minutes away by van.

  Saint Louis also had some sort of basic field medical skills training because he manned the clinic when American doctors weren’t there. The way he carried himself and his self-assured manner suggested military service at some point, too.

  “Stop. Put your camera away.” He whispered formally and he didn’t request. “You may not take pictures of them.”

  Jordan immediately obeyed.

  “Who are they?” The dune buggy disappeared into the woods.

  “Did you see how they took those packages from the plane, and no one said a word?”

  Jordan nodded.

  “We have had people come here before. People who didn’t leave. Do I need to say more?” Saint Louis delivered the warning but he stared toward the woods, as if reliving a solemn, distant memory. “Those men are members of the Tonton Moun Nui. We call them tontons.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Respect, mostly. But they will steal and even kill to get it. Pull your hair back.”

  She pulled her hair into a ponytail.

  “Keep it that way. Less tempting. You cannot predict what they will do. Your camera. They would love that. Not only is it worth money but also, it is symbolic.”

  “Of what?” Jordan asked. “The media and its influence or something?”

  “Exactly. And the photographer’s presumptuous, voyeuristic ways are not welcome here. Not you. It is not personal. Symbolic.” The
tontons were gone from view now. Saint Louis turned to look at Jordan directly. “Don’t forget what I’ve said. Take no chances.”

  “Do you think they noticed me taking pictures of them?” Clearly here unseen danger could easily ambush her. From this point forward, she’d be hyper-vigilant. Pay attention to everything around her. All the time.

  “Come along.” Saint Louis gestured for her to board the van through the rear door.

  Before she could climb in, Dr. Ross called, “Jordan. Come meet Dr. Peter Wren, Dominique’s father.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Sabatier, Haiti

  Dr. Ross said, “Dr. Wren, this is Jordan Fox. She’s a journalist at Channel 12 in Tampa. She’s here with us to replace our documentary photographer. We hope she’ll give us positive publicity to help raise funds back home.”

  He stepped forward and extended a large, clean, well-manicured hand. Jordan shook the firm flesh. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Fox.”

  “You, too, Dr. Wren. It’s easy to see where Dominique gets her distinctive features,” Jordan said.

  “You’ve met Dominique?”

  “And I’ve heard her sing. Twice. You must be very proud of her. She’s an amazing talent,” Jordan said.

  He lowered his lids and his chin. A gesture Jordan interpreted as appreciation for her compliment.

  “It’s exciting that she’s auditioning for Instant Pop Star,” Jordan said. “I’m hoping to do a feature story about her. She could win. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”

  Instead of pleasure, his face reflected something Jordan interpreted as anger. “No,” he said.

  “I’m sorry?” Jordan asked.

  “Dominique will not be participating in a television game show.” He said game show with distain, the same way Jordan would have when she was assigned to cover Instant Pop Star.

  “But her talent is amazing. She could easily win. And a win could launch her international singing career.” Jordan saw her Instant Pop Star story evaporating before her very eyes. Richard would be livid.

  “I’ve made my position clear, Ms. Fox. My daughter will not defy my wishes,” Dr. Wren said. “It’s been nice to meet you. The clinic here will benefit from your work. Thank you.” He turned then to resume his conversation with Dr. Ross.

  Bewildered, Jordan moved to join the rest of the team, already seated in Saint Louis’s van. The van had been hollowed out. Instead of factory-issued cushioned seats attached to the floor in parallel rows, hard benches were mounted along both sides. Jordan took one of the last empty seats, directly behind Saint Louis.

  A few minutes later, Dr. Chelsey Ross climbed into the van and settled into a seat. The Silver Fox closed the van’s back door. Apparently, he was the official door closer.

  The team rode across the rocky terrain of Sabatier and into the town’s mountainous countryside. Jordan snapped scenic pictures along the way. Up ahead, through the camera’s viewfinder, she spotted smoke and fire contained on the side of the road. Jordan squinted to see through the smoke, which she discovered was rising from burning tires.

  Why would anyone burn tires?

  Before she could ask, she saw something else. She gasped. It was them. Not the same men who had ridden to the plane on a dune buggy, but them. Tontons. Several men in straw hats, black t-shirts, jeans, and black sunglasses positioned themselves across the road like a barricade, arms crossed.

  Saint Louis leaned back toward Jordan. “Stuff your camera in your duffle bag and push the bag out of sight.”

  He slowed the van carrying Jordan and the team and stopped when they reached the burning tires. “Aretez, zanmi.” the tonton said.

  “Oui,” Saint Louis replied. The tonton peered into the vehicle. They looked each passenger up and down, examining. But looking for what?

  No one inside the van said anything. Jordan noticed the six members of the medical team had bowed their heads and seemed to be praying, which caused her stomach to do a dozen back flips. Saint Louis kept his hands on the wheel and his right foot near the accelerator, but he had also lowered his chin and gazed at the floor.

  Jordan sat perfectly still, head bowed, hands clasped, holding her breath. Her heart pounded loud enough to be heard outside the van and her mouth was so dry she couldn’t possibly scream. If they searched her bag, they could find the pictures of the other tontons on her camera. Then what would they do?

  Each of these tontons approached the van’s windows and looked the team over several times. When they finally seemed satisfied, the first tonton approached the driver’s window. Saint Louis and said something in Creole that Jordan didn’t hear.

  Saint Louis pulled twenty American dollars from his pocket and passed it to the tonton without response. The man nodded, stepped back, and signaled the roadblock tontons to move aside.

  Saint Louis lifted his left foot from the brake. The van rolled away from the burning tires and Jordan was finally able to exhale.

  “What was that about?” Jordan asked, after they’d gained some distance and she’d had a long drink of water to wet her throat so she could get the words out.

  “We paid the fee. Routine,” Saint Louis shrugged and watched the road ahead as if tonton barricades might be posted around every corner. Perhaps they were.

  “A fee? For what?”

  “The tontons must know who is going in and out. They are like your street gangs. We pay them for our protection. It is worth it.”

  Jordan chuckled, attempting to disguise the fact that she was terrified for her life. “So they’re not going to kidnap me in the night.”

  Saint Louis frowned. His mustache dipped down, accentuating the downward curve of his lips. “The protection fee covers other gangs only. They offer no protection from themselves.”

  Nothing else was said inside the van for the remainder of the drive because the entire team was still deep in prayer.

  Jordan’s legs bounced on the balls of her feet without her conscious control. She felt the dampness on her palms as wet as if she’d washed her hands. Once again, why didn’t you go to Jacksonville?

  Forty-five minutes after leaving the ambitiously named airstrip, they reached the little white clinic she recognized from the materials Dr. Ross had given her. It was a small building, about the size of a typical American two-bedroom home. Next door to the clinic was the dormitory, a plain yellow building, slightly larger than the clinic.

  Saint Louis parked and escorted the group inside. No one brought along more than one duffel bag and each carried the bags they owned. Team members had been assigned to private rooms before they arrived.

  “Jordan, your room is at the end of the hall,” Dr. Ross said with a kind smile, as if she realized the trip had been harrowing but didn’t want to say so. She patted Jordan’s shoulder and gave her a little squeeze. “Don’t worry. You can’t possibly get lost. Yours is the only unoccupied room we have left. After you find it and drop your bag, feel free to take a look around the dormitory. Get the lay of the land.”

  Less than three seconds later, Jordan stood at the doorway to the small space she’d call home for the rest of the mission. The room was eight feet by ten feet. Bare walls and floor. Furnished with a narrow cot and one wooden chair. A window allowed light into the room along with a welcome breeze and probably every bug in Haiti because it stood wide open.

  Jordan saw a lock on the door. Good. As for the window, she’d find a way to lock that before bedtime, too. She dropped her duffel on the bed and explored the rest of the dormitory building.

  In addition to the bedrooms, she found two bathrooms off the same hallway. The dining room was near the main entrance. Dr. Eric Lee stood just inside with a bottle of water, staring out the window. Without turning around he said, “Group meeting here in ten minutes.”

  “Thanks.” She walked back to her room, closed her door and tested the lock, which seemed sturdy enough. She inspected her window. It closed easily. She found a screen under the bed and popped it into place. But no lock. She’d have t
o rely on prayer and finger-crossing again until she could find a better solution.

  Jordan grabbed her sling bag and made her way to the dining room again. Her stomach rumbled with hunger instead of nausea, which made her feel more normal. A couple of hours ago, the last thing she’d wanted was food. But now, the late dinner she’d been promised filled the air with a heavenly combination of bread and something more she couldn’t identify by aroma alone.

  She’d arrived before the others, but she was in the right place. Three rectangular tables, each draped with a white cloth tablecloth, defined the simple room with cement floors and two large windows as the dining room. She glanced outside, curious about what Dr. Lee had been so interested in earlier. All she saw was totally uninteresting overgrown grass and weeds.

  While she waited, Jordan sat at the middle table and pulled out her camera. She found the picture of the first group of tontons and pressed the delete button. But when her camera asked her to confirm that decision, she changed her mind and pressed cancel instead. Keeping your options open. You never know.

  Saint Louis sat beside her. “What did I tell you about that?” He inclined his head toward her camera.

  “But the tontons are gone.” Jordan purposefully widened her blue eyes to the most innocent size she could manage.

  “Don’t be stupid.” He nodded subtly in the direction of the windows. “Just because you cannot see does not mean they are not there.”

  Jordan’s eyes widened further.

  “Do not flash expensive things.”

  Jordan blinked and nodded because she couldn’t summon speech.

  “It’s my job to keep my charges safe. I’ve only failed to do so once in my life. I do not intend to fail again.” He looked at her a bit more kindly, maybe. “Understand? Do what I say and you will go home again. Otherwise, I cannot promise.”

  She was being watched at all times, whether she could see the spies or not.

  “Understand?” Saint Louis asked again.

  “Yes.” She understood she’d placed herself into another situation totally out of her depth. With luck, she’d survive her own choices.