"Another one," Fournier said, grimacing and turning his head away sharply. "That's disgusting."
"He was a mess, all right."
"I hadn't heard about this one. When did the murder take place?"
"It's a fresh kill."
Fournier shook his head, looked back at me. "Another potential witness?"
"Yes. Finding your photograph on a voodoo altar in Michel's house is just a loose end-a curiosity, really. It's a long shot that it means anything that could be useful to us, but I thought it was worth taking a subway ride to check it out."
He again shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sorry I can't be of help. Symbolism plays a very large part in voodoo, as in other religions. If there were other objects on the altar, they could help explain what my photograph was doing there."
I opened the manila envelope I had brought with me, took out the two photographs, handed him the head-and-shoulders shot. "This is a copy of your photo."
He made a soft hissing sound. "It looks like an army surveillance photo."
"And this is how it was displayed on the altar."
Fournier studied the second photograph for a few moments, then smiled thinly as he slowly nodded his head. "Yes," he said, handing me back the pictures, "this explains it. Very interesting."
"It means something to you?"
"This is what's called an array of atonement. Apparently your murderer and torturer was truly sorry for the crimes he had committed. He was seeking forgiveness. That's the meaning of the cross, voodoo fetishes, and veves on the altar. My photograph almost certainly represents a symbol of how he felt he should have behaved during his lifetime. He may also have been praying to me for intercession with God, as a Catholic does to a saint. That's unclear. What is clear is his regret for past misdeeds and his desire for redemption. That's probably why he agreed to cooperate with you in the first place. It's a shame he was killed before you could talk to him. I believe you would have found him most cooperative."
"It certainly is a shame," I said, replacing the photographs, rising to my feet, and extending my hand. "But at least you've satisfied my curiosity. Thank you for your time, Professor."
Fournier stood up, shook my hand. "I'm sorry I can't be of help to you in tying the CIA to what went on over there for decades."
So was I. "It's all right, Professor. The fact that you're willing to testify to what you did see going on could prove very helpful."
"I can provide a good deal of information on corruption within the Church in Haiti, and the collaboration of the Church hierarchy with the ruling class. I'll be happy to write it all down for you."
"Thanks, but I think we'll leave the Church out of this one. We've got enough other things to do that are more important than getting into a spitting contest with Rome. Thanks again."
I used a pay phone to call Carl Beauvil in Spring Valley to tell him what I had learned about Dr. Guy Fournier and the photograph; I didn't see how the information could be of any use to him, but his willingness to help us deserved appropriate payback. Then I headed over to the Federal Building to see if some long-overdue documents we had requested under the Freedom of Information Act had arrived. They hadn't. Since I was out of the house anyway, I decided to catch up on some background research I'd been putting off, so I headed uptown to the public library at Forty-second Street.
It was late afternoon when I got back to the brownstone. Garth was hard at work hacking away at the computer in my office. He was still using only his index fingers, but he started wriggling the other digits when he looked up and saw me. "How'd it go?"
"Total waste of time. It seems the general was feeling a little guilty about all the people he'd castrated and blinded, and he was using Fournier's picture to try to pray his way into voodoo heaven."
Garth grunted. "Somehow I doubt he made it."
"Somehow I agree."
There was a knock on the door, and I turned as Francisco entered the office. The bright floral print tie he was wearing with his gray three-piece suit clashed with the somber expression on his face. "You've been gone much longer than expected, sir."
"Yeah, well, I had a couple of errands to-"
"The protocol we established at the beginning of this investigation calls for the both of you to leave an anticipated daily schedule with me, and then if either you, Garth, or the two of you together are going to be away longer than expected, you call the office. If I'm not here, you leave a message on the office machine."
I looked over at Garth. "Were you worried?"
Garth pretended to think about it for a few moments, then said, "Not really."
Francisco was not amused. "I still think we should stick to the protocol, sir. You didn't check in the other night either. I have responsibilities. The protocol was set up when you accepted this assignment because it was agreed that the two of you could be in constant danger. If I think anything may have happened to the two of you, I'm to contact Veil immediately, and he'll provide for my personal safety while I deliver the work you've completed to the senator, with copies to the police and FBI. I almost did exactly that the night the two of you spent in the Spring Valley police station. For all I knew, you could both have been dead. I'm not being overly protective, sir. Considering the nature of the enemy, this is just good business practice. It was your idea."
"You're right, Francisco," I said seriously. "Garth and I have both been a bit forgetful. We'll try to improve our performance in the future."
"Thank you, sir," Francisco replied, and smiled. "I have a return address for the plagiarist, sir."
"Already?"
He shrugged. "It wasn't rocket science, sir. I didn't think it would be that difficult, so I didn't bother to hire a temp. A number of the editors I spoke with were familiar with Mr. Dickens' work, and they were all sympathetic. One of them had just received a submission from this Jefferson Kelly, so she still had the stamped, self-addressed return envelope that came with it. The address is in Huntsville, Alabama. I got a telephone number and called. It's the home district office of William P. Kranes."
Garth had resumed typing, but now he paused and looked up from the computer. "The William P. Kranes?"
Francisco nodded. "Yes, Garth. That one. The new Speaker of the House of Representatives."
Garth and I looked at each other, and my brother raised his eyebrows slightly. "Interesting development," he said quietly.
Indeed it was. Representative William P. Kranes was a pudgy, gremlin-like figure with a head of bushy brown hair and elfin smile, one of several ultra-conservative, howling junkyard dogs of C-SPAN who'd become leader of the pack, surfing to power in the last election on the crest of a powerful wave he'd been instrumental in creating, a poisonous, rushing tsunami of homophobia, antifeminism, and an entire devil's thesaurus of hysterical code words intended to give aid and comfort to anybody who was antiblack, antipoor, anti-anything that wasn't basically white, middle-class, and male. He was the most powerful man in Congress, now third in line of succession to the presidency, but only one of several southerners who now sat in key positions of power. Much to the dismay of both Garth and myself, it seemed to us that in the last election the Confederacy had finally won the last, great battle of the War Between the States, demonstrating without question that what a majority of Americans wanted to be- for a while, at least-was part of a nation of antebellum southerners in a time and place when states' rights ruled and "people of color," immigrants, women, homosexuals, and virtually every other minority group "knew their place," which was at the back of the bus, or even under it. Garth had been only half joking when he'd remarked one day that it could only be a matter of time before lynching was legalized as part of some new "Law and Order" package.
"Nice job, Francisco," I said. "Now you can go back to your other work."
"Yes, sir," Francisco replied, and left to return to his office at the front.
"So," I said, walking over to Garth, "the situation is not without its irony. It turns out that one of William P. Kranes's
racist, fascist flunkies is our copycat. Wouldn't he be surprised to learn whose work he's been stealing and claiming as his own? I think it's funny as hell."
I knew Garth thought it was funny too, but he wasn't smiling. "I'd pay good money to be able to set up and watch a meeting between Moby Dickens and his admirer."
"And I'd double it. But you know it isn't going to happen. Delivering the bad news to Mr. Kelly is part of our job."
Garth nodded. "It could also be a woman, someone using 'Jefferson Kelly' as a pseudonym. Kranes is a big shot and that's a big district to service. Even so, how many people can he have working there, with access to office mail? It shouldn't be that hard to dig him-or her-out. He's probably wearing a T-shirt with 'I Am a Poet' written on it."
"One of us can pop down there and have a chat with Mr. Kelly after we finish the report."
Garth shook his head. "It won't wait. Unfinished business is a distraction we don't need."
"Unfinished business. You're joking, right?"
"No," Garth replied evenly, fixing me with his steady gaze. "I thought I'd explained to you-in detail-the metaphysics of this thing. Taking care of Mr. Dickens' problem is ultimately more important than trying to cure America of the CIA. In the end, all we're probably going to get from the CIA investigation is a lot of grief, frustration, booing, and hissing. But with this, we help Moby Dickens get his soul back. Think about it."
"I am thinking about it. It'll wait two and a half weeks."
"No. It won't."
"Squirrelly, Garth. Very squirrelly."
My brother didn't smile. Finally I rolled my eyes, slapped my forehead, and continued. "Jesus! I'll send Francisco."
"No good. One of us has to go. Somebody has to read this Kelly the riot act, and Francisco's not the one to do that."
"Reading people the riot act is your department. If you think it's so important to do this now, then you go. Metaphysically speaking, that seems the right course of action."
Garth again shook his head. "Still no good. Kranes is a big bag of pus; every time he opens his mouth, something poisonous pops out. I might run into him there. If I lay eyes on the fat, hypocritical, demagogue fascist son of a bitch, I might tear his head off."
"Congress is in special session, which means Kranes is almost certainly in Washington. And if he's not there, he's off someplace with his forces of darkness planning for their party's convention. You won't run into him."
"Well, I have to assume that anybody working for him is also a bag of pus. I don't trust myself. This requires a deft hand, Mongo. It's best that you go."
"Garth, stop jerking me around! I went to see Fournier, so it's your turn to go on the fucking metaphysical road. Considering the way you chug along on that computer, we'll waste a whole day if I go."
"The report will get done on time." Garth paused, leaned back in my chair, and smiled slyly. "We'll flip a coin."
"I always lose coin tosses with you."
"Maybe this time it will be different."
It wasn't.
Chapter 6
I'd brought my laptop computer along with me in order to get some work done on my early-morning flight to Huntsville, but instead I found myself reading through more of the collected works of Thomas Dickens that I'd brought with me. The more of his poetry I read, the more I understood Moby Dickens' desire for anonymity. All of the poems were beautifully crafted, capturing the essence of feeling in the sparest of words. All were perceptive, some startlingly so. Some were funny, others achingly sad. In a sense, all of his poems were about prisons-but not those of concrete and steel. Dickens' subject was the many different kinds of prisons we construct for ourselves and share with our cobuilders, those that are built for us and which we are thrown into, and, finally, those we inhabit alone. Moby Dickens' prison now was his body-ugly, tattooed, and menacing-and his greatest fear was that readers who saw him would never again be able to look beyond the shadows and bars of his flesh to see the pure fire of the artist within; the imagined echoes of steel clanging on steel would drown out the gentle and beautiful songs he sang. It made me sad to think about it. Reading the man's poems, often seeing an image of the poet's face superimposed on the pages, I even stopped thinking about the CIA, its voodoo hit squad, and the mutilation and death they left in their wake.
It was all enough to make me start taking some of my mysteriously bent brother's points more seriously. I even considered the possibility that maybe he wasn't being as obsessive and nutty about the plagiarism business as I'd first thought. I might even tell him that when I got back, although I doubted it.
I took a cab from the airport into town, to the three-story, glass-faced building which housed William P. Kranes's congressional district offices. I didn't know how much space in the building Kranes used, but I strongly suspected it might be all of it. Lots of staff, phone-answerers, clerical workers, home-based political operatives, political cronies and friends of political cronies. If Jefferson Kelly was a pseudonym, and its user was serious about not wanting his or her real identity known, rooting that person out could turn out to be one slow horse of a job, and I was determined to be back in New York that night. If I couldn't find Jefferson Kelly by the end of office hours, Garth was just going to have to sit on his metaphysics for two and a half weeks, or come down here himself.
I needn't have worried.
The secretary commanding the large, brightly lighted reception area was a buxom woman with the reddest hair I'd ever seen, and crimson lipstick to match. Her flawless skin was like alabaster, and her eyes really were the color of robins' eggs. The sight of her was almost enough to make me reconsider a lot of my antisouthern prejudices and start humming "Dixie." On a beige plastic panel directly behind her was a very large poster on which a poem entitled "Prison Walls" was written in flowing, hand-lettered calligraphy. It was almost an exact copy of Moby Dickens' "Razor Wire," which I'd read on the plane. This one was signed by Jefferson Kelly.
"Oh, you're so cute," the redhead giggled as I approached her desk.
Ah. A remark that in New York would have elicited from me an acidic, withering retort here, down in the land of cotton, squeezed from me a goofy smile and a gooey, "Why, thank you, ma'am."
"How can I help you, Mister. .?"
"Dickens. Thomas Dickens." I pointed to the poster behind her. "I'm a big fan of Jefferson Kelly. I see you are too. I'm always searching in the poetry journals for his work. I'm even seriously considering starting a fan club. Good poets are an endangered species, along with people who can appreciate their work."
The woman grinned, revealing a set of teeth as even, white, and shining as an ivory highway to heaven. She turned around in her chair to admire the poster, then turned back to me and leaned forward on her desk. Her smile had turned conspiratorial, and she whispered, "Do you know who Jefferson Kelly really is?"
"Jefferson Kelly isn't Jefferson Kelly?"
"It's Speaker Kranes!" she gushed, then opened her eyes wide, covered her mouth with her hand and quickly looked around, acting as if she had just given away some state secret.
I put my hands on my hips, cocked my head to one side, and clucked my tongue. "No!"
"Yes!" she said, lowering her voice to about the level of a stage whisper. "Isn't he wonderful? He's so talented! But he's also very modest. He won't use his real name because he's afraid editors would only publish his poetry because of who he is. Also, I think he's kind of embarrassed by all his talent. Only a few people know-his family, friends, and a few people in town. And now you know; you were so enthusiastic, I just couldn't stop myself from sharing that with you."
"Well, I'll be doggoned," I said, shaking my head in awe and wonder. "Boy, I'd sure like to meet the man. As a matter of fact, Jefferson Kelly-Speaker Kranes, that is-is the reason I stopped in. I don't remember where I heard it, but somebody told me Jefferson Kelly worked for Speaker Kranes, here in his district office. I'm in town on business, so I thought I'd pop in to tell him how much I enjoy his work, and maybe get
to shake his hand. Now it looks as if it will have to wait until I get to Washington."
"Actually, the Speaker is in town for a couple of days. He's in his office now, but I'm afraid he doesn't have time to see you, even for a minute or two. His appointment schedule is just jam-packed from morning to night, and he's already an hour behind."
"So near to the great man and yet so far. What a crushing disappointment."
"I understand how you feel. But I doubt you'll have much better luck in Washington, Mr. Dickens. You know what a very busy man he is now all the time." She paused, again flashed her divine smile. "He's leading a revolution, changing the country."
"Oh, don't I know it. But why don't we give it a try anyway? Give Che Guevara a buzz on the intercom and tell him Thomas Dickens is here to discuss poetry with him. Maybe he'll also think I'm cute."
She turned serious. "Oh, I can't disturb him when he's in conference, Mr. Dickens. If you'd like, I'll try to get him to sign a copy of one of his poems, and I'll send it to you. I'm sure he'll be pleased by your interest."
I turned serious. "Thomas Dickens, missy," I said, pointing to the twenty-button intercom beside her elbow. "Guaranteed that he's going to want to talk to me, probably immediately. Also guaranteed that he's going to be extremely displeased if I walk out of here and he finds out later that I was here and you didn't notify him. He's going to be so disturbed that he'll probably cancel all of his appointments for the rest of the day, and then he'll probably fire you. Better not take a chance."
The redhead with the shiny crimson lips stared at me strangely for a few moments, then tentatively reached over and pressed the top button on her intercom.
Dream of a Falling Eagle m-14 Page 6
