Evil

by Cave, Hugh

"It must be miles." The note of hopelessness in her voice came through loud and clear.

  "And very rough going, you can be sure," Victor said.

  "But we have to do it, Sam. We can't just sit here and wait."

  "I have to do it. Not you."

  "Uh-uh." She shook her head. "I'm not helpless. I can ride, and I've actually done some mountain climbing."

  "Where?"

  "Well, I've climbed Marcy and Whiteface in the Adirondacks."

  "Marcy and Whiteface. Ah, yes." Sam tried to keep his voice even. "Milly, those are civilized mountains for hobby hikers. If you think Haiti's Massif du Nord—"

  "If Daddy did it, I can do it."

  "Victor, tell her it's no trip for a woman."

  "He's right, Miss Bell. Besides, climbing a mountain the way you mean is not the same as hanging onto the back of an animal while he—"

  "That's enough, please, both of you." Mildred rose suddenly. "He's my father, and I came here to find him, not to sit around a hotel while someone else does. May we have something to eat, Mr. Vieux?"

  Abruptly donning an expression of blank neutrality, the little man with the black bow tie obediently led them into the garden. Was it coincidence that he seated them at the same table Kay Gilbert and Sam had used the day he introduced them to each other? Sam glanced up at the almond tree with its canopy of multicolored leaves. Then as he held Mildred's chair for her, he found himself gazing at the precise center of the round table where the leaf had come looping down and he and Kay had caught each other's hands while reaching for it.

  The chairs were different colors. Mildred chose a cool blue one. Sam walked around the table and took a bright yellow enameled one opposite her. Victor Vieux excused himself and returned to the house.

  "Sam," Mildred said after a short stillness, "I hope you don't think I'm being unreasonable."

  He shrugged. "It's strictly up to you, Milly." After all, he was here in her interest, not his own. ("I'm frightened, Sam," she had said. "He promised to write at least once a week, and it's now more than a month. He would never do that unless he couldn't help it. Will you fly down there with me to find out what's happened?" And when he had hesitated: "Sam, you've worked in Haiti. It would be so much easier, with you to advise me.")

  In Victor Vieux's little garden Sam leaned over the table now to put his face closer to hers. "We won't make it from Trou to Legrun in a day, you know, Milly. It could take two or three."

  "That long?" She looked startled. "On horseback?"

  "Mule back. And we won't be on their backs too much of the time, I'm warning you. We'll be leading them up or down gullies, washouts, stream beds, all kinds of stretches where it won't be safe to ride. You'll hate the very sight of a mule before you're finished." And what will Daddy think of his daughter's spending her nights in a wilderness with Sam Norman?

  "I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sure you know better than I do. But I have to do it."

  "Okay."

  "And look." She seemed genuinely contrite as she reached over the table to touch his hand. "I'm sorry I criticized this place when I first saw it. I just didn't expect—"

  "It was a natural reaction. No need to apologize."

  "It's really nice, Sam. I like it. If we could be here under different circumstances, I'm sure I'd like it a lot."

  That was how it was with this girl. Every now and then she surprised the hell out of you.

  3

  After lunch Victor Vieux offered to drive Sam to a place in Lalue where he could rent a jeep. It was not an altogether altruistic gesture, Sam soon discovered. The Calman's proprietor also wanted to talk, and began doing so the moment his little Renault was out of the yard.

  "Tell me about this Dr. Bell, Sam. What kind of man is he?"

  "That's a big order."

  "He has several faces, you mean?"

  "More than one, for sure. First, he's head of the philosophy department at the college where I teach agriculture. The highly respected head, I should add. He has a number of well-regarded books to his credit. But he's deeply into all kinds of psychic research now, as well. ESP. Telekinesis. Possession. Telepathy. Thought-healing. You name it and if it's even a little off the beaten track, he's chasing it. At the moment it's voodoo, and that's partly my fault."

  "In what way is it your fault?"

  "As soon as he found out I'd spent a couple of years in Haiti, he began pumping me. And believe me, Victor, he's a real quiz whiz. By the time I'd called on his daughter half a dozen times, he knew all I knew about voodoo, zombiism, witchcraft, the whole Haitian bit. Even a lot that I didn't know but had only heard about and repeated to him because he sort of sucked it out of me."

  "I see."

  "Next thing! knew, he'd decided to spend his summer vacation here doing research, and I was writing to you, asking you to put him up and do what you could to help him." Sam gave his companion a quizzical look. "I take it you found him interesting too, or you wouldn't be asking me these questions."

  Victor was silent while waiting for a break in traffic on the Petionville road. It was always fast and thick here. He made his right-hand turn and said, "Dr. Bell seems to be a strange man, Sam. He returned from one trip into the country with a drum. A petro. Would you believe he played it by the hour in his room, even late at night?"

  "Sounds like him," Sam said drily.

  "I had to ask him to stop. Other guests were complaining."

  "Did he stop?"

  "The drumming, yes. Not everything."

  "What do you mean, not everything?"

  Victor had to brake sharply at that moment to avoid a wild-eyed taxi driver trying to pass a camion. By the time the Renault was free of the ensuing confusion, he had reached the side road he wanted and turned onto it. Then before they could resume the conversation, they had arrived at their destination.

  It was not a rental agency or a garage; it was simply the hillside home of a friend who owned a jeep and occasionally lent it out. His name was Blanchet. After talking to Victor, he turned with a frown of concern to Sam. "You have driven one of these things before, M'sieu?"

  "All over Haiti. I worked with AID for two years."

  "Good. You know what to expect, then, of both the machine and our magnificent roads."

  Sam grinned. "I think so, friend."

  Sam rented the vehicle for a week. "I'd better stop on the way back and buy a few things," he said to Victor Vieux.

  "Such as what?"

  "We'll need blankets—"

  "I have some you can use."

  "And, well—things." Sam realized he was a little tired. As he turned to climb into the jeep he suddenly remembered a question that had been on his lips half a dozen times earlier, and walked back over to the Renault. "Victor, tell me something." Laying a hand on the small man's shoulder, he gazed intently into his face, almost afraid to put the question now.

  "What is it, mon ami? Or can I guess?"

  "Kay Gilbert. Is she still here?"

  "I wondered if you would ask. Yes, she is still here. I have scarcely seen her since you left Haiti, but she is here." He gave the hand on his shoulder a little pat of reassurance, and a smile played along his lips. "Now, about these items you say you must shop for. Follow me back to my place, eh? I can supply most of what you need, I am sure. Perhaps everything."

  Sam only nodded. It was a little hard to speak with a tightness in your throat.

  So she was still here. But how, in God's name, faced with this journey into the mountains, would he be able to see her?

  He followed Victor back to the pension, getting the feel of the jeep quickly. It took him back to the Jacmel days, and he realized Dr. Bell was at least partly right: He did have a streak of the rebel in him, at least to the extent of liking to drive one of these rugged little beasts better than his more civilized car in the States. Pulling into the pension yard behind Victor, he leaped out as in the old days and strode ahead to the Renault.

  "Victor, have a drink with me."

  "Of course.
Over there at your table?"

  "You're reading my thoughts."

  "You don't hide them too well."

  When they were seated, Victor reached for a little bell on the table and gave it a shake. Its tinkle rang like a bird call through the yard, and a young, slim black girl came from the house. There were only eight rooms in the Calman. Victor employed only a cook, a pair of maids who doubled as waitresses, and a yard boy who solemnly swept up the almond leaves every morning. All of them lived in a building that was just barely discernible at the far end of the yard, and all looked upon Victor Vieux as someone close to God. Or, as they would have put it, Le Bon Dieu.

  "Hello, Marie, how are you?" Sam said to the girl, and she smiled, using his name as she answered. "Barbancourt?" Victor suggested.

  "On the rocks this time."

  Victor spoke to Marie and she hurried away. Sam leaned forward.

  "Is Kay really here? After all this time?"

  "She is."

  "And still sore with me? My God, I was drunk that night. You know it. Realizing I had to go away and probably wouldn't see her again . . . I was a proper bastard."

  Victor studied him. "You know something, mon ami? She has never discussed that night with me. Of course, I know you were not your usual self. I helped to put you to bed when you came crashing down the stairs, you may remember. Or do you? Anyway, I know nothing of what happened before that, in your room. As I said before, I have seen little of Kay since you left."

  "Can I call her, Victor? Do the phones work?"

  "They work sometimes. You could try."

  "After we've had our drink. Because I'll have to be out of here at daybreak, and if I don't get her on the phone today—"

  The girl had come with the drinks. Victor laughed softly when he saw Sam gulping.

  "Go and call her, then come back. You remember the number?"

  "It's still the same?"

  "Still the same. And so are you, I believe, in spite of the puzzling things that happened that day. Go on."

  The telephone was by the bar; there were no phones in the Calman's rooms. While waiting for the operator to put him through, Sam poured a drink to quiet the thudding in his chest. It was no easy thing to do one-handed, he discovered. You had to reach for a glass, then for a bottle, then get the cap off the bottle . . . he had never been one of those enviable characters who could prop a telephone between shoulder and ear, leaving both hands free. Just another indication you're not the office type, Norman.

  Suddenly, the Schweitzer Hospital was talking to him. That modern hospital in the dust, the mud, the poverty of the Haitian boonies built by an American millionaire who had so admired the Albert Schweitzer that in his forties he had become a doctor in the U.S., then gone to Haiti and dedicated his life to helping others. Doctor and wife, both of them.

  "Is Miss Gilbert there? Kay Gilbert? This is Sam Norman in Port-au-Prince."

  It was a bad connection. "Who is calling?"

  "Sam Norman. An old friend of hers, just in from Stateside."

  "I'll try, Mr. Norman. Just hang on, please."

  It took forever, and the phone buzzed and clicked, and he heard people talking in both English and Creole but couldn't quite make anything out. There was a background humming noise as though someone were using a vacuum cleaner—it was probably a floor polisher—and, of all things, the faint sound of a radio playing "Yellow Bird," which of course wasn't "Yellow Bird" at all but a Haitian meringue called "Choucoune," with words by one of the country's talented poets, Oswald Durand, and melody so far back in folklore that no one remembered its origin.

  "Mr. Norman?"

  "Yes?" You need another drink, Mister, or your chest is going to explode. But not now. Wait.

  "I'm sorry, but Nurse Gilbert is not here. She left about an hour ago."

  "Left for where? Port au-Prince?" If so, she might be coming here to the Calman. Glory be! Except that she didn't come here now . . . did she?

  "Not to Port, Mr. Norman. She's gone north, to Cap Haitien."

  "Oh, my God. I'll be passing through Le Cap tomorrow. Where can I look for her?"

  "Well"—a pause—"she isn't going to Le Cap exactly, just passing through there to some village, in the hills, to take a little girl home. I'm afraid, unless you want to make an expedition of it—"

  "When will she be returning?" He couldn't interrupt his own mission to follow Kay into the boonies. "If it's tomorrow, I may pass her on the road."

  "Not for several days, I'm afraid. Certainly not tomorrow."

  "Well . . . thanks. Thank you." The tumult in his chest had subsided, and something in there felt like a blob of lead. He replaced the phone on its stand and finished his drink. Signed the chit "Norman, 1 large rum," and got up as though he weighed ten pounds more than when he had sat down. Kay, baby, is it true you never talked to Victor about that night? Was it that bad? I'm sorry, Kay. Oh my God, I'm sorry.

  Returning to the garden table, he sank onto his chair and reached for the drink he had left there. Shook his head at Victor while downing it. "She's not there."

  "Well, you could stop tomorrow. It's out of your way, of course, but—"

  "She won't be there tomorrow."

  "On your way back, then." Obviously, Victor wanted the two of them to get together. His face wore a look of sadness. Glancing at Sam's empty glass, he said, "Another one, monami?"

  "No, thanks."

  "Come with me for a minute, then, before we go to work on what you will need for your journey. I want to show you something I find very curious." Rising, he waited for Sam, then turned and walked briskly across the red-brick pavement to the house.

  They climbed the rear stairs to the second floor, and the little proprietor turned to the room nearest the top of the staircase. Number 8. Opening the door with a key, he motioned Sam to enter, but Sam paused first to look down the hall at 5.

  That door was closed. Evidently, Mildred was resting as she had said she would. The long flight, the heat, the discovery that her father might be in really serious trouble . . . she must be pretty tired.

  She would be a lot more tired, he thought, by the time they reached that place where her father was supposed to be. Get all the sleep you can, lady. You'll need it. Then, walking on into 8, which overlooked the garden they had ascended from, he turned to see what Victor wanted of him.

  The little man shut the door and said, "Sit down, Sam. Please."

  Sam lowered himself onto a chair and looked around. The room contained two straight-backed painted chairs, a bed, a bureau with a mirror, and a closet, the door of which was open. Beside the bureau stood a drum about three feet tall made from the gouged-out trunk of a tree, its goatskin head tightened with ropes that ran crisscross to its base. There were no designs or markings on it. Petro, he thought. On the bureau stood two crudely made earthenware jars a foot high covered with intricate daubings of paint, one, mostly black and white; the other, rose, green, and red. There were clothes hanging from a wooden rod in the closet and under them a large lightweight piece of luggage with a Pan Am tag still affixed to its handle.

  "His room?" Sam asked.

  Victor nodded.

  "If he left all these clothes here, he couldn't have taken much into the mountains."

  "Only a duffle bag with the bare necessities. I advised him to buy some khaki pants and shirts, and he did that."

  "You said you wanted to show me something."

  "Yes." Victor sat on the edge of the bed and fixed his gaze on the drum beside the bureau. "Listen." There followed a silence that seemed to last a long while. Then he said quietly, "You hear?"

  Sam tested the stillness and shook his head, frankly puzzled.

  "Listed very hard. Now. You hear it?"

  I hear something. What the hell is it?—My pulse suddenly pounding? Or are invisible fingers tapping that drum, for God's sake? Sam stood, walked over to the drum and scowled down at it. If the drum were making the noise, it would have to be moving, wouldn't it? Vibrating, at lea
st. It wasn't. He turned his head to peer at Victor on the bed, and then placed a fingertip on the goatskin drumhead.

  Nothing. Nothing at all. But the sound continued, like a heartbeat in the room's silence.-

  "Look at the govis," Victor whispered.

  Sam's gaze went to the bureau. What the hell. . .

  The two jars were in motion now. Or had they been in motion all along, just as the drum could have been throbbing when he first entered the room. They trembled and swayed, only a very little, true, but it was motion all the same. He reached for them; if they became more active they might walk off the bureau and break on the floor.

  "Don't bother," Victor said. "They don't get violent. I sometimes wonder if they actually move at all." He paused, and then said, "Put your ear to them."

  Sam drew his hand back. The jars continued to sway and tremble—if it wasn't just his imagination—but Victor was right. They seemed to be in no danger. He bent his head over the one nearest him. With his ear close to its four-inch-wide mouth, he heard a sound of singing. Both jars were singing. Chanting, rather. Time and again he had heard the same sounds, much louder, at voodoo services. Govis were supposed to contain spirits of the dead, or rather voodoo mystêres removed from the psyches of persons who had died. Black and white for Guédé. Rose, green and red for Papa Legba.

  Sam suddenly became aware of a feeling that someone was pulling at him. Not someone in the room, but a long way off. Pulling so hard that he had to brace himself or be tugged off balance.

  "My God, Victor, what's going on?"

  "Better sit down," the man on the bed advised. "I found myself on the floor here once."

  Sam hastily obeyed, and sat there gazing at the govis and the drum. The chanting was real? The drumbeats were not just in his mind? "Victor . . . how long has this been going on?"

  "It began about ten days after he left here. Marie came in one morning to dust the room and air it out. She heard what you're hearing now, and came flying downstairs to tell me."

  "It goes on all the time?"

  "I hear it nearly every time I walk in here. Sam, I think your Dr. Bell has some strange power. You say he has gone deep into a study of the occult? I can believe it. Had enough, have you?"