Pierre glared at Renée for a long tense moment. Finally, without a word, he staggered to his tent.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
One-Trick Pony
Renée stepped in the shower and turned the faucet on high. The icy sting of water blasted her overheated flesh. She huddled in the stall, shivering.
She had never been so terrified in her life.
What had she done? She’d all but promised to get the refugees out of Camp Bulkeley. How the hell was she going to do that? Fabrice wouldn’t help. She didn’t have the resources to launch a lawsuit, and the refugees didn’t have that kind of time. But what choice did she have? They had been lied to so many times. She couldn’t fail them again. She would have to figure it out.
She gathered a bar of soap and washed herself. Fabrice didn’t make idle threats. She was as good as fired. What about Rose? It would take time for Fabrice to hire a new lawyer and get that person down here. Meanwhile, she had a three-day extension. She turned and let the water roll off her back.
A lot could happen in three days.
By the time she stepped out of the shower, it was eight o’clock, and darkness had long descended on Guantanamo. The air drifting in from the open window was slightly cooler. Without the sun’s punishing rays, the challenges she faced seemed more bearable.
Someone pounded on her door, a wild beating rhythm that telegraphed urgency. She threw on a robe and raced to the door. Sheila stood there, breathing hard.
“What’s wrong?” Renée demanded.
“I been trying to find you all day.” Sheila wore a wide-eyed look of despair.
Renée helped her to a chair and poured her a glass of water from a carafe on the desk. “What happened?”
Sheila swallowed the water in a single gulp. “The investigator’s saying they got an eyewitness.”
“Who?”
“They won’t give me a name.”
Renée collapsed on the chair opposite Sheila, her mind reeling. Maybe she was wrong about Monica. Could Eric’s girlfriend have killed him?
Sheila seemed to read her thoughts. “My sister didn’t kill him. It ain’t possible. That eyewitness is lying.”
“I’m not suggesting otherwise.” Not exactly a rousing endorsement, she had to admit, but she didn’t know what to believe right now.
Sheila didn’t argue. “Monica said Eric was working for you when he died?”
Renée nodded. “He was looking into the autopsy report of the eighteen dead Haitians.”
“She thinks that’s what got him killed.”
Renée felt the punch in her gut. She crossed her arms and stared at Sheila. “What makes her say that?”
“It’s the only explanation.” Sheila poured herself another glass of water. “I talked to Eric’s professor.”
“The pathologist?”
“Yeah.” Sheila drank, then looked around, as if for something stronger. When nothing materialized, she said, “He told me that report made no sense cause the water temperature was too low. Said it must be some mistake.”
“I found the same error. So what?”
“What if ain’t?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“What if there’s something about that water temperature Eric shouldn’t have known? What if that’s what got him killed?”
“I don’t see how that’s possible. I have a copy of the report and—” Renée stopped midsentence. An image suddenly flashed in her mind. She was in Adam’s office, moving toward his window. He hurriedly shut down the computer.
But not before her mind subconsciously registered what was on that screen.
“Ms. François?”
“I think Adam Hartmann’s hiding something,” Renée blurted.
“Who’s Adam Hartmann?”
“The INS officer in charge of Rose Fleurie’s case. He gave me that report to prove Rose is a murderer.”
“What’s he got to do with any of this?”
“He wants Rose deported. If the INS decides she killed those people, he wins.”
Sheila looked puzzled. “Why you think he’s involved?”
“I might have seen something on his computer.”
“What?” Sheila asked impatiently.
“Another report.” Sheila headed for the door. “Where are you going?” Renée demanded.
“To his office. I’m going to find out what’s on that computer.”
She grabbed Sheila’s arm. “I’m coming with you.”
#
The moon was out, but with no streetlights, the road was a shadowy maze. Sheila flicked on her high beams and stomped on the gas. When a family of iguanas lumbered into view, she swerved at the last second, narrowly avoiding the lizards as well as a large boulder lying on the side of the road.
Renée dug her fingernails into her palms and made sure her seat belt was fastened. “How did you get this car?” she asked, more to distract herself than out of any real interest. The old gray Honda was a smooth ride, but the bumper was held together by chewing gum and prayer.
“It’s mine,” Sheila said as she made a hairpin turn.
Renée dug her nails deeper into her palms. “Why do you need a car? Don’t contractors have to be escorted around base?”
“Most of the time, no. We got clearance to places not even some of these enlisted men can go. Somebody gotta do the cleaning up.”
“What about security measures?” The contractors were like ghosts passing unnoticed between worlds.
“We ain’t no criminals. No matter what people ’round here think.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
Sheila didn’t let her finish. “Something go missing? Somebody get murdered? Find a contractor and blame her, that’s how it go.” Darkness flew past their window as the Honda careened down the roadway.
Renée gripped the edge of her seat. “I only met your sister briefly, but she impressed me as thoughtful and honest.”
The words penetrated Sheila’s angry exterior. She let out a long deep breath. “Thank you,” she said as she cut off her high beams.
“What are you doing?” Renée asked. They hadn’t stopped moving. The world outside was inky black—this couldn’t be safe.
“Don’t want nobody seeing these lights and calling the marines.”
She was right, but that didn’t keep Renée’s heart from beating in her throat. At least Sheila wasn’t speeding anymore. It was a small consolation; they would still get flattened if she drove into a boulder.
They finally reached the outskirts of McCalla Field. Renée could feel the breath return to her body. Sheila parked about fifty feet from the airplane hangar, her car hidden behind a dilapidated shed.
“We need a plan,” Renée said.
“Plan? We gonna get what we came for,” Sheila said impatiently.
“If anything happens, I want you to get the hell out of here. Understand?”
“I can’t let you—”
“I don’t want you to end up in jail. I’m an American lawyer. If I get caught, they’ll just send me back to Boston.” She didn’t know if that was true, but her odds were better than Sheila’s.
Sheila let out a resigned sigh. “I get it.”
They ran to the airplane hangar. Renée cracked the door open. It squeaked in protest, the noise so loud she was sure it could be heard for miles. They waited, but nothing stirred. They stepped into the hangar. Renée could picture the layout from her past visits. “His office is to the left,” she whispered, taking the lead.
They moved silently to their target. Renée pressed her ear to the door. She didn’t hear anything, so she tried the knob. Adam hadn’t even locked his office. But why would he? Guantanamo was as safe as Mayberry.
She inched the door opened, and the two stepped inside. The office glowed green from the flickering light of the computer monitor. She made a beeline for his desk while Sheila stood watch by the door.
“Damn,” Renée said when she saw the computer screen.
/> “What?” Sheila asked in a harsh whisper.
“It’s password protected.”
“Damn. What now?”
Renée crouched over the keyboard and typed Adam’s name. Error. She drummed her fingers on the desk. If his system was anything like hers, she had two more tries before the computer locked her out. She typed his first initial and last name. Error.
She paused, glancing around for inspiration. The office was as messy as she remembered, with papers and forensic pathology textbooks littering the desk. Her eyes alighted on the framed photograph of Gigi and Adam.
“Hurry,” Sheila whispered. “We don’t got all night.”
Renée quickly typed Gigi’s name and was rewarded when the computer blinked and opened up to Adam’s home screen. “I’m in,” she whispered.
“Good. Let’s find what we need and get the hell outta here.”
Easier said than done. She was in Adam’s hard drive but had no idea where to look. His files were a mess with no clear nomenclature. Some were labeled with numbers while others sported a descriptive name. There were too many for her to scroll through.
Did Rose’s case have a file number? If it did, how could she figure out what it was? She threw another quick glance around the room, but there was no more help there. She typed Rose Fleurie into the search box. It was worth a shot.
Nothing came up. Not a single file.
Double damn.
“What’s taking so long?” Sheila whispered.
Renée ignored her and typed in several more search terms, including “boat people.” Nothing worked. Finally, in desperation, she typed Gigi’s name. Three files came up.
Adam Hartmann was a one-trick pony.
She pulled up the first file. It was a love letter to Gigi, which nearly made her puke. She shut that file and clicked on the second, her eyes quickly scanning the document. It was a detailed investigation on Rose Fleurie with information on her life in Haiti, her time in France, even her lovers. Where had Adam gotten all of this? Why was he spending so many resources on a single asylum seeker? It didn’t make sense.
“Hurry up,” Sheila said. “We been here too long.”
She reluctantly closed out the second file and opened the third. It was the autopsy report. “Bingo,” she whispered.
“I hear something,” Sheila whispered back.
“Almost there.” She quickly scrolled through the document then hit the print command. Error. No printer attached. Crap.
“We gotta go,” Sheila said, her voice desperate.
Renée slid the desk drawer open and breathed a sigh of relief. A package of floppy disks lay inside. She grabbed one and slipped it in the hard drive, hitting the save command. The computer whirred and beeped, the noise like a sonic boom in the silent office.
Sheila was suddenly at her elbow. “We gotta leave. Now!”
The computer finished its task. Renée pulled out the floppy disc and tucked it in her shirt. “I’m ready.”
“How we gonna get outta here?” Sheila asked.
“The window,” she said.
Sheila made quick work of opening the window. She jumped, and Renée followed seconds behind her. The hangar was only a few feet off the ground, but they landed with an audible thud.
“You okay?” Sheila whispered.
“Fine.” Renée was grateful to have landed on her butt and not on her recently healed ribs.
“Let’s go.” Sheila took off at a dead run.
Renée scrambled to join her, but she had gone only a few feet before colliding with a solid male chest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Guantanamera”
Renée didn’t utter a word. In the darkness, it would only give her away. She dropped low and lashed out with her foot, slamming her attacker in the knee. He buckled and fell to the ground, hard.
A whoosh of sound escaped him, a moan that was quickly stifled. “Stop it,” he whispered. “I’m here to—”
She launched herself on top of him. Her fist connected with his jaw. “Who are you?” she demanded, keeping her voice to a low growl. “Why are you following me?”
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he gasped.
“Too bad I can’t say the same.” She landed a punch to his gut. “Answer my questions.”
The sound of footsteps on gravel intruded on their exchange. “Patrol,” he whispered.
She dug her elbow into his throat. “You say anything, and I break your neck. Understood?” His gurgling was the closest she got to an answer. Her eyes hunted for safer ground and landed on the dilapidated shed. “Over there. Let’s go.”
They scurried as quietly as possible behind the shed. Renée was dismayed to find Sheila’s car still parked where they’d left it. Damn. One more thing to worry about.
A pool of light shone to her left. More crunching of gravel. She held her breath and waited. The light danced from left to right, inching closer. Her breath caught.
The light disappeared. The sound of crunching gravel receded.
They waited, but the silence remained unbroken. “Tell me what the hell you’re doing here,” she finally said.
“Mind letting go of my arm?” he gasped.
Only then did she realize she’d twisted his arm behind him. She stood back but kept a wary eye.
He shook out his arm. “Got quite a grip.”
“Quit stalling. What do you want?” A thin halo of light surrounded them. There was nowhere to hide. She whirled, her back to the shed.
“What’s going on?” It was Sheila.
Renée sagged in relief. “Turn that off,” she said.
But Sheila trained her flashlight on Renée’s attacker. “Luis? What are you doing here?”
“You know him?” Renée swung around to glare at Mr. Baseball Cap.
“Luis lives here. He’s—”
A light came on in the hangar, then a voice rang out. “Who the hell’s down there? I’m calling the police.”
They scrambled to the Honda, Sheila’s flashlight showing the way. A moment later, she peeled out of McCalla Field. They drove in silence until Sheila felt safe enough to turn on her high beams.
Renée turned to Mr. Baseball Cap seated in the rear. “I need some answers. Who are you?”
“My name is Luis González.” He reached out for a handshake.
Renée made no move to accept. “I don’t mean your name,” she snapped. “You’re a contractor?”
“No, this is my home.”
“You’re not military.” It was more statement than question. He looked fit enough for duty, but he wasn’t particularly adept at fighting. Why was he on a naval base? “You must be one of the Cuban refugees.”
He tipped his cap in a sign of respect. “Most of you know nothing about us.”
She wasn’t about to admit she had just learned of their existence. She racked her brain to remember what Captain Mason had told her. “Your family worked on base before the revolution.”
“For generations. My grandfather sailed up here every day to sell his fruits and vegetables. My father got a job building the bowling alley.”
“Luis is good people,” Sheila said. “He hang out with us sometimes.”
Sheila’s endorsement went a long way; she wasn’t someone who trusted easily. Renée sank deeper in her seat. “How did you end up here?”
“When the revolution came, my father was branded an enemy because he worked for the Americans. Castro’s men went looking for him, but he was here on base. They found my mother.”
Renée’s heart clenched. This story never ended well for the woman. “What happened to her?”
Luis chuckled. “You ever hear that song ‘Guantanamera’?”
“No.”
“It could have been written for my mother. It’s about a guajira—a peasant girl from Guantánamo City. Fierce, just like my mother. When those soldiers came, she pulled out my grandfather’s revolver and held them off. Damn thing was sixty years old and hadn’t worked since the Cuban
War of Independence, but it did the job. They went running.” Luis chuckled again. “She got on a bus and came on base—they had buses for the workers in those days. Thought they’d be here six months, but they never left. I was born here in 1962.”
“Your mother sound a lot like mine,” Sheila said. “She never go see her family?”
He shook his head. “Can’t. She spends most of her time staring out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of her old home.”
“I’m sorry, mon,” Sheila said.
”We eat every day. Got free housing and medical care.” Luis’s voice was as resigned as his words. “It’s not so bad.”
Renée felt a stab of pain for the sacrifices refugees were forced to make. It must be even worse for the Cubans living on Guantanamo. To be a refugee in your own homeland—to be so close and not permitted to go back—that must be a special kind of hell.
She cleared her throat. “Luis, why did you break into my room? Who paid you to follow me?”
“No one paid me. I wanted to make sure you weren’t a threat.”
“To you?”
“To Rose.”
She turned to face him. “Rose asked you to follow me?”
“No, I did it on my own.”
“I don’t understand.”
He pulled off his baseball cap. Even in the filtered light of the moon, she could see the thin wisps of hair on his head.
“He got cancer,” Sheila said softly.
Renée was stunned. He had seemed perfectly healthy to her, muscular and full of energy. “I’m sorry.”
“Acute lymphoblastic leukemia,” he said. “They sent me home to die, but I heard this Haitian woman might help. I went to her. She fed me and gave me something that looked like herbs. Today, I went back to the hospital for a check-up. Doctor says I’m in remission.”
“You think Rose healed you?”
Luis snorted. “It wasn’t the chemotherapy. That was killing me faster than the cancer.”
Renée didn’t know how to react. It was hard enough to believe Rose’s herbs healed her ribs. Now this? She kept her focus on the tangible. “Did you trash my room and leave behind a Voodoo doll?”
“Hell no.” He sounded disgusted. “I broke in because I wanted to make sure you weren’t like those INS lawyers. I never trashed anything, and I never left you a Voodoo doll. I owe Rose so much—why would I do that to her lawyer?”
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