The Keepers

by Dan Alatorre

  Prenley nodded. “And her trustee, sir.”

  “That’s good work.” The Magistrate sat up, straightening his collar. “Fine work, my boy. Now be a good lad and wait outside for us. I’ve, uh . . . not finished with the lieutenant.”

  “Yes, your honor.” The clerk opened the door.

  “And Prenley.”

  “Sir?”

  The magistrate leaned onto his desk. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

  “Right, sir.” The door shut.

  McCullough stared at Moray. “Well, this changes things, doesn’t it, Lieutenant?”

  Moray swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. I . . . I shall apologize to the prisoner at once—I mean, apologize to Mr. DeShear at once and—and take him to hospital, of course. Then, I’ll . . . resign my commission.”

  “What!”

  Moray knitted his hands together. “A man with that kind of money could squash me like a bug, sir.”

  “Are you mental?” The Magistrate stood. “What about your suspicions of him being a murderer?”

  “It seems a man with three billion dollars and the connections to get a special provision may very well be a man who gets away with murder, sir.”

  “Interesting.” McCullough stroked his chin. “I was thinking just the opposite.”

  “Sir?”

  “Look here.” He cracked the door open an inch. “See him there, on the floor? His shirt is straight from the shop at the resort—and well enough. But his shoes are from a discount house. This is not a man with three billion dollars.”

  Moray peered over the magistrate’s shoulder. “No?”

  “No. He doesn’t know about the money yet. He can’t.” McCullough stood, closing the office door. “Prenley asked about this DeShear fellow at the resort. He’s a low life private investigator who didn’t have a bank account on the island until a man from Lloyds of London delivered a reward to the hotel a few days ago. He’d been scraping by until then. He and the woman have paid for everything in cash. Not very typical for an American on vacation. Now, what to do?” He picked up his gavel and twirled it between his fingers, glancing at the anteroom door. It swayed a bit, barely moving in the breeze of the little fan. “I think we carry on.”

  Moray gawked at the Magistrate. “Sir?”

  “Yes, I think we make this whole mess go away.” He paced around the little office again. “Gather him up, disperse the crew, and take him to one of your special garbage disposal places—by yourself, of course.”

  Shoulders back, the lieutenant kept his eyes straight ahead. “I don’t think I know what you mean, sir.”

  “Don’t take me for a fool, Moray!” McCullough wheeled around, glaring at the lieutenant. “You’ve worked the seas for more than a decade, and I’ve worked the courts for twice that. I’m sure you’re aware that our tiny tourist trap occasionally needs to make a problem disappear. Simply collect that bit of rubbish in my hallway and move it to another locale. One with an . . . understanding of such things. And whose officers of the guard will dispose of an issue for a small fee.”

  Moray looked at the Magistrate. “Haiti?”

  He waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter to me. Just make your issue go away. I’m not having a billionaire bring in a high-powered defense team from the United States to embarrass me and this entire island nation on television, I can tell you that. I’m a year removed from my pension. I shan’t be swindled out of it by the likes of him—or by your incompetence. No, your prisoner needs to remain just that—a prisoner. He needs to go far, far away, and quickly.” He gazed at Moray. “Tell me, what does a trip to Pearl Island cost?”

  “About a thousand dollars U.S., sir.”

  McCullough nodded. “Then for two thousand, you should be able to find the ugliest, nastiest place there is on earth and get him there by first light.” He sat down, folding his hands on the top of the desk. “And I should never hear the name Hamilton DeShear again.

  * * * * *

  The Magistrate peered through his window as Lieutenant Moray loaded a semi-conscious DeShear into a Defense Force truck and drove away.

  He stepped away from the window, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  The anteroom door opened, and an Asian man in a cream-colored suit emerged, fanning himself with a beige Panama hat.

  McCullough sat behind his desk. “What do you think?”

  “It’s hard to say, your Honor.” The man loosened his tie from his sweat-soaked collar. “I was a bit confused at that last part. Send the man away who controls the money?”

  “Seems perfectly rational to me, Mr. Twa. The girl is of value, not him. If he dies, she retains the money. Surely we can deal with that.” The magistrate reached into his lower desk drawer, retrieving a bottle of Hennessy and setting it on the cluttered desk.

  “Better than using her for a harvest?” Twa sat in one of the old wooden chairs and crossed his legs. “I think not, Charles. Right now, her stem cells and bone marrow will bring millions each month. In a few years, there will be eggs that will be worth tens of millions.”

  McCullough set two shot glasses next to the cognac. “Which is still less than three billion, by my calculation.”

  Twa looked away, fanning himself. “My investors will not be happy.”

  “I think you’re missing the bigger picture, Armen. Constantine is a genetically engineered human with genes that will never get cancer, never get Alzheimer’s . . . Her stem cells and bone marrow will cure diseases, her children will carry her magnificent cerebral enhancements. People will want that. Rich people. So, I think you should present your investors with a new proposal—a few billion today and all their millions from bone marrow and stem cells each month, plus tens of millions more when she becomes of age.”

  “I see.” A smile stretched across Twa’s face. “They might go for that.”

  “I’m sure they will.” McCullough filled the glasses and set one down in front of his guest. “And all I ask is a ticket off this rock and a modest finder’s fee of ten percent. Surely, the great and powerful Armen Twa can arrange that.”

  “Ten percent of several billion dollars? That is quite a fee.”

  “It is indeed.” McCullough picked up the other glass and leaned back in his chair. “Take the girl as you originally planned, and keep her there while you talk to your investors—or should we auction her to the highest bidder?”

  “My dear friend, let us move slowly now. The Pacific rim is not like the Caribbean. There are ancient customs to be considered. Governments to bribe. Powerful people that must be bowed to. What you are proposing crosses into . . . dangerous territory.”

  McCullough scowled. “No more dangerous than it was when you came to me and asked for my help in finding the girl. I’ve done more than my part by arranging for her to be collected by smugglers and having the proof destroyed, as well as dispatching that fool Moray to rid you of the current pebble in your shoe—your Mr. DeShear.”

  “You are well connected after so many years of sending smugglers to jail from your muggy little courtroom. We appreciate it.” Picking up his glass, Twa raised it to his lips—but stopped. “What about the woman?”

  “A loose end, nothing more. Moray said she lost a lot of blood.” The Magistrate downed his drink in one gulp. “I think it will surprise no one when she dies in her sleep tonight.”

  Chapter 10

  In the front of the taxi, Jules typed a text message and sent it.

  “Is that to your friend?” Kitt asked.

  Next to her in the back seat, Helena sat quietly, kneading her hands as the cab bounced over the uneven street of outer Paris.

  “Oui. And you are in luck, Madame Docteur. We can get a passport for you and your friend. Maybe it cost a few Euros, but such is life, eh?”

  “Did he say how much?”

  Jules turned to face her. “As you may think, these things, they are not cheap. But let us wait until we have the price, then we can negotiate. I’m sure your salary will be able to pay what is require.”<
br />
  Kitt snorted. “You aren’t familiar with Dr. Dechambeau’s pay scale.”

  The residences became smaller and smaller, until the car was driving through the open fields of farmland.

  Helena shifted on her seat. “Is it much farther?”

  “It is just here.” Jules nudged the driver. “Arrêtez la voiture près de l'ancien bâtiment. Il y a un pub. Garez-vous derrière.”

  “Oui, monsieur.” The cab slowed down, and the driver put on his turn signal.

  Kitt understood enough of the brief conversation to know that Jules has said to park behind an old building, and that there was a pub. She craned her neck to see over the driver’s shoulder. A few structures were up ahead—a large old building and a few smaller ones.

  That must be the place.

  Located so far from everything, the old building didn’t seem like it was a business of any sort. Weeds grew around the sides; the windows were dark.

  “Are . . . we meeting your friend here?” Kitt put a hand to her lip.

  “Yes, yes.” Jules leaned toward the windshield, licking his lips. “We meet in the back.”

  The cab parked behind the building. Jules counted out some cash and handed it to the driver. “Pas besoin d'attendre. Gardez la monnaie.”

  The driver grinned. “Oui, monsieur. Merci beaucoup!”

  The hairs on the back of Kitt’s neck stood up.

  Keep the change. No need to wait?

  What if his friend doesn’t show?

  Jules opened the door and stepped out, walking to the far side of the gravel lot. A rusty, broken down tractor with a missing wheel stood in the corner. “Come, ladies.”

  “Do we go?” Kitt turned to Helena. “Is it safe?”

  Trembling, the old woman shook her head. “I don’t know, dear. But I must do whatever I can to get to my little girl.”

  The driver looked at Kitt in the rearview mirror. “If you wish to wait in the car, c’est très bien—but the fare, it must continue, mademoiselle.” He put his hand on the meter.

  “My friend comes now, docteur.” Jules pointed, climbing onto the tractor. “Come, see.”

  The driver looked at Kitt. “Mademoiselle?”

  Sitting on the tractor, Jules looked past the old building and waved his arm in the air. “Tiens, mon ami!”

  She turned around and peered through the back window. No cars were visible in the fading light. The knot in her stomach grew.

  “Mademoiselle.” The driver frowned. “S'il vous plaît. Décidez.”

  Jules continued waving. “Tiens! Tiens!” He hopped off the tractor.

  Kitt looked through the rear window again. The dust from the old road cast a white-gray cloud into the air as a vehicle approached. A truck possibly, or some sort of van.

  “I guess his friend is here.” She faced Helena, swallowing hard. “Do you see anything? Anything at all?”

  “I’m sorry, dear.”

  Kitt took a deep breath and clasped Helena’s hand. “Then we—we’ll go together. It may be our only chance.”

  Opening the door, Kitt lowered a foot onto the gravel and crept out of the cab. As Helena followed, the noise of the approaching vehicle grew louder.

  “Yes, yes. Come.” Jules walked toward them. “There is nothing to fear here. We are all friends.” He smiled the same way he did when he was doing his drug deals behind the hospital. “This is simply how we must do these things.”

  The setting sun shrouded the car in a brown silhouette against a bright yellow background, with acres of tilled dirt beyond.

  As the van stopped, the side door slid open. A wide smile crossed Jules’ face. “Thank you for coming, my friend.”

  An athletic woman carrying a shopping bag stepped from the van.

  “Ladies,” Jules said. “Allow me to introduce you to Miss Franklin.”

  The woman pulled a gun from the bag and pointed it at Kitt and Helena.

  Jules laughed. “She will be taking very good care of you!”

  Chapter 11

  DeShear’s ribs throbbed and his shoulders ached. The pulsing pain from his lower lip was only exceeded by the pounding in his head. His wrists were handcuffed over his head and tied to the side of the wheelhouse railing. Wincing, he got his feet underneath himself and managed to ease the pressure off his arms for a few moments.

  “Your diesel is coming now, Louis.” Moray’s brother lifted a fuel hose from another boat and dragged it to the rear of the vessel. “We’ll fix you up quick-quick. Get you out of here.”

  “Aye, mate. Thanks much.” The lieutenant looked at DeShear. “And you’re doing good, mister. Keep quiet or my baton will come visit you again.”

  As the other boat pulled away from the dock, DeShear stared at Moray in the near-darkness. His captor, now in plain clothes, was only visible through one eye—DeShear’s other eye was too swollen to see out of. The lieutenant stood at the helm of his scuba diving boat, checking the gages, his military baton resting on the far side of the dashboard.

  “He’s lying to you,” DeShear wheezed, his lungs shooting pain up his sides with every breath. “Your Magistrate. Whatever he told you about me, it isn’t true.”

  Moray’s sweaty brow shined in the green light of the instrument panel. “What you say don’t make a difference, mister. I know what I know, and the Magistrate agrees.” He went to the rear of his boat, where a row of scuba diving tanks had been lashed to the stern, and peered into the fuel tank. “Fill both tanks tonight, Monty.”

  “Long trip, eh?” Moray’s brother said. “I won’t ask where you’re going. I’ll just ask you to be careful.”

  DeShear blinked hard, trying to get the blood out of his eye. “What is it you think you know, Lieutenant?”

  “I done told you once.” Picking up a clipboard, Moray made a note and returned to the wheelhouse. He tossed the clipboard onto the dusty dashboard next to his baton holster. “Now, we don’t talk about it again.”

  A bead of sweat rolled down the side of DeShear’s face. “What if I can prove what I said?”

  Grabbing a diving mask off the dashboard, Moray carried it to the rear of the boat and put it in a bucket of sudsy water.

  “Oh, you don’t care about the truth,” DeShear said. “You just care about getting paid.”

  “Stop your talking. It will be time to go soon.” Moray folded his arms, gazing toward the ocean. “It’s rough water out there. You’d best hang on tight or you’ll get hurt.”

  “Thanks for the warning. Where was that when I was at the helicopter?” Grimacing, DeShear shifted his weight. The steel handcuffs dug into his wrists. “You know, you and your boys had a good time using me as a punching bag when there were four of you. What about when it’s just one? How tough are you then, Lieutenant?”

  Moray shook his head. “Get your last digs in, mister. These engines are loud, and we’re running at top speed tonight.”

  “Moray, did your Magistrate tell you I had $250,000 in the hotel safe?”

  “Ah, such lies.” The lieutenant chuckled. “I’ll be happy when you stop this yakkety yak.”

  DeShear wiped his cheek with his shoulder. “He didn’t, did he? But he must have known. It was the talk of the hotel. How do you think he found out? Why else would he ask you to get rid of me? So he can keep the cash all for himself.”

  “Such fantastic tales you tell, mister. You must be part sailor, to spin stories that good.”

  “Of course, you can’t trust me,” DeShear said. “But can you trust him? Your Magistrate? If I’m telling you the truth, you could be a rich man. And if I’m lying, you’re out an extra hour of time.” He stared at Moray. “I don’t know what he’s paying you, but it can’t be $250,000 a night.”

  “Maybe you have money, maybe you don’t. Nothing says it’s gonna be there when I show up.” He walked back to the wheelhouse, looking at the instruments on the dashboard. “Maybe the police will be waiting there for me. What about that?”

  “Yeah, that’s a problem,” D
eShear said. “If you go alone. But if I went with you—”

  Moray whipped around, glaring at DeShear, his nose an inch from his prisoner’s face. “Then you holler in the lobby about how I kidnapped you and I get all kinds of locked up. No thank you, mister. I’ll be just fine on my boat tonight.” He lowered his voice. “Long trip, but in the morning . . . you’ll be gone.”

  Sighing, DeShear sagged into the wall, his head hanging. “Pearl Island?”

  “Ha. No, friend. That’s a dream now. A bad island is taking you.” Moray sat in the captain’s chair, resting an elbow on the dashboard. “Haiti, at a little place called Labadie. I hear, down in Labadie, the sun is so hot, it fries a man’s skin right off, quick-quick. They got a work camp where they bust the coral with a hammer. Gets so a man’s arms get big, but his brain gets small. All day, a man be hammering. Then, at night, that’s the real fun. Them old boys at Labadie, they play them some guntuu. You know guntuu?”

  DeShear looked down. “Can’t say I do.”

  “Ha, mister.” Moray smiled. “This is the best part about Labadie. They bring the acullico—the coca leaf—from central America. Honduras, Nicaragua . . . and them boys chew it all day. Don’t get hungry, don’t get tired, just work on busting that coral. Comes night time, the bobby place bets and the men go at it. Two by two, they fight—bare knuckle—until just one is left at the morning. That man, he’s the winner. He gets a cold drink, mister. That, and a day in the shade, to watch the other men bust the coral.” Moray picked up the pencil from the clipboard and tucked it behind his ear. “After two, three weeks, a man says he’d rather die than go bust the coral anymore. Can’t take no more guntuu. He just sets his hammer down and walks into the sea, don’t never come back no more.” He leaned forward, whispering, pointing the pencil at DeShear. “That’s your home, come tomorrow. And I’ll be glad to see you go, mister. Because I think you killed that captain and that girl, and you tried to kill that woman. And I want you to think, every day when you’re busting the coral with your hammer, and every night when you fight in the guntuu, Moray put me here.” He glared at DeShear. “You think of me every night until you walk into the sea and never come back no more.”