And she was right. I most definitely wouldn’t have approved. Especially if it meant crossing my country to do it.
I look down at Clarise and nod. “Thank you,” I say. “But I’m going to ask you for one more thing. You don’t have to do it, but I hope you will. My life depends on it.”
“You want me to confess to the police inspector from Martinique.” It’s not a question.
“It’s the only hope I currently have of proving I didn’t murder Angelique. The deck’s stacked against me and…”
The bedroom door suddenly bursts open. I whirl around to see a hulking shadow rushing me from the hallway. With a roar, the Candyman lunges, smacking the gun from my hand and shoving me across the room with his powerful right arm. My head strikes the edge of the makeup desk, and brilliant flashes of light fill my vision with the impact. When I finally shake it off, I scramble to my feet, ready for a fight, and I can only gasp at what I now see.
The Candyman is standing over Clarise, who’s cringing in her bed with the sheets up around her neck. He has my gun in his hand, its barrel pointed down at her head. He looks at me with a vile grin spread across his face.
“No!” I shout.
But it’s too late. He pulls the trigger. Clarise’s head opens up like a piñata. Brain and blood spew out against the wall, sheets, and canopy. She goes still. Lifeless. And the Candyman turns his hate-filled eyes toward me.
“Why? Why did you…”
But before I can get the question out of my mouth, he drops the gun to the floor, and runs toward me with a roar that shakes the house. Though I see him coming, I can’t get out of the way in time. He smashes into me at full sprint, sending me through the plaster wall into the next bedroom.
The room is spinning uncontrollably now. My ears are ringing. I’m disoriented, but it’s worse than that. My heart is breaking, too. Why is he doing this? I can understand him being angry, if he thinks I killed his wife, but why murder Clarise?
I have no time to ponder it further because the behemoth lowers his head and steps through the hole in the wall. Powdered plaster hangs in the air, obscuring his features. He coughs, fanning away the dust. I take advantage of the moment and scramble to my feet and run out the door and into the hallway. I can hear the Candyman lumbering behind me. Though he’s as large and sturdy as a brick wall, he’s surprisingly fast and nimble. I’m just about to reach the living room when I feel his large sausage-sized fingers wrap around my neck and jerk me to halt. My legs fly out from under me against his strength, and I soon find myself hanging in mid-air with his hands fully engulfing my throat.
Slowly, he turns me around to face him. His eyes are burning with fury, but his grin has spread even wider than I thought possible. He’s gone completely mad.
“I didn’t kill your wife,” I choke out, trying desperately to pry his fingers off my neck.
“I know.” His grip tightens.
My heart skips. I’m uncertain I’ve heard him correctly.
I’m just about to ask him to repeat what he said when the front door opens and Inspector Decroux rushes inside with his gun pointed at us.
“Monsieur Lagrange!” he shouts. “Cease this at once! Put him down now, s’il vous plait.”
The monstrous man turns his glaring eyes from me to the Inspector. I feel his grip tightening even harder for the briefest moment. My feet dangle inches from the floor as I continue to try to pry his hands from around my neck.
“I heard a gunshot,” the Candyman says. “I go to check on dear Clarise. Find d’is cretin standin’ over her body, as bold as you please. Gun in hand.” He growls with rage. “It’s da second time he’s murdered someone in my own home.”
“That’s a lie—erk!” He squeezes my throat tighter, cutting off my words.
“I said, release him,” Decroux says again. The Inspector’s gun now seems focused only on the Candyman.
“He must pay for his crimes!”
“He will. This, I promise you.”
“Like he did after killin’ my wife?” Jacques’s hand is strangling all the air from my lungs. My world is fading in and out, as blackness edges around the periphery of my vision. “You let him escape last night!”
“It won’t happen again.” The Inspector steps forward. “I will watch him personally. Night and day. Until he is transported to Martinique to stand trial.”
I still can’t believe this is happening. The big man has just killed Clarise in front of me. In cold blood, no less. She was defenseless. Powerless to protect herself. And I’m going to be blamed for it. I just don’t understand. I could understand the Candyman’s hatred of me while thinking I murdered his wife, but this? This is beyond revenge. This is something else entirely.
After a moment, I feel his grip on my throat loosen, and I’m dropped to the floor in a fit of hacking coughs. Decroux moves over to me, keeping his weapon trained on Jacques as he does. He then lowers a set of handcuffs down to me. “You know how these work, no?”
I nod between coughs and work at securing my wrists with the irons. Once they’re on, he steps back and looks up at the Candyman. “Now that he’s secure, why don’t you show me his latest victim?”
19
I wait in Lagrange’s living room for hours as Decroux, Chief Armad, and his two subordinates go over Clarise’s murder scene with a fine-tooth comb. The Candyman’s been escorted off premises while the police do their job, so I have no chance to talk with him to find out his possible motives for killing the poor girl.
After two hours pass, Inspector Decroux reappears. His face is grim as he looks down at me.
“I just don’t understand, Monsieur,” he says, crouching down to look me in the eye. “I’ve been investigating you. Talking to your known associates, as well as your friends and commanding officers in ze United States Navy. They all say you are a man above reproach. Sure, you dabble here and there with some light smuggling and bootlegging, but you’ve never been prone to violence. Never been in trouble with ze law, except for ze occasional bar brawl.”
“I’m not hearing a question.” My voice is raw from being throttled by the Candyman, but I hope my disgust carries through with my words. I’m being railroaded. As Trixie said, anyone with half a brain can see it. I’d thought that I might have a chance with an unbiased outsider like Decroux, but he seems to be buying the lies—hook, line, and sinker.
“Well, I just don’t quite understand,” he says, standing to his full height again and looking down at me. “Why? What drives someone like you to murder not one, but two people? In ze same house? Days apart from each other?”
I chuckle. I know it sounds strange that I would laugh at a time like this, but I suppose I’m just too tired of being fearful. Too tired of running. Too tired of the whole mess. So, I shake my head and laugh.
“What is so amusing, Monsieur?”
“You are, Frenchie. You are.”
His mouth gapes in surprise at my statement like he’s genuinely shocked.
“How so?”
“Because it hasn’t once occurred to you that you’re asking the wrong questions.”
One of his eyebrows raises. He begins to pace the living room floor while inserting a cigarette into a holder and lighting it up. After a few puffs, he shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t quite understand.”
I stand up now. Concerned, he draws his gun on me, but I raise my shackled hands to show I’m not planning anything stupid. “The question isn’t ‘How could I?’ The question you should be asking is ‘Did I?’”
“But, of course, you did.” He gestures wildly with his cigarette, reminding me a little of what Agatha Christie’s Poirot might look like if he was a real person. That is, if Poirot was French, instead of Belgian. And if he was tall, skinny, and blond-haired, and wore a pencil mustache instead of his waxed one. And, of course, if he was an idiot. “Ballistics matched ze bullets of your own weapon. You were ze only one present at ze crime scene…”
“I was unconscious. And I wa
sn’t alone.”
“Oh, ze fabled American spy I’ve been hearing about during my investigation.” His nose turns up derisively as the words leave his lips. “Your pretty little Miss Faye told me all about him. She admitted she hadn’t seen him personally, though. Just heard rumors about him. And while it’s true ze local constabulary has been searching for an American agent on ze island, no one I can find can admit to seeing him here ze other night.”
I thumb down the hallway. “Clarise saw him.”
“I interviewed her personally, Monsieur. She told me no such thing. Said you were ze only one in ze parlor that night.”
I roll my eye, frustrated. We’re going in circles. “She was lying. As a matter of fact, she was going to come to you later today and tell you the truth.”
“So why did you kill her?”
I raise my hands in the air and scream. It’s a primal scream, filled with rage and sorrow and angst. It feels great to release it all, but it draws the attention of Armad and his men, who rush into the living room from Clarise’s room with their guns drawn in my direction.
“Sorry, fellas,” I say, lowering my hands, and looking at the Inspector. “Look, I didn’t kill her, either. Jacques did.”
“And why on Earth would he do that?” Decroux asks, biting down on the tip of his cigarette holder.
“I have no idea. It didn’t make any sense to me when he did it. It still doesn’t. But it’s the truth, and I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles, too.”
It’s the inspector’s turn to chuckle now. “Be careful, mon ami. You’re already in enough hot water as it is. You don’t want to add God’s wrath to ze mix as well, do you?”
There really is no arguing with the dope. He’s already made up his mind. Ballistics and flawed logic have already hammered the nail in my coffin, as far as the Inspector’s concerned. The only way I can figure getting out of this mess is by solving the murder myself, but I can’t do that chained in handcuffs or behind bars, and I don’t see myself escaping from the Port Lucine jail a second time.
My shoulders sag in defeat. I’m at the end of my rope now, and I have no idea what I’m going to do to pull myself out.
“Look,” I say, sighing. “Can you just take me to my cell now? I’m tired. I need to get some sleep, and I want to call a lawyer first thing in the morning.”
Inspector Decroux nods. He’s got a smug, closed-lipped grin on his face as he turns to Armad. “I’ll escort ze prisoner back to ze jail and will stand guard. You three continue going over the scene for evidence, then send ze body ahead to ze pathologist in Martinique. Comprenez vous?”
Armad snaps his heels together and salutes. “Oui, Inspector. We will not let you down.”
Decroux takes hold of my arm and leads me out the door. It feels a bit like what the French call déjà vu, as we step out into the early morning sunlight with a crowd of angry, bewildered onlookers shouting and cursing my name. This time, I see no sign of Trixie or Nessie among the throng, silently offering their love and support to my dilemma. No sign of the Candyman, either, for that matter.
I’m thankful for that small blessing. I have no idea what possessed Jacques to kill his maid and mistress. Was it because she was going to exonerate me of his wife’s murder? Wouldn’t that make him happy? To find out his old friend didn’t kill his wife…that I hadn’t betrayed him…should be cause for celebration, shouldn’t it?
Wait. What did he say when I told him I didn’t kill Angelique?
I don’t have time to ponder my line of thought any further, however, because as Decroux leads me through the crowd, into the street, a large black sedan roars up to the curb. The crowd scatters for dear life, but the Inspector isn’t quite fast enough. The chrome bumper plows into his leg, and I hear a sharp pop and a scream from the copper’s lips. I whirl, watching the poor man as he falls to the ground. The bone of his femur is now sticking out through his blood-soaked pant leg, as he howls in pain. I’m just about to crouch down and help him when a pair of powerful hands grab hold of me by the arms and shoulders. I feel something hard crash against the base of my skull, and I feel myself being lifted off my feet and stuffed into the back seat of the car. The whole world flashes in a series of brilliant colors. I try to raise my head to see what’s going on, but it feels like it’s a thousand pounds heavier. I blink, but the haze is rapidly encroaching on my peripheral vision. I open my mouth to protest, but nothing’s coming out. Then, everything goes black, and I’m dead to the world.
20
As consciousness begins to drift slowly back into my world, I’m aware of a handful of things. First of all, I’m hanging in mid-air with ropes tied around my wrists and ankles. My arms feel as though they’re being pulled from their sockets, and it’s hard to breathe. The air is stagnant and sweltering. My clothes are wet, clinging to my skin with sweat and grime. I try to move, but I’m tapped out of any strength I hope to have.
There’s also a chorus of drums beating all around me. Their rhythmic cadence vibrating down my spine with each thrust of a palm. I open my eye and see a thick roof of lush vegetation above me. Birds of vibrant colors flit from limb to limb of the trees around me, crying out their raucous songs, seemingly synchronized to the drums. I’m suspended about a foot off the ground. My feet dangle uselessly.
I turn my head and look around. Four men, bare-chested and wearing white loin cloths, sit Indian style to my right. Their hands move faster than the eye can follow, pounding down on the rawhide covers of the drums. A woman, dressed in a flowing white dress and headscarf, dances around me, her head and arms shaking convulsively with each staccato beat. A snake—it looks like a python, although they’re none indigenous to the island—wraps itself around her neck, coiling itself with every move she makes.
I’m in a clearing in the middle of the jungle. I’m not sure if it’s the same one I found the day before yesterday, with the Palo nganga, or not. But it doesn’t matter. All along the clearing, their heads swaying left and right, are nearly two dozen stone-faced people, all dressed in white and glaring at me. They make a nearly perfect circle around the perimeter. King and Kong stand among them, shirtless, with their muscular arms crossed over their chests. Something tells me it’s one of them that clubbed me over the head and shoved me in the back of the sedan. But if they feel smug about it, their stone-hard faces aren’t showing it.
The last person is see as I scan the crowd is the immense form of the Candyman. He’s in his crisp white linen suit and straw wide-brimmed hat. His face is painted again, with the all too familiar death’s head of a skull. He smiles at me, revealing yellow-stained teeth, then he steps over to me. Though I’m suspended in mid-air, he still has to look down in order to meet me in the eye.
“What’s going on, Jacques?”
He laughs. “You are to be a sacrifice to da gods, Captain Joe.”
The way he says my name oozes with venom.
I also notice he used the word ‘gods’, not ‘loa.’ The loa are the spirit beings voodoo practitioners serve. They do have a god, but it’s the loa they offer their sacrifices to—and never a human one. This isn’t making any sense.
“The loa don’t like human sacrifices, Jacques. They won’t appreciate this at all.”
I’m hoping my knowledge of their religion will help sway him. No one who practices voodoo would want to make the loa angry. Human sacrifice will do just that.
Like the great showman, P.T. Barnum, the Candyman spins around for his followers, his arms outstretched. “D’is sacrifice is not to da loa!” he bellows for his congregation to hear. “D’is one is for da older gods. Da ones our ancestors left behind in da dark continent. Da Congo and da like.”
The drum beat grows in tempo. The swaying heads and the dancing girl move frantically to keep up. Then he turns back to me and moves within inches of my face.
“But, why? Why all of this?” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.
He reaches into the inside of his jacket and withdraws a long curved da
gger, then leans over and whispers in my ear.
“I’ve wanted to do d’is for so long,” he says. His breath smells of dead, uncooked fish. “You have no idea how much I despised pretending to be your friend.”
My throat swells up at the words, making it hard to breathe. In all my time here, he’s been like a brother to me. My best friend. And now he’s telling me it’s all been an act?
Then, Angelique pops into my head. Her flirtations with me. Her innuendo. Her desire to have me as a plaything. And also the words uttered just after Jacques killed Clarise. I didn’t kill your wife, I had told him. His response was a simple two words: I know.
My blood runs cold.
“You killed her, didn’t you?” I don’t need him to respond. I already know the answer. And I already know why. I guess I’ve known for quite a while, although I never wanted to admit it.
“Da witch had it comin’, for a long time now.” He places the dagger to my throat, a silent warning to keep my voice down as we talk. He doesn’t want his followers listening in on the conversation. “Always bossin’ me around. Always t’inking she was in charge. Running da whole operation like da woman d’at she was. Meek. Timid. Never taking risks. I could have made us huge, if she only let me.”
I try to swallow, but my throat just feels so constricted with grief.
“But Angelique found a way to hit the big time without you, didn’t she?” I whisper. “She learned about classified information coming to the island. Information she could sell to the highest bidder. Information that could put her on the international playing field. Problem was, she wasn’t planning on sharing it with you, was she?”
His brows furrow as he looks down at me. His malicious grin is gone, and nothing but hate burns in his eyes.
Killypso Island Page 13