“But you lie to them and extort money out of them.”
“That is too harsh. You look at me as a charlatan, but that is not the case at all. I am a master of suggestion. I use it like a powerful lever. I’ve even heard they use it in America to sell laundry detergent. But for healers such as myself, I use it to sell dreams. If a customer believes—or even wants to believe—anything can happen, I show him the way. Now put the gun away so we can speak like proper gentlemen.”
Rémy hesitated for a moment. Then he uncocked the hammer and holstered the gun.
“Sit down over there,” said the Grand Zamy, motioning to the seat across from him. “I assure you I mean you no harm. Would you perhaps like a glass of rum?”
“Is it poisoned?”
The Grand Zamy roared with laughter. “You’re a funny man, Lieutenant. I like your sense of humor. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. Now tell me, where’s the girl?”
“She is my guest for the time being. She’s very ill and needs proper care. I operate an informal clinic here. At the moment, she is not receiving any visitors.”
“I want to hear it from her lips.”
The Grand Zamy eyed him. “Do you doubt me?”
“I’ve heard you’re the man they call the Grand Zamy, the notorious quimboiseur.”
The Grand Zamy tented his hands and eyed him. “My name is M. Gaston Faustin Jacquet, a respected herbalist. I practice an ancient art the slaves brought over from Africa. My job is to heal the sick. I also relieve people of their suffering. But it is not really me who does the healing; it is the saints. I close my eyes and listen. The saint searches for the cure, and I listen to what he says, then I apply the correct remedy. Sometimes the patient is so ill, he needs closer examination and a much stronger medicine to uproot the sickness. I’m afraid Mam’selle Emilie falls into the latter category. She is in need of a great cure. Her body needs purification, and only I have the remedy.”
Rémy’s eyes widened. He had no doubt the quimboiseur was delusional. Insane. He was like the old witch doctor Aubert had told him about at place du Fort selling amulets, fetishes, and magical ointments made from the grease of serpents. Aubert had seen the old man serving a strange brew of tafia mingled with gunpowder and crushed wasps, while the dockworkers gathered around, clamoring for the potion as if it were a life-giving elixir until they had drunk themselves into a state of madness. It sickened Rémy that people could be so gullible, yet at the same time so desperate to believe that a potion could solve all their problems. This quimboiseur was even more dangerous.
“In addition,” continued the quimboiseur, “the young lady owes me a great deal of money. So great, in fact, that she could never pay it back in one lifetime. So I have arranged for her to become a gagé, so that she will have several lifetimes to pay off her debt.” The quimboiseur gave him a cold stare that made him shudder. “As you can see, our relationship is mutually beneficial.”
“You madman,” said Rémy, his hand hovering over his holster. “You’re nothing but a common thief.”
The Grand Zamy’s face clouded over. “You speak from ignorance. You know nothing about the spirit world. There are misguided fools who invoke the spirits and are tormented by them, for once you call down a spirit, it is difficult to get rid of it. The young lady is a victim of her own ignorance. She called down the spirits, and now they torment her day and night. She has created her own misfortune. For her there is only one solution, and that is the work of the herbalist. But my healing goes beyond the body. I heal men’s souls and give them higher purpose. It is only through me that her soul will find its purpose.”
Good Lord, the man is a megalomaniac, thought Rémy, a cruel and powerful manipulator of men. A danger to the public.
“I believe you’re holding her against her will,” said Rémy. “That makes you a common criminal.”
“What do you know?” said the Grand Zamy, bolting to his feet. “If you rebel against my will, I will bring upon you all the curses and excommunications in my power. I will condemn you on behalf of the Most Holy Trinity and cast you into the Lake of Fire and Brimstone. I will call upon Beelzebub and all the demons to make you disappear forever.”
Rémy didn’t flinch. “How many people have you killed or turned into zombies?”
“You are displaying a dangerous level of ignorance,” said the Grand Zamy with malice. “I’m a patient man, but even I have my limits. Unlike you, I solve people’s problems. I help them. I cure my customers of whatever is keeping them from reaching a state of pure holiness. Can you say the same thing?” The Grand Zamy’s face softened for a moment. “You have no idea of the amount of good I do for people. I bring love, fortune, success, happiness. . . I fulfill their worldly needs.”
“Did you tell Mlle Dujon you could solve her problems?”
“Who better than me?” said the Grand Zamy. “She came here in a troubled state. She needed someone to intercede on her behalf with the spirits. I make miracles happen. My customer list contains the most important politicians and society figures from all over the Lesser Antilles and as far south as Port of Spain. I’m discreet and professional. I get results.”
Rémy extracted his revolver and pointed it at the Grand Zamy. “Not anymore. I’ve heard enough. I’m going to get her out of here. Hand her over to me now before I shoot you.”
Suddenly he felt the muzzle of a gun in his back.
“Drop the gun, Lieutenant,” said a woman’s voice behind him.
Left with no choice, Rémy dropped the revolver on the floor.
Chapter 39
Rémy turned to face his adversary.
It was a beautiful mulâtresse with exotic eyes, fiery lips, and a long and graceful neck. She wore a muslin dress lined with expensive lace and a yellow turban that accentuated her high cheekbones and bronze skin. Around her neck she wore a necklace of gold beads that glinted in the candlelight. She regarded him with smoldering eyes, and in her hand she held a Browning semiautomatic pistol. She chambered a round with expert precision, flipped the safety catch, and pointed the pistol at Rémy’s chest.
“Don’t move, Lieutenant,” said the Grand Zamy. “She’s trained to shoot robbers and looters and is an expert marksman. Unlike me, Alphonsine is not interested in healing people.” His mouth twisted in a cunning smile.
“That’s a fancy pistol for a lady,” said Rémy.
“Quite necessary when you engage in a dangerous business such as ours,” said the Grand Zamy. “Jealous boyfriends, enraged husbands, swindled business partners, vengeful neighbors. We get all kinds.”
“Yes, I’m starting to get the picture,” said Rémy, keeping his eyes on the pistol. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, and his heart pounded. Somehow he had to get the pistol from her. He had to disarm her. “Still, I’m not used to seeing a beautiful lady brandishing a weapon such as this. For a soldier, a woman with a gun is quite alluring.”
He inched closer to the woman and, in an instant, grabbed her hand and pointed the pistol up. She pulled the trigger and a blast rang out, sending plaster showering from the ceiling. The woman screamed, and Rémy twisted her arm, forcing her to drop the weapon. Then he gave her a forceful knock that sent her hurtling to the floor. Before Rémy could retrieve his own weapon, the Grand Zamy brandished a cutlass and lunged at him.
Quick as a flash, Rémy dodged the blade as it slashed past his throat. All at once he kicked the Grand Zamy in the groin and punched him in the face. The quimboiseur screamed with fury. Heaving the cutlass over his head, he swung it at Rémy, but the latter lifted a chair and swung it into the Grand Zamy’s body, knocking the blade out of his hand and sending him flying backward. The quimboiseur groaned and crumpled to the floor. Enraged, he grabbed the cutlass and sprang at Rémy once more, but the officer ducked and tripped the quimboiseur, sending the blade flying out of his hand. In an instant, the quimboiseur pounced on Rémy, and the two tumbled to the ground, rolling and pummeling each other with f
orceful kicks and punches. For his age, the Grand Zamy was surprisingly agile. He wrapped his powerful hands around Rémy’s neck and squeezed the life out of him until Rémy saw his world turning black.
Mustering every last ounce of strength, Rémy smashed his fist into the quimboiseur’s face, sending him reeling backward, blood spurting everywhere. He followed with well-placed punches that left the Grand Zamy writhing in pain until he was motionless. Gasping for breath, Rémy retrieved his revolver and the woman’s pistol, which he stuffed in his holster, and then went to search the back rooms. He was certain Emilie was hidden somewhere on the premises.
His mind raced, and his heart beat furiously as he went from room to room searching for her, fueled by rage that he may have come too late. At last he came to a nondescript room sealed by a locked door. He took a step back, lifted his knee, and kicked it open.
He saw her immediately. Emilie was lying on a bed looking deathly pale. She was semiconscious, possibly drugged. Her legs were tied to the bed. He tried to shake her awake, but she only partially came to. She mumbled something incoherent and tried to lift her head, but she was too weak; upon inspection, he saw her pupils were dilated. On the bedside table Rémy spied a bottle labeled passiflora guadrangularis. He had no idea what it was, but he was certain Emilie had been drugged. He slipped the bottle into his trouser pocket and said, “My dear lady, what have you got yourself into?” He tapped on her cheeks and tried to rouse her, but all she could do was groan in response. “Emilie, try to stay awake. You’ve been drugged. Can you hear me?” She nodded in response. “Good,” he said. “I’m going to get you out of here. I’m going to get you help.” The girl mumbled something, and her eyelids fluttered.
Picking her up gently, Rémy carried Emilie out of the voodoo shop, out into swirling torrents of ash and cinders, leaving the quimboiseur and his beautiful accomplice to their own fate. All around, the town looked like a wintry scene. The mounds of ash reminded him of his home back in France during the cold of winter. He thought it odd that during this time of crisis and death, he was reminded of his childhood home.
Having no other choice, he took Emilie to the same inn on rue Petit Versailles where he had put her previously during their impromptu rendezvous. Remembering the young couple, the innkeeper gave her the only room he still had available now that the city was flooded with refugees. When he saw Emilie’s condition, he asked what had happened, and Rémy explained that she was ill. He asked the kindly innkeeper to send a doctor as quickly as possible to their room.
Rémy laid Emilie on the bed and tried to keep her from falling asleep again. He gave her fragrant tea that the innkeeper had sent up and put a cool cloth over her burning forehead. She mumbled a few incoherent words, but Rémy told her to save her strength. She smiled and touched his hand, which he took as a good sign. After the longest half hour of his life, there was a knock on the door, and a doctor entered with a look of concern on his face. He sat down beside Emilie and immediately went to work checking her vital signs. He checked her pulse and temperature, and then he opened her eyelids and peered at her pupils.
“Who is this patient?” said the doctor, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Her name is Emilie Dujon,” said Rémy.
“Are you the woman’s husband?”
Rémy shook his head. “No, sir, I’m just trying to help her. I think she’s been drugged.”
“Is there any chance that she’s pregnant?” said the doctor, pressing on her abdomen.
“Not likely, but I believe she’s been dabbling in voodoo. I found her in a drugged state in the back of an herbalist’s shop. I found this on the table beside her.”
He handed the doctor the suspicious bottle. The doctor examined it and immediately assumed a grim countenance. “This is a powerful narcotic. The root of the passiflora guadrangularis is so toxic it’s considered poisonous. Its symptoms are passivity and lethargy. Too much of it can result in death. Do you know how much of this she has ingested?”
Rémy was stunned. “I have no idea. Can you help her?”
“Probably,” said the doctor. “If it’s caught early, we prescribe the crushed leaves of the passiflora, also known as the giant granadilla. It’s quite common in these parts. It also helps heal snakebites by reducing hemorrhaging and is quite effective at treating whooping cough and bronchitis. My wife makes a jelly out of it.” He wrote out a prescription and handed it to Rémy. “Get this filled right away and give her a double dose to start. She should feel better within a few hours. It’s good you came to see me when you did. With all the ash and sulfur fumes, I have a huge caseload ahead of me. I have to get down to the hospital right away. Several women went into early labor because of fear and anxiety over the volcano. I suspect the young lady will be in good hands with you, though, Lieutenant. I think she owes you her life.”
Rémy thanked the doctor and offered to pay him, but the doctor shook his head.
“Good luck to you both,” he said, doffing his hat. “Check back with me in a day or two. I’m just down the street over the chemist’s shop. Dr. Leon Roseta.”
“If we should live that long,” said Rémy, showing him the door.
The doctor nodded grimly, then left.
Chapter 40
Thursday, May 8
For the next several hours, Rémy stayed by Emilie’s side, feeding her the antidote the innkeeper was kind enough to procure from the local chemist. She slept intermittently, during which time he kept vigil over her, and gradually the color returned to her cheeks. The initial dose did wonders for reducing her stupor and bringing her back to a state of wakefulness. A few hours later, she was sitting up and drinking tea. She asked all sorts of questions about what had happened to her, but Rémy was reluctant to fill her in on all the details. He worried the shock would be too much for her. He hoped that with time, the memory of that horrible experience would fade for good. When she expressed sorrow and guilt over what she had done, he brushed the hair away from her face and kissed her gently.
“You’re not to blame,” he said. “You were under tremendous strain. I know what kind of man Lucien is. I did some checking up on him. He has a bad reputation all over the island. He’s known for using women and abandoning them, just like the planters of old did with their slave women. He’s a ruthless cad. When I asked people about him, they warned me to keep away from him. The look of fear was palpable on their faces. God only knows how many lives he’s ruined.”
“I fear as long as he’s alive, he’ll never leave me alone,” she said with a weak voice. “He’ll harass me to no end. He loves to hurt people. It gives him a perverse form of pleasure.”
“Don’t worry about that now,” said Rémy. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. I’ll make sure Lucien keeps his distance.”
“I feel terrible for all the trouble I’ve caused,” she said with innocent, childlike eyes.
Rémy reached out and caressed her cheek. “I think the person you hurt most was yourself,” he said. “Your cousin, the priest, will recover, and I see you’re recovering nicely. Lucien is the one who should pay for all the grief he’s caused. But there’ll be plenty of time for that later. Right now just get better.”
“I’m already feeling better,” she said. “But something is troubling me. How did you get me away from the Grand Zamy?”
“We sparred a little, but he got straight to the point,” said Rémy. “You’re lucky I came when I did. M. Jacquet is a ruthless criminal. I also had a little tête-à-tête with his charming lady companion.” He pulled out the lady’s pistol from his jacket pocket.
“Clever,” said Emilie, smiling. “Somehow you figured it all out. You’re very clever. I wish I knew more about you.”
“There’ll be time for that later,” he said.
“Tell me something. . . how did you find me?” she said.
“It wasn’t too hard. I went looking for you at the Colonial Health Institute, but by then you were already gone. A nurse gave me a description
of the man she claimed took you away, and I put two and two together.”
Emilie’s face turned white. “I think you saved my life.”
“I had a little help from the spirits,” he said. “My main concern now is getting you safely out of here and up to Morne-Rouge. Here, take some more medicine.”
He measured out a teaspoonful of the antidote and mixed it into a glass of tea.
“Drink up,” he said.
She took the glass and drank it. As the liquid entered her system, it seemed to cleanse her from within. Her skin glowed, and her eyes looked clearer. She looked healthy again. She gazed at him with love-filled eyes that spoke of innocence and trust. He would do anything in his power to make sure she didn’t end up with that ruthless sugar planter. Now that he had her he would never let her go.
“Tell me something,” he said. “Why did you agree to marry Lucien?”
Her eyes turned downcast. “I thought he loved me. In the beginning he put me on a pedestal and treated me like a queen. He bought me flowers and chocolates and made me feel special. I had my doubts about him, but I blocked them out. I see now how foolish I was. I should have listened to my instincts. I knew he had a dark side to him, but I prayed he would never turn that side against me.”
“And I’ll make sure the despicable cad never gets another chance,” said Rémy. “Please try to get some sleep now.” He pulled the sheet up and left her to go sit by the window. As the night wore on, he kept vigil over her as he checked the pistol and revolver to make sure they were loaded. From time to time, he would glance out the window and see groups of soldiers marching through the murky streets, no doubt looking for him. It would take a miracle to keep from getting spotted. He poured himself a glass of rum. It was going to be a long night.
Island on Fire Page 27