Sherry Moore and the inspector knew more than they were letting on. Carol was certain it was the reason Sherry was brought here. They knew something about that tattoo, but there was something else, something even more troubling to Carol. Sherry seemed different after she walked back into the waiting room. Something had happened in that room with her daughter. Sherry Moore had seen more than she wanted to.
Built of white marble, the Crystal House sat in stark contrast to the dark mountain jungles surrounding Port Antonio. It was a favorite of Europeans, who preferred its austere elegance to all-inclusive resorts full of screaming children and lotion-lathered tourists come to burn in the sun.
Guards stood by the gates at its entrance. It had a spiked iron fence around its perimeter, mostly hidden by jungle from the guests, who today were mostly German. From what Brigham could gather, they were entirely uninterested in the three Americans and their Jamaican friend at a breakfast table.
A blinking green lizard skittered across the dark slate floor, disappearing into the shadows under a heavy window drape. The hotel was dark inside and elegantly furnished. There was a distinct lack of emotion in the dining room, waiters almost mechanically serving breakfasts, busboys in starched jackets moving quietly between tables, silently removing dishes.
The sky had gone gray, clouds forming over the humid jungle on Green Mountain. Brief morning showers were typical before clouds moved offshore and evaporated over the sea, before Jamaica saw another dazzling Caribbean day.
Beyond the front gates Highway A-4 snaked along the jagged coastline, separating jungle from the cliffs that overlooked the green Caribbean. This side of the island was not heavily traveled. It was why the inspector chose the hotel for them to spend the night. It was unlikely that anyone would recognize either Sherry Moore or Carol Bishop.
“Orange juice for the gentleman?”
Inspector George shook his head, deferring to Brigham, who waved away the waiter.
Strands of daylight invaded the teakwood blinds, illuminating sterling pitchers of cream for the coffee and pewter bowls filled with brown sugar cubes. Carol Bishop sat at the table with her face pressed into her open hands. She had spoken little since they left Kingston last night.
Brigham had seen the victims of terrible trauma before and Carol Bishop had all the signs. He thought that she was quite aware of her mental state and was just trying to keep it together long enough to get through this ordeal.
The logical step would be to finish breakfast and part ways with Carol Bishop and Inspector George. Brigham and Sherry would take the hotel’s van to Port Antonio and fly back to Philadelphia. They would be home before the dinner hour.
Carol and the inspector would drive back to Kingston, where they would call the FBI and then announce her daughter’s identification. Carol would likely hold a press conference and a flare of media excitement would ensue.
Except that Carol did not want to do that, and Sherry, who had called Helmut Dantzler this morning, knew it. Knew it and sympathized.
Brigham looked at Sherry Moore. He knew what Sherry had seen last night in the morgue. Brigham knew that Sherry could not leave it alone. She wasn’t made up that way. Her thoughts were on a body lying eighty miles off the coast of Jamaica in Haiti. She was thinking there were three more days before the voudon man was buried. Before they entombed him with his own last memories of Jill Bishop, and the place she had been held.
A waiter came for the check. The dining room had all but cleared. Busboys were silently crumbing the tables, removing linens. A ray of sunlight pierced the dark room, slicing it neatly in half.
“This thing you know about my daughter,” Carol Bishop said. She was looking directly at Inspector George. “I’ve not pushed you, not any of you, but you’ve never talked about the tattoo after I mentioned it. You called Miss Moore to come down here because of it, didn’t you? So what does it mean, Inspector George? Who put that on her face? Do you know?”
She turned to Brigham. “Are there others out there like her? Is that why you brought Miss Moore here? Do you know where they are?”
No one answered.
Carol scratched at the skin on the back of one hand. “You were hoping to learn something from Sherry Moore, something only my daughter could know. You were hoping she could tell you where she had been, hoping she could describe something familiar. You would only have done that if you already had an idea where to look. If you already had an idea where to start.”
Carol looked around the table, regarding each of their faces. “Once the FBI gets here you will be barred from investigating her death any further. I know how things work. I know that my daughter wasn’t in Jamaica when she died. She was in international waters and I know that the rest of the Caribbean could care less about some missing girl from Chicago. So how long can you wait for the next girl to fall out of the sky, Inspector George? How many more girls have to die before you get another chance like this? Before some other mother’s daughter ends up in a morgue with the devil’s tattoo?”
Brigham knew what Sherry was thinking. That the man in the airplane with the gun was sitting down when Jill Bishop walked out that door. He didn’t push her out the door. She jumped of her own free will.
The kidnappers weren’t supposed to let that happen; they had made a mistake, and it was only because of that mistake that they found Jill’s body. If they hadn’t, Jill would be God knows where right now and no one would ever have seen her again. Not to mention that if Inspector George hadn’t been the policeman who found her, no one would have known to call Helmut Dantzler at Interpol, who in turn knew what the World Freedom aid worker heard in Haiti last week. Call it what you will, coincidence or divine intervention, it was an opportunity and Sherry would not pass up an opportunity. Not like this one.
“Sherry,” Brigham said sternly. He saw it on her face. She was getting ready to leap. “Sherry…”
Sherry put a hand on his arm and patted gently to silence him. She turned to Carol. “Mrs. Bishop. Could I ask you to excuse us for a few moments? We’ll meet you up on the veranda as soon as we’re done.”
Bishop looked at the three of them intently. Then she pushed back her chair and stood.
“Do the right thing,” she said. Then she left the room.
Rolly King George picked up a fork and began to turn it over with his big hands. A minute lapsed and no one spoke.
“She sees it on your face,” Inspector George said, without looking up.
Sherry looked at him. “I’m sorry?” she said.
“Ever since you saw the Bishop girl you have been preoccupied, something’s been bothering you. Something you didn’t expect to see. Perhaps even something that terrifies you.”
George laid the fork down and folded his hands. “Helmut Dantzler didn’t tell me the whole story either, did he? He knew more about the death’s-head tattoo than he is willing to share and that is why he sent you here. So, Miss Moore. Do you intend to leave me here with Mrs. Bishop and her daughter and no answers as well?”
Sherry took a deep breath and shook her head. “No, Inspector, I don’t. Mr. Dantzler asked me to come here because of something I saw a month ago. A man died in a mountain climbing accident in Alaska; at the time a lot of climbers were caught on the summit in a storm. It was believed there were survivors, but there was no way to know where they were, and I was asked to go there and try to help. When I took the dead climber’s hand I saw a castle in a tropical jungle. The same castle I saw last night through Jill Bishop’s eyes. I saw other things too, a woman being tortured. She had a tattoo on her face. The same tattoo that Jill Bishop wears.”
“Why didn’t Dantzler tell me this?”
Sherry ignored the question. “At the time I didn’t know more than the dead man’s name, Sergio Mendoza, a common enough Latino name though we presumed he was a citizen of the United States. The memory of a castle I witnessed when I took his hand could have been a memory from most anywhere in the world. I didn’t know who to tell or where to start. Mr. Br
igham has friends in our government so I asked him to look into it further. Just to make sure the dead man on the mountain wasn’t connected to something they already knew about.”
Sherry folded her hands. “It turned out the dead man on the mountain was the son of Thiago Mendoza, Inspector George.”
“The Thiago Mendoza?”
Sherry nodded. “Mr. Dantzler called me shortly after he talked to you. You can see why, of course. I don’t think men like Helmut Dantzler necessarily believe in people like me; it was more out of respect to Mr. Brigham that he did so, but he called nonetheless. But Dantzler knew something else,” she said. “Something that made my story plausible. Interpol has come to believe the building I described is in Haiti, Inspector George.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He is protecting a source.”
“A source,” Inspector George repeated, his face contorting. He clenched his fists. “Some blackhearted snitch matters more to Interpol than a dead girl?”
“There was a very good reason, Inspector George.” Sherry tried to soothe him. “The source is quite well known; the consequence of revealing it would put countless others in harm’s way. If he were to rely on the source’s word alone it would even outweigh the good we could do by saving these women. I spoke with Mr. Dantzler last night and told him about Mrs. Bishop’s identification. You can imagine his surprise. I also told him what I saw in your morgue. He quickly voiced his desire that we allow Interpol and the FBI to take the investigation from here. But,” she said emphatically, “I convinced him there is an imminent threat to anyone still alive in that castle and an opportunity before the FBI gets involved to locate it. The moment the FBI or Interpol approaches the Haitian government with this information, it will leak to the traffickers and any opportunity to save these women will be lost. I told him it is Carol Bishop’s desire not to contact the FBI if there is something we can do to help first.”
“Tell me,” the inspector said curtly.
“A child in Haiti overheard her father talking about a place where women were being caged in the cellar of a building, women bearing the tattoo of Baron Samedi on their faces. This child told a humanitarian aid worker, who in turn contacted Interpol. You understand the ramifications of such contact from a nongovernmental organization.”
George nodded, watching her.
“Two days later the child’s father was killed and dumped in his village. A piece of paper was found in his mouth, a name was written on it. The child had no idea where her father was working, and Haiti is a big country.”
Inspector George sighed, looked at the ceiling, eyes fixed.
“You can see Helmut Dantzler’s dilemma, Inspector. When the FBI comes here, they cannot be told about this dead man in Haiti. To do so would be to compromise the nongovernmental humanitarians, one of Interpol’s most valuable sources. Even if the FBI knew and believed the story, they have already tried and been denied access to Haiti to search for Jill Bishop.”
“And what do you propose we do, Miss Moore?”
“The body in Haiti has not yet been interred, Inspector George. If you could stall identification of Jill Bishop another day, I could go to Haiti and attempt to reach this man before he is buried. If I could spend only a minute with him, we might learn where these girls had been. If we can cite a location, the government of Haiti could no longer ignore us. They would have to act because we could hold them accountable in front of the world.”
The inspector laughed. “The whole world is going to listen because a blind woman told them so?”
“No, Inspector George.” Sherry leaned forward. “Because Carol Bishop told them so.”
The inspector looked at Brigham, then back at Sherry. “Explain?”
“Can you think of anyone in the Caribbean who can attract more international reporters at a press conference than Carol Bishop? The world would focus entirely on what she said and on what Haiti’s new president was going to do about it. They will barely care about how she came across the information. Once she says she was in Haiti and received information about this castle, they will be committed to act under international scrutiny.”
Inspector George seemed to be contemplating the possibility.
“Except that everybody is forgetting just how dangerous Haiti is,” Brigham interjected. “How can you even consider going there, Sherry? The country is virtually lawless.”
“I need to do this, Mr. Brigham,” Sherry said.
“He is right, Miss Moore,” the inspector said. “If you were caught, the police would of no help to you. They might even turn you over to the traffickers.”
“We won’t be caught if we do this right now, and it is an opportunity law enforcement might never have again. No one is expecting us. No one knows about the child who overheard her father or the aid worker who sent the note to Interpol. No one knows that her mother identified Jill Bishop last night in a morgue in Jamaica. Two women traveling as tourists, we’ll waltz in and out of Haiti and they will never know we were there.”
“Y-you and Carol Bishop!” Brigham stammered.
“We take a bus from the Dominican. There aren’t any terrorists trying to get into Haiti. Do you think they look at the passports of every white woman who crosses the border? They’re up to their ears in Christian volunteers and nongovernment aid workers. People from all over the world are coming and going.”
Brigham frowned. There was no stopping her now, he knew.
“The FBI will not be happy about delaying Jill Bishop’s identification,” Brigham said to the inspector. The argument was weak and Brigham knew it. He also knew what Carol Bishop would have to say about the matter. From what he’d heard so far, she’d jump in with both feet.
Brigham folded his arms.
Rolly King George studied Sherry’s face. “I could state we have yet to determine a cause of death and that we are awaiting scientific evidence regarding identification. It would buy another day, but no more, Miss Moore.”
She turned to Brigham. “If Carol Bishop wants to do this, we will need to leave for Haiti this afternoon.”
Brigham nodded grimly. “And what of me? You want me to wait here and worry while the two of you are in Haiti?”
“We’ll get a room in the Dominican Republic tonight and take a bus in to Pétionville in the morning. In Haiti we’ll rent a car and be back in twenty-four hours. Really, Mr. Brigham. The fewer we are and the less we make of all this, the easier it will be. If bells are going to go off at a customs border crossing, it would be when a retired United States Navy admiral’s name is entered into their computer. Border policemen aren’t going to check on a blind woman and her companion, no matter what their names are. Right now it is best I get upstairs and tell Carol Bishop what we know. It she’s in, we’ll need to get moving.” Sherry stood. “Will you lead me, Mr. Brigham?”
Carol Bishop was adamant, as expected, about going to Haiti with Sherry.
Brigham found a New York Times and said he’d be in the air-conditioned lobby until they were ready to say good-bye. Sherry was beginning to think she’d made a mistake bringing him to Jamaica. She knew she had put him in an awkward situation and she knew that she worried him unnecessarily. It was the last thing she wanted to do, considering she brought him to Jamaica to cheer him up. She felt as though she’d need to make it up to him somehow afterward.
Sherry heard voices coming across the terrace: Rolly King George and Carol Bishop circumambulating the swimming pool. They were talking about an autopsy and how to handle her daughter’s remains.
George sat down at the table with Sherry. “You are right about entering Haiti on the bus, they are careless checking passports at border crossings, but I checked and there is only one bus a day. It leaves Santo Domingo at noon tomorrow and arrives in Pétionville at 6:30 P.M. I called Helmut Dantzler and he has arranged for a Colonel Deaken of the Haitian police to meet and escort you to Tiburon. No one checks outgoing flights, so you will be safe flying out of Port-au-Prince whe
n you return. I will meet you with Mr. Brigham when you land back here in Kingston.”
“We can trust the policeman?” Sherry asked.
“The colonel is reliable, Miss Moore.”
“Then thank you, Inspector,” Sherry said.
“May God go with you,” he said.
Sherry met Brigham in the lounge before they departed. His mood was dark and there was nothing she could say that would change it.
“You have your cell phone?” he growled.
“Of course,” Sherry said. Years before she had switched to a carrier with satellite coverage at Brigham’s suggestion. The phone was invaluable to a blind person, especially in the kinds of places Sherry had been prone to visit.
“You have me in speed dial?”
“Yes,” she groaned, like an overprotected child.
“I want you to listen to me, Sherry. Just listen, okay.”
“Yes, Mr. Brigham, I am listening,” she said.
“If anything seems at all wrong, anything at all, if you are the slightest bit uncomfortable about anyone or anything going on around you and you aren’t free to talk, I want you to dial my number and hang up when it rings. You have GPS. I’ll be able to find you.”
Sherry nodded. She knew this was a serious conversation to Brigham and she didn’t want to give the impression he wasn’t taken seriously, though she was sure he was being overly dramatic.
“I will be fine, Mr. Brigham. There’s going to be a policeman with us. What could go wrong? We’ll be in Tiburon harbor tomorrow night and back here by noon the next day. I promise you, though. If anything is out of the ordinary, I’ll call. In fact I’ll call you when we reach Tiburon just to let you know we’re safe. Deal?”
Brigham grunted.
“Please,” she said. “Relax, Mr. Brigham. Enjoy the weather. Get into the ocean. Get a drink and watch the girls.”
She took his hand in both of hers. “I’ll be back in no time.”
He nodded and she kissed him on the cheek and said good-bye.
Lost Girls Page 16