“Right.” Pant, blink. I focus on Piccard. “Not trading shit if you can’t put Susie Devereux on this boat.”
Piccard looks to his right. “And here she is.”
Anne yells without looking back, “Susie, it’s Anne. Say something.”
The woman who might be Susie doesn’t move or speak.
I thumb-cock the .45 to make sure it fires when I’m shot, then cock my arm with the grenade. “Tell Susie to say something or I’m gonna throw this grenade at you.”
“Ms. Devereux has nothing to say. She and Miss Bonny betrayed me. And they will betray you.” Piccard’s fingers stroke near the scars on the woman’s wrist. “We have much to arrange, you and I, and little time before the storm.”
“Put her on the fucking boat. If you need the Gryphon’s permission, get it. My hand’s getting tired.”
“I am merely the Gryphon’s humble associate, his liaison in certain delicate international situations, and his occasional guest.”
“Give us Susie,” Anne yells over her shoulder. “We all go to Port-au-Prince—on a plane you’ll find in the next ten minutes. Bill will bring his grenade.”
I add, “Or you fuck with us here, and I kill us all.”
Piccard shakes his head. “Ms. Devereux is not the issue. Your ability to produce the gold is the matter before the court. Possibly, you feel the red dots on your head? Marksmen with sniper rifles. Should the marksmen—quite on their own—decide you intend to throw your grenade, they will pop your head like a watermelon.”
A flash of red crosses my left eye. My head probably glows with red dots. I say, “We die; no treasure.”
Piccard shrugs. “There is always tomorrow.”
“I’m worth $26 million today.” I lean into the gunwale and steady with the .45. “You don’t want us; you want the gold. But to get it, you, or someone you pick, is getting in that plane that I know you have, then flying us to Port-au-Prince.” Pause. “I know that, and you know that. So quit fucking around and let’s go.”
Piccard says, “The plane you speak of is a twin-engine, but small; the only plane that has not been relocated from the storm.” He reaches for the woman—
She jerks upright, psych-ward rigid, nowhere to go. She’s Susie.
Piccard says, “Your plane cannot hold everyone and make it safely to the capital.”
Anne shouts, “You know who we are. We sail together; we finish together. Susie dies; this adventure’s over.”
“No, not for all of us.” Piccard leans back in his chair.
I yell, “Even the goddamn devil needs money to run his army. These pirates in your boats, and behind me on the wall, all of ’em get a share of my treasure. More money than they’ll ever see any other way.”
Anne shouts the pirate’s code: “No prey, no pay.”
“All of ’em speak some kind of English; the ones who don’t burn in the fireball will know you bluffed away $26 million when the sniper drops me.” I suck a big breath and shout over my shoulder. “Twenty-six million dollars! In gold. That’s what we pay for the white woman. Twenty-six million dollars!”
Piccard smiles across the murk between us. “Dimanche is not a true pirate camp, Mr. Owens; like your previous Dimanche was not a true prison. The men who surround you here have given their souls, not their signatures. Their father owns them.”
Piccard calls out two names in Kreyol.
Nothing happens on the two boats in front of me. I glance fast toward the seawall.
A black woman in a nun’s habit leads a stoop-shouldered boy through the Tontons and out onto the dock. The boy has been in a nasty accident; the doctors saved his life but not his appearance. The woman has a machete in her belt. Piccard says, “The boy is Kleeford. Notice his posture, his lack of . . . shape. Haiti has many.”
I cut back to Susie. Piccard switches to Kreyol, soft and caressing.
Anne shouts: “No. Don’t . . .”
I look back before I can stop. The nun draws the machete from her belt, grips the machete with both hands, raises it to her shoulder—
“Jesus Christ, don’t—”
Another black woman steps out. She’s my size and might be wearing a mask. Her hands stop the machete arm mid-arc. She yells angry, educated English across the bayou at Piccard.
I cut back to him and Susie and the pirates in the boats to my left and right.
Piccard answers softly, but with an edge this time. “Madame Tafat, you are beyond your bounds.”
I hear Anne say, “The goddamn devil . . .”
My eyes cut back to the dock. Five men have gang-wrestled the large woman to the dock. The nun swings the machete.
Piccard speaks softly again.
The nun scoops the headless body and retreats inland through the line. Kleeford’s head lies on the dock by the large woman who tried to stop it. The night terrors that tried to kill me charge across the water.
I dump the grenade’s pin and turn back to Piccard. The pin tinkles on the Esmeralda’s deck. New plan B: I will now raise the armed grenade, let the marksmen focus on it, then fire my .45 at Piccard’s white suit until they drop me. It’ll all work out like it’s supposed to.
Anne shouts, “No!” then whispers: “Bill. Don’t. He’ll give us what we want.”
“This place’s gotta die.”
“It will. Please. Let me get the gold. We’ll arm the rebels, send Siri’s planes in here. Gasoline barrel bombs. Please.”
I look over my shoulder to the dock, then back to Susie on the pontoon boat.
Anne yells over me to Piccard: “I believe we’ve taken this bit o’ theater as far as it’ll go. Bill here’s been a bit unstable and I fear he’s nearin’ the edge. If you’d look closely, you’ll see it clear, knowin’ you’re a fine judge of crazy. Bill has the answers and he’s ready to die. As much as I’d prefer it otherwise, the choice is yours. Not ours.”
“Well said, and not a surprise considering your breeding.” Piccard looks at Susie, then back to Anne. “Thankfully, I have experience in trades made under duress. Mr. Owens will tell me the gold’s general location in Port-au-Prince. Two of the Gryphon’s men will accompany you and Ms. Devereux to the gold; Mr. Owens will remain behind—”
“None of us stay behind.”
Piccard continues as if Anne hadn’t declined. “When you and Ms. Devereux are safely on the plane, call Mr. Owens; he will then relinquish his grenade. When you land at the gold’s general location, you will call again. Mr. Owens will direct you and the Gryphon’s representatives to the gold. When the Gryphon’s representatives have our share of the gold, we will release Mr. Owens.”
Anne says, “Cell phone in a hurricane?”
“Yes. You will find a way, if there is one.”
“And the split is?”
Piccard smiles. “The three of you will keep one million each.”
“I’m down a million in boats and three friends. A million won’t do it.”
Lightning crackles across the sky. Thunder hammers right behind it.
“A pity, yes, but as you said, Anne, it requires an abundance of capital to run a thousand-man camp.”
“Dope, skeletons, and body parts doesn’t turn a wee profit?”
“Cocaine, unfortunately, is in substantial oversupply. Flesh and bone, in all its varying forms, remains profitable”—Piccard nods inland—“but not without substantial costs.”
“So the Gryphon has to steal from me?”
“Would you care to discuss it in the monastery? I can arrange it.”
Anne doesn’t answer.
“As I thought.” Piccard points at me. “On to the arrangements, Mr. Owens.”
“What?” My lips are mouthing every Flyers mantra I know. “Not arranging shit till Susie’s on this boat.”
Piccard looks at Susie again. Three red dots dance on h
er chest. “As you wish. I will step off with my companions.” Piccard motions a Tonton to board, then stands, walks to the pontoon’s railing, and is helped aboard a gunboat.
The Tonton unlocks all but one of Susie’s arm and leg restraints, then jumps back aboard his gunboat. Both gunboats back away from Susie’s pontoon boat and block the bayou’s exit.
Piccard says, “The key for her final lock is on the ring in the ignition, out of her reach.”
Anne reverses the Esmeralda toward the pontoon boat. “Careful, Bill. No tellin’ what Susie’s seen of late. And don’t tell her Siri’s dead.”
I drop the hammer on the .45, pull the bowl key from my sock, sidestep to Anne, and wrap her arm with my hand. “Take this.”
She does, then pulls us broadside to the pontoon boat. I jump onto its deck.
Susie’s eyes are straight down at the table. She doesn’t speak. Her hands are fists, the knuckles bloody and scabbed.
“It’s me, Bill Owens. Say something.”
Her posture stays rigid. She smells like triage—blood, antiseptic, dirt. I grab the keys from the ignition. Unlock her last restraint.
“Can you travel?”
Susie bends only her neck. Her eyes lock mine and shock me backward. Susie starts to say something but doesn’t.
“Did you hear what Piccard said? We can get out.”
Susie nods an inch. Her lips peel across bloody teeth.
Anne says, “C’mon, Susie, stand up, get aboard; only the here and now. Get aboard and we’ll be gone.”
Susie doesn’t move. I reach for her. She jolts.
“Easy.” I pat the air between us with the grenade. “We’re leaving. You gotta get aboard Anne’s boat.”
Susie breathes through her teeth. She stands, unsteady, swivels her head to the Tontons, then fixes on Piccard, and says, “Give me the grenade.”
Anne shouts, “No! We’ll not have that, Susie. Get aboard.”
Susie swivels her head to me and holds out her hand. The red dots dance on her chest.
I say, “Happy to, but we gotta get aboard first. I’m gonna do that now; you follow me.”
Piccard is twenty feet away. He says, “Not until you’ve told me the gold’s location. It will be where my pilot flies and nowhere else.”
“Pétion-Ville, then Boutiliers, or maybe Fort Jacques.”
Piccard grins. “The observatory.” Then shakes one finger. “No, not built until 1981. Fort Jacques.”
I cut to Susie. “The train’s leaving. Only way you get to kill this asshole is get aboard the Esmeralda.”
Susie stares at Piccard, then me, then steps between us like she might dive in the water to get at him.
“Don’t, goddammit. We came a long way to save you.”
Anne’s voice behind me: “Sail together; finish together.”
Susie stops. Eyes narrow, teeth bit, she tells Piccard: “Cyril and Tommy are waiting,” then climbs over the Esmeralda’s black gunwale.
I step to follow and the red dots dance on my chest. Piccard says, “Stop. Stand down, Mr. Owens, or we will put you down.”
I stop mid-step, change sweaty hands with the grenade, and cut to Anne. She cants her head at the entrance to Monastery Dimanche. “Stayin’ here with Piccard wouldn’t be a future I’d choose.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely. Plan B. Tell me how we make that happen.”
“Can’t say as I know. If you can scoot a bit closer, dive aboard and we’ll see how the chips fall.”
Piccard’s gunboat reverses its engines and adds distance from my grenade. He shouts: “Dead or alive, Mr. Owens stays. If your women do not betray us a second time, all will be well.”
Anne eyes our situation, palms her pistol, but doesn’t change her offer. “If it were me, William, I’d rather die out here.”
“No shit.” I suck a big breath and squeeze the grenade. The red dots feel like bullets that have already hit. “Work some magic. Don’t think the dive will work.”
Susie rams a fresh magazine into my AK and racks the bolt. Anne shouts at me loud enough for Piccard to hear, “Susie’s gonna shoot Piccard. You dive when she fires.”
Piccard says, “Unnecessary. We want only the gold. You all have a way to survive. Mr. Owens will trust us—we will trust you.”
Susie shoulders the AK, says: “In the water, Bill—”
Bullets rake the pontoon deck between us. I block shards from my face. Fight or flee—both are suicide. Heart rate at five hundred . . . I stutter-step, do suicide’s moment of clarity, and don’t dive.
My hand shows Susie the grenade. “Can do it right now, out here. Or inside the monastery—three seconds and it’s over either way. Might as well run the fucking race.”
Susie glances me; so does Anne.
“Find the gold; we all live happy ever after. Flyers win the Stanley Cup.”
Susie shouts, “No! Nobody goes back in there.”
“I hear you. I surely fucking do. But my way’s the only decent bet on the board that doesn’t guarantee we’re dead. Keep your shit together, I’ll try to do the same. You and Anne get us the last furlong, and we’re in the hall of fame.”
Anne shouts, “Five years, Susie. Don’t kill us. We’ve got the bastards beat and a man willin’ to buy us the bullets.”
Susie’s eyes cut to me.
“My turn,” I say. “Hate it all fucking day, but it couldn’t be any plainer. Anne saved me from a Port-au-Prince prison. You saved me in Chicago or these bastards would already have me.” I show her the grenade. “I got this. Go get us the gold.”
Monastery Dimanche
Chapter 27
Bill Owens
I’m on the seawall dock, surrounded. Fifty face-painted Tontons split to make a narrow path for Piccard and me. They stink of jungle. Sweat drenches my face, arms, and hands. Five gunmen separate from the others. They walk with Piccard and me onto a wide cobbled carriageway, toward a hole in the tree line. Two Tontons with torches front the dark hole.
This would be the monks’ once-palatial entry to Monastery Dimanche, now overgrown by a living rib cage of dense strangler vines slick with swamp rot.
The torchmen lead us in. The carriageway worms through the vines and fetid air, then dips and rises through a watery tidal pit, and finally ends at tall rusted iron gates. Roots and leech trails crawl the cut-stone gateway and battlements. The gates are held open by eight hollow-eyed Tontons wearing sleeveless, tattered sport coats and bright pants of different colors. Each Tonton is armed with an AK-47 and belted machete. Wood smoke rises from somewhere behind them.
My M67 grenade is my business card, rosary, and exit visa. The grenade is a one-pound baseball-shaped death machine that will kill everyone within fifteen feet of me, but most importantly, it will kill me.
Piccard waves me to follow him through the gates. My feet move but not forward. If Anne’s correct, three centuries ago Monastery Dimanche was sucked under the ocean by an earthquake. But now it’s here, resurrected. A ghost ship of stone. My fingers ache around the grenade. Night terrors crawl my neck. This would be a real good spot to call it a lifetime.
***
Cranston Piccard and I sit fifteen feet apart in flickering candlelight. We’re at opposite ends of a long granite-slab table that might have been an altar in this low-ceilinged hall. Burned incense masks the stink of jungle. Every sound we make echoes once.
Two black women stand behind Piccard. The walls around us are thick and heavy, too heavy for swamp ground. The cut-stone blocks reek of colonial hubris, slave ships, and slave labor. And madness. Centuries of cruelty, obedience, and penance that madmen committed to forge the one true way. Terrible things have happened here, beyond what horrors Siri understood about the other forts, things I can feel on my skin but could never explain.
To Piccard’s right are four large square openings cu
t through the stone wall. The openings overlook a courtyard paved in ship’s ballast and surrounded by mangroves that intertwine in odd, tortured roils. A deep firepit burns at the courtyard’s center. Flames flicker above the pit’s lip, and the mangroves rattle in the wind. Faces balloon forward from behind the tangled branches, then recede.
Piccard studies me with pig eyes. His face is gaunt, yellowish; his neck a thin tube. His trademark white suit is soiled in places; one cuff is frayed. He points a finger that is mostly bone at a high shelf that runs the length of the wall above the openings, and says, “The monastery’s entire complement of French Corsican monks drowned in the earthquake. As did the slave children the good friars were in Haiti to save. The children’s skulls line the ledge above you.” He waits for me to look, then lifts a bottle of Barbancourt. “Another, Mr. Owens? Keep that hand steady?”
I glance at the grenade. “I was drinking Barbancourt the night you fucked us at the Oloffson Hotel. Anne says you’re CIA. Were you doing CIA business that night? Or your own?”
The black woman standing to Piccard’s right grips the Barbancourt bottle, brings it to my end of the table, and fills my glass. She’s feminine in her movements, but large like a man. And her face is wrong, sort of . . . H. G. Wells and The Island of Dr. Moreau.
Piccard smiles. “Ah, the Oloffson. By now, the remaining Witches of Eastwick are near there in Pétion-Ville. Should they betray our arrangement, we’ll know shortly.”
I stare at the black woman, then Piccard. “If Susie betrayed you once like you said, why would twice be a surprise?”
He nods his narrow neck. “Susie was not her name when I first worked with her . . . at Sheberghan, then Abu Ghraib, and Guantanamo.”
“You and Susie worked together? Doing what?”
“The king’s business, Mr. Owens. The waging of the Western way.”
I flash on the gibbets, the rags I thought could be keffiyehs. “You’re not saying ‘detainees’ from those camps were sent here?”
“My, is that indignation for our monastery? There is a network of ‘heres’ across the globe—Egypt, Uzbekistan, Djibouti, Haiti, Poland among them—that the high-minded choose not to see. ‘Extraordinary rendition’ is the operative term, when used by the dignified men who authorize such responses. Men who keep Main Street safe.”
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