by Peg Herring
A small room off the kitchen held two adult-sized beds, an assortment of clothing hung on wooden pegs, and a battered dresser with a pitcher and basin atop it. This room had a door that locked from the inside with a metal latch. The occupants could close themselves in and keep others out.
At the end of the hallway was a second exterior door, even more deteriorated than the other. Opening the loose, rusty handle, Bill leaned out to see a bare yard where two dozen children between three and seven years of age waited in line, silent and wary. On the only tree in sight, a rope swing hung suspended from the single branch sturdy enough to support it. The others watched as the boy who occupied the swing went back and forth, his thin legs pumping. A wide-hipped woman with a turned-down mouth glared at them and at one point spoke in a tone of warning. Though he understood none of the words, Bill deduced from the pantomime she acted out that if the children displeased her, she’d cut the swing down with her knife. There was nothing else in the yard that remotely resembled playground equipment.
Removed some distance from the building was an extended shed with a door hanging crookedly against its frame. When a child hurried inside and closed himself in with a sharp bang, Bill realized it was an outhouse. In his youth he’d heard of one-holers and two-holers. If his guess was accurate, this was a four-holer.
Voices at the front of the house made him turn and retrace his steps. In the hallway he met a second woman, thinner than the other but no happier-looking. She held the door open as a second group of children came inside. These kids were older, perhaps up to age fourteen, and they’d apparently put in a hard day’s work. Most stumbled along as if exhausted; all of them were sweaty and dirty. When the woman saw Bill, she spoke to the children, who trooped obediently into the dormitory rooms, boys to the right and girls to the left.
Approaching, the woman said something in a language Bill didn’t understand. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Do you speak English? English?” She merely glared at him.
He stepped outside, and the woman made no attempt to stop him. There was a dusty street, a couple of huts, and not much else. He had to get help, but where? Was he in Mexico? South America? Somewhere else? Wherever he was, he felt completely isolated.
Turning back to the woman he said, “Please. Get me out of here. Call my friends. They’ll pay you.”
One brow rose in disdain, and she rattled off several sentences, pointing sharply at the room where he’d been sleeping. He got the message. He was confined to quarters.
Sitting on the floor with his feet splayed in front of him, Bill ate the bread and fruit he’d ignored earlier. His stomach called loudly for more food, but no one came to offer anything.
With nothing to do and no one to talk to, the hours passed slowly. One child or another peeked in from time to time, some shyly, some looking mischievous. Most wore T-shirts of adult size, some so long that they looked like dresses. The older boys wore loose shorts and the girls had long skirts that were dirty and ragged around the bottom. Several times Bill tried to entice them to speak, but they glanced nervously down the hallway and disappeared.
The house again went silent, and he heard children’s voices outside. Leaving his room, he looked out the window to find they were clustered in small groups, some watching passers-by, some talking in low tones, and some inventing games that required no equipment. No one approached the swing, where the wide-hipped woman stood like a centurion, forbidding its use. In the kitchen the other woman directed several of the older children with sharp commands as they prepared the evening meal. She glanced at him and then pushed one girl and slapped another in an apparent attempt to make them hurry.
Bill went back to the room. Where was he? How did he get here? Why had someone, presumably the old woman, arranged it? None of those questions had answers he could fathom.
Much later a shy girl brought his dinner, the same three items he’d had earlier. It was hardly enough to keep a man alive, but from her manner he guessed it was the best these people had. Bill thanked her, accompanying his foreign words with gestures so she’d understand. The girl bowed her head in acknowledgement and went on her way.
He heard sounds in the dining area as the children came inside and ate. As soon as they finished, they were sent to the sleeping rooms. Bumps and scrapes sounded from there for a while. Then the sounds quieted, and the night took control.
***
Three of the longest days Bill had ever experienced followed. He spent the first day hoping someone would come and explain what was going on. His stomach growled almost constantly in objection to his meager diet. His rear became numb from sitting on the hard-packed floor. If he left the building no one stopped him, but the half-dozen houses made of scraps of wood and metal were mostly deserted during the day. The few people he met going about their daily tasks smiled and nodded politely. None of them seemed curious about him. None of them spoke English.
On the morning of the second day, Bill started walking downhill, expecting at any moment to be stopped. Though a pack of half-starved dogs followed him hopefully, no one else paid much attention. A half-mile or so down a very rough road, he came to a coffee plantation set on the hillside. Hundreds of plants grew on both sides, their dark green, waxy leaves resembling small Christmas trees. Adult men and women pruned the plants with deft movements. The children from the orphanage gathered up the branches and took them away. This was where the people of the village spent their days.
Bill looked past the plantation, where the road descended even more steeply. Would someone stop him if he tried to continue down the mountainside? Could he manage the rocky descent without hurting himself? How far would he have to walk to get help? In the end, the steep path, the hot sun, the humidity, and self-doubt deterred him. At his age and with the extra forty pounds of fat he carried, it was best to stay where he was. No one had hurt or even bothered him. Aside from being hungry he wasn’t suffering, and he admitted, he was curious about all this. Who were these people, and why had he been brought to this ungodly place?
The children’s caregivers, who were more like guardians than givers of care, frowned whenever he showed his face. The girl who waited on him was sweet, but she answered his questions in her own language, speaking so softly he almost couldn’t hear her. It didn’t matter. He understood nothing of what she said anyway.
Having no other choice, Bill used an outhouse for the first time in his life. He was repulsed by the smell, leery of what might be crawling around in there, and surprised to find there were no partitions between seats. The holes were almost always occupied, so giggling boys sat on either side of him each morning. He was grateful the girls understood he didn’t want their company.
Sometime after noon on the third day, a man approached where Bill sat in a tiny spot of shade beside the front door. He looked like a character from an old movie, a caricature of the Hispanic sleazebag in a white suit no longer white. His hair was greasy and lay in clumps alongside his face, and a well-chewed toothpick hung from one corner of his mouth. None of that mattered when the man greeted him. “Good day, sir. I am Martìn.”
Though the accent was strong, Bill was thrilled to hear English. Rising, he brushed the dirt off his rear, though his clothes were by now past saving. “Thank goodness! I can’t even figure out what language these people are speaking.”
“Creole, sir. Many Haitians prefer it to French.”
So he was in Haiti. A shadow crossed Bill’s mind, but he pushed it away. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on, but I can pay. Just tell me how much it will take to get me home.”
The toothpick shifted to the other side. “You don’t like it here?”
“I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I have...work to get done.”
“The women. They have treated you well?”
“Fine.” He frowned. “There isn’t much here for those kids. Don’t they have school or something?”
His visitor huffed derisively. “Educating these children would be a waste of time a
nd money, my friend. They are trash, collected from city streets after their parents abandon them.” He nodded toward the road. “Here they are taught meaningful work.”
“At the coffee plantation.”
Martìn nodded vigorously. “Work is good. Without it they will become troublemakers, you know?”
Bill shook his head. “The women aren’t exactly kind to them.”
“Here is not like the U.S.A.” He leaned closer, and Bill caught the stink of his suit. “Their job is not to fill their heads with words and numbers. We are preparing them for life.”
Though afraid to ask, Bill had to. “Who do you work for?”
“The Deep and Wide Church of Our Triumphant God,” Martìn said proudly. “We are one hundred percent supported by the congregation of Pastor Yardley Niven.”
Chapter Eighteen
Robin waited the full four days before rescuing Uncle Bill. Though she worried about him, she let anger harden her heart. He had to understand the hopelessness and poverty of the lives of the orphaned children. That was Step One of the KNP.
That didn’t mean she was content with her choice. Sleep came in short snatches, and even then she dreamed terrible scenarios: Bill died of ptomaine from eating local food. The pilot never returned to pick them up. And for some reason, Thomas Wyman appeared in Haiti, his stern face showing disappointment in her behavior.
The last day at evening, she had the man with the Land Rover drive her up the mountain to the orphanage. The two women sat on the ground near the front door, and they looked up without much interest as the engine ground uphill. Walking past them, she found Bill in the orphanage store room, looking listless and depressed. When Robin appeared in the doorway, he gestured at their surroundings. “You wanted me to know about this.”
“Yes.”
He licked his lips. “We ask folks for money to run an orphanage, and this is it.”
She nodded.
“I take it Yardley knows?”
Robin shrugged. “Not how much of the money Martìn keeps for himself, but he knows enough.” She looked around. “He provides no funding for education, barely enough for food and supplies. I guess just keeping these children alive and giving them work to do proves he’s doing God’s will.”
“I should have known,” Bill said. “I should have asked.” He jabbed a bag of what looked like beans with a finger. “These kids work like dogs. They’re fed just enough to keep them able to do what they’re told. They get no medical care, no affection, not even a goddam ball to play with.” His head drooped, and he propped it with a hand. “I’ll never be able to get up on that stage and play kindly old Uncle Bill again.” He met Robin’s gaze. “Unless I do something about this place.”
Robin was relieved, even pleased. Bill was the man she’d hoped he would be, which meant the rest of the plan might work. “In that case,” she asked, “Are you willing to participate in a little benevolent blackmail?”
***
The Deep and Wide Church had its own jet, despite media types who carped about the expense. Niven explained publicly that his ministry required periods of calm with which to commune with God, and what better place was there than a mile above His magnificent creation? Privately he admitted he couldn’t abide sitting next to some overweight mouth-breather or hear someone’s bratty kid whining from the row behind him through an entire flight. The church could afford to spare him the irritations of ordinary travel. And on his own plane he could drink without some old bat giving him dirty looks every time he ordered another round.
When God’s Wings touched down, a single gray Lexus waited on the tarmac near the church’s slot. Uncle Bill leaned against it, his face telegraphing amiability though he wasn’t actually smiling.
Yardley Niven exited first, as he always did. Admirers often showed up to celebrate his return home, and he believed they wanted to see him when the door opened, not some personal assistant. He always appeared surprised to find a fan or two on the tarmac, but he never let on he was disappointed if there was no one waiting. It wouldn’t do to seem taken with his own celebrity.
Today there was only Bill. “Hey, Buddy. Where’d you go last week? The text you sent was pretty vague.”
Bill chuckled. “Met an old girlfriend and we had an interesting week.” He gestured at the car. “I got back just ahead of you, so I thought I’d wait around and give you a lift home.”
“Great.” Niven stopped as the limousine driver got out to open the car door. “Who’s this?”
“I can’t pronounce his name. I’ve just been calling him Charlie, like Charlie Chan.”
When the young Asian man reached out a hand to take the bag Niven carried, he brushed it away. “I’ll keep this one with me. You can see to the rest.”
The chauffeur moved to obey, and Bill nodded at the obviously heavy case. “Is that the take?”
Niven smiled. “It’s a good one too.”
“I guess you’ll claim about a third of it.”
For a moment Niven thought he detected criticism in the tone, but Bill’s expression was as benevolent as ever. “Since when did you care about the business end of things?”
A shake of the head indicated he didn’t. “As long as there’s money for pizza when we’re done.”
Niven laughed with him. “Right. This will definitely build up the pizza fund.”
Bill’s week off must have done him good, because he seemed energized, chatting nonstop as they left the airport. It took some time before Yardley realized they’d made a wrong turn.
“Charlie, or whatever-your-name-is, this isn’t right.”
In answer the driver pulled the privacy window closed. Niven glanced at Bill in consternation and then tried the door handle. It didn’t work.
“Hey! Stop this car right now!” Turning to Bill he asked, “Where did this guy come from?”
“I don’t know, Yard. I called my service and told them what I needed, and he showed up.”
After trying his door handle several more times, Niven reached across Bill and tried his. Same result. “Disabled,” Bill said. “A safety feature for when there are children or drunks in the back.”
Pulling out his phone, Niven pressed several buttons. “It says there’s no signal.”
“He’s equipped the car with some kind of jammer.”
Bill was too calm. The old guy was obviously stunned, emotionally incapable of handling the present emergency. That meant Niven had to take the lead.
But what was the right way to go? Yardley had never been much of a fighter. He couldn’t think of a way to make the driver stop the car. He guessed the purpose of the abduction wasn’t to harm or kill them, or they’d already be hurt or dead. He’d have to depend on his strongest suit: persuasion. Whatever the Asian guy had in mind, Yardley would talk him out of it. When God is your sidekick, you can talk anybody into everything.
When the vehicle finally slowed, they could see rows of storage units through the darkened windows. There were several gentle turns then a sharp one followed by a complete stop. Niven got a glimpse of metal walls before all light was extinguished.
“Where are we?”
“I lost track. Too many turns.”
All was silent for a few minutes, but finally they heard the locks click. The doors opened on either side, and a low mechanical voice ordered them to get out. A large man in dark clothing pushed Niven toward the back of the car, and he felt his way along until several lights came on, illuminating lawn chairs set side by side.
“Sit,” said a mechanical voice.
Niven squinted, but he was unable to penetrate the gloom. Drawing himself up to full height, he spoke in the voice of the old prophets. “Whoever you are, you’d better let us go. I have friends all over this state, and when they hear about this, there’ll be nowhere you can hide!”
Despite the bravado, Niven heard the tremble in his own voice. A third figure had joined the first two. The abduction was well planned, and they were isolated in an unknown spot. Bill had
gone silent beside him, frozen with fear. He’d be no help. Yardley was on his own.
***
“Bubbles.” Spoken in Robin’s deep metallic voice, the name sounded silly, but Hua knew what to do. Approaching first Niven and then Bill, he found their phones and put them into his pocket. Niven made a grab at his, but Cam swatted his hand away.
“I’m warning you, when the friends of the Deep and Wide Church find out—”
Robin stopped Niven with a firm voice. “They aren’t going to find out, Mr. Niven, because you aren’t going to tell them. Now sit down in one of those chairs.”
Bill obeyed immediately, though Niven glared at him. “I’ll never agree—”
“Shut up.”
It had been so long since anyone ordered him to be silent that Niven obeyed out of pure surprise.
“Now sit down, or my men will tie you to the chair.”
Niven glanced at Bill, whose eyes urged cooperation. He sat, his jaw jutting like an angry three-year-old.
“You have been brought here to answer for misrepresenting yourself to the people of your congregation.”
His nostrils flared. “You’re mistaken, sir.”
“No mistake. You’re the worst sort of charlatan, the kind that preys on people to make yourself rich.”
“Those who donate to my causes get a full measure of blessings in return.”
“What blessings?”
“First, they have the peace of knowing they do God’s work.”
“Are you kidding? You spend the money on yourself.”
Niven’s tone turned silky. “My followers don’t mind that I have nice things. They know how hard I work for God’s kingdom on Earth.”
“Your house is the size of Disneyland.”
His chest strained against his silk shirt as he quoted, “Ezekiel 28:4: ‘By your wisdom and by your understanding you have gotten yourself riches, and have gotten gold and silver into your treasures.’”