Dust Up: A Thriller (Doyle Carrick)

by Jon McGoran

  I gave it some gas, then a little more, watching in my rearview as they receded behind us.

  When we were a hundred yards away, Miriam turned in her seat and looked out the back window.

  She shook her head, her face regaining some of the same bleak resignation I’d seen earlier. “They’re going to kill us all,” she said. “And then they’re going to do whatever else they want.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” I said. “But we need to get you someplace safe.” I turned to Regi. “And you have to get word to President Cardon. We have to let him know what’s happening.”

  “I’ve been trying. I can’t get through to him.”

  We were driving back through Limonade. Police were everywhere.

  “You have to try harder. By the looks of it, Ducroix might already be making his move.”

  He took out his phone and called Chantale again. This time, his voice was sharp, hard. Each time Chantale spoke, he would reply with a sharp “No!” continuing on more insistently than before. They went back and forth four or five times, and then suddenly he stopped. “Allo? Allo? Chantale?” He put the phone down, stunned. “She hung up on me.”

  “Where are they?”

  “She said he was in Plaisance.”

  “Where is that?”

  “It’s not too far, maybe an hour. I used to go there in the summer as a child. That’s how I know Cardon. But she wouldn’t say where in Plaisance he was or why he was there. And she wouldn’t even agree to give him my message. She didn’t sound right.”

  “We might have to just go there and find him. Is Plaisance a big city? A little village? Would he be hard to find there?”

  He shook his head. “It’s a quarter of the size of Cap-Haïtien, not big but not so small, either. Still, he is the president, so unless he is hiding, we should be able to find him. I don’t know if he will agree to see me.”

  “You’re going to have to insist. Can Miriam stay at your place while we’re gone?”

  He looked at her. “Of course.”

  “I don’t need to stay hidden,” she protested. “I’m in this at least as much as you two.”

  We were just entering Cap-Haïtien when Regi’s phone rang. He scrambled to get it out of his pocket and answer it, “Allo?… Allo, Chantale,” a tiny bit of relief softening his face. It didn’t last long. As the conversation went briefly back and forth, the life drained from his face. He thanked her quietly and let the phone fall away from his face.

  “That was Chantale. Her personal phone. She thinks Cardon is in hiding. Ducroix and his men are searching for him.”

  “What does that mean?” Miriam asked. “Are we too late? Has there already been a coup?”

  He looked at me. “I don’t know. If they don’t have him, they haven’t arrested him. He is still the president. But if he is out of the capital, they might just say he has been deposed.”

  “The trade vote is tomorrow, right?” I said. “Surely they wouldn’t stage a coup right beforehand. The vote would have no legitimacy.”

  Regi thought for a moment. “It would be brazen. But I don’t know if they wouldn’t still try it.”

  I drove faster. “We need to get the word out about all this. We need to tell the world about Energene’s plan, and about Ducroix, not just the coup but about Gaden and Saint Benezet. And we need to get word about it to Cardon, as well. It will have more impact coming from him. Maybe enough to get the international community involved. That might be enough to stop it.”

  As we pulled up in front of his house, Regi snapped his fingers. “I think I know where he is.”

  67

  “There are ruins of an old fort in the mountains not far from Plaisance, near where Cardon used to live. We often went there in the summer, and he would go on and on about the thick walls, the elaborate secret tunnels, how the position was so defensible a small force could hold off a much larger one. Even as an adult, he has mentioned it. If he and his guard were nearby and under siege, I bet that’s where he would go.” He looked at us both. “I must go there immediately. And I should go alone. I know the area well, and you will just draw attention.”

  I gestured to the Jeep parked up the street. “There’s a rifle in the Jeep, and a pistol. You should take one of them with you.”

  He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know what to do with them. But it’s getting dangerous around here, so you should keep them close.” He gave me a set of keys. “More important, you should stay out of sight. Take Miriam to Elena’s—there’s room for both of you. And stay indoors.”

  “We need to get word out,” Miriam said.

  “We’ll get the word out,” I told her as we got out of the car. “But first we need to get off the street. I’m just going to grab the guns from the Jeep.”

  Guns complicated things, usually more than expected, but Regi was right—it was getting dangerous. I ran up the street to the Jeep, and as I was reaching for the gun under the seat, I heard vehicles approaching. Something about the sound made me pause, made me stay low and dip my head down. Two white police SUVs came around the corner, fast.

  Regi and Miriam stepped backward, toward the house, but it was too late. The SUVs pulled up on either side of them. Each had a large red shield insignia on the side, a cheetah underneath the scales of justice and the letters DCPJ. Around the border were the words DIRECTION CENTRALE DE LA POLICE JUDICIAIRE. The Judicial Police. Two pairs of officers jumped out. They were heavily armed but wore crisp white shirts instead of fatigues.

  Regi lifted one hand slightly in my direction, patting the air without looking at me, urging me to stay put. Miriam’s eyes went wide, and she turned to look at me imploringly.

  As the police walked up to them, the tallest one took out a piece of paper, presumably an arrest warrant, and began reading in Kreyol. Regi replied in a calm tone. The cop ignored him, turning to Miriam instead. This time, I heard him: “Ou se Miriam Hartwell?”

  Regi translated for her—“Are you Miriam Hartwell?”—and she nodded, glancing back at me, worried. I crouched even lower as two officers stepped around behind her and one of them took out handcuffs. Regi stepped in between them, protesting. He held up his government ID, puffing out his chest, and for a moment, it seemed like it might be working. The tall guy with the paper stepped back, and the one with the handcuffs paused. Then the tall one shook his head and held up the second page of the document, which had a photo, presumably of Miriam. He resumed reading. The other one cuffed Miriam, and when Regi protested again, they shoved him out of the way.

  Miriam shook as they led her to one of the vehicles. Regi put his hand on her shoulder, speaking into her ear, translating or just reassuring her. As they placed her inside one of the vehicles, she glanced one last time in my direction.

  I had the handgun in my hand, but there was nothing I could do. The situation was all wrong. They were too far from me, too close to her, and I couldn’t just start shooting police who were executing a legitimate warrant.

  As they closed the door, she called out, “Regi?”

  “Don’t worry, Miriam,” he called back. “We’ll get you out, okay?”

  She gave him a brave nod, then the door closed.

  I’d been so busy and distracted by events in Haiti, I hadn’t had time to think of Mike Warren, but I felt a surge of anger and disgust. Even from thousands of miles away, he still managed to fuck things up.

  The tall cop stepped back in front of Regi, towering over him, and said, “Èske w konnen ki kote Doyle Carrick?”

  I don’t know what it meant, but I recognized my name, and I knew they were looking for me. Regi shook his head.

  For a moment, the cops just stood there, then they got into their vehicles and rumbled down the street.

  When they turned the corner, I emerged from my hiding place.

  Regi didn’t move, just stared after them, his eyes burning with anger and frustration.

  As Miriam’s terrified voice echoed in my mind, I thought about Nola and tried not
to picture her in a similar situation. My stomach clenched tighter.

  Regi’s head finally swiveled in my direction, and we approached each other, meeting in the middle of the street.

  “What did they say?” I asked.

  “They had a warrant for her arrest. An extradition request from the United States. For murder.” He looked up at me. “There was nothing I could do. There was nothing you could do, either.”

  I knew he was right.

  “They asked about you, too,” he said.

  “I heard my name.”

  “You need to be careful while I’m gone.”

  I nodded.

  “We’ll get her out,” he said. “I know people at DCPJ. I’ll call them. The Judicial Police is more independent, not so much under Ducroix’s control. If she’s really wanted for extradition, she’ll be okay. They’ll take good care of her if they’re sending her back to the States.”

  “Even in the middle of a coup?”

  His confidence faltered, but he said, “Yes. Even the bad guys want to stay on the Americans’ good side. She might be safer with them than on the street.”

  Even if that was true, I wasn’t crazy about what would happen to her after extradition, either. I’d have to worry about that later.

  “I’ll call a lawyer too,” he said, “see if I can get her released.” He took out his car keys. “But right now, I need to go. And you need to get off the street.”

  “No. I need to take down Energene.”

  68

  Regi had been skeptical when I told him what I had in mind, and even more so when I said I wanted to ask Toma for help. But his resistance softened when I pointed out that Toma might welcome the chance to get back at the guys who killed Toussaint.

  He left a message on Toma’s voice mail with my phone number, saying it was urgent that he call me. Then he looked up at me. “I can’t guarantee he’ll get back to you.”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t go out on your own,” he said. “I mean it. Not now. It’s too dangerous.”

  I said I wouldn’t, not sure whether I was lying or not.

  He turned to go, then paused. “Thanks for all your help.”

  “You too.”

  “You’re a good friend to Haiti. And to me. Take care of yourself.”

  I felt my throat tighten up. “In a few days, we’ll be at Marcel’s drinking cold beers with Miriam and exaggerating our stories.”

  He smiled. “I will look forward to that.”

  We shook hands, and he left, driving away in Elena’s car.

  As soon as he was gone, I texted Danny. “Do you know anything about an extradition order for Miriam Hartwell?”

  “No. I’ll look into it.”

  Then I called Nola on her phone.

  “Doyle,” she said immediately, like she’d had the phone in her hand already.

  “Hi. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’m stuffed. Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. Where are you?”

  “The Carnegie Deli.”

  “What?” Not what I was expecting.

  “I’ve been here all day. Mikel’s building is around the corner. I left a note at the front desk asking him to meet me here.” She yawned. “I’ve been here for hours.”

  “He might not even be in town.”

  “According to his Twitter feed, he had breakfast here at the deli this morning and gave a talk at a lunch meeting of some green investment group. He’s in town.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “Since noon. The food is really good, but the portions are huge.”

  “What are you going to do if he doesn’t show up?”

  “I don’t know. I guess leave him another note and get a room nearby. Try again in the morning.”

  “You have the files with you?”

  She yawned again. “Yes.”

  “Be careful, babe.”

  “I will. I’ll call you when I hear from him.”

  “Okay. On my cell phone, I guess. I’m getting rid of this one.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve learned a lot since this morning.”

  “What?” She suddenly sounded wide awake. I told her the basics, about Gaden and Saint Benezet, about what was going on with the Soyagene-X, about what Ducroix seemed to be up to. “Jesus, Doyle, that’s horrible. This is … big.”

  “I know. That’s why you need to be careful.”

  “You need to be careful, Doyle. You’re in the middle of all this. You need to get out of there.”

  “I will. I will soon. I just have a couple of things still to do.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  I had told her most of it when the call came in from Toma. I told her I had to go.

  “Be careful, Doyle,” she said. “I love you.”

  “You too, babe. We’ll talk soon.” Then I clicked over, and she was gone. “Hello?” I said, answering the other call.

  “This is the blan?”

  Switching the calls felt like being wrenched from one world into another. “This is Doyle. Is this Toma?”

  “What do you want, blan?”

  I might have overestimated his enthusiasm. It was more like a sullen indifference. But he was nearby, and he agreed to come see me.

  As I waited for him, the sunlight dwindled, and the windows darkened. I practiced with two phones, calling the iPhone from the burner, setting up the interview app to record the conversation. I was surprised it actually worked.

  When Toma arrived ten minutes later, I realized his attitude on the phone could have been intended to hide the stress now etched on his face even more deeply than the day before.

  Heavy is the head that wears the crown, I thought.

  “So tell me again what you need from me,” he said.

  I explained once again what I had in mind, where I needed to go, what I needed in order to do it. He pointed out flaws and suggested fixes.

  When we were done, he summed it up, nodding his head gravely. Then his face cracked, and he let out a short laugh. “You crazy, you know that?”

  I shrugged. I thought it was a decent plan.

  “You have a gun?” he asked.

  I raised my shirt to show him the .45 I’d taken from the Jeep and told him about the M16 that was still wedged behind the seat.

  He nodded. “I’ll get you to the water. You’re on your own after that, right?”

  I nodded. “When can we go?”

  He looked over his shoulder at the window. “It is dark already.”

  I shrugged.

  “You’re in a hurry.”

  I nodded. “That’s right, I am.”

  “It’s more dangerous at night.”

  I shrugged.

  He did too, and a few minutes later, we were crossing the street toward the Jeep. He stopped as we approached it.

  “Is this a police Jeep?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “We stole it.”

  “You stole it?” He snorted. “Who’s we?”

  “Regi and me.”

  “Regi?” He laughed hard at that. “You’re a bad influence on my uncle.” He got into the Jeep and punched me in the shoulder, hard but playful. “I like it, though. It’s good for him.”

  I drove, and Toma directed me, away from the ocean and toward the hills. He rooted around in the Jeep as we drove, finding binoculars, a canteen, and a flashlight. He tried on Officer Turnier’s cap but frowned in the mirror and put it back.

  We made a few detours to avoid roadblocks or protests with piles of burning debris in the middle of the intersection. Toma laughed at those, smiling like it was festive.

  At the edge of the city, he directed me onto the same road up into the mountains that Regi and I had taken to come meet Toma the first time.

  Behind us, the city’s meager lights twinkled in the still-growing darkness. Scattered among the streetlights were smudges of flickering, smoking orange from the fi
res burning in the streets.

  It looked like a place teetering on a knife’s edge, that could go either way at any moment. We turned another switchback, and the city disappeared behind a row of uneven shacks, the streetlights and bonfires replaced by the occasional light of a candle or the dim glow of small electronics in the otherwise darkened windows.

  The solid pavement once again became patched and pockmarked before turning into random chunks of asphalt embedded in hard-packed dirt. The darkness made it even more harrowing as the road dropped any pretense of paving. Before long, we ran out of road entirely.

  “Park here,” Toma said.

  I pulled over to the side of the road, at the same spot where we had encountered Cyrus. The headlights swept out into the dark night over the city before I killed the engine. It crossed my mind that Toma could be luring me to some kind of ambush, but I had called him. I had set this up.

  “I need to pick up some supplies,” he said, studying my face in the dark. I stared back at him, trying to look inscrutable. The .45 was a heavy and comforting presence against my stomach. I made sure my hand stayed close to it as I followed him through the darkness along the same path we had taken before.

  The small cluster of buildings appeared ahead of us, black shapes in the darkness. I could just make out the white chairs on the front porch.

  “Wait here,” Toma said, barely visible beside me. I saw his form pass in front of the white chairs and then disappear inside. A dim light came on, spilling just enough illumination through the doorway that I could see a pair of eyes glaring at me in the darkness. I might have flinched when I saw them, because a white smile opened up underneath them. Then I made out the barrel of a gun, maybe two feet from my head.