The Deadly Rose, page 15
part #1 of An Assassin's Tale Series
Marie-Anne tapped into her endless reserve of tears. She reminisced how the three of them were always together on the weekends, catching a movie at the Rex, and then going for ice cream at Chez Tony’s. Marcel liked chocolate with peanut shavings; she and Grimo preferred vanilla with rainbow sprinkles. Cones in hand, they would walk the short stroll to Champs de Mars laughing and joking like many teenagers do. Sitting near one of the statues of the Haitian heroes, they would watch young men trying to slip chaperoned young women letters of poetic love, families taking their ritual Sunday-night promenades, and groups of youth congregating for intellectual debates that never seemed to end.
It was during one of these outings that Marie-Anne discovered her friends were more than friends. It was the way they interacted, like a key to a lock. Marcel was open with his affections. Grimo was never comfortable with his true self, especially not in public.
Grimo’s face was contorted; he was stricken and angry. The only way he could describe his feelings was as if someone maliciously pulled open the scab of his healing wound. He looked at the political actors dabbing their eyes, in line to give their inflated sympathies to the general and his wife. Yet, they never forgot to look around for the cameras of the press.
He inched closer up the line with Marie-Anne closely clinging to his arm. The general kept his face stern and straight where he sat with wife. His dark glasses were hiding his tired, weary red eyes. Grimo felt sad for the man. He remembered how the general doted over his only son and heir.
He felt darkness touch him as the obvious dawned in his mind—Marcel would never again fret over his careless adventures or give him the closeness he had never shared with anyone else. The unseen tears flowed behind his dry eyes, but his pain was real. Death was always a sweet feeling to The Little Rose, but to Grimo, it tasted bitter. It was his Marcel that died, who was murdered and mutilated.
Finally, standing in front of the general and his wife, Grimo leaned down and kissed the hand of Mrs. St. Louis, then sidestepped and shook the general’s hand. The handshake turned into a grip as the general pulled him down and whispered into his ear.
“Vile dog, you ruined my son.” The general’s stern face turned into a menacing fold resembling a crumpled piece of paper. His grip was like a vice with crushing intent.
Grimo walked away dazed and left Marie-Anne behind. She scurried after him, nearly breaking her ankle on the rock-filled roadway.
“What did he say to you?”
The footballer looked off into the distance, his mind was a sudden blank. He felt like a kite floating carelessly, catching the different current of wind in the Haitian skies.
“What did he say?” Marie-Anne insisted.
“Nothing but good things about our friendship, you know, Marcel and I.”
“So why have you lost your color?”
“It’s nothing,” Grimo said with a tightness in his throat. He could hear Marcel’s last words: “He knows about us.” The general, Grimo realized, was now his enemy.
Marie-Anne sucked her teeth in a knowing way and held on to his arm as they walked toward the waiting car. She rested her head on his shoulder as they walked, feeling the anguish and stiffness of his body. She couldn’t imagine his emotions; losing your first love to death must be worse than having them stolen by someone else. Death was final, dismissing any possibility of jealous stares.
CHAPTER 12
The night was sparkling dark with stars winking as if they held secrets to the Haitian experience and dared anyone to force them to talk. There were those who claimed to have such powers, but they were always exposed as charlatans who hid behind a veil that defiled the ancient Haitian religion with theatrical flair.
Grimo climbed out of his second-floor window, knowing the stars did not lie—you just had to be able to read them as a ship’s captain would for navigation. He would always consult the skies. for the skies did not lie. Tonight, The Little Rose did not care for heavenly guidance; the devil was his captain.
It was close to midnight going into Monday morning. His face was painted black, and he sported a matching shirt and pants. On his feet he wore well-worn black leather shoes; soft and silent as sneakers. His pants were tied at the ankles. A dark red handkerchief covered his head.
He climbed onto the roof and sat perched listening, tasting, and feeling his environment like a great cat with his mane ruffled by the island breeze. Moving in silence, he was trying to evade his uncle’s men. They were well hidden, though his expert eyes were already able to locate two.
If his uncle was right about Millard Le Beast, these men were gnats to be swatted by that butcher, and they would only get in his way. Tonight, his vengeful heart was propelling him toward his target, and he didn’t care that his emotions were involved. He needed blood like a pup needs its mother’s tit. He did not care if this was his last night. He had said his prayers to the gods and the Almighty for safe passage should he face Ghede, god of the dead, by night’s end.
With the Fornicator and the nameless blade at his side, and a short machete secured to his back, he disappeared into the night, propelled by rage. If the night could speak it would whisper, “Let us pray; death has come to the valley. Careful where you walk.”
The streets were silent and empty. The rebellious drums would soon take life as Monday morning would blossom. He ventured to the cemetery, within a short jogging distance, to claim his Suzuki. The cemetery was full of activity, those who desired to revive the dead for servitude as zombies. He visited Marcel’s grave and spent a short moment with his arms wrapped around the tombstone. Those at the cemetery who saw him quickly distanced themselves. Even those with the devil’s backing knew to part as the Red Sea when Death came walking.
Propelling the motorbike toward his destination, Grimo remained numb to his surroundings, ignoring the breeze and bugs that crashed onto his face. It was as if his blood was running cold through his veins. He made his way up toward the exclusive section of Kenscoff.
He climbed the mountain in silence and on foot, propelled by his vengeful anger. The streets were dark and silent. Even the dogs cowered to the calm of the night and kept silent.
Watching as a cat would a mouse, Grimo’s light eyes followed the two guards that were minutes away from their end. He was crouched behind some bushes. The guard count was six and paired up, making it easy for him. He suspected more guards were inside. This night would be bloody, he thought to himself.
“Patience is how the cat catches the mice,” he remembered his uncle saying, teaching him the philosophy of life and murder. He waited for the guards to walk farther away before he broke cover. They were making sluggish rounds brought on by the coolness of the mountains of Kenscoff. He suspected they were walking more to stay warm than to patrol.
He could not clearly see how they were armed and didn’t care. He wanted blood. Tonight he had the satiety of a miser in a money pit. He visualized how the two guards would fall and waited for them in the shadow of the mountainside home that was beautifully fashioned with bricks and stones. It was called Chateau in the Sky, a large home by Haitian standards. It was built a long time ago by a wealthy Frenchman who prided himself on being closer to God during his weekend retreats. This was his way of getting away from the mere mortals who trudged through the city below.
The unsuspecting guards sluggishly walked within inches of the assassin. The night was silent and unwilling to call out a warning as Grimo’s combat machete came in a whisper, slicing air and neck, feeding his thirst. Both guards’ bloody necks screamed with gargled syllables too muted to warn anyone but themselves that death had arrived. Grimo was already gone by the time the death gurgle foamed out of their dead mouths.
Six men were dead by the time the assassin found himself on the ledge of the second floor. He could hear soft movement inside. The amount of guards on the property was no surprise. The epidemic of murders and assassinations was sufficient reason. Grimo was sure they did not expect a homicidal champion footballer filled with rage.
After easing himself into a bedroom, he opened the door with delicate skills. The guards were downstairs and posted near the doors. The guard near the front door had his eyes halfway closed when Grimo plucked out his windpipe and eased him to the ground. The other guard was less of a challenge; he was snoring, asleep in a chair near the rear entrance.
The man guarding the rear door remained the same in death as he was in life, except he no longer snored. Grimo stayed still, next to the dead man, taking in the silence. He could hear his own heart pounding like a racehorse ready to speed past the starting line.
He climbed the stairs; his rage mixed with apprehension. His muscles were tense, but the devil kept his legs moving. Rage was not a strong enough word to describe his mental being. He recalled in his old neighborhood, the slums of Poste Marchant, a father, after burying his child who died of an empty stomach, screamed with rage at the injustice of poverty while the rich danced and partied at the elite club, Cabane Choucoune, tossing their scraps to stray dogs. He begged for a bullet but even that he could not afford. So God gave him peace in a Bible, and he later became a pastor.
This night belonged to the devil, for Grimo’s ecclesiastic intervention did not come. God must have turned a blind eye, Grimo thought, as he opened the old door, which creaked. The room was well lit by two kerosene lamps. He sneaked in and walked around the bed as if a silent ghost. Then eased away a pistol sitting on the nightstand, placed it on the floor, then pushed it under the bed with his foot.
A second gun was under the pillow of General St. Louis.
Grimo stood watching the general sleeping as content as a kitten. He shook his head, imagining how a feared general was afraid of the dark. He always slept with his lamps on. The general was alone, a happy relief for the assassin. A mother should not both lose a son and watch her spouse die.
Human behavior was sometimes so predictable, Grimo thought. He knew exactly where to find the general. He was too grief stricken to sleep at his home in Turgeau. His wife probably sought the comfort of her family, and the stubborn old man preferred to be alone.
Staring at the sleeping man, Grimo felt drained and weak, as if someone or something was sucking his energy. His head sagged, and his rage ebbed. He turned around and went to the window pulling himself up to leave, then he remembered Marcel lying half dead in his hands, saying, “He knows about us, he knows about us.”
Grimo looked back at the old man sleeping, wrapped in a comfortable white sheet that was imported from some foreign luxury store. The footballer’s face took on a ravenous look of a predator about to attack. He turned back around and walked over to the bed. His heart was pounding, causing his ears to ring. He paused with hesitation. The devil was at play and kept him from walking away.
Grabbing hold of the bedsheet, Grimo gave it a violent tug that sent General St. Louis, retired, tumbling to the ground. The general sat up dazed. “What’s going on?” he demanded with the authority of a man habitually in charge.
“Why did you do it?”
“Pierre-André, is that you?” The general’s vision had cleared, and he was looking at a devilish man all in black with evidence of blood everywhere. He knew the voice. He eased himself onto the bed; frailty of age was beginning to show. His hair, what was left of it, was pointing in different directions, as if a grenade landed in the center of his head, demolishing all hair at the point of impact.
“Why did you do it?”
“How dare you come to my house with demands!”
The general didn’t get to finish what he was about to say. Grimo had walked the short distance and smacked the old man with the knuckle side of his hand. The general fell back onto the bed. His face turned red hot.
“Serge!” he called out as the ringing in his ears caused him to be dizzy.
Grimo climbed the bed like a lazy predator cat about to take hold of an injured prey. He settled on top of the general.
“Serge is sleeping. I don’t think he will wake up.” His knife was pressed hard against the old man’s ivory neck. The old neck sagged around the knife.
“Tell me why you did it,” the footballer demanded as drool dripped out of his mouth.
“My son needed to be free of your vile, ungodly ways.”
“You old fool, you killed Marcel.”
“It was supposed to be you.”
“The beast you unleashed killed Marcel and many innocents.”
“Get off of me, you vile piece of trash,” the general spat.
“How did Marcel know it was you who sent this beast?”
“He knew?” the general said as if a man on the verge of tears.
“How did he know?” Grimo pressed with the knife.
“I confronted him a month ago.”
“Marcel had his entire life ahead of him, and you killed him.”
“Get off of me, pederast,” the general said and reached for his gun under the pillow.
Rage pulsed through Grimo’s heart, and his eyes changed to a darker hue. His mouth was drooling like a mad dog, and his neck vessels were throbbing. It felt as if all the gods had taken control of him, tugging in every direction, leaving little control for himself. The Petro gods were dominating him, a violent breed who gave no ear to reason, desperation, or the pleading of the weak. They only marched in one direction: forward.
The nameless knife sliced slow and deep as the general’s finger touched the cold steel of the gun. The touch of the steel gave no comfort to the dying old man who opened his mouth to say his last words on earth and uttered, “Mon fils n’est pas un pédé.” His son was not a faggot.
In true form of the bourgeois, he spoke in the French just like his ancestors who had the privilege of a Parisian education. Those words were his only comfort as his eyes, turning up to the heavens, danced to the drums of death.
“Marcel was not a faggot. He was your loving son; he loved me, and I loved him,” Grimo said and immediately realized it was the first time he openly said he loved Marcel. He was ashamed. He looked at the old man whose mouth remained open after uttering his last word. He gently closed the general’s mouth, but it was determined to stay open as if an act of defiance, even in death.
Grimo rolled off of the dead general with his hands bloody. Killing was always such a joy. He felt exhausted, drained, and repulsed. He sat at the edge of the bed with his head dangling on his chest. His fist continued to squeeze the nameless knife, feeling his nails digging into his palm.
The general had once treated him like a son, dispensing advice and assets, talking to key people who would grant Grimo access to the elite soccer clubs. It was with the help of General St. Louis that Pierre-André became Grimo Le Champion. The assassin felt his spirit sag as he thought of the past few days. Life was like politics; a dream, a nightmare, and a pain in the ass.
“Bravo, bravo.”
Grimo jumped to his feet taking a defensive stance. He had pulled out the combat machete with lightning speed. Its blade had dried blood from the tip to the midpoint. It was well balanced in his hand tucked close to his elbow with the blade facing out, making it look like the hand of a praying mantis. He could use this position for defense or offense. A nameless knife in one hand and a machete in the other, he was ready for battle.
At the doorway stood Millard Le Beast, bare-chested and with the smile that would fit on the face of an accuser at the execution. In his hand was his executioner’s tool: The combat machete hung loosely as if bait for his victims. His stare was long and inquisitive. He broke his silence with that annoying childish laugh and said, “The Little Rose, a bloody artist.”
It enraged Grimo who was already heading for a frontal assault at the pestilence. He engaged the beast with a brutal combination of kicks and machete slashes which connected with the fast and agile beast. The gods had abandoned him so he was left with his rage.
Millard Le Beast defended himself with ease and precision as if playing. He countered and Grimo was pressed to keep up with the man’s speed and strength. The fight went from the bedroom to the hallway and back to the bedroom. Both machetes were singing in the air, hungry for the taste of blood. In the lull of the fight, as both men tired, they were entangled so close that one’s outstretched tongue could taste the sweat from his opponent.
Grimo got in a massive kick that buckled Millard’s leg. He came down slashing for Millard’s neck. Millard was fast and came up with his sharp blade cutting the footballer in the arm near the armpit, then came down with a massive blow to try to sever the arm. The footballer screamed in pain and twisted out of the way just in time. The wound was far from superficial and the footballer could feel his blood flowing warm down his arm. Numbness was crawling up the arm, and he was already feeling faint.
He pressed Millard with several thrusts of the blade and nicked his ear. The beast let out a shout that was more of a childlike laugh, despite the very adult pain registering on his face. Grimo continued to swing his blade, but his strength was waning, and his blade no longer sang with rage.
The beast was coming in for the kill. Grimo’s back was to the bed, and he fought off a few slashes as best he could and got another cut to his bicep. Millard Le Beast was laughing, satisfied he would add another notch to his belt of kills. He could tell the footballer was getting weaker and went for the coup de grâce.
The blade screamed through the air as if a plane dive-bombing. Grimo saw it coming and moved in close to the beast, grabbing his hand before the machete built enough momentum, avoiding the banana death. He then rolled away and landed on the bed. Not ready to die, he yanked out the Fornicator and fired just as Millard Le Beast was coming down for a head-splitting cut.
The bullet hit Millard in the leg, and he let out a loud, wounded laugh before screaming in pain. His blade went wide from the gunshot and hit the pistol out of Grimo’s hand. The blade was angled and just missed severing several fingers.
Millard was on the floor holding his injured leg, but was determined to finish off his opponent and was making his way back, dragging his injured leg. He used the machete as a cane to pull himself up and buckled as pain made him shout out a girlish scream.
