Wolf Mountain, page 11
Bateau closed the door behind them. The walls were covered with pictures of saints. The tables were covered with statues, dolls, wooden crosses, and bones. “I got good shit for you,” Bateau said. “What you want? Cocaine? Heroine?”
Asher produced a twenty dollar bill from his pocket and held it in front of Bateau. “Information.”
Bateau’s expression turned hateful as he looked Asher up and down. “You a cop?”
“No.” Asher kept his tone businesslike. “And I don’t work for the CIA, FBI, ATF or any other law enforcement agency. I’m a reporter. I’m looking for information about Henri Christophe.”
Bateau’s eyes widened. “Le Diable?” The corners of his mouth drew down into an angry scowl. “No! Get out of here.”
Asher extended the twenty dollar bill closer to Bateau. “Why are you so scared of him?”
Bateau looked around for a moment like a caged animal. Then, he bared his horrid toothless mouth at Asher and, with a grunt, shoved him as hard as he could. Asher was knocked off balance. He stumbled backwards, tripped, and fell against a small table. Its little icons stabbed him in the back as he fell on it and it gave out beneath him. He landed on the filthy floor. As he struggled back to his feet he saw Bateau reach under his mattress, pull out a machete, and lunge for him.
This is how I’m going to die, Asher thought. The scarecrow, holding his machete over his head, seemed frozen for an instant. Asher thought:This is it. Killed by a machete in a garbage dump in Haiti. He felt strangely peaceful about it.
Then there was a deafening explosion. Bateau froze. Saint-Fort had fired his pistol into the floor. Now he had it pointing at Bateau’s head. Outside, he heard a woman scream...but that was it. No commotion. Not in Cité Soleil.
Bateau looked at Saint-Fort with inhuman hatred. He muttered something in Creole that Asher assumed was a curse.
“Drop it,” Saint-Fort said. He sounded almost bored. “The world won’t be any worse for your loss.”
With a snarl, Bateau let the machete fall. Saint-Fort took a quick step toward him, raised the gun, and brought it crashing down on his head. Bateau screamed in pain and fell backwards on the bed. He lay there, holding his head and whimpering in Creole. Asher had no idea what he was saying but he was sure that he had switched gears from playing the “terrifying menace” to “helpless victim.” Criminals were so predictable—especially addicts.
“Shut up.” Saint-Fort grabbed Bateau by the shirt and pulled him into a sitting position. Blood ran down his forehead.
Asher got to his feet and asked: “Did you turn in Henri Christophe?”
“No,” Bateau screamed. He rattled on in Creole.
“Speak English!”
“I didn’t! I swear!”
Saint-Fort backhanded him across the face. “Liar.”
Bateau screamed again. “No! S’il vous plait!”
“Who turned inle Diable?” Saint-Fort held the gun to his head.
“There were four of us.”
“Who?”
“Seydou Marchand.”
“He’s dead. Who else?”
“Matthieu Landry.”
Saint-Fort cocked the gun. “He’salso dead. Now, who else?”
Bateau held up his hands and cried out. “Please! I tell you!”
“We’re listening,” Asher said.
Asher and Saint-Fort took a step back. Saint-Fort uncocked the revolver and let it rest by his side. Bateau held onto his head. “You don’t know whatle Diablewas like.” He grabbed a dirty T-shirt from the floor and used it to staunch the flow of blood from his head. “He wasun bête. An animal.”
“Heis an animal,” Saint-Fort corrected. “He’s still alive.”
Bateau looked down at his bloody hands. “God help me.”
Asher asked: “How was he arrested?”
Bateau shook his head. “You don’t understand, man. At first, it was just about money. We all have to eat. What are we supposed to do? There’s no money in Haiti. We made good money withle Diable. But then he changed.” Despite the heat, Asher saw Bateau shiver. “He wanted to hurt people. I mean, you always got to hurt people. They need to fear you so they don’t mess with you.”
“Oh, of course,” Asher said, knowing his sarcasm would be lost.
“Butle Diable wanted more than that. He killed people. Tortured them. Men, women, children—he didn’t care. He didn’t even care about money anymore. We were making good business. All the other gangs were afraid of us. But he don’t care. He rather hurt people than make money. Bad for business.”
“So what happened?”
“It got too much for the cops to ignore. Our man on the police say he wouldn’t allow it anymore.”
Asher put up his hand. “Wait a minute. You had a guy on the police force?”
Bateau snorted as though this were the dumbest question in the world. “Sure we do. Everyone does.”
“What is his name?”
“Prideaux. Jean Prideux. He said he wouldn’t put up with it anymore. He met with some of us.”
“Who?” Saint-Fort said.
“Like I said, there was me, Marchand, Landry, Magloire—”
“Who?”
“Louis Magloire.”
“Where is he?” Asher asked.
“Don’t know, man. Look at me. Look at where I live. I don’t know anything anymore.”
“Okay. This policeman—Prideaux—he meets with you guys and says what?”
“He say thatle Diable out of control. Too much to cover up. Bad for business.”
“So what did you do about it?”
“Prideaux say leadle Diable out into the open. We tell him that Americans want to meet with him about bringing stuff into Miami. He come to the docks. The police there waiting for him.”
“So you ledle Diableinto a trap, he goes to jail, and you guys are left in charge?” Asher said.
Bateau nodded.
“So what happened?”
Bateau stared at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. “What happened? The world ended, that’s what happened. Look around you. I lost my home, my family. I lost everything. Living here now.”
“And you haven’t seenle Diable since?”
Bateau shook his head. “No.”
Asher leaned in as close as the stink would allow. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“That night. He say he get us. He say he know powerfulbocor. He say...” Bateau’s voice trailed away.
Saint-Fort shook him. “What?”
Bateau raised his eyes. “He say he send theloup-garoufor us.”
Asher and Saint-Fort shared a glance. “Let’s get out of here,” Asher said. They backed toward the door. Bateau sat scowling at them.
“You dead!” Bateau shouted after them. “You hear me? Dead!”
Saint-Fort paused in the doorway. “Sounds like you’re the dead man.”
They left.
“What’s abocor?” Asher asked as they walked back through the dump.
“Voodoo man,” Saint-Fort said.
“Like a priest?”
Saint-Fort considered the question. “Not really. A priest is ahoungan. Abocor is more like what you people mean when you say ‘witch-doctor.’”
“Black magic?”
“Basically. What’s the next move?”
“I have to get in touch with this policeman. Prideaux.”
Saint-Fort raised an eyebrow at Asher. “You sure that’s smart, man? You want to make an enemy of the police?”
“It’s what I’ve been doing so far.”
Saint-Fort dropped Asher off at The Oloffson around three in the afternoon. A half-hour of phone calls later, he was finally able to reach inspector Prideaux. “I’m down here doing a story on the problems of law enforcement in Port-au-Prince after the quake. One of my sources referred me to you as one of the best.” A little flattery works wonders.
“Sure.” The voice sounded cultured and delicate. “Come down to the station. I’m here until five.”
“I won’t be able to make it there by then. And I was hoping that we’d get to talk privately. Could we possibly meet for coffee this evening?”
“Just come to my house.”
“That works. What time?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Fine.”
Asher took Prideaux’s address and hung up. Now that the rendezvous was set, he began to second-guess himself. This was a high-ranking police inspector he was going up against. Haiti was notorious for its corruption and the prison facilities were not famous for their hospitality. He would need to be cautious.
Toward evening, Bateau cooked up another shot. He held an old, dirty, bent spoon over a red disposable lighter until its contents liquefied. Placing the tip of a syringe into the liquid he pulled the plunger and sucked it up. He stood next to a small table that held a battery-operated lamp—the only source of artificial light in the shack. Dropping his pants to the floor, he injected himself in his penis.
The sensation didn’t register as pain anymore—he’d done it too many times. He no longer bothered to clean the needle and he ignored the sores on his skin. It wasn’t so much that he’d lost his fear of death—it was more that he was losing his grasp on the concepts of life and death.
He lay back on the bed and let the drug work through him. There was not much left of his precious stash and now each hit was getting progressively less potent. He did feel the familiar sensation of warmth but each time was less powerful than the previous.
How had things gotten this far? The earthquake. He used to have a good position in the Haitian underworld. He made good money and hardly had to work for it. Withle Diable out of the way, he stood to make even more. But the earthquake had destroyed his business along with everything else. It was now being taken over by younger, stronger men. Where was the justice in that?
Bateau felt his sense of reality change. His body began to tingle and vibrate. Waves of euphoria flowed through him. The bed turned into the sea and he fell into it, ethereal waves crashing all around him. He fell out of time. He fell out of space. He fell out of his own body.
He saw other places. He was a child again, playing on the beach. He was a young man having sex in a big house.
Then, unexpectedly, he was back in the shack in Cité Soleil. He sensed another man in the room. “Bateau...” the man whispered. Who was it? He knew that voice. A voice from the past.
“Bateau...” It wasle Diable. Bateau thought he must have traveled back in time to the good old days when he was working for Henri Christophe and the money was good.
“Yes,monseigneur?” Bateau said.
“You have betrayed me.”
Bateau opened his eyes wide. He could seele Diableremarkably clear now, standingthere in the shack. But he was naked. His muscular, tattooed body was clearly illuminated by the bedside lamp. His eyes glowed red. “No,monseigneur. I am loyal.”
Henri le Diable rubbed something all over his naked skin. It was fragrant and looked like oil. It smelled of flowers and herbs. When he was finished, his skin was shiny and it glowed in the lamplight. He stood there like an ebony statue. “No,” his deep, beautiful voice said. “You helped deliver me into the hands of my enemies.”
Bateau’s consciousness began to sharpen. Exactlywhenin time was he now? It couldn’t be the good old days. Not if he were living in Cité Soleil. Henri le Diable shouldn’t be in his shack in Cité Soleil with him—he’d already been arrested. “No,monseigneur. I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.” Was the voice coming fromle Diable or from inside Bateau’s own head. “You are a traitor and now you must pay.”
Bateau somehow managed to prop himself up on his elbows. As he watched,le Diable slowly began to change. His arms grew. His face elongated. His stretched skin grew a thick layer of fur. It was beautiful to behold. When the transformation was complete—hours later, it seemed—the thing that had beenle Diable looked at Bateau with its glowing red eyes. Its mouth drew back to reveal a row of impossibly long teeth. A low growl began in the back of its throat and climaxed in a deafening howl.
The wail gave Bateau a moment of clarity. He remembered his fear of death.
And then the thing leapt.
It takes alot of commotion to alert the neighbors in Cité Soleil—especially in the “poor” section of town. The residents had heard it all and they frequently didn’t get involved.
This was something else however. The sound of Bateau’s screaming could be heard all over the garbage dump. But that wasn’t what attracted the half-dozen men who approached Bateau’s shack. It was the sounds of an animal. Bateau’s screams and pleas for help were accompanied by a deep, bass snarling. Something was in there with him. The men could only make out a great commotion through the slats in the walls, illuminated from within. The shack seemed to glow from inside with supernatural power.
At last, there was a tearing sound. Bateau’s last scream ended in a low, wet gurgle. It sounded like the cry of a drowning man. Then silence. The ring of men looked at each other. “Is that it?” one of them said.
In answer to the question, the door to the shack burst outwards. Splinters of wood shot in all directions as a large gray animal with glowing red eyes leaped at the man who’d spoken. It fastened its jaws around his leg and lifted him off his feet. The man looked like a rag-doll as he was violently shaken. He cried out piteously. The others—men who had seen violence at its worst—screamed and ran.
The growling, snarling thing continued violently shaking its head back and forth. Soon, it succeeded in ripping off the man’s leg. It took off down the alleyways of Cité Soleil with the leg still clasped in its mouth—the foot tracing a bloody trail in the dirt.
Asher and Coco arrived at the house of inspector Prideaux just before nine o’clock. He lived in the affluent town of Pétionville. As Coco drove, Asher noticed there was actually nightlife happening here. People were not afraid to walk about after dark. They dressed up for a night on the town. Asher noticed a couple of gaudily-dressed women. “Look at those two.”
Coco glanced over. “Oh. They’re prostitutes.”
“Really?” You have to be one horny motherfucker to come to Haiti looking for prostitutes.
Prideaux’s house was in a charming residential neighborhood. They turned down a palm tree-lined street and came to the address that Prideaux had given Asher. It was a fine, two-story house with marble columns, a Spanish-tile roof, and a porch above the front door. Tropical flowers grew in the front yard.
“Nice digs for a cop,” Asher said.
“Be careful. He didn’t get it by being honest.”
They stepped out of the pickup. It was quiet here except for the crickets and tree frogs. “Hell,” Asher said, “I’d like to live here.” He took a deep breath to smell the flowers.
The front door was opened by a tall, middle-aged fat man. He wore a purple dress shirt. The cuffs and collar were unbuttoned and a tie hung loosely from his neck. “Monsieur Greene?”
Asher smiled. “Yes. This is my assistant, Ms. Bernard.” He wasn’t disappointed to see Coco grimace at the word “assistant.”
Prideaux shook his hand. “Good to meet you.” Asher noticed that he wore a gold Rolex watch. He suspected it was real. “Come in, please.”
Stepping into the living room, Asher said: “What a lovely house.” Ostentatious was a more accurate term. It was decorated with the lack of restraint of the nouveau riche. There was hardly an inch of space that was left unoccupied by trinkets, statues, furniture, and paintings. Asher counted two representations of the Venus de Milo. A large flat-screen TV hung on the wall.
“Thank you,” Prideaux said. “Let me show you around. My wife is away at the moment.”
Prideaux showed them all over the house, describing his possessions in detail. There were three bedrooms, two bath—one of which contained a Jacuzzi. “May I show you my garden?”
They went out into the back yard. He closed the sliding glass door behind him and they were out amongst the loud chirping of the crickets and tree frogs. Prideaux began describing his flowers in great detail as well, and what trouble he’d gone through to obtain them: the Cotton Candy Flamingo Flower, the Pineapple Lily, the Hawaiian Crown Flower—all imported.
Asher wondered if Prideaux knew what a crushing bore he was being.
“Now, monsieur Greene,” Prideaux said, standing on the lawn with his hands in his pockets, “what did you really come here to discuss?”
Asher was no longer bored. “I’m sorry?”
“Come on. You’re not really doing a story on the Haitian police force, are you?”
“Well,” Asher said, “I’ve been covering Duvalier’s return here primarily, but I’m doing this piece as well.”
Prideaux looked down and rocked on his heals. “I see. Duvalier’s return. So you aren’t doing a story on the murders in the tent cities?”
“Uh...” How did he know that? “That is related to police work, is it not?”
Prideaux did not look up. “And you never went to see Inspector Chauvet?”
“Of course I did. He’s part of my story.” Despite the cool night, Asher felt himself break out into a sweat. He was being interrogated.
“And you didn’t go to the murder scene of Matthieux Landry?”
“You know I did.” Just how much do you know? “I was working with Inspector Chauvet. It was his scene.”
“Yes,” Prideaux said, as if to himself, “that makes sense. But why were you in Cité Soleil earlier today?”
Oh, shit. “Well....”
“Tell me, monsieur Greene...” Prideaux looked him in the eye and took a menacing step closer. “Justwho gave you my name?”
“Uh...” Asher could feel the sweat break out on his forehead. “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
Prideaux smiled. “Oh, I see.” The moonlight and the soft light coming from the house illuminated his beautiful white teeth. In the tense absence of conversation, the sound of the tree frogs was deafening. “Let me ask you a question.”
