

BLOODY SUNDAY

A Thriller

By Steven Jacob

Published by The Chase Chance Project at Smashwords.

© Copyright 2019 Steven Jacob

While the places may be real, all the characters in this publication are fictional, or used in a fictional way. If there is any similarity between characters in this publication and real people, those similarities are entirely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

Chapter 1

Claude Rene-Pierce was a mulatto in post-Duvalier Haiti, one of the _gens-des-couleurs_ , a privileged minority of mulattoes, octoroons, quadroons and griffes, though the conditions of corruption and terror to which he'd grown accustomed under the Duvaliers's rule still applied. There was no color line for terror. For thirty years the Duvaliers ruled the country by political violence using a brutal force of men loyal only to the president-for-life. They were called the Tonton Macoutes, wore blue shirts and used their machetes and AK-47s to elicit a coercive loyalty from the people. Even after Baby Doc, the son of Francois Duvalier, and the second self-declared president-for-life, fled with his millions in aid money, corruptly gained, and his family, the Tonton Macoutes roamed the streets thinking that now was their day. But the people Dechouked—the Creole word for uprooted—the entrenched terror. And then the military, and not the Tonton Macoutes, took control. They formed a junta, and even appointed a handful of civilians to rule alongside the generals; a temporary ruling council appointed with General Henri Namphy at its head. Upon securing his position Namphy proclaimed there would be free and fair elections.

But Claude doubted the general's intentions, as the soon to be president busied himself dismissing members of the junta council in a purge reminiscent of those instigated by his Duvalier predecessors.

The fear of violence hovered over the populace.

Namphy was a pudgy mulatto, his face high yellow and susceptible to sun burns. He liked to wear his uniform, a khaki shirt and pants with epaulets and a hat lined with gold braids. Buttons festooned his shirt front; a number of stars that may or may not have changed from day to day. He had aspirations of lifetime rule. The Duvaliers before him, and most of the presidents since Toussaint L'Ouverture, served as presidents-for-life. It was only a matter of time before Namphy betrayed his promises and declared his rule indefinitely.

Claude knew this through the papers. The press in Haiti took a major hit under the Duvaliers. Its mudraking curtailed by arrests and raids. Many of the papers folded in fear and the few that remained published official news, and essays—carefully balanced essays that drew lessons from history, rather than the politics of currency. Dessalines and Christophe, Napoleon and Leclerc. These were the names behind which the intellectuals of Haiti hid.

Well educated, Claude considered himself an intellectual and perfectly capable of deciphering the literary clues left like inky breadcrumbs in such essays. A luxury of inherited wealth, the essay writing, was the province of the _gens-des-couleurs_ , some of whom inherited funds from white fathers while others came into control of bequeathed plantations, the bounty of generations of careful marriage and arbitrary rape.

Claude was worth a pretty penny himself, his accounts not so much grown fat from any intellectual activities—though the fact of his money positioned him to pursue them—but from an inherited fortune.

Claude's father had been a landowner, and not one of the black landowners who controlled just enough land to feed themselves and then not even that much, but a mulatto owner. Somewhere back in time, a white father left half a plantation with the bastard son of a black woman. It eventually came to Claude's father and then to Claude, who promptly sold it for a small fortune which he invested overseas. It gave him the time and means to purchase an apartment, marry, and start a family. And then there were the ideas. His inheritance made it possible for Claude to assume the airs of an intellectual.

But he had a family. A mistake, perhaps, considering the ruthless dictatorships that seemed Haiti's destiny—to bring children into such a world of misery and fear, panic and suffering—a wife and one son, his skin lighter than Claude's, his hair straighter, his penis a godsend.

On the day his son was born he held the tiny boy in his arms and called him Joseph, after the husband of Mary and the human father of Christ. It was a propitious time, his money allowed them access to a good hospital for the birthing. But even then, his wife kept bleeding, she bled so much that the doctors couldn't do anything and she grew weak, even on the edge of death.

When it became obvious that his wife would not survive Claude lifted the baby gently into her arms and handed his camera to a nurse. It was the only picture he had of the three of them together. His sole memory of Joseph and Mary together, Claude's arms around them.

An hour after Joseph cried his first lungful of air, Mary slipped into unconsciousness and died. Claude mourned his wife for a year, wearing black crepe on his sleeve and abstaining from both alcohol and women. A difficult year in the least, for he was forced to hire a wet nurse for Joseph and she tempted him sorely with her swollen breasts and her smell of womanhood. He masturbated often and furiously to fight the desire and to remain faithful to his wife. But the wet nurse was married, and black, which gave him some solace. He could not dishonor the memory of his wife, or the skin of his son, by cavorting with a black servant. So he resisted and on the first anniversary of his wife's death, his son's birthday, he pulled the crepe from his arm and visited a whore in the red light district of Carrefour.

It wouldn't be the last time he unwound in the arms of a woman he didn't know. It became his practice, to pay for sex. It was easier and, as he still felt deeply the loss of his wife, it allowed him to pursue his drives without trying to replace her.

His accounts balanced despite his profligacy, they always did, money was no obstacle, and he took up writing. He was an intellectual, after all, and he saw no reason that he could not write something as insightful and erudite as Jean Price-Mars, with his history and his challenge to the early policies of Francois Duvalier. Claude chose to avoid criticism of the regime, however, and began to write historical plays. He could spend hours over the history books. Books he purchased to fulfill his voracious hunger for knowledge. He became obsessed with history, with cataloging events, with leaving a memory of himself and his people for the future. He dove deeper than the essayists. He had read his contemporaries and found himself regularly disappointed. They all hid in the criticism of the revolution, their insights superficial. To Claude's thinking, essays were not the place to examine the heroes of the revolution: Boukman Dutty, Oge, Toussaint L'ouverture, Henri Christophe, Dessalines.

His colleagues in the press did not understand how to bring these heroes to life. They spent far too much time criticizing the founding heroes's efforts to consolidate power over the Haitian people than praising their efforts to free Haiti from the white men. Claude wanted more than that. He imagined a history filled with the exploits of his heroes, the founders of modern Haiti.

As Joseph grew and his features figured more and more to please Claude and to display a skin nearly white, he proved it time to enroll in school. They lived off the Ruelle Vaillant in a small cul de sac across from the Argentine Bellegarde Primary school and in the afternoons Claude would sit at his window and watch the children walk from the school in their white shirted uniforms. He felt he watched the next generation of Haiti, one without the Duvaliers, one in which torture and fear were eradicated. It was a brilliant dream, but just that, at least as long as it took for him to finish his histories, a project that would take several more years. But in his zeal for history grew an equal and powerful passion. He felt that the current events of his fatherland deserved the same narrative, and that future historians needed evidence to tell its tale. It was perhaps a selfish and vain idea, this obsession with himself and his future image, though it echoed the vanity of the current president-for-life. He needed something more effective than paper and pen, something advanced that would be preserved for decades, if not centuries.

He began to wander the high-end shops downtown, the boutiques in Turgeau, everywhere, he was on a mission. But he only found what he really wanted on the television, it's highly censored stories full of life and vividness. Claude knew he wanted that, a vision to remain for all time. He knew nothing of tapes, cameras, or any other technology, he did not know how fleeting it would be and that within a few years the VHS camera would be made obsolete by digital progress. Ignorant of this, though, he grew excited and found an electronics store in the heart of the city. He wandered in, pretending he knew more than he did. He previewed the still cameras, the pictures they took, testing zooms and shutter speed. It was a facade, and his real interest lay behind a glass counter, a Sears movie camera. It was big, much bigger than the still cameras. It had a handle on top and a microphone above the lens. It was perfect and Claude grabbed it up for himself before another customer could walk through the door and steal it away from him. He also purchased a three pack of VHS tapes and a stand for the camera, a tripod.

Claude rushed home with his new treasure. He was so excited that he had to stop himself from skipping along the road like a small child. And then he saw a Tonton Macoute, one of the Duvalier's goons. He wore denim pants and a dark blue shirt. A hat on his head and an AK-47 in his arms. That dampened Claude's excitement until it almost expired. It hurt to think that even if he managed to do something like report the atrocities of the regime, he would be at such risk that he and his son would have to flee Haiti forever.

It remained true even with General Henri Namphy in power. The man announced elections to take place on Sunday, November twenty-ninth. When Claude heard this his excitement was rekindled. The primary school Argentine Bellegarde stood across the street from Claude and his son Joseph and was to be a voting place for much of the surrounding neighborhoods. They would be able to film the elections covertly, hidden from any military or extra-military forces.

When the morning of the twenty-ninth dawned, it was cool--even Haiti with its tropical locale could cool down--and that morning Claude woke up with cold feet. He felt something rotten in his belly. It was a nervousness that reminded him of a _cairin_ rum hangover, yet he had not drunk rum the night before. In the front room he heard Joseph playing with the oversized toy train, its pieces carved of cheap wood imported from the Dominican Republic. Claude had found the toy at the Marche de Fer in a vendor's stall that sold toys for overseas tourists.

Joseph was talking to himself in French, muttering a fictional world that he created from his imagination. Claude was proud that his son spoke both Creole and French. He had taught his son French at home, and allowed him to speak Creole as necessary with his friends. He insisted on French, though, and thanks to the idle time he enjoyed as an intellectual, he could oversee his child's education.

Claude watched Joseph from the door, his seven-year old son finding entertainment in a few pieces of wood laid out on a tile floor.

Joseph had grown to look more like his mother, his skin lighter than Claude's, and his hair practically straight. It waved a little on the sides, for it was long, uncut for several months, but when it hung short, it was barely distinguishable from a white man's, a mark that would serve him well in caste riddled Haiti. The color lines were fluid, here, while blacks controlled the presidency, they tended to give over much of the practical aspects of running the government to Mulatto politicians. That's how Duvalier first came to power, but once in power he made a strategic move, for though he spent much of his time clamping down on dissidents and rumored traitors among the mulatto elite he created the Tonton Macoutes to control the primarily black population of the country.

They carried automatic assault rifles, or machetes, whatever was available, and they often attacked arbitrarily. They were a plague on Haiti, one that remained under General Namphy, even though the Duvaliers were gone. There had been a brief period, weeks only, during which the people uprooted the Tonton Macoutes. It had been a blessed day. But the junta clamped down, the Tonton Macoutes regained control. It was a terror. Much like the terror in France during the revolution there. Claude had studied French history. He had learned about what atrocities were meted out against the upper classes by the Jacobins. It was a terror and so were the Tonton Macoutes.

Claude walked around Joseph and found his way into the kitchen. It was an advantage of inherited wealth that he was blessed with running water for cooking, cleaning and bathing. He grabbed a pair of charcoal sticks from the box on the edge of the kitchen. He shoved them into the stove, confident that the smoldering coals would light the wood. He filled a pot with water and set it on the cast iron to heat. It would take some minutes for the water to boil. He returned to the front room and the window overlooking the Ruelle Vaillant. The replanted trees along the lane spread their shade across the street. He'd set his Sears movie camera in the front room last night, making sure everything was in place. He would be the first Haitian to record a historic election. If for nothing else he would be remembered for this, putting history into a durable and conveniently mobile medium.

Already he could see people lining the street, waiting for the Argentine Bellegarde to open its doors and allow the men and women to walk into the polling station and cast their votes. He saw one or two white men, too. They must be foreigners here to monitor the election. Claude didn't know, and he wasn't about to wander in the streets. He was risking a lot with the Sears movie camera, but he didn't want to push his luck. He had a seven-year old son to worry about, after all.

He opened the curtains enough to allow the camera to see through the window. He pulled the lens cap off and prepared everything. Soon it would start and he was ready. He looked through the viewfinder and saw the row of people waiting to get into the polling station. It was perfect. He hit the record button and stood back. And that was it. His dream come to life.

Chapter 2

Hilton Greene was a Britisher by birth but an American by naturalization. He'd hopped the pond during the sixties as a child: his parents, himself, and an older brother all transplanted by a new job. Greene had grown up in a small town across the Hudson from New York. Not close enough to go everyday, but on the weekends Greene and his older brother would take the underground and wander all over. The thing that excited Greene the most: the library, with its storys of books, of reading rooms, the chairs and tables. He could spend hours in that building reading and reading and reading.

And then he discovered the Strand, and suddenly he could buy all the books he could read in the library. He started saving his allowance to buy books and soon had piles and piles of them around his room, under his bed, on the desk, everywhere. His parents finally broke down and bought him a set of shelves. It was only a matter of time before he needed another, and another.

By the time he entered high school it was obvious that he should pursue something in the language arts. English, history, journalism, creative writing. For a time, he was convinced he wanted to be a writer, only he found that he enjoyed writing articles and essays so much more than short stories. He decided to be a journalist. His grades weren't good enough for the Ivy Leagues, but he did manage to get into the University of Florida in Gainesville where he refreshed the French he'd learned in England, and added Spanish language classes. He also went through the journalism program and, to his credit, interned at the _St. Petersburg Times_ where he acted as dogs-body for the metro editor. It was that experience that took him to Miami and a job covering the Caribbean.

Recently, the place to be was Haiti. Not only was there a growing contingent of Haitian refugees in southern Florida, boats intercepted by US and Haitian Coast Guards, capsized boats that never made it far enough to be intercepted, and the departure of Jean Claude Duvalier—Baby Doc—there were real questions about the next step. At first there was a military tribunal made up of five generals and a few civilians, but General Namphy gradually rid the tribunal of everyone else but himself. He was now the only one in charge, and though he promised a free and fair election, there remained doubts and unease.

Two other reporters joined Greene at the Argentine Bellegarde school. This was a major polling sight and large turnouts were anticipated. Already a lengthy queue formed outside the school. In addition to the unsettling feeling that captured Greene's insides came a rush of adrenaline. He carried a pad of paper and several pens and pencils. He didn't want to rely on pens alone—pens could break—with something so important. This was the first free election in Haiti in nearly three decades. It was monumental. It was terrifying.

A glint of light caught his eye. He looked across the street at a second story window and caught sight of a camera lense. Someone was filming the vote. Greene suddenly wondered if he might be able to get hold of that footage. It would be a journalistic coup to return to Miami with actual film footage. At least it would be if he could get the film out of the country. The government censors were keen on controlling information, and though he felt certain he could smuggle it out, he didn't think he could transmit it over the satellite communications set up for reporters at the Holiday Inn. He marked the location. In fact, he almost started across the street right then, but was stopped by the imposing sound of gunfire in the distance.

The sound, the rat-tat-tat of automatic rifle fire, sent a cold chill up and down Greene's body. It kept going and it kept getting closer. Soon there were shouts, yells. Screams. Greene no longer needed to imagine the violence. Was this some last gasp of Duvalierism about to make a strike against free elections? Could the Tonton Macoutes still walk through the streets with impunity? What about the military? Why weren't they at the polling station to protect the people from bandits and murderers?

Greene moved to stand beside the other journalists. One was from France, the other from England. They all spoke French, the language of the upper classes in Haiti, and varying degrees of the common lingua franca of Creole.

"Doesn't sound fortuitous."

The reporter from England scoffed. "If the people want it enough—"

The first blue shirt turned the corner of the Ruelle Vaillant and Greene found a curse on his tongue. The Tonton Macoute carried a machete. Others followed and soon a squadron of blue shirts approached the school. Some of them carried machetes, some automatic rifles, some just came bare handed. And there was an army Jeep at the rear filled with army soldiers. Was this then the new Duvalierism? Was Namphy about to support the continuance of the Tonton Macoutes?

Greene glanced at the window across the street, hoping that the man who took such a risk, to videotape what may soon be a bloodletting, continued to record the scene. He needed to get the army Jeep in the footage, to show the Junta's acquiescence and complicity in the acts of Duvalier's private army. If they all survived the morning Greene would approach the man and attempt to buy the footage. It should take only a few Gourdes.

The first shot hit an old woman. She sank to her knees and then tumbled over, dead. Blood spread slowly beneath her sprawled body and Greene knew, at that moment, there would be no fair and free election today.

With the woman on the ground, cries began to rise from the remaining voters. More shots fired. More blood sprayed. More cries and screams. And then the Tonton Macoutes with machetes reached the queue. They began hacking and cutting at anyone they could reach. A shoulder and head separated. Arms detached, grisly bits of bone and muscle hanging from bleeding stumps.

Panic.

That was the only word for it. Greene felt the visceral taint of blood in the air, of great force coming to destroy the people. And the army, in their khaki Jeep and their fatigue uniforms lending legitimacy, preventing anyone from interfering with the actions of the Tonton Macoutes. Greene knew without doubt that this attack was ordered by the Junta, by General Henri Namphy. Surely, he intended to rule the country himself, and to grow rich off its corpses.

More and more people tried to run, the innocent dropping their voting scrips and fleeing. Only the Ruelle Vaillant was a short street without an exit. The only way out was blocked by the blue shirts. Greene glanced around. Everywhere the dead and dying cried in pain, agony, defeat. They were Namphy's example, his massacre to rally the people to a General that could put a stop to the excesses of the Macoutes—it didn't matter that he most certainly ordered the attack himself—every man, every woman, every child must be made aware, they must bow down before the Duvalier with a new name.

Greene watched, helpless as the Macoutes moved from the voting line to gather those who had fled down the cul de sac. Some of them, too, had turned their attention to the three white men standing behind the dead and dying, standing against neighboring walls with their spikes and glass and barbed wire.

Greene had seen enough violence in the intercity of urban Florida, the otherwise relaxed Cuba, the atrocities of Guantanamo. He knew that reporting wasn't the only thing he wanted to do. He wanted to have a family, to marry. Maybe someday go to Paris or Istanbul, see the seven wonders of the world. He wasn't about to let some uneducated, brainwashed goon end his life before it had barely begun. He turned around and found a fence that didn't have too many spikes. There was space at least for a hand, or a foot. He jumped to grab the concrete and scurried up the wall.

At its pinnacle, Greene looked back to see one of the Macoutes fire a slurry of bullets into the British reporter. The Frenchman, slightly more advanced when it came to self-preservation, jumped up the nearest wall. His hand was cut bloody by the glass inlaid in the concrete, but he kept climbing. Rather have shredded palms than become a lifeless corpse.

Greene jumped into the bushes lining the inside of the wall. His ankle turned and he cursed his luck. It wasn't so bad now, but he knew that tomorrow it would hurt like hell. Either way, he couldn't stay too long in one place. What if the Macoutes tried to follow him over the wall, or sent a grenade over the top?

Greene rose to his feet and followed the yard around, his hand almost touching the fence the entire way. The yard shrank on the sides of the building and the fence moved closer to an acute angle. Greene saw another wall block his way. He jumped this one like the other, though rather than jump down, he lowered himself gently to the flowerbed.

For the moment he was safe. For the moment he was in shock. What had he just witnessed? A massacre? A government sanctioned massacre? When he first got to Haiti almost a month ago, he'd thought the Tonton Macoutes a fairy tale, made up by people who wanted to scare their children into sleep during the night. But it wasn't true. Now he had seen them, in all their brutal action. He was nearly a victim, and that poor British bastard, he was lost from the start, the jingoist's brain only capable of handling insults to one's person at a certain rate of speed.

Greene hurried up the street and around the corner. He had no desire to see anymore killing that day.

Chapter 3

Joseph was almost eight. He was playing with his new toy train the day his father returned from a walkabout—or at least that's what his father called them—carrying a bulky black camera, a tripod, and a small package of three black cartridges. His father hid it away at first, but then, one morning, he set this adult toy up in the living room and aimed it out the window. He unwrapped one of the cartridges and inserted it into a chamber on the side of the camera. Then he plugged it in, and the chamber closed, and a red light started blinking.

It took moving pictures, his father said, and that was all Joseph needed. He returned to his own toy train and imagined an entire cargo, complete with logs and a passenger car. He'd never ridden a train, though Haiti did have one. It plowed along the valleys that ran between the steep mountain slopes. It didn't climb through the passes, so it remained apart, three lengths separated by the difficulty of peaking mountains with wooden ties and iron rails. Joseph didn't know whether there was ever a train to go with the now rusted and dilapidated rails, but he knew it was true in his living room, safe with his father and unconcerned with the danger the older Rene-Pierce had brought home in the shape of a camera.

Joseph was still young, but his senses were fine-tuned to his father's moods. As soon as his father finished setting up the camera, he sat down on the couch beneath the shrine of family pictures. Joseph looked up, their eyes met, and his father glanced away. Was there something about the camera? Joseph settled his train down at the station and jumped to his feet. He moved to the window beside the camera and watched the line of people.

"What are they doing?" Joseph said.

"Voting—"

A loud clack-clack-clack rocked the cul de sac. One of the people in the line collapsed and others started screaming. His father hurried to the window and pulled Joseph away. "Get away from there. I can't lose you now."

"Where should I go, father?"

They spoke in French, Joseph's native tongue despite his near constant exposure to Creole.

"We'll both go. The bathtub is solid. It will shield us from any stray shots."

They huddled together, in the bathtub, daddy sitting on the hard ceramic and Joseph in his lap. His daddy kept muttering things, talking about red lights and the terror that he would see because of his Sears movie camera. Joseph didn't understand it. It was daddy's business and Joseph's business was to make sure his toys were returned to their basket before dinner.

Eventually the gunfire stopped, and his father helped Joseph get out of the tub. He'd held Joseph's hand as he walked to the front room where all of Joseph's toys lay, and his father's toy stood hissing against the window.

Chapter 4

Greene was tall and slender, a pair of aviator glasses hung on his nose, a protuberance that dominated his otherwise miniature features. He was flushed with sun and his face, which refused to tan, was constantly a bright red. It matched his hair, an unwieldy mop of ginger atop his head, that moved closer to blond with each passing day in the tropical sun. Greene usually started his days with a hangover cure of coffee and Advil, but he'd prepared especially for the Sunday of the election and had refrained from alcohol the night before. Though he might as well have gotten drunk, considering the terrible images that still rocked his world.

All of that was in the morning, the early morning, and as the sun rose over the bodies on Ruelle Vaillant, Greene cautiously approached from the open road. The Tonton Macoutes were gone, as was the army Jeep with its fatigue clad soldiers. They left the bodies behind, though, and he saw the British reporter dead against a concrete wall. Bodies lay everywhere, their corpses bloating as the heat of the day began its inexorable march across the city. The smell alone caused Greene to vent his belly in the gutter. And again. And again. His abdomen twisted and bound his entire body to its whim. He fell to his knees and continued to dry heave over the puddle of bile and half-digested food. It was the breakfast he'd consumed earlier, before heading out to cover the election. He'd not anticipated the bodies bloated in the street, all over the yard of the school, everywhere. A few ghouls made their way from body to body, searching pockets, stealing shoes and anything else that they thought to be of value. Somehow, the presence of the corpse thieves, as he thought of them, made the massacre worse. Was there no one to claim the dead and remove them from the stinking street?

Greene wiped saliva from his lips and then his hand on his shorts. He slowly stood to his feet. Though he had seen much, and would report it for the newspaper, he wanted that video tape. If he could bring that back to Miami, perhaps the international community might do something about the madness that ruled Haiti and turned a Sunday election bloody.

He turned from the bodies, though he still smelled them, and approached the apartment where he had seen the video camera through the window. Had the owner kept it running, had it even recorded anything? Greene didn't know. He wanted to look at it, to take it, to somehow smuggle it from the country and show the world. It would be his personal vengeance against the Junta and General Namphy.

The apartment was up a creaky flight of stairs which Greene climbed nimbly. The scent of the corpses trailed hIm to the second floor, and his mouth tasted like bile and acid, but at least he couldn't see the bodies from this angle. That was something.

He knocked on the door. He heard movement. He knocked again. This time the door opened a sliver and he saw a light skinned Mulatto behind the door.

"Excuse me," Greene said in French, "But may I come in? I have something I'd like to discuss with you."

Chapter 5

Claude took a long time to make a decision, but eventually he let the strange white man into his apartment. Joseph was still in the front room, playing with his toy train, and the Sears movie camera sat at the window, though after seeing through the window what violence had been done, Claude had closed the curtains, shut them up tight, and hid in the darkness. Even then he could hear the screams of the men and women. He could still hear them, in echo, bouncing around his brain.

Claude led the white man to the front room. They shook hands and the white stranger introduced himself as Hilton Greene, a reporter from the United States.

Claude offered him a drink, and Hilton readily agreed. Claude disappeared into the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of Jamaican Rum—not that it was better than the local brew, only that the Jamaican label carried greater cachet—something a friend smuggled into the country, a friend involved with import/export, especially Jamaican goods. He grabbed two glasses and walked back to the front room.

Hilton Greene sat on the couch watching Joseph play with his train. Claude wasn't sure whether he should tell Joseph to go to his room, to let the two adults talk without having to hide behind grownup words. But he didn't, he didn't want to let Joseph out of his sight, not with the Tonton Macoutes still wandering the streets, still in their power despite the Dechoukage.

Claude poured his guest two fingers of the rum, and the same for himself. He sat on the armchair and faced Hilton. The white man smiled and sipped at the rum. "Thank you."

"You are most welcome," Claude said, "What can I help you with?"

Hilton moved himself forward so he sat on the edge of the couch and leaned forward so his hands nestled the glass of rum between his knees. "I wanted to ask you about your video camera. I saw it earlier, before the—"

"Joseph," Claude said, "Go into your room. Let me and this man talk by ourselves for a few minutes."

Joseph looked up from his train, his long straight hair bobbing ever so slightly against his neck. "But daddy—"

"No, go to your room. It will be all right, just for a few minutes."

"Oh."

"Go," Claude said, and pointed towards the back hallway that led from the front room to the rest of the apartment.

"Now," Claude said, turning towards the reporter, "What do you want?"

"I want your video," Greene said, his voice calm.

"You want what? I do not know what you are talking about," Claude said.

Greene leaned forward in the couch, his body appearing tense, his height unusual. "Like I said, I saw your camera and I want what you've taped of the massacre outside."

"I can't. I don't have what you want?"

"You have a son to protect. Do you really think General Namphy is going to leave him if you are captured for making that video? It's proof of what he did. The army were there, they didn't do anything to stop the killing. Namphy will use the Tonton Macoutes just like Baby Doc, like Papa Doc."

Claude thought over the reporter's words, "What do you mean to implicate my son?"

"I can offer him protection."

Claude laughed, his voice loud, he heard it reverberate in the front room, and it suddenly made him uncomfortable. Would the Macoutes come because of a laugh? What if they did find the camera, the video? "You can't protect me."

"I didn't say you, I can protect your son."

"But how in heaven's name will you do such a thing?"

Greene glanced at the camera and down at the train set. "I can take him with me. He is light enough that he could be mistaken for a white boy—"

"No, no, no. In Haiti he will be undone. We are very sensitive to the difference in color. My son might pass in the United States, but here, he will be recognized as a quadroon."

"Then I will take him as my adopted son."

"You will care for him his entire life?"

"Until it is safe to return."

Claude shook his head, the naivete of this American amused him, though it scared him more. "It will never be safe to return. If I give you the video, the government will identify the angle of the images and they will know I made it. I will be killed and everyone I know will be persecuted. If they find I have a son in this country, they will kill him too. They don't care who they kill or why. You must adopt him for real. You must take him to America and keep him there. You will become his father. That is the only way I will give you this video."

"Can I see the video first?"

"It is still in the camera."

Greene stood up and approached the camera. He leaned down and adjusted the view piece. He rewound the video and watched from the beginning.

Claude watched as the reporter viewed the video through the camera's lense. He watched the reaction on his face. Claude had not seen it and did not know what was on it. He did know that it surely showed atrocities. After hiding in the bathroom from the gunfire, he'd taken a quick glance through the window. He'd seen the bodies lying in the street, the blood running down the gutters. It was a massacre. A Bloody Sunday.

And then there was the white man. Who was he? An associate of the dead reporter, maybe, who lay in the middle of it all, who hadn't been smart enough to flee.

Hilton coughed and stood away from the camera. "It is enough," the man said, and turned the Sears movie camera off.

Claude nodded, "You see. If the government sees this, they will kill us. I do not mind dying, I have spent my life in the service of the past, I am ready for the future, whatever it may bring, and I have the terrible sickness found in the brothels of Carrefour . . . but my son. I cannot sacrifice him, not for this. You must take him with you and promise to give him a new life."

"I understand now," Hilton said, his voice hoarse after watching the video. "You are right. If you stay here . . ."

"You see? That is good. That is my asking price and you offered it. Not only must you protect my son, but you must take him with you back to America. He must be made safe. That is the only way."

Greene pushed a button on the camera and the device opened on its side. He grabbed the VHS and pulled it from the camera's housing. Claude watched as the reporter hefted the evidence in his hand, as if weighing the consequences of either decision.

"This is the only way?"

Claude nodded. "The only way. Otherwise I will destroy this video and pretend I never saw what lays in the streets today."

"Your son's name is Joseph?"

"Joseph Rene-Pierce. Yes. He is seven, almost eight years old. He is a good boy and you will learn to love him, as he will surely learn to love you."

"I haven't said—"

"You must take him with you. I have done much to preserve the past. I thought I could preserve the present with this camera, but now that I have seen it, I have changed my mind. It is too dangerous to venture out of the past."

Hilton cocked his head and stuck his tongue against his cheek, "You are very well spoken. I said I could protect him. If you want me to take him with me . . ."

"Think on it now," Claude said. "I cannot long withstand the agony of not knowing. For as long as this video exists both Joseph and I are in danger. The Tonton Macoutes, the army, the government cannot stand what this video means. It will change the future of this country, to know that the Junta is simply another Duvalier wearing green."

Greene sighed, "I will do it, but I cannot promise—"

"You must promise. It is the only way. Otherwise I will destroy this tape and hide the camera far away where the Tonton Macoutes cannot find it."

"I promise, then. I will take Joseph with me to America."

"No matter what the obstacles?"

"No matter what."

"Good," Claude stood, "I will prepare a bag for him. He is very mature for his age and should give you little trouble."

Greene stood as well, video tape in hand. "We should talk for a little bit, your son—"

"Joseph. His name is Joseph. He speaks Creole and French. I have tried to teach him English, but he hasn't mastered that language yet. I'm sure you can teach him."

"I'm sure," Greene raised his hand and held out the video tape. "Put this in his bag, he will be less likely to be searched than I will."

Claude shuddered, "If you are stopped, you will both be killed. Namphy will not let something like this out of the country. Even now I am afraid I will die before I see you off with my son. He is all I have left of his mother . . ."

"I'm sorry, but it is still best he carries this. Pack it in the bottom of his bag. When we get to my hotel, I'll transfer the cassette to my own luggage, but for now, it is best I'm not seen carrying it through the streets."

Claude took the tape and left Hilton in the front room. He walked into Joseph's room. His son was coloring a dinosaur book Claude gave him last Christmas. Claude stood in the doorway for a moment, admiring his son and his pale skin. If only this American could get Joseph to America, it would be all right. Joseph would blend in. He would be able to pass for a white man . . . something he couldn't do here.

He spoke to his son in Creole, so the American reporter in the front room wouldn't understand. "Joseph, I love you. Do you know that?"

"Yes, daddy. I love you too."

"You have to go with the American now."

"What do you mean?"

"He's going to take you with him. It's the only way to make sure you're safe," Claude felt his eyes heating with painful tears and wiped them against the back of his sleeve.

Joseph dropped the crayon, it was blue, on the small table that served as an art studio for the creative young boy. He looked up at his father and must have seen the tears. "What's wrong daddy? Aren't you coming with us?"

"I can't. I cannot get into America, not like you can. I have to stay here."

Joseph stood up on his chair and reached up to hug Claude. "I love you daddy, stop talking silly."

Claude bent over and grabbed Joseph into his arms. He held the boy tightly, the tears flowing freely down his cheeks, now. How was he supposed to say goodbye forever to his son? How did one do that?

"I wish I could go with you, but I can't. You need to go say hello to the American now. He will take care of you. He will protect you because I can't."

"But daddy—"

Claude set Joseph back on the tile. "You go now, obey your daddy. I'll talk to you some more before you go, but now, go say hello to the American. You can show him how much English you speak."

"But he speaks French."

"Do as you're told."

"But—"

Claude wiped at his face again and ruffled Joseph's hair with his free hand. "I love you son, now go into the front room. It's important."

Joseph sighed, his chin jutted out and he had the look of someone about to pout. Claude put a hand on his son's shoulder and directed him towards the front room. Finally, Joseph took a step and hesitantly walked from his bedroom. Claude waited until he disappeared around the corner and he heard the American speak before he grabbed Joseph's backpack and started packing clothes and shoes and a couple of children's books. He doubted the American knew much about caring for a seven-year old boy.

Chapter 5

It became clear right off that the boy didn't care for Greene. He marched into the front room, taking small steps but pounding each one into the tile floor. His face wasn't smiling, not the way it had when he was playing with the train. Greene wanted to smile and greet him and take his hand, like an adult. But Greene wasn't a father, nor was he adept at caring for children. He remembered the one time his brother let him take care of his infant son. It ended in disaster. No, he didn't know the first thing about handling children. And now he had committed himself to raising a child he didn't know.

Was that videotape worth it?

Greene tried to reason through the pros and cons. Obviously, there was the boy himself. It would be a lifetime sacrifice to carry the boy, Joseph, with him out of the country and to his home in Miami. Even during his time spent in Haiti, Greene lived the life of a bachelor, bringing beautiful mulatto women back to his hotel for nights of hedonism. He would have to settle down and eliminate much of what he called his life. And then there was the money. Greene was already low on funds and he guessed that the massacre would make money transfers difficult. But on the other hand, it was his job to report the facts, and the fact was, Namphy was a psychopath. Now that the General was alone in the halls of power he did just what the Duvaliers did. He abolished the elements of the Constitution he didn't like, things like the assembly and house. He had called for new elections, but then he loosed the Tonton Macoutes and the army on voters. It was a massacre, and Greene had proof. He could show the world the horrors that fueled Haiti's corruption, and more importantly, he could earn himself a Pulitzer and write his own ticket.

"Hello, Joseph, my name is Hilton."

Joseph scrunched up his face and balled his fists. Greene watched as the seven-year old started to cry. "No, it's okay. Nothing's going to happen to you."

"But daddy said I have to go with you."

Greene sighed. He wanted to loose a string of profanities, this might be harder than he thought. "It's okay Joseph, I'll take care of you. I won't let anything happen to you."

"Can't daddy come too?"

Greene stuck his hand in his pocket. For some reason he thought he might find candy, or maybe gum, something that he could give to soothe the child. But there was nothing. He was useless and didn't know the first thing about what it would take to raise a child.

But he did know human nature, he'd seen the greed, the lust, the power hunger, the brutality, the carnage. It was a truism that if humanity could do it and get away with it, they would.

Greene patted the couch beside him, "Sit here Joseph. Let's talk a little."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Let's talk about why you have to come with me, and why your father can't come."

"I don't know you."

Greene nodded, assuming the boy had been indoctrinated with the 'don't talk to strangers' maxim. "It's okay. Your dad trusts me, you can talk to me."

"It's not that. My daddy just met you and he's going crazy to get rid of me because of you. What did you do?"

"He was worried before. He took a chance and it scared him. If anyone finds out what he did, then bad people will come and hurt both of you."

Joseph pouted and folded his arms over his chest. "I don't like you."

"Joseph, be nice," Claude called from the bedroom. "You will need to like him for what is to come."

"But daddy—"

Claude emerged from the bedroom and carried a child's backpack. "I have put a few pairs of shirts, some underwear, socks and pants. It isn't much, but it's all that will fit. You'll have to outfit him when you get to Miami."

"That shouldn't be a problem. And the videotape?"

"Where you said to put it. You are sure you can do this?"

Greene cocked his head in thought for a moment. He was making a huge commitment, easily the biggest commitment he'd ever made. And he was doing it for a story. Now, if told right, it would win him awards, but was that enough to take in a seven-year old boy who spoke little to no English? Was it worth it?

He suspected these thoughts would haunt him for a long time, but Greene couldn't hesitate. He'd already given his promise. He would have to do his best to abide by it. And if things got out of hand at some point, Greene felt little remorse at the possibility, the mere thought, of abandoning the child . . . if need be.

"I will appeal to my embassy, they will surely help."

"My son is from Haiti and you are from America. What does America care for Haitians? We are flies, tiny mosquitos that prick the conscience of Americans, when they bother to even look. If it weren't for General Namphy's promise of free and fair elections, they would simply embargo us and pretend we didn't exist, like they do with Cuba."

Greene folded his hands together. He didn't think he would get safe passage through the embassy either, but he did have another favor to ask there. "I can't speak for American policy, but why don't you come with me too?"

"If I disappear, they will start looking all the sooner. No one cares about a little child, especially if you tell them you, a white man, are adopting him."

"But—"

Claude handed the backpack to Joseph who silently put it on his back, jumping a little to adjust the straps on his shoulders so the bottom of the thing didn't drag along the ground.

Greene watched as Claude knelt down in front of his boy and wrapped him in a tight embrace. It lasted nearly a minute before Claude, tears streaming from his eyes, released his son. He stood to his feet and offered Greene his hand. "Take care of him, and here, take this. Give it to him when he's older so he can remember."

Claude passed him a picture. In it were three people: Claude; a very attractive woman, though her hair was back and her face sweaty. She wore a hospital gown and held a baby in her arms; and the child. Greene assumed it was Joseph. He took a long look at the photo before he slipped it into his shirt pocket.

"It is the only picture of all three of us together. Take care of it for there are no more."

"I am honored at your trust," Greene said. "I will endeavor to ensure it is not misplaced."

Claude bit his lip, stared at Greene for a moment, and then said, "I give you three irreplaceable things. If even one of them fails to make it out of this country, I expect it will be over your dead body. For as I am dead the moment you share that video, you can never come back here once you escape with my son and his history."

"It will be so," Greene said.

"Are you ready Joseph?" Claude said, turning to face his son one last time.

Joseph let loose a whining keen. "I don't want to go, not unless you come with us, daddy."

"I told you, I can't. You must go with Hilton. And you must call him daddy now."

"But you're my daddy."

Claude was weeping now, and he kept wiping his cheeks on the back of his sleeve. "Go now and remember that I love you."

Greene stood from the couch and reached his hand down to grab hold of Joseph's diminutive paw. The boy's flesh felt warm against his skin, but at his touch Joseph started to cry. "Daddy, daddy, no."

Claude wiped at his eyes and otherwise remained silent. At Greene's nod, the man retreated from the front room into the back of the apartment. Joseph cried all the louder, but Greene grabbed him up in his arms and held him tight. "It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."

"Daddy . . ." this last Joseph said with a whimper, as he seemed to begin to understand the inevitability of his catastrophe.

Chapter 6

The Hotel Olaffson came into existence as a presidential mansion. It belonged to the Sam family—wealthy mulattoes who twice blessed Haiti with their leadership. Vilbrun Guillaume Sam, who led Haiti for less than six months, ended his tenure hiding in the French embassy until an angry mob located him and tore him to pieces. Without its wealthy inhabitant, the building was converted into a hotel and became quite the destination, located as it was, in the rich suburb of Petionville. That only lasted for a time, and it wasn't until a few months ago that a Robert Morse bought the property and invested considerable money in upgrading the rooms.

The hotel was a wooden structure rising two stories with a central cupola that peaked one more on the front facade. The garden was lush, the ferns and coconut and palms all rising in deep maturity. A small pool on the backside offered guests a chance to relax from the tropical heat.

Greene held Joseph's hand as they made their way from Ruelle Vaillant to Christophe Street, where the Hotel Olaffson stood in the early morning light. Walking back to the hotel, Greene watched army personnel drive by, some stationed on corners stared at him as he walked by, quadroon in hand. He picked up on the confusion and fear that spread across the city. People running in the streets; others slamming shutters closed; others still sat on the edge of ditches, their feet bare in the thin stream of water that ran from the mountains down to the harbor. Some of them cried, others simply stared with blank expressions, their eyes empty of what for a few weeks had been hope.

Back at the hotel he took Joseph straight to his room and set him down on the bed. Joseph started crying again, and Greene helped him out of his backpack. A quick rummage through the bottom revealed the tape as promised. He grabbed a piece of stationery and wrapped the tape in paper labeled with the name and address of the Hotel Olaffson. He turned to Joseph then, whose morose countenance worried Greene. He couldn't have Joseph crying all the time, especially if they wanted to get off this accursed island.

"Are you okay?" Greene said, sitting on the bed next to the young boy.

Joseph sniffled and wiped at his eyes with his hand. "I'm sorry. Daddy said . . . I miss my daddy."

"You will, that's quite normal," Greene said. "I need for you to stay here while I go run an errand. Do you mind—"

"I'll go with you. Please. I don't want to be alone. The Macoutes might get me if I'm all alone."

Greene startled at the boy's words. The Tonton Macoutes were real, not some fairy tale. Had Claude instilled a paranormal fear of the blue shirted militia in his son? It seemed highly superstitious considering how well read the man. No more silly than Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, Greene supposed. And then he considered the reality of the Macoutes, the massacre of that morning still heavy on his imagination and realized how easy it must be to demonize them.

He tried to escape his mind, to forget the images he'd seen early that morning, and again on the tape when he'd watched it in Claude's front room. To remember the way the Macoutes hacked at people as if cutting meat off the haunch of a spitted cow. And the uncaring way they turned their guns on the reporters . . . as if they didn't care who they killed. They acted with impunity. But then they also acted under the aegis of government direction. It was a crime against humanity. Haiti may be a hotbed of violence, and had been since the revolution, but a crime against humanity was a crime, the worst crime there was, and the thought of how nearly Greene had done more than witnessed it made him shiver. Instinctively he reached to the thermostat by the door and turned the air conditioner off.

Greene took Joseph's hand in his. "You can come with me, okay, but you can't cry so try not to think about your daddy. Once we finish this, we can start about getting ourselves out of this place."

"Where are we going?"

"Right now? To the American embassy," Greene said, and stuffed the covered tape into the right pocket of his khaki shorts. "After that, to Miami."

'What is Miami?"

"It's a city in the United States. It's where I'm from. We'll go there and I'll take care of you, just like your daddy. Okay. And maybe we will travel some too, but not for a while. We'll have to figure out how to get you through the border security folks, INS, and all those trouble makers. It's gotten more difficult since Reagan took office."

"Can we come back and visit daddy after we go to Miami?"

"No more. I'm sorry, but by the time we get to Miami, your daddy will most likely be dead."

"What do you mean?"

Greene sighed, he'd just goofed. He didn't feel like explaining life and death to a seven-year old when his mind was racing for other reasons, like getting the video and himself out of Haiti. "Can we talk about it later? I'm sorry, but we need to go."

"But what do you mean by saying he will be dead?"

"Okay," Greene said. He knelt on the floor in front of Joseph so his face and the boy's came close together. "When people get old they die, do you know your grandmother or grandfather?"

"No, they are all gone, into the hills."

"So they went into the hills?"

Joseph nodded, "My daddy told me that they went back to Guinee, in Africa, where their ancestors came from."

"Then your daddy will go to Guinee. You can see him when you go to Guinee yourself. But not before, okay. For now, that's enough. We need to go."

"But—"

Greene lifted the boy off the bed and set him on the floor. He grabbed Joseph's hand and led him from the hotel room.

The embassy would help. The place was filled with helpful Americans. Their job was to help citizens get out of the country. He'd seen the video of helicopters evacuating the embassy in Saigon. Haiti killed white people, Greene recalled from his brief study of Haitian history. Shortly after the revolution ended in 1804, Emperor Dessalines ordered the assassination of all white men, women, and children left on the island. What was there to stop General Namphy from doing the same thing? Nothing, apparently, judging by the actions of his personal militia just an hour before

"I've never been to the American embassy." Joseph said as Greene locked the hotel room.

"We can't go out in the streets," Joseph said, his voice almost a whine.

"Why not?"

Joseph shook his head, his long hair brushing his shoulders, "We can't. Not now. The army . . ."

"We'll be okay."

"They might not kill you, you're a white man. You have a passport and you're white, But I'm Haitian and I'm . . . not white."

Greene stopped and turned to face Joseph. "What do you mean you're not white?"

"I'm not."

"Why do you say you're not white?"

"My daddy's not white, my mommy wasn't white. That means I'm not white. And if the green army or the blue army capture me, they'll kill me."

"Because you're not white?"

Joseph screwed up his face, pouted his lips, "They will know it doesn't matter if they kill me."

"Of course, it matters—"

"Not to the Tonton Macoutes. Not to the army. My daddy told me to be very careful, to avoid them all. He said they didn't care about the people, and that they would kill me just to take my shoes . . . if they liked them."

Greene paused to look down at the boy. Joseph's face looked flush, his eyes goggled from his pale cheeks and his free hand bunched at his side. "You're with me now. I won't let anything happen."

"But what if—"

"Nothing will happen, you'll see."

"Do you have a gun? Do you have an army?"

"No, I don't—"

Joseph shook his head and pulled his hand away from Greene's grip. He hurried back to the room and tried to open the door. "I want to stay here. I don't want to go out again."

"Joseph . . ."

The boy kept pulling at the handle of the door until Greene had to relent. He walked the few feet from the top of the stairs—where Joseph had turned back—and unlocked the door. "Okay, Joseph. You stay here until I get back. I'm going to lock the door. Don't open it at all. If anyone knocks, they are not our friends, hide and don't touch the door. Okay."

"Okay."

"I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Okay."

Greene checked his pockets for the video and his passport. Assured of their presence secure in his cargo shorts, he left the room, locked the door, and headed downstairs.

The Hotel Olaffson employed a receptionist cum concierge, and a bell boy cum bartender. Behind a white wooden countertop, the concierge, a local griffe named Ferrer, greeted Greene with a broad, white smile. "Mr. Greene. A pleasure to see you. I did not see you come back."

"It was a little rushed. Can you call me a cab to the American embassy?"

Ferrer wagged his head, "I am sorry Mr. Greene, but no cabs are working today. General Namphy has declared martial law. You can't be in the streets or you will be killed. It doesn't matter what color your skin."

"You mean it's all shut down?"

"All of it, I am sorry. I wish there were someway—"

"Maybe after dark?"

"Absolutely not. If they even see movement in the dark they will shoot. If it were just the army, maybe, but the Tonton Macoutes, they wander the streets. Namphy is using them just like Papa Doc. It is terror."

Greene turned his back on the counter and leaned against the wooden edge. He looked through the wrought iron of the closed gate and saw an army jeep on the road across from the hotel. They hadn't been there before. A pair of Haitian military grunts sat on the hood, smoking cheroots. "What are those two here for?"

"They are here to watch us. This is where all the smart foreigners come. We have an understanding with the government—Mr. Morse has taken great care to encourage the patronage of certain specific officials."

"They are here to stop us from leaving, or to stop the Tonton Macoutes from coming?" Greene said.

"Theoretically," Ferrer said, "it is both. They speak French, unlike most members of the military, and I understand they have worked around foreigners before, so they will be able to handle anyone trying to leave the hotel with diplomacy."

"Theoretically doesn't help. What if the Tonton Macoutes come?"

"Then we are all dead."

Greene turned back to face Ferrer, the man was dressed in a linen blouse that hung from his broad shoulders and a pair of khaki shorts. It was a low maintenance uniform, and it left the wearer to survive the heat with minimal cost. "Can you ring the embassy then? I need to speak to someone there."

"I can, but there is no guarantee. I have heard that the embassies are all sealed off."

"Even to telephone calls?"

"It is what I hear."

"Try anyway, I'll be right here."

According to his introduction to the Hotel Olaffson there were only two phones, an intentional shortage inspired from the previous decades when guests made long distance calls and left the hotel with a hefty phone bill each month. Since then, the managers decided to limit calls to the front desk, and a quickly erected phone booth.

Greene stared at the army guards in the street as he waited for Ferrer to ring the call through. They were small men, though they carried automatic assault rifles, probably AK-47s purchased at some point in the last thirty years of Duvalier rule. The army was weak, though, Greene knew, and they wouldn't last against the Tonton Macoutes if the vigilantes wanted to get into the hotel.

"Mr. Greene, I have the embassy for you."

"Thank you, Ferrer," Greene said and stepped inside the phone booth. He could only imagine Mick Jagger stuffing his lips through its narrow doors.

Greene closed the doors behind him and picked up the phone from its cradle. "Hello? May I ask who I'm speaking to?"

A deep bass voice filled the earpiece of the telephone, "My name is Jared Monson. How can I help you?"

"Are you a consular officer?"

"I am."

"Good. My name is Hilton Greene, I'm an American citizen staying at the Hotel Olaffson. I'm a member of the press and I think I might need some help in getting myself and my adopted son out of the country."

"If you can get to the embassy, we might be able to sneak you to the airfield, but you'd need the proper papers there, and then a bribe, probably."

"You can't come get us?"

"There are several American citizens here. You're not the only one interested in getting out. There were a lot of international observers here for the elections, and now that General Namphy has suspended them, and announced a curfew, there's little we can do. Once things calm down we could get you out, but until then—I'm sorry, again, if you can get to the embassy, maybe we can get you out, but we can't come get you."

"Jared, I appreciate your situation. Do you have any ideas how to get out of the country before the army and the Macoutes go crazy and start killing everyone?"

Monson sighed, "Like I said, we have several expats in country, a lot of reporters, and a lot of them are calling us for assistance. To be honest, you're down the list a ways. What were you doing bringing your son with you?"

"It was an impromptu thing. Not much choice in the matter." Greene said.

"He's not really your adopted son?"

"No, but I promised to get him out of the country and to take care of him. Is there anyway you can send an embassy car to the Hotel Olaffson? There's something I would like to send through the diplomatic bag."

"That's for diplomats, not the press."

A knock sounded at the window and Greene looked up to see Ferrer making a hurry up signal. Greene glanced over his shoulder and saw the two army guards approaching the gate. "I'm sorry Jared, I have to go, if I can work something out can I call you back?"

"I'm stuck in the embassy as much as you're stuck outside it."

"Thanks," Greene said and hung up. He slipped out of the telephone booth and stopped for a moment at the front desk to speak with Ferrer, "Are they coming because I was on the phone?"

"I don't know, but it is better you go back to your room for the moment. I will take care of them, just get out of sight until I do. I will come knock on your door when it's safe to come out."

Chapter 7

Claude was a dead man. It was just a matter of time. He wasn't sure what to think about the American reporter, but he was Joseph's best chance to get out of the country and to lead a normal life, a life without the weight of corruption and intimidation on his shoulders. Claude wanted nothing more than to be with his son right now, but he couldn't. Walking through the streets would result in an immediate arrest, if not an arbitrary punishment, a.k.a. murder. He'd seen it with his own eyes. That's why he'd taken Joseph and hidden in the bathroom. He didn't want his son to see it, and he certainly didn't want a stray bullet to crash through the front window, not while his son was around.

But it had been enough to get a video of what was done.

And that reporter had noticed. Did the army, or the Tonton Macoutes notice?

Claude walked into his room. There was a small box on top of the wardrobe. Inside he kept a gun—one he'd purchased on the black market—along with ammunition. The man he bought it from told him it was an M11 Sig Sauer, the same kind of gun that the United States military used. Claude didn't care about that, all he wanted to know was that it worked.

He set the box with the gun and ammo on the bed and sat beside it. The man who sold it to him had showed him how to use it, how to load the magazine with bullets, how to put the clip in the gun, how to turn the safety on and off, and how to aim it. Not that he was concerned about the latter. Point blank range didn't require much in the way of aim.

Claude followed the steps he'd been shown. Carefully pressing the bullets into the magazine and pushing the full magazine into the handle of the gun. He didn't know the vocabulary, but he knew enough to use it for some things. It was something he couldn't do without knowing his son would be safe, but now that the reporter gave a promise, and Claude was someone who put stock in the word of others, he felt he could take action to avoid capture by the government. Capture and torture.

He lifted the loaded gun and walked into the bathroom—no reason to make a mess—and sat in the tub, the same way he had with Joseph just a short while before. He flipped the safety off and pressed the tip of the barrel against his temple. He needed to aim the gun into his brain so it would kill him instantly. He didn't want to die painfully, that was the whole point, he wanted to die quickly and without pain. Maybe he should put the barrel in his mouth. Or maybe under his chin. He didn't know. Into his ear? What would be the most effective way to kill himself?

Finally, he decided on the temple, it seemed the cleanest way to go and it involved the least number of bodily fluids, which was important to him. He wanted only blood and brain on the shower curtain, not saliva and snot, or ear wax. He placed the barrel of the gun, firmly, against his temple, just above his right eye. He took a breath. He would return to Guinee, and he would see his beloved once more. Think of that. Think of Guinee and think of a future reunited with all he loved.

And then, without any more thought, he pulled the trigger.

Chapter 8

The report of a gunshot near the Argentine Bellegarde would not normally attract the attention of someone as senior as Reynard Vidocq, but for the circumstances of that morning, and the death of a British reporter. The latter is what worried the head detective of the Port-au-Prince police. There were three reporters according to the army observers. One was shot dead and two escaped over the walls and houses deeper in the Ruelle Vaillant. What happened later, he didn't know, but the sound of a solitary gunshot across the street from the massacre reported much later caused him concern.

Vidocq left his police issue Toyota 4x4 around the corner from the Ruelle Vaillant. He walked past the bodies that still lay outside the school until he stood in front of the apartment and stared up at the front window on the second floor. The curtains were drawn, but there was something visible through the narrow opening between them that drifted slightly, as if there were a breeze. What it was he could not tell, that would take further investigation. One thing he knew for sure, though, was that it would probably be very bad for the inhabitants of the apartment.

He climbed the stairs and knocked heavily on the oak door. It resounded with his knocks and he knew that anyone in the apartment would hear him. But after a minute of listening and hearing nothing, no movement whatsoever, he tried the doorknob. It was unlocked and he opened the door easily. His first impression was that the house was empty. Had the occupants watched the massacre and fled, afraid for their own lives? Scared that they would be held accountable for what they had seen?

Vidocq moved farther into the apartment and looked to the front window. He saw what he'd seen from the street, a tripod and a video camera. That worried Vidocq, worried him tremendously. He moved across the room, careful not to step on a child's train set, and approached the camera. He wasn't entirely versed in the workings of such a contraption, but he could tell by looking through a little window in the casing that it was empty. There was no tape in it. What did that mean?

He moved into the dining room and saw two video cassettes on the table. He examined the wrappers, some of them left to lie on the table, the one he found and lifted carefully between his thumb and forefinger read "three 60 minute cassettes". Where was the third?

Had someone taped the massacre? Had someone recorded the shootings and the machete attacks and the death of that damned British reporter too dumb to run. He returned to the front room and searched the couch, under the cushions, under the couch itself. He dismantled the train tracks and looked in the oversized cars. He lifted the picture of a young boy in the arms of a man with a vaguely familiar face. Where had Vidocq seen it?

And then it clicked. The man in the picture was an intellectual. Vidocq had attended a lecture, once, conducted by Jean Price-Mars, but there had been another man, a student, who warmed the audience up with recitals of some of the more gruesome episodes in Haitian history. Vidocq didn't remember the man's name. If he couldn't find anything in the house with the name he could easily ask around. That was what he was supposed to do, after all, as a detective.

His mind uneasy about the missing videotape, he moved farther into the apartment. He glanced into the bathroom and saw a sink, toilet and tub. It was dark, only a small window illuminated the room. So dark, in fact, that Vidocq almost missed the red stain on the shower curtain. But as he turned to move farther into the apartment, he saw it, in the corner of his eye, and stopped. What would cause a shower curtain to be stained red?

He stepped into the bathroom and pulled the curtain to the side. The sight of a corpse in the tub drove him back, but merely as a reflex, a sudden shock not real fear, like those silly American movies. When he recovered, he squatted by the tub. There was a small entry wound on the man's right temple, a handgun—a Sig Sauer of some type—had dropped from the corpse's dead grip and lay in the man's lap. The back of his head was blown clean away, thus the red stain on the shower curtain, and the wall, and the back of the tub. His face, though, remained clear, marred only by the single bullet hole.

Vidocq easily recognized the man from the picture in the front room. But he still dug out the man's wallet and checked his ID: Claude Rene-Pierce. Now he knew the man's name. But what about the child?

Surely this man, a father who played with oversized model trains to entertain his son, would not kill himself before he ensured that his son would be safe.

And then there was the video cassette.

There must be a third person. Someone whom this father trusted with his son. What about a wife, a mother? But there were no pictures of a woman, at least not in the front room. He still had to search the bedrooms, but he suspected the mother was no longer in the picture. Why would the father pose with his son alone and value the picture the worth of hanging it in the front room?

He quickly walked through the rest of the apartment. A small room decorated with cartoons must belong to the child, and the larger room with a queen size mattress—rare for even an accomplished intellectual in Haiti to be able to afford a real mattress—was neat and tidy, no pictures on the walls. He checked under the bed, nothing but empty luggage and boxes. Why not run? Take your child yourself and flee from the despair that was Haiti. Maybe it was someone else's idea? Maybe the third person that Vidocq imagined instigated the move. The biggest question, though, remained to find out what happened to the videotape and what was on it. To do that he needed to track down the son to eliminate him as a suspect, if nothing else, though his suspicions of a third party began to grow. There had to be someone who Claude Rene-Pierce trusted, someone to whom he could give both the videotape and his child.

Vidocq felt this last thought to the core. His wife, when he still had one, wanted children. He had agreed but no matter how they tried they could not get pregnant. Looking at the pictures, he couldn't imagine a father who would put his child in danger. But it took all kinds, and Vidocq knew very few intellectuals who weren't selfish to some degree. He certainly wouldn't give up his child and his life to someone over a videotape.

No Haitian would do it, not for money, not for blood. It had to be a foreigner. No one from Haiti would want to wander around with a video as volatile as this one might be, nor with a child for whom one had no passport, no documents of adoption, nothing that would allow them to legally leave the country. Vidocq left the apartment, then, and hurried down the creaking stairs to the ground outside. Some army soldiers had begun clearing the dead, and there were very few bodies left, only red smears in the dust where a body dropped and a victim bled out. It was a massacre all right, a Bloody Sunday.

Chapter 9

Ten minutes later Ferrer knocked at their door. The boy Joseph squealed and hid behind the bed. Greene crossed to the door and pulled it open. "Ferrer, is it safe?"

"For now. They wanted more money, they thought they should interrupt phone calls and interrogate the hotel's guests. As if they had some right to completely block all communications."

"It's safe, though, the army won't breach the gate?"

"If we don't give them a reason they should be satisfied to sit outside. I will see they have a pitcher of rum when it gets a little later. It won't be enough to distract them, but it might allow you to get in touch with your embassy again."

"How did you—"

"The phone booth is not soundproof. I heard every word you said . . . don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I know better than that. My continued usefulness to Mr. Morse and his guests depends on my complete discretion. He tells me that he has established an escape route for me, if there becomes a need to evacuate the hotel. He will get me out, he has promised."

Greene turned back to Joseph, "It's okay Joseph. No one is going to come into the hotel to take us. Do you know how to swim? We could go swimming, would you like that?"

Joseph nodded. He came around the bed and spoke in French, "I don't have a swimming suit."

"Go ahead and swim in your underwear. We can dry it later when you sleep. Besides, there's extra in your backpack. Ferrer, would you escort the young man to the swimming pool, and see that I'm prepared a rum and Coke."

"Certainly Mr. Greene. Your name is Joseph? Come along and we'll get you a towel and everything you'll need to get into the pool. It is a hot day and I'm sure the cool water will refresh."

Joseph took a hesitant step forward. He shook his head, as if he were a dog already wet, and followed Ferrer. The black man grabbed hold of the boy's hand and they walked side by side along the second story walkway to the stairs and the gardens and pool below.

As soon as the two disappeared around the corner, Greene closed the door. He turned to the television and saw it was one of the newfangled ones that came with a VHS player attached. He took the video out of his pocket and unwrapped the stationary. Now that he wasn't so sure about the embassy's ability to help, it didn't matter that he kept the tape accessible. He turned the T.V. on. Gray static burst from the screen. He carefully inserted the videotape and rewound it to the beginning. He wanted to make sure Claude hadn't switched tapes.

Once the tape finished rewinding, he hit play. For a moment lines drifted across the screen. Then, he saw the image of the Ruelle Vaillant appear in front of him. A fringe of curtain covered the left edge of the image, but otherwise it clearly showed the line of people outside the school, their faces bright and their hands clasping voting tickets. He saw himself and the other two reporters, white and pale against the background of thick dark faces. It was the right tape. Claude didn't pull a fast one. For some reason the man trusted Greene. He hit the eject button and returned the tape to his own backpack, slipping it beneath several notebooks and a change of clothes he always carried on his back, just in case.

He zipped the bag closed and tossed it on the bed. He would take the bag with him to the embassy, if he could ever get there, and try his luck with this Monson fellow. He had to get the video out of the country, even if he couldn't get himself or the boy across the border.

This was to be his ticket, the one great story of his life. Though he knew he must hurry, the French reporter would break the story in print back home, and it would hit the wires across the globe—at least in those countries with a financial interest in Haiti—and Greene knew exactly how fast the news cycle lasted. If he didn't get the videotape to Miami before a day or two it would be too late. No one would care, no one would remember that on an otherwise peaceful Sunday, General Namphy ordered his extra-institutional monsters to commit a massacre. It was news, and it should be news, but he couldn't wait here in the Hotel Olaffson until Namphy lifted martial law.

Chapter 10

The hotel pool wasn't big, but it was well tended. And now that Namphy cast the shadow of martial law on Port-au-Prince, none of the expats in the Olaffson were wandering the streets. They were all cramped in their rooms or laying out by the pool, drinking rum and Coke, or some other variation. Rum was the constant, the local product, one of the few things that Haiti did right.

Greene found a chair near the far end of the pool next to a small rattan table. A moment later, the bartender appeared and set a large glass with rum and Coke on the table. "On the house. All drinks today are on the house."

"Thanks," Greene said and handed the young man a wadded dollar.

He saw Joseph splashing with another child in the pool, and Greene wondered who might have been foolish enough to bring a child to Haiti during elections; the thought simply one more in the trunk of worries that plagued Greene. At least Joseph was enjoying himself. Maybe he'd forget about the burden he bore for a few minutes at least. That would be something Claude would probably applaud: an entertainment to distract the child from reality.

That's why Claude had made the deal, wasn't it? The man had done something he knew he could never repent and so he sent his secrets away with his son. But why didn't he go himself? He could have traveled with ease, taking his child along. He may not be able to get a visa for the United States. Maybe that's why he sent the boy with Greene, maybe he thought that an American passport would make the difference. There were other ways to get off the island, though, other destinations. Had Claude even thought of that? Or was his intellectual persona too much a part of him to think such thoughts?

Had Claude wanted to become a martyr?

Greene didn't know, and for the moment, the boy occupied and a drink at his hand, he didn't really care. He was still in shock from the massacre and he quickly finished the rum. He waved at the boy who poured the drinks and signaled for another one.

Greene needed news. Only there was none available. General Namphy had squeezed the island until it had all but disappeared in his fist. No lines of communication, hell, he couldn't even call his embassy without interference by the army. It was a mess. Greene didn't know whether the airport was still open, or whether the port had any ships still set to sail. He knew he could always try to get out through Ouanaminthe, and go overland to the Dominican Republic. Or if worse came to worst he could get out on the boats, like some kind of desperate migrant, bled dry by the boat runners who didn't care if the boats sunk somewhere between the coast and the two-mile limit to Haiti's territorial waters.

He had a few options, thinking about it, but the only one that made sense was the airport, either here in Port-au-Prince or up in Cap Haitien. Overland was an option, at least it was with his American passport, but what about Joseph? He needed some kind of paperwork for the boy. He could bribe the officials, sure, they'd turn an eye, but they would search him, search him well. That's why he had to get the video to the embassy. He couldn't trust the regular channels with it. He doubted regular channels even existed right now.

The bartender brought another drink and set it on the table. Cool water dripped from condensation and Greene lifted the glass to his lips. The rum was delicious. A skill the people of Haiti hadn't forgot in the revolution. It went down smooth and very rarely did it give him a hangover the next morning. In some ways it was enough to give Greene second thoughts of staying in Haiti. Those thoughts passed quickly, though, as he still saw the flash of blood, the glint off machetes, the sound of gunfire. It was a nightmare that took all of his effort to forget, to wipe the sensory flashbacks from his mind. And that poor bastard Brit. This was not the kind of place to rely on the color of your passport to get you out of a sticky situation.

For a moment Greene contemplated going up to the room, turning on the television, and checking what international news might be saying about the incident. But it was too soon, and the media who knew about it were scared. Hell, Greene was terrified. He'd come to Haiti on assignment, but that was a month ago when the Junta first made a promise of fair and free elections. Those were halcyon days, before the full weight of corruption and terror came crashing down on Greene's head.

Were they safe even here, behind gates and walls? Was the cachet of whiteness enough to relieve them of the horror? Somehow, he doubted it. If the army or the Tonton Macoutes received orders to storm the hotel, it would fall, and all of the white visitors would be slaughtered.

They couldn't wait, that was the conclusion he came to as he downed the rest of his second drink. The rum and Coke tickled his tongue and felt cool as it went down his throat and settled in his belly. Maybe another one as he watched Joseph play. He waved to the bartender cum bellboy and held up a finger—one more.

Joseph's new friend climbed from the pool and left him alone in the water. The boy—his son now, he supposed—began walking across the pool, inching towards the deep end, walking on his tip toes as far as he could reach and still keep his head above water. Then he leaned back and flopped his arms until he was in the shallows. Greene wondered if the boy knew how to swim. Hell, did it matter? If he didn't, he could learn in Miami. Greene himself would teach the boy. And that was another challenge. First, they needed to get off the island before anyone discovered what he carried in his backpack, and then they had to convince the United States to let them in, a particularly alarming proposal given the policy of the current regime towards refugees.

The bartender brought his third rum and Coke and Greene sipped the slightly bitter drink. He watched Joseph, saw the slight paunch that bore testimony to his father's affluence. It's too bad he'd left with Joseph before getting some money from Claude, but it was too late now. Even if the man was still alive, they couldn't risk the martial law—not for a few dollars and an even closer view of the morning's massacre.

There would be little backtracking.

The man on the lounger beside Greene leaned forward, "Is that your son?"

Greene hesitated. His paranoia on high alert. Who was this man and what did he care about Joseph?

"Adopted," Greene finally said.

The man nodded and leaned back. "He's a good-looking boy. Where is he from?"

"From here," Greene said.

The man sighed, "You don't have papers for him, do you?"

Greene leaned back in his own lounger. He didn't want to answer that question. "Why do you care?"

"I know a man who takes care of situations like that. How much money do you have?"

"Not much."

"I'm sorry," the man dropped his legs over the side of the lounger and sat up. "My name is Harrison, Bud Harrison."

"Bud, I'm Hilton."

The two men shook hands. Bud waved for the bartender, motioned another for both himself and Greene and leaned back in his lounger. "As far as coups go, it's not so bad a place to be."

"The army is stationed right outside."

Harrison raised an eyebrow. "There's more than one way out of this compound."

Greene stared at the man. He was fat, his shirtless belly covered in dark hair, and his pale skin burned red from sunbathing. The way he leaned back in the lounger he gave the appearance of someone who'd done little else but hold court, eat, drink and sunbathe. He wore a hat over his graying hair, even though Greene figured he had little in the way of hair left, at least on his head.

"Getting out of the hotel isn't the last step, though. I've got to get to my embassy."

"You'll only have one chance to get out, at least until they lift this damned bothersome martial law, and who knows how long that's going to last."

Greene poured the rest of his drink down his throat and gave Joseph a quick glance. The boy was floating on his back in the shallow end of the pool, his long black hair floating out from his head like a fishtail.

"What do you know about it?" Greene said, silently wondering who this Harrison thought himself to be, that he could prognosticate on Haitian politics.

Harrison turned his prodigious neck and looked at Greene. "There's a gate through the back garden. It leads to a narrow alley that will take you out the other side of the block. The door to the street is a thick iron thing and only opens from the inside. Guillaume Sam had it built when he came to power, you know, the whole prophecy thing hanging over his head."

"Prophecy?"

Harrison waved a hand. "You've entered a place where magic exists, you might as well use that to your advantage."

"What do you mean?"

"An ancient Mambo threw the bones and said that he would be president, but for a short time, and it would end badly. He took that to heart and when he was elected—or whatever counted as an election back then—he built the escape route. No one really knows about it anymore, just a few adventurous types like myself. It doesn't hurt that I'm fucking the maid, either."

Greene pressed his lips together. He wasn't sure what Bud Harrison was getting after. Everyone on this island had their own angle, their own interests at heart, so what did Bud Harrison want?

"You're uneasy, I can tell," Harrison said, his baritone voice bending low, "There's more than a little to be concerned about."

Greene looked at Joseph in the pool. "How am I supposed to get to the embassy—"

"Like I said, you only get one chance. If I were you, I'd head to the airport. It's the fastest way out," Harrison said. "And like I said, if you are of a certain mind, I can give you some assistance."

"Like what?"

"Let's just say I know some people. If you want to get out of the city, maybe south to Jeremie or up to Cap Haitien I can help. I have friends who regularly cross the border with the Dominican Republic."

"You're a smuggler?"

"I'm a people mover. You wouldn't believe how much money is involved. It's a world market and I've just stuck my toe in. Wherever there's corruption in the leadership, people want to flee."

Greene looked at the fat man. He didn't look the type to be a people smuggler. He looked too fat, too useless. He looked like someone who retired long ago and enjoyed himself having sex with exotic girls and drinking rum all day long. Albeit Greene was drinking rum, but that was a consequence of his circumstances, or at least that's what he told himself.

"I think I'll try my luck at the embassy."

Harrison set his hands on his belly as the bartender brought their drinks. Greene held the cool glass against his forehead and then set it on the rattan side table.

"Like I said," Harrison said, "your best bet is the airport. There are several private operators that, for a little money, they can take you out of Haiti."

"I'm on a fixed contract for coverage. I don't have a per diem. I don't have that much money."

Harrison looked back at the pool and watched as Joseph splashed water away from his face, creating a semi-circular splash around his head. "There are some things that money can buy, and others . . . leave the boy with me and I'll help you get you out of the country."

Greene looked at Harrison, saw the greedy and lustful look in his eyes as he watched the mostly naked Joseph galavanting about the pool.

"I think I'll pass, Bud. I made a promise to the boy's father. I'm not going to put that responsibility on anyone else. Besides, if it were just me—"

"No, no worries. It's not a burden, it would be a pleasure, really."

Greene downed his rum and Coke. He couldn't believe the hotel still had ice, he thought, as the cold chips clicked against his teeth. He rose up to his feet and looked down at Harrison. From above, the man looked like some burnt, bloated and beached whale. No Jonah here, no, this was a killer whale, the kind who preyed on the young and innocent, no reason to be rude, though.

Greene extended his hand. Harrison sat up and took it. "You off?"

"It's about time to take a nap. I think we'll not see you again."

"That's unfortunate," Harrison said, "I was looking forward to making you and your . . . son, a further acquaintance."

Greene managed a half smile and then turned to the pool. "Joseph, come on, we need to go."

Joseph turned in the water and looked at Greene. He didn't say anything, but Greene recognized the look, it was pleading, puppy eyes begging to stay. Greene didn't imagine that Joseph saw the shallow end of the pool very often. But he wasn't about to leave Joseph alone in sight of Harrison.

Reluctantly, Joseph climbed from the pool, his underwear heavy and dripping, almost a diaper the way it billowed with trapped water. Joseph took a step and water drained from his underwear and splashed against the concrete surrounding the pool. Greene wrapped the boy in a towel and together they walked up to their room. Greene opened the door and made a quick check of the room.

No one.

Not that he expected someone, but he didn't know who he could trust. Ferrer seemed trustworthy, but then, Greene's interactions with the man had been minimal. This Bud Harrison fellow, too, probably could get them out of the country faster than Greene on his own, but there was no way in hell he would leave Joseph with the fat Scot. No, what he needed was more money. He should have held out for some assistance from Claude—Joseph's father—to support his son's escape from Haiti.

Maybe he could call his editor and ask for more funds to be wired. He thought about it, but then, it was Sunday and the banks were all closed and probably wouldn't open until the violence of Election Day settled and General Namphy proclaimed his new position as president-for-life.

There were other things an editor in the states could do, though, and that was worth a shot. "Take a shower and get dressed, I'm going down to talk to the concierge for a few minutes and maybe make a few phone calls. I won't be long. If you're done before I get back, go ahead and lay down. We may have a long night in front of us."

"Okay," Joseph said.

Greene waited until the boy disappeared in the small toilet cum shower room before he slipped out of the door. He made sure the room was locked behind him and then he slipped the key securely into the pocket of his khaki shorts. He didn't want to risk it falling out, not with a pedophile loose in the hotel, nor with the rum warming his belly and attacking his blood-brain barrier.

He hurried down the stairs and approached the front desk. He glanced out of the locked gate and saw the army soldiers still sitting on the hood of their Jeep, smoking cheroots and occasionally spitting yellow phlegm on the ground. One of the men tipped his hat and Greene offered a tentative smile in return. That wasn't what he wanted, though, he needed other help, maybe divine help, if there was such a thing.

"Ferrer, I need to make a call to Miami."

The French speaking concierge tugged at the blue vest he wore as part of his uniform, "The international lines have been cut. I'm sorry Mr. Greene, but I can't put a call through for you."

Shit. He'd been hoping Ed could get him out, either send a ship to meet them, or even a helicopter. Failing that, a wire transfer or a line of credit. "Are you sure, Ferrer? No international phone calls at all?"

"Not from this establishment, sir."

Think, think, think. How was he supposed to get to the embassy if all routes were guarded by Namphy's army? For all Greene knew the Tonton Macoutes still wandered the streets looking for victims. He needed a foolproof way to get from the hotel to the embassy. He needed a ride for two, he needed his own army—

"Ferrer, do you know anyone in the army?"

The skinny black man put his fingers on the counter between them. He stuck his very pink tongue out between his lips and then pulled it back, "I do have one friend, he works down at the docks. He's basically a guard. He watches the ammunition and supplies that come in from the foreign ships."

"Does he have a car?"

Ferrer pursed up his face, "Maybe. He could probably get one. Why?"

"I need him to take me and Joseph to the US embassy."

"When?"

"As soon as possible," Greene said.

Ferrer tapped his forefinger against the counter, the rest of his fingers remained still. "I can call him, but I can assure you it won't be cheap. He's a bit of a coward, you see, and he may need extra inducement to take actions that are so dangerous."

"He can pretend we are political prisoners on the way to the prison—"

"The prison is not in the same direction as the embassy."

"Ferrer, we really need this. Is there anyway to get past the crackdown and get to the embassy?"

Ferrer raised his eyes and looked uncomfortably at the two army soldiers and their Jeep outside the gate. "I don't know Mr. Greene. I think there might be, but it won't be cheap."

"Your friend?"

"He can do what you ask, but it is dangerous, and he is not a very senior officer. He will want a large amount for this."

"How much?" Greene said.

Ferrer continued his contemplative avoidance of Greene's eyes, "A hundred."

"Gourdes?"

"Dollars."

Greene took a breath, he had a few hundred dollars in cash, but that was it. A fixed amount that with each act would shrink. "Can you get him to help for less?"

"I don't know, Mr. Greene," Ferrer said. "There is also the question of getting past the guards outside."

"So that is what they are, guards to keep us imprisoned?"

Ferrer sighed, "There is a gateway in the back, very few people know about it. You can get away through there."

"But we can't walk the streets. We barely got back to the hotel before the army—"

"You best go back to your room, Mr. Greene. I will call my friend and hopefully he can assist you. I will even try to get the lowest price possible. It will be difficult, though, because you might all be killed if you take the wrong turn."

"Do your best," Greene said.

Ferrer nodded and shuffled papers. "You should go inside, now. I think you make the guards suspicious."

"I'll be in my room."

Greene walked back to the stairs and climbed up to the second-floor terrace. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. Joseph must have turned on the air conditioner for it hummed and blew a cool breeze. It wasn't enough to dispel the heat or the humidity, but it did refresh Greene, slightly. The lights were off, but the thin curtains allowed a great deal of sunlight to enter the room.

Joseph lay on the bed as directed, his young mouth open and his eyes shut. Greene listened to his breathing for a moment. It was regular and deep, he was asleep. There was no reason to wake him.

Greene crossed to his side and sat down gently. He didn't want to bounce the mattress and wake Joseph. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a copy of _Last of the Breed_ , by Louis L'Amour. He'd already read it, twice even, but he didn't have any other books in English. He could find something in French, he supposed, but the short novel about a man trapped in Siberia and his escape from prison there was thrilling. It captured Greene's full attention as he read it.

He slowly lay on the bed beside Joseph, stopped for a moment to make sure the boy's breathing continued in its deep and sleepy state, and opened the book to start a third read through. He was maybe twenty pages in, about the point where the main character, Joseph Makatozi, enacts his escape from the prison, when a soft knock sounded at the door.

Greene set the book on the pillow and hurried to the door before Joseph could wake up. Ferrer stood outside, his mouth turned into a smile. Greene motioned for the man to remain silent and stepped out on the veranda, closing the room door behind him.

"What news?"

Ferrer's smile grew even larger, "I have talked with my friend. He will do what you require. He is already on his way."

"Shit, that's fast."

"I told him you would pay him seventy-five dollars, nothing more, and he accepted. He will take you to the embassy. But he will not wait for you to return. You will be stranded there."

"I can handle that, just make sure he meets us at the back gate."

"I told him, I told him exactly what to do."

Greene nodded and put a friendly hand on Ferrerr's shoulder, "Good man. Good man."

"I thought you would be pleased."

Greene nodded and then caught the solicitous look in Ferrer's eyes. "I'll give you the twenty-five dollars you saved for your effort. I really appreciate it."

Ferrer's eyes opened wide and his grin split his face, a huge white maw in the middle of so much blackness. "Thank you, Mr. Greene. Thank you."

"It's the least I can do, you've been very helpful."

Greene dug into his pocket and withdrew several wadded bills. He straightened them in his palm until he counted twenty-five dollars. "Here you go. How long before he gets here?"

"Maybe fifteen more minutes."

"Great," Greene said. "Once this mess is cleared up, I'll have my boss approve a money transfer to pay for the room."

Ferrer nodded, his smile faded. He must not be impressed with this state of things, but Greene had no choice. As soon as they got to the embassy, he would have exactly four hundred dollars left, and two plane tickets to buy.

"It is no concern," Ferrer said. "So long as you will be safe. You and the boy."

"Joseph."

"Yes, so long as you and young Mr. Joseph are safe."

"Thank you, Ferrer, I hope to see you again, sometime in the future," Greene said, his body moving back towards the room door.

Ferrer took the hint, offered a slight bow of his head, and scurried off.

As the concierge disappeared down the stairs Greene carefully opened the door and stepped inside. Joseph was awake, though his eyes looked red and his face groggy. "We're leaving."

Joseph scooted to the edge of the bed where his feet dangled a few inches above the floor. "Where are we going?"

"To my embassy. We need to find out some things, and get some paperwork before we can leave."

"Ah, okay," Joseph said.

"Get dressed," Greene said, "We have to leave soon."

Joseph nodded and hopped from the bed. He wiped at his eyes and hurried to pull on his shirt and pants.

Greene grabbed up his duffel and his backpack. He helped Joseph with his shoes and helped him stick his hands through the backpack straps. "Are you ready to go?"

Joseph nodded.

"Good," Greene said, "Let's go."

Chapter 11

Vidocq walked the Ruelle Vaillant, the photo of Claude Rene-Pierce and son—the one he'd lifted from the dead man's wall—in his hand. It was a small picture and a little deceptive, but it looked to be one of the most recent available, the boy maybe seven or eight, his hair long and straight, a wave near the tips, like Paul Mcartney's before Yoko Ono. What he truly needed, though, was an up to date image of Rene-Pierce's son, and the white man who took him and the missing videotape.

He knocked on a door across the landing, a thick metal screen separated him from the solid wood of the door. It took a moment, but he eventually heard footsteps and then a shadow covered the peephole.

"I know you're here," Vidocq left his uniform to make the threat for him, to encourage cooperation, though he would not hesitate to use the Colt M1911 that he carried in the holster at his hip.

A moment later, before Vidocq could draw his semi-automatic pistol, the lock clicked, the door opened, though the screen remained, and Vidocq saw a bedraggled maid, dressed in a simple white dress, her hair hanging either side of her face, wet, who stood in the door and stared at Vidocq. She offered a smile but did not invite him in. "I'm sorry sir, but the Mr. and Mrs. aren't home at the moment. I'm not to let anyone in when they aren't at home."

"Perhaps you can help me," Vidocq said, his eyes drawn to the woman's extra sized breasts.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

Vidocq gave a cold smile, "Your neighbor, Claude Rene-Pierce, have you seen him lately?"

"No, but . . ."

"But what?"

"There was a white man. He took poor little Joseph with him. I don't know where they went."

"What did the white man look like?"

The maid shrugged, her breasts bouncing at the movement, "He was white, skinny, and he had blond-red hair. He was very light skinned. I could tell because he was sunburned."

"What color were his eyes?"

"I don't know, I'm sorry, maybe if I saw him again . . ."

Vidocq nodded, "I'll keep that in mind. How long ago did they leave?"

"Maybe an hour, maybe less, not too long ago."

"He took the boy—"

"Joseph? He did. I watched them leave through the front curtains. They went towards Petionville."

Vidocq stared into the black eyes of the maid. She was bright and maybe even educated a little. He could read her, though, as well as he read anyone else. She was scared, scared of Vidocq, scared of the junta, scared of the Tontons Macoutes, scared in general. She had given him all the information she had. Vidocq smiled his cold smile and turned from the woman. He heard the wooden door swing shut and the lock latch. Scared, and for good reason.

He walked slowly down the stairs and along the Ruelle Vaillant. He saw an army Jeep parked at the corner, part and parcel of martial law. He approached them, two men dressed in the bright green camouflage of the army. He offered a smile and raised his hands, empty, in what he hoped was a non-threatening approach.

"I'm looking for someone who came from the school. Did you see anyone?"

One of the men stepped out of the Jeep and pointed his T65 Assault Rifle at Vidocq's chest. "Who are you?"

"I am Reynard Vidocq, Chief Investigator of the Port-au-Prince police."

"You're police? Good for you, but there's nothing we owe you."

"A simple answer." Vidocq said, his frustration setting him on edge. "A white man and young boy, probably a quadroon."

The army private turned back to look at the other man in the Jeep. Neither one of them had the rank to challenge him—if it came to rank—but the military under the Duvaliers, and apparently under Namphy too, held little respect for the police.

The soldier in the car nodded, his own automatic rifle splayed across his lap. "We saw them, yeah, they went that way, towards Petionville."

"Thank you—"

"Make sure you get off the streets before dark. Your uniform won't save you if we can't see it."

Chapter 12

Greene and Joseph stood to the side of the alley that led from the iron gate to the street. Ferrer had taken the time, and the risk, to show them to the gate and make sure it locked behind them. Greene remembered the screech of the hinges, unoiled for who knew how long, and worried then that the sound might bring unwanted attention.

Joseph remained silent, though now he held Greene's hand.

Greene couldn't help but second guess himself. Had he made the right decision in trusting Ferrer? What was he doing holding a child's hand in the middle of the street, waiting for a powerless army soldier to pick them up in a borrowed Jeep? He could hear the grinding sounds of cars—probably Jeeps—moving past on the main roads to the east. Greene retreated until his back pressed against a wall of stucco and brick. He pulled Joseph with him. A vine of some kind grew either side of them and gave Greene a comforting sense of camouflage.

He was wound up, though. His mind and body pushed into action when all he wanted to do was sit by the pool and drink another four, or possibly eight, rum and Cokes and forget everything that had happened since he woke up that morning.

But he couldn't show the turbulence he felt, not to Joseph, not if he wanted to keep the boy docile and quiet. The swimming pool had helped, Greene thought, it allowed Joseph to cool down and relax, to stop thinking about his father and his school and his former life.

Everything the boy knew was already gone.

But then he heard the sputtering of a vehicle, one that sounded barely alive, one that needed a week in a mechanic's shop. He tried to burrow deeper into the vines, tried to turn green, too, but that wasn't going to happen. Not with khaki cargo shorts and a white cotton button up. The vines provided little protection and Greene longed for a gun.

The sputtering came from the west, the direction of the docks. Maybe Ferrer had done exactly as he said. Had they been lucky enough to engage the one honest Haitian in their efforts to escape? Greene saw the vehicle careen around a corner. It was a Jeep, and the only person inside was the driver.

As the Jeep drew closer, Greene could see the man more clearly. He wore glasses and his cheeks puffed. His skin was dark, and it contrasted with the bright green camouflage of his army uniform. He wore a cap with a bill, also camouflage. As the Jeep approached the back of the hotel it slowed and Greene saw the driver's belly visible as it pressed against the rim of the steering wheel.

Greene hesitated, was this the man Ferrer talked about? If he made the wrong decision here it could very well be his last, both Greene and Joseph could die. There was a gun on the passenger seat, an automatic rifle of some kind.

The Jeep stopped.

The man in camouflage climbed out and approached Greene and Joseph. His chin dangled in fat and his eyes seemed dulled—maybe by drugs—Haiti was known for drug smuggling. He stopped a few feet away from Greene and said something in Creole. Greene glanced down at Joseph. The boy retreated behind Greene's leg, but still looked around, curiosity outweighing his fear.

Greene looked at the army soldier, he spoke in French, "Ferrer. We are friends of Ferrer."

The man shook his head. "Creole."

"Joseph, what is he saying?" Greene said and looked down at the young boy.

Joseph hesitated, his fingers gripped the knee of Greene's shorts. They needed to communicate and Greene couldn't do it. "Come on Joseph, what did he say?"

"He wants to know if we're the ones Ferrer told him about."

"Tell him yes."

Joseph said a few words, and then pulled back behind Greene.

Ferrer's friend pointed to himself "Jean."

Greene pointed to himself, "Hilton," and then to Joseph, "Joseph."

Jean held his hand up and made a motion for money. Greene grumbled, but reached into his pocket. He'd hidden the rest of his money in a sock, he could feel it against his ankle, and only kept enough cash in his pocket to pay Jean the agreed amount. He didn't want the man to think there was more money to extort.

Greene counted out seventy-five dollars and handed them to Jean. "Like we agreed."

Jean smiled. Greene noticed that the man had iffy dental hygiene, several teeth missing or rotted. Greene returned the man's smile, though he didn't show any teeth. He wasn't amused. Jean stuffed the dollar bills into his pocket and pointed to the back of the Jeep and said something to Joseph.

Joseph translated, "Put your things there. If someone stops us, we're his captives."

Greene helped Joseph with his backpack, set it in the cargo space, and set his own beside it. Then he set his duffel on top. In his mind he saw the duffel as a buffer between the world and the videotape. They climbed into the backseat of the Jeep and Jean grabbed the gun off the passenger seat. He turned and pointed the gun at them, grinned, and laughed.

"Not funny," Greene said.

Jean shook his head and set the gun down. Safe. Greene wasn't sure whether the presence of a gun was reassuring—as it was in the hands of an apparently immature Haitian military soldier—or whether he would have preferred there not to be a gun. He couldn't be too choosy at the moment. Jean turned the keys and the Jeep coughed to life. The black frame was exposed, and Greene grabbed hold as Jean hit the gas and the Jeep jerked forward.

They turned a corner, sharp. The Jeep drifted around and the back wheels slipped in gravel. For a moment the Jeep fishtailed but then the wheels grabbed pavement and the Jeep jumped forward.

They passed another army Jeep stationed at a corner and Jean grinned and waved. He held up a thumb pointed at Greene and Joseph, and then made a slicing motion across his throat. The other soldiers grinned back.

Watching Jean, his anxiety already high, made Greene wonder whether Port-au-Prince possessed a guillotine. He already knew about the mob of bloodthirsty Tonton Macoutes. If they got hold of Greene and Joseph they wouldn't hesitate to slaughter the interloper and his _adopted_ son.

The thought passed soon enough as a few minutes later they ran into a road block, two Jeeps parked perpendicular across the road, four soldiers. Greene glanced at Joseph. He could see the fear in the boy. "Hold my hand."

Greene felt Joseph's hand in his. It was warm and delicate and small. It felt tiny against his skin. The boy's palm was sweaty, and his fingers shook.

"It's going to be okay, don't worry. I won't let anything happen to you," Greene said.

Joseph shook his head. "We're heading into the city. Is that where the embassy is?"

"I have no idea," Greene said.

Joseph pulled his hand away and clenched it in his lap. "You think we're going to get caught?"

"There's a lot that can happen, but I promise you, everything I can do to get us out, I will."

Jean stopped the Jeep and shut down the engine. He climbed out and approached the four soldiers—all of whom carried assault rifles—his arms at his sides, raised up a little, palms forward.

That was the gesture of someone who didn't want to get shot.

Damn it.

They should have stayed in the hotel—though the security of an old building like the Olaffson was questionable—there weren't any army uniforms inside its gates. And as far as Greene was concerned, the army could go to hell. They may not have been responsible for the massacre that morning, but they didn't do anything to stop it. He didn't trust anyone in a green uniform, not anymore, not here.

He watched as Jean slowed his approach and stopped a few feet from the nearest soldier. They exchanged words, Jean pointed back to Greene and Joseph. One of the soldiers, nothing more than a young boy with pimples and rashes all across his face, came to the Jeep. He said something in Creole and Joseph opened his mouth. Greene put a hand on the boy's shoulder and spoke in French. "We don't want them to know you speak Creole. Just answer in French. If they think you're a native, they'll take you from me."

Joseph spoke in French, "What do you want?"

The pimply soldier lowered his assault rifle to point at Joseph's chest. He said something in Creole that Greene didn't understand. Greene pushed the barrel of the gun aside and said in French, "Get that fucking gun out of our faces."

That's when Jean came over and said something to the soldier. It didn't stop Pimples completely, but he lowered his rifle from Joseph and Greene. Pimples caught sight of something behind them and walked around to the back of the Jeep. Greene turned his head to follow Pimples. He was interested in Greene's duffle bag.

"Hey," Greene said.

The soldier ignored him and unzipped Greene's bag. Jean pointed his own rifle at Greene, threatened him with the gun, but also flashed a look of distaste on his swollen face. A subtle shake of the head reminded Greene that he wasn't a reporter right now. He was a refugee, desperate to escape what may yet prove to be certain death. More than that, he was a hostage. Jean's hostage, at least that was the part he was supposed to play.

For the benefit of the soldiers—at least that was Greene's guess—Jean pressed the barrel of his rifle into Greene's chest, knocking him back against the seat and blowing the air from his lungs. "What are you—"

This time Joseph put a hand on his knee. He spoke, in French, "Calm down Hilton. If you don't stop, they'll shoot you, and then me. They don't care that I'm a child. They will shoot me just as dead."

"I'm sorry, I . . ." He fell silent, his thoughts trailed off. He was glad that he'd transferred the videotape to his backpack, which was beneath the duffel. If they were lucky, the soldier would get tired before he finished ransacking the duffel and miss their backpacks beneath it.

Greene turned in his seat, his belly finally caught up to the dread that Joseph must already feel; the tight knot that hooked his stomach and gripped his insides with iron fists.

Greene grabbed hold of Joseph then, held him close in a hug. "Play along, he whispered to Joseph. You're my adopted son. Just remember that. I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to—"

Jean grabbed hold of Greene's shoulder and pulled him away from Joseph. He shoved the barrel of his rifle into Greene's face, and in broken French, said, "No talk."

Greene fell back at Jean's warning. At least he wasn't shooting. Greene imagined the situation spiraling out of control—further than it already had. He stared nervously at Jean. The soldier pulled his glasses from his face and wiped sweat from his brow. He stared at Greene as if to say, stay on the damned seat and shut the hell up. They were all at risk. If the soldiers operating this roadblock got suspicious—or if someone said the wrong thing—it would all fall apart and then . . .

He was thinking in ellipses, his thoughts struggling to put together each second of the ordeal, waiting for the soldier behind him to rifle through his backpack and find the videotape. That would be the end. But then, the soldier drew out a pair of jockey shorts, Greene's tighty whiteys. The soldier held them up with the barrel of his rifle and waved them about. He started laughing and patting Jean on the shoulder. The other men of the cordon echoed their laughter. Greene sat quietly, acting as ashamed as possible, though inside he felt a joyous relief.

The soldier threw the underwear in Greene's lap and waved at Jean. Jean smiled, his corrupt grin showing off his yellow teeth and cairin rotted stumps. Greene held his breath as Jean said a few things to the soldier and then they patted each other on the back and Jean climbed once more into the driver's seat of the half-derelict Jeep.

Jean put the Jeep in gear and started through the roadblock. Greene watched nervously as the troops slowly disappeared behind them. It was a close call, closer than Greene wanted to admit. He'd jeopardized their goal, their lives, by acting an arrogant fool.

As they turned the corner, Greene bent over to talk to Joseph without Jean overhearing. "I'm sorry about that Joseph. I think I had a little too much alcohol at the hotel. I should have acted differently."

Joseph stared up at Greene, his face etched with fear. "You scared me. You scared me really bad. Daddy would never do that. Why can't we go back and see daddy?"

"It's . . . it's complicated."

"What's complicated? My daddy would protect me, he wouldn't do stupid things like that. You almost got us killed."

"I'm sorry. I didn't think—"

"My daddy would think. Take me back to my daddy. Take me back—"

Greene grabbed hold of Joseph's shoulders and pulled the boy close. He heard the boy's sobs and felt the boy's shaking against his chest. He couldn't imagine how traumatized the boy must be, his father had traded him for a videotape. It must be terrible to know that but for a videotape he could still be with Claude, his daddy. And though Greene felt certain that Claude was already dead, he couldn't communicate that fact to the young Joseph. So he did the only thing he could, wrap his arms around the boy and hold him tight, let him cry and get everything out.

Chapter 13

Ferrer watched through the gate as a man dressed in policeman blues approached the two soldiers lounged on their Jeep. From the front desk Ferrer could see that the new man was a superior, even if from a different branch of the totalitarian establishment. The other two men jumped to their feet and stood at a semblance of attention. Ferrer watched the cop wave them to stand at ease and spoke a few words. They spoke quickly, then, and pointed into the lobby of the hotel. At the phone booth. At Ferrer.

He didn't like that, not one bit, but he couldn't abandon his post. That he'd promised Mr. Morse. He would stay behind the desk until it became too dangerous to do so.

Ferrer wasn't sure how much longer it would take to reach that threshold.

He watched as the cop, a mulatto, his skin gray and brown, lighter than most blacks, but not quite light enough to pass for an octoroon. . .mayde a quadroon. Whatever his heritage, the cop approached the gate of the hotel. The man had a narrow nose, a rough mouth that twitched a little in the sun, eyes deep set, the kind of man that you respected from first sight, only now he was banging the gate with an open palm and jiggling the lock that held it shut.

Ferrer raised a hand and a finger. Just a minute. He ducked behind the concierge's counter and thought about hiding there until the cop went away, but he couldn't do that—he'd given his word to Mr. Morse. Ferrer thought highly of his reputation with the owner. A good concierge with positive referrals could go anywhere. Until today he'd been up to the job, but between the reporter and the boy, and now a cop, he wasn't so sure. Was his life in danger too? After parsing his options and thinking his thoughts, Ferrer grabbed the large key chain and popped up from behind the counter. He smiled at the cop and jangled the keys, walked around the counter, through the lobby, and to the gate.

"Sorry, sir, but we have lots of keys around here."

The cop remained silent. Ferrer watched as the man raised his cap and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He had a full head of black hair, but it was curly, at least enough to identify the black blood in the man. The blue uniform reminded Ferrer of the Tonton Macoutes, except it was lighter, a pale blue compared with the Macoutes's navy. To Ferrer's way of thinking, there might be little difference otherwise. Three gold bars and a star hung at the cop's shoulder. Ferrer suddenly wished he knew about rank markings. Only he didn't, and he could only guess what rank the cop possessed.

"You seem to be on your guard," the man in blue said, his French impeccable.

"It's warranted in these times," Ferrer said.

"Perhaps," the cop said.

Ferrer reached the gate and began trying keys in the lock. If he could play this game long enough maybe the man would go away. "Sorry about this, I never remember which key goes with which lock. Maybe this one."

"I'm looking for a white man and a mulatto boy."

"There are lots of white men here, not so many mulattos."

The cop set a foot on the lower crossbar of the gate, the added weight shook the cast iron fence and Ferrer's jaw twitched. What if he dropped the keys and ran? It would do no good, he thought, as the cop carried a pistol in a holster at his waist. The man could shoot him in the back before he'd gained five meters. Ferrer finally slid a key into the lock, it was the right one, and the key turned. The lock clicked open and Ferrer grabbed hold of it before it could fall to the ground. He smiled at the cop, "There, it's open. Please, come in."

The cop nodded and walked through the now open gate. He moved through the lobby and stopped at the check in desk. He watched as Ferrer hurried around him to take his place behind the counter. "Now, what can I do for you sir?"

"Like I said, I'm looking for a white man. He is tall and has red hair. He is a spy. He will be traveling with a mulatto child. Young, maybe seven or eight years old."

"Can I get you a drink?"

"No."

"Sorry," Ferrer said, "I'm just trying to be helpful. I can't say that I recognize the description."

"Let me look at your guestbook."

Ferrer glanced at the heavy book filled with lined pages. He saw the checkered pattern of the cardboard cover and hurriedly looked away. It was too late, though. The cop caught Ferrer's glance and stepped to the counter.

"This one?" the cop said.

Ferrer sighed, he wasn't about to lose his life for Mr. Morse. "Yes, that's the one."

"Good," the soldier said. He opened the book and began scanning through the names. "How many guests do you have at the moment?"

"I'd have to count them. . .but I think there are about fifteen people here."

"They'll be leaving soon, I take it?"

"I don't know," Ferrer said, "we try to separate our guests from the harsh realities of Port-au-Prince. They tend to stay here most of the time, lolling by the pool, drinking tropical beverages, getting drunk. It's a halcyonic existence. And sometimes they go on excursions, we vet those, make sure they're safe for our guests. It's something that—"

"Has anyone left today?"

"No," Ferrer said.

The soldier nodded, "Gather all your guests at the pool. I want to talk to them."

"But they don't all speak French—"

"Then you will translate into English."

"But—" Ferrer tried to speak, but the policeman silenced him with a hand.

The cop lifted the guestbook and headed towards the pool, "I need you to comply, or else you may become an unfortunate victim of the attempted coup."

"Attempted coup?"

"Yes, General Namphy is most distressed by today's events. He is furious that some old-thinking individuals have tried to influence the voting through violence. He has postponed the election until the government can control the rioting and catch the men who are behind the slaughter."

Ferrer looked into the soldier's dark eyes. "I'll gather the guests."

"Good."

Chapter 14

The American embassy in Port-au-Prince was a block of windows that glittered in the mid-morning sun. Greene could only imagine how much heat that produced and what that did to the electricity bill; let more sun in than it did bullets. Large concrete pillars stood around strategic areas, making it impossible for a car to drive close enough to do any harm by explosion or gunfire. It was a well defended position complete with palm trees and other tropical topiary.

Jean stopped the Jeep in front of the embassy. He didn't bother to turn the engine off. He simply turned around, "Get out."

"He wants us to get out," Joseph said, translating from the Creole, even though Greene understood from the man's tone of voice.

Greene climbed out of the Jeep and grabbed his duffel bag. The zipper was still open from Pimple's search at the blockade and Greene pulled it closed with a sigh. He grabbed his own backpack and lifted it onto his back. Then he grabbed Joseph's bag. He helped the boy climb down from the Jeep and then helped him into his backpack.

It was getting late, the morning moving to midday, the sun high in the sky and boiling. Soon Haiti would go to sleep, the afternoon heat too much to allow for work; lunch breaks for those who worked in air-conditioned buildings. Behind them Jean and his Jeep screeched rubber against concrete and left Greene and Joseph alone in front of the American embassy.

Greene grabbed Joseph by the hand and walked with him up a ramp that lead to a security booth. As they approached the glass enclosed vestibule a Haitian guard pointed to a door on the right. Greene led Joseph in that direction. A buzzer sounded and the door opened.

"Hello sir, how can I help you?" The guard said in slightly accented English.

Greene dug in his pocket and retrieved his passport. He saw the dark blue and the Eagle and he felt reassured. It was a symbol of power and, with luck, he'd be able to draw on the full might of the United States government.

"I have a meeting with Jared Monson."

The guard took Greene's passport. He opened to the information page and held the three-year old passport photo up to compare with his current face. "I guess that's you."

Greene grinned. It wasn't a joke, but he felt giddy after the tension of the army blockade. Besides, his vibrant red hair wasn't easy to hide, whether in a three-year old passport photo or in real life. His relief was enough to loosen his grin and elicit a laugh. Now he just needed to convince this consular officer Jared Monson to help them.

The guard set the passport on the counter, "Let me call in. Just a second."

Greene watched as the guard, a handsome black man with skin dark enough to shine, picked up a security phone and dialed an extension. "There's a Hilton Greene here. He says he has a meeting—okay, I'll tell him."

The guard replaced the phone on its hook and turned towards Greene. "He'll be down in a minute."

Greene nodded, his grin still in place, his face flushed and his brain light. Now that he was in the embassy, he knew everything would be okay. The government wouldn't let the Tonton Macoutes kill American nationals. He looked down at Joseph. The boy seemed to withdraw into himself. He didn't speak much English and now they were passing from a French world into an English-speaking world. Greene patted the boy on the head and spoke in French, "Everything's going to be fine."

"I still think we should go get my daddy."

Greene took a deep breath.

A moment later a fair-haired man, dressed in shirt sleeves with an open collar, walked through a second door into the vestibule. "I'm Jared Monson. I'm surprised you made it."

Greene grinned, "So am I. We had our moments."

Monson glanced down at Joseph, "This is the boy you mentioned."

"That's right."

"You know you're not going to get out of the country without paperwork for him."

"I was hoping you could help—"

Monson shook his head, "I can get you our end, but the Haitian authorities have their own paperwork in cases of adoption. It has to be approved at a certain level with certain stamps and seals."

"But can't we get out on an American plane or something?"

"I can get you to the airport, but that's about it. You could bribe the airline people, that's on you, but I can't guarantee you a safe trip out."

Greene stared at Monson, the man was tall, taller than Greene, and he had intense blue eyes. "I only have a few hundred dollars left. Is there anyway I can get an advance on my company's account?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Greene, but we're not a bank. You'll have to get that money somewhere else."

Greene cursed.

Joseph looked up at him, his head tilting and his neck craning. Greene smiled down at the boy. Apparently, he understood English profanity.

"In not so many words I agree with you," Monson said. "We tried to get warning out to our nationals but we aren't prescient. We had no idea that Namphy was going to pull this stunt."

Greene took a breath to calm down. "You're saying all you can do is guarantee a safe ride to the airport?"

"If you go now, before the army decides it wants to start surrounding embassies."

"You mean—"

Monson shook his head. "We're considering it. The Ambassador has put the embassy personnel on high alert. There are still some hard feelings about the occupation."

"But that was decades ago."

"Long memories. Anyway, I'll call for an embassy vehicle and driver to take you to the airport. I'm sorry I can't do more."

Greene glanced down at Joseph. The boy was looking up at the two of them, his gray eyes hooded in the shadow of his upraised hand held against the sun shining off the embassy. Joseph seemed to shiver, his body tense. Greene squatted down next to the boy so he could speak to him at the same level, "We can't stay here. We're going to go to the airport. With luck we can get a flight out."

"But don't I need a little book like you?"

Greene looked up at the guard. He took hold of his passport and stuffed it back into his pocket. "With luck we can figure something out."

"My daddy has one of them. He showed me once."

Greene gave the boy a sad smile, "I'm sorry Joseph. We don't have time to get you all the paperwork."

"What about the video?" Greene stood.

"You mean the one of the massacre?"

"Yes, the whole point of this thing."

Monson frowned. "I spoke with my superior in the consular section. He isn't willing to trust anything like that to diplomatic pouches. He's worried it might get compromised."

"Really, that's it? You let me come here and risk our lives just to tell us you can't help us. We could have gone to the airport without stopping here."

"I'm sorry Hilton, I know you had certain ideas about what we could do, but the ambassador has the final word."

"You mean you took this to McKinley?"

"No, but he has stated policy—"

"In the last two hours?"

Monson shook his head, "I'm sorry Hilton, a ride to the airport is all I can manage. Are you going to take that, or do you want to go back to your hotel and sit this thing out?"

"Absolutely not. Take us to the airport."
Chapter 15

Vidocq scratched behind his ears. Fifteen guests stood around the pool, some of the patrons of Hotel Olafsson were dressed in bathing attire, and their Western bellies protruded obscenely from above their swimsuits, others were dressed in loose fitting robes. Still others wore bloomers and blouses, anything to cut the heat and the humidity of a hot Haitian day.

He turned to the concierge, "You have gathered everyone?"

"Everyone in the hotel, yes."

"What about people who aren't in the hotel?"

"I do not know. Everyone who is checked in—"

"I'd like to see the register again."

"Yes sir," Ferrer said and hurried to the front desk. While he waited for the concierge cum receptionist Vidocq paced the shady side of the pool. The residents were arrayed around the sunny side, their pasty, puffy physiques growing red. He couldn't understand white people's obsession with the sun. Get dark, darker, darkest. Vidocq was not black himself—that alone was reason enough for his position in the police force.

"Here," the concierge handed him the oversized book.

Vidocq took the proffered register—little more than an accounting ledger. He scanned down the names, checking those who might have been absent. Or checked out. . .

"What about this Greene? Hilton Greene? Where is he?"

"He checked out."

"How long ago?"

"Earlier today."

"I see he is an American."

The concierge nodded, his obviously fake smile also obsequious. "You are correct. He is from Florida, I believe. A very nice man."

"I imagine, but he is gone today."

"That is what I understand."

"When today?"

"I don't think I was on duty."

"Excuse me—" a rather large and bloated man said from across the pool. "Are you looking for Hilton Greene and his boy?"

"His boy?" Vidocq looked up from the register. "What boy? There's no boy listed in the registration book."

The man, his belly pendulous, took a slow mosey around the pool. By the time he was halfway, Vidocq had already lost his patience. "Well, why do you interrupt me then?"

"I saw the man. Hilton Greene. A handsome fellow. But it was his boy. . .at least he claimed it was. Joseph, I think his name was. Greene said the boy was his adopted kid. Said he'd come just for that. But it didn't smell right to me."

Luckily the man spoke French—though with a ghastly Scottish accent—for all his abilities, Vidocq could not speak English. "How did it smell then?"

"Fishy," Harrison said. "I got the feeling he was nervous. Like he was hiding something. He talked about getting out of the country—"

"Something you should all do."

"I'm not saying we shouldn't. But he really wanted to get out, and to take his boy with him."

"Where did they go?"

"I don't know. I know they went out the back entrance, but I don't know where they went after that."

"Back entrance," he turned to Ferrer. "Show me this back entrance."

The concierge's shoulders dropped, and his head drooped. "This way."

"One minute," Vidocq said. "What is your interest in this?"

"My concern for the child, of course," Harrison said. "I don't want to see anyone taken from their parents without—"

"His parents are dead," Vidocq said.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know—"

Vidocq glared at Harrison. "You're a waste of human flesh. Go back to your sun worship and leave me alone. I don't need anymore talk from a rat like you."

Harrison turned from Vidocq and hurried around the pool, this time at a much more hurried pace. Once the fat man left Vidocq's focus the detective turned back to the concierge, "You can dismiss the rest of the guests. I have what I need."

The concierge spoke in French. "Thank you everyone. You can now go back to your rooms and activities. A free round of shots on the house for your inconvenience."

"You sate them like pigs," Vidocq said in Creole.

The concierge shrugged, for all Vidocq knew the man might share his opinion. "You want to see the back door?"

"Please," Vidocq said, knowing full well the concierge was only cooperating out of fear.

The rear exit turned out to be a heavy iron door built into the wall and hidden—on both sides—by heavy greenery. More effective than the bright green camouflage uniforms worn by the army. But that wasn't the point of this exercise. He was after the man—named Greene apparently—and the boy Joseph. They couldn't have gotten far if on foot, and they would have been arrested by army soldiers. They may have made it to the hotel early in the morning, but Martial Law went into effect at noon, no one on the streets except those in uniforms—and of course the Macoutes. Vidocq took a step through the door and looked back, he cocked his head, sniffed the air, the pungent flowers deep in their draught. He turned back to the concierge. "Where did they go?"

"I don't know."

Vidocq punched the concierge in the belly. The skinny man dropped to his knees and gasped air. "You will tell me, or I will kill you."

"I don't know."

"You don't know, or you don't want me to know?"

The concierge leaned back, exposing his neck to Vidocq's assault. Vidocq saw the temptation. He could punch the man in the neck and crush his windpipe, cause him to choke on his own flesh. But he didn't. He didn't want to leave a trail of corpses in his wake. He was not a Tonton Macoute. "It would be in your interest to tell me now, before I arrest you for acting as a political dissident. You are young and skinny and an attractive skin tone. You wouldn't last long against the interrogators . . . most of whom are black."

"You can't do that—"

Vidocq grinned. "You can either tell me or look forward to a long period of isolation interspersed with immense pain."

The concierge lowered his head, his eyes downcast. Vidocq watched the man's face, the faint flush of the cheeks, the fluent French lips, corners drawn down, the struggle in his eyes: should he be more loyal to a customer or to his country?

"Perhaps we should take it up with your manager. He's a foreigner is he not?"

"All right," the concierge said. He took a moment to wipe his brow with his palm. "They went to the embassy."

"Which embassy?"

"The American embassy."

"The man and the boy?"

"Yes," the concierge said. "Hilton Greene."

"And Joseph?"

"Yes, that's what the fat man called him."

"Why wasn't the boy on the register?"

"He was visiting. Greene told me he was adopted. I didn't ask."

"Always discretion."

The concierge turned away, his back towards Vidocq.

"I would warn you not to turn your back on me. I might shove a knife in it."

"It would be deserved," Ferrer said.

"You don't want to die. You spoke in order to save your life. You will now live with it. How long ago did they leave?"

"Maybe an hour."

"They couldn't be but halfway to the embassy."

The concierge coughed.

"What? What is it? Don't try to hide it."

"They had a—they had an escort."

"An escort?" Vidocq said.

The concierge nodded, his cheeks damp, "A friend at the docks. He's in the army."

"He helped them get past the checkpoints?"

"He drove them." Ferrer said

Vidocq nodded. That made more sense. A foreigner and a child wandering the streets would be quickly picked up by the forces maintaining martial law. But an army escort, a soldier in an army Jeep would easily pass the checkpoints and the barricades. It would be easy. Especially if the foreigner was smart enough to handle cash readily.

"I want you to write down the details of your army friend. I will be back to collect them later. And we will see whether the American's bribery was really worth the consequences."

Chapter 16

Greene sat in the back seat of the armored Mercedes. It was black, new, and its mass, heavy with armor, sunk low enough that the driver barely needed to slow for turns. Half leather, half plastic, all metal. The back windows of the car were covered with a powerful shade. An American flag flew from the front bumper—making the embassy car theoretically immune to the imposition of martial law. The driver focused his attention on the road, his hands firmly on the wheel, intent on avoiding potholes as well as army Jeeps. A pile of burning tires passed on the left, remnant of a barricade set up by Dechoukaj fighters.

Joseph sat in the back beside Greene. The boy was getting more comfortable with Greene. He'd started out tense and terrified, desperate to return to his father, but he was speaking less of the idea now, after discovering how difficult it might be to survive the day, let alone get out of the country.

They were fugitives.

By now the police or some other government agency would have taken in the massacre at the Ruelle Vaillant. There would be investigations and there would be backlash. If Claude wasn't already in danger, he soon would be, especially if Greene published the videotape.

The car turned a corner and approached a roadblock. Greene looked forward nervously. They had passed several checkpoints and barricades, little more than army corruption, impromptu toll, outposts. It wasn't martial law if you could pay your way through it.

Greene wrapped his arm around Joseph's shoulders. He could feel the warmth from the boy, the heat of the day echoed in his small body. He was worried. The embassy didn't seem confident in its solutions. A car to the airport. Really? Was that the only option? They could have given sanctuary, let them stay at the embassy until martial law passed. Or even taken the videotape. Instead he was left to carry the grail, if you will, of foreign reportage. It was the smoking gun, the picture of the naked girl running with napalm burning her skin, the series of pictures depicting the lackadaisical assassination of a bystander, the burning of the monk. It was Haiti's Vietnam Pulitzer.

And he had sole access to it. If only he could figure out how in the hell he was going to get it from here to Miami.

Greene watched as the army soldier stepped out in the road, his AK-47 raised, and held a hand to stop the car. The driver shook his head and waved his hands. Cannot. But then the army soldier inclined the gun to the sky and let loose a round. Even in the car, through all the bullet proofing, Greene heard the noise. It resounded in his ears and reminded him of the massacre of that morning. The massacre he'd narrowly escaped.

The driver was a Haitian, who spoke excellent English, and he turned back to Greene. "Should I stop."

Greene stared at the soldier carrying the assault rifle. He was young and his threatening mien would surely be dispensed with a few dollars, but Greene was tired. Barely noon, they had spent all morning in nervous preparations, in consideration and conflict. The paranoia was getting to him and he didn't want to handle a single soldier. "Go around him."

The driver nodded and set his hands to the task. The wheel turned and the car with him. It wasn't a nimble maneuver, but it accomplished its goal of taking them around the soldier. That didn't stop the man from taking aim at the driver's head and firing his rifle. Impact flares appeared on the window and Greene heard the bullets smack against the thick protective glass.

"Keep driving."

"Yes, sir," the driver said.

Joseph squirmed under his arm, "Why is he shooting?"

"Because we don't want to give him a bribe."

"But—"

"The American government doesn't indulge in bribes, or at least I think that's the answer."

"But we bribed the other one," Joseph said, his wide eyes turned upward, pleading.

Greene took a breath and tried to smile. He felt his face make the movements, but he didn't feel the emotion. "We're almost at the airport. We have to get there as soon as possible and we've already been on the street for too long."

A shot struck the back window and fine spiderwebs cracked through the glass all around it. Greene ducked down instinctively. It would cause an international incident if word of the shooting got out. For a moment Greene wished he'd packed his camera in the backpack, which sat in the footwell between his sandals, instead of the duffel in the trunk. He could photograph a sole member of the Haitian army firing on a diplomatic car. It would be the whipped topping on an already large Sundae.

"I'm scared," Joseph said.

Greene glanced down at the boy, at the pouchy cheeks and the way he held his arms around his chest. He wasn't shaking, but he might be soon. The shock of seeing bullets fly towards his face was enough to make Greene shaky, he could only imagine how Joseph must feel.

The driver pushed his foot to the floor and the powerful Mercedes roared away from the soldier. Greene turned to glance through the rear window. It was heavily tinted but he could still see out of it. The soldier was rushing to his Jeep. The young man jumped in the driver's seat and hit the gas. The Jeep turned and accelerated to follow them.

Shit.

"Is there somewhere else we can go? Somewhere to hide? I don't think we'll be able to make it to the airport," Greene said, his head bobbing back and forth between the embassy driver and the Jeep half a mile behind them.

The driver glanced in his mirror. "You want to hide. We can go back to the embassy, but you will still have the same dilemma, and now it will be complicated because they will know where you are."

"Is there someplace else that he might respect? A church? A hotel? A government office? Anything."

"There is the Basilica de Notre Dame."

"What's that?" Greene said.

"It's a church, the biggest Roman church in Port-au-Prince. You can seek refuge there. I don't think a soldier would try to take you away if you seek refuge there. The army is many things, but they respect the church . . . normally."

Greene grabbed hold of the backpack at his feet. Joseph's bag was in the footwell on the right. What he needed most he carried in the bottom of the backpack nestled between his feet. He would like to have his duffel along, but it was in the trunk, and that much time—enough to open the trunk, retrieve the duffel, and slam the trunk shut—meant the difference between death and sanctuary, he could do without. That meant they could jump from the Mercedes and run without losing precious seconds trying to maneuver a large duffel bag up stairs or through narrow doors.

"How far is the church?"

"Much closer than the airport," said the driver, "and it's not far from the central market."

"What do you mean?"

"If the army soldier leaves you alone at the church you can get lost for a time in the central market—the Marche de Fer. None of the old women who sell goods there worry about the police or the army. They go in the morning, sell their goods, and return home at night. They are not criminals and they don't look like criminals. The Tonton Macoute ignore them—except to steal from them—and the army doesn't worry about them."

"But the church—"

The driver turned a corner and accelerated. He was trying to get away from the Jeep and its driver whose reckless driving narrowed the gap on their tail. "The church will hide you from this soldier, but you must still find your way off the island."

"What do you think we should do?"

"I think you should leave Port-au-Prince and head for Cap Haitien. From there it is an easy travel to Ounaminthe and the crossing to the Dominican Republic. You can get help from your embassy there."

"But how?"

The driver glanced in his rearview mirror and his eyes dropped down to Joseph. "The boy speaks Creole?"

"That's right."

"Have him ask for passage, a tap-tap, or if you have more money, a driver. It takes about six hours, but it is more distant from the center. General Namphy has less influence there and you can hide among the foreigners who live there."

Greene stared at the driver through the mirror. He was a kind man, his face round and his chin indefinite. A comfortable man with a good job. Greene could understand why he didn't want to risk much more interaction with this tyrannical army soldier. He'd already damaged the bullet proofing of an American embassy vehicle. What would happen if he caught their tail and fired again? Was the rear window as strong as the windshield?

A pair of spires rose above the buildings of the next street, their color white, two cupolas, one each spire, and each topped with an iron cross. Greene turned back again to check on the Jeep. The soldier was maybe three-quarters of a mile back, his driving inexpertly compared with the embassy driver, but his eagerness and zeal seemed to make up for any deficiency in driving acumen.

It was enough, though, that Greene and Joseph might rush up the stairs and into the chapel where he hoped to find a prelate or some kind of Catholic bishop or officiant who could grant them refuge. Greene wasn't sure, exactly, of the process, but he felt ready to improvise should the need arise.

Greene was a Protestant, born and raised in the Anglican Church, though he'd fallen from the faith when he grew old enough to attend college and inculcate his mind and body with the faithless life and habits of a college student. Regardless, he knew nothing of the Catholic Church nor their dogma. He knew that churches provided refuge against outside forces like the government or crying mobs. He just hoped he'd not made a mistake in exchanging the embassy for a church. It may be a vain hope, but it was all he had at the moment, hope.

The Mercedes turned the corner and the Basilica rose on their right. Greene bent over Joseph to stare out the window at the large church. Besides the cupola adorning each tower, the front facade was a near copy of the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris. The primary difference was its color. The church was pink. Greene remembered a conversation he'd overheard about how the stones used in its construction turned pink after certain exposures to the weather and sun. He wasn't too sure exactly what caused it, but that didn't matter. Not now. He just hoped the doors of the building were open.

"Here it is," the driver said.

Greene glanced forward over the seat, "Pull up at the base of the steps."

"All right."

Greene looked behind him again, looking for the Jeep in pursuit. It had yet to turn the corner. "Once we get out, drive off. If we're lucky we can make the guy think we're still in the car."

"As you say," the driver said.

Greene put a hand on Joseph's shoulder, "As soon as we stop, run up the stairs and into the church as fast as you can."

Joseph looked up at Greene, his eyes dark and his puffy cheeks blushed. Greene rubbed a hand through the boy's smooth hair . . .straight enough to pass, at least in the United States. "I'll be right behind you."

"Are you sure?"

Greene nodded. "We're in this together Joseph, you and me, together."

The car slowed. Greene glanced over his shoulder. The Jeep still wasn't visible. If only the army driver was slow enough to give them another thirty seconds. Maybe then they could hide in the church.

The driver stopped the car at the steps. "Now, go. Run."

Joseph opened the door and burst onto the sidewalk. Greene, a bit more sizable, followed as fast as he could. He slammed the Mercedes's door shut behind him and raced up the steps at Joseph's heels. The boy reached the doors first and tugged on the handle. It opened easily. Greene pushed Joseph through the door and stepped after him. He stopped long enough to look for the Jeep.

They'd been too slow. Already he could see the soldier abandon the Mercedes and target the church. Greene pulled the heavy door closed behind him. He looked around for a lock, a beam, anything to stop the door. He saw nothing and was further startled by the sudden appearance of a Bishop, a mulatto Bishop, at the aisle between pews.

He spoke in French, though accented by Creole. "What may I do to help you?"

"We need sanctuary. We're being chased by an army soldier who wants to kill us."

"For what, may I ask?"

"Ostensibly for breaking the martial law—"

"Never a good thing in this place. I understand, though, and grant you sanctuary. At least for now. We will have to discuss things further once your predicament of the moment has passed."

Greene smiled and nodded at the Bishop.

"For now, move into the pews, lay down so the man cannot see you. I will speak for the church and for you, but if I cannot persuade him using God's power, then I cannot speak for the safety of you or your child."

"I understand, father. Thank you," Greene shook the man's hand and then ushered Joseph deeper into the church. They picked a pew maybe halfway up the nave and laid out on the hard wooden bench.

Crouched on the pew, Greene made sure that Joseph was comfortable, his backpack under his head, and lay next to him with his head close to the boy's. He set his own backpack as a pillow. He felt nervous. His Anglican upbringing did little for his respect of the Catholic clergy, but he had no choice. They couldn't risk the airport, not with an army Jeep on their tail. Especially since Greene didn't have the cash for a major bribe. He needed resources, he needed to get out of Port-au-Prince where everything was priced to the dollar.

Greene heard the creak of the cathedral's door. He listened as the bishop spoke in Creole to the army soldier. He held his breath, even, and strained to understand some of the language, but it was too foreign. He could only pick out a few words. The soldier raised his voice and for a moment his heavy steps sounded in the nave. But then the Bishop turned him back. Greene listened as the door creaked closed again and the Bishop padded softly up the center aisle towards the transept.

"It is safe now, for a little bit at least. I do not think that soldier will give up. He says you are an enemy of the people and that you've been a threat to peace and order. That you have conspired with the Tonton Macoutes to interrupt the election."

Greene laughed. "Absolutely not. I carry proof that the army was in cahoots with the Tonton Macoutes. That is why they chase us. That is why they think to kill us, lest we take that evidence to the world."

"And this, your son?"

"I have adopted him in fact, if not yet officially."

"You cannot stay here for long," the Bishop said.

Joseph climbed to his feet. "The soldier said he'd be back, didn't he? I heard him. We're not safe here."

"The soldiers have radios. They can communicate with other soldiers. He will be back with other soldiers in tow. There will be nothing I can do to stop them. I'm afraid that God's power sometimes is manifest in the actions of the meek and lowly. I can help you escape, but that is only for a time. You will be on your own once you leave this building."

Greene looked down at Joseph, the chubby baby fat of the boy rounding his face pleasantly. His long straight hair proof of his white heritage, his light gray eyes piercing. "Where can we go?"

"I don't know. You have to get out of the city," the Bishop said, his welcoming face distraught.

Looking at the Bishop, Greene noticed his bald pate and his long face. His nose was narrow, for a Haitian, and his mouth wide. Maculations marked his cheeks, a veritable salad of colors. Some of them looked like scars. Greene remembered reading in some guidebook—before he came to Haiti—that Papa Doc had demanded control of the clergy from the Vatican and got it. It had been a betrayal by Rome, but one that little affected the island. Haiti was Catholic, sure, but they were also Vodoun, and many of them worshipped ancestors and the African gods of nature.

"How do we—"

The Bishop shook his head, his robes shaking slightly at the movement, "It's not easy. Not now. You have to find a driver willing to risk the soldiers, the martial law. That won't be easy."

"Do you know anyone?"

"I don't. You may have to walk part of the way."

"I'm fine with walking, I just need to get out—"

The Bishop nodded, his face assuming a sage expression. "The Ministry of Tourism is on Avenue Marie Jeanne. It's only a few blocks from here."

"That might work. But how do we get there? There are soldiers out front."

The Bishop wiped his bald head with a hand, "We must get you out of here quickly, through the vestry."

Greene glanced down at Joseph. He was bent over, his hands on his belly. "What's wrong?"

"I need to go to the bathroom."

"There's a bathroom off the vestry."

Greene looked around the church, uncertain where that was. Before he could ask, though, Joseph hurried down the aisle towards the north side of the church.

"He knows his cathedral," the Bishop said.

Greene nodded, "I know little of his upbringing. It was a very sudden adoption."

"And his parents?"

"His mother is dead—died in childbirth—his father is probably dead too, killed by General Namphy's army."

"Then you must help him get a new life. I would direct you towards the Dominican Republic, where you can travel to Hispaniola and get help from your embassy there."

"I don't know," Greene said, "I tried the embassy here and they weren't terribly helpful."

The Bishop took a step towards the east side of the cathedral. "Follow me. We'll meet the young man at the vestry and get you out of here before that upstart soldier returns with his friends."

Greene laughed, "I've never had to go out the back door before today. I've done it twice now, and I get the feeling I may have to do it again before this is through."

"It is good that you can laugh," the Bishop said. "It is a sign of strength. So long as you can laugh . . ."

A pounding sounded at the doors to the Nave.

"That will be the army," the Bishop said. "I locked the door, but it will only be a matter of a few moments for them to get through—if they are dedicated to the task."

"The back door?"

The Bishop took Greene by the bicep and led him quickly through the vestry. "It took a long time in building—and during its construction the architect designed several hidden elements. Know this, though, that I give you my blessing. You are saving a child and there is nothing greater than to give your life for your neighbor."

For a moment Greene felt a stab of guilt in his heart. He looked at the Bishop, he had dark hazel eyes and an honest smile on his face. "Thank you for your help."

"I am a Bishop, whether appointed by Duvalier or the Vatican, my duties remain the same."

Joseph returned from the bathroom and they pushed onward through a small door built into the wall of the vestry. Greene had to duck to get through, but Joseph fit perfectly. Behind them he heard the Bishop close and lock the door. Again, they were on their own, and they had a long way to go.

Chapter 17

Vidocq stopped still. The chatter on the radio in his police Toyota was overwhelming. If he interpreted the hurried and breathless words correctly, someone just drove past an army Jeep and a soldier fired on the car. It was a diplomatic car, from the American embassy, and bulletproof. The soldier followed the car to the Basilica Notre Dame in time to see the passengers dart from the car to the cathedral where they claimed sanctuary.

Vidocq immediately redirected his Toyota. He'd been headed for the American embassy where the evidence pointed, but now it pointed in a different direction. Tires squealed as he spun the wheel and steered towards the Cathedral in the heart of the city. As he hit the accelerator with a heavy foot, he wondered what might have caused the American—Hilton Greene—to go from the embassy to the Basilica?

Soon he pulled onto the Rue de Dr. Aubry and the large thoroughfare that led to the cathedral. Already he could see several Jeeps surrounding the front of the church. The soldiers had left their vehicles to form a skirmish line at the bottom of the front facade. The initial report over the radio told of two persons entering the church: one an adult, a skinny man with red hair, and a child. Who else could it be but the American reporter and the boy Joseph?

When he drew up to the cordon he stopped the Toyota's engine and took a long inspective look at the scene. Several army soldiers stood around the front porch of the church at the West Portal, milling around an open door. Vidocq didn't give much concern to the regular soldiers, privates mostly. He wanted to speak with the one who followed the reporter and the boy to the Cathedral entrance.

"They tried to run around me, but I shot at them."

Vidocq followed that voice, and found a young man, maybe seventeen or eighteen years old, standing in the bright green camouflage of the common soldier, and holding his AK-47 loosely in his left hand.

"Who?" Vidocq said from outside the circle of soldiers, their attention fixed on the young soldier and his story. When Vidocq spoke from behind them, they started and the man relating the narrative dropped back.

"What's your name?"

The soldier pointed to himself in question.

"Yes, you. You're the one who sent the news over the radio. What's your name?"

"I'm Prince."

"Okay, Private Prince, tell me what happened."

Vidocq watched as Prince gathered his recollections. The young man's face was covered in pimples, bright red dots that glared from his black face. He was black, for sure, his skin dark in the early afternoon sun. He was tall, too, lanky despite his attempts to appear rough and tough. He was the kind of youth who would do anything to seem older, even shoot at flag-bearing embassy cars.

"I was in my Jeep, watching the roads, when this black Mercedes roared up. I got out of my Jeep and raised my rifle. They didn't stop—they came from the American embassy—"

"How do you know?"

"They displayed an American flag on the car. It flapped in the wind."

"What happened next?"

"I opened fire. I tried to stop them, but they kept driving. Even when I shot directly through the windows, nothing stopped them . . ."

Vidocq struggled to remain calm. This soldier, Prince, was not the brightest. "Armored car, surely. Now what?"

"I got back in my Jeep and followed them. I thought maybe they were going to the airport and started to fall back because I knew there were soldiers there. But then they turned into the city, and I knew they weren't trying to get out of the country. I followed them around several turns until they stopped in front of the Basilica. I saw them rush in and the American car drive off. I think they wanted me to follow the car, but I knew better."

"What did you know?" Vidocq said.

"I knew they were important. Why else would they have an embassy car to take them to a church for sanctuary—"

"Sanctuary?" Vidocq said. "They claimed sanctuary?"

"Yes, but we came back with more soldiers. We've searched the building but can't find anyone. They may have been here, but they left. I don't know where they went."

"You violated sanctuary and still didn't find them?"

"I'm sorry if I didn't do the right thing—"

"The best possible, I suppose," Vidocq said with a hint of condescension in his voice. "At least you saved me from a visit with the United States embassy."

"I'm glad of it, sir."

"As you were," Vidocq said, and moved through the open door into the cathedral. He wanted to speak to the Bishop. That was the witness who would tell him what he wanted to know.

He found the old man at the altar, praying. Vidocq knelt beside the man. A bald head and tiny scars—at least that's what Vidocq judged them to be—on his face made him out as a guerilla fighter from long ago. Maybe even from pre-Duvalier times.

"You gave them sanctuary?" Vidocq said.

The Bishop turned his head from his prayer. "You violate the sanctity of the holy."

"They're not here. What did you do with them?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Vidocq took a long look into the Bishop's eyes. They were surprisingly light, hazel, and they shone with an intensity and belief that belied his connections in the political world. Vidocq saw that and reconfigured his approach. "They are a danger to anyone they meet. Did you know that? They have information—"

"Is information so dangerous?"

"For General Namphy and the people of Haiti, yes, it is," Vidocq said.

"If information were dangerous, why convert the people to Catholicism? Why force them to worship a god they do not know? Why trade one dictator for another? That's what General Namphy is, isn't he?"

Vidocq smiled, a toothless smile, his lips pressed together, "You know, you could be imprisoned just for voicing those questions."

"Then imprison me. I can stand the martyrdom. It will bring 'information' to the people."

"I won't, but you can tell me what happened to them, the American and the boy."

The Bishop shook his head. "I may have been appointed by the Duvaliers, but it's not a privilege to be in charge of a frightened congregation. It is hard work. Work, you understand. I spend many hours meeting with the poor and the uninformed. I give them 'information' even though it may not be of a secular nature."

"Where are they?" Vidocq said. "Tell me that and you may yet survive."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"We have a witness that says they came into the Basilica. You were here and so were they. Now they are gone, and you are still here. I think that points blame directly to you. It's dangerous to help enemies of the state—"

"A little boy an enemy of the state?"

"They were here, then."

"I'm sorry, I can't help you. I told them that the Government does not recognize religious sanctuary, as such, and that they must move on. I don't know where they went."

"But you helped them."

"I showed them a different door."

"Where?"

"In the vestry. It's over there," the Bishop pointed.

Vidocq rose suddenly to his feet.

"You aren't going to light a candle?"

"Why should I do that?" Vidocq said.

"To save your soul."

"Best you keep your business to the saving of souls. I'll keep mine to the business of investigation. Thank you for the help."

"There is a price," the Bishop said.

"I know," Vidocq said, "and I've already signed the contract."

Chapter 18

Greene and Joseph hid in some bushes across the Rue Borgella. Greene could feel the heat stifle and his back turned sticky with sweat. He was regretting the four rum and Cokes he'd consumed back at the Hotel Olaffson, his sweat smelled of booze and his head hurt in the heat. Joseph seemed more accustomed to the weather and didn't complain. The brief sanctuary at the Basilica had quietened him, and he was no longer whining for his father. That was good, because Greene no longer knew what he was doing, only that he needed to get the two of them out of Haiti and back into the United States.

Jeeps drove by, their occupants alert as they watched from behind mirrored glasses. Greene and Joseph peaked through gaps in the bushes. The boy held tight to his arm, obviously anxious. Greene didn't complain. He may not know the first thing about raising children, but there were a few things even he couldn't screw up.

They needed to get out of Port-au-Prince. It was a five or six hour drive from the capital to Cap Haitien. He wondered how far it was by foot. Some part of him would prefer to walk. On foot they could respond to threats before they became deadly. They could hide off the sides of the road or flatten themselves in a ditch. A car could only brake or accelerate, and Haiti didn't lay claim to too many twelve-cylinder muscle cars, the kind of car that could outrun a government subsidized Toyota, or even a Jeep. A bus, or tap-tap apparently, was probably the best option. Cheap and definitely faster than walking.

They had to wait for the army Jeeps to drive past and for the personnel surrounding the Cathedral to disperse. He and Joseph couldn't risk bluffing past the soldiers. His white skin and red hair were too recognizable. They had no option but to wait. Greene backed away from the road on his knees. The crunch of the leaves on the ground beneath his bare skin did little to make their hiding place any more comfortable.

"We can talk now, quietly," Greene said. "I don't want to go on the street for maybe another half hour, until after the army goes away."

Joseph nodded, his voice mute.

"Don't worry Joseph, we'll get out of this," Greene said. "I'm just not sure how yet."

Joseph nodded solemnly and then leaned his head on Greene's shoulder. A minute later the boy was asleep, his small body breathing in slow, heavy breaths. It wasn't a bad idea. Greene thought. He might not be in a position to sleep come nightfall, especially if they were still in Port-au-Prince. And besides, the entire island was settling into their midday nap. Too hot to work, so they slept. But as he hunched in the bushes, Joseph's head against his deltoid, he felt his stomach rumble. In his ear it sounded loudly and for a moment he worried that one of the passing soldiers might hear.

A noise sounded behind them and Joseph jerked awake. Greene put his hand softly over the boy's mouth. He felt warm breath against his palm. The boy nodded and wrapped his hands around Greene's wrist.

"Be quiet," Greene whispered.

Joseph pulled on Greene's arm and pushed up on his elbows. "I'm quiet."

Greene nodded and crawled to their lookout point, careful not to rustle the fallen leaves. He reached up with one hand to split the bush and looked onto the street.

Almost directly in front of them a Jeep had broken down. The pair of soldiers driving it emerged from the battered vehicle. One of them opened the hood and released a cloud of steam. Overheated. Greene cursed silently. They weren't going anywhere until those two soldiers moved on. Greene and Joseph would have to hide until the radiator cooled down enough for the soldiers to climb back into the Jeep and drive away.

He returned to Joseph and spoke a whisper into the boy's ear. "A Jeep broke down. We'll have to wait for them to leave before we can move."

Joseph nodded but didn't say anything. Perhaps his youthful experience of living under the Duvaliers made him paranoid. Or perhaps he was scared by their situation and by the loss of his father. He had been thrown into the maelstrom without warning. But Greene knew he couldn't take the boy back to his father's apartment on the Ruelle Vaillant. If the army or police were after Greene and Joseph—which certainly seemed the case—then they knew about the videotape and Claude was either incarcerated or dead.

No going back. Only forward.

If only he had a gun. If only the embassy had given them sanctuary. If only they'd taken the videotape. If only . . . if only . . . Greene went over a hundred counterfactuals in his head. Different scenarios that should have happened but didn't. When he'd offered a deal to Claude that morning Greene hadn't thought getting to safety would be so hard.

So many obstacles to a safe getaway. They couldn't go to the harbor to book a berth on a ship. It was too expensive. Harrison, the fat pedophile at the Hotel Olaffson, was right. There was money in people smuggling. Even if Greene managed to buy his own way onto a ship, he surely wouldn't be able to pay for Joseph who had no papers and was obviously Haitian. He would be much more expensive.

To the east: mountains. They could try to climb the foothills and hope to find some villagers to take them in until the pursuit subsided, but Greene wasn't a climber. Miami didn't have mountains. Besides, he couldn't imagine taking Joseph into the wilderness without the proper gear. And even that would eat into his modest budget.

The answer was the Marche de Fer. That was the way to go. Get on a local, crowded tap-tap headed for Cap Haitien. That was the best way to hide, in plain sight. He just wished the Jeep would move on and take the soldiers with it so they too could move on to the Iron Market.

They were close to the waterfront and Greene could taste the salt of open sea on his tongue. He huddled next to Joseph and together they stayed hidden under the bushes. Greene listened to the two soldiers talk on the road just feet from where they hid. Joseph was beginning to fret, Greene could tell, the way his arms shook and his face turned left and right. Greene pulled him tighter. But then a branch cracked.

Greene held his breath. Had the soldiers noticed? He grabbed hold of Joseph in both hands and held him tight. No movement. Nothing. He heard a footstep on the macadam, a soldier's footstep. Moving closer, towards the sound. Then one of them said something, Greene didn't understand it, not speaking Creole, and they laughed. The step turned back and Greene let his breath out in a soft exhale. He let go of Joseph and crawled to his lookout point to see through the leaves and spy on the soldiers.

The two men, dressed in the bright green camouflage of the Haitian army, still stood in front of the Jeep. They both seemed entranced by the steam that rose from the radiator, though they appeared not to know what to do. And the steam made quite a noise rattling from the radiator and into the air where it dissipated a few feet above the soldiers' heads. Greene crawled backward, careful not to let a branch catch his shirt.

Once he returned to Joseph's side, Greene lay on his back in the harsh sunlight. He might as well take a siesta. By the time the Jeep's radiator cooled enough for the two soldiers to move on, the world would be awake again, so why not take advantage of the break and settle in for a nap?

Chapter 19

Greene fell asleep and left Joseph awake to worry alone. He didn't like what was going on, he wanted to go back to his apartment and stay with his daddy. He was seven, almost eight, years old and he didn't understand why he couldn't go back. Whenever he brought it up to Hilton, the man said there was no going back, and that Joseph would have to get used to the new situation. But the new situation didn't curry hope in his heart.

He remembered the school on the Rue Vaillant. Playing with his classmates and running up and down the streets after he'd finished his homework. He was one of the few people in the school fluent in French and his father hired a tutor to continue teaching him beyond what the school offered. It cut his time with friends tremendously, but he was proud of his French. He was proud he was fluent. He could even read and write it.

But pride in his French fluency did little to lessen his longing to go outside and play with other children, regardless of whether they spoke Creole or French. He would never see his friends again now, not if he stayed with Hilton, or if he never returned to stay with his daddy. His long friendships with some of the other boys were ruined, severed by the camera and the blood on the playground. Blood on the street and the sidewalk. Blood everywhere. And the bloating bodies of men and women who had queued to vote. At least that's what he understood. He didn't know why the Tonton Macoutes had killed the people, and he didn't want to know. He just knew that the men in blue were terrible, evil people.

He felt jittery. He wanted to go back to his home and run through the door and wrap his arms around his daddy. But he couldn't. He was stuck beside Hilton in the bushes, waiting for two army men to move. There was nothing he could do right now, so Joseph lay down beside Hilton. He thought about the man, his skinny frame, his fiery hair. He was an adult, and according to all his teachers, he should call Hilton by his last name: Monsieur Greene. But he couldn't bring himself to gather the composure necessary to do so. Maybe he didn't like the man. Maybe it was better to call him by his first name. He certainly didn't respect Hilton. The man couldn't even convince his own countrymen to help him. And he led them around the city like some kind of foreign tourist when Joseph knew the map in the only way a child could.

He lay his head on his backpack and closed his eyes. Before he could fall asleep, though, Greene snorted and rolled onto his side. The noise was immense and Joseph froze. What if the soldiers heard him, what if they came looking in the bushes? What if they got caught? That was the scary thing. That was the terrifying thing. That they get caught and tortured, or killed. All because his daddy had to take a stupid recording of what was supposed to be a historic event.

All of a sudden Joseph found himself growing angry. He was angry that his daddy didn't think things through. Angry that his daddy left him with a foreign reporter who didn't understand Haiti, nor what to do to get out of it.

Hilton started to snort again, but this time Joseph reached his small hand over the reporter's face, squeezed his nose and shook his shoulder. Hilton jerked and almost sat straight up, but Joseph tackled him down and spoke carefully and quietly into his ear. "The soldiers are still here. Be quiet."

"Sorry," Greene said. "I guess I shouldn't have fallen asleep."

Joseph didn't say anything, just crawled forward through the bushes—like Greene had done before him—and spread the canvas of leaves with his palm. The steam from the radiator had dwindled and the Jeep seemed about fit to return to active duty. Joseph watched as one of the soldiers screwed the radiator cap back on and slammed the hood closed on top of the engine compartment.

Greene tapped his leg, "Let me get a look."

"Shh," Joseph said. He couldn't believe how loud this man was. And he was the one Joseph's father entrusted with both the videotape and himself? With a silent sigh, Joseph backed out of the bushes. He scrunched aside as Hilton moved forward and took his spot.

A moment later Greene returned with a smile on his face. "Give them five minutes to drive away and get off the main street and we can make a run for the Marche de Fer."

Joseph nodded, though he wasn't sure that was the best option. He knew Port-au-Prince well, his father liked to wander the city in the cool of the evening and he always took Joseph on his excursions. Together they went all over, from the slums of Cite Soleil to the wealthy Petionville, from the harbor to the mountains. It was an adventure and Joseph always enjoyed taking it at his father's side. Now he was at the mercy of Monsieur Hilton Greene's wide tourist eyes, and he wasn't sure he wanted that.

It almost made him cry. He turned his head away from Hilton, though, as he didn't want the man to think him weak. He wasn't weak, just missing the comforts of his home. And the companionship of his daddy. He didn't remember his mother. She died giving birth and there was only the one picture of all three of them together. His daddy had given that to Hilton too, entrusted another priceless treasure to this stranger.

What scared his daddy that he would rid his life of so many priceless things at once?

Joseph rubbed his eyes and turned to face Greene. His daddy always told him to find the good in situations, the silver lining, he'd said. That was what Joseph needed to do. No matter how bad things got, they could always get worse. At least there was an adult he could rely on, sort of. There might be no one, just himself alone, and then where would he be? He would be on the streets with just his own wits about him. That was something that scared him. He didn't want to face soldiers and Macoutes and zombies.

His daddy told him that zombies weren't real, that they were a story that mothers told their children to scare them. But one of Joseph's best friends swore that he'd seen a zombie following a man dressed in black, a bokor. Bokors were thieves and charlatans. They did not know how to practice voodoo. But they were often smooth and charismatic, the kind of people who practiced magic for their own good rather than the good of the community. They were also the ones who made zombies.

It was easy, according to Joseph's friend. The Bokor fed the victim a meal made of secret and magic ingredients. The victim would fall sick and die within hours of eating it. The victim's family buried him and left his body—which they thought to be dead—in the cemetery. The next night, the Bokor would come to the cemetery and dig up the victim. Using his magics, the Bokor would then raise the victim from the dead and turn him into a zombie, bound to the Bokor for life.

His friend had seen the zombie on a family trip. During summer break last year, the boy and his family traveled to Jeremie in the south. There his parents had visited several Houngan and left him with his younger sister back at the hotel. As any good youngsters would do, they left their rooms and wandered into the streets to spend their meager allowance on strips of dried beef. Standing around beside the vendor, they bit through the tough meat and watched as people walked by. At the same time that they decided to return to the hotel, the zombie appeared. Accompanied by the Bokor and a beautiful woman dressed in a black dress that slit at her knee, the zombie seemed unable to direct his own movements. He was pale, almost white even though it was obvious he was a black man burned by the sun in the fields.

The vendor waited until the zombie and his master passed before leaning down to whisper in his friend's ear. "You've just seen a zombie, young man. Remember forever that zombies are real. They are not fairy tales."

That was what really scared Joseph, the dark powers of Vodoun. His father never taught him about the religion from Africa. Only Catholicism, the religion of the French, of the Europeans and the mulattoes.

Joseph heard the engine turn over. The two soldiers cheered and a moment later the driver revved the Jeep's engine and the vehicle zoomed forward. Even though the soldiers would have shot them in a moment, their presence had given Joseph a degree of reassurance. They were Haitians, and they understood him, more than Hilton ever could. Now that they were gone, Joseph was alone with the American, and a pit in his stomach that refused to settle.
Chapter 20

Greene stood slowly, ready at any moment to drop back to his hiding spot. There were no army soldiers visible, at least, and for that he was grateful. Now if they could get to the Marche de Fer they might get through this after all.

He gestured for Joseph to stand up and helped the boy put on his backpack. They'd lost time, it was nearly two. He just hoped they might be able to catch a bus to Cap Haitien before darkness fell. He didn't want to be stuck on the streets of Port-au-Prince once the sun set. There was no telling what the Tonton Macoutes, or the army for that matter, would do under cover of night.

"Come on Joseph, let's go."

They ventured out to the street. They had to pass the back end of the Basilica on their way towards the harbor and the Marche. Greene led them several blocks out of their way. He didn't want to give the army another chance. Besides, he worried that someone had targeted them. That someone was chasing them specifically. It might be the musing of his paranoid brain, but he couldn't help but remember the looks of the Tonton Macoutes as they turned their AK-47s on the reporters, on Greene himself. He may be wrong, but he'd rather be safe than sorry. So they walked out of the way, keeping to the edges of the street and stopping at each intersection to scan their route for army personnel.

Eventually they arrived at the Marche de Fer. It was almost three by the time they shuffled through the main entrance. What normally should have taken ten minutes taking them an hour, but as they walked through the red iron girders, the presence of vendors and hawkers reassured him. The driver had been right, the Marche remained open despite the efforts of the Namphy clique to shut the country down.

The Marche de Fer was constructed of iron, thus the name, and spread most of a city block. Long ago the iron turned red. The color, and the tower that rose above the main floor of the market, reminded Greene of the San Francisco Bridge: red, bright, crowded. He reached down and grabbed hold of Joseph's hand. He didn't want to lose the boy in the crowd of locals. Nor between the rows of shops crammed so close together that only one man at a time could pass. He would be stuck without the boy's Creole, and Joseph would be stuck without money or guardian.

For some reason, though, Greene felt that he would come out the loser in that situation. Joseph probably knew the city well, and passing alone through the streets could easily return to the Ruelle Vaillant and his apartment, or to a friend's house, or even to a relative's house. He would know what to do and he would be fine. Greene on the other hand would be trapped without Joseph's Creole. He would surely find a few people here and there who spoke French, but he couldn't rely on his luck, not if the police, or army, or Tonton Macoutes trailed them.

This was made more obvious as he saw the signs atop the merchant cubicles in Creole. There was no French here. "Where can we get some food?"

Joseph pulled Greene through the crowd. Rows stretched either side of the main aisle and Greene could see shoes, clothes, gadgets, housewares, souvenirs, everything that you might need available under one roof. Joseph pointed to a series of stalls on the left and sat down at one of them. He spoke quickly to the man and soon a plate of pulled pork, rice, and yams was placed in front of the boy. Greene sat beside Joseph, careful not to break the flimsy chair, and pointed to Joseph's plate. A moment later the vendor placed a heaping plate on the mini counter accompanied by a fork and spoon.

Greene ate vigorously. Under the stress of navigating Port-au-Prince he'd lost track of his belly. Only now as he cut the yam to pieces and scooped bits of pork and rice together into his spoon, did he remember the last time he ate. It also reminded him of the four rum and Cokes he'd consumed that morning. . .and the two fingers of Jamaican rum Claude had given him. He didn't have a headache, but his stomach didn't feel right, and the rice and yam helped to settle his insides.

Even this meal seemed to take a short time to consume, though, and—whether from hunger or from stress—it was gone all too soon. Greene pointed to a bottle of water and raised two fingers. The vendor, a wrinkled old man whose wife sat hidden behind the counter, preparing food and serving plates, grabbed two bottles of water. Greene didn't recognize the brand but knew enough to doubt its legitimacy; regulations for bottled water in the island nation not so strong as to guarantee actual cleanliness. There was nothing for it, though, and he took the bottles.

Joseph negotiated with the vendor and told Greene what to pay. He handed over a few Gourdes and he and Joseph rose from the flimsy chairs and began to wander through the market. There were cloth sellers, food vendors, butchers with their raw meats on display, Greene watched as a woman grabbed an already plucked chicken and sliced its neck and belly to clean the innards away. Fish swam in shallow pools, ready to be grabbed out by sure-handed hawkers and knocked on the head with a mallet. Flies swarmed everywhere.

"We need to find someone who can take us to Cap Haitien," Greene said, his hand tight around Joseph's. "We can pay for it."

Joseph nodded and they continued to wander the market. They passed produce vendors, baskets full of rice and wheat and various other grains, seamstresses, souvenir sellers, wood carvers, shoes, pants, shirts, socks, underwear, pirated video tapes . . .

Greene stopped Joseph in front of the videotape vendors. The video tapes were labeled in Creole, with handwriting on the spine. It wasn't much of a ruse, but it might fend off a search by someone who didn't know about the recording from Ruelle Vaillant. He pointed to the videos and told Joseph to pick one or two that he thought he would like. Joseph started wandering through the aisles of tapes, searching for titles he was familiar with. He found three and returned them to Greene who paid for them.

Greene opened his backpack and reached down to the bottom where he'd hidden the unmarked videotape. He selected one of the videos and carefully removed the label. This he attached to the unmarked videotape he'd received from Joseph's father. He smoothed the white label across the spine and pressed it down hard with his thumb. He handed the now blank video back to the vendor and quickly stuffed the three remaining videotapes into his bag. If someone searched him, they would find children's stories, not a bloody massacre.

He thanked the vendor then turned to Joseph, "Where can we find a bus, or a boat to get to Cap Haitien?"

Without hesitation, Joseph turned to the video vendor and spoke in Creole. Greene would have preferred searching it out on their own, he didn't want any witnesses to their passing if they could avoid it. But he was too late to protest. Besides, there were so many people in the market, no one would be able to pinpoint their location, or with whom they spoke.

A moment later Joseph turned back to Greene. "It's down this aisle, all the way to the end of the market. They sell tickets you take with you to the bus station."

"You mean they don't stop here?"

"No," Joseph said in his perfect French. "We can take a tap-tap to the bus station. But it's not time yet. All the buses leave in the evening."

Greene smiled at the vendor and pushed Joseph away from the videos. He wanted to get out of Port-au-Prince as quickly as possible, but circumstances seemed weighted against them. He followed Joseph down the aisle, his eyes on his feet and his hands in his pockets. He still carried his money in his sock, except for minimal change to pay for small things like their meal, and the videos. He stuck his hands in his pockets to give the appearance of a vigilant tourist, not the kind to be taken advantage of or robbed.

They reached the end of the market, the red walls bright in the afternoon sun. Greene looked around, checked for army patrols, army watch dogs, Tonton Macoutes, and anyone else who looked suspiciously like a rat. He didn't see anyone. Either they were busy at work, talking between vendors, or relaxing in a cot strung across the front beams of their stalls. That's when Greene discovered that the outside market was a lot less stifling than the inside market, though the covered awnings—some red, some blue, some yellow, some marked with various beer and product advertising—were flimsy protection against torrential tropical rains. Greene let the thought pass. Luckily it was November, not hurricane season.

"This way," Joseph said, and pointed to the left.

Greene followed as they approached a small shop with a glass fronting and an open door. They stepped inside and immediately Greene felt the heat. There was no air conditioning in the office, only the open door, and the sun against the glass beat into a tattoo of glaring pain. Greene tried to ignore it as Joseph sat down on a stool. The agent behind the counter smiled up at Greene. She was a short woman, her skin bronzed, her hair a little frizzy, her eyes black. She looked a little like Claude had looked. Part black and part white, but not enough of either to be claimed by society.

"Where do you want to go?" she said in deliberate English.

Greene smiled, "Ounaminthe."

"We have a bus that leaves every night."

"Is there anything sooner?"

The woman glanced down at a paper schedule, "I'm sorry, but no. And honestly, I'm not sure that the bus will run tonight, with the curfew and the army. . ."

"Can you find out?"

"Sure," she said.

Greene sat beside Joseph as the woman opened a binder and pulled out a paper. She grabbed her telephone, a bulky rotary phone, and rang a number. She spoke for a few moments in Creole, listened—Greene could hear the sound of a man's voice through the receiver—and then she hung up the phone. "It looks like the bus will go tonight, if there are enough passengers."

"How will we know if there are enough?" Greene said.

The woman shrugged, "You will have to wait. There are several cafes along the road. You can wait in them and the staff will tell you."

"Can we buy a ticket?"

"Certainly, I can get you two tickets."

Greene nodded and said, "Thanks, I appreciate that."

"You are from where?"

"The United States," Greene said instinctively, though the moment it came from his mouth he regretted it. He'd just added a trace of their passing, a piece of information that could be used to identify them. Especially after the incident at the Basilica, this was pounded into his brain. He knew someone was after them, knew that the army wanted him—probably for the video—but he couldn't be sure. Maybe it was that he had survived to witness the massacre that morning.

He shut up.

"Can I see your passport?"

"Here," Greene reached in his pocket and pulled out the humidity frayed blue passport, covers curled from his sweat. He handed it across to the woman and she quickly took down his information.

She handed the passport back and grabbed a small pad of paper. She entered information in relevant portions of the form, and then ripped it off the top to hand to Greene. "You should be all right with this. I'd check with the buses around five. They should know by then if they are going to go."

"Thanks," Greene said.

The woman smiled and looked after them as they walked out the front door.

Chapter 21

He found it interesting what parts of the city shut down—only those parts that were home to foreigners and officials. Essentially, the police and military only watched the rich, while the rest of Port-au-Prince continued in relative ignorance of General Namphy's crackdown. That meant the Marche de Fer and surrounds hosted very few military and so far no Tonton Macoutes. Greene appreciated that. It made their wait at the Marche much easier. Only Joseph was beginning to pose a problem.

"Why can't we go see my father?"

Greene sighed. This was not the refrain he wanted to hear. He knew what happened to dissidents and political prisoners in Haiti. He also knew that as an intellectual, Joseph's father Claude might just be in the hands of the police already. That was the point. That was why. Because Joseph and Claude lived at the epicenter of a massacre, and Greene didn't want to go back there. He didn't want to—

"Come on, Hilton, please. We have a long time before the bus leaves. We can go and come back. I promise. I won't fuss after that, but I want to see my father."

Greene thought about the picture with which Claude had entrusted him. The picture of Claude, Joseph, and mother. Claude had taken the picture out of its frame before handing it to Greene. He'd taken it off the wall, slipped the cardboard backing off the frame, and grabbed the photo. It was small, maybe four by six, and curled at the edges. It was a sacred relic, preserved by Claude for the benefit of his son. He wouldn't have given it to Greene unless he knew there was no chance of seeing his son again.

Greene didn't want to tell this to Joseph. He didn't want to go back to the Ruelle Vaillant. He'd almost lost his life there, and now that he had what he wanted—the videotape—there was no reason to go back.

There was a possibility that Claude might still be alive despite Greene's suspicions. The man might just have fled, or hidden away from the police. Greene didn't think so, but there was a small chance, and if he could return the boy, Greene thought, perhaps it might be worth the trouble of visiting the Ruelle Vaillant after all.

But could he risk taking Joseph back. If they tempted fate and wandered around trying to avoid the army sentries, Greene felt certain they would be arrested and thrown into prison just for getting caught in the streets. And then their military captors would search Greene's bag and discover the videos. His ruse of mislabeling the videotape from Claude might hold for a while, but if someone put them in a VCR and watched them, it would be disastrous. Their lives would be forfeit, as would their human rights, and Greene did not hold highly the thought of torture. He was a wimp when it came to pain. And then there was Joseph. If he could toss the boy back to his father. . .

Maybe the risk was worth the reward.

Greene felt his backpack at his feet and sipped on the hot coffee in its chipped mug. Joseph sucked his watermelon shake through a straw.

"Why can't we go back?"

"It's too dangerous."

"We can do it. We've come this far. Why can't we just go back and come here after? It won't take long. I just want to see my father. I want to know why I had to go with you. I don't even like you."

Greene glanced at the boy. Joseph's arms were folded tightly across his chest and his mouth puckered in frustration and anger. Greene wanted to take the boy and swat him on the butt. He didn't want to be seen as weak, and if he gave in, it meant the boy would learn the efficacy of a little whining.

"What if we do go back and he's dead?" Greene said finally.

Joseph shook his head, "No. It won't be. I don't think he's dead."

"But what if he is?"

Joseph took a long sip of his watermelon shake. He breathed in sharply and pulled away. "Too cold," he said in explanation.

Greene nodded. "What happens if we go back and your father's not there? What if he is there but killed? What if he killed himself? What if the government took him already? Are you willing to take the risk? It's far better if we just stay here and wait for the bus to leave. That's what we should do."

"No, I want to go see my father."

Greene looked out into the street. Hawkers walked up and down the road, selling food off carts. Shoppers carried bags of items they'd purchased from the market. The noise of hundreds of bargains roared from just inside the red iron gates. It was a place to get lost and for the first time he felt a degree of safety. He would feel a lot better if and when they got their butts on that bus, but in the meantime, he was stuck with an intransigent child and a secret that could lead to both their deaths. Joseph would survive, probably, but Greene would be thrown in prison and executed for subversive activities.

And he had no trust in the U.S. embassy personnel to get him out. They wouldn't lift a finger to help him, to free him from incarceration. That was the risk he faced if they traveled back to the Rue Vaillant and the second floor flat where Claude and Joseph once lived.

"I want to see my daddy," Joseph said, his voice rising.

If Greene continued to refuse the boy, Joseph might start screaming or shouting, either way drawing attention to them, but if they tried to get back to Claude and his apartment, they very likely could be arrested by the army, or worse.

They did have hours left before the bus would leave. Maybe they should. Greene didn't like his options either way. Would the Bishop from the Basilica talk, tell the army what he told Greene and Joseph? There were all kinds of possibilities. Why had Greene agreed to Claude's conditions in the first place? His greed. His ambition. With this videotape he could write his future, but was it worth it?

"Fine, finish your drink and we'll go back to your house."

Joseph's smile spread wide. Greene still doubted the decision. What would they find at the apartment? A forced door, blood splatters, death? Did it matter? Greene couldn't imagine what might happen, but at this point he didn't care. He was on his own with a seven-year old boy, trying to get out of a country that was in the control of an autocrat who instigated martial law because of violence he ordered. A coup. A god damned coup. And now he and Joseph were wanted by the authorities.

It was the least intelligent thing he'd done all day: telling the boy they could go back to his house. Not only was it a risk of capture, but it was a risk that Claude was dead or gone and Joseph would become distraught. Maybe enough so that Greene would be unable to control him, to take him away from his home one more time, to make an effective escape from this God forsaken place.

He watched as Joseph finished his watermelon smoothie. Sucked down the drink as fast as he could, and then held a hand to his chest. Again, he said, "Too cold."

Greene laid a couple of Guordes on the table and grabbed his backpack. Once he'd slipped his arms through the straps, he helped Joseph with his own. "All right, let's go."

Chapter 22

Vidocq followed the scent. He'd tracked his prey to the Basilica Notre Dame with its pink bricks and white facades. He'd talked with the Bishop who revealed their exit through the vestry and his recommendation that they find transportation through the national tourist agency. He'd even followed through, driving his police truck slowly through the streets until he reached the tourist agency, but they were closed—by order of General Namphy. At least someone obeyed the martial law. He obviously could not say the same for his prey.

The national tourism agency was a stout building, nothing like the palace or the cathedral. It's squat design, and the various wings that spread out like legs, reminded Vidocq of a sprawled goat. It was a national thing, a national tourist agency. This was where the propaganda came from, the advertisements and the stories of happy Haiti. It was a house of lies, and even though the Bishop's words suggested this as Greene's destination, Vidocq knew with a certainty that this was not the place.

Vidocq leaned across the seat and opened the glove compartment. He rifled through its contents. He found a pair of gloves stained red by blood. There were a few papers and underneath them all a small map of Port-au-Prince. He opened it and flattened it against the dash. He found the Basilica and then started scanning the streets around it. He saw the palace, with its double domes and central connector. That would not be a feasible hiding place. No. Nor the countless other churches or ministry buildings. It was the administrative center of Haiti, and there was no place to hide. Maybe they'd gone back on their route. But that wouldn't happen. They'd keep going forward. Their only mistake avoiding the private's outpost and raising the ire of someone who felt his uniform made him superior to the men who meddled in affairs of state.

But then he saw it. The Marche de Fer. Only a few blocks from the Basilica. That might just be the place. But he would need more than himself to search the market. He would need a squad at least. Enough people to sweep the Marche and to investigate each stall. It would take a long time to do something that would probably yield little in the way of results.

He had to think.

If his prey went to the Marche, where would they go next? He had to think like Greene. The reporter had a boy of seven or eight on his hands, that would limit his options. The boy would probably need a nap, and probably he would be fussy, wandering around the streets of Port-au-Prince with a virtual stranger. It would be the boy who dictated the pace. For some reason Vidocq felt certain that the reporter, the foreigner, would keep his word to Claude Rene-Pierce. He'd gone so far as to seek diplomatic aid, sanctuary in the cathedral, and now, maybe, an appeal to the common man.

There was little inside the Marche de Fer that would assist the reporter in his quest, maybe some food, some snacks, though mostly the Marche sold souvenirs, clothes, wooden carvings, the things that tourists bought with their disposable Gourdes. But it was also full of stalls, hawkers, and market women. It was crowded and jammed full of people. A venture into the Marche would take time and manpower. And if the reporter and his child ward wanted to get out of Port-au-Prince, then the cafes and travel shops surrounding the Marche would offer refuge and possible escape.

But would the buses run? Rarely did violence in the capital stop the buses from running. Tourists made this place go, at least for the smaller vendors and the souvenir hawkers, and if tourists got caught in the internal disputes between the government and the people it governed, they would return to their homelands with little good on their tongues: don't go to Haiti, don't go. Vidocq also knew that a video showing a massacre could do immeasurable harm to the country's reputation as a cheap beach escape. If the government couldn't put on a fair election without the army sanctioning the murder of civilians, then the tourist dollars would stop. But so would the aid money. The United Nations would view Haiti as a lost cause. The World Bank, and all the other international aid donors, would see a country filled with violence and hatred. All led by a military that refused to grant the people a fair chance to be heard. And if the money stopped flowing, the government stopped working.

Vidocq needed to understand his quarry. There was no image of Greene, but there was a picture of the boy. He'd found one in the apartment, after searching through the pictures on the wall, through the drawers and office desk. He'd found a lot of writing from the father, Claude Rene-Pierce, but he'd seen little evidence of the reporter. He had to be one of the witnesses to the massacre, though, if he knew to come back for the videotape. He must have seen the camera through the window. And he must have sensed a story that would make his career.

He would be mistaken, though. No one cared about Haiti. Maybe the Namphy coup wasn't supposed to happen. There was supposed to be a free election, and Namphy was supposed to step down for the new president elect. But that hadn't happened, and instead, the president was now Henri Namphy.

Vidocq needed that video. Even if this tall and skinny red-headed reporter was able to get out of the country with the videotape in his possession, there were other reporters who must have seen similar sights. The Ruelle Vaillant massacre wasn't the only one. The Tonton Macoutes had been unleashed by Namphy. They had ridden wild through the city, and the army watched as the Macoutes killed indiscriminately. Was that the secret? Was it the killing? Would this reporter return to his roots? He couldn't have that much money. The banks were closed, and he felt certain that neither the owner of Hotel Olaffson or the U.S. embassy would give him more cash. He would be trapped in Port-au-Prince.

Unless he caught a bus.

But the buses wouldn't run until later, until the sun began to dim and slide from the sky. But if the reporter was smart, he'd at least get to Cap Haitien. At least there he would be a stranger, there he wouldn't have to pretend so much. He could move easily through the city, and then he could escape to the Dominican Republic. He was white, they would allow him in, If only he could get to Ounaminthe. That might be another bus ride, unless he walked with the boy. But that trip was nearly sixty kilometers. Even the most intrepid of reporters would grow tired of a boy's complaints over such a length. If he reckoned correctly, and he felt he did, there were two things he could do to prevent his quarry's escape.

It would be easy enough to interrogate the travel shops on the streets outside of the Marche. Much easier than trying to track his prey in the Marche itself. The bus tickets would make for uncertainty, no one sure in the bus drivers' ability to get past the fatigue clad guards imposing Namphy's curfew. That meant Greene and the child would either stay in the area or go somewhere else they could stay unnoticed until the bus's departure.

He couldn't be sure exactly what Greene would do, but there were only so many places where he could feel comfortable after everything that had happened, especially as he had witnessed the cold-blooded murder of another reporter at the Ruelle Vaillant. He doubted the man would return to his hotel. There were too many white people, some of whom would gladly turn on the reporter in exchange for a favor from highly placed government employees. Like the chubby old man, Harrison was his name, who so easily betrayed the reporter. No, Greene would not go back to the hotel. At least not in the middle of the day, and he anticipated that the reporter would want to get out of the city by dark, and as his embassy proved useless, that left him with a hope of renting a car and driver brave enough to face the curfew, or a bus. And for that, Vidocq knew exactly where to place a roadblock.

But where would the man go until then? He had a child in tow and a secret that would blow the top off Haiti's pledges to the international community. Did he know about Claude Rene-Pierce's suicide? Would he dare bring the boy back to his father's house? Doubtful. He would want to get out of the area. He wouldn't want to be caught in the net that started on that very street. He would be foolish to do so. And because of that Vidocq drove silently to the Marche de Fer.

Chapter 23

The Bishop at the Basilica de Notre Dame knelt in a pew. The Cathedral was empty and had been since the soldiers forced their way through the doors to search this holy sanctuary. He let them, really. If he'd been stronger, if he'd been more loyal to the Pope, he might have sacrificed himself for the good of his principles. But he hadn't. At the threat of force, he stood aside and let the soldiers in. What kind of Bishop did that make him?

A political appointee.

It was part of the Duvaliers's bargain with the church. Either they could be expelled completely and leave millions of people festering in the darkness of voodoo, or the Vatican could agree to a political vetting of all nominees. It hurt to know he was politically safe, especially when that gentle little boy had looked into his eyes. How was he supposed to refuse such beauty and such rightness?

He folded his hands together and bent his head. He felt the condemnation of the Lord descend upon him. It wasn't a great wrong in the ideas of man, but before God.

The Bishop bowed his head and prayed. He did not echo the official prayers of the church, no, he let his mind wander his wrongdoings and he sought forgiveness. He knew that the clergy dispensed rote prayers, but he rarely used them himself; for mass, for public dissemination; in private, he preferred something a bit more tailored. Besides, God heard all prayers, whether or not they were those sanctioned by the Church.

Let my soul escape condemnation for what I have done this day. For what I have done every day of my pathetic tenure as Bishop of this great See. Let my soul escape from the superstition I have allowed to test my knowledge of the Church, to allow Voodoo to remain prominent among the people, to allow my fears to allow the government, the army, to have their way with me like some whore. I am the whore of Port-au-Prince and I have lost my last vestige of purity.

Forgive me Father.

And then he rose to his feet and shuffled to the prayer candles. He picked one up from a small box and used the long match to light its wick. He set the candle in the rack and knelt before it. He whispered the Lord's Prayer and then stood. He must begin preparing his sermon for the next mass and he knew exactly the topic.

Chapter 24

Greene could tell that Joseph was tired. The heat from walking in the sun, and the stress of a day on the run; it all came together to cause the boy's feet to drag and his shoulders to slump. Greene couldn't blame him. He himself was tired, the kind of tired that would send him to sleep the moment he lay down. But things were too far advanced. He couldn't sleep, not yet. He had to secure their safety, their security from attack. He couldn't just check into a hotel. It wasn't safe. Nowhere in Port-au-Prince, nowhere in Haiti, was safe.

And the fact that he didn't dare lead them in a straight line only made the situation worse. They zigzagged through the blocks of downtown to avoid military posts where the men in fatigues would hold them captive until they felt the bribe was high enough. And Greene was running low on funds. If he ran out of cash they wouldn't even be able to get out of Port-au-Prince. How were they supposed to get out of the country if he had to keep bribing soldiers and police? He was down to a few hundred dollars and that wouldn't be enough to get them off the island. Maybe Claude hid money in his apartment, though he doubted it, there was always hope.

Greene worried about his new ward. Even if they could escape this nightmare, what was he supposed to do with a seven-year old orphan? He had the picture of Claude, his wife, and baby Joseph. He thought of pulling it out of his backpack, but then, he didn't dare remain in one spot long enough. And he was thirsty, the coffee at the Marche de Fer having done little to quench his thirst. No, he needed to get water, a bottle of it. He didn't trust the water in Haiti, never had, but he'd had a regular supply of bottled and filtered water at the Hotel Olaffson. Now he was on his own. He didn't dare go back to the hotel, surely the man who tracked them would instruct the soldiers to continue to watch the hotel, and it was iffy that the apartment in the Ruelle Vaillant wasn't under observation as well. But the boy insisted and he needed to keep the boy happy.

Finally, they turned a corner to the Ruelle Vaillant. The cul de sac opened up and he saw the school, the blood from that morning's massacre still stained the street and on the sidewalk. Even though the corpses had been moved by now, Greene could still see the looks of horror on the faces of the dead. He would probably live with those images for the rest of his life.

Joseph saw the school and started running. He wasn't worried about the blood, or the flowers that now lined the street. Mourners had come, their voices raised in moans and cries. Joseph didn't even stop to look at the people or the evidence of the massacre that remained. The moment he saw home, the boy darted. Greene ran after him. "Joseph, Joseph, stop."

The boy reached the landing of his apartment, the apartment in which he'd grown and lived. Greene climbed the stairs, almost catching Joseph by the shirt sleeve, but missing by an inch as Joseph scrambled through the open door. Greene came up short at the creaking door. Why wasn't it closed and locked? Why wasn't it barricaded against attack? Had Claude already been captured, was he a victim of the Namphy regime? The Tonton Macoutes? Greene stared into the dim apartment. The curtains were closed, except for the camera, or at least where the camera used to be. Greene stepped through the doorway, he felt a sudden uneasiness, something that, despite the fact that he was on the run in a foreign country with a seven-year old boy in tow, he'd yet to experience. Now, though, the boy and his father had changed, and the mist of family no longer settled over them.

What had happened?

As he turned to look at the camera, he noticed the silence. Joseph was quiet, his voice unspoken. Greene began to worry about the boy, shouldn't he be calling for his father, telling Claude that his son had come home? Greene slowly made his way into the back of the apartment, to where the boy stood frozen, one foot on the threshold between the hall and the bathroom. Greene stepped behind Joseph so he could look over the boy's head.

Greene saw then what the boy saw. A bright stain of red, a slumped figure, a gun. Greene froze for a moment, but then swaddled the boy in his arms and carried him out to the front room. He set the boy on the couch. "Stay here."

The boy didn't respond. His face frozen in shock. "Lay down, we'll stay here for a while, but you have to stay calm."

"Daddy." It was a calm statement, a statement, not a plea or a question.

Greene wasn't sure how the boy would process the images he'd just plugged into his brain. Greene waited a minute before he returned to the bathroom. There was blood everywhere. Claude had blown his brains out the back of his head quite efficiently and the splatter turned into drips and ended on the edge of the tub, the shower curtain, and the floor. Greene pulled the shower curtain open. He looked at the gun. Were there more bullets? It was bloodied, but It still looked usable. He wasn't an expert in firearms, but he didn't necessarily need to know how to shoot, he could use it to intimidate.

He grabbed several swaths of toilet paper and pried the gun from Claude's cold fingers. The metal of the gun felt cold, the splotches of blood wet. Greene did his best to wipe the blood clean from the barrel and hilt of the gun, but he worried that he might need to do more than just wipe it down; break it apart, clean each element, and put it back together; though he didn't have the slightest idea how.

He did know enough to pull the magazine. He carried the gun into the master bedroom and emptied it onto the bed. There was an empty box lined with foam. Was that for the gun? Where would Claude have hidden more ammunition. Greene made a quick search of the room, checking the desk and all its drawers, the closet, upending a laundry basket, several small boxes on the shelves, under the bed, in the chest of drawers, everywhere that Claude could have hidden them. But he found nothing. And there were only six bullets left. Greene fed the bullets back into the magazine and inserted it back into the gun. He held the weapon in his hand for a moment and felt the cool black metal, the rough surface of the maroon hand grip, the silver hammer. It was, if nothing else, majestic.

But there were other things more pressing than admiring a gun. He slipped the handgun between his belt and boxers then flipped his shirt over it, hoping that Joseph wouldn't notice the sudden appearance of a lump on his back. Shaken by the threat he knew he was unable to confront, he returned to the bathroom. For a moment he contemplated cleaning the corpse and then the bathroom, but that wasn't feasible. It would take too much time. A luxury they no longer had.

He closed the door to the bathroom and turned away from the all too real victim of that morning's massacre. Even if the Tonton Macoutes hadn't pulled the trigger they were just as responsible for Claude's death. How was Greene supposed to explain to Joseph what happened to his Father?

A senseless suicide.

When he turned away from the blood and brains, Greene returned to the front room where his contact with Claude and Joseph had begun. He saw the tripod and the camera. The video camera was detached from the tripod and sat on a side table beside the sofa. The cartridge door stood open and Greene picked up the camera and examined the open compartment. He saw the wheels that sped the film across the light. He knew slightly more about video cameras than guns. More importantly, he didn't remember taking the camera off the tripod. When he and Joseph left the apartment, the camera was still attached firmly to the tripod and pointed out the window at the massacre below.

Greene took a cursory walk around the rest of the apartment. He found two more videotapes on the kitchen table, still wrapped in their individual wrappers, though the shrink wrap that bound them together in a set of three was discarded. Had Claude made more videos? Or was he planning to record something else?

Greene tried to reconstitute the timeline. When he and Joseph left the apartment early that morning, Claude had still been alive and the camera atop the tripod. But what happened after that? Who had removed the camera and the shrink wrap? He hadn't seen any signs of torture on Claude's body, but that might not be a reliable indicator. He could have been tortured before he was forced to take his own life, or he took his own life to avoid torture. Had he known that Greene and Joseph would return to the apartment? Why had he pointed the gun to his head?

And why was the door unlocked?

All of it led Greene to a disturbing conclusion. The man who was after them wasn't after them from the incident at the Basilica, but from the very beginning. The man had found the camera and deduced the existence of a videotape. That meant someone smart was after the videotape, and worse, after them.

Chapter 25

Something was wrong.

Vidocq stood outside a cafe looking up and down the street just outside the Marche de Fer. Inside the owner had recognized the two he'd described. Especially the child whose picture Vidocq carried, the picture he'd stolen from the Rene-Pierce apartment. After recognizing the boy, she quickly agreed that he had been accompanied by a tall and slender white man—a man with red hair and a big nose. They came together, both wearing backpacks, and they stayed long enough for a coffee and a watermelon smoothie. She'd sold them a bus ticket, but she couldn't remember the destination. The woman could say no more than that, though she thought the two had gone inland, farther away from the harbor. If not the harbor, where?

It was still early and the buses wouldn't travel, if they traveled at all, for several hours yet. If their intent was to leave on a bus for Cap Haitien, an escape route familiar to Vidocq, then he would have to take separate action, and that would have to wait until the sun moved its way into the sea. He wouldn't be able to scout all the buses at all the bus stops, there were too many of each, but there was only one road to Cap Haitien.

Where would they go to wait out the hours left till darkness and the running of the buses? The reporter, Hilton Greene, had acted well so far. He'd kept a few steps ahead of Vidocq. Escaping the Hotel Olaffson, seeking help at the embassy, refuge in the cathedral. Where he disappeared to after that, though, was a mystery. How did he get to the Marche de Fer unseen, and where had he gone since? If Vidocq reasoned rightly, they would hole up in a café or hotel for a few hours. Maybe the reporter had friends, someone he could stay with for an hour or two, maybe sit in air conditioning and relax, maybe get some money. Though they couldn't afford to stay in one place for long, but if they stayed here in Port-au-Prince they had to know that the army or the police would search them out. It had to be the buses. Vidocq didn't want to search every hotel in the area, and he didn't want to involve anyone else if he could avoid it. The debacle at the Cathedral was evidence enough that the boy's in their green fatigues didn't understand the subtleties of law enforcement. They understood force, but nothing else. One of them shooting at an American embassy vehicle. What a fool. But could Vidocq do what needed to be done on his own?

He'd succeeded so far out of luck, but there was something he had missed. He'd yet to catch up with them, even though he was close at the Cathedral. He would have lost them there regardless. He possessed a modicum of respect for the Catholic Church, unlike the army. It helped that Vidocq's mother was more Catholic than most and insisted he go to mass regularly. He hadn't been enthusiastic, at the time, but he'd gained a respect for the European faith, one that he bore to appease his mother, though he thought of himself more as a Voudon.

Greene was smart, moving towards what he thought was his best escape. There were other ways off the island—well, out of the country—and he was close enough to the harbor to find a legitimate ship sailing. Vidocq didn't know how much money the man had, but it couldn't be much. After interrogating the idiot who fired on the embassy car, he felt certain that the pair had been on their way to the airport. It was perhaps an accident, something unforeseen that brought them to the Marche de Fer. In most places around the world, a church is given respect, only in Haiti did the military decide to ignore social norms and invade a holy sanctuary.

Vidocq returned to his Toyota and steered towards the harbor. Even though he had his doubts, fostered by the statement of the cafe owner, he couldn't write off the sea. Greene may have taken a circuitous route just to avoid detection. It wouldn't take much time, checking the harbor. There were guards and ship captains, all of whom communicated with each other and the harbor master. All he'd need was a few minutes to confirm Greene and the boy's presence, or lack thereof. If he struck out it wouldn't be difficult to set up a cordon on the highway north, towards Cap Haitien.

For a moment a chill spread across his brain. Was he right? Were his instincts sending him in the right direction? Why would he assume that the man and the child would flee north? It was a gut feeling, something about the man being an American. It wouldn't occur to him to go south, or cross to the Dominican Republic through the southern mountains. But north, towards his home country. That was the way he would go. He had a few hours yet before he needed to set up a cordon on the north highway. First, he would go to the harbor and scout the ships in port. It would be the intelligent thing to do, and maybe, if he prayed hard enough, he might just get lucky.

Chapter 26

Greene sat on the couch next to Joseph, his hand holding the boy's. What was he supposed to say? He didn't know how to talk to Joseph. Hell, who would? How do you tell a seven-year old about death after he'd just seen his father's brain splattered on the wall. The boy sat silent, his face frozen. Greene wanted him to cry, to recognize something bad had just happened, that he was alone in the world, something. He needed to see some sign of mourning. If Joseph didn't come to terms with his father's death now, there was no telling when or if he was going to breakdown. Much better now, he thought, than later. He didn't know what was going to happen later, and he didn't want to deal with a hysterical child in the middle of hiding from the authorities.

Greene sighed. There was little else he could do. "What do you want to do, Joseph? We can't stay here."

Joseph moaned, softly, with a creaking tone that sounded not unlike a frog in heat. He didn't say anything immediately, and he moved neither away from nor towards Greene.

"Why can't we stay here?" Joseph said. He looked up at Greene and then away. "You know, when the shooting started, my daddy and I hid in the bathtub. I was there this morning, my daddy and I, crouched to hide from the Tonton Macoutes."

Greene nodded. He raised his hand to Joseph's shoulder. When he decided to stop by the boy's apartment Greene hadn't expected to find Claude dead in the bathroom, victim of his own fear. It could have been a staged thing, a picture for anyone who might wander past, but Greene doubted it. No, this was self-inflicted. It was to avoid the pain of torture. Even Greene knew what the Tonton Macoutes could do if they got hold of you. They'd killed a foreign reporter practically in front of his face. They wouldn't hesitate to torture and murder a native, no matter how much of an intellectual he may be.

"I'm sorry Joseph. I wish there was something I could do, something that would bring him back—"

Joseph looked up into Greene's eyes. "It's okay Mr.Greene. My daddy and I talked about death. He was afraid this would happen and he wanted me to be prepared. We talked about what it meant and that it was better to be dead than tortured by the government."

Greene took in a breath. Not sharp, not shallow, but surprised. He put his arm around Joseph and pulled the boy close. "Do you miss him?"

"He said I would, but I'm not sure if I do yet. I mean, I feel something, some emotion that I don't know, maybe it is loss, I'm not sure. Maybe I'm confused, or maybe it's just that I can't get the picture of him out of my head. Will that pass? Will I be able to imagine my father without the blood on the wall, the shower curtain?"

Greene squeezed Joseph against his ribs. The boy felt small beside him, a chick compared to a full-grown rooster Claude. What could he do? The young Joseph seemed more adjusted than anyone Greene knew in Miami. There had to be something he could do to help the boy come to terms with his father's death.

"My daddy gave you a picture."

"Of course," Greene dug into his backpack and grabbed the faded and curling picture from between the pages of a notebook. He handed it to Joseph. The boy looked at the photo with an intensity that belied his age. "I never knew my mother, and now my father. . ."

Greene watched as the boy set the picture in his lap. He felt the boy move, his shoulders shake, his hand in tremors. Joseph put the picture aside, carefully setting it on the couch. Then he started to cry. At first, he tried not to, Greene could tell, the boy holding his lip between his teeth, and scrunching his eyes up. Joseph didn't make a sound for nearly a minute, but then he lost control. He climbed up so he could kneel next to Greene and then wrapped his arms around Greene's neck. Tears flowed from the boy's eyes and heavy sobs wracked his chest and shoulders.

Greene pulled the boy close, let his small body shake and shiver. Listening as the boy's sobs grew keening and his voice hoarse, Greene began to wonder about the open door and the neighbors. He was paranoid; made that way by the events of the morning, but could he trust those next door to refrain from calling the police, or the army? Did they like Claude? Did they think his punishment just? Greene knew nothing of the neighborhood society except for what he'd picked up in the last few hours. And that wasn't enough to know whom he could trust.

After a few minutes of Joseph holding onto his neck, Greene quietly detached himself. "Joseph. We're going to leave soon. I need you to remember what you and your father talked about. You need to be strong. I don't know what we're going to have to do over the next little bit, but I promise you I'll get you back to Miami, safe from the Tonton Macoutes and General Namphy."

"But they killed my daddy."

Greene wasn't about to correct the boy's placement of blame. He was right, after all, even if Claude himself had pulled the trigger, it had been the government of General Namphy who had truly killed Claude Rene-Pierce.

"They killed my daddy. Shouldn't they pay a price? Shouldn't they be punished?"

Greene reached up and pulled the boy's hands away from his neck. He held them still as he looked into the boy's eyes, "There's nothing we can do from here. The best way for us to get revenge is to show the world what your daddy did. That's why he gave me the videotape, so the world can see what they did, that he died so the world can know. That's their punishment. We have to be strong now, we have to get out of Haiti. Once we do that, then maybe, maybe we can find a way to punish those responsible."

"Is that why we've been all over the city?"

"That's right. We've been trying to find a way out. Someone is chasing us, someone who will probably kill us if he finds us, but we have to keep going. We have to remain one step ahead. That's why we have to get out of Port-au-Prince—"

"The buses."

"That's right," Greene said. "If we can get on a bus to Cap Haitien then we might be able to do something, but right now we're stuck here."

"What about the man at the hotel—Bud—Ferrer told me that he might be able to—"

Greene pulled Joseph close again, "There are many evils in this world. In his own way that man is as evil as the men responsible for your father's death. I will not rely on that man to help us."

"But you'll go with me on the bus?"

"I don't have enough money to get there any other way. It's too far to walk, and besides, if we walked, we would still have to worry about the army."

Joseph nodded. He picked up the picture of his family, the family he no longer had, and handed it back to Greene. "Take care of this for me, then. I have nothing else from my parents."

"Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to it."

Joseph hopped down from the couch and stood in front of Greene. His cheeks damp, his eyes red, Joseph wiped at his face with the sleeves of his shirt. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," Greene said. "We need someplace to rest until it gets cooler."

"It never gets cooler," Joseph said.

Greene grabbed the photo of Joseph and his parents. He carefully slipped it between the pages of his notebook and then slid the notebook back in his bag. Even now he carried a notebook there was nothing he could write, nothing he could think to set to paper that would make the last several hours worth it.

"Why can't we stay here?" Joseph said.

Greene closed his bag and reached out to squeeze Joseph's hand, "It's not that we can't stay here, I just don't want to stay here. Somebody might realize something happened to your father. . .there had to be a gunshot at some point. I want to leave, go someplace else, someplace safe."

"And we can't go back to the hotel—"

Greene shook his head, "There are too many people there. They recognize us, and they may think it a good idea to report us."

"But Ferrer was nice."

Greene offered the boy a smile, "Just because there's one good man doesn't mean they're all good men. I don't want to take the risk. Someone is chasing us and I don't want to backtrack any more than necessary."

"Then where do we go?"

"There has to be something more in Petionville. We should go there."

Joseph pulled his hand away. "We can go to Cite Soleil. I have a friend there, he plays with me at school sometimes, during recess. His mother is a janitor. I think we should go there. It is close to the buses and we can escape from the main streets for a few hours."

Greene thought about that. They'd made it from the Marche to the Ruelle Vaillant without getting caught, could they make it to Cite Soleil? Greene closed his bag and scooted to the edge of the couch. "We can try."

"Let's go," Joseph grabbed hold of Greene's other hand and pulled back with all his weight. It wasn't enough to pull Greene off the couch, but he stood anyway.

"All right," Greene said. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Joseph smiled. He moved forward and wrapped his arms around Greene's waist. "You stay with me, we'll be okay."

Greene nodded and wrapped his arm around the boy's shoulders. Even that required him to stoop down, something he did willingly. He wasn't sure exactly what was going on in the boy's head. Hell, he wasn't even sure what was going on in his own head.

Chapter 27

After the police investigator left, the fat white man disappeared into his room only to reappear a few minutes later at the concierge desk. Bud Harrison was his name, but Ferrer didn't like him. It was an inherent element of the man's presence. Ferrer could sense it from across the wooden desk. A disease in his body. He hadn't exchanged words with the man, not since check-in, and not since the detective used Ferrer's linguistic abilities to interrogate the hotel guests.

What he didn't like, for sure, was the way the man wore a Hawaiian print shirt open halfway down his belly. He still wore the same lime green swim trunks and flip flops on his feet.

"I need a car," Bud said, standing at the concierge desk.

Ferrer cleared his threat, "I'm afraid I can't be of more assistance but the government has forbidden travel until further notice."

"I'm not going to travel. I'm going to go save a friend."

"You have—" Ferrer closed his mouth. He could not let his disrespect for the man show. It would not be the proper thing to do and Mr. Morse would be disappointed in him.

"You're a very resourceful man, Ferrer, I'm sure you can manage something."

Ferrer forced the corners of his lips up in the imitation of a smile. He pointed with all the fingers in his hand over Bud's shoulder at the army Jeep and the two soldiers casually posting watch on the hotel. "Even if I could get you a car there is still the military. They watch from all corners, and especially this hotel. Lots of foreigners here, sir, they don't want you to get hurt."

"Fuck the army," Bud grumbled.

Ferrer stood back at the sudden anger of his guest. "You know that they could kill you."

"Give them enough money and they'll leave me alone. It's just a matter of business. I understand this."

Ferrer thought about it. Could he offer this man a car? "Let me call the manager."

"You do that, Ferrer, I'll be by the pool."

Ferrer grabbed the concierge phone as Bud walked back towards the pool. It was getting late enough that the shadows of the building cast across the pool interrupted the guests sunbathing. This didn't seem to stop Bud—Harrison—but Ferrer wasn't concerned about the man's personal habits.

"Mr. Morse, it's Ferrer at the Olaffson."

A moment's silence and then Morse said, "Ferrer, how are things?"

"We're locked in for the evening." Ferrer said, "but there is a guest who wants a car to go out."

"Can he get out before the army shoots him?" Mr. Morse had a high-pitched voice and a habit of pausing between words, as if thinking about the next one, even if it was unimportant like "it," or "get," or "shoot."

"He thinks he can, but I'm not sure we should risk a driver."

"You want him to drive himself?"

"We have insurance on the car? Then I think we shouldn't risk sending a driver. The man says he can bribe the sentries."

"I see."

"What do you think?"

Mr. Morse cleared his threat, "Talk to the soldiers outside the hotel. If you can handle them, then go for it. Make sure he's carrying a great deal of small money, though. He's going to need it if he wants to defy martial law. And tell the driver he'll get a fifty-dollar bonus for risking himself for our guest."

"Yes sir."

"Thanks Ferrer, and good luck."

Ferrer hung up the phone and looked through the gates of the hotel at the two army soldiers lounging on their Jeep. He walked to the gate and opened the chain lock. A moment later he gestured for the two soldiers to come across the street.

"How much do you want?"

Chapter 28

There was no air conditioning in the Cite Soleil. In fact, there was little in the way of air. The place was a rundown hovel of shacks, rows of single story, gerry rigged affairs that barely managed to claim the name of dwellings. Most of the people in the Cite Soleil spent most of their time outside anyway, only going indoors to avoid the elements, during the rainy season, and the Tonton Macoutes. Life was different, though, here in Cite Soleil, the smell of urine and feces, the smell of rotten water seeping down narrow lanes, the smell of grilling okra, eggplant, and sweet potato. A few lucky ones even had corn that they grilled over makeshift barbecues, cooking with charcoal made from the few trees left on the Haitian side of the island.

Hilton followed Joseph through the streets, dodging a crowded tap-tap as it careened out of the Cite, its orange sides painted bright with a sunrise and Good Day in bright blue English letters. It was a strange juxtaposition, the trucks crowded with passengers traveling from the Cite Soleil to the downtown region. The army guards at the intersections wouldn't stop them. They knew the couldn't. If they tried it would result in a massacre, and Hilton wasn't sure which side would lose more lives, not lately anyway.

They turned a corner. A dog bounded silently over a thin ditch of rancid waste water that ran down the center of the street. A small boy looked up from a wooden branch that he was evidently using for a gun, or a machete, or a weapon of some kind, for he saw Joseph and grinned, rushed forward, and swiped at Joseph's arm with the branch. Where had the boy found a branch.

"Samuel," a woman appeared in the ramshackle doorway of a hut and shouted onto the street. The boy turned and said something in Creole. The woman looked at Hilton, her eyes black and shadowed, her face a long line of burnt brown. She didn't say anything to the foreigner, but seemed to recognize Joseph. She shook her head and disappeared back into the shack from whence she'd first appeared.

Hilton walked over to the stucco wall and sat down. Samuel was apparently the friend that Joseph had mentioned. It would be an hour here, before they took a tap-tap to the bus station. He thought about pulling out _Last of the Breed_ and reading some of Louis L'Amour's words, but he couldn't manage the effort. No, he simply let his head rest against the stucco wall, a wooden joint jutted from the corner of the hut, and watched as Joseph and Samuel filled the street with their conversation in Creole. He didn't imagine that Samuel knew French, his mother—the woman in the shack, or so he assumedo—wasn't well enough off to afford French lessons, so the two boys stood in the middle of the street, heads bent close to each other, and murmured together in a language that Hilton couldn't understand.

He sighed. There was nothing he could do. If it hadn't been for the fact that Joseph had mourned his father, and the need for a break from the stress of the day, he wouldn't have agreed to come to Cite Soleil otherwise, if he hadn't thought it would do Joseph good to see someone familiar, to have someone he could talk to, no matter how risky it might be.

What was the risk? Hilton thought to himself. The police and the army stayed out of Cite Soleil, the poor and the hungry not worth the effort of extortion. Only the Tonton Macoutes managed to find their way, sometimes, into the slum. But they didn't know anything about Claude Rene-Pierce, Hilton Greene, or the videotape in his backpack. They could kill him, though, just as dead as a member of the green fatigued army, or the cops in their light blue reminiscent of the darker uniform of the Macoutes.

But he wasn't worried. Ever since Papa Doc set the Tonton Macoutes loose on the population, censoring his opposition, shutting down dissenters, scaring the normal people shitless with the machetes and AK-47s, with aviator sunglasses and navy blue denim shirts, the country had been muzzled, quiet. Only in the sudden disarray following Baby Doc's removal from office and subsequent flight from the country did the Dechoukaj movement take hold, and only then it was a movement of a few. The Tonton Macoutes were busy elsewhere, he felt confident in thinking, and wouldn't concern themselves with a poor orphan and his caretaker from America.

Hilton grabbed his backpack close and reached inside. He fished around until he felt the familiar heft of the paperback. He had an hour to kill and he didn't want to do it with thinking. He could only imagine the hell that would be, thinking about his situation. Since that morning's massacre on the Ruelle Vaillant, he hadn't had time to think, he'd run from one crisis to the next, trying to maneuver the streets of Port-au-Prince and the politics of Haiti. He didn't want to start now, no, he would read all about the great escape from the Siberian gulag and the chase through the woods and the escape from Russia.

Escape.

He opened the book to where he'd dogeared a corner and flattened the page. He began to read, but before he could get very far, Joseph ran up to him. "I'm hungry."

"Of course," Hilton said, and looked up from the volume in his lap. "Where can we eat?"

Joseph turned to Samuel, the slum boy was small, smaller than Joseph, though his eyes and face seemed older, like he'd seen more, had more experience. It wasn't that Hilton was a harsh judge of character, it simply was a matter of life lived. This boy in the ghetto couldn't have much to look forward to, not like Joseph with his trust funds and intellectual background and training in French and a smattering of English.

"There's a lean to over there that sells chicken feet. Five gourdes a plate."

Hilton fished into his pocket and pulled out a small bill, maybe a ten or twenty, and handed it to Joseph. "Don't go far, and bring me back something to drink."

He watched as Joseph and Samuel ran off with the sudden boon in hand and returned to his book. He wasn't hungry, at least not for chicken's feet, and though he didn't know when he might have a chance again, he was going to pass on the opportunity. He was thirsty, though, the four rum and Cokes and the cairin mixing in his belly and rumbling with the dissatisfaction of a hangover brewing.

He closed the western and set it back in his backpack. He would not read now. He settled into a comfortable position, as comfortable as he could manage against the stucco and wood construction of the hut, and closed his eyes. He would rest, that's all, and then they would go to the bus stop and ride to Cap Haitien and escape this nightmare of an island.

Chapter 29

Tap-taps drove along the sides of streets and parked in front of tourist agencies, some in front of hotels. Greene checked his pockets. He had everything he needed, money, passport, gun, and then grabbed up his backpack with its precious contents.

He wasn't sure what scared him most, but probably the gun. He'd shot a gun as a boy in the highlands of Scotland, on vacation, but that was a shot at pheasants or foxes, not people. And the guns used in the U.K. for holiday purposes were far different than the striking metal handgun stuck securely beneath his waistband. He kept his shirt untucked so it would cover the bulge of the gun, but he couldn't know whether someone might notice. The best plan would be to get on a bus headed out of town, preferably north, and preferably soon.

After looking at a tourist map on the lobby wall, Greene confirmed that north was the best route. It would take them to Cap Haitien where they might find some banks open, Maybe even a western union. And if they could get into the Dominican Republic through Ounaminthe and Dajabon then there was a small airfield just a few miles from the border. He might be able to charter a small aircraft that would take them to Miami, or even call one in through his newspaper. They had assigned him this job, after all, and it was their responsibility to keep him as safe as possible. What they didn't know about Joseph wouldn't hurt them.

The Marche de Fer was closed, the women and men who sold their goods in the massive iron market returned to their homes to reap more produce, kill more livestock, or create more crafts; whatever it was that they did, they were doing it now. That left the tap-taps: temporary transport that moved the tourists and hotel custom from the vicinity of the Marche to the actual bus stations around the city.

Joseph reached up and grabbed Greene's hand. The man looked down at the boy and the boy looked up at the man. There was something in the look. Greene didn't understand it, but it seemed as if Joseph had come to trust him, at least a little, after less than a day together. That was not what he'd expected, especially when he saw the red stains in the bathroom of Claude's demise. Joseph was strong, far stronger than Greene himself.

Greene hoped it was so.

They carried tickets towards the nearest tap-tap and waved the thick paper at the driver. The driver hopped down from his seat and grabbed the fanned pages from Greene's hand. He inspected them carefully and then pointed back to a café where he said something in Creole. Joseph translated, "He says these are the wrong tickets. There are no buses going to Ounaminthe, not now that the route is so dangerous. No, but if you get tickets to Cap Haitien he says he can help us."

Greene grabbed the tickets and reviewed the writing. It was in French and it definitely said from Port-au-Prince to Ounaminthe. "How much to change the ticket?"

"Same price," the man said. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then grinned at Greene, "I can give you new tickets but they are the same price."

Greene felt a lump of anger filter to his throat, "What do you mean they are the same price, I paid for these—"

"The price was different then. You can either exchange the tickets for the same price or you can take them and try to convince a bus to take you to Ounaminthe with those tickets."

Greene swore under his breath, quietly, so Joseph wouldn't hear. He didn't want the boy to accidentally translate the curse. "Fine, give me the new tickets, to Cap Haitien."

The man took the now worthless tickets and grabbed a pen from one of the random pockets that covered his clothes. He crossed out Ounaminthe and wrote in Cap Haitien, then handed the tickets back. "There, now you can get on a bus. The army won't stop the buses, you shouldn't worry."

"Why would we worry?"

The tap-tap driver pointed at Greene, "You're all sweaty. Either you drank a lot of alcohol or you're worried."

Greene didn't respond. He grabbed Joseph's hand and pushed past the smiling driver to climb into the tap-tap.

Chapter 30

The Hotel Olaffson was a small establishment; even by the standards of a Duvalier ruled state. It was nothing like the larger hotels of Jamaica or Bermuda, neither country ruled by a despot, at least not admittedly so. Port-au-Prince had not been a major tourism attraction since Papa Doc took control nearly thirty years before. The fact that the hotel used to be the villa of a president did little to resurrect its business. Ferrer knew that it had once been a major attraction, the rich and the fabulous coming to stay there. But that was years ago. Now he served men and women the likes of Bud Harrison. A Scottish slob who knew nothing of social niceties in Haiti, let alone anywhere else.

But under orders from Mr. Morse he obeyed the man's request and called up the hotel's driver and car. Ferrer had already organized the trip with the hotel's army minders who remained firmly settled across the street. The amount of money he'd given them warranted a full military escort, but he was seen as the agent of white men, so the price jumped higher than a hooker snorting some of the easily acquirable cocaine that fell off the drug planes.

But the Buick was shiny, its rounded lines of luxury gleamed in the equatorial sun. The man named Bud should have no problem riding in style. The government may ride around in Mercedes, but Mr. Morse believed in an all-American branding for his hotel. And Ferrer was not one to contradict his boss.

About five minutes before the car arrived, the man named Bud appeared in his Hawaiian shirt, open at the sleeves and chest, and the pair of lime shorts that cut just shy of his knees—the same clothes he'd been wearing most of his time in the hotel. He was a hairy man, his legs thick with dark fur, his chest tufted with black. Ferrer hadn't liked the look of him from the moment he checked into the hotel, he most certainly did not like the look of him now.

"You know you'll have to bribe the army patrols."

"I'm not new to this, Ferrer. You should know that. I've lived in this hotel for nearly a year now. I survived Duvalier and I'm going to survive Namphy. I just have some things to do, you know, make sure that my ass is covered."

Ferrer sighed. His French was excellent, though not quite good enough to pick up the double entendres. No one would, either, unless they knew Bud for what he was. Though he knew there was evil about the man, Ferrer was ignorant of the darker parts of Bud's soul, and he did not want to know. He'd met many people in his life, many of them evil, and he knew without hesitation that Bud fell in that category, though he knew not why.

"Where are you going today?" Ferrer said.

Bud shook his head, "Better you don't know, Ferrer. I think it's better the fewer people know."

"And you have money?"

"More than enough to pay my way. I appreciate you calling this in. I would have had a hell of a time getting past the army folks without your help."

"You'll encounter more," Ferrer said.

Bud nodded and patted a bulge in his right pants pocket. "Don't worry, I've got lots of small bills. And your driver speaks French."

"Not like me, Monsieur, but he speaks well enough to convey meaning from the Creole. He'll be able to help you bargain and trade for the turning of a blind eye."

"Perfect, that's all I need."

Ferrer glanced at the street through the gates. The two army watchers remained fastened to their spot, though they seemed to be joking and laughing, not paying attention to their assignment. Ferrer thought for a moment of calling off the driver and leaving this wicked man stranded in the hotel, but he was too much a professional. His trained instincts refused to let him do something so untoward when a guest was concerned.

"The car and driver should be here momentarily, the driver's name is Jacques, he is a dark-skinned mulatto, too dark to get a good job, but light enough to drive, especially with his French skills."

Ferrer took a look at Bud, the wrinkles on the fat man's unshaven face catching shadows from the sun. Ferrer shook his head, slightly, and said nothing. Once the man took steps outside the gates of the hotel, he would cease to be Ferrer's responsibility. What liability Mr. Morse might bear was different, though he'd insisted the man pay a hefty deposit before taking the car into the city, or the country, or wherever he might want to go.

The Buick pulled up to the gate and Bud reached a hand to Ferrer, "Thank you for your help Ferrer, I'll see to it that you receive a sizable portion of the deposit when I return."

"It is unnecessary, sir, but let me escort you to the gate, it is still locked." Ferrer grabbed the key ring from a drawer and stepped from behind the front desk. He walked casually towards the gate, practically side by side with the dirty Scot.

It took Ferrer but a moment to unlock the gate and the padlock attached to it. He carefully pulled the ironwork open and waved a hand for Bud to walk through the opening. Bud slapped Ferrer on the shoulder and then slipped through the gate. As soon as the Scot grabbed the handle of the Buick, Ferrer locked the gate and padlock again and returned to his desk. By the time he set the keys to their proper place the Buick had moved away from the hotel and the army watch had returned their attention to the front gates.

Chapter 31

Greene and Joseph boarded the bus and worked their way to the back. Someone had a chicken in their lap, its black feathers ruffled in annoyance. They sat in the painted brown bus, waiting for the thing to fill up.

Greene watched as an old man approached the bus and climbed on board, his arms pulling on the rails as much as his legs pushed him up. He was trembling, his age probably giving him a great deal of pain. He stopped and looked at Greene and Joseph, his dark eyes sunken in the hollows of his bones, and his tongue flicked out like a frog catching flies. Greene didn't understand the significance of the gesture, if there was any. Maybe the old man smelled air through his tongue. Isn't that what snakes did?

Greene ignored the man as he took a seat and as the bus slowly began to fill. Joseph was antsy, he could tell. The boy kept playing with the zipper of his backpack, flipping the pull back and forth and tightening and loosening the straps. He was anxious, and Greene couldn't blame him. Greene was anxious too. The stop at Claude and Joseph's apartment had unsettled him tremendously. He had been high on adrenaline ever since, and as they sat calmly in the back of the bus, Greene began to feel the adrenaline subside and settle into a deep fatigue. He wanted to fall asleep, but he didn't dare, not until they were on the road and past any roadblocks that may stop their progress.

The possibility of someone smart, someone who understood how to track a person, following them from the Ruelle Vaillant to at least as far as the Basilica, disturbed him. If he thought through what he knew of Greene and Joseph, wouldn't he have already moved a step ahead? Wouldn't they be walking into a trap by riding a bus from Port-au-Prince to Cap Haitien? Greene tried not to think about it.

Joseph had finally stopped fidgeting and lay his head against Greene's arm. He was asleep before Greene could adjust his position. It left him worried that in a few minutes he would feel the tingle of a dead arm, the nerves frozen by the boy's head. There was nothing to do for it unless he woke the boy. Instead, Greene let him lay, the young boy oblivious to the dangers moving all around them.

Joseph snored softly on Greene's arm, the boy's black hair pressed against the cloth of his sleeve. He was a good looking boy, handsome and angelic.

Greene felt the tingling start and took the risk of shifting his arm from under the boy's weight. He wrapped the arm around the boy's shoulders and rested it atop the seat back. He waited a tense moment to make sure he hadn't woken the boy, and when he heard the small snore continue, he sighed with relief.

Greene wasn't sure what would happen, though he did know something hovered in his consciousness. Was it the sight of Claude dead in the bathtub, the disturbed camera and videotapes. Someone had gone into that apartment before Greene and Joseph returned. It was obvious. And Greene was convinced that person or persons were after the missing tape.

Greene leaned his head back. Sitting in the bus and waiting for the vehicle to fill up grated on his nerves. He saw a rough man in a leather jacket and unshaven face climb into the bus. He glanced around the seats, his eyes settling on Greene for a moment. Greene kept his eyes fixed forward, neither catching or retreating from attention. The man stepped past the first few rows and sat across from the woman with the chicken. Greene wondered why the newcomer wore a leather jacket in the heat of the late afternoon, but it wasn't something he was about to ask. The fewer memories they made in the minds of the locals the better. He didn't want to be caught because of a mistake.

He took a deep breath and counted to ten. It was pop-psychology, but it let him calm his mind long enough to step back from the paranoia. He was constructing an adversary when there most likely was none. Why would anyone know about the videotape? It was a recording made by a lone intellectual. It was a fluke. That Greene had noticed was miraculous, that someone else noticed, a policeman or army official, maybe even a member of the Tonton Macoutes, was doubly so.

Joseph shifted his position against Greene's body, his weight adjusting and his legs rolling up onto the seat and against the side of the bus. Greene was tempted to take a nap but knew it would be useless. The sun in the sky would soon begin heading towards the horizon, a tropical sunset coming twelve hours after sunrise, unlike the fickle skies of the sub temperate zones. Even Miami, with its regular warmth and simulation of tropical rains, had a changing sun. He didn't know whether it was the coffee or the sun, but even if he thought he could sleep, he didn't want to. Not until the bus pulled out of Port-au-Prince and was well on its way to Cap Haitien. Only then would Greene feel comfortable, maybe even enough to close his eyes and let his fatigue conquer his consciousness.

Chapter 32

Vidocq stood behind the roadblock in silence. He wondered constantly about the insubordination of the population, so many people moving in the streets despite the broadcast orders of General Namphy. It was supposed to be a crackdown, yet he'd spent all day chasing people who ignored it.

A blue VW Bug drove up to the road block, slowed and stopped. Vidocq watched as one of the men approached the car. Everyone manning the roadblock was armed with live ammo for their AK-47s. It gave them the feeling of self-importance and Vidocq wanted the army personnel to think they could change things, to affect the course of events. With their assault rifles and their machetes. Worse things had happened. Look at the blunder at the Basilica hours earlier and the idiot soldier who fired on and chased an embassy vehicle.

Ever since Papa Doc came to power nearly thirty years before, the police force had become a weak auxiliary to the army, and sometimes even the Tonton Macoutes. Vidocq had lived long enough to see such things, such political fiat, under Baby Doc, but he was too young to have seen much of his father's dictator. He knew the fear that the Tonton Macoutes inspired, the silent crouching in the dark as they rampaged through a village, the arbitrary punishment they doled out just to have fun, to make their victim scream and then laugh at his or her pain. It was a mess, Haiti, and Vidocq had no illusions of fixing it on his own, or even trying.

But his integrity wouldn't let him ignore the fate of his country completely. It was the reason he had been selected for his position. Chief police investigator. His honesty, loyalty, and ability. It was not pride that made him the best detective on the island, it was fact.

A black Buick pulled up to the road block, its shiny chrome glittering in the light from the setting sun. The front window opened and a transaction ensued. The soldier took the envelope and began to motion the car forward.

"Hold that car," Vidocq shouted and hurried over to the soldier with his gun. He pulled at the handle of the back door. It didn't open. "Unlock the door. Now."

The driver pushed a button and the click of unlocking doors sounded in Vidocq's ears. He pulled on the handle again, this time it gave and the back door swung open. Without hesitation Vidocq stepped into the car and sat beside the lone passenger. "You seem to have traveled a long way from the Hotel Olaffson, Monsieur."

Vidocq watched as the man beside him turned. The man was large, thankfully now wearing a shirt, and his face burned red. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You were at the Hotel Olaffson just a little while ago, I saw you there and you divulged secrets about the American reporter and the child."

"The child?"

Vidocq sighed, "I must ask what your business is this far out of Petionville."

Bud, for that was the name he'd given at the hotel, put a hand on Vidocq's shoulder. "You are misinformed. I have a friend in Cap Haitien. Since Port-au-Prince is so stuffy all of a sudden, I thought I might escape the city and travel for a bit. Is there a problem with that?"

Vidocq glanced at the cop outside the car. He could see the young man's nervousness as he shifted his weight, again. "You, search the trunk."

"You will find nothing there but a bag with a few belongings of mine."

Vidocq glared at the Scotsman. "You have no place to speak."

"I was simply informing you—"

"No, I am tired. You are a traitor, if not to Haiti then to your friends. I do not take kindly to traitors."

The car bounced as the soldier pulled open the trunk of the Buick, rummaged around for a moment, and slammed it shut. "Nothing but a small bag."

"Did you search the bag?"

"No sir."

"Search the bag. He might be carrying drugs."

Vidocq turned his attention back to Bud. "You say you are not intending to do anything untoward."

"I did not say that, but you can infer it."

"You will be quiet of your insolence."

Bud shook his head. "You are mistaken, Monsieur Detective. I simply speak to you as a man. I care not for your tasks or authority. I want to move forward and arrive at my destination. Do you have a problem with that?"

The trunk slammed again and the soldier stopped outside the open passenger door closest to Vidocq. "I found nothing, just some clothes, a book."

"I expect you to remain out of my vision, Bud. I want to hear nothing of you."

Bud shrugged, "That you see me now is not my fault. If it weren't for your fucking nonsense politics, there would be no roadblock, no martial law. The only reason I came to Haiti was to relax, and now you practically assault me in my own vehicle on my way out of a prison city."

"I make no apologies, Monsieur Harrison."

"Then get out of my car. You have no reason to detain me."

Vidocq glared once more at the fat man, staring at the way he raised his nose ever so slightly, his lips pursed and his face blushed. He was angry, genuinely angry. Vidocq thought he should take the man and shoot him. It might be a favor to mankind, but he was not in the mood for making a mess, not when he was already at his wits end trying to clean one up.

What if he'd made a mistake? What if there was no video and no runners? Could he continue justifying the appropriation of resources for much longer? General Namphy would find out if he made too much of a fuss, but really, he needed to find them. There would be far greater repercussions if he failed and the video was released in the States.

Vidocq slowly climbed from the back of the Buick. He did not care for the man nor his lies and betrayals. Vidocq was a lone man of integrity in a sharks' pool of corruption and, therefore, he liked very few people. When a white man came into his jurisdiction and tried to take advantage of the corruption for his own gain, that irked Vidocq, for surely Bud had an ulterior motive that, given time and investigation, Vidocq might uncover, but that was for another day.

Vidocq slammed the car door behind him and gestured the driver forward. He stormed back to his position overseeing the road block. A line of cars stretched south back towards Port-au-Prince. The sun was blinding on his right, its rays bright in a clear sky, as it began to sink into the Carribean Sea. He didn't mind the sun, it felt warm on his skin, and slowly, he felt it just might wash him of the corruption in which he bathed.

Chapter 33

Greene felt drowsy. The heat of the day built on itself and settled on his brain until his eyes struggled to stay open. But he had to keep them open. He didn't trust the driver of the bus, nor the passengers. There were no other foreigners on board, and he didn't want to wake Joseph. The boy was too young to stand watch on the bus and its surroundings. He needed a Coke, or maybe an amphetamine. Maybe a nice string of cocaine. Something to keep him awake more than the ridiculous speed at which the driver took each pothole. This would not be an easy journey.

Six hours by car, by bus probably closer to eight or nine, the windows wide open, even removed, so that the natural breezes could waft inside and cool the passengers. It was nice in theory, but Haiti didn't have cool breezes, and heat from the engine in the back of the bus rose through the threadbare seats for several rows. Greene had made the mistake of settling near the back of the bus, a mistake, he realized, only too late to do anything about it. The bus was filled to capacity, if not over-capacity.

Already the bus had turned over several passengers, some hopping down the steps to the rough ground, some jumping into the opening that passed for a front door and struggling to pull themselves up the stairs before the driver conducted a maneuver that might throw them back out to the potholed pavement.

Greene swayed with the motion of the bus, his body exhausted, his mind sluggish. He couldn't afford to be sluggish. He needed to anticipate what might come next. He'd been surprised when there had been no military presence near the Marche de Fer. He thought the man searching for them might have tried to capture them then. But he'd been wrong. Now he kept his eye out for roadblocks and for signs of pursuit. Would the man on their tail ride up with sirens blaring and lights flashing? Or would it be something more subtle? Was the man on the bus already? Was he watching from sidelong eyes half slit in sleep? Greene couldn't know. He had no idea what the man looked like, only that he was on their tail, and that he knew about the videotape.

The bus began to slow, Greene looked out the front window and saw a line of cars stretching for nearly a mile. Damn it, a roadblock.

Greene shook Joseph by the shoulder, the boy woke groggy and rubbed his eyes. He looked up at Greene and then out the window, his bright eyes blinking and his arms stretching. Greene couldn't wait to find somewhere to sleep, somewhere safe, but he knew that place wasn't this.

"Grab your bag, we have to get off."

"But the bus is still moving—"

Greene shook his head, "No, it's not that. It's a roadblock. We can't be in the bus when the police stop and search it. They may be looking for us."

"You think the police are looking for us?"

"They killed your father."

Joseph recoiled. His face adopted a look of hurt, his body shrunk. "What are you saying? My father killed himself. You saw the gun. You saw the blood—"

"I'm sorry, Joseph, but if it hadn't been for the army, if not for the Tonton Macoutes, the police, your dad would still be alive. You have to understand that, you do. We can't afford to be caught by any of them. We have to get off before they find us."

Joseph stared at Greene. The boy rubbed his eyes again. They were rimmed with red and puffy skin. Greene felt bad, watching the boy struggle to control his emotions, and failure to do so evident in his face. Greene set a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'm sorry, it's a rough world. But if we're going to get out of Haiti, we have to do a few things. And first among them is to survive."

Joseph looked forlorn, his eyes downcast, refusing to meet Greene's. Greene pulled Joseph close and tried to wrap his arms around the boy's shoulders, but Joseph pushed away. "You haven't earned the right to hug me. Just do what you have to do. If it weren't for that stupid videotape none of this would have happened. My daddy would still be alive, and you would never have come into my life."

"You're right," Greene said, leaning back, "You're right you're right you're right. Unfortunately, that doesn't change our current situation. We need to get off the bus and find some other way into Cap Haitien."

Joseph sighed, he looked down at his feet and then grabbed his school boy backpack from the floor. "All right."

"You're okay?" Greene said.

"I'm—I'll be okay."

Greene smiled at the boy; there was little else he could do; grabbed his own backpack and rose to his feet. Almost immediately half the passengers on the bus turned around to look at the foreigner and the mulatto child in his care. They said nothing, but their eyes burned hate. Greene tried to understand this, tried to understand how the people of Haiti, the traders and farmers and manufacturers could hate someone they'd never met just because of the color of his skin. Haiti was mucked up as far as that was concerned, their racial policies and behaviors foreign to Greene. He tried to ignore them, walking calmly from the back of the bus towards the front exit. Several bags filled the aisle, a caged pig, other livestock, sacks of seafood, a side of beef bleeding and red, sacks of rice, bags filled with processed flour and sugar, the white granules shivering at their passage. At the front of the bus the driver looked them over and said something in Creole. Greene looked back at Joseph. "What did he say?"

"He wants to know where we're going."

"To stretch our legs."

Joseph translated and they climbed down from the bus to the ground below. The route was paved, sort of, one good thing left by the Americans, but it was severely degraded, full of potholes and large gaps in the pavement that threatened both tire and ankle. Greene had no intention of staying on the road, though. That roadblock was for them, he knew somehow, and he had no desire to get caught with the boy—without papers—or with the videotape.

In fact, it was the first time he'd come to seriously think about the difficulties of demonstrating a relationship with Joseph. How was he supposed to prove to the police, or the army, or immigration, or anyone that he'd adopted the boy? He could easily tell the truth: that Joseph's father committed suicide and left the boy to him. He could say that, but no one would believe him. And no matter how much it meant to his continued life he could not produce papers. What was he thinking, to get himself into this mess?

It wasn't as if he could back out, not now.

He led Joseph away from the bus. Leaving behind its brightly colored exterior for the brush that lined the road. There were very few trees. The coffee trees that served as one of Haiti's primary crops grew on the slopes of the mountains that rose into the interior of the island. At this elevation, next to the sea, there was nothing: brush and grass and weeds and those filled with piles of windswept sand. It wasn't as if the mountains were very far away. Greene wasn't sure, though, what to do. He'd seen the roadblock and hoped that the army officials who manned it hadn't seen them sneak out of the bus. They were far enough back, enough people trying to get out of Port-au-Prince after the massacre, that the line of cars stretched back for at least three-quarters of a mile.

Joseph grabbed hold of Greene's hand as they walked away from the bus and the row of vehicles waiting for inspection at the road block. Greene wanted to escape. Was it safer to skirt the authorities here, or should he go back to Port-au-Prince and lay low, hoping that things would get better? They couldn't go back to the Hotel Olaffson, and he didn't have the money to pay for another hotel. They were running on low funds and there was only one way to go. Maybe he could get a wire transfer in Cap Haitien, there were different rules there, and it was farther from Namphy's authority.

But that wasn't the point. The point was to escape, not lay low. To get away from whomever chased them. To get out of Haiti and the indiscriminate killing that took place there. Greene feared for his life, and so he feared for Joseph, but his fear for the boy was minimal compared to the bestial self-preservation that instinctively reared up inside him. Greene could question his decision. He hadn't anticipated a roadblock, but now, seeing it, he wondered if they shouldn't go back to Port-au-Prince. It was a big city. If they went to ground in one of the slums, like Cite Soleil, the authorities would never find them. They could hide with Samuel and his world-weary mother.

It appealed—not that he wanted to stay in a slum—but the idea of waiting until the storm blew over. The problem was urgency. It was urgent that he get the videotape to his editor and it was urgent that they do everything to get the news of Haiti's most recent coup broadcast to the world. If they couldn't get the video out, then there was no point. They might as well just go back and forget about everything, go through the proper channels for adoption, wait until those came through, and then fly back to Miami. But before anything resembling procedure could happen, he needed to get the videotape out of the country. They needed to hide, to get away from the hunter on their heels. It was the thing they needed to do.

Greene considered the brush along the road. It was low, not as low as the bushes they'd hidden behind in the city, but still low. Joseph could walk behind them, but Greene would have to crouch, or crawl on his knees. And there were no trees. Stumps, sure, evidence of the long-time deforestation that had claimed the tropical beauty of Haiti for the farm. It was a shame, that the politics and the "reforms" led to such behavior, but it was true. Haiti was essentially treeless, except for the coffee plantations. Very little in the way of cover. They would have to wander into the distance, far from the road, if they wanted to walk past the roadblock.

Perhaps they had one advantage. The police at the roadblock were concentrated on the task of inspecting each car as it came to the roadblock, and they wouldn't notice a shaking brush or two off the side of the road.

"Okay," Greene said, pointing with his hand parallel to the side of the road. "Let's go along here. I'll crunch down when we get closer. We'll have to hide behind the brush. That's the only way we're going to get by."

"We can go into the hills."

Greene nodded, they could do that, but it was a long way from the roadblock to Cap Haitien, and even longer to Ounaminthe and the border with the Dominican Republic.

"If we have to, we can," Greene said. "But let's stay close to the road for now."

"But—"

Greene shook his head and knelt down on one knee so he sunk to Joseph's level, "Look, there's nothing else we can do right now. I'm not ready to go cross-country yet. We don't have anything to eat, we don't have anywhere to sleep—"

"The people will help us. When I tell them what we're doing, they will help. We can go and find our way—"

"But have you ever walked that far? It's a long way, maybe six hundred kilometers. That's a long way to go on your feet. We don't have the right shoes and we don't have the right backpacks and we don't—"

"Fine," Joseph conceded, "We'll do it your way, but if we get caught it's your fault."

Greene shrugged. He had already accepted that possibility. "Then let's go."

Chapter 34

Vidocq watched the bus ease to a stop. He saw the overcrowding, the arms and faces sticking out of the windows. It was a mess, but it was the kind of mess he could expect to bring results. He moved forward and waved the army soldiers aside. He approached the bus and climbed up the stairs through the open door. The driver smiled at him, stood and reached forward to shake Vidocq's hand.

He felt the bulge of gourdes against the man's palm. "I'm sorry, but I don't want a bribe. I'm here to find someone, a man—a white man—and a mulatto boy. Have you seen them or given them a ride?"

Vidocq stared at the driver. He was a short man and very black. His skin so dark it reflected blue. And in places looked almost as if he'd been burned to a char. Vidocq didn't trust the man, instantly, and he walked back through the crowded bus, careful not to step on anyone's feet. At the back of the bus he found two empty seats. "Who was sitting here?"

The driver raised his shoulders in a shrug. Vidocq walked back to the front of the bus. "You say you do not know, but I believe you do. Tell me now or I will shoot you. Your family will lose you, your bus, and your income. Who sat in those empty seats?"

"It was as you say, a white man and his son. At least that is what they said. The white man did not know Creole so the boy did all the talking."

Vidocq felt an intense sense of victory pass through his chest. He was close, he could feel it. "How long ago did they get off?"

"Not long—"

"They just got off when we pulled up," said a man near the front of the bus. "They went off the road and didn't come back. I am sure they intend to avoid the roadblock."

Vidocq walked back again. He took a moment to examine the empty seats with his eyes. He even crouched down and felt the thin faux leather. He felt warmth and could see faint indentations where his prey sat heavily against the thin upholstery of the bus. They had only recently gotten off. How far could they go?

Vidocq returned to the front and handed the rat a few Gourdes for his confession. The driver he left alone, and climbed down to the rough pavement of the coast road. He turned to the next highest ranking officer of the combined police-army roadblock. "We must search the sides of the road. The people we want are out there, not here."

"What do you mean?"

How many times Vidocq wished to be an officer in the army. The fact that the police was an organization under command of the army shortened the army's respect for blue shirts and badges. In fact, it had been an annoyance that affected everything Vidocq attempted to do in the police department. Everything had to be approved by the army. Thus, his desire for rank in the army, not the police. Such a rank would give him more respect and power among the fatigue wearing soldiers. For now, though, he had to make do with the fact that he was only police. "I mean that we have to search both sides of the road. We're looking for a man and a child. They could be anywhere in the brush. Or they could have gone to the surf. I don't know. But tell your men to search."

"But sir—"

"My god man, are you really that dense? Send your men to search. The suspects got off this bus and are avoiding the roadblock on foot. Search the brush and scan the hills. We must find them before they get a ride."

The subordinate officer slowly turned towards his men. He was dilly-dallying on purpose, as if he wanted Vidocq to fail in his search. Did this man not understand the importance of finding Greene and the child? He was easily frustrated when it came to his patience for the local military. They were inept and stupid, and entirely in the pocket of General Namphy—one of their own—so much so that Vidocq wondered if it might not have been more effective to ask help from the Tonton Macoutes.

Finally, his frustration growing into anger he grabbed the captain with his bright green army fatigues by the arm and pulled him away from the road block. "Did you not hear me, captain? I said you need to reposition your troops. We no longer need to man the roadblock, we must search the sides of the brush, look for the man and child where they might have passed us to the sides."

The army man was slow to respond, dithering about his responsibility. "Come now, get your men in the brush—"

"But my men don't want to climb around in the brush. There are diseases there, parasites, ticks and lice, the things that make a man itch and itch and scratch until there is blood."

Vidocq shook his head. "You and me, then, we will search the sides of the road. Have the rest of your men search that bus, check the baggage compartments, the larger cases on the roof, anything that could hide a person or a child—and leave a man on the bus, the reporter and boy might meet up with it after it's cleared the roadblock."

"Wait, what?"

"If your men are unwilling to obey their orders, then you should shoot them all for insubordination," Vidocq said, his frustration showing in his voice.

"But—"

"I will search for them myself. Your army is worthless, did you realize that. You might as well become Tonton Macoutes for all the organization you have."

"But you're a policeman, not in the army."

"It's the army who has imposed this martial law. If I'd tried this stunt with police, you'd have shut us down within an hour."

The officer shook his head, "Then perhaps the answer is to give up this foolish errand and return to your home."

Vidocq laughed, his small frame producing a surprisingly loud sound, one that verged on an octave of amusement. "You think I'm going to let you do this on your own."

"No, I suggest that no one should be doing this. What is it about this man and child that is so important for you?"

"They have a videotape of a massacre that occurred this morning, in the city."

"Such things are not news."

"No, but the man is a reporter, an American reporter. If this videotape gets to America, then there are ways for it to become a nuisance to General Namphy. It would ruin his administration."

The army man shrugged, "As I said, such things happen all the time."

Vidocq sighed, "Then you force me to search on my own."

Chapter 35

Greene fell to his hands and knees as they approached the site of the roadblock. The brush was thick, and ran along the side of the road, it's growth unimpeded by the slash and burn farming of the interior. No one wanted to labor that close to the road, anyway, where thieves and bandits could easily make off with produce or tools or women. Haiti had little law enforcement outside the cities. The Tonton Macoutes might impose their will, but that was something extra-legal.

Joseph moved ahead of him, the boy able to duck his head and hide behind the brush much more easily than Greene with his skinny height. Soon he heard the banter of the men at the roadblock. They spoke in Creole so he couldn't understand them, but he knew where they were. That was enough. If he and Joseph could move past them, maybe find another bus heading north, they might just be able to get out.

But his knees felt rough. He didn't wear pants but a pair of cargo shorts that failed to cover his knees. The rough ground, the rocks and gravel of dead earth, scraped his knees to blood. He grit his teeth, though, and kept going. They couldn't stop, not until they were well past the roadblock. If only he weren't so tall. His knee hit a particularly sharp rock that dug into the bloody mess his knees were quickly becoming. He wanted to cry out, or at least curse, but he bit his lip and kept the noise inside.

Joseph stopped and fell back until he stood beside Greene. The boy pointed through the bushes and leaned close to Greene's ear, "The roadblock is here. We just have to get around the bend up ahead."

Greene nodded but said nothing. He didn't want to take any risks, not this close to the predator's blockade; wait until they passed the army unit, wait until they moved into a position of safety.

He looked ahead, his eyes moving rapidly while his head remained stationary. The brush curved slowly to the right, and then took a sharp turn behind the foothills. They really only had to reach that point before they could stand up and stretch, before Greene could do something with his knees. For a moment he thought of laying back and setting his head on his backpack to take a nap. His head hurt and his stomach still hadn't settled from his morning drunk. But the sun was sinking into the water and soon it would be dark. Though he hadn't seen it, Greene had heard the bus drive past them and through the roadblock. He doubted that everyone on the bus would keep a sealed mouth, not for a bribe, or the threat of violence. Whatever it was, there would be rats to tattle about the white man and the mulatto boy, That meant the army unit knew that a man and child left the bus before the roadblock. If the man who'd been after them all day had anything to do with it, there would be people searching the brush momentarily. They had to move and they had to move quickly.

Greene motioned for Joseph to keep going. The boy nodded and started to move forward. The boy wasn't used to the countryside. He wasn't used to slogging through brush and weed, and his shorts and sandals, what might normally protect his flesh in the urban center of Port-au-Prince, let in all manner of itching, scratching plants and insects. Greene didn't watch the boy, though, he had to worry about himself. The shadows from the setting sun stretched deep into the fields. Unharnessed stumps of trees sent miniature slices of darkness across the hills that rose inward to the crags of mountains beyond.

Dare he risk it. He heard loud voices at the road block, someone was speaking—no, yelling—at someone else. Greene didn't know who or why, he couldn't understand Creole, but he saw ahead a very concerned look on Joseph's face. The boy gestured for Greene to hurry. He didn't need a second warning. He would have to risk his shadow showing in the gloaming, but with luck. . .

Greene pushed off of his knees. The pain of release was almost worse than the pain he'd felt from the scraping and grinding of the rocky bushland. He looked down at his knees and saw his blood drip. Despite the pain, and relief, of standing, he forced himself to crouch as low as he could. He didn't want to cause any reason for the army, or police, or whoever chased them, to see movement and pursue.

He hurried as fast as he dared, each step a jarring reminder of the mush of his knees. He needed to breathe, to let himself lean back and recover from the grueling chase. He needed to do something that would erase this day, and its traumas, from his memory. But he couldn't. He was in the middle of a hostile country with a seven-year old boy and a volatile videotape that could change the future of an island.

He forced himself to move, to keep going behind the brush, to bend his legs and to take each step despite the pain. He hunched low, not as low as Joseph could, nor as quickly, but he did his best to keep up with the boy. He felt the shadows move, his body taller than the brush no matter what he did. He could only hope that any straying eye would not make the connection, nor notice, with their focus on the bus and the roadblock.

He saw Joseph ahead of him, the boy's head bowed, though the rest of him easily hid behind the brush. Greene didn't want to give up, but his body felt old. He felt the urge to simply lay down and wait for their adversary to find him. It would only be a matter of time, after all.

Greene took a deep breath. He couldn't give up, no matter how much he wanted to. The boy relied on him, and the videotape—

Would the cops or army or Tonton Macoutes give up if they had the videotape? Would that be enough to call off the hunter? Greene wondered that, as he took step after step, his knees in agony, his arms no better. He'd caught his palms on sharp rocks more than once, despite his focus, and blood congealed there too. He hurt all over and he wanted to give up. Maybe if he could guarantee the boy's safety. . .

That was something Greene found as the day wound down. It had been a long day, probably the longest of his life, and he had begun to question his priorities. He'd taken the boy, that morning, as a deal, a deal that he had initially thought he could wrangle his way out of, that he could either take the tape and leave the boy, or even if they got to Miami, leave the boy with the appropriate services and forget about him. Not that he thought these things explicitly, but they came to his mind now and then, thoughts of betrayal and abandonment.

But now he was beginning to change his thoughts. For the first time that day the value of the videotape was beginning to lose its precedence over the boy. He began to wonder if he could cut a deal, to leave the videotape behind and rescue himself _and_ the boy. Would their hunter go for such a deal? He didn't know. His thoughts were jumbled by the physical discomfort that stung his body. His aching bones wanted to give up, but he knew he couldn't. He knew there must be a way to get through this, but could he get through this with confidence and a good conscience? He didn't know, he didn't.

A moment later Joseph stopped moving. The boy turned to look at Greene. He held a finger to his mouth to signal quiet, and then pointed over the brush. Greene took a risk and raised his head.

A black Buick sedan stood to the side of the road.

Could it be a sign, somehow could they persuade the driver to let them get into the vehicle to ride away from the roadblock? Greene didn't know, nor did he hope. His hope was almost finished. Even the gun he'd taken from Claude's dead corpse seemed useless. Both Greene and the boy were filthy, their travels through the day taking them from place to place, dust and grime, filth. If they could convince this stranger waiting on the side of the road then they just might escape.

Greene rose up. His backpack shifting and his bones protesting. He looked behind him, there was no one. They had made it clear of the roadblock, but had they made it clear of their adversary?

He felt the gun hard and cool against his back. He could hijack the car, drive it on at full speed, he could do that, and then there would only be another witness to the position and direction of their travel. Greene wasn't sure he wanted to do that. He wanted to minimize the contact with locals, keep the witnesses to a minimum.

And then the back door of the Buick opened. Greene saw the darkness inside and imagined he felt the air conditioning blow through the open door. It was a moment before he began to understand, to see the man stepping from the back seat. The man had craggy hair and several days of stubble on his face. His Hawaiian shirt was open at his throat and his burned skin colored his face red.

It was Bud Harrison, the disgusting creep from Hotel Olaffson.

"Get in," Harrison said.

Greene hesitated. Joseph, though, hurried to the car.

"Come sit back here with me young man."

"Joseph," Greene said, "get in the front. I'll sit in the back."

Joseph looked up between the two men and then climbed into the front seat. Greene nodded at the boy and stepped forward. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving your ass," Harrison said. "Now get in the fucking car before the army figures it out and comes after us with their assault rifles."

Greene still hesitated. He didn't want to be in this man's debt, but there was little option. If the roadblock really was an attempt to catch Greene, Joseph, and the videotape, then Harrison was right. If they stayed in the brush they would be caught easily, but the advent of the Buick, whether from angel or demon, made Greene wonder whose side the fat man was on.

He didn't say anything, though, as he climbed into the back seat and took his place behind the driver. He wanted to be able to see Joseph, to make sure there was nothing wrong, and to keep an eye on Harrison, a man who Greene did not trust.
Chapter 36

Vidocq walked the brush line. He'd backtracked to the point at which the bus driver testified the man and boy left his vehicle. He'd seen evidence of their passing. Rocks overturned, gravel slewed, but it was the blood that truly made it obvious. The blood appeared a hundred meters before the roadblock. First it appeared in drops, maybe a smudge against a rock. Vidocq followed the trail. As he moved closer to the blockade he saw the blood flow increase. Smears of blood, drops consistently appeared now. But as he reached the blockade, and slightly past it, the blood stopped.

It made sense. The boy would be able to move easily behind the brush, his short body invisible to the men at the roadblock. The adult, the American, would have to crouch, or even crawl. There would inevitably be some blood, whether from the rocks, a stumble, or another incident that cut through the man's pants.

Vidocq followed the trail. He moved slowly, so as to be sure there was nothing he missed. When the blood stopped, he felt certain the man had stood and hurried away from the roadblock. It would be easy. No one thought to worry about the space behind the lights and the guns. They were intended to stop fugitives on the road, headed north, not in the brush. And there was so little growth along the side of the road that no one would expect a full-grown adult to escape detection. But the man obviously crawled a great deal. Otherwise the blood wouldn't be there.

He hurried faster now, confident that he knew his prey. He had spent enough time tracking them now that he began to imagine a profile. An American reporter come to witness elections suddenly accosted as part of a massacre. The reporter, Hilton Greene according to the Hotel Olaffson's records, found a videotape, an intellectual who was perfectly placed to see the massacre, to catch images of the army standing idly by while Duvalier's, now Namphy's, personal military—the Tonton Macoutes—killed indiscriminately.

The reporter saw this. He made a deal. In exchange for the video, for the proof to undermine Namphy, he agreed to take the kid. Questioning the people at the Hotel Olaffson, Vidocq had come to understand that the man had not checked in with the boy and that the child had only appeared earlier that day.

Vidocq looked at his shadow that stretched into the distant foothills rising up to the mountains. Haiti was not stable, in so many ways. It was just a matter of time until an earthquake or a tsunami wiped out the big cities, Port-au-Prince, Cap Haitien, Jeremie, maybe one or two more. It would be a disaster requiring international aid of immense proportions.

The sun was low to the horizon and his shadow cast a long way off. He imagined Greene crouching behind the brush, the tall man bending or crawling along the sand blown rocks just off the coast road. Would Greene risk someone at the roadblock noticing the movement of such a large shadow? Or would he head inland, towards the mountains and hope to find a friendly local who could guide him towards the best route to Cap Haitien? Vidocq wasn't sure what to think. He had been trained in investigation. And he had learned about Occams razor, that the simplest explanation is usually the correct explanation.

No. Vidocq thought, this is not something to ponder. Surely if he moved fast enough he would catch the reporter and child on the road, trying to find transportation—

The thought jerked his mind to attention. The man from the hotel, the man in the Buick. He was known to the reporter. Had they arranged for this? Had they known that the roadblock would be set to find them? The heavyset Bud Harrison, with his Hawaiian shirt and his tuft of hair sticking out at his neck. He was a despicable man, but had the reporter met him and called him in to help? There had been soldiers watching the hotel. Had they been removed? Had they been bribed? It would not take much to convince them to turn their eyes. This was Haiti, after all, and Haiti was synonymous with corruption. If that were the case, why did the reporter take the child on the bus in the first place? Wouldn't it be easier to rent the car and driver and simply perform this stunt without the bus. At least Greene could have bribed the bus driver. Were they running out of money?

Vidocq hurried from where he stood watching his shadow. He started running back towards the roadblock, shouting and waving his arms. Why hadn't he recognized the connection earlier? He'd thought it as he confronted Bud Harrison on the roadblock but his disgust with the fat man wiped all tactical thought from Vidocq's mind. He felt his breath shorten as he raced across the potholed road. Damn corruption.

"What is it?" One of the army soldiers said, his eyes wide at Vidocq's heavy breathing.

"The black Buick. They walked past the blockade and got in the black Buick."

"You mean the one with the hairy white man?"

Vidocq nodded, catching his breath.

"Are we closing the roadblock?"

Vidocq thought on that question for a moment. If he was wrong, he would make it easy for the reporter to get out of town, to pass along the road north without any obstacle. If he was right, then it didn't matter now.

"Keep the roadblock up."

"Sir," the army soldier said.

Chapter 37

"You know it's safe to trust me with the boy," Harrison said, his body cinched into the corner of the door and the back seat.

"I don't trust anyone in this damned country," Greene said.

Harrison grunted, "You think it's a matter of money with everyone, you are far more the cynic than I."

"It's not that," Greene said, "it's that you've already established what you want, and I can't give it to you."

"I think that's up to the boy—"

"What?" Joseph jumped up and turned around in his seat to look back over the leather upholstery at the two men. "What's up to me?"

Greene waved a hand, "Nothing, Joseph. Bud is joking."

"But—"

Greene could tell the boy was eager to make a choice. Living with Claude on the Ruelle Vaillant Joseph must have been given quite free reign. He was obviously mature for his age, but Greene wasn't about to let him make that choice.

"Turn around and sit down, Joseph."

"This is adult talk," Harrison said. "Why don't you turn around and look for animals. There are a lot of them alongside the road. Lizards particularly. They like to come out and warm up on the road at night."

Joseph gave Greene a disappointed look, but returned to his seat obediently. Greene could only imagine what thoughts transited the boy's head. He was smart, and he'd been traumatized all day. What was Joseph thinking?

What was Bud Harrison thinking?

The fat Scotsman had obviously paid a good deal of money to get the hotel car to drive him north through a roadblock and on to Cap Haitien. What were his motives? Aside from the obvious, Greene wondered what the man wanted. There had to be a Macguffin. Something Harrison wanted, probably Joseph. From his behavior at the hotel, Greene labeled the fat Scotsman a pedophile. And with that label, Greene was determined to protect Joseph from the man, even if it meant violence.

Not that Greene was a violent man by nature. He did box in college, and he knew how to shoot a gun, even if he knew nothing about its mechanics, but that's about as far as it went. He was fairly confident he could take Bud hand to hand if necessary. He just wasn't sure what would be necessary and when.

He remained silently watching through the windshield as the Buick cruised along the darkening road. The driver had turned the headlights on and they cast shadows in the bush, moving lights that haunted the road. Greene wondered how much of a lead they had. Surely the man behind the blockade would have figured out that the two people who left the bus were his prey. He would surely mount pursuit, but how soon, and how long before they caught up with the Buick?

"Can you go faster?" Greene leaned forward and asked.

The driver, a lanky figure who seemed folded in his seat more than settled, shook his head. "You want to go faster, you go talk to Baby Doc. They built the road, the Duvaliers, but they spent no money to maintain it. You want speed, you turn on the big light and you fill in the potholes."

"Okay," Greene said, "Do your best."

"You should relax, Hilton—you don't mind if I call you Hilton—we have a while before anything might happen," Harrison said.

"It's not the police or the army that worry me at the moment."

"In all things a time must come. To everything there is a season—as the Bible says."

Greene frowned. He felt trapped, and with him Joseph. They were at the mercy of this monster and there was nothing to do about it. They had hours yet before they reached Cap Haitien, and for Greene, that was all too long a trip.

"There, there's a lizard, a big one. It's in the street. Watch out."

The driver veered and nearly ran off into the rocks that walled the sea. But he corrected and found his way back on the road. Greene shrugged and glanced at Harrison. The old man was huffing in shock. "Not used to the driving in Haiti?"

"I must admit, I do try to avoid driving in this country. The roads don't seem to agree with me."

Greene looked at Harrison, the old, fat man, and saw his face red. Might he collapse of an aneurism or some kind of attack before they reached Cap Haitien? That would be a neat trick, something that Greene suddenly found himself thinking on at great length.

"Are you okay?"

Harrison glanced sideways at Greene. "I'm fine. I'm simply not used to wandering this far afield from Port-au-Prince."

"I see."

Greene didn't like it at all. He felt the gun from Claude's apartment, the weapon of suicide and death, against his lower back. It was cool, despite the heat, and it caused him to shiver slightly,

"The air conditioner too cool?"

Greene shook his head, "No, just not what I'm used to."

"You should get those knees looked at."

Greene took a deep breath. If he weren't reliant on the man, Greene would shoot him now. But he couldn't know what expenses would arise in the near future, and for now, the uncouth Scotsman was under control. For how long that would last, Greene didn't know.
Chapter 38

Vidocq shifted gear, down, in an attempt to avoid dipping into a pothole filled with water that stretched across the width of the road. Damn infrastructure. The Duvaliers had taken all the aid money, the money that had come from various countries to improve the roads, the sanitation, the important little things like electricity, and phone lines. None of it happened, not under the Duvaliers. It was a disgrace, really, that such progress had stalled in the greed of the administration. The entire world looked at Haiti as a failed state, a place where international aid, and development both sank into the darkness of the country, a country filled with dark skinned heathens.

And that was one reason he sought Greene, the boy, and most importantly the videotape of that morning's massacre. That's why he was on the road, alone in his police issued Toyota, pursuing the current possessor of the proof of yet one more incident. He thought of it as an incident, the massacre at the Ruelle Vaillant. It was an incident because it wasn't news. It was something that happened every day throughout the country: intimidation, arbitrary punishment, torture. That's why Claude Rene-Pierce had shot himself, Vidocq felt certain, to avoid the treatment he knew would come from the Tonton Macoutes, from the army, or even the police. All three organizations reported to the same superiors. It was only Vidocq's abilities of investigation—the same abilities that made him the chief detective in Port-au-Prince—that brought him as far as he'd come.

And he knew exactly where his prey would go. At least he was mostly sure, if not certain. They wouldn't stop for good in Cap Haitien. It cost too much money to get out of the country from there. They would go on to Ounaminthe.

It was easier that way, and cheaper, and for all Vidocq knew, Hilton Greene was growing low on funds. The banks in Port-au-Prince were closed, and would be for days, until the martial law was lifted. He couldn't say the same thing for the north. For all Vidocq knew, the north was completely ignorant of Namphy's orders. It was a different place in the north, distant from the capital. In fact, Vidocq would go so far as to wager that the banks would be open come morning. That would allow Greene to draw on his bosses in the States for funds, and that would allow Greene and the boy Joseph, and maybe even the despicable Bud Harrison, to leave the country and to find their way—with the videotape of a massacre in hand—out of Haiti and into the safety of some international destination.

Vidocq bounced in the cab of the Toyota as the wheels dropped into another pothole. He cursed the likes of Francois Duvalier and his son, Baby Doc. If they hadn't been so intent on robbing the island of its fair tax profits, development aid, and aid loans there might just be enough left over to properly pave the coast road.

He had to hurry though. If he couldn't catch up with the black Buick before it reached Cap Haitien, he would be forced to rely on luck rather than skill. It wouldn't make for a happy day at work, especially after driving six hundred kilometers over a shitty excuse for a road. He wasn't happy either way. He had cachet in Cap Haitien—a little—and he could convert that into investigative power; call out the locals and sweep the city. It wouldn't be pretty, and it would probably be futile, but aside from setting up another roadblock east of Cap Haitien—on the road to Ounaminthe—it was his only option. And by the time he found where Greene and Joseph went to ground, they would have moved on to their next objective: Ounaminthe and the border crossing to the Dominican Republic.

It made sense. It made enough sense that he wished he had even more cachet, enough even to order a new roadblock, one between Cap Haitien and the border. But his authority ended in the outskirts of Port-au-Prince. He could request things of his brethren in the north. They were all part of the army after all. They would humor him to a certain extent, but he wouldn't be able to pull his rank or order people about. He was a cop. A detective. Sure, he may be the chief detective in the capital, but Cap Haitien wasn't in that jurisdiction. He would be forced to count on luck. Luck and a prayer to the Lord God Orisa.

Vidocq thought of the spackle-faced bishop in the Basilica. The old man had worn the official robes of his office, red and white and yellow. Black and silver. Green. Every color imaginable. It was simply a piece of pageantry, that outfit, but to Catholics, it was the representation of authority vested in the man who wore it. Vidocq didn't understand the draw of such blatant showbusiness. It wasn't his religion and it wasn't his bishop. He tried to think of himself above religion, but he couldn't deny some of the things he'd seen at Voodoo ceremonies. It was superstitious pap, but Voodoo related a lot more to the daily lives of Haitians than the French church. Voodoo was a living, breathing entity, while the Catholic church was simply an imposition from Haiti's former rulers.

Maybe that's what he needed, the supernatural power of Voodoo. Perhaps that would do it, a Voodoo ceremony. He knew of a Houngan in the north, a mulatto who practiced his trade in the outskirts of Cap Haitien. It would be an expensive undertaking, but it would surely tell him what he needed to know.

But that was not how he had been taught. He had long ago decided to separate his superstitions from his job. He was an investigator. He was a detective. He didn't go about seeking paranormal aid in capturing fugitives. No. He would stay away from religion. His brush with the Bishop close enough to the afterlife for his taste. What he needed most was a break. A solid stretch of road he could race along to catch the Buick and its occupants.

And then, for a brief moment, the road flattened and the pavement stretched around the corner of a foothill. He pushed the accelerator to the floor and sped around the bend. Only then he saw another dozen yards of potholes big enough to swallow a bus.

Chapter 39

It was hard for Joseph to stay awake. Night had fallen completely and the two headlamps provided the only light. Occasionally they saw a village in the distance, small fires flaming. It was something that Joseph didn't know. His father never left the city, and so Joseph never left the city. To see the difference between the crowded urban space of Port-au-Prince and the rural life of millions of Haitians was a shock. But it passed his thoughts easily, for he was exhausted from the day of tension and covert movement.

He was ready for the day to end. He needed sleep, but he didn't dare. What if they were caught? Would the policeman shoot them? What if they had to scramble from the car and hide? It had happened before. Everything had happened before, all in one day.

He thought of his father, dead in the bathtub. He had waited until he felt certain that Hilton and Joseph had escaped and then killed himself. It was another shock. Everything was a shock. The Red blood spattered against the wall and the shower curtain, the red sprayed everywhere. Why did he do it? Why did he abandon Joseph and leave him with Hilton forever?

And what about the fat man, Bud? Joseph didn't like the man. He didn't like his smell or his bloated body. And he didn't understand why it was that he'd appeared in their path. He understood that they had little choice in riding with him if they wanted to avoid capture, but why was he on the road? Why was he on the route from Port-au-Prince to Cap Haitien?

Joseph felt his eyes dry and his eyelids fall heavy in the darkness. The two cones of light that illuminated their path were not enough to keep him from drifting off. Hilton would protect him, wouldn't he? He'd done it so far, taking care of Joseph with every passing hour. He'd taken him from his home on a merry walkabout in the city, desperate to escape capture and even detection. They knew now, after finding his father dead, that someone was actually following them, trying to capture them, them and the videotape.

Joseph remembered conversations he'd had with his father, discussions about death and corruption, the finality of it and the fact that everyone eventually did it. He remembered his father's frank words, the way he spelled out the possibilities and scenarios in which he could die. It was something he'd taken in, if not completely understood at the time. He talked with his friends at school about it and scared them. He was reprimanded by the headmaster and his father notified. It had been an embarrassment. But his father sat him down and told him it was something that must stay between them. The majority of children in Port-au-Prince, at least of those who went to the school on Ruelle Vaillant, were protected from the realities of life and death.

For some reason, as his mind remembered those conversations, his eyes started to tear. His father was dead. Joseph would never see him again. All he had to remember were the images of blood and brain dripping red and gray. It was a terrifying thought, for a seven-year old, but he thought it. His father was dead. He would be buried and lay in the ground lifeless and forever gone. There was no afterlife, there was only the present, and his father no longer lived in the present.

Joseph wiped at his eyes. He didn't want the fat man to see him cry. The fat man scared him. He seemed unnatural. He remembered the way the fat man had looked at him as he'd played alone in the pool. The fat man leered, and looked almost hungry, as if he could eat Joseph.

A cannibal.

Joseph didn't like the fact that he'd appeared out of nowhere to rescue them from the roadblock. He just didn't like him. There was too much that could go wrong for them to trust this man. But Hilton said they must. He said there was no choice. Joseph thought there were plenty of choices, but he said nothing, his body numbed by the long day and the chase. A tear escaped his eye and slid down his cheek. He wiped it away before Hilton could notice. He had to be strong. He couldn't break down and mourn for his father, not until they got out of Haiti.
Chapter 40

It was close to dawn by the time they saw the lights of Cap Haitien. Early risers came with the dawn and a scattering of house lights flickered in the darkness. Smoke rose from chimneys as locals prepared fires on which to cook, or maybe to boil water. It was quite a sight, coming through the mountains to the edge of the city. Cap Haitien was smaller than Port-au-Prince, the city itself wrapping around a small harbor, stretched from seashore to foothills.

Greene rubbed his eyes. He hadn't slept, he hadn't dared. Harrison was too close to Joseph for his liking, and there was no telling what the man might do if Greene let his attention slip. In Greene's mind, Harrison was a predator, a pedophile with disgusting inclinations and desires. Greene knew exactly what Harrison was about, and there was no way he would let the monster loose near Joseph.

He scrunched down in his seat and watched the silhouettes of the mountains against the breaking dawn. They were imposing, but not necessarily different. Though Greene came from a flat place—Miami—he had been raised in England. Even that didn't prepare him for what rose on all corners of this island. Haiti was a mountain; a whole hell of a lot of mountain.

Harrison slept beside him, and Greene could hear the deep breaths of Joseph in the front seat. Thinking about it now, he should have slept. The presence of the driver would deter Harrison from acting foolishly. Sure, the driver could be bribed, but any slowing of the car, or outcry from Joseph would have woken Greene. Now he would have to stay awake. A shower and a few cups of coffee might keep him alert. Coffee sounded extremely good at the moment.

The car slowed and Harrison rustled awake beside him. "Why are we slowing?"

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. "We have arrived at Cap Haitien, where do you want to go?"

"There's a hotel, on the edge of the city. It's called Dachowschi. It's run by one of the Polish immigrants."

"Polish immigrants?" Greene said.

Harrison nodded and scratched himself, "Yeah. Strange story. They moved here to escape religious persecution. They landed in the middle of a revolution but stayed on anyway, figuring it was better that than go back to Europe."

Greene fell silent.

"Plus the owner knows me. Or maybe it's I know him. We have an understanding. One of the things that works in my favor, when you've lived in a place like this for so long."

Greene felt something in his gut, a sense of wrongness, a sense of evil. He wasn't sure what Harrison wanted, or expected, but he knew that at this point, he would do just about anything to protect the boy from Harrison's grasping claws.

The weight of the gun against his back grew heavy at the thought of having to use it. Was it Chekov, the writer, who said that if you introduce a gun in act one you had to use it in act three? Would he have to use it? Would it be the end of the line if he did?

"It will be cheaper if we all share a room," Harrison said.

"I think I'd prefer two rooms." Greene said. "One for us and one for you."

Harrison laughed.

Joseph stirred. Greene saw the boy stretch and yawn. He stifled a yawn himself. "Are we there yet?"

"Almost," Harrison said, "We'll be there soon."

Joseph jumped up and turned around in his seat. He examined the men in the back with a curious eye. "I'm hungry."

"We'll get something at the hotel. It's not far."

Greene kept one eye on Joseph and one on Harrison. He had been forced to trust Harrison, the fat man laying in wait on the coast road. Greene still wasn't sure he'd made the right choice, in trusting Harrison, even though he had kept them from getting caught by their tail at the roadblock. It worried Greene. Had he, by throwing their lot in with Harrison, only managed to jump them from a hot pan into a roaring fire?

Chapter 41

Cap Haitien still lay within the shadow of the mountains when the Toyota rolled around the bend to reveal Haiti's second city. The valley drawn down to the water looked much like Port-au-Prince, just smaller. The streets ran almost randomly. Red tile roofs reflected the light. A church, a hospital and one or two other buildings stood above the low-slung city skyline.

Vidocq plucked sleep from his eyes and glared through the dirty windshield. He'd driven all night. He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand and slowed as he ran into morning market traffic. He could search the city himself, but he doubted it would do much good, what he needed was help. He veered around a mule and cart and headed into the city center, towards the police station. His authority would bear cachet there and maybe they could work together.

Chapter 42

The Hotel Dachowschi was a run-down place, more hostel than hotel, where backpackers and tourists on the cheap congregated for an inexpensive sleep, maybe some beers, and a breakfast selection that consisted of baguettes and jelly. Joseph downed two baguettes while Harrison checked them in. Greene wasn't sure exactly what arrangements could be made, he'd told Harrison two separate rooms, but from the look of the place he wasn't sure even that could be managed.

He watched from a distance as Harrison interacted with the owner. A broad chest, thick neck, a great blond beard on his face, and a mullet on his head. He bore a few scars on his arms—he was wearing a t-shirt—and he smiled with a missing tooth. Greene listened, too, as Harrison and the owner talked.

"You want two rooms? I don't have two rooms. Only one," the owner—presumably Dachowschi—said.

Bud laughed, "How many beds?"

"Four beds with en suite toilet. Best I can do. If you'd called ahead Bud, I might have saved something, but not like this, not with such notice," Dachowschi raised his shoulders and shook his hands. "Sorry I can't do more. Knowing you, though, you'll want to have a room just for the three of you."

Greene glared at the man, "Does this place have towels?"

"Sure."

Greene glanced at Joseph who was picking at the crumbs on his plate. A bit of red jelly at the corner of his lips. "Come on Joseph, let's go get cleaned up and take a nap. We can figure out what to do later."

Chapter 43

Greene was tempted to lay down and sleep, but he was sweaty and grimy and he needed to wash his knees before the scrapes became infected. He opened the door to the bathroom and saw a toilet and a shower. The toilet didn't have a lid, only a seat. The shower was separated from the toilet by a lip of tile that kept the water from running all over the bathroom, that and a sheer shower curtain grown brown with mold. He saw a metal shelf screwed to the wall that held a pair of towels, and soap and shampoo in tiny bottles on the sink. There was nowhere to change, not if he wanted his clothes dry once he finished with the shower.

He grabbed a towel and stepped out of the bathroom. Joseph lay on one of the twin beds and watched with misted eyes. Harrison was nowhere visible, probably spending precious time with his child loving friend.

Greene reached behind his back and grabbed the gun. He set it under the pillow of one of the empty beds.

"You have a gun?" Joseph said.

Greene raised a finger, "Don't tell Bud. Don't tell anyone."

"Where did you get it?"

Greene hesitated. Could he tell the boy about its provenance? Would Joseph be able to process the information and remain calm? Did it matter? Hell, the boy had seen his father's corpse, blood and brains, and still managed to hold it in. "I got it from your apartment. It was the gun your father used. . ."

"Oh."

Greene stepped across the room, and sat on the bed beside the boy. "I know this has been a rough day. You'll need—we'll both need—time to figure out everything that's happened. But you're doing a good job. We'll get out of here soon, and then we'll be able to talk about some things, and to make sure that you're okay."

"I don't mind," Joseph said. "It's just that, I didn't know you took it."

"I should have told you, I'm sorry."

Greene nodded and stepped back towards the bathroom. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it on the bed. The soft breeze coming through an open window felt good against his naked skin. He took off his shoes and socks and dropped his shorts in a puddle around his feet. He wrapped the towel around his waist and slid his underwear off beneath it. Ready for a shower, now, he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

Inside he set the towel on the shelf and stood naked. He turned the water on, it was lukewarm. There was no water heater, just the heat from the day, nor was there cool water as there was certainly no refrigeration unit. It would have to do. Greene grabbed the soap and shampoo from the sink and stepped into the shower, drawing the curtain closed behind him.

He felt the water rush over his body, stinging his hands and knees. He held the bottles up, each beside the other, and read the labels. He didn't particularly need to wash his hair, but he did need the soap. He tossed the shampoo in the corner of the shower cubicle and opened the lid of the soap. He poured a glob of it into his palm and worked it in his hands until it lathered. Then he leaned over and rubbed the soap onto his knees. The scabs—those that had formed—felt rough under his fingers. He winced at the pain but kept rubbing the soap. He needed to disinfect the cuts and scrapes. Without alcohol this was the best he was going to get. Heaven knows what microbes might be hiding in the water.

A door closed somewhere.

Greene froze. Was that Harrison? Damn it. He'd hoped to be out of the shower before the man arrived in the room. He didn't want to leave Harrison alone with Joseph. Not for one second. He heard a low growl, then, a deep voice giving orders. But he couldn't hear very well over the sound of the shower in his ears.

He reached for the faucet. A scuffle sounded in the room and he knew for sure that Harrison had returned. He turned off the shower, soap still dripping from his legs, and wrapped the towel around his waist.

It happened as he grabbed for the door.

The shot.

And then a thump.

Greene tore the door open. The first thing he saw was Harrison sprawled halfway across a bed, his legs hanging loose as blood spread through the off-white sheets and fell to the floor in a steady drip. Then he saw Joseph, the boy standing back against the wall, beside Greene's bed, with a gun in his hands.

Shit.

Greene raised his arms slowly, "Joseph, set the gun down."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Joseph said. "He touched me. I told him not to, but he did. I shot him. It was all I could think to do. To make him stop. I'm sorry."

Greene nodded, "That's okay Joseph, it's okay. Just set the gun down."

"I made it messy. I'm sorry. I don't ever make messes. Daddy disapproves. I'm sorry. Please, help."

"I will, we'll take care of it. We'll clean up the mess, just set the gun down."

Joseph looked down at his hands, as if noticing the gun for the first time, and dropped it on the bed beside him. Greene let out a deep breath and hurried around the bed. His chest hair prickled at the thought of what had just happened. A warm breeze through the louvers of the window gave him a shiver. He grabbed the gun and stuck it back under the pillow. "Don't worry, Joseph, we'll make this okay."

"But how?"

Greene turned from the bed and approached Harrison. The fat man was bleeding out fast. He bent over and felt the man's neck. There was a pulse. It felt weak and timid, a slow stream losing its energy. Greene grabbed hold of Harrison's arm and turned him over so he lay on his back. The shot hit Harrison in the chest, a good shot, and the result had been an almost immediate bleed out.

"It's okay Joseph. I'm going to get dressed. Then we can worry about what to do."

Everything was okay, but then a loud knock sounded on the door. "Hello. Hello. Hello. What is going on?"

"It's okay, I just fell, made a lot of noise."

The voice of Dachowschi came through the flimsy wood door and tightened Greene's throat. What in the hell was he supposed to do? Practically naked, alone with a boy and a corpse, with a fat pedopphile knocking on his door.

"Just open the door, please. I want to know what happened. This is my hotel. I can open the door—"

Greene heard steps moving away from the room. Dachowschi must be going to get a set of keys to open the room door.

"Are you ready to go?" Greene said.

He glanced over at Joseph and saw the vacancy in the boy's eyes. He was starting to go into shock. Great. Greene grabbed at his clothes and pulled them on. They may not be in the proper position, but it didn't matter. He was more concerned with speed now. . .now that the fat Dachowschi was about to key into their room. He was pulling his shoes on when he heard the footsteps return.

A knock on the door sounded. "I'm going to open the door. I have to make sure everything is alright—"

Greene heard the sound of keys jingling. If he was lucky, he would have another minute before the man found the right one. He stood up and hurried to the corpse—for Harrison was now dead and chilling. He found the man's wallet and grabbed out nearly a thousand dollars in twenty-dollar bills, it would be enough to get them across the border, and on a flight out of the Dominican Republic.

He stuffed the money in his pocket at the same time the big Pollock hit the right key and the door fell open.

" _Gowno_. What have you done?"

For a moment Greene thought he should have taken the gun, but then he would be tempted to use it. Take care of two perverts at the same time. He hadn't, though, and it would have to remain underneath its pillow. "He tried to molest the boy. He was just defending himself."

"With a gun?"

"Yeah, well."

Dachowschi's face was red, his neck flushed. He was a big man and the sudden stress must be knocking at his heart. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Call us a car."

"Why would I do that? I am going to call the police."

Greene glared at the man. "Call us a car first or I'll tell the police you're a pervert."

"But I am not. I am a voyeur, sure, but no—"

"Will it matter?" Greene said. "The police will arrest you anyway, and then they will blame you for the murder. This way you have the chance to tell your own story, that you heard a shot and by the time you got to the room there was no one in it but the body. That's your salvation. Just think about it. If we're here when the police arrive, we can finger you as a pedophile and a friend of the dead man. Hell, we can basically convince them that you got in a feud, you came into the room, and shot the man. Are you really willing to risk something like that?"

Dachowschi took a moment to look around the room. His flushed face taking in the dead body, the boy, and Greene. "You can find a taxi. I will give you ten minutes, and then I am calling the police."

"Twenty minutes."

"Fifteen," Dachowschi said, "I don't want the body to stink before the police get here."

Greene nodded. He walked over to where Joseph stood silent. And grabbed his hand. The boy looked up at him and Greene saw a misty pool in each of the boy's eyes. "Joseph, come on. We have to go. We can't stay here any longer."

Joseph nodded but didn't say anything. Greene noticed that the boy's lips were a little blue. Shit. He looked around the room. There was a tattered blanket folded at the foot of each bed. Greene grabbed one and wrapped it around Joseph's shoulders. Then he grabbed their backpacks. He put his on, feeling the shape of the videotapes against his back, and held the boy's bag dangling from his side. With his other hand he grabbed at the boy's tiny palm and led him out of the room. Before he closed the door, he looked back at the corpse. Harrison was dead. It was a clear connection right back to Port-au-Prince and the Hotel Olaffson. There was nothing to do about it, though, and they didn't have time to get sentimental. Greene closed the door and heard the satisfying thunk. They were off.

Chapter 44

Vidocq sat on a hard bench in the police department. He was tired. The bouncing and jangling of the Toyota through the countryside had done little to lend itself to a comfortable ride. That didn't matter, though, for he was close. Close to his prey. He could feel it. His instincts cried out. If he could catch them before they got on a ship or escaped overland. . .

The police chief wasn't in, but that was okay, he didn't want the chief, he wanted the man in charge of the shift, the man who took the bribes and paid them up the ladder. It wasn't a bribe as such he was offering, but he knew the captains in charge of shift were the ones nonetheless.

Hell, they all took bribes. Every single one of the cops did it. He couldn't fool himself, not even in his mind. The police were corrupt and connected to the Tonton Macoutes, just like the army. It was a system of corruption and graft, all laid over the veneer of a respectable democratic society. A society that perpetrated its own massacres so as to avoid democratic events.

It wasn't a secret.

Vidocq heard a footfall and looked up to see an officer walk into the waiting room. "There's a murder just called in. Do you want to come with me?"

He looked up at the man. He was pale, almost white, though his hair was still scraggly and his beard tightly coiled against his face. He was a mulatto, just like everyone else with authority in this place. "Why should I. . ."

"Man who called it in said there was a boy and an American as part of the deal, it's not clear, but it sounded like it might be something of interest to you."

Vidocq rode in silence. The sun shone down from a clear sky but he still wanted to sleep. Overnight he'd determined that the hunt might not be what he originally thought. The effort he'd exerted in tracking this resourceful man and the orphan boy really made him doubt. Was it really all that important to the regime? Did he care? These thoughts filled his head. And maybe, maybe he was just tired.

They arrived at the hostel in reasonable time. The place was rundown and covered with black from acid rain. Three stories. In the street outside power lines crossed the street, limiting clearance, and making electricity payments haphazard. A sign on the front of the hotel, it was yellow, read Dachowschi. This was, apparently, the place.

Doors opened and closed. Vidocq stayed near the back, behind the local cops, and followed them inside. The main lobby area was little better than the outside. Stained tile and rotting bamboo wall covers. Vidocq turned around slowly, the place was a mess. Why would the reporter and the boy end up here? Were they that low on funds?

"Officers," a fat blond man approached from a backroom. He spoke Creole with a strange accent, though he was easy enough to understand. "This way."

He led them up a narrow flight of stairs. The steps were made of wood and they creaked as they walked up. It was a tad bit worrying, Vidocq thought, as he trod carefully on the wood, only breathing a sigh of relief once he'd reached the concrete and tile of the second floor. There was a hallway full of closed doors leading backwards into the depths of the place. Each door bore a number, though Vidocq couldn't hear any sounds. It seemed to him that the hotel was vacant. Except for a dead body.

The overweight Pole stopped at a door on the left, his hands shook as he pushed the door open. The smell of urine and feces wafted from the room, the bowels and bladder of the man voided after death's hold settled in and all of his muscles relaxed. That was before rigor mortis, though, and now the body lay stiffly on top of a bed. There were four of them, beds, and only one of them untouched. There seemed to be a great deal of blood. At least that he could see from behind the three cops that walked in front of him. He sighed with a feeling of regret. If there had been any physical evidence to find, these men were quickly going about destroying it.

Vidocq stood outside the room, next to the Pole. "We were told that there was another man, and a boy."

"Yes," the Pole said. "They came together but I only knew this man. He has stayed here before."

"I see."

Vidocq stared through the open doorway. He could see the feet and legs of the dead man hanging over the side of a bed, the one closest to the door. He figured he would wait to get a closer look at the body. He wasn't too worried. A homicide was out of character for his prey.

"And you said the man and the boy fled?"

The Pole, his blond mullet bouncing in his excitement, nodded. "They left, got in a taxi, there was nothing I could do."

"Which way did they go?"

"I don't know, towards the hills."

That answer was as evasive as one could get in Haiti. It meant nothing. The entire country was made of hills and mountains. He could have said south, east or west, and the only help given was to eliminate north. Vidocq sighed. This was a waste of time. He should just go back to Port-au-Prince and get a good night's sleep. He would still have his position tomorrow, still collect the graft and protection money from his people. It was fruitless, coming all the way to Cap Haitien.

"The boy was young, maybe seven or eight. I'd never seen the man before."

"And you heard the shot?"

Dachowschi nodded. "It was loud even from in the lobby. I hurried to see what happened but already the man and the boy were getting ready to leave."

"You confronted them?"

"No. I saw the body and fled. I didn't want to—"

A voice called from inside the room. One of the cops had found a handgun hidden under the pillow of the bed closest to the bathroom. For some reason the cop must have thought Vidocq important, for he hurried to the door of the room and showed Vidocq. There was a slick on the gun barrel, as if blood had splashed on it, a characteristic of a messy suicide.

Was it the same gun?

Vidocq stepped inside the room now. He looked at the corpse half flopped on a bed. It was a fat man, his Hawaiian shirt bloused and unbuttoned on top to reveal a tuft of thick black chest hair. This was all stained with blood, the shot in his chest, the blood spreading in pools and puddles. Some of it on his chest, some on the bed, some on the floor. The man was big, so apparently, he had a lot of blood to lose.

Vidocq drew closer, his eyes darting, his nose rebelling. He finally looked at the dead man and saw someone he knew. It was the man from the Hotel Olaffson, the one who had come through the roadblock and no doubt caught up with the reporter and the child in his car, before Vidocq could make the connections.

Damn it.

There was a leather wallet dropped at the edge of a pool of blood on the floor. Vidocq picked it up. There was no cash inside, just an American identity card. Bud Harrison.

It was them. He dropped the wallet again and turned to the highest-ranking officer in the room. "I need a helicopter, and I need it now."

Chapter 45

Greene cursed the taxi driver silently. The man was old and probably needed glasses. He took the road slowly, each pothole calling for the brake. Dipping and rearing like a ride at Disney World.

Joseph lay in the back with his feet against the window and his head on Greene's lap. It was the best they could do in the situation, the front seat filled with garbage and pirated books. The driver would pass through a particularly bad spate of potholes, inching along until he worked his way through. Then he would punch his foot on the accelerator until he came to the next pothole where he slammed on the brake. It made for a jerky ride and it was all Greene could do to keep Joseph comfortable.

He was worried about the boy. It had been a catastrophic twenty-four hours. Not only had he been partial witness to a massacre, he'd seen his father's body, a suicide. And now he'd shot a man dead. He could only imagine the thoughts that went through the boy's head as Joseph had held the gun over the bleeding corpse.

Greene watched through the window as the world passed slowly, quickly, slowly by. There were green fields on either side of the road, and in the distance coffee trees. The terrain was anything but flat and the hills caused the engine of the taxi to strain as it climbed and to gargle as it descended.

Joseph stirred and Greene brushed a hand through the boy's bangs, he was a lovely child, something Greene recognized without getting aroused—not like the predation of Harrison or his pal Dachowschi. The boy was surely scarred, now, if he hadn't been before. Greene's brief interaction with Joseph's father led him to think that Claude did a good job of raising the boy. He wasn't protected unduly, but he wasn't exposed to all the horrors that might affront someone in this place.

Greene looked down at the boy. Joseph's eyes were open. He was awake. "How are you?"

Joseph pulled his feet down from the window and struggled to sit up next to Greene. When he was upright, he pulled the blanket around his shoulders and held it tight. "I think I'm okay."

"Good," Greene said. He knew the boy was lying. No child could go through what Joseph had without wounds, emotional if not physical. It would probably require a great deal of therapy to get him right again.

"Are we getting close?"

The trip from Cap Haitien to Ounaminthe on the border was only about sixty kilometers and should have taken little more than an hour. They were already in their second hour and there was no sign of the rough taxi drive slacking. "It shouldn't be too much longer."

"Have you ever been to the Dominican Republic?"

Greene shook his head. A flash from the sun against a mirror caught his eye and he squinted against the light. "I haven't. Have you?"

Joseph shook his head. "I wanted to, but my dad said it was too dangerous. You know they slaughtered Haitian workers?"

"I'd heard about that."

Joseph looked up and set his hand in Greene's. "I'm scared Hilton. What's going to happen?"

"We'll be alright. It may take a while, but we'll get there."

The sound of a helicopter in the air drew Greene's attention. He glanced out the window but couldn't see anything. It was enough of a scare, though, to fire his paranoia. There were all kinds of aircraft in Haiti—including helicopters. There was no reason for him to think the sounds of rotors flying through the air had anything to do with him and Joseph.

Greene lay his arm on the chair back around Joseph's shoulders. It had been intense, but already he felt like he'd developed an emotional attachment to the boy. It wasn't the attachment a father feels for a son—at least he didn't think so. He didn't have any experience with children and, although he'd come to feel something for Joseph, there was no way to know if it was concern—the kind of concern anyone feels for an abandoned child—or love. He doubted it was love. There was little Greene loved.

For the first time in his thoughts, though, he recognized a small change. Now he felt about Joseph in a way similar to how he felt about the videotape: get the boy out of Haiti and maybe great things would happen.

Greene closed his eyes. He listened as Joseph breathed next to him, the boy's ragged gasps easy to hear over the noise of the taxi. "Are you sure you're okay? We'll be at the border soon."

"There," Joseph pointed.

Greene followed Joseph's gesture. Buildings started to appear on either side of the road. They grew only a few stories and clung to each other by the power lines that stretched from left to right across the street. A small sign at the side of the road said simply: Ounaminthe. They had arrived.

Greene leaned forward and grabbed his backpack from the floor. He rummaged through the bag for a moment and checked the videotapes. Still three of them sitting in the bag, waiting for release to the wider world. He closed his bag and then grabbed up Joseph's pack. "Here, you take this."

"Can I keep the blanket?"

Greene nodded. "We're not going back to the hotel. I'd say you can keep it, sure."

Joseph grinned and grabbed the near corners of the blanket. He twisted and pulled until he could wrap the corners around each other and make a large knot of them. In just that instant Joseph transformed from a scared seven-year old into an invincible superhero.

"Do you feel better?"

Joseph shrugged. "It still hurts, when I think about my dad."

"What about Bud? Did you think about that?"

"No," Joseph said. "He deserved to die."

Greene nodded. He was amazed by the boy's perspicacity and discernment. He could distinguish between just and unjust death. The fat man Harrison was a justified kill, his groping and feeling enough to scare any kid. And then there was Claude Rene-Pierce. There was every reason his father didn't need to kill himself. But then, there was every reason he should. In Haiti, there was little distinction between legitimate and arbitrary punishment. And if the cops found out about the video, then they would be after not just the man who sought to make the images public, but also the man who made the images. Anything at all a signal of subversive activity against the regime.

Joseph gripped the knot at his neck and squeezed the ragged blanket. "I just wish my dad hadn't—"

"I know," Greene said.

He turned his attention out the window where the buildings were growing denser. It was a big village, maybe even more than a village, a city. Greene didn't know how many people lived there, but judging by the streets filled with flats, it may be upwards of seventy or eighty thousand. More than Greene had anticipated. They could easily get lost in this place, if they needed to. But then they could also get across the border quickly and get away from the Haitian government. That's what he really wanted to do. There was a stress about it, a stress that made every moment worth three. He was peering into the past, living in the present, and worried about the future. It was exhausting and after the sleepless night on the road north, he needed sleep. But he didn't dare, not until they were out of Haiti.

The road was better now, the potholes fewer and farther between. It didn't change the driving strategy of the taxi driver, but it did improve Greene's demeanor.

"You told the driver where to go?" Greene said, his face turned down towards Joseph.

Joseph nodded, "I told him the border gate. I've never been here, though, so he could take us anywhere and I wouldn't know it."

"Me either."

They fell silent then, watching as the city went about its mid-morning business. There were sidewalk markets where women sold vegetables and swatted flies from dubious looking meats. Greene thought about stopping for food, but decided against it. They could get food once they crossed the border.

That was his one goal: get across the border.

Get there before the man chasing them caught up. . .before the country gobbled them into little pieces and they disappeared.

The driver slowed. Greene looked up. Half a dozen goats crossed the street haphazardly. A young boy did his best to keep them together, but it was difficult to cross the heavily trafficked route. Greene saw a truck stalled coming from the border. And soon the line grew in both directions. Eventually, though, the boy got his goats across the road and traffic resumed. Greene leaned back in his seat and put his arm around Joseph's shoulders. The boy nestled against his ribs and emitted a sound that was almost a whimper.

The taxi hit a pothole and belched exhaust from a dangling muffler. Greene glanced behind them and saw the dark cloud. In Miami that would be enough to condemn a car, or spend thousands of dollars in getting it fixed, but apparently in Haiti, there was no issue with smog control.

The city passed them by. Brick buildings with tin roofs, rotting wood walls, shutters hanging crooked from rusting screws, animals grazing on weeds that stuck up from between slabs of concrete, half naked children running around the streets, playing games that had no rules. It was a picture of poverty, not unlike some of the worst places in Port-au-Prince, but it showed how little the center cared about the extremities.

There was noise ahead, a rough crowd formed on the street, men without shirts, pregnant women carried trays of goods on their heads, selling to those who stood in line at the border gate.

The taxi driver said something in Creole. Joseph looked up. "He wants us to get out, and to pay him."

Greene rummaged in his pocket. They'd agreed on a rate, far too high, but not so high given the circumstances. He pulled five twenty-dollar bills from his pocket—some of the bills he'd taken from Bud's wallet—and handed it over. He and Joseph climbed from the back of the taxi and stared at the mass of people waiting to cross the river into the Dominican Republic.

A yellow building stood up, REPUBLICA DOMINICA, and an arch rose above the people. Greene saw police and army from both Haiti and the Dominican Republic securing the orderly passage of migrants. Greene didn't know why there were so many people trying to get out of Haiti. It was not as if General Namphy was any worse than the Duvaliers. The Tonton Macoutes still roamed free, as they'd done for decades. What was different?

It was a crowd of poor and stifled people. Greene instinctively stuck his hands in his pockets to guard against theft. He'd been in Jamaica once, drunk, and on his way back to his hotel, when he'd been accosted by a woman who wanted to go back with him. She put her hands all over him, trying to convince him of her feelings, at least that was what he thought at the time. It wasn't until he'd gotten up to his hotel room and started reaching in his pockets that he'd discovered she'd stolen his cash. He wasn't about to let the same thing happen here.

"Hold close, Joseph. I don't want you to get lost."

Joseph laughed, "You're the only white person here. I can't lose you."

Greene bobbed his head, a valid point. "Grab hold of my arm anyway, I don't want to get separated."

Joseph obliged and they moved slowly forward, searching for the end of the line. Greene wasn't sure, yet, how he was going to get Joseph through without any papers, but he figured enough money would grease the wheels. At least that was his understanding, and his experience. Enough cash could make just about anything happen, he just worried whether he had enough to get through both the Haitian exit gate and the Dominican entry gate. Hell, then there was the American side of things. They wouldn't be bribed.

Too much to worry about. Past, present, future. Stay focused, he thought. Stay focused.

They inched forward and Greene kept his eyes afloat, darting here and there to observe the police. They were dressed in light blue, the same as those who he'd seen in Port-au-Prince. It was a national police force, under the command of the executive, and did little but enforce the will of the president-for-life. At least that's what Greene understood. They were rather powerless when they were bound by rules and regulations, especially when the Tonton Macoutes were the real power behind the throne.

Greene felt the weight of the backpack against his spine. It wasn't heavy, at least not literally, though the weight of the videotape, and the weight of his obligation to Joseph, was massive. They were so close. If they could just get across the border. . .

A deep uncertainty filled his chest. If the police—and all of a sudden Greene hoped it was the police—were really after them, wouldn't there be more action? Wouldn't there be pictures, descriptions? It felt too easy. Not that he complained, but inside him, he felt the fear, the hollow nothingness of hope lost. He knew he was white, and he knew he stuck out like a sore thumb. If the police had been notified to look for a white man with a mulatto boy, they should be able to spot the two of them without obstacle. Greene didn't like that, though it was too late to do anything about it; he wasn't going to wear blackface just to blend in.

The line moved forward a few feet, uneven, starting and stopping in fits. Greene stood with his back to the wall, so he could see the crowd, and most importantly the police, who would surely be looking. Had they been notified? Had they been told?

What about the helicopter?

Green felt a shiver at that thought. The helicopter had come from Cap Haitien and was headed in the direction of Ounaminthe. Had the police discovered the dead body and sent someone to intercept the culprits? It was terrible, terrible and nerve-racking. Greene wanted to leave this country for so many reasons, and now—thanks to his rifling Bud's wallet—they had the means, but inside he couldn't help thinking it was too easy. Where was the challenge? Where was the cop?

For that was what had contributed to Greene's sleepless night in the Buick: thinking about the cop. The army people who stormed the Basilica in Port-au-Prince had been without a leader, just some upstart young army soldier wanting to make a name for himself. The idiot had even shot at an accredited embassy vehicle. No. There was only one man. Why else would the search of Claude's apartment have been so neat and tidy? The only things amiss the covers of the videotapes, the camera slightly angled. He hadn't even called in the suicide or else there would have been at least half a dozen police swarming all over the place, especially with its geographic proximity to the Ruelle Vaillant massacre. No, this was a man, a very smart man. If he'd managed to connect the body in Dachowschi's hotel with the flight of Greene and Joseph, then he could very well be waiting for them somewhere nearby, or even ahead of them.

The thought startled him and he jerked his head around to look up and down the line. Police stood casually watching as the migrants moved slowly up to immigration and customs windows. It was an orderly composition. One of the police stared at Greene, but when their eyes met, the cop looked away suddenly, embarrassed. Greene discounted the man, figured him for someone simply ogling the white man. No, he was looking for someone much more focused, and more fatigued.

Greene could only imagine how the night ride from Port-au-Prince had strained his own nerves, keeping him awake worried not just about the cop, but Harrison and his predilections. It was unfortunate that Joseph had to be the one to shoot the bloated pervert. Greene would very gladly have done it if given a reason, but now Joseph would have to live with that guilt, though it was truly in self-defense.

Someone yelled towards the front of the line, a scream, and a very black woman darted away from the border gate. She was carrying a chicken in her hands, which she let go as a cop pulled his gun and shot her in the belly. She dropped to her knees, and then to her side, sprawled out on the ground and moaning. The cop stepped up and pointed his gun at her head, pulled the trigger, and she was dead.

Joseph grabbed a hold of Greene's leg. "What was that?"

Greene tried to bend down, but his scraped and swollen knees wouldn't let him. He put his hand on Joseph's shoulders and hugged him as tight as he could. "It's okay. The police don't answer to anyone here. Just be quiet, just be calm. We'll get through this and then we'll be alright. Trust me."

Joseph looked up at Greene's face and nodded solemnly. If they did anything to provoke the police, or the army, or the Tonton Macoutes, or anyone, really, they could be killed for no reason. That was what Haiti was about. That was the modus vivendi of those who lived here. There was poverty and violence. These things went together and together they spelled doom for so many millions.

Greene struggled to keep his balance with Joseph clinging to his leg. He stood still, though, and let the boy cling as tightly as he wanted. The line wasn't moving. From a distance behind them Greene heard sobbing and saw a skinny black man dressed in rags run towards the body. The cops raised their guns, but he called out, speaking in Creole that Greene couldn't understand. They lowered their guns and let the man crawl to the side of the dead woman. Apparently, they were related, or at least that's what Greene gathered. He didn't want to ask Joseph, not until the boy had recovered his composure.

"He's the woman's husband," Joseph said in a quiet voice. "She was trying to bribe a guard and was told no. She started making a fuss and then. . ."

Greene remained silent. What kind of country was this in which summary executions could be sanctioned by every part of the administration? It was catastrophic, this Willy-Nilly murder. If it hadn't been for Joseph and the videotape, he might have just caught the first plane out and returned to Miami to file his story.

And for bribery? Was it that the bribe was too little or that the bribe wasn't enough?

It didn't seem as if that were enough cause to shoot a woman trying to cross the border gate. It couldn't be a matter of a few Gourdes. Or at least Greene hoped so. His plan had been to bribe the immigration officials to let them pass, he sorely hoped that the woman was simply underpaying. He didn't want to offer a bribe just to be shot dead in the street.

Joseph looked up at Greene and caught his eye. "I'm not sure we should go there now. We might want to wait and--"

A cop stood to the side of them, his eyes small, his skin dark, but not pure black, his height negligible. He wore the official police uniform, though it looked wrinkled and worn. . .as if the man hadn't slept last night. He looked up at Greene and down at Joseph. In perfect French he said, "You must come with me."

"What do you mean?"

"You are a reporter, are you not?"

Greene felt the lump in his chest move to his throat. Shit. Was this the man who had been after them for the last twenty-four hours? Or was this some lackey who was trying to capture their attention in hopes of a bribe.

"Come with me," the man said, "if you want to live."

Chapter 46

The room was small. The walls once whitewashed now stained by the tropical grime of humidity's mold and pollution's soot. A desk stood back against one wall, it's surface piled high by papers, though in the center was a plain surface, clear of bureaucratic debris. The police inspector sat in an armed chair across from Greene and the boy. He seemed to relax in the seat, his body crumpling into nothing, skin and bones on which hung his uniform. Greene wasn't sure what was going to happen, but the man had cleared the room of other immigration officers. That left the three of them alone.

"My name is Inspector Vidocq."

Greene nodded somberly. He wasn't sure he cared who this man was. He just wanted to survive the border crossing.

"I'm Hilton Greene, and this is Joseph."

"I know," Vidocq said, "Joseph Rene-Pierce."

"How did you—"

Vidocq raised his hands and set them together. "I have been chasing you for over twenty-four hours. I know a great deal about you and the boy."

The lump in Greene's throat still hovered, he was feeling nauseous now. His body reacting to the stress, the lack of sleep, the sudden appearance of Inspector Vidocq, the weight of his responsibilities. Greene wasn't sure what to think. He wanted to run, to get away from this man. But at the same time, it seemed as if Inspector Vidocq might be the answer to Greene's problems.

"What do you know about us?" Greene said. "We haven't left—"

"You left clues. But I'm only interested in one thing that you have. I'm interested in the videotape."

"Videotape?"

Vidocq leaned forward, his mouth turned down, he showed wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. He wasn't a young man, but he wasn't so mature as to be without bite. He was missing a tooth, an incisor, but that was nothing irregular in a country where dentists and doctors were scarce and expensive.

"We don't have to play this game, Mr. Greene. I can simply confiscate your bags, search them, and have you both shot."

"There's no need for that."

"Then hand over the videotape. That's all I ask."

Greene took a breath. "You're the man who—"

"Yes, I followed you from Port-au-Prince. Perhaps it was a foolish gesture, there is so much that my country has to be ashamed of that one more piece of evidence doesn't really matter, but that's my job, to protect this country, so I tracked you. I'll say you were quite clever and if I hadn't been lucky, I'm not sure I would have caught you."

Greene stared at the man. Vidocq was quiet and composed. He talked as if they were all sitting in the back yard under the shade of a banana tree. Greene couldn't understand the blasé attitude. The man held Greene and Joseph's lives in his hand and he was reciting incidents as if they were simple game pieces to be toyed with.

"You know, I started this chase thinking I would kill you outright. That I wouldn't even talk to you, just shoot you in the head and take the tape away from you. . .but then you started to grow on me."

"I'm sorry?"

Vidocq took a breath, "I think it was a realization of what my country actually is. No matter how loyally or how vociferously I do my job, I would never be able to stop the bad press. There's simply too much of it. Haiti's borders are like a sieve. Too many people leaving and taking with them the stories of horror and pain. Writing a narrative about every report of disaster, or violence, wouldn't phase the hardened ears of the West. But a videotape. . ."

Greene pictured the videotape in the recorder in Claude's apartment. It had barely been twenty-four hours, but it seemed like it had been a week in passing. "You mean you'll let us go?"

"Give me the videotape and I'll let you go. Nothing you can say on your nightly news can be harsher than the truth."

"All I have to do is give you the videotape?"

"That's it. Give me the videotape and I'll let you leave. Just don't come back."

Greene felt a smile turn the corners of his lips. He thought of Joseph, sitting beside him. It would be a challenge to survive with the boy, and with no Pulitzer, especially as Joseph didn't speak English. There was an increasing population of Creole speaking Haitians in Miami. He could introduce Joseph to the refugees, that would help him feel at home, though he would still have to learn English if he wanted to make a go at American citizenship. That would be the life they would live, regardless of the videotape.

But there was still the reporter in him that wanted the scoop, the story, the images. It was like the baby's doll in the wreckage of Nanking. This was the stuff of dynamite. . .though he wasn't the one who shot the footage. He wasn't the one responsible for the images. That was Joseph's father. Claude Rene-Pierce. It was the one condition on their freedom, though, and Greene knew what his decision would be.

Silently, he opened his backpack. He reached inside and fished around until he found the three video tapes. He pulled them out one by one. He couldn't read the videotape labels, they were in Creole, but he handed them over nonetheless.

"Three videos."

"It's the one in the middle."

Vidocq carefully handled the videos. "Where did you pick up the others?"

"At a pirate shop near Marche de Fer."

Vidocq nodded, "You won't mind if I check this out to confirm it's the actual tape?"

Greene shrugged, "Do we have a choice?"

"No, I suppose not." Vidocq nodded and stood from his seat. He walked to the door and knocked twice. A guard opened it and Vidocq stepped outside. The door closed again and Greene felt certain the guard would not let them out until after Vidocq returned.

After the door closed, Greene turned to Joseph. "Are you alright?"

"You're giving him the videotape?" Joseph said, his voice angry.

"It's our only chance to get out of here."

Joseph pounded a fist against the torn upholstery of the couch. "My dad made that video. It's why he died. Now you want to just turn it over, give it to the police?"

"It's not that—"

"Then what is it? Tell me it's not what it looks like. You said you would take it. You said we would go to America and show the world that videotape. Now you hand it over like it's nothing, like it's some bad movie you didn't like."

Greene reached a hand to Joseph's shoulder, but the boy pulled away. "Joseph, it's not that—"

"My dad was wrong. He thought he could trust you. He thought you would help the world understand the evil, the danger, but you betray him so you can get free."

Greene rose to his feet. And circled the small couches, "if I don't get free no one will know the story. No one will understand."

"Would you leave me behind too? Give me over to the inspector just to get rid of me?"

"No, Joseph, I wouldn't do that."

"Then why are you giving away my father?"

Greene tried to approach the boy, but Joseph jumped to his feet and raced across the room, getting as far from Greene as he could. "I'm not going."

"What do you mean? Not going."

"If the videotape doesn't go, then I don't go either."
Chapter 47

It took Vidocq nearly twenty minutes to round up a television and a VHS player. When he did, he pushed the identified videotape into the player and pushed play. At first, he thought it was a joke, the image framed in beige cloth, though it rustled, still seemed sedentary, unimportant. But then the cloth moved to the side and the image cleared. He was looking out of the window at the Ruelle Vaillant, the elementary school, and the line of voters carrying voting tickets in their hands, eager and excited for the vote to come. He watched as the camera jostled slightly and he heard Claude Rene-Pierce speak for the first time.

"Come look, Joseph, it's okay. People are excited. I'm excited. This is the first time we'll have an election in decades."

He heard soft footsteps on the carpet of the apartment. "I'm tired, can I go back to sleep?"

"No, this is a historic moment. You should be awake."

"But I don't get to vote."

"No, but you will, one day."

Claude fell silent then, and the camera jostled again. Around the edges he saw the reflection of the curtains in the window, the man minimizing the exposure of the camera lens so that no one from the street would notice.

Vidocq pressed fast forward. In high speed, marked by static lines across the screen as the videotape accelerated, he watched as the line started to move silently forward. Each step was exaggerated, one foot in front of the other at speed. It looked like an army marching in precision, at double time. He'd spent a great deal of time imagining what might be on the video, but so far, Vidocq wasn't impressed.

A blue shirted man appeared on the right side of the image. Vidocq pushed play and the videotape resumed normal speed. Another blue shirt behind the first. They carried machetes and guns and smaller knives. They were grinning, anticipating the slaughter they were about to unleash.

On the video he heard Claude, "Hurry up. Get into the bathroom. It's the safest place. We don't need to see."

"See what?" Joseph.

The camera jostled and footsteps faded. "Come here, we're going to hide in the. . ." the microphone didn't catch Claude's voice and the volume faded to silence.

Vidocq assumed that they hid in the bathtub. It was the safest place in the apartment, only one small window facing away from the elementary school. The thing was plastic, but there were enough walls that any bullets would spend themselves before reaching the bathroom. At least that's what Vidocq would reason. Considering the position of Claude's body, when Vidocq found it, he assumed that the man would hide there. It made sense, and that was enough for Vidocq.

He returned his attention to the images on the screen.

Three whites stood by with photo cameras hanging from their necks, notepads and recorders visible. He recognized one of them as the dead reporter whose body he had seen briefly on the scene. One was Greene. He didn't know the third. Maybe he could force Greene to tell him who it was. It didn't truly matter as there was little the reporter could do but report what he saw. Something that wouldn't be damaging—

The blue shirts, now there were more of them, jumped the curb and started attacking the men and women, old and young, who waited to cast their votes. Blood started to spill. The window in front of the camera wasn't open, but he could still hear the piercing cries of the victims. The Tonton Macoutes went berzerk. Men and women tried to hide in the open, unable to escape from the massive assault, the men with guns shooting at those who tried to flee, the rest slashing and cutting, spewing blood with every gash.

Two of the reporters fled, then. Greene hopped a fence and disappeared behind a concrete wall. The other ran down the street and found a low wall, though flecked with glass shards, and bloodied himself to climb over it. The third reporter, perhaps not as bright as the other two, remained to be massacred.

That's when the Jeep slowly crept into the picture. He saw two army soldiers—too far away to identify rank or unit—sitting in the front seat of the Jeep. It was camouflaged and the men wore army standard green camo. Nothing untoward there. What was untoward was their reaction. They were laughing. Laughing at the massacre, pointing their fingers and leaning forward and back, guffawing, watching the entire thing without lifting a hand to stop it.

And that was why he'd chased the reporter and the boy from Port-au-Prince to Ounaminthe. Because the army, their representatives plainly visible in the video, by their failure to act, sanctioned the actions of the Tonton Macoutes. It was as much as saying that General Namphy gave the order himself. And that made sense too. Why would he declare martial law and cancel the vote otherwise?

The tape continued, each death recorded, the grins on the killer's faces, the Jeep and its occupants. The dead reporter. Why in the hell had the man made the video recording? Why didn't he stop the camera when it became obvious that the vote was about to become something far more somber? It didn't make sense. Was Rene-Pierce trying to overthrow the government? Or was he intent on blackmail for money, or power, or position? That would make sense. Rene-Pierce was only human after all. He could easily trade this for some advantage, though it would still have ultimately led to his demise; any attempt to derail the government, or its current iteration, leading to political disfavor and arbitrary dealing.

But then why give up his son, why give the videotape to a foreign reporter? It didn't compute. If he was truly wanting to use the video to his own profit, why did he kill himself? Vidocq couldn't fathom the thinking of the man. It was as if he hadn't any idea why he made the video. Maybe Rene-Pierce had forgotten the tape, forgotten that the recorder was taking pictures of the entire massacre. Maybe he forgot that this new contraption had to be turned off. Maybe it was simply that, a lack of familiarity with the operation of the camera. It could be. There were only two blank VHS cartridges in the apartment, the two left on the kitchen table, the ones that started Vidocq on this wild chase.

He continued watching. The Tonton Macoutes finished their bloody business, sending well over a dozen men and women to hell. The blue shirts turned away, their work done, their shirt fronts stained and wet, blood laden. Blood splashed their knives and machetes, their faces. It was a massacre, something that Vidocq had hoped past with the junta in control, but General Namphy quickly cut the junta council from five to one, and that one was now in charge, and he'd used the excuse of corruption and violence to cancel the election, to cancel his more than probable fall from power.

Vidocq sighed. He reached for the VCR and pushed the stop button. He rewound the tape and ejected it. The label on the tape was for some movie called _The Untouchables_. Vidocq didn't know it, but it was as good a disguise as any. Especially if stored with one or two other videos. Vidocq didn't even bother with the other two, there was no reason. He had what he wanted. Now he had to figure out how to deal with the reporter and the boy.

Chapter 48

Greene stared at Joseph. The boy was screaming. "You let my daddy kill himself and you're not going to do anything? You're just going to walk away."

"No, it's not that, I made a promise. . ."

"A promise that ended in his death. If you'd just left alone, if you'd never come back, my daddy would be alive and my life would be normal. Now I have to go with you to the United States, to Miami, and live with you there. You're a complete stranger and I don't know what Miami is like. I'm scared Hilton, and I'm mad. You messed up."

Greene tried to step closer to the boy, but Joseph folded his arms over his chest and stuck his chin in the air. A pre-adolescent dare. Come get me, I dare you. Greene let his hands drop to his sides and let his voice calm down. "Joseph, I never made a promise—"

" _Merde_."

"No, it is not," Greene said. "I told your father I would take care of you."

"You told him you would adopt me," Joseph said. "You told him you would take me to Miami and raise me. Are you saying you never said those words?"

Greene shook his head, "No, it's not that."

"Then what is it, Hilton? Tell me. Why did you lie to my father? Why did you give him reason to hope? All he wanted was for me to be safe. If you hadn't come along, he would have destroyed the video. I know it. You know it too. It's your fault he shot himself. . .and it's your fault I shot Bud."

"I'm not responsible for your father's death; however, your killing Harrison, that's my fault. I should never have left you—"

"You did," Joseph said, his voice cracked. "You left me alone with that monster and he touched me, he groped me and tried to. . .no, it's your fault. I wouldn't have shot him if you hadn't left me alone with him."

Greene sighed. They'd come this far, were almost across the border, when they were caught. This Inspector Vidocq was watching the video, he was watching the Tonton Macoutes massacre innocent people, and the army do nothing to stop it. He was watching proof that the massacre was government sanctioned. Bloody Sunday, thank you General Henri Namphy.

"We don't know what's going to happen. . ."

Joseph let his arms drop, but then raised a finger and pointed it at Greene, "You want to get out of here with your life, and if it means leaving me, you'll do it, won't you? You can't deny it. If that man, Vidocq, comes back in here, you'll turn me over and just leave. You'll get out of Haiti and leave me a poor orphan."

"You're not a poor orphan."

"I am now. I am because of you."

Greene sighed.

The door opened and both Greene and Joseph turned their heads to see Inspector Vidocq step through. Greene caught sight of the police guard outside the door. They were trapped. Their freedom depended on Vidocq.

The inspector walked between the two of them, glancing first at Greene who held his hands at his side, and then at Joseph who was positioned against the wall, defensively, with one hand raised and a finger pointed. Greene could imagine the curiosity flowing through Vidocq's head, what had the two of them been arguing about? But then the inspector moved behind the desk. He held the videotape in his hands and set it on the desk in front of him. Greene stared at the black box, the VHS tape. Their answers had arrived.

Chapter 49

Vidocq stood behind the desk, his eyes darting between the reporter and the boy. There were several permutations of what might happen next, atrocities that could be made to happen, or mercies extended. He knew what was on the tape, now, and how dangerous it was to the cause of the Haitian nation. It was damaging, and if it aired on television in the developed world then it would probably make a splash, probably earn the reporter awards he didn't deserve, especially since he hadn't taken the video himself.

The boy, on the other hand, seemed on the verge of tears. Vidocq didn't begrudge him his feelings. He'd seen part of the massacre. He'd either shot, or seen shot, the disgusting animal that was Bud Harrison. It was a shock for anyone to see that much death, and then to be only seven-years old. Vidocq watched the two in silence. He felt a tearing between them, a rift in the air. Something had happened after he left the room and Vidocq wasn't sure what.

But he had an idea of what he wanted to do.

With conviction, he dropped the VHS tape to the floor and crushed it beneath the heel of his department issued patent leather boots. He bent down and lifted the remains of the tape to the desk. The black plastic in shards, the magnetic tape spilled out. He set it down and took a seat.

"As you can see, there is no more video to worry about."

Greene remained silent.

"Please, both of you, sit down. I am going to tell you what will happen, and then you will obey, and we can begin to put all of this behind us."

Greene still sat on the ratty couch. Joseph remained against the wall, his eyes moist, his nose dripping. Greene raised a hand and gestured for Joseph to join him on the couch, but the boy refused. Greene turned back to the inspector. "It would appear you've got my attention."

"Do I have yours?" Vidocq said, his head cocked to face Joseph.

Joseph looked up from the floor and into Vidocq's eyes. "Yes. I'm listening."

"Good," Vidocq said. "Now, listen to me as I tell you this. If you don't, then you will probably have to die."

Vidocq lifted the broken videotape to the desk and fingered the magnetic tape that spread from the broken plastic of the VHS. He pulled the black material farther and farther from its spools. He watched, almost hypnotized, as the tape kept coming. He needed to destroy that tape, and do it completely. It was part of a plan he'd hatched while watching the video. . .the army men laughing in their Jeep, pointing at an old man who was running, his pace painfully slow, until the Tonton Macoutes hurried after him and slaughtered him with a slash of a machete. There was no way he could let the tape out of the country, but there were other options.

"You, Greene, you will leave. I won't interfere with your departure. You entered the country on an American passport and that's how you'll leave. You will not need to bribe anyone at the border gate. Well, maybe a few dollars appreciation, but nothing major. Nothing like you would be forced to pay if you took the boy with you."

"I'm taking the boy."

Vidocq's mouth curled in a dark smile, "I don't think so. You don't have any adoption papers, no proof that you have any relation with the boy. You obviously don't have enough money to bribe your way out with a local boy, otherwise you wouldn't have shot Harrison and taken his money. You're low on funds. And not only would you have to bribe the Haitian side of the border, but you'll have to bribe the Dominican side as well. That requires thousands of dollars. Don't you think more people would do it if they had the money? That's why there are thousands of my countrymen risking their lives in boats, trying to get across to Florida, or to Jamaica, or somewhere that will take them away from this place."

"Why are you here?" Greene said.

Vidocq shrugged, "I have a secure job. I'm paid well enough without being conspicuous, and I get to quash the dreams of people like you, the people who want to distort the truth of this country through vicious propaganda."

"That wasn't propaganda."

"No," Vidocq said, "you're right. It was the truth, but my government would not think it such. You see, I've met General Namphy. He's much like Papa Doc. Ruthless, keen on consolidating power and he doesn't care who's blood he spills to do it. That's why I had to destroy the tape. Even though I could have kept it, it's too embarrassing for the General. I couldn't possibly use it for corrupt purposes. I would be killed."

"So you destroy it and let me alone with the boy?"

"Oh, I thought you understood. You can't take the boy."

Joseph took a step away from the wall. Vidocq watched the boy from the corner of his eye, the movement enough to draw Vidocq's attention. He spoke in Creole, "What do you want to happen?"

"I want my daddy to be alive."

"Well, thanks to your friend here, and to the video your daddy made, that can't happen, not anymore."

Joseph lowered his head, 'Yeah, I know."

"But we can arrange things so that little else changes."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll talk more about it after I handle this foreigner. But I think you'll get used to the idea. I think we might be able to make it work."

"What?"

Vidocq waved a hand and turned back to Greene, "You may leave now. Take your belongings, your money, and your passport and leave my country. We don't want you here anymore."

"What about the boy?"

Vidocq gestured to the boy, "Do you want to go with the man?"

"I don't know. I thought I did, I thought it was the only thing to do, I was never offered anything else."

"If someone offered to take care of you here, you would stay?"

Joseph sighed, his shoulders slumped and he rubbed at his eyes. "I guess. It would be easier than moving to Miami. I don't know anyone in Miami, and I know people here."

Vidocq smiled, "Good, then it's settled. Joseph will stay here with me, and you, Mr. Hilton Greene, must leave this country immediately. You've done enough damage as it is, and I'm going to be hard pressed to explain everything to my superiors."

"But the boy—"

"He doesn't want to go with you."

"Joseph," Greene said, standing from the couch and approaching the boy. Joseph leaned back and tried to shrink farther into the wall. "You don't have to stay here. You don't have anyone here."

"You're a liar and a traitor," Joseph yelled. "You killed my father, and it's your fault Bud is dead. And now you don't even have the videotape. I don't want anything more to do with you. Go away."

"What's going to happen to you?" Greene said.

Joseph turned to Vidocq, "What is going to happen?"

"I'll take care of that, trust me. I'm a man of my word, and I have every intention of seeing you into safety and comfort. You won't end up in Cite Soleil. By no means. You're a smart young man and we'll make grand things of your life."

Joseph looked up at Greene. "I thought you liked me, but then you betrayed my father. It was the last thing he wanted before he died. You betrayed him and you betrayed me. I'm staying here."

Greene sighed and shrugged.

"It's best you leave now," Vidocq said, "Before the border guards take their afternoon naps."

"Fine, I'll leave the boy with you. Since you've taken everything else."

"There's a small airfield just across the border. You should be able to contact someone in your country to pick you up. I understand there's quite a drug trade running through there. You might make some friends after all."

Greene glared at Vidocq. "You wouldn't mind if I take the videotape with me?"

"You think you can rescue the footage?"

"Something like that."

"No, then I'm afraid I can't let you have it. I can't risk that embarrassment to the country," Vidocq said. "You know, it's too bad, really, if you'd been just a little bit faster, you might have gotten over the border."

Greene said nothing. He grabbed his backpack from where it sat at the side of the couch. He slung it over his shoulder and stepped back to the boy. "Be careful who you trust, Joseph. This place is full of monsters."

Joseph nodded and reached to catch a tear on his cheek. "Go away now. I don't care anymore. You've ruined my life."

"You better go," Vidocq echoed. "It's no longer your concern what happens to the boy, or the videotape. Feel free to report what you have seen. It's not of terrible consequence without that video. A single reporter writing of a massacre. All you have is your prose. You will only be adding to the disgust the developed world feels towards my country, but you won't be able to cause another occupation, not without the videotape."

Greene walked to the door, knocked, and waited as the guard opened the door. Vidocq shouted something in Creole and the guard moved aside, allowing Greene to walk out of the interrogation chamber and into the heat and humidity of Ounaminthe.
Chapter 50

Joseph sat down with his back against the wall. The brick felt cool through his sweaty shirt. He looked up at Vidocq, the man was small, not much bigger than Joseph, and his face full of wrinkles from the sun, but Joseph could still see the mulatto in him, the lighter skin, the straighter hair. He had no idea how old the inspector might actually be, but it didn't matter. Joseph was alone with him now. There was no going back. Greene didn't want him. Greene just wanted the videotape. He had promised something he couldn't deliver in exchange, and as a result, Joseph was an orphan. Greene hadn't even given Joseph the picture of his family, the one where he lay in his mother's arms, with his father to the side, his eyes half way between the camera and Joseph. It had only been minutes after the picture was taken that his mother began her painful descent to death. It was the only memory he had of his mother, and Greene had taken it—had taken everything—and left Joseph alone.

"You're not alone," Vidocq said softly.

Joseph blinked, the tears had stopped shortly after Greene walked out the door, and now his eyes burned, but he didn't rub them. He remembered that his father used to tell him not to rub itchy eyes because that only made the itch worse. But then he started thinking about his father. All he could remember of the man was the blood on the shower wall, on the curtain. His father was dead, and Joseph was alone. Except for this policeman.

"You said you would take care of me," Joseph said.

"I will," Vidocq said.

"You're going to put me in an orphanage, aren't you?"

"Nothing of the sort," Vidocq said. "My wife and I never had a family. It just didn't work. I was too dedicated to my job, and my wife. . . But I only take special cases now. I'm somewhat of a rarity in that I actually investigate rather than simply taking bribes. You'll see that in me. But I have a plan and with your approval, I think we can make it work."

"What do you mean?"

"I want to adopt you. I want to make you my son and take care of you. Like I said, I don't have a family, nor do I have a nice place to live. We'll live in your father's apartment. It won't take much to figure out his finances, but I'm sure they're in good order. We'll live together there. You'll go to school. I'll work. Together we'll make a family. We'll make it work."

Joseph stared at the man, at his black skin. "No one will believe I'm your son."

"You aren't, that's why I'll adopt you. I can do that, can't I?" Vidocq said. "If foreigners can come into our country and adopt orphans, so can I. And you're an orphan now, aren't you?"

Joseph closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. He hadn't realized how tired he was. Sure, he'd slept in the car on the way to Cap Haitien, but it wasn't smooth. Every so often he'd be jerked awake and it would take him a little bit to get back to sleep.

"I don't have any other options at the moment, do I?"

Vidocq laughed, "That's very cynical of you."

"What does cynical mean?"

"It means you have already experienced the world and know things that adults know, even though you're only a child."

Joseph nodded. His face felt dirty. "I need to wash, and I'm tired."

"There's a helicopter waiting for us. It can take us straight back to Port-au-Prince, if you want, and then we can get washed and find a good hotel until we can get your apartment cleaned up."

"You mean my father. . ."

"Exactly. But you don't have to worry about that now. I'll handle all the arrangements."

"Okay, you're not going to do anything to me?"

"Did you shoot the fat man?"

Joseph opened his eyes and stared at Vidocq, "How did you know?"

"A guess. I figured Greene didn't have the gumption to do it. He strikes me as a man who doesn't think that much of others. He left you here after all."

Joseph felt his eyes heat up again. Just thinking about Greene's betrayal left him teary eyed. "You're not going to kill me, are you?"

"Why would you think that?"

"I knew a friend who had a dog and it bit his sister. They shot the dog. I killed a man, isn't that worse than biting a child?"

Vidocq lifted the destroyed VHS tape from the desk and dropped it in the waste basket. "I'll let you in on a little secret, I didn't destroy the tape. I destroyed one of the other tapes that Mr. Greene had in his possession and changed the labels. I still have the tape your father made."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Again, you let me worry about that. It's your time to be a child, so be one. I want you to be as happy as you possibly can, for as long as you can. Forget about the fat man, forget about Greene, forget about this horror of a day. Forget about it all and enjoy yourself. I'll take care of all the adult stuff."

Joseph pushed himself to his feet. "Can I sleep in the helicopter? I won't fall out, will I?"

"There are seat belts. You'll be okay. And there are doors that close. Don't worry about falling out, I wouldn't let that happen."

"Okay."

Vidocq grinned and stepped around his desk. "You just worry about being you. We'll go to the Hotel Olaffson, now that that fat Harrison is taken care of, there shouldn't be any problems."

"That sounds good. I liked Ferrer, he made sure I was taken care of."

"He is a good man. I may or may not have scared him."

"You were there?"

Vidocq nodded. "I was there, now let's get to the helicopter."
Chapter 51

There was a little waiting room off the main building of the airstrip. It was mainly field, mowed over and tamped down, somewhere only little planes could land, but Greene figured that was the only type of field one could find on this side of the island, unless one went to the capital, and Greene was not going to ride anymore buses. The windows to the waiting room were open, a single fan turned lazily in the corner. It didn't matter, really, Greene was tired and hot and sweaty and exhausted. So he lay down, set his backpack down and rested his head on the padded bag.

He stared at the ceiling, asbestos panels, fluorescent lighting, everything that the United States was in the middle of replacing with better, more earth friendly, options. There was a sound of laughter in the office off the waiting room. A pair of military folk manned the post, their dark skins as black as the Haitians next door, though the Dominicans insisted that their melanin came from their Latino blood, rather than from any darky nigger blood. It was endemic. Where else would the dark skin, the curly hair, and the big dicks come from?

Greene laughed at that, a small little hiccup, barely noticeable above the drone of the fan. He didn't want to think. That was the truth of the matter. He'd just spent hundreds of dollars, risked life and limb, and saw two men killed, all for a child who didn't want to come along. It didn't matter now that he'd made a promise to Claude Rene-Pierce, nor that the videotape had been his true mission, nor that he had come to like the boy—as much as a person could over twenty-four hours of acquaintance. But it had come to naught.

Greene left Joseph with Inspector Vidocq, as he left the videotape. There was no redemption for what he'd done. A story filed a day late is all. He'd surely been scooped by the French reporter, his escape much cleaner than Greene's, one without complications and police pursuit. It was unfortunate. He really felt like he could win a Pulitzer with that videotape, but now, there was nothing left but an eye-witness report.

The fan stuttered and Greene looked up. One of the army men had come into the waiting room to adjust the fan so its lukewarm air blew in Greene's direction and only in Greene's direction. It made for little comfort. He was still hot and sticky from the sweat of the chase and their ultimate capture. It had drenched him as he sat in the room with Joseph and waited for Inspector Vidocq to return with his verdict. He'd left everything of importance behind. When he finally crossed the border and communicated what he wanted to the guards, they let him use a phone and he'd called his editor in Miami.

"You need a plane in the D. R.?"

Greene, "Yes, it's an emergency. I've been on the run from the police in Haiti for the last day and a half. I need to get out."

"What about your story?"

"God, really? I'll file it once I land in the US and get a hot shower."

"You better start writing it now and hope you finish by the time you land in Miami. I'm not paying for joyrides here."

"You'll have it, and it's a doozy."

"Pix?"

Greene shook his head, and then said, "No, no pix. Unfortunately, that got confiscated."

"Well there is that. Freedom of the press and all."

"It's Haiti, Ed, no freedom there." Greene made some gestures to the Spanish speaking guards. "I'm just over the border now, at a small airfield. Someone on the staff has to have a light plane, maybe a Leer—I wouldn't put it over Junior. He is the publisher, after all, and he's got lots of money."

"I'll see what I can do. Meanwhile get settled. It may be a while."

"Okay, you can reach me at this number—"

Greene motioned for the guard. "El numero? The number?"

Excited to be of help, the guard—dressed in a slightly darker green than his Haitian counterparts—slowly related the numbers to the telephone. Greene repeated them in English, he thought, and said goodbye. That was all he had. Not even a scoop. He had nothing. Just an impression, a memory, a mental picture. . .

Greene sat up. He felt the fan blow air on his face. It was a little like the wind coming through the window of a bus on the dusty coast road. More dust and heat than cool breeze. He grabbed his bag and rifled through the contents. He dug out what he was looking for and held it up. The grubby, curling image of Claude Rene-Pierce with his wife and baby son together in the hospital bed. It was the only picture of the three family members together, at least that's what Claude had told him. He'd forgotten it at the border gate, the sudden detention and interrogation wiped it completely from his mind. He only thought of Joseph, the videotape, and his own freaking life.

He didn't feel guilty, leaving Joseph. The boy was Haitian. He might be mulatto, but so were a lot of other people. It was a sign of privilege, the way that light skin meant better education, higher pay, and more opportunity than the blacks who struggled in their subsistence fields and rarely saw the four corners of a Gourde. He would survive. It may take him a while, he may be disadvantaged at the start—not having a father or a mother—but there was money in the family and he would inherit it.

But even then, thinking about the boy, about Joseph, he thought of Harrison, the man who lay dead in the Hotel Dachowschi, his fat body leaking life blood onto the bed. Joseph took that in stride. Sure, there was shock. That was unavoidable. But Joseph had swallowed his fear and anger over his father's suicide as well. He had kept it inside, waiting for the right time to let the sorrow free. Joseph was a strong young man. He would be able to handle what Haiti threw at him. Much better than Greene.

At least that's what Greene told himself as he looked at the photo. There was nothing he could do, now, it was all there was. He wasn't about to cross back over the border and try to find Joseph. It was a lost cause.

There was a garbage can in the corner, its contents overflowed, rotten banana peels made the waiting room smell. Greene stood to his feet and walked casually to the can. He dropped the picture amidst the banana peels, the tuna cans, and the rotten chicken. It was a disgusting pail, but Greene didn't care. He just wanted to get rid of the picture, to recover from the last twenty-four hours, and to forget everything he'd done for the boy. As he began to turn away, he saw the edges of the picture damp and then wet, soaking up some of the refuse that made its home in the garbage.

It was over. There was no more.

Chapter 52

As the helicopter rose into the sky, higher than the mountains that stretched into Haiti's interior, Joseph felt the lump in his throat grow hot. Inspector Vidocq sat beside him and stared out the window. The man may adopt him, but Joseph didn't know him, at least not yet. It was all catching up, the death, the chase, the betrayal. Joseph wanted to shrink into himself until it all went away. He couldn't do that. But he did, finally, allow himself to cry.

Click on the image for a free download of _The Hunter Chronicles._
