The Forsaken (18 page)

He could hear a relentless echo. A hiss.
Maybe you killed them. You have always been capable of the worst kind of darkness. The quiet kind. The kind nobody ever sees coming. Until it’s too late.

“I didn’t kill them!”

The whispers ran away. He was sure he heard them climb to the ceiling and slip off the rooftop to their death, but maybe it was the sound of falling water smacking against his jaw instead.

Was he capable of killing a man? It was possible, he knew that much.

The only thing that separates a cop from a crook is a badge. Isn’t that right?

After all, he killed a young runner just days ago. There were three bullet holes in his chest to prove it. To remind him. But he didn’t do these killings. He couldn’t. He was only a man. He wasn’t a ghost.

No, you’re not, Foster. Not yet.

That time he heard his name. The whispers had crawled back. They hadn’t fallen off into oblivion. They were here. And they knew him.

As his fingers slid down his cheek, wiping away the stabbing raindrops, he listened carefully for more footsteps. Before his next blink, the sound of a bullet formed an echo in his eardrum. He could still sense his pulse quickening. He hadn’t even recalled pulling the trigger, but there he was, back pinned to the crimson-blotted wall, arm outstretched and a face as pale as a corpse.

The gun exhaled a slow snake of a fume from its throat.

Snap out of it
, Jude thought.
Take a deep breath, and snap out of it.

The church walls suddenly crawled with visible bodies. He saw faces, claws, teeth; the hallways resounded with cries. But he wasn’t a part of it. None of it was real, was it?

His mouth formed a curse that ran up the walls. Jude pulled himself up off the floor and walked inside the room he had seen flicker with light moments, an hour, earlier. He wasn’t sure how long ago.

He moved into the room, his stomach twisting and turning with each counted step. The room was close to empty, but there was a photograph that caught Jude’s eye, brought him deeper in. Beneath the photograph lay a map of the world. Haiti was inked in red with an X. Two thumbtacks held up the black and white image. Why was it here? Was this planted? Was this on purpose?

“It’s a pattern,” he mumbled. “Discover the pattern. Follow your spirit.”

The photograph was a small shot, and there was a noticeable, diagonal wrinkle dividing two men’s faces. The men were like mirrors. They shared an almost brotherly embrace in the snapshot. The setting was a desert backdrop, the landscape around them a desolate wasteland. A tree with no fruit and no leaves stretched up out of the dirt, as if struggling for life. Tortuous, spiny branches climbed out of its thin belly and clawed at the colorless sky.

Jude gasped.

The two thumbtacks pierced where one of the man’s eyes should’ve been, cutting into them so that he appeared blind and disfigured. The other man was someone Jude could recognize. Someone he knew well, far too darkly to be a brother. He feared that his theory—what he once thought was loosely conceived and stitched together—was becoming more, growing a suffering body, a conscience, and a mind of its own.

That face. That miserable, wretched face. He knew it. Surely, he did. There was no mistaking it. It was Morgan Cross.

“Morgan. Haiti?” He had to act quickly. It was time to start retracing his enemy’s steps.

25

JET LAG. HE’D ALMOST
forgotten about that charming detail. Was that nausea or fear hoping for a way out of his stomach? Was there even a difference? Jude found the nearest trash bucket and hurled. Felt like some of his organs might actually show up amidst the garbage that stunk almost as bad as the humid air.

He sat waiting for the second plane to arrive. He was informed that it’d be a smaller aircraft bringing him to Port-au-Prince, Haiti, but that the layover wouldn’t take more than a few hours. His previous airline dropped the passengers off in the small city port he was now forced to find shelter within, a site he didn’t bother attempting to pronounce. Santo-something. He could see cruise ships sailing away in the distance, though, and that put a slight glow inside his frustrated, impatient face.

He was on to something. He believed he’d find his answers on this journey. Fate seemed to be in his favor. Jude had purchased the last a.m. flight out to the godless country, so regardless of the chewing out the chief and Rachel would give him upon return, he was confident he’d made the right choice, albeit a dangerous one.

Jude’s luggage consisted only of a carry-on and some extra cash. He’d lost his suitcases on enough occasions to swear against bringing unnecessary items. Plus, so long as he had his way, he wouldn’t be stuck on this wild goose chase for very long. Get in and get out.

He tapped his fingers on the plastic seat that seemed incapable of finding balance, and it creaked no matter which way he sat. The room he waited in was concrete on all sides. No paint on the walls and singular, flickering light fixtures covered with webs and insects hovering less than a foot above his head. Some of the bulbs were cracked or broken completely. But Jude assumed the locals rarely employed the artificial light.

This place was a far cry from the crappy motels he’d stayed in during a number of weekend conferences over the years. He never thought he’d be longing for a cold beer, a grinder, and a stiff bed. He threw down some pills and forgot his hunger, the god-awful heat, and the plane that he kept doubting would arrive before dusk.

“What are you doing here?” he asked himself. “What if you don’t find anything?” The self-doubt was like slivers under his nails.

“Talking to yourself, my friend?” came a question formed by a broken accent several moments later. “Not best way to invite a warm welcome.”

Jude surveyed the man the voice belonged to—little more than bare flesh and bones, a baggy tank top, some ripped shorts, and worn-to-the-bottom sandals.

“Are you Mr. Jude Foster?”

Jude, taken aback, felt his jaw unhinge. “And you are?”

“I am your transportation to Port-au-Prince, sir.” The man tapped his chest. “Pilot.”

“You’re joking. Where’s the plane? And where’s the rest of your crew?”

“No time for jokes, sir.” The man paused at nearly every word, trying to articulate and pronounce syllables clearly. “I am all da crew one man needs.” He laughed, showcasing two rows of chipped, filthy teeth. “We should head out before dark.”

The man had no resemblance to any pilot Jude had ever seen. But then again, Jude hadn’t been raised by incestuous wolves in some backwoods country either.

“Be polite, Mr. Foster.”

“What, are you reading my thoughts? Can your people do that?”

“My people?” the man chuckled, some saliva spilling over crusted lips. “My people are knowledgeable ones, but no, we cannot scan da mind of a man. Not yet. We are…keen on foreign per…how do you say? Perspective. Your eyes tell what is in your heart. For some strange reason, you are at war wit me.”

“I’ve never seen a pilot like you before. It’s a bit of a culture shock, that’s all.”

“What is ‘shock culture’?”

“No, culture shock. Like, uh, well, it’s when you get to a place and…” Jude stood up and took in the dingy scenery. But he figured he’d refrain from digging a larger grave. “Things are just different where I come from.”

“Places different, perhaps. People da same. Can I take your bag, Mr. Foster? I can show you da way.”

“I can carry my own things.”

“As you please.”

With a shrug, Jude continued behind the short, bony pilot. He stopped after the man had brought him out of the small city, away from what civilization there was and into a field of dry grass and tall, thorny brush. When they reached the takeoff spot, Jude was ready to blow a gasket.

The aircraft’s frame was stained with mud, and the black and red paint looked like it had peeled away decades earlier. Plus, the scissor-hair metal at the top of the craft forced a gulp down his throat. “Is this the
helicopter
?” His knees shuddered at the notion of climbing into the cockpit. All rickety and falling apart. No way this clown was serious about Jude stepping inside.

“It is special, just for you.”

“I was under the impression we were going in a plane. You know, something safe?” He couldn’t believe he was doing that, using
plane
and
safe
in the same sentence. He’d loathed the idea of flying since childhood. The only reason he put that hatred aside was to get closer to the truth. Desperate times….

“Dis very safe for us.” The pilot tossed Jude’s bag into the cargo bay beneath what, in mere moments, would be their bucket seats. His stomach turned to bricks. This bony man
was
serious, and this far too small helicopter was the accommodation for short-notice passengers like him, apparently.

“Next time, book your vacation in advance, sir.” The pilot smirked and issued a roar of a chuckle. Jude clenched his fist and reluctantly slid into his spot.

“She’ll be kind to us. She likes foreigners, you will see this. You can stop shaking your leg.”

Jude glared defiantly at the frail pilot with leathery, molasses skin. The guy was lucky he’d put away that toothy, dirty grin.

The helicopter fired up in seconds, and after the pilot told Jude to buckle up, checked the control levels, and gave a thumbs up, they were high in the sky.

***

Jude was awake for most of the flying, to his dismay. The chopper hovered over the backs of the mountains and rolling hilltops with burnt grass and starving soil. His eyes slanted as he battled the glare of a hot, red sun.

The pilot chattered endlessly about some trite Haitian history. Jude didn’t much care, but there was no shutting this guy up. By the time they reached what was supposed to be the climax of the frail conversation, Jude realized he was too jittery to fall asleep. Not to mention, he wasn’t sure if this pilot would spiral this metal wasp into a tree and leave his foreign remains splattered on the mountainside.

The pilot steered intrepidly above jungles and skinny rivers. Everything looked so small from up high, so different. Jude felt removed from what looked like poverty stretched out before him down below. Like an author who couldn’t fall in love with his characters. This was the grand scene that hurricanes and earthquakes had left behind. Buildings collapsed and homes broken into by the fury of nature. It was far down still, but he could make out a little boy, clinging to a scrap of food like it was breath. Jude imagined lacerated hands and feet and bruises on his face from fighting to keep his hope alive.

He wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

The helicopter passed over the stories of so many. Pitiful lives the wind seemed to carry only so far. Perhaps their stories fell into the earth to cultivate the dying ground. Perhaps their tears ran into the rivers to drown. It was staggering what the human heart abandoned during times of desperation and woe in order to continue its fragile existence.

“Some of the slaves brought voodoo into our homes, you see,” the pilot added, unaware that Jude wasn’t all that interested in gleaning much substance from this wasted culture. “Our world is…bad, corrupt. No mistake, sir, none, and aldough we be free men—poor, but free men, we cannot escape da sins we brung here…da tings we have given life to.” The man continued as if Jude’s thoughts were with him the entire time. But they weren’t. His blank stare conveyed that much. “Pardon me. I talk too much, I afraid. So much time to ponder da sins of da past, I suppose.”

“No, it’s okay,” Jude said.

“You know, dere are dose who believe dis part of da earth is forsaken by da higher powers.”

“God?”

“Dat is one name,” the pilot answered, bringing the helicopter higher into the clouds. “Some believe dat long ago, ’twas known what tings men might do. Because, you see, all men possess secrets in dere hearts. Like prisons.”

“You seem to really be into all this spiritual nonsense.”

“Why call it nonsense because you do not understand it?”

“Oh, I understand it. Like you said, places may be different, but human beings are the same, rotten no matter where you live.”

“You have interesting ideas, my American friend. I wish dis were not so.”

As the rickety plane skated across a nearby mountaintop, it struggled to land smoothly. Jude could’ve sworn it had run out of fuel; the plumes of black smoke blowing out the back end of the helicopter were hint enough. But at last, the metal wings ceased their movement, and the loose aircraft was once more on the ground.

“Where’s my driver?” Jude asked, staring at the big-body car that belonged in some sixties noir flick. He almost didn’t want an answer.

“Judging by height of da red sun, it will be darkness shortly. Perhaps we should move quickly, friend.”

“What happens after dark?”

“Tings can get unkind in da forests and da villages. Grab your effects and move into car.”

“I want to be sure that you take me here,” Jude said, handing the man the photograph. “No mistakes, got it? The person I spoke with on the phone, the one who arranged this, said you could take me here.”