There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) (35 page)

Memories descended: of the dark night of the dogs, the red flare, the water cold and fast. The recollection of them made her mind stall.

A hand clasped her mouth, and her eyes shot open.

Félix stood over her, his finger crossing his lips. He signaled to a trio of men moving up the trail. She nodded, keeping the outward silence while her heartbeat grew in volume, filling her ears. They collected their things.

—
Follow me,
Félix whispered. Libète did.

He took her down into an indentation in the ground, past what would have been the fort’s great hall. They positioned themselves beyond a column, a vantage where they could see Félix’s space, his bed, cookware, and beyond that his goat pen. He pushed Libète back like a protective hen would with her chick, but she would not have it. She peered out too.

Cinéus and Wilnor came into view. Their dog’s lead strained as the creature pulled ahead. There was a third man with them, unknown, indistinguishable by his darkened outline. Too hale to be Lolo, but not a hulk like the other guards. It suddenly clicked as his gait gave him away.

Prosper.

She palmed her aching, fevered forehead. Why was he with them?
Helping
them? She cursed herself for her spiteful words spoken earlier. But could that outburst really cause him to now side with this lot?

The three men poked and prodded a bit, discussing the situation at a volume that lacked discretion. They let the dog pull them around in circles, but he seemed a shiftless sort of creature, much like his owners. Libète hooked onto the tail end of Cinéus’s shout, delivered after upbraiding his brother for forgetting a flashlight: If we don’t find her, then the reward vanishes!

So it was about money. Her face twitched with new worry. Some in Foche might easily turn against her for the right sum. Even those she thought friends. Even Prosper.

Félix pulled her without a word, and they slipped off and through a twist of old chambers till they entered a depressed room that led to what they had always figured was a dungeon. They heard the men fumble about in the dark–Cinéus cursed Wilnor again when he hit his head on the archway–and pass from Félix’s room and into the Great Hall. Libète tensed at the sight of the dungeon, a narrow, black passage just wide enough for a person to sidle into and stand flattened. Félix tried to push Libète inside, but she fought him. The darkness within repelled her. Dull steps signaled one of their pursuers’ approaches, and Félix, taut with alarm, slid inside himself and was swallowed. The footsteps grew closer. Libète breathed deep and forced herself in too.

The space was cramped. Libète had never known herself to be claustrophobic, but the stale air and forced immobility claimed her. Rapid thoughts of captured rogue slaves cast into this man-made fissure and made to stand for aching hours made the walls feel like part of a closing vice.

Félix grasped for her hand, and a modicum of peace transferred through the touch. Her breathing finally slowed and became faint. She thought about praying but resisted. Yet again, where was God? He had thrown her into this place. Like the French oppressors, ready to torture for any disobedience.

A form, edged in moonlight, slid into the fissure’s opening. Exploring the dark. The outline, its size and smoothness, was Prosper’s.

Libète stifled her breath. Félix squeezed her hand harder.

Prosper stood, peering. Libète was sure he saw them hiding. She could see the whites of his eyes reflecting the Moon. The passage of a few moments stretched into the eternal. The dog barked again. There was more indistinct chatter.

Prosper turned his face away. Nothing’s here either, he called. He left.

Libète nearly collapsed.

Dimanche and Libète approach Thomonde. The bike’s appetite for petrol and their appetite for food prove too much.

They had spoken little, as Libète still keeps to herself. As they reach the edge of town, they slow to roll up and over a speedbump. Libète speaks. Where are you from, anyway?

He doesn’t answer.

— Did you grow up on the water?

— Wi.

— In Jacmel?

— Wi.

— In that shack?

— Wi.

— Is that how you know how to fish?

— Wi.

Libète thought this over. Are you telling me the truth?

— Non.

She grimaced. What’s your game, Dimanche?

— My game? My
game
is to keep you alive, and free. I’ve been many different people these past few years since arresting Benoit. Mainly learning to live as a shadow.

— That’s melodramatic.

— That’s truth.

— Then it seems I’ve ruined your life.

He stays quiet, and his silence speaks. She slouches, bouncing as they push over another bump in the road.

At least the morning was beautiful. The Sun was still so small and so bright, it lit up an enormous, open sky bereft of clouds. They puttered past homes lined by cacti fences and goats and dogs and chickens and bustling children. Libète noticed Dimanche tense as a grandfather yelled at his small grandson.
He’s nervous.
Alert. Afraid.
Where she saw a small break in domestic tranquility, Dimanche sensed lurking threats. Libète wondered if she too was traveling down a road where paranoia could claim her so easily.

They pulled into the gas station and, on stopping, leaped off the bike. He was quick to summon the sleeping attendant, and the man sauntered over with a shotgun in hand. The station itself was simple, like those in Cité Soleil. An elevated cylindrical tank, fenced in, so that gravity forced the gas down and into the bike’s tank under the seat.

— Go to the toilet. Do what you need to do, and quickly. Then come back. His eyes darted back and forth as he spoke, sizing up their surroundings.

— You forgot to tell me to first unbutton my pants.

The attendant’s eyes bounced between them, groggy and confused. Your daughter – he yawned – will need the key.

Libète let slip a peal of laughter. Dimanche’s scowl made her realize her mistake.

— Yes, father, Libète said. I’ll do as you say.

She went to relieve herself, unzipping her bag to check on the pigeon inside while walking to the toilet. After finishing her business, she noticed a bucket of water and soap. The water was tinged with murk, but her whole body was covered with a layer of dirt; she at least wanted her hands and face cleaned.

— Lourdmia, Dimanche called as she stepped out and back toward the bike. Libète looked around, confused. It took a moment to realize he had assigned her a new name. Those women – he pointed to a pair on the side of the road – go see if they have any clothes for sale. He cupped his hand and mouthed,
I don’t trust this one
, pointing to the attendant. The young man was back in his chair, picking inside his nose and examining the results with an empirical curiosity. Libète rolled her eyes.
So, so paranoid.

— Yes, Papa. She held out her hand, and when he did nothing, rubbed her thumb against her index finger. He reached into his duffel and withdrew two thousand-goud notes from a wad an inch thick. He was careful to hide this from the attendant.

— Shit, Dimanche! Where’s that cash from?

He held a straightened finger to his lips. Get something simple, he said, that won’t draw attention.

She took the money, without thanks, and moved off to the two women who were still arranging their clothes for sale on a patchwork of tarps.

— Bonjou, medam, Libète offered robotically.

— Why, hello,
machè
! What are you looking for?

She looked at her and blinked twice. Clothes.

The seller’s kindness withered. Libète sorted through the small piles, quick to choose essentials. Pants that looked like they’d fit. Some T-shirts. A hooded sweatshirt in case more cold nights were to come. With her hair and her fraying knit cap, she could pass for a boy. She told herself the desire to appear as such had nothing to do with the swell of feelings she had experienced back on the beach with Jak.

— How much? Libète asked.

— For those? Well, those, those are some premium items. Basically new, I’d say. Straight from Europe. If you read the magazines you’d see that those couldn’t be parted with for less than . . .

Libète rolled her eyes. She had no time for games. She dropped the notes on the ground, far more than enough, and walked away with her clothes.

—
Monnen
? Change? the seller asked.

— None, she said, shrugging. Premium items.

Dimanche was repacking his jacket into his bag. Got what you needed?

She gave a nod and stuffed the clothes into his duffel.

— We still need food, he said.

She called to the attendant. Hey, Mesye Miner! Found what you’re digging for up there?

The attendant shot up straight, wiping his finger. His nostrils flared. Where can we get some
pate
for the road? she asked. He pointed down the road with his digging implement.

The attendant, much offended, watched the pair as they rode off and paused at the food vendor. With a frown, he took out his flip phone and a card tucked inside. Alo? Wi? It’s me. Who? Guy Saingelus. The gas superintendent. Which one? In Thomonde. Yes. I know. I know. Yes. Well, your man and girl, I think they just left. About that reward . . .

Minutes pass. Libète tries to leave the dungeon, but Félix won’t let her go.

—
Wait
, he whispers.
They might be hiding out there.

She rips her hand away.
Not a moment more in here.

The evening air is like a tonic, and she gulps it in even as she doubles over. Félix emerges next and looks around.

— You need to do what I say, Libète. You don’t know this place, our mountain, like I do.

— Whatever, she wheezes.

— I won’t take you farther if you don’t agree to do what I say.

— I’ll take whatever you offer under advisement.

He slapped his machete against a stone column.
Promise me.
You’re not alone in this! Don’t act like you are.

She took another deep breath. I promise, she said, her voice small.

— Let’s go then. He handed Libète her pack, and they finally left the fortress behind, starting the climb up the steep rock wall. When they reached its summit, they saw the small basin that had otherwise been blocked off to Foche. All of the dig’s lights were off and generators put to sleep.

— If Cinéus and Wilnor are looking for you outside, Félix said, it probably means there aren’t other guards left. Let’s stay toward the edge of the basin. The old trail is on the other side, the one that leads to the forest. It’s steep. A mother and child fell to their deaths a few years ago. He offered a hand to help her descend. So now, he continued, people take the longer road out of Foche and connect with another.

Libète rubbed her eyes, hoping it would sweep away the weariness that lingered there. How will I get food and water out here?

There was a long pause. What you can’t scavenge, I’ll bring to you, he said. By night. I’ll make this same trip.

— Thank you, she said, a mere whisper.

They continued on till they neared the tents where the diggers slept. Libète didn’t like what she saw.

The excavation had swelled over time. There were more tents up here, more vehicles, and the gash in the ground had clearly grown. It was covered by sections of opaque plastic elevated on a network of poles.

As they stepped closer, they got a better look at some of the equipment laid off to the sides. It was odd; large and mechanical, made for moving huge amounts of earth. It defied notions of the archeologist’s subtle, careful work.
It’s all so strange . . .

Everything seemed arrayed to keep the activity away from prying eyes. She was just grateful that all of the workers’ tents were darkened and situated in a cluster.

Félix’s hand leaped out, holding her back. They froze. He pointed to his ear, and Libète inclined her own.

A voice trespassed against the quiet. It was a man’s. But it didn’t
speak
so much as
sing
. It came from inside the central work area, over the main dig.