There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) (41 page)

Dimanche picked up one of the couch’s pillows to quiet his pistol’s inevitable report. He went to the first bedroom. No light showed inside. Cracking the door, he let his eyes adjust to the dark. No one had laid within the bed’s sheets. He rubbed his tired eyes with a wrist as adrenaline surged through his system.

Dimanche had waited for hours in the outside corridor, trying not to appear conspicuous. Letting thoughts of murder run rampant in one’s mind was no easy thing; summoning the necessary hatred and vengeance to kill in such a premeditated manner was exhausting.

He checked the other bedroom. It was the same situation: lights out, an untouched bed. He spun around, his gun sweeping the room wildly. The stakes involved with this encounter were unbearably high. If he succeeded, it was the end of a quest. The prior murders had never brought more catharsis than could last a day or two before he returned to his life lived by daylight, that of an upstanding officer of the law. It was a hypocrisy that ate at him: the officers surrounding him whom he chastised for laziness, an unwillingness to intervene in dangerous situations, and petty corruption had not looked into the void Dimanche found himself falling down.

Another deep breath, another attempt to recollect his thoughts. He had
seen
Pascal enter the suite.
Where could the bastard be?

The only remaining room in the suite was a shared bathroom. He moved toward the door, saw it was ajar. Leaning toward the door, he could hear heavy breathing from inside. He raised the pillow to the gun’s muzzle, steeling himself to pull the trigger.

— If you’re here to kill me, Pascal slurred from inside the bathroom, at least let me do it myself. Let it be my sin rather than yours.

Dimanche hid behind the doorjamb.

The door opened. Before him, Pascal slumped against the tub’s wall. He was in his underpants and undershirt, and he held a gun of his own to his ear, the pistol ready to shout death.

— Gun down!

— You caught me, Pascal said. He lays the pistol on the ground. No tricks. No tricks! You can kill me, s’il-vous plaît.

Dimanche didn’t know what to do.

— Don’t deprive me! I’ve wanted this for weeks. Months. The irony! You break in to do what I can’t bring myself to do. God is at work! At work, indeed!

— Shut up! Shut up, you goddamned fool!

— Truth! Truth, truth,
truth
. I am a
fool
. I am
damned
.

Dimanche’s gun flagged before reestablishing its true aim. Slide the gun over to me, he said.

Pascal sent it across the tiled floor.

— Which angel are you? Pascal asked.

— An angel? I am your judge, your executioner. Dimanche steadied himself. He found he liked this arrangement quite a lot. The culminating shot would not be the result of unthinking reflex but the deliberate bang of a gavel, the release of the guillotine’s blade.

— Tell me everything! Every wrong! Don’t let me escape! Pascal tightened his eyes and spread his arms with a grand gesture. Read the charges! We both know I’m guilty. But let me at least know the sins that are bringing about my end.

— You talk too much. Dimanche came close to him, certain that he could overcome this sad sack if he tried to swing. Open your mouth. Pascal did as ordered and Dimanche inserted his gun. He expected to get a surge of pleasure at seeing the fear he inflicted, but Pascal gave him no such satisfaction. He simply looked Dimanche in the eye.

— Northern Haiti. You and seven men came to my village. Killed and raped a host of my neighbors. Just to make us fear. My father, he was a good man. My mother, she was a good woman. And you all strung him up in a tree. Let him hang. Shot him. And her.

Pascal tried to speak around the gun’s barrel, but couldn’t. Dimanche withdrew it, letting him testify. Pascal squeezed his eyes shut.

— Honestly . . .

Nothing else came. Dimanche slapped him, and he opened his eyes.

— I don’t. Don’t remember. There were so many–

Dimanche slapped him again. You took things of–such–
value
.

— I know.

— And you don’t even care.

— It’s vile. He shook his head. I’m vile.

This time a punch. Pascal didn’t protest, just rubbed his jaw. I’m sorry. He sat there dazed. No one tries to recall their sins but the penitent, Pascal said. And I’ve not been one to bow low.

Dimanche lifted the butt of his gun, and finally Pascal lifted a hand to block the blow.

— Please. Pascal lifted his index finger. A proposition. We know how tonight ends. How I will end. But help me remember. I know I don’t deserve such a thing, but let me. This is no ploy. I have no phone. No backup outside. Let me look at you by light, in the eye. Let me be made to remember what I’ve ordered. What I’ve done.

Dimanche–the part of him still governed by procedure and rules and law–agreed. Get up. Put on your pants.

Within minutes, they faced each other on opposite sofas.

Dimanche had held his gun at the ready as he recounted the day his father died. Pascal simply sat, nodding as Dimanche told him about the years spent preparing for this very encounter. Dimanche recounted the deaths of the other squad members he had killed. Pascal gave a
tsk tsk.
Truly a villain, he said several times.

The telling took over an hour, and as Dimanche neared the end he spoke of the dock, of the hotel, the card sliding through the door lock, the green light bidding him come.

Pascal sighed, looked at his watch. I suppose it’s about that time. Dimanche grunted. May I–may I taste wine, just once more? Pascal signaled toward the bottle on the table between them.

Dimanche considered. Let me pour it.

— Of course.

Dimanche drained the remnants of a bottle worth half of what he made in a month as a policeman. He slid the trendy wine glass across the table. Pascal drank.

— What’s your name? I realize I don’t even know it?

— To the world, I’m Dimanche. I’ve been that since I left home. But my real name is Marcel.

— What are you going to do after you leave, Marcel?

— He shrugged. Not a question I’ve been concerned with. I was booted from the police.

— Oh? Corruption?

— There was some of that, yes. I’m not proud of it. I accepted money to help me believe what I wanted to believe. It was a mistake. No, I’m glad to say my dismissal was persecution.

— Really? Pascal swished the wine about his mouth and wore a look of supreme pleasure on his face.

— For standing up. To another villain, one just as base as you. Jean-Pierre Benoit.

— Pascal nearly spit up. Jean-Pierre Benoit? Ha! We have a mutual enemy, then. I can’t stand the man. He’s pathetic. Ruining Haiti.

— Says the murderer and drug-trafficker.

— You. You’re . . . the officer, then? The one in those videos who tackled him to the ground?

Dimanche nodded.

— Good Lord. He set his wine on the table and clapped, a smile leaping to his face. Unbelievable. He shifted in his seat, and Dimanche lifted his gun. The girl, Pascal said, fidgeting with excitement. The girl there with you. The one who cried out. Who accused him. Do you know her? The one called Libète?

Dimanche stood up. What about her?

— I’ve followed her. For a number of reasons.

—
What are you talking about?
Dimanche looked as if he might reach across the table and strangle Pascal rather than shoot him.

— None of
those
reasons. I met her once. Before that night. I was told to stop her from getting away from us, from our island. She stirred up a whole ferry. We had guns. We had all the power. And these people, these–ordinary people–they stood up to us anyway. I could have ordered my men to kill every person on that dock. But–I couldn’t. There was something there, a power–I couldn’t trespass against it. I let her go, thinking I’d apologize to my boss. I mean, she was just a girl, the child of some enemy of his, and he had many enemies. A few weeks later I saw the video of Benoit, of you. Of her. The same girl. Seared in my memory. I never told my boss I realized it was the same girl. Didn’t see the need.

— That’s incredible. Unbelievable.

— It is. Pascal laughed. Tell me, Marcel. You care for the girl?

Dimanche wasn’t prepared for such a question. She is . . . Dimanche struggled.

— An intangible thing. I know, it’s hard to pin d–

— She is hope.

Pascal was quiet. Finally quiet.

He spoke again. What if . . . yes. What if . . . Pascal’s mind seemed to be running. Dimanche–Marcel–whatever–I have a proposition for you. My choices have made me money, more than I can spend. I deserve death, I know. You can kill me tonight if you wish, absolutely you can, but what if–what if I tried to undo some of my wrong?

Dimanche’s pistol stayed fixed on him.

— I see Libète is important to you–what if you were to keep her from harm?

— From harm?

— Benoit will strike at her. That’s how he and his ilk work. I know. She needs protection. You’ve lost your job on account of her; what if she
became
your job? Pascal was effervescent. Yes–yes, yes, yes. Dimanche. I know I’m damned. I know it. But I’m tired of rolling around in my own filth. Help me – Dimanche balked – help me redeem
some
of my wrongs.

— You’re past redemption.

— I know, I
know
. He sipped his wine again, worried at the sudden turn this might take.

Dimanche sat suddenly and laid his gun down. If I resurface, I’m a dead man.

Pascal couldn’t stop nodding. Then stay in the shadows!

— I won’t be fooled by you.

Pascal raised his hands again, red sloshing out of his glass. Then kill me. But if you had any idea what’s coming to Haiti, what I’ve been a part of orchestrating–the drugs we move, they’re nothing. Nothing at all. A means to an end.

— Tell me that, then.

— No. I can’t. Then I’m dead tomorrow. Look. Protect her. You get paid. I’ll slow what’s coming. Those are the conditions.

— What difference could she possibly make in all this?

— In reality? None, I fear. None of us can stop this.

Dimanche scowled. He would not speak as he thought the offer over. He slammed the gun down on his seat cushion and paced. Finally, he turned and leveled his index finger at Pascal. This is a reprieve. For her sake. It changes nothing. You’re still a dead man.

Pascal’s face emptied. If you don’t put me out of my misery someday, I’d be most disappointed. Most disappointed, indeed.

Libète lets Dimanche finish his tale. At its end, she can stay quiet no longer.

— Why–why didn’t you tell me these things? She is trembling, trembling fiercely. Her hands are twined behind her head, and she cannot help but crouch. She wretches.

Dimanche is shocked. Libète, I don’t understand.

— Pascal. I know who he works for. I know! If what he said is true, the only one he could work for is named Dumas.

— How did you . . . know that name?

— Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .

— Libète, stop!

— Dumas, he’s a shadow. I’ve tried to forget the name, tried to forget. She looks up at Dimanche, dumbstruck. He’s my father, Dimanche. My father!

Dimanche can’t come to understand.

— God, Pascal doesn’t even know. Not even Dumas knows what I am to him. He thinks I’m Limyè’s child but–

— But, Dimanche stammers, your last name–

— It’s Limyè, yes, a name I took from a man who loved my mother. Dumas, he
violated
my mother. I’m the . . . the result of his crime! She pinches the bridge of her nose, cringes.

— What a thing. What a thing.

Her mind careens. Pascal’s money has made this possible? He sustained you all along?

Dimanche nods. But that’s at an end.

— What do you mean?

— I am certain he’s dead.

— What? You?

Dimanche sighs, shakes his head.

— By whom, then? As soon as the words escape, she knows. The radio, she says. That night on the radio show. The man who was killed. The man who gave Jak and I the Numbers. That was Pascal.

Dimanche nods. I heard the broadcast from the street while I kept an eye on the station. I recognized the voice immediately. He must have been listening for you. I communicated with him just a little after the night at the hotel. He followed you. Your work. I’m not surprised. Dumas must have finally come after him for whatever obstruction he told me he was going to create.

— But why give us the Numbers?

— He must have known they were coming. That he had no other way, in that moment, to transmit what had been locked safely in his head. So he had to share it with the world to share it with you. He trusted you to do something with them. To protect them.

— Dimanche, that means–that means Dumas is the one hunting me and Jak. The one behind Maxine, in pursuit of the Numbers–it’s all been him! And he–he doesn’t even know who I really am to him . . .

Dimanche reaches for her, his hand outstretched feebly.

Libète closes her eyes, breathes slowly, counts to three. She starts walking again, and her face is a veil hiding a grating anger. Let’s keep going.