There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) Read online

Oh! Oh! Oh!

  Falling to me

  Falling to me

  Always, always, it always falls to me

  Libète watched her disappear down the mountain.

  When Libète finally rose, she stayed off the road. She strode through the fields, careful where she stepped. She tried to recognize the budding plants, but she hadn’t cultivated anything for seven years. Carrots were obvious, as were beets and cabbage. She began to notice where adjoining plots stopped and started. Some were carefully laid out in cultivated rows. Others looked like seed had been scattered and left to grow where it might. In one plot she saw weeds springing up all over, a cancer choking out life from the beans they were overtaking. Her fingers itched to set to work pulling the intruders up. The size of the plot was overwhelming and the weeds many. She resigned herself and went away.

  As she continued along the ridgeline, her eyes explored gingerly and observed the different types of strata and soil. She noticed a large gash in a rock face. She stopped. That might do.

  Upon closer inspection, the crevice was five inches across at its widest, and dark inside, so that she couldn’t gauge its depth. There was a natural outcrop at its top that would shunt rainwater away. Yes, this could work. Hovering her hand at its threshold, she hesitated before sliding her fingers in. Her right hand and forearm were soon enveloped by the rock. She pushed deeper.

  — Beware of that crack!

  She jumped at the voice and jerked her arm out. Two men were walking toward her. She noticed dampness at their armpits and down their chests. Bunches of newly slashed green sugar cane rested on their shoulders. They stopped and watched her, and she eyed them.

  — Poukisa? she finally called. Why?

  — A man’s hand is trapped in there. We had to cut off his hand to free him.

  Her left hand unconsciously began rubbing at her other wrist. They continued to watch one another without speaking further.

  They were so similar in size and shape, the pair had to be father and son. The older looked like a version of the younger that had aged decades in an instant. He was gray and wore a sweat-stained trilby on his head. The skin of his face sagged, though his muscles were taut and defined. He held a hoe with the cane stalks while his son carried cane on one shoulder while grasping two koulin blades, each longer and thinner than machetes. The son was dressed like Prosper and had a nervous quality that made him look wispy and sad.

  She gave a meek nod as she left them, limping back down the hill toward Magdala’s. Despite the old man’s admonition, the scar in the rock wall did not leave her thoughts.

  When she was in view of the house, she heard Magdala call out.

  — I thought you’d left with Prosper. Magdala was still busying herself, this time pulling pebbles from rice in a shallow basket on her lap. She would not look at Libète directly. Betrayal underscored her words.

  Libète came close. No–I just went for a walk with him. He showed me Foche. We . . . had an argument. And he left.

  — If not for that boy’s mother . . .

  Libète stood there, biting her lip.

  — You’re back, then? Magdala said.

  — I’m back.

  — That’s good. Magdala gave a sad smile, relieving Libète. Magdala’s hands returned to their searching, and her mind to its heavy thoughts.

  Dorsinus was not to be seen. Only curled flakes of wood from his whittling lay where he’d been overnight. She glided over to Saint-Pierre, who was so very still, so very bored. The ass was tied to the mapou tree by a fraying rope, really just a few strands of sisal. He surely could have broken free if he wished to escape. Instead he stood there, dutifully, as his tail occasionally flicked at flies.

  She stepped close to meet the beast’s deep brown eyes. They seemed unflinching, and empty of will. She patted down his neck. She coughed twice, which startled Saint-Pierre, and she covered her mouth. Both of us are tied to this place, non? she whispered, regret tinging her smile.

  Saint-Pierre said nothing.

  Libète’s mind involuntarily dipped again into her well of fears.

  Engine’s growl before fierce roar

  Fire, white and hot

  Counting breaths before death

  Pulling herself back into the moment, she found herself gripping Saint-Pierre’s rope with all her strength. She moved inside, out of the beastly Sun, looking to busy her hands so that her mind might not wander.

  She decided to tidy what she could. She swept the shack with a small hand broom before noticing the small plate of spaghetti and ketchup, kept safe from flies under a red plastic cover. A glass of water had been left as well. Magdala had prepared them for her. I’m an ingrate, leaving without a word this morning. She sighed. She ate. She slept.

  A bell rang, reminiscent of the one back at school in Cité Soleil. Its location was indistinct as the sound echoed. She rose and looked outside, wondering if she had perhaps imagined the ringing like the distant drums the night before. By now the Sun was in retreat and the shadows stretched long, awaiting their chance to blend into dark and run free.

  She saw Magdala descending the hill, and the fear of being left alone claimed her.

  — Madanm Magdala! Can I come with you?

  The woman cocked her head. She wore a nice dress, a mellow blue. One probably meant for church. But it was only Wednesday. With that Libète remembered. Félix’s sentencing. Magdala nodded. Libète, rubbing her eyes, set off to follow.

  They walked along the road, Libète staying behind the woman as they passed homes and followed the sound of the bell. Some neighbors stared. Others looked away in displeasure. Yet others turned away out of something else–compassion? Libète hated the looks, all of them, until she realized they were directed at Magdala.

  — What shall I be to you, Madanm Magdala? Libète said abruptly, out of nowhere.

  — What’s that?

  — I must tell others who I am. Why I am here. They will ask, I’m afraid.

  — The truth, Magdala said absently. Why not just tell the truth?

  — Ah, but the truth–I told you–it’s no good. For you or for me.

  Magdala mumbled a few words. Libète realized her mind longed to be elsewhere, wandering the hills, maybe. Not ready to confront what they were plodding toward.

  — What if I’m a visitor? Libète said.

  — Yes, a visitor . . .

  — A family member? Maybe a niece?

  — A niece. That would be nice . . .

  They walked without speaking for some minutes.

  — I’m sorry to hear about Félix.

  The woman’s shoulders sank. I’m sorry too.

  — Do you want to talk about it?

  She shook her head. Libète was grateful. There was solace in things left unsaid, and in that solace, a bond.

  After ten minutes they approached the church that housed the sounding bell. The structure was deep and wide, built of spartan gray block and sheathed in rusted tin.

  They climbed a small hill and stood off from the threshold. The inside of the church looked dark, like a mouth ready to consume them.

  Magdala took a deep breath. Let’s go in, Sophia. My niece.

  She put her arm around Libète and the two walked in, no longer alone, but together.

  On the ride back to the school, Brown unsettles her and Jak. He blathers on his cell phone, discussing vacation plans to Puerto Rico, shaking with asthmatic laughter over a joke told by whoever was on the other end of the line. As though there isn’t a dead girl in the hospital.

  — Where’s Stephanie Martinette? Libète interrupted. Our guardian.

  — She’s been contacted, he said brusquely. He returned to his conversation. Libète’s hand found Jak’s. The boy squeezed back.

  The sky turned mackerel-colored as the Sun dropped from view. Brown turned off Route 9 and idled at the campus gate as Véus slid it back. As they drove through, Véus could not meet Libète’s eyes. The poor man. He blames himself.

  — Secure
them, Charles, Mr. Brown ordered. Charles cocked his head and gestured toward the children. Come along. Please. Won’t you?

  The children slid from the backseat and followed him.

  — Where are you taking us? Jak asked Charles.

  — I am . . . we’re going . . . ah.

  He marched them to a block of rooms on the school’s second floor. Libète couldn’t rouse herself to demand more of an answer; her thoughts were still lingering on the memories of Didi laid out, the sound of her parents’ grieving, the hospital’s antiseptic scent. Charles deposited Jak in one room and slid a chain through the door’s external handle and a padlock through the chain. He took her to another down the hall.

  Before entering, she saw Brown ascend the stairs. A renewed fierceness cut through her languor. Why are we being separated? she asked.

  — Safety, Brown replied. Charles pushed her in and closed the door. She heard the chain slip into place and a lock click shut.

  — Bah! she spat, and banged on the door. Though the room was an unused teacher’s apartment, it felt like a jail cell.

  They could have at least let Jak and me stay together. To commiserate. To mourn. To shake and tremble. She saw it so vividly: Jak in a quiet panic as he was shut in his room, as if being locked alive in a tomb.

  — Oh, God! Libète cried out. Didi. Poor, poor Didi. She prayed for her friend.

  Hours passed.

  She moved from the rigid chair in which she had been sitting and praying and laid on the room’s bed and cried into its pillow. Suddenly, the lock clicked and the chain fell and the door opened.

  — Manje, Charles said, entering. Eat. He deposited a steaming bowl of porridge on the floor and left. The bowl would remain there long after its dancing wisps of steam had vanished.

  A knock. It came from nowhere. Another rap.

  — Just leave me alone, you idiot! Libète shouted at Charles.

  Another knock. Charles I am not, a voice replied. You don’t know me.

  Libète recoiled. The voice was feminine.

  Rushing to the door, Libète pressed her ear against it. Who’s there? What do you want?

  — To talk. To you. I have questions.

  — About?

  — Lots of things. Didi. Notes. Poison. The voice paused. And numbers.

  Libète trembled.

  — I heard about the radio show, the voice said. I think I can help you. The words were smooth yet earnest; they compelled trust.

  — Who are you?

  There was another pause, a long one. A friend. Most assuredly a friend, she said. My name is Maxine.

  — Even if I wanted to open up, you can see the door is locked.

  — Ah. But I have the key.

  — Then why knock?

  — Respect, my friend. Respect. May I enter?

  Libète ran her hand over her plaits. Y-yes. Libète stood up straight. Yes, she repeated, with more certainty. The lock came undone, and Libète stepped back. Low light from the hallway limned the woman’s form as she slid in and closed the door.

  — The lights, Maxine asked. Must they be out? The dark is so uninviting.

  — No, Libète murmured. She slipped back to the bed, leaned against the wall, and pulled her legs to her chest.

  The woman glided over to a desk lamp and flicked it on. With a quick turn of the chair, she sat down. Woman and girl each took in the other.

  Face: Round, pretty, gold hoop earrings

  Skin: Mahogany

  Hair: Straight, cropped to shoulders

  Age: Middle

  Fashion: Impeccable

  Libète could not bring herself to look and assess the woman’s eyes.

  — So you’re the petit prophète, eh?

  The girl nodded. Maxine smiled, showing a beautiful set of teeth framed by lovely, wide lips. She wore a strapless dress that was patterned and smooth. She reached out her hand, and thin silver bangles sashayed around her wrist. Libète met the hand with her own, and shook it.

  — Now that we’re acquainted, you can call me Max. Friends do that.

  — I don’t understand what you want.

  — I know Brown. He asked me to come.

  Libète straightened, disdain on her face. You’re friends with him?

  Maxine’s cheek puffed as she thought. Let’s just say . . . he calls me ‘Madanm Maxine.’

  — What’s your game, then?

  — Game? I don’t play games. I’m a truth-seeker. A professional one. A question-asker. A digger.

  — A journalist? I’m not talking to the press. Not now.

  — I don’t deal in the written word, no.

  — What then?

  — Mwen se yon anketè. I’m an investigator. Of a type. She leaned forward. I find hidden things. Dig up truth.

  Libète’s brow arched.

  — I don’t usually disclose my clients. But I know I can trust you. Remember the Bellerive family’s kidnapped daughter?

  — Who was taken and tortured?

  Maxine nodded. Remember how she was mysteriously reclaimed and restored to the family?

  Libète nodded. Maxine smiled. Many cases are less dramatic. Unfaithful husbands. Unfaithful wives. My business runs on all types of unfaithfulness.

  — There’s no lack of faith in my situation.

  — But this is not business, my dear. I’m here talking to you for another reason.

  — Oh?

  — For justice.

  — And that means trying to find out who did this to Didi?

  Maxine nodded again. Libète’s eyes were hollow. Maxine clasped Libète’s wrist. I want to help. I’ve followed you. Your work.

  Libète pulled away.

  — The story behind your uncovering of Benoit’s crimes. Your skills at detection. Fine eyes for clues and reasoning to match. Your persistence is exemplary; a model for all in my field. Myself included. But more than this, you’re a voice worth listening to in a world of blah blah blah. Maxine smiled, reaching into a leather purse to withdraw a notepad and pen. She crossed her legs. The tension in Libète’s shoulders eased.

  This is a special woman.

  — I’ve spoken with Jak already. But I need more details. Everything you can give me to help me get started. The police, as you well know, are worthless creatures. Dogs chasing their own tails. No, I’m here to find out who did this to your friend, she paused. Who wanted to kill you and Jak. She scribbled on her pad, her face darkening. And to make sure they pay.

  Libète liked the sound of this. She moved to the edge of the bed. It’s obvious who it was, Libète whispered. Benoit.

  — Supposition is proof of nothing. Even if you’re right–which, I agree, is a very real possibility–supposition cannot stand in court. That’s partly why Benoit has skirted the law so far. Well, that and the bribes he’s paid. We need incontrovertible evidence.

  — There were two deliveries last night: a card in a nice envelope, and the sweets, dous makous.

  — Jak’s told me as much. You have them?

  — The card is in my bag. The dous, I don’t know what happened to them. At the football pitches, probably.

  Maxine patted her purse. I’ve already recovered them. They’ll be studied. Why do these ‘gifts’ get left for you?

  — People like me, I suppose. What I say. What I – she looked upward for some ephemeral word – represent. Ever since Benoit was arrested, since I started going on the radio and getting interviewed, similar gifts have flowed. Probably a few times a month. Mostly by ti machann, street vendors, from Cité Soleil. The occasional admiring boy. Véus, the guard, said two women dropped them off. But I’m sure now they were doing it for someone else.

  — Surely. Maxine scribbled furiously. Have you done anything recently that could make you a target?

  — Nothing out of the ordinary. Planning the rally, I suppose? Our community organizing? But there’s no obvious difference between this time a year ago and today. I’ve thought Benoit might take aim at us, but he’s under close
watch by the press, many of whom are my friends. It would be too obvious if something happened to me. We always assumed that was my shield.

  — And the card? Maxine read its message aloud. Stay away from the rally. Enemies are close. Odd.

  — It could have been a threat as easily as a warning. From friend or enemy, I don’t know.

  — Do you know anyone else who might target you?

  Libète shrugged. The former headmaster and teacher we got dismissed? Loan sharks we’ve outwitted in Bwa Nèf? René, the man who kidnapped me who went to prison? Different gangsters? She sighed. It’s a long list. But there’s no one I’ve been a threat to as much as Benoit.

  Maxine’s eyebrow peaked. And what of this radio program?

  — I don’t see how these things are related. The items came during the show, maybe even beforehand, from what Véus said.

  — I wasn’t able to listen to the program. But it sounded like some–interesting–things happened.

  Libète shook her head. I’d almost forgotten. There was a man. Who called in. He . . . he was killed. At least it sounded like it over the air. And he told us these . . . Numbers. Some men broke into the station afterward, roughed up the host, ruined the equipment while looking for a recording.

  — Jak mentioned the Numbers too. Any idea what they could be?

  — I don’t.

  — Do you know the digits?

  — No.

  — None at all?

  — I didn’t care last night. I had a lot on my mind. Jak knew – she stopped herself, not entirely sure why – some. Said he couldn’t remember them all. Maxine looked at her pad as she wrote. Libète shifted on her mattress, locking her arms in place.

  — You’re sure? Maxine asked.

  — I’m sure, Libète snapped.

  — Libète, I’m just trying to help. Maxine laid her pad down. You haven’t heard, then?

  Libète looked at her warily.

  — I . . . don’t think you understand exactly what’s happening here. Your story–and I believe every word you’ve said–is one version. But there’s another. One that’s already been picked up by some of the press. Maxine took a deep breath. Libète–you’re being . . . accused . . . of killing Didi.

  — But . . . how could anyone . . . She could not summon words.