Lost Girls (18 page)

The room was dark and heavy with cigar smoke. Brocaded drapes tied with golden sashes framed a vista of sun-scorched foothills. Bedard looked out over the Mornes, then down at the guards by the helicopter on the lawn of the compound. His neck was heavily bandaged and he’d picked up the habit of touching his throat each time he talked.

The chairs were tooled mahogany, covered with calfskin from Argentina and inlaid with gold. The Polish girl, Aleksandra, sat behind him on a leather divan. She was naked, hunched over, eyes barely open. Her hair and body were clean but black and blue, broken blood vessels nearly hiding the grinning death’s-head tattoo on her cheek. She turned her head to look up at him, eyes hollow, glassy pupils large as dimes.

Bedard looked at her battered face and then pushed an intercom button by his knee.

“Yes, Commandeur?” The woman spoke in French.

“My bodyguard will be joining me for dinner.”

“Oui,”
the woman said obediently.

Bedard looked down upon the shadows of the mansion’s many spires.

There was a knock at the door.

“Commandeur?”

Aleksandra turned her head to squint at the man entering the room. She grinned foolishly, her mouth partially open, gums black and bloody. When she closed it again her lips shriveled around her mouth. She looked down at her naked body, shaking her head from side to side.

“What did you learn?” Bedard asked, putting two fingers across his Adam’s apple. His voice was hoarse and low. He had been worrying about the FBI coming to Haiti ever since Jill Bishop was found at sea. Worried that once her body was identified, the Americans would convince Haiti’s president to allow FBI investigators on the island.

“Interpol wants the colonel to escort two women to the village of Tiburon. They are both Americans.”

Bedard’s eyes widened. “FBI?”

Matteo the bodyguard shrugged. “I don’t think so. Colonel Deaken says he is supposed to escort them to Tiburon harbor and back. The visit sounded unofficial, he said, but one of the women is Carol Bishop.”

Bedard closed his eye, touching his throat lightly. “So they know.”

“It would seem, Commandeur.”

“Why Tiburon?”

“They want to visit the dead man Pioche.”

“Which means they also know he was here.” Bedard pounded the windowsill.

“If they knew, Commandeur, the body wouldn’t matter to them.”

Bedard nodded. “Perhaps they are looking for evidence. Something from the body, or maybe they want to question the widow. They are looking for something to lead them here. Who is the other woman?”

“Her name is Sherry Moore.”

“She will be a forensics person, an FBI scientist,” Bedard said. “When will they be here?”

“Late tomorrow night.”

“Tell the colonel to do as they ask. We will meet them in Tiburon and remind the colonel that his wife and daughters are still our guests, if he needs further persuasion.”

There was a knock at the door before it opened. A servant carried a tray to a table and placed the tray on the white linen. Food was dished, wine was poured, candles were lit, and the servant was gone.

Bedard walked to the dining table and picked up a glass of wine.

“Our last ship is approaching the Caicos Islands from Ukraine. It will meet a Colombian fishing trawler and transfer the women at sea.”

“And then?”

“She will dock in Port-au-Prince, the hulls will be scorched and the ship and her papers will be turned over to a captain from Venezuela. Funds for the remaining nine vessels will be transferred to a Cayman account.”

Bedard looked around the room, taking it all in. He would not miss Contestus. No more than he would miss the land he was born in. He had no regrets. Bedard had been a man for his time, a man for Papa Doc Duvalier’s time. His edict, as simple as the dictator’s political agenda, was to use the power of superstition and terror against the people. Plunder the nation’s wealth, shock dissenters into obedience. He had been judge, jury, and executioner all wrapped up in one.

Now Papa Doc and Thiago Mendoza were in their graves. There was nothing left of Haiti for him.

Bedard walked to the divan, leaned over, and gestured to the girl. Aleksandra flinched, then looked up, trying to focus. She managed to use the coffee table to support her upper body and crawl off the couch to her knees.

“Eat,” he told his bodyguard. He lifted his glass and drank from it, wine dribbling down his chin, staining the white bandage a bloody red.

“I’ll join you in a minute.”

S
ANTO
D
OMINGO
, D
OMINICAN
R
EPUBLIC

The air conditioner was malfunctioning in the old Airbus A310. Hacking coughs ensured that a percentage of the ninety-odd passengers onboard were going to come down with a virus. Then everyone’s luggage was held at Las Américas International in the Dominican Republic at the insistence of a drug-sniffing dog.

When Sherry arrived at the Renaissance she knew immediately why Carol Bishop had chosen it. The public areas were busy. Marble walls echoed the mélange of languages from all over the world. There were Germans, Japanese, French, and Swiss. They moved in waves between the smells of eateries and perfume shops, casinos and spas. There was a rush of energy in the resort, bell captains calling out to cabs and pushing noisy luggage carts, car doors being opened and closed.

People who came to places like the Renaissance wanted nothing but to drink and gamble the week away. They wanted nothing of the world’s bad news, and the hotel staff was trained to insulate them from it. No one would give them a second look in a place like the Renaissance. If it was supposed to be hiding, it was hiding before someone’s very eyes.

Sherry parted with Carol at her tenth-floor room.

She showered and lay down on the bed, thinking how she’d let Brigham down. She knew of course he didn’t approve of her going into Haiti and was only somewhat mollified when he learned the police colonel would be meeting and escorting them across the country. Brigham was the only person in the world whom Sherry would allow to dote over her, and that was because it was far more about pleasing him than her. Now she felt as though she’d abandoned him after talking him into coming along with her in the first place. Brigham had classes tomorrow. He would have to make special arrangements to have them covered. If only he was capable of relaxing and having fun.

Sherry smiled.

Fun…What a strange thing to think, but Sherry had never associated the word with Garland Brigham. They just didn’t seem to quite go together. Brigham could be said to be content or even delighted, but never to be having fun.

Her thoughts led her to wonder what Brigham’s former life in the navy was like. He’d retired only months before she moved into the house next to him, a stone behemoth on the shore of the Delaware River. He had obviously distinguished himself in the navy—you didn’t make admiral quietly—but how she had no idea. She knew almost nothing of his life before retirement. It was difficult to imagine another side of him, a boy who drilled and bunked with other men and women, then a man in charge of whole navy fleets. He must have made friends who were important to him over the years, more than just his monthly breakfast club that he referred to as his old man’s club.

When he invited her to the rare holiday party at the university, she would always find him in the library or out on the patio with a cigar, just about anywhere he could avoid the crowd. He might have commanded fleets but he was hardly what anyone might refer to as a mover and shaker. He was far too subtle for that. So then how had this quiet man ascended the ranks without being noticed?

She was nervous about going into Haiti. For all she had tried to make it sound harmless, she understood the gravity of the situation. Carol Bishop might not be so rational. Carol, who was driven entirely by thoughts of her daughter’s last days, would have stormed the very building her daughter had been held hostage in if she had a clue as to where it was. Sherry’s motivation to enter Haiti was more about the guilt she’d have to live with if she didn’t. It would have been too easy to walk away. To let Interpol use Jill Bishop’s body to try and find its own way into Haiti. Except that no one was going to do that. Not anytime soon. Certainly not in time to save lives.

It was ninety-two degrees when Sherry and Carol Bishop boarded a bus bound for Haiti. Sherry, in a rare reversal of character, made it obvious that she was blind, using her cane and Carol’s arm way too much. Sherry wore a visor that was pulled low to conceal her forehead, and her long chestnut hair was braided into two unflattering pigtails. Carol Bishop wore a shapeless dress, with pockets, maps, and a cheap drugstore camera visible to anyone who looked. She had applied gobs of white zinc to her nose and cheeks, and her face was all but covered with a floppy straw hat. They looked the part of tourists, stumbling blindly wherever their passports took them, oblivious to any dangers around them.

The bus barely stopped for a minute at the border crossing; one policeman made a show of studying the driver’s manifest while another yelled “Papers!” as he walked up and down the aisle. Papers were waved in the air, the two policemen got off the bus, and then they were moving again. Nothing was going to stop them now, Sherry thought. They were really going to do this.

Six hours later they were approaching the capital city. Haiti had the atmosphere of a country on the verge of civil war, alleys teeming with paupers, mobs roaming the sidewalks and streets.

They departed the bus and found Les Bonnes Nouvelles, a boutique hotel on Rigaud Street in Pétionville. Inside, Carol led them to a smoky pub with a dozen antique tables.

The room was nearly full. There would be doctors and volunteer aid workers, teachers and engineers. There would be reporters and diplomats and no doubt arms dealers and drug smugglers and cash couriers, and greedy politicians.

Carol scanned the room for anyone overly interested in them, but found no one. Not the well-to-do Africans with their whiskeys and Cuban cigars, not the white-haired grandma with her cigarette and plastic bag on the table in front of her. Not the sleek young Italians with their first-year-intern smiles. Not the smarmy middle-aged American wearing a Panama hat or the trio of Europeans with long cigarettes, one of them pressing his briefcase against the table leg with a shoe to ensure it never moved.

A man entered the bar through the lobby door of the hotel. He was dark-complexioned, in his mid-thirties, dressed casually in designer jeans and jeans jacket over a Miami Dolphins T-shirt. He looked around the room, then at their table in the corner. The man started making his way toward them.

“He’s here,” Carol whispered, rising to her feet.

“Colonel Deaken?” she asked softly, putting out a hand.

Deaken nodded, shook the hand, and walked to a seat in a corner facing the door. A fire exit behind him had a sign across it:
SANS ISSUE
.

“Mrs. Moore?” He reached for Sherry’s hand.

“Miss,” she said.

“I know of Mrs. Bishop,” he said tiredly, “but you are?” His voice was friendly enough, but the question seemed abrupt.

“I’m a spiritual friend of Mrs. Bishop’s.”

“Spiritual,” he said, looking at her oddly. “Like a priest or a minister.”

“Something more mystical, I would say.”

“And you want to meet the wife of the murdered man found in Tiburon.”

“We were hoping to convince the dead man’s widow to let us pay our respects to the body,” Sherry clarified. “As you know, this man might have seen Mrs. Bishop’s daughter before he was killed.”

“Our people are mostly voudon, Mrs. Bishop. If the body is being cleansed by a priest, they may not let you near it.”

“We can at least convey our regrets to the widow.”

“Yes,” he said. “I told Interpol I would try.

“I’m sorry, Miss Moore,” the colonel said hesitantly, “but you have a problem with your sight, yes?”

“I do,” she said, cheerfully. “I am blind, Colonel.”

Something told Sherry he already knew.

The colonel clasped his hands together. “The village of Tiburon is to the extreme southwest. There is one road to it from Les Cayes that follows our southern coastline. It is susceptible to mudslides and washouts this time of year, but the government keeps it maintained for the most part. President Préval has made a pledge to the advancement of safe tourism in Haiti.” He hinted at sarcasm. “If we leave now we will reach Tiburon before midnight.”

“Just let me use the ladies’ room and make a call,” Sherry said.

Aleksandra sat in the dirt, staring at the wooden door of her cell. She was alone now. All the other cells were empty.

They would kill her soon. She knew what the man drilling holes was going to do. She had seen the demolition of bridges and caves in Afghanistan when she was still in the army. She knew too that Bedard was enjoying all this.

The day she had arrived at the castle, Aleksandra had managed to disarm one of Bedard’s guards when they were pulling her from the truck. She’d gotten an arm around the man’s neck and shoved the barrel of his pistol under his chin, and was backing away from the others toward the fence when Bedard stepped past his men.

The others were immobilized, rifles wavering, not knowing what to do.

Bedard simply pulled his pistol and shot the guard who was shielding her. As the weight of the dead man’s body slipped from her grasp, the others raised rifles and Bedard walked up to her and took the gun from her hand.

Aleksandra counted that moment as the biggest mistake of her life. She should have shot him. If she’d known then what she knew now, she would have emptied the clip in him and gladly sacrificed her life doing it.

Bedard had her taken to the red room afterward, the first of many experiences in the chair in the months to come. The more she hid her pain, the more he seemed to enjoy torturing her. It became a contest of wills. A challenge of who was in control of the situation. He vowed to her then and there she would die a slow death. That he intended her to suffer the knowledge that he was master and he alone would choose the time and place she would die. She knew he enjoyed the idea of letting her think about the explosion.

As a young woman she could not have imagined this fate. None of them could have. It was too much to believe that men could be so evil.

She remembered the day Bedard shot the man in green pants and left him to die outside their door. Poor Jill Bishop had not known what was going on. Aleksandra was terrified that they were going to kill them both. But Bedard had read the note with her name on it—before he stuffed it in the dead man’s mouth—and took her to the red room and strapped her to the chair. And he raped her every orifice with an electric cattle prod until she passed out.

She remembered the fiery sting of ammonia swabs stuck up her nose, her burning eyes. She remembered the unwelcome feeling of regaining consciousness, she knew that what awaited her above this plateau of semi-awareness was not good.

Then something felt as if it had detached from the center of her being, and it came rising through her pain-racked body toward her head, collecting all the good in her before it took flight and this thing she imagined was her soul, the best of her memories and talents and deeds.

Bedard shook her, laid his ear to her lips, thinking he might at last have gone too far. But the thing rising through Aleksandra was not her soul, it was her spirit, and with every ounce of remaining energy she lunged and sank her teeth into his neck, tearing flesh to get at his carotid artery.

Bedard managed to pull himself away in time, but she took meat and plenty of it. The one-eyed man stumbled away from her. She could sense his alarm, hands to his throat as he went for the door. It was an hour before he returned, his neck completely wrapped in heavy gauze. He had brought vise grips with him and she remembered screaming as he shoved harsh ammonia swabs up her nose and then began to take out her teeth one by one. Bedard did not want her to pass out again. He would not let her miss a moment of the pain. After that, Aleksandra was no longer allowed to stand in Bedard’s presence. He made her crawl on all fours like a dog everywhere she went. He had given her to all the men in the compound. He told her he knew she wanted to die, but he was still master of her fate.

She was weak. She could only eat bread soaked in water.

But Aleksandra was still alive and Bedard was still wrong.

She did not want to die. She wanted to kill him.

It would have been so easy to let go. But every time she considered it she thought about Jill and the red-haired girl on the ship and all the other women who had endured this cellar. She knew there were bodies here too. She remembered the nights the trucks had come and gone. She had heard the women’s whimpers and soft voices from the air vent in her cell. She had heard them being brought into the cellar and she had heard their screams from the red room. But she also remembered the nights when the trucks came and there was nothing but silence. The men unloading at the door, carrying their burdens deep into the recesses of the old castle’s foundation. The next day the guards would come with bags of lime on hand trucks.

Whatever had prompted the traffickers to abandon this place, she couldn’t know. Not for sure. But she had a feeling that young Jill Bishop’s kidnapping had much to do with it. The backlash of Bishop’s disappearance might have been more than the traffickers anticipated.

It was a small consolation, she thought, the traffickers would only move to another location, but she wished at least that Jill might have known she was responsible for closing this horrible compound down.

Aleksandra looked around the cell and thought about the explosives being placed throughout the cellar. She worried for her friend Jill, but at the same time was glad that she was gone. At least the young girl would live to see another day.