American Tropic (12 page)

In the jungle-thick garden behind Zoe’s two-story house, insects chirp and frogs croak in the dense foliage. The insects and frogs suddenly fall silent as oncoming footsteps sound. A person’s heavy breathing wafts through the air.

A light inside Zoe’s house goes on from the second-story bedroom facing the garden. Through the bedroom’s open window, golden lamplight illuminates her as she hurriedly undresses. She stands naked for a moment, then quickly slips on a silk robe. A sudden gust of wind bangs the wooden plantation shutters against the sides of her bedroom window. She leans out from the window and grabs the wooden shutters. She is caught framed by light behind her; the wind blows her hair and flutters her silk robe. Her robe falls open, exposing the swing of her breasts. She grabs the open robe and pulls it tightly together. She slams the shutters closed.

In the garden, wind rustles the jungle foliage. The noise of insects and frogs starts again. Thunder rumbles overhead; lightning bolts crack the darkness and expose in the garden the upturned body of a Cuban death’s-head palmetto roach. Red fire ants swirl up from the earth around the brown-crusted hoary creature and begin devouring its multitude of legs flailing hopelessly. Rain shoots down from the sky.

R
ain slashes onto Pat’s boat, anchored at the shrimping-boat dock. Pat, belowdecks, in a narrow berth, tosses and turns in her sleep. The rain above awakens her. Illuminated numbers on a digital clock next to her glow: 4:02.

A clanging bang from the deck above startles her. She jumps out of the berth and pulls on her clothes. She grabs a flashlight and a sharp fish-boning knife. She shines the beam before her as she climbs the spiral galley ladder to the top deck and steps cautiously out into the rain. She aims the beam in the darkness. The beam illuminates a long rope from the mainmast that was ripped loose by the wind and dangles down. At the rope’s end is a steel pulley, clanging against the deck.

Pat struggles to secure the rope back to the mast in the wind and rain. She ties the rope down, then shines the beam around the boat again. Nothing seems wrong, she goes below. Rain continues to pound on the empty deck.

On the side of Pat’s boat, at the waterline, next to the heavy iron anchor chain, the skull head of a black-and-white-rubber-encased skeleton emerges from the water. The head turns slowly, revealing an iridescent skeleton face with two deep black eye sockets. Hard rain drums on the skeleton’s face.

The skeleton’s black-rubber-gloved fingers rise from the water and grab the anchor chain. The skeleton pulls out of the water, climbs hand over hand up the length of
the anchor chain, and stands upright on the deck of the boat. Slung over the skeleton’s shoulder is a speargun. The rain beats on the skeleton as it moves stealthily across the wet deck. It stops before the closed galley door leading belowdecks. The skeleton does not move. It waits. The rain whips harder, thwacking against the skeleton’s tight rubber suit. The skeleton’s bony-fingered rubber hand reaches out slowly and clutches the latch of the galley door. It slides the door back, steps silently through the opening, and closes the door behind.

Halfway down the inside galley spiral ladder leading belowdecks, the flash of a thrown knife whirs past the descending skeleton. The tip of the knife’s blade drives deep into the wood wall behind the skeleton’s skull. The skeleton peers from its deep eye sockets into the surrounding darkness. Out of the darkness Pat appears, her breath bursting in a war-cry as she runs, swinging the barbed hook of a gaffing pole before her with a muscular hurl. The skeleton dives into the shadows. Pat’s gaffing pole swipes through the air, its flashing steel hooks seeking their target.

On the boat’s deck above, the wind howls in the rigging and around the tall mast. The wind picks up velocity; its howl becomes a high-pitched sound like screaming, screaming lost to all ears in the fury of a raging storm.

T
he morning glare exposes the shrimping-boat dock blocked off by police cars and yellow crime-scene tape; screeching seagulls circle above. On the deck of Pat’s boat, a team of latex-gloved investigators work methodically, gathering evidence. Among them are Luz and the Police Chief, scrutinizing a red
X
spray-painted on the deck’s plank flooring. The Chief glances at Luz with a look of dismay. “I was hoping Bizango had moved on.”

Luz stares at the boat’s boom net extended over the water. “No such luck. He’s back in business.” Tangled inside the net hanging from the boom is Pat’s naked, bloody body. A steel spear is pierced between her breasts, through her chest, and out her back. Her ears have been cut off. Her lifeless lips are closed shut by the sharp barbed metal points of J-hooks.

The Chief shakes his head. “Only thing different with Bizango’s MO this time is, he closed the mouth with J-hooks, not fishing line. Why J-hooks?”

“Could be simple. Could be that’s all he had.”

“J-hooks, for Christ’s sake. I still don’t get it.”

A rowboat in the water below the boom glides under the net weighted with Pat’s body. A police photographer in the boat aims his camera up and rapid-fires pictures through a zoom lens.

The Chief looks at the seagulls above, diving in downward swoops toward the mutilated body in the net. “Why Pat? She’s not involved with Neptune Bay Resort.”

“No rhyme or reason. Bizango must be—”

Loud shouting and banging come from belowdecks.
Luz and the Chief run to the open hatch doorway leading below. They pull their guns and climb down the spiral ladder into the galley. They look around; the galley is deserted. They hurry through a low opening into the engine room. Next to a maze of greasy valves, pistons, and pipes stands Moxel, holding a gun to the head of the Haitian boy Rimbaud.

Moxel triumphantly announces, “Found this monkey hiding here.”

Rimbaud’s fatigued red eyes are terrified, his clothes dirty and ragged; his body is thin from lack of food.

The Chief rushes to Rimbaud. “What did you do to the white woman? How long have you been hiding on her boat?”

Rimbaud is too frightened to answer. He looks with pleading wide eyes at Luz.

Luz steps close to Rimbaud and speaks in a calm voice. “Son, what’s your name?”

Rimbaud bites his trembling lip and doesn’t answer.

“Son, I promise I won’t let them hurt you. Who are you?”

Rimbaud’s words blurt out in French to Luz. “Protect me! I saw a Bizango. Don’t let Bizango kill me.”

The Chief looks at Luz. “What’s he saying?”

Moxel shouts. “Yeah, what’s the monkey’s alibi!”

Luz shakes her head. “I don’t know what he’s saying. He seems to be speaking French. All I understand is the word ‘Bizango.’ ”

The Chief orders Luz, “Lock him up and get him an interpreter. I want answers.”

Moxel unhooks the steel handcuffs dangling from his
belt. He grabs Rimbaud’s thin arms and roughly shackles the boy’s hands behind his back. He pushes the boy forward with a proud nod at the Chief and Luz. “I’ll book him. It was me. I got Bizango. I got the serial killer.”

L
uz paces back and forth impatiently at the end of a long corridor in the Detention Center. A uniformed and armed guard marches to her with Rimbaud. The boy’s head is shaved; his skinny body looks lost in a bright-orange prisoner jumpsuit; his hands are cuffed.

The guard speaks to Luz quickly, with irritation: “Where’s the interpreter? He’s supposed to be here to get the prisoner’s statement.”

“Don’t worry. He’s coming. Take the handcuffs off the boy.”

“No way. He’s a murder suspect.”

Luz sees Noah, dressed in his rumpled seersucker suit, weaving drunkenly up the corridor. He stops in front of her and raises his hand in a salute. “French interpreter, reporting for duty, sir.”

Luz stiffens with anger. “Sober up! This kid’s being accused of murder! You’ve got a job to do!”

Noah turns and recognizes the shaven-head prisoner in the orange jumpsuit. He blurts out a laugh. “Rimbaud! He’s no murderer. You’ve got to be kidding. The kid is harmless. What kind of bullshit is this?”

The guard sniffs the rum scent of Noah’s breath. “It’s no bullshit, buddy. You have thirty minutes to get the prisoner’s statement before he’s locked up again.”

Noah tilts on wobbly legs. “A whole thirty minutes, how generous. With that much time I can get his entire life story and also read him
Moby-Dick
.”

The guard takes Rimbaud by the arm and pulls him across the hall. He shoves Rimbaud through an open doorway into a windowless room, then looks back at Noah. “You’re wasting time. Now you only have twenty-nine minutes. Get in here.”

Noah walks across the hall and steps inside the room. The guard walks out and shuts the door behind him.

Noah and Rimbaud sit across from each other at a bare table. Rimbaud’s bony jaw is set; his lips are clamped shut.

Noah takes out a black micro–digital recorder from his coat pocket. He sets the recorder on the table, turns it on, and speaks to Rimbaud in French. “I’m glad you’re alive. I’d given up hope. Why did you leave my boat the night of the Shrimp Fleet Blessing?”

Rimbaud’s eyes turn down. He stares at the bare wood surface of the table and doesn’t answer.

Noah slips out a pint bottle of rum from his other coat pocket. He takes a swallow and sets the bottle next to the micro-recorder. “Rimbaud, help me out. They’re holding you for murder. Why did you leave my boat? You were safe there.”

Rimbaud keeps staring at the tabletop. With his index finger, he traces out on the table’s surface an invisible spiraling circle.

“Listen, kid, I know what you’ve been through. You escaped the misery of Haiti and drifted on a rickety raft
seven hundred miles in shark-infested waters to make it to this promised land. You lost your home, your family, everything, the same old sad story. There’s nothing going to change the sad story unless you let me help you. Tell me, why did you leave my boat?”

Rimbaud’s head snaps up, his eyes wild with fear, his French words shrill. “To save myself! I jumped from your boat because the sky was exploding with fire!”

“The sky exploding? What do you mean? Ah, the celebration fireworks that were being shot off that night. It never occurred to me you’d never seen fireworks before. No wonder it scared the hell out of you.” Noah urges Rimbaud on with another question. “What happened after you left my boat?”

Rimbaud squirms, trying to make himself smaller inside his oversized orange jumpsuit. His words come out slowly. “I hid … on different … boats.”

“So that’s why you were on Pat’s boat.”

“Pat?”

“The woman whose boat you were found on.”

A loud knock raps on the closed door. From behind the door, the guard’s voice shouts, “Be quick. Hurry up.”

Noah looks directly into Rimbaud’s eyes. “Did you kill Pat?”

Rimbaud moves forward in his chair. He speaks in a low voice, afraid of being overheard.

Noah leans in, struggling to hear the barely audible words coming from Rimbaud’s trembling lips.

“One night, a skeleton rose from the dead. I was hiding, and I saw it with my own eyes. I saw Bizango.”