Bad Juju (31 page)

“Stop it.  We don’t have time to bicker.  We’re going to find him.  Now quit blaming yourself.”

Tom nodded.  She was right about Haiti.  Hell, she was right about everything, especially when it came to Henry.  He just wished for once they could do regular things that families do.  Not that a mission was regular, but it was the closest thing to a vacation they had had since Henry’s birth.  He wished his son was like everyone else, but wishing was never going to change Henry, and wishing was why Henry was now gone.  And not an ‘I told you so’ was uttered from his wife.  He never realized it before, but Jess was too good for him. 
Oh God, forgive me.  Jessica needs her son.  We all need him.

Tom’s search party was the smallest, consisting of himself, Jessica, and a Haitian policeman, Officer Moliere.  All of the squads synchronize
d their radios while patrolling
the area.  Officer Moliere agreed to escort them through the nearby Haitian refugee camp.  There were at least 50,000 misplaced people living there, and they had seven squads armed with weapons and reams of Henry’s picture. 
A needle in a haystack.  But Henry was a really big, white, and tall needle
, hoped Tom.

The endless quilt of tents overwhelmed him.  They slowly passed out Henry’s picture to those who were awake.  Some looked terrified.  Tom confused this with guilt and came on strong.

“It’s okay.  They’re afraid because it’s late, I’m a cop, and you’re white.  Please quit being so intimidating, and let me do the talking,” the officer warned.

Time went by at warp speed.  The first rays of the sun came up and still nothing.  They were deep within the campground.  Up ahead they saw a Red Cross kiosk and stopped for water and a snack.  The lines were already forming.  While they took their break, Officer Moliere radioed the other policeman working with their search parties.  “Uh huh.  Sounds like an idea.  Hold on.  Tom, do you know Keith?  He said Henry was babbling on about Haiti all morning.  After you left he began talking about
houngans
and Voodoo.”

“Yeah.  That’s Henry.  He’s a walking encyclopedia,” Tom affirmed.

“Keith just thought after your son mentioned the Voodoo that maybe he took off to see a service.  Is Keith over-reaching?” reiterated the policeman.

“Oh, I could hug you!  No, not at all.  That makes perfect sense.  That’s how Henry’s mind works.  He can be so impulsive!” exclaimed Jessica.

“There’s at least a dozen
hounfours
set up in this campground.  It’s where many go to worship, like a temple or church.  So many were leveled during the earthquake. 
Houngans
and mambos set up circus-like tents over this camp, all designed to seat at least a hundred people.  These temporary tents are springing up to serve the community until the old
hounfours
can be rebuilt.  They’re easy to find.  This gives us something to go on instead of randomly walking around the camp,” advised Officer Moliere.  He was a young man, no more than twenty, but his dark eyes made him look older, wiser, and more cynical.  He finished his bagel and spoke French to the Haitians waiting in the Red Cross
line.  They pointed east.  “Okay, there’s one a few hundred meters away.  Let’s try to find it.  Remember, we are looking for big tents with flags.”

The policeman led them through the swarms of people.  Tom couldn’t help but notice a shoe and doll nailed to a tree.  “Officer Moliere, back there, what was that?”

“The poppet?  That with the shoe sends a message to the other worlds.  We’re close.  Look ahead, that’s it.  See the two flags staked out in front of the entrance flaps.  We should have started here first.  Whether your son wanted to see a Voodoo service or not, these
hounfours
are the nucleus of the community.  The
houngan
, mamba, or maybe even
bokor
act like their spokesman.  They usually know everything going on,” said Moliere.

“Already know about
houngans
and mambas.  Their priests, right?  But what about a
bokor
?” asked Jessica.

“Very much like a priest, but they have a specialty of black arts, how do you say, magic?  They conjure spells, that sort of thing.  Let’s go inside.  It’s alright
;
there are no services this early in the morning.”

They walked into the empty tent.  The officer motioned for them to sit down and wait.  Jessica and Tom looked around, and then looked at each other.  Their facial expressions gave away their opinions of the
hounfour
.  The inside was sparse
.  C
rosses hung from the metal poles
.  Card
tables were set up
next to
a
makeshift
altar.  The tables were littered with trivial items such as statues, baby dolls, food, worthless trinkets, and dried up flowers.  The altar was
clear with exception to a
glass of water and candles.  The smell was
both
familiar and putrid, making both Tom and Jessica scrunch their noses in discomfort.

Minutes later, an old man draped in white linen entered the tent.  “What’s this about?” he asked Officer Moliere.

The officer quickly brought the
houngan
up to speed by showing him a picture of Henry.  “Can I leave you a stack to pass out to your parish?”

“Of course.  I will pray to
Legba
that your son is returned.  Missionaries, right?  Thank you for coming here to help rebuild this poor country,” the
houngan
said, partially bowing to Tom.

After leaving the tent and being away from hearing distance, they bombarded Officer Moliere with questions.  The young man smiled at their ignorance.  “That smell was animal’s blood.  Live animals are used for sacrifice.  And the stuff on the tables?  Offerings to the
loas
or spirits. 
Bondye
is to Voodoo like God is to Christianity.  The altar is simple and made for
Legba
.  He’s
Bondye’s
gatekeeper.  Like your St. Peter, perhaps?  There is a lot of overlap between Voodoo and Catholicism.  The
houngan
showed you gratitude and respect when he bowed.  Next time you might want to bow back.  We all want to find your son.  Mainly for selfish reasons.  This country can’t afford the bad publicity.  It will scare
off
you fine folks, and you won’t come and help.  You probably don’t think a lot of policemen are working on your son’s case, but there’s about seven of us working on it through rotating twelve hour shifts.  That’s fourteen men total.  Thirteen more than a citizen would get.  These
hounfours
will nail it down for us.  Don’t worry.  We’re going to find him.”  The officer’s radio chirped garbled speech from too many people talking at once.  “Officer Moliere.  One at a time, please.  Uh huh.  Copy that.”

“Listen, we appreciate everything your government is doing for us.  I didn’t mean to be disrespectful back there…” Tom apologized. 

“I know.  Just our ways.  My shift has been over for some time.  Officer
DuBois
will relieve me in a few minutes.  He’s looking for us right now.  While he’s looking, he’s passing out more pictures of your son.  I’ll be back to work by 10 p.m.  Some of your other rescue squads went back to your own campsite for a few hours of sleep.  I suggest you do the same.  If not, Officer
DuBois
will take you to the
houngans
.  As the shift changes, the other six policeman will continue searching the
hounfours
in the Port-au-Prince area.  Your volunteer squads need to let us know where they search.  Have them call us on the radio for updates.  Now here’s Officer
DuBois
.”

Officer
DuBois
escorted them to several more
hounfours
throughout the camp.  They feared their efforts were turning into a wild goose chase.  Now, past dinnertime, both Tom and Jessica needed to rest.  They went back to their own camp, checked on Natalie, and fell into a deep R.E.M.  What seemed like minutes of sleep were actually hours until Tom abruptly had water poured onto his face. 

“It’s me, Keith.  Sorry Tom, but you wouldn’t wake up.  You’ve
gotta
go to the police station in Port-au-Prince.  I’ll take you,” he whispered.

“Is it Henry?” asked Tom, now wide awake.  Jessica lay next to him and began to stir.  “Why are you whispering?  Shouldn’t you be pouring water on her face too?”

“They think it’s Henry.  You need to go down there.”

“What do you mean
think
?  Henry knows his name.  What aren’t you telling me?  Is he dead?  Am I identifying my son’s body?”

“No, he’s alive!  But he’s not talking.  Catatonic was the word the police woman used.  And he’s been injured.”

Tom sprang out of bed, leaving Jessica asleep.  He wanted to bring Henry back to her, alleviate his guilt for losing the boy in the first place.  Plus, he worried about her reaction to his injuries.  At 2:00 a.m. Tom and Keith sped off in the campsite’s communal Jeep to the Port-au-Prince police station.
  A half an hour later they found the address.

The building was one of the few still usable after the earthquake.  Several windows blown out and part of the parking lot caved in, but Keith still found a decent space to park.

Once inside Officer
DuBois
was called to the reception area to greet them.
 
“Hi, Mr. Novak.”  Tom nodded.  “We think it’s him.  He won’t speak right now.  He has some unexplained bruises, lacerations, a swollen ankle…but otherwise he’s physically fine.  Come with me.  I want you to look at the boy through the glass and confirm it’s him.”

Tom and Keith followed the policeman down a long corridor.  Walls were cracked, floor boards were buckled, and the scent of mildew filled the air.  Tom suspected the place was just as seedy before the earthquake.  Once the cop pointed to the room, Tom peered through the glass insert of the door.  It was definitely Henry.

“That’s my son,” Tom choked out.  He saw his purple cheekbone and blackened eye.  His arms were scratched and bloodied, and his ankle had an ice pack taped to it.  Henry sat at a small table with a vacuous expression, unaware of his surroundings.  Tom sobbed. 
What the hell happened?

“Officer, where did you find him?” Keith asked.

“A few blocks away
from here.  One
of our officers saw him staggering down a main street,” said Officer
DuBois
.

“Away from or toward the camp?” Keith again asked.

Tom wanted to ask the same questions but had trouble articulating.

“
Don’t know. 
He was found here in the city.  He seemed oblivious to where he was going.  He won’t talk.  He’s big.  And white.  He stood out.”

“
Shouldn’t he be in a hospital?
” Tom sputtered out.

“Our
main
hospital, as you know, was destroyed during the quake.  We have some medical clinics scattered throughout the area.  You and your people built some of them.  They are so busy right now.  Your son’s injuries are not serious enough to treat,” answered Officer
DuBois
.

“So we can take him back to our camp?  And then go home?” Tom confirmed.

“As you wish, Mr. Novak,” said Officer
DuBois
.

The young policeman left the hallway allowing Tom and Keith alone time with Henry.  Both men entered the room, and Henry didn’t flinch.  He continued staring at the institutionalized green wall full of cracks and peeling chunks of concrete.

Tom pulled up a flimsy chair and sat down next to Henry.  “Son, everything is going to be alright.  We’re going home.”

Still mute, Henry robotically got up from his seat and pushed in his chair, allowing Tom to lead him out of the room.  He limped on his right leg where the ice pack was taped.  Tom tried to steady him by putting Henry’s arm around his shoulder, but Henry was skittish.  He acted as if he didn’t know his own father and limped down the hallway to the exit.  Officer
DuBois
gave Tom a clipboard of release papers before they could leave.

“My son is acting like a zombie!  You must know something!” yelled Tom.

Officer
DuBois
gave Tom a cold glare, and then said, “Haiti can be a scary place to those who are not from here.  Best go home and try to forget.  Sorry this had to happen while you were doing good for our country.”

“So that’s it?  Case closed?  Get the fuck out of Haiti…”

“Tom, let’s go,” Keith interrupted.

Officer
DuBois
looked down at the floor.  Eye contact had become difficult.  “I have all of your information right here.  If we get a lead, we will immediately contact you back in the States.  I’m sorry about your stay.”

“This is bullshit!  You know something!” Tom shrieked, lunging towards the cop.  “Please tell me what you think might have happened.  I deserve a fucking theory, at least!”