Bob Morris_Zack Chasteen 02 (18 page)

The dog gave me one last malevolent look, then returned to the cool dirt under the porch, sighing as it circled and lay down. The old woman kept squinting in my direction, looking from side to side.

“Who you?” she said. “Talk at me!”

“I’m Zack Chasteen, ma’am,” I said, and she zeroed in on me. Then her eyes wandered. She was blind.

“You a white man?” she said.

“Uh-huh. Yes, ma’am.”

“What you want?”

She had me there. I didn’t know what I wanted. And I was thinking I should maybe just slink quietly back to the car and drive away when she said: “You that same white man was out here before, snooping around?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “When was that?”

“Few weeks back. I was off to church. One of the neighbors seen him. I told my daughter about it. She the one got me this dog.”

“Some dog,” I said.

“What you want?”

I’ve always found that when dealing with old women, especially big old blind women with big mean dogs, honesty is the absolute best policy.

“I’m trying to find who killed my friend,” I said.

“What friend’s that?”

So I told her the story about the bomb at the airport. She’d heard about it on television. And I told her about finding Monk’s daybook with her address in it.

“Don’t know why my house would be in some dead white man’s book,” she said.

“Neither do I, ma’am. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

She was looking straight at me now.

“It hot out there?”

“Yes, ma’am, it’s real hot.”

“Well, come sit up in the shade of the porch,” she said.

I reached for the gate. The dog growled.

“Hesh up, Tiny,” the woman said.

She told me to sit down while she went inside the house. I planted myself in one of the rocking chairs. She came back out a few minutes later with a glass of water and handed it to me.

She took the chair beside me, placed a hand on my arm, squeezed it, then worked her way up to my shoulder, across to my chest, then back to my arm. She kept her hand there.

“You stout,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’ve heard that.”

“Stout man’s a good man. Stout woman, too.”

I sipped the water and rocked in the chair.

“You seen our river?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. Saw it on the way in. Nice river.”

“Nicest river in all Jamaica. You know the story of its name?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t.”

“Long time ago, before they brought the first slaves here even, back during the Spanish, there was this Indian princess, this Arawak, and her name was Martha Brae.”

“So there really was a Martha Brae?”

“Oh yeah, and she was something. She knew the secret of the river, knew where it kept its gold.”

“Gold?”

“Uh-huh, this river used to have a cave filled with gold and Martha Brae she was the only one knew how to find it. The Spanish they came marching in and they grabbed Martha Brae and they told her she had to show them the cave of gold. So she took them straight to it. And soon as they got inside the cave, while those Spanish were busy looking at all the gold, Martha Brae she said her words.”

“What words?”

“Her secret words, powerful words, words that changed the course of that river so it threw a big boulder up to seal the mouth of that cave and locked them all inside.”

“Martha Brae, too?”

“Uh-huh, she died right there with ’em, just so those Spanish couldn’t carry away all that gold.”

“Quite a woman that Martha Brae.”

“Yes, she was. Strong woman. That’s why I named my daughter after her. That’s her place in the back, although she’s hardly ever here.”

“Your daughter’s named Martha, too?”

The old woman nodded.

“Her middle name, but she doesn’t go by it. She goes by her first name—Kenya.”

“Kenya Oompong?” I said.

The initials in the daybook—K.O. Man, how thick could I be?

The old woman turned her head my way.

“Why, yes. Our surname be Freeman, but Kenya she took on the name Oompong, because that’s what some of our people were called. They were Maroons,” the old woman said. “You know Kenya?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “But I know who she is.”

“Then you know all about the NPU.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I do.”

“She’s a fighter, Kenya. Stirring things up. Might not get elected, most probably won’t, but she’s making a name for herself.”

“She’s doing that,” I said.

I drank the rest of the water. We rocked quietly for a while.

“Let me ask you a question,” I said. “This white man who
was here a few weeks ago, did your neighbor get a good look at him?”

“Not much of one. It was night. I was off to church, singing in the choir. That’s what I do on Wednesday nights.”

“Did your neighbor say he was a big man, you know, a stout man like me?”

The old woman shook her head.

“Oh no, said he was a slight fellow, not much to him at all, like a shadow coming out of my yard, getting in his car and driving away.”

“Anything missing from your house?”

“No, uh-uh. I called Kenya and she drove all the way up here and looked around and she couldn’t find anything missing either. That’s when she went out and got me that dog. I call him Tiny.”

“Yes, ma’am. That Tiny’s a real fine dog,” I said.

When someone says they work at the U.S. Embassy it conjures visions of a stately building where diplomats and dignitaries mingle, a handsome edifice with a big flag flying outside and an aura of grandeur, even in this buttoned-down era of international terrorism. While Uncle Sam has an embassy like that in Kingston, the Department of Homeland Security suboffice in Montego Bay was not the sort of place that caused the heart to swell or inspired spontaneous renditions of “God Bless America.” Johnny Cash’s “Fulsom Prison Blues” would have been more appropriate.

It sat in an industrial zone next to the airport, and it looked exactly like what it was—a cluster of nondescript concrete-block buildings that had been given drab coats of beige paint and encircled with enough electrified fence and concertina wire to outfit a couple of maximum-security state penitentiaries. Marines with rifles guarded the entrance.

I parked the Mercedes, walked up to the guardhouse, and stated my business. The Marine inside made a phone call. He hung up and said: “He can see you now, sir. Building B, Room nine.” He pinned a visitor’s badge on my shirt. The gates opened, and I followed a sidewalk to Building B.

Inside, there was a large waiting room. A dozen or so people,
mostly Jamaicans by my guess, were filling out various applications, probably for visas of one sort or another.

Ever since the aftermath of 9-11, the Department of Homeland Security had been in charge of what used to be the Immigration and Naturalization Service. Critics of the system said it was part of a larger plan, hatched by xenophobic conservatives, to seal our borders to people of color. Supporters said it was a first line of defense in the war against terrorism.

At that moment I didn’t much care about the political implications; I just wanted to get some answers from Jay Skingle. I hung a left down a hall and came to a reception desk outside a suite of offices. The woman at the desk looked up and smiled.

“You must be Mr. Chasteen,” she said.

She was older than her voice had sounded on the phone, a bit more substantial, too, but no hardship to look at.

“I am he.”

“I see you came empty-handed,” she said.

“I bring only my boyish charm. That marine outside made me check my good looks.”

She smiled.

“Ah, that explains it,” she said. “Mr. Skingle can see you now.”

She got up from her desk and I followed her down the hall. She was a pleasure to follow. She knocked lightly on a door, then opened it and nodded me in.

Skingle was sitting behind a desk, talking on the phone. He waved me to a chair and kept on talking. The secretary gave me another smile and shut the door.

I sat down in the chair and looked around the room. A few pictures on the wall—Skingle glad-handing it with other guys in suits, a signed photo of him with the current president. His college diploma. Princeton. The date on it was ten years ago. Skingle was older than he looked. Yet he was still just an assistant consul. Guy definitely wasn’t on the foreign service fast track.

Skingle hung up the phone, and before he could say anything, I said: “Where’s your buddy?”

“My buddy?”

“Yeah, the guy who was with you the night of the airport
bombing, the guy who drove you to Libido last night, the guy who stole Monk DeVane’s files.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the crap, Skingle. Someone saw your guy leaving Monk DeVane’s cottage carrying a black garbage bag. I got there a little after that and all Monk’s files were gone. Ray Charles could connect those dots.”

Skingle didn’t say anything.

“Plus you lied to me, saying you didn’t know Monk. You met him at a place called the Bird’s Nest a couple of weeks ago.”

“Who told you that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “All that really matters is that when it comes to credibility, yours is shot.”

Skingle made a tent of his fingers and put them under his chin, studying me. I’d read somewhere that if you want to gain leverage in a conversation then you should subtly mimic the body language of the other person. So I made a temple of my fingers and put them under my chin and studied Skingle back. I don’t know if it gained me any leverage, but Skingle got up from his chair and turned his back on me, looking out a window.

When he turned around, he said: “OK, I’ll level with you. But I must have your guarantee that nothing I tell you leaves this office.”

“That was good,” I said. “Sounded like right out of the movies.”

“Do I have that guarantee or not, Mr. Chasteen?”

“Sure,” I said, “I’ll play.”

Skingle put his hands behind his back, paced in front of the window. The guy was all about dramatic effect. Finally, he said: “Certain of Mr. DeVane’s effects are now under review by this office.”

“Why?”

“Sorry, that’s classified.”

“Wow, you really know all the lines.” I got up from my chair. “Who’s your boss?”

Skingle looked startled.

“Excuse me?”

“Who’s your boss? I want to see him.”

“It’s a her.”

“Fine. Let’s go see her.”

“Why?”

“So she can explain why the U.S. government is sneaking around taking things that belonged to one of its citizens—of late, deceased—and which now belong to his rightful heirs. And if she can’t explain, then I’ll get the name of her boss and I won’t stop until someone tells me something.”

When I hop on my high horse I give it a good ride. Skingle thought it over. It looked as if it pained him.

“OK,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I can.”

“Ah, the voice of reason.”

He sat back down. I did, too.

Then Skingle said: “Mr. DeVane worked for us.”

It was my turn to look startled. Skingle appeared to enjoy it.

“For the Department of Homeland Security?”

“Not directly. It’s a joint investigation, involving the resources of several departments.”

“An investigation of what?” I said.

“I really can’t go into any of the specifics. I’ve already told you more than you should know.”

Skingle leaned back in his chair. I sat there trying to process everything. It was a lot to process.

“Does this involve the NPU?” I said.

“Really, Mr. Chasteen, I’ve said all that I can possibly say. To reveal anything further would be to jeopardize the integrity of a plan that has taken months and months to put in place. And it would hinder our attempts to bring whoever killed Monk De-Vane to justice,” Skingle said.

“Do you know who did it?”

“I think we’re closing in on it, yes,” said Skingle. “That is why I suggest you return to Florida and let us do what we have to do. Once again, may I assist with your flight arrangements?”

I shook my head.

“Taken care of,” I said. “I leave tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” said Skingle.

He stood. I stood.

Meeting over.

When I got back to Libido I checked in briefly at Darcy Whitehall’s house. Darcy Whitehall still hadn’t made an appearance.

“He left a message earlier,” said Alan. “He’ll be staying over the night in Mo Bay. That’s all I know.”

“Everything good here?”

“As good as house arrest can be,” Alan said. “At least I’m getting plenty of work done.”

“Your sister still in a funk?”

“She’s being Ali. Thought I’d try to talk to her.”

“Do the big-brother thing?”

“Doesn’t really work on her,” he said. “If we can just spend five minutes in the same room without getting into an argument, I’ll consider it progress.”

I went back to the cottage. I sat on the porch for a while. The tobacco seeds and salt that Otee had spread a couple nights earlier were still there, doing their job, keeping the duppies away.

I went inside. I sat on the couch for a while. I watched the ceiling fan turn, listened to the refrigerator hum.

I was hungry. The buffet at the resort’s beachside restaurant went on until midnight. I didn’t want to deal with the whole scene. Still, that didn’t make me any less hungry.

The phone rang. I answered it. It was Barbara calling from Berlin.

“What time is it there?” I asked.

“Almost three
A.M.
We went out clubbing.”

“Baby seals?”

“Cute,” she said. “We hit the Scheunenviertel district. Aaron and some of his friends.”

“You sound a little drunk,” I said.

“I am. A little. But I can still pronounce Scheunenviertel. We had fun.”

“Hmmm,” I said.

“How about you?”

“I’m not drunk. And I’m not having fun.”

“Does it take one to have the other?”

“No. Sometimes. I don’t know.”

“Zack, what’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Just at loose ends, that’s all. Darcy Whitehall’s run off somewhere. Monk DeVane was working for the feds. I almost got mauled by a bigass dog. I’m hungry. I’m beginning to wonder just what in hell I’m doing here. And I miss you.”