Hot Ice (34 page)

“Doug.” Whitney turned so that she faced him, her hands on his shoulders. “I understand this is important to you. I want to find it, too. But look at us.” She glanced down at herself. “We’re filthy. We’re exhausted. Even if it didn’t matter to us, people are bound to notice.”

“We aren’t going to socialize.” He looked over her
head to the town below. To the end of the rainbow. “We’ll start with the churches.”

He went back to the jeep. Resigned, Whitney followed.

Fifty miles behind, jolting along the northern road in a ′68 Renault with a bad exhaust, were Remo and Barns. Because he needed to think, Remo let Barns drive. The little molelike man gripped the wheel with both hands and grinned straight ahead. He liked to drive, almost as much as he liked to run over whatever furry little thing might dash out on the road.

“When we catch ′em, I get the woman, right?”

Remo shot Barns a look of mild disgust. He considered himself a fastidious man. He considered Barns a slug. “You better remember Dimitri wants her. If you mess her up, you might just piss him off.”

“I won’t mess her up.” His eyes gleamed a moment as he remembered the photo. She was so pretty. He liked pretty things. Soft, pretty things. Then he thought of Dimitri.

Unlike the others, he didn’t fear Dimitri. He adored him. The adoration was simple, basic, in much the same way a small ugly dog might adore his master, even after a few good kickings. What few brains Barns had been blessed with had been rattled well over the years. If Dimitri wanted the woman, he’d bring the woman to him. He gave Remo an amiable smile because in his own fashion Barns liked Remo.

“Dimitri wants Lord’s ears,” he said with a giggle. “Want me to cut ′em off for you, Remo?”

“Just drive.”

Dimitri wanted Lord’s ears, but Remo was well aware he might settle for a substitute. If he’d had any hope that he would’ve gotten away with it, he’d have headed the car in the opposite direction. Dimitri would find him because Dimitri believed an employee remained an employee until
death. Premature or otherwise. Remo could only pray he still had his own ears after he reported to Dimitri at his temporary headquarters in Diégo-Suarez.

Five churches in two hours, she thought, and they’d found nothing. Their luck had to come in soon, or run out. “What now?” she demanded as they pulled up in front of yet another church. This one was smaller than the others they’d been to. And the roof needed repair.

“We pay our respects.”

The town was built on a promontory, jutting out over the water. Though it was still morning, the air was hot and sticky. Overhead, palm fronds barely moved in the slight breeze. With a little imagination, Doug could picture the town as it had once been, rowdy, simple, protected by mountains on one side and the man-made wall on the other. As he strode away from the jeep, Whitney caught up with him.

“Care to guess how many churches, how many cemeteries there are around here? Better yet, how many there were that’ve been built over?”

“You don’t build over cemeteries. Makes people nervous.” He liked the layout here. The front door was hanging crooked on its hinges, making him think no one used the church with any regularity. Around the side, a bit overgrown and canopied by palms, were groups of headstones. He had to crouch down to read the inscriptions.

“Doug, don’t you feel a bit ghoulish.” Skin chilled, Whitney rubbed her arms and looked over her shoulder.

“No.” The answer was simple as he peered closely at headstone after headstone. “Dead’s dead, Whitney.”

“Don’t you have any thoughts on what happens after?”

He shot her a look. “Whatever I think, what’s buried six feet down doesn’t have any feelings at all. Come on, give me a hand.”

It was pride that had her crouching down with him
and tugging vines from headstones. “The dates are good. See—1790, 1793.”

“And the names are French.” The tingle at the back of his neck told him he was closing in. “If we could just—”

“Bonjour.”

Whitney sprang to her feet, poised to run before she saw the old priest step through the trees. She fought to keep guilt off her face as she smiled and answered him in French. “Good morning, Father.” His black cassock was a stark contrast to his pale hair, pale eyes, pale face. His hands, when he folded them, were spotted with age. “I hope we’re not trespassing.”

“Everyone is welcome to God’s house.” He took in their bedraggled appearance. “You’re traveling?”

“Yes, Father.” Doug stood up beside her but said nothing. Whitney knew it was up to her to spin the tale, but she found she couldn’t tell a direct lie to a man in a white collar. “We’ve come a long way, looking for the graves of family who immigrated here during the French Revolution.”

“Many did. Are they your ancestors?”

She looked into the priest’s calm, pale eyes. She thought of the Merina who worshiped the dead. “No. But it’s important we find them.”

“To find what is gone?” His muscles, weary with age, trembled with the simple movement of linking his hands. “Many look, few find. You’ve come a long way?”

His mind, she thought as she struggled with impatience, was as old as his body. “Yes, Father, a long way. We think the family we’re looking for may be buried here.”

He thought, then accepted. “Perhaps I can help you. You have the names?”

“The Lebrun family. Gerald Lebrun.”

“Lebrun.” The priest’s withered face closed in as he thought. “There are no Lebrun in my parish.”

“What’s he talking about?” Doug muttered in her ear but Whitney merely shook her head.

“They immigrated here from France two hundred years ago. They died here.”

“We must all face death in order to have everlasting life.”

Whitney gritted her teeth and tried again. “Yes, Father, but we have an interest in the Lebruns. A historical interest,” she decided, thinking it wasn’t actually a lie.

“You’ve come a long way. You need refreshment. Madame Dubrock will fix tea.” He put his hand on Whitney’s arm as if to lead her down the path. She started to refuse, then felt his arm tremble.

“That would be lovely, Father.” She braced herself against his weight.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re having tea,” Whitney told Doug and smiled at the priest. “Try to remember where you are.”

“Jesus.”

“Exactly.” She helped the aging priest up the narrow path to the tiny rectory. Before she could reach for the door it was opened by a woman in a cotton housedress whose face sagged with wrinkles. The smell of age was like old paper, thin and dusty.

“Father.” Madame Dubrock took his other arm and helped him inside. “Did you have a pleasant walk?”

“I brought travelers. They must have tea.”

“Of course, of course.” The old woman led the priest down a dim little hall and into a cramped parlor. A black-bound Bible with yellowed pages was opened to the Book of David. Candles burned low were set on each table and on an old upright piano that looked as though it had been dropped more than once. There was a statue of the Virgin, chipped and faded and somehow lovely in its place by the window. Madame Dubrock murmured and fussed with the priest as she settled him in a chair.

Doug looked at the crucifix on the wall, pitted with age, stained with the blood of redemption. He dragged a hand through his hair. He always felt a bit uneasy in church, and this was worse. “Whitney, we haven’t got time for this.”

“Ssh! Madame Dubrock,” she began.

“Please sit, I will bring tea.”

Compassion and impatience warred as Whitney looked back at the priest. “Father—”

“You’re young.” He sighed and worried his rosary. “I have said Mass in the Church of Our Lord for more years than you have lived. But so few come.”

Again, Whitney was drawn to the pale eyes, the pale voice. “Numbers don’t matter, do they, Father?” She sat in the chair beside him. “One is enough.”

He smiled, closed his eyes, and dozed.

“Poor old man,” she murmured.

“And I’d like to live just as long,” Doug put in. “Sugar, while we’re waiting to have tea, Remo’s making his merry way into town. He’s probably a little annoyed that we stole his jeep.”

“What was I supposed to do? Tell him to back off, we have a hired gun at our backs?” He saw the look in her eyes when she flared at him, the look that meant her heart was attached.

“Okay, okay.” Twinges of pity had been working on him as well and he didn’t care for it. “We did our good deed and now he’s having a nap. Let’s do what we came for.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and felt like a ghoul. “Listen, maybe there are records, ledgers we could look through rather than…” She broke off and glanced toward the cemetery. “You know.”

He rubbed his knuckles over her cheek. “Why don’t you stay here and I’ll have a look?”

Wanting to agree made her feel like a coward. “No, we’re in this together. If Magdaline or Gerald Lebrun are out there, we’ll find them together.”

“There was a Magdaline Lebrun who died in childbirth, and her daughter, Danielle, who succumbed to fever.” Madame Dubrock shuffled back into the room with a tray of tea and hard biscuits.

“Yes.” Whitney turned to Doug and took his hand. “Yes.”

The old woman smiled as she saw Doug watch her suspiciously. “I have many hours in the evening to myself. It’s my hobby to read and study church records. The church itself is three centuries old. It’s withstood war and hurricane.”

“You remember reading of the Lebruns?”

“I’m old.” When Doug took the tray from her she gave a little sigh of relief. “But my memory is good.” She cast a look at the slumbering priest. “That too will go.” But she said it with a kind of pride. Or perhaps, Whitney thought, a kind of faith. “Many came here to escape the Revolution, many died. I remember reading of the Lebruns.”

“Thank you, Madame.” Whitney dug in her wallet and pulled out half of the bills she had left. “For your church.” She looked over at the priest and added more bills. “For his church, in the name of the Lebrun family.”

Madame Dubrock took the money with a quiet dignity. “If God wills it, you’ll find what you seek. If you need refreshment, come back to the rectory. You’ll be welcomed.”

“Thank you, Madame.” On impulse Whitney stepped forward. “There are men looking for us.”

She looked Whitney straight in the eye, patient. “Yes, my child?”

“They’re dangerous.”

The priest shifted in his chair and looked at Doug. So was this man dangerous, he thought, but he felt at peace.
The priest nodded to Whitney. “God protects.” He closed his eyes again and slept.

“They never asked any questions,” Whitney murmured as they walked back outside.

Doug looked over his shoulder. “Some people have all the answers they need.” He wasn’t one of them. “Let’s find what we came for.”

Because of the undergrowth, the vines, and the age of the headstones, it took them an hour to work their way through half the cemetery. The sun rose high so that shadows were thin and short. Even with the distance, Whitney could smell the sea. Tired and discouraged, she sat on the ground and watched Doug work.

“We should come back tomorrow and do the rest. I can barely focus on the names at this point.”

“Today.” He spoke half to himself as he bent over another grave. “It has to be today, I can feel it.”

“All I can feel is a pain in the lower back.”

“We’re close. I know it. Your palms get damp. And there’s this feeling in your gut that everything’s just about to slide into place. It’s like cracking a safe. You don’t even have to hear the last click to know it. You just know it. The sonofabitch is here.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stretched his back. “I’ll find it if it takes the next ten years.”

Whitney looked over at him and, with a sigh, shifted to stand. She propped one hand on a headstone for balance as her foot caught on a vine. Swearing, she bent over to free herself. Feeling her heart jolt, she looked down again and read the name on the stone. She heard the last tumbler click. “It’s not going to take that long.”

“What?”

“It’s not going to take that long.” She grinned and the sheer brilliance of it made him straighten. “We found Danielle.” She blinked back tears as she cleared the stone.
“Danielle Lebrun,” she read. “1779-1795. Poor child, so far from home.”

“Her mother’s here.” Doug’s voice was soft, without the excited lilt. He slipped his hand into Whitney’s. “She died young.”

“She’d have worn her hair powdered, with feathers in it. And her dresses would have come low on the shoulders and swept the floor.” Whitney rested her head against his arm. “Then she learned to plant a garden and keep her husband’s secret.”

“But where is he?” Doug crouched down again. “Why isn’t he buried beside her?”

“He should—” A thought occurred to her then and she spun away, biting off an oath. “He killed himself. He wouldn’t have been buried here, this is consecrated ground. Doug, he’s not in the cemetery.”

He stared at her. “What?”

“Suicide.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “He died in sin, so he couldn’t be buried in the church grounds.” She glanced around, hopelessly. “I don’t even know where to look.”

“They had to bury him somewhere.” He began to pace between the gravestones. “What did they usually do with the ones they wouldn’t let in?”

She frowned a bit and tried to think. “It would depend, I suppose. If the priest was compassionate, I’d think he’d be buried close by.”

Doug looked down. “They’re here,” he muttered. “And my palms are still sweating.” Taking her hand, he walked over to the low fence that bordered the cemetery. “We start there.”

Another hour passed while they walked and searched through the brush. The first snake Whitney saw nearly sent her back to the jeep, but Doug handed her a stick and no sympathy. Straightening her spine, she stuck with it.
When Doug tripped, stumbled, and cursed, she paid no attention to him.

“Holy shit!”

Whitney lifted her stick, ready to strike. “Snake!”

“Forget the snakes.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her down on the ground with him. “I found it.”

The marker was small and plain, nearly buried itself. It read simply GERALD LEBRUN. Whitney laid a hand on it, wondering if there’d been anyone to mourn for him.