“I know. But I have to confess, I didn’t believe him.”
Pam had continued to reprimand Ginger for not telling anyone about the letter, but all that brought was tears. For safety, she’d insisted Ginger stay at their house, though he doubted there’d be any more visits.
Whatever was going to happen, would happen here, in Haiti.
Before leaving Cap-Ha?tien’s airport, he located the private hangars and learned that the plane from Atlanta was there. Inside, $50 U.S. bought him the name of the hotel where Zachariah Simon and Rócha were staying. Hotel Creole. The same one noted on the envelope Scott had sent. He could start with the police, or with the charter boat Scott had used, or with the two men who’d come to Atlanta. He decided that the charter boat seemed the best bet, so he bartered for a cab into the congested mess of central downtown.
Haiti filled the west half of an island Columbus discovered in 1492, which he named Hispaniola. Populated first by native Tainos, then the Spanish, then by slaves brought to work the cane fields, the island fell under the control of the French in 1697. Forty thousand colonists lorded over 500,000 Africans. By 1790 it was one of the richest places on earth—France’s number one revenue source—thanks to immense profits from sugar, coffee, and indigo. It was also one of the most picturesque, with dense tropical forests, sparkling clear water, and towering mountains. Palm-shaded chateaus filled with Parisian furnishings were common. Its Code Noir established rigid social rules, making it one of the world’s most efficient slave colonies. Eventually, though, freed mulattos, offspring of colonists, and female slaves combined forces with thousands of other slaves and expelled the French, establishing the only nation ever born of a black revolt.
Then the turmoil started.
After two hundred years Haiti was now the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere, its forests gone, waters ruined, poverty an accepted way of life. He’d read an article recently about how the cruise ships had stopped coming—simply because passengers complained at how depressing the place could be.
The cabdriver dropped him at the waterfront, where crumbling docks jutted from a narrow mud beach. Tin-roofed wooden sheds stood at their base, a small crane at the end of one. A pale green sea, splashed with shades of blue, stretched to the horizon. Soft white waves lapped the shore. From the police report he knew the name of the owner who’d taken Scott out, and found him after asking around.
The boat was a twenty-footer, with a small cabin forward and a cluttered deck aft. The man moving about on board was short, thin, and walked with a hitch in his left knee. He had a broad nose, tense jaw, and dark eyes, his black hair cut close.
“Bonsoir. Are you Yann Dubois?”
The man glanced up at him with a faint smile. “You want to dive?”
“Looks like a calm day. Can you take me out?”
He saw that he’d now attracted interest. Here was money to be made, and Dubois seemed ready to accommodate.
“Sure, I take you out. You have card?”
He shook his head. “Not on me. But I’m U.S. Navy certified. I can handle it.”
He assumed that requirements like diving certifications were not much of a problem in Haiti.
Dubois smiled. “U.S. Navy. That’s good, mon. Where you want to go?”
“Same place the guy drowned last week.”
Dubois’ pleasant attitude vanished. “You police? Here to bother me more? I don’t want that.”
“No police. A relative. The man who died was my brother-in-law. I need to find out what happened.”
“He drown. That what happened. Not my fault.”
“I didn’t say it was. I just want to see where it happened. Have a look around. I’ll pay double your usual rate.”
He watched as Dubois considered the offer, but the outcome was never in doubt.
“Let’s go, mon.”
Malone donned the air tank and buoyancy vest, fastening the belt around his waist and adjusting the shoulder straps. Not the newest of equipment, but it appeared in reasonable shape. The trip out from shore had been short, the stern engulfed in a boiling exhaust from overheating engines. They were anchored no more than three hundred yards from the beach, dark smudges in the turquoise water indicating a reef below. A wet wind blew steady from the west. He kept time with the deck’s jerking pitch, glad to know that his sea legs had not left him.
The navy had taught him how to dive ten years ago. He liked it but, unlike his father who’d been a submariner, he hadn’t wanted a career underwater. The sky appealed to him, so he learned to fly fighter jets. Ultimately, he was steered toward the law, where he found a home first as a JAG officer, now in the Justice Department.
“We go down thirty feet,” Dubois said as he adjusted his own harness. “Lots of current. Watch yourself. I show you where it happened.”
“Did you fish him out?”
“Yeah, mon. He not come up, so I go down.”
“Why didn’t you go down with him?”
Dubois eyed him with irritation. “ ’Cause Scotty say he don’t want me down there.”
None of which had been detailed in the police report. But the whole thing was more overview than report. Few details, even fewer conclusions. Just a simple statement of “diving accident.”
“Scotty?” he said. “You and him buddies?”
Dubois eyed him again with a cool stare. “I like him. He okay.”
Then Dubois rolled over the side into the water.
Malone followed.
A gray reef shark immediately greeted him. The air from his tank carried a dank, oily aftertaste, probably from a bad compressor. He hadn’t been underwater in five years, but he quickly acclimated himself, listening to the burbling sound of his exhaled breath.
Dubois led the way to the bottom.
He checked the depth gauge snaking from his regulator.
Twenty-five feet.