Nick Stone: Mr. Clarinet

Huxley said something else.

Now's the time.

Max stepped silently into the room.

Some scene.

All three were so into it they didn't realize he was in the room.

The two women were on the bed, naked, heads buried between each other's thighs. Huxley was in a chair opposite, yellow Triumph T-shirt, powder-blue flip-flops, shorts around his ankles, mouth agape, his erection in his hand, stroking slowly.

Max aimed the Glock at his head.

Huxley was so lost in his show he didn't notice Max standing in front of him, at point-blank range.

Max cleared his throat.

The girl on the bottom looked up at him, freed her head, and screamed.

Huxley stared at Max like he was a hallucination, his expression normal and relaxed as if he were waiting for his brain to flip his sanity switch back on and make the vision disappear.

When it didn't, he panicked. He tried to keep it from showing overall, but the color left his face, his nostrils flared, his eyes opened up more, and his lips parted and stayed half-open.

The second girl screamed. They both sat up and grabbed the sheets to cover themselves. Dark-skinned, high cheekbones, full, plump lips-beautiful. Huxley had great taste.

Max put his finger to his lips for them to be quiet and stepped away from the bed in case they tried to lunge at him.

"Charlie Carver," he said to Huxley. "Dead or alive?"

Huxley cracked a smile.

"I told Allain you'd be back," he said, sounding almost pleased. "Especially when you wired him his money back. He couldn't believe it. I knew you were onto us then. I knew it was only a matter of time before you came to finish your job. I knew it. I've never seen someone cut and run so fast. Allain ran away like his asshole was on fire."

"Answer me."

"Charlie's alive."

"Where've you got him?"

"He's safe. Near the Dominican Republic border."

"Who's got him?"

"A couple," Huxley stammered. "They haven't harmed him at all. He's virtually like a son to them."

"Let's go get him," Max said.

HUXLEY DROVE. MAX sat next to him with the gun trained on his waist.

"When was the last time you saw the kid?" Max asked.

"Three months ago."

"How was he?"

"Very well. Healthy."

"Any speech?"

"What?"

"Can he talk?"

"No. He won't."

It was midafternoon. Huxley explained that they would be driving back to Pйtionville, then up the mountain road, past the Carver estate, stopping close enough to see the lights in the houses in the Dominican Republic. He hoped to reach the place where Charlie was being held by late evening.

"Tell me about the people who've got the kid."

"Carl and Ertha. Old folk, in their seventies. The most dangerous object they've got in the house is a machete-and that's for coconuts. Carl's an ex-priest-"

"-Another one," Max quipped.

"-originally from Wales. He knew Allain's mother very well. He helped Allain in his teens, when he discovered he was gay."

"Carl gay?"

"No. Women and the spirit you buy in bottles are his thing."

"That why he got kicked out of the Church?"

"He fell in love with Ertha, his housemaid, and left of his own accord. Mrs. Carver supported them. She bought them the farmhouse near the border. Allain made sure they never wanted for anything. They're good people, Max. They've treated Charlie as their own. He's been very happy there, really blossomed. It could have been much worse."

"Why wasn't it? Why didn't you kill him? Why go through all this trouble, this risk of getting caught by keeping the kid alive?"

"We're not monsters, Max. That was never part of the plan. Besides we like Charlie-what he represented. Gustav Carver, with all his power and money and contacts-the old fool didn't even know the kid wasn't his-let alone that it was Vincent Paul's-his sworn enemy's."

Huxley halved his speed when they entered Pйtionville, and then slowed to a crawl once they got into the densely populated center, where the distinction between street and sidewalk was buried under masses of moving and stationary bodies. They drove up the hill past La Coupole.

"How did you find us out?"

"It's what I do," Max said. "Remember that videotape you planted in Faustin's house? You fucked up. You left your prints on it. One loose thread's usually all it takes to catch the big fat fish."

"So, if it hadn't been for that-?"

"That's right," Max said. "You coulda spent the rest of your sorry-ass life pullin' your pudding-or whatever life you had left. See, with Allain running off the way he did, it would only have been a matter of time before Vincent Paul caught up with you."

"I was planning to leave tomorrow," Huxley said bitterly, tightening his grip on the wheel, all four knuckles popping out. Fighter's hands, Max thought. "Vincent Paul wouldn't have known about me. Hardly anyone saw us together. Only Chantale knew my name-well, one of them."

"Was she in on this?"

"No," Huxley said. "Absolutely not. Allain debriefed her on where you'd been and who you'd seen every day, but she didn't know what was really goin' on-any more than you did."

"Why don't you tell me 'bout that, what was 'really goin' on'-right from the start?"

"How much do you know?" Huxley asked. They were heading up the precarious mountain road. They passed a jeep in a ditch. Children were playing on it.

"Broad strokes-this: you and Allain kidnapped Charlie. Motive: to bring down Gustav Carver. Allain was in it for money first, then revenge. You were in it for payback then greenback, but payback before all else. How am I doin'?"

"Not bad." Huxley smirked. "Now, where do you want me to start?"

"Wherever you want."

"OK. Why don't I tell you all about Tonton Clarinette-Mr. Clarinet?"

"Go ahead. I'm all ears."

"MY SISTER PATRICE-I used to call her 'Treese.' She had these beautiful eyes-green-like Smokey Robinson's. Cat's eyes on dark skin. People used to stop and stare at her she was so beautiful." Huxley smiled.

"How old was she?"

"No more than seven. It was hard to tell things like age and dates and stuff, because we were illiterate and innumerate, like our parents and their parents before them, like everyone we knew. We grew up in Clarinette, dirt-poor. As soon as we could walk we were helping our parents with whatever they were doing to put food on the table. I helped my mother pick fruit. I'd put mangoes and genip in baskets; then we'd go down to the roadside and sell them to pilgrims going to Saut d'Eau."

"What about your dad?" Max asked.

"I was scared of him. He was a real bad-tempered guy. Beat you over nothing. I'd look at him the wrong way and he'd get this thin stick and whip my little ass. He wasn't like that to Treese, though. No. He worshipped her. Made me jealous.

"I remember the day the trucks came to the village-big trucks, cement mixers. I thought monsters had come to eat us up. My dad told us the men driving them said they were going to put up huge buildings and make everyone in the town rich. He went to work on the site. Perry Paul owned it then. I think the idea was to build some sort of cheap accommodation for the pilgrims who come to Saut d'Eau. Most come from very far and they've got nowhere to stay. He built the temple too. I guess he wanted to create some kind of voodoo Mecca.

"After Gustav Carver put Paul out of business, he took over the project. There was a management change. Things were different. This man arrived one day-strangest-looking man I'd ever seen-a white man with orange hair. You never saw him working. All he ever seemed to do was play with kids. He became our friend. We used to play soccer. He bought us a ball.

"He was a fun guy. He made all the kids laugh. He told us stories, gave us presents-candy, clothes. He was like a great dad and a big kid brother all rolled into one. He used to film us too with this Super 8 camera he had. It made him look like half his face was this black ugly machine with a protruding round glass eye-kind of creepy and funny at the same time. He filmed Treese most of all.