Robert Stone - Bay of Souls

WHEN WHAT HAD BEEN the pilot was decently encased and removed to the Mennonite Hospital, Vice Consul Wallace led everyone back to the hotel. He was eager to get in touch with Colonel Junot of the new National Defense Forces.

"There is going to be a police investigation," he explained to everyone. "We'd appreciate it if folks would make themselves available to the authorities."

The consul, Scofield, seemed mainly interested in his ride back to the capital.

"Where's Colonel Junot?" Michael asked Liz McKie. From the inshore patio of the hotel, he had just caught sight of the young man Lara had sent him in the morning.

"I have no idea," she said. "Contrary to what everybody thinks, Colonel Junot and I are not joined at the hip."

Michael stood up. The consul and vice consul, who appeared to have little to say to each other, were observing him from another table.

"I'm off," Michael said.

"What?" McKie said. "Where?"

"Maybe I'll get some sleep."

The American consul came over and greeted Liz McKie facetiously. She treated him in the same spirit.

"I'm sure you'll want to get back to the capital by daylight, Consul. Better see that the police give you an escort.

"Since the coup," she explained to Michael, "there are burning roadblocks. They call 'em 'Père Lebrun,' and they're what 'necklaces' are in South Africa. You can ask old Van Dreele. Some of the locals aren't too impressed by diplomatic plates. Some of them don't care for the good old Stars and Stripes."

"I was going to ask you about that," the consul said. "I thought you might have seen Colonel Junot."

McKie sighed. Shortly a car was provided for the consul.

"Are you a friend of Lara Purcell?" he asked Michael as he left.

"Yes," Michael said, without much thinking about it.

"Give her my very best," Consul Scofield said. "Tell her she's missed. She's the most fascinating person on the island."

"I'll tell her."

On the way upstairs, Michael signaled to the boy from the lodge that he was coming, and went into his room. Before he could slide the lock, McKie pushed her way in and was standing next to him.

"Oh my God," she said, "you're going after her."

He began wearily to deny it.

"Bullshit. You went down to the plane. Did you get everything?" She had no need of an answer. "That chip — that's from her, right? You're going back to her."

Michael began to throw a few things in his shoulder bag.

"You don't get it, do you, Professor? These Colombian militia types are without mercy. They kill everyone. Do you think they'll clear out of here and let you live? Do you think that smart bitch will give you a break? Even if they let her live?"

"I don't know about the Colombians. They're buying the hotel. Maybe they'll see reason."

She stood in the doorway and put a hand against the door to block his way.

"Reason!" She screamed the foolish word at him. "Why can you not see the deep shit you're in? Wallace will get you. He'll work you into an indictment of this whole business."

"You've told me about the stick," Michael said, zipping the bag. "Tell me about the carrot."

She seemed to calm down a little.

"The carrot, Michael? The carrot is you give everything you have about this operation and its political connections. Not to mention its academic connections. I get you off this rock. We get you lawyers. We get you immunity." She paused, out of offers, trying to think of treasures untold beyond immunity. "Didn't you see that pilot?" she asked. "Don't you think death is kind of ugly?"

"What are you, Liz, a philosopher?"

She stepped aside.

"You're so nuts," she said. "My story is a public service."

Outside, the boy from the lodge was still waiting for him.

THEY WENT ALONG the road in one of the hotel's old four-wheel-drive sightseeing vehicles. The thing was in grave disrepair but serviceable. Finally the boy, whose name was Christian, drove them down a dogleg. At the end of it they got out and started walking in the direction of the ocean.

Stunted pine, mahogany and schefflera grew around them; in spite of the fresh runoffs the soil was dry. When they had gone something like a mile over the trail they came to a gate with razor wire, framed by tall walnut trees. There was hardly any breeze.

Men in camouflage fatigues approached them. Michael saw that they were not islanders but lean mestizos, apparently the Colombians of whom he had been hearing so much. They looked in his shoulder bag; one looked at his passport.

Christian spoke to them in fluent Spanish, telling them, as far as Michael could understand, that someone — he, Michael — was on the way through. A few minutes later they came to a cleared field, an airstrip with a hangar and what might be sleeping quarters. Somewhere, someone was beating the ogan, the iron drum of the ceremonies. People were singing.

" Wete mo danba dlo, " Christian told him.

They walked on. Goats munched on the shaved cane and the coarse grass between the dismembered stalks. Once in a while one raised its head and turned a wise, wicked gaze on them.

At the far end of the strip, people were sitting in the lateafternoon shade, huddled around the Haitian-style houses and the strange churchly bulk of the lodge with its columns and tower. Another drum picked up the beat of the ogan.

He was trying to keep up with Christian when he heard a high-pitched cry, almost a scream. He looked across the cut canefield and saw Lara running toward him. She was waving a red handkerchief over her head.

He stopped and waited for her. She came calling his name. Two Colombian milicianos rose as though to intercept her, but finally made no move. She took him by the hand and led him down the road to the lodge building and the hounfor.

"I'm with my brother," Lara said. He put an arm around her shoulder. She seemed crazy and lost.

"You see, Michael," she said, the words spilling out as they walked toward the hounfor . "I'm with John-Paul again. We'll be together."

People came out of the thatched buildings where they had been sheltering to look at them.

"Come, Michael," Lara said. "This is the ceremony of retirer! Wete mo danba dlo! For John-Paul." She was holding his arm with a grip that hurt. "Michael, he came to me. Back from Guinee, from the bottom of the ocean. But I have to wait for Marinette because she has custody of my soul."

Her hair was streaked and soiled with ashes and straw and insects, living and dead.

"Yes, my love," he said.

"And, Michael, you have a soul, eh? You have a petit bon ange. "

"Is that what it's called?"

"That's how we call it," she said. "And it's here," she said, "it's here for you."

Gently Michael moved her past the crowd of people in front of the lodge and through its entrance. There might once have been doors; now there were only cool shadows that closed around them. In the meeting room of the lodge he saw Roger Hyde together with a middle-aged woman and a pair of milicianos. The woman looked out of place there. She was dressed for the city and did not have the appearance of a believer.

"I admire your coming, Michael," Roger Hyde said. "You did the right thing."

Michael thought there was more force of conviction to the first statement than to the second.

"What a nice-lookin' guy," Hilda said. "Anybody tell you you should be in the movies?"

"Nobody," Michael said. The milicianos watched Hilda.

"So sit down," Hilda said to Michael. "Like dry off. Maybe you still wet, huh?"

"No," Michael said.

"I'm just joking with you. What's your name? Michael? I'm just joking with you, Michael."