Haitian Graves by Vicki Delany Read Free Book Online

them out.
    “Sure,” I said. “And then I’ll give you a number you can call.” There was a driver I used when I intended to drink more than I should on a night out.
    We drove through the streets and I pointed out the sights. The center of Portau-Prince had been flattened by the earthquake. The cathedral was a pink ruin. Mrs. Anderson said it reminded her of Rome. The beautiful national museum was underground, so it survived. I told them to be sure their driver took them there, as it was well worth seeing. As I drove, I pointed out the so-called gingerbread houses. They’d been built of wood back in the twenties and fared much better in the earthquake than modern structures did.
    “Harold. Look at that,” Mrs. Anderson squealed as we drove past the cemetery. All cemeteries in Haiti are above ground. Elaborately decorated tombs. Bright paint. Lots of statues. “Can we go in?” she asked me.
    “Sure. It’s worth seeing.” I parked the car close to the entrance. Women were selling vegetables, and men were offering trinkets. We passed by a creek bed with more garbage than water. Inside the cemetery, people clustered in the few patches of welcome shade. Chickens pecked in the dirt and crumbling stone paving. The concrete and stone tombs are packed tightly together. They’re mostly painted cream, yellow, turquoise or pale blue. Many are faced with blue and yellow tile. Some feature sculptures of winged angels. Most are topped with crosses. They’re laid out in rows and sections. Like streets. With signposts. A few are protected by iron grills. To keep grave robbers out or the inhabitants in? I wasn’t sure. Almost all of the tombs were damaged. Whether from the earthquake or just the passage of time, I couldn’t tell.
    In death as in life, the richer families have big tombs. Some are three stories tall, with windows. The poorer ones are not much larger than a single coffin. They all have the name of the family or individual carved on them. We walked slowly down the rows. I like it here. I’ve never found it a solemn place. People gather to visit their loved ones, both departed and otherwise. The sun shines hot overhead. The sky’s a brilliant blue. Leaves stir in the breeze.
    “It’s wonderful,” Mrs. Anderson said.
    “That it is.” I turned, looking for Mr. Anderson. He’d stopped to rest. He leaned against a large tomb. White brick, green with age, crumbling into the ground.
    He waved at us. “You carry on. I’ll rest here.” His breath came in short gasps.
    “No, no. I’ve seen enough. We’ll go back.” She hurried to him. She took his arm and helped him stand upright.
    We walked back through the street of the dead. A chicken followed us.
    I took them back to the hotel. I helped Mr. Anderson, visibly tired, out of the car. Mrs. Anderson thanked me for my kindness. They walked very slowly up the stairs and into the hotel.

SEVEN
    T hursday was another a day off. But today the pool didn’t have much appeal. I called LeBlanc at the number he’d given me. The cop who answered told me that Agent LeBlanc was not in. I suspected he was not in only to me.
    I put on my uniform and drove to Petion-Ville. In Canada, I’d be in real trouble, wearing the uniform and carrying a weapon when not on duty. But what the heck. I doubted anyone here would even notice. Certainly no one would care.
    I hammered on the garage door.
    “You again,” Nicholas said.
    I looked over his shoulder. Hammond’s Lexus was gone.
    Excellent.
    “I’ve come to see Mr. Hammond,” I said.
    “He’s gone to work.”
    My face fell. “Gee. That’s too bad. I must have misunderstood his message. Everything okay here?”
    Nicholas shifted his shotgun. “Yes.” His sleeve fell back. A watch, with a thick gold chain strap and a multitude of dials, flashed in the sun.
    He wasn’t wearing that watch last time I was here.
    “I’ve lost my house key. It must have dropped out of my pocket.” I stepped forward. Nicholas took a step