Read Online Haitian Graves by Vicki Delany - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vicki Delany
Ads: Link
too.”
“Jacques!” Hammond yelled. “Help! I’m being assaulted.”
The young guard was quick. He ran up the stairs, holding the shotgun in position, ready to fire. He looked from me to Hammond and back again.
“He’s after my daughter!” Hammond yelled. “Shoot.”
Jacques’s eyes were as round and white as a horse smelling smoke. The shotgun swung toward me.
“No!” I yelled.
He fired. I read his intention in time and dove to one side. I hit the floor hard. A piece of the wall burst apart. I rolled as bits of terra-cotta tile flew into my face.
Hammond was out the door. Down the stairs. The recoil had caught Jacques off guard. The business end of the shotgun waved wildly while he struggled to control it. To get it back into firing position. To take aim. I was on my feet, moving. I zigzagged across the wide hallway. As I passed a table, I grabbed something. The iron statue I’d admired on my first visit.
Jacques got the shotgun under control. I raised the statue and struck him on the side of the head. His eyes rolled, and he staggered. The weapon fell to the floor. I kicked it, hard. It skittered down the hallway.
Then I was past him, down the stairs. The garage door was open. The Lexus was backing out. Hammond looked at me. He lifted his hand. He tucked his fingers into a fist and extended the index finger. Made the shape of a gun. He grinned and pretended to fire.
My own car was across the road. I ran for it as Hammond disappeared around the bend.
I couldn’t have handled that much worse, I thought. My engine caught and I took off after him.
The streets were very quiet. Not many other cars were out tonight. I could see Hammond’s lights in the distance. The Lexus was faster than my RAV4, but he couldn’t go all out on the steep, twisting roads. He roared through an intersection without slowing, barely missing a tap-tap. The bus screeched to a halt. I flew past. Hammond reached the turn onto Delmas40. He went left. I took a guess as to where he was going.
And why he thought he’d be safe there.
There might be talk about rebuilding the presidential place. But no one was seriously bidding. Competition for the contract wasn’t intense. No shovels were waiting to go into the ground any day now.
My Internet search had told me that the company Hammond worked for was a big international. It had offices all over the world. Many in third-world countries. Construction and mining mostly. It was also a defense contractor. What some people might call an arms dealer. Haiti has no army. That doesn’t mean people, inside government or out, don’t have a need for arms.
And people willing to supply them.
I wondered how many underdeveloped countries Hammond had worked in. Countries where laws were few and unprotected children many. Countries where what a man did in his own house was his business.
Had Marie married him in all innocence? Thinking he loved her? Not knowing it was her young daughter the man was interested in? Or did she know what was going on? And pretend to herself that she didn’t?
Didn’t matter now. She’d had enough. Told him she was leaving him. Taking the kids.
And so she died.
We went right onto Route de Delmas. I was falling back, losing ground on the straight stretches.
He turned right at Delmas 33. He was heading for the United States embassy, all right. They’d let him in. They’d turn me away.
I caught up to a rusty old pickup as the road twisted and turned. A wall of rock was on one side, a sharp drop-off on the other. I couldn’t pass.
I wiped at my face. My fingers came away wet and red. I’d been cut by flying floor tiles.
Can’t be too bad, I thought. I hadn’t even noticed.
What the hell was I doing? No one else cared—why did I? I’d call Warkness in the morning. Tell her what I suspected.
I had no proof. None at all.
Did Warkness know Hammond was dealing in arms? Did her bosses know? It didn’t really matter. He’d spin a story about some crazy
“Jacques!” Hammond yelled. “Help! I’m being assaulted.”
The young guard was quick. He ran up the stairs, holding the shotgun in position, ready to fire. He looked from me to Hammond and back again.
“He’s after my daughter!” Hammond yelled. “Shoot.”
Jacques’s eyes were as round and white as a horse smelling smoke. The shotgun swung toward me.
“No!” I yelled.
He fired. I read his intention in time and dove to one side. I hit the floor hard. A piece of the wall burst apart. I rolled as bits of terra-cotta tile flew into my face.
Hammond was out the door. Down the stairs. The recoil had caught Jacques off guard. The business end of the shotgun waved wildly while he struggled to control it. To get it back into firing position. To take aim. I was on my feet, moving. I zigzagged across the wide hallway. As I passed a table, I grabbed something. The iron statue I’d admired on my first visit.
Jacques got the shotgun under control. I raised the statue and struck him on the side of the head. His eyes rolled, and he staggered. The weapon fell to the floor. I kicked it, hard. It skittered down the hallway.
Then I was past him, down the stairs. The garage door was open. The Lexus was backing out. Hammond looked at me. He lifted his hand. He tucked his fingers into a fist and extended the index finger. Made the shape of a gun. He grinned and pretended to fire.
My own car was across the road. I ran for it as Hammond disappeared around the bend.
I couldn’t have handled that much worse, I thought. My engine caught and I took off after him.
The streets were very quiet. Not many other cars were out tonight. I could see Hammond’s lights in the distance. The Lexus was faster than my RAV4, but he couldn’t go all out on the steep, twisting roads. He roared through an intersection without slowing, barely missing a tap-tap. The bus screeched to a halt. I flew past. Hammond reached the turn onto Delmas40. He went left. I took a guess as to where he was going.
And why he thought he’d be safe there.
There might be talk about rebuilding the presidential place. But no one was seriously bidding. Competition for the contract wasn’t intense. No shovels were waiting to go into the ground any day now.
My Internet search had told me that the company Hammond worked for was a big international. It had offices all over the world. Many in third-world countries. Construction and mining mostly. It was also a defense contractor. What some people might call an arms dealer. Haiti has no army. That doesn’t mean people, inside government or out, don’t have a need for arms.
And people willing to supply them.
I wondered how many underdeveloped countries Hammond had worked in. Countries where laws were few and unprotected children many. Countries where what a man did in his own house was his business.
Had Marie married him in all innocence? Thinking he loved her? Not knowing it was her young daughter the man was interested in? Or did she know what was going on? And pretend to herself that she didn’t?
Didn’t matter now. She’d had enough. Told him she was leaving him. Taking the kids.
And so she died.
We went right onto Route de Delmas. I was falling back, losing ground on the straight stretches.
He turned right at Delmas 33. He was heading for the United States embassy, all right. They’d let him in. They’d turn me away.
I caught up to a rusty old pickup as the road twisted and turned. A wall of rock was on one side, a sharp drop-off on the other. I couldn’t pass.
I wiped at my face. My fingers came away wet and red. I’d been cut by flying floor tiles.
Can’t be too bad, I thought. I hadn’t even noticed.
What the hell was I doing? No one else cared—why did I? I’d call Warkness in the morning. Tell her what I suspected.
I had no proof. None at all.
Did Warkness know Hammond was dealing in arms? Did her bosses know? It didn’t really matter. He’d spin a story about some crazy
Similar Books
