wanted to look and see where they were taking the bodies, he remained perfectly still.
After a bumpy twenty-minute ride, the truck stopped. Jakjak jumped out and hid beside the road. He watched as the men unloaded the bodies, took them to a dock, and threw them into an open, twenty-four-foot-long lateen sailboat. The truck drove away, and the three men on the boat pushed away from the dock as the sail caught a gust of wind.
Jakjak prayed, but saw no vision to direct him. The Vodoun spirits gave him no direction, but he had a feeling of power. He was a zombie, so his strength must be supernatural, even though he couldn’t roll the stone door in the cave. He stretched his hands out in front of him and faked a staggered gait. Then he stopped and laughed at himself. I’m not much of a zombie. I don’t even walk like one.
Holding his shoulders high, he walked along the streets toward the Ministry of Finance offices. He walked like he’d always walked, and it felt natural.
What’s wrong with me?
Beneath the National Palace
Port-au-Prince, Haiti
1:30 p.m.
Julien Duran stood to stretch his stiff legs and in doing so bumped against the cell door. To his amazement, it swung open. Julien slowly walked out, cautiously looking for the guard who would shove him back in and bolt the door. But there was no one.
He walked down the hall. There, in the open, was another bottle of wine. In the dim light he didn’t look for the label. He uncorked it and put it to his lips. It was a good wine. He gulped down half the bottle before stopping.
He looked down the hallway littered with rock debris. The stone blocking the exit had been rolled aside. He could see another light thirty feet away. He walked to it. Rubble blocked the hall, but there was another opening to the right. Julien wandered down hallway after hallway, climbing over earthquake debris, until he saw a light. A light outside the tunnel. He stumbled to the end and threw his arms wide, “I’m free.”
He needed a phone. The only sign of civilization he saw was a tent city. He ran to it. In the first makeshift home, four children slept with a man standing guard over them.
“Please give me your phone. I am the Minister of Finance—”
“Yah, right.” The man put his hands on his hips and glared. “You’ll wake up my baby, you fool. Go away.”
Julien ran from tent to tent, asking for a phone and receiving the same welcome.
Finally, three teenagers approached him. “Alright, mister. Give us your money.” They exposed no gun or knife, but Duran was no match for the three young men.
He reached into his empty pockets to gesture compliance. To his surprise, he found a wad of money in his interior coat pocket. He glanced at the cash: crisp, new one-hundred-dollar bills. But who put it there? And why? Was someone trying to help me ... or set me up? he wondered.
He discretely removed one bill and shoved the rest back in his pocket. He turned to the youths. “I’ll give you a one hundred dollars for your phone. And I won’t even report your robbery attempt to the police.”
“We’ll take the money. But no phone.” One of the boys reached out to snatch the one-hundred-dollar bill, but Duran pulled it back.
The would-be-robbers couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old. And they were small, probably malnourished.
There was a broken two-by-four laying on the path. Duran picked it up and pulled it back to swing. “Take one step toward me, and I’ll kill all of you.”
They looked at each other, and then at the one-hundred-dollar bill in Duran’s hand. The tallest boy gestured to a tent. The other two ran, snatched the phone from the hand of a screaming middle-aged woman, and ran back waving the phone triumphantly.
Ministry of Finance
Port-au-Prince, Haiti
1:45 p.m.
Tomas Duran again pulled up the Haiti Relief Aid Fund on his father’s computer. He gasped when he saw the figures. Another two billion dollars had
After a bumpy twenty-minute ride, the truck stopped. Jakjak jumped out and hid beside the road. He watched as the men unloaded the bodies, took them to a dock, and threw them into an open, twenty-four-foot-long lateen sailboat. The truck drove away, and the three men on the boat pushed away from the dock as the sail caught a gust of wind.
Jakjak prayed, but saw no vision to direct him. The Vodoun spirits gave him no direction, but he had a feeling of power. He was a zombie, so his strength must be supernatural, even though he couldn’t roll the stone door in the cave. He stretched his hands out in front of him and faked a staggered gait. Then he stopped and laughed at himself. I’m not much of a zombie. I don’t even walk like one.
Holding his shoulders high, he walked along the streets toward the Ministry of Finance offices. He walked like he’d always walked, and it felt natural.
What’s wrong with me?
Beneath the National Palace
Port-au-Prince, Haiti
1:30 p.m.
Julien Duran stood to stretch his stiff legs and in doing so bumped against the cell door. To his amazement, it swung open. Julien slowly walked out, cautiously looking for the guard who would shove him back in and bolt the door. But there was no one.
He walked down the hall. There, in the open, was another bottle of wine. In the dim light he didn’t look for the label. He uncorked it and put it to his lips. It was a good wine. He gulped down half the bottle before stopping.
He looked down the hallway littered with rock debris. The stone blocking the exit had been rolled aside. He could see another light thirty feet away. He walked to it. Rubble blocked the hall, but there was another opening to the right. Julien wandered down hallway after hallway, climbing over earthquake debris, until he saw a light. A light outside the tunnel. He stumbled to the end and threw his arms wide, “I’m free.”
He needed a phone. The only sign of civilization he saw was a tent city. He ran to it. In the first makeshift home, four children slept with a man standing guard over them.
“Please give me your phone. I am the Minister of Finance—”
“Yah, right.” The man put his hands on his hips and glared. “You’ll wake up my baby, you fool. Go away.”
Julien ran from tent to tent, asking for a phone and receiving the same welcome.
Finally, three teenagers approached him. “Alright, mister. Give us your money.” They exposed no gun or knife, but Duran was no match for the three young men.
He reached into his empty pockets to gesture compliance. To his surprise, he found a wad of money in his interior coat pocket. He glanced at the cash: crisp, new one-hundred-dollar bills. But who put it there? And why? Was someone trying to help me ... or set me up? he wondered.
He discretely removed one bill and shoved the rest back in his pocket. He turned to the youths. “I’ll give you a one hundred dollars for your phone. And I won’t even report your robbery attempt to the police.”
“We’ll take the money. But no phone.” One of the boys reached out to snatch the one-hundred-dollar bill, but Duran pulled it back.
The would-be-robbers couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old. And they were small, probably malnourished.
There was a broken two-by-four laying on the path. Duran picked it up and pulled it back to swing. “Take one step toward me, and I’ll kill all of you.”
They looked at each other, and then at the one-hundred-dollar bill in Duran’s hand. The tallest boy gestured to a tent. The other two ran, snatched the phone from the hand of a screaming middle-aged woman, and ran back waving the phone triumphantly.
Ministry of Finance
Port-au-Prince, Haiti
1:45 p.m.
Tomas Duran again pulled up the Haiti Relief Aid Fund on his father’s computer. He gasped when he saw the figures. Another two billion dollars had
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