The Deadly Rose Read online

  THE DEADLY ROSE

  An Assassin’s Tale

  J.M. LOMINY

  ALSO BY J.M. LOMINY

  The Dominican Fiasco

  The Fatal Rose

  Policeman Legros

  Copyright 2013 J. M. Lominy. All rights reserved.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental

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  For Natasha Dorcely

  and Karl Dorcely,

  my loving sister and stepfather,

  I wish you were here to smile

  and laugh as only the two of you can

  “Politics is a rich man’s dream, a poor man’s nightmare, and a pain in the ass to all.”

  —J.M. Lominy

  THE DEADLY ROSE

  An Assassin’s Tale

  PROLOGUE

  Above, the stars and the moon were hidden, a jet-black swirl draped around them making the sky seem not to exist, producing a strange but steady silence, giving pause to the wind. As if afraid of the darkness, the coconut trees barely moved against a teasing breeze making its way off the Haitian coast. That same breeze brought first, slave ships, and eventually, tourists in search of paradise—the Haitian experience was open to all. Foreigners came in droves to see and interact with the French-speaking Negroes.

  Tonight, paradise was on valium, nodding to the beat of an unheard drum. Nocturnal insects lazily injected their nightly chorus into a harmony of darkness, tickling the silence with ancient songs of the ancestors. Barking dogs could be heard bickering back and forth like old women, disrupting what should have been a quiet, pleasant Wednesday night. The roads were deserted except for street vendors and homeless peasants making their beds on the side of the road.

  At ten o’clock, two identical sounds thundered in the night, destroying the fabric of normalcy. The sounds echoed for what seemed an eternity, shaking the soul of every living creature within miles. The dogs went into hiding, and people in their yards scurried inside, locking their doors, the chorus of insects replaced by silence.

  Gunfire had erupted in Pétion-Ville—a town in the mountains east of the capital Port-au-Prince, named after the great Haitian general who became president, for life, of a splintered Haiti. Even now—one hundred and fifty years later—Haiti remained divided like a suicidal schizophrenic, determined to paint a path toward a slow, painful death by gnawing her extremities up to the elbows.

  It was close to the presidential election, two weeks to be exact. On the heels of the gunshots a citizen on the outskirts of Pétion-Ville whispered into his frightened spouse’s ear, “Haitian politics,” and returned to sleep, knowing that unless a bullet came racing into their home, they had nothing to fear. They had no political affiliation. Besides, guns were only in the hands of the police, the military, and the grand nég.

  Although the sleeping man was partially right, it was not the police, the military, or the rich shooting this night. If he’d known the chaos that would ensue because of the vile act preceding those two shots, he would have run to the picture of Jesus that decorated his wall, begging for peace and tranquility in his country—or packed up his family and boarded the next ship sailing away.

  Shamed and disliked, the former president, Paul Magloire, fell victim to a tsunami of public discontent nine months ago, the thirteenth of December 1956, to be exact, and went the same way as many before him—exiled. Four candidates clamored to replace him, clashing for the office that proved to be lethal to more than a handful of former presidents. Early in the campaign, a fifth candidate—an unknown with an aristocratic name—acquired sufficient votes in his district to pose a formidable challenge. When the mysterious candidate was discovered to be a snarling, stubborn donkey, he was promptly disqualified. The donkey’s owner and campaign manager publicly professed his innocence during an interview from prison. He argued that if Americans can have a donkey and an elephant on their ballots, what made Haitians any different? One particular radio personality was outraged by such mockery in the face of a serious election. But a competitor raised the argument that at least a donkey would do what it set out to do and not break promises, and that all the candidates except those he endorsed were less qualified than the sniveling but honest ass.

  Radio advertisements flooded the airwaves as the various contenders vilified opponents and justified themselves as puritanical, as the people’s choice, energizing the populace. Candidates’ slogans read of liberty, equality, and fraternity—promises that had been doled out to the people before, from the mouths of wolves tending to the soon-to-be slaughtered sheep. They rang as true as a white rhinoceros parading along the Champ de Mars, as true as those who swore on the Virgin Mary that their candidate would liberate the Haitian people from years of suffering. Friends and neighbors swore to their candidates’ righteousness in friendly debates that went on without insult—intellectual duels of differing philosophies sprang up in living rooms like sugar cane during the rainy season.

  Politics had become the national pastime, second only to religion or soccer, and not necessarily in that order. Pedestrians could not go very far without hearing government in one conversation or another, from the street shoeshine boy to the businessman out for lunch. Most were passionate about their candidate. These debates spilled over into the region’s poorest neighborhoods, where residents kept their sharpened machetes close at hand, in adherence to the philosophy of muscle and steel. They saw their candidates as saviors from poverty and would not think twice to malign anyone who dared to openly challenge them.

  On this night, the echoes of gunfire proved how quickly the nation’s volatile mood could explode into an inferno of violence. A political whirlwind was brewing, with a power so destructive only God could foresee.

  ###

  Two Haitian men lay dead, contorted in a pile, their eyes and chests unmoving, lungs ignoring the surrounding sweet island air. Smoke and gunpowder hovered nearby like clouds of gnats. Blood from their wounds pooled onto the dirt, fertilizing the devil’s garden below.

  The blossoms of red seeping through the victims’ military blue guayabera shirts testified to the reality of their death and to their killer’s marksmanship. Next to their corpses lay two useless shotguns, weapons that proved too slow against a quicker foe, a phantom that dispatched death faster than one can produce life, impregnating its victims with darkness before disappearing like a shadow on a black canvas.

  The victims were clueless about their fate until the screaming projectiles informed them that Death had arrived, an unwelcome guest who seldom knocked before entering to take what she deemed to be hers. They had no time for a final confession and were probably at the gates of hell wishing they
could repent. A tragedy that was neither Greek nor Roman but Haitian—paradise was awaken by the fires of hell, announcing that turmoil would soon follow.

  Darkness swallowed the remains of the two dead men; the stillness and silence of the night slowly returned, delaying until morning light the sadness and tears that always accompanied unexpected loss. With courage and determination, a skinny, tan dog inched outside and resumed its barking, now announcing through protruding and shaking ribs that killings had occurred. It did not take long for other dogs to join in, their howls taking over the night like wildfire, spreading the news deep into Port-au-Prince, as far north as Cap-Haïtien and as far south as Jacmel.

  Superstitious by nature, most Haitians sensed something very wrong—something very evil—had occurred or was on its way. Some said a quick prayer. Others checked their candles, making sure they had not burned out in front of their patron saints. And yet others declared the drums of liberation were sounding once again in the mountains, the cry of escaped slaves descending to confront their masters with the knowledge that they had captured, brutalized, and murdered humans, not animals.

  CHAPTER 1

  At five minutes after ten, a woman’s scream sounded, one so true and so frightening, neighbors two streets over rushed out to investigate. The scream came from the home of Laplace.

  Laplace’s great wealth of a house stood sturdy and strong among beautiful homes in the heart of Pétion-Ville, on a hillside off of Rue Louverture. It faced west, smiling in the direction of the capital, with darling green paint and a grand balcony gracefully overlooking a beautiful front yard garden. On a clear sunny day, the garden’s colorful collage could be seen from Port-au-Prince, its carpet of roses and lilies planted and maintained by Mr. Laplace himself. A new seven-foot, decorative, cinder-block wall stood erect, forming a perfect rectangle around the perimeter of the property. It was the only house in the neighborhood to be so screened in, a recent security measure undertaken because of the increasing political turmoil.

  Minutes before she took claim to her screams, Madame Laplace was sound asleep, serenaded by crickets under a cool, soft, and steady breeze—a paradise she gladly welcomed. She was dreadfully awakened by two thundering sounds, wondering if cannons had been fired outside her window. The sounds put a momentary pause to her heart . . . then a terrifying gallop.

  Afraid to open her eyes, she fumbled over pillows in the dark and found her husband inches away.

  “Theodore, wake up! They’re shooting outside,” Madame Laplace said, scared and shaken. Mr. Laplace answered with silence.

  Their second-floor bedroom faced a courtyard leading to a back entrance. That same passageway was now crowded with two dead bodies, men who were charged with their safety.

  “Theodore, didn’t you hear me? They’re shooting outside,” Madame Laplace repeated as she shook Theodore Laplace by the shoulder; still no answer.

  An uncomfortable silence ensued, if only for a second. To Madame Laplace, however, it seemed an eternity. Tightness crept up her chest and suspicion lingered in the back of her thoughts. He was never difficult to awaken and rarely silent, even as he slept. Just minutes ago, it seemed, his snoring was a continuous humming that kept cadence with the crickets.

  Gradually she opened her eyes, withdrawing her ivory hand from his broad shoulder. A thick warm liquid covered her hand. With controlled panic, she fumbled for some matches. Her hands shaking, she struck the box of matches, almost too petrified to look, but knowing she had to.

  The fire took hold of the match with a bang, sending sparks of light everywhere, exposing the red liquid covering her delicate fingers. Through a haze of fear and the onset of nausea, she saw. Blood, the life force—as red as it was thick and still warm to the touch—was undeniably present.

  Madame Laplace couldn’t believe what she saw, but at the same time it was indisputable. It must be a trick, a lie, a mirage, she thought. She blinked as if to clear her vision and wish the blood away. Her head started to spin out of control like a coconut tumbling from a tree, in a hurry to meet earth.

  “My God,” escaped from her quivering lips. She turned pale as the meat in the center of a coconut and shook uncontrollably. She knew before she saw, deep down in her soul, she knew. Her innards twisted into cramping knots. Her suspicion was to be proven accurate. She knew that Theodore Vladimir Laplace had walked through the gates manned by Ghede, the voodoo god of the dead.

  She stared at her own fingers caked with the congealed blood, wishing it were just a dream or even a crude joke by a malevolent spirit. Her small, reddened lips curled like a slingshot, stretched thin, ready to be released. With tears already forming in her eyes and her chest aching, she suddenly found it difficult to breathe, to think, when only moments ago it came so easily.

  Time seemed to have slowed as she faced her husband of twenty-five years. Through blurred vision produced by rain-sized tears, she saw, paused, and gasped. The ghostly portrait of the former Theodore Laplace was smiling at her. His mouth was stuffed with a dirty rag, causing his already corpulent cheeks to spread out. His eyes stared up at heaven as if questioning God “Why now? Why me?” His neck sported a gaping V-shaped smile, the traditional bow-tie cut left behind by a taker of souls, a Haitian assassin—the assassin’s baptism, as it was known among criminals. Only the cruelest of assassins can cut a man’s throat, leaving him with a flowing, red grin that mocked the living, as if to say death was not so bad.

  Madame Laplace, wife of the great “People’s Senator,” Theodore Vladimir Laplace, screamed as if on the verge of insanity, a multitude of shrieks polluting the room. Her usually beautiful ivory face became contorted and filled with wrinkles. Her entire body shook as if her soul were rattled within, uncontrollable spasms spewing despair and grief, oblivious to the lit match that was making its way to her fingers. Her pain was beyond physical—mental, emotional, and spiritual, her lost love burning deeply in her heart. The anguish of the cruel injustice that befell her husband, a just man, an honest man, and now a dead man.

  “He’s dead,” she shouted, finally able to put words to her screams. “Il est mort,” not believing, but repeating. “He’s dead,” she announced to God and everyone who could hear. In her distress she forgot the rosary beads and the Bible resting beside her on the nightstand. “Pray,” her mother always told her. “Pray for the dead and the living.” Prayer was far from her mind.

  In some ways, this was inevitable; Madame Laplace always had that ominous feeling. Theodore was too outspoken, even for a senator. He had the idea he could change things in a country that did not care for the poor and downtrodden. Usually those who sought office only wanted to line their pockets with the normalcy of corruption. Even a rich place like America had their poor trudging through the streets like stray dogs. An idealist, she always called Senator Laplace.

  “What do you know about the poor, Senator?” she had asked him.

  “We have poor all around us, how could I not see or feel their pain?” was his answer.

  “I’m scared for you, honey.”

  “If I am to die, then I will have died for a good purpose.”

  “What purpose would that serve, Senator?”

  “To show that even in the face of death, you don’t abandon your beliefs like they’re just a fashion statement. If a man muddies his shoes, does he not clean them, or should he buy another pair?”

  “How will that help the poor?”

  “It will show them we are human, my love, and care for those with less. We feel their pain and misery, even if it means we have to sacrifice ourselves.”

  “Ah, you’re such an idealist, Senator,” Madame Laplace accused him.

  “Change always begins in the mind and heart, my love,” he said with a knowing smile.

  With her head spinning out of control, she remembered his endearing words, “Mon amour,” he always said with the voice of a baritone singer. At the time, she looked at him with admiration—despite her fear—still appreciating his humility, his gen
tleness, and passion for justice. Last night was the last time she would hear those sweet words, “Mon amour.” She quickly jumped out of the bed and stood on shaky legs, then lit the lamp. She looked at the bed and cupped her mouth in disbelief.

  Her widow’s lament brought two women servants to her room holding kerosene lamps in hand. The light more fully exposed the assassin’s precise and bloody work, resembling the work of a chef more than that of a butcher. The white bed linen was soaked with blood—the abstract work of a deranged artist. Death came swiftly, silently—not even a wife sleeping inches away took notice as blood drained down from Laplace’s open wound, spreading to the sheets that became the painter’s canvas.

  When the servants realized the reason for the screaming, they lent their voices to what became a chorus of screams. One of them dropped the kerosene lamp she carried and almost set the house on fire had it not been for the quickness of her coworker, who smothered the flames with her shoe.

  Two armed men barged into the room. The lead man shook his head at the sight of the senator and stepped back out, knowing there was nothing they could do, and headed down the stairs, ordering the other to follow him, leaving behind the orchestra of women’s wail.

  The senator’s house was in turmoil—Haiti would soon follow. Machetes would be sharpened, rocks thrown, and shots fired. It was killing season, and the mortician would be busy.

  CHAPTER 2

  At twelve minutes after ten, a fair-skinned, twenty-six-year-old man with tight curly hair and a strong masculine face ran through the dark, deserted streets of Pétion-Ville. The clop-clop of his shoes echoed through the narrow roadway, as if a ghost were tap-dancing on this dark and silent night to celebrate the recently departed. He wore a coconut smile on his shoe-polish-darkened face, a reflection of the joy that now flowed through his body, like a shiver on a cold day. He had just accomplished the near impossible. He did his job with finesse and signed it with a rose.