Mr. Clarinet

"Back to Charlie," Max said. "Did he see Ton Ton Clarinet?"

"Yes."

Max glanced at Chantale. She caught his stare. Max saw fear in her eyes.

"When?"

"The last time he came here, he told me he'd seen Tonton Clarinette."

"Where?" Max leaned in closer.

"He didn't say. He just told me he'd seen him."

Max scribbled "interview Carver servants" in his notebook.

"People steal children here, don't they?" Max asked.

"It happens a lot, yes."

"Why do they steal them?"

"Why do they steal them in your country?"

"Sex—mostly. Ninety-nine percent of the time. Then it's for money, or it's childless couples who want to cut out adoption agencies, lonely women with a mothering fetish, that kind of thing."

"Here we have other uses for children."

Max thought back for a second and quickly got to Boukman.

"Voodoo?"

Dufour chuckled mockingly.

"No, not vodou. Vodou is not evil. It's like Hinduism, with different gods for different things, and one great big God for all things. No children are ever sacrificed in vodou. Try again."

"Devil worship? Black magic?"

"Black magic. Correct."

"Why do they sacrifice children in black magic?"

"Various reasons, most of them insane. Most black magic is the preserve of deluded idiots, people who think if they do something shocking enough the devil will ride out of hell to shake their hands and grant them three wishes. But here it's different. Here people know exactly what they're doing. You see, you, me—all of us—we are all watched over, guarded by spirits—"

"Guardian angels?"

"Yes—whatever you want to call it. Now, almost the strongest protection anyone can have is a child's protection. Children are innocent. Pure. Very little lasting harm comes to you when one is watching over you—and that which does is the sort of harm you learn and grow from."

Max thought things through for a moment. This was the Boukman case all over. Boukman had sacrificed children to feed some demon he'd supposedly conjured up.

"You say children make the most powerful guardian angels because they're innocent and pure?" Max asked. "What about Charlie? What would they want with him—apart from his being a child?"

"Charlie is very special," Dufour said. "The protection he offers is greater, because he is among the purer spirits—those sometimes known as the Perpetually Pure, those who will never know evil. Other spirits trust them. They can open many doors. Not many people have them as guardians. Those who do are usually people like me, those who can see beyond the present."

"So is it possible to…'steal a spirit'?"

"Yes, of course. But it's not a simple procedure and not everyone can do it. It's very specialized."

"Can you do it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"To do good you have to know bad—you, Max, more than most, know what I mean. There is a bad side to what I do—a reversal of my process, a sort of black magic, which involves enslaving souls, forcing them to become the protectors of evil. Children are a major element of that. They're a premium here in Haiti, a currency."

Just as Chantale finished translating, the maid came into the room and walked over to them.

"It's time," Dufour said.

They said their good-byes. The maid took Chantale's hand and Chantale took Max's and they filed out of the room. In the doorway, Max looked back at where they'd been sitting. He thought he saw a faint outline of not one but two people standing where Dufour had been. He couldn't be sure.

Chapter 24

THEY HEADED BACK to the bank, Max at the wheel now, getting used to Port-au-Prince's ruined streets. Once he'd dropped Chantale off, he'd return to the house. His head was heavy, pounding. He was done for the day. He couldn't think clearly. He hadn't had time to release the information he'd been steadily accumulating throughout the day, and his brain was fit to burst. He needed to process all the information, break it down into useful and useless, chuck out the trash and keep the good stuff, then work it, break it down, look for common threads and connections, promising leads, things that didn't quite seem to fit.

Chantale had barely said a word since they'd left Dufour's house.

"Thanks for your help today, Chantale," Max said and looked over at her. She was pale. Her face shone with a dull dew of perspiration, which pooled and crested into small droplets on her upper lip. Her neck and jaw muscles were tensed.

"Are you OK?"

"No," she croaked. "Stop the car."

Max pulled over on a bustling road. Chantale got out, took a few steps, and threw up in the gutter, prompting an exclamation of shocked disgust from a man who was pissing up against a nearby wall.

Max steadied her as she heaved a second time.

When she'd finished, he stood her up against the car and made her take deep breaths. He got the water bottle out, poured some onto his handkerchief, and wiped her face, wafting the notebook to cool her off.

"That's better," she said after she'd recovered and the color had returned to her face.

"Was that too much for you? Back there?"

"I was real nervous."

"Didn't show."