HUXLEY DROVE. MAX sat next to him with the gun trained on his waist.
"When was the last time you saw the kid?" Max asked.
"Three months ago."
"How was he?"
"Very well. Healthy."
"Any speech?"
"What?"
"Can he talk?"
"No. He won't."
It was midafternoon. Huxley explained that they would be driving back to Pйtionville, then up the mountain road, past the Carver estate, stopping close enough to see the lights in the houses in the Dominican Republic. He hoped to reach the place where Charlie was being held by late evening.
"Tell me about the people who've got the kid."
"Carl and Ertha. Old folk, in their seventies. The most dangerous object they've got in the house is a machete-and that's for coconuts. Carl's an ex-priest-"
"-Another one," Max quipped.
"-originally from Wales. He knew Allain's mother very well. He helped Allain in his teens, when he discovered he was gay."
"Carl gay?"
"No. Women and the spirit you buy in bottles are his thing."
"That why he got kicked out of the Church?"
"He fell in love with Ertha, his housemaid, and left of his own accord. Mrs. Carver supported them. She bought them the farmhouse near the border. Allain made sure they never wanted for anything. They're good people, Max. They've treated Charlie as their own. He's been very happy there, really blossomed. It could have been much worse."
"Why wasn't it? Why didn't you kill him? Why go through all this trouble, this risk of getting caught by keeping the kid alive?"
"We're not monsters, Max. That was never part of the plan. Besides we like Charlie-what he represented. Gustav Carver, with all his power and money and contacts-the old fool didn't even know the kid wasn't his-let alone that it was Vincent Paul's-his sworn enemy's."
Huxley halved his speed when they entered Pйtionville, and then slowed to a crawl once they got into the densely populated center, where the distinction between street and sidewalk was buried under masses of moving and stationary bodies. They drove up the hill past La Coupole.
"How did you find us out?"
"It's what I do," Max said. "Remember that videotape you planted in Faustin's house? You fucked up. You left your prints on it. One loose thread's usually all it takes to catch the big fat fish."
"So, if it hadn't been for that-?"
"That's right," Max said. "You coulda spent the rest of your sorry-ass life pullin' your pudding-or whatever life you had left. See, with Allain running off the way he did, it would only have been a matter of time before Vincent Paul caught up with you."
"I was planning to leave tomorrow," Huxley said bitterly, tightening his grip on the wheel, all four knuckles popping out. Fighter's hands, Max thought. "Vincent Paul wouldn't have known about me. Hardly anyone saw us together. Only Chantale knew my name-well, one of them."
"Was she in on this?"
"No," Huxley said. "Absolutely not. Allain debriefed her on where you'd been and who you'd seen every day, but she didn't know what was really goin' on-any more than you did."
"Why don't you tell me 'bout that, what was 'really goin' on'-right from the start?"
"How much do you know?" Huxley asked. They were heading up the precarious mountain road. They passed a jeep in a ditch. Children were playing on it.
"Broad strokes-this: you and Allain kidnapped Charlie. Motive: to bring down Gustav Carver. Allain was in it for money first, then revenge. You were in it for payback then greenback, but payback before all else. How am I doin'?"
"Not bad." Huxley smirked. "Now, where do you want me to start?"
"Wherever you want."
"OK. Why don't I tell you all about Tonton Clarinette-Mr. Clarinet?"
"Go ahead. I'm all ears."