Page 42 of Pierre
“The people they’re talking to look scared,” said Butch. Pierre nodded at his teammate.
“They do. We need to find out why they’re afraid of a few little old ladies.”
Their steps were slow and sure, careful to avoid trash and debris on the sidewalks and streets. When they stopped at a sidewalk market, they bought a bag of apples and a bag of oranges, talking to the vendor for several minutes.
Ham and Frank haggled over mangoes with a vendor, while the others milled around the market. When the man gave a nod to the women, accepting a large envelope of cash, the men knew something wasn’t right.
He disappeared into a small shack and came out a few moments later with four boys, all under the age of eight or nine. The women took their hands and began to walk. The first woman handed them an orange, and the boys seemed mesmerized, immediately peeling the sweet fruit, juice dripping down their hands.
When they finished the oranges, she handed them each an apple. Again, the boys seemed excited for the fruit, as if it were their first. As Pierre got closer, he heard the woman speaking about getting them to the ship before noon. One of them complained about her bunions, while the other complained of the heat.
“It’s always hot here. Stop complaining,” said the third.
“You know, Vera, I’ve about had it with your uppity attitude. It’s damn hot here, and I’m ready to leave.” One of the boys dropped his apple, and Pierre saw his chance. He picked it up, and the boy had tears in his eyes because it was dirty.
“That’s what you get for dropping it,” growled one of the women.
“Hey, don’t cry, buddy,” said Pierre. He grabbed the bottled water from his pack and washed the apple, handing it back to the kid. Whatever dirt or germs were left were probably no match for this kid’s iron-clad constitution.
“He’s clumsy,” said one of the women.
“He’s a kid,” laughed Pierre. “I’m around a lot of kids back home.”
“Good for you,” said the one named Vera. “Let’s go, boys.”
“You’re not very nice,” said Pierre. He looked at the boys then back at the women. Then he spoke to the boys in Haitian French. “Why are you with these ladies?”
“What are you saying? What did you ask them?” asked one in a panicked voice.
“I’m wondering why three old, white women are with four boys from Haiti, and yet you don’t speak Haitian French.”
“Mind your damn business,” said one of the women. She felt a sharp sting at her side and gasped, looking down at the trickle of blood. One of the men held a syringe in his hand, the other women experiencing the same thing.
“These kids are our business,” said Frank. “Let’s go, ladies. You’ve got an appointment you can’t miss.”
While the boys were being looked after by the medical team and questioned by those who spoke their language, the three old women were taken to an interrogation room, groggy but awake.
“We have rights!” yelled one of them. Pierre raised his brows, staring at the Canadian passport.
“Is that right, Vera McQuillen? You’re a Canadian citizen stealing Haitian children. I’d say that cancels all your rights.”
“Pfft! I wasn’t stealing anything. They wanted to come with us. They’ll have a much better life than they have here.”
“Shut up, Vera!”
“You shut up! I’m so tired of your damn whining!”
“Are you a whiner, Mabel Talbot?” He stared at her U.S. passport and shook his head. He wasn’t sure if the passports were legit, but these women were all in their seventies.
“I don’t whine!”
“Yes, you do,” said the third woman.
“And we finally get to Rosalynn Giamatta,” said Pierre. “So, we have a Canadian, an American, and a British citizen. What happened to your accent, Rosalynn?”
She glared at Pierre but said nothing else as the women just stared in their direction. When one of their cell phones began buzzing, they all looked at one another, panicked.
“Should I get that for you? Perhaps it’s Sister Josephina,” said Butch. The three women paled, looking at the men staring down at them. “No. No, that can’t be right, can it? I mean, Sister Josephina has been dead a hundred years.”
