Read Haitian Graves for Free Online Page B

spicy shrimp, rice and beans in front of me. I watched as a taxi pulled up to the bottom of the steps. An elderly white couple got out. The man leaned heavily on a cane, while his wife fussed about. The driver brought their bags. They all went into reception. A minute later the driver came back out, shaking his head. He got into his cab and drove away.
    We finished our lunch. I would have enjoyed staying longer, but my friends had to get back to work. We walked down the steps together, and they went to their car. I had a phone call to make. I stood in the shade of a white-painted brick alcove beside a statue of a tall-hatted Baron Samedi. Samedi is the chief spirit of the Haitian Vodou world. Religion here is a seamless blend of Vodou and Christianity.
    Pierre told me he’d heard nothing more about the progress of the Hammond investigation.
    The old couple passed me, heading toward the street. I hung up and hurried after them. “Are you needing some help?” I asked.
    They turned and smiled at me. The man leaned on his cane. He was already wheezing in the heat. The woman was in her late seventies. She was well preserved, with expensively cut and colored ash-blond hair. She wore powder-blue summer-weight slacks and a blue-and-white-striped shirt. A long turquoise-and-silver necklace was around her neck, and matching earrings were in her ears. A gold band and a single hefty diamond were on her left hand. I figured they’d last about five minutes out on the street. If that.
    “We’ve just arrived,” she said. “I suggested a short walk. Have a look around. Perhaps find an ATM .” Her accent was Canadian. Manitoba I guessed.
    “That’s not advisable,” I said. Until recently, the area around the Oloffson had been part of the red zone. Meaning our embassy staff wasn’t even allowed to go there without a bodyguard. Never mind on foot, lost and swinging expensive jewelry.
    “I couldn’t understand anything the receptionist at the desk told me,” the woman said. “You’d think they’d speak English, wouldn’t you, if they want tourists. She tried to tell us not to go for a walk, but I didn’t think that was what she meant.”
    “It was exactly what she meant,” I said. “Look, if you need a bank, I can take you. You won’t find an ATM on the street.”
    “That’s very kind of you,” she said. We introduced ourselves. They were Harold and Laura Anderson. They were from Winnipeg and happy to meet a fellow Canadian.
    I loaded them into my car, and we set off. Mrs. Anderson told me they’d never been to Haiti before. I refrained from saying, “I know.” Since her husband retired, they liked to travel. To Europe mostly, some Caribbean cruises. This year they thought they’d do something different. She did almost all of the talking. The old man said he didn’t like Rome. It was too crowded.
    I parked half on the sidewalk in front of the bank. She told me I could wait in the car. I went in with them anyway. They were perfectly safe going into the bank. It was leaving that might present a problem. Not long ago a Canadian priest had been murdered on his way out of the bank. The killers got away with the money he’d withdrawn.
    I watched as the couple stood in line and were served. Mrs. Anderson smiled politely at everyone. They were as innocent as babies. The streets of Port-au-Prince weren’t unsafe . Not if you were a fit, six-foot-three cop and kept your wits about you and your hand firmly on your wallet.
    But these two?
    Not a chance.
    Once we were back in the car, I told them so. “Do not leave the hotel grounds on your own. If you want to see the sights, hire a driver.”
    “Would you show us what there is to see?” she asked.
    “I don’t…”
    “How about today? Right now. We don’t have to go far. Just around here.” She gave me a smile. I thought not of my mother, but of my daughters. They were making noises about traveling the world. If they were lost and innocent, I hoped someone would help