It was difficult not to feel a little off-kilter in the place, he told himself. If not for the sheer multitude of the disaster and the island’s history of practicing voodoo and other forms of black magic then for the stories he’d heard in a tent the first night. Like the one from a widow who’d said her husband survived the quake only to be shot by thieves a few days later. The man had been pastor of a respected church, married for thirty-two years. He had been killed for the change in his pocket. Lot of good money did now. There were no shops open to buy food. There were only handouts from relief organizations.
A distant drumbeat was constant in Daniel’s ears as he worked, a reminder that many Haitians relied upon voodoo spirits to fix their problems to this day. They called on their spirits as he pulled rubble from their streets.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The never-ending rhythm off in the distance sent a chill up his spine. It shouldn’t get to him, shouldn’t make the hairs on the back of his neck prick. Damn.
What was he going to do next? Hang garlic in his tent to chase off vampires? He sighed sharply, figuring it best to roll up his sleeves and get his hands dirty with real work than to rely on some invisible demon or God for help.
The only miracle happening right there in front of everyone came in the form of blistered hands and cut fingers. Work needed to happen, real work from real men, not some magical answer from a fantasyland in the sky. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in going to church, especially since he’d had his little girl. Church was fine for her and Naomi. His brain was too scrambled, too dark to believe in anything he couldn’t see.
Daniel picked through the mountain of rubble he stood on while hoping he didn’t uncover a leg or head, or worse, a child’s body.
A dark-skinned local joined him on top of the heap. He recognized the man. They’d been friendly the evening before.
Daniel nodded a hello as he pulled a spare mask from his backpack and offered it to the man.
Before covering his mouth, the man said, “The donkey sweats so the horse can be decorated with lace.”
Daniel shrugged. Haitians, he’d noticed, always spoke in riddles.
“We sweat so they can live comfortably,” he said and then motioned toward the hilltops as he placed his facemask on.
Daniel half-smiled as he nodded. True. Daniel couldn’t help but notice it was always the dark-skinned Haitians he saw digging in the debris. Never had he seen the Mulatto, the light-skinned French-speaking elite, get their hands dirty.
The hairs on the back of Daniel’s neck pricked again. The dark cloud surrounding him thickened. Hell, he was probably going crazy but it was worth glancing around anyway because he felt like eyes were on him.
There was a man.
He stood out, even in the distance, because most eyes in Haiti were trained on the ground. This man stood with his arms crossed and a penetrating glare aimed directly at Daniel. Did he know the guy?
Daniel blinked. It was hot and he was tired. He was probably just seeing things that weren’t there because this man looked hauntingly familiar. But, no, it couldn’t be him. Because Daniel had killed that man in South America in a raid.
Daniel rubbed blurry eyes. He checked the spot again.
The man was gone.
Chapter 3
The next morning everyone in the tent was up and moving around early. The sun blared and mosquitoes were real—a real problem. Real and thirsty for blood.
A man walked toward Daniel. He recognized him as the man he’d given a mask to yesterday.
“Come with us. We’re going somewhere special today. Samuel’s my name,” he said with an outstretched hand.
Daniel noticed everyone was dressed up, no longer in the dirty sweat-soaked T-shirts and torn pants they’d been wearing for the past couple of days.
Silently, he followed as Samuel navigated a path around the rubble, going only God knew where. He stopped at a cross in front of the ruins of the Port-au-Prince Cathedral.
The great stained glass window over the entrance was still mostly intact, but now, with the building just a shell, the sunlight streamed from the inside out. It struck Daniel as odd.
“It’s really a catastrophe to see the cathedral in this state,” Samuel said. “But look at the cross. It didn’t fall. It stands. The building is gone but the cross in front is still standing. It means something. It means that we need to keep our faith.”
“I look around and all I see is devastation and death,” Daniel said evenly. “How can you find faith in this?”
“True. There is much loss. But as long as the head is not cut off, the hope of wearing a hat remains,” he said with a wink and a smile.
Daniel knew it was a saying of hope. He pulled out his cell and texted Naomi, hoping she was already awake.
A few seconds crept by with no response. She was most likely still sleeping or she’d set her phone down somewhere in another room. Daniel never called at this time, so she wouldn’t be expecting him. Daniel pocketed his cell.
“God could silence an earthquake,” the pastor began. “But God let it happen because he wanted to test our faith.”
Amens rang out in the few dozen attendees.
“If we say our sin caused the earthquake, does that mean there’s more sin in places where earthquakes are bigger?” he said. “Let us pray.”
The ceremony started with a familiar-sounding prayer. Daniel recognized it as Catholic. Next came the drums. And then people jumped to their feet and began dancing around, the movement in sync with the rising pulse of the drum beat.
Daniel was being taken to church? He sat in the last row of the makeshift sanctuary made of rocks.
