Mr. Clarinet

went from bad to nasty to nearly unbearable, forming an acrid rubbery taste in the back of Max's throat.

He looked away from the old man's direction and glanced around the room. His eyes had acclimated to the quarter-light and he could see more now. All about him surfaces gave off the tiniest reflections of lamplight, reminding Max of photographs of crowds holding their lighters aloft during rock concerts, a butane Milky Way. To his left, were the shuttered windows, the fierce sun penetrating through the smallest fissures in the wood, beaming in from the outside in phosphorescent dots and dashes, a blinding Morse code.

Dufour closed the container and said something to Chantale.

'He says he's ready to continue,' she said to Max.

'OK.' Max switched the recorder back on and stared straight ahead of him, where he could vaguely make out his host's head and a pallid blur where his face was. 'Who made the appointments? You or Mrs. Carver?'

'Me.'

'How did you notify them?'

'By telephone. Eliane?my maid?she called Rose, Charlie's nanny.'

'How much notice did you give them?'

'Four, five hours.'

Max scribbled this down in his notebook.

'Was there anyone else with you at the time?'

'Only Eliane.'

'No one came to the house while you were with him? No visits?'

'No.'

'Did you tell anyone Charlie was coming to see you?'

'No.'

'Did anyone see Charlie coming here?'

'Everyone in the street.'

Dufour laughed as soon as Chantale had finished translating, to confirm that he was joking.

'Did you notice anyone suspicious watching your house? Anyone you hadn't seen before?'

'No.'

'No one hanging around?'

'I would have seen.'

'I thought you didn't like daylight?'

'There is more than one way to see,' Chantale translated.

Fasten your seatbelts, hold on tight?mystic mumbo-jumbo Disneyland here we come, Max felt like saying, but didn't. He'd been here before, in a similar situation, talking to a voodoo priest who was rumored to have supernatural powers. That was back when he was looking for Boukman. The most powerful thing about that guy had been his smell?bathtubs of rum and months of skipped showers. He'd humored the priest, cut him slack, and come away from their encounter with a working understanding of Haiti's national religion. Sometimes?though not often?it paid to tolerate and indulge.

'You're not asking me the right questions,' Dufour said through Chantale.

'Yeah? What should I be asking?'

'I'm not the detective.'

'Do you know who kidnapped Charlie?'

'No.'

'I thought you could see into the future?'

'Not everything.'

How convenient. I guess that's what you tell people when their relatives suddenly die.

'For example,' Dufour continued, 'I can't tell people when their loved ones are going to die.'

Max's heart skipped a beat. He swallowed dry.

Coincidence: no such thing as mind reading.

Something?or someone?stirred behind him. He heard a floor-board subtly creak, as though it was being stepped on firmly but slowly. He glanced over his shoulder but couldn't see anything. He looked at Chantale. It seemed she hadn't heard anything.

Max turned back to Dufour.

'Tell me about Charlie. About when he came to see you? What did you do when he came?'

'We talked.'

'You talked?'

'Yes. We talked without speaking.'

'I see,' Max said. 'So you?what? Used telepathy?ESP, ET?what?'

'Our spirits talked.'

'Your spirits talked?' he asked, as neutrally as possible. He desperately wanted to laugh.

They had officially entered the realm of bullshit, where everything happened and the far-fetched was never far enough. He'd play along, he told himself, until the rules got too fucked-up and the situation threatened to change owners. Then he'd weigh in and turn the tables.

'Our spirits. Who we are inside. You have one too. Don't confuse your body with your soul. Your body is simply the house you live in while you're here on earth.'

And don't confuse me with a dickhead.

'So, how did you do that?talk to his spirit?'

'It's what I do, although?it's not something I've ever done with a living person before. Charlie was unique.'

'What did you talk about?'

'Him.'

'What did he tell you?'

'You were told why he came to see me?'

'Because he wasn't talking, yeah?and?'

'He told me the reason why that was.'

Max saw something cross his peripheral vision to his right and quickly turned to catch it, but there was nothing to see.

'So, let me get this right?Charlie told you?or his 'spirit' told you?what was wrong with him? Why he wasn't talking?'

'Yes.'

'And??'

'And what?'

'What was wrong with him?'

'I told his mother. As she hasn't told you, neither will I.'

'It could help my investigation,' Max said.

'It won't.'

'I'll be the judge of that.'

'It won't,' Dufour repeated firmly.

'And his mother took your word for it? Whatever it was you claim Charlie told you?'

'No, like you she was skeptical. Actually she didn't believe me,' Chantale said hesitantly now, her tone questioning and confused. What she was hearing made no sense to her.

'What changed her mind?'

'If she wants to tell you, she will. I'm saying nothing.'

And Max knew he'd get nothing out of him, not this way. Whatever it was, Francesca or Allain Carver would have to tell him. He moved on.

'You said your 'spirits talked'? Yours and Charlie's? Do you still talk? Are you in touch with Charlie now?'

Chantale translated. Dufour didn't answer.

Max realized that he hadn't seen the maid leave the room. Was she in there with them? He searched the area in the direction of the door, but the surrounding darkness was too finite, too determined to yield no more than it had to.

'Oui,' Dufour said finally, shifting in his seat.

'Yes? Have you talked recently?'

'Yes.'

'When?'

'This morning.'

'Is he alive?'

'Yes.'

Max's mouth went dry. His excitement briefly dispelled all his doubts and disbelief.

'Where is he?'

'He doesn't know.'

'Can he describe anything to you?'

'No?only that a man and a woman are caring for him. They're like his parents.'

Max scribbled this down, even though he was recording their exchange.

'Does he say anything about where he's at?'

'No.'

'Is he hurt?'

'He says he is being well looked after.'

'Has he told you who took him?'

'You have to find out yourself. That's why you're here. That is your purpose,' Dufour said, raising his voice, a hint of anger there.

'My purpose?' Max put down his notebook. He didn't like what he'd just heard, the arrogance of it, the presumption.

'Everyone is put on earth for a purpose, Max. Every life has a reason,' Dufour continued calmly.

'And?so?'

'This?here and now?is your purpose. How things take their course is up to you, not me.'

'Are you saying I was born to find Charlie?'