how generous. With that much time I can get his entire life story and also read him
Moby-Dick
.”
The guard takes Rimbaud by the arm and pulls him across the hall. He shoves Rimbaud through an open doorway into a windowless room, then looks back at Noah. “You’re wasting time. Now you only have twenty-nine minutes. Get in here.”
Noah walks across the hall and steps inside the room. The guard walks out and shuts the door behind him.
Noah and Rimbaud sit across from each other at a bare table. Rimbaud’s bony jaw is set; his lips are clamped shut.
Noah takes out a black micro–digital recorder from his coat pocket. He sets the recorder on the table, turns it on, and speaks to Rimbaud in French. “I’m glad you’re alive. I’d given up hope. Why did you leave my boat the night of the Shrimp Fleet Blessing?”
Rimbaud’s eyes turn down. He stares at the bare wood surface of the table and doesn’t answer.
Noah slips out a pint bottle of rum from his other coat pocket. He takes a swallow and sets the bottle next to the micro-recorder. “Rimbaud, help me out. They’re holding you for murder. Why did you leave my boat? You were safe there.”
Rimbaud keeps staring at the tabletop. With his index finger, he traces out on the table’s surface an invisible spiraling circle.
“Listen, kid, I know what you’ve been through. You escaped the misery of Haiti and drifted on a rickety raftseven hundred miles in shark-infested waters to make it to this promised land. You lost your home, your family, everything, the same old sad story. There’s nothing going to change the sad story unless you let me help you. Tell me, why did you leave my boat?”
Rimbaud’s head snaps up, his eyes wild with fear, his French words shrill. “To save myself! I jumped from your boat because the sky was exploding with fire!”
“The sky exploding? What do you mean? Ah, the celebration fireworks that were being shot off that night. It never occurred to me you’d never seen fireworks before. No wonder it scared the hell out of you.” Noah urges Rimbaud on with another question. “What happened after you left my boat?”
Rimbaud squirms, trying to make himself smaller inside his oversized orange jumpsuit. His words come out slowly. “I hid … on different … boats.”
“So that’s why you were on Pat’s boat.”
“Pat?”
“The woman whose boat you were found on.”
A loud knock raps on the closed door. From behind the door, the guard’s voice shouts, “Be quick. Hurry up.”
Noah looks directly into Rimbaud’s eyes. “Did you kill Pat?”
Rimbaud moves forward in his chair. He speaks in a low voice, afraid of being overheard.
Noah leans in, struggling to hear the barely audible words coming from Rimbaud’s trembling lips.
“One night, a skeleton rose from the dead. I was hiding, and I saw it with my own eyes. I saw Bizango.”
“Bizango? Who is Bizango?”
“A skeleton who rises from the dead. A zombie executioner.He is the great corrector between right and wrong, between good and evil. He is the ultimate judge. Bizango kills evil people.”
“You’re telling me a zombie skeleton rose from the dead and killed Pat?”
Rimbaud stares fearfully and nods his head in an emphatic yes.
Noah turns off the micro-recorder. He picks up his bottle and takes a long drink. He caps the bottle and slips it back into his pocket. He fixes Rimbaud with a solemn gaze. “I know you’re innocent, kid, but if the only defense you have is that you saw a zombie kill Pat, then you’ll be convicted for murder.”
A cloaked judge stares down from her elevated podium at the defendant’s table below, where Noah sits between Rimbaud and a young public defender. Behind the table stands a uniformed bailiff with a holstered .45 strapped to his waist. From the back row of benches, Luz leans forward intently, watching the proceedings in the crowded courtroom.
The judge dips her glasses low on her nose and glowers at Noah.
Moby-Dick
.”
The guard takes Rimbaud by the arm and pulls him across the hall. He shoves Rimbaud through an open doorway into a windowless room, then looks back at Noah. “You’re wasting time. Now you only have twenty-nine minutes. Get in here.”
Noah walks across the hall and steps inside the room. The guard walks out and shuts the door behind him.
Noah and Rimbaud sit across from each other at a bare table. Rimbaud’s bony jaw is set; his lips are clamped shut.
Noah takes out a black micro–digital recorder from his coat pocket. He sets the recorder on the table, turns it on, and speaks to Rimbaud in French. “I’m glad you’re alive. I’d given up hope. Why did you leave my boat the night of the Shrimp Fleet Blessing?”
Rimbaud’s eyes turn down. He stares at the bare wood surface of the table and doesn’t answer.
Noah slips out a pint bottle of rum from his other coat pocket. He takes a swallow and sets the bottle next to the micro-recorder. “Rimbaud, help me out. They’re holding you for murder. Why did you leave my boat? You were safe there.”
Rimbaud keeps staring at the tabletop. With his index finger, he traces out on the table’s surface an invisible spiraling circle.
“Listen, kid, I know what you’ve been through. You escaped the misery of Haiti and drifted on a rickety raftseven hundred miles in shark-infested waters to make it to this promised land. You lost your home, your family, everything, the same old sad story. There’s nothing going to change the sad story unless you let me help you. Tell me, why did you leave my boat?”
Rimbaud’s head snaps up, his eyes wild with fear, his French words shrill. “To save myself! I jumped from your boat because the sky was exploding with fire!”
“The sky exploding? What do you mean? Ah, the celebration fireworks that were being shot off that night. It never occurred to me you’d never seen fireworks before. No wonder it scared the hell out of you.” Noah urges Rimbaud on with another question. “What happened after you left my boat?”
Rimbaud squirms, trying to make himself smaller inside his oversized orange jumpsuit. His words come out slowly. “I hid … on different … boats.”
“So that’s why you were on Pat’s boat.”
“Pat?”
“The woman whose boat you were found on.”
A loud knock raps on the closed door. From behind the door, the guard’s voice shouts, “Be quick. Hurry up.”
Noah looks directly into Rimbaud’s eyes. “Did you kill Pat?”
Rimbaud moves forward in his chair. He speaks in a low voice, afraid of being overheard.
Noah leans in, struggling to hear the barely audible words coming from Rimbaud’s trembling lips.
“One night, a skeleton rose from the dead. I was hiding, and I saw it with my own eyes. I saw Bizango.”
“Bizango? Who is Bizango?”
“A skeleton who rises from the dead. A zombie executioner.He is the great corrector between right and wrong, between good and evil. He is the ultimate judge. Bizango kills evil people.”
“You’re telling me a zombie skeleton rose from the dead and killed Pat?”
Rimbaud stares fearfully and nods his head in an emphatic yes.
Noah turns off the micro-recorder. He picks up his bottle and takes a long drink. He caps the bottle and slips it back into his pocket. He fixes Rimbaud with a solemn gaze. “I know you’re innocent, kid, but if the only defense you have is that you saw a zombie kill Pat, then you’ll be convicted for murder.”
A cloaked judge stares down from her elevated podium at the defendant’s table below, where Noah sits between Rimbaud and a young public defender. Behind the table stands a uniformed bailiff with a holstered .45 strapped to his waist. From the back row of benches, Luz leans forward intently, watching the proceedings in the crowded courtroom.
The judge dips her glasses low on her nose and glowers at Noah.
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