Fugitive Read Free Page B

amused Baptiste. The president brought him to parties, where he was frequently the foil of the dictator's practical jokes. Sometimes Baptiste displayed his pet American on Batanga's only television station or at banquets for visiting dignitaries from countries with anti-American policies. Most of the time Baptiste ignored Charlie, which was a good thing.
    The route from the mansion to Charlie's apartment led through the heart of Baptisteville. The shops were locked and shuttered for the night and the activity in the bars was winding down. Elderly watchmen sat on upturned wooden crates, guarding gated entrances for Lebanese merchants. Packs of emaciated feral dogs roaming the streets in search of food growled at the rare passerby. And there were the ever-present soldiers. Charlie knew that his white skin was no protection from the psychotic teenagers who formed Baptiste's terror squads, but Charlie was not afraid of the soldiers, because he carried a presidential pass. Those who didn't have a pass cut a wide swath around the young men toting automatic weapons, who were always unpredictable.
    Charlie's fear had not abated as he walked downhill toward Waterside. If anything, hurrying along the deserted streets made him more afraid. He imagined one of the black Mercedes favored by the secret police suddenly screeching to a halt beside him. Armed men would grab his arms, a black hood would be thrown over his head, and he'd be returned to the mansion to face whatever fate Baptiste held in store for him.
    When he reached the bottom of the hill, Charlie heard the sea sweeping into shore behind the native market. The soothing sound accompanied him for another quarter-mile until he arrived at the Kamal S. Dean brick factory, which took up the ground floor of his three-story apartment building. Charlie walked through an arch at the side. As he climbed the partially enclosed stairway, the wind blew the salty smell of sea air at him and he could just make out the white foam on the crest of the waves that broke on the narrow beach below. Charlie was about to step onto the landing in front of his door when a man materialized out of the shadows. Charlie jumped back and threw up his hands to ward off a blow.
    It's me, Pierre, the man whispered. Pierre Girard, Bernadette's brother, was wearing a tie-dyed dashiki and tan slacks. He was slender and bookish, with sad brown eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses.
    Charlie collapsed with relief. Oh, Pierre, he said, his voice halfway between a sob and a sigh. Have you heard?
    Bernadette's brother nodded but his face showed no emotion.
    I' m so sorry, Charlie said.
    There's no time for sorrow. Baptiste knows you and Bernadette were lovers. He's toying with you now but our president has a short attention span. When he tires of his head games he'll send Nathan. You must leave Batanga.
    Pierre put a hand on Charlie's shoulder. Bernadette told me how kind you were to her. She loved you, Charlie.
    Thank you for letting me know that.
    There's something else you should know. Bernadette wasn't killed because she was cheating on Baptiste, although that must have made her pain more enjoyable for the bastard. She was tortured for information.
    I don't understand.
    There are Batangans who want Baptiste dead or gone. She was helping us.
    Pierre squeezed Charlie's shoulder. Do you want to avenge my sister's death?
    Of course, but what can I do? I can barely help myself.
    You know Rebecca, the bartender at the Mauna Loa? Charlie nodded.
    She can put you in touch with a man who can get you out of the country. He is a mercenary and it will be expensive.
    Charlie knew that he would probably die a horrible death if he stayed in Batanga. Even if Baptiste let him live, the best he could hope for was a life of fear in which every breath he took was dependent on the whim of a sadistic, homicidal lunatic. If he returned to the States, he would have to stand trial for murder, but twelve years had