Mr. Clarinet

"Boris killed him when he was twelve. Stabbed him more than fifty times. They found pieces of the guy splashed all over the place. The kid had split him open from his neck to his guts. Real precise cuts too. He told the detectives who interviewed him that his so-called adoptive dad made him watch videotapes of his operations. Used to tell him that he'd do the same thing to him if he told anyone what was going on between them.

"Boris also told the cops his real last name was Gaspésie, and that he'd been kidnapped and brainwashed in Haiti. They bought the first part, but not the second. The adoption papers were all in order.

"Court was real lenient on the kid. They put him in a hospital outside of Vancouver. He was there for about six months, doin' real well, no complaints, model patient. Then, one day, out of the blue he gets into a fight with one of the other kids in there. Witnesses say the kid pulled a knife on Boris and Boris defended himself. Only he over- defended himself, knowhumsayin'? Put his attacker in a coma.

"Boris gets put in the hospital's secure wing. He gets attacked again—only this time it's one of the staff—this male nurse who'd been on the job a month, goin' at him with a syringe full of adrenaline."

"Carver had sent people to kill Boris," Max said.

"That's what it looks like now, yeah. Back then, who knew? Only Boris, I guess, because the next thing that happened was he escaped, went on the run. They had a manhunt but they never found him."

"When did all of this happen?"

"Nineteen-seventy, seventy-one," Joe said.

The waiter came over. They ordered refills.

"Like I said, Boris is wanted by the Canadian police for two homicides. One's a banker called Shawn Michaels, the other a businessman called Frank Huxley—"

"Again? Those names?" Max said, pulse quickening.

"Shawn Michaels and Frank Huxley," Joe said. "Mean anything to you?"

"Some," Max said. "Carry on."

"Boris's bloody prints were all over their dead bodies. He'd tortured them for at least three days before he killed 'em."

"How d'he kill 'em?"

"Cut their windpipes with a scalpel."

"Figures," Max said. He opened the envelope and took out a sheaf of photocopied pages held together with a thick paper clip. The first page was the report on the murder. Max looked through the pages Joe had given him, turning back one after the other until, clipped somewhere in the middle, he found a copy of Boris Gaspésie's mugshot. It wasn't a good copy, but he clearly recognized the unsmiling teenage face as an early draft of the man he'd known as Shawn Huxley.

Huxley was Boris Gaspésie.

Huxley had handled the tape he'd found at Faustin's house.

He'd found Faustin's house because of the page from the phone book in the box handed to him by Dreadlocks/"Darwen Medd" at Saut d'Eau.

He hadn't seen Dreadlocks's face.

Boris Gaspésie was Dreadlocks too?

Why had he gone to Saut d'Eau in the first place?

Huxley had told him Beeson and Medd had gone there.

Huxley had been guiding him all along.

Huxley had kidnapped Charlie.

The world fell out from under Max's feet and he stood suspended over one great big void.

"There's another thing, Max," Joe said. "You and Boris got something in common."

"What?"

"A person: Allain Carver. Around the time of the shit-on-the-plate incident, a 'Shawn Huxley' got caught drunk-driving on U.S. 1. He got booked and put in the drunk tank. Gave his profession as journalist. Made one phone call. To Allain Carver, who came and bailed him out in two hours.

"You know, I almost missed it. It was late in the day and I thought I'd better try cross-referencing the names of Gaspésie's vics in case he was using their ID. I typed in 'Shawn Huxley' by accident."

"You can be the luckiest person in the world and the worst cop in the history of law enforcement, but that good luck'll get you through every time. When it's the other way around you get blamed and fired," Max said.

"Ain't that the truth." Joe chuckled, then his face got serious. "Whatchu' gonna do, Max?"

"Makes you think I'll do anythin'?"

"I thought you'd do nothing, I woulda told you nothing."

Chapter 61

"VINCENT? IT'S MAX Mingus." The line wasn't good, a lot of static and squeals.

"How are you, Max?"

"I'm good, Vincent, thanks. I think I know who took Charlie."

"Who?"

"I'm coming back tomorrow."

"You're coming back?" Vincent sounded surprised. "What? Here? To Haiti?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow. First flight I can get."

"You don't need to do that, Max," Vincent said. "I can handle it from here. Really. Just tell me."

"Negative," Max said.

"What do you propose?" Vincent asked.

"Let me finish my job. Give me a week tops, from touchdown. If I don't get anywhere then I'll tell you what I know and haul ass back here. Anything happens to me on the search and I don't make it, I've left all the information you need with Joe Liston. He's got your number. He doesn't hear from me a week from tomorrow, he'll tell you everything."

"OK. It's a deal."