Skinny turns off the light, and then we pick our way through the clinic again, single file, the big guy leading.
The BMW gleams in the moonlight, my getaway car. I finger the keys in my pocket, but I’m not seriously tempted to pop the lock and drive away from this. I’ve crossed some invisible barrier. Whatever I’m into here, I’m committed.
The big guy has a Maglite, but its batteries must be almost used up because the light it casts is a watery yellow disk that doesn’t do much to illuminate our way. The moonlight barely penetrates the thick canopy. We’re trudging along a narrow dirt path through a vine-tangled wood. The trees are spooky, shrouded with Spanish moss. The path is full of roots. The insect hum rises up around us, a rich vibrant tumult.
“The hills are alive,” the skinny guy says, and then cackles with laughter.
The big guy chuckles.
“Where are we going?” I can hardly see the two men, but me? I practically glow in the dark.
“To the place,” the big man says. “Don’t worry, we’ll be there soon.”
I can’t see much, but I can tell we’re getting closer to water. The disk of light bounces off tangles of mangrove knees and occasionally I hear a frog splash. The air smells different, too, funky and dank.
After a few more minutes, I smell wood smoke, and hear the murmur of voices. And then finally, we emerge from the dark woods into a clearing. Diment and a dozen others, men and women, sit around a fire. A couple of bottles of what looks like rum are going around the circle, and in fact, I can smell alcohol. Out in the darkness, when the fire throws up a flame, I can see the gleam of water.
Seeing me, Diment gets to his feet. The rest of the bizango follows suit. Diment embraces me, then holds me at arm’s length. “Damn, you look fine.” He smiles, teeth gleaming. Everyone embraces me in turn, introducing themselves and offering a formal welcome. I feel at a remove from myself, as if I’m looking at this from above: a collection of happy people sitting around a fire, drinking, led by a man who lost his upper lip to a zombie. Then a man dressed in white comes out of the woods and joins them. It’s a scene of visual extravagance, like something you might see in the Corcoran or the National Gallery, some nineteenth-century painting of an exotic crowd scene: Initiation.
My heart feels unsteady in my chest and over and over again, I hear that little voice saying: What are you doing?
After all the hugs and bows, my legs feel shaky. I’m more than happy to sit down next to Diment, as I’m invited to do. The skinny man and the big man join the circle. The rum goes around in both directions. This time I drink as much as I can when it’s my turn, and my thirst meets with enthusiastic approval. I realize, after a few minutes, that most of the bizango is drunk.
Finally, Diment raises his hand, and everyone falls quiet. He turns to me and puts a hand on my arm. “Alex, are you ready?”
I nod. What I’m thinking is: Let’s get this over with.
“Bon!” The big man distributes torches – these constructed of thick bamboo, with some kind of cloth wrapped many times around their ends. The members of the bizango dip the torches into the fire, and then we’re on the move again, heading even deeper into the swamp. We have to duck under the limbs of trees and tread carefully over the rooty ground. The insects roar, and I’m grateful for the Off, which keeps them more or less at bay.
“Ho!” says a voice from the front of our file. And then, a minute later, I follow Diment around a big tree and into a clearing. A crude wooden cross stands waist-high, stuck into the ground at an angle. A few feet away is a freshly dug grave, and next to that, a pine casket.
It takes me a second to grasp what I’m seeing and when I do, I take a reflexive step backward. Everyone laughs.
Diment faces me. His bizarre smile is anything but reassuring. “Have faith, my friend.”
It’s a call-and-response thing, and the rest of the bizango chants its reply to Diment in unison.
“Have faith!”
“And trust in your brothers and sisters.”
“Have trust!”
“Without faith, there’s no resurrection.”
“Without faith we are doomed.”
“Without faith, we have nothing.”
“Have faith!”
It goes on like that for a while and then everybody falls silent. Diment claps me on the back. “Don’t worry, man! We dig you up quick!”
“Quick!” I say. “You mean, like, right away, or-”
Diment laughs, throwing his head back, exposing all of his teeth. “No,” the doctor says, barely able to speak over his laughter. “See, you spend the night, restin’ underground. We be up here, makin’ music. Moving with the loa. When the sun comes up, your brothers and sisters here get you out.”
“Amen!”
“Oh, yes!”
“Sweet sleep!”
“Lord on high!”
I take a deep breath. Jesus. Ever since the boys were taken, I keep venturing further and further away from what seems normal. I am so far out on the edge of anyplace I expected to be… I’m in the middle of a swamp in a white tuxedo. I stare at the coffin.
I take another deep breath. I think about the M.E. out in Vegas speculating that Clara Gabler had been in a pine box, maybe a coffin, but that she seems to have waited for her fate willingly, without struggle. “I don’t think I can do this,” I say.
The jolly look evaporates from Diment’s face. Suddenly he looks grim with disappointment. “Then I can’t help you,” he says.
“Hell,” I hear the skinny guy’s voice say. “The last guy got buried just to get a number! Shit.”
“I know,” starts another voice, “this one jumpy, like that…”
Diment holds up a hand to silence them.
Standing in the moonlight, with my improbable tuxedo seeming almost to absorb the moonlight, I fumble for the words. “What I’m being asked to do,” I start. My mouth is so dry, I can hardly speak. “What I’m being asked to do – will it be worth it?”
“That up to you,” Diment says to me. His face is stone. His eyes glint in the torchlight. He looks tired and angry. Around us, the others murmur.
I feel like I’m at the top of a cliff, about to leap into space. “No,” I tell him. “It’s not up to me. It’s up to you. Can you tell me how to find Boudreaux?”
Diment shakes his head. “You out of turn, son. That a question for after; you understand what I’m saying? First you got to prove your trust.” But although the old man dodges the question, his rheumy eyes don’t. They remain fastened on me. He stares intently, holding my eyes. There’s no malevolence in his gaze. “If you trust me,” he says, “I help you.”
I don’t know why, but I believe him.
A drumbeat starts up, a slow steady rhythm from somewhere to my left. Voices murmur. Someone chugs rum. The skinny guy cackles. A woman hums the tune of a lullaby.
I keep my eyes on my feet as I walk over to the casket. And then, before I can change my mind, I climb into the box. The whole crowd leans over me. I can see the big man, bending to lift the wooden cover. I close my eyes. I’m crazy.
“Alex!” Diment says, and my eyes snap open.
He’s looking down at me. Behind him, the big man and a couple of others hold the lid of the casket. Diment drips some liquid onto my face from his fingers. It feels cold, but it seems to burn as it hits my skin. Tetrodotoxin? Are my lips beginning to feel numb?
“Wait!” I say, trying to sit up. Three men push me gently back down.