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A set of double glass doors separated the garden and the dining
room. They were locked, but there was a key in the lock. Lizette, her
arms laden with dishes, had gone back into the kitchen. Turning the
key, Claire opened one of the doors a little way and slipped out into
the night.
The house had been stuffy, still filled with the day s hot, wet air.
The coolness of the garden was delicious. Claire inhaled deeply as
her feet wandered down the cobblestone path. White lilies
gleamed in the moonlight. Crickets sang from the ferns. Outside
the wall, the night quivered with jungle sounds. The chatter of
frogs and monkeys, the breathy snort of a tapir, the squeal of a
wild pig, and the distant cough of some big hunting cat. Claire
shivered. Stars swam in the sky overhead. New constellations,
unheard-of in the familiar northern heavens. She nearly stumbled
over the bench.
Sinking down, she buried her face in her hands to shut out the
beauty of the night. How could she still be breathing, feeling, when
Paul s empty body lay cold in some room of the hospital? She thought
of praying for his soul, then scorned the idea. She had heard Paul say
many times that the idea of an afterlife was for fools and cowards. He
himself had expected nothing after death except oblivion. Had he
found his oblivion? The idea tormented her.
A cloud had stolen across the face of the moon. Surprised by the
sudden blackness, she lifted her head. Her ears caught the sound of
voices coming from the direction of the house. Curious, she moved
back along the path. The dining room was dark. Lizette had blown
out the candles. The only light came from Philippe s library, whose
windows, she realized, also opened onto the garden.
51
Elizabeth Lane
I ve never lied to you, M sieu Philippe. Moving closer, she recog-
nized Simone s bass tones. If I say I know nothing, you can believe me.
There were no curtains at the windows. Claire could see Philippe
seated at his desk. Simone stood before him, hands behind her back.
Then why didn t you tell me before that you d known Prestan in
Haiti? Philippe demanded. He sounded annoyed.
It wasn t important. Plenty people knew him. She shrugged her
massive shoulders.
Bertrand told me you were a close friend of his family.
His mother and sister, not him. He was no good. No good in Haiti;
no good here in Panama. You think I leave the gate open for him?
I didn t say that, Simone. Philippe s tone was gentler.
His mother was a good woman. Black like me. A good woman! His
father was white. No good. He raped her. That s how she got a half-
white son! M sieu Philippe, you think I leave the gate open for a scum
like Prestan? You think Simone do that? Then I go! On the next boat!
Back to Haiti!
It was interesting, Claire noticed, the way Simone s speech, quite
proper when she was in command of herself, degenerated into patois
when she became agitated. Now she towered before Philippe s desk,
outraged and quivering. Philippe sighed deeply.
All right, Simone. I believe you. I apologize . . . . Yes?
She glared down her broad, flat nose at him and finally mumbled
her assent.
Then who do you think could have opened the gate, Simone? Was
it Lizette? Bertrand?
Simone shrugged again. Maybe Bertrand only thought he closed it.
Then we re right back where we started. That will be all, Simone.
You ll look in on Angélique before you go to bed?
She nodded, turned, and moved silently out of the room. Philippe
got up and strode toward the open window where Claire was stand-
ing. Crimson with embarrassment, she realized that she d been eaves-
dropping. Not that what she d heard made much sense to her, but
she d be humiliated nonetheless if Philippe caught her. Flattening her-
self against the side of the house, she held her breath, heard the win-
dow creak shut and the latch slide into place. Then the library win-
dows darkened as Philippe blew out the lamp. She heard his footsteps
and heard the door close behind him.
52
Drums of Darkness
Claire crept back along the wall to the place where the double doors
from the dining room opened onto the garden. Stealthily she tugged
at the knobs. The doors were locked.
She cursed under her breath. Now she was faced with having to
make enough of a racket to draw the attention of everyone in the
house, including Philippe. Well, why not? she chided herself. After all,
there was no law against being in the garden at night. Still, the thought
of Philippe s scowling face
There had to be other ways into the house. The kitchen, perhaps,
where Lizette might still be washing dishes. She paced the length of
the garden, but could find no sign of a light or another open door. She
sat down on the bench again to think. She could circle to the front
door, but it would probably be locked as well. She gazed up at the sec-
ond floor windows. If only she knew which one was André s, she
thought, she could toss a pebble against the window. Somehow, André
seemed less formidable than his brother. He would only laugh at her.
But she was being silly! She had only to call out, to rattle the doors
loudly enough. She d made a perfectly natural mistake. Why should
Philippe or anyone else have reason to be angry with her? Resolutely
she stood up and began to walk back toward the double doors.
From somewhere outside the wall, a monkey screamed. She hurried
her footsteps. Something warm whizzed past her face. A bat. She d
read about vampire bats in the tropics, and her imagination took
flight. She lifted her skirt and began to run. Behind her, her footfalls
echoed with a rhythm of their own. She paused. The sound of foot-
steps continued for an instant, then ceased as well. Someone was in
the garden! Someone was following her!
Urging herself not to panic, Claire crouched low for a split second.
Then she sprang to one side and flattened herself against the thickly
gnarled trunk of a tree. The footsteps hesitated, then continued toward
her, rapidly now, with no attempt at concealment. She edged around
the tree. From where she stood, she could see the double doors of the
dining room. She could run to them. She could scream, pound on the
glass. Someone would hear her . . .
The moon stole out from behind its veil of clouds. The blue light
glinted on the twin brass doorknobs. The footsteps, oddly gaited,
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