"Wake up, Rachel, arrete de dormir, c'est le matin," came Aunt Gladys grating voice, and Rachel Etienne groaned and slapped her hand against her pillow, wishing the old Haitian woman would go away. Grunting something unintelligible, the young woman rose to her feet, and shook her head, then stretched. Outside, the sun was high in the sky and a suffocating heat gripped the town of Quartier Morin, northern Haiti, in its grip.
"Je t'ai entendu, ma tante, I'm up, sheesh," Rachel shouted, even as she headed out to the courtyard, and fetched water at the well so she could shower. Hidden between the mango trees, the young woman poured water over her head and got washed up. The cool water cascaded off of Rachel's hair, which she styled in thick dreadlocks, and she sighed happily. Just another day in her new life in the Republic of Haiti, land of her ancestors...
Born in the City of Miami, Florida, and adopted by a Haitian immigrant family, Rachel Etienne was living the American dream up until a year ago. Her adoptive father Roger Etienne ran afoul of some bad people during a real estate deal gone bad, and he sent Rachel to hide out in Haiti after a kidnapping attempt was made on their family. A widower for several years now, Roger Etienne was fiercely protective of his only daughter. After all, he vowed to his late wife Beatrice Mathurin-Etienne that he would take care of their precious Rachel...
"Can't believe this is what my life has become," Rachel mumbled to herself as she wrapped a towel tightly around her body, and walked back to the main house. The town of Quartier Morin, Rachel's new home, is a rural and deeply traditional commune lying a few kilometers from the City of Cap-Haitien, the second largest metropolitan area on the island of Haiti. Adapting to such a place was proving none too easy for the young Haitian-American woman...
"Jeune fille, I made breakfast," Aunt Gladys said, as Rachel emerged from her bedroom, clad in a black T-shirt featuring Rob Zombie, blue jeans, and Reebok sneakers. Rachel nodded at the old woman, hoping to avoid another argument. Sitting at the table, Rachel smiled at the plate of eggs, fried fish and plantains that awaited her. Taking a sip of the orange juice, Rachel nodded with contentment.
"Around here we don't have McDonald's restaurants like they do in America, this is Haiti, we believe in a natural and healthy breakfast," Aunt Gladys sneered, and Rachel flashed her a frozen smile, and kept her head down as she ate. Gladys Mathurin was her mother's elder sister, whom most of the family suspected of being a lesbian since she never married. Rachel didn't know the particulars of Aunt Gladys's private life and didn't care to know. Still, her least favorite aunt was awfully close to her good neighbor Helene, a short-haired, dark-skinned, cigar-smoking woman who lived down the street.
"Breakfast is delicious, Aunt Gladys, merci beaucoup," Rachel said, hoping to placate the taciturn and overly critical old woman, and for a moment, Aunt Gladys fell silent. With her glasses on the bridge of her nose, Aunt Gladys ignored her niece, her attention focused on the daily newspaper, Le Nouvelliste. Glad to have a moment of peace, Rachel wolfed down her breakfast, nodded respectfully at Aunt Gladys and then headed out.
"Stay out of trouble, Rachel," Aunt Gladys hollered, and Rachel sighed and put on her headphones. Glad to be out of the house, Rachel decided to go for a stroll. Even though Rachel missed her old digs in Miami, she had to admit that Quartier Morin, where her parents grew up, was turning out to be pretty decent. The place wasn't as bad as Rachel thought it would be...
There was something quaint about the traditional Haitian town, where men tipped their hats off to women they saw walking by, and old couples went to church every Sunday, holding each other's hands. In Florida, you could live next to someone for twenty years and never learn their first name. In Quartier Morin, Haiti, everybody knew everybody. Even though Rachel was a U.S. citizen, brought to the small Haitian town by circumstance, the fact that her family hailed from there made her welcome.
"Ou se pitit Beatrice avek Roger Etienne," said one of Rachel's new friends, a young man named Joseph Dubois, a few days after she moved to Quartier Morin. Rachel only knew a smattering of French and Haitian Creole, but she understood the young man perfectly. Six feet two inches tall, dark-skinned and handsome, with a cocksure grin, Joseph looked like trouble with a capital T.
"Je suis la fille de Monsieur et Madame Etienne," Rachel replied, and she fearlessly looked into Joseph's soulful brown eyes as she shook his hand. Joseph smiled, thrilled by Rachel's boldness. Standing five-foot-ten, curvy and sister, with rapturous dark brown skin and a big round booty that wouldn't quit, Rachel moved with the confidence and swagger unique to black women from America. Joseph, who'd become fascinated with American ladies during visits to Boston and Philadelphia in previous summers, was drawn to Rachel like a moth to the flame...
"Enchante, mademoiselle, you are very beautiful," Joseph said, winking at her, and Rachel smiled, trying not to roll her eyes. Joseph was a good-looking brother, and she was sure that he was used to having young women throw themselves at his feet. Local women that is. Rachel was used to his type, the player-type of brothers, her old school, Miami-Dade College, was full of them. She could see right through his oh-so charming bullshit...
"Merci, Mr. Joseph, I bet you say that to all the pretty ladies, have yourself a good day," Rachel said cockily, and she smiled as Joseph blinked in surprise. With a curt nod the young Haitian-American woman walked away, well aware that Joseph's eyes were following her every move. Rachel went for a walk around "Bouk La," as the locals called the main square of Quartier Morin, over by the Dispensary. Impulsively, she caught a bus to Cap-Haitien, intent on checking out the sights and sounds in town...
Rachel caught the Camionette and sat in the crowded vehicle, which rode the pothole-filled road for twenty five minutes before it reached the City of Cap-Haitien. She got off at Rue Deux, and went to get her hair done at Chez Nounoune, a popular hair salon that had stood the test of time. After getting her locks styled and shined, Rachel walked down the street, past La Cathedrale Du Sacre Coeur, one of Haiti's oldest churches, and headed to the crowded, ancient marketplace, sandwiched between Rue Huit and Rue Dix.
"Avez vous cela dans un size six?" Rachel asked the saleswoman as she admired a pair of stylish black jeans, and the old woman smiled and nodded. Money exchanged hands, and Rachel tucked the jeans into her backpack after inspecting them. Walking in the marketplace, Rachel smiled as she took in the sights and sounds. This was Haiti at its best. The marketplace was loud, lively, a place where fortunes were made and lost. And she absolutely loved it...
"There you are," came a voice, and Rachel turned around, surprised to hear someone address her in English. A few meters from her stood a tall, well-dressed black man, flanked by four others, two men and two women. All of them looked fit, and glared at her with undisguised hostility. Although they were all of African descent, something told Rachel that they were definitely not Haitian...
"Yes, who are you and what do you want?" Rachel asked hesitantly, and the man smiled and looked at her the way one looks at an exotic animal at the zoo. A sense of dread which she could not explain gripped the young woman, and she felt like fleeing. Refusing to be intimidated, Rachel stood her ground. Whoever this bozo was, Rachel didn't want him to see her sweat...
"I'm Lincoln, and what I want is simple, Rachel, I know who you are and what you are, and I want to rid the universe of your kind," the man said, smiling wickedly, and with that, he drew a pistol and aimed it squarely at her chest. All around them, people gasped in shock and fled in all directions. Rachel blinked in surprise and froze, and Lincoln smiled and his finger began to squeeze the trigger...
With death imminent, Rachel recoiled and tried to flee, but inside, she knew it would be too late. In the next seconds, a very confusing sequence of events took place. One moment Lincoln stood there, about to shoot her, and the next, he was howling in pain, for someone chopped his arm off, and it fell to the ground, his hand still holding the gun.
"Rachel, run, dammit," shouted an angry masculine voice, and Rachel blinked in surprise as she recognized Joseph Dubois, the smooth-talker from Quartier Morin. Clutching his bloody machete with which he'd chopped off Lincoln's arm, the young man faced the others. Pulling out various weapons, from revolvers to rifles, the black-clad squad began firing. Without hesitation, Rachel took off...
Rachel ran and ran, and she lost herself among the crowd that ran in all directions, driven to panic by the gunfire. The young woman ran and didn't stop until she came to a place with a sign that stated "Notary Public" up front, and went inside. Well-dressed men and women sat in a waiting room, awaiting a meeting with a public official. Rachel found a seat far away from the door, and sat down, taking a few calming breaths.
The young woman's mind raced. Who were those guys? Could they be her father's enemies? No way they could have followed Rachel all the way from Florida. As Rachel tried to calm down, a well-dressed, lovely young woman with short black hair and dark brown skin approached her and offered her a glass of water. Rachel took it and nodded gratefully at her, and the young woman looked at her, a puzzled expression on her face.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle, je suis Nirva, the notary public's assistant, how may I help you today?" the young woman asked, and Rachel pursed her lips, and hesitated. Should she tell the young woman the truth? Nah, Rachel had no idea who was after her or how far their network of connections extended. And they had to have connections. Even in Haiti, one does not simply brandish guns and open fire in a crowded marketplace in broad daylight...
