LISTED (LISTED #1)➶ THE BLACKLIST

03. MISDIRECTION

Flying over Haiti, I realize I came emotionally unprepared for what I was about to see. Over top of Port-au-Prince I witnessed unimaginably crowded residential areas and leftover destruction from the 2010 earthquake. Over Gonaïves, even more homes smashed together and seasonal flooding at its worst. The people look like ants, as anyone does, 34,000 feet in the air.

After driving from the JCI airport in Cap-Haïtien, I realized that Caracol is much more spread out. Its population is much less than many of the other Haitian cities'. On solid ground, the people stare at me strangely. I suppose it is out of character for a white American woman to visit Haiti on the arm of a Kenyan man like some kind of rich tourist.

Caracol is relatively small, but I still did not know where to start. Dembe, however, seemed to know exactly where he was. He'd been here before, with Reddington. That scared me, even though I knew it when he pulled the box of papers out for me.

He leads me first to the tiny building that I gather serves as a post office for the city. In what sounds like fluent Haitian-Creole, he asks the two postal workers a question that garners a box of papers- the same kind that Ray's telegram came on.

A short exchange of words ensues between the men.**

"Zanmi mwen an, nonm kout ak fedora ak rad long, li te isit la?" Dembe questions.

"Wi. Men, pa pou yon tan long," responds one of the men, the skinnier one. "Li pa di anyen. Li pa t 'pale lang nou an."

The other man speaks out next. "Zanmi li yo te di ke li te destine pou Okap."

Dembe nods a thank you and, gingerly taking my arm, leads me out of the post office.

"It is not good. They say he was accompanied by people who say he was going to Okap." A pause. "The Blacklist paper in the box," he reminds me, "not a good sign."

Okap is a gorgeous beach commune in Cap-Haïtien, with brightly-colored beach umbrellas and terracotta roofs over white brick buildings. I knew our search would be rough- tourists of all ethnicities crowd the commune like bees on honeycombs. Dembe and I stand in the heart of the city, with swarms of people around us.

"Where do we even start?" I ask, hopeless.

"Raymond loves the beach," Dembe offers, looking straight down the road toward white sand and crashing waves.

"And what makes you think he's a free man right now? What about Those Who Message?"

"You really think that Raymond has been kidnapped, then the moun ki mesaj let him contact me?" He shakes his head. "No."

"So, he's playing games with us. How surprising." I roll my eyes.

"Not necessarily. I know he is in trouble, but he walks free as we speak.

"He has an ulterior motive. He always does." I look at my companion. I know nothing about him, but I can tell when he knows something I don't. "You're in on this?" I whisper.

"No. But I am certain that I know why he has gone."

I don't know what to believe. There are so, so many secrets surrounding Reddington and I. I hate it. Dembe, I assume knows most, if not all, of them. I could just kill him right now, but I'd rather strangle Reddington the second we find him. So, I save my energy for that day. Wordlessly, we make our way to the beachfront.

It is hot, and neither of us are dressed for the weather. The snow back in Pennsylvania did not prepare me for this. Sweat gathers on each of our brows in the scorching sunlight.

"I thought that what we gathered from the paper on Those Who Message was that the slaves never made it to Okap, that they were killed beforehand."

"Yes. But Raymond would not be lured into killing for them. You forget that he is an accomplished criminal, capable of-"

"Killing his own enemies," I finish. He's right, sometimes I do forget that Reddington was the FBI's Number One Most Wanted Criminal for twenty years straight. It's like his true identity dissolved in all of the heartfelt days he and I spent together on the run.

Suddenly, a dark girl in a colorful, pinstriped swimsuit bumps into Dembe. His 6'2" frame doesn't flinch. However, she begins to dive right into the sand, but doesn't make contact because the ever-caring arms of Dembe Zuma catch her.

"I'm so sorry," she says, curls bouncing. She takes his hand and stands up. "Thank you, Dembe." Smiling, she runs off, back to the party of friends she's visiting with.

"How did she-" I begin, twirling to allow my gaze to follow her across the beach.

"Look."

I turn back around. In his hand is a folded-up piece of paper. She must've slipped it to him as he helped her up.

"She must have been employed by Raymond," he states.

Unfolding the paper, he skims it before handing it to me.

"What is this, hide-and-seek? I don't play games with criminals. And what's this about a moose supposed to mean?"

"Canada, northeastern America, Scandinavia, and Russia," he mumbles, lost in thought. He spins around, kicking up sand as he rushes back toward town. I follow him quickly.

"What are you talking about, what have those countries got to do with this?" Wait. It connects. "Those are countries where moose are indigenous."

"Au revoir," Dembe repeats. "He is in Canada. But I do not know where."

We reach our car and he opens the back door for me.

"His favorite part of Canada; he's in Nova Scotia," I breathe. "He told me that once before, I..." I trail off. "Why did he mislead us all the way to Haiti? What if this is another misdirection?"

"It is."

____

**Translations from Haitian-Creole

"My friend, short man with fedora and long coat, was he here?" Dembe questions.

"Yes. But not for a long time," responds one of the men, the skinnier one. "He said nothing. He did not speak our language."

The other man speaks out next. "His friends said he was destined for Okap."