Rommy Ferrell, the cardshark of Water Street, had once told Henri about witnessing a voodoo ritual somewhere among the dark, dank alleyways of Port-au-Prince. Rommy had claimed to have seen with his own eyes, chalk-white zombies, their mouths filled with earthworms, clawing their way through the muck of the graveyard to rise and struggle forward on bent limbs. Henri had laughed at that, telling Rommy something about having too much rum in Haiti and the consequences thereof.
Now years later, standing in the Captain's sanguine burial chamber, having just witnessed a nearly bloodless corpse speak, Henri believed Rommy's story.
These thoughts came involuntarily to Henri, as he proceeded to stare at Saisong. He had calmed down a bit from his initial shock, but barely so. Scrutinizing the corpse and the room once more, Henri turned to Ilsa and nodded.
"Yes, we'll go, let us go", Henri winced at his own stupid words as he heard them spoken. "We shouldnt be seen here!"
He followed Ilsa out the door, but not before swiping the crumbled piece of paper off the floor...Alas, for the-- "Oh merciful gods!", he whispered, and tossed the note again.
Several corridors later, having turned a corner way to quickly, Henri smashed directly into Frederick Brandford, who was seemingly standing, crouching even, next to a familiar door. The graceful Ilsa had deftly avoided the portly banker, but Henri barreled into him full steam. For a moment they were both sprawled on the floor.
Brandford is sensible. He will have some answers. Henri thought as he extended a hand to help Frederick regain his feet.
As they both rose, he glanced to Ilsa, who was not amused by the clumsy crash. She had a peculiar look on her face, as if her fear was coupled with slowly coalescing deductions.
