New World Fairy Tales

by Cassandra Parkin

  I thought as fast as I could. She’d found me, don’t know how hard she’d had to try, but she’d found me. She’d blown up my house without hesitation or remorse. She’d given me no second chance.

  She’d had two more of those babies on her belt.

  And then Instinct was back in charge, pulling on the leash, and I was running through wet streets in my bare feet towards Randy’s house.

  Randy had this Gulf Coast-style cottage, something his ex-wife Marybelle had been crazy for. Randy wasn’t all that keen, but he loved Marybelle so he went along with it, and when she ran off with a trucker from Houston, he never got around to selling up and buying something more masculine. I looked around in case she’d got there first — which, given my age, weight and lack of transportation or footwear, seemed highly possible — but there was no sign of her, and all the cars on the street were familiar and empty. I staggered up the porch and banged on the door.

  That little pause you always get when a cop gets an unexpected caller, and then Randy dragged me in over the threshold.

  ‘Henry, what the —’

  I could hardly speak.

  ‘That woman,’ I managed at last.

  ‘Marilena?’

  ‘From the inquest — you know the one I mean.’

  He looked at my soaking bathrobe.

  ‘Are you serious? That beautiful thing who gave us all the glad-eye?’ He whistled. ‘You lucky, lucky bastard. But what you doing here if —’

  ‘She blew up my house,’ I managed, finally getting my breath. ‘She’ll come for you next . . .’

  He got it instantly. He pushed aside the muslin Marybelle left on the screen door and peered out.

  And there she was, standing under the street lamp like she’d been there all along, rain streaming off her coat, hair like ribbons, and a smile exactly halfway between provocation and threat. There were tears in the coat and dust in the creases, and blood trickled down the curve of her cheek. When she wiped it away, I saw half one sleeve was missing, and her arm was blistered.

  ‘Officer Lewis?’ The rain was so bad it was like God had a bucket and was pouring it out over us, but we heard every word clear as a bell. ‘Good evening.’

  ‘You got your piece?’ I hissed.

  Randy shook his head.

  ‘Tell me where. I’ll go.’

  ‘Nightstand, in the —’

  She reached beneath her coat and held up her hand. Devil-baby Number Two was in it.

  ‘I’d advise you both to stay by the door,’ she said gravely. ‘I will know if either of you move.’

  And God help me, we both believed her. Instinct was in charge, and he swore blind we needed to be scared, because her dog was bigger than either of ours; she was smarter and faster and stronger, and she had the upper hand. She’d given all of us that look in the witness box and we were men and men are dumb-ass optimists, so we’d all looked for her, and come up empty. But she’d found us like it was nothing at all.

  ‘What do you want?’ Randy asked.

  When she smiled, we saw her white, sharp teeth.

  ‘I want to come in,’ she said. ‘To talk to you.’

  ‘About Mr Arbuckle?’ asked Randy warily.

  ‘About Mr Daniel Arbuckle, and about Mr Theodore Santiago. I wonder if you gentlemen can tell me what these names have in common?’

  Again the dog’s advice, I inched away from the doorway.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t do that, Officer Reynolds.’

  I stopped.

  ‘They’re both — ah — men of colour,’ said Randy.

  ‘Indeed. Tell me, Officer Reynolds. Is it true your father was a Klansman?’

  We looked at each other.

  Yeah, as it happens, she was right. My daddy was a Klansman, my granddaddy too. And I ain’t ashamed of that, no sir. I’m proud of my heritage and of my ancestors. Some of what they did was wrong, but I reckon some of what all of our parents did was wrong. Honour thy father and mother; that’s what we’re all commanded to do. I may not agree with every choice they made, but I certainly won’t disrespect them to a stranger.

  But I’ll tell you again, and this is all I’ll say on that subject; I am a cop. For thirty-one years I protected, and I served. Want to know who I protected? Those very same black people you got such a look on your face about. I went into their parts of town, walked those mean streets, arrested the bad elements in their communities. I spent my working career watching over the black people of Baton Rouge. What would your friends back up in Washington State make of that? How do y’all like them apples, huh?

  Randy, bless his heart, spoke up for me.

  ‘Henry’s a good man. His daddy mighta made some mistakes, but this is America, we can all rise above our past. Ma’am, if you’re dissatisfied with an officer of the law, you can make your complaint to —’

  ‘This isn’t about the law,’ she said scornfully. ‘Henry understands. Don’t you, Henry?’

  Randy wiped sweat off his nose. He always sweated when he got nervous. I did stake-out with him once, three shifts of twelve hours straight watching a crack-house. Randy never had to pee once.

  ‘Mr Santiago was shot resisting arrest.’

  ‘How much resistance can a man put up when he’s making love to the woman he’s stone crazy about? He was in bed with her when you found him, wasn’t he? Oh, there was a gun in the nightstand, but he wasn’t reaching for it, was he? You just decided he deserved to die.’

  My turn to paddle Randy’s canoe.

  ‘Ma’am, we shot him, both of us, because he was dangerous. He was a dealer, he ran a crack house —’

  ‘But you didn’t shoot him because he was a drug dealer. You did it because of his girlfriend. You killed a black man because he was sleeping with a white woman. Officer Lewis, you shot him first, through the back of his ribcage and into his heart, and that shot killed him. Henry, you came in afterwards and put one in the back of his head, just to make sure. You didn’t even know she was underneath him until you heard her screaming.’

  I watched my thoughts scrolling past the space behind Randy’s eyes.

  How does she know all this?

  Forget about that, just keep her talking.

  Randy cleared his throat, his voice as careful as if he was proposing. ‘Ma’am, may I ask if this — this business is personal to you?’

  ‘Personal. Hmm. As in, pertaining to a particular person? Yes, Officer Lewis, I’d say this is personal.’

  ‘Mr Santiago was a relative?’ Trying to build a rapport. To remind her she was human. Randy knew the drill same as I did.

  ‘Oh, if you look hard enough, we’re all relatives. I suppose you could say I’m acting on behalf of someone for whom it’s personal.’ She sighed, and inspected the blisters on her forearm. ‘Something tells me you’re not going to let me in.’

  ‘Ma’am, if I accidentally did harm to someone in your family then I truly do apologise, but you have to understand —’

  That laugh again, beautiful the way a wolf’s beautiful when it howls to the moon.

  ‘And I truly do apologise for what I did to Henry’s house. Likewise for what I’m about to do to yours. But you have to understand some things are inevitable. You men with your guns and your badges, you try to tame the beast, kill it with laws and civilisation. But sometimes, the beast has to fight back. Just to remind you a gun will only get you so far.’

  We saw the light move along her leather-clad arm as she made the throw.

  And once again I was running, Randy running too, both of us pulled by that wild dog, Instinct. My legs were like jelly, but Instinct didn’t care. Randy and I lit outta that house just as the boom of the explosion hit. A plank of burning wood hit my head and set fire to the little bits of hair I had left. The smell of burning hair’s disgusting. Specially when it’s your own.
/>   Randy was wearing sweats and a T-shirt. By sheer good luck he had the keys to his flatbed in his pocket.

  ‘Where’s Mike?’ he demanded as he accelerated down the street.

  ‘Out at the mud hut.’

  ‘Again? He ain’t with that chick he was seeing?’

  I squeezed about a pint of water outta the sleeve of my bathrobe. ‘Mike likes it in the Bayou.’

  ‘I swear, that man’s a gator at heart.’

  ‘Good, cuz we’re gonna need a gator to take her on.’

  The tires squealed as we turned the corner.

  ‘Who d’you think she is?’ asked Randy after a minute. ‘You think she’s a pro?’

  I laughed. Weren’t no way she was a pro. We get ’em, same as any big city, but hit-men almost always work for gangs and dealers, which means they mostly just kill bangers and dealers, and other hit-men. Plus, they’re always men. Beautiful women have just one use in Gangland, and it don’t involve a whole lotta personal freedom.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘She ain’t a pro.’

  ‘So who is she?’

  ‘Randy, I don’t know.’ I knew what I thought, but I didn’t want to say it out loud.

  ‘You reckon she’ll find us out there?’

  ‘She’ll find us.’

  ‘But how? That little shack’s just about built outta sticks and straw. It ain’t on any map I’ve seen. Remember that fishing trip Mike made us all take that time? Hell, there ain’t even a road!’

  ‘She’ll find us,’ I repeated. I squeezed the other sleeve, got another pint of water out.

  Randy opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

  We picked splinters of wood out of our skin and clothes as we drove.

  Why’d we run for the Bayou? Good question. Why Mike’s sorry little shack, when we was both serving officers who coulda gone to any station in town, raised the roof and turned the troops loose on that beautiful hellion who was hunting us down? It made no sense at all. But we weren’t thinking like cops any more. We was barely thinking at all. Instinct had slipped its leash.

  But there’s another answer, one I ain’t never dared say out loud before now. America’s a Christian land: one nation, united under God, whose son Jesus died for our sins. But here in Louisiana, we got this other thing. It came outta the slave quarters, and it’s something we ain’t never civilised away, no matter how many tax dollars goes into trying, and we all act like it’s charming and touristy, but it ain’t. There’s the Voodoo Queens who charm the snakes, and the women who pray to the spirit of Marie Laveau, and the Loup-Garou who prowls the swamps and steals children . . .

  I think we ran for the Bayou because she put a spell on us.

  As God’s my witness, you ain’t never seen blackness like the Lousiana Bayou by night. No street lights, no house lights, no firelight, no nothing. When the rain’s coming down in sheets, not even the stars keep you company. Just me, Randy and a torch whose batteries we weren’t too confident of. Walking away from Randy’s flatbed, rags around my feet instead of shoes, was just about the hardest thing I’d ever done. Felt like walking back in time, back to the days of the ole Red Stick.

  That nasty little shack of Mike’s looked even worse than we’d remembered. It was kinda slouched up against an inlet of stagnant water, no glass, just wooden shutters, just barely holding together, most of it rotten and damp. Mike said it was simple. Yeah, and your dog defecating on the rug is natural. We’d spent three days there once. It was supposed to be a week, but we ran outta beer, and Randy and I couldn’t stand it sober. We banged on the door and hoped it wouldn’t fall down.

  A pause, and then Mike dragged the door open. He stared in disbelief.

  ‘What the Sam Hill are y’all —’

  ‘Let us in,’ gasped Randy. ‘’fore the gators get us.’

  ‘There ain’t no gators now, they hunt at dusk — y’all wanna tell me what this is about? Henry, forgive me — there a reason you wearing a bathrobe?’

  We staggered over the threshold. It smelled like the Bayou, and the fish Mike had hanging on a string over the sink.

  ‘She’s coming,’ gasped Randy.

  ‘Who’s coming?’

  ‘That woman.’ I collapsed onto a chair, which in turn nearly collapsed under me. ‘You remember her — the one from the Arbuckle thing.’

  ‘That — ah —’ he gestured vaguely, Mike being a gentleman and not liking to use the expression that red-hot smokin’ piece of ass out loud.

  ‘She’s . . .’ I waved a hand. ‘I don’t know what she is. But she’s on some kinda crazy mission. She blew up my place — and Randy’s — and now . . .’

  ‘She blew up your houses, are you kidding?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Randy, real dry. ‘We’re kidding. Henry’s been working on his costume for weeks.’

  ‘Well, she ain’t gonna find us in the Bayou,’ said Mike robustly. ‘Not unless she followed you, anyway. She follow you?’

  ‘No, Mike, she didn’t follow us,’ said Randy. ‘But she’ll find us.’ He mopped his face with his arm. ‘She’s got the —’

  I stood up so fast the chair fell to pieces with the down-force.

  ‘Don’t say it,’ I warned.

  There was a knock at the door.

  See, a cop knows something about the power of Voodoo — the power of belief. The Law’s a funny thing. People believe in it, and they don’t. In their heads, they know we’re ordinary guys and gals, most us only educated to high school, a lot of us overweight and cynical and counting down to our twenty-five. They know we can’t read minds or see through walls and the uniform ain’t bullet-proof. They know Cop Glamour ain’t the truth and we ain’t Superman, but more often than not, when they hear that knock at the door, they believe it’s true. And when that fear turns ’em weak at the knees — well, your job’s half done afore you even get ’em down to the station.

  I’m a law-abiding man; I was a cop for thirty-one years, I ain’t never had the law come calling. That night was the only time I felt what it’s like to be hiding and hoping and sweating with fear, hearing that knock at the door.

  We peered outta the crack in the shutter. The lantern hanging on the porch was like a bonfire in the darkness.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ She stepped politely away from the door. ‘I believe we have business to discuss. May I come in?’

  There were smears of soot on her cheeks and that leather coat had taken some more damage. When she moved, she limped a little, and I thought I saw the sticky glisten of blood in her hair.

  ‘May God, Jesus Christ and all the angels help us,’ said Mike reverently.

  ‘God won’t help you, Officer Stone. The Supreme Being ceased His interest in man’s affairs the moment His creation was complete. His son tried hard to save you from yourselves, but sometimes, only your own personal blood will atone. Have your friends explained?’

  Keep her talking — make a connection . . . we all knew the drill.

  ‘No, ma’am, we have not,’ I managed. ‘Perhaps you could —’

  It was definitely blood in her hair — when she touched it, it smeared her fingers red. I wondered how bad she was hurt.

  ‘You’re lying, Henry. But I’ll let that one go. So, let’s recap, shall we?’ She held up three fingers. The index finger was missing a nail. ‘Mr Arbuckle. Mr Santiago. One more left to remember. Three men, dead by your hands. And I’m here to collect payment.’

  ‘What is it you want?’ Mike demanded.

  She scratched impatiently at the sticky patch in her hair and swayed a little.

  ‘I’d like to come inside, Office Stone.’ She was battered and bleeding and I was fairly sure she’d taken a serious head injury, but her smile was still like an angel’s. ‘To talk about the time you shot Victor Jones.’

  I don’t know the name for the colour
Mike went when he heard that name, but it wasn’t nothing you’ll see interior designers recommending.

  ‘How does it feel to shoot an unarmed man in the back?’

  ‘I don’t know —’

  ‘Yes you do, Officer Stone. You know exactly how that feels. Mr Jones wasn’t threatening you, was he? He didn’t respond to your instruction because he didn’t hear it, did he? Can you remember why he didn’t hear you?’

  ‘Ma’am, he turned and left the room, contrary to my clear —’ Another first — seeing that pleading expression on a cop.

  ‘He was going to the bedroom where his two year old daughter was screaming for her daddy to come get her. She was screaming because Officer Lewis had just climbed in through her window with a gun, the gun he shot her daddy with when he came through the door, although he was already mortally wounded by your shot, wasn’t he? Officer Lewis’s shot was just the cherry on top, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I didn’t —’ Mike swallowed, tried again. ‘I didn’t mean —’

  ‘I’m really not interested in motivations. I don’t want to hear you apologise, or beg. I’m just the debt collector, and all I want is payment.’ A trickle of red-black blood inched down her forehead. She wiped it away with a hand that had a blister the size of a tomato. ‘So, for the record, are you going to let me in?’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Randy whispered. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because it’s my job to know. Are you going to let me over the threshold?’

  We looked at each other.

  ‘Not while I still got a hole in my ass,’ said Mike, who sometimes wasn’t all that much of a gentleman underneath. ‘I don’t know who or what you are, but you ain’t coming into my home at my invitation, and I bet you can’t smash the shutters in quicker’n we can run. So, what you gonna do about it?’