“Anyone else got déjà vu?” he asked dourly.
Boudreau gave him a grimace. Flynn just shrugged and stepped past him to look down at Johnny Cake’s skinny white body, naked and bloody, discarded amidst the weeds and the garbage. One cloudy hazel eye stared sightlessly skyward. The other one had been ruined by the ice picked rammed through it into Johnny’s brain. Unlike Jeannette Larue, the only desecration to Johnny’s body had been the removal of his tongue. Flynn felt sorry for the pathetic little hustler. She looked around at Waylon with raised brows. “How long has he been here?”
“Coroner thinks less than twelve hours.”
“Is this connected to the Larue case?” Boudreau asked.
Waylon looked down at the body, and pooched out his lips. “I wouldn’t have said so, ’cept for we found this—” he looked around over one shoulder, beckoned a crime scene tech to them. The tech handed Waylon a plastic evidence bag which he held up for Flynn and Boudreau to see. “This had been forced into his throat after the tongue was cut out.”
Flynn took the bag from the Cajun’s outstretched hand and she and Boudreau looked more closely at the hand-drawn veve on the piece of yellow parchment paper that the bag contained. “Maman Brigitte,” Flynn said. Boudreau glanced quizzically at her and she pointed to the dagger drawn in the center of the veve. “The dagger stands both for the incisive vision to see what really is what, and swift and brutal justice to wrong-doers.”
“She’s like a kind of judge then,” Boudreau murmured and Flynn nodded agreement. The detective frowned. “But who would be delivering justice to Johnny Cakes in this manner?”
“It’s a message,” Flynn sighed. Boudreau’s gaze turned sharp. “From Jean-Marie’s followers. They think poor little idiot Johnny here betrayed them to us—I might have had a hand in that by going to Ariel to warn her—and so they found him and made a lesson out of him to anyone else might be thinking of blabbing. It’s also a message to us that they are still around, leaving him here, same place they left Jeannette Larue. Damn it!” Flynn gave her head an angry shake. “I told the little idiot to get out of town for a while.”
“Looks like he didn’t heed your advice.” Boudreau sucked in a breath as she looked off toward the rows of shotgun houses and FEMA trailers on either side of the street, the boarded-up bars and vandalized corner stores, and the debris still scattered around even five years after Katrina. She brought her gaze back around to the body of John Wilson a.k.a. Johnny Cakes, and blew the breath out hard. “I really hoped we were done with those crazy fuckers.”
“We probably are. For now,” Flynn told her but this news didn’t seem to cheer the detective up any. She took the evidence bag from Flynn, handed it back to Waylon with a disconsolate shake of her head. Her freshly redone dreadlocks clicked together almost musically. “Get this into Evidence Lockup. And let’s try to keep the media from going at this with knives and barbecue sauce, huh? Flynn, that means no pillow talk with your reporter squeeze.”
Flynn snorted, drew Boudreau a dour look, but the detective only shrugged and added, “I mean it. Y’all don’t say shit to Dana about this.”
“Fine,” Flynn agreed tightly.
Waylon turned to leave, and then hesitated, looking uncertainly between Flynn and Boudreau. “Pierce, there’s something else y’all should know,” he began. Boudreau’s jaws clamped together with an audible snap and she stared at her partner as though willing him to just vanish and take whatever else bad news he had with him. No such luck. Waylon pointed a finger at the evidence bag. “The veve—it was actually inside this very bag. We didn’t put it there, Pierce. We found it like this.”
She blinked. “In an evidence baggie?”
Waylon nodded, swallowing hard enough to make his Adams apple jerk.
“Get it to the lab,” Boudreau told him in a low voice and Waylon nodded. “Make sure it goes first in the queue and any results are sent straight to me or you. If anyone from NOPD touched this fucking bag—even by accident—I want for us to be the first to know about it. Make sure the lab understands that, Waylon, ya hear?”
“I hear,” he said grimly and he moved off, giving Flynn a curt nod as he passed which she returned in kind. Waylon suspected her of having broken into Ariel Rousseau’s store and removing the pages from the journal, which had only added to his suspicion, if not his general dislike, of her. Flynn was hardly bothered at all by the thought.
She walked with Boudreau back to the Trans Am, the detective apparently deep in thought, frowning and gnawing on her lower lip. As they drove away, Flynn assumed Boudreau was thinking about the fresh murder and the implications of an NOPD evidence baggie being left at the scene. Then, out of the blue, the detective asked, “If Dana wanted for y’all to get married, would you agree to it?”
Flynn’s lifted her eyebrows in uneasy surprise. “Shit, Pierce, me and Dana aren’t anywhere near that stage yet.”
“But y’all love her, right?” Boudreau persisted.
Uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation, Flynn looked away from Boudreau’s sharp glance and gave a stiff shrug. “Yeah, I guess I do,” she mumbled.
The detective grunted softly. She cupped her chin in her palm, her elbow resting on the rubber seal along the passenger window. “Hell, maybe you’re right,” she conceded. “Maybe life is too short to over-think shit, and it is a ‘good enough’ reason to go the hell ahead.”
“It’s up to you,” Flynn told her.
Boudreau’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”
EPILOGUE
3 Months Later
On a warm, sunny Saturday morning in July, Flynn left Dana in bed at her Bourbon Street apartment, and she drove out to Lakeshore Drive, past the University of New Orleans, to a quiet picnic spot on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. She parked in a turnaround there, and walked down the grassy slope toward the lake shore where she took a seat on a wooden bench and lit a cigarette to await the arrival of Special Agent Erin Krueger. The sun warmed her back and shoulders, and glinted on the glassy blue surface of the lake. For many years it had been illegal to swim or to conduct water sports of any kind in the lake, and truthfully, who would want to? Lake Pontchartrain was a cesspool of pollution. Since Katrina there had been persistent rumors of alligators living there, washed into the lake by the storm surge. But the lakeshore was still picturesque in parts.
Since the discovery of Johnny Cakes’ body on Desire Street, there had been no more Voodoo-related killings. Johnny’s killers remained at large. The evidence baggie in which the Maman Brigitte veve had been sealed contained no usable forensic or fingerprints, although it was found to have come from a batch stolen from the NOPD Evidence Lockup four months ago.
Jean-Marie’s followers appeared to have gone underground, perhaps to await the rise of a new mambo who would lead them to power and glory. Flynn sincerely hoped never to see that day. She hadn’t experienced any further ‘sightings’ of the Baron Samedi, nor had any more dreams about strange protean gods, and she wanted to keep it that way. She had enough to think about, just trying to learn to be in an intimate relationship with someone.
A silver Jeep Cherokee pulled up beside the Trans Am and Flynn idly watched Erin Krueger step out. The agent, casual in jeans, white t-shirt, and a lightweight blue jacket, with dark wraparound shades on her face, walked down to the bench and took a seat alongside Flynn.
“Seems like I always forget how hot Southern summers are,” she sighed.
Flynn nodded. “Gonna be a barn-burner, too. My condolences, by the way, on your recent loss.”
Erin twitched her head in acknowledgement.
Flynn kept her gaze on the lake. “I believe y’all have something for me?”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Erin Krueger nod and push a hand into her jacket, extracting a manila envelope from inside. She held the envelope out to Flynn, who took it wordlessly and tucked it into her own jacket.
“Aren’t you going to look inside?” Th
e agent sounded surprised.
Flynn shook her head. “I think I can trust y’all.”
Erin gave a little eyebrow shrug. Then she changed the subject. “How is Dana doing these days?”
“She’s good, considering—well, considering everything. She’s decided to go see that doctor y’all recommended.”
“Ah. Wise decision. He’s very good.”
“Y’all know that from personal experience then?”
Erin laughed and shook a warning finger at Flynn, who shrugged. “Hey, y’all can’t blame me for trying, right?” she laughed.
“How about you? ” Erin added, giving Flynn an arch look. “How are you coping with knowing what you did for her?”
“It scares me,” Flynn admitted. “I’ve never let anybody get that close to me before. Hell, I’ve never let anyone get close to me, period. I love Dana, I really do. I’m having a hard time dealing with what that means to me though.”
It was easy to talk to Erin Krueger. Realizing that both surprised Flynn and yet didn’t surprise her at all. She and Erin really were not so different. They shared a background in the Agency, of course, but Flynn had come to suspect it was more than that—that it was, in fact, something deeply inherent in their natures which bonded them. “I killed those people because I love Dana, and because I didn’t want her dragged through a court case where she’d have to relive it in front of lawyers. Not to mention it’d be in every fucking newspaper in America.”
“And you wanted vengeance,” Erin added with a simplicity and a lack of judgment that made Flynn look at her sharply. The agent gave her an enigmatic smile, reminding Flynn of how she had smiled as she was leaving Leon Shand’s house when Flynn had pointed out that they were both no longer with the Agency. “I can relate—it’s the kind of people that you and I are, Flynn. But you already know that. It also made you feel vulnerable to know that you were—and would be again—willing to go to those lengths, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” Flynn agreed softly.
“Leopards can’t change their spots.”
Silence stretched between them. It was not an uncomfortable silence, merely that of two people who understood each other completely, and who didn’t need words to fill the spaces up with. Eventually, Flynn cut a sideways glance at Erin. “In Cuba, you told me that you were there to kill someone. Was that true?”
“It was, yes. I felt immediately that you were telling the truth when you said you were an assassin, and I felt comfortable sharing that information about myself with you in return. Tell me, Flynn, who was your handler within the Agency?”
“Gavin Childress.”
Erin looked around at her in apparently genuine surprise. “Mine too. I wonder if he knew that we met in Havana?”
“The man always was a turdweasel with his nose in everyone’s business,” Flynn sighed. A smile ghosted across her lips. “So yeah, I expect he did know.”
“I hear Childress is in line to become the next Assistant Director. A pointy-headed little bureaucratic turdweasel like that, he’ll be well suited to the job.”
Flynn snorted. “Did you know this before your stepfather met with his unfortunate accident?”
“I may have. I don’t clearly recall.”
Flynn took a final drag on her cigarette, dropped the butt to the ground, and crushed it beneath her boot heel. “How about you tell me something—why’d y’all leave the Agency?”
“I got shot,” Erin said simply. “The guy standing next to me was the intended target, but I got hit in the leg by a stray bullet and nearly bled out before I made it to a clinic where they patched me up and contacted my handler. I sort of lost the taste for it after that. Childress got me the position within the Bureau. Did you know that FBI agents are more likely to die by suicide, usually by shooting themselves, than to die in the field?”
“I didn’t know that.” Flynn shook her head.
“What about you—why’d you quit?”
Flynn shrugged and looked away again. A family—mother, father, two kids, and a retriever dog—went by, laughing and tossing sticks for the dog to fetch, like characters straight out of a 1950’s TV sitcom. Flynn watched them for a moment, felt a vague pang of something that might’ve been envy, or just indigestion. “It’s a long story. I might tell y’all someday.” She stood up from the bench, shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket as she looked down at the agent. “I think y’all have a hidden agenda, Erin, I really do. But I guess we’ll deal with that later. I’ll be seeing y’all around.”
“I’ll be here, Flynn. And thank you.”
Flynn gave her a bland look. “Of course I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
As she started to walk away, the sound of soft laughter made her halt and turn around. She frowned a question at Erin.
“I was just wondering—” Erin began and Flynn raised an eyebrow. “That night in Cuba if I had accepted your offer…how differently things might’ve turned out between us?”
Flynn smiled into middle distance. Then she winked at Erin. “Well now, that’s something to think about, isn’t it? Just don’t tell Dana that you’re thinking about it—she doesn’t like to share her toys apparently.”
Erin Krueger waited, remaining seated on the bench until Willie Rae Flynn had got in her car and driven off, and then she took the cell phone from her pocket and hit a familiar number on the speed dial. The line connected to another phone in a distant country and was picked up on the third ring.
“Good morning,” a man’s voice said, “or is it good afternoon there?”
“Afternoon, sir,” Erin said, both by way of correction and greeting. “I trust that you are well?”
“As well as can be expected, my dear,” the voice replied. There was a moment’s hesitation before he added, “I imagine that you are calling because you have news for me?”
“Yes, sir. It seems that the AD met with an unfortunate accident. He’s dead and the Agency are seeking his replacement as we speak.”
“My condolences to you, Erin. And I do hope the Agency find a truly worthy replacement for dear Richard.”
“Thank you, Mr Childress,” Erin said.
“And our mutual friend?” Gavin Childress inquired.
Erin kept her gaze locked on the calm blue surface of the lake. “A series of quite unexpected—but also fortunate—events have expedited that cause, sir.”
She heard a throaty, wet chuckle on the line. “Oh my. How very—beneficial for us. You must tell me all about it sometime, my dear.”
“Yes, sir.” Erin smiled as she recalled something Flynn herself had said. “One takes the breaks where one finds them, sir.”
“Indeed.” Childress chuckled again. “So, she is on board?”
“I should say that Flynn will definitely be amenable to a proposition when the appropriate time comes.”
“Very good, my dear. Very good indeed. I shall look forward to our next conversation. Goodbye for now.”
“Goodbye, sir.”
Erin pocketed the phone again and leaned back on the bench. She crossed her legs and balanced her wrists on her uppermost knee, forming a steeple with her fingers. Still gazing out over the placid surface waters of Lake Pontchartrain, she thought about how what appeared calm and inviting on the surface, could often conceal danger below. The bed of the lake was covered in silt poisoned by the myriad of heavy industry in and around south Louisiana, stirred up by Hurricane Katrina. It reminded Erin of herself and Flynn—two leopards with similar spots hidden beneath the everyday camouflage that each had chosen to wear.
“They’re coming for you, Willie Rae Flynn,” she said softly, “and you’d better pray that you’re ready for them when they do.”
AFTERWORD
This is a work of fiction and I have accordingly taken certain artistic license with the truth, which includes changing small details of the geography of New Orleans to suit the story. My apologies then to the lovely denizens of New Orleans for taking these liberties with their w
onderful city.
Also, whilst I don’t claim to be any manner of Voodoo expert, I have read extensively on the subject. I employed parts of my knowledge within the narrative of ‘Voodoo Woman’. I did also, however, change and exaggerate the functions of the Loa mentioned. Although there may well be “older gods” associated with the Voodoo religion—as there are just such older gods associated with most religions—I don’t know this for sure. Certainly the practice of Voodoo did once involve human sacrifice and cannibalism, but today those aspects are mostly defunct. One can never say “completely defunct” because one never knows what people may be getting up to in secret. Voodoo, like any religion, likely has its own extremists. For the most part, however, it is a non-violent religion which respects life and nature, and so my apologies also to any Voodooists who may have been offended by my work of fiction.
Book 2 in this series, preliminarily titled ‘The Girl Who Sang The Blues’, will be available late 2012 / early 2013. Or whenever I get it finished. I don’t tend to work very quickly. In the meantime, keep watching my website for extracts. And other stuff.
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