Let the Dead Sleep

by Heather Graham

  “You wanted something to make sense?” she asked.

  Again, he smiled. His voice was soft. “Sorry. I guess nothing makes sense to you. But...well, I’m sorry. You’re Angus’s daughter and the owner of the curio shop. You understand now that very bad things are out there—real or perceived—and this won’t be the last time I call on you.”

  What did that mean? Was this it for the moment? Drive her insane, accuse her of not caring for her fellow man, say thank you—and goodbye?

  She stood suddenly. “You need to put on a shirt and shoes.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes, and we should go now. It’s getting dark, and Mistress LaBelle makes most of her money at night.”

  “You’re taking me to see...a prostitute?”

  “You mean you’ve never met Mistress LaBelle?” Danni teased.

  “LaBelle...oh! You mean, Natasha, the voodoo priestess?”

  She was slightly disappointed, thinking she might have pointed him toward an unknown source.

  “Yes, I mean Natasha. Whenever I have friends in town determined to have some kind of reading, I bring them to Natasha. She reads people, I’m pretty sure, and she’s dedicated to helping others—and to her voodoo religion. She also seems to know everything that’s going on everywhere.”

  “Very true,” Quinn said. “I was going to sleep and then head out to the bars in different sections of town. But I like your idea.”

  “So...get a shirt and shoes.”

  Wolf barked, as if he agreed. He stood by them, wagging his tail.

  Even the tail was like a lethal weapon, Danni thought, feeling it smack against her leg.

  She laughed. “Wolf thinks he’s going.”

  “He is going. Natasha loves him,” Quinn said.

  Danni was surprised, but Wolf wasn’t. He hurried to the door and waited patiently while Quinn ran upstairs to finish dressing and then ran back down, buttoning his shirt as he came toward them. He grabbed a leash but didn’t bother to put it on the dog.

  “We’ll take my car,” he told Danni.

  When she might have protested he added quickly, “It’s already covered in dog hair.”

  The car wasn’t at all bad; she didn’t ask him but assumed he vacuumed often.

  Wolf obediently hopped into the backseat. She buckled in next to Quinn and they made the short drive to the French Quarter.

  Mistress LaBelle—born Natasha Laroche—kept her home and shop in a building just off Bourbon on St. Anne. By day, tourists flocked to the store. At night, she charged a pretty penny for “consultations” done by candlelight in her courtyard. She would read tarot cards, palms or tea leaves, but mostly she read people, as Danni had said, and she listened. She had, Danni believed, a unique ability to know what they wanted, what they needed to hear. As in, success only came with hard work, a love affair was only worth it if both were committed and involved and, difficult or not, tell children “no!” when it came to something they shouldn’t be doing.

  “Meet you out back,” Quinn said. “Wolf takes up the whole shop.”

  They split up; Danni went through the main entrance. Quinn walked around to the side. There was a sign on the painted gate: Please Enter Thru Main Shop.

  Quinn didn’t seem to notice. Or, Danni thought, maybe he’d gone through that way so many times, he knew he was welcome to do as he chose.

  The store was filled with the usual objects, but nicely displayed. The walls were rustic hardwood. Domed glass cases held the jewelry Natasha sold, while a round table near the door held gimmicky tourist treasures—spices, the usual Voodoo dolls, chicken-feet talismen and other such things. Brilliant and historic masks adorned the entry. The smell of incense was in the air.

  Danni walked straight to the counter where Jeziah, Natasha’s clerk and assistant, was watching the register.

  “Jez, hey, how are you?” she asked him.

  He was a beautiful man with mahogany skin, close-cropped dark hair and startling green eyes.

  “Danni,” he said in greeting. The way he looked at her—as if she was expected and had actually arrived a little late for a party—was unnerving.

  “I’m sorry. I realize this is a major business time at the store, or it will be soon, but—”

  “No problem,” Jez told her. “Natasha’s been waiting for you.”

  “She has? But how—” Danni began.

  “She’s expected you all day. She knew you’d come before full dark. She’s in the courtyard. You know the way. Go on out.”

  Astonished, although she probably shouldn’t be, Danni headed to the back of the shop, through the draperies to the seer’s rooms and the ornate door that led to the candle-strewn courtyard beyond.

  She stepped outside just as the sun was falling.

  Natasha had been sitting in the African throne chair situated behind her covered table. She got up, walking toward Danni to take her hands. “Danni.” She kissed both her cheeks.

  Quinn, with Wolf lying quietly at his side, was seated by the table.

  Natasha was a lovely, exotic woman, about six feet tall. Her hair was wrapped in a turban of orange and yellow that matched her long gown. Her eyes seemed like onyx and her features were slim and elegant.

  “It’s about time. You really need my help. Word is out on the street already. And if the evil inside the bust knows that you’re aware...well, then, my dears, you are in grave danger, grave danger indeed.”

  Chapter Six

  THE SUN WAS setting and Myriad shades of pastel fell on the table in the courtyard. Wolf continued to lie placidly at Quinn’s feet as he and Danni sat with Natasha. Wind chimes in the trees let out a gentle music that hushed the distant sound of the pop, rock and blues playing on Bourbon Street.

  Candles were already alight and the foliage in the small courtyard was rich; there was no sign of the tourist trade here in this private enclosure, and they might have stepped back in time.

  Natasha had nodded formally when Quinn walked into the courtyard, as if she’d expected to see him there. Then she’d turned her attention to Wolf until Danni came out.

  “Here’s the situation,” Natasha began. “I don’t have anything concrete for you, but you know how it goes—tell a friend a secret, that friend tells another friend, and so on. It’s like the whisper game and the facts have all been altered.” She stared at them both. “You understand that I honor God and the saints and my religion. We do not have human sacrifices, drink blood or do any of the ridiculous things movies have created out of voodoo.” She wagged a finger. “Yes, crazy people who do not respect true religion do the things the movies show, but that is not the way we honor our saints and our God.”

  Danni cleared her throat. “Natasha, you realize that I—” she paused to look at Quinn “—that we know you, and we understand that your practice of voodoo is just the same as anyone’s practice of more traditional religions. You know me—us—as well, and...”

  Natasha nodded. “Give me your hand.”

  Danni seemed loath to do so, but she extended her hand, palm up, to Natasha.

  Natasha sighed and laughed softly. “In all these years—and I’ve known you since you were a little girl—I have never seen your palm. See here?” With a long elegant nail, she traced a line in Danni’s palm. “This is your lifeline. It’s jagged.”

  For a moment, Quinn thought Danni would yank her hand back.

  “No, no, I’m not telling you anything you don’t want to hear—only what you might expect. It’s jagged because these are the times when you must make the right choices. And when, perhaps, you’ll find your greatest strength. Quinn—now you.”

  He raised his eyebrows. She had read his palm in the past. But he extended it to her.

  She pointed out the full break in his lifeline.

  �
��Here, see? Quinn did die. His life, however, extends here. You see? Not even I can explain it, but most certainly, there was a purpose. I tell you these things because I have wondered, since the death of your dear father, Danni, how long it would be before the two of you met. There are not many who see the haze that drifts between life and death, and because there are so few, it’s important that we recognize one another and learn to work together.”

  “We’re here together,” Quinn said.

  “Your idea?” Natasha asked him.

  He felt a flush come to his cheeks. “No. Danni’s.”

  Natasha was pleased with the answer.

  “So, the bust is in the hands of the wicked,” she said, leaning back.

  “Yes. What do you know about it?” Quinn asked.

  “There is a cult rising in the area,” Natasha said. “Not voodoo. No connection to voodoo. But some of my congregation have told me that they hear people talking about this. It’s a group of satanists, or a coven of stupid people who think wiccans could work for evil. There is a high priest or priestess who promises riches and powers to those who will be among the chosen. And death to their enemies. I heard this before I heard about the bust.” She hesitated and shrugged, reaching over to scratch Wolf’s ears, then looked up and smiled at Danni. “Wolf is my friend, my dearest friend. He saved my life.”

  “Oh?” Danni said.

  “Nothing to do with the occult,” Natasha told her. “I was being held up by a no-good lowlife out of Biloxi a year or so back. I’d called Quinn earlier—about something else—and he was on his way but Wolf ran ahead, knocked the bastard down, sent his gun flying and stood over him until Quinn arrived. Wolf, go into the shop. Jeziah has treats for you.”

  Wolf whined and turned to Quinn.

  “Go on,” he said.

  With a wag of his tail, Wolf obeyed.

  “I suspected there was a major buyer for the bust,” Quinn said. “What I need to know is whether you’ve heard anything about who might have it now. Last night, the guy who stole it from the Simon house was killed returning to his own place, where the deal was supposed to be made—according to the information I got on the street.”

  Natasha nodded. Quinn understood that she wasn’t to be rushed.

  “Once, it was thought that the world was safe enough. The bust was in the cemetery, guarded by the spirits of those who had done nothing but good for their fellow man. Then it was taken, and the mayhem this caused wasn’t part of the death count that followed the summer of storms. Someone managed to return it—until it was stolen again. Word was out that another someone was looking for it.”

  “The bust was sculpted as the likeness of a man named Pietro Miro,” Danni said. “Historically, he was a satanist himself and apparently practiced human sacrifice.”

  “I knew it was old and Italian,” Natasha responded.

  “But do you know where we can find it?” Quinn asked her. “Danni did some research last night. Pietro Miro was cremated, so it’s not as if we can go to Florence and dig up his body and burn it.” He offered Danni a rueful smile. “Not something that’s easy to do these days—dig up bodies to burn.”

  She frowned, obviously wondering how much practice he had in digging up the dead.

  Natasha tapped her fingers on the table. “I don’t know the name of the person seeking the bust. I’ve dreamed of darkness, of a group meeting in the bayou. I heard screams while I slept and the beat of a drum. I do know the bust is out there, and I believe its power is growing—and must be stopped. But the men who are jockeying to steal it from one another, thinking they’ll be rich when they sell it to the buyer, are not those in the cult. All they want is the money. What they don’t realize is that if the bust doesn’t kill them or ruin their lives, they will die, anyway. The priest—or priestess!—won’t just pay a thief and say thank you. The man who finally sells it to the cult will be their first sacrifice on the altar of whatever their evil belief might be.”

  Quinn nodded. “Can you give us anything?” he asked her hopefully.

  “Tell me about last night. I saw the news on the drug war gone bad. You were there.”

  “I couldn’t get much. I did find a woman who gave me street names.”

  “Let me see the names,” Natasha said. “Working here, with people coming and going, I hear a lot about our city’s criminal element.”

  Quinn reached into his wallet and produced a folded piece of paper. There were six names on it. Screech, Potter, Big-Ass Mo Fo, Eyes, Numb Nuts and Butt Kiss.

  Natasha studied them for a minute. She pointed at Big-Ass Mo Fo. “That’s Carl White—odd name for the man, since he’s pure ebony. He runs a strip club far down off Frenchman Street. Saddest old strippers you’ve ever seen. This doesn’t seem like his type of deal. The man goes to confession every week, sorry as hell about what he does for a living. You can check him out, though. Screech is Clarence Harvey. He’s in the pen right now, doing fifteen on a drug bust. Potter, he’s in prison, too. His real name is Bill Flaherty and he’s just doing two years, but he won’t be out until next summer. Butt Kiss is Bo Ray Tomkins, a sad young white boy who’s going to be dead in another year. If he was buying, it was for someone else. Bo Ray doesn’t do drugs, he’s drinking himself to death. And Bo Ray is the kind who’d kill himself before he killed anyone else. That’s what I think the Simons might have done. You’ll want to have a talk with him, anyway—he sees things and turns away, keeps his mouth shut. He drinks at a bar on Esplanade off Bourbon, kind of working two worlds, this side of the Quarter and that. Maybe the poor bastard knows he’s dying and can’t do a damned thing about it. Numb Nuts is Sam Johnson, an old Creole—you can find him drinking at a hole in the wall called Oasis just past the CBD. I doubt he’s got the gumption to have stolen this thing.” She tapped the paper again. “Eyes. Now, there you might have something. Eyes is living like he’s legit. His name is Brandt Shumaker. He came down here in 2006, buying up properties people couldn’t hold on to anymore—bought them cheap and put a dozen folks out of house and home because they were desperate. He’s cold as ice,” Natasha said. “He might be your man. He’d shoot you just as soon as look at you.”

  “Shumaker,” Danni said. “He was on an interview I vaguely heard. The day my father died,” she added.

  Quinn glanced at her. “Politics. Great.” He turned back to Natasha. “Thank you. You’ve helped tremendously. I should’ve come to you the minute I left Vic Brown’s holding cell.”

  “I didn’t have anything but what I could see and hear in my dreams,” Natasha said. “I couldn’t have helped if you didn’t have the names. I can see some things, but that isn’t always a blessing. I can see them, but I don’t know what they mean or how to stop them. That’s your job, right, Quinn?”

  He couldn’t quite read her expression. Quinn knew that Natasha had always wondered what had changed him so completely. Maybe not so completely. He’d never been a crook, never stolen anything and sure as hell never killed anyone. He’d been like Bo Ray Tomkins, on a route to self-destruction, maybe killing his family a little more with each step he took on his way there.

  “And you!” Natasha gestured at Danni. “I’m glad you made it to see me at last, young lady. Ever since your daddy died, like it or not, you’ve got a role to play. Embrace it. You’ll only hurt yourself if you don’t.”

  Danni frowned. For a moment, Quinn saw fear and denial in the depths of her blue eyes.

  Hell, why not? Until he’d shown up at her shop, she probably thought her life would be filled with art and galleries and vacations, finally-the-right-guy and all manner of good things.

  Danni stood. “Thank you, Natasha, for all your help.”

  “Wait!” Natasha said. She slipped a hand into the pocket of her skirt and brought forth a handful of medallions on chains. She set them on the table and sorted through them. She chose two,
untangling the chains. They were cheap metal trinkets, but they bore likenesses of a saint with a halo over his head.

  “Saint Michael,” Natasha explained. “The patron saint of protection. And your namesake, Quinn. Wear these.”

  “Of course.”

  “In voodoo, a lot is taken from the Catholic Church, so you needn’t think these are just tourist souvenirs!”

  “I would never think that, Natasha,” Danni assured her.

  Natasha put a medallion around each of their necks. “It’s what you believe that’s important. But there’s one true power, and it doesn’t matter what a man calls his power. I believe in goodness. Different roads are traveled by different people, all going to the same destination.”

  Quinn thanked her for the medal.

  He whistled; Wolf came running out to the courtyard.

  “You come back whenever you need to. I’m always here for you,” Natasha said.

  They left by way of the courtyard entry.

  “What now?” Danni asked.

  “Now I take you back to your car and I meet up with whoever I can in junkie city.”

  “What? You drag me into this—and then you want me to go home?”

  “It’s late, and I’m going off the beaten tourist track.”

  “I’m not a tourist.”

  “You’re a young woman in designer jeans and a silk shirt. You might as well be wearing a sign that says Mug Me! Or worse. The minute I walk into a place with you, every junkie and whore will clam up.”

  “The shop and my apartment are close by. I can change.”

  “Danni—”

  “Fine. Take me to my car. We’ll split up. I can talk to Bo Ray while you go somewhere seedier.”

  “You know, I wouldn’t want this going to your head, Ms. Cafferty, but in case you haven’t noticed, you’re young—and you could be described as beautiful. There are bad things that could happen to you.”