Mason walked downstairs to the foyer of the once grand hotel. Now it also was only a shell of itself. The old place sat on the edge of Storyville, coined after Sidney Story, an alderman who wrote guidelines to control prostitution within the city. The ordinance designated a sixteen-block area where prostitution, although still nominally illegal, was tolerated for a time. While it was originally referred to as the red-light district of New Orleans, Storyville and open prostitution ceased to exist in the early 1900s. Still, the sex trade continued and could be found readily if one knew where to look or how to ask the right questions.
The night air, delightfully warm, engulfed him as his feet hit the sidewalk; Mason decided to walk to his destination. He needed to clear his head after his disappointing encounter with that woman. His stroll took him down Bourbon Street, which wasn’t what he remembered. It looked overcommercialized, like anything and everything in America that had something to it. How disappointing!
He passed through the French Quarter and, after several blocks, found himself in a less than savory area. It didn’t matter to a man like him, who feared little. In fact, he dared the universe to put some punk in his way to give him a hard time. He’d give that poor sucker a one-way ticket to Hell.
Happily, his destination hadn’t changed since he’d been there last. Little Rickard’s wasn’t a shop in the general sense—nothing but a little hole in a wall, a place not frequented by tourists; but those who knew . . . knew otherwise. Little Rickard’s wasn’t Vodun, or “voodoo,” like many of the occult boutiques. Rickard’s Shop was one of the oldest purveyors in the dark arts and had existed for centuries. The shop did not need to advertise. In fact, the only indicator was a white hand painted on the door telling those in the know that they were on the Left-Hand Path.
You didn’t simply walk into Rickard’s Shop. You rang a doorbell and waited for the proprietor, Moses, to respond. An intricate surveillance system gave the quirky proprietor instant access to an extensive underworld data bank. If you were connected in any way, you were already known. A comparison photo would pop up on his computer just in case. Moses would then decide whether he wanted to talk to you or even let you in. The process, in effect, weeded out the police and the pretenders.
The door opened slowly and the dark-skinned Moses peeked out through a crack, scrutinizing Mason with the utmost care. He spoke with a distinctive Haitian-Creole drawl, which didn’t necessarily mean he was from Haiti. A subculture ran through the North American occult community in the South. Being extremely insular, the jargon and accents remained eerily similar to what they might have been a hundred or so years ago.
Moses may have found his roots in the Vodun religion, but he was clearly entrenched within the Church of Satan. Satanism found its recruits in all sects of life.
Moses bowed before Mason, the highest level of respect that could be offered within the underworld community. Mason motioned for him to rise, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.
Mason understood, to the word, all of the teachings of Anton LaVey, the father of modern Satanism, and he wanted revenge. The Church of Satan did a pretty good job of softening the less savory elements of their practice. It was easy enough to jump onto their webpage, thechurchofsatan.com, and see they espoused non-demonic, esoteric practices. Mason knew better. Before being ensconced as the head of the Church of Satan’s Southern US chapter, he assisted in rewriting rituals created to draw upon the power of Satan. Yet, if anyone wanted to put a curse on another, they came here to Rickard’s Shop. Moses held a strong understanding of both Vodun and Satanistic rituals.
Mason looked at the man. “Have you prepared the room?”
“Oui. I am eminently pleased to serve your needs.”
Mason smiled. “Of course.” As long as he paid him a ridiculous amount of money. “Do you have someone who can assist me, as per my request?”
“Oui, monsieur. There’s a young girl, Elaine. She can help you. She’s been trained and has reached the second level.”
Mason was very familiar with the hierarchy, having attained the level of Magus, second in line to the Grandmaster of the Church. Disciples of the second level were called Witches or Warlocks depending on their level of expertise. She would do, though he would have preferred a Priestess. A Priestess would have performed the ritual before, without hesitancy. A Witch could very well be working the incantation for the first time.
Moses read Mason’s face. “She is well versed in the prayer. We gave the literature to her a few days ago.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your expertise, and your optimism,” Mason frowned, then brightened. “I do appreciate that you are willing to change suits”—referring to Moses’s practice in both of the dark religions.
“Differing views and approaches, monsieur. I am a slut to both faiths; though, as you know, I’m a Satanist at heart.” He winked. “I must offer what we can to our clients. New Orleans is the heart of darkness. To limit one’s self would be . . . foolish. In the end, it revolves around one entity. Oui?”
Mason nodded. The man was a religious mercenary, if there was such a thing. Mason needed anonymity foremost, and this is what Moses sold.
“You can take the second door to the right down the hallway.” He motioned to his left. “The stairs will lead you to the cellar. Elaine has prepared everything you will require.”
Walking to the hallway, Mason smiled, looking back at the man. “Everything?”
Moses nodded effusively.
****
Mason descended the rickety steps to the cellar. A stale smell of moisture and lack of airflow became increasingly pungent as he descended—the smell of death. He knocked on the door and heard a low “Come in.”
The dirt-floor, candlelit room appeared much bigger than he would have assumed—maybe thirty by forty feet. Dank and evil smelling, it opened in front of him, filled with numerous devices used over the centuries by the cultists. Whips and chains hung on the walls above strange benches and racks. There were trays filled with wicked knives and bowls. In the far corner, partially covered by a black cloth, was a device that appeared to be an old French guillotine. Mason could only imagine the atrocities that occurred within these sweat-soaked stone walls. He felt mildly encouraged, the dank space offering him comfort.
In the middle of the room, Mason saw a circle of power etched in chalk surrounding a pentagram; black candles made from the fat of an unbaptized baby sat on each of the five corners. At the center waited a young woman sitting cross-legged. She was heavyset with a punk look, hair shaved on the sides with the middle gelled to a fine, short-pointed Mohawk. Her chubby arms, legs and neck were adorned with a mass of tattoos. Beside her sat a thin, black-haired girl, no older than seven, her skin pale and her eyes sunken. Mason surmised she’d been drugged. Elaine raised her eyes to meet his. They sustained contact for what seemed like minutes before Mason broke her gaze. Impressive. Most don’t last ten seconds.
She returned her eyes to his. “I’ve prepared all you’ve asked for, but it wasn’t easy. I’ll ask you for payment in advance.” As Mason moved toward her, she put up her hand. “You can put the money in the bowl beside the door. Five grand.” Still gazing at him, she pulled an old-fashioned pistol out of her handbag and placed it on the ground in front of her.
Mason smiled. Smart girl. He placed a wad of hundred-dollar bills in the bowl before he moved to enter the circle.
She once more put her hand up to stop his motion. “You must cleanse yourself first before I will allow you to enter my circle.”
Mason stared at her incredulously, then nodded. “Wise.” He sat cross-legged and performed a cleansing prayer to Satan and the dark spirits, opening up his senses and soul to their influence.
Once finished, Elaine gestured, welcoming him into her circle. “Not too close.” She patted the gun.
Mason hesitated, then stepped over the circle and sat three feet across from Elaine, who seemed no more relieved once he’d crossed the chalk. He rubbed his hands toget
her, the smoke from the foul-smelling candles burning his eyes. “Shall we begin?”
Elaine nodded and began the Prayer of Destruction.
Mason knew it would draw upon all of his powers to direct enough energy toward the destruction of Jackson Walker—a prayer not to be taken lightly but nevertheless an important ingredient of the Black Mass he intended to perform in the coming weeks. She evoked the powers of the four crown Princes of Hell, taking a large, lit candle, which sat in the middle of the pentagram, and holding it with both hands. She faced the candle to the east and her voice resonated, “Lucifer, the bringer of light.” She turned to the north. “Belial, lord of earth.” She turned to the west. “Leviathan, master of the sea.” She turned to the south. “Ha Satan, lord of fire, we call upon your powers.” She returned to the center and motioned to Mason.
He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. Clearing his throat, he began, “Ha Satan, I call on your eminence and all of your powers to heed my prayer. I pray for the destruction of Jackson Walker. I and the Church of Satan have been dealt a grievous injustice by this man. The despicable vermin killed two of our Priestesses, Henrietta LePley in particular, who was one of your longest-serving disciples and benefactors. He killed members of our church: Isaac, Eric and Jimmy McFadden, Carly and Buck Henderson. I have been incarcerated due to my affiliation with you and the deceased. I deem it to be a grievous injustice to you and those who follow you. I made a promise to the man when I was arrested that I would seek vengeance upon him. I sit here now, open to your powers and your blessed affiliation.
“I call upon you to destroy Jackson Walker. I call upon you to throw down the spiritual support of his Seminole blood. I call upon you to stab him in the eyes, throat, and heart. On his death, I call upon you to give him a thousand years of unrelenting torment in Hell!”
He pulled out a newspaper clipping of Jackson—one he’d been carrying with him for some time—depicting Walker as a hero who broke the back of the Church of Set. He placed it on his written prayer. He lifted his pant leg and removed a thin dagger, his athame, which had been strapped to his lower leg. In a quick motion, he stabbed the sharp knife through the papers, making sure it cut through the head of Jackson Walker.
Elaine pushed the candle in the middle of the pentagram toward him, as well as a stone bowl.
Mason ignited the papers and tossed them into the bowl.
Elaine pushed the young girl to Mason, offering him her arm. Mason looked down at several scars on the soft part of her wrist. He cut lengthwise into the white flesh of her forearm. He didn’t want a gush of blood, just a slow, steady stream. He dripped the dark fluid onto the burning papers as they fizzled into dust. The strength of a virgin’s blood was renowned for arousing the curiosity of the demons he was evoking.
Elaine motioned, her palm extended toward him, inadvertently getting too close. “That is enough.”
He gently let the girl roll to the ground. Before she could react, Mason jumped to his feet, jamming the knife’s blade into Elaine’s throat. He used his strength to pull the knife up into her chin. Elaine looked at him in shock, gurgling from the gaping, bloody hole in her neck. She dropped, blood seeping onto the chalk pentagram. He smiled. The sacrifice of a Witch surely won’t hurt my cause.
He wrapped a piece of cloth around the girl’s wound and picked her up.
****
Moses watched the ritual with great interest via surveillance cameras. Thankfully, Mason paid him well for the privilege he had taken. The cost of a Witch would well be covered by what the film Moses now owned would earn.
Mason appeared at the top of the steps with the young girl in his arms. He laid the girl upon Moses’s desk. “She will live.” He met Moses’s eyes. “You’ve received payment?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
Mason stepped out the door, the smell of the Mississippi strong now with a change in wind direction. A good omen.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JACK PULLED INTO HIS driveway and looked at Janie. “You don’t have to come, really!”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight again as long as we’re on this case.”
“This isn’t the case.” He slid out of the Jeep.
Janie waited until they were clear of the vehicle. “Somehow, I think it is. Bad things follow you, Walker. I don’t want to have to chase you all over Southwest Florida again if you get taken away by murderous Satanists.”
Jack shrugged. “Whatever.” He noticed another car in the driveway, an old Corolla. “Josh,” he smiled, walking briskly to the door. Janie followed right behind him. The smell of pot and the sound of Nirvana blasting through the stereo speakers greeted him. He walked through the small bungalow onto the back lanai, where he spotted his cousin lying out in a lawn chair, chin on his chest, snoring nearly as loud as the music. Jack kicked his shoe.
Josh startled out of his sleep. His eyes open, trying to find some purchase on reality, he focused in on Jack, then on Janie. “Fuckin’ sore sight, the two of you.” He stumbled to his feet and gave Jack a hug. “What’s up, bro?” He turned to Janie and hugged her. “Miss Callaghan, it’s been some time.”
Janie released the embrace, scrunching her face at his smoky beer breath. “Been five years, Josh, and doesn’t seem like it. And it’s Janie.”
Jack walked to the kitchen. “Coors anyone?” Both Janie and Josh nodded. He returned with three tallboy cans and handed them out. The three pulled the deck chairs into a semi-circle looking out on Estero Bay. “So, Gramps made you come up here?”
“You know it. Gramps says something you damn well do it. You know how it is. He’s got you pretty wrapped now, too.”
Jack frowned, the notion dawning on him. “I suppose . . .”
“Said I’m to keep an eye on you.”
“Well, let’s keep the old gaffer happy. You can hang at the house. You got the boat, and the redfish are running back in the bay.”
“I think he meant a little closer than that. He’s afraid you’re going to get knocked off by one of those Satanist fucks.”
Jack rubbed his temples, working to clear his eyes for a moment. He said, “Josh, having you close is a comfort, though I don’t know why everyone’s being so freaking cautious. Just because Gramps dreams up something, we all go ape shit.”
Janie spoke. “What about the call today? You have to go see that woman tonight.”
Josh took a swig of his beer. “What woman?”
“Some fortune teller. Palm reader from Bonita.”
“She called outta the blue?”
“Yep,” Janie was quick to answer.
“Okay, as Gramps likes to say, there are no coincidences.” Josh met their eyes. Josh was evidently brainwashed by the old man, just like everyone else.
Janie nodded. “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen the old man at work five years ago.”
“Aw, come on, it’s all hocus-pocus, mumbo jumbo bullshit!” Jack finished his beer in one long gulp.
“Okay, Jack, I’ll not cramp your style, but I’m stayin’ close.”
Jack sighed, “Okay, you two, have it your way. But I’d appreciate it if you kept an eye on things around here. No more is needed.”
Josh half squinted with his left eye, not used to this type of brashness from Jack. His cousin possessed a low-simmering temper, but he’d always been pretty easygoing, not full of the latent sarcasm flowing out of his mouth tonight.
Josh changed the topic. “Nice spot you got here, Jack.”
“Yeah, pretty cool for a single guy. Keep the music down—you’ll scare the snook from the end of the dock, okay?” Jack took a long look at his older cousin, a native Seminole. Now that Josh worked for Gramps, he’d taken on a cleaner-shaved look. Though he didn’t see any merit in the occult warnings, Jack wouldn’t mind having Josh around to catch up on things and have a good laugh, maybe get high now and again. He felt terrible shrugging him off. But the psychic shit got on his nerves and he didn’t expect it from his fa
vorite cousin. He needed to nip it in the bud.
****
The drive to Bonita went by far too quickly for Jack’s liking. Another hour and he would have been happier. He felt edgy about the ensuing meeting. The place was located off Old Highway 41, a plain white house with several signs indicating palm reading, tarot cards and fortune-telling, all in bright neon.
Janine couldn’t help herself and commented, “Is this for real?”
Jack blew air through his teeth, not saying a word as he got out of the Jeep. Janie followed him, stepping out of the passenger side. He stomped to the door with a flourish of bravado. Janie couldn’t quite put her figure on the purpose of his actions or reaction to the situation. Maybe he didn’t want to look foolish for dragging them out on a wild goose chase. Could it be nerves? He knocked heavily on the door until it creaked open. Clearly someone expected them, because the latch was not quite engaged.
Janie giggled as Jack backed away from the door. “You scared, Jack?”
He growled something indiscernible under his breath and pushed the door open. Janie peered over his left shoulder. The room looked like a plain reception area—whitewash walls, a small desk; the lights were on, but no one was visible. There were two exits on the far wall, one a closed door and the other an archway leading to a room filled with flickering, orange-and-yellow candlelight.
A couple of steps into the reception area, a heavyset black woman appeared in the archway. Dressed in thick, billowy skirts, her wrists, fingers, earlobes and neck adorned with several pieces of jewelry, she smiled broadly.
“Jackson Walker.” It wasn’t phrased as a question but rather as a statement of fact.
“Yes, ma’am, and this is Janie Callaghan. I said I’d be bringing someone along.”
“Yes. That’s quite alright. I know about Janie, though . . . I didn’t know her name.”
Jack’s heart thumped. He could think of nothing better to say than “Okay.”
The Palm Reader Page 6