by Eric Wilder
“And now?” I asked.
“We’ll soon find out. We’re entering the St. Roch neighborhood.”
“Looks bleak,” Abba said.
“Hurricane Katrina hammered this area. Flooded everything. Many of the abandoned board-framed houses have never been reoccupied. Crime here is off the charts.”
A stray dog digging in an overturned garbage can that had blown into the street didn’t bother moving when we drove past.
“What about the cemetery?” I asked.
“Also flooded, many of the graves destroyed or looted,” Rafael said. “Thankfully, the two St. Roch cemeteries have been restored.”
“What’s the deal with the shrine?” Abba said.
“Many decades ago, during an outbreak of yellow fever, the priest of this parish prayed to St. Roch, the patron of good health. He promised to build a shrine if the people of his parish were spared. Not a single parishioner contracted the disease, and the priest made good on his promise. The chapel is famous all over the world.”
“Because?”
“It’s a place of healing. People coming there seeking intervention in their health problems have reported many miracle cures,” he said.
“I’m a medical student,” Abba said. “Pardon me if I’m a bit skeptical about faith healing.”
“No problem, my dear. The world has become a skeptical place.”
“Have either of you seen any such miracles in your lifetimes?” she asked.
“I’ll readily admit I’ve never witnessed a miracle, though others that I trust have,” Rafael said.
“You, Wyatt?”
“I’ve seen lots of things I can’t explain, though I’ve never witnessed what I’d consider a miracle.”
We’d reached the entrance to the St. Roch Cemetery, and Abba quickly found a place to park. At least the drizzling rain had ceased as we stepped out of the car.
“It’s spectacular,” she said.
“Looks like a place where miracles could happen,” Rafael said.
“Maybe so,” Abba said. “Doesn’t matter because I’m going to continue discounting the possibility of miracles until I see one with my own eyes.”
Chapter 10
As Abba had said, the entrance to the cemetery was spectacular. The tall gate topped by an ornate cross said St. Roch Campo Santo. A smiling black man dressed in a colorful African-print shirt waited for us just inside the open gate.
“Lando Impeke?” Rafael asked.
“That is me,” the man said. “Are you Father Rafael?”
“Yes, and this is Abba Gigoux and Wyatt Thomas. They have questions that maybe you can answer.”
“I will do my very best,” Impeke said. “Please follow me. I will give you a brief tour on our way to the chapel.”
Impeke’s skin was the color of dark chocolate, his hair cut short and snowy white. He spoke in a clipped, though discernible African accent.
A tiny man, he barely reached Abba’s shoulder. Neither he nor Abba seemed to mind.
Some of the aboveground crypts were massive and ornate. Many were “oven” vaults meant for multiple interments. All were colorful. Standing in front of the entrance to the chapel was a statue of Jesus on the cross. In front of it was a marble carving of a sick girl lying on a bed. Impeke stopped to show us.
“This statue represents the reason so many people visit this cemetery from every place on earth.”
“The little girl was healed of her affliction?” Rafael said.
Impeke nodded. “Along with many others. The recipient of a miracle.”
“Have you ever seen such a miracle?” Abba asked.
“Many people enter these gates, helpless and broken. Always, when they leave, they are once again whole.”
“Did you hear about St. Roch after settling in the neighborhood?” Rafael asked.
“I had heard of this place even when I was in Africa. The statue of the little girl is part of the reason I came to New Orleans.”
“Part of the reason?” I said.
“Yes, though I had other considerations,” he said.
Abba didn’t let him explain. “You had an impairment that was healed?” she asked.
“My soul,” Impeke said. “I prayed to St. Roch, and he restored me.”
Afraid of insulting the passionate little man by saying something negative, Abba refrained from commenting. We followed him down the pathway to the chapel.
“The graves are hauntingly beautiful,” Rafael said.
“You should see them at dusk,” Impeke said. “It is when the spirits begin their nightly walk, and the colors of the graves and statues, and sounds of the dead come alive.”
He smiled when Abba said, “You believe in ghosts?”
“Of course. There are more spirits in this city than can be counted.”
“Then why haven’t I seen them?” she asked.
Impeke stopped and touched her hand. “We see only what we wish to see, and filter out the rest.”
“But why?” she said.
“Fear of the unknown,” he said.
She shook her head as we entered the chapel, a surreal little room filled with canes, wooden crutches, and artificial limbs hanging on wall pegs.
There was also a table covered with relics, a red plaster heart, leg braces, at least one set of false teeth, and many crosses. Plaster peeled off the walls, the small statue of the Virgin Mary almost seeming alive.
“Offerings,” Impeke said. “Left by pilgrims searching for miracles. They are not the only ones to visit St. Roch,” Impeke said.
“Who else?” Abba asked.
“The curious. People who wish to see another side of our Catholic faith.”
“I’m sorry,” Abba said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Exotic Catholics; believers who push the charismatic element of our religion to the limits,” Impeke said.
“It’s the same in all Christian religions,” Rafael said. “Some believers sit sedately in their pews and mouth the words to hymns sung by the choir. Other believers fall out of their pews, roll down the aisles, and speak in unknown tongues. Catholics are no different.”
Impeke knelt in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary and began to pray. Abba waited for his prayer to end before speaking.
“We understand you know a man named Father Fred,” she said. “I could find nothing about him when I did a search of the Internet and local documents. What can you tell us about him?”
Even in late October, humidity was high, plaster flaking off the ceiling as well as the walls. Impeke gazed up at it before answering.
“Sometimes the Devil walks in human shoes. Such is the case for the man you know as Father Fred.”
“Is he a priest?” Rafael asked.
Impeke nodded. “A rogue priest; a person that uses the priesthood to his own advantage; someone that deserves to burn in hell.”
Rafael placed his hand on Impeke’s shoulder. “I sense you have more to tell us about Father Fred than just where we can find him.”
Tears had begun streaming down the man’s face. Still on his knees, he lowered his head and began praying again. We watched, transfixed, the humidity high and the faint smell of mold lingering in the eclectic little chapel. His eyes remained closed, and his head bowed when he began to speak.
“Nearly twenty-five years have passed since I first laid eyes on the Devil himself. It was a hot night in my village. I awoke to the howl of a stray dog outside my hut. It was then I began hearing shouts and screams.
“My wife was asleep beside me, my two sons in pallets across the room. I wasn’t fully awake when men with machetes came screaming through the door.
“Several of the men overpowered me, binding my hands behind me with steel cuffs. I could only struggle, scream, and cry as they hacked my two sons to death. My wife Aiella was with child, eight months pregnant. I tried to help as the men began raping her. They held me down, and I could do nothing except scream for them to stop the atrocity. They didn’t.
“It was a damp night, humidity high and the cloying smell of sex, sweat, and blood hanging in the air. When they finished with Aiella, they hacked her to death with their machetes. Her eyes had closed, and she was no longer screaming.
“I begged them to kill me too. They did not. One of the men knocked me out with the butt of his machete. When I finally opened my eyes, I found myself chained by leg irons to a tree along with dozens of other men, boys, and girls. The next morning, we began a trek that lasted many days.
“They kept us in leg irons and neck chains and fed us slop once a day along with just enough water to keep us alive. We finally reached the coast. It was then that I saw Father Fred for the first time.”
Impeke grew silent, his head bowed as tears continued streaming down his face. Rafael began softly patting his back, trying to comfort him.
“This is so painful for you. Spare yourself. We don’t need to hear the rest of the story,” he said.
“I must tell it,” he said. “It’s the only way you’ll know the evil with which you are dealing.”
“Then take your time,” Rafael said. “We’re going nowhere.”
A flock of pigeons landed briefly outside the open door, raising a ruckus before flying away in a flap of many wings.
“The Hutus built half a dozen large bonfires. When darkness came, they slaughtered a young man, butchered, cooked, and feasted on him. Father Fred was with them, laughing and enjoying the meal along with them.
“They threw us leftover scraps and bones. Half-starved, many of the captives ate human flesh. After the feast, Father Fred joined the Hutus in the ceremonial revelry of rape and child molestation that followed.”
I didn’t ask Impeke if he had also consumed human flesh.
“What was he doing there?” I said.
“Purchasing slaves. Human contraband for buyers from all over the globe.”
Abba’s eyes had grown progressively larger, a hand covering her open mouth.
“Oh my God!” she said.
“Yes, the man is a slave trader, buying and selling human chattel for rich and powerful clients. God help them.”
Rafael’s hand hadn’t moved from Impeke’s shoulder. “And you?”
“Like many other captives, I had developed a tropical fever. They thought I was going to die.”
“You escaped?” I asked.
Impeke shook his head. “They beat me and left me on the side of the road. When I came to from the beating, I was alone.”
He pulled up the long sleeve of his colorful shirt and held up his arm. For the first time since meeting him, we realized that only a stump remained where his hand had been. He pointed to a porcelain prosthetic hanging on the wall.
“Before leaving me to die, the monsters cut off my right hand. They had already taken my soul. St. Roch restored my soul and gave me new life. In exchange, I left the prosthetic as an offering and have lived without it ever since.”
Wind gusted through the portal we’d left open, sucking the air out of the small chapel and causing the door to slam shut with a bang.
“Enough of this place,” Rafael said. “I’ve developed a splitting headache, and I badly need a drink. It’s past lunch hour. You can tell us where we can find the monster as we break bread.”
Impeke’s tears had vanished, replaced by his original rosy smile.
“There are only a few places to eat and drink in this neighborhood. St. Roch Market is one of them, and it is near.”
“Is it a good place to eat?” Abba asked.
“A marvelous place,” Impeke said. “They have gumbo, po’boys, and even African beer.”
“I can go for that,” Abba said.
“Then let’s go,” Rafael said.
Clouds had begun gathering as we drove away from the cemetery. No one spoke as Abba pointed the Aztek toward the nearby St. Roch Market. Public money had transformed the old market building into a food court, the aroma of food intoxicating as we entered the building.
Upscale vendors sold exotic coffees, beer, and mixed drinks. The market’s many vendors specialized in everything from oysters to traditional Korean cooking. As Impeke had said, there was even African beer on tap.
The rain had returned outside as we found a table near the front door of the market. It was my first visit, and I wasn’t disappointed. Rafael had a chef salad with a glass of cabernet. Abba had a dozen raw oysters, a spicy plate of Kimchi, and, like Impeke, an icy glass of African beer. He and I had gumbo and red beans and rice, Impeke lacing his with lots of pepper sauce.
After his second beer, his smile had returned. I took it as an opening to quiz him.
“Did you come to New Orleans specifically to find Father Fred?”
“Yes. I had learned that he lived here and came to Louisiana with every intention of killing him.”
“But your experience at St. Roch changed your mind?”
“Yes. I am at peace with myself and no longer dream about ripping his throat out.” He smiled again. “It wouldn’t bother me, though, if someone else killed him.”
“We are looking for Father Fred because of a much different reason,” Abba said. “He recruited a young woman we know, apparently convincing her she was going to become a nun and join a convent. If she’s still alive, we want to rescue her.”
“I’m so sorry for the young woman,” Impeke said. “Father Fred preys on the weak. He runs his operation from an old orphanage in Mid-City. He keeps people he will sell as slaves, or worse. It is a prison disguised as a place of hope.”
“Why haven’t you reported this to the police?” Abba asked.
“Oh, but I have,” he said. “Many times.”
“What happened?”
“I was threatened with bodily harm if I persisted in harassing Father Fred.”
“New Orleans politics,” Rafael said. “Gotta love it.”
“Greasing the palms of politicians didn’t start in New Orleans,” I said. “Local officials merely perfected the practice.”
“The address where you will find Father Fred is on this slip of paper,” Impeke said. “I wish you better luck than I had, and I pray that you find your friend alive and well.”
“Thanks, Lando. We couldn’t have located Father Fred without your help. Can I ask one more question.”
“Yes?”
“What about Sister Gertrude? What can you tell us about her?”
Impeke downed the last of his beer, and then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. The wind had picked up outside, rain blowing through the front door as a young couple hurriedly entered.
“If at all possible, Sister Gertrude is even eviler than Father Fred.”
“How so?”
“She is the Head Mother of a very special Catholic convent.”
“Tell me,” Abba said.
“Most of the nuns there are little more than prostitutes, performing vile sex acts for those sick people with nun fetishes.”
“Oh my God! Why would the victims allow them to do such things?”
“They would not if they had the choice. They are beaten and coerced by mind control along with mind-altering drugs. I have heard some of the young women lapse into insanity, and that the suicide rate is high.”
It was clear from her expression that Impeke’s words had incensed Abba.
“What kind of horrible pervert would frequent such a place?”
“There are all kinds of crazy and perverted people in this world,” Rafael said, clutching Abba’s wrist. “Can you tell us where to find this convent?”
“Only that it is in another parish,” Impeke said. “I wish I had more information for you. Now, you know as much as I do.”
Before letting Lando Impeke out at the gates to St. Roch, Rafael shook his hand. Abba got out of the car and hugged him.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help,” she said.
“Young lady, you are so very welcome. I truly hope you find your friend.”
“You are the
one to thank,” she said, kissing his forehead.
He took her hand when she started to pull away. “I sense you have serious questions that perhaps only God can answer. When they begin weighing on you too heavily, return to St. Roch. I will help you cast away the pain weighing on your soul.”
Chapter 11
Lando Impeke waved as Abba pulled away from the curb and headed toward Mid-City. The rain had finally ceased leaving the streets wet and potholes filled with water.
It was almost Halloween in the Big Easy, spooky bats, and monsters decorating the front of many of the houses. After seeing the chapel at St. Roch, I realized the creepy decorations could never compare to the real thing. After five minutes of silence, Abba glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
“You okay back there?” she said.
I glanced up as a car raced around us, my thoughts of Desire dissolving like the speeding vehicle’s brake lights in the distance.
“Sorry,” I said. “My mind was somewhere else.”
“Please stop worrying about Desire,” she said. “We’ll find her. She’ll be okay.”
After listening to Lando Impeke’s description of Sister Gertrude’s convent, I wasn’t so sure. Father Fred’s address wasn’t far away, though we had an unexpected shock when we reached it.
The old orphanage was a two-storied frame and plaster structure that had suffered through too many hot and wet Big Easy seasons without a fresh coat of paint. It was almost a given that the flat roof leaked.
The ten-foot fence surrounding the building and small compound surprised us, though not as much as the security vehicle parked at the entrance to the property. We could only presume the guard sitting behind the steering wheel was armed. Abba kept driving.
“What now?” she asked.
“I doubt they accept visitors at the front gate. Let’s hunker down someplace and talk about it,” I said.
Abba glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Where do you suggest?”
“We’re not far from City Park. It’s so big, I’m sure we can find a secluded spot away from the crowds.”
“There’s a liquor store up ahead,” Rafael said. “If we’re going on a picnic, then I’ll need sustenance. What are you drinking?” he asked Abba before exiting the car.