Sisters of the Mist

by Eric Wilder

  “Rules are rules,” she said.

  “And meant to be broken.”

  “You’re an attorney. How can you be so indifferent when it comes to rules? Do you ever break the law?”

  “Laws aren’t hard and fast commandments from above. They are guidelines set by human lawmakers that are forever changing. That’s why the law is interpreted and not set in stone.”

  “I’m not sure I agree with your opinion,” she said.

  “And that’s the way it should be. In this world, few things are black or white. Almost everything is a shade of gray, somewhere in between.”

  A night bird sang in the distance as she turned and kissed his cheek.

  “You are so intelligent. Maybe too intelligent for me,” she said.

  “You’re the first person that ever told me that,” he said.

  His comment brought a grin to her face. “Now I know you’re a liar. I’ll bet people tell you every day how smart you are.”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “You must be wondering how I justify my dad’s profession if I’m so holier than thou.”

  “How much do you know about what he does?” Eddie asked.

  “He never talks about it, and I don’t directly know anything about his business. I know that all my friends and the kids I knew growing up treated me differently than everyone else.”

  “Better or worse?”

  “Much better. It was as if they were afraid to anger me. I can only imagine what their parents told them about Dad.”

  “Your dad has his fingers in lots of pies,” Eddie said. “I know because I work for the justice system. He covers his tracks very well. I think you know he isn’t a perfect citizen.”

  “He was just a normal dad to me growing up. When my mom died a few years back, he became a broken man. I was so happy when he met and married Adele.”

  “No jealousy there?”

  Josie shook her head. “None whatsoever.”

  “You’re not worried that Adele is a gold digger?”

  “Besides my mother, she’s one of the most caring and understanding women I’ve ever met. I can only hope to marry someone someday that will make me as happy as those two are.”

  “They do seem perfect for one another,” Eddie said.

  “They can’t keep their hands off each other. It’s embarrassing sometimes.”

  “I noticed,” Eddie said.

  “I hope you and Tony can find Lightning Bolt for Jojo. I think a horse would be good for him.”

  “Probably any pet. He liked Lil’s cat.”

  “Yes he did,” Josie said. “The cat seemed to take to him. I find it a bit strange because he’s never shown any interest in owning a dog, much less a cat.”

  “Maybe your grandfather had something to do with it.”

  At the mention of her grandfather, she turned and stared into Eddie’s eyes.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “Silky was your grandfather Paco’s cat.”

  “What makes you think that? And even if she was, how could you possibly know?”

  “Because Tony and I were with your grandfather the night he died. He handed Tony the cat before he passed and asked him to take care of it for him.”

  Josie wasn’t smiling as she continued staring at Eddie.

  “Are you making this up?”

  “No, I’m not. Your dad hired Tony to find his lost cornet, and I was helping him. The search took us to a room on the second floor of one of Frankie’s nightclubs in Fat City.”

  “Dad told me Gramps was alone when he died.”

  “We weren’t supposed to be there, so we got the hell out. Your gramps wasn’t alone when he died; we were with him, Tony holding his hand.”

  “Does Dad know this?” she asked.

  “No, and please don’t tell him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s just say the relationship between Frankie and your gramps was less than ideal.”

  “Dad said Gramps had disappeared and he didn’t know where he was.”

  “I’ve probably already said too much,” Eddie said. “I’m sorry.”

  “This is crazy,” Josie said. “And surely a coincidence. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Doesn’t matter because I doubt Lil would give you the cat. From what Tony says, they are attached at the hip.”

  “I would never ask anyone to give up their favorite pet,” she said. “Do you believe in signs?”

  “I didn’t a few years ago.”

  “You do now?”

  Eddie nodded. “You can’t live in the Big Easy for very long without realizing we’re surrounded by spirits.”

  “Then maybe the cat is a sign from Gramps that he’s watching over Jojo and me.”

  “I bet you’re right about that,” Eddie said. “Your dad isn’t taking our relationship very well. Am I too forward to ask if you would pay me a visit later on tonight?”

  “You’re very blunt.”

  “Just asking,” he said.

  “As I told you, I’m Catholic. I don’t believe in sex outside of marriage.”

  “Well, that’s a bummer,” Eddie said. “How do you really know if you like someone?”

  “I already know, and I think you do too.”

  Chapter 14

  The sight of the ornate dagger transfixed Rafael’s attention. When he reached for it, intent on pulling it out of Father Fred’s heart, I grabbed his wrist and stopped him.

  “This is a murder scene. Cops will soon be swarming this place, looking for evidence. They may be on their way here already. You don’t want your prints all over the murder weapon.”

  Pulling his hand away, he took a step backward.

  “There are reasons we should take it with us,” he said.

  “Maybe so. Whatever those reasons are, they aren’t good enough for us to face a charge of first degree murder. If the police show up, we don’t have a good excuse for being here.”

  “What, then?” Rafael asked.

  “Case this room for information, and do it fast. Otherwise, someone will soon be bailing us out of jail.”

  Abba was trying to reboot the laptop on the desk in front of Father Fred’s body. Instead of a welcome message, a blue screen was the machine’s only sign of life.

  “Someone sabotaged the computer; probably erased the hard drive,” she said. “I’m going downstairs to check the one in the control room.”

  Rafael and I began opening and shutting drawers and cabinets with a purpose, searching for prisoner records but finding none. We split up and branched out to the other rooms. One by one, all empty handed, we returned to Father Fred’s death scene.

  “No use,” Abba said. “Whoever killed Father Fred wrecked the computers and took the books with them.”

  “They also released the prisoners,” I said.

  “How did they get away and where did they go?” Abba asked. “We saw no one, in a group or otherwise on our way over here.”

  She smiled and tugged her earlobe when Rafael said, “Perhaps they were spirited away by magic.”

  Rafael wasn’t smiling, and Abba frowned as she glanced around the room, searching for a place to begin.

  “There’s something in Father Fred’s hand,” she said.

  We stopped what we were doing to see the small notepad clutched in the priest’s right hand. His body was in the early stages of rigor mortis, the condition already beginning to stiffen his fingers. I had to force them open to remove the notepad from his grasp, and tried not to think about the eerie sensation it sent surging up my spine.

  As I leafed through the notepad, we began to hear sirens wailing in the distance. Rafael glanced out the window before returning his attention to the notepad.

  “Important?” he asked.

  “Mostly just scribble-scratch Father Fred must have used to remind himself of appointments and things he needed to do,” I said.

  Rafael reached for the pad. “Let me see it.”

&
nbsp; He stopped thumbing when he reached the last page.

  “Find something important?” Abba asked. “What is it?”

  “The last entry says, ‘respond to the witch’s demand by four p.m. today.’ The date and time are double underlined.”

  When the notepad suddenly combusted in his hand, Rafael dropped it to the floor. Smoke began billowing from the sleeves and neck of Father Fred’s black jacket. Within seconds, the jacket burst into flame.

  “What the hell!” Abba said.

  Rafael pulled her away from the suddenly flaming body as the desk and chair began smoking and then burning.

  “Spontaneous combustion,” he said.

  “What’s causing it?” she asked.

  “Dark magic. We must exit this building. This whole place is going to burn to the ground.”

  Rafael clutched Abba’s wrist, pulling her toward the door as the curtains in the room caught fire in an explosion of smoke and flame. I followed them, halfway to the ground floor before turning around and rushing back up the stairs.

  “Wyatt, no! What the hell are you doing?”

  “Forgot something,” I said as I disappeared into the billowing smoke.

  Toxic fumes belched from the room we’d just exited, walls and floors crackling and snapping as flames began to consume the dry wood. Covering my nose and mouth with my handkerchief, I dodged my way through the flames and smoke to Father Fred’s body.

  Skin had begun to blister and char, Father Fred’s dead eyes open and glaring at me as I grabbed the hilt of the dagger and yanked, escaping gases sounding like the wail of an angry banshee.

  Billowing smoke had set me to coughing, my eyes red and watering. As I pulled the dagger from Father Fred’s body, a surge of pure energy rushed up my fingertips.

  Suddenly unable to see because of the acrid smoke and billowing flame, some unknown force began pulling me in the wrong direction. At least I thought it was the wrong direction. When I fought it, I tripped over a chair, skinning my knee. Thinking I was going to die, I let the force pull me through the smoke. Rafael grabbed my arms, yanking me from the building now fully aflame.

  “You okay?” he asked as I handed him the dagger.

  I was coughing too badly to answer. He hurried me to the front gate where Abba was waiting with the Aztek. Reaching over the seat, he tossed me the bottle of Chianti.

  “Drink some,” he said. “It’ll stop your coughing. Otherwise, you’re going to choke to death.”

  Without hesitation, I took his advice, the cheap red wine burning as it went down my throat, and halting my coughing jag. A few blocks from the compound, we heard the explosion and turned to see the smoke and flames licking skyward behind us. Abba kept driving until we were out of the neighborhood and well away from the fire.

  “You don’t sound good. Are you going to make it?” she asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

  “I’ll make it,” I said. “Just skinned knees, a few burns and blisters, and my eyes are burning like holy hell.”

  Finding a convenience store, she wheeled into the gravel and shell parking lot. Rafael hurried into the store, returning with peroxide, Band-Aids, rags and a jug of water to flush my eyes. I was soon feeling better, though I took an extra swig of the Chianti before returning it to Rafael.

  “Were you trying to kill yourself back there?” Abba asked.

  “I decided we needed the dagger,” I said.

  “There was so much flame belching from the building, I thought you were surely dead,” he said. “How in the world did you get out of that inferno?”

  Rafael’s question was one for which I had no answer.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “What were you going to tell us about the dagger?”

  Rafael studied the ornate weapon engraved with undecipherable symbols as he turned it in his hands.

  “It’s a one-of-a-kind weapon. Probably used in specific ceremonies.”

  “So?”

  “I’ve seen knives like this at a shop in the Quarter. Maybe the people there will tell us who made it and where we can find him.”

  “I don’t get it,” Abba said.

  “Someone paid lots of money for the dagger maker’s expertise. I’m sure he knows exactly for whom he made it for,” Rafael said.

  “I still don’t get it,” she said.

  “It’s the killer’s knife,” I said.

  “You intend to confront the killer? If so, what’s to stop that person from killing us as well?” she asked.

  “No ordinary person dispatched Father Fred and his guards, and then released and spirited away the prisoners into thin air. The killer is a witch,” Rafael said. “Not an old hag with a big hat riding a broom, but a real live, honest-to-goodness witch that practices dark magic, and does absolutely nothing without cause or provocation.”

  “Even if she had reason to kill Father Fred, it doesn’t mean she knows anything about where we can find Desire,” Abba said.

  “Maybe not. At this point we have nothing else to go on,” I said. “We have to play this out and see where it leads us, or else pack up and go to the house. Where is this place in the Quarter you’re talking about?”

  “On Bourbon Street.”

  “Great,” I said. “It’s still early by Bourbon Street standards, and it’ll be rocking this time of night.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Rafael said. “Fog is starting to roll in off the river, and it may deter some of the crazies.”

  Abba was already heading toward the Quarter. When a cop car went racing past us, its sirens blasting, she tapped the brakes a little too hard.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Worried,” she said. “When I saw the flashing lights in the mirror, my first thought was they were going to pull us over, rip us out of the car and take us to jail.”

  “Stop worrying. The fire destroyed any evidence we may have left. No matter how good the investigators are, they’ll be years trying to figure out what happened.”

  “Sure about that?” she asked.

  “I used to be a criminal lawyer,” I said. “The police regularly botched cases they had ironclad evidence on. Unless I miss my guess, they’ll likely throw up their hands on this one and then move on to a more pressing case.”

  “Don’t let Tony ever hear you say that,” Rafael said.

  “If it were Tony leading the investigation, then we might have cause for worry,” I said. “Unless he’s gone back to work for the N.O.P.D. He hasn’t, and we have little to worry about.”

  “Wish I was as sure as you are,” Abba said. “I don’t want to spend my next birthday in a prison cell.”

  “You won’t,” I said. “Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “You get drunk in a bar and start bragging about being in the orphanage just before it burned to the ground.”

  “People do that?”

  “Criminals are their own worst enemies.”

  “Is that what we are?” she asked.

  “No, baby. We weren’t the ones that killed those people and then burned the place to the ground,” Rafael said. “We are simply innocent onlookers to an awful act.”

  “Wyatt, is that right?”

  “Like Raf said, we’re as pure as the driven snow. Just lock up what happened at the compound in some recess in your soul and don’t ever tell anyone.”

  “Jeez!” she said. “Any wine left?”

  “Half a bottle, my dear. You’re in luck, and so am I.”

  Rafael unscrewed the cap and handed it to her. Putting it on her shoulder, she drank until red drops dribbled down her long neck.

  “What the hell!” she said. “Now I know how it feels to be a hardened criminal.”

  “No you don’t,” I said with a laugh.

  Fog was rolling in from the river, a tanker’s lights casting eerie moving shadows beyond the levee as we neared the French Quarter. We found a parking spot on a dark side street several blocks from Bourbon. The wine had apparently placated
Abba’s feelings of guilt because she was smiling after parking and locking the car.

  “Hope ol’ Nellie’s still here when we return,” she said.

  “It’s not just the car we have to worry about,” I said. “Let’s hope we don’t get mugged before we make it back.”

  “Have faith,” Rafael said. “God protects children and idiots.”

  “Is that a quote directly from the Bible, Padre?” I asked.

  Rafael had brought along the jug of wine and was well on his way to being fully inebriated. He took a healthy drink from the bottle before answering.

  “If it’s not, it should be.”

  “Amen, Padre. Please pass the wine,” Abba said.

  Fully affected by the cheap red wine, Abba and Rafael were feeling no pain. The swallow I’d taken had given me a slight buzz, and I remembered vividly why I’d become addicted. Since the dose was therapeutic and not for pleasure, I managed to put it behind me and not beg Rafael for another drink.

  Lights appeared in the distance, and we began hearing music and noise emanating from the most famous street on earth long before we reached it. The first people we saw were a group of drunk college students, all with plastic go-cups brimming with their favorite alcoholic beverages.

  “Since our bottle’s not plastic, we better ditch it,” I said. “Don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

  Rafael took one last drink from the bottle and then handed it to Abba. They left it behind a trashcan before we turned onto Bourbon Street.

  “Bet it won’t be there in the morning,” Abba said.

  Rafael agreed. “At least with any wine left in it.”

  “How far is this knife shop from here?” I asked.

  “It’s close. Maybe in this direction,” he said, pointing.

  Mere days before Halloween, Bourbon Street was alive with people in costumes. Though several months yet until Mardi Gras, there was always an excuse for a party in the Big Easy, Halloween one of the biggest.

  Barkers grabbed at our arms as we passed the open doors of the many strip joints. Music wafted from the saloons, mingling with crowd noise out on the sidewalk. Dozens of cheesy teeshirt shops beckoned us to venture inside and partake of their wares. Rafael stopped at a liquor stand on the sidewalk and bought two decorative plastic containers filled with their syrupy interpretation of a Pat O’Brian’s Hurricane.