Sisters of the Mist

by Eric Wilder

  “I saw you stuff something in your jacket when Jake showed up. What else did you find?”

  Tony produced a leather wallet from his pocket, opened it and showed it to Eddie.

  “A passport and a one-way ticket to Belize.”

  “Let me see,” Eddie said. “You think this means something?”

  “Depends on who Wendell Swanson is. Maybe Jake can tell us.”

  “What else do you expect we’ll get from Jake?” Eddie asked.

  “Like he said, there’s probably not much that happens around the paddock he don’t know about. There are security cameras everywhere you look. My guess is, he don’t want nobody knowing he’s talking with insurance investigators. Probably why he wanted to meet us here.”

  “Fine by me, though it seems like a lot to go through in exchange for a cold beer,” Eddie said.

  Tony held up a crisp hundred dollar bill. “It’s gonna cost us at least this much, and maybe more for whatever he tells us.”

  “He didn’t seem like that type of person to me,” Eddie said.

  “Don’t think so? I’m betting this ain’t Jake’s first rodeo, and that he realizes the value of information.”

  “And isn’t afraid of Frankie or the Mexican cartel?”

  “Not too scared to score an extra hundred here, there, and yonder,” Tony said. “Even if what he has to tell us turns out to be a dud, at least we get a cold beer, or two.”

  “Amen, brother,” Eddie said. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Jake Kratchit came through the front door as Tony and Eddie were touching glasses. Big Sam stopped his puttering long enough to pour the stable superintendent a tall one.

  “Let’s sit in back,” he said. “Big Sam’s an old gossip and what I’m gonna tell you don’t need to go no further than just us three.”

  “Right behind you,” Tony said.

  Tony and Eddie followed Jake Kratchit to a table in the back of the dark bar. The old wood floor had apparently spent time underwater because it creaked as they walked across it. The floor, along with the walls that desperately needed a fresh coat of paint, also had an under smell of mold. Eddie hoped it didn’t launch him into a sneezing fit. Jake downed half his beer before breathing a word. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he banged the glass on the table.

  “Damn, that’s good,” he said.

  “I told Big Sam to keep ’em coming,” Tony said. He handed Jake the hundred dollar bill. “For your trouble. I know information don’t come cheap.”

  Jake grinned, took the bill and stashed it in the pocket of his well-worn Western shirt.

  “You coulda had me for twenty. Don’t matter none cause I ain’t giving it back.”

  “And I don’t want you to,” Tony said. “Tell us a few things we don’t already know, and there’s another Bennie in it for you.”

  Jake grinned again. “Then if I don’t know it, I’ll make something up. What would you like to hear?”

  “You can start by telling us something about the jockey and trainer that were murdered.”

  “You sure you ain’t cops?”

  “Do we look like cops?” Tony asked.

  “Not really. Eddie’s hair is a little too long. Private dicks, maybe.”

  Big Sam showed up with a tray of beers before Tony had a chance to reply to Jake’s comment. Jake didn’t seem to need an answer as he took a big drink from his glass.

  Big Sam showed Tony a thumbs up when he said, “Better bring Jake another. He’s getting ahead of Eddie and me.”

  Jake finished his brew. “Thanks,” he said. “I needed that. It’s been one hell of a meet, with the murders and all.”

  “Tell us about it.”

  “Like I said, I didn’t have much time to find Mr. Castellano a stall. Don’t matter none, cause he ain’t a person you want to say no to.”

  “That’s a fact,” Tony said. “Did you know the trainer and jockey?”

  Jake smoothed his handlebar mustache with a pair of dirty fingers. “I knew Wendell Swanson, the trainer. Don’t know much about the jockey.”

  Tony gave Eddie a glance at the mention of the trainer’s name. “What’s the deal with Swanson?”

  “Mr. Castellano don’t usually race quarter horses, and he didn’t have no quarter horse trainer. Swanson’s been out of work for several years. An agent got him the gig with Mr. Castellano because he was the only trainer he could get on such short notice.”

  “Why has he been out of work?”

  “Little problem he had while racing in New Mexico.”

  “Oh? Tell us about it.”

  “Racing officials are a mite more picky in New Mexico than they are here in Louisiana. They suspended Swanson for using a belly bomb on one of his horses.”

  “Belly bomb?” Eddie said. “What the hell is a belly bomb?”

  “You boys don’t hang around the track much, do you?” Jake asked.

  “Apparently not,” Tony said. “Tell us about it.”

  “Most trainers cheat, and they do it using PEDs, performance-enhancing drugs. Trainers aren’t supposed to administer any drug to a horse twenty-four hours before a race. All except Lasix, that is, the anti-bleeding drug. Don’t matter, though, cause all the trainers dope their horses anyways.”

  “Who is supposed to regulate such things?” Eddie asked.

  “State racing boards.”

  “And they’re not doing their job?” Eddie said.

  Jake snorted, and then took a drink of the fresh beer Big Sam had brought him.

  “Why hell no! If PEDs were as prevalent among human athletes as they are horses, you’d see all sorts of records broken. The regulators just look the other way.”

  “These PEDs make that much of a difference?” Eddie asked.

  “So many races are won by a head, or a nose, any little edge can make a big difference in the outcome of the race. You might not see it so much in lower class races. When it comes to big stakes, it’s out of control.”

  “You have to be kidding,” Eddie said. “Even the Kentucky Derby?”

  “You know what the purse was for the winner of the last Derby?”

  “Tell us,” Eddie said.

  “Almost a million and a half bucks. You think people won’t kill for that kind of money?”

  “And you say everyone in the stable area knows it?” Eddie asked.

  “Most all jockeys use buzzers. Their trainers know they’re using them. Hell, one top trainer has killed seven horses experimenting with different performance enhancing drugs.”

  “How does he get away with it?” Eddie asked.

  “He’s rich enough to hire as many lawyers as he needs. Accuse him, and he takes you to court and rakes you through the coals.”

  Tony sipped his beer. “Hard for me to believe that everyone cheats.”

  “If they want to win, they do. It ain’t cheating if they don’t get caught.”

  “What’s this belly bomb thing?” Tony asked.

  “Sometimes the trainer don’t want his horse to win. He’ll give his animal a big pill a few hours before the start of a race. When it dissolves, it gives the horse a giant stomach ache. If a horse ain’t feeling a hundred percent, it won’t run a hundred percent.”

  “Damn!” Tony said.

  “Damn is right,” Jake said. “And a belly bomb is almost impossible to detect, or prove.”

  “Why would a trainer want his horse to lose?” Eddie asked.

  “All sorts of ways to make a buck when you’re a cheater. If the horse was the clear favorite and all the bettors expect him to win, they bet accordingly. It really shakes up the odds if he don’t, and a longshot wins. Even better if two longshots come in first and second.”

  “That happen often?” Tony asked.

  “Often enough. All the trainers know each other. When they think they need a new truck or down payment on a house, they collude with a buddy to make it happen.”

  “And organized crime?” Eddie said.

  “In on it
big time, and don’t miss a trick. They just don’t like it when they don’t know what the outcome will be.”

  “How do professional gamblers make a living if there’s so much cheating going on?” Eddie asked.

  “They’re like you; they buy information. If the money’s right, there’s always someone in the paddock that’ll tell you what’s about to go down.”

  Eddie drained his beer and motioned Big Sam for another round.

  “If what you say is true and there’s so much cheating going on, why hasn’t somebody done something?”

  “It’s a dirty little secret that almost everyone in the racing business knows about. Who cares if somebody gets drunk and talks? The average Joe on the street either don’t believe it or else don’t give a shit. Kinda like those aliens in New Mexico.”

  “Speaking of New Mexico, why exactly did Wendall Swanson lose his job if regulation is so lax?” Tony asked.

  “He was using a belly bomb to rig the outcome of a race. The problem is, the horse’s owner was betting big for a win. When his horse finished dead last, he fired Wendall, and then turned him into the racing commission.”

  “Who was the owner?”

  “Angus Anderson. He had Wendall banned from training for two years.”

  Tony gave Eddie another glance. “Anderson has that kind of power?”

  “You shitting me? Mr. Anderson don’t like to lose. Lucky for Wendall he just got him banned and didn’t kill him.”

  Eddie thought it wise to not reveal their interest in Anderson.

  “How did Wendall support himself during his absence from racing?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “He knew the ropes and all the tricks. Became a handicapper. Not many days passed he wasn’t either at the track or at an off-track betting facility. He liked to make exotic bets. He had a little system he thought gave him an edge, and he especially liked betting trifectas. You know what that is?”

  “Picking the order of the first three horses,” Tony said.

  “Right,” Jake said.

  “What about the jockey?” Eddie said.

  “Country boy from Oklahoma. Heard he was an up and comer. He’d won a few races up at the track in Sallisaw. Good looking young fellow named Kenny Smith. I met his widow when she came down to claim the body. Want to see her picture?”

  Jake pulled up a photo on his cell phone and handed it to Eddie. It showed several men loading a casket into the back of an old Ford pickup. The young woman holding an infant was crying. Jake showed them a closeup.

  “She’s stunning,” Eddie said.

  “Pretty enough to be a movie star,” Jake said. “Dirt poor, though. Boys around the track donated as much as we could to help her with the burial and all. The baby was only a year or so old.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Jessica.”

  “What happened to her?” Eddie asked.

  “Guess she went back to Sallisaw.”

  When Jake finished the last of his beer, Tony gave him another hundred dollar bill.

  “Thanks for the info.”

  The track manager nodded, slapped Tony on the shoulder and started for the door.

  “See you boys around,” he said.

  Eddie waited until they were alone, then asked, “What do you make of his story?”

  “Don’t know,” Tony said as Big Sam delivered yet another round of beer.

  Tony handed him a hundred and asked for the tab. Big Sam was turning to leave when Eddie called to him.

  “Wait a minute, Big Sam. Did you know Wendell Swanson?”

  Big Sam’s expression never changed. “You blind? Can’t you see my pictures behind the bar?”

  It was impossible to miss the mostly black and white racing pictures not just behind the bar, but on practically every wall. Most of them were of a particular triumphant jockey taken in the winner’s circle.

  “Couldn’t miss them,” Eddie said. “Is that you in the pictures?”

  “I was one of the highest winning jockeys until I fell and broke my back. I know all the track rats, including Wendall Swanson. He was in here the night someone shot him to death.”

  “Did you tell this to the police?” Tony asked.

  “Course I did.”

  “Was he drinking alone?”

  “He was drinking. He weren’t alone.”

  “You know the person he was with?” Eddie asked.

  “Don’t know his name though I seen him in here before.”

  Tony glanced at Eddie to see if he was paying attention. Eddie was literally sitting on the edge of his chair.

  “What’d he look like?” Eddie asked.

  “Big Mexican dude with skull and crossbones tattooed on his knuckles.”

  “Thanks, Big Sam. Keep the change.”

  Big Sam nodded, and then sauntered away, returning to whatever he’d been doing behind the bar.

  “Damn!” Eddie said. “You think the cops picked up on that little tidbit of information?”

  “If somebody ain’t paid them off to forget about it,” Tony said.

  “Let me see that passport,” Eddie said.

  Eddie thumbed the document and ticket in the plastic flap. Tony watched him as his dark eyes narrowed.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “There’s something else in here other than just the plane ticket and passport.”

  Chapter 19

  The room had gone deathly quiet. When Slick whined and wagged his tail, breaking the tension, Rory gave his head a rub.

  “What now?” Rafael asked.

  “Visit the Honey Island Swamp,” I said. “See if the witch will allow us to find her.”

  Rory grabbed the bottle of Southern Comfort, topping up everyone’s glass. The reggae music had ceased, replaced by Wagner’s Symphony in C major. The heroic music and dim lighting somehow fit the mood it seemed we’d all attained.

  Rory’s brogue had grown thicker when he stared straight at me and said, “You are risking your very life to enter the swamp to seek counsel from a very dangerous sorceress. This woman you are looking for must be very important to you.”

  “More than I’ve cared to admit, even to myself.”

  “How long has she been gone?” he asked.

  “Two years. When her twin sister committed suicide, Desire vowed to become a nun and live the rest of her life cloistered in a nunnery.”

  “Sounds like Guinevere. Does that make you Lancelot or Arthur?”

  “More like Sancho Panza,” I said.

  Rory wasn’t finished with his twenty questions. His next query caused me even more anxiety. The candle on the coffee table was melting, wax beginning to clump on the unpolished wood.

  “How did Desire’s sister die?” he asked.

  I gazed at the flickering flame a long moment before answering.

  “She jumped off the Crescent City Connection, into the Mississippi River. I tried to grab her wrist. She touched my hand, our eyes locked as she plummeted to her death.”

  Suddenly overcome by memories, emotion, and music, a sob rose up my throat and burst from my lips. I tried to catch my breath. My tears kept flowing. Cyn and Abba rushed to my side, each clinging to an arm. Rafael kneeled in front of me and began praying.

  “I’m so sorry,” I finally managed to say. “I’ve never told that story to anyone before now.”

  “It’s all right,” Abba said, embracing me. “You’ve kept it inside too long. It was time to let it out.”

  She handed me a crumpled napkin. I used it to wipe my nose, the salty tears burning my eyes. It wasn’t the only thing I needed at that moment.

  “Mind if I have a shot of whiskey?” I said.

  “Wyatt, don’t do it,” Rafael said. “I beg you.”

  Rory poured a shot of Southern Comfort into a glass and handed it to me. I drank it with one swallow. When Rory offered me more, I waved him off.

  “It was all I needed. I’m okay now.”

  “Can you tell me why you suddenly de
cided to look for Desire after two years?”

  “Please, Rory,” Cyn said. “No more questions. Can’t you see how distraught Wyatt is?”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “My story felt like a confession. Guess I’m still a Catholic because it was just what I needed. I even had a priest to hear me out.”

  “Are you sure?” Rory asked.

  I nodded. “A night or so ago I saw an apparition. It was a funeral procession moving slowly beneath the room where I live. Early morning, streetlights were barely a dim glow through the creeping fog. I saw Desire riding alone in a white limousine. I also found this pendant that Desire’s mother swears was buried with Dauphine, Desire’s twin sister.”

  I handed the pendant to Rory, his expression grave as he turned it in his hand.

  “To which convent did Desire go?” he asked.

  “We don’t know. She was very secretive about it, not even telling her mother.”

  “Then how did you get here?”

  “Desire’s mother Junie Bug broke her promise and peeked out the door when two people arrived for her. One was a man named Father Fred. It was his heart that I pulled Exethelon from. The other person was a woman named Sister Gertrude. We have reason to believe she knows the whereabouts of Desire. Sister Gertrude is the only clue we have left, and the sorceress is the only person that can tell us where to find her.”

  Rory cast his gaze at Rafael. “You’re a priest. Can’t you call around and find out where they took Desire?”

  “Believe me, I’ve tried. I spoke with every Catholic convent in south Louisiana. No one I spoke to knew anything about Desire’s whereabouts.”

  “Then maybe she’s no longer in south Louisiana,” Rory said.

  “We have no idea if she’s even still alive, much less the name of the convent or its location. It seems as if there’s but one person left that can tell us for sure,” Rafael said.

  “You’ll need a boat,” Rory said. “The swamp is a maze of bogs, blind chutes, and giant trees some of which have never been cut. There are places in that swamp that are all but impassable. Few men know their way around even with a boat.”

  “I know someone that not only has a boat, he also has a fishing camp located right in the middle of the Honey Island Swamp,” I said.