Tasha hurried off, and Maggie started removing the bandage from Malcolm's nose.
"Earl Warren came by this mornin'. Checks in on me every Sunday. Said you was at his church today."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Isn't that a nice place? Very proud of him."
"It is," he said.
Tasha came back in carrying a huge, plastic first aid kit, nearly the size of a small suitcase, in both hands. A carved, wooden box sat atop it. She pushed the door shut with her foot and set them down on the bed beside Malcolm.
"Thank you, sweetie." Maggie popped open one of the clear side doors and rummaged through the kit. "Earl's got his eye on you. Best be careful with him."
"I will be."
"He can be a strong friend if you make him. But you got a long way to go for that."
"Is he the only one who told you about Bywater?" Malcolm asked.
"Mm-hmm. Said you denied it but don't believe you."
"I wonder who else he's told."
Maggie fished an amber prescription bottle out from the case, its contents scrawled on a strip of masking tape. "He's only gonna tell people he trusts. He won't go blabbin' to everybody. Makes us all look bad." She snapped the lid shut and opened the wood box packed with various charms and pouches. "But…folks are gonna ask me about it. So tell me, Malcolm. What happened last night?"
"Nothing," Malcolm said. "Just went to a bar. Had a disagreement."
The old woman gave him a flat stare. "Don't you lie to me, Malcolm Romero. I know what you do. Ulises shared more than a fair share of his stories in this very room. Now…is that your story? Or is there more to it?"
Malcolm glanced away from Maggie's brown eyes, ashamed. Grandma magic. She was right. She already knew about Hounacier, about the monsters. Life with the Valducans had made him forget that unlike the other weapons, Hounacier was known. Celebrated. Feared.
"No," he said finally. "There's more."
She set a delicate hand on his knee and patted softly. "Tell me about it. What happened?"
#
"Christ, Malcolm." Tasha turned the hatchback into the motel's tiny lot. "This is where you're living?"
"I was in a hurry last night. Needed a place that didn't require ID." Over her shoulder, he eyed a pair of men sitting in a dark blue sedan. Its huge, chromed wheels cost as much as the car if not more.
"Why didn't you call me? You could've stayed at my place or even daddy's. This is a shithole."
"It was late. Besides, I need to be able to come and go."
Tasha brushed a spiral of hair behind her ear. "I have a spare key."
Malcolm shook his head. He watched a girl with a tiny skirt and bad weave lean through the sedan's window. "Thank you, but I've put you in enough danger as is." The girl held up a clear bag, smiled, and pocketed it. She strode back to the building, having just completed one of the least subtle drug deals in history. No one seemed to care. Malcolm let out a sigh and met Tasha's eyes. "I think it would be best if you stayed with your dad at the shop."
"What?"
"At least until I've got this werewolf and find out about those men following me."
She pursed her lips. "I can take care of myself, Mal."
"They saw us together at least once," Malcolm said. "People know about our history. They could go after you to get to me."
Tasha shook her head. "I'm not moving back in with my dad. Period."
"Then do me a favor."
"What?"
"Find a silver knife. Make sure it's the blade and not just the handle, sharpen it, and carry it on you."
"Okay. But you do me a favor."
"Name it," Malcolm said.
"Move out of here."
"Deal." Malcolm leaned across toward her. She moved to meet his lips, but he kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you." He gathered Hounacier's bag and got out of the car.
"You be safe."
"I will." He watched her pull out of the narrow drive before he headed up the peeling metal stairs to the second floor. The pain in his ribs was noticeably less. He wasn't sure how much of that was Maggie's gris-gris now hanging around his neck or the Vicodin she'd given him. The pills rattled in his pocket with every step. Sleep. That's what he needed most. Not that he could. His brain hadn't slowed since he got here.
Near his door, he spotted a folded, yellow piece of paper hanging beside it. He pulled it from the clip and unfolded it.
Mr. Hebb,
There is a package for you at the front counter.
Malcolm looked around, heart thumping. No one seemed to be watching him. Allan and Tasha were the only ones who knew he was here. He'd messaged Allan the alias he'd used this morning. No way could he have sent something this fast.
Paranoia rising, Malcolm made his way down to the front office. The television playing for the empty lobby showed a map of Springfield, highlighting the location of the grisly murders discovered the week before.
A paunchy man with thinning, brown hair sat behind the desk, engrossed in his computer. He looked up as Malcolm approached.
"There's a package for me," Malcolm said, holding up the yellow note. "Room two thirty-four."
The man sighed heavily and fetched a brown cardboard box wrapped in clear tape. "Here you go."
"Thanks," Malcolm said, accepting the package. It was heavier than he'd expected. He turned it over, feeling something big shift inside. "Did you see who brought it?"
The man shrugged, returning to his chair. "Black kid. Fifteen, maybe sixteen."
"Anything else?"
He scratched his cheek with the back of his fingers. "Not really. Had a Saints' hat on."
That narrows it down, he thought sarcastically. "Thanks."
Malcolm headed back to his room, keeping an eye out for anyone watching him. Once inside, he set the box down. There were no markings save "For room 234" written atop it in black, flowing marker script. Female?
Most package bombs detonated when the box was opened. And while the contents did move, which usually wasn't the case, he for damned sure wasn't opening it from the top. He flicked open his knife and carefully poked the blade into the side, rotating it wider to a pencil-sized hole.
Leaning closer, he closed his eyes and sniffed. Newspaper. The acrid stink of tape adhesive. Oil. Malcolm inhaled again, long and deep. Gun oil. He peered through the hole, seeing crumpled paper. He punched another hole on the opposite side, allowing airflow, and sniffed again. Definitely gun oil. Beneath that, powder solvent.
Cautiously, he cut alongside the box, careful not to stab anything inside. He cut a three-inch incision and another, forming an L. Holding his breath, he peeled the cardboard open.
No wires. Just crinkled balls of newsprint. He cut it open further and tentatively reached in. Something hard was wrapped inside. Round and long, like a pipe. There was another beside it. He felt further and paused. No way.
Malcolm pulled the object out and unwrapped it. Ulises' sawed-off. Someone had thoroughly cleaned it. There was a fresh gouge and chip in the wooden forend, likely from when the incubus had kicked it, but it was otherwise fine. He thumbed the latch open. The spent shells were gone.
Puzzled, Malcolm tore the box open the rest of the way, finding a white envelope against the top. The first thing he'd have seen if he'd opened it correctly. "Dr. Malcolm Romero" it read along the top in the same feminine handwriting.
He opened it and removed a single-page letter.
Doctor Romero,
I apologize that my boys startled you last night. They meant no harm. They have cleaned the scene and removed any evidence for you. There is no need for you to worry.
I was a friend to Ulises and was deeply saddened by his death. He spoke very highly of you. My sincerest condolences for your loss.
I would very much like to speak with you about something he and I were working on. Please come to my house tomorrow for lunch, and we can discuss it in person. I look forward to finally meeting you.
Sincerely,
At
abei Cross
Chapter Nine
Malcolm sat outside a crowded cafe, nibbling a toasted sandwich. A trio of young men chatted at the table beside him, framed backpacks slung over the backs of their chairs. The faint breeze wafted their cigarette smoke his direction, bathing him in the stink. He sipped his five-dollar coffee and watched the street.
As he'd expected, Allan hadn't found any suspects on the flaming John Doe NOPD had pulled from the dumpster. Shorty and Cornrows had done their job well. The question was why? Why did Atabei have him followed? Why had they gone to such lengths to protect him?
Allan had also dug into Atabei Cross, the voodoo priestess who didn't tribute the local queen, and someone whom Ulises had been visiting before his death. Thirty-nine years old, she'd emigrated from Haiti two years ago. Unmarried, but considered herself a widow. She owned half a block down in the Ninth Ward, three houses connected by empty lots leveled in the wrath of Hurricane Katrina. She also owned a couple acres down by Saint Bernard, a few miles outside the city. No criminal record. Clean driving record. Paid her bills on time. And, according to their website, the most recent "Volunteer of the Month" at the New Orleans Homeless Shelter.
Nothing in her records seemed terribly unusual, and that meant he didn't trust her. Haitian records were terrible at best. There was no telling what kind of life she had lived before becoming a model citizen.
That morning, in keeping with his promise to Tasha, Malcolm had moved out of his shitty hotel and into a spare bedroom above Alpuente's Antiques. While it might not have been exactly what Tasha had intended, moving in with her wasn't a good idea. She deserved someone who could give her all his heart. It hurt, but it was best.
When asked, Jim had called Atabei a "shifty root worker" who sold love powders and lottery charms. Malcolm thought of the negatively imbued Mardi Gras beads. Jim didn't have anything specifically against her; he just didn't trust her. But he would have said that about anyone who didn't acknowledge Maggie's rulership. Malcolm didn't have such scruples about charm makers. Someone had to do it. He needed to know what type of woman she really was. And the best person to ask was one who bought charms and stayed out of voodoo politics.
A white and blue police car rolled up the street, slowing as it approached. A sudden hush and silent tension rose from the men at the neighboring table when the squad car stopped.
Malcolm rose from the uncomfortable chair, shouldered Hounacier's bag, and downed the last of his coffee. He strolled up, nodding to the bald policeman sitting in the cruiser and circled around to the passenger side.
"Corporal," he said, slipping into the seat. In all the years spent trying to avoid being in a police car, he never thought he'd be in the front seat of one.
"Doctor," Duplessis said. "I hadn't expected to hear from you yet."
"Under promise, over deliver, they say." Malcolm held out a clear, plastic bag containing a small pouch of light green leather with a braided cord. "She should be the first to touch it. Tell her to wear it around her neck, if possible, touching her skin. She can take it off to shower but should keep it on her all the time until after the promotion is finalized."
The officer took the bag, examining the gris-gris inside. "It'll work?"
"I can't make a promise. Free will is always a factor. But I can promise that this is one seriously potent gris-gris. Possibly the best I've ever made. Tell her not to wear any others for the promotion. Loa can get a little touchy if you try to stack too many on."
"All right," Duplessis said with a little smile. "Anything else?"
"That's it as far as the gris-gris. But I do have a couple questions if you don't mind."
The policeman looked up from the bag. "What questions?"
Malcolm scratched his bristled cheek. "I heard they found a body in a dumpster, head cut off. I was wondering if it might be related to Ulises."
Duplessis frowned. "Where did you hear this?"
"Here and there," Malcolm said with a shrug. "Word got around. Got to me."
Duplessis slipped the bag into a little console between the seats. He flipped the little plastic door shut but not before Malcolm spied an etched brass disk inside. A policeman's charm. Paula had sold them for years at her shop.
"Head wasn't cut off," Duplessis said. "Not all the way. They stripped it, burned the body. Still no ID, last I heard. So far, we don't think it's related."
Malcolm nodded. "Okay." The officer's openness likely meant Malcolm wasn't a suspect. "Can you let me know if anything does look similar?"
"If it does."
"Thanks. One more thing," Malcolm said. "Do you know anything about Atabei Cross?"
The officer's brow rose. "Cross? I know her." He paused. "Of her."
"Tell me," Malcolm said.
"Priestess. From Haiti," he added as if it compared to an Ivy League law degree "She makes a lot of charms for folks. Potent. Real popular."
"So why didn't you go to her for your wife's gris-gris?"
Duplessis' lips twitched. "Price."
"What does she charge?"
"Depends. Sometimes a percentage. Like five percent of her raise. Other times, it's just a favor, but you never know what till she asks."
"Five percent? One-time fee?"
The policeman shook his head. "Forever. And if you break it, she'll curse you."
A cold weight settled in Malcolm's stomach. Haitian and African priests often used favors as payment. Many were too poor to pay with money. Most of the time, they were small. Barters or little chores. Other times, they far outweighed anything money could buy. The percent fee might explain where the money for all her properties had come from. "You say she's real popular?"
Duplessis nodded.
"A lot of people owe her favors?"
Nodded again.
"Other policemen?"
"Yeah." There was a warning in his dark eyes.
"You owe her any favors?" Malcolm asked carefully.
"Not me." Duplessis snorted a little grin. "Jim would have my ass if he heard I was dealing with her."
Malcolm chuckled. "Thanks. Good luck to your wife."
Duplessis offered his hand. "Good luck to you too. I hope you find what you're looking for."
#
White and purple-flowered weeds filled the empty trash-strewn lots that once contained the many houses in the Lower Ninth Ward. More and more homes appeared every year, built atop the gravesites of their former selves. Many were contemporary suburban in style, brick or contextually designed, their architects lacking even the most basic understanding of the city's soul. Malcolm followed the sun-faded street, the asphalt crackled like the bottom of a dried creek bed or some artist's giant mosaic. There was no sidewalk.
Wind chimes rustled on a nearby porch as if to signal his passing. A heavyset black man with a deeply receded hairline wearing a t-shirt with its sleeves cut off watched him. Malcolm thought of the guards outside Micelo Tavel's home so many years ago. That had been the last time he'd felt unease visiting a priest's home. Once Ulises had taken him under his wing, he was the one feared. Now, the old, familiar tingles started up the back of his neck.
No. He was a Valducan knight. Protector of Hounacier. No root worker was going to scare him no matter how many favors she was owed.
Malcolm crossed the street. A fence wall encircled the lot, boards overlapped, leaving no gaps to see through. The lack of graffiti on the white-painted wood was striking. The wall wrapped behind a pink little house and continued on. The fence turned alongside the next street. Ahead, a giant red and white house rose above the surrounding neighborhood like some ancient castle overlooking its lands. Elevated on an eight-foot base of vine-coated stone, the first floor stood completely above the walled yard. A pair of broad stairways swept up from street level, culminating at the porch. Six thick, square columns stood along the front, thrusting up through the wide balcony running the width of the home.
Shoulders back, Hounacier's bag where he could reach it, and hiding any sign of bein
g impressed by the imposing home, Malcolm walked up the steps and knocked on the oaken door. Furious barking erupted on the other side. Two dogs at least. Big by the sound of them. Orlovski would have hated this place.
"Down!" shouted a woman's voice.
The dogs silenced.
A bolt snapped, and the door creaked open. Malcolm pretended to scratch his shoulder, his fingers only inches from the open top of Hounacier's bag.
"Doctor Romero," said a tall, lean woman, her hair pulled back tight. There was a smooth shine to her ebon skin, testament to years spent baking beneath a hot sun or working too close to a fire. She had an elegance to her, the sharp lines of her face giving an air of strength rather than hardship. She wore a colorful skirt of some silken material the color of pomegranate and a dark blouse with bell sleeves. Several beaded strands hung from her neck, ending at a white disk, like a piece of polished whalebone. A pair of Rottweilers sat attentively beside her, eyes curious, cautious. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Her accent was the smooth Haitian Creole he hadn't heard in years. She extended a slender hand, rings on three of her fingers. "Atabei Cross."
Malcolm stepped back and extended his palm. "Look." He clicked his tongue, drawing the dogs' eyes as well.
"Of course," Atabei said with a cool smile.
Nothing happened.
"Thank you," Malcolm said, accepting her still extended hand. Rough. Worker's hands.
"Ulises did the same when we first met. Always with that eye." She shook her head regretfully. "Please, come inside. Sogbo and Bade won't bother you."
Malcolm glanced at the two huge dogs named after the loa of wind and lightning. One looked back, still wary. The other seemed more interested in Malcolm's feet. He stepped inside onto a dizzying, multi-colored rug that looked like interlocking rings in four shades of green. Over the scent of dog, the house smelled of fresh jasmine, sage smoke, and old wood. A huge mirror, wrapped in an antiqued gold frame, dominated the side wall, reflecting the crucifixes and straw-maned wooden masks along the other. It reminded him in some ways of the Valducans' chateau back in France. They'd only just moved the new European headquarters to Belgium, but he hadn't visited it yet.
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