When morning broke, Delbert agreed to ferry the both of us through the swamps and back to the landing at the Little Woods marina before returning for some of the other visitors. The other swamp man was on his way, he said, to help transport the remaining voodoo followers, including Belle Sabatier.
On the way back, there was little talking. Watching a few cranes winging over the water. Spotting splashes that made me think alligators were close. As soon as we reached cell phone service, I would have to call our hotel and, once again, extend our stay, and the same went for the car rental. Since being retained by Morgan Canterelle, I had an envelope full of cash, so that would help.
After Delbert Baldou docked the boat at the edge of the water and loaded us into his pickup truck, he suddenly became talkative, as if on cue.
“I seen y’all talkin’ to Miss Belle. The Sa-ba-tier daughter.”
I nodded.
“Y’all know dat her momma, Minerva, the voodoo gal, she done got poisoned.”
It caught me off guard. Then I said, “No, it was an allergic reaction. Food allergy. Maybe allergic to peanuts or something.”
“Dat’s what dey wanted y’all to tink, sho’,” Baldou said. “But I know better. She done got soup for dinner. When she dead, the FBI done a test. Found peanut oil fo’ sho’ in her body. But dat don’t kill her. Got poisoned by black-magic beans.”
Heather was in the backseat of the truck, and she leaned forward, hanging over the console at that point.
“Where’d you hear that?” I asked.
Baldou shrugged. “Got all kinds o’ in-fo’mation round here.”
“You get this from Attorney Canterelle? Or a private investigator named Turk Kavagian?”
Baldou shook his head. “Not from any lawyer. And not from a pri-vate eye.”
When we pulled up to the marina where my rental was waiting for us, Baldou parked, quickly got out, and opened the door so we could exit. He waved to us as he jumped back behind the wheel of his truck and shouted out the window, “Y’all have a good day now.”
On our ride back to the hotel, Heather commented on my new rental—a Mustang. I told her about my stolen rental and getting a replacement.
She said, “Things are getting weirder.”
“You mean the stolen car?”
“Not just that. What Delbert said. Poisoned,” she said, repeating the word. “Black-magic beans and all that.”
“Yeah, that was news to me too,” I said. I grabbed my cell, called the hotel and extended our room stay, and dialed Morgan Canterelle, who was in his office. I put him on speaker. “Morgan, what do you know about Minerva Sabatier being poisoned?”
Silence on the other end. Then, “Well, sir, I do know that she died from the rich soup concoction she ate that evening. Some kind of peanut soup. Her personal chef didn’t know about her allergy. Nor anyone else, I gather.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Another silence. After a few seconds Canterelle said, “There was an investigation. And it found something else in her system besides the peanut oil from the soup.”
“Like?”
“Some kind of toxic plant. A bean, found somewhere in Africa. I do not recall the name of it. But it is highly poisonous.”
“What did her private chef have to say about this?”
“Not a word. He vanished.”
I asked, “How do you know all this?”
“Can’t tell y’all. Attorney-client confidentiality, my friend.”
“Who’s your client in that matter?”
“That also is con-fi-dential.”
I pushed back. “I can’t help you if you tie my hands.”
“If I think it’s essential to advise y’all,” Canterelle said, “I’ll obtain the appropriate client waiver.”
I had to get Canterelle on record on at least one point. “Then answer this,” I said. “Did you ever tell Delbert Baldou any of this business about the poisoning?”
An instant denial. “No, sir. I surely did not,” he said.
I was drawing a blank on what this new revelation meant. As Heather said, things were getting weirder.
After hanging up, I noticed that Heather had just done a Google search on my iPad, and she was grinning. “Okay. About those ‘black-magic beans’ that Delbert Baldou mentioned. The botanical name is Physostigma venenosum. Common name: the Calabar bean,” she said. “Just as Canterelle said, derivation is from West Africa. Sometimes used in—get this—voodoo ceremonies. In sufficient strength, it causes paralysis and even death.”
Heather capped it off with “Booyah.” If she had a microphone, she would have dropped it.
“Hey,” I shot back, “this is not a game. This is deadly serious.”
The wry grin on her face told me she wasn’t buying the risk. Not yet.
“I happened to notice that in your phone call to the hotel, you extended both of our room stays.”
Yeah, she had caught that.
“I’m taking this one day at a time,” I said. “But the minute I think there’s any personal danger to you, I will order you straight out of New Orleans. Is that clear?”
She grinned again. “Understood, Czar Trevor.”
25
Our hotel was coming into sight when my cell phone lit up with a No ID call. At that moment, I had the visceral sense, the hair-raising-on-my-forearm kind of sense, that it would be important. I pulled into the hotel parking lot, found a spot, and took the call. When I picked it up, I put it on speakerphone so Heather could hear it too. If my daughter was going to work this case with me, I needed to loop her in.
The voice at the other end jolted me back against the headrest. It was a deep, metallic, basso profundo voice—the kind you would expect in a dark opera starring monster robots or Darth Vader.
I recognized the ultra-low digital tonality. The caller was using an electronic voice distorter. Like the person who had called Dick Valentine at the beginning of this creepy case.
“Trevor Black?” the caller asked.
“Yes,” I responded.
“Good. You’ve got me on speaker. Now you both can listen.”
Lucky guess? I wondered . . . but no, nobody’s that lucky. The caller knew that Heather was with me. I waited for more.
“Two federal prosecutors are dead. Children are disappearing. Lives destroyed. Get moving on this.”
Time to bring the caller out of the shadows. “Give me a reason why I should?”
“Get serious. This is your thing. You live to expose this kind of terror. Voodoo. Exploitation of young, defenseless girls. Murder. That’s why I pulled you in.”
“Where do I go from here?”
“Think Batman and Gotham City. Except the Jester is not out in the streets. He’s on the inside, running things.”
“How inside?” I asked.
“Touchy question. You find it out. You’re on the outside looking in, so that’s good. But time’s wasting. Just be careful who you trust.”
Sudden silence. The call went dead.
Heather was agape and staring at my cell.
I asked, “Are you sure you’re ready for this kind of ‘field experience’?”
My daughter nodded but looked shaken and had to take a second before asserting, “I’m ready.” Then she added with a bit more certainty, “Yes, I’m ready for this. But please,” she said, pointing to my cell, “tell me what just happened.”
“Okay, now we know some things. First, the caller with the voice distorter knows you’re with me. And knew something about me and also wanted me on this case. And must be the same person who originally called Dick Valentine after AUSA Jason Forester’s death. Believes voodoo is behind this and that it involves child exploitation. The kind of abduction crimes that Morgan Canterelle is handling for some grieving families.”
Then I tossed her a cleanup question. It was meant to be professional courtesy to my new partner. “Did I miss anything?”
“Only one.”
“Which
is?”
“Batman,” she said. “Did you catch it?”
“Which part?”
“The part about the Jester. I saw every Batman movie. That’s not what the character is called. He’s called Joker, not Jester.”
I chewed on that. My partner was impressive.
“Interesting. The fact that the caller said that, it may have been a Freudian slip.”
Heather smirked. “So you believe in Freud?”
I gave that a think. “There’s a Sigmund Freud quote I remember. He said that no one who confronts ‘demons that inhabit the human breast, and seeks to wrestle with them, can expect to come through the struggle unscathed.’ I agree.”
Heather raised an eyebrow. “Sure, but I bet he meant demons metaphorically.”
“Which is where Freud and I part company. Anyway, the bit about the Jester could be important. Do a word search using Jester plus New Orleans and see what you come up with.”
She noticed that I was climbing out of the car. “Where are you going?”
“To the hotel desk. Be right back.”
I fast-walked into the hotel lobby and talked to a desk clerk to confirm the extension of our stay. Yes, she said, our rooms were extended, per my telephone call. “Good,” I said. “Now, please change our rooms to a different floor.”
With Heather joining me, extra precautions had to be taken. I had to keep our whereabouts unpredictable. The clerk churned out two new keys, one for each of us. I asked for doubles. She complied. Heather would have a key to both her room and mine, and so would I.
By the time I climbed back into the car and explained the new room situation and handed Heather the keys, she explained what she had found.
“Okay, there’s a connection between Jester and New Orleans. The Jester was a roller-coaster ride in Six Flags amusement park here in New Orleans. It’s still standing, but the whole place was totally wrecked by the floodwaters of Hurricane Katrina and was closed down.” She added, “So maybe your Freudian slip idea is on the mark. And by the way, there’s a Gotham City section of the theme park.”
A memory flashed. My first telephone conversation with Morgan Canterelle’s law clerk, Kevin Sanders. Something he said. A random comment.
I started the car and wheeled it out of the parking lot.
Heather asked, “Where now?”
“The voodoo museum.”
I called Kevin on the ride over, making sure he was working there that day. He was. He said there was another staffer on duty and tourist traffic was slow, so, yes, he could chat with me. I gunned it over to Bourbon Street, and Heather and I strode into the lobby.
Kevin greeted me and then turned to Heather, whom I introduced. He shook her hand and stood there staring at her. I suddenly realized that Heather was not just my daughter. She was also a woman, looking every bit as attractive as her mother, Marilyn, ever did. I had to refocus Kevin’s attention.
I said, “Tell me about Six Flags. You mentioned something about people who worked there. Do you still have contact with any of them?”
“Yeah. I think so.” He thought on it for a moment. “Sure. One of my classmates has an older brother. He used to work there.”
“Does he know a lot about the park?”
Kevin gave a covert smile and lowered his voice. “The place is closed down. Kids go in there because it’s so spooky-looking. But the cops have been cracking down. More patrols. Even so, Bert—that’s the older brother of Tom, my classmate—he’s like this amateur filmmaker type. I heard he’s still slipping into the park to do this horror movie of his.”
“Call him,” I said.
“Now?”
“Yes. Right now. Tell him I want to find out when his brother Bert is going into the park next, and anything else he knows about Six Flags.”
Kevin shrugged. “Okay. I’ll try.” He took a few steps away and started making some calls.
That gave Heather and me a chance to glance around the museum. The place was covered with cultic statuettes, “magic potions,” herbs, and talismans for sale, along with the typical tourist trinkets like T-shirts and coffee cups sporting a variety of images of skulls and magic symbols. I spotted “spell kits” on the wall, to cast curses against former spouses—like one called “hex your ex.” Heather thought it was strangely amusing. I, on the other hand, had a very different take.
Once upon a time I would have snickered along with her at the seeming old-world, flat-earth stupidity of it all. But not now.
Ever since the spiritual turnabout in my life—and my own battle with the underworld—things were different. I knew that behind the veil, there was a swirling sinkhole populated with forces that were energized by a horrible mission and a ruthless master. The danger of voodoo lay in its portal of entry, even if unintentional, not in any innate power that its ceremonies and potions possessed. Either way, the consequences could be just as devastating.
Kevin trudged back to us, cell phone in his hand. “Okay, Mr. Black, I called my classmate Tom. Bert shares an apartment with him, and he works at a little local film distribution company. What he actually wants to do is either go the indie film route, you know, like the kind of movies they preview at Sundance, or else go to Hollywood someday—”
“Kevin,” I blurted. “Sorry to cut you off, but time’s of the essence. About Six Flags. What can you tell me?”
“Okay, well, Bert told Tom, who just told me on the phone, that he still has to finish shooting his little homemade horror movie at Six Flags, but he knows the schedule of the police patrols so he doesn’t get caught. Anyway, some of the girls he’s using in his movie kind of got scared about going there. . . .”
“Why is that?”
“Because of the rumors.”
“Explain that.”
“It’s about this guy who shows up, hanging around the abandoned Six Flags ruins, wearing a hat and sunglasses. Tries to get girls to come with him. Tells them he’s with a legit movie company and that they’re holding auditions.”
I said, “I’d like to talk with this Bert fellow. Immediately, if possible.”
“That may not be possible, Mr. Black.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he’s on his way to Six Flags right now to finish shooting his film.”
26
When we left the voodoo museum, I could tell Kevin Sanders was troubled. I had asked that he put me in touch with Morgan Canterelle and said it was urgent and that it had to do with the abandoned Six Flags site.
“You aren’t going to get my friends in trouble, are you?” he asked. I promised I would do my best to make sure that didn’t happen. Then I asked him everything he knew about the entrance that Bert and his amateur film crew would use to get into the park. I had Heather take careful notes as he laid it out for me.
I was driving toward the Six Flags site when Canterelle’s call came in. I put it on speakerphone.
“First thing,” I said, “about that abduction of Peggy Tanner. I notice that the police report you supplied me on her case has some information about Six Flags.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Correct.”
“Let me guess. Did Peggy sneak into the abandoned Six Flags theme park before she went missing?”
Silence on the other end. “My oh my, y’all are resourceful. I am certainly getting my money’s worth.”
“And the other girl who was tragically killed and found on Bayou Bon Coeur, same thing with her?”
“Yes, sir, same thing. Both of them happened at the Six Flags park. The other girl who died and was found in the bayou—she disappeared in the theme park when it was open for business.”
“Before Katrina hit?”
“Exactly. Now, to their credit, the police have stepped up security considerably to keep out trespassers, as I believe my law clerk told y’all. All this information is off the record, understand. . . .”
“Understood. But now I need something else from you, Morgan. You said you were friendly with the police. I need to
get into Six Flags immediately. Myself. Without obstruction and without getting cited for trespassing. In fact, I’m on my way over there with my daughter, Heather. Can you tell the patrol officers who I am and that I am working with you? If I find any thrill seekers in that abandoned site, I will get them out of there myself. But I don’t want them arrested or cited. Deal?”
Canterelle had to think about that. Then, with a sardonic chuckle, he said, “Y’all are a man with a lot of demands. But yes, I will make that call.” After a pause he went on. “Do you have a concealed carry permit? I have one myself. Y’all best be armed. . . .”
“No, I’m not carrying a weapon,” I said. “At least nothing physical.”
Heather chuckled and shook her head.
I pulled the car off of Michoud Boulevard and eventually into the mammoth Six Flags parking area—a vast concrete wasteland of tall weeds sprouting from cracks. Beyond that, I could see the ruined theme park landscape that had been wrecked by the unstoppable power of the floodwaters from Hurricane Katrina.
I told Heather, “I need to find Gotham City Hall in the park. The area where Kevin said Bert and his film crew would be shooting.”
She pulled up a map of the site on my iPad. “Okay,” Heather said, “you can find it in the Super Heroes Adventures section.” A smile spread over her face. “So does that make us superheroes as we enter that area?”
“You mean, as I enter that area, not as we enter.”
“You’re shutting me out of this?”
“Absolutely. According to what Kevin Sanders just told us, some character trolls these ruins looking for females. You’re staying in the car. Sorry.”
My cell phone lit up. It was Morgan Canterelle, reporting back that he had talked directly to the police chief and that we had a deal. We should expect a patrol to show up in the next ten minutes.
In the interim, Heather wanted some answers.
“Tell me again, what do you expect to find here?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. But I’m talking to Bert directly. About this guy in the sunglasses and hat who approaches girls who show up here.”
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