by Anne Frasier
"I have a cat."
She laughed. "Like I said the other night, you're funny."
"Mr. Funny Man—that's me."
*
"Strata Luna has agreed to meet with me," Elise told David.
"How in the hell did you swing that?"
She slid from the barstool. "Mutual connection."
They stepped outside. David paused in the sunlight, the full impact of her words sinking in. "You said me, not us."
"She'll only meet with me if I come by myself. That was her stipulation."
"Depending on the location, we should be able to make it look like you're by yourself."
"Strata Luna isn't a threat. I'm going alone. It won't be a problem."
Not a good idea. Not a good idea at all. "You're talking about a woman who ate her mother's heart."
"Folklore."
"Folklore you presented as fact. Will you at least tell me where this meeting is going to take place?"
"Can't."
He stared at her for a long moment. Straight shimmering hair. Like a sleek black cat. "I thought you were smarter than that," he said.
The door swung open behind them. Flora.
"You might want these." She held out their unfinished drinks, which she'd poured into transparent take-out containers.
While she smiled wickedly up at him, David accepted his cup, topped off, complete with straw and lid.
"Did you see the way she looked at you when she served us our tea?" Eiise asked once Flora was back inside. "She's smitten."
"Smitten? Don't you have to be over ninety to use that word?" Wow. Elise has the weirdest eyes....
He'd noticed them before, but in the intense sunlight he could see metallic flecks and lines in about a million colors.
In her lady-of-the-manor Southern best, she said, "Are you making fun of me?"
There were occasions when Elise had very little accent. At other times, like now, she could sound as Southern as a Georgia peach. The accent seemed to be a tool she pulled out from time to time for effect.
His mother and sister would adore her. Which was why they must never meet. They would feel it was their matchmaking duty to push them together, since they considered it their duty to find him a mate. They would also want to tell Elise about David's past. He didn't want anybody to know. If no one knew, it might make it less real.
*
"She said she was Jackson Sweet's daughter," Strata Luna said.
Flora and Strata Luna stood in the third-story window of Black Tupelo, watching the two detectives as they walked down the cobblestone alley.
"Jackson Sweet?" Flora asked. "The conjurer?"
"Jackson was more than that."
The older woman smelled of secrets, of pungent herbs and rich, loamy soil. The scent saturated her hair. Her clothes. It seeped from her pores.
Flora wasn't interested in Jackson Sweet or the female detective.
She watched until the pair rounded the corner. "He's the guy I was telling you about."
"You like him." A statement.
"I do."
"But he's a policeman."
"So?"
"Police don't fall for people like us, silly child."
Flora continued to stare in the direction David Gould had gone. "He could love me," she said softly. "Jesus fell in love with a prostitute."
"Jesus this, and Jesus that," Strata Luna chided. "Everybody's always talkin' about Jesus. A strong woman doesn’t need a man other than for opening jars and having sex."
"Haven't you ever been in love?"
"I'm not even sure what love is, sugar. Man-woman love, anyway."
"What about Enrique?"
The older woman laughed her deep, rich laugh. "Enrique is a sweet, gorgeous child, but he ain’t my equal, honey."
Strata Luna picked up a brush from the dresser, the slight movement causing her black gown to rustle. She pulled the brush through Flora's hair. Flora sighed and closed her eyes.
"There was this one man ...," Strata Luna began with a secret smile in her voice. "But I was too much woman for him." She clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Too much woman."
"Someone I know?" Flora felt herself relaxing.
"Before your time."
The room was cool, but Flora could feel the muggy heat of Savannah radiating through the window glass near her face as the rhythmic movement of the brush continued to soothe her.
"If you're serious about this man," Strata Luna said, "I can help."
"I'm serious."
"Then we'll gather ingredients for a spell. How'd that be?" Strata Luna put down the brush and raked her nails along Flora's scalp. "A love-me-or-die spell."
Chapter 14
"What'11 it be next?" Gould asked as the light turned green and Elise eased the unmarked police car through the intersection. "A flight to Roswell, New Mexico, to check out the aliens?"
Elise was getting tired of having to constantly defend and explain local culture to her partner. "You have to be more open-minded if you're going to live around here."
"I just think we could focus in a more ... practical direction." Gould fiddled with the radio, getting nothing but static. "Damn," he said, shutting it off. "Why do we always end up with the car with no tunes? And today of all days?"
"Because somebody else always beats us to the only car with a decent radio. And anyway, I don't think the police department considers music a priority."
Before heading out of town, she stopped at Parker's Market, a combination gas station and deli, where they picked up sandwiches.
"I'll drive," Gould offered as they returned to the car.
"That's okay," Elise said. "I know the road."
He shrugged. "Suit yourself."
"So what's the deal with this village we're going to?" Gould asked once they were on their way. "Want my pickle?"
She shook her head. "Chips?"
He accepted the offer.
"There's a rumor about a young man living there who's said to have shown up at his home eight months after his burial," she told him.
"Ah. A rumor. I love rumors," he said in a voice that went along with the rolling of eyes.
"Never discredit rumors."
"Not around here, right?"
Was he being a smart-ass? With Gould, it was often impossible to tell.
"The village we're visiting considers itself a sovereign state," she explained. "It's self-supporting. They have a king. They even have a Web site. And lucky for us, they welcome tourists."
They finished eating.
Gould balled up the wrappers and stuck everything into a brown paper bag. When the conversation lulled, he tried the radio again, apparently hoping for better reception now that they were out of the city. It was worse. He sighed, shut it off, and leaned back in the seat to enjoy the view.
After several turns and dead ends, they finally came to a sign that read: YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE UNITED STATES AND ENTERING THE YORUBA KINGDOM, BUILT BY THE PRIESTS OF THE ORISKA VOODOO CULT.
Gould stared at the sign. "This is just weird as hell," he said with a combination of hushed awe and annoyance.
They passed a shack that marked the entrance to the village. Barefoot, dark-skinned children ran across dirt-packed streets. Old men sat in chairs under the shade of corrugated steel porch roofs, watching the day go by.
People were friendly, and it didn't take Elise and Gould long to get directions to the shanty they were interested in. Like all of the others, it looked unable to withstand a stiff breeze.
The sound of the car announced their arrival, and a man and a woman came out to greet them.
"For six days, he was in a cold morgue," the black islander told them from under the brim of his tattered, sweat-stained straw hat. "Then we buried him. Eight months later, he comes shuffling home. Like that—"
He pointed to a young man of about seventeen sitting outside his parents' house. His feet were bare and dust-covered, his hair was matted, and his shoulder bones protruded sharp
ly under the thin fabric of his T-shirt.
"He can't even feed or wash hisself," the mother said, not with sorrow but acceptance. "And our friends—they don't come round here no more. Because of Angel. Say he's cursed. Say he's evil."
"Do you mind if we talk to him?" Gould asked.
"Won't do no good. Can't talk. I don't think he even knows who we are. He just came back here from habit. . . . See how he holds his head like that? All bent?"
"Zombie posture," Elise said.
The mother nodded. "Can't lift it no further. Not even to eat. But he's a good boy. If I tell him to go in the house, he goes in the house. If I tell him to go to bed, he goes to bed. He's a good boy. Nobody would ever have reason to hurt him."
"Any idea who could have done this to him? And why?" Elise asked.
A look of fear passed between the man and wife. She and Gould were outsiders, and Angel's parents were afraid of angering whoever had done such a terrible thing to their son. If they had an idea, they weren't eager to divulge it.
The detectives attempted a brief conversation with the emaciated young man, but nothing they said brought about any kind of response. He was a shell with nothing inside.
"They seem especially adamant about their son being a good boy," Gould said to Elise while the parents stood out of earshot.
"Are you thinking that perhaps he hadn't been such a good boy before?"
"Exactly."
"Vodun society has its own methods of dealing with criminals," Elise said. "Turning someone into a mindless puppet is an effective way to harness them."
"No jails. No expense to anyone but the family."
"What could he have done that was bad enough to deserve such a life sentence?"
Gould reached inside his jacket. "Maybe we can find out."
He approached the couple again. "Does your son happen to have one of these anywhere on his body?" he asked, presenting the parents with the body art photo.
The parents looked at each other, then back to Gould. "You must go now." It was obvious that they recognized the emblem. And that they were afraid.
"Does your son have this mark on him?" Gould persisted.
"Go!" The old man got to his feet and pointed toward their car. Elise began moving away. Gould followed.
"It's possible that Angel was a prostitute at Black Tupelo," Gould said as he and Elise made their way through loose sand to the car.
"The parents were too effusive about their son's innocence," Elise agreed. "If that's the case, then we have three prostitutes."
"Two of them dead, one a vegetable."
"One may have died of an unconnected heroin overdose."
"It's also possible Angel is being punished by his own society. Could also be an unconnected coincidence."
At the car, Elise paused with her hand on the door handle and looked at Gould. "And then we have Mr. Harrison. Where does he fit in?"
"He doesn't. I'm not saying there isn't a connection. I'm just saying he doesn't fit."
"The victimology is all over the place."
"Which takes us back to the possibility of unrelated crimes," Gould said.
"Could Harrison have been an accident?" Elise added. "Did he get poison meant for someone else?"
"For the moment, let's say they are connected. Then we have to ask ourselves what the killer was trying to accomplish by stepping outside his MO. It could be one of several things: The perpetrator could be doing it for attention. He could also be doing it to confuse us. Or he could be escalating."
Inside the car, Gould removed the plastic lid from his drink. "Here's another angle." He shook the cup, ice rattling. "Remember how Jeffrey Dahmer drilled holes in the skulls of his victims while they were still alive?"
"Oh, yeah." How could Elise have forgotten such a horror? But now that Gould had brought it up, memories of what she'd read about the case came back. "Then he shot them full of battery acid. Yikes."
"In an attempt to create zombies," Gould said around a mouthful of ice.
Of course. "Is that what's going on? Is somebody trying to create mindless playthings? Is this all about absolute control?"
Elise's phone rang.
John Casper.
"I checked out every prostitute we've had through the morgue in the past two years," he told her. "Guess how many came up?"
"I'd think the norm would be around one or two a year," Elise said.
"We've had twelve in two years."
"Wow."
Gould perked up, listening intently to Elise's side of the conversation.
The figure Casper had given her was hard to absorb. And even more astounding was that no one had noticed. "Causes of death?" Elise asked.
"All drug related. And we're talking street drugs like heroin. Cocaine."
"At least that's what it says on the death certificate. Which is why nobody looked into the deaths," Elise guessed.
"Exactly," Casper said.
She adjusted the air conditioner while the car idled. "What about exhuming some of the bodies?"
"That's where we run into a problem. Most of them were cremated."
"Makes sense," Elise said. "It's the cheapest way to go."
"Especially when the state's picking up the tab," Casper added. "A lot of these kids were probably runaways, with no family, no money."
"Perfect targets no one would miss. I'm wondering how long this would have gone unnoticed if Harrison hadn't been poisoned," Elise said. "But what about the bodies that weren't cremated?"
She heard keys clicking. "Three of them were shipped back to their families in different parts of the country. Another one went to Charleston." More clicking. "Here it is. One guy, named Gary Turello, is buried in Savannah's Laurel Grove Cemetery. We have all of his identifiable scars and tattoos on file. Just give me a second while I look it up...."
More clicking followed by silence.
"Let me guess," Elise said. "Black Tupelo."
"Yep." That one syllable held tremendous satisfaction.
She looked at Gould, whose eyebrows were raised in question. She nodded.
"If we get him exhumed, what are our chances of finding tetrodotoxin at this point?" Elise asked.
"You can encounter a lot of problems when trying to analyze samples obtained from embalmed bodies," Casper said. "It makes a difference how much embalming fluid the funeral director used, and whether or not the casket leaked. I've seen organs that had to have the water literally wrung out of them."
"Thanks for that visual."
"You're welcome. Turello was buried a year and a half ago, but I'd say it's definitely worth a shot."
"Is there any way to rush this through the approval process?" Elise asked.
"I'll put in a call to the state medical examiner at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation in Decatur," Casper told her. "She's the one who'll have to sign off on it, but considering the gravity of the situation, that shouldn't be a problem."
"How long will it take?"
"I'm guessing one or two days. Sometimes we run into people who don't want their loved one disturbed. That's understandable. If that happens, then we have to petition the court for disinterment, which could take a whole lot longer."
"Let's just hope the family complies," Elise said. She thanked him and disconnected.
*
In her room above Black Tupelo, Flora assembled the items Strata Luna had told her she would need for a love-drawing spell: High John the Conqueror root and goofer dust, along with a piece of brown paper torn from a bag. Waterproof red and black pens, a new spool of red thread, a small red flannel bag, and a sharp knife.
From the other side of the wall, in the room adjacent to hers, came sounds of sex.
Hushed voices. Laughter. The frantic squeaking of a mattress.
Flora should be working too, but she had more important things to do.
On the brown paper, she wrote the name David Gould seven times in black ink. She rotated the paper a quarter of a turn and printed LOVE ME OR DIE over
his name seven times in red ink.
She immersed the name paper in a bowl of her own urine, then wrapped and shaped the soaked paper around the root. That was followed by the goofer dust and red thread.
She wound it round and round until the paper was entirely covered, then tied it off with several large knots, leaving a length of thread for hanging.
Strata Luna had told her the secret was to store the root in the red flannel and keep it wet with urine.
With her finger wedged between two knots, Flora swung the covered root back and forth.
"David Gould, love me or die. David Gould, love me or die."
Chapter 15
Strata Luna had agreed to meet Elise at four in the afternoon in a small cemetery near a church on St. Helena Island, a place that was steeped in Gullah heritage. It was also where Jackson Sweet was supposed to have been born.
Elise followed a crude map that had shown up at her home in a manila envelope sealed with the Black Tupelo design. The church ended up being a two-story clapboard structure blasted gray by wind and sand.
A long black car with Georgia plates was parked not far from the building, its front bumper a few inches from a fence tangled with heavy vine. Elise swung her car around and backed up, keeping a good fifty feet between the two vehicles. She looked over her left shoulder to see her buddy Enrique behind the wheel. He smiled and pointed in the direction of the church, drew an imaginary circle, then walked his fingers in the air.
She nodded, shut off the car, and stepped out, feeling beneath her jacket for the outline of her SIG Sauer. She checked her pocket to make sure her cell phone was handy.
The sand was loose under her feet as she made her way around the church.
Had she herself been born on just such an island? she wondered. Maybe even this island?
It was tough not knowing where she'd come from, tougher yet when Audrey asked questions about her past that Elise couldn't answer. Unlike Thomas and Vivian, who had a history they could share.
Windows in the church were broken. The front door hung by a hinge. Sweet grass grew from the foundation, and live oaks, with their black curtains of moss, cast long shadows. A strong ocean wind blew without pause.