by Anne Frasier
"You mean like a crime of passion?" David asked.
"Yes."
"It's a little early for that kind of speculation," Elise said.
"Do you have someone in mind?" David pulled a pen and small notebook from his shirt pocket. "Someone you think could have been capable of such an act?"
The appearance of the notebook seemed to ground Strata Luna. The tears vanished and she pulled herself together. "No."
"When did you first notice Enrique was missing?" Elise asked, steering them back to the traditional questions.
"Three days ago."
"Three days?" David asked in exaggerated surprise.
Elise added her own question. "And you didn't report it to the police?"
"I have little faith in the Savannah Police Department."
"Then what are you doing here?" David asked.
"Enrique is dead!"
"Let's go back," Elise said, hoping to placate her. "You said he was gone for three days. Didn't you think that was strange?"
"He goes away sometimes. But he always returns to me."
"He leaves without telling you?"
Strata Luna tucked the tissue in her pocket, then admitted, "We had a fight."
"What do you mean, fight?" David broke in.
"An argument born of passion."
David caught Elise's eye. Okay. Wasn't expecting that.
"Are you saying Enrique was more than your employee?" Elise asked.
"Yes."
"He was your boyfriend?" Elise asked.
"What a stupid word."
"Okay, how about lover? Was he your lover?"
"I hate that word almost as much. We sometimes had sex." She shrugged. "That's all."
"You lost two children, isn't that right?" David asked slowly, as if contemplating and setting up his next question.
"I told you that before," Strata Luna said.
"And one of those children was found dead in a fountain—isn't that correct?" David continued.
Strata Luna frowned, beginning to appear uneasy and annoyed, her grief pushed aside. "That's right."
"And now your lover is found dead in a fountain. Wouldn't you say that's a rather strange coincidence?"
David didn't trust Strata Luna. Everything about the woman was a flamboyant act, from her black clothes to the veil over her face that gave the staged illusion of hidden, solitary sorrow. A magician's game, meant to distract. You look here while something else happens over there.
Feel sorry for me. I've had such a hard life.
Had she killed her own children?
Maybe. Maybe not. All David knew was that she was a phony.
He knew grief. He understood grief. And you didn't carry it around with you like a fucking look-at-me flag.
Strata Luna stared at him, defiance in her face, tears long gone. Had they been part of her act too?
"I don't think anything is strange," she said coldly. "And there are no coincidences."
Something Flora had said to him. God. The girl had been brainwashed.
"You already admitted to having a fight," David said. "A lovers' quarrel—for lack of a better definition. Are you sure Enrique wasn't leaving you?" Such a thing would have really pissed off a woman like Strata Luna.
"Enrique would never leave me."
What ego. "There's only one way I can think of to be sure of that," David said.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Elise trying to get his attention, trying to get him to cool it. He ignored her.
"Are you saying I killed Enrique?" Strata Luna jumped to her feet, head tossed back, spine straight in indignation.
Acting?
She leaned close and for a minute David thought she was going to hit him. Instead, she swept her hand across his desk, sending papers, pens, files, and coffee flying.
Elise gasped.
"You are such a foolish man." Strata Luna's top lip curled in disgust and loathing. "But then, all men are foolish."
Remaining in his chair, lukewarm coffee soaking into his pants and shirt, David asked, "You don't like men, do you? You didn't really care for Enrique all that much, did you? He was just convenient."
"You should know about convenient."
Ah, Flora. So Strata Luna knew the details of their strange relationship. No surprise there.
Towering over him, the Gullah woman pulled in a deep breath. "Detective David Gould"—her next words were enunciated very clearly—"I curse you."
The keys stopped.
While the stenographer sat there, mouth agape, Strata Luna pulled the veil back down over her face and swept from the room.
After a moment, David reached out and shut off the recorder with a loud click.
*
Sitting behind the wheel of the Lincoln Continental, Flora blew her nose and threw the tissue on the floor. She hadn't wanted to come today, but Strata Luna had needed someone to drive her to the police station. Then she'd made her wait in the car, which was probably for the best because she couldn't quit crying. Every time she thought she was done, she would start all over again. Her head ached from it. Her face hurt. She couldn't breathe through her nose.
She reached up and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror and saw that her face was splotchy and swollen. Even though David had told her to quit coming around, she desperately needed to see him, but not when she looked so awful.
The passenger door flew open and Strata Luna slid inside.
Flora stretched across the seat and began raking in wet, wadded-up tissues.
"Drive," Strata Luna demanded. "Just drive. To Bonaventure. I need to visit my children."
Leaving the tissues, Flora straightened and turned the key in the ignition. "Did you see David?" she asked, pulling away from the curb.
"I saw him," Strata Luna said.
"And?"
"I think it's time you found yourself a new boyfriend."
*
Shortly after Strata Luna stormed out of the building, Elise's phone rang.
"Got some news," Cassandra Vince, the GBI medical examiner, announced. "Using mass spectrometry, we were able to detect trace amounts of tetrodotoxin in Gary Turello's liver."
It was the information they needed to finally link the old deaths with the new ones. It meant someone had been killing people with tetrodotoxin for at least a year and a half.
Chapter 36
Even though David had never had a problem remembering the day his son had been born, most other birthdays and anniversaries eluded him. But that kind of memory lapse was history. He would never forget the day Christian died.
Now, alone in his apartment, he had to admit that subconsciously he'd known the anniversary was coming, even though he hadn't strung the words together in his head. He didn't have it marked on a mental calendar, where he would have crossed out each day as it drew near.
Maybe that would have been better. Maybe then he would have been able to deal with it when it came knocking. As it was, his avoidance of the approaching date had left him wide open.
It had been less than two days since Strata Luna had visited headquarters and put a curse on him. During that time, they'd scoured the city for Flora, hoping to get her statement, but she'd been elusive, always one step ahead of them.
And then there was Elise. So damn worried about the curse. To David, her concern and preoccupation made about as much sense as fretting over an alien invasion. And if by some remote chance curses were real? Well, he'd been cursed years ago. What was one more?
By nine p.m. he was experiencing a strong sense of foreboding. A smothering claustrophobia that wasn't external, that had nothing to do with his apartment.
He was the cage. He was the dark pit.
By nine thirty he felt himself breaking.
Blond hair floating in the bathtub.
Blond boy. Blond baby.
Pull him out. Turn him over.
Blue lips.
Blue hands.
Little blue hands.
Davi
d's throat tightened. His eyes burned.
He'd been doing so well, but it had been a trick. He saw that now. He'd just buried it. Put it away because he couldn't bear to see it. His shrink had been right. And now he'd looked away for a minute, and when he looked back, there it was. Right there. Right in front of him.
Floating blond hair.
His life. His fucked, fucked life.
How could a human tolerate so much anguish? It didn't seem possible.
I should be dead.
He should explode, or his heart should just quit beating.
I have to get out of here.
He had to get out of his own head, had to somehow escape his thoughts, because if he didn't, he was afraid he might get stuck like this. And the pain would never stop.
Had to run. Run away.
His heart pounded. His hands trembled as he changed into navy blue shorts and a gray T-shirt.
The dark streets were welcoming.
Fragrant.
Humid.
Heat from the day clung to the asphalt.
This was familiar. This was something he could do.
Run.
Forget.
The rhythmic slap of his jogging shoes gradually lulled him. Relaxed him. Soothed him.
Put him in a trance.
How far could he go?
Into tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.
He imagined himself running on the surface of a giant globe. Running around the entire world. Never stopping. He wouldn't need food or water or sleep.
He was a machine.
And machines didn't think. Machines didn't feel.
His feet slapped the street.
May twelfth. May twelfth. May twelfth.
Don't think. Don't think. Don’t think.
Goofer dust around the door
Sprinkled in the bed
Wake up in the morning
Find yourself dead.
May twelfth. May twelfth. May twelfth.
*
I watch him.
From my hiding place, I see him coming closer. Running down the middle of the street. Weaving.
Breathing hard.
His shirt is saturated with sweat, his hair dripping. He looks distraught, confused. A little out of his head, maybe. But that isn't a bad thing.
Poor David. Poor baby.
Let me make you better.
I can stop the pain.
I can make it all go away....
*
David ran for two hours.
He didn't remember thinking about returning to his apartment, but suddenly he was there, on the front steps of Mary of the Angels.
Beside him, the bushes rustled. He caught a whiff of something that smelled faintly of piss, and looked up to see Flora standing there.
"David," she whispered in a small, trembly voice.
She looked sad. Full of pain and grief.
"We've been trying to find you," he said.
Her face lit up, then immediately dimmed. "For my statement. I can't talk about that now. And I don't know anything."
"Small, seemingly trivial things can sometimes help solve a case."
"I can't talk about Enrique. He was like a brother to me. We went to grade school together. I know you didn't want to see me, but..." She put a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob.
He held open the door. They stepped into the foyer and went up the stairs.
Inside his apartment, they clung to each other. Just stood there and hung on. Pretty soon clothes were dropping to the floor and they were moving toward the bedroom.
"Make me stop thinking," Flora begged.
Little blue lips.
Little blue hands.
"Just for a little while," she said. "I want to forget. I have to forget."
They tumbled across the bed and he plunged inside her.
Deep and dark.
Forget. Forget. Forget.
Each stroke took him closer to oblivion.
*
David was asleep and Flora didn't want to wake him. She followed her trail of clothes and quickly dressed in the living room while David's cat, Isobel, sat on the couch, eyeing her with suspicion. Since Enrique's murder, Flora had been staying at Strata Luna's. She'd promised she'd be home by midnight. It was past three o'clock.
Flora didn't like the way Strata Luna was suddenly acting as if she owned her. The woman had always treated her like a favorite, but Enrique was the one she'd lavished attention on.
Flora checked her cell phone.
Damn. Three calls from Strata Luna, one less than an hour ago.
She slipped out of the apartment, the door closing with a loud click. In the center of the hall, she passed through a cold spot and stopped.
"Enrique?"
She waited.
She listened.
The chill faded. What was that smell? A little herbal. A little earthy. A little like the cologne Enrique wore....
Flora had always wanted to see a ghost, and now that Enrique was dead she hoped he would come back to visit. But he wouldn't be hanging out in Mary of the Angels, she told herself as she continued down the hall. Not Enrique, who'd been scared to death of the place.
Outside, Savannah was quiet except for the sound of a street sweeper.
Flora got in her car, slamming the door.
The smell from the hallway was stronger now. Almost overpowering.
"Enrique?" Flora asked loudly. "Is that you?"
A shadow fell across her from the backseat. A gloved hand pressed to her mouth, something sharp against her throat.
Flora reached behind her with both hands, grabbing for eyes.
The sharp object sank into her flesh. One long slice, and she could no longer breathe, no longer make a sound. She felt a blanket of heat on her chest as blood soaked the cotton of her top. At the same time, her hands and fingers turned to ice.
She tried to see who had cut her throat, but she couldn't make her eyes work. And it really didn't matter anymore anyway. Nothing really mattered. Not Strata Luna, or Black Tupelo. Not even David Gould.
In movies, dying people always whispered the killer's name. That wasn't right, Flora now realized. Because in that last minute you've already moved on. You suddenly understand that the world is just a bunch of silly people doing silly things….
Chapter 37
A phone conversation with someone named Sister Evangeline had given Elise the rough sketch of Loralie's present existence, along with an invitation to visit.
Although a cliché, it was understandable that a person who'd had a hard life might choose to hide from the world in a cloistered monastery. Elise's birth mother wouldn't be the first person to turn to such a sanctuary in a time of need. Elise herself had known a few people who'd lived in a monastery until they'd gotten their lives together, but she didn't know anybody who'd stayed indefinitely without joining the order.
The Savannah Carmelite Monastery was located in Coffee Bluff, on a dirt road that ran from Back Street all the way to the Forest River. As Elise bumped along the overgrown lane, she was reminded of her ill-fated visit to LaRue's home. The weather was similar, hot and humid, and she hadn't met another person since turning off Back Street.
She stopped at a pair of open iron gates, car idling, air conditioner blasting. In the distance, down a straight and flat dirt road draped by trees and flanked by shrubs, stood a sprawling two-story brick colonial. It looked a little like an old hospital or school.
Should she be doing this?
Most of her life she'd wondered about her real mother, but after today there would be no more wondering. And sometimes the unknown was better than the known.
Elise stepped on the gas and eased the car forward through the pillars that marked the boundary where the real world ended and seclusion and counterculture began. She might end up regretting the visit, but it was something she had to do.
In earlier times, the Carmelites had no contact with the outside world. When the rare visitor came, he o
r she was forced to speak to the nuns through an iron grate that looked like a confessional screen. Times had changed. Now they could visit face-to-face.
An ancient nun in a brown habit met Elise in the entryway and introduced herself as Sister Evangeline.
"She's expecting you," the nun said, leading Elise through a chapel and out a side entrance. At the end of a short path stood a small log cabin with a red door. On either side of the door was a window with white panes and green planters overflowing with red petunias.
Elise's mother was inside that house.
Things were beginning to get surreal.
"The cabin had been empty for years when Loralie showed up here," the nun said. 'The Carmelites' lives are all about prayer, and although we shun contact with the outside world, we took a vote and decided we couldn't send her away. Our numbers had dwindled, and the cabin was empty.... That was twenty years ago," she said with a conspiratorial expression.
Elise's heart was pounding, and it was hard for her to concentrate on what the woman was saying. She responded with a weak, distracted smile that was nothing but a lie of politeness.
"I'll let you go the rest of the way by yourself," Sister Evangeline said, coming to a halt, hands tucked under a layer of brown fabric. She turned and serenely followed the path back to the chapel.
Elise stared at the red door.
She wished Sister Evangeline hadn't left. She wished she herself hadn't come. She wished she'd talked to the woman inside first. On the phone. As an icebreaker.
Before her panicked thoughts took over completely, she stepped forward and knocked—a little too loudly.
A voice from deep inside the small building answered immediately, telling her to enter.
Elise opened the door, but remained with one foot on the threshold, the other on the flagstone step. The interior was dark, and Elise's eyes needed time to adjust.
One large room. Table in the far corner. Someone sitting there.
"Shut the door."
The voice was harsh, like somebody who had a sore throat, or someone who'd been born with a cigarette in her mouth.