In Shadows

by Chandler McGrew

  “It isn’t that big a deal. The taxes eat up whatever I make in logging leases. It’s more of a pain in the ass than anything.”

  “So you’ve been worried all this time that maybe you had hallucinated the death of your mother, that your father really did it. And you were afraid of going crazy like your dad?”

  “Something like that,” said Jake. That was all the story Cramer needed.

  “And then the Torrios’ men got killed on the beach, and the same thing happened to Albert.”

  “Yeah.”

  “There really is something in this valley killing people. And by my book it pretty much has to be what killed those guys on the beach. You aren’t crazy, Jake. You never have been.”

  Pierce stirred in his blanket on the couch, and the three of them turned toward him, but he instantly settled down, almost as though he could feel their eyes on him.

  “Is he all right?” said Cramer.

  “I think so,” said Mandi, taking Pierce’s hand but not signing. “But what I want to know is why that thing kills people. And what we can do to stop it.”

  “My memere say, ‘Spooks is hard to figger. And de bad ones is hard to get rid of,’ “said Cramer, tossing another log onto the fire.

  “Your memere?” said Mandi.

  Jake frowned. “Cramer’s grandmother is a Voudou queen.”

  “She’s a Houngon,” said Cramer. “A priestess. And times like this maybe she knows better than you and me. Memere told me once that the spirits can’t always be understood. But they can usually be . . . the English would be appeased, I think.”

  “And how do we do that?” asked Mandi.

  Cramer shrugged. “I guess that’s what we have to find out.”

  “I wish we’d find out pretty soon.”

  Cramer nodded, reaching out to rest one giant hand on her arm. “You may not have heard of Ogou. But he’s a good spirit to know. And he doesn’t take kindly to those that threaten women . . . or children.” He glanced meaningfully at Pierce, and Mandi smiled.

  UST AS VIRGIL NEARED THE HEAD of Albert’s drive he heard the sound of splashing footsteps, and he moved silently, slowly placing one foot behind the other, back toward the woods. Suddenly the figure of a man—huge, muscular, and nude—appeared right beside him. Virgil swung the shotgun, but just as his finger jerked the trigger, a dull stinging sensation burnt his left bicep and his own gun blast blinded him. He staggered backward, pumping another round into the chamber, searching for a target, wiping rain out of his face with his sleeve.

  Where was the sonofabitch?

  Feeling along his left arm, he discovered a gash running from shoulder to elbow, stinging as cold rain hit the open wound. He had no idea if the blade had clipped an artery, but he didn’t have any time to worry about it.

  He backed down the drive, keeping low, his eyes peeled, the shotgun gripped tightly, his finger on the trigger.

  Had he wounded Jimmy with that shot? If he had he’d heard no gasp, no cry of pain. More than likely the guy had moved so fast the attack had ruined his aim, if a snap shot like that could be called aiming.

  When he reached the road he hurried across, staggering through the waist-deep runoff and up into the trees on the far side. He knelt beneath a large oak and rested the shotgun beside him, ripping off his shirt sleeve and using it to make a tourniquet around his upper arm. That was the best he could do for now. He hefted the shotgun again and tried to get his mind to work.

  He no longer had the luxury of even thinking about himself as the hunter. He was the hunted for sure. And it was a mile or better of deep woods or flooded, open road from where he was to Pam’s. To top things off, he thought he heard whispering. But it seemed to be disappearing up the road. Whatever else the sound might be, it was definitely a harbinger of doom. Dary had heard it and ended up dead. Barbara had heard it and nearly died. And they had all heard it before Rich was killed. Virgil was glad to hear it moving away, though it seemed to be headed toward Pam and Ernie’s place, and he didn’t want to think what that meant. But at the moment he had a bigger problem than the Crowley curse on his hands.

  Jimmy tasted the blood on his blade and smiled. The feel of cold steel biting through flesh excited him. He knew that he hadn’t dealt the old sheriff a killing blow, any more than the man had seriously wounded him. Only one ball of the buckshot had hit, and it had merely grazed his left thigh. It would sting worse with time, but the bleeding would stop fairly quickly, especially with cold rainwater cleansing the wound. He closed his eyes and tried to make out his prey’s movements by sound. But the constant patter of rain everywhere blocked that avenue of pursuit, and even with his better-than-average night vision he could see only a few feet in any direction. The trouble was that if the sheriff spotted him first, he had the shotgun, while Jimmy had only the knife. That made things considerably more dangerous. But chances were the sheriff would make enough noise sooner or later so that Jimmy could stalk him and strike. And this time he wasn’t going to miss.

  When he heard the whispering again he angled his head to catch the exact direction of the sound.

  But then it was gone.

  Virgil peered through the misty shadows, wondering when he’d feel the sharp blade slip around his throat or hear a gut-wrenching cry as Jimmy dropped onto him from one of the trees. He slipped slowly out of the forest and as quietly as possible back through the runoff and up onto the road.

  He stroked the trigger of the shotgun, and more than anything at that moment he wanted to see Jimmy in his sights so he could finish this. The longer he stood in the center of the road the more convinced he became that he was too late, that Torrio had used the attack as a ruse, that he was already heading toward Pam’s.

  Fuck it.

  Either way, he was playing Jimmy’s game. He turned toward Pam’s and began to trot. But he hadn’t splashed through the ankle-deep water more than a hundred yards when he had to stop for a breather.

  Doris was right as usual. This was definitely a damn fool place to be and a damn fool thing to be doing for a man his age. But there were people in danger who deserved his protection, and he knew that he’d rather die at Jimmy’s hands than wake up tomorrow in a nice warm bed and realize that he hadn’t tried hard enough to save them.

  He started off again, walking this time, fast as his heart would allow.

  A flash of lightning lit the road like gunfire, and Virgil whirled, trying to see behind him in the afterglow. He had to hope that Jimmy hadn’t been staring right at him when the flash occurred. A peal of thunder followed fast on the lightning’s heels, and when his ears adjusted to the soft sounds of the rain again he noticed the whispering had returned. It kept coming and going like someone playing with the dial on a radio. And over the whispering he could hear Doris.

  You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do. So go on, then, hon. Don’t pay no attention to that thing. It’s that criminal out there you got to worry about right now.

  Even in the middle of the storm, surrounded by danger, Virgil smiled. When the day came that he found out whether or not that was Doris talking, he was going to be terribly disappointed if it wasn’t. He waded through yet another waist-deep runoff, leaning into the flood, hoping he didn’t get carried away into the woods. By the time he struggled out onto the far side of the washout he was chilled to the bone. His arm was beginning to really hurt, a dull throb running from shoulder to elbow. He loosened the tourniquet for a moment, cringing at the fiery sting of the blood rushing back in.

  As the noise slowly fell away behind him, the terror that had tried to break free inside began to ease, the images to blur, and he took strength from that, ignoring his burning lungs and his aching legs. By the time he stumbled across Pam’s drive he was so exhausted he had to make the climb one agonizing step at a time, but instinct told him that Jimmy had fallen behind. And he wondered if the thing was going back for him. He hoped so. If anyone deserved to be pummeled or frightened to death it had to be Jimmy Torrio. Then he thought of
Paco, alone and afraid of the dark, handcuffed and naked, and although he knew in his heart that he was probably just as much a cold-blooded killer as his boss, Virgil felt a tiny twinge of pity for the little bastard.

  When he finally made it to the porch and saw lanterns and candles inside and more than one shadow moving, he breathed a sigh of relief. Jake opened the door, and the shock and concern on his face was priceless as he jerked Virgil into the house.

  HAT HAPPENED TO YOU?” asked Jake, shoving Virgil into a chair in the kitchen. Mandi ran to get the first-aid kit and more towels from Pam’s linen closet.

  Virgil told them the story while Mandi daubed antiseptic into the wound and bandaged it. She gasped when she realized how close she and Pierce must have come to being in the house when Jimmy and Paco arrived, and Jake frowned. At least Ernie and Pam were safe in town.

  “I would have thought Jimmy was smarter than that,” said Jake. “If anything I’d expect him to send more of his hit men after me.”

  “Smart’s got nothing to do with it,” said Cramer. “Jimmy’s from the barrio. You killed his brother. It’s personal.”

  “I heard that whispering noise out there on the road,” said Virgil. “With any luck maybe that thing and Jimmy Torrio will do each other in.”

  “That would be nice, but I wouldn’t count on it,” said Cramer. “Jimmy’s meaner than a whipped pit bull. The good news is he’s naked as a jaybird and armed with only a knife.”

  “For now,” said Jake. “There are other houses in this valley. Other people. And we have no way of warning them now that the road’s flooded and the phone lines are down.”

  Cramer frowned. “I was just trying to look on the bright side.”

  “Cheery you,” said Jake, staring through the door at Pierce, who was resting on the couch. Suddenly the darkness of the window behind the boy seemed ominous, and Jake crossed quickly to it, jerking the heavy curtain closed. As he moved the lantern from the coffee table to the smaller table beside the sofa so as not to silhouette anyone in the room, Pierce reached out and caught his arm, and Jake waited as the boy spelled each letter into his palm.

  What’s the matter?

  Just closing the drapes.

  Pierce nodded, but his brow was furrowed, and he seemed to learn as much from the feel of Jake’s hand as he did from Jake’s slow finger spelling.

  You’re scared of something besides that thing.

  Jake was shaken once again by the boy’s perception.

  Everything’s gonna be fine.

  That’s what Mom says when it’s not. What are you afraid of? You’re making me more scared.

  Jake nodded to himself, knowing he had to tell the boy. There’s a man out there who wants to hurt me. But it’s just me he’s after.

  Why does he want to hurt you?

  Jake smelled Mandi’s perfume as she slipped beside him. Pierce noticed, as well, turning his head in her direction but refusing to release Jake’s hand.

  I killed his brother.

  Why?

  He was a bad man trying to kill me.

  Pierce nibbled his lip, nodding.

  Jake stared at the boy, wondering what went on in that thirteen-year-old head.

  “What are you two talking about?” whispered Mandi, glancing at Barbara, still out like a light on the other end of the couch.

  “Just letting him know everything was all right.”

  Jake patted the boy on the shoulder and gently extricated his hand. But Mandi seemed stiff and unsure of herself.

  “How bad is this guy, Jake?” she asked.

  Jake frowned. “Bad. Both he and his brother disposed of a lot of people getting to the top. Jimmy was always the brains of the operation. But right now he’s probably hightailing it out of the valley.”

  But, of course, he knew that was a lie. Jimmy Torrio had never run from a fight or a killing in his life.

  ANDI WAS AWAKENED JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT by a strange drumming that seemed to be coming from downstairs. She glanced at Pierce in the low orange light of the candle on the dresser, but he didn’t stir as she climbed slowly out of bed and followed the rhythmic noise down the hall. As she neared Jake’s door he slipped through it, pulling on a robe and preceding her down the stairs. Virgil stood in the living room, staring into the kitchen. When he saw the two of them, he gave Jake a questioning look.

  The kitchen was lit by candles on the table, counter, and stove, and Cramer stood in the center of the floor, bare to the waist, his back to the living room door. On one arm a blood-red strip of cloth draped to his elbow, and beneath his other arm he held a large stew pot which he thumped lightly as he chanted in something that sounded like gutter French. On the floor a strange, angular design had been created with yellow powder, and Mandi noticed an old box of cornmeal on the table. Near the design Cramer had balanced a tall, round piece of cordwood on end, and beside it another candle glowed next to a bottle of what looked like cooking sherry. Beside that lay a leather bag stuffed with feathers. As Cramer turned slowly in her direction, Mandi was shocked to see that there was no sign of recognition in his eyes. It was then that she noticed he was drumming with the handle of a giant carving knife. She stepped backward, butting into Jake.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered, wrapping her in his arms to still her shivers.

  “What’s he doing?” she whispered back, staring at the knife.

  “Talking to the spirits,” said Jake. “It’s a Voudou ceremony.”

  Virgil stared at Jake uncertainly. “What’s with the knife?”

  “The knife should really be a machete, and it’s just a symbol, the embodiment of Ogou. He’s kind of like Cramer’s patron saint.”

  “The cornmeal?” said Mandi, gesturing toward the design on the floor.

  “A vévé. That one’s a symbol for Ogou, too. The wine is an offering, but it’s supposed to be rum.” Jake smiled ruefully. “I don’t know how Ogou is taking the sherry or the cooking pot drum, either.”

  “You think this is funny?”

  Jake frowned. “I used to. But then I realized that Cramer didn’t, so I learned to just accept it.”

  Mandi shook her head. “He acts like he doesn’t even know we’re here.”

  “When he’s like this he’s out of it completely. He’s possessed by Ogou.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “So’s eating the blood and body of your God,” muttered Jake. “I’ve learned from Cramer not to judge other people’s beliefs. He doesn’t hurt anyone. And he doesn’t try to convert people, much. He’s just trying in his own strange way to help.”

  “You understand what he’s saying?” asked Virgil.

  “It’s Cajun French. I think he’s asking Ogou for guidance.”

  “No dead chickens?”

  “You’ve been watching too many old movies. But actually I’m surprised at how quiet he’s being. I think he’s still in control enough to realize he doesn’t want to disturb us. Normally these things can get pretty rowdy.”

  “You’ve been to more than one?” asked Mandi.

  “Cramer’s memere really is a Houngon, a Voudou priestess. I’ve had to attend several ceremonies over the years that I couldn’t beg out of. There’s a lot of howling and chanting, people possessed, falling on the floor, crying, laughing.”

  “What does the Houston police department think about this?” asked Virgil.

  “If Cramer would denounce his religion or treat it as a joke, he’d probably be head of the department by now. He won’t. Oddly enough, that’s one of the things I respect most about him.”

  Cramer rested the “drum” on the table and replaced it with a jar full of dried beans that he rattled as he waved the knife high overhead and danced around the vévé. His eyes were glazed, and his voice sounded raspy and distant, and Mandi noticed that although he never actually looked at the floor, he meticulously avoided stepping on the strange angular design. Finally he dropped to his knees and began to whisper, as though speaking to someone directly
in front of his face.

  “It won’t last much longer,” said Jake. “Either he’ll get the answer he’s looking for, or he won’t. I’ll help him clean up. He’ll be pretty exhausted.”

  Without warning she turned in his arms and hugged him tightly.

  “We’ll be okay,” he promised, hugging back.

  Speaking quietly in the same patois he had used before, Cramer gently brushed the veve with the palm of his hand until the symbol was nothing but scattered grains. He carefully placed the paket kongo on the table, set the wine back under the sink, and blew out the candle on the floor. When he saw Jake and Virgil, he smiled, rising slowly to his feet, wiping perspiration from his gleaming forehead with a cloth from the counter.

  “How’s Ogou?” asked Jake, finding a broom and sweeping the grains into a neat pile.

  “He say to you, be careful. You done stirred up a passel of bad medicine around here.”

  Jake nodded. “Glad to hear from him. Wish he could tell me something I didn’t already know.”

  “What’s this Ogou look like?” asked Virgil.

  Jake couldn’t tell if he was smiling with his eyes or not. But he really didn’t believe that Virgil would insult Cramer.

  “Big,” said Cramer. “Big and black with a machete this long.” He held his arms half spread.

  “Sounds mean.”

  Cramer shrugged. “Only if you piss him off.”

  “How did Ogou feel about the tin drum and the cooking sherry?” asked Jake.

  “I didn’t have a real poto mitan or ason, either. The sacred post and the rattle are very important. But at times like this Ogou is not so particular.”

  “Evidently not.”

  “He is disturbed by this valley.”

  “Everyone is disturbed by this valley right now,” muttered Jake.

  “What else are you worried about?” asked Mandi.

  Cramer frowned, staring at her. “You a mind reader?”

  She shook her head. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re not just worried about Jimmy Torrio or even that thing out there.”