Rashad laughed. “Would you have turned away my mama’s aid in this darkest of times?”
Savannah chewed at the inside of her lip. She dropped her gaze.
Rashad reached through the SUV’s window then rubbed her shoulder with a firm, grounding touch. “You need our help, even if you don’t want it. We’re already so deep into this mess, there’s no backin’ out. Let me help you find our baby.”
Savannah didn’t say anything. She closed her eyes. Then she nodded.
Rashad patted her shoulder, then walked away.
“Rashad,” Savannah called.
He stopped, then turned on his heels. He walked back to Savannah’s SUV.
“When this is over,” Savannah said, gazing hard at her husband. “There have to be consequences.”
Rashad smiled. “And repercussions?”
Yep.”
“I understand.”
“For now, we need to figure out who we can trust; who can help us fix this before we’re all dead.”
Rashad nodded. “I know just the right folks. But you aren’t going to like it.”
He slid into the Ford Country Squire and fired up the engine, then motioned for Savannah to follow, and for the first time in their marriage, it felt right to her to let him lead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Savannah struggled to keep up with Rashad as he threaded his way through the back roads of the SWATS. The station wagon kept disappearing out of sight around corners or vanishing over the tops of ridge lines, forcing Savannah to push the SUV harder than was comfortable. By the time the SUV bounced up the gravel road to the bokor’s shack, Savannah’s nerves were shot.
Rashad was leaning against the Ford Country Squire’s hood, shadowed eyes sparkling in the midmorning sun. “Get lost?”
Savannah shook her head. “Why do you always have to drive like a maniac?”
The front door of the old shack creaked open. Papa Marcel emerged, blinking his yellowed eyes against the light. “Ya mind keepin’ it down out here? Old men need our sleep.”
Rashad slid around the hood of the station wagon then threw his arms around the old man’s shoulders, holding him tight. He eased back, holding the bokor at arm’s length. “Don’t tell me you don’t have breakfast ready for us?”
Papa Marcel swatted Rashad’s arms away then hitched out the front of his crusty bib overalls to show off the xylophone bars of his ribs. “Don’t eat much these days. Got ya kafe on, though.”
Rashad followed the old man into his crumbling house, and Savannah followed her husband. She could feel Carter staring holes in them from the Ford Country Squire. Whatever else had happened last night, Carter held no trust for Savannah, it seemed.
The three of them gathered in the house’s main room, where Savannah had watched the possessed girl writhing in her bonds the day before. The chair seemed to rock gently even when empty, a reminder of the evils it had held. Savannah sat on the far side of the room from it and its chains, eyes wary. She was not sure how badly her strength had eroded since the attack on the mayor and did not want to put it to the test.
Papa Marcel poured each of them mugs of steaming coffee, then pulled up a stool opposite Savannah, next to Rashad. “Well, little brother, much as I apresye ya company, I panse dis ain’ no social call. Owls been quiet all night, and dem squirrels won’t shut up about ya pwoblem fo’ nothin’.”
Rashad nodded then sipped his coffee. “There’s a darkness in the SWATS. Something I can’t explain. We need your help.”
Papa Marcel chuckled then licked coffee from his mustache. “I’m an old man who knows the words to cast out them move lespri that settle in the weak and unwilling. Not sure what ya need from the likes of me.”
Savannah cleared her throat to speak, but Rashad cut her off. “You know the SWATS; you know its people. You can help us talk to them; figure out what’s going on before it’s too late.”
The old man’s eyes never left Savannah’s. “Might be it’s a little late to come around askin’ fo’ dat kind of help. Might be ya shoulda been talkin’ to me and the rest befo’ all the kaka started rainin’ down ‘round yo’ ears, non?”
Savannah felt anger rise but choked it back. She was not there to stir up more trouble. She was there to ask for help. She glanced at Rashad, and he nodded. He had kicked it off, but Savannah was going to have to carry the ball the rest of the way if they were going to get this old man’s help. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but I thought I was doing right. I thought I was doing things differently from my mother because what she did didn’t end so well.”
Papa Marcel’s watery eyes did not blink as he held Savannah’s gaze. The old man seemed to be looking for something, peering into Savannah for an answer to a question he did not want to ask. “Must be bad if ya come all dis way with ya hat in hand.”
“It’s bad,” Savannah said. “Worst I’ve ever seen or heard of. They’ve turned the Chief Detective; murdered a couple dozen people that I know of; and tried to kill me more times than I care to count. There’s a sickness. And it’s spreading.”
The old man poured coffee into his cup, then gave more to Rashad and Savannah. He took a sip from his cup, smacking his lips over the scattered pegs of his remaining teeth. “But they done somethin’ else, non? Spirits are whisperin’ up and down the SWATS about ya baby girl… kept me up damn near all night with their bwi.”
Savannah shook her head. “If you know, then why ask?”
“Because I wonder about ya. About whether what ya do is fo’ you or fo’ the SWATS and its people.” Papa Marcel sipped more coffee then rubbed his shrunken belly. “Because if ya come here askin’ me fo’ a personal favor, I might be less willin’ to help.”
Savannah looked down into the light brown coffee in her cup. “I’m not going to lie. I want my girl back. But these people are going to bring the whole city down if someone doesn’t stop them. Whatever’s behind this, I don’t think its plan ends in the SWATS.”
“So unholster dem big ol’ zam and put ‘em down.” Papa Marcel laughed. “That’s how ya do it, non? There’s only three of dem girls, just go knock on their door and blast ‘em. Why come botherin’ me ‘bout it?”
Rashad held his mug out for a refill. He waited for Papa Marcel to start pouring, then said, “Seeing more than the usual number of patients these days? More girls come in here with the demons? More boys with strange dreams and blood on their hands they can’t explain?”
Papa Marcel looked away from Rashad to put the coffee pot back on its little warmer. “Might be. Dat’s my business.”
“All right, then.” Rashad drained his cup then handed it back to the bokor. He stood, then brushed the dust off the knees of his jeans. “Thank you for your hospitality, Papa Marcel. We’ll be headin’ on out.”
Savannah stood as well. She needed the bokor to help her, but could not find the words to convince him that it was in his best interest to cooperate until this problem was cleared up. She was too tired to think straight. She reached out to shake the old man’s hand, but Papa Marcel was staring after Rashad as he let himself out of the bokor’s little house.
Papa Marcel took the Root Woman’s hand, then squeezed it tighter than Savannah thought the old man’s skeletal fingers could manage. “I don’t trust ya to do what’s right; push comes to shove, ya know dat.”
Savannah nodded then returned the old man’s grip. “You and I haven’t seen eye to eye, I get that. But things have changed.”
Papa Marcel grimaced. “Don’t give a damn about things.”
“ I’ve changed. Believe that.”
The old man’s grip tightened. “Oh, I want to, lanmou. Believe you me, I want to. But should I?”
“Only if you think the SWATS is worth saving. I’m not going to stop fighting to save it, but without your help, it’s probably a losing battle.”
“Oh, yeah.” Papa Marcel chuckled then shook Savannah’s hand. “We do this, you gonna listen to de old man, non? No more blowin’ holes in peo
ple who piss you off, non?”
“Can’t promise not to shoot people if they got it coming.” Savannah wrapped her other hand around Papa Marcel’s grip. “But I can swear to you that I’ll try to find other ways to fix things where I can.”
The bokor nodded. He pulled himself up off his stool with Savannah’s help. “Right, den. Grab my cane, dere, non? We’ll go have a koze with some of the workers; see if we find de bottom of this pile of kaka.”
Savannah took the gnarled wooden cane from its resting spot in the corner, trying to pretend she did not feel the zing of power that surged through it at her touch. There were carvings all up and down its length – vévé, symbols commonly used in Vodoun. The vévé acted as beacons for the loa.
Papa Marcel took the cane out of Savannah’s hands then leaned on it. “Remember what ya swore in my home, Root Woman.”
Savannah nodded, then headed out into the bright morning air. “I’ll remember.”
Papa Marcel joined her. He tapped Savannah’s toe with his cane. “Good. Because you not de only one who knows how to kill a man… or woman”
Savannah stared after the bokor, who hobbled over to the SUV, then hauled himself into it.
Papa Marcel poked his head out of the passenger-side window. “Come on den, befo’ yo’ mari start thinkin’ and get jealous. My heart’s not up to dat mess.”
Savannah laughed and made her way to the SUV. Despite the bokor’s dire warning, Savannah’s mood was lifting. There was hope, just a glimmer of a chance, but it was something.
The Root Woman started the SUV as she prayed, silently, it was not too late for all of them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Three chubby-faced boys stood on a small bench behind Jimmy Odinga’s chair, oiled hands gliding over his naked, hunched shoulders. They massaged the knots from his muscles, teasing the tension from the meat of his back, pushing fragrant oils into his pores. The old man sighed, then opened his eyes to take in his visitors.
He clamped an old, rust-pitted pair of forceps onto the flab a few inches above the deep crater of his navel. “Can one of you lend me a hand?”
Rashad left Savannah’s side before she could stop him then crouched at Odinga’s knee, taking the forceps in his hand. The fat old man lifted a section of his belly into a thick peak.
Savannah raised an eyebrow to the bokor, who gave a short, sharp shake of his head as if reluctant to pass judgment on what they were watching. Jimmy Odinga had his own ways, methods and practices passed down to him along the chain of men who had made the Odinga name synonymous with wealth, crime and the old druidic ways.
Savannah stood near the study’s sole door, eager to get out of the small room as soon as possible. The ceiling, a massive tangle of pale roots, felt too low, and the moist, earthen walls felt much too close. The air was thick with the odor of turned earth and mulched leaves, causing Savannah to pluck at her collar and rub her nose.
Odinga held the ivory handle of an heirloom straight razor. He pressed the sharpened edge against his flesh. “Hold it still, please.”
The old man hummed, his voice a deep bass throb that filled his little home. A trio of high, sweet voices rose from the throats of the little boys, who went on rubbing his broad shoulders while weaving an angelic harmony with their wordless song.
The razor hissed, its silver edge parting the old man’s deep-brown flesh to reveal the curded layers of lumpy yellow fat within. His humming gave way to full-throated singing, as wordless as the boys’, and powerful. He carved away the triangular flap of flesh.
Rashad flinched when the gobbet of meat popped free of Odinga’s body. Hot droplets of blood sprayed across Rashad’s face and neck. Rashad blinked the blood away. He held a hunk of the old man’s fat in the forceps’ teeth.
One of the boys slid around Odinga then took the forceps from Rashad, his hands steady and sure as he lowered the fatty slab into a wooden bowl that sat on a low pedestal to Odinga’s left. Then he returned to his position behind the old man.
Odinga settled back in his rocking chair, then hooked his fingers into the corners of his wound. He spread the bloody edges, shivering, an ecstatic smile spread across his face. He seemed withdrawn, sunken into himself, but his words were loud and firm. “The sacrament of Odinga, Inc.,” he explained to his visitors. He held nothing back, showing them the heart of his worship; the nature of his religion.
The boys reached up, plucking the tip of an alabaster tap root from the tangle of the ceiling. Two of them untangled it free of the other roots, while the third eased its questing tip into Odinga’s gaping wound. The trio worked in unison, their delicate, precise motions like the clockwork of synchronized machines. They stopped only when the wound was packed with coils of moist, thirsty wood. Then they disappeared into the shadows behind Odinga, taking the wooden bowl with them.
Savannah stared as the white flesh of the tap root flushed pink, then deep red as the old tree sucked at the life juices of its host. She flinched when Odinga’s heavy hand fell on Rashad’s shoulder.
“There, child; in this religion – the religion of Odinga – the act of communion goes both ways. As we feed upon the fruits of the old tree, so too does it require sustenance of us.” He finished his sentence with a little gasp then patted the jiggling mound of his belly. “I have plenty to spare, as you can see.”
Rashad cleared his throat. “Sir, we’re tryin’ to figure out—”
Odinga waved his hand, interrupting him. “Of course, I know. My business was defiled by this mess. What is your wife going to do about that?”
Rashad smiled. He peered over his shoulder at Savannah. “She aims to put a stop to it.”
“No.” Jimmy Odinga leaned forward, wincing at the tug in his gut from the taproot buried there, then leaned back. “No ‘ifs’, ‘ands’, ‘buts’ or ‘maybes’. Your wife has harassed me and my people for years. She has often threatened to take fire to Hotlanta Wings and my other holdings. Now that she is in a time of need, she comes to me to ask for my help?”
Savannah struggled to keep herself under control. The Odinga Family had a long and bloody history in the SWATS – from gang wars to sabotage against rival businesses. Even Savannah’s mother had ridden them hard. Left to their own devices, the zealots of this corporate theology were dangerous.
“This concerns us all, and no one person can fix what’s wrong.” Rashad tried to present the strength and confidence his mother had always shown. “If you refuse to help, then who knows what misfortunes may fall upon your people?”
Rashad blinked once, slowly, letting his power unfurl into the close air of the cramped room. Shadows flickered against the walls. The temperature fell, and the colors seemed to fade from the light.
Jimmy Odinga’s eyes fluttered. His hands clasped his wounded belly so tightly blood began to ooze up around his fingers. A thick, scarlet rivulet ran down the slope of his gut then disappeared into the valley of his navel. His eyes closed, but his mouth fell open and a groaning croak worked its way out of him. The taproot stretched and swelled.
Odinga’s jaw snapped closed, then fell open again. A thick, clear sap clung to his eyelashes as they parted to reveal dark, wet plugs of earth. Something spoke through Odinga with a voice that sounded like a hundred women speaking in unison. The power of the voice shook the floor and sent trickles of rich earth drizzling down through the maze of roots in the ceiling. “Our earth is defiled. Interlopers have fouled our holiness. Drive them out!”
Savannah could feel the weight of the words on her soul – a terrible burden that pushed her husband’s power back. Odinga was gone. She knew the god that had replaced him was the real power there. The one that could make bargains that would bind them all.
“If we help you,” it began. “Will you help us?”
Odinga’s eyes fluttered again. Thick, muddy tears flowed from their corners. He gasped and coughed. A line of ants scuttled from his nostrils then disappeared around the sides of his face. “We will assist you, but there
are conditions.”
Savannah frowned. “I’ll do what I can within the Law, but don’t push it.”
Jimmy Odinga smiled then licked stray crumbs of dirt from his lips. “Ah, our Root Woman has found her voice. First, you must come with me to see to my followers. I worry about their safety in this time of trouble.”
“Fine,” Savannah grunted. “What’s next?”
The preacher nodded, steepling his fingers over the swell of his gut. “Second, you will not question me or mine in regard to our ways. If I help you in this, then you must leave me and mine in peace. What we do is within the Law. Leave it be.”
Savannah ground her teeth. She stared at the shadowed space behind Odinga. Quiet, almost dainty, chewing noises came from back there. “Someone needs to keep an eye on you.”
The bokor leaned forward. “I’ll monitor Odinga’s people.”
Odinga laughed – a jolly rumbling that made Savannah want to choke the fat man to death.
“If you agree to my third request, then you will not need the sorcerer to be your spy.” Odinga grinned. “You will attend our moonlight rituals at least once each month.”
Savannah’s skin crawled. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Then get out of my home and put an end to this mess.” Odinga probed at the edges of his wound, gently caressing the gaping, curled edge with the ball of his thumb. “I have other pressing matters to attend to.”
A Haunting in the SWATS (The Savannah Swan Files Book 1) Page 23