In Search of the Dove

by Rebecca York

  “I have a problem too,” he ventured.

  The fingers on his arm squeezed sympathetically. “I wouldn’t need to read tea leaves to know that. But I am glad that you came to me. Sit down and tell me your troubles.”

  He sank heavily onto a green velvet high-back couch, and she drew up a matching chair. How much could he trust her, he wondered.

  She read the hesitation in his eyes. “Gilbert, I’m like a doctor or a lawyer. Your secrets are confidential here.”

  “There are men who want to find me so that they can control me,” he blurted. “And there’s danger to you if I say too much.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “I have ways to protect myself from danger.”

  “Maybe not from these men.”

  “But you believe in the power of my magic, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Did he believe? Though he was well educated—with a Ph.D. in chemistry, no less—he’d seen what this woman could do. She was part witch doctor, part folk healer, and part charlatan. Maybe he had come here because he was desperate enough to believe in her power.

  “We will make a charm to throw your enemies off the scent.”

  She stood up and left the room. He could either follow or flee. He chose to follow, his eyes trained on the back of her flowing robes as she led him down a narrow hall, which ended at a doorway closed off by a thick beaded curtain. Beyond was a room that he remembered all too well. It was a twilight place with bamboo wall covering, pungent candles, and carved wooden figures with jeweled eyes that jumped out at you in the dark.

  The woman must have sensed the tremor that rippled through his body. “You were eager for my help once. Are you afraid to accept it again?”

  That had been in an entirely different context, a different life. He had been willing to take what he could from her, as long as he didn’t have to acknowledge the magic.

  “I’m not afraid,” he lied.

  The beaded curtain rustled as she pushed it aside and gestured for him to sit down on one of the flat cushions that were the floor’s only covering. When he had complied, his companion gave him a satisfied smile before kneeling in front of a low altar at the far end of the room.

  He had watched her do that before. Only then drums had beaten a frantic rhythm in the background, and the room had been full of dark, writhing bodies. Now it was just the two of them, and he was a participant, not an observer.

  For a moment the priestess was completely silent, then she began a soft chant as she lit more candles, the graceful movements of her body beneath the flowing silk caftan strengthening his sense of foreboding. In a way, he could trace the root of all his problems back to his fascination with this woman and her dark secrets. No, that wasn’t fair. He accepted the responsibility for the mess he’d gotten himself into.

  The woman had finished her chant. When she turned back in his direction she was holding a carved wooden box, which she set on the floor in front of him. Then she went to a cabinet along the wall and began removing jars and vials. As she opened them, he caught whiffs of rosemary, violet, sassafras, and less pleasant scents that he couldn’t identify. They all went into a stone mortar and were pulverized.

  Returning to kneel in front of him, she held up the bowl and began to chant again. The syllables were soft and sibilant in a dialect he didn’t understand. They seemed to swirl around him like a suffocating mist.

  When she finished, she set the mortar down and raised the lid of the box. Inside was a tapered silver knife. The repoussé on the handle matched the silver serpent on her turban, except that the two snakes’ mouths were open where they met the blade.

  He drew in a sharp breath. Though his heart rate had accelerated, he was powerless to move.

  With one hand, she reached out and picked up his sweaty palm. With the other, she raised the knife.

  “We need some of your blood to bind the potion.”

  The knife came down and he felt the point pierce his skin.

  Chapter Two

  “Did your brother have a stable personality before this drug-induced psychosis?”

  Jessica propped her elbow thoughtfully on the edge of the wooden chair in the hospital consultation room. Across the oak-grained desk, Dr. Thomas Frederickson sat with his ball-point pen poised above a sheet of paper.

  Drug-induced psychosis—so someone had finally put a label on Aubrey’s disturbing behavior. At first it had been a question of saving his life. Though he now seemed on the road to physical recovery, he wouldn’t communicate with her at all, and his only words to the nurses and doctors were little more than sporadic bursts of rage.

  Just how well did she really know her younger brother? Over the past few years they hadn’t spent much time together. It was probably her guilt about neglecting him that had sent her rushing back to Louisiana.

  Dr. Frederickson waited patiently, making a point of not pressing the young woman who sat across from him. They’d already talked briefly a few times. Though she’d been distressed about her brother’s condition, she hadn’t gone to pieces. Now she looked a bit more rested. Her face, he supposed, was conventionally pretty. But there was a very personal style about this woman that took her out of the ranks of the conventional. And there was a sense that when she met his direct gaze, she was probing into his psyche as much as he was delving into hers. For a psychiatrist used to controlling this sort of interview, the observation was a bit unsettling.

  She was wearing a navy-and-canary Indian print dress set off at the neckline with a hand-worked brass necklace, he noted, and her curly auburn hair was freshly washed and brushed, but not tamed. Her complexion was creamy peach, her large eyes a dramatic hazel. Right now she didn’t look as if she’d spent long hours in the psychiatric unit’s grim waiting room. But Dr. Frederickson knew that she’d agreed to go home and get some sleep only after she’d been assured that Aubrey was going to pull through.

  “Was my brother stable?” she repeated the question in a clear alto voice that was softened by a faint southern accent. “I’m not sure what that means, exactly. He didn’t have any serious problems like delinquency or drinking, but he and my parents used to fight a lot.”

  “About what?”

  “The usual things. Not wanting to eat the dinner my mother had prepared or refusing to clean his room.”

  Frederickson smiled. “That’s not out of the ordinary. How did he handle the conflict? Was there any violence?”

  “Oh, no! Aubrey was famous for stomping off to his room to sulk—or disappearing for long bike rides.”

  “And what would you say about your parents? How would you describe them?”

  “They were very rigid.”

  The psychiatrist looked up, wondering why she had singled out that adjective.

  “You mean they were particularly strict about issues like dating and smoking?”

  She nodded tightly. Yes, and going to church every week, and minding your elders. That had been part of her southern upbringing. But her mother and father had also had a way of snapping their minds shut to what they couldn’t understand. Their lack of insight and support had caused a crisis in her own adolescent years. Could that be relevant to Aubrey’s case?

  “Was taking drugs a way for Aubrey to rebel against their authority?” Dr. Frederickson asked.

  She raised a hand to her temple and stroked for a moment, the gesture partially hiding her eyes. “My parents were pretty old when they had us.” She paused for a moment, suddenly immersed in all the old pain. “They died when Aubrey was twelve and I was seventeen. He went to live with our aunt, Edna Ballin, who ended up adopting him. I was already in college in the East and decided to stay there. But I’ve always felt guilty about not coming back here to take care of my brother.” She didn’t want to tell him the whole story of why she’d been compelled to put so much distance between herself and New Orleans.

  Dr. Frederickson heard the distress in her voice. “It must have been a pretty rough time for both of you.”

  �
��It was.” Let him make his own assumptions about why.

  “But you were only a kid yourself,” the psychiatrist reminded her gently. “You were hardly capable of shouldering the responsibility for a twelve-year-old. If your aunt adopted him, she must have cared strongly about him. Did he have a good home with her?”

  “Yes. She was a wonderful person. She doted on him, and she wanted a relative to carry on the Ballin name. Except for a small legacy to me, Aubrey was her only heir. Most of the money is still in trust until he’s twenty-five.”

  “So he was in good hands, and you don’t have to feel guilty.”

  They talked for a while longer about Aubrey’s background. Though a measure of Jessica’s equanimity returned, there was still no way to come up with an explanation for what had happened to her brother.

  “It just doesn’t make sense,” she concluded.

  “Maybe he got in with the wrong crowd,” Dr. Frederickson suggested. “Did you know any of his friends?”

  “No. I haven’t been back here in a long time.”

  “Are you planning to stay on for a while?”

  “I want to be here for Aubrey now that he needs me.”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “Miss Duval, you may find this upsetting, but I think it would be better if you didn’t visit your brother—at least for a while.”

  “Why not?”

  “In his present state, seeing you seems to disturb him.”

  Jessica knitted her fingers together. “I see.”

  “Again, don’t put the blame on yourself. Apparently, he just can’t cope with you right now.” The doctor looked down at his notes for a moment. “I wish I could be more encouraging about your brother. If I only knew what psychotoxin he’d been taking, that might help us proceed with treatment.” He paused and shrugged. “But we haven’t a clue.”

  “Maybe I can find out for you.”

  “Probing into the New Orleans drug culture could be dangerous. I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  * * *

  MICHAEL ROME FLOPPED onto the grass under a century-old live oak tree and tossed his used chemistry book and red knapsack down beside him. They were part of his new cover. Before heading for the university, he’d reluctantly exchanged his snakeskin boots for a pair of scuffed Adidas, well-worn jeans, and a blue Jackson Square T-shirt that showed off the corded muscles of his upper arms. He wasn’t about to submit to a Mohawk, but he’d used mousse to give his hair a chic, messy look. Though he was a bit old for an undergraduate, there was nothing much he could do about that except play it cool.

  Leaning back against a gnarled root, he looked out over the well-groomed Chartres University grounds. From his vantage point, he could see groups of students enjoying the fine September weather.

  Over the past few days, he’d spent hours getting to know the school—much of the time hanging around in the student union, the bars on the fringe of the campus, or out here.

  It hadn’t been difficult to get acquainted with the kids who had a buzz on. The proof was in the knapsack that rested within easy reach of his strong hand. Almost any kind of high or low you wanted was readily available. If he’d had the time, he probably could have arrested at least five percent of the student body for dealing. While that wasn’t particularly unusual these days, it was still depressing.

  Though dope might be easy to come by, information was a more guarded commodity. His DEA badge had gotten him in to see the assistant chancellor. But the man had vehemently denied any university drug problem. When Michael had wondered out loud whether campus labs might be the actual source of illegal substances, the official had brought the interview to an abrupt end.

  Next Michael had cruised the corridors of Sumner Hall, the chemistry building, representing himself as a student from out of state considering a transfer. He started with questions about which courses to take and professors to avoid and eased slowly into the real topic of interest.

  His best line to the inside story had been a grad student who had joined him for a few beers in the Alligator Den, a dimly lit bar two blocks from campus.

  The fellow had started with some nervous jokes about telling tales out of school. He’d lost some of his inhibitions after polishing off most of a pitcher of Jax. He remembered Daniella La Reine, although that wasn’t the last name she’d been using at the time. She’d been in one of his lab sections, and he recalled she’d been a fair student—with a sexy body. But she’d dropped out before he’d had a chance to get her into bed.

  On the second pitcher, he started talking about one of his fellow teaching assistants. The guy, whose name was Aubrey Ballin, had been a real straight arrow until a few weeks ago. The grapevine had it that he’d OD’ed on something or other. Whether that was true or not, he was gone from the scene.

  Michael had taken judicious sips of his own beer and fished for more details. But a casual question about whether Ballin’s problems were connected to something new on the street made the guy suddenly clam up. Right after that he’d remembered that he was supposed to be in his office grading lab reports.

  Leaning back now against the tree root, Michael considered his next move. He could smell something rotten in the chemistry department, and it wasn’t sulphur dioxide.

  A carillon chimed. Minutes later, a rush of students changing classes filled the campus. As Michael’s appraising gaze scanned the crowd, his attention was caught by a woman he’d seen a number of times over the past few days. She didn’t look quite young enough to be a coed and wasn’t carrying any books. Now, in addition to the soft leather bag slung over one shoulder, she was clutching a large manila envelope.

  The fast-moving river of humanity carried her down to the sidewalk. When the tide ebbed, she turned for a long look at Sumner Hall and sighed heavily before walking slowly in his direction.

  He remembered seeing her come out of the department chairman’s office the day before with a stormy expression on her face. He had wondered if she were an instructor who’d just been reprimanded. But the tag hadn’t fit then, and it still didn’t. At the time she’d been wearing a yellow-and-navy Indian print dress that might have passed for campus exotic. Now she sported a calf-length silk skirt and tunic that were much too sophisticated for the surroundings. They looked damn good on her, though.

  However, he could tell from the way she carried herself that she didn’t care what the students thought of her appearance. He’d always admired women who did their own thing, as long as it wasn’t illegal.

  He continued to study her. Her body was small-boned and her face almost elfin, with a short upturned nose and dainty mouth. Probably her most striking features were her large eyes and short, untamable hair, a riot of curls that captured the rays of the afternoon sun and reflected them in an auburn halo above her rounded face.

  As she drew near, Jessica looked up and caught him staring. Pausing for a moment, she hesitated and then started across the grass toward the oak tree. She remembered seeing this guy several times in the chemistry department, joking with some of the graduate students. He’d had an easy, open manner and seemed to know his way around. Maybe he’d known Aubrey. She had been about to give up and go home anyway. One more shot wouldn’t hurt.

  God knows, the university administration hadn’t been much help. The head of the chemistry department had commiserated briefly over her brother’s hospitalization, but it was clear that he had his own concerns. He’d ended the short interview by handing her a manila envelope containing the contents of Aubrey’s desk. It seemed the cubicle had already been assigned to another graduate teaching assistant who’d been without an office at the beginning of the semester.

  Jessica had turned to the students next. She’d found people who’d been willing to talk about Aubrey up to a certain point. When she’d brought up the subject of drugs, they’d expressed their sympathy at his mishap and hastily departed for remembered classes and appointments.

  Something about this guy made her
think he was different from the rest. She watched him shift his position so that he was leaning back comfortably. Then he crossed his long, jeans-clad legs at the ankle.

  She guessed his age at something over thirty. Despite the casual pose, the man radiated an aura of leashed power. It was there in the well-developed muscles of his arms, the street-wise look in his light eyes, and the hard planes of his face. If anything he reminded her of the hardened, world-weary Viet Nam vets who had attended the University of Maryland with her. Even if he wasn’t a veteran of that particular conflict, she sensed that he’d seen action somewhere.

  Suddenly she remembered Dr. Frederickson’s speculations about Aubrey getting into the wrong crowd. This guy was certainly tough. Yet she was picking up conflicting vibrations from him, as if he were both more and also less than what he seemed to be on the surface. She didn’t like the inner confusion that generated, and a small voice in her head warned her he might be someone to fear.

  It was more than just an instinctive reaction. As a teenager, she’d begun to realize she was developing a surprisingly accurate sixth sense about people. Along with that had come knowledge of events she couldn’t possibly have experienced through her own senses. For a little while she’d felt heady from the power—until it had almost wrecked her life. That was why she’d fled New Orleans in the first place. In Maryland, far from the scenes of her childhood, she’d worked hard to damp down the unwanted ability so she could lead a normal life. But since she’d returned, she’d felt the stirrings of that old gift. Even as she’d struggled to come to terms with it, the capability had begun to blossom again. Perhaps it was catalyzed by her frustration at not being able to get any hard information about Aubrey.

  Stopping a few feet from the scuffed Adidas, Jessica watched as their owner looked up questioningly. She noticed that his eyes were the color of polished pewter and couldn’t help being intrigued by their unusual color and the keen intelligence they projected. She should have felt at an advantage standing over him. Instead, it was just the opposite. Catching her skirt gracefully in back of her knees, she sat down a few feet from him and pulled the fabric protectively around her legs as she tucked them under her body.