Black Magic Woman

by Justin Gustainis

  There was no point in trying to sneak in. They knew that the steps would creak under their weight, and the spring in the screen door could be counted on to make a noise loud enough to wake the dead.

  No one stood behind the counter. The shop appeared as deserted as when they had left it the night before.

  But something was different, and it took Morris only a moment to realize what it was. "You smell that?"

  Libby sniffed audibly. "Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, I do." The coppery odor was one they had each encountered before, and they recognized it instantly.

  Fresh blood smells like nothing else in the world.

  "Better let me go first," Libby said. "I've got a few things ready this time, just in case." She took a couple of small vials out of her purse and twisted off the lids. "Come on."

  Morris followed, a tight feeling in his chest and stomach.

  Moving slowly, carefully, Libby walked behind the counter and pushed through the beaded curtain. She turned to the right, then stopped suddenly. Morris could hear the sharp intake of her breath, and as he looked over her shoulder he saw the reason.

  The young woman called Martha lay face down in the corridor, her head toward the room where Queen Esther had held court the night before. Martha's skull was split open, cut so deeply that gray brain tissue was clearly visible amidst the blood and bone and hair. Morris, who knew a thing or two about knife wounds, figured that you'd need something both heavy and very sharp to do that kind of damage.

  Something like a machete.

  Libby knelt and touched the back of her hand to one of the dead girl's legs. "Cold." she said quietly. "It's been several hours." Standing, she stepped gingerly over the body, careful to avoid the blood on the floor. There wasn't a lot of it; corpses don't bleed much.

  Morris followed Libby down the short corridor to another beaded curtain—the one that marked the entrance to Queen Esther's chamber. He could see light coming from inside, but it was softer than he remembered from last night.

  Libby used one hand to push some of the beads aside, but she did not enter the room. Instead, she stood in the doorway peering inside, and it seemed to Morris that she stood there for a long time before giving vent to a sigh that seemed to come from deep within her. "It's safe to go in," she said bleakly. "There nothing here to hurt us."

  Morris followed Libby into the windowless room. More than half the candles had either burned out or been knocked over, and in the gloom he almost tripped over a body on the floor. Looking closer, he saw that it was one of the zombies who'd accosted them the night before. Unlike Martha, this corpse bore no obvious wound. Ten feet away lay another dead man, and Morris thought that one looked familiar from the night before, too.

  In front of the altar, next to the overturned rocking chair, lay the bloody remains of Queen Esther. It was clear that, unlike Martha, the old woman had not died of a single, devastating wound. She must have tried to fight them. And so they had cut her to pieces. Literally.

  The windowless room reeked of blood and shit and decaying flesh. The climate of New Orleans is not kind to the dead under the best of circumstances. Martha and Queen Esther were already becoming ripe, and the two zombies appeared to be in an advanced state of decomposition—their bodies probably making up for lost time since their natural deaths. Morris knew he was going to have to get out of there soon or puke.

  Libby appeared to be having similar difficulties. She held a handkerchief over her mouth with one hand, then knelt over the body of Queen Esther. She seemed especially interested in the old woman's severed right hand, which lay some distance away from the rest of her. Morris wondered if she was going to take it for use as a Hand of Glory—a powerful talisman, when prepared properly. You need to start with the hand of a murderer, and Queen Esther almost certainly qualified. But Libby appeared to be focused on something clutched in the dead fingers, a piece of paper or cardboard that she pried loose, glanced at, then stuffed in her voluminous purse.

  Standing, she put away the handkerchief and said, "Let's get the hell out of here, before I lose my breakfast."

  Once they were back on the sidewalk, Morris said, "We'd better leave the area before some tourist looking for a love potion wanders in and starts screaming for the cops."

  Libby nodded. "Let's walk back to Bourbon Street and find a bar, which shouldn't be difficult to do. I need a drink, maybe a couple of them. Then we need to talk."

  They had gone less than a block when Morris asked, "What was that you took from Queen Esther's hand?"

  "That's one of the things we need to talk about."

  Chapter 19

  Libby Chastain picked up the glass of ice-cold Stolichnaya and held it against her forehead for almost a full minute. Then she brought the glass to her mouth and downed its contents in a single gulp.

  Quincey Morris took a sip of his bourbon and branch water. "Feeling any better?"

  "A little. At least I've got the smell of that place out of my nostrils." She signaled the waitress for another drink. "How about you?"

  He let his gaze wander around the room before answering. Homer's Hideaway, like all the French Quarter bars, was doing a brisk business, even at three in the afternoon. Tourists from Kansas City and Pittsburgh sipped Hurricanes and listened to the cheesy faux-zydeco coming from the juke, telling themselves that they were doing the real Cajun thing now.

  "I'm all right, I guess," Morris said. "Although I'm glad to be out of that slaughterhouse, too." He waited while the waitress served Libby's second vodka. "Damn, I bet old Esther was pissed, there at the end. Getting hacked up by zombies that you've created yourself has got to lend a whole new meaning to 'Hoist by your own petard.'"

  Libby nodded pensively. "The two zombies didn't just decide to do that all by themselves, either."

  "No, those poor bastards have no will of their own. The resurrection spell sees to that."

  "And Esther certainly didn't induce them to do it."

  "If she had, it would be the most bizarre suicide on record," Morris said. "Doesn't seem real likely."

  "Then who did it?"

  "I reckon you know the answer to that one as well as I do."

  "The mysterious Ms. Carter." She said the name the way General Rommel used to say "Patton."

  "Or whatever her real handle is these days. Somehow she got control of Esther's two shamblers and turned them on her— maybe as punishment for Esther's failure to kill us last night." Morris sipped his drink. "Or, could be she was afraid Esther might tell us something useful."

  "And maybe that's just what she did, in her last few moments." Libby took something from her purse and tossed it on the table. It was a business card.

  Morris peered at it. "This what you took from Esther's hand, back there?"

  Libby nodded.

  "Randall and Carleton Special Services," he read aloud. "Investigations. Got their office over on Bourbon Street." He ran his fingertip over the engraved letters. "Not a lot to go on, is it?"

  "There's a little more than that," Libby said, and flipped the card over. Written in ink on the back was "Amos Gitner," followed by a question mark.

  Morris frowned as he read the two words. "Amos Gitner?" He looked up at Libby. "Who the hell is Amos Gitner?"

  "I have no idea," she said, counting money onto the table. "But I was thinking it would be a good idea for us to find out."

  * * * *

  Tulane University's library had the New Orleans Times-Picayune in one of its computerized databases. By entering "Amos Gitner" as a search term, they were able to find and read the only article containing the phrase that the paper had ever published. A few mouse clicks allowed them to print out a hard copy of the article, which was dated three years earlier:

  Sept. 6. The body of a missing Materie man was found in an abandoned building in the warehouse district yesterday, under circumstances that cause local police to suspect foul play.

  Amos Gitner, 26, had been reported missing by his mother three days earlier, authoriti
es say. They discovered the body as the result of an anonymous telephone tip that a corpse had been seen in the building, which had been owned by Porterfield Imports until the firm went bankrupt last year.

  Police officials have declined to comment on reports that the victim may have been involved with the local occult community, and that this somehow contributed to his death. Lieutenant Pierre Premeaux of the Homicide Division would say only that the death was considered "suspicious" and that the investigation was continuing.

  Morris folded the single sheet of paper and put it in his jacket pocket. "Curiouser and curiouser," he said. "Think Queen Esther did this poor fella in?"

  "Hard to know," Libby said with a shrug. "I wouldn't put it past her, but even she would need something that looked like a reason. We just don't have enough information."

  "I wonder…"

  "What?"

  "I wonder," Morris said, "whether anybody is still at Randall and Carleton Special Services this late in the afternoon."

  * * * *

  The secretary-receptionist at Randall and Carleton was a petite blonde named Cindy Lee Mercell, who wanted to know whether they had an appointment.

  "No we don't," Morris said. "Our problem came up kind of suddenly."

  "We'd really like to see either Mister Randall or Mister Carleton for just a few minutes," Libby said with a pleasant smile. "Whichever one might be free."

  "Well, I don't really know if I can—"

  "It's about Amos Gitner," Morris said.

  The receptionist looked at him for the space of three heartbeats. "Just a moment please," she said, and went through a nearby door

  She was back within thirty seconds. "Mister Carleton will see you. If you folks would follow me?"

  She led them into a spacious office whose furnishings were just old enough to look comfortable. The same might have been said for the man who rose from behind the antique desk.

  Carl Carleton had a face like an old shoe, lined and seamed and showing a certain amount of wear and tear. There were smile lines around his mouth and eyes, but he did not smile as he shook hands with his visitors and invited them to sit down.

  Carleton studied them in silence for a few moments, idly running a thumb and forefinger up and down the seam of his seersucker suit jacket. Finally he said, "You know, we normally set a lot of store by polite conversation 'round these parts, which means it generally takes us just one hell of a long time to get to the point. But since you two have practically barged in unannounced, maybe you'll forgive my manners if I ask just what the hell it is you want?"

  "Are you normally so rude to potential clients, Mister Carleton?" Libby asked gently.

  "No, ma'am, I'm not. But you two ain't clients, are you?" He spoke with that unique accent you find in some part of New Orleans that sounds more like Brooklyn than Biloxi, at least to Yankee ears.

  Morris figured it was his turn to contribute something to the conversation. "What makes you say that?"

  "On account of that name you used to get in here belongs to a dead man, as I expect you know full well. And I'm pretty sure you ain't relatives, since I met Gitner's family three years ago at his funeral, and you two weren't there at all. So I repeat my original question, which was, in case you've forgotten: what the hell do you want?"

  "Amos Gitner's name came up in an investigation of our own," Morris said. "We're trying to locate a woman who's been making terroristic threats against a family in Wisconsin. We had reason to believe that she might have some ties to a woman in New Orleans known as Queen Esther."

  Carleton nodded slowly. "Esther the voodoo queen. Yeah, I recollect we talked to her, back when we were tryin' to get a line on young Mister Gitner. She send you over here?"

  "In a way, yes," Libby told him. "We got this from her." She handed over the business card with Amos Gitner's name written on the back.

  Carleton held the card delicately, turning it over with his big, square-tipped fingers. "Yeah, I like to leave cards with the folks I interview, especially if they haven't had a lot to say. Sometimes I hear from them later on, more often not." He shifted in his chair, causing it to creak under his weight. "You know, Queen Esther didn't strike me as the real friendly type, that time I talked with her. Fact is, I had the distinct impression she'd as soon kill me as look at me. But you're sayin' she just up and give you this business card? Just like that?"

  Morris and Libby exchanged looks. After a moment, Libby said, "Not exactly. Quincey and I discovered her body earlier today, and this card was in her hand. She'd been murdered, chopped to pieces."

  Carleton stared at her, then slowly reached for the telephone, picked up the receiver, and punched in a single number. After a moment he said into the mouthpiece, "Lex, can you come on over a minute? Yeah, if you would. Thanks."

  Replacing the receiver, Carleton said, "I've asked my partner, Mister Randall, to come join us. It looks like we're about to go swimming in some serious shit here, and I make it my practice never to go swimming alone."

  There was a perfunctory knock at the door, which opened to admit a tall man, slim, almost skinny, with dark hair combed down flat. He looked about ten years younger than Carleton's mid-forties. Ivy League, Morris thought. Or maybe University of Virginia, which in the South they regard as the same thing. Morris figured the man's tropical-weight gray suit must have cost three times the price of Carleton's seersucker, even if it did require only half as much fabric.

  Carleton performed introductions and Lex Randall shook hands with the visitors. Carleton then handed him the business card.

  "Miss Chastain here tells me that she took that from the dead hand of Queen Esther. You recollect her, don't you?"

  "That voodoo priestess, over on Dumaine Street," Randall said, nodding. "I haven't seen anything in the papers about it— when did she die?"

  "Overnight, or perhaps early this morning," Libby said.

  Randall stared at Libby, then at Morris, then looked over at his partner. "Are we talking about a natural death, here?"

  "She'd been hacked to pieces with a machete," Morris said. "Along with a young woman named Martha who apparently worked for her."

  "There were two other corpses on the premises," Libby said. "Although, in a sense, they died some time earlier."

  "I'm afraid I'm not following you," Randall said.

  "I mean they were zombies, who returned to their natural state after the death of their reanimator. That would be Queen Esther, of course."

  There was silence in the room that went on for some time. It was finally broken by Carleton, who said to Morris, "You know, I thought your name rang some kind of bell, and I've been trying to recollect where I came across it. Tell me, you ever been up to Baton Rouge?"

  Morris nodded cautiously. "A few years back."

  "Thought you might've." Carleton looked at his partner. "That professor at LSU, three, four years ago. Fella took sick, looked fit to die, and nobody could figure out the cause of it. Some folks even thought there was voodoo involved."

  "I remember now," Randall said. "They practically had the man measured for a casket, and then he got better. Just as suddenly as he'd taken ill." He turned to Morris. "Was that you? The one they sent for?"

  Morris nodded again. "Uh-huh."

  "And what about you Ms., uh, Chastain, is it?" Randall asked. "Are you Mr. Morris's partner in these investigations he takes on?"

  "No, not exactly," Libby told him. "I'm kind of an independent contractor, but I've worked with Quincey before. He calls me in when he needs me."

  "And what is it you do," Carleton asked, "when you're not helping out Mr. Morris, here?"

  Libby shrugged, but her voice was polite when she said, "I do a certain amount of consulting work. Different clients have different problems. Not unlike your own profession, I would imagine."

  "Um." Carleton used his big forefinger to nudge the old business card with Amos Gitner's name written on the back. After staring at it for a few seconds, he looked up at Randall and said, "I'm gon
na tell 'em."

  Randall looked closely at his partner, and Morris decided that some kind of unspoken communication was going on between them. He was sure of it a few moments later when Randall nodded slowly and said, "All right, then. Tell them."

  Carleton swiveled his chair so that he was facing Morris and Libby squarely. "Never talked to nobody about this mess before," he said. "Lex here knows, 'cause he was there when it all transpired. Anybody else, they'd probably think I was just funnin' 'em. That, or they'd nominate me as a prime candidate for the booby hatch. But knowing what I do about you, Morris, I'm guessing that you just might understand. And you, Ma'am, if you hang around much with this fella, I expect you've had beaucoup experience of some pretty strange goings-on yourself."

  Libby Chastain smiled a little but said nothing.

  "Yeah, well," Carleton went on, "you should know off top that when Amos Gitner's mama hired us to find him, that wasn't the first occasion he'd gone and made himself scarce for a few days. Way she told it, he'd go off somewheres every month for three, four days. Then he'd show up home again—he still stayed by his mama, even though he was in his middle twenties—and she'd say, where the hell you been, so forth, and he'd tell her he just plain didn't remember. Some kind of amnesia, apparently, although it never seemed to show up at any other time. She wanted him to see a doctor about it, but he just wouldn't go. Said it was his problem, and he'd work it out himself."

  "I take it this wasn't simply a case of Gitner sneaking off on a three-day drunk every once in a while," Morris said.

  "I did raise that question," Carleton told him. "But his mama said 'No how, no way.' Seems her own father had been an alcoholic, and she was more than a little familiar with the signs—and the smell, for that matter. And she claimed the boy was showin' no hint of a drug habit, neither."

  "Gitner's mysterious absences had been going on for almost a year when his mother hired us," Randall said. "A long-suffering woman, you might say. Plus, she's fairly well off financially, and she was in the habit of indulging her son something awful."