Black Magic Woman (Morris and Chastain Investigations)

by Justin Gustainis

  “Just a bunch of ignorant niggers, running around with bones through their noses, huh?”

  Van Dreenan’s eyes narrowed, although his voice remained mild. “I meant no slight, Agent Fenton, either to you or to your... ancestors. Cultures differ, beliefs differ. People are different. If I describe the beliefs of the tribal religions of South Africa, that does not mean that I sneer at them. It means I know them, and I know them because I deal with them every day.”

  “Yeah, all right. I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just that... I used to read stuff in the papers about apartheid when I was younger. See things on TV, sometimes, that just...” Fenton let his voice trail off.

  “I understand, I think.” Van Dreenan let go a sigh that made him sound old and tired. “Apartheid was what it was. Neither of us can change history. And now it is gone. And neither of us need mourn its passing.”

  “Okay, look, let’s just forget I brought it up, all right? You were talking about magic and religion.”

  “Yes, well, muti murder has been around a long time, quite possibly for centuries. It refers to the killing of a human being in order to obtain body parts, which are in turn used in magical rituals. That is what I meant when I said these murders we have here are not themselves ritualistic. The ritual comes at a later time, and the bodily organs that have been taken are a vital part of it.”

  “So, the victim isn’t being used as a sacrifice at all.” Fenton spoke so softly he might have been talking to himself.

  “That is correct. In fact, you might say that death is almost incidental. The object is the removal of the organs.”

  “So there is a ritual involved, just not the kind we thought.”

  “Oh, there may be a few ritualistic elements to the murder. A special knife might sometimes be used, certain incantations might be uttered as the organs are taken, but that varies from region to region, and seems to be of little significance. Oh, except for two things that are considered important.”

  When Van Dreenan didn’t continue, Fenton said, “You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you? Okay, mister expert, what are the two ritualistic elements?”

  “You’ve seen them both, even if you did not recognize them as such, at the time. One of the bodies was found on a riverbank, ja? Another not far from a creek, the third close to a pond. That is not coincidence. Muti tradition holds that the body must be left outdoors, near water.”

  “That’s not going to help us much,” Fenton said. “Hell of a lot of rivers, creeks and ponds in this country. What’s the other thing?”

  “Most unfortunately for the victim, muti tradition requires that the organs be extracted while he or she is still alive.”

  Fenton shook his head. “Poor kids,” he said softly.

  “Indeed, yes, the poor children,” Van Dreenan said. There was something odd in his voice that caused Fenton to look at him closely, but before he could say anything, Van Dreenan went on, “It was once the case that muti murder was confined to the outlying villages. But in the last decade or so, cases have been reported in urban areas, as well.”

  “All the victims children?”

  “Not always, no. But some of the umthakhati believe that the organs of the young convey more power.”

  “Um-what?”

  “Umthakhati,” Van Dreenan said. “Zulu for ‘witch’ or ‘sorcerer.’ In Sotho, the name is baloyi.”

  “You speak Zulu?”

  Van Dreenan shrugged. “Not fluently. Enough to get by.”

  “How about that other one you just mentioned?”

  “Sotho? A few words and phrases, no more.”

  Fenton nodded, as if this made perfect sense. “This muti murder, is it unique to South Africa?”

  “No, cases have also been reported in Lesotho and Swaziland. There have been unconfirmed reports of the practice in a few other places, such as Nigeria. But it seems to be most common in my country.”

  “So the killers are all black Africans. How about the victims? Same thing?”

  “Not always. Sometimes they are white. Especially in recent years.”

  Fenton heard that change in intonation again. Then Van Dreenan had a coughing fit that lasted several seconds. Fenton offered to get him some water.

  “No, I am all right, thank you,” Van Dreenan said, and cleared his throat a few times. “I was about to say that a few incidents of muti killings have been reported abroad. They had a case of it in England, a few years ago.”

  “Same M.O. as ours?” Fenton asked.

  “Only in the most general terms. The body of a child, a black male around seven years of age, was pulled out of the Thames, missing its arms, legs, and head.”

  “Local kid?”

  “Probably not, although the body was never identified. The detectives referred to him as ‘Adam,’ just to give the poor lad the dignity of a name.”

  “Did they ever make an arrest?”

  “Ultimately, no. Scotland Yard were very interested in a Yoruba woman from Nigeria, but the physical evidence was minimal and the woman refused to admit any involvement. Officially, the case remains open. But something good came of it all: Scotland Yard were prompted to initiate Project Violet, which is designed to investigate witchcraft crime in Britain. They have been very busy, I understand.”

  “Well, as you might imagine, Behavioral Science has searched every law enforcement database there is, and there’s no record of this kind of crime being reported anywhere in North America before. These three cases are the first we’ve ever had.”

  Van Dreenan looked at Fenton very steadily as he said, “I wish I could assure you that they will be the last.”

  CHAPTER 10

  QUINCEY MORRIS AND Libby Chastain walked with Walter LaRue through the ruins of his family’s kitchen. Broken glass and bits of crockery crunched under their feet everywhere they went.

  “Jesus Christ Almighty,” the big man said softly.

  “No, Mister LaRue,” Libby said. “I think I can assure you that He wasn’t responsible for any of this.”

  LaRue slowly took it all in: the knives and other sharp objects strewn everywhere—except for those protruding from the kitchen door or from the wall opposite; pots and pans all over the floor, having fallen, or been knocked off their wall hooks; the dinette table, which had clearly been used as a battering ram against the kitchen door and was much the worse for it; and the door itself—split, cracked, gouged, and close to coming apart altogether.

  The massive damage to the kitchen door was a clear indication to Morris of just how close it had really been for him and Libby yesterday afternoon. Just a few more hits with that table would have done it, he thought. Then the door would’ve gone and I’d have the chance to see how Davy Crockett felt there at the end, when the Mexican soldiers came at him with their bayonets.

  They had explained things to LaRue on the drive over from the Holiday Inn. It would have been cruel to just let him walk into his home to discover this carnage.

  After carefully viewing the damage, Walter LaRue took a deep breath, let it out, and said mildly, “Well, it could’ve been worse.”

  Morris just nodded. He didn’t look at Libby, although both of them had expected an explosion, considering the amount of tension that LaRue had been under lately.

  “And if whatever caused this—” LaRue’s gesture took in the whole kitchen, “allowed you to make my home safe again, then, goddamn it, it was worth it!”

  “Of that I can assure you,” Libby said. “The spell that caused those attacks on you and your family will not trouble you again.”

  “But the job’s only half done,” Morris said. “We’ve got to locate the source of the spell, before whoever cast the damn thing finds out what we’ve done and gets to working on another one.”

  Alarm clouded LaRue’s face. “You mean what you set up here is only protection against one specific spell?”

  “No, it’s what you might call a broad-spectrum system,” Libby told him. “Similar to what Greta had in pla
ce, but, if I may flatter myself, somewhat stronger. But no system is completely foolproof.”

  “As I understand this sort of thing, it’s kind of like the arms race during the Cold War,” Morris said. “The Soviets would come up with a new missile, and we’d develop a counter to it. Everything’s fine—until they invent an even better missile.”

  LaRue ran a hand through his untidy hair. “Christ, just when you’ve got me thinking it’s safe...”

  “Besides,” Morris continued, “there’s no law that says your enemy has to stick with magic. What if he—or she—can’t crack Libby’s protection and then decides to come over here at 3:00am some night and firebomb the place?”

  LaRue spoke calmly, but there were beads of sweat on his forehead. “Look, I want this fixed, for good. I want to be able to sleep at night. I want my kids to start feeling like kids again, instead of hunted animals.” He looked from Morris to Libby and back again. “Now, how much more will it cost me to see that done?”

  Morris pushed himself away from the kitchen counter he’d been leaning against. “Not a dime,” he told LaRue. “You agreed to my fee in Austin, and paid it. Whatever we do now is all part of the service.”

  Morris paused and took a slow look around the ruin of a kitchen. “Although, you know what? All things considered, I’d probably do it for free,” he said, and walked out of the kitchen.

  Libby Chastain looked at LaRue for a second or two before saying, “Me too.” She followed Morris out of the room.

  AS MORRIS STARTED the car, he said to Libby, “He’s going to stay behind and clean up for a while, right?”

  “That’s what he told us. So, I assume, next stop is the Holiday Inn?”

  “Yeah, Holiday Inn—and the wife.”

  “WE CAN TALK out here,” Marcia LaRue said, opening the sliding door that led to the motel room’s small balcony. “The kids are next door watching cartoons, but this way they won’t disturb us, and vice versa.”

  Quincey Morris and Libby Chastain followed her, and Morris slid the door closed behind them. “Besides,” Marcia LaRue continued, “out here I can smoke.” As if to prove her point, she produced a pack of Winstons, shook one out, and lit up.

  “Actually, I quit these disgusting things, about eight months ago,” she said wryly. “But events’ve been putting a heavy demand on my nerves, lately.”

  “I can imagine,” Libby Chastain said, nodding sympathetically. “But things should start getting better, now.”

  “Yes, so I hear. Walter called me from the house a little while ago.” She tapped her cigarette on the balcony railing, sending a small flurry of ash down to the parking lot below. “He tells me the kitchen’s going to need some major remodeling. But he says it’s worth it, since you’ve given him the all-clear sign. Is that true?”

  Morris and Chastain look at each other briefly before Morris shrugged and said, “More or less.”

  Marcia looked at him with narrowed eyes. “That’s not quite what I was expecting to hear,” she said. “I was under the impression that this insane business was over and done with. Are you saying now that it’s not?”

  “No, Ma’am, it’s not over,” Morris told her. “You should know that better than anybody.”

  Marcia LaRue took a long drag on her cigarette, her eyes never leaving Morris’s face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m afraid you do,” Libby Chastain said quietly.

  “Oh, Christ, now Madam Olga is putting her two cents in,” Marcia snapped. “What the hell do you know?”

  “I know the terrible burden your psyche is carrying,” Libby said. “I see how close it is to crushing you.”

  “You’re a hoot, lady, you really are!” Marcia LaRue’s voice dripped scorn. “What comes next—you offer to tell my fortune, for only $2.95 a minute? Haven’t I seen you on late night TV, right after the Jamaican lady with the tarot cards?”

  Libby’s voice remained gentle. “I’ve been trained to read auras,” she said. “It doesn’t work all the time, but yours comes through loud and clear, Marcia. Ever since I met you, your aura’s been dominated by the same two colors: green for fear, and violet for guilt. Strong as the fear is, the guilt is even stronger.”

  “How old were you?” Morris asked suddenly.

  Marcia LaRue turned her glare on him. “How old was I when?”

  “When you found out your mother was a witch,” he said.

  Marcia stared at him, then turned slowly and placed her hands on top of the wrought iron railing that bordered the little balcony. She stared out at the nearly empty parking lot for a long moment before the tears began to course down her cheeks. Without looking at Morris, she said softly, “You bastard. You fucking bastard. The woman’s dead. She was my mother and I loved her and now she’s dead. Can’t you at least leave her in peace?”

  “The dead are already at peace,” Libby told her. “It’s the living that Quincey and I are concerned about. Like you. Your husband. Your children.”

  “But Walt said you were going to fix it!” Her voice was breaking up, now. “He came back from Texas and said that you told him you could make it stop!” Her shoulders started to shake with the sobs that wracked her.

  Libby went to her then, put her arms around her and held her close. “It’s all right, let it out,” her voice barely above a whisper. “Let it all out, it’s okay, it’s all right. Let it go.”

  As Marcia continued to cry, Libby looked up, made eye contact with Morris, then cut her eyes to the closed patio door. Morris looked, and saw the two LaRue children standing inside the room, silently watching their mother.

  He looked back at Libby, who made the slightest of head movements in the direction of the room. Morris nodded and went to the door, slid it open just enough for him to slip into the room. He closed the door quietly behind him, then dropped to one knee to bring himself closer to the children’s level.

  “It’s all right, podners,” he told them. “Your mom’s just upset with all this bad stuff that’s been going on at your house, you know?”

  They each nodded, solemn as judges.

  “My friend Libby is a real nice lady, and she’ll help your mom feel better soon. Why don’t we all go back to the other room and watch some cartoons for a while? Your mom will come in when she’s ready. She just needs to talk with my friend for a little longer, okay?”

  “Okay,” they answered together. As the three of them headed back into the adjoining room the girl asked, “Can we go home soon?”

  “Yeah,” Morris said, nodding. “Yeah, I think you can.”

  THE WOUND IN Morris’s hand was throbbing, so Libby Chastain agreed to drive his rental car as they brought the rest of the LaRue family home. Although she had only been there twice, she found her way with minimal directions from Marcia LaRue.

  As Libby pulled into the driveway, Morris unbuckled his safety belt and turned towards the back seat, where Marcia LaRue sat with her children. “I’m sure Libby has explained to you that the house is safe now,” he said.

  “Yes, she has,” Marcia said. “And I’m very grateful to you both. We’re all grateful to you.” Her eyes, although red-rimmed from crying, were calm now.

  “And as for that other matter we discussed,” Libby said, “Quincey and I will start on it right away. We’ll let you know when it’s taken care of.”

  Morris shot Libby a look, but kept silent. Clearly, she was trying to be discreet so as to avoid frightening the LaRue children any further.

  As Marcia and her children climbed out of the back seat, the front door of the house opened. Walter LaRue stood there, wearing a grin that threatened to split his face in half. The children ran to him, but Marcia stopped after a pace or two, turned to look back toward the car. She and Libby regarded each other through the windshield for several seconds. Morris was unable to interpret the expression on either woman’s face, but he did see Marcia LaRue nod a couple of times before she turned away to walk toward her house, her family, and her life.


  They sat in the car, watching while the LaRues went inside and closed the door after them. Then Libby said, “Are you hungry? We never did get lunch, what with one thing and another.”

  “We kept running into unfriendly kitchens,” Morris replied. “Sure, I could eat.”

  “What do you say to an early dinner, then?” Libby started the engine and began to back down the driveway.

  “That sounds good. And while we’re eating, you’re going to fill me in on what you learned from Marcia, right?”

  “Absolutely. It’s a fascinating story, in a grim sort of way.”

  “How about a hint, at least?”

  Libby stopped for a red light. “All right,” she said. “Remember the Hatfields and McCoys?”

  “You mean those two families in—where was it, Tennessee?”

  “Kentucky, I believe. Late Nineteenth Century.”

  “Sure, I’ve heard of them. Had this big feud, went on for God knows how many years.”

  “Well, Marcia LaRue is involved in a feud of her own. Only this one has lasted centuries.”

  LIBBY CHASTAIN SWALLOWED the last forkful of her vegetarian stir-fry and pushed the plate away. After a sip of water, she continued, “So, ever since Salem, each generation of Bridget Warren’s descendants has come under magical assault by a descendant of Sarah Carter. Or so Marcia’s mother told her.”

  “And Marcia didn’t believe it.” Quincey Morris was still working on his New York strip steak.

  “Not a word—at the time. She thought it was ‘superstitious bullshit,’ to use her phrase.”

  “Well, it’s a skeptical age,” Morris said. “Lot of folks don’t believe in anything they can’t put under a microscope and look at.”