Black Magic Woman (Morris and Chastain Investigations)

by Justin Gustainis

“Sad, but true. And Marcia was apparently a skeptic’s skeptic. In college, she took a minor in Philosophy—logical positivism, rationalism, and God knows what else. All those systems that claim the material world is the only one that exists.”

  “Yeah, there was a lot of that going around Princeton when I was there.”

  “But it didn’t influence you?”

  “With my family background? Are you kidding? No, my dad clued me in on the way things really are long before I ever got to college.” Morris pushed his own plate away and plucked the dessert menu from its holder next to the condiments. After glancing through it, he asked Libby, “Are you having dessert?”

  “No, I’ll just get some coffee. But you go ahead.”

  Without looking up from the menu, Morris said, deadpan, “They have peanut butter pie, it says here. With chocolate sauce.”

  He looked up to see Libby smiling crookedly at him. “You bastard,” she said pleasantly.

  “That’s a matter between Mom and Dad, and they’re not here.”

  A few minutes later, as they each dug into a serving of peanut butter pie, Morris said, “I take it that Marcia LaRue has abandoned her skepticism about matters supernatural.”

  “Oh, sure. Once the attacks started, she figured out what had to be the cause. But by then it was too late. She knew nothing of magic, and had no way to mount a defense.”

  “Sounds like Mom gave up pretty easy on enlisting Marcia in the ranks of white witches.”

  Libby shook her head. “No, she didn’t, really. Marcia says that her mother would bring it up from time to time, in a gentle sort of way. But Marcia always refused to discuss it with her.”

  “Still, considering what was at stake, maybe the gentle approach wasn’t the best way to go about it.”

  “I know. But Mom probably assumed there was a lot of time left to win Marcia over. The woman was only fifty-two when she died, Quincey.”

  Morris’s brow furrowed in thought. “Which means she had Marcia when she was...”

  “Twenty. I asked. Young, by today’s standards, but not quite a child bride, either.”

  “No, I guess not. In good health?”

  “Marcia says she was, yes. So it wasn’t unreasonable of the woman to think she had quite a few years left to, what, convert her daughter.” Libby forked the last piece of pie into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Then along comes some drunk behind the wheel of a minivan.”

  “So Mom is suddenly gone home to Jesus, and along with her goes the protection of the warding charms.”

  “Which have now been reactivated, at no small hazard to you and me,” Libby said. She pushed her empty plate away. “But, it’s like you told Walter back at the house: it’s only a matter of time before Sarah Carter’s current descendant tries something different. A static spell is like a fixed defensive line in warfare. It’s only good until somebody figures out how to get around it.”

  “And sooner or later, she will—whoever ‘she’ is.”

  Libby nodded. “Most likely. And, although the LaRues seem like nice enough people, I don’t think I want to move in with them just so that I can be there for the next attempt, a month from now—or a year.”

  “So, we’ve got to find whoever’s been doing this—and then what? You can’t use white magic to destroy someone, even somebody who deserves it, big time. We both know that. All right, assume that, through luck or pluck or good karma or whatever, we manage to get a handle on this black witch who claims Sarah Carter as part of her family tree. What the hell do we do about her?”

  Libby was using her napkin to wipe a small amount of chocolate sauce from her fingertips. “What you said to me on the phone last night.”

  She looked up then, and her gentle gray eyes were suddenly cold and hard as polar ice when she said, “Whatever it takes, Quincey. We do whatever it takes.”

  CHAPTER 11

  THE CAR WAS a Hummer H2 Super Stretch limo, and it looked like the product of a carnal union between a Rolls-Royce and a Greyhound bus. Its polished black finish was so deep that reflections of the car’s surroundings seemed to disappear into it, as if the limousine was some sort of omnivorous behemoth, absorbing and devouring everything that crossed its path.

  The witch who was approaching the limo had no fear of being devoured. Christine Abernathy had little fear of anything or anyone—although, if pressed, she might have acknowledged that the man waiting inside the limousine could sometimes make her feel uneasy.

  She opened the rear door, slipped inside, then pulled it shut behind her with a solid, satisfying thump. She knew that the heavily tinted windows would prevent anyone outside the car from seeing within, and the thick glass divider that had just been raised inside the car prevented the driver from hearing a word—as if he’d be able to pick up anything from thirty feet away. The man she was there to meet with preferred to do business in private—especially her kind of business. And what he preferred, he got. Always.

  His name was Walter Grobius, and he had more money than God.

  “What news?” His voice was raspy, as if someone had once drawn a file across his vocal cords.

  “Preparations are well underway. I’ve completed much of the preliminary spellcasting, and I’m researching some other spells that I’ve never used before. It’s taking some time—these kinds of materials aren’t exactly available on the Internet.”

  “And the... other?”

  “Also underway. I have contracted with a specialist in a branch of magic I’m not personally familiar with. She arrived in this country from Africa three weeks ago. I have reason to believe that she has started to harvest the materials she needs. When the fetishes are ready, she will bring them to me. When combined with what I’ve been working on, they should possess great power.”

  “How long?”

  “It’s impossible to say for certain. There is a procedure that she has to follow. Certain things must be done in specific ways, if the magic is to work properly. And she has to be wary of the authorities.” Christine allowed herself the smallest of smiles. “They insist on calling what she is doing murder.”

  Grobius nodded. “I have been in touch with the other specialists whose names you gave me. Most of them are part of the project now, busy with their own tasks.”

  “Only ‘most?’” The idea that anyone could refuse him was difficult for her to grasp.

  “Two of them were dead. Another appears to be incurably insane.”

  The witch thought that for this man to use the word “insane” was an exercise in irony that would have done Sophocles proud. But she kept her opinion to herself. Even one such as she understood the value of discretion.

  “I am concerned,” Grobius said, “whether everything will be ready by the target date.”

  “I think it will be, but you must understand that black magic is not an exact science. You have to take the dark forces as you find them, and they are not always cooperative, even for a skilled practitioner of the Art.”

  “Let there be no undue haste, then. I don’t want any mistakes made. By anyone.” His gaze fell on Christine Abernathy then, and she felt her heartbeat accelerate briefly. For her, this was equivalent to a normal person screaming in hysteria.

  Maybe that’s why I’m working for him, she thought. He’s the last person left alive, now that Mother’s gone, who can make me feel fear.

  “If need be,” he continued, “I’ll sacrifice Halloween in favor of the alternate date in April.”

  “Walpurgis Night.”

  “Almost as good, for our purposes, or so you’ve said.”

  “Indeed, quite propitious. All Hallows Eve is better, but the switch shouldn’t make a difference in the... ultimate result.”

  “Well, we had better get it right the first time, since another opportunity will, most likely, not be forthcoming.”

  “No,” she said simply, thinking, If it goes wrong, none of us are going to survive to try again later.

  Grobius appeared lost in thought, as if con
templating the wonder of what he was planning to achieve. Finally, he looked at Christine again, nodded, and said, “Very well. Proceed. You’ll be notified when I wish to meet again.”

  Knowing she was being dismissed, she said, “I shall,” and reached for the door handle.

  Walking away from the limousine, she took in deep breaths of fresh air. She was glad to be out of there, and not just because of the effect the old man sometimes had on her. The car’s generously padded and brass-fitted interior always reminded her of the inside of a coffin. It was, in some ways, as if the man inside were already dead. As if he were inviting her to join him.

  ANOTHER CITY, ANOTHER cheap motel. Money was not a problem, but it was easier to pass unnoticed in lower-end accommodations, and Snake Perkins had been instructed to keep a low profile.

  He lowered the comics page of the paper he’d been engrossed in and looked at what the woman was doing. On the room’s rickety writing table, she had spread out a piece of cheesecloth about the size of a man’s handkerchief. On this surface she was arranging a series of small objects, pausing to mumble over each one in a language Snake had never heard before. He assumed it was what they spoke back where she came from, wherever the hell that was. Someplace where they all ran around with bones through their noses, most likely.

  Snake hoped she’d be returning there soon. He was sick and tired of being bossed around by someone who, to his way of thinking, ought to be cleaning up after white folks in an office building someplace.

  He had been careful not to let his resentments come to the surface. Apart from the fact that he had strict orders from his Mistress, whom he feared greatly, the nigger woman was too damn handy with a knife. And not squeamish about using it, as Snake had reason to know.

  He continued watching as Cecelia Mbwato added an oddly shaped twig and several bits of vegetable matter to the arrangement of objects on the cheesecloth. Then, from a red and white plastic cooler, the kind people often take to the beach, she brought out a gray, wrinkled lump of flesh, about the size and shape of a baby’s fist. Snake recognized that one instantly.

  It was the heart of the six year-old girl that Cecelia Mbwato had cut open the night before.

  She sprinkled the gathered materials with two different kinds of powder, one fine and one coarse, muttering in that foreign tongue the whole time. Then, with infinite care, she rolled up the cheesecloth and tied it, at each end and in the middle, with a bright green twine that she had measured and cut into precise lengths.

  Snake had known enough to keep silent while the ritual was taking place. But now that it was done, he asked, gesturing toward the tightly rolled bundle, “What do you call that thing, anyway?”

  Cecelia Mbwato looked at him with her lizard eyes. After a moment she said, “In English, you would call it, I think, a fetish.”

  Snake’s brow furrowed. “Ain’t that some kinda kinky sex thing? Like gettin’ turned on by woman’s shoes, or somethin’?”

  “I know nothing of the disgusting and perverse sexual practices of your people,” she said primly. “And I do not want to. This fetish is a most powerful magical talisman, just like the other two that I have already completed.”

  Snake nodded respectfully. He knew about magic, and what it could do. He was smart enough to fear it. “Yeah, well,” he said, “how many more of these things do you gotta make?”

  “Two more. Just two, and then all will be ready for delivery to the one who sent you. Then I will receive my payment, and our time together will be done.”

  “Damn,” said Snake impassively, “that’ll be a shame.”

  CHAPTER 12

  THE KINGSBURY BUILDING occupied one corner of a less-than-fashionable neighborhood two blocks off Boylston Street, the closest thing Boston has to a main drag. The ten-story structure had been built during the Truman Administration, and looked it: the red brick was crumbly, the wooden floors creaky, and the faded walls and ceilings gave off faint clouds of plaster dust whenever a bus or heavy truck drove by. A joke known by everyone who still did business there was that the Landmark Preservation Commission had considered declaring the Kingsbury an official historic site, until it was determined that nothing of historical importance had happened there—ever.

  The building’s only concession to modernity was the installation of automatic elevators. It was one of these, stopping at the ninth floor, that disgorged Quincey Morris, Libby Chastain, two women dressed like secretaries, and a small man with greasy hair who looked like a process server.

  Morris and Chastain followed the numbered doors until they reached 936, which bore the legend “C. Prendergast and Sons. Genealogy.” Inside, they were greeted by a pert woman in her mid-twenties sitting behind an ancient oak desk. She had been using a jeweler’s loupe to examine the faded page of an old ledger. “Hi, come on in,” she said. “Have a seat, if you can find one under all the mess.”

  Morris looked at the young woman, who had short auburn hair and a face that was more interesting than beautiful. The huge lenses of her aviator-style glasses could not conceal either the intelligence in the blue eyes or the sprinkle of freckles that spread out from her nose to accent the high cheekbones. “We’re here to see Sidney Prendergast,” he said. “We have an appointment.”

  “That means you guys are Morris and Chastain, right?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Libby and said, “Just put that stuff anywhere on the floor, it’s fine.”

  Morris saw that Libby was moving a pile of four or five books off a nearby armchair. “You’re right,” he said to the young woman. “I’m Quincey Morris, and this is Libby Chastain.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Sidney Prendergast.” She stood, and extended a hand to Morris. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it. As they shook, he noticed that the woman was wearing a faded Harvard T-shirt and blue jeans. As Libby stepped over to shake hands, Morris moved a box full of files off another chair and sat down.

  Once all three of them were seated, Sidney Prendergast closed the ledger before her and said, “Well, let’s start by getting the FAQ stuff out of the way.”

  There was a moment’s silence before Libby said, “You mean ‘frequently asked questions?’”

  “You got it,” Sidney Prendergast said with a nod. “First-time clients usually have the same ones. Such as: ‘Isn’t Sidney a man’s name?’ Answer: yeah, usually, except among old-money WASPs, which my mother was before Granddad pissed away her inheritance.”

  “I see you have done this before,” Morris said with a slight smile.

  “Oh, sure. I don’t mind, really. Let’s see, what else? There’s ‘Why does the door read C. Prendergast and Sons?’ That’s ’cause Dad, Charles Prendergast, was both optimistic and stubborn. My two brothers never found genealogy interesting—one’s a cop in Fall River, and the other one teaches high school—but Dad was too proud to have the sign changed.” Her lips split in a grin. “Besides, he always used to say that I was his favorite son.”

  “Used to say?” Libby asked. “Past tense?”

  “Afraid so. Dad passed away almost three years ago. I’d been working for him part-time for years, and he left me the business.” She gave an exaggerated shrug. “It pays the bills while I finish my diss. After that, we’ll see.”

  “Where are you getting your doctorate?” Morris asked.

  She plucked at the front of her T-shirt, holding it out from her body for a moment. “The shirt tells the true tale,” she declared with another grin. “Veritas, baby, veritas.” Letting the grin fade, she continued, “And considering the cost of tuition at Harvard, I hope you folks have some nice, complicated genealogical research you want done, thus allowing me to present you with a nice, fat bill. So, what’s the deal?”

  Morris said, “We’re interested in tracing a woman who is a descendant of someone executed during the Salem witch trials.”

  Sidney Prendergast studied each of them in turn before saying, “You know, I charge by the hour, with any portion thereof rounded upward.�
� The good humor was gone from her voice now. “So if this is your idea of a giggle, it’s going to end up costing you some money.”

  “No, we’re entirely serious,” Libby said. “And we’re prepared to pay for your time, no matter how much you have to put in.”

  The young woman looked at Libby for a long moment before nodding silently. Then she opened a desk drawer, pulled out a legal pad, and picked up a pencil from the desktop. “So, you want to locate someone who is living today, someone who had an ancestor die during that awful business in Salem, back in the 1690s.”

  Morris and Chastain both nodded.

  Sidney Prendergast wrote rapidly on the pad. Without looking up, she said, “They’ve figured out what caused that, you know.”

  “Caused what?” Morris asked.

  “The fits and other weird behaviors by some of the citizens that got interpreted as witchcraft.” She looked up from her notepad. “Wheat ergot.”

  “Do tell,” Libby murmured politely.

  “Yeah, I read about it in my American Mythology class. Apparently ergot is some kind of fungus that infects grain in the field—wheat, rye, all kinds, I guess. It’s not visible to the naked eye, and the heat you get from baking doesn’t necessarily kill it.”

  “So, what does this sneaky fungus do?” Libby asked.

  “Screws up your central nervous system. People who eat the bread, or cake, or whatever, can be afflicted with uncontrolled twitching of the limbs, paralysis, delirium, all kinds of weird behavior.”

  Morris nodded. “I’ve seen the results of ergot poisoning in the Middle East. It’s not pretty.”

  “No, I guess not. So some of the wheat fields near Salem were apparently carrying ergot, and that wheat was picked, ground, baked, and eaten. Result: a lot of people start acting very strangely, and the authorities decide that they’re either victims of witchcraft, or witches themselves. Then they start arresting and hanging people.”

  “I’m curious about one thing,” Quincey Morris said. “How did the person who came up with this theory actually establish, after three hundred-some years, that ergot was in the wheat consumed by the people of Salem?”