“BODY OF MISSING GIRL FOUND,” said the final news article. It went on, “The remains of Katerina Van Dreenan, age 9, were discovered today by a pair of hikers near the edge of Centurion Lake outside Pretoria. The girl, daughter of South African Police officer Garth Van Dreenan and his wife Judith, had been the focus of an intense search since she was reported missing on Tuesday. Authorities declined to comment today on unconfirmed reports that the girl had been the apparent victim of a ‘muti killing,’ since several organs were said to be missing from the body. A police spokesman would only say that a full investigation has been launched, and arrests are expected any...”
Having driven the dagger into his heart yet another time, Van Dreenan replaced the clippings in their envelope, got into bed, and turned out the light. After a while, exhaustion overcame grief and, mercifully, let him sleep.
He had been asleep perhaps forty minutes when the telephone rang. He answered it on the second ring, without fumbling or confusion—he had been awakened by the phone many times in his career, and none of the news had ever been good.
“Ja. Van Dreenan.”
The voice in his ear belonged to Fenton, who did not waste time with polite preliminaries. “We’ve got another one,” he said.
CHAPTER 14
ONLY A HANDFUL of people were working in the FBI field office at that hour, and a few looked up from their desks and stared at Van Dreenan as he quick-marched past them on his way to Fenton’s glorified cubbyhole.
A few seconds later, Van Dreenan was leaning over Fenton’s shoulder, asking, “What do we know thus far?”
“They’re on the move,” Fenton told him. “New Jersey, this time. Body was found this afternoon, in a wooded area outside Glassboro.” Crime scene photos were still coming in online, and Fenton was downloading them into a USB flash drive he had attached to his laptop computer.
“Near water?” Van Dreenan asked.
“Yeah, looks like there’s a little creek runs about fifty feet away.”
“The victim—boy or girl?”
“Girl,” Fenton said, and he felt rather than saw Van Dreenan stiffen for a moment. Then the big South African straightened up, went around to the room’s only other chair, and sat down heavily.
Van Dreenan ran his hand through his thick hair a couple of times before asking, “What organs were taken, do we know?”
“Not yet. The local M.E.’s office is rushing the autopsy, but it’s still not going to get done until tomorrow. For what it’s worth, one of the first cops on the scene is saying, off the record, that it looks like they cut off the poor kid’s labia. That’s the—”
“External lips of the vagina, yes I know,” Van Dreenan said. His voice had no effect at all.
“And the male victims were missing their penises, among other organs,” Fenton said thoughtfully. Then he shook his head. “How is that supposed to give power to some fucking witch? Jesus, it’s not like these kids lived long enough to be sexually active.”
“That is, in fact, the point, Agent Fenton. The organs, never having been employed for a sexual purpose, are thus pure, unsullied. They have lost none of their power as mechanisms of creation.” Van Dreenan shrugged. “Or so some African sorcerers believe. It varies, by tribe and region. There is also the idea of luck.”
“Say again? Luck?”
Van Dreenan nodded. “Some tribal belief systems hold that each of us is born with a certain amount of luck allocated by God. It is seen as a capital sum, reduced by expenditure. If a man has a lot of good luck when he is young, his well may have run dry, as it were, by the time he reaches middle age.”
“Yeah, so? What’s that got to do with killing kids?”
“Children, by definition, have not lived long enough to have expended a great deal of their luck. Most of it is still present. And some sorcerers will claim that they can capture that luck and transfer it to another person, by removing certain of a child’s bodily organs and incorporating them into a religious totem, or fetish.”
“Sick bastards.” Fenton leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, I know, I know. I’ve got a Master’s in Psychology from Stanford, and I’ve been with Behavioral Science for three years, and I’m not supposed to think that way about somebody’s aberrant behavior, but, fuck it, these are just sick bastards.”
“I could not agree more,” Van Dreenan said. “I do not suppose one of the perpetrators was considerate enough to leave behind a wallet on this occasion, or perhaps a business card, or at least some usable fingerprints.”
“Not fucking likely. We did get a few clear footprints this time, but that only helps us if we’ve got a suspect in custody to compare them to. Couple of interesting things about those footprints, though.”
Van Dreenan raised polite eyebrows. “Indeed?”
“The feet were bare, for one thing.”
“That is common in most such rituals, in Africa. It appears that someone has been doing his homework. Or—”
Fenton looked at him sharply. “Or what?”
Van Dreenan shook his head slightly. “Something for later, perhaps. Now, what was the other interesting thing about the footprints?”
“Well, the guy I talked to from the local FBI field office wasn’t sure, because you can’t be, really, but he said if he had to put money on it, it would be a pretty safe bet.”
Van Dreenan made an impatient gesture. “Spare me the suspense, mann. What would be this safe bet?”
“That the footprints were made by a woman.”
CHRISTINE ABERNATHY BLEW out the black candle and slammed her spell book closed in frustration. She cursed out loud, both obscenely and viciously, although even then she was careful of what she said. In this room, there were some names that must not be invoked, certain acts that should not be mentioned, lest they be considered invitations by someone—or something.
She had been trying for almost two hours to cast a spell that would bring death and destruction to the LaRue family in Wisconsin. Not only was carrying on the centuries-old feud a family obligation (a fact that Mother had beaten into her thoroughly), but Christine wanted to be the witch in her line to end it, once and for all. Her ancestors had managed to inflict considerable damage on the relatives of Sarah Carter over the years, but always some had escaped to continue the bloodline. She wanted to be the one to deliver the deathblow, as none before her had been able to do.
Christine Abernathy wondered if a cheer would go up in Hell on the day she finally destroyed the LaRues. There were enough of her family members there to create quite a din.
Clearly, that bitch Chastain had installed a strong system of wards and protections in the LaRue house. Well, Christine would be doing something about that meddling Wiccunt soon enough.
And, in any case, the collection of fetishes that was being prepared by the African woman, Mbwato, would be ready shortly. The child murders were starting to get national media attention, and you could follow on a map the progress of Mbwato and Christine’s minion, Snake, as they harvested what they needed. Judging by the number of dead children they had left behind, the two of them were almost done.
Christine would, of course, deliver the fetishes to Walter Grobius, as agreed. He was paying her a great deal of money for them, and would not take well to being cheated. Although she was a black witch of considerable power, Christine Abernathy still understood the value of discretion. There were only a few people in this world who belonged on her list of Persons Not To Be Fucked With. Mother had been one. And Walter Grobius was clearly another.
But nothing said she couldn’t use the power of the African fetishes to do a little spell casting of her own before turning them over to her client. The fetishes would not be diminished in any way by such usage. And their power should allow Christine Abernathy to go through Libby Chastain’s defenses like a hot knife through a baby’s arm.
She wondered if the LaRues would curse Libby Chastain in their final moments, when they realized that the white witch bitch had failed them. Christine rat
her hoped they would.
VIRTUALLY EVERY GAS station in America has a convenience store attached, and Drexler’s Sunoco, on the east side of Glassboro, New Jersey, was no exception.
“Gonna go take a leak,” Snake Perkins said, turning off the Lincoln’s engine. “Then I’ll fill ’er up and we can hit the highway.”
Cecelia Mbwato looked at the brightly lit little shop just the other side of the gas pumps. “I am hungry, a bit,” she said to Snake. “When you have emptied your bladder, go into that store there and get me some groundnuts.”
Snake stared at her. “Some what?”
Cecelia clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Peanuts, you call them here. Buy me some peanuts.”
“Yeah, sure, okay. You want regular or dry-roasted? Little bag, big bag, can, or maybe a jar?” Snake was jerking her chain, just a little.
She gave him a disgusted look and opened her door. “Go!” she said with an impatient gesture. “Do your business. I will get them for myself.”
She walked briskly over to the white man’s store, her flip-flops (one of the few things about this country that she liked) slapping against the asphalt. The handle of her large cloth bag, too big to be called a purse, was tightly clutched in one hand.
It took her a few minutes to find the section of the store she wanted, and a few more to make up her mind, given the variety of peanuts and packaging she was faced with. So many choices! Who needed so many ways to buy simple groundnuts?
She finally chose a bag of Planters cocktail peanuts and headed toward the front of the store to pay for it. The young man behind the counter was one of what back home were called “coloreds”—probably Indian or Pakistani. Another man reached the cash register ahead of her, and she stood a few feet behind him, waiting her turn.
Then the man in front of her reached under his filthy jacket and pulled out a gun.
He clutched the big revolver in both hands, pointed it at the clerk’s face and screamed, “Gimme the money! All of it! Hurry up, motherfucker!”
He turned then, wagging the gun barrel as if to confront a horde of angry customers behind him, and saw that Cecelia was the only other person in the place. She noticed that his face bore five or six ugly scabs, some of which appeared to be infected. His eyes were those of a maniac.
He pointed his gun at Cecelia’s chest. “You! Freeze! Get on your knees! Now!”
Cecelia decided not to point out the contradiction in his screamed commands, and knelt down obediently on the dirty linoleum. She let the packet of peanuts slip from her fingers and fall quietly to the floor. She wanted both her hands free, just in case.
The terrified clerk was pulling bills from the cash drawer with hands that shook.
“Get the big bills underneath the drawer, too, asshole! All of it! Move!”
The man turned back to Cecelia. “What’s in the bag, lady?”
“Just my things,” Cecelia answered calmly. She very much hoped that Snake Perkins, who had his own gun, did not come through the door in the next few seconds, or there was likely to be a bloodbath in here, and some of that blood might be hers.
“Gimme!” the man said. “Come on, gimme the fuckin’ bag!”
“All right, just don’t hurt me,” she said. There were things in that bag that Cecelia Mbwato could simply not afford to lose. Not now. She faked a coughing fit, to distract the robber for a few precious seconds while one hand slipped into her bag. Fortunately, what she needed was in a small vial near the top.
The man turned to scream at the clerk some more, and when he returned his attention to Cecelia, she had palmed the vial she wanted and flicked the cap off with her thumbnail.
“I said gimme the fuckin’ bag, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ nigger head off!”
“Here, take it, take it,” she said in a voice that pleaded. She held the bag out to him, but just before his fingers could grasp it, she let the thing fall to the floor.
When he bent forward to pick it up, Cecelia Mbwato extended her other hand out to him, palm up, fingers together. There was a small quantity of fine gray powder on her palm.
Then, with a quick puff of breath, she blew the powder into his eyes.
The robber stepped back instantly, recoiling, and then Cecelia said a phrase, softly but very quickly, in Zulu.
A moment later, the man’s eyes started bleeding.
He let out a screech and dropped his pistol—which fortunately, did not discharge when it hit the floor. He was reeling like a drunk now, clutching his eyes as the blood continued to flow through his fingers.
Cecelia Mbwato nodded to herself once and retrieved her bag, along with the package of peanuts. She got quickly to her feet, dodged around the staggering, screaming robber, and slipped out through the door.
Snake Perkins was just putting the gas cap back on the Lincoln as Cecelia hustled over to the car and yanked the front passenger door open. “Get in!” she snapped. “Quickly!”
Snake looked at her in bewilderment. “But I gotta pay for the—”
“Get in and drive!” she said, her voice cracking like a rhino-hide whip.
Snake sent one quick glance toward the convenience store she had just left, and saw that a little guy with brown skin and black, wavy hair was using a baseball bat to beat the shit out of some other dude who had his hands to his face and appeared to be seriously fucked up.
Then he got in the car and drove.
CHAPTER 15
THE GNOSTIC CHURCH of Satan occupied a converted storefront at the fringes of the Tenderloin, an area that most San Franciscans refer to simply as “the bad part of town.” As he and Libby Chastain approached the old building, Morris thought he could detect faded lettering above the big front windows that appeared to read “S.S. Kresge & Co.”
Just inside the door was a small foyer containing shelves full of pamphlets, a few chairs, and a battered old desk that looked like salvage from the front of some 1960s high school homeroom. Behind the desk sat a young woman done up in a good imitation of Morticia from The Addams Family. She looked at her visitors without much interest, took a drag on her Marlboro, and asked in a bored voice, “Help you?”
“We’d like to see Simon Duval,” Morris said.
“He’s awful busy. You got an appointment, or something?”
“No, but tell him Quincey Morris is here.”
“Well, like I said, he’s real—”
“Go ahead and tell him, dear,” Libby Chastain said gently. “It’ll be all right, I promise.”
The girl stared at Libby, then stood without a word and went out through a nearby door.
“What was that?” Morris asked softly. “Magic mind control?”
“Just a little kindness,” Libby told him. “She hasn’t seen much of it in her life.”
“How do you know that?”
“Really, Quincey—do you think anyone well acquainted with human kindness would feel the need to hang around a place like this?”
Morticia was back within a minute. “Okay, come on,” she said, sounding surprised. They followed her along a dimly lit hallway that smelled faintly of incense, stopping at a red-painted door with black accents. Hanging from a nail was a small sign that read, “The Devil is IN—each of us.”
The girl knocked, turned the knob, and stepped into the room. “This is them,” she said to someone inside, then turned to Morris and Libby. “Come on in.”
As he passed the door, Morris indulged his curiosity and turned the little sign around for a moment. On the back it read, “The Devil is OUT—to get YOU!”
The girl slipped out, closing the door behind her. Quincey Morris and Libby Chastain were left staring across a gleaming mahogany table at the Devil—or, at least, at the man who claimed to be his representative on Earth.
Simon Duval at least looked the part. He was thin to the point of emaciation, and his shiny black eyes were sunken deep in his skull. The jet-black goatee matched his hair, which was combed straight back to a widow’s peak. He wore a black silk shi
rt buttoned to the collar, and he stared at his visitors over long, bony fingers that were steepled just under the thin, unforgiving mouth.
Then the fingers were withdrawn, and the mouth curved into a wide grin. “Quincey!” Duval said, with what sounded like real pleasure. He got to his feet and came around the desk, extending a hand. “Que fucking pasa, hombre?”
Morris, with a matching grin, approached and shook hands.
Duval stepped back and said, “You’re looking good, man. Ghostbusting seems to agree with you.” Then he turned to Libby. “And who’s this lovely lady?”
After Morris performed introductions, Duval invited his guests to sit down, then returned to his own chair. “Would you folks care for something to drink?” he asked. “Coffee, tea, beer, soda, virgin’s blood?”
They declined politely. With a perfectly straight face, Morris said to Libby, “It’s not like you to pass up virgin’s blood.”
Libby’s mouth crinkled at the corners as she said, “I’ve been trying to cut back. Gives me gas.”
Duval gave a bark of laughter. “I see you’re traveling with a better class of people than usual, Quincey.”
“And I see you’re still trying to make a buck off fake fire and brimstone,” Morris said with a smile.
“Trying, and succeeding—big time,” Duval replied. “You’d be amazed how many people are willing to pay serious money for the chance to put on a cowled robe and stand around in a circle chanting the Lord’s Prayer backwards. Maybe piss on a crucifix as an encore.”
“I can imagine,” Morris said. “Or, rather, I can’t.”
“Oh, hell, it’s just a harmless way for these jerks to feel wicked,” Duval said. “Or maybe to rebel against their tight-ass upbringing. A lot of our members went to Catholic school as kids. They probably get a big thrill imagining what Sister Mary Paschal Candle would say if she could see them now. Although,” he added, “some of them just join for the sex.”
Black Magic Woman (Morris and Chastain Investigations) Page 12