Black Magic Woman (Morris and Chastain Investigations)

by Justin Gustainis

  “Yeah, sure, if you think it’ll help.” Mulderig chewed his lower lip for a moment. “Terrorism, huh? Those Al Qaeda bastards again?”

  “Could be,” Fenton said. “You understand, I can’t talk about the investigation, not at this stage.”

  “Sure, I gotcha.” Mulderig’s face had taken on a grim cast. “I had a cousin, died when the twin towers went down. Knew him since we were both snotnose kids together. You get a chance, stick it to those motherfuckers good, will you?”

  “Count on it,” Fenton said.

  AS THEY WALKED across the parking lot, Fenton glanced at Van Dreenan. “It’s just the two of us here now,” he said. “So, you want to tell me the nature of the bug that’s crawled up your ass?”

  Van Dreenan’s mouth twitched, but what it produced was at best only an approximation of a smile. “Such elegance of metaphor, such poetry.”

  “Here’s another one for you,” Fenton said. “Cut the crap.”

  Van Dreenan produced a sigh that seemed to come from deep inside him. “Unless I am very much mistaken,” he said, “I know who the woman is. When I see the enhancements from the video, I will know for sure. But, to use the American expression, I am ninety percent certain already.”

  “Okay,” Fenton said cautiously. “This would be a good thing—right?”

  “It is, and it isn’t. Certainly, an identification may make it easier to apprehend her. But, given who and what she is, making an arrest may be both more difficult and more dangerous than you might think.”

  Fenton shook his head in bewilderment. “All right, let’s start with the basics. Maybe this will all make sense, eventually. Who is she?”

  “She is almost certainly Cecelia Mbwato, a citizen of South Africa—although, of course, she may not have entered the United States under that name.”

  “And you know her, how?”

  “She is a fugitive from justice. She is wanted in South Africa on numerous charges, including five warrants for suspicion of murder.”

  “I think I already know the answer to this next one, but I’m gonna ask it, anyway,” Fenton said. “What kind of murder is she wanted for?”

  “There is evidence that she cut open the bodies of five persons, and, while they were still alive, removed certain of their bodily organs. The objects of her... attentions died, of course.”

  “Muti murder.”

  “Yes.”

  They had reached their government-issue sedan. The two men got in, Fenton behind the wheel. He did not start up immediately. Instead, he turned to look at Van Dreenan. “Just now, when you said the murder of five persons...”

  “Children,” Van Dreenan said bleakly. “She killed five children.”

  CHAPTER 18

  LIKE THE REST of the French Quarter of New Orleans, Dumaine Street is inundated by hordes of tourists every day. They spill over from Bourbon Street in all directions, in search of fun, local color, and places to spend their money. They usually find all three—the Quarter largely escaped Hurricane Katrina, and the surrounding area was slowly regaining its joie de vivre.

  But things change, once the sun goes down. The tourists move on to other parts of the Quarter, as if somehow sensing that their welcome has been withdrawn with the daylight. The few people who do venture down Dumaine Street after dark are almost always locals, and they walk rapidly, eyes straight ahead, as if they know exactly what they want and where they have to go to get it.

  Quincey Morris and Libby Chastain knew what they wanted, but it had taken them most of the day to find out where it could be found. Quite a few people living in New Orleans are aware that real, authentic voudoun is practiced in their city, but they aren’t always willing to talk about it. Those who know the most often have the least to say, and there are good reasons for their reticence. Nobody wants to come home late some night to find a white feather resting on his pillow.

  Morris and Chastain each had contacts in New Orleans, and several hours of telephone calls had finally paid off. They knew now where to find the woman known as Queen Esther.

  The cabbie who brought them to Dumaine Street was unable to find the address Morris and Chastain had given him, or so he claimed. He dropped them off at a corner, then stuffed his fare in a shirt pocket without counting it. “Place you want’s most likely right around here somewheres,” he said. “You find it pretty quick, I reckon—if you sure you wants to.” And then he was gone, in a squeal of hasty tires.

  They started walking, the warm, moist air enveloping them like a cocoon. “Can’t blame the guy for being skittish,” Morris said. “Of the dozen or so people I talked to today about Queen Esther, two of them called her a bokkor, which means a voodoo black sorcerer. Another one used the term voudonista petro. That’s the name they give to a voodoo practitioner who serves the dark loas.”

  “Demons, you mean.”

  “That’s close enough.”

  “I’m not as familiar with voodoo as I probably should be,” Libby said. “It’s a very different tradition from the one I was trained in. That’s not surprising, I suppose, since Wicca got its start in Europe, and voodoo’s roots are African. How is it you know so much about it?”

  “I worked a case in Baton Rouge a few years back that involved a voodoo curse. This professor at LSU took sick very suddenly, and all the doctors he went to were baffled. They had a whole bunch of tests run on him, I mean they did the whole nine yards, and every single result came back negative. Turned out the guy had been making fun of voodoo beliefs in one of his classes, and word had got back to a local houngan, who took umbrage.”

  “Local what? Hooligan?”

  “No, houngan. A priest of voodoo. He’d put his mojo on the professor pretty good, too. Poor guy was in incredible pain—dying, really—but nobody could figure out why, or what to do about it. Well, turned out the professor had a friend in the Anthropology Department who knew me, and he gave my name to the family. They called me in.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “The houngan died suddenly, which lifted the curse. The professor got better soon afterwards.”

  “Oh.” Libby glanced at Quincey Morris, then looked away. “Do I want to know anymore about that?”

  “No, I don’t reckon you do.”

  They walked on in silence for another couple of minutes, and then Libby stopped before a clapboard storefront. “This is it.”

  Morris consulted the slip of paper he’d pulled from his pocket. “So it is. Let’s hope Queen Esther’s in residence tonight.”

  “She’s here,” Libby said quietly.

  “How do you know?”

  “I can feel her.”

  They climbed two rickety wooden steps and opened a battered screen door, its spring screeching like a scalded cat.

  The inside of Doctor John’s Hoodoo Shop reminded Libby Chastain of the old Woolworth’s she had regularly visited as a child. It had the same wooden floors, translucent globe ceiling lights, and split-level glass display cases. But the merchandise was very different here. The dime stores of Libby’s youth had not offered their customers Four Thieves Vinegar, Hexing Powder, Graveyard Dirt, Cosmic Money Oil, or High John the Conqueror Root.

  Libby’s senses were attuned to magical power, and she knew instantly that the items in the display cases and on the shelves were mostly expensive junk designed to lure the superstitious.

  But there was power somewhere nearby.

  She thought for a moment that it might be coming from the big-boned young black woman who had just risen from a stool behind the counter, but rejected the idea quickly.

  The young woman’s face split in a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “How might I serve you folks this evenin’?”

  “We’re looking for Queen Esther,” Morris told her.

  “Then your search has ended,” the young woman said, drawing herself up into a dignified posture. “I am Queen Esther.”

  “No, you’re not,” Libby said matter-of-factly.

  The young woman looked
at Libby, her eyes narrowed. “Listen, now, I don’t know what—”

  “Martha!” The voice came through a doorway behind the young woman, an opening filled by a beaded curtain. It was a woman’s voice, and to Libby it sounded old but strong, very strong.

  Without another word, the young woman turned and slipped through the curtain into whatever room lay beyond it. A few moments later she was back, the smile gone now. “She say you come on back, de bot’ of you.” Her voice was sullen.

  Libby Chastain followed Quincey Morris behind the counter and through the beaded curtain. It opened onto a short hallway. At its end was another beaded curtain, through which light could be seen flickering.

  As she pushed through the curtain, Libby saw that the illumination came from dozens of candles that burned in every part of the room, the whitewashed walls making the light seem brighter than it was.

  Against the far wall was a tall altar draped in red and black cloth. It held more burning candles, several paintings in small frames, a skull that was large enough to be human, and a machete, its blade covered with splashes and stains that had dried brown. Libby spared the structure only a glance before focusing her attention on the woman who sat in a rocking chair, her back to the altar. She sat rocking slowly, looking for all the world like somebody’s grandmother on the family front porch, passing the time until Murder, She Wrote came on.

  Libby felt the power coming off her in waves.

  Morris didn’t appear to notice, but to Libby’s trained perception it was like standing in front of an open blast furnace, and just about as dangerous.

  The woman didn’t look like anything special. She was small, and old, her iron-gray hair worn short. Amid the many wrinkles in her brown face the dark eyes seemed to glitter, although that may have been an effect of the candlelight. Each finger of the knurled hands bore at least one ring; some had two or three.

  She turned her head slowly toward the doorway and spoke to the tall young woman, who had followed Morris and Chastain into the back. The words were a fast stream of Creole dialect that was incomprehensible to Libby, although she saw Morris’s head come up a few inches. If he had heard something meaningful in the words that sent the young woman scurrying back toward the front of the shop, he gave no hint of what it was.

  The woman in the rocking chair turned back to look at her visitors. “Come closer, now, why don’t you? These eyes of mine don’t see so well like they used to.”

  They each stepped forward. The woman spared Morris only a glance before focusing on Libby. The two women looked at each other impassively for what seemed like a long time. It wasn’t a staring contest as much as a moment of mutual assessment—and mutual warning.

  Morris broke the growing tension by asking, “Queen Esther?”

  The old woman turned her basilisk eyes back to him. “You know already the answer to dat, mistah. Now, why have you come to me?”

  “My name’s Quincey Morris, and this is—”

  “Sidney Prendergast,” Libby said smoothly. In black magic, names are power. No way was she going to let this old witch know hers.

  Morris sent a surprised glance Libby’s way, but recovered quickly. “We were hoping you could help us find someone,” he told Queen Esther.

  She nodded slowly. “I have helped many to find what they seek,” she said. “But not all of them were made happy by their success.”

  “We’re willing to take that chance,” Morris said.

  Another nod. “Very well. One hundred dollars, please.”

  Morris frowned at her. “And what does that buy us, exactly?”

  “It buys you the chance to ask of me what you wish to know.” She smiled, revealing expensive-looking dentures. “The white doctors call it a consultation fee.”

  After a brief hesitation, Morris produced his wallet and pulled out some bills. He took another step forward, holding them out toward the old woman.

  “No,” she told him. “Place them there.” She gestured toward the altar. “They will be an offering to Baron Samedi. Perhaps he will answer your questions.”

  Morris placed the money next to the stained machete, then stepped back. “The woman we’re looking for does magic,” he said. “But she follows the left-hand path. The black arts have been in her family for many generations, handed down mother to daughter, even onto the present day.”

  “She sounds très formidable,” Queen Esther said, in a voice that did not sound at all impressed. “And what is her true name?”

  “That’s the problem, or one of them,” Morris said. “We don’t know her name. But she’s descended from someone who was hanged for witchcraft in Salem, Massachusetts—a woman named Sarah Carter.”

  Queen Esther blinked once, slowly, the way a toad will. “I do not recognize that name. And I do not know the person you describe.”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I was told you did.” The candles flickered again, although there was no breeze in the room.

  “Then you were lied to.” The bony fingers of the right hand began to worry one of the rings worn on the left. “So many lies there are in the world, such deception, so much evil all over.” The ancient eyes locked on Morris’s. “It can ensnare those who are unwise, you know, like the web of a great spider. Happens every day.”

  “But I wanted to—”

  Libby Chastain laid a gentle hand on Morris’s forearm. “We’ve troubled Queen Esther enough, Quincey. We really should go now.” And after bending her head a few inches in the sketchiest of bows to the old woman, Libby led Morris out of the room.

  As they traversed the short hallway leading back to the shop, Morris said quietly from the corner of his mouth, “I assume you know what you’re doing.”

  Libby’s murmured response was, “Trust me.”

  They passed through the beaded curtain into Doctor John’s Hoodoo Shop.

  The tall young woman was nowhere to be seen. The store was deserted.

  “I think maybe we’ve got trouble,” Libby said.

  “Hell, I could’ve told you that.” Morris went quickly to a set of shelves near the door. He spent a few moments scanning the items arrayed there. Then he took down a jar, checked the label, and unscrewed the lid.

  “What are you doing?” Libby asked.

  “Shoplifting.” He dropped the lid on to the counter, but hung on to the jar, which had a garish green label that Libby couldn’t read. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Libby followed Morris through the noisy screen door and down the two steps. At the sidewalk, he turned right.

  “Wait,” Libby said. “We came this way.” She pointed to the left.

  “I know. That’s why we’re going the other way. Come on, hurry.”

  They had walked about fifty feet when two men stepped out of a doorway and into their path. They were black and big and they walked stiffly, as if unused to moving around much.

  Each one held a large knife.

  Libby’s notion that these might be garden-variety muggers was quickly dispelled. The men didn’t demand money, or anything else. And in the glow of a nearby street light she saw that their eyes looked completely white, as if the pupils had rolled back into their heads.

  As if they were dead.

  Heavy footsteps behind her caused Libby to look over her shoulder. Three more men, armed and disposed similarly to the two in front, were bearing down on them.

  “Shit,” Morris said. “Queen Esther likes to hedge her bets.”

  “I haven’t got anything prepared to deal with this,” Libby said tensely.

  The men shambled toward them, knives ready.

  “Fortunately, I have,” Morris told her.

  He held the jar from the voodoo shop in his right hand, three fingers spread over the mouth with space between them. He raised his hand, then suddenly swept it across his body in a wide arc, pivoting as he did so, and he sprayed liquid from the jar on all five of the men. “Get thee hence!” he cried, then brought his arm back the other way, causing more liquid to
spew out between his fingers. “Leave us be, now and henceforth!” Then a third time, front and back, the last of the jar’s contents splashing the men’s faces. “Begone!”

  The men cowered back, like Frankenstein’s monster confronted with fire. Their knives clattered to the pavement and they brought their arms up over their faces. Then, making inarticulate sounds of fear and dismay, they turned and shuffled away—two down the alley, the other three back the way they had come on Dumaine Street.

  Morris grabbed Libby’s arm. “Come on.” They crossed the street, walking rapidly.

  “Where are we going?” Libby asked.

  “Anywhere there’s lights and people, the more the better.”

  “Then let’s take the next left, if it looks safe. That’s the quickest way to the center of the Quarter.”

  Less than three minutes later they were on Bourbon Street, surrounded by music and neon and drunken tourists. Libby noticed that Morris was still clutching the empty jar. “Let me see that, will you?”

  “What? Oh, sure. Here.”

  She looked at the label, gothic black letters printed over a green background. “St. Louis Cemetery Black Banishing Oil?”

  Morris nodded, looking pleased with himself. “Yep. Guaranteed to confuse, frustrate, and repel your enemies, whoever they may be, living, dead, or undead.”

  “I thought all that stuff was just a shuck. You know, like rabbits’ feet and four-leaf clovers.”

  Morris took the jar back and tossed it in a nearby trashcan. “What, you don’t think rabbits’ feet are lucky?”

  “Weren’t too lucky for the rabbit, were they?”

  “Good point. Well, a lot of those voodoo charms and potions are worthless, but not all of them. Obviously.”

  “Obviously is right. It’s good you know what works and what doesn’t.”

  “Most important thing is those zombies think it works.”