Black Magic Woman (Morris and Chastain Investigations)

by Justin Gustainis

  He had just opened his small suitcase on the bed when he realized that the news broadcast wasn’t doing sports, after all.

  CECELIA MBWATO ANSWERED the knock at her door, wondering why Snake’s rapping sounded so urgent. Her insides went tight when she saw his grim expression. “Got us a little problem,” he told her. “Put the TV on, Channel 5.”

  She wasted no time in questions, and a few moments later they were watching a young woman with a microphone, doing a live report from a location that looked all too familiar.

  “—are releasing few details at this time. They have refused thus far to confirm or deny that this horrible murder fits the pattern of the so-called ‘Water Killer,’ who has abducted, murdered, and mutilated several other children in Eastern states over the last few weeks, leaving their bodies near water each time. The college students who observed the crime from a safe distance have declined to be interviewed on camera, but one of them has told Channel Five Action News that she has never heard anything as horrible as the—”

  Cecelia Mbwato swore a series of terrible oaths in Zulu. Then she took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself before saying to Snake, “The car. Have they said anything about the car?”

  “Nothin’ that I’ve heard so far.”

  “They may still have knowledge of it—the car and the license number both.” She began to pace, although the size of the room only allowed her three steps in each direction. “With these computers they have, that Internet, every policeman in this cursed country may know by now.”

  “Well, maybe, but I don’t reckon it’s real—”

  “We were seen.” She stopped and stood facing him. For the first time since he had known her, her face showed something besides contempt, or malice, or simple concentration. Now it was showing something that looked a lot like fear. “Do you not understand? We were seen!”

  Snake Perkins actually experienced a momentary urge to comfort her in her distress. But he crushed it, as he had always done with such feelings, and instead put his mind to the problem at hand. Cecelia Mbwato had resumed pacing, and she had made four more trips back and forth across the worn carpet before Snake said, “Be right back,” turned to the door, and went out.

  He was gone just long enough for her to start wondering whether he had decided to cut his losses and run, leaving her for the police. Then he came back in, carrying the battered Rand-McNally road atlas that she remembered seeing in the car.

  He went over to the rickety table they had earlier used to perform the ritual, quickly flipped through the atlas’s pages, then put it down, open, on the table. “Lookee here,” he said to Cecelia Mbwato.

  She saw that he had opened the atlas to a double-page spread showing Rhode Island and Massachusetts. Snake’s index finger stabbed down to a point near West Warwick, Rhode Island. “We’re here, okay?” Then the finger moved six or seven inches. “Over here’s Salem.”

  His finger traced along the line indicating Route 95. “Most direct route, and the fastest, is along the major highways. If they’s watchin’ for us, that’s mostly where they gonna do it. Hell, there’s state cops along there all the time anyways, lookin’ for speeders. We pass one of them ol’ boys, and he’s got us on his hot sheet, then we’re fucked, plain and simple.”

  Cecelia Mbwato had regained some of her composure now. “You should steal another license plate and switch them, as you did the last time.”

  “I was plannin’ to do just that,” Snake told her. “But that don’t buy us as much as you might think. Can’t be that many ’97 Connies painted British racing green on the road. And those with a white guy and a black woman inside, gonna be even less. Cops might just pull over anything matches that description, so’s they can check IDs and registration. They do that, and we’re right back to being fucked again.”

  “So what do you suggest we do?”

  “First thing, we travel only at night. Make it harder for anybody to see who’s inside the Connie. That means we ain’t gonna hit Salem until tomorrow night, seein’ as it’s about two hours ’til sunup right now.”

  “All right,” she said. “That makes sense, even if it does delay us.”

  “Second thing,” Snake said, “is we forget about the interstates and turnpikes. We use secondary roads only, the more secondary the better. Smaller towns, the cops is less likely to be keepin’ their eyes out for us. Can’t spare the manpower. And if one of ’em does pull us over”—he glanced toward what he had taken to calling Cecelia Mbwato’s “bag of tricks”—“well, we got a better chance of dealin’ with him ’fore he puts out a call for help to the other little pigs.”

  She pulled in a big breath and let it out. “Very well. That is a sensible plan. I agree.”

  Snake grinned at her. “Figured you would. Well, you’d best finish packin’.” He went to the door, then turned back before opening it. “Me, I got some license plates to liberate.”

  CHAPTER 26

  IN ORDER TO avoid wrapping the car around a tree, Fenton was only able to spare quick glances toward the object that Van Dreenan had produced from his briefcase, but the first glimpse was enough to tell him that it was like nothing he had ever seen before.

  “I was just about to say,” he said, watching the road again, “that you have got to be kidding me. But by now, I guess I know better. You’re serious as hell, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” Van Dreenan replied. “And Hell is very serious, indeed, as we both have reason to know.”

  “And we’re going to use that thing to find two serial murderers.”

  “Such is my devout hope. And didn’t we agree that you were going to keep an open mind?”

  Fenton shook his head a couple of times, a gesture that said as clearly as words, “What have I gotten myself into?” “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I did.” The headshake again. “Just remind me not to put any of this in my report.”

  He glanced again at the apparatus that Van Dreenan was now holding in his lap, atop the closed lid of his briefcase. “You wanna tell me how that contraption is supposed to work?”

  The main part of the device was a carved wooden semicircle, like a capital “C,” that was about six inches from tip to tip. Arcane symbols had been carved into the wood, and one arm was flattened on the bottom so that the whole thing could stand upright by itself. The two ends of the “C” were connected by a thin length of rigid filament that might have been piano wire. Before being attached to the frame, the wire had been used to skewer another piece of wood that was the general shape of a pencil or stake, an impression strengthened by the sharp-looking point carved at one end. This component was able to pivot freely in the frame, using the wire as an axis. The pencil-shaped piece of wood was wrapped with something that looked like black thread.

  “I cannot explain the magical aspect,” Van Dreenan said. “For that, you would need to talk with Elizabeth Chastain, the woman who made it for me, or to some other practitioner of so-called ‘white’ witchcraft. But for practical purposes, this device is a locator. It has been attuned to one person only, and that person is Cecelia Mbwato.”

  Fenton risked another quick look before turning back to the road. “How the hell did she do that?” he asked. “Or is that part of the magic stuff you can’t explain?”

  “This pointer here—” Van Dreenan touched the pencil-shaped piece of wood, “—is wrapped in hair belonging to Cecelia Mbwato. Elizabeth used what she called an affinity spell on it. Simply put, like attracts like.”

  “I remember you gave me some of that bitch’s hair to pass on to Forensics for DNA analysis. What’d you do, hold out on me?”

  “I did no such thing, my friend. The FBI lab got all the hair it needed for its various procedures. I simply asked Sergeant Shemba to send along some extra from the evidence file.”

  “Sergeant Shemba. I think I remember hearing about him.”

  “Indeed you did,” Van Dreenan said. “A good man.”

  “So this thing is supposed to act like a compass, except i
nstead of pointing due north, it points toward Cecelia fucking Mbwato?”

  “An excellent analogy, and very astute. That is precisely what it does.”

  “How can you be sure the thing’s gonna work?”

  “It is already working.”

  There was a moment’s silence in the car. “And you know that how?”

  “You did not notice, because you were wisely concentrating on this miserable road,” Van Dreenan said. “But when I removed this device from my case, the indicator happened to be pointing toward you. Observe, please, which way it is aiming now.”

  Fenton glanced over. “It’s pointing out the windshield, toward the front of the car.”

  “And we already know that our quarry left the reservoir using this route. The witnesses have said so.”

  “Uh-huh. I don’t mean to be the pimple on the ass of this little expedition, but that could be just coincidence, man.”

  “Indeed, it could. But the end of this road is coming up, I am glad to see. Let us see what happens when we reach the point where it intersects with the perpendicular road below, and a choice of directions must be made.”

  As the car approached the paved thoroughfare that ran left to right across the end of the access road, Fenton slowed to a crawl. He wanted to watch the locater without risking an accident with the car. The moon was bright enough that he could see without having to put on the dome light and ruin his night vision.

  Just as the car’s front wheels left the dirt road for the asphalt of the newer one, the pointer, of its own volition, turned to the left. Van Dreenan’s hand, Fenton was sure, had not touched it, or tilted the frame.

  Fenton blinked rapidly a couple of times. Then he took in a big breath, let it out, and said, “Guess we’d better turn left, huh?”

  “A wise choice.”

  And so they went, off into the darkness.

  THE SUN HAD been up for about half an hour when Snake Perkins came out of the Shamrock Motel’s office dangling a room key between two fingers. He walked the fifty or so feet to where he had left the Connie, opened the door, and slid behind the wheel. He said to Cecelia Mbwato, “Usual check-in time’s noon or later, so I had to pay the bastard extra, but it’s worth it for us to get out of sight for a while.”

  “Just one room this time, yes?”

  “Yeah, like we talked about. It’ll draw less attention. So I registered us as Mr. and Mrs.”

  Cecelia Mbwato made a grunting sound that could have meant anything.

  “And since I parked out of sight from the office window, Mister Motel Manager didn’t get a look at who the ‘Mrs.’ is. Not that he probably gives a damn.”

  Snake started the engine and drove around to the back of the one-story building, where he pulled up in front of room 119. “I told the guy we wouldn’t be needin’ any maid service. Kinda gave him a wink when I said it, so he most likely figures we’re gonna be spending the day in there, well, you know.”

  “Fucking,” Cecelia said. Her voice and face were both lacking in expression.

  “Well, uh, yeah, something like that.”

  Snake pulled the room key out of his pocket. “I’m gonna get the door open and bring our stuff inside. Then I’ll take a quick look around, to be sure nobody’s paying us any attention. When I give you the wave, come on in the room. Don’t run or nothin’, but don’t dawdle neither. Okay?”

  “Yes, fine, go ahead.”

  A few minutes later, Snake was closing the door of room 119, Cecelia Mbwato safely inside with him. “There’s some fast food restaurants down the street,” he said. “Later on, I’ll take a walk over there, get us something to eat, and bring it back. But right now, I could use a shower and some sleep. How ’bout you?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I am very tired, also.”

  Snake hesitated briefly before saying, “Well, there’s just the one bed. But we’re both grown up and all. I reckon we can manage without getting all dainty about it.”

  “Yes, no doubt.”

  Twenty minutes later, freshly showered and wearing only his undershorts, Snake slipped into the double bed, where Cecelia Mbwato appeared to be already asleep. He had, in fact, been feeling a little uneasy about the sleeping arrangements, but not for the obvious reason.

  Snake had grown up believing that all black people smelled bad, even when, like Cecelia, they had recently showered. That was just how they were. In the car, he had kept his window down to avoid having to smell her, but now it was unavoidable. However, he was pleasantly surprised to find that Cecelia Mbwato did not stink. She smelled faintly of cinnamon, and nothing else. Just goes to show you, he thought.

  He turned on his side away from her and was, in fact, on the point of dropping off when he felt her weight shift on the mattress next to him. A moment later he became aware of her arm sliding around his waist. Then, after a few seconds’ fumbling under the sheet, he felt her fingers encircle his penis, which immediately began to come erect.

  Her voice in his ear was hardly louder than a whisper when she said, “There is more than one way to pass the time.”

  QUINCEY MORRIS FOLLOWED Libby Chastain out the front door of her apartment building and onto the sidewalk. Both of them had to squint against the morning sunlight.

  “Where’s our best bet for getting a cab?” he asked.

  “Down the street and around the corner,” Libby said. “It’ll be quicker than phoning for one, this time of day.”

  As they walked, Morris adjusted the strap of his carry-on bag. “Your sofa is more comfortable than it looks,” he said. “Thanks for the use of it.”

  “My pleasure. No point in running up expenses on the LaRues unnecessarily. Besides, I think it’s wise for us to stay together until this business is settled.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. Well, maybe we can get it settled, now that we finally know where to go.”

  They moved to one side to make room for a pretty young woman who was walking six dogs at once, three leashes per hand.

  “Salem, of all places,” Libby said, once the dog walker had passed. “Talk about hiding in plain sight.” She frowned briefly. “Who said that, anyway? ‘Hide in plain sight?’”

  Morris thought for a moment. “Don’t know. It was Poe came up with the idea, in ‘The Purloined Letter.’ But I don’t think he used that expression. I have a feeling it originated later.”

  “Well, Christine Abernathy’s days of hiding would seem to be just about over,” Libby said. “Did you know she’s even listed? I called Directory Assistance and checked while you were in the shower.”

  “Bet she doesn’t advertise in the Yellow Pages, though.”

  “No, I don’t think even Ms. Abernathy has that much in the way of balls.”

  “Sure you don’t mean ‘ovaries?’ That’s the politically correct term when referring to a woman, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is,” Libby said. “But what I meant was balls.”

  CHAPTER 27

  IN THE BASEMENT of a house in Salem, Massachusetts, Christine Abernathy sat peering into a large ceramic bowl on the table before her. The vessel was decorated with a variety of cryptic symbols that had been applied with fresh baby’s blood shortly after the bowl had been made, some two hundred and eighty years earlier.

  Five squat black candles burned on the table, their light reflecting on the surface of the dark liquid that filled the bowl almost to the brim. The odor given off by the liquid was a pungent combination of kerosene and sulfur.

  She added ingredients from several jars and bottles nearby, making complex signs with each addition and murmuring all the while in ancient Chaldean, a tongue that was archaic when Christianity was still young.

  Some say that it was the language used by a certain serpent when it came to tempt a naive young woman, in a garden long ago.

  After the fifth ingredient had been added, the liquid suddenly cleared. On its surface appeared a moving image, almost as if a small television had been somehow turned on within the bowl itself.


  The image showed a slim man with black hair and a tall, brown-haired woman. They each carried a suitcase and appeared to be walking along an urban sidewalk.

  The powerful fetish she had been expecting from Cecelia Mbwato had not been delivered the night before. Christine Abernathy very much hoped, for everyone’s sake, that nothing had gone wrong, and that her two associates had only been delayed. She would wait until she had the fetish in her possession before taking definitive steps against the LaRues, but overnight she had developed an idea for dealing with Morris and Chastain. It was now time to make it work.

  Christine Abernathy spoke three more words and made a gesture with both hands over the bowl. The focus of the image began to broaden, as if a lens were being adjusted and pulled back for a wider view.

  She could see the street now, and the busy traffic that traversed it, stopped now for a red light. She scanned the line of cars quickly, then seemed to settle on one, a blue SUV. Eyes narrowed, Christine began to speak loudly and very fast, all her considerable power focused on that one vehicle—and its driver.

  ARCH TRACY WAS worried. Traffic was backed up, and if he was late again, which would be the third time this month, he was going to get a load of shit from Puckett, the foreman. They wouldn’t fire him, not for that—he was one of the best welders they had, even that fucking Puckett had said so once. Besides it was a union shop, which meant to get fired Tracy would have to stick his torch up Puckett’s fat ass and then give the gas valve a good, hard squeeze. A smile twitched across Arch Tracy’s face as his mind entertained the image. Might almost be worth it. Hell, I can always get another job.

  Some impulse caused him to look off to the right, where the pedestrians were making their way along the sidewalk. This being New York and rush hour, most of them were moving along pretty briskly.