Longarm and the Voodoo Queen

by Tabor Evans

  The only way to get at him now, thought Longarm with a grin, was with some of that voodoo.

  He chuckled tiredly to himself as he looked around for a cab. There were none to be seen. The customers who had departed recently had probably engaged all the cabs that normally hung around the outside of the club. Longarm grunted. Looked like he might have to walk back to the St. Charles. Well, it wasn't really all that far, he told himself.

  Gallatin Street had calmed down a little due to the late hour, but it was still a busy place. Quite a few people were on the sidewalks, and Longarm kept a close eye on them as he strolled along. This was the sort of neighborhood where a fella could get his throat cut for his pocket watch--or even less. He remembered what Millard had said about how his friends and associates were safe in Gallatin Street, but that only applied if the would-be cutthroat knew that his intended victim was connected with Millard. Anybody could make a mistake.

  No one bothered Longarm, however. People seemed to be minding their own business. A couple of whores tried to entice him into their cribs, but he just grinned, tipped his hat, and walked on.

  Still, despite the lack of anything suspicious, Longarm felt the hair on the back of his neck beginning to rise. His years as a lawman had given him a finely honed instinct for trouble. Sometimes he thought it bordered on the downright supernatural, and he had learned to trust it. He glanced over his shoulder, saw nothing unusual, and walked on.

  Gallatin Street merged with Decatur, and as Longarm left the notorious district behind, the city blocks became darker and more deserted. He could still hear music in the night and an occasional burst of laughter, but he was soon the only pedestrian in sight. His footsteps echoed hollowly against the walls of the buildings he passed.

  Then, as if to confirm that his instincts were still true, the scrape of soft, dragging footsteps came from somewhere behind him.

  Longarm's muscles tensed at the sound, but he kept walking, not wanting to betray by his actions that he had heard it. It was possible, of course, that whoever was walking back there had nothing at all to do with him.

  Possible... but every nerve in his body was screaming that that was not the case.

  Whoever it was didn't seem to be in any hurry. Longarm kept his own pace casual, deliberate. He passed underneath one of the gas street lamps of which the city fathers were so proud, walked on half a block, then glanced over his shoulder. He caught just a glimpse of a figure passing out of the circle of illumination. A big man, dressed in rough Work clothing. A stevedore from the docks, maybe. Just somebody on his way to work, Longarm told himself. Dawn was not far off, and dock workers started their day early.

  The only problem with that theory was that the docks were in the other direction.

  By now, Royale had to have figured out that Longarm was working for Jasper Millard. Royale's men would have seen him twice, once saving Millard from the bushwhack attempt during the raid on the club and again during the ambush down in the bayou country. They probably had a pretty good idea that he was Millard's new right-hand man. That would give Royale a good reason for wanting him dead--or better yet, a prisoner who could be interrogated and made to give up all of Millard's secrets.

  As a point of fact, Longarm didn't really know any of Millard's secrets just yet. But Royale might not be aware of that.

  Whether Royale wanted him killed or captured didn't really matter. Longarm didn't intend to allow either of those things to come to pass.

  He walked under another street light, still taking it slow and easy. From the sound of the footsteps behind him, the fella who was shuffling along back there had closed up the gap a little. But he wasn't in any hurry either. He sure did drag his feet too, noted Longarm. The footsteps were slow but inexorable, and they came steadily closer.

  Longarm glanced back again, and this time he got a better look at his follower. The man was so tall and broad-shouldered that he reminded Longarm of a medium-sized tree. His arms hung limply at his sides and seemed to dangle almost to his knees. His dark, curly hair was cut short, and in the light of the street lamp, his skin was like rich chocolate.

  Why would some gigantic black fella be following him? Longarm wondered. The man wasn't wearing a derby and a bandanna mask, and he didn't strike Longarm as the type that Royale would have hired in the first place. All the rest of Royale's paid killers had been white.

  Longarm reached a corner and turned, not even noticing what street he was on. He just wanted to give the slip to the man trailing him, then turn the tables and do a little trailing of his own. His two looks back should have given the big black man the idea that he realized he was being followed. Now Longarm ducked into the first alley mouth he found, letting the shadows swallow him. He waited for the slap-slap of running footsteps as the man hurried to catch up to him.

  Instead, the slow shuffle continued. Longarm had no trouble knowing where the man was just by listening. The man reached the corner and rounded it, coming steadily toward the alley where Longarm was hidden. The lawman waited, drawing his Colt as the steps came nearer.

  But instead of stopping, the man plodded right past the darkened mouth of the alley. Longarm saw him, a huge patch of deeper darkness in the shadows that cloaked the street.

  The man continued for several steps, and as he did Longarm wondered if he had been completely mistaken about being followed. From the looks of it, the man didn't have any interest in him at all.

  But then the man stopped short, as if drawn up at the end of a rope. He stood there for a long moment, just past the alley mouth, and then slowly, ponderously, he began to turn around. He moved toward the alley, lifting his arms as he came. The fingers on the ham-like hands spread out, as if ready to wrap themselves around somebody's neck.

  Longarm was certain now just whose neck the fella was after.

  He stepped out of the alley before the man could get there, raising his gun and pointing it toward the giant, menacing shape. "Hold it right there, old son," Longarm said. "I don't know what business you got with me, but I reckon we can talk it over."

  He thought there was still plenty of room between them, but he hadn't counted on the man being able to cover that distance in one huge step. The man lurched forward, reaching out with those long fingers. There was a certain awkwardness about his movements, but he was quick enough.

  Almost quick enough anyway. Longarm twisted aside so that the giant stumbled past him. "Damn it!" Longarm snapped in frustration. He didn't want to have to kill the man. A corpse couldn't answer any questions.

  The giant caught himself and swung around, lashing out with an arm and trying to backhand Longarm. Longarm ducked underneath the blow, letting it pass harmlessly over his head. Once the man started something, he seemed unable to stop until he had completed the action, whatever it was. Maybe he was a mite slow in the head, thought Longarm. The expression on the man's face when he passed beneath that second street lamp had been rather dull, and the threat of Longarm's gun seemed utterly meaningless to him.

  Longarm danced back along the sidewalk, putting himself out of reach again. "Blast it, old son," he grated, "I'm going to have to put a bullet in your knee if you don't settle down. You won't ever walk right again if I do that."

  The man made no response except to lurch toward Longarm again. In fact, Longarm realized as a cold touch rippled up his spine, the man hadn't made a sound during the entire encounter. Longarm hadn't heard anything from him except the shuffle and scrape of his shoes on the cobblestones. The fella wasn't even breathing heavy.

  The coldness along Longarm's spine got even icier as he realized that he couldn't tell if the man was breathing at all.

  He shoved that thought out of his mind and darted aside, avoiding the giant's lunge once more. This time, however, the man seemed more prepared for Longarm's response. He reached back, even as he was stumbling to a halt, and caught hold of Longarm's coat sleeve.

  The man's strength was like nothing Longarm had ever faced before. He found himself litera
lly jerked off his feet and swung around. His back slammed into the wall of a building, knocking the air out of his lungs and the hat off his head. As he bounced off the wall, the giant's other hand clamped onto his throat.

  Caught like that with no air in his body, Longarm felt the desperation of a dying man almost as soon as the fingers closed around his throat in a grip like iron. His vision turned red and muddy, and he could barely make out the huge shape looming right in front of him. He slashed at where he thought the man's head was with the barrel of the Colt and felt it strike something soft and yielding. Almost in a frenzy, Longarm lashed out again and again, pistol-whipping the man who was trying to kill him.

  The fingers locked around his throat didn't budge.

  The fight continued in eerie silence. Longarm's feet were off the ground. The giant pressed him back against the brick wall of the building, supporting him with that dreadful grip around his throat. Longarm felt his strength ebbing away, and couldn't lift the gun to hit the man again. The part of his brain that was still working told him he was going to pass out in a matter of seconds, and if he did, he knew he would never wake up this side of the grave.

  There was only one thing he could do, while he still had a little strength.

  He jammed the barrel of the gun against the body of his attacker and started pulling the trigger.

  The massive body muffled the roar of the shots to a certain extent, but they were still so deafening to Longarm that they almost drowned out the insane pounding of blood in his head. He emptied the Colt of all five shots and wished he had loaded the empty chamber for a change, rather than letting the hammer rest on it. For a horrible moment, he thought that the bullets hadn't had any effect, because the giant kept choking the life out of him.

  How can you kill something that's already dead?

  He forced that thought out of his mind as he felt a slight lessening of the pressure on his windpipe. Maybe it was just his imagination, maybe just wishful thinking, but he wasn't going to let it pass. He dropped the empty gun, grabbed the giant's arm with both hands, and wrenched with every bit of strength left in his body.

  The fingers slipped off his throat.

  Longarm shoved the giant's arm away and heaved great, gasping breaths into his body, filling his lungs. He slid along the wall of the building, out of the giant's reach. He was in such bad shape that if the man came after him again, he wouldn't even be able to put up a fight.

  But the giant wasn't coming after him. In the dim light from the street lamps on Decatur, Longarm saw that the man was swaying back and forth, and then he began to slowly topple backward, reminding Longarm once again of a tree. Still without making a sound, he crashed to the cobblestones and lay motionless, arms and legs spraddled out.

  Longarm's head was still spinning, but he knew he couldn't wait for the world to settle down in front of his eyes. He stumbled forward, bent over, and fumbled around on the street until he found his gun. He scooped it up and backed quickly away from the fallen giant, putting his back against the wall of the building once more so that nothing else could come at him out of the dark. Moving as much by instinct as by design, he dumped the empty brass from the cylinder of the Colt and thumbed in fresh cartridges that he took from his coat pocket.

  Only when the gun was fully loaded did he approach the dead man again. The fella had to be dead, Longarm told himself. He had five slugs in him, enough to kill anybody. But those shots should have dropped him immediately, and it had taken him forever to go down. At least it had seemed like forever to Longarm.

  Longarm was ready to pump five more bullets into him if necessary, though. He wanted a better look at this man who had almost killed him. Somebody had probably reported those shots, and the New Orleans police would be here soon.

  With the gun held ready in his right hand, Longarm used his left to fish out a lucifer. He bent over and struck the match on the rough surface of the street. It flared up with a stink of sulphur. Which made sense, thought Longarm, because he had surely descended into the fiery pits of Hades. Either that or gone mad, because staring up at him was the face of Luther.

  Luther, the former doorman at the Brass Pelican. Luther, who had been murdered two nights earlier by Royale's men.

  Longarm had almost had the life choked out of him by a walking dead man.

  CHAPTER 9

  For a moment, there was a part of Longarm that wanted to drop the match and run like hell. He knew now why Billy Vail had asked him if he was superstitious. The voodoo angle to this case had sort of faded into the background as Longarm got caught up in investigating the rival smuggling rings headed by Jasper Millard and the mysterious Royale.

  But it had just poked its ugly head into things again, sure enough, because Longarm was staring down in horror at an honest-to-God zombie.

  Or was he?

  The rational part of Longarm's brain began to reassert itself. He recalled how Luther had stumbled into the Brass Pelican, gut-shot by Royale's men. The body sprawled on its back in the street had a huge bloodstain on its midsection where Longarm had emptied the Colt into it. That matched Luther's stomach wound, of course, but how could a man who had been dead for over forty-eight hours bleed that much?

  But then, how could a man who had been dead for over forty-eight hours be wandering around the streets of NewOrleans and trying to murder federal lawmen? Longarm gave a little shake of his head, trying to keep his mind from wandering too far off down dark paths.

  Quickly, before the match went out, Longarm holstered his gun and reached down to grasp the dead man's shoulder. There was one sure test. He had seen Luther shot at nearly point-blank range in the back of the head by one of Royale's men. With a grunt of effort, Longarm heaved the massive corpse onto its side. He held the match closer to the back of the dead man's skull.

  There was no bullet hole, no sign of a wound of any kind. With a sigh of relief, Longarm let go of the body and let it slump onto its back again.

  So this dead man wasn't Luther after all. He just looked a hell of a lot like the doorman from the Brass Pelican.

  Which still didn't answer the question of why he had been trying to kill Longarm... or why he had shuffled along the way he had... or why he had fought in complete silence and stood up for so long against the impact of five slugs from a.44.

  Zombie. The word echoed in Longarm's brain.

  Grimacing, he shook out the match just before it could burn his fingers and backed away from the body. He turned around and found his hat, picking it up and putting it on as he walked quickly along the street. He headed away from Decatur Street and soon found himself on Chartres Street. The mansion where Annie and Paul Clement lived when they were visiting New Orleans wasn't far from where he was, he realized. He wondered how they would react if he knocked on their door in the cold gray light of dawn and told them he'd just had a run-in with a walking dead man. They'd probably try to have him locked up in an asylum somewhere.

  Maybe that was where he belonged. He had always been a rational, pragmatic, even hardheaded man. Carrying a badge made a fella that way. Now here he was thinking all sorts of wild thoughts, considering possibilities that he never would have dreamed he would consider.

  There had to be an explanation. There just had to be.

  But as he made his way back to the St. Charles Hotel by a roundabout route, he was damned if he could think of what it might be.

  He slept the sleep of exhaustion--slept like a dead man, he told himself wryly when he woke up in the middle of the afternoon--but he didn't feel particularly rested. When he showed up at the Brass Pelican after a meal and several cups of strong black coffee, he felt a little better, but the bartender who was working behind the mahogany took one look at him and said, "Lord, you look like death warmed over, Mr. Parker."

  Longarm rubbed his jaw and said hoarsely, "Didn't figure I looked that good."

  "You coming down with the grippe? I can fix up a tonic for that."

  Longarm shook his head. "No, I just... str
ained my throat, I reckon you could say. It's getting better, but thanks anyway."

  "Well, if you change your mind, just let me know."

  This fella was a lot friendlier than the one who had unlocked the door for Longarm the day before. Of course, the club was open for business now, so that might have had something to do with his helpful attitude. Longarm looked around the big room. There were quite a few customers drinking and gambling, though not nearly as many as there would be later.

  He turned back to the bar and said, "I could use a cup of coffee. And put a dollop of Tom Moore in it."

  "Coming right up, Mr. Parker."

  When he had first gotten up, Longarm had barely been able to talk at all, and swallowing had been hell. But the muscles in his bruised throat had loosened up, and hot coffee seemed to help the soreness. He was only a little hoarse now, and the discomfort was tolerable. It could have been a lot worse.

  He could have been dead, like that poor son of a bitch he'd had to shoot.

  The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if the fella had been drugged. In the horror of the night before, Longarm hadn't really considered that possibility. It made more sense than believing in voodoo and zombies, though. Longarm recalled seeing Chinese hatchet men who had smoked so much opium that they might not have noticed right away if somebody emptied a Colt into their bellies.

  Maybe Royale had sent the gigantic black man after him. Maybe that was just a new weapon in the war against Millard and anybody who worked for him.

  Longarm sipped the coffee the bartender brought to him, feeling the bracing effect of the Maryland rye that had been added to it. He turned to the man and asked, "Where's Mr. Millard? Back in the office?"

  The bartender took out his watch and glanced at it. "He's probably upstairs. He usually takes one of the girls up to his room about this time of day, if you know what I mean."

  Longarm did indeed. Some men liked their loving on a regular schedule.