Bluewater Voodoo: Mystery and Adventure in the Caribbean (Bluewater Thrillers Book 3)

by Charles Dougherty

  "What, Phillip?" Dani said. "I know that look. Spit it out."

  He shook his head. "Oh, it’s not anything. Just an old memory."

  "About zombies?"

  "No, not exactly."

  "Well, what, exactly?"

  "Ask your father about Racine Laveau, sometime. It’s his story to tell; not mine."

  "And it has to do with zombies?"

  "I don’t know about zombies, Dani, but it has to do with Voodoo, and it might be useful, if he’s still in touch with her. I really don’t know any more than I’ve told you so quit looking at me like you’re going to beat it out of me."

  "I could, you know," she teased.

  "Maybe," Phillip said, smiling.

  "Maybe, nothing. You’re an old, slow married man. Bet I can take you two falls out of three."

  "Who taught you everything you know?" Phillip taunted her.

  "Not you. You just taught me everything you know," Dani said, a gleam in her eye as she pushed her chair back from the table and started to stand up.

  "Not here, children," Sandrine said, sternly. "Sit down, both of you."

  Phillip and Dani both started laughing as they saw the consternation on Liz’s face.

  "You have not seen them do this, isn’t it, Liz?" Sandrine asked.

  "No, I haven’t," Liz said looking puzzled.

  "They are like the big children when they start this, and before you can know, they are roll on the floor and breaking the furnitures, all laughing about it. It is begin when Dani is a tiny child, but now they both forget she is not tiny. Is no good, unless to make them go outside to play this."

  Chapter 8

  Martinez slipped quietly into the back room of the Internet café on Calle Ocho in Miami’s Little Havana, sipping an ice-cold beer from the display cooler in the main room. Carmen Madrid had been occupied with a customer and had signaled with her eyes for him to go back and wait for her in the cluttered little office. It amazed him that such a well-organized mind as hers could thrive in such disarray. There wasn’t a square centimeter of her desktop showing between the crumpled scraps of paper and disassembled pieces of computer hardware. He sniffed the fetid air, wrinkling his nose at the smell of rancid grilled onions. Greasy fast food wrappers and partly finished soft drinks were everywhere, making the space an obstacle course as he tried to find a place to sit. He was just clearing a stack of papers from the seat of a chair when Carmen came in and closed the door softly behind her.

  As he settled into the chair, she rested a firm, rounded hip on the front corner of her desk, heedless of the displaced detritus that cascaded to the floor. Leaning back, she reached behind her with one hand, the other gripping the edge of her desk. She felt around on the desktop with her left hand, straining the buttons of her blouse. She lifted and shook several of the soft drink cans on the desktop before finding one with some liquid in it. She raised it to her full, pouting lips and took a sip, never losing eye contact with Martinez. After she swallowed, her tongue appeared, slowly licking her lips. Martinez thought, not for the first time, that she could be an attractive woman with just a little effort on her part, but he knew that her interests lay elsewhere. She gazed at him calmly as she sipped the warm soda, waiting for him to break the silence.

  "I have a project for you, Carmen."

  She nodded, a bored expression on her face, her eyes like pools of dark liquid as she watched him.

  "There is going to be trouble soon," he said.

  "I know, Miguel," she answered, watching him cringe at her use of his given name.

  "I’ve told you not to call me that!"

  She smiled. "So long as you remember that I know; I’ll keep your secrets, but a girl has to protect herself."

  Martinez glared at her. He allowed no one to know his first name, but Carmen had used it to provoke him ever since their first encounter, demonstrating her ability to penetrate his cover from the beginning of their dealings. He recognized and admired her implied threat. He was always conscious of the leverage that her skills provided; he would think twice before crossing her. He shrugged.

  Her lips turned up slightly at the corners and she gave her head a little shake, tossing her thick, black curls aside. "What do you want to know about Senator O’Rourke?" she asked. "The name of his black mistress? How many secret little bastards he has left in his wake? How much money is in his numbered account in the Caymans?"

  "How do you know this?" He frowned and shook his head, amazed and a little frightened by how close she came to the truth. He took a sip of beer and set the bottle down by his foot. He cleared his throat and began to describe his plan. He didn’t tell her all the background, keeping scrupulously to the information that she would need to disseminate in support of his campaign of terror. He wanted her to subtly build awareness of a spontaneous increase in incidents of aggressive behavior among street people in all of the nation’s larger cities. The beauty of Carmen’s techniques was that no factual basis was required. He knew from experience that within a few weeks, the media would be abuzz with rumors of unrest.

  "And the trigger point for the second phase, the one where some rumored leader begins to appear in the shadows? What will that be?"

  He was stunned by her intuitive leap, her ability to anticipate his plan. "You will know. O’Rourke’s situation will change dramatically, and then you should begin phase two."

  She nodded, curls bouncing, and took another sip of warm soda.

  "When can you begin?" he asked. "The timing is critical to me."

  "As soon as I see a big enough deposit in the account to tell me that you are serious, I will begin." She smiled at him.

  "How much?"

  "Silly man," she said, shaking her head. "As much as you think it will take to motivate me. You know how it works."

  "How will I know if it’s enough?" He frowned.

  "If nothing happens, then you will know that you have been too cheap."

  "I don’t have time for guessing, Carmen! How..."

  She stood quickly, dark eyes flashing, "Then you’d better make a big deposit, Miguelito." She turned on her heel and went back into the front room where the customers were tapping at keyboards, leaving Martinez. He reached down for the beer, willing himself to calm down, annoyed with himself for letting her get to him so easily. "If only she didn’t know so much," he thought.

  ****

  Marie sat at the rough table on the little enclosed patio, sipping a large glass of ice water. She slipped her shoes off and put her tired feet on the bench across from her, making the most of her mid-afternoon break.

  "Ah! Marie. I hope I will find you here."

  "Bonjour, Claude-Michel. What is it? You are looking worried."

  "Two Americans have just been in the bar, talking with me, asking me many questions."

  "So? The hotel visitors, they always ask you questions, is it not so?"

  "Yes, but this man and woman, they ask first about Haiti, and then Voodoo."

  "How do they know you are from Haiti?"

  "Ah, the waitress, she told them so."

  "You think they came to you because you are from Haiti, then?"

  "It seems so, yes. And you must tell your uncle, they are asking about the zombie."

  "But they all ask about zombies because of the television, Claude-Michel.

  "No, Marie. These people, they know. They are university professors, both of them. They know much about Voodoo, and they are respectful, not like the man from Venezuela to whom your uncle has shown the zombie. You must let him know, the houngan. He is your mother’s brother. You can tell him this better than any of us, I think."

  "Yes, all right. I will tell him. I must see him tonight, anyway. These people, they wish to meet him, too, I suppose?"

  "I think it is likely. Of course, I tell them that I know nothing of zombies, and they pretend to believe this, but they will be back. I will tell them whatever the houngan wishes, but I think they will keep asking, just like the other man."

 
"Yes. All right. I will let you know the houngan’s wishes." Marie sighed as she watched the bartender go back inside. She sat up, both feet on the ground, and drained her water. She took the glass with her, putting it on a tray of dirty dishes by the kitchen door as she went back to help the other maids clean the lobby.

  ****

  The houngan listened carefully to his niece as she recounted Claude-Michel’s story, a stoic expression on his wrinkled, ebony face. When she was finished, he nodded thoughtfully and held her gaze for a moment.

  "Thank you," he said, softly. "Don’t worry about this. Take care of your husband and your children. How is Pierre, by the way? Is he resting better, now?"

  "Yes. Much better. He wants to go back to work, but his legs will only carry his weight for a few minutes."

  "Yes. It will take a little more time, but it is a good sign that he is healing so quickly. Now, you must leave me, child. I must think, and pray for guidance. I will let you know what to tell Claude-Michel in the morning. You come have a cup of tea with me, then, please, before you go to work?"

  "Oui. Bonne nuit," Marie said, as she stood and walked to the door.

  The houngan sat still, hands on the table, lost in thought. He had a brief pang of regret over his decisions. In hindsight, it had been a mistake to create the zombie. He felt the same way about his decision to see Martinez. Marie had told him that Annie had booked another reservation for Martinez in a few days. That almost certainly meant the man would want to see the houngan again. Now there was another white man, this American professor and his assistant, looking for zombies.

  The houngan considered taking the creature and disappearing into the wilderness, but what would his people do, then? Besides, now that outsiders were asking questions, he knew that there would be no end unless he brought this to some conclusion. He considered the possibility of disposing of the zombie, but he was repelled by the idea. He had saved the man’s life and nursed him back to health, only giving him the potion because the man’s deranged behavior had threatened to bring harm to his people. He was responsible for this situation, and he must somehow resolve it without doing more harm. He needed wise counsel; he wished he knew another houngan or mambo with whom he could confer. He knew there was a hounfor, a temple, in the hills between here and Fort-de-France. Perhaps he could seek guidance from someone there.

  Chapter 9

  J.-P. Berger was looking out of his office window, gazing idly at the people enjoying a pleasant afternoon in Paris. He was savoring a mid-afternoon cup of espresso, inhaling the rich aroma before his first sip, when his cell phone rang. As he retrieved it from his desktop, he glanced at the caller i.d. screen. He pressed the green button as he raised the phone to his ear. "Dani!" he answered, a smile in his voice.

  "Hello, Papa. How are you this afternoon?"

  "Better, now that I’m talking with you. Where are you and Liz today?"

  "Marin. We just had lunch with Phillip and Sandrine. They send their best wishes."

  "But I thought that you had just picked up charter guests for the season." He took a sip of thick, black liquid and returned the cup to its saucer.

  "Yes, we did. They joined us in Grenada a few days ago. We stopped off in the Tobago Cays for a bit, and then Bequia. It’s a sort of a working holiday for them, I think." She went on to explain a bit about the professor and Lilly and their project.

  "So, they are hunting the elusive zombie," J.-P. chuckled. "I’m surprised you are not in Port-au-Prince or somewhere like that. Why Marin?"

  Dani told him about the tip the professor had received from his sponsor.

  "I see. So it’s the Haitians, the illegals, who supposedly are keeping a zombie, then."

  "Yes, Papa. I was surprised, too, until I learned about the Haitians. I didn’t think of Voodoo in Martinique. I’ve never heard of it here or in Guadeloupe."

  "Ah, Dani, you’ve just not encountered it. There is some Voodoo in all the islands, but stronger in Martinique and Guadeloupe, because of the early ties to Haiti. The people were all the same in the French colonies, until Haiti broke away in the early 1800s. Always, there have been ties there. Some of our ancestors were in Haiti before they expelled the white people."

  "I thought they massacred the white people. What about our ancestors? Did they escape to Guadeloupe or Martinique?"

  "Yes. Or, I should say, some did. Some were massacred. You see, some of our ancestors were less white than others. They had been in the islands for several generations by the time all that happened. From our family lore, it wasn’t a simple matter of slavery and race that led to the revolt. As always, politics played a part. But that is why we have such ties to the islands, we Bergers."

  "Papa, Phillip said I should ask you if you were still in touch with Racine Laveau." Dani heard a long, deep sigh over the phone.

  "Not really. What did Phillip tell you about her?"

  "Nothing. He said it was your story to tell."

  "Yes, I suppose that’s right, and I should tell you, since you’re living in the islands. Do you have some time? This will take a few minutes, I think."

  "Sure, Papa. Liz and I are just relaxing on Vengeance while our guests are ashore for the afternoon."

  "Okay. The Laveaus and the Bergers go back many generations in the islands, and in Louisiana, as well. Over the years, there has been a lot of, shall we say, ‘mixing of the blood,’ to the point that it is difficult to say exactly how closely Racine is related to us, but she was a cousin of some sort to my father. They grew up together in Martinique, and their parents, as well. So, Racine would be about 15 or 20 years older than I am. Let’s say she is at least in her late 60s, likely a bit older. She was just a little younger than my father, I know."

  "I’m surprised you’ve never mentioned her, especially if she lives here."

  "Well, the relationship has been strained for some years, since before you were born. Racine had a son, also named Jean-Pierre, just as I am. We clearly shared a grandfather, back some generations, I think. He was in business with us for some time, and before Castro, we were trading with the Batista government. This was back when my father was still active in the business, you see, and Jean-Pierre and I were the men in the front lines, so to speak. We were as close as brothers, almost. It is still painful for me to remember. Anyway, we were in Cuba, and I’ve never understood the how or the why, but he sold us out to Castro, early in the revolution. The rebels captured us with a shipment one night, and they beat me for amusement and left me for dead in the mountains, while he drank rum and smoked cigars with them and their women."

  "So, is he still in Cuba, do you know?"

  "No, no, he isn’t. We both got back to Martinique, separately, and he… died… shortly after he came home. I think his mother understood, but she has never forgiven me, so it has been better that we stayed apart, you see."

  Dani heard the deep emotion in her father’s voice. "I’m sorry, Papa. What could you have done, though?"

  "Well, Racine, she is a very religious woman. I made it back to Martinique first, in bad shape, and she nursed me back to health. She knew about her son’s duplicity, but she counseled forgiveness. It was a hard decision, but I had to follow my judgment. If I had forgiven him, I knew he would kill me at the first opportunity. Otherwise, he stood to lose everything that mattered to him. In my view, one of us would die, and I preferred to live. So now I have forgiven him for what he did to me, but Racine cannot forgive me. I understand this. Life is not always happy, but we must live."

  "I’m so sorry to have put you through this. Phillip must have thought there would be some purpose in it. Why would he bring it up now?"

  "It is all right. After all this time, I am at peace with this matter. I’m sure Phillip brought it up because of the Voodoo. In any case, he doesn’t know the cause of our estrangement, so don’t blame him. You have a right to know your heritage -- an obligation, even."

  "Okay, Papa. But why do you say because of the Voodoo?"

  "Racine, she i
s a mambo asogwe, a high priestess of the Voodoo. She is one who trains and initiates others into the priesthood – a Voodoo queen, if you will. It is her heritage, and her profession. She is one of the most respected practitioners alive today. You have heard of Marie Laveau, perhaps?"

  "Vaguely. Something to do with New Orleans?"

  "Exactly. She was a famous mambo in New Orleans in the 1800s. Racine is her direct descendant."

  "So, thank you for telling me all this, but what am I to make of it, now?"

  "I’m sure it will come clear to you in time, Dani. Phillip obviously thought you should know, and that must be sufficient for now."

  "Okay, Papa. I love you."

  "And I love you. Give our best to Liz and Phillip and Sandrine."

  "I will. And you tell Anne we’re all thinking of her."

  ****

  The houngan walked carefully down the steep, rocky path that led from the bateye to the paved road. Every so often, when he dislodged a rock that fell and bruised a plant in the scrub bordering the path, he smelled a strong odor of fresh ginger. He would catch the bus at the paved road, which curved along the mountainside and eventually ended in Fort-de-France. The road wandered through the countryside, clinging to the steep volcanic hillsides as it circled well to the east of the Baie de Fort-de-France.

  He carried his good shoes, carefully polished, a clean pair of white, cotton socks folded inside them. He would put them on before he boarded the bus. Walking this path would ruin the shoes very quickly, their shiny leather not being as tough as the horny calluses on his feet. He was dressed in his best pair of black slacks, carefully pressed last night, and a stiffly starched, white dress shirt, open at the neck. He had not met the mambo at the hounfor in the town of Trois-Îlets before, and he wanted to make a good impression.

  She was well known to him by reputation. He had heard of her even before he took the asson, the rattle that was his badge of office, even back in his youth in Haiti. He worried that she would be put off that he had once been a bokor, "working with both hands," as it was called when a houngan practiced the black magic rituals of Petro. Certainly, he hoped, a great mambo asogwe would have the wisdom to see that he had changed his beliefs since his youth. Even though he had done this terrible thing with the crazy man, he had done it for the good of his people. He prayed that she would see that, and that she would help him to find the right path through this troublesome situation.