Dawn moved closer to him, a hungry look in her eyes, and he experienced a rare emotion: naked fear. She caressed his cheek with one hand. “Do you see how easily I can control you? Just as easily as I do Malachai and my zonbies. It would be so easy to make you kill yourself but not so easy to explain how a dead cop got in my living room. Multiple identities or not, between Jake and Maria, I have no doubt I’d have to leave the city, and I’ve worked too hard to make it mine. So I’m going to let you live, darling.”
Edgar gagged on his gun.
Dawn inhaled deeply. “Smell that fragrance. Change is in the air.”
Pitching forward, Edgar supported himself on his left hand. With his gun still jammed in his mouth, he choked back vomit.
Jake pulled over to the corner of 104th Street, half a block behind Edgar’s Plymouth. Across the street from Katrina’s building, the skeletal structure of the unfinished skyscraper rose into the night. He had returned to Caribbean first but had not seen Edgar or any of Malachai’s crew. He queried the bouncer and the box office woman, but they just shrugged. Either they didn’t remember seeing Edgar, or they did not want to give him up to Jake. Reaching for the car door handle, he froze. A woman exited the condominium.
Katrina.
She took her time, walking with great poise and confidence. Jake waited to see if Edgar would emerge from somewhere in the darkness and confront her. Instead, Katrina circled the front of Edgar’s car and stopped at the driver’s-side door.
Jake ducked behind the wheel just as she looked in his direction. His heart thundered in his chest, and he reached for his pistol grip. Then she aimed a remote control at the car, and its lights flickered on with an electronic chirp. She opened the door and got in, and a few moments later, he heard the engine rev up. Katrina drove away, and he did not know whether to follow her or search for Edgar.
Damn it all to hell!
He leapt out of the Monte Carlo and locked it with his remote control as he raced to the building. Inside, he ran his finger down the names in the directory until he found Du Pre, D beside 5-C. Then he slipped on his wraparound shades, threw open the inside door, and ran toward the doorman’s station. A man with an alarmed expression got to his feet.
“Hey, did you see that broad who just left here?”
The doorman raised his eyebrows. “Yeah …”
“She just fell down getting into a cab and broke her ankle on the sidewalk! She sent me in here to get you.”
“Oh, God …” The doorman raced around his station.
“Come on. Hurry!” Jumping in place, Jake beckoned the man forward. The doorman ran past him, and Jake watched him go outside. Then Jake ran to the elevator and pressed the call button. The door opened immediately because Katrina had just gotten off it.
As he boarded the elevator, the doorman ran back into the lobby, a flustered look on his face. “Hey!”
Jake thumbed the button for the sixth floor as the doorman sprinted for the elevator. The door closed, and he heard the man slam into the door. On the sixth floor, he ran down a carpeted hallway, searching for the emergency exit. Then he took the gray stairs two at a time down one floor. As he closed his hand around the knob, he prayed the door would open. It did, and he ran full speed down the hallway to Katrina’s apartment.
The door was locked. He rang the buzzer and pounded on the door. Stepping back, he aimed a powerful kick at the door’s lock. A powerful shock wave reverberated through his heel all the way up to his empty eye socket, but the door did not open. He tried again, harder this time despite the pain, and the door burst open.
Staggering inside, he whipped off his sunglasses and drew his Glock, even though Katrina had already left. He closed the broken door and inhaled a sweet scent. Sweeping the perimeter, he entered the living room and saw men’s clothing on the floor. He recognized the slacks and jacket as Edgar’s. But something was wrong: the clothes were arranged facedown, as if Edgar had collapsed on the floor and vanished, his gun near his empty sleeve.
“Edgar?”
Jake checked the bedroom and bathroom, both empty. Returning to the living room, he kneeled before the table and squinted at the burning candle. A single black feather lay on the table’s surface. He picked it up and inspected it. Just an ordinary bird feather but something that could be used in some vodou ritual. Setting it down, he blew out the candle’s flame. Then he noticed a business card tucked into the candle holder. Plucking it out with two fingers, he saw it was his own card, which he had given to Katrina—Dawn—the night he met her. Without thinking about it, he pocketed the card.
Then he heard a deep croaking sound.
Jerking his head toward the floor, he saw a shape moving beneath Edgar’s blazer. He rose, aiming the Glock at the great lump working its way toward the shirt collar beneath the jacket. It appeared to be the length of a cat, but its movements were all wrong for a four-legged animal. Crouching low, he reached forward with tentative fingers and yanked the collar and jacket away.
The black eyes of a raven stared back at him.
Oh, Jesus Christ.
TWENTY-FOUR
Jake looked at the raven in disbelief. Edgar?
His mind reeled. No, oh, God, no …
The raven blinked and quivered.
It’s in shock. “Oh, Edgar …”
He pulled the shirt down, covering the bird, then gently gathered Edgar’s clothes in his arms.
The raven made a low croaking sound.
Jake holstered his Glock and retrieved Edgar’s gun, which he jammed into the folds of the bunched-up blazer. Stepping toward the door, he turned back and ran to the table, then snatched the feather. He raced out of the apartment to the stairwell and managed to open the door.
Only four floors to go, he thought, descending the stairs.
Inside the clothing, the raven croaked again.
Not a bird. Edgar. Somehow that bitch turned him into a fucking raven!
He felt the raven trembling in his arms and hoped it would not die of fright or shock. He did not run down the stairs for fear of slipping and crushing his precious cargo.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
One minute later, he peered out the door leading into the lobby just as the doorman escorted two uniformed police officers to the elevator.
Observe and report.
As soon as he heard the elevator door close, Jake slipped on his wraparound shades. He swung the door open with his foot and hurried into the lobby.
“Holy shit!” the doorman said.
Jake ignored the doorman, who looked at the elevator for support, then tried to head Jake off.
“Hey, what the hell do you have there?”
Jake pulled Edgar’s Glock free of the blazer. “Do yourself a favor: be smart and stay the fuck out of my way.”
The doorman’s eyes widened, and he raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay. Whatever you say. The cops are on their way to the sixth floor. Hurry up and leave before they come down, so there won’t be any trouble.”
Jake turned and ran for the door, concealing Edgar’s gun again. Outside, he hurried to the Monte Carlo. He unlocked the doors and laid the bundle of clothing in the backseat.
“Just don’t peck my eye out if you get loose,” he said, closing the door. Then he ran around to the front of the car, hopped behind the wheel, and keyed the ignition.
Leaving the horrors of New York behind, Jake drove to New Jersey and checked into a Motel 6. After locking the motel room’s door, he unfolded Edgar’s clothes over the desk, allowing the raven a modicum of freedom. The bird was enormous: two feet in length from beak to shiny black tail feathers. It darted away from him on its claws, flapping its wings in protest.
He doesn’t know how to fly, Jake thought. Good. That will make it easier to bundle him up in the morning.
He didn’t know what birds ate, and since he had no intention of running out to a store this late, it didn’t matter. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the candy bar he had
bought in the motel office. Tearing the wrapper open, he twisted the candy bar in two. He took a bite out of one half, then broke the other half into little bits of chocolate and caramel and nuts and sprinkled them over the desktop. “What’s mine is yours.”
The raven pecked at the crumbs.
He filled the bathroom sink with water and left the door open.
With the lights on, he climbed into bed and fell asleep with a loaded Glock in each hand.
In the middle of the night, Jake felt something sharp digging into his chest. Springing awake, he sat up, the startled raven flapping its wings in a flurry of frantic motion as it descended to the floor.
Oh, Jesus, he thought.
It had been looking right at him. What was it thinking? Was it capable of human thought? Did it have Edgar’s memories?
Lying back on the bed, he closed his eyes.
While I pondered, weak and dreary …
The next morning, Jake left Edgar inside the car while he went into a gigantic pet store to shop for necessities. The bird seemed to have grown accustomed to his presence, and Jake supposed it had retained at least some vestigial memories of their friendship. He located a large, circular cage with a cover, bird feed, and a water bottle that clipped onto the cage’s side.
On his way out of the store, he felt his leg vibrating. With his free hand, he took out his cell phone and was not surprised to see Detective Vasquez flashing on the display. Squeezing the phone between his head and shoulder, he also took out his remote control and unlocked the car doors from a distance.
“Hi, Maria.” He tried to feign blissful ignorance.
“Jake, do you know where Edgar is?”
“No. What’s up?”
“He was supposed to clock in two hours ago, and he’s not here. Nobody’s heard from him, and he doesn’t answer his cell phone.”
In truth, Jake had turned Edgar’s phone off earlier this morning because Maria wouldn’t stop calling. He found her loyalty touching, but he needed to concentrate on his own crises. “I haven’t seen him since you guys visited me in the hospital. But I’m sure he’s okay. Try not to worry, and have him give me a call when he shows up.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Opening the driver’s-side door, he peered in at the giant black bird on the backseat. He tossed the bag of supplies onto the passenger seat, climbed in, and said, “You hear that? They miss you at work.”
Then he started the engine and headed back to Manhattan.
Jake parked in his regular garage a block away from his building on Twenty-second Street. Carrying the covered birdcage in one hand, its base almost scraping the concrete, he scanned the crowded sidewalk for any signs of danger. So many New Yorkers walked to work to save money now that his eye barely absorbed the faces and clothes around him.
A scarecrow with bulging eyes cut a swath through the crowd, homing in on him. “I’ll carry that for you for a dollah,” he said.
Jake gave the man a hard look that sent him scampering for another mark. An uneasy feeling gripped his stomach as he neared his building. The perfect place for an ambush.
Passing the building’s entrance, he entered Laurel’s parlor and saw her sitting at the round table, surrounded not by tarot cards and a crystal ball but facing a laptop and an old-fashioned adding machine.
“I hope you’re not planning to point a gun at me again.”
“Not today.” He set the birdcage on top of the table and pulled back the cover. “Meet my partner—ex-partner—Detective Edgar Hopkins of the Special Homicide Task Force, currently assigned to the Black Magic Task Force.”
Laurel studied Edgar’s eyes and beak. “I assume this isn’t the feathered version of a K-9 dog?”
Jake shook his head. “Until last night, Edgar was as human as you or me. It turns out he was closer to the bokor behind these zonbies than either he or I realized. She did this to him. Her birth name is Ramera Evans, but she also goes by Dawn Du Pre and Katrina. Do any of those names mean anything to you?”
Still staring at the raven, Laurel said, “I’m afraid not.”
Jake reached into his pocket and took out the black feather he had snatched from Katrina’s table. “I found this in the same room as the bird next to a burning candle and Edgar’s empty clothes.”
Now she looked up. “What color was the candle?”
“Purple.”
“What did it smell like?”
“I don’t really remember. Pungent, I guess. I blew out the flame.” He sat down in the chair opposite her, the birdcage between them. “She had this, too.” He slid his business card across the table. “I gave it to her myself.”
Laurel picked up the card and turned it over in one hand without looking at it. “This is what she used to curse you. To a true bokor, a business card is the modern equivalent of a voodoo doll. It’s a representation of you. Just a little bit of oil from your fingertips would make this an ideal transmitter for a curse.”
Son of a bitch, Jake thought. When would he learn to stay away from corporate totems?
“She probably had something similar that belonged to your friend here.”
“They were sleeping together.” He couldn’t bring himself to call them lovers.
“A hair, probably. Something with his genetic code.”
That old DNA devil …
“I’ll tell you this much: she didn’t want either of you dead, or she would have killed both of you. She’s that powerful.”
“How powerful are you? Can you make him like he was?”
She looked into his eyes. “I’m sorry. Only the witch who cast this spell can reverse it. I wouldn’t even know where to start. I’ve never seen an actual case of transmogrification before.”
Great. “So I need to kill her to stop the zonbies, but I need her alive to make Edgar normal again?”
Laurel nodded.
“I guess my agenda is set, then.”
“How will you convince her to reverse the spell?”
“I’m not sure, but I can be pretty persuasive when I need to be. Listen, I know I have brass balls, but can you watch him for a few days while I do what needs to be done?” He nodded at the raven. “I can’t take him with me, and you’re the only one who knows his situation. I can’t … trust anyone else.”
“Of course. Eventually you’ll need to take him to this Katrina.”
“I know.” Jake stood. “Thank you.” He wiggled one finger between the cage’s thin metal bars. “Be good, Edgar. Stay away from any more bad women.” He crossed the parlor to the stairs, then turned back. “There’s always the possibility that I won’t be back.”
“I understand. Take care of yourself.”
Nodding, he left them alone.
In his suite, Jake pulled out two large bags from his closet, one of them a long Army duffel bag. He packed a week’s worth of clothing and other supplies, including all the guns and ammunition he owned.
As he left the building, he glanced up at the Tower a block away. It no longer seemed like the sole symbol of supernatural evil in New York City.
Walking back to the garage, he processed the information Laurel had provided him. Why doesn’t Katrina want me or Edgar dead? She certainly didn’t show Gary Brown and Frank Beck any mercy. Does this mean that the zonbies who chased me over the Brooklyn Bridge acted independently of her? What about the hit squad that broke into the building later that night?
Loading his arsenal into the Monte Carlo’s trunk, he formulated a plan of attack. He needed to buy some additional supplies, and then he intended to find a place to park the car and rest until sunset.
Jake decided to start on Montclair Street, near Flatbush Avenue, because that was where this colossal mess had started for him. Killing the car’s headlights, he parked with the corner of Caton in sight. Three fresh faces had replaced Louis and his partners in undead crime. Well, not fresh faces, exactly. Two young African American men and a Chinese girl in her late teens. All three wore hoodies and stood as still as statu
es when not serving customers. Scarecrows skulked the sidewalks, made their buys, then melted into the shadows. No other people dared to walk the street.
An entire neighborhood destroyed by Black Magic, Jake thought.
The prostitute he had seen twice before rounded the corner. When she did not beg the zonbies for drugs, he knew that she had crossed over. She circled the block, her bones sliding beneath her skin, and Jake supposed she had been “promoted” to lookout status. The second time around, she made a beeline in his direction.
Keep walking, you skank.
But she walked right up to his window. With no other choice, he lowered the window. She set her skeletal hands atop the door and leaned forward, staring at him with bulging eyes and running her purplish gray tongue over cracked lips.
Jake wanted to vomit. Easing his Glock off the seat beside him, he said, “Suck on this,” and blew her soul out the back of her head. Even with the silencer affixed to the gun, the muzzle flash blinded him for a moment, and he did not see her strike the lopsided sidewalk.
The zonbies on the corner turned their heads toward him in unison, so he threw the car into gear and floored the gas. The Monte Carlo lurched forward. He waited until he was closer to the curb, then switched on his high beams, blinding the dead things. Their faces appeared like skulls in the intense white light.
Stopping just shy of the curb, Jake jumped out of the car and pulled the scoped Remington from the cradle he had created for it between the front seats. Standing behind the car for cover, he aimed the sleek black rifle at the farthest corner boy and squeezed the trigger. A bullet hole appeared in his head, and he fell backwards to the sidewalk. A moment later, his soul rose and faded.
The other man and the Chinese girl drew their handguns at the same time. Jake took out the man, but the girl surprised him by charging around the car at him, her pistol leading her like a heat-seeking missile.
Jake’s heart thumped in his chest. He didn’t have time to aim the cumbersome rifle at her, so he waited until she was almost on top of him, and then he slammed the rifle’s butt into her face, smashing bone and cartilage. Her legs flew out from under her, and she crashed to the asphalt. Stepping on the wrist of her gun hand, Jake aimed the rifle at her with calm precision and fired a round through her forehead, blowing brain slime out the back of her head. She stopped moving, and her soul flickered up and faded.
Desperate Souls Page 23