Cry Havoc lf-3

by Baxter Clare

  "Jeff had a cousin that liked little girls. No one did anything about it because he was a big, mean, son of a bitch and everyone was afraid of him. The last girl he raped started praying at the revivals for vengeance. The women would join in with her, crying and praying. A month after he'd raped her, a car punched out his backbone. He's a quadriplegic."

  Frank interrupted, "That's coincidence."

  Darcy shook his head. "That's the tip of the iceberg. Things like this happened routinely. It was a matter of course. No one thought anything of it. I could go on, Frank, but I know you don't want me to. The point is, not every question has an answer. When the bounds of coincidence and logic get stretched, one has to accept the inexplicable or go crazy trying to figure it out. Jeff's cousin didn't believe. Loula Tremaine's husband didn't believe. I can name a dozen other examples."

  Frank held up a hand.

  "So Marguerite's a root worker too? I thought you said she was a priestess."

  "She grew up with root workers, in the hoodoo tradition, but it wasn't enough for her. She wanted to learn more and went to Haiti to study Vodun religion. That was when her talents really emerged."

  "Like being able to see the Mother's evil influence on me," Frank mocked. "Think she could tell if I'm going to meet a tall, handsome stranger?"

  Darcy's answer was slow in coming.

  "She knew there was something wrong with Gabby even before she was born. The doctors didn't pick up on it but Marguerite knew. She kept saying Gabby's lungs were heavy. She's got cystic fibrosis."

  Frank regretted her flippancy, but maintained a mother could intuit something wrong with an unborn child without being psychic. Sensing her doubt, Darcy added, "It's not just Gabby. She sees a lot of things. She saw the Oklahoma bombing. She was seeing it for about a week before it happened. She had this picture in her head of the building blowing up and scores of people dying. It got stronger and clearer the closer it got to that day. She actually pegged the time of the explosion by an hour. It was that strong. Only she thought it was a building in L.A. She didn't realize where it was. Not that it would have mattered anyway. Who'd have believed her?"

  "Did she tell you this post facto?”

  "No. I was picking up Gabby the weekend before it happened, and she was pretty upset. It was hard for her to keep seeing it, knowing it was coming, and not being able to do anything about it. Then it happened that Wednesday."

  "And you just accept all that?"

  "I do," he said simply. "I accept without understanding. It happens to me sometimes, too. That's one of the things she hates about me. She dunks I'm lazy, because I have a gift and won't use it. I tried, but it's just not for me. It's not an avenue I want to explore anymore than I already have."

  "Great. You're telling me I'm sitting here and you can see what color my underwear are?"

  Darcy blushed.

  "I'm not that good. I just get glimpses now and then. Like when I saw that kid stashed in the dumpster. I think it's something everybody has. Cops use it all the time, only we call it instinct or a hunch. Some of us just listen more than others."

  Frank couldn't argue with that. Listening to her instinct wasn't always logical, but it was usually right.

  "She gave me her card. Told me she saw the Mother's hand on me. Like a black cloud."

  "What did you say?"

  "Told her I could take care of it."

  Darcy assessed his boss, then shrugged.

  "Maybe you can. But if I were you, I wouldn't risk it."

  Frank sat back, sighing. "I gotta tell you, I'm tired of all this superstitious shit. I'm trying to solve murders here and for all I know half my squad's packing silver bullets and garlic necklaces. You'd think there'd be a little more logic to all this."

  Darcy stood with his palms up.

  "Hey," he groused, "don't shoot the messenger. I'm just telling you what she said. Maybe if you weren't so defensive about all this you could see that logically you've got nothing to lose by seeing her."

  He strolled out, leaving Frank stewing in her skepticism.

  30

  What the hell, she'd rationalized all the way down the 405. She had questions Marguerite might be able to answer, and she'd been meaning to visit Orange County Sheriffs anyway. She'd called Homicide and set a time to go through a couple of their murder books. Frank hoped they might tie into a series of execution-style hits the nine-three caught in June. Her appointment was at two-thirty. Meanwhile, here she was back in Marguerite James' apartment.

  Dressed all in white, Marguerite had led her in with no preliminaries.

  "This will be easier and more effective if you take all your clothes off."

  Frank folded her arms and stared.

  Indicating a chair in the center of the room, Marguerite said, "At least your shoes and socks then. And your belt and everything in your pockets. I want the energy to move through you as freely as possible."

  Frank did as instructed, suppressing a sigh. Entertaining this new-age, woo-woo crap was embarrassing. If anybody found out, she'd pull a Sandman on Darcy's ass.

  "What exactly are you going to do?"

  "Did you ever play with a Wooly Willy when you were a child?"

  "A Wooly Willy," Frank repeated. "Was that the bald guy with metal shavings you made hair with?"

  "Exactly. That's similar to what I'm going to do. I'm going to draw the shavings off you, then I'm going to put a fresh new set of them around you."

  "But I'm not a Wooly Willy."

  "No, but you do have an energy field. Call it an aura if you like."

  "So you're going to rearrange my aura?"

  "Like that, yes."

  "Is it going to hurt?"

  Marguerite scowled and lifted a brow. It was a look Frank would know well by the end of the day.

  "Basically, I'm going to do to you what I did to Mr. Hernandez. I'll cleanse you, then we'll invoke the proper spirits and ask for protection. While we're doing this I want you to picture this woman. Envision a large black envelope flying straight toward her. You're going to send all her negativity back to her."

  Frank joked, "How much postage do I use?"

  "Lieutenant, I assume you've come here for a reason. Now be silent and let me do my work."

  Frank watched Marguerite fussing with jars of herbs and a pitcher of water. She started singing, her voice light and soft. Frank thought the words sounded French, Creole maybe. She came to Frank, still singing, dabbing at her roughly with a rag she kept dipping into the pitcher. Frank closed her eyes. She felt like a kitten getting cleaned by its mother and despite her cynicism, she felt oddly safe.

  Marguerite finished and went back to the table. Frank asked, "So what else do you know about Mother Love?"

  "I know she's widely respected in certain circles. That she is much feared and venerated."

  "Do you respect her?"

  Marguerite pursed her lips.

  "I respect her abilities but I don't respect what she does with them."

  "And what's that?"

  "When a person of power uses their gifts for personal profit, it's called working with the left hand. Instead of using her gifts for healing, she uses them for material betterment. I've heard she's a fine healer, but that many of her clients enlist her for protection against criminal activity. It's people like Mother Love that give my religion such a bad image. She's a powerful sorciere. Very old."

  "What's a sorciere?"

  "A sorceress. A witch."

  "Is that what you are?"

  Grinding a white powder with a mortar and pestle, Marguerite clarified, "I'm a mambo. I can do the same things as a sorciere but I work with the right hand. I do what I do for the good of all rather than for profit or gain. That's the difference."

  "Like the difference between a dedicated surgeon and a hack."

  "Exactly. Hush now."

  Marguerite knelt before Frank. Dribbling the powder between her fingers she drew a design around Frank's chair.

  "You said she was ver
y old. She's only fifty-nine."

  "Fifty-nine in this lifetime"—the mambo frowned—"but she is an ancient soul. One of the oldest I've ever felt."

  "What's it mean if she writes a name on a piece of paper and ties it up in a beef tongue?"

  Marguerite glanced at Frank like she was expecting her leg to be pulled.

  "Did she do that to you?"

  "Hernandez' cohort. Left it on his front door. Wife went ballistic.

  "Where I come from, that's how the two-headed women cursed someone who told secrets. They'd write his or her name on a piece of paper and then put it into a slit cow tongue. They'd add pepper, sulphur, and nine coffin nails, then tie it up and leave it where the person it's intended for would have to pass by it. In nine days, the victim would die."

  Frank suppressed a sigh. First the Mother killed Duncan, then Carrillo. Did she really plan on offing Hernandez and Echevarria too, or was she just freaking them? She had to know they weren't criminal masterminds, but maybe it was worth the trouble if she could appease her twisted notion of a god at the same time.

  "Do these sorcieres make human sacrifices?"

  "Everything's possible," Marguerite said.

  "Likely?" Frank pushed.

  "I couldn't say. I only know my own business. Just because I would never do such a thing doesn't mean she won't. But you have to understand, most tales of human sacrifice are purely sensationalism."

  "And you have to admit it happens, like in Matamoros."

  Marguerite said nothing.

  "Assuming she is, would it make sense that Mother Love'd burn some victims and cut others?"

  "It would depend on who she was making offerings to."

  "So it wouldn't be inconsistent to light some victims and bleed others?"

  "No. Now hush."

  Frank did as instructed, vaguely distracted by Marguerite's supple movements.

  "What are you doing?"

  "This is called a veve. Each spirit has its own design that it recognizes. We draw these to attract the spirit we're seeking."

  "And which spirit are we seeking today?"

  "Spirits," Marguerite corrected. "First Elegua. He's the master of the crossroads. He opens the gates, so to speak. And then Shango, as we did with Mr. Hernandez. He is the god to propitiate when a supplicant desires revenge or protection."

  "But that's the Mother's god."

  Marguerite's smile was patient.

  "Do you think Jesus Christ belongs only to one person? We'll have to coax him and appease his fiery nature. We do this by offering him the things he loves."

  "Roosters and crabs," Frank interjected.

  Lifting a brow, Marguerite said, "You've been doing your homework. Therefore you must know that if we treat him well and respectfully, he will work with us."

  Frank nodded to an altar in a corner of the room.

  "That's for him?"

  "Yes."

  Marguerite finished her drawing. It was nothing Frank recognized.

  "Do you have a god?"

  "Yes."

  "Which one?"

  Marguerite smiled and all her harshness vanished.

  "Are you always this talkative, Lieutenant, or just nervous?"

  Standing over Frank, she daubed oil onto her face. Frank closed her eyes, aware how near Marguerite's breasts were. Her scent was rich and heavy and Frank hoped she couldn't read her mind.

  "Just curious. I'm out of my realm here. Trying to understand something which makes no sense to me. So which is your god?"

  "Ezili Freda," Marguerite said tenderly.

  "Is that a good one?"

  "They're all good. And they're all bad. They have human natures like we do. They can be angered, then they can be appeased. They can be funny or serious. They love a good time."

  Marguerite pulled jars of herbs from a bookshelf. Mixing the contents in a little clay bowl, she lit them, waving the smoke onto Frank.

  "I'll be right back," she said, slipping out the door. When she returned, she was holding a large black rooster upside down by its legs. The animal didn't flap or struggle. She raised it toward Frank, stopping with it over her head when Frank asked, "What are you doing?"

  "There are different remedies for different maladies," she explained. "Some spells can be counteracted and eliminated. Depending on the curse and the power of the person who has placed it. The stronger spells cannot be entirely removed. What we do with these is displace them. That's what I'm going to do to you. I'm going to draw off the negative energy and feed it to Shango. The gods are so much stronger than we are. What would cripple us, doesn't even faze them."

  "What do you mean feed it?"

  "Hush," Marguerite scolded again. "You'll see."

  Again the thin high song. The mambo drew the uncomplaining bird over Frank's limbs and torso. Frank thought it was all pretty fucking weird, yet didn't stop it.

  Marguerite held the cock over a bowl and before Frank could even think to protest she'd cleanly sliced its throat. She sang over the draining body, then returned to Frank. She poked a finger in the bird's neck. Frank watched the bloody finger come toward her, felt the sticky warm line Marguerite drew on her forehead. Dipping into the bird's neck again, she drew a line on Frank's cheek, still singing her calm, sweet song.

  Tilting the stump to Frank, she ordered, "Touch your tongue to it."

  "No way." Frank shook her head.

  "You must."

  "No."

  Still Marguerite held the bird to her. Frank watched blood ooze around the neck bone. Marguerite moved the bird closer to Frank's lips.

  "Go ahead," she commanded, gentle but insistent. "Don't be afraid."

  Frank glanced from the headless bird to Marguerite. She stood before Frank, implacable and unyielding, yet oddly comforting. At a level she couldn't and wouldn't analyze, Frank trusted the mambo. She touched her tongue to the warm flesh. Marguerite continued her singing. Frank closed her eyes, the tang of rust in her mouth.

  At the altar, the mambo mixed oils and herbs. She sang while she dressed the dead bird with the mixture. When she finished her song, she presented Frank with a small bundle. It looked like a silk onion decorated with ribbons and beads.

  "Put this by your bed and leave it there."

  "What is it?"

  "It's a paquette, an offering to Shango. Leave it near you, where he can find it and watch over you. On your dashboard or by your bed."

  "Why would Shango care about me? Isn't he busy enough looking out for people who actually believe in him?"

  "I believe, Lieutenant. And for the time being that will have to do."

  Her face clouded. She cocked her head, seemed about to say something, then stopped. Frank didn't think much about it when she said, "You have my number. Call if you need me."

  "We're done?"

  Marguerite nodded, opening the office door. As they walked out, Frank started to wipe the blood from her face.

  "No! Leave it for at least an hour."

  "Oh, sure. They'll love this over at Homicide."

  Frank pulled her wallet from her pocket but Marguerite firmly pushed it away.

  "Lagniappe" she said. "Where I come from that means a little something extra. This one's on the house, Lieutenant. I'm just glad you came."

  Frank studied the rich brown eyes. They seemed to hold an ancient lineage of secrets, secrets Frank didn't want to know about.

  "I don't get it. What's in it for you?"

  Marguerite smiled. "Why are you a detective?"

  "It's what I'm good at."

  "What brought you to it?"

  "I like catching bad guys."

  "Are you one of the good guys?"

  "I like to think so."

  "Then it's true to say you at least believe in good and bad?"

  "Yes," Frank allowed.

  "You have the skills, the training, and the experience to catch bad people and protect innocent people, yes?"

  "On a good day."

  "I do the same thing you do, Lieutena
nt. Only you do it on a physical level. I do it on a metaphysical level. I have the skills and the knowledge to stop bad people and to protect innocent people." Marguerite jutted her head toward the window, asking, "Orange County's not in your jurisdiction, is it?"

  "No."

  "If you see a murder happening when you walk out this door will you just keep walking?"

  "Big difference between this and a murder."

  Marguerite frowned. "Not nearly as much as you'd like to think, Lieutenant. Good day."

  31

  "Hi. You're home early."

  Gail was at her computer and Frank kissed her quickly, hoping she didn't stink of chicken blood.

  "I had a drink with Johnnie and left. Figured the company was better here."

  "Well, that's flattering."

  "It is," Frank insisted, stripping her clothes off by the bathroom door. "You don't know how many times I've closed the Alibi with him."

  "I don't want to know," Gail called as Frank stepped into the shower.

  While the hot water sluiced away the day's strangeness, Frank debated telling Gail about her trip to Marguerite's. She decided against it, not wanting to spook the doc with stories about bad juju and blood sacrifices.

  Toweling herself off, Frank was dismayed by what she saw in the mirror. Since she'd started dating Gail, she'd been eating more and working out less. She scowled at the belly forming over her blonde pubic hair. She jumped when Gail's image appeared behind her.

  Gail grinned, "Do you like what you see?"

  "Needs a little work," Frank admitted, wrapping the terrycloth around her waist. Gail trailed her fingers along Frank's spine, then over her toweled flank. The gesture was irksome and Frank tried to figure why she was wrapped so tight. Watching in the mirror, Gail asked, "Want to go to Kabuki's? Get an eel roll? A spider roll?"

  "Why can't they give 'em better names?" Frank grinned. Belying her discomfort, she turned to hold Gail. She studied the doc's easy features, noting, "You must've taken your whole bottle of beautiful pills today. You know, you can't OD on those, but the people looking at you can. Be careful you don't make my heart stop one of these days."