The Seer Renee
Page 1
THE SEER RENEE
By
C. R. Daems
The Seer Renee
Copyright © 2013 by C. R. Daems
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from C. R. Daems.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Edited by: Elisa Blaisdell - elisablaisdell (at) yahoo (dot) com
Cover by: Erin Lark http://erinlark.com/design/
Version 1 of The Seer Renee was first published in November 2013,
Version 2 of The Seer Renee was revised in July 2014
ISBN-13: 978-0-9911060-0-4
ISBN-10: 09911060-0-8
Check out all my novels at:
Talonnovels.com
CHAPTER ONE
Triple trouble
CHAPTER TWO
Ken and Sheila
CHAPTER THREE
Locos
CHAPTER FOUR
Grace and Ron
CHAPTER FIVE
MS666
CHAPTER SIX
Mr. Willis
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dilemma
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ellen Jeffery
CHAPTER NINE
The Committee
CHAPTER TEN
Firebombs
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FBI involvement
CHAPTER TWELVE
Revised plans
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
An anonymous tip
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Committee
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Fire sale
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
An impossible situation
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Recovery
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The committee
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Conflicting thoughts
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sheila's plan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Impossible decisions.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Revelations
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Now What?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Committee.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Test results.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Black's compromise
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Game
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The game continues
CHAPTER THIRTY
Countermoves
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sheila
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Hunt for Mister Black
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
End Game
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Conclusion
Novels by C.R. Daems & J.R. Tomlin
CHAPTER ONE
Triple trouble
When Hector opened the door, I knew it had gone from a slow day to a bad day. Hector was the leader of the Locos. As the gang's name suggested, they were all crazy. Hector was no taller than me, but he was twice as wide and double my weight. His broad smile exposed brown-stained teeth, which did nothing to make him look friendly. Nor did the tattoos, which covered every inch of his body not covered by his black cargo pants and sleeveless T-shirt with its multiple red skulls. His shaved head and neck were covered with gang tags, and Locos, a word which described Hector completely, was prominently tattooed across his forehead. He closed the door, twisted the knob that locked the deadbolt, and turned the Open sign around to read Closed.
"It's time you and I get to know each other since you're going to be Hector's squeeze." His smile got bigger, exposing his nicotine-stained teeth. As he made his way towards the small counter I was sitting behind, he weaved slightly—high on something. This was not the first time Hector and members of the Locos had visited my shop. They didn't come in to buy anything, only to test my interest in them. When I didn't show any, they would pick up an item and take it, to show me this was their turf, and they could take whatever they wanted. It appeared Hector had decided that extended to me.
As he approached the counter, his eyes were glued to my breasts, probably wishing they were bigger. That was too bad for Hector. I’m slender for my 5' 9" height and have long conceded my breasts were never going to be one of my standout features. I reached under the counter for one of the four rings there. Granny had a friend in Oregon make them, when she knew she didn’t have long to live. The four rings were plain-looking, each with a different stone and design, and each with a syringe mechanism. I slipped on the one with a tiger-eye stone. It was neither unique nor expensive. Since I always wore a couple of rings on each hand, another didn't appear strange. This ring contained an extract from the seeds of the rosary pea. The diluted drug caused vomiting, fever, stomach cramps, and diarrhea. A similar ring with an onyx stone on my right hand held an extract from the leaves and stems of yew, a cardiac depressant that had no antidote.
When he reached me, he grabbed my arm and jerked me off my chair. While squeezing my ass, he pushed me across the room towards the door that led to my small living quarters.
As his grip tightened on my arm, I knew exactly what would happen in the minutes, days, and weeks to come. As a seer, once I made contact with someone and concentrated, I could see their future for the next several weeks and sometimes longer. Hector's life over the next several weeks would be fairly routine for a Locos—selling drugs, sex with the gang's girls, and fights. However, he wasn't going to enjoy the next couple of days.
When he opened the door, I placed my leg between his, pushed with my shoulder, and made a half-hearted attempt to wrench free from the hand holding my arm. Twisting loose would be impossible. Hector had the strength of a professional tackle on the New Orleans Saints football team. But the object was to distract rather than to break free, like when a pickpocket bumps into you to misdirect your thoughts from any feeling you might have in the area he was working—like your pockets. As he stumbled into the door jamb, I struck him on the shoulder with my right hand. The impact drove the needle and several drops of rosary pea into his arm. Now I needed to play for time, and more importantly, effect. He smiled.
"That's not nice, Renee. You're Hector's pussy now. You make Hector happy, or after I'm through I'll have Locos tattooed across your forehead, and you'll be the Locos' pussy." He laughed and slapped me on my ass. In response, I rolled my eyes up under my eyelids, made my body rigid, and began to chant in a monotone.
"Dinclinsin Ge-rough, your servant, Renee, seeks your help.
Hector's attempting to violate your mambo.
Enter the belly of the beast.
Dinclinsin Ge-rough, …”
Hector's smile waned as he threw me down on the couch. I lay there rigid, chanting as he fumbled with my skirt to reach my panties. As he hooked his fingers into the elastic band, beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and his face turned pale. He retched as the drug began its attack. I continued to chant, and he stumbled off me and puked on my rug.
Bastard, I screamed silently as I rolled off the couch and followed him through the doorway into the shop, shouting so he could hear me over his retching and puking.
"Dinclinsin Ge-rouge, let him feel your displeasure
for attacking your faithful servant… "
He opened the door and fell to his knees onto the pavement. By now, the retching had become the dry
heaves. When I reached the door, Betty Lou, a regular customer of mine, stood looking down at him. She turned to me with her eyes wide.
"Renee, can't you help him?" she said, her voice rising with each word. Meanwhile, Hector had managed to stagger to his feet.
"No, Betty Lou. I don't have any herbs that can cure stupidity. I'm afraid the shop's in a mess and stinks besides. It's going to take me the rest of the day to get it cleaned and smelling fresh." I shrugged. "Right now, only the Locos could stand to shop here."
She nodded but didn't move, her gaze fixed on Hector, staggering down the street. I closed and locked the door and sank to sit, trembling, with my back against the door. I'd been lucky. The Locos had been sniffing around me for months. Had several of them attacked me or had Hector beat me before he grabbed me, the result would have been far different.
When the shaking finally stopped, I staggered to my feet. Needing something to distract me, I fetched a mop, scrubbing brush, and bucket, which I filled with water and Pine-Sol detergent, and began working on my rug. Tears came to my eyes as I scrubbed Hector's stomach contents off my granny's rug. She had raised me because my mother, her daughter, was, as Granny put it, born with a destructive personality. As a result, I only saw my mother when the latest love of her life deserted her, and she had no place to sleep. She never stayed long because Granny wouldn't let her bring drugs into the house.
My tears stopped, and a small smile replaced my pout as my mind wandered back in time. Granny had begun teaching me about herbs and roots not long after I could read and write. Not just their names and descriptions. I had to know each by taste and smell as well as the effect of combining them with other herbs. Tasting proved a formidable teacher. I got to feel the effect first hand. Just a smear of rosary pea on my finger had made me sick for hours, and I had injected several drops into Hector's shoulder. He'd be lucky to recover in a couple of days. If I had played it right, he'd be convinced I'd called on a Loa—Voodoo spirit—to make him sick. He wouldn't be anxious to upset me again. With luck, his brother Locos would also be convinced I was a mambo to be avoided. Perception is everything in Voodoo, like all religions. It doesn't matter whether the Gods are interested or not, only that you believe they are. I believe they exist but don’t like to get involved.
* * *
It took me several hours to clean up Hector's mess. To get rid of the lingering stench, I opened the windows and lit several candles with a rain and island scent. Hopefully, the weather forecasters were right, and we would get some rain for the next twenty-four hours, not that rain was unusual for New Orleans.
I finished up around eight o'clock, too mentally and physically exhausted to prepare dinner for myself. Besides, I needed a distraction. I was still coming to grips with Granny's suicide and trying to understand the strange circumstances that precipitated it, learning all facets of running a small business, fighting for acceptance as a mambo, and having to deal with crazies like Hector. At times like this, it seemed overwhelming. I wanted to scream, "It's not fair. I'm only twenty-two and alone in the world."
Of course it wasn't fair, but so what. It wasn't fair that Granny felt it necessary to end her life, but she did. It wasn't fair that Hector felt it his right to force me to be his girl, but he did. Granny had the right of it. Life's neither fair nor unfair, since unfair only exists because of each person's perception of fair. Life's to live, not to judge. Realizing how fortunate I had been to have Granny in my life, I vowed to be the woman she would have wanted me to become.
Feeling better, I locked the door and headed towards Saint Peter Street and the Cajun Café. I deserved a good meal at a nice restaurant. As I strolled down Bourbon Street, jazz and blues drifted out from bars and clubs as the nightlife came alive. I began to relax, enjoying the familiar sounds and smells. People wandered the streets in small lively groups. It felt like a gigantic outdoor party. When I reached the Cajun Café, it looked crowded.
“Mambo Renee," Eloi said when he saw me enter. He was a tall rakish-looking man with curly dark-brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. His smile today seemed broader than usual. He normally called me Renee. Today he not only used my honorific but emphasized it. "Rumor is that you put a curse on Hector. More than a few people would like to see him suffer."
"I didn't curse Hector. I merely sought the help of a Loa. Much to everyone's disappointment, he'll recover. Next time, who knows?"
"We live for then. Patio, Renee?"
"Yes. That would be nice. I need the fresh air." Especially after breathing Hector's puke for half the day. Shortly after being seated at a small table off to the side, Alma, one of the regular waitresses, appeared.
"We're all taking up a collection for you for doing Hector. Every day he remains sick, we're adding to it." Alma gave me an evil grin, which didn’t come easy. Her round café-au-lait face, with its heart shaped lips, small pug nose, and chubby cheeks, just wasn’t made to look evil. Hector was feared, and the local women went out of their way to avoid him.
"Well, it should be at least two days, maybe three. If you really do have a collection, give it to someone Hector hurt, with my compliments." Knowing Hector, that would be a long list. I took a quick look at the menu while Alma stood, pencil poised above her pad, waiting. "Shrimp Creole and an espresso."
After Alma hurried off, I sat back and looked around the patio. It appeared a mixed crowd, a handful of tourists, a few regulars, and several couples that looked like hookups. It reminded me that I hadn't had much of a sex-life lately. I had a normal number of dates in high school, no sex but lots of heavy petting. In college, I didn't do hookups, but I did have two serious relationships. The first one ended amicably by mutual agreement. We had little in common except for college and sex. The second ended when I found Granny was being terrorized. I dropped out of school and ended the relationship. Today, I realized it wouldn't have lasted. He loved the excitement of New York and the thrill of trading stocks. I loved the heart of New Orleans and intended to follow in Granny's footsteps. I shook myself out of my musing when Alma appeared with my espresso.
"Sorry for the delay. It's crazy in the main room right now. Your dinner will only be a few minutes longer," Alma said with her ever present smile. I didn't care since I wasn't in a hurry to return to my shop. But true to her word, my dinner arrived shortly afterward. The shrimp was delicious as well as the crème bruleé for dessert. I ate slowly, enjoying people watching. Granny had taught me how to interpret people by their facial expressions and body language. Most didn't realize how much of themselves they displayed to a careful observer. Watching the hookups was the most fun, the ritual mating dance. After watching each couple for several minutes, I would have been willing to bet which couples would have sex tonight and which would be lucky to end it with a few kisses.
* * *
By the time I opened for business the next morning, only a slight sour smell lingered. I left the door open, hoping it would be all gone by the time customers began to arrive. I had few customers in the morning, but business picked up later in the afternoon. A small crowd milled around looking at the items displayed on the shelves and in glass cases, when a middle-aged woman approached me.
"Young woman, the price of your Voodoo dolls seems excessive. I can get a Voodoo doll at one of several shops for ten dollars less than yours." She stood there looking at the other customers. "And they are packaged in a nice box and have a sheet of instructions." She now had everyone's attention, and a smug smile appeared as she looked back to me.
"Ma'am, you're absolutely right, and they make excellent souvenirs and gifts from N’Orleans. But if you look into each box you will see they are identical. They were produced in some factory—maybe in China—as tourist souvenirs and the directions are written by someone who has never practiced Voodoo and contains a lot of rubbish." I gave a practiced sigh. "My dolls were made one at a time by a practicing mambo, a Voodoo priestess. When I sell one of the dolls, I explain what Voodoo dolls can and cannot do."
Before she could speak, an elderly woman waved and pointed at one of the dolls I kept locked in a glass case. It made them appear important. “I’ll take that one," she said.
Before I opened the case, I'd made four sales. I collected the money and placed each purchase along with several pictures of Voodoo dolls and a list of my services in a gift bag with "The House of Mambo Eshe" on it.
"Gather around, y’all." I handed out sheets of paper and pencils for them to take notes before continuing. "To be effective, your Voodoo doll must contain the essence of the person you want it to represent. That could be hair, fingernail clipping, skin, semen, and even sweat. That must be attached or smeared onto the doll—the more essence the better. Voodoo works through the Loa, who are messengers to God. They also have powers of their own, but you cannot expect them to be sitting around waiting to carry out your wishes. You must petition them for their help..." I expected several were disappointed that they couldn't place a curse on someone and had to restrict their petitions to more minor aliments or accidents. If it didn't work, it wouldn't be my fault. It would be their lack of sincerity, the Loa’s unwillingness to grant the request, insufficient essence, etc. "From a practical standpoint, perception is crucial. The person must know you have a doll with his essence and believe you have the power to connect it to him or her. You never can depend on a Loa to grant your prayer, and even if he does, a little help doesn't hurt."
The sales made a good profit that afternoon, and it was fun talking with customers about Voodoo. Most were surprised to find that Voodoo, more accurately, Vodou, was a religion with similarities to Catholicism and was practiced by over eighty million people who believed in one God. For example, the Loa were the equivalent of saints, not gods.
* * *
That night I sat on my couch listening to a CD of Taoist music. It helped me to relax for my upcoming fortunetelling session with one of my regular clients. Fortunetelling for me felt like a refreshing swim in a river infested with crocodiles. A year before Granny committed suicide, she sat me down one night and told me a story.