Krewe of Hunters Series, Volume 5

by Heather Graham

  She emailed a small piece for the next day’s paper, then turned to look at Meg, who was so deeply involved in her work that she could have been back in her own office in Virginia. She didn’t even notice Lara.

  “Hey, sorry to interrupt,” Lara said softly. “But…what are you doing?”

  Meg turned to her. “When you were on the phone I was cyber-conferencing with Matt, Diego and Brett. Here’s a shock to the system. Someone is making zombies.”

  “What? Zombies aren’t real. They’re horror movie stuff.”

  “No, not zombies like in the movies,” Meg said. “Real zombies. Slaves with no free will, basically. The whole thing comes from Haiti, and it involves voodoo and drugs, and now it’s here in Miami. A conservative estimate for South Florida says close to half a million people here are Haitian or of Haitian descent.” Meg smiled. “I’ve been on the computer a long time, and now I’m full of statistics. Miami’s Little Haiti is a small area. It runs, roughly speaking, from Northwest 79th Street to Northwest 86th Street, and from the bay over to 2nd Avenue. It’s got a fascinating history. It used to be a small agricultural community called Lemon City, founded around 1850. There were lemon groves everywhere, and supposedly there are still a lot of lemon trees in people’s yards. It’s a poor area, with its share of crack houses, but the median income has been rising, and the local businessmen are fighting to protect their investment and keep drugs out of the area.

  “The population has grown a lot more mixed since the 1980s, but it’s still primarily a Haitian and overall Caribbean community.” She shook her head. “It’s not the safest neighborhood, though. The trip advisory sites all say to be careful, even though the design district and a lot of tourist attractions are just to the south.”

  Lara nodded. “I’ve been there.”

  “What? Already?”

  Lara laughed. “I took a city tour when I first moved down.”

  “Well, at any rate, you can still find voodoo priests and priestesses there,” Meg said.

  Lara leaned back. “Okay. So how do you guys go about that? Do you just walk down the streets and ask people where the voodoo priest lives?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “What, then?”

  “We use the internet, just like everybody else, ask the local cops at the task force meeting. To tell you the truth, I suspect there will be a voodoo shop on every block, though.” She was quiet for a long moment, studying Lara. “I’d hate to be handling the press on this one. I can just see the headlines. ‘Real Zombies Roam Miami.’”

  “I admit, I’m glad I don’t have to spin this one,” Lara said.

  “Listen,” Meg said, “I’ve got some time, and since you know the area, how about you go with me, and we drive around, see what we can see?”

  “It’s nearly lunchtime anyway, so give me ten minutes to finish up here and I’m all yours.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Meg and Lara stopped at a place called The Haitian Princess.

  As Meg had suspected, they’d had no difficulty finding voodoo shops, and they’d chosen this one at random. Lara knew she could take a long lunch, but she didn’t want to be gone too long. Still, she was eager to go inside and see what the place was like.

  A tour group was just leaving when they arrived. Lara was glad; she didn’t want to share the place with a large group. The neighborhood itself had a few sketchy housing projects not too far away, but she was with Meg. And Meg was armed and knew how to use her weapon.

  But Lara didn’t think about any of that once they entered the shop. It was magical. There were beautiful carvings everywhere, freestanding sculptures along with African masks and paintings adorning the walls. A large table held gris-gris bags and a wide variety of herbs. Religious talismans and statues of the Virgin Mary and various saints were displayed in handsome cases. A sign over an archway advised that there was an altar in the back for the faithful.

  They had just stopped by a tightly packed bookshelf when they were approached by a tall African-American man in a handsome white suit.

  “Welcome,” he told them. “May I help you?” Then he smiled, his eyes on Meg. “Ah, you’re a police officer, here to ask me about zombies.”

  Lara’s eyes widened. How did he know?

  But Meg only smiled and introduced herself as she pulled out her badge. “FBI,” she said. “And yes, we’re here to ask you about zombies.”

  Lara followed suit and introduced herself, then said, “We’re hoping to learn, to gain insight, as Meg told you.”

  The man smiled at her. “It’s all right, miss. I am an ordained priest, with a wonderful flock of the faithful here. Good people, gentle, working people. I am called Papa Joe, and you are welcome to call me that, as well. Voodoo, like any religion, may be twisted by poverty, fear and greed. My shop has been full since the media began talking about the so-called dead man who murdered his friend. I am more than happy to help you, though I’m not sure I can. Neither I nor any of my followers know anything about zombies, and we certainly don’t create them.”

  “We never thought you did,” Meg assured him. “But we think that someone here in Miami has resurrected—no pun intended—some of the practices that were popular under Papa Doc’s regime. What we were hoping to talk to you about is the history of voodoo generally, and we’re curious whether you’ve seen or heard of anyone with a particular interest in zombies.”

  “History?” Papa Joe said, his eyes brightening. “Ah, yes. I’m happy to tell you the history of voodoo. It is quite possibly as old as the continent of Africa. We believe that our spirits walk the earth with those of our ancestors. We believe in one great god and many saints, a pantheon based in Catholicism from the time when Europeans came to Africa and began the slave trade around 1510. And voodoo with the slaves to the islands of the Caribbean and the shores of the North American continent.” He paused for a moment. “I was a boy late in Papa Doc’s rule of Haiti, when we all feared the Tonton Macoute, his private army under the control of his devoted voodoo priests. I saw men who looked at the world with sightless eyes, as if they had no souls. How much of that was a result of fear of the priests and Papa Doc himself, and how much came from brainwashing—or the promise of power and the adrenaline rush of brutality—I don’t know. I do know that Papa Doc reigned through fear. My parents walked with their heads down. We were helped out of the country when I was a boy, and I thank God and my ancestors continually that they brought me here.”

  Lara smiled; she found herself liking Papa Joe. “Did you ever hear of anyone—anyone specific, I mean—coming back from the grave?”

  “Back then, of course. We heard about it frequently. There were always stories going around, rumors—as was intended. The men I saw, though, I don’t think they were truly dead. Many things can cause a trancelike state. Maybe they were using certain drugs, maybe they were using hypnotism. I heard about one particular man who came back, though. His family buried him, and then he showed up at his house a week later. He even talked a bit at first. Then he died again, and they buried him again. I think someone used the zombie poison on him, and because he wasn’t truly dead the first time, he miraculously came back. But I never heard of anyone who was known to have been buried and then came back with his mind intact, or who lived more than a week at most. If you want to know more, I can point you to the right books.”

  “That would be great,” Lara said.

  He led them to a shelf of books on the history of voodoo, its use in the United States and abroad and more. They made several selections, thanked him again and prepared to leave.

  “If I can help you more in any way, let me know,” Papa Joe told them as they left.

  “Thank you,” Lara and Meg said in unison.

  “I’ll do some asking around for you, too,” Papa Joe promised. He shook his head. “Naturally, my flock is disturbed. Whenever talk tu
rns to zombies, especially zombies right here in Miami, the spotlight falls on we Haitians. So you never know. Someone may have heard something.”

  Lara got behind the wheel, and Meg had her head in one of the books before they were even out of the parking lot.

  “Whoever is doing this has taken zombie poisoning to a level unseen since Papa Doc’s days,” Meg said after a few minutes.

  “I don’t know. I mean, Miguel Gomez…maybe. They didn’t have a positive identification on the body, and his neighbor said he’d seen him. But Randy Nicholson… The man died in a hospital. There was a viewing at a funeral home, which almost certainly means he was embalmed. He was buried.”

  “Except that he wasn’t in his grave,” Meg said. “Matt told me.”

  “So you think the hospital staff was in on it?” Lara asked doubtfully.

  “Hospitals aren’t perfect. The body could have been whisked away. Or maybe it was managed properly there and they were fooled by the effects of the poison, and something went on at the funeral home. Maybe someone paid them off not to embalm the body.” She turned to look at Lara, speculation in her eyes. “Meanwhile, we need to learn everything we can about Miguel Gomez.”

  “I’m sure the Bureau has a massive file on him,” Lara said.

  “No, we need to know what you can find out.”

  “What I can find out?”

  “It’s evident that he’s trying to reach you.”

  “I don’t know if—”

  “You have to embrace your ability to see ghosts, Lara,” Meg told her. “That’s all there is to it.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Dr. Robert Treme was a cardiologist with an array of diplomas and certificates on his office wall to prove that he’d gone the distance. He was about sixty and appeared to have embraced his vocation, since his build suggested that he did just the right amount of exercise for his age and ate well, watching out for his own heart. He wasn’t defensive when he met with Brett and Diego, he was puzzled.

  He had a file before him, which he readily handed across the desk to them. “I gave copies of all this information to the police, as well. I have a list of the nurses and personnel who were on the floor at the time of his death, including the orderlies who took the body to the hospital morgue and the morgue attendant. The nurse on duty called a code blue, naturally. Nicholson was seventy-eight, and when he flatlined, I happened to be at the hospital, just finishing rounds. We performed all the proper resuscitation techniques to no avail.”

  “He died from congestive heart failure?” Brett asked. When Treme nodded, he went on. “And he was dead? You’re sure of it?”

  Treme nodded gravely. “I have been practicing medicine for forty years. The man was dead. No pulse, no heartbeat. I don’t know who that was on the platform, but it wasn’t Randy Nicholson. If you doubt my words, you and the police are welcome to question everyone in the hospital at the time—including his family. I left them alone with him to say their goodbyes before he went down to the hospital morgue.”

  “The man isn’t in his grave,” Brett informed him.

  “Then, you need to be looking into body snatchers,” Treme said with certainty.

  “Was he tested for brain waves?” Brett asked.

  Treme leaned forward, irritated for the first time. “He’d had a bad heart for several years. He didn’t help it any by living on red meat coated in salt. He was in the hospital for congestive heart failure, and his heart gave out. He didn’t have Alzheimer’s disease and he wasn’t being tested for mental acuity or a brain injury, so no, he wasn’t tested for brain waves. Believe me, he wasn’t breathing. He didn’t have a pulse. He was in his room for over an hour after death so his family could say goodbye, and then he was in the hospital morgue before going to the funeral home. The man was dead.”

  “Is there any possibility—any at all—that he was in a state that simply resembled death?” Brett asked.

  For a moment Treme betrayed a hint of uncertainty. “If he wasn’t dead, it was an impeccable imitation of it.” He rose, apparently finished with the interview. “Gentlemen, if Mr. Nicholson’s body was not in his grave, I suggest you look to the funeral home. From the time I signed his death certificate, the hospital and the funeral home became responsible for the body. He had a viewing, so his body definitely made it as far as the mortuary. I really don’t see how I can help you further.”

  It was a dismissal, and Brett nodded at Diego to indicate that it was time to go. That was it—all they could get at the moment. And it did sound as if they would have to move on and find out just what had happened after the death certificate had been signed.

  * * *

  While Meg had kept her nose in the books most of the way back, she was interested in learning more about the facility when they returned.

  “I noticed last night that the place is locked and there’s an alarm. And a fence runs all around the property, right to the water. What’s next door on the left?” she asked.

  “The land is owned by a museum, but they haven’t built there yet. They’re fenced, too. And actually, they have full-time security.”

  “What about on the other side?” Meg asked.

  “County property. Apparently an old guy used to sell bait and rent fishing boats from there. But when he died, the property reverted to Dade County.” Lara made a face. “It will probably be sold and turned into condos.”

  “The way of the world,” Meg said. “So conceivably, anyone could come through from that side.”

  “If they were willing to get wet, yes.”

  “And what about the dolphin lagoons?”

  “The lagoons themselves are fenced, with gates that are opened when there’s a major storm. There are thirty dolphins here, and they’ve been released ten times. Every single one has come back, because they all choose to,” Lara told her proudly.

  Meg smiled at that. “Good to hear.”

  “I don’t think this place is in any danger,” Lara said.

  “I don’t think the dolphins are in danger. You’re my worry,” Meg said. “But back to the lay of the land. When you’re open, people can enter the facility proper via the parking lot or through the gift shop, right?”

  “Exactly,” Lara agreed. “And if you follow the path to the left, you get to the docks, and if you keep going you end up here, at the offices. If you head straight, toward the water, you come to the education building. To the right of that you have the café, and past that, more lagoons. Cocoa is usually in the first lagoon, because she’s one of the main performers.” She smiled, realizing it sounded as if she were talking about a niece who was doing exceptionally well in school.

  “I’ll have to meet your Cocoa,” Meg said. “And the rest of the staff. So far I’ve met your boss, Grady Miller, who reminds me a lot of Adam, and I bet he’s just as good to work for. And I’ve met Rick and Adrianna, who seem lovely. What about the rest of the staff?”

  “Come on, we’ll take a walk and I’ll introduce you. I can tell them I’m just checking to see how plans are going for Sunday. We’re hosting a group called Just Say Thanks. They bring in military vets to interact with the dolphins. I’ve been told the effect on the vets is amazing.”

  “I’m glad we’ll be here for it,” Meg said.

  They left the office, and Lara headed toward the education building first. They waited outside the door of one of the classrooms and watched as Myles Dawson, their intern, enthusiastically lectured a visiting summer-camp group on the work they did. He showed a short video demonstrating that young dolphins were quick to learn behaviors from their trainers, just as they did from their parents. He talked about how dolphins learned both visual and verbal commands, and could even comprehend several commands combined sequentially. He also showed that dolphins were able to discern symbols and match like to like. He finished by saying, “These i
ncredible creatures have been man’s friend for years. The tales of dolphins saving people from shark attacks are true. And remember, here at Sea Life they’re top dog, so behave yourself and follow all instructions when you’re interacting with them today, because you’ll get sent to the corner before they will.”

  His words were greeted with laughter, and then the group filed out, smiling and ready for their adventure.

  “Hey, Myles, I brought a friend to meet you,” Lara called to him. “Good class, too,” she added.

  Myles grinned at that. A nice grin. He had longish brown hair and warm hazel eyes, and Lara knew that he liked to flirt, but she also appreciated the fact that he kept it within friendly limits.

  “Thanks, and hi, friend of Lara,” he told Meg, offering her his hand. Then he turned back to Lara. “I heard your friends from the FBI were here. I’ve got to admit, I was afraid everything going on here would kill business, but it looks as if we’re already pretty much back to normal. Some people are asking about what happened, but that will go on forever, I guess.”

  “I’d say that the accidental publicity definitely put us on the map,” Lara said. “Though maybe not the way we’d like to be.”

  “This place is wonderful,” Meg said.

  “It really is. I had this great idea that we put Lara in a bikini and have her ride across the lagoon on a dolphin’s back. That would really bring them in. But the bosses didn’t go with idea. They’re all about dignity around here, go figure.”

  “Funny, funny, thank you,” Lara told him. “I doubt that my coordination level would be up to the task anyway. Meanwhile, Meg and I have been friends for years, and as you know, she and her partner, Matt, are both with the FBI. They’ll be hanging around, with Grady’s blessing.”

  “Glad to have you—feels nice and safe,” Myles assured her. “Come on, I’ll take you back to meet Dr. Amory and his lovely second, Cathy Barkley.”