“Marie. Merde, Marie. Answer the phone!” DuLac shouted.
“Here.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Stop shouting.”
“You should answer your phone. Parks called. Said you had an unpleasant case.”
“Silly man. All our cases are unpleasant.”
“Silly or not. He thought you might need some support.”
Marie stared at the horizon. Gray clouds. The sun seemed suspended by strings. Offshore, a storm was feeding. “ Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . ’ ”
“Marie?”
“Twenty-third Psalm. ‘The Lord is my shepherd.’ ”
“You’re a shepherd, too.”
“I know. Damballah’s priestess. My flock is small.”
“You’re renewing it. Besides, slaves didn’t mind mixing African drums with Christian hymns. No different today. Except folks keep quiet about it. Hide it.”
“You’re right. Baptist, AME Methodist, Roman Catholic—when they’ve given up hope, they come to me.”
“Don’t be bitter. I’m going to call a friend. Professor Alafin, a specialist in indigenous and indigenous-inspired religions. African. Haitian Voudon. Rastafarian. There’s no precedent for a blood-draining spirit.”
DuLac was breathing heavily. She imagined him sitting at his desk, his head in his hand.
“I can’t help but believe we’re at the beginning, DuLac. Not the end.”
“This is fa. Your destiny.”
“Why does it have to be so hard? So brutal?”
“What? What did you say?”
“Nothing.” She was sure he’d heard her.
“Parks said ‘Bushmills.’ He bought Roach a Bushmills. Said you’d understand.”
Marie laughed. Bushmills. A good Irish whiskey.
“I’ll see you tonight?”
“Yes. I want to check on Petey. He’s still holding on?”
“Oui. You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Sure. Kind Dog is with me. We’re going to visit Father Donnelly.”
“Stay Safe.”
“Au’voir Later.” She clicked her cell shut.
“Have you come to confess?” Father Donnelly looked up from the pew, a rosary wrapped around his hand.
“Maybe next year. Though, if you want, I can confess to some wicked fantasies.”
“You’re a mother now.”
“That’s why I have fantasies.”
Father Donnelly laughed. Not yet forty, his hair salt and pepper, he patted for Marie to sit beside him.
Born in Baton Rouge, Father Donnelly knew New Orleans’s history better than anyone, knew about the nineteenth-century’s intersections of race, religion, class. Voodoo ceremonies in Congo Square. Quadroon balls. French aristocrats tricking innocent girls into false marriages; priests who collected alms to buy opium.
“I thought you’d visit.”
“Mind if we go outside?”
“You used to think my church was beautiful.”
“It still is,” said Marie, studying the soaring stained glass. The woodcut stations of the cross; the gold candelabras on the altar. The Catholic Church’s pageantry always stirred her. “Dog’s outside.”
“Let’s go then.” Father Donnelly genuflected before the altar, before the Christ nailed to the crucifix. “I’ve missed Dog.”
Kind Dog’s entire body shook with joy.
“He remembers you.”
Father Donnelly snapped a tree branch. “Here, boy.” He threw. Dog woofed and ran after it.
“Simple pleasures. God’s creatures bring great pleasure.”
“You should get a dog.”
“The Church won’t allow it. Smacks of vanity. Besides, I have you and Kind Dog to visit me.” Playfully, he brushed Dog’s head. “Is it true about Father—”
“You know?”
“Clergy gossip is swift. Is it true?” he asked, watching her expression closely. “Bloodless?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
He crossed himself.
“What is it with you Irish?”
Father laughed. “Are my freckles getting red?”
“No, but your eyes are smiling.”
“Can’t help my Irish eyes.”
Feeling suddenly tired, Marie sat on the church steps. Pigeons fluttered, pecked at the grass. She threw the stick again for Dog.
Father Donnelly sat, his voice mimicking Lugosi’s: “ ‘Vampires. They want to suck your blood.’ ”
“Not funny, Father.”
“Dysfunctional humor. I’m sorry,” he said. “Did you know Transylvania’s always been Catholic? My Irish ancestors believed in elves, fairy folk. Benign beings compared with the devil’s bloodsucker.”
“So you think it’s Satan?”
“Certainly no African god you worship.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Pre-missionaries, I’m not one to believe the African continent was dark.”
“You’re one of the few. But whoever said, ‘Dark is evil’?”
“Sorry again. I misspoke.”
“I’m giving you a hard time. But it’s true—ever since Cain was branded black for murdering his brother, Christians see color as an excuse for prejudice.”
“Personally, I believe Christ was dark. Finding Lucy’s bones means we all are. Or once were.”
“Careful. Your parishioners might hear you.”
“It’s not them I’m worried about. The Church hierarchy is growing more conservative. The archbishop is always upset with me for something.”
They sat companionably on the steps. Dog lay down when no one threw his stick.
“Who do you think killed Father—?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it. But I’m not sure it’s Satan.”
“Father Xavier was a tortured soul.”
“The other victims—”
“Others?”
“Two.”
Father crossed himself again. “I’ll say prayers. Tell me about the others.”
“A Haitian refugee. An African-American jazz man.”
“As different from a New England priest as you could possibly be.”
Marie raised her brows. “New England?”
“Nantucket.”
“Maybe that explains the water.”
“Meaning?”
“Agwé, the sea god. One death happened near water. The other—a saxophonist died trying to draw Agwé’s sign.” She hesitated.
“Go on.”
“And I’ve felt Agwé’s presence. Heard his rhythms.”
“Have you called him?”
“Careful, Father. You might get excommunicated.”
“Don’t patronize me, Marie. I’m a Delta boy. Southern to my core.”
“I called Agwé.” She hugged herself, remembering the cold. “He wasn’t strong enough to stop the creature from attacking Petey, one of my followers. Nothing about my ceremony went right.”
She shuddered, remembering the cold touch.
“Father Xavier abused nearly a dozen boys. Normally, I don’t believe in retribution. Deuteronomy 19:21: ‘Life shall go for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.’ The Old Testament God sent slaying angels—many times . . .”
“You’re not saying this is a manifestation of God? You can’t be serious. What about Christ’s suffering? His mercy? Don’t tell me I’m more of a believer than you are.”
Father stood. Dog, too.
“I’ll light a candle for you.”
“You’re offended.”
“Why did you come to me, Marie?” Father Donnelly’s face was red, his expression despairing. “You wanted to know my thoughts? Maybe it’s a demon. Satan’s calumny knows no bounds. Maybe it’s God? ‘An eye for an eye.’ Maybe that’s what this world needs. The sword. Wrath. The fearful guise of God.”
“You’re trembling.”
“I have work to do.”
“Wait.” She clutc
hed his hands. Soft, almost feminine. His eyes, usually compassionate, were hard.
“Tell me. What’s wrong?”
“We were in seminary together. Even then there were whispers.”
“You feel complicit. Guilty.”
Marie wanted to go home, take a bath, hug Marie-Claire. Instead, she kept hold of Father Donnelly’s hands. “Did you ever see him touch a child? Have evidence that he touched a child?”
“No.”
“Then you would’ve condemned prematurely.”
“You’re only trying to make me feel better.”
“Those who buried the evidence deserve condemnation. Did you do that? Bury evidence? Not report a crime?”
“No.”
“Did you move him from parish to parish? During decades of abuse? Post him in New Orleans to rot?”
“No.”
“Good.” Her stomach roiled. She slapped her hand against her thigh, calling Dog to heel.
“I didn’t help you at all, did I?”
“I’m not sure anything in this world can.”
“You’re a better priestess than I am a priest.”
“Nonsense.”
Both she and Father Donnelly were aware that she hadn’t mentioned confession. Confessional sanctity protected even the most abhorrent crimes.
“Here,” he said, handing Marie his well-worn rosary. “It may help. Always works in vampire movies.”
“Don’t be having a crisis of faith.”
“Is that what this is?” he answered cryptically, turning toward the church’s hard oak door.
“Father. Tony. It isn’t your God. Nor one of mine. Agwé says it comes from the sea.”
“You’re a good woman, Marie. I need to pray.” Eyes bleak, he slipped inside the church.
“Dog,” Marie called.
He pawed a willow tree.
“Dog!”
His brown eyes stared at her. Bright and splendid. Marie felt Dog’s intelligence. She moved closer. “What do you see? A squirrel? A bird?”
Shading her eyes, Marie stepped inside the tree’s lacelike curtain. Dozens upon dozens of fanning branches hung, quivering like falling stars.
JT and Rudy were perched on a limb. So intangible, a slight gust of wind could scatter them, like dust in the air.
She was relieved she didn’t see the murdered priest. “Good. Father Xavier isn’t part of my flock.” Her palm pressed the rough bark. “What do you say, JT? A false lead? Rudy, how did you know to call upon Agwé? What word were you trying to write?”
Passersby looked at her strangely. A crazy woman talking to a tree.
A portly man stopped and looked up, into the sunlight-streaked branches. He shook his head. Meandered on.
A child, suspenders clipped to his shorts, pointed. “I see. I see them.” His mother hushed and tugged him, crossing to the other side of the street.
A peddler pushed a cart of New Age crystals: wind chimes, hearts on a string. Unicorns. He shook his knotted dreads, like Father Xavier’s cat-o’-nine-tails.
Sun burst through the crystals. Rainbows snaked up the tree.
Like a mirage, JT and Rudy vanished.
The peddler moved on.
Marie looked east, west, north, and south. Families strolling the Quarter. Con artists playing shell games. Tourists, wide eyed, bushy tailed, eager for sin. The church bells tolled.
Marie thought she was losing her mind. Even reality didn’t seem real.
NINE
CHARITY HOSPITAL
THURSDAY NIGHT
In three days, there’d be a full moon, affecting tides, creating greater waves of lunatics in an already crazy town. A thwarted lover would beat his beloved to death; an unemployed worker would find solace in a killing spree; a lonely, mild-mannered teacher would commit suicide. She could see it all before it had happened; part intuition, part sight.
The storm was coming. Like rising air pressure, the ER over the next few days would become even more crowded. More drunks, druggies, gunshot wounds, stabbings, and accidents—all adding to the uninsured seeking care.
Marie slipped on her lab coat. Ready to work. Another shift. Here, inside Charity’s flat, white-colored walls. But she knew this job. This was comfort. All afternoon with Dog at her feet, she’d been studying Laveau’s nineteenth-century journal. She couldn’t find any clues. Couldn’t discard Father Donnelly’s pain. Or JT and Rudy’s haunting.
Tomorrow, she’d meet DuLac’s friend, the anthropologist. Maybe he could help. For now, she’d do what she knew best. Be a doctor and heal.
Her cell rang: “Yellow moon, yellow moon . . .” On her break, she’d download something innocuous, stupid. “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head,” “MacArthur Park,” “Rhinestone Cowboy.”
“Doc?”
“Here.”
“JT, Rudy, Father Xavier. All dead; same cause. Blood loss.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Rudy marked Agwé’s sign with his ring. Some kind of signet. Maybe a Mason? We’re looking into it. The other mark—the letter, letters, whatever it is—was in blood.”
“Rudy’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Was there—”
“—blood on Rudy’s fingertips? No. None.”
Her knees nearly buckled. “It’s communicating.” She wanted to run far away. “I’ve got to go, Parks. Work.”
“You’ll need a ride home, Doc? What do you say?”
She ducked inside an empty exam room. Panting, trying to catch her breath. Her worlds were colliding again.
“Doc? You still there?”
She powered off her cell. She didn’t want to speak with Parks.
On her break, she’d go upstairs and visit Petey. Maybe he’d remember something essential.
But here, now—she needed to be a doctor. In New Orleans. Her home. A city, like Vegas, where housewives, businessmen, convenience-store clerks, librarians, doctors planned on visiting to shed inhibitions. Of course, some didn’t; they were shocked voyeurs. Planned on that, too. Like a tourist planning to spend too much money, eat too much, drink too much, they planned on squealing, being shocked by sex in the streets, transvestites walking in three-inch heels, and dachshunds dressed as clowns.
Vegas, its mob roots suppressed, had become an R-rated DisneyWorld.
New Orleans still shimmered with its XXX-rated pride. Slavery’s sorrow, the wounds and pain of war, yellow jack epidemics, and hurricane disasters, all had roots plumbing miles deep beneath New Orleans’s gaiety.
Now there was a new evil in town.
Come hell or high water, she’d draw the line.
She smoothed her hair, coat, drawing back the curtain to Exam One. “Mr. Layton. Did you lose your false teeth again?”
“Sure did.” He grinned like a recalcitrant child.
Rudy and JT stood at the head of the bed.
Marie almost waved, then cocked her head, considering. Why weren’t Rudy and JT at yesterday’s ceremony?
She smiled for Mr. Layton. “We’ll see if Antoinette, the hospital’s social worker, can help. Maybe a spare set of teeth.”
“That’ll be right nice.”
She pressed the stethoscope to his chest, back, listening for possible pneumonia. His airways were clear; his eyes and ears, fine; but his throat and lips, dry, his skin, taut.
She spoke to the young nurse, Delores. “Give Mr. Layton three cc’s of saline.” The ghosts nodded their heads. “It’ll hydrate you. You’ll live to one hundred. Just remember to drink. Water, not tea. Or rum. You’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
She patted his wrinkled hand. Marie wished the city would subsidize air-conditioning for its elderly poor. In the ER, all she could do was hydrate and send them home.
She walked toward the patient board. What was next? A sports fracture. Impacted bowels. A vomiting drunk. “From Wisconsin,” an ER nurse hissed, disdainfully. Tourists from the Midwest were the craziest.
She should call Parks. Were ghosts concrete evidence enough? Was their absence a clue?
“Hey, we need help here.” A threesome—two men dressed in tight black pants, the woman in a halter and floral skirt—entered the ER. The elder man, white haired, but still lean and fit, his arms around his companions, limped. “Fell down stairs,” he said. “Awful.”
“Wait your turn,” hollered El.
“Do you know who this is? Greatest samba teacher ever.”
“He should learn how to walk then.”
Nurse Delores giggled.
“Best in New Orleans,” said the high-yellow woman, her hair falling in cascades. “A treasure.”
“I don’t care who he is,” said El.
The woman, red lips pouting, answered, “Don’t you care about Mardi Gras? We will be the best,” she said, shimmying her shoulders and breasts.
El waved her away, like a fly. “Sit.”
The girl extended her hand to her curly-haired partner, black as midnight, and he smiled, catching and cradling her hand to his chest. He stroked her waist and pulled her tightly against him, almost as if they were about to tango.
“Play,” he said, never once looking away from her eyes.
“Sí, sí,” said the teacher. “Make love. Dance with your soul.” He pressed the button on his cheap cassette. Marimbas, drums, guitars, swirled. Echoing, cresting like a tidal wave in the ER. The two were dancing, hips shaking, hands fluttering like butterflies. The woman’s breasts jiggled; the men in the waiting room couldn’t shake their eyes. The two were seductive. The fluorescent glare seemed to dim; the white walls seemed tinted with passion. The ER was a dance hall—a pretaste of a Mardi Gras parade—among the sick. Feverish waiting room patients clapped; a man requiring stitches started to sway. Another man, a huge bump on his head, set down his ice and began finger snapping.
“Turn that off,” shouted El. The two kept dancing in and around chairs, giggling like truant schoolchildren. The patients were conspirators, blocking El as the dancers moved among the small tables and chairs. Even the nurses grinned, swiveling their hips.
Unbridled joy in the ER. Even DuLac tapped his feet, nodding, staring appreciatively at the woman dancer.
El swatted at the couple. The samba teacher, holding his stomach, doubled over laughing. “Security,” screamed El. But Sully was clapping, eager to catch the glimpse of thigh beneath the girl’s skirt.
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 10