The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  Marie lifted her face to the sky, letting the rain stroke her face.

  Parks walked around to the driver’s seat. He rolled down the window. “You’ll catch your death.”

  Marie opened the door, slid into the passenger seat. “Sorry. I’m getting your seat wet.”

  “No problem.” He started up the car. The radio crackled: “Ten twenty-four on Rampart. Exercise caution.” Parks punched the button for mute.

  He leaned across Marie, her head leaning against the window, and clicked on her seat belt. “You sure? My place?

  “Okay,” he said when she didn’t answer, cutting the wheel left, turning into the street. Headlights made the rain look like snow. “My apartment.”

  Marie stared out the darkly tinted glass. Lights, a morass of people, French Quarter revelers, passed by. Parks honked impatiently at the scores of jaywalkers. He didn’t live far, on the outskirts, past the fine hotels, strip joints, bars, casinos, close to the Ninth Ward.

  “Exactly twenty-eight blocks from the Quarter. Four from the river.” He parked in front of a three-story apartment building. “Not much,” he said. “Renovated former Section Eight housing. New Orleans’s joke of gentrification.”

  He got out of the car, dashed around to Marie. He offered his hand, threw his jacket about her shoulders. “Come on, Doc.”

  Past the courtyard fountain, an impish, algae-covered fairy spitting water out of its mouth. Past the steel door, into a black-and-white-tiled hallway.

  A huge gilt mirror was on the right, above the mailboxes. Two had broken locks.

  “Not much, but home. Elevator.” He pressed the button. “Third floor. You can rest a bit. No one will find you.”

  “It will. Just not tonight.”

  “The wazimamoto? Not if I can help it.”

  She smiled wanly. She wished Kind Dog were here.

  “You’re not seeing those spooks? JT, Rudy?”

  “ ‘Ghosts’ or ‘spirits’ is more respectful.”

  “Are you kidding me? Respect spooks?”

  “Yes. If you’re with me.”

  The elevator door closed. Parks hit 3. He smoothed damp hair away from her eyes. “Okay, okay. Spirits, ghosts.”

  She nodded. That was the difference—how she’d changed. Old Marie versus new improved Marie.

  Growing up, her mother had had her sayings: “A broken-wing bird means death”; “Scratch the wall, somebody die”; “Dead don’t lie”—useless sayings that added up to nothing about her family legacy.

  In New Orleans, she’d stumbled headlong into family mysteries and murder. DuLac had lifted her up, shown her how pieces of herself connected to an ancient tradition. He’d made her a believer.

  “Spirits in this world and the next,” DuLac had said. “All things alive.”

  He was right. She’d seen it with her own eyes.

  Parks’s apartment was a spare one-bedroom. Small kitchenette, a sofa, coffee table, stereo hookup for his iPod. No TV. A two-bar-stool counter for meals. A door leading to the bedroom. Bathroom.

  A neon cross, a sign advertising baptism blinked outside, beyond the window; there was also a billboard advertising Riverwalk and the Big Easy Casino.

  “Here. Glenlivet, part of my Scottish heritage. Drink.” He tipped the bottom of the glass toward her mouth.

  She swallowed.

  “Scotch better than Irish whiskey any day.”

  “Another,” she said, holding out her glass.

  “Want some music?” He looked sheepish. “I guess better not. Music calls it.”

  Marie picked up a photograph from the end table. Blond, blue eyed. A southern sorority girl. All bouffant hair and tight sweaters. Whatever made Parks think she’d settle for a Jersey boy? He’d been the exotic. Not she.

  She held out her glass. He poured another shot. She drank, appreciating the heat in her throat.

  Deliberately, she began undressing. Slipping off her shoes. Pulling her T-shirt over her head, shimmying her jeans down from her hips. No bra. White cotton panties. Nothing like the prostitute’s lingerie. And, unlike most prostitutes, she needed sex. Now.

  She walked toward his bedroom. “You coming or not?”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Sex. Pure and simple.” She faced Parks, her hands at her sides. “I need the connection. Need to be reminded that I’m a woman.” “By a man,” she could’ve added. She couldn’t help how her body had responded to the wazimamoto; but she could still choose to respond to someone. A good man. Like Parks.

  Parks was frozen, like a stop-action character. The poker-faced cop, trying not to tip his hand. Nonetheless, there were telltale signs. He swallowed. Saliva quickening. Marie knew his respiration, his pulse, would’ve quickened. The physicality of desire. Blood volume increased. Inside his khakis, he had an erection.

  She wasn’t lush. Small brown breasts, chocolate areola. Her stomach, flat; thighs, lean. Many men preferred her body type. More boyish than womanly. But she was all woman. Her thumbs hooked her pantie’s elastic. She stepped out of them: slowly, one leg at a time. Tiny black matted curls demanded attention. “This isn’t about love, Parks. Just sex.”

  “You mean therapy?”

  “Depends how good you are. Are you any good?”

  Parks grinned. “The best.”

  “Don’t turn on the lights.”

  He gripped her buttocks, pulling her close. Spun her, pressing her back against the wall. Grinding his pelvis into hers. Kissing her deep, until she almost screamed for air. Then he lifted her off her feet. Cradling her like a bride. Gently lowering her to the bed.

  He stood. A solid dark shape surrounded by darkness, faint light streaming through the window from streetlamps and blue neon.

  She heard his belt unclick. Heard the gentle scrape of his pants against flesh before falling to the floor. She couldn’t see him and somehow she found that more erotic. Her hands reached for him, unbuttoning his shirt, undoing his tie, smiling at his old-fashioned boxers as she helped him strip.

  His restraint was gone. He pushed her back onto the pillow, hands fiercely caressing her body, his tongue flicking against hers. His hand stroked her clitoris; he whispered, “That’s it. More.” She squirmed with desire. She felt him guiding her like a wave, his hand rocking her pelvis. Fingers tickling, then moving, in and out.

  She gasped. Contracted her muscles around his penis.

  She contracted again, trying to squeeze every bit of pleasure, release her pent-up desire. Then her contractions became involuntary. Every ounce of feeling was centered—there. Her back arched. She was desperate, yearning. Her nails dug into his arms.

  “More,” she said, and he responded. Pushing deeper, urging her.

  Almost there. Almost. There. Nothing but feeling; heat flushing her entire body; her muscles utterly relaxing. Peace.

  They were both wet, sticky. He lifted off her, spooning, holding her buttocks and back to his chest, his lips kissing the soft down on her neck.

  “Thank you, Reneaux.”

  He pulled away. “I’m not Reneaux.” He sat up, flicked on the lamp, opening his nightstand drawer for cigarettes.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He looked over his shoulder. His face, blank; the good cop again, not giving away feelings. He lit his cigarette.

  All she could see was his back. White, with a light dusting of freckles, curved like a C as his elbows rested on his knees and his feet were flat on the floor. He dragged deeply on his cigarette.

  Marie buried her face in the pillow, her legs pulled into her abdomen, her hands covering her breasts.

  Parks stubbed out the cigarette. “You need rest.” He tugged until he covered both their bodies with the comforter.

  “The other night,” he whispered. “I’m sorry for what I said about Reneaux. Heard he was a good man.”

  “He was.”

  “You loved him?”

  “Yes. He understood me.”

  “Fair is fair. You know about my love life. N
ow I know about yours.” He turned, reaching for his cigarettes again.

  “He died. Big difference.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Parks was looking at her, his eyes unblinking. Not sympathetic, something else. Like he understood. Empathized.

  “I haven’t told anyone. Not even DuLac.” Her voice rushed on. “I healed Reneaux. They shot him. I healed him. Took away the wound and the pain. My hands held a power beyond medicine.”

  “Like Keanu Reeves in Matrix?”

  “Yes.” She examined his features; he wasn’t laughing or mocking her. “Like faith healers down a back road in the bayou. I don’t know how I did it.”

  “Why isn’t he alive?”

  “They shot him again. My grace was gone.” She pressed her face into the pillow. She didn’t want to cry. Parks stroked her back.

  His touch unleashed a welling tide. Anger, loss, resentment. Love.

  His touch lowered, stroking, touching, kneading her buttocks; he rolled his body atop hers, both hands cupping her breasts.

  She heard his breath rushing across her ear; she felt desire stirring.

  He turned her. Face-to-face. The handsome Jersey boy—the head cheerleader’s prize—had faded; he’d become the strong, aggressive cop, intent. Almost feral. The man of passion who could kill, also love.

  He held her hands at her sides, kissed, suckled. His mouth moved lower.

  She murmured, “Don’t.”

  “I want to.” He spread her legs, touching her soft mound, the black curly hair. He kissed her, his tongue flicking at her sex.

  “Parks,” he said, biting the inside of her thigh, then burying his mouth against her until she writhed, climaxed. Then he plunged inside her, biting, sucking her neck, her breasts, her earlobes. Teasing her mouth with his tongue. He moved inside her, urgent, watching the tension build in her face. “What’s my name?”

  “Parks.”

  “What’s my name?”

  “Parks,” she screamed, her pelvis arching to meet his, her body shuddering, gasping for air.

  Parks rolled to the side.

  “You didn’t come.”

  His gold hair was slick on the pillow. Sweat beaded on his breastbone. His breathing was normal, as if he hadn’t exerted himself. Hadn’t felt desire.

  “Let me give.” She roamed her hands over his abdomen, his cock damp from her body. “Let me love you.”

  Parks stared at the ceiling. “How long has it been?”

  She thought of all the men she’d picked up. The times she’d gotten laid. Times she’d felt less satisfied, more lonely afterward.

  “I’m healthy. I’ve had a few partners. Is that a problem?”

  Parks shifted onto his side. He kissed the hollow just above her collarbone. “I’m sorry. I was making a point about me.” He gently bit her ear, his hand sliding down to her thigh. “Let me love you as you deserve to be loved. As Reneaux would’ve loved you.”

  “He’s not here. He’s dead.”

  “Just let me love you.”

  She held his hand, stopping him from caressing her sex. “My turn.”

  “There are no turns.”

  He kissed her, slowly, gently, uncoupling his hand from hers. Exploring crevices.

  She moaned, trying to embrace him.

  He held her hands high above her head. She was stretched, soft beneath him. “Let me take care of you.” He entered her, whispering in her ear, “I’m Reneaux. If that’s what you need, I’m Reneaux.”

  Marie relaxed in his embrace. It had been a long time since she’d let all her guard down. Let herself fully feel. Real love between a man and a woman. Not just lust. Desire. Love beyond the romantic. Love as in charity. Grace.

  She arched her breast to meet his mouth. He sucked, fed gently, his mouth in rhythm with his pelvis, moving deep inside her. Making circles inside her, stroking in and out until she screamed. He shouted. Head thrown back.

  He pulled her against his chest, burying his face in her hair. One hand stroking her breast, the other draped over her abdomen. “I’m loving you,” he murmured. “I’m loving you.”

  “Parks.”

  “You smell good.” He was the sweet Jersey boy again. All the sexual tension gone, his body seemed vulnerable. His eyes, kind. “You should get some sleep.”

  She kissed him. “Thank you,” she said.

  “I could die now and go to heaven.”

  She punched him, sat up shouting, pulling the pillow, like a shield, against her stomach. “Don’t say that. Don’t. Everybody I’ve ever loved died. I’m not saying I love you. I don’t even know you. I just don’t like the word—‘die.’ I need—I want to be around people unafraid to live.”

  “Like you?” He was the inquisitive cop again.

  She winced. “I try.”

  He took away the pillow. “Do me a favor. Don’t say anything else.” He pulled her into his embrace again, her head on his chest. “Curl up. Sleep. Dream.”

  “Parks, I—”

  “Don’t say anything. Just sleep.”

  Marie studied the planes of his face. How, in the dark, the light from the streetlamps made his skin glow alabaster. Damp tendrils of hair curled on his brow.

  “Were you this good to your girlfriend?”

  Pain tiptoed across his face. “I tried to be.”

  “She was a fool,” said Marie, settling her head on the pillow. Beneath the sheets, Parks reached for her hand. They clasped hands together, breath matching breath, drifting.

  Sleep.

  Woman’s blood. Aromatic, sweet. Satisfying. Sexual tension deepening their fear.

  He remembered slaking his thirst on top of—inside—women’s bodies. Holding dominion. Yet he also remembered disliking women—his need of them.

  He’d enjoyed tormenting the woman. Flipping her facedown on the bed. Entering her. Her hands tearing at air. Her screams as she heard his words inside her head. “Mine. All mine. Scream. No one will come.”

  And no one did. Not unlike the salons he remembered. Where for gold, a few francs, even the disliked American dollar, there were places where you could do anything to a woman and no one cared. Needy women took their chances. In this New World—so different from the world of his memory—it seemed much the same. Women were easy prey.

  Except for one—the woman called Doc. When she spoke her name, Marie, he had hesitated.

  Some other memory haunted, served as a warning. The specifics unclear. He’d remember why. With more blood.

  Razor sharp, vengeance swelled. He felt a rage to dismember. Hurt.

  Vengeance. For what?

  He’d watched her; she’d allowed it. Through the window, he’d felt pleasure watching her recognizing that the victim could easily have been her. Similar build. Dark brown hair.

  Knew if he kept feeding, she would come to him. Knew she was as curious about him as he about her.

  The mystery would be solved. Soon. He was becoming John.

  He’d be powerful. Again.

  Rest.

  More blood would give him substance. More memories.

  FOURTEEN

  CHARITY HOSPITAL

  SATURDAY EVENING

  The lab was humming with activity: pregnancy tests, blood typing, HIV screening, diabetes testing, all the usual, standard procedures for an urban hospital. In the far corner, at the last lab station, Carlos slept, sitting on the metal stool, his head on his arms.

  Marie shook him gently. “Any luck?” She handed him a Styrofoam cup filled with coffee.

  “Nothing but dead ends.” Carlos stretched, his arms coming alive with moving tattoos. Roses, a hummingbird, a snake. The Madonna was ink-stained on his other arm.

  “Anyone been curious?”

  Carlos looked at his lab mates, on the far side of the room. “Told them you had a special project for me. They left me alone. They’ve already guessed this has something to do with the murders. They think you’re tracking Lestat.”

  “Lestat’s more moral than our ki
ller.” Marie grimaced. “So, tell me.” She pointed at the test tubes.

  “Antibiotics, negative. I did a full spectrum. Blood reanimates the cells every time. Can’t even grow a culture. It’s inert. Won’t grow. Not unless you add blood. I’ve never seen anything like it. Blood only makes it more invulnerable.”

  “It can’t be killed,” said Marie.

  “What can’t? The wazimamoto?”

  Marie hugged DuLac. “Marie-Claire? Dog?”

  “They’re with Louise.”

  “Did you set protections?” asked Marie.

  “Salt. Grave dust. Every spell I could think of. Set both Damballah’s and Agwé’s signs. Marie-Claire will be fine.”

  “Promise?” Marie asked.

  “Promise.” He smiled reassuringly. “You helping, Carlos?”

  “Doing my best, Dr. DuLac. But nothing in science works.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Marie lifted a vial, tilting the greenish substance. “This is part of the killer. Seems harmless. Sea bacteria. Who knows how old these organisms are? The sea, more than the earth, carries primordial cells, bacteria. Some estimates suppose there are millions of unexplored simple life-forms. These cells, in the water, are harmless. But, outside the water, they feed on blood, grow, and divide.”

  “They’re part of the wazimamoto,” responded DuLac.

  “Yes. It’s becoming. More and more manlike.”

  “It’s an invisible presence,” said DuLac.

  “Not anymore.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “Last night. As close to me as you are now, DuLac. Features not fleshed out, but it’s becoming a man.”

  “A man? Or just mimicking? An imitation?”

  “I’m not sure. This”—she held up the test tube—“is a simple organism. What attacked me had substance, strength.”

  “It tried to hurt you again.”

  “Not ‘again.’ The first time it tried to kill me. Last night, it only wanted to hurt. It’s stalking me now—like I’m prey.”

  “Why?” asked DuLac.

  Marie tried to quell her emotions. She answered like a scientist, cool and dispassionate. “I don’t know. Somehow it knows me. Or it is getting to know me. Remembering, perhaps. A time when it knew another Marie.”