The ghosts and their cold faded.
“They’re gone,” said Parks.
“Yes, and I hope this will help destroy John.”
She clasped the lid, hesitating.
This was the second time, as a voodooienne, she’d been called upon to hurt. Destroy. Was this why her mother had hidden her heritage?
Marie lifted the lid. A blue silk bag, weathered with age. “His gris-gris. Everything inside it made John who he was.” She tasted the grains. “Asafatida,” she said. “A powerful root.” She lifted strands of hair. “John’s. Part of his essence.” She smelled. “Grave dust, perhaps.”
“What does that do?”
“Maybe protected him from the Guédé? I don’t know.” She fingered a snakeskin. Her lips pursed. “Bones. A cat’s femur. A rodent’s spine. Predators like him.”
“What’s that?”
Marie tugged at worn leather, gently pulling it out of the bag. She held it high; a piece of ivory dangled from the bottom. “His family’s emblem.”
She laid it in Parks’s hand.
“Lion marks?”
“I think you’re right.”
“Cold.” Parks was lifted, tossed brutally across the alley.
Marie held tightly to the gris-gris. John lifted her to her feet, shaking her like a rag doll.
“Mine.” His voice was real this time, sounding like rocks falling on stone.
“Parks,” she screamed, throwing him the bag. “Hide it. Get it away.”
“I can’t leave you.” He fired his gun. Beyond the alley, tourists screamed.
John’s shoulder jerked, the green substance drained.
“Please, Parks. Run,” shouted Marie.
“I’ll empty it.” Parks held the gris-gris bag upside down. “All of it. All I have to do is untie the string.”
John roared.
From far off, sirens wailed.
“Let her go,” Parks demanded.
Marie dug her nails into John’s arm. Beads of green. Sea-based bacteria.
John’s face was fully drawn; she could see the marking, three diagonal lines, like the emblem, on his face.
“I’m warning you. Let her go.”
Police cars stopped at either end of the alley. Shouts: “Put the gun down. On the ground.”
Parks didn’t move.
John stared into Marie’s eyes; she saw fury, hatred. “You belong to me.”
She felt certain he’d kill her. She exhaled, clearing her mind of all thoughts, emotions except love for Marie-Claire. Sweet baby Marie.
The police fired a shot. “On the ground.”
John disappeared.
“Put the gun down.”
Parks laid the gun on the ground. Held his hands high. “Detective Parks,” he called. “Shield 682.”
Police slowly moved in from each end of the alley.
“You all right, Parks? Where’s the other man?”
Marie slid down the wall, blocking out sounds. Just breathing. Understanding that John would never kill her body, just her soul.
Foreboding washed over her. Vindictive, John wanted control. How better to control her than take away all she loved?
Parks’s cell rang. He answered. As he listened, he looked at Marie.
“No,” she screamed. “Tell me Marie-Claire’s fine.”
“I don’t know. Come on.” Parks grabbed her hand, running to Pirate Alley’s end. He commandeered a patrol car. Clicked on the siren. “Move, people!” he shouted, his hand punching the horn. “Move!”
Panic and frustration kept building. The car couldn’t move fast enough. Marie prayed. Calling upon Damballah’s mercy. Her ancestors. Marie Laveau.
DuLac’s house was ominously well lit. Lights blazed from every window.
Marie dashed out of the car.
“Wait,” shouted Parks, drawing his gun.
She raced up the porch stairs, bursting inside the house. “DuLac! El.”
The telephone was off its hook. Police officers were in the parlor.
“DuLac? Marie-Claire. Is she all right?”
The kitchen was deserted. A butcher knife lay on its side next to raw chicken. A glass of wine had been overturned.
Marie ran down the hall. DuLac lay across the altar, drained; his flesh, crepe paper thin. A forensics expert was powdering the altar for fingerprints.
“Marie-Claire!” she screamed.
“In here, Dr. Laveau. Across the hall.” Roach was in the guest bedroom, holding a sleeping Marie-Claire in his arms.
“Let me hold her.” Marie kissed her brow, holding tight to her relaxed, chubby limbs.
“El, that’s her name, right? Died protecting her,” Roach said, his voice low.
El had been thrown onto the bed, her blood drained. Her skin no longer looked young; wrinkles covered her face; her red nails were more witchlike.
“DuLac, too. As far as I can make out, DuLac let himself be bait.”
“He gave El time to escape,” said Parks.
“She almost made it. Look here.” Roach moved to the window. “I almost didn’t see it. The curtain was caught by the window frame when El closed it.”
A piece of torn lace was caught on the window’s metal tracks.
Parks opened the window. “El laid Marie-Claire in the grass. She might’ve had time to escape, too.”
“Maybe,” said Roach. “Instead, she bolted the door. See.” He pointed at the splintered wood and broken lock. “To buy time.”
“Buy time?” whispered Marie.
“DuLac had phoned the police.”
Marie shifted Marie-Claire onto her shoulder. She pulled her cell from her jeans pocket. “ ‘Missed call.’ He called me, too.”
“Let’s try and get you and Marie-Claire to a safe place,” murmured Parks.
Marie ran her fingers through her daughter’s curls.
Parks embraced them both. “Let’s get out of here. Another state. New Jersey.”
“No. I have to stay. In New Orleans. I won’t run as my mother did. Run, and you never stop.
“Roach, when you take,” she swallowed, “DuLac and El, will you take Marie-Claire, too?”
“I’ll do my best to protect her.” The potbellied man blinked.
“Take her to the church priory. Maybe Father Donnelly can look after her better than I can. Just get her safely there.”
“I will,” said Roach, gathering the lightly snoring Marie-Claire.
Marie kissed her.
Roach signaled the attendants to collect the bodies.
Marie walked out of the room. Parks followed until they reached the parlor.
“You still have the gris-gris, don’t you, Parks?” Marie asked.
“Yes. Why can’t we just empty it? Won’t that kill it?”
“I don’t think so. John was threatened, no doubt. The gris-gris represents an important part of his self. Something to conjure with. But I think we’ll need more. In Laveau’s journal, she said, ‘Sorrow comes in threes.’ ”
She opened her cell phone. She couldn’t bring herself to press Voice Mail.
“I’ll double-check on Roach, Marie-Claire.”
“Thanks, Parks.” She went to the hall phone, dialed Charity.
“Carlos Gutierrez. Hospital lab, please.”
Roach passed by, a blanket covering Marie-Claire. Behind him came El’s body on the gurney. A hand, fingernails painted red, dangled outside the sheet.
Marie turned her back to them. “Yes, Carlos. It’s me. Any luck on the cultures? Good. Penicillin it is.” The first antibiotic. “Can you make a spray?”
“You should look at this,” interrupted Parks, holding the painting of Laveau’s ceremony at Cathedral Square.
Laveau’s face had been scratched out. The oil scarred and flaked. In blood—DuLac’s blood?—the letters J-O-H-N had been scrawled.
“I’m not surprised,” she said softly, studying the scene. “It named itself. Not just wazimamoto. Also, imitation man. It can be hurt. Your gun wo
unded it. But we’ll need far more.”
She spoke breathlessly into the phone. “Carlos, bring the spray to Preservation Hall. Hurry.”
The screen door opened; the attendants had returned for DuLac.
“Parks, I need Wire.”
“Why?”
“He’s the third ingredient.”
Marie walked back into the red velvet parlor. “DuLac?” She felt, rather than saw, his presence.
She turned, just in time to see DuLac’s body carried from the house.
NINETEEN
PRESERVATION HALL
WEDNESDAY, EARLY MORNING
Morning, 2:10 AM. They were in the small dressing room of Preservation Hall. “Bourbon Street Blues” was playing in the club.
Dressed in white, Marie had tried her best to purify herself. She’d taken a milk bath, lit candles to the gods. Made a special offering to Agwé. Part of John was sea organisms, in Agwé’s dominion. She’d fixed a platter of rice for Damballah. The snake god had once killed John. She’d prayed, said a rosary. Asked for grace from both Christian and voodoo saints.
Marie looked at the three men: Wire, Carlos, and Parks.
“Thank you for coming. I can’t do this without you.”
“De nada. Anything for the Madonna,” said Carlos.
Marie grimaced. “I’m not her.”
“Just the New World Voodoo Queen. ‘Wicked as a snake, strong as a bear—’ ”
“Funny, Wire.”
“I think he’s on to something, Doc,” Parks chimed. “A little levity goes a long way.”
“I know. Just to be clear,” she looked at each man in turn, “we could all die.”
Wire shrugged. “Got to go sometime.”
Parks’s hair was matted to his forehead. His jacket off, you could see the two holsters beneath his arms. “There was another murder tonight. Ten. The papers are filled with vampire tales.”
“My girlfriend bought extra crosses. Garlic.”
“Dracula didn’t birth John,” said Parks.
“Too bad,” said Carlos.
“No precolonial fix,” said Marie. In medicine, she followed her hunches. This was no different. Except in medicine, only the patient died. In this, they all could.
Marie looked at her three champions.
“Did you bring it, Carlos?”
He pulled a small aerosol can from his pocket.
“Test it.”
Carlos puffed a spurt of mist.
“Good. Keep it ready.”
Carlos made the sign of the cross.
“I call it?” asked Wire. “My drums are the bait?”
“Not entirely, Wire. You’ve asked some of the musicians to stay?”
“They all want to—the entire band, right after this gig. After the last set, usually it’s ‘Take the A Train.’ ”
“We don’t need them all. Do we, Doc?” asked Parks. “We’re risking enough lives.”
“Try and get rid of them,” said Wire.
“I could make them,” said Parks, his hand on his gun.
“It’s okay, Parks.”
“You said, ‘Not entirely,’ ” said Wire. “My drums weren’t entirely the bait. What else am I supposed to do?”
“Improvise.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Just play, Wire. You and the others, play for all you’re worth.”
“Agwé’s rhythm.”
“Any rhythm that moves you. Play your heart and soul.”
“What do I do?” asked Parks.
“The gris-gris bag. Empty it. Break the emblem.”
Parks nodded.
“If the worst happens, if John drains me, keep Marie-Claire safe.” She stretched out her hand to Carlos and Wire. “All three of you. Can you do that? Promise me? Swear?”
“Three musketeers,” said Carlos.
“You may need to leave New Orleans,” said Marie.
“Since mi madre died, I have nothing to keep me here.”
“Wire?”
“No one’s needed me for anything before. My family believed in voodoo stuff; I play jazz because there’s never been a for-real Voodoo Queen until you. I’ve been waiting for you. Thought I’d die before you came.”
“Parks?”
Parks was once again the restrained cop. Stoic. Unreadable. Music wafted into the room; you could hear patrons clapping and stomping after the tenor sax solo.
“Parks, please? I need you to do this for me.”
“Water,” said Parks. “As long as it’s near water.”
Marie kissed his cheek.
Wire stood: “I’m going to listen to the last set. Get inspired.”
“Time enough to pray to the Madonna. I’ll be out back, saying a rosary for us.”
“Carlos, keep the canister ready.”
“You bet.”
Parks gripped Marie’s hands, turning her around. Face-to-face, they stood.
“What’s in the spray?”
“A scientist’s cure, I hope.”
Parks brushed his lips against hers. “They’re giving us time alone,” he whispered.
“Sweet of them,” murmured Marie.
Parks embraced her, tight, hard. Still serious, he caressed her cheek. “I didn’t take you for a one-night stand.”
“I do them all the time,” said Marie.
“But not with me.”
He sat, pulling her down onto his lap.
“Hey—”
“I know. Let me hold you.”
She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling his arms tighten about her waist.
“Your turn to be strong will come soon enough,” he said.
“So it’s your turn now?”
“No. I’m not being strong. I’m just loving you.”
Three thirty AM. Preservation Hall customers had drifted back to their pricey hotels. Waiters and waitresses counted their tips, then went to the Café du Monde for breakfast.
Following Marie’s instructions, the musicians had moved nightclub tables and chairs against the wall. There was open space for her to dance.
Dede nodded, and bowed, signaling that all was ready to start. All of them were conspirators. But Marie knew none of them appreciated how dangerous this ceremony would be.
None of them—except, perhaps, Parks—had guessed she wasn’t certain of success. Her plan was instinctual. Like a diagnosis for what might heal, there were no guarantees.
She instructed Carlos to place candles at the room’s four corners.
Wire whispered to the musicians, inspiring them like a priest his flock.
Parks cleaned his guns.
With chalk, Marie drew Agwé’s boat sign, three wavy lines beneath it to indicate the sea. She placed John’s gris-gris on the boat; then she drew Damballah’s sign. A rainbow arcing over a snake. The rainbow to recall creation. Antithesis to destruction.
Marie looked about the bland hall. Windows were blackened and shuttered. The bar was clean, amber liquid and beer bottles sparkling in the mirror.
None of the ghosts had appeared; but she felt certain DuLac would come.
Between the rainbow and the snake, Marie laid John’s emblem, then she chanted, “Honor the tribe. Dishonor John’s cruelty.”
She looked about the hall. All the musicians, somber, intent, watched her.
She inhaled. “All of us make magic.” A murmuring rose from the bandstand.
“Let’s begin,” she said. “Time to begin.”
Wire began on the djembe—boudom, announcing his presence, the ceremony’s start.
“Je suis Marie. I am Marie,” she said fiercely, with pride.
Wire shifted rhythms, his hands flying across cat skins, syncopated, driving. She recognized Damballah’s, then Agwé’s rhythm.
“From the heart, Wire. Speak your heart.”
He looked at her glassy-eyed, his palms slowing. His head rolled forward; then, gradually, the sound shifted time. A blending of six-eighths and one-sixteenth time. Unique. His palms s
liding, snapping, cupping against the djembe. A rhythm from Wire’s heart.
Marie swayed. Her dress brushed against her legs, her bare feet tapped the rough-hewn floor.
“Mercy,” Marie murmured. “Have mercy.”
Carlos was on his knees, his crucifix, pressed to his lips. “Madre,” “Madonna,” fell from his lips.
Parks, a sentinel, was alert.
The other musicians cradled their instruments, expectant. The pianist stroked his ivory keys without making a sound.
The drum was dislodging Marie’s present self, connecting her to impulses, drive, desires.
To a time before time.
“Legba, remove the barrier for me. So the spirits will come through.”
She felt drumming in her bones; she danced, her body talking to the rhythm. A cold breeze stirred in the closed-window room. The candles flamed higher.
Parks stepped forward, searching. From where the wind blew.
Marie danced before Wire; his heart was in his hands. Sweat streamed down his face.
“Now, Wire. Make your sound. Make a community.”
Lips trembling, his entire body engaged in the drumming, the sound filtering through his soul, Wire nodded at the clarinetist.
A sweet tenor rose, in and around the djembe’s sound.
Parks paced the room, squaring off the four corners.
DuLac appeared upstage right.
Marie rejoiced. Her plan might work.
She twirled, her arms isolating the drum’s rhythm. She murmured, “Come. Legba, come.”
Legba arrived, bent over his walking stick. He opened the spirit door.
“Come.”
Marie Laveau appeared. Regal, her hair in a chignon, gold hoop earrings, a rainbow-colored skirt shimmering with stars.
Marie opened her arms, embracing her ancestress. Her head jerked back. She was two: herself and Laveau, capable of unending power, clasping the moon, capturing a star, walking on water, delaying death.
Marie thought of all the dead—El, DuLac, Alafin, and all the other victims.
Rage reared. Bitter, encompassing. Marie bent, drawing a chalk line through the middle of the room.
“Come, John. I demand it.”
Wire renewed his efforts; a sax added its voice, seductive, lamenting, to the drum and clarinet.
“Come, damn you.”
The hall darkened; candles stopped burning.
She heard fearful voices. Feet stumbling in the darkness. Then Dede shouting, “Courage. What a woman stands, a man can stand. Play.”
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 20