Long Shadows: A Mystery Thriller (Winton Chevalier Book 1)

by John Oakes

  The stench grew fouler, as he stepped nearer to the platform, almost burning his eyes, which were otherwise blinded by the intensity of the swarming insects. Moths flittered about his light, making it strobe and pulse irregularly.

  Nevertheless, he made out a form hanging from the rafters by its feet. Hooves rather. A grey animal with a black spine. Where its head should have been, only a ragged stump remained.

  On a table beside the platform, Winton located the head. An old goat, with a hoary mouth and beard and slender gnarled horns.

  Winton stepped up on the platform and turned, old wood creaking beneath him. Then he saw, with his mind’s eye, a small group of people fitting into the space. Before he even saw the brazier, he realized it would be there too.

  This wasn’t a shed. It was a temple. A meeting place for a darker shade of worship.

  Under the broken window sat a slender black case, leather bound. It lay open, two doors spread wide, displaying the purple velvet interior. Inside it, various slots ran in all directions, some short, some long, all in a curious arrangement that Winton couldn’t quite make out in the flurry of insects.

  He dragged the case out of the structure and tossed it onto the grass. Shoving the door closed behind him, he coughed as he breathed fresh air a little too eagerly.

  “What’d you find?”

  Winton ran his hands all over his body and tousled his hair, taking a full minute to make certain he was bug-free.

  “Fuck me,” Winton said. “It’s some kind of hoodoo temple.” Winton looked to the house, wondering why it looked modern, when the more sinister building was so much older. “I wonder if he built his home here to be near this little temple or whatever.”

  “How old you think it is?”

  “I dunno. Could be eighty, hundred, hundred and twenty years old. I can’t say. Maybe the insides being so caked in blood helps keep it standing.”

  “Was that a goat?”

  “Yeah. Head was cut off. Like there was a ceremony.”

  “Nothing done to the body?” Julius asked.

  “No.”

  “Sounds to me like the ceremony hadn’t gotten started, then.”

  “What sort of shit is this?” Winton asked. “Is it voodoo, hoodoo, black magic? I can’t keep that stuff straight.”

  “Who can say?” Julius spat and ran his arm over his mouth. “No easy word for it. So many variations, so many takes on religion and the old ways, meshed together.”

  “I saw Greek and Latin texts too. No idea what they said, but they looked old.”

  “Hmm? European magic?”

  Winton shrugged.

  “Either way,” Julius said, “sounds like this Maroulis fella fancied himself some sort of mystic. And if he’s stringing up goats, it ain’t just a bit of philosophy.”

  “I think he had an audience, too.” Winton motioned toward the reeds. “Look how its fronting this bit of marsh. That could link up with a larger water system. People could have travelled here by boat back in the day. Maybe by cover of night.”

  Julius took off his visor and wiped his brow. “Maybe that’s the sort of arrangement you make when respectable people are involved.” Julius slipped his visor back on. “People you see at church on Sunday.”

  It was all a bit much to comprehend. Winton pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

  “Can we get outta here, please?” Julius asked, backing away from the shed.

  Winton took one last look at the little temple and followed after.

  TEN

  Captain Luther Remus looked out the window of his corner office over the city of New Orleans, making a pained face. It was not his home, but he’d spent enough time in the city over the years that it didn’t feel foreign. He told people he’d moved from Baton Rouge for a desk job due to an injury. That was true after a fashion. He’d been injured. But he’d also been healed.

  He was in New Orleans for the man who healed him.

  Drugs, ivory, people, exotic animals: Christos Maroulis had shipped it all, smuggling it into the country with his private fleet or with independent ships docking in ports staffed by Maroulis’ private non-union workers. Maroulis had more knowledge of traditional arts than anyone Captain Luther Remus had ever met. Combined with the unparalleled access Maroulis had to exotic materials, the man probably would have lived to be a hundred and ten.

  That was, if Remus hadn’t killed his master.

  Maroulis banked on one smuggled item in particular to ensure his vitality into old age—horn of the white rhinoceros. He shipped most of what he acquired to places like Vietnam and China, where it sold for a thousand dollars an ounce. A year ago, when Remus attained the rank of acolyte in apprenticeship to Maroulis, the master had given him a chunk of rhino horn as a congratulatory gift. He showed Remus how to use it for pain relief and sexual stamina. “Works wonders on a hangover,” Maroulis had said with a wink.

  An ache burned in Remus’ gums. He wasn’t sure if his tooth really had a problem, or if it was just his tongue poking it a thousand times that had agitated it, but now it hurt like something one would normally see a dentist for. But what was the point of a dentist when one had art?

  Remus ground up his last remaining sliver of rhino horn with a small mortar and pestle hidden in a drawer of his desk. To it he added monkshood and currant root, ground them all together, then walked to the lounge and set an electric kettle to boil. When it was ready, he unseated the kettle from its base and carried it back to his office, locking the door behind him and pouring the boiling water over the mixture.

  He felt his tooth, one of his forward molars, then checked his fingers for blood. There was none. He couldn’t make a tooth bleed, so he’d have to pierce his gums nearby to root the potion.

  Remus gasped when he drove his pocket knife into his tender flesh. He swirled drops of blood in the infusion with a finger and said the spell for binding, then the spell for healing, the same spell he’d heard Maroulis say over his injured body years before.

  In those days, Remus had mistakenly thought Maroulis was a traiteur, one of dying breed of Cajun faith and traditional medicine healers. But the man was more worldly than that, and not even French. As Remus’ knee improved, he took interest, began asking questions. He was a cop after all. But his curiosity was not investigative, not legally speaking. He became enamored with what Maroulis refused to call magic or medicine. Art Maroulis called it. The art that humans practiced before the rise of cities and great civilizations. Art had evolved with humans for millennia. The world was two halves separated by a veil, Maroulis had taught him. “We used to live on both sides,” he’d said, “but now we pass our days living only in the material.”

  Maroulis was a historian more than a collector, practically an amateur archeologist. He’d built his shipping empire to serve his search for artifacts. “All scientists can see is dead bones and pottery shards,” he’d said, “but they miss all the most important parts of humanity. They are blind to the art in the artifact.”

  Remus drank down his potion, swirled it around his teeth and gums, mind flowing into the second realm that surrounded him and clung to his body. He felt the other side of the veil inside him, every aspect of his being not made of skin and bone. Art, Maroulis had insisted on calling it, and rightfully so, but for Remus it would always feel like magic.

  He swallowed the last of his potion and found himself breathless and teary. To experience the crossing of the veil was more profound and more spiritual to Remus than making love, or praying in a church or taking any drug man’s science could perfect.

  Remus had never felt as confident as Maroulis with the healing principles of art, but he was proficient. He satisfied himself that the tooth felt strong, and would knit in good time. He sniffed and stood, stepping around his desk and opening his blinds to take in the office scene. Rabelais’ big belly was the first thing he saw. That meant Elgin was near. Remus discreetly used the phone to call Elgin’s desk. A moment later, Elgin popped up, walking
toward the office, and Rabelais tagged along.

  Elgin closed the door behind Rabelais.

  “Gentlemen, report.” Remus seated himself and crossed his fingers on his desk.

  Rabelais stuck his thumbs in his belt, smacking on gum. “The midget’s taken care of, sir. He uhh…has some time to think about his meddling.”

  “Fine. Now where’s Lucas Chevalier?”

  “Sir, it might help us find him if you told us what spurred all this,” Elgin said. “I’ll be honest, I ain’t got shit-all for clues.”

  Remus bit his thumbnail. “He saw something he shouldn’t’a seen. And he took something. We’ll leave it at that.”

  Elgin cleared his throat. “You weren’t supposed to be having meetings with us.” When Remus didn’t answer, Elgin continued. “Maroulis found out?”

  Remus looked up. “He promised me it would be mine. He promised it. Then he tried to balk.” Remus waggled his head, indignant with anger. “I earned it. He promised.”

  “Why are we looking for Chevalier, then?” Rabelais asked.

  “Did he see one of your ceremonies?” Elgin asked, in a hushed tone.

  Remus waved a hand. “Just need to find him and what he took.”

  “Will we still have the meetings, sir?” Elgin asked, his brusque demeanor spotted with eagerness.

  “Yes, yes.” Remus waved a hand again. “When all is settled. But everything I’ve been working for— It’s so close. We need to find Lucas. You say you never found his phone?”

  Elgin and Rabelais exchanged a glance. “No sir.”

  “Then, Elgin, I want you to go talk to Jeffords about getting a location. Be discreet.”

  “He owes me a favor.” Elgin cracked the knuckles of one of his thick hairy fists.

  “Find the phone,” Remus said. “Find Lucas. Find what he took from me. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  Remus left work early, not long after. One of the perks of his job was no one would mind. His tooth had begun to hurt again. He needed to be closer to it. Even incomplete, his prize was still tinged with latent power. Surely it would help his pain and his aching heart.

  Once home, he kicked off his shoes and began tearing parts of his uniform off as he walked toward the rear of his house. He unlocked a padlocked door and pulled the light cord to illuminate the blacked-out room. He knelt and opened a polished wooden box he’d crafted himself. Two doors opened up at the center line, and rested to either side. Red velvet spread over the interior, rising and falling into grooves specially set in the casing for each of the dozens and dozens of little golden pieces of different shapes and sizes. Remus gazed into the gold-rimmed eye sockets of the topmost piece. “You are mine now.” His gaze trailed down the ribcage and spine and hips to where one of the largest slots sat empty like a chasm in his very heart. “You will be mine,” he said, tracing a finger over the missing piece and the wound in his soul. “You will be all mine. And then you will rise.”

  ELEVEN

  On the way from Baton Rouge back to New Orleans, Julius pulled into a chicken shack. Inside, when it came time to order, Winton beckoned him to go first, but Julius waved him forward. “Actually, ain’t nothing looking too good, right now.”

  Winton looked over the menu once more. Fried fish and chicken, usually a turn on, just turned his stomach. He ordered a sweet tea and a Cajun fries. Julius ordered the same and Winton paid.

  They sat in the corner in a plastic booth looking out on the rest of the dining room and ate their simple fare.

  “My pops grew up with a bunch of Trinidadians in his neighborhood,” Julius said, chewing on a fry. “He said he went with one these friends and stayed a weekend with that kid’s grandparents in the sticks. He saw some sort of voodoo shit. Whatever he saw, he never wanted anything to do with it again, or that little friend of his or any of them Trinidad folks. He never trusted Jamaicans, Haitians. You dark and you come from some island, my pops won’t have anything to do. Nope.”

  “He still kicking, your pops?”

  “Yeah. Technically, he’s a tenant.” Julius laughed and sipped from his tea. “He lives in one of my houses. He don’t pay rent, but a couple older divorced guys from his church do.”

  “Lemme ask you something,” Winton said, “on that note.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, I’ve done magic off and on for years. You know, illusions.”

  “For real?”

  “Yeah. For real. I had my own show with all the bells and whistles.”

  “Like Criss Angel?”

  Winton suppressed a sarcastic retort for the sake of time. “My own brand of flair, let’s just say. I did birthdays and other kids’ events mostly, so I had to keep the mind freaking to a minimum.”

  “Show me a trick, then,” Julius said.

  Winton hated that request, only because it was asked so often. “I’ll make my foot disappear up your ass.”

  “Hey, now.”

  “Sorry. I do owe you, like, my life.” Winton brushed off his hands. “All right then.” He looked around for something to use. He pulled the straw out of his drink, sucked it dry, then put it behind his left hand and made it appear to be floating.

  “What?” Julius leaned forward. “Do it again.”

  “Sorry. That’s a rule I don’t usually break.”

  “Show me another, then.”

  “Fine. Give me a credit card.”

  Julius fished out his wallet and handed Winton a MasterCard. Winton splayed his fingers, showing his palms, then took the card and threw it into thin air where it disappeared.

  “What the… You gonna make it reappear?”

  “Sorry,” Winton said. “I didn’t learn that half of the trick.”

  Before Julius could get too miffed, Winton showed his empty palms then clapped and the card spun into the air, landing on the table.

  “Well, that’s some shit,” Julius exclaimed. “That’s some real shit right there!”

  “Just basic stuff, really. I have a major soft spot for card tricks and sleight of hand, even though classic illusions were what paid the bills.”

  They ate in silence a moment, Julius staring in wonder at the card and Winton, seeming to replay what he’d seen in his mind.

  “But I noticed, I almost never got hired by black families. Obviously my illusions weren’t of the occult, but the point is to tickle that particular feeling.”

  “Oh you mean, are black people freaked out by magic?”

  “I’m just asking. What’s the relationship?”

  “Nah, I doubt it’s too racial or religious. If it is, maybe they just don’t want it for their kids is all. Adults all wanna get tickled by the devil, but we only want angels for the kids.” His expression darkened. “But that stuff we saw back there?” Julius shook his head. “Nobody I know go in for that. Not one bit. Help me now.” Julius took off his visor and ran a hand over his head. “I’ve read the Good Book. I consider myself a Christian, but I’m not the type to think there’s only one way to be. Maybe if I saw what my pops saw with those Trinidadians, I wouldn’t have reacted so harsh. So even me, when I get creeped out by stuff? Tells you something.” Julius motioned toward his guts with both hands. “Like, you just know. It ain’t right.”

  “At the same time,” Winton said. “Voodoo, hoodoo — whatever you call it — is bits of African culture that survived capture and enslavement. It’s something to be proud of, in a way.” Winton shot his arms out in both directions. “But then it takes on the comical forms for the tourists. It can get hippy-dippy. And then there’s the darker sides.”

  “You think all that demonization of voodoo is mostly racist bullshit?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it was. And fundamentalist Christianity back in the day wasn’t having it.”

  “All those African ways mixing with French and Spanish Catholic ways, different mixtures on different islands. Marinating in a hundred different ways.” Julius swirled his hands. “Then those ways crossing together in places like Louisiana. Some
of it has names: Santeria, Condomblé, Voodoo. But there’s too many varieties to pin it all down under one blanket. Racist caricatures aside, my point is there had to be a darker side to it, and some bad people getting up in it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that what we walked in on?” Julius widened his eyes at Winton.

  “That’s the thing,” Winton said. “I think Maroulis was boiling in a bigger pot. I didn’t take a detailed inventory of that place, but he had all sorts of books in there, Greek and Latin texts, maybe other languages too. Materials that make me think of the Caribbean islands of course, but some other far-flung places. This Maroulis guy had to be into some mash-up version of pagan occultism and these other traditional spiritualities.”

  “With blood sacrifice? That seems like it could be dark magic. Why would some shipping guy be into that?”

  “Hmm.” Winton bit a knuckle, then splayed his hand. “Well, why do super rich celebrities join weird cults and give them all their money?”

  “True.” Julius nodded. “Sometimes when you have everything, you get bored and look for a high. Maybe blood magic was his guilty pleasure. You know white guys always have the weirdest fetishes.”

  “That’s true. The European ancestors passed us a strain of bat shit freaky that we haven’t ironed out yet.” Winton scratched at his cheek. “Yeah. Maybe being in the shipping trade opened him up to a lot of experiences and people. No matter how it started, trust a shipping guy to be able to track down any sort of item you’d need, whether it was legal or not.”

  Julius drew a hand down over his mouth. “So then we gotta ask, who cuts a goat’s head off in preparation for a ceremony and then offs himself?”

  “We may not be dealing with the most well-adjusted individual here, but I’m inclined to agree. Maroulis was murdered.”

  “If this Remus guy wants your brother, then…”