She tucks a stray strand of her gypsy hair behind an ear and averts her gaze. “I’m sorry I can’t say the same. All of you look the same in uniform.”
“Then I hope I can change that.” Because, belle amie, I promise you won’t be saying that when I get you naked.
A perfectly shaped brow over one of her cerulean blue eyes creeps up as she cocks her head to the side. “New Orleans is certainly turning out to be very interesting.”
Then, I’ll be damned, her gaze drops to make its way over my body. I’m imagining it’s her tiny hand exploring me and getting acquainted with me before I do very dirty things to her. I can practically feel it sliding over my chest, down my arms, then my hands, to stop at the bulge at my groin that’s getting bigger by the second. Apparently, the perusal was unintentional because her cheeks turn crimson as embarrassment washes over her features. When her eyes meet mine again, a smirk kicks up the corner of my mouth. “We do aim to please, Miss Chavelle.” Because pleasing her would be a very nice way to spend the day. Or night.
“We shall see about that, won’t we?” She makes a quick comeback, getting her feet back underneath her and giving it back to me. “Maybe you can tell me your thoughts about the fires.” She shifts gears and takes control of the conversation. Dominique makes herself comfortable on the stool next to me as her eyes capture mine. Her gaze is filled with strength, but also a small hint of the residual hell she’s recently witnessed. A primal part of me wants to destroy the very thing that put it there.
Hattie disappears into the kitchen, but not before giving us one of those looks as if she knows something no one else does.
My body tenses once again at the thought of Dominique being in the middle of all that horror. I keep my mouth shut because I know if I comment, it would come across as questioning her professionalism. That is something I’d never do. However, I can’t pretend I didn’t see how it affected her. “Absolutely, whatever you need.”
I mean every word.
Because everything about this situation is strange. And not necessarily in a good way.
Two
14 Days Until Mardi Gras
I enter the building and pretend I’m not almost choking to death. I’m not sure which is worse, the mask I have to wear, or the oppressive air, wet and stagnant with the lingering smell of fire and thick with soggy ash. I try not to disturb anything as I walk through. This is a crime scene, and everything is evidence, even the slushy charcoal mud on the floor. Even though we had to wait until we were given clearance by the fire department that the premises was safe to enter, everything has already been tagged, photographed, taken in, and a crime sketch has been recorded. The only things left in the building are outlines on the floor, and ghosts. And those fucking markings on the walls.
That’s why I’m here. Alone.
God, I hate it.
The sergeant had no problem calling me into his office and asking me specifically to make a thorough analysis of what was on the walls and give him a full report. “We need to look at every angle. You’re the most qualified for that evidence, Dominique. However you want to do it is your call, but I need it done yesterday.”
That conversation had taken place as soon as I first walked into the precinct. The one day I had between now and then was spent combing through the previous crimes’ evidence and beginning the arduous task of making sense of the messages left in the symbols.
I feel like the weird new kid at school all over again.
I don’t know the other detectives in New Orleans, or any of the officers, which is why I decided to do this part of the investigation by myself. Granted, New Orleans may have been built on cotton and rice plantations, but it was the magic that put it on the map. That doesn’t mean regular people want to have anything to do with you if it’s in your blood. It’s like you’ve got herpes, no one wants to touch you with a ten-foot pole, or someone else’s dick. You’re a freak.
Everything has been thoroughly examined, inside and outside. That’s not what I’m focusing on, only things that somehow appear to be affiliated with the occult. Sometimes the most mundane or everyday item can be used in a spell. You just need to know what to look for.
For instance, how was the victim positioned? Which direction was she facing? How does the facility tie-in to the crime?
That one’s tricky.
Whoever is doing this has thought out every single piece of the crime, everything is relevant.
This victim, the third, was brought to a known betting and numbers racketeering location. Her eyes were gouged out. How the crime and facility are related makes no sense. But it does, somehow, we just have to figure it out.
The first murder had an obvious link with its location. A hysterectomy in an OBGYN clinic. The police thought the victim was most likely a hooker and some sicko with mommy issues did it. The second crime blew that theory right out of the water. This one completely destroys it.
The only things I imagine they have completely in common is the thick smell of the lingering smoke, still so heavy it clogs your lungs and beats down on you. And death, intense and palpable.
As I stare at the walls and read through the message in big black letters and symbols, I toy with the protective stones in my pants pockets - black tourmaline and amethyst. In this shit storm, I’m not taking anything for granted.
This isn’t going to be easy. Interpreting symbols is as complex as trying to translate ancient texts. The meanings change from one category to the next, much like texts change from one time span to another. Just because it might appear in a voodoo book doesn’t mean it’s voodoo magic. It could be hoodoo, or part of a satanic ritual, or some kind of warped religious cleansing bullshit. It’s my job to make sense of the symbols. A job I really don’t want anything to do with. For God’s sake, I got out of this place as fast as I could.
Pull up your big girl panties, Dominique, you’ve got a job to do.
I take a deep a breath and remove the digital camera from my purse. I don’t want any of this shit in my personal stuff. It’s bad enough I have to be here in person, I’m not taking anything back with me.
I stand back and look at the information again from different angles, then I start snapping pictures. I force myself to remain focused and detached, ignoring the constant hum in my veins and the thoughts flashing through my mind of the poor woman who was murdered in this room. I don’t let myself replay the crime frame by frame, or scream by scream, or every single agony she endured as the flames consumed her body and melted her alive. That was after they ripped her eyeballs out.
I force myself to picture the firefighters coming in here and putting out the fire. I try to feel their strength and their determination, I imagine them fighting against the flames and winning.
Because we have to win. We have to stop this monster before he – assuming it is a he - hurts anyone else. The murderer is human, and he can be caught. We will catch him. We all have to believe that.
I think of Ignatius Beauchamp, the big, tough fireman and what must have been going through his mind when he walked in here. I sensed he was kind, all kinds of bad in all the right ways, but he has a good heart. And a very familiar name. I couldn’t help wondering if I knew him. It wasn’t a coincidence; nothing is a coincidence. Only strategically placed events at very specific moments of time.
As I snap the last picture, I let out a heavy breath, relieved I can leave this crypt. When I stuff the camera back inside my bag, my ringing cell phone scares the life out of me.
“Detective Chavelle.” I force my tone to remain level, even though my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.
“Detective, have you made any sense out of the bullshit on the walls?” the sergeant snaps at me.
I’m grateful he can’t see me cringe. “Sir, it’s going to take a little time, there’s a lot of information to go through.”
I hear a loud thump over the phone line. It must be his fist making contact with the desk. The man’s going to have a coronary
with these cases. “We don’t have time, goddammit! I want something on my desk by tomorrow morning, and it better not be another dead girl!” I can imagine the veins bulging out of his forehead.
I roll my eyes. “Understood, Sergeant.”
It’s not like I’ve got a police database to match a mug shot for this stuff.
The call disconnects.
Gathering my things, I give the walls one more glance. Then get out of there. When I step outside, the bright Louisiana sun is blinding after being inside the charred shell of the building. It’s impossible to resist gulping in large breaths of air as I pull the mask from my face, desperately trying to cleanse my clogged lungs.
Even before the fire, this neighborhood felt like a graveyard. The emptiness loud and massive for as far as the eye can see. It wasn’t just the structures dotting the streets that still had DB spray painted on them, an identification used after the hurricane to indicate there was a dead body inside. It’s the buildings themselves, abandoned and left to rot. Something sinister hangs in the air, I felt it as soon as I pulled in. Like an invisible poisonous fog in a concrete wasteland, once you enter, you’re never seen again.
Perfect location for a sacrifice.
There’s a uniformed policeman patrolling the street to keep out any nosy civilians, and protect the crime scene, at least until the investigation is over. That in itself is, I’m sure, a losing battle. You’ve got two kinds of people when it comes to this sort of stuff: those who love the thrill of the supernatural, and those who just like to cause trouble. The streets of the Ninth Ward have both. The other two locations were a mess by the time I arrived. When I took a step inside each of them, I immediately left. Everything that was pertinent to what I needed was either covered in graffiti or human excrements. At least I made it to this one before it was destroyed.
The uniform peers over his shoulder at me when he hears me approach. “All done in there, Detective?”
“Yes, thanks for standing guard. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. I appreciated the company. Being out here all day is not at the top ten of my list of favorite things to do.”
“I get it.” I did, who the hell wants to spend all day in this hellhole? “I grew up not too far from here.”
“Yeah?” He pushes from the car and opens my car door for me, maybe relieved to have a living person to talk to for a while rather than whatever evil shit hangs in the air here.
I smile, because despite everything, having a normal conversation is a welcome distraction. “Yep, up in Filmore.”
“You don’t live there anymore?”
I slide into the driver’s seat. “No, I’m in Memphis. They called me in for the cases.”
He gets that look, the one that says, Oh, you’re one of them. “You must be good at what you do.”
I grab the door handle, ready to slam it in his face, normal conversation successfully terminated. “I guess the department thinks so. Thanks again, and enjoy your day,” asshole.
I close the door and leave the cop to finish out his shift by himself in the Ninth Ward. Have fun.
As I drive to the precinct, annoyance makes my foot a little heavy on the accelerator. It’s not that I’m not a people person, I’m just not one of those kinds of people who can keep her mouth shut if I don’t like something. Or someone. Which can lead to very lonely days.
Being back in New Orleans is a bittersweet experience. I love my city. It’s the preconceived notions of who and what I am that I hate. I’d love to discuss the cases with someone, without being judged.
Ignatius Beauchamp might be just the person. Hattie likes him, so how bad can he be?
Three
Descendant To A Voodoo Priestess
Another night of nightmares filled with screaming women and blood. Lots of blood.
I didn’t want to come back and take this assignment. I had to. Because this is where my roots are and where my bloodline began. New Orleans is my heritage.
You can’t solve a crime unless you understand it.
I understand it only too well.
The crimes are too heinous to even imagine a human being capable of committing. And I had to imagine it again in its entirety yesterday standing right smack in the middle of it. We’re supposed to have compassion and empathy. We were fashioned in the image of God, loved by Him more than the angels were. So much so, it started a war in Heaven. Look at what that got.
The beginning of atrocities older than time itself.
Atrocities such as the crimes.
They are serial type in fashion. The killer, or killers, took great pains in creating a scenario that appeared to be a sacrificial ceremony.
Sucks I know that.
My job as an investigator is to determine if it’s what it appears to be on the surface. A spiritual ritual for a sicko? Or was it staged to cover up something else?
Because the killings happened in my hometown, and along with the rest of the evidence, they called me. Apparently, my family’s legacy is more widely known than I was aware of, all the way to Memphis, Tennessee.
Being a direct descendant of the most prestigious New Orleans Voodoo Priestess, Marie Laveau, is something I’ll never be able to hide from. Believe me, I’ve tried. I moved out of the state to try and escape it. I thought if I put enough distance between me and the ground saturated with centuries of voodoo and magic, with my family’s legacy, I could pretend it wasn’t a part of me. Of who I am.
I was wrong.
You are who you are. You can’t run from it; you can’t ignore it. It’s in every cell of your body, and in every breath you take. It is fundamentally what you are. It will find you. It will claim you. It will always take what belongs to it.
I finally remembered why I recognized the Beauchamp name. Ignatius has no idea he’s more than a fireman in this game.
I know who he is. Rather, who his family is. The Beauchamp’s were one of the founding French families of the Bayou, one of the original plantation owners. How ironic is it that he became a firefighter when his ancestor, Bertrand Beauchamp, was best known for burning a slave he’d accused of cursing his family? The Beauchamps had fallen ill and all of them died, except Bertrand and his infant son.
The ghosts in my dreams last night had warned me to beware of the heir.
The legend is that he’d dragged the poor slave woman out of her shack in the middle of the night in a drunken rage the night his wife died. First, he beat her unconscious, then he poured liquor over her lifeless body and set her on fire, right there in front of the entire plantation. It’s also said she’d been his mistress and was carrying his child. It’s believed that’s why she cursed him, to do away with his wife and family to replace it with her own.
The stories that had been whispered in backrooms and amongst the priestesses from generation to generation said the slave girl screamed out a curse as the flames engulfed her while her body lay motionless on the ground on the banks of the river. The exact words have long since been forgotten, but she condemned the entire Beauchamp lineage to suffer forever. Bertrand Beauchamp fell from his horse shortly thereafter and died from an infection that would not heal.
Who knows, maybe Ignatius is the one who will finally break the curse on his family by saving people from fires.
Or maybe he’ll become the sacrifice the slave girl has been waiting for, for centuries. Maybe she’s been biding her time for the Beauchamp she will claim in the afterlife as her mate. An eye for an eye.
As I head to Tante Hattie’s for breakfast, the recollection of the old tale sends a shiver through me. It makes my hair stand on end and sets me off kilter, especially because the temperature is warm. It’s the typical balmy Louisiana weather, the kind that makes you sweat. Not me. I feel a cold breeze caressing my skin, the one spirits so often use to let you know they’re there. I hate it when I hear their whispers or see their faces. Some say being able to communicate with the spirits is a gift. It’s not. It’s a goddamn curse.
Once i
nside the restaurant, I scan the room. Disappointment settles in my gut. I realize I was looking for Ignatius.
Stop it, you’re here to work.
Pushing the thought of the too-good-looking-for-his-own-good fireman from my mind, I take a seat at the counter. Hattie is right where she always is, standing court over her people and giving them what they love.
“Dominique, cheri, it’s so good to see your face.” She comes to me and kisses both my cheeks.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s good to be home.” I return the affection.
I love my aunt. Of everyone in my family, we are most alike. Growing up, she was the one who taught me about our legacy and helped me understand things that were unexplainable.
Hattie chuckles. “It don’t matter how far you go. You cannot run away, not from yourself or from home.” She places a cup of coffee in front of me.
I know, I know.
I take a sip of the coffee. “Been busy this morning?” I hate that I sound a tad bit eager.
“Iggy has not been in yet, however, I do suspect he might be here shortly.” She turns to grab some silverware and sets it in front of me. “If that’s who you be asking about.”
Hattie’s creole French has not diminished at all over the years. Unlike mine. I worked hard to get rid of it. Unfortunately, it seems as soon as I crossed the state line, everything about me and my past came roaring back.
“I am not. You just work so hard,” I lie.
“Don’t you be trying to lie to your Tante Hattie. I can read your mind.” She taps a finger to the side of my head.
I swear she can, she always has.
I put the cup down on the saucer. Hattie’s is the only place that still uses a cup and a saucer, the proper setting for tea and coffee, like the old ways. Hattie’s a fanatic about tradition. “Granted, he’s a handsome man, but I’m here to work.”
Voodoo Burning Page 2