Kevin studied her concerned expression. She was either a great actress or an actual believer in everything she said. He decided he wanted to hear more. “What kind of danger?”
“Your brother chose another path from the one which was intended. His is an unsettled spirit, reborn from the union of opposite emotions at the time of death. Love for his son. Hate for his killers. The love will last forever, Mr. Palmer, but he must first reconnect with its existence if he is to find peace.”
“So what you’re saying is that he’s still obsessed with the hate for his killers?”
Madame Sibilia looked at him, nodding her head in an almost imperceptible manner.
“The hate,” she said, “stands a chance of consuming him forever. When that happens he’ll start to mutate, as if in a cocoon spun from evil. He will be helpless to prevent himself from becoming another spiritual force for wickedness in the world.”
Kevin remembered Warren using the word, “convincing,” to describe Madame Sibilia. Now he understood why. Was she a phony with a great script? Maybe…maybe not.
“How do you know so much about death?” he asked.
“Before you leave here, Mr. Palmer, you will have your answer. But we must continue.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” he muttered.
“You must seek him out. His own flesh and blood is the one who can redirect him back to the light of peace.”
“His own flesh and blood?”
“Seth. He is the lone connection, the one existing root from his seed. He is the one that can make contact.”
“Seth?” Kevin uttered, his voice rising from the shock. “Are you kidding me? How could that ever be possible?”
“At a time when your brother violates another,” she answered. “Seth must be there to persuade him to stop.”
“Oh sure, no problem!” Kevin rubbed his hands over his face in exasperation. “Give me a break! This is all so absurd!”
“You must have faith, Mr. Palmer,” she said. “Your brother’s course has followed the path of the Tarot. He left here without hearing a reading of the final card. That is what still gives me hope—the significance of the Judgment.”
“What’s the Judgment?” Kevin asked bitterly.
“The tenth and final card of your brother’s Tarot,” she answered. “Representing the outcome of the other nine: Reward, renewal, a cleaning of the slate.” Madame Sibilia leaned forward, her eyes set on Kevin’s. “The offering of a new beginning, Mr. Palmer.”
Kevin’s head spun in anxiety and confusion. He had heard more than he bargained for. What was he hoping to achieve, anyway? To find some hidden paperwork that Warren filled out informing her of family names? Concealed cameras exposing her as a phony? Admittedly, he couldn’t say he’d discovered proof that Warren’s fantasies were unfounded, and that surprised him. Her speculations seemed unique and interesting, sure, but what was he left with now? A recommendation to hook Seth up with some dying gangbanger at three fifty-nine in the morning so he could tell his father to go away? Nothing more remained to be said.
“Madame Sibilia,” he said, rising from his chair, “thank you for your time.” Reaching into his inside pocket for his wallet, Kevin brought out some money.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “Just believe in the Tarot, Mr. Palmer. Do what you must and your brother will find his way back to the light of peace.”
“Whatever you say, Madame Sibilia,” he replied, uncaring.
“There is one more thing you must remember,” she said.
“Yeah?” he grumbled, nearing the door. “What’s that?”
“Look for a sign from Heaven and Earth. Then you will know he is safe.”
Kevin walked out on the deck to take a final look at the grounds below. The fresh air offered a welcome change from the incense, and he felt his head start to clear. Turning around to say goodbye, he saw Madame Sibilia standing just inside the doorway. He started to walk down the steps when he remembered something he wanted to ask her. “I almost forgot,” he said. “Tell me how a young woman like you knows so much about death.”
For the first time since his arrival, Madame Sibilia smiled. “Remember, Mr. Palmer, there are times you must be willing to search outside your reality. There are those who die, like your brother, who choose to return in order to hurt others. And there are those who choose to return to help souls on the verge of danger, to guide them through the darkness of their fate. Inside, where I stand, my own destiny is secure. There, where you stand…” Kevin stared at Madame Sibilia as she walked toward him “…I lost my life.”
Kevin froze in horror as Madame Sibilia’s face and body transformed into that of an old, haggard woman in the time it took her to step outside the door. A face as unlined as a starless sky suddenly possessed a profusion of wrinkles atop sagging black flesh resembling melted wax. The smooth arms and neck changed into the texture of a dried riverbed, and the proud, straight shoulders drooped like a wilted sunflower. “This would have been me in your world today, Mr. Palmer,” she said, her voice a raspy wheeze. “Now go. Believe in the Judgment card. And remember to look for a sign from Heaven and Earth.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Kevin took several quick steps backward before grabbing the rail and scrambling down the steps into the hushed darkness of the deserted alley. He followed his instincts around an unlit corner on the left, striving to remain calm. “How the hell can people see around here?” he whispered aloud. His inability to hear anything exacerbated his confusion, making his anxiety worsen. He tried to get his bearings straight as he walked, looking for that place, ‘The High Seas’. For some reason the stupid line from that Barbara Streisand song his mother liked so much about people being lucky when they need other people entered his thoughts. Right now, Kevin needed other people.
The breakthrough came in the sudden sound of laughter emerging from somewhere around the nearby corner, transforming Kevin’s unsure footsteps into an apprehensive jog. He wasn’t aware just how long he ran, but the sight of a college-aged couple standing in front of a building eased him back to a walking pace. Wiping beads of sweat with the back of his hand, Kevin approached them to reacquaint himself with normalcy and to take his mind off of Madame Sibilia.
“Is this place any good?” he asked, nodding toward what appeared to be some kind of bar and grill.
“The High Seas?” the girl in the Tulane sweatshirt replied. “Oh yeah, for sure. My friends and I come here all the time.”
Kevin didn’t understand. “The High Seas?” he asked.
His eyes looked upon the name in colorful block letters above the door. The large cloth awning had disappeared. A white wooden overhang with a bank of lights across the underside hung in its place. That was the only wood he saw on an otherwise solid brick building. Yet as far as he could tell, the structure he saw before had consisted entirely of wood. And where was the darkened path he took from Pirate’s Alley to Madame Sibilia’s? A brick wall with a large trash bin stood there now, cutting off any access to the other side. Hadn’t he just come from there?
“They changed the location of the place, right?” he asked. “It used to be somewhere else around here.”
“Nope,” the girl replied, shaking her head and smiling. “This is where it’s always been.”
“My old man used to eat here when he was a kid,” the boy said. “It sure looked different then.”
“Well, duh,” the girl remarked, laughing. “That’s because it burned down, dummy.” She rolled her eyes and looked back at Kevin. “Now it’s brick instead of wood.” She pointed toward the wall. “There was an alley on the other side. That’s where the entrance used to be.”
Kevin stared at the wall, wondering what the hell was going on. “Have you seen a place around here where the awning is falling off? You have to walk around it to get to the door.”
The boy uttered a quick laugh. “There was only one place like that, mister, and you’re looking at it.”
; “What do you mean?” Kevin asked.
“That’s old school,” he replied. “A long time ago ‘The High Seas’ had something like that. It was real stupid looking. If you go inside they got a picture of the way it was.”
Kevin wanted to shout at the top of his voice, “You’re insane! That’s the way it looked just a while ago! I saw it with my own eyes!” He forced himself to take a long, slow breath.
“Where’s that picture?” he asked.
“It’s hanging on the wall near the bathrooms,” she said. “You can’t miss it.”
Kevin rushed toward the entrance without saying another word. Throwing the door back, he dashed inside, glanced around, and spotted a framed photograph near the bathroom doors. He moved toward the sizable black and white snapshot as if in a trance, barely cognizant of the busy surroundings. When he got to within easy viewing distance, Kevin grew lightheaded. There on the wall, in a silent testimony to his changing reality, hung a picture of The High Seas that looked identical to the darkened establishment he had examined earlier. His eyes moved to the inscription on the bottom right corner of the photograph: The High Seas—early 1960’s.
Kevin’s legs felt leaden as he moved toward the exit like a man walking underwater. Disoriented to a point of nausea, he sat on the outside steps trying to regain his composure. His mind felt thick and stretched to the limit, a gum-like wad of brain tissue struggling to think straight. An alluring need for scotch forced him to his feet and away from the temptation that threatened to envelop him. He hurried through a couple of uncertain turns until he found himself back on Royale Street, the boisterous sound of jazz music prevalent once again.
* * *
Kevin wanted to leave New Orleans as soon as possible and didn’t give a damn that he spent extra money changing his flight home to the earliest time available—five thirty a.m. With sandbags for legs and a brain sustained by an air pump, he approached a taxi stand in the early morning darkness, still dazed from his encounter with Madame Sibilia and operating on zero sleep. The sound of a horn jolted him from his trance. “God damn trumpet,” he muttered. He blinked several times, swaying from a loss of focus as he stared at the taxi parked a few feet away. Looking through the windshield he saw a smiling, heavy-set driver with a bright Hawaiian shirt give him a, ‘Well, what’s it gonna be?’ motion with his raised arms and open palms. Kevin walked over. “The airport, please,” he said, sliding into the back seat.
With a thirty minute ride ahead of him, Kevin scrunched down, pressed his back against the corner of the seat, and gazed through the outside blackness attempting to piece together the ramifications of his experience with Madame Sibilia. If she was to be believed, as Kevin now deemed quite possible, Warren might be on his way to evolving into some kind of unwitting force for evil. His brother’s good intentions for making those two gangs pay the ultimate price had gone awry. But what kind of irony was in play here? His brother had been a loving family man, a principled human being who used to rail at society’s ills. When the two of them were kids, complaining about something as unfair, their father always responded with the same retort: “Whoever said life was fair?” Kevin now asked himself another question: “Whoever said death was fair?”
“So, you have a good time?”
Kevin thought he heard the driver say something. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, snapping back to attention. “What’d you say?”
“New Orleans, my man. Did you find your fun?”
“No, not really,” he replied. “To be honest with you, I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“Don’t hear that very often,” the driver said. “Maybe next time’ll be better.”
Kevin stared out his window, pleased to see the amount of buildings thinning by the minute. “You know what’s funny?” he said. “I’d been here one other time and looked forward to coming back. Now I don’t think I’ll ever return.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” the driver said, “what are you so down about?”
“It’s sort of hard to explain.”
“Okay,” he replied, “so where you from?”
“L.A.”
“Never been there,” he told him. “Closest I got was Vegas a couple of times. Born and raised in this great city.”
“New Orleans born and raised, huh? Well, sorry to rain on the old parade, my friend. I’m sure it’s a great city.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver replied. “Founded in 1718 by Jean Baptiste Le Mayne. Sold in 1803 to the United States by Napoleon Bonaparte as part of the Louisiana Purchase. Orleans was the family name of two royal dynasties of France: Valois-Orleans and Bourbon-Orleans. That’s who Bourbon Street’s named after. The French Quarter is actually the site of the original city.”
Kevin saw the driver looking at him in the rearview mirror.
“Sorry, man, I hope I’m not boring you or nothin’,” he said. “I just love talking about the history of this place.”
“No, you’re not boring me,” Kevin replied. “I didn’t know those things.”
“My wife calls me, ‘The New Orleans Know-It-All,’” he said. “I can tell you anything you want to know about the city. From the old days up to modern times, whatever.”
“What’s your name?” Kevin asked.
“Sam,” he answered. “And you sir, are?”
“Kevin.”
“So tell me, Kevin, what happened? You get mugged or somethin’?”
“No, nothing like that,” he said. “I had a weird experience with a psychic tonight. I know that must sound stupid, but she got me upset.”
“A psychic, huh? Well, most of ‘em are as phony as a politician’s promise. Don’t let it worry you.”
“I wish she was a phony, believe me. That’s exactly what I was hoping for.” Kevin looked out at the darkness. “I have a bad feeling she’s for real,” he said in a quiet voice.
“I know a few of them psychic ladies,” Sam replied. “What’s her name?”
“Madame Sibilia,” he answered somberly, his eyes staying fixed on the window.
Sam remained silent. Kevin glanced back at him through the rearview mirror. “You know her?”
“Kevin,” Sam said, hesitancy to his voice, “the only Madame Sibilia I ever heard of was murdered a long time ago. I was still in diapers when it happened but my folks still talked about her when I was older. That was a big story around here.”
Kevin squirmed in his seat. “What can I say?” he asked. “That’s what she calls herself.”
“Believe me,” Sam replied, “anyone who grew up around here would do a double take if they saw the name, ‘Madame Sibilia.’”
“How was she murdered?” Kevin asked.
“Shot by a man named Tobias Wellington III.”
“Sounds like a name with money.”
“The wife had the dough,” Sam said. “She owned property all over the city.”
“So, what happened?”
“The dude was up to his eyeballs in gambling debts. He wound up torching a joint he owned for the insurance money.” Sam chuckled. “Can you believe it? Does that trick ever work? They musta got suspicious ‘cause he didn’t get shit the whole time they were investigating. What a loser.”
“The place that burned down, it wasn’t called ‘The High Seas’ was it?”
“Yeah, that’s the name,” he answered. “‘The High Seas.’ They rebuilt the place later. Same name, too. Not as much of a restaurant anymore, though. More of a sports bar kind of place.”
Kevin rubbed his face in his hands, trying to maintain his senses. “So how does Madame Sibilia figure into all of this?”
“Mrs. Wellington used to go to her for readings. She leased the house to her so maybe there was a trade-off. After the murder, she told reporters Madame Sibilia had warned her about her husband, that he was in financial trouble, that he’d set fire to his place, and that he planned to kill her for the money. The whole nine yards. The mistake she made was leaving a ‘fuck you’ letter at the house telling him
all about Madame Sibilia’s information. The guy flipped out. He goes and shoots that poor psychic. Then he kills himself.”
“He shot her by the front door of her house, right?”
“Yeah,” Sam answered. “How’d you know that?”
“Call it a gut feeling,” he said quietly.
They spent the remainder of the ride in relative quiet. Kevin had been away from home less than twenty-four hours but felt exhausted. When Sam pulled up to the curb, Kevin thanked him and removed his wallet. Counting the cash, he handed him the fare plus a generous tip. The man had earned every extra dollar.
“Keep the change, Sam,” he told him, sliding the wallet back into his pants pocket.
Sam looked at the bills in his hand and smiled, his red beefy cheeks looking like half-filled flesh balloons. “Hey, thanks, bro,” he answered. “You ever make it back to The Crescent City come find me, okay? The New Orleans Know-It-All will take care of you big time.”
“I’ll remember that,” Kevin said, doubting he’d ever return. He exited the car and started walking away before suddenly remembering something else he needed to know.
“Hey, Sam!” he yelled, approaching the taxi again. “Who lives at Madame Sibilia’s house now?”
“It ain’t there no more,” he answered. “Remember, the house was owned by Wellington’s wife. She had the place torn down. They got some shops there now close to the Saint Louis Cathedral.” Sam shook his head and shrugged. “It’s too bad. That was the last house left standing in the area.”
“That can’t be,” he said. “I was at her house before you picked me up.”
“No way, Kevin,” he said. “Maybe your Madame Sibilia has a house somewhere, but not the one I know about. Not anymore, at least.”
A woman’s voice came over his speaker. Sam had another ride waiting.
“Gotta go, Kevin. Come back and give this great city another chance. I’m sure next time will be better.”
Departure time still had ninety long minutes to go. The relative quiet of the waiting area felt like an isolation chamber, leaving him without the desired distractions he needed to prevent his continual focus on Madame Sibilia and what she said about Warren’s fate. Fatigue and depression sandwiched his thoughts and left him feeling mentally drained. For several minutes he stared down the terminal at the bar entrance, debating whether one drink should or shouldn’t be permissible just this time. His parched throat grew harder to ignore as he imagined how uplifting the effect of a fine scotch could be on his shaken psyche. “It’s only one drink,” he told himself. “Nobody will know. With what I’ve gone through I deserve something pleasant, don’t I?”
The Poe Consequence Page 28
