In the living room she found two teacups, both of which had dregs of a reddish-brown liquid clinging to the sides and bottom. Flynn sniffed the substance, smelled raspberries, and something tannic that she suspected would be a drug. On the floor beside the table she found a tiny pearl stud earring, and once again her heart clattered to a momentary halt.
Dana had worn earrings just like it when they met at Café du Monde.
Anger built like a pressure wave that pressed against the bones of Flynn’s face. A hard wave of color rippled through her and lights popped against the backsides of her eyelids. Her entire body became light and heavy at once as adrenalin flowed to the parts where it was most needed for the fight-or-flight response. She remembered this feeling from those times when she executed a kill in her previous life.
Her phone rang, jarring her out of her rage.
“Okay, we have a winner—” Danny’s voice said in her ear. “A property on North Rampart, in the name of Helen Dufresne.”
“What kind of property?”
“Commercial. Used to be a bar, but it looks like there have been some renovations done. Hmm, the place looks right into Congo Square.”
Flynn pocketed the earring, then removed the teacups to the kitchen where she rinsed and left them on the drainer with a stack of other dishes. It fit that Jean-Marie would choose Congo Square to perform her insane Voodoo rituals—the once stomping ground of her namesake, Marie Laveau, would seem appropriate to the crazy mambo, no doubt. “The remodeling—would that include soundproofing, by any chance?”
“Indeed yes, dear heart,” Danny confirmed. “Should I ask why you would think of that?”
Flynn grimaced. “I think the person who had this property remodeled is performing human sacrifices there. And she wouldn’t want the neighbors to hear screaming.”
“Oh my, no,” Danny opined mildly. There was little in this world that shocked Danny Cho.
Flynn strode back to the bathroom, ducked out onto the fire escape, and climbed down to the alleyway. The NOPD would eventually find the window broken and suspect someone had been there before them, but they would never be able to prove who it was. Nor, Flynn, hoped, would they care once they realized just what Ariel Rousseau and her ex-cell mate were up to.
Danny said wistfully, “Whatever pile of shite you are stirring up down there in the Big Sleazy, I wish I were there to help you stir, darling.”
“I know,” Flynn said and hung up. She pocketed the phone as she got into her Trans Am. She sat there for a few moments, contemplating what her next move ought best to be. Whatever she did, it was going to require assistance. There would be at least three people at the temple—Jean-Marie, Ariel, and Antoine—and maybe even more because who knew how many followers Jean-Marie may have gathered into her bloodthirsty flock. Danny would’ve been Flynn’s first choice of back-up except, post-Katrina, Danny had removed himself and his expensive technology to the drier, safer climes of Baton Rouge.
That left just one person who wanted something from Flynn, and who might be willing to do her a favor in order to get it.
She dialed the number Danny had supplied for Special Agent Erin Krueger’s personal cell phone. The line rang several times before Erin Krueger’s cautious voice asked, “Who is this? And how did you get this number?”
“In answer to your first question, Erin, it’s me, Willie Rae Flynn. As to your second question—well, I bet if you try really hard, you can probably guess the answer to that.”
Erin Krueger sighed. “Danny Cho. Industrious little fucker. What do you want, Flynn?”
A line of no-going-back loomed straight ahead of Flynn. She took a deep breath. “I need a favor from you, Erin. If you do this for me, I’ll take on that ‘task’ you wanted me to perform. You have my word on that. And I guess I’ll also be in your debt.”
“I’m listening,” Erin Krueger said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“You’re sure about this?” Special Agent Erin Krueger looked across the passenger seat at Flynn.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Flynn nodded. “How’s that wrist, by the way? Think y’all can handle a gun okay?”
Erin grimaced. Dressed in a dark leather jacket, dark pants, and a roll neck sweater, she looked like a model going on a fashion shoot—rather than an ex-CIA agent about to help a former hired assassin to kill people. “I’ll be fine with a gun. But I owe you for that.”
Flynn gave a quiet snort. “I’ll be sure to look over my shoulder every time I walk down a dark alleyway.”
Beyond the rain-blurry windshield of the Trans Am, North Rampart Street was shrouded in night a deep charcoal shade, and deserted save for a few hookers wandering desultorily toward the French Quarter. The moon, concealed behind a bank of silver-edged rain clouds, had not yet fully risen. A light, misty rain fell, stringing the street with threads of gray-white mist, pocked by the watery yellow illumination from sodium streetlights. Flynn looked toward Congo Square. Part of the greater grounds of Louis Armstrong Park, the historic square was pristinely landscaped and enclosed by a neat wrought iron fence, bearing very little resemblance to what it had been in Marie Laveau’s day. Nonetheless, you could still get a sense of the older, darker purpose which the square had served then.
Flynn’s cell phone began vibrating on the dashboard where she had left it. She picked it up, checked the called ID, then threw the phone back on the dashboard unanswered.
“Detective Boudreau?” Erin raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah.”
Boudreau had been calling repeatedly, each time leaving increasingly agitated messages for Flynn.
“So how do we play this?” Erin asked.
“We kill them all,” Flynn stated simply.
“And Ariel Rousseau—you want her dead, too?”
“I’ll deal with her. You take Dana to the address I gave you. Leon will be waiting for you.”
Leon Shand was a medical doctor who’d long ago lost his license after he repeatedly treated gunshot wounds and failed to report them to law enforcement. Ironically, he now made his living by treating members of the New Orleans criminal underworld. He also treated people who couldn’t afford health insurance and who weren’t too bothered about not enjoying the sterile trappings of a hospital. Leon owed Flynn certain favors relating to his underworld clients.
She reached under her jacket, removed two modified Berettas fitted with illegal silencers, and handed one to Erin. “You’re taking a huge risk, helping me do this,” she remarked. From the corner of her eye she watched the agent shrug. “I appreciate it. Just so y’all know.”
“You know it places you in my debt, too?” Erin looked at her expectantly and Flynn nodded.
For a few moments they worked in silent tandem on their weapons: checking the slides were working, making sure a single round was chambered, sighting the weapons to get the balance right. There was, Flynn realized, a certain terrible, stark beauty in their deadly dance.
“Truth to tell, I sometimes miss the old days,” Erin confessed. She smiled as she sighted along the sleek barrel of the Beretta. “We would have made a good team back then.”
“Imagine what the Agency could’ve accomplished,” Flynn agreed dryly. “Y’all ready for this?”
“Let’s rock ‘n’ roll.”
Tucking the gun inside her jacket, Erin stepped out of the car, looked both ways up and down the mist-shrouded street, and jogged across to the other side.
The section of North Rampart in which Helen Dufresne had purchased her property was a largely rundown mix of low-rent homes and commercial properties. Since Katrina, it remained half-deserted, many windows and doors still boarded and painted with the FEMA search markings. Looking at it all, Flynn was reminded of her early days in the city, of what it had been like before Katrina, and that made her blood boil. Five years on, she thought, and still so much repair work to be done. Just a half block from where the Trans Am was parked, decent homes crowded up alongside the poverty and ruin, testament to the contradic
tory nature of life in New Orleans. By angling the rear view mirror Flynn was able to watch Erin as she walked swiftly, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, head ducked low, toward the mambo’s property. To any casual observer, she would have appeared as nothing more than a woman hurrying home on a wet night. However, as she drew level with the property, she slowed her step enough to make a quick scan for any cameras or other security measures. Then she walked on, and at the end of the block, crossed the street.
The passenger door opened. Erin slid into the car on a waft of cold air. “No visible security. Looks like an ordinary everyday door, too. Easy-pick lock, if you plan on going in the front door.”
Flynn grunted. “I guess Jean-Marie just isn’t expecting anyone to try to break into her temple.”
“Maybe it’s guarded by a hex,” Erin suggested with a grin.
“Too bad for Jean-Marie that we’re not believers then.”
They got out of the car together this time, crossing the empty street, and walking straight up to the temple unchallenged. Even though it was before nine pm—early evening by New Orleans standards—the street was practically deserted. Those who were out and about had business of their own to mind—much of it nefarious, Flynn guessed—and were disinclined then to be minding anyone else’s. Flynn examined the front door quickly, then used her lock-picking tools to open it up. As she swung it open, Erin moved ahead of her inside. Flynn followed and let the door close soundlessly behind them.
A passageway stretched straight ahead, lit by a series of torches in ornate sconces at intervals along each wall. Frowning, Erin reached up and passed a hand through the flame of one of these torches. “Fake,” she muttered. She touched her fingertips to the wall. “Plasterboard. Is anything the real McCoy in here?”
“Probably not. The whole place has been extensively remodeled. ” Flynn moved ahead of the agent to follow the line of fake torches to the passageway’s end and a second door. She twisted around to look at Erin over one shoulder. “I think we’ve found our temple.”
Erin nodded.
Flynn took a deep breath, and reached for the handle.
The time was almost upon them. The Full Moon would shortly reach its zenith. All was prepared.
After the ritual bathing of the sacrifice came the anointing and adorning with nine strands of beads made from glass, roots, and the bones of a rooster sacrificed within the walls of a cemetery. The drug which had kept the sacrifice docile throughout the preparations had begun to wear off and Dana Jordan was waking up, making faint moaning sounds as her eyes flickered underneath her lids and her limbs twitched in fear. The mambo ordered her acolyte, Antoine, to take the cleansed sacrifice to the altar, and to bind her there.
“And don’t even think about touching her, do you hear me?” she added severely.
“Yes, Mambo,” Antoine muttered, head bowed, eyes downcast. He still was in the mambo’s disfavor after the fiasco with the second sacrifice, and he knew he’d have to work hard to regain a place in her good books.
Pity for him then that he wouldn’t be given that chance, the mambo thought savagely.
Whilst Antoine lifted the semi-conscious Dana from the bathtub and carried her through to the temple, Ariel helped the mambo to prepare herself for the ceremony. As she assisted Jean-Marie to pull on her white robes, tying them at the rear for her and smoothing them out across her shoulders, the mambo laid a hand on Ariel’s arm and lowered her voice to a whisper. “We need to be free of Antoine. His influence has become toxic to the Old Ones. He needs to die. Tonight.”
Ariel was surprised. “Won’t that upset the balance of the ritual?” she asked.
The mambo shook her head, showing a touch of impatience with her acolyte’s naivety. “Of course not. In fact, it shall only sweeten the pot. I am entrusting the task to you. When the time is right, I shall give the signal and expect you to dispatch Antoine from this plane. Can I rely upon you?”
The time for hesitation was long past and Ariel quickly nodded her assent. Besides, Jean-Marie was right—Antoine had become a liability. Even the simple task of disposing of Anthea Larue’s body he’d managed to screw up, leaving the rotting corpse in his own apartment instead of taking it to the bayou and dumping it there as Jean-Marie had instructed him. This way, he had brought the authorities one step closer to them than they ever had anticipated. It was the drugs, Ariel realized. Antoine had become addicted to the Zombie Dust variant which she herself concocted. The mambo had known drugs were Antoine’s weakness when she recruited him, but she had not predicted how rapid his slide into addiction would be when he tasted Ariel’s clever combination of substances.
The mambo bestowed a seductive smile on her acolyte and patted her arm, letting her long fingers with their scarlet-painted nails linger there. “We will rule this earthly plane together, my darling,” she promised, in a husky voice that sent shivers down Ariel’s spine.
“Frankly, I would’ve killed him soon as he came and told me about injuring that cop. He was a liability already, and doing something as stupid as that, well—” Jean-Marie pooched out her lips, shook her head. “But we needed him for tonight.”
“I’ll take care of it, Mambo,” Ariel promised.
They walked into the temple together where Antoine had laid the sacrifice upon the altar, her wrists and ankles bound with hemp ropes soaked in a special mix of herbs, blood, and rum. Ariel noticed that his eyes kept darting to Dana Jordan’s exposed sex, and each time he looked, his tongue would dart between his lips in a vaguely obscene gesture. Jean-Marie had forbidden him to so much as touch this sacrifice, not until the Old Ones were finished with it, but having to be so restrained was obviously difficult for him. Ariel felt a wave of disgust rise in her gut that forced her to look away.
Resplendent in her white ritual robes trimmed with silver and gold to represent the Moon and Sun, with nine ropes of beads strung around her neck, and barefoot as the ritual required, Jean-Marie smiled as she watched the sacrifice prepared. It would have been bad luck for the mambo herself to perform the preparation, to have sullied her hands with such acts. She was required to be pure for this ritual.
“Ariel, light the incense,” Jean-Marie instructed. She picked up a ceremonial bone-handled dagger laying on the altar by the head of the sacrifice. Dana Jordan’s eyes were impossibly wide and shining wet with fear, darting to and fro in a futile search for escape. Beads of sweat had gathered on her forehead, and trailed down her nose and cheeks. Jean-Marie sprinkled droplets of a sacred mixture over her, from forehead to feet, murmuring an incantation as she did so. Ariel spoke the sacred words in unison with the mambo, and Antoine, too, mumbled along, his glassy gaze fixed upon the sacrifice, drinking her nakedness in greedily, becoming visibly excited himself at the way fear had brought her nipples to rosy erection. The same disgust rose like bile in Ariel’s throat once again.
“Old Ones…we beseech you!” Jean-Marie cried.
They were here, the Old Ones were here—Ariel could sense them. In just a short while, she would be able to see them, hear them, and even talk to them. It was not easy for mere humans to interact with the Old Ones. The rituals required to do so were complex, requiring strenuous concentration of mind, body, and spirit.
“Accept our sacrifice!” Jean-Marie pled.
The mambo clasped the dagger in both hands, let the sharp tip of the blade bite into tender flesh and draw blood, and with several quick and expert flicks of her wrist she carved the veve of Damballah Wedo into Dana Jordan’s skin.
Flynn stepped into a queerly-angled room of fake stone walls and deep shadows. Her first impression was one of murky brown darkness tinged red by wavering light thrown by a series of flambeaux along the walls. The air was thick with the heavy, sickly sweet smells of incense, blood, and human sweat. As her eyes rapidly adjusted, she saw the fake stone walls adorned with garish, hellish images of the Loa and their worshippers engaged in various rituals, lit by flickering firelight that made the images seem to come alive and
actually move in rhythm. Whatever incense was being burned, it created a sharp, resinous tang in the thick air that agitated the fine hairs inside Flynn’s nostrils and made her want to sneeze violently. Then the deranged kaleidoscope of images shifted and resolved itself into the single, starkly terrifying sight of Dana Jordan, naked and bound, laying on a stone altar in the middle of the temple. A series of veves were painted on her torso. Shadows cast by the flambeaux cut sharply across her face and body, gouging harsh lines into the awful paleness of her flesh. Just above her left breast a fresh wound glistened with blood.
A fiftyish white woman in white and silver-edged robes held a dagger, the edge painted in blood, above Dana’s immobile form on the altar whilst she chanted in a strange, guttural language. Perspiration beaded the woman’s face and neck above the robes. This must be Jean-Marie, Flynn reasoned. The infamous jailhouse mambo. She was an attractive woman alright, blonde and with the crystal-blue eyes that marked French descent, but she also bore an air of serenity and violence that mingled into one truly unsettling thing.
Jean-Marie and her acolytes reacted to the intrusion immediately and with expected violence. Antoine stepped toward them, his big hands curling into fists, his red-rimmed eyes narrowing. Ariel stepped instinctively back from the altar and the mambo, confusion and unease rippling across her face.
“Get them!” the mambo screeched.
For a single instant time and reality buckled for Flynn. Each were ripped apart, leaving in their wake a dark and airless void in which everything that had existed in her life before this moment was gone and anything which might exist afterwards hung in suspension. She drifted momentarily in that void, her mind buzzing in the vacuum, a storm of emotion building deep inside of her, and then with the abruptness of an explosion, time unwound and expanded once more and reality snapped back into place. All the light and air rushed back in to fill up the void, and Flynn became aware that she could feel her own pulse pounding in her ears and vibrating through her clenched teeth. The bitter, metallic taste of hatred rushed into her mouth. She raised the silencer-equipped Beretta and stared into the undisguised hatred in the eyes of Jean-Marie, who hissed a curse between her teeth. She flipped the point of the dagger up so that it pointed at Flynn and Erin.
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