Voodoo Moon

by Ed Gorman

  "Damn," she said, sitting down next to me on a fallen tree.

  "What?"

  She put her small hand on my arm. "You mean you haven't figured it out yet?"

  "Figured what out yet?"

  She hesitated a moment. Then, "You remember when we worked together on those two cases? I had genuine psychic visions."

  "You sure did."

  "I was the one who found the bodies."

  "You sure were."

  "So you didn't doubt my abilities at all."

  "Of course not. Remember, toots, I was the one who sent you to Quantico to meet the paranormal unit."

  Another pause. "I lost it."

  "Lost what?"

  A barn owl burst into night song. Dismay and loneliness filled the forest around us, his call that plaintive.

  "I lost my powers."

  "I didn't know you could lose them."

  "I tried to cash in. That's what Laura and I fight about all the time. The agreement we had when I started the show was that there wouldn't be any fakery or showbiz bullshit. You know?"

  "Sure."

  "Well, they were ready to dump us after three episodes. The ratings were terrible. So Laura and Noah decided that we needed fakery and showbiz bullshit right away. And the more the better. I fought against it, but I eventually went along because I was getting used to the life."

  "The life?"

  "You know. Being a celebrity. Limos everywhere. Flying to London and Paris. Having a very nice bank account. For our parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary, we were able to buy them a nice new house and get Mom a housekeeper twice a week. I even made the tabloids. They had me paired off with this rock singer I'd never even heard of before. But it was all pretty cool stuff for a small-town girl like me."

  "I'm sure it was."

  "Laura and Noah moved us away from people with real paranormal powers. They weren't very dramatic on TV. I mean, I had to admit that myself. There was this crippled woman from Boston, for instance, and I think she really had the power to heal people. Not all people, not all the time. But I think she was genuine. I wanted her on the show. I insisted we tape a segment with her. She was a very sweet, middle-aged woman in a wheelchair, but she had these facial tics. And when I saw the tape of her, I had to admit it was bad TV. She'd make the audience uncomfortable. So we ended up with this 'healer' who used to be a stage magician. It was total bullshit and the people who claimed he'd healed them were all lying. I suppose he paid them. But our ratings quadrupled. Then Laura suggested alien abductions. And then Noah said how about past lives. And then the show started getting into spirit possession and ghosts—none of it legitimate study, which would have been fine, but just showbiz crap."

  "Well, your show certainly got popular."

  "Right. So popular that by our third season, there were ten other cable shows just like it. And they all took away bits and pieces of our audience. So here we are in our fifth season and our ratings have fallen again. They're talking about canceling us."

  "I guess I still don't quite see where I fit into this."

  Moonlight made a silver mask of her gentle, freckled face. She looked up at the moon for solace, the same way our genetic ancestors had millions of years ago.

  "We need you to find the real murderer," she said. "I don't have my powers left. I sold them out and abused them and God took them away from me."

  "You really believe that?"

  "I really believe that. I'm being punished for ruining a gift that very few people have."

  "And my part in all this?"

  "We need you to check out Rick Hennessy's background. Show how he changed over the past couple of years."

  "In other words, how he became 'possessed.'"

  She paused. "Yeah, I guess that's it."

  "You really think he's possessed?"

  "I think it's a possibility."

  "That doesn't answer my question."

  She sighed. Stared up at the moon again. "I don't have to sleep in your bed tonight. I mean, if you don't want me to."

  "Knock off the bullshit and answer my question. You really think this kid is possessed?"

  "Probably not."

  "But you need me and my background report on him to lend your story credibility."

  "That's the plan, I guess."

  "It kind of pisses me off, Tandy."

  "I told Laura it would."

  "My word is all I've got. If I get involved in some stunt like this, who'll want to hire me?"

  "So you're saying no?"

  "I'm saying no."

  "Fuck," she said.

  I didn't say anything.

  "You're really pissed, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  "I don't blame you."

  I didn't say anything.

  She walked up toward the burned ruins. Then turned back to me. "I can't believe what I've become. I blame Laura and Noah all the time. But I'm just as guilty as they are. I don't want to give up the life, either. I'm just as bad as they are."

  "Maybe not as bad as Noah."

  "I know you don't like him. I admit he's kind of a peacock, but he's not such a bad guy."

  "Why'd you bring me out here, Tandy?"

  She came back and sat next to me on the toppled tree. "I thought you might bring me luck."

  "What kind of luck?"

  "I thought with you here, I could walk around the grounds and maybe something would happen. Rick used to come out here all the time. I thought maybe I could make some kind of telepathic contact. See if there really were malevolent spirits out here."

  "Then you've really contacted spirits before?"

  "Oh, sure. That part I believe in completely. I've contacted spirits several times over the years, in fact. I mean, back when I was holy."

  "Holy?"

  "I know that's kind of a funny word. But that's how I felt. When I was young and was aware of my power. I was in touch with God and with myself and I felt a great peace, and a kind of wisdom. Like when my dad got cancer that time. I was really able to comfort him. And I think that helped him recover completely. I really believe I played a part in that, a part I don't even understand myself. I would go into church and make the stations of the cross and then kneel in front of the votive candles and look up at Blessed Mother and I felt—holy. That's the only way I can explain it, Robert. Holy."

  "And you don't feel holy anymore?"

  She shook her head. "Not at all."

  "And when you were walking around up here tonight—"

  "Nothing. No kind of spiritual contact at all."

  The owl got busy again. This time he didn't sound plaintive; he sounded triumphant. There was something regal now in his cry. "Thanks for telling me the truth, anyway."

  "Laura's going to kill me."

  I took her hand. "Maybe you should think about quitting."

  "A has-been at twenty-eight."

  "Maybe you'll find your powers again."

  "I've thought of that, actually."

  "You really were helpful to people, Tandy. And you really were holy."

  She took my hand and touched it to her cheek. "Tonight? Am I still invited to your room tonight?"

  "Absolutely." I tapped my wristwatch. "Now I need to get back."

  "Oh, yes," she said, laughing. "I forgot. It's bowling time."

  SEVEN

  The taverns were all fired up and ready to go. There was a block of them. When we'd left town, there'd been only a few cars parked slantwise in front of them. Now both sides of the block were lined with pickups, vans, and cars. Some of the vans still bore traces of the seventies and eighties in the form of heavy-metal drawings on their sides. In the taverns tonight, as every night, there would be bumper pool and lottery tickets and fistfights and adultery and young love and old weary love and loneliness, lots and lots of loneliness in the neon shadows of beer signs and jukebox glow.

  The streets were mostly empty. It was that limbo time when teenagers were actually at home stuffing food in their faces, fortifying themselv
es for the night ahead. Soon they'd burst forth in a rumble of glass-pak mufflers and rock music and hormones, and ignite the night into an explosion of joy, lust, cosmic ache and cosmic confusion and cosmic arrogance and cosmic terror, and lust lust lust.

  As I drove into the parking lot, I saw, at the far end, the green Ford that I'd seen outside Iris Rutledge's office. I drove past it. Empty. I wondered where the big man was. The motel looked shabby in the soft lights of the parking lot, the prairie sky filled with stars now. I pulled into a parking spot near my room.

  "I'm glad I told you," Tandy said.

  "I'm glad you did, too."

  "I don't blame you for not wanting to be involved."

  She slid her arm around me as we stood in front of my door. Hugged me. I seemed to represent a mixture of Daddy, brother, and lover to her, and the combination made me uncomfortable.

  "See you," she said, and walked to her own room several doors away. She gave me a tiny wave and inserted her key and went inside.

  I went in and got the light on and took care of my bladder and washed my face and hands, and then the phone rang.

  "Hey, pal. What exotic place're you in this time?"

  Brady. Chicago cop. Friend of mine from my bureau days. I'd called him earlier this afternoon but he'd been busy.

  "Brenner, Iowa."

  "Wow. They got indoor plumbing?"

  "Next year."

  "Well, we all have to have our dreams."

  "How you been?"

  "Other than a teenage son who may be doing drugs, fine."

  "Damn. You really think so?"

  "His mother says the signs're all there. I wouldn't know. I rarely see him. I was a really shitty father to him when he was growing up—we had joint custody but I rarely took him on weekends—and now he's paying me back. Won't even return my phone calls most of the time. So I'm working on spending a lot of time with the younger kids."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Hell, even the commander's kid got into the drugs last year. Been in and out of two substance abuse programs already."

  "It's everywhere."

  "Kill 'em all, anybody who deals that shit."

  "We're trying that with mandatory sentencing, Tom. It doesn't seem to be the solution. Maybe it's time we legalize it."

  He sighed. "Who the fuck knows?" He was a big man easily given to depression. We needed to change the subject.

  "You run a license number for me?"

  "Sure," he said.

  I gave him the number. It belonged to the green Ford that I'd seen earlier at the lawyer's and again in the parking lot.

  "Be tomorrow before I can get to it."

  "No problem. I'll send you twenty-five dollars. I appreciate it."

  "Aw, hell. Forget the money. Just buy me a spaghetti dinner at Mario's next time you're in the city. We can swap cop stories."

  I smiled. He loved cop stories. Not the violent ones so much. The odd ones. The four-year-old kid wearing his bathrobe like a cape and wanting to jump off a three-story roof. The wife who caught her police captain husband whacking off while wearing a pair of her panties. The nun who packed heat. The powerful mobster who took painting lessons in night school, complete with his bodyguard standing right next to him. They were Chicago stories and if they were slightly exaggerated, so what? Why couldn't cops take a little artistic license, too?

  "Well, I'd better get ready."

  "Heavy date?" he said.

  "Yeah. Bowling."

  "Nude bowling?"

  "Yeah. Right. Nude bowling."

  "Hey, you gotta do something out there to liven things up."

  "Yeah, and nude bowling sounds just like it."

  "You see this new gal the detectives got for a secretary, you'd want to see her bowl nude, believe me."

  "Spectacular, huh?"

  "Spectacular? And you should see them. What a rack."

  "You sure they're real?"

  "Oh, they're real all right. I got an eye for that. They hang a certain way when they're real." Then, "You know, women with the real thing should maybe start carrying papers."

  "Papers?"

  "Yeah. You know. Like pedigreed dogs. So you could know for sure they were real."

  "I think we should let the United Nations work on that one, Brady."

  "Yeah, like the UN can ever solve anything."

  On that note, we hung up.

  I went to get some ice and a Diet Pepsi. On my way back, I made the mistake of passing by the motel door belonging to Laura West.

  She was shrieking at Noah Chandler. "Why would I want to marry some washed-up TV actor? Now get out and leave me alone!" Then, "Let me go or I'll start screaming!"

  I paused. I might have to go in there.

  "You ever grab me like that again, you bastard, and I'll report you to the police!"

  "You bitch! I've done everything I could for you and look what I get out of it!"

  Something smashed to the floor.

  "Oh, great," she said. "Now you start breaking everything?"

  "You'll be sorry you treated me like this, Laura. You damned well will."

  I wasn't the only one being treated to this soap opera. Half the motel could hear it.

  The door started to open.

  I scooted down to my room.

  He slammed the door so hard behind him, the entire motel wall shook

  "Fucking bitch," he said, loud enough for me to hear. Then he stalked off to his own room.

  I took a quick shower and shave. Dry and naked, I walked out of the bathroom and over to the accordion-fold closet. I opened the door and looked at the two shirts and two pairs of trousers and sport jacket I'd brought. Then I saw him. Or rather, I smelled him before I saw him.

  The closet was deep and dark enough to do a pretty good job of hiding him. He looked even bigger than he had in his car. The funny thing was, he still had his aviator shades on. The killer had stabbed him several times in the chest and then cut his throat. For good luck, maybe. He'd filled his pants, which was what I'd smelled. I went through his pockets carefully and found a small key in his shirt pocket. It looked like it belonged to a locker, and lockers were usually found at bus stations.

  I went over to the phone. Male voice. "Yes?"

  "Would you connect me with the police station please?"

  "Sure. Everything all right?"

  "Everything's fine. I just need to contact the chief."

  A minute lapsed. A voice identified the police station. "My name's Robert Payne. Susan Charles is expecting to see me in about twenty minutes. I wondered if you could give me her home number."

  "I can't give out the number," the dispatcher said. "But I can call her at home and have her call you back."

  "That'd be fine."

  "She had some trouble last year. Somebody making obscene calls to her. Took six months to find the guy. So she's gone unlisted since then."

  "Don't blame her." I gave him the phone number of the motel and my room number.

  The phone rang a few minutes later. "Chickened out, huh?"

  "There's a dead man in my room."

  "God," she said, "I'm sorry. You know who he is?"

  "No."

  "Or how he got there?"

  "No."

  "Or who might have killed him?"

  "No."

  "You're just the kind of witness cops dream of."

  "I don't know the drill out here, Susan. But we'll need the whole nine yards."

  "The SBI, too?" Meaning the State Bureau of Investigation, which could get here from Cedar Rapids quickly, and which would have a van or two loaded with all the appropriate high tech crime tools.

  "Absolutely."

  "So much for bowling."

  "I guess so."

  "You didn't by any chance kill him yourself, did you?"

  "No."

  "Good," she said. Then, "See you in a few minutes."

  I dressed quickly.

  Part 2

  ONE

  They came in groups. Firs
t the cops. Then the motel staff. Then the motel guests. Then the teenagers. Then the adults.

  I've never resented crime scene crowds the way some law enforcement people do. A natural reaction, to be drawn to the scene of death. As the Irish say, when you go to a funeral you're preparing yourself for your own demise, too. Rehearsal, if you will.

  This crowd was well-behaved. Nobody tried to push through the demarcation lines of yellow tape. Nobody bugged the two deputies or the ambulance attendants or the whiskery little man who turned out to be the coroner. They just stood and watched and talked among themselves on the pleasant autumn night, the rumble and roar of semis on the nearby interstate being the loudest sound. I kept looking for Tandy and Laura, or even Noah Chandler, but they were nowhere around.

  I was the guest of honor.

  Susan Charles, in crisp white blouse and jeans, led me to an empty motel room, sat me down in a chair, had one of the deputies get us both Diet Pepsis, and proceeded to question me. She wrote things down in a small black notebook.

  "So you don't know who he is?"

  "Right. And you don't either?"

  "Whoever killed him took his wallet. No ID whatsoever."

  "Damn."

  "And you have no idea how he got in your room?"

  "Right."

  "And you never saw him before?"

  "Wrong."

  "You saw him before?"

  "Once."

  A knock. Our Diet Pepsis. It tasted ridiculously good.

  I said, "This afternoon." I told her the circumstances. "Tell your people to start looking at the green Ford with Illinois plates in the parking lot. I noticed it when I pulled in earlier."

  "You think he was following you?"

  "Possibly."

  "Why?"

  "Why would he follow me, you mean?"

  "Right."

  "No idea."

  "You have any idea where your friends are?"

  "If you mean the West sisters, I was kind of looking around for them myself."

  "Or Noah Chandler."

  "He's probably with them. But I have no idea where."

  "You came out here because of them. If the man in your room was following you, it probably had to do with them."

  "That's sort of what I was thinking."

  "So he has something to do with the Rick Hennessy case."