"Half of one, then. I'm sick of these people, I'm sick of the time I'm spending on all this, and I want a goddamned drink."
"Eat something first." He pulled a package of crackers from his bag and threw it her way. As she nibbled, he poured half a shot into a glass, added Fresca and ice and handed it to her, hoping the small dose of bourbon wouldn't affect her. They had to be so careful these days. Long ago things had been easier. Now that child abusers and molesters were in the news constantly, people were always on the lookout. That wasn't the situation between Eve and Marcel, of course. There was absolutely none of that; they were family and he was committed, as he had been for sixty of his eighty-seven years, to taking care of his sister. They simply had to be cautious every moment of every day so no one would suspect she was anything different from what she appeared to be.
She clinked glasses with him and drank half of it in one long pull. "Are you concerned about the man in the lobby? What was that about?"
Marcel shrugged his shoulders. He was as clueless as Eve about the American who'd approached them when they returned to the hotel a few minutes ago. He'd introduced himself - what did he say his name was? Brian something? - and said he was doing research on ancient relics. He'd asked them if he could have a moment.
"I believe you're mistaken," Marcel had answered. "We have nothing to do with ancient relics."
Then the man had become slightly more insistent. "I won't take much of your time. I think you may be able to help me."
"We've had a long day," Marcel had replied brusquely. "My granddaughter's tired and we both need some rest. I don't know anything about ancient relics." He took Eve's arm and moved them away. He had no intention of speaking with this stranger. The people on the bus were bad enough, but he had to tolerate them. They were a necessary evil.
"It's about the Black Cross," the man had said quietly as he followed them toward the stairs. It had caused them to pause for a second. Eve squeezed his hand so hard Marcel thought it was going to burst his aged, wrinkled skin.
Marcel had turned abruptly and said, "Go away! Leave us alone!" They ascended the stairs and thankfully the man didn't follow.
As he went into the bathroom to get his afternoon pills, Eve said, "What if he followed us here? How can he link us to the cross? We can't ignore him; we have to see what he's after."
Without responding, Marcel sat heavily in an armchair, his old body tired from the altitude and a long, long day without a nap.
Eve began to get angry. "Do we talk to the man in the lobby? Do you have an opinion about this, or shall I handle things like I always do?" She tossed her glass back, finished her drink and held it up. "Fix me another."
It had been a long, exhausting day and he was in no mood to fight her. If she became difficult, he would merely lock her in the room and put her to bed. He'd done it enough times before, God knew.
He pushed himself up, fixed another round, handed hers over and answered, "I think we have to talk to him. Who knows what he's doing here? He could jeopardize everything. But not tonight. I'm ordering room service. You're not leaving this room after having two drinks."
She shot him the finger, a gesture he always found oddly amusing since her hands and fingers were so small. A ten-year-old girl doing such an adult thing made him smile, and as usual that infuriated her. Given the alcohol she'd ingested, everything he did from now until bedtime was only going to make her more upset. It would have been better if he hadn't given her anything to drink, but what was done was done.
It took one phone call to discover he had a problem - there was no room service. Marcel called the front desk and was told that he could go to the restaurant, place his order and carry it to the room. She was in the shower when he decided what he'd do. He knocked, opened the bathroom door a couple of inches and yelled over the running water, "I'm going down to get our dinner. I want you to promise me you won't do anything foolish."
"Whatever," came the muffled response from behind the shower curtain.
Everything in third-world countries moved more slowly than Americans preferred. Marcel fidgeted at the bar for nearly thirty minutes, waiting for his to-go order while he nursed one Cuba Libre, then a second. He must have glanced at his watch twenty times. Although she was just upstairs and he had an unobstructed view of the lobby so she couldn't get past him, he worried about his impetuous sister, trapped as she was in what she had once thought would be a wonderful way to live her life.
At last the waiter brought his order. He took it upstairs, unlocked the door and walked in, placing the tray on one of the double beds. She wasn't in the bedroom and the bathroom door was standing wide open. He saw his flask, now empty, tossed on her bed. Dammit!
"Eve?" No response. "Eve! Eve! Where are you?" This had happened before, but never in a remote part of a Central American country. It was no place for a child to be alone, especially now that it was getting dark. He should never have left her, even for a minute. He hobbled out the door as fast as he could manage, looking frantically everywhere. He turned a corner, found the rooftop pool and saw her lying on a chaise lounge. There was no one else around, thank God.
"Eve! What the hell are you doing?" He spoke in a whisper, having learned from years of experience that bystanders didn't appreciate what appeared to be a grandfather cursing at a child.
"I'm just relaxing, brother dear," she slurred. Then she raised her voice. "Go away! You're becoming a bother."
He took her roughly by the arm. "Come on. You're going inside."
She acquiesced without a fight. Sometimes at this point things got difficult, and a couple of times other people had gotten involved. They didn't need to draw any attention to themselves, especially on this trip. Despite Eve's defiant attitude - one that frequently got her in trouble - this would all work out. By now she should have learned better, Marcel thought as he guided the wobbly child back to their room. She'd throw up, sleep it off and be fine by tomorrow. Just like always.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After his last disastrous encounter with her, Oliver was determined to do things differently if he saw the old woman again. Usually he only spotted her perhaps once a year; now he was on a quest to find her and he kept an eye out every day. Meanwhile he explored old land deeds dating back to the founding of the city, trying to find out if the Quantin family had ever owned property near the corner of Ursulines Avenue and Chartres Street, the area where she was rumored to live. A few times he had gone to that corner, paced the sidewalks and looked closely at the homes, seeing stately ones among the seedy, as was the case everywhere in the Quarter. But there was no sign of her.
Today he had a light lunch at Antoine's, one of his favorite spots. It was a Saturday and as usual the area was teeming with tourists. As he left the restaurant, he spotted the old woman walking away from him down St. Louis Street. He'd found her at last and she hadn't seen him!
He kept a block's distance between them as she maintained a slow, steady pace. He had no idea where she was going, but he intended to find out. He followed her out of the Quarter to the entrance of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, where she paused a moment while a guard unlocked the gate and allowed her inside. Oliver found that interesting, since the public no longer had free access to the place. That rule didn't seem to apply to her.
He waited a couple of minutes and approached the guard. "May I go inside to pay respects to my family?"
"The cemetery's not open to the public."
"But you just let a woman in. I saw you."
"That's different. She's been coming here every Saturday for years."
Oliver pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to the man. "I won't be long. I promise."
The guard wasn't worried about Oliver creating any trouble; the man was dressed in a suit and tie on a Saturday, he was at least in his fifties, and he didn't look like a rabble-rouser or one of those voodoo enthusiasts. What could it hurt? He pulled out his key, opened the gate and locked it behind Oliver.
He had a pretty good idea where she was headed so he took a familiar route, navigating its twists and turns as he'd done other times during his life. His parents had brought him here as a child, believing that Marie Laveau's tomb was something even the locals needed to learn about. He'd come back a few times with out-of-town guests who wanted to view the famous mausoleum. He reached the final turn and peeked around the corner, but she wasn't there.
He continued walking, glancing right and left as he crossed one narrow lane after another. Then he heard a noise. Someone was talking softly - he couldn't make out the words, but he followed the sound. He saw her standing in front of a tomb taller than she was. She was whispering something, perhaps a prayer. Out of respect he waited until she finished. As he approached, she turned to him and rasped, "You are foolish to ignore my warning, Oliver."
He came closer and recognized the three-tiered mausoleum where she was. The name emblazoned across the top read Duplanchier. The topmost and middle vaults had names carved on them. The bottom one was missing its front slab; instead, there was a gaping hole into the darkness where a burial would someday take place. The top name read Pierre Duplanchier. Died 1796, Nouvelle Orleans.
What is she doing here?
"Is Pierre your ancestor?"
She straightened her crooked frame, seemingly gaining several inches of height, and raised her hand. "I warned you. I gave you a chance." She pointed a finger and began to chant, mumbling words as she glared malevolently at him. He realized what she was doing, but he pushed on, thinking she was merely trying to frighten him into leaving.
"Your name is Justine Quantin, isn't it? Was Marie Quantin your grandmother several times removed? Are you a descendant of Pierre Duplanchier's?"
The woman merely waited in silence.
Seconds later he began to feel weak and to sweat profusely. Maybe it was the fish from lunch, he thought for a fleeting moment as his legs buckled beneath him. Once he was on the ground, she turned and shuffled off.
Oliver's eyes popped open and he saw nothing but bright white light coming from everywhere. He felt as if he were floating on air. He was lying on his back and he couldn't move his arms or legs. Then he heard something - voices flowing through his mind like molasses from a bottle.
"He's awake!"
"Mr. Toussaint, can you hear me?" There was someone dressed in white standing over him, wearing a gauze mask. His eyes focused and he saw it was a man with glasses and wearing a blue paper cap. Oliver tried to speak but couldn't form words. He moved his head slightly, hoping the person would notice.
It worked. The man barked orders and within a moment Oliver felt something cool running through his veins. He glanced down and noticed an IV port in his hand. There must have been an injection, he thought dreamily.
"Where ..."
"Don't exert yourself, Mr. Toussaint. I'm Dr. Mendez and you're in the ER at University Medical Center."
Oliver tried to process that information. The last thing he remembered was talking to the old woman in the cemetery. He vaguely recalled her raising a finger and saying something and shortly afterwards there was nothing.
"What happened to me?" he croaked, knowing he'd underestimated the old woman.
"Give him a little water." A nurse appeared with a cup and asked Oliver to take a sip through a straw. "Not much at first," the doctor cautioned. "It appears you had some type of medical episode in the cemetery. The guard found you unconscious. He called 911. You've been here for three hours; your blood pressure was dangerously low when you arrived and we were all concerned at first, but I'm glad to see you're awake. Are you a diabetic, Mr. Toussaint?"
Oliver shook his head. He was as fit as any man his age and hadn't been sick in years. He tried speaking again and the words came more easily this time. "How did I end up here?"
"The EMTs said that the guard told them you had sneaked in somehow. It was lucky for you that he makes rounds when he leaves in the evening. If you'd been unconscious overnight, there's no telling what might have happened. Do you remember anything? Do you even remember going there?"
"There was a woman ..."
"A woman? The EMTs said you were by yourself. If there was someone else, maybe we should notify the police. Did the woman accost you?"
He shook his head. He needed time before he complicated everything by telling the truth. Oliver began to remember things. The guard had let two people in - the old woman and him - but he hadn’t told the EMTs that. He wasn't really making last rounds before he left. He was trying to keep himself out of trouble. He had to find the man he'd let in an hour earlier - a man who'd never left. He'd discovered Oliver unconscious, called 911 and concocted a story that Oliver wasn't going to refute.
"I want to go home," he said in a voice more clear and steady than before.
"Do you have someone who can stay with you tonight? If not, I don't recommend your leaving. We're still not sure what happened; if you're alone and it happens again, you could be in trouble."
"Will you release me or not?"
"Your vitals are all within normal range now. We can get you up and see how well you can walk. If you can, you may discharge yourself. But I strongly urge you to stay overnight ..."
Oliver pushed himself up off the gurney, swung his legs around and took a moment to get his bearings. He was naked from the waist up and had suction cups on his chest and back to monitor his heart. The doctor unhooked the IV from his port and Oliver stood, unsteady at first but soon feeling more like himself. He signed his own release papers and left.
As he rode home in the taxi, he recalled the woman's final warning and her mumbled response when he asked her if she was a Duplanchier. He knew exactly what she had done to him, although the doctors at University Medical Center would have declared him insane if he had told them.
He had pushed her too hard.
She had cursed him, as simple as that, and in his zeal for information he'd let it happen.
He was as knowledgeable about voodoo as anyone in New Orleans and he also now knew that woman - whoever she was - had the power. Hers had been a simple curse with no lasting effects. The next time he saw her, it could be much worse if he wasn't prepared. From now on he would be more careful.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
By eight the next morning every table in the small dining room was occupied. Brian ate by himself; Stanley and his wife were across the room and she occasionally shot a steely glance his way. Although he needed to speak to Stanley again, he couldn't afford to push it.
The girl and her grandfather were noticeably absent. Brian didn't know what that meant, but he presumed he'd see them when the bus began loading.
The concierge stopped by his table to advise that his driver was in the lobby, ready to go whenever Brian was. He lingered over a third cup of coffee, waiting to see when Stanley and the others would leave. At 8:15 the guide popped into the room, walked from table to table and spoke to his nine travelers. Brian left the room just after they did. Most of them went back to their rooms, probably for a last-minute pit stop before the bus trip. He hooked up with his driver Paco, who led him to an old but impeccably clean Toyota parked down the street. Paco looked confused as Brian explained in Spanish what they would be doing today.
"I will follow el autobus?" Paco asked, pointing at the bus parked a block in front of them.
"Correct. There's a good tip for you today if you do exactly what I ask." Paco smiled and wondered once again about crazy Americans who had more money than sense. Why was this guy following a tour bus? Who knew? It wasn't his place to question his jefe – his boss - for the day. Brian watched nine people board the bus; now only two remained. The guide milled around, glancing at his watch now and then, until they emerged wearing the same clothing as yesterday. Given the oppressive humidity, Brian wondered how many identical sets of those bulky, heavy long-sleeved outfits they had brought with them. The little girl and the elderly gentleman walked carefully down the front steps, passed the guide and got on the bus. Then it p
ulled away.
"Stay far enough back so as not to draw attention," Brian instructed. Paco weaved in and out of the cars and donkey-drawn wagons that were in the streets. Soon they were outside town on a paved highway. There was little other traffic and Paco increased the distance between him and the bus. For an hour they climbed into the mountains until the bus slowed and then pulled into a gasoline station. Paco stopped a quarter mile back and they stretched their legs in the crisp cool mountain air.
Pit stop, Brian figured, and he was right. The tourists and the old man got off the bus, went inside and returned. They were off again and ten minutes later Paco said, "They're turning."
It took the bus driver two stabs to make the turn onto a narrow unpaved road lined on both sides with dense brush. Even though the bus wasn’t that long, it was a challenge. It disappeared around a bend, throwing up a huge dust cloud that was easy to follow.
When the bus came to a stop, Paco was a couple of hundred yards downhill. He pulled into a grove of trees where they would be out of sight. He reached in the glove box and handed Brian a pair of old binoculars.
"Maybe you need these, Señor?"
"Muchas gracias, amigo!" Brian said, grateful that the man had them. He stepped to a place where he could look up. From his vantage point all he could see was the side of the bus. He had no idea where they had stopped or if the people were getting off. "I'm going to see what's going on," he said. "I may be gone awhile. Wait here."
Paco immediately pulled out a cigarette, but Brian shook his head. "The smoke will go up there," he said. Paco sat down under a tree and pulled out his smart phone as Brian began walking up the rutted course.
The bus had stopped at a wide place on the side of the road. This was at a much higher altitude than the town, but a few hundred feet away a mountain soared even higher. Brian saw the driver and the guide sitting on the ground under a tree, smoking and chatting. The travelers were out of sight, but Brian knew they weren't far away. None was in good enough physical shape to walk in this rough terrain.
The Black Cross (Brian Sadler Archaeological Thrillers Book 6) Page 10
