by John Moore
“Does the dancer who saw the first body still work at Clint’s club?” I asked.
“No, they say she left town and went back to North Louisiana. She said she ain’t coming back South again. It scared the hell out of her,” Dusty said. “All of the girls are scared, because there’s no pattern to who the killer is choosing, and the cops aren’t saying anything.”
“What about Clint?” I asked. “Is he doing anything about it?”
“He’s got the word on the street, but no one really knows anything other than what I just told you.”
Piper hung on every word Dusty said. I was pleased she was there. She needed to know what to watch out for when we moved to the Quarter, even though this news didn’t exactly clarify things. At least the killer wasn’t targeting only women, cutting down the likelihood of her being a victim—didn’t it?
I knew nothing would stop me from worrying, but at least I took comfort knowing Piper was as streetwise as they come. After all, she’d spent most of her formative years in a brothel living by her wits. Hell, she was better able to deal with this kind of trouble than I was. Still, I was scared, and maybe I was becoming a mother hen. Oh God, I hoped not.
“A lot of the street people think it’s the Quarter Killer again. You know he’s escaped from the mental hospital in Jackson,” Dusty said. “Everyone knows that Morris girl he used to hang out with has formed some type of cult. Most say she’s involved somehow. What do you think, Alexandra?”
“I don’t know. Everyone just needs to be careful till the killer is caught.”
We tasted the catfish court-bouillon Karen had just cooked. It was wonderful. She said the recipe had been handed down in her family for years. She’d spent most of her young life helping her mother and grandmother in the kitchen of their small Cajun home. Karen learned how to cook every dish generations of her family had prepared. Cooking a court-bouillon was an age-old Cajun tradition. The ingredients were simple. It consisted of pureed tomatoes, stewed till they made a smooth liquid to which a small amount of butter and oil was added. The real key was in the seasoning. Every family seasoned their court-bouillon a little differently. Some added bouillon cubes. Most used Tony Chachere’s Cajun seasoning, red pepper, onions, and hot sauce of some kind. The meat was browned and added to the sauce and allowed to simmer. Sometimes it was chicken and sometimes shrimp. One of the favorites on the bayou was the court-bouillon sauce poured over pan-browned catfish. I loved them all.
“It was the best I could do with the ingredients I purchased at the grocery store,” Karen said. “The tomatoes aren’t sweet like the ones we grew back home. They are tasteless. None of the vegetables I’ve purchased here in New Orleans are good. I don’t want my baby to grow up eating industrial food. I will have to move out of New Orleans to a farm somewhere soon. It’s a shame because I really love the city, but he comes first. Alexandra, I have to take my son back to the hospital for some follow-up lab work. Can you take me tomorrow?”
“Sure, Karen. I’d be happy to take you,” I said.
After a few minutes thinking about it, I knew what I had to do. If I were going to write stories about the killer, I had to learn more about Mandy’s cult—if that’s what it was. She’d invited Piper and me to one of her ceremonies. If I went by myself, she’d be suspicious, so I decided to go and take Piper. I knew I’d be weirded out by all of that dark voodoo stuff, but Piper would love it. Charlotte wanted me to stay involved with Mandy on a personal level, and this was as good a way as any.
The more I thought about what Karen said, the more I knew we were on the right track in Indiana. Jason warned us that ACC and Aggrow would fight us, but good food and uncontaminated land was worth fighting for. We took the Native Americans’ land and poisoned it. We were not good stewards of the environment. That had to change, and I was committed to doing my part.
“Tell the girls bye, Piper. We need to go to Mr. Swartz’s office now,” I said.
Mr. Swartz was waiting for us. His receptionist showed us into his office immediately. I hadn’t noticed the photos on Mr. Swartz’s desk until now. He had a beautiful blond-haired wife and two handsome sandy-haired boys. No golf or hunting pictures adorned his walls, just diplomas, certifications, and family pictures. He was all about his business and his family. It showed in his work, too. He was passionate about protecting me from the devil companies and people invading my world.
“You told me on the phone ACC doesn’t want to clean up the pollution on your land completely. Is that correct?” he asked.
“Yes. We’ve brought in a contractor from California approved by ACC who found that the well chemicals contaminated the water well and the land. They are saying they only agreed to remediate the water well,” I said.
Mr. Swartz opened the voluminous file on his desk with my name emblazoned on it, and read, “I’m afraid the language is a little vague. It reads ‘ACC will remediate the damage caused by the contamination of the water well on the subject property described hereinabove.’”
“I’m not sure I understand what that means,” I said as I scratched my head, a perplexed look on my face.
“It means that we have to make the case that the well water caused the contamination of the land,” he said. “It is a difficult burden to meet. I need to talk to your expert. Can we get him on the phone now?”
I called Zach to see if Jason was available to speak with Swartz. Luckily Jason was standing next to Zach when I called. “Jason, Mr. Swartz, my attorney, wants to know if the well water caused the contamination of the land. Can you answer that question?”
“Hi, Alexandra. I hope you, Tom, and Piper are doing well,” Jason said. “The origin of the contamination is a bit difficult to nail down. It’s kind of a chicken and egg thing. Both are contaminated with the same chemicals. I may not be able to establish which came first. I will take more samples and see if I can be of more help. Will that work?”
“Yes, it will. You need to be sure of your opinion. I’m sure ACC will find an expert to contradict what you find if your opinion requires them to clean up the entire property. How long do you think it will take you to complete your analysis?” Swartz asked.
“I’m not sure. But I can call you in a few days to give you some kind of timeline,” Jason answered.
“If that is the best you can do, we’ll have to wait,” Swartz said. “Alexandra, I’d like to have some facts to build a case on before I contact ACC. They won’t agree with whatever we show them, but at least our position will be solid. Have Jason call or email me as soon as you can give me something definitive.”
I glanced at Piper, who was busy hammering away at her phone’s keyboard. I was afraid to ask what she was doing. Her multicolored fingernails flashed like a kaleidoscope around the tiny keys. She was so tiny and innocent looking that sometimes I forgot how much power she wielded behind a computer. She popped her head up for a split second and grinned. Oh shit, I thought, she’s hacking into something. I didn’t dare ask her, in Mr. Swartz’s presence, what she was doing. It was bad enough that I’d be a party to whatever cybercrime she was committing. I didn’t need to drag him into her web as well.
“Ah, Piper, honey, it’s time to go,” I said as I tried to glimpse what she was typing. “We’re going to the ceremony at Mandy Morris’s group a little later.”
I knew going to Mandy’s ceremony would get Piper moving. She jumped up and was out of the door before I could tell Mr. Swartz bye. She and I headed to the Quarter to find the voodoo shop where we’d first seen the altar. I called Mandy on the way to let her know we were coming. Though we hadn’t given her advance notice, she said our timing was perfect. We took the car to the Bourbon Street condo and parked in the garage. God, we were lucky to have such a place. Most people go through their entire lives wanting a dream home like this, and here we were in paradise. I pinched myself to make certain I wasn’t dreaming.
We walked to the vood
oo shop, enjoying the evening air and the street performers playing guitars, saxophones, and tin cans fashioned into drums. Tourists passed the performers, paused to listen for a few, and dropped dollar bills into the waiting hats strategically placed in front of each musician. The smell of French cooking wafted through the streets, blending with the natural fragrance of the Quarter. People passed with plastic cups filled with just about every type of alcoholic beverage known to mankind, colorful clothes and colorful people ruling the night in the Quarter.
We stepped into the voodoo shop as the owner escorted out the last customer of the night and locked the door. It freaked me out a little to be locked in at such an eerie place. The shrunken head peered at me from the shelves. The colorfully attired voodoo dolls rested on the counter with a variety of pins sticking in each one. Music appropriate for a Halloween party eased from the shop’s speakers. The storeowner, a tall thin man with wiry hair, escorted us to the rear of the store to the door we’d once stumbled through.
We entered the darkened room with cautious steps, our path illuminated only by flickering candles. A hooded figure approached us with a measured, rhythmic gait. When she was close enough to see in the dim light, I recognized Mandy. She whispered to Piper and me to follow her, offering us each a black hooded robe that matched the garb of the other attendees. I declined, but Piper slipped hers over her head. She looked like a kid on Halloween. We ambled to the semi-circle. The acolytes stood shoulder to shoulder, arching in front of the altar. Piper and I stood behind them, entranced, watching the scene unfold.
Each hooded figure had a candle in his or her right hand and one by one walked to the front of the altar and lit their candle from the large black candle burning on top of the altar. I watched every black-clad figure file to the altar and performthe candle ritual, noticing body shapes. When all candles were lit, they began chanting a low-pitched verse.
“In voodoo I’m not close with the god; rather, in voodoo I become the god!”
“In voodoo I’m not close with the God; rather, in voodoo I become the god!”
“In voodoo I’m not close with the god; rather, in voodoo I become the god!”
As they chanted, they swayed from side to side. Their movement and chants were synchronized to the music emanating from the speakers. My stomach flip-flopped. I feltlike I was in a dangerous, forbidden place. What were they conjuring? Were live chickens going to be sacrificed? My nerves were starting to get the better of me, Piper pulling at my arm.
“I want to light a candle too,” she whispered.
I had my reservations, but I couldn’t resist her baby doe eyes. We walked around the group, making our way to the altar. Piper picked up a candle, and as we moved closer to the black candle on the altar, I saw a small framed photo. It was positioned in the center of the altar. These people were actually worshiping a framed photo. What the hell, I thought. Most religions have their icons. Then as we drew closer, I recognized the person in the photo. It was Bob Broussard. This group of misfits was worshiping the Quarter Killer. I froze in my tracks. My skin started to crawl. Was Bob one of the hooded figures? There was a mix of body types, what looked like both men and women, and I couldn’t tell.
I didn’t have my gun with me. What the hell would I do if one of them grabbed me? What if Bob attacked me or Piper? Holy shit, I could hear my own heart pounding over the music. Piper lit the candle and I grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her, stumbling, to the door. I pulled the robe over her head and threw iton a chair.
Once we were out of the store, I took a breath. “Piper, I am sorry to push you out like I did, but the photo they were worshiping was of a serial killer. He’s on the loose now and very dangerous,” I said, my voice trembling.
Piper scanned my face. She was a very perceptive child, and she knew to trust my instincts. She just nodded and said, “It’s OK. I understand.”
We made our way home. Tom was sitting at the dining room table. He was on the phone with Zach, Maddy, and Jason. When Piper and I walked in, Tom put them all on speakerphone. My trembling had subsided, and I poured myself a glass of wine and sat next to Tom. He placed a hand on mine and kissed my cheek.
“The problem with the food supply in America is that all of the meats and produce are contaminated with pesticides and herbicides,” Jason said. “Many have been genetically altered to grow faster and be drought resistant or pesticide friendly. The processed food industry is only concerned with making more money faster. Money is what they are all about. They aren’t interested in the long-term health of the Americans who eat their products. They contend that curing illness is the province of the pharmaceutical industry. ‘There’s a pill for everything,’ they say.”
“What damage do those foods do?” Maddy asked.
“The list of negative health effects is too long to go into tonight. It’s not like they are the direct cause of any particular disease. They contribute to poor health by compromising the immune system, slowing down bodily functions, and making people fat. There is so much more to it though,” Jason said.
“Jason, what can we do about it?” I asked.
Jason took a minute to answer. You have taken the first step. You are healing your land, and you are also planning to start organic farming. What the people really need is ready access to organically grown food at affordable prices. Organic food farmers’ markets have sprung up in many cities. There just needs to be many more of them. Most people live in organic food deserts that might as well be the size of the Sahara. It’s impossible for them to get life-supporting nutritional food.”
“This is a great deal to take in,” I said. “I’ve had quite a day. I’ll have to say goodnight. I’m headed to bed. I’ve got to go to Tulane Medical Center tomorrow with a young girl with a sick baby, plus we are moving into the Quarter. Good night to all.”
I didn’t mention it, but I was going to track down Mandy Morris too.
Chapter Nine:
Choices
I woke up to the sounds of birds chirping. For a moment I thought I was back on the farm, but soon realized I wasn’t. The sounds were coming from Tom’s phone. He’d set his alarm to get our move organized early. Good thing too, because I’d spent a restless night worrying about Bob Broussard and Mandy Morris. I may have slept a couple of hours, most of them in the early morning just before Tom’s alarm woke me.
I drank my morning coffee before I packed my clothes for Tom to move. I needed to get moving if I were going to get everything packed and ready to go. I thought about wearing my .38 but couldn’t face the prospect of shooting someone again, not even Bob Broussard. I couldn’t shake the image of El Alacran looking at me as he fell to the pavement of the parking garage, face contorted, eyes vacuous. Taking someone else’s life changed me. I had to avoid putting myself in another situation like that. It’s not that I regretted protecting myself and Piper, butI feared I’d freeze or hesitate the next time and get myself, Piper, or Tom killed.
No time to think about that now. I had to pick Karen up at the center and take her to the hospital. Piper wanted to help Tom, so I went to the shelter alone. Karen was ready to go when I arrived, but I asked her to wait while I visited a few minutes with Susan.
“How have things been at the center since you’ve returned?” I asked.
She took a sip of her coffee and gave me that broad, happy-to-be-alive smile. “Some of the girls rallied while I was away. They discovered talents they didn’t know they had,” Susan said. “Karen is a fantastic cook. She knows a great deal about food and nutrition. She is our head cook now. She plans all of the meals and does the majority of the cooking. Dusty sticks close to her, soaking up all the knowledge she can. They are a hard-working team. I am very proud of them.”
“As you know I am taking Karen to Tulane Medical Center today. Before our most recent troubles, we’d talked about getting a medical program set up for the residents. I pledged to put up some money, but
there is a great deal more work to be done. We will have to meet later to discuss tackling the problem,” I said. “I’d better leave now. Karen and her baby are waiting.”
I helped Karen strap her baby in the car seat and fit the car seat in my car; then she and I chatted away as we drove. She was great company—enthusiastic, funny, and careful not to talk too much. I was well aware I had not been so mature at her age.
We walked into Tulane Medical Center and asked the friendly volunteer senior citizen working at the information desk for directions to the lab. Karen did not have an appointment. She had a piece of the doctor’s stationery with hand-scribbled instructions on which tests to run on her child. I was asked if I needed any tests run. I surprised myself and said yes.
I had been thinking about the conversation last night with Jason. I wondered what pesticides I had in my system. No time like the present to find out. The lab tech took my blood and the baby’s blood and we waited in the lobby for our results. I took the time to get to know Karen better.
“I love to cook. My mother and grandmother were the best cooks in the parish. I guess cooking is just in the Durio blood. We spent many great hours in the kitchen back home making gumbo, chicken sauce picante, jambalaya, rice and gravy, shrimp etouffee, and hundreds of other dishes. Momma was well known for her cakes and pies. I soaked it all up like a sponge, while Daddy played the fiddle and my brothers played their guitars as we cooked. What a great time.”
“So food was important in your family,” I said.
“Yes. Food was very important. We grew our own vegetables. My family was very old school when it came to eating fresh food. We rarely went to the market. We had our own farm animals, which were never givenantibiotics. I feel so sorry for the people in the cities that don’t know what good food really is all about. No wonder they are sick all of the time. I know that’s why my baby is sick.”
