“Stop! Let me cut you loose from there.” Phil put his pistol away and raised his hand, trying to soothe the girl. Her suffering raked at his conscience, made him feel like he had failed her. “Hush, now. We’ll get you some help.”
“Can’t help me,” the girl sighed. “Please, sir, get me out of here before she comes back and puts me down like she did those others.”
“No one’s going to do any such thing to you,” Phil said. “Tell me who she is; I’ll have some officers go and round her up right now.”
The girl gave her head a hopeless little shake then let out a frustrated moan.
Phil tried to ignore the echo of that moan, the hungry sound that came from the girl.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” the girl said. “Hurts bad. I figured I wouldn’t hardly even feel it.”
Phil pulled the wire cutters from his belt and then showed them to the girl.
“Just stay like that, all right? I’m not going to hurt you; just need to get you loose.”
The girl did not respond. Her bleeding was unnaturally loud, heavy plops that echoed through the restaurant as the ruby drops splashed onto the floor.
Phil took a step toward the girl.
“Okay, then,” Phil said. He was close enough to the girl to touch her. “Just going to cut you loose, all right?”
“Sure.” The girl said, her voice younger, now – a toddler’s pitch and inflection. But there was another voice there, too – a string of guttural sounds that scratched at Phil’s ears.
Phil shook his head then stepped away from the girl. This is a bad idea; a stupid idea, he thought. He needed backup before he did anything else. He did not know anything about this girl or where she had come from. She was not natural. What was he thinking?
“Just wait here,” Phil said. He turned on his heels and headed toward the front door of the restaurant.
“Come back,” the girl whined like a whipped pup. “Please, don’t leave me, mister. She’ll come back for sure.”
Phil stopped, and then turned back to the girl.
“Who is she?”
“The one that caused this,” the girl said.
“Who?” Phil’s heart went out to the girl. He did not know who or what she was; did not know if she was a monster or an angel, but the fear in her voice rang true and clear as anything he had ever heard.
“The lady who aims to kill me,” the girl said. “The one you call the Root Woman.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Savannah licked the gritty residue of Rashad’s herb juice from her lips then stared through the bug-flecked windshield at the Odinga estate. The place was huge, by far the largest home in the SWATS – in the affluent Cascade neighborhood. She had thought of plenty excuses not to come here, but none of them would wash. The girl had been found in Hotlanta Wings, which meant Savannah had to come and talk to Jimmy Odinga. “Just get it over with,” she muttered, then hopped out of the SUV.
A pair of young men in white dashikis and white cargo pants opened the gate for her as she sauntered toward the house. Savannah made her way up the walkway to the mansion’s front door.
Another teen boy dressed in white opened the oversized front door then waited in silence for Savannah to cross the threshold. “Where’s Jimmy?” Savannah asked.
“In the parlor, like a civilized man receiving his guests,” Odinga’s heavy voice thundered from the side of the high-ceilinged entryway.
Savannah pulled her hat from her head then held it over her breasts as she made her way through Odinga’s house. The place was bright and airy, with tall, open windows letting in the early autumn sunlight and a chill breeze, but Savannah could already feel an uneasy sweat forming along her spine. Odinga made her skin crawl, and the army of boys did not do much for her nerves, either. There was something not right about Odinga, Inc. and its people, something Savannah did not trust. There was a darkness there, but she had never been able to prove it. Maybe this was her chance.
Odinga smiled when Savannah entered the parlor, his teeth polished white and straight in the dark frame of his face. A pair of boys flanked him, dabbing at his sweaty forehead, cheeks, and neck with silk cloths. A third boy sat at the man’s feet, polishing designer shoes that cost as much as most cars. “Well, Root Woman, thank you for paying me a visit this morning. A call would have been nice, but I suppose that would be expecting a bit much from you.”
“Been a little busy cleaning up a mess down at your restaurant.” Savannah stood across from Odinga, hat in hand. “I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that?”
“That poor girl.” Odinga pressed a heavy palm to his massive chest. “I was as disturbed to hear about what happened as were you.”
Savannah nodded. “I bet.”
Odinga leaned forward in his enormous oak chair then slapped his hands on his knees. For a man on the wrong side of morbidly obese, he moved fast. “You sound suspicious.”
Savannah let loose a harsh caw of a laugh. “I am. Ain’t like you’ve never had weird shit going on.”
The boys gasped. Odinga patted the boy at his feet on the shoulder. He turned cold eyes to Savannah. “You will watch your mouth in my home.”
“Sooner you answer my question and stop playing dumb, sooner I can get my ass out of here.” Savannah rolled her neck between her shoulders, mimicking a ‘hood schoolgirl. “I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here, shawty.”
Odinga lunged to his feet. Choir boys scattered away from him like startled rats. He took two heavy steps and planted himself before Savannah. “You will pay me the respect I deserve, woman!”
Savannah leaned in until she could feel the heat washing off Odinga’s forehead. “Who did you piss off so bad they hung that boy and barb-wired that girl in your restaurant?”
Odinga took a long breath, sucking wind through his teeth with a tight whistling sound like a tea kettle working its way up to a scream. “Many people misunderstand me and I have many rivals, but I assure you, I have done nothing to deserve this. Hell, I shut down Hotlanta Wings years ago – everybody does hot-wings, now.”
“Try to recruit any of the good church folk lately?”
“No, I leave them to their ignorant ways.”
“Messing with the bokors again?”
Odinga ground his teeth. “You know I don’t deal with sorcerers.”
“Steal any boys from their mamas?”
“The children who live in my home are orphans. I saved them.”
“Make any orphans lately, then?”
“Get out.”
“Screw you.”
Odinga backed away. His eyes shrank to black slits. “Why do you insist on goading me? There was a crime committed against me and mine, yet you treat me as if I was the criminal.”
Savannah eyed Odinga’s heavy gold rings and expensive clothes. “That’s because you are a criminal. I know how deep your rabbit hole goes, you piece of crap.”
“Maybe if you had not been sleeping off a high, that girl would still be alive.” Odinga’s fingers cracked and popped as he clenched his fists. “Maybe if you had done your job, you would not be here, in my home, cursing at me.”
“What have you done, punk?” Savannah spat. “What the hell are you up to?”
“Get out.” Odinga stabbed a fat finger at the door. “I am done speaking to you. The next words I hear from you had best be the names of the men who killed that girl in my restaurant.”
Savannah stepped in until her chest bumped against the mound of Odinga’s flab. “Or what?”
“My reach is far, Root Woman. Your mother understood that.”
“Is that a threat?”
Odinga stared into Savannah’s eyes. “Yes.”
Savannah left, fists clenched, as she stomped out of the house.
She really needed that joint.
CHAPTER FIVE
The bokor leaned over the possessed girl and slapped the top of her head, once with his forehand and then again with a sharp backhand. H
er eyes rolled up in her head. Savannah stood in the doorway to the old man’s cramped home office.
The girl grinned at the Root Woman, licking her cracked lips with a tongue coated with gritty, green slime. She tried to reach out for Savannah, but the bokor was no fool and had the girl strapped into a wrought iron chair by thick lengths of rope. The chair was bolted to the floor, grounded with a silver spike speared through each of its legs.
The bokor followed the girl’s eyes, turning his bald head toward the door.
“I’m busy, Root Woman.” The bokor, Papa Marcel, spared no more than a cursory glance for Savannah and turned back to his patient. “You need to come back later.”
“I’m busy, too, Marcel.” Savannah closed the door behind her. Her eyes adjusted to the wan candle light. “I’m looking into something bad.”
“You think I had something to do with whatever’s got your hackles up? Here to burn my place down?” Papa Marcel chuckled to himself and slapped the girl again; a hard smack to the forehead that rocked her skull back between her shoulders. “Accuse me of serving the loa with both hands, non? Might as well be useful, den. Hand me dat jar over dere.”
The Root Woman lifted a pale-green jar from the crowded shelf to her right and unscrewed the lid. Her nose protested with a sneeze when the scent from the jar curled into her nostrils. It reminded Savannah of spring rain, mixed with the sticky sweet aroma of boiled honey.
“Mèsi.” The doctor dipped two greasy fingers into the jar and scooped out a thick dollop of the goop mess. He smeared it all over the girl’s neck and forehead, working it into her skin even as she snapped at him with a mouthful of snaggle teeth and snarled broken words that raised Savannah’s hackles. Her veins rose, black and swollen, in her throat. Darkness spread up her face like a swarm of vermin just beneath the skin. The “demon” was rising, pushed toward the girl’s eyes by the bokor’s ministrations.
Savannah drew her revolver, ready to blow the girl and her demonic rider straight back to the abyss if she got loose.
“I hear ya thinkin’, lanmou, but no.” Papa Marcel smeared the last of the ooze onto the filthy bib of his coveralls and stood up. “Let’s have some kafe, since ya ain’ leavin’.”
Savannah nodded and followed the old man through a short doorway into a tiny sitting room. She sat on a hand-carved stool at an old oak table the bokor pointed to.
Papa Marcel poured coffee from a steel pot into two cups, added brown sugar from his cupboard, then fetched a decanter of cream from his refrigerator, which he poured into each cup. Despite the twitchy tremors in his hands, the bokor made the coffee without spilling a drop of coffee or cream, or a grain of sugar.
Savannah took the offered cup. She blew across its fragrant surface then took a sip. The Haitian coffee was smooth and woody. It cleared away a big chunk of her hangover and left her feeling refreshed and eager for more. Her next drink was deeper, and a tingle spread out through her limbs.
“Dat mari of yours should be makin’ ya the kafe, not me.” Papa Marcel laughed, coughed, and laughed again.
“Didn’t come for the coffee. I was hoping you might be able to help me.” But it is good. Savannah took another healthy drink. “You hear about Hotlanta Wings?”
The bound girl screeched and jerked up and down against her bindings so hard the bolts creaked against the floor.
Savannah found herself on her feet with the revolver in her hand before she had time to think about what she was doing. Her coffee spilled and ran off the edge of the little table, making a puddle around his feet.
“Ya will not!” Papa Marcel shoved his way past Savannah and towered over the girl. He chanted a handful of words and the girl fell quiet and still. She murmured something, and the bokor stroked her long, thin braids. He left the girl and came back to the table. “You not much like ya manman.”
“I am where it counts,” Savannah grunted and sat back down. She started to pour herself a new cup of coffee, but the bokor sucked his teeth and Van wisely stayed her hand.
“Nah. Ya manman knew to judge de man, not de tool.” Papa Marcel pushed past Savannah and took his seat. “She also knew savin’ a poor girl on molly is better den shootin’ her.”
“She’s not dead yet.” Savannah gladly took a new cup of coffee from Papa Marcel and drained half of it in one go. Her head felt better than it had in weeks, and her stomach gurgled with a sudden, resurgent hunger. She nodded toward the possessed girl in the next room. “But I’m willing to bet I’ll end up putting her down before winter comes. Molly poppers and meth-heads are easy targets for demons. Next time, she might not get to you before she makes a mess.”
“She needs help. She don’t wanna do wrong.” Papa Marcel’s bushy brows drew together over his eyes as he stared at Savannah. “Ya know dat’s why she come to me, not to you?”
“It’s not my job to help demon mounts. It’s my job to protect the SWATS from those who walk the There Road. Junkies like her hold the door open for the demons that pour into this city. We’re better off without them. I don’t have to tell you that.”
The bokor grunted and shook his head. “Ya ever think the demons come befo’ the dope? Might be these people ya hate so much ain’t weak, dey’re victims. Yer manman wasn’t too trigger-happy to lend a hand to dose afflicted like that child.”
“How’d that work out for my mama?” Savannah patted her revolver. “Im not trying to end up the same way. Now, can you help me with this? There’s something evil out there, and it aims to bring hell down on this city. Maybe you heard something that might help me find whoever’s behind it before they do something really stupid.”
“Papa Legba told me you was comin’ to ask about dat poor girl. Wish I coulda saved ya de trip. ‘Fraid I got nothin’ fo’ ya.” Papa Marcel drank his coffee in one big gulp, then licked his lips. “What happened with dat girl is a kinda wanga I ain’t never touched. I stay real clear of dat brand of maji.”
“I know that. Maybe you’ve got some idea who would touch it?” Savannah forced himself to relax, to unclench her fingers before they shattered the cup between them. “I need to know. You have to tell me.”
Papa Marcel laughed and slapped the table so hard everything on it jumped a half inch into the air. “Say I knew who might get up to dat dark work. I tell ya, what happens? Ya march up to deir house and kick deir door in. Maybe shoot someone? I don’t believe in settin’ de hounds out on people who might be innocent, just on account of a hunch I might have.”
“Better me at your door than whatever’s messing with those girls.”
“Really? Addin’ more notches to dat gun ain’t gon’ stop the bad winds blowin’.” Papa Marcel poured the last of the coffee into his own cup and drank it down. “Why don’t ya come back and bring ya mari up here and we’ll reflechir on dis a bit; see if we can find an answer to ya questions.”
Rage rippled through Savannah at the mention of her husband.
“This isn’t my husband’s business; it’s mine.” Savannah’s hand slapped the top of the stump table. “You’d do well to remember that.”
The girl howled from the other room. The bokor shook his head and creaked up out of his chair. “Ya gotta go. Ya upsettin’ my patient.”
“You really won’t help?” Savannah watched the old man limp out of the sitting room. “Not even knowing how bad this is going to get?”
“Things are always bad, Root Woman. Don’t see no reason fo’ me to make ‘em worse fo’ anybody. You smart. I reckon ya’ll will do fine without an old man tellin’ ya what to do.” Papa Marcel disappeared into the candle-lit glow of the main room, leaving Savannah alone.
For a moment, the Root Woman considered putting a hurt on the old man to loosen his tongue. It was fleeting, a dark shadow of intent that she pushed away before it could consume her. There were rules, and Papa Marcel had not broken any of them. He was off-limits to the Root Woman’s punishments; for the moment.
Savannah eased into the main room and watched the bokor at work. Th
e girl was what Papa Marcel called “pèvèti” – corrupted; a demon held the reins to her soul. If she had seen her out and about, she would not have hesitated to unload her .357 magnum into the back of the girl’s head. Savannah had seen what happened when you tried to save the pèvèti. Her mother had thought she could redeem the Night Howler, and that had ended in a flood of tears and a whole river of blood. It was a mistake Savannah was determined never to repeat.
The girl thrashed her head back and forth, spewing a vile torrent of curses.
“You sure you can handle her?”
“Git on out, Root Woman. You not makin’ things better.”
“That’s your final word? You won’t even tell me who might be up to this shit?”
“I already told ya more den I shoulda, and a hell of a lot more den ya think. Now, mache!”
Savannah let herself out. She dug the bloody bandana out of her pocket.
It was time to do something else she had hoped to avoid.
CHAPTER SIX
Carter patted the dashboard of the SUV. Savannah pulled over to the side of the gravel access road then killed the engine. She pushed the door open, wincing as its hinges let out an anguished squeal.
“Well, no use sneaking around now.” Carter hopped out of the vehicle. “You have any dynamite you want to blow? Maybe start a drum circle just to make sure everyone knows we’re here?”
A Haunting in the SWATS (The Savannah Swan Files Book 1) Page 3
