In Search of the Dove

by Rebecca York

  “I’d be honored,” Gorlov managed.

  “Good. Then come along. I think you’ll be impressed with the special facilities we have here.”

  Chapter Ten

  The enclave of seafood restaurants at the edge of Lake Pontchartrain wasn’t exactly her milieu, Moonshadow thought as she stepped out of the cab and looked toward Bruning’s. But Gilbert Xavier had insisted on meeting her out there. More correctly, she had subtly planted in his mind the compulsion that he needed to meet with her. As insurance, she’d prepared a special charm using a few drops of his blood she’d stored from his visit to her house. Perhaps she should have suggested a place too. But at this stage of the game, it was best to indulge him. So she had dressed conservatively in a dark paisley foulard dress. Instead of covering her hair with her usual African turban, she’d smoothed it back into a neat chignon.

  Of course there was precedent for a voodoo priestess coming out to the lake, she reminded herself. In early nineteenth-century New Orleans, the great Marie Laveau had conducted arcane services on these very shores. She considered herself Marie’s spiritual descendant with a potential to be even greater than the legendary voodoo queen.

  Pausing, she looked around the rather unprepossessing restaurant. Though she’d never patronized the place herself, she remembered that in the old days, Gilbert had come here at least once a week for spicy shrimp and crawfish. Perhaps he’d enjoyed the view as well as the food. The establishment’s most notable feature was the wall of windows that offered a panoramic vista of the lake.

  Since it was too late for the luncheon crowd and much too early for dinner, the dining room was almost deserted. Someone had turned the TV over the bar to the Cable Christian Network and a sincere-looking fundamentalist was making an impassioned appeal for funds to carry on his mission.

  Moonshadow grimaced. Everybody needed money, even her. That’s how Jackson Talifero had gotten a hold over her in the first place. The women in her family had scrubbed the floors in the Talifero plantation for generations. But her own relationship with Jackson hadn’t been quite that class conscious. In the more liberal atmosphere of the New South, they’d become quite good friends when she was in her late teens and he was over forty. A man that age interested in a teenager. She now saw the relationship for what it was. Then she’d been flattered. He’d even generously offered to finance some of her first business ventures in exchange for samples of her voodoo potions. Young and too heady with her own power to recognize the danger of entailing obligations, she’d accepted.

  She cursed the day she’d ever taken his money. The man knew too much about her illegal activities and had threatened on numerous occasions to use the knowledge if she didn’t provide him with certain services and information. Now, although he’d moved to Royale Verde and she had a legitimate front behind which to hide her more questionable pursuits, she was still afraid of discovery. Two years ago she’d hoped that telling Talifero about Gilbert Xavier’s remarkable talent as a chemist would have gotten him off her back. For a few months the ploy looked as if it was going to work. Now she was in deeper trouble than she’d ever been before. She had the horrible premonition that it was going to take something drastic to bring it all to an end.

  The chemist had not yet appeared, so she selected a table in the corner where she could watch the door and ordered a Perrier with lime. Shortly after her drink arrived, she saw him hurry through the door, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one had followed. The man hadn’t even bothered to put on a clean shirt. She made an effort to keep her nose from wrinkling. He reminded her of a mouse scurrying for cover. His apprehension made it more likely that he was going to run right into a trap.

  When he saw her sitting calmly in the corner, a look of relief washed over his pasty features.

  “You don’t know how much I appreciate your meeting me here,” he avowed, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

  “What can I do to help you, my friend?” she asked solicitously.

  “I’ve decided I can’t take this anymore. I’ve got to turn myself in.”

  She struggled to contain her astonishment. “To Talifero?”

  “God, no! I think I’m only going to be safe if I go to the feds—even if I have to go to prison.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “The feds? And what were you planning to tell them about me?”

  “Oh, I promise to keep your name out of it.”

  Moonshadow took a sip of her drink. She’d been playing the risky game of stalling Blackstone’s director while she toyed with the idea of forming an alliance with Xavier. The maneuver could break Talifero’s hold on both of them, but now she wondered if the strategy was really too dangerous. When she’d told Talifero the chemist was about to crack, she’d only half believed her words. Now he seemed to be falling to pieces before her eyes.

  A plan began to form in her mind, one that might well save her own skin and would have the added advantage of taking care of several loose ends at the same time.

  “What did you want from me?” she asked softly.

  “The whole city’s full of Talifero’s men, and I have to lie low. I was hoping you could arrange a meeting for me with a federal agent.”

  “Hardly the company I usually keep.”

  Xavier’s face fell.

  “But my sources tell me that there is someone in town trying to find out where your drug—Dove—is coming from,” she continued. “Perhaps he’d be willing to offer you protection for evidence against Talifero.”

  Despite his avowed intentions, Xavier couldn’t repress a flash of fear. To give himself time to think, he took off his wire-frame glasses and set them on the table, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t dreamed the federal government was already on the case.

  Moonshadow caught the note of panic in his eyes. She was going to have to act quickly before the man had second thoughts. Repressing her own distaste, she reached out and put her hand gently over his, the red nails a striking contrast to his anemic-looking skin. “Don’t worry, Gilbert. Leave everything to me. I think I can even set up a meeting for this evening. You’ll feel better once this is all resolved.”

  “What do I have to do?” God, he wanted to believe she could make everything all right.

  “Call me at five and I’ll tell you the arrangements.”

  * * *

  MICHAEL’S DAY at the university had been rather frustrating. Wearily he inserted the old-fashioned skeleton key in the lock of his hotel room door. The chancellor had made it clear that the university records were not going to be opened to him without a federal warrant. Even with the Falcon’s connections, that would take a couple of days to secure—given the sketchy evidence he could provide as justification. The only measure of success he’d salvaged had been at the college library. Perhaps because it was located in New Orleans, Chartres University had a surprisingly complete collection of books on the occult. Even though he still couldn’t make heads or tails of the charm he’d left with Jessica’s friend, he now knew quite a bit about the subject of voodoo.

  Before unlocking his room and removing the Do Not Disturb sign, he carefully inspected the door. Since the Dove case was heating up, he’d left a telltale sign that would alert him if anyone entered the suite while he was gone. He’d used various devices in the past. This one was simply a small straight pin inserted one thumb length above the bottom hinge. If anyone opened the door, it would drop out of position.

  After noting that the pin was still in place, he entered his room and shrugged out of his tweed jacket. He was about to toss it onto the bed when he stopped abruptly. In the middle of the blue bedspread was a folded sheet of heavy cream-color paper. But the object on top was what riveted his attention. It was a severed cockscomb pierced with a long thorn tipped in red. More gris-gris, he thought with a sigh. How the devil had the thing gotten in there? he wondered, glancing at the window. His third-floor suite looked out onto Esplanade, and he couldn’t quite imagine anyone climbing the drainpipe in broad day
light. Besides, the windows were locked.

  Though he wasn’t one to bow to superstition, he dislodged the note gingerly from under the talisman and broke the wax seal. Inside, old-fashioned black script slanted across the page.

  Mr. X, who holds the key to your search, wants to meet you at the old Lafayette Cemetery, plot 105, at sundown tonight. You must come alone and tell no one. If you disobey, the charm on top of this note will bring you a painful death.

  Michael didn’t like receiving threatening summonses—or ones that appeared mysteriously in locked rooms. Naturally, anyone with the right tools could have opened the door. And of course, the housekeeping staff had ready access. But noticing the pin and replacing it exactly where he had left it was another matter. Someone wanted him to think it had been accomplished by magic. It was easier to believe a well-trained operative had been given the assignment—which tended to confirm the Falcon’s original assessment that the scope of this problem was much larger than it appeared. It also meant that the voodoo charm had only been added for local color and wasn’t going to make his coronary arteries start constricting if he didn’t follow directions.

  He stuffed the note in his shirt pocket, knowing he’d have to deal with it later. Right now there was other business to take care of. Before going to bed last night, he’d made a comprehensive report on the day’s activities as a follow-up to the transmission of the letters. Now he needed to see if the Falcon had come up with anything and if he had any more instructions.

  After booting up the computer, he accessed a protected electronic mailbox. Immediately a screenful of information appeared on his terminal.

  Michael paged down through the amber-and-black text and then went back over the material more carefully. The National Institutes of Health verified his supposition about the direction of Xavier’s research. There was a good possibility that, if he could find Xavier, he would find the source of Dove.

  The rest of the message concerned Royale Verde and another agent named Jed Prentiss. A good man, Michael recalled. They’d worked together several years ago to bust a Brazilian cocaine connection and had gotten to be friends. Jed had gone off to get a closer look at the Blackstone Clinic and hadn’t returned. The Falcon suspected he was either dead or being held captive. Michael cringed at the grim alternatives.

  He considered making a hard copy of the transmission. But after the mysterious entry into his room, he decided to rely on his memory. After switching off the computer, he looked at the note again. The Mr. X referred to might well be Xavier. Or somebody wanted him to think so and was setting up a trap. Either way, he was going to have to keep that meeting. But he wasn’t stupid enough to heed the warning in the note. In a quick call to the stationhouse, he left a message for Lieutenant Devine explaining where he was going but asking the officer not to interfere, as the informant he was meeting was very nervous. If Michael didn’t check in by ten-thirty, the lieutenant was to look for him at burial site 105 in the old Lafayette Cemetery.

  He had just strapped on the shoulder holster for his Colt Mark IV when he remembered Jessica. He’d promised to call her around six. Maybe he’d just make it early. Though he let the phone ring half a dozen times, she didn’t answer. Glancing impatiently at his watch, he decided he really didn’t have time to talk even if she were home. He wanted to get to the cemetery well before the appointed time. He’d just have to get back to her later.

  The old Lafayette Cemetery was located on Washington Avenue in the Garden District, an area of large mansions built by the English settlers. Michael parked a block from the main gate and walked along the whitewashed wall, trying to get a feel for the area.

  His first stop was at the caretaker’s cottage, where he explained that he was a historian doing some research on the unique form of interment in the region. The old man, who introduced himself as Luke Gillespie, probably didn’t have much company. Glad to be of assistance, he showed Michael a map, on which he easily located plot 105 near the center of the grounds.

  “Feel free to have a look around, but remember that the gates close at sundown,” Gillespie warned. “Most folks don’t like to get locked in here after dark.”

  “Me included,” Michael assured him. He wouldn’t have picked this place for a rendezvous, but that was probably precisely the point.

  The lengthening late-afternoon shadows made the cemetery all the more foreboding, Michael thought as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and ambled off. When he reached a grassy lane between two rows of small mausoleums that resembled miniature Gothic and Romanesque churches, he had to repress the impulse to glance over his shoulder.

  He’d never been in a New Orleans cemetery before, but he’d heard about them. Because the soil was marshy, the community had turned to above-ground burial. Poorer families purchased vaults in the graveyard wall or in group memorial buildings. The rich built their own. The more sturdy were of stone. A good number, however, were constructed of local brick covered with plaster, which tended to crumble with age.

  Michael made a wide circle around plot 105, verifying that this section of the cemetery was deserted—except for an infirm-looking white-haired couple who had come to put a red rose in a vase in front of a granite sepulcher.

  He made a careful inspection of the tomb. It was a small granite building with a Gothic roof and the usual white slab covering the entrance. Michael could see nothing out of the ordinary about the tomb. After checking out the area immediately around it, he withdrew to a spot where he could observe anyone approaching. It was now almost dark, and the old couple didn’t see him as they shuffled by on the path heading toward the front gate.

  The sky was overcast, blocking out most of the pinks and oranges of the sunset. As the last rays of light sank toward the horizon, the temperature dropped several degrees, and a little breeze sprang up, rustling the leaves in the tall trees that dotted the area. The faint swishing sound was the only noise he could hear. The isolation was a bit unnerving, and he couldn’t help thinking about all the ghost stories he’d heard around rodeo campfires late at night.

  He waited five, ten, fifteen minutes, his back pressed against cold stone. Dim lights at the cemetery’s major crossroads came on, but they were few and far between. What was Xavier waiting for? he wondered. Or was this all a wild goose chase designed to frighten him off the case?

  He was straining his ears trying to hear some sound of life when uncertain footfalls from the direction of the gate drew his attention. Pressing back against the crypt, he watched a short, thin man approach the designated plot and look around nervously. Then he coughed, as if that might attract attention.

  Michael tensed, listening for evidence that the man was being followed. There was none. Nor could he see anything. But in this gloom, that wasn’t surprising.

  Drawing his gun, he waited several minutes longer before calling out. “All right, put your hands in the air and turn around.”

  The man froze, then obeyed. “I can’t see you,” he complained.

  “That’s the way I want it.”

  “Are you from the DEA?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” Michael questioned.

  “Gilbert Xavier. I want to turn myself in.”

  “Why?”

  “I need protection.” Xavier’s voice rose pleadingly.

  Michael stepped forward and frisked the little man. He wasn’t carrying a weapon. Up close, he looked like a frightened weasel. “And why should I be interested in you?”

  “I’m the chemist who made the street drug called Dove.” He eyed Michael’s gun. “Could you put that away?”

  “All right.”

  Michael holstered the weapon. “Go on.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Who do you want protection from?”

  The words came out in a rush like the confession of a mortal sin. “Jackson Talifero. He lured me down to Royale Verde. Offered me a lab, test sub
jects, anything I wanted. I thought the man was interested in finding new drug therapies for certain psychoses. But that’s not his purpose at all. He wants to produce Dove to finance a takeover of the island. He’s a devil, a madman. I got away, but he has thugs out looking for me. I don’t want to go back. That’s why I want to turn myself in to you.”

  Though the information was riveting, Michael’s face remained impassive.

  “Don’t you believe me?” Xavier questioned.

  Michael didn’t answer. “How did you come up with this particular meeting place?”

  “She suggested it.”

  “Who?”

  “The priestess. The one who first came to me at the university with the idea of purifying some of her plant compounds.”

  “What priestess? What are you talking about?”

  “She told me she was going to contact you.”

  “We didn’t meet.”

  He was about to ask another question when the white slab in front of tomb 105 gave way with a resounding crash. Blinding light spilled forth from the interior. One of Michael’s hands went to his eyes, the other reached for the gun under his arm, but he couldn’t see to shoot. Xavier screamed but the sound was choked off abruptly, as if someone had wrapped a hand around his windpipe.

  Whoever had been in the crypt was counting heavily on the element of surprise and the blinding light. Dark, crouching figures came at him, but Michael could see nothing distinctly. He tried to turn away from the brilliance, but a large hand grabbed his throat, pulling him back. Instinctively he kicked out with his foot and felt his shoe connect with soft flesh. He had the satisfaction of hearing a low groan as his would-be assailant went down.

  “Watch it,” an excited voice warned. “He fights like Jhoon Rhee.”

  Michael recognized his old friend Lonnie. He also heard the shuffle of several pairs of feet closing in around him. He turned away from the light, but it didn’t help much. It was as if a hundred flash bulbs had gone off in his face. Still, his hand groped toward the holster.