Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2

by Julie Ann Walker

  Are YOU laughing wherever you are? I hope so. I hope so with all my heart.

  I want you to be happy, Cash.

  Love, Maggie

  I once heard someone say that we should all be like postage stamps—we should stick to one thing until we get there.

  Good advice.

  I repeat it to myself when I have the urge to throw a comforting arm around Maggie’s shoulders. She’s not herself today. She’s tense. Brittle. If I flicked her with a finger, she’d break.

  I hate not being able to comfort her. But sticking to The Plan means I have to mind my Ps and Qs. Can’t do anything to give her the wrong idea about my intentions, including, but not limited to, keeping my comforting arm to myself.

  “I can’t believe I’ve never been here,” she says as we push through the door to the Voodoo Museum. “I guess I always thought it was a tourist trap.”

  “It is.” Luc unzips his jacket. “And good God! What’s with the heat?”

  The museum is uncomfortably warm, and I use the term museum lightly.

  We make our way toward the cramped rooms and narrow hallways that are crammed full of artifacts. Dried chicken feet hang from the walls alongside little dolls made of Spanish moss. There are human skulls and skeletons, horse-jaw rattles and statues of the Virgin Mary. But the pride and joy of the museum seems to be an altar used by New Orleans’s own Marie Laveau—or so the plaque claims. The entire place smells old and musty, and everything is covered in a fine layer of dust that tickles my nose and makes the back of my throat itch.

  “Gotta keep it warm on account of Bebelle.” A man wearing a worn top hat and sporting a walking stick carved to look like an alligator materializes from nowhere. Coiled around his neck is a big-ass python. The snake flicks its long tongue at the man’s beard while keeping a beady black eye on the rest us. “Snakes are cherished in the Voodoo religion, doncha know?”

  Maggie shakes the hand the man offers her. “Hi, I’m Maggie.”

  “Voodoo Vinnie is the name.” His dark eyes dance with mischief.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she sparkles at him. I can’t tell if she’s truly coming out of her funk, or if she’s putting on a show for Voodoo Vinnie—pause for laughter, because Voodoo Vinnie? He sounds like a poorly written Marvel villain.

  “Damballa, the serpent god, is the oldest in the Voodoo pantheon,” Vinnie explains, stroking his snake lovingly. “He’s the one who created the world, and it’s his job to transport the souls of the dead into the afterlife. Those of us who practice use snake skins in our rituals to commune with Damballa. If you’ve a mind to, you can buy some of Bebelle’s shed skins on your way out. I keep bags by the register up front.”

  Of course he does.

  “Are you a Voodoo priest?” Maggie asks as we make our way deeper into the museum, Vinnie following close behind.

  “I am.” His chest swells with pride.

  All I can think is, What a load of shit. Vinnie’s got a round belly and cherub-red cheeks. He looks more like a drunk uncle than a Voodoo priest. Although, to give credit where credit is due, he does carry a certain energy with him, seeming to brim with life-force.

  “And do you do spells?” Maggie asks.

  “You got somethin’ in mind?” Vinnie slides Luc a knowing glance. “A love potion perhaps?”

  Maggie laughs, and it’s all golden and light. Okay, I don’t think she’s faking. I think she’s actually enjoying herself.

  Score one for me and my brilliant idea to come here.

  “There’s no lack of love in this room,” she tells Vinnie. “Save your potions for those who need them.”

  “Then how about a healin’ spell?”

  Is it my imagination, or do Vinnie’s black eyes dart my way?

  Nah. Just the dim light playing tricks on me. Still, I figure…why not? We could all use some laughs, right?

  “Sure,” I say before Maggie can turn him down again. “I’ll take some healing. How much will it cost me?”

  “Depends on what’s wrong with you.” Vinnie eyes me up and down.

  “Head trauma.” I point to the scar above my temple. “Accompanied by terrible headaches, wonky vision, and nausea.”

  “You’ve never said anything about wonky vision.” Luc frowns at me.

  “New symptom,” I admit. “So?” I turn back to Vinnie. “How much?”

  “You lookin’ for relief of symptoms or a full-on healin’? Because a potion for the relief of symptoms is cheap and easy. It’ll run you twenty bucks and probably last a week or two. But a full on healin’? That takes a lot more time and energy on my part.”

  I grew up with a con man, so I recognize the game. Still, Maggie’s enjoying herself, and if I’m being honest, I’m having fun too.

  “How much?” I ask again and watch Vinnie’s eyes spark. He thinks I’m a sucker. Looking at Maggie’s bright smile, I admit he’s probably right.

  “Ninety dollars for the ceremony,” he says. “Ten dollars for the doll.”

  Luc’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. He jerks his chin side to side, his eyes saying, Not worth it. But I’m already digging in my pocket for my wallet.

  After counting out five Andrew Jacksons, I slap the bills in Vinnie’s outstretched palm. They immediately disappear into the front pocket of his raggedy black trousers. No muss, no fuss, done deal.

  “Come with me.” He motions me through a curtain of beads into a room not much bigger than a walk-in closet. Dozens of candles burn on variously sized shelves. A side table with a bunch of clay jars is nestled into one corner. And tacked to the walls are more chicken feet, snake skins, clutches of herbs, and crosses that have been fashioned out of the long, bleached bones of animals.

  At least I hope they’re animal bones.

  The beaded curtain crackles and hisses as Luc and Maggie step into the room behind us. Maggie looks around with wonder. Luc looks around with skepticism.

  Funny, he used to be like Maggie, open to the mystery and thrill of the unknown. But the army hardened his mystic’s heart.

  As if to prove my point, when Vinnie turns away to gather supplies, Luc whispers, “This hell-born idea is your worst yet.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?” I wiggle my eyebrows.

  As I’d hoped, it’s enough to make his lips quirk. “Fine. Suit yourself. But if you come outta here covered in chicken blood and feathers, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Maggie’s made her way over to the table in the corner. “What are these?” She runs a finger along a clay jar.

  “Govi jars,” Vinnie explains, plucking a doll from a tray. “They’re for storin’ the souls of the dead.”

  Maggie jerks her hand away and anxiously clutches her locket. “Whose souls are in these?” she asks dubiously.

  “Those are empty.” Vinnie walks over to me with a pair of scissors.

  My chin angles back when he reaches toward my face. Maybe Luc’s right. Maybe this is a bad idea.

  “I need a lock of your hair,” Vinnie explains.

  “Right.” I swallow, trying not to wince when he snips a fringe.

  Bebelle takes advantage of her proximity to me by flicking her tongue to taste my shoulder. Is it my imagination, or is she looking at me in a new light? In a hungry light?

  “Why would you want to store the souls of the dead?” Maggie asks, still examining the red clay pots…from a safe distance of three feet.

  “’Cause the livin’ can call on the souls in the jars to solicit advice and guidance. Those who’ve moved on are wise beyond measure. They know what lies on the other side.” He grabs the hem of my flannel shirt and quirks an eyebrow. “I need a piece of your shirt too.”

  “Have at it,” I tell him. “It’s not like I don’t have ten more like it in my closet back home.”

  He cuts off a little square of material, then goes over to a small altar. He uses glue to attach my hair to the head of the doll and a pin to fasten the patch of flannel to the thing’s chest.


  “Now.” He turns to me. “We need to animate it with your life force. What’s your first and last name? No nicknames, please.”

  “Cassius Armstrong,” I tell him.

  Nodding, he holds the doll in front of him and stares deep into its black eyes—which look like they’ve been drawn on with a Sharpie. “Cassius Armstrong. Cassius Armstrong. Cassius Armstrong,” he chants, and damned if the hairs on my arms don’t lift.

  He hands me the doll. “Blow into its nose and mouth, please.”

  Maggie’s expression is transfixed. Luc crosses his arms, looking bulky and brooding and slightly bored.

  Feeling foolish, I take the doll from Vinnie, cover its fabric face with my mouth, and blow. It smells of glue and old cloth and tastes of dust.

  “Good.” Vinnie nods. “Now we must baptize it.” I hand the doll back to him and he dunks it into the bowl of water sitting on the altar.

  “Here comes the hard part.” He clutches the dripping doll to his chest. His eyes roll back in his head, and for a good two minutes he sways and chants and sings under his breath.

  Bebelle seems mesmerized. She tucks her scaly face under Vinnie’s beard and goes completely still. Even her tongue stops its constant flickering.

  A gust of air blows through the room, rattling the curtain of beads and bending the candle flames on their wicks. Maggie glances apprehensively at Luc. He motions for her to come stand next to him. When she does, he tucks her close to his side with an arm around her shoulders.

  Dark, oily jealousy tries to seep into my brain. He can do for her what I can’t, hold her close, comfort her. But then I remind myself that’s exactly as it should be.

  Vinnie’s chanting and singing gets louder, his swaying faster. Then, with a great cry of “Ayibobo!”—which I’ve heard is the Voodoo word for “amen”—he stabs a rusty nail through the doll’s soft head.

  Sympathetic pain slices through my skull.

  When he finally opens his eyes, his shoulders slump as if he’s been drained of energy. I stifle the urge to applaud. It’s been one hell of a show.

  “Is it done?” I ask.

  “Not yet.” He hands me the doll. Bebelle is back to her old self, sinuous body slithering slightly, tongue darting. “You have to bury it in your backyard or toss it into flowin’ water. Then it’ll be done.”

  “Awesome. Thanks, Voodoo Vinnie.”

  “My pleasure.” He pats his pocket full of money and gives me a wink.

  Chuckling, I motion for Luc and Maggie to precede me out of the museum. Once we’re standing on the curb beside Smurf, Luc says, “So what’ll it be? You gonna bury that thing in your backyard, or you wanna toss it into the Mississippi?”

  “The river,” Maggie declares. “If you bury it, someone might accidentally dig it up one day. It’ll give them nightmares for life.”

  “You heard the lady.” I open the truck’s passenger-side door. “To the river!”

  As the three of us head in that direction, I roll down the window and let the clean air hit me in the face. Maggie is humming along to the radio, her fingers tapping out the rhythm on her knee. My head still hurts as much as ever, the doll is leaving a wet spot on my jeans, and I’m down a hundred bones. But she’s smiling, and her mood seems to have lifted, so it was well worth it.

  Chapter Forty-two

  ______________________________________

  Luc

  Dear Luc,

  I helped Auntie June bake half a dozen king cakes this morning. She put me in charge of the icing and the plastic babies, which reminded me of the king cake you and I shared with Cash last year.

  We sat on the riverbank, remember? The Mississippi was running high because of all the snowmelt up North, and we watched the barges dodge the dead trees zooming by on the current.

  You were the one to get the baby. But that’s no surprise since you ate more than your fair share of the cake.

  And speaking of eating more than your fair share… Are they feeding you enough in the army? I think about that a lot, whether you’re eating enough, sleeping enough, being kept warm enough.

  I tried visiting your mother this evening, hoping she could tell me how you’re doing and maybe give me your address so I could send you a care package. I’ve been too ashamed to see her before, knowing I’m the reason you followed Cash into the army in the first place. But I finally bit the bullet and made the trip to the mayor’s house.

  But when I got there, the new housekeeper said your mom moved to Shreveport. I called information for her number, but she’s unlisted.

  So…that’s that, I guess. She’s not on MySpace or Facebook. I have no way of contacting her, which means I’ve officially run out of ways to contact YOU.

  I still don’t agree that we should forget the past and move on in life without each other. But what else can I do? You haven’t left me a choice in the matter.

  Some days, that makes me unaccountably mad at you. Then I remember all you did for me. I remember how much your friendship changed me and shaped me into the person I am today, a person who CAN move on in life without you, and all I feel is grateful.

  Grateful to have known you and had you there with me, even if it was only for a little while.

  Forever and always, Maggie May

  Memory is an odd thing, a capricious creature. You can’t trust it. Not completely.

  Take that night in the swamp when I saw Maggie struggling beneath Dean. Did I say anything to her before I told her to run? And how long did the encounter with Dean last after she took off? Did I do enough? Was there anything I could have done?

  “You’re in love with her, aren’t ya?”

  A rusty-sounding voice draws me from my reverie. I’ve been standing outside Bon Temps Rouler, staring through the front window at Maggie, for some time now. I like watching her behind the bar. Not only is she quick on the taps, but she has a way of listening to folks that makes them feel heard. She seems to chew up and swallow every word spoken to her.

  “That obvious, is it?” I ask, watching Chrissy, one of Maggie’s regular bartenders, blow a smoke ring into the evening air.

  “Only to anyone with eyes,” she tells me, smiling with her mouth closed. “Does she know?”

  “I reckon she must, since I told her.”

  When Chrissy isn’t slinging beer or pouring bourbon, she comes outside to chain-smoke Parliaments. She’s got to be closing in on fifty, has frizzy, bottle-blond hair that she wears in a ponytail, and is the owner of a pair of keen, no-bullshit eyes.

  She strikes me as one of those folks capable of truly seeing others.

  “And yet she isn’t shacked up with ya 24/7?” She looks me up and down. “Considering you’re a triple threat, that must mean there’s something wrong with ya. So what is it? Some incurable STD? Micro-penis?” Her face contorts around an expression of disgust. “Don’t tell me you’re one of them guys who likes to dress up in fuzzy animal costumes.”

  I laugh. “First of all, what’s a triple threat?”

  “Tall, dark, and handsome,” she explains, taking another drag on her cigarette. The cherry on the end burns bright orange.

  “Right.” I nod. “So then second of all, no STDs. Third of all, I’ve never had any complaints size-wise. And last but not least, I think you’re talking about Furries. And while I don’t like to criticize anyone’s particular tastes, I guarantee you I find nothing sexy about folks dressing up like foxes and rabbits and boning each other.”

  “So then what’s the holdup?” she challenges. “Why aren’t you running in there and sweeping her off her feet?”

  Why indeed? The story of my life. “’Cause she’s in love with my best friend,” I say.

  “Ouch.” Chrissy winces. “Tough break.”

  I shrug. “Life’s full of ’em. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I needa go have a quick chat with the lady herself.”

  “Luc!” Maggie waves me over to a stool at the end of the bar after I shove inside. “What are you doing here?”

&n
bsp; Her voice is more chipper than it needs to be, and I can tell by the pinched look on her face it’s all a show. Yesterday Cash may’ve been able to take her mind off what we had planned for today with that crazy trip to the Voodoo Museum and the subsequent tossing-of-the-Voodoo-doll-into-the-river ceremony. But I’d bet my bottom dollar she’s been a bundle of nerves since she woke up this morning.

  She pulls an Abita from the cooler and lifts a brow. When I nod, she pops the top and slides the bottle my way.

  The place is sparsely populated. A few locals are keeping Earl Greene company down at the other end of the bar. And there’s a group of four men (who I assume hail from Ohio seeing as how one of them is wearing a Cincinnati Reds hat and another is sporting a Buckeyes shirt) occupying a table near the back. They’re sharing a pitcher of beer, playing some dice game I don’t recognize, and listening to Dr. John on the jukebox singing “Iko Iko” in his scratchy voice.

  Glancing at the clock above the bar, I see it’s almost seventeen hundred. The regulars are probably just now getting off work. And it’s too early for the tourists, who are still out taking carriage rides or touring the cemeteries.

  Maggie waits until I suck down a neck’s worth of beer before leaning her elbows on the bar top. In a low voice, she asks, “How’d it go?”

  “He’s sick,” I say.

  Her brow wrinkles with concern. “Who? Cash?”

  “Nope.” I shake my head, then reconsider. “Well, yes. Him too. But I’m talking ’bout Rick. We staked out his house, but we never saw him come out. And the only person who went in was his assistant. She was delivering a bag from the pharmacy.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Hell if I know.” I shrug. “But considering he looked fit as a fiddle not long ago, I reckon it’s a bug. Cold maybe? Flu?”

  “That’s not good news for us.” She tries to keep her voice steady, but a muscle ticks near her right eye.

  “Just a setback,” I assure her. “He’ll be up and around soon enough, and then Cash and I will spend some time learning his schedule. Once we know when he’s least likely to turn up at home, we’ll sneak in and try for the safe.”