"Then your search has ended," the young woman said, drawing herself up into a dignified posture. "I am Queen Esther."
"No, you're not," Libby said matter-of-factly.
The young woman looked at Libby, her eyes narrowed. "Listen, now, I don't know what—"
"Martha!" The voice came through a doorway behind the young woman, an opening filled by a beaded curtain. It was a woman's voice, and to Libby it sounded old but strong, very strong.
Without another word, the young woman turned and slipped through the curtain into whatever room lay beyond it. A few moments later she was back, the smile gone now. "She say you come on back, de bot' of you." Her voice was sullen.
Libby Chastain followed Quincey Morris behind the counter and through the beaded curtain. It opened onto a short hallway. At its end was another beaded curtain, through which light could be seen flickering.
As she pushed through the curtain, Libby saw that the illumination came from dozens of candles that burned in every part of the room, the whitewashed walls making the light seem brighter than it was.
Against the far wall was a tall altar draped in red and black cloth. It held more burning candles, several paintings in small frames, a skull that was large enough to be human, and a machete, its blade covered with splashes and stains that had dried brown. Libby spared the structure only a glance before focusing her attention on the woman who sat in a rocking chair, her back to the altar. She sat rocking slowly, looking for all the world like somebody's grandmother on the family front porch, passing the time until Murder, She Wrote came on.
Libby felt the power coming off her in waves.
Morris didn't appear to notice, but to Libby's trained perception it was like standing in front of an open blast furnace, and just about as dangerous.
The woman didn't look like anything special. She was small, and old, her iron-gray hair worn short. Amid the many wrinkles in her brown face the dark eyes seemed to glitter, although that may have been an effect of the candlelight. Each finger of the knurled hands bore at least one ring; some had two or three.
She turned her head slowly toward the doorway and spoke to the tall young woman, who had followed Morris and Chastain into the back. The words were a fast stream of Creole dialect that was incomprehensible to Libby, although she saw Morris's head come up a few inches. If he had heard something meaningful in the words that sent the young woman scurrying back toward the front of the shop, he gave no hint of what it was.
The woman in the rocking chair turned back to look at her visitors. "Come closer, now, why don't you? These eyes of mine don't see so well like they used to."
They each stepped forward. The woman spared Morris only a glance before focusing on Libby. The two women looked at each other impassively for what seemed like a long time. It wasn't a staring contest as much as a moment of mutual assessment—and mutual warning.
Morris broke the growing tension by asking, "Queen Esther?"
The old woman turned her basilisk eyes back to him. "You know already the answer to dat, mistah. Now, why have you come to me?"
"My name's Quincey Morris, and this is—"
"Sidney Prendergast," Libby said smoothly. In black magic, names are power. No way was she going to let this old witch know hers.
Morris sent a surprised glance Libby's way, but recovered quickly. "We were hoping you could help us find someone," he told Queen Esther.
She nodded slowly. "I have helped many to find what they seek," she said. "But not all of them were made happy by their success."
"We're willing to take that chance," Morris said.
Another nod. "Very well. One hundred dollars, please."
Morris frowned at her. "And what does that buy us, exactly?"
"It buys you the chance to ask of me what you wish to know." Smiled, revealing expensive-looking dentures. "The white doctors call it a consultation fee."
After a brief hesitation, Morris produced his wallet and pulled out some bills. He took another step forward, holding them out toward the old woman.
"No," she told him. "Place them there." She gestured toward the altar. They will be an offering to Baron Samedi. Perhaps he will answer your questions."
Morris placed the money next to the stained machete, then stepped back. "The woman we're looking for does magic," he said. "But she follows the left-hand path. The black arts have been in her family for many generations, handed down mother to daughter, even onto the present day."
"She sounds tres formidable," Queen Esther said, in a voice that did not sound at all impressed. "And what is her true name?"
"That's the problem, or one of them," Morris said. "We don't know her name. But she's descended from someone who was hanged for witchcraft in Salem, Massachusetts—a woman named Sarah Carter."
Queen Esther blinked once, slowly, the way a toad will. "I do not recognize that name. And I do not know the person you describe."
"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I was told you did." The candles flickered again, although there was no breeze in the room.
"Then you were lied to." The bony fingers of the right hand began to worry one of the rings worn on the left. "So many lies there are in the world, such deception, so much evil all over." The ancient eyes locked on Morris's. "It can ensnare those who are unwise, you know, like the web of a great spider. Happens every day."
"But I wanted to—"
Libby Chastain laid a gentle hand on Morris's forearm. "We've troubled Queen Esther enough, Quincey. We really should go now." And after bending her head a few inches in the sketchiest of bows to the old woman, Libby led Morris out of the room.
As they traversed the short hallway leading back to the shop, Morris said quietly from the corner of his mouth, "I assume you know what you're doing."
Libby's murmured response was, "Trust me."
They passed through the beaded curtain into Doctor John's Hoodoo Shop.
The tall young woman was nowhere to be seen. The store was deserted.
"I think maybe we've got trouble," Libby said.
"Hell, I could've told you that." Morris went quickly to a set of shelves near the door. He spent a few moments scanning the items arrayed there. Then he took down a jar, checked the label, and unscrewed the lid.
"What are you doing?" Libby asked.
"Shoplifting." He dropped the lid on to the counter, but hung on to the jar, which had a garish green label that Libby couldn't read. "Come on, let's go."
Libby followed Morris through the noisy screen door and down the two steps. At the sidewalk, he turned right.
"Wait," Libby said. "We came this way." She pointed to the left.
"I know. That's why we're going the other way. Come on, hurry."
They had walked about fifty feet when two men stepped out of a doorway and into their path. They were black and big and they walked stiffly, as if unused to moving around much.
Each one held a large knife.
Libby's notion that these might be garden-variety muggers was quickly dispelled. The men didn't demand money, or anything else. And in the glow of a nearby street light she saw that their eyes looked completely white, as if the pupils had rolled back into their heads.
As if they were dead.
Heavy footsteps behind her caused Libby to look over her shoulder. Three more men, armed and disposed similarly to the two in front, were bearing down on them.
"Shit," Morris said. "Queen Esther likes to hedge her bets."
"I haven't got anything prepared to deal with this," Libby said tensely.
The men shambled toward them, knives ready.
"Fortunately, I have," Morris told her.
He held the jar from the voodoo shop in his right hand, three fingers spread over the mouth with space between them. He raised his hand, then suddenly swept it across his body in a wide arc, pivoting as he did so, and he sprayed liquid from the jar on all five of the men. "Get thee hence!" he cried, then brought his arm back the other way, causing more liquid to spew out between
his fingers. "Leave us be, now and henceforth!" Then a third time, front and back, the last of the jar's contents splashing the men's faces. "Begone!"
The men cowered back, like the Frankenstein monster confronted with fire. Their knives clattered to the pavement and they brought their arms up over their faces. Then, making inarticulate sounds of fear and dismay, they turned and shuffled away—two down the alley, the other three back the way they had come on Dumaine Street.
Morris grabbed Libby's arm. "Come on." They crossed the street, walking rapidly.
"Where are we going?" Libby asked.
"Anywhere there's lights and people, the more the better."
"Then let's take the next left, if it looks safe. That's the quickest way to the center of the Quarter."
Less than three minutes later they were on Bourbon Street, surrounded by music and neon and drunken tourists. Libby noticed that Morris was still clutching the empty jar. "Let me see that, will you?"
"What? Oh, sure. Here."
She looked at the label, gothic black letters printed over a green background. "St. Louis Cemetery Black Banishing Oil?"
Morris nodded, looking pleased with himself. "Yep. Guaranteed to confuse, frustrate, and repel your enemies, whoever they may be, living, dead, or undead."
"I thought all that stuff was just a shuck. You know, like rabbits' feet and four-leaf clovers."
Morris took the jar back and tossed it in a nearby trashcan. "What, you don't think rabbits' feet are lucky?"
"Weren't too lucky for the rabbit, were they?"
"Good point. Well, a lot of those voodoo charms and potions are worthless, but not all of them. Obviously."
"Obviously is right. It's good you know what works and what doesn't."
"Most important thing is those zombies think it works."
"Is that what they were? I wondered."
They stepped into the street to avoid a group of fundamentalists who were handing out leaflets protesting against nude dancing in Bourbon Street bars. They would have done just as well to protest against the movement of the tides.
"Yeah, they were zombies, all right," Morris said. "The eyes are always a dead giveaway. So to speak."
"Wait a second," Libby said, frowning. "You picked that jar off the shelf before we ever saw what was waiting for us."
"Readiness is all, as somebody once said. Remember that stuff that Queen Esther rattled off to what's-her-name, Martha, when we first went into the back room?"
"Yes, vaguely."
"I don't really speak Creole, not well enough to carry on a conversation or anything, but I was able to pick the word for 'zombie' out of what she was saying. I didn't figure old Esther was dictating her Christmas list."
"She was lying to us, you know. About not knowing the current descendant of Sarah Carter."
"Yeah, I kind of tumbled to that, myself," Morris said. "But what the hell are we going to do about it?"
"As it happens," Libby told him, "I may have an idea."
* * * *
When Van Dreenan walked in, Fenton said, without preamble, "We got a hit off that Mississippi license plate. Finally."
"From which?" Van Dreenan was frowning. "Oh, yes. The one from that surveillance camera at the petrol station."
"That's the one. I wasn't sure how much help it was going to be. Figured either the car or the plate had been stolen, but it looks like I was wrong, since the driver's license photo that they sent matches up pretty well with the guy's face that we can see on that surveillance tape. There's something else kind of interesting, too." Fenton worked his laptop's keyboard for a few seconds, then turned the computer around to face Van Dreenan. "See for yourself."
Van Dreenan sat down and peered at the screen. "Snake Perkins?" He looked at Fenton. "That sounds like an alias, but apparently it's his given name."
"Yeah, just a good ol' boy from Hattiesburg, Mississippi."
Van Dreenan thought he heard an off note in Fenton's voice. "Is there something about this town, Hattiesburg? Something I should know?"
Fenton made a dismissive gesture. "No, nothing important. I spent six weeks there, one night, a while back. Never mind. Read on."
"Um. Perkins was sent to reform school for auto theft at fifteen." He looked up again. "Reform school?"
"It's where we send juvenile criminals, instead of prison," Fenton told him. "Although with some of these places, there isn't much difference. The one Snake went to wasn't bad, though. I checked. More like a home for wayward boys."
"Wayward, indeed. And while he was at this reform school, I see, someone murdered his parents. Cut their throats while they slept, then set fire to the house. And in the charred ruins of the home, the authorities found—"
"Evidence that Mom and Dad had been in the kiddie porn business. Had a little studio in the basement, and everything. According to the arson investigators, that's where the fire started, with the help of about five gallons of gasoline. Looks like somebody wanted to wipe out every trace of their product."
Van Dreenan read on. "Ummm. But someone, whoever it was, did not succeed. The parents had a large fireproof safe, whose contents survived the conflagration." A few seconds later, he shook his head in disgust. "They used their own son in some of the… performances."
"Yeah," Fenton said with a grimace. "Wish I could say I've never heard of that being done before, but apparently it's pretty common in the kiddie porn biz. Fucking scumbags. Give me serial killers any day."
"It hardly matters now, but do you happen to know the distance between this reform school the boy was in and the family home?"
"About forty miles, I looked it up," Fenton said. "Looks like you and I are thinking along the same lines."
"And this school was not a high-security facility?"
"Not that kind of place, no. Not impossible for the kid to sneak out, rip off a car, pay a visit to Mom and Dad with a sharp knife and a five-gallon can of gas, then sneak back into the school before he was missed."
"Well, if he did, one can hardly blame him," Van Dreenan said. He shook his head again. "Fifteen years old."
"The start of an active, if not illustrious, career," Fenton said. "How many arrests as an adult? Nine?"
Van Dreenan checked the screen. "Eight. Of those, two convictions—one for manslaughter and another for sexual assault. He served a total of, let me see… six years."
"Involved with the occult, too, it looks like. Hooked up with some voodoo coven, or whatever they call it, down in Louisiana. A New Orleans bunch headed by somebody called Queen Esther."
"Yes, so I see. That led to one of his arrests, on suspicion of murder. Apparently, the voudoun cult was believed to have engaged in human sacrifice during some of their rituals." Van Dreenan looked at Fenton. "That is very rare. Most practitioners of voudoun never sacrifice anything bigger than a chicken, or maybe a goat. They are law-abiding people, not killers. Although…"
"Although what?"
"Every religion seems to develop its own lunatic fringe. There have been reports, from here and there around the world, of voudoun cults devoted to gods who demand sacrifice of 'the goat without horns.'"
"The—oh, right, I get it."
Van Dreenan scratched his cheek pensively. "A very interesting chap, this Mister Perkins. At first glance, he would seem an unlikely traveling companion for Cecelia Mbwato. But the more I think about it, the better it sounds."
"A marriage made in Heaven," Fenton said with a sour smile.
"No, Fenton, not in Heaven," Van Dreenan said. "Not there."
* * * *
The sun was shining brightly when Morris and Libby sat down to breakfast at an outdoor cafe. After they'd placed their order, Libby asked, "So, did you spend a quiet night, what was left of it?"
"Oh, sure. Thanks to those warding charms you put on the door and windows. The only zombies that bothered me were in my dreams."
She made a face. "I know what you mean. My subconscious seemed to spend most of the night in the middle of a Georg
e Romero film festival. Not a good time."
Morris took a sip of coffee and said, "You mentioned something last night about a plan for dealing with Queen Esther."
Libby nodded. "I think that, with proper preparation, I can cast a truth spell which should compel her to tell us what she knows about the witch we're after."
"Will it work on somebody like Esther? She's got pretty good mojo of her own, as we have reason to know."
"It shouldn't matter, as long as she's not ready for me," Libby said. "If she had time to put together a counterspell, that might well make a difference." She smiled tightly. "Which is why I'm not going to give her time."
"In other words, you're going to overwhelm her before she has time to set up a defense."
"Something like that."
"How long will you need to get ready?"
"I did some of the preliminary work last night. So, from this point, I figure I'll need—" she thought briefly, "another three hours, more or less."
"So, if you get started right after breakfast, everything should be set to go by early afternoon?"
"Most likely. And a good thing, too."
Morris looked a question at her.
"I mean, it's good we're going to do this during daylight," Libby said. "That's when white magic is strongest."
"And Queen Esther, being one of the bad guys, has the edge after dark."
"Exactly."
Their order arrived, and Morris dug into his eggs. "Good thing we got up early."
* * * *
They had no trouble this time finding a cabbie willing to take them to the proper address on Dumaine Street. Apparently the light of day made a difference to the taxi drivers, too. It was a little after two in the afternoon when they stood again in front of Doctor John's Hoodoo Shop and Apothecary.
Morris looked at the storefront for a moment, then turned to Libby. "Is she in there?"
Libby's brow wrinkled. "I don't know. I'm not sensing her the way I was able to last night, but there's something…" She shook her head uncertainly.
"Well, guess we may as well go on in and find out."
"But carefully."
"Don't have to tell me. I'm the fella who was driving off zombies last night, remember?"
Black Magic Woman Page 15
