“Certainly,” George said. “Thank you for your help, Delia.”
“You’re very welcome. Oh, Mr. Watters?”
“Please, call me George.”
“Very well. George, she’s…well, she’s not quite as sharp as she used to be.”
“I understand,” he said. “We’ll see you in an hour.”
They drove to the cemetery, which was just outside of town.
The cemetery was nicely kept and spread over some twenty acres of gently rolling hills and trees. They found a caretaker, who had a map marked with various families.
There were about a dozen Watterses, and they were all in the Remembrance Glen.
Jimmy and George made their way past a funeral in solemn procession. No second line of dance and frivolity for this group; they all wore black and had their heads bowed in sorrow.
They found the section of the cemetery the caretaker had directed them to, and that was where George found his parents. Side by side, with stones of white marble, still fresh compared to some of the others, so old they were covered with moss, and the letters and numbers had eroded away to indistinct glyphs.
Someone had planted a jasmine trellis and it was blooming, its perfume scenting the air and making it sweet and evocative. George remembered Maddy wearing perfume very much like it, and he wished he had been a better husband and father.
Maddy was buried up in Albany, Georgia, and his brother Louis in Portland, Oregon. Perhaps they should have been buried here, but no one had ever told him that the Watters came from this town and should rest here.
George didn’t find any Boudreauxes and thought they must have their own family plot somewhere. He wondered who paid for the upkeep of his family’s area, or if it was just a matter of town pride. Probably the latter.
Jimmy found graves going back to before the Civil War and several that might have been from the 1700s. He wondered if different generations of ghosts got together on moonlit evenings and swapped tales and sang old songs.
Their hour was nearly up, and George drove them back to the convalescent home.
Delia greeted them and had a black man named Chester escort them back to his aunt Coraline’s room.
Aunt Coraline had a room all to herself, and it had that musty, powdery perfume smell that seems the province of old women, a scent that speaks of wisdom and old times forgotten.
Aunt Coraline was a tiny thing, shorter than George and sitting in a wheelchair watching Jeopardy!.
“Miz Boudreaux,” Chester said, “this is your nephew George and a friend of his name of Jimmy.”
At first Coraline Boudreaux didn’t answer. She stared at the television and answered the game-show question. “Who is Clark Gable?” she said.
“Who is Humphrey Bogart?” said the contestant.
“That is correct,” said Alex Trebek.
“Oh, pooh.” Coraline moved to turn her chair around and Chester stepped in ahead of George and helped her.
Coraline’s hair was white and pulled back into a bun. Her eyes swam like tiny, dark fish behind enormous glasses. Her hands were clasped in her lap.
“Georgie?” she asked.
George doffed his hat. “Yes, ma’am.”
She held out her hands and he went to her. She hugged him, not much stronger than a bird. She kissed his cheek warmly.
“Georgie, oh I am so happy to see you!”
“I’m happy to see you, too, Aunt Coraline. This is my friend Jimmy Kalmaku.”
Jimmy shook her hand and she beamed.
“You and Georgie haven’t been stealing my apples, have you?”
“No, ma’am,” said Jimmy respectfully.
She wagged a finger at them both. “Be good and I’ll make you a pie—isn’t that better than an apple?”
They agreed it was.
She looked at George. “I was so sad that you and your mama moved away. Are you back for just the summer?”
“Probably just a week,” George said.
“Well, you tell your mama and grandmama to come see me. I can’t find anything in this house anymore!”
“Yes, ma’am,” said George. “Aunt Coraline, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course, baby. Do you need help with your homework? I was always a top student in English and history.”
“I remember,” he said, although he didn’t. “Aunt Coraline, was I born here?”
“Of course you were, you and your brother both. There have been Boudreauxes and Watterses in these parts since Washington was a pup.”
“Do you know why we left? Why my mother never told me I was from Louisiana?”
“She left in a hurry. She was worried about you!”
“Worried, why?”
“Is your brother with you? I have a peppermint on the dresser for him.”
“No, ma’am. Why was my mother worried about me?”
“Because of that man and his light,” she said.
George felt a chill go through him, as memories long dormant began to stir.
“That light is no good, Georgie, you mind me, now.”
“What light, Aunt Coraline?”
“Chester,” she said, “are we having pudding today?”
“I expect we will, Miz Boudreaux.”
“Can my nephew and his little friend have some, too?”
Chester looked at them, then replied, “I’ll ask Miz Gould if that’s all right.”
She beamed. “Won’t that be nice, Georgie?”
He bent down by her chair, and she rubbed his head. “What light, Aunt Coraline? What man?”
Coraline was about to answer when she saw the man she meant standing in a far corner of the room, partially obscured by shadows.
Terrified, she pointed to Professor Foxfire. Jimmy, George, and Chester all looked but saw nothing.
Professor Foxfire grinned at her with jackal’s teeth, all slick and shining, and bowed low, sweeping off his top hat. He looked up at her, and the salamanders on his face glowed and flickered like hot coals.
Coraline Boudreaux began to scream then, pushing George away from her. George almost lost his balance, but Jimmy caught him.
Chester hurried to the old woman. He tried to calm her and told them to go.
The last thing they heard was him saying they needed a sedative in Room 27 “right quick.”
They waited in the lobby, George hoping he might ask his aunt a few more questions, but Delia informed them that Coraline Boudreaux had to be sedated and would most likely sleep through the night.
“May we come back tomorrow?” George asked.
Delia looked at him doubtfully. “I’m not sure your visit was good for her, Mr. Watters.”
“It wasn’t George,” Jimmy said. “She thought she saw something or someone in the corner.”
Delia nodded. “Chester said the same, but you got her talking about some man with a flashlight or something? I would have to ask you not to bring him up again, it’s obviously a traumatic memory for her, poor thing.”
George nodded.
“Fine. Shall we say after lunch tomorrow…Or you could join her for lunch in the dining room, the guests enjoy that.”
“I would like that,” George said.
They walked out, an old man seated by the door giving them a little wave.
Outside, Jimmy looked at the carefully manicured grounds. Not five miles away was a wilderness of strange creatures and a veritable jungle to hide it.
All his vision had done was confirm what he already knew—he was a long way from Yanut.
“What are you thinking about?” George asked. “Your brow is nothing but furrows.”
“I have tried to contact both my uncle and Raven and have failed. Whatever forces are at work here, they are preventing me from reaching my guides.”
George waited.
“George, I am lost. I need someone who knows the supernatural lay of the land, so we know what we are dealing with.”
“See,” George said, annoyed, “here you go, lo
oking for gods and monsters when it’s just an old lady going senile.”
“And your grandson?”
“Kids get lost, Jimmy, and they’re not always lured by kushtaka or evil river otters. It’s something that happens every day. I pray they find Donny, but I don’t think some haint took him.” Even as he said that, part of him was unsure and afraid Jimmy was right.
“I’d like to check into it anyway,” Jimmy said, “if you don’t mind.”
“Knock yourself out,” George said, “but please don’t tell my kids. I don’t need them thinking you and I need to be measured for straitjackets.”
Chapter 18
PORT ALLEN, LOUISIANA
Back at the motel, they sat in their room with Richard. The a/c was going full blast and they each had an iced soda, but the heat and humidity hung over the motel like a live thing, always present, always oppressive.
The news wasn’t good. There was still no sign of Donny, and the police were indicating they would be scaling back the search—if not canceling it—by the end of the next day.
“One of the cops told me that, at this point, they’re mostly looking for remains,” Richard said.
“He didn’t say that to Missy and Trudy, did he?” George asked.
“No, but some other lunkhead said that if a gator got Donny, like as not they’d never find a trace. Missy had a bit of a meltdown after that one.” He shook his head angrily.
“Idiot,” George hissed.
“Daddy, I don’t think the family is going to meet for dinner tonight. Tempers are pretty frazzled and everyone is on a hair-trigger. Besides, I think Melissa and Trudy are just going to stay in. They’re exhausted.”
George nodded. “Any discussion of what will be done if the police call off the search?”
“Delphine says we’ll hire a private team. That could get hideously expensive, but Marty has already said he’d be able to carry the brunt of it.”
“I want to help,” George said.
Richard looked at him in surprise.
“We have some money,” George said, glancing at Jimmy.
“Absolutely,” agreed Jimmy. “Whatever we can do.”
Richard nodded, thinking that the old men probably had a social security check or two to spare.
“Okay,” Richard said, “I will let Marty know. He probably won’t let you help, Daddy. Don’t be offended if that’s the case. I think sometimes he’s embarrassed to be so wealthy.”
“He shouldn’t be, he worked hard. You all have,” George said. “I’m proud of each and every one of you. I know your mother would be, too.”
“Thanks,” Richard said softly. “To tell the truth, I don’t know how much longer I can stay here. I have a show in the fall and I have a lot of work to do. I don’t want to let Missy down, but…”
“You’ve been here,” George said, “when your sister needed you, you dropped everything and flew halfway around the world to be here.”
Richard sighed. “I guess.” He looked at his watch. “Marty and I were going to grab a bite, little place we found called Phoebe’s.”
“We know it,” George said.
“You two wanna come? Guys’ night?”
“Um, we’re both pretty tired,” George said, “long day. We might just order in a pizza or something.”
“What’d you two do all day?”
George took a deep breath. “A man came to see me yesterday, said his mother in Green Water knew me.”
“Green Water?”
“Little town about thirty miles from here.”
“So you went there today?”
“Actually, we went yesterday. She told me I wasn’t born in Georgia, but in Green Water. Said that there were lots of Watterses buried in the cemetery.”
“Really…” Richard said, surprised.
“She also said I had an aunt in a nursing home there. Jimmy and I went back today to see if it was so.”
“And, is it?”
“It would seem so. Her name is Coraline Boudreaux and she would be your great-great-aunt.”
“Have you verified this with any official records, Daddy?”
“The nursing home had me down as the only living relative. I can’t imagine they would be complicit in some crime.”
“I don’t know,” Richard said. “Marty has a lot of money.”
“Well, we saw her. She remembers that my mother and I left town suddenly.”
“What else did she say?”
“She’s getting on, Richard. She’s got Alzheimer’s or some other sort of dementia.”
“That’s convenient,” Richard said.
“I believe her,” George said. “All this time I thought I was born in Albany, Georgia, and now I find out I was wrong.”
Richard thought a moment. “Do you think any of this has something to do with Donny’s disappearance?”
George said, “I don’t see how.”
“It’s suspicious, Daddy. They go camping here, Donny vanishes, and an old woman appears out of nowhere and says you are her long-lost nephew. Seems fishy.”
“Richard, it’s just a coincidence,” George insisted.
But is it? George wondered. He felt he was close to the truth, but it was still behind some door he couldn’t quite open.
Richard sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I’m chasing phantoms. Maybe I’ll catch a nap before dinner. See you boys at breakfast?”
George and Jimmy nodded.
Richard hugged his father and nodded to Jimmy, then let himself out.
—
Jimmy searched George’s phone for botanicas in Port Allen. He knew there would be quite a few more in New Orleans, but that was some ninety miles away, and many were probably tourist traps, not real places of magic.
He found a place called La Recherche, which a translation site told him meant “the search” in French. Reviews of the place were generally good, with most people impressed with the shop’s authenticity and reasonable prices.
They traveled to an older part of town, an area that had gone to seed years before but now was showing signs of gentrification: a Starbucks, an upscale art gallery, and what might have been a restaurant or nightclub, its only signifier a polished metal sign that simply read, HERE.
La Recherche was sandwiched between a dingy-looking donut shop and a butcher shop that had gone out of business. The façade of the shop was a brilliant crimson with accents of purple and gold. A large eye of neon tubing—now dark—took up much of the front window. Various votive candles with pictures of Mary, Jesus, and many saints lined the bottom of the window.
George clucked his tongue disapprovingly, but Jimmy led them in, hoping for answers.
Inside, the place was filled with strange smells and aromas, everything from incense and dried flowers to musty papers and a faint tang of mildew. Large vitrines served as both counters and display cases, the walls behind them lined with apothecary jars filled with strange powders and liquids. One set of shelves had various reptiles, amphibians, and small mammals, either mummified or in jars of formaldehyde. Bookcases were filled with old hardcovers and new trades, some of the presumably rarer volumes locked behind glass.
Music was playing, something with which Jimmy was unfamiliar. He looked at George.
“Creole,” George said, trying to take everything in.
They went to the front counter, where a pale young woman in goth clothing with several nose rings and earrings was reading a physics textbook and making notes. She looked up at them and smiled.
“Welcome to La Recherche, may I help you?”
“We’re hoping to speak to someone who might have information about the area,” Jimmy said.
“What sort of information? Where famous people are buried?”
“More like…the underbelly of the place. The true supernatural nature of the region.”
She nodded. “You need to speak to the owner.”
“Is he here?” Jimmy asked.
“He is. He consults in the back room.”
“How much is that?” George asked.
“Forty dollars for ten minutes, two hundred for an hour.”
“That’s pretty steep,” George said.
A young white boy in jeans and an Avengers tee shirt walked in and peered into a case filled with bones, skulls, and taxidermied bats. He placed his fingers on the glass and pressed his nose against it, trying to get a better view.
“Hey, I told you to stay out!” the goth girl said. “Shoo!”
The boy ran to the door. Just before exiting he wiggled his rear end while making a loud raspberry sound against his arm. Then he scurried out, slamming the door.
George and Jimmy turned back to the goth girl.
“Kids,” she said, shaking her head. “Mr. Duvalier’s rates are very reasonable.” She leaned forward and said softly, “He’s a descendant of Marie Laveau!”
Jimmy sighed. He wondered how many people made such a claim throughout Louisiana.
Probably hundreds.
Jimmy placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “One question.”
She thought about it and held up an index finger. One moment.
She went to the back and was gone for a moment, then waved them in. A light-skinned black man in his twenties was sitting at a small table covered with black velvet. It was adorned with a skull, several crystals, and a tarot deck. He was dressed in a silk robe decorated with an intricate pattern of skulls and flames. His head was shaved, and he had adorned his face with shadowing to make it more skull-like.
He stood and bowed as they walked in.
“I am Ambrose, Ambrose Duvalier. Please sit.”
Jimmy and George sat in folding chairs placed in front of the table.
“My assistant tells me you have one question.” He looked at them, calm and serene.
Jimmy said, “I assume you know most of the supernatural inhabitants of the Atchafalaya.”
“I know them all, sir. Would you like to speak to one?”
“No, just tell me this: What precious thing did Dabo Muu lose recently?”
A look flickered across Ambrose Duvalier’s face, and that was enough for Jimmy.
He had no idea who Dabo Muu is!
“She lost her home in the last storm,” replied Ambrose Duvalier.
“Thank you for your time,” Jimmy said. To George he said, “Let’s go.”
Deadlight Jack Page 14
