The Seer Renee

by C. R. Daems

  "Put your hands on the table, palms down, please," I said. She gave me a strange look but complied. I placed my hands over her and watched as she went through her normal routine, which proved highly paranoid. It happened several weeks later. A man broke into her apartment and raped her. It was so violent I couldn't help but jerk my hands away. In response, she stood quickly and knocked over her chair.

  "WHAT?" She looked pale, and her hands were shaking. Mine were shaking too, so I put them in my lap out of sight under the table.

  "I apologize, Ellen. Please sit."

  "If this is an act, I don't appreciate it."

  "Please sit." I had to think. What do I tell her and more importantly how do I stop the rape without disclosing what I see. Granny, if you’re listening, I need help. "The future is complicated because there are so many factors that affect each individual. Sometimes it's hard to interpret what I see." And can tell you. "I'm sorry I scared you. I'm not sure how to interpret what I saw and need time to think about it, but I can tell you I see nothing to worry about for the next two weeks. I want no money for tonight since I haven't helped; in fact, I've caused you more worries. I'd ask you to forgive me, and come back in two weeks. You needn't pay for that session either."

  "You say I have nothing to worry about. Are you sure?" She stood, staring down at me.

  "Sit down and place your hands back on the table, please." When she did, I placed my hands over hers and watched the next three weeks. Nothing changed.

  "Yes, I'm sure. I'm concerned about further out, which isn't clear to me." What wasn't clear was what I could do about it. Doing nothing wasn't an option. Some color had returned to her face as she sat thinking.

  "I don't know what to think about you, Mambo Renee. But I do believe you want to help. It's written all over your face and in your body language. I just hope you can. I'm slowly losing my mind." She stood, dropped a hundred dollar bill on the table and left. I hoped so too. I think the rapist kills her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mr. Willis

  "Well, what have you found out about the Renee girl?" Mr. Willis asked as Ken and Sheila settled on the brown corduroy couch. He sat in a beige-striped lounge chair to their left. Tony stood off to the side. The view of New Orleans out the floor-to-ceiling window was spectacular. The suite must have cost at least a thousand a night.

  "We discovered a lot, but nothing to prove whether she's a fake or can really tell the future. Everyone I talked to said she could tell the future, but when I pushed for details, the examples they gave were ambiguous. If she says good things are going to happen, and they do, is that because she saw the future or just telling them what they want to hear or based on what that person let slip or…? There was one case where she told the man not to drive or he'd have an accident. She told him to see a doctor before he drove again. But there again, everyone agrees she knows medicine so she could've detected something in his behavior. She also told him his sister would come through a serious operation all right. But would a fake tell you she was going to die? The odds favor the patient at least surviving the operation." Ken shrugged in frustration.

  "What about you, Sheila?" Willis asked, blowing out a cloud of smoke and pointing his cigar in her direction.

  "Pretty much the same results. Some of what she predicted could be extrapolated from general knowledge. Like the fishing has been good, so there will be extra money to spend. Some of her clients certainly give away information when they are talking. And most of the woman I talked to are regular clients, so she knows a lot about them—family, friends, work, money, etc." Sheila paused to take a sip of the Pinot Noir she had selected from the wines on the counter. "She's very intelligent, knows her herbs, and studied under Eshe for many years. Consequently, she would make a convincing fake. Conversely, she would also be able to hide the fact she could really predict the future."

  "In other words, you don't know." Willis rose and walked over to the window and stood looking out while puffing on his cigar. "There's still time. Perhaps we should create a little test. What if we target one of her clients? If she warns them, we will know. Of course, we have to carry through on the threat, or it wouldn't be a future event. I leave it to you and Sheila to arrange." He pointed his cigar at Ken. "A serious event, or she may choose to ignore it."

  Willis nodded at Tony who grabbed a briefcase and opened the door. Tony turned back to them after Willis exited the door. "The room is yours tonight if you wish."

  * * *

  "What do you think, Sheila?" Ken asked as he made himself a seven-and-seven from the assortment of liquors on the counter. Sheila sat on the couch with her legs curled under her, sipping a new glass of wine.

  "It has to be one of her current clients who sees her regularly. What's going to happen to him or her must be something Renee can't ignore. We must go through with it regardless of whether she tries to stop it, or she wouldn't be able to see it in the person's future."

  "What if she can't see the future?"

  "Then her client is going to have a very bad day, and she can blame Renee."

  "What if she can, but chooses not to intervene?"

  "Then she can blame us." Sheila smiled. "We know she genuinely tries to help people, so—shit! If she can see the future, she knows we tossed her place, and we aren't what we claimed. And she most likely suspects it's related to her granny's suicide. If that's true, it can't be a simple robbery or mugging. The incident must be serious enough that she can't in good conscience ignore it, and we can't be seen as a part of it. The person or his or her family must be crippled or killed."

  "I agree with your reasoning, but… is it worth it to us?"

  "What's it worth, Ken?"

  "I'm not a killer, Sheila!"

  "Maybe you should back out now—if you can." Sheila shrugged and took a sip of her wine, watching him over the top of her glass.

  "What do you mean? What do you think Willis would do?"

  "Willis will report your decision to whoever is pulling his strings. He's a middleman, and his sidekick, Tony, is an errand boy with a gun. The puppet-master may consider us loose ends. I would. Unless I'm wrong, this isn't about money. It's about power."

  "We could be a loose end whether she turns out to be real or fake." Ken downed his drink and poured his empty glass half-full of Seagram's.

  "I suggest we design a situation that will determine if she's real or a fake, and a way to ensure it's worth the risk—both the reward and our health."

  "We don't seem to have any other choice."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dilemma

  I slept poorly after my session with Ms. Jeffery. How could I stop the rape… murder… without giving away my secret? I didn't mind my clients thinking I could predict generalities about the future; otherwise, why come to me? But I didn't want them to know the clarity with which I could see the future. That would surely get me more attention than I wanted. Worse yet, that I could change the future. I tossed and turned all night considering one option after another.

  By morning, I was exhausted, had a wicked headache, and no solution. I made myself a strong cup of coffee hoping it would help. It didn't. My mind was in too much turmoil to think straight. I decided to take Mambo Monique's offer of help and visit her after I closed the shop for the day.

  With only a few customers, each minute felt like an hour. I considered putting a sign outside offering a free something or other, just to get people in to distract me from watching the clock, thinking about Ellen, or Granny's warning. I closed a half-hour early, freshened up, and changed clothes. Feeling better, I locked up and made my way down Bourbon Street towards Mambo Monique's shop with mixed feelings. I couldn't expect her to solve my problems, but I needed someone else's perspective. I was too close to the problem—much too close. Ironically, I wanted Monique's advice, but I couldn't give her the crucial details. My head ached by the time I reached her shop. It was still open, so I entered. Monique looked up from behind one of the glass cases she was cleaning.
<
br />   "Good evening, Renee. You look tired."

  "Good evening, Mambo Monique. I didn't sleep well last night," I said with a weak smile. Or the few nights before that. "Sometimes life seems overwhelming."

  "And you need someone to talk to." She nodded, walked to the door and turned the sign from Open to Closed. "You’re always welcome here, to talk or just to visit. Sometimes just visiting friends helps."

  "It feels like I'm on a speeding train. I can't stop it, and I can't get off."

  "In a sense, you are being tested, Renee. Many would claim it's the Loa testing your faith. Maybe. Maybe it's just the capriciousness of life striking when you're most vulnerable. Not because it knows you're vulnerable but because life can be complicated. Some people make it complicated, like your mother; others are merely caught in a storm, like you. It doesn't matter which. You must face it or run. If you face it, it will either make you strong or destroy you. If you run, you will forever give up who you are. Friends can help, but they can't solve it for you." She put her arm around me, holding me tight while she spoke. "You're a mambo. Seek the guidance of the Loa, just don't expect them to solve the problem."

  Monique sounded like Granny—I will help, but you must face the problem. You cannot depend on others to solve your problems.

  "Thank you, Mambo Monique, for reminding me that getting off the train is not an acceptable option no matter where the train is headed."

  "You’re welcome. I hear the Locos now consider you a powerful mambo and are buying gris-gris bags from you."

  "It's true. I just want them to leave me alone, but it seems there is no middle ground. I must either be on their side or against them. I can't afford to fight them, but I don't want to be associated with them."

  "You do have a problem. Giving Hector a telling and selling gris-gris bags to Locos does make it look like you are part of their clique. Of course, having Loco tattooed on your face or neck won't be good either." She held me at arm’s length. "However you kept the MS666 out of this area, you did us all a favor. Unfortunately, few will know you are paying the cost alone. I believe you are good and will do my best to support you, but I cannot solve your problems."

  "I know. With Granny gone… I just needed someone to tell me what she would have if she had been here." Somehow, I felt better even though none of my problems had been solved. Well that wasn't entirely true. I had Mambo Monique's support to offset the impression that I was delving in the black arts because of my apparent association with the Locos. That had certainly been a major concern. Monique made us a rose mint tea, and we sat around talking about my upcoming wedding ceremony. I felt better or maybe just determined when I left.

  * * *

  The next morning I called Granny's friend in Oregon.

  "Mr. Waldoff, my name is Renee. My grandmother, Mambo Eshe, commissioned several rings from you last year. I was wondering if you could make one or two for me?"

  "How is your grandmother? I haven't talked to her for a long time."

  "She...she died a year ago. I'm sorry I didn't let you know. I remember now, Granny telling me that you had been close friends since she was a young girl."

  "I am sorry to hear that, and I understand. Her sudden death must have been terribly hard on you. I know you and she were very close, more like a mother and daughter. I hope she didn't suffer."

  "No, she didn't suffer. Could you make me two rings."

  "Of course, just like before?"

  "Yes and no. This time I would like them dressier. Perhaps one a nice looking Indian-like ring I could wear as a good-luck piece or souvenir. The band should be gold."

  "I can do that. When do you need them?"

  "I know I'm being unreasonable, but I need at least one as soon as you can get it to me. I will pay whatever you ask," I said, crossing my fingers—a silly gesture. The rings weren't illegal, but he didn't know how I intended to use them.

  "Eshe talked about you a great deal, so I feel I know you and can trust the rings won't be abused. I can have one ready in a few days, and ship it overnight if you want."

  "Thank you, Mr. Waldoff. I appreciate your help and promise I won't misuse the ring."

  "Harry, please. Call me anytime. Eshe was a dear friend. And if you are up this way, stop in. I'd love to meet you face to face."

  "Thank you, again." I hung up and sat back somewhat relieved—somewhat because there was still the matter of what I could or should tell Ms. Jeffery, what poison to use, and the police. I suspected there would be lots of questions and possible charges depending upon the outcome. Being the victim didn't guarantee some district attorney wouldn’t take issue with the way you defended yourself. It wouldn’t be the first time the criminal was viewed as the victim. My head pounded. It would be easier to just let the future be the future.

  * * *

  I entered the pavilion thirty minutes early intending to spend time talking with the wedding couple and any friends and relatives that might attend. I spotted Elva and Gualter standing with several people off to the side.

  "Good evening, Elva, Gualter."

  "Good evening, Mambo Renee. I'd like you to meet my mother, Cezelia, Aunt Arilla, Uncle Clovis, Gualter's father, Betrand, and mother, Alma, and our friends, Remy and Eula,” Elva said, going around the circle of people, each nodding or smiling when their name was mentioned. “Some of our other relatives should be arriving soon."

  "We heard a lot about you, Mambo Renee," Elva's mother said. "Mambo Monique speaks highly of you. Arilla, Clovis, and I are members of Houngan Amedee's congregation, and Betrand and Alma Mambo Heloise's."

  "I had concerns when Gualter and Elva decided to join your congregation. You're very young, but I like what you did to prepare them for marriage. You've helped them understand there is more to marriage than sex and kids. Many other priests tend to be more concerned with the ceremony."

  "Thank you, Cezelia. Mambo Asogwe Eshe, my grandmother, would have been disappointed if I'd done anything less." I excused myself and wandered around talking with the gathered people. Most of the members of my congregation were there as well as a few new people. A few were there just to observe a wedding ceremony. A few came with a friend but were new to Vodou. I spent a few minutes talking about the ceremony and Vodou—my favorite topic—before entering the pavilion.

  I began the ceremony by drawing the ve-ve for Legba-Papa Labas on the floor with brick chalk to open the gates. Then I asked Elva to read her personal vows to Gualter, and then Gualter to Elva. I gave each a gris-gris bag mixed for love and happiness, then transferred the four-foot corn snake from around my neck and draped it over them. Many outsiders wouldn't understand, but Vodou is a danced religion, where the sound is a magic all of its own which heals and creates the energy to invoke the Loa. Jermain began beating a rhythm on the drum, his mahogany face slick with sweat as he swayed with the rhythm, while I chanted to Loa Anaisa Pye—the Loa of love, money, happiness—to bless them. The dancing began. Lost in the dance I could feel the python on my arm move and felt the presence of the Loa. I knew Elva and Gualter felt it too.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ellen Jeffery

  All week I had been worrying over my upcoming Telling with Ellen Jeffery. It would be a relief if I could just tell her who and what was going to happen. Well I didn't really know who, but I knew he worked with her because I had seen him at work with her. Of course, I couldn't without putting myself in jeopardy, especially with Ken and Sheila snooping around.

  One of the rings had arrived on Tuesday and the second on Friday. I had been agonizing over what to put in them all week. Finally, I decided using anything lethal would get us in more trouble than it was worth—well almost. Some smart-ass district attorney might decide the attacker was the victim and Jeffery the criminal, and me an accessory before or after the fact. Or he might decide I was the criminal and Jeffery the accessory. So I chose a diluted form of moonseeds, which should cause paralysis. I still hadn't resolved what to tell her when I heard the knock at the door and knew it
was Jeffery before I opened it.

  "Good evening, Ms. Jeffery. Come in and have a seat. Would you like something to drink—tea, ginger ale?" Personally, I needed a Long Island iced tea with a triple Zombie chaser. Ellen looked like she had been on a week's bender, shadows under her eyes, complexion pale, and no makeup or fingernail polish. A stark difference to the woman I had first met a month ago.

  "Tea would be lovely, thank you...Mambo Renee," she said while her eyes darted around the room like someone was hiding there.

  "Please sit, and try to relax. We're alone, and you're safe. Look around the shop while I make some tea, you don't have to buy anything. Better yet, join me in the back." I went to the front door and locked it, then waved for her to follow me into my living area. That seemed to help a little. Before sitting, she surveyed the room.

  "It's small but a very comfortable room. A person's home says a lot about them. You're conservative, well-read, honest, and a true mambo. What I mean to say is that you believe in your religion and take it seriously." She gave me a small smile. "Sorry, I can't help evaluating people. It comes in handy in my work. I'm a marketing director."

  "Yes, I do. It may appear a strange religion more so because of the nonsense portrayed in the Voodoo movies that have been made over the years and because our ceremonies are more animated than most people are used to. But we believe in one God, pray, have saints called Loa, and try to live our lives in accordance with our interpretation of God's wishes." I put two glasses of sweet tea on the table along with slices of lemon and sat. We sat in silence while we sipped our tea. I could tell she wanted to start the session but dreaded it.

  "Ms. Jeffery—"

  "Call me Ellen...Renee."

  "Ellen, put your hands on the table, palms down. Here is as good a place as any," I said, clearing the table. When she did, I placed mine over hers. I hadn't expected anything to change, and it didn't, so I was left with the original problem. It would happen next Friday night, and the attacker would first rape Ellen and then beat her to death. I almost gagged while watching.