The Seer Renee

by C. R. Daems

  "I'm not sure," Orange sounded confused. "She claimed she had heard rumors from several people which indicated a firebombing after hours on the weekend. Our yokels hired some gang, so it's possible. Or it could have been another mambo or houngan who told her. Her grandmother had the ability. Isn't it possible another Voodoo priest or priestess does, also? And there is no indication she knew the attack was coming. The FBI agent stopped in to question her as part of the investigation of the robbery-murder. She was taking an inventory at the time. Doesn't seem to fit with preparing for a firebombing since there was only one FBI agent in the shop and none outside."

  "What if I can persuade them to leave her alone?" Red asked.

  "The yokels hired some biker gang to shoot the houngan and to do the firebombing. What if she is with the next victim? Do they know the Renee woman, or can they recognize her? Do you think they care who gets injured or killed in the process of carrying out the yokel’s terror tactics? These aren't professionals they've hired. They are thugs, addicts, and don't-give-a-damn kids," Willis said, unable to contain himself.

  "Willis is correct. In addition, we need to be certain before we grab her. If we act prematurely, we may expose us and our project. Red, we will give you one day to stop the yokels altogether. You will report back tomorrow evening with a decisive yes or no. In the meantime, Black, you should prepare to fix the problem tomorrow if Red hasn't resolved it by the time we meet," Blue snapped.

  "I may not—"

  Blue cut him off, "Tomorrow, Black."

  "Tomorrow," Black agreed.

  "When will we know?" Blue asked.

  "Given that someone doesn't kill Renee or put her in the hospital, within three weeks."

  "One way or the other, the yokel problem is solved. We will meet again at eight p.m. tomorrow, and we'll want an update from you in two weeks from today." The Blue's smiley face laughed, and the boxes blanked out one at a time. Willis wondered again for the hundredth time who was behind the smiley faces. He was sure Black was in the business of killing and had the resources to find anyone. Could be FBI, CIA, or some black ops group. Blue was clearly the group leader, someone already in a position of power. Red was an idealist. Some right wing group and had links to the group wanting the Voodoo image eliminated. Orange was probably linked to government security since he knew the specifics of Renee's injuries or lack thereof. Brown was hard to figure as he or she said little. Probably the master mind, willing to sit back and watch the others implement his scheme.

  The most intriguing question was: what was the scheme they intended to hatch? It was unlikely to be a money motive, more likely power, but for what purpose? They had an agenda, that he was sure of. But what? Maybe an attack against America? He shrugged. He didn't really care. His agenda was the comfortable life that their money would provide. And this project would provide enough to last a lifetime—given he could keep from becoming a loose end for Black.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Fire sale

  Thankfully, the next several days were busy, which gave me little time to worry. I painted "House of Eshe - Fire Sale" on the plywood board covering the broken window and had tagged most everything in the shop with a sale tag, reducing the price somewhere between five and ten percent. Ironically, I had constant traffic all day and sales were excellent. At this rate, I'd run out of inventory in a week. That was good because replacing the window wasn't cheap, and I'd spent several hundred preparing for the firebombing. In addition, I was having a website developed through a friend of Mr. Bishop. Of course, problems seldom resolve themselves, or go away because you aren't paying attention, or wait until you're ready to deal with them.

  It was near noon when Hector entered the shop and my collection of worries returned.

  "Mambo Renee, the Locos had nothing to do with the firebombing," he said somewhat nervously. When I nodded, he continued. "Could you give me a telling, maybe tonight?"

  "Seven o'clock?" What could I say? I walked a knife's edge with the Locos. I didn't want to be their friend, and I didn't want to be their enemy. I was shooting for neutral, but that seemed impossible. I closed on time, had a quick dinner of leftovers, and changed into more traditional dress, not to impress Hector but to remind him I was a powerful Mambo. I also added two rings with mixtures that would end our relationship permanently. Hector showed right on time and was alone, which I took as a good sign.

  "Come in and have a seat." I waved to the table in the corner. He nodded, took a seat, and put his hands on the table.

  "Mambo, the Locos didn't firebomb your shop," he said in a rush. "It was a biker group out of Westwego, The Damned. We'll go visit them, if you want."

  "No, Hector. I know it wasn't you or any of your gang. The FBI is conducting an investigation, so you don't want to get involved."

  "No, Mambo." He nodded and looked relieved. With that resolved, I put my hands over his and closed my eyes. My new power had me fascinated. I could speed up through the uninteresting parts, like Hector and his gang drinking and screwing and passing out, slow down where I was interested, even stop and back up. I almost forgot Hector was there and probably turning pale as time passed. I had lingered over a fight between Hector and Madman. It had lasted what seemed like an eternity, with the gang members and girls screaming and cheering them on. They were both bloody and their clothes torn. Hector was favoring his right side. Madman had probably broken a rib or two in addition to his nose and maybe knocked loose some teeth. Eventually, Hector went to his knees. Madman grabbed him by the neck and hit him over and over again. Eventually, he let go and encouraged the gang to kick and stomp Hector as he lay unconscious on the floor. Hector lay in bed for the next five days, until Madman forced him up and used him to fetch and carry. Through Hector I could see the mayhem Madman was causing, kidnapping girls and having them gang raped, stealing from merchants, and vandalizing those who wouldn't give him what he demanded. It seemed everyone was too terrified to even get the police involved. Eventually they would, but in the meantime lives were being destroyed.

  "Looks pretty normal couple of weeks: drugs, girls, and good drug sales." The police would like to know what I know. "I know you're a good fighter, but I see this really big guy maybe picking a fight with you. If you aren't careful, you'll lose...everything." I could feel Hector's hands begin to tighten into fists and then relax. We sat in silence. Over the next few minutes, I saw the fight scene change as Hector slipped something solid into each hand and the blows to Madman seemed to be having more impact, then suddenly two punches with the side of the fist to Madman's temple caused him to collapse like a wet rag. Slowing down the action, I saw the objects in Hector's hands, which were obscured by his fists. They extended out an inch or so from his fists and were what made the contact with Madman's temple. When I removed my hands, Hector had a slight smile.

  "Thank you, Mambo Renee," he said, dropping a hundred dollar bill on the table, and left. I felt justified in helping Hector only because Madman would be worse for everyone—he was insane.

  * * *

  Around noon the next day, Grace and Mike entered, and I decided to take a break.

  "Hi, if y’all will make yourselves comfortable in the back, I'll close for lunch as soon as I get a chance." About thirty minutes later the last customer left, and I locked the door and hung an "Out for lunch - Back at 1:30" sign in the window.

  "Sorry, it took so long, but my fire sale has brought in a lot of customers," I said, taking a seat in front of the sweet tea Grace had poured for me while they waited. "Business or other?"

  "Grace is not only a hero, but she's gotten a promotion. She's now the lead agent on the taskforce looking into organized crime in the French Quarter."

  "Congratulations. That's wonderful," I said. Having her as the lead would make it easier to involve the FBI—I hoped.

  "Thank you." She gave me a wry smile. She obviously wasn't comfortable taking credit for saving me. She'd done it reluctantly not only because I had insisted, but because she sensed I wou
ld be in danger otherwise. "Ron and I would like to invite you for dinner tomorrow...if you’re free." The hesitation meant it was more than a social invitation, more like a polite insistence.

  "I would enjoy that. Tomorrow night at…?"

  "How about seven?" She took out a card, wrote something on the back and handed it to me. "Here is our address. Do you need a ride? I know you don't have a car."

  "No, but thank you. It's not far from here. Tomorrow at seven," I said scanning the address. 1201 Canal Street was an upscale condo complex and only a little over a mile away. I was sure my behavior lately had raised many unanswered questions. Asking me to dinner would allow her to question me without another agent present, who might cause me to be less than truthful—lie. They left shortly afterward.

  * * *

  When I knocked, Ron answered the door. "Renee, I'm glad you could come. I was hoping we could meet for dinner sooner, but the new job has made me unsure when I'll be home. Grace's invitation forced me to make time, and I'm glad. She's in the kitchen preparing something. While we're waiting, why don't I show you around?" he said, and proceeded to give me a tour of their two bedroom condo. It was on the fourth floor and had a beautiful view in the direction of the French Quarter. The Canal condos were an up-scale complex with concierge and valet service. Grace was still in the kitchen when we finished, but she had drinks and snacks on the granite counter separating the kitchen and living area.

  "I hope you don't mind the informal dress?" When I shook my head, she pointed to the counter. She had on an oversized, white T-shirt with a dragon design in the front, black workout pants, and slippers. "What would you like to drink?"

  I couldn’t help but wonder if that were on purpose: we’re all friends here or just her natural unpretentious way. Ron was dressed in beige Docker slacks, brown loafers, and a green, short-sleeved Polo shirt. .

  "Coke," I said and picked up a cracker and spread a creamy cheese dip on it.

  "You don't drink alcohol? I thought you had wine last time we ate out."

  "Now and then, mostly so I don't make anyone uncomfortable," I said, deciding to be truthful. I suspected a lot of that would be required tonight.

  During dinner, Ron talked about his job and responsibilities at the new firm. His area of expertise was criminal law, and he already had several clients: one embezzlement, one drunk driving, and one manslaughter. He couldn't talk about his clients but could talk about the organization within the firm.

  "I know people get upset with defense lawyers because we get criminals off and let them run loose on our streets," Ron said, after describing some of the cases the firm was currently handling. "That may be true. But the same people would be happy we are there if they were in trouble. We can't just sentence people based on what we think, assume, or believe. The law needs to convince a jury of our peers beyond a reasonable doubt. Yes, some bad guys go free, but there are fewer innocent people in jail or on death row."

  I nodded thoughtfully. "But you have to admit the rich get better lawyers, like you, and therefore are more likely to get off or do less time," I said, thinking about those who drove Granny to kill herself.

  "That's true. It certainly isn't a perfect system, but it's what we have and better than many other countries."

  "Sorry, Ron. It's not your fault, and your job is to make sure each person gets a fair trial, not to help criminals." I smiled, hoping he didn't take my earlier remarks personally. Before he could respond, Grace stood.

  "Let's take our coffee and go sit in the living room." When we were seated, she continued. "Well, Renee. You know I had a motive for inviting you here." She held up her hand. "Ron and I want to continue our relationship with you and have been planning to ask you over, but our new jobs have kept us hopping. Ron's having to work overtime to make a good impression with his new firm, and me with the incidents in the French Quarter. Since I sensed you wouldn't say anything with another agent present, I thought this an excellent opportunity to have you over as a friend and to talk to you privately about what is happening in the French Quarter—off the record. I know this is a little unfair, but..."

  "You're right. I wouldn't talk about the situation in front of Mike or any other agent. The problem is that it raises more questions than I can answer truthfully—how did I know, what did I hear, who were they, and where can we find them, etc. A good example is my information about the firebombing of Mambo Monique," I said and waited. Grace looked like she was dying to say something but didn't. "I’ll help as much as I can, but you cannot expect me to divulge the source of my information. If pressed, I will either avoid the question or lie. For example, how did I know Mambo Monique was going to be firebombed, or that it was called off, or that I was the next target, or how I know the motorcycle gang called 'The Damned' are responsible for killing Houngan Bolade and the firebombing?"

  "You know who committed the robbery and fire..." Grace stared at me. I'd bet her mind was racing with options, accusations, threats, and pleas. "We can protect you, Renee."

  I couldn't help it. I laughed, which didn't go over well. "Grace, I know you mean it and believe that you can. But the FBI couldn't even keep the stakeout a secret, so how could I expect them to keep my name, involvement, or location a secret? The problem isn't what you believe it to be. You want the truth, Grace? The truth is that what I know and how I know it is my death sentence. Even the Loa couldn't and wouldn't stop it." They didn't stop Granny. Tears formed in my eyes at the thought. A long unnatural silence followed.

  "I will try to help you with the French Quarter problem, when I can. It's where I live, and I have dear friends there. I'd be willing to risk my life to save them, but, ironically, risking my life won't help."

  "But..." Grace started, shook her head, and decided to take a sip of coffee. Ron sat staring at me deep in thought—lawyer mode. Grace put her cup down.

  "You have my head spinning. I thought you were protecting people who didn't want to get involved. It’s certainly common enough in certain communities. Or were afraid to say for fear of your life, and I hoped you would share, at least, more details about what you or they heard, where, and when. But I seemed to have stereotyped you and the problem."

  "Yes, I think so, Grace," Ron said, looking amused. "My friend is like her beloved Voodoo, not what one's first impression tells you."

  "Renee, I think I owe you an apology. No more questions. I'll trust you will tell me what and when you can."

  "Thank you, both of you. Sometimes I wish I could run away, get lost, disappear. But I can't without abandoning Vodou. And I won't do that regardless of the consequences.

  * * *

  The following week I was flooded with fortunetelling appointments. Oatha had her regular bi-weekly appointment and looked her normal cheerful self when she arrived.

  "Good evening, Oatha. You look well," I said as I opened the door.

  "I am. I guess I shouldn't say that and jinx it. But I have a good husband and two lovely children and my health seems good except for a normal cold or allergy," she said as she took off the light rain jacket she was wearing. It had rained heavy early in the day, but now it had become a drizzle.

  "Do you have time for tea?" I asked. I always suspected Oatha liked to sit and tell me about her life as much as she wanted her fortune told. The water was already hot in anticipation, and it only took a few minutes to make the tea.

  "Thank you," she said, taking a small sip. "It's terrible what’s been happening. Houngan Bolade killed, and you firebombed. I heard someone has been trying to buy you out. And I guess scare you if you won't sell. Are you leaving?"

  "No. This is not only my shop but my home."

  "I hear you've been having a fire sale, but it doesn't look like you suffered much damage," she said, surveying the shop.

  "I was lucky. I had a couple of fire extinguishers lying around, and an agent was here when it happened. Between the two of us, we put the fire out before it could do much damage." We spent another half hour talking before she smiled
and put her hands palm down on the table.

  "Thank you, Renee. I always enjoy talking with you. It's been interesting learning about Vodou since its roots are in Catholicism. I'm ready for all the good news."

  I put my hands over hers hoping she was right. I usually only told people about the next couple of weeks, although I could see more. In the beginning, I could only see three to four weeks and thought two was enough. Now I saw it as an advantage with Ken and Sheila sniffing around. I suspected whoever wanted Granny's ability needed far more than a couple of weeks. Maybe I could use that to thwart whatever they had planned. Of course, seeing two weeks into the future would be tremendously beneficial to anyone, especially those in power.

  Oatha's life was pretty normal for the next two weeks, with the exception of the whole family coming down with what looked like a cold. However, her close friend was in a car accident. Oatha, as usual, was a good friend and drove her around while her car was being fixed.

  "Well, I'm afraid you may have jinxed it a bit. I think you and the family maybe are in for that seasonal cold. One of your friends isn't quite so lucky. I think she'll need your help. Nothing really serious."

  She had several questions about what I had seen, which I intentionally kept vague. I didn't want anyone to know how clearly I saw the future, just enough to believe in me so I could help when the occasion arose. Of course, the income was appreciated—I had to eat and pay the bills.

  The next evening, Harry Bishop entered the shop, smiling. He looked like the old Harry, generous in size and personality. Last time, he had looked shrunken and defeated.

  "You saved me and my marriage. I can't thank you enough, Mambo Renee. I've always disliked my mother-in-law and the thought of her coming to live with us put a wedge between my wife and me. But I took your advice, and it brought Mary and me closer together. It also helped me to get to know my mother-in-law. I guess we both got off on the wrong foot years ago and could never recover. She was pretty nice once I got to know her and understood her concerns and worries. She died two weeks ago."