Corpse Whisperer Sworn

by H. R. Boldwood

  “Thanks. Good thinking.”

  “I mean it,” he said. “Take your time. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m kind of sweet on you, Allie girl. The thing is, I don’t like to share. And if you’re looking somewhere else, I won’t stand in your way.” He shrugged. “You could do worse than Rico. He’s a stand-up guy.”

  I kissed Ferris’s cheek, inhaled the spicy scent of his Dolce and Gabanna cologne, and almost sighed out loud. This romantic shit was still new to me. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I blurted, “I’m…fond…of you, too.”

  “Fond?” Ferris laughed so hard he nearly choked.

  Fond. Yeah, that’s right. Of all the words in the English language, I went with fond. Freaking loser. All these feelings and emotions—all this weeny shit confuses the hell out of me. Somebody give me a roadmap.

  Ferris turned his eyes toward the lobby. “Speak of the devil.”

  Rico had returned and was climbing out of an Uber.

  “Call it,” Ferris said, opening his door as Rico entered the hotel. “Heads, Jade’s headed back home; tails, she told him to pound salt.”

  I climbed out of the passenger side and grumbled, “Tails.”

  If I knew Nancy Newshound, she wasn’t going anywhere. Ferris and I threaded through the crowded parking lot on our way to the lobby. I’d almost cleared the last row of cars when someone grabbed my shoulder from behind. I spun, leading with my elbow, and connected with a crazed six-foot freshie.

  The rotter absorbed the blow from my left elbow and then grabbed my right arm as I followed through with a hook. I pulled my punch at the last second when I realized my fist was headed straight for its teeth. The stinking deadhead jerked my arm toward its mouth, snapping its jaws. I shoved the heel of my left hand into the tip of its chin. It stumbled into the side of a Chevy Blazer, lost its footing, and fell.

  A quick glance at Ferris found him tangling with a deadhead of his own. I drew Hawk, squeezed the trigger, and completed a brainectomy on my rotter, but I didn’t make it three steps before being brought down from behind.

  Hawk skittered from my hand and slid beneath an SUV.

  I flipped onto my back and stared into the maggot infested face of a corpsicle.

  A shot rang out across the parking lot. Had Ferris taken down his biter? The corpsicle bent down to make a meal out of me, so I snap-kicked its rotting gut, nearly severing it in two. It plopped to the ground in a puddle of liquefied zushi.

  I scuttled beneath the SUV and retrieved Hawk, swearing I would never tell Rico that I’d lost my weapon to a biter yet again. He’d have apoplexy. What can I say? When you throw down with deadheads, shit happens.

  As I belly-crawled out from beneath the undercarriage, something clamped onto my ankle. I looked back and saw my boot squished between the jaws of another rotter. I couldn’t get off a clean shot with my foot in the way, so I kicked the meatbag in its face with my other boot. It loosened its grip, and I yanked my foot free.

  Once I’d slithered out from beneath the car, I circled around and pumped a 9 mm between its eyes. Allie: three. Biters: zero.

  Another shot rang out. My eyes darted back to Ferris. He’d taken down two bogeys, but a third one bulldozed him from behind. The rotter straddled Ferris, ready to drop for the kill.

  Ferris pulled his trigger, but the gun misfired.

  Rico sprinted out the lobby door, gun at high ready, but he was still maybe twenty feet from Ferris.

  “Keep clear,” Rico yelled. He brought his Glock to bear, steadied, and pulled the trigger.

  Booyah, Baby. This battle belonged to the good guys. Six up, six down, and the parking lot was covered in zushi. Rico grabbed Ferris’s hand and pulled him to his feet.

  “What took you so long?” Ferris asked.

  “I was in the elevator, on my way to the second floor, when I heard gunshots. I got off and took the steps back down. If I hadn’t, I’d still be on the slowest elevator in the world, listening to the freakin’ Girl from Ipanema, waiting for the door to open.”

  Ferris put his hands on his knees to catch his breath, then pulled out his phone and called in the attack. Good. Let the Feds deal with the parade of police that would come screaming into the parking lot any minute now.

  Little Allie nearly shattered my eardrums. “Oh, my God! Vinny!”

  Ferris secured the scene while Rico and I sprinted into the lobby and bounded up the steps to the second floor.

  Rico positioned himself along the wall and banged his fist on the door. “Agent McMillen. It’s De Palma. Everything all right in there?”

  The door opened the length of the safety chain, and the barrel of Babs’ baby Glock peeked out.

  Rico flattened himself against the wall. “Agent McMillen, holster your weapon please, and open the door.”

  “Thank God,” Vinny yelled from inside. “Take that thing away from her before she kills somebody.”

  The safety chain clinked as it slid across the door. Babs let us in, shaking worse than a crack addict. Vinny scrambled out from beneath the bed and plopped into the desk chair. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a crumpled Marlboro Light, and raised it to his lips. His fingers trembled like he had the DTs when he lit up.

  Babs frowned. “That’s illegal, Mr. Abruzzi. Not to mention unhealthy.”

  “Forget you, lady. You and your wobbly gun. You scared the shit out of me.”

  Babs blushed and turned her eyes to Rico. “I heard gunfire and pushed Mr. Abruzzi to the floor. Is everyone all right? Where’s Agent Ferris?”

  “We’re fine,” Rico said. “Ferris is outside coordinating with the local PD.”

  “Another pack attack,” I muttered. “We can forget about the element of surprise. Toussaint already knows we’re here.” I fed Hawk and racked the slide. “From now on, I suggest we all stay locked and loaded.”

  “Shit. Jade,” Rico muttered, pulling out his phone.

  Oh, yeah. I’d almost forgotten. “How’d your conversation go?”

  “How do you think it went?” he asked, calling Jade. “She’s got a job to do and so do we.”

  He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

  Fine, I thought. Catch us if you can, you manipulative man-eating succubus. Just don’t expect me to hold your prissy little hand.

  Come tomorrow, we had to find Toussaint, but fast. Taking Vinny with us posed a problem. Leaving him here with Babs posed an even bigger problem. She served a purpose from an investigative point of view, but she didn’t have the gravel of a field agent. The thought of taking Vinny to the FBI office for safe-keeping didn’t sit well with me either. My circle of trust has never been broad. Knowing Toussaint and his ability to grease palms, I figured we were better off looking after Vinny ourselves.

  When Rico walked back into the room, his eyes didn’t meet mine. He knew Jade would only get in the way. There was nothing I could do about that. We needed to get on with the business at hand. I told him about Toussaint’s manse in St. Bernard, and that Mama suggested we check out the Zanj Lan Fé Nwa Shoppe, near Congo Square. I didn’t mention the significance of its name. There was enough resentment between us already.

  “Good. We’ve got a place to start,” Rico said. “Let’s meet downstairs in the coffee shop at nine a.m.”

  I walked to the door to leave, but then turned and stared him down. “If Jade wants to investigate, fine. But she’s on her own. We’re not taking her, or her pet cameraman, with us.”

  Rico’s eyes grew dark. “She knows that.”

  “Does she?”

  “I told her so,” Rico growled, opening the door, and signaling that it was time for Babs and me to leave. “Right after I told her she was making the biggest, and possibly last, mistake of her life.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for surprises as Babs and I crossed the hall to our room, so I drew Hawk and told her to hang back while I opened the door and had a look-see. No deadheads under the bed, or in the closet, the bathroom, or the shower. Nothing seemed out of place.
I holstered Hawk, returned to the door, and ushered Babs inside.

  She set her briefcase on the desk and scanned the room. Her eyes landed on my bed and froze. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “That…thing…sticking out of your duffel bag.”

  Unexpected bonus points to Babs for noticing something I’d missed. A small stick-figure poked its head out of my unzipped duffel. I reached inside, feeling my heartbeat quicken as I picked up the figure for a closer look. It was stuffed with Spanish moss, herbs, and feathers. Shoulder-length black yarn tumbled to its shoulders and was wrapped in a scrap of cotton, on the front of which was painted a bird. A nighthawk to be exact. I brought my fingers to my nose and sniffed. Frankincense, almond oil, and anise. Or was it licorice root? I’d been gifted a voodoo doll that had likely been anointed with Bend Over Oil—used by conjurers to make their victims do their bidding. Nice try, Toussaint.

  I glanced at Babs. “Hotels usually have a plastic bag in the closet for dirty laundry. Bring it here.”

  She grabbed it off the shelf and scuttled back, then made a pitiful effort at tossing it to me from several feet away. The bag fluttered limply to the ground.

  “Bring it here,” I said. And open it.”

  “I don’t want to get near that thing.”

  “Really? A brainiac like you believes in hoodoo?”

  “Certainly not, Miss Nighthawk. That doodad has sticks and dirt and…nature…in it. Absolutely filthy,” she said with a shudder.

  Despite her objections, she did as I asked, holding the bag as far from her body as she could.

  I dropped the doll inside, twisted the bag closed, and told her to lay it in the bathtub, while I ran to the sink and washed my hands.

  In truth, I wasn’t as worried as I might have been. This was Toussaint’s idea of foreplay, and Mama’s blessing protected me. The real evil was yet to come. Still, no harm in being careful.

  I told Babs I wanted to take a shower. Once I closed the door behind me, I raided Bab’s beauty bag and pulled out a hand-held make-up mirror. I placed it in the plastic bag with the doll, then put the bag on the ground and stomped it. The purpose of the mirror was to reflect Toussaint’s magick back to him. Breaking the mirror broke the spell. At least, I hoped so. That’s how I remembered it, anyway. I gingerly picked up the bag and tossed it in the trash.

  “Are you okay in there?” Babs asked. “Did something break?”

  “Sorry. I accidently knocked over your cosmetic bag. Your little makeup mirror is toast. Could you hand me a T-shirt out of my nightstand?”

  Babs brought me my Now go do that voodoo that you do so well shirt. I slipped it on over my head, walked out of the bathroom, and spied Babs cranking up the thermostat. She eyed me and strolled back to her bed, silently daring me to adjust it.

  “Don’t you want to take a shower?” I asked.

  “No, thank you. Not as long as that…fetish…is in there.”

  “Suit yourself.” I pulled back the covers and crawled into bed, hiding the grin on my face. As soon as she fell asleep, I’d turn the thermostat back. Not ten minutes later, I heard her climb out of bed and head to the bathroom. I threw back my covers and tiptoed to the thermostat. It was dark and I couldn’t see what I was doing, so I gave it a good hard twist to the left. No sooner had I crawled back into bed than the bathroom light went off and the door opened.

  Babs stood in the dark, hesitating, as if plotting her next move in our game of chess. Finally, she flipped on the lights, and stalked across the room to the thermostat.

  “Well, well, well. Fifty-six degrees,” she said, turning the knob to the right. “Ms. Nighthawk, have you ever considered the possibility that you have anger management issues, or that you suffer from narcissistic personality disorder?”

  “Ha! I do not,” I said, pulling the covers over my head. “Test results were inconclusive.”

  16

  Riders on the Storm

  Sleep didn’t come easy that night. I tried to blame it on the sub-tropical temperature of the room, and Babs’ periodic snoring, but in all fairness, Little Allie’s mouth was running like a duck’s ass: Every moment since Leo Abruzzi was bitten in that Cincinnati parking garage has been leading up to now. The virus manipulations, the string of murders, the pack mentality of the biters, and the attacks on Vinny were all designed to lead you here—to Toussaint.

  The bastard had been haunting my dreams and messing with my mind for months. He’d even appeared on my laptop screen after Leo died, laughing at me, taunting me, beckoning me. I never told anyone. Especially Rico or Ferris. Why would I? At the time, I’d never so much as uttered Toussaint’s name, let alone fingered him as a suspect. Besides, it’s not like astral projection was included in law enforcement manuals. Rico and Ferris would have thrown a butterfly net over my head.

  Little Allie hissed and said I was full of shit—that the only reason I hadn’t named Toussaint was because I couldn’t bring myself to admit he’d been playing me all along. Screw her. Even if she was right, she needed to remember whose head she was in. I wasn’t above digging her out with a spoon.

  Fine. If the brain bitch wanted me to own it, I’d own it. Toussaint had my number and was plucking my strings like a fiddle. There. I’d said it, but it didn’t sit well. I’m nobody’s fool.

  The digital clock read six a.m., and I was wide awake. Babs flipped onto her back, and a new wave of snores drifted across the room. I climbed out of bed and rummaged through the drawer in my nightstand, pulling out the small white box I’d thrown into my bag as an afterthought. I opened the lid and slipped the leather cord around my neck, fingering the gift that Mama had given me the day I’d left New Orleans—a sparkling piece of obsidian, carved into the shape of a nighthawk. The rich black stone was blessed with Mama’s protection. That stone and Mama’s gris-gris bag were my shield.

  I padded to the door, slipped quietly into the hallway, and hurled a thought into the universe. Okay, I’m here, you son of a bitch. And I’m coming after you.

  I’d almost forgotten the early morning magic of New Orleans. The “City That Care Forgot” greeted the day in low gear. Water trucks and garbage collectors whisked through the streets, removing yesterday’s mess, making way for a new one. It was quiet, and peaceful, and while the mercury hadn’t soared yet, as sure as the tide, it would. One by one, the buildings sprang to life and people took to the streets, breathing the humidity, walking their pets, sipping Bloody Marys or coffee spiced with Baileys.

  I turned onto Decatur Street, glanced at my watch, and kicked into high gear. Six-fifteen. The perfect time to grab the best treat in all the Quarter: beignets at Café du Monde. By eight, the line of hungry customers would stretch around the block.

  I placed my order and carried the small plate of beignets to a street-side table. Since my morning run wasn’t over, and it was looking like rain, I ate one, and bagged the other two for later. I wanted to check out The Dark Angel shop on my own, before we pounced on it, flashing badges, asking questions, and making our presence known.

  I jogged up St. Ann Street, through the center of the Quarter, and inhaled a collection of smells, some that made my stomach growl, and a few that made it lurch. It felt good to run. My worries about the case faded with every step. Toussaint was strong, but I was stronger, and Mama was protecting me. I could handle this. I made a right on Rampart Street, across from Congo Square, and made a beeline toward a shotgun house less than a block away. Not because I knew the address of the shop, but because the sidewalk in front of it flaunted a black, life-sized statue of an angel. Not exactly subtle, but then, subtlety was never Toussaint’s strong suit.

  The old frame house, a painted lady, complete with haint-blue tint on the porch ceiling, had been beautifully restored. Nestled between a neon-lit tattoo parlor and a rundown pool hall, the old girl stood out like a rose between two thorns. The smiling sidewalk angel, with its black wings unfurled and its arms outstretched, greeted passersby, beckoni
ng them inside. Who could resist the charms of a dark angel? Certainly not you, sniped Little Allie.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance as I climbed the front steps. A sign on the door said the shop would open at ten. My curiosity was killing me. Mama hadn’t mentioned the nature of Toussaint’s business. It could have been anything from psychic readings to pimping cheap tourist tchotchkes, and while Toussaint no doubt had the ability to read people, nickel-and-diming them for geegaws would have been more up his alley. I peered through the window, but the reflection of the glass made it hard to see inside, so I moved closer and tented my eyes with my hands. Rows of shelves filled with glass apothecary jars lined the walls—the kind of jars used to hold herbs, oils, powders and tinctures. Display tables featured crystals, candles, talismans, even tarot decks and bottles of spiritual washes. No tchotchkes here. This shop was the real deal—a spiritual botanica for local Hoodoo practitioners, root doctors, and darker souls who ‘served with the left hand.’ The black magic workers like Toussaint.

  A cold wind swirled through the trees, causing the branches to whisper. For a moment, I swore I heard a laugh riding on that wind.

  Don’t be stupid, I thought, but the brain bitch had already switched into tactical mode. I whirled from the window, expecting to find someone standing behind me. When no one was there, a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding escaped. See? It’s only the breeze.

  Leaning back toward the window, I cupped my hands again for one last look. The shelves, the jars, and the displays of paraphernalia had all disappeared. There was only Toussaint, on the other side of the glass, floating inches above the floorboards, staring back at me.

  He held me in his gaze and pushed his thoughts into my brain. A gris-gris bag and Mama’s necklace? You don’t really think they’re going to save you. Do you? Tan pral di, Ti Kras Zwazo,” he said with a wink.

  Time will tell, Little Bird.

  I turned and ran, stumbling down the steps two at a time, trying to escape Toussaint’s laughter. One foot pounded in front of the other as I sprinted back to the hotel, letting the cool spring rain wash over me, hoping it would clear my head. I needed to be centered. The storm I’d been expecting had finally arrived, and its name was Toussaint.