Corpse Whisperer Sworn

by H. R. Boldwood

  Amazingly, the table where we’d been sitting an hour earlier still stood upright, but like everything else in the room, it was stained red and slathered in several layers of zushi. I wandered over, reached beneath it for my shoes, and heard the unmistakable chatter of snapping teeth. A careful peek beneath the tablecloth revealed a snarling corpsicle, impaled by a broken chair leg, right beside one of my pretty silver stilettos. I picked up that shiny size ten shoe of death and spiked its five-inch heel straight through the brainstem of that decomped deadhead. Surely, that’s what it was made for, ’cause it wasn’t worth a damn for anything else. I jerked the shoe out of the biter’s head and dodged the wad of zushi that seeped out with it.

  Then I thought twice and rammed it back into the rotter's skull. What else was I going to do with it? It's not like I'd ever wear it again.

  Ferris walked up from behind, grabbed my arm and hissed in my ear. “What happened back there? You froze. You’ve never done that before.”

  I wrestled my arm away and thought about decking him. But he was right. And any explanation I gave would sound certifiable. Still, he deserved to understand.

  “It’s Toussaint,” I said, sinking to the floor cross-legged, burying my head in my hands. “The bastard pops in and out of my head as he pleases. One minute I’m me; the next minute, he takes over, filling my brain with whatever the hell he wants. And it freaking pisses me off.”

  I turned and punched a hole through the wall, darting my eyes to see if anyone had noticed, and then laughed like a loon. The room was toast. Most of the mansion was toast. My fist-sized hole paled in comparison, and the brain bitch reminded me that I could always chalk it up to collateral damage.

  Boudreaux walked up, wiping blood from his glasses. “All told, one-hundred-thirty-three bodies. We don’t have them categorized yet—rotter versus human, and bites versus crossfire. That should be an interesting conversation with the media.”

  Ferris holstered his Glock. “It was an inside job all the way, sir.”

  Thornton, who’d been tending to the hysterical blue hairs, snapped up his head. “How dare you?” He stomped toward Ferris and stood him nose to nose. “I am the governor of the state of Louisiana. These people—both the dead and the living—were my supporters, my guests.” He swallowed hard and stared at the body of Alpha Guillory. “And some of them my lifelong friends. How dare you suggest—”

  “It was Bruno.” The edge in Ferris’s voice was hard to miss. “He tried to kill us when we stumbled onto his truckload of deadheads out back. He may have worked for Guillory for twenty years, Governor, but money talks. It makes people do stupid things. You know? It…skews their decision making.”

  I didn’t need to be Psycho Babs to read between the lines. Ferris was angry. The body count could have been zero if the governor had listened to us and called off the fundraiser.

  Boudreaux’s eyes were unreadable as he clapped Ferris’s shoulder and muttered something in his ear, steering him away from Thornton. I got the sense Boudreaux was using Ferris’s rage as a teachable moment, so I turned away and found myself in the governor’s sights.

  “You blame me, too. Don’t you?”

  “Don’t you?” I asked, dumbfounded. Who the hell else was there? But deep inside, Little Allie chanted Le Clerc’s name over and over.

  Thornton ambled away with his head in his hands, picking his way across the bodies, the wreckage and the gore. I wondered if he’d had time to realize that by now, the media would already be on the other side of the crime scene tape, waiting for a soundbite, waiting for an explanation that would satisfy…anyone. If the truth ever came out, the headlines would bury him. But I had my own hills to climb, starting with rescuing Rico, Fairchild, and Nancy Newshound.

  Boudreaux motioned for me from the ballroom. The anger management lecture must have ended.

  Sorry, Governor, I thought, as I navigated the minefield of human remains to rejoin them. Not my circus, not my monkeys.

  “There’s nothing more for you to do here,” Boudreaux said, checking his watch. “It’s after ten now. Horton’s on his way. He and I can handle this clusterfuck. How ’bout you take down that psychopath and find those missing folks?”

  He didn’t have to ask twice. I nodded and broke for the door, with Ferris beside me.

  “Count on it, sir,” Ferris called over his shoulder. The edge in his voice had morphed into determination.

  We hadn’t made it five steps when Boudreaux brought us to a halt.

  “Nighthawk, where in the hell are your shoes?”

  “One of them is over there, under my dinner table, covered in zushi.” I pointed toward the dining room. “The other is buried in the brain of a deadhead, also in there…somewhere. If it’s okay sir, I’ll just leave them where they are.”

  Boudreaux closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should have known better than to ask. Carry on.”

  First things first, Ferris and I needed a quick clean-up. But before we dove all balls-to-the-wall into this rescue mission, we had an important stop to make. One that, if we were lucky, might save our lives.

  33

  ‘For Like the Grass They Will Soon Wither’

  Ferris was quiet on the ride back to the Marriott. Maybe that was because of what we’d just seen. Or, maybe he was focused on what lay ahead. Either way, I figured he’d earned his space. Visions of Guillory slumped against the wall with his throat torn out flickered in my head like an ancient home movie, so I nipped it in the bud and turned my thoughts to Nonnie and the terrible twins instead. Over the years, I’d come to realize that the Dr. Phils of this world were generally full of shit. Sometimes, processing trauma was worse than simply blocking it out.

  We rode the elevator to our rooms and agreed to meet back in the hallway in twenty. I slid the keycard in front of the reader and opened my door. Vinny levelled a gun at my face.

  I dove back around the door frame. “Jesus! Put that thing down before you kill someone.”

  “Just making sure you’re a friendly.”

  Babs scrambled out from the bathroom. “Vinny, who said you could touch my gun?”

  “Someone jimmied the door. You were in the can, and I got Luna sitting next to me. What do you want I should do? Heave the remote at ’em?”

  I walked back in, slamming the door behind me. “You’re lucky I don’t ram that remote down your throat.”

  Luna clutched the couch pillow against her like a shield.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said, grabbing some fresh clothes. “Be out of here in a few. Just need to clean up.”

  All eyes darted to the remains of my little black dress. Strangely, the only person to blink twice was Luna.

  Babs snapped her fingers at Vinny and held out her hand.

  “I know more about this piece than you do,” he said, relinquishing her baby Glock. “And I’m a better shot. It’s my life on the line. Stop treating me like a child.”

  Babs leaned in and murmured, “Then stop acting like one.”

  I headed into the bathroom and shut the door, a little bummed that I’d miss the rest of the show. When I came out after my shower, things had settled down. I strapped on my ankle holster, reloaded Baby and slipped her into place. Then I slid on my zombie stompers and grimaced as they rubbed against the blisters left behind by those godforsaken heels of death. Last but not least, I holstered Hawk and clipped extra mags to my belt. My ever-present Ka-Bar, tucked safely in its sheath, completed the ensemble.

  “Wish us luck,” I said, slipping both Mama’s gris-gris bag and the obsidian necklace over my head. “Ferris and I are going to go check out the properties in St. Bernard. But first, we’re going to swing by Mama’s. I’ll let her know you’re here, Luna. It might be a good idea if you stay put tonight—in case things go sideways.”

  Luna’s smile was soft and sweet. “Thanks, Miss Allie. You be safe now.”

  “I studied lockpicking this afternoon. Call me if you need me,” Vinny quipped.

>   Not today, I thought. But never say never. The kid had grit, and he’d embraced the paranormal aspects of this investigation without a blink. Then again, he also had his daddy’s sassitude. Nobody’s perfect.

  Babs’ eyes held mine as I pulled the door closed behind me. We weren’t the best of friends, but she’d been there for me when I needed her, and even when I hadn’t realized I’d needed her. A lot was riding on this mission. Rico, Jade, Fairchild, Babs, Vinny, Luna, Mama, and Ferris. And taking down Toussaint? Please God, I prayed. Don’t let me fuck this up.

  Ferris, waiting in the hallway, pushed the elevator call button. “Ready?”

  “No offense,” I said, giving him the once-over. “I liked your tux better.”

  “Had to throw it out. Between the rips and the stains, it’s seen its last black-tie affair.”

  “Tell me about it. What’s left of my dress might make a good ShamWow.”

  As the elevator doors opened and we walked inside, I found myself wondering if we would ever make it back.

  Ferris seemed lost in his own thoughts as he drove us to Mama’s which gave me a chance to check in with Nonnie. I missed the old fossil and the terrible twins more than usual. Enough with the squishy feelings shit, I thought. But Little Allie had already pulled up my contacts and hit send. One thing I hadn’t considered was that it was after midnight in Cincinnati.

  Nonnie’s muffled voice came on the line. “Miss Allie? Something wrong?”

  “No. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you up. How’s everything?”

  “No so good. Headbutt dug out under fence and chew up Mrs. Winstel’s wisteria.”

  Crap. The latest salvo in the wisteria war. That feisty, fat, little zombie hunter would get me kicked out of the neighborhood yet.

  “Mrs. Winstel very unhappy. Says she talk to home owners association. And Kulu…she lay another egg.”

  “So, we’re up to three eggs now?”

  “Yes.”

  “In my maxi-pad box?”

  “Yes. She won’t let me near nest. What you do about tax issue?”

  I should have known better than to call. “We’ll talk later. See if you can find something to stick in front of the fence-line. Tell Mrs. Winstel I’ll buy her a new bush when I get home.”

  “Is vine. Not bush.”

  “Whatever. Go back to sleep.” For some reason, I uttered an uncharacteristic, weenie-like platitude. “Nonnie, thanks. For everything. Give the twins an extra dog biscuit from me. I’ll be back as soon as possible. I…miss you guys.”

  “Everything okay, Miss Allie?”

  “No. But it will be soon. Goodnight.”

  “Is bad, bad feeling. Come home. Please? Someone else take case.”

  Poor Nonnie. The woman knew me better than to think I’d ever play it safe.

  Ferris and I pulled into Mama’s around 11:15 p.m. The restaurant was closed but the lights were still on. Mama would still be there cleaning and prepping for the next day. We climbed the steps and she opened the screen door, as if she’d been expecting us.

  I couldn’t suppress my smile. Of course, she had.

  “Welcome, child. I know why you come.” She placed her weathered hands on my cheeks and kissed my forehead, then quickly turned and wrapped Ferris’s hands in hers. “And you, Mesye Ferris, faithful friend of my Little Bird, will always be welcome in my home.”

  She ushered us inside, guided us across the deserted restaurant to her kitchen, and then led us through the faded velvet curtain to her greenhouse. She paused at her workbench and regarded us with warm but worried brown eyes.

  “Time has passed so quickly. I have done all I can. Toussaint’s magick is great, but his darkness pales against your light. Perhaps together, you and I can undo what he has done. Listen carefully,” she said, handing me three vials from her workbench. “This tonic will hinder Toussaint’s virus, but it is not an antidote. It must be re-administered with each new moon, or the victim will begin to decline, and in time, turn.” She closed my hand around the ampules, placed Ferris’s hand on mine, then laid hers atop ours. “One vial per victim. Do you understand?”

  Ferris and I both nodded.

  “I will prepare more doses, and when time permits, I will teach you to concoct your own. I have someting more for you as well. Someting you use only in defense of your life, or the lives of those you seek to rescue.” She held out a small leather pouch, synched tightly with a small gold cord, and asked, “Do you remember what it is that we use only in the defense of life?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  My fingers trembled as she placed the pouch of Goofer Dust into the palm of my hand. The dry hoodoo blend, containing, among other things, graveyard dirt, snakeskin, and powdered bones, provided its holder with very powerful gris-gris.

  “Be strong, be centered, and do God’s work,” she said, escorting us back to porch. “Take all of my love and bring it back to me, child.” She folded me to her bosom, gathering Ferris in as well, and blessed us with a Psalm: “‘Do not fret because of evil men or be envious of those who do wrong; for like the grass they will soon wither, like green plants they will soon die away. Trust in the LORD and do good; dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture.’”

  Mama’s strength and blessings surged through me. Judging by Ferris’s wide-eyed expression, he felt that same power running through his veins.

  Armed in every sense of the word, we lit out of Mama Femi’s in the dead of night, ready for battle.

  34

  This Almost Never Happens

  Since two of the four mansions we had reconned could be credible targets, Ferris and I had a decision to make.

  “Which manse should we hit first?” Ferris asked. “Heads, the one in Violet, or tails, the place in Chalmette?”

  I yawned and stretched, settling into the passenger seat of the SUV. “Both are due East; Violet’s further out. Let’s start with the one in Violet and work our way back.”

  Google Earth pics showed the house sat off the road in a secluded area, surrounded by trees and vegetation. A real handy-man’s special, sold over a year ago to somebody named Wesley Segal. Broken windows, missing shingles and dangling shutters gave it that haunted, abandoned look. The perfect candidate.

  Ferris stifled a yawn of his own. “I’d rather be doing this in the daylight, but your buddy Le Clerc’s set a wicked pace.”

  Ferris had a point. It was almost midnight. As someone who, more often than not, plied my trade in the dead of night, I knew the dangers of working in the dark more than most. Whether I was dodging headstones and flower vases in a cemetery, or traipsing through ramshackle old houses, there was always an element of the unknown. Chuck holes and open graves, or rotting floor boards and collapsing stairs always added a little sumpin’-sumpin’ to the equation.

  But at the end of the day, Ferris was right. We weren’t running this investigation; Toussaint was running it, calling the shots, and leading us in a game of cat and mouse.

  Talk about a red-hot poker up my ass.

  The brain bitch fired off a message that was sure to find its mark. Think this is a game, asshat? Let me show you how it’s played.

  Ferris followed the Suburban’s GPS from Meraux to an isolated corner of Violet, winding us through the city streets and into the woodlands. Paved roads transitioned into unpaved paths, swallowed by trees, kudzu and vegetation that grew unchecked.

  “According to the coordinates, we’re here.” Ferris pulled the SUV to the side of the gravel road and parked, as if he was concerned about oncoming traffic. I pushed open the passenger door and tumbled into a tangle of saw grass, doubting he had much to worry about. Ferris popped the trunk and handed me a flashlight, then took his Buck knife from the sheath on his belt.

  “Where the hell’s this mansion?” I switched on the light and pulled my Ka-Bar to cut a swath through the weeds.

  “Up ahead,” Ferris said, pointing his flashlight through a grove of Cypress trees. “I see the roofline.”

  We hacked a
nd whacked through a sea of deadfall and wound up on a gravel drive that led to the mansion. Even in the dark of night, sweat poured down my temples and dripped between my shoulder blades, giving me a chill. The air stunk of peat, decay and moldering vegetation. A cloud of mosquitoes whirred around us and whined in my ears.

  I swatted my face and nailed one the size of a 747. “Nature sucks,” I hissed.

  With the mansion and a large No Trespassing sign now clearly in sight, we turned off our flashlights and navigated by moonlight. The house was pitch black and lifeless, still as a tomb. Ferris glanced up, then quickly squatted down, motioning me to join him.

  He pointed to what appeared to be a camera fixed to a nearby tree and whispered, “I’m feeling all kinds of hinky about this place.”

  He was right. The place had wrong written all over it. But we had a problem of another kind.

  “We don’t have a warrant,” he whispered. “So, before we knock on the door and ask to go inside, let’s check this place out a little closer. Follow me.”

  I bear-crawled behind him, wishing we’d had enough evidence to get that missing warrant. But even now, as suspicious as the place looked, we had no proof we’d find Toussaint, let alone any of his victims or anything even remotely illegal.