Royal Street

by Suzanne Johnson

  “You won’t have to,” Alex said, pointing. The staff stood propped against the door facing. Earlier, it had been on my worktable upstairs.

  After lunch, I identified most of the carvings, but they were less than illuminating. Just a series of runes for unrelated words, as near as I could tell—wind, time, earth, power, immortality, fire. Things creepy elves might like, but I did not.

  Alex hadn’t been the only one doing research. I had been trying to identify the voodoo symbols at Gerry’s and other houses. I’d pulled a couple of reference books from my library and had started slogging through them, but the work was tedious. Oh, to be able to Google weird voodoo-related graffiti.

  By Monday morning, I was no closer to figuring out Gerry’s whereabouts and was running out of things to try. Still, visiting the morgue probably wasn’t the brightest idea I’ve ever had.

  First, I got rid of Alex, telling him I had cramps and wanted to rest. Mention cramps and guys get a panicked, deer-in-headlights look and develop a sudden urge to go hunting or drink beer. Like hormones might be contagious. Too bad they’re not. The world would be a more equitable place. Or more violent. It could go either way.

  He headed off to look for breaches or do something manly with the friend he claimed to be staying with once I’d pried out an admission he wasn’t living at Jake’s. He’d been vague. Probably, his friend was tall and buxom and dumb as a box of rocks. I reminded myself that the enforcer’s love life didn’t concern me, and that the annoyance I felt was strictly professional.

  Whatever he was doing, it was happening without his tracker, which I’d lifted from his briefcase.

  I took the chameleon potion I’d prepared Sunday night and dressed in khakis and a tan T-shirt. True invisibility isn’t possible, but the potion works pretty well in a pinch and the neutral clothing should blend with the industrial-tan walls of the makeshift morgue. I knew the wall color because I’d asked during one of my phone calls. People will tell you anything if you are inquisitive and don’t mind making a fool of yourself.

  I also pulled out the magicked medical ID I’d been flashing at nice National Guardsmen all over town and an equally phony press pass I’d used on sentinel business a few years ago to gain access to the New Orleans Saints’ locker room in the Superdome. A stray siren had developed a penchant for tailbacks, and an NFL play-off berth was at risk. If the Saints were having a good enough year to be in contention for the play-offs, no siren better stand in their way. One of the badges might get me onto the morgue grounds, and I had the potion for backup.

  As I cranked the Pathfinder, I spotted Gandalf trotting around the corner. Yes, I’m a sucker and had kept the dog. In less than forty-eight hours, I’d given him a name, constructed a makeshift collar from a luggage tag, and turned an old length of clothesline into a leash. When stores reopened, I’d buy him the real thing. He was even sleeping in my bedroom.

  He barked and ran toward the truck when he saw me getting ready to leave, so I opened the passenger door and he hopped in. He filled up the seat and spilled over the gearshift.

  “So, boy, we’re going on a field trip,” I said, scratching the top of his head between his ears, which made him zone out in some kind of doggy stupor. I liked having a dog. He let me speak my mind, and never talked back or argued. He thought I was the smartest, coolest person on earth, and didn’t cast judgment because I didn’t have a lot of experience and couldn’t shoot a gun. He liked to share my junk food, protected me while I slept, and didn’t eat as much as one might think. The stupid cat even liked him.

  Best of all, he had no emotions I needed to protect myself from and I could babble at him to keep my mind off where I was going and why.

  “I wish you were my partner,” I said. He grinned at me and drooled on the passenger seat. “Yeah, I know, really. It would be great. I can’t get a read on Alex, and that drives me crazy. You’re easy to read. You’re a sweetheart.”

  Another good thing about dogs. You can sound like a complete idiot when you talk to them because dogs don’t care. Dogs love idiots.

  Gandalf stretched his body around the gearshift and laid his head on my thigh. I stroked his soft fur and sighed.

  “Now, don’t get me wrong. Alex is easy on the eyes. Sexiest thing I’ve seen since Jean Lafitte, in fact.” Gandalf whined and licked my arm, and I pondered the sad state of affairs that the first sexy man I thought to compare the enforcer to was an undead pirate who might or might not have tried to kill me.

  “Then there’s his cousin, Jake. He has these killer dimples and he even asked me to dinner. Do you know how long it’s been since I had a date?” I could have told him, had he asked. Two freaking years, that’s how long. Wizards don’t get out much.

  Gandalf raised his head and looked at me with what I imagined was concern for my sanity.

  “I agree,” I told him. “I’m babbling.” I was trying not to think too hard about where we were headed, and what I might find there. As badly as I wanted to find Gerry, I did not want to find him in the St. Gabriel temporary morgue. The longer it took to locate him, the more I feared no happy ending was possible.

  I stroked the dog’s silky ears and drove the rest of the way in silence.

  Getting to St. Gabriel was an easy hour’s drive; getting into the morgue proved tougher. Guards blocked the only entrance to the parking lot of the old warehouse that now housed New Orleans’s dead, and a chain-link fence ran around the perimeter of the property.

  The guards were firm. “No media, ma’am. No visitors. Definitely no dogs.” I should have tried the doctor’s badge first. Stupid. I’d just wait till the next shift came on duty.

  I drove down the highway to a small truck stop, waiting for the guards to change shifts. I hated to leave Gandalf in the car but he couldn’t go inside, so I left the windows down. A slice of pecan pie later—well, okay, two slices plus a hamburger for Gandalf—and I was ready to try again.

  The evening-shift guards were no pushovers, either, and wouldn’t go for the medical ID without an authorization from the Louisiana medical examiner’s office. I decided to abandon the front-door tactic, parked a block away from the warehouse, and went for Plan B. With Gandalf chuffing beside me, I tucked my hair under a gold Saints cap and circled to the back of the property, following the railroad tracks that ran along the perimeter. Just a girl walking her dog. Dusk descended slowly over the light-industrial area, making everything look as gray as the concrete parking lot.

  I found a good spot, dropped my bag beside Gandalf, and told him to stay. He whined, but sat next to the bag. I had the chameleon potion in my pocket, and as I climbed the chain-link fence, I was glad I’d opted for my Nikes instead of boots.

  The guys on TV detective shows make fence-climbing look a lot easier than it is. By the time I’d lugged myself to the top and slid clumsily over, the best I could do was drop down the other side, landing on my butt in a bank of loose pea gravel. I hoped Alex’s tracker wasn’t broken. Gandalf whined again as I picked gravel out of my palms.

  I drank the chameleon potion, wrinkling my nose at the bitter taste, and crept to a back door that had a window inset. I wore a small amulet that could provide a light source when it got dark, but for now I could still see.

  I shrank against the wall as two men exited the door, heading toward a small side parking lot. Before the door clicked shut behind them, I was able to slip inside. Finally, a lucky break.

  I didn’t expect anything to come from it, but I pulled Alex’s tracker out of my pocket and turned it on. The little LED screen turned green, and then a red dot began blinking in the center. There was something magical here, or at least I thought that’s what the light meant. I couldn’t exactly ask for a lesson after pilfering it.

  Staying close to the walls and hoping the potion helped me blend with the institutional tan, I edged down a hallway that opened into a cavernous warehouse.

  The work of the St. Gabriel morgue played out before me like a bad horror film that should have
been shot in grainy black and white. Heavy-duty plastic coated the concrete floor, and on the plastic lay bundles I knew were bodies, waiting to be processed for their turn in the coolers till their date with the DNA sampler rolled around. The smell, antiseptic with an underlying tinge of decomposition, assaulted my nose and lungs, and my bare arms goose-pimpled from the cold. The AC must have been set on fifty degrees. People with clipboards and masks scurried around, looking purposeful and efficient as they strode in and out of hallways, across the main room, and back again.

  I reached in my pocket and fingered my mojo bag to help dull the overwhelming sense of depression that drifted off the workers. I leaned against the wall, my stomach churning and nausea making my pecan pie poise for a bitter return. My limbs felt heavy, like they always did when I’d sucked in too much of a bad emotion. I couldn’t stay here long, even with all my preparation.

  Clearly, I hadn’t planned this very well. Why did I think I’d be able to slip in and, one by one, slide nicely preserved bodies out of freezer cases until I confirmed that none of them were Gerry? This place was running 24/7 and no way was I going to see anything helpful.

  I plastered myself against a wall, a good distance away from the activity, and pulled the tracker out again. The red light blinked faster than before. Frowning, I held it out and watched the light as I turned it to different spots in the room. There. It had definitely sped up when I held it to my left.

  I scanned the area. Two hazmat-suited workers were squatting next to one of the bodies. One of them must be the source of the magic. The worker facing me had been writing on a clipboard but suddenly looked up and scanned the room. His eyes stopped on me, and I froze. No way he could see me. Unless he wasn’t human.

  He said something to his coworker and stared in my direction a moment longer before heading toward a door in the back. He looked back at me—it had to be at me—and jerked his head for me to follow. Maybe I needed to revise my chameleon potion recipe.

  I walked slowly along the wall, not wanting anyone else to notice me, and slid through the doorway behind the man. It opened to a small office with a single desk and two chairs. The door closed behind me, and I turned to see Mr. Hazmat taking off his hood.

  “Who are you?” he said, squinting at me and frowning. “I can’t see you clearly—you’re hazy. But I can tell you’re a wizard.”

  I had about a half second to decide whether to tell the truth or pretend to be a grieving citizen. As Alex had duly noted, I’m not that good an actress. “I’m a Green Congress wizard, here looking for a missing family member.”

  “Good luck,” he said, setting his hood on the desk and adjusting the collar of his white coveralls. “We don’t know who any of these people are, we’re understaffed, families with missing people are frantic … It’s a mess.” He squinted at me again. “I’m Adam Lyle, Yellow Congress.”

  Click. Now I got it. “You’re telepathic,” I said. “I couldn’t figure out how you knew I was there. I didn’t know we had any Yellow Congress wizards in this area.” It was the smallest congress by far, with wizards specializing in mental magic.

  He nodded. “Yeah, wizards have a different mental signal than most people. I’m used to shutting humans out, but you came through loud and clear. And I’m not local—drove in from Houston to help.”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  He smiled. “Psychiatrist, actually. But they’re too understaffed here to be that picky.”

  “A psychiatrist who can read thoughts. That must make you really effective.” I didn’t want him in my head, not one bit. No wonder Alex shielded so hard around me. Talk about an invasion of privacy.

  Adam laughed. “I only get general signals from a person unless we’re touching. Take you, for example. All I can really tell is that you’re a wizard and you’re telling me the truth, or at least the truth as you see it.”

  I introduced myself then, and gave him a highly edited version of my truth, ending with a physical description of Gerry. “He went missing a few days ago. This seemed like a logical place to look.”

  He shook his head. “There’s no way to tell. Even if you narrow it down to victims who are white, middle-aged males.” He sighed. “All I can tell you is no one with any magical aura still active has been brought in when I was here, and I’ve been here a lot the last ten days.”

  It had been a long shot, but I was still disappointed. I found a pad on the desk and wrote down my name and phone number. “Will you call me if any wizard turns up?”

  He stuck it in a zippered pocket. “How’d you make out during the storm?” It had become the ubiquitous question around town among the few citizens who’d returned.

  “Not too bad—just wind damage,” I said. “I was Uptown, in the lucky twenty percent.”

  “I have a couple of friends, Blue Congress, who live in that area. They both teach art at Tulane.” Blue Congress wizards were the artists and creatives in our world. Blues and Greens usually mainstreamed as academics.

  “Have they come back yet? I’ve been wondering how many wizards were in town.” You never know. We might need backup.

  He picked up his clipboard and hood. “No, they’re gone till the end of the year. I’m staying in one of their houses and keeping an eye on the other. Everything is fine except for some weird graffiti painted on their doorsteps. Same thing on both houses, but not their neighbors’ places. I figure it’s gang-related.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. “What kind of graffiti—what does it look like?”

  He gave me a curious glance and shrugged, then took out a pen and used a page from his clipboard to draw a rough illustration of the symbol I was seeing way too much of.

  “You know what it means,” he said—a statement, not a question. “Well, I’m getting an energy spike from you anyway.”

  “I don’t know what it means but I’ve seen it a couple of other places, too. Can you give me the names and addresses of your friends?”

  He wrote the information down and handed me the paper. “I put my phone number on there, too. If it turns out to be something my friends need to know, call me, okay? They’re both teaching at other schools the fall semester and don’t plan to come back till the university reopens, probably in January.”

  We left the room together, then I sneaked back to the exit and out the back door. Gandalf stood and wagged his tail when he saw me. After making sure no one was in the parking lot, I hauled myself back over the chain link, snagging my shirt on the top of the fence.

  As overjoyed as Gandalf was to see me, ripped shirt and all, I didn’t chatter at him on the drive home. What did those symbols mean? I had to find out. And I wondered if I had stumbled on the pattern we had been missing.

  I pulled off the road at a gas station, dug my cell phone out of my pocket, and scrolled to the call log from the day Gerry went missing. Congress of Elders. I pressed send.

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 20 , 2005 “Day 22: The official death toll in metropolitan New Orleans—736.”

  —THE TIMES–PICAYUNE

  CHAPTER 16

  The Speaker of the Elders hadn’t been pleased to hear from me at midnight Edinburgh time, but he’d gotten me what I needed. When Alex showed up Tuesday morning, I was already scanning a printout of every wizard in the New Orleans metro area, along with addresses and emergency contact information. Only two other wizards were currently in town besides me and Adam Lyle, and both were of the elderly Blue Congress variety. Probably not much help if we needed it—talk about people who were useless in a fight. I circled their names anyway.

  “Lafitte.” Alex muttered the safe word to cross my wards and came in the back door, all dressed in—surprise—black. “Couldn’t you have picked a better password?”

  “Why are you using it anyway? The wards only work on pretes.”

  “Seems like a good habit.” He opened the cabinet and pulled out a couple of protein bars, then poured a cup of coffee.

  “Don’t you have food at your f
riend’s house?”

  “No.” He shoveled half a protein bar in his mouth and grabbed the list from the table in front of me. Looked like somebody got up on the grouchy side of his friend’s bed this morning.

  “What’s this for?” He sat at the table and slid the list of wizards back to me. I described my visit to the morgue, conversation with Adam Lyle, and suspicion about the symbols.

  “It’s probably a coincidence,” I said. “But I think it’s worth checking out some of the addresses on this list, just to see if these symbols are marking only the homes of wizards. Maybe wizards are being targeted, and whoever’s behind it did something to Gerry.”

  Alex eyed me over his coffee cup. “You shouldn’t have gone out there by yourself. Where’d you get the list?”

  “I didn’t go by myself. I took my dog. Anyway, I called the Elders on the way back and the Speaker sent a courier with the list—got here around four a.m.”

  Alex leaned back in his chair, and I imagined I saw grudging respect on his face, or maybe it was wishful thinking. “Good job, Sherlock. We should split the list and do some cruising around today.”

  “I know. I’m hoping this gives us a clue about Gerry.” I fidgeted with a coaster. “The longer he’s missing, the more I’m afraid this isn’t going to end well. Maybe I was naïve to think it ever could have.” Maybe I was naïve to be opening up to the enforcer.

  “We’ll figure this out. If he’s out there, we’ll find him—I promise.”

  We both knew it wasn’t a promise he could keep, but it made me feel better to hear it.

  I took the Uptown list and Alex took Broadmoor and Mid-City. If wizards’ homes in those areas were all marked and we couldn’t find the symbols on other homes nearby, it seemed safe to assume wizards were being targeted. Then we’d just have to figure out who was doing the marking, and why.