Shaken, DuLac sat. “I’ve checked all my books. On folk culture, religion. There’s nothing about such a creature anywhere.”
“I thought I’d reread Marie Laveau’s journal. There may be something I missed.”
Carlos handed Marie his rosary. “The Madonna will keep you safe.”
“I may need a stronger power.”
“Holy water?” asked DuLac.
Marie felt giddy. “Worth a try. St. Louis Cathedral?”
“I’ll get it,” said Carlos. “Light a candle, too. Pray.” Carlos grabbed his leather jacket from the door hook. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
DuLac looked through the microscope lens. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“DuLac, I think I should try to contact Marie Laveau’s spirit. If wazimamotos are recounted in colonial times, then we’re talking, particularly, about the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries.”
“The most powerful Marie was from the nineteenth.”
“Of all the matrilineal line, she was the most gifted. If there’s a spell in the word ‘Marie,’ it’s because of her.”
“It might work.”
“It knows my name, DuLac. Our name—mine and Laveau’s. You told me to say my name.”
“I wanted you to remember your power.”
“The wazimamoto remembers, too.”
“Precisely, what is it remembering?”
They sat, side by side, on the lab stools, contemplating the slides, test tubes, and petri dishes. The other technicians kept their heads down, focusing on their work—as if it was nothing extraordinary to have two medical doctors staring, in silence, at glass filled with a viscous green.
There’d been vengeance in the assault last night. Marie knew Laveau had had many enemies, false friends. Who had hated her enough to resurrect?
DuLac clasped her hand; she looked, startled. “What happened last night?”
“Two murders.”
“Afterward?”
“It’s personal.”
DuLac smiled. “Something happened. Good for you.”
Marie frowned. Normally, she wasn’t shy about sex. But Parks had comforted her in a profound way and she didn’t feel like sharing.
“You know we missed our Saturday night at La Mer’s. First time in a year.”
“We’ll go again,” she said. “If this case ever ends.”
DuLac caressed her hair. “It has an end. Have you and Parks got a beginning?”
“I don’t know.” She tapped her nail on the test tube.
She swore the substance moved.
When the elevator opened, Sully was waiting for her.
“Hey, Doc, remember tomorrow. Bones. Kind Dog for a walk?”
“Sully, some other time. When this is over.”
“Your outside business?”
Marie watched his expression. She saw him remembering gossip and tales. Remembering she did both physical and spiritual healing. Mixed with spirits, creatures resurrected from the dead.
“Dog is protecting Marie-Claire?”
“Yes.”
Sully beamed as if the dog was his and had been awarded a medal.
“I’ll just bring him bones tomorrow. Ham. You know how he likes to lick the marrow.”
“Except no bones—Dog has plenty.”
“Where from? I always bring him bones.”
“Detective Parks brought bones.”
Sully frowned.
“Look, what the hell,” said Marie, “we’ll have an unbirthday for Dog. Let him gorge himself. He’ll be happy to see you.”
Sully lit up, jovial and content again. A big man with an even bigger heart.
Over the years, Marie had come to understand Sully. Charity was his hospital; even when he wasn’t working security, Sully came in to volunteer. Visiting children and terminal patients.
Loyalty was his hallmark; he’d been loyal to Kind Dog ever since she and Reneaux had rescued him. She’d never forgive herself if Dog wasn’t well looked after—and it’d been Sully who helped pick up the slack.
“I’ll be home. Dog deserves a walk.”
Unexpectedly, Sully hugged her. She smelled Old Spice. “We’ll go to the park. Play ball. Watch the steamships,” Sully muttered excitedly, walking back to his post.
Marie couldn’t help wishing all her problems were so easily solved. She studied the patient board.
Already another busy, outrageous night. “I’ll take Lao,” she told the shift nurse.
Abdominal pain. Exam Three. She parted the ringed curtain.
“I’m Dr. Laveau. Can I help you?”
Lao pointed to his stomach.
Thin, compact, wiry. Probably a new immigrant, Marie thought. According to his chart, he was forty-five.
Marie palpated his abdomen. Lao kept studying her face; she felt self-conscious. In the left quadrant, she felt a mass. In medical school, they’d taught her to keep her expression neutral. Not to reveal clues to a possible diagnosis.
“Do you understand English?”
Lao nodded.
“You’ll need X-rays, maybe an MRI. I’d like to test your blood levels, too.”
They stared at each other and Marie couldn’t help feeling they were somehow dueling.
“Not good,” said Lao.
Marie’s heart filled with sympathy. Once again she was startled by how so many knew when the battle was over. Lao had probably carried the pain for months, working, feeding his family.
She sat on the stool, all pretense of neutrality gone. “Is there someone I should call?”
“I’ll call.” He lifted his cell phone, opening it to a picture of his wife and two grown sons.
“You can fight.”
“I will.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Not give up. Difference.” His brow furrowed. “Accept.”
“Mr. Lao, you’ve known about this.”
He nodded. “Six months. Hurting.”
“Why didn’t you come for treatment?”
“I did. Now.”
“But now may be too late.”
“From the start it was too late.” His face was unlined. “Baosheng Dadi said I would die.”
A Chinese folk religion, Marie remembered. A compilation of ancestor veneration, an acceptance of fate and hundreds of gods. Baosheng Dadi was the divine physician.
“I prayed. Made sacrifice. But not to be. Come back in the next life.”
“Reincarnation?”
He smiled. “Maybe be doctor like you.”
“I’ll call an admitting nurse.”
“No, I go home.”
“Then let me write you a prescription.” Lao stood while she wrote, his hands at his sides. She handed him the scrip.
“This is the strongest I can give. You’ll need to come back. Be admitted later.”
Lao looked at the white square paper.
“You’ll come back?”
He looked at her with empathy, compassion. As if she were the one needing help.
“Mr. Lao, no need to accept pain. Let us, let me, help.” Certain men stoically welcomed suffering, ignoring what it did to their families. “You’ll come back?”
He didn’t answer and she knew his answer. He wouldn’t come back. Politeness prevented him from saying so.
“Why bother coming to the hospital now? You’ve left it too late. You won’t let me help.”
“I’m in America now. This is how America works. This, my sons will understand.”
Suddenly, Marie understood. His Americanized sons didn’t value folk religion. Folk medicine. They’d probably use aggressive technology. Put their faith in western medicine despite their father’s wishes or suffering.
She sighed. “Mr. Lao,” she said, solemnly, “tell your sons there was nothing I could do. Tell them I tried everything. Western medicine couldn’t help. It’s fate.”
Lao bowed, deeply, reverently. She bowed, too. They finally understood each other.
Lao
left the exam room, the happiest dying man Marie had ever seen.
Next patient. Next. One after another: a heart attack victim; a drunk driver who’d broken his spine; a drug overdose, a possible suicide attempt; a police officer shot in the arm. The entire staff was consumed by traumas, prepping patients for surgery, defibrillating to restore heart rhythms—for a hit-and-run victim, it didn’t work—and moving patients to critical care or to a ward upstairs. Everyone danced in a fast, desperate ballet to deliver efficient care.
On uncomfortable ER chairs, the poor with cuts, scrapes, colds, and strep waited . . . and waited.
Two AM. She ducked into the physicians’ lounge, dashed water on her face, and started a fresh pot of coffee.
“You’re not going to believe who’s here.”
“Who?”
“Barefoot pregnant girl,” answered El. “Except this time, she’s got shoes. I put her behind Curtain Two. Called Antoinette.”
“Thank you.” Marie left the lounge, ready for round two.
Baylee, a homeless woman, complained loudly. “How come that pregnant girl go first? She ain’t in labor. I didn’t see any laboring. My throat is sore. Real bad. I’m dying.”
Weekly, like clockwork, Baylee complained of an ailment. After the nurses showered and fed her, she always declared herself miraculously cured.
Marie pulled back the curtain. “Hello.”
Sue’s face was pinched, her eyelids heavy. One hand clutched the sheets, the other her abdomen.
“You’re in labor?”
“Think so. Waited a while before coming. Waited till Tommy went to sleep.”
“Let me examine you.”
“You think it’s Brax-Hicks?”
“You were listening.” Marie smiled encouragingly. “Let’s see.”
She washed her hands, snapped on latex gloves. “Relax. This will be a bit cold.” She inserted the speculum.
Sue squirmed and winced; a contraction crested. She moaned.
“Am I die-lay-ted?”
“Six centimeters. Almost there.” She snapped off her gloves. “How’d you get here?”
“Cab. I kept the twenty you gave me.”
“Good girl. We’ll get you upstairs for labor and delivery.”
“You can’t deliver here?”
“No. But I’ll check on you. I promise.”
Sue’s eyes were moist; she grunted, her hands clutching, twisting the paper sheet.
Young, no suitcase, no bag filled with baby blankets. How would she ever care for a child? . . . She was a child herself.
“Tommy don’t want me here. Said it costs too much.”
“Don’t worry. Charity provides. Everyone here loves babies.”
Antoinette arrived with a wheelchair. “I heard you were in labor.”
Sue shrank. Helping her to stand and sit, Marie whispered, “Go with her. I’ll come later and help with the baby.”
“Promise?” asked Sue, nails digging into Marie’s arm as another contraction crested.
“You’ll be fine.” Marie settled her in the chair, flipping down the metal footrests.
“Yellow moon, yellow moon . . . ,” her cell rang. She opened it, simultaneously saying, “Thanks, Antoinette.”
“Hold on,” Marie murmured into the phone. She quickly kissed Sue’s cheek and the girl hugged her as if she wouldn’t let go. “You’ll be fine.” She pulled back.
“Go on now. Delivering your baby is safer upstairs.” She looked at Antoinette, who turned the chair, spinning it away.
“Hello. Parks? Another death? No? Good. I’m fine. Sure.” She wanted to tell him about Sue, about how sad and scared the girl looked. Instead she said, “I’ve got a patient. I might be a while. Okay. I’ll call you.”
“Who’s that?” El had snuck up on her; when Marie didn’t immediately answer, she asked more loudly, “Who’s that? Who you talking to?” Her voice carried loudly to the staff.
Marie glared. El chuckled.
“Boyfriend. About time,” said El.
Marie rolled her eyes and went to check the board.
It was a beautiful baby. A girl. Seven pounds, two ounces. Eighteen and a half inches long. Downy blond hair. Brown eyes. Ten fingers and toes. Sue had needed a C-section. But she’d been awake, chattering. Cooing over the baby as if it were a doll.
Marie knew Antoinette would help Sue as best she could. But she also knew there’d be an evaluation to determine if Sue could properly raise a child. For now, the new mother was happy. With luck and prayer, Angeline—that’s what Sue had named her—wouldn’t become a teen mom, too.
Her shift was over. Parks had said he’d be waiting outside Charity to drive her home. As if she couldn’t walk. But it pleased her to get home sooner. To Marie-Claire. A cool bath.
Sex would be good, too. If she was honest, that’s why she’d said, “Yes, Parks. Drive me home.” She should’ve just said, “Sex.” But Parks, nonetheless, understood. Just as she understood his offer to drive was part of foreplay.
Forget about the bath. Just sex. Then coffee, and rereading Laveau’s journal.
“’Night, Sully.”
“I’ll be there at two,” he replied, watching her leave.
She smiled, stepped bravely outside, blinking at the rising sun. The moon, descending, reflected the yellow glow.
She didn’t see Parks’s car.
Had there been another attack? Police business? He would’ve called her. Wouldn’t he?
She scanned the street: cars cruising, patients leaving the hospital, some arriving. The Picayune deliveryman was filling the automatic newsstand. The convenience-store clerk was filling the crates outside the store with apples and bananas. An ordinary day.
Feeling wearier with each passing minute, she counted to a hundred. Another hundred.
She dialed Parks’s phone; he didn’t pick up.
She started walking. Okay, no sex. Just Laveau’s journal. Another day digging for possible clues. Another day to figure out how to kill the wazimamoto.
Someone pushed her, and she fell, sprawling, her hands bracing her fall. Gravel tore at her skin. Her head jerked. Her hair was being pulled from its roots. She screamed. Grabbed the fist clutching her hair. Tried to gain traction with her feet. A tennis shoe slipped off.
A fist slammed into her jaw. She moaned, trying to keep clearheaded.
Wazimamoto? No, couldn’t be. The attacker was solid. No freezing air. Or music. It was daylight. Think. She was on her hands and knees, trying to crawl away. Keep shock at bay.
She was picked up, thrown against a wall. She felt a rib cracking. She slid down the wall, and someone, smelling of alcohol, his face covered with a ski mask, dragged her, by her legs, down an incline, a driveway leading to an underground storage area for medical waste.
She thrashed, screamed. It wasn’t fair. A random assault.
She kicked hard with her feet, hitting her attacker’s knee. He dropped her legs and she scrambled, stumbling upward, toward daylight.
The man barreled after her. Spinning her, shoving her to the ground. Bloodshot, crazed eyes. Knees on either side of her. Hands pressing her chest flat; pain radiating, she couldn’t catch her breath. His hands clasped her neck.
She kicked, her nails clawing at the mask.
The man cursed. Cajun. He was a backwoods man. Smelling of chewing tobacco, diesel oil.
Light-headed, Marie was losing strength. This was just a man. Not even a vengeful spirit. She thought of Marie-Claire. Enraged, she grabbed her attacker’s crotch. Digging in her nails. Twisting.
He screamed. Fell back.
She scrambled up, kicking him. Aiming for his kidneys. Turning, running up the gray, dirty tunnel, screaming, “Parks.”
And there he was. Materializing, at the tunnel’s mouth, like a ghost.
“A man—”
“Not—?”
“No.” She gasped, knees buckling, falling. Parks caught her—she whimpered—and gently lowered her to the ground.
“Just a man,” she said.
Staring down the shadowed drive, Parks called for backup. “Wait here.” He released the safety on his gun.
Gingerly, Marie fingered her rib cage. Some bruises. One rib broken. Possible hairline fractures on two more.
Two shots echoed in the tunnel.
“Parks,” she screamed. Bracing her back against the wall, using her thighs as leverage, she pushed herself up. She was a doctor. Someone would need help.
She winced as she moved, sliding her shoeless foot. She heard footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Like her, she thought the person must be hurt, trying his best not to fall down. “Parks?”
She could see a man’s form. Her pulse raced. “Parks?”
“It’s me.”
“Where are you hurt?”
“In the gut. He hit like a son of a bitch. I’ll be fine.”
“Does he need help?”
Parks, his cheek swelling, turning purple-blue, avoided her gaze. “Dead.”
“How can you—?”
“I’m sure.”
Sirens wailed. “Cavalry’s coming.”
“You look like hell,” she said.
“So do you. Come on.” He slipped his arm about her waist. “Lean on me.”
A flashlight’s beam danced over them. “Parks. Parks, I heard it was you. Distress call.” Roach was rushing toward them.
“Victim’s below,” said Parks. Officers, guns drawn, moved downward, into the tunnel.
“Is it—?”
“No, Roach. A regular murder. Regular bloodletting. Bullet holes. One to his leg. The other, his heart.”
Roach whistled.
Parks handed him his gun.
“What’s this?”
“Give it to the captain. There’ll be an investigation.”
A voice called, “I’ve got ID. Roach—you coming?”
“Give me a minute.”
An officer stepped forward, nodding. “Detective Parks. Charity sent an ambulance.”
“No, take me home.”
“You should get checked out, Doc.”
“Take me home, please.”
Roach studied Marie and Parks. An ambulance whooped.
The patrolman shrugged. “EMTs already here.”
Roach took off his jacket. Wrapped it about Marie. “I’ll cover for you. Get her out of here, Parks.”
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 16
