The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  Roach turned, his hands high, waving, like a traffic cop, motioning the medics. “Down here. Man down. We might be able to save him.”

  Parks lifted Marie; she groaned. The compression of bone, hurt.

  “Sorry,” Parks said. “I’ll get you home.”

  “I don’t want anyone from the hospital to see—”

  “I know.” He lifted Roach’s jacket higher, shielding her face.

  Hospital crew and bystanders were already gathering behind police barriers. Marie buried her face against Parks’s chest, taking shallow breaths. “Another bottle of whiskey for Roach.”

  “Better believe it,” said Parks.

  Marie tightened her arms about his neck.

  Kind Dog whined. He sniffed Marie’s hand. Jumped up, trying to see her face.

  “Down, boy,” said Parks as he maneuvered Marie toward the bedroom.

  Louise uncurled herself from the couch. “What’s this? What’s this?”

  “Please, Parks,” whispered Marie.

  He maneuvered her into the bedroom, laying her softly on the bed. Dog leaped up.

  Marie patted Dog’s head. “Sssh. Sssh. It’s all right.”

  Parks blocked Louise’s view, ushering her toward the front door. “Marie’s fine. She needs rest. Here,” he said, peeling off twenties.

  “Too much,” complained Louise.

  “Marie-Claire?” he asked.

  “Sleeping,” said Louise, reddening as Parks pushed her out the door, saying, “Thanks much.”

  “Marie,” Louise called.

  “Ssh,” said Parks. “You’ll wake the baby.” He closed the front door.

  “Down,” said Parks.

  Dog lifted his head, turned, and jumped off the bed.

  “That’s a first,” said Marie. “Dog always comes to bed when I do.”

  “Always?”

  “I don’t bring men home.”

  “Hey, what about me?”

  “More like you brought me home, don’t you think? Besides, if you think you’re getting laid—”

  “Don’t tease,” he said, grimly. “You’re hurt. You look terrible.”

  “So do you.”

  “But you’re alive.” Parks sat on the bed, cradling her open palms.

  He bent his head, kissing the scratches, the cuts. Lightly, pressing his mouth to her palm, then her thumb and fingers. “I knew I was going to shoot him.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Vengeance.”

  “Parks, no.”

  He touched his fingers to her lips. “Don’t talk. I can’t affect the supernatural. But a man hurting you? That’s my realm. I wanted him to pay a price. Planned on it.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “There’ll be an investigation.”

  “Parks, I’m so sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “It was self-defense. Tell them it was self-defense.”

  “I’m not sure. I could’ve subdued him. I think I could’ve.”

  “You shot him twice?”

  “In the thigh first. He kept coming.”

  “An imminent threat. Self-defense.”

  “I felt furious, righteous, shooting him in the chest. I’m a cop. I’m not supposed to get angry.”

  “You’re human.”

  His face crumpled in pain. “I’ll have to tell the investigators.” He pulled away, elbows on his knees, his head facing down. She tried to reach for his hand.

  He pulled away.

  “It’s the heat,” he murmured. “Something in the water. Spirits floating about. Aboveground crypts. Every sin tolerated. Drugs. Alcohol. Prostitution. Gaming. Whatever sin you want to commit, you can commit here, in New Orleans. It’s always been that way. Just walk through the Quarter and you can feel the weight of the past. Slavery. Brawls. Beatings. Rapes.”

  “Don’t.”

  “I’m beginning to understand why New Orleans is the murder capital of the world.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Parks, ever cool, had betrayed himself.

  “There’s cognac in the kitchen. DuLac likes to drink it when he’s here.”

  His hands on each side of the pillow, his face inches from Marie’s, Park spoke, his expression tender. “I’m going to start a bath. Get you a triple cognac. Take Dog out to pee. Then come back and bathe you.

  “You’ve got bandages?”

  “In the closet.”

  “Good. I’ll bind your ribs.”

  “You’ve been through this before?”

  “I’m a cop,” said Parks simply. “Cracked ribs hurt like hell. Hurts to breathe. You’ll heal soon enough.”

  “Soon enough to fight the wazimamoto?”

  “Let’s hope so.” He kissed her, exploring her mouth gently with his tongue.

  He pulled back and, despite her pain, she felt aroused. Felt touched by his vulnerability.

  “What’s done is done,” he said, smiling, willing his spirits to lift.

  She touched his cheek. “We should take care of this bruise—antiseptic, ice.”

  Angling his head, he kissed her palm. “After we take care of you.”

  “You’re not falling in love?” She regretted her words as soon as she’d said them.

  Parks pulled back.

  True, she couldn’t live without sex, passion. But it was also true that a decade of foster care had taught her it was risky to love.

  Wordless, Parks got up, turned on the bathtub faucet, left the bedroom, and brought back a full glass of cognac, then whistled for Kind Dog.

  She heard her apartment door close.

  All she had to do was say she was sorry, reach out to him; but she couldn’t. Not now. Her feelings and body were too raw.

  It’d be easy to give up and let Parks take care of her. But she wasn’t that woman. She appreciated kindness, tenderness. Good sex reminded her she was alive. And with a generous lover, she responded in kind. Maybe that’s why she was confused about her feelings. Parks had been beyond generous.

  Wincing, holding her left side, she sat up. She drank deeply, feeling the cognac burn its way down her throat.

  The wazimamoto was intent on destroying her. To survive, she needed to understand the world as Laveau had understood it.

  Parks was distracting. She, Marie-Claire, and Kind Dog were enough. DuLac and El were enough. They were a family. What more could a woman want?

  Gently, she slipped off her blouse; gently, she unbuttoned her jeans. Her chest ached; a hot bath would feel good.

  In the medicine cabinet, all she had was Advil. She swallowed three tablets with water from a Scooby-Doo paper cup.

  She turned off the bathtub faucet. Steam rose from the water. Condensation clouded the mirror.

  The water shone like glass, reflecting the bright white porcelain. Were words, memories, as powerful as water?

  She’d had patients who drowned in bathwater. Children, by accident, or murdered. Suicides. Not much water was needed to die.

  New Orleans was drowning in water, slowly sinking, losing landmass. In another hundred years, the city would probably vanish.

  All that would be left would be water.

  Bones, in the water. Pirates, sailors, slaves, native peoples, hurricane victims.

  Agwé had birthed a monster. Were there more? Waiting to overtake land?

  Water burst from the faucet—hot, rushing. Causing waves, a rising waterline. Grimacing, she turned the tap. Nothing happened. The water spilled over the tub, covering the bathroom tile. She threw towels on the floor. Tried turning the tap again. Nothing. Her feet slipped; her side hit the tub. She felt excruciating pain. She clutched the sink’s rim. A face, vague, undefined—but still a face—a man’s face, watched her. She turned, groaning; no spirit was behind her.

  The water stopped flowing.

  It still covered the floor, her feet . . . and the water turned a subtle green. A trick of the light? There was life in the water, microbes. Particles coalescing into some aber
ration of human life. She wouldn’t scream.

  Water covered her feet, seeping over the door ledge into her bedroom. Deep, ever so deep, she knew it would be a life-and-death struggle between her and the wazimamoto.

  She stood. Even Agwé couldn’t save her. That was the message. And given enough time, enough blood, the night wouldn’t hold it. Him.

  FIFTEEN

  MARIE’S APARTMENT

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON

  “You’re awake,” said Parks, coming over to the bed. “Let me help you sit.”

  “Where’s Marie-Claire?”

  “In the kitchen having red beans with El and DuLac.” He plumped the pillows behind her back.

  She searched the room. “Dog?”

  “Sully’s walking him. It’s three PM.”

  “It wasn’t a dream?”

  “No, it all happened.”

  “I need to get up.”

  “Don’t you dare move from that bed,” said DuLac, entering. “Doctor’s orders. Heard voices. Brought you some coffee. Pain relief, too.”

  “I’m fine, DuLac.”

  “Liar,” said Parks.

  “I insist, Marie,” said DuLac, tapping the syringe to remove any air. “It’ll help you rest. Heal faster.”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Marie.

  “We need you healed,” said Parks. “There’s been another murder.”

  DuLac pierced her arm with the needle.

  “Where’s your bedside manner?” A bubble of blood rose on her arm.

  DuLac dabbed her shoulder with gauze. “You should’ve waited for Parks to drive you.”

  Worry had aged DuLac. His skin was taut; dark circles underlined his eyes.

  “He wasn’t there,” she said.

  “I’d gotten a call,” said Parks. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  “Parks, it wasn’t your fault. It just happened.”

  Marie could feel the morphine washing over her, displacing her pain. “We have a new problem. The wazimamoto was here.”

  “Parks told me,” answered DuLac. “Was there music?”

  “No. Not here. But the city has sounds. When isn’t someone playing music in New Orleans?”

  DuLac sat on the bed. “Carlos made slides. I’ve experimented with everything I can think of—every root, herb, gris-gris charms. Calamine. Foxweed. Absinthe. ‘Keep away’ spells, destruction prayers, even sacrificed a chicken. Nothing worked.”

  “Did you try silver and garlic?”

  DuLac laughed. “I will.”

  “You never know,” said Parks.

  “Never know,” Marie repeated. She reached unsteadily for her café au lait. Parks picked it up, placing it in her hand.

  “Are you suspended, Parks?”

  “The attacker had a history of violence. Spousal, child abuse. Conviction for armed robbery.”

  “You’ll be exonerated?”

  “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. After this case, I’m out of here.”

  Marie, her face neutral, blew air into the coffee’s foam.

  Parks pulled out his notebook. “Seems the attacker—Thomas Leckie—was the father of one of your patients. Sue Leckie.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure. He finished a six-year term in Angola. When he got out, his wife didn’t want him. So he took his eldest daughter.”

  “She had his baby.”

  “Real sweet dad. Kept her confined so he wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Didn’t take kindly to you delivering the baby.”

  “He expected to get away with it.”

  “If his daughter didn’t die in a home birth,” added DuLac. “A hospital meant discovery. That’s probably why he attacked you, Marie.”

  “You ruined his sweet deal.”

  “Bastard,” she said, trembling, recalling her attacker’s hands, his sweat and sour breath.

  DuLac took the coffee cup from her hand. “Sue and the baby are fine. Antoinette said she’s happy her father’s dead.”

  “Don’t doubt it,” said Parks.

  She felt lightheaded. Felt as if her spirit and body were separating. Morphine didn’t exactly reduce pain, but focused it. Pain was a hot ball fixed behind her eyes while her body seemed to float, levitate, toward the ceiling.

  She slowly enunciated her words: “The other murder?”

  “Roach thinks it happened about the same time you were attacked.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Woman,” said Parks. “Small, compact. Brown hair, brown eyes.”

  “And?” said DuLac, prompting.

  Parks scowled, irritated. “She resembled you.”

  “And?”

  “Folks claimed to see a man. Hovering over the body.”

  “Bold,” said DuLac.

  “Unrepentant,” murmured Marie.

  The three were silent, each retreating into themselves. Speculating about the monster.

  “What happened, Marie?” asked DuLac.

  “Did you learn anything useful?” asked Parks.

  She slid down deeper into the bed. The room was spinning; her tongue felt swollen. “It was here. In my bathroom. Or, maybe just in the mirror? I couldn’t tell. But it’s becoming. Able to walk in daylight.”

  “Damn,” said Parks.

  She groaned.

  DuLac stroked her hair. “You should be in a hospital.”

  “No. I’ll get up soon.” Currents were pulling her down. “Have to get up. Another ceremony.”

  “Agreed,” said DuLac. “But after some healing. Parks did a good job with the binding.”

  She rallied. “Marie-Clarie?”

  “El’s watching her. Not to worry.” DuLac kissed her brow. “Take care, chérie. A man couldn’t ask for a better daughter.”

  She couldn’t open her eyes. They were too heavy. She squeezed DuLac’s hand.

  She felt suspended in air. Then she felt herself falling. Drowning. Falling into sleep, layer by layer, going deeper, deeper, and down. Into an abyss.

  She was on the other side of the looking glass. He was the man in the mirror.

  She knew his face—from where? He’d been loving once.

  She stirred; someone put a compress on her forehead.

  Drums sounded from far off. Strains of another sound, too. Some melody. Some echoing cry from the New World.

  “You are me.”

  In the mirror, her twin, dressed in white, barefoot, cradling a snake.

  “All things alive. You are me. I am you.”

  She stretched out her hand. Fingers touched.

  She felt power course through her. She could walk on water, pluck the moon. Resurrect.

  A shadow cut diagonally between them. Darkness deepening, the shadow grew into a man. Features imprinting on the darkness. High cheekbones. Medium mouth, lips drawn back in a grotesque smile. Eyes that burned.

  “Marie. Marie!”

  She twisted, flailing, trying to escape its grasp.

  “Marie. You’re dreaming. Wake up. Just a dream.”

  She held on to Parks. “Tomorrow,” she gasped. “Tomorrow. DuLac’s.”

  “Yes. Yes. Now sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

  “Sleep.” She curled on her good side. Exhaled. “Je suis Marie. And he is—He is—” She knew his name. Had always known it. “His name is—”

  But the name wouldn’t animate her tongue. It was just beyond her reach. In her soul’s recesses. Hidden by time, history.

  Hidden in her blood.

  SIXTEEN

  DULAC’S HOME

  MONDAY EVENING

  DuLac’s home was a jewel box of a house.

  The porch was a deep square with a rocker and a swing. Marie gingerly walked up the steps, holding on to the railing.

  After sunset, it had started raining again. A bone-chilling rain. Out of place in New Orleans.

  Through the screen door, Marie could see DuLac, in the vestibule, on the phone.

  “That you, Marie?”

  “Ici. Moi.”

  Stepping
into DuLac’s home was like stepping back in time. Everything about the home was plush, sensual, decorated in the belle epoque mode.

  Red velvet walls. Plump chairs with clawed feet. Parisian cabinets. Crystal chandeliers. High, arching ceilings trimmed in gold.

  Paintings covered the walls: streetscapes of the Quarter at sunrise, sunset; reclining nudes, bodies copulating, eating pomegranates. The house had been in DuLac’s family for two centuries. DuLac, the original Frenchman, had gifted the house to his quadroon mistress—DuLac’s great-grandmother.

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed. Does Parks know?”

  “He’s not my jailer,” she countered. “Carlos isn’t having any luck. You?”

  “No. But I’m hopeful. That was Alafin. Said there’s a man in the Ninth Ward claiming to know about wazimamotos. From his father before. A Nigerian who immigrated in the twenties. Alafin’s going to record his testimony tonight. We may discover how to destroy it.”

  “Good. But I’m not waiting. I want Laveau to possess me.”

  “It’s one thing to call the loas, but to call the dead? The Guédé might not appreciate it.”

  “I know. Still, I’ve got to try.” Loas came and went at will, but ancestors were honored, prayed to—seldom did they possess. Ancestors could haunt; appear in visions; even speak in dreams, but, rarely, possess the host.

  “Agwé can be the intermediary,” she said. “The river is swelling. Don’t you think that’s a good sign?”

  “It’s still dangerous.”

  “You think the great Laveau would care?”

  “It’s only been a few years since you’ve been developing your powers.”

  “You’re doubting me?”

  “No. But I think we should wait. Alafin might have news.”

  “And he might not.”

  Marie sat on the ottoman before the fire. When he was home, DuLac always had a fire. Even when it was ninety degrees. She felt overheated, dizzy. “Another woman’s dead.”

  “Parks wasn’t supposed—”

  “You think I didn’t know? JT. Rudy. Sarah. Haunting. Two more women. Both young. Both resembling me.”

  “Are they here?”

  Marie looked about the room. She’d grown used to the spirits. Lying in bed, trying to dream, she’d open her eyes and see JT sitting on the edge of her bed. Or Sarah staring at herself in the mirror, seeming to wonder how she ended up a prostitute, how she ended up dead. Another girl, newly dead, wept, her voice whining like honeybees.