The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  The “Maries.” Everywhere he turned, every attempt to fix his power, there were the Maries. Foolish, naive. And when he made them whole—capable of wielding power—they betrayed him.

  Without him, they lacked ambition. With him, they would have ruled the world. The latest incarnation was a backwater healer; protected by the Marie he’d made the most formidable—the Marie who long ago had killed him.

  He’d been lost, waiting in the sea for resurrection. Hate was his life’s blood. Hate for those who’d enslaved him, sought to castrate him. Colonizing him. Hatred for those people who didn’t rebel against slavery. Hatred for the weak women blessed with spiritual power.

  Hate kept him alive and now that he had risen, he’d wreak his revenge.

  He’d wield power without the Maries. Surviving on the blood-laced evil of men like Rudy, the weakness of a JT, of silly whores.

  By blood, he’d live. By blood, he’d rule.

  By blood, he’d undo any need for the Maries.

  SEVENTEEN

  RIVERWALK

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON

  The day was glorious. Bright, sunny. Kind Dog was chasing seagulls. Marie-Claire was squealing. Marie had given her a rainbow lollipop for promising to stay in her stroller.

  Parks was lighthearted, happy. He wore a Hawaiian shirt and sandals.

  “You look ridiculous,” she said.

  “Hey. This is my best Hang Ten shirt.”

  “If your fellow officers saw you, they’d laugh.”

  Marie slowly pushed the stroller on the boardwalk.

  Marie-Claire shouted, “Dog! See gull.”

  Kind Dog, tail wagging, perked his ears. He made one last dash at a gull, before running back to Marie-Claire.

  “Dog! Dog!”

  Marie sat on the bench, smiling at Dog licking the sugar from Marie-Claire’s face. Shading her eyes, she watched the steamships churning the Mississippi.

  Part of her didn’t want to do battle. She wanted to sit here, in the sun, seeing the world as ordinary, being ordinary, a woman dating a man. Only ordinary dramas threatening her family.

  Kind Dog sat, leaning his body against Marie’s knee. Marie-Claire, eyes closing, leaned back in her stroller. Her lollipop rested on her sky blue shirt.

  “I’m not sure how much time we have,” she said.

  Parks dug in his pocket for his cigarettes. “I was trying not to smoke.”

  “Don’t smoke around Marie-Claire.”

  “All right. Fine.” He stuffed the cigarettes back into his pocket. “At least we’ve got a reprieve. We’ve got today.”

  He clasped her face. “You’re crying.”

  Kind Dog started whimpering, empathizing with Marie. His nose nudged her hand.

  “I’m not crying.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  Marie studied the passersby. Young couples, strolling, linking arms. Children, wearing Aquarium of the Americas T-shirts, cartwheeling on the grass. An elderly woman fed bread to pigeons; three boys fished off the pier. Families, not partying tourists, were enjoying the day—sunshine, popcorn, and the strains of jazz from tourist ships puttering down the river.

  “Laveau said, ‘You are me.’ ”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes, I think so. Like me, she valued voodoo’s healing power—physical and spiritual. It’s not an accident that I became a doctor. Murder isn’t something we’re good at. Physicians swear, ‘Do no harm.’

  “Laveau said: ‘Find John’s gris-gris bag, his secret of youth. The emblem from his tribe.’ ”

  “It’s a clue?”

  “Yes.”

  Parks said, “Good. That I can help with.” He took his pack of cigarettes out again, frowned, and stuffed it back into his pocket. “You know, I’ve been thinking about getting the hell out of New Orleans. Bad romance. More murders, more corruption in one year than I’ve seen in seven years as a cop. Then this bloodsucker. Leckie’s death. Roach says the department won’t suspend me. They might even give me a medal. Figures.” He shaded his eyes.

  His tattoo was fully visible. A thin sword covered by briars. Swirls of lightning.

  Her fingers stroked the tattoo. “What’s this?”

  “I had it done when I was fourteen.”

  “So you were the Eagle Scout. The kid who thought he could slay dragons. Awaken the sleeping beauty.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I always wanted to be a cop. For a long while, I’ve been wearing down. Then I made love to you. I was thinking maybe I could stay. Here. In New Orleans. Maybe I’ve been looking for the girl who needed me. Depended on me. You’re not that woman. Okay, I get that.”

  She kissed him, letting her mouth linger on his.

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  Marie held on to him. Her arms circling his waist, feeling the pounding of his heart, the shuddering of his lungs.

  She knew the speech had cost Parks. She was beginning to understand more than ever how vulnerable, how sweet he was. He could be tough, hold emotions in check, “protect and serve.” In his own way, he was healing, too. Making the world better. A cop and a doctor. Both seeing the worst humanity could do to itself.

  “Help me get Marie-Claire and Dog packed. El and DuLac will watch over her. Maybe take her out of New Orleans.”

  “You’re not going to answer me?”

  “I can’t answer you. We’ve got a crime to solve.”

  “Fair enough.” Parks stood, offering Marie his hand. Marie took it, rising. He didn’t let go. “Afterward?”

  “We’ll talk afterward.”

  “So where do we start? Where do we find this gris-gris?”

  “I think the answer was in the painting. I think we start at Cathedral Square.”

  Marie slipped the lollipop from the sleeping Marie-Claire’s fist.

  Kind Dog panted, licking his mouth.

  “Not for you,” said Marie, dropping the lollipop into the trash.

  “Sun’s going down,” said Parks.

  “I know.” The horizon streaked with blood red, like a wounding. “We should hurry.”

  Kind Dog barked at a man flashing by on Rollerblades.

  Marie-Claire, startled, wailed big, wallowing cries.

  “Dog. Come!” Marie shouted as Kind Dog made another dash at a gull.

  Tail tucked beneath his flanks, Kind Dog followed Parks and Marie, pushing the stroller, to the Riverwalk garage.

  Marie slipped Marie-Claire into her crib. She’d fallen back asleep.

  The blackbird mobile was still. Kind Dog stretched out beneath the crib, as if it were his special cave. Marie stooped, rubbing his belly. Dog stretched, rolling onto his back.

  “Such a pretty dog. Such a good dog.” His fur was so smooth, silky. Dog flipped himself over and licked Marie’s face. She patted his head, rubbed his ears. “I’ll be back. Watch Marie-Claire.”

  Dog cocked his head, then licked her again. She closed the bedroom door.

  “Parks, did you call DuLac?”

  “Just did. Told him we’d be over in less than an hour.”

  Marie pulled a suitcase from the closet.

  “Alafin was cremated today,” said Parks.

  “A quick burial protects from evil spirits. There probably wasn’t an autopsy.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Good. I think Alafin would’ve thought it was a desecration.

  “We all need a break from New Orleans,” she said, grimly. “Parks, in the kitchen, you’ll find Marie-Claire’s oatmeal, some jars of food, her favorite biscuits. Bananas. In the refrigerator, there’s soy milk. Put it in a bag. I’ll pack her clothes. Ten minutes, Parks.”

  “Ten minutes and we’re out of here.”

  Kind Dog started barking.

  Marie ran to the bedroom door. “It’s locked. Parks!”

  Marie could hear Dog growling, barking; she’d never heard him so fierce. Parks threw his shoulder against the door; the frame splinte
red but didn’t break.

  She could hear Dog grunting, growling, as if he was trying to tear something. Marie-Claire’s cry became more high pitched.

  “I’m coming, baby. I’m coming.”

  “Stand back.” Parks fired two shots at the lock.

  Dog was yelping. Snarling. Then, his yelp turned into a whine.

  Parks threw himself against the door again. It exploded open.

  Marie ran to the crib. Marie-Claire was standing, crying, face red, arms raised, wanting to be held. Marie gathered her up, holding tightly.

  Parks, gun drawn, searched the room. “Nothing’s here. Is she all right?”

  Marie checked Marie-Claire’s wrists. “He didn’t touch her. Dog?”

  “By the window.”

  Holding Marie-Claire so she couldn’t see, Marie saw Dog, his neck twisted, broken. He wasn’t drained. Except for the unnatural angle of his neck, Dog appeared asleep.

  “Spite,” she murmured. “John killed Dog for spite. I should’ve known better.”

  “This isn’t your fault.”

  Marie-Claire quieted, her face buried in Marie’s neck. Her pudgy fingers wrapped about her mother’s neck.

  “Reneaux and I rescued him. He was our Dog.”

  “Come on, Marie.” Parks was opening drawers, gathering clothes. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  She’d have to mourn Kind Dog later. “Sleepwear is in the bottom drawer.”

  “I’ll meet you in the car. You and Marie-Clarie. Just get out of here.”

  Marie turned, forgetting that Marie-Claire could see Dog over her shoulder.

  “Dog!” Marie-Claire screamed.

  Marie wanted to shelter her child; but she also didn’t want to lie to her. “Something came into the house and hurt him, Marie-Claire. We have to get out of here to be safe. Let’s go see Uncle DuLac,” said Marie, distracting her. “Auntie El.”

  “Dog, too?”

  “No. We’ll come back and bury Dog later. We’ll find a beautiful spot for him to sleep and we’ll plant flowers.”

  Marie-Claire started to cry.

  Marie hurried down the stairs, feathering Marie-Claire’s face with kisses; in the car she snapped her into the car seat.

  Parks rushed out of the courtyard. He put a bag and a suitcase in the backseat. “Another car ride, Marie-Claire.”

  “Bye-bye.”

  “That’s right. Going bye-bye.” Parks shut the rear door, then moved round to the driver’s-seat door. Key in, ignition engaged, he steered into traffic.

  Marie peered into the night, a black cloak shrouding New Orleans. Night unleashed all kinds of passion.

  Hatred swelled. “I’m going to kill it tonight. John won’t hurt another soul. Ever.”

  EIGHTEEN

  ST. LOUIS CATHEDRAL

  TUESDAY EVENING

  Marie and Parks stood before St. Louis Cathedral. Far enough back, they could survey the entire scene. The lawn where Laveau had conducted her ceremony. The street that had once been filled with horses, carriages. Hundreds of people, some worshipping, others indulging in thrill seeking, had created a circle, a perimeter around her.

  At DuLac’s, Marie had studied the painting, trying to impress the details on her mind. Now at the site, she tried to re-create the painting. Ignoring the tourists, the violinist playing for tips. The shopkeepers and tarot readers.

  “In the painting, the bonfire is centered,” she said. “The drummers are on the far right. Farther right, the other musicians. The disapproving priest would’ve been at the door, near the pillar.”

  “The sky was more overcast,” said Parks. “But it must’ve been hot, like tonight. Many were barefoot; the women didn’t wear shawls.”

  “Laveau wore a white shift.” She moved through the flowing crowd to the center of the lawn, in front of the cathedral door, in line with the rooftop crucifix. She imagined the bonfire. Laveau possessed.

  John would’ve been behind her, on the right. In the alley, beside the cathedral. Pirate’s Alley. How he must’ve watched, envied Laveau.

  “Come on,” she said to Parks. “We should check the alley.”

  It was dank, dark. Only a block long, extending from Chartres to Royal Street. On one side was the church; on the other, the Cabildo, the old Spanish governor’s mansion.

  “Legend has it that Pirate Alley’s been a hiding place for criminals. Robbers used to attack those leaving Mass,” she said. “Or murder a double-dealing pirate. Rape a girl.”

  The cobblestone path was laid by slaves. Halfway down the alley was a lamppost; its glow weak.

  “No doors anywhere,” said Parks. “No entry into the church. If you’re looking for a hiding place, it’s not here.”

  Marie let her hands roam over the moss-laced bricks. They were solid, cemented with history, blood. “This is a perfect hiding place. A cathedral. A governor’s mansion. Crimes might happen in the alley, but who would violate a church, a governor’s mansion?”

  Parks ran his fingers between bricks, pressing the dirt-and smoke-stained caulk. “This stuff is solid. Better built than anything in this century.”

  Marie, her back against the church wall, looked left, right. At the end of both sides of the alley, normal tourist life passed by. Think. Feel.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Sssh, Parks.” Marie looked skyward; the stars were bright, caught in a narrow sliver between the rooftops. All the bricks seemed in place. She closed her eyes, trying to conjure, a past time. What had been? A lost time when slaves, free coloreds, conquerors, and the conquered mixed. Where a Voodoo Queen made an attempt to heal.

  Marie shuddered. “Nothing.” No visions, no clues from the past.

  “John’s changed his tactics,” said Parks. “He killed Alafin, Dog, without being called. There wasn’t any music. No drums.”

  “He just was—present. He’s gaining control.”

  “Have you seen JT, Rudy? Any of the other ghosts?”

  “No,” Marie pushed off from the wall. “I haven’t. They might help.”

  “Can you call them?”

  “Maybe. Before, they just appeared.” When did they stop? It upset her that she hadn’t missed them.

  “JT helped me believe,” said Parks.

  Marie smiled. “Taking Wire’s sticks. He wanted me to solve his murder.”

  “They all do.”

  “Let’s get to it.” Marie moved farther down the alley, where John, shrouded in darkness, had watched Laveau. Marie turned back around. At the alley’s east end, people were partying, drifting by, some stumbling, drunk; the silver-painted man was playing statue; a man made music with a washbucket; the river was black, dotted with ships.

  “JT? Rudy?” she called softly, like a lover. “I need you. Please. There,” she pointed. “Can you see?”

  Parks craned his neck. “No. But I never saw Tinkerbell either.”

  Across the street, near a park bench, beneath a wide willow, JT and Rudy stood, side by side. One by one, the other dead appeared at their side. Sarah, two other women, Alafin, and she guessed the Nigerian Alafin had tried to interview.

  People flowed around and through them.

  “Do dogs have ghosts?”

  “Yes,” Marie answered. “Everything alive has spiritual essence.” She saw Kind Dog, sitting, subdued, as he never did while alive.

  “Come on, boy,” Marie called.

  Dog came at a trot, the others followed, close behind.

  “I feel them,” said Parks. “It’s freezing.”

  “Dog is nuzzling your hand.”

  Parks moved his hand up, and away. Then, he let it settle, hovering over air. “Good dog.”

  Marie swallowed a smile, then looked at all the sad-eyed ghosts. A band of nine. Slack jawed and restless.

  “Somewhere, here, is John’s gris-gris, a bag filled with all the charmed herbs, soil that protected him, kept him young. Help us.”

  Alafin stepped close, close enough for Marie’s hand to pass
through his hand, for her to feel both cold and timeless energy. He moved deliberately down the alley, coming to a stop near a church gutter.

  A rat scurried out of a drain, its fur brushing against the brick, its feet tracking dirt from the crease between the cobblestones and the wall. Then it furrowed into a hole nearer the cathedral’s southwest corner.

  “Parks, come see.” At the building’s corner, the last foundation brick touching the earth was discolored. Red instead of gray.

  Parks pulled out a knife, the tip digging at the earth, the space between dirt and brick.

  The ghosts swayed, fingers pointing at the spot. Their expressions feral, as if they, themselves, could be monsters draining blood. Dog snarled, baring gums and teeth.

  “Move, Parks.” Marie fell to her knees, digging, clawing with her hands. She felt hatred, vengeance rising in her, felt the fury of the ghosts, her own anguish over Dog’s loss, Laveau’s torment.

  She felt such ire. John would destroy her, Marie-Clarie. All the descendants down through the generations. Her nails cracked and chipped.

  “Marie,” Parks shouted.

  She dug, frenzied. John’s secrets lay here.

  “Marie.”

  She felt a howl roiling in her belly.

  “It’s here,” she shouted. “I know it’s here.”

  “Let me help.”

  “It’s mine to carry. All of it.” Her hands threw up dirt, digging like a rabid dog.

  “Marie.” Parks gripped her hands. “I believe you. You’re bleeding.”

  Her fingers were red; Agwé’s symbol on her palm was speckling. Her rib cage ached.

  “Let me help.” Parks dug with his knife. Penetrating deep, deeper. “Something hard.”

  “That’s it,” said Marie.

  Then, all of them—Parks, Marie, Dog, and the ghosts—peered into the hole. Parks lit his lighter.

  The small flame shone on a box.

  “My god,” said Parks.

  “Voodoo gods,” answered Marie.

  She crouched, gently wiping away dirt. The box was small: four by four inches. It had a lock, but time, erosion, had rusted it, broken it in two.

  Marie turned to the small band of ghosts. “Thank you.”