“Look at him. A reflex. His eyes opened. It startled me. Look at him.”
DuLac didn’t glance away from her.
“Look,” she shouted.
“You look.”
Mist spiraled overhead.
“That’s curious.” Then Marie giggled, for she sounded like Alice talking to the Cheshire cat.
“What’s curious?” asked DuLac.
Honeysuckle. She smelled it. Odd, the baby was upstairs; her mother, buried in a pauper’s grave.
“Look,” DuLac repeated.
She walked toward the scent, slowly, deliberately, until she was beneath the lamps—her gaze slowly, steadily, moving upward from Jacques’s toes to his face.
His eyes were closed tight.
DuLac, his breath warm, whispered in her ear. “A reflex might open his eyes, but not close them again.”
“They opened. I tell you they opened.”
“I believe you. But only you saw.”
“Reneaux?” Marie reached back her hand as if he could comfort her.
“I didn’t see anything.”
“But you did, Marie. You’re the one with the gift.”
“You’re trying to tell me I see ghosts? You’re a drunk, DuLac.”
“So I am.” His shoulders rounded, his chest caved inward; he seemed smaller, less powerful.
“I’m sorry.” She squeezed his hand.
“I am what I am. An aging drunk. Merely competent as a doctor. But you’re different, Marie. I knew it when you first stepped inside Charity. I felt it.”
She felt sorry for DuLac. “I can’t see ghosts.”
“Spirits,” he murmured.
“I’m a scientist. Objective. Twenty-eight. A woman grown. Not some young, inexperienced girl to be awed by crazy tales.” Not like Jacques. Marie shivered. Why’d she think that?
She could see Jacques in a back room, lying on a mattress on the floor, spine curved, knees up, clasping his abdomen. There was a small altar with the Virgin and two candles. A red leather prayer book.
“He didn’t die in the alley.”
“How do you know?”
Marie couldn’t answer.
“Ah, Chérie,” she heard. “Chérie.” Jacques was sitting, crossed-legged, eyes open. “Dance,” he demanded, palm outstretched.
“Dance.”
She reached for his hand.
“You see something,” whispered DuLac.
Marie stumbled backward. She didn’t want to dance with Jacques. The dead should stay dead. It was just another outrageous dream. She was in a hospital. She treated people. Living people.
“I have to get back to work.”
“What did you see, Doctor Levant?”
“Nothing.”
DuLac called, adamant, “When Legba knocks, you have to open.”
She kept walking.
“Hey, Doc, I’ll stop by and talk to you another time.”
“Good luck searching for clues, Reneaux. Sorry I couldn’t help.”
She wanted to run. But she made herself walk. “Don’t get emotional.”
One step. Then another step. Out the door. Into the ER. Into the world of flesh.
She heard Jacques calling, “Comment t’appelles-tu? T’appelles-tu?”
“Je suis Marie,” another voice answered.
She was running full out.
“Marie!” El shouted.
Past Sully, Meredith, the admissions desk. Past all the sick, aching people. She had to get out.
She pressed the elevator buttons. One carriage on the sixth floor; the other, the ninth.
She opened the fire exit and started climbing the stairs. Seven flights to reach the baby.
Seven flights to reach home.
Legba is like St. Peter. He opens the spirit gates.
—The Origins and History of the Voodoo Faith
hey’d stolen her baby.
Marie had gone to see the baby and the bassinet was empty. She’d panicked, and for a horrifying second, she’d thought the baby had died. But the two nursery nurses were watching her. Pitying her. She stalked out, just as they’d begun whispering.
Nothing in her life was calm; everything was disrupted, confused. DuLac always seemed to be watching her. El didn’t even fuss; instead, she treated Marie with deference. Like she was special when she wasn’t. She wanted to scream at everyone: “I’m just like you.”
Jacques was dead. She hadn’t seen anything. No rising from the dead, no opening of glazed eyes.
She wanted the sidelong glances, the gossip, to stop. For Sully to stop calling her “Doctor.” For Huan to share her spicy noodles again. Not to be afraid of her. And for K-Paul to stop asking for her opinion. Second-guessing his diagnosis.
In the past two days, Marie had been even more desperate for the baby. Cradling her, she’d felt normal. Capable of love. Of being loved.
She didn’t know she’d been fattening the baby like a lamb to the slaughter.
Instead of honeysuckle, she smelled rubbing alcohol, plastic, and gauze. The bitter odor of spent bandages, sick flesh, and Pine-Sol.
* * *
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Because you’d throw a worse fit than you’re throwing now.”
“She was my baby.”
“No. She was—is—a ward of the state.”
Antoinette was wearing blue. A vase of lilies was on her desk. There was also a photo of a little girl with freckles on her nose and a smile sparkling with braces.
“Is that your daughter?”
“Oui. Denise.”
“Would you give her up?”
“No.”
“Then you understand how I feel.”
Antoinette answered gently, “But she’s not flesh of your flesh.”
Marie felt stricken. Felt as though her womb contracted. Why did she feel the baby was her child? Was she being selfish? No husband on the horizon? Clinging to a child as her eggs aged, her biological clock ticking away?
“Baby Doe belongs in foster care.”
“She belongs with me,” she said softly, emphatically, certain in her bones.
“They’ve found her a good home, Marie. She’ll be well cared for.”
“Can you guarantee it? Swear it?”
“I’ve placed her with good people. Experienced foster parents.”
“You don’t understand, Antoinette. There’s no such thing as good foster care.”
You’re always beholding, always growing up with love removed. She’d had three foster parents in eight years. All of them drumming into her that she was below average, nothing special.
The first families she’d only been with for several days. She’d run away from them both. The Duncan kids thought she was a punching bag; bruises flowered all over her body and face. The second home, Mr. Jackson liked touching her in bed, his hand clamped over her mouth. She’d gotten tired of running. Tired of complaining of abuse. Plus, she’d been warned. Institutions were perfect for rebellious, dissatisfied kids. The Harrises, she thought, were the lesser evil. She was wrong.
She could still see Mrs. Harris, flesh hanging from her arms, spooning mashed potatoes onto her plate. “Don’t think you’re better than anyone else. Your mother’s dead. Nobody knows your father. You’re lucky I feed you.” She was only ten. Mrs. Harris, a good Christian, begrudged her everything. Eight long years. She didn’t beat Marie, just battered her spirit. “Mary is a good, plain, Christian name. Mary you are in this house. Marie sounds like a whore.”
Marie blinked.
“Please, tell me where the baby is. I need to make sure she’s all right.”
“I can’t do that.”
“What if I wanted to adopt her?”
“You’d have to prove abandonment.”
“Her mother’s dead. Not a soul has visited her in two months. How abandoned does she have to be?”
“Legally? At least a year. It’s a judge’s discretion.”
Marie wanted to rage, shred Antoin
ette’s double-breasted suit.
“I thought you were my friend, Antoinette.”
“Marie, I’d love for you to raise that baby. You’d both be good for each other. You just need to be patient.”
Marie turned to stalk out.
“Giving up so easily?”
Heart racing, Marie spun back around. “What do you mean?”
“I expected you to torture me.”
“I thought about it.”
Antoinette laughed. “Reneaux identified the mother.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. Apparently, DuLac knew her.”
“El, too?” Marie felt sick.
“Yes. They both know the baby’s people.”
Marie felt betrayed.
“If the family renounces their claim, you can adopt sooner.”
“Who are they?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you. They’re bayou people. Back country. They don’t have a phone. I drove to see them this morning. They set their dogs on me.”
“What’s their name?”
“You’ve got to promise not to try to see them by yourself. Get a lawyer. Take a friend with you.”
“What’s their name?”
“I’m serious, Marie. I’m only telling you because I heard about you and that body. Everybody knows you see things.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“You’ll have to if you’re going to deal with these people.” Antoinette wrote four lines on a piece of paper. “Here. If anyone asks, I didn’t tell you.”
“Thanks, Antoinette.”
“I’m not certain I’m doing you a favor.”
* * *
“I’m leaving, El.”
“Your shift?”
“It’s an emergency. I’ve got to go.” Marie had her purse, keys. It was at least an hour’s drive, outside the city. But she had to stop, face El across the desk. “You should’ve told me.”
She watched El age. Watched her spirit drain until she could clearly see the old woman with a bouffant wig, loud shadow, and polish. “You should’ve told me.”
Marie hurried. She needed to save the baby.
El picked up the receiver and dialed. “She knows, DuLac. Not everything. But enough. She’s on her way to the DeLaCroix house.” Then she pressed the button to disconnect.
* * *
Marie had been driving for two hours. She hadn’t counted on bad roads. Getting lost. But the farther she drove, the wilder the landscape became. On either side of her were willows, gnarled and ancient; thick moss hanging in sheets; and swamp, sluggish with undergrowth, rocks, and bones. Sometimes she heard the caw-cawing of birds, the violent splash of crocodile catching prey; the rustling of an animal running through bush. She turned left off the highway. Onto a packed dirt road, elevated from the swamp with tons of raw earth, sand, and wooden ties.
The note Antoinette had given her said:
DeLaCroix
Bayou Teché
Twelve miles off Route 5
Left at Junction 28
An animal appeared in front of her headlights and froze. She slammed on her brakes. She thought she’d hit it. She turned off her engine, got out of her car. Blood was on the grille. She felt heartsick.
She stepped over the wooded tie, trying to follow the animal’s path. It couldn’t have gotten far. The earth caved and she slid, bruising and dirtying her left side.
“Damn.” She brushed at the dirt, then held her breath, listening. No whimper. No whine or moan. Just a high-pitched shriek. A splash of water. Instinctively, she moved to the right.
The setting sun, the damp, heavy thicket made progress hard. Mosquitoes were drawing blood. Her feet were sinking in mud. She stumbled, falling onto her hands and knees. Tree limbs tangled in her hair.
She should turn back. It was unsafe. She’d get lost and no one would find her. She’d sink into swamp, swallowing mud, having it rush inside her eyes, ears, and nose.
She stepped out of her shoes and stripped off her doctor’s coat, its hem and side draining slick mud.
She stumbled again and saved herself from falling by grabbing a willow branch. Inhale, exhale. She needed to calm herself. An animal was hurt, dying or dead because of her. But self-sacrifice wouldn’t make anything right.
It was getting dark. She should get back in the car. Go to the DeLaCroix’s.
With her hands, she shielded her eyes from the sun’s final burst of orange. The wood’s roots seemed on fire and, for a moment, she was overcome by the forest’s primeval nature. Anything could happen. She trembled, feeling the mud and fog chilling her bones.
Night creatures were stirring. Bat wings, the scurrying of wild rabbits, the hoot of an owl. She could hear everything. Preternaturally. Even the glide of fish through muddy water, a snake’s zig-zag crawl.
From far off, she heard three hollow knockings of gourd. Three calls of a drum.
“Marie.” The word ricocheted among trees.
She wanted to run. Shadows were lengthening. She could see the moon’s yellow cusp.
She was sinking deeper in damp ground.
Then, she heard her mother. Marie was a child again, on a steamship, churning up the Mississippi.
“Pay attention, Marie.”
“Maman?”
“Be alert to your surroundings,” her mother scolded. “The smallest details matter.”
Marie held her breath. The drums were more rhythmic, softer. Still far away. She crouched, never minding the mud, the wet.
Fireflies were blinking. She looked lower, near tree roots. Noticing the variations in bark and shadow. She could hear her own breath. Air squeezing in and out of her lungs.
She heard another breath, a hushed pant.
“There.” Huddled in the shadows.
She stepped as softly and as gingerly as she could. “It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.”
The eyes were small and rounded. Not a big animal. Yet larger than a squirrel or raccoon. Maybe a fox?
“Sssh, let me see you. Let me see.”
The creature growled. Marie felt relieved. It was a dog.
“Sssh,” she said again, peering, stooping lower. “Let me see you.”
A tail thumped the ground.
“You don’t have rabies, do you?”
Marie held out her hand, palm open, so the dog wouldn’t think she’d strike. “Go on, sniff.” The dog did. Marie noticed its tail was like a golden retriever’s; its body, black and broad like a Lab’s. Ribs were clearly visible. Burrs, dead leaves were twisted in its matted coat.
“You’ve been lost, on the run, haven’t you?”
Its hind leg was bleeding, lying at an odd angle. The dog had dragged it and had probably made the break worse.
“I’m sorry. But I can heal. You understand?”
The dog nuzzled her hand. It was going to be hard carrying the animal back to the car. But she didn’t have a choice.
“Good boy. Aren’t you a good boy?” She slid her arms under the torso and lifted. The dog’s head snapped round to bite her but didn’t. “I know. It hurts.” She held the animal snug against her chest, trying to step over rock, through uneven, muddy ground as smoothly as she could. She could barely see.
Eh, yé, yé, Maman Marie
Eh, yé, yé, Madame Marie.
The drums drew closer.
“We have to get out of here, dog. Not certain why, just certain we have to go.”
She tried to move faster, but it was difficult. If the dog had been less starved, she would’ve been unable to carry it.
Something was rushing to get them both.
* * *
Headlights. She didn’t remember turning on her lights. Nonetheless, she was grateful. The light was a beacon.
Her back and her arms ached. Up and up the hill. Dust and pebbles scattered beneath her feet. A few more yards to the road. Her thigh cramped. She almost dropped the dog. Stoic, the animal didn’t even whimper. “Good boy. Hold on. We’re almost there.” S
weating, frightened, dirty, she urged herself on. “. . . almost there.” She heaved one heavy leg, then the other, over the wood tie, onto the roadway.
A shadow ahead of her called, “Babies and dogs. You always rescue the helpless?”
“Reneaux?”
“You look like shit, Doc.” It was his car’s headlights. “Let me help. I’ve a way with dogs.” True to his word, he gently gathered and cradled the dog.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Thought you’d need my help.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Your car says you do.” He aimed the flashlight’s beam.
Her car, a new, black Beetle, had been rolled off the road. Upside down, nothing but a tow truck could right it and drag it from the ditch.
“I heard drums, knew people were about—”
“What drums?”
“You didn’t hear them?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Just like you see nothing?”
“That’s right. But you’re special.”
Reneaux wiped dirt from her face. They looked at each other. Marie felt trapped by his eyes. The dog, who’d been resting his head on Reneaux’s arm, lifted his head and ears. Marie looked back across the swamp.
“I should take you and this dog home.” He opened the car’s back door. “Don’t want you meeting the DeLaCroixs like a wild woman. Though, knowing them, they might not mind. Witches run in their family.” He was behind the wheel.
“Can I have your coat?”
He slipped off his jacket and started the engine. A gun was strapped under his right arm.
Marie, leaning over the front seat, laid the coat on the dog.
Reneaux pressed the gas, the car jerked forward, to the left; its headlights gleamed eerily through the trees, across the bayou swamp.
“There’s something else out there.”
“Maybe the folks that destroyed your car?” asked Reneaux. “If it’s more than two or three, I might not be able to help. Is it? More than two or three?”
She peered into the shadows. The moon hovered on the horizon. The dog howled. Marie felt a constriction in her heart.
“It’s more than three. We should leave.”
Reneaux put his car in reverse, then completed the turn. The car was pointing west, back toward the highway. Marie patted the dog. She looked out the rear window. Lights were swaying. Torches? She sensed evil. The car bounced fitfully over the dirt road.
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 25
