Casting Bones
Page 1
Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Don Bruns
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
A Selection of Recent Titles by Don Bruns
The Quentin Archer Mysteries
CASTING BONES*
The Lessor and Moore Mysteries
STUFF TO DIE FOR
STUFF DREAMS ARE MADE OF
STUFF TO SPY FOR
DON’T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF
TOO MUCH STUFF
HOT STUFF
REEL STUFF
The Caribbean Mysteries
JAMAICA BLUES
BARBADOS HEAT
SOUTH BEACH SHAKEDOWN
ST. BARTS BREAKDOWN
BAHAMA BURNOUT
* available from Severn House
CASTING BONES
Don Bruns
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
This eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2016 by Don Bruns.
The right of Don Bruns to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8636-1 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-732-6 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-796-7 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
Do snakes and spiders cast spells? Are they integral in the design of a man’s life? I think not. While spirits do influence people’s lives, the people themselves control their own destiny.
The Spider Lady
Voodoo doll, work your magic. All ends well or all ends tragic.
Mason Doyle, historian
The houngan danced, the snake wrapped tight. The lady’s eyes were wide with fright.
A voodoo journal, author unknown
Author’s Note
Casting Bones is a work of fiction. Most of it. I talked to a number of law enforcement officers during my research for this book and have the utmost respect for the New Orleans Police Department and the people who work there. They are true professionals, still trying to overcome the negative impact on their organization from the aftermath of hurricane Katrina. I have taken some liberties with the police procedures and departmental policies. New Orleans remains today as it appears in this book. Louisiana is peppered with private prisons and towns where the main industry is criminal rehabilitation. Still, this story is largely fiction. Some of it is spot on. I’ll leave it to the reader to decide what is factual and what isn’t.
I asked a detective if the department ever consulted with voodoo practitioners when investigating a crime. The answer was quite simple. “If they approach us with information, we definitely listen.”
Acknowledgements
Thank you Victoria Alman and Steven Stegall for your invaluable help in geographic, cultural and atmospheric realities. Thank you to the members of the NOPD for your time and information. Thanks for the tours my friend taxi driver Yerga Beraki. You helped me understand your city. And thank you to the number of other residents who live in this exciting town. Thank you authors Heather Graham, Laura Morrigan, Cara Brookins and Sandra Balzo and my good friends Connie Perry and Nancy Merwin. Thank you Linda Bruns for your editing. I’ve had some amazing moments and conversations at the Hotel Monteleone. Thank you to the help and guests for those interesting times, and I highly recommend their Carrousel Bar on Royal Street. Thanks to my agent, Jill Marr, and to all at Severn House.
1
‘He’s going to be killed.’
‘What?’ She turned and studied him.
‘He’s going to be killed. Murdered. You need to know that.’
‘Who is going to be killed?’ The statement had startled her. His mouth never moved but his statement was crystal clear.
The young black woman stared at her charge, the pale old man slumped over in a motorized wheelchair on the levee above the dirty Mississippi River rushing by. She was simply a volunteer caregiver, and had no idea how to deal with this information.
‘The judge, of course. Shot in the head.’ Very matter-of-fact as if everyone knew.
The wizened, white-haired octogenarian gazed at the brackish water, never saying a thing.
The girl with the soft skin spoke in a hushed tone, afraid those nearby would hear her and think she was crazy, having conversation with a silent man. In a sense, she knew she was. Crazy. Like her mother before her. Her mother, who once upon a time cast spell
s and prayed for interventions, and now spent her days in a wheelchair, staring vacantly at whatever was in front of her. Dementia had robbed her mother of all her abilities and now she was the one casting spells, praying for the souls of others. She was a voodoo lady who could suddenly hear a voice and read the mind of someone who could not speak for himself. This hearing of voices was something brand new. It scared her. Scared the hell out of her.
‘Please, tell me. What judge? Can someone stop this killing?’
There was silence. Just as there had been silence before. It was all in her head, the words of the decrepit old man. She heard him, clear and precise, yet his voice never uttered a sound. His mind lost in the fog of dementia.
‘Speak to me,’ she said firmly.
‘There is nothing you can do. The Krewe has made its decision.’ His mouth never moved. Eerie.
The young voodoo practitioner approached him from behind, brushing a helix of black hair back from her face. She placed her hands on his shoulders and stared at the water as well. Looking down she saw the wrinkled hands, thick with gnarled veins. There on his right wrist was the faded tattoo of a green coiled snake. She squeezed his arms, venting some of her hurt and anger.
‘You have caused a lot of people a lot of problems.’ Whispering the words, knowing, as a volunteer at the center, that she was out of line. Her job was to care for her patients, not abuse them. Still she continued. ‘You are the scum of the earth. You have caused a lot of people a lot of pain and I believe with all my heart, old man, that you will have to answer for your sins. You polluted this river with your chemicals, you raped the land and you stole the souls of people who worked for you.’
He showed no sign that he heard or understood a word she spoke.
‘And now you have the audacity to communicate with me, telling me that a judge will be murdered by one of the Krewes and yet you give me no other information? Damn you.’ Closing her eyes she took a deep, cleansing breath, relieving some of the tension. ‘I feel if you help stop this killing, you will start to amend your evil ways. Not completely, but some. Help yourself, I implore you. Tell me who will be murdered and let me stop this assassination.’
Nothing.
Releasing the grip on the man’s shoulders, the young lady once again closed her eyes. Silently she prayed to Damballa. ‘Deliver me from this burden. I have one purpose here, my creator. To help make my Ma whole. With your help we can bring her back. I ask that you take away other obligations. She alone needs me to make her well again. Give this murder, this killing to someone else. Another mambo, a houngan. I need time to help my mother heal, and I do not want the burden of someone’s death on my conscience.’
Again, there was only silence.
The girl shivered in the warm, humid air. She was now the bearer of important information, an impending death that was known to only a few. She had the power to inform authorities and even stop the killing. But her source, this man, was incapable of communicating with anyone through traditional means. An advanced case of dementia had terminated that possibility. And he apparently was very selective in the information he was giving her.
‘So you won’t talk?’
A slight move of his head, almost as if he’d heard her. But his mouth never moved. There was no sound from his formerly raspy vocal chords. No sound, yet she heard him loud and clear.
‘The judge, the judge who will be killed, he belongs to Krewe Charbonerrie. Someone must be told.’
2
Five months later
The judge had known at four a.m. that it was going to be a really bad day. Struggling, trying to breathe, he woke up sputtering, choking, deep under swirling dirty water and desperate for a breath of air. Five seconds later he caught that breath, realizing it had all been a dream. He woke up drenched in sweat. The rest of the morning hadn’t gotten much better.
He was going out on a limb today, turning over evidence that could put him away for life. If he didn’t, they would nail him anyway. They knew enough to destroy him, but at least he had a bargaining chip – or multiple chips, as the case may be. His meeting with Paul Trueblood was in less than half an hour. Trueblood, who said he could make a deal with the government. He just wanted it all to be over.
‘Judge Lerner?’
The judge jerked his head upright and looked over the boxes he had been positioning in the trunk of the cream-colored Jaguar XK-E.
‘Yes?’ Where had this punk come from?
‘Nice car.’
The young man stood out in the driveway, smiling in at him in the garage. A goofy, lopsided kind of smile, as if he’d had too much to drink. Dressed in a tight white T-shirt and skin-tight jeans, he turned his head furtively to the right, then to the left, then finally looking once more over his right shoulder.
‘I want to make certain that no one is watching.’ He giggled.
Lerner glanced in the same directions.
‘Watching what?’ He was confused.
‘Our conversation, of course. I want it to be private. Very private.’
Lerner studied the man for a moment, then turned back to the trunk of his car.
‘You got nosy neighbors? Behind the curtains over there?’ The intruder motioned to one of the houses across the street.
‘Go away. I don’t have time to stand around talking.’
The judge closed the steel-gray lid on a file box and straightened up.
‘No one appears to be watching.’ The man’s high-pitched voice was sibilant, and Lerner reckoned the guy might be gay. Maybe a friend of Rodger’s. Although he knew most of Rodger’s friends.
‘What do you want?’ Now there was a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘Do I know you?’
The young man shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m about to be an important part of your life.’ He paused. ‘Or …’ his voice trailed off.
‘Oh, shit.’ Disbelief in the judge’s voice. A touch of fear. ‘Did I sentence you? You did time? You were in my court, right? Is that it?’
A nightmare for every criminal judge. Someone you convicted comes back to seek revenge. Deliver me from that scenario, he thought.
‘No. This is nothing personal.’ A reassuring tone. ‘Just a message I was asked to deliver.’
‘Thank God.’ Lerner let out a sigh of relief. Then what was the line about ‘your life. Or …?’ Lerner studied him. The kid bore a trace of an effete James Dean, in Rebel Without A Cause. Or a young, camp Brando, in On The Waterfront.
‘Give me the message and then I’ve really got to go.’ The judge slammed the trunk lid shut and walked round the car. ‘Be quick about it – I’ve got an appointment in about ten minutes.’ All he needed was to be late and have this Trueblood walk out. He was about to make a deal that might save his life. The day was new and already there appeared to be a problem. He didn’t need more problems.
Lerner stared at the man. The high whiney voice, the air of affected boredom. God, the guy really was going for James Dean, although in New Orleans anything went. Tight jeans, a tight white T-shirt that showed off his flat abs and biceps, and too much product in his carefully coifed hair, the judge thought.
‘Did Rodger put you up to this? Is this his way of getting back at me?’ Rodger had been furious. He told Lerner he wasn’t about to be dumped by someone like him. It would be like Rodger to put a young punk up to this.
‘No. I don’t know a Rodger.’ He shook his head.
‘No? Then what’s the message?’
The young man wore the same crooked smile.
Lerner motioned him back with a sweep of his hand, as he started toward the driver’s side.
‘Please, get out of my way. Now. Either tell me what you want or get off of my property.’
A black Escalade pulled off the side street, and backed onto his concrete driveway. It happened a lot at the dead end. Drivers didn’t realize there was no exit. They pulled into his drive to turn around.
The judge raised his left hand to the driver, barely outlined behind th
e dark tinted glass. At the same time he reached into his pocket for his iPhone and surreptitiously activated the recording app with his right hand. He wanted a copy of this conversation.
‘Driver, please, be a witness.’ He shouted it out, hoping the motorist could hear him.
‘This guy is threatening me.’ It couldn’t be about what was in that gray file box, the one in his trunk. He’d only told one other person that it existed, and even they didn’t know exactly what the box contained. He was supposed to meet that person at the Cochon in just about ten minutes. Paul Trueblood. The contents of that box contained evidence to bring down some very high figures in New Orleans, and he was ready to make a case for his own immunity. This couldn’t be about that. Could it? Dear God. Of course it could.
‘Are you here because of the Krewe? Is that it? Tell me. We can work this out. Seriously.’
The young man smiled, still standing in the middle of the concrete driveway, now shielded from the neighbors’ view by the vehicle. Reaching behind his back with his right hand, he pulled out a pistol and pointed it directly at Lerner’s face. The end of the barrel was huge, like an open drainpipe.
‘Jesus.’
‘Do you pray often?’ The gun never wavered.
‘No.’ He was shaking now, trembling. ‘Not often enough apparently,’ he muttered, and closed his eyes. ‘Are you going to shoot me? Right now? In front of this witness? Please, tell me before you pull the trigger.’ Shuddering, he felt the blood drain from his face.
‘Get in.’ The man spoke in a singsong voice.
‘Get in …?’ It was then he realized the Escalade was for him. This was no lost driver who wanted a quick turnaround.
‘Look,’ perspiration covered his body and he felt a slight chill on his skin, ‘if it’s Rodger, tell him I’m sorry. It wasn’t going to work from the beginning. Seriously. I offered him cash, a lot of cash. Enough to go away and start over. Please don’t do something you’ll regret. Something he’ll regret.’
‘Get in.’ The voice a little deeper now, more demanding. None of the feminine tones from earlier on.