by Don Bruns
‘Are you familiar with Antoine Duvay?’
He thought for a moment. ‘I may have heard his name mentioned. Worked here, like me.’
Archer nodded.
‘Can you tell me what cars are in the garage?’
‘Sir?’
‘Nathan. What cars does the warden own. It’s a very simple question.’
‘Warden Jakes has a Ford F-150 pickup, a Chevy Malibu, and his most requested car.’
‘What is that, Nathan?’
‘A Jaguar XK-E.’
Archer glanced toward the garage, not surprised at the answer.
‘It’s a looker, suh.’
‘Yeah?’
‘A beauty. Cream colored and all. You want to see?’
34
Solange Cordray was in a hurry. Washing her face in the employees’ locker facility, she glanced at her watch. Today she was off at three, with a three thirty appointment and a throwing of the bones. The client wanted information, not just a spell, and the young practitioner had some rather uncanny ability to find information, details about people’s lives and what the future held in store when she tossed the bones. She wasn’t happy at all about the job. This man was evil. She felt it, believed it. This was the man she’d gone to Quentin Archer about.
The problem always was that she had a hard time saying no. It wasn’t the money although the cash always came in handy. It was the fact that she felt everyone deserved a chance. But this guy … He was bad news.
She concentrated on the bones, the only things that last in this physical world. Even when cremated, bone fragments remained. Every living soul, man or animal, leaves a trace of itself through its skeletal remains. Every one. And throwing bones went back to the ancient faith of the Yoruba. All that was needed was the four bones and the casting map, with three sections representing earth, plant and animal. With just those items, the voodoo lady could tell her clients things that would change their lives. But only if those clients knew how to interpret. The trouble with bones, they often told of unpleasantness that the client had no control over. It was a mixed blessing to have this information, possibly information that you wish you had never received.
She once threw the bones for a young white woman who was the picture of perfect health. The small bone, the imbay, pointed to the same plant segment on the casting mat as the scita, the broken bone. Solange had turned to the woman and told her she would be dead in three days and there was nothing she could do about it. The lady had laughed at her.
Three days later the woman suffered a stroke and died hours later. Ghende, the gatekeeper spirit, ushered her into the cemetery two days later.
The voodoo practitioner vowed never again to be so harsh with her predictions. There were some forecasts better left untold.
Picking up her small clutch purse she exited the locker room and stepped into the long hallway that led to the lobby and exit. She dreaded the meeting. She should tell the man her suspicions and suggest that he change his ways. This from a lowly practitioner to a wealthy business executive.
‘Hey, pretty baby.’ Clarence the orderly blocked her way.
‘Please, I’m in a hurry.’
‘You avoid me like I’m the plague or somethin’.’
‘Clarence, I have an appointment.’
‘I’m thinkin’ we need to hook up, sometime after hours. You catch my drift?’
Reaching out with his large hand he touched her arm and she recoiled.
‘You think you’re better than me, is that it? You’re too good for Clarence? I treat your momma special, little lady. You do good by me, you understand, and I watch out for momma.’ He reached for her again.
Deep down, somewhere in the bottom of her soul she felt it roiling, an intense heat rising through her loins, her intestines, her heart and into her feverish head. White-flecked spittle formed on her lips, and her breath became hot and heavy. There was a fire in her eyes, and her nostrils flared like an angry mare.
The voice was a low, animal growl, like that from a mother bear protecting her cub. ‘Go away.’
He pulled his arm back.
‘Go away and don’t ever come back.’ A voice from the bowels of hell. ‘Leave this place and promise yourself that you will never again enter the doors of this establishment.’
The man’s eyes were wide open in fear and amazement. He took one step back, then another and another.
As she stared at him, the heat of her eyes burning into his, the big man slowly sank to his knees, whimpering.
‘Understand that if you come back, the wrath of Damballa will be on you like the stink of the undead.’
He nodded, staring at the floor as tears streamed down his cheeks. He never looked up.
As if it never happened, the voodoo lady took a deep breath, gathered her composure, turned and walked in measured strides down the hallway and out the door into the afternoon sunshine. The river, the Mighty Miss, rolled by and she smiled at it, feeling some kinship to its awesome power.
35
Archer stopped at the office and saw the note on his desk. Other than Detective Davis’s signature, it simply said, ‘See me. Immediately.’ He’d been in charge of Judge Lerner’s cell phone. Davis was working late, so it must be important.
‘You seen Davis?’ Dan Sullivan walked up to him.
‘Just got in. I was down talking to the warden at—’
‘Go see Davis. Now.’
‘Let me clear a couple messages here and—’
‘Archer, come with me.’ He tapped his watch. ‘When I say now, I mean now.’
The sergeant grabbed him by his elbow and propelled him down the hall to his small office where they found the black detective sitting on the edge of Sullivan’s desk.
‘Didn’t know if you were coming back today or not. Tried your cell a number of times, but—’
‘Turned it off at the prison.’
He’d turned it off and left it in the car, then forgotten to turn it on when he returned.
‘What have you got? Phone numbers?’
‘Oh, hell. We can beat phone numbers straight out of the gate.’
‘Then what?’
‘The lab dried it out. The man—’
Sergeant Sullivan interrupted. ‘Lerner recorded his own abduction and murder.’
‘He what?’
Davis held up a playback device. ‘It’s all on here, Q. Guys are named Skeeter and James, and they picked the judge up at his house. They beat him up, stuffed him in a car, drove to a warehouse and they shot him. Some of the conversation is a little muffled and the guys are still trying to un-garble parts, but we got most of it.’
‘The judge. He recorded it?’
‘On his phone.’
‘Why didn’t he just call 911?’
‘I don’t think he knew they were going to kill him until it was too late. By the time they would have responded, he’d have been toast anyway. This all happened in about twenty minutes. We figured out who Skeeter is,’ Davis said, holding up a photograph. ‘Guy named John Lewis, nicknamed Skeeter, a low-level punk who does contract work for some of the mob guys in town.’
‘What mob?’
‘Actually, any mob. But we figure that’s the guy who actually killed him.’
‘My God, that’s unbelievable. Did Lerner convict this guy? Was it a grudge thing?’
‘So far we can’t tie them together.’
‘Sergeant Sullivan, I think it goes a lot deeper than a simple murder. There are a lot of threads.’
‘We get this Skeeter Lewis, we should get some answers.’
‘Priority,’ Archer said.
‘One more thing,’ Sullivan said. ‘We haven’t reached Adam Strand yet. You know your partner isn’t going to be happy. He still thinks he’s got this thing wrapped up. Hoping and praying.’
You were hoping and praying, Archer thought.
‘Strand had Antoine Duvay locked up for the long haul,’ Davis said.
‘Not after this,’ Sulliv
an shook his head. ‘Now Strand might actually have to do some work on this case. He thought it was going to be an easy conviction.’
‘So you could actually hear the gunshot?’ Archer asked. ‘On the recording? I mean, how often do you get that lucky?’
‘You can hear it,’ Davis smiled. ‘Muffled but loud.’
‘What else?’
‘Well,’ Sullivan picked up the player, ‘we’ll play it for you, but at the end, at the very end of the recording, about fifteen minutes after the gunshot, you can hear this Skeeter character. It sounds like they’re opening the door of a vehicle and struggling to pull something out.’
‘Lerner’s body,’ Archer said.
‘Probably. Here, I’ll just play the last couple seconds for you.’
He pushed a button and there was a whoosh of noise, the phone inside the dead man’s pocket loudly rustling over the fabric of the judge’s pants.
‘It’s coming up,’ Davis said.
More rustling, and some muffled grunts as if the man or men who were carrying the body were struggling with the dead weight.
‘Here it is,’ Sullivan was grinning, like a kid at Christmas.
Archer strained to hear some words, but they were more like groaning sounds. Then someone said, ‘Ready?’
Another voice mumbled something, and the last words Archer heard came out in almost a shout.
‘Adios, motherfucker.’
A count of three and there was a loud splash. A moment later everything went dead.
‘Jesus, there it is. They just threw the body into the river.’
Archer couldn’t say he was shocked. He’d been certain that Antoine Duvay had been innocent of the killing. But, the kid had run. He’d been scared of something. And since Archer had learned that Duvay had been in charge of the warden’s grounds and vehicles, he wondered. Wondered if the newly innocent Duvay was really that innocent.
Exactly half an hour from the time Solange left the center, her client entered the small shop on Dumaine Street. Her Ma’s shop, she reminded herself. The place where Clotille Trouville had practiced her brand of voodoo, a place where the matronly figure felt she could heal the world. It was her dream, one person, one problem at a time. It was the same place her Ma had advised Earl Garrett, Solange’s client’s father.
In the small cluttered store, with the shelves of ragged dolls and gris gris bags for sale, in this tiny room with a bare-wood floor and faded posters advertising lotions and potions hanging from the plaster walls, she was entertaining a killer. She was sure of it. Ma would not approve. Absolutely no way.
An aging hand-painted wooden sign nailed to the counter read All Payments Must Be Made Before Services Are Rendered. It had been there as long as she could remember. Ma was strict about it. Pay before you play.
‘What are we searching for today,’ she asked, carefully studying his reaction. She was certain who he was, and there was that very strong vibe that he was up to no good. She’d convinced herself. No good at all.
The casting map was laid out on the rough wooden floor in the back room and her four bones lay on top of a worn leather pouch.
Picking them up, she warmed them in her hand, studying the man who took a seat in the old cane-woven chair next to her.
‘There’s a project, a plan in place that may have gotten out of control.’
‘Can you be more specific?’ She wanted details.
‘No.’
‘Very well.’ She would try a different tactic. ‘What information do you want from the bones?’
‘A gris gris bag you gave me several months ago, a spell that you gave me, surprisingly they had the desired effect.’
‘Surprisingly?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows. She herself was never surprised. It was part of who she was and what she did. ‘Your father always trusted in my mother’s abilities. Why would you doubt me?’
‘I meant no disrespect. I am not a firm believer, but it was powerful medicine.’
She nodded, rubbing the bones like a shooter at the casino rubs his dice. Tools of the trade. Roll a lucky seven and your dreams come true. Roll a thirteen and …
‘Miss Cordray, I believe you have some amazing powers. And I do believe that you can peer beyond the normal. As you said, my father relied on your mother from time to time. I think you know what information I want from the bones. Am I right?’
She studied him, the lines in his face, the furrows in his brow. He carried a lot of worries. If the bones blessed him, he would consider it a license to go ahead with his plans. And if they cursed him, he would probably do the deed in spite of them.
‘There is this project, and I am hoping that it will have a satisfactory ending. I am hoping that the results will be in my favor. Am I being too vague?’
She considered his words.
‘You want to know if your project will be successful. For you?’
‘Yes.’
She studied him, then examined the bones in her hand.
‘And this project, it involves my ex-husband?’
Studying her, he clasped his hands together.
‘Does that matter?’
‘Does the project involve profit or financial gain?’ Lead him. Make him tell you the nature of this project.
‘Again, does it matter?’
‘Of course. I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is this project you speak of moral?’
‘Define morality.’
‘Does your project revolve around good and evil?’
The man took a deep breath. ‘It has nothing to do with morality. It is a simple project and I want to know if it will be successful. If the bones tell me it will be successful, I will proceed. If they say no, then I will decide whether I need to pull the plug and—’
‘Mr Garrett, I must know if this is a principled project.’ Damn it. He was being coy, avoiding the question.
The man shook his head. ‘I was under the impression that you could forecast the ongoing success or failure of my plan.’
‘I can’t forecast anything. If the spirits are listening, if they are watching and weighing in on the event, then they may show their favor or disapproval. It’s all about the spirits. It has very little to do with me. I am but their vessel.’
‘So? Ask them for me.’
‘I must know where the plan or project as you called it sits on a moral compass. Is that so hard to tell me? Yes or no. That’s all, Mr Garrett.’
Watching her hand as she slowly caressed the smooth small bones, he shook his head again.
‘I think maybe we have come to a parting of the ways.’
‘Because you can’t answer my question?’ she asked. She didn’t want to lose him; she still needed answers.
‘Because I want a simple answer and you’ – he pointed his index finger in her direction – ‘you won’t give me a simple answer. You know about this project, don’t you? You see it, and you cast judgment.’
Solange smiled at his choice of words. ‘Mr Garrett, there are no simple answers. We would all like simple answers, but they don’t exist. They never have. And, sir, it is not my answer to give. You haven’t listened to me. The answers come from far greater powers.’
‘Oh?’
‘The gris gris bag that you felt helped your cause, the spell that was given to you, they had little to do with me.’
‘And I thought they had everything to do with you.’
She shook her bowed head.
‘The spirits that deal with grief, loneliness, riches and wealth, the spirits of good fortune and health and everything else that humans have need of, these spirits are the ones who determine your fate. Please, don’t look to me for an answer. Again, I must emphasize, I am simply the intermediary.’
Garrett studied the map at his feet. Earth, plant and animal. He glanced at the yellowed bones in the young girl’s hand.
And the voodoo girl knew in an instant. He’d figured it out. There was no need for an answer. He d
idn’t want definitive proof about whether he was successful or not. There was no sport in those answers.
The man stood, reached into his front pocket and pulled out two twenties and a ten. He handed the three bills to Solange and quietly walked out the store, the small bell tinkling as the door slammed shut. All payments must be paid before services are rendered.
Solange looked at the casting map, then closing her eyes she tossed the bones, hearing them rattle on the oilcloth.
Opening her eyes she saw the result. Four bones, four different possibilities. And every possibility was bad. There was no way, absolutely no way that his project could work. Every answer was a strong negative, every combination a formula for failure. In her normal business life, the man should be warned. In this case, she was exhilarated. He couldn’t succeed.
Glancing at the door she knew what her next step should be. Garrett had made his own decision. He no longer asked for the intervention of the spirit world, and that was his decision to make. Solange was tempting fate if she forced her perceptions upon him. She needed to be quiet and let nature run its course, no matter how violent, no matter how bad the situation. The spirits were in charge and a mere human couldn’t control the future.
The voodoo lady picked up the three bills he’d given her, placed them in a brown envelope and tossed the envelope in a large copper dish. Picking up a box of wooden matches, she struck one and ignited the envelope. As it burned, the black smoke rose and she smiled.
Folding up the map and putting her bones back in their pouch, she stored them and thought about the safety of her mother. If Clarence didn’t follow her direction and leave the employ of the center, she would kill him. She wasn’t sure how, but realized that death could be the outcome. Maybe there was a spell for killing someone. She’d have to study that. And that possibility didn’t bother her at all.
36
He woke up when a rooster crowed outside his window, the same window someone had tried to pry open with a knife. Had it been a drunk from the Quarter who thought no one was home? Not likely, although there were always strange characters out in the evening. Maybe a burglar who prayed on the area, knowing a lot of tourists who rented would be on the town? He didn’t think so. He’d taken the broken knife blade to the lab. They had classified it as low priority, but he’d check with them in a couple of days. There was a chance they could match some prints.
