Jake frowned. “You mean, like the killer was biting the vic’s neck?”
Kilby shook his head. “No. More like he was sucking. Sucking at the stump.”
Sara and Jake looked at each other. Dickey made a noise somewhere between sadness and disgust.
“My God,” the detective said. “My God.”
“Maybe that’s what happened to the missing blood,” Sara said. “Maybe he was killed right here after all.”
“And someone slurped down a couple of gallons of blood?” Kilby asked.
Sara shrugged.“It’s a possibility.”
Kilby looked thoughtful.
“It’s disgusting,” he said. He smiled at Sara. “I like it.”
“Here we are,” Jake said. “Fulton Street, Cypress Hills.”
“I was just here,” Sara said, as they parked Jake’s car in an open spot next to a fire hydrant.
“Canvassing the neighborhood for info on the other murders?” Jake asked.
“Something like that.”
Jake looked at her suspiciously.
“Look,” he said, “I know you’ve got your methods, and I know that sometimes they even work. But let’s not forget we’re partners. You’re not holding out on me, are you?” Sara forced a smile. She couldn’t tell him about her trip to St. Casimir’s. Even if the voices would have let her, and she didn’t think they would. “Holding out on you? My partner? Nahhh.
“When I left the station house I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d do some checking on the ’net, and on a site devoted to New York City gang symbols. Found a reference to a gang called The Saturday Night Specials that used cross tattoos as a recognition sign and initiation symbol. Remember those crosses on the one floater’s body?”
“Yeah,” Jake said.
“Well, I was able to find someone who could identify the corpse from the tattoos. He was one Achille de Petion. Haven’t been able to run a check on him yet, but I expect he’ll be in the computer. My informant told me that an associate of his, Dr. Claudius Caradere, is also missing.” “And how’d you get this informant to be so talkative?” Jake asked.
Sara smiled. “You know what a winning personality I have. Oh, look.” She changed the subject, gesturing at the restaurant before them. “This must be the place.”
The sign over the door said Pierre-Pierre’s. Engraved in the glass window was the same name in an elegant flowing script with Fine French Cuisine below it. There was also a closed sign in the window, and, indeed, the restaurant was dark and empty though most of the other businesses on the street were still open.
Jake put his nose up to the glass and looked in.
“Seems like no one’s about,” he said. “Weird.”
“Maybe Mr. Pierre-Pierre was having some financial difficulties,” Sara said.
Jake shrugged. “Maybe the people next door might know something.”
“Maybe they might.” „? .
The shop to the right of the restaurant was a bookstore called The Serpent ANp the Rainbow. The store to the left was somewhat more mysterious. It seemed to be a souvenir or gift shop of some kind, called Mambo Marie’s Notions, Potions, and Lotions. Like many of the Fulton Street stores, both were still open though it was getting late.
Jake and Sara looked through the shop’s front window. It was dimly lit inside by a mixture of low-wattage fluorescent, some pastel neon signs, and electric faux candles. Despite the less than brilliant lighting, both cops could see the tall, voluptuous black woman behind the counter with tight, low-riding jeans that exposed her pierced navel and svelte waist, and a form-fitting, low-cut T-shirt that was two sizes too small.
“I have a notion,” Jake said. “Let’s check this place out.” Sara looked at him. “Bookstore. Bimbo store. Not hard to figure which one you want to investigate.”
Jake shrugged. “We’ll get to the bookstore. This one looks like it has more possibilities.”
Sara gave a wordless grunt as she followed her partner into the dimly lit shop that was also ripe with dozens of heavy, clashing scents, and cluttered to the point of claustrophobia. The aisles were narrow, the tables and shelves were piled with all sorts of strange and tacky merchandise, from fake plastic glow-in-the-dark skulls to sprays of chicken feathers dyed bright flourescent colors, to bank upon bank of glass-enclosed candles to arrays of perfume and incense, to bundles of what looked like suspiciously real chicken feet.
Jake went up to the counter where the girl was watching them closely. He flashed his badge. “You’d be Mambo Marie?” ...
“I’d be Juliette,” the girl said. “This place is a franchise.”
Her skin was a gqlcjen honey-brown, her eyes were dark and almond-shaped. She wore her hair in a retro Afro. Close-up, Sara, could see that she didn’t wear a bra under her T-shirt, and, despite the size of her breasts, didn’t need one. Jake seemed to realize that, too.
“Detective McCarthy,” Jake said, smiling. Juliette smiled back.
After a moment Sara said, “I’m Detective Pezzini.”
Juliette continued to smile at Jake, who eventually remembered to put his badge away.
“Can I help you, Detective?” Juliette asked. Somehow she managed to make her innocent question sound like an indecent offer.
“I hope so,” Jake said. Sara realized that if they were going to get any information relevant to the case they were working, she’d have to take the lead.
“Do you know why Pierre-Pierre’s is closed?” she asked.
“The restaurant next door?” Juliette spoke to Sara but continued to look at Jake. She leaned forward, putting her hands on the glass countertop in front of her, creating a deep valley between her large, round breasts. Jake looked at them as if he were gazing at the clue that would wrap up the case. “I hear the owner is having problems. I hear he’s sick.”
“He’s more than sick,” Sara said. “He’s dead.”
Juliette looked at her for the first time. “That’s too bad. He was a nice man.”
“What can you tell us about him?”
Juliette leaned back languorously. She seemed as supple as a big, black cat, a fact obviously not lost on Jake. “He was a nice man. That’s all I know.”
“What kind of store is this?” Jake asked, finally managing to get a word in.
Juliette looked at him. It was as if, Sara thought, she herself wasn’t even in the room.
“This is a voodoo store, honey. We sell candles to call the spirits, charms to soothe the savage breast.” Juliette crossed her arms under her own, lifting and emphasizing. “Even Sir John the Conqueror root.” She gestured down at the glass case in front of her. Among the rows of cheap silver-plated ear and toe rings were some small, shriveled brown things that looked like dolls parodying the shape of men. “Make you strong for love," she said, half-closing eyes that were glued on Jake. “But you don’t look like you need Sir John, do you?”
“Not usually,” Jake said.
Sara looked disgustedly at her partner. The bell on the front door chimed as someone else entered the store. The newcomer was a tall woman with a lean, boyish figure, pale skin, and fine, narrow, fox-like features. Her blonde hair, so light as to be almost white, was cut short and slicked back like a silent film star’s. She moved with a sinuous litheness that spoke of a highly-conditioned athlete or martial artist. Her eyes had almost a physical impact when they met Sara’s. Sara couldn’t tell their color in the dim light, but there was strength in her gaze and a promise, if they’d been man’s eyes, of an extraordinary erotic appetite. Sara caught herself catching her breath as she swept past.
The newcomer looked at Juliette, and nodded almost imperceptibly. She went into a back room off the main body of the store. Jake didn’t notice.
“I think we’re done here,” Sara said after a moment. “I’m going to check out the bookstore.”
“Okay.” Jake said, smiling at Juliette.
“You coming?”
“I’ll catch up.”
Men, Sara though
t. She strode out of the shoppe and had almost reached the bookstore when Jake hurried up to her side. She glanced at him.
“That was useful,” she said.
_ “I got her phone number,” Jake said. “Just in case.”
' “In case?”
“In case we need to investigate her, uh, more closely.”
Sara just looked at him and reached for the door handle. A bell jangled musically as Sara pushed the glass door open, Jake at her heels. They stepped inside and looked around what seemed to be the classic small-time independent bookstore. The lighting was pleasant. The bookshelves were from floor to ceiling and stuffed with books both new and used. A comfortable old rug cushioned the floor and comfortable old chairs were scattered about. Some of the chairs were occupied by customers thumbing through books and magazines, other customers were browsing the shelves.
“Hey, take a look at this,” Jake said. Sara joined him where he stood before a bookcase and gestured at the shelf that was on eye-level.
“Spirits of the Night," Sara read. “Strange Altars, The
Serpent and the Rainbow, Divine Horsemen, Written in Blood, Voodoo Fire in- Haiti, Mythologie Vodou, Go Tell My Horse, Magic Island.”
“What’s with all this voodoo stuff?” Jake said. “Pretty freaky, huh?”
“Can I help you?” a voice asked in French-accented English.
They turned to see a young black man standing behind them. He was Sara’s height, and slim, with short hair curled tight against his skull and large, dark eyes. His hands, Sara noticed, were large and well-kept with short, neat nails. He seemed to be regarding them with bland suspicion, as if they were tourists who’d been caught remarking on the quaintness of the local customs. Which, of course, they had been.
Sara pulled out her wallet, and flashed her equalizer, the badge, which gave them the upper hand in almost every social confrontation.
“I’m Detective Pezzini,” she said. She nodded at Jake. “This is my partner, Detective McCarthy.”
The man before them seemed unaffected by her revelation.
“Yes,” he said coolly.
“You are?” Sara pressed.
“Paul Narcisse. This is my shop. Is there a problem?”
“Do you know Philip Pierre-Pierre, who owned the restaurant next door?” Jake asked.
Instantly, Paul Narcisse’s eyes became hooded. “Owned?”
The voices in Sara's brain started to chitter. It seemed they didn’t like Paul Narcisse. It seemed they were wary of him. Grateful for the warning, Sara nevertheless wished they would shut up so that she could concentrate.
She also wished that Jake wouldn’t blunder through conversations like a bull in a china shop. She put her hand on Jake’s forearm, stopping him from answering the question. “We’re sorry, Mr. Narcisse. Did you know him? Was he a friend?”
Paul Narcisse nodded. “Yes. He is.”
“He was killed earlier this evening. Murdered,” Jake said baldly.
If Jake expected Paul Narcisse to gasp aloud, run away screaming, or make any other kind of incriminating gesture, he was disappointed. Paul Narcisse’s gaze narrowed further and his expression hardened.
“Killed with a machete?” he asked.
“How’d you know that?” Jake asked quickly Paul Narcisse shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “He would not be the first from this street to die that way, would he?”
“No,” Jake admitted.
“Mr. Narcisse-” Sara began.
“Call me Paul,” he said. “Most do.”
“Paul, then. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
He gestured toward the rear of the store. “I have an office in the back. Please—”
Paul Naricisse waited for the two policemen to precede him, and stopped to have a few words with a young woman who had been behind the counter, working the cash register.
“This way.” He led them through a curtained doorway and down a short hallway, opened the door to his office and gestured to them to enter.
It was a small, comfortable room with an old wooden desk heaped high with paperwork, a recent model PC, near-shapeless old chairs, and an old, over-stuffed sofa along one wall. The Serpent and the Rainbow, Sara could see, was not exactly making money hand over fist.
Along another wall an amazing collection of artifacts rested on a wooden table that was set up like an altar. In the middle of t|te table a tree branch was braced against the wall. Carved, cleverly jointed and brightly painted wooden snakes climbed around it. Set up beside the limb were empty wine and rum bottles, some with white candles stuck in their open mouths. Dozens of earthenware pots and jugs jostled for space. A small bowl with a cluster of chicken eggs occupied a central place of honor, and the wall behind the altar was covered with framed religious lithographic portraits: a whole cast of Catholic saints.
Paul Narcisse took the seat behind the desk, watching as Sara and Jake took in the altar.
“Yes,” he told them, “I am an adherent of voodoun, the religion of my native country. That is my shrine to Damballah, my personal loa."
“There a lot of that in this neighborhood?” Jake asked.
“A lot of voodoun?” Paul Narcisse asked. “Of course. Cypress Hills is home to many thousand Haitians, more than anywhere in the United States, except Florida. More Haitians live here than in most cities in Haiti.”
“This Damballah dude,” Jake pursued. “What’s he all about?”
Paul Narcisse smiled. “You mean, does he encourage his worshipers to go around chopping off peoples’ heads with a machete?”
Jake was unembarrassed. “For starters.”
“Hardly,” Paul Narcisse said. “Damballah is the cosmic snake. The world was hatched from his egg. He is a loa of life, regeneration, and3 rebirth. Together with his wife Aida-Wedo, who is the rainbow, he rules the sky.”
“Loa," Sara said, “what’s that?”
“Loa are sacred spirits. Those on the right hand, like Damballah, Papa Legba, and Erzulie Freda, are the good spirits who help mankind. Those on the left are the mal-facteur, the dark loa. Er^ulie je Rouge, Baron Samedi and his brothers, are those whom the bokor— the evil sorcerers—call upon.”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “Any of them have machetes?” “Some,” Paul Narcisse said with a smile. “Some don’t need weapons. Their teeth and claws are potent enough.” There was a brief knock at the door, and it swung open. “Hello, Paul,” said the newcomer. “Clarisse told me you had visitors.”
Paul Narcisse nodded. “Indeed. Come in, Father Bal-tazar. I’d like you to meet Detectives McCarthy and Pezzini.”
“I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting one of your visitors,” he said, nodding at Sara.
She looked at the newcomer with surprise. It was the handsome young priest from St. Casimir’s. Seeing him in good light gave Sara an even more favorable impression. He was every bit as handsome as she’d thought he was. His hair was thick and black. He wore it combed back and long enough to fall to his shoulders like a thick mane. His face was pale, not with the pallor of ill health, but rather the purity of fresh ivory. His forehead was broad and unlined, his cheekbones high and prominent, his jaw strong and charmingly dimpled. His eyes were dark, almost black, and Sara could discern both compassion and wisdom in them, for all his comparative youth. He looked like a model portraying a saint. As Sara looked at him her pulse raced, but that might have been caused by the voices which had begun to stir in her brain when he’d first appeared.
“We should continue our little talk,” Father Baltazar said to Sara, “whenever it Would be convenient for you.” “Sure . . .” Sara said. Desperate to change the subject, she blurted, “Baltazar.*That’s an odd name.”
The young priest smiled, showing a set of straight, white teeth. “Not where my family came from.”
Sara flushed. “Of course.”
McCarthy, not fearing to rush in, said, “Where’s that?” Father Baltazar turned his smile to Sara’s partner. “Poland by way of Lithuania. It
means ‘Baal protect the king.’ Somewhat ironic for the name of a Catholic priest, no?”
McCarthy shrugged. “I guess. So, Cypress Hills is a mixture of—what?—Haitian, Jamaican, Indian, and Lithuanian?”
Paul Narcisse nodded. “That’s right. The Lithuanians came mostly at the turn of the century, the Indians after World War II. The Jamaicans in the 1960s, the Haitians last of all.”
McCarthy smiled, as though he found this all very interesting. “And how do you folks all get along?”
Paul Narcisse and Father Baltazar looked at each other. It was Narcisse who answered the detective’s question. “We get along fine.”
McCarthy smiled again. “Yeah. Until bodies started showing up without heads.”
“That is not a question of race or ethnicity,” Father Baltazar said firmly. “That is a question of good against evil.”
As he spoke Sara almost staggered. The voices in her head had turned up the volume from a gentle background murmuring to a full-fledged roar. They were agreeing, it seemed, with the priest. He was telling the truth. This wasn’t a simple gang-inspired conflict. Some aspect of it existed on a cosmic scale, which made it the provenience of the Witchblade.
McCarthy didn’t say anything, but Father Baltazar obviously read the skeptical look on his face. “You don’t believe me, Officer?”
“Well, this is the twenty-first century. I believe more in gangs and guns than I do in evil spirits.”
Father Baltazar turned to Sara. “How about you?”
She couldn’t look away from his eyes. They seemed to captivate her, draw her inside his own. The voices were yammering at her. She couldn’t quite understand what they were saying. There was warning and approval mixed in their fragmentary messages. Screw the voices, she finally told herself. She couldn’t let them make all her decisions for her.
“I-I have an open mind,” she finally told the priest. Priest and bookseller looked at each other, and seemed to come to some kind of silent decision.
“All right,” Paul Narcisse said. “We shall take you at your word. We’ve been reluctant to take this matter to the police because we’ve felt, first, the police wouldn’t believe us, and, second, couldn’t help us if they did.” He looked at Jake McCarthy. “There are some things the police are ill-equipped for, possibly precisely because this is the twenty-first century. But not all knowledge was bom in this century, nor was all evil.”
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