by C. L. Bevill
The other illegal employees had their own issues and didn’t want to take on hers. They talked to each other, but it was insubstantial conversation and not about anything important.
Sometimes Jane thought she saw someone watching her from various shadows, but when she would turn to look, there was never anyone there. By the time seven days had passed from the second time she’d escaped from Raoul, she almost felt normal.
Almost.
Just as they were loading into Titus’s van, a familiar face appeared before Jane, and she nearly turned to run. It was the orderly from the hospital. He was dressed in a plain t-shirt and worn jeans. He smiled hugely, not even looking at Jane. One of the petite Guatemalan girls who worked on the crew with Jane ran into his arms.
They spoke to each other in a mixture of Spanish and English and Jane understood how the orderly knew about Titus’s more than liberal work ethics.
The orderly clucked the girl under her chin and said something in Spanish. Then his eyes came up and caught Jane’s. His face changed from indulgent to curious. “Oh, it’s you,” he said.
The Guatemalan girl glanced over her shoulder at Jane. “You know Jane?” she asked in a heavy accent.
The orderly shrugged. “Met her on the job, Flor. She got hit by a car.”
Flor cast Jane a look that said “He’s all mine.” Besides the fact that Jane was less than concerned in anything but the mystery of her life, the orderly was years younger than her. There was also the deeply entrenched feeling that someone else was in her life. Him. The one in my head. If she closed her eyes she could almost see his face. Almost, and the sense that she was missing something integral was maddening.
“Thanks for the idea about Titus,” Jane said, wondering if the young man might change his mind about tipping off the cops. Is this my last day working for Titus? Will he wonder what happened to me or even care?
Flor grasped the boy around the waist as if she didn’t want him speaking to Jane.
He laughed at her. “Flor, you’re the only girl for me. Look at Jane. She’s tall and skinny. Not even a little bit of meat to hang onto. Sorry, Jane, but I like sweet, little girls like Flor here.”
“Didn’t catch your name,” Jane said as she looked back to the driver of the van Titus used to transport his crews. Typically, the hulking man didn’t care to wait for any of the employees. However, the driver looked at the orderly and shrugged, waiting patiently.
Funny.
“Philippe,” he said. “My mama likes the fancy names, her.”
The name was pronounced in the French way, and it occurred to Jane that Philippe spoke like many people she encountered, as if they were raised in the bayou. Some of the locals called them Cajuns. Some of them spoke a pigeon French. It wasn’t like the French she’d heard in high school. I had French in high school? Wow.
Did I put Philippe on my list? Jane didn’t think so. The boy had helped her. It stood to reason that he didn’t gain anything by letting her go. He had seen something he hadn’t liked and didn’t lift a hand to further that injustice. Based on what she saw of him, she thought he’d had all he could take of wrongs against people who couldn’t afford to pay for expensive lawyers or to be bailed out of wretched situations.
But paranoia is paranoia, she reasoned. “I hope you didn’t get in trouble for me.”
“Trouble, pshaw,” Philippe scoffed. “Turns out that high-faluting doctor ain’t no doctor at all. Dr. Mill-et, him. Not so much a doctor at all. Dr. Mayhew called up over to Lafayette and ain’t no Dr. Mill-et dere. Ain’t no place like the one he said you escaped from. Ain’t no judicial order on you, neither. Dem people wanted you awfully bad for somet’ing.”
Flor looked at Jane consideringly.
“Don’t you fret, little Flor,” Philippe said. He turned her face toward him and tapped her button nose. “Jane ain’t a threat to nobody. Ain’t done a thing wrong as far as anyone can tell. But folks have come asking about her, all the same.”
Flor said something in Spanish in Philippe’s ear and he chuckled. “Patience, little flower.”
“Really,” Jane asked. What about Raoul in the stairwell? What about the thing that wanted to eat me? What about the gold medallion I keep in my pocket? And just who the hell am I?
It was another good reason to go to the library. The problem with that was that the New Orleans Library on Loyola was only open hours that didn’t coincide with what Titus Perdue wanted his people to work. Sunday was a good day, but all of the libraries were closed.
Try an Internet café, came the other one’s voice. It was the first time in days and Jane nearly sighed. She liked it. It was peculiarly reassuring.
“So no one wants me,” Jane said.
“I ain’t said dat,” Philippe joked. “Surely someone wants a pretty girl like you.” He pursed his lips as Flor said something else in Spanish. “Sweetness, poor Jane’s in a condition a t’ousand times worse than you. Ain’t you seen all those marks on her? Folks want to hurt her, and it’s up to good, decent people like us to help out if we can. Oui?”
“Si,” Flor said reluctantly.
“Time to go,” the driver of the van called gruffly.
Jane was turning when she noticed Philippe’s funny expression. He caught Flor’s shoulder and said, “I’ll drive you back, sugah.”
“But I need to get paid, Philippe,” Flor protested.
“I’ll make sure you get your cash,” Philippe said and as he winked at Jane.
Philippe the orderly. Jane looked at him. She really looked at him. For a slice in time, his expression had been anticipatory, like a cold-hearted predator. He’d been looking at Flor, but he’d also been looking at Jane. She thought of him as a boy. Dark brown hair neatly cut in layers. His eyes were the same shade of brown. Dark as coffee beans slow roasted in a place where the tropical breezes blow up from a dense rain forest. The t-shirt was cheap and had a hole in the belly where it rubbed against his abdomen. The jeans were something he’d purchased from Walmart.
He probably drives an old beat-up truck. Jane’s gaze went beyond them, and she saw a rusting Ford F-150 sitting at the curb. Once it had been blue and white. Now it had an assortment of primers in various spots indicating its past close proximity to other vehicles. The windshield was cracked. A little bag hung from the rearview mirror.
Just a boy, she thought. A boy who doesn’t have much more in his pockets than I do. Jane would have sighed with remonstration. I am stupidly paranoid.
Look again, came that voice.
Chintzy t-shirt. Jeans with holes in the knees. Beater truck. Jane turned and went to the van. She watched as Philippe walked away with Flor, his arm draped around her shoulders. She giggled up at him.
Jane sat next to the window and looked at them. Look for what? she asked in her head.
Kid’s wearing nice shoes was the answer.
It made Jane start. She slowly scanned around her. The other one was right around them. He was close, close enough to see what Philippe was wearing and what he was driving. There were other people around the van but no one who stood out. Philippe was helping Flor into his truck. A man rode past on a bicycle. Three women dressed in business casual walked past, clearly on their way to somewhere important, like the nearest pub. There were some tourists taking pictures of the historical building across the street.
So he’s got nice shoes?
Think about it, chère.
Jane was tired. She’d spent more than her fair share of the day scrubbing a particularly dirty floor in a boardroom. She couldn’t imagine what the company’s managing directors were doing in there to make the tile so filthy. Her back hurt, and she knew she was getting herself stuck in a rut.
She knew where an Internet café was located, and it wasn’t far from Perdue Cleaners. Now that the idea was fixed in her head, she wanted to follow up on it immediately, but she couldn’t do that.
That boy doesn’t have a reason to want to hurt me. He had his chance, she thought. He didn’t
turn me in. He knows where I’m at now, but if he hurt me, he’d also hurt his girlfriend. Himself, too, because likely I’d tell the authorities how I got out of the hospital and how I ended up working for Titus.
Maybe, came the answer. I say don’t trust anyone.
Not even the voices in my head. Jane smiled to herself.
There was a surge of anger that replied to her short statement. Then he was gone.
One of Titus’s other crewmen said something behind her, and Jane turned to listen to the conversation. The man’s accent was heavily Spanish. He worked regularly for Titus, but Jane smelled the strong aroma of stale alcohol on him. She knew it was just a matter of time before he went on a bender, and they wouldn’t see him again for days. He said, “El diablo is in Marigny.”
Now Jane knew Marigny, pronounced Mar-eh-nee, was just another section of New Orleans, like the notorious French Quarter or the Garden District or the Ninth Ward. It sat to one side of the French Quarter and was just as diverse and antique as its more famous counterpart.
The man sitting next to the Hispanic man was from somewhere in Russia. His accent was equally thick but in another way. He said, “They say it’s a big dog. Someone’s big damn dog loose in downtown.”
The woman sitting beside Jane said, “Ain’t a dog.” She was older, and her back was bent from hard labor. Jane knew she was from a town close to the Gulf of Mexico. She’d also served time in jail for crimes she wouldn’t discuss. She had an accent, too, but it was more like Philippe’s. Titus had called the older woman a, “coonass born of a dozen other coonasses,” but Jane wasn’t in a position to judge, and she wasn’t sure what Titus had meant.
“Si, but not a dog,” the Hispanic man said. “El diablo.”
“It’s a dog,” the Russian said. “Some policeman will shoot it and you’ll see. Or someone will take a picture with their cell phone and post it on the Internet.”
“You listen up, boys,” the woman said. Jane struggled to remember her name, and it suddenly came to her. It abruptly popped into her head. Marinette. Her name is Marinette. Thank God I can remember one thing. “My old grand-mère told me about this t’ing, and it ain’t to be ignored. You see it in the street after dark. It comin’ for someone, this t’ing. It born of a witch. It wicked evil.”
“Big devil dog born of a witch,” the Russian scoffed. “Sounds like fairy tales about Koschei the Deathless from my country. He was a sorcerer who liked to steal souls, and the only way to defeat him was to find his soul. He made things, too.” His voice went low and warning. “Very bad things that roamed the night and slaughtered the helpless. They stole babies from their cribs in the blackest hours.”
“Russian sorcerer is not’ing compared to the Louisianan sorcière,” Marinette said vehemently. “La sorcière is the only one who can make the loup-garou. She takes something of herself and makes the beast who wanders the night. She controls the monster, and he does her bidding.” The older woman crossed her breast. “No one is safe until la bête is gone.”
The Hispanic man laughed. It was a bitter sound. “Doesn’t matter what we call it. It’s all bad, si. Especially from people who can’t call la policía when the thing comes knocking on our doors.”
For a moment, Jane could feel the nose of the beast sniffing at her fingers. It touched her. It touched her with its tongue. It had been testing her. It might have been tasting her. She had an urge to reach for the medallion in her jeans pocket underneath the coveralls she wore, but she didn’t want to bring attention to herself.
Titus’s crew discussed events that didn’t matter to their overall lives. The weather, local news, and what was on television if they were lucky enough to be able to watch it. They didn’t say anything about what sorry events brought them to this place and time. They never knew when someone would walk away and never be seen again.
But still Jane repeated, “Loup-garou.”
Marinette turned her head and gazed at Jane. “You know about that one?” She frowned. “You should. You have the look of the people who live alone. La Famille.”
Jane drew back. She’d heard the words before out of Raoul’s mouth. She’d taken it to mean he was referring to her family, not the family. What family? “What does that mean?”
The driver loudly cleared his throat and Marinette glanced forward. “Just legends,” she muttered. “Funny talk about the strange folk who live at a black lake. They call them Lake People. La Famille, too.”
Jane knew from looking at Marinette’s suddenly uncomfortable face that she knew more than she would say at the moment. Jane knew Marinette had looked at her oddly before, but Jane couldn’t ask questions of everyone who looked at her oddly. She’d merely put her head down and worked harder.
“You think I’m one of them?”
Marinette shrugged.
“Maybe she’s the witch,” the Russian laughed. “Show us your beast, little witch.” He added something in Russian, and Jane looked at the floor.
“She’s not a witch,” Marinette said. “Just a victim. Like the rest of us, oui.”
When Jane got out of the van, Marinette caught her arm and glanced over to the van driver to ensure he wasn’t listening. The hulking driver had gotten out of the other side and was lighting a cigarette. “Don’t go out after dark, p’tite fille,” Marinette said warningly. “Just saying. Ain’t safe for someone like you.” She pressed something into Jane’s hand. Jane’s fingers closed over it before she could ask what it was.
Jane started to ask what Marinette was talking about when Titus yelled, “Okay, pay time! Ain’t got a lot of minutes here, so get your sorry butts over here and get it before I run out.”
Marinette got her cash before Jane and vanished into the streets long before Jane thought to look for her.
Jane opened her hand and saw that there was a little knife there. It was a simple folding-blade knife, no more than three inches long. The handle was bone but someone had crossed X’s into it. It seemed to have a little tingle in it, as if trying to tell her something. Jane quickly put it in her pocket and looked for Marinette. But the older woman was long gone.
Chapter 9
He does not kill the beast who only looks at it.
– African proverb
Jane was dying. Someone had hit her repeatedly. The person had kicked her in the stomach. He’d kicked her so hard that something broke inside her. Blood gurgled up into her lungs. Her abdomen swelled with blood, and pain gushed into every fiber of her being. Her limbs were so consumed with the agony that she couldn’t move. All she could do was stare at the person who had done this to her.
His hair was spiky and dirty-blonde. His eyes were green. He wore a pendant necklace that looked so similar to one she had except that it had been carved from a black stone and had ruby inset eyes that glared at her as if they were real. He’d thrown her across some piece of furniture, and when he’d come after her, she had…
Chère, wake up. You’re not where you need to be.
There had been a knife. A large knife that caught the light and flashed like a mirror’s reflection. It hadn’t been his. It was in her hand, and she had done something with it. It had been something she hadn’t thought herself capable of doing, but the attacker was intent on hurting her, perhaps even killing her. She had…
The other one’s words interrupted the dream. I can’t…talk with you now. There was rage and anger and bitter agony rolled up in a ball that settled in-between Jane’s eyes. His words. The other one spoke to her, his words were churning urgency. Then he was gone, and the dream slithered away like an errant snake eager for escape from the unknown.
“I know you’ve paid for the month, but jeez, it isn’t a bed,” a voice announced in her ear.
Jane jolted upward. She’d had her head resting on her arms as they lay on the top of the table. She could feel a little saliva going down the side of her mouth. She’d fallen asleep while looking at the computer at the Internet café.
The café closer to Perdue�
�s Cleaners hadn’t been open, but someone next to the door had recommended this one. Jane had taken two buses to get here and discovered she could pay $5 for a half-hour. However, $20 covered all day, $30 paid for a week’s pass, and $40 got her access for the entire month. Granted Jane didn’t have a lot of cash, but she knew she was going to need the use of a computer for some time. The month’s pass would cover anything she needed. Additionally, there was the obscurity of the café. The library didn’t seem as anonymous or even safe from the people who were looking for her.
She’d gotten hot chocolate from the restaurant next to the Internet café because despite the name the place did not serve drinks or food. Hoping the hot drink would keep her alert, she’d started searching some of the names she’d written down. Then she’d followed up with searching the missing people listings in Louisiana. Then she’d focused on people from New Orleans and immediate parishes surrounding the Crescent City.
It was a larger job than Jane could have imagined. There were many directories containing lists of missing people; the people who vanished into nothingness with little clues as to their whereabouts. Some had undoubtedly gone missing by choice. Others were likely murdered. She quickly tired of looking at name after name, searching through details for something she wasn’t sure if she would recognize.
Some of the directories listed entries by geographical association. Jane couldn’t find one that narrowed it by sex and age. She thought if she figured out her approximate age, she could reduce the list significantly.
Moreover, if she could restrict the list by ethnicity, she could cut it in half again.
Jane had rested her head on her folded arms while she’d studied details of a woman who’d vanished from Baton Rouge two years previously. But while the woman had the right color hair and eyes, she’d had two caesarians, and Jane didn’t have any scars on her stomach. She’d closed her eyes for just a minute or so she thought.
The next thing Jane knew was that she was dreaming and that someone was speaking to her.
