by C. L. Bevill
As she came around the corner of the kitchen, she quivered and froze into place. Her eyes focused on the opposite side. Her office door was half open, and she could see someone kneeling in front of the safe. A small flashlight was clenched in his mouth as he rifled through the contents of the safe.
Her eyes registered something else. Two prone legs crossed in front of the door. The door, which normally swung shut by itself, was propped against the limbs. The legs were motionless and likely connected to Wesley. He was unconscious or dead.
The woman’s breath in her chest, and she began to retreat backwards. She would go through the doors, up the stairs to her apartment, lock the door, and call the police. The police would bring an ambulance for Wesley. She couldn’t help him by screaming now.
Hurry, she told herself. Hurry.
One hand caught a set of large nesting metal mixing bowls. She watched with panic as they toppled over. The bowls clattered loudly on the terrazzo floor.
The unknown man in her office said a curse word and spun around. Papers went flying. The flashlight pointed at her, illuminating her wide-eyed gaze in the gloom.
The woman turned to run, fear exploding in her chest.
Her feet stumbled over each other. Although the bunny slippers were comfortable, they weren’t made for running.
Scrambling for purchase, a hand wrapped itself into her long blonde hair and yanked her backward.
* * *
The man waited on the Chalmette-Lower-Algiers Ferry. He was headed for State Highway 23 so he could run down the peninsula to the end of the road in Venice. There he would park his truck and catch the company’s helicopter out to the rig. He was idly running fingers over the steering wheel when the feeling soaked into him as if he was up to his neck in a pool of blackness. Oh mon Dieu.
Yes, he’d felt it before. Fear. Mindless fear.
One of the family called out in the sincerest form of need.
It was strange because most of the famille didn’t care for cities. The cities and people didn’t bother the man, but he tended to be the exception. He wouldn’t have wanted to live there permanently, but he would do what he needed to do, especially for the love of a woman as special as the one he’d set his cap for.
Who is it?
The urgent question the man broadcasted wasn’t answered.
A few years ago, the woman’s friend, Anna, had been kidnapped by a sociopathic truck driver. Her fear had nearly unmanned every Lake Person within a hundred miles. A few had heard her fear as far south as bayou country.
I can help you! he shot out.
The hair on the back of his head began to burn as if someone viciously yanked it. He rubbed it and muttered, “Let me help you.”
It was possible it was some offshoot of La Famille who didn’t know what they were. It happened before and would undoubtedly happen again.
The fear seeped into his soul and wrapped itself around his heart, squeezing. The man would have called for help, but he was about sixty miles away from his parents. The limits of their ability weren’t easily defined, but he judged himself about thirty miles out of range.
The ferry was pulling into position. In a few minutes the cars from the other side would be allowed off, and they would begin loading the cars from the north side of the Mighty M.
Not south, he thought. The franticness he felt bubbled to the surface. The fear isn’t coming from south.
Pain detonated in his face, making him cry out. Something had struck him.
No, Dieu, no. Something had struck the other person.
The intense pain was debilitating. His nose and cheek burned. Phantom warmth flowed down his face.
“You all right, podna?” a man called from the next car over. The windows were down on both vehicles. Two lines of cars waited patiently on the ferry to finish unloading its automotive passengers.
The man knew he looked like as if he was having a seizure. He waved a hand, and the other driver shrugged.
The man jerked in his seat. The other side of his face burned with agony, then his stomach repeatedly.
No, something had struck the person’s face on the opposite side. And their stomach. The horrifying torture of the pain could have brought the man to his knees if he had been standing.
The man gulped suddenly.
Oh dear Dieu, not another person. No, it was her. Her! Something terrible is happening to her.
The man started his truck with disconcerting alacrity. He didn’t hesitate as he spun the wheel left and gunned the engine. Two offloading cars swerved to miss him as he roared away.
* * *
The woman couldn’t see out of one eye. The intruder had hit her repeatedly in her face until her head felt like it was next to imploding. He’d thrown her onto the floor of the kitchen and kicked her. He hauled back and, with his full body weight behind the limb, kicked her ruthlessly over and over.
When he’d stopped she knew it was because he was tiring, not because she had had enough.
“Anyone else here?” the intruder demanded. With a leather boot, he pushed her over onto her back.
The woman tried to speak, but blood gurgled out of her mouth instead and she choked. Liquid-filled coughs barely escaped her lungs.
The intruder sank to his knees and grasped the front of her tank top, yanking her upward. Her arms and head lolled like a broken doll. “Ain’t goin’ ask again,” he snarled. “Anyone else here?”
“N-n-no,” the woman whispered.
The intruder produced a knife and opened it with one hand, deftly using his thumb to rotate the sharpened edge outward. The blade looked as long as machete in the gloom of the kitchen. He softly touched the flesh under the undamaged eye. “Pretty blue eye,” he said calmly. “Be a shame to cut it out, yes?”
The woman shuddered helplessly. “N-n-no one else here,” she whispered, feeling blood trickling out of her mouth and her nose. The pain was intense.
The intruder withdrew the blade and looked at it thoughtfully. He brought it to his mouth and licked off the little line of blood. He stared down at her.
The woman could see his face, and the realization made her shiver again. The flashlight he’d been holding had been dropped, and when all was said and done, it lay nearby, revealing everything about him. He was a young man, perhaps in his early twenties. Tan and fit, he had green eyes that glittered in the meager light. His hair appeared dirty blonde, but the hair was short and spiked on top. He wore a neat dress shirt and casual jeans as if he had just been out on the town. The only item that was out of place was an unusual necklace.
It hung high on his neck, almost a choker. The cord was leather. The pendant was a black carved head with large jeweled eyes. The ruby eyes glittered in much the same manner as the young man’s eyes.
The eyes on both were malicious.
The woman blinked from the relentless agony assailing her body.
“Excuse me,” the intruder said, standing up. “I’ll just finish what I was doin’.”
The woman bit back the moan. It was as if her guts were torn up. Getting punched in the face was bad enough, but the man’s brutal kicks had caused something inside her to rupture.
Dying, she thought.
No, came the instant, harsh response.
Funny. Funny. It’s like earlier when he was kissing me. I thought I heard his voice…in my head. The woman put her head down on the kitchen floor and stared at the terrazzo surface.
Can’t explain it, came the voice again. Shouldn’t be but it is. Hold on, ma chère. I’m coming. Five minutes, I swear to bon Dieu.
The intruder rattled about in her office. Papers were pushed aside and allowed to fall. The lamp crashed over. The woman moved her head so she could see. The intruder had turned on the light in her office and was going through the contents of the safe.
The woman knew he must have come in just as Wesley was closing. He’d probably had an eye on the place and waited for it to empty out. He’d known there would be a stack of receipts
with a nice fat wad of cash. There was always more cash on Saturday nights for some reason. He’d probably waited for Wesley at the back door, controlling him easily with his oversized knife. He would have forced Wesley to open the safe and then did something to the man. Then because of stupid serendipity, the woman had happened down.
She moved her arm and choked back the vomit forcing its way up her throat. Slowly she pushed herself toward the back door. If I can just get up. I can lock the door. I can hit the panic button. I can get away.
Moving her leg, she pushed herself again and bit back another groan. The pain was nothing short of agonizing. It was worse than anything she’d ever felt before. It ripped through her insides as if someone had reached inside and was rearranging her intestines.
Chère, the voice said. Is he still there? The one who hurt you? Is that what you’re afraid of?
Voices in my head, she mused painfully. Must have hit me harder in the head than I thought.
CHÈRE! I’m calling for help. Ah, damn! My cell is dead! I’ll be there! Play dead! Maybe he won’t hurt you more!
Oh sure, she thought back. Her eye flicked to the intruder. He was angrily throwing a sheaf of papers into the air. He hadn’t found the receipts. It was possible Wesley had already sent them to the bank with one of the shift managers. It was possible Wesley had the packet in his jacket. He might have assumed there was no way the woman was coming back to do them this evening. Maybe poor Wesley had thought to keep the receipts away from the brutal thief by concealing them.
“Fuck!” the intruder said and kicked the office chair into a wall. The chair thudded and fell over Wesley’s legs. Wesley didn’t move.
I’m passing Marigny now. Please hold on.
The voice sounded shredded with pain. Not her pain but the pain of potential loss.
You’ll get over it, she thought. We all do. You’ll live. You don’t need to suffer endlessly.
The reply was a whisper of dread. Dying. No. You’re dying.
Something inside me, she thought. It was nice to talk to someone, even if it wasn’t real. Something’s broken bad. And I don’t think this guy will call me an ambulance anytime soon.
The response was a hissed intake of breath, seemingly heard loudly inside the woman’s head.
The intruder came back to the woman and hunkered beside her. “Where you goin’?” he asked.
The woman didn’t think there was anything to say to that so she kept her mouth shut.
“Where all the money be?” the intruder asked as if he wanted a cup of tea. “Ain’t in the safe. Ain’t on your desk. Ain’t in the register.”
The woman moved her head and tried to speak but choked on blood again. It came out like a semi-hysterical laugh.
The intruder took it as such. He yanked her up by one of her arms and shook her like a dog. “You think to laugh at me? At me? You know who I am? Who my family be? My maman will eat you up and spit you out just for giggles!”
Choking on blood, the woman hung limply in his hands.
He snarled in rage and suddenly threw her across the kitchen counters. Her body went sideways on the counter. The swollen part of her stomach made contact with the sharp edges of the counter and she screamed with the immediate onslaught of penetrating pain. She slid across the metal surface and containers of cooking implements scattered noisily as she went. Her hands struggled to find something to clutch. Her vision blurred with the agony that pierced her as her body slipped over the top and went down on the other side.
She could hear tools clattering around her, and the sound of the intruder’s feet stomping toward her. His voice was a cradle of barely repressed rage. “Hide it from me? I’ll show you what my family does to someone like you.”
The intruder stopped beside her and reached down to grasp her again. The woman rolled in his grip and brought her hand up. The eight-inch chef’s knife she held there was one of the head chef’s favorites, and he kept it very sharp. The woman’s wildly searching hand had sought out something, anything, to help protect her.
It sank into his chest, grated against bone, and abruptly went deeper as it cleared its obstacle. The woman moaned as the intruder’s weight settled against her.
“Ah,” he said. She held onto the knife, and as his body moved, it sliced sideways. Warm blood gushed out onto her body.
Her good eye stared into his. The glittering fire there speedily diminished. He let out a breath that was just short of a wail, and his chest didn’t move again.
She’d killed him just as surely as he’d killed her.
Dimly, she relaxed her grip on the knife, closing her eye. It was easier to just let go.
From a far distance away she heard the sound of squealing brakes.
Chapter 28
Justice, like oil, will come to the surface,
however deeply you have sunk it.
– Russian proverb
A chaotic set of events followed. The man came back to the restaurant. He shattered the front window to gain access. He found the woman who was dying. In his fear and dread, his family spoke to him and offered him the only alternative left. There was a muddled trip down the east bank of the Mississippi River and a ride into the marshy bayous. There was a woman who waited for them. The Noir wanted to know what the man would do for the dying woman.
So he told the Noir he would do anything for the fatally injured woman.
The magic the Noir used was strong and consumed parts of the man’s essence. When the Noir was done, the woman was alive and breathing easily.
She finally opened her eyes.
“Christien,” she murmured.
“Jane,” he said. He held her in his arms as they sat on a floor near the five-pointed star the Noir had used. Christien didn’t remember much about the ritual. The spirits had come and done as the Noir had entreated.
“Jane,” he said again. “You died, Jane. The Noir brought you back.”
Jane didn’t move. Every part of her body ached. She felt like she had been thrown down a rocky mountain crevice and climbed back up without assistance. She could see through both eyes now, and one hand reached up to touch her face. The swelling was gone.
Christien, she thought. Is it really true?
The famille can feel each other’s pain. We can feel it as if it happens to ourselves. Sometimes loved ones don’t survive the deaths of our most precious counterparts. I’m not sure if I would have survived. You died, chère. The Noir made a plea to the loa of the dead. Baron Samedi came himself to bring you back, as a favor to Goujon.
An image of a tall man wearing a top hat and sunglasses appeared in Jane’s mind. His voice boomed, and he was a presence beyond all other presences. He had moved his sunglasses down his nose, and his silver dollar eyes stared at her. Slowly one eye had winked.
I’m so tired, Christien, she thought.
I know. It’ll be all right. Christien gathered her closer. We’ve got things to do, mon amour. A life to live together.
Another person moved into Jane’s eyesight. It was the Noir. She didn’t look as Jane had expected. In fact, Jane now knew that the deceptive appearance was part of Adrienne’s protective outer layer. She was a black widow spider dressed in an innocent baby’s swaddling clothes. But when Jane first glimpsed her, Adrienne was a society matron with elegantly styled hair wearing a lace trimmed white shirt and a straight-lined gray skirt.
“The favor has been repaid, Lake Man,” Adrienne said. “Take your woman and go. She’ll need to rest for days, but she should be back to normal soon.”
“M’dam,” said another voice. The bald man who entered the room was unfamiliar to Jane, but she would know him very well later. He glanced at Christien and Jane in a condescending fashion and dismissed them. His face was grim as he held out a cell phone. “It’s important.”
Adrienne looked at Christien and Jane once more, as if trying to solve a vexatious puzzle. She crossed the room and took the cell from the bald man. “Yes,” she said into the phone.
> The Noir listened for a bit. Jane watched while Christien stroked her arm and held her. Jane had an urge to close her eyes and go to sleep. All she could think of was poor Wesley, lying dead in her office and the other man in the kitchen. Somewhere, someone would be mourning them. Wesley hadn’t deserved his untimely death, but the other one’s death was questionable. Jane couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry for the act that had left the chef’s knife buried in his chest.
If Jane hadn’t been observing Adrienne’s face, she wouldn’t have seen the pallor that descended across her features like the curtain at the end of a show. The older woman asked the cell phone a single question, “Are you certain?”
If there was an answer on the other end, Jane couldn’t hear it.
Finally, Adrienne pulled the phone away from her ear and handed it back to the bald man. Raoul stepped back, his expression full of fear.
The Noir turned to face Christien and Jane. “Sometimes the loa likes to play their tricks on us, oui?”
Jane didn’t know how to answer that. It was obvious that Christien didn’t know either.
“We ask for the Baron to come,” Adrienne went on, oblivious to their confusion. “He comes. The Baron Samedi. He is the one who takes the dead to the underworld. He is that which decides who should live or die. The Baron has refused to dig your grave, Jane.”
Something’s wrong, Christien thought. But how wrong?
“And all who know anything about Baron Samedi knows that when he refuses to dig a grave, the person shall not die.” Adrienne’s pallor transformed into angry flags of red flying on her cheeks. She crossed to a sideboard and began to extract items. “The Baron came to me this night and already he knew that—” Her voice broke off in a choke. “He knew that—”
Her hands steadied on the side of the sideboard. Adrienne paused and took a breath. “The Baron likes his tricks. Well, I have some for him, as well.”
Christien glanced at Jane and his body tensed. Your hair, chère. Your hair isn’t the same color. I thought it was blood, but it’s not blood at all. It’s—
