He folded the paper carefully and returned it to his pocket. “Juma, this is a life-or-death situation. Whether or not you want to have sex with me doesn’t matter.”
“I think we should do what Zeb says,” Zelda said. “I think if we don’t, we’ll regret it. Anyway, he’s stronger than both of us. He could overpower you, get the car keys, and just leave. If he did, would you call the cops on him? Because I wouldn’t.”
“No,” Juma said in a pissy voice, “but shouldn’t we know what we’re getting into?”
“I’ll tell you on the way into town,” Zeb said, moving down the narrow hallway to the kitchen. He peered out the front window of the trailer: no one in sight. He’d have to risk being seen by the neighbors. “But you have to promise to believe me.”
They exchanged glances again. “Sure,” they said in unison. That didn’t give him a lot of confidence, but at least he now had a ride.
He got into the backseat. “Is that iced coffee? Great.” He took Juma’s cup and drank the contents in one ecstatic swallow. “Jeez, I’m hungry. Take me to the first fast-food place you see.”
Juma started the car, turned onto the road, and said, “About the paper. Tell us.”
“The murderer planted it in the pocket of the dead reporter,” Zeb said. He slouched low in the backseat, ready to sink out of sight if necessary. “He’s trying to frame Constantine.”
Zelda frowned. “How do you know?”
“I witnessed the murder,” he said.
They both turned. Zelda went white behind her freckles, Juma stark against her raven hair.
“Wow,” Juma said, facing the road again. “I apologize, dude.”
“Who did it?” Zelda demanded. “My Aunt Ophelia is married to a cop, and he’s a really great guy, and he and Constantine are friends. We could—”
“No. My dad’s already been to the cops, so they’ll be on his side,” Zeb said. “I have to speak to Constantine. I should have gone to him ages ago. I would have, if I’d known…” Maybe he had known, deep down, what the old man was capable of. Maybe he’d just refused to see it. To see what the old man had done before and would do again.
Finally, Zeb let the knowledge he’d been holding at bay for months take root in his mind. He let himself think it. Accept it.
My father is insane. He will never get better.
And the truth he’d been dreading for the last few days:
My father is a murderer.
Astonishingly, allowing these thoughts into his mind, letting himself admit them, gave him a huge rush of relief.
“Once I’ve talked to Constantine,” Zeb said, “he can decide what to do about the cops.”
“Okay,” Zelda said stoutly. “Constantine it is.”
“Who did it, Zeb?” Juma asked.
“You have to promise to believe me,” he said again. “You have to promise you’ll still help me even if you don’t. And you have to promise to buy me a burger, because I don’t have a penny on me.”
“We will,” Zelda said. “You’re our friend forever. You know that.”
Zeb took a deep breath and told them.
Constantine propped himself on a stool and strummed a few chords. “Let me tell you a tale.”
“Jesus,” Lep said, slouching on the couch and closing his eyes.
Gideon stood by the window, looking down at the crowds outside the Impractical Cat. The sun was going down. “This is a fucking murder case,” he growled. “I need to get back out there and do something.”
“Such as what?” Lep said. “Kowtow to the chief?”
“Pretty much,” Gideon said disgustedly. “He wants to know which upstanding citizen I’m going to pick on this time.” He glowered at Constantine and lowered himself to the couch. “You realize, don’t you, that you can’t just off the guy once you find him? We need solid proof, preferably a confession, or this will never go away.”
Constantine nodded; no use explaining to Gideon that catching and killing the Enemy would be almost impossible.
You’re not five years old anymore, the bird said. At the moment it was occupying a red-tailed hawk.
He sure felt like a five-year-old, after spending the day trying to recall the terror that had shaped his life.
I approve of this killing. The guide often took over a hawk, but for once it sounded like a true bird of prey. One hundred percent.
“Uh, thanks,” Constantine said out loud and realized the others were staring, Lep in reluctant understanding, Gideon plain harassed.
Take advantage of his weakness, the hawk said. Drive him out from cover. Go in for the kill. Constantine strummed a few chords and began to play.
“Once upon a time there was a land of desert and holy mountains, with a sky of a zillion stars. In the shadow of those mountains and under those stars, there lived a Navajo girl who had a thing for white boys.” Disgust laced his voice. “Dumb, but no dumber than all the white girls who want to play with Indians.” He plucked a few melancholy sequences, then stilled the strings. “I wish this didn’t have to come out. My mother’s shame is not my story, not something I have the right to tell.” He sent his two friends some images: a hogan against a mountain, some sheep and a scruffy dog, and a pretty young Navajo girl, all under a star-encrusted sky.
Accompanying himself again, he went on. “Against the wishes of everyone who cared about her, she married a guy from New Orleans, name of Dufray. Now, Dufray was a druggie, entirely under the thumb of his so-called friend and supplier, a dude known as Bon-Bon because of all the pretty little pills he made and sold.” His fingers slid down the strings in a discordant ripple, and he sent his listeners memories of a bleak highway against a dusty backdrop, with plastic milk cartons and other trash littering the roadside, and a convenience store that sold cigarettes individually. “Bon-Bon was a good-looking guy.” Or so he’d been told; all he remembered was a beard and dark, cruel eyes. “The Indian girl ended up in his bed instead of her husband’s. Her father, who was a shaman of sorts, knew his daughter’s lover was an evil man and said so, but she was totally enamored and refused to leave him. She had two sons by Bon-Bon. She called the first one Constantine and the second one Benny.”
Lep roused himself enough to open his eyes. “Dufray wasn’t really your old man? You never told me that before. Never told me about this Bon-Bon dude either.”
Constantine hunched a shoulder. “I never told anyone.” For several minutes he messed with an unhappy riff, over and over again, remembering with pain, sending out images of his laughing little brother and his straight-backed old grandfather. “Dufray died when one of Bon-Bon’s drug experiments went wrong. Constantine was a strange little boy, and when very young he showed signs of unusual abilities. He could plant thoughts in people’s minds and make people see things that weren’t really there. Constantine’s grandfather, who was wise in the ways of magic, recognized what was happening. He explained to Constantine that while he should cultivate these abilities, he must keep them strictly secret, as the Navajo people would call him a skinwalker and try to kill him.” He paused to pick out a spooky melody. “Lep’s used to this woo-woo stuff, but it took him a while.”
“Can’t say I like it much myself,” Gideon muttered.
A memory surfaced in Constantine of Marguerite taking mention of the spirit guide in stride. Ruthlessly, he quashed it.
“What in hell is a skinwalker?” Gideon asked.
“A Navajo witch,” Constantine said. He tried to channel Marguerite’s detached assessment of the paraphernalia on the mound. Not easy when explaining something that had impacted his whole, damned life. “In magical terms, someone who cultivates and uses supernatural powers for evil. In social terms, someone who sacrifices family and clan for wealth.”
“What a load of bull,” Gideon said, and Constantine gave him a nod of thanks. Where this issue was concerned, he was grateful for any positive input.
He trickled out a slow, somber melody and centered himself again. “Constantine learn
ed very quickly to keep a secret, but his mother couldn’t stop herself from boasting to her lover about their son’s abilities. Bon-Bon grew obsessed with the idea of such powerful magic. He wanted those abilities for himself. He questioned Constantine over and over, insisting that he teach him how to do magic, too. At five years old, Constantine couldn’t have taught it even if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t. The more Bon-Bon pushed, the more defiantly Constantine refused. His refusals upset his mother and enraged Bon-Bon. One day, Benny was sick, and his mother had to take him to the health service. The grandfather was away, so she left Constantine with Bon-Bon, promising to return the next day.”
Terror avalanched into his mind and out into the room. “Fuck,” Gideon said, putting his hands to his temples, and Lep drew a sharp breath.
Not. Enough. Control. “Sorry,” Constantine said, sucking the fear back inside, forcing it through the guitar strings instead. A tangle of discordant notes came out. “I’ll spare you a description of Bon-Bon’s methods of coercion, but they included torture and hallucinogenic drugs. By the time Constantine escaped into the hills, where his grandfather found him, he was a very screwed-up kid.”
Lep cursed, and Gideon gaped at him, and Constantine didn’t try to laugh it off, didn’t try to play, merely clutched the guitar for dear life, and sent images of an eagle, its wings sheltering the terrified boy. Rats appeared, marauders with sharp teeth, gnawing at the ropes that bound the boy, and then he was free. Let his audience make what they wanted of that. As far as Constantine remembered, it was literally true.
“The grandfather threatened to shoot Bon-Bon dead if he came near his daughter or her sons again, and he succeeded in driving him off the reservation. Bon-Bon swore to return and get his own back, but word by way of the gossip-vine said he was killed not long afterward in a drug deal gone bad. All was well for another couple of years, except that the new, not-really-improved Constantine wouldn’t put up with crap from anybody. He made a point of scaring the shit out of anyone who got in his way, and even those who didn’t, and pretty soon there were whispers about witchcraft in the family. To make a long story short, one day a sniper killed Benny and the grandfather but missed Constantine.”
Gideon sucked in a breath. Lep bowed his head.
“Which proved the witchcraft theory, since Navajo witches gain their status by killing a close relative—preferably a sibling.”
“That’s crap, and you know it,” Lep said.
“I’m still responsible for their deaths,” Constantine said. “They wouldn’t have died if it wasn’t for me.” He ignored Lep’s huff and Gideon’s frown. “The next day, Constantine and his mother left the res forever, left the desert and the mountains and the sky of a zillion stars.” He played the melancholy tune of one of his old songs. “Since Dufray was his official father, she decided to go to New Orleans and contact his family there so the boy would have some relatives. Family mattered a lot to her, and there was no one else. The boy grew up in the music scene, toying with jazz and the blues, and then segued easily into his first hit. He became rich and powerful, in the way of Navajo witches, and lived happily ever after.”
Bitterness welled up in him, rage, regret, and shame, and he gave thanks that Marguerite wasn’t here, for she would see it all. “Until now, because it turns out Bon-Bon isn’t dead after all. He must have paid someone to spread the word that he’d been killed… And now, he’s here to get his revenge.” He’d probably been around for ages. Years and years…
“And you know this how?” Gideon said, and Constantine gave thanks again because Marguerite would have tried to comfort him, told him it wasn’t his fault, that he wasn’t a skinwalker, that he hadn’t meant to do harm. Lep was all business, and Gideon didn’t care about anything but closing his murder case.
“I heard him in the parking lot last night. He was on the phone. I heard him laugh. I’d know that laugh anywhere. I still dream about it sometimes.”
Gideon shook his head. “That’s not evidence, man.”
“It is for me,” Constantine said. “But there’s more. He was talking to some woman, and he said, ‘It’s bonbons for you!’ Same thing he used to say to my mom. He had a thing for chocolates with cherry filling…” An idea toppled into his mind. “Lep, can you get in touch with the dude who made the disturbance again? See if anybody gave him some candy. Friend or stranger, doesn’t matter.”
Lep disappeared down the stairs, and Gideon said, “What’s Bon-Bon’s real name?”
“That’s the problem. I’ve been trying to remember, but I’m not sure I ever knew.”
“Humph,” Gideon said. “You realize, don’t you, that the candy may explain a lot. Your wife’s murder, for one thing.”
“Marguerite being drugged.” Anger spiraled up at the thought of Bon-Bon anywhere near her, but Constantine tamped it down. He couldn’t afford to care.
“The riots at all those concerts,” Gideon said.
Hope, almost blinding in its power, washed through Constantine. Maybe he hadn’t killed those fans after all.
But spiked candies didn’t explain Jonetta’s rages or the pain he’d caused her. She’d been paranoid about gaining weight, so she’d rarely touched sweets, and she’d had the same volatility everywhere, not just in Bayou Gavotte. Still, knowing he usually had control over his mind was far, far better than fearing he had none at all.
“Assuming there’s some chemical that would get people worked up,” he said, “but then gets metabolized pretty quickly…” He thought of Marguerite’s mood swing just last night. She’d eaten a chocolate bonbon right in front of him, and there’d been other wrappers on the table. He leapt up and went for the trash. He found them near the top, put them on a paper towel, and gave them to Gideon. “Marguerite was eating chocolates wrapped in these just before she had her tantrum last night.”
Gideon considered. “Seems the dude knew plenty about drugs way back when. He’s had time to figure out a lot more by now, even dream up some new stuff, maybe under the cover of legal activity. A chemist, perhaps.”
“Bon-Bon,” Constantine said. “Bonnard, as in professor and acting head of Chemistry.” Oh, fuck. “He’s Zeb’s dad.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Marguerite made it to her office at Hellebore University, but she didn’t get much done. Everyone seemed to be staring at her—secretaries, profs, students—and mingled with the eager—even greedy—interest in her notoriety were expressions of pity and suspicion. She got security to remove a reporter lounging in the hallway, locked herself in her office, and did some last-minute prep for the coming semester, but the feeling of being abandoned and alone just wouldn’t go away.
Maybe she should stop feeling sorry for herself. She called Lavonia. “Feeling better today?”
“Much, much better,” Lavonia practically chirped. “Guess what? Al stayed all night and took care of me. Wasn’t that sweet of him? He never, ever spends the night. I guess we’ve reached a new level in our relationship. Isn’t that great?”
“Uh, sure is,” Marguerite said. Somehow, she couldn’t visualize Al playing nursemaid, but stranger things had happened lately.
“Did you see the exhibit today? Get any shopping done?”
Oh, yeah. New Orleans. Last night seemed like weeks ago. “No, in the end I didn’t go. I spent the night with a friend and slept in late.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you weren’t alone at home. Did you hear? Constantine killed a reporter. If you’d been in town, he might have killed you instead.”
Oh, for cripes sake. “Lavonia, I thought better of you. You’re listening to all that hype again.”
“There’s more! Zeb has gone missing, and Al’s worried out of his mind. And Janie quit her job and left town this morning. She didn’t even say where she was going, just up and left.” Pause. “Or she said she did. It was just an email to her boss and the coven.” She gasped. “Oh my god. Maybe she’s dead, too, like in my dream, and we don’t know it yet!”
; “Not likely. I’m not dead,” Marguerite said, but nevertheless Janie’s sudden exit unnerved her. She’d seen Janie with Nathan in the Merkin the other night. It might not be relevant, but she should call Gideon and let him know.
Her train of thought gave way to Lavonia’s trembling voice. “Al’s afraid Zeb’s dead or, worse, that he’s been influenced by Constantine and done something terrible. Or maybe he’s even in Constantine’s employ.”
“Oh, come on, Lavonia,” Marguerite said. “Doing what?”
“Committing murder for him,” Lavonia whispered.
It took all of Marguerite’s self-control not to hang up on her friend without another word. “Don’t be crazy. Zeb wouldn’t kill anybody. Talk to you later.”
The instant she hung up, she dialed Gideon but got a busy signal. It was getting late, so she zipped her backpack and left, calling Ophelia the instant she was out of the building. “I tried to reach Gideon, but the call didn’t go through.” She explained about Janie’s sudden departure. “I don’t know if it’s significant.”
“That’s for him to decide,” Ophelia said. “I’ll let him know. I’m a lousy cook, but if you can stand a noodle casserole for supper, you’re invited. Gideon probably won’t be home till all hours.”
Marguerite thanked her but declined, saying she had things to do in town. Another lie, she supposed, seeing as she had no idea what to do next. She hadn’t mentioned Lavonia’s dreams to Ophelia. If the killer was targeting her again, she couldn’t risk Ophelia and the baby.
Marguerite got into her car and, since she couldn’t think of anyplace else to go, drove slowly downtown. News vans, cops, and gawkers filled the main drag near the Impractical Cat, and rowdy crowds prowled the sidewalks. She left her car near the park and walked the few blocks to Tony’s Greek and Italian for moussaka—and hopefully a hug from Tony. But he wasn’t there, so she toyed with her food, sipped a strong, muddy cup of Greek coffee, and tried to ignore the news playing on a big-screen TV on the wall. It was all about Constantine and Nathan, and all conjecture. Apparently, Constantine was holed up in the apartment at the top of the Cat, refusing to comment.
[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine Page 27
