"Good girl," I said, patting her. She snounted up against me, the sun sparkling baby rainbows over her dark fur.
A woman jogged by beneath us, hair flying loose behind her. Couldn't tell if it was Belinda—bad angle. Lots of bicycles, more runners. Mostly cabs on the road. Carlos wouldn't be back my way for a while.
I worked on my drawing, occasionally unwrapping another cheese for Pansy, looking around.
A woman's figure left the path, working her way up the rise toward me. Belinda.
"Hello, stranger," she called our, pulling Walkman earphones off her head. She put them around her neck, covered them with the towel from her waist. Bounced up and sat down. Dressed the same way she was last time, fine sheen of sweat on her face, blue eyes lively.
"What's up?" she asked, indicating my sketch pad.
"Interpretive art. A hobby of mine."
"Could I see?" Pushing close to me, perfume under the sweat. "What's it supposed to be?"
"Just…patterns. Light, shadow…like that."
"It's…I don't know what to say."
"That's okay. Neither do I."
Pansy watched her, not moving.
"Your dog…I never got her name.
"Betsy." It just came out that way—I went with it.
"That's a funny name for such a big dog."
"Oh, I think it suits her. Doesn't it, girl?" Making a gesture with my hand. Pansy put her head on my lap, still watching the woman.
"You remember me, Betsy?" she asked, reaching out to pat. I gave Pansy the signal—she took the pats. I felt her neck muscles under my hand. Steel cable.
I lit a cigarette. "You never did call me," she said, a teasing undertone in her voice, less than a challenge, more than an accident.
"Dinner, you said. I've been working nights."
"Oh." She arched her eyebrows, brushed some sweat from her pug nose—a gesture like you'd see in the ring.
"Nice day for a picnic, it looks like, you had some food." Clarence's voice, materializing from somewhere behind us.
"Yeah, it is," I told him. "Sit down, join us."
He folded himself onto the edge of the blanket, indifferent to the risk to his lime–green pants. "This is Belinda," I said to Clarence. "Belinda, meet John."
He extended his slim dark hand into her thick white one. They shook, smiling. I rummaged around in the gym bag, came out with the bread, broke off a piece, offered it to Belinda. She took it, bit off a nice–sized hunk with her small white teeth. Clarence took one too. I opened the water bottle. We each took a drink. Unwrapped some cheese. Clarence declined. Belinda took one. Pansy glared at her harder than ever. I unwrapped another half dozen pieces, pulled Pansy's head close to mine, whispered the word in her ear. She mashed the cheese like a compactor, licked her teeth to get the remnants.
We finished off the bread. I broke out the chocolate. This time Clarence went for it, Belinda passed.
Peaceful there, delicate as an underwater bubble, the four of us in that park.
"What is that thing, mahn?" Clarence asked, looking at my pad.
"It's art."
"It is, yes?" His black silk shirt rustled as he took it from my hands, examined it from different angles.
"Do you work with James?" Belinda asked Clarence.
"No, we are members of the same club."
"What club?"
"A health club, miss."
"Oh! I'm a member too. Which one do you go to?"
"You never would've heard of it, miss. Way out in Queens, by the train station."
She got to her feet, patted herself like she was checking something. Her calves flexed under the exercise pants, heavy, shapely things. I got up too.
"I'll call you," I said. "Soon."
"Do it," she said, low–voiced. Stood on her toes, gave me a quick kiss near my mouth. Made her way down the hill, turned onto the track, jogged off.
"You were right, Clarence," I said. "She is a pretty woman."
"She's a cop, mahn."
147
Winter sun on my back, throwing shadows. Burning cold.
"You sure?"
"I been out here a long time, mahn. Not just today. She jogs around the park, got that Walkman in her ear. Only thing, she don't just listen, she talks too. Two white men, just past the Fifty–ninth Street entrance, two more, just off Central Park West on Eighty–sixth. Dressed like she is. Ankle holsters, walkie–talkies too. The black guy with the ice–cream wagon…the one by the big pond? Same thing. She talks to them all. That's all, mahn. She don't talk to nobody else."
"Damn."
"Yeah. Thought you knew, mahn, the way you change my name and everything. And she don't know yours, you think, yes?"
"Just playing it safe—I didn't know."
"It's the truth, mahn. Sure thing. Somebody snatch that lady, he gonna get himself hurt."
"You think that's what she's doing…trolling for rapists?"
"Wrong hours, mahn. Wrong time. She stays off the bad trails too. It's you she's working, boss."
"Why?"
"Way I see it, the man in the white limo, he's made him a trade."
"White limo?"
"This is Clarence, mahn. Your friend. Your true friend. Give it up. Don't look back. You follow that big bouncing butt right into the penitentiary."
I lit a smoke, thinking about it. About not looking back. About how that comes natural to some people.
148
Clarence sat quietly next to me. Pansy swept the area with her eyes. Smarter than me, going in.
I packed my stuff in the gym bag, snapped on Pansy's lead, told her to stay while I folded the army blanket.
"Thanks, Clarence," I said, holding out my hand, goodbye.
"That's not why I came, mahn. Got a message from the Queen. One of her people called Jacques. Said to come see her. She has your answer. Come anytime, after dark."
"Anything else?"
"Word for word, mahn."
We walked through the park, heading west. A collie galloped by, off leash, a kid chasing it. Pansy ignored the other dog—she generally does.
"You know about this obeah thing, Clarence?"
"I know some, mahn. What my mother told me, from her mother, she said."
"Tell me."
"It comes from the old ways. From slavery, way I heard it. It's all about sacrifice, mahn. When you die, you wait. To cross over. The sacrifice, that lets you come back. In spirit. There are many spirits…they call them loas…a joker, a warrior, a lover."
"The bag…the one we found that night. That was a sacrifice?"
"Yes, mahn. The Queen, she is the Mamaloi, the priestess. There's two kinds obeah. The white and the red. The red, their god is the snake."
"What's the difference?"
"In white obeah, in that juju bag would be a chicken, maybe a goat…an animal."
"In the red…?"
"The goat without horns, mahn," Clarence said, his hands clasped together. A quick shudder passed through his thin frame.
149
Belinda was a cop. In books, people are fascinated with mysteries. Can't let them slide. Books have plots—life has plotters. Maybe Belinda was the front end of a decoy operation, maybe Carlos had already rolled over for the Man and she was with the backup team. Or maybe it was me they were looking at—maybe she heard about me, wanted to freelance a bit. Get a gold shield to pin on that fine chest.
I wondered if she'd ever had a dog named Blackie. If she'd really liked Pansy.
Clarence picked the lock on the privacy of my mind. "You gonna do it, mahn? Go there, see the Queen?"
I nodded.
150
Two more dead days. Then I went out to answer the call. Just before midnight, I crossed the Triboro, took the far right lane to Queens, exited at Ninety–fourth Street, just before La Guardia. Rolled south to Northern Boulevard, turned left to the voodoo house. The gate was open. I pulled the Plymouth inside, all the way around to the back. Two men in the yard, dressed in their blac
k and white. I got out slowly so I wouldn't spook them. They looked through me, said nothing.
I walked to the back door. A bright red arrow was freshly painted on the side of the house, pointing to a set of stone steps. Down.
Another way to the basement. I followed the steps to the bottom. By then, I knew better than to knock. No doorknob. I pushed, it opened, and I was inside.
The underground room seemed bigger than the last time. She was where she was before, a faint shape in the gloomy shadows. I walked to her. Candles popped into life all around the room, thick and stubby as fists, fat–flamed. Red and white, lacing the dark in an alternating pattern like the pin heads on the juju bag. Cloth–sounds on either side of me as I moved. Deep dampness from the stone walls. The floor felt like packed earth beneath the soles of my boots.
"Do you believe now?" she asked, soft–voiced as I approached.
I sat before her. "The baby was in the water," I replied.
"Yes. And now you hunt again."
"Not for…"
"I know. Not for him. For the false gods. For what those like you call the devil."
"Yes."
"You do not ask how I know. Have you learned, then?"
"Yes."
"Where is your son tonight?"
"I have no son."
"Yes, hunter, you have a son. The young one who was with you when you last came. He is dark like us, but his heart is like yours. A son looks to his father for guidance. For the Way. Your way is to hunt. And he follows."
"No, it's just a job. He works for others."
"And to those others, you are a hired man, yes?"
"Yes."
"And so then is he. Like you. It is from you he learns, not from them. And he protects you, like a son."
"He's a professional—it's his job."
"No. His master gave him the message. From me. To you. And so you are here now. But the boy, he has been here since yesterday afternoon. Just across the street, in one of the rooms they rent."
"How…?"
"He paid the lady extra so he could have a room with a window on the street. The bathroom is down the hall. In his room, in his suitcase, he has a rifle. One that comes in two pieces. It is our house, there. The lady is not one of us, but she knows what to do. It is your son."
"He won't do anything. I'll…"
"It is all right. He is safe. Ask me your questions now—we have work to do before the sun."
"The people I'm looking for…" I started, reaching in my pocket for the mug shots Wolfe had given me.
She held up her hand. "We do not know them. Not by their faces. But by their practice, they are known. They are not sorcerers, they have no magic. Poison is their weapon. Their poison, it makes the wolf who walks."
"No. They…"
"What Europeans call a werewolf, child of sadness. Before there was legend, before there was myth, there was truth. Their poison, it makes a beast. When the beast feeds, when it is satisfied, it is a man again. You have seen this."
Luke. Baby baby baby. Stabbing. Toby. A different child. The runaway. Running in his mind. Splitting off.
I nodded. So deeply it felt like a bow.
"The poison–masters leave a spoor. It is their track. The dead sheep tells us its killer by the marks on its body—a man kills differently than a wolf. The hunter knows."
"I know who. Not where."
"Take this," she said. Handing me a leather thong, long glossy feathers attached to it. Black and white. "Wrap the strap around your wrist, hold it like this." Her forearm straight out, fingers pointing to me.
Ki.
The feathers hung limp. The tips of our fingers touched.
"They know each other, the vampire and the werewolf. But know this too, hunter. They are not brothers."
Electricity in my fingers, in my wrist. The feathers fluttered in the candlelight but the flames held steady. I couldn't feel the breeze.
Her hand moved, covered mine. Untied the thong from my wrist. Leather and feathers disappeared somewhere behind her throne.
She closed her eyes, tilted her chin up. I could see the long muscles in her throat. Her eyes opened, held mine.
"Come here," she said.
I stood up. She made a gesture. I bent toward her. Her face was close enough to kiss. Her arms went around my neck. Something there, soft.
I stepped back. A tiny muslin bag bounced against my chest, thin silken strap around my neck.
"Wear it against your body until your hunt is done. Wear it inside their cave—it will protect you."
I bowed.
"Take your son. And go now."
151
I parked the Plymouth right in front of the building across the street. Got out, sat on the hood, lit a cigarette. The window shade in the front room flickered. The kid had a lot to learn. I waved my arm in a "come on down" gesture. Waited.
Clarence came out the front door, suitcase in one hand, his pistol an the other.
"It's okay," I told him, opening the trunk for the suitcase, lifting the panel next to the fuel cell so it would disappear even if some cop wanted to play Probable Cause on the way back.
He climbed in the front seat. "How'd you know, mahn?"
"Never mind. Where's your car?"
"My car?" he said, looking across at me like I was on lithium. "I wouldn't bring my ride to this place, mahn. Where would I park it? I took the bus."
152
I rode the BQE toward Brooklyn. The Plymouth's independent rear suspension absorbed the potholes in the middle lane, just a touch under the speed limit.
"You should've told me you were working backup, Clarence."
"I figure, I tell you, you have an attitude, mahn. Give it away."
"It's not professional, surprise your partner, okay? I didn't know it was you in that window, might've been the first thing I took out, I made it to the street. Specially if I saw that curtain move. What'd you figure…you were gonna lay down some cover for me, spray their house with the rifle?"
"Something like that." Paying attention, sullen.
"You had the high ground, that was good. Probably got a couple of extra clips for the piece too."
He nodded.
"That's not the way, kid. You'd never get out of there alive. That's cowboy shit. Kamikaze. You send a partner into a meeting, you want to get out, not get even, understand?"
"How would you do it, mahn?"
I reached in my jacket pocket, feeling the Queen's amulet against my chest. Handed him a palm–sized black plastic box, tiny toggle switch on the top.
"What's this, mahn?"
"Throw the switch, Clarence."
He flicked his finger. A tiny red LED light came on. He looked over at me.
"My car is parked in their backyard, okay? There's trouble, I take out this little box. Show it to them. Flick the switch. The light comes on, just like it did with you. I tell them my partner's close by…maybe circling in another car. The red light, that's his signal. I don't drive the car out of there in ten minutes, my partner's gonna push a switch of his own. In the trunk of my car, there's enough plastique to make the whole block disappear. And even if they got somebody crazy enough to try and drive the car away, they couldn't start it, even with the keys. They open the trunk, the whole thing goes up. Understand?"
"What if they search you, find the box right away?"
"I tell them the same thing, only it's gonna happen if I don't: throw the switch, see?"
"It's a cold bluff, mahn."
"I had a partner on this, it wouldn't be."
He didn't say another word until I turned off Atlantic, heading for Jacques's joint.
"You gonna show me stuff like that, mahn?"
I looked over at him, at his fine–boned face, thinking about what the Queen told me.
"Yeah," I said.
153
I know how to be alone. How to get there by myself. Where I was raised, privacy was more precious than diamonds. In the orphanage, nothing was your own, even yo
ur clothes—gifts they could take away. They made sure you knew it. Most of us only learned to hate each other, fighting over the scraps they left us.
You get into enough of those fights, reform school is the next stop. In the reform schools, they didn't have cells. Just a big room with a toilet in one corner. Cots all over the floor. Whichever kid had to sleep right next to the toilet, he spent his life being pissed on.
I remember the kid who slept there. When he got out, he vowed he'd never sleep next to a toilet again. He went out with a gun in his hand, got something of his own. In prison, they had cells, not dorms. The lucky ones, the ones with juice, they got a one–man cell. This kid, he did a lot of things, went high–profile, made his rep. When he went down again, he was grown. They gave him a one–man cell. With a single bunk. Right next to the toilet.
When I got out, I made my own vows. I found a basement. Mine. An older guy wanted it for his crew. I was so scared, I shot him.
That cost me a stretch in the joint. That's where I ran into the kid who'd slept next to the toilet, heard his story. The State's good at that—arranging reform school reunions.
In prison, you've got nothing but your body and your honor. Plenty who'll try and take those too. I knew a guy, had tattoos all over him. The only real estate that was his. They couldn't take that from him, he said. Made it easy to identify the body when they found it.
I didn't need time to think about what the Queen said. Even as she spoke, I knew what she meant. Who she meant. She called him a vampire—I always think of him as the Mentor. A heavy–networked pedophile, safe like rich makes you safe. I'd gone to him years ago, looking for a picture of a kid. For Strega, the Witch. I got to him through the Mole. The freak had done something…was still doing something…for the Israelis. I couldn't hurt him, the Mole told me. Came with me to make sure.
The Mentor told me his philosophy—silky voice wrapping around the lying words. Sodomizing children is love. Taking pictures of it happening was preserving that special love…icons to a perfect moment in time.
Sacrifice Page 20
