Death of The Old Man

by Karl Tutt

  I had no choice. The next day I’d try to find out.

  Chapter 4

  The best source of information on any of the black arts was the mysterious Reverend Marcuse Durant. I had met him while investigating the apparent voodoo murder of Alexis Lavalier, an eleven year old girl, the daughter of Sal’s first mate on TOUGH BROAD. The end still stuck in my gut, a pile of smoldering embers that would never burn completely out. I wrote about it in DEATH OF THE INNOCENT. Durant had provided some insight. He knew more about the dark side of Key West than anyone, including Frank. He had been gracious and cordial, if not a bit frightening. I hoped he would welcome me again.

  The house on the back streets of the Haitian community looked much the same. The oleanders and hibiscus were lush, but neatly trimmed. I still didn’t know if Cy Watts was buried in the back yard, but if so, may the murderous sonovabitch be rotting in his grave. I rang the brass bell. I was expecting Joseph, the cadaverous servant and dangerous devotee of the Reverend. Instead, a mature, but dark and lovely lady stood before me. Her skin was like molten chocolate and her eyes flashed a warm, but hesitant greeting. I knew she was Laverne, Durant’s ‘placee’ or common law wife. His followers believed he had cured her of a hideous disease that had threatened her life last year. Hell, maybe he had.

  “Marcuse is expecting you,” she whispered in a somewhat gravelly voice.

  I was confused. I hadn’t called or announced myself in any way, but I knew that Marcuse Durant was a man with sensibilities that I couldn’t fathom. He called himself a Hougan Priest, the spiritual leader of all things Voodoo in Key West, but the faithful believed him to be a Tonton Macoute, a demon who could fly, the practitioner of the most benign and the deadliest magic in the Keys. He might be both.

  The woman led me through the house to a patio. Durant reclined in a padded chaise. A sweating pitcher of yellow liquid sat on a table next to him. He didn’t get up or offer his hand.

  “Please sit, Dr. Fleming. May I offer you a glass of cold lemonade?” I nodded.

  Despite the heat of the late afternoon, he wasn’t sweating.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Reverend, without my calling first. Your wife said you were expecting me?” I said quizzically.

  “You still don’t understand, do you, Dr. Fleming? Forgive me if I seem to presume too much, but your aura is very strong. It surrounds me. You have power you have yet to recognize. They call you The Ghostcatcher.”

  My jaw set like granite and I swallowed a leaden breath. It was a lie. I loathed it. But since I’d been involved in the discovery of two murderers, I was stuck with it.

  “I know it taxes you, Doctor. You resist it, but you must do otherwise to fulfill your destiny. Only then will you know the things you must do. You come here to acquire information that will satisfy your curiosity, settle your mind. I am in possession of much that you seek, but the final revelations will come from within. Only then can you do combat with an evil as old and dark as time.”

  I shook my head. It sounded too much like some new age mumbo jumbo. Yes, I was curious. I needed to know more about the old man. I wasn’t sure what had led me to Marcuse Durant, but his words already hung over me, threatening to haunt me like some horrible demon. No matter, I was here to listen.

  “What do you know of the old man on the road? He told me someone had ‘stolen his shadow.’ That the Obi Man was coming for him.”

  The Reverend made a steeple with his fingers and placed them on his full lips. The evening sun caught his forehead and made the tight flesh glow like polished ebony. He looked at me and cocked his head as if to say, “Are you ready?”

  I bit the tip of my tongue. I thought I was.

  “He was one of my followers. Alain Toussaint. Very intelligent, spiritual, devoted, but a man who always wanted more. Eventually he became enchanted with the Twins. They led him to Obeah.”

  He read the confusion in my eyes and went on.

  “It is an ancient practice that originated in West Africa. It migrated with many of the black men who were stolen from their villages and shipped like animals to the Caribbean to become slaves of ruthless white masters. Trinidad and Tobago are the centers. There the Obeah practice their beliefs in magic. Their shaman is the lord of all things good and evil. The magic can be used to heal the sick and even raise the dead. It can be used for good. But its counterpart is black and malevolent. It torments and tortures those who have been chosen. It is the eternal battle. It resides in the Bible, the Torah, the Koran, every holy book ever written. The Yin and Yang, if you will. That is the destiny of man. The fight that we all enjoin within us.”

  “What does it mean, ‘they stole my shadow’, and who is the Obi Man?”

  “I am sorry to report that Alain has become a Jumbie, an evil one, a lost soul that will wander endlessly in a state of limbo. He will never be at peace. The Obi Man, the Dark One, the shaman, the sorcerer, the witch, has commandeered his body and spirit and sentenced them to eternal damnation. The dark ones are particularly skilled in the use of poisons, many undetectable by modern science.”

  “They removed his liver.”

  “Yes, my friend, an excellent source of blood and tissue.”

  “Why? What had he done to deserve such a mournful fate?”

  “That I do not know. Perhaps to concoct one of their poisons. Nevertheless, I assure you his hell is complete.”

  “What about these Twins? Who or what are they?”

  “The Twins were unknown in Key West until two years ago. Where they come from, I do not know, but they have seen in my followers a weakness, a willingness to be led by spells and incantations that some of my people believe will empower them and lead them to dominion over fate. It is foolish. They only tempt the devil. Nevertheless, a few have succumbed. I do not know how many are now Obeah. The evil ones tend to limit their numbers. Thirteen is the maximum. Ange Noir, the Black Angel, they call the dark one, and twelve more, much like a coven of witches. They meet to plot and do harm. They know the potions, both physical and mental, that seep into a man’s body and his soul. I believe Alain was their victim. One of many, I’m afraid.”

  He took a sip of lemonade and stared at the sunset for a moment.

  “The second Twin is the other half of the equation. Ange Blanc, the White Angel, is the master of healing and deeds that lead to spiritual fulfillment. Peace, harmony, and ultimate happiness. It is said he can raise the dead. The darkness and the light fear each other. The competition between them is intense, sometimes violent. There are those who triumph and those who suffer. Many never escape the twilight. Of course, you, my friend, are a skeptic. But magic is a very real thing. It is in the air as we speak. The wise and the wicked snatch it and steer it to their own purposes.”

  “Do you know these people?”

  “No, those Angels do not come to me, but I know one who might help. Alain had a young and beautiful wife. She is Hallemina. She grieves. How much I do not know. There was trouble between them. She will not speak to you unless I intervene.”

  “And will you, Reverend?”

  “You must know, Dr. Fleming, that my charge as a humble Hougan is to combat evil in whatever form it may take. The Jumbie is my enemy. Perhaps I cannot destroy him, but I can make his path thorny and create weakness in him. The Ange Noir must be made to tremble before he acts. I will contact Hallemina and tell her you are a man to be trusted. Wait for my call. And Doctor . . . remember who and what you are.”

  I nodded my thanks and turned to go. Suddenly I was face to face with Joseph, Durant’s devoted servant, and, I suspected, an avenger, maybe even a killer, who questioned nothing the Reverend commanded. His eyes were hollow and his face gaunt and lifeless. He did not speak. I backed away, then headed for the door. He followed me in a stiff, plodding gait.

  Perhaps there were zombies.

  Chapter 5

  When I got back to KAMALA, Sunny was sitting in the cockpit wearing an orange bikini that was probably made from a handkerc
hief. The sun played with her blond waves and oiled bronze beauty glowed in her skin. She held a sweating Ice House. She waved, then disappeared below and brought me an icy bottle.

  “Hello Sam Spade,” she growled, “doing some heavy detecting, no doubt.”

  I filled her in on the mystery unfolding after my trip to Frank’s office. Then I told her about my visit with Marcuse Durant. She sank into her scholar mode and listened with that quiet intensity she’d perfected in graduate school at the University of Virginia. Her head swiveled slowly back and forth. I waited.

  “Too much information, T.K. Too many questions. An old man who is dead, but not dead. Black angels, white angels? Obeah, the Obi Man? Jumbies? What the hell is that all about?”

  “I sure don’t know, but I guess I’ll have to talk to the old man’s wife. Durant said she is younger. ‘She grieves,’ he said, but ‘there was trouble between them’. He suggested she may not grieve much.”

  When I mentioned The Ghostcatcher, she became silent. Her brow hardened and her jaw set. Then she took a swig from the bottle and spoke quietly.

  “There is something, Cap. An aura? Some sort of power? I don’t know, but it seems to lead you to places other people can’t go. You’re a smart man, T.K. Maybe it’s just an intensified sense of observation, an ability to read more subtle things in people and situations. But it is there. The Reverend is right. You’re a fool to deny it. I don’t know if you can harness it to do your bidding. But whether you like it or not, you and Durant are in the same business. You fight evil. You have no choice. It’s your way.”

  I took a deep breath. It was foolish, but this was Sunny, the smartest, most perceptive woman I’d ever known, and a woman I loved. I hope she loved me, but even if she didn’t, there was no doubt she would ever try to hurt me. I had to listen and I had to let her words inside me, into the depths of my mind and soul.

  She slipped below and wagged a beckoning finger toward me. I followed. She doused a cotton cloth with water from the tap. Then she began to wash my body, first my face. The fabric licked the sweat and left a light, damp film that breathed life into me. She unbuttoned my shirt. Then to my arms, my chest, and finally to my legs. I untied the top of the bikini. Her tits were definitely not sagging. The flesh was sweet and salty on the tip of my tongue. Her taut brown nipples slid between my eager lips.

  The v berth was cool, but our bodies were hot. They melded in the traces of sweat and the scent of love.

  Before she dozed off, she said, “I need to talk to you about something serious. Not now. Later.”

  I was curious, but the tone in her voice said I would have to wait. Her body gave an involuntary jerk and she was asleep.

  The phone rang. I didn’t answer, but when I checked the voice mail I recognized the deep bass of Marcuse Durant, “She will wait for your call.” He also left an address I knew to be on one of the side streets in the Haitian village.

  Chapter 6

  Sunny left early next morning. I scanned the paper. More of the same. Key West was its own little hell hole. A gang shooting, two drug arrests on the local scene. The usual assortment of dysfunction in congress. Violent mayhem in the Middle East. Syria’s vicious dictator, Assad, had gassed over 1000 of his own people; 400 plus were women and children. The United States was considering a brilliant strategy involving missiles. Many thought it would accomplish little besides adding to the body count. Just more business as usual.

  It was clear what I had to do. Sunny was right. I hated evil and I hated hatred. But I also knew I was little more than a modern Don Quixote tilting at windmills that I believed to be wicked giants. The giants would win, but I would mount my old nag, Rocinante, take up my broken lance and fight until I was down, if not out.

  I showered and shaved, grabbed a quick cup of coffee and a stale bagel. Then I headed for the Haitian village. I heard loud snoring and watched a tattered man snoozing away in a ditch beside the pock-marked road.

  I could barely call it a house, more like a shack. Still there was a lush hibiscus next to the tiny porch and a concrete fountain in the yard with a statue of St. Francis, a small squirrel perched on his forearm and a delicate robin on his shoulder. The pink paint on the door was cracked and peeling, revealing the weathered gray beneath it. The grass, or what there was of it, hadn’t been trimmed in weeks. There was a small pair of weathered sandals sitting neatly side by side on the concrete porch.

  I knocked. Nothing at first, then the pad of footsteps approaching the door. A small crack and the face of a child appeared.

  “Dr. Fleming?” she said.

  I nodded and the door opened just enough for me to squeeze inside. “Should I remove my shoes?” I asked politely.

  “No. Dat for Jumbie. Evil spirit has no feet. He try to put on shoes. No can do. Melt back into the night. Leave me alone.”

  The tiny room was neat and clean. She pointed and I settled on a sofa with fabric as thin as paper. When I focused on her in the dim light, I could see that she was a child. No more than 16 or 17, skin the color of dusky caramel, her dark hair pulled up in a disheveled bun behind her head. Her eyes were leaden and swollen beneath the lids. She wore no makeup. Her dress was a simple blue print, tight at the neck and draped to the floor. Her feet were bare, her toes painted with a chipped pink polish that matched her fingernails. A clothes line about twenty feet long trailed from her hands. It was twisted into numberless small, tight knots. I didn’t know why, but she was an image of overwhelming fright. Maybe it was a primitive protection against sheer horror.

  I wasn’t sure how to approach her. She was damaged, like a doll that had fallen off the shelf, barely held together with cheap glue and a fragile will that lurked beneath the surface.

  “The Reverend say I must trust you. He say you will not hurt me. Will not give me up to de Jumbie. I think he know, but you be true. I suffer enough. Dere is little left of me.”

  “I promise you, Ms. Toussaint, no harm will come to you from me. I am simply trying to unravel a mystery,” I said quietly.

  “You may call me Hallemina.” I nodded.

  “You look at me. You wonder at my youth. Alain 68 years old. I am 16. He did not have much, but he have more dan many. He seem at first like man of kindness. My parents feel like it what you call good match. I would be his companion, lover, see him through as he get older, maybe even bear a child. He wanted son. First wife died without give him one. When he pass, I get house, maybe even little money. It sound good, but no. He hide it, but he was hard man. When he drink, he get mean. You wonder why I do not claim de body. Now you know. I don’t want it.”

  “So how was he mean, Ms. Toussaint?”

  “First night after marriage I was virgin. I do not know a man, never even see a man thing before. I am frightened. He make me do things that hurt me. When I tell him stop, he remove his belt. ‘I teach you to be wife,’ he said. He rip off my dress. The leather slap against my bare skin, make red cuts on my back, on my legs. They bleed. He pour salt from the kitchen. I cry and beg, but he go on. This happen for weeks, but then I miss my time. Mother say I am with child. All very happy. Beatings stop, but still he drink. De devil was no gone.”

  The grim and ugly story was written in the eyes of a child who had grown old too quickly. I felt a loathing rise up in me. Maybe it was good the bastard was dead, but I couldn’t say it. A part of me wanted to hold her, let her cry into my chest. But one man had already hurled her innocence against a wall of granite. It had shattered like fine crystal. I wasn’t the one to pick up the pieces. I could only frighten her more. I sat very still.

  She seemed to sense something. I thought for a moment she would move toward me, but she only shuddered and wrung her hands. Then she looked at me as if to ask permission to go on.

  “You de Ghostcatcher. I know. The Reverend say you help me. He is good man. He say you trust de Ghostcatcher. I hear what he say.”

  “Hallemina, I don’t know that I can help, but I know that I can’t help u
nless I have information. I know this is painful, but you must tell me everything you can. No harm will come to you.”

  “You do not know the Twins. Dey have powers dat you can only imagine. Dey can hurt me, maybe even kill me. Send Jumbie to steal my shadow. Den I scream in de night. If dey know, I can no escape.” Her lip quivered and she blotted a tear with the hem of her dress. She was a child, but I could not hold her, wipe away the tears and assure it would all be all right.

  “Maybe you can help me help you, but I need to know more. Do you know these Twins?”

  “Only one. He come to de house few weeks ago. Very tall, what you say gaunt like de Jumbie. Eyes as deep and dark as the sea on moonless night. His nose pierced. Red ball like drop of blood on either side. He wear small silver skull in his ear. Teeth grin and mock. Dashiki cover his chest, purple and lavender, the colors of African kings. I see scars and cuts on his arms. Some healed, some still pink and fresh. I am frightened. Alain send me to back room. Tell me to close door. Dey talk.”

  “Could you hear any of what they said?

  “Not much. Dey mumble very quiet. I catch de word ceremony and mention of sharp blade. ‘Razor sharp,’ de Twin say.”

  “Did Alain call him by name?”

  “Mon Ange was all. But I tell too much. I frightened, Doctor. No more. You not come again. May draw de devil. Next time I be gone. If Jumbie no get me, I run. Go back to Trinidad to my mother. Maybe be safe.”

  “You’ll have the baby there?”

  “No baby.” Her body shook perceptibly and a sick, sad sound came from her throat. “Alain drunk. He drive de car like crazy man, run off of de road. We hit tree. I bleed between my legs. No child. Now only Douen. I bury de child deep where de creatures can no get to him.”

  I knew the term Douen. It was a child who had died before being baptized. The spirit became viscious like the Jumbie and wandered the night, seeking to invest its hideous intent in others who could maim the souls it infected.

  Now she was strangely composed. She said almost under her breath, “You find Ange Noir, drive his soul to hell. Let him howl in de flames for eternity.”

  I nodded and tried a look of reassurance. It didn’t come.