23

It was late, and I was alone. I was resigned to the fact that I was stuck at Bayou Bon Coeur till morning. I planned to have Delbert Baldou ferry me back to New Orleans at daybreak along with any others who wanted to join us.

Wanting no part of the concert of voodoo spell-casting taking place by the bonfire, I sauntered down to the water where Baldou’s flatboat was tied up. I had delivered my warning to Heather. What else could I do?

I sat down on a grassy spot and listened to the swamp that was alive with the sounds of night animals in the brush and creatures on the water. While the sky was pitch black, the bonfire blaze inside the mansion courtyard cast a light all the way to my place at the water’s edge. The moon had come out full, and it painted a yellow beam of light across the water.

My mission had been to locate Heather and make sure she was safe. That part was finished. But I was uneasy about all that was still undone. Between Heather and me. And why I had come to New Orleans in the first place. The death of Jason Forester. And now Paul Pullmen. And the abductions of young girls. Canterelle was right about that; it resembled Old Testament atrocities. Practically Canaanite.

On the visceral level, it all felt connected. But in my head, it dead-ended.

Back at the mansion ruins the drums were unceasing, followed by chanting and singing. Louder and louder. Someone was hitting a tambourine. The din was rising.

Then, a bolt out of the blue. What was I doing down by the water anyway, when my daughter was back there, just two hundred feet away, in the middle of an occult hoedown? My reasons for avoiding the ceremony suddenly rang ridiculously hollow.

I was on my feet and heading to the wall of the crumbling brick mansion. The front door was missing, and the opening gave me a good surveillance position into the courtyard. I could see Heather seated on the other side of the bonfire but outside the inner ring of participants.

Several of the white-turbaned women were swirling around the flames to the beat of the drums. One of them was swinging a machete in one hand while holding a bottle of liquor in the other. In between swaying and swooning, she thrust her head back, taking big gulps. First she sprayed it from her mouth at a big Latin cross that looked like it had been borrowed from a graveyard, then turned to the fire and spit liquor into the flames, causing it to momentarily flare up, to the delight of the caterwauling dancers.

Two of the gyrating women were swinging headless chickens over their heads, obviously having sacrificed them to the voodoo gods. I was no expert, but I had done enough research to understand the point of this cacophony: to summon the “spirit gods” from the other side.

One of the prancing women in white stood out from the rest. Her dance was more graceful, and she was holding a huge pink chalice containing some liquid that she was delicately sprinkling here and there with her fingers. The point was to invite a supernatural presence into her body. I kept watching. Suddenly she jammed to a halt, dropped the chalice, and began screaming and writhing, swinging her arms but still rhythmically in sync with the beating of the conga drums. Now all focus was on her. The other dancers gathered around her as she straightened up and began to physically assume another persona, this time a sashaying celebrity, with one hand raised high to the crowd, waving and provocatively swinging her hips as she walked. Whoever or whatever she had become, the revelers must have recognized it, because they began to shout, “Ezili Freda! Ezili Freda!” An onlooker rushed up to her with a satin cape and wrapped her in it while the others danced around her with white candles.

But it didn’t last. Another abrupt change. The woman’s cocky strut was over as her shoulders slumped and she put her hands over her face. Her shoulders began to shake, and her sobs came in loud waves of hysterical weeping. The other dancers encircled her, reaching out as if wanting to comfort her but afraid to touch her.

The drums stopped. I glanced to the far side of the bonfire, where Heather was seated. She had grabbed her knees and tucked them up close to her, the light flickering over her. There was an expression of sad astonishment on her face.

I had seen enough. Heather was safe, but only physically. The ceremony was finished. I returned to my place at the shore and sat down, feeling oppressed by the heat and by the cultic rituals that were going on and my daughter’s interest in them. Doors had been flung open to a demonic enemy. Only by the grace of God had a supernatural army not marched through the portal. Then again, maybe it had.

The sound of footsteps. Someone was coming up behind me.

Belle Sabatier was clutching two bottled waters, and when she sat down on the grass next to me, I noticed she was holding something else that she quickly slipped into her pocket.

When she offered me a bottle, I asked, “Is this a peace offering?”

“Maybe.”

The bottle was chilled, and I put it to my forehead. In the sweaty heat of the bayou, it felt good.

I asked her, “Why weren’t you in the middle of that fracas back in the mansion? I would have thought you’d be reveling right in the thick of it. Voodoo queen of the ball.”

She tilted her head and leaned in closer. “I thought lawyers look for evidence. Where’s your evidence for that idea?”

“I’m not a lawyer anymore, remember?”

“Of course. Mr. Canterelle filled me in. Your belief in the supernatural got you tossed outside the city gates.”

“So,” I asked again, nodding toward the bonfire, “why weren’t you dancing with the others? I didn’t even see you.”

She uncapped her bottle and took a healthy swig, then held it against her neck to cool herself. She kept it there for a few seconds.

Looking out to the waters of the bayou, she began to explain. “All I ever wanted to do was to run my little art studio back in Philadelphia. After I left New Orleans, I studied at the University of the Arts in the city. When I got out, I painted. My medium was watercolor, memories of the houses that I remembered in the French Quarter growing up. I rented a little shop and sold some of my work and that of other local artists on consignment. That’s who I really am, Trevor. Not part of my mother’s voodoo congregation. Just a struggling artist.”

“Okay,” I said, cutting it short. “And what about your mother? What was in that diary of hers?”

She put down her water bottle and pulled a small leather-bound book from her pocket. There were symbols etched into the leather.

“My mother’s diary,” she said, handing it to me. “See for yourself. The last entry was the day before her death.”

I opened it. Just as she had described, the first page had a meticulously drawn map of the waterways leading to Bayou Bon Coeur with a large X and, underneath it, the words Ruins of the Mansion of Marie Laveau.

Then, only two handwritten entries.

The first one said:

I am so vexed in my spirit. Am I the Mambo of New Orleans or not? Will cleanse myself from the blood with a special spell.

Then the last one. I had to read it twice, just to make sure. And when I was sure of the words that were written, I was stunned.

Something must be done about all those young girls. I am QUEEN. And my power shall not be trifled with.

I closed the diary and looked into Belle Sabatier’s eyes. “What ‘young girls’ was your mother writing about?”

In Belle’s eyes there were tears glistening, welling up. She tried to reply but couldn’t talk, making just a garbled sound. Then she snatched the diary from my hand, rose to her feet, and hurried toward the bonfire. I thought I could hear the muffled sound of weeping as she swept away.

I tried to untangle the meaning behind the entries in Minerva Sabatier’s diary —that part about “all those young girls.” And having to be cleansed from the blood. What else could it mean, other than that she was part of the vile abductions that had been taking place? More dread. For all the world it seemed to corroborate the rumors that Rudabow had told me about Minerva Sabatier.

Belle seemed contrite. Even appalled by her mother’s notes. But then, looks can be deceiving. I had learned, in my hunt for monsters, they sometimes come pleasantly disguised. The innocent facade can be fatal. Was Belle just one more?

I looked out at the moonlit water on the bayou.

Immediately I was aware of a menacing presence, nearly palpable.

Maybe I had lost that one peculiar sensory ability to detect the dark forces in advance, but it seemed to have been replaced by something else. A sense that was now more refined. Just like Rev. Cannon had said. An inner spiritual certainty that, at least when I was attuned to it, was even more powerful and accurate. A discernment telling me to be alert.

Just then, I had the overpowering notion that one of them was out there.

I checked my surroundings. Then I saw him, this time out on the mirrored surface of the water. In the moonlight. The dark figure. And I knew it was him. The one I had first seen from the beach on my island, standing on the ocean. My hellish chauffeur. The mentor for the demon twins I met in the alley. He had not given up on me. Of course not. He just waited for a more opportune time.

Now he had come back, and he was on the surface of the water in the bayou. Not sinking. But this time his arm was raised and he was beckoning me.

I was trembling and suddenly weak, hardly able to stand. I couldn’t run or fight back. Against everything that was in me, I felt myself being drawn to take a few steps toward the edge of the land, toward the dark waters where the menacing figure was waiting and summoning me to himself. His power was increasing, and mine decreasing.

“Lord Jesus,” I whispered, “your strength, not mine.”

The sound of laughter echoed over the waters, mocking me. Toying with me. It was coming from my enemy out there on the surface. Then, an instant later, he was gone.