28

When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the ground facedown, and I heard a voice. I rolled over, swooning with nausea and with a swirling pain in my skull.

Bert was standing over me, next to his amateur film assistant, who was still clutching his shoulder-mounted camera.

My scrambled brain was able to frame a single question. “Did you catch his face on film?”

The camera guy shook his head. “Nah, just his back.”

I stumbled to my feet. I could see two patrol officers running to my location with their hands on their sidearms. When they arrived, I struggled my way through a rundown of the incident and the few details I could tell them about the potential predator.

One of the officers said, “Sir, you should go to the emergency room to get checked out for your concussion. We’ll call an EMT unit.”

“Don’t bother,” I said. “I’ll have my daughter do the driving.”

The officers gave a stern warning to Bert and his crew, but true to the deal I had struck through Morgan Canterelle, they let the group go without charges.

I finally made my way out through the cut chain-link fence to the cracked cement parking lot that was choked with weeds.

As I approached the rental car, Heather must have noticed something odd about me because she jumped out of the passenger seat and trotted up to me.

“Okay, what happened? Something happened to you. . . .”

“An incident,” I said. “I’m okay.”

She stared into my eyes. “Trevor, you’re looking goofy. I’m driving.”

When I settled into the passenger seat, she turned on the ignition, then tossed me my iPad. “You’ve got to read this. This is sickening. A game changer.”

For me, it wasn’t a game changer at all. But I had danced with the dark side for several years and Heather hadn’t, so by then nothing surprised me except the constant realization that the God of all compassion continued to look out for me in the process.

On the iPad, she had come across a series of articles dating back to June of 2014, including one in International Business Times and another in Business Insider. They were spawned as a result of a report from the United Nations Committee on the Rights of the Child warning about voodoo ceremonies involving children and sexual abuse.

She found a link to an earlier online article in the National Geographic News dated February 10, 2005, recounting the horrific death of a child brought into England by voodoo followers and apparently killed as a human sacrifice.

But it was the manner of death that jumped out and accounted for Heather’s reaction. An autopsy showed signs of poisoning by the toxic Calabar bean.

“This needs to be stopped!” Heather yelled as she began to wheel our rental car across the parking lot. “But first, let me tell you something, Trevor: you don’t look good. Tell me what happened.”

I gave her the Twitter-length version of my being knocked out, but I stressed that the loss of consciousness maybe lasted only for a few seconds.

“Well, I’ve got to get you to the ER. You need a doctor to check you out.”

“I’m fine. We don’t have time for that. I have someplace else in mind.”

I gave her the address for Belle Sabatier’s mansion in the French Quarter.

When we arrived, I marched up to the front door, turned the old brass handle on the doorframe several times, and heard the tinny ring-a-ling as I did.

No butler came to the door. Instead it was Belle herself, looking unsteady. She wiped her swollen red eyes, and with that same hand gave a sloppy wave for us to follow her inside. In the other hand she held a wineglass that had clearly been drained and probably more than once. We were led to the familiar sitting room with the fireplace and the portrait of Minerva Sabatier hanging over the mantel.

Heather began apologetically. “We’re so sorry to disturb you. I hope we didn’t catch you at a bad time —”

I interrupted. “Belle,” I said, “time for straight talk.”

“Of course, Mr. Black. Straight as an arrow . . .”

She took the last swig of red wine, then set the empty glass on the little table next to her. That’s when I noticed a worn Bible on the tabletop. It was open to a page where an old-fashioned embroidered bookmark was draped.

Belle struggled through tears to say something, pointing to the open page of the Bible. “After finding Mother’s diary, I needed to know . . . to know what she meant about the young girls. And what it had to do with her power as the New Orleans mambo. So I tore this mansion apart, looking for answers. Until I found this.” As she said that, she put her finger on the page of the Bible.

I checked the passage she was pointing to. It was the New Testament. The Gospel of Luke, chapter 17.

It would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck and he were thrown into the sea, than that he would cause one of these little ones to stumble.

Next to that verse was a long, handwritten note down the entire margin of the page. It had obviously been written there by Minerva.

O God, forgive me! They just wanted names of my followers. “To help expand my influence,” they said. But then they recruited them. I didn’t know about the girls. Have I aided this terrible slavery? The rumors are that Sulphur is the path to Hell, leading to the sea. I must stop this.

“What does this mean?” I asked.

“You’re smart,” Belle said. “Figure it out. Her diary showed she was concerned. About some girls. You thought it was a confession, didn’t you? Well, here’s your confession,” she said, jabbing a finger at the Bible. “It’s all coming back now. I heard a comment from one of her voodoo friends when I came back for Mother’s funeral. That someone had been asking for her help in ‘networking’ all of her voodoo followers together. Some kind of Internet thing. And how Mother and her voodoo power were going to ‘go global.’ That was the carrot they used. Her pride. But all they really wanted was to enlist some of her followers. Looking for the worst of the worst.”

I asked, “Why? For what purpose?” But as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew the answer.

“The girls . . . ,” she began to say but then broke down in a sob.

Heather left her seat, put her arms around Belle, and tossed a look back to me. It seemed to be saying, Now what do we do?

I leaned toward Belle. “You know what I think? Your mother was an unwitting pawn in that horrific scheme. She opened the door. And hell walked in.”

Belle couldn’t talk. All she could do, as she tried to stifle the sobs, was to nod yes to my question.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. “About your mother being poisoned?”

After a few heavy sighs, Belle let go of Heather and said, “Didn’t know who to trust. Besides, Mr. Canterelle was handling that. Investigating her death.”

“So you’re one of his clients too?” I asked. She told me she was. Belle had to be that client whose case Canterelle said was indirectly related to his other cases: the murder of Lucinda, who was found at Bayou Bon Coeur, and the still-open case of Peggy Tanner. But still related to all that because she was poisoned by someone involved in the wider network. Someone responsible for the crimes.

“Do you think your mother was killed because when she learned the truth, she was guilt-ridden and was going to expose the criminal network?”

“With all my heart,” Belle said. “Mother was raised Catholic. But left it when she decided to devote herself to voodoo. I always thought, though, that she had some unfinished business with God.”

I glanced at the page of the Bible that had been opened to the words of Jesus in Luke. “It looks like it,” I said.

Then I added, “Belle, I want to find out who —or what —was behind her death. And behind the occult network orchestrating these females being abducted, and even worse.”