“I parked on the street, outside the door,” Abba said. “Let’s take mine.”
Misting rain had replaced last night’s fog. When Abba unlocked the front door of a bright orange crossover of questionable vintage, I quickly climbed into the rear seat.
“You take shotgun, Padre,” I said. “I’ll ride back here.”
“What kind of car is this?” Rafael asked when we pulled away from the curb.
“Pontiac Aztek,” she said.
Oblivious to the drizzle, a dozen pigeons fighting over the remains of a Lucky Dog someone had dropped in the street took flight in front of us. Abba swerved to miss the French Quarter specialty, and the pigeons landed behind us to finish their clean up duty.
“How old is it?” Rafael asked. “They don’t make Pontiacs anymore, do they?”
“This is a 2005 model, the last year they made Azteks. My dad bought it for me when I started driving.”
“As I recall, not many people bought Azteks. Is your dad . . . ?”
“A nerd? Very much so,” she said, answering Rafael’s question before he’d finished asking it. “Must have rubbed off on me because so am I.”
“Looks to be in pristine condition,” he said. “You apparently take excellent care of your possessions.”
His comment made her laugh. “When you’re a poor medical student, you have to make things last, or starve to death.”
“You look neither broke nor starving,” Rafael said.
“My job with Junie Bug pays well, and Dad helps with unexpected bills.”
“Why are you taking such an interest in Junie Bug’s daughter?” he asked.
Abba seemed miffed by Rafael’s question. “Will you tell him?” she asked, glancing at me for a moment in the rearview mirror.
“Abba’s father is Vincent Gigoux. He is the baby that was switched at birth with Gordon Vallee. Vincent is the real heir to the Vallee fortune, and not Gordon, Junie Bug’s husband and the father of Desire.”
Rafael’s smile had disappeared when he turned to glance at me.
“Then are you trying to find Desire with ill intent?” he asked.
“I don’t intend to ever tell Junie Bug, or her daughter if we find her, who I really am.”
“Is that the way you’ve always felt?” Rafael asked.
“Dad would have no part of butting into Junie Bug’s life. I approached her with the intention of telling her who I am. She thought I was interviewing for a job. I took the job and chickened out about telling her my story.”
“And things have changed?”
“I’ve worked for that wonderful lady more than a year now and have real empathy for her. She trusts me, and I will never betray that trust.”
“Sure about that?” Rafael asked.
Abba’s smile returned, her hair moving in waves when she shook her head.
“You are a priest, aren’t you? I haven’t been grilled like that since I confessed to my parish priest about kissing a boy for the first time.”
“Sorry, my dear,” he said. “I try to stay in practice.”
“You still haven’t told us who we’re meeting and how he can help us find Desire,” I said, piping in from the backseat.
“His name is Lando Impeke. He’s a Tutsi that immigrated from Rwanda after the conflict in the nineties. I’ve never met him though I understand he’s quite a tragic figure.”
“How so?” Abba asked.
“His entire family was slaughtered in the genocide resulting from the Hutu-Tutsi conflict. He was a broken man when he first came to New Orleans.”
“And now?” I asked.
“We’ll soon find out. We’re entering the St. Roch neighborhood.”
“Looks bleak,” Abba said.
“Hurricane Katrina hammered this area. Flooded everything. Many of the abandoned board-framed houses have never been reoccupied. Crime here is off the charts.”
A stray dog digging in an overturned garbage can that had blown into the street didn’t bother moving when we drove past.
“What about the cemetery?” I asked.
“Also flooded, many of the graves destroyed or looted,” Rafael said. “Thankfully, the two St. Roch cemeteries have been restored.”
“What’s the deal with the shrine?” Abba said.
“Many decades ago, during an outbreak of yellow fever, the priest of this parish prayed to St. Roch, the patron of good health. He promised to build a shrine if the people of his parish were spared. Not a single parishioner contracted the disease, and the priest made good on his promise. The chapel is famous all over the world.”
“Because?”
“It’s a place of healing. People coming there seeking intervention in their health problems have reported many miracle cures,” he said.
“I’m a medical student,” Abba said. “Pardon me if I’m a bit skeptical about faith healing.”
“No problem, my dear. The world has become a skeptical place.”
“Have either of you seen any such miracles in your lifetimes?” she asked.
“I’ll readily admit I’ve never witnessed a miracle, though others that I trust have,” Rafael said.
“You, Wyatt?”
“I’ve seen lots of things I can’t explain, though I’ve never witnessed what I’d consider a miracle.”
We’d reached the entrance to the St. Roch Cemetery, and Abba quickly found a place to park. At least the drizzling rain had ceased as we stepped out of the car.
“It’s spectacular,” she said.
“Looks like a place where miracles could happen,” Rafael said.
“Maybe so,” Abba said. “Doesn’t matter because I’m going to continue discounting the possibility of miracles until I see one with my own eyes.”
As Abba had said, the entrance to the cemetery was spectacular. The tall gate topped by an ornate cross said St. Roch Campo Santo. A smiling black man dressed in a colorful African-print shirt waited for us just inside the open gate.
“Lando Impeke?” Rafael asked.
“That is me,” the man said. “Are you Father Rafael?”
“Yes, and this is Abba Gigoux and Wyatt Thomas. They have questions that maybe you can answer.”
“I will do my very best,” Impeke said. “Please follow me. I will give you a brief tour on our way to the chapel.”
Impeke’s skin was the color of dark chocolate, his hair cut short and snowy white. He spoke in a clipped, though discernible African accent.
A tiny man, he barely reached Abba’s shoulder. Neither he nor Abba seemed to mind.
Some of the aboveground crypts were massive and ornate. Many were “oven” vaults meant for multiple interments. All were colorful. Standing in front of the entrance to the chapel was a statue of Jesus on the cross. In front of it was a marble carving of a sick girl lying on a bed. Impeke stopped to show us.
“This statue represents the reason so many people visit this cemetery from every place on earth.”
“The little girl was healed of her affliction?” Rafael said.
Impeke nodded. “Along with many others. The recipient of a miracle.”
“Have you ever seen such a miracle?” Abba asked.
“Many people enter these gates, helpless and broken. Always, when they leave, they are once again whole.”
“Did you hear about St. Roch after settling in the neighborhood?” Rafael asked.
“I had heard of this place even when I was in Africa. The statue of the little girl is part of the reason I came to New Orleans.”
“Part of the reason?” I said.
“Yes, though I had other considerations,” he said.
Abba didn’t let him explain. “You had an impairment that was healed?” she asked.
“My soul,” Impeke said. “I prayed to St. Roch, and he restored me.”
Afraid of insulting the passionate little man by saying something negative, Abba refrained from commenting. We followed him down the pathway to the chapel.
“The graves are hauntingly beautiful,” Rafael said.
“You should see them at dusk,” Impeke said. “It is when the spirits begin their nightly walk, and the colors of the graves and statues, and sounds of the dead come alive.”
He smiled when Abba said, “You believe in ghosts?”
“Of course. There are more spirits in this city than can be counted.”
“Then why haven’t I seen them?” she asked.
Impeke stopped and touched her hand. “We see only what we wish to see, and filter out the rest.”
“But why?” she said.
“Fear of the unknown,” he said.
She shook her head as we entered the chapel, a surreal little room filled with canes, wooden crutches, and artificial limbs hanging on wall pegs.
There was also a table covered with relics, a red plaster heart, leg braces, at least one set of false teeth, and many crosses. Plaster peeled off the walls, the small statue of the Virgin Mary almost seeming alive.
“Offerings,” Impeke said. “Left by pilgrims searching for miracles. They are not the only ones to visit St. Roch,” Impeke said.
“Who else?” Abba asked.
“The curious. People who wish to see another side of our Catholic faith.”
“I’m sorry,” Abba said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Exotic Catholics; believers who push the charismatic element of our religion to the limits,” Impeke said.
“It’s the same in all Christian religions,” Rafael said. “Some believers sit sedately in their pews and mouth the words to hymns sung by the choir. Other believers fall out of their pews, roll down the aisles, and speak in unknown tongues. Catholics are no different.”
Impeke knelt in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary and began to pray. Abba waited for his prayer to end before speaking.
“We understand you know a man named Father Fred,” she said. “I could find nothing about him when I did a search of the Internet and local documents. What can you tell us about him?”
Even in late October, humidity was high, plaster flaking off the ceiling as well as the walls. Impeke gazed up at it before answering.
“Sometimes the Devil walks in human shoes. Such is the case for the man you know as Father Fred.”
“Is he a priest?” Rafael asked.
Impeke nodded. “A rogue priest; a person that uses the priesthood to his own advantage; someone that deserves to burn in hell.”
Rafael placed his hand on Impeke’s shoulder. “I sense you have more to tell us about Father Fred than just where we can find him.”
Tears had begun streaming down the man’s face. Still on his knees, he lowered his head and began praying again. We watched, transfixed, the humidity high and the faint smell of mold lingering in the eclectic little chapel. His eyes remained closed, and his head bowed when he began to speak.
“Nearly twenty-five years have passed since I first laid eyes on the Devil himself. It was a hot night in my village. I awoke to the howl of a stray dog outside my hut. It was then I began hearing shouts and screams.
“My wife was asleep beside me, my two sons in pallets across the room. I wasn’t fully awake when men with machetes came screaming through the door.
“Several of the men overpowered me, binding my hands behind me with steel cuffs. I could only struggle, scream, and cry as they hacked my two sons to death. My wife Aiella was with child, eight months pregnant. I tried to help as the men began raping her. They held me down, and I could do nothing except scream for them to stop the atrocity. They didn’t.
“It was a damp night, humidity high and the cloying smell of sex, sweat, and blood hanging in the air. When they finished with Aiella, they hacked her to death with their machetes. Her eyes had closed, and she was no longer screaming.
“I begged them to kill me too. They did not. One of the men knocked me out with the butt of his machete. When I finally opened my eyes, I found myself chained by leg irons to a tree along with dozens of other men, boys, and girls. The next morning, we began a trek that lasted many days.
“They kept us in leg irons and neck chains and fed us slop once a day along with just enough water to keep us alive. We finally reached the coast. It was then that I saw Father Fred for the first time.”
Impeke grew silent, his head bowed as tears continued streaming down his face. Rafael began softly patting his back, trying to comfort him.
“This is so painful for you. Spare yourself. We don’t need to hear the rest of the story,” he said.
“I must tell it,” he said. “It’s the only way you’ll know the evil with which you are dealing.”
“Then take your time,” Rafael said. “We’re going nowhere.”
A flock of pigeons landed briefly outside the open door, raising a ruckus before flying away in a flap of many wings.
“The Hutus built half a dozen large bonfires. When darkness came, they slaughtered a young man, butchered, cooked, and feasted on him. Father Fred was with them, laughing and enjoying the meal along with them.
“They threw us leftover scraps and bones. Half-starved, many of the captives ate human flesh. After the feast, Father Fred joined the Hutus in the ceremonial revelry of rape and child molestation that followed.”
I didn’t ask Impeke if he had also consumed human flesh.
“What was he doing there?” I said.
“Purchasing slaves. Human contraband for buyers from all over the globe.”
Abba’s eyes had grown progressively larger, a hand covering her open mouth.
“Oh my God!” she said.
“Yes, the man is a slave trader, buying and selling human chattel for rich and powerful clients. God help them.”
Rafael’s hand hadn’t moved from Impeke’s shoulder. “And you?”
“Like many other captives, I had developed a tropical fever. They thought I was going to die.”
“You escaped?” I asked.
Impeke shook his head. “They beat me and left me on the side of the road. When I came to from the beating, I was alone.”
He pulled up the long sleeve of his colorful shirt and held up his arm. For the first time since meeting him, we realized that only a stump remained where his hand had been. He pointed to a porcelain prosthetic hanging on the wall.
“Before leaving me to die, the monsters cut off my right hand. They had already taken my soul. St. Roch restored my soul and gave me new life. In exchange, I left the prosthetic as an offering and have lived without it ever since.”
Wind gusted through the portal we’d left open, sucking the air out of the small chapel and causing the door to slam shut with a bang.
“Enough of this place,” Rafael said. “I’ve developed a splitting headache, and I badly need a drink. It’s past lunch hour. You can tell us where we can find the monster as we break bread.”
Impeke’s tears had vanished, replaced by his original rosy smile.
“There are only a few places to eat and drink in this neighborhood. St. Roch Market is one of them, and it is near.”
“Is it a good place to eat?” Abba asked.
“A marvelous place,” Impeke said. “They have gumbo, po’boys, and even African beer.”
“I can go for that,” Abba said.
“Then let’s go,” Rafael said.
Clouds had begun gathering as we drove away from the cemetery. No one spoke as Abba pointed the Aztek toward the nearby St. Roch Market. Public money had transformed the old market building into a food court, the aroma of food intoxicating as we entered the building.
Upscale vendors sold exotic coffees, beer, and mixed drinks. The market’s many vendors specialized in everything from oysters to traditional Korean cooking. As Impeke had said, there was even African beer on tap.
The rain had returned outside as we found a table near the front door of the market. It was my first visit, and I wasn’t disappointed. Rafael had a chef salad with a glass of cabernet. Abba had a dozen raw oysters, a spicy plate of Kimchi, and, like Impeke, an icy glass of African beer. He and I had gumbo and red beans and rice, Impeke lacing his with lots of pepper sauce.
After his second beer, his smile had returned. I took it as an opening to quiz him.
“Did you come to New Orleans specifically to find Father Fred?”
“Yes. I had learned that he lived here and came to Louisiana with every intention of killing him.”
“But your experience at St. Roch changed your mind?”
“Yes. I am at peace with myself and no longer dream about ripping his throat out.” He smiled again. “It wouldn’t bother me, though, if someone else killed him.”
“We are looking for Father Fred because of a much different reason,” Abba said. “He recruited a young woman we know, apparently convincing her she was going to become a nun and join a convent. If she’s still alive, we want to rescue her.”
“I’m so sorry for the young woman,” Impeke said. “Father Fred preys on the weak. He runs his operation from an old orphanage in Mid-City. He keeps people he will sell as slaves, or worse. It is a prison disguised as a place of hope.”
“Why haven’t you reported this to the police?” Abba asked.
“Oh, but I have,” he said. “Many times.”
“What happened?”
“I was threatened with bodily harm if I persisted in harassing Father Fred.”
“New Orleans politics,” Rafael said. “Gotta love it.”
“Greasing the palms of politicians didn’t start in New Orleans,” I said. “Local officials merely perfected the practice.”
“The address where you will find Father Fred is on this slip of paper,” Impeke said. “I wish you better luck than I had, and I pray that you find your friend alive and well.”
“Thanks, Lando. We couldn’t have located Father Fred without your help. Can I ask one more question.”
“Yes?”
“What about Sister Gertrude? What can you tell us about her?”
Impeke downed the last of his beer, and then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. The wind had picked up outside, rain blowing through the front door as a young couple hurriedly entered.
“If at all possible, Sister Gertrude is even eviler than Father Fred.”
“How so?”
“She is the Head Mother of a very special Catholic convent.”
“Tell me,” Abba said.
“Most of the nuns there are little more than prostitutes, performing vile sex acts for those sick people with nun fetishes.”
“Oh my God! Why would the victims allow them to do such things?”
“They would not if they had the choice. They are beaten and coerced by mind control along with mind-altering drugs. I have heard some of the young women lapse into insanity, and that the suicide rate is high.”
It was clear from her expression that Impeke’s words had incensed Abba.
“What kind of horrible pervert would frequent such a place?”
“There are all kinds of crazy and perverted people in this world,” Rafael said, clutching Abba’s wrist. “Can you tell us where to find this convent?”
“Only that it is in another parish,” Impeke said. “I wish I had more information for you. Now, you know as much as I do.”
Before letting Lando Impeke out at the gates to St. Roch, Rafael shook his hand. Abba got out of the car and hugged him.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help,” she said.
“Young lady, you are so very welcome. I truly hope you find your friend.”
“You are the one to thank,” she said, kissing his forehead.
He took her hand when she started to pull away. “I sense you have serious questions that perhaps only God can answer. When they begin weighing on you too heavily, return to St. Roch. I will help you cast away the pain weighing on your soul.”
Lando Impeke waved as Abba pulled away from the curb and headed toward Mid-City. The rain had finally ceased leaving the streets wet and potholes filled with water.
It was almost Halloween in the Big Easy, spooky bats, and monsters decorating the front of many of the houses. After seeing the chapel at St. Roch, I realized the creepy decorations could never compare to the real thing. After five minutes of silence, Abba glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
“You okay back there?” she said.
I glanced up as a car raced around us, my thoughts of Desire dissolving like the speeding vehicle’s brake lights in the distance.
“Sorry,” I said. “My mind was somewhere else.”
“Please stop worrying about Desire,” she said. “We’ll find her. She’ll be okay.”
After listening to Lando Impeke’s description of Sister Gertrude’s convent, I wasn’t so sure. Father Fred’s address wasn’t far away, though we had an unexpected shock when we reached it.
The old orphanage was a two-storied frame and plaster structure that had suffered through too many hot and wet Big Easy seasons without a fresh coat of paint. It was almost a given that the flat roof leaked.
The ten-foot fence surrounding the building and small compound surprised us, though not as much as the security vehicle parked at the entrance to the property. We could only presume the guard sitting behind the steering wheel was armed. Abba kept driving.
“What now?” she asked.
“I doubt they accept visitors at the front gate. Let’s hunker down someplace and talk about it,” I said.
Abba glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Where do you suggest?”
“We’re not far from City Park. It’s so big, I’m sure we can find a secluded spot away from the crowds.”
“There’s a liquor store up ahead,” Rafael said. “If we’re going on a picnic, then I’ll need sustenance. What are you drinking?” he asked Abba before exiting the car.
“Some of whatever you’re having,” she said.
Abba and I waited in the parking lot until Rafael returned, arms loaded with a large jug of Chianti and a bottle of processed lemonade.
“Don’t turn up your nose,” he said. “It’s all they had, and you can always share our wine.”
I took the lemonade and said, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
After driving a short distance into City Park, Abba backed the Aztek up to the bank of a scenic lagoon, possibly the exact place where last night’s murder had occurred. After opening the dual tailgate, she dug around for a picnic blanket.
“Voila,” she said, spreading it on the grass in front of the open tailgate.
Abba and Rafael were soon sharing Chianti that they drank straight from the open bottle. A splash and resultant circular ripple of water marked the spot where a big fish broke the surface of the lagoon.
“Father Fred’s place looked ominous,” Abba said. “Even if Desire is there, they won’t let her come to the door for a chat.”
“She’s not there,” I said.
“And how do you know that?” Rafael asked.
“It’s probably the place they take their recruits for processing. I doubt anyone stays there very long.”
“Then what do you expect to find?” Abba asked.
“Information. I’m betting it’s where they keep their records. If so, we can find out where Desire is.”
“Great,” Rafael said. “We’ll just knock on the front door and ask them if we can have a look at their records.”
“Not funny,” Abba said.
“What, then?” he said. “This is starting to feel like an exercise in futility.”
“I have a plan,” I said.
Rafael took a swig from the jug of Chianti. “Then don’t keep us in suspense,” he said.
“It’ll be dark in a few hours. When the time is right, you can drop me off a block or so from the orphanage. I’ll break in, get the records we need and then get out.”
Abba was smiling when she said, “Better pass me the bottle, Padre.”
Rafael was grinning as he handed the jug to Abba.
“And how do you plan to accomplish that particular feat?” he asked.
“Experience,” I said. “I worked for the F.D.I.C. during my college years. We repossessed many houses. I became fairly proficient at breaking and entering.”
“The F.D.I.C. hired you to break into houses?” Abba said.
“Believe me, they repossess lots of houses. If you don’t want to go through the court system, then you send in a housebreaker.”
“Are you making this up as you go along?” she asked.
“I’d wait until the occupants left the house to go shopping, or to work. When they did, I’d break in, have the locks changed, and take control. Physical possession of the house precluded us from having to go through the court system. Worked like a charm.”
“Nice man,” Rafael said. “Think I’m reassessing my opinion of you.”
“Never said I was perfect. I learned enough to have made it as a cat burglar. I haven’t found a place yet I can’t break into.”
“Comforting to know,” Abba said.
“Father Fred’s compound isn’t exactly your typical house,” Rafael said. “More like an armed compound. How do you intend to get over the fence?”
“Easy,” I said. “Climb one of those live oaks with draping limbs, and drop over to the other side.”
“There’s a guard at the gate. How do you know what you’ll find once you get inside the compound?” Rafael said.
“Though I only had a quick look at the place as we drove past, my guess is they’re more worried about someone breaking out than breaking in.”
“Even if you get inside, you surely don’t think you can find the records we need without someone spotting you.”
“Cat burglars steal things all the time from occupied houses. I’m up to the task,” I said. “I’ll figure everything out on the fly.”
Rafael’s cool expression indicated he was less than confident about my boast.
“Fine,” he said. “What about us?”
“We wait until after dark. I’ll watch from across the street until activity in the compound tells me it’s safe to go inside. If the documents are there, it should take me about twenty minutes to get in, find them, and then get out.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself,” Rafael said.
“Have a better idea?”
“Can’t think of one at the moment,” he said.
“I sense your skepticism.”
“It’s your ass,” Rafael said.
“And you?” I said, looking at Abba.
She smiled and winked. “Sure you don’t want to get a little drunk on some of this cheap swill before you try?”
“Better stick to my soda pop,” I said. “It’s loaded with sugar, and I’ll be buzzing for hours.
***
Katrina had felled many of the big trees in the neighborhood, though not all of them. During my two-block trek to Father Fred’s compound, I followed a path through their shadows, and the ground fog beginning to kick up around my ankles. The red eyes of a Halloween witch in the front yard of a house down the street flashed off and on. The decorations weren’t half as creepy as the old orphanage across the street from me.
No lights shined from the building’s many windows. The floodlights on poles in the courtyard were also dark. Something was amiss at the compound. Staking out a spot across the street in the shadows of a giant live oak, I waited, hoping to determine what it was.
After half an hour, my eyes were popping as I stared at the security vehicle parked in the driveway. I finally convinced myself the driver must have fallen asleep. After walking a block down the street, I crossed to the other side and followed the sidewalk back to the compound. My brain told me the man in the car wasn’t guarding anything. My better senses screamed for me to walk past, and then to keep on walking. I didn’t listen to my better senses.
I decided to saunter up to the driver’s window. If the guard was awake, I planned to tap on it, and ask him if I could bum a cigarette. If he were asleep, I would enter the compound through the front gate. If there were security cameras, then so be it.
When I reached the old black Ford beater with the word ‘Security’ painted in white on the door, I found the driver’s window open, the driver neither awake nor asleep. He was dead.
Someone had cut his throat, the front of his shirt red with blood. The blood had already begun to dry, the man’s body growing cold. A metal slug with a mysterious symbol scratched on it covered his right eye. I spent no time looking for a murder weapon, hurrying past the security vehicle and into the compound.
The place was eerily quiet, the compound dark. When I found the front door open and wafting in a gentle breeze, I wondered what else I’d find inside Father Fred’s orphanage.
I always carry a keychain flashlight. The beam did little to light the empty hallway in which I found myself. It sufficed until my eyes dilated and adjusted to the shadows. Finding a hallway door ajar, I opened it and peeked inside.
The large room was where Father Fred and his staff housed prisoners waiting for someone to buy them. Leg irons and handcuffs draped from the metal frames of the dozen or more bunk beds. There was no air conditioning or even fans, and the large room reeked of sweat and urine.
Though I’d left the ground fog outside, a pervasive chill cooled the back of my neck. The room was empty of human life, yet I felt the presence of unhappy spirits. I backed out of the room, into the deserted hallway.
Down the hall, I found the building’s control center. Several computers with dead screens populated a room that seemed more suited to a jailhouse than an orphanage. I also found my second corpse. Like the man in the car, this one also had a severed jugular and a slug over his right eye.
On the way out, I passed through a kitchen area and a small dining hall. A bowl of soup sat on one of the tables, the half-eaten contents still warm to the tip of my finger. Finding no books or records, I returned to the hallway and stood at the base of the stairway, the beam of my light briefly illuminating a strange scratching on the wooden banister. After reaching the top of the stairs, opening a door and peeking in, I dialed Rafael on my cell phone. He answered on the first ring.
“Wyatt, what’d you find?”
“You need to see for yourself,” I said. “Can you join me?”
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Is it safe?”
“There’s no one here except me,” I said. “At least no one still alive.”
Rafael and Abba parked the Aztek down the street and joined me. I was waiting for them beside the security vehicle, and they got a shock when they peered into its window. Rafael crossed himself, and Abba’s hand went to her mouth as they stared at the body behind the wheel.
“Is he dead?” Abba asked.
Her question made me grin. “If you can’t tell, I’d suggest you consider changing your college major.”
“It was just a gut reaction. Don’t be such a dick,” she said.
“Sorry. You set me up for that one.”
“Next time, cut me some slack.”
Rafael was paying no attention to our banter as he lifted the slug from the man’s eye, borrowing my flashlight for a closer look at the mysterious object.
“Any idea what it is?” I asked.
His reply was ominous. “I know exactly what it is. It’s a death token.”
“What the hell is a death token?”
“A witch thingy,” he said. “This scratching on the metal was done by hand during some black magic ceremony that quite possibly included the sacrifice of some small animal.”
“Who . . . ?” Abba said.
“A witch,” Rafael said.
It was his turn to smile when she said, “A real witch?”
“Yes, my dear, a very real and deadly witch. One that practices the black arts and is very good at it.”
Rafael put the token in his pocket. He stopped at the front door, again borrowing my flashlight. He pointed the beam at a scratching I hadn’t seen, though it was similar to the one on the banister.
“A witches mark,” he said.
He shook his head when Abba asked, “Put there by the witch?”
“By someone afraid of a witch,” he said. “Apparently, there was good cause to be frightened.”
I led them through the dormitory, control center, and dining area, and then up the stairs to the second floor. Abba gasped when she saw body number three situated in a sitting position at a table. A black candle flickered, smoking and about to go dead.
“Is that . . . ?”
“Father Fred,” I said.
She held up her hand. “Don’t say a word. The dagger in his heart tells me all I need to know.”
Tony had dropped his dog off at the house, his wife Lil miffed when he left again and headed for Bertram’s bar. He was looking for someone in particular. Even if he didn’t find him there, he needed a drink in the worst way, and Picou’s was always a good place to quench one’s thirst. Though it was just getting dark, ground fog was already forming outside on the street, Eddie Toledo sitting at the bar, nursing a tall scotch.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Pull up a stool, Lieutenant. I was looking for someone to buy me a drink.”
“You’re in luck. I’m working a case and on the payroll tonight. Your future father-in-law is paying for the drinks and information,” Tony said.
“You working for . . . ?”
“Frankie Castellano,” Tony said.
“How do you know about Josie and me?”
“Frankie says you’re responsible for keeping her from joining him at his horse farm north of here.”
“Not any longer,” Eddie said. “He asked for her to bring me along. She left already. I’ll join her later.”
“How did you get her to leave without you?”
“I told her I have a dentist appointment tomorrow morning.”
“Do you?”
“A little white lie. My appointment was last week.”
“And your reason for lying?”
With a deadpan expression, Eddie said, “I’m a lawyer; that’s what we’re paid to do.”
“I heard that,” Bertram said, bringing Tony his own tall glass of scotch. “You know how to tell when a lawyer’s lying, don’t you?”
“When his lips start to move,” Tony and Eddie said in unison.
“That’s the oldest joke in the book, Bertram,” Eddie said. “Get some new material, or I’ll have to find a higher class place to drink.”
“I doubt I got anything to worry about,” Bertram said. “What are you doing out after dark, Lieutenant?”
“Working on a case, and you two need to stop calling me Lieutenant. I’ve been off the force a while now and I ain’t ever going back.”
“You’ll always be Lieutenant Tony to me,” Bertram said.
“Me too,” Eddie said. “Get used to it.”
Bertram left them to take a pitcher of beer to a couple of tourists that had tired of Bourbon Street.
“If your dentist’s appointment was last week, why didn’t you just go to the horse farm with Josie. You working tomorrow?”
“On vacation for another week now. I had a date with a cutie I met a while back. She called and canceled.”
“Smart girl,” Tony said. “Now what?”
“Join Josie tomorrow.”
“Can you postpone for a while?”
“Maybe. For what reason?”
“Did you hear about the murder last night?”
“Wyatt texted me a link.”
“Oh yeah? Why did he do that?” Tony asked.
“Because he thought there might be a chance we’d be implicated.”
Tony drank a healthy swig of his scotch, hoisting his glass as he glanced around the bar for Bertram.
“Hold your horses,” Bertram said. “I’m coming.”
Despite the rolling fog outside on the street, business inside had begun picking up. After delivering fresh drinks for Tony and Eddie, Bertram hurried away to pour a glass of wine for an attractive brunette in a short, red dress and her slightly tipsy boyfriend.
“What makes Wyatt think that you and him could be implicated in the murder?” Tony asked.
“The trophy in the news article. Wyatt and I were at the track yesterday, the trophy in our possession just a few hours before the murder occurred.”
“That would make you two prime suspects.”
“Or the killer’s next victims,” Eddie said. “A big, ugly Mexican goon took the trophy from us before we left the track.”
“Can you I.D. him?”
“Lonzo Galvez; thirty-nine years old; born and raised right here in Louisiana; in and out of trouble most of his life though he’s never been convicted of a major crime.”
“How’s he connected to Chuy Delgado?”
“He’s not, at least directly. He’s the bodyguard of Angus Anderson.”
“You’re shittin’ me,” Tony said.
“Nope. Anderson and Contrado were drinking in one of the track bars. Galvez took the trophy from Wyatt and me after talking with them.”
“Hell, Eddie, your life might not be worth a plugged nickel right about now. What the hell are you still doing in town?”
“Wyatt and I won a sizeable amount of money at the track yesterday. Bertram deposited the check into Wyatt’s account, and it doesn’t clear until tomorrow.”
“Can’t you just wait to get your share? It ain’t going no place.”
Eddie grinned. “I’ve never had thirty-three grand in my checking account before. I wanted to see how it felt before I get whacked.”
Tony whistled. “You won sixty-six thousand dollars?”
“Yes sir, we did.”
“Hot tip?”
“Wyatt never forgets a face; even a horse’s face. He realized Frankie had entered a sleeper in the race disguised as a nag. We bet the farm and the horse won going away.”
“Lightning Bolt?” Tony said.
“That’s his real name. Frankie was calling him Warmonger and had apparently falsified his pedigree.”
“You must have bet big to win that much. If I was you, I wouldn’t tell Frankie it was you and Wyatt that lowered the odds.”
“We already figured that part out,” Eddie said.
“What else do you know about the horse?”
“Frankie imported the jockey from Oklahoma so no one would know who he was.”
“He paid the price for it,” Tony said. “He was murdered last night, along with Frankie’s trainer.”
“How do you know so much about this case?” Eddie asked.
“I was at the murder scene.”
“What the hell for?”
“I’m not sure I should tell you,” Tony said. “You being a Fed and all.”
“Well, then you better tell me now. You know I’ll ferret it out if you don’t.”
“Tommy called me. Seems the normal graft and corruption downtown has taken on new proportions because of the influx of Mexican mob drug money.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” Eddie said.
“Then hear this and let it sink in a minute. Tommy’s taking dirty money. Not because he wants to but because he’d out himself if he didn’t.”
“I didn’t realize it had gotten that bad.”
“It’s bad. Can you promise Tommy some sort of immunity if he cooperates with the Feds?”
“You already know the answer to that. Did Tommy put you up to asking me for him?”
“Tommy don’t have a clue how close he is to going to federal prison, and I ain’t talking about one of the white collar varieties.”
“I’d have to know he’s willing to implicate anyone guilty, even if they were his close friends.”
“You may have a problem there,” Tony said.
“Then he’ll go to jail just like everyone else.”
“Don’t be such a hard ass,” Tony said. “If you want his help, you need to cut him a deal he can live with. If not, I guarantee you’ll be no closer to accomplishing your goal this time next year.”
“People have a tendency to change their minds when faced with the possibility of ten years hard time.”
“Not Tommy. He’ll never rat out his friends, no matter what.”
“Sure about that?”
“As sure as a sharp knife buried in a warm heart,” Tony said. “Does he get a guarantee?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Eddie said.
“You speaking as a friend, or a lying lawyer?” Tony said.
“Friend,” Eddie said. “Will you talk to him for me?”
“Nope, I’m gonna be recording the conversation when you tell him what he needs to do.”
“Touche,” Eddie said, clinking Tony’s glass. “Nothing like a binding contract. I like your thinking.”
“Ain’t no such thing as a binding contract,” Tony said.
“Don’t trust me, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t trust lawyers. Even my close friends that are lawyers. That includes you and Wyatt. You okay with that?”
Eddie grinned and raised his glass for more drinks. “Hell, Tony, if I were you, I wouldn’t trust me either. Where do you suggest we meet Tommy?”
“My house. Lil has a pot of gumbo simmering on the stove, and is expecting us.”
“Won’t she be angry when you drag home two hard legs?”
“She was a cop’s wife for twenty-five years. Nothing much shocks her anymore. And, I have a little surprise for her.”
What’s that?”
“Tell you on the way over. Tommy’s already there.”
There was a chill in the air, Tony, and Eddie both pulling their light jackets up around their necks when they stepped outside.
“Fog lights,” Eddie said. “Smart man. When did you have them installed?”
“Over the summer. I don’t know now how I ever drove in this pea soup without them.”
“I know,” Eddie said. “I tried to get the D.A.’s office to put them on our cars, but I was told it was an unnecessary expense.”
“Gotta save the dough for those twenty-five hundred dollar toilet seats the government buys,” Tony said.
“I hear that,” Eddie said, miffed by Tony’s verbal jab. “Seriously though, I’m going to have a hard time protecting Tommy.”
“I know how you can do it with no problem.”
“How?”
“Remember when the U.S. Marshal deputized me and Marlon?”
“Yeah.”
“Deputize Tommy as part of the Federal D.A.’s office as an undercover agent. Hell, he could even kill somebody if he had to and he’d be exempt from prosecution. You got the power to do that?”
“Yeah,” Eddie said.
“Then what do you think?”
“I’ll have to clear it with my boss.”
“How long will that take?” Tony asked.
Eddie was punching a number on his cell phone and didn’t answer. After a lengthy conversation, he smiled and showed Tony a thumbs up.
“He bought it,” Eddie said. “He liked the idea so much, I may even get a raise.”
“Wonderful.”
“I’m not holding my breath. Raises have been about as scarce as those foglights lately. Thank God for my new-found wealth.”
“If you live to see it before the Mexican cartel whacks you,” Tony said.
“Don’t remind me. Tell me what you’re doing for Frankie Castellano.”
“Whoever whacked his two men last night also stole his horse, Lightning Bolt. Frankie hired me to recover him.”
“Frankie doesn’t even like quarter horses.”
“His grandson does. He gave the horse to JoJo after the race, and the kid is in love with the animal. Grandpa has given him his solemn vow that he’ll find Lightning Bolt.”
“Then I hope his middle name is Lazarus. The article Wyatt sent me said they found the horse’s remains in the trailer they pulled from the lagoon.”
“Maybe the horse in the trailer wasn’t Lightning Bolt.”
Eddie punched up the article he still had on his phone and glanced at it.
“Could be right. The article says the horse wasn’t identified and suggests the police will probably have to use DNA to derive the answer.”
“That’s a new one on me,” Tony said. “I didn’t know you could DNA a horse.”
“Who even gives a shit?” Eddie asked.
Tony could only shake his head. “Frankie, for one.”
Eddie fidgeted with a swizzle stick someone had left on the bar. “Where do you start looking?”
“The track, tomorrow morning; the last place anyone saw the horse,” Tony said.
“Mind if I tag along?” Eddie asked.
“If you like. Why the hell do you care?”
“Brownie points,” Eddie said. “Frankie doesn’t like me very much. I need all the goodwill I can accumulate.”
“Sounds to me like you got yourself in a pickle,” Tony said.
“What do you mean?”
“I doubt your boss would like it if he knew his Assistant Federal D.A. was dating the daughter of the biggest Don in New Orleans.”
“Ted doesn’t keep up with the women I date. When he finds out, I’ll be three women down the road from Josie.”
“You got a mighty high opinion of yourself,” Tony said.
“I can’t help it if gorgeous women find me attractive. I’m enjoying it as long as I can.”
“Yeah, well one of them gorgeous women is gonna shoot you in your sleep some night, or worse, take a sharp razor to a part of your body you don’t want to lose.”
“Never gonna happen,” Eddie said with a grin. “I don’t do much sleeping when I’m in bed with a woman.”
Tommy had already arrived when they reached Tony’s house. He was sitting at the kitchen table talking to Lil as he worked on his second bowl of gumbo. Eddie gave Lil a hug and joined them. Patch came sauntering in from another room.
Eddie and Tommy averted their eyes as Tony gave his wife an intimate kiss.
“What’s all of this about?” she asked.
“I got private business to discuss with Eddie and Tommy. When we’re done, I have a surprise for you.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Not this time,” he said. “Frankie and Adele asked us to spend a week, or so with them at their horse farm north of here.”
“Does this have anything to do with last night’s murder?” she asked.
“Lil, we been married too long. It does, but don’t matter none. The farm is like a resort. You’ll have a great time, and you can even take that cat of yours.”
“I’ll have a great time? What about you?”
“I’m working for Frankie and will be in and out,” he said.
“Something dangerous?”
“Couldn’t be safer,” he said.
He ignored Eddie’s amused grin he noticed from the corner of his eye.
“When are we leaving?” she asked.
“Soon as we finish our discussion,” he said.
She served Eddie and Tony gumbo and ladled another helping into Tommy’s bowl. She also gave them cold beers from the refrigerator.
“I’ll start packing and leave you alone to discuss your important business,” she said, kissing Tony’s forehead before exiting the kitchen.
When the door shut behind her, Tony laced his gumbo with an extra helping of hot sauce, making a face after drinking some of his Dixie.
“Used to be my favorite beer when they made it here in Nawlins,” he said. “Now that it’s brewed in Ohio, or wherever it’s made, it just ain’t the same.”
Hurricane Katrina had decimated the Dixie Brewery in New Orleans, and the beer was now contract-brewed by out-of-state breweries. Tony had never gotten over the loss.
“Hell, Tony,” Eddie said. “It always tasted like horse piss, even before Katrina.”
“Yeah, but you gotta drink it if you’re in New Orleans,” Tommy said. “What’s up, Tony?”
“Eddie has a proposition for you,” Tony said.
“What kinda proposition?”
“Tell him, Eddie.”
“Tony told me about your problem with the Mexican cartel. He asked me to help, and strongly suggested I might recruit you to work for me.”
Tommy dabbed hot sauce off his lips and swigged his Dixie.
“I already work for somebody. The N.O.P.D. You know that, Eddie.”
“You’ll still work for the force. At the same time, you’ll be undercover for the Federal D.A.’s office.”
“My loyalty is with the N.O.P.D.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Eddie said. “Tony told me you’re already dirty. My department is investigating alleged corruption in the city. He says you were concerned enough to talk to him about it last night.”
Tony glanced away when Tommy gave him a dirty look.
“What else did he tell you?” Tommy asked.
“Pretty much what I already knew; that you’re a good cop caught in a bad situation you’d like to rectify.”
“I want to help. Don’t matter none cause I can’t take my friends down doing it.”
“Most of your friends are probably a lot like you. They want to do the right thing. We’re not after them. At best, they’ll probably get a slap on the wrist. We want to catch the big fish, from the mayor’s office on down, and prosecute them.”
“Help me on this, Tony,” Tommy said.
“Do it,” Tony said. “It’s the only way this town’s ever gonna get back to normal.”
“All right, then. I’m in. What now?” Tommy said.
Eddie gave him a nod. “Raise your right hand and repeat after me.”
When Eddie finished swearing in Tommy, Tony grabbed fresh cans of Dixie from the refrigerator and threw them each one. They were drinking in silence when Lil returned to the kitchen.
“With those smiles on your faces, I can only imagine what you’re plotting,” she said.
“We’ll never tell,” Eddie said.
Tommy glanced at his watch after chugging the last of his beer from the iconic green and white can.
“Love your gumbo. Gotta go now,” he said, giving her a hug.
“Then don’t wait so long next time before coming to get some,” she said as the back door closed behind him. She glanced at Tony. “I packed for both of us. What now?”
“Road trip,” he said.
“You sure I can take the cat?” she asked.
“I’m sure, Babe. Frankie said to bring the pets. Why don’t you come with us, Eddie? We can follow you to your apartment. You can pack some clothes and drop off your car. I’ll bring you back to town tomorrow morning.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said. “Better call Josie first and make sure she still wants me to join her.”
***
With Lil’s cat Silky sleeping in his lap, Eddie rode in the backseat of Tony’s Mustang on the way to Frankie Castellano’s horse farm. Heavy fog began rolling across the Causeway in front of them as they crossed Lake Pontchartrain. It disappeared once they were well north of the giant, inland sea. Armed men in a black Navigator let them in the front gate when they reached the farm.
“Why all the security, Tony?” Lil asked.
“The murders last night, Frankie’s men on high alert till all this blows over.”
“Do the murders have anything to do with why Frankie hired you?”
“Whoever killed Frankie’s men also stole his prize horse. Frankie hired me to recover it. Eddie here is helping me.”
“You sure that’s all he hired you to do?”
“Believe me, I’m too old to get shot at for anybody. Not even Frankie Castellano.”
Frankie and Adele’s house was as large as many small hotels, a staff of support personnel making sure their stay at the farm was no less than first class. Bellmen opened Tony’s car door when they pulled up in front of the expansive veranda surrounding the house. Adele, Josie, Jojo, and Frankie, lounging in rustic but comfortable furniture, awaited their arrival.
“Tomasito, drive Tony’s car to his bungalow and get them situated,” Frankie said.
Adele and Lil were both all smiles. “How have you been, girlfriend?” Adele said, hugging Lil.
“Great. Tony told me you and Frankie just got back from Italy.”
“Oh, Lil, I love that place,” Adele said.
“Know what you mean,” Lil said. “Tony and I celebrated our second honeymoon there awhile back.”
“Have you ever met my step-daughter, Josie?”
Lil hugged her as if they’d known each other forever. “You’re just as beautiful as Tony said. Is this your son?”
“I’m Jojo,” the boy said.
“How old are you, Jojo?”
“Seven,” he said. “Papaw just bought me a horse. It’s the biggest, strongest, and best horse in the whole wide world.”
Frankie’s smile disappeared as he glanced at Tony. Eddie was still carrying Lil’s cat when Adele introduced him to Jojo.
“This is Eddie, Jojo. He’s your mother’s friend, and he’s going to stay with us a few days.”
Eddie reached to shake the boy’s hand. Jojo was paying no attention, stroking the cat instead.
“Oh, what a pretty cat,” he said. “What’s his name?”
“He’s a she, and her name is Silky. Want to hold her?”
“Sure,” Jojo said, taking the animal.
Lil’s white cat rubbed its head against Jojo’s neck, began purring, and closed his eyes as the boy stroked him.
“Think he likes you,” Eddie said.
Jojo handed him back to Eddie. “Better take him. I don’t want him disappearing like Lightning Bolt did.”
Frankie had an icy tumbler of scotch in his hand and a wounded expression on his face. When Jojo hugged him, burying his face against his leg, his woeful look grew even worse. Tony knelt beside him.
“You probably don’t remember me, Jojo. I’m Tony, and we met a while back. Your papaw hired me to find Lightning Bolt, and I promise you I’m going to do just that.”
When Jojo looked at him, the hint of a smile appeared on the little boy’s cherubic face. “You promise?” he said.
“I promise,” Tony said, bumping fists with him.
“Now, big boy, it’s past your bedtime,” Josie said.
Grabbing his hand, she started to lead him into the house. He tugged at her, causing her to stop in her tracks.
“Can Silky sleep with me tonight?”
“Of course she can,” Lil said.
Eddie handed Silky to the little boy. He was smiling as he followed his mother into the house. Adele grabbed Lil’s hand.
“Let’s walk down to the bungalow where you and Tony will be staying. You’re just not going to believe it.”
Tomasito had returned from taking care of Tony’s car and appeared on the veranda with a tray of mixed drinks. With icy beverages in hand, they plopped down in the veranda furniture to enjoy the cool night.
“Thought you didn’t like Mexicans,” Eddie said.
“Only ones I hate are in the Mexican cartel, and they aren’t exactly stellar citizens.”
“I hear that,” Eddie said.
Frankie turned his attention to Tony. “You think you’ll really find Lightning Bolt?” he asked.
“Eddie’s on vacation and helping me. If the horse is alive, we’ll find him. I promised Jojo, and I promise you.”
“The newspapers say the horse is dead.”
“Maybe so,” Tony said. “All I know is the horse that died in City Park is yet to be identified.”
Lil and Adele came chattering out of the darkness. “You are absolutely not going to believe where we’re staying,” she said.
“Is it nice?” Tony asked.
“Nice isn’t the half of it. There’s even a redwood hot tub on the deck with a great view of the barns and pastures. We may even have to go skinny dipping tonight.”
She and Adele hurried into the house before Tony had a chance to reply. There were no lights on the veranda. Though he couldn’t see Eddie’s ear-to-ear smile, he sensed both he and Frankie were amused by Lil’s comment.
“Sounds like you’re in for a hot time in the old town tonight, good buddy. In more ways than one.”
Tony had to laugh. “Lil’s a morning person, not to mention she and Adele are drinking wine. I’ll probably have to carry her to the room and put her in bed.”
Tony, Frankie, and Eddie were working on fresh drinks when Josie returned from Jojo’s room. She took Eddie’s hand and kissed him on the forehead.
“Would you like to take a moonlight walk with me?”
She didn’t have to ask twice. “Lead the way, pretty woman,” he said.
Frankie stopped them before they stepped off the veranda.
“Your room will be waiting when you get back from your walk,” he said. “It’s on the other side of the house from Josie’s room; hint, hint.”
“Really, Dad,” Josie said. “Don’t you think I’m old enough to make my own decisions?”
“You do whatever you want, baby,” he said. “Eddie, you watch yourself with my daughter.”
Eddie didn’t reply as he followed Josie off the veranda and into the darkness. A manicured pathway led them through a labyrinth of ancient live oaks, late fall flowers still blooming, and spreading shrubbery. Discreet lighting illuminated their path to a hill overlooking acres of pasture. Josie sat in the grass, Eddie joining her.
“It’s magical out here at night with only solitude and stars,” she said.
“It would be magical for me in a hot factory, long as I was sitting beside you.”
“You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”
“I was truthful.”
“My son likes you.”
“And how do you know that?”
“He told me when I was putting him to bed. He never knew his father.”
“He doesn’t have visitation?” Eddie asked.
“He died in Afghanistan.”
Eddie squeezed her hand. “I’m so sorry. I just assumed you were divorced.”
“I’m Catholic,” she said. “I would never divorce my husband.”
“Not for any reason?”
“Though I might leave him, my marriage will never end in divorce. I’d just finish out my life living all alone.”
“I’m also Catholic,” Eddie said. “Doesn’t matter because I believe in birth control and lots of other things the Vatican says is verboten.”
“Rules are rules,” she said.
“And meant to be broken.”
“You’re an attorney. How can you be so indifferent when it comes to rules? Do you ever break the law?”
“Laws aren’t hard and fast commandments from above. They are guidelines set by human lawmakers that are forever changing. That’s why the law is interpreted and not set in stone.”
“I’m not sure I agree with your opinion,” she said.
“And that’s the way it should be. In this world, few things are black or white. Almost everything is a shade of gray, somewhere in between.”
A night bird sang in the distance as she turned and kissed his cheek.
“You are so intelligent. Maybe too intelligent for me,” she said.
“You’re the first person that ever told me that,” he said.
His comment brought a grin to her face. “Now I know you’re a liar. I’ll bet people tell you every day how smart you are.”
“Maybe,” he said.
“You must be wondering how I justify my dad’s profession if I’m so holier than thou.”
“How much do you know about what he does?” Eddie asked.
“He never talks about it, and I don’t directly know anything about his business. I know that all my friends and the kids I knew growing up treated me differently than everyone else.”
“Better or worse?”
“Much better. It was as if they were afraid to anger me. I can only imagine what their parents told them about Dad.”
“Your dad has his fingers in lots of pies,” Eddie said. “I know because I work for the justice system. He covers his tracks very well. I think you know he isn’t a perfect citizen.”
“He was just a normal dad to me growing up. When my mom died a few years back, he became a broken man. I was so happy when he met and married Adele.”
“No jealousy there?”
Josie shook her head. “None whatsoever.”
“You’re not worried that Adele is a gold digger?”
“Besides my mother, she’s one of the most caring and understanding women I’ve ever met. I can only hope to marry someone someday that will make me as happy as those two are.”
“They do seem perfect for one another,” Eddie said.
“They can’t keep their hands off each other. It’s embarrassing sometimes.”
“I noticed,” Eddie said.
“I hope you and Tony can find Lightning Bolt for Jojo. I think a horse would be good for him.”
“Probably any pet. He liked Lil’s cat.”
“Yes he did,” Josie said. “The cat seemed to take to him. I find it a bit strange because he’s never shown any interest in owning a dog, much less a cat.”
“Maybe your grandfather had something to do with it.”
At the mention of her grandfather, she turned and stared into Eddie’s eyes.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Silky was your grandfather Paco’s cat.”
“What makes you think that? And even if she was, how could you possibly know?”
“Because Tony and I were with your grandfather the night he died. He handed Tony the cat before he passed and asked him to take care of it for him.”
Josie wasn’t smiling as she continued staring at Eddie.
“Are you making this up?”
“No, I’m not. Your dad hired Tony to find his lost cornet, and I was helping him. The search took us to a room on the second floor of one of Frankie’s nightclubs in Fat City.”
“Dad told me Gramps was alone when he died.”
“We weren’t supposed to be there, so we got the hell out. Your gramps wasn’t alone when he died; we were with him, Tony holding his hand.”
“Does Dad know this?” she asked.
“No, and please don’t tell him.”
“Why not?”
“Let’s just say the relationship between Frankie and your gramps was less than ideal.”
“Dad said Gramps had disappeared and he didn’t know where he was.”
“I’ve probably already said too much,” Eddie said. “I’m sorry.”
“This is crazy,” Josie said. “And surely a coincidence. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Doesn’t matter because I doubt Lil would give you the cat. From what Tony says, they are attached at the hip.”
“I would never ask anyone to give up their favorite pet,” she said. “Do you believe in signs?”
“I didn’t a few years ago.”
“You do now?”
Eddie nodded. “You can’t live in the Big Easy for very long without realizing we’re surrounded by spirits.”
“Then maybe the cat is a sign from Gramps that he’s watching over Jojo and me.”
“I bet you’re right about that,” Eddie said. “Your dad isn’t taking our relationship very well. Am I too forward to ask if you would pay me a visit later on tonight?”
“You’re very blunt.”
“Just asking,” he said.
“As I told you, I’m Catholic. I don’t believe in sex outside of marriage.”
“Well, that’s a bummer,” Eddie said. “How do you really know if you like someone?”
“I already know, and I think you do too.”
The sight of the ornate dagger transfixed Rafael’s attention. When he reached for it, intent on pulling it out of Father Fred’s heart, I grabbed his wrist and stopped him.
“This is a murder scene. Cops will soon be swarming this place, looking for evidence. They may be on their way here already. You don’t want your prints all over the murder weapon.”
Pulling his hand away, he took a step backward.
“There are reasons we should take it with us,” he said.
“Maybe so. Whatever those reasons are, they aren’t good enough for us to face a charge of first degree murder. If the police show up, we don’t have a good excuse for being here.”
“What, then?” Rafael asked.
“Case this room for information, and do it fast. Otherwise, someone will soon be bailing us out of jail.”
Abba was trying to reboot the laptop on the desk in front of Father Fred’s body. Instead of a welcome message, a blue screen was the machine’s only sign of life.
“Someone sabotaged the computer; probably erased the hard drive,” she said. “I’m going downstairs to check the one in the control room.”
Rafael and I began opening and shutting drawers and cabinets with a purpose, searching for prisoner records but finding none. We split up and branched out to the other rooms. One by one, all empty handed, we returned to Father Fred’s death scene.
“No use,” Abba said. “Whoever killed Father Fred wrecked the computers and took the books with them.”
“They also released the prisoners,” I said.
“How did they get away and where did they go?” Abba asked. “We saw no one, in a group or otherwise on our way over here.”
She smiled and tugged her earlobe when Rafael said, “Perhaps they were spirited away by magic.”
Rafael wasn’t smiling, and Abba frowned as she glanced around the room, searching for a place to begin.
“There’s something in Father Fred’s hand,” she said.
We stopped what we were doing to see the small notepad clutched in the priest’s right hand. His body was in the early stages of rigor mortis, the condition already beginning to stiffen his fingers. I had to force them open to remove the notepad from his grasp, and tried not to think about the eerie sensation it sent surging up my spine.
As I leafed through the notepad, we began to hear sirens wailing in the distance. Rafael glanced out the window before returning his attention to the notepad.
“Important?” he asked.
“Mostly just scribble-scratch Father Fred must have used to remind himself of appointments and things he needed to do,” I said.
Rafael reached for the pad. “Let me see it.”
He stopped thumbing when he reached the last page.
“Find something important?” Abba asked. “What is it?”
“The last entry says, ‘respond to the witch’s demand by four p.m. today.’ The date and time are double underlined.”
When the notepad suddenly combusted in his hand, Rafael dropped it to the floor. Smoke began billowing from the sleeves and neck of Father Fred’s black jacket. Within seconds, the jacket burst into flame.
“What the hell!” Abba said.
Rafael pulled her away from the suddenly flaming body as the desk and chair began smoking and then burning.
“Spontaneous combustion,” he said.
“What’s causing it?” she asked.
“Dark magic. We must exit this building. This whole place is going to burn to the ground.”
Rafael clutched Abba’s wrist, pulling her toward the door as the curtains in the room caught fire in an explosion of smoke and flame. I followed them, halfway to the ground floor before turning around and rushing back up the stairs.
“Wyatt, no! What the hell are you doing?”
“Forgot something,” I said as I disappeared into the billowing smoke.
Toxic fumes belched from the room we’d just exited, walls and floors crackling and snapping as flames began to consume the dry wood. Covering my nose and mouth with my handkerchief, I dodged my way through the flames and smoke to Father Fred’s body.
Skin had begun to blister and char, Father Fred’s dead eyes open and glaring at me as I grabbed the hilt of the dagger and yanked, escaping gases sounding like the wail of an angry banshee.
Billowing smoke had set me to coughing, my eyes red and watering. As I pulled the dagger from Father Fred’s body, a surge of pure energy rushed up my fingertips.
Suddenly unable to see because of the acrid smoke and billowing flame, some unknown force began pulling me in the wrong direction. At least I thought it was the wrong direction. When I fought it, I tripped over a chair, skinning my knee. Thinking I was going to die, I let the force pull me through the smoke. Rafael grabbed my arms, yanking me from the building now fully aflame.
“You okay?” he asked as I handed him the dagger.
I was coughing too badly to answer. He hurried me to the front gate where Abba was waiting with the Aztek. Reaching over the seat, he tossed me the bottle of Chianti.
“Drink some,” he said. “It’ll stop your coughing. Otherwise, you’re going to choke to death.”
Without hesitation, I took his advice, the cheap red wine burning as it went down my throat, and halting my coughing jag. A few blocks from the compound, we heard the explosion and turned to see the smoke and flames licking skyward behind us. Abba kept driving until we were out of the neighborhood and well away from the fire.
“You don’t sound good. Are you going to make it?” she asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
“I’ll make it,” I said. “Just skinned knees, a few burns and blisters, and my eyes are burning like holy hell.”
Finding a convenience store, she wheeled into the gravel and shell parking lot. Rafael hurried into the store, returning with peroxide, Band-Aids, rags and a jug of water to flush my eyes. I was soon feeling better, though I took an extra swig of the Chianti before returning it to Rafael.
“Were you trying to kill yourself back there?” Abba asked.
“I decided we needed the dagger,” I said.
“There was so much flame belching from the building, I thought you were surely dead,” he said. “How in the world did you get out of that inferno?”
Rafael’s question was one for which I had no answer.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “What were you going to tell us about the dagger?”
Rafael studied the ornate weapon engraved with undecipherable symbols as he turned it in his hands.
“It’s a one-of-a-kind weapon. Probably used in specific ceremonies.”
“So?”
“I’ve seen knives like this at a shop in the Quarter. Maybe the people there will tell us who made it and where we can find him.”
“I don’t get it,” Abba said.
“Someone paid lots of money for the dagger maker’s expertise. I’m sure he knows exactly for whom he made it for,” Rafael said.
“I still don’t get it,” she said.
“It’s the killer’s knife,” I said.
“You intend to confront the killer? If so, what’s to stop that person from killing us as well?” she asked.
“No ordinary person dispatched Father Fred and his guards, and then released and spirited away the prisoners into thin air. The killer is a witch,” Rafael said. “Not an old hag with a big hat riding a broom, but a real live, honest-to-goodness witch that practices dark magic, and does absolutely nothing without cause or provocation.”
“Even if she had reason to kill Father Fred, it doesn’t mean she knows anything about where we can find Desire,” Abba said.
“Maybe not. At this point we have nothing else to go on,” I said. “We have to play this out and see where it leads us, or else pack up and go to the house. Where is this place in the Quarter you’re talking about?”
“On Bourbon Street.”
“Great,” I said. “It’s still early by Bourbon Street standards, and it’ll be rocking this time of night.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Rafael said. “Fog is starting to roll in off the river, and it may deter some of the crazies.”
Abba was already heading toward the Quarter. When a cop car went racing past us, its sirens blasting, she tapped the brakes a little too hard.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Worried,” she said. “When I saw the flashing lights in the mirror, my first thought was they were going to pull us over, rip us out of the car and take us to jail.”
“Stop worrying. The fire destroyed any evidence we may have left. No matter how good the investigators are, they’ll be years trying to figure out what happened.”
“Sure about that?” she asked.
“I used to be a criminal lawyer,” I said. “The police regularly botched cases they had ironclad evidence on. Unless I miss my guess, they’ll likely throw up their hands on this one and then move on to a more pressing case.”
“Don’t let Tony ever hear you say that,” Rafael said.
“If it were Tony leading the investigation, then we might have cause for worry,” I said. “Unless he’s gone back to work for the N.O.P.D. He hasn’t, and we have little to worry about.”
“Wish I was as sure as you are,” Abba said. “I don’t want to spend my next birthday in a prison cell.”
“You won’t,” I said. “Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“You get drunk in a bar and start bragging about being in the orphanage just before it burned to the ground.”
“People do that?”
“Criminals are their own worst enemies.”
“Is that what we are?” she asked.
“No, baby. We weren’t the ones that killed those people and then burned the place to the ground,” Rafael said. “We are simply innocent onlookers to an awful act.”
“Wyatt, is that right?”
“Like Raf said, we’re as pure as the driven snow. Just lock up what happened at the compound in some recess in your soul and don’t ever tell anyone.”
“Jeez!” she said. “Any wine left?”
“Half a bottle, my dear. You’re in luck, and so am I.”
Rafael unscrewed the cap and handed it to her. Putting it on her shoulder, she drank until red drops dribbled down her long neck.
“What the hell!” she said. “Now I know how it feels to be a hardened criminal.”
“No you don’t,” I said with a laugh.
Fog was rolling in from the river, a tanker’s lights casting eerie moving shadows beyond the levee as we neared the French Quarter. We found a parking spot on a dark side street several blocks from Bourbon. The wine had apparently placated Abba’s feelings of guilt because she was smiling after parking and locking the car.
“Hope ol’ Nellie’s still here when we return,” she said.
“It’s not just the car we have to worry about,” I said. “Let’s hope we don’t get mugged before we make it back.”
“Have faith,” Rafael said. “God protects children and idiots.”
“Is that a quote directly from the Bible, Padre?” I asked.
Rafael had brought along the jug of wine and was well on his way to being fully inebriated. He took a healthy drink from the bottle before answering.
“If it’s not, it should be.”
“Amen, Padre. Please pass the wine,” Abba said.
Fully affected by the cheap red wine, Abba and Rafael were feeling no pain. The swallow I’d taken had given me a slight buzz, and I remembered vividly why I’d become addicted. Since the dose was therapeutic and not for pleasure, I managed to put it behind me and not beg Rafael for another drink.
Lights appeared in the distance, and we began hearing music and noise emanating from the most famous street on earth long before we reached it. The first people we saw were a group of drunk college students, all with plastic go-cups brimming with their favorite alcoholic beverages.
“Since our bottle’s not plastic, we better ditch it,” I said. “Don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
Rafael took one last drink from the bottle and then handed it to Abba. They left it behind a trashcan before we turned onto Bourbon Street.
“Bet it won’t be there in the morning,” Abba said.
Rafael agreed. “At least with any wine left in it.”
“How far is this knife shop from here?” I asked.
“It’s close. Maybe in this direction,” he said, pointing.
Mere days before Halloween, Bourbon Street was alive with people in costumes. Though several months yet until Mardi Gras, there was always an excuse for a party in the Big Easy, Halloween one of the biggest.
Barkers grabbed at our arms as we passed the open doors of the many strip joints. Music wafted from the saloons, mingling with crowd noise out on the sidewalk. Dozens of cheesy teeshirt shops beckoned us to venture inside and partake of their wares. Rafael stopped at a liquor stand on the sidewalk and bought two decorative plastic containers filled with their syrupy interpretation of a Pat O’Brian’s Hurricane.
“I’ll buy you one if you drink it,” he said.
He laughed when I said, “Quit tempting me. You’re supposed to be a man of God, and not the Devil.”
Flashing neon illuminated the fog with an eerie glow, providing all the atmosphere anyone could need. The spooks, vampires, ghosts, and goblins on both sides of the street only added to that illusion.
“There’s a witch,” Abba said. “Wonder if it’s the one we’re looking for.”
“That young lady is dressed in the popular manner in which we perceive a witch. The reality, I assure you, is quite different.”
“You keep saying that,” she said. “How so?”
“If we find the witch that burned Father Fred’s compound, you will understand fully. Meanwhile, that’s our destination up ahead.”
How Rafael had managed to differentiate the shop from all the others, we’d passed was a mystery to me. Since the teeshirts and cheesy souvenirs in the front of the establishment appeared no different, it gave me cause to wonder if he was too drunk to remember the shop’s location. I needn’t have worried.
A starkly dressed young woman behind a counter spanning the back wall greeted us with a frown and a nod. Her floor-length dress matched the long hair touching her bare shoulders: black with lime green highlights. A colorful tattoo, partially hidden behind a single gold earring, decorated her neck. From her nose, a matching circular ring dangled.
“Help you?” she said.
“I was here about a year ago,” Rafael said. “You had a knife display.”
“Still do. Far end of the cabinet,” she said.
“I’m looking for something in particular: a Gothic dagger that possibly possesses magical powers.”
The young woman’s expression remained impassive. “All knives have magical powers. Some more than others.”
Rafael waited for her to elucidate on her comment. When she didn’t, he brushed off her lack of enthusiasm and began studying the cutlery housed in the far end of the display.
I became suddenly aware of background music being piped into the room through hidden speakers. Had the volume been loud, the discordant, head-banging song performed by Sid Vicious and the Sex Pistols might have seemed out of place. Instead, along with the commingled odors of scented candles and Nag Champa incense, it helped complete the little shop’s illusion of dark mystery.
Rafael didn’t seem to notice, his rapt interest focused on the display cabinet. Abba and I joined him. He soon returned his attention to the young woman.
“We brought a dagger with us. Would you mind taking a look at it?”
Retrieving the knife from the inner pocket of his parka, he handed it over the counter to the woman. Her expression never changed as she hefted the dagger and then handed it back to him.
“Very nice,” she said.
“Can you tell us anything about it?” he asked.
“Such as?”
“Who is the person that crafted it?”
She stared at him for what seemed like thirty seconds before answering.
“I’m afraid I can’t give you that information.”
“Why not?”
“My shop is unique. Except for the teeshirts and souvenirs in front, you won’t find the knives and swords we have here anywhere in New Orleans. Or, for that matter, anyplace else in the world. If you want to purchase a knife or dagger from this shop, then I’ll be happy to help you. It’s our policy not to give out the names of the artists and craftsmen that supply us.”
“We don’t want to buy anything from that person, we simply want to ask him or her a question about the dagger I showed you.”
The young woman’s frown and arms clutched tightly around her chest shouted volumes that she wasn’t impressed. Glancing on the wall behind her, I saw something that jogged my memory. The color of the woman’s eyes and the shape of her ears also seemed vaguely familiar. Finally, it came to me.
“Are you Cyn Czarnecki?”
She stopped staring at Rafael and glanced around as if noticing me for the first time.
“Do I know you?”
“When I was much younger, I used to visit your father’s shop on Royal.”
“Oh?” she said.
“From what I remember, your dad was a collector of anything and everything that had to do with New Orleans.”
“You have a good memory. My father’s shop closed more than twenty years ago.”
“You still have the sign,” I said.
She glanced behind her at the old sign on the wall that said, Antique Guns & Swords, and smiled for the first time.
“Your memory is more than good, it’s remarkable,” she said. “I couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve years old. How did you recognize me?”
“Your eyes,” I said. “While our dads were pouring over the cutlery, I was looking at your eyes. I remember thinking how exotic they looked. They are still just as mesmerizing as I remember.”
Though Cyn Czarnecki tried not to blush, she failed miserably.
“That’s all very interesting,” she said when she regained her composure. “The fact remains I don’t give out the names of our artisans.”
“Is he your husband?” I asked.
“How did you know that?”
“Just a guess,” I said. “The dagger Rafael showed you, as you already know, is valuable. We’d like to return it to its rightful owner. We only wish to ask your husband who that person is and how we might find them.”
“Is the dagger linked to a crime?”
“Of course not. If we thought it was, we’d have gone to the police instead of here.”
She glanced around at the grandfather clock that was just beginning to chime.
“My night manager is running late. She’ll be here any minute to relieve me. Do you have a car?”
“We've parked a few blocks away,” I said.
“Wait for me at the corner of Claiborne and Esplanade. Follow me when I drive past.”
“How will we know it’s you?” I asked.
“I drive an old, black Bentley that’s very recognizable. When you pull in behind me, flash your lights twice, so I’ll know it’s you. I’ll take you to my husband’s blacksmith shop.”
The odor of incense and the reedy voice of Sid Vicious dissolved away as we exited to the Bourbon Street sidewalk. Ground fog, crowd noise and a strong smell of stale beer, strong pot, urine, and vomit replaced it. When we reached the dark side street where Rafael had abandoned the wine, we realized that he’d been wrong. The wine was still in the bottle as when he’d left it. They started back in on the wine on the way back to the Aztek. Twenty minutes passed as we waited for Cyn Czarnecki.
“Hope she didn’t blow us off,” Abba said.
“If she did, we’ll pay her another visit tomorrow,” I said.
“How in the world did you remember her after twenty years?” Rafael asked.
“When I saw the old sign behind the counter, it reminded me of her father’s shop.”
“You sounded more interested in her than the knives her father sold,” Abba said.
“I was a teenager,” I said. “Girls were my number one interest.”
“Remind me to call bullshit next time you compliment me,” she said.
“It’s still amazing to me that you’d remember her after twenty years,” Rafael said.
“I told you, Padre, I never forget a face.”
“How did you know she was married? She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Even so, how did you guess her husband was the person that made the dagger?”
“Body language. She seemed like someone interested in signs and symbols. She wears her wedding ring on her middle finger. When I complimented her, she fidgeted with the ring. She did it again when I asked her about the person that made the dagger.”
They stared at me as if I were an alien from another planet. There was little traffic on Claiborne and Abba glanced in the mirror.
“I’m still confused,” she said. “Why did she suddenly change her mind and agree to take us to her house?”
“She may dress like a Goth, but she’s born and raised a New Orleans girl. She recognized me. Her dad did business with my dad. They trusted each other, and now she trusts me. Simple as that,” I said.
“Simple, huh?” Rafael said. “When you die, they should save your brain for research purposes because I’ve never met a person that reasons the way you do.”
“Is that a compliment or a complaint?”
“Both,” he said.
Rafael raked his hand through his thinning hair, and Abba shook her head before they grew silent and worked on polishing off the last of the wine. Twenty more minutes elapsed before a black Bentley passed slowly on Claiborne. The vanity tag on the bumper of the old but elegant Bentley said, Dagger Lady. Abba pulled in behind her, flashed her lights twice, and then followed her up Claiborne.
Dagger Lady soon turned south into the Faubourg Marigny district and continued almost to the river. Palm trees in front of the house imparted a Caribbean flavor to the old Creole cottage. Though the night was foggy and mostly starless, I could see the house had a fresh coat of blue paint that contrasted Nawlin’s style with its yellow shutters. Abba parked the Aztek on the street, and we followed Cyn Czarnecki inside.
The house was nothing like I had suspected, more like something out of 1,001 Arabian Nights. Multicolored, diaphanous sheets draped from the ceiling, the smell of burning incense pleasant and almost enough to cover the faint odor of mold that couldn’t be eradicated from the wooden walls. Music from a local oldies station emanated from an antique console radio in the corner. Cyn smiled when she saw me looking,
“We keep it on when we’re away. Though we’ve never had a problem with break-ins, I believe the music might confuse thieves if they did get into the house.”
“Probably a good idea,” I said. “If you like eighties-vintage music, that is.”
She nodded. “I hate it. The station only has about twenty-five songs on its playlist, and it gets monotonous. When I’m home, I turn it off and play my own music, at least until I go to bed.”
“And your husband?” Abba said.
“He isn’t into music. Come to think of it, we have so little in common I don’t know what keeps us together, except that I love him and he loves me,” she said, turning off the radio and replacing the eighties music with reggae.
“No Sex Pistols?” I asked.
“Our customers at the shop like it,” she said. “Guess it puts them in the right mood to buy a knife. When I’m home, I prefer Bob Marley. Have a seat, and I’ll get us something to drink.”
A bong and other drug paraphernalia sat on the stained and burned coffee table in front of the threadbare couch where we sat. Cyn returned with a bottle of Southern Comfort, an ice bucket, and five tumblers.
“My dear, you were reading my mind,” Rafael said.
“I don’t need a glass. I don’t drink,” I said. “At least not anymore.”
She lit up a joint, took a hit and handed it to me. “Puff of pot?”
“I’m fine,” I said, passing the joint to Abba without partaking.
The smell of pot permeated the room as Cyn went to the kitchen, returning with a chilled bottle of mineral water.
“Skunkweed,” she said. “Very potent.”
“Is your husband here?” Rafael asked.
“His blacksmith shop is in the backyard. He’d keep the fire stoked twenty-four hours a day if I’d let him. I’ll get him.”
“Mind if I go with you?”
She nodded, took another puff from the joint, poured herself a shot of Southern Comfort over ice and then started for the back door. Grabbing the bottle of mineral water, I followed her.
Nothing but vacant lots occupied the land behind Cyn’s house.
“Katrina did the trick on many of the houses and buildings closest to the river,” she said. “Makes for a wonderful view and plenty of privacy.”
“I love it. It’s beautiful out here.”
“We love it, too. Whenever I can get Rory to stop working for awhile, we sit in the swing on our back porch and watch the lights across the river as the sun goes down.”
As if on cue, a tanker appeared through the gloom, its running lights casting an eerie glow on the fog spilling over its bow. It wasn’t the only peculiar thing I saw.
Red and orange flames flashed from the open windows and the large door of her husband’s smithy, the discernible clang of metal resonating along with the sound of jazz coming from a music venue not far away. A man with a hammer was pounding red-glowing metal against the shop’s anvil. He looked up and smiled when Cyn called his name.
“It’s late,” she said. “We have visitors, and it’s time to stop for the night and come inside.”
I’d returned to the couch, sitting by Abba and Rafael when Cyn’s husband appeared in the kitchen door. I had no idea how big he was until I saw him framed in the doorway.
Big was an understatement. He was massive. He had on a pair of steel-toed army boots with green argyle socks sticking out the top, a red kilt and nothing else. Though he didn’t have the defined musculature of a bodybuilder, he looked powerful enough to tear down a wall with his bare hands. Cyn was grinning when she tried and failed to put both of her hands around his upper arm.
“This is Rory. He’s my big boy, and I do mean big.”
Rory’s face was black with soot, and his teeth flashed when he smiled. He had a full growth of wiry beard and even wilder brown hair. When he kissed his wife, she made a face and pushed him away.
“You stink,” she said. “Take a shower and change out of that awful kilt.”
“Hello, everyone,” he said with a wave. “I won’t be long.”
Rory’s grin never disappeared as he kissed Cyn again before disappearing into another room.
“I think your husband could easily make it as a professional wrestler,” Rafael said as Cyn topped up his tumbler with ice and more Southern Comfort.
“My guess is the other wrestlers would be afraid to get in the ring with him,” she said. “I saw him lift the front end of a Chevy off the ground once. He’s a pussycat, though I have little doubt he could hurt someone if he tried.”
I raised my hand. “Not I. Rory wouldn’t have to try very hard. Is he Scottish?”
“What gave you your first clue?” she asked, barely able to keep a straight face.
“The kilt, though it was his brogue that gave him away.”
“He was born in Glasgow. His parents moved here when he was a child. He can’t seem to lose the brogue even though you’d think he was a Cajun the way he likes crawfish and gumbo. His last name . . . Our last name is Boyd.”
Rory soon joined us. “I’m Rory. Welcome to Boyd Castle,” he said, his voice deep and his brogue thick.
It made me wonder if, like Bertram, he heightened his accent around people he’d just met. Cyn waited until he’d shaken our hands, then invited us to have dinner with them. I was starved and apparently so were Abba and Rafael, all of us happy to oblige her.
We were soon sitting around their circular kitchen table eating gumbo and French bread. Abba wiped her mouth with a big napkin when she’d finished her last bite.
“Cyn, your gumbo is wonderful,” she said.
“The best,” I said.
“Count me in on that accolade,” Rafael said.
“I know you're just nice. Doesn’t matter because I love compliments,” she said. “Anyone save room for key lime pie?”
We waited until Rory had finished his third bowl of gumbo, and then all had a slice of pie. Along with the others, Rory was drinking Southern Comfort. Though I didn’t ask her to, Cyn brewed a pot of strong Creole coffee and chicory especially for me. Our appetites sated, we returned to the comfortable couch in the living room.
“They are here to ask you about a dagger you made,” Cyn said.
Rafael fished around inside his parka, producing the beautiful piece of cutlery, and then handed it to Rory.
Rory recognized it immediately. “Where did you get this?” he asked.
“We didn’t steal it if that’s what you mean,” I said. “We think it belongs to a person we believe to be a witch. We wish to return it to her.”
Rory’s dark eyes blazed a hole through me as he stared for a very long moment before responding to what I’d told him. When I started to say something, he waved his palm and shook his head.
“This is Exethelon. It took me seven days to craft. There’s not another blade on earth like it. It has magical powers, and even its name has some unknown, magical meaning.”
He smiled at Rafael’s next comment. “Cyn told us all knives have powers.”
“Some more than others,” he said. “Usually, the power they have is dependent upon the kiln in which they are fired and the expertise of the smithy. That is not the situation with this blade.”
“Then please tell us what the situation is,” Rafael said.
“No dagger has more power than Exethelon. You said you believe the owner to be a witch. She is much more than that. She is a powerful sorceress.”
He glanced at each of us to see if we were smiling. None of us were. Rafael was the first to speak.
“You say this dagger you call Exethelon is magic. It’s been in my possession for several hours now, and I’ve had no indication of its magical powers.”
“Did the sorceress give you this dagger?”
Cyn gasped when Rafael said, “We found it deeply buried in the heart of a dead man.”
Rory’s massive chest swelled when he inhaled before replying.
“Then the dagger served its purpose. It no longer belongs to the sorceress.”
“To whom does it belong?” Rafael asked.
“The one who pulled it from the dead man’s heart. Do you believe in destiny?”
“I’m a Catholic priest,” Rafael said. “Of course I do.”
“Then believe this. The person that pulled the dagger from the dead man’s heart was predestined to do so. Though I have no idea what that reason is, I do know it must remain in that person’s possession; at least until destiny deems it’s time to pass it to another.”
Rafael glanced at me. “Wyatt retrieved the dagger.”
Rory, again, showed us his palm. “Tell me no more,” he said.
He handed me the dagger. When I touched it, the same force I’d felt when I pulled it from Father Fred’s heart surged up my arm. Abba gasped, and Rafael’s jaw dropped when the dagger with the heroic name began to radiate a golden glow.
“Oh my God,” Abba said. “I don’t believe this.”
“Believe it,” Rory said. “I created this dagger using specific instructions from the sorceress. The runes on the blade have a secret meaning known only to her. I do not lie when I tell you they give the blade magical powers. Did you sense the power when you first touched the blade?”
I was silent for a moment before answering. “We exited the room when the floor and walls caught fire. I was halfway down the stairs when an overwhelming urge caused me to return to the room. By the time I had the dagger in my hand, the smoke, fumes, and flames had grown almost intolerable. I couldn’t see the door for the smoke. Some force in the dagger pulled me through the gloom and out the door, my skin barely scorched. I should be dead now, and I’m not.”
“The dagger called to you. You had no choice but to possess it.”
“I have a choice,” I said, “Please, take it back.”
“No,” Rory said. “The dagger is yours, along with its magic. You must keep it until its purpose is served.”
“And then what?” I said.
“Your duty will be complete, and ownership conveyed to another, for another purpose.”
“But that’s why we’re here,” Abba said. “We are looking for my sister. At least a person I’m beginning to think of like my sister. The witch, or sorceress, is the only person that can help us. Can you please tell us how to find her?”
“She can only be found if she wants you to find her,” he said.
“How did she find you?” Abba asked.
“My father and grandfather were both smithys. In Scotland, their blades were considered the best of any in the world.”
Rory grinned when Rafael said, “Your business doesn’t seem like the type where you have to do much advertising.”
“Rory has a waiting list that spans more than two years,” Cyn said. “He’s quite literally the best knife, dagger, and sword maker in the country; perhaps the entire world.” She touched his hand. “That’s how we met. He and his father sold my dad a sword many years ago.”
“We were both quite young. I fell in love with those eyes of hers the first moment we met,” he said.
Though she punched his big arm, she didn’t deny the attraction they both must have felt.
“You speak of the woman we thought was a witch as if she’s some sort of mystical goddess,” I said. “Surely she didn’t just drive up in a car and ask you to make her a knife.”
My comment made Rory guffaw. “Aye, Wyatt. You are correct about that.”
“She didn’t ride in on a broom, did she?” Abba asked.
“She could have if she had wanted to. The sorceress is a shape-shifter. She flew through the window of my smithy shop in the body of a pigeon. When I glanced around, she transformed into an enormous black woman dressed like an Antebellum field hand.”
“I’m having trouble believing all of this,” Abba said.
Rory was prepared for everyone’s skepticism. “Then suspend your disbelief lassie, because what I’m telling you is true. She gave me specific instructions on how to construct the blade. She returned a week later, took the knife and left me with twenty pieces of gold.”
“Surely, you’re making this up,” Abba said.
“I assure you that I am not. Cyn, show her the gold.”
Cyn stood on her toes and reached for a cardboard box on an upper shelf of their bookcase. I could see it was heavy by the way she carried it. As we watched in amazement, she dumped the contents onto the coffee table. Rafael whistled softly as he reached to pick one up.
“These are Spanish gold doubloons, aren’t they?” he asked.
“Looking bright as the day they were minted in the 1500s,” Rory said.
“Are you sure?” Abba said.
“Pick one up. What else could they be? You can feel how heavy they are,” Cyn said.
“How much are they worth?” Abba asked, hefting a single doubloon in her hand.
“A dead man’s ransom,” Rory said.
Before anyone else could comment, a beautiful black, long-haired dog came through the back door. After receiving head rubs from Cyn and Rory, he checked out Rafael, me, and finally Abba. His tail never stopped wagging.
“What’s your name, pretty boy?” Abba asked.
“Slick,” Cyn said. “He’s a Gordon Setter.”
“Looks almost like an Irish Setter,” Rafael said. “Except slightly smaller and black instead of red.”
“Gordon Setters are Scottish,” Cyn said. “We rescued him from the pound.”
“Who would abandon such a beautiful dog?” Abba asked, by now hugging the friendly animal.
“Unscrupulous breeders,” Cyn said. “Only solid black Gordons are usually kept and bred. Those like Slick that are born with a white blaze on their chests are often killed when they are still puppies.”
“Horrible,” Abba said, giving Slick a motherly hug. “He is so beautiful. Why is it I’ve never heard of or seen a Gordon Setter before?”
“They’re very active dogs. They need to run ten or more miles a day to be happy and healthy. Slick will climb over our fence when he feels like a run,” Cyn said. “We’ve stopped trying to keep him penned.”
“He runs down by the river until he gets enough exercise for the day. When he does, he always returns home,” Rory said.
“Definitely not a dog for most city dwellers,” Abba said.
Cyn put the doubloons in the cardboard box, and then back on the shelf. I still had the dagger. It felt warm in my hand and continued to glow.
“Are you telling us that you don’t know where the sorceress lives?” I asked.
One of the front windows was open, and we could hear the sounds of boats on the river. A gust of wind blew the door ajar, and fog wafted in through the crack. Rory slugged his Southern Comfort, got up and closed it.
“I didn’t say that,” he said. “She lives somewhere in the Honey Island Swamp.”
“That’s a wild and treacherous place,” I said. “How on earth can we find her if we don’t have directions?”
“If she wants you to find her, then you will. If not, there’s nothing more I can do for you.”
Eddie missed his favorite pillow, his neck sore when sun shining through a window awoke him the next morning. After showering and getting dressed, he padded down a long hallway, following his nose to the aroma of bacon and eggs. Everyone else was already at a long dining room table, drinking coffee and orange juice as they waited on him.
“Have a nice nap, sleeping beauty?” Frankie asked. “We thought you were going to sleep all day.”
“It’s not even eight o’clock yet.”
“Everyone gets up earlier on the farm,” Frankie said.
Adele had risen from her seat and led Eddie to an empty chair next to Josie and Jojo.
“Don’t mind him,” she said. “He can be an old bear until he’s had his first pot of coffee in the morning.”
“No problem,” Eddie said. “That’s something I can relate to. What’s on the agenda for you girls today?”
“Lil and I are going to play a few sets of tennis and then relax at the spa; maybe have a massage.”
“I’m in heaven,” Lil said. “Tony and I tried out the hot tub last night.”
“Good for you,” Adele said. “How was it?”
“Wonderful. We’re going to get one for our backyard.”
“How about you, Tony?” Frankie said. “You like hot water?”
“In my life, I’ve been in plenty,” he said.
Eddie was more interested in what Josie was doing. “What do you and Jojo have planned?” he asked.
“I’m homeschooling Jojo this year. When we finish for the day, I’ll probably just cuddle up in bed and read a book.”
“I’m jealous,” Eddie said.
“Dad has lots of great books in the den.”
“Wasn’t exactly what I meant.”
Everyone at the table, including Frankie, tried to ignore Eddie’s comment. Josie just grinned and shook her head.”
“You?” she asked.
“Tony and I are headed to the track to ask a few questions. Maybe we can go for another walk when we return.”
“Maybe,” she said.
Josie and Jojo were soon off to study lessons, Adele and Lil on their way to get dressed for tennis. Frankie was lacing his coffee with scotch, his attention somewhere else.
“Why the long face?” Tony finally asked.
“Cops arrested my right-hand man Bruno Baresi last night and charged him with murder.”
“Who did he kill?” Eddie asked.
“Nobody,” Frankie said. “This is a frame job, pure and simple.”
“Let me rephrase my question; Who is he supposed to have killed?”
“Diego Contrado. Chuy Delgado’s nephew.”
Tony whistled softly through his teeth. “What kind of evidence do they have?”
“Circumstantial. They were both eating at the same restaurant.”
“Surely that can’t be all they have,” Tony said.
“They got other evidence.”
“Like what?”
“Contrado was killed with Bruno’s pistol.”
Tony had to stifle a laugh. “Seems more than just circumstantial to me.”
“The owner, Pinky Robinette, used to work for me. Lots of paisanos, and now the Mexican gang, like to eat and drink there. Pinky don’t allow no violent behavior, and he makes all the boys check their guns at the door. Anybody there could have taken it and used it to kill Contrado.”
“What else they got?” Tony asked.
“Bruno got a phone call and went outside to take it. It was about the same time Contrado was shot.”
“Was it just a coincidence that Bruno happened to be at the restaurant the same time as Contrado?” Eddie asked.
“It was Friday. Bruno’s a creature of habit. He eats at Pinky’s every Friday night.”
“Pardon me for saying so,” Tony said. “Seems to me your boy is in a heap of trouble.”
“Yeah, well you’re gonna find out because I want you to talk to him and get his story.”
“Instead of looking for the horse?”
“Why hell no! In addition to finding Jojo’s horse. Can you handle it?”
Eddie answered for him. “Tony’s the best criminal investigator I know. I’m pretty good myself, and I’m helping him. We can handle it.”
Frankie took a sip of his coffee, stared at Eddie and smiled. “Maybe you got more moxie than I give you credit for.”
“Thanks,” Eddie said.
“That ain’t all. Some of Delgado’s men caused a stir at my nightclub over in Fat City last night.”
“What did they do?” Tony asked.
“Pistol whipped one of my boys on his way out to the parking lot.”
“How do you know they were Delgado’s men?” Eddie asked.
“They was speaking Spanish,” Frankie said.
“And?”
Frankie slammed his coffee cup on the table. “And nothing. They was Delgado’s men. I don’t need an affidavit to prove it.”
“Eddie don’t mean no harm,” Tony said. “We’re both on your side. He’s just being a good investigator and asking lots of questions.”
Frankie’s frown disappeared as he pushed away from the table. “Sorry, I’m in a foul mood and there ain’t a whole lot I can do about it.”
“You got a reason to be upset,” Tony said. “Stop worrying about Bruno and Jojo’s horse. Eddie and me are on the job. We’ll take care of things for you.”
“Thanks, Tony. I feel better already. Now, I got work to do. Give me a report when you get back to the farm.”
Tony and Eddie watched him disappear down the hallway.
When he was gone, Eddie said, “Now what?”
Frankie had left his bottle of scotch on the dining room table. Tony grabbed it and poured a liberal dose into his own coffee.
“Just my luck,” he said.
Eddie took the bottle and laced his own coffee. “What?”
“A partner with a big mouth.”
“We can handle this,” Eddie said.
“Hope you’re right about that,” Tony said. “Let’s get dressed and hit the road. We got lots of ground to cover and not much time to do it.”
***
The quarter horse campaign had ended the previous day. When Tony and Eddie reached the track, all they found were a few trainers and lots of roustabouts loading trucks and trailers. Frankie had supplied them with stable passes which they wore around their necks on lanyards. They needn’t have bothered.
Lil had made sure that Tony’s khakis were tightly pressed. He wore no tee shirt beneath the magnificent palms swaying in a gentle breeze on his green Hawaiian shirt. He didn’t miss the perennial tie he’d always had to wear as a homicide detective, though he liked the dark brown corduroy sports coat his kids had given him for his birthday.
Eddie’s black and gold Saints parka was open enough to reveal his L.S.U. T-shirt. He liked to think his penny loafers with no socks and designer blue jeans made a fashion statement. The truth was, his job required the wearing of an expensive suit every day. Maybe why he enjoyed looking like a tourist from the west coast on his days off.
“Think you can find the stable Lightning Bolt was in?” Tony asked.
“I’m not senile.”
Eddie didn’t laugh when Tony said, “Yet, at least.”
The stable where Lightning Bolt had been was empty, the door ajar.
“Not much here,” Eddie said.
Tony poked his nose out the back door. “There’s a dumpster back here. The trash hasn’t been picked up yet. Go out front and watch the door.”
“Why?” Eddie said.
“You be surprised what winds up in the trash. I’m going to dig through it and see what I find.”
“Knock yourself out,” Eddie said.
Twenty minutes passed when a man with a bottle of red energy drink in his hand pushed open the stable door to see who was there. Tony had finished his dumpster diving and was sticking something into his jacket as he reentered the stall area.
“You boys look lost,” the man said. “Looking for something?”
The man’s aviator sunglasses perched atop his red hair that was rapidly growing gray. He seemed to have a permanent grin beneath his untrimmed handlebar mustache.
“A friend of ours had a horse in that stall a few days ago,” Eddie said. “We didn’t realize the meet was over.”
“Frankie Castellano.”
“Yes, how did you know?” Tony asked.
“He don’t usually run quarter horses. Caught everyone in the paddock by surprise when he entered a race with one.”
“Bet he did,” Eddie said, extending his hand. “I’m Eddie, and this is Tony. You work around here?”
“Jake Kratchit. I’m the stable superintendent.”
“Sounds impressive,” Tony said. “What exactly does your job entail, Jake?”
“Not much of nothing, at least between meets. When the thoroughbreds or quarter horses are running, seems like I’m busy twenty-four seven.”
“Are you the person that assigns the stalls during the meets?” Tony asked.
“That and a whole lot more,” Jake said.
Eddie pointed to the stall where Josie had shown him Lightning Bolt.
“Is that stall permanently assigned to Mr. Castellano when his horses run here?”
“Nope, I had to do some shuffling when the horse was added to the race.”
“You didn’t already know about it?” Tony asked.
“It was a last minute addition.”
“Is that normal?” Eddie asked.
“Weren’t nothing normal about it. Had everyone in the paddock wondering how this no-name horse managed to all of a sudden have a favorable lane coming out of the gate.”
“How did that happen?” Tony asked.
“Frankie Castellano. When he says frog, people jump. Ain’t right, maybe. It’s still as simple as that.”
“People in the paddock were mad?” Tony said.
“Pissed off is more like it. You boys don’t look like cops.”
“Because we’re not,” Eddie said. “Insurance investigators. Trying to get a lead on what happened to Mr. Castellano’s horse. Know anything about it.”
“Not much around here I don’t know.”
“Then will you discuss it with us?”
“Why not?” Jake said. “I ain’t got a dog in the fight. Buy me a cold beer, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“You got it,” Tony said. “I could use a cold one myself. Where to?”
“I’m pretty much done for the day. There’s a neighborhood bar just outside the main gate called Big Sam’s Firehorse Lounge.”
“Yeah,” Tony said. “Saw it when we came in the gate. Want to ride with us?”
“Got to lock up a few stalls first. Meet you there in about twenty minutes.”
Despite its grandiose name, Big Sam’s Firehorse Lounge was little more than a ramshackle hole-in-the-wall bar frequented by track workers, visiting jockeys, and trainers. The quarter horse meet having ended, the place was empty of customers. Tony and Eddie sat at the bar and ordered cold mugs of Abita.
Big Sam was anything but. A former jockey, he stood nowhere near six feet tall, though his expanding waistline indicated he liked sampling his own wares. He was busy puttering in back when they came in. After pouring their beer, he returned to what he’d been doing and left them alone.
“What’d you find in the dumpster?” Eddie asked.
“Bottle of shoe polish. Probably the one used to dye the horse’s blaze.”
“I saw you stuff something in your jacket when Jake showed up. What else did you find?”
Tony produced a leather wallet from his pocket, opened it and showed it to Eddie.
“A passport and a one-way ticket to Belize.”
“Let me see,” Eddie said. “You think this means something?”
“Depends on who Wendell Swanson is. Maybe Jake can tell us.”
“What else do you expect we’ll get from Jake?” Eddie asked.
“Like he said, there’s probably not much that happens around the paddock he don’t know about. There are security cameras everywhere you look. My guess is, he don’t want nobody knowing he’s talking with insurance investigators. Probably why he wanted to meet us here.”
“Fine by me, though it seems like a lot to go through in exchange for a cold beer,” Eddie said.
Tony held up a crisp hundred dollar bill. “It’s gonna cost us at least this much, and maybe more for whatever he tells us.”
“He didn’t seem like that type of person to me,” Eddie said.
“Don’t think so? I’m betting this ain’t Jake’s first rodeo, and that he realizes the value of information.”
“And isn’t afraid of Frankie or the Mexican cartel?”
“Not too scared to score an extra hundred here, there, and yonder,” Tony said. “Even if what he has to tell us turns out to be a dud, at least we get a cold beer, or two.”
“Amen, brother,” Eddie said. “I’ll drink to that.”
Jake Kratchit came through the front door as Tony and Eddie were touching glasses. Big Sam stopped his puttering long enough to pour the stable superintendent a tall one.
“Let’s sit in back,” he said. “Big Sam’s an old gossip and what I’m gonna tell you don’t need to go no further than just us three.”
“Right behind you,” Tony said.
Tony and Eddie followed Jake Kratchit to a table in the back of the dark bar. The old wood floor had apparently spent time underwater because it creaked as they walked across it. The floor, along with the walls that desperately needed a fresh coat of paint, also had an under smell of mold. Eddie hoped it didn’t launch him into a sneezing fit. Jake downed half his beer before breathing a word. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he banged the glass on the table.
“Damn, that’s good,” he said.
“I told Big Sam to keep ’em coming,” Tony said. He handed Jake the hundred dollar bill. “For your trouble. I know information don’t come cheap.”
Jake grinned, took the bill and stashed it in the pocket of his well-worn Western shirt.
“You coulda had me for twenty. Don’t matter none cause I ain’t giving it back.”
“And I don’t want you to,” Tony said. “Tell us a few things we don’t already know, and there’s another Bennie in it for you.”
Jake grinned again. “Then if I don’t know it, I’ll make something up. What would you like to hear?”
“You can start by telling us something about the jockey and trainer that were murdered.”
“You sure you ain’t cops?”
“Do we look like cops?” Tony asked.
“Not really. Eddie’s hair is a little too long. Private dicks, maybe.”
Big Sam showed up with a tray of beers before Tony had a chance to reply to Jake’s comment. Jake didn’t seem to need an answer as he took a big drink from his glass.
Big Sam showed Tony a thumbs up when he said, “Better bring Jake another. He’s getting ahead of Eddie and me.”
Jake finished his brew. “Thanks,” he said. “I needed that. It’s been one hell of a meet, with the murders and all.”
“Tell us about it.”
“Like I said, I didn’t have much time to find Mr. Castellano a stall. Don’t matter none, cause he ain’t a person you want to say no to.”
“That’s a fact,” Tony said. “Did you know the trainer and jockey?”
Jake smoothed his handlebar mustache with a pair of dirty fingers. “I knew Wendell Swanson, the trainer. Don’t know much about the jockey.”
Tony gave Eddie a glance at the mention of the trainer’s name. “What’s the deal with Swanson?”
“Mr. Castellano don’t usually race quarter horses, and he didn’t have no quarter horse trainer. Swanson’s been out of work for several years. An agent got him the gig with Mr. Castellano because he was the only trainer he could get on such short notice.”
“Why has he been out of work?”
“Little problem he had while racing in New Mexico.”
“Oh? Tell us about it.”
“Racing officials are a mite more picky in New Mexico than they are here in Louisiana. They suspended Swanson for using a belly bomb on one of his horses.”
“Belly bomb?” Eddie said. “What the hell is a belly bomb?”
“You boys don’t hang around the track much, do you?” Jake asked.
“Apparently not,” Tony said. “Tell us about it.”
“Most trainers cheat, and they do it using PEDs, performance-enhancing drugs. Trainers aren’t supposed to administer any drug to a horse twenty-four hours before a race. All except Lasix, that is, the anti-bleeding drug. Don’t matter, though, cause all the trainers dope their horses anyways.”
“Who is supposed to regulate such things?” Eddie asked.
“State racing boards.”
“And they’re not doing their job?” Eddie said.
Jake snorted, and then took a drink of the fresh beer Big Sam had brought him.
“Why hell no! If PEDs were as prevalent among human athletes as they are horses, you’d see all sorts of records broken. The regulators just look the other way.”
“These PEDs make that much of a difference?” Eddie asked.
“So many races are won by a head, or a nose, any little edge can make a big difference in the outcome of the race. You might not see it so much in lower class races. When it comes to big stakes, it’s out of control.”
“You have to be kidding,” Eddie said. “Even the Kentucky Derby?”
“You know what the purse was for the winner of the last Derby?”
“Tell us,” Eddie said.
“Almost a million and a half bucks. You think people won’t kill for that kind of money?”
“And you say everyone in the stable area knows it?” Eddie asked.
“Most all jockeys use buzzers. Their trainers know they’re using them. Hell, one top trainer has killed seven horses experimenting with different performance enhancing drugs.”
“How does he get away with it?” Eddie asked.
“He’s rich enough to hire as many lawyers as he needs. Accuse him, and he takes you to court and rakes you through the coals.”
Tony sipped his beer. “Hard for me to believe that everyone cheats.”
“If they want to win, they do. It ain’t cheating if they don’t get caught.”
“What’s this belly bomb thing?” Tony asked.
“Sometimes the trainer don’t want his horse to win. He’ll give his animal a big pill a few hours before the start of a race. When it dissolves, it gives the horse a giant stomach ache. If a horse ain’t feeling a hundred percent, it won’t run a hundred percent.”
“Damn!” Tony said.
“Damn is right,” Jake said. “And a belly bomb is almost impossible to detect, or prove.”
“Why would a trainer want his horse to lose?” Eddie asked.
“All sorts of ways to make a buck when you’re a cheater. If the horse was the clear favorite and all the bettors expect him to win, they bet accordingly. It really shakes up the odds if he don’t, and a longshot wins. Even better if two longshots come in first and second.”
“That happen often?” Tony asked.
“Often enough. All the trainers know each other. When they think they need a new truck or down payment on a house, they collude with a buddy to make it happen.”
“And organized crime?” Eddie said.
“In on it big time, and don’t miss a trick. They just don’t like it when they don’t know what the outcome will be.”
“How do professional gamblers make a living if there’s so much cheating going on?” Eddie asked.
“They’re like you; they buy information. If the money’s right, there’s always someone in the paddock that’ll tell you what’s about to go down.”
Eddie drained his beer and motioned Big Sam for another round.
“If what you say is true and there’s so much cheating going on, why hasn’t somebody done something?”
“It’s a dirty little secret that almost everyone in the racing business knows about. Who cares if somebody gets drunk and talks? The average Joe on the street either don’t believe it or else don’t give a shit. Kinda like those aliens in New Mexico.”
“Speaking of New Mexico, why exactly did Wendall Swanson lose his job if regulation is so lax?” Tony asked.
“He was using a belly bomb to rig the outcome of a race. The problem is, the horse’s owner was betting big for a win. When his horse finished dead last, he fired Wendall, and then turned him into the racing commission.”
“Who was the owner?”
“Angus Anderson. He had Wendall banned from training for two years.”
Tony gave Eddie another glance. “Anderson has that kind of power?”
“You shitting me? Mr. Anderson don’t like to lose. Lucky for Wendall he just got him banned and didn’t kill him.”
Eddie thought it wise to not reveal their interest in Anderson.
“How did Wendall support himself during his absence from racing?” he asked, changing the subject.
“He knew the ropes and all the tricks. Became a handicapper. Not many days passed he wasn’t either at the track or at an off-track betting facility. He liked to make exotic bets. He had a little system he thought gave him an edge, and he especially liked betting trifectas. You know what that is?”
“Picking the order of the first three horses,” Tony said.
“Right,” Jake said.
“What about the jockey?” Eddie said.
“Country boy from Oklahoma. Heard he was an up and comer. He’d won a few races up at the track in Sallisaw. Good looking young fellow named Kenny Smith. I met his widow when she came down to claim the body. Want to see her picture?”
Jake pulled up a photo on his cell phone and handed it to Eddie. It showed several men loading a casket into the back of an old Ford pickup. The young woman holding an infant was crying. Jake showed them a closeup.
“She’s stunning,” Eddie said.
“Pretty enough to be a movie star,” Jake said. “Dirt poor, though. Boys around the track donated as much as we could to help her with the burial and all. The baby was only a year or so old.”
“What’s her name?”
“Jessica.”
“What happened to her?” Eddie asked.
“Guess she went back to Sallisaw.”
When Jake finished the last of his beer, Tony gave him another hundred dollar bill.
“Thanks for the info.”
The track manager nodded, slapped Tony on the shoulder and started for the door.
“See you boys around,” he said.
Eddie waited until they were alone, then asked, “What do you make of his story?”
“Don’t know,” Tony said as Big Sam delivered yet another round of beer.
Tony handed him a hundred and asked for the tab. Big Sam was turning to leave when Eddie called to him.
“Wait a minute, Big Sam. Did you know Wendell Swanson?”
Big Sam’s expression never changed. “You blind? Can’t you see my pictures behind the bar?”
It was impossible to miss the mostly black and white racing pictures not just behind the bar, but on practically every wall. Most of them were of a particular triumphant jockey taken in the winner’s circle.
“Couldn’t miss them,” Eddie said. “Is that you in the pictures?”
“I was one of the highest winning jockeys until I fell and broke my back. I know all the track rats, including Wendall Swanson. He was in here the night someone shot him to death.”
“Did you tell this to the police?” Tony asked.
“Course I did.”
“Was he drinking alone?”
“He was drinking. He weren’t alone.”
“You know the person he was with?” Eddie asked.
“Don’t know his name though I seen him in here before.”
Tony glanced at Eddie to see if he was paying attention. Eddie was literally sitting on the edge of his chair.
“What’d he look like?” Eddie asked.
“Big Mexican dude with skull and crossbones tattooed on his knuckles.”
“Thanks, Big Sam. Keep the change.”
Big Sam nodded, and then sauntered away, returning to whatever he’d been doing behind the bar.
“Damn!” Eddie said. “You think the cops picked up on that little tidbit of information?”
“If somebody ain’t paid them off to forget about it,” Tony said.
“Let me see that passport,” Eddie said.
Eddie thumbed the document and ticket in the plastic flap. Tony watched him as his dark eyes narrowed.
“What is it?” he asked.
“There’s something else in here other than just the plane ticket and passport.”
The room had gone deathly quiet. When Slick whined and wagged his tail, breaking the tension, Rory gave his head a rub.
“What now?” Rafael asked.
“Visit the Honey Island Swamp,” I said. “See if the witch will allow us to find her.”
Rory grabbed the bottle of Southern Comfort, topping up everyone’s glass. The reggae music had ceased, replaced by Wagner’s Symphony in C major. The heroic music and dim lighting somehow fit the mood it seemed we’d all attained.
Rory’s brogue had grown thicker when he stared straight at me and said, “You are risking your very life to enter the swamp to seek counsel from a very dangerous sorceress. This woman you are looking for must be very important to you.”
“More than I’ve cared to admit, even to myself.”
“How long has she been gone?” he asked.
“Two years. When her twin sister committed suicide, Desire vowed to become a nun and live the rest of her life cloistered in a nunnery.”
“Sounds like Guinevere. Does that make you Lancelot or Arthur?”
“More like Sancho Panza,” I said.
Rory wasn’t finished with his twenty questions. His next query caused me even more anxiety. The candle on the coffee table was melting, wax beginning to clump on the unpolished wood.
“How did Desire’s sister die?” he asked.
I gazed at the flickering flame a long moment before answering.
“She jumped off the Crescent City Connection, into the Mississippi River. I tried to grab her wrist. She touched my hand, our eyes locked as she plummeted to her death.”
Suddenly overcome by memories, emotion, and music, a sob rose up my throat and burst from my lips. I tried to catch my breath. My tears kept flowing. Cyn and Abba rushed to my side, each clinging to an arm. Rafael kneeled in front of me and began praying.
“I’m so sorry,” I finally managed to say. “I’ve never told that story to anyone before now.”
“It’s all right,” Abba said, embracing me. “You’ve kept it inside too long. It was time to let it out.”
She handed me a crumpled napkin. I used it to wipe my nose, the salty tears burning my eyes. It wasn’t the only thing I needed at that moment.
“Mind if I have a shot of whiskey?” I said.
“Wyatt, don’t do it,” Rafael said. “I beg you.”
Rory poured a shot of Southern Comfort into a glass and handed it to me. I drank it with one swallow. When Rory offered me more, I waved him off.
“It was all I needed. I’m okay now.”
“Can you tell me why you suddenly decided to look for Desire after two years?”
“Please, Rory,” Cyn said. “No more questions. Can’t you see how distraught Wyatt is?”
“It’s okay,” I said. “My story felt like a confession. Guess I’m still a Catholic because it was just what I needed. I even had a priest to hear me out.”
“Are you sure?” Rory asked.
I nodded. “A night or so ago I saw an apparition. It was a funeral procession moving slowly beneath the room where I live. Early morning, streetlights were barely a dim glow through the creeping fog. I saw Desire riding alone in a white limousine. I also found this pendant that Desire’s mother swears was buried with Dauphine, Desire’s twin sister.”
I handed the pendant to Rory, his expression grave as he turned it in his hand.
“To which convent did Desire go?” he asked.
“We don’t know. She was very secretive about it, not even telling her mother.”
“Then how did you get here?”
“Desire’s mother Junie Bug broke her promise and peeked out the door when two people arrived for her. One was a man named Father Fred. It was his heart that I pulled Exethelon from. The other person was a woman named Sister Gertrude. We have reason to believe she knows the whereabouts of Desire. Sister Gertrude is the only clue we have left, and the sorceress is the only person that can tell us where to find her.”
Rory cast his gaze at Rafael. “You’re a priest. Can’t you call around and find out where they took Desire?”
“Believe me, I’ve tried. I spoke with every Catholic convent in south Louisiana. No one I spoke to knew anything about Desire’s whereabouts.”
“Then maybe she’s no longer in south Louisiana,” Rory said.
“We have no idea if she’s even still alive, much less the name of the convent or its location. It seems as if there’s but one person left that can tell us for sure,” Rafael said.
“You’ll need a boat,” Rory said. “The swamp is a maze of bogs, blind chutes, and giant trees some of which have never been cut. There are places in that swamp that are all but impassable. Few men know their way around even with a boat.”
“I know someone that not only has a boat, he also has a fishing camp located right in the middle of the Honey Island Swamp,” I said.
My pronouncement riveted everyone’s attention.
“Tell us,” Abba said.
“His name is Jean Pierre Saucier. He’s a homicide cop in Chalmette. I met him a while back during a murder investigation a client hired me to do. I’ll call him tomorrow.”
“No, lad,” Rory said. “We must leave tonight while the moon is nearly full.”
“We?” Cyn said.
Rory stood from his chair and walked toward his bedroom door.
“I can not let them begin this quest alone,” he said. “I have a dark feeling the journey will be extremely dangerous, and that they are definitely in need of my brawn. I am going to prepare myself. Call your friend with the boat.”
“But it’s after midnight,” Abba said.
“Jean Pierre is the one person I know that won’t mind a call at this hour,” I said.
Rory disappeared into his bedroom while I punched in Jean Pierre’s number on my cell phone. I’d finished talking when Rory returned dressed in a ceremonial kilt complete with sash and tam. A broadsword hung from the scabbard attached to his belt.
“What did your friend with the boat say?” he asked.
“We’re meeting him at the entrance to the Chalmette Battlefield. He’ll lead us to his fishing camp where we can spend the night and get an early start tomorrow.”
Rafael gulped the rest of his Southern Comfort. “Though there’s nothing in the world I’d rather do than continue with this journey, I’m afraid my work as a rent-a-priest must get in the way. My cruise leaves the Port of New Orleans for the Bahamas tomorrow. My employers will be upset if I’m not on it.”
“Lass, this journey will be no place for a woman. You can take Rafael home. I will drive Wyatt to meet his friend with the boat.”
“Not on your life,” Abba said. “I started this search, and I intend to finish it. We’ll drop Rafael off at his car, and then I’m driving us to Chalmette.”
“I can not tell you how much danger this journey may entail,” Rory said.
“And I’ll have three strong men to protect me. I’m going, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”
“How long will this journey take, and who will care for Slick while I’m at work and you’re on your quest?” Cyn asked.
“We will need a brave dog,” Rory said. “Slick will accompany us.”
Cyn had an expression of resignation on her pretty face as she tossed her hands in the air and rolled her eyes.
“It’ll all work out,” I said.
Rafael was still apologizing when we dropped him off at his car.
“I wish I could go with you,” he said.
“We couldn’t have gotten this far without you,” I said.
“Is there anything else I can do?” he asked.
Rory answered for me. “Say a prayer for us, Father. We are going to need it.”
Not being an observant Catholic, I was uncomfortable when Rafael had us join hands and bow our heads. Abba had already given us her thoughts on religion. Though she took our hands, she was also rolling her big brown eyes. Rory wasn’t so encumbered.
“Amen, Father,” he said. “Every quest should begin with a prayer to Almighty God.” When Abba made a sarcastic face, he said. “You do believe in God, don’t you?”
“Let’s just say I’m an agnostic and leave it at that.”
Hearing the less than subdued annoyance in Abba’s voice, Rory let the subject drop as she pulled away from the curb and headed toward St. Bernard Avenue and Chalmette.
Jean Pierre and his big chocolate lab Lucky were waiting for us on the side of the road in his old red pickup. We piled out of the car so I could make introductions.