Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (43 page)

 
          
In
any event, when Lucille had been interviewed by Cannon, while she'd told him
perhaps more than had actually occurred in the Sandra Jacquet case, she had
also passed on to him with reasonable fidelity all the names and details
—
few though they probably
were
—
-that
Sandra had confided to her. And after that, things had gotten worse for her.

 
          
And
for Cannon, who, like any good journalist, was out to confirm his facts by
tracking them back to the source
—
Sandra Jacquet's killers.

 
          
"What
did you tell him?" Colin pressed.

 
          
Lucille
lit a second cigarette from the stub of the first. The predominantly reddish
light shining through the fake stained glass darkened her skin with the
illusion of health, but Colin knew better. Lucille Thibodeaux was dying, as
surely as if she'd been poisoned.

 
          
"No.
Dat mistake I don' make twice. No more do dose name pass my lips."

 
          
"You
told John Cannon. You knew he was a journalist when you talked to him; you knew
that he was going to write about them."
And lecture about them. It may
already be too late for me to save him.
"What you told him won't
remain a secret."

 
          
"Yes,
it will," Lucille said bleakly. "Dey kill me,
cher.
Dey kill
M'sieu Cannon too, I bet."

 
          
"If
I can find them, I'll make sure that they don't hurt you anymore, Lucille,
either of you. I swear it. But you have to tell me what Sandra Jacquet told
you," Colin pressed.

 
          
"She
dead now, hahn?" Lucille guessed.

 
          
"You
don't have to die," Colin said, evading an answer. "I can help you
—
if you'll help me first.
Tell me who they are."

 
          
Lucille
hesitated, then shook her head. "Lucille got sins enough on her soul so
dat when she die she go straight to de bad place. Dat poison-man Cannon, he on
my conscience. I won't have you dere as well, M'sieu."

 
          
No
matter what he said, Colin could not budge her, and finally he gave up.

 
          
"All
right. There's little I can do for you if you won't tell me who is attacking
you. I can give you the name of a priest. He's a good man. He won't laugh at
you, Lucille, and they can't touch you on consecrated ground."

 
          
To
Colin's shock, the Creole woman laughed; a harsh, smoke-roughened bark.

 
          
"So
de Church going to save Lucille? What de pries' gone say to me
—
dat Lucille get down on her
knees an' come to Jesus an' be saved, hahn? I don' t'ink so, M'sieu. It too
late for dat
—
God, he dead, an' only de Devil is left. An' de Devil goan'
get Lucille in de end."

 
          
She
stared broodingly toward the darkened windows for a minute, then got to her
feet. "I t'ank you for coming, M'sieu, but I do a wrong t'ing to let you.
Dere ain' not'ing no living man can do for Lucille Thibodeaux in dis life no
more, so you bes' be go now, before dey see you an' put a hurt on you,
too." Her voice was firm.

 
          
Reluctantly,
Colin got to his feet. "I'll pray for you," he told her, knowing that
such action would be too little, too late. He dug for his wallet. "At
least get out of town; if you leave the area, they may not be able to track you
down. Do you need money? I can
—
"

 
          
Lucille
waved the offer away. "Dere no'ting more you can do for me, M'sieu
MacLaren. Bes' you go now, hahn?"

 
          
A
few moments later, Colin stood on the street in the dull light of a December
afternoon. He glanced up at the window of the second-floor apartment. Behind
the shrouded window, Lucille Thibodeaux waited for death with the bleak
fatalism of a trapped animal.

 
          
He
would pray for her as he had promised, though he did not think it would save
her. But there were others whom his intervention might yet help.

           
Colin was a pack rat and tended to
save every scrap of paper that fell into his hands. It had taken him several
hours to find Jock's business card, which he'd tossed into the drawer where
such pieces of paper tended to accumulate. The phone was answered by a woman
who admitted that it was the Cannon residence; she asked his name, a faint
wariness discernible beneath the polite tones. A moment later Jock Cannon came
on the line.

 
          
"Mr.
Cannon? This is Colin MacLaren; we met several months ago; at the Sorcery
Shoppe?"

 
          
"I
remember you, Mr. MacLaren." Cannon's voice was weary.

 
          
"You'll
forgive my presumption in tracking you down, but the last time we spoke you
were preparing a book on Black Witchcraft."

 
          
"Hold
on." Cannon's voice was suddenly sharp. "I want to take this call in
the den."

 
          
There
were a few moments of shuffling around, while Cannon picked up in the den and
told Bess
—
the woman Colin had first spoken to
—
to hang up the other phone.
Then Cannon came back on the line.

 
          
"Perhaps
you'd like to state the nature of your business, Mr. MacLaren?" Cannon
said coolly.

 
          
"I've
just been speaking to a woman named Lucille Thibodeaux," Colin answered
candidly. "What she told me worried me a great deal."

 
          
"Ah
. . ." Cannon gave a long sigh. "Is she all right?" he asked
hesitantly.

 
          
"She's
dying," Colin said bluntly. "Her client
—
whom I presume she mentioned
when you interviewed her?
—
is already dead. Murdered."

 
          
There
was a pause from the other end of the line. "How did she die?" Cannon
asked hesitantly.

 
          
"Badly,"
Colin said, refusing to elaborate. "These people mean business. Lucille's
convinced she's next
—
and if you're planning to publish an expose about them, so
are you."

 
          
"I'm
a big boy now, Mr. MacLaren. It's been quite a few years since I've been
intimidated by schoolyard threats," Cannon answered.

 
          
Colin
sighed inwardly. He recognized graveyard bravado when he heard it. Cannon must
already be under attack.

 
          
"Do
they know where you live, Mr. Cannon? Have you been having any . . . peculiar
troubles?" Colin asked gently.

 
          
"How
do I know you're not one of them, wanting to find out what I know?" Cannon
snapped, his voice suddenly flat with suspicion.

 
          
"Come
now, Mr. Cannon," Colin said. "Of course I want to know what you
know, but I'm the one who warned you against getting involved in the first
place, remember? I just want to help you. The best thing might be if you
abandoned your project, and
—
"

 
          
"Too
late." Cannon's voice was ugly with triumph. "I turned the final
draft of
Witchcraft: Its Power in the World Today
in last week
—
it's at the publisher's
now."

 
          
There
was a brief moment of silence.

 
          
"They
already know that, of course." Cannon said. "They've got a terrific
intelligence network. I've actually been to one of their filthy rituals. A
Father Mansell tried to recruit me, get me to withdraw the book. He put on a
good show, but it's all just hoodoo. That's all. Coincidence, intimidation
—
" His voice faltered
and died, and there was a long silence. "Help me," Cannon whispered.

 
          
Colin
checked his watch. "You're near
Gramercy
Park
, right? I can be there in
less than an hour; I'd like to bring along a
—
"

 
          
"No
—
don't come here,"
Cannon said quickly. "I don't want Bess upset any more than she has been
so far, and I don't
—
I don't want them to see you here," he finished
raggedly.

 
          
There
was another pause while Cannon gathered his wits. "I have to drop by
Blackcock
—
my publisher
—
to see Jamie about the book tomorrow. I'll come by your
place afterward. I need to talk to you. Maybe if I withdraw it the way they
want ..."

 
          
"That
would probably be a very good idea," Colin said. "At least let me see
the manuscript. I understand that you name names
—
well, these kind of people
are usually terrified of exposure, and with good reason. I have a few friends
in the police who might be able to make their lives pretty hot
—
and take the heat off
you."

 
          
"I
... I suppose so," Cannon said, obviously more rattled by the minute.
"I need to think about this. It isn't that I take them seriously, of
course
—
it's
just strong-arm techniques and scare tactics. . . ."

 
          
"There's
no 'just' about it, Mr. Cannon," Colin said forcefully. "Please don't
make the mistake of thinking these people won't make good on their threats. If
what I believe is true, they've already killed once."

 
          
"I'm
not going to turn tail," Cannon said, abruptly changing tack again.
"But we can talk about it tomorrow. Still ..."

 
          
Colin
waited, but Cannon said nothing more.

 
          
"Mr.
Cannon?" he finally said.

 
          
"Oh."
Cannon sounded as if he'd been roused from a doze. "Well, thanks for
calling, Mr. MacLaren," he said in a bright, false voice. "I
appreciate your interest."

 
          
"Come
and see me," Colin said urgently. "Or I can meet you up at Blackcock.
What time are you meeting your editor?"

 
          
There
was a bitter laugh at the other end of the phone. "You think I'll tell you
that? I'm not that much of a greenhorn. Tell you what, MacLaren: I'll call you
tomorrow. Maybe we'll have lunch."

 
          
"Mr.
Cannon
—
"
Colin began desperately. "Jock
—
"

 
          
"Thanks
so much for calling, Professor," Cannon interrupted. There was the click
of a receiver being replaced in its cradle, and then the buzz of a dial tone.

 
          
Colin
stared at the telephone in exasperation and pity. He only hoped that Cannon
would
call him tomorrow
—
and even more than that, he hoped Cannon would withdraw his
manuscript about the black covens. The "good-faith" gesture might be
enough to save his life.

 
          
It
might.

 
          
The
call he waited for didn't come. All through the day Colin waited, while he
debated the wisdom of calling Cannon's wife, or his publisher, and reluctantly
dismissed both notions. By the Oaths that bound him, he could not force his
help on someone who did not wish it. He prayed that the call he waited for
would come. When the telephone rang at
four o'clock
, Colin lunged for it
anxiously.