Royal Street (13 page)
Staying close to the walls and hoping the potion helped me blend with the institutional tan, I edged down a hallway that opened into a cavernous warehouse.
The work of the St. Gabriel morgue played out before me like a bad horror film that should have been shot in grainy black and white. Heavy-duty plastic coated the concrete floor, and on the plastic lay bundles I knew were bodies, waiting to be processed for their turn in the coolers till their date with the DNA sampler rolled around. The smell, antiseptic with an underlying tinge of decomposition, assaulted my nose and lungs, and my
bare arms goose-pimpled from the cold. The AC must have been set on fifty degrees. People with clipboards and masks scurried around, looking purposeful and efficient as they strode in and out of hallways, across the main room, and back again.
bare arms goose-pimpled from the cold. The AC must have been set on fifty degrees. People with clipboards and masks scurried around, looking purposeful and efficient as they strode in and out of hallways, across the main room, and back again.
I reached in my pocket and fingered my mojo bag to help dull the overwhelming sense of depression that drifted off the workers. I leaned against the wall, my stomach churning and nausea making my pecan pie poise for a bitter return. My limbs felt heavy, like they always did when I’d sucked in too much of a bad emotion. I couldn’t stay here long, even with all my preparation.
Clearly, I hadn’t planned this very well. Why did I think I’d be able to slip in and, one by one, slide nicely preserved bodies out of freezer cases until I confirmed that none of them were Gerry? This place was running 24/7 and no way was I going to see anything helpful.
I plastered myself against a wall, a good distance away from the activity, and pulled the tracker out again. The red light blinked faster than before. Frowning, I held it out and watched the light as I turned it to different spots in the room. There. It had definitely sped up when I held it to my left.
I scanned the area. Two hazmat-suited workers were squatting next to one of the bodies. One of them must be the source of the magic. The worker facing me had been writing on a clipboard but suddenly looked up and scanned the room. His eyes stopped on me, and I froze. No way he could see me. Unless he wasn’t human.
He said something to his coworker and stared in my direction a moment longer before heading toward a door in the back. He looked back at me—it had to be at me—and jerked his head for me to follow. Maybe I needed to revise my chameleon potion recipe.
I walked slowly along the wall, not wanting anyone else to
notice me, and slid through the doorway behind the man. It opened to a small office with a single desk and two chairs. The door closed behind me, and I turned to see Mr. Hazmat taking off his hood.
notice me, and slid through the doorway behind the man. It opened to a small office with a single desk and two chairs. The door closed behind me, and I turned to see Mr. Hazmat taking off his hood.
“Who are you?” he said, squinting at me and frowning. “I can’t see you clearly—you’re hazy. But I can tell you’re a wizard.”
I had about a half second to decide whether to tell the truth or pretend to be a grieving citizen. As Alex had duly noted, I’m not that good an actress. “I’m a Green Congress wizard, here looking for a missing family member.”
“Good luck,” he said, setting his hood on the desk and adjusting the collar of his white coveralls. “We don’t know who any of these people are, we’re understaffed, families with missing people are frantic … It’s a mess.” He squinted at me again. “I’m Adam Lyle, Yellow Congress.”
Click. Now I got it. “You’re telepathic,” I said. “I couldn’t figure out how you knew I was there. I didn’t know we had any Yellow Congress wizards in this area.” It was the smallest congress by far, with wizards specializing in mental magic.
He nodded. “Yeah, wizards have a different mental signal than most people. I’m used to shutting humans out, but you came through loud and clear. And I’m not local—drove in from Houston to help.”
“You’re a doctor?”
He smiled. “Psychiatrist, actually. But they’re too understaffed here to be that picky.”
“A psychiatrist who can read thoughts. That must make you really effective.” I didn’t want him in my head, not one bit. No wonder Alex shielded so hard around me. Talk about an invasion of privacy.
Adam laughed. “I only get general signals from a person unless we’re touching. Take you, for example. All I can really
tell is that you’re a wizard and you’re telling me the truth, or at least the truth as you see it.”
tell is that you’re a wizard and you’re telling me the truth, or at least the truth as you see it.”
I introduced myself then, and gave him a highly edited version of my truth, ending with a physical description of Gerry. “He went missing a few days ago. This seemed like a logical place to look.”
He shook his head. “There’s no way to tell. Even if you narrow it down to victims who are white, middle-aged males.” He sighed. “All I can tell you is no one with any magical aura still active has been brought in when I was here, and I’ve been here a lot the last ten days.”
It had been a long shot, but I was still disappointed. I found a pad on the desk and wrote down my name and phone number. “Will you call me if any wizard turns up?”
He stuck it in a zippered pocket. “How’d you make out during the storm?” It had become the ubiquitous question around town among the few citizens who’d returned.
“Not too bad—just wind damage,” I said. “I was Uptown, in the lucky twenty percent.”
“I have a couple of friends, Blue Congress, who live in that area. They both teach art at Tulane.” Blue Congress wizards were the artists and creatives in our world. Blues and Greens usually mainstreamed as academics.
“Have they come back yet? I’ve been wondering how many wizards were in town.” You never know. We might need backup.
He picked up his clipboard and hood. “No, they’re gone till the end of the year. I’m staying in one of their houses and keeping an eye on the other. Everything is fine except for some weird graffiti painted on their doorsteps. Same thing on both houses, but not their neighbors’ places. I figure it’s gang-related.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. “What kind of graffiti—what does it look like?”
He gave me a curious glance and shrugged, then took out a pen and used a page from his clipboard to draw a rough illustration of the symbol I was seeing way too much of.
“You know what it means,” he said—a statement, not a question. “Well, I’m getting an energy spike from you anyway.”
“I don’t know what it means but I’ve seen it a couple of other places, too. Can you give me the names and addresses of your friends?”
He wrote the information down and handed me the paper. “I put my phone number on there, too. If it turns out to be something my friends need to know, call me, okay? They’re both teaching at other schools the fall semester and don’t plan to come back till the university reopens, probably in January.”
We left the room together, then I sneaked back to the exit and out the back door. Gandalf stood and wagged his tail when he saw me. After making sure no one was in the parking lot, I hauled myself back over the chain link, snagging my shirt on the top of the fence.
As overjoyed as Gandalf was to see me, ripped shirt and all, I didn’t chatter at him on the drive home. What did those symbols mean? I had to find out. And I wondered if I had stumbled on the pattern we had been missing.
I pulled off the road at a gas station, dug my cell phone out of my pocket, and scrolled to the call log from the day Gerry went missing.
Congress of Elders
. I pressed send.
Congress of Elders
. I pressed send.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 20 , 2005
“Day 22: The official death toll in metropolitan New Orleans—736.”
“Day 22: The official death toll in metropolitan New Orleans—736.”
—THE TIMES–PICAYUNE
T
he Speaker of the Elders hadn’t been pleased to hear from me at midnight Edinburgh time, but he’d gotten me what I needed. When Alex showed up Tuesday morning, I was already scanning a printout of every wizard in the New Orleans metro area, along with addresses and emergency contact information. Only two other wizards were currently in town besides me and Adam Lyle, and both were of the elderly Blue Congress variety. Probably not much help if we needed it—talk about people who were useless in a fight. I circled their names anyway.
he Speaker of the Elders hadn’t been pleased to hear from me at midnight Edinburgh time, but he’d gotten me what I needed. When Alex showed up Tuesday morning, I was already scanning a printout of every wizard in the New Orleans metro area, along with addresses and emergency contact information. Only two other wizards were currently in town besides me and Adam Lyle, and both were of the elderly Blue Congress variety. Probably not much help if we needed it—talk about people who were useless in a fight. I circled their names anyway.
“Lafitte.” Alex muttered the safe word to cross my wards and came in the back door, all dressed in—surprise—black. “Couldn’t you have picked a better password?”
“Why are you using it anyway? The wards only work on pretes.”
“Seems like a good habit.” He opened the cabinet and pulled out a couple of protein bars, then poured a cup of coffee.
“Don’t you have food at your
friend’s
house?”
friend’s
house?”
“No.” He shoveled half a protein bar in his mouth and grabbed the list from the table in front of me. Looked like
somebody got up on the grouchy side of his friend’s bed this morning.
somebody got up on the grouchy side of his friend’s bed this morning.
“What’s this for?” He sat at the table and slid the list of wizards back to me. I described my visit to the morgue, conversation with Adam Lyle, and suspicion about the symbols.
“It’s probably a coincidence,” I said. “But I think it’s worth checking out some of the addresses on this list, just to see if these symbols are marking only the homes of wizards. Maybe wizards are being targeted, and whoever’s behind it did something to Gerry.”
Alex eyed me over his coffee cup. “You shouldn’t have gone out there by yourself. Where’d you get the list?”
“I didn’t go by myself. I took my dog. Anyway, I called the Elders on the way back and the Speaker sent a courier with the list—got here around four a.m.”
Alex leaned back in his chair, and I imagined I saw grudging respect on his face, or maybe it was wishful thinking. “Good job, Sherlock. We should split the list and do some cruising around today.”
“I know. I’m hoping this gives us a clue about Gerry.” I fidgeted with a coaster. “The longer he’s missing, the more I’m afraid this isn’t going to end well. Maybe I was naïve to think it ever could have.” Maybe I was naïve to be opening up to the enforcer.
“We’ll figure this out. If he’s out there, we’ll find him—I promise.”
We both knew it wasn’t a promise he could keep, but it made me feel better to hear it.
I took the Uptown list and Alex took Broadmoor and Mid-City. If wizards’ homes in those areas were all marked and we couldn’t find the symbols on other homes nearby, it seemed safe to assume wizards were being targeted. Then we’d just have to figure out who was doing the marking, and why.
I drove through Uptown one neighborhood at a time, beginning at the big bend in the Mississippi River at the triangular area called Black Pearl and moving outward in a widening arc. I had twelve names on my list, and none of them were in town.
I found the first address, parked the Pathfinder, and walked the block end to end, both sides of the street. Only the wizard’s house, a small pink shotgun with ornate gingerbread trim, had been marked with the symbol, spray-painted in white at the foot of the stairs leading to the front door.
The pattern held throughout my list, and I headed home with the beginnings of a headache. It didn’t matter how long it took. I would find the meaning of that symbol today. If all wizards’ houses were marked with the same symbol we found at Gerry’s, that made Gerry a potential victim, not a rogue. A rogue wouldn’t target his own house.
Alex probably wouldn’t get finished with his list until noon, so I had an hour to kill. I pulled out a few references I thought might help in researching the symbols, then did some necessary domestic chores I’d been putting off, namely laundry, which had to be hand-washed in a sink full of questionable water and hung around the bathroom. I really missed electricity.
No point starting my research till Alex came back, so I decided to sweep off the leaves and branches from the hurricane that still littered my porch. In front of my house, traffic had started picking up on Magazine Street—mostly construction workers and soldiers. That, plus the fact that my parking space was in back, meant I rarely used my front door. I sure hadn’t used it since it got covered in plywood after Jean Lafitte’s visit.
Manual labor distracted me from Gerry and wizard conspiracies for a few minutes before I saw it: the symbol of rectangles and stars, painted on the sidewalk in red at the foot of my front steps. I sat hard on the top step, staring at it. I hadn’t seen
any other red symbols today—they’d all been white. The only other red symbol had been at Gerry’s.
any other red symbols today—they’d all been white. The only other red symbol had been at Gerry’s.
I’d been sitting there several minutes when from behind I heard Alex walking through the house. “I’m out front.”
“You were right about the—” He stopped, then sat on the step next to me, deflated. “Shit. How long has it been there?”
“I don’t know. I never use the front door, so it could have been here since right after Lafitte came to visit. Did you see any red symbols today, or were they all white?”
He thought a moment. “All white, I’m pretty sure. And you were right. It’s only wizards’ houses that are marked. And now this.” Alex looked worried. Enforcers shouldn’t look worried.
“We’ve got to find that symbol.”
We grabbed a quick MRE for lunch, then settled on the living room sofas with all the reference books I could find on voodoo history and symbology. I’d been going through the largest dictionary almost two hours before I found a similar mark. Instead of the cross and rectangles, it was made up of two large intersecting Vs, with stars coming off it at six points. I held the book toward the window to more easily read the small text:
Vévé or symbol of Ayizan, the voodoo goddess of commerce.
Vévé or symbol of Ayizan, the voodoo goddess of commerce.
“Holy crap. I think it’s a symbol for one of the voodoo gods, not one of the rituals. We should have thought of that.” I slammed the book and ran upstairs to the library, Alex following close behind.
“New Orleans voodoo wasn’t based on the traditional African religion, but a version that developed in the West Indies,” I said, scanning the assortment of books on deities until I found one on the Haitian Vodou pantheon. I settled on the love seat and started flipping through it. “They have a different set of gods.”
Now that I knew what to look for, the search took less than five minutes. “Here it is,” I said, reading. “It’s the vévé, or symbol,
of the Haitian Vodou god Baron Samedi, and is used to invoke him or offer sacrifices to him.”
of the Haitian Vodou god Baron Samedi, and is used to invoke him or offer sacrifices to him.”
“Is there a chapter on Samedi?” Alex looked the name up in the African book, but it wasn’t there. “We need to find out all we can about him.”
He moved to the love seat beside me, close enough to read my book and distract me with his presence all at the same time. I jerked my mind from broad shoulders to the book’s index and began to flip pages.
Samedi was a popular guy. “He’s the god of the dead, or of the crossroads between life and death,” I read, scanning through the descriptions. “He’s the leader of a group of loa called the Barons. Looks like a skeleton in a top hat and tails. Wears dark glasses with one lens missing. He seems to thrive on sex and debauchery.”
Great. Sounded like a guy that would be popular in New Orleans, or at least in the touristy areas.
I scanned another couple of pages. “Followers believe Baron Samedi is the god that determines who lives and who dies, and is the head of the Vodou gods who are linked to magic, ancestor worship, and death. Believers don’t consider him evil, just capricious.”
Alex reached across me to lift a page and better see the illustrations. “I don’t believe in voodoo gods, but some murderous SOB obviously does. If it weren’t for the wizards’ houses being targeted I wouldn’t think this was supernatural at all, but just a nutcase.”
I stared at the book’s drawing of the vévé. “I don’t believe in those gods either, from a religious standpoint. But as far as the Beyond goes, what we believe doesn’t matter. The fact that a lot of people
do
believe is enough to make him real. And voodoo supposedly still has an active presence in parts of New Orleans. Certainly did in its past. And the fact that wizards’ houses are being marked means it has to be supernatural.”
do
believe is enough to make him real. And voodoo supposedly still has an active presence in parts of New Orleans. Certainly did in its past. And the fact that wizards’ houses are being marked means it has to be supernatural.”
“So, you think the undead Marie Laveau has come back with some agenda like Lafitte did, and is making sacrifices to this Samedi guy?” Alex leaned back on the love seat and stretched his legs, one heavy, black-clad thigh running alongside my leg.
Sure was hot in this house.
I got up and paced the library. “Marie Laveau would make sense. She’s by far the best-known voodoo practitioner who ever lived here. But why would she be killing soldiers? Since she’s marking their houses, why not kill wizards?”
We stared at each other.
Alex was already punching a number into his cell phone. “I need to talk to Ken again—let him know these symbols are showing up on houses. I’ll leave out the wizard part. Maybe they can at least put some patrols out at the addresses where the wizards are in town.”
Including mine. I doubted the cops had the manpower for extra patrols, or that it would do much good, but I slid a pad and pen in front of him anyway.
He stared at the notes after ending his call. “Our symbol was painted at the scene of all three murders—they finally uncovered it on the sidewalk in the last one. Ken says they don’t have any leads, and they’re frustrated. The dead soldier this last time was from somewhere in Texas, no ties to the local voodoo community that anyone has found. First victim was from California, second from Virginia.”
“Do the police know what the symbol is?”
“No, they made the voodoo connection because of the candles and the dead roosters. Second murder also had a kind of altar set up with a bottle of rum on it. Ken’s best guess is that the murders are some warped kind of blood sacrifice, maybe an appeal to the gods for hurricane relief.”
I huffed. “Why kill the soldiers who are helping us, then?
The sacrifice part sounds right, but what does it have to do with wizards?”
The sacrifice part sounds right, but what does it have to do with wizards?”
“Any chance the soldiers were wizards?”
I didn’t think so, but it warranted another call to the Elders. I was beginning to think we needed our own Elder hotline.
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