Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (20 page)

"Wait up," he said, breathing shallow as
possible to minimize the pain. He patted his pockets. Naturally he’d
forgotten his painkillers again.

When he told her to wait, she started to make a
remark about the police department needed more exercise, then she saw
his face. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said, feeling the pain lessen
slightly. "I’ve got a broken rib, and sometimes it gets a
little uncomfortable."

"How did it happen?"

"I got shot."

Mercanto took her arm and they started again. There
was a certain naturalness in his touch, the gesture seemed complete
in itself, not a prelude to anything.

They slowed down, Erin figuring her schedule would
survive a little interruption. At a bench near the bus she made
Mercanto sit down while she went for the hot dogs and soda. He tried
to pay but she wouldn’t hear of it.

Once seated beside him, she said, "It must be
tough on your family, you being in such a dangerous occupation."

"Well, all I have is my brother Frank, and he's
not doing too well . . ."

"Does your shooting have anything to do with the
case you want to talk to me about?"

"Yes, but before we start let me say there’s
no danger in this for you. I've been investigating the murder of a
Center City optometrist named Stanley Hightower. You may have seen
something about it in the papers. It happened in Fairmount Park. The
other night I went up to look it over again, a kid tried to hold me
up while I was there. When I went to arrest him he shot me."

"I don't quite see how this ties into me,"
said Erin. "I'm an anthropologist who studies the Caribbean. My
specialty is shamanism. Any help there?"

"What exactly is shamanism? Any relation to
Shamus? Sorry."

"
Essentially it's a study of primitive
religions. We call them primitive because their history is a spoken
rather than a recorded one, and they have little or no established
hierarchy above the local level. A shaman is a priest of one of these
religions."

"Like voodoo . . . ?" Mercanto asked
hopefully.

"Yes. Why do you ask?" When he didn't
answer she said, "I think you owe me that much if you expect me
to help you."

"You're right. At the moment everyone's thinking
the kid who shot me is Stanley Hightower’s killer. Could be. But it
seemed to me a couple of things need to be checked out from another
angle, say, a Jamaican one. Understand, I know nothing about this
stuff. Does Iamaica even have voodoo?"

"Yes, most Caribbean countries have some form of
voodoo. The word ’voodoo' comes from vodun, the religion of Haiti,
which is a mix of West African religions with an overlay of
Christianity, especially Catholicism. In Cuba it's called Santeria,
in Brazil it's Candomble, in Jamaica it's obeah."

"And this is your specialty?"

"That's right. The shaman is a leader of a cult.
He differs from our notion of a priest. He doesn't interpret any body
of law, history, dogma or whatever you want to call it. He teaches
from a personal basis, from within. He’s almost always someone
who's had some powerful emotional experience that becomes the basis
of his teaching. In this country I suspect many shamans would be
considered schizophrenics. In their cultures they're revered."

"You've seen their ceremonies . . . ?"

When she nodded, he said, "Tell me about them,
their sacrifices, for example"

"If you want my help you’ll have to be more .
. . more forthcoming."

Mercanto sighed. "Okay, we know that Stanley
Hightower was involved with some very rough Jamaicans. His murder had
a professional look to it, with one add-on . . . the body was
mutilated afterward in a damned strange way. I was wondering if it
might be some sort of ceremonial thing."

"How do you mean strange . . . the mutilations,
I mean?"

He shifted slightly on the bench. Their knees came in
contact. Erin could feel it through her whole body. She knew she
should move to break the contact. After all, she'd just met him, but
she didn't.

"Cannibalism," he said finally. He turned
his hand over and showed her his right palm. "When we found him,
this whole part of his hand had been ripped away," he said,
tracing the area of damage with the index finger of his other hand.

"According to the medical examiner it was done
by teeth, human teeth."

"
And you think this type of mutilation might be
part of a ceremony or some sort of voodoo sign . . . like no
trespassing, or death to outsiders. Something like that?"

At first her reaction, or lack of it, to the
cannibalism surprised him, then he realized she'd probably seen a lot
of things equally gruesome in her studies. It was like being a cop.
It went with the territory.

"That’s what I was hoping you could tell me."

"
There are a lot of misconceptions about
voodoo," she said, settling back on the bench and crossing her
legs. "Like I said, it's a primitive religion. God, as we know
him, is worshipped, but they also worship other gods. Not multi-armed
deities like we associate with Middle Eastern religions but more like
a hunter society in which animals are worshipped for their special
traits. For instance, the wolf because of his bravery, cunning,
hunting ability. . ."

She paused. "Along with this is the concept of
reincarnation. They worship the dead, figures from the darkness. The
purpose is appeasement. This idea of reincarnation, or transportation
between the real world and the underworld is at the root of Haitian
zombies. By drugs, hypnosis, or whatever they reach a state that's
between life and death, one foot in each camp. This is probably as
extreme as it gets."

"But they do have sacrifices, things like that .
. ."

"
Yes, they do. Most times a chicken, sometimes a
goat. They're the most common animals around. You just go out in the
backyard and get one. Sacrificing an eagle or a leopard would be
tough. You have to understand, most religions have live sacrifices.

"In other religions certain rituals are often
mistaken for sacrifices. In Tibet, for instance, the dead are often
taken to a hillside and chopped up, their meat left for the birds.
It's called a sky burial but it’s not a sacrifice. Or in Africa
there are different pubertal rites like circumcision, tattooing,
various mutilations. In fact, I remember one Haitian shaman — but
that was something else entirely. What you're talking about doesn’t
exist in Jamaican voodoo."

"
You're sure?" he said, obviously
disappointed.

"Well, I'm not sure it couldn’t have been done
by Jamaicans, but it is not part of their voodoo."
 

CHAPTER 16

MARGARET CLIMBED the steps not looking forward to the
night ahead. Tonight was the party at the museum, a must for faculty
members and their wives to attend, but she was in no party mood.

When she opened the door she heard the sounds of the
Rolling Stones' "Brown Sugar" blaring on the stereo. Adam
was home. She dropped her coat and purse and went into the study,
feeling shot.

Adam was at the window staring out, a pitcher of
martinis and two glasses on the coffee table, waiting. He turned and
came toward her, his biggest smile in place, his eyes unnaturally
bright. He had on jeans and a heavy sweater. His curly hair was
matted and oily, and he hadn’t shaved. When he bent to kiss her she
could tell he hadn’t bathed either.

"Hi," she said, making no effort to return
his kiss.

"Come on in, sit down. I’ve been waiting for
you," he said, leading her to the sofa. She sat down, looking at
him like he was a stranger while he poured their martinis.

"What are we celebrating?" she asked over
the din of the music.

"
My poetry," he said exuberantly, taking no
notice of her distance. "The whole volume of Vietnam Nights is
finally finished, put to rest, the whole thing" He went to the
stereo and turned it off. "I thought we might have a couple of
martinis to put the cap on it."

In spite of herself, she was pleased for him. "I
know it's been giving you a lot of trouble."

"It’s been a bitch . . . reliving those
experiences has been the most painful thing I’ve ever done.
Sometimes I think it was worse than being there. You know how things
are when you get older. People say they don’t affect you like when
you're young, but they're wrong. They affect you more. When you're
young you're too busy to feel anything, not so when you're older,
you're more vulnerable to the emotion . . ."

She took a sip of her drink. "You make it sound
like we’re ready for the old-age home." Which tonight is how
she felt.

"Not by a long shot, but you know what I mean .
. . God, it feels good to be through with it."

She watched him drain his glass with a gulp and move
to pour himself another. It was like watching the Adam of ten years
ago, the part of him she had loved best, the zest for life that
wouldn’t be contained by anything.

"I wouldn't have too many of those. We still
have to go to the party at the museum tonight," she said,
deliberately holding back, afraid to let her mood rise to meet his,
knowing he was right . . . when you were older you sure were more
vulnerable.

"The way I feel tonight I could drink a gallon
of these and they wouldn’t affect me at all," he said.

At least half-true. Adam did have a tolerance for
booze that defied belief. He continued his pacing, almost boyish with
his enthusiasm.

"Now that it's over we can get back to being
ourselves," he said, taking hold of her hands. "I know I've
been . . . distant lately but I’ll make it up to you."

If a patient had recreated this scene for her, she
would have tried to make her see the reality of it. But now she was
no analyst — she was a woman wanting badly to believe . . . "Right
now we have to get ready for the party."

"
Yeah, I guess so." He finished his martini
and poured another. "I’m not looking forward to it."

She kissed him on the cheek as she got up to go
change.

"Me either," she said.

As she applied her makeup she could hear Adam singing
in the shower. His cheerfulness seemed to point up the loneliness
that had become so much a part of her life. It seemed her whole life
consisted of being there for others but having no one for herself. A
lousy imbalance, as she might suggest to a patient.

In the mirror she could see their bed, and remembered
how she felt when Adam crawled in and went to sleep without touching
her. The major continuity in her life was her practice, and, she had
to admit, especially tracking Loring's case.

Adam’s booming voice broke through her thoughts,
singing the Beatles' "Yellow Submarine." His off-key gusto
made her smile, such a silly song but it made her think about their
better years of marriage.

This wasn’t the first time he’d withdrawn, she
had to admit. Whenever he was working he was always distant. And at
the best of times he was too mercurial ever to take for granted, to
predict.

But of course what made this time different from the
others was his affair. That’s where the loneliness came in. She
wasn’t even forty yet. She wasn’t ready for the scrap heap.
Giving and receiving pleasure with a man was still important to her,
damn important.

She took off her housecoat and inspected herself in
the mirror. The martini’s glow helped. Adam took her for granted
but someone else — lord, what was she thinking? Who was she
thinking of? Like a reluctant patient, recognizing and not accepting
the unacceptable, she pushed away the object of her thought . . .

She turned abruptly and went to her closet, where she
chose a floor-length sarong-type evening dress by Carolyne Roehm.
Behind her she heard Adam’s voice. It startled her. She hadn’t
heard the shower stop. She turned to see him standing in the doorway
in his terrycloth robe. "Remember that French film we saw. . .
the one where the guy said it's sexier to watch a woman dress than
undress . . . it's like seeing her prepare for another lover?"

The guilt she felt made her angry. "Adam, please
not now."

He shrugged and left.

Charles' words about wish — thinking came back to
her . . .the wish is the deed. Pure theory, she thought impatiently
as she slipped the dress over her head.

Adam was in the study when she came downstairs. He
had switched from martinis to beer and was standing there in his tux
with a Heineken bottle in hand.

"I’m sorry, I’m just a little edgy tonight,"
she said. She went to him and straightened his tie like she did
whenever they went to something formal.

"You look very nice," he said as he helped
her with her coat.

Which was what he always
said when they got dressed up. The familiarity of it made her teary.

* * *

The Braddon was lighted like a Hollywood premiere.
People were milling around in evening dress.

Adam took her arm. "Let’s see if we can find
the bar."