Black Magic Woman (11 page)

"Yeah, Holiday Inn—and the wife."

"Actually, I quit these disgusting things, about eight months ago," she said wryly. "But events've been putting a heavy demand on my nerves, lately."

"I can imagine," Libby Chastain said, nodding sympathetically. "But things should start getting better, now."

"Yes, so I hear. Walter called me from the house a little while ago." She tapped her cigarette on the balcony railing, sending a small flurry of ash down to the parking lot below. "He tells me the kitchen's going to need some major remodeling. But he says it's worth it, since you've given him the all-clear sign. Is that true?"

Morris and Chastain look at each other briefly before Morris shrugged and said, "More or less."

Marcia looked at him with narrowed eyes. "That's not quite what I was expecting to hear," she said. "I was under the impression that this insane business was over and done with. Are you saying now that it's not?"

"No, Ma'am, it's not over," Morris told her. "You should know that better than anybody."

Marcia LaRue took a long drag on her cigarette, her eyes never leaving Morris's face. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm afraid you do," Libby Chastain said quietly.

"Oh, Christ, now Madam Olga is putting her two cents in," Marcia snapped. "What the hell do
you
know?"

"I know the terrible burden you're psyche is carrying," Libby said. "I see how close it is to crushing you."

"You're a hoot, lady, you really are!" Marcia LaRue's voice dripped scorn. "What comes next—you offer to tell my fortune, for only $2.95 a minute? Haven't I seen you on late night TV, right after the Jamaican lady with the tarot cards?"

Libby's voice remained gentle. "I've been trained to read auras," she said. "It doesn't work all the time, but yours comes through loud and clear, Marcia. Ever since I met you, your aura's been dominated by the same two colors: green for fear, and violet for guilt. Strong as the fear is, the guilt is even stronger."

"How old were you?" Morris asked suddenly.

Marcia LaRue turned her glare on him. "How old was I
when?'''

"When you found out your mother was a witch," he said.

Marcia stared at him, then turned slowly and placed her hands on top of the wrought iron railing that bordered the little balcony. She stared out at the nearly empty parking lot for a long moment before the tears began to course down her cheeks. Without looking at Morris, she said softly, "You bastard. You fucking bastard. The woman's dead. She was my mother and I loved her and now she's dead. Can't you at least leave her in peace?"

"The dead are already at peace," Libby told her. "It's the living that Quincey and I are concerned about. Like you. Your husband. Your children."

"But Walt said you were going to
fix
it!" Her voice was breaking up, now. "He came back from Texas and said that you told him you could
make it stop!"
Her shoulders started to shake with the sobs that wracked her.

Libby went to her then, put her arms around her and held her close. "It's all right, let it out," her voice barely above a whisper. "Let it all out, it's okay, it's all right. Let it go."

As Marcia continued to cry, Libby looked up, made eye contact with Morris, then cut her eyes to the closed patio door. Morris looked, and saw the two LaRue children standing inside the room, silently watching their mother.

He looked back at Libby, who made the slightest of head movements in the direction of the room. Morris nodded and went to the door, slid it open just enough for him to slip into the room. He closed the door quietly behind him, then dropped to one knee to bring himself closer to the children's level.

"It's all right, podners," he told them. "Your mom's just upset with all this bad stuff that's been going on at your house, you know?"

They each nodded, solemn as judges.

"My friend Libby is a real nice lady, and she'll help your mom feel better soon. Why don't we all go back to the other room and watch some cartoons for a while? Your mom will come in when she's ready. She just needs to talk with my friend for a little longer, okay?"

"Okay," they answered together. As the three of them headed back into the adjoining room the girl asked, "Can we go home soon?"

"Yeah," Morris said, nodding. "Yeah, I think you can."

"Yes, she has," Marcia said. "And I'm very grateful to you both. We're all grateful to you." Her eyes, although red-rimmed from crying, were calm now.

"And as for that other matter we discussed," Libby said, "Quincey and I will start on it right away. We'll let you know when it's taken care of."

Morris shot Libby a look, but kept silent. Clearly, she was trying to be discreet so as to avoid frightening the LaRue children any further.

As Marcia and her children climbed out of the back seat, the front door of the house opened. Walter LaRue stood there, wearing a grin that threatened to split his face in half. The children ran to him, but Marcia stopped after a pace or two, turned to look back toward the car. She and Libby regarded each other through the windshield for several seconds. Morris was unable to interpret the expression on either woman's face, but he did see Marcia LaRue nod a couple of times before she turned away to walk toward her house, her family, and her life.

They sat in the car, watching while the LaRues went inside and closed the door after them. Then Libby said, "Are you hungry? We never did get lunch, what with one thing and another."

"We kept running into unfriendly kitchens," Morris replied. "Sure, I could eat."

"What do you say to an early dinner, then?" Libby started the engine and began to back down the driveway.

"That sounds good. And while we're eating, you're going to fill me in on what you learned from Marcia, right?"

"Absolutely. It's a fascinating story, in a grim sort of way."

"How about a hint, at least?"

Libby stopped for a red light. "All right," she said. "Remember the Hatfields and McCoys?"

"You mean those two families in—where was it, Tennessee?"

"Kentucky, I believe. Late Nineteenth Century."

"Sure, I've heard of them. Had this big feud, went on for God knows how many years."

"Well, Marcia LaRue is involved in a feud of her own. Only this one has lasted centuries."

"Not a word—at the time. She thought it was 'superstitious bullshit,' to use her phrase."

"Well, it's a skeptical age," Morris said. "Lot of folks don't believe in anything they can't put under a microscope and look at."

"Sad, but true. And Marcia was apparently a skeptic's skeptic. In college, she took a minor in Philosophy—logical positivism, rationalism, and God knows what else. All those systems that claim the material world is the only one that exists."

"Yeah, there was a lot of that going around Princeton when I was there."

"But it didn't influence you?"

"With
my
family background? Are you kidding? No, my Dad clued me in on the way things really are long before I ever got to college." Morris pushed his own plate away and plucked the dessert menu from its holder next to the condiments. After glancing through it, he asked Libby, "Are you having dessert?"

"No, I'll just get some coffee. But you go ahead."

Without looking up from the menu, Morris said, deadpan, "They have peanut butter pie, it says here. With chocolate sauce."

He looked up to see Libby smiling crookedly at him. "You bastard," she said pleasantly.

"That's a matter between Mom and Dad, and they're not here."

A few minutes later, as they each dug into a serving of peanut butter pie, Morris said, "I take it that Marcia LaRue has abandoned her skepticism about matters supernatural."

"Oh, sure. Once the attacks started, she figured out what had to be the cause. But by then it was too late. She knew nothing of magic, and had no way to mount a defense."

"Sounds like Mom gave up pretty easy on enlisting Marcia in the ranks of white witches."

Libby shook her head. "No, she didn't, really. Marcia says that her mother would bring it up from time to time, in a gentle sort of way. But Marcia always refused to discuss it with her."

"Still, considering what was at stake, maybe the gentle approach wasn't the best way to go about it."

"I know. But Mom probably assumed there was a lot of time left to win Marcia over. The woman was only fifty-two when she died, Quincey."

Morris's brow furrowed in thought. "Which means she had Marcia when she was…"

"Twenty. I asked. Young, by today's standards, but not quite a child bride, either."

"No, I guess not. In good health?"

"Marcia says she was, yes. So it wasn't unreasonable of the woman to think she had quite a few years left to, what,
convert
her daughter." Libby forked the last piece of pie into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "Then along comes some drunk behind the wheel of a minivan."

"So Mom is suddenly gone home to Jesus, and along with her goes the protection of the warding charms."

"Which have now been reactivated, at no small hazard to you and me," Libby said. She pushed her empty plate away. "But, it's like you told Walter back at the house: it's only a matter of time before Sarah Carter's current descendant tries something different. A static spell is like a fixed defensive line in warfare. It's only good until somebody figures out how to get around it."

"And sooner or later, she will—whoever 'she' is."

Libby nodded. "Most likely. And, although the LaRues seem like nice enough people, I don't think I want to move in with them just so that I can be there for the next attempt, a month from now—or a year."

"So, we've got to find whoever's been doing this—and
then
what? You can't use white magic to destroy someone, even somebody who deserves it, big time. We both know that. All right, assume that, through luck or pluck or good karma or whatever, we manage to get a handle on this black witch who claims Sarah Carter as part of her family tree. What the hell
do
we do about her?"

Libby was using her napkin to wipe a small amount of chocolate sauce from her fingertips. "What you said to me on the phone last night."

She looked up then, and her gentle gray eyes were suddenly cold and hard as polar ice when she said, "Whatever it takes, Quincey. We do whatever it takes."

She opened the rear door, slipped inside, then pulled it shut behind her with a solid, satisfying thump. She knew that the heavily tinted windows would prevent anyone outside the car from seeing within, and the thick glass divider that had just been raised inside the car prevented the driver from hearing a word—as if he'd be able to pick up anything from thirty feet away. The man she was there to meet with preferred to do business in private—especially her kind of business. And what he preferred, he got. Always.

His name was Walter Grobius, and he had more money than God.

"What news?" His voice was raspy, as if someone had once drawn a file across his vocal chords.

"Preparations are well underway. I've completed much of the preliminary spellcasting, and I'm researching some other spells that I've never used before. It's taking some time—these kinds of materials aren't exactly available on the Internet."

"And the… other?"

"Also underway. I have contracted with a specialist in a branch of magic I'm not personally familiar with. She arrived in this country from Africa three weeks ago. I have reason to believe that she has started to harvest the materials she needs. When the fetishes are ready, she will bring them to me. When combined with what I've been working on, they should possess great power."

"How long?"

"It's impossible to say for certain. There is a procedure that she has to follow. Certain things must be done in specific ways, if the magic is to work properly. And she has to be wary of the authorities." Christine allowed herself the smallest of smiles. "They insist on calling what she is doing
murder."

Grobius nodded. "I have been in touch with the other specialists whose names you gave me. Most of them are part of the project now, busy with their own tasks."

"Only 'most?'" The idea that anyone could refuse him was difficult for her to grasp.

"Two of them were dead. Another appears to be incurably insane."

The witch thought that for this man to use the word "insane" was an exercise in irony that would have done Sophocles proud. But she kept her opinion to herself. Even one such as she understood the value of discretion.

"I am concerned," Grobius said, "whether everything will be ready by the target date."

"I think it will be, but you must understand that black magic is not an exact science. You have to take the dark forces as you find them, and they are not always cooperative, even for a skilled practitioner of the Art."

"Let there be no undue haste, then. I don't want any mistakes made. By anyone." His gaze fell on Christine Abernathy then, and she felt her heartbeat accelerate briefly. For her, this was equivalent to a normal person screaming in hysteria.

Maybe that's why I'm working for him,
she thought.
He's the last person left alive, now that Mother's gone, who can make me feel fear.

"If need be," he continued, "I'll sacrifice Halloween in favor of the alternate date in April."

"Walpurgis Night."

"Almost as good, for our purposes, or so you've said."

"Indeed, quite propitious. All Hallows Eve is better, but the switch shouldn't make a difference in the… ultimate result."

"Well, we had better get it right the first time, since another opportunity will, most likely, not be forthcoming."

"No," she said simply, thinking,
If it goes wrong, none of us are going to survive to try again later.

Grobius appeared lost in thought, as if contemplating the wonder of what he was planning to achieve. Finally, he looked at Christine again, nodded, and said, "Very well. Proceed. You'll be notified when I wish to meet again."

Knowing she was being dismissed, she said, "I shall," and reached for the door handle.

Walking away from the limousine, she took in deep breaths of fresh air. She was glad to be out of there, and not just because of the effect the old man sometimes had on her. The car's generously padded and brass-fitted interior always reminded her of the inside of a coffin. It was, in some ways, as if the man inside were already dead. As if he were inviting her to join him.