Tortured Spirits (24 page)

The dictator glared at Russel as he sat beside Mambo Catoute. “Thank you for joining us.”

Russel felt the eyes of everyone but Mambo Catoute on him. “Forgive me, Your Excellency. I wanted to make sure our prisoner was in no condition to escape.”

“Do you doubt the competence of our military and police?”

General Buteau and Colonel Solaine stiffened.

“Not at all,” Russel said. “But Helman has proven himself difficult before. His actions interfered with the plans of both Nicholas Tower and Seguera.”

“Mambo Catoute administered the Black Magic, did she not?”

“Yes.” Russel knew to answer Malvado's questions directly without any maneuvering.

“Then he is useless, except to work on my plantations.”

Russel bowed his head. “So he is, Mr. President.”

“What I want to know is where this
woman
is. William, please bring everyone up to speed.”

Russel faced the others one at a time. “Her name is Maria Vasquez. She's a police detective from New York City, just like Helman was before he became a private investigator. They were both partners with Edgar Hopkins, another police detective who disappeared last year. Vasquez and Hopkins investigated a series of murders by drug dealers during an epidemic of Black Magic.”

Malvado shot Mambo Catoute a sharp look. “Where did that Magic come from?”

“I don't know,” Mambo Catoute said in a raspy voice that reminded Russel of a snake. “Someone else discovered the secret.”

“How?”

“I may be the high priestess here on Pavot, but don't forget New York City and Miami are crawling with Houngans and Mambos from here and Haiti. The Creoles in Louisiana have their own churches.”

Malvado turned to General Buteau. “I want the security around my plantations doubled. Tell the guards to shoot any trespassers.”

Buteau nodded. “Yes, Mr. President. But—”

“What?”

“You told me you wanted the Americans taken alive. That's why my men fired warning shots and rubber bullets until the woman reached the Black Forest.”

“I do want her alive. I want to know why she and Helman are here. But I won't risk my crops to satisfy my curiosity.”

“She killed thirteen of my zonbies,” Mambo Catoute said.

“You mean my
father's
zonbies,” Maxime said.

Mambo Catoute bowed. “Yes. Forgive my slip of the tongue.”

Malvado turned to Colonel Solaine. “You're unusually quiet.”

Russel watched Solaine summon the courage to speak. He and Buteau often tried to blame each other for their failures. “I've circulated the woman's photos and the drawing to my precincts. My men know what she looks like. But with the public in the dark …”

Malvado smiled like a shark. “Are you questioning my methods?”

“No, sir. Of course not.”

“This woman is a foreigner. She's been in the country for three days, yet none of you can find her. Someone is helping her. I want to know who.”

Silence hung heavy in the room.

“Mambo Catoute, why can't you use your powers to track her down?”

Catoute cast a fearful look at Russel, whose stomach tightened. “The hotel suite she shared with Helman was swept clean: carpets, floors, and furniture vacuumed, hairbrushes, clothing, and makeup taken, drains and toilet sanitized. The car they rented was clean, too.”

“Who cleaned that suite?”

“The staff did a general cleanup but not the thorough job I found,” Russel said. “Someone went into that room after the cleaner and before me.”

“Without DNA, there's nothing I can do,” Catoute said.

Malvado rose. “Every one of you in this room will share responsibility if this
putain
escapes. She's seen my crops and my slaves, and she knows we took Helman into custody. It's one thing for peasants to go to the United States on a rubber raft; they go there as illegals and tell no one but their own kind about our activities here. It's another thing entirely if an
American policewoman
tells the world what she witnessed. Until she's apprehended or killed, I want Maxime to receive hourly progress reports on what you're doing to resolve this situation.”

Like children, they stared at the table while Malvado strode out of the room.

Mambo Catoute—born Puri Catoute seventy-one years earlier—made her way into the limo waiting outside the palace. Although she felt safe on the palace grounds, the chauffeur doubled as her bodyguard and drove her the quarter of a mile to the L'église du Serpent Noir. During the short drive, she paid little attention to the fountains and gardens that decorated the grounds.

The chauffeur parked at the church—the largest on Pavot Island—and got out and opened her door. Sensing the man's fear as he helped her out of the vehicle, she ignored him. She hobbled forward with the use of a cane, but her legs felt strong, her back firm. She couldn't complain about her health considering her age. She had made more than one deal with a devil resulting in the finest lifestyle one could hope for on Pavot Island: luxurious living quarters, fine
clothes, servants, and power. Catoute had helped Malvado seize control of Pavot, and he had rewarded her with a seat at his table.

Inside the church, a tall man and a slender woman waited for her near the railing that overlooked the sunken worship hall. Catoute didn't need to see their features to recognize Issagha, the top Houngan in her court, and Sivelia, Catoute's granddaughter, whom she was training to one day succeed her. Catoute had known her servants would be waiting for her, anxious to hear any news of Malvado's inner circle.

They're becoming too curious,
she thought.

Issagha wore a black African robe with white patterns, his hair in a slight afro. In his midfifties, he had served Catoute well, never overstepping his position and patiently rising in the ranks. Sivelia, twenty-two, was lithe and sexual, her wide eyes ever observant. Catoute had hoped her daughter, Pharah, would follow in her footsteps, but Pharah had refused to embrace the Church of the Black Snake, so Catoute had taken her daughter's daughter under her wing instead.

“Mambo Catoute,” Issagha said with a slight bow, his voice echoing across the worship hall. An enormous chandelier hung suspended behind him, its candles casting long shadows over the stained glass that covered the windowless walls.

“Is all well?” Sivelia said as Catoute approached them. She cradled a glass jar in one arm.

Catoute narrowed one eye, an involuntary action that occurred with greater frequency. “Unexpected trouble. I
need to pray for guidance.”

Sivelia held out the jar, its deep red contents visible in the light. “As you ordered,
Grand-mère”
.

Catoute wrapped her gnarled free hand around the jar. “I can always count on you, child.” But could she? As a true child, Sivelia had been loving and obedient and as a new woman had been anxious to please Catoute. Now she seemed only anxious to learn everything Catoute knew.
Too fast, too fast.

“May I pray with you?”

“Thank you, girl, but no. I must be alone with my thoughts if Kalfu is to help me. I'll see you both in the morning. Return to your rooms.”

“As you wish.”

Issagha bowed again.

Descending the knotty pine stairs that divided the rows of wooden pews forming a hexagonal pattern, Catoute listened for whispering by her underlings but heard none. They lived in the church, which served as a center for studying vodou and living quarters for the top practitioners of the dark arts on Pavot Island. Between the domed ceiling and the sunken theater, the hall resembled the inside of a sphere. Her footsteps echoed as she reached the glossy wooden floor and passed the pulpit from which she addressed her followers during prayer sessions.

At the opposite end of the floor, she opened a wide-paneled door and descended a curved stairway to a subterranean level illuminated by conventional lights. Passing her office and the restrooms, she stopped at a black
door that she unlocked with a long skeleton key.

Flipping a wall switch, she turned on dimmer lights in the high ceiling and entered her summoning chamber, where she prayed and instructed her top priests and priestesses. The circular chamber, fifty feet in diameter, occupied the space directly beneath the worship hall. Catoute closed the door and lowered the heavy wooden bar across it, preventing anyone from entering uninvited. Two thousand five hundred unlit white candles surrounded the chamber, resting upon tiered shelves. The candles glowed in the soft overhead light. A smaller circle, twelve feet in diameter, marked the floor's center, drawn by Sivelia with chalk under Catoute's supervision.

Catoute set the jar down on another pulpit and unscrewed its lid. The strong odor that rose from the crimson fluid caused her to frown. Rolling up one sleeve, she drew a dagger from the folds of her dress and pressed its tip against a two-inch scar. The blade sliced into her dry flesh, and she cut open the scar. She held her arm at an angle, allowing her blood to flow into the jar.

After sixty seconds, she put the dagger down and wrapped her arm in a bandage. Sivelia would stitch her up later. Screwing the lid back on, she shook the jar several times, mixing its contents like paint. From the bottom of the pulpit, she took out a plastic container the size of a bucket and a pump with a nozzle attached to a short hose. She poured the jar's contents into the container, affixed the pump, and pressurized the device.

A silver mug joined the sprayer on the pulpit, then a bag
of gunpowder and a bottle of Pavot Island rum. Catoute filled one-third of the mug with gunpowder, the rest with rum, and stirred the contents with the dagger, cleaning her blood from its blade at the same time. After sliding the dagger back into her robe, she took a thick black candle and a box of kitchen matches from the pulpit.

With her concoctions prepared, she carried the candle and matches to the center of the circle and settled on her knees. Then she set the candle on the floor, struck a match, and lit the wick. Grimacing, she rose once more, returned the matches to the pulpit, and carried the sprayer to the circle. She aimed the nozzle at the chalk and squeezed the trigger, and a fine stream of blood sprayed out with a hiss. Walking around the circle, she traced the outline Sivelia had made, covering the white chalk with blood. When she had finished, she admired her handiwork. Despite an unavoidable sense of dread, her pulse quickened with excitement.

Catoute sat cross-legged on the floor. She cleared her throat and bowed to the candle. A moan rose from within her, followed by a chant, the words a mixture of French, Spanish, and African tongues. The chant grew louder, the rhythm of the sounds more urgent, almost sexual in nature. She had learned some of the words from her mother and others from her studies.

Please come,
she thought.
I need you more than ever.

In the center of the circle, the candle's flame flickered as if a breeze had swept through the chamber.

Catoute continued chanting.

A shadow passed over the floor but only within the circle. Tiny black threads appeared in the crack between two floor stones, like the legs of a spider. The threads expanded and multiplied until a black dome the size of a bowl rose from the floor. A ring of brown appeared beneath the dome, then a forehead, fine eyebrows, closed eyelids with long lashes, and a wide nose. The head emerged from the solid floor, supported on a taut neck. The male body levitated like someone rising from beneath the surface of a still pool. Lean arms, a six-pack abdomen, and a penis both long and thick emerged from the stone. Powerful thighs gave way to sturdy knees and strong calves. When the bottoms of his feet became level with the floor, the figure stopped rising.

Catoute blinked at the beautiful body in awe. The man, perhaps seventeen years old in appearance, opened his eyes, which glowed red. She had never forgotten those mesmerizing eyes. He stretched his body in a manner that seemed almost feminine.

Kalfu,
Catoute thought, rising.

The man-boy looked at the floor, then swept up the mug in one graceful move and gulped down the gunpowder and rum mixture. Catoute watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as he tilted his head back. He discarded the mug, which made a hollow clanging on the floor, and smacked his lips. Ripples, like waves in the ocean, ran from his head to his feet. His red eyes widened, and for an instant he projected the demeanor of a very old man. Then he composed himself and moved forward, setting one foot in front of the other, like a model on a runway.

Catoute stood her ground four feet beyond the circle.

The being reached the blood on the floor and stopped, toeing the line. He stared into Catoute's eyes and exaggerated the movement of his lips as he spoke.
“Puri.”

The sound of his voice caused Catoute to tremble, both from fear and sexual arousal. “Kalfu, my lord.”

The red light in Kalfu's eyes grew brighter. “It's been a long time, girl. At least by your measurement.”

Catoute offered him a crooked smile. “I'm surprised you even recognize me.”

“Your soul looks the same as when you were twenty-two. Better, even, because you've done such wicked deeds. I can hardly wait to drink your essence.” His gaze flitted to the crimson circle. “Why have you summoned me this way?”

When Catoute had first summoned Kalfu, he had not materialized before her. Instead, she saw him walking on the street in Pavot City days later. He was the most beautiful man, the most perfect creature, she had ever seen, and she knew he was the Loa she had sacrificed a white dove to meet. Without saying a word, she invited him to her apartment, where they made hungry love. Then he showed her his true self, both physically and spiritually, and raped her for hours. By the end, she had experienced rapture.

“Because I can,” Catoute said. “I've learned a great deal since the days when you shared your knowledge with me.”