Casting Bones (25 page)

Now she could smell the campfire smoke and the simmering of maybe alligator meat and a piquant sauce, with tomatoes, chilies, garlic, rosemary, thyme and other savory herbs and spices. Breakfast Matebo-style was not for the weak. No. This was the main meal for the swamp man and it had to get him through the day. Breakfast on the bayou was unlike anything they served in the French Quarter.

Breaking into the clearing she saw the black cauldron hanging from a wooden stand, simmering over the open fire. Breathing in the rich aroma, she stood there for several seconds, waiting for his appearance. She guessed he had stepped behind one of two bald cypress trees that stood close by, and as she studied them he glided out from behind the second.

‘Matebo.'

‘Child.' He grinned.

‘Matebo. Your breakfast smells wonderful.'

‘How is Ma?'

‘No change. As always there are new theories, new tests, new drugs, but not for her. Not at this time.'

‘All the magic in the world, all the prayers and spells that ever existed and we are still at the mercy of the unspeaking forces.'

He motioned for her to sit on the brown blanket beside his fire. She eased down in a cross-legged position and nodded in agreement.

‘'Tis never our will but the will of the spirits, Solange. We are but vessels. Still, I pray for Ma. She means the world to me.'

Solange smiled. There was such a mystery between Ma and the swamp man. She remembered the quiet tension that used to accompany each visit, the unspoken language that seemed to float between them, just above her head.

‘Sometimes I allow myself the luxury of thinking that I can control the spirits. Just a little bit, Matebo. But I am well aware of what you say. And all the prayers for my mother are appreciated. I firmly believe that one day she will be right, and our life will go back to—' she paused.

‘Normal?'

‘Life with Ma – and you – was never normal.'

‘It's the spice that makes life nice,' the man said. ‘Without that, life does become tired, old, normal.'

Solange laughed out loud.

‘I never had to worry about that around Ma.'

‘And how is Joseph? The man who told you to stay away from me. Who tried to take you from your Ma.'

‘I don't see him often. I don't talk to him except through lawyers,' she said. ‘He has his friends, his accountants, his lawyers, and his,' she spat on the ground, ‘lovers. Putain.'

‘Have some breakfast and tell me of your clients.'

The wrinkled, sunburned man wiped sweat from his brow with a red kerchief tied around his neck. His brown skin was in sharp contrast to the abundance of white hair that he shook from his face. With a carved wooden scoop he ladled the alligator dish into a bowl and handed it to the younger woman.

Pouring her a cup of amber tea, he repeated the procedure for himself.

‘Please, eat up. I've been eagerly anticipating your arrival,' he said. ‘It's been several weeks.'

The two of them ate, savoring the flavorful stew and when it was gone, they washed it down with the tea and a glass of fermented fruit juice that had more than just a slight kick to it.

‘A little something for the walk back,' Matebo said. ‘Citrus and herb left to steep for several months.'

‘Someday you have to give me the recipe.'

‘For the alligator?'

She laughed. ‘No, for the juice.'

He joined in her amusement.

The subtle hum of cicadas and the shrill ringing call of a Louisiana waterthrush lent a Creole soundtrack to the swamp.

‘Tell me what has happened.'

She told him about the judges' murders, about her messages from Rayland Foster the chemical czar and about Richard Garrett, her former client who she was certain was leader of Krewe Charbonerrie.

‘Your head is very heavy with the knowledge of all this.'

She nodded. It was heavy.

‘But,
ma petite
, you haven't mentioned the policeman. There's more to your story and you've left that out.'

She'd mentioned Archer the last time they spoke. Only in passing. Somehow the old man knew there was more to the relationship than she had shared.

‘Is he a believer?'

‘Is anyone a believer to our extent?' She smoothed her thick black hair with her hands, knowing the smoky fire would permeate her luxurious mane and knowing she would relish it when she returned home, a memory of her visit.

‘I suppose not.'

‘But, I've got his interest. He has taken some of my story to heart and I think since he is somewhat lost in regards to this case, he needs all the help he can get.'

‘Does this go any further than his belief in the stories you tell? You say you have his interest. I think it may go further.'

‘How much further can it go? I must convince him that Krewe Charbonerrie may be responsible for the murder of the judge.' A chill ran down her spine, and she momentarily lost her train of thought. Something had happened, something was not quite right. Something that upset the natural cycle of her life.

‘What is it, child?'

‘Nothing.'

But it was something. Serious. Had someone died? Suffered? A client? Possibly someone she was close to. She offered a silent prayer that Ma was alive. A prayer that Ma was immune to the incident.

‘What did you see?'

‘I don't know. The curse we have is that everything is not explained.'

‘Damned if it isn't,' he said.

Solange shook her head, clearing it.

‘Then tell me about Quentin Archer.'

‘There is nothing to tell.' She stared at him.

‘Is he an honorable man?'

‘As honorable as a man could be. You know well I have no faith in men, present company excluded.'

Matebo smiled.

‘Is he interested in you?'

‘In the stories I tell him.' She swatted at a mosquito that buzzed by her ear.

‘I think otherwise.'

‘Oh?'

‘Are you interested in him?'

‘No. Not in that way. Well, if I wasn't involved in providing him information he might be someone who would be interesting, but—'

‘I think otherwise.' Smoke from the wood embers filtered through the atmosphere, causing visions that were blurry and strangely exotic.

She reached over and punched his arm.

‘What do you know, old man?'

‘Not so old that I don't recognize the spark of love.'

‘Where are my supplies,' she asked, quickly changing the subject.

‘Wrapped in a bundle over there.' He pointed to the first bald cypress where on the ground a thin sheet of bark was wrapped around twigs, flowers and plants. The bundle was tied with green vines.

‘Yellow root, indigo, Spanish moss to make your dolls, verbena, wild orchid petals and everything else you ordered.' Nodding at her, he struggled to his feet then walked to the package.

‘Your ingredients, Matebo, they make the strongest potions,
gris gris
bags that are magical, and voodoo dolls that cast spells on all who see them. You are truly a rare spirit.'

‘You just have to know where to look. I have special places that no one knows about. I cultivate, much like a farmer. All of my ingredients are fresh, handpicked and nurtured with love.'

‘Still, your ingredients are magic.'

‘The herbs, the roots, they are important, but you and me, we are but vessels. The spirits must agree to do the work. You understand that and because of your understanding, you are an effective healer.'

Nodding, she peeled off a stack of bills and gave them to him. Then she picked up the bundle, placed it under her arm and turned to him.

‘You are the closest person to a father that I ever had. You know that,
mon protecteur
.'

There were tears in the old man's eyes when he turned from her.

‘Go back to your motorbike. It's two miles and you must go now, before the sun is high and the heat and humidity tire you. Go.'

She turned and he called to her one last time.

‘Solange, I feel there is danger in the city. I feel that you are a part of something that you may not fully comprehend, but I feel your spirit is in jeopardy. You said it moments ago. The curse we have is that everything is not explained, but I know it like I know my heart and soul. Promise me you will spend every waking moment being vigilant.'

She stared at him. Never before, not even during the Joseph ordeal, had she heard this degree of concern in his voice.

‘I feel if you do not pay attention, I may not see you again, little one. Be careful for me.'

‘I will, Matebo. If for no other reason than to come back and share a meal and drink with my favorite man. My life is not in danger, so dismiss your worries. I am more afraid for my clients. Many of them are in serious situations, and I pray for them and do my best to help them through their problems.'

‘Your mother never worried about herself. She, too, only worried about the ones who trusted her, who relied on her advice. She worried about me, Solange. Always looking out for the other person. And now she has the worst set of circumstances. There is the lesson. You must look out for yourself.'

He smiled weakly, nodded and walked toward the trees. She thought she saw tears in the old houngan's eyes. In a moment he was lost from view.

A
dam Strand was dressed down in his off-duty attire. Jeans, a black tee and canvas deck shoes. Keeping his head low he shuffled into the restaurant. Surrey's Cafe was nestled in the lower Garden District on Magazine Street and specialized as a fresh-juice early-riser establishment that served organic breakfasts, along with high-calorie offerings. After all, this was New Orleans. He studied the hand-painted sign on the wall, covered with lemons, ripe mangos, watermelon and grapes.

‘A New Orleans coffee and bananas Foster on French toast,' he said to the comely blond waitress.

Studying him for a second, she said, ‘Really? That's what you're having for breakfast?'

‘Uh, yeah.'

‘Ah, good choice.' She didn't mean it. She poured his coffee.

He knew the look, had been getting it all his life. It was that look that said
you stupid fuck, don't you know that this is a bad decision?

He'd made a lot of bad decisions in his life. Hadn't his credibility just taken a hit due to his insistence that Antoine Duvay was the guilty party in the murder investigation? He'd pushed the envelope, lobbying to convince the important players in this case that Duvay was the one who killed Judge David Lerner. He'd even planted a weapon, for God's sake. Dropping a gun was a major transgression. And what did it get him? Absolutely nothing.

Strand reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small bottle of Jack. Without checking his surroundings, he took a long sip of coffee then poured the bourbon into his cup. It helped him through the day. His girl chided him, even at age five.
Daddy, you act funny when you drink that stuff. Daddy, why do you drink that stuff? You smell funny.
His daughter, once a week. And she was scolding him already. He really needed to rein it in.

They'd found a recording of the incident. A phone recording, for Christ's sake, so all that work, all his jockeying to convict the kid had been for nothing. His attempt to make this case a slam-dunk deal had failed. There was no case left. The murder of Judge David Lerner had nothing to do with Antoine Duvay. He laid his head in his hands, closed his eyes and wondered what the hell he was doing.

Adam Strand had fucked it up most of his life and he knew it. Admitted it to himself. But he'd been able to pay the bills. Pay child support. A little payoff here, a paid favor over there. He'd look the other way and be rewarded for his effort. Somebody wanted information, he'd find a way to get it. Strand could make half his cop pay again on the side. Nothing other guys on the force didn't do. But he was going out on a limb on this one. This time he was pretty sure he was working for the Feds and if he got caught committing crimes, even for the government, it would be serious jail time. Something he couldn't afford. His part-time daughter couldn't survive without full-time child support. He loved her more than life itself.

Paul Trueblood was going to meet him, offer him a pretty good payday for his information, and give him a chance to walk away with no recriminations. If he could trust the guy. A lot of money, the crime would be covered up, and a chance to leave with some pay in his pocket. Tax free at that. Trueblood had actually told him that he'd be doing New Orleans a service. An undercover hero if you would. Someone who had worked for the good of the community. He had had a pretty good idea who Trueblood worked for. He'd tracked him down, and it seemed that the guy could very well be undercover FBI, but the important thing was, the man had told him that he could cover his tracks. This Trueblood had insinuated that the detective would actually be helping solve a crime, bring the perpetrators to justice if he cooperated. There was a nice monetary reward in this exchange, so Adam Strand was on board. The more money he could make the merrier he could be.

At least he thought he was working for the FBI. It was just that Paul Trueblood couldn't divulge who he was or how Strand was going to be a hero. He had to trust the man. Hell, he could be FBI and they could be trusted, couldn't they? And, if Strand produced the product, Trueblood could make sure he didn't get caught. At least that was what the promise held. No incrimination. This was a win-win situation. Wasn't it?

Trueblood was late.

Strand pulled his cell phone from his pocket and placed it on the table. Five minutes and he'd be out of there.

The second he made that decision, a man walked in, dressed in a flowery tourist shirt and cargo shorts, and he headed right for Strand's table. Pulling out a chair, he sat down.

‘You've got access to the printouts, right?' Trueblood got right to the point.