Devil Dead (26 page)

“I must say you're gettin' downright forthright with your personal data.”

“You obviously want to know everything about me. You're not very hard to figure, Claire.”

Okay, so now they were on first-name basis. That had to be a step in the right direction for their rapidly budding relationship. The kind of budding relationship done with a hand clutching its throat and squeezing long and hard. “That right? I'm transparent as glass, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Well, you got me beat in that attribute, that's for damn sure. You hold your cards close to your vest.”

No answer. But she had to admit, he was downright chatty today, after their prior days of studied silence. But if there was a satanic cult of devil worshippers in the vicinity, Claire was gonna find it. If Andrea Quinn was now a lifetime member of it, she wanted to know, and deport her right alongside her criminal daddy. And she was tired of wasting time riding around and meeting the nutjobs that Novak referred to as neighbors.

About five minutes later, they pulled out of a forest of towering oaks hung almost to the ground with Spanish moss and thick with kudzu vines and into a big grassy yard that was neatly mowed. Claire stared at the old plantation house sitting in the middle of the verdant grounds and surrounded by even more ancient and giant magnolias and live oak trees bearded with the clinging gray moss that was anywhere and everywhere in south Louisiana. It looked pretty much like Tara of
Gone with the Wind
fame. Very large, two stories high, replete with verandas and shuttered windows, but more like a Tara that had been burned and ransacked by those dastardly Yanks.

Yes sirree, Novak's place needed some serious elbow grease. Said house required some genuine TLC and master carpentry and about a million dollars' worth of new paint. Maybe she and Black ought to come down and chip in some bucks, give the place a fresh coat of white paint, instead of paying Novak's fee, one he didn't seem to care about anyway.

“Needs a coat of paint,” Novak admitted, as if he did indeed find her glassy stare transparent enough to read her innermost thoughts. On the other hand, nobody who came upon the place would be thinking anything else except the house's gargantuan need for a major paint job. So they drove up the white-shelled drive that curved around to a big covered portico on the far side. One designed for Civil War horse-drawn carriages, no doubt.

“Nah, Novak. That unpainted look gives the place character. Looks good that shade of peeling gray.”

He smiled but kept his eyes on the road. Yes, he was a careful driver. “This plantation's been in my family for over two hundred years.”

“Novaks like to hang around and put down roots, I take it?”

“My mother was a St. Pierre, Creoles who came over from France in the late 1700s. Sugar planters. I'll get around to restoring it someday.” He pulled up in the portico and shoved the gearshift into Park and glanced over at her. “Wanna come in? I've got to get something.”

“Sure. Got a bottle of water I could filch off you?”

He nodded, and she kept looking around as they walked up some old cracked red brick steps circa 1800 onto a wide side gallery with ornate bannisters set with fleurs-de-lis and then around to the front door. There were lots of empty flowerbeds lining the front veranda and cracked concrete urns sitting about and even an ancient moss-covered sundial in the middle of a circular garden sans anything but dirt. At one time, she suspected that Novak's place had been quite the talk of the Louisiana Purchase. Maybe Stonewall Jackson had dined on that very porch once upon a long time ago.

There was a barn behind the house—of course there was, as was required, it seemed. It looked in a tad better shape than the main house, and she could just glimpse some falling-down and ramshackle ancient-looking slave quarters off to the right and way down at the end of the mowed fields. She could also see a wide swift-flowing bayou down there, off in the distance, probably one that would take a boat straight out to the Gulf of Mexico. More surprising to her was the big fancy sailboat she espied that was tied up at what looked like a brand-new and covered and state-of-the-art dock.

“Whoa, Novak, that is quite the boat you got down there. That is yours, I take it?”

“Yeah. I like to sail. And fish.”

“Looks like a honey. Black would be jealous. He likes big shiny toys.”

“It's nice enough. That's where I usually sleep. It's cooler down on the water.”

Inside the nine-foot front door, one that was replete with sidelights and a beautiful stained-glass fanlight, there was a large foyer. No air conditioning, unfortunately. It was all shut up and hot as hell inside. Even in April. It appeared that Novak saw no reason to raise all the windows and invite in buzzing hordes of swamp flies and mosquitoes to join him. There was a lot of antique furniture sitting around, all of which had probably not been moved in all those two hundred plus years. Probably each and every one worth a small fortune, too. Ditto with some very antique paintings in frames that looked like da Vinci had carved them himself, and ornate mirrors taller than Novak stood. Novak would do well to get himself a topnotch alarm system, if any robbers could even find the place.

The house was fairly clean, though, with what looked like an attempt now and then at neatening. Some areas looked updated to at least the twentieth century and were decorated comfortably, as if a family had once lived there. There were some women's magazines on the foyer table, with models wearing clothes fashionable in the late nineties, maybe. Wow, maybe she should give Novak a new subscription to
Good Housekeeping
for Christmas.

There was also a small and dusty red tricycle sitting at the end of the central hall. Claire wondered then if it had been Novak's immediate family who'd lived there, if he had ever had one, and if the heat was the real reason why he didn't want to sleep inside the house. But she wasn't crass enough to ask him, or maybe she was, but she wasn't going to. Somehow she knew that was a no-no of the highest caliber. He had begun to open up a little bit to her, to be sure, but at a sluggish slug's pace, and maybe not even that fast. But he was now offering up a word or two, sometimes even more. Her instincts told her that he was quite a complicated man and had lived a life full of interesting people and faraway places, and had experienced some super traumatic events that he would never in a million years talk about. It would be interesting to hear his life's story. Maybe Black could hypnotize him and make him spill his guts while in a trance.

“Nice place, Novak.”

“Thanks.”

“Wouldn't hurt you to buy a feather duster, but I don't see any poor animals all stuffed-up and staring. That's always a plus in my happy-to-visit-you book.”

“I'll get you some water.” And thus Will Novak avoided further wordy exchanges.

Claire followed him into the kitchen, looking down at her phone when she received a text from Harve Lester.

 

 

Good, but she couldn't call him back right now. She texted back with two words:

 

 

Then she watched Novak open a new side-by-side stainless steel Samsung refrigerator, take out a bottle of Evian water, and hand it to her. He moved very quietly and gracefully for such a large man. No clomping for him, uh-uh, but she hadn't seen him in leather boots yet. Always wore New Balance sneakers. “Seen enough? Can we go now? There's a girl we need to find.”

“You bet.”

“Gotta get something upstairs first. I'll be back in a minute.”

This, of course, meant she wasn't invited to tag along to floor number two. Probably kept his stuffed stuff up there. He headed up the wide pink marble staircase out in the center hall, one that had at one time been a most beautiful work of artisan craftsmanship, and probably imported from the self-same quarry used to build the Pyramids of Giza. It still looked damn good, though. When he disappeared at one end of the upstairs hallway, Claire moseyed into the parlor (she guessed that's what it would be called) mainly because she was a very nosy sort and wanted to snoop around in his private life.

There was a small, very old-fashioned piano, maybe even one of those spinet things that probably had a sticker on the bottom of the dusty red velvet bench that suggested
Made in Paris, circa well before the dawn of man.
Probably worth a cool million some odd bucks, too, at the right auction. But there were framed photos sitting on top of it, relatively new ones by the looks of them and ones that she wanted to see in the worst way. She glanced back at the stairs to make sure she wouldn't get caught snooping around. Novak was nowhere to be seen.

Up close, only one frame appeared to be manufactured in the last century, all the others probably tintypes of his long dead ancestors who built the worst-for-the-wear castle in which she now stood. Jeez. Wanna live in a real live museum, anyone? She picked up a dusty picture of an old woman and two younger girls standing beside his truck. Some of them were of Novak in his various military garb, both formal uniforms and utilities, holding various and sundry big guns and looking pretty tough and ready to roll out and kill the enemy. But there was another one that held more interest for her. It portrayed a much younger and smiling Novak in an NYPD uniform, and hanging on to his arm was a really beautiful woman with long black hair and a big friendly smile. He was holding two little toddlers, twins, each sitting on an arm, a darling little boy on the right who looked like a miniature Novak and a beautiful little girl with blond piggies on his left. Both children were holding on to Novak's hair like little kids like to do. They looked to be around two, or three, maybe. Close to Zach's age when he had died.

Oh, God, she didn't want to think about her own little Zach, it still hurt too much, even after so many years. She wondered where Novak's pretty woman and children were now, and why Novak wasn't with them. She wondered if the woman had left him and thus explained his present taciturn bent and less than Disney World–happy demeanor. She heard him coming back down the stairs so she hastily put down the picture and met him out in the wide front foyer.

“Ready?” he said.

“Let's go.”

They drove back into town, which took a long time, but Claire was glad she didn't have to hang around his weirdo, taxidermy-happy neighbors. The trip had been rather eye opening, however. On the way back into the city, Claire googled devil worship in New Orleans, more than willing to believe there were satanists in the immediate vicinity after the day's revelations, and came up with about a thousand devil-loving stores and bars and even churches. She finally found the address of Mary Lou Picard's store in Covington that went by the utterly adorable name of Satan's Favorite Things. Now that would be an interesting place in which to browse.

“Hey, Novak, wanna go over to Mary Lou's weird devil shop and see what Satan's favorite things are?”

“I already know what they are.”

“I want to pick up some books on witchcraft and study up on all things hellish. I have a gut feeling about it. Lots of threads are leading us straight to the devil and his ken, don't you agree?”

“Not enough threads are leading us anywhere. We need to quit screwing around like this and find that girl before she ends up in a body bag.”

“Likewise, I'm sure. Easier said than done, though.”

 

Satan's Favorite Things was located in a small outdoor strip mall, happily nestled between a carry-out pizza place and a dusty consignment store for children's clothing. Jeez Louise, but south Louisiana was one unique kinda place. But Mary Lou had her store looking quite like a lending library in Hades, more so than even the Devil Dead bar, in its hole down in the Quarter. There were black walls painted with real-looking red and gold flames and with the denizens of hell screaming and prodding each other with red pitchforks. Sweet.

There were quite a few of Mary Lou's stuffed stuff, too. A wolf and a neat little nutria rat, and two squirrels, and one of the armadillos that usually lay dead and smashed all along the sides of roads in most southern states, even Missouri. Mary Lou and Becky were not to be seen, but there was a young girl standing behind the desk who looked a helluva lot like Morticia Addams or Lily Munster, take your pick. She had long hair even more blue-black than Claire's new dye job. It was parted in the middle and looked to be a not-so-real-looking wig. She had on what looked like a black graduation robe. She looked bored stiff. There was a stuffed rattlesnake on the desk by the cash register, all coiled up with nowhere to go.

A wide archway led into a room that was obviously dedicated to all things
Twilight
. A mural of two skinny but semimuscular young males sans shirts was painted on the wall, likenesses of the actors from the movies, Claire presumed. Neither were as good looking as Black, nor as muscular, nor as tough and contemplative as Novak, either, truth be told. There was one lucky female sitting between them and enjoying all their masculine pouty looks and sexual awareness. For some reason the girl of the trio looked downright depressed. Wonder why, with the
mucho
bucks she was probably raking in. But good grief and gee whiz, Claire was gonna have to watch that movie someday, just to understand its appeal. Something, however, told her she never would get it. There were teens abounding, all girls, wandering around inside the
Twilight
room, looking at posters and hoping handsome vampires would show up and take them to their coffin. Kids today.

The back section of the store was all black and catered to the Goths, left over from its heyday a few decades back. There were plenty of books and magazines to choose from and plenty of pimply teenagers pretending to be demons and wearing variations of long black trench coats and all black shirts and pants and lots of dark eyeliner and black lipstick. Not too many pretending to be witches, though. Witches must be passé.
Bewitched
was not as sexy as the
Twilight
saga, Claire supposed.