French Silk (40 page)

He practically floated back to the elevator in a state of euphoria. Yasmine had touched his cheek with affection. Her hand had felt smooth and cool, like his
maman's
caress when he was a boy. There had also been something in her eyes that had reminded him of his mother—a familiar poignancy that he remembered only too well. But he put that thought aside and didn't let it compromise the bubbling joy of the moment.

"You cocksucking bastard. You motherfucker." Yasmine lambasted Alister Petrie with a litany of obscenities.

"Charming language, Yasmine."

"Shut your lying mouth, you son of a fucking bitch."

Fury radiated from her like the red waves from a space heater. Her body was taut and bristling with rage. It burned in the depths of her eyes. "You never intended to leave your wife, did you?"

"Yasmine, I—"

"Did you?"

"During an election year, it would be political suicide. But that doesn't mean—"

"You goddamn liar. You slimy, stinking piece of rat shit. I could kill you."

"For God's sake." He ran his fingers through his hair. It was still tousled from their coupling, which had been almost as ferocious as their argument. They'd heaved and bucked and clutched and wrestled as if it were a contest rather than an act of love.

"You're overreacting," he said in a calming tone, trying to prevent another outburst of her violent shrieks. "This is only a temporary separation, Yasmine. It would be best—"

"Best for you."

"Best for both of us if we cooled it for a while, at least until after the election. I'm not breaking off the affair permanently. Jesus, do you think I want that? I don't. You're my life."

"Bullshit."

"I swear to you that once the election is over, I'll—"

"You'll what? You'll bless me with a few measly yours of screwing every week or so? For how long? For life? Fuck you, Congressman. I'm not putting up with that shit.

"I don't expect you to be happy about it. God, I'd be crushed if you were." He spread open his arms in a gesture of appeal. "What I do expect is a little understanding. My schedule is a nightmare, Yasmine. I'm under constant pressure."

"Sugar, you don't know pressure." Her voice thrummed with foreboding. "When I get finished with you, your skinny ass won't be worth shit in this state or any other. Your little nigger gal is through fuckin' around with you. The party is over, sugar. Now you gotta pay."

She headed for the door. He rushed after her. "Wait, Yasmine! Let me explain. You're not being reasonable." He caught her shoulders and turned her around. "Please." His voice cracked on a near sob. "Please."

She made no further attempt to leave, but her eyes continued to smolder like live coals. Alister gulped oxygen and blinked rapidly, looking like a desperate man about to plead for a stay of execution.

"Yasmine, darling," he began haltingly, "you've got to cut me some slack. Promise me that you won't take this to the media."

The words went through her like lances, opening up pockets of pain and outrage. "You don't give a shit about how I feel, do you? You're only thinking of yourself and your bloody campaign!"

"I didn't mean that. I—"

Issuing a savage cry, she lashed out, scraping her fingernails down his cheek and drawing blood from four long gashes. With the other hand, she ripped out several strands of his hair.

For a moment, Alister was too stunned to move. Then the pain struck him and he cried out, raising his hand to his cheek.

"You're crazy!" he shouted when his hand came away dripping blood. "You're a frigging lunatic."

Yasmine allowed herself several seconds to revel in his astonishment and agony, then she stormed from the room. On the way to the elevator, she encountered a man and a woman in the hotel corridor. They stared at her and gave her a wide berth. She realized then that tears were streaming from her eyes and that her blouse was flapping open.

She buttoned it haphazardly and shoved it back into her waistband as she rode the elevator down to the street level. She also replaced her sunglasses. As she moved through the Fairmont's lobby she kept her head down. She spotted Andre from the corner of her eye, but didn't slow down or encourage him to approach her as she left the building. She retrieved Claire's rented van from the parking garage and headed across Canal Street.

It was a mild evening. Many were getting a head start on the weekend. The streets of the French Quarter were crowded with tourists who tied up motor traffic and jammed the narrow sidewalks. Yasmine had difficulty finding a parking place and finally left the van in a tow-away zone. She still had to walk several blocks down Rue Dumaine to reach her destination. She made eye contact with no one and drew as little attention to herself as possible.

The place was still open, but if she hadn't known it was there, she would never have noticed it. Several shoppers were browsing among the shelves of herbs that would find their way into gris-gris and potions.

"I'd like to see the priestess," Yasmine said, speaking softly to the attendant, who was smoking a joint. The aged hippie withdrew, then returned a moment later to signal Yasmine to follow her.

The Altar Room was separated from the shop by a dusty maroon velvet curtain. The walls were decorated with African masks and metal carvings, called vévé, which evoked powerful spirits. A large wooden cross stood in one corner, but it wasn't a traditional crucifix. Curled around the center post was Damballah, the snake, the most powerful spirit. Residing in a wire cage in the opposite corner was a python, representative of Damballah. The snake was used in the voodoo rituals conducted in the swamps outside the city. On the altar itself were statues of Christian saints, photographs of people who claimed to have been blessed by the spirits, flickering candles, burning sticks of incense, and ju-ju, the bones and skulls of animals.

The priestess was seated in the queen's chair adjacent to the altar. She was immense, her enormous breasts overlapping a belly comprised of several rolls of fat. Her large head was wrapped in a turban. Dozens of gold chains were suspended from her short, thick neck. On at least half of them were dangling charms, lockets, and other amulets. Her hands were as large as baseball gloves. Several rings glittered on each finger. She raised one of her giant hands and motioned Yasmine forward.

The priestess was Haitian, as black as ebony. Her wide, round face was oily and shiny with sweat. In a trancelike state, she observed her visitor through heavy-lidded, slumberous eyes that were as small and brilliant as onyx buttons.

Yasmine addressed her with more reverence than a devout Catholic would address a cardinal. "I need your help." The dense smoke from the incense was intoxicating. Yasmine felt light-headed, but she always did whenever she visited this underworld of black magic. Dark powers seemed to emanate from the priestess, from her paraphernalia, from the murky shadows of every corner.

In a flat, monotonic voice, Yasmine told the priestess about her lover. "He's lied to me many times. He's an evil man. He must be punished."

The priestess nodded sagely. "Do you have something of his?"

"Yes."

The priestess raised one beringed hand and an assistant materialized. She offered Yasmine a small crockery bowl. Yasmine scraped the human tissue and specks of dried blood from beneath her fingernails and carefully dropped the particles into the bowl. Next she removed the strands of Alister's hair that were still wrapped around the fingers of her left hand and added them to the bowl.

Then she lifted her gaze to the priestess. Flickering candlelight was reflected in her agate eyes, making them appear animalistic. Her lips barely moved, but her sibilant message was clear. "I want him to suffer badly."

* * *

Belle Petrie was waiting for Alister in the foyer when he arrived at their Greek revival home on the shore of Lake Ponchartrain. The children had been fed earlier and sent to bed. Before leaving for the day, the full-time housekeeper/cook had set the formal dining table with the best china and added fresh flowers to the centerpiece.

Belle was dressed in purple silk lounging pajamas that swished against her legs as she moved forward to greet her husband. "My God. Did she do that to you?" As she examined the scratches on his cheek, there was no sympathy in her voice, merely surprise.

"Satisfied, Belle? These scratches should prove that I did what I promised."

"You told her that it was over for good and warned her not to bother us anymore?"

"Precisely that. Then she charged me like a goddamn panther."

Belle's gleaming page boy barely rippled as she made a tsking sound and shook her head. "Go upstairs and swab those scratches with peroxide while I pour our dinner wine."

"I'm not hungry."

"Of course you are, darling," she said with a fixed smile. "Run along and tend to your face. I'll expect you back down shortly."

Alister recognized her suggestion for what it was—a test to see if he would obey. In her subtle way, she was stating the terms under which she would stay with him, financially support his campaign, and decline to expose him for the unfaithful, lying husband that he was. From here on, she was the writer, producer, and director of this charade. If he wanted to play, he must accept his role and carry it out to the letter.

What choice did he have but to accept her conditions, no matter how unpalatable? Sure, he'd go along for a while. It would behoove him to toe the line until after the election. Then, if he wanted to resume his affair with Yasmine, or start a new one with somebody else, he'd damned well do it. Just because he'd been caught once didn't mean he intended to live the rest of his life as Belle's neutered lapdog. For the time being, however, it was prudent to pretend.

"I'll be down in a minute."

Upstairs, he inspected his face in the bathroom mirror. The gashes were still fresh, raw and bleeding. How the hell would he explain them to his staff and campaign committee, much less the media and the voting public? Backlashing tree branches? A frisky new kitten? Who the hell would believe that?

On the other hand, in order to contradict him they'd have to accuse him of lying and prove it. So what was he worried about? They'd take his word for it because they'd have no alternative.

He wasn't even vaguely concerned that Yasmine would throw him out like a chunk of raw meat to the news hounds. True, he'd experienced a moment of trepidation when she'd looked at him in a way that had chilled his blood. But once she cooled down and her reason reasserted itself, she'd change her mind about seeking restitution. After all, she loved him. Her love had been a curse that might now turn out to be a blessing. She wouldn't do anything to destroy him politically because she probably still clung to the fantasy that one day she'd wind up being Mrs. Congressman Petrie.

Besides, she was proud to a fault. She couldn't publicize their affair without making herself look like a fool. She had a career to salvage, a business to protect, and creditors to pacify. The last thing Yasmine wanted or needed was a scandal.

But what if her desire for revenge was greater than her better judgment? What if she did squeal?

Alister shrugged at his reflection in the mirror. So what? The public outcry over such a notorious affair would work more against her than him. All he had to do was sit back, hold hands with Belle, and vehemently deny any allegations that Yasmine might make. Who'd believe a virtually bankrupt, morally depraved, hysterical woman from Harlem over an affluent, stable, happily married southern gentleman?

With all that resolved in his mind, his mood was almost buoyant as he went back downstairs. Belle kissed him gently and formed a moue concern over his injured cheek. "It's all behind us new," she said as she extended him a glass of perfectly chilled white wine. "Tell me about your day." She served him a light supper of crab salad on toast points, sliced cantaloupe, marinated cherry tomatoes, and raspberry sherbet.

They were lingering over their demitasse when something smashed against the dining-room window. It landed hard, making a horrific
crash
that caused the large pane of glass to vibrate.

"What the hell was that?" Alister whipped his head around.

Belle shot straight up from her chair, knocking it over backward.

Alister gaped in horror at the blood and gore splattered on the glass.

Belle covered her mouth with her hand to keep from gagging.

"Jesus," Alister wheezed. "Stay inside."

"Alister—"

"Stay inside!"

He had never been inordinately brave, so it wasn't so much courage as anger that propelled him through the front door of his house and out onto his carefully manicured lawn. Down the street, he heard the squeal of tires, but it was too far away and too dark for him to see the make of the car or to read the license plate.

He approached the dining-room window with caution and fear. Looking at the blood-splattered glass from this side, made it even spookier, more real. He could smell the blood. A Rorschach inkblot from hell.

He leaned across the flower bed to inspect it closer, lost his balance, fell into the shrubbery beneath the window, and landed on a dead chicken. Its throat had been slashed. The cut was fresh, wide, and gaping. The feathers were wet and shiny with dark blood.