Sacrifice (22 page)

144

H
elene lives in Ridgewood, Queens. Top–floor apartment, walk–up. She let me in when I said the name Silver gave me.

The living room was all cheap furniture, poison–neat, Silver's picture on the mantelpiece. I wondered if there was another one in the bedroom.

She was in her mid–forties, maybe. Hard to tell—no makeup around her wary eyes.

I gave her a paper bag. Inside was $31,450. Most of what I had left from the score with Elroy's phony paper.

I get up against it bad enough, I can always go in that basement.

145

D
one, then. Loose ends all around, but they weren't mine.

Off cycle, somehow. Pansy wasn't in heat. Michelle wasn't ready to come home. Luke would need more work. Wolfe would find the freaks who built the bomb.

It would all happen without me.

I should have been glad to be out of it.

146

T
he next morning, I took Pansy, went back to the park. This time, I had an old army blanket with me, big sketch pad, charcoal pastels. I set myself up in a good spot, halfway up a rise, strong outcropping of rock to my right. Facing west, the sun behind me.

I propped up the sketch pad, swirled the charcoal over the paper a few times, my eyes sweeping the terrain. Pansy lay on her stomach, face between her paws, wrinkling her nose—the park didn't smell like her roof. Yet. I unzipped the gym bag I'd brought with me. Still–warm loaf of French bread inside, a bottle of water, slab of dark chocolate wrapped in white paper, pack of smokes. And a couple dozen of those little round cheese pieces they wrap in red string.

The white limo came into my field of vision, making the circuit. I could track it pretty well from where I was—no hurry.

I opened one of the cheese pieces, put it right in front of Pansy's snout. She ate it with her eyes, not moving. When there was a river of drool rolling down the slope in front of her, I said "Speak!" in a soft voice. She delicately snarfed it up, ripping a divot out of the grass.

"Good girl," I said, patting her. She snounted up against me, the sun sparkling baby rainbows over her dark fur.

A woman jogged by beneath us, hair flying loose behind her. Couldn't tell if it was Belinda—bad angle. Lots of bicycles, more runners. Mostly cabs on the road. Carlos wouldn't be back my way for a while.

I worked on my drawing, occasionally unwrapping another cheese for Pansy, looking around.

A woman's figure left the path, working her way up the rise toward me. Belinda.

"Hello, stranger," she called our, pulling Walkman earphones off her head. She put them around her neck, covered them with the towel from her waist. Bounced up and sat down. Dressed the same way she was last time, fine sheen of sweat on her face, blue eyes lively.

"What's up?" she asked, indicating my sketch pad.

"Interpretive art. A hobby of mine."

"Could I see?" Pushing close to me, perfume under the sweat. "What's it supposed to be?"

"Just…patterns. Light, shadow…like that."

"It's…I don't know what to say."

"That's okay. Neither do I."

Pansy watched her, not moving.

"Your dog…I never got her name.

"Betsy." It just came out that way—I went with it.

"That's a funny name for such a big dog."

"Oh, I think it suits her. Doesn't it, girl?" Making a gesture with my hand. Pansy put her head on my lap, still watching the woman.

"You remember me, Betsy?" she asked, reaching out to pat. I gave Pansy the signal—she took the pats. I felt her neck muscles under my hand. Steel cable.

I lit a cigarette. "You never did call me," she said, a teasing undertone in her voice, less than a challenge, more than an accident.

"Dinner, you said. I've been working nights."

"Oh." She arched her eyebrows, brushed some sweat from her pug nose—a gesture like you'd see in the ring.

"Nice day for a picnic, it looks like, you had some food." Clarence's voice, materializing from somewhere behind us.

"Yeah, it is," I told him. "Sit down, join us."

He folded himself onto the edge of the blanket, indifferent to the risk to his lime–green pants. "This is Belinda," I said to Clarence. "Belinda, meet John."

He extended his slim dark hand into her thick white one. They shook, smiling. I rummaged around in the gym bag, came out with the bread, broke off a piece, offered it to Belinda. She took it, bit off a nice–sized hunk with her small white teeth. Clarence took one too. I opened the water bottle. We each took a drink. Unwrapped some cheese. Clarence declined. Belinda took one. Pansy glared at her harder than ever. I unwrapped another half dozen pieces, pulled Pansy's head close to mine, whispered the word in her ear. She mashed the cheese like a compactor, licked her teeth to get the remnants.

We finished off the bread. I broke out the chocolate. This time Clarence went for it, Belinda passed.

Peaceful there, delicate as an underwater bubble, the four of us in that park.

"What is that thing, mahn?" Clarence asked, looking at my pad.

"It's art."

"It is, yes?" His black silk shirt rustled as he took it from my hands, examined it from different angles.

"Do you work with James?" Belinda asked Clarence.

"No, we are members of the same club."

"What club?"

"A health club, miss."

"Oh! I'm a member too. Which one do you go to?"

"You never would've heard of it, miss. Way out in Queens, by the train station."

She got to her feet, patted herself like she was checking something. Her calves flexed under the exercise pants, heavy, shapely things. I got up too.

"I'll call you," I said. "Soon."

"Do it," she said, low–voiced. Stood on her toes, gave me a quick kiss near my mouth. Made her way down the hill, turned onto the track, jogged off.

"You were right, Clarence," I said. "She is a pretty woman."

"She's a cop, mahn."

147

W
inter sun on my back, throwing shadows. Burning cold.

"You sure?"

"I been out here a long time, mahn. Not just today. She jogs around the park, got that Walkman in her ear. Only thing, she don't just listen, she talks too. Two white men, just past the Fifty–ninth Street entrance, two more, just off Central Park West on Eighty–sixth. Dressed like she is. Ankle holsters, walkie–talkies too. The black guy with the ice–cream wagon…the one by the big pond? Same thing. She talks to them all. That's all, mahn. She don't talk to nobody else."

"Damn."

"Yeah. Thought you knew, mahn, the way you change my name and everything. And she don't know yours, you think, yes?"

"Just playing it safe—I didn't know."

"It's the truth, mahn. Sure thing. Somebody snatch that lady, he gonna get himself hurt."

"You think that's what she's doing…trolling for rapists?"

"Wrong hours, mahn. Wrong time. She stays off the bad trails too. It's you she's working, boss."

"Why?"

"Way I see it, the man in the white limo, he's made him a trade."

"White limo?"

"This is Clarence, mahn. Your friend. Your true friend. Give it up. Don't look back. You follow that big bouncing butt right into the penitentiary."

I lit a smoke, thinking about it. About not looking back. About how that comes natural to some people.

148

C
larence sat quietly next to me. Pansy swept the area with her eyes. Smarter than me, going in.

I packed my stuff in the gym bag, snapped on Pansy's lead, told her to stay while I folded the army blanket.

"Thanks, Clarence," I said, holding out my hand, goodbye.

"That's not why I came, mahn. Got a message from the Queen. One of her people called Jacques. Said to come see her. She has your answer. Come anytime, after dark."

"Anything else?"

"Word for word, mahn."

We walked through the park, heading west. A collie galloped by, off leash, a kid chasing it. Pansy ignored the other dog—she generally does.

"You know about this obeah thing, Clarence?"

"I know some, mahn. What my mother told me, from her mother, she said."

"Tell me."

"It comes from the old ways. From slavery, way I heard it. It's all about sacrifice, mahn. When you die, you wait. To cross over. The sacrifice, that lets you come back. In spirit. There are many spirits…they call them loas…a joker, a warrior, a lover."

"The bag…the one we found that night. That was a sacrifice?"

"Yes, mahn. The Queen, she is the Mamaloi, the priestess. There's two kinds obeah. The white and the red. The red, their god is the snake."

"What's the difference?"

"In white obeah, in that juju bag would be a chicken, maybe a goat…an animal."

"In the red…?"

"The goat without horns, mahn," Clarence said, his hands clasped together. A quick shudder passed through his thin frame.

149

B
elinda was a cop. In books, people are fascinated with mysteries. Can't let them slide. Books have plots—life has plotters. Maybe Belinda was the front end of a decoy operation, maybe Carlos had already rolled over for the Man and she was with the backup team. Or maybe it was me they were looking at—maybe she heard about me, wanted to freelance a bit. Get a gold shield to pin on that fine chest.

I wondered if she'd ever had a dog named Blackie. If she'd really liked Pansy.

Clarence picked the lock on the privacy of my mind. "You gonna do it, mahn? Go there, see the Queen?"

I nodded.

150

T
wo more dead days. Then I went out to answer the call. Just before midnight, I crossed the Triboro, took the far right lane to Queens, exited at Ninety–fourth Street, just before La Guardia. Rolled south to Northern Boulevard, turned left to the voodoo house. The gate was open. I pulled the Plymouth inside, all the way around to the back. Two men in the yard, dressed in their black and white. I got out slowly so I wouldn't spook them. They looked through me, said nothing.

I walked to the back door. A bright red arrow was freshly painted on the side of the house, pointing to a set of stone steps. Down.

Another way to the basement. I followed the steps to the bottom. By then, I knew better than to knock. No doorknob. I pushed, it opened, and I was inside.

The underground room seemed bigger than the last time. She was where she was before, a faint shape in the gloomy shadows. I walked to her. Candles popped into life all around the room, thick and stubby as fists, fat–flamed. Red and white, lacing the dark in an alternating pattern like the pin heads on the juju bag. Cloth–sounds on either side of me as I moved. Deep dampness from the stone walls. The floor felt like packed earth beneath the soles of my boots.

"Do you believe now?" she asked, soft–voiced as I approached.

I sat before her. "The baby was in the water," I replied.

"Yes. And now you hunt again."

"Not for…"

"I know. Not for him. For the false gods. For what those like you call the devil."

"Yes."

"You do not ask how I know. Have you learned, then?"

"Yes."

"Where is your son tonight?"

"I have no son."

"Yes, hunter, you have a son. The young one who was with you when you last came. He is dark like us, but his heart is like yours. A son looks to his father for guidance. For the Way. Your way is to hunt. And he follows."

"No, it's just a job. He works for others."

"And to those others, you are a hired man, yes?"

"Yes."

"And so then is he. Like you. It is from you he learns, not from them. And he protects you, like a son."

"He's a professional—it's his job."

"No. His master gave him the message. From me. To you. And so you are here now. But the boy, he has been here since yesterday afternoon. Just across the street, in one of the rooms they rent."

"How…?"

"He paid the lady extra so he could have a room with a window on the street. The bathroom is down the hall. In his room, in his suitcase, he has a rifle. One that comes in two pieces. It is our house, there. The lady is not one of us, but she knows what to do. It is your son."

"He won't do anything. I'll…"

"It is all right. He is safe. Ask me your questions now—we have work to do before the sun."

"The people I'm looking for…" I started, reaching in my pocket for the mug shots Wolfe had given me.

She held up her hand. "We do not know them. Not by their faces. But by their practice, they are known. They are not sorcerers, they have no magic. Poison is their weapon. Their poison, it makes the wolf who walks."

"No. They…"

"What Europeans call a werewolf, child of sadness. Before there was legend, before there was myth, there was truth. Their poison, it makes a beast. When the beast feeds, when it is satisfied, it is a man again. You have seen this."

Luke. Baby baby baby. Stabbing. Toby. A different child. The runaway. Running in his mind. Splitting off.

I nodded. So deeply it felt like a bow.

"The poison–masters leave a spoor. It is their track. The dead sheep tells us its killer by the marks on its body—a man kills differently than a wolf. The hunter knows."

"I know who. Not where."

"Take this," she said. Handing me a leather thong, long glossy feathers attached to it. Black and white. "Wrap the strap around your wrist, hold it like this." Her forearm straight out, fingers pointing to me.

Ki.

The feathers hung limp. The tips of our fingers touched.

"They know each other, the vampire and the werewolf. But know this too, hunter. They are not brothers."

Electricity in my fingers, in my wrist. The feathers fluttered in the candlelight but the flames held steady. I couldn't feel the breeze.

Her hand moved, covered mine. Untied the thong from my wrist. Leather and feathers disappeared somewhere behind her throne.

She closed her eyes, tilted her chin up. I could see the long muscles in her throat. Her eyes opened, held mine.

"Come here," she said.

I stood up. She made a gesture. I bent toward her. Her face was close enough to kiss. Her arms went around my neck. Something there, soft.

I stepped back. A tiny muslin bag bounced against my chest, thin silken strap around my neck.

"Wear it against your body until your hunt is done. Wear it inside their cave—it will protect you."

I bowed.

"Take your son. And go now."