The Seer Renee (12 page)

"I didn’t honestly believe
you, Renee. I stayed for support." She put her arm around me, and I could
see her future. Since the last ceremony, my gift had gotten stronger, and I
could see Grace in charge of a taskforce. I had zoomed past her time at home—the
bedroom activity and such.

"Quick, let's get this
fiberglass insulation in the back room. The police are going to be here soon,
and I don't want anyone to know I was prepared for this. It was fortunate you
were here to interview me when the firebomb came through the window. Thanks to
you, there is little damage, and I didn’t get hurt."

"You want me to take
credit—"

"Yes, please. I'll explain
later." I grabbed several pieces of the fiberglass cloth as I fled into
the back to change out of my outfit and help clear the rest. Sirens were
wailing in the distance as we finished removing the fiberglass, and not long
afterward, people began collecting in front of the broken window.

"Anyone hurt in there," a
man's voice called. Before I could answer the door opened, and two firemen
followed by a policeman rushed in.

"Y’all all right?" the
oldest fireman, asked looking around. "Looks like we're too late. You seem
to have everything under control. Lucky, judging by the broken bottle on the
floor."

"Someone threw that through
your window?" the policeman asked. Two others were peering through the
door.

"Yes, I was fortunate. FBI Agent
Casey had stopped by to ask me some questions. Her quick thinking saved my life
and my shop."

"FBI?"

"Yes, I believe the FBI will
be taking over this case as this appears to be an organized operation against shop
owners in the French Quarter." Grace did most of the talking to the
policemen, and it didn't take long to get rid of them. She called her director to
tell him what happened, reluctantly taking credit for saving me. By then
Monique entered through the back entrance. Grace then called her husband.

"Ron, we're having a party at Renee's
shop. A working party. Put on some work clothes, pick up a thick four-by-eight
plywood board, po-boys, beignets, and coffee for four, and come on down." She
laughed and hung up. "I'm terrible."

Ron showed up about an hour later with everything Grace had
asked for. She spent an hour assuring him she was all right and that it was her
idea to stay, not mine. I think it was the first time Ron had come to grips
with the realization that his wife, unlike him, whose most confrontational day
would be a heated discussion, would have confrontations with criminals who used
guns. We finished around three a.m. I went to bed knowing I had made the right
decisions.

Willis sat watching his monitor
screen as the boxes slowly appeared. Black was last.

"Good evening. I'm sure most
if not all of you have heard the latest news. If not, the group who is
attempting to remove the Voodoo shops, mambos, and houngans from New Orleans almost
killed your golden goose." Willis took a long inhale of his cigar as he
waited for a response. Red's smiley face was first to respond.

"She wasn't hurt. Even her
shop looked to have sustained only minor damage."

"That is true, Mr. Red. But what
would have happened if another person hadn't been there to help, or if she
hadn't happened to have fire extinguishers in her shop and home, or if the
bottle had exploded at her feet, or if it had landed behind her and she couldn't
reach her back door, or if she decides to leave town and doesn't leave a
forwarding address?" Willis sat back and took a satisfying drag on his
cigar.

"This project is far more
important than the local yokels' petty concerns. Black can you correct the
problem—quickly?" Blue's smiley face said, sounding angry.

"Consider it done,"
Black's smiley face responded.

"Wait. I might be able to stop
any further action until...it's safe to proceed," Red said. "But you
may already have your proof. Didn’t she contact the FBI about an attack on that
Monique woman. And she was prepared for the attack on her own shop? Isn't that
proof enough to take her into custody...for safekeeping?

"I'm not sure," Orange
sounded confused. "She claimed she had heard rumors from several people which
indicated a firebombing after hours on the weekend. Our yokels hired some gang,
so it's possible. Or it could have been another mambo or houngan who told her.
Her grandmother had the ability. Isn't it possible another Voodoo priest or
priestess does, also? And there is no indication she knew the attack was
coming. The FBI agent stopped in to question her as part of the investigation
of the robbery-murder. She was taking an inventory at the time. Doesn't seem to
fit with preparing for a firebombing since there was only one FBI agent in the
shop and none outside."

"What if I can persuade them
to leave her alone?" Red asked.

"The yokels hired some biker
gang to shoot the houngan and to do the firebombing. What if she is with the
next victim? Do they know the Renee woman, or can they recognize her? Do you
think they care who gets injured or killed in the process of carrying out the yokel’s
terror tactics? These aren't professionals they've hired. They are thugs,
addicts, and don't-give-a-damn kids," Willis said, unable to contain
himself.

"Willis is correct. In
addition, we need to be certain before we grab her. If we act prematurely, we
may expose us and our project. Red, we will give you one day to stop the yokels
altogether. You will report back tomorrow evening with a decisive yes or no. In
the meantime, Black, you should prepare to fix the problem tomorrow if Red hasn't
resolved it by the time we meet," Blue snapped.

"I may not—"

Blue cut him off, "Tomorrow,
Black."

"Tomorrow," Black agreed.

"When will we know?" Blue
asked.

"Given that someone doesn't
kill Renee or put her in the hospital, within three weeks."

"One way or the other, the
yokel problem is solved. We will meet again at eight p.m. tomorrow, and we'll want
an update from you in two weeks from today." The Blue's smiley face laughed,
and the boxes blanked out one at a time. Willis wondered again for the hundredth
time who was behind the smiley faces. He was sure Black was in the business of
killing and had the resources to find anyone. Could be FBI, CIA, or some black
ops group. Blue was clearly the group leader, someone already in a position of
power. Red was an idealist. Some right wing group and had links to the group
wanting the Voodoo image eliminated. Orange was probably linked to government security
since he knew the specifics of Renee's injuries or lack thereof. Brown was hard
to figure as he or she said little. Probably the master mind, willing to sit
back and watch the others implement his scheme.

The most intriguing question was:
what was the scheme they intended to hatch? It was unlikely to be a money
motive, more likely power, but for what purpose? They had an agenda, that he
was sure of. But what? Maybe an attack against America? He shrugged. He didn't
really care. His agenda was the comfortable life that their money would provide.
And this project would provide enough to last a lifetime—given he could
keep from becoming a loose end for Black.

Thankfully, the next several days
were busy, which gave me little time to worry. I painted "House of Eshe -
Fire Sale" on the plywood board covering the broken window and had tagged
most everything in the shop with a sale tag, reducing the price somewhere
between five and ten percent. Ironically, I had constant traffic all day and
sales were excellent. At this rate, I'd run out of inventory in a week. That
was good because replacing the window wasn't cheap, and I'd spent several
hundred preparing for the firebombing. In addition, I was having a website
developed through a friend of Mr. Bishop. Of course, problems seldom resolve
themselves, or go away because you aren't paying attention, or wait until
you're ready to deal with them.

It was near noon when Hector
entered the shop and my collection of worries returned.

"Mambo Renee, the Locos had
nothing to do with the firebombing," he said somewhat nervously. When I
nodded, he continued. "Could you give me a telling, maybe tonight?"

"Seven o'clock?" What
could I say? I walked a knife's edge with the Locos. I didn't want to be their
friend, and I didn't want to be their enemy. I was shooting for neutral, but
that seemed impossible. I closed on time, had a quick dinner of leftovers, and
changed into more traditional dress, not to impress Hector but to remind him I
was a powerful Mambo. I also added two rings with mixtures that would end our
relationship permanently. Hector showed right on time and was alone, which I
took as a good sign.

"Come in and have a
seat." I waved to the table in the corner. He nodded, took a seat, and put
his hands on the table.

"Mambo, the Locos didn't firebomb
your shop," he said in a rush. "It was a biker group out of Westwego,
The Damned. We'll go visit them, if you want."

"No, Hector. I know it wasn't
you or any of your gang. The FBI is conducting an investigation, so you don't
want to get involved."

"No, Mambo." He nodded
and looked relieved. With that resolved, I put my hands over his and closed my
eyes. My new power had me fascinated. I could speed up through the
uninteresting parts, like Hector and his gang drinking and screwing and passing
out, slow down where I was interested, even stop and back up. I almost forgot
Hector was there and probably turning pale as time passed. I had lingered over
a fight between Hector and Madman. It had lasted what seemed like an eternity,
with the gang members and girls screaming and cheering them on. They were both
bloody and their clothes torn. Hector was favoring his right side. Madman had probably
broken a rib or two in addition to his nose and maybe knocked loose some teeth.
Eventually, Hector went to his knees. Madman grabbed him by the neck and hit
him over and over again. Eventually, he let go and encouraged the gang to kick
and stomp Hector as he lay unconscious on the floor. Hector lay in bed for the
next five days, until Madman forced him up and used him to fetch and carry.
Through Hector I could see the mayhem Madman was causing, kidnapping girls and
having them gang raped, stealing from merchants, and vandalizing those who wouldn't
give him what he demanded. It seemed everyone was too terrified to even get the
police involved. Eventually they would, but in the meantime lives were being
destroyed.

"Looks pretty normal couple of
weeks: drugs, girls, and good drug sales."
The police would like to know what I know.
"I know you're a
good fighter, but I see this really big guy maybe picking a fight with you. If
you aren't careful, you'll lose...everything." I could feel Hector's hands
begin to tighten into fists and then relax. We sat in silence. Over the next
few minutes, I saw the fight scene change as Hector slipped something solid
into each hand and the blows to Madman seemed to be having more impact, then
suddenly two punches with the side of the fist to Madman's temple caused him to
collapse like a wet rag. Slowing down the action, I saw the objects in Hector's
hands, which were obscured by his fists. They extended out an inch or so from
his fists and were what made the contact with Madman's temple. When I removed
my hands, Hector had a slight smile.

"Thank you, Mambo Renee,"
he said, dropping a hundred dollar bill on the table, and left. I felt
justified in helping Hector only because Madman would be worse for
everyone—he was insane.

* * *

 
Around noon the next day, Grace and Mike
entered, and I decided to take a break.

"Hi, if y’all will make
yourselves comfortable in the back, I'll close for lunch as soon as I get a
chance." About thirty minutes later the last customer left, and I locked
the door and hung an "Out for lunch - Back at 1:30" sign in the
window.

"Sorry, it took so long, but
my fire sale has brought in a lot of customers," I said, taking a seat in
front of the sweet tea Grace had poured for me while they waited.
"Business or other?"

"Grace is not only a hero, but
she's gotten a promotion. She's now the lead agent on the taskforce looking
into organized crime in the French Quarter."

"Congratulations. That's
wonderful," I said. Having her as the lead would make it easier to involve
the FBI—I hoped.

"Thank you." She gave me
a wry smile. She obviously wasn't comfortable taking credit for saving me.
She'd done it reluctantly not only because I had insisted, but because she
sensed I would be in danger otherwise. "Ron and I would like to invite you
for dinner tomorrow...if you’re free." The hesitation meant it was more
than a social invitation, more like a polite insistence.

"I would enjoy that. Tomorrow
night at…?"

"How about seven?" She
took out a card, wrote something on the back and handed it to me. "Here is
our address. Do you need a ride? I know you don't have a car."

"No, but thank you. It's not
far from here. Tomorrow at seven," I said scanning the address. 1201 Canal
Street was an upscale condo complex and only a little over a mile away. I was
sure my behavior lately had raised many unanswered questions. Asking me to
dinner would allow her to question me without another agent present, who might cause
me to be less than truthful—lie. They left shortly afterward.

* * *

When I knocked, Ron answered the
door. "Renee, I'm glad you could come. I was hoping we could meet for
dinner sooner, but the new job has made me unsure when I'll be home. Grace's
invitation forced me to make time, and I'm glad. She's in the kitchen preparing
something. While we're waiting, why don't I show you around?" he said, and
proceeded to give me a tour of their two bedroom condo. It was on the fourth
floor and had a beautiful view in the direction of the French Quarter. The
Canal condos were an up-scale complex with concierge and valet service. Grace
was still in the kitchen when we finished, but she had drinks and snacks on the
granite counter separating the kitchen and living area.

"I hope you don't mind the
informal dress?" When I shook my head, she pointed to the counter. She had
on an oversized, white T-shirt with a dragon design in the front, black workout
pants, and slippers. "What would you like to drink?"

I couldn’t help but wonder if that
were on purpose:
we’re all friends here
or just her natural unpretentious way. Ron was dressed in beige Docker slacks,
brown loafers, and a green, short-sleeved Polo shirt. .

"Coke," I said and picked
up a cracker and spread a creamy cheese dip on it.

"You don't drink alcohol? I
thought you had wine last time we ate out."

"Now and then, mostly so I
don't make anyone uncomfortable," I said, deciding to be truthful. I
suspected a lot of that would be required tonight.

During dinner, Ron talked about his
job and responsibilities at the new firm. His area of expertise was criminal
law, and he already had several clients: one embezzlement, one drunk driving,
and one manslaughter. He couldn't talk about his clients but could talk about
the organization within the firm.

"I know people get upset with
defense lawyers because we get criminals off and let them run loose on our
streets," Ron said, after describing some of the cases the firm was
currently handling. "That may be true. But the same people would be happy
we are there if they were in trouble. We can't just sentence people based on
what we think, assume, or believe. The law needs to convince a jury of our
peers beyond a reasonable doubt. Yes, some bad guys go free, but there are
fewer innocent people in jail or on death row."

I nodded thoughtfully. "But
you have to admit the rich get better lawyers, like you, and therefore are more
likely to get off or do less time," I said, thinking about those who drove
Granny to kill herself.

"That's true. It certainly
isn't a perfect system, but it's what we have and better than many other countries."

"Sorry, Ron. It's not your
fault, and your job is to make sure each person gets a fair trial, not to help
criminals." I smiled, hoping he didn't take my earlier remarks personally.
Before he could respond, Grace stood.

"Let's take our coffee and go
sit in the living room." When we were seated, she continued. "Well, Renee.
You know I had a motive for inviting you here." She held up her hand.
"Ron and I want to continue our relationship with you and have been
planning to ask you over, but our new jobs have kept us hopping. Ron's having
to work overtime to make a good impression with his new firm, and me with the
incidents in the French Quarter. Since I sensed you wouldn't say anything with
another agent present, I thought this an excellent opportunity to have you over
as a friend and to talk to you privately about what is happening in the French
Quarter—off the record. I know this is a little unfair, but..."

"You're right. I wouldn't talk
about the situation in front of Mike or any other agent. The problem is that it
raises more questions than I can answer truthfully—how did I know, what
did I hear, who were they, and where can we find them, etc. A good example is my
information about the firebombing of Mambo Monique," I said and waited.
Grace looked like she was dying to say something but didn't. "I’ll help as
much as I can, but you cannot expect me to divulge the source of my
information. If pressed, I will either avoid the question or lie. For example,
how did I know Mambo Monique was going to be firebombed, or that it was called
off, or that I was the next target, or how I know the motorcycle gang called
'The Damned' are responsible for killing Houngan Bolade and the firebombing?"

"You know who committed the
robbery and fire..." Grace stared at me. I'd bet her mind was racing with
options, accusations, threats, and pleas. "We can protect you, Renee."

I couldn't help it. I laughed,
which didn't go over well. "Grace, I know you mean it and believe that you
can. But the FBI couldn't even keep the stakeout a secret, so how could I
expect them to keep my name, involvement, or location a secret? The problem
isn't what you believe it to be. You want the truth, Grace? The truth is that
what I know and how I know it is my death sentence. Even the Loa couldn't and
wouldn't stop it."
They didn't stop Granny
.
Tears formed in my eyes at the thought. A long unnatural silence followed.

"I will try to help you with
the French Quarter problem, when I can. It's where I live, and I have dear
friends there. I'd be willing to risk my life to save them, but, ironically,
risking my life won't help."

"But..." Grace started,
shook her head, and decided to take a sip of coffee. Ron sat staring at me deep
in thought—lawyer mode. Grace put her cup down.

"You have my head spinning. I
thought you were protecting people who didn't want to get involved. It’s
certainly common enough in certain communities. Or were afraid to say for fear
of your life, and I hoped you would share, at least, more details about what
you or they heard, where, and when. But I seemed to have stereotyped you and
the problem."

"Yes, I think so, Grace,"
Ron said, looking amused. "My friend is like her beloved Voodoo, not what
one's first impression tells you."

"Renee, I think I owe you an
apology. No more questions. I'll trust you will tell me what and when you
can."

"Thank you, both of you. Sometimes
I wish I could run away, get lost, disappear. But I can't without abandoning Vodou.
And I won't do that regardless of the consequences.

* * *

The following week I was flooded
with fortunetelling appointments. Oatha had her regular bi-weekly appointment
and looked her normal cheerful self when she arrived.

"Good evening, Oatha. You look
well," I said as I opened the door.

"I am. I guess I shouldn't say
that and jinx it. But I have a good husband and two lovely children and my
health seems good except for a normal cold or allergy," she said as she
took off the light rain jacket she was wearing. It had rained heavy early in
the day, but now it had become a drizzle.

"Do you have time for
tea?" I asked. I always suspected Oatha liked to sit and tell me about her
life as much as she wanted her fortune told. The water was already hot in
anticipation, and it only took a few minutes to make the tea.

"Thank you," she said,
taking a small sip. "It's terrible what’s been happening. Houngan Bolade
killed, and you firebombed. I heard someone has been trying to buy you out. And
I guess scare you if you won't sell. Are you leaving?"

"No. This is not only my shop
but my home."

"I hear you've been having a
fire sale, but it doesn't look like you suffered much damage," she said,
surveying the shop.

"I was lucky. I had a couple
of fire extinguishers lying around, and an agent was here when it happened. Between
the two of us, we put the fire out before it could do much damage." We
spent another half hour talking before she smiled and put her hands palm down
on the table.