Black Magic Woman (14 page)

"They're on the move," Fenton told him. "New Jersey, this time. Body was found this afternoon, in a wooded area outside Glassboro." Crime scene photos were still coming in online, and Fenton was downloading them into a USB flash drive he had attached to his laptop computer.

"Near water?" Van Dreenan asked.

"Yeah, looks like there's a little creek runs about fifty feet away."

"The victim—boy or girl?"

"Girl," Fenton said, and he felt rather than saw Van Dreenan stiffen for a moment. Then the big South African straightened up, went around to the room's only other chair, and sat down heavily.

Van Dreenan ran his hand through his thick hair a couple of times before asking, "What organs were taken, do we know?"

"Not yet. The local M.E.'s office is rushing the autopsy, but it's still not going to get done until tomorrow. For what it's worth, one of the first cops on the scene is saying, off the record, that it looks like they cut off the poor kid's labia. That's the—"

"External lips of the vagina, yes I know," Van Dreenan said. His voice contained no effect at all.

"And the male victims were missing their penises, among other organs," Fenton said thoughtfully. Then he shook his head. "How is that supposed to give power to some fucking witch? Jesus, it's not like these kids lived long enough to be sexually active."

"That is, in fact, the point, Agent Fenton. The organs, never having been employed for a sexual purpose, are thus pure, unsullied. They have lost none of their power as mechanisms of creation." Van Dreenan shrugged. "Or so some African sorcerers believe. It varies, by tribe and region. There is also the idea of luck."

"Say again? Luck?"

Van Dreenan nodded. "Some tribal belief systems hold that each of us is born with a certain amount of luck allocated by God. It is seen as a capital sum, reduced by expenditure. If a man has a lot of good luck when he is young, his well may have run dry, as it were, by the time he reaches middle age."

"Yeah, so? What's that got to do with killing kids?"

"Children, by definition, have not lived long enough to have expended a great deal of their luck. Most of it is still present. And some sorcerers will claim that they can capture that luck and transfer it to another person, by removing certain of a child's bodily organs and incorporating them into a religious totem, or fetish."

"Sick bastards." Fenton leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, I know, I know. I've got a Master's in Psychology from Stanford, and I've been with Behavioral Science for three years, and I'm not supposed to think that way about somebody's aberrant behavior, but, fuck it, these are just sick bastards."

"I could not agree more," Van Dreenan said. "I do not suppose one of the perpetrators was considerate enough to leave behind a wallet on this occasion, or perhaps a business card, or at least some usable fingerprints."

"Not fucking likely. We did get a few clear footprints this time, but that only helps us if we've got a suspect in custody to compare them to. Couple of interesting things about those footprints, though."

Van Dreenan raised polite eyebrows. "Indeed?"

"The feet were bare, for one thing."

"That is common in most such rituals, in Africa. It appears that someone has been doing his homework. Or—"

Fenton looked at him sharply. "Or what?"

Van Dreenen shook his head slightly. "Something for later, perhaps. Now, what was the other interesting thing about the footprints?"

"Well, the guy I talked to from the local FBI field office wasn't sure, because you can't be, really, but he said if he had to put money on it, it would be a pretty safe bet."

Van Dreenan made an impatient gesture. "Spare me the suspense,
mann.
What would be this safe bet?"

"That the footprints were made by a woman."

Christine Abernathy wondered if a cheer would go up in Hell on the day she finally destroyed the LaRues. There were enough of her family members there to create quite a din.

Clearly, that bitch Chastain had installed a strong system of wards and protections in the LaRue house. Well, Christine would be doing something about that meddling Wiccunt soon enough.

And, in any case, the collection of fetishes that was being prepared by the African woman, Mbwato, would be ready shortly. The child murders were starting to get national media attention, and you could follow on a map the progress of Mbwato and Christine's minion, Snake, as they harvested what they needed. Judging by the number of dead children they had left behind, the two of them were almost done.

Christine would, of course, deliver the fetishes to Walter Grobius, as agreed. He was paying her a great deal of money for them, and would not take well to being cheated. Although she was a black witch of considerable power, Christine Abernathy still understood the value of discretion. There were only a few people in this world who belonged on her list of Persons Not To Be Fucked With. Mother had been one. And Walter Grobius was clearly another.

But nothing said she couldn't use the power of the African fetishes to do a little spell casting of her own before turning them over to her client. The fetishes would not be diminished in any way by such usage. And their power should allow Christine Abernathy to go through Libby Chastain's defenses like a hot knife through a baby's arm.

She wondered if the LaRues would curse Libby Chastain in their final moments, when they realized that the white witch bitch had failed them. Christine rather hoped they would.

Cecelia Mbwato looked at the brightly lit little shop just the other side of the gas pumps. "I am hungry, a bit," she said to Snake. "When you have emptied your bladder, go into that store there and get me some groundnuts."

Snake stared at her. "Some what?"

Cecelia clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Peanuts, you call them here. Buy me some peanuts."

"Yeah, sure, okay. You want regular or dry-roasted? Little bag, big bag, can, or maybe a jar?" Snake was jerking her chain, just a little.

She gave him a disgusted look and opened her door. "Go!" she said with an impatient gesture. "Do your business. I will get them for myself."

She walked briskly over to the white man's store, her flip-flops (one of the few things about this country that she liked) slapping against the asphalt. The handle of her large cloth bag, too big to be called a purse, was tightly clutched in one hand.

It took her a few minutes to find the section of the store she wanted, and a few more to make up her mind, given the variety of peanuts and packaging she was faced with. So many choices! Who needed so many ways to buy simple groundnuts?

She finally chose a bag of Planters cocktail peanuts and headed toward the front of the store to pay for it. The young man behind the counter was one of what back home were called "coloreds"—probably Indian or Pakistani. Another man reached the cash register ahead of her, and she stood a few feet behind him, waiting her turn.

Then the man in front of her reached under his filthy jacket and pulled out a gun.

He clutched the big revolver in both hands, pointed it at the clerk's face and screamed, "Gimme the money! All of it! Hurry up, motherfucker!"

He turned then, wagging the gun barrel as if to confront a horde of angry customers behind him, and saw that Cecelia was the only other person in the place. She noticed that his face bore five or six ugly scabs, some of which appeared to be infected. His eyes were those of a maniac.

He pointed his gun at Cecelia's chest. "You! Freeze! Get on your knees! Now!"

Cecelia decided not to point out the contradiction in his screamed commands, and knelt down obediently on the dirty linoleum. She let the packet of peanuts slip from her fingers and fall quietly to the floor. She wanted both her hands free, just in case.

The terrified clerk was pulling bills from the cash drawer with hands that shook.

"Get the big bills underneath the drawer, too, asshole! All of it! Move!"

The man turned back to Cecelia. "What's in the bag, lady?"

"Just my things," Cecelia answered calmly. She very much hoped that Snake Perkins, who had his own gun, did not come through the door in the next few seconds, or there was likely to be a bloodbath in here, and some of that blood might be hers.

"Gimme!" the man said. "Come on, gimme the fuckin' bag!"

"All right, just don't hurt me," she said. There were things in that bag that Cecelia Mbwato could simply not afford to lose. Not now. She faked a coughing fit, to distract the robber for a few precious seconds while one hand slipped into her bag. Fortunately, what she needed was in a small vial near the top.

The man turned to scream at the clerk some more, and when he returned his attention to Cecelia, she had palmed the vial she wanted and flicked the cap off with her thumbnail.

"I said gimme the fuckin' bag, or I'll blow your fuckin' nigger head off!"

"Here, take it, take it," she said in a voice that pleaded. She held the bag out to him, but just before his fingers could grasp it, she let the thing fall to the floor.

When he bent forward to pick it up, Cecelia Mbwato extended her other hand out to him, palm up, fingers together. There was a small quantity of fine gray powder on her palm.

Then, with a quick puff of breath, she blew the powder into his eyes.

The robber stepped back instantly, recoiling, and then Cecelia said a phrase, softly but very quickly, in Zulu.

A moment later, the man's eyes started bleeding.

He let out a screech and dropped his pistol—which fortunately, did not discharge when it hit the floor. He was reeling like a drunk now, clutching his eyes as the blood continued to flow through his fingers.

Cecelia Mbwato nodded to herself once and retrieved her bag, along with the package of peanuts. She got quickly to her feet, dodged around the staggering, screaming robber, and slipped out through the door.

Snake Perkins was just putting the gas cap back on the Lincoln as Cecelia hustled over to the car and yanked the front passenger door open. "Get in!" she snapped. "Quickly!"

Snake looked at her in bewilderment. "But I gotta pay for the—"

"Get in and drive!" she said, her voice cracking like a rhino-hide whip.

Snake sent one quick glance toward the convenience store she had just left, and saw that a little guy with brown skin and black, wavy hair was using a baseball bat to beat the shit out of some other dude who had his hands to his face and appeared to be seriously fucked up.

Then he got in the car and drove.

"We'd like to see Simon Duval," Morris said.

"He's awful busy. You got an appointment, or something?"

"No, but tell him Quincey Morris is here."

"Well, like I said, he's real—"

"Go ahead and tell him, dear," Libby Chastain said gently. "It'll be all right, I promise."

The girl stared at Libby, then stood without a word and went out through a nearby door.

"What was that?" Morris asked softly. "Magic mind control?"

"Just a little kindness," Libby told him. "She hasn't seen much of it in her life."

"How do you know that?"

"Really, Quincey—do you think anyone well acquainted with human kindness would feel the need to hang around a place like
this?"

Morticia was back within a minute. "Okay, come on," she said, sounding surprised. They followed her along a dimly lit hallway that smelled faintly of incense, stopping at a red-painted door with black accents. Hanging from a nail was a small sign that read, "The Devil is IN—each of us."

The girl knocked, turned the knob, and stepped into the room. "This is them," she said to someone inside, then turned to Morris and Libby. "Come on in."

As he passed the door, Morris indulged his curiosity and turned the little sign around for a moment. On the back it read, "The Devil is OUT—to get YOU!"

The girl slipped out, closing the door behind her. Quincey Morris and Libby Chastain were left staring across a gleaming mahogany table at the Devil—or, at least, at the man who claimed to be his representative on Earth.

Simon Duval at least
looked
the part. He was thin to the point of emaciation, and his shiny black eyes were sunken deep in his skull. The jet-black goatee matched his hair, which was shaved in a monk's tonsure. He wore a black silk shirt buttoned to the collar, and he stared at his visitors over long, bony fingers that were steepled just under the thin, unforgiving mouth.

Then the fingers were withdrawn, and the mouth curved into a wide grin. "Quincey!" Duval said, with what sounded like real pleasure. He got to his feet and came around the desk, extending a hand. "
Que
fucking
pasa, hombre?"

Morris, with a matching grin, approached and shook hands.

Duval stepped back and said, "You're looking good, man. Ghostbusting seems to agree with you." Then he turned to Libby. "And who's this lovely lady?"

After Morris performed introductions, Duval invited his guests to sit down, then returned to his own chair. "Would you folks care for something to drink?" he asked. "Coffee, tea, beer, soda, virgin's blood?"

They declined politely. With a perfectly straight face, Morris said to Libby, "It's not like you to pass up virgin's blood."

Libby's mouth crinkled at the corners as she said, "I've been trying to cut back. Gives me gas."

Duval gave a bark of laughter. "I see you're traveling with a better class of people than usual, Quincey."

"And I see you're still trying to make a buck off fake fire and brimstone," Morris said with a smile.

"Trying, and succeeding—big time," Duval replied. "You'd be amazed how many people are willing to pay serious money for the chance to put on a cowled robe and stand around in a circle chanting the Lord's Prayer backwards. Maybe piss on a crucifix as an encore."

"I can imagine,"' Morris said. "Or, rather, I can't."

"Oh, hell, it's just a harmless way for these jerks to feel wicked," Duval said. "Or maybe to rebel against their tight-ass upbringing. A lot of our members went to Catholic school as kids. They probably get a big thrill imagining what Sister Mary Paschal Candle would say if she could see them now. Although," he added, "some of them just join for the sex."

Morris and Libby both showed raised eyebrows.

"Well, naturally, you can't stage a black mass without having some kind of an orgy afterwards," Duval said. "People expect it. And as long as they're willing to pay for the privilege…"

Libby Chastain smiled. "I was just wondering," she said, "what Satanists might say at the point of orgasm. 'Oh, God!' hardly seems appropriate, does it?"

"Why don't you stick around for a while," Duval suggested, with a gleam in his eye. "You can find out for yourself."

"Perhaps another time," Libby said pleasantly.

Morris leaned forward in his chair. "We didn't come to join up, Simon. But we
could
use some help."

Duval sat back and spread his hands. "Whatever I can do, I will. You know that."

Morris described the problem they faced in trying to protect the LaRues. Libby chimed in whenever she thought a point needed explanation.

When they had finished, Morris summarized. "So we're trying to find a black witch, a powerful one, someone who's descended from a long line of left-hand path practitioners."

Duval nodded solemnly. "You realize, I assume, that what you've been talking about has got nothing to do with what goes on here. Nobody in this church, including me, knows the first fucking thing about real black magic."

Morris nodded. "I understand that."

"I mean, this whole operation is just a money-making scam, which means it's no different from a lot of Christian churches, if you know what I mean. And there's the added benefit that I get laid—a lot."

"You're being very frank," Libby said.

"Ah, Quincey and me, we go back a long ways. He knew me when I was still Seymour Lipschitz."

"I find that difficult to believe," Libby said.

Duval frowned. "What? That we've known each other for all those years?"

"No—that anyone was ever named Seymour Lipschitz."

Duval laughed again. "I like you, Libby, I really do. Hey, are you sure you don't want to stay for the orgy? I can promise you a good time, whether you like guys, or girls, or both."

An enigmatic smile in place, Libby just shook her head.

"How 'bout you, Quincey?" Duval asked. "You used to be quite the stud back at Princeton, at least to hear you tell it."

"I'll pass, Simon, thanks. What I really need is a line on this witch we're looking for. You're plugged into the occult underground all over the country. I was hoping you might have come across something."

Duval sat stroking his goatee for several moments, then shook his head. "Nope, haven't heard a thing that sounds like what you want, man. But I can make some calls, maybe talk to a few people who are closer to that side of things than I am."

"I'd appreciate it, especially if you can do it soon."

Duval checked his watch. "We finished tonight's service about half an hour ago, which means the post-mass orgy should be in full swing, as it were. I need to put in an appearance there for a little while, but I can probably start working the phone by midnight, or a little after."

"Isn't that rather late to be calling people?" Libby asked.

"No, not really," Duval told her. "Most people in the biz tend to be night owls. Comes with the territory, you know." He pushed his chair back and stood up. "Where can I reach you guys later?"

"We're at the Sir Francis Drake," Morris said. "Call anytime."

Duval led them out, but not the way they'd come in. "Might as well give you the quick tour," he explained. They passed various rooms that he identified as the chapel, robing room, library, and even a couple of classrooms. These last, he said, were used for lectures, orientation sessions, and even twelve-step program meetings.

"You have twelve-step meetings here?" Libby asked. "I would have thought that your church would favor most of the vices those programs are designed to control."

"You're right, we do," Duval said. "But we sponsor regular meetings of Fundamentalists Anonymous, and I've been thinking of starting a twelve-step for sex addicts, too."

"You're not the kind of guy who's opposed to sexual addiction, Simon—assuming there really is such a thing," Morris said.

Duval grinned at him. "'Course not. I just thought the meetings would be a good way to meet babes. Save a lot of time, you know?" He opened a door and motioned them inside. "Let's cut through here."

The big room consisted mostly of shelves containing all the impedimenta so vital to the conduct of modern Satanism: robes, incense, blasphemous books, videos, DVDs, sex toys—and a large cage containing a Burmese python. The snake, which appeared to be at least five feet in length, looked up at its visitors placidly.

In the lead, Duval was saying, "This is the shortest way through to the—
oh shit."

Quincey Morris had not followed the others into the room. Instead, he was standing in the doorway, looking with narrowed eyes at the reptile that was now ignoring him completely.

"My fault, I'm sorry," Duval said. "I forget we kept Percy in here. Otherwise I wouldn't have…"

Duval bustled about the shelves for a few moments before snatching up a large black cloth with red symbols woven into it. He quickly unfolded it and draped it over the glass cage.

Only when the snake was completely out of sight did Morris enter the room. "Sorry about that," he said. An embarrassed grin spread across his face.

"No, my fault entirely," Duval said. To Libby, he said, "See, my man Quincey has kind of a thing about—"

"Simon." Morris's voice was a little louder than it needed to be. "Just let it go."

"Sure, okay, no problem," Duval said. "Come on, let's get out of here. Maybe lighten the mood a little. Follow me."

It was another large room that he led them into, but this one was dimly lit by some small spotlights in the ceiling, along with dozens of fat black candles that were burning atop various tables and shelves. The walls were done in a red velvety material, and the floors appeared to be covered by a number of mattresses and futons, atop which at least two dozen naked people, in various combinations of twos and threes and more, writhed and strained and grunted in a fair approximation of ecstasy. The air was pungent with a combination of incense, marijuana, sweat, and sex. Especially sex.

Morris said through clenched teeth, "Simon…"

"Just giving you one last chance to change your mind," Duval said innocently. "As you can see, the party's still going strong, if you want to join in."

"No, but thanks anyway," Morris said firmly.

"Suit yourself," Duval said with a shrug. "How about you, Libby? Libby?"

Libby Chastain appeared not to hear. She was staring at a slim man with blond hair who was looking back at her intently even as he received vigorous oral sex from a slightly pudgy woman in a black garter belt with matching hose.

"Looks like your friend is thinking about sticking around, man," Duval murmured.

Morris stepped over next to Libby and took her arm gently. "Libby, are you all right?"

No response. Libby continued to lock eyes with the man on the floor.

Morris shook Libby's arm, then put his mouth next to her ear.
"Libby!"
he said sharply.

Libby turned her head toward Morris slowly, a faraway expression on her face. "Quincey?"

"Are you okay?" There was real concern in Morris's voice.

Libby closed her eyes tightly for a moment. When she opened them, they seemed more focused. "Yes, I'm all right, but, please, let's get out of this sleaze pit."

"You heard the lady, Simon," Morris said. "Which way's the exit?"