Black Magic Woman (30 page)

"No, never," Morris told him.

"What about your friend, Miss Chastain? Did she know him?"

"Can't say for certain, but I have no reason to believe she did."

"But she lives here in the city, right? So she could have known him and just never mentioned it?"

"I reckon that's possible, yeah," Morris said.

Something-witz had been prowling the room impatiently, but now he stopped and faced Morris. "Was there any kind of interaction between you and this Tracy just before he pulled out of traffic and decided to take that shortcut on the sidewalk?"

"No, I didn't even notice him until he was heading right for us."

"Uh-huh. He didn't maybe say something through the car window when you two walked by? Something insulting to your lady friend, maybe? Something that you might've responded to by flipping him off, or saying, 'Hey, fuck you, asshole.' Something like that?"

"No, he didn't say anything," Morris said. "There was no communication at all. He just headed right for us."

Something-witz nodded, as if he found all this about as credible as the Easter Bunny. "So this hump just decides to run down a couple of people chosen at random, for no reason at all?"

"I suppose he had a reason that made sense to him, Detective, even if to nobody else. Why don't you ask him?"

"Yeah, well, we would," Something-witz said with a scowl, "except the son of a bitch is in a coma."

"From the crash?" Morris asked.

"They don't think so," Clark said. "The air bag deployed the way it was supposed to, and he had his seat belt and shoulder harness on, too. The guy's brain seems to be just— fried."

"Could be the result of a drug overdose," Morris said. "The same one that might have caused his homicidal impulse."

"Gosh, we never woulda thought of that." Something-witz's sarcasm was as ponderous as his belly.

Clark sent a long-suffering look in his partner's direction. "The toxicology reports haven't come back yet," he said to Morris. "In the meantime, we're checking to see if Tracy had any kind of mental health history. Could be that today was the day the voices in his head told him to come home to Jesus, and you and your friend were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Voices in his head," Morris said thoughtfully. "Could've been something like that, couldn't it? Well, good luck with finding out."

As the two detectives left, Something-witz looked back toward Morris, saying, "Yeah, and thanks for all your
help,
pal."

He made an abrupt left turn without signaling, cutting off two other cars and prompting much blaring of horns.

"Providence field office can't give us a car because we're outside of their area of operations. We're Boston's problem now, they say. Boston field office says they'll be
happy
to have someone bring us over a car—tomorrow, or maybe the day after."

"It will not help our situation if you marry this vehicle to a light pole by driving like a maniac," Van Dreenan said mildly. "Besides, I believe I have good news."

"Well thank God and Sonny Jesus for
that,
because I could sure as shit use me some good news right about now!"

Van Dreenan said nothing, and it was quiet in the car for a few moments. Then Fenton carefully reduced the speed to something more reasonable, and took a couple of deliberate deep breaths.

"Sorry," he said. "You're the last person in the world who deserves to get a bunch of shit from me. I'm sorry, man."

"Entirely understandable," Van Dreenan said. "Forget it. Now as to the good news, there are actually two items."

"I'm listening."

"The first is that Elizabeth's locator was protected by my briefcase and undamaged in the accident. I have checked it, very carefully."

"That's good, although I don't know what fucking difference it makes now."

"The other item is in the context of what you Yanks call 'good news and bad news.' The bad news is that you and I are idiots."

"I've been suspecting that about us, especially lately."

"The good news is that I think we might still be able to catch up with Cecelia Mbwato and her companion."

The nurses had vowed to chuck him out instantly if he tried to wake Libby up. And so he waited.

Then he noticed the pattern on one of the electronic monitors changing. The shallow curves it had been tracing gradually became deeper. Morris was wondering what it meant, and whether he should call for somebody, when Libby said softly, "How you doing, kiddo?"

Morris stepped closer to the bed. "You don't know how glad I am to hear your voice—even if you do sound like you've been gargling with Drano."

"Kind of feels like it, too."

Morris shook his head slowly. "Libby, I am so sorry about this."

"Could be… worse, I guess. Would be, too, 'cept for those… lightning reflexes of yours. That's twice, now. I owe you."

Morris felt his throat tighten, and he had to wait a long moment before trusting himself to speak again. "You don't owe me a thing, Libby. I haven't been keepin' score about who.'s saved whose ass how many times on this job, but I reckon it's pretty much even."

Libby's eyes closed again, and he was wondering if she had drifted back into unconsciousness when she suddenly asked, "How bad am I?"

Morris related what he'd been told by Doctor Rosenbloom. Then he added, "Most likely it'll be a while, but once you're feeling better, we can sit down and figure out what we're going to do about old Christine, up there in Salem. In the meantime—"

"No!"
The vehemence in her voice took him by surprise. "We can't wait.
Can't."

"Libby, you're in no shape to travel, let alone deal with a full-fledged black witch when you get there."

"I know. That's why you have to go. By yourself."

Morris stared at her, wondering if the injuries she'd suffered had somehow affected her brain.

After a moment, Libby shook her head—about a half-inch either direction. "No, I haven't lost my wits, along with everything else. You have to go, it's the only way to end it."

"Libby, you need to rest."

"Yes, but not eternally. Not just yet, anyway. And if she makes another run at me now, I'm helpless to stop her. Which means I'm dead."

"That's why I should stay with you. To protect you."

"The way you did this morning?" Her voice was gentle.

"Libby, I—"

"No, hear me out, I'm starting to feel woozy again. I know you saved my life today, Quincey. But she
almost
killed me. And the hospital won't let you stay here twenty-four seven. Even if they did, you still have to sleep sometime."

Morris's mouth tightened in frustration.

"And remember," Libby said, "if I die, so do the LaRues."

"Christ, I forgot." Libby's death would render all her warding charms in the LaRue house useless. The family would be utterly defenseless against another magical assault by Christine Abernathy.

"Only chance is an end run." Libby's voice was starting to sound slurry. "Remember… aggressor has advantage. This time, you be… aggressor."

Morris nodded reluctantly. All right. He would go to Salem by himself, although what he was going to do against a black witch of Christine Abernathy's power….

Libby seemed to read his thoughts. "My bag," she mumbled. "In the locker thing… there. Get it."

Morris found the black leather purse and brought it over.

"Inside pocket," Libby said. "Zipper. Feel it?"

Morris fumbled, then said, "Yeah, okay."

"Open. Find the mirror."

Morris unzipped the little compartment and located the small oval mirror, about four inches from top to bottom. He held it up where Libby could see.

"Take it," she said. Her gaze was losing it focus now. "Prepared… last night. Keep with you when you meet… Abernathy. Mirror spell. Should help, if she…."

And then she was out again.

A few minutes later, the head ICU nurse made Morris leave, and told him not to come back to tire her patient for at least twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours?
he thought.
It'll be over long before then, lady.

"Whatever." Fenton waved an impatient hand. "What's the rest?"

"The locator, Elizabeth said, should work over a distance of several miles. Which means it should still be able to detect them if they are on one those secondary roads they like so much, while we are speeding along an adjacent highway. The locator will tell us when to leave the highway by indicating that we have passed them."

Fenton rubbed his chin dubiously, but there was something like hope dawning in his face. "They've got one mother of a lead on us, man."

"Did you have anything else planned for tonight?" Van Dreenan asked him.

Five seconds passed. Ten. Then Fenton broke into a grin and said, "Fuck, no."

Van Dreenan grinned right back at him. "Me neither," he said. "Me, neither."

"The Hertz lady said there was a map in the glove compartment," Fenton said. "Dig it out, and let's figure out how to get to the nearest Interstate."

She nodded, then went around the room, turning off the lights. They had agreed that there was no reason to have light from the room illuminate her when she came outside to get in the car.

A few minutes later, they were on their way.

"Got that road atlas handy?" Snake asked.

"Yes, right here."

"Good. We don't wanna get lost now. I'll need you to navigate for me."

"To what?"

"Tell me when to turn, so's we don't end up on the wrong road. I been to Salem before, but I never went this way. I can't check the map and drive at the same time."

"Very well."

"There's a pen light in the glove box, I think. Can't risk driving with the dome light on—it'd light us up like we was on stage, or somethin'."

After a few moments' fumbling, she said, "Yes, I have it."

They were talking about everything but what they had spent the whole day doing on the motel bed, with brief breaks for food and naps. Neither would admit to themselves, let alone to the other, that they had just had the best sex of their lives.

Sex between two people who love each other can be hot, passionate, even transcendent.

Sex between two people who don't like each other, oddly enough, can sometimes be almost as good.

But it leads to some awkward moments afterward.

They had been in the car over a quarter-hour before Snake said, "Uh, listen, about what we—"

"Let us not speak of it. We did what we did, and now it is in • the past, to be forgotten, or remembered, as we wish."

Coming from Cecelia Mbwato, Snake thought, that was almost poetic. But what he said was, "Yeah, you're right. I was just gonna say that, myself. Good."

After a little while, though, she said musingly, "There was one thing that was a surprise to me, today."

"What's that?"

"Your cock. It is not nearly as small as I thought a white man's must be."