Black Magic Woman (33 page)

"Very likely," Van Dreenan said, "but I do not know—"

Something flickered in the air between the two cars. There, and gone. Then it reappeared again for an instant and winked out again. Fenton thought, crazily, that it looked like the face of George McDougall, a serial murderer who had almost killed Fenton during an arrest attempt eighteen months earlier. Fenton still had nightmares about George McDougall, and about what they had found in his basement once the man had been shot dead.

Beside him, Van Dreenan started in surprise. Fenton didn't know that the South African was seeing brief images of a black mamba, the deadliest snake in Africa. The bite of one of these reptiles had almost ended Van Dreenan's life when he was a young policeman.

"You're seeing something, aren't you?" Van Dreenan said. "Something you're afraid of?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"It's a common trick among African sorcerers. The spell brings up visions of whatever you fear the most, causing panic. It would be far worse, for both of us, were it not for the amulets we are wearing. Ignore what you think you see—there is nothing there. Remember that!"

"Yeah, okay." Fenton found the brief apparitions unsettling, but he was a long way from panic.

Van Dreenan had produced a small bottle and was pouring liquid from it all over the pointer of the locator device.

The pointer that was covered with the hair of Cecelia Mbwato.

Fenton glanced over before returning his gaze to the road. "What's that?"

"Something else I brought from Africa, courtesy of the same
sangoma.
I'm going to try a little sympathetic magic. Elizabeth would be angry with me for using this, but desperate times…"

Now that the hair wrapped around the pointer was saturated, Van Dreenan put the bottle aside and reached inside his jacket pocket to remove a small cardboard box.

"What's that?" Fenton asked, after another quick look. "More magic?"

"No, just matches," Van Dreenan said. "A box of matches I have been saving for a long time."

He removed a wooden match and lit it. Then he passed the flame under the pointer, saying a word in a language Fenton didn't recognize. He said the word three times, and at the third utterance the hair wrapping the pointer began to burn.

"Hope you know what the fuck you're doing, man," Fenton said tensely.

"Oh, I do, my friend. I do, indeed."

Sixty feet ahead, inside the Continental, Cecelia Mbwato's hair suddenly caught fire.

The fire instantly went out; it had not done her any serious damage.

But in yanking the bandana out of her bag so hurriedly, Cecelia Mbwato had also pulled out the pouch containing the remainder of the powder that she had just used against her enemies in the car behind. Some of the powder spilled out, and the air vents immediately began to blow it around inside the car. Cecelia Mbwato was too busy tending to her burning hair to notice, and, in any case, was immune to her own spellcasting.

Relieved that the fire was under control, Snake Perkins faced forward again.

There, staring at him through the windshield, twice as large as life, was a vision of what he had once feared more than anything else in the world.

"Mama?" he screamed. "No, Mama, don't hurt me, I'll do what you want, whatever you want, please Mama!"

Snake began frantically waving his hands in front of him, as to ward off a blow, or worse. The car, whose speed was pushing seventy, immediately began to veer off the road.

Cecelia Mbwato grabbed for the wheel while yelling a word that would counteract her terror spell and return Snake to something like sanity.

The magic worked on Snake, who stopped yelling. But it was unable to overcome the laws of physics.

The Connie careened into a road sign that said "Salem 1/2 mile." The sign bent with the impact, just as it was supposed to, but then the rear wheels ran over it. At the speed they were traveling, that was enough to send the car hurtling sideways—off the road, and off balance.

The Connie turned over twice before coming to rest on its roof, fifty-some feet in front of a billboard that bore the image of a crone in a conical hat and read, "In Salem, be sure to visit the Witch Museum. Fun for the whole family."

Fenton looked to his left, saw nothing, then turned back just in time to catch Van Dreenan's big fist along the side of his jaw.

He checked to make sure that the big Sig Sauer automatic was securely anchored behind his right hip, patted his right jacket pocket to check for something else, then closed the car door.

As he walked toward the wreck of the Continental, Van Dreenan made a quick survey of the surroundings. No houses close by. A golf course, closed at this hour, across the street. No traffic for the moment, or pedestrians. He looked for flashing lights in the distance. None, so far. Good.

As he approached the wreck, he brought out the small flashlight he always carried, although the full moon provided considerable illumination.

Glass crunched under his feet now, and the smell of gasoline was strong. The tank must be ruptured somewhere—not surprising, considering the damage that the vehicle had sustained.

He checked the driver's side first. The Continental had been too old a model to have air bags, and it soon became clear that Snake Perkins had not been wearing his seatbelt. Van Dreenan was no physician, but he had been around a lot of dead bodies; he recognized a crushed skull and a broken neck when he saw them.

He went around to the passenger side then, and observed that the door had burst open in the crash. Cecelia Mbwato, unlike her companion, had been wearing her seatbelt, and it had undoubtedly saved her life. Of course, since the car was upside down, she was now dangling from the lap belt and shoulder harness, trying to free herself with the one arm that seemed to be working properly. The other, Van Dreenan could tell, had received a compound fracture and was virtually useless to her.

He crouched down, careful not to step in the puddle of gasoline that was under the car and growing larger.

He'd wondered if she would beg for help, but she just stared at him, like a great venomous toad, and kept trying to unlatch the seatbelt with her one good arm.

Van Dreenan wondered why he felt no pleasure at this moment, the one he had prayed for and dreamed about so many times over the last four years. Looking at Cecelia Mbwato, all he felt was empty, as if the thing that had been driving him for so long had finally died.

But still, he had a debt that must be paid. And a promise that must be kept.

Van Dreenan started to speak, but his throat was constricted. He tried again, and this time he found his voice.

"Cecelia Mbwato, you do not know me, but you and my family are nonetheless closely connected. You have met, I know, at least one member of it."

There were sirens off in the distance now. Van Dreenan had only a little time left.

"My daughter, Katerina, was only nine years old when you took her. Katerina Van Dreenan. Do you recognize the name? Or do you even learn their names before you… use them?

"Did she scream when you cut her open that night? Did she struggle and bite and fight you as much as she could? I'll wager that she fought. She had spirit, Katerina did." Van Dreenan's voice broke, and he stopped and swallowed hard, then again, before going on.

"I had to identify her body, at the morgue, you know. Her mother could not face it, and for this I did not blame her. I identified Katerina's body, what else could I do? But that night I also made her a promise. Now, I know that I am a weak man, a sinner. I have, in my life, broken many promises."

Van Dreenan stood, his knees cracking like gunshots. He reached into his coat pocket and brought out the box of wooden matches. He had used them to light the candles on his daughter's birthday cake. Her final birthday.

The sirens were closer now.

"But not this one."

He opened the little box, removed a match.

"They say that fire purifies."

He dragged the match alone the box's side, igniting it.

"Perhaps it can make pure even one such as you. But I have my doubts."

Van Dreenan dropped the match into the gasoline.

"Now go to your Father, in Hell."

Then he turned and walked away, toward sirens that sounded like the screaming of the damned.

Morris shook his head. He hoped that no one had been trapped in the car when it blew. Burning was a very nasty way to die.

Another few minutes brought him to Washington Street and a sign that read, "Welcome to Salem." Fifty feet beyond, a billboard urged, "Visit the Witch Museum."

"No museums for me, pal," Morris murmured. "Only the real thing will do."

Morris called the hospital to check on Libby's condition— which he learned, was still "critical." Then he unpacked, took a quick shower, and went to bed. Mercifully, he did not dream.

Doctor Gujral checked his watch and nodded. "Almost exactly. Not surprising, really, considering her injuries." Short and intense, he was Libby Chastain's attending physician. Melling, a tall Dane with wire-rim glasses, was Gujral's relief.

"She's the one who was hit by some maniac who drove his car onto the sidewalk, right? I heard it on the news."

"Yes, that's her," Gujral said. "The vehicle must have been moving quite fast, judging by the severity and extent of the trauma."

"Well, given her comatose state, I'm going to update her condition—from 'Critical' to 'Grave.'" Melling looked up from the chart he was writing on. "Okay with you?"

"Sure, makes sense." Gujral stared at his patient for a long moment. "I wonder if she'll survive the night."

Melling replaced the chart on the front rail of the bed. "If I were the kind of doctor who was insensitive enough to give odds on something like that, I'd probably put them at five to three against."

Gujral looked at Libby Chastain's unconscious form one last time. "Yes," he said glumly. "So would I."