Black Magic Woman (5 page)

He was not the last.

Quincey Morris closed his suitcase, picked it up from the bed, and went off to catch his plane.

Morris had learned that evil doesn't advertise. It doesn't have to.

The fortyish blonde who answered his knock had probably been fairly attractive a few months ago, before fear and worry and sleepless nights had their way with her.

"Mrs. LaRue?"

"Yes, what is it?" she said impatiently. Clearly, she was ready to repel boarders, whether salesmen, Jehovah's Witnesses, or candidates for City Council.

"My name's Quincey Morris, ma'am. You're expecting me, I hope."

For an instant she gazed at him blankly, then comprehension dawned. "Oh, you're the—I mean, yes, of course, my husband told me. Please come in."

She led Morris down a short hallway and into the living room, where her husband sat on a couch next to a dark-haired boy of about five. They were watching a video that Morris recognized. It cleverly used stop-motion animation to portray the adventures of a wacky British inventor and his long-suffering dog.

LaRue stood up at Morris's entrance and walked over to shake hands. "Glad you made it. Good to see you, I see you've met my wife Marcia."

Morris nodded. Looking at the boy he said, "And who's this handsome young fella?"

"This is my son, Tim. Say hello to Mr. Morris, Timmy."

The boy turned his pallid face toward Morris long enough to say "Hi," before returning to the TV screen. "We're watching Wallace and Gromit. Wanna watch with us?"

"Maybe later, Timmy, thanks," Morris said. "I have to talk to your folks for a while first, okay?"

"Okay." The boy's gaze did not leave the screen.

Morris turned away and was about to ask LaRue something when the boy's voice from behind him said, "Are you gonna catch the ghost?"

Morris looked back at Timmy, who continued to stare at the TV. "Do you think there
is
a ghost, Timmy?"

A twitch of the small shoulders. "I guess. Mom and Dad say there's one." The boy's voice was utterly lacking in effect.

Morris stepped closer to the couch. "Have you
seen
a ghost?" he asked gently.

"Uh-uh. It's indivisible."

"Invisible, you mean?"

Another shrug. "Yeah, I guess."

"Then how do you know there is one?"

"It does things. Bad things. It makes Mora and Dad all scared. And Sarah. She's my sister. She's always cryin' and stuff." Timmy LaRue's voice remained as empty as if he were discussing a dimly remembered comic book he'd read a year ago.

Morris took a casual-looking step to one side, so that he could see the boy's eyes straight on. "How about you, Timmy? Does it make
you
scared?"

"Uh-huh." Two syllables, delivered in a monotone. Morris was certain now.

Shellshock. The kid's shellshocked, or whatever they call it now
—
post-traumatic stress disorder. He's been so terrified that he's passed fear and come out on the other side. This goes on much longer, he'll be a basket case, probably for life.

Morris looked at the boy's too-placid face again.
If he isn't already.

"If there's a ghost, I'll catch him, Timmy. I promise."

"Okay," the emotionless little voice said.

Morris walked back to the parents, who had watched this exchange with a mixture of sorrow and resignation. "I'd like you to give me a walking tour of the house, if you would," he said briskly. "Not just the rooms where the attacks have occurred, but the whole place. All right?"

"Fine, I'll do the honors," LaRue said. Looking at his wife, he said, "Do you want to…?" He made a small head movement in the direction of his son.

"Sure, I'll stay with Timmy," she said with a ghost of a smile. "We'll watch some more Wallace and Gromit together."

As the two men left the living room, Morris asked quietly, "Where's the little girl—at school?"

"That's right," LaRue told him. "She'll be home in a couple of hours."

"How is she dealing with this? Same as Timmy?"

"No, she's… jumpy. Nervous all the time. Has screaming nightmares three, four times a week." LaRue shook his head. "I don't know which is worse—watching her fall apart, a little at a time, or seeing Tim turn into a fucking zombie." LaRue's voice broke on those last two words, but he regained control quickly. Morris wondered what it was costing the big man to keep his emotions dammed up like that—and how much longer it would be before the dam burst.

They began their tour of the house.

Morris twirled the charm in his fingers. Its base was a three-inch length of wire twisted into a figure eight—which, laid on its side, is the mystical symbol for infinity. A bit of green thread was tied around it at the center, and through this had been inserted a couple of sprigs of some kind of flora, now long dead.

Morris rubbed a tiny piece of the vegetable matter onto his index finger, then brought the finger to his mouth and licked it.
Aconite, aka. wolfsbane. Well, now.

"I'd very much like to talk to your mother-in law," he told LaRue. "Does she live in the area?"

LaRue shook his head. "She used to live with us," he said. "She died four months ago."

"I'm sorry for your loss." Morris thought for a moment. "And the attacks started occurring when?"

"About three months ago," LaRue said with a sigh. He ran a hand through his untidy hair. "I know where you're going with that," he said. "It's occurred to me, too, you know. I just haven't had the guts to say it out loud."

"Say what, exactly?"

LaRue made an impatient gesture. "That Greta's… ghost, spirit, whatever you want to call it, is responsible for all the shit that's been going on."

"Is that what you think?"

"Well, Christ, it's what
you're
thinking, isn't it?"

Morris shrugged, and said nothing.

"I mean," LaRue said, "if we're going on the assumption that all of this is being caused by some kind of spirit… and if you look at the timing, and all…"

Morris kept twirling the little charm in his fingers, watching it go round and round. Without looking up, he asked, "Was your mother-in-law on good terms with the family?"

"Yes. Yes, she was. I mean, I've heard all those jokes about mothers-in-law that people make on TV. But Greta was okay, you know? We all got along pretty well."

"Including the children?"

"Oh, yeah. She loved the kids. They loved her back, too. Her dying hit them both pretty hard—and then this other shit starts…"

"I assume she had her own room?"

"Sure, it's down the hall. Don't you want to do the rest of the tour first?"

Morris slipped the little charm into his pocket. "No, I've seen all I need to here."

LaRue shrugged. "I suppose not. But what are you looking for?"

"I'll let you know, if I find it."

Eight minutes later, he did.

Morris stood looking into the bottom drawer of the dresser, contemplating what he had uncovered after moving some blankets and an old flannel bathrobe: the old book with its white leather cover, the small silver bell, and the hand-made candles in several colors and shapes. There were several other items that he also recognized.

Morris took from his jacket pocket the little charm that he had found earlier. As it twirled slowly in his fingers, he said to LaRue. "Well, it looks like I've got some good news and some bad news for you."

LaRue nodded cautiously, waiting.

"For one thing, I'm almost positive that your troubles here are not being caused by a poltergeist, or any other kind of resident spirit." LaRue nodded again. "And what's the bad news?" Morris looked at him for several seconds before saying quietly, "I'm sorry, Walter—that
was
the bad news."

Besides, certain deeds essential to her craft were best carried out under cover of night.

The sun had reached the horizon now, and begun to disappear below it. There were enough clouds in the vicinity to reflect the dying light, filling the sky with a roseate glow that some might have called beautiful. But Cecelia Mbwato knew nothing of beauty, and cared only for the falling of the black cloak of night.

Once it was fully dark outside, she picked up the telephone and tapped in two numbers.

A voice in her earpiece said, "Yeah."

"It's time," she said, keeping most of the eagerness out of her voice. "Get the car."

She hung up without waiting for a reply.

He was currently listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama," a song Snake had always liked even though he was a Mississippi boy, himself. He'd just gotten to the part where Skynyrd was pissing on Neil Young when Cecelia Mbwato said, "Up here, next to the park. Pull up beneath that big tree."

Snake did as she said. Part of him, the product of nine generations of dirt-poor, butt-ignorant, Klan-joining rednecks, bridled at taking orders from a woman who was just about the blackest nigger Snake had ever seen, and a damn foreigner besides. That part of him would have loved to punch the bossy nigger bitch in the face five or six times, get out, go around, and yank her out of the car. Then tie some rope around her ankles, the other end to his rear bumper, and take himself for a nice long ride, at eighty miles an hour.

But the Mistress he served had been very clear: he was to do whatever the nigger woman wanted, take her anyplace she wanted to go, and help her out however he could. And Snake Perkins dreaded his Mistress's wrath even more than he used to fear his mother.

He parked where he'd been told, killed the lights, and turned the engine off. When he saw that the woman wasn't getting out he asked, "Now what?"

"We wait. Someone suitable will come along soon, I think."

"How do you know that?" Snake was careful to sound only curious, not like he was giving her a hard time, or something.

She gestured with her chin toward the park. "Over there is a place for children."

"Yeah, a playground. So? It's dark, kids are all gone home."

"For now, yes. But the children, they feel safe here. A child who is not safe at home, the parents fighting, a big brother who is mean—may come here to feel safe again, for a little while. So we wait."

"Yeah, okay."

Snake went back to the jukebox inside his head. He had just finished grooving to the Oak Ridge Boys doing "Elvira" when Cecelia Mbwato said, "Why is it you are called 'Snake?' Because you are so tall and skinny? Or because you are deadly, like the mamba?"

Snake thought a mamba was some kind of dance that greasers did, but he said, "It ain't a nickname. It's my real name. They give it to me the day I was born."

"A curious thing to name a child."

"My folks seen this movie,
Escape from New York.
There's a character in it, guy called Snake Plisskin. They thought it was some kinda cool name, I guess."

"It must have brought you much mockery when you were small, from other children." There was no trace of sympathy in Cecelia Mbwato's voice.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"If my parents had done such to me, I think I would be tempted to kill them, when I was grown."

There was something in Snake Perkins's voice that was almost enough to frighten even Cecelia Mbwato when he said softly, "How do you know I didn't?"