Casting Bones
Authors: Don Bruns
Contents
A Selection of Recent Titles by Don Bruns
The Quentin Archer Mysteries
CASTING BONES*
The Lessor and Moore Mysteries
STUFF TO DIE FOR
STUFF DREAMS ARE MADE OF
STUFF TO SPY FOR
DON'T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF
TOO MUCH STUFF
HOT STUFF
REEL STUFF
The Caribbean Mysteries
JAMAICA BLUES
BARBADOS HEAT
SOUTH BEACH SHAKEDOWN
ST. BARTS BREAKDOWN
BAHAMA BURNOUT
* available from Severn House
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This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
This eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2016 by Don Bruns.
The right of Don Bruns to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8636-1 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-732-6 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-796-7 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
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Do snakes and spiders cast spells? Are they integral in the design of a man's life? I think not. While spirits do influence people's lives, the people themselves control their own destiny.
The Spider Lady
Voodoo doll, work your magic. All ends well or all ends tragic.
Mason Doyle, historian
The houngan danced, the snake wrapped tight. The lady's eyes were wide with fright.
A voodoo journal, author unknown
Casting Bones is a work of fiction. Most of it. I talked to a number of law enforcement officers during my research for this book and have the utmost respect for the New Orleans Police Department and the people who work there. They are true professionals, still trying to overcome the negative impact on their organization from the aftermath of hurricane Katrina. I have taken some liberties with the police procedures and departmental policies. New Orleans remains today as it appears in this book. Louisiana is peppered with private prisons and towns where the main industry is criminal rehabilitation. Still, this story is largely fiction. Some of it is spot on. I'll leave it to the reader to decide what is factual and what isn't.
I asked a detective if the department ever consulted with voodoo practitioners when investigating a crime. The answer was quite simple. “If they approach us with information, we definitely listen.”
Thank you Victoria Alman and Steven Stegall for your invaluable help in geographic, cultural and atmospheric realities. Thank you to the members of the NOPD for your time and information. Thanks for the tours my friend taxi driver Yerga Beraki. You helped me understand your city. And thank you to the number of other residents who live in this exciting town. Thank you authors Heather Graham, Laura Morrigan, Cara Brookins and Sandra Balzo and my good friends Connie Perry and Nancy Merwin. Thank you Linda Bruns for your editing. I've had some amazing moments and conversations at the Hotel Monteleone. Thank you to the help and guests for those interesting times, and I highly recommend their Carrousel Bar on Royal Street. Thanks to my agent, Jill Marr, and to all at Severn House.
âH
e's going to be killed.'
âWhat?' She turned and studied him.
âHe's going to be killed. Murdered. You need to know that.'
âWho is going to be killed?' The statement had startled her. His mouth never moved but his statement was crystal clear.
The young black woman stared at her charge, the pale old man slumped over in a motorized wheelchair on the levee above the dirty Mississippi River rushing by. She was simply a volunteer caregiver, and had no idea how to deal with this information.
âThe judge, of course. Shot in the head.' Very matter-of-fact as if everyone knew.
The wizened, white-haired octogenarian gazed at the brackish water, never saying a thing.
The girl with the soft skin spoke in a hushed tone, afraid those nearby would hear her and think she was crazy, having conversation with a silent man. In a sense, she knew she was. Crazy. Like her mother before her. Her mother, who once upon a time cast spells and prayed for interventions, and now spent her days in a wheelchair, staring vacantly at whatever was in front of her. Dementia had robbed her mother of all her abilities and now she was the one casting spells, praying for the souls of others. She was a voodoo lady who could suddenly hear a voice and read the mind of someone who could not speak for himself. This hearing of voices was something brand new. It scared her. Scared the hell out of her.
âPlease, tell me. What judge? Can someone stop this killing?'
There was silence. Just as there had been silence before. It was all in her head, the words of the decrepit old man. She heard him, clear and precise, yet his voice never uttered a sound. His mind lost in the fog of dementia.
âSpeak to me,' she said firmly.
âThere is nothing you can do. The Krewe has made its decision.' His mouth never moved. Eerie.
The young voodoo practitioner approached him from behind, brushing a helix of black hair back from her face. She placed her hands on his shoulders and stared at the water as well. Looking down she saw the wrinkled hands, thick with gnarled veins. There on his right wrist was the faded tattoo of a green coiled snake. She squeezed his arms, venting some of her hurt and anger.
âYou have caused a lot of people a lot of problems.' Whispering the words, knowing, as a volunteer at the center, that she was out of line. Her job was to care for her patients, not abuse them. Still she continued. âYou are the scum of the earth. You have caused a lot of people a lot of pain and I believe with all my heart, old man, that you will have to answer for your sins. You polluted this river with your chemicals, you raped the land and you stole the souls of people who worked for you.'
He showed no sign that he heard or understood a word she spoke.
âAnd now you have the audacity to communicate with me, telling me that a judge will be murdered by one of the Krewes and yet you give me no other information? Damn you.' Closing her eyes she took a deep, cleansing breath, relieving some of the tension. âI feel if you help stop this killing, you will start to amend your evil ways. Not completely, but some. Help yourself, I implore you. Tell me who will be murdered and let me stop this assassination.'
Nothing.
Releasing the grip on the man's shoulders, the young lady once again closed her eyes. Silently she prayed to Damballa. âDeliver me from this burden. I have one purpose here, my creator. To help make my Ma whole. With your help we can bring her back. I ask that you take away other obligations. She alone needs me to make her well again. Give this murder, this killing to someone else. Another mambo, a houngan. I need time to help my mother heal, and I do not want the burden of someone's death on my conscience.'
Again, there was only silence.
The girl shivered in the warm, humid air. She was now the bearer of important information, an impending death that was known to only a few. She had the power to inform authorities and even stop the killing. But her source, this man, was incapable of communicating with anyone through traditional means. An advanced case of dementia had terminated that possibility. And he apparently was very selective in the information he was giving her.
âSo you won't talk?'
A slight move of his head, almost as if he'd heard her. But his mouth never moved. There was no sound from his formerly raspy vocal chords. No sound, yet she heard him loud and clear.
âThe judge, the judge who will be killed, he belongs to Krewe Charbonerrie. Someone must be told.'
Five months later
T
he judge had known at four a.m. that it was going to be a really bad day. Struggling, trying to breathe, he woke up sputtering, choking, deep under swirling dirty water and desperate for a breath of air. Five seconds later he caught that breath, realizing it had all been a dream. He woke up drenched in sweat. The rest of the morning hadn't gotten much better.
He was going out on a limb today, turning over evidence that could put him away for life. If he didn't, they would nail him anyway. They knew enough to destroy him, but at least he had a bargaining chip â or multiple chips, as the case may be. His meeting with Paul Trueblood was in less than half an hour. Trueblood, who said he could make a deal with the government. He just wanted it all to be over.