City of Masks (28 page)

The night air had turned very cool, the breeze more insistent and now heavily laden with mist. The candles had burned themselves out, and Paul Fitzpatrick had become little more than a shadow in his chair. He didn't move or speak.

Against her will, Cree found herself laughing. Each laugh hurt, an explosion in her chest that burst up and seemed to come out her aching eyes.

"What?" Paul asked warily.

"Talk about a lead balloon! Talk about ways to put the chill on a date! Oh, man! Tell him you were married to the perfect guy whose shoes nobody could fill. Yeah, and better yet, tell him the perfect guy's not really, totally, quite dead, no, you're still pretty much married to him, so good luck, bud!" It really would be funny if it didn't hurt so much.

Paul didn't say anything.

Neither of them moved for a long time, and after another little while the coarse, blowing mist turned into raindrops that pattered on the umbrella and splashed on Cree's face. They were both well soaked by the time Paul leaned forward, put his hands on his knees, and stood. He came up stiffly, as if his joints pained him.

"Blowing up pretty wet," he said hoarsely. "We should probably go inside."

24

H
EY. IT'S ME
. " A quarter to four in the morning. Poor Ed.

"Mmph. Hi. Yeah. I figured."

Cree had been lying for hours in the dark room, listening to waves of rain wrap around the hotel and thrum at the windows. At intervals the wind sighed vastly, a weather god from the gulf coming inland to die. Mike's face came and went: Mike from days in Concord, nights in Philly, road trips they'd taken, mundane moments, making love.

Between visits from Mike's memory, she replayed the scene with Paul. They had fled the roof as the rain began to pelt down in earnest. Back in his kitchen, there didn't seem to be anything more to say. Her hands could still almost feel the topography of his back, the man shape of his bones and muscles, and they wanted to go there again and explore further. But that would be betrayal, and anyway the moment had gone. Whatever Paul thought of their embrace or her narrative, he didn't voice it. After a few strained moments, Cree had said tentatively, "Well, I should probably be going." And Paul hadn't argued, only offered to walk her to her car. She had declined. No point in both of them getting any wetter.

"Sorry to call so late, Ed, you must be - "

"No, no. Actually, I w's gonna call you, but I . . . mm, got in pretty late myself . . . " She heard the sandpapery sound of Ed massaging his cheeks, trying to get his mouth working.

"I'm all fucked up, Ed."

Rearranging noises: Ed was sitting up in his bed in Massachusetts, hunching over the phone. He'd scratch his head with his free hand and leave his hair sticking out the way it did when he napped on his office couch.

"I disagree about that, but I'll gladly listen to why you think so."

Cree hadn't thought it through this far when she'd reached for the phone. She couldn't tell him about Paul, and that wasn't where it came from, anyway. "Oh,
Mike
stuff. You know."

"Yeah."

"I mean, I'm going around
talking
to him."

"Why's it happening now, Cree? What's bringing it on?"

She stumbled over the question. "I don't know. Nothing. I don't know."
Paul Fitzpatrick. Who reminds me that I want to live life and don't
know how.

They were quiet for a long moment. Ed probably heard her evasion. At the very least, he'd know Cree Black was never without complex explanations - if she wanted to reveal them.

"And my mind is doing some pretty strange things," she confessed. Partly a way to change the subject.

"Like?"

Where to even start? "Oh, I don't know. Like yesterday, middle of the day, I was over at the house. And I had this daydream. I had clear picture of what it was like during the Civil War."

"I do that sometimes. Everybody does, don't they?"

"No, this was . . . a particular day, a specific moment. I was looking out the window, across the lawns at the next house. The Union troops were taking the neighbors away, and . . . " Cree stopped. Telling Ed about it now, she suddenly remembered something she hadn't realized had been there when she'd been jolted out of the vision. Names: The neighbor woman was Mrs. Millard. The two girls were Lizzie and Jane and the little boy was William John. The Millards.

"Jesus," she said.

"What?"

"I remember their names now. And I wasn't me, I was a young woman, a teenager . . . and I was sitting in the slave quarters because they were making me wait there."

Ed didn't say anything for a moment. No doubt he was processing it the same way she was: Either Cree was getting very screwed up indeed, her mind running amok, or she had really visited the past through the mind of someone who had once lived at the house. And if that were true, poor Ed would have another huge theoretical problem to try to fit in with all the other crazy, freakish things Cree threw at him.

"Did the general have a teenage daughter then?" he asked.

"I don't know."

Ed was chuckling. "Oh, Cree," he said softly. "The marvelous Cree."

"What."

"The amazing and ever-astonishing Cree. Hey, I just remembered something I wanted to tell you last time we talked."

"What was that?"

"Sunday . . . it's a little different today, but Sunday? The ocean was
exactly
the color of your eyes. I'd glance out the window and it was like you were looking at me. Keeping me company."

His affection touched her and she had to flee from it. "Thank you, Edgar."

"Okay, so let's see if we can dig up the names of the neighbors. See if General Beauforte had a daughter. We can work on it when I get there. In the meantime, you gotta think of yourself differently. Not a problem, an opportunity, right? You gotta celebrate yourself, Cree. You're not screwed up, you're miraculous. However it works out, Millards or no Millards. Okay?"

She could hear the smile in his voice. His attitude helped. He was right, that was a good way to process it:
You have to welcome your own
strangeness.
Good advice.

"I'll try," Cree said. Yes, talking to Ed always helped. The hard part was that you could love someone like this and still not feel the pull, the magnetism, that you knew had to be there. Which meant that as good as this friendship was, there were places it couldn't go, confidences it couldn't accommodate.

As if he'd heard her despondency, Ed didn't say anything for a long time. She began to feel very sleepy. The rain noise increased outside, bearing down hard now. Four A.M.

"You still there?" he asked at last. He sounded as if he had more to say.

"Barely," she mumbled. "I feel better. Thanks, Ed. You're miraculous, too. I should probably get some sleep now. Both of us."

"Yeah." He sounded disappointed. She was always letting him down.

They said good-bye. Cree lay in the dark and drifted away to the sound of the tropical rain from across a thousand miles of water, exploring and caressing the building in the dark like a blind lover.

25

Y
ES, IT COULD RAIN
IN New Orleans.

Cree clenched the steering wheel as the car hit standing water and sent an arc of spray slashing across Highway 10. She was running late, so blind from the whirling rain and the dirty mist tossed up by other vehicles that she was afraid she'd miss the airport signs. Blind also from the welter of facts and impressions and intuitions, the half-seen paranormal and normal-world insights that seemed to come at her just as hard.

She had awakened to find the hotel windows streaked and bleary. Below, Canal Street looked battered by the drenching gale. The awnings along the sidewalk fluttered and humped as if they'd rip off and fly away, and only a few pedestrians scuttled here and there. The road crew had apparently given up their mud pit for the duration.

The memory of last night made her wince.

Her visit with Lila this morning had been frustrating, distracted, pointless. The wild wind and rain seemed to pull everything apart. In the Warrens' neighborhood, so staid and placid on a calm day, the trees and garden plants tossed and gyrated in the stormy half-light like a frenzied disco crowd. Then she'd arrived to find a couple of tradesmen's vans parked in the driveway. Sweet, dear, Realtor Jackie's idea of a romantic surprise, Lila had explained resignedly: He'd scheduled the remodeling of one of their bathrooms to cheer her up. Which meant the house was full of the voices
of
men, the whine of drills, the thump of fixtures being moved around, and every few minutes a voice calling down the stairs, "Mrs. Warren, I don't mean to trouble you ma'am, but I got a question 'bout this heah shower stall . . . "

Understandably, Lila was also preoccupied with her forthcoming diagnostics; the desperate intimacy they'd established yesterday had faded. Still, she had dutifully pulled out more of the family archives, and they'd spent a difficult hour or so looking at photos. They had looked at faces of Beaufortes and Lamberts, of Charmian's brother Bradford, Richard's sister Antoinette and brothers Franklin and Alexander, of cousins, in-laws, family friends, servants who had come and gone.

Between interruptions, Lila had managed a few words about each one. All Lila's uncles and aunts were dead now. Bradford had been the only one to stay close to the family, and he'd died before having children. Richard's sister Antoinette had married and moved to Houston, where she'd had one son, killed in Vietnam, and a daughter who'd become a prominent oncologist before succumbing to her own specialty; Antoinette had died a few years later. Franklin had moved to Italy just after World War II and had stayed there, marrying into a large Tuscany clan. Alexander had died of a stroke; one of his sons had become a priest, the other had been killed driving home drunk from a keg party. His daughter, Lila's cousin Jennifer, was still alive; fifty-one now, she lived in Oakland, California, with her partner Ellen.

Lila told it all without excess emotion, in a tone that was almost formal, as if she were speaking for the benefit of the plumbers and carpenters who passed in the hallway.

With Brad's death in 1971, the future of both proud families had come to depend on only Charmian and Richard. And given Ron's distinctly undomestic habits, that had narrowed in the next generation to only one line: Lila and her three children. Lila admitted that the fact had contributed to her desire to reestablish the family roots at Beauforte House.

Many of the photos and clippings showed Charmian or Richard with influential people who Lila explained were good friends, neighbors, or fellow members of their country club or Mardi Gras krewe: a couple of mayors, a state supreme court judge, a governor, a police cornmissioner, the state coroner, various parish representatives, prominent restaurateurs, other bankers, heads of charities to which the Beaufortes gave generously. Lila's memory of them all seemed quite good; if she were repressing anything, Cree thought, it wasn't apparent from any systematic lack of recall.

Cree had her own distractions. The reassurance she'd felt after talking to Edgar hadn't survived the conflicted feelings that accompanied it. Uncomfortable memories returned: last night with Paul and almost intolerable ones of much earlier. At moments, Mike's face materialized in front of the Beauforte faces she studied.

And then after a while it was time for Lila to leave for Ochsner Clinic and for Cree to head to the airport. Lila ended their session looking battered, puffy around the eyes. Cree felt only frustration: The family archives had shown her nothing, except to confirm that the Beaufortes were indeed very well connected, well established. A distinguished family without a blemish upon its name.

Cree gasped as a truck threw up a huge gout of muddy water that completely obscured the view ahead. The car sped forward into absolute murk, Cree bracing for a head-on collision but afraid to slam on the breaks for fear she'd be hit by the equally blind car behind.

Her view cleared after only a second or two. But the sensation of hurtling out of control, the sense of imminent danger from ahead and behind, future and past, stayed with her.

Joyce came into the arrival gate wearing baggy beige pants, a tight white tank top, open sandals that displayed her red toenails, and oversize pink sunglasses pushed up into her ebony hair. With her gigantic handbag, she looked every bit the Long Island tourist, and she barely made it to the parking lot without buying cheesy New Orleans souvenirs from the airport concessions.

"You look like something the cat dragged in," she said as Cree pulled onto Route 10 and headed toward the occluded skyline of New Orleans. "You are not living right."

"Hey, tell me about it."

Joyce peered out the car window. "This is not what I expected. I didn't know it rained like this here. Not this time of year. My Gawd." She had to raise her voice to be heard over the drumming of rain on the car roof and the vehement
whack-whack
of the windshield wipers.

"I didn't either."

"Your sister says hi, by the way. And the twins. Such sweet kids!"

"You talked to them?"

Joyce bit her lips and looked a little caught out. "Well. She was a little worried. Called me as I was going out the door this A.M. and asked me if I knew how you were doing. Said you'd called her late last night, you had the blues pretty bad."

"I'll get over it."

Joyce's eyes narrowed skeptically and her voice took on an excessively neutral tone Cree knew well. "Of course."

Driving took all of Cree's attention.

"The borders thing?" Joyce asked.

"Oh yeah."

Joyce frowned. "This is me trying to check in emotionally, Cree. But you're not helping much."

Cree freed a white-knuckled hand from the wheel, found Joyce's, and gave it a quick squeeze. "I think I may have used up my allotted lifetime's worth of emotions, got none left. I'm sorry."

"Well, you can tell me in excruciating detail when you buy me lunch. And let me stress the lunch part. They served us these things on the flight - I think they were supposed to be foodstuffs, but you could have fooled me. Honestly."

"So what I don't get is why you're so sure you scared this guy off," Joyce said decisively. "I mean, your story is overwhelming on so many levels. Sounds to me like he did his best, you're the one who pulled the plug. If he didn't argue with your decision to leave, that was out of respect for your feelings - he didn't diminish them by trying to bring you out of it or seduce you or something. What did you
want
him to do?"

Joyce was a tenacious researcher who was impossible to deflect if she wanted information, and she'd skillfully coaxed and goaded the whole story out of Cree. Joyce's idea of checking in emotionally had an inquisitional quality to it, Cree thought, but it sure got the job done. Now they were sitting in a Starbucks at the edge of the Garden District, rain blasting against the plate-glass windows in erratic gusts. The relentless sloshing and splashing made Cree think of the interior of a dishwasher on high cycle. Under the circumstances, she had given up on finding something regional to eat. Joyce had complained about having her first New Orleans food in a too-familiar, Seattle-based franchise, but access to a bathroom had become imperative, and it was only five blocks from Beauforte House; when they were done, it would be easy to swing by and give Joyce her first glimpse. They had ordered caramel mocha cake, apple crumb cake, and coffee. Between Joyce's familiar presence and the first food Cree'd had in twenty-four hours, she felt a little better.

"I mean," Joyce finished, "let's face it, for all your empathic talents, when things bear upon you personally you don't seem to understand the simplest things about human nature. Especially your own. The way I see it, not telling him was getting you nowhere fast, what was there to lose?"

Cree accepted the chastening. Joyce was enjoying the mother-henning, and Cree didn't want to spoil her pleasure by telling her that her relationship with Paul Fitzpatrick was almost something of a moot point. It was less his reaction than Cree's own that she feared. She'd made it through the night only by resolving to focus on the hauntings, on Lila, on her own internal equilibrium and process. That was the foundation on which she would have to rebuild, not on resurrecting some wan hopes about a possible relationship that had clearly gotten off on the wrong foot, probably irredeemably.

"Point taken," Cree said at last. "I'm screwed up, I'm working on it. This has all been particularly difficult for me. Now, will you assume I'm dodging the issue if I bring up the reason we're both here? Our commission from the Beaufortes?"

"Atta girl! Come right back at me, that's the way!"

They both laughed. Joyce was a pain.

Cree filled her in on developments: details of Lila's apparitions and state of mind, Beauforte family history, the Chase murders, the hoodoo hexes, Cree's experiences at the house. A legal pad materialized in front of Joyce and she started taking notes.

Cree outlined their research priorities. First, the architecture. Joyce would need to nag Tulane for the floor plans and go get them when they were available; as soon as possible, they'd need to go through the house, room by room, feature by feature, to look for divergences that would clue Cree to the ghosts' eras.

Next, history. The convulsive beating gesture she'd seen in the study could well be a link to the murder of Lionel, John Frederick Beauforte's supposedly troublesome servant, around 1880. Joyce should search newspapers of the period for references to the incident, seeking details of the murder and anything relating to Lionel's personal history. While she was at it, she might as well look for references to Richard Beauforte's death in 1972 - news reports, medical details, obituaries, eulogies, whatever.

Then, Josephine. Cree asked Joyce to try to trace Lila's long-gone nanny. If she were still alive, she might provide information Beauforte family members didn't know or were reluctant to share. If indeed she and Lila had been close, she might have an opinion on what had transformed the bright, confident girl in the early photos to the scared, reserved, repressed junior college student. At the very least, she might be able to explain why Lila's vital signs had shown such agitation when they'd toured the house and had come to Josephine's room.

Finally, Cree also asked her to keep her eyes open for any link between the Beaufortes and voodoo or hoodoo, anything that might make sense of the hexes Deelie Brown had found. She considered asking Joyce to research some of the details she'd recalled about the daydream in Josephine's room but decided she'd given her enough.

"Gawd, this is a regular smorgasbord! Missing persons, historical archives, voodoo, architecture - this is it, I've died and gone to heaven." Joyce turned an ecstatic face to the ceiling but quickly brought her eyes back to Cree and sobered. "I'll get on it right away. On one condition You come with me to Bourbon Street one of these nights, eat some Cajun food, have a few drinks, and go dancing. And maybe, dare I say it, if you're giving up on Dr. Fitzpatrick, flirt a little? I'm serious, Cree, I'm gonna have to insist. You don't like this condition, fire me. You gotta live a little. This is not Muncie, Indiana, it's
New Orleans,
right? Seize the day."

Everyone close to Cree had some prescription; she usually acquiesced — for their sakes, not her own. Now she agreed with a pretense of enthusiasm she knew was unconvincing.

They dashed for the car and drove through the maelstrom to Beauforte House, where they pulled up in front and just sat in silence for a few minutes. The trees thrashed in the wind like creatures in pain; rain darkened the yellow siding in irregular patches and poured in wind-twisted runnels from every angle of the roof. The hollow upstairs windows gaped like the empty eyes of a cadaver. For Cree, the sight brought back the horror of the boar-headed man and that powerful sense of brooding secrets that surrounded both the house and Lila.

"This one is so hard for me," Cree found herself confessing quietly. "I . . . I don't know why. I can't remember being so . . . accessible, it's like everything
invades
me. I can't seem to get any control, it's gotten so I don't trust myself. The whole thing is . . . very disturbing."

Joyce didn't answer and didn't look at her, just stared at the house with eyes narrowed and mouth constricted to a tight line. After another moment she made a pistol out of her forefinger and fired it at the rain-smeared image. "We're going to get you," Joyce muttered quietly. "We're coming after your translucent white ass, and don't you forget it."