The Gone Dead Train (7 page)

Everyone has weaknesses. Lou Nevers had a crack in him the size of the Grand Canyon. And what about Billy's own flaws? He'd seen people take a wrong turn, make a bad choice, and dig a hole they couldn't get out of. Mercy loved her bakery. She'd made a choice to get what she wanted. He was making a choice. He couldn't see himself doing anything but what he was doing right at that moment. Was walking away from Mercy showing a lack of character, or had he done the righteous thing for both of them?

Suddenly he wanted to call her, hear her voice. Instead, he walked out onto the aft deck, leaving his phone inside so he wouldn't be tempted. Across the water an enormous tree was being swept down the channel, its root system exposed. The tree looked healthy, but the river must have been more powerful and undermined its grip on the earth. Birds hung in the branches as it floated along, wondering what the hell had happened to their universe.

The urge to call Mercy passed. The light on the river turned gold. He went back inside. Back to work.

And ol' man river just kept rolling along.

T
he brick houses with their oversize hardwood trees in the front yards made up the neighborhood, typical of the aging suburban tracts built in Memphis during the boom years following World War II. The homes beamed with the fastidiousness of retired couples who obsessively weed flower beds and sweep walks.

However, the ranch-style house that interested Frankie wasn't one of those. The bland house that had her attention had turned itself away from the neighborhood, its energy compressed behind shaded windows.

She pulled to the curb, engine left running in the late-afternoon humidity. A bank of clouds blocked the sun as it dropped toward the horizon. Frankie glanced through police reports concerning the owner of the house, a Señor Sergio Ramos. Complaints lodged by neighbors alleged loud parties in the backyard with drumming and chanting. Some reports hinted at animal sacrifice. Señor Ramos was a U.S. citizen of Cuban descent and a practicing
santero
. She knew what the neighbors thought were wild parties were actually initiations into the faith, rituals she had witnessed as a child in Key West. The complaints didn't interest her. She wanted to know if this Ramos character had the capability of making a death curse. If he did, she wanted the name of the person he'd sold it to. Ramos would be cautious. Posing as a customer was the only way she would get past his wariness.

In Key West she'd written a lot of parking tickets and handled dozens of domestic disputes. Investigating a possible homicide was a new experience for her. And while she was armed, she was walking into an unauthorized situation without backup. If Able knew what she was about to do, he'd stop her. If her watch commander found out, she could kiss her detective slot good-bye. She shut down the engine anyway and walked up the driveway.

Mimosa trees bordered the right side of the drive, their roots breaking up the concrete and making it almost impassable for vehicles. A breeze dropped pink blossoms, a carpet of them having accumulated into a decaying slick under her feet.

A traditional Cuban household only uses the front door for the delivery of monumental announcements such as the death of a family member. Having once made the mistake of knocking on a Cuban's front door, she had no intention of starting out on the wrong foot with this man.

The yard didn't appear to be fenced, so she continued along the side of the house and turned the corner. Trees shaded the backyard. At the far end of the property was a freestanding garage. In this setup, the garage would be the shrine to the orishas and the place where a
santero
performed the initiation rituals. If animals were sacrificed—a part of so many Santerían observances—that's where it would take place.

She stepped onto the terra-cotta patio that ran the length of the house. A potbellied cauldron sat in a fire pit at the center of the patio. The smell of rendered fat and cooling charcoal hung in the air. The odor would be one of the trouble spots for the neighbors. Concrete steps with an iron handrail led up to the back entrance of the house. Typical of a
santero
, a mirror hung in the eaves over the back door to keep the Evils from entering.

As she started for the steps, a white German shepherd, asleep beneath a tree across the yard, scrambled to its feet. It didn't bark, a bad sign. She wasn't afraid of dogs, but this one locked its eyes on her with an unnerving intelligence that stopped her in place. Suddenly the dog sprinted toward her, leaping onto the far side of the patio with the metal chain hooked to its collar clinking as it ran.

“Sit!” she yelled, standing her ground. She gave the “down” signal with her hand. The dog kept coming, head low, tongue lolling. Just as her resolve began to crumble, a man stepped out onto the porch.

“Dante . . .
para
!” he shouted.

The dog skidded to a halt a few feet from Frankie. It huffed and watched her with unreadable eyes. Frankie blew out a breath and regarded the man on the steps. He wore a loose white shirt, white pants, and dark glasses. He looked to be in his early forties, had a masculine jaw, and a lean, strong body, his forearms roped with muscle.

“Señor Ramos?” she said.

“I'm Ramos. Are you afraid of dogs?”

“Not at all.” Then she realized her heart was pumping faster than usual.

Ramos padded down the steps, the mirror in the eaves flashing behind him, his fingers lightly touching the rail. “Dante means no harm. I promised her someone would take her for a car ride today. Come here, Dante.” He bent to run his hand over the dog's coat and unclipped the chain from the collar. “Go apologize to the lady.”

The big dog trotted to Frankie, sat at her feet, and lifted a thick paw. Frankie started to bend down to shake the dog's paw, then stopped. She hadn't come to participate in dog tricks.

“I'm Frankie Malone. Mystica Arnaz gave me your address. I didn't have a number, so I couldn't call. Is this a good time?”

“I'm expecting a client soon, but Mystica called ahead and described what you need. The cost is twenty dollars. Is that agreeable?”

“Fine,” she said. The transaction was moving too fast. She needed time to look around the house. A gust of wind swept across the patio and raindrops the size of half-dollars smacked onto the tiles.

A drop struck Sergio's outstretched palm. “We must step inside, please.”

He led the way up the steps and held the door for her and the dog as the rain pelted down. Her concern over entering the house had lessened. In fact, there was something vulnerable about Ramos that she couldn't place.

They walked through a spotless kitchen with stacks of oversize stainless-steel bowls on the counter and several knife blocks holding carving and butcher knives, a reminder of the rituals that must take place in the garage.

“Follow me,” he said. His fingers brushed the door frames and chair backs as if he were keeping in touch with his surroundings as he showed her into the next room. His sunglasses stayed in place even though the storm had darkened the room.

Of course. The vulnerability she'd sensed was his eyesight.

The room off the kitchen was a
botánica
stocked with spiritual candles, fiberglass statues of Catholic saints, and wood-carved roosters. Shelves lined the walls with an array of ceramic and iron pots meant for collecting the blood of animals sacrificed during rituals. Blood feeds the saints of Santería, the orishas. Offerings of fresh flowers, candy, and lit candles flanked the urns and tureens used as shrines to the saints.

This wasn't the kitsch she'd seen at the salon. This was the real deal.

She noticed the hallway to the right. Somewhere in this house was a room similar to a pharmacy that would contain fresh herbs and sacred oils, along with strange items such as mules' teeth, owl feathers, and dirt from graveyards, all the elements needed to produce complex
ewes
and
ebbos
. As healers,
santeros
have extensive knowledge of plants and their powerful impact on the body. Unfortunately, some
santeros
use their position to fleece their “godchildren,” or believers, to enrich themselves. It was dangerous business. Monies and gifts given to
santeros
are tributes that belong to the orishas. The saints are quick to punish anyone who would dare steal their fees.

“I'm so relieved you have the herbs,” she said. “The woman who raised me practiced Santería. She made the
ewe
for me.” Her throat closed with emotion. She hadn't spoken Amitee's name in years, the one person who had loved her unconditionally.

Sergio waved to a chair by the window. “Have a seat, watch the rainfall. I have Mystica's list. You were right to ask for this
ewe
. It will dispel the distress you've been experiencing.”

His insight unnerved her until she remembered that the
ewe
she'd requested was meant to release negative energies. Naturally, he would assume she was stressed.

“It's been a long time since I've seen a
santero's farmacia
,” she said.

His head cocked slightly. “Come along if you wish.”

S
he followed him down a hallway lined with photos of tropical beaches along with several framed documents. She scanned them quickly until she came to two diplomas from the Universidad de la Habana—a Ph.D. in psychology and a master's in religious studies. Farther down the wall were commendations from international peer associations and a number of photos of people gathered for group shots. She passed the opened door of a sunny office with book-filled shelves and a desk with a large wicker chair pulled up in front. This man was a professional, not a witch doctor—a far more complex individual than she'd bargained for.

She joined him in a room with racks of apothecary jars and boxes she knew contained herbs; oils; powders; bat heads; quail heads; ashes; dried okra; Guinea, Chinese, and Indian pepper; charcoal; teeth from dogs, cats, and sharks; pieces of beehive; and all manner and forms of cotton. On a stainless-steel worktable were stone mortars and pestles for grinding and several Lucite containers holding small blue bottles with rubber stoppers. Beside the containers stood a large bottle packed with plants floating in a greenish liquid she knew was called Florida Water. Every
santero
keeps a bottle for general use in spells and to dab on his forehead and limbs in order to dispel headaches or any type of psychic attack.

Next to the Florida Water lay a stack of gray conjure bags with a crosshatch pattern. The sight of the bags snapped her back to reality. She walked over and picked one up.

“Are there other
santeros
in Memphis?” she asked.

“None that I know of. Why?”

“I've seen a bag like this recently.”

He glanced at her. “Where?”

“A man I met in passing had one.”

Ramos opened the door of a small refrigerator and withdrew a handful of green herbs, water dripping from their roots. “That's a popular style of bag. It's sold on a number of Internet sites. Can you tell me about the man?”

“He was an African-American gentleman in his eighties.”

“Why does this matter to you?”

“I wondered if you make
ebbos
and spells for people other than your godchildren. Like a special order.”

“I see.” He didn't look at her. He shook the water from the roots.

Her questions were too direct. Now he was suspicious. She changed the subject.

“I couldn't help noticing your doctorate from the University of Havana in the hallway.”

He smiled. Behind his quiet formality, Sergio Ramos was a handsome man. “You notice many things. You're an inquisitive woman.”

“I met a lot of Cubans when I lived in Key West. They risked everything to leave that country.”

“So you're wondering why I was there for my training.” He bagged the herbs in plastic and wrapped it with a strip of raffia.

“I grew up in Little Havana, Miami. I was quite the romantic back then. I decided to attend university in Cuba to return to my roots, as it is said. When I graduated, I established a clinical practice in Havana and began research into the integration of the psyche with religious beliefs. Following that path, I became a practicing
santero
. I've now limited my role to
italero
, which means I specialize in the divination of the cowrie shells. This practice falls more in line with my training as a psychologist.”

Frankie had learned from Amitee to trust
santeros
, that they function as moral authorities in their communities and as therapists by giving consultations using coconut shells or seashells to divine answers to life's problems. Ramos's background in psychology would make him highly effective in his practice as an
italero
. Or he could be a danger to the easily manipulated believers.

She saw him suppress a smile at what he must have thought was female curiosity.

“Shall I continue with my story?”

“No stone left unturned,” she said, trying for charming, but the comment came off as brittle.

“You've noticed my failing eyesight. It's a genetic disorder that slowly damages the retina. I have no night vision and only a small amount of tunnel vision left. Two years ago I returned to the States to participate in a study offered in Memphis. My condition has stabilized. No more loss. I am very lucky. I miss Cuba, but this is my home now. I have an established clinical practice, and my work as a
santero
benefits the believers who live here.”

He clasped his hands in front of him and smiled. “Now. Shall we discuss the true purpose of your visit?”

His tone was kind, not at all confrontational. He simply knew she had an ulterior motive, and he wanted to be told what that was.

She'd prepared for this.

“I do have a problem,” she said quietly.