Authors: Laura Resnick

Unsympathetic Magic (51 page)

BOOK: Unsympathetic Magic

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Would he be lying in agonized paralysis awaiting his death now if not for
you?

He said, “Esther—”

“I don’t want you to call,” I said.

He sighed in frustration, then looked up at the watchtower, which glinted in the night sky as lightning fluttered in the clouds overhead.

“I’m the only cop here right now, so I’m probably the one who’ll get stuck writing it up. There’s a body in the foundation’s basement that we’ve got to process, murdered by the woman who died on that hilltop tonight.” Looking at the watchtower he asked me, “What are we going to find up there that I don’t know about?”

“Besides Catherine Livingston’s ashes or charred remains? I’m not sure.”

The cops might also find remains of the four bodies that Catherine had stolen from a graveyard, and perhaps some baka remains—and I could only imagine what they would think of
those
. But I decided it would just extend this painful conversation unnecessarily if I mentioned any of that.

Max evidently sensed a cooling of emotion between us. Having made himself scarce earlier, he now joined us. “How are you feeling detective?”

“Almost like normal.” The two men shook hands. “Thank you, Max. I think you saved my life tonight.”

“I was delighted to help!” Max asked, “What will happen to the foundation now?”

“It may be shut down for a few days as a crime scene, and there’ll probably be a minor scandal,” said Lopez. “But then it’ll go back to normal.”

“Catherine was never what made the foundation tick, after all,” I said. “It’s always been Martin’s money.”

“And Martin himself, before she killed him,” Lopez said a little grimly.

I had made my heart-wrenching decision about him, and now I wanted to get it over with. So I said, “Max, Lopez wants to know what was in the antidote you gave him.”

“Ah! It’s a fairly complex recipe, concocted to address a wide range of threats, and some of the ingredients are things which I’m not really at liberty to discuss without a more extensive knowledge of your heritage.”

“Excuse me?”

I said to Lopez, “You’re not Lithuanian, are you?”

“What?”

“However, the primary ingredients,” Max said, “the base of the formula, if you will, is a concoction of excrement mixed with holy water that has been used to wash the external genitalia of an adult human female. The additional—”

“What?”
Lopez said.

I realized now why Puma had been embarrassed. I suspected she was intimately acquainted with the water she had poured down Lopez’s paralyzed throat tonight.

Max blinked at Lopez’s tone. “Water used to wash the ex—”

“No, not that part. Though that part is bad enough.
What
female . . . No, I don’t want to know. Go back to the other thing you said.”

“Ah! Excrement,” Max said with enthusiasm. “We used the excrement of a canine familiar—specifically, Nelli—which has the properties of dejecta from both a physical being and a mystical one, and is therefore—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You gave me Nelli’s excrement?” Lopez shouted. “While I was lying there paralyzed and helpless, you poured
dog shit
down my throat?”

Realizing that his recipe was not being met with the intellectual enthusiasm that he had hoped to inspire, Max said, “Well, it was also mixed with—”

“Oh. My. God.” Lopez looked at me. “I need to go to a hospital. I need an emergency room. I want my stomach pumped. I want a boatload of antibiotics. I want three—no, four tubes of toothpaste. And a gallon of mouthwash. I may want laxatives, but the night is young, so I’ll dwell on that question for a while longer.”

I said, “So I guess you’re leaving?”

“You
knew
this would happen,” he said accusingly.

“Well . . .”

“You can get home by yourself,” he said sternly to me. “Good night!”

“Er . . .” Max raised his fist in the gesture that Biko had taught him. “Peace out.”

As Lopez stalked away, I heard him saying into his police radio that he was on his way to an emergency room for treatment and wasn’t immediately available.

Max and I looked at each other.

“You must be very tired, my dear.”

“I am. Will you see me home?”

“I would be delighted. It may take us quite a while to get there, though. The city is in chaos.”

“Hey, Esther!” Jeff called, coming over to me. “Henry keeps a little portable radio at the reception desk. Puma and I have got it on to a news station that’s able to broadcast, and . . . Well, it’s pretty upsetting news. You should brace yourself.”

“What?”

“Mike Nolan had another heart attack tonight. He’s alive, but back in the hospital.”

“Oh,” I said. “And he was taking such good care of himself, too. It’s a mystery.”

“I guess this means your scene will be rescheduled again,” said Jeff. “And probably rewritten.”

“Or my mother will get her wish and the episode will be canned,” I said morosely. Once the city was functioning normally, I’d contact Thack about this. And also nag him about
The Vampyre.
After my adventures in Harlem, nineteenth-century vampires sounded very restful.

Jeff said, “I wonder if we should try to get to the hospital tonight?”

“For what?” I asked blankly.

“To see Mike.”

I just didn’t have the heart to tell him that Nolan had refused to speak to the casting director about him. Let Jeff hear it directly from Nolan

“The hospital? No way,” I said. “
D-Thirty
bullied me into one hospital visit with that man, but that’s my limit. Anyhow, it’s too hard to get around the city tonight. Just getting home will be a challenge for me and Max.”

“Cabs are running along Fifth Avenue,” said Jeff. “If you walk down a few blocks from here, you can probably get one there and take it all the way downtown.”

“Thanks. We’ll do that.”

I couldn’t bring myself to go inside the foundation again; not until the lights were back on and I was sure nothing evil lurked in the building anymore. And certainly not until the cops got Mambo Celeste’s corpse out of the basement. On the other hand, this experience had certainly taught me the danger of being careless with personal possessions. So I asked Jeff to go get my purse and my duffle for me. After all, what are old boyfriends for?

Max and I walked slowly toward Fifth Avenue, both tired, and neither of us minding the soft summer drizzle that fell on us. I remembered that I had an umbrella in the duffle, but I didn’t bother to pull it out. Jilly C-Note’s costume was ruined, anyhow, and I’d just have to think of a plausible explanation for this when I called
D30
to tell them so.

But it probably wouldn’t be, “An evil bokor tried to turn me into a human sacrifice for dark loa while I was wearing my hooker costume.”

“Max, I have a question.”

“Hmm?”

“I know that Catherine Livingston was a ruthless, evil, narcissistic liar, but she said something this evening that I believed.” I took a breath. “She and Mambo Celeste had nothing to do with my bed bursting into flames while Lopez and I were, um, in it together.”

“Oh?”

“So taking off the gris-gris pouch right before that happened was unrelated. A coincidence.”

“And so you’re wondering what made the bed explode?”

“Yes.”

“Well.” Max thought it over. “May one ask, without being too intrusive, what Detective Lopez’s mood, demeanor, or intent was at the time?”

“He was, er, agitated. He very angry with me. And also, I think, with himself. He was also very, uh . . .” I cleared my throat. “He felt a compelling urge to remain in my company, but clearly didn’t think it was necessarily wise to do so.” After a moment, I added, “Oh, and he was supposed to be on his way to work, and I think he felt conflicted about that, too.”

“I see. Hmm.”

“Max?” I prodded.

“I’m recalling that, at a moment when he feared for your life in Little Italy and wanted light, there was light. And at a moment when the local community needed reassurance from the Rada loa that there was protection at hand, the god of fire and war chose Detective Lopez as his vehicle for manifestation,” Max said. “Now you tell me that at a moment when he felt angry, conflicted, and, er, romantically volatile, there was a spontaneous combustion.”

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Esther. But this incident does strengthen my suspicion that there is more to your young man than meets the eye, and that it behooves us to monitor him for signs of . . . interesting, albeit, unconscious talent.”

“He’s not my young man,” I muttered unhappily. “I don’t know what to do, Max. It’s no good. I’ve nearly gotten him killed twice, and . . . and . . .” I sighed, too tired even to continue following this depressing train of thought.

“My dear, if I may make a suggestion?”

“Yes?”

He raised his fist and made a little bumping motion. “Keep it real, dude.”

I smiled and bumped my fist with Max’s. “Peace out.”

Glossary

Vodou Terms

baka:
an evil spirit in the form of a small monster

bokor:
a sorcerer who practices black magic

cheval:
a horse; one who is “ridden” by a loa during a possession trance

Creole:
a dialect of French and one of the two official

languages of Haiti

drapeau:
a brightly decorated ceremonial flag that’s