“I’ll tell you why when I come over.”
“Why can’t you tell me now?”
“I’d rather come over.” Her voice sounded as soft and gentle as a caress.
Woman, he thought, Nolan’s warning still fresh in his mind, you certainly know how to choose your moments. “I told you already, I’m really bushed.”
“It won’t be for long, promise.”
He heard the hurt in her voice. “Not tonight, Angie. Go make it up with Marcus. He loves you.”
“You’re a prick,” Angie snapped venomously.
“Goodnight, Angie.” He cut the connection, left the phone off the hook, and went to bed.
He dreams of Duval.
She’s wearing a white peasant dress and has a red kerchief tied across her head. Her feet are bare. It is shadowy and hot and her body is moving to the soporific beat of Rada drums. The scene opens up and Val sees that she is not alone. All around her are the dark, shining faces of other servants of the lwa. The incantation they repeat reminds him of the prayers his mother had whispered. He can smell a strong feral odor — a combination of the muskiness of their sweating bodies, the earth under their shuffling feet, and the oils they have anointed their bodies with.
Duval moves forward towards the central pillar, the poteau-mitan, and starts to circle it. Her arms rise above her head, her hands reaching out as though in supplication. Both eyes shut as she sinks into a trance. Her body is a horse, being ridden by her lwa.
A snake-like tongue flashes in and out of her mouth. The crowd edge closer. They start to touch. The red kerchief is removed, then their hands gently ease the flimsy dress from her body, revealing skin that is polished and firm, and tiny breasts the size and color of mangoes. The muscles of her calves ripple as she steps from the dress. Her pubic hair is a lush bush of tight dark curls.
The drums stop beating and a wooden cage is passed from person to person on upraised arms. Inside the cage, a cockerel, its feathers shiny as coal, flaps against the bars. Duval opens the small door and takes hold of the bird by its neck. She removes it from the cage. A knife appears in her a hand. She draws the blade across the bird’s neck, then holds the dying cockerel up to the others. Their chanting ceases and they grow still.
Duval tilts her head to allow the cockerel’s blood to flow into her open mouth. She swallows and a stream of blood bounces off her lips and splashes across her breasts.
A single drum starts to beat, matching the rhythm of her heart. She bends down and lays the body of the cockerel on the dusty earth. The bird lies motionless, but the participants of the danse-lwa are anticipating more. The bird’s head moves a fraction; it flaps a wing against the dusty ground and struggles to its feet. The only sound is the slow beat of the drum.
The lucidity of the dream wakens Val. The shallow depression between his eyes is a pool of sweat, and a cold hollowness sweeps through him when he realizes that the repetitive noise he is hearing originates from some place inside the house. He opens the bedroom door and steps into the hall, his heart racing.
The house is in darkness, merging black and gray shadows. Nothing moves. His feet feel tacky against the bare wooden boards.
Val’s heart starts beating again when he discovers the source of the noise: an operator-initiated electronic alarm that alerts a subscriber that their phone is off the hook. He replaces the handset and the phone starts to ring immediately.
It’s his friend with the high-pitched voice.
“Look out your window,” he says.
He does. A dark blue sedan is parked outside. Two white men are standing beside it. They are big enough to play defense for the Saints. Val moves away from the window and walks down the passage to the kitchen and takes a look out back. As far as he can tell there’s nobody out there. He returns to the phone.
“I see them.”
“We need to talk. They’re there to escort you. Be seeing you shortly.”
“What if I don’t want to go with them?”
“You will if you’re serious about finding Donny Jackson.”
Val looks at his watch. It’s a little after three in the morning.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Val’s face-to-face with his secretive early-morning caller was to take place inside the church on the corner of Rampart and Conti, not far from the entrance to St Louis Cemetery No. 1. The men who drove him there refused to answer any of his questions. They sat in stony-faced silence, staring straight ahead, the muscles in the backs of their necks bulging over their shirt collars like swollen inner tubes.
At the main door of the church, the men told him to enter, take a seat near the front and wait. They didn’t follow him inside.
The interior of the church was cool and unlit. What illumination there was came from the streetlights outside and a faint yellow glow from a few burning votive candles. The smell of incense and beeswax polish hung in the air. The sound of his footsteps on the stone slabs seemed excessively loud to Val as he walked down the aisle. He had been in the church a half dozen times before, mainly for hatching, matching and dispatching services. It housed a shrine of St Jude — the saint of impossible causes. A saint close to the heart of all policemen.
Val entered a pew and sat down. Lifting a bible out of the shelf in front of him, he ran a thumb along its fore-edge, then replaced it. He never felt entirely at ease inside a church. The prevailing sense of good intent was too alien to what he encountered on the streets. He looked around self-consciously. The wooden statue of Christ nailed to the cross was too life-like for his taste, the gore too real. The Madonna’s expression in an oil painting a little too serene.
The door of the sacristy at the left rear side of the church opened and a man emerged. Only five six or five seven, he was silver-haired, slim and wiry. He moved delicately, with small unhurried steps. Val couldn’t make out the color of his eyes. He was wearing a short-sleeved black shirt with a priest’s collar. Kneeling in front of the altar, he crossed himself. His lips moved as he mouthed a silent prayer. When he was through praying, he walked over and placed two votive candles on the metal rack and lit them.
He slid into the pew in front of Val.
“I appreciate you coming,” he said. It was the same voice that Val had heard on the phone.
“Then make it worth my while.”
“My name is Malcolm Kellerman. Rita Jackson was my sister.”
“I can see the resemblance. I’m sorry that your sister's dead. I wish I could have done something to prevent it.”
“The sheriff told me what happened. He called to let me know how exactly my sister and her husband died. He wanted me to hear it from a friend.”
Neither of them said anything for a few moments. Val was the first to break the silence. “This is not your church.”
“No, though it once was — some years ago. I came here when I first left the seminary. I thought it prudent that we meet someplace that FRAPH would be unlikely to have staked out. I can’t believe they intend me any harm, but, as you can see, I’ve taken some precautions.”
“Bill Trochan was killed near here.”
The expression of sorrow on the priest’s face intensified. “May God have mercy on his soul. I watched a television news report of his murder. Bill knew I was Donny’s uncle; we met years ago when my nephew was still in the police department. He came to see me and said that you were looking for Donny. I lied and told him that I hadn’t spoken to Donny in years. I knew what sort of trouble Trochan could make for himself searching for my nephew, and yet I didn’t try to stop him. When I heard that he had been killed, I made a solemn promise to God that I wouldn’t stand by and allow the same thing to happen again.”
Val nodded somberly, but one anonymous, obscure phone call was hardly what he would have described as going out on a limb. “What exactly has FRAPH got against your nephew?”
The priest’s eyes bored into Val’s. “Don’t play games with me. We both know who killed Valerie Duval. The daughter must have told you. Am
I right?”
Val nodded. “Yes, but who told you?”
Kellerman wrung his hands tightly, making the flesh under his fingers go white. “Just under a week ago Donny came to me desperate for my help. He was clearly frightened and had no one else to turn to. He needed money, clothes, a razor, but couldn’t go back to his apartment. It was obvious that he was on the run. I promised to help him all I could, but only if he told me the truth. He admitted to the killing of Valerie Duval.”
“Did he say why?”
“She was blackmailing his father. My brother-in-law was an honest working man and never had much in the way of savings. He offered her support for the child, but she wanted more than that.”
“Where’s Donny now?”
The priest allowed his head to dip. “I don’t know. I wish I did. I was hoping that you might, that maybe my sister or her husband had said something before they were killed.”
“They didn’t. Where did Donny go after he left you?”
“He was hiding out on a quarter boat belonging to an old friend of mine who holds a contract to ferry supplies out to the Gulf rigs. But when I tried to contact him over his parents’ deaths, I was told he had gone ashore. He’ll have heard about Roy and Rita by now, and he won’t rest until he takes his revenge. I want the killing to end.”
“Have the cops spoken to you?”
“Yes, they’ve been to interview me. Just routine questioning they said. I didn’t tell them anything. They’ll never find him. Not if he doesn’t want to be found. Who can evade the police procedural net better than an ex-policeman?”
“What do you want from me?”
Kellerman lifted his head. One side was in deep shadow, giving his face the appearance of a cheap Mardi Gras mask. “The Duval girl will listen to you.”
When hell freezes over, Val thought.
The priest went on. “Maybe it you were to ask her, she could intercede with FRAPH on Donny’s behalf.”
“Why would she do that? Besides, I’m responsible for the death of a fellow islander of hers and the wounding of another, both almost certainly members of FRAPH.”
“Her parents were killed, and now Donny’s have been too. She’s had her revenge. More killing isn’t going to solve anything. If we were to work together to find Donny, maybe I could talk with him to convince him to give himself up without further bloodshed.”
“Who will he go after? Who sent those FRAPH goons to your sister’s house?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t mess me around. They were following orders.”
The priest looked incredulous. “Duval must have a contact with the FRAPH hierarchy. At one time her mother would have had a lot of sway with the Tonton Macoute.”
“She denies it.”
The priest’s tone became insistent. “Other than his parents, no one else knew about Donny’s involvement. It has to be her. Ask her again.”
“Okay, I guess it’s worth a try.”
“Are you a religious man?”
“No”
“That’s a shame. I find that prayer can be a great comfort in times like this.”
“My mother spent twenty years on her knees praying while my father gambled, and beat on her. It didn’t bring me much comfort.”
“Nevertheless I shall pray for you.” The priest stood up and took a slip of paper from his pocket. “The men who brought you here will drive you home. Here’s my private number. Please ring me it you learn anything. Anything at all.”
Val rose, slipped the card into the breast pocket of his shirt, and left.
Outside, the two men were leaning against the side of the sedan, in exactly the same pose as when Val had first peered out his window. One of them pushed himself off the car and opened the door for him. They didn’t speak.
Malcolm Kellerman sat down again in the pew and waited. He heard the sound of the car pulling away. Slumping backwards against the wooden seat, he let his head tilt back. The sacristy door opened and Jean Moncoeur entered the main body of the church. He walked over to the priest.
“What does he know?” he asked sharply.
“Almost nothing. We have nothing to fear from Bosanquet.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s been twice to AV’s corporate headquarters asking questions and throwing his weight around. Don’t tell me he knows nothing.”
“Duval has told him that it was my nephew who killed her mother. He has no idea why.”
“Maybe he suspects it.”
“I don’t see how?”
“Your brother-in-law may have said something before he died.”
“Bosanquet says not.”
Moncoeur directed an icy stare back at him. “And you believe him?”
“He told the sheriff the same thing. Believe me, Bosanquet is like a blindfolded man fumbling around in the dark.”
Moncoeur did not appear convinced. “I hope it was worth the risk.”
So did Kellerman, but then he had more to fear than the others.
“Bosanquet would have gotten around to me sooner or later. He would have recognized my voice. It was better we talk here and under my terms. If he had any lingering doubts why Donny has disappeared, they’re gone.”
“What time does MacLean arrive?”
“Two-thirty.”
Moncoeur made a clicking sound with his teeth. “Why can’t he fly like any normal person? He could have been here a week ago it he had taken a plane. I was expected back in New York by now. I shouldn’t have to handle this by myself.”
Kellerman nodded sycophantically, eager to channel Moncoeur’s fury in another direction. “You did everything right. Bosanquet should have been gator bait by now. What the hell was Gilett playing at? What if he talks?”
"He won’t. I’ve already been in contact with FRAPH and they’ve assured me that they’re taking care of it. Meanwhile, locating and disposing of your nephew has to remain our primary objective. But first I want him to suffer. A lot. Wasn’t five million dollars enough for the greedy sonofabitch?”
“Time is running out. We have a little less than sixty-two hours left to the deadline. Maybe we should reconsider? Let him have the fifteen million.”
“What good would it do? Once he knows we’re prepared to pay, he isn’t going to be stop at fifteen.”
Kellerman knew Moncoeur was right. None of them would be safe until his nephew was silenced for good. “What do you want me to do?”
“Play everything exactly as normal. We need to sit tight and wait for him to surface. He can’t stay hidden for long, not without assistance.”
“I have church volunteers checking hotels, motels and guest houses. They’ve been told that his parents have been killed and other members of his family are trying to contact him. We’ve even put the word out amongst the homeless. We’ll find him.”
“We’d better.” Moncoeur’s face turned red as the first ray of dawn light struck a stained-glass window.
“Forget about using any FRAPH troops for now; the police and FBI will be crawling all over them,” Kellerman advised.
Moncoeur had no problem with that. He’d rather do business any day with muscle paid for in cash. With politically motivated thugs, you were never quite sure who was in charge.
Val’s escorts were as uncommunicative on the ride home as they had been on the drive to the church. That suited him fine. He needed time to think.
Malcolm Kellerman had lied to him, of that he was certain. He had also deliberately attempted to mislead. The priest knew more than he was telling. Something that might explain why a God-fearing couple, as the sheriff had described the Jacksons, did not keep a single picture of Father Malcolm Kellerman displayed on their sideboard.
There was also the anomaly that Val himself had overlooked when he had torn into Marie in front of Angie. If Valerie Duval had had as much influence as both he and Malcolm Kellerman had hypothesized, then what were she and her daughter doing living hand to mouth in a ramshackle of a lean-to?
> Maybe he owed Marie Duval an apology.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Val walked through the front door of the First District Police Headquarters shortly before eight on Sunday morning. He identified himself to the duty sergeant who permitted him to go unaccompanied up the familiar staircase to Chief Larson’s second floor office. He stifled a yawn at the top of the stairs. Another few hours’ sleep wouldn’t have gone amiss.
He had expected to find Larson still at his desk because the previous night was often one of the busiest for the homicide squad. Two detectives, their faces haggard, were leaving Larson’s office as he arrived.
“You saved me a trip out to the campus,” Larson said, waving Val in and directing him towards a chair. “Coffee?”
“Thanks. Black, one sugar.”
Larson poured two beakers of coffee and stirred creamer into one and sugar into the other. He handed Val his, then parked an ample haunch on a corner of his desk.
“That was some stunt you pulled in St Francis. Who the hell do you think you are? Bruce Willis.”
“Things got a bit out of hand.”
“That’s one way to describe it. I took a call from the FBI early this morning, subject matter being you.”
Val had been anticipating some sort of reaction from the federal authorities. You don’t shoot it out with two foreign nationals, suspected of acts of terrorism, without attracting their attention.
“How come they didn’t approach me directly?”
“You know they don’t work like that.”
Only too well, Val thought. When a FBI investigation places a police officer in the spotlight, however indirectly, the agents automatically assume he’s corrupt. They would talk to him when they were good and ready. But some benefit could have come from their involvement. “Have they made positive ID on the Haitians?”
“Yep. The one in custody is Marcel Gilett; his ill-fated compatriot, one Pierre Malen. Neither completely unknown to our friends in the sharp suits. Apparently they’ve wanted to interview Gilett for some time over the kidnapping and execution of a Haitian army deserter. They’re having him transferred to the Tulane Medical Center.”