A pleasant surprise, this time. Enjoying crowd, parades, and revelers as they wandered down Bourbon Street, Frank and Joe discovered Duprè's was only a few blocks away — brightly lit, three-storied, with a smoked-glass front and stuffed with diners both inside and outside on the middle balcony, and the combined smells of barbecue and Cajun spice turned hunger into pure starvation. Joe inhaled deeply. If everything tasted as good as it smelled, he and Frank wouldn't leave until they were waddling.
"This'll definitely do," Frank said, with satisfaction. "I have to admit, our little tagalong's got class after all."
"Well, yeah, she had a good teacher," Joe said. "I tried my best…" He fended off Frank's mock-punch.
"Hey! Frank, Joe!"
Someone on the top balcony waved, but disappeared before Joe got a good look. A minute later, Joshua appeared in a smaller doorway just to the right of the restaurant and waved them over; he was still in the eye-watering tie-dyed dashiki, but now Mardi Gras beads had been woven into his short dreads. "You timed that right. My baby niece dragged me out to look at the pretty parade and I just happened to look down. Come in, come up."
"Kris," Frank nodded at the restaurant, "promised us that."
"Oh, sure. Your choice, chè. We can wait a couple hours for a table — though my uncle might be able to shorten that a bit — or you can come up now and get his private cooking and my aunt's. That's his barbecue on the roof you smell. Ribs, crab and shrimp. Plus whatever else the rest of the crowd's brought over."
"You wait," Joe said to Frank. "I'm going upstairs."
"We don't want to intrude on your family," Frank said.
Joshua laughed. "You and about a dozen others right now. Folks have been in and out all day. Nainaine loves company, especially since me and Kris are helping with dishes." Joshua grinned. "If you can imagine Kris doing dishes, that is."
Joe and Frank exchanged their own grins and followed Joshua up the stairs. A large black woman dressed in a flowery red mu-mu waited at the top door. "Joshua, what was that chaos storm all about?" She looked quizzically at Frank and Joe.
"Me and Kris's friends, Nainaine," Joshua said. "Frank, Joe, this is my nainaine — sorry, my aunt, Alma Duprè. Uncle Roy's roof-side with the barbecue. Nainaine, Frank and Joe Hardy."
"Alma," the woman said firmly. "Any friend of my nephew is welcome here." She had a deep, rolling voice and silver-beaded cornrows; she eyed both brothers up and down, then ushered them in. Large, spacious, the living room smelled of cinnamon and was loaded with books, Catholic statuary, and bright paintings of saints. "Praise the Lord, your taste is improving, Joshua. These are better than those last scruffy ones you brought home."
"His what?" Joe said.
Joshua saw the brothers' faces and burst into laughter. "Oh, no…God, no, Nainaine. Not like that. Godzilla would kill me. However…" He batted eyes at both Frank and Joe, "I'm willing to risk death if you're curious."
Frank stopped. Joe looked from Frank to Joshua and back, not certain if he'd understood or how to react if he had. From Frank's expression, neither was he.
From across the living room, Kris sighed and pushed up from a toile couch loaded with throw-pillows. "Stop it, Josh. You're gonna kill 'em from shock and I don't want to explain that to their dad. Hey, guys. I thought I heard Butterfly there yell at you from the gallery."
"Gallery?" Frank said. "You have an art studio here, too?"
"Who's Godzilla?" Joe said at the same time, focusing on the one bit of apparently harmless information.
"Gallery," Kris said, as Joshua opened his mouth. "Us…um…Northern heathens call it a balcony, Frank. But here in N'awlins, if it's got posts, it's a gallery. No posts, it's a balcony."
"Oookay," Frank said. "And Godzilla?"
Joshua was grinning. "My mate, back home."
Now Joe was thoroughly confused. "You call your wife 'Godzilla'?"
Another pause. Biting her lip, Kris stared at the ground — her expression plainly you did not just say that. Shaking her head, Alma patted Joe on the shoulder and moved past him towards the kitchen.
"Nope," Joshua said. "I call my boyfriend 'Godzilla'. He's a Japanamaniac. I've tried to introduce him to good films, but he won't —"
"Boyfriend?!"
Alma came back and handed bottles to Frank and Joe. "Here, chè. You'll need this, if you continue sparring with my nephew."
"Careful with that stuff," Kris said. "That's Alma's home-brew."
"And to answer your obvious un-asked question, beautiful," Joshua said to Joe, with a definite edge, "yes, I am. Get used to it. I'm queer and I'm here…"
"And no, he's not interested in either of you," Kris said firmly. "You're straight and he knows it. He's just yanking your chain."
"That's not what I want to be ya—"
"Josh. Be nice, Bayport's small town New England. Give 'em a break. And c'mon, big brothers, he lives in the Castro back in San Francisco, what did you expect?"
"A Cuban hippie with bad cigars?" Frank said.
"We got the tie-dyes right," Joe said, under his breath. His face felt red-hot. Joshua was…and had called him…and had…and what?
Joshua laughed and gestured them to follow. "C'mon, guys. Food's roof-side. And I'm sorry. Things got tense this afternoon, and you pushed a couple buttons without realizing it. You reacted a lot better than Rafe did, I'll say that."
"Rafe — Karma's guitarist," Kris said, when Joe opened his mouth. "He almost punched Josh out, that first time Josh tried pick-up lines on him."
"He tried to punch me out." Joshua swung onto the wrought-iron spiral staircase leading to the roof. "That's when he found out 'gay' could easily mean 'black-belt'."
This time, Joe laughed, but Frank shook his head. "I saw Karma's in town," Frank said. "You're not guarding? I wondered if that's why you were here."
The smile slid from Joshua's face; Kris looked away. "Um," she said. "That was the tense part. Just leave it, okay?"
Frank looked at Joe; Joe nodded, and without a word, Frank followed Joshua through the roof door. Joe, though, snagged Kris's arm when she started after them. "Need to talk?"
She bowed her head. "You wouldn't understand the conversation."
"Try me." When she said nothing, Joe leaned into her line of sight. "Hey, c'mon, Tagalong. You know me better than that. Try me. I'll listen."
A long pause. "Know anything about blood magic?"
Whatever Joe had expected to hear, it wasn't that. He stared, unsure what she meant.
She nodded towards the living room. "What do you think of the paintings?"
Joe glanced back: the same bright paintings he'd seen when he'd come in. "Well…they're okay, I guess."
Kris sighed. "Like I said. C'mon. I'm starved, and I bet you are, too."
From that point, the chatter stayed innocuous, catching up with their tagalong for the last year or so, though Joshua still flirted, teasing innuendoes that made both Frank and Joe blush until Joe felt comfortable enough to insult Joshua back — Joshua only laughed and handed him another beer, which was every bit as strong as Kris had hinted at. The food — crawfish, shrimp, a thick stew with seafood, ham and sausage that Alma called jambalaya, something else called "mack chow" with corn and peppers — was smoky and spiced with saffron, filé and things Joe couldn't identify and couldn't get enough of, and the view of the Bourbon Street parades from the roof was unmatched. Even better, some of the guests were local Zydeco musicians, and had not only brought their instruments, but were happy to talk music and teach Joe how to play the washboard.
Best — several of Joshua's cousins were definitely female, definitely interested and definitely giggly when Joe flirted with them.
Finally, though, Alma started shooing folks out and smiled hugely when Joe and Frank helped Kris and Joshua gather trash up. "If they do housework," Alma said to Kris, "I'm keeping them."
"They had their wallets stolen, nainaine," Joshua said, wrestling a trash can down the stairs. "The usual Mardi Gras welcome committee."
"Oh no — your first time in New Orleans, chè?"
Joe nodded, but stopped when the room spun.
"We're okay," Frank said. "Dad's wiring us money."
"Still," Alma said. "You need fed, come around. A guest should never know what fasting means. You feel guilty, pass the favor to someone else in need."
"If that means cooking like yours," Frank said, grinning, "it's a deal."
"You don't know how much we eat," Joe said.
Alma nodded at Joshua. "I raised him. You can't be worse than that."
"She just wants innocent victims to help with clean-up," Kris said.
The beer had been strong; Joe staggered passing back through the living room to the door, and Frank wasn't much better. "You guys need someone to walk you back?" Joshua said, when they reached the door.
Joe took careful inner stock. "We're okay. You're not that far." He happened to glance back, past Joshua's shoulder, and stopped. One of the paintings, the one in the corner by the back window, was of a Roman centurion, holding a cross aloft, but behind him was a tuxedo'd black man in a skull mask, sitting on coffins.
Just like the mural in Duveé's bar.
"Something wrong?" Joshua said.
It had been a great evening and their hosts wonderful. Joe decided he wasn't sober enough to bring it up. Probably just some New Orleans thing. Shaking his head, he followed Frank down the stairs and to the street. The parades and street-party were still going strong — if anything, even louder, even at this hour. Maybe it was just the beer or the good food, but Joe couldn't stop grinning, watching the street-life and flirting with passing women. Frank joined in, and they made a thorough nuisance of themselves with a group of giggly LSU girls they bumped into. Not that the girls seemed to mind…
The brothers were decidedly punchy by the time they made it back to their room. Frank fumbled with the key, shoved the door open, and fumbled the light switch on with a snap.
They stopped in the doorway. Suddenly Joe was stone-sober.
Dangling from the light fixture, two voodoo dolls hung in nooses, jabbed through with long, large, red-headed pins.
Frank made a noise, stalked into the room, and yanked one of the dolls down — the ancient light fixture rattled, and, diverted for another moment, they stared up, waiting for it to either fall or settle. It finally settled, and Frank turned his attention back to the doll in his hand. "Someone's idea of a practical joke. Can you believe this?"
"Or a threat." Staring at the second doll, Joe recognized a piece of one of his shirts stabbed to it with the pin; his stomach rolled. "They're real — from what Thatcher's book said, I mean," he added hastily, when Frank gave him a look.
"A threat. Right. Get real, Joe. From who?" Shaking his head, Frank turned the doll over in his hands. "The bellhop. He wanted to scare the idiot tourists, I bet. He'd have keys to all the rooms." Then Frank grinned. "Hey, let's go show these to Thatcher. He'll get a kick out of 'em."
"Thatcher? Now? Why? It's late — he's an old man. He'll have gone to bed already. Why bother him?"
"He said he's doing a thesis on Duveé. He's probably still at that bar. C'mon." Frank jammed the doll into his jacket pocket and headed out the door.
Confused, Joe stared at the remaining doll. He wasn't about to touch it, not bare-handed. He had a vague memory of Kris claiming that silk insulated magic, and Frank going after her on the logic of "why-silk-not-polyester". Maybe voodoo wasn't real, but still…
Opening his suitcase, Joe snagged a handkerchief, and he grinned at remembering Aunt Gertrude's insistence that he and Frank pack "something nice in case you need to impress someone". Then he undid the noose at the light fixture, let the doll drop into the handkerchief and balled it up, stuffing it into his jacket — he paused. Something inside the doll felt thin, stiff, edged — later. Joe shut the room door behind him, double-checked to make sure the lock held, then ran after Frank.
Arms crossed, Frank waited in the hall for Joe to catch up. "Look," Joe said, uneasy and trying not to show it, "let's go show these to Tag instead. She and Josh'll still be up —"
"They're all the way down Bourbon. Samedi's is just across the street. C'mon."
Joe had no choice but to follow; he wasn't about to let Frank go alone. It was just after midnight, but the streets were still crowded and noisy. They dodged between two floats and through a group of costumed Indians, down half a block to the alley —
"Wait…" Someone snagged Joe's arm.
The woman who'd stolen their wallets.
Frank had turned. "You."
"You have a bad habit of disappearing," Joe said to her.
"Please…" She stared into Joe's face. "I don't have much time. They'll know. I can't let them know. I managed to get out. You must leave. Get out of New Orleans. They've got you targeted. You're next."
A chill went up Joe's back. "Who are 'they'?"
Her mouth worked; no sound came out, until, "I can't — you don't know what she can do — what they're doing to — just — leave, please!"
Joe yanked her back as she started to turn. "Who's got me targeted? What are you talking about?"
"I can't — they'll —"
"Either you spit it out," Frank said, "or we'll march you to the police and you can talk about it from a jail cell."
Her eyes went wide, staring behind them. She yanked free, fled down Bourbon Street, disappearing into the crowds and the night.
Frank grabbed Joe's arm before he could follow. "Don't. You'll make yourself a target for worse than pickpockets, this time of night."
"She said something when she took our wallets. She said she'd see me again." Joe hesitated; Frank was biting his lip as he stared after the woman. "She's in trouble, Frank."
Frank shook himself. "She's a thief. Of course she's in trouble. She was probably going to lead you right into a trap." Frank headed down the alley towards the bar. "C'mon, I want to catch Thatcher before the place closes."
This wasn't like Frank at all. He always tried to help, whether the help was wanted or not. And to let a thief get away…? Torn, Joe stared down the street: no sign of her now. He was very aware of the wrapped-up voodoo doll in his jacket; it felt hot, then cold, then hot again, no matter how hard he told his imagination to shut up. He did not want to go into that club. He did not want to see Duveé again.
With a sigh, Joe followed his brother.
No sooner had they crossed the threshold when a muscled bouncer blocked their path. "We're closed."
"It's all right, they're with me," said a voice — Thatcher, still at the same table as before; the bouncer stepped aside. "I've been expecting them. Come along, join me." Thatcher nodded at the brothers. "Please, sit down."
"You were expecting us?" Frank said, as he sat down.
Joe remained standing. Picture cards were laid out on the table; they reminded him of Tarot cards, but the pictures were different, angular, grotesque, ugly. "We weren't expecting us until about a minute ago."
"The cards told me." Smiling, Thatcher nodded at the cards. "I was concerned. Their message is not quite clear. Rather frightening."
Frank and Joe exchanged a look. "The cards told you," Frank said, as Joe finally sat down.
"Yes. Tarot cards. You can buy them in any curiosity shop on Bourbon Street, by the dozen. But not like these cards. These are over a hundred years old." Thatcher's gaze rested on Frank. "I won them in a high stakes poker game. My wager was five thousand dollars."
"You said these cards told you about us," Frank said, scowling.
"This one." Thatcher tapped an image of a masked skeleton holding two swords. "A challenge presented, unexpected visitors bearing news. Two swords, two visitors, connected by bones — brothers." Thatcher's voice was low, rhythmic. "And here…" another tap: a young man walking off a cliff, "the Fool. He's a pawn. Expendable. And then…this one…" A third tap, and Thatcher's hand rested: a gaunt skeleton in tattered robes, a raven perched on its outstretched arm, a burial cross behind it with a setting sun staining the card in deep scarlet and black.
"Yes?" Joe said, before he could stop himself.
"Death," Thatcher said.
"Swell," Joe muttered, unnerved.
Frank gave Joe a brief glare, then pulled the voodoo doll from his pocket, laid it on the table. "We got these. They were hanging in our hotel room, in nooses."
Thatcher raised an eyebrow. "Just one?"
"I got one, too." Joe tried to play it off, no big deal. "Didn't want to feel left out."
"You still have it?"
Why did that matter? "I threw it away. It's just tourist trash."
"In the world of the unseen, it is hard to say what is real…and what is fake." Thatcher laid a finger on the doll, then drew out a jackknife, picked up the doll and ripped open the seams. Inside…
…Frank's driver's license, only the picture half, splattered with rust-brown, the eyes marked out, cuts grooved deeply across the picture. Joe swallowed.
"Not tourist trash," Thatcher said. "It is very real. Doll magic, blood magic, very potent. Using your picture, destroying the eyes — making you blind." Quieter, "You were right to bring this to me. I have only seen one like it before, in Haiti. It was hanging over the door of a man lying within, slowly dying. He continued, in torment, until death…was a release."
"Native superstition," Joe said. Frank still stared at the ripped-open doll.
"The man was a colleague of mine from London," Thatcher said coldly.
"But why? Why us? We're just tourists. We don't know anyone here."
"We spoke with that girl outside," Frank lowered his voice, "the one who stole our wallets. She warned us to get out town." Another quick glance at Joe. "She said they were targeting us. Targeting Joe."
Thatcher scowled. "Yes. She approached me for help, as well. Claire, her name is. She was following her sister, and got involved with Duveé. She got in deeper than she intended, I fear." He scowled towards the stage, then stood, gathered up the cards and doll. "Come. We must talk, but not here."
He strode out the door. Frank shoved to his feet and followed, Joe at his heels. For an old man, Thatcher walked fast, forcing Frank and Joe to nearly run to keep up.
Thatcher glanced around at the crowds, lowered his voice. "You know of the murders? The occult killings?"
That brought Joe to a dead stop. "Murders?"
"They've been all over your news."
"We're been busy helping Dad," Frank said. "We haven't had much time for TV."
"Dreadful things," Thatcher said. "Seven, so far. The last was just before Mardi Gras. The police claim it is a Satanic cult."
Joe barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Both Mar and Dad had ranted long and loud to the Bayport PTA about those same idiotic assumptions, when vandals had attacked Bayport High.
"The police do not wish to admit the truth," Thatcher said. "They do not want to disrupt the Mardi Gras or anger those in power. But murders are obviously connected with black magic. With Voodoo. The evidence makes that quite clear."
"Evidence." Joe didn't like where this was going. Why was Thatcher telling two strangers about this?
"Markings on the bodies. Torture. Ritual sacrifice. Symbols found at the scene, the patterns of binding, and such. I have seen such things before."
And Kris had asked him about blood magic. But it made no sense — why would their little tagalong be involved with something like that?. Unless…Joe shivered. Talking about this here, surrounded by costumed revelers and raucous rag-time trumpet bands…it was hard to think, hard to focus…
"So you're working with the police?" Frank said.
"I have been watching Duveé for days now. He holds all the hallmarks of a Voodoo houngan, a high priest of black magic trained in the dark forces. He has a presence. A power. The hold he has over Claire — her sister disappeared after working for Duveé, and I'm positive he made Claire steal your wallets." Thatcher's gaze rested on Joe. "Your father, the detective. You said you were helping him. You follow his path?"
Reluctantly, Joe nodded. "We help him out."
"We're in Criminology in college," Frank added. "We've solved a few things ourselves, too."
Smiling, Thatcher stepped out of the way of a passing group of teenagers and into the shelter of a doorway. "That may be enough of a threat, if the killer knows you are in town. From those dolls, they do. They fear your father's interference." Thatcher paused, his gaze on the crowd. "I would normally hesitate to ask strangers for assistance, but for two young men as capable as yourselves, with your experience and connections…"
"We'd be glad to help," Frank said, and Joe stared at his brother.
"Splendid!" Thatcher lowered his voice, calm and measured. "There is a warehouse near the river docks. Duveé owns it, and he goes to it at all odd hours. However, I am only one old man. I hesitate to make my suspicions public without more proof, or to go there alone. But if you could come with me…"
"No," Joe said.
Thatcher looked taken aback. "No?"
Frank opened his mouth, but Joe grabbed his arm, pulled him a short distance away with a curt, "Excuse us a minute" to Thatcher. "Look, brother," Joe said, when they were out of casual earshot, "we are here for Mardi Gras. For vacation. Getting involved with a serial killer is not what Dad had in mind!"
"Dad would help," Frank said, with clenched teeth. "You know he would. He'd go after this in a heartbeat. And you're refusing to help — to stop murder."
"Dad was an NYPD cop! And I'm not refusing. I'm turning down a total stranger who has no proof of anything he's claimed. Frank, you're going just on this guy's say-so. That's not like you!"
"He's working for the cops!"
"Fine, let's trot him over to the police station and check!"
"He's an Oxford professor and a respected author. Joe, come on, he's not going to lie to us!"
"I understand if you do not wish to help," Thatcher broke in, loud enough to make them both turn. "The killings have been very brutal." His gaze was on Joe again. "Fear can be a powerful deterrent."
"We'll help, Professor. We're not scared." Frank gripped Joe's shoulder hard, a silent discussion-over, Older Brother Taking Charge…
Seething, Joe yanked away. "I said no. You want to explain to Dad why you did something so stupid, you do it alone." He stalked off, then broke into a half-run back down Bourbon Street, ignoring Frank calling after him. Joe didn't have any idea where he was going, just away. He shoved his hands in his pockets, halted. The voodoo doll.
He'd suggested to Frank that they take the things to Kris and Joshua, and Frank had blown him off. Joe looked around, got his bearings, took off again at a fast walk. He didn't know if they'd still be awake, but he would pound on the door until they let him in. Joe had to tell someone, and Joshua was former Army and evidently a native here. He'd know what to do with the dolls.
Three blocks, four. Joe slowed, a bit winded and tired — he checked his watch, just after 1 AM. The crowds had thinned; only the die-hard partiers were out now, and none immediately near him. He leaned against a gallery post to catch his breath — then raised his head. He'd heard something, from a nearby walled-in garden lot; it'd sounded like a muffled scream. The green wooden gate creaked, slightly ajar.
It was late. He was tired, and he didn't want to interrupt anyone's party. Probably just over-enthusiastic bead-gatherers. Still…
Joe pushed away from the post, over to the gate, pulled it open — and froze.
The pickpocket, Claire. Dead.
She lay sprawled face-up on a cobbled garden-walk, blood soaking the front of her dress and pooling under her. Her throat was slashed wide open, her hands and feet bound with black cord, her dress pulled up and exposing her from waist down. Her hands were clenched around a voodoo doll.
Beside her on the bricks, reproach and plea at once, two wallets.
