For notes and disclaimer, please see part one.

Then...

Dean crashes at Darcy's for the night before going to see Dr. Yates at LSU. Dr. Yates, contrary to Darcy's knowledge, now says he doesn't believe in voodoo, and provides them with his latest scholarly work. As Dean and Darcy leave, Dr. Yates puts his arm around a student--Alain Martin's daughter. A visit to a local voodoo priestess brings them but one clue: the High Priestess of the Bayou.

Now...

The café Dean chose for lunch was one near the Griffin and Martin law firm. After all, he definitely wanted to chat up the secretary again, see if she knew of anyone who might want to harm the esquire. Over the blue plate specials, Dean and Darcy discussed possible theories, and delved into Dr. Yates' draft, looking for anything that might, even in passing, indicate a mystical bayou or apparently the mother of all voodoo priestesses in Louisiana.

They hadn't hit on much.

After Dean paid for lunch, the duo headed out into the crisp October air. "Y'know," Darcy said, "you should take her a present."

He frowned. "Who?"

"The secretary, Collette."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"If you come bearing a sympathy gift, she'd probably be more willing to open up to you."

"She was plenty willing to open up to me yesterday," he said, heading towards where the Impala was parked.

"On your good looks alone?"

"See, even you agree that I have good looks."

"Dean, c'mon. Sometimes, you need to use a little finesse."

He stopped on the sidewalk, looking back at her. "It's your first day on your first hunt, and you're giving me pointers?"

"I'm giving you information from a woman's point of view. I'd imagine, with you and your dad doing these hunts, maybe you haven't had much feminine input."

"I'm not giving some chick I don't know a gift. What the hell would I get her?"

"Just a fruit basket. Something to munch on. That's classic Southern gifting after death. If there's one thing you learn, working in a morgue, is the customs regarding the recently departed."

"Fine. Whatever. A fruit basket."

"There's a little market just down the street. It's not like we have to go very far..."

"I said 'fine.' You won already," he said with a sigh. "I bought lunch, though, this should be your purchase," he told her as they continued down the sidewalk.

"I'm letting you stay at my apartment, rent free, for the entirety of this case. You don't think I'm pulling my weight around here?"

"I'm starting to not like this partnership thing," he told her warningly. "I'm not made of money, y'know. This kind of job doesn't normally pay in anything but grateful thanks."

"Isn't that enough?"

"It doesn't keep gas in the Impala, no."

"How 'bout we flip a coin?" she suggested.

Dean narrowed his eyes slightly, then held up his right fist, cupped in his left hand. "Rock, paper, scissors. Right now."

"With a telepath?" she asked, moderately amused. "Are you sure?"

"Are you scared?" he countered. "Put it up."

Slowly, she placed her own right fist in her left hand.

"On three," he told her. "One..."

She started to realize he wasn't thinking about what he was going to throw. He was thinking about the nervous look in her eyes.

"...Two..."

Her beautiful eyes. That was definitely not fair.

"...Three."

She impulsively threw paper, figuring him for a rock kind of guy. After all, that was the music he listened to. She looked, in shock, as he had scissors, which he used to "cut" her paper. "Two outta three," she said quickly.

"Oh, c'mon. That was fair and square and you know it."

"Who's scared now?" she asked, holding her fist in her hand again.

"Sweetheart, I'm never scared," he told her, raising his fist as well.

Darcy was frustrated, and flustered, by his thoughts again. This time, it was about the way she held her mouth, the way she bit her kissable lower lip in the quick three-count. She couldn't believe it as she lost again, with her scissors to his rock.

He grinned as he followed her, shaking her head, into the fresh fruit and vegetable market. He looked around at the abundance of color: green pears, red apples, yellow bananas, and even produce he didn't recognize.

Darcy seemed to know exactly where she was going, and picked a small pre-made fruit basket from the shelf. It was wrapped in cellophane, and tied with a large bow, and held a selection of apples and oranges, nuts and wrapped candies. "Perfect."

She quietly paid for her selection, glancing over at Dean, at the smug smile on his face.

"You have to carry it," she said, holding the basket out to him. With a shrug, he took it.

Griffin and Martin was only a few blocks away, and Dean didn't figure he needed anything particularly special from the Impala, so they walked towards the firm. Wordlessly, he led Darcy into the building and to the appropriate floor.

The mood hadn't changed much from the day before, and Dean and Darcy easily slipped past the receptionist towards Collette's workspace and Alain Martin's office. He smiled gently at her, turning on the charm. "Collette."

She looked up. "Oh... Hi."

"We brought you something," he said, offering her the basket.

"Oh, Dean, you didn't have to," she said, sniffling. "So thoughtful. Thank you."

"We were wondering, if you had a minute, we had a couple questions..."

She nodded, gesturing towards the chairs in front of her desk. "Sure."

Dean flashed that winning smile of his, and eased down directly across from her. "Thanks."

"I'm Darcy, by the way," she said, realizing that Dean had no intention of introducing them.

Dean overlooked Darcy's statement to continue: "Have you heard anything more from the police?"

Sighing, Collette shook her head. "No. Nothing."

Dean glanced at his "partner." "Darcy's a law student with me, and we're looking into it a little. We have a couple theories. We thought you would know best, maybe you could help us clarify a few things?"

"Oh, sure. Ask me anything," she said, sniffling.

"Do you think Mr. Martin's ex-wife might have wanted bad things for him?" Dean asked.

Collette shook her head. "Oh, no. I don't think so. He never spoke about her much, but he always made sure Karen had gifts at Christmas and on her birthday. Sometimes he'd have me pick out something for her."

Dean nodded slowly. "What about former clients? I mean, I'm sure some people might hold a grudge if he wasn't able to win their case for them."

"Oh, sure. For how long he's been practicing law, there could be hundreds."

"Any of them particularly stick out in your head? Any you think might really want to hurt him now?"

Collette shook her head. "We haven't had any threats or anything, not in the past few years."

"Huh," Dean said, frowning.

"What about his daughter?" Darcy asked, jumping in.

"Patricia?" she asked, turning to Darcy. "Why would Patricia want to hurt her father?"

"We just want to check every possibility, y'know?" Dean said quickly.

"I know Patricia probably as well as anybody. I mean, before I started working here, for Alain, I worked for him as her babysitter." She seemed to hesitate, her eyes watering, thinking about her beloved Alain.

Darcy's eyebrows flew up her forehead. Somewhat cliché, really, but apparently Collette knew Alain Martin in a very special way. She glanced over at Dean, wondering if he had figured that out yet.

"She's just the sweetest child..."

"Now, I'm sure the age difference can't possibly be that great," Dean said, flashing her the toothpaste commercial smile again.

"Six years," she said with a nod.

Darcy's mind reeled. If Patricia had known about her father's indiscretion with her former babysitter and his current secretary, Darcy figured she would've gone after the interloper, who, after all, was only a few years older. "What, um... What about voodoo?" Darcy asked, looking up at Collette. "Did Mr. Martin believe in it?"

She shook her head. "Oh, no, of course not. Neither do I. I remember one time, a couple days before Halloween. Patricia must've been twelve or thirteen, right after the divorce was final. She had some little friends over. Mr. Martin found them playing with Tarot cards and a Ouija board. He totally freaked."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, frowning.

"He told her it was all nonsense. He tossed the cards and the game in the garbage can and lit a match, setting it all on fire, there in front of all the girls. Patricia screamed at him, how he'd embarrassed her in front of her friends. Y'know, general teenage rebellion, really."

"Was he an overbearing father?" Darcy asked.

She shook her head. "He was the most loving guy you could ever imagine. He gave Patricia anything she wanted."

"Except the Ouija board," Dean said, frowning.

"He tried to teach her to rely on rational things. I mean, all that extra stuff, it just doesn't exist."

"Of course not," Dean said, trying to sound convincing, that of course, devils and demons, ghosts and monsters were just fairytale falsehood. But, he knew so much better than that.

"Well, thank you for answering our questions," Darcy said.

"I'm so glad you came back by," she said, looking over at Dean.

"You still have my number," he said as he stood. "Just let me know if you need anything."

"Maybe... we could have dinner... Sometime."

Darcy shook her head slightly.

"Yeah," Dean said with a nod. "Sometime."

'When hell freezes over,' Darcy thought to herself, glad Dean didn't share her gift lest he read her mind. But, at the same time, she wondered where the jealousy came from. Dean was a good looking guy, who probably talked to hot looking women like Collette all the time. Darcy, after all, was just an ordinary looking girl with an extraordinary power which served to intimidate oftentimes, rather than entice.

"Darcy?"

Looking up, she realized Dean was already away from Collette's desk and into the main corridor. She quickly caught up, walking with Dean towards the elevator.

"You want to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"She and Martin were sleeping together," she said, once they were safely out of earshot.

"Bangin' the babysitter-come-secretary. He's not the most original douche, is he?"

Darcy shook her head. "But, it makes me think the daughter isn't the culprit."

"Why's that?"

"If it were my father, and he left my mother for some girl just a couple years older than me? I'd kill her, not him."

"That does seem like a more rational thing to do. Unless, he was an overbearing father, and Collette wants to remember her lover as the kindest guy in the world."

"My point is, Dean," she said, as the elevator doors opened, and they stepped inside, "that we're still nowhere."

The doors swallowed them whole, and Dean was quiet as they descended a floor. "We can confirm whether Dad was oppressive or not by talking to the neighbors. I've got his divorce papers in the car; they've got their old address."

"We should probably talk to the mother, too," Darcy said.

"We should... and a little digging. We need to know about this high priestess grand pooh-bah. I can handle canvassing the neighborhood and chatting up Mom. However, one of us needs to hit the library, check out some historical records..."

"I could tell if they're lying..."

"I've done this twenty years of my life. I can tell, nine times out of ten, when somebody's lying to me."

Darcy sighed.

"C'mon. Your first hunt, you have to do a little grunt work."

She relented. "Drop me off at the library, then."

Dean visited Patricia Martin's childhood neighborhood and found the stately home the Martin family had once lived happily in. It looked like an old money kind of neighborhood. He wondered if Alain came from a well-to-do family or if he was neuvo-riche with his law practice. One thing was certain, though, if Dean found some of his old neighbors, they'd probably let him know. It seemed like one of those well-trimmed, well-kept neighborhoods where everyone knew every little secret behind every white picket fence.

He approached the house to the right of the Martin's old residence, and rang the bell. With his torn jeans and leather jacket, he probably looked out of place, but he figured it could add to his pre-made cover. As a middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway, he flashed her a smile.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"I certainly hope so, ma'am. My name is Dean Tanner, I'm a private investigator, hired by the law offices of Griffin and Martin. I'm looking into Mr. Alain Martin's death. Several years ago, he lived in the house right next to you," he said, glancing that direction. "Did you live here at the same time?"

"Oh, sure, I knew the Martins. My son is his daughter's age."

"Is there anything you can tell me, perhaps about the marriage, or Mrs. Martin?"

"It was horrible what Alain did to Karen. Leaving her like that? He brought home divorce papers on what would've been their fifteenth anniversary."

"Ouch..."

"It was awful!"

"Do you think Mrs. Martin would hold a grudge? Do you think she would want harm to come to Mr. Martin?"

She shook her head. "Of course not. Karen was the sweetest woman. President of the PTO for years. She was always involved with Patricia's activities."

Dean nodded, filing all that away in his memory. "How was Mr. Martin as a father?"

She let out a mirthless laugh. "He was horrible. When our children were smaller, I used to let Richard go next door, play tag or charades or whatever. Patricia was a shy child in school. Karen thought a little socialization would be good, and I agreed. One day Richard came running home, telling me how Alain had screamed at Patricia and him for playing make-believe. 'Children aren't superheroes,' he yelled. Richard was devastated. Patricia was crushed. As Patricia got older, the yelling continued. Why she chose to stay with her father in the divorce was beyond me."

"Is there anything else in particular you remember? Anything else you'd like to share?"

"I hate to say it, Mr. Tanner, but I think the only ones who are even remotely sad he's gone are probably those paying your check at that law firm."

"Thank you for your time."

She nodded, and disappeared back within the house.

A couple hours later, Dean had heard the same story from the entire neighborhood. Karen was the saint. Alain, definitely the sinner. And Patricia was shy, introverted; a very quiet child.

As he started back for the Impala, he wondered if Darcy was getting anywhere on the local history check. Before he could unlock the door, his cell phone rang: Darcy. He smiled a little. "Were you reading my mind from that far away?"

"What? No... Distance doesn't work so great."

"I was just wondering what you found out."

"Well, I printed off some information for us to go over... There was this lady in the thirties who practiced voodoo from a shack, really... She might be our high priestess. But, I had to go to work, right?"

"Yeah..." he said, wondering what her work had to do with their investigation.

"They just rolled the coroner. Dean, Karen Martin is dead."

"What?"

"She was in her home, alone. Household accident. She slipped over something or... Well, we're not sure what, but that's what the police are thinking. I'm thinking most normal middle aged women don't trip and accidentally kill themselves, not when we know better..."

"Well, I guess this means we can eliminate Mom from the list of suspects. Where is this place? I'm going to head over..." After Darcy relayed directions, Dean slid behind the wheel of the Impala. "Let me know what you hear from your post, all right?"

"Sure."

"I'll let you know if I hear anything," he said, before terminating the call. As he sped towards Karen Martin's apartment, Dean dialed his dad's number, listening to the rings. There was no answer this time, no voice mail message, nothing. "Damn it," he muttered. He tossed his phone into the passenger seat.

Patricia Martin sat quietly at her desk in her dorm room. Her room looked like a poster for LSU recruitment. Her decor was tasteful. She had several university things hanging on the walls as well--pennants, shakers. Her room was tidy, neat. The bed was made, the floor swept, and everything put away in its rightful place. Her honey blonde hair curled around her shoulders, and she wore a khaki skirt and a soft blue sweater set. From the open curtains, she could see a police car slowly roll to a stop in front of her building. The lights were on, but the sirens weren't.

She sighed softly, closing her folklore text book. Standing, she slid the book back into her bookshelf, between her English and Geometry texts. As she waited for the knock on her door, she flattened her skirt and straightened her cardigan. It wouldn't be much longer now, as her room was on the second floor, near the stairs. She spotted that the closet door wasn't closed all the way, and she could see the toe of her mud-covered sneaker. Crossing quickly, she closed the door. No one would know she ventured out again, for one last visit.

As predicted, she heard the knock on her door. She listened to the sound her ballet flats made on the linoleum as she crossed the tile. Inhaling deeply, she opened the door, seeing a uniformed officer and a plain clothed police detective. "Yes?"

"Ms. Patricia Martin?" asked the officer.

"That's me."

"We regret to inform you that we have some very bad news for you," started the detective.

"Is this about my father?" she asked. "Do you have news about his death?"

The detective shook his head. "No. It's your mother, Karen Martin. There was an accident and she succumbed to the injuries caused by it."

"Oh," she said quietly.

"We're so sorry," said the officer.

Patricia started to feel lightheaded. She swayed slightly on her feet. "What happened, exactly? What accident?"

"Best we can tell, she was in the kitchen of her apartment. She blacked out, hit her head on the cabinet..." said the detective.

Patricia put a hand on her forehead. "I... both my parents now, within days of each other?"

"We're so sorry to have to tell you this," said the officer.

She didn't understand why her lightheadedness was continuing. After all, she had known this was coming. She had asked for it. She found she had to hold onto the door to keep upright.

The detective noticed the color was starting to drain from her face. "Ms. Martin?"

The High Priestess had warned her she might start to feel this way, that when voodoo demanded payment, it would receive it, no matter where she was or what she was doing. Two deaths would not be enough to claim her soul. She knew that. Dr. Yates had told her that. The High Priestess had confirmed that more would have to die by her order before the voodoo took her completely. She was supposed to be fine.

Patricia looked up, realizing that the detective had spoken to her again but that she hadn't heard it. "I... I'm sorry?" She saw him move his lips but realized she couldn't hear him speak. All she could hear, all that started to ring in her ears, at first very low and soft, but then building in intensity and volume, was the chanting. She covered her ears with her hands, letting go of the door. She started to crumple, as though the strength from her legs simply gave way. Crying out, she fell into the officer's arms, as the chanting consumed her, her consciousness fading.

The Road Ahead:

"You come t'kill me, too, chil'?" she asked, in her thick Cajun drawl.

Dean spun around, not seeing her. "Where are you?" He could swear he felt her breath on his ear when she whispered her answer.

"Behind you."