Deja Voodoo

Chapter 9

The drive to Bayou Gauche felt like it took years. The tension in the car was palpable, and the vein in Perry's forehead seemed to pulse with each second of the (actual) thirty-minute trip. By what appeared to be a modern New Orleans miracle, Captain L'Heureux had managed to convince (bribe) three of his officers to accompany the quintet. As the captain had confessed to Tragg, the men were "young, fearless and stupid." Thus, what started as a single-car chase ended up as a police caravan of sorts. The officers were cautioned to run silent, without their lights and sirens. It didn't matter to Perry; they were bodies to throw at the problem, and they needed all the extra manpower the Parrish could provide.

The closer they came to the bayou, the more ramped up the men in the cruiser became. Perry, confident his heartbeat was aligned with Della's, thought his most vital organ was going to beat out of his chest. But then, there were other moments when he felt everything slow down, as thought the peripheral world was spinning and he alone was standing still. Paul's stomach was doing flip-flops. He hadn't had a decent meal, his head was still pounding from the assault in the cemetery, and his fear was making him feel cold and clammy. Beside him, Burger was absently drumming his fingers on his knee, keeping time to a cadence only he could hear. Perhaps he, like Perry, felt connected to Mignon and what she was experiencing. Only Tragg, with his decades of experience, was placid. Long ago he had learned that anticipation only went so far, that training and preparation were enough to get him through any dangerous situation. He wasn't worried; wasn't afraid, yet his concern was the equal of his friends. He cared deeply about Della's well-being, and while he did not have a personal relationship with Mignon Germain, he trusted that if Burger had chosen her, she was special, too.

When they at last reached the outskirts of the bayou, the captain pulled into a public launching area and had all the men assemble next to the police van one of the volunteer officers had driven. Together they removed the equipment they would need and quickly loaded the supplies onto a police vessel better suited for navigating the murky, winding bayou waters.

After what seemed an eternity, one of the officers cut the motor on the outboard and the boat drifted. Captain L'Heureux put a finger to his lips and no one dared breathe. Even the waterfowl and frogs seemed to hold their collective breaths. In the silent space, faint ripples formed in the water. Paul was the first to notice, nudging Perry and pointing. He was about to ask if they were going to be gator bait, but the violent shake of Perry's head convinced him to zip his lips.

"We will need to paddle from here," the captain informed them, and the officers produced the paddles they had loaded from the van twenty minutes before.

"Well, would you look at that," Tragg quietly observed, "There don't seem to be enough paddles to go around. Oh, well, maybe next time."

Paul held out a paddle. "Nonsense, Tragg. Age before beauty, as the saying goes!"

Burger glared at him. "This is hardly the time to be flippant."

Perry smiled grimly. "Don't argue about it. Just start going. I don't mind the physical labor; its the alligators coming to investigate their lunch that bothers me."

The captain and his officers smirked. Then the older man teased the lawyer gently. "Ah, not to worry, my friend. You're too big for them to swallow." He chuckled softly, then nudged Paul. "And besides, they prefer chickens."

"Funny. You Bayou Boys are a barrel of laughs."

One of the other officers grinned. "When you call us that, smile."

Burger cleared his throat meaningfully. "How much further?"

"Around the next bend is a natural landing. We'll tie off there and travel the last of the distance—about a mile—on foot. From here on, no speaking unless there is a need."

Perry frowned. "Wouldn't the people involved in this ceremony have tied up there, too?"

The captain shrugged. "I am taking it on faith that they paddled as far in to the location as possible."

"Then in theory we could—" Burger started, but a firm hand on his shoulder cut off his sentence.

Paul leaned close to his ear and reminded, "We need the element of surprise or we might lose them both."

He looked at Paul and then nodded to the captain. "Alright."

They paddled around a hollowed cypress and there, to the left just ahead, was the bank the captain must have meant as the natural place to put ashore. Two of the three volunteers hopped out of the boat ahead of the others and drew it up on the sandy beach, then helped them out of the craft. Captain L'Heureux checked his sidearm, making sure to leave the safety on. The other police officers followed his lead. Tragg wisely did not pull out his service revolver. The last thing he wanted to do was have Paul Drake see it and get a bright idea of being a cowboy.

With the logistics out of the way, the captain set off through the dense swamp. Perry placed himself in second position, careful to keep his head on a swivel for roots, bracken, fallen branches, interested reptiles, and above all, quicksand. With every step, Perry felt an unseen entity pulling him forward, driving him onward to Della but also to a deadly showdown for himself.

I'm here, Della, he told her, praying their thoughts, like their heartbeats, were in sync. I'm coming for you. Please, hang on for just a while longer. No matter what happens to me, I will save you.

One by one the group followed the footsteps of the man before him until the captain drew to a stop on the edge of a clearing.

Something had changed. Della fought to shake off the effects of the powerful sedative, subconsciously aware that if she didn't, her life would end. Forcefully making herself observe details in the minutia, she took stock of her present situation. Her feet were bare. There was only the whisper of a breeze touching her skin, but even that was enough to chill her. Her vision was somewhat useless, as though everything she saw was filtered through a haze thicker than smoke; so she relied on her other senses as best she could.

Mignon—or rather, the spirit occupying her body—and the teenager, Emerante, were on either side of her, propelling her forward at a steady but sluggish pace. Using what clear wit she had, Della made herself as heavy as she could so the two would be forced to work doubly hard. That slowed their progress, but not enough.

Ahead she could make out other people now. They weren't a large group, but their number seemed significant. She wanted to count them, to be able to tell Perry when he came how many there were, but it was a task her clouded mind could not handle. It was enough for her to note that they formed a divide among them, creating a lane leading from the shack where she had been held to a much larger edifice.

Who would have a church out here? She wanted to frown, to concentrate on the thought, but it was just too difficult. Whatever that building was, temple or not, it appeared to be her destination.

Mignon and Emerante halted when they reached the steps. Della stumbled, nearly fell, before they were able to catch and hold onto her.

Stairs? She couldn't seem to make her legs do what was expected of them. The sedative was too strong. Of course there would be stairs. I'm going to be on some sort of platform, like poor what's-her-name in King Kong. Sacrificed to some deity instead of that adorably cute, overgrown gorilla.

When they reached the top, Della's cloudy reasoning proved to be correct. They entered through double doors and into a large room with a wooden floor. She glanced down, noted there were crude symbols drawn in some sort of white substance. Chalk? Salt? She didn't know. But then she lifted her eyes to the center of the room and suddenly she was thinking all too clearly, drugs or not.

A tall pole, above which suspended an inverted black cross, stood in the exact center of the room.

And people wonder why voodoo is considered to be black magic of the worst kind? I'm going to be a vertical rotisserie sacrifice in a moment. The only thing missing is a ring of fire!

She straightened suddenly, throwing off Mignon and Emerante so that the two had to retrace their steps. But of course, whoever controlled poor Mignon was much stronger than Della in her weakened condition. A moment later she was hauled forward, turned, and backed against the pole without care to her person or notice of her moans.

Light was coming from somewhere, because as dim as the room was, Della saw two dark figures come from the shadows and take over the task of securing her. One drew her arms above her head while the other worked on the cords that bound her into place.

She was out of time and limited with options. What would Perry do in this situation? Silly question! He would beat these people to within an inch of their lives! Except . . . what if his hands were tied like mine, and his torso was bound to this pole, and his feet . . .

Words. He would use his best weapon. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I suppose. While I'm still Della Street, I represent Perry Mason. She prayed for herself, then looked directly at Mignon and spoke. "Mignon, if there is any part of you that is you, please help me."

There was no response. Her eyes were still that solid white, and seemed fixed on her in such a steady way that Della knew whatever controlled her would never let her surface at a mere request.

Okay . . . Now what?

The 'now' that Della noticed, however, had more to do with what she was wearing and less to do with how to extract herself from this ritual. The heavy black dress she had worn before was gone; instead, she was clad in a soft white sheath dress. Her feet now had symbols drawn on them, and although it was beyond her ability to rationally explain why, they were burning.

Not a sacrifice, she reminded herself, a surrogate. I'm dressed the way Mr. Top Hat wants to greet his beloved. Well, if he thinks I'm just going to stand around waiting for some perverse wedding ceremony as Angelique, he is going to be sorely disappointed. As a woman who was jilted at the altar herself, it's time to turn the tables! White symbolizes purity, doesn't it? Isn't that the same in nearly every culture and cult? Joke's on them; Michael took care of that—the heel!

Abruptly the people who had lined the path to the temple now filed in, their voices raised in unison, chanting in low tones that reverberated around the room. They formed a makeshift circle around the pole. When the last of them took his place, Mignon broke the circle and stepped forward. She was holding something in a closed fist. Opening it, she blew something right into Della's face.

So sudden was the assault that Della had no defense; she breathed it in. The fast-acting powder was just another form of the sedative, and this airborne version seemed to take affect immediately. All cohesive thought left her and she was once again in a drugged stupor.

Mignon then revealed the long Kris knife she had in her other hand and began moving. The ritual dance seemed to match the rhythm of the chanting. There were no noticeable drums, but then, they weren't really necessary. As Della watched her in dumb submission, she felt her mind and body slipping deeper into the drugged state.

Do not go softly into that dark night . . . Lines from an only half-remembered poem came back to her and she shook her head in slow motion. There was time for only one more clear thought. Perry. He is so . . . and he looks so . . . when he comes, I'll . . . love him.

Captain L'Heureux raised a hand and the others stopped. With the same hand, he made a downward motion, and they all dropped down, careful to obscure themselves from view. The path which they had taken ended at large clearing surrounded by cypress and tupelo trees. From their branches hung strips of material, pelts, and small animal skulls. When the breeze caused the skulls to move, they created an eerie, clattering sound. Several small shacks, built on stilts to keep the bayou waters at bay, were scattered around an open earthen area.

Beside the captain but well-concealed in the underbrush, Perry watched as people in colorful dress filed into the clearing and formed two lines leading to a large, wooden edifice. He glanced at the policeman, wordlessly asking the question.

"It is an ounfò, a temple. They will perform the ceremony there." His voice was barely audible.

"But where is Della?" The strain and concern in his voice was evident, although his volume, like the captain's was also muted.

As if the voodoo priest were honoring his inquiry, the door to one of the shacks was knocked open and three women—or perhaps two and a girl—emerged. It was instinct, a primal need, that made Perry start to rise. When he saw Della fear vanished, but concern took him by such a forceful grip that he started sweating.

They've drugged her, damn them! And is that . . . yes. Mignon. But I have a feeling she isn't herself any more than Della will be if this ceremony is allowed to proceed.

The captain held him when he would have moved. "No, my friend. We must wait."

Behind them Paul and Tragg exchanged glances, not sure what to make of everything. But it was Hamilton Burger who spoke. "Perry, listen to him. I want to get to Mignon just as badly, but we're blind here. The captain knows these people."

The defeat in the lawyer's eyes shook Burger to his core. Before, he had been surprised, maybe even a bit stymied about Perry's reactions to Della before and since her abduction. But now he had clarity: the depth of Perry's feelings for his private secretary were etched in the recesses of his darkening blue eyes, in the deep crevices on his forehead, and in the set of his mouth. Yes, Burger had heard, yet never believed, the rumors the gossip columns printed about the pair. But he had dismissed them. Perry Mason, for all of his legal tricks and reckless behavior, was not an office wolf. He was a man of many passions—the law, obviously, but also debate, practical jokes, fine steak dinners and sleek black roadsters. Yet seeing him here in the bayou was illuminating.

He loves her. He's in love with Della Street, but it's more than that. He loves her with every fiber of his being. It's a romantic love, but . . . deeper. It's as though they, though never having come together, have already merged into another, new, whole person. They are at once individuals, and still are a single unit, a single organism. He, she, and now—they. Kindred spirits; soul mates; one.

If they were unable to stop the ritual, he gravely feared what would happen to his friends.

They watched as Della was led into the temple building and the throng of people followed them. They could hear the rhythmic chanting begin to increase in volume and intensity. The other three policemen moved from their cover and carefully crept forward, taking up better positions.

Cautiously the captain moved, too. He touched Perry's shoulder and indicated where they needed to go. "The langaj, the ritual, has begun. Now we need to hurry."

They were able to peer through openings left by the rotting boards. It was easy, even with the people in a circle, to see Della bound to a pole in the center of the room. Perry's muscles tensed, rippling with reserves of energy and strength. His hands formed into fighting fists and his breath slowed down. All that mattered was getting to Della. Like other alpha-predators, he was ready to spring, to unleash the full brunt of his fury into the crowd.

"That is the peristil, the ceremony room, and Miss Street is bound to the poto mitan," the captain was explaining. Beside him he could feel the shift in Perry's attention and relaxed a little. "The black cross above her is the symbol of Baron Samedi. We must wait until he appears and the gros bon ange begins."

It figures, Perry thought, checking the growl at the base of his throat, that some evil entity would use a perverted symbol. Della is right there for the rescuing. Why do we— I'll just ask.

"Why, in heaven's name? We need to get in there now."

"Mr. Mason, I know what you must be feeling, but trust me: to enter before the ceremony begins will only net us Miss Street's death." He sighed, then elaborated. "We need to wait for the loa to begin. That's when the gathering will enter the kriz iwa, the possession trance. As we are only a small force, it will be easier to secure Miss Street safely."

Perry didn't have a chance to rebutt. At that moment their attention was drawn to the man who entered the room . . . Samedi himself.

Samedi approached Della, lifted her chin with the power of his eyes as easily as if he had laid a hand on her. Della started to writhe, to do something—anything—to break her bonds.

"My Angelique," he said in accented English, "Do not fear me! I promised you, and I honor my promises. Tonight I bring your spirit back and you will reign at my side." His face, painted white, was akin to that of a skull. He smiled, and it was the most chilling sight Della had ever seen. Still, he continued as though he were unaware of her turmoil. "We will be together at last, as was always meant to be."

Della had no voice left. The powdered version of the drug had dried out her vocal chords. She couldn't even spit. Instead, she leveled her eyes at the man, defiance and heat coming through in spite of the dilated pupils and cloudy thoughts.

It proved to be a mistake. She could feel herself being drawn into the man's glowing eyes, could feel her body begin to succumb to his near touches.

Closing her eyes, she prayed once more. Then she silently addressed the one person she longed to see one last time. Perry, please help me. Perry, Perry!

A noticeable change came over her. Her face slackened, her resistance stopped, and she was no longer struggling. An eyebrow arched and her mouth parted. Then her eyes opened and the hazel eyes that saw so much were black.

Samedi, my love. I am here.