Deja Voodoo
Chapter 7
Della came awake with a start. She wasn't sure how it happened, but somehow she had fallen asleep again. She was irritated with herself. Just when I needed to be on my guard the most . . . I had to go back to Dreamland!
She sat on the edge of the canopy bed, listening to the ever increasing beat of the drums. A return once more to sleep wasn't even considered, and now the distinct sound of a multitude of voices chanting unknown words in a chorus had her almost in a stupor. She found herself swaying to the beat and grasped the feather mattress with both hands to stop.
Get ahold of yourself, girl! It's like you hear a funky rhythm and your body starts to move in time to the beat! Focus on the words. You took French in high school. Maybe that's what they're speaking.
But her mental focus was overridden by her olfactory senses. The smell of decaying trees and swamp grasses permeated the room, making the humid air cling to her like a shroud. Her stomach turned, and she had to breathe through her mouth to keep from getting sick. The musty odor from the heavy, antique dress she wore was almost more potent than the outside scents. In fact, the dress must have had time to collect microscopic dust mites or chiggers, because it seemed as though her skin was literally crawling with a hundred small insects.
Don't psych yourself out, Della. Stay calm, in the moment, and in control. You aren't going to scratch your arms. The dress isn't really eating your flesh. That's just a stupid suggestion your mind supplied. But you, girl, are smarter than that. You aren't going to scratch. You aren't going to . . . you're going to scratch, aren't you?
Her nails dug into the sleeves as she tried vainly to alleviate the itch. Again and again she ran her fingernails over her body, but the sensation only seemed to acerbate the problem. With a huff, she sat on her hands until she trusted herself not to scratch again.
Her mouth and throat were dry, most likely a side effect of breathing through her mouth exclusively, but she was loathe to drink from the pitcher on the nightstand, since her intuition told her it was more than likely drugged to keep her in a foggy state. She shook her head to clear it. The beating drums outside were starting to pound inside her mind again.
Okay, time to get up and get moving. I don't care if you lose your last meal, you are going to walk. Exercise, even if it's just one step in front of the other, will expel the drugs sooner.
She rose on unsteady legs and slowly walked around the confines of the room. At first she had to hang onto the bed-frame to keep from toppling over. But by and by, she managed to skirt the mostly melted candles and form a circuit around the small space. She paused when she came to the door. Shrugging, she arched an eyebrow and tried to turn the knob again. Still locked. Of course it was still locked.
Before she finished her first lap, she noticed the windows were boarded up. Yet, upon inspection her second time around the room, she spotted a small crack that was just big enough for her to get a visual idea of where she was. All hope that she was in an upstairs bedroom at the plantation was snuffed out the moment she looked through the slit. For one thing, the ground outside—if it could be called ground—was moving. Her stomach lurched with the realization she was in a swamp of some kind.
Bayou . . . they call them bayous, Della. Now the drumbeat and the voices made a little more sense. I never should have told the boys not to investigate further. I'm about to be the sacrificial lamb at a very special ritual. Voodoo. If I make it out of this alive—and as Della Street, not some has-been priestess—I am going to insist Perry throw away that record by the Clovers. No Love Potion #9 shall ever be played on my hi-fi again!
Forcing her thoughts away from the imminent doom that awaited her, she marched on in the room. Turning her mind back to seeing Mignon at the cemetery, she suddenly remembered the strange way the woman's eyes looked. They had been almost entirely white, as though the man controlling her had stolen her actual eyes to prevent her from "seeing." It didn't matter that Della had gone there knowing it was a trap; she had every confidence in the world that her note was going to be read, and that Perry, should the man ever wake up, would pick up the breadcrumbs of her trail and follow her there. And then she recalled seeing Paul.
Paul! He followed me straight from the hotel! And for his efforts, he was rewarded by a blow to the head. Is he alright? Did someone get him to help? Was he able to talk with Perry and the others? Did he see Mignon, too? Her questions went round and around her head as her feet continued to carry her on their elected path. If I paid attention in history class back in high school, that tall, cadaverous man that hit him is none other than Baron Samedi. Only . . . that's impossible. The man is dead. So this is some crackpot who has altered himself to look that way. It can't be too hard to find out from local sources who is sold out to voodoo. Surely there have been police reports about this man. Because I refuse to believe that a high priest has been successfully reincarnated.
And now that she knew she was the spitting image of a high priestess, she could only imagine that the man, whoever he was in his original identity, was the doppelgänger for Baron Samedi. That left her with no delusions as to what her fate was to be.
The sound of the door opening caused her to let out a small shriek. A pretty mulatto girl, no more than a young teen, entered carrying a tray. She gave a smile that failed to make the grade.
"Sorry to have frightened you, Mistress. I brung you dinner."
Della looked at the tray, then back at the girl. In spite of the circumstances, she managed to remain gracious. "Thank you, but . . . I can't eat. I'm not hungry."
Crossing the room, the girl set the tray on the stand next to the pitcher, then turned back to Della. "Mistress, you gotta eat. The loa will be fit to be tied with me."
Della stared at the girl. A thousand questions competed for priority, but the one that won was, "The loa?"
The girl ducked her head, as if she were frightened she had said too much. When she lifted her eyes, she saw only warmth and compassion looking back at her.
"It's alright. What is your name?"
"Emerante," the girl mumbled.
"That's a beautiful name," Della told her, meaning it. "Tell me, Emerante, have they drugged my food and water?"
The girl ducked her head again, then raised sorrowful eyes to meet Della's. "Yes, Mistress. But it ain't what you think. It's a brew to help you. For you own good."
That had her puzzled. "Why?"
"When the ceremony begins, it is better that . . ." She trailed off, looking anywhere but at Della's face. "I'm like to be dead in a minute. I never shoulda said nothing."
Della took the girl's hands in hers, giving a reassuring squeeze. "If you were in my place, not knowing what is going to happen, wouldn't you want someone to tell you?" She paused, then commanded in that velvet steel voice, "Tell me."
Tears escaped Emerante's eyes. "You don't wanna know. And that's a fact. You spirit gonna leave you body to make room for her to come in."
The validity of the statement caused Della to stagger and sit unsteadily in the chair. "Darn! Sometimes I don't like it when I'm right." She lowered her face to her palms and despite her resolution not to cry, sobs shook her body.
Emerante knelt in front of her, placing gentle hands on Della's head. "Please Mistress, crying don't help to give you nothing but a sore head."
Now Della knew that there was no hope. Even if Perry did manage to eventually find her, it wouldn't be her. It would be Angelique. Oh, Perry! I wish I had told you . . .
"Mistress, please listen. I will try to—"
Della lifted her head, swiped at the rogue tears, and cleared her still-dry throat. "Okay. Look. I don't mean to be unpleasant or hurtful, but if I'm going to lose myself in an hour, then I have to say something. Emerante, this may be a strange thing to ask, but please, please don't call me 'Mistress.' Where I'm from, it implies that I belong to a married man who is not my husband, and I am not that. I am my own person—at least until this ritual is performed."
Emerante's eyes widened. "I didn't mean no offense Mis—uh, ma'am." She stood, wavered with indecision, then decided. "I'm a mind to help you. I never met Angelique, but I like you fine as you is." She retreated to the tray and grabbed an orange. "This here orange isn't drugged. Try that. And if I can, I'll bring up water that ain't tainted."
Della took the orange gratefully. "Thank you, Emerante. But you mustn't do anything to put yourself in danger."
The girl waved that away. "My mother was a manbo, one who performs voodoo rituals. I was picked to follow in that path, but . . . Voodoo ain't for all of us. Most of the folk here don't understand nothing about it. They like to be spooky or carry them dolls with pins around, thinking they got the power. But they lose control of they souls, and that ain't right, not even to bring back—"
"What?"
"You gotta understand, ma'am. The rite they gonna perform is called gras bon ange, the purging of the life-force. If they mess it up, they cain't . . ."
Della stood. "If they mess it up, I'll die." Her right hand landed on her hip while the left still held the orange. "And if they succeed, I lose my soul."
After leaving the plantation, Perry, Paul, Hamilton and Tragg had stopped at the Marie Laveau Museum. The only information they had gleaned from a rather uncooperative tour guide was that most of the voodoo rituals took place in an out of the way location called Bayou Gauche. The curator, hearing their questions, came over long enough to issue a stern warning that outsiders were forbidden.
That only served to fuel the group's desire for information, but apparently the more questions they asked, the more tight-lipped the staff became. Realizing they were hitting their collective heads against the proverbial brick wall, Perry suggested they return to the hotel to regroup and discuss the next step.
Over the course of the tour he had become more worried and frightened than before. His spirit was uneasy, as though inwardly he understood the greater peril Della faced on a supernatural level. Upon entering the suite, he wasted no time checking her room for any sign she may have returned. It was wishful thinking. The bed was still unmade, covers thrown back as though she were in a hurry. He picked up the pillow she had obviously used, holding it to his face to breathe in her unique scent of gardenias.
Where are you, Della? Send me your thoughts, sweetheart! Give me something to go on. Help me know how to find you.
The indelicate clearing of a throat behind him caused him to drop the pillow as if it had burned him.
"Sorry to interrupt, Counselor, but Mr. Burger found a note from Della." Tragg didn't comment on the scene in front of him. In a reverse situation, he very much would have done the same thing.
Perry hurried into the sitting room, grabbed the note from Burger, and growled.
Burger scowled. "Really, Perry!"
Perry ignored him, quickly scanning the note in Della's precise handwriting. She had received a call from Mignon asking her to come alone to an address. In parentheses she had written, I'm pretty sure this is a trap, so you'd better be ready to find me. He couldn't help himself; he smiled grimly. Then he read the last bit and his heart smarted. Don't worry.
Don't worry. Oh Della, you should know by now I always worry about you! I have worried since the first day you walked into my office. I've been worried that you'd run screaming, or that a better job offer would come along, or that you'd come to your senses and find someone better, who could love you the way you deserve to be loved. I've loved you—
"PERRY!"
Paul's panicked yell made him jump. The note slipped from his hand and fluttered to the floor. Not wasting another moment, he rushed into the bedroom he shared with Paul to find his friend staring open-mouthed and pointing at the bed in which Perry slept. There on the pillow was a rag doll, two X's for eyes and a large pin sticking through the heart. The meaning was quite obvious for all to see.
"That's a voodoo warning if I ever saw one," Tragg commented unnecessarily. "I am going to find out who had access to this suite while we were gone."
Perry didn't move or show any sign he had heard the police lieutenant. He was rooted to the spot, staring at the doll. It didn't take a high priest to explain what it meant. He was marked for death. And why? That, too, was obvious. Because the stakes were too high for the Baron. If he interfered with Della and the ceremony, neither he nor she would live.