Deja Voodoo

Chapter 8

The mists parted like a curtain as she passed through the darkened wood, tendrils of Spanish moss grabbing at her, trying to hold her back from whatever fate awaited her on the ominous stage. Each footfall caused grass and dead leaves to crackle, sounding like ghostly screams. Even those were warnings. She had no idea where she was or where she was going, just the knowledge that she must continue. Then she heard the voice, so familiar, so yearned for.

"Della! Della you must come back to me. I'm here. Come to me, my sweet, come to me."

"Perry, please help me. I need you. Perry . . . " Suddenly there was a figure in the mist before her. "Perry!"

Before the figure made a sound, he shifted, and in the way he moved, something nagged at her. Whoever the man was, he was not Perry. And then came the laugh. It was at once the most sinister and terrifying noise she had ever heard. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a scream.

"Oh no, my Angelique," he corrected, his voice a mix of a snarl and a growl.

As the tall figure advanced toward her everything in Della's being rebelled. His voice was vile; it made her nauseous. She tried to run, but the moss, no longer concerned for her safety, now wound around her arms and feet, holding her fast. When he reached out the skeletal hand to grasp her, the scream finally left her throat, torn from her very soul.

"Ma'am, please, you best wake up."

Della, in limbo between her nightmare and the reality of her present condition in the ramshackle shack in the bayou, fought to release herself from the bonds—not of moss, but of the curtains from the canopy which surrounded the bed—and opened her eyes. The room was the same, except what little light was left from the candles was dying. Still, she managed to make out the visage of the young girl looking down at her in concern.

What was her name? Emerald? Emilie? Emerante. That's it.

The girl reached out to help Della disentangle herself. "Breathe," she instructed, and it was good advice.

Della gulped down the air like it was a clearance-off in a going-out-of-business sale. She didn't even care about the very unpleasant swamp gases that had so recently made her stomach turn over. For two whole minutes she neither spoke nor moved. Finally, after what seemed an interminable amount of time, she was able to sit up and swing her legs over the edge of the mattress.

"I'm fine," she said in answer to the unasked question in the girl's eyes. "Just fine. Thank you for helping me."

Apparently Emerante meant to help her even more, for the next thing she knew, Della was being led to the only other surface in the room qualified to act as a seat. The chair, close to the small table where the tray of food and the pitcher of water had stood. The food was gone now, but the water was still there. While she watched, the teen poured water into a tin cup and placed it in Della's hand.

"Drink this. It's safe."

Della eagerly gulped the cool water, handing the cup back to Emerante. But as she extended her hand she discovered that she didn't have the strength to hold her arm aloft. The cup fell, bouncing once, twice, then landed and rolled away from her. She looked at the girl's face as realization began to dawn. Something was very wrong with her face . . . it was dissolving like melting wax.

My God, she never meant to help me at all! No wonder I can't . . . I can't . . . What is it I can't do? Was it the orange? Did she lace the orange . . . orange is such an unusual word. Nothing rhymes with orange.

"No!" she surprised herself by exclaiming, "Oh, Emerante . . ."

"I am truly sorry, Ma'am." She did not sound truly sorry. "But did you really believe I was some uneducated delinquent? Please. You people are all the same. With your nice, polite ways and your sweet tones. But meanwhile, you don't have the first clue what I'm like, or what we do. You assume we must be evil, because our ways are so very different. They are rooted in our past and come from our ancestors." She looked at Della and her eyes, once so soft and open, were now hard. "This is an important night. And neither you nor anyone else is going to stop what has to be."

Della stared at her in stupefaction. She heard the words, felt them hit her like blows in the boxing ring, but she couldn't make sense of them. She sagged back in the chair, fatigued from the struggle of staying alert. Without warning, the door flew open and banged against the wood paneling. In the doorframe stood Mignon, her eyes a deathly gray and her expression blank. In her hand she held a long-bladed ritual knife. Even in her present drugged state Della knew nothing good would come at the end of that knife. She shrank back further in the chair as Mignon shuffled closer, raising the knife.

"Manbo stop!"

Mignon stopped, swaying slightly, dropping her hand to her side.

Della looked from the recently missing woman to the man who had given the command. He no longer wore a top hat, revealing a bald head painted as white as his face, but she knew him. How long would he haunt her dreams? How long before she awoke from her present nightmare?

Emerante knelt, almost genuflecting as her head touched the floor. This man held power over the will of people, whether by supernatural means or by verbal commands. Regardless, the girl wasn't going to defy him; if anything, she was pawing around him like a dog begging for the scraps from his master's table.

Della shook her head, but it was no use. Everything was sinking, swirling. She couldn't decide what was reality and what was delusion. And as the man reached out his hand, it was a name that came from her lips which terrified her the most: "Angelique."

A world away, Perry sat in a chair, turning the voodoo doll over and over in his hands. Hamilton and Tragg were on the balcony, quietly discussing what had happened at the plantation and what it could mean for both Della and Mignon. Paul sat opposite Perry, his right ankle stacked on his left knee, his hands clasped around his neck. He was staring so intently at his best friend that Perry could feel the heat from his eyes.

How the hell do I help him? What can I say that won't sound like an inane platitude? What can I do to get Della home? That damned doll! I know what that means. He's been warned, and he better take that warning seriously. These yahoos here don't play at parlor tricks. They aren't putting on a demonstration for tourists! These loons are really and truly trying to take Della—her essence, her soul—and replace her with some one-note priestess, all so Baron what's-His-name can get a date. And there's not one damned thing I can think to do about it!

Paul was about to say something when a knock on the door to the suite made him jump. "Don't worry about it, Perry, I'll get it," he muttered as he crossed the room. Perry didn't even look at him.

Opening the door to allow Captain L' Heureux to enter, Paul nodded to where Perry still sat, staring at the doll. "You made good time. He hasn't moved."

The police captain took in the scene and shook his head. Taking the seat across from Perry that Paul had just vacated, he tapped him on the leg and hedged, "Mr. Mason?"

Perry still did not move, nor acknowledge the captain's voice. The captain frowned, hating what he would have to do next. Reaching out, he took hold of the rag doll and tried to pry it from Perry's hands. To his profound surprise, the lawyer's hands tightened around it as if he could squeeze information from the inert mass.

"You have to release it," the captain informed him. "It is evidence, Mr. Mason. A link, perhaps, to your secretary and your friend's fiancée."

Now Perry reacted, his blue eyes turning dark as he pulled back. His mouth curled into a snarl and he all but bared his teeth with the effort of maintaining possession of the voodoo symbol. When the captain let go, he flung the doll across the room, striking Burger in the back.

"What the—!" Burger wheeled around, noticed that the captain had arrived, and nudged Tragg.

Perry was on his feet, his face drawn and gray, his eyes unreadable and dark. His fists were clenched at his side, and he was advancing on the district attorney with purpose. Paul could see it unfolding, and stepped in front of his friend, placing his hands on Perry's shoulders.

"Easy, pal. Just look at me. Hey, come back to us, Perry. Don't let the crazies win. Come back to us."

Perry seemed to look straight through Paul. When he started to pull away, Paul tightened his grip and gave the big man a shake. Perry growled. Still the private detective persisted in standing his ground. His grip became vice-like, and for once he was grateful his height was an advantage.

"Listen to the sound of my voice," he tried, hoping it would have some effect.

It did, but not what Paul expected. With one giant shove, Perry sent Paul tumbling backwards, falling over a footstool and landing with an undignified grunt.

"Mason!" Tragg surged forward and, despite the size difference, landed a solid punch to Perry's jaw. The other three men stood frozen in shock, waiting for Perry's reaction. Few men, they knew, walked away from slugging Perry with their dignity intact.

Perry gave a slight shake to his head, then looking at Tragg with clear eyes, he rubbed his jaw. Then his lips curved up in amusement as he checked his lip for blood. "Finally got your shot, didn't you, Lieutenant?"

Tragg said nothing, but he wasn't backing down. Unlike Paul Drake, he had a lifetime of handling tough guys, both of the drunk and sober variety. To him, this stupor in which Perry found himself was nothing more than another slob with six shots too many. His eyes were clear, too, and while he was concerned about the lawyer, he wasn't going to let that emotion impact what he needed to do.

The captain, Burger and Paul all seemed content to let Tragg handle things now that Perry was no longer on the warpath.

Perry and Tragg maintained their eye contact for a moment before the former said, "It's okay, Tragg. Call it an early Christmas gift." He managed a small laugh at himself. "I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't take a cheap shot at me unless I had it coming."

"Damn straight," Tragg agreed.

"The thing of it is, I can't remember what I was doing. One minute I was in Della's room, and the next thing I know, I'm nursing a sore lip and some loose teeth." He touched his jaw again, wincing this time.

"You were enthralled with that," Tragg informed him, nodding toward the voodoo doll that was lying on the floor close to the door to the balcony. "And you launched it like a missile at Hamilton's back."

Perry looked at the voodoo doll and scowled. "I know what that thing is, and I know what it means."

"And are you going to take it seriously?" Captain L'Heureux broke in, coming close to the lawyer.

"To an extent," Perry agreed. "But more important than knowing the purpose for the warning, I know where they took Miss Street and Miss Germain. Are you willing to take us?"

"Take us where?" a chorus of voices asked simultaneously.

Perry kept his focus on the captain. "Henri, I need you to get us to Bayou Gauche." The police officer turned pale and shook his head. Before he could speak, Perry held up his hand. "I don't want to hear your objections. If you're too . . . afraid . . . to take us, I—" he broke off to look at his friends, then continued, "We can assure you we will find our own way."

He didn't doubt Perry's sincerity for a moment. Against all his better judgment, against everything he had learned at his grandmother's knee about avoiding such places, against even his personal fear, he agreed. "Very well, Mr. Mason. If you—all of you—are foolish enough to ignore the warnings, I might as well attend your funeral."

Paul quickly poured himself a large shot of Scotch, downing it in one gulp. Then turning with a grimace, he nodded. "We're off to see the wizard."