Deja Voodoo

Chapter 5

The moon, full and bright, cast a perfect line of yellow light along the ocean's surface. The waves were gentle, rocking even, without so much as a whitecap to be seen. On the shore, he waited, his breath hitched in his chest as he caught sight of the most beautiful creature in the world. She seemed to emerge from the depths, but instead of looking like she was shrouded in seaweed or constructed of shells, she was as elegantly put together has he had ever seen her. Her hair was rich, and even in the moonlight, he could see the deep chestnut color. Her eyes were shining at him, and her legs . . . Oh, those legs! She was wearing a stunning one-piece bathing suit, turquoise in color, that accentuated her curves.

His eyes lit up, and his mouth curved into a boyish grin as she came toward him, kicking up the surf in her haste to throw herself into his arms. He caught her up, swinging her in a full circle before setting her down. Their eyes locked, and he leaned toward her, ready to claim her lips, only to raise his head at the sound of an impertinent foghorn in the distance.

"Damn!" he swore, and to his great delight, she laughed. "Why is there always an interruption when I want to—"

The foghorn sounded again, then again.

"It must be important," she mused, her eyebrow raised just the way it did when she was teasing him. "I'll go."

"No!" he pleaded, but she was already slipping out of his arms and walking toward the edge of the water. He ran after her, his arm outstretched, when the foghorn sounded again. He turned to find the source of it, but there was nothing in any direction that could be responsible. When he turned back, she was further in the water, but she was looking back over her shoulder. "Don't go, Della. Stay with me. Stay—"

The dream shattered as he leaned too far to reach her and promptly fell off the bed. Landing with a thud, he realized that the foghorn was still going off in his head. Then it registered that the room telephone on the nightstand was still ringing. He picked himself up and perched on the edge of the bed, then reached for the receiver.

"Drake, this better be damned important or . . ." The threat tapered off.

Instead of Paul's usual chipper greeting, however, he heard a female voice. "Excuse me, is this Perry Mason?"

Whoever the speaker was, her voice was hesitant, quiet even, but businesslike. His reflexes adjusted quickly as alarm bells sounded in his mind.

"Yes, this is Perry Mason."

He heard a soft sigh. It could have been in relief. "I'm calling from University Medical Center. I'm an emergency room nurse, tasked with informing you we have Paul Drake here. He listed you as his emergency contact. My name is Carol Wright."

Perry snapped on the tablelamp, banishing the darkness and flooding the room with light. "What has happened? What can you tell me about his condition?"

"Mr. Drake was brought into the ER with a head wound. As to what happened, I'm afraid I don't have that information. He is conscious now, and asking for you."

Conscious now? Was he unconcious when they brought him in? Where was he? What was he doing on his own? Who attacked him? But he knew these questions weren't going to be answered by the nurse.

"I understand you're here on a trip and you aren't familiar with New Orleans. Do you need directions to the hospital?"

"That won't be necessary; I'll be there as soon as possible. Thank you for calling."

He pressed the hanger and requested to be connected to Burger's room. Struggling to hold the phone between his ear and shoulder, he moved over to the chair where he had meticulously laid out his suit for the day. He had one leg in his trousers when the call was picked up. Quickly sliding the other leg in and fastening the button and fly, he sat in the chair to speak.

"Hello?" Burger's voice sounded remarkably clear.

"Hamilton, Paul's at University Medical Center. I just received the call. I'm heading over there now. Rouse Tragg, and meet me there. I don't have a lot of time for questions, and I don't have any answers."

Before Burger could respond, Perry dropped the receiver back into the cradle and finished dressing. As he laced his shoes he considered whether he should wake Della. Every ounce of him wanted her at his side. She was wonderful in a crisis—usually—and she would pick up on anything he missed. He strode through the room and raised his fist to knock on the adjoining door, but just as he was about rap on it, he drew his hand back.

If she didn't dash in here when I unceremoniously fell off the bed, then she must be dead to the world. She was so rattled about the painting and then the suggestion of the museum that I'm afraid the strain of learning Paul has had some sort of accident will send her right over the edge. I'll let her sleep.

Reaching that decision, he chose instead to scribble a quick note on the hotel notepad beside the telephone in the living area and slipped it under her door. The note Della had written, so carefully positioned on the table where the group had been just a few hours before, went unseen and unread.

Because he was in such a hurry, Perry elected to take the stairs rather than the elevator. Once in the lobby, the night concierge saw him coming and was already on the move toward the doors with his hand up, summoning a taxi. Perry nodded his thanks and slid into the backseat, then leaned forward to give the driver his destination.

"It's urgent I get there as quickly as possible," he finished, then sweetened the deal by handing over a fifty dollar bill. "This is for the fare and any penalty fees you accrue between here than there."

The cabbie made it to the hospital in four minutes. Perry, somewhat tossed and jarred from the speed and sharp turns the trip had taken, arrived none the worse for wear. He tipped the driver an additional bill and ran into the ER enterance.

Spotting a nurse about to go through a set of double doors, he raced up to her and grabbed her arm, spinning her to look at him. She scanned him from head to toe, noted the rumpled look and the hair not quite in place, and smiled knowingly.

"Maternity is on the third floor. Good luck to your wife, and congratulations!" she said warmly before he could even get a word out.

He was so surprised at her assumption that he dropped his hand and watched her walk away. I must look like a half-crazed lunatic! I guess it's a good thing Della isn't here after all; she'd never let me live this down. He chuckled to himself, then went in search of the information desk.

An older woman, big in every way, looked up at him with tired, I've-seen-it-all-and-could-tell-you-stories eyes. "May I help you?"

"Paul Drake. I was called about Paul Drake. The nurse . . . said he was here."

"Do you remember the name of the person who called you?" her tone, a sort of bored disinterest, set his teeth on edge.

"Nurse Wright."

She picked up the phone in front of her and pressed a button. Withing a moment she was speaking quietly into the receiver. Then she looked up at him, said something else, and hung up. "If you'll have a seat right over there, Nurse Wright will be right here to collect you."

One minute and thirty-four seconds later (Thank God he had taken the time to slip on his watch) Nurse Wright appeared. She quietly escorted him to a room that was cordoned off with a curtain. Perry's steps lengthened, as though he wanted to delay seeing his best friend. But Nurse Wright, unaware of his turmoil, pulled the curtain back, and he saw Paul, eyes closed, head bandaged, lying on the bed.

Perry approached slowly, afraid of disturbing his pal. He watched him for a full minute, noting the steady rising and falling of his chest. He was alive, but looked like he had come out of a horror film. His sigh of relief was interrupted by Paul's soft snore. Perry reached out and tapped his friend's shoulder.

"Paul, wake up, you slacker!" he teased, and was reassured as his friend's eyes fluttered open and immediately focused on him.

Paul squinted to block out the overhead florescent light, but he managed to croak out a "Hiya, pal."

"Don't you 'hiya' me, Buster. What on earth happened to you and why were you out at this ungodly hour?"

He winced. "I know I seem like I'm bulletproof and can come through tough scrapes without a dent in my armor, but I assure you, Perry, my head is killing me. I don't mind you kidding me, but could you do it in a whisper?"

"Such a baby," he grinned. "But sure. Just so long as you answer the questions. Burger and Tragg are on their way, but I elected to leave Della asleep. She's going to blow a gasket when she finds out you're here."

"Perry—" Paul shifted onto his side to block out more of the offending light. "Della isn't—"

Before he could explain, the other two entered the room. With a small groan, Paul tried to lift the sheet over his face, but Perry shook his head.

"I should have known Drake would find a way to lie down on the job," Tragg muttered, but his eyes were filled with concerned sympathy.

"Before I explain what happened and why I'm here, you need to know Della is gone."

"Gone?" all three parroted, but it was the startled, intense look in Perry's eyes that had the greatest effect on the detective.

"Kidnapped," Paul qualified.

"What?" asked Burger.

"When?" asked Tragg.

"Who?" demanded Perry.

Paul looked from one face to the others. "Here's what I can tell you . . ."

Tragg took all the details down in his mind, then walked out of the room, presumeably to make a phone call or two.

Burger was eager for Paul to go over the story again, especially the part about seeing Mignon. He was puzzled as to why she could have known Della was in New Orleans, and why, if she knew that information, she hadn't tried to reach out to him. Perry, on the other hand, was far more bothered by the description of the tall man in the top hat. Something about the mental picture the man conjured had him deeply concerned, both for Della and for Mignon.

By the time Tragg came back, he was becoming frantic. He grabbed the policeman's arm and asked, "Have they found her?"

Tragg winced as the lawyer's fingers dug into his arm. He had never seen the man so rattled. He was more than worried or concerned; Perry was flat-out frightened. "Counselor, I'll be needing my arm."

Perry dropped his hands, only to run them through his already disheveled hair. "I'm sorry, Tragg. I—I guess I'm not myself. It's just that . . ."

Burger placed a firm hand on Perry's shoulder. "It's just that you aren't yourself when Della's in trouble. We're all worried about Della. And Mignon."

Perry's face flushed in shame as he realized just how insensitive he was being. He took in Burger's countenance, noted the dark circles under his eyes and the lines etching his face. Then he remembered the way the man had sounded when he had let him know about Paul. His voice had been clear, not muddled with sleep. Of course he hadn't been sleeping . . .

God, I'm being so selfish. Hamilton's suffering just as much as I. Perhaps even moreso.

"Hamilton . . ."

"If someone will help me out of this bed, I think I have an idea," Paul cut in, unmindful of what Perry was thinking.

They all turned back to see Paul struggling to sit up. Perry hurried over to crank up the bed. "Stay there, Paul. I haven't even spoken to the doctor about your condition yet."

"Perry, outside of a jackhammer going off in my head, I'm fine. We need to find Della and Mignon. Now, either help me up or stand aside. We need to get back to the plantation, post haste. I want to look at that portrait for myself." He looked around the bed for a moment, then met Perry's eyes. "And where the hell are my clothes?"

His friend ignored the question and instead asked one of his own. "Why do you need to see the portrait?"

Paul sighed. "Because it might hold a clue to who this woman was and what it has to do with Della."

The repitious sound of drumbeats penetrated the fog in her mind. The rhythm seemed to match her own heartbeat. Slowly, as if she were trying to regulate her breathing after hyperventilating, she managed to ground her pulse to a moderate rate.

Della carefully opened her eyes, blinking several times to clear her vision. It didn't help. All around her was darkness, except for an eerie flickering of light. It seemed far off, as though it were a celestrial being that was thrown down to earth and was gradually being drained of its lifeforce.

At least the light provided enough illumination for her to see she was lying in a canopied bed. Sheer curtains were draped all around, and she had the unsettling feeling she was cradled in the branches of one of the majestic oaks on the plantation with Spanish moss as her insulation. Banishing the image, she resolutely decided the curtains served a more practical need, maybe to prevent insects or maybe to obscure her sight.

She sat up slowly, her head spinning slightly. Putting a hand to her forehead, she forced herself to think. Okay Della. Time to take stock of the situation. You've obviously been drugged and taken somewhere. But why? More importantly, where? C'mon girl, think. Perry's taught you to be logical. At the thought of her boss, she gave a small moan. Perry! Did he see the note? Will he understand why I took the risk?

She parted the curtains, swung her feet to the floor, and stood. It took a moment for her to stop swaying, but once she was confident she wasn't going to fall over, she lifted her head and looked around. Just as she had surmised, she was in a bedroom. The mysterious flickering light came from a dozen or so candles positioned around the room. The only other furniture in the place was an old-fashioned vanity and an armoire, and a beveled mirror.

Taking in her reflection, she realized for the first time that she was not wearing her own clothes. Instead, she was dressed in the same outfit as Angelique wore in the portrait. Obviously someone had taken the time to undress and redress her. The idea made her sick. She felt violated.

Moving quietly to the door, she tried the handle. Just as she had expected, it was locked. Of course it was locked. Next she opened the armoire, hoping to find her own clothes, but there, too, she was met with frustration. It stood empty.

"Darn!" she said softly, then froze as she heard light footsteps acsending stairs. She moved stealthly back to the bed, arranged herself as she had been before, then noticed the curtain was moving. At the same time she tried to still it she heard a key in the lock.

The door opened and her eyes closed. She reminded herself to not squeeze them, to match her breathing to the drumbeats again if she were going to pull of feigning sleep. Soft footfalls crossed the room and then stilled as the figure stopped beside the bed. Della prayed as she had never prayed before.

"My Angelique, soon you shall awaken and take your place at my side as our High Priestess. But first we must free your soul from this unworthy human form." The curtain parted and someone loomed over her. Bony, cold fingers carressed her cheek. To Della's credit, she didn't flinch. "Then, my Queen, we will rule together."

He straightened and the curtain fell back. She heard the man cross the room, the door open and close and the key turn in the lock. It wasn't until she was sure his footsteps had retreated that she opened her eyes again and startled to shiver. She sat on the edge of the bed trying to calm her nerves.

'We must free your soul from this unworthy human form.' Unworthy, my foot! As the proud owner of said form, I have something to say about that! If that creep thinks for one moment I'm just going to lay around waiting for some other spirit to occupy me, he has another think coming! I'm getting out of this haunted house, and if I have to do it barefooted or walking on my hands, so be it. Unworthy, indeed! I don't know how Angelique used to be, but I, for one, am not about to let that man dictate how I'm going to go out of this earthly plane.

Yet despite her fighting spirit and the outrage she felt, there was a darkness no candlelight could banish. It was a real, heavy presence—something tangible and terrifying and completely foreign. The hair bristled on her arms, neck and back. The figure had brought with him and left behind a darkness, a crawling cloud of evil that produced a fear so strong she thought it would rob her of her very soul.