"Red Pins In a Cloth Doll"
May. 19th, 2022 07:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Red Pins In a Cloth Doll"
10/4/2017
I.
The fact that the apartment door was ajar triggered all of Bane's wariness. He glared up and down the short hall, then bent to look back down the iron-bannistered stairs behind him. He saw and heard nothing. From an inner pocket of his black jacket, the Dire Wolf pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on.
At sixty, Bane still showed only a few marks of age. There was a more liberal sprinkling of white in the short black hair and crow's feet had formed at the corners of the cold grey eyes. But he was still lean and agile, still moving with a restless quickness. He would always be the Dire Wolf.
Pushing the door open with his knuckles but keeping his body out in the hall, Bane leaned in and saw what he had half expected. The corpse was lying on its side, curled up with knees by its chest and one hand reaching for a cell phone. The man had aged badly since Bane had last seen him, putting on considerable weight and losing most of that dark red hair, but he recognized Gene R. Holmquist immediately.
Taking a short step inside, the Dire Wolf crouched over the body and examined it. There was no pulse, of course, and the flesh was at room temperature. Both eyes were open and cloudy. Bane stood up, unclipped the Link from his belt and set it to take wide-range readings. The Trom device clicked and hummed as he swung it in an arc back and forth over the body, then to cover the room.
All his instincts were screaming at him to get out of there immediately. Earlier in his career, he would have risked a few minutes to search the apartment for clues, but the Link had made that less essential. Bane stepped back into the hall and trotted down two flights of stairs. In the tiny foyer, he saw the knob on the street door start to turn.
In a flash, Bane had whipped around to conceal himself behind the stairwell. His eyebrows lowered in a scowl as he heard heavy footfalls up the stairs. Two men, each at least two hundred pounds and active enough to hurry up those stairs without difficulty. As he heard their voices on the second floor landing, the Dire Wolf went through the door and out onto the street.
Idling next to a FINE FOR PARKING sign was a black and white patrol car. Bane kept his head down, swung left and strode up the street at a normal pace. There were passers-by on the sidewalk across the street but no one was in his path. Rounding the corner, Bane slowed and headed back to his hotel. That was no coincidence. He didn't believe in coincidence where dead bodies or the police were involved.
Someone had seen him enter the apartment door between a furniture store and a dance studio and had called 911. Most likely it had been an anonymous tip about seeing the body through the open door and it was chance that a prowl car had been near by.
Bane kept walking, not even noticing the scenery that so many people milling about him had journeyed to see. He had only been in New Orleans once before and that had been when he and Cindy had taken six months off from the Midnight War to idly travel and sightsee. That hiatus hadn't lasted long.
In fact, he reflected wryly, he was supposed to be officially retired now. He had closed the Dire Wolf Agency, vacated his office and informed everyone he worked with from the NYPD to the FBI's Department 21 Black. Yet here he was. One pleading phone call in the middle of the night from someone he had barely known and he had gone directly to Newark Airport to catch the next available flight. He guessed he would never change...
He needed a few minutes to check what his Link had recorded. Spotting an open-air bistro, he took a table where his back was to the restaurant's wall and where he could see anyone approaching. Bane ordered a hot roast beef sandwich, hash browns and an iced tea. As he ate, keeping one eye on the people walking past, he examined his Link.
Human technology had caught up with the Links in many ways, but the Trom devices still had many functions no smartphone was close to approaching. Bane read the vitals taken on the body, viewed what amounted to an enhanced color MRI scan and concluded that Holmquist had died between one hour and two hours before he had found the body. There was no obvious cause of death.
Bane switched to infra-red imaging but saw no signs anyone else had been in that apartment recently. Residual heat patterns on the couch matched the idea that Holmquist had stood up from sitting there and fallen directly to the floor. Different scans turned up nothing more suggestive. There were no traces in the air of common poisons or carbon monoxide.
Of course, Bane wished there had been time to go through the man's pockets, search the dressers and desk drawers, examine the medicine cabinet and kitchen. Even checking the cell phone for any attempt to call out might have been invaluable.
Considering Holmquist's age and weight, Bane figured the Medical Examiner would decide on a heart attack. It would be a safe verdict. He paused to look around the bistro more thoroughly. To his amusement, nearly everyone there was also staring at a screen on a small electronic device. Bane finished his meal and requested a second serving, which he also devoured as he studied images of the apartment.
Finally, he reluctantly turned off the Link and clipped it to his belt again. He hadn't spotted anything worth following up on. If he had only been allowed ten minutes to search that apartment... but then he would likely be under arrest by the NOLA Police right now. Even if there was no sign of foul play, local Homicide would have detained him for extensive questioning as a person of interest.
Paying his check and leaving an appropriate tip, the Dire Wolf started walking again. He was moving up St Peter Street toward Armstrong Park. Despite all his misgivings, he knew that he had to consult with Samuel Watesa.
II.
Halfway up Dumaine Street, Bane paused in front of a three story building made of beige stone. A balcony with a wrought-iron railing ran across the second floor. At number 741, a window announced HOMELAND ANTIQUES AND CURIOS in ornate script, a silhouette of Africa in green with a thin yellow outline. The store hours were posted, along with 'S. WATESA, PROP.' On the sidewalk had been drawn in yellow chalk some protective symbols.
Entering the shop, Bane was hit by a faint but pungent tang of incense. The counters and displays were crowded with an intriguing array of art ranging from wooden masks to bronze statuettes to woven mats. One wall was taken up with books for sale and old jazz and blues albums in the original LPs. The store had subdued overhead lighting and the air was cool and dry.
Standing behind the counter with the cash register and phone was a young black man in dark slacks and a white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled back. He had an inquisitive, alert face with old-fashioned horned-rim glasses and hair cut so short it might as well have been shaved off. When he saw Bane enter, the youth smiled politely.
"Can I help you, sir?" There was a definite tinge of a French accent even in those few words.
"I hope so," the Dire Wolf replied. "My name is Jeremy Bane. I'm an old friend of Samuel Watesa and I'd like to see him."
The young man hesitated, then nodded. "I've been given your name, sir. Just a moment." He crossed over to lock the street door and to flip a cardboard sign that read BACK IN FIFTEEN MINUTES so it faced outward. "My name is Zeke. If you would kindly wait, I'll be right with you."
As Zeke unlocked a plain wooden door beside the counter and closed it behind him, Bane leaned over to inspect the books for sale. There were none of the usual lightweight titles one might find in New Age shops aimed at tourists. Here were solid scholarly volumes by Garrison Nebel, Dr Lawrence Taper and even a row of books by Kenneth Dred himself. They were steep in price as their rarity might lead one to expect. Bane smiled with a trace of wistfulness. He seldom saw the works of his old friends and teammates in a public place.
And they were all about the Midnight War.
Re-emerging, Zeke gestured with a crooked finger and said, "The teacher will see you, sir. Follow me." Bane passed through the door, hearing its lock click as it closed behind him. He followed the young man up narrow wooden stairs and through a solid oak door into a dim chilly room.
The Dire Wolf had a rare moment of indecision. He felt danger and yet he wasn't sure it was directed at him. By long habit, he checked every room he entered for exits and any places where someone might possibly be concealed. The parlor had comfortable chairs and a long couch, with a reading lamp on a round table stacked with ancient books and loose papers. But half the room was concealed by an opaque sheet fastened from ceiling to floor and from wall to wall.
From behind that sheet, the familiar rich baritone of Samuel Watesa intoned with an odd hollow sound, "It is good to see you again, Jeremy. Please be seated."
Behind him, the youth named Zeke bowed his head and excused himself. Bane pulled a chair to face the sheet and lowered himself to it. "I haven't seen you since you lost Maria, Samuel. I'm sorry it takes a mystery to bring me here."
"I understand," said the cultured voice. "I must ask you to respect my privacy, old friend. Soon, everything will be made clear. Are you agreeable with this?"
"Sure," the Dire Wolf answered. "You've always been straight with me, Samuel. Let me get right to the point. The night before last, at three in the morning, I received a frantic phone call from Gene Holmquist. I assume you recognize the name."
"Oh yes. He was a scholar of deep learning in the old ways, but I regret to say he recently found more financial success turning out sensational fiction about the Hollywood version of Voodoo. Those dismal thrillers set in the 1930s..."
"Holmquist felt he was in mortal danger because he based a character in one of his books on a local Houngan." Bane exhaled sadly. "He told me he was suffering strange pains that only lasted a few minutes and his dreams had become nightmares. He sounded terrified. When he asked me to come to New Orleans, I agreed."
From behind the sheet, the somber voice of Watesa said, "I feel he is dead. Am I correct?"
"Yes. This is confidential of couse, but less than an hour ago, I went to his apartment. He was lying on the floor. He had been dead about two hours with no obvious cause. Even as I got out of there, two cops came storming up the stairs."
"A trap," Watesa said. "That man's life was taken in the hope that you would be blamed. A clumsy effort but as heartless as I have come to expect from Grandmother Fleurette. You are the real target, Jeremy."
"Well, I'm used to that. So I guess we're not dealing with tourist Voodoo but the real thing?"
"Yes," came the voice behind the partitition. "Voodoo, whether of the New Orleans or Haitian variety, is after all a recent creation. It is a mixture of Dahomey beliefs with a Catholic overlay and some later touches. I have no quarrel with it. But behind it, deeper and darker in its mysteries, lies the real Voodoo.. the Midnight War knowledge that stretches back to the Darthan Age thirty thousand years ago."
"Yeah, THAT stuff I treat with caution," Bane said. "Anything taught by the Sulla Chun is not only dangerous to use, it's harmful even to know about. People have had psychotic episodes just from learning about the Sulla Chun."
"Most of the world's religions are based on forbidden knowledge from the Darthan Age," came the voice. "Over the ages, the Midnight War lore has been nearly forgotten. The barely remembered fragments have been distorted and misused. Except for some veiled hints in holy books or puzzling references in old commentaries, today's religious leaders know nothing of the true origins of their beliefs. It is better this way."
"I'll go along with that, for sure," Bane said. "So, Samuel, about this Grandmother Fleurette?"
"Ah. She has delved into matters few suspect even exist. I know she studied under the Lundborg brothers when they led Red Sect. She has had dealings with the Preincarnators and Those Who Remember. Although I cannot prove it, I suspect Grandmother Fleurette has knelt at the feet of the Darthim themselves."
Bane whistled. "Yikes. What do you think she has planned?"
"Something vile and blasphemous, you can be sure of that. You have always trod in deep waters, Jeremy. You are one who slaps the dragon in the face and chases tigers through the night. But even you should be cautious against this old woman."
Moving his chair closer to the sheet, the Dire Wolf asked, "Any advice? Any sort of tricks I should know, Samuel?"
"Certainly, I will ask the Loa to watch over you. I have served the spirits for many decades now and I like to think we have an understanding. But you already carry on you the best protection you could."
Bane touched his own forearm. "The silver daggers?"
"Not merely silver, although that metal is potent enough. You bear blades of Ensalir, silver blessed by the immortal Eldarin themselves ages ago. They have proven their virtue many times, eh?"
"Oh yes. Maybe if you can give me an address or two to start with...? Maybe a description of this Grandmother Fleurette?"
"Certainly. There are a few suggestions I have in mind that you may find useful. Old friend, I know curiosity is gnawing at you about my current err circumstances. Be assured, I am concealed for good reasons. Before you leave this city, all will be revealed."
Bane stood up and folded his arms. His head tilted to one side. "You know I have Kumundu training, Samuel. It's second nature to me now. At arm's length, I can count a man's pulse or tell how clear his breathing is."
Into that hollow voice came mockery. "Ah, Dire Wolf. You can also detect the lack of these signs!"
III.
Two hours later, Bane pulled his leased Nissan over to the side of a placid residential street. He had sat through a long informative lecture from Watesa that had included many warnings not to underestimate this enemy. He had agreed to do so. And he had gone back to his rooms at the hotel, where he had loaded up with some gadgets he had not used in years.
He was in Boutte, a suburb of St Charles Parish about twenty minutes away from the French Quarter where he had been before. Sitting behind the wheel, the Dire Wolf reached behind him and withdrew the dart gun from its holster behind his left hip. Powered by compressed CO2, the needle-nosed weapon had both advantages and disadvantages. During the final years of his detective agency, he had relied more and more on his Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special; the revolver was reliable and suspects recognized its threat. But today, he was glad he had concealed the diassembled dart gun in his luggage.
It was early afternoon and the idea of striking in full daylight made him uneasy. Almost all his actions took place late at night. But Watesa had assured him that Grandmother Fleurette and her cabal had been so nocturnal for decades that they all invariably slept during the day. Bane took a deep breath and accepted the situation.
He was looking across a deep, neatly tended lawn toward a three story Victorian house which stood on a slight rise. An iron-railed widow's-walk ran around the top floor, and there was a weather vane shaped like a rearing cat. As far as he could tell, the building had been kept in good repair. A narrow access road betwen this yard and the adjoining property held only one vehicle, a black Lincoln town car with tinted windows.
Time to get this over with. Stepping out onto the road and closing the door behind him, the Dire Wolf began walking up the access road at a leisurely pace. He took the Link from his belt. Earlier, he had set it to scan for closed-loop electric circuits usually found in alarm systems. Yes, the front and back door were alarmed but none of the windows. No cameras. Bane sent a signal that temporarily jammed the alarms without triggering them. He clipped the Link back to his belt and swerved over closer to the house as he came within reach.
Flattening up against the side of building, the Dire Wolf drew his dart gun and peered around the back wall. Sitting on the top step of the porch was a black man with a remarkably athletic build. He was cutting slices off an apple with a pocketknife and chewing them thoughtfully. And, luckily, he was wearing jeans and plain tan T-shirt. Bane had learned the hard way that the anesthetic darts were often unreliable in cold weather because they did not penetrate thick layers of clothing.
Bane snapped off a single shot. The weapon made a faint chuff as it fired a metal needle which jabbed into the watchman's arm right in the bicep.
"Ow! Goddam," grunted the man. He started to put down the apple to rub where his arm stung, but within two seconds he was getting dazed and within ten seconds he slumped down on the steps with his head falling forward onto his chest.
Still holding the dart gun and staying alert for anyone else, Bane tugged the spent dart loose and pocketed it. He took a moment to check the guard's pulse and breathing. Both seemed fine. There was always a chance someone could have an allergic reaction to the Trom-devised serum or have a heart condition that might lead to a fatal reaction. No non-lethal weapon was perfect.
Stepping past the drugged guard, Bane found the back door was unlocked and he stepped into a pristine kitchen with lots of chrome and dark wood cabinets. The scent of seafood still hung in the air. Samuel Watesa had only been in Grandmother Fleurette's mansion once to negotiate a truce, so he could only provide a guess as to the general layout.
But there was an unmarked wooden door in the hall, with two potted plants flanking it. Hanging from the ceiling just above head height was a small burlap sack tied with red twine. Bane placed a hand on the doorknob. Under his sleeves, the silver bladed daggers grew warm against his forearms. This was a warning he took seriously.
Descending steep concrete steps, the Dire Wolf entered a single large high-ceilinged room with stone walls that had been smoothed. In each corner, a foot-long red candle burned in a wall sconce. In that flickering light, the bizarre tableau was revealed.
This meeting chamber had very little African elements in its furnishings. None of the items familiar to tourists curious about Voodoo or even to serious Vodouisants from Haiti or Brazil showed. The floor was inlaid with green and white bricks in a spiral pattern, and a massive table at the far end of the room was of the same rough-textured green stone flecked with white specks.
The colors of the Darthim. This Grandmother Fleurette had been walking up dark paths indeed.
Bane stepped closer to the table and saw its indented top surface was deeply stained. Dried blood. Hanging down from the sides were leather cuffs on chains, and lying at the head of the sacrificial stone on a linen cloth was a wavy-bladed dagger with an iron hilt.
Already somber, Bane's face set in even more stern lines. Now he remembered why he never seemed to be able to retire permanently. He glared angrily at an ebony pedastal which held a small figurine of red metal that had a hot sheen. This was not Papa Legba or Baron Samedi or any of the Loa that genuine Voodoo believers might recognize. The Gremethom statue had been crafted in the shape of a man in plate armor, mace held in one gauntleted hand, face hidden behind a full helmet. Draldros, Lord of Fanedral... the most implacable enemy Humans ever had.
This was not the Voodoo of paperback thrillers or drive-in movies, nor the Voodoo of sincere worship by the descendants of slaves remembering ancestral beliefs. This was the foul Art behind what had become Voodoo. This was the practice of secrets given to mortals by the Sulla Chun themselves before Ulgor sank and the Darthan Age began. Bane was growing angrier by the minute.
Behind the sacrificial table was a chest-high altar covered with a white cloth inlaid with esoteric symbols in green thread. Only a handful of living people knew what Darthan imagery meant and they all regretted having learned. Three items sat on top of that altar. There was a wooden chalice with a badly chipped rim and obscene images carved around its base, there was a copper gong swinging on a stand, its striker hanging by a cord. And there was what looked like a child's rag doll dressed in black.
Bane smiled thinly in the dimly lit chamber as he saw that doll.
IV.
At eleven-fifteen that night, the Dire Wolf took the elevator from outside his rooms to the underground garage where his leased Nissan was waiting. When he had returned to the Hotel Ephemere, he had called Watesa for a long conference. The hours until evening had been spent studying a stack of local newspapers, warming up with his DohRa form and then calling room service for a light meal. Showering and shaving, wearing his trademark uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket with its dozen hidden gimmicks, he went down to claim his car.
In the back of his mind, Bane regretted making a reservation at this rather posh establishment. He had chosen this hotel because of its convenient garage, but he honestly would have been happier in one of the more Spartan motel rooms he normally used on a case.
Heading south, out of the city itself, he kept going over his plans again. He trusted Samuel Watesa implicitly. The man was not a Tel Shai knight, but Bane had worked with Watesa several times in Midnight War crises. Even though he was sure he knew what unsettling fate had befallen Watesa, he still had confidence in the Danarakan sorcerer... or what was left of him.
Pulling up some distance before Grandmother Fleurette's mansion, Bane saw lights on in many windows and five cars parked in a row along the access road. He glanced at the clock on his dashboard. Yes, five to twelve. The Midnight War was well named.
Stepping out into a warm muggy night in early October, the Dire Wolf set off briskly across the yard. As he reached the halfway point, a dark shape swung around from behind the willow tree. Bane dropped him with an anesthetic dart, heard the rifle clunk on the ground as the thug fell, and kept moving without breaking stride.
Standing on the wide front porch with its ornate railing and wicker chairs were two of the cultist, both big men in business suits. One flicked a cigarette into the night as he spotted the slim figure in black striding purposefully toward them.
Before they could draw their guns or shout a warning, they were confused and indecisive as the anesthetic darts stuck into their necks. One man fell forward, missing the steps and sliding face down onto the grass. The other guard resisted a few seconds longer, even managing to get his hand inside his jacket toward his holster before sagging down senseless onto the porch.
Bane hopped up onto the porch and walked through the front door as if he had bought the house. As he opened the door, the booming of drums echoed out into the darkness. He didn't recognize the rhythmn. It didn't sound Danarakan or Okali, the two cultures using drums that he knew best. A simple five-note repeating endlessly, it didn't bother him.
No one seemed to be on watch inside the house itself. Bane went straight for the door with the mojo bag hanging over it and paused. The silver blades on his forearms were burning painfully hot. He slid one out an inch and saw the ensalir metal gleamed with a pure blue light. This made him grin in a remarkably feral way and he trotted down the stairs in the ceremonial chamber.
Many more candles had been set up and the room was bright. In a copper brazier near the bottom of the steps, fragrant oil smoldered. Bane was not noticed at first and he studied the scene. As he stood there, the drumming ceased.
There were eight men and women standing facing the altar. All were concealed in the baggy crimson robes that he associated with Red Sect and their cowls were pulled up. Standing in front of their assembly, wearing a similar robe with her head exposed, stood a fierce old woman.
Grandmother Fleurette was a bundle of seeming contradictions. She had the spare bony build of the elderly, and a wrinkled face where the hooked nose and prominent chin nearly met. Her long, neatly combed hair was solid white. Yet she stood fully upright, straight as any twenty-year-old, and her voice rang out with vigor.
"Under the eyes of the Dread One, I greet my brothers and sisters, and I thank you for journeying here. This is no holy day for our sect, no rituals are to be done tonight. I have called our assembly to hear good news."
She paused as the cultists swayed and leaned forward in anticipation. "A threat to our privacy and our secrecy has been removed. Gene R Holmquist is dead! A red nail in a cloth doll burst his rotten heart within his chest. His book will never be completed. Our history will not be revealed to the unworthy!"
"Hear, Hear!" "Well done!" and "Congratulations, Grandmother," murmurs came from the crowd.
She raised a gnarled hand for silence. "I was in my car with Phillipe as my driver. When we saw our other great enemy approached, I had him phone the police so that he might be blamed for the death. There, unfortunately, success eluded us. The Dire Wolf has a keen nose for traps, it seems."
As the ur-Voodoo coven muttered their disappointment, Grandmother Fleurette swung around and snatched up the rag doll. "Here it waits. Straw and graveyard dirt, child's blood and gunpowder, wrapped in a piece of cloth that our adversary has worn."
Still unseen at the rear of the chamber, Bane took a few steps closer. He was trying a risky gambit here. He had no pyschic perception at all, the Teachers at Tel Shai said his mind was simply too straightforward and stubborn to be open to mystic impressions. But long experience told him these people were worked up and ready for murder.
"Forgive me, Grandmother," ventured a cultist in a voice filled with trepidation. "I know that he is supposed to be dead and yet. The Houngan from Danarak, Watesa..."
"Must we go over this again?" she snapped. "Three 30.06 bullets in the heart. Buried deep in the swamps by our own men. Watesa is dead! Do not speak his name again if you value your own life."
"But his shop is still open. That young boy works there but surely he is not running it by himself."
"Then his family helps him. Or Watesa's relatives inherited the HOMELAND ANTIQUES store and kept him on. Forget all that. Our concern now is with this Dire Wolf, the man who has brought down so many of our kind. I tell you, we are not done with Jeremy Bane."
"Oh, how can I resist a straight line like that?" Bane said as he stepped up right behind the assembly. The cult members gave violent starts at hearing his voice, and one actually fell over and scrambled back up again.
Completely confident and assured, the Dire Wolf returned their apalled stares with his own cold grey eyes watching them. He was standing with his arms folded across his chest, his hands touching the hilts of the matched silver daggers.
"That was a weak attempt at a frame, I have to say," he told them. "An autopsy would have concluded natural causes and really I had no motive. In fact, Gene had asked me to come help him. No, Grandmother, as criminal masterminds go, you don't measure up."
The old man held up the death doll and her other bony hand waved a long pin of copper-colored metal. "I paid well for this scrap of cloth," she laughed. "A New York gang member said it had been torn from your pants cuff during a battle down by the docks."
"Yeah, I figured it must be something like that," Bane said. "I'm careful with haircuts and fingernail clippings and stuff like that."
Grandmother Fleurette pressed the point of the needle against the chest of the doll. "I have some followers in Manhattan. They have been afraid to practice the Art there because of you. That ends now."
"I'm sure this won't do any good," Bane said evenly, "But I feel like I should warn you. For your own sake. Don't do it."
"Great Draldros, I implore thee to look with favor on thy servant, as I sent thee the soul of one who thou hate." She drove the pin deep into the doll, but then screamed in unexpected agony and fell back up against the altar, knocking it over with a crash.
Even as the cult leader slid lifeless to the floor, Bane whipped the silver daggers from their sheaths and flourished them in the air. Their blade shone with a pale blue glimmer that horrified the Vodouisants. "Go on, get outta here!" he yelled. "I shouldn't let you devils live but I'm giving you a chance. Run! Never come back!"
Something in his voice and posture was absolutely convincing. The cult members climbed over each other as they scrambled up the steeps out of the chamber. Several were struggling out of their robes as they fled. Their sheer panic struck Bane as hilarious but he kept a straight face.
Alone in the ceremonial room, he examined Grandmother Fleurette and found she was quite dead. The expression of pain on her withered face was characteristic of heart attacks. Bane took the death doll and began pulling it apart, tossing the pieces in different directions as he moved around the room. He took the statue of Draldros and smashed it against the stone table until chips were flying from the table and the idol was unrecognizable. Stomping on the wooden chalice, he broke it into shards and he bent the gong on the edge of the table.
When this was done, he felt better. The oppressive stuffiness in that room had been swept away. Bane picked up the scrap of cloth from the disassembled doll and examined it. When he had been sneaking through the house earlier that day, he had found a lightweight black coat in the back of Grandmother Fleurette's closet. She would have no reason to notice that a piece of it had been cut off by a silver dagger. Nor that the piece from her coat had been wrapped around the death doll to replace the piece of Bane's clothing.
He HAD warned her. This had happened a number of times in his career and he freely admitted it was satisfying. "The schemer falls into the pit that he digs for another," he quoted to himself.
Time to go. Bane walked up the stairs and out onto the back porch. The two guards were lying where he had left them. It had only been a few minutes since they had been drugged and they would not stir for about an hour. After that, they would feel nauseous and weak and still not be any threat for a while.
All the cars were gone. Starting to feel tired as the adrenalin eased off, Bane headed down the access road and saw a midnight blue SUV pull up to park with its motor running. He knew who it must be. The Dire Wolf kept going as he saw the young man Zeke jump out from the driver's side and hurry around to assist a tall bulky form from the rear.
Concealed in a white trenchoat, wool scarf and wide-brimmed fedora, nothing of Samuel Watesa could be seen. He was leaning on a stout walking stick and his head was bent forward. The familiar voice called up, "Well done, old friend."
"Thanks," said Bane. "But it was your plan, after all. Things might not have gone so smoothly if I had been winging it. She's dead by her own hand. The cult has scattered."
Watesa waved a gloved hand dismissively. "Your record speaks for itself. Jeremy, Zeke and I intend to search that hellhole and confiscate any grimoires, any books of forbidden knowledge, any talismans. Will you help us?"
"Be glad to. Maybe I should tie up those three goons in case they revive while we're working."
"I'm afraid I will not be of much use," Watesa sighed. "I am not the man I used to be."
The Dire Wolf was watching his colleague in the backlight of the car. "She mentioned that you had been shot in the chest and buried in the swamp. Usually, after that happens, a man isn't seen walking and talking."
Reaching up awkwardly, the Danarakan removed his hat and began unwrapped the scarf. "How droll. I knew that she had hired a sniper from the criminal underworld so I prepared a spell beforehand. It is a bit of deep magick I have always avoided before."
Bane said nothing. He had figured out Watesa's condition but saw no reason to interrupt.
The stiff face revealed was grey and lifeless, both eyes rolled up to show only the whites. When he spoke, his mouth stayed open and the sepulchral voice seemingly came from nearby. "I wanted to be sure of vengeance, Jeremy," said Watesa. "So I resurrected myself and dug free with great effort. It is not full life I enjoy now. I am my own zombie."
3/2/2018df
10/4/2017
I.
The fact that the apartment door was ajar triggered all of Bane's wariness. He glared up and down the short hall, then bent to look back down the iron-bannistered stairs behind him. He saw and heard nothing. From an inner pocket of his black jacket, the Dire Wolf pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on.
At sixty, Bane still showed only a few marks of age. There was a more liberal sprinkling of white in the short black hair and crow's feet had formed at the corners of the cold grey eyes. But he was still lean and agile, still moving with a restless quickness. He would always be the Dire Wolf.
Pushing the door open with his knuckles but keeping his body out in the hall, Bane leaned in and saw what he had half expected. The corpse was lying on its side, curled up with knees by its chest and one hand reaching for a cell phone. The man had aged badly since Bane had last seen him, putting on considerable weight and losing most of that dark red hair, but he recognized Gene R. Holmquist immediately.
Taking a short step inside, the Dire Wolf crouched over the body and examined it. There was no pulse, of course, and the flesh was at room temperature. Both eyes were open and cloudy. Bane stood up, unclipped the Link from his belt and set it to take wide-range readings. The Trom device clicked and hummed as he swung it in an arc back and forth over the body, then to cover the room.
All his instincts were screaming at him to get out of there immediately. Earlier in his career, he would have risked a few minutes to search the apartment for clues, but the Link had made that less essential. Bane stepped back into the hall and trotted down two flights of stairs. In the tiny foyer, he saw the knob on the street door start to turn.
In a flash, Bane had whipped around to conceal himself behind the stairwell. His eyebrows lowered in a scowl as he heard heavy footfalls up the stairs. Two men, each at least two hundred pounds and active enough to hurry up those stairs without difficulty. As he heard their voices on the second floor landing, the Dire Wolf went through the door and out onto the street.
Idling next to a FINE FOR PARKING sign was a black and white patrol car. Bane kept his head down, swung left and strode up the street at a normal pace. There were passers-by on the sidewalk across the street but no one was in his path. Rounding the corner, Bane slowed and headed back to his hotel. That was no coincidence. He didn't believe in coincidence where dead bodies or the police were involved.
Someone had seen him enter the apartment door between a furniture store and a dance studio and had called 911. Most likely it had been an anonymous tip about seeing the body through the open door and it was chance that a prowl car had been near by.
Bane kept walking, not even noticing the scenery that so many people milling about him had journeyed to see. He had only been in New Orleans once before and that had been when he and Cindy had taken six months off from the Midnight War to idly travel and sightsee. That hiatus hadn't lasted long.
In fact, he reflected wryly, he was supposed to be officially retired now. He had closed the Dire Wolf Agency, vacated his office and informed everyone he worked with from the NYPD to the FBI's Department 21 Black. Yet here he was. One pleading phone call in the middle of the night from someone he had barely known and he had gone directly to Newark Airport to catch the next available flight. He guessed he would never change...
He needed a few minutes to check what his Link had recorded. Spotting an open-air bistro, he took a table where his back was to the restaurant's wall and where he could see anyone approaching. Bane ordered a hot roast beef sandwich, hash browns and an iced tea. As he ate, keeping one eye on the people walking past, he examined his Link.
Human technology had caught up with the Links in many ways, but the Trom devices still had many functions no smartphone was close to approaching. Bane read the vitals taken on the body, viewed what amounted to an enhanced color MRI scan and concluded that Holmquist had died between one hour and two hours before he had found the body. There was no obvious cause of death.
Bane switched to infra-red imaging but saw no signs anyone else had been in that apartment recently. Residual heat patterns on the couch matched the idea that Holmquist had stood up from sitting there and fallen directly to the floor. Different scans turned up nothing more suggestive. There were no traces in the air of common poisons or carbon monoxide.
Of course, Bane wished there had been time to go through the man's pockets, search the dressers and desk drawers, examine the medicine cabinet and kitchen. Even checking the cell phone for any attempt to call out might have been invaluable.
Considering Holmquist's age and weight, Bane figured the Medical Examiner would decide on a heart attack. It would be a safe verdict. He paused to look around the bistro more thoroughly. To his amusement, nearly everyone there was also staring at a screen on a small electronic device. Bane finished his meal and requested a second serving, which he also devoured as he studied images of the apartment.
Finally, he reluctantly turned off the Link and clipped it to his belt again. He hadn't spotted anything worth following up on. If he had only been allowed ten minutes to search that apartment... but then he would likely be under arrest by the NOLA Police right now. Even if there was no sign of foul play, local Homicide would have detained him for extensive questioning as a person of interest.
Paying his check and leaving an appropriate tip, the Dire Wolf started walking again. He was moving up St Peter Street toward Armstrong Park. Despite all his misgivings, he knew that he had to consult with Samuel Watesa.
II.
Halfway up Dumaine Street, Bane paused in front of a three story building made of beige stone. A balcony with a wrought-iron railing ran across the second floor. At number 741, a window announced HOMELAND ANTIQUES AND CURIOS in ornate script, a silhouette of Africa in green with a thin yellow outline. The store hours were posted, along with 'S. WATESA, PROP.' On the sidewalk had been drawn in yellow chalk some protective symbols.
Entering the shop, Bane was hit by a faint but pungent tang of incense. The counters and displays were crowded with an intriguing array of art ranging from wooden masks to bronze statuettes to woven mats. One wall was taken up with books for sale and old jazz and blues albums in the original LPs. The store had subdued overhead lighting and the air was cool and dry.
Standing behind the counter with the cash register and phone was a young black man in dark slacks and a white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled back. He had an inquisitive, alert face with old-fashioned horned-rim glasses and hair cut so short it might as well have been shaved off. When he saw Bane enter, the youth smiled politely.
"Can I help you, sir?" There was a definite tinge of a French accent even in those few words.
"I hope so," the Dire Wolf replied. "My name is Jeremy Bane. I'm an old friend of Samuel Watesa and I'd like to see him."
The young man hesitated, then nodded. "I've been given your name, sir. Just a moment." He crossed over to lock the street door and to flip a cardboard sign that read BACK IN FIFTEEN MINUTES so it faced outward. "My name is Zeke. If you would kindly wait, I'll be right with you."
As Zeke unlocked a plain wooden door beside the counter and closed it behind him, Bane leaned over to inspect the books for sale. There were none of the usual lightweight titles one might find in New Age shops aimed at tourists. Here were solid scholarly volumes by Garrison Nebel, Dr Lawrence Taper and even a row of books by Kenneth Dred himself. They were steep in price as their rarity might lead one to expect. Bane smiled with a trace of wistfulness. He seldom saw the works of his old friends and teammates in a public place.
And they were all about the Midnight War.
Re-emerging, Zeke gestured with a crooked finger and said, "The teacher will see you, sir. Follow me." Bane passed through the door, hearing its lock click as it closed behind him. He followed the young man up narrow wooden stairs and through a solid oak door into a dim chilly room.
The Dire Wolf had a rare moment of indecision. He felt danger and yet he wasn't sure it was directed at him. By long habit, he checked every room he entered for exits and any places where someone might possibly be concealed. The parlor had comfortable chairs and a long couch, with a reading lamp on a round table stacked with ancient books and loose papers. But half the room was concealed by an opaque sheet fastened from ceiling to floor and from wall to wall.
From behind that sheet, the familiar rich baritone of Samuel Watesa intoned with an odd hollow sound, "It is good to see you again, Jeremy. Please be seated."
Behind him, the youth named Zeke bowed his head and excused himself. Bane pulled a chair to face the sheet and lowered himself to it. "I haven't seen you since you lost Maria, Samuel. I'm sorry it takes a mystery to bring me here."
"I understand," said the cultured voice. "I must ask you to respect my privacy, old friend. Soon, everything will be made clear. Are you agreeable with this?"
"Sure," the Dire Wolf answered. "You've always been straight with me, Samuel. Let me get right to the point. The night before last, at three in the morning, I received a frantic phone call from Gene Holmquist. I assume you recognize the name."
"Oh yes. He was a scholar of deep learning in the old ways, but I regret to say he recently found more financial success turning out sensational fiction about the Hollywood version of Voodoo. Those dismal thrillers set in the 1930s..."
"Holmquist felt he was in mortal danger because he based a character in one of his books on a local Houngan." Bane exhaled sadly. "He told me he was suffering strange pains that only lasted a few minutes and his dreams had become nightmares. He sounded terrified. When he asked me to come to New Orleans, I agreed."
From behind the sheet, the somber voice of Watesa said, "I feel he is dead. Am I correct?"
"Yes. This is confidential of couse, but less than an hour ago, I went to his apartment. He was lying on the floor. He had been dead about two hours with no obvious cause. Even as I got out of there, two cops came storming up the stairs."
"A trap," Watesa said. "That man's life was taken in the hope that you would be blamed. A clumsy effort but as heartless as I have come to expect from Grandmother Fleurette. You are the real target, Jeremy."
"Well, I'm used to that. So I guess we're not dealing with tourist Voodoo but the real thing?"
"Yes," came the voice behind the partitition. "Voodoo, whether of the New Orleans or Haitian variety, is after all a recent creation. It is a mixture of Dahomey beliefs with a Catholic overlay and some later touches. I have no quarrel with it. But behind it, deeper and darker in its mysteries, lies the real Voodoo.. the Midnight War knowledge that stretches back to the Darthan Age thirty thousand years ago."
"Yeah, THAT stuff I treat with caution," Bane said. "Anything taught by the Sulla Chun is not only dangerous to use, it's harmful even to know about. People have had psychotic episodes just from learning about the Sulla Chun."
"Most of the world's religions are based on forbidden knowledge from the Darthan Age," came the voice. "Over the ages, the Midnight War lore has been nearly forgotten. The barely remembered fragments have been distorted and misused. Except for some veiled hints in holy books or puzzling references in old commentaries, today's religious leaders know nothing of the true origins of their beliefs. It is better this way."
"I'll go along with that, for sure," Bane said. "So, Samuel, about this Grandmother Fleurette?"
"Ah. She has delved into matters few suspect even exist. I know she studied under the Lundborg brothers when they led Red Sect. She has had dealings with the Preincarnators and Those Who Remember. Although I cannot prove it, I suspect Grandmother Fleurette has knelt at the feet of the Darthim themselves."
Bane whistled. "Yikes. What do you think she has planned?"
"Something vile and blasphemous, you can be sure of that. You have always trod in deep waters, Jeremy. You are one who slaps the dragon in the face and chases tigers through the night. But even you should be cautious against this old woman."
Moving his chair closer to the sheet, the Dire Wolf asked, "Any advice? Any sort of tricks I should know, Samuel?"
"Certainly, I will ask the Loa to watch over you. I have served the spirits for many decades now and I like to think we have an understanding. But you already carry on you the best protection you could."
Bane touched his own forearm. "The silver daggers?"
"Not merely silver, although that metal is potent enough. You bear blades of Ensalir, silver blessed by the immortal Eldarin themselves ages ago. They have proven their virtue many times, eh?"
"Oh yes. Maybe if you can give me an address or two to start with...? Maybe a description of this Grandmother Fleurette?"
"Certainly. There are a few suggestions I have in mind that you may find useful. Old friend, I know curiosity is gnawing at you about my current err circumstances. Be assured, I am concealed for good reasons. Before you leave this city, all will be revealed."
Bane stood up and folded his arms. His head tilted to one side. "You know I have Kumundu training, Samuel. It's second nature to me now. At arm's length, I can count a man's pulse or tell how clear his breathing is."
Into that hollow voice came mockery. "Ah, Dire Wolf. You can also detect the lack of these signs!"
III.
Two hours later, Bane pulled his leased Nissan over to the side of a placid residential street. He had sat through a long informative lecture from Watesa that had included many warnings not to underestimate this enemy. He had agreed to do so. And he had gone back to his rooms at the hotel, where he had loaded up with some gadgets he had not used in years.
He was in Boutte, a suburb of St Charles Parish about twenty minutes away from the French Quarter where he had been before. Sitting behind the wheel, the Dire Wolf reached behind him and withdrew the dart gun from its holster behind his left hip. Powered by compressed CO2, the needle-nosed weapon had both advantages and disadvantages. During the final years of his detective agency, he had relied more and more on his Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special; the revolver was reliable and suspects recognized its threat. But today, he was glad he had concealed the diassembled dart gun in his luggage.
It was early afternoon and the idea of striking in full daylight made him uneasy. Almost all his actions took place late at night. But Watesa had assured him that Grandmother Fleurette and her cabal had been so nocturnal for decades that they all invariably slept during the day. Bane took a deep breath and accepted the situation.
He was looking across a deep, neatly tended lawn toward a three story Victorian house which stood on a slight rise. An iron-railed widow's-walk ran around the top floor, and there was a weather vane shaped like a rearing cat. As far as he could tell, the building had been kept in good repair. A narrow access road betwen this yard and the adjoining property held only one vehicle, a black Lincoln town car with tinted windows.
Time to get this over with. Stepping out onto the road and closing the door behind him, the Dire Wolf began walking up the access road at a leisurely pace. He took the Link from his belt. Earlier, he had set it to scan for closed-loop electric circuits usually found in alarm systems. Yes, the front and back door were alarmed but none of the windows. No cameras. Bane sent a signal that temporarily jammed the alarms without triggering them. He clipped the Link back to his belt and swerved over closer to the house as he came within reach.
Flattening up against the side of building, the Dire Wolf drew his dart gun and peered around the back wall. Sitting on the top step of the porch was a black man with a remarkably athletic build. He was cutting slices off an apple with a pocketknife and chewing them thoughtfully. And, luckily, he was wearing jeans and plain tan T-shirt. Bane had learned the hard way that the anesthetic darts were often unreliable in cold weather because they did not penetrate thick layers of clothing.
Bane snapped off a single shot. The weapon made a faint chuff as it fired a metal needle which jabbed into the watchman's arm right in the bicep.
"Ow! Goddam," grunted the man. He started to put down the apple to rub where his arm stung, but within two seconds he was getting dazed and within ten seconds he slumped down on the steps with his head falling forward onto his chest.
Still holding the dart gun and staying alert for anyone else, Bane tugged the spent dart loose and pocketed it. He took a moment to check the guard's pulse and breathing. Both seemed fine. There was always a chance someone could have an allergic reaction to the Trom-devised serum or have a heart condition that might lead to a fatal reaction. No non-lethal weapon was perfect.
Stepping past the drugged guard, Bane found the back door was unlocked and he stepped into a pristine kitchen with lots of chrome and dark wood cabinets. The scent of seafood still hung in the air. Samuel Watesa had only been in Grandmother Fleurette's mansion once to negotiate a truce, so he could only provide a guess as to the general layout.
But there was an unmarked wooden door in the hall, with two potted plants flanking it. Hanging from the ceiling just above head height was a small burlap sack tied with red twine. Bane placed a hand on the doorknob. Under his sleeves, the silver bladed daggers grew warm against his forearms. This was a warning he took seriously.
Descending steep concrete steps, the Dire Wolf entered a single large high-ceilinged room with stone walls that had been smoothed. In each corner, a foot-long red candle burned in a wall sconce. In that flickering light, the bizarre tableau was revealed.
This meeting chamber had very little African elements in its furnishings. None of the items familiar to tourists curious about Voodoo or even to serious Vodouisants from Haiti or Brazil showed. The floor was inlaid with green and white bricks in a spiral pattern, and a massive table at the far end of the room was of the same rough-textured green stone flecked with white specks.
The colors of the Darthim. This Grandmother Fleurette had been walking up dark paths indeed.
Bane stepped closer to the table and saw its indented top surface was deeply stained. Dried blood. Hanging down from the sides were leather cuffs on chains, and lying at the head of the sacrificial stone on a linen cloth was a wavy-bladed dagger with an iron hilt.
Already somber, Bane's face set in even more stern lines. Now he remembered why he never seemed to be able to retire permanently. He glared angrily at an ebony pedastal which held a small figurine of red metal that had a hot sheen. This was not Papa Legba or Baron Samedi or any of the Loa that genuine Voodoo believers might recognize. The Gremethom statue had been crafted in the shape of a man in plate armor, mace held in one gauntleted hand, face hidden behind a full helmet. Draldros, Lord of Fanedral... the most implacable enemy Humans ever had.
This was not the Voodoo of paperback thrillers or drive-in movies, nor the Voodoo of sincere worship by the descendants of slaves remembering ancestral beliefs. This was the foul Art behind what had become Voodoo. This was the practice of secrets given to mortals by the Sulla Chun themselves before Ulgor sank and the Darthan Age began. Bane was growing angrier by the minute.
Behind the sacrificial table was a chest-high altar covered with a white cloth inlaid with esoteric symbols in green thread. Only a handful of living people knew what Darthan imagery meant and they all regretted having learned. Three items sat on top of that altar. There was a wooden chalice with a badly chipped rim and obscene images carved around its base, there was a copper gong swinging on a stand, its striker hanging by a cord. And there was what looked like a child's rag doll dressed in black.
Bane smiled thinly in the dimly lit chamber as he saw that doll.
IV.
At eleven-fifteen that night, the Dire Wolf took the elevator from outside his rooms to the underground garage where his leased Nissan was waiting. When he had returned to the Hotel Ephemere, he had called Watesa for a long conference. The hours until evening had been spent studying a stack of local newspapers, warming up with his DohRa form and then calling room service for a light meal. Showering and shaving, wearing his trademark uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket with its dozen hidden gimmicks, he went down to claim his car.
In the back of his mind, Bane regretted making a reservation at this rather posh establishment. He had chosen this hotel because of its convenient garage, but he honestly would have been happier in one of the more Spartan motel rooms he normally used on a case.
Heading south, out of the city itself, he kept going over his plans again. He trusted Samuel Watesa implicitly. The man was not a Tel Shai knight, but Bane had worked with Watesa several times in Midnight War crises. Even though he was sure he knew what unsettling fate had befallen Watesa, he still had confidence in the Danarakan sorcerer... or what was left of him.
Pulling up some distance before Grandmother Fleurette's mansion, Bane saw lights on in many windows and five cars parked in a row along the access road. He glanced at the clock on his dashboard. Yes, five to twelve. The Midnight War was well named.
Stepping out into a warm muggy night in early October, the Dire Wolf set off briskly across the yard. As he reached the halfway point, a dark shape swung around from behind the willow tree. Bane dropped him with an anesthetic dart, heard the rifle clunk on the ground as the thug fell, and kept moving without breaking stride.
Standing on the wide front porch with its ornate railing and wicker chairs were two of the cultist, both big men in business suits. One flicked a cigarette into the night as he spotted the slim figure in black striding purposefully toward them.
Before they could draw their guns or shout a warning, they were confused and indecisive as the anesthetic darts stuck into their necks. One man fell forward, missing the steps and sliding face down onto the grass. The other guard resisted a few seconds longer, even managing to get his hand inside his jacket toward his holster before sagging down senseless onto the porch.
Bane hopped up onto the porch and walked through the front door as if he had bought the house. As he opened the door, the booming of drums echoed out into the darkness. He didn't recognize the rhythmn. It didn't sound Danarakan or Okali, the two cultures using drums that he knew best. A simple five-note repeating endlessly, it didn't bother him.
No one seemed to be on watch inside the house itself. Bane went straight for the door with the mojo bag hanging over it and paused. The silver blades on his forearms were burning painfully hot. He slid one out an inch and saw the ensalir metal gleamed with a pure blue light. This made him grin in a remarkably feral way and he trotted down the stairs in the ceremonial chamber.
Many more candles had been set up and the room was bright. In a copper brazier near the bottom of the steps, fragrant oil smoldered. Bane was not noticed at first and he studied the scene. As he stood there, the drumming ceased.
There were eight men and women standing facing the altar. All were concealed in the baggy crimson robes that he associated with Red Sect and their cowls were pulled up. Standing in front of their assembly, wearing a similar robe with her head exposed, stood a fierce old woman.
Grandmother Fleurette was a bundle of seeming contradictions. She had the spare bony build of the elderly, and a wrinkled face where the hooked nose and prominent chin nearly met. Her long, neatly combed hair was solid white. Yet she stood fully upright, straight as any twenty-year-old, and her voice rang out with vigor.
"Under the eyes of the Dread One, I greet my brothers and sisters, and I thank you for journeying here. This is no holy day for our sect, no rituals are to be done tonight. I have called our assembly to hear good news."
She paused as the cultists swayed and leaned forward in anticipation. "A threat to our privacy and our secrecy has been removed. Gene R Holmquist is dead! A red nail in a cloth doll burst his rotten heart within his chest. His book will never be completed. Our history will not be revealed to the unworthy!"
"Hear, Hear!" "Well done!" and "Congratulations, Grandmother," murmurs came from the crowd.
She raised a gnarled hand for silence. "I was in my car with Phillipe as my driver. When we saw our other great enemy approached, I had him phone the police so that he might be blamed for the death. There, unfortunately, success eluded us. The Dire Wolf has a keen nose for traps, it seems."
As the ur-Voodoo coven muttered their disappointment, Grandmother Fleurette swung around and snatched up the rag doll. "Here it waits. Straw and graveyard dirt, child's blood and gunpowder, wrapped in a piece of cloth that our adversary has worn."
Still unseen at the rear of the chamber, Bane took a few steps closer. He was trying a risky gambit here. He had no pyschic perception at all, the Teachers at Tel Shai said his mind was simply too straightforward and stubborn to be open to mystic impressions. But long experience told him these people were worked up and ready for murder.
"Forgive me, Grandmother," ventured a cultist in a voice filled with trepidation. "I know that he is supposed to be dead and yet. The Houngan from Danarak, Watesa..."
"Must we go over this again?" she snapped. "Three 30.06 bullets in the heart. Buried deep in the swamps by our own men. Watesa is dead! Do not speak his name again if you value your own life."
"But his shop is still open. That young boy works there but surely he is not running it by himself."
"Then his family helps him. Or Watesa's relatives inherited the HOMELAND ANTIQUES store and kept him on. Forget all that. Our concern now is with this Dire Wolf, the man who has brought down so many of our kind. I tell you, we are not done with Jeremy Bane."
"Oh, how can I resist a straight line like that?" Bane said as he stepped up right behind the assembly. The cult members gave violent starts at hearing his voice, and one actually fell over and scrambled back up again.
Completely confident and assured, the Dire Wolf returned their apalled stares with his own cold grey eyes watching them. He was standing with his arms folded across his chest, his hands touching the hilts of the matched silver daggers.
"That was a weak attempt at a frame, I have to say," he told them. "An autopsy would have concluded natural causes and really I had no motive. In fact, Gene had asked me to come help him. No, Grandmother, as criminal masterminds go, you don't measure up."
The old man held up the death doll and her other bony hand waved a long pin of copper-colored metal. "I paid well for this scrap of cloth," she laughed. "A New York gang member said it had been torn from your pants cuff during a battle down by the docks."
"Yeah, I figured it must be something like that," Bane said. "I'm careful with haircuts and fingernail clippings and stuff like that."
Grandmother Fleurette pressed the point of the needle against the chest of the doll. "I have some followers in Manhattan. They have been afraid to practice the Art there because of you. That ends now."
"I'm sure this won't do any good," Bane said evenly, "But I feel like I should warn you. For your own sake. Don't do it."
"Great Draldros, I implore thee to look with favor on thy servant, as I sent thee the soul of one who thou hate." She drove the pin deep into the doll, but then screamed in unexpected agony and fell back up against the altar, knocking it over with a crash.
Even as the cult leader slid lifeless to the floor, Bane whipped the silver daggers from their sheaths and flourished them in the air. Their blade shone with a pale blue glimmer that horrified the Vodouisants. "Go on, get outta here!" he yelled. "I shouldn't let you devils live but I'm giving you a chance. Run! Never come back!"
Something in his voice and posture was absolutely convincing. The cult members climbed over each other as they scrambled up the steeps out of the chamber. Several were struggling out of their robes as they fled. Their sheer panic struck Bane as hilarious but he kept a straight face.
Alone in the ceremonial room, he examined Grandmother Fleurette and found she was quite dead. The expression of pain on her withered face was characteristic of heart attacks. Bane took the death doll and began pulling it apart, tossing the pieces in different directions as he moved around the room. He took the statue of Draldros and smashed it against the stone table until chips were flying from the table and the idol was unrecognizable. Stomping on the wooden chalice, he broke it into shards and he bent the gong on the edge of the table.
When this was done, he felt better. The oppressive stuffiness in that room had been swept away. Bane picked up the scrap of cloth from the disassembled doll and examined it. When he had been sneaking through the house earlier that day, he had found a lightweight black coat in the back of Grandmother Fleurette's closet. She would have no reason to notice that a piece of it had been cut off by a silver dagger. Nor that the piece from her coat had been wrapped around the death doll to replace the piece of Bane's clothing.
He HAD warned her. This had happened a number of times in his career and he freely admitted it was satisfying. "The schemer falls into the pit that he digs for another," he quoted to himself.
Time to go. Bane walked up the stairs and out onto the back porch. The two guards were lying where he had left them. It had only been a few minutes since they had been drugged and they would not stir for about an hour. After that, they would feel nauseous and weak and still not be any threat for a while.
All the cars were gone. Starting to feel tired as the adrenalin eased off, Bane headed down the access road and saw a midnight blue SUV pull up to park with its motor running. He knew who it must be. The Dire Wolf kept going as he saw the young man Zeke jump out from the driver's side and hurry around to assist a tall bulky form from the rear.
Concealed in a white trenchoat, wool scarf and wide-brimmed fedora, nothing of Samuel Watesa could be seen. He was leaning on a stout walking stick and his head was bent forward. The familiar voice called up, "Well done, old friend."
"Thanks," said Bane. "But it was your plan, after all. Things might not have gone so smoothly if I had been winging it. She's dead by her own hand. The cult has scattered."
Watesa waved a gloved hand dismissively. "Your record speaks for itself. Jeremy, Zeke and I intend to search that hellhole and confiscate any grimoires, any books of forbidden knowledge, any talismans. Will you help us?"
"Be glad to. Maybe I should tie up those three goons in case they revive while we're working."
"I'm afraid I will not be of much use," Watesa sighed. "I am not the man I used to be."
The Dire Wolf was watching his colleague in the backlight of the car. "She mentioned that you had been shot in the chest and buried in the swamp. Usually, after that happens, a man isn't seen walking and talking."
Reaching up awkwardly, the Danarakan removed his hat and began unwrapped the scarf. "How droll. I knew that she had hired a sniper from the criminal underworld so I prepared a spell beforehand. It is a bit of deep magick I have always avoided before."
Bane said nothing. He had figured out Watesa's condition but saw no reason to interrupt.
The stiff face revealed was grey and lifeless, both eyes rolled up to show only the whites. When he spoke, his mouth stayed open and the sepulchral voice seemingly came from nearby. "I wanted to be sure of vengeance, Jeremy," said Watesa. "So I resurrected myself and dug free with great effort. It is not full life I enjoy now. I am my own zombie."
3/2/2018df
