Old Black Magic Page 5

  “Here, try this.” He dropped one oar and retrieved a classic red bandanna from his back pocket. “Tie it on like a scarf.”

  I complied, knowing I’d look like an idiot. At least my head stopped frying. Since Sweeney was occupied with rowing, I leaned back and took in the view. The river was silent, except for the splash and squeak of oars. Along the banks, grayish green Spanish moss dangled from massive oaks in threadlike streamers. The moss reminded me of massive dried herbs, as if we were gliding by the Green Giant’s private apothecary. I felt transported back in time, adrift in a foreign world. To have sacrificed an afternoon with K.T. for this was pure insanity. Why was it so important for me to prove myself to Ryan, I wondered.

  “The moss is epiphyte,” Sweeney said quietly. “It’s kinda like a parasite, don’t need soil, just feeds off another plant. An agricultural bloodsucker.” Sweat splashed from the tip of his nose. His tone unnerved me. “My great-grandparents used to use it in bedding, mattresses and shit. That’s where people got the expression, ‘Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’ Of course, they did.” He made a chomping noise.

  My body tensed. “You’re just a fountain of information.”

  The oar creaked against the rings. We took a hard right and sliced into a narrow canal. A breeze kicked in as we cut back into the shadows. The swamp we’d entered was pierced by Cypress knees, angular stumps with tips the color of newly minted pennies. They reminded me of the trolls my friend John collects, plaster-cast statues of big-nosed imps with mad, gleaming eyes. The water seemed to pulse around them.

  Sweeney paused to survey the landscape. I couldn’t figure out how the hell he knew where we were. Three-hundred and sixty degrees of indistinguishable swampland surrounded us. My end of the boat caught a sudden eddy and crashed into a tree with coarse gray bark and a swollen buttress. I felt as if I’d been dumped in a Grimm’s fairy tale. All that was missing was the evil witch. My focus snapped back to Sweeney as he braced an oar against a stump and slewed the boat around. Maybe the nightmare was complete after all. If he’d offered me a glistening apple right then, I swear I would’ve leapt overboard and taken my chances with the alligators.

  “How far is this place?” I asked nervously.

  Sweeney shushed me. He’d begun rowing in slow motion. The oars made less than a hiss as they sank into the still, black water. Lily pads bobbed in our wake. We drifted into another tight channel, sunlight reduced to a dim green haze. Big flopping leaves, the shape of elephant ears, slapped the sides of the boat. Sweeney’s hair piece was dotted with dusty sprigs of wild rice, which grew along the edge of the bayou on tall, lacy stalks.

  A rumble sounded nearby, followed swiftly by the sound of someone running toward us. In an instant Sweeney had exchanged an oar for his handgun. I dove for cover and stayed there until I heard him chuckle. He said, “Boar,” and tapped me on the back of my head.

  I followed the grunting noise to where the wild boar stood. The creature snorted and stamped at us as we sailed deeper into the bayou. “Okay, Sweeney, enough is enough. Where are we going?”

  “If you’d shut up and pay attention, you’d know exactly where I’m headed.”

  He had to be joking. As far as I could tell, we were doing crazy eights, weaving in and out of claustrophobic canals and deranged swamps, scuttling along dank marshes. There hadn’t been a single sign of human habitation for miles. I took off the bandanna and used it to wipe the sweat from my upper lip. It smelled of tobacco. Strange. I hadn’t noticed that earlier. I sniffed again. No. The bandanna didn’t smell like tobacco. Someone was smoking and it wasn’t me or Sweeney. I stared into the brush ahead of us. Gradually my eyes made out the lines of a shack.

  The canal curved and then opened up again. Sweeney made the boat yaw and we scraped up onto the bank. In a whisper, he said, “The rest is on foot. Watch for sinkholes, gators, snakes. And this time I’m not shitting you. When we get there, keep your mouth shut. You’re an observer, period. Open your mouth and my protection won’t mean crap.” He took the safety off on his gun. My lips trembled. I took a deep breath, steadied myself and followed him in.

  Again, he disappeared almost immediately. I crossed my arms in front of my face and barreled into vegetation that stood a good seven feet high. At one point I sank up to my knees in water that smelled only slightly better than sewage. I almost called Sweeney’s name out loud. Damn him for leaving me behind. The foliage overhead eclipsed the sun, making it impossible for me to find my bearings. Panic crawled over me like a parade of spiders. I squatted and bit my bottom lip. I could hear things moving in the grass. A mosquito the size of a cat took a nip from my wrist. I swatted it and watched my blood ooze from its body.

  How far was I from the shack? Then it struck me. Follow the smell of tobacco. I sniffed my way back through the reeds, then edged along the bayou. Finally I saw Sweeney’s silhouette. He had his gun drawn and aimed at the head of a man I assumed to be Barry NeVille. I crab-walked toward him, then stopped short. Between us lay a rivulet and an alligator about the length of a double bed. The snout was broad and flat and lucky for me, its eyes were closed. I started to retreat, stepped on a snake and screamed. Fay Wray in the arms of King Kong. I knew I’d blown it even before I heard the gunshot.

  Sweeney shouted, “Roll left,” but no one had to instruct me on how to avoid the gator’s gaping jaws. I charged through the reeds. My lungs were still in sad shape from the recent bout of pneumonia, but I went at full sprint. Just as I started to wheeze, I heard feet pounding right behind me. I kept running. With effort, I stayed close to the canal, praying I’d stumble onto the rowboat. Glancing down, I realized my arms were drenched in blood.

  I stopped and leaned against a tree, dizzy from exertion and fear. Had I been shot? Everywhere I looked I saw blood.

  Sweeney hollered to me, “For crissakes, stay where you are.”

  I slumped down and waited to be found.

  Chapter Four

  “Sawgrass got you bad.”

  I winced as Sweeney daubed a wet rag against my arm. We were in NeVille’s shack and Tom Ryan’s brusque ex-partner was ministering to the deep cuts on my arms, neck, hands and ankles with the gentleness and skill of a sixty-five-year-old nurse. I don’t know how he’d managed it, but somehow he had clamped handcuffs on NeVille, shot the alligator and tracked me down all within the span of fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. The guy was a creep, but Ryan was right. He was amazing in the field.

  “Lucky for you, NeVille’s well equipped.” He slapped on a seventh bandage and stood up. “Ready for the inquisition?”

  I gulped Gatorade from a mud-caked bottle and followed him outside. The shack was built from corrugated steel, old tires, beer cans and Coke bottles. A section torn from a Marlboro billboard served as the floor. The cigarette I was walking on was four-feet long. Out front, he’d strung Christmas lights, Chinese lanterns and fishing nets. Bizarre animal traps dangled from a fender tied to the roof with climbing rope. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. On the other hand, I’d seen hundreds of men just like NeVille, but never in settings like this. He was square-jawed, clean-shaven, with eyes the color of stormy summer skies and dark curly hair. A regular boy next door. Right then, Sweet Face was cuffed to a cane rocker.

  “Why don’t you go first, Miller?” Sweeney asked without turning around. He squatted in front of NeVille and braced his hands on his thighs. “I’ll just watch the boy squirm.”

  I had no idea where to begin. The two men turned their attention to me. After a short century or two, I asked, “How long have you lived out here?” The question was lame and the gleam in Sweeney’s eyes announced amusement.

  NeVille glanced at Sweeney, apparently waiting for a cue.

  “Go ahead, boy,” Sweeney said, rubbing his damn brass medal with satisfaction.

  “Most my life, I s’pose,” he said, finally. The man’s voice shocked me. His speech was halting, almost slurred. I shot a silent query at Sweeney. He closed his eyes and shook his hea
d, dismissing my hesitation. NeVille tugged on his bottom lip and said, “You need a doseta Salapatekie.”

  I cocked my head at Sweeney, who blurted, “Cut the crap, Barry.”

  “Where were you last night?” My heart wasn’t in the question. Something was wrong here.

  NeVille bit the inside of his cheek. “Outta the river. Gets so quiet ’times jere, I hears Coke fizzing in my mout’. Las’ night, it was like I caught ahold of a ’squeeter.”

  Sweeney stood up, blocked my view of NeVille. In an exaggerated accent, he said, “You pushin’ fire in the quarta last night, boy?”

  “No fire, no way. What you got your neck poked out fuh? You wan my swimp, dat it?” He nudged a bucket of squirming gray creatures. “Swimper caught six-tousand in one drag on Lake Pont, who gonna miss one buck?”

  If my heart hadn’t been pumping so hard, I might’ve laughed. NeVille thought we were after him for stealing shrimp. We weren’t barking up the wrong tree, we were kicking a potted fern. I’d had enough. “Take off the cuffs, Sweeney. This can’t be our guy.”

  “You falling for his con? Maybe you should go back to your suite at the Royal Orleans and order yourself some sweet nothings. Sweet Jesus, you’re dumber than I thought. This is a fuckin’ act.” He kicked the leg of the chair in which NeVille sat. The man barely reacted.

  “Well, then, he’s damn convincing. Let him go.”

  “This your idea of an inquisition?” Sweeney asked, pounding NeVille’s back with his fist.

  “I didn’t count on an inquisition,” I almost shouted. He raised his hand again and I caught it with my own. “Are you nuts? Leave him alone!”

  “Oh, you think he’s worth pissing me off for? Fine, lady.” He shook me off roughly and leaned into NeVille’s shoulder. “Boy, you wanna touch some sweet titty? Whatcha say? See how ripe?”

  I exhaled sharply. What the hell was he up to now?

  “You can touch titty, maybe cuff some snatch. Just tell me what I wanna know.”

  NeVille’s eyes locked on my breast. The hunger was unmistakable. I felt naked and pissed off at Sweeney for exposing me to this.

  “You tree that pretty girl last night?” He drove on. “Now I don’t want no menterie.”

  “I ain’t done nut’in,” NeVille whined. “Come see, chère.” He was talking to me now. I stepped closer, then noticed he was gesturing at his lap. He had an erection.

  “Aw, shit, Sweeney.” I turned around. The key clanged against the handcuff. Son of a bitch. I spun on my heel. Sure enough, NeVille was up and stalking toward me. I stared in disbelief as Sweeney casually pocketed the cuffs. Backing up, I said, “Barry, you can go inside now,” as if I were talking to a twelve-year-old. But he was no miscreant teenager. In a long-legged stride, he caught up and latched onto my breasts. I struggled to pull him off, one finger at a time. I bent one so far back, I heard it crack and still he held on. “Sweeney!”

  “Boy’s faster than I thought. Let her go, boy. I promised one squeeze, that all. And I ain’t heard you bark.”

  NeVille didn’t even appear to hear Sweeney. He grunted and bumped, his penis against my thigh, his eyes rolling back in his head. “I’m gonna wild crazy,” he said, slobbering at my neck. “Big I and little you.” He started to unzip.

  Suddenly, Sweeney was behind him. The pistol whipped across his ears and he went down.

  “Bastard doesn’t know how to keep a deal,” he said, smiling at me.

  “Are you crazy?” I sputtered.

  Stepping over NeVille’s limp body, he blurted, “Listen up, your job here was silent partner. Silent. Not a fuckin’ screamer. Look over there…” He shoved me toward the front door. “See that whiskey barrel. Now, what’s that sticking out?” He answered his own question by storming over, lifting out a sawed-off shotgun and waving it at me. “Idiot could’ve blown my head off while you were shouting over a stone-still gator. So I figured you owed me. If you’d’ve been on the force, you’d understand what it means to be a decoy.”

  I shook my head, stunned. Sweeney was pissed at me. I leaned down and felt for NeVille’s pulse. It was rock steady. I lifted his head slightly and rested it on my backpack. The pistol had left a welt on the back of his head, but hadn’t done much physical damage. His groan was reassuring. At least, I wouldn’t be an accessory to murder.

  Sweeney snorted at me. “While you worry about the scumbag, I’m gonna ransack his camp.”

  As soon as he was inside, I collapsed on the rocker. I must’ve been insane to get into this, I thought. I closed my eyes and thought of K.T., how wonderful last…Oh shit. I checked my watch. It was close to six. She’d be gone by the time I got back to town. If I got back. I heard furniture being thrown, plates crashing.

  “Nothing in there,” Sweeney announced when he emerged. “Let’s get going.”

  “What about him?” I pointed at NeVille. His eyelids fluttered, then grew still again. Sweeney dug his hands into NeVille’s armpits and dragged him inside. I retrieved my backpack and checked for bloodstains. There were plenty, though I figured most of them were mine.

  The door slammed. Sweeney said, “Done,” and grabbed the shotgun from the whiskey barrel. “Let’s move. We don’t want to be trying to find our way out of the bayou in the dark.”

  He didn’t have to ask twice.

  Sweeney poled off using the shotgun. The rowboat slipped back into the canal with a hiss, then he dropped the gun between us and picked up the oars. His biceps bulged as he tugged us through thick, gnarled reeds. I swatted a bug off my shirt and palpated my forearm, avoiding eye contact with Sweeney. On top of the scrapes, my skin was hot from a mass of insect bites.

  When we made it out of the canal and into the river, Sweeney leaned forward, lifted the gun and speared into the water. The splash sounded explosive in the still air. Minutes later, alligators started to surface. They raised their eyes above the water-line like tiny periscopes. I kept my hands crossed carefully in my lap.

  All of a sudden, Sweeney started to chatter as if we’d just concluded a fine brunch with close friends. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Nothing like early evening in the bayou. See that over there? That’s resurrection fern, the stuff dies off and if you didn’t know better, you’d think that’s it, rip the dead crap out, but just one rain and it revives like Jesus himself. And then there’s rain trees. Don’t see them in the swamp, but man, you ain’t got nothing like it in the North. The flowers are gold, then pink, then red and when they drop, it feels like rain or spit, maybe.” He laughed.

  I cut him off. “Can we talk?”

  “That’s what we’re doing.”

  “About what happened. NeVille doesn’t seem capable of these murders.”

  “Seem is the operative word. Look, doll, I’ve seen him in his real colors. Sane, articulate and fit for murder. This was his game-self. Ryan told you to trust me, right? You think he’d let some crackpot be the prime investigator in his wife’s murder?”

  I’d been asking myself the same question. My fists clenched. “Do you have other suspects?”

  He hesitated. I watched the way he slapped the oar against the water. I’d hit a nerve. “You want the truth?” he said at last. “If it ain’t NeVille, then I gotta believe Tommy’s pissing up a tree with no prey.”

  We were gliding with the current now. I rubbed my arms for warmth and waited for Sweeney to continue. Something was troubling him. “Tell you what,” he said. “Meet me tonight at Dock of the Bay, it’s way out on Bourbon, edge of the Quarter. You come by, and I’ll show you the complete files. Not just the shock shots. You’ll see for yourself. Take out NeVille and the train don’t ride.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was spend more time with this jerk. Yet now that I’d come this far, I wanted to see Sweeney’s notes. All these years, I assumed Ryan had kept me and Tony away from the investigation because he already had the best person on the case. But clearly, Ryan’s elite investigator was anything but elite. I didn’t trust him. I wasn’t ready to leave this ca
se in the hands of an incompetent, not when there was still a slim chance I could help Ryan finally close his wife’s murder. There had to be another link besides NeVille. I agreed reluctantly to a ten o’clock meeting.

  We continued on in silence. Pearl River was transformed by the setting sun. A great blue heron took flight in our wake. Deer rambled along the shore. I took a deep breath. I wanted to get back to K.T. and the real world. The thought made me remember the beeper I’d shut off earlier. My hand groped for it, but it was gone. Great.

  “Miller.”

  I didn’t respond, hoping he’d get the hint and shut up. He didn’t.

  “Look,” he said, “about what I did back there…it was dead wrong. I kinda, well, there was a situation…Hell.” He lifted his shirt and I braced for an attack. “See that.” When I didn’t move, he said, “Shit,” and handed me his handgun, aiming the barrel at his belly. “Now, lean in here.”

  I did. He was showing me yet another scar, this one just below his ribs. It looked like a hieroglyphic of a snowflake.

  “After Mary’s death, Ryan and me got separated. The lieu felt I’d been interfering too much with their investigation. My new partner was a young gal. To make a long story short, she screwed up and I got nailed. What happened back there just triggered some bad shit for me. Sorry.”

  “Sure. Forget about it.” Both of us knew my heart wasn’t in my words, but it sufficed to bring about a truce.

  We pulled up to the Royal Orleans at twenty minutes after seven. I hopped out and waved Sweeney off. The doormen hesitated as I limped into the elegant lobby. The knights in armor that graced the top of the staircase seemed to rise up in shock as I strode by, dead set on catching the elevator.

  K.T. hadn’t even left me a note. For an instant, I considered running straight to the restaurant. Then I got a good glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked like an escapee from a grade-B movie. I stripped, removed my bandages and headed for the shower. The water stung my cuts, yet it felt good. I shifted the shower head so the pounding focused on my shoulders, then I closed my eyes. The murder photos flashed back. I shook my head and soaped up. My breasts were bruised. I stared at them, reliving the horror I’d felt when Sweeney had sicced NeVille on me. Maybe K.T. was right. Maybe it was time for me to get out of the business.