“Salazar,” Charbou called from the darkness behind her. “Come back here to my bed.”
She laughed. “Your bed?”
“I’m in it, you’re not, so it’s my bed. Come here.”
“Only if you stop calling me Salazar. It makes me feel like I’m talking to a cop.”
“And what am I?”
“A lover,” she answered. “Or did I get that wrong?”
“Come over here to my bed, woman, and you’ll find out.”
73
GRIS-GRIS
New Orleans, Louisiana
Friday, September 2, 2005
The sun rose just past six thirty, and the temperature was already above eighty degrees. Charbou lay in bed, watching Amaia get dressed. He saw her put the leather cord with the goatskin pouch around her neck.
“Man must think a whole lot of you. He gave you the charm that saved his life.”
She rolled the leather pouch between her fingers, pressed its smooth surface, and felt its crisp but yielding contents. It produced a faint crackling sound when she squeezed it. “What do you think’s in here?”
“Seeds? Maybe coffee beans, incense, dirt from a grave, powder of ground human bones,” he said with a smile. “You know, the usual Louisiana mélange. It all depends on the intent.”
“The intent?”
“It depends on whether the giver wants to hurt you or help you. I don’t think you have to worry about that stuff, though. We already saw it’s a terrific antidote to heart troubles.”
“If this is really what kept Dupree’s heart going, what’s going to happen if he’s not wearing it?”
He shrugged. “That . . . is definitely a question.”
Amaia examined the bag, frowned, and slipped it into her T-shirt. “I don’t believe in charms.”
“Then why wear one?”
“For the same reason I’m carrying Jacob’s dragon. I believe in faith. Not a personal faith of my own, but I respect the power of other people’s beliefs. Empires have risen and fallen on the strength of faith. You could claim that the man we’re after is a person of deep religious conviction. In fact, when you think about it, his beliefs are absolute.”
Charbou gave her a thoughtful look. “You’re very clever, Assistant Inspector Salazar.”
“What’s this?” she challenged him. “Now I’m Assistant Inspector Salazar again? I thought complimenting my intelligence was part of the Charbou Method.”
He placed a hand to his chest, pretending to be hurt. “The Charbou Method? That’s what you think I’m up to?”
“I think I had your number from the very first day. You’re every woman’s boyfriend.”
“That might have been true then, but I think Jacob’s sisters were closer to the mark. I heard what they told you.” He took her by the waist and looked down at the contrasting colors of their skin. “Don’t you think we make a handsome couple?”
She didn’t reply.
“I’m being honest. I’m telling you what I think. But you must already know it, since you apparently have a superpower that allows you to read minds and predict what people will do.”
“That’s not a superpower.” She was amused, remembering Dupree’s comments about what made her different from others.
“And what makes you say our man is still in NOLA? How do you know he hasn’t left?”
She sat on the edge of the bed to think about it. “Because for him, the timing is just as important as what he does. It’s been eight months since he learned his wife was going to have another child. He’s been waiting. For a while, he hoped she would miscarry and he could avoid his destiny. It would be a touch of bad luck for her, but for him, a sign that God was sparing him. He’s been rehearsing his ultimate crime, practicing on families he thought deserved to be dispatched just as much as his first family did. But he’s not going to rush it. For some reason, it’s important to him for every single element to be in place. Each and every sign has to be present, otherwise, his crimes would be senseless, nothing more than banal murders.”
“He doesn’t believe he’s committing murders?”
“No. Remember, he’s a psychopath. To him, his first family was no more than a failed laboratory experiment. He threw it out and started over. But he has something he believes in. He’s a fanatic. You should never underestimate the power of people’s beliefs. I’m betting Lenx is still here; for a murderer, New Orleans is the perfect place to be, because thousands of homes have been affected by the hurricane. It’s a simple matter for him to select families that fit his criteria, so he can keep rehearsing. Time’s running out, though, and his moment of truth is near. I think that in some curious manner, he’s intimidated by the thought of acting against his own family. He’ll stay away from home right up to the end because he doesn’t want to be there for his son’s birth. He’ll return to dispatch them all, in keeping with his ritual. No hurricane or tornado will be required once he’s targeting his own family.”
She got to her feet, buckling her belt, and changed her tone. “And after that he’ll disappear, just the way he did eighteen years ago.”
“You’re going to be someone people love to hate.”
She smiled. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re going to be a really good cop, a celebrity detective who tracks down all the high-profile nutcases. The people will adore you, but your colleagues will hate you.”
She threw a pillow at him. “Never!”
“As if you have a choice!”
The hotel sisters winked at Amaia as they escorted them to the door. After the farewells, Amaia and Charbou walked eastward. They were going to try to reach the Superdome before the sun was at its zenith. They’d heard via their radio that the president was expected in New Orleans that day. A massive, coordinated overnight evacuation effort had already transferred about twenty-three thousand citizens from the Superdome to Houston’s Astrodome, six hours away. Bus caravans would continue to depart throughout the morning.
74
ACCEPTING THE INEVITABLE
Superdome, New Orleans
Nana heard the murmur of voices all around her, like a menacing swarm of wasps. Only the garbled metallic announcements from the PA system interrupted the churning, muttering cadences of those lost souls. She looked toward the flaming sun as it rose, and the harsh light brought tears to her eyes. They trickled down her cheeks. She’d been awake all night, seated on the sidewalk with her back against the metal railing.
She was in agony. Pain consumed her, sinking its malevolent teeth into her knees, her hips, her ankles, her back. Her slightest movement precipitated intense, searing torment. She focused as best she could on regulating her breathing and staying absolutely still, for only by remaining motionless could she avoid triggering the pain. The soldiers had been barking orders through megaphones at the people lining up to get on buses parked along the broad plaza. Men and women of all ages dragged sacks and garbage bags full of their worldly possessions, and sleeping children lay limp and heedless across those bulky bags. Soldiers shepherded them from one place to another and forced them to move their possessions. The people did as they were told, submissive as sheep.