“That’s impossible!” Charbou protested.
Johnson, deeply affected, said, “I don’t think Charbou means that this kind of crime—or sacrifice or ceremony, whatever the hell you want to call it—can’t exist. But the victim couldn’t possibly remain alive for that length of time.”
“That’s not all,” Dupree said unhappily, his failing voice betraying his fatigue. “Agent Carlino’s body continued to show cerebral activity for another forty-eight hours. And four days later, the medical examiner had to stop the autopsy because some of his organs reacted to his scalpel as if they were still alive, just as Jerome Lirette’s severed head had seemed to be. Both bodies were cremated.
“I delivered a detailed report countersigned by the Terrebonne sheriff and by Detective Jason Bull of the Homicide Section of the New Orleans police. Lirette’s mother also made a formal, notarized statement. And for that, they locked her up in a psychiatric ward for a very long time. I saw her just the other day on a balcony in Bourbon Street, but I didn’t recognize her at first. From what she said, I don’t think she ever recovered.” He looked at Bull. “Four hours after I turned in my report, my superior officers summoned me and insisted I rewrite it and omit any detail that couldn’t be explained rationally. I did.”
Amaia looked away. She, too, knew quite enough about giving accounts that omitted the irrational and inexplicable.
52
TRAITEUR
The swamp
The SUV and boat trailer were waiting at the naval dock as promised. During the seventy-mile drive southwest along US 90, they’d left Médora secured in the boat, stiff and unmoving as the menacing figurehead of a pirate ship, because Charbou had said he’d rather tie himself to the hood than have her at his side in such a cramped space. The team left the SUV parked outside a deserted settlement of ramshackle houses somewhere near Houma and continued by Zodiac.
The swamp sucked up the daylight as soon as they moved into it from the open water. Amaia had never been in swampland before, but the sensation was similar to being in the forest of Baztán. Dupree’s account had transported her through time to the forest and a long-ago night she thought she’d managed to forget. She remembered all too clearly the awesome beauty and harrowing terror of that night, and a shiver ran up her spine.
Dupree’s high fever had returned. His forehead was burning hot when they carried him aboard the Zodiac. He had to fight to stay awake, lifting his head from time to time to suggest landmarks to Bull, though knowing they were virtually useless in a vast area where almost all reference points had been swallowed up. The sun, though low in the sky, still burned fiercely. It would set in an hour, and they all began to dread navigating the shaded, overhung domain of the great swamp by night. Amaia felt a chill, and she began to wonder if it was a sign that she too was developing a fever.
Bill Charbou had just suggested returning to civilization when they saw the camp.
It was the strangest place Amaia had ever seen. There were three houses built on pontoons, either anchored to the swamp floor or secured with heavy chains to big trees. Because of the high water, their roofs almost touched the undersides of the high crowns of the trees. Tied up to these improvised floating docks were at least a dozen shrimp boats festooned from stem to stern with strings of lights, the first undamaged watercraft they’d seen for days. People waved at them and called out over the racket of a generator. Amaia heard lively music and voices both young and old.
“How’s your mamandem?” people chorused from the rails along the houseboats.
Bill and Bull grinned and gave them the thumbs-up sign. “How’s your mamandem?” they shouted back, provoking a happy storm of shouts.
“Mama and them?” Amaia asked Charbou.
“Assistant Inspector, Louisiana is and always has been a matriarchy!”
They tied up to the railing of one of the houseboats, and a dozen hands helped them aboard.
The traiteur was a golden-skinned man, his thin body stretched and a bit hunched, as if he habitually leaned over for hours on end. His wide, loose pants with rolled-up bottoms revealed strong legs with bony ankles and enormous feet that scarcely fit into his plastic sandals. He wore a ragged New Orleans Hornets T-shirt. The man’s hair was fairly long, and the streaks of gray were particularly striking.
The traiteur went aboard the Zodiac to check on the patients. He uncovered Médora and examined her impassively. If his face showed any emotion at all, it was pity. He was very quick with Dupree. He took just a glance before giving a command to the men to lift him out of the boat. Half a dozen shrimpers carried Dupree inside the houseboat. Johnson followed on the traiteur’s heels, trying to share the doctors’ diagnosis. The traiteur paused, surprised Johnson by turning around, and gave the FBI agent his full attention.
“Thank you,” was all the traiteur said. His gratitude sounded so sincere that Johnson found nothing more to say.
At least twenty-five people, men and women, shrimpers and swamp dwellers, were in the room, which ran the entire length of the deck. Their presence didn’t seem to bother the traiteur; he acted as if he were alone with his patient.
The traiteur’s voice was low, masculine, and gentle, all at the same time. It struck Amaia that she’d like to hear his laughter. The man bent down and disentangled Dupree’s fingers from the cord with the little goatskin pouch Amaia had seen at the hospital. He examined it and then placed it on the pillow next to Dupree.
“Do you know what that is?” Amaia whispered to the woman standing closest to her.
“The gris-gris of that man,” she responded hoarsely.
Amaia gave her a surprised look, partly because of the answer and partly because she hadn’t expected to get one at all.
“His voodoo charm. Somebody who love him very much make it up, for they know he in danger. Without that, the man be dead now.”
A completely unexpected low heave of nausea caught Amaia. She seemed to be developing a fever, or maybe the eerie atmosphere in this place after all those hours in the burning sun was affecting her head. She felt a deep pang in her belly, thought for a moment it was her period, but calculated that was impossible. A sharp pain ran down the inside of her thigh and her lower back felt incredibly weak. She tried to ignore what was happening in her body and to concentrate on the medicine man.
The traiteur settled on the floor next to the pallet they’d laid out for Dupree. Kneeling on the wooden deck, he placed his hands on the boss’s chest, bowed his head and murmured words—prayers, maybe, or incantations—that Amaia couldn’t make out. She had no idea where the conviction originated, but in the depth of her being, Amaia understood the man was powerful in the humblest way imaginable; he was a gentle warrior, an unpretentious prince.
The traiteur’s hands shifted to Dupree’s sides, then his feet, then back to his head. Each time he prayed or performed ritual motions, it was with the same vigor, the same confidence and savoir faire. He applied his palms to Dupree’s body as if wrapping him in an invisible blanket to shield him from pain.
He rose and looked about at those present. Dupree lay at his feet, eyes closed and arms resting at his sides. He was no longer sweating. He seemed to be sleeping easily.
“Now we are going to let him work. I treated him; now he has to cure himself.”