Amaia sniffed. “Sure, and I’ll bet he forgot to mention that the fertility goddess is the queen of the witches. In the time of the Inquisition, the poor women who sacrificed to her in hopes of getting pregnant or gathering good harvests were denounced, arrested, and tortured. Any deviation from normal behavior, any absurd little quirk, was used as evidence against them. Most often, they were midwives, they’d decided not to marry, or they spoke to animals.”
Dupree clicked his tongue in the darkness. “The Pyrenees had no monopoly there. In all of Europe, in the whole world, including the New World, there was hysteria about witchcraft. The Salem witch trials, for instance. What did the folks back there in Elizondo do to you, anyhow? Why do you clam up whenever you so much as hear that name?”
“I’m not here just by chance, am I?”
“Do you believe in chance? Or coincidence?”
She didn’t answer.
He changed the subject. “Do you think human beings are really so different from one another, even when they’re separated by thousands of miles?”
“In what respect?”
“It seems to me that people all over the world have the same hopes and fears and ambitions. Mankind’s history is the history of our fears. It stands to reason that we’d all create similar legends to give names to those terrors, to try to control them. I believe there’s a natural ability buried deep in our primal consciousness, that ferrets out connections, maybe not entirely logical ones. Those connections are hunches, and they’re vital for our survival. I believe that a gut feeling is far more important in investigation and detection than hard data. Facts that can’t be observed directly but have to be inferred from other, visible evidence. You called them ‘latent variables.’ Those latent variables told you the Composer had killed before and was rehearsing for a final, crucial massacre, and your insight led us to Martin Lenx. It’s like that here. Things you learn here sink into your mind, and they resonate with concepts you’re struggling with, deep in your subconscious. They’re constantly whispering that there must be a correlation between seemingly unrelated events. Or maybe there’s a live link between then and now.”
“That hasn’t been much use in locating the Composer.”
He sighed. “Don’t torment yourself. Try to sleep. Early tomorrow morning we’ll take the boat out to Le Grand, or what’s left of it. And tomorrow will be the time, if ever, that your ability to detect latent variables will be required. For that, I need you to be strong.”
Amaia was distressed. “I was so sure of myself . . . But now I see my mind was closed. I was obsessed, but I’ve lost faith in myself. I wonder whether I’ve been completely mistaken. Maybe I’m not the tool you need.”
A flashlight beam pierced the darkness. They heard Charbou’s voice. “Salazar, Johnson’s asking for you. He says it’s important.”
She followed Bill along the pontoon walkways between the houseboats, and then they climbed from one boat to another until they reached Clive and Annabel. The harsh glare of the overhead lamp in the deckhouse made her squint.
“Salazar!” Johnson called out as soon as he saw her. “Annabel’s cousin out in the Gulf telephoned NOLA, and we’re in contact with the ops center. I’ve got the supervisor, Bernard Antée, on the line.”
Amaia nodded.
Johnson pressed the transmit button. “Bernard, I have Assistant Inspector Salazar with me now. Could you please repeat what you just told me? Over.”
A metallic voice spoke through distant static, amplified by the cabin’s loudspeakers. “Hello, Assistant Inspector, glad to hear you’re safe. Less than two hours ago, a Texas National Guard contingent went into a residence near Jackson Square and found a family of six shot to death. They called us right away, asking to get in contact with the police, and because of what they described, I thought of y’all.”
Amaia’s jaw dropped. She gasped. In a sudden panic, she moistened her lips and tried to put her thoughts in order, fending off the host of questions that crowded her mind. “Mr. Antée, I have to speak with the group that discovered them. Over.”
“Afraid there’s just no way to reach them, ma’am. I’ll do my best to put you in contact if they call back, but they’re combing all the houses in the neighborhood to make sure folks get out. We got teams in from various military units today, and tomorrow morning the evacuation starts. But like I said, when I heard the report that matched your criteria, I tried to collect all available information. I hope I can help you. Um, over.”
Amaia released a little huff of air. Well, that was better than nothing. She pressed the transmit button. “What can you tell me? Over.”
“Three females, three males. Three victims were young, probably teenagers. One woman was elderly. All shot in the head. And the bodies were laid out side by side, but the team didn’t specify in which direction . . . They found a revolver next to the adult male. Looked like he’d dropped it. Over.”
“Did they say the residence had been searched earlier? Over.”
“They found it marked that way, but the unit code was their own. They were sure that nobody from their division had been there. Over.”
“Like in Jefferson,” Johnson whispered. “Identical!”
Amaia bit her lip and hesitated before asking. She knew it was unlikely anyone would have noticed, but she had to pose the question. “Mr. Antée, do you recall if they said anything about a violin being in the room? Over.”
“No, no mention of anything like that. Over.”
“And this is very important, Mr. Antée—could they tell how long the victims had been dead? Over.”
“That I can help you with,” he replied, sounding pleased to be providing the information. “There’s a medic on the team. When they called in, he told us they hadn’t been dead more than two or three hours. Over.”
Amaia looked at Johnson and Charbou. She pressed the button. “Mr. Antée, do you know what the team did after that? Over.”
“They marked it with police tape. Obviously, they couldn’t evacuate the bodies or do much else, but the residence is sealed. That’s all that can be done for the moment. Over.”
“Thank you. You’ve been a big help. And thanks to you, Paula. Out.”
She turned around to find Dupree leaning on the doorframe. She addressed him. “We have to go back! I need to see that family.”
He looked at her, considering her request. “The fishermen are getting ready, and we plan to leave before dawn for Le Grand to look for Jacob’s sisters. This is our last chance to find them; every hour we delay makes it less likely. I didn’t get there in time to save Médora ten years ago, but I think they’ll lay low with the girls for a while before they make them disappear forever. I can’t give up and leave those children to the same fate as Médora Lirette. We’ll search for them, then after that, we’ll go back to New Orleans.”
“But . . .” She understood Dupree’s reasoning, but the news was further evidence the Composer was in New Orleans and she’d been right, after all. She quivered like a bloodhound on a fresh scent.
Dupree saw it. “He’s not going anywhere. If he’s clever, and we know he is, he’ll blend in with the crowd when the evacuation starts. And you heard it from Antée: that’s not till tomorrow. They’ll prioritize getting the sick and the injured out first. The Composer will be stuck in the city for at least a couple of days. I need you here.” He turned and left.