Darkfall Part 6

"He's not a sorcerer."

"That nut nut."

"Carver Hampton isn't a nut," Jack said.

"A real nut case," she insisted.

"There was an article about him in that book."

"Being written about in a book doesn't automatically make him respectable."

"He's a priest."

"He's not. He's a fraud."

"He's a voodoo priest who practices only white magic, good magic. A Houngon Houngon. That's what he calls himself."

"I can call myself a fruit tree, but don't expect me to grow any apples on my ears," she said. "Hampton's a charlatan. Taking money from the gullible."

"His religion may seem exotic-"

"It's foolish. That shop he runs. Jesus. Selling herbs and bottles of goat's blood, charms and spells, all that other nonsense-"

"It's not nonsense to him."

"Sure it is."

"He believes in it."

"Because he's a nut."

"Make up your mind, Rebecca. Is Carver Hampton a nut or a fraud? I don't see how you can have it both ways."

"Okay, okay. Maybe this Baba Lavelle did did kill all four of the victims." kill all four of the victims."

"He's our only suspect so far."

"But he didn't use voodoo. There's no such thing as black magic. He stabbed them, Jack. He got blood on his hands, just like any other murderer."

Her eyes were intensely, fiercely green, always a shade greener and clearer when she was angry or impatient.

"I never said he killed them with magic," Jack told her. "I didn't say I believe in voodoo. But you saw the bodies. You saw how strange-"

"Stabbed," she said firmly. "Mutilated, yes. Savagely and horribly disfigured, yes. Stabbed a hundred times or more, yes. But stabbed stabbed. With a knife. A real knife. An ordinary knife."

"The medical examiner says the weapon used in those first two murders would've had to've been no bigger than a penknife."

"Okay. So it was a penknife."

"Rebecca, that doesn't make sense."

"Murder never makes sense."

"What kind of killer goes after his victims with a penknife, for G.o.d's sake?"

"A lunatic."

"Psychotic killers usually favor dramatic weapons-butcher knives, hatchets, shotguns*"

"In the movies, maybe."

"In reality, too."

"This is just another psycho like all the psychos who're crawling out of the walls these days," she insisted. "There's nothing special or strange about him."

"But how does he overpower them? If he's only wielding a penknife, why can't his victims fight him off or escape?"

"There's an explanation," she said doggedly. "We'll find it."

The house was warm, getting warmer; Jack took off his overcoat.

Rebecca left her coat on. The heat didn't seem to bother her any more than the cold.

"And in every case," Jack said, "the victim has fought his a.s.sailant. There are always signs of a big struggle. Yet none of the victims seems to have managed to wound his attacker; there's never any blood but the victim's own. That's d.a.m.ned strange. And what about Vastagliano-murdered in a locked bathroom?"

She stared at him suddenly but didn't respond.

"Look, Rebecca, I'm not saying it's voodoo or anything the least bit supernatural. I'm not a particularly superst.i.tious man. My point is that these murders might be the work of someone who does does believe in voodoo, that there might be something ritualistic about them. The condition of the corpses certainly points in that direction. I didn't say voodoo works. I'm only suggesting that the killer might believe in voodoo, that there might be something ritualistic about them. The condition of the corpses certainly points in that direction. I didn't say voodoo works. I'm only suggesting that the killer might think think it works, and his belief in voodoo might lead us to him and give us some of the evidence we need to convict him." it works, and his belief in voodoo might lead us to him and give us some of the evidence we need to convict him."

She shook her head. "Jack, I know there's a certain streak in you*"

"What certain streak is that?"

"Call it an excessive degree of open-mindedness."

"How is it possible to be excessively open-minded? That's like being too too honest." honest."

"When Darl Coleson said this Baba Lavelle was taking over the drug trade by using voodoo curses to kill his compet.i.tion, you listened* well* you were a child, enraptured."

"I didn't."

"You did. Then the next thing I know, we're off to Harlem to a voodoo shop!"

"If this Baba Lavelle really is interested in voodoo, then it makes sense to a.s.sume that someone like Carver Hampton might know him or be able to find out something about him for us."

"A nut like Hampton won't be any help at all. You remember the Holderbeck case?"

"What's that got to do with-"

"The old lady who was murdered during the seance?"

"Emily Holderbeck. I remember."

"You were fascinated fascinated with that one," she said. with that one," she said.

"I never claimed there was anything supernatural about it."

"Absolutely fascinated."

"Well, it was an incredible murder. The killer was so bold. The room was dark, sure, but there were eight people present when the shot was fired."

"But it wasn't the facts of the case that fascinated you the most," Rebecca said. "It was the medium that interested you. That Mrs. Donatella with her crystal ball. You couldn't get enough of her ghost stories, her so-called psychic experiences."

"So?"

"Do you believe in ghosts, Jack?"

"You mean, do I believe in an afterlife?"

"Ghosts."

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. Who can say?"

"I can say. I don't believe in ghosts. But your equivocation proves my point." can say. I don't believe in ghosts. But your equivocation proves my point."

"Rebecca, there are millions of perfectly sane, respectable, intelligent, level-headed people who believe in life after death."

"A detective's a lot like a scientist," she said. "He's got to be logical."

"He doesn't have to be an atheist atheist, for G.o.d's sake!"

Ignoring him, she said, "Logic is the best tool we have."

"All I'm saying is that we're on to something strange. And since the brother of one of the victims thinks voodoo is involved-"

"A good detective has to be reasonable, methodical."

"-we should follow it up even if it seems ridiculous."

"A good detective has to be tough-minded, realistic."

"A good detective also has to be imaginative, flexible," he countered. Then, abruptly changing the subject, he said, "Rebecca, what about last night?"

Her face reddened. She said, "Let's go have a talk with the Parker woman," and she started to turn away from him.

He took hold of her arm, stopped her. "I thought something very special happened last night."

She said nothing.

"Did I just imagine it?" he asked.

"Let's not talk about it now."

"Was it really awful for you?"

"Later," she said.

"Why're you treating me like this?"

She wouldn't meet his eyes; that was unusual for her. "It's complicated, Jack."

"I think we've got to talk about it."

"Later," she said. "Please."

"When?"

"When we have the time."

"When will that be?" he persisted.

"If we have time for lunch, we can talk about it then."

"We'll make time."

"We'll see."

"Yes, we will."

"Now, we've got work to do," she said, pulling away from him.

He let her go this time.

She headed toward the living room, where Sh.e.l.ly Parker waited.

He followed her, wondering what he'd gotten himself into when he'd become intimately involved with this exasperating woman. Maybe she was a nut case herself. Maybe she wasn't worth all the aggravation she caused him. Maybe she would bring him nothing but pain, and maybe he would come to regret the day he'd met her. At times, she certainly seemed neurotic. Better to stay away from her. The smartest thing he could do was call it quits right now. He could ask for a new partner, perhaps even transfer out of the Homicide Division; he was tired of dealing with death all the time, anyway. He and Rebecca should split, go their separate ways both personally and professionally, before they got too tangled up with each other. Yes, that was for the best. That was what he should do.

But as Nevetski would say: Like h.e.l.l Like h.e.l.l.

He wasn't going to put in a request for a new partner.

He wasn't a quitter.

Besides, he thought maybe he was in love.

VII.

At fifty-eight, Nayva Rooney looked like a grandmother but moved like a dockworker. She kept her gray hair in tight curls. Her round, pink, friendly face had bold rather than delicate features, and her merry blue eyes were never evasive, always warm. She was a stocky woman but not fat. Her hands weren't smooth, soft, grandmotherly hands; they were strong, quick, efficient, with no trace of either the pampered life or arthritis, but with a few callouses. When Nayva walked, she looked as if nothing could stand in her way, not other people and not even brick walls; there was nothing dainty or graceful or even particularly feminine about her walk; she strode from place to place in the manner of a no- nonsense army sergeant.