Darkfall

“Yes, I can. I have my sources, too. Better even than Gregory's. I have the eyes and ears of the Underworld working for me.” He laughed. He had a musical, appealing laugh that Jack found unsettling. A madman should have a madman's laugh, not the warm chuckle of a favorite uncle. “The Underworld Lieutenant. But I don't mean the criminal underworld, the miserable cosa nostra with its Sicilian pride and empty code of honor. The Underworld of which I speak is a place much deeper than that which the mafia inhabits, deeper and darker. I have the eyes and ears of the ancient ones, the reports of demons and dark angels, the testimony of those entities who see all and know all.”

Madness, Jack thought. The man belongs in an institution.

But in addition to the madness, there was something else in Lavelle's voice that nudged and poked the cop's instincts in Jack. When Lavelle spoke of the supernatural, he did so with genuine awe and conviction; however, when he spoke of his brother, his voice became oily with phony sentiment and unconvincing grief. Jack sensed that revenge was not Lavelle's primary motivation and that, in fact, he might even have hated his straight-arrow brother, might even be glad (or at least relieved) that he was dead.

“Your brother wouldn't approve of this revenge you're taking,” Jack said.

“Perhaps he would. You didn't know him.”

“But I know enough about him to say with some confidence that he wasn't at all like you. He was a decent man. He wouldn't want all this slaughter. He would be repelled by it.”

Lavelle said nothing, but there was somehow a pouting quality to his silence, a smoldering anger.

Jack said, “He wouldn't approve of the murder of anyone's grandchildren, revenge unto the third generation. He wasn't sick, like you. He wasn't crazy.”

“It doesn't matter whether he would approve,” Lavelle said impatiently.

“I suspect that's because it isn't really revenge that motivates you. Not deep down.”

Again, Lavelle was silent.

Pushing, probing for the truth, Jack said, “So if your brother wouldn't approve of murder being done in his name, then why are you—”

“I'm not exterminating these vermin in my brother's name,” Lavelle said sharply, furiously. “I'm doing it in my own name. Mine and no one else's. That must be understood. I never claimed otherwise. These deaths accrue to my credit, not to my brother's.”

“Credit? Since when is murder a credit, a character reference, a matter of pride? That's insane.”

“It isn't insane,” Lavelle said heatedly. The madness boiled up in him. “It is the reasoning of the ancient ones, the gods of Petro and Congo. No one can take the life of a Bocor's brother and go unpunished. The murder of my brother is an insult to me. It diminishes me. It mocks me. I cannot tolerate that. I will not! My power as a Bocor would be weakened forever if I were to forego revenge. The ancient ones would lose respect for me, turn away from me, withdraw their support and power.” He was ranting now, losing his cool. “Blood must flow. The floodgates of death must be opened. Oceans of pain must sweep them away, all who mocked me by touching my brother. Even if I despised Gregory, he was of my family; no one can spill the blood of a Bocor's family and go unpunished. If I fail to take adequate revenge, the ancient ones will never permit me to call upon them again; they will not enforce my curses and spells any more. I must repay the murder of my brother with at least a score of murders of my own if I am to keep the respect and patronage of the gods of Petro and Congo.”

Jack had probed to the roots of the man's true motivation, but he had gained nothing for his efforts. The true motivation made no sense to him; it seemed just one more aspect of Lavelle's madness.

“You really believe this, don't you?” Jack asked.

“It's the truth.”

“It's crazy.”

“Eventually, you will learn otherwise.”

“Crazy,” Jack repeated.

“One more piece of advice,” Lavelle said.

“You're the only suspect I've ever known to be so brimming over with advice. A regular Ann Landers.”

Ignoring him, Lavelle said, “Remove yourself from this case.”

“You can't be serious.”

“Get out of it.”

“Impossible.”

“Ask to be relieved.”

“No.”

“You'll do it if you know what's good for you.”

“You're an arrogant bastard.”

“I know.”

“I'm a cop, for God's sake! You can't make me back down by threatening me. Threats just make me all the more interested in finding you. Cops in Haiti must be the same. It can't be that much different. Besides, what good would it do you if I did ask to be relieved? Someone else would replace me. They'd still continue to look for you.”

“Yes, but whoever replaced you wouldn't be broadminded enough to explore the possibility of voodoo's effectiveness. He'd stick to the usual police procedure, and I have no fear of that.”

Jack was startled. “You mean my open-mindedness alone is a threat to you?”

Lavelle didn't answer the question. He said, “All right. If you won't step out of the picture, then at least stop your research into voodoo. Handle this as Rebecca Chandler wants to handle it — as if it were an ordinary homicide investigation.”

“I don't believe your gall,” Jack said.

“Your mind is open, if only a narrow crack, to the possibility of a supernatural explanation. Don't pursue that line of inquiry. That's all I ask.”

“Oh, that's all, is it?”

“Satisfy yourself with fingerprint kits, lab technicians, your usual experts, the standard tools. Question all the witnesses you wish to question—”

“Thanks so much for the permission.”

“-I don't care about those things,” Lavelle continued, as if Jack hadn't interrupted. “You'll never find me that way. I'll be finished with Carramazza and on my way back to the islands before you've got a single lead. Just forget about the voodoo angle.”

Astonished by the man's chutzpa, Jack said, “And if I don't forget about it?”

The open telephone line hissed, and Jack was reminded of the black serpent of which Carver Hampton had spoken, and he wondered if Lavelle could somehow send a serpent over the telephone line, out of the earpiece, to bite him on the ear and head, or out of the mouthpiece, to bite him on the lips and on the nose and in the eyes…. He held the receiver away from himself, looked at it warily, then felt foolish, and brought it back to his face.

Lavelle said, “If you insist on learning more about voodoo, if you continue to pursue that avenue of investigation… then I will have your son and daughter torn to pieces.”

Finally, one of Lavelle's threats affected Jack. His stomach twisted, knotted.

Lavelle said, “Do you remember what Dominick Carramazza and his bodyguards looked like—”

And then they were both talking at once, Jack shouting, Lavelle maintaining his cool and measured tone of voice:

“Listen, you creepy son of a bitch—”

“-back there in the hotel, old Dominick, all ripped up—”

“-you stay away from—”

“-eyes torn out, all bloody?”

“-my kids, or I'll—”

“When I'm finished with Davey and Penny—”

“-blow your fuckin' head off!”

“-they'll be nothing but dead meat—”

“I'm warning you—”