Darkfall

Jack frowned. “You're right.”

“If he killed you, they'd assign another detective to the case, and it isn't too likely the new man would be as open-minded as you are about this voodoo angle. So the easiest way for Lavelle to get what he wants is to eliminate you with one of his curses. Now why doesn't he do that — supposing the magic works, I mean?”

“I don't know why.”

“Neither do I,” Nick said. “Can't figure it. But I think maybe this is important, Lieutenant. Don't you?”

“How?”

“See, even if the guy's a lunatic, even if voodoo doesn't work and you're just dealing with a maniac, at least the rest of his story — all the weird stuff he told you — has its own kind of crazy logic. It's not filled with contradictions. Know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“It hangs together, even if it is bullshit. It's strangely logical. Except for the threat against your kids. That doesn't fit. Illogical. It's too much trouble when he could just put a curse on you. So if he has the power, why doesn't he aim it at you if he's going to aim it at anyone?”

“Maybe it's just that he realizes he can't intimidate me by threatening my own life. Maybe he realizes the only way to intimidate me is through my kids.”

“But if he just destroyed you, had you chewed to pieces like all these others, then he wouldn't have to intimidate you. Intimidation is clumsy. Murder is cleaner. See what I mean? “

Jack watched the snow hitting the windshield, and he thought about what Nick had said. He had a hunch that it was important.

VIII

In the storage shed, Lavelle completed the ritual. He stood in orange light, breathing hard, dripping sweat. The beads of perspiration reflected the light and looked like droplets of orange paint. The whites of his eyes were stained by the same preternatural glow, and his well-buffed fingernails also gleamed orange.

Only one thing remained to be done in order to assure the deaths of the Dawson children. When the time came, when the deadline arrived for Jack Dawson and he didn't back off as Lavelle wanted, then Lavelle would only have to pick up two pair of ceremonial scissors and cut both ends of the slender cord from which the photographs hung. The pictures would fall into the pit and vanish in the furnacelike glow, and then the demonic powers would be set loose; the curse would be fulfilled. Penny and Davey Dawson wouldn't have a chance.

Lavelle closed his eyes and imagined he was standing over their bloody, lifeless bodies. That prospect thrilled him.

The murder of children was a dangerous undertaking, one which a Bocor did not contemplate unless he had no other choice. Before he placed a curse of death upon a child, he had better know how to shield himself from the wrath of the Rada gods, the gods of white magic, for they were infuriated by the victimization of children. If a Bocor killed an innocent child without knowing the charms and spells that would, subsequently, protect him from the power of the Rada, then he would suffer excruciating pain for many days and nights. And when the Rada finally snuffed him out, he wouldn't mind dying; indeed, he would be grateful for an end to his suffering.

Lavelle knew how to armor himself against the Rada. He had killed other children, before this, and had gotten away with it every time, utterly unscathed. Nevertheless, he was tense and uneasy. There was always the possibility of a mistake. In spite of his knowledge and power, this was a dangerous scheme.

On the other hand, if a Bocor used his command of supernatural machinery to kill a child, and if he got away with it, then the gods of Petro and Congo were so pleased with him that they bestowed even greater power upon him. If Lavelle could destroy Penny and Davey Dawson and deflect the wrath of Rada, his mastery of dark magic would be more awesome than ever before.

Behind his closed eyelids, he saw images of the dead, torn, mutilated bodies of the Dawson children.

He laughed softly.

In the Dawson apartment, far across town from the shed where Baba Lavelle was performing the ritual, two dozen silver-eyed creatures swayed in the shadows, in sympathy with the rhythm of the Bocor's chanting and singing. His voice could not be heard in the apartment, of course. Yet these things with demented eyes were somehow aware of it. Swaying, they stood in the kitchen, the living room — and in the dark hallway, where they watched the door with panting anticipation. When Lavelle reached the end of the ritual, all of the small beasts stopped swaying at exactly the same time, at the very instant Lavelle fell silent. They were rigid now. Watchful. Alert. Ready.

In a storm drain beneath Wellton School, other creatures rocked back and forth in the darkness, eyes gleaming, keeping time with Lavelle's chants, though he was much too far away to be heard. When he ceased chanting they stopped swaying and were as still, as alert, as ready to attack as were the uninvited guests in the Dawson apartment.

IX

The traffic light turned red, and the crosswalk filled with a river of heavily bundled pedestrians, their faces hidden by scarves and coat collars. They shuffled and slipped and slid past the front of the patrol car.

Nick Iervolino said, “I wonder…”

Jack said, “What?”

“Well, just suppose voodoo does work.”

“We've already been supposing it.”

“Just for the sake of argument.”

“Yeah, yeah. We've been through this already. Go on.”

“Okay. So why does Lavelle threaten your kids? Why doesn't he just put a curse on you, bump you off, forget about them? That's the question.”

“That's the question,” Jack agreed.

“Well, maybe, for some reason, his magic won't work on you.”

“What reason?”

“I don't know.”

“If it works on other people — which is what we're supposing — then why wouldn't it work on me?”

“I don't know.”

“If it'll work on my kids, why wouldn't it work on me?”

“I don't know. Unless… well, maybe there's something different about you.”

“Different? Like what?”

“I don't know.”

“You sound like a broken record.”

“I know.”

Jack sighed. “This isn't much of an explanation you've come up with.”

“Can you think of a better one?”

“No.”

The traffic light turned green. The last of the pedestrians had crossed. Nick pulled into the intersection and turned left.

After a while, Jack said, “Different, huh?”

“Somehow.”