Louisiana you can find powders in drugstores. I suspect you can order it on-line nowadays.'
'Do you mix it with anything else or just straight powder?'
'That depends on the conjurer. Some of them won't even use the prepared mixes. They'll make their own, especially if they need it in quantity, so there can be anything in it.'
'Like what?'
'Well.' Darcy went back to stroking his moustache. 'My guess would be you'd start with something like graveyard dust or lodestone dust, add some cayenne, ground up black cat bone, snake skin. Add a little salt, maybe some sulphur. I'm sure it varies depending on the locality.'
Darcy fixed Frank with his pretty blues, asking why she wanted to know all this.
'Just trying to get a handle on the Mother. See where's she's coming from so I know what we should be looking for.'
She explained about the powder in Hernandez' yard and was wondering if it might be traceable back to the Mother.
'You'd have a hard time proving that.'
'I know. Circumstantial at best. But every link helps. Right now she's our best suspect but how the hell do we prove it?'
'Maybe you'd better get some Just Judge Powder.' He grinned.
'They make something like that?'
'You bet. It's supposed to get the judge on your side.'
'I'll be damned. You're just a walking voodoo compendium.'
'Hoodoo,' Darcy corrected. 'Voodoo, that's something else. But I have to admit, I found it all pretty intriguing.'
'Do you believe in it?'
The moustache pull and pause.
'To some degree, yes. The mind's a powerful tool. I wouldn't discount what it can do.'
'So you think it's all based on power of suggestion.'
'That's certainly a crucial element but I wouldn't limit it to that, no.
'What else is there?'
Darcy's smile was enigmatic.
'That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?'
They exchanged a slow, steady stare, two cops steeped in the realities of blood and bone.
'All right.' She settled back. 'Anything else I should know?'
Darcy rose with slow grace. Like a big jungle cat, Frank thought. He paused, seeming to juggle his thoughts before telling her, 'I wouldn't underestimate this Mother Love.'
She stifled her irritation, replying to a memo she'd picked up, 'I try to never underestimate anyone.'
Frank had expected more objectivity from Darcy and was fast losing patience with everyone's misplaced awe of a conniving old drug dealer. As he was leaving, he added, 'I'd appreciate it if it didn't get out about my ex.'
'Why do you think I closed the door?' she said without looking up.
'And hey,' she called after him.
Darcy popped his head back in.
'Get a haircut.'
19
No longer male or female, sexless, it had even forgotten what it used to be. Once the bones had been fleshed, but now they carried only creased skin. It ate very little and until lately, was always cold. It felt as if it had been cold for generations, but recently the red rage had started a final resurgence through its ravaged, yellow bones. That lovely, self-sustaining anger was the only thing that could warm it anymore and the heat was greatest when it was near either one of them.
After so long a time, it was delirious to feel that warmth again and it tried to stay near one of the two. The dark one was consistently warm, dependably so, but the other one ... oh what an intense heat came from that one! A heat so bright, so white-hot, it could feel it sitting here against the brick wall, far from the source. Yet—it cocked its head—that blinding, beautiful sun was getting closer. Its eyes were useless, true, but yet it saw and its mouth cleaved in a toothless, puerile rictus.
They were coming together. At first their heat had touched it as tentatively as a spent wave reaches the shore, but the surges had begun to mount. Hotter and stronger now, deliciously warming, the waves lapped steadily against it, day and night.
No, the storm wasn't far off. But just as a moth couldn't think about the outcome of diving into a flame, the relic couldn't contemplate the inevitable clash of darkness meeting light. It orbited closer and closer to the center of the flame.
20
After talking to Darcy, Frank fired off a quick call to an acquaintance at the County Sheriff's department. Robbie Harris, a.k.a. Bartlett, wasn't in. She was just as happy to leave a message and bypass his endless recitation of quotes.
Done with that, she made nice to Lieutenant Tremont at the Newton Division. He assured her Billy Daniel's murder book would be waiting for her when she came by. But before that, she wanted to drop in on the one person who might know the Mother best.
Jogging down the stairs Frank glanced at a commotion in the lobby. A dreadlocked man with a striking resemblance to Dirty Old Bastard was trying to take on a knot of cops. Munoz and Romanowski were patiently talking him toward the door, the older cop placating, 'Come on, Peter. Be a good boy, now. Don't let's piss off the nice policemen, okay? 'Member what happened last time you did that?'
Frank smiled, glad Peter wasn't her problem. No one knew who he was, but he'd been coming into the station since Frank was in uniform, daring the cops to kick him out while he flashed whoever was on the desk. Hence the name Peter.
Driving out of the lot, she turned into the traffic on Broadway. She passed the mini-mart and deli, the bail bond shops and
'What in the goddamn hell?' she said lurching into Park. The car was still rocking as she jumped out.
From its huddled heap on the sidewalk, the thing in rags grinned up at her.
Frank groped for an arm through the blankets.
'All right, buddy. You want to follow me around? Got more to say to me? That's fine. We'll talk. Let's go upstairs.'
She jerked the old thing up and it scrabbled to its feet. It scuttled after Frank like a crab. She half-dragged it toward the Honda, guiding the reeking mass into her back seat, using the back of her hand as buffer between its matted head and the car roof. She felt contaminated again, overcome with the urge to soak in a hot bath.
Executing a U-turn she headed back to the station, wondering how long it would take to get the stink out of her car. Not the brightest move, she conceded, but she'd had it with this fucker. She should've cuffed it when it grabbed her outside the tenement, but the truth was she'd been too rattled. Now she wasn't rattled, just pissed. And curious. Unless it was a trip to jail or the ER, homeless people didn't usually travel too fast or too far. Especially blind and crippled ones.
Frank reclaimed her parking spot, hustling her passenger into the station past the holding cells. Upstairs she shoved the stinking bundle into an interview room. Darcy's voice startled her as she locked the door.
'Who've you got?'
'Cousin It. That bum that grabbed me the other day.'
'Oh yeah? What for?'
'Just want to talk. See what his trip his.'
It was too embarrassing to admit that this thing made her nervous, that its sudden appearances were giving her the willies.
Frank took her time in the bathroom, washing her hands, splashing a little water on her face. As she patted herself dry in the mirror, her higher brain argued with her lower,
