Cry Havoc

'It would depend on who she was making offerings to.'

'So it wouldn't be inconsistent to light some victims and bleed others?'

'No. Now hush.'

Frank did as instructed, vaguely distracted by Marguerite's supple movements.

'What are you doing?'

'This is called a veve. Each spirit has its own design that it recognizes. We draw these to attract the spirit we're seeking.'

'And which spirit are we seeking today?'

'Spirits,' Marguerite corrected. 'First Elegua. He's the master of the crossroads. He opens the gates, so to speak. And then Shango, as we did with Mr. Hernandez. He is the god to propitiate when a supplicant desires revenge or protection.'

'But that's the Mother's god.'

Marguerite's smile was patient.

'Do you think Jesus Christ belongs only to one person? We'll have to coax him and appease his fiery nature. We do this by offering him the things he loves.'

'Roosters and crabs,' Frank interjected.

Lifting a brow, Marguerite said, 'You've been doing your homework. Therefore you must know that if we treat him well and respectfully, he will work with us.'

Frank nodded to an altar in a corner of the room.

'That's for him?'

'Yes.'

Marguerite finished her drawing. It was nothing Frank recognized.

'Do you have a god?'

'Yes.'

'Which one?'

Marguerite smiled and all her harshness vanished.

'Are you always this talkative, Lieutenant, or just nervous?'

Standing over Frank, she daubed oil onto her face. Frank closed her eyes, aware how near Marguerite's breasts were. Her scent was rich and heavy and Frank hoped she couldn't read her mind.

'Just curious. I'm out of my realm here. Trying to understand something which makes no sense to me. So which is your god?'

'Ezili Freda,' Marguerite said tenderly.

'Is that a good one?'

'They're all good. And they're all bad. They have human natures like we do. They can be angered, then they can be appeased. They can be funny or serious. They love a good time.'

Marguerite pulled jars of herbs from a bookshelf. Mixing the contents in a little clay bowl, she lit them, waving the smoke onto Frank.

'I'll be right back,' she said, slipping out the door. When she returned, she was holding a large black rooster upside down by its legs. The animal didn't flap or struggle. She raised it toward Frank, stopping with it over her head when Frank asked, 'What are you doing?'

'There are different remedies for different maladies,' she explained. 'Some spells can be counteracted and eliminated. Depending on the curse and the power of the person who has placed it. The stronger spells cannot be entirely removed. What we do with these is displace them. That's what I'm going to do to you. I'm going to draw off the negative energy and feed it to Shango. The gods are so much stronger than we are. What would cripple us, doesn't even faze them.'

'What do you mean feed it?'

'Hush,' Marguerite scolded again. 'You'll see.'

Again the thin high song. The mambo drew the uncomplaining bird over Frank's limbs and torso. Frank thought it was all pretty fucking weird, yet didn't stop it.

Marguerite held the cock over a bowl and before Frank could even think to protest she'd cleanly sliced its throat. She sang over the draining body, then returned to Frank. She poked a finger in the bird's neck. Frank watched the bloody finger come toward her, felt the sticky warm line Marguerite drew on her forehead. Dipping into the bird's neck again, she drew a line on Frank's cheek, still singing her calm, sweet song.

Tilting the stump to Frank, she ordered, 'Touch your tongue to it.'

'No way.' Frank shook her head.

'You must.'

'No.'

Still Marguerite held the bird to her. Frank watched blood ooze around the neck bone. Marguerite moved the bird closer to Frank's lips.

'Go ahead,' she commanded, gentle but insistent. 'Don't be afraid.'

Frank glanced from the headless bird to Marguerite. She stood before Frank, implacable and unyielding, yet oddly comforting. At a level she couldn't and wouldn't analyze, Frank trusted the mambo. She touched her tongue to the warm flesh. Marguerite continued her singing. Frank closed her eyes, the tang of rust in her mouth.

At the altar, the mambo mixed oils and herbs. She sang while she dressed the dead bird with the mixture. When she finished her song, she presented Frank with a small bundle. It looked like a silk onion decorated with ribbons and beads.

'Put this by your bed and leave it there.'

'What is it?'

'It's a paquette, an offering to Shango. Leave it near you, where he can find it and watch over you. On your dashboard or by your bed.'

'Why would Shango care about me? Isn't he busy enough looking out for people who actually believe in him?'

'I believe, Lieutenant. And for the time being that will have to do.'

Her face clouded. She cocked her head, seemed about to say something, then stopped. Frank didn't think much about it when she said, 'You have my number. Call if you need me.'

'We're done?'

Marguerite nodded, opening the office door. As they walked out, Frank started to wipe the blood from her face.

'No! Leave it for at least an hour.'

'Oh, sure. They'll love this over at Homicide.'

Frank pulled her wallet from her pocket but Marguerite firmly pushed it away.

'Lagniappe' she said. 'Where I come from that means a little something extra. This one's on the house, Lieutenant. I'm just glad you came.'

Frank studied the rich brown eyes. They seemed to hold an ancient lineage of secrets, secrets Frank didn't want to know about.

'I don't get it. What's in it for you?'

Marguerite smiled. 'Why are you a detective?'

'It's what I'm good at.'

'What brought you to it?'

'I like catching bad guys.'

'Are you one of the good guys?'

'I like to think so.'

'Then it's true to say you at least believe in good and bad?'

'Yes,' Frank allowed.

'You have the skills, the training, and the experience to catch bad people and protect innocent people, yes?'

'On a good day.'

'I do the same thing you do, Lieutenant. Only you do it on a physical level. I do it on a metaphysical level. I have the skills and the knowledge to stop bad people and to protect innocent people.' Marguerite jutted her head