Cry Havoc

'You said you'd follow my lead, Lieutenant. Will you or won't you?'

Then it was Marguerite's turn to hang in the space between words.

'Guess I don't have a choice,' Frank had conceded.

'That's ridiculous. You always have a choice. Either you will or you won't. This is as far as I can go with you, Lieutenant. The rest is up to you.'

You always have a choice, Frank had silently repeated. That's what Marguerite had said in the dream last night when she was thinking of pulling the trigger on herself.

'Fine,' Frank had relented. 'I'll pray.'

34

Frank cleared papers and folders off her desk pad. The pad was a monthly calendar where Frank usually scribbled phone numbers and names. She looked at today's date. There it was. In red pen.

Bembe 1730—Slauson

She stared a long time at the careful print. She remembered the Mother inviting her, but didn't remember writing down where or when. Maybe she was losing it. Which is easier to accept, she wondered, insanity or the idea that some crazy old broad was fucking with her head? Couched that way, the latter option looked more attractive.

At least Frank could do something about that. It was almost two o'clock. The way traffic was, she should give herself at least forty-five minutes to get to Slauson. That left her plenty of time to think about why she should go.

Danny Duncan's murder book was on Lewis's desk. Frank studied it, thought about calling Noah. What would she say? I want to bust the Mother today—what have you got on her? She'd just lectured Lewis the other day that homicide was a waiting game. Thing was, Frank didn't have much time to wait. How many more deja vus would she have? Frank had been gone last night; she was somewhere out of herself and didn't care to repeat the experience. Was she just supposed to let them get stronger and longer until she didn't come out of it one day?

And what other weird shit was going to happen? What followed the crazed dog attack and The Thing in rags? Frank didn't even want to consider it. She had to beat the Mother, even if it meant playing on her own court, by her own rules. She always had a choice, Marguerite had said. She could choose to engage the Mother or not. Lying back and taking whatever life handed her wasn't Frank's style. Fighting was. She was good at it. Marguerite had said that too.

Frank shook her head. A week ago she didn't know Marguerite James's name. Now she was making life or death decisions based on the mambo's advice. She thought about calling Clay at home. She glanced at the clock. Two-twenty. Her eyes moved to Lewis's phone. She picked up the receiver, then replaced it.

No, her gut said. As crazy as this all sounded, she had to see it through. Go to the bembe, if for no other reason than to show the Mother she was still around and still watching. Sooner or later everyone got sloppy. Sooner or later everyone slipped. Frank would be waiting when the Mother did.

Maybe, Frank thought, she'd forgotten she'd invited her. Frank hoped she'd show up and startle the Mother. It'd be nice to have the shoe on the other foot for a change. But Frank doubted the Mother forgot very much.

Frank stretched and paced. She'd been doing her damnedest to ignore the pit of dread in her belly, now she gave it an ear. It was the same knot she'd felt the night Danny Duncan was killed. Something was happening. Something Frank couldn't put a finger on. There was a sense of largeness, like a great storm cloud gathering just beyond the horizon. And there was no shelter.

Frank paced. She checked the clock often.

She didn't have to go. No one would be the wiser if she tucked tail and went home. Even as she had the thought, she dismissed it. She'd know. And Frank was certain that the Mother would know.

The clock read 3:10. Frank had an idea and jogged out of the office. It was quiet as she went through the lobby out front. She walked up the block and entered a small store just yards from the station. Frank hadn't been inside in years, but the botanica hadn't changed at all. The hand-lettered windows were still crammed with dusty, sun-bleached curios. Incense, powders, herbs, and magical oils mingled in the musty air. Two older Latino women sat on stools next to a cluttered counter. They stopped talking when she walked in. Frank raised a hand.

'Hola,' she smiled. 'Habla ingles?'

She added in pitiful Spanish that she had a question.

The women looked at each other. Neither would take her bait.

'Okay,' Frank tried again. 'Tiene libro de bembe!”

The woman who shook her head pointed at an assortment of books scattered among the prayer candles and plaster statuettes. She slid off her stool and picked out a couple. She spoke in Spanish and handed them to Frank.

“Que es bembe?' Frank tried. The woman shrugged.

'You read those,' she answered in fair English. 'They tell you.'

One of the books was wrapped in plastic and the other was torn and dog-geared. Frank agreed and the woman rang her up on an old fashioned cash register. Frank pointed at a cluster of charms and trinkets under the glass.

'How much is the heart?'

The woman pulled out a stamped tin heart, painted red with blue and yellow edging.

'Two dollars,' she grunted.

Frank nodded and paid, not caring that 50c was written in wax pencil on the back. She pocketed the heart and picked up the books. Back in her office she read that a bembe was a large party for new santeria priests. It involved specific drumming and offerings of food, liquor, and trinkets. Its purpose was to entice the orishas down to earth to 'mount' the initiates. Mounting was possession by the gods.

'Great,' Frank said under her breath, 'The Exorcist redux.'

The bembe started with ceremonial chanting and drumming, and then established priests or priestesses presented the initiates to the orishas. The drumming increased and eventually the initiate was mounted by his or her orisha. While possessed, they exhibited all the characteristics of the god riding them. The orishas loved to experience sensation but could only do so in human form, therefore there was a tendency toward extreme behavior whenever a human was mounted. Trained, non-mounted participants made sure the possessed weren't used to the point of endangerment.

Frank thumbed through the used book. With minor variations it corroborated what she'd already read. Frank thought a bembe sounded a lot like the Latin version of a holy roller baptism, with everybody rolling around and hollering that they'd been touched by Jesus. Tossing the books into a drawer, she figured the evening would at least be entertaining.

She made a phone call and Gail answered on the second ring.

'Hey. Something's come up. I'm going to be late.'

'What is it?'

'I'll tell you later.'

'Did you get called out?'

'No. Go ahead and eat without me.'

'Fra-ank,' Gail warned, 'you're being evasive. What's going on?'

'I can't talk right now. Gotta go.'

'Okay. Be safe.'

Frank was surprised by a hunger to tell Gail she loved her. Answering, 'Roger that,' she checked the impulse.

35

Clouds moved in from the west. Frank fiddled with the radio dial until it hit a weather report. A front moving in, cooler and partly cloudy through tomorrow. A fat drop hit Frank's windshield, then another. The forecast said nothing about rain.

By the time she turned onto Slauson, the drops were falling faster and harder. Thick clouds padded the sky,