To Be Where You Are, page 11
* * * *
“May I talk to you for a minute?”
Adin hesitated before he glanced up from his computer. Although he realized Celia’s loopiness wasn’t her fault, it still taxed his patience. Chasing to and from Jackson’s place in the space of a day, and dealing with Rugh and Rahenna, had stretched his patience even thinner.
Face impassive, he looked at her and said nothing. One word with the wrong intonation could set her off.
“I wouldn’t be bothering you,” she said, “if it weren’t important.”
Sighing, Adin saved his work and swiveled his desk chair. “So talk.”
“You’re acting like you hate me,” she said with a cheerless smile.
“I don’t hate you.”
Celia didn’t look convinced. “Would it be all right if we went somewhere more comfortable?”
Don’t be an asshole, Adin admonished himself. None of this, none of it, is her fault. He stood. “Lead the way.”
They ended up in the kitchen, of course, which is where they had most of their conversations. It was certainly preferable to the bedroom. Adin poured himself a glass of orange juice and took a seat. He and Celia had their own places at the table, as if those particular chairs were attuned to their psyches and stimulated rational thought.
At least that’s how it seemed, until Noah Curry shattered the illusion.
Adin wondered how the search for Perez Pei was going. He wondered how long before he and Jackson could be together whenever they chose. He wondered when he’d finally say fuck it, walk away from here, and start living his own life. That was the next step. It was fast becoming inevitable, but it would leave him feeling like a sack of shit. Adin didn’t want the next phase of his relationship with Jackson getting off to that kind of start.
“I’ve really been confused lately.” Celia rolled a pen that lay on the table beside spread-out bills. “About you and Jackson, mostly. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“I’ve noticed.” Adin listened more carefully, his hope growing. She sounded like herself again, not a raving shrew.
“For a while all kinds of doubts and resentments just gripped me. I don’t know why. ” Helplessly, Celia turned up her hands. She did seem bewildered. “Maybe it was like … my last stand.”
“What do you mean?” Adin tried to sound neutral. Not confrontational or skeptical or gullible. Just blandly curious. He wasn’t sure of her stability just yet.
The pen rolled beneath Celia’s fingers, clattering quietly against the tabletop. “Maybe I was trying to assert my worth in your life, convince you I’m every bit as indispensable as Jackson.” Bemused, she finally looked at Adin. “My feelings seemed justified.”
As Adin’s heart started to sink, he wondered whether he should tell her about Noah Curry’s role in this. He decided against it. Too esoteric and complicated, for one thing, and too close to casting aspersions on his lover.
Problem was, now he didn’t know what Celia was thinking. What if Noah’s interference had unearthed a suppressed desire in Celia to hang on to him? What if the resistance that had infected her mind wasn’t temporary after all, because it made her realize how much she didn’t want to give him up? Noah’s implantation or manipulation, or whatever it was, could’ve acted like a piece of kindling held against a buried speck of glowing coal. Once the fire caught, maybe it took off on its own.
“So when can I go see Jackson?” Celia asked. “Didn’t you say something about him being out of town? I can’t quite remember. My mind’s been so muddled.”
Boy, she really had lost track of time. She must’ve been remembering the end of last week, when Jackson had gone to Illinois. “You sure you’re all right with it?” Adin asked. He studied Celia’s face for signs of an impending eruption. There was none.
“Absolutely,” she said. “He and I have to talk. I’ve come to a conclusion. He can do with it what he wants, but I know what I need.”
As apprehensive as he was, Adin had to ask, “And what is that?”
Celia hitched up her brows, as if to say the answer was self-evident. “To be happy, feel fulfilled. To look forward to waking up each morning.” She smiled at Adin and shrugged one shoulder. “I think you know how much I’ve enjoyed waking up with you. I want that back. Just don’t ask more questions, okay? I need to stay focused. This is between Jackson and me. I’ll just go see him as soon as I can, let him know where I stand.”
Adin took a drink of juice. He had trouble swallowing. Celia looked and sounded normal again, but what she’d been saying wasn’t nearly as encouraging as how she’d been saying it. That stuff about waking up with him every morning…
Oh shit.
“Jackson isn’t back yet,” he said dully. “I’ll let you know when I hear from him.”
* * * *
Bechima’s driveway was a crooked, double track through a jungle. Jackson had to exercise a little impromptu magic to keep bugs from darting at his face and to keep snakes, if there were any, from striking at his legs.
He tried to tread lightly as he mounted the listing porch, but it still complained beneath his weight. Drowned insects dotted an abandoned glass of tea that sat on the floorboards beside a well-used glider.
The screen door hung a couple inches off plumb. Jackson made sure his knock was neither assertive, the way a deputy’s would be, nor timid. Just slow and easy—a few neighborly raps. The door clattered against its jamb.
He muted the gold striations in his irises, for he could usually sense when a color shift was taking place, and he dulled the pulse of his power. He kept his face expressionless and his arms straight at his sides.
In under a minute, a dark hulk moved toward him from an interior room, assuming more detail the closer it got to the door. Those details were the same ones Rahenna had described. Bald, bulky, and shirtless, Joseph shone with sweat. He was scowling. The look complemented the open straight-razor he held, its blade flecked with foam. A striped towel hung over his left wrist. He had eyes like gray cinders, cold and pallid, and they bore through his unexpected visitor.
“Are you Joseph?” Jackson asked levelly.
The man studied him from crown to boot soles. Then his gaze climbed back up Jackson’s body. Nothing surreptitious about that scan. He took his time with it, meting out judgment inch by inch. Yeah, this was Joseph.
“Who’re you?” he asked.
“A friend of Perez Pei. I heard he’s staying with you.” Jackson made no move. “If you’re Joseph Beaudry.”
Keeping his silence, the man sidled to his left and reached for the edge of the inner door. As it swung toward the frame, about to slam in Jackson’s face, it abruptly stopped in mid-arc.
Joseph tried to jostle it free. The door didn’t budge. His gaze scoured the floor for an obstruction that wasn’t there … and then it crawled, venomous as a copperhead, up to Jackson’s face. Maybe Joseph was the lurking snake he’d earlier imagined.
“Don’t do it,” Jackson said coolly—whatever it was the bokor intended to do.
Joseph did it anyway. Brandishing the razor, he simultaneously reached into his left pants pocket, pulled out a lumpish bag, and hurled it at the door’s holey screen. The little sack didn’t bounce off the screen or get stuck in one of those ragged holes. It passed right through the mesh like a bubble of air and hit Jackson in the chest.
For a brief moment his vision blurred. Hot nails dug at the skin over his sternum, trying either to burrow in or gain purchase. With a deep intake and outflow of breath, Jackson sent the gris-gris back to its owner. Sent it back transformed into his version of a deadly deterrent.
The bag was no longer a bag. It was a disembodied claw, strong as a wyvern’s, and it locked its gnarled, crusty digits around Joseph’s throat.
Eyes bulging, he let the razor fall from his hand and clack to the floor. Its thinning foam left a spatter pattern that extended from scarred wood to fraying rug. Hands fumbling at his throat, Joseph did enough clumsy backward skipping to allow Jackson to open the door and slip inside.
“Where’s Perez?”
The claw’s talons made tiny white divots in the skin of Joseph’s neck. He responded with a quavering, soprano-range sound that didn’t suit his body. There were words within it.
As Jackson advanced through the multipurpose front room, bolts of pain shot through his feet. Or perhaps invisible bolts did, for he suddenly couldn’t lift his boots from the floor. He dropped into a deep crouch, knees bending, then swept his arms up, as if he were attempting to jump as high as he could. A minor teeter, and he was again moving forward—but none too happily.
“Where’s Perez?” he yelled, facing Joseph. He lifted one hand, palm out, and slowly closed his curled fingers.
The claw tightened around Joseph’s neck. His eyes shifted in their sockets. He was on the verge of conjuring some other form of offense or defense—Jackson knew, because he’d seen that look on Ivan Kurtz’s face—but then simply turned and shambled into a bedroom, where he fell onto his haunches in front of a littered altar. Maybe Noah’s mental meddling had finally taken effect.
Perez lay on a single bed like Sleeping Beauty. Wearing jeans and some flowing, diaphanous blouse he’d obviously designed and made, he was flat on his back, arms crossed over his chest and black hair spread over the pillow like a placemat. His face was motionless and perfect. A death mask with eyeliner and blush-on.
That’s not what made it look all wrong, though. Jackson realized there were whiskers on that face. Perez was always meticulously clean shaven, in addition to having his eyebrows, chest, and more sensitive areas regularly waxed. Even stranger, only a third of his face showed stubble.
Ah, Joseph the barber. He must’ve been shaving Perez when Jackson came to the door. Beard growth wasn’t becoming on pretty women.
After glancing at Joseph, who remained doubled over in front of his altar, Jackson leaned over Perez and pressed three fingers to his neck. A sluggish pulse met his touch. Sluggish but still strong. Then Jackson saw the necklace.
Keep working on him, Noah. Jackson cast another precautionary look at Joseph. Keep him in a daze. Jackson wouldn’t release the claw collar just yet. First, he had to rouse Perez. And that meant his back would be turned on the bokor.
Carefully, Jackson lifted the braided necklace. It was made of hair. But whose, Jackson had no way of knowing. Half the hair looked like Perez’s, and it was likely interwoven with that of corpse. A glass phial dangled from the braid. Lifting it, Jackson peered at the contents. The tube was packed with bits of stuff, all of it smeared with red. Chips of bone. A thin clump of fur. A tiny claw and curving fang. A sliver of charred wood, or else a cluster of barbs from a black feather.
“Jesus,” Jackson whispered, his brows drawn. The red was certainly blood. Could’ve even been Joseph’s blood.
A primitive fetish but, from all indications, an effective one.
Had Perez’s mind become so addled that it never occurred to him to remove the necklace? And why had Bechima, who knew about such things, left it in place? She’d seemed concerned about Perez.
Jackson pulled his Swiss Army knife from the left front pocket of his jeans. The phrase Don’t leave home without it popped into his mind. He’d had to pack the knife in the one piece of luggage he’d brought, but he’d made sure to unpack it as soon as he was in the rental car. Well-kept as the tool was, all its parts fanned out weren’t nearly as deadly as the knives he used to carry.
Opening the sturdiest blade, Jackson tried slicing through the hair necklace. Impossible. That explained why it was still around Perez’s neck. No physical agent could remove it.
Time to transcend the basics. Jackson pinched the braid between his index and middle fingers. His eyes narrowed as he focused on it. The section crumbled like old cake. Its circle broken and worthless, the necklace slipped onto the sheet. Jackson knew he shouldn’t leave the pendant lying around, though. It could easily maintain a link between Joseph and Perez. The custom-made fetish had to be buried and sprinkled with salt.
Thank you, Lucille. The shaker she’d tossed at him was still in his other pocket.
Stirring, Perez blinked at him. “Jackson? Jackson Spey?”
“You bet. I’ve come to get you out of here.”
Perez boosted himself onto his elbows, his long hair pulling off the pillow like a seine net. He spied Joseph. “Oh no. No.” He uttered the words like a man whose nightmares had followed him into the wakeful world. Then, with near hysteria, “What’s growing from his throat?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jackson said. “I have things under control.”
Joseph began moaning and murmuring, his upper body moving in a circular motion. The sounds fused into a rapid, singsong chant. Facing him, Jackson curled and then sprang open his fingers. The claw instantly faded into the humid air. Joseph didn’t seem to notice. He was trancing out.
Big-eyed as an ingénue, Perez stared at him a moment longer. “Where’s Noah?” he asked in a tremulous voice, his gaze skittering back to Jackson.
“Waiting outside. Waiting to take you home.”
Perez beamed. “Really? Noah’s come for me?”
“Yes, really. He’ll drive your car back.”
“I want to see him. I’ve missed him so much.” Shallow pools rose in Perez’s eyes. He always was an emotional creature.
“Try to get up then. If you can.”
Perez struggled to a sit. His willowy limbs had never seemed so ungainly. “Where’s your hair?” he asked Jackson. They hadn’t seen each other in over a year.
“Someone else has it.”
“Joseph? Did he take it?”
Jackson chuckled. “No. I got it cut and gave it away. To someone who needs it more than Joseph or I do. Ready to go home?”
“I’m a very kinky girl, Jackson,” Perez said with a penitential pout. He slid his legs to the edge of the bed and dropped them over the side.
“That’s no bulletin.”
Perez looked woozy. “My head hurts. I need something.”
“You need to come with me.”
That prompted a suggestive smile. Perez’s hand slunk to Jackson’s crotch and gave it a dainty squeeze. Jackson didn’t bother reacting. Perez was always doing crap like that.
“Let me see that petrous penis in your pants.” Perez giggled. Maybe his alliteration amused him. Maybe he was still drunk on whatever voodoo cocktail Joseph had been serving him.
At least it had been mild. Most of Joseph’s control seemed to have been supernatural, enhanced by the power of suggestion. That custom-made fetish and hair-cord must’ve been particularly effective. Fucker knew his stuff. If Noah hadn’t been nearby, damping Joseph’s motivation and concentration, Jackson and the bokor would’ve had one hellish and prolonged confrontation.
“You don’t have a clue about my junk, Perez. Now come on, let’s get out of here.”
“But Noah knows about your candy. He’s the one who came up with that phrase. ‘Jackson’s pluperfect, petrous penis.’ He had a feeling even back then that you liked cockerels way more than you let on.”
“Good for him.” Perez’s perspicacious partner spots Spey’s bisexual bamboozle. Jackson sighed. No point in taking umbrage. For a number of reasons. “Do you have any of your stuff in the house?”
Perez scrunched his face in thought. “Just a small bag next to the daybed.”
Jackson helped him get up. He snatched the fetish off the bed and touched the saltshaker in his pocket. All he had to do was dig a little hole on the property, throw in the fetish, sprinkle it, cover it up, and improvise an incantation. Then he could go.
“Erzulie has left here,” he said, addressing the man before the altar. “She doesn’t want to be where Perez is. Erzulie doesn’t like competition, and Perez was her greatest competition. She doesn’t want to be where you are, either, because you surround yourself with blackness and ugliness. Erzulie likes brightness and beauty, and she wants to be where love can grow.” Jackson had no idea how much sense this would make in Joseph’s mind. He just wanted to give Joseph something to ponder so he could get out of there without further incident.
Joseph did nothing but continue to sway.
Mission accomplished. After Jackson hustled Perez out of the house, he drove Perez’s car down the rutted track that led to freedom. He stopped roughly halfway and disposed of the fetish, then continued on to the road, where Perez’s frazzled lover awaited him. Noah joined Perez, and the two were still necking in the front seat like the euphoric king and queen of the prom when Jackson drove away in the rental car.
Drove away, far away, to the place where he needed to be.
Chapter Thirteen
Jackson had already gotten in three hours’ work at the woodshop, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning. He had a lot of catching up to do. After spending Monday night in Memphis, he’d been lucky enough to get a flight back to Chicago on Tuesday. His car was parked at O’Hare, so he’d driven home from there. By then, the day was shot in terms of doing anything productive—and that meant he fell behind even further. It wasn’t until Wednesday that he’d been able to get back to work.
What a week.
So even though it was Saturday, he’d still needed to make up for lost time. He’d also needed to keep himself occupied. Celia would be at his flat by eleven.
Adin was in Madison meeting with a client at the university. Rather, he’d met with a client yesterday, Friday, and decided to stay there while Jackson and Celia had their little talk. Jackson would call him when it was over and Celia was gone. It would only take Adin a little over an hour to get there.
Jackson’s stomach was a roiling pot full of acid and adrenaline; his nerves, the spoons that stirred the brew. Just in case Adin or Celia called, he hadn’t ridden his bike today—pretty freakin’ hard to talk on a cell phone while you were guiding a stretched-out chopper down city streets. Now he was glad. As he headed home from the shop, he popped open the car’s glove compartment, extracted a bottle of Rolaids, and dumped three or four into his mouth.
“Echh,” he uttered with a grimace. Granules of clay seemed to coat his tongue.
