To Be Where You Are, page 9
Crimson and black dominated the rest, along with liquor bottles, withered plants, and dwarfish jars full of particles and powders. Some things stood out. A bowl with a red-caked interior. Cages made of bones. On the left, a hideous mask with none of the verve and flush of Mardi Gras in it, hanging atop a gnarled walking stick. On the right, an exaggerated phallus that boasted of power over prudence. Wrapped around it, a coiled rubber snake.
Front and center sat a soiled human skull wearing, of all things, a white top hat and sunglasses. The hat was blotched with rusty spots, its seams ruptured here and there like split-open caterpillars. Combined with these touches, a cigar stuck between its teeth gave the skull both a morbid and jaunty air. It seemed to be leering.
Perez shivered.
The face of the makeshift altar was covered in strange glyphs and fanciful patterns. So was the wall behind it. On the floor a cross was tilted, top down, as if bowing in obeisance.
“I don’t like it here,” Perez whispered.
“You will, precious one.”
Joseph gripped his shoulders and turned him. Perez felt like the doll on the altar. Joseph’s body pressed against his. Perez remembered the feel of that body, solid and hot and damp. A long time ago, or so it seemed, he’d liked the feel of it—in brief, occasional doses. But here, in this place and under these circumstances, he didn’t like it at all. Joseph wanted to own him.
Perez tried pushing Joseph away, but the man was iron strong. “I’m not staying. I can’t stay.” Then Joseph shoved him. His feet lost contact with the floor, and he was tumbling backward as his arms thrashed aimlessly, he was falling without grace or any sense of destination until he landed on a springy surface.
Joseph’s bed.
Reflexively, Perez curled in on himself. He didn’t know how to resist this person. He wasn’t a fighter. He was a lover of beautiful things and beautiful men. Again, he summoned some long-dormant power and channeled it from the center of his forehead toward Joseph. The burly man did an odd shuffle, as if the floor were rippling beneath his feet. The sound that came from his throat did not promise happiness. It was a growl.
A sharp voice cut through the heavy air. “Joseph!”
It was Bechima. She barreled into the room and shook something at him, something that rattled and gave off a pungent, herbaceous scent. Joseph muttered a few phrases and batted the object out of her hand. Then he turned to his odious altar, grabbed up a little jar, and spun its cap off. As soon as he faced Perez, Bechima started reaching for his arm but abruptly recoiled. It was a cue, however inadvertent, and Perez took it. He held his breath and pulled his lips between his teeth. Through lowering lashes, he saw a cloud of coarse powder billow over the bed. Perez buried his face in his hands, because he couldn’t bear the thought of mashing it into the sheets.
“Now you sleep,” said Joseph. “You sleep good and long and hard. When I call you out of that sleep, you’ll want to stay. And you’ll do every damned thing I say.”
Chapter Ten
“A bokor,” Noah said, wagging his head. It was the umpteenth time in three hours he’d uttered the word. “A bloody voodoo sorcerer. I wonder if he has any real power.”
Glancing at the rental car’s GPS, Jackson tried to ignore him. Some zigzaggy turns were coming up. Just when he thought Noah was only muttering to himself again, Noah turned to face him.
“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday, when you called?”
Finally, a new question. “Because you would’ve spent the rest of the day and all night stewing about it. You didn’t need that. I didn’t need that. What you needed was a good night’s sleep.” Jackson glanced at him, underscoring a point he’d made earlier. “You’ll only get in the way, Noah, if you can’t keep your shit together.”
That morning, they’d taken a direct flight from Chicago to Memphis. At Noah’s expense, of course. This whole bizarre trip was at his expense. After poring over four different maps, Jackson had managed to determine, or at least make a logical guess, that the “elephant” Rugh had mentioned was Olifant, a flyspeck of a town. That’s where they were headed.
If nobody in Olifant knew anything about an alleged bokor named Joseph, they’d be at a dead end. Noah would have to keep trying to contact Perez via phone and thought. If they did track the guy down, Jackson knew the confrontation would be dicey. A rogue sorcerer, like a rogue wizard, wouldn’t be playing by the rules.
“Oh, I’ll keep it together,” Noah said with conviction. He stared through the windshield, as if he could see Joseph in the distance. “I’ll do whatever needs to be done to get Perez back. You just tell me how I can help.”
Jackson was calling the shots. Magic had to be fought with magic, and he had far greater mastery of its secrets.
Yesterday, after Adin had left, he’d tried to prepare as best he could. He’d done a self-protective ritual. He’d phoned his dear friend Angelina, who was from an island in the east Jamaica Channel and knew a good deal about Caribbean folk religions. Then he’d called a professor of cultural anthropology, an acquaintance who was his fan-boy. Finally, he’d concentrated on remembering everything he’d learned on his several trips to the area. It didn’t matter if this bokor was an American-born practitioner; the belief systems were essentially the same throughout the western hemisphere.
Jackson knew that ultimately, though, he’d have to improvise.
He checked the GPS. Almost there. They’d driven south on I-55 then veered east into the Red Clay Hills region and headed south by southeast. Now they were motoring down a stretch of two-lane blacktop, the landscape on either side an unremarkable mix of wooded areas and overgrown fields interrupted occasionally by small houses, mobile homes, and ramshackle sheds.
They were in Olifant before Jackson realized it. The road simply narrowed, constricted by a smattering of one-and two-story buildings. No sidewalks, no gutters, no streetlights or traffic lights. Not much of anything, really. A tiny post office that shared an old, flat-fronted building with a tiny general store. A small, white church—Southern Baptist, probably, although it could’ve been affiliated with some Evangelical-Pentecostal sect—beside a somewhat larger cemetery. Finally, a diner named Lucille’s Luncheonette. Not a single tavern, though. This surprised Jackson until he reminded himself where they were. Every blink-and-it’s-gone outpost in Wisconsin had a bar, even if it didn’t have a church. But this was a far cry from his home state.
Jackson angle-parked in front of the diner. The only other vehicles were a mud-splattered pickup and a fairly new Jeep. There weren’t many people about, and the ones who were made Jackson and Noah look like cousins of Casper the Friendly Ghost.
“Why’re we stopping here?” Noah asked.
“Why not?” Jackson got out of the car.
He didn’t look too out of place, since he’d had the foresight to wear faded jeans and a plain tan t-shirt. Noah, however, didn’t know how to dress down. His concession to casual was goofy earth-boy sandals that made him look ten times the Illinois suburbanite he was.
It suddenly occurred to Jackson that something else might make the locals guarded, something more than his and Noah’s screaming northern whiteness. How often did tourists around here, as few and far between as they must’ve been, travel in male pairs, unless they were out hunting or fishing? How often did men have hair like Prince fucking Valiant? He and Noah would probably be pegged as queers—an assumption that, in spite of its truth, sure as shit wouldn’t get them a place on this little ark.
Jackson bent toward the car’s open window. “Maybe you should stay here. I’ll bring something out if you’re hungry or thirsty.”
Noah nodded. “Yes, all right, it’ll give me a chance to polish my lens. I’d love a milkshake or malt if they have something like that. Ice cream would suit me right now.”
When Noah said he was polishing his lens, he meant he was summoning his mentalist power—strengthening, focusing, fine tuning. He needed absolute clarity of concentration to get deep within someone’s mind.
Relieved, Jackson headed into the diner. He rarely felt self-conscious when he was alone. He’d done enough traveling to know that being accepted, even trusted, was largely a matter of how one presented oneself. Since he apparently came off as a self-possessed yet genial man who wasn’t pretentious, people took to him pretty easily. Adin had once told him that having a “killer smile” didn’t hurt. Of course, that was Adin’s very biased opinion.
Jackson felt a twinge of longing as he took a seat at the counter. Noah had better release Celia’s mind before the day was out. If he kept putting it off, Jackson was going to lose interest in this mission real fast.
He decided to order some eats before asking any questions. It just seemed the polite thing to do in so small a town. Charging in and making a brusque inquiry wouldn’t net him much cooperation.
The place smelled of its food, not just grill grease, fryer oil, and disinfectant. This was no tourist trap. An elderly couple and what appeared to be three male laborers took up two of the four red booths. A younger man sat at the counter, a few stools away from Jackson. All were black—more precisely, were different shades of brown—and all regarded the newcomer with thinly veiled interest. Or maybe suspicion. Only the young man at the counter, who didn’t seem quite to belong there, gave Jackson actual acknowledgment—a modest smile and quick nod. Jackson returned the greeting then settled in, his legs spread and boot heels hooked on a ring that ran around the stool’s pedestal, his forearms folded on the counter.
The chalkboard lunch menu, like the chalkboard breakfast menu, was short but enticing. Fried chicken, baked ham, and squash casserole as main dishes. Sides of butterbeans or handcut fries or greens. The desserts, homemade like all the other offerings, were obscenely enticing. Bread pudding and banana pudding, lemon pie and chocolate-chip pecan pie. Suddenly, Jackson felt ravenous.
He was still debating how selfish he should be—hell, Noah was waiting in the car—when an older woman, maybe Lucille herself, came out from the kitchen. Jackson lowered his eyes from the chalkboard and flashed her one of his winning smiles. The woman was unaffected.
Can’t win ‘em all.
“Getcha somethin’?” she asked, pulling an order pad and pen from her apron pocket. Even the grease stains on her clothing made Jackson hungry.
“Yes, please. But before I forget, I’d also like to have a strawberry shake to take out. When I’m through eating, I mean.” He knew Noah liked strawberries.
The woman nodded, wrote, turned up her unadorned eyes and waited for his counter order.
“Uh … damn. I want everything.”
The woman’s narrow shoulders rose and fell as she made a hmph sound. “You’re a man, all right,” she muttered with the merest hint of a smirk.
The young guy on Jackson’s right grinned at both of them. “Aw, leave him alone, sugar,” he chided. “He’s just a tired, hungry traveler.”
“I’ll have the squash casserole,” Jackson said. “And a glass of lemonade.”
The young man kept casting him oblique glances. “Where you from?” he asked casually, with only a mild regional accent. He wore shorts, sneakers, a tank top. Had a breezy air, like a college student. Had a body like one, too.
“Upper Midwest.” The woman who’d waited on Jackson delivered his lemonade, and he gratefully drained half the glass. The kid’s scrutiny made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure why, but he had a good idea.
“You’re a little late for snowbird season. Or too early. And not far south enough.” The young man sipped his drink, whatever it was. Something iced, something that left a scrim of moisture on the amber plastic tumbler.
“I’m not a snowbird,” Jackson said.
The young man smiled. “I didn’t think so. My name’s Ben, by the way. Where you headed, then?”
“Where I’m at,” Jackson answered. “For the time being, anyway. I’m Jackson.” He leaned across two empty stools to shake Ben’s hand. It was soft and slender, with a cool dampness probably imparted by his drink glass. The grip was just firm enough to be polite. “I’m looking for a friend who sort of … disappeared from New Orleans. Could be he headed up this way.”
Out came the casserole, along with a basket of biscuits and a bowl of butter. After thanking the woman, Jackson dug in. The laborers paid for their lunch and went on their way. The elderly couple lingered, perhaps to eavesdrop.
Ben had swiveled on his stool to face Jackson, his expression modulating from friendly to curious. “Not many people make a beeline from New Orleans to Olifant. Not unless they live here.”
Jackson daubed at his mouth with the napkin. The food was fucking fabulous. He wanted to eat, not talk, but any connection he could make in this town had potential. “It’s a long, strange story,” he told Ben. “Do you live here?”
“Not anymore, not since I was seventeen. I’m working on my Master’s in Community Planning at Auburn. I make regular trips back home, though. It’s one advantage to going to school in Alabama.”
Jackson nodded and kept eating. This situation definitely had potential. A local kid who was educated and urbane enough not to be wary of strangers. Ben might know something and be willing to talk about it.
The elderly couple finally came to the counter to pay their bill. As Ben wished “Miss Mae” and Elmer a good day, he rose up from his stool and fished some money out of his pocket. “Catch me too, Lucille.”
Jackson glimpsed the tantalizing flexion of muscles in his lean legs, the sweeping curl of his eyelashes, the sensual purse of his lips as he counted out bills and change. Nice-looking kid. Sleek, lithe body.
Fuck.
Self-consciously, although no one had been paying any attention to him, Jackson went at his lunch with a vengeance. He hated how wayward his eyes had become since he’d finally, fully accepted his attraction to men. But why did that acceptance seem to come with a license to ogle good-looking guys? As much as Jackson adored Adin, he couldn’t seem to keep his libido from being tweaked by this ass or that crotch or some artistic arrangement of shoulders, chest, and abs.
Fuck damn.
He told Lucille how delicious her food was as she fixed his take-out milkshake, which she made in a blender with fresh strawberries. “Just simple stuff,” she responded, as if Jackson’s awe were misplaced and rather silly. When she went to bus the booth tables, he laid a twenty on the counter. It was more than twice what his bill came to, and he had no intention of walking out with any change.
Ben didn’t leave. He sat down again. Jackson tore into a third biscuit, slathered with butter, as he finished up his meal. Oily golden threads crept over his fingers. Reflexively, he licked them off … and was suddenly aware of the young man watching him with a hint of a smile.
Oh, double fuck damn.
After wiping his face and hands with a couple of napkins—and wishing he could as easily wipe away his vulnerability—he shoved the plate to the other side of the counter, bit an imaginary bullet, and turned to face Ben.
“Do you mind if I ask you some questions? They have to do with this friend I’m trying to find.”
Judging by his smile, Ben seemed eager to be of service. “No, not at all.”
“I’ll be right back.” Jackson grabbed the milkshake off the counter. “I have a traveling companion who’s waiting for this.”
“Girlfriend?” Ben asked in a strenuously offhanded way.
“No. A man.”
“Boyfriend?”
It seemed Ben was aiming for drollery, but Jackson immediately saw the question for what it was.
“No,” he said neutrally. “Just a friend.”
Jackson strode outside, the bells on the door jingling at his back. He could also feel Ben’s gaze fixed on his back. Sunbeams had begun to break through the overcast, and a mild breeze blew from the northwest, providing further respite from the heat. Noah’s head was downturned as he meditated. Jackson thrust the milkshake through the open window, startling him.
“What held you up?” Noah asked, squinting against the hazy light.
“I might have a lead. I’m trying to follow it. Shouldn’t take too much longer. You okay out here?”
The potentially good news immediately improved Noah’s mood. “Yeah, I’m fine. Do what you’ve got to do. If it’ll help us find Perez, I don’t care how long you’re in there.”
Jackson gave him a quick pat on the shoulder and returned to the diner, where Ben had moved to a booth. There was a full glass in front of him; another, at the opposite side of the table, was apparently for Jackson. He got the distinct impression he was subtly being wooed. Oddly enough, it strengthened rather than weakened his resolve not to be affected by this kid.
“Thanks,” Jackson said, hoisting the glass.
“If you’d like it to have a kick,” Ben said quietly, “Lucille can be persuaded to add some Comfort.”
Jackson chuckled. “If you mean Southern Comfort, I have to decline.”
Ben shrugged. “You just look like a man who enjoys a little whiskey now and then.”
“Southern Comfort isn’t whiskey. Jack Daniels is whiskey.”
Ben grinned. “You a biker?”
“Not on this trip.” Jackson had to steer their conversation back on track, and that meant the flirty banter had to stop. He wet his throat with lemonade, crossed his arms on the tabletop, and got down to business. “I’m looking for a man named Joseph. Sorry, but I don’t know his last name.” He repeated the description he’d gotten from Rahenna.
Ben watched and listened intently, his brows drawn together. Finally, he nodded. “Sounds like Joseph Beaudry. He spends a lot of time in New Orleans and a few other cities, but his home base is several miles from here at his aunt’s place. She pretty much raised him.”
“Okay, uh…” Jackson rubbed his forehead. He wondered how to blunt the impact of his next question. It would sound weird to someone who knew Beaudry as an upstanding citizen. “Is this guy into any sort of … unusual practices?” There. That was safer than bringing up voodoo.
