a terrible beauty Page 9

  He smiled at her. She smiled back. The voices in her brain, silent almost all evening, suddenly chittered laughingly. Further confused thought was cut short when Jean suddenly appeared before their table.

  “Where are the boys?” Alek asked, as if amused to see her unaccompanied by the panting Stem brothers.

  “I’ve left them to their own devices for a while,” Jean said. She turned, looked directly at Sara. “Mr. Sam wants to see you.” >' *

  “Me?” Sara was glad to turn her mind to something immediate, something concrete. She was afraid of where it had been wandering lately. “Why does he want to see me?” Jean shrugged. It was a lithe, almost lascivious movement. “I was told to bring you. That’s all.”

  Now, if ever, was the time to be cautious, but Sara felt more excited than cautious. Who knew what this meeting portended, but it was likely to lead to something big, perhaps something that could help break the case.

  “All right.”

  She made her excuses to the table, stood, and followed Jean through the press of the crowd, still thronging the bar despite the lateness of the hour. They went around the dance floor, through an unmarked door next to one end of the bar. The short corridor beyond terminated in a dark wood door that had MR. sam embossed upon it in metallic lettering. Jean gestured at the door with a cryptic smile, half of humor, half of anticipation. Sara raised her fist to knock, but the door swung open silently, as if, Sara thought, they were in a cheap horror movie.

  The room beyond was of middling size and expensively if eccentrically furnished. Along the far wall was a wooden desk with two comfortable-looking chairs in front. Guillaume Sam, lit cigar in his mouth, sat behind it in an even larger and more comfortable-looking chair. It was obviously a wording desk, not just for show, and littered with papers. Sam, pen in his left hand, was reading through them carefully and making notes. Baka, perched on his shoulder, his naked tail curled around his master’s neck, ;seemed to be giving the papers as much attention as Guilaume Sam was.

  It would have been comical, if the possum didn’t appear so damn serious. There was also a half-empty rum bottle on the desk accompanied by tumbler-sized glasses, and a human skull that had a strange depression at the top of its cranium.

  “Ah, Ms. Pezzini,” Sam rumbled in his deep voice. “Come in. He gestured at one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit down.”

  ,, The luxurious carpet muffled her footsteps as she crossed the room, glancing from the desk to the altar that took up a whole comer of the room. It was similar in its chaotic busyness to the one she had seen in the back room of Paul Narcisse’s bookstore, but different in its details. There were many empty liquor bottles and the central place of honor was taken up by another human skull, this one wearing a top hat, with crossed human thigh bones set before it. The altar was also adorned with dozens of crosses, much like the display in Father Bal-tazar’s church. The crosses were of wood and metal, stone and glass, plastic and paper. Behind the altar, looming over it, was a large wooden cross, its horizontal arm hung with scores of rosaries.

  Sara sat in the chair before the desk while Jean circled around and stood behind the desk next to Guillaume Sam’s chair. Baka watched with what Sara would swear was an almost human grin on its pointy little muzzle. The voices in her head were suddenly hushed. Guillaume Sam scared them. Sara knew that that fact should scare her as well, but somehow it made her feel just a little bit cheerier.

  Sam put Ms pen down; leaned forward and placed his smoldering cigar in the cranial depression of the skull that sat on the corner of his desk. Sara suddenly realized that it was an ashtray.

  “I don’t believe in wasting time, Ms. Pezzini,” Sam said, regarding her closely, as both Jean and Baka looked on. “I am a businessman. Time is money to me. I prefer to keep things as simple as possible. So tell me, what do you want?”

  “Want?” Sara asked, surprised.

  “Yes, Ms. Pezzini. It is a simple question. What do you want? What do you desire? What do you dream about at night when you lie in bed and dream true dreams? Money? Power? Fame? I can give all of that to you. All you want, and the best you’ve ever had.”

  “No one’s ever tried to bribe me quite like this,” Sara said, impressed despite herself.

  Guillaume Sam shrugged. “We’re all adults here, and as I’ve said, I don’t like to waste time. I’m not subtle. I’m direct.”

  “Me, too,” Sara said, “so I’m sure you’ll take it the right way when I tell you to go to hell.”

  Guillaume Sam grinned, and the sight was enough to make Sara feel suddenly queasy. “I’ve been, Ms. Pezzini. Oh, I’ve been there and back again.”

  He leaned forward and took the still smoldering cigar out of his skull ashtray. He puffed on it until the tip glowed red, then with the barest glance at Jean he stubbed it out against her chest; on the bare skin between her small breasts.

  She arched her back, but did not pull away. A small cry slipped between her clenched teeth. Sara couldn’t tell if it was a cry of pleasure or pain.

  “Jesus!” Sara said, starting up from her chair. Guillaume Sam'continued to look at her with no expression on his face as the stench of burnt flesh soured the aromatic fragrance of his cigar smoke. He took the cigar away from Jean’s chest and put it back in the skull ashtray. Jean panted rapidly, but smiled, glancing down at the circular bum mark that marred her ivory flesh.

  “You’ve just seen what I’ve done to a loyal associate whose work is indispensable to me. Imagine what I’d do to someone who angers me.”

  “I’d arrest you this minute if I had a charge that would stick,” Sara said between clenched teeth.

  “But you don’t,” Guillaume Sam pointed out. “And you won’t. Ever.”

  They looked at one another for a moment, and Sam nodded.

  “There’s something about you that is unnatural,” he finally said. “In that respect we are similar. You may make a fine foe. In the end, though, you will die. I’ll have wasted time. You’ll have wasted your life, and, perhaps, the lives of those around you.”

  “First a bribe,” Sara said. “Now a threat. Neither’s gonna work.”

  “We shall see, Ms. Pezzini. I’ll give you tonight to think it over.”

  “I don’t need any more time. I’ve already given you my final answer.”

  “As you will, Ms. Pezzini.”

  Sara marched out of the room,’ pausing in the doorway, sickened to see Jean touching the burned spot on her chest, her face screwed up in exquisite agony, while Guillaume Sam gazed at her expressionlessly.

  Only Baka watched Sara leave the room, and she could swear that she saw a predatory hunger in the creature’s beady eyes. ' f

  The voices in her head sounded impressed as they twittered about what they had just witnessed.

  , CHAPTER

  NINE

  T

  1 hat night, Sara walked again in Guinee.

  The air was warm but not hot, humid but not soggy. The sweet-smelling nectar of night-blooming flowers perfumed the refreshing breeze. There were no buzzing, annoying insects, only large, slow-fluttering moths that beat the heavy air with their great painted wings. It would have seemed an idyllic place if Sara didn’t know what lurked in its shadows.

  The night was lit by a glorious full moon and more stars than Sara knew existed, stars that were mostly drowned out by the hazy city lights of her time and place. The light was softer, revealing more than illuminating, giving everything it touched an almost out-of-focus aura that contrasted strangely with the harsh reality of the waking world.

  No one came to greet her as she wandered through the quiet land, neither beast nor loa. The fear she felt upon arriving gradually dissipated, turning completely to wonder when she came upon a dirt road, which was the first sign she’d discovered of man’s hand upon this land.

  She hesitated, then decided to tiy the road. Presumably, it led to or from somewhere, arid taking it seemed preferable to walking randomly through a jungle, no matter how
beautiful the jungle was. Also Sara’s practical part realized it would be hard for anyone, beast or loa, to ambush her on' an open road. The shadowy jungle, on the other hand, presented limitless opportunities for an attack. ‘ '?

  She walked for a while. She had no idea for how long. The road’s surface was soft earth, easy on her bare feet. It was relaxing. It seemed almost as if she were again in Father Baltazar’s church. As before, the voices were gone from her head. The universe seemed to consist of only her, the darkness, and the road. She felt free and unencumbered for the first time since taking on the Witchblade.

  A crossroads came into view. An old man was standing in one of the comers where the roads met, almost as if he were waiting for her.

  He looked harmless, but then at first almost everything seemed harmless in this place. Still, Sara figured there was nothing to be gained by avoiding him, besides the fact that she’d feel pretty foolish if she just turned around and started walking the way she’d already come.

  She kept going toward the crossroads. The old man stood waiting patiently. As she approached Sara realized that he was a really old man, with white hair, a seamed face, and thin body and limbs. His clothing was ragged and he leaned heavily on a crutch as he watched Sara approach. The benign expression on his ancient face was marred by the fact that the whites of his eyes were red as fresh spilled blood. The color of the irises floating in the scarlet pools was only a shade somewhat less subdued.

  “Hello, missy,” he said as she approached.

  An odd sense of formality made Sara drop a brief curtsey, something she hadn’t done since she was a small child. Somehow, here and now it seemed appropriate, and it did seem to please the old man.

  “Hello, father,” she said, still feeling as formal as a deb on her coming-out night,' “can you tell me where I’m headed?” ;. ’

  The old man smiled'even wider, revealing strong white teeth, unusual for a peasant of his apparent age.

  “It seems you recognize Papa, even if you do not know my name. You are a courteous child, and your courtesy should be repaid.”

  “Thank, you,” Sara said, feeling obscurely pleased.

  “I am Papa Legba,” the old man said. “I guard the crossroad. I let people in. I let people out. Sometimes I help them.” He grinned wickedly. “Sometimes, as the mood takes me, I hinder. But since tonight you are so beautiful and also so courteous to an old man, and also since someone has begged me to look out for you, I will give you three boons. I believe that is the customary number.”

  Sara knew now that she was dreaming. She wondered if momentarily Prince Charming would show up with a pair of expensive Nikes to shod her naked feet, and then they would dance until midnight when she’d be forced to run away, ultimately waking up alone and Nike-less in her little apartment back in Manhattan.

  “Further,” Papa Legba went on, “I will invoke one of those boons immediately, because I perceive that without my immediate help you’ll wander into disaster.”

  Sara nodded. She felt she could trust the old man. There was no rational basis for this feeling, but it was rock solid and unshakable.

  “Don’t go further on this road tonight,” the old man said. “Further lies the cemetery and you’re not yet ready to confront what lies there. You have no idea of your enemy’s strength, and in entering Guinee you’ve left a portion of your own strength behind. Learn more before you enter the cemetery. I am tempted to say more, but cannot.” “Thank you f6r what you*have said.”

  The old man smiled. “It’s little enough. I wish I could do more, but I am bound by laws just as you are. Though we both ignore them, sometimes, when we want, eh, missy?”

  Sara laughed in agreement.

  “Remember,” Papa Legba said, “you can call upon me two more times. I cannot stop the world from spinning in its tracks, nor bring love to a frozen heart, but, eh, I have my abilities. I can help you when you need it, either in Guinee or in your world. Twice you can call, and I will answer.”

  Sara nodded. “What can I do to repay you for your kindness?”

  Papa Legba looked thoughtful. “Some rum might be nice, when you get the chance. Oh, and double-cheeseburgers. I like those.”

  “I’ll remember,” Sara said.

  “Now,” the old man said, “you’d better get home. A friend needs your help.”

  Sara frowned. “Who?”

  But the old man didn't answer her. He made a loud, horrible ringing noise, and for an instant Sara’s mind went dark. She could see nothing, only hear that incessant ringing. When she finally thought of it, she opened her eyes and realized that she was in her apartment, lying on her bed, and it was her phone making that awful noise.

  She grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Detective? This is Lieutenant Dickey.”

  It took her a moment to chase the remnants of her strange dream from her head, but finally she remembered the detective who’d been on the crime scene when they’d discovered Pierre-Pierre’s body.

  “Yes, what is it, Lieutenant?”

  He sighed heavily. '"We’ve found another body. I’ve been trying to get ahold of Detective McCarthy, but he’s not answering his phone.”

  “That’s strange,” Sara said. “He’s usually pretty conscientious about staying in touch.”

  “Well, not this time,” Dickey said, and something cold and unsettling flashed through Sara’s mind.

  “The body,” she asked, “male or female?”

  . .“Female,” he replied. The sudden wave of relief almost made Sara feel guilty. Jake was alive, then. But that meant, of course, somebody else wasn’t. “Headless, of course. Young. Probably pretty... thanks,” he said, off phone. “Somebody just handed me her purse. Either the murderer is getting careless, or he doesn’t care if we ID his latest victims immediately. Hold on... let me look... Yeah, she was pretty, even in her driver’s license photo. Her name was Juliette LeMaye... Detective?” he asked, after there was a long silence.

  “I’m here,” Sara said. “I’ll be right there.”

  Dawn arrived, and so did Sara at the murder scene. Three hours’ sleep punctuated by strange dreams wasn’t near enough, but she had no choice. Even if Lieutenant Dickey had told her to go back to bed, she couldn’t have. The first thing she’d done, even before dressing, was try Jake’s cell phone number herself. It rang and rang, but he didn’t answer. That wasn’t normal. Jake never went anywhere without his cell phone. Sometimes she thought he took it into the shower with him so he wouldn’t be out of contact even for a few minutes. He was that dedicated.

  Given the not-so-veiled threats that Guillaume Sam had made the night before-given the fact that Jake’s companion for the evening had been horribly, brutally murdered, it seemed as if'Jake himself was in big trouble. Guillaume Sam must have him. Guillaume Sam must be holding him hostage for her good behavior.

  Sara had no proof of that, of course. But screw proof, she thought If she knew where Jake was, she’d just go get him. Screw the law, and screw Guillaume Sam, too. But she had no more idea where Jake was than she knew where Jimmie Hoffa was buried. Sam might be hiding him somewhere in Club Carrefour, but if she went busting in there with guns blazing they’d probably just kill him. There were certainly at least half a dozen places where they could secret Jake’s body where no one would ever find it.

  Papa Legbal she suddenly thought.

  But could she gamble Jake’s life on a dream, no matter how real it seemed? It was a risk she might have to take, but first there might be some clues to his current whereabouts at the crime scene, which, as it turned out, was somewhat familiar.

  Police crime scene tape sealed off the entrance to the Cypress Hills National Cemeteiy. Sara recognized the uniforms guarding the tape. They’d been doing the same job at the last Machete Murderer killing.

  “Detective Pezzini,” one said with mock courtesy. “So nice to see you again.”

  Sara just looked at him until he lifted the tape for her to pass under. As she went into the cemetery
grounds she heard him say to his partner, “Just who the hell does she think she is?” but she walked on, her anger growing with her fear for Jake’s safety.

  The body was waiting, covered by a sheet, on a go-to-Jesus cart. The Crime Scene Unit was swarming like locusts, taking photos and measurements and scouring the area seemingly grass blade by grass blade.

  Sara stopped by the dolly waiting to be loaded into the ambulance. She didn't really want to check the corpse, but knew she had to. There was always the possibility of wild coincidence. Perhaps this wasn’t the girl Jake had been with last night.

  But even that forlorn hope was mercilessly dashed by unpleasant reality as Sara lifted the sheet and gazed at ,the decapitated body. Even though the corpse was missing a head, there was no doubt that it was Juliette from the lotions and potions store. She was wearing the same clothes that Sara had seen on her the night before, and her body was rather unmistakable, even without a head.

  Once vibrant and full of life she seemed sadly diminished as she lay on the dolly. The spark that had animated her was gone, blown out, and now she was just so much cold meat without beauty, with hope, without promise.

  Sara turned away and saw Lieutenant Dickey watching her with a hangdog expression in his sad eyes. He, too, was much the same as the last time she’d seen him. He was even wearing the same suit, or one remarkably similar, that looked like it belonged to his bigger brother. His expression was the same. Sara wondered if he were habitually lugubrious, or if that was just a mask he wore to conceal his real feelings.

  Sara looked around their surroundings, struck by a sudden thought. ‘

  “Who found the body here?” she asked, here being the proverbial middle of nowhere.

  Lieutenant Dickey approached, gesturing at the emergency med techs to put the body in the ambulance and take it away. He sighed profoundly. “A passerby heard gunshots coming from the cemeteiy-” he checked his small pocket notebook “-at 3:37 and phoned nine-one-one. Didn’t leave a name. It took a while, but the first uniform on the scene found the vie.”