Voodoo Moon

SEVEN

Most homicides are cut-and-dried. No big surprises along the way. You do the legwork, you interview enough friends of the deceased, you get a clear picture of the deceased's life and thus a pretty good sense of who killed him and why. And then you keep eliminating suspects until your best bet comes along.

What you don't get very often is the possibility that a man long thought dead turns about to be alive.

I.e., the one and only voodoo child, Paul Renard.

I was still thinking about Renard when I saw Tandy come up on top of the field from the bank below. She was moving slowly, her shoulders slumped. The news obviously wasn't good.

When she reached the car, she opened the door and dropped into the seat. "It's all my own fault."

"What is?"

"That I lost my gift. I pissed it away trying to be rich and famous."

"No more images?"

"Of the infant, yes. Of where the infant was, no."

"We can come back tomorrow."

"No, I'm done."

I touched the back of her head gently, cupping it in my palm. She said, "You're such a gentle lover. I really appreciate that."

"Yeah. Like the time I knocked us out of bed and you cut your head on the end table."

"You were just a little horned up that night. But most of the time you're really nice." She shook her head and stared down at her hands. "Shit. Shit." Then, "Shit."

"You need a meal and a few glasses of wine."

"I need a lot more than that."

I decided not to tell her about Chandler's call. Information that she didn't need right now. But I did ask, "How did you find out about the Rick Hennessy case, anyway?"

"Rick Hennessy's lawyer."

"Oh."

She looked up at me. "How come you want to know?"

"I'm just trying to find out all about Kibbe."

"Oh. I guess that makes sense. I mean, Noah did what he usually does to check out a prospective case. He called the editor of the local newspaper and the editor told him everything. Faxed him a bunch of stuff, too. At first, I wasn't very interested. I thought it sounded like bullshit. All the stuff about Renard and possession. I'm very leery of that sort of thing. But after I read the faxes, I got interested. How Rick started dressing like him and getting into voodoo and supernatural things. I thought it'd be an interesting story from a legal standpoint."

"So Noah came out here?"

"Noah and Laura. They used it as kind of a makeup vacation. They'd broken up again. You know, the marriage thing as usual. They're always breaking up. Noah has been a pretty boy all his life. He isn't used to women turning him down. Plus, emotionally, he's a very hungry guy. He's kind of a vampire. He wants to take her whole life over. Doesn't want her to think or do anything that he doesn't approve of in advance. I can see why he was married three times. And that's why he and Laura always get into it."

"Because she wouldn't marry him?"

"Right. And he was getting violent again. He even hit her a couple of times. He'd go on a binge, smashing things, ransacking rooms. He's got a terrible temper. She really does love him. But her first marriage just spooked her. The way Bob drank and everything. She doesn't want to go through that again. I know she's arrogant and cold, but she's a true-blue type. She's always faithful to her men, even when they treat her badly. She intimidates them, I think. They're afraid they're going to lose all that beauty." She smiled sadly. "It's like having your fortune taken away from you, I suppose."

"But they patched things up and came out here?"

"Right. And sort of laid out how the show would go. The production company really started getting cheap with travel when the ratings started to fall. They said they wanted me to come out here and shoot a little 'test footage, as they called it. And when they saw it, they'd decide how much money they wanted to spend on covering the trial."

"You didn't know Kibbe?"

"No. I never even heard of him until he was killed." Then, "Oh. Damn."

"What?"

"Headache."

"Just came on?"

"Just like that." She put her head back against the seat.

We drove several miles in silence. She'd groan every once in a while was all. A couple of times, I reached over and held her hand briefly. She gave me a brief squeeze to let me know she appreciated it.

I was thinking about Noah Chandler. So he'd been the one who'd shot at us. So he'd been the one who'd arranged for Kibbe. So he was one of the ones pushing the notion that somehow Paul Renard was alive.

I assumed Laura knew everything Chandler wanted to talk about. He didn't seem bright or ambitious enough to do any of this on his own. He wanted Laura and Laura wanted the show. To get Laura, he'd had to help her save the show. And that, for some reason I still didn't understand, had involved Kibbe.

The cry was almost sexual.

In fact, when I turned to look across the seat at her, the way she was writhing in the moonlight, all sharp sensuous angles, I thought she might be having a sexual experience of some kind.

"Are you all right?"

She didn't answer.

Another moan and then a spasm of some kind and then a loud cry that carried a sense of finality. And then she slumped in the seat.

"Are you all right?" I said.

"We need to go back there."

"Where?"

"The trestle."

"Why?"

"Now I know where the body is."

I grabbed the shovel from the trunk and followed her across the moonlit field, down the bank, and onto the sandy dry creek bed.

She rushed on ahead of me, stumbling sometimes, hurrying, hurrying. A frantic air about her now.

I could imagine what she was going through. She wanted her power back. For a woman who thought so little of herself, her power was her whole identity, her sole reason to ever take pride in herself and her skills.

I was afraid for her. What if this was another false alarm? There were only so many reassurances I could whisper; only so many hours I could hold her.

I knew how badly she needed for this to be real. I said a silent prayer that she'd find what her mind had told her she'd find. She hastened on ahead of me.

It was four or five degrees cooler now. An autumn chill upon the land.

Sounds of frogs and snapping twigs and feet stomping into damp, silty sand.

Smells of night air and stands of jack pines and dirty polluted water, the trickle of creek carrying with it the stench of the factories it passed to the east, where industry was burgeoning and the creek was wide, deep, and fast.

Sights of deep shadow from the canopy-forming trees, then a burst of treeless moonlight suddenly, and then the angling shadow of soaring clay cliffs on our left.

And then, momentarily lost in the shadows, she cried, "Here!"

I caught up with her.

I clipped on the flashlight I'd brought along and shone it on a sandy area beneath an overhang of the embankment.

"In there?"

"Yes. Hurry. Please."

"You hold the flashlight."

She took it from me. Shone the beam on the exact spot.

I jammed the shovel into the wall just beneath the overhang and got to work.

The sandy exterior was only a half-inch deep or so. Behind it was good true Iowa soil. With plenty of tree roots, rocks, and tight-packed earth.

At one point, she said, "Oh, God, Robert. What if I'm wrong?"

"I'll just keep digging."

"What if nothing's there?"

I looked back at her. "You just hold the light steady."

"I'm sorry I'm so hysterical."

"You're not hysterical. Now just hold the light steady."

She held the light steady just fine. I dug another fifteen minutes.

It was still tough going. I began having the same doubts she did. The night was no longer cold. I was hot and sweaty.

Once, I thought I found something. She got excited and so did I. It turned out to be the edge of a piece of rather porous rock. I kept digging.

"We should've brought some pop or something for you."

"I'm fine."

"Aren't you getting discouraged?"

"No"

"You're just saying that."

"I'm going to give it another few feet. Then if we don't find anything, I'll get discouraged."

The flashlight blinked and went off.

"Great," she said.

"Give it here."

I did what mankind has always done with unreliable flashlights. Plan A, if you will. I pounded it hard against the palm of my hand. You need to show flashlights who's in command. That not working, I pounded it even harder. And that not working, I pounded it harder still.

"Let me try it," she said.

She went to mankind's flashlight plan B.

Opened it up, dumped the batteries out, hefted them a few times in her hand, and slid them back into the flashlight tube. She clicked the button on. Nothing.

"Screw it," I said. "There's enough moonlight."

And went back to digging.

I was about to give up when I found it.

At first, I wasn't even sure what it was. I held it up to the moonlight. Then I was all too sure of what it was.

A finger. Or the skeleton of one. An infant's finger.

The flesh had long ago decayed. The skeleton had been buried many years ago.

I scraped around in the burial site and found another piece of bone. This looked to be a piece of long bone. From a forearm perhaps.

I held it up to the moonlight again.

I said, "You were right."

"Now I'm not sure I want to be right." Then, "It's going to be a baby, isn't it?"

"Probably."

"I heard it crying. In my sleep, I mean. I saw this site and heard it crying. It must have been the night it was killed and buried here. And now here I am, happy that I found it and that my career is saved."

I took her arm. "You have to listen to me."

"All right." But she was still distracted with her guilt.

"I'm going to do a little more digging. Find another bone or two. Make sure there's more evidence here."

"Then what?"

"I'll call Susan Charles. Tell her to call the state crime lab right away. There's a very strict protocol for working with remains like this. The crime lab'll know what to do."

"What should I do?"

"Just give yourself a break, Tandy," I said. "You're a good woman. You really are. This may save your career. But it's also going to help solve a crime. Remember that. Whoever the child was who was buried here deserves a proper burial. And it wouldn't get it without you."

She stood on tiptoes and kissed me. "God, I'm lucky I know you."

Deputy Fuller didn't look any friendlier than he had when he'd chaperoned our meeting with Rick Hennessy in the police station the other day.

He arrived shortly after the first squad car. Even if I didn't like him, I had to admit he was a competent cop. He set up the crime scene efficiently and quickly.

I walked over to him as he was carrying fistfuls of evidence bags from the trunk of his car.

"Where's Chief Charles?"

"She's in Marshalltown."

"Oh? What's she doing there?"

He glared at me. "Speaking to a library group about modern law enforcement. Does that meet with your approval?"

There was no point in being friendly. Fuller and I probably wouldn't be prom dates anytime soon.

He started walking away, then stopped. "You're really going to push that load of shit on us?"

"Which particular load of shit are you talking about?"

"The spook gal."

"Tandy?"

"Yeah, Tandy. It just happened to come to her that there were some bones buried out here?"

"You want her bona fides, I can give you the names of several law enforcement people she's worked with."

"Some people'll believe anything. Even cops."

"Then how else could she have known about the burial site?" He went back to glaring at me. "That's what I plan to find out."

Over the next half and a half, the crime lab arrived, and so did Susan Charles.

The crime lab came in two vans, one for agents, the other for laboratory personnel.

Excavating the bones would be a delicate and painstaking process. In addition to the skeletal remains, they'd also be looking for any other ancillary evidence. The person who'd buried the body might well have dropped something in the process. I'd left the shovel and all the dirt I'd extracted right near the point where I'd dug.

Susan said, "Your friend is a celebrity."

Press was already here from Des Moines and Cedar Rapids, and several smaller towns. Unearthing bones wouldn't ordinarily have been treated like breaking news. But this involved not only a celebrity but also a so-called psychic.

Even the sky was suddenly busy. Helicopters from two local stations crisscrossed the crime scene. Every once in a while, a Highway Patrol chopper also appeared.

Susan looked great. White turtleneck. Dark brown suede car coat. Brown suede slacks. That intriguing ambivalence-arrogant beauty and disfiguring scar-was riveting as always.

"Fuller's a good man."

"Yes," she said, "except when it comes to public relations."

I smiled. "I guess I noticed that."

She looked around. There was a crowd now. Thirty, forty onlookers. Several cop cars. State. Highway Patrol. Local. And the press.

"Any idea who this might be?" I said. "Any infant missing in recent times? Kidnapping, anything like that?"

"Nope. I was thinking of that myself. Most likely-if I had to bet, I mean-it's probably a high school girl burying her illegitimate infant out here."

"Most likely."

"I'm glad my mother didn't do that to me."

"Yeah."

"That's the only thing I can't figure out about all the abortions in this country," she said. "I'm not a big pro-lifer. But why can't they just adopt their babies out? There are plenty of places that'd take them."

"They're young," I said. "They panic. I'm sure they think about what they did the rest of their lives." Then, "Anything more on Kibbe?"

"To tell you the truth, I got the call on this while I was still on the highway. I came right here. Didn't have time to stop at the office. When I get down there, I'll check the phone and the fax. If there's anything that looks like anything, I'll let you know."

"Thanks."

"Well," she said, "I'd better get back over there and start acting like a chief of police."

"Nice to see you, Susan."

She touched my elbow affectionately. "We've still got some bowling to do sometime, Mr. Payne."

I stayed another half hour, hoping to snag Tandy and take her back to town.

But by now she was more than a mere celebrity. She was a full-fledged shaman. In addition to the press, everyday people were surrounding her now, too. I heard the word "holy" mentioned by a very old woman. Some would still be convinced that Tandy was a fraud and had used a variation on stage magic to find the bones (or perhaps that she'd even planted the bones herself); others would credit her ESP powers, about which they'd been informed many times on her show; and a few would see her gift as divinely inspired (which it probably could be, this not being mutually exclusive to paranormal powers, as Tandy frequently pointed out).

Her crowd grew wider, deeper. They wanted her autograph. They wanted to know if she'd be doing a segment of her show from town here. One woman wanted Tandy to touch her leg-crippled daughter. Tandy gently declined. She looked embarrassed, even a tad frantic.

I could understand them. They wanted something to believe in. Since you could no longer believe in government, business, movie stars, sports stars, or even many religions. . that left you exploring the fringes for people to believe in. That explains Pat Robertson and all the other pseudo-religious con artists; and that also explains our obsession with things extraterrestrial, even though there's no hard evidence yet that we've ever actually had a close encounter.

So when a fragile young woman through mental powers alone unearths long-buried bones. . that's remarkable.

So why not push your crippled son toward her? Or your blind daughter? Or your cancer-dying husband? If any of these folks were my kin or beloved, I'd probably do the same thing.

Where's the harm?

At least Tandy wouldn't ask you to send her "prayer messages" in the form of twenty- and fifty-dollar bills and "reward" you with little pamphlets of inspirational bilge. And she wouldn't get involved in far-right politics, pushing their message of hate.

So where's the harm?

Maybe on the off-chance Tandy can do something miraculous for you. .

It was all a little frantic and desperate and sad, the yearning way they surrounded her, but there was a human sweetness about it, too.

By now, it was full-fledged football weather, the chill almost tart but fresh and invigorating. Somebody started a small fire. A woman showed up with a small van loaded with coffee and doughnuts and Danish. As the crowd seemed to be increasing steadily, she'd probably turn a nice profit.

I watched the lab people work under their big lights. Extracting the bones was laborious work. We'd taken a course at Quantico in such excavations. Hard, important work.

Somebody tipped the press to who I was, so I had my turn, too. I said very little. Their excitement was based on the fact that I was formerly an FBI profiler, and that Tandy and I had successfully worked together on two murder cases.

I was assaulted in all media-audiotaped for radio, videotaped for TV, and fed live as a special bulletin interrupting whatever network show was on locally at the moment.

No, I had no idea how Tandy had gotten her special power. No, I had no idea whose bones we'd found. No, I had no idea who the private eye Kibbe was, but I doubted that his presence and subsequent death had anything to do with the bones that Tandy had found.

They were disappointed in my responses, of course. They wanted a sound bite that'd be good at the top of the ten o'clock news, which was coming up fast.

They wanted me to link Kibbe and the bones and say that Tandy was having visions of Kibbe's killer and would soon identify him for the police.

They wanted me to say that, in fact, the real killer was already stalking Tandy, fearing that she'd expose him.

The stuff of TV movies-that's what they wanted for the TV news.

And as I said, they didn't get it. Not from me, anyway.

A lot of the time, I thought about Noah Chandler's phone call. Paul Renard still alive? I liked a good urban legend as much as any-body. But the prospect of the tale being true seemed remote.

I was actually more interested in his admission that he'd fired the shots at us at the asylum the other day. What the hell was that all about? Even then, under the anxiety of the moment, I'd felt that the shooter was missing us on purpose.

I wondered if Laura knew about Chandler. Or was maybe even his accomplice.

I tried once more to get close to Tandy. Impossible.

I also tried to say good-bye to Susan Charles. She was busy, too. The press had just discovered her as their next target.

The line at the doughnut van was longer than ever. The coffee was steaming hot and the pastry glistened with sugary coating. If the line hadn't been so long, I'd have indulged myself.