Frank tapped her fingers against the desk and Darcy said, "I know. My point is I knew her fairly well. I didn't just hear stories about her or catch a glimpse of her on the porch now and then. I spent almost every weekend and half as many weekdays up to Jeff's and every Saturday evening we'd go to revival. It was out in a scythed field behind the church which was really just poles and a roof with hay bales and stumps for seats. I know that sounds like a strange way for two hell-loving, hormone-addled boys to spend a Saturday night, but for one thing, Marguerite was there.
"Even more importantly, I wanted to go. Jeff too. We only talked about it once, after the first time he took me, and then we never mentioned it again. Jeff couldn't explain what happened. It'd just always been that way. That was all. These people accepted that his seventy-year-old grandmother could suddenly jump up in the air and do somersaults like a girl a quarter her age. They accepted that a bite from a copperhead could cure arthritis. They accepted that Loula Tremaine's husband fell down a well and drowned while she was at the revival praying for God to wash his wife-beating sins away.
"Jeff had a cousin that liked little girls. No one did anything about it because he was a big, mean, son of a bitch and everyone was afraid of him. The last girl he raped started praying at the revivals for vengeance. The women would join in with her, crying and praying. A month after he'd raped her, a car punched out his backbone. He's a quadriplegic."
Frank interrupted, "That's coincidence."
Darcy shook his head. "That's the tip of the iceberg. Things like this happened routinely. It was a matter of course. No one thought anything of it. I could go on, Frank, but I know you don't want me to. The point is, not every question has an answer. When the bounds of coincidence and logic get stretched, one has to accept the inexplicable or go crazy trying to figure it out. Jeff's cousin didn't believe. Loula Tremaine's husband didn't believe. I can name a dozen other examples."
Frank held up a hand.
"So Marguerite's a root worker too? I thought you said she was a priestess."
"She grew up with root workers, in the hoodoo tradition, but it wasn't enough for her. She wanted to learn more and went to Haiti to study Vodun religion. That was when her talents really emerged."
"Like being able to see the Mother's evil influence on me," Frank mocked. "Think she could tell if I'm going to meet a tall, handsome stranger?"
Darcy's answer was slow in coming.
"She knew there was something wrong with Gabby even before she was born. The doctors didn't pick up on it but Marguerite knew. She kept saying Gabby's lungs were heavy. She's got cystic fibrosis."
Frank regretted her flippancy, but maintained a mother could intuit something wrong with an unborn child without being psychic. Sensing her doubt, Darcy added, "It's not just Gabby. She sees a lot of things. She saw the Oklahoma bombing. She was seeing it for about a week before it happened. She had this picture in her head of the building blowing up and scores of people dying. It got stronger and clearer the closer it got to that day. She actually pegged the time of the explosion by an hour. It was that strong. Only she thought it was a building in L.A. She didn't realize where it was. Not that it would have mattered anyway. Who'd have believed her?"
"Did she tell you this post facto?”
"No. I was picking up Gabby the weekend before it happened, and she was pretty upset. It was hard for her to keep seeing it, knowing it was coming, and not being able to do anything about it. Then it happened that Wednesday."
"And you just accept all that?"
"I do," he said simply. "I accept without understanding. It happens to me sometimes, too. That's one of the things she hates about me. She dunks I'm lazy, because I have a gift and won't use it. I tried, but it's just not for me. It's not an avenue I want to explore anymore than I already have."
"Great. You're telling me I'm sitting here and you can see what color my underwear are?"
Darcy blushed.
"I'm not that good. I just get glimpses now and then. Like when I saw that kid stashed in the dumpster. I think it's something everybody has. Cops use it all the time, only we call it instinct or a hunch. Some of us just listen more than others."
Frank couldn't argue with that. Listening to her instinct wasn't always logical, but it was usually right.
"She gave me her card. Told me she saw the Mother's hand on me. Like a black cloud."
"What did you say?"
"Told her I could take care of it."
Darcy assessed his boss, then shrugged.
"Maybe you can. But if I were you, I wouldn't risk it."
Frank sat back, sighing. "I gotta tell you, I'm tired of all this superstitious shit. I'm trying to solve murders here and for all I know half my squad's packing silver bullets and garlic necklaces. You'd think there'd be a little more logic to all this."
Darcy stood with his palms up.
"Hey," he groused, "don't shoot the messenger. I'm just telling you what she said. Maybe if you weren't so defensive about all this you could see that logically you've got nothing to lose by seeing her."
He strolled out, leaving Frank stewing in her skepticism.
30
What the hell, she'd rationalized all the way down the 405. She had questions Marguerite might be able to answer, and she'd been meaning to visit Orange County Sheriffs anyway. She'd called Homicide and set a time to go through a couple of their murder books. Frank hoped they might tie into a series of execution-style hits the nine-three caught in June. Her appointment was at two-thirty. Meanwhile, here she was back in Marguerite James' apartment.
Dressed all in white, Marguerite had led her in with no preliminaries.
"This will be easier and more effective if you take all your clothes off."
Frank folded her arms and stared.
Indicating a chair in the center of the room, Marguerite said, "At least your shoes and socks then. And your belt and everything in your pockets. I want the energy to move through you as freely as possible."
Frank did as instructed, suppressing a sigh. Entertaining this new-age, woo-woo crap was embarrassing. If anybody found out, she'd pull a Sandman on Darcy's ass.
"What exactly are you going to do?"
"Did you ever play with a Wooly Willy when you were a child?"
"A Wooly Willy," Frank repeated. "Was that the bald guy with metal shavings you made hair with?"
"Exactly. That's similar to what I'm going to do. I'm going to draw the shavings off you, then I'm going to put a fresh new set of them around you."
"But I'm not a Wooly Willy."
"No, but you do have an energy field. Call it an aura if you like."
"So you're going to rearrange my aura?"
"Like that, yes."
"Is it going to hurt?"
Marguerite scowled and lifted a brow. It was a look Frank would know well by the end of the day.
"Basically, I'm going to do to you what I did to Mr. Hernandez. I'll cleanse you, then we'll invoke the proper spirits and ask for protection. While we're doing this I want you to picture this woman. Envision a large black envelope flying straight toward her. You're going to send all her negativity back to her."
Frank joked, "How much postage do I use?"
"Lieutenant, I assume you've come here for a reason. Now be silent and let me do my work."
Frank watched Marguerite fussing with jars of herbs and a pitcher of water. She started singing, her voice light and soft. Frank thought the words sounded French, Creole maybe. She came to Frank, still singing, dabbing at her roughly with a rag she kept dipping into the pitcher. Frank closed her eyes. She felt like a kitten getting cleaned by its mother and despite her cynicism, she felt oddly safe.