“You’re sure no one’s going to object?” Dr. Inondé said. It turned out he’d grown up in a part of Brooklyn my lawyer knew.
“Emancipation proceedings at Sabine’s age aren’t at all unusual,” my lawyer said. “And with no surviving adult relatives, I can’t see anyone raising an objection.”
“But it does look awfully strange,” Dr. Inondé said, wringing his hands, “an old man like me being a business partner with, well…”
“A little girl?” Sabine said with a grin. She scooped up one of the crawfish, snapped off the head, and sucked at it while Daria made a theatrical gagging sound.
“I’m just saying it looks odd from the outside,” Dr. Inondé said.
“However it looks, it will be legal and binding,” my lawyer said, “and Jayné here has put aside a little something to cover expenses if anything does come up. You have my number. Only call, and I’ll see it’s taken care of.”
Dr. Inondé nodded, but his brow didn’t lose its furrows.
“Something’s bothering you about it?” Aubrey asked.
“He doesn’t want to fold both businesses together,” Sabine said. “Thinks that the Voodoo Heart Temple and the Authentic New Orleans Voodoo Museum ought to stay separate, like two different… franchises.”
Her use of the last word was careful and not, I thought, entirely correct. For a moment, the persona slipped, and Sabine wasn’t the voodoo queen of New Orleans, but a kid thrown into an adult world and doing her best. It was temporary. The lost little girl would appear less and less over time, and before long she’d be gone forever, and some new, still-forming Sabine Glapion would take her place, same as with anyone. Dr. Inondé waved his hands. I picked up a crawfish. Its shell was still hot from the boiler.
“I just think they pull in different types,” he said. “My museum’s a roadside attraction. Very touristy. The Temple is more local. Part of the community.”
“But if you combine those and cut overhead,” Ex said with a shrug.
“It will be better as one thing,” Daria said solemnly. “Believe me, I know.”
Dr. Inondé blinked, and Sabine slapped her sister smartly on the shoulder.
“Don’t go lying to him, or he’s not going to believe you when it’s important,” Sabine said, and Daria grinned impishly.
“There may be a middle path,” Chogyi Jake said, his voice abstracted and thoughtful. The conversation moved on to business planning and maximizing profit, building reputation and reaching out to the tourist trade, what to put on the Web site and whether to advertise outside of the city itself. I let the talk wash over me, a rush of sound and meaning like a wave tugging at the sand.
I was exhausted. My ribs hurt badly. The ACE bandage that I’d wrapped myself with helped some, but it was going to be several deeply uncomfortable weeks before I was whole again.
When our lunch was over, we all walked out to the street together, Sabine and Dr. Inondé still wrangling about the structure of their new joint business. In truth, it was only the fine points. He would manage and oversee the day-to-day business and draw a salary. Sabine would shoulder the more abstract burden of being the living crossroads, the queen of New Orleans, the avatar of Legba. That and she was going back to finish high school. The combination made my head swim a little.
On the street, a thin white kid was leaning against the wall playing guitar, the case open on the sidewalk with a few crumpled dollars and coins there to confirm its function. Aubrey dropped in a five. We said our good-byes, and as we turned and walked away, Daria ran back, hugging me fiercely around the waist. I held her for a long moment, then let her go pelting after her sister through the narrow, sweating street. My lawyer fell into step beside me.
“That went much better than I’d expected,” she said. “I won’t lie to you, dear. When you said you were getting involved with the Glapions, I was concerned. They aren’t the sort of people you want to be on the wrong side of.”
“It took a while, but I figured that part out,” I said.
“Your uncle would have been proud,” she said. “And about the other matter?”
“I’d like to go too,” Ex said, breaking in.
“I said it was just going to be me,” I said. “I promised.”
Ex’s expression hardened, but he didn’t push back. Part of him was probably relieved.
I DROVE out alone. The lake was familiar by now, the water greenish-brown in the midafternoon sun. Traffic along I-10 was lighter than I expected, and I got off the highway a couple exits earlier than usual rather than get to Pearl River sooner than I’d meant to. I drove, aiming myself down residential streets, letting the time pass.
The storm damage here wasn’t so bad. The bathtub ring wasn’t there on the buildings. A few places near the water showed some damage, the searchers’ X. And some had new windows. I stopped at a Subway and got a six-inch sub and some salt and vinegar chips that I ate sitting on the curb, watching the traffic and the street life. This wasn’t the Vieux Carré. The sense of history and place was less oppressive here. It was only a city, alive and functioning. A little damaged, but growing back. Becoming itself.
How do you put a city back together? One house at a time. One restaurant, one coffee stand. One hospital and one pothole and one cheesy tourist trap voodoo museum at a time. And you try to get ready for the next storm.
The safe house looked the same, but it felt different. It was like the space itself had been altered by what had happened there. I pulled up the drive. The Virgin Mary in front was covered in flowers and burned-out candles studded the lawn before her outstretched arms. Someone had left the Holy Mother a fifth of bourbon as an offering. I wasn’t sure what I thought about that, but at least she didn’t look like a tombstone anymore. I went to the door of the house I’d bought and knocked tentatively.
Mfume answered it.
He looked rough. Three days’ worth of stubble salted his chin and cheeks. He wore a white T-shirt that left visible all the pale pink divots in his arm where the shotgun pellets had been dug out. He smiled when he saw me, the wide, goofy grin I’d first seen in his police record. I smiled back, and he stepped inside, ushering me through. He was still limping pretty bad.
The sunlight in the front room was softened and indirect; shadowy without any actual shadows. It smelled like the chicken noodle soup I’d had when I was sick as a kid. Comfort food.
“She’s resting in the back bedroom,” he said.
“How’s that going?” I asked.
He shook his head and lowered himself to sit on the arm of the couch.
“She sleeps some, and then she doesn’t,” he said. “I believe she is still discovering how much has been taken from her. That will go on for some time.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said.
“It could have been much worse,” he said. “It nearly was.”
“Yeah, well.”
“How are you?”
“I feel like a pit bull’s chew toy,” I said. “But it’ll heal. I’ll be fine.”
“And the others?”
“Ex is a little screwed up, I think,” I said. “I haven’t really talked to him yet, but… he was sleeping with a possessed woman and didn’t notice.”
“It isn’t obvious,” Mfume said. “The rider didn’t present itself. How could he be expected to know?”
“He’s pretty deeply into the whole self-blame thing anyway,” I said. “I’m not sure that being justified in the mistake will really slow him down much.”
“That’s too bad,” Mfume said.
“Yeah. And Aubrey’s still processing. But I think he and Marinette sort of made peace with each other during that last fight. He slept through the night last night. No particular nightmares.”
I didn’t add that I knew that because I’d been sleeping next to him. There hadn’t been any sex. Just sleeping. But still.