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Bayou Whispers PROLOGUE
PROLOGUE31 October 2005Orleans Parish, LouisianaON HALLOWEEN NIGHTthat year, no little ghosts or goblins wandered the streets in search of candy. No laughter rang out in what was left of the Lower 9th Ward neighborhood. Two months after Katrina had ravaged this place, it still resembled a war zone, covered in debris and stagnant pools of foul-smelling water from the levee breach.As midnight approached, a young teenager—naked, dirty, covered in mosquito bites, and with a nasty leg wound wrapped in crusted-over grey rags—stumbled from a copse of trees. She was thin, so very thin, weighing barely eighty pounds.The muddy and cracked streets before her sat dark and empty; human detritus littered the roads and yards, and the skeletons of ruined homes bore unintelligible spray paint that looked more like the desperate scratching of a fluorescent wild beast than symbols from a nameless insurance company or traumatized recovery workers.It was a city of the dead, a city of the
Bayou Whispers ONE
ONEPresent DaySt. Dismas ParishTHE AIR FELT THICK,and Curtis Jones always had trouble breathing this time of year. The rain had followed the sunset, but it couldn’t wash away the humidity of summer. The moisture in the air hung like damp towels, causing Jones to work harder for each breath. It might have been the after-effects of Desert Storm. Or the cigarettes. Or maybe it was the fact he was on the downslope toward sixty. For whatever reason, he should have been at home, taking it easy with a bourbon in hand and a sizzling steak fresh off the grill on a paper plate. Or maybe watching the news. Or one of those Lifetime movies Georgina used to like so much.He should have been doing anything but driving his classic 1987 Grand National T-Type at seventy-plus miles per hour on the slick tarmacadam of Route 21 South while being chased by two sheriff’s deputies in a couple of Ford Explorers. But such was the life of a criminal who dipped his wick in the territory run by Majo
Bayou Whispers TWO
TWOBrooklyn Heights, New YorkEarlier that dayJEANNINE LARUE STOODoutside Stanley’s brownstone, shaking in the warm summer rain, holding a useless umbrella ... She was so upset she hadn’t even tried to protect her hair from the incessant drops. The result being that the previous $200 straightening process on her thick, black locks had turned to sodden curls. Trying to fit into the look of the otherwise all-white law firm where she worked was a job in and of itself. Stanley had suggested she’d be more “accepted” with straight hair. Fuck him.Fuck all of them.She had been in courtrooms and jailhouses with murderers, rapists, and some of the evilest human trash the city of New York had ever known. None of them had ever fazed her in the slightest. “Ice Queen” is what the good ole’ boys in the office called her behind her back. Her friends called her the same thing to her face.She liked making the white patriarchy nervous. She liked being the Ice Queen.But St
Bayou Whispers THREE
THREESt. Dismas Parish Sheriff’s OfficeInterview Room #2THE ROOM WASsparse and smelled of old cigarettes and sweat. A worn table, chipped, with the word “fuck” scratched in its surface an impressive number of times, stood between the hand-cuffed man facing the two-way mirror and the man with his back to those watching and listening. A single dented lamp hung over the table, casting shadows along the walls and on the stained ceiling tiles. The room was supposed to intimidate. The room was supposed to scare those brought into it. For Curtis Jones, the room reminded him of his past. He smiled at the thought.The former cop had a dozen cuts and abrasions that had been hastily bandaged. The bump on his forehead throbbed, and he knew he’d have two black eyes by morning, but he had somehow miraculously survived.Jones rubbed the tangled hair of his goatee. The old man with matted long hair that he watched in the mirror did the same. When did I get so old?He shifted in hi
Bayou Whispers FOUR
FOURDelta flight 2504En route to Louis Armstrong International AirportAFTER THE CAB RIDE, Jeannine was barely able to make the Delta lounge before breaking down with a sob. A fellow flier took pity on her and bought her a martini. Jeannine should have said no, but she was shaking so hard all she could do was nod her head. She should have said no to the next three martinis, as well.Jeannine had been sober since college—no booze, no pills. She had to give it to Stanley. With his help she had learned to deal with the horrors of her past without self-medicating.Stanley would be so disappointed in her right now. She felt that old familiar shame rising as bile in her throat.She made the ladies room in time to empty the contents of her stomach. When her flight was called, she staggered out of the stall, only to have another woman look at her sideways and tutloudly.Jeannine ignored her.She washed her face, rinsed her mouth, and stumbled onto the concourse. She didn’t re
Bayou Whispers FIVE
FIVEGreenwood Cemetery Caretaker’s CottageNew OrleansTHE “SAFE PLACE”was a cemetery.One of the krewe—Richard “Red Rooster” Romain, a black Baptist with a penchant for the occult—worked as the caretaker and lived in the small cottage nestled between the stone and marble above-ground graves.“The neighbors don’t put up much of a fuss,” he’d once said when asked why he liked living surrounded by the dead. But Jones knew the truth had to do more with the former Ranger’s interest in Voodoo, than it did with peace and quiet.A three-legged cat let out a loud “meow” as Curtis entered the dimly lit cottage. The place smelled of fried sausage and peppers, and the growl from his stomach reminded him the last time he’d had something to eat was a cold slice of pizza earlier that day.“Rooster!” Jones called. “Hey, Roo!” He deliberately made a lot of noise as the old man of his krewe had a blown eardrum from the war. Probably only one of a handful of soldiers whose Purple Heart was
Bayou Whispers SIX
SIXLouis Armstrong International AirportNew OrleansAN ASIAN-LOOKINGflight attendant—a woman too young to be working full-time, in Jeannine’s opinion—sat with the shaken attorney as the rest of the passengers disembarked. “It was only a nightmare,” she told the young attendant. “Too many drinks before getting on board. I’ll be fine in a minute. Honestly, you don’t have to stay with me.” “It’s not a problem,” said the Delta cheerleader with a toothy smile. “Gets me out of picking up other people’s booger rags stuffed in the seat cushions.”Jeannine’s stomach lurched. “Nice,” was all she could say without grabbing an airsick bag.The last passenger—an old man with a cane—finally exited the aircraft.“I’m okay,” said Jeannine to the attendant. “Really. I can just go grab my bag and get a cab to my hotel—”“Jeannine LaRue?”A short man with a buzz cut appeared. He wore a cheap suit under a damp trench coat and stood flanked by two uniformed cops. The three of them block
Bayou Whispers SEVEN
SEVENFebruary 2006WGNO Temporary Studio Outside the Louisiana Superdome“DON’T BE NERVOUS,”said Stanley with a reassuring smile. “You’ve done TV before. I’ll be with you the whole time. Look at me if you get nervous, okay?”“I’ll be fine, Uncle Stanley,” said fourteen-year-old Jeannine. “You worry too much.”“The people want an update on you,” continued Stanley as if she hadn’t spoken. “Talk about your new prosthetic. And don’t forget to mention the charity event next week. That will lead right into the announcement of my new talk show.”“I know, Uncle Stanley!”“And don’t call me “uncle” on the air, okay? Might give people the wrong impression, got it?”Jeannine nodded.“Say you’ve got it.”She sighed. “I’ve got it, Stanley.”“That’s my girl,” he said, as he put his arm around her shoulders.“One minute, Dr. Bernstein,” said the news director.JBack in the make-shift green room, Curtis Jones, in his dress uniform, paced nervously while watching the broadcast. He
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Bayou Whispers THIRTY
THIRTYNew OrleansJEANNINE SPENT THEnext week reading Curtis’s journal while waiting on her new prosthetic. It wasn’t like the countless and soulless briefs she’d studied for school and later for practice. Curtis wrote with passion. He documented what he saw and what he had uncovered for years. The shocking discovery was that his removal from the police force and his subsequent transition to crime had been sanctioned by his handlers: the FBI. After two days of reading, she closed the journal on the last entry, a note to her, written with that same passion she’d never gotten the chance to really know. With tears in her eyes, she knew what had to be done next. Some loose ends needed to be sorted.Curtis’s land was hers now, and she would build a proper home there someday, but the bunker was comfortable enough for now. Until things were tied up, she actually felt safe there. A rare thing as of late.The first call she made was to Fernández, who was busy poring over all of Roo
Bayou Whispers TWENTY-NINE
TWENTY-NINEThe SultanaHELLO, CHILD.“Where am I?” asked Jeannine.Papa Nightmare was gone, the Sultanawas gone. Jeannine stood in a place of complete darkness. It was then she noticed she was standing on two good legs.Scents of cypress and lotus filled her nostrils. The air around her felt damp. Goose flesh rose up on her skin. Life and death fought for the attention of her senses as the darkness changed, morphed. She stood at the edge of the water, barefoot and clothed in a dress made of vines and branches. She walked along the edge of the bayou. Near her feet, alligator eggs hatched, tadpoles swam, and a crane flew for the first time. She saw rotting trees and the corpse of a boar being reclaimed by the bayou.A large black snake slithered up to her, but Cassandra wasn’t afraid.We finally meet face to face, child. Centuries of planning and dining on dead things has led us to the end. The snake’s tongue flickered in time with the words that appeared in Jeannine’s head
Bayou Whispers TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-EIGHTThe Sultana“MY MOTHER WAS trying to kill me,” she thought. Jeannine was back on Toulouse Street in the last place she’d lived with her mother. She knew this was another of Papa Nightmare’s visions, but she could do little to stop it from playing out.The hairs on her arms stood straight up. Danger! Danger was approaching!She ducked as the massive blade swung, slicing through air where her neck had been a split second before. Jeannine screamed as she scrambled away from her attacker.“You won’t betray me! Or steal my power! I’ll kill you first!” screamed her mother.Jeannine ran.In her panic, she ran the wrong way. Instead of running out the front door, Jeannine turned to the stairs and ran to her room.Her mother followed.Jeannine locked the door. She ran to the windows—the ones her mother said never to open. She tried to move the paint-chipped wooden frames, first hammering at them with her hands, then throwing her entire body at the window. A tree outside
Bayou Whispers TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-SEVENThe BunkerTHEY WERE TEN MINUTESfrom Curtis’s place when the Golem finally spoke. “So, tell me again, how many times have you died?”Curtis sighed. “Twice. The machete was number two. The car accident the other day was the first—I think.”“I don’t believe this,” grumbled Charley, shaking his head. “You think that was the first?”“You’re one to talk,” said Curtis, frowning. “I don’t claim to understand it. All I can tell you is that when I climbed out of the car, I felt no pain. Nothing, from any of my injuries in the crash—no pain at all. Not even my knees, which I’ve been bitching about since the war.”“What’s, uh, keeping you here?” asked the Golem. “I know Roo brought me back using some of his voodoo stuff. But he’s dead. I mean dead-dead. No one brought you back.”Curtis didn’t speak for a minute or two, a faraway look to his eyes.“That’s a good question,” he said slowly. “I know ... there is a purpose to my being here. And before you ask,
Bayou Whispers TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SIXThe SultanaSHE WOKE TOfind her leg gone.This time, her captors had removed her prosthetic before chaining her to a post. She wasn’t in a cramped stateroom this time. She was below deck in a wide-open space, posts reaching from floor to ceiling, spaced every ten feet or so. The smell of the bayou was stronger here than it had been elsewhere on the cursed ship. A single oil lantern burned with a greenish-white glow, making her large prison—perhaps the old ballroom, she thought—look as though it was covered in moss and mildew. A constant dripping behind her began to take on a life of its own. Jeannine tried to ignore the rhythmic splashing, but despite her attempts, her mind counted the splashes. One. Two. Twenty. A hundred.Someone, or something, coughed—a wet sound, perfectly matching her prison’s rhythm.“This must be the Sultana,”said a deep voice from behind her.She couldn’t believe it.“Curtis?” she asked, voice cracking.“Hiya, J,” said the same vo
Bayou Whispers TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-FIVEBayou Cypress Pavilion for the Criminally InsaneNew OrleansTHE CHEVY IMPALApulled up behind the police SUV. Fernández shut off the engine, and he and the Golem listened to the tink-tinkof the settling motor. Fernández tried Curtis’s cell to no avail. “What do you think?” asked Fernández, spitting out a wad of chewing tobacco.“It’s a Dismas Sheriff’s vehicle, all right,” said the Golem. “But if the Major were here, the place would be crawling with cops.”“Fair point. Let’s go see if we can find the boss.”As they got out of the car and headed toward the old asylum, the Golem called a halt.He was looking at the SUV.“These things have GPS trackers in them, don’t they?”“Yeah,” said Fernández. “Why?”“Well, we don’t want the Major or his goon squad showing up. Eventually, I assume they’ll be looking for this piece of shit.”“True, but I have no idea how to disable the—”The Golem picked up the truck and threw it into the bayou.Fernández blinked.
Bayou Whispers TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FOURBayou Cypress Pavilion for the Criminally InsaneNew Orleans“MAMA?” CROAKED JEANNINE.The sound of her voice echoed dully in the ruins of the asylum. The corpse-thing that had been Cassandra LaRue began a side-shuffling, slow limp toward them. Beetles and roaches streamed from underneath rotted clothing.“That’s far enough,” said Curtis, when the creature had closed the distance between them to five feet. He produced a pistol he’d taken from the body of one of the Major’s guards.Jeannine saw the gun and knew there was only one place Curtis could have gotten it. Cops. They were cops. She killed two cops. Dirty or no, they were—stop it! Not now.The creature let out a moist sound that could have been a laugh. The remaining skin on the left side of its jaw sloughed off and the mandible dislocated.Cassandra-corpse didn’t notice.“The Major’s men are Nazis, for lack of a better label,” she rasped. “You shouldn’t feel guilty about killing Nazis, Dear-heart.” The
Bayou Whispers TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-THREEU-Store-It!Public Self-Storage Units off of Interstate 12CHARLEY “THE GOLEM” MOUTONhad taken out a dozen zombie soldiers before the undead creatures knew they were in trouble. He’d picked up Roo’s truck and used it as a massive sledgehammer to pound them into dust. “Golem,” yelled Fernández, as a couple of the undead turned from the resurrected Charley to renew their attack on him.The Golem moved toward Fernández and tore the heads off the would-be attackers.Fernández picked up the axe that had fallen from his hands during the onslaught, and he and the Golem prepared to charge at the remaining zonbi soldiers.The sharp blast of a horn startled them.The undead turned and retreated from the storage unit.Fernández and the Golem chased after the blue and grey ghouls. The Golem ran in a sideways lope reminiscent of a large primate and roared at the top of his lungs. Fernández moved as quickly as he could to catch up and was so focused on the pumping of his
Bayou Whispers TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-TWOBayou Cypress Pavilion for the Criminally InsaneNew OrleansTHEY WAITED UNTILdaybreak to explore the ruined psychiatric center. Curtis tried Roo and Fernández one last time, leaving a message.“Roo, if you get this, J and I are free and we’re at Cass’s place. Come when you can. Gallow’s in bed with the Major. Watch your asses.” Curtis put the cell back in his pocket. Two calls—to Roo and Fernández, leaving two identical voicemails. Dawn had broken and he hoped his two compadreswere okay—and that they’d been able to quietly bring back the Golem.I’m not sure what will piss Charley off more—the amount of shit he’s missed in the last twenty-four hours, or the fact that Gallow betrayed us. How did I not see that coming? Georgina always hated him, refused to eat at his restaurant even.Jeannine spent an hour adjusting her prosthetic. “It’s the humidity. Makes the stump swell.”It was the only thing she’d said to Jones all morning.When she was done, she s
