All Chapters of Bayou Whispers: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

TENGreenwood Cemetery Caretaker’s CottageNew OrleansPapa NightmareCURTIS KNEW OF the legendary Voodoo witch doctor, of course. He was a local celebrity. He did magic for the tourists, all the while telling them stories of New Orleans’s past. While he had the crowd’s attention, his minions picked the pockets of the more inebriated audience members. He was also in bed with the Cartel, providing safe passage for drugs and for people who wanted to come to the States illegally. If they could pay, of course. While Curtis’s krewe didn’t indulge in human trafficking or in drugs, Nightmare and Curtis were rivals of a sort. At least, Curtis liked to think so. In truth, his operation was small time compared to the self-proclaimed sorcerer.Smaller than he’d thought, Curtis admitted to himself as he watched Fernández and Gallow carry the unconscious Stanley Bernstein into Roo’s cottage.Now, how the hell is the shrink mixed up in this?“We need to get him to a doctor,” grunted Fe

TWELVEGreenwood Cemetery Caretaker’s CottageNew OrleansSHE’D APPEARED IN the middle of the road, damp and muddy, but alive. Roo tried to explain how the Sultana could travel on any existing and past waterway—and certainly the bit of road they’d been on was near enough to the river. But no one could explain to Curtis why Jeannine had appeared exactly where the krewe was at exactly the right time. Gallow wanted to bring her to a hospital, but Curtis, not trusting any government institution, had insisted they go back to Roo’s safe house. Curtis carried her into the caretaker’s cottage himself but refused to lay her on the couch that Stanley-the-asshole had occupied barely an hour earlier. He carried Jeannine up the stairs to the little spare room across from the master.The room was just big enough for a creaky twin bed with fresh sheets. Roo never knew when a member of the krewe would be sleeping one off at his place, so he kept the bed at the ready.“She’ll

FOURTEENGreenwood Cemetery Caretaker’s CottageNew OrleansCURTIS LOOKED AT Jeannine standing on the first step that led up to Roo’s attic conversion. He finally had a moment to process that Jeannine was back in town. She was really here.And she was pissed.A mix of emotions overwhelmed him. He wanted to throw his arms around her and tell her he was sorry. He wanted to yell at her for going off with that asshole Bernstein all those years ago. He wanted to laugh, to cry. To scream. He wanted to tell her he’d protect her, and it would be all right.But all he could do was to remember to breathe.“Well, it’s a pretty long and convoluted story,” he finally said. It even sounded lame to his ears.“I’m used to listening to long, convoluted stories from defendants,” replied Jeannine. “I think I’d like to hear it.”“Jeannine . . . it’s been so long, couldn’t we just . . . ?”“No,” she said flatly. “I have some questions, Curtis, and I’m going to get answers fi

SIXTEENGreenwood Cemetery Caretaker’s CottageNew OrleansTHEY WERE OUTSIDE the cottage, near the parked truck. “Roo, can you get to Charley before those things get here?” asked Curtis through gritted teeth.“Yeah, he’s wrapped up—but I hate moving him before the process is complete.”“Get him into the bed of the pickup. Fernández, go with him.”“Do you expect to waltz through a couple hundred zonbi?” asked an incredulous Gallow, as he pulled a shotgun from behind the couch.“No, I expect we will run away as fast as we can get out of here.”“And go where, Jonesy? My restaurant and house are sure to be covered with cops.”“Back to my place.”“We burned it to the ground, remember?”“I do. You didn’t burn the bunker, though.”“Guys,” began Jeannine. “While I appreciate this macho banter, can we move, please? I’m really not interested in hanging out with the dead again, especially if Papa Nightmare is here, too.”An engine roared outside and Roo screamed something unin

EIGHTEENThe SultanaEASY STREET HAD always loved playing his horn. The music naturally flowed from him. His mama had never been able to afford him lessons when he was younger. When he was alive.He’d stolen his sax—Ms. Maxine, as he’d lovingly named her—from a white man who owned a pawn shop long since bulldozed. Old man Gene loved to beat on black people, especially children. Nobody cared back then. Mostly, they still didn’t care, from what Easy Street had seen.So, he stole Ms. Maxine. But try as he might, he couldn’t get a sound out of her.Until a man named Reggie explained what a “reed” was and taught him how to blow into the horn all proper. He even taught the boy how to hold the instrument. Reggie played records for him, and young Easy Street listened, then noodled on the horn until he found the right notes. In less than a month, the kid was able to play old Ms. Maxine like a pro.“Boy,” said Reggie one day, “I never heard nor done seen the like. You is a natural,