“And you need help,” Bronwyn said, her voice uncharacteristically subdued.
“I think I do, if it’s offered. I’d limit your exposure to the actual demon, but it would be a huge help to piggyback on your coven’s power. . . . I’m sorry, Bronwyn. You’re probably regretting getting to know me about now.”
Bronwyn smiled and came over to give me a hug. “Never, sweetie. Never. I’ll talk to the coven women and let you know what they say.”
“We’ve got your back, Lily,” put in Maya. “We wouldn’t let you go it alone.”
Oscar trotted over to join in the love fest.
How did I ever get so lucky?
I got together with Hervé LaMansec, my new friend at the Ramp, an informal restaurant with tables outside by the water, near China Basin.
Hervé and I met not long ago when I was investigating the haunting by
La Llorona.
Though his vodou belief system, methods, and power source were completely different from mine, I felt a certain kinship with him as a fellow power-bearer, just as I did with Aidan.
I watched as he wound through the tables toward me. A man of medium height but with a thick, football player’s build, his dark skin gleamed in the sun. Everything about Hervé was formidable—you could see people unconsciously making way for him, as though he were royalty. When he drew near to my table, his rather severe face split in a huge grin. I stood and we hugged.
“Lily, wonderful to see you,” he said as he took a seat. “I keep hearing about your exploits in the bay. Each version more exaggerated than the last. That was one for the ages.”
“Thank you, I think.”
The waiter approached, and we both ordered sweet tea. I asked for clam chowder and salad, while Hervé ordered a vegetarian Gardenburger with fries. I noticed Hervé used a thick Caribbean inflection when he spoke to the waiter. With me, he switched back to his genuine L.A. accent. He told me once that the Caribbean persona was part of the package his customers paid for, and I saw his point. Most people wanted the “beyond” to be exotic; for some reason it was easier to believe in oddities from a faraway locale rather than from one’s oh-so-familiar backyard. It made me wonder whether practitioners of magic in the Caribbean used an “exotic” California accent to please their customers.
I gave Hervé a quick rundown of the problems at the School of Fine Arts. He wasn’t fazed by talk of ghosts, but he reared back at the mention of a demon.
“Those guys scare me,” he said.
“Me, too,” I replied.
“How has it been manifesting?”
“Sowing discontent amongst the students, a couple of cases of temporary possession, and someone jumped out a window. . . .”
Hervé chuckled. “Busy little fella, huh?”
“Oh, and there was one murder that sort of kicked things off, though, that seems to have been human caused.”
“The demon might have stirred someone up, inspired him or her to do something they might not have otherwise. Or it could have been the other way round—the murder could have fed the demon.”
I nodded.
“Keep an eye on anyone who was possessed, temporarily or not,” he said.
I nodded again, and handed him a Xeroxed copy of the page from the demonology. “This is him.”
“As you know, we have a different pantheon in vodou. I did have a case once, a few years ago, where I actually worked with a Catholic priest to dispel a demonic presence.”
“A priest worked with you?” I was surprised to hear that.
“A very open-minded priest. He and I had worked together to provide services for at- risk populations, homeless kids, and the like. What I do know is that a fellow like this”—he held up the piece of paper, seemingly unwilling to mention his name—“might be conjured easily, especially within a portal, or without imposed restraints. But the opposite, the binding, must have been done intentionally, and with great power. Is Aidan Rhodes involved?”
“How do you mean, involved?”
“Is he one of those who trapped the creature the last time?”
“I don’t think so. It was before his time.”
Hervé stared at me for a long moment.
“What?” I asked
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Sure about . . . ?”
“Aidan looks good for his age.”
The waitress came with our food. Savory aromas wafted up to us.
“By the way,” Hervé said, “I’ve had recent visits from two young women who go to the School of Fine Arts. One was Andromeda something. She told me she knew you. She wanted something to hurt a ghost she thought had killed her father.”
“You’re kidding me.” I put my glass of iced tea down with a clunk. “What did you tell her?”
“I tried logic first, but soon resorted to trickery.” He smiled and shrugged at my surprised look, then dipped a French fry in a puddle of ketchup mixed with Tabasco sauce. “I gave her some old herbs and salts, wrote down a few meaningless words, and told her they would cause great pain and torment to the ghost’s ears.”
“Do ghosts even
have
ears?”
He laughed, a pleasant rumble from deep within his chest. “She was looking for guidance, feeling out of control. As you know, in such cases as these, the belief is more important than the actual result.”
“True enough. You said there were a couple of girls?”
“The other came by just yesterday. Virginia something.”
“Virginia? Could it have been Ginny?”
“She said Virginia. She mentioned that her mother runs the school?”
“What did
she
want?”
He had a pensive look on his face, and a slightly bemused frown. “Sulfur. And protective herbs.”
“Did she say what she wanted them for?”
“Looked to me like she was looking for ways to deal with a demon. I told her to speak to you, but she said she couldn’t. I didn’t give her anything she could hurt herself with, but it’s worth noting. In any case,” Hervé continued, “if Rhodes was involved, that would explain why he’s so interested in the current case, and yet why he’s not becoming directly involved.”
“Why would Aidan hesitate to get involved?”
He shrugged. “Once you are known to the demon, he can eat away at you. Bound or not, he’s probably figured out a way through Rhodes’s defenses by now. Can’t go back without all hell breaking loose.” He took a huge bite of his Gardenburger.
I was impressed. This wasn’t Hervé’s area. It wasn’t even his belief system; yet he knew much more than I about how things worked. Not for the first time I regretted having left home before my training was complete. I needed to remedy that, and soon, if I was going to keep on getting enmeshed in such things. My naïve desire to keep the whole witch thing under wraps seemed less and less likely as each demonic day passed.
“I guess what I need is to develop an exorcism plan,” I thought aloud.
“Consult the demonology for suggestions, but I would recommend you rely primarily upon your own power sources. Given your talents, you’ll be more effective with your own approach. Brew something, chant, or whatever it is you do that focuses your power.”
“So basically you’re telling me I need to handle this. By myself.”
Hervé grinned and winked at me. “Go get ’em, tiger. You’re stronger than you know.”
I wished I had his faith.
Chapter 21
After lunch I sat in my car watching the seagulls swoop and dive and dance on the breeze, and wondering what my next move should be.
The good news was I
wasn’t
in this alone; I felt sure Bronwyn’s coven would come through, and though they didn’t have a fraction of my power, the focused and unyielding faith of a group of women was no small addition to my arsenal. I also decided to call Graciela and ask for long-distance backup for my spell. While I was at it, I would see if she had any further advice.
The bad news was that I had to deal with the demon. The worse news was there was still a murderer of the human variety on the loose.
I started up the car. There were a few more people I wanted to talk to before I could put this demon, and this case, to rest. First stop: San Francisco General’s psychiatric ward.
I was pleasantly surprised that Walker Landau agreed to talk to me. He shuffled into the rec room wearing a blue bathrobe over a dingy gray T-shirt and navy blue sweatpants. Sluggish movements and speech suggested the effects of heavy medication.
We took seats at a small table with a checkerboard on top.
“Andromeda says you’re decent,” Walker began, staring down at the checkerboard. “She came to see me, for a quick visit. She vouched for you.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Is Todd still angry at me?”
“Todd? Why would he be angry?”
“Because of Andromeda and me.”
Why was Todd so interested in what happened to Andromeda? I wondered. He seemed so in love with Marlene. . . .
“Because of the note.”
“What note?”
Walker paused, as if the mental energy required to process my question were overwhelming.
“The one he wanted me to write to Becker.”
“What about?”
“Blackmail. Because I figured out Jerry killed that art student long ago. So very long ago . . .” He sighed, and seemed to rally.
“You’re referring to the death of John Daniels?”
He nodded, picking at a loose string on his bathrobe.
“How did you figure that out?”
“Ginny said something once. I was already curious because I’d been looking into the so-called haunting on the staircase. I managed to track down Jerry’s former girlfriend in Sausalito; she was the victim’s girlfriend, too. Then I hinted around, and Jerry basically confessed.”
“Becker confessed to you that he killed John Daniels?”
“It was a coupla weeks ago, after Andromeda’s art show at a gallery on Chestnut Street. Jerry’d heard the noises on the stairs—you know, the ones you heard?—the previous night. He was upset, had been drinking a lot. I guess he’d been living with the guilt for a long time. That sort of thing can, you know, eat away at you over the years.”
Couldn’t it just?
“When I shared what I learned with Todd, he told me to demand money in exchange for my silence,” Walker continued. “But I asked for Andi instead.”
“What do you mean you ‘asked’ for Andromeda? She’s a woman, not a possession.” I caught myself. I needed Walker to answer my questions. “And her father agreed?”
“I told Jerry I would keep his secret if he got Andromeda to marry me.”
“How was he supposed to arrange that?”
Walker shrugged.
“So you wrote the blackmail note and . . . ?”
His eyes darted around the room. “I gave it to him a coupla days before he was killed. Todd helped. He brought me the cut-out letters; even told me what to write. It wasn’t my fault. But then I asked for Andi instead of the money. I guess that part was sort of my fault.”
Gee, you think?
I wanted to ask, but controlled myself. “Let me get this straight: Todd encouraged you to blackmail Jerry Becker for money. Were you supposed to share it with him?”
“You know, that’s the funny part. I don’t think Todd cared about the money, not really. Mostly he hated Jerry, so he targeted what Jerry valued most.”
“His money.”
“That’s right.”
“Not his daughter?” And the Father of the Year Award lost another contender.
“He said rich people only felt pain in their pocketbooks.”
“Did Becker know Todd was involved?”
“No.” He shook his head vigorously. “Anyway, I never told him about Todd. He seemed pretty sure I had a partner, but he thought it was Luc. That was what they were arguing about in the café the night Jerry died.”
“Walker, don’t you think you should tell the police what you know?”
“They wouldn’t believe me. I’m in the loony bin, after all.”
“Call this number.” I handed him Carlos Romero’s card. I had memorized the number by now, anyway. “Inspector Romero’s familiar with what’s been going on at the school. He’ll listen to your side of things. You can trust him.”
Walker stared at the business card for a moment, then nodded.
“So we still don’t know who killed Becker,” I pondered aloud.
“Oh, I know who killed him.”
“You do?” That’ll teach me not to ask the obvious questions.
A look of confusion came into his eyes. “Haven’t you been listening? I thought you understood.”
“What? Who?”
“Daniels.”
“John Daniels?”
“Well, his ghost. To avenge his death.”
I shook my head and blew out a frustrated breath. “The ghost didn’t kill anyone. Becker was killed by a human, Walker.”
“Really? You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Wow. Who would do such a thing? Maybe Ginny? She didn’t like that Jerry was sleeping with her mom. Or that security guard—Kevin something? He’s always hanging around. Or Luc. He was going to meet Jerry that night. Or—”
Time to wrap this up. “Thanks, Walker. I really appreciate your taking the time to talk to me. I’m afraid I have to run.”
“Do you think Andromeda is still interested in me?”
I sighed, though he had my sympathy. Poor Walker Landau was acting like people did when under the spell of the sort of love magic I refused to perform—mindlessly devoted and smitten unto obnoxiousness.
“Why don’t you focus on getting well? Make yourself strong in mind and body, take some time with your art and what-all, and when you’re feeling good again,
then
go talk to Andromeda. She’s pretty vulnerable herself right now. She just lost her dad. Not a time to make important life decisions.”
“Of course,” Walker said, though the feverish gleam of unrequited love—or obsession—shone in his eyes. “You’re right.”
Somehow I doubted he would take my advice.
I took a deep breath when I got outside, lifting my face to the sun, feeling its warmth and thinking about how easy it was to be a fool for love. In some ways I was just beginning to get to know Max, but already he’d made me doubt my vow to be true to myself. That was pretty profound, not to mention disturbing. And speaking of Max . . .