Catacomb (18 page)

“Find anything?” Abby asked.

“Yeah,” Dan replied, holding up the piece of cardboard for her to see. Using his phone for light, he leaned back in the seat and examined what they had unearthed. “Looks like a postcard maybe.”

He held the light to the cardboard and then brought it close to his face. There was faded writing on it, and the pen had cut so deeply into the paper that he could see the indented slices behind the ink.

“Hang on,” he said, reading. “I don’t think this is an assignment. It’s a poem, and I’ve seen it before.”

“What? How?” Sabrina blurted.

“Listen.” He held up his hand, taking a deep, shuddering breath before reading over the familiar lines. It was longer than he remembered. This time, it sounded complete. “‘Be not too happy nor too proud, beware your luck, crow not too loud; the Bone Artist steals and then he leaves: the Bone Artist, the Conjurer, the Prince of the Body Thieves.’”

T
he car rolled along steadily, bumping now and then, but that rhythmic jostling only made him drowsier. Dan struggled to keep his eyes open. He felt drugged, like he had been awake for days on end, sheer willpower alone keeping him upright. It was a sudden feeling and all encompassing; even his
toes
felt tired.

It didn’t seem natural, which made him think it would pass. He was starting to feel anxious about it, and he put his hand in his pocket to grab his meds before realizing he’d left them at Uncle Steve’s. He leaned to look past the center console at the windshield. They started to speed up, accelerating so abruptly he felt his stomach give a nauseating jerk. He tried to focus his eyes, watching the road twist and then straighten—and then drop out altogether. There was nothing in front of them, just empty space and what looked like a distant line of trees.

Dan called out. He didn’t know what he ended up saying, but he wanted it to be, “We’re going over the edge!”

Driver and passenger spun around to look at him. It wasn’t Oliver and Sabrina. Shouldn’t it have been Oliver and Sabrina? Dan flattened himself back against the seat, shaking.

They had no faces. God, there was nothing there at all. They were just blanks with bodies and hair, heads like clean, white
ovals, like eggs turned on their points. The faceless faces hovered in front of the bleak oncoming landscape as the car veered off the cliff edge, and then they were suspended. They watched Dan silently. How could they watch him without eyes? But he felt it, the full weight of their attention pinned on him.

For a second he was weightless inside the fear, rising up as the car plummeted down toward a blur of blue and white foam. A river. They would hit it any second now. He closed his eyes and braced, waiting for the final, hard crunch of impact.

Instead he flew awake in his bed, gasping so loudly and desperately his throat felt instantly raw.

For a full minute he couldn’t remember what had come before—there’d been the car ride, and finding the postcard with the poem, and then . . . ? When he thought about it, hard, the memories started to come back, as if they were from a year ago and not from last night. Oliver had had no idea what the poem was supposed to be—it didn’t look like the assignments he used to get—but Jordan had remembered the poem, too, from the library in Shreveport. They had all agreed to regroup at Oliver’s shop tonight after it closed.

Dan grabbed the top sheet and wiped his sweaty face across it. He didn’t want to close his eyes again, terrified of the white faces.

The room was already bright with morning sun, and though he didn’t feel rested, a quick glance at his phone confirmed he had slept through the night. Any minute now, Abby would be knocking on the door to make sure they were awake.

Dan got up and put on a faded T-shirt. When the knock came, Dan was surprised to find that not only had Abby
showered and gotten dressed, she’d come armed with three coffees and a bag of beignets.

“You went out?” Dan croaked, opening the door fully for her. She breezed in, setting the drinks down on the table with Jordan’s computer.

Jordan groaned and huddled under the sheets, pretend sobbing when she yanked the blinds open.

“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep in.”

“I can always sleep in,” Jordan whimpered, still hiding.

“And anyway Steve was up, too, so we did our morning yoga together and then went out to get breakfast for everyone.”

“Of course you did.” Dan smiled wanly at her, wishing he had a fraction of her taste for mornings.

“So I’ve been thinking,” she said, turning and flouncing down onto the chair in front of Jordan’s laptop, “what if this poem is like some kind of anthem for the people Micah worked for? Think about it, they definitely deal in bones, right? The ‘bone artists’? It makes sense.”

“Would you slow down? My brain’s still booting up,” Jordan murmured, finally crawling out of his cocoon of blankets. It was the first time Dan had seen his hair look truly unkempt instead of stylishly messy.

Abby zoomed onward, gesturing with half a beignet in her hand.

“I think we should ask that councilman about it today,” she added.

“No.” The response was automatic. Jordan and Abby both paused and stared at him. Dan shrugged. “I just think he’s too friendly, you know? Nobody should be that friendly.”

“That’s the most depressing thing you’ve ever said,” Jordan said, rolling onto his back. He punched a few pillows into shape and wedged them under his head. “Although Uncle Steve does say you should never trust anybody in a suit that costs more than a car.”

“Uncle Steve is an aging hippie,” Abby countered.

It was a little vicious. Jordan sputtered.

“What? It doesn’t make him any less lovable, but it’s true.”

“I just think it’s better if we keep all of this between us,” Dan said, redirecting. “This bone stuff is creepy.”

“Us and Oliver and Sabrina, you mean.”

“Abby . . . Okay, yes, between the five of us, then.”

Jordan held out an empty hand, opening and closing his fist until a beignet landed in it, thanks to Abby. “Let’s rewind for a minute here. What do we actually
know
from the poem? What did it show up on before?”

“On the newsprint you and Dan
borrowed
from the archives in Shreveport,” Abby said impatiently. “Not that I’m complaining, I guess. I know you grabbed that article for me.”

“An article about that gangster you’re researching,” Dan added, regarding her evenly over his coffee. “Which is, I’m guessing, the reason you’re so interested in the whole situation today.”

She took the accusation in stride, wiping the powdered sugar from her hands. “Fair enough, yes, there appears to be some overlap between Oliver’s former employers and Jimmy Orsini. Can you blame me for wanting to know more? This is a project I’ve been thinking about all summer, so
pardon me
if I’d like to follow up on this connection.”

“I’m
glad
, Abby. It’s nice not to feel like the Lone Ranger in this,” Dan replied. “And I think you’re right. We shouldn’t overlook anything as coincidence at this point.”

“Then we agree,” Abby said, lifting her chin into the air. “We’ll ask the councilman about it today.”

“I didn’t say that—”

“God, it’s too early to argue,” Jordan interrupted, shutting both of them up. “We’ll flip a coin before we head to the store. There? See? Now someone hand me a coffee before I get grumpy for real.”

M
adame A’s, a sloped, mauve-colored storefront, was not on any street Dan could discern; it huddled between the sidewalk and a back alley, a single dingy lantern and sign whispering its presence.

A strong reek of hot garbage wafted toward them from the shadowy courtyard at the end of the alley. The familiar, discordant whine of jazz musicians warming up—fiddle and trumpet and saxophone clashing against one another—drifted just above the stench, which was so thick it seemed to have its own bitter flavor.

“What an interesting smell we’ve discovered,” Jordan mumbled dryly, sticking close to his friends, wedged right in the middle of them.

The windows of the shop were blacked out, smudged with paint or grease. A cat wandered out to meet them, a one-eyed calico with three quarters of a tail. It watched them with its little fuzzy chin tilted up and imperiously to the side. The door to Madame A’s was already open a fraction, a curtain behind the door perfectly still in the rank doldrums of the alleyway.

“After you,” Dan said, gesturing for Abby to go first. “This being your idea and all.”

“Let’s just hope it smells better on the inside,” she whispered,
taking a hesitant gulp of air before plunging through the curtain.

The atmosphere inside the antique shop wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it was at least well lit, and the garbage smell was replaced by the overpowering perfume of jasmine incense. The place did remind Dan a little of the back room in Oliver’s shop, but it was even more crowded here and far less organized. The ceiling was cluttered with mobiles, some made from beads and crystals, others of bone and feather. The far wall was covered with a giant display of candles, bottles, flags, and tiny tincture pots. A crooked sign had been posted above it, reading:
CANDLES—OILS—DRAPO—CONJURE HAND RUBS.

Dan wandered over to inspect the display, dodging propped-up glass cases filled with pamphlets, books, and jewelry. After all the talk about grave robbing, Dan couldn’t look at valuables like this without imagining who had once owned them, and when they’d been lost. Then, another gust of jasmine-scented air rolled through the shop. A haze of smoke made the room feel small and dreamlike.

Dan picked up one of the candles, inspecting the label.

“‘Les Morts,’”
he read softly.

“It’s for Voudon practitioners.”

Dan set down the candle with a quick swivel of his head. He was no longer alone at the display, but he hadn’t heard Connor Finnoway approach. The councilman, taller than Dan by a head, reached over his shoulder and took the same candle, turning it slowly in his hand.

“It’s a misunderstood religion,” the councilman added with a smile. “Most of these candles are for luck, for health, for love. Nothing sinister about it.”

Dan nodded, but he wasn’t so sure. His French wasn’t great, but he didn’t know how anything called
Les Morts
could be for luck, health, or love.

The councilman had changed suits, though this one was just as slick as the last. The watch on his left wrist sparkled with diamonds.

“Mr. Finnoway?” Abby joined them. “Thanks for meeting us. I had some questions for you.”

“Ah. No preamble,” he said, chuckling. He turned to Dan but pointed at Abby. “Very concise. I like that.”

Dan didn’t care what he liked. He wasn’t crazy about the idea of asking Finnoway about the poem they had found, but Abby had won the coin toss. Across the room, Jordan was busy talking to a tall, willowy woman with glittering dark eyes and skin. It was impossible to tell how old she was; her features appeared delicate, timeless. The way she seemed to rule over the shop without lifting a finger or saying a word made Dan think she must be the eponymous Madame A.

“There’s this verse,” Abby was already saying, offering the councilman a version of the poem she had copied down onto a fresh sheet of paper. “We’ve seen it twice now—once in Shreveport and once here in New Orleans. We were wondering if it means anything to locals.”

Finnoway browsed the paper, one eyebrow quirking up in interest. “And what did Steve Lipcott have to say about it?”

Abby blushed, glancing side to side. “I didn’t actually ask him. He didn’t grow up here.”

“Smart of you to consult a native.” The councilman grinned, then handed the poem back to Abby. “I’ve heard it before, but
not since childhood. It’s a sort of nursery school rhyme, our version of a boogeyman. You know, eat your broccoli, say your prayers, or the Bone Artists will come and take off your toes.”

Dan glanced at Abby, but she apparently had the same thought, and she vocalized it first. “That seems awfully harsh. I mean, do you really tell children someone will take their bones?”

“Hansel and Gretel are fattened up to be eaten. Stories for children have always leaned toward the macabre.” He grinned, showing perfectly even and white teeth. “At any rate, it’s not a popular story here anymore.” He nodded toward the poem in her hand. “That’s about as vintage as anything you’d find in this store.”