French Silk(98)

She buttoned it haphazardly and shoved it back into her waistband as she rode the elevator down to the street level. She also replaced her sunglasses. As she moved through the Fairmont's lobby she kept her head down. She spotted Andre from the corner of her eye, but didn't slow down or encourage him to approach her as she left the building. She retrieved Claire's rented van from the parking garage and headed across Canal Street.

It was a mild evening. Many were getting a head start on the weekend. The streets of the French Quarter were crowded with tourists who tied up motor traffic and jammed the narrow sidewalks. Yasmine had difficulty finding a parking place and finally left the van in a tow-away zone. She still had to walk several blocks down Rue Dumaine to reach her destination. She made eye contact with no one and drew as little attention to herself as possible.

The place was still open, but if she hadn't known it was there, she would never have noticed it. Several shoppers were browsing among the shelves of herbs that would find their way into gris-gris and potions.

"I'd like to see the priestess," Yasmine said, speaking softly to the attendant, who was smoking a joint. The aged hippie withdrew, then returned a moment later to signal Yasmine to follow her.

The Altar Room was separated from the shop by a dusty maroon velvet curtain. The walls were decorated with African masks and metal carvings, called vévé, which evoked powerful spirits. A large wooden cross stood in one corner, but it wasn't a traditional crucifix. Curled around the center post was Damballah, the snake, the most powerful spirit. Residing in a wire cage in the opposite corner was a python, representative of Damballah. The snake was used in the voodoo rituals conducted in the swamps outside the city. On the altar itself were statues of Christian saints, photographs of people who claimed to have been blessed by the spirits, flickering candles, burning sticks of incense, and ju-ju, the bones and skulls of animals.

The priestess was seated in the queen's chair adjacent to the altar. She was immense, her enormous breasts overlapping a belly comprised of several rolls of fat. Her large head was wrapped in a turban. Dozens of gold chains were suspended from her short, thick neck. On at least half of them were dangling charms, lockets, and other amulets. Her hands were as large as baseball gloves. Several rings glittered on each finger. She raised one of her giant hands and motioned Yasmine forward.

The priestess was Haitian, as black as ebony. Her wide, round face was oily and shiny with sweat. In a trancelike state, she observed her visitor through heavy-lidded, slumberous eyes that were as small and brilliant as onyx buttons.

Yasmine addressed her with more reverence than a devout Catholic would address a cardinal. "I need your help." The dense smoke from the incense was intoxicating. Yasmine felt light-headed, but she always did whenever she visited this underworld of black magic. Dark powers seemed to emanate from the priestess, from her paraphernalia, from the murky shadows of every corner.

In a flat, monotonic voice, Yasmine told the priestess about her lover. "He's lied to me many times. He's an evil man. He must be punished."

The priestess nodded sagely. "Do you have something of his?"

"Yes."

The priestess raised one beringed hand and an assistant materialized. She offered Yasmine a small crockery bowl. Yasmine scraped the human tissue and specks of dried blood from beneath her fingernails and carefully dropped the particles into the bowl. Next she removed the strands of Alister's hair that were still wrapped around the fingers of her left hand and added them to the bowl.

Then she lifted her gaze to the priestess. Flickering candlelight was reflected in her agate eyes, making them appear animalistic. Her lips barely moved, but her sibilant message was clear. "I want him to suffer badly."

* * *

Belle Petrie was waiting for Alister in the foyer when he arrived at their Greek revival home on the shore of Lake Ponchartrain. The children had been fed earlier and sent to bed. Before leaving for the day, the full-time housekeeper/cook had set the formal dining table with the best china and added fresh flowers to the centerpiece.

Belle was dressed in purple silk lounging pajamas that swished against her legs as she moved forward to greet her husband. "My God. Did she do that to you?" As she examined the scratches on his cheek, there was no sympathy in her voice, merely surprise.

"Satisfied, Belle? These scratches should prove that I did what I promised."

"You told her that it was over for good and warned her not to bother us anymore?"

"Precisely that. Then she charged me like a goddamn panther."

Belle's gleaming page boy barely rippled as she made a tsking sound and shook her head. "Go upstairs and swab those scratches with peroxide while I pour our dinner wine."

"I'm not hungry."

"Of course you are, darling," she said with a fixed smile. "Run along and tend to your face. I'll expect you back down shortly."

Alister recognized her suggestion for what it was—a test to see if he would obey. In her subtle way, she was stating the terms under which she would stay with him, financially support his campaign, and decline to expose him for the unfaithful, lying husband that he was. From here on, she was the writer, producer, and director of this charade. If he wanted to play, he must accept his role and carry it out to the letter.

What choice did he have but to accept her conditions, no matter how unpalatable? Sure, he'd go along for a while. It would behoove him to toe the line until after the election. Then, if he wanted to resume his affair with Yasmine, or start a new one with somebody else, he'd damned well do it. Just because he'd been caught once didn't mean he intended to live the rest of his life as Belle's neutered lapdog. For the time being, however, it was prudent to pretend.