After a moment Deborah muttered, “Shit,” and went over to the
car. And because like all inquiring minds I want to know, I followed.
When I got to the car Deborah was tapping on the glass of the
passenger-side window and the babalao was still staring straight ahead, jaw
clenched, grimly pretending not to see her. Debs knocked harder; he shook his
head. “Open the door,” she said in her best police-issue
put-down-the-gun voice. He shook his head harder. She knocked on the window
harder. “Open it!” she said.
Finally he rolled down the window. “This is
nothing to do with me,” he said.
“Then what is it?” Deborah asked him.
He just shook his head. “I need to get back to
work,” he said.
“Is it Palo Mayombe?” I asked him, and Debs glared at me for
interrupting, but it seemed like a fair question. Palo Mayombe was a somewhat
darker offshoot of Santeria, and although I knew almost nothing about it, there
had been rumors of some very wicked rituals that had piqued my interest.
But the babalao shook his head. “Listen,” he
said. “There's stuff out there, you guys got no idea, and you don't wanna
know.”
“Is this one of those
things?” I asked. “I dunno,” he said. “Might be.”
“What can you tell us about it?” Deborah demanded. “I can't tell
you nothing 'cause I don't know nothing,” he said. "But I don't like
it and I don't want
anything to do with it. I got important stuff to do
today-tell the cop I gotta go.“ And he rolled the window up again.
”Shit,“ Deborah said, and she looked at me accusingly. ”Well I
didn't do anything,“ I said. ”Shit,“ she said again. ”What
the hell does that mean?"
“I am completely in the dark,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” she said, and she looked entirely unconvinced, which was a
little ironic. I mean, people believe me all the time when I'm being somewhat
less than perfectly truthful-and yet here was my own foster flesh and blood,
refusing to believe that I was, in fact, completely in the dark. Aside from the
fact that the babalao seemed to be having the same reaction as the
Passenger-and what should I make of that?
Before I could pursue that fascinating
line of thought, I realized that Deborah was still staring at me with
an exceedingly unpleasant expression on her face.
“Did you find the heads?” I asked, quite helpfully I thought.
“We might get a feel for the ritual if we saw what he did to the
heads.”
“No, we haven't found the heads. I haven't found
anything except a brother who's holding out on me.”
“Deborah, really, this
permanent air of nasty suspicion is not good for your face muscles. You'll get
frown lines.” “Maybe I'll get a killer, too,” she said, and
walked back to the two charred bodies. Since my usefulness was apparently at an
end, at least as far as my sister was concerned, there was really
not a great deal more for me to do on-site. I finished up with my blood
kit, taking small samples of the dried black stuff caked around the two necks,
and headed back to the lab in plenty of time for a late lunch.
But alas, poor Dauntless Dexter obviously had a target painted on his
back, because my troubles had barely begun. Just as I was tidying up my desk
and getting ready to take part in the cheerfully homicidal rush-hour traffic,
Vince Masuoka came skipping into my office. “I just talked to Manny,”
he said. “He can see us tomorrow morning at ten.”
“That's wonderful
news,” I said. “The only thing that could possibly make it any better
would be to know who Manny is and why he wants to see us.” Vince actually
looked a little hurt, one of the few genuine expressions I had ever seen on his
face.
“Manny Borque,” he said. “The
caterer.”
“The one from MTV?”
“Yeah, that's right,” Vince said. “The guy that's won
all the awards, and he's been written up in Gourmet magazine.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, stalling for time in the hope that some
brilliant flash of inspiration
car. And because like all inquiring minds I want to know, I followed.
When I got to the car Deborah was tapping on the glass of the
passenger-side window and the babalao was still staring straight ahead, jaw
clenched, grimly pretending not to see her. Debs knocked harder; he shook his
head. “Open the door,” she said in her best police-issue
put-down-the-gun voice. He shook his head harder. She knocked on the window
harder. “Open it!” she said.
Finally he rolled down the window. “This is
nothing to do with me,” he said.
“Then what is it?” Deborah asked him.
He just shook his head. “I need to get back to
work,” he said.
“Is it Palo Mayombe?” I asked him, and Debs glared at me for
interrupting, but it seemed like a fair question. Palo Mayombe was a somewhat
darker offshoot of Santeria, and although I knew almost nothing about it, there
had been rumors of some very wicked rituals that had piqued my interest.
But the babalao shook his head. “Listen,” he
said. “There's stuff out there, you guys got no idea, and you don't wanna
know.”
“Is this one of those
things?” I asked. “I dunno,” he said. “Might be.”
“What can you tell us about it?” Deborah demanded. “I can't tell
you nothing 'cause I don't know nothing,” he said. "But I don't like
it and I don't want
anything to do with it. I got important stuff to do
today-tell the cop I gotta go.“ And he rolled the window up again.
”Shit,“ Deborah said, and she looked at me accusingly. ”Well I
didn't do anything,“ I said. ”Shit,“ she said again. ”What
the hell does that mean?"
“I am completely in the dark,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” she said, and she looked entirely unconvinced, which was a
little ironic. I mean, people believe me all the time when I'm being somewhat
less than perfectly truthful-and yet here was my own foster flesh and blood,
refusing to believe that I was, in fact, completely in the dark. Aside from the
fact that the babalao seemed to be having the same reaction as the
Passenger-and what should I make of that?
Before I could pursue that fascinating
line of thought, I realized that Deborah was still staring at me with
an exceedingly unpleasant expression on her face.
“Did you find the heads?” I asked, quite helpfully I thought.
“We might get a feel for the ritual if we saw what he did to the
heads.”
“No, we haven't found the heads. I haven't found
anything except a brother who's holding out on me.”
“Deborah, really, this
permanent air of nasty suspicion is not good for your face muscles. You'll get
frown lines.” “Maybe I'll get a killer, too,” she said, and
walked back to the two charred bodies. Since my usefulness was apparently at an
end, at least as far as my sister was concerned, there was really
not a great deal more for me to do on-site. I finished up with my blood
kit, taking small samples of the dried black stuff caked around the two necks,
and headed back to the lab in plenty of time for a late lunch.
But alas, poor Dauntless Dexter obviously had a target painted on his
back, because my troubles had barely begun. Just as I was tidying up my desk
and getting ready to take part in the cheerfully homicidal rush-hour traffic,
Vince Masuoka came skipping into my office. “I just talked to Manny,”
he said. “He can see us tomorrow morning at ten.”
“That's wonderful
news,” I said. “The only thing that could possibly make it any better
would be to know who Manny is and why he wants to see us.” Vince actually
looked a little hurt, one of the few genuine expressions I had ever seen on his
face.
“Manny Borque,” he said. “The
caterer.”
“The one from MTV?”
“Yeah, that's right,” Vince said. “The guy that's won
all the awards, and he's been written up in Gourmet magazine.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, stalling for time in the hope that some
brilliant flash of inspiration
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