James Burke - The New Iberia Blues

I dumped the trunk and wardrobe box, then the baby carriage. As the purses and wallets and women’s clothing and photos spilled on the floor, I saw the one object I did not want to find, one that sucked the air from my chest.

I picked it out of the pile and went down the ladder and eased the drop door back into the ceiling, then went into the kitchen. Bailey was sitting at the table. “What is it?”

I set the box on the table. “The tarot.”

“Shit,” Clete said behind me.

I sat down and put the deck in Bailey’s hand. “See if there’s anything significant about the deck. Missing cards or whatever.”

She began separating the suits, then stopped and set one card aside. It was a card called the Empress. It was also disfigured. She resumed sorting the deck and put four other cards with the Empress. “The Queen of Cups, the Queen of Pentacles, the Hanged Man, the Ten of Wands, the Empress, the Ace of Wands, and the Fool all have X’s cut on them,” she said. “The Queen of Cups is Bella Delahoussaye. The Queen of Pentacles is Hilary Bienville. The Hanged Man and the Ten of Wands could be Joe Molinari. The Fool might be Antoine Butterworth. The Empress is Lucinda Arceneaux. The Ace of Swords is for sure Axel Devereaux.”

“You’re sure about this?” Clete said.

“No,” she replied. “That’s all guesswork.”

“Why is Lucinda Arceneaux the Empress and not Hilary or Bella?” I said.

“The Empress is the earth mother, the patroness of charity and kindness.”

“Why are you so certain about the Ace of Swords for Axel Devereaux?” I said.

“The Ace of Swords means raw power,” she said. “In reverse, it can mean loss and hatred and self-destruction. Devereaux had a baton shoved down his throat. The killer put a fool’s cap on him to ridicule him in death.”

“Why two cards for Molinari?” I said.

“Good question. My guess is Wexler thinks of him as both a sacrificial and a mediocre personality. Molinari was related to one of the guards in the jail?”

“Yes,” I said. But she already knew that. She was holding something back; I was afraid to find out what.

“The High Priestess is missing from the deck,” she said.

“What’s the High Priestess?” I said.

“She sits at the entrance to Solomon’s Temple. She holds the Book of Wisdom in her hand and is identified with purity and intellectualism.”

I felt my heart slowing, as though it no longer had the power to pump blood. “You think the High Priestess is Alafair?”

Bailey visibly tried not to swallow. “Who else would it be? Maybe he saved her out. There’s something else I want you to see.”

I coughed into my hand. “What?”

“This.” The letters B and S had been scratched into the table’s surface. “They’re fresh, maybe cut with a fork. They mean anything to you other than ‘bullshit’?”

I was having trouble breathing. “They’re a message to me from Alafair. I think they stand for ‘Baby Squanto.’ ”

I went outside and across the gallery and out into the yard. The sky was an unnatural blue, shiny, hard to look at. Bailey followed me. “Everything we’re doing now is based on speculation,” she said.

“I think everything you said is correct,” I said. “Don’t try to put a good hat on it.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” she said. “The guy we’re dealing with is a ritualist. What looks crazy to us makes complete sense to him. He’s going to come back to the place he started. The challenge is to put yourself in the head of a lunatic.”

“Say that again?”

“Ritualists often seek symmetry. People with severe psychological disorders have trouble drawing a tree or making a circle. Our guy will try to come full circle.”

“With the cross out on the water?” I said.

“Or something like it.”

“Do you have any idea how many square miles of water you’re talking about?” I said.

“That’s about as good as it gets, Dave,” she replied. “I’m sorry to say all these things. Maybe I’m dead wrong.”

I looked back at the house. The sun was higher in the sky. The shadows had dropped down into the trees. The house looked cold and empty and drab in the bright light.

“It all seems too easy,” I said.

“What does?” she said.

“The baby carriage filled with trophies from his crimes. The boxed cards with X’s cut on them.”

“He’s a trophy killer,” she said.

Clete was talking to Sean by the gallery while Sean stared at his feet as though being berated. Clete walked toward me. “Can you give us a minute, Miss Bailey?” he said.

“No, I cannot,” she said. “Where do you get off with that attitude?”

“I was just wondering about McClain,” he said.

“What about him?” she said.

“He told me he might be going out to Hollywood. That Cormier might be casting him.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” she said. “He’s a kid.”

“I thought he was North Lousiana’s answer to the Lone Ranger,” Clete said.

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“That he shouldn’t be palling around with a guy who might be aiding and abetting a murderer,” Clete said.

I stared at Sean in the sunlight. He wore a department hat that made his face look gray and dusty under the brim, as if he had been working all day in a field. He tried to smile at me, but his lip seemed to catch on a bottom tooth.

“You sure that kid’s not hinky?” Clete said.

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Lou Wexler.

“I’m glad I caught you,” he said.

My hand was trembling on the phone. “Where are you, Mr. Wexler?”

“Trying to find Alafair. Lose the formality. We’re on the same side.”

“Alafair is not with you?”

“Desmond has her. Stop listening to that man’s lies.”

“We’re at your house in St. Martinville. I saw the tarot. I saw your trophies in the attic.”

“What trophies?”

“The wallets and purses and shoes and bandanas.”

“Those are props from a film we made about a serial killer.” He gave me the title and named the actors and the directors. My head was throbbing. I couldn’t process his words.

“I don’t know anything about a tarot,” he went on. “If you found it in my house, Des put it there. He’s been salting the mineshaft. Isn’t that the term for it?”

“How do you account for the shooting in City Park?”

“You’ve got me on that one. My Lamborghini was in the shop, so I borrowed Antoine’s Subaru. I was having a go of it with a local lady when this nasty little sod walked up on me and tried to put out my wick. So I clicked off his switch. I shouldn’t have run. I was going to turn myself in today. I have an attorney. You can check out my story.”

“Tell me where you are.”

“I’m not quite sure about my safety at this point.”

“You think we’re going to kill you in custody?”

“I’ve seen the way you and your Falstaffian friend do business, sir. The other problem is I don’t think you have a bloody clue what’s been going on in your own life.”

“Repeat that?”

“I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news, but your homicide partner is not what she seems. She set fire to a school as a child, and she fried some fellows at a fairgrounds up in Montana.”

“How do you know this?”

“I knew her in New Orleans. I was sticking it to her long before you did. Sorry to tell you, she’s not Clementine Carter, as Des is always saying. What a fucking joke. I’ll be back with you later. Or maybe not.”

He broke the connection. I folded the phone in my hand and tried to keep my face empty.