08 May The Voodoo Bokor

The bus driver’s eyes remained hidden behind dark mirrored sunglasses. He did not acknowledge the passengers as they boarded the vehicle laughing and joking with anticipation of their upcoming excursion.

The tour guide stopped momentarily next to him. An odd odor filled the bus. “Where’s our usual driver?” she asked.

“Sick,” was the only reply the young woman received.

“I’m sorry to hear that. What’s your name?”

The man looked up and in a raspy voice said, “Ted.”

“I’m Lisa, nice to meet you.” She turned toward the boisterous crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen. We will begin today’s tour in just a moment. Say hello to our driver, Ted.”

A chorus of “Hi, Ted,” sprang from the back of the bus.

The man neither waved nor responded to the greeting. The guide walked to an empty seat behind Ted and sat. “I believe we are ready, Ted.”

The vehicle lurched away from the curve in front of St. Louis Cathedral and accelerated southwest on Chartres Street. Lisa frowned as the bus gained speed. Without warning, the driver turned left on Toulouse Street.

Lisa said, “Ted, this is not our route.”

No response.

He turned right on Decatur Street. Once again accelerating, he veered the motorcoach left onto N. Peters Street and continued to gain speed. The violent left onto Conti Street caused the passengers to start protesting the way Ted was driving.

Once on Conti he kept going straight, past North Front Street, then came to a screeching halt. The bus straddled the railroad tracks in front of Woldenberg Park.

Lisa looked up as Ted stood and removed his glasses. His eyes were sunken black pits. He took the keys from the ignition and fled. At that moment Lisa turned and saw the train engine less than fifty feet away, barreling down on the doomed passengers, its horn blaring.

* * * * * *

Shorty Small, a man neither short nor small, entered the office of Captain Lance LeCompte, New Orleans Police Department. After they shook hands, the policeman said, “I heard you and Claire moved back from New York. What’s it been, a year?”

Small nodded. “Almost to the day. Her father passed, and neither Claire nor I cared for the area after the newness wore off.”

“Since I doubt you have a job, I have one for you, and it actually pays good money.”

“Is that why you wanted to see me?”

LeCompte tossed Small a leather wallet.

A grin grew on his face as he studied the badge and ID he now held in his hand. “Detective sergeant, huh?”

“Yeah, I don’t have any slots open for third grade detectives, but I do for sergeants.”

“If I say no?”

“You won’t.”

“Kind of sure of yourself, aren’t you, Captain?”

“Not when you hear what’s going on. You’ll say yes. Sit, we’ll discuss your salary and an incident right up your alley.”

Thirty minutes later, after Small finished filling out paperwork, they got down to the reason for the big man’s visit. “So, what happened to make you think I couldn’t resist?”

The police captain clasped his hands together. “You hear about the bus-train wreck near Woldenberg Park last week?”

Small nodded.

“Well, we kept some of the facts from the media.”

Raising an eyebrow, the big man said, “I figured something wasn’t kosher. Kind of dumb for a bus to park on a train track when the train’s almost there.”

“Twenty dead and fifteen seriously injured. Lucky for us, the tour guide survived. She was at the front of the bus, just behind the driver. All of the deaths occurred in the back half of the vehicle.”

“What about the driver?”

LeCompte gave Small a grim smile. “He vanished.”

“What do you mean vanished?”

“I mean poof, he’s nowhere to be found. The company who books the bus tours doesn’t have anyone matching his description working for them. Lisa Dubois, the tour guide, described him as odd. Mirrored sunglasses, raspy voice, not the best dresser and quiet. She only heard him say two words.”

“What happened to him?”

“She said he stopped the bus on the tracks, then stood and took off his sunglasses. He stared at her for a moment and disappeared out the door.”

Small pursed his lips. “What about the train crew, what did they see?”

“They claim nobody, absolutely nobody, emerged from the vehicle as they headed toward it. And they were facing the main door at the front of the bus.”

“Huh.”

“Here’s the part we’ve kept from the public, Shorty. Lisa told me during my first interview with her that the driver removed his glasses before he left the bus. She saw only black holes where his eyes should have been.”

“I take it you want me to investigate the incident?”

“Since you’re now a sergeant, yeah.”

“Where’s the tour guide?”

“Still in the hospital.”

* * * * * *

The University Medical Center, located northwest of the French Quarter, contains 446 patient beds. Lisa Dubois occupied one of them.

Shorty Small introduced himself and offered her his new credentials.

Lisa looked up at him and said, “You’re Dr. Fowler’s friend, aren’t you?”

Tilting his head slightly, he responded, “Yes, how do you know her?”

“I’m a student in the Anthropology department. She’s my advisor.”

“You’re lucky. I like Dr. Fowler. She’s helped me a number of times.” He paused and contemplated the young woman. “Captain LeCompte indicated you saw something unusual with the driver.”

She nodded, clasped her hands together and stared at them. She did not comment.

“Could you tell me about it, Lisa?”

“The more I think about it, the more I think I was mistaken.”

The detective remained silent, waiting for her to talk.

“He was an odd fellow. At first, I was concerned about keeping the tourists on the bus, but many of them had just visited a bar. I doubted I could get them off without making a scene, after everybody was on and I had walked up the entrance steps and saw him. He wasn’t my usual driver. When I asked him about it, he said the regular driver was sick. One word. He didn’t even look at me until I asked his name. That’s when he stared up at me and said, ‘Ted’. One word. His voice was raspy and there was a faint musty smell about him. You know, like when a room’s been closed up too long.”

Small nodded. “Okay.”

“His clothes weren’t dirty, but they were wrinkled, kind of like he’d slept in them. Then there was his voice. He only spoke two words, but I’ll remember how he sounded forever.”

In a soft voice, Small asked, “Was it a raspy growl?”

Her eyes grew wide, “Yes, exactly.”

“What about his eyes, Lisa?”

“Oh, my goodness, Detective. When he took off the sunglasses, I saw empty sockets, black as night.”

“Have you spoken to anyone about his eyes, other than Captain LeCompte?”

“No.”

“Then let’s keep that between us for now.”

“Okay, why?”

Small did not state the real reason. He said, “It gives us information to weed out fake confessions.”

Her hand rose to cover her mouth. “Oh, my gawd. He was a zombie, wasn’t he?”

* * * * * *

Tulane University

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Fowler.”

She smiled and gave him a hug. “I am so glad to see you again, Shorty.” She pointed to the small conference table in her office. “Just move those books and have a seat.”

After he sat across from her, she asked, “When did you and Claire get back?”

“About two weeks ago. We’re renting a place west of the French Quarter until we can find a house she likes.” He paused. “Have you spoken to Lisa Dubois?”

“Yes. The poor girl may have to suspend her studies this semester due to her injuries.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. She seems like a bright individual.”

“Very.” Tilting her head, Carmen Fowler asked, “You want to know about Zombies. Don’t you?”

He nodded.

“If you’ve seen the movies, Night of the Living Dead or Dawn of the Dead, get those stereotypes out of your head. That’s Hollywood taking literary license with folklore.”

“I figured as such. Are zombies real?”

She shook her head. “Not in the sense they are portrayed in movies and novels. There’s evidence the Ancient Greeks had a fear of the undead. Archeologists have found graves with skeletons weighed down by heavy weights and rocks. These findings lead scholars to believe there was a fear of the dead rising again during this era.

“When slaves from West Africa were brought to Haiti in the 17^th century to work on the sugar plantations, they brought the voodoo religion with them. That religion is practiced throughout the Caribbean, South America and the American South. Of which New Orleans is a part.”

“Yes, we’ve had these discussions before.”

“What we did not talk about were the specifics of zombies.”

“No, professor, we did not.”

“Some, who practice the religion, believe zombies to be a myth. Others believe zombies are created by a male voodoo practitioner known as a bokor.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you mention that term before.”

“No need to. You’ve never encountered a zombie before, have you?”

The big man chuckled. “No, I don’t believe I have.”

“The myths tell of the bokor preparing a potion derived from the puffer fish. Most species of puffer fish are poisonous and contain tetrodotoxin, also known as TTX, a potent neurotoxin that blocks sodium channels within the nervous system. The symptoms of the poison mimic death and the victim is usually interred. As long as the body is entombed within thirty hours, embalming is not required. As you know, burials are above ground in New Orleans because of high water tables. Given the wide use of crypts and mausoleums, the bokor can arrange for the disposal of the body and then revive them with an antitoxin. Thus, a zombie is born. These individuals are highly susceptible to suggestions and will do the bokor’s bidding. The victims are not actually dead, but brain function may only be at the autonomic level.”

“What are you suggesting, professor? That zombies are real?”

“I’m not going to say they are real or a myth. But think about it, Shorty. You have seen incidents here in New Orleans that are unexplainable.”

He stared at her for a few moments. “Yes—yes, I have.”

“Who’s to say there isn’t a real voodoo bokor running around using a neurotoxin on his victims?”

“I see your point. How do you explain the missing eyes, professor?”

She gave Small a large grin. “I don’t. Now that you’re a detective for the New Orleans Police Department, maybe you can answer that question.”

He stared at her and then stood. “As always, Dr. Fowler, I appreciate your time and counsel.”

“My pleasure.” She rose and patted him on his massive bicep. “I have missed you bringing these mysteries to my attention. It makes my job more interesting.”

* * * * * *

Shorty found Claire in the kitchen unpacking a box of dishes. When he walked in from the garage, she looked at him and said, “I take it your meeting with Captain LeCompte went well. You’ve been gone all day.”

He showed her the leather wallet holding his badge and ID. “Apparently, the news of our return was no secret. He offered me a job.”

She rushed to him and gave him a big hug. “That’s wonderful. I can start looking for a house.”

He nodded. “Yes, you can. I’ve already been assigned a case.”

She broke their embrace. “Let me guess, the train wreck with the tourist bus.”

“How’d you know?”

“The bus driver disappeared, and a bunch of tourists died. Homer would have been camped out on our front door.”

Looking out the kitchen window, Small said, “No, Homer would have made me buy him a cup of coffee.” He sighed. “Didn’t realize I would miss the guy, but I do.”

Claire went back to the box and continued her unpacking. Shorty opened the refrigerator and extracted a cold bottle of water.

As he opened it, she said, “Do you know a Corina Adriana?”

He looked back at her. “Yes, that’s Madame Adriana’s granddaughter. Why do you ask?”

“She stopped by this afternoon, looking for you.”

He frowned. “The inks not even dry on our lease agreement, how’d she…”

“I don’t know, Shorty. But she seemed anxious to speak to you.”

“Did she leave a number?”

“Yes, I left it on your desk in the small bedroom.”

He found the phone number and punched it into his phone. The call was answered on the second ring.

“Mr. Small, are you home?”

“Yes, Corina. Claire said you need to speak with me.”

“I not only need to. I must speak with you. Do not leave your house. I will come immediately.”

The call ended without the big guy getting a chance to reply. “Wonder what the hell that’s about.”

Twenty minutes later, Small opened the front door and invited Corina Adriana inside. She slipped in, but not before looking back with a furtive glance at the street. After she entered, Shorty stepped out and checked the street, looking both ways. Not seeing anything, he closed the door.

“Mr. Small, I am so glad you have returned to New Orleans.”

“Claire and I are glad as well.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“None of us are okay. A dark shadow has fallen over the city.”

“Why do you say that?”

Corina shivered as Claire walked into the living room. “Shorty, where are your manners? Invite our guest in for a cup of coffee.”

The young woman shook her head. “Thank you, but I must not stay.” She looked at Small and said, her words coming rapidly, “My grandmother visited me last night and told me you were back in town. She also mentioned that you and your lady are in grave danger.”

Shorty crossed his massive arms. “Corina, did she appear to you in a dream?”

“Yes, a vivid dream. I was able to reach out and touch her.”

Small relaxed and said, “Calm down, Corina. Let’s go into the kitchen. You can sit down and explain what your grandmother told you.”

The younger woman’s eyes blinked rapidly, and she looked from Small to Claire and then back. Finally, she took a calming breath and nodded.

The three sat at a small bistro table in the breakfast nook. Corina clasped the coffee mug given to her by Claire and studied the steam rising from the beverage. “I did not understand everything Grandmama said, but her fear was plain to see. She told me a Haitian voodoo bokor has arrived in New Orleans. She also said there is a cloak of evil laying over the city as well.”

With a nod, Shorty said, “I’ve heard about the bokor, but not the other.”

“Mr. Small, do you know the consequences of these two events?”

Narrowing his eyes, he appraised the young woman. “Apparently not. Please call me Shorty.”

“The arrival of a Haitian voodoo bokor and the presences of evil over the city is an omen of imbalance. The combining of these two events could open the door to a spiritual world where dark souls rule.”

“That sounds apocalyptic.”

“According to Grandmama, it is.”

“What does she want me to do about it?”

“You will be tested. If you prevail, you will overcome the evil seeping into this world.”

“Some would argue its already here.” He paused. “Why me, Corina?”

She shook her head. “Grandmama did not say why. But a few days before she passed, she told me you have an aura about you. An aura that attracts evil like a flame entices a moth. And like the flame, when the moth gets too close, it dies.”

Small stared at the woman, not knowing what to say. His thoughts flashed back to his days as a hired hitman, only accepting jobs for marks whose guilt could be well documented.

Was this revelation by Madame Adriana’s granddaughter the reason he originally found his way to New Orleans?

He shook off the thought and chuckled. “Madame Adriana has too high an opinion of me.”

Corina smiled and turned her attention to Claire. “Grandmama also told me he is a humble man and does not realize his true place in this world. Keep him safe, my lady, he is here for a purpose. Now I must go.”

Putting a hand on her arm, Claire asked, “How do we get in touch with you, Ms. Adriana?”

“I’m taking classes at Tulane this semester. Call my cell. It’s the one I used to call you.”

She rose from the table, turned and exited the house without another word.

Clarie looked at her husband. “What the hell was that all about, Shorty?”

“I haven’t got a clue. Let’s make sure all the doors are locked tonight.”

* * * * * *

Sleep did not come easy for Claire and her husband. The howling wind outside rattled the old windows in the rented home. She snuggled up to him and whispered, “Where did this wind come from?”

He placed his arm around her shoulder. “Not sure. A low-pressure center may have formed in the gulf.”

As the gale intensified, a new sound could be heard on the north-facing bedroom window. The sound of scratching.

“What was that, Shorty?”

“Sounded like branches scraping the side of the house.”

“There aren’t any trees on that side.”

He sat up in bed. “You’re right.” He threw off his covers and stood next to the window. The scratching noise moved to his left away from the window. “Shit.” He opened the top drawer of the nightstand on his side of the bed. Reaching in, he withdrew his Glock 19 and a full magazine. He slammed it into the handle and pulled back the slide. Turning to Claire, he said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Be careful, Shorty.”

He walked down the hall to the living room and heard a rattling noise at the front entrance. As he approached the door, he heard a high-pitched fanatical voice.

“Shorty Small, come out, come out, wherever you are.  Why not come out to play, the moon doth shine as bright as day.” A maniacal cackle followed.

The hair on the back of his neck tingled, but he kept his silence. Someone or something pounded on the door. Then he heard more scratching, this time at the window to the left of the entrance. The drapes were pulled, preventing him from seeing the assailant.

A scream from the bedroom caused him to run back to Claire. When he came through the door, her shaking hand pointed at the window. “Someone’s out there. It called my name.”

The blinds were shut. But he could hear the glass rattling. Suddenly, the window shattered and the blinds billowed inward.

Raising the Glock, he aimed at the middle of the bulge and pulled the trigger in quick succession four times. An unearthly scream assaulted their ears.

* * * * * *

Flashing lights, police cars, and an army of investigators surrounded the small Craftsman-style home in the quiet New Orleans neighborhood. Crime scene tape encompassed the full yard. Neighbors stood on porches craning their necks to get a glimpse of what was going on.

Captain Lance LeCompte stood in the bedroom looking at the shattered window.

Shorty Small stood next to him and said, “Captain, I saw blood on some of the glass shards.”

“Where?”

Using a pencil, Small indicated the various pieces of glass with red stain.

The captain said, “Let me see that pencil.” Small handed it to him and the captain scooted the four fragments into a Ziploc evidence bag. “Any more you’re aware of?”

With a nod, Small motioned for LeCompte to follow him. When they arrived in the back yard, he used a flashlight to show the captain several bloody smeared handprints on the side of a small storage shed. “Looks like the perpetrator ran this way after I shot him.”

“I’ll get someone to see if we can get any prints..” He paused and looked at Small. “Got any ideas who might have done this?”

“For now, no.”

* * * * * *

When Small arrived at the NOPD headquarters the next morning, the building was literally shaking with activity. When he got to his desk, one of the other detectives breezed past him and said, “Cap wants you in his office the second you get in.”

“What about?”

“They got an ID on one of the bloody prints left at your house last night.”

Without stopping, he immediately went to LeCompte’s office. The captain was on the phone but waved Shorty in.

Standing silent, Small waited for his boss to finish the call.

“Yeah, he just stepped into my office. Now, you’re sure the ID is correct?”

Silence.

“No explanations on how it got there, right?”

More silence.

“Okay, I’ll let him know.” LeCompte replaced the receiver and looked at Small. “One of the bloody handprints from last night has been identified.”

“That was fast.”

“Not really, his file was supposed to be sent to archives. It was still on the detective’s desk.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, your late-night visitor has a long history with this department, petty thief, breaking and entering, stolen cars, and a whole litany of other minor offensives.”

“Well, it wasn’t what I thought, then.”

“Oh, it gets better, Shorty.” He paused. “The problem is he was found unresponsive three weeks ago in the alley behind a bar on Bourbon Street. He was pronounced dead at the hospital.”

Crossing his arms, Small said, “Let me guess, nobody claimed the body and he was buried in a city-owned cemetery.”

The captain shook his head. “On the contrary. Someone claimed the body immediately and interred him in a mausoleum. That individual can’t be located now.”

“Do you have enough evidence for us to open the drawer?”

“A judge is signing a court order as we speak.”

* * * * * *

A few minutes after noon, NOPD forensic personnel opened the drawer where the body of Patrick Veco had been deposited. Small watched from a few feet away and was not surprised to see a body. After all, dead men don’t go on mid-day strolls.

Five minutes later, one of the forensic techs walked up to him and said, “Uh, Shorty?”

“Yeah.”

“The body has two bullet wounds. How many times did you fire at it?”

“Four.”

“You’d better look at this.” The tech pointed to two of the holes in the shoulder of the body. “If you compare the body to pictures taken when it was found in an alley, those wounds were not there.”

Small studied the two bullet holes and then stepped back to observe the entire mausoleum. He walked down the length of the structure and noticed several drawers with indications of recent activity. He turned to the tech and said, “Hey, Bob. Do you have information on who’s entombed here?”

“Yes, the city owns it and inters indigent and unclaimed bodies here.”

Shorty gave the man a frown. “Then how did someone who was claimed end up here?”

With a shrug, the man said, “Hell if I know.” He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to the detective. “Did you find something?”

Pointing to several of the drawers, Small said, “Maybe. Look at the disturbed dust on these three drawers.”

Bob Riley bent over and examined what the big man showed him. “Huh. These look like they’ve been recently opened. Let me find out who’s in them.”

* * * * * *

By the time the sun set in the west, flood lights and forensic personnel swarmed over the mausoleum. Three drawers, discovered to have been disturbed, were found empty. LeCompte obtained a court order allowing all of the drawers to be accessed. Of the hundred slots in the structure, sixty-two were occupied. Of those sixty-two, five did not contain the body it was supposed to contain.

LeCompte pulled Small aside. “I knew you would stir up trouble when you re-joined us, didn’t think it would be this soon.”

“We’re missing something here, Captain. I was told there aren’t any security cameras trained on this structure.”

“An oversight by our illustrious city council. Too expensive, I was told. Why?”

Small displayed a smile. “That’s why it is being used. No cameras, no proof of what is really going on in this cemetery. By the way, we are being watched.”

The captain stiffened, but did not take his attention away from the man standing beside him.

“He’s been there since four this afternoon.”

“Where?”

“West sidewalk, he’s behind the fifth crypt on the left side of the path. He moves every thirty minutes or so.”

“I’ll have a couple of uniforms arrest him.”

Shaking his head, Small smiled. “Before you do that, let’s set up our own surveillance cameras and see what’s going on here.”

“I like your style, Detective Sergeant Small.”

* * * * * *

At 1:45 a.m., Small’s cell phone vibrated. He grabbed it and looked at the screen. He could see movement, but few details. Just wispy images appearing in front of the mausoleum. After he slipped on black jeans, a dark sweatshirt and New Balance shoes, he headed for his SUV.

By 2:15 a.m., he monitored the camera from his phone as he walked through the cemetery toward the structure of interest. Making his way closer to his destination, he stayed out of direct sight, keeping to the shadows and foliage.

Arriving at the location, he positioned himself to have a clear view of the mausoleum but hidden behind a large blooming Azalea bush. Comparing his visual observations with the images from the camera, Small involuntarily shivered.

The images from the camera feed showed shadowy figures emerging from several of the drawers while other images assisted those exiting. Looking at the live scene, Small saw nothing. Just darkness and a bit of moonlight reflecting off metal surfaces of the structure.

“What the hell?”

He stepped out from behind the Azalea and looked at the video on his phone. All of the images turned toward his position and vanished.

Even though the nighttime air felt warm, he felt a cold breeze engulf him and then dissipate. He checked the video. No ghostly images. Turning, he went to the location of the motion detecting GoPro camera he had hidden. His image appeared on the video feed.

“Ahhhhh—shit.”

* * * * * *

A few minutes before eight that same morning, Small sat in a local diner just off the Tulane campus. He sipped coffee waiting for his guest to arrive. Corina Adriana entered just as the hands on his watch showed the time to be exactly 8 a.m. He stood as she approached his table.

“Thank you for coming, Corina. Would you like some coffee?”

She nodded and the big man waved for his waitress. When she arrived, she said, “What’s ya need, hon?”

“A cup of coffee for the young lady.”

“Sure. Will y’all want menus?”

Small nodded and the middle-aged woman hurried away.

“Something terrible has happened, hasn’t it, Detective Small?”

“How’d you know?”

“Like my grandmother, I too, have, uh, certain sensitivities to unseen events. I sense a disturbance within you.”

He studied the young woman for several seconds. Once the waitress delivered the cup of coffee and left, he said, “Last time we spoke, you mentioned an evil had descended over the city.”

Corina sipped her coffee, closed her eyes and nodded. “Yes. I did.”

“Have you been visited by your grandmother since?”

A nod.

“Did she say anything else about this evil?”

Another nod.

“Tell me, Corina.”

She looked up at him. “She told me a true zombie is here. You need to learn how to kill it.”

“From who?”

She handed him a folded piece of paper. “Her name is Mala Siplet, she is Romani.”

“Why have I never heard of her?”

“Grandmama did not like her. She is a fortune-teller and, according to my grandmother, not honorable. The woman takes advantage of tourists for monetary gain. But she also told me she has a fear of the voodoo bokor and can tell you how to defeat them.”

“Where can I find this Mala Siplet?”

Pointing to the paper in Small’s hand, Corina said, “The address is written on the paper.”

Opening the folded paper, the big man read the address. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Referring back to the note, he said, “This is the address of where my wife’s old store used to be.”

“That is correct.”

* * * * * *

A bell above the front door jingled as Shorty entered the building’s lobby. The interior space seemed small compared to Claire’s old shop. Plus, a faint scent of incense hung in the air. Extensive remodeling had erased any resemblance to Claire’s old retail store.

A diminutive woman emerged from behind a bead curtain and appraised Small. “I wondered how long it would take for you to find me.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You are Shorty Small. You made an error in judgement years ago and befriended a charlatan. You should have consulted with me.”

“I wasn’t even aware you existed until this morning.”

The woman shrugged. “Ignorance is no excuse.” She paused and glared at him. “I assume you are here to discuss presence of a true zombie here in New Orleans.”

“How did you…” He shook his head. “Oh, never mind. Yes, I am.”

“Good, you have come to your senses. Follow me.” She walked to the front door, locked it, turned and disappeared behind the curtain. Small followed.

The woman pointed to a table covered by an elaborately decorated cloth. The detective settled into a chair across from the woman.

“Now, Shorty Small, ask your questions.”

“Madame Siplet, you mentioned a real zombie. What can you tell me about him?”

“He has arrived in New Orleans to return the land to the rightful owner from the non-believing money changers.”

“Who are the rightful owners?”

“That is a complex question, Shorty Small. The area was originally the home of the Chitimacha people. Then the French invaded, Spaniards were next, and then Spain gave it back to the French. In 1803, the United States made the Louisiana Purchase and took over from the French. In the years before the Civil War, Germans immigrated in large numbers and left their mark on the culture. But the rightful owners are all the Haitian immigrants who settled here after the revolution that drove the French from the small island. The Creole culture is their legacy. And a voodoo bokor has returned to assist in this effort by creating more zombie followers.”

“To drive away tourists?”

“Yes.”

“How do I stop him?”

“Shorty Small, why should I tell you that?”

“Because you make your living off tourists, Madame Siplet. If tourists stop visiting New Orleans, you’re out of business.

“Ahh…” She smiled. “You are an insightful man, Shorty Small. I like you.” She considered him for a few moments. “Yes, I believe I can help you.”

“How do I stop these zombies he’s creating?”

A grim smile appeared on her lips. “The voodoo bokor only has the power to make his, what you call zombies, bend to his will. He does not have the power to reanimate the dead. They have been poisoned and appear dead. You would be doing these poor creatures a favor ending their existence.”

“I’m not interested in killing innocent people. Maybe the question I need to ask is how do I stop the real zombie?”

“The same way to stop his followers. Destroy the heart and you destroy them.”

“You’ve mentioned the heart several times. Why?”

“Their brains are basically operating on autonomic nerve functions. There is no rational thought within them. They react to suggestions. To release them from their curse, you must destroy their heart. Only then can you save their souls.”

Small tilted his head. “So, the neurotoxin destroys the victims brain?”

“Yes.”

“How does the bokor introduce the potion?”

“Most of his victims are alcoholics and homeless. He offers them shelter, with free food and drinks. The potion is administered through the beverages.”

“Huh. Find the shelter, find the bokor.”

“It won’t be that simple, Shorty Small. The bokor is a Vodou priest. He will know your thoughts before you do.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He stood. “Thank you for your counsel.”

“Anytime. You have many adventures ahead of you, Shorty Small. Now that you have knowledge of me, you are always welcome to visit.”

* * * * * *

The following day found Small on the NOPD firing range. Captain LeCompte watched from behind as the detective chose to have his targets at various close ranges.

Taking his hearing protection earmuff off, LeCompte said, “Why the short range? Shorty.”

Turning, the big man also removed his ear protection and handed the captain several bullets. “I’ve always use 9mm, but decided I needed a little more stopping power.” Pointing to the ammo, Small continued. “After consulting with the department’s armorer, he suggested .45 ACP hollow points.”

“Stopping power for what?”

With a shrug, Small said, “You never know when you might encounter a drugged-out suspect.”

“Shorty. Does this have anything to do with the attack on your house last week?”

“It has everything to do with it, Captain.”

“What’d you learn?”

The big man fixed his gaze on his boss. “You hired me to look into unexplainable cases, correct?”

“I did.”

“Someone is planning an assault on the city’s largest revenue generator, tourism. The train wreck was just the first salvo. More attacks on tourists are planned. In fact, I’m surprised we haven’t seen additional ones already.”

“What does that have to do with you switching to hollow point bullets?”

“The only way to stop these individuals will be hollow point bullets, close range, center mass shots.”

LeCompte stared at his new detective. “Ah, shit.”

A booming voice over the intercom instructed the captain to immediately call the dispatcher.

Small watched as his boss picked up a receiver on a wall phone near the firing range exit. After acknowledging who he was, he listened. Finally, LeCompte said, “How many hurt?”

Finally, he returned the receiver to the cradle and turned to Small. “A group of men wearing mirrored sunglasses attacked a group of tourists on a tour of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. Sixteen wounded, five critically and two dead.”

“On my way.”

* * * * * *

Amid the chaos of paramedics, ambulances, police cars and curious onlookers, Shorty Small found the tour guide nursing her immobilized left shoulder. He introduced himself and asked, “How bad is the arm?”

“Broken. But this is minor compared to some of the other wounds.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“We were halfway through the tour at the farthest point from the exit. Five men appeared out of nowhere carrying baseball bats. They were running and swept through the group swinging. They were gone as fast as they appeared.”

“Which way?”

“They came from the southeast, started swinging their bats and then disappeared that way.” She pointed to the southwest.

“Did they make any noise?”

“No, it was eerily quiet at first. Then all you heard was the sound of bats hitting flesh and then screaming by the victims.” She shivered.

Shorty stared in the direction the young woman indicated. “You need to get that arm taken care of.” He handed her his business card. “Call me if you can think of anything else you saw.”

She accepted the small card and nodded. Small headed off in the direction she indicated.

A hundred yards from the attack site, he found five bats discarded behind a vault. What little dirt remained around the crypt revealed footprints. Fresh footprints. Holding his new Glock 21 at his side, he followed. Taking his time, the big man searched carefully, looking for crypts with signs of being disturbed. He found none. Fifteen minutes into his search, he sensed motion behind him.

He turned.

An unearthly scream shattered the quiet of the cemetery.

The words Louisville Slugger could be seen as he tried to duck and raise his Glock.

The bat made a glancing blow to his head and then crashed against the ancient brick and mortar of an ancient crypt. Shattered pieces of cement sprayed the detective.

Two shots broke the silence of the graveyard as shearing pain and blackness overtook Shorty Small.

* * * * * *

Crime tape blocked off several sections of the cemetery. One where the bats used as weapons on the tourist were found and the other where the assault on Detective Sergeant Shorty Small occurred.

Sitting off to the side with an emergency cold pack held against his head, the big man watched as EMT’s attended to the body of the man wheedling the bat. LeCompte walked over and sat next to the detective.

“Glad you’ve got a hard head.”

“Me, too. Who was the guy?”

“Still trying to ID him.”

“He dead?”

“Your hollow points turned his heart into mush. Yeah, he’s dead.”

“Have the coroner do a toxicology screen on him.”

The captain stared at his detective. “What do you suspect?”

“Have them look for tetrodotoxin.”

“What’s that?”

“A poison extracted from puffer fish.”

“What if they don’t find this toxin.”

“They will.”

* * * * * *

Two Days Later

Small entered LeCompte’s office. The captain looked up. “Congratulations. With the completion of the inquiry, you’re off administrative paid leave.”

“Good. What’d they find?”

“Just like you said, the guy had tetrodotoxin running through his system. Enough to paralyze an elephant. The doctors can’t explain how he was still walking around.” He paused. “How’s the head?”

“Doc said I suffered a concussion, and the headaches will eventually go away.”

“You released for duty?”

Small nodded and handed the captain a piece of paper.

He glanced at the page and placed it on his desk. “Where are you at on this, Shorty? The director of tourism board has been calling the chief on an hourly basis. And the chief’s not happy.”

“I have to find the source of the neurotoxin.”

LeCompte tilted his head and drummed his fingers on the desk. He pursed his lips and said, “Uh, one other thing the medical examiner told me in private.”

The big man raised an eyebrow. “Yeah.”

“He said the guy you shot should have been dead. He had massive amounts of datura stramonium in his system.”

“What’s that?”

“A plant, commonly called thornapple, jimson weed, or sometimes devil’s trumpet. The flower of the plant is poisonous. It’s an invasive weed and when ingested causes a state of long-lasting intense disorientation. The outcome of ingesting can be fatal if enough is taken. The doctor said our suspect had more than enough in his system to kill two or three men.”

“Has he been identified?”

The captain shook his head.

Small stood. “If I can identify him, it might lead me to the person who gave him the neurotoxin. I’ll need a picture of him.”

LeCompte opened a file already on his desk and removed a sheet. “You can use this. It was taken before the autopsy.”

Taking the page, Small stared at it. “For some reason, he looks familiar.”

Raising an eyebrow, the captain asked, “From where?”

Small stared at the photo for a long time. Finally, he said, “He was on the tourism board. Homer introduced me to him over a year ago.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“No, but there’s a way to find it.”

* * * * * *

Shorty Small flashed his detective’s badge as he blew past the receptionist for the New Orleans tourism board director. She tried to stop him, but he sidestepped her and marched into the man’s office.

Louis Morel looked up from his desk as Small stormed in. The man stood and said, “You must be Shorty Small.”

“Good, you remember me. You will also remember what I’ve done for this organization.”

“Yes, but you don’t work for us anymore. Now get out.”

Holding the picture of the dead man in from  of Morel, Small saw his eyes widen.

“Oh, my gawd. That’s Jerome Clark.” He blinked several times and then collapsed into his desk chair. “Is he dead?”

“Very.” The big man placed his hands flat on the director’s desk and leaned forward. “Want to tell me about it?”

The man started to shake his head but stopped. “How did he die?”

“Drugged out of his mind, he and four others attacked tourists in the St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 and then he hit me with a baseball bat. It didn’t end very well for him.”

“Did you kill him?”

“He had enough neurotoxin in him to kill three men, I just helped put him out of his misery.”

Morel closed his eyes and covered them with his hands. “When Jerome disappeared, I suspected this would happen.”

“What would happen?”

Standing, Morel walked over to a window in his office, placed his hands behind him, and stared out. “Three weeks ago, I received a letter from someone claiming to be a voodoo bokor. He demanded the tourism board close and we announce tourists were no longer welcome.”

Small straightened and crossed his arms but remained quiet.

“When we ignored the letter, the tour bus was hit by a train a week later. Clark was sent to negotiate with the man. We never heard from him again.”

“Seems like a good reason to notify the police.”

Shaking his head, Morel said, “I got a, not too subtle, voice message telling us not to involve the police.”

“Where was Clark to meet this voodoo bokor?”

“A bar off Bourbon Street.”

“Remember the name?”

“Yes, Bayou Sip and Grits.”

“I know the place. It’s on Toulouse Street.”

Morel nodded.

“Director, do you have a picture of Clark that’s, uh, not so gruesome?”

“Yes, I’ll have Linda get it for you.”

* * * * * *

The Bayou Sip and Grits turned out to be a run-down dive reeking of cheap whisky and human emesis. When Small walked through the door in midafternoon, the only patrons were ragged, scruffy men who stared blankly at the tabletops. The bartender, a balding man with a week-old beard, looked at Small and said, “We don’t serve cops.”

Small smiled. “Who’s gonna throw me out?”

Looking the big guy up and down, the man shrugged. “What-ya-have?”

Holding the publicity photo of Jerome Clark, Small asked, “Have you seen this guy around here?”

Glancing at the photo for less than a half-second, the bartender shook his head. “Never seen him before.”

With a deep growl, Small said, “Look again, asshole.”

This time the man spent a full second looking at the photo. “Yeah, I’ve seen him.”

“When?”

“Couple weeks ago. Haven’t seen him since.”

“This was the last place he was seen alive.” Small leaned on the bar. “Okay, sport, I’m gonna ask you again. Who was he with?”

The bartender stared at the detective with round eyes. A noise from the rear of the bar made him spin around. Standing in the door leading to, what Small assumed was the back room, stood a slender man of average height, with long dreadlocks and a disheveled appearance. He stared at the detective and said, “You be Shorty Small?”

“I might. Who might you be?”

“The man you seek. I be Voodoo Bokor.”

Small noticed in the mirror behind the bar the patrons were now standing. Their attention on him, not the newcomer. He returned his attention to the thin man. “You got a name?”

“My name not important. You interfering with my business is.”

“Exactly what is your business, sport?”

“Ridding New Orleans of all non-believers.”

“Lofty goal. How do you propose to do that?”

“I can tell by your attitude; you do not believe me.”

Shorty shrugged.

“I can have an army of followers…”

At that moment, police officers stormed through the front door. Small turned back to the bokor, saw he had disappeared, and ran after him.

Taking a quick survey of the rear room, the detective determined it contained backstock for the bar, an exit and nothing else. He rushed out of the door into a closed off alley and the back of the adjacent building. Nowhere to go but up. He returned to the interior and heard a lot of shouting.

LeCompte stood in the middle of the tables looking at someone’s ID. He saw Small and handed back the man’s ID. He approached his detective. “What’d you find?”

“Houdini. He disappeared. What about these guys?”

“Mostly out of work bar flies. Who were you chasing?”

“He called himself a Voodoo Bokor. This was the last place Jerome Clark was seen alive. The bokor’s presence today makes me think there’s a connection.” Small looked around the room. “Do you have any reason to take these guys in for questioning?”

“I can. Why?”

“We need to know if they have any neurotoxins in their system.”

“What do you suspect?”

“They seemed eager to help the bokor, should he have needed assistance.”

“Okay, I can work with that.”

“Do you know Louis Morel?”

“I’ve met him once, didn’t care much for him.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

* * * * * *

The bell above the door jingled as Small entered Madame Siplet’s fortune telling establishment. He stood just inside the door, his massive arms crossed as he waited.

He heard her through the beaded curtain separating her studio and the front lobby. “I’m back here, Shorty. You know the way.”

When he entered the room, she already sat at her table. “You want to know something about Louis Morel, don’t you?”

Sitting across from her, he nodded. “I’m impressed, Madame Siplet.”

She waved her hand dismissively and then said, “So, ask your questions.”

“I met the voodoo bokor this afternoon.”

She frowned. “This was not anticipated. What did he say?”

“Before we discuss him, tell me about Morel.”

“Ah, very well.” She paused. “He has been the director of the tourism board for a while, now. This was just before you and your lady left for New York state.”

“Huh. Where did he come from?”

“He says Miami. But there is deception in his voice when says it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“Because he knew where the voodoo bokor would be and sent someone there. That person is now dead having been poisoned with neurotoxin. This person was also with the tourism board.”

She stared at him for several moments without moving. Finally, she took a deep breath. “Unforeseen, this is.”

Small remained quiet.

Standing, the diminutive woman went to a Keurig machine on a credenza, popped in a tea-pod, and then pressed the start button. While the water passed through the leaves, she turned to the detective. “What do you think, Shorty Small?”

“I think the voodoo bokor I saw at the bar is a distraction. Someone else is calling the shots.”

She nodded. “Your instincts serve you well. What else do they tell you?”

“Morel is the real bokor.”

* * * * * *

The raid on the Bayou Sip and Grits found an empty building. All the liquor in both the storeroom and the bar were magically gone. As were the kegs of beer and all the glasses. Nothing remained to allow police to test for the neurotoxin. Almost like someone knew cops would return after traces of poison were found in the blood stream of all the men arrested at the bar.

LeCompte turned to Small and said, “You called it. Now what?”

“I stake out Morel’s house.”

“You want back-up?”

“Let’s see what I find first. I could be wrong.”

“What are the chances?”

With a grin, Small said, “Not very likely.”

* * * * * *

2:13 a.m.

Small stifled a yawn. The uneventful stakeout provided a nagging feeling he might have been wrong about Morel.

Without warning, the back window of his Ford Escape imploded inward. The car rocked as a hoard of men surrounded his vehicle. In the faint light of a waning gibbous moon, he could see scruffy men, their eyes black with unemotional faces, surrounding his vehicle rocking it back and forth.

The movement continued as he grabbed his Glock 21 and aimed at the chest of the figure pounding on his driver side window. He fired and the figure staggered back, glass shattering against the man. With a gaping hole, no blood poured from his chest as the creature renewed his attack on the car. Reaching for him, Small fired again and the figure dropped.

With the window gone, arms reached in to grab him. He fired several more times and then with his left hand managed to get the car started. Grabbing the steering wheel with it, he used his right hand to point the Glock toward the passenger side window. He fired three more shots.

Without thinking about it, he knew he only had six bullets left in his magazine.

With his tires spinning in the gravel of the road, he stomped on the accelerator and sped forward knocking two figures back and down. He felt the SUV bounce and speed ahead, the Ford free of the assault.

* * * * * *

After driving by his house and insisting Claire accompany him, he drove to a Marriot in Baton Rouge and checked them both into the hotel. Once in their room, he called LeCompte.

“Are you and Claire, okay?”

“For now.”

“What happened?”

Shorty summarized his stake-out and then said, “As soon as I have Claire in a safe place, I’m heading back. Morel is dirty and we need to raid his house.”

“On what grounds?”

“Assault on a police officer.”

“On what evidence?”

“You haven’t seen my Escape, have you?”

“How soon can you get back?”

“I have to take care of a few things first. Let’s say mid-morning.”

* * * * * *

“What the hell’d you do, Shorty?” Harvey Middleton, the head mechanic in the police motor pool, wiped his hand on a shop rag. He walked around Shorty’s Ford Escape and whistled. “Damn, son. Looks like you’ll need a new paint job and all new windows.” He stuck his head through the opening where glass used to be on the driver’s side door. “The carpeting will need to be replaced. You’ll never get all those glass shards out of there.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know, Harvey.”

“I’d have to assess the undercarriage before I make a recommendation. But as it looks now, hope you’ve got good insurance.”

“You think it’s totaled?”

“With all the miles and its age, yeah, it’s totaled.”

“Kind of what I thought. Captain said I need to check out a pool car.”

“Haven’t got one right now.” He smiled. “Got a confiscated Ford F-150 crew cab.”

Shorty smiled at the mechanic. “Sounds like that might fit me.”

“Damn straight it’ll fit ya.”

* * * * * *

An Hour Before Midnight

Resorting back to his habits as a Chicago-based hitman, Small stayed in the shadows as he watched Louis Morel’s home. The carnage that occurred near the house the previous night had been miraculously erased. With the F-150 parked blocks away, he reverted to his old ways as a hunter. Tonight, he did not work for the NOPD. This was payback for the attack on his house and threatening Claire.

The moon played hide-and-seek as moisture-laden clouds raced northeast off the gulf. Morel’s home, a two-story colonial in an exclusive neighborhood, sat isolated from the other homes with a vacant field on both sides. Small stayed hidden in a hedge of mature swamp azaleas. His view of Morel’s house included the front, side and back. Windows on the first floor were illuminated, but none on the second.

As the moon slid behind a solid layer of clouds, the area darkened. Streetlights provided dim illumination and night creatures chirped. Small remained a statue. Time passed as he concentrated on the house.

A few minutes before midnight, a lone figure exited the back door of the structure. Tall and slender, the man’s dreadlocks bounced as he walked. Shorty had nicknamed him Skinny. His trek would take him directly past Shorty’s location. Walking briskly, the man kept his hands in his pant pockets and concentrated on the sidewalk.

When Skinny passed the ex-hitman’s position, Shorty stepped out, placed him in a chokehold and drew him back into the shadows.

In a low growl, the big man said, “Try anything stupid and I’ll break your neck.”

Skinny stopped struggling and wheezed, “What do you want?”

Placing the barrel of his Glock against the man’s temple, Small said, “Your boss.”

The skinny man tried to twist within Small’s grasp, but Shorty tightened his hold.

The prisoner gasped. “Can’t breathe…”

“That’s the idea, asshole. Where’s Morel?”

“In—side.”

Small could tell, Skinny was on the verge of blacking out. He tightened the hold further. Within twenty-seconds, the man went limp. Laying him flat behind the bushes, Small searched his pockets. He was rewarded with a cell phone and billfold. An ID within the wallet identified the man as Daniel Phillippe, a citizen of Haiti. In addition, two credit cards in the man’s name were present. These he placed in his front pocket.

Taking two of the zip ties he kept in his back jean pocket, he secured the man’s legs and wrists. He then removed his prisoner’s shoes and used one of his socks as a gag. Without a sound, Small left his hiding place and sprinted across the street into Morel’s back yard.

* * * * * *

Zero sounds came from within the house. Shorty remained silent, his ear against the back door for ten minutes. Nothing. Slipping on a pair of surgical gloves onto his hands, he tested the back door. Locked.

Extracting a tension bar and a small tool from his ID wallet, he had the door open in less than fifteen seconds. He stepped inside and stood listening again. Nothing. Except for the hum of the refrigerator in an adjacent kitchen, Small heard nothing.

For a big man, Shorty could move fast and silently. He moved into the interior of the house toward a door with a light underneath. Pressing his ear to the entry, he heard muffled voices within and then footsteps moving toward the door.

Holding the Glock 21 in his right hand, he moved away from the door and into the shadows of a hallway. The door opened and Louis Morel exited the room. He held a chain in his hand attached to a collar around the neck of a scruffy man. Slumped with his head down, the prisoner walked with a stiff and hesitant gate.

Small stepped out of the shadow and pointed the gun at Morel’s chest. “Let him go.”

The director of the tourism board spun around and stared at the big man. In the dim light of the room, Morel’s eyes glowed and he hissed at the detective. “You.”

“Yeah—me. Let him go, Morel.”

“You have no idea who you are dealing with.”

“Maybe not, but I’m the one pointing a gun at your heart.”

The man’s eyes glowed brighter and he bared his teeth. A knife appeared in his left hand, and he thrust it toward the man he led by the chain. The knife plunged deep into the victim’s chest and the old fellow crumpled to the floor.

Just as fast, Morel charged Small, raising the knife.

The sound of a .45 ACP round fired four times in quick succession shook the walls of the house. Morel flew back from the force of the four hollow-point bullets smashing into his torso. He now lay on the polished hard wood floor. His eyes remained open with a gaping wound in his chest the size of a man’s fist. No blood oozed from the wound and the smell of decayed flesh filled the room.

Small walked over to where the body lay. He looked down and grimaced. “Damn.”

* * * * * *

“I’m not a lawyer, Shorty, but I don’t think you can be charged for killing a man who’s already dead.” LeCompte stood over the body of Louis Morel. “Not sure how we are going to write this one up.”

“Captain, New Orleans continues to surprise me.” He paused and looked at the ceiling. “What about the unconscious men found on the second floor?”

“The doctor told me once they have the antitoxin, they should recover. But he also told me some of them were in such poor health, they might not.”

“Damn.”

“The guy you said you tied up in the bushes across the street.”

“Yeah?”

“Nobody there. But we found the zip ties. Looks like they’ve been snapped, not cut.”

Shorty Small sighed. “I should have stayed in New York.” He reached into his pocket and handed the captain the man’s ID’s and credit card. “I found these on him.”

“Good.”

“Captain?”

“Yes, Shorty.”

“This story isn’t over yet.”

The End

Or is it?