Chapter Eight
When people thought of New Orleans, they tended to think of Mardi Gras or Hollywood’s version of Voodoo. The truth was, there was a lot more to the Big Easy. There was a diverse mixture of spiritual beliefs and cultures, from Voodoo, which was not nearly as secretive and curse filled as people thought, to the folk beliefs of Hoodoo, and Catholicism brought by both the French and Spanish, among others. It turned out that Michael knew how to navigate these spiritual communities much better than Deacon did and he wondered if a formal partnership wasn’t in order.
Since Vires et Spiritu seemed to like Voodoo so much, they started there. The vast majority of the Voodoo shops in New Orleans were in the French Quarter, but Deacon and Michael bypassed the more tourist frequented ones. It was the younger man’s turn to lead them into lesser known, back streets.
“Though they take their beliefs from many different places, they like to use a lot of Voodoo. They like the glamor of it, the prestige it gives them. Plus, they like the strong local ties,” Michael explained.
“Big pillars of the community, are they?” Deacon asked, vaguely as he looked around. “I recognize this place. I’ve walked down here a million times. I never knew there was a Voodoo shop here,” he said as if it were an outrage.
Michael grinned. “Not many do. It’s in the back of that little café,” he added, pointing to a tiny, tucked away place advertising authentic Creole cuisine. “It’s like The Hungry Alligator. Strictly locals only.”
They’d come mid-afternoon, so the place was empty when they walked through the door. The spiritual vibe was practically palpable, and Deacon wondered if the café wasn’t just a front for the shop. Michael nodded at the cashier and he nodded back, leading them to a back door just behind the kitchen. He gave Deacon a once over and then shut the door behind them. The smell of incense wafted toward them immediately. The room was dim enough that it took their eyes a moment to adjust.
Once their eyes did adjust, Deacon took the place in, surprised to see that there was yet another back room behind this one. A beaded curtain hung between them, and he could make out movement behind it. He followed Michael as the younger man moved forward. The walls were covered in artwork. Some simply of Voodoo practitioners of years gone by, some dark, with disturbing images he had no idea what to make of. Rows of candles, oils, and herbs sat on shelves, as well as cards, dolls, and masks. He cocked an eyebrow as he stopped to peruse an entire wall of bookshelves filled with everything from Voodoo history to Wiccan spell books. He turned, though, when he heard the bead curtain rustling.
Slowly, a tall, muscular man with dark skin and waist length dreads moved through the curtain, letting the strings of beads part naturally for him. His arms were folded across his chest and he looked off into the distance like he saw something they didn’t. His eyes were a brilliant amber brown and Deacon had trouble estimating his age. He seemed youthful, yet his face also looked like he’d seen a lot of years. He gave off a serious, spiritual air belied only by the colorful rock band muscle shirt he wore.
“Do you know what the future holds for you gentlemen?” he asked, his voice low and mysterious. “For I do. I can see it for you, tell you your fate, even help you change it if you wish.” He never looked at either of them, just stared out like he was seeing their future at that very moment. “I can help you see your destiny…Michael Deveraux!” he added dramatically and whipped his head in Michael’s direction.
The two men stared at one another for a moment and then Michael doubled over in laughter. The other man followed suit and then waved it away. They stepped over to one another and gave each other a quick hug.
“Hey Antoine,” Michael said, wiping the tears from his eyes.
“I had you there,” his friend said, still smiling. “What brings you into my shop? I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Got a new gig down at The Hungry Alligator. I’ve been busy writing.”
Antoine smiled. “I heard about that. I also heard that you disappeared. Stan’s not happy, man.”
“About that…” Michael looked over at Deacon and then Antoine’s eyes followed suit.
“Deacon Jameson,” Antoine said slowly, his voice full of many connotations.
“You know who I am?” Deacon asked, raising his eyebrows.
Antoine snorted. “Everyone knows who you are. If you’re around, it usually means bad news for somebody.”
Deacon frowned. “I’m not sure how to take that.”
“No worries,” Antoine said, waving it away. “They get what they deserve. So, what can I do for the two of you?”
The two of them clammed up for a moment, feeling nervous, but then Michael took a deep breath. “You know that group I told you about?”
Antoine nodded, a look of disgust on his face. “The one you left.”
“Yeah, well, I kinda pissed them off and now they’re after me. The only way I can get out from under the threat is to prove the bad things they’ve done. We need your help with that. We were hoping to…be persuasive.”
A smile crept onto Antoine’s face and he nodded. “I think I can help you with that.”
Deacon and Michael walked out of Antoine’s shop with some masks, candles, dolls, music, and a powder not unlike the one that had been used on Deacon, though slightly more legal. They took it back to the car and then drove to the nearest electronics shop. There were a few more items they needed to complete their effect.
Once they were back in Broadmoor, they went about making plans. As the day wore on, though, Michael became more and more nervous.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” he asked. “This would have been so much easier if I hadn’t written that damned song.” He rubbed furiously at his dark red hair until Deacon walked over and took his arms.
The detective held him still and then took his hands. “Don’t think like that,” he murmured. “This is not your fault. You did the right thing. I couldn’t imagine having to live with something like that for ten years.”
Michael closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t know if I can do this. I can’t just call them up—”
“Look at me,” Deacon cut in. He’d never been particularly empathetic, but it felt good to be comforting his lover. When Michael sighed and looked down at him, he said, “You’re going to call up Richard Atwater and tell him you made a mistake. You want to talk to him face and face and see what you can do to make things right. OK?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Deacon nodded. “Now, let’s go over properties and find somewhere nice and quiet to meet him at.”
The two of them spent the rest of the day at the refurbished laptop they’d managed to get for cheap, going over real estate ads and lists of abandoned properties in the city. They had no internet at the house, but luckily, one of the neighbors had elected to keep their Wi-Fi unsecured. Michael wanted to slip them a little money somehow, but Deacon’s bank account was getting rather low at that point.
By evening, they were both exhausted, yet still nervous. They’d decided to put off calling Richard Atwater until everything was in place. Deacon hoped that Michael would feel more confident about it that way. The man had hardly eaten anything since the night before and Deacon shook his head with a chuckle as he came into the living room with a plate full of microwaved pizza rolls. The younger man was asleep at the desk, head to his side and an arm hanging off the side of the desk chair. Deacon put the plate down next to the computer and just stood there for a moment. He hated to wake Michael up, but the younger man needed to eat.
He nudged him gently and then pulled up the extra chair. “Come on, sleepy head,” he teased.
Michael groaned and leaned forward, rubbing his eyes. “What did you do that for?”
“Dinner,” Deacon announced enthusiastically and pushed the plate toward him.
“Mmm,” Michael sassed, “pizza rolls. You’ve got to stop treating me so well.”
“Hey, these are fine gourmet pizza rolls,” Deacon shot back and feigned insult. “Nothing but the best fake food like product from Chef Jameson.”
Michael chuckled and indulged him by eating one. Then he shrugged and took another.
“That’s better,” Deacon said with a smile and ate one himself. “At least they’re not cold inside.”
***
Two days later, everything was ready to go. They’d managed to find an old theater that had been boarded up for decades. It felt appropriate, so they snuck in and set up everything they’d bought. The building still had electricity, so they used the old lighting apparatus to hang the lights the strobe light they’d bought and placed a fog machine and some speakers behind the old, tattered curtain. They made stands for the extra masks, to make it look like there were more people than just the two of them. They created an altar to a deity they’d made up and completed the effect with candles, some symbols etched into the floor and a little stage blood. The only thing left was to get Richard Atwater there and administer the hallucinogen. Deacon thought he had that covered.
“It’ll just drop from the sky?” Michael repeated.
“So to speak,” Deacon said with a wide grin. The two of them were standing in front of the back-stage door where a bucket on a string had been placed. “He’ll open the door and the drug will fall right on top of him. Don’t tell me you never played this prank on someone.”
“I didn’t,” Michael grumbled, his arms folded across his chest. “Are you sure we have enough for him to breathe it in?”
“Trust me, it doesn’t take much,” Deacon answered from experience.
When they got back to the house in Broadmoor, the only thing left to do was make the call. They still had their burner phones, and Michael used his to dial the number they’d found for Richard Atwater. It rang a few times while Michael paced. When the man answered, he hesitated.
“Hello? Who is this?” the man demanded.
“Uh, hey, Richard, it’s Michael Deveraux.”
There was silence for a moment and then, “How’d you get this number?”
Michael chuckled nervously as if it was no big deal. “You’re an important man, Richard. It wasn’t that hard to find.”
The ego stroking seemed to put Atwater at ease and he said, “What do you want? I thought you got my…message the last time we talked.”
Michael grit his teeth and took a calming breath. “It’s about that, actually. I need to talk to you. I realized that…I was wrong to write that song and when I left all those years ago. I just want to know how I can put this right. Can we meet somewhere and talk?”
After a bit of hesitation and suspicion, he finally got Atwater to agree to meet him at the theater the next evening. Michael hung up the phone and then bent over to clutch his knees. When he straightened back up, his breath and legs were still shaky, and he shook his head.
“I can’t believe I just did that,” he said, but then snorted and let out a long breath.
“You did great,” Deacon praised.
Michael smiled and then laughed as the stress melted away.
“What, don’t tell me you’re back to thinking this is fun?” his lover teased.
Michael raised an eyebrow, mischievously. “You never know, it really could be.”
The two of them did absolutely nothing the next day. They stayed in like two lovers enjoying a much needed holiday. It almost felt that way too, considering they were in someone else’s house, living on junk food, and vegging in front of the television. Now and then, Deacon would glance over and notice that Michael looked worried, though. When he did, he would simply scoot closer to the younger man and put his arms around him.
When evening finally came, they dressed up in track suits like the ones they’d worn to investigate Deacon’s apartment, packed up their Voodoo masks, which they’d fitted with respirators to protect them from the powder, and pocketed remote controls for the equipment they’d set in place. Then they drove out to Kenner, where the abandoned theater lay waiting. It was near the lake and, like the warehouses near the river, would provide them with privacy.
They were quiet during the short drive and Deacon figured it was probably for the best. They’d gone over the plan so many times already that carrying it out would seem like muscle memory. They parked a block away and arrived way before the scheduled meeting time. As they walked in the back door, though, Michael felt nervous.
“I think we should move the powder,” he announced.
“What? Now?” Deacon said in disbelief.
Michael nodded and pointed to the front door. “It’s way over there. We need him on stage for the full effect. If we dose him over there, he might just run back out the door.”
Deacon’s eyebrows crept up. “I think you might be right. If we hurry, we can put the bucket up with the lights. It might take a little longer to drift down to him, but it should work.”
An hour later, Richard Atwater drove up to the abandoned theater feeling like this whole meeting was getting a tad bit, well, theatrical. He parked his sleek, mid-priced sedan beside the old building and glanced up into its darkened windows. Vaguely he thought that he’d been right not to bring his expensive sports car down there. He stepped out and looked around for any sign of the man he was supposed to meet. He wondered if it could have been a setup, but he didn’t think Michael was that stupid or had the guts. It only took moments for him to grow impatient, so he locked up the car and ducked under the chain of the gate that was put up to keep people out. Then he opened the old, squeaking front door and glanced inside. A thunderstorm was building in the distance, sending a flash of lightning through the sky. It illuminated very little, though, but cast eerie shadows around the rundown room.
“Michael?” Richard called out, but got no answer. “Never was one to be punctual,” he said with a sigh and stepped further into the room. Then he noticed a light coming from the stage down front and saw that there was a candle burning there. “Ah, you are here, then,” he said and marched toward it. “You sounded strange on the phone, old friend,” he said with contempt as he reached the front steps. “What’s this all about?”
There was still no answer though, as he climbed up to the stage. With a frown, he walked over to the candle and saw that it sat in front of what looked like some kind of shrine. Behind it was a doll that looked vaguely like a man in a suit. There were symbols of death etched into the stage floor and what he thought might have been blood. Richard’s nostrils flared in anger and he spun around to see if anyone was there.
“Michael!” he yelled. “You’ll pay for this!”
He started to turn and walk away when he noticed what looked like dust floating in the air. He frowned and then looked up as a bright, spotlight came on above him. The dust wasn’t dust at all, but something falling from the rafters. With a start, he realized what was happening, “Shit!” he hissed and tried to cover his face with his jacket, but it was too late. The spotlight seemed to glow even brighter and stretch out to all of his senses. He could feel the heat of it burning him. A moment later, it went out and was replaced by strange, flashing lights that seemed to fly around him.
“No, no, no,” Richard screamed and tried to make his way to the stairs. He couldn’t see them anymore now, though. The air was suddenly filled with the beating of drums, an ominous, threatening sound and he was so startled, he fell to his knees. As he slowly dragged himself back up, he realized he wasn’t alone. “Who are you?” he demanded, as black shapes with gruesome faces moved toward him. “Who are you?” he screamed again when they didn’t answer. He turned to run, but saw more of the masked figures behind him.
“Stay away from me!” he yelled and backed away.
Behind him Deacon and Michael began to chant. It was low and menacing and complete nonsense, but they made it sound good anyway. They crept closer to the man, but he kept backing away. Soon, he was about to trip over the candle and burn the place down.
Deacon reached into his pocket and turned down the drumming music. With the remote in his other pocket, he switched back to the spotlight, and then nodded at Michael. The younger man grabbed Richard.
“No!” Richard screamed and fought back.
Waiting in the wings was a chair and some rope. Deacon quickly got it and Michael dragged Richard over to it. They tied him to the chair and then started to circle him. They hissed and yelled in his ear, continuing to frighten him until the man looked like he was about to pass out.
“What do you want?” he asked in a small, breathless voice.
“We know who you are,” Deacon hissed.
“We know what you’ve done, Richard Atwater,” Michael said, pitch-shifting his voice in case Richard would recognize it. He even played with it a little, trying to make it sound more eerie. Deacon had been right. This was a little bit fun.
“I didn’t—” Richard started to protest.
“Oh, but you did,” Deacon schmoozed. “You and your friends.”
“What friends?”
“Vires et Spiritu,” Michael hissed like it was the most disgusting thing he’d ever said.
Richard gasped and looked from one man to the other. He could barely make out their shapes in his drugged state. All he could see were faces that seemed to be made of coiling, hissing snakes. He wanted to protest, to say that he didn’t know what they were talking about, but he was too frightened of what they might do to him. Instead, he simply stayed quiet.
“We know you’re one of them,” Deacon went on. “We know the things that you do in private, the evil you’ve unleashed on the world.”
“We’re…we’re a charity group!”
Deacon and Michael laughed long and deep and then laughed for real when they saw how it terrified their prisoner. They began to circle him again, whispering in his ear.
“We know about the woman you murdered, Richard,” Deacon said.
When Richard squeaked in fear, Michael added, “We know about Papa Legba and the crossroads deals.”
“What do you want?” Richard yelled again.
“We want you to tell us what you did to that woman and everyone who was involved,” Deacon answered.
“OK, OK. Then you’ll let me go?”
“We’ll think about it,” Michael teased.
Once Richard had admitted to everything, they untied him, but they didn’t let him go. By then, he was ready to pass out, so they put a hood over his head and shoved him into the backseat of Deacon’s car. From there, they drove straight to Detective Ramirez-Montague’s station.
When they marched Richard through the door, the detective was furious to say the least.
“You did what?” he demanded.
“The same thing he and his buddies did to me,” Deacon pointed out.
“That doesn’t make it legal,” Ramirez-Montague shot right back. “You kidnapped and drugged a man.”
“Technically, we drugged him first.”
The Detective glared at him. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Michael took his phone from his pocket and played a recording of them at the old theater. When it was over, he said, “Just think, he’s already in your holding cell. No need to track him down and arrest him.”
Detective Ramirez-Montague stared, dumbfounded.