CHAPTER 12
Veteran of the Psychic Wars
The third night of the full moon was, for New Orleans, uneventful. We only had two calls and no more casualties.
Trevor had called and said to meet at Maurice’s at 10 A.M. All I wanted to know was when I could have some actual rest. I’d caught a few minutes’ sleep the day before, I think, and a catnap that night. Napping in a car in a park where you’d just cleared zombies wasn’t exactly restful.
But he was insistent and told me not to bother to derig. I finished up with the coroner and got in my car, trying to remember where Maurice’s was.
When I walked in…
Picture, if you will, an open-air bar off a street I shall not name at the edge of the French Quarter. Dark wood, dark interior, long bar on the left wall. The entrance is on the right.
Sitting at the bar is a group of individuals. At least half of them are sporting bandages. There are guns, knives and clubs on the bar and floor. All of them are in stinking tactical gear, most of them covered in blood and various juices and ichor.
All except two women have shaved heads. Helmets line the bar. Beside the helmets are shots of bourbon. The barmaid, same as from my first visit, cannot pour fast enough.
“Hey, Chad,” Trevor said. “Food’s about up. You met Salvage. Tremaine and Carter,” he said, gesturing to two parish lieutenants in tac gear. Tremaine was the other female besides Shelbye. Hard-faced brunette in her forties with a scar that ran across her cheek and nose. “You know the MCB cats.”
“Hey,” I said, sitting down painfully. I pulled off my helmet and laid it on the bar with the rest.
“Since you’re here,” Trevor said, picking up his drink…
“Absent companions,” I said, raising the shot. I downed it.
“Absent companions,” the group chorused.
The bourbon chicken was outstanding. I’d have eaten the asshole out of a pig at that point. This was heaven.
“So you survived your first full moon in New Orleans,” said Special Agent in Charge Castro. He sat down next to me. “Congratulations.”
“What the fuck is going on here?”
“That, I truthfully do not know yet. Call it an outbreak? An epidemic? Beats me.” He tipped his glass toward my teammates. “Regardless, thank you for your timely efforts. The truth remains contained for one more day.”
“Cheers?”
Castro gave me a hard look. “You coherent enough for the real, no shit, behind the scenes explanation of the MCB’s First Reason?”
“I wouldn’t call myself coherent, but go,” I said, spooning up my second plate of bourbon chicken.
“Magic, of any kind, requires a few things,” Castro said. “First, knowing you can. After that, basically, materials, time, money, and the ability to learn more about it.”
“The benefits are obvious,” Agent Higgins said. “With magic you get stuff that you otherwise couldn’t.”
“The downside is there’s always side effects,” Trevor threw in. “When you get enough houdoun, bad things just start happening.”
“And the more that people get into it, the more crazy they tend to get,” Castro said. “Often, serious necromancers start off with high-minded intentions and then go off the rails. Some of the strongest wizards MCB has dealt with started off as pure-minded as Albert Schweitzer. But that’s not the real secret. To understand the importance of the First Reason, you have to understand history and economics. Do I need to go over the changes in lifestyle brought about by the industrial revolution?”
“Not really,” I said.
“It was the combination of the printing press and the industrial revolution that changed the equation when it came to magic,” Castro continued. “Prior to that, the Roman Empire had the highest per capita income of any civilization in history. Well, except the Carthaginians which they wiped out. But even then, only a fraction of the population were readers; most were hardscrabble farmers or slaves. Without the printing press, information was limited, everything had to be slowly hand-copied, and less than five percent of the population had what is currently a middle-class lifestyle. Roman emperors had about the same lifestyle as, and less available capital than, an upper-middle-class American.”
“Hmm…” I said, thinking about it. “So Gutenberg comes along and suddenly information is everywhere. And then, with the industrial revolution, the capital changes start to create actual leisure classes which had not existed prior to it. Where before, everyone was living hand-to-mouth and dog-eat-dog, there were suddenly lots of smart people with time on their hands, no real security issues and access to knowledge.”
“Most of the people who were messing with magic would have been serfs or slaves or living in mud huts. You’d have one witch doctor with almost no access to materials or knowledge except what was passed down by word of mouth for dozens of villages. Now, there’s one on every corner with access to anything they can afford and there’s these things called books. Need the bone of a saint? People can get that. Vampire blood? Do you have the money? How powerful a vampire? It’s a fricking nightmare. All sane nations have agreed to suppress public knowledge of the supernatural. Soviets, Chinese, Indians, everybody is on board.”
Castro paused to get another drink. Apparently this was a pet topic of his.
“One of the benefits to, say, communism is the combination of poverty and tyranny makes it tough for most people to play with magic. In the industrialized western world, we can’t do that. For the believers, we contain or control. For the nonbelievers, we can suppress, disinform, and debase the very idea that magic and monsters exist.”
“The idea that the supernatural is real is a joke. It’s hokey. Who believes in monsters?” I nodded. This was finally making sense. “And thus not eliminate but at least reduce the number of people who try to raise zombies to go kill their vice principal.”
“Exactly. You’re a bright guy,” Castro said. “Not to mention open up portals to the Old Ones. Some people say we don’t think we should engage in suppression. I’ve heard arguments based on the Second Amendment. People can be trusted with houdoun, it’s just another weapon. Despite the term ‘gun nut,’ guns don’t actually have the direct effect of causing psychosis. Most magic does. Certainly all the necromancy associated with the Old Ones does. The more you study it, the crazier you become. And the proof? New Orleans.”
“It doesn’t explain all the fucking loup-garou,” I said. “That was insane!”
“No, that’s a werewolf on a mission,” Higgins said. The former Marine took another shot. “There’s a couple of asshole loup-garou in this town who know they’re cursed, and spreading it around to be dicks. They must hole up during the full moon to avoid detection. But during the month they go out and get into fights and bite people. When I find them, and I will find them, they are not going to enjoy the experience. MCB has a special place for werewolves like that. A place where doctors…experiment. It’s amazing how much you can cut on one of those things in the name of science.”
“So that is the reason for the First Reason,” Castro said. “That’s the reason we have to threaten people, defame, kill them to keep this from becoming commonplace. And we’ll keep on doing that until hell freezes over, the second coming, or God Himself tells us not to. Because as much as we hate our job, the alternative is worse.”
“And we are very good at cover-ups,” Higgins said.
“Best way to lie is to tell the truth badly,” I quoted.
“Uh-huh…By the way, Chad, because you’re so clever and now you get it…” Castro stood up to leave, and put some money on the bar. His manner went from friendly to grim rather quickly. “At the airport, did you think it was cute when you shot that werewolf right next to that plane in front of those passengers? Did it amuse you?”
“Hey, I—”
“Those weren’t hicks in the swamp or superstitious poor folks in the ghetto. Those were upstanding taxpayers with jobs, relatives, and contacts who will run their mouths off…Don’t worry. I convinced most of those passengers it was just a wild animal. But there was this one guy, turned out he was a bit of an animal lover, zoology degree or something. He knew better. Him, I had to lean on. The usual threats, you know, ruination, death. I’m a pretty good judge of character. Kind of meek, nerdy, I figured he would shut up. But minutes after I left his house, he was calling a reporter, trying to spill the beans.”
“Hey, Castro, man,” Trevor started. “It’s been a rough few days. Go home, get some sleep.”
“Naw, it’s cool, Trev. Chad should know. I just came from our animal lover’s house. I don’t like to farm this kind of thing out to my agents if I don’t have to. They’ve been through enough as it is. They don’t need any more bad karma.”
“Thanks, boss,” said Higgins.
I felt sick.
“He was a nice guy, no enemies, no criminal activity, looks suspicious if you just shoot ’em. No history of drug abuse so an OD was out of the question. No depression or suicidal tendencies…So he slipped in the shower and broke his neck. An avoidable tragedy, but you know the bathroom is the most dangerous part of the house.” Special Agent in Charge Castro patted me on the shoulder, leaned in close, and whispered in my ear, “That one is on you, buddy.”
And then he left.
* * *
The MCB agent’s departure had kind of killed the mood.
“Mr. Gardenier!” a familiar female voice said from behind me. “Meeester Gar-den-ee-yay!”
“Madam Courtney?” I said, looking around, wandering what my real estate agent was doing here.
“Come, come!” she said. “The loas find you home! We close at one! Must hurry!”
“What?” I said. Confused really doesn’t cover it. Whiplashed is closer. I’m all about flexible minds but at that point my brain was overcooked spaghetti.
“You should see your home before we close, yes?” she said, her eyes sparkling.
“Close?” I said. “On a house?”
“No, on a canoe,” Madam Courtney said. “Come. Come. We go see! You will like! The loas have taken great interest in you!”
“Go on,” Trevor said. “I’ve got the tab.”
* * *
The house was perfect.
It was three-story, heavy stone, classic French architecture on the edge of the French Quarter. There was a pull-in for a vehicle with a wrought iron gate. No more parking Honeybear on the street. The front windows were not only heavily barred, there were hurricane shutters that looked like wood but turned out to be steel. All the ground floor was as solid as a bank building. It was even constructed more heavily than the upper floors. You’d have a hard time ramming a bulldozer through it.
The ornate front door had a view slit to check who was outside.
The interior was stunning and more or less classically Japanese. Very minimalist. I loved the furnishings. All very nice.
“A senior member of the Japanese consulate has been transferred,” Madam Courtney said. “He and his wife wish to sell the home as is, including furniture? You like, eh? Trust the loas.”
There was a small, walled mediation garden in the back with a classic stone hot tub and a wading pool for sitting in the heat and socializing. The thought of soaking off my injuries in a hot tub was so overwhelming I thought I might faint. Of course, after the last few days I was thinking that most of the time.
There were things I’d need done. I needed a gear room—there was one that was perfect—and a guns and ammo room, again, that was perfectly situated.
The house was perfect in every detail.
Then I realized where it was. Dauphine Street.
Jesse’s sister had been named Dauphine.
Yeah, I gotta have this house.
“Trust the loas,” I said. Okay, maybe there was a point to magic after all. Call it a sign.
Oh, crap.
The address was 2057 Dauphine Street. When I’d died, fifty-seven had been the sign I was supposed to watch for.
Okay, God. I’m listening.
“Come, come,” Madam Courtney said, taking my uninjured arm. “We must not be late to the closing.”
* * *
I was exhausted to the point of brain damage when I arrived at the lawyer’s office.
“I apologize for my appearance,” I said to the well-dressed Japanese couple on the other side of the table. I was, of course, speaking Japanese.
“We are aware of the heavy burdens of the Hunters of the dark,” the consular official said, nodding.
“So you know who I am?”
“The way of the warrior is the way of duty,” the official said. At least the lawyer didn’t have a clue what we were talking about. “We could postpone. You are injured.”
“I was injured two nights ago,” I said, nodding. “I believe I can with humility wield a pen.”
I had never closed on a house. It appeared to be a matter of signing lots and lots of papers. I should have read them. I just signed.
“Your house is very beautiful,” I said as I signed. I had no clue what I was signing. I might be selling my soul to the loas. I didn’t care. I wanted that house. “You must have had some excellent craftsmen. Are any of them local?”
“Many of them were local,” the consul’s wife said. “This is a town of excellent craftsmen.”
“I will need people who are craftsmen,” I said. “I am a craftsman but have little time with my duties for such actions. May I humbly request their information?”
“We met many of them through Madam Courtney,” his wife said. They were signing papers as well.
“You are very comfortable with Japanese,” the consular official said.
“I had many friends who were Japanese in Seattle,” I said. I didn’t mention one of them was yakuza. “I became a great fan of sushi. Unfortunately, it is virtually unknown in New Orleans.”
“Oh, there is a very good sushi restaurant right around the corner,” his wife exclaimed.
I had to have this house.
In about thirty minutes of passing paper around, I owned a home.
“I look forward to moving in. I will keep your fine home with honor.”
“I understood you intended to move in today,” the consular official said in English, looking at Madam Courtney.
“He is!” Madam Courtney said. “He must have a place to relax after his many battles!”
“Very well. I am humbly eager to lay my head to rest.”
“You appear very weary,” his wife said.
“Must I fight for an eternity at such a pace, such is the path of duty. But in truth, I could use some rest.”
“Rest well in our former home,” the official said. “It has been shielded by the finest Shinto priests. It is warded against all akuma. And the bars are very strong. Rest well.”
* * *
When we got back to the house, there were a bunch of young men wearing long baseball jerseys and ball caps on sideways just sort of lounging around outside.
“Oh, crap,” I said as we pulled up. I was following Madam Courtney in Honeybear.
I still had my .45 on. That was probably enough for some gangbangers. Of course, my right arm wasn’t exactly a hundred percent.
I started to say something when Madam Courtney slapped her hands together twice and snapped her fingers.
“Where’s Mr. Hoodoo’s bags?” she snapped. “Get them in the house!”
“We was just waitin’ for the keys, Madam Courtney!” one of the thugs said, tugging at his brow.
“Unload his car! What are you waiting for!”
The gangbangers even took off their shoes when they went in.
There was a bench by the front door and a place for shoes. A bunch of overpriced running shoes were already lined up. I took off my boots, my feet sighing in relief, and put on a provided pair of tatami slippers. Then I went and found Madam Courtney.
“The house is perfect,” I said, pulling her to the side. “The loas are wise. The porters are…what?”
She just laughed merrily.
“Everyone has problems with the hoodoo, yes? To have a hoodoo man in the neighborhood is a great honor and privilege! These thugs they shoot all day and all night long and not kill the hoodoo! You Mr. Hoodoo! Dauphine Princes more than glad to help! Others come by. They help too. You rest, Mr. Hoodoo. Trust the loas! Trust Madam Courtney! Rest! Rest! Put your feet up! Get in hot tub! Let Madam Courtney handle this!”
I’m a Marine. I’m a Monster Hunter. I’m fucking MHI. I’m tough as nails.
My overnight case from the trunk was up in the main bedroom, open. Nothing was missing. I took a long shower. I didn’t even really scrub or shave, just rinsed long and hard. I went downstairs and failed to resist the temptation of the hot tub. I fell asleep in the hot tub with the house full of Orleans Parish jail’s finest graduates. I forgot to clean my weapons and no drill instructor showed up in dreams to chew me out.
* * *
I woke up in the middle of the night with no clue where I was at. I thought about it for a little bit. It wasn’t the bunk room at Team Hoodoo. It wasn’t a motel.
Had I bought a house? That was a dream, right?
No, I BOUGHT A FREAKING HOUSE!
I went downstairs. There was a night-light on in the very Japanese kitchen. All the paperwork was lined up on the bar. Yes, I’d bought a house. For a surprisingly reasonable sum I was fairly sure.
I felt much better than I should have, all things considered. My right arm still ached but that was just a matter of time.
I was still starving. Just in case, I checked the fridge.
You’ll start to realize that I was unsurprised it was partially stocked. There was beer, condiments, sandwich makings, and two bento boxes.
I pulled them out and checked the contents. They were apparently from a sushi place I didn’t know existed on St. Ann Street. Based on the address on the boxes and the address on the deed I’d signed, it was right around the corner. They were dated and timed from that afternoon.
The sushi was heaven. Not as good as Saury but not much was as good as Saury.
I ate it with Budweiser which is sort of sacrilege in some groups but Bud is actually a great beer with food.
I finished, burped, wondered if I should check in. If they wanted me, they could damned well find me. They knew police. I was somehow sure Agent Castro would know how to find me. Apparently that guy knew everything that went on in this town.
I did check the doors and windows. Everything was locked. I slid the interior deadbolt across the front door. It was apparent that was where the…Did a drug gang just move me in? Where the movers had left. I had more stuff in Seattle I’d need to move down.
I decided I didn’t care. Mo No Ken was on the dining room table. My guns, all the stuff from my trunk, even the remaining explosives, were in a side room I’d tentatively set aside as a gear room. Honeybear was sitting in the carport. My spare gear from headquarters was stacked with it. Neatly. Including all my other guns and spare ammo. I had a hard time believing that a drug gang of all things just put that stuff in my house and left. There was a large cash bag for that matter. Hadn’t been touched.
And they took their shoes off to enter.
I grabbed Mo No Ken and a 1911, went upstairs and went back to bed.
* * *
The phone by the bed rang. I groaned, looked around, wondered where I was. Reached to pick it up, winced, used the other arm.
“Hello?” I said blearily. I rise, automatically, at 0430. It’s ingrained. But sun was peeking through the curtains of the window in whatever room I was occupying. Late morning sun I hoped.
“Hand, it’s Earl, how you doing?” Earl Harbinger said.
“Fine, sir,” I said, sitting up. Where was I? I was pretty sure I was still in New Orleans, but the room looked like it had been transferred from Hokkaido. “I’ll be right as rain in about a month and a half. Just joking. I’m sorry I overslept. On my way in.”
“Take the day,” Earl said. “I’m in town. We’ve got this.”
“I’m at least partially functional, sir,” I said.
“What part of take a day was unclear? The whole team is hammered. Be in tomorrow about ten. Not earlier. Rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Roger, sir,” I said. “Hate to say ‘thanks’ on skipping work but…thanks.”
“You’ve all earned it,” Earl said. “We’ll handle the funerals tomorrow.”
“Roger,” I said. That was right. We’d lost Greg and Jonathan. We were down to five people. Trevor would be off his cane soon but…Jeez, I hadn’t seen Ben but I’d heard his head injury was bad. Four people. And I was still injured. Yeah, bringing in reinforcements was the right call. I’m sure if Trevor had known just how bad it was going to be, we would have had them here sooner, but there was no way he could have predicted that.
“Get some rest,” Earl said, then hung up.
I didn’t. I went downstairs. Three stories. The room was on the second floor, in the back. I wasn’t sure what was up top but there was no sound of movement. Big place. I was the only one there. It was eerie. Sort of dreamlike. You just didn’t find Japanese interior design in New Orleans in the 1980s. Someone else had to live here. Someone Japanese or really into the culture. I’d love to live in a house like this one. Which meant, yeah, this had to be a dream. Okay. Maybe I’m supposed to tell Madam Courtney or something. But why would it start with a call from Earl? That was just weird. Nothing made sense.
There was a bunch of paperwork on a bar again. I started to look it over, hoping I wasn’t digging into someone’s private affairs.
“I did what?”