Title: Wandering Souls of Fire
Author: MSHDV, MSHDV@pacbell.net
Summary: Harm and Mac investigate an open and shut murder case in beautiful and mystic New Orleans.
Disclaimer: JAG characters portrayed belong to JAG, CBS and Paramount Television. Any similiarities to people or locations portrayed in this story is purely coincidental. "I'll be" belongs to the superb Reba MacEntire.
Wandering Souls of Fire
Sometimes we blindly test ourselves by accepting only the truth that surges around us in the present darkness, summoned by the winds of what we identify as fate. Sometimes we lose ourselves in the truth we find outside ourselves, for we fear to look deep into our souls and find what fire lies in wait simply for a sign of recognition. Sometimes many would take the death sentence without a whimper to escape the life sentence which Fate carries in her hand.
It is a miserable state of mind for man to lose the few things that are truly desired and retain the many things that blind fear feeds to the heart. To lose one's will when it comes to the heart and ignore the fire that the fates has placed in our soul's life giving organ is to have never lived and to die the loneliest death of all.
1145HRS EST
JAG HEADQUARTERS
FALLS CHURCH, VA
"Good morning, Commander."
"Mornin', Gunny." Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr., glanced absently through the messages that Victor handed him, messages which had accumulated during his morning absence. Turning toward his office, he noticed the closed blinds and door of Mac's office. "Gunny, is the Colonel not in?"
"She's in, Sir, but she has been sequestered behind closed doors since her meeting with the Admiral this morning."
"Something up?"
"I don't know, Sir."
Dropping his cover and briefcase on his desk, he stopped by Mac's office on his way to the kitchen and knocked softly before entering. Standing in the doorway he smiled, when he saw her totally absorbed in her reading material. She apparently neither heard his knock nor his entrance so entranced was she in the large volume that lay on her desk in front of her.
"Fascinating." The words escaped her as a whisper as she remained oblivious to Harm's entrance.
Taking notice of the title of the book that had her so distracted, he stood motionless and simply watched her expression, a slight smirk appearing on his face before he spoke. "Looking for an alternative lifestyle since Brumby's return, Colonel?"
Abruptly brought out of the mystical world that seemed to have enthralled her at the sound of Harm's voice, Mac's internal clock told her that she had spent the entire morning wrapped up in her research. As she glanced up, noticed her partner's demeanor and registered the meaning of her partner's words, she bristled visibly at his inference.
"Hardly, Commander. But perhaps you should be the one to consider an alternative?"
"Mac, I'm sorry. I know we promised each other to . . . "
Ignoring his attempt at an apology, she stood straightening her uniform and moved toward the door. "Nice of you to finally join us."
"Mac, you know I had to take Renee to the airport this morning."
"Oh, that's right, the video princess is not the shuttle type."
This time it was Harm who bristled at the comment. The truce they had promised each other shortly after Brumby's return was obviously not working. The war of words against their personal partners of choice had continued between them, neither being able to control the barbs that they inexplicably persisted to throw at one another. They were still in step professionally, complimenting each other's strengths and weaknesses, but personally they had grown further apart. The personal relationships that they had both chosen, that Fate had put in their lives still open sores between them.
"Mac, that was . . ."
"The Admiral has asked to see us the minute you arrived. Shall we?"
As she breezed past him into the bullpen, Harm heard her mumbled "sorry". He turned to follow her to their CO's office, knowing another personal barrier had gone up between them. "Care to tell me what's up before I go into the lion's den?"
"The little I know, you wouldn't believe."
"Glad you finally decided to grace us with your presence, Mr. Rabb."
"Sorry, Sir, but I had some personal business to take care of this morning."
"So I understand. Playing chauffeur for Ms. Peterson, wasn't it? Next time try not to let your alternative career interfere with our Monday morning briefings, Commander."
"Yes, Sir." Turning toward his partner, he shot her a glance dripping with annoyance, which Mac seemed to ignore, her attention focused on the Admiral. For years they had covered for the other, but that was apparently another part of their relationship that seemed to have deteriorated over time and circumstance.
A.J. noticed Rabb's stiffened posture and his sidelong glance at the Colonel. Normally, he didn't interfere with his officers' personal lives, nor did he question his officers' personal commitments when planned. But this case that had been presented to him before dawn had attacked his logical sensibilities like no other, and the biting comments of the SECNAV had left him apprehensive as to its possible favorable conclusion.
"At 0530 this morning, the Commanding Officer at NAS New Orleans contacted me concerning the arrest of one of his officers for the off base murder of a civilian. Shortly after the call from Captain Rawlins, I was also contacted by the SECNAV concerning the same incident."
"With all due respect, Sir. Is the alleged murder not a case for the local civilian authorities? Why is JAG involved?"
"No, Commander. This case will not be handled by civilian jurisdiction nor are the charges "alleged", and JAG's involvement is at the insistence of the SECNAV and the office of the Louisiana Attorney General."
"Sir?"
"Colonel, could you please enlighten the Commander?"
"Apparently, Commander Mark Hawkins has signed a confession admitting to the stabbing death of one Gloria Patton. The murder took place in Ms. Patton's apartment in New Orleans last night, sometime between 2300 and 0130 hours. There was no evidence found at the crime scene or on his person to implicate Commander Hawkins, no evidence that he knew the victim, nor a motive found for the crime . . . "
"Then, what was the . . ."
"Let the Colonel continue, Commander. Mac."
"Commander Hawkins turned himself in to the New Orleans Police of his own volition, shortly after 0130. He reported the crime and was familiar with crime scene, down to the most minuscule details of the crime itself. Details only the killer would know, such as the number of stab wounds and their respective position on the body."
"Well, that would do it. But why the high profile?"
"Though he confessed to killing Gloria Patton, he also professed that it was not his physical body that performed the act but his immortal soul."
"Excuse me, Admiral? His immortal what?"
"Soul, Commander. His immortal soul." If the situation hadn't been so bizarre, A.J. would have openly chuckled at the look on Harmon Rabb's face and the incredulous intonation in his voice. "The man claims that he was guided by an unknown dynamism to commit the murder, and it was his soul that left his body to do the bidding of the strange force."
"Admiral, you can't possibly believe his story." They had investigated many weird instances over the years some that still remained unexplained. But the possibility of defending or prosecuting a man's "soul" was by far the most bizarre to date.
"His 'ti bon ange'."
"Colonel?"
"His 'small guardian angel'. The followers of Voodun believe that each person has a soul which is composed of two parts: a 'gros bon ange' or 'big guardian angel', and a 'ti bon ange' or 'little guardian angel'."
"Voodoo, Mac? You can't possibly believe that a Commander in the United States Navy was involved in the practice of Voodoo and interacted with voodoo dolls and zombies."
"Voodun. The religion is called Voodun. Voodoo is a term that was created in the imagination of Hollywood directors who found the mysticism a rich source for their screenplays. Horror movies began in the 1930's and continue today to misrepresent Voodun. As far as zombies and voodoo dolls are concerned, the dolls are still being used by believers in certain parts of New Orleans and South America, and there have been documented sightings of the walking undead."
"Actually, people, it doesn't matter what any of us think. We have received our orders and you are to report to NAS in Belle Chase, Louisiana, in the morning. As I was reminded by the SECNAV, the Navy is tolerant of alternate religions, as long as they do not end up in the death of a civilian at the hands of a Naval Officer."
"Aye, Sir."
"Go down there and find out what the hell this mess is all about. Colonel, you will act as defense counsel. Take Mr. Roberts with you as second chair."
"Yes, Sir."
"And, Commander, you will prosecute. Lt. Singer exhibited quite an interest in this case during our morning briefing. She needs the field experience, and she has voiced a desire in working with you, so take her with you as second chair."
"Sir, respectfully, I don't feel . . ."
"That will be all. Dismissed."
"Aye, Sir."
As Mac and Harm made their way to the door, both lost in their own thoughts concerning the case, their CO's voice brought them to an abrupt halt.
"People, let's go down there and find the truth, whatever that may be. But I don't want either of you to open a can of worms, alienate base command or start an insurrection among the civilians around the base. Let's wrap it up quickly and quietly. Do I make myself clear?"
As the door quietly closed behind them with their last "Aye, Aye, Sir" Admiral A.J. Chegwidden, the strong Seal and the formidable Judge Advocate General, felt the cold chill of fear and apprehension ripple through his strong body. It was not just another Jag Man investigation that he was sure of. The trepidation as to want was waiting for his two investigators down the mystical road of this bizarre case, left him with an inexplicable uneasiness. Something he had never felt before and something that was as unexplainable as the act of cold blooded murder performed by the career New Orleans Naval Officer.
After asking the Gunny to book their reservations and summon Lt. Roberts and Lt. Singer, they settled in Mac's office with the case files, surrounded by a stilted silence, both lost in their own ruminations of what lay before them.
"Hey, Mac. I'll flip you for Singer."
"No chance, Flyboy. Besides she has a 'desire' to work with you." Mac purred the words and fluttered her eyelashes, eliciting the exact reaction of discomfort in Harm she had intended.
"Now you sound just like Renee."
"Well, Renee I'm not."
Silence hung in the air, the brief exchange of familiar playful banter shielded once again behind the walls that they had so expertly build between them. But their gazes still held, as they had on so many other occasions, each unable to leave the other's eyes, as though they were trying to see through the barriers into each other's souls. As if they were trying to tempt the fates that they had accepted as their individual destiny.
Harm was the first to break the contact, suddenly uncomfortable with what he was seeing. "No, that you're not, Marine. No more than I'm Brumby."
Mac regretted that the contact was broken and replaced by the masked perfection he wore like a shield, but held her tongue. <Yes, Harm, you're not Mic, and no one knows that better than me,> she thought with a tinge of buried regret. Trying to return her attention to the Dictionary of Cults, Sects, Religions, the Occult and Their Respective Rituals" she had been reading earlier, she was interrupted by Harm once again breaking yet another uncomfortable silence between them.
"I was quite impressed with your knowledge of the 'ty bone ange'."
"'Ti bon ange', Harm, and don't be, it's all right in here," indicating the book she had gotten earlier that day. "To tell you the truth, it is all quite fascinating."
"Mac, you can't seriously believe that Hawkin's soul separated from his body and killed Gloria Patton. Could you?"
"I'm not sure what I believe, but there are 60 million people worldwide who practice Voodun as a religion. They believe that the 'little guardian angel' leaves the body during sleep, usually when the person is possessed by a 'Loa' during a ritual. There is a concern that the 'ti bon ange' can be damaged or captured by evil sorcery while it is free of the body and forced to perform unnatural acts."
"Well, murder certainly qualifies as an unnatural act, but one that is usually committed by flesh and blood, not floating avenging souls." Harm stretched back with a raised eyebrow, unable to believe one Colonel Sarah Mackenzie was buying Hawkin's story.
"Colonel, Commander, you wanted to see us?" Bud entered the office with Singer following close behind, a mixed air of anticipation between them.
"Pack your bags, Lieutenants, we're going to New Orleans."
"Really? The Hawkin's case, Ma'am? Wow!"
Harm rolled his eyes. Bud's expected enthusiasm and Singer's hopeful demeanor were not the least unexpected. "Bored with your usual cases, Bud?"
"Yes, Sir. I mean no, Sir. It's just this case is so different from our normal cases and it . . . "
" . . . Piques your interest of the paranormal." Harm had to chuckle, remembering the last case they had handled when Bud had spent hours researching alien abductions, the Bermuda triangle phenomenon and driving him crazy with his ludicrous theories.
"Well, I am so honored to be working with you, Commander, on any case, especially a field investigation." Singer gushed on, her entire attention focused on Harm, ignoring Mac and Bud completely. "Your investigative techniques are legendary, and I know I won't disappoint you with my . . ."
"Lieutenant, what makes you think you are paired with the Commander?" Mac suddenly felt a twinge of jealousy, but she successfully managed to dismiss it before it crept into her response. All she felt like doing was slapping the drooling Singer senseless . . . but even the manipulative, over-ambitious Lauren Singer wasn't worth it.
" . . . I just assumed that you and Mr. Roberts would . . ."
"If you have learned anything, you should have learned that one in the military never assumes."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Excuse me, Colonel, Commander, I have your flight details." Gunny handed Harm the electronic ticket confirmations. "You all leave at 17:35 hours from Dulles. Concerning your accommodations, I have some bad news, Sirs."
"We all have to share one room in Louisiana?" Harm dismissed immediately, the thought of sharing a room with Mac, seeing her again in . . .<Rabb, bury it and forget it. Nothing exists between you anymore except a working relationship at best. Renee is your destiny now, and Brumby is Macs.> Why all of a sudden, feelings he had long dismissed, long buried deep within him . . . were suddenly finding their way into his consciousness. Why?
"No, Sir. The BOQ at the base is full and so are the limited number of decent motels in the Belle Chase area. I have booked you the only two suites left in New Orleans at the Queen and Crescent Hotel."
"That doesn't seem like bad news, Gunny." <A shared suite in the romantic French Quarter and Garden District, long walks down the romantic cobblestone streets, romantic carriage rides along the banks of the Mississippi with . . .> Mac immediately dismissed the thought of sharing a room with Harm, seeing him again half naked and . . .<Marine, bury it and forget it. Nothing exists between you anymore, except a working relationship at best. Mic is your destiny now and Renee is Harms'.> Why all of a sudden, feelings she had long dismissed, long buried deep within her . . . were suddenly finding their way into her consciousness. Why?
"It will be when the Admiral gets the bill. You all may be sharing a room on your next ten investigations. Will there be anything else?"
"No, Gunny. Thank you."
"Aye, Sir."
As Gunny left, Harm and Mac stood and started gathering the Hawkin's case folders, their notes and the research materials they had accumulated.
"Well, people, I suggest we get a move on it if we want to make our flight."
Lt. Singer lingered, allowing her superiors and Bud to exit before her. This was going to be another opportunity, and she swore to herself, she would make the best of it. She wasn't going to waste a minute. She wasn't going to waste a second . . . when it came to Commander Harmon Rabb.
Mac and Harm crossed the parking lot to their cars, parked next to each other in their assigned spaces. Harm opened Mac's car door and waited for her to get situated in the 'vette before he spoke.
"Want to ride to Dulles together?"
"No, thanks. Mic will take me. Besides I'd like to spend as much time with him as possible, since we aren't sure how long we'll be away. Plus it is going to be hard enough for me to explain why you and I will be sharing a suite again."
"An assumption, Colonel?"
"No, a fact, Commander."
"Well, in that case please leave the lingerie home."
"Don't worry, Commander. I will. Besides, I haven't worn anything to bed since Mic's return, and I'm used to it now."
Mac couldn't explain what force drove her to utter those words nor could she explain her body's intense reaction under Harm's heated gaze. Pulling out of her space, she glanced once, while she drove off, in her rearview mirror at her partner . . . who stood in the same place, stone still, as if he were suspended in time. <Please, God. Don't let me feel anything again. Please.>
Harm couldn't explain the pain that seared his soul or the burning heat that suddenly consumed his body at the exploding visions her words had created in his mind. He couldn't explain why he had guided her, with his hand on the small of her back, since they left her office. He couldn't explain why he had opened her car door, waiting for her to get settled. Behaviors he had never allowed while they were both in uniform in the past. Once the welds that held him in place seemed to melt away, he entered his SUV and headed toward home. <Please, God. Don't let me feel anything again. Please.>
2130HRS
FRENCH QUARTER
NEW ORLEANS LA
The Bokar stood at the ceremonial altar in the darkened cellar, surrounded by the remnants of the animal sacrifices still present on the sacrificial altar. Consumed by his evil sorcery, he prepared the potion that would once again be administered to do his "left handed" bidding, as the chanting and dancing of the hounsis continued around him, growing to a frenzied intensity.
Perhaps he would use the same "ti bon ange" as before, who had done his bidding well, or perhaps he would command the aid of the undead this time. An evil smile spread across his face as he continued the chanting ritual. No this time, perhaps this time, he would use one of the weak ones . . . who already had evil in their soul . . . one of the strangers that were coming to destroy them.
As he turned to his minions and raised the vessel before him, he chanted the "left-handed" prayers that would possess the next innocent "ti bon ange" that he would capture. Capture to send his warning. Send his warning to the strangers who were on their way to destroy him.
2145HRS (CST)
SOMEWHERE OVER LOUISIANA
AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT 777
The 737 was tossed by the sudden storm like it was a rubber duck in the hands of a playful toddler in a bath tub. It had been violently bucking and rocking for the last twenty minutes before the Captain's voice came over the intercom with the traditional "there is no cause for alarm" message.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Lowne, and there is no cause for alarm. We are just encountering some unexpected weather. Please remain in your seats with your seat belts securely fastened. Flight attendants please take your seats."
Mac still hated to fly. She cursed her weakness when it came to flying. She was a Marine who had served in combat, dodged her share of bullets, bombs and psychos during her duties at JAG, but when it came to the least bump and buck on a commercial airliner, her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest. She tried to focus out the window, through the rain and lighting that split the night sky and pelted the airliner unmercifully, her hands gripping the seat, her knuckles white from the pressure, when she felt his strong hand cover hers from across the aisle.
"Hey, it could be worse. Relax we're just going through some turbulence. We should be landing in New Orleans soon."
She glanced down at his hand covering hers and heard the first words they had spoken since they had boarded. Quickly she pulled her hand away from what once she would have considered her lifeline. Loosening her grip from the edge of the seat, she clasped her hands tightly in her lap. "Yeah, I guess it could be worse. I could be ejecting from a MIG-29 over Russia."
Harm withdrew his own hand at her unexpected rebuff and settled back in his seat. He closed his eyes, listening intently to every sound the aircraft made, every moan, every shudder as it fought its way through the sudden violent storm. Honed instinctively to its war with the wind and the rain. But his thoughts were not of the floundering aircraft. His primary concern was trying to sort out in his mind why the distance between them continued to grow . . . grow in immeasurable proportions . . . afraid that eventually it would affect their working relationship, and then there would be nothing left. Lost somewhere between the past and present, he felt the light touch of a hand on his arm.
"This isn't normal. Is it, Commander?" The voice was soft, but filled with apprehension and fear, as the airliner bucked and suddenly lost altitude, dropping into the menacing darkness below.
2145HRS (CST)
THE FRENCH QUARTER
NEW ORLEANS LA
The clay pot suspended on strings of woven goat-hair and filled with the blessed personal possessions teetered as it swung precariously over the edge of the altar. Standing before the altar, the cosmic door to the beyond, the Bokar's chanting rose with vehemence. Summoning the dark spirits on the other side to cross over, to come to him, to hear his prayers and to aid him in the ultimate destruction of those that were coming to destroy him.
2230HRS (CST)
NEW ORLEANS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
KENNER, LOUISIANA
They looked like ghosts passing through the portal between the dead and the living when they deplaned into the near deserted terminal. Mac had recovered her stoic Marine composure as she and Bud followed Harm, who supported a still disorientated Lauren Singer down the Jetway. Seething with emotions she didn't understand, her body stiff enough to crack, Mac brushed pass Harm, ignoring his attempt to help her, as she re-adjusted her carry-on, briefcase and the case files stowed separately in an additional bag.
"I got it. Besides, you seem to already have your hands full." She hated herself for her fit of jealousy, but she couldn't control the darkened emotions that seemed to rise uncontrollably within her. She had survived Anne, she had survived Jordan, and all the other mindless women that seemed to have passed through her partner's life. She was even surviving the video princess. She had a wonderful man who loved her unconditionally. Who wanted to marry her and make her happy. A man who would give her everything she wanted. Why now? Why Singer? What was happening to her?
Harm watched Mac quicken her pace, increase the distance between them, Bud following closely behind, and disappear down the escalator to the baggage claim area.
"Commander, I apologize. I just never experienced . . ."
"No need to apologize, Lieutenant. It's understandable. Here let me get that." Harm smiled his brilliant smile, though it never reached his eyes, as his gaze wandered to the empty escalator, and his thoughts took him to the disappearing form that had slipped away from him again.
"Thank you, Sir."
He thought he saw the fear still in her eyes. He thought he still heard the apprehension in her voice. He thought he still noticed the tension that seemed to radiate from her. But as he grabbed her bag and turned, he didn't see the smile of satisfaction that slithered across Lauren Singer's face . . . a smile that slithered across her face with all the venom of a snake returning satisfied to it's nest for another night . . . to rest for another day.
0030HRS (CST)
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL
ROOM 777
NEW ORLEANS LA
"Damn it!" Mac made her way to one of the bedrooms in the suite they were sharing, dropping her briefcase and carry-on as she went, and flung her garment bag on the bed with an unnatural fury. Exhausted and still seething with the rage she didn't understand, she collapsed on the bed. "Always the weak and the mindless! Damn it!" What was happening to her?
As Mac closed her eyes, she relived the scene in the lobby, and she knew . . . she knew . . . that Lt. Lauren Singer was neither one of the weak nor one of the mindless. The woman knew exactly what she was doing, she knew exactly what she wanted and she knew exactly what to do to get it, at any cost. Mac hated her obvious manipulation, and she hated her obvious tactics . . . but what left her cold and incensed was Harm's obvious oblivion to the transparent. What was happening to him?
What was happening to all of them?
One hour prior . . .
They had arrived exhausted and soaked to the bone, looking and feeling like they had been traveling for days rather than just under eight hours. They started to check in, their rooms ready and then before any of them knew what was happening, they were involved in a heated discussion.
"Mac, look at her. She's still obviously shaken by the flight down here. Maybe it would be a good idea."
"I don't think so."
"Mac, she could probably use the comfort of a woman. You could use your motherly instincts."
"My motherly what? You are kidding . . ."
"Respectfully, Ma'am, perhaps the Commander is right. I could bunk with the Commander, and you could stay with . . ."
"Et tu, Bud?"
"Mac, be reasonable."
"Look, if you are so concerned about her well being, Commander, why don't you hone your fatherly instincts and stay with her! If those are the instincts you want to hone!"
"What the hell does that mean!"
"Make of it what you want. I'm going to bed . . . the three of you straighten out the sleeping arrangements. Flip a coin, if you'd like. To tell you the truth, right now I don't give a damn anymore. Right now I'm tired enough to stay with Satan in the next room!"
Back to the present . . .
Mac must have dozed because the next thing she knew she awoke with a start, chilled to the bone. Her internal clock told her it was 0130, but it wasn't her wet cold uniform that had woken her . . . it was the closing of a distant door, quiet yet definitive. She focused on her surroundings, illuminated only by the dim light of the bedside lamp. Shuddering as she stood, remembering the outrageous scene in the lobby with a twinge of guilt she wandered unsteadily into the living room, in search of her mystery roommate.
The living area was dark, shadows playing in all the corners of the large room. As she looked for a sign of a light under the closed door of the other bedroom, a sudden chill, stirred around her causing her to back instinctively toward the door to the suite where the light switch was. The light flooded the room, but the shadows in the corners remained, and the chill air she had felt earlier swirled more intensely. But just as suddenly as she had felt it, it disappeared in the light that now bathed the room.
"Harm?" She whispered his name and was answered only by the stillness.
"Bud?" She called out his name and was only answered by the stillness and her labored breathing.
"Lauren?" She yelled her name and was only answered by the stillness, her labored breathing and the rapid beating of her heart.
"This is insane, Marine." She walked towards the second bedroom, but just as her hand reached the knob, she stopped, her breath catching in a slight gasp. The door was shut . . . it was now shut . . . but it had been wide open when she had first come to the room, she was sure of it. Suddenly angry at what she thought was a trick being played on her by Harm, she flung the door of the darkened room open "Harm, you may think this is cute, but I don't find it the least bit humorous!"
But as in the main living room, the only thing that engulfed her in the still darkness was once again the chill, numbing coldness, but this time . . . this time . . . a dim image stood framed in the window's eerie moonlight shrouded in the a misted haze of a dim contrasting glow.
Mesmerized by the ethereal stranger that approached her, she froze, unable to move, unable to scream, her body possessed by the cosmic presence that moved slowly toward her in the encroaching glow that surrounded him and threatened to engulf her. The glow that emanated both heat and cold . . . both fire and ice . . . both love and hate . . . both passion and desire. His aura emanated all that was of the living, all that was of the dead . . . all that was to be feared and all that was to be desired. He came from the light . . . he came from the darkness and Sarah Mackenzie couldn't move. Even when he touched her with the scorching fingers of heaven and hell . . . even then . . . all that split the numbing stillness, like thunder in the darkest of storms, was her surreal moans of the pleasure and of the pain.
He bore deep into her soul and saw the pain of the past, saw the pain of the present and saw the raw desired pleasure of the future . . . the knowledge and what he took were the tools . . . the tools that would be used to destroy them.
0130HRS (CST)
O'BINNIONS TAVERN
NEW ORLEANS LA
"But it's true, Sir. There are documented journals by renowned experts that support it. Even the University of Florida has documented their existence in Haiti. Look, here it says that . . . "
Harm rubbed his tired eyes and downed the last beer of the night. What the hell was he doing here, listening to Bud drone on about Voodoo, about . . . when he should be with . . . "Bud, until some dust ball in human form with glowing eyes taps me on the shoulder and . . ."
"Their eyes . . ."
"Their eyes what, Bud?"
"Their eyes don't glow. They are vacant, as vacant as their souls . . . uh, Sir."
"Bud . . . I . . . let's just get out of here. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."
Bud quickly gathered all the information he had downloaded from the Internet and crammed it into his briefcase, bulging and straining under the pressure of all the documents. Harm chuckled as he watched with amusement, admitting to himself that Bud deserved an "A" for effort and enthusiasm, if nothing else.
They walked along the cobblestone streets back toward their hotel in silence, the humidity-filled New Orleans air surrounding and suffocating them like a huge, damp sponge. They listened to the sounds of the city, still alive with revelers enjoying the Jazz Clubs, which dotted the Quarter and provided continuous entertainment in the city that never slept. The city steeped in tradition and history . . . the city with a true and mystic past.
"Commander, I . . ."
"Give it a rest, Mr. Roberts."
"No, this has nothing to do with . . . I was just surprised with the Colonel tonight."
"Surprised? How?"
"Well, Commander, the Colonel certainly seems to have a strong dislike for Lt. Singer."
"Bud, the Colonel is too much of an officer to allow her personal opinions of those under her in the chain of command to influence her likes and dislikes. I don't think tonight had anything to do with Lt. Singer. I think it had to do with . . . "
"You, Sir?"
"Me? Look, I don't profess to understand Mac's reaction tonight or her foul mood, but hell, what man ever understands a woman, and for that matter what woman ever understands a man?"
"When, they're in love, Sir. That's when the final understanding comes. When they're in love."
0200HRS (CST)
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL
ROOM 777
NEW ORLEANS LA
Harm entered the suite quietly, the dim light of the lamp next to the door orientating him to his new surroundings. He wished Mac had been awake, fighting her usual bout of insomnia. He hated the idea of leaving another heated issue between them to fester. Another issue that would mortar the barriers they had placed between themselves during the last five months. But the suite was dark, damp and silent as a tomb.
Knowing instinctively that Mac had taken the bedroom on the left, he went into his own room and deposited his garment bag on the bed. It was late, he was dead tired, but he knew if he couldn't talk to her, he would at least check to see that she was okay. Crossing the living area, he quietly opened the bedroom door.
What Harmon Rabb saw when he entered the room, bathed in the filtered moonlight that shone through the thin curtains, and focused on the still form, made his heart beat wildly, his pulse quicken and his breathing become labored. He cautiously and silently moved closer, trying to steady the emotions that suddenly raged within him while his mind screamed in deafening proportions to stop . . . to turn and run. But he didn't run. He didn't leave. He just stared at what lay before him. Why had he been so stubborn? Why had he not gone after her? He shuddered, the chill air surrounding him, as he continued to move forward, as he continued to ask himself why . . .
0200HRS (CST)
FRENCH QUARTER
NEW ORLEANS LA
The Bokar stood in the chanting silence of the "Peristyle." The drums now silent, the sacrifices now ended, the evening's possessions now successfully completed . . . except for one. The mumbled prayers of his worshippers as they knelt on their knees around him on the cold dirt floor, the only sounds needed to complete the first night's ritual, to end the first night's cosmic drama, to aid in the positioning of the dolls.
The four strangers lay side by side on the altar . . . he picked up the middle one and moved it off to the side . . . he moved it off into the distance . . . he took her away from the others that walked in her world. He picked up the second, the strong one, and held it as his chants grew to a level of frenzied intensity once again.
0200HRS (CST)
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL
ROOM 777
NEW ORLEANS LA
Harm stood spellbound as if in a trance, hypnotized by the peace and serenity of the scene, possessed by her beauty. She emitted a strength, an intelligence, a fire, a passion, even while she slept. Like the peace and serenity of a thousand sleeping virgins. The beauty of a face and a body that could tempt the most pious, that could make a man forget his vows of abstention. The strength of conviction that could infuse the weak and the intelligence that could challenge a Rhodes Scholar. She was all there was, she was all she could be, she was all he had ever wanted.
It was like he was seeing her for the first time, clouded by the demons that possessed him, and he couldn't help himself. His body ached with emotions he had never felt before, with an intense fire burning deep within him, as he continued to move toward her. Kneeling by her bedside, he let his gaze slowly roam the length of her, her body barely covered by the thin sheet. Savoring with a scorching hunger all that was visible and imagining with a consuming need all that was not. Her tanned muscular thighs and her long legs seemed to go on forever, freed from the confines of the sheet that covered her, sleek and glistening under his wanton gaze . . . and he couldn't stop the demons that now raged within him.
With each breath she took, the sheet fluttered seductively and seemed to mold more to her, accentuating all that lay hidden from him. That lay hidden from his wanton sight, from his sensual touch, from his warm lips. His eyes blazed with molten desire, his fingers reaching to push the errant hair that now partially hid her full lips. Lips he longed to tease with his own . . . to tantalize and tease their sweetness and arouse the woman in her.
He groaned with an animalistic need, when he grazed her bare shoulder. Electricity shot through his body at the sound of her soft moan, as her eyelids fluttered against the softness of her cheeks, and as she shifted, the sheet slipping further away from the treasures it hid from him. Heatedly, he watched the pleasure palace that lay before him, thinking he was going insane as her subtle movements seemed to feed the growing insatiable hunger within him, driving and teasing him even while she slept . . . and he couldn't stop the demons that raged within him.
But . . . somewhere . . . somewhere in the distant corners of his soul, he found a bright light buried deep and cloaked behind the hunger of his body and the desires of the moment. Somewhere in the distant corners of his mind, he saw who they were, where they had been, and what they had meant to each other. Somewhere in the far reaches of a world now governed by evil dark mystic forces, he found the strength to fight and defeat the urges manifested through the demons that had tried to control him . . . to manipulate him . . . to consume his will and to force him to commit the unthinkable.
Trembling, Harm leaned heavily against her now closed bedroom door, remembering very little but remembering enough. He slid to the floor his head pounding as he held it in his shaking hands. Thoughts of what he had almost done beating against his rational, his logic, the sanity of what was his ordered world. His world where he insisted all the pieces fit in an orderly fashion . . . and if one piece ever came along that tested the order, he simply made it fit . . . made it mold to what he believed should be.
The woman who lay in peaceful slumber was his world, and the years of self-denial and of suppressed feelings washed over him, their waves as strong as the forces that had held him, that had overwhelmed him. The dark demons that had brought to the surface his insatiable need for her. That had awakened all the denied desires that he had buried while they had allowed themselves to slip further away from each other . . . slip further away from each other into the arms of those they didn't love. Surrogates of fate that they had permitted willingly to fill the personal voids that were their lives apart, dismissing the desires that they desired most . . . their desire for each other.
What was happening to him?
What was happening to them all?
0330HRS (CST)
1437 RUE DOMINIQUE
NEW ORLEANS LA
The "veve" had been drawn in cornmeal for "Ayra," offerings placed on the altar for her supreme guidance and the "Loa" had passed through the cosmic altar . . . she had possessed one of the worshippers and answered the Mambo's prayers for salvation. She brought her bright spiritual essence to the world of the living and had cast her protective light on the stranger, on the strong one.
But the Mambo knew this Bokar's power had proven to be strong . . . stronger than any she had encountered in her many years practicing the ancient religion. There was only one way to stop his "left-handed" black magic . . . to stop the spells and possessions that would destroy the innocent lives that he now held so precariously in his hands. She would have to do the unthinkable if they were all to survive.
0600HRS (CST)
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL
ROOM 777
NEW ORLEANS LA
The light of dawn played through the moss-covered ancient tree that beat heavily against the window to Harm's room, the moving moss sending tendrils of sunlight across his sleeping form. He stirred, trying to focus on the light that danced across his eyes. As he turned on his back, moaning into the early morning stillness, he shook the sleep quickly from his mind and sat up when he realized that he had fallen asleep in his uniform sprawled across the still perfectly made bed. "What the hell?" Muttering he tried to stand, but his sea legs wouldn't hold him. He must have drank more than he thought, though he couldn't remember . . . memory loss was certainly not a good sign he thought with self condemning disdain.
As he tried to stand again, his world spun around him as if spurred on by the worst of hangovers. He grabbed the bedside table, and sat back on the bed, his head once again pounding mercilessly. "Damn it, Rabb, you know better!"
Leveling his breathing until the spell of dizziness passed, he finally managed to stand, thinking a shower and a gross of aspirin was his only salvation. Stumbling unsteadily to the bathroom, he stripped himself of his clothes and stepped into the assault of the water. A slight smile of pleasure managed to cross his pained face, remembering the dream he had, recognizing his body quickly reacting to the memory. It had been months since he had been able to remember so vividly a dream filled with her.
Even with the distance that had grown between them, even with the constant warm body in his bed, he still kept his fantasies buried deep inside him, only allowing them to enter his consciousness when he slept. His fantasies of endless passion, continual pleasure, fires of desire forever lit. But never had the dreams been so vivid, never had they seemed so real . . . never had he awakened before with the taste of her still on his lips and the feel of her skin on his fingertips. Reaching for the shower knob and shutting the hot water, he shivered but stood his ground as the ice-cold pellets assaulted him and attempted to extinguish the ever-raging fire.
0700HRS (CST)
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL
ROOM 435
NEW ORLEANS LA
Lauren Singer looked in the mirror at her reflection and smiled with a surreal satisfaction. Yesterday had been the beginning. Yesterday, she had won the first of many battles, and today she would continue the war.
The look in her eyes was not of the living. The look in her eyes was not that of a soul at peace. The reflection that stared back at the young Navy Lieutenant was the reflection of the timeless ancient tormented souls that had walked the streets of New Orleans for centuries. Along the paths of dirt and dust, consumed with the belief that they were immortal and that they would possess the souls of others for eternity.
She walked to the phone and dialed his room number impatient, for him to answer, impatient to start the next battle.
0700HRS (CST)
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL
ROOM 777
NEW ORLEANS LA
"Hey, Mac. Get a move on it. We have to be at NAS at 0930 to meet with Captain Rawlins. Your breakfast is getting cold, Marine." He rapped on her door, waiting for her response. "Mac?"
"I'll be right there." She started to hum, slipping on her robe, and started to dry her hair. She hadn't slept better in months, even considering the night's scene in the lobby and her dream.
She turned off the dryer and stared at her reflection in the mirror. It was as if she could still see him behind her touching her, his heated gaze following her every movement, as she imagined writhing against his strong muscular body. It was as if he was still there, cloaking her with his unique scent, the man with whom she craved to share her bed, the scent that she unrealistically craved, be the one left in the morning afterglow, surrounding her and mingling with the scent of their night of passion. She touched her lips with a reverence. Never had she awaken from her fantasies so vividly, still feeling his warm, his needy hands on her working his magic, caressing all she offered tenderly. Wanting to offer only to him all she was, even though she shared her bed with another.
Even with the distance between them, she still held him tenderly in her dreams . . . only in the late hours of the night did she let herself give in to him and take all he had to offer in return, with a fire, with a passion, with an never-ending desire that she knew would never be satiated.
Feeling her body react, as always, to his imagined touch, she shook the memories of the night of passion, that never really was, from her mind, and made her way to the door. <Don't put yourself through this, Marine, especially with the object of your fantasies right in the next room. It wasn't real. It was just another damn dream.>
As she passed by the bed, her bare foot caught on something, causing her to recoil at the sharp prick of the item. "What the hell?" As she picked up the small glittering object, her brow furrowed perplexed, easily recognizing what she held in her hand.
Exiting the bedroom, Mac's attention still partially focused on the item she had placed in the pocket of her robe, she saw Harm on the phone, heard the one-sided conversation and knew immediately who it was. A twinge of jealousy suddenly tried to find itself to the surface, but she immediately dismissed it, not wanting to re-live the scene of the night before. That wasn't who she was. That wasn't who she had the right to be.
"Good morning, Lieutenant . . . No problem . . . No, the Colonel and I will be having breakfast up here . . . That's not necessary, but thank you . . . We'll have all the time we need to discuss that on the ride to the base . . . I'm sure you do, but we will meet you and Mr. Roberts in the lobby at 0815 . . . 0815." Hanging up the phone with a bit of annoyance, he felt Mac's presence, her faint perfume always recognizable to him.
"So, tell me. Does she have the 'vapors' again, poor thing?" The sarcasm in her voice, while she fanned herself, mimicking their associate, spread a look of exasperation across Harm's handsome face.
"Mac. She simply wanted to know what time we were going to meet and to see if WE were going down to breakfast. Speaking of breakfast, let's eat."
"What brought this on?" Surprised at the lavish room service cart in front of her, something he had never done before on all their trips together. She almost forgot the small object in her robe, she almost forgot the phone conversation, until she heard his nonchalant response.
"A hangover I don't seem to remember getting."
"Oh?"
"Mac, don't even go there. Bud and I, alone, went out for a few beers, that's all."
"I've never known you to forget anything, Harm. Mind on something more interesting elsewhere?"
"Yeah, well. There's always a first time for everything and would you give it a rest, please. Let's just eat in peace then get dressed. Truce?" Taking a cup of coffee and some fruit he sat at the side of the make-shift table, hoping she'd follow his lead.
"Truce. But not before we talk about last night."
Suddenly, he almost lost his grip on the cup threatening to soak him with the still scolding coffee as it shook in his hand. "Last night? What about last night?" For some inexplicable reason, he suddenly couldn't focus. There was something that was trying to surface into the light . . . something from the back of his mind . . . something about last night . . . there was something that he needed to remember about last night.
"Harm? Earth to Harm! The scene in the lobby. I don't know what possessed me. I . . . just want to apologize for last night's scene."
"Sorry, I zoned for a moment. Maybe it's not me you should apologize to. Maybe it's Singer." He felt the heat of her pointed gaze and saw her brow furrow in annoyance. "Or maybe not. Apology accepted."
They ate in silence until Harm looked up, and noticed her arm. He reached out to take her hand in his across the table. "Your arm. Mac, what the hell happened to your arm?"
Obvious confusion wrapped around her, as she followed his gaze to her forearm. Trying to hide her surprise, she focused on the large, raw burn mark, the size of a tennis ball, that had suddenly seemed to appear on her arm. A visible shiver of masked distant recognition ran through her body as she withdrew her hand from his and tried to focus on the wound she was seeing and feeling for the first time.
"I . . . I . . . must have burned it with the curling iron."
"Mac, you don't use a curling iron."
"Then it must have been . . . the hair dryer."
"The hair dryer? What was it blowing, the flames from hell?"
"Yes . . .I mean . . . I'll go . . . put something on it."
She rose, suddenly shaken and cold, still fixated on the raw festering wound on her arm and hurried toward the bedroom. But before she left, she turned toward Harm and pulled the object she had found by her bed from her pocket and laid it in his open palm "Here. If youíre going to get dressed . . . you may need this. I found it on the floor of my bedroom by the edge of my bed. It must have fallen out of my garment bag . . . you must have replaced it already . . . it must have been from another trip . . . it must have been mixed with my things." And then she was gone, disappearing quickly into what now seemed the sanctuary of her bedroom.
Harm stared at the object in his hand, the voices of a thousand souls of light screaming at him to remember. He bolted to his bedroom and tore at the uniform that lay discarded in the corner of the bedroom, praying that her assumptions were right. Afraid to think what it meant if her assumptions were wrong. Straightening the front on his shirt, he closed his eyes at the discovery . . . it was missing . . . his shirt was missing his Navy "wings". And once again, a thousand souls of light screamed at him to remember . . . to remember how his "wings" had ended up at the edge of Sarah MacKenzie's bed.
He sat on the bed wondering once again what the hell was happening to him.
Mac raced to the bedroom, the wound on her arm now throbbing painfully. As she dressed it with the first aid kit she always carried, the voices of a thousand dark souls screamed at her to remember. To remember how she had managed to injure herself, what appeared to be seriously, and for her never to have noticed. Not in the shower, not when she was drying her hair . . . not until the electricity of Harm's touch surged through her had she noticed the raw, oozing burn on her forearm . . . and the thousand dark souls screamed at her, again, to remember.
She sat on the edge of the small settee in the bathroom and once again wondered what the hell was happening to her.
0915HRS (CST)
NEW ORLEAN NAS JOINT RESERVE BASE
BELLE CHASE LA
Not another word was spoken between them concerning Mac's arm or the found "wings." Neither oddity was shared with their associates as the confusion of the lost memories and the morning events were kept between them to ruminate. It was as if they both wanted to forget the discoveries, to forget forever the memories that they tried so hard to remember.
Located in the small Cajun community of Belle Chase, on the west bank of the Mississippi River and across from New Orleans, NAS New Orleans housed the Coast Guard Air Station, Fleet Logistics Support Squadron 54, Marine Air Group 46, Detachment Charlie, Patrol Squadron 94, Strike Fighter Squadron 204, 159th Tactical Fighter Group, Louisiana National Guard, and 926th Tactical Fighter Group. NAS New Orleans was a place like so many in the South, where Navy met Marine, where Marine met Army, where Army met Air Force, and where Air Force met Coast Guard. Active Duty Personnel and Reservists, all calling Belle Chase, Louisiana, home.
Like any other joint service facility, by 0930 the base was a buzz with activity, at what was considered a late hour. But even with all that was happening around them, when they exited the car in front of Base Command, they were greeted by the stares of both the commissioned officers and the enlisted men alike. Even the civilians who milled about the command center were not oblivious to their arrival. The arrival of the four JAG officers meant the court-martial was about to begin. The arrival of the four JAG officers meant the sure conviction of one of their own was eminent.
"Why do I feel like the enemy here."
"Because you are, Harm. You get to prosecute."
"Cute, Marine . . . I . . ."
"So what's the tact, Sir?" Gushing with false enthusiasm a naÔve child could recognize and with the false sincerity a blind man could see, Lauren focused all her attention on the Commander. Ignoring Bud, ignoring Mac . . . for all intensive purposes cornering him in what was now her world.
Before Harm could utter a response, Mac, with fire in her eyes, decided to answer Lauren Singer's question. "The 'tact' is that the Commander, myself and Lt. Roberts will question Captain Rawlins and you, Lieutenant . . . you . . . will sit, listen and learn."
"Yes, Ma'am, I understand that. I just thought that since Commander Hawkins has already confessed, the truth as to what happened is already known. So what purpose is there in . . ."
Mac bristled at the tone in her voice and straightened significantly, adopting her best legal stance. "Lt. Singer, there is always more to the truth than meets the eye. That you will learn with experience. If you permit yourself to learn." Brushing past her, Mac stopped abruptly and turned back again to face the now seething Lauren Singer. "And the truth is everything."
"Commander, I . . ."
"The Colonel is right, Lieutenant. The truth is always everything, no matter what side you're on."
"Yes, Sir."
Left to follow her three associates into the building, Lauren Singer's indignation at Mac's dressing her down fueled a dark rage that rose within her soul. She would make her pay. She would make sure she didn't lose the next round. For Sarah Mackenzie was all that stood in her way, to the Admiral, to the position she wanted and to Harmon Rabb. She would make her pay . . . he would see her for who she really was . . . no he would see what Lauren Singer, aided by the dark forces that had come to her late in the night, wanted him to see.
The rage turned to satisfaction as a smile of anticipation slithered once again across her face.
Once inside, they were escorted immediately into Captain Rawlins office. A career officer, Captain Stuart Rawlins was a prime example of 25 years in the United States Navy. Stoic and imposing, he reminded Mac of the Admiral in demeanor, though in appearance they were as different as night and day. Stuart Rawlins was at least 6'6', and every bit between 250 and 275 pounds. His hair was dark, sheared to military perfection, with the most incredible icy blue eyes Mac had ever seen. But for some reason, she didn't quite fathom, she took an instant dislike to the CO that stood before her. And as their conversation progressed, she knew her instincts were correct and that he was nothing like the Admiral.
"At ease. Welcome to NAS, Commander Rabb, Colonel Mackenzie. I understand from the SECNAV that you two are the best JAG has to offer."
"Well, that's very kind of the SECNAV. Thank you, Sir. I'd like to introduce our associates, Lt. Lauren Singer and Lt. Bud Roberts."
"A pleasure, Sir."
"Please. Sit. Scuttlebutt has it that the two of you are a pair of investigative 'pit-bulls' in and out of the courtroom. Is that an accurate description also, Commander?"
"Well, Sir, you know what they say about scuttlebutt . . . "
"Yes, that it is usually true. Well, that is exactly what I need to dispose of this heinous situation quickly before it tears this base apart and further endangers our relationship with the surrounding civilian community."
"Yes, Sir."
"I need you two to also play damage control with the media. Damn reporters have latched on to this like hungry fleas to an old hound dog. They're biting into the order and discipline of this base and making my life hell! Useless parasites!"
"With all due respect, Sir. We have been sent here to investigate the incident and take Commander Hawkins to trial, if our investigation warrants it. Besides, Sir, being forthcoming with the media could very well serve to be a positive in our favor. They could serve . . . "
"Serve, as what Commander?"
" . . . as our own form of damage control."
"That is a very interesting observation, but while you are on my base you will follow my directives. Are you questioning an order, Colonel?"
"No, Sir. I would never question an order, if you make it one . . . Sir."
"Then consider it one! You are to baby sit the press, make sure that Commander Hawkins receives a speedy trial, is convicted, and put an end to the high profile circus atmosphere on this base. Is that clear!"
"Aye, Sir!"
The four stood, ready to take their leave, just as the Captain's Ensign came over the intercom, announcing that a call for him was on line one. Instead of dismissing them, he motioned for them to continue to stand at attention until he finished his call. Still standing, Captain Rawlins turned his back on the JAG officers, allowing Mac to surreptitiously survey her surroundings.
The office seemed unusually void of any personal belongings . . . void of anything that would indicate who Captain Rawlins actually was. There were few citations adorning the walls, there was no personal memorabilia that would identify who and what the man had been. In the office there was just a single picture on his desk of a perfect family . . . a smiling blond women, a set of fraternal twins, and a dark haired boy. Other than that, the office was as cold and as austere . . . cold and austere as the man.
Hearing him end the conversation, she snapped to again, waiting for his parting tirade . . . but none came.
Eyeing the officers before him, Captain Stuart Rawlins, simply leaned over his desk toward them, his voice low and menacing. "Understand this also people, as for any type of investigation. There will be none. Don't waste my time by questioning the identity of the car that admittedly ran over the chicken. That will be all. Dismissed."
"Aye, Aye, Sir."
Harm tried to keep his tongue, but be couldn't. "With all due respect, Captain. Gloria Patton was not some barnyard animal. She was a living, breathing human being who allegedly was knifed to death by a Commander in the United States Navy, and if nothing else she deserves that the same Navy makes damn sure they have the right man in custody."
As they walked through the outer office and out into the bright Louisiana sunlight, Mac leaned towards Harm and whispered, "Looking for a DOD charge, Commander."
"Not really, Colonel, but if I'm charged, I know one hell of a kick-ass Marine JAG who would defend me." He flashed her his brilliant smile, one that she had missed and that had not passed between them on this trip.
"I hated the chicken analogy, too, so don't count on that, Commander. I believe that same kick-ass Marine JAG will be up on the same DOD charge with you." She reacted to his smile like she always had: her knees weakened. And on top of that, the festering burn she had first discovered in the morning started to throb painfully.
"What now, Commander?"
"You take the car and go back to New Orleans. Get everything you can on Commander Hawkins and I mean everything, down to his underwear size . . . "
"We're going to investigate the murder?"
"Yes, Bud we are. Stop by . . ."
"But, Sir . . . Captain Rawlins specifically said . . ."
"Bud."
" . . . that there would be serious implications, if . . ."
"Mr. Roberts!"
"Sir?"
"You won't be disobeying an order that Captain Rawlins may have given, direct or otherwise, the Colonel and I will. You will just be following instructions from your immediate superiors, us. Understood, Bud?"
"Yes, Commander."
"Now. Stop by the Police Precinct and pick up a copy of the crime scene report. That report seemed to be mysteriously missing from the case folders we received. We're going to the brig to speak to our client."
Instinctively, Lauren Singer moved next to Harm, expecting Mac to run Harm's errands with Bud. However, the smile faded from her face when she noticed the Commander's perplexed stare.
"'We' means the Colonel and I, Lieutenant. You go back to New Orleans and help Mr. Roberts."
"But, Sir! This is highly irregular. She is not part of the prosecution team . . . she should be going with Mr. Roberts."
"Stand down, Lieutenant. If by 'she' you are referring to Colonel Mackenzie, a superior officer, this is an investigation not an interrogation, so no lines of protocol will be breached. And besides, you can use this experience to learn how to properly gather information that is requested by a superior officer. Then maybe next time you won't require the Gunny's assistance like you did in the Andrea Granada case."
"Aye, Sir."
"How will you and the Colonel get back?"
"I'm sure the Colonel will be able to use her initiative to secure us a vehicle from the motor pool, if we don't end up in the brig first." They started across the base in the direction of the brig. "Hey, Bud. You might as well stop by the Coroner's office, too, and see what you can scare up."
"The Coroner's Office. Me, Sir?"
"You, Sir."
They found the small building nestled among the moss-laden trees against a small bayou at the northeast corner of the base. Escorted into a small barren room, void of anything, but a scarred table and four plastic chairs, they waited for their client to be brought to them.
Mac looked at Harm, standing by the barred window, lost somewhere between yesterday, today and tomorrow. He was more than just distracted, he seemed . . . obsessed. He had been silent on their walk over, and an uneasy apprehension seemed to take hold of her as she recognized the distant look in his eyes. A look she had seen so many times before in the past. A look that indicated, one strong naval aviator was about to lose another piece of himself to another obsession . . . to fight for the cause of another stranger.
"Harm?"
"What?"
"Don't let Mark Hawkins become another Roscoe Martin."
"You're over-reacting, Colonel. I haven't even met the man yet."
"No, but I know that look. I saw it for two years before we went to Russia, I saw it again in Russia, I saw it with Roscoe Martin, and I saw it . . . "
Harm walked over to where Mac had been sitting and straddled the chair next to her. "Your intuition kicking in again, Mac?"
"Call it intuition. Call it dÈjý vu. Call it whatever you like, Harm. But I know you better than anyone, and I know that look. Promise me, if this turns out to be exactly what it seems, you'll let go. Promise me."
Mac regretted her choice of words, but they slipped out before she could stop them and . . . she wondered whether the question that she had voiced referred to Mark Hawkins or had referred to the situation between them.
Neither the words nor her intonation were lost on Harmon Rabb, as he laid his hand on hers. "I promise, Marine. If things turn out exactly as they seem, I'll be the first to let go. On that you have my word." He flinched visibly when she once again pulled her hand from under the warmth of his. He was about to address her rebuff, but they heard the key in the lock and they both stood as Mark Hawkins was brought into the interrogation area.
"Thank you, Staff Sergeant, that will be all." Dismissing the guard, Harm turned to the man who was their client, to the man who claimed to have lost a part of his soul and had committed a heinous crime against a civilian innocent.
"Commander Hawkins, my name is Commander Rabb, and this is Colonel MacKenzie. We have been sent here by the Judge Advocate General's Office to investigate the death of Gloria Patton."
"Are you here to represent me, Sir?"
"If it comes to trial, I will be prosecuting you, and Colonel MacKenzie will be defending you."
Mark Hawkins looked warily at Harmon Rabb. "Then why are you here now? Shouldn't I only be talking to her, Sir."
"Normally, yes. But I think you will agree that nothing about this case is normal. I'm here to find the truth, Mr. Hawkins, just like the Commander." Mac sat in front of their client and pulled a legal pad from her briefcase. "Just start at the beginning and tell us what happened. Can you do that?"
"Normal, Ma'am? The beginning?" Mark Hawkin's laugh was not that of a religious fanatic dabbling in the black arts, who had viciously taken a life in cold blood. His laugh was that of a pathetic innocent, like Gloria Patton. "The beginning is the end, Ma'am. The beginning for me was when I turned myself in to the police. Before that . . . I remember very little."
"Then why did you admit to killing her?"
"Because I did, Commander."
"But you just said you remember very little of the actual crime, let alone physically stabbing the victim to death."
"Because, I know I did. I saw it all. It might as well have been my physical body that killed that woman. Because you see, Commander, it was a part of my immortal soul . . . my 'ti bon ange' that drained her of her life force."
"Hawkins, are you telling me that you actively practice Voodun and that you commanded your soul to kill that woman?" Harm could not mask the incredulous exasperation in his voice, now that he had asked the question his logical mind had been avoiding.
"No, Sir, that's not what I'm saying."
"Then what are you saying." Mac leaned closer to the officer, not the least bit of exasperation in her voice or the least bit of morbid curiosity, simply the air of fascination, as the wound on her arm started to ache with an increasing intensity.
"I was raised in New Orleans, have lived here all my life, played in the back bayous that dot the countryside. I grew up with the religion of Voodun being practiced around me. Following the beliefs of Voodun is no different than following the beliefs of the Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, or Baptist faiths. It is no different than being a Buddhist, a Hindu or a . . . Wiccan, for that matter."
"But most those religions don't profess possessions or the taking of another human life. Do you actively practice the Voodun . . . religion?"
"All religions have their dark side, Sir. All of them have their versions of heaven and hell, and all of them have their fallen angels. Voodun is no different. And to answer your question, no I am not now nor have ever been a 'housi kanzo' nor a 'sur point'. . ."
"A 'housi kanzo'? A 'sur point'?"
"They are grades of initiation into the Voodun faith, Ma'am."
"I see." But Mac didn't see . . . she didn't understand now close she was to the dark side, how close she was to the hell of Voodun . . . as the intensity of her wound continued to ache fed by every spoken word that passed between them.
Mac and Harm continued with their questions well into the early afternoon. Harm stood stoic and silent for the most part, still not buying any of the religious mumbo-jumbo, his logical mind not permitting him to believe in what appeared to be the unbelievable. Mac, on the other hand, listened to every word, taking copious notes, her logical mind open to the possibilities.
Harm called the guard. All three were mentally exhausted, by the intensity of the interview, all needing to break free from the dark world they had been cloaked in for over four hours.
As Mark Hawkins was walked to the door to return to his cell, he turned back toward the JAG officers. "Sir, Ma'am. I didn't commit pre-meditated murder nor did my 'ti bon ange' willingly kill that woman. I was possessed by a very powerful Bokar, a high priest of left-handed Voodun, practicing the black arts of the Dark Ones and I will never be free. My soul will forever belong to him. Will do his bidding. You will never be able to save my mortal body for it is lost forever and will be turned to the dust of the undead, fated to wander among the living for eternity. But please, Sirs, I beg you. Please try to save my immortal soul."
Sarah MacKenzie and Harmon Rabb left the small building on the banks of the Mississippi River and walked in silence, wrapped in the dark side of a world they didn't understand . . . that they were afraid to allow themselves to even acknowledge.
They had saved the indigent, they had freed the hopeless, they had dedicated their lives to finding the truth around them at any cost . . . and now . . . now they had been asked to save a client's immortal soul. The immortal soul of a man who was innocent . . . a man who had begged them for their help. A man who had not feigned innocence, feigned insanity, feigned ignorance. A man who had exhibited a complete understanding of the role the dark fates had placed in his path . . . the role that the dark fates had pre-ordained to be his destiny.
Drained mentally and physically, they found a small bench along the river's edge hidden by the hanging moss of the surrounding trees. They sat, still wrapped in a hushed silence, Mark Hawkin's pleas echoing in both their logical ordered minds and tearing at their sensitive hearts.
The sounds of a distant riverboat navigating up the muddy Mississippi, bringing them back to the present, Harm suddenly wanting to voice the unspeakable.
"Mac?"
"Harm, before you say anything, will you just listen . . ."
"Mac, please. I have always been taught to believe in the believable . . . "
"Harm, please . . ."
"Just let me finish. I've always believed in what I could feel, what I could see, what I could taste, what I could smell, what I could touch. I've always believed my world was one of order and discipline, comprised of pieces that I could control . . . pieces that I could make fit the world I had created for myself. But there is more out there than that which comprises my ordered existence." Mac watched him tense and turn toward her. "That sailor has asked me to try to understand the unexplainable. To have faith in the unbelievable and help find the truth, the truth of a world I can neither comprehend nor accept. But damn it! I've never turned my back on the truth, and I don't intend to start now . . . no matter what that truth may be or where it may take me."
" . . . take us, Sailor. No matter what that truth may be or where it may take us." The look in his incredible eyes as she felt him reach for her, was magical, was as old as time itself. "Harm, we can't . . . we shouldn't . . ."
She knew she should move away, she knew until she settled everything with Mic there could be nothing between them. But the light she saw in his eyes . . . was like no other she had ever seen and she knew they had found at least one truth in the mystical, enchanted world around them.
"Sarah . . . I know there is so much to say . . . so much to settle, but . . ." For the first time even the strong, the righteous, the honorable Harmon Rabb's armor cracked and for once . . . he was driven by the simple human failing of feelings.
He knew they could take this no further than a simple kiss until they sorted out the complications they had placed in their individual lives. That they had placed in their individual lives instead of each other. But for the first time he let himself be human without questioning, and he knew that what was for once truly within his reach, he would have to take . . . if only for this brief passing moment in time.
Mac felt his warm strong hand caress her face, soft and tender, as his thumb traced her lips. She was paralyzed with her need for him and she couldn't move. She could barely breath, as she covered his hand with hers, her need rising with every tender touch and whisper he placed against her hair. The ache deep within her caused her to tremble ever so slightly, when she felt his other hand on her back, pulling her into his arms, the arms that she had only felt in her dreams. She wanted this . . . she needed this and she found herself, without hesitation, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down to her, until his lips were on hers. They were warm and wanting, rivaling her own pent-up hunger . . . and the world seemed to vanish in the misted bayou that hung around them.
When Harm heard her moan of pleasure, when he felt her lips part allowing him the access his body ached for, he gently lifted her onto his lap and increased the intensity of the kiss, groaning when he felt her responding pressure against him. It had started as a simple soft brush of the lips of two souls. Two souls that could no longer keep their distance, that could no longer deny their attraction, that could no longer deny their need to satiate their desire for one another, and it had turned into a blaze of emotions that they thought nothing, not even time, could ever extinguish.
Their hands roamed freely, frustrated only by the heavy winter uniforms that kept them from skin-to-skin contact . . . but even through their clothing, the kisses turned into bruising vehicles of sexual release, and they elicited in each other an unbelievable passion never experienced before.
They didn't care that they were in full uniform, only that they continued their exploration of each other, never once letting the other lose contact, holding on to each other like tomorrow would never come. Holding on to each other, entwined in the unmistakable vines of finally recognized love.
It wasn't until Mac's screams of pain, not pleasure broke them apart. When she fell limp against him, panic and confusion like Harm had never felt before, tore at him as he lifted her from his lap and laid her gently on the bench.
"Sarah, God what is it! Sarah!"
"Harm, my arm! Oh please! Please stop the burning . . . please stop the pain. Harm, please it's . . . Oh God, please help me!"
Confused and ripped with fear, the tears that now rolled down her face shedding his heart, he lifted her arm carefully and settled it on her stomach . . . so he could see why his strong Marine was writhing in immeasurable pain. His strong brave Marine who had tolerated so much physical and emotional pain in her life . . . couldn't endure this . . . the indefinable pain that was wrecking havoc with her body. What was happening to her?
His eyes filled with horror, his stomach churned, and he felt the bile rise in his throat when he saw the arm that lay limp before him. What had appeared as a simple burn earlier in the day was now an oozing, festering wound that spilled its poison from its damp recesses and soaked her uniform. He froze with fear realizing that the same poisoning juices that flowed from what had been nothing but a simple burn could now be entering her blood stream, could now be killing her.
1830HRS (CST)
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL
ROOM 777
NEW ORLEANS LA
The darkness filtered into the room, casting shadows, as the ornamental street lamps dueled with the blackness of the night. There was no full moon tonight to filter any ethereal light into his exhausted and confused mind. This day had been one of the unexplainable disrupting his ordered world, one of long-denied feelings exposing his vulnerabilities, and one of immeasurable regret and gripping fear testing his strength. Regret for all the sweet tender moments in time that had been lost. Fear for all the sweet tender moments in time they might never have.
As the thin curtain fluttered against his bare chest, he turned his gaze away from the window and focused on the still form, finally safe in the comfort of the large four poster bed, finally drifting in a peaceful drug-induced slumber, somewhere between the real and the unreal. His eyes burned, causing him to turn back to the window. Steadying his gaze on the street below, he reigned in his emotions. The cobblestone paths below that would soon be filled with partygoers, celebrating something, celebrating nothing, all oblivious to the evil darkness that moved around them undetected in the shelter of the night.
Taking a cleansing breath of misted air that curled through the crack in the window, he found himself to be a silent participant in the intimate moment of a young couple illuminated by the dim light of the lamp below their hotel window. He watched the openness of their display of obvious affection, he watched their arms encircle each other lovingly, he watched their lips meet avowing their love, and he saw the glint of the ring on her finger and he wondered. He wondered: if their feelings could only be expressed in the privacy of the night that they thought was theirs alone. He wondered: if their feelings were suppressed by the light of day, complicated by others they had shackled themselves with. He wondered: if the ring that adorned the young woman's finger was given by the man who now held her, who loved her visibly more than anything, or if the ring that glittered, perhaps was just a reminder . . . just a constant reminder of the love of another man in her life.
She stirred slowly from her drug-induced sleep, trying to wipe the sleep from her mind, and orient herself to her dimly lit surroundings. The fear and the terror of the afternoon seeped into her consciousness and the first sentient thing she was able to focus on was his imposing form by the window. His muscled lean body braced against the window, standing guard . . . her protector, her friend, her partner and the man that would always occupy the most important part of her heart.
"Something interesting down there, Sailor?"
He tried to put his armor back in place, the shield that had always helped him mask so much, so much he didn't want the world to see, so much he wouldn't permit himself to see. "Not half as interesting as what's awake up here."
As he turned and walked toward the bed, even in the dimness of the evening shadows, she swore the brightness of his smile revealed the glisten of a single tear that tried to wind its lonely path down his cheek. She noticed the nonchalant motion of his hand as he tried to chase any trace of it away. But when he reached her and sat on the bed by her side, she saw a second tear escape from his brilliant eyes and follow the same lonely path of its predecessor.
"You're leaking, Squid." In all the years they had been together, she had only seen his tears twice. The first was on that misted hill in Russia, overlooking the Tiaga, when his lifetime search for his father had come to an end . . . when he had finally had to let go. The second was when he had come into the Harriet's hospital room right after he had left the ravaged shell of Roscoe Martin, the ravaged veteran . . . and he knew he had to let go. And now as he sat next to her, his strong arms braced on either side of her on the bed . . . was he now finally letting go of all his fears, of all his insecurities, of all the doubts and allowing himself to truly feel? Had they finally found the light, woven among the darkened mystic forces that threatened them with their evil presence?
"I'm a sensitive guy. How are you feeling, Marine? How's the arm?"
"Like I found the hangover you lost yesterday. The arm . . . is still attached." She smiled and wiped at his tear, trying to capture a part of his emotions. Feeling that if she could capture it on her fingertips, she could absorb it, it would be hers, he would be hers . . . his heart would finally belong to her.
Their conversation was light and teasing at first, but their hearts and minds were in turmoil, as her palms came to rest on his bare chest, causing his hands to move to her waist. The walls that they had so expertly built between them, mortared with the strength of foolish pride, had seemed to dissolve and disappear into the murky bayou waters on that sunlit afternoon. But the silent reminder of the partners that waited patiently for their return, was the poisoned backwash of the reality they both didn't want to face. But they both understood until their love and lives were theirs once again to give, they would be forced to only imagine what they now recognized had been burned and buried deep within them, only theirs to share with each other.
Harm looked down at her hands resting against his chest, her fingertips lightly teasing his skin as they moved, the scent that had always been uniquely hers soaking his senses, and his own hands started their intimate exploration. Their touches were slow, gentle and tender, filled with the sensuality that only belonged between true lovers. Their touches were not hurried, probing or lustful, filled only with animalistic needs . . . for they knew . . . for they both knew as they continued to touch and to feel that they had no right . . . no right at this single moment in time to ask for more of the other.
Before they found the strength to break apart, as they heard the incessant and frantic banging at the door, they brushed their lips, one against the other. The light tantalizing tease of their tongues, sealing what they now knew was destined to be their future. For once all obstacles were removed, the taste of each other's lips had signed a pact . . . for they knew . . . for they both knew that when their sexual joining finally came it would be one filled with all the sweetness, tenderness and honesty of heaven, but it would also be filled with all the lustful, burning, insatiable passion of hell.
"Bud, where the hell have you been? I left a message for you and Singer over an hour ago!" Expecting to find the manipulative Lieutenant following close behind, he was surprised when Bud entered alone. "Where is Singer?"
"We . . . I just got back to the hotel and got your message about the Colonel." Bud had been frantic once he had listened to Harm's message and had heard the unmasked concern in his voice. Now breathless, he found himself stammering the questions through his ragged breathing. "Is she here? Is she okay, Sir? I was afraid of something like this happening. We . . . "
"Mac is fine. We had a scare, but she is fine . . ."
" . . . shouldn't be tempting the dark side. We shouldn't be . . ."
"Damn it, Bud! Calm down! Mac is okay! Come on, see for yourself."
Reliving all his own fears, Harm led Bud into the bedroom knowing there would be no settling him down till he saw her for himself. Agitated and unsteady, afraid of what he would see, he followed Harm in silence, only releasing a calming breath when he saw Mac sitting up nestled among the silk tapestry brocade throw pillows.
Rushing to her side, all military protocol forgotten, he grabbed her hand. "Oh, thank God, Ma'am. Thank God! I didn't know what to think. I could only imagine . . . "
"Easy, Bud. I'm fine. Really I am. Though you look like you're about to pass out."
And with that said, Bud Roberts now a ghastly white, suddenly swooned, as his feet went out from under him and he fell to his knees against the side of the bed. Harm grabbed for him before he hit the floor and laid him on the bed, while Mac got the smelling salts from the first aid kit and a glass of water. And still . . . still no one knew where the petulant Lauren Singer was.
"Wow. I'm sorry, Ma'am, Sir. I don't know what happened."
"You fainted, Mr. Roberts. Plain and simple, you fainted." Mac held the glass of water to the still shaking lips, concern for her friend evident . . . concern for what was happening to all of them foremost on her mind.
"I don't know how plain and simple any of this is. This case, this place . . . something is not right, something is unnatural, something is . . . "
"Harm . . . " Remembering Harm's words at the edge of the Bayou, remembering the burning pain, remembering that her partner's instincts were something she would bet her life on, she turned her eyes full of questioning pleading to face him. Praying not to hear what she herself was beginning to imagine could be the truth. "You can't possible believe . . . "
"Exactly! Yes, he can." His world still slightly off balance, Bud tried to stand, his sudden burst of movement and agitated exclamations bringing Harm to Mac's side. They both knelt by him as they tried to keep him calm before he hit the deck again. "No . . . you have to listen. Something is unnatural in all this. Something dark, darker than we can imagine, something not of the living is . . . coming to us!"
"Bud . . . don't . . . We need more than . . ." Harm's logic tried to resurface, his mind tried to bring back the order, the discipline, but even he was having difficulty finding order among all the strange and inexplicable occurrences.
"I have more, Sir. I have more. She knew . . . she wrote the truth, and now she's dead. Killed to . . . to keep the darkness in the shadows, to keep it away from the light. She knew!" Again, he tried to stand, and again he slumped onto the over-sized four poster bed. "I need to get the documents from my room."
"Who, Bud? Who knew? Who knew what . . . "
Harm and Mac voiced the questions simultaneously, slightly out of sync, which made for an eerie echo in the room. Their questions hung in the air around them, and even in the light they evoked a suffocating blackened stilted silence . . . even the street sounded muffled and shrouded by the sudden apprehension felt by the three officers. One had the possible road map, two had nothing but incredulous questions pleading for directions. But all of them had one thing. The realization that once they unraveled the truth about this case, they would be forced to start their journey through the cosmic tunnel toward the unknown. They would be forced to pass into the land of unsettled souls . . . they would start down the road that would take them to the darkened evil world of the undead.
"Bud, who?" Harm's voice sliced into the suffocating silence startling them all.
"Gloria Patton, Sir. She was an investigative reporter for the Belle Chase Bugler."
"Are you trying to tell us that a Commander in the United States Navy, stabbed to death a reporter who worked for a "two-bit" hometown newspaper because she was writing an expose on a religious sect that has been practicing in Louisiana for hundreds of years." Harm stood, disbelieving, doubt written across his features, but a gnawing ache building in the pit of his stomach . . . knowing instinctively that their journey had already begun.
"No, Sir. That's not exactly what I'm saying."
"Well, what then, Bud?"
"I believe it was his soul. His soul was commanded to kill Gloria Patton . . . to stop the truth from coming to the surface. I need to get my research, then you'll both see." He stood once again, this time his legs held him, but his color was still a ghostly pallor.
"Whoa . . . Mr. Roberts. Just stow it right there. Give me your key and I'll get what you need." Harm glanced at Mac and acknowledged her nod of agreement . . . her nod . . . that this information was more than they had an hour ago . . . that she would be okay until he returned . . . that they needed to find the truth no matter where it took them.
"Mac, why don't you call room service and get something sent up? I have a feeling this is going to be a long night for Bud and I. You up to it, Bud?"
"You bet! This is so unreal . . . it's beyond . . . "
" . . . Bud, you and I have a long night ahead of us." Mac's pointed stare was not to go ignored.
"Mac, after today . . . well, you just better get all the rest you can. We don't know what we are looking for, or even when we find it we don't know where it will take us. I can't . . . I won't . . ." The words of the base doctor resurfaced and echoed in his head, sending a visible shudder through his body.
" . . . take us. 'No matter what that truth may be or where it may take us.' That is what you promised me on the Bayou this afternoon. If we are to fight the unknown, we will fight it together. Nothing has changed, unless there is something you're not telling me. You wouldn't be breaking a promise already? Now would you, Sailor?" She read his body language and she knew there was more that he wasn't telling her.
Harm sighed and shook his head, knowing he could hide nothing from her. It was her body that had been ravaged, and she had a right to know, but not now . . . not until he could sort it out. As he passed her, he squeezed her shoulder and whispered in her ear. "Never to you, Sarah." Even with Bud's bizarre allegations, Harm smiled when he felt the warmth of her hand covering his. He didn't want her to be a part of this. But as he made his way to the door he knew she had become a major piece to this puzzle of darkness, the minute she stepped off the plane . . . a major part . . . a focus . . . a center . . . though he had absolutely no idea why.
"My laptop. Don't forget my laptop . . . uh . . . Sir."
"Aye, Aye, Mr. Roberts." Harm forced a mock salute. "One thing, Bud."
"Yes, Sir."
"Where the hell is Lieutenant Singer?"
2000HRS (EST)
THE FRENCH QUARTER
NEW ORLEANS LA
The last of the ashes still smoldered in the ceremonial urn, the altar being readied for the evening liturgy. For the blood sacrifices to the dark goddesses . . . the dolls, joined by a fifth, were made ready for the evening possessions . . . for what was the unnatural in the light of the outside world, was the natural in the world of darkness. A thin line of conscious emotions separated the natural from the unnatural . . . a thin line separated good from evil . . . a thin line separated the crossing over of yet another soul.
The Bokar smiled with evil satisfaction as he held her in his hand firmly. Running his hand over the smooth surface of the doll's body, his fingers caressing the sweet softness he closed his eyes, the chant of lustful possession barely audible to his minions. He would bring her to him, bring her to the other side. He would take her from the light into the darkness . . . for her soul had been in darkness before. He would bring the one whom the god of light had given his best when he created her. Her strength, her purpose, her soul, her body . . . her best would be used to satisfy and serve only him.
The plan had changed, and there would be no need for him to destroy the four strangers . . . he would take the one into his world . . . and they would then destroy themselves.
2000HRS (CST)
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL
ROOM 435
NEW ORLEANS LA
She lay in the darkness writhing uncontrollably, soaked in a blanket of sweat since early afternoon. She had seen it all through his eyes. She had seen the desire, she had seen the passion, she had seen the uncontrollable fire of love burning between them . . . all through his eyes. She had felt through him all that had happened, clear and crisp, as if it was happening to her . . . but it wasn't her that he held, it wasn't her that he desired, it wasn't her that he loved. But it wasn't his love that she wanted, it was the step to power . . . the step to power through manipulative passion that she desired.
Her eyes snapped open, a smile of possessed satisfaction crossing her face, the fire in her eyes that of a far away world consumed of evil. As the Bokar came to her again, she complied to do his bidding as she had done before. In the afternoon sunlight, she had opened the wound, she had filled it with the poisonous venom from the dark side, and she had made her scream with the pain of a thousand tormented souls. She had watched it all unfold through the eyes of the powerful Bokar, the helplessness, the horror, the fear, the regret on Harmon Rabb's face, and she had reveled in the power of the dark side. She reveled in the power of the dark side as she had watched the two lovers cast apart . . . the two lovers that would never experience the joining of their souls now, now, that there was a new plan.
She heard the distant ringing of the phone, and as she had done for most of the day, she slipped back across the thin line that separated the world of good and evil . . . and shut out the incessant ringing. She smiled, he was coming . . . he was on his way and she would be more than ready for him . . . and this time she would be prepared with the power.
2000HRS (CST)
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL
ROOM 777
NEW ORLEANS LA
"Bud?"
"I haven't seen her, Ma'am, since I dropped her at the Coroner's Office. I called her cell phone and the hotel several times, but she never picked up."
"You guys split up?"
"Lauren . . . uh . . . the Lieutenant suggested it. She said that way we could cover more territory, and I had to agree with her. We . . . I did . . . I was sure it was good idea, Sir."
"What about when you went back to the room? She wasn't there?"
"No . . . I didn't see her." Bud seemed suddenly lost between the past and present, his eyes glazed over, his voice filled with a hesitancy, before he continued. "I thought I . . .I didn't check her room. I picked up your message, Sir, and came right here. I guess I panicked . . . now in hindsight, maybe our splitting up wasn't such a good idea . . . maybe I should have checked . . ."
"Relax, Bud. It was a good idea, and I'm sure she's fine. Maybe she was just taking in the sights when you went back to the room." Harm couldn't suppress the sarcasm his comment carried, was lost on neither of the other two officers, as their expressions confirmed that they fully shared his annoyance. He had never cared for her tactics nor had he ever trusted her. Now if he discovered that she was out partying with some "Cajun Casanova", without checking in, he would be damn sure that her next assignment would be as legal officer aboard a garbage scow in the Aleutians.
"Look, you go down to Bud's room, pick up what he found today and see if Singer is there. Go."
"Okay, but I won't be more than a few minutes." As an afterthought, Harm turned and looked pointedly at the two of them. "And you two stay put." Knowing he probably just pissed the Marine off, he quickly left their room before she had a chance to reply.
Harm made his way down the hall and opted for the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. He hurried down the stairwell, his thoughts on Mac, on the doctor's words, and he had to half admit he was worried about Lauren Singer. Though he found her manipulative, overly aggressive, irritating to a fault and he was sure she had left that damn report in Mac's car . . . she was still an associate . . . she was still Navy . . . she was still part of the team . . . whether she wanted to be or not.
As he exited the stairwell on Bud's floor, a sudden gust of chill wind caught him off guard, engulfing him. Turning into the gust defiantly, he thought he saw . . . it moved swiftly and silently with the wind only as its wings and disappeared. Could it have been what he thought it was? Was it possible that it was wandering the halls in . . .?
He felt the warmth return to the hallway in an unexpected rush, the long corridor now deserted, the only movement visible was the shadows created by the blinking exit sign, it's reflection against the window at the far end of the corridor, adjacent to Room 435, almost beckoning him. He shook his head in annoyance at the illusions his mind continued to conjure and toss into consciousness, almost daring him to acknowledge the existence of the non-existent. <Rabb, you're losing it. Now you're seeing things. You'd better get a grip . . . for everyone's sake.>
Fumbling for the key in the pocket of his sweats, he hesitated with key in hand and knocked on Room 435, suddenly apprehensive of what he would find, what was behind the door, what would be waiting for him.
2030HRS (CST)
TOMB OF MARIE LAVEAU
ST LOUIS NUMBER ONE
NEW ORLEANS LA
St. Louis Number One was built in 1789 and was the oldest cemetery in the metro New Orleans area. Like most cemeteries, it was actually built outside the town, but the town eventually encroached on the landscape and enveloped the cemetery. Laid to rest behind its imposing iron gates were the tombs of the famous and the infamous, warriors, politicians, and celebrities alike. Those who in life had been powerful, who had been affluent, who had been revered and those who had been feared. Some feared in life and some still feared in death, for even in death they still held the spiritual power of the "white" and "black" magic. The power of the light and power of the dark that had coursed through the veins of the city since the late 1600s, providing peace and providing chaos to the living and the dead.
And there in St. Louis Number One was the tomb of perhaps the most powerful, the most revered and the most feared patron of the Voodoo Arts. There in St. Louis Number One was the resting place of Marie LaVeau . . . there was the tomb of the "Voodoo Queen of New Orleans."
The "City Of The Dead" New Orleans was often called. The tombs sitting above ground in the world of the living, were constant reminders to those that believed, of the thin line that separated the living from the dead. Not sheltered nor hidden below the cold hardened earth, the spirits resided in the light of day, in the darkness of night, under the stars and the moon, among the living. Unencumbered by the sodden earth, the undead would rise when beckoned and walk with the living . . . walk possessed, summoned, by the powerful black magic of a reigning Bokar.
The seventh daughter of the seventh daughter hurried along the path, the offering of salvation held securely in her hands. The time was close, very close, when the strong stranger would be tested by the insatiable lurid temptation the Bokar had conjured. She would have to hurry if she had any hope of deflecting the evil sorcery with Marie's power and blessings. Increasing her speed, she reached the granite tomb, breathless, afraid her strength would fail her before she could make the ceremonial offering to the Queen. Before she could invoke the spirit of Marie LaVeau to enter the world of the living and intercede on behalf of the strong stranger, whose fate, whose destiny would forever be changed by the sorcerer's "left-handed" black Voodun.
2030HRS (CST)
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL
ROOM 435
NEW ORLEANS LA
No sound came from the other side of the door as Harm knocked again, the eerie stillness and cold that appeared once again raised the hairs at the base of his neck. Not hearing a response, he opened the hotel room door and was greeted by total darkness. Not even a sliver of light peeked through the large windows, the eerie calm and blackness momentarily unnerving even the strong naval officer.
Finding the light switch, he paused, allowing the light that spilled into the room to chase away all the shadows that seemed to persist and linger in the corners of the room.
"Lauren." The strength in his voice pinned the words on the still silence that hung around him.
"Lt. Singer!" The words were shouted with the stinging irritation of an officer, preparing to reprimand a subordinate, but again there was no response, no movement . . . just the stifling stillness.
He moved to one of the bedrooms, noted its desolate emptiness and Bud's personal belongings lying on the dresser, and then he moved across the living area and knocked on the other door. Again no response, again the temperature in the room seemed to drop further. Convincing himself his mind was once again trying to manipulate his judgment, he flung open the door to another empty silent and dark bedroom.
Irritated at himself, annoyed with Lt. Singer's disregard for protocol, he turned and surveyed the room, attempting to locate the files, Bud's computer, and get the hell out of there. Finding both, apparently dropped in haste, on the desk, he turned his full attention to gathering what he needed concentrating intently as he sorted through the paperwork.
Absorbed with locating the documents and getting out of there, pre-occupied with his own fears and weaknesses that this case had surfaced, he was oblivious to the changing aura of his surroundings. He didn't notice the drastic drop in temperature, causing a sudden unearthly smoky vapor to appear and swirl around him, wrapping him in an evil curtain . . . a curtain that would veil what was to come. He didn't notice the dimming of the lights, casting wailing shadows of the wounded around him, willed to be active participants to what was the inevitable.
He never noticed her standing behind him, inches from his body, her eyes vacant, but wanting the power, the control that only their complete joining would accomplish. Nothing was noticed until he felt her fingers filled with the fire of the dark side run along his naked skin and scorch it with the flames of hell. But even then . . . even then he was only able to turn and face her, unable to stop her assault. He watched her drop her robe and stand naked before him. He felt her body hungrily press and gyrate against his, he felt her hands burn and scorch him, as they ran the length of him . . . and even then . . . even then, he stood paralyzed . . . unable to resist, unable to comprehend, unable to stop what was happening to him . . . what was to become his destiny carried on the cold hands of the possessed.
2130HRS (CST)
TOMB OF MARIE LAVEAU
ST LOUIS NUMBER ONE
NEW ORLEANS LA
The Mambo's mind saw the two souls dueling, one soul from the light and one soul from the darkness. With hands shaking from her darkened visions, she quickly laid the offering at the door, she grabbed the red clay stone at her feet, and she marked the gray aged granite of the tomb with the three red "Xs". As she pounded with supernatural force three times on the tomb, she continued to mumble the ceremonial prayers taught to her by her ancestors . . . summoning Marie LaVeau's spirit to help the soul that was dying . . . to help the soul that was being absorbed . . .to help separate the souls that would soon be one in the darkness.
Gasping in desperation, her voiced prayers reached frenzied proportions, as she stretched to the heavens trying to stop the evil seduction of his soul . . . his soul that was fast slipping into the dark world, that was fast slipping into the unnatural, that was falling quickly into the cavern of evil that the Bokar had evoked . . . falling into the abyss, never to return again into the world of the light.
2130HRS (CST)
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL
ROOM 435
NEW ORLEANS LA
Aided by the smoky haze that had drugged him, aided by the shrouded curtain that bound him in place, aided by the fingers of the wailing wounded that teased him, Lauren Singer continued her lascivious seduction, smiling at the feeling of the arousal that would soon complete their joining. She would take his brilliant mind and exploit it. She would numb his heart and destroy it. She would take his will and control it . . . all to serve her aggressive, self-serving, maniacal need for power and success.
The all-consuming blackness was pierced with her uncontrollable laughter, her movements becoming more pronounced, more aroused, more frenzied as she felt their joining close. She felt him shudder against her and she knew it was time . . .time for her to take . . .time for him to give . . . time for a dark beginning and time for the death of a soul.
She writhed uncontrollably in her own ecstasy, unable to control the sensations that were overtaking and inflaming her own body and the evil that lived in her soul. But just as the joining was reaching completion, the room was suddenly lit by the whitest of ethereal lights, filled with the brightest of essences, consumed by the strongest of cosmic auras. The "right-handed" presence that fought with the blackness, absorbed the smoky poisoned haze that had drugged him, sliced the veiled bonds that had bound him, eliminated the wounded fingers that had teased him and removed the self-serving possessed evil soul that had tried to seduce him.
And as quickly as the presence had appeared it passed back through the cosmic door, into the land of the dead. But before she left the land of the living, she cleansed Harmon Rabb's immortal soul. She removed the memories from his mind, she restored the strength of his heart and she healed the wounds on his body. For Marie LaVeau, knew that if the strong one awoke with the memories of this evening of the blackest of all evil, even he with his strength, even he with his character, even he would surely go insane.
2145HRS (CST)
TOMB OF MARIE LAVEAU
ST LOUIS NUMBER ONE
NEW ORLEANS LA
The Mambo lay exhausted and shaking on the step of the tomb when the presence with its bright essence returned to its resting place. Like a sponge the aging granite tomb absorbed the cosmic energy of the "Voodoo Queen" back into its sacred vault to await another calling.
The seventh daughter of the seventh daughter rose, chanting the prayers of thanksgiving for another soul that had been saved through Marie's divine intervention. Straightening, she moved onto the path that would take her back into the world of the living, and she knew the time had come. She knew, even with her inherited ancestral powers from the Queen herself, she would be unable to defeat the strongest of the Bokars unless she did the unthinkable. She would be unable to save the strangers with her "white magic" unless she used the non-believers, unless she used the means of the conventional world, unless she revealed certain truths, held sacred for centuries, to the strangers.
Tomorrow she would enlist the aid of the strangers whose lives still were balancing precariously on the tightrope over the bottomless abyss of the dark world . . . tomorrow she would do the unthinkable.
Charlotte LaVeau-Gautier stopped and turned back towards the now silent, yet, imposing granite structure. "Thank you, Grand-Ma-Ma. Thank you for passing the strength of the ages to me, and please forgive me for what I am about to do. It is the only way . . . this time it is the only way."
0010HRS (CST)
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL
ROOM 777
NEW ORLEANS LA
"That's it! I can't stand it anymore! Let's go, Bud."
"Go where, Ma'am?" Bud knew exactly what Mac meant. He would have gone to hell and back for his two friends, but the events of the day and the research he had spent the day conducting . . . knew that hell was exactly where they were heading.
"We're going to your room to find the Commander. Stay put, my . . ." Mac had bristled at Harm's parting comment, she had stayed put for over two hours and forty minutes, and enough was enough. "Let's go, Bud!" Grabbing the room key she quickly made her way toward the door. "Are you coming, Mr. Roberts?"
"Ma'am, do you think that is such a good idea? The Commander told us to stay here and wait for him."
"Fine, you stay here! I'll go find Harm myself!"
"No, No. I'm . . ." Bud Roberts started toward the door, but before either of them made it, they heard the click of the lock and saw the door open.
"Harm!" Not thinking about Bud standing behind her, Mac flung herself at Harm, sudden waves of relief washing over her. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she closed her eyes hoping his warmth and strength would infuse her with his sense of the rational, the logical. But as he handed the files and computer to Bud, and returned her hug with an equal intensity, she felt how cold . . . how clammy . . . how sweaty he was . . .and his pounding heart racing against her. Pulling back, her eyes filled with questions, she just looked at him.
"What, Marine?"
"What? Where have you been? You said you'd be gone for a few minutes, and it has been exactly 2 hour and 40 minutes! You had me . . . us . . . worried." Mac felt him tense, saw confusion cloud his normally clear eyes and felt him pull abruptly away from her.
"Yeah . . . well . . . I . . . it took longer than . . .Why don't you guys start. I'm gonna grab a shower, and then I could sure use some of that coffee." Hearing her confirm what he had feared was the irreconcilable truth, he turned stiffly and headed for his room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Bud buried himself immediately in the papers, connected his computer and started surfing the Internet. Mac sat next to him on the floor and tried desperately to concentrate on some of the collected documents she picked up from the pile Bud had accumulated, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Harm's state when he had returned. Finally, convincing herself this case had them all reading the sinister into the easily explained, she turned her full attention on Commander Hawkin's victim.
After forty-five minutes of delving into the life of Gloria Patton, mesmerized by her investigation, Mac brought herself back to the present and realized that Harm hadn't returned from his shower. She stood, stretching her tangled muscles. "Hey Bud, I'm going to check on Harm. He'd better not be napping and leaving us to collate these reams of paper."
She heard Bud's mumbled acknowledgment but noticed he never once took his eyes from the computer screen. Walking to the bedroom, she knocked before she entered. Opening the door, she found the bedroom dark and empty, the only light coming from under the bathroom door. "Harm. Hey, Sailor you didn't drown in there did you? Harm. Get a move on it, you don't think . . ." Strangely startled, she took a step back when he suddenly opened the bathroom door. She took another step backwards, averting her eyes, when she realized he was still just wrapped in a towel, his skin and hair still damp and glistening from the shower.
"Mac . . . I."
"Sorry, I'll go and let you . . ."
"No . . . don't go. Stay. Please, I need to . . ."
"Harm . . . don't. We can't . . . until we sort out what we have waiting in Washington, if we still want to when we get back." She gasped as she felt him inches from her now, the soap mixed with his male scent attacking her senses. Trying to back away further, she found herself pinned between him and the edge of the bed. Still averting her eyes from him, she whispered the words that she was afraid to hear the answer to. "We can't be sure that what's happened down here . . . between you and I is real or just something that will disappear like all the other unexplained occurrences once we get back to . . . "
He hadn't intended to touch her, but hearing her sudden insecurities concerning what they had finally admitted still existed between them, incensed him, knowing that he wasn't going to back away again and neither was he going to let her. They weren't going to substitute surrogates for each other ever again . . . not ever.
He moved against her and grabbed her shoulders, the fire in his eyes unmistakable, undeniable and inextinguishable. "Damn you, Sarah MacKenzie, don't do this. Don't you let yourself believe for one minute that what I feel for you and what you feel for me is just part of this hell we've fallen into since we arrived here."
"Harm . . .it is okay . . . don't feel that . . . "
"Don't what? Don't say what you wanted to hear on that ferry. Don't let myself feel for the first time in my life. Well, I'm not . . . no I won't believe that this is all going to disappear in a magical puff of smoke when we get back to Washington." He tightened his grip, before he continued. "You listen to me, Marine. You don't love Brumby, and you never did. I pushed you into his arms, and then you pushed me into Renee's by accepting his ring. I love you, and I won't let you tell me now that what we both feel, what we both have finally admitted, is just an apparition created by the bizarre circumstances of what we have gotten in the middle of here. Everything around us pertaining to this case may be unexplainable, but damn it this isn't!" His lips held all the fire of his eyes, intense and burning, as she found herself covered by his damp body as they fell on the bed.
His words echoed in her head, spinning with the passion that he was invoking with his bruising kiss and the feel of his strong body covering hers. She wasn't going to allow herself any longer to deny what had been finally growing between them since they had gotten here. Returning the passion with the same intensity, her arms sliding up his damp body, her fingers tangling in his hair, she held him against her, letting him feel the depth of her own passion . . . that her love was not unexplainable, that it wouldn't disappear in a puff of smoke.
Her needs were pushing her to the exact place that she had wanted to be, with the one person in this world that she wanted to be there with, but she knew this wasn't the time or the place for this. They both still had so much to settle in Washington, and they couldn't let their personal lives interfere with their professional ones. This case needed their full attention, their client needed their best.
Mac increased the intensity of her movements, needing to feel his strong desire before she stopped, what she wished would never end. Feeling him respond in kind, she rolled him under her, the towel barely hanging on, and his groans of displeasure when she pulled away fueling her own fire of regret. But when she saw the understanding in his brilliant eyes, mixed with the still visible longing, she smiled.
"I know . . . I know . . . lousy timing, huh, Marine?"
"The lousiest, Sailor. We have Bud in the next room, we have this case and we still have Renee and Mic waiting for us. When it finally happens, I want nothing else between us except the love, the passion, the desire we feel for one another." She saw his eyes darken slightly. "Harm what is it?"
He left her arms and sat on the edge of the bed, something suddenly causing a shudder to pass over his body, his muscles rippling with the tension the memory invoked. Concerned at the sudden mood swing, instinctively knowing it had nothing to with them, she crawled to the edge of the bed and kneeled at his side. "Harm, tell me what is it?"
"Tonight, when I went to Bud's room . . . I lost time." He took her hand when he saw the mask of confusion cloud her beautiful features.
"What are you saying . . . you . . . fainted, you blacked out, you what?"
"No, nothing like that . . . I remember standing at the desk going through the files, and then I . . . I . . . was standing at the desk going through the files . . . two hours and ten minutes later."
"Harm . . ."
"Don't look at me like that, Mac. I'm not nuts. You're the one who pointed out when I came back how long I had been gone."
"You're right . . . you're right. What do you think happened? What about Lauren, was there any sign of her?"
"My rational mind tells me she wasn't there, but my gut tells me she was. Look, when I first got on the floor, well, I thought I saw her disappear down the corridor in a . . . and later I think I felt her . . ."
"In a what, Harm? In a what?"
"In next to nothing . . ." He watched her jaw set in a firm line, her brow furrow in frustration, as she stood straightening what he had unstraightened.
"Let me understand what you're saying. You saw Lauren Singer disappear down a corridor "naked," and then you went into her room where you entered some kind of time warp, you lost two hours and ten minutes of your life, and you "felt" the illusive Singer."
"Exactly . . . or . . . maybe not." Seeing more than a mere incredulous expression on her face, he suddenly found the need to defend himself. "Oh, now wait just a damn minute, you can't possibly believe that I would even . . ."
Mac realized that his story, her imagination, the whole mess they were in caused her ridiculous thoughts to surface, and he had always been able to read her like a book. "No of course, not. I know you better than that . . . but . . ."
"But what?"
"But I wouldnít put it past that little wench . . ." She tried to ignore the slight smile that played on his lips as she walked to the door, catching it out of the corner of her eye. "Why don't you get dressed, Flyboy. Though what you have on is most appealing to me, I think it would make Mr. Roberts a bit uncomfortable."
"Yes, Ma'am. And Mac, the color green certainly becomes you, and I'm not talking Marine Green either."
"Get your six in gear and reign in that ego of yours, Sailor. You have a lot of catching up to do."
"Yeah, about two hours and 10 minutes."
"Harm seriously, what in the world do you think happened down there?"
"Mac, I honestly donít know. But I'll bet you one thing, Marine. What happened down there was not of this world."
ROOM 777
0330HRS (CST)
They had been at it for hours, Bud hunched at one end of the sofa lost in the world of cyber-space and Harm sprawled at the other end pouring over police accounts, witness statements and the life of Lt. Commander Mark Hawkins. While Harm had opted for the rational, the logical, the factual, Mac sat on the floor by Harm and wrapped herself in the mystical. She read all that Bud had found on the Internet concerning the practice of Voodoo, limited as it was, and when she had finished she had returned to her copy of the Dictionary of Cults, Sects, Religions, the Occult and Their Respective Rituals.
Every now and then, Harm would drop his arm and discretely play with Mac's hair . . . the action almost unconscious, but each time the small smile on Mac's face one of obvious enjoyment at the slight contact. Bud would catch the inter-action between his two friends, and he would smile, not enough for them to notice, not that they would notice . . . so engrossed in each other were they during those brief intimate moments.
This time when his arm brushed against her hair, he squeezed her shoulder. "Up, Marine. I need to change the dressing on your arm."
"Yeah, just a minute. Did you know that the word ZOMBI comes from the Kongo word 'nzambi', which loosely translates as 'spirit of a dead person'? In Haiti a zombi . . . "
" . . . Looks very much like the three of us do right now. Get up, Marine Dr. Rabb, awaits."
" . . . Is under the control of a Bokar, a Voodoo priest who practices black magic and sorcery. Wait, I read that . . ." Bud reached for the documents that contained his latest Internet revelations, shuffling through them for a moment. "Here it is . . ."
"Hey, let's take a break guys." Harm shook his head at the two of them, still trying to find the rational . . . the logical . . . the order in what they had all become unwilling participants in. "You two are unbelievable. Mr. Roberts. Bud!"
"What . . . uh . . . Sir?"
"While I change the dressing on the 'supernatural siren's' arm here, do you think you can leave the land of the 'undead' long enough to take a break and order us some more coffee?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Thank you. Now, Marine." Dragging Mac to her feet, he herded her toward the bedroom, a teasing push nudging her in the right direction and sat her on the bed close to the light of the nightstand.
"Hey! Don't think I missed either one of your cracks, flyboy."
"I didn't think you did." Harm gently removed the bandage applied at the clinic, momentarily losing his focus, his mind rewinding and re-playing the doctor's words in his head. After all that happened he was still trying to mold the pieces to fit into his ordered world. He didn't want to give in to the unexplainable, he didn't want to fall prey to the unbelievable, he didn't want to allow himself to admit that there was more to this case than those things that existed in his polished military world of the sane and disciplined.
Mac watched the kaleidoscope of emotions flicker across his face, thoughts taking him somewhere between the then and now . . . somewhere between logic and chaos. "Harm, we'll find the answers. We'll get to the truth."
"For the first time in my life, that is exactly what I am afraid of. I'm afraid of finding the answers and of finding the truth those answer point to. What we will be forced to do with them once we find them and accept them. If we accept them. If we . . ."
"Ma'am, sorry to interrupt, but do you guys want something to eat from room . . ." Bud stopped in mid-sentence, all color drained from his face as he grabbed the foot board of the four poster to steady himself . . . glaring in disbelief at the wound on Mac's arm. Focused at the now healing sore, as if he had just discovered the crevice to hell. He barely croaked the words out through his suddenly parched lips. "That's just like hers . . . it's almost identical . . . it is almost identical to the one on Lt. Singer's arm."
"What!" Harm was up and away from Mac like a he had been catapulted out of canon and was suddenly in Bud's face, conducting the cross examination from hell . . . while the doctor's, the scientist's, words fast forwarded and pounded repeatedly in his head. "Singer had a burn like this? When did you see it, Bud! This morning was the last time you saw her, and you're just bringing it up now!"
"I . . . didn't think it was important! She shrugged it off . . . when I asked her about . . . It wasn't exactly like that . . . It was more like a pronounced . . . raised like a . . . like a . . ."
"You didn't think it was important! I almost lost Mac today to this 'brand,' and you didn't think it was important!" Harm was now screaming at Bud, as if he had committed the worst of all sins, while Mac just watched in shocked disbelief at his sudden outburst.
"Do you think Lauren is . . . in trouble because of . . ."
"Wherever the hell she is, that 'ecliptic brand' isn't affecting her . . . it's already reached it's target . . . it's already . . ."
"Back off, Harm! Leave him alone!" Mac had listened to the exchange, and once the implications in the words Harm screamed registered, she moved behind him spinning him around to face her, her eyes blazing with molten indignation. "Somehow I get the feeling you know more about this than Bud! What about an 'ecliptic brand!' Tell me!"
"Mac . . ." He reached for her, but she wanted none of his comfort, she only wanted the truth, the whole unbelievable truth and he didn't know where or how to start. All that the doctor had intimated, all that Harm had pushed to the back of his mind as folklore, speculation, nonsense had suddenly taken on the appearance of truth.
"Harm. Now!" Her anger uncontrollable, Mac stood directly in front him with her arms crossed against her chest. "All of it! Now!"
"Okay . . . While the nurse was dressing your wound in the clinic, I tracked down the doctor that worked on you to be sure you were okay, that it was safe to take you home, and if there was anything special I should do once I got you back to the hotel. He had this incredible look on his face, and when I tried to thank him . . . he told me that he had done nothing . . . "
"But the burning stopped. The pain subsided." Her voice trembled slightly, her afternoon experiences breaking through the defense mechanisms her mind had seemed to put in place . . . as Harm's words registered and she started to understand . . . she started to remember.
"Yes, it stopped, but it was not a miracle of modern medicine . . . it was a miracle of divine intervention, by a very powerful Mambo or Houngan." Harm ran his hand through his hair as he saw the fire of indignation fade from Mac's eyes and the flames of fear fill her brown pools. He pulled her next to him on the bed before he continued. The fear he felt as intense as hers as the words came spilling out.
"It is believed that in one of the blackest of Voodoo ceremonies, a Bokar leaves his body and visits two souls, one soul of innocence and one soul of evil. He 'brands' both with the 'ecliptic' symbols of the sun and moon, then fills one with the venomous poison of a snake causing, the burn to take on a raised appearance." Harm stopped and pulled Mac in his arms, trying to still her trembling, this time she molded to him, her resistance gone. He cursed himself for having to continue, for knowing the things he wished he didn't know . . . for having to disclose to her the tormenting truth.
"The rest, please. I need to know the rest." Her voice was steady, but barely a whisper.
"At an appointed time of their choosing, the soul of evil releases the venom, by irritating her own 'ecliptic' brand. The venom passes from the dark into the light and . . . poisons the soul of innocence."
"And the Colonel's wound was healed by the intervention of a Mambo or Houngan, a high priestess or high priest of 'white magic'?" Bud was now on the other side of Harm, listening intently, amazed at it all, but not doubting the credence of any of what Harm was saying.
"That's what Doctor Stallings believes."
"But if he knows of this supposed ritual . . . there are anti-venoms that can be administered . . . wouldn't that stop the spread of the poison?" Harm saw a spark of faith, a spark of strength return to her pleading eyes but he knew his subsequent words would only extinguish their life.
"Snakes are used in New Orleans Voodoo rituals extensively, and only the most exotic are chosen. By the time the anti-venom is found, by the time it is administered . . . it is normally too late. Most innocents believe that it is hopeless, that it is pre-destined, that the 'ecliptic' rite is irreversible, so treatment is rarely sought." Harm tightened his hold on Mac and looked to Bud, who was lost in thought. "Bud, I need to apologize . . ."
"There's no need . . . I can't even imagine what I would have done if . . . if it had been Harriet. Just forget it, Sir."
ROOM 777
0430HRS (CST)
They had sat in a hushed silence, each trying to comprehend all that had happened in just the last 36 hours, all that they had faced and all that they had ahead of them. Trying to deal with the growing uneasiness that gnawed at their reason, that their lives were no longer theirs to control, that they were simply pawns in the age old game of good versus evil. That their destinies now belonged to cosmic forces that they knew little about, that had survived centuries, one battling the other for dominance in both the world of the living and the world of the dead.
For some