Rising Moon

Chapter Nineteen

“It means what?” I asked, and my voice was far too loud for the silent, empty room.

“Wolf. In Spanish.” She shrugged. “A lot of old names do. It was a common choice because wolves were seen as strong, independent, and loyal.”

“Excuse me. Miss?”

A skeletal old man stood in the doorway, squinting as if the light were too bright, or perhaps his glasses weren’t thick enough. His expression had drawn his eyebrows together until they resembled a bushy, white unibrow.

The guy kind of creeped me out. No one could be that skinny, or that pale, and live. “Can I help you?”

Maggie stood. “I’d love something to drink, child. I’m parched.”

“Sure.” She smiled at me. “Playtime’s over.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate the help.”

She hurried from the Internet section into the cafe. The old man glanced at me as he followed, and the sun caught his eyes the way a camera flash sometimes does, turning them briefly red. I liked him even less than before.

Then the red disappeared and his eyes were just blue again; unfortunately, my paranoia remained.

So Rodolfo’s name meant wolf. As Maggie had pointed out, it was a common enough derivation for very old surnames, and around here, I bet many of them were as old as the swamp.

However, since Maggie had left the computer card in the computer, I decided I’d make use of it. I typed in “loup-garou,” got back nothing I didn’t already have, but I did find a list of ways to determine if someone was a werewolf.

I hit print, then started to read.

Hair on the p alms.

“Not that I noticed.”

Purp le urine.

“I don’t think I’ll check that one.”

Unnaturally long middle or ring f inger.

I frowned. John had very long fingers, but none of them seemed any longer than the others.

Call the beast ’s human name while he ’s in wolf  f orm, and he will revert to his human shap e.

Which only worked if I happened upon a werewolf, and I really hoped that I didn’t.

Pass iron over the head of  the aff licted.

“Hmm. That’s doable.”

I felt kind of foolish as I read over the choices, but as my mom always said, better safe than sorry.

Having the list would hurt no one, except maybe Rodolfo. If he was a werewolf.

I shoved the sheet of paper into my pocket and went to say good-bye to Maggie. Except she wasn’t there. Behind the counter stood a young African-American man with skin the color of latte and impossibly tiny braids.

“I don’t know where Maggie went,” he said. “But I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”

“Thanks.” I decided not to wait. I was certain I’d need coffee, if not information, again.

I considered returning to Rising Moon, but decided against it. I wasn’t tired, thanks to the Jamaican Blue Mountain, and what would I do there anyway but brood?

Instead I made my way through the shops, tourist and antique, searching for something that would help me. I found it not long after lunchtime.

“Remember to hang the horseshoe open side up over your doorway,” the saleslady said as she rang up my purchase, “otherwise all your luck will run out.”

“I’ve heard that,” I said.

“In Europe most horseshoes are hung open side down, so the luck runs into you.” She frowned. “I’m not sure which way I’d hang mine, because in both traditions, if you do it wrong, bad luck follows.”

Since I didn’t believe in luck, good, bad, or otherwise, I wasn’t worried. Although considering I was buying a horseshoe as a werewolf test, maybe I should reconsider.

“This is made of iron?” I asked.

“Of course, ever since iron was discovered that’s what horseshoes have been made out of. Before, they used a kind of rawhide boot, which just wasn’t the same.”

Before she could launch into a treatise on the wonder of the Iron Age, I thanked her and made my escape.

By the time I returned to Rising Moon, afternoon waned. I was disturbed to realize that I’d left my anti-werewolf gris-gris at the coffee shop. I only hoped I wouldn’t need it any more than I needed the horseshoe.

King was already ensconced behind the bar. When I asked him for a hammer and nails he obliged.

“Somethin’ wrong with your place? I’ll fix it.” I shook my head and pulled the horseshoe out of the bag.

He grimaced. “What in hell is that?”

“What does it look like?”

“A smelly old horseshoe.”

I took a whiff. “Doesn’t smell like anything but metal.”

“Thing spent years marinatin’ in horse manure, girlie. That don’t wash off as easily as you think.”

“I’m going to hang it over my door for luck.”

Who knows, maybe having it there would keep whoever waltzed in and out at their leisure from continuing to do so. Better even than a new lock and key—though I’d take the latter, as well.

“Did you get the locks changed yet?” I asked.

“Guy can’t come until after Mardi Gras. He’s an Indian.”

“What does being Native American have to do with anything?”

King shook his head. “You don’t know nothin’ about New Orleans, do ya?”

“A little.”

“If you’re gonna be around for Fat Tuesday, you’d better know more. The Indians are groups of African-American men who parade on Mardi Gras, also Saint Joseph’s night and the Sunday closest to it, Super Sunday. Every year they make new suits.”

“Suits,” I repeated, as an image of a black man in a crisp summer suit, face painted like a Comanche, got stuck in my head.

“Costumes,” King clarified. “Indian costumes, with beads and plumes and feathers.”

“Why?”

“Tradition. Some say the Indians started when Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show came through town. Others believe they began because so many escaped slaves took refuge with the Indian tribes. No one really knows for certain. But the Mardi Gras Indians are a big deal, and the locksmith ain’t comin’ until the season is done.”

I nodded. I’d just have to depend on the horseshoe, and maybe a chair under the doorknob, for added security.

I gathered everything into my hands. “Thanks, King.”

As I left, he muttered, “Crazy white folks and their dumbass traditions.”

He’d better watch it or I might really start to like him.

My bed was empty. I hadn’t expected John to be there. Should be glad he wasn’t since I was nailing the horseshoe up for him. Or was that against him?

I dragged a chair across the floor, climbed on top and went to work. I was pretty good with a hammer, and I finished a few minutes later.

“What’s all the noise?”

Since I hadn’t heard anyone come up the stairs or even down the hall, I started. The sudden movement caused the chair to teeter. I gasped, dropped the hammer, and pinwheeled my arms. I was going to fall and crack my head on the floor like a melon.

Then John was there, grabbing me around the waist. His save was a little clumsy—he socked me in the stomach first—but I didn’t care. The chair fell backward and I tipped forward, sliding all the way down his body until my feet met solid ground.

My heart threatened to burst from my chest; I was dizzy with adrenaline. I could do nothing but hold on to him.

“You okay?”

I rested my cheek against his shoulder. I couldn’t speak for several seconds. When my voice returned, along with my breath, I leaned back. My gaze lifted to the horseshoe, visible behind Rodolfo’s head.

When he’d grabbed me around the waist, he’d stepped into my room and directly beneath the iron.

I couldn’t help myself. I kissed him—for quite a while. When I finished we were both breathless.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Not too bad. Why?”

I made a noncommittal sound, continuing to peer at the horseshoe, uncertain. I wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen if a werewolf walked beneath iron. Did John’s being able to cross beneath it mean he wasn’t a werewolf? Or did it just mean he wasn’t one right now? Hell, maybe it meant the test didn’t work at all.

I couldn’t believe I was actually worrying about this. I’d seen John on the night of the full moon; for that matter, I’d seen him on the night of a crescent moon too. My behavior was nothing short of foolish, if not paranoid.

I inched out of his embrace, moving the chair against the wall before one of us tripped over it. “What were you doing?” he asked. “Hanging a horseshoe over my door.” His eyebrows lifted. “Need some luck?”

“Wouldn’t hurt. I haven’t found my sister yet.”

His lighter expression faded. “I’m sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry for?”

He turned away. “I know it upsets you.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Rodolfo stilled. I’d gone too far, gotten too personal, which seemed an impossibility considering the amount of spit we’d swapped, but I guess there were lines between us I wasn’t aware of.

“No,” he murmured, and the word hung heavy in the air between us.

How could I have forgotten? All of his family were dead. What did it feel like to be both blind and alone in the world? I didn’t want to know.

I laid my hand on his back, felt the slight tremble beneath his black cotton shirt. I wanted to take him in my arms and murmur to him like a child, but from the way he tensed, I doubted he’d let me.

John turned his face toward the door. King hovered in the hall. I hadn’t heard him come up the stairs either, and I doubted the big man was very light on his feet. “Problem?” John asked.

“Someone downstairs to see you.” He was looking at me. From the curl of his lip, I knew who it was even before he said, “That detective.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, but King was already gone. “I don’t like him,” Rodolfo muttered.

“Hey, he works for you.”

“I meant Sullivan.”

“No kidding?” I said. “I never would have gotten that from the way you two pal around.”

His lips twitched. Wow. I’d almost made him laugh.

“What does he want?” John wondered.

“I won’t know until he tells me.” I stepped into the hall, glanced back. “You coming?”

“No. I’ve had enough of his company.”

I guess I wouldn’t be all that eager to talk to the man who’d tried to pin me with serial murder either.

Dusk approached as I entered Rising Moon. King bustled behind the bar; Sullivan stood at the front window; an older gentleman nursed a Bloody Mary near the rear. He must have been a friend of King’s since we weren’t technically open for business.

“Hi,” I said, as I j oined Sullivan.

Sunset cast multicolored shadows over Frenchmen Street, making both the people and the cars appear frozen in a bygone century. There were times since coming to New Orleans that I really wished I could paint.

Sullivan glanced at King, who must have been staring, maybe glaring, because the detective’s expression hardened, and he took my elbow, turning me so that we both faced away from the bartender. “I have the results on the bracelet.”

“That was fast.” Excitement made my voice both too high and too loud. Sullivan scowled, and I lowered it. “What did you find out?”

“The blood was AB positive.”

My heart lurched. “Katie’s blood type.”

His brown eyes flicked to mine, then away. “That doesn’t mean the blood was hers.”

True. Except—

“AB positive only occurs in about three percent of the population.”

“Still—” He spread his hands.

I wasn’t sure if I should be happy or sad that the blood on the bracelet might be Katie’s. Blood was probably not a good thing, but at least it was something. After so many years of nothing, I couldn’t help but be encouraged.

“We could do a DNA test,” he continued, “but we’d have to have your sister’s DNA as a comparison.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll have my parents drop off her hairbrush at the lab in Philadelphia.”

“The test could take a while.”

“They always do.”

Sullivan glanced at his feet, shifted his shoulders, sighed.

“What else?” I asked.

“The photograph.” He lifted his head. “It was altered.”

“Altered how?”

“The picture of Katie was combined with a photo of Rising Moon.”

My heart lurched. “She wasn’t really here?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

Which might explain why no one I’d shown the picture to had recognized her. Or it might just be that I hadn’t found the right person yet.

“Why would someone do that?” I asked.

“To get you here.”

“Me? No one cares about me.”

Sullivan touched my elbow. “That’s not true, Anne.”

“You know what I mean. I’m just a PI from Philly. Why would anyone want me in New Orleans?”

“That’s what I plan to find out.”

The digitally combined photograph disturbed me. Not for the first time since coming to New Orleans, I felt stalked.

“I think you should stay with me,” Sullivan said.

I tensed and a flicker passed over his face; it was there and then gone so fast I wasn’t able to discern what the expression had meant.

“I can’t,” I said, and Sullivan’s hand fell away from my arm.

I wished I could feel for him what he seemed to feel for me. Maybe if we’d met back in Philly, before Rodolfo and New Orleans had seeped into my blood and made me long for something more, things might have been different.

“I didn’t think you would,” he murmured, “but I had to try.”

I wondered how much he knew about John and me, or how much he’d figured out.

Sullivan glanced away, then shuffled his feet and hunched his shoulders. I was starting to understand his shorthand.

“What else?”

Sullivan took a deep breath, then let it out before answering. “The dirt.”

The tiny flutter of hope in my chest bloomed. “Were you able to figure out where it was from?” That would be huge.

“Not exactly,” he said, still not looking at me.

” What exactly?”

“The dirt had certain properties that made it different from run-of-the-mill dirt.”

The science of forensics was so recent; new methods were being discovered every day and old ones were being refined. However, I couldn’t recall anything about the analysis of dirt.

“You lost me,” I admitted.

At last, Sullivan turned his face in my direction. I didn’t like what I saw in his eyes. “The particles on the bracelet were graveyard dirt.”