22. Twenty-Two
TWENTY-TWO
Knox was driving, so I didn’t ask the obvious question as we made our way to Marigny. I was curious about which bar he believed would be fruitful, and then kicked myself for not thinking of it myself.
St. Roch Tavern was considered an “authentic” New Orleans bar compared to all the tourist traps on Bourbon Street.
No one walked out of St. Roch with a hand grenade full of something sugary or a blended tropical drink.
No, St. Roch featured cheap drinks and only took cash.
It was the exact sort of place the loas would frequent.
“Ah,” was all I said as Knox parked. “Have they been hanging out here?”
Knox shrugged. “I’ve heard rumors. I figured it was the best place to check first.”
“Good choice.” I managed a smile for his benefit. I flashed him a thumbs-up that landed like a wet sock on a cement floor.
He arched an eyebrow. “Did that come off how you thought it would?”
I shrugged, seeing no point in lying. “It didn’t sound as good in real life as it did in my head.”
He smirked. “I’ll try not to hold it against you.”
I sent him another thumbs-up and opted to make fun of myself. “Awesome.”
He barked out a laugh and shook his head. “You’re a very odd woman.”
“Don’t act like you don’t like it.” I realized what I’d said, how it could have been taken, too late to stop my big, fat mouth from getting away from me. Rather than dwell on it, I pushed open the door and hopped out. “Let’s see if our loa is here.”
Knox nodded.
St. Roch was dark inside, a lot of the illumination coming from the row of pinball machines against one wall. There was a space for live music, but it was far too early in the day for that, especially in an area that wasn’t Bourbon Street in the throes of Mardi Gras.
I took a moment to let my eyes adjust. I found what we were looking for right away.
The rumors of the loas — or at least this loa — hanging at the bar were true because Baron Samedi was in one of the stools, laughing it up with a gaggle of day drinkers.
I stared at him a beat, uncertain, and then registered the exact moment when he became aware of our presence.
It was as if a breeze blew through the bar. Slowly, he turned to face us. He didn’t say anything at first, just took us in. Then he smiled and raised a hand.
“I assume you’re here to see me,” he said in jovial fashion. “Come. Join us. My friends will welcome you with full glasses.”
I glanced at Knox and found him grimacing, just like me.
“Let’s just do it,” he said on a sigh. “It will be better for all of us if we just get it out of the way.”
I pasted a fake smile on my face and started forward. The sooner we talked to him, the sooner we could get away from him.
Baron cleared the stools on his left for Knox and me. I took the one closest to the loa. I didn’t know him well, but was familiar enough with him not to be afraid. The bartender stopped in front of us long enough to tilt his head. He didn’t ask what we wanted. It was implied.
This was not the sort of establishment where I could order an iced tea, so I went for the easy order. “I’ll have a Sazerac.”
“The same,” Knox said as he got comfortable on the stool on my left. He seemed too big for it.
The bartender left to make our drinks, leaving us to talk to Baron without witnesses.
“So, um, how are you doing?” I asked as I debated how to broach the actual subject I wanted to talk about.
Amusement flitted across Baron’s face. “You are a very awkward individual.”
He was a loa, so I shouldn’t roll my eyes. I did anyway. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”
“It’s off-putting.”
“Well, I’m sorry for that.” It wasn’t as if he was a joy to be around. It bothered me that he was calling me out in this manner. Surprisingly, I wasn’t the one to address it.
“She’s fine,” Knox said irritably. “Just because she’s not Suzy Sunshine doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with her. I can’t stand when people pretend to be happy when they’re not. I would rather someone be truthful.”
“Is that so?” Baron gave Knox an appraising look. “Since you’re dour yourself, I can see why you like her.”
Knox shook his head. “We’re here on business.”
“So I gathered.” Baron tapped the bar top when the bartender returned with our drinks. “Add their order to my tab and get me another, please, Reginald.”
The bartender nodded and went back to the liquor.
“You’re here about the Axeman,” Baron said, full of certainty.
I was suspicious. “How do you know that?”
“Because you’re a do-gooder — both of you are — and that’s the story making the rounds in the city.” Baron was matter-of-fact. He smiled as the bartender appeared with his drink. “Thank you, Reginald, my good man. You’re a prince amongst commanders.”
Rather than smile and thank the loa, Reginald glared. “My name is Reggie, not Reginald,” he growled.
“You look more like a Reginald,” Baron countered.
“That’s not my name.”
“It is now.” Baron’s smile never wavered. He made shooing motions to get rid of Reggie. “Now, where were we?” He sent a pleasing look in my direction.
“You were about to tell us about the Axeman,” I said. That was a bit of a stretch, but close enough.
“Right. The Axeman. He was a colorful individual. I remember his reign well.”
“You knew him?” Hope welled in me. “What was his name?”
“Oh, I didn’t know him.” Baron shook his head.
“Then how do you know he was colorful?”
“He warned people he was going to kill them if they didn’t play jazz. How is that not colorful?”
Rather than answer, I sipped my Sazerac. It was strong.
Knox jumped in. “What can you tell us about the Axeman?”
“He wasn’t very good at his job,” Baron replied. “He injured more people than he killed.”
“That’s all you can tell us?”
“What more would you like to know?”
“I don’t … .” Knox held out his hands helplessly and sent me a sidelong look. Like I would be able to help him.
“You must know something,” I insisted. “Was it a human? A paranormal?”
“Does it matter?”
“Given what’s happening now, it does.”
“I guess, from your perspective, I can see that.” Baron drank from his cocktail.
It smelled strong, whatever it was. “I know that whoever it was got off on causing fear in the community,” he said.
“There are rumors that it started as a bar promoter trying to shore up his business, but that doesn’t sound right to me. ”
“The promoter would have to be a psychopath,” I said.
“Not necessarily.” Baron shook his head. “He could have been pragmatic.”
“How do you figure?”
“How don’t you?” Baron looked at me with fresh eyes. “If he thought it would save his business, and thus his family, and he decided this was the only path, how does that make him a psychopath?”
“He slaughtered a bunch of people. I don’t know anyone in their right mind who would consider that pragmatic.”
“Death offends you,” Baron mused. “It doesn’t offend everyone.”
“Does it offend you?” Knox asked.
“I’m the loa of death,” Baron reminded him. “It doesn’t offend me. It’s simply what I do. I am indifferent to death. Does that make me a psychopath?”
He didn’t really want us to answer, did he? “I don’t know.” I chose my words carefully. “Do you think you’re a psychopath?”
“I’m pragmatic.”
It was like a never-ending circle. “What about this symbol?” I pulled up one of the photos on my phone and handed it over. “Do you recognize it?”
Baron cocked his head, his over-the-top hat — complete with chicken bones — shifting precariously close to tipping. “It sort of looks like a brand that was used centuries ago.”
“A brand?” I was caught off guard. “Like, for slaves?” I was horrified and intrigued at the same. Liberté. It meant freedom in Haitian Creole.
“While it’s true many slaves were branded — an abhorrent thing no matter how you look at it — it’s also true that there are people who brand themselves,” Baron argued. “Back in the day — that’s a saying my granddaughter recently taught me — slaves took to branding themselves for protection.”
Now he had my full attention. “Which slaves?”
“Does it matter?”
I was going to slap him if he asked me that one more time. “Yes, it does. Stop asking me that.”
He smirked, telling me he’d gotten the reaction he was looking for, whatever that was.
“Slaves of a certain faith — not all of them, mind you, but some of them — branded themselves with symbols of their religion as a form of protection. They believed that if they could brand themselves first, they would never be branded by another.”
I rubbed my cheek, letting everything fall into place. “You’re saying slaves — probably Haitians or West Africans in this case — branded themselves in accordance with voodoo and hoodoo traditions as a form of protection.”
“Not all,” Baron cautioned. “When you’re desperate, you’ll do almost anything to secure the safety of your family. I should know.”
I pursed my lips and risked a glance at Knox. He looked just as lost in thought. “What do you think?”
“It’s interesting,” he replied. “Liberté — that’s what you said was chiseled on the side of the statue base — means freedom.”
I pulled up another photo, the one from the book at the library. “This symbol is tied to you and what you do. It’s not all that different from the one here.”
Baron glanced between the symbols, then made a face. “That is not my symbol. I have a symbol. That’s not it.”
“You have a veve,” I agreed. “This symbol is associated with you in a book. There must be a reason.”
“I don’t recognize that symbol.” Baron shook his head. “If you have people desperate for freedom, perhaps they fell into praying to the loa of death for a different kind of freedom.”
That possibility hit me hard, right in the gut. “People would embrace death over slavery?”
“Wouldn’t you?” His eyes were steady on me, despite what I knew had probably been an entire morning of drinking.
“Yeah, death would be better than slavery,” I confirmed. “Hope would be better than both. If you kill yourself, there’s no hope of freedom.”
“Perhaps not, but many of these people learned the hard way that hope is a fickle beast.”
He’d given me a lot to think about, but I was nowhere near done. “If this isn’t your symbol, who would have assigned it to you?”
“Oh, that I can’t answer.” Baron was solemn. “I’d like to spoon-feed you the information, but we’re talking about things that happened centuries ago.”
“The Haitian refugee influx happened in the late 1700s and early 1800s,” Knox volunteered.
“My mother is very interested in that period. She said ten-thousand refugees, white, Black, free and enslaved, came to the city between 1809 and 1810. They were fleeing the Haitian Revolution. They doubled the city’s population and cemented the Creole flavor we enjoy so much today. ”
He attempted a smile, but it was weak. “The Civil War happened 50 years later and put a lot of those people on edge because they’d already survived one terrible war and the slavery associated with it.”
I was aware of the history of the city. What I didn’t understand was how that played into what was happening with the Axeman. “Are you saying the Axeman was Haitian?”
“I don’t know who the Axeman was.” Baron nodded toward the door, drawing my attention to someone entering the bar. It was another loa. Papa Legba. “Perhaps he knows.”
I braced myself for a surge of anger, and it came, like clockwork.
We’d had dealings — Knox and I — several weeks back with the loa of the crossroads.
It was his screw-up with Heloise that had created the problems we were forced to deal with.
When we’d gone to him for help, at least initially, he’d lied to us.
I was still angry about the whole thing and what had happened to my family because of it.
“Great,” I muttered.
Knox’s hand, big and warm, landed on my back, and he surprised me when he started to lightly rub at the tension there. A quick look at him showed he was completely focused on the loa, not me.
“Ah, you two.” Papa grimaced. “I was hoping it would be a bit longer before I had to deal with you again.”
The feeling was quite mutual. “We were just going.” I made a grab for my phone, but Baron was too fast.
“They’re looking for information about this symbol,” Baron said as he extended the phone toward Papa. “Do you recognize it? They believe it has something to do with the Axeman’s return.”
Baron’s cavalier way of communicating irritated me. “We didn’t say the Axeman has returned. It’s possible that his ghost is possessing someone, but it’s also possible it’s a copycat.”
“I remember the Axeman.” Papa let loose an inelegant snort. “What a colorful chap.”
It was folly to ask my next question, but I did anyway. “Do you know who he was?”
“No, but I remember well when he was terrorizing the city. It was kind of funny.” He paused, then burst out laughing. “The number of people playing jazz was unbelievable. It was ridiculous.”
“Sounds hilarious,” I sneered as I snatched back my phone. “We wanted to know what the symbol meant.”
“I told you that symbol is not mine,” Baron said. “The books don’t get everything right.”
“And you’re certain you don’t know who’s doing the current killings?” I pressed. I would hate myself if I didn’t ask again.
“I have no idea,” Baron replied. “I must admit, however, that you’ve piqued my interest.” His wink told me that was bad.
“Meaning what?” I demanded.
“Meaning that I want to take a look around the city and see if I can find the culprit.” He looked to Papa Legba. “Care to join me?”
The crossroads loa looked ambivalent about the invitation. “I guess. I’m nowhere near as amused at the idea, but I’ll go if you really want me to.”
I cleared my throat to draw his attention. It was unwise to face off with a loa, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “Just out of curiosity, do you know who’s doing the killings?”
“Of course not.” Papa made a face. “Why would you jump to that conclusion?”
“I don’t know. Recent events have caused me to question a few things, including your place in the magical world.”
“Oh, listen to you.” Papa rolled his eyes. “I don’t owe you anything. I did what I believed was right. I meant to handle the situation with Heloise on my own. Yes, you helped, but that doesn’t make me beholden to you.”
I waited because I knew he wasn’t done.
“It also doesn’t mean I’m heartless,” he added. “This is our city. We don’t want random ghosts running around murdering people or weird symbols being written in blood on walls.”
“I didn’t mention symbols being written on walls with blood,” I argued.
“Is that not what that photo depicted?”
Crap! My suspicious nature was doing me no favors. “What are you going to do?” I asked, changing tactics. “Are you going to find the Axeman and end him?”
“I wouldn’t mind finding him,” Baron replied. “As to ending him, I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
With that, Baron threw a pile of cash on the bar toward Reggie, finished his drink, and motioned for Papa to follow him out of the bar. They were gone before I even had a chance to register they were leaving.
“Well, that didn’t go well,” Knox lamented once they were gone.
“Nope,” I agreed. “Not well at all.”