Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [44]
“Max,” I said. “A tuxedo!”
“Yes, my dear.” He patted my arm.
“A zombie?” I said, trying not to think too hard about the fact that I had been alone in the dark with him. It. Whatever. “You really think so?”
“As soon as I saw those drapeaux upstairs,” Max said, “it seemed an inescapable conclusion.”
“Whoa, time out,” Jeff said. “How does gaudy folk art lead you inescapably to the conclusion that—that—that . . . Christ, I can’t even say it, it’s so crazy.”
“That Darius Phelps is a zombie now?” Max concluded for him. “Well, it is, of course, possible that he was reanimated by some other means—”
“Oh, like what?” Jeff said. “Who the hell goes around reanimating corpses?”
“Various cultures throughout the ages, Jeffrey,” Max said patiently. He was accustomed to being disbelieved. “Whether seeking immortality or using the dead to terrorize others, reanimation has been the study of many mystical practitioners. It has also been the solace of billions who have believed in the resurrection of Jesus Christ, and of those who believe that they themselves will be resurrected on Judgment Day.”
“Or when the Messiah comes,” I added, not wanting my team to be left out of the discussion.
“But you’re not talking about someone who’s been resurrected by God Almighty,” Jeff pointed out.
“No, indeed,” Max said. “I believe a much lesser—but nonetheless formidable—power is behind the reanimation of Darius Phelps. And although many possibilities exist for explaining this phenomenon, it seems rather foolish to ignore the one staring us in the face. Mr. Phelps, after all, worked in a community where Vodou is practiced.”
“Watch it,” Biko said. “You’re stepping on dangerous ground now. My sister is a servant of the loa.”
“I am most respectful of her faith,” Max said. “But every power may be used for evil ends, when in the hands of the wrong person. And since there is a tradition, on the dark side of Vodou, of raising zombies from the grave . . . My hypothesis is that this is the fate of the unfortunate Darius Phelps.”
Jeff asked with somewhat malicious interest, “Are you accusing Mambo Celeste of doing it?”
“Traditionally, such a thing would be abhorrent to a mambo,” Max said. “More to the point, we are far from being able to accuse anyone, Jeffrey. We have very little information at the moment. But it does occur to me, all things considered, that we are probably looking for a bokor.”
Biko made a startled sound. He was gazing wide-eyed at Max.
“A what?” I said.
“A bokor,” said Max.
“A dark sorcerer,” said Biko, nodding slowly. “Someone who practices black magic.”
Max eyed him. “I gather I am not the only one to whom this possibility has occurred?”
“No,” Biko said. “Not the only one.”
“But you were not aware of Darius Phelps’ transformation. So what led you—and your sister, I presume—to this suspicion?” Max paused before asking, “What exactly you were hunting with deadly intent last night, Mr. Garland?”
The young man let out his breath. “I think you’d better call me Biko.”
“You were hunting last night?” Jeff said. “In Harlem?”
Biko nodded. “Yes.” He looked from Jeff to me, and then to Max. “I was hunting baka.”
After a moment of puzzled silence, Jeff said, “Back of what? Back of where?”
“No,” Biko said. “Baka.” He enunciated slowly. “Baka.”
I gasped so hard that I choked. All three men looked at me. “That’s what he said!”
Looking at me with an expression that I remembered well from our days as a couple, Jeff said, “Yes. Just now. He said ‘baka.’ So what, Esther?”
“No! I mean Darius! That’s what he said. Ba . . . ka . . .” I looked at Biko. “I thought it was just nonsense syllables. He wasn’t coherent at the time. But it’s a word? Baka?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not familiar with it,” Max said.
“The baka are the deadly tools of a dark sorcerer—of a bokor,” said Biko. “They’re evil spirits. They can take the form of small monsters or of—”
“Gargoyles!