voice that nudged and poked the cop’s instincts in Jack. When Lavelle
spoke of the supernatural, he did so with genuine awe and conviction;
however, when he spoke of his brother, his voice became oily with phony
sentiment and unconvincing grief. Jack sensed that revenge was not
Lavelle’s primary motivation and that, in fact, he might even have hated
his straight-arrow brother, might even be glad (or at least relieved)
that he was dead.
“Your brother wouldn’t approve of this revenge you’re taking,” Jack
said.
“Perhaps he would. You didn’t know him.”
“But I know enough about him to say with some confidence that he wasn’t
at all like you. He was a decent man. He wouldn’t want all this
slaughter. He would be repelled by it.”
Lavelle said nothing, but there was somehow a pouting quality to his
silence, a smoldering anger.
Jack said, “He wouldn’t approve of the murder of anyone’s grandchildren,
revenge unto the third generation. He wasn’t sick, like you. He wasn’t
crazy.”
“It doesn’t matter whether he would approve,” Lavelle said impatiently.
“I suspect that’s because it isn’t really revenge that DARXFALL
motivates you. Not deep down.”
Again, Lavelle was silent.
Pushing, probing for the truth, Jack said, “So if your brother wouldn’t
approve of murder being done in his name, then why are you-”
“I’m not exterminating these vermin in my brother’s name,” Lavelle said
sharply, furiously. “I’m doing it in my own name. Mine and no one
else’s. That must be understood. I never claimed otherwise. These
deaths accrue to my credit, not to my brother’s.”
“Credit? Since when is murder a credit, a character reference, a matter
of pride? That’s insane.”
“It isn’t insane,” Lavelle said heatedly. The madness boiled up in him.
“It is the reasoning of the ancient ones, the gods of Petro and Congo.
No one can take the life of a Bocor’s brother and go unpunished. The
murder of my brother is an insult to me. It diminishes me. It mocks
me. I cannot tolerate that. I will not! My power as a Bocor would be
weakened forever if I were to forego revenge. The ancient ones would
lose respect for me, turn away from me, withdraw their support and
power.” He was ranting now, losing his cool. “Blood must flow. The
floodgates of death must be opened.
Oceans of pain must sweep them away, all who mocked me by touching my
brother. Even if I despised Gregory, he was of my family; no one can
spill the blood of a Bocor’s family and go unpunished. If I fail to
take adequate revenge, the ancient ones will never permit me to call
upon them again; they will not enforce my curses and spells any more. I
must repay the murder of my brother with at least a score of murders of
my own if I am to keep the respect and patronage of the gods of Petro
and Congo.”
Jack had probed to the roots of the man’s true motivation, but he had
gained nothing for his efforts.
The true motivation made no sense to him; it seemed just one more aspect
of Lavelle’s madness.
“You really believe this, don’t you?” Jack asked.
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s crazy.”
“Eventually, you will learn otherwise.”
“Crazy,” Jack repeated.
“One more piece of advice,” Lavelle said.
“You’re the only suspect I’ve ever known to be so brimming over with
advice. A regular Ann Landers.”
Ignoring him, Lavelle said, “Remove yourself from this case.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Get out of it.”
“Impossible.”
“Ask to be relieved.”
“No.”
“You’ll do it if you know what’s good for you.”
“You’re an arrogant bastard.”
“I know.”
“I’m a cop, for God’s sake! You can’t make me back down by threatening
me. Threats just make me all the more interested in finding you. Cops
in Haiti must be the same. It can’t be that much different. Besides,
what good would it do you if I did ask to be relieved? Someone else
would replace me. They’d still continue to look for you.”
“Yes, but whoever replaced you wouldn’t be broadminded enough to explore
the possibility of voodoo’s effectiveness. He’d stick to the usual
police procedure, and I have no fear of that.”