Houngon. That’s what he calls himself.”
“I can call myself a fruit tree, but don’t expect me to grow any apples
on my ears,” she said. “Hampton’s a charlatan. Taking money from the
gullible.”
“His religion may seem exotic-”
“It’s foolish. That shop he runs. Jesus. Selling herbs and bottles of
goat’s blood, charms and spells, all that other nonsense-”
“It’s not nonsense to him.”
“Sure it is.”
“He believes in it.”
“Because he’s a nut.”
“Make up your mind, Rebecca. Is Carver Hampton a nut or a fraud? I
don’t see how you can have it both ways.”
“Okay, okay. Maybe this Baba Lavelle did kill all four of the victims.”
“He’s our only suspect so far.”
“But he didn’t use voodoo. There’s no such thing as black magic. He
stabbed them, Jack. He got blood on his hands, just like any other
murderer.”
Her eyes were intensely, fiercely green, always a shade greener and
clearer when she was angry or impatient.
“I never said he killed them with magic,” Jack told her. “I didn’t say
I believe in voodoo. But you saw the bodies. You saw how strange-”
“Stabbed,” she said firmly. “Mutilated, yes. Savagely and horribly
disfigured, yes. Stabbed a hundred times or more, yes. But stabbed.
With a knife. A real knife. An ordinary knife.”
“The medical examiner says the weapon used in those first two murders
would’ve had to’ve been no bigger than a penknife.”
“Okay. So it was a penknife.”
“Rebecca, that doesn’t make sense.”
“Murder never makes sense.”
“What kind of killer goes after his victims with a penknife, for God’s
sake?”
“A lunatic.”
“Psychotic killers usually favor dramatic weaponsbutcher knives,
hatchets, shotguns . . .”
“In the movies, maybe.”
“In reality, too.”
“This is just another psycho like all the psychos who’re crawling out of
the walls these days,” she insisted. “There’s nothing special or
strange about him.”
“But how does he overpower them? If he’s only wielding a penknife, why
can’t his victims fight him off or escape?”
“There’s an explanation,” she said doggedly. “We’ll find it.”
The house was warm, getting warmer; Jack took off his overcoat.
Rebecca left her coat on. The heat didn’t seem to bother her any more
than the cold.
“And in every case,” Jack said, “the victim has fought his assailant.
There are always signs of a big struggle. Yet none of the victims seems
to have managed to wound his attacker; there’s never any blood but the
victim’s own. That’s damned strange. And what about
Vastagliano-murdered in a locked bathroom?”
She stared at him suddenly but didn’t respond.
“Look, Rebecca, I’m not saying it’s voodoo or anything the least bit
supernatural. I’m not a particularly superstitious man. My point is
that these murders might be the work of someone who does believe in
voodoo, that there might be something ritualistic about them.
The condition of the corpses certainly points in that direction. I
didn’t say voodoo works. I’m only suggesting that the killer might
think it works, and his belief in voodoo might lead us to him and give
us some of the evidence we need to convict him.”
She shook her head. “Jack, I know there’s a certain streak in you . ..”
“What certain streak is that?”
“Call it an excessive degree of open-mindedness.”
“How is it possible to be excessively open-minded?
That’s like being too honest.”
“When Darl Coleson said this Baba Lavelle was taking over the drug trade
by using voodoo curses to kill his competition, you listened . . .
well . .
you were a child, enraptured.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did. Then the next thing I know, we’re off to Harlem to a voodoo
shop!”
“If this Baba Lavelle really is interested in voodoo, then it makes
sense to assume that someone like Carver Hampton might know him or be
able to find out something about him for us.”
. . you listened as if
“A nut like Hampton won’t be any help at all. You remember the
Holderbeck case?”
“What’s that got to do with-”
“The old lady who was murdered during the seance? ”
“Emily Holderbeck. I remember.”
“You were fascinated with that one, ” she said.