Decker was so frightened by this apparition that he didn't know what to do. He stood by the light switches, rubbing his right arm, feeling terrified and miserable and helpless. This might be Cathy, covered by a sheet, but what if it
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wasn't? What if it was something terrible? How could it be Cathy? She was dead, with her head blown apart.
"Listen," he said, and his voice was very dry, as if he really had been running through burning scrub. "I need to know what you want. I need to know who you actually are."
The sheet-covered figure swayed a little more, but remained silent.
"If I was to drag that sheet off of you—I mean, who would you be underneath?"
Still the figure didn't respond.
Decker thought, Shit, what am I going to do? I'm not dreaming, am I? I know I'm not drunk. He took one step toward the figure and then another.
"I'm scared of you, right? Hiding under that sheet like that. But I'll bet you're scared of me, too. Otherwise, why don't you show yourself?"
"Saint Barbara," the figure whispered, although its voice seemed to come from behind him, and he wasn't at all sure it was Cathy's voice. "Saint Barbara wants her revenge."
Decker said, "Saint Barbara is a saint, that's all. A good saint, from what I've been told. She protects people from fire and explosions and stuff like that. Why should she want to hurt me?"
"Come closer," the apparition said.
"I don't think so," Decker said. "Not until I know who you are."
"Come closer, my darling."
Decker didn't know what to do. He was frightened that this figure wasn't Cathy, but in a way he was even more frightened that it was. He looked over at the hat stand, where his Colt Anaconda was hanging in its holster, and wished that he had learned the lesson and taken it into the bedroom with him.
"Are you Cathy?" he asked the sheeted figure.
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"Don't you trust me?" it whispered, and it sounded as if it were speaking down a hollow pipe.
"I don't know. Aren't you going to show me who you are?" "I am many things. I have many different faces." "Are you trying to warn me about something bad?" "Something bad is happening to you already."
Decker circled cautiously around the figure toward the hat stand. It didn't turn around to follow him, but stayed where it was, with its arms outspread, more like a statue than a human being, a statue that was waiting to be unveiled. Decker's throat was so dry that he had to cough, and cough again, but still the figure didn't move.
"Tell me about Saint Barbara," Decker said, without taking his eyes off it. He reached up for his holster and unfastened the clasp.
"Saint Barbara wants her revenge for what you did. For what you all did."
"Was it something that happened in the Wilderness? The Devil's Brigade?"
"Promises were made and promises were broken." "What promises?"
"Promises of honor. Promises of war. Promises of just rewards."
Decker eased his revolver out of its holster and cocked it. He approached the figure until he was almost close enough to reach out his hand and touch it. He could see the indistinct outline of a face under the sheet, and the cotton was being drawn in and out, in and out, as if the figure were breathing.
"Are you afraid of me?" the figure whispered.
"Should I be?"
"Are you afraid of Saint Barbara?"
"I don't know. Are we really talking about Saint Barbara, or are we talking about somebody else?"
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"Oche ofun," the figure said. "The saints rescue you from the dead."
Decker took hold of the edge of the sheet, close to the figure's wrist. His blood was pounding in his ears and he couldn't remember ever having felt as terrified as this, not in all of his years of police work.
"Are you sure you want to know what I am?" the figure asked him.
Decker didn't answer, but grasped the edge of the sheet even more firmly, in his fist. He was just about to drag it off the figure's head, however, when the figure let out a piercing screech—a screech of rage and pain and frustration, as if five voices were all screaming at once.
The screech went on and on, and Decker let go of the sheet and stepped awkwardly away, his revolver raised, not knowing what to do. But then there was a dull, wet thud! and the top of the sheet ballooned outward, and was drenched in blood. Instantly, it collapsed onto the floor.
Decker stood staring at it, panting for breath. It lay crumpled in front of the kitchen archway, massively soaked in blood, but it was obvious that there was nobody underneath it. After a while he kicked it sideways, and he could see that it was nothing but a sheet.
"Christ," he breathed.
Still holding his revolver, he went over to the drinks table and one-handedly poured himself a shot glass of Herradura Silver. He tipped it back in one, and then he poured himself another.
He glanced back at the bloodstained sheet. Now he knew For sure that this investigation wasn't just about facts and evidence and tracking down a perpetrator. This was about religion, and beliefs, and acts of betrayal. This was spiritual, and not only that, it was personal.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
He found Jonah in back of the Mask Bar on Second and Main, talking to two of his friends. The Mask Bar was dark and smoky and the walls were decorated with scores of African masks, some of them ebony, some of them beaten out of copper, some of them fashioned from dry reeds. Bata drum music was tapping in the background.
Jonah's friends looked up uneasily as Decker came in. One of them was thin as a rail, with tiny dark sunglasses and a black beret. The other was enormous, wearing a billowing brown caftan with zigzag patterns on it, and a brown fez with a tassel.
"Talk to you for a minute?" Decker asked.
"About what, man?" Jonah was being aggressive for the sake of his friends.
"I don't know. This and that."
"I don't know nothing more about Junior Abraham, if that's what you're excavating for."
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"I wanted to catch up on the local gossip, that's all."
"You want local gossip, go to the mother-and-baby club on Clay Street. They'll even give you recipes for black bean chili, too."
"Not that kind of gossip. I was more interested in Queen Aché."
Jonah looked at his friends and eventually the fat one shrugged, as if to say, anything that was bad news for Queen Aché was good news for him. Decker didn't know him, but he recognized the man in the beret as one of the Strutters, a petty drug dealer who called himself Dr. Welcome. There was no love lost between the Strutters and the Eguns, so he guessed that Dr. Welcome wouldn't object if Jonah answered a few questions, either.
"All right, then," Jonah said. "Five minutes, and that's it. But I don't know nothing, man. Nothing about nothing."
They went and sat at a table in the corner, underneath a scowling green mask with a mouth that was smothered in glistening red varnish, to represent blood.
"I need to talk to a santero," Decker said.
"Listen, Deck-ah," Jonah interrupted, leaning forward and speaking in a hoarse whisper. "I like you and you like me. You done me some prime favors. But you can't just come trucking in here and act like we best friends or nothing. Those two brothers, they're cool, but I don't need the whole of Jackson Ward to find out that I'm exchanging social pleasantries with the man."
"This is serious, Jonah. I need to talk to a santero and I need to do it now."
"What's in it for me?"