"Shroud," Decker said. "I'm begging you."
"Shroud? Who's Shroud? Come on, Lieutenant, for Christ's sake!"
"Shroud!" Decker repeated, but he knew that it was no use. He caught the faintest shine of a saber blade, and Queen Aché's head was struck from her shoulders and tumbled onto the floor. It rolled over and over and ended up close to his feet, noseless, earless, and staring at him. Her headless body stood upright for three countable seconds, one, two, three, with arterial blood jetting out of her severed neck like spray after spray of scarlet flowers, and then she twisted around and collapsed.
His eyes bulging, Sergeant Buchholz jabbed his revolver in every possible direction. "Who the hell did that? Who the hell did that?"
Decker lowered his Anaconda. "You witnessed that, right?" "Of course I witnessed it. But who did it?"
"Sorry, Sergeant. It's a very long story."
"Somebody cut her head off, for Christ's sake. But there's nobody there."
"Like I told you, the hostage taker isn't exactly visible." "Meaning what, Lieutenant, or am I missing something?"
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"Meaning he's here but you can't see him, that's all." "So where the hell's he gone now?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, Sergeant. He could be standing right behind you, for all I know."
"What?"
"Unlikely. I think he probably left the building already." Hicks came over, circling as far away from Queen Aché's
sprawled and bloodied body as he could. He glanced down
at her head but then he looked away.
"You okay?" Decker asked him.
"What do you think? I've spent the whole of my life trying to get away from this voodoo stuff. My grandmother, my aunts, and my uncles, they all had their spells and their magic cures and their coconut shells. My friends at school got sick, their parents took them to the doctor. When I got sick, they rubbed me with egg yolks and blew cigar smoke all over me. It made me feel like I was some kind of savage.
"Why do you think I don't like Rhoda doing her séances? It's mumbo-jumbo. It's slave stuff. Why can't they leave it where it belongs, back in Africa, back in the past? I hate that stuff."
"Maybe you do, but it works."
Hicks said, "The Nine Deaths. Jesus. And that's what he's going to do to you."
Decker checked his watch. Three paramedics were coming through the basement, pushing a loudly rattling gurney. The police officers were milling around, wondering what to do. Decker said, "I still have five and a half hours till Saint James Day."
"How are you going to stop him?"
Decker looked down at Queen Aché's head. "I told you, I'm going to think."
"If I were you, I'd take the first flight out of here, as far away as possible."
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"Uh-huh, that's not the way to do it. You got to face up to things, sport. No use in running away."
Hicks gave Queen Aché's head another disgusted look. "Something else, wasn't she? Really something else." "Oh yes. But she didn't get any more than she deserved."
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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Cab said, "I guess I can be thankful for one small mercy." "Oh yes? And what's that?"
"The whole time you failed to report back to headquarters, I didn't sneeze once. It ain't myrtle I'm a martyr to, it's you."
Decker didn't know what to say to that. Cab opened the folder on his desk in front of him and studied it for a while, and then he said, "Queen Aché accompanied you voluntarily to Main Street Station?"
"Yes, Captain. No duress whatever."
"And she was mutilated and eventually decapitated by your prime suspect, whom you conveniently managed not to tell me the name of the last time we spoke? Right in front of you, and in front of Sergeant Hicks, and seven uniformed officers?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you have any idea what the political repercussions of this killing are going to be? I mean, do you have any idea at
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all? We haven't informed the media yet, but I'll give it another hour before somebody from the Egun makes a public complaint. Ms. Honey Blackwell is going to accuse us of everything from willful endangerment to institutionalized racism.
"Apart from that, Decker, where the hell are you going with this investigation? The interim chief is screaming down the phone at me every five minutes and the Times-Dispatch has started calling us 'Richmond's Finest Fumblers."
"Well, Captain, you have to understand that this is a very unusual case. Even more complex than it appeared at first sight. It's going to take patience, and imagination, and even more patience."
"But you do have a prime suspect?"
"Absolutely."
"So . . . who is it?"
"I'd rather not give you his name, sir, not just yet." "I am your captain, Decker."
"Yes, sir. But I seriously believe it would jeopardize my investigation if I were to tell you his identity before I made my final move."
"Oh yes. And why is that?"
"Because (a) you wouldn't believe me, and (b) you couldn't officially approve of what I'm planning to do in order to stop him."
"I don't like the sound of the word 'stop."
"All right, 'apprehend.' "
Cab heaved himself up from his chair and walked across to the window. "You're a good detective, Decker. Tell me that I can trust you on this."
"You can trust me, Captain. Really."
"So how much patience are you looking for?"
"Twelve hours' worth, maybe a whole lot less. It depends on the suspect."
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"All right, then, much against my better judgment. But if I give you that much rope, it'll be your fault if you hang yourself with it."
"Hanging? That's the least of my worries."
Billy Joe Bennett was polishing a Civil War coffee boiler when Decker and Hicks came into the Rebel Yell.
"See this?" he said, holding it up. "This is a genuine rarity. When the army of northern Virginia went to war in 1861 they took along whole wagon trains of baking trays and sheet-iron stoves and cutlery and flour boxes and every convenience you could think of. But after six months of toting all that stuff around they threw away just about everything but a bucket and an ax and a frying pan."
Decker said, "I'm looking for a uniform."
"A uniform? Sure. Depends what you want. I've just bought a jacket from the Second Company, Richmond Howitzers, used to belong to Captain Lorraine F. Jones and it's still got his name in it. I've got pants from Cutshaw's battery, and any number of slouch hats and buck gloves and belts."
"I'm looking for a general's uniform. I want to dress up like Robert E. Lee."
Billy Joe raised his eyebrows. "Fancy-dress party?" "Something like that."
It took almost a half hour of rummaging, but eventually Billy Joe came up with a double-breasted frock coat, a pair of gray pants with canvas suspenders, a broad-brimmed hat, a pair of long buck gloves, and a pair of high black riding boots. Decker tried on the hat and the frock coat, and Billy Joe stood back and nodded in approval. "All you need now is a white beard and Traveler. That was Lee's favorite horse. Oh, and how about this?"
He went over to the display cabinet and came back with
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the same wrist breaker that he had refused to sell to the customer from Madison, with a decorative scabbard for Decker to hang it on his belt.
"Can't have Robert E. Lee without his sword, wouldn't be right. But don't go swinging it about, Lieutenant. You don't want to be taking anybody's bean off, by accident."
As they drove away from the store, Hicks said, "Are you going to give me any idea what this is all about?"
"You'll see." He picked up his cell phone and punched out Jonah's number. "Jonah . . . it's Decker Martin. No, don't worry about that. No. Listen, you remember that store you took me to, to buy all those gifts for Moses Adebolu? That's right. Can you do me a favor and go there and buy me everything it takes to make an offering to Changó? Bananas, spices, apples, and all those herbs, you know, like rompe zaraguey and prodigiosa. Oh yes, a live rooster, too. Why? You don't need to know why. Just drop it all off at police headquarters. Yes, of course I'll pay you."