Mr. Clarinet

"Spells, prayers, chants, offerings. It's very personal and informal and it depends on the houngan. A lot of it involves some really disgusting things, like boiling the woman's used tampons and drinking the water."

"Does it work?"

"I've never known anyone who tried it." Chantale laughed. "But I've seen plenty of ugly men walking around here with beautiful women, so draw your own conclusions."

"What would the voyeur—?"

"Voyant. Now they're very different. Absolutely nothing to do with voodoo—but go telling that to a non-Haitian and they won't believe you." Chantale scrutinized Max as she spoke to see if he was taking her seriously. She was pleased to see he had the notebook open and was scribbling furiously.

"All over the world you've got fortune-tellers—tarot-card readers, palm readers, gypsies, psychics, mediums. Voyants are like that, but they go a lot further. They don't use any gimmicks. They don't need them. You go to them with a specific question in mind—say, you're getting married in a month and you're having doubts. The voyant looks at you and tells you, in broad strokes, what will happen. Just like you're having a conversation. He or she can't ever tell you what to do, merely show you what the future has in store and let you make your mind up."

"So far so Psychic Hotline," Max said.

"Sure, but the grands voyants—and there are maybe two in the whole of Haiti—and Filius Dufour is as powerful as any man can be—they can change your future. If you don't like what they tell you, the grands voyants can talk directly to spirits. To get back to the woman you can't have—imagine you've got spirits watching over you."

"Like guardian angels?"

"Yeah. The grands voyants can talk directly to these spirits and cut deals with them."

"Deals?"

"If the woman's been letting them down, not following her destiny, being cruel to people around her, then they will agree to let the voyant in to push her toward the man."

"Is that right?" Max said. "And of course, the success of all this depends on believing what you've just told me?"

"It works on nonbelievers too. It's worse for them because they don't know what's hit them—the run of bad luck they're suddenly getting, their wife of fifteen years leaving them for their sworn enemy, their teenage daughter getting pregnant—that kind of thing."

"How come you know so much about all this?"

"My mother is a mambo—a priestess. Filius Dufour initiated her when she was thirteen. He initiated me too."

"How?"

"At a ceremony."

Max looked at her but he couldn't read her face.

"What did he do?"

"My mother gave me a potion to drink. It made me leave my body, see everything from above. Not very high up, more like a couple of feet. Do you know what your skin looks like when you step out of it?"

Max shook his head no—not even when he was stoned on the best Colombian or Jamaican grass.

"Like grapes going off—all wrinkled and hollow and sagging, even when you're as young as I was."

"What did he do?" Max asked again.

"Not what you think," she replied, reading his mind through his tone. "Ours may be a primitive religion, but it's not a savage one."

Max nodded.

"When did you last see Dufour?"

"Not since that day. What do you want with him?"

"Part of the investigation."

"And…?"

"Client confidentiality," Max said sharply.

"I see," Chantale snapped. "I've just told you something very personal, something I don't exactly spread around, but you won't tell me—"

"You volunteered that information," Max said and immediately wanted to take it back. It was an asshole thing to say.

"I didn't volunteer anything," Chantale sneered and then softened. "I felt like telling you."

"Why?"

"I just did. You've got that confessional quality about you. The kind that listens without judging."

"Probably cop conditioning," Max said. She was wrong about him: he always judged. But she was flirting with him—nothing overt, everything tentative and ambiguous, nothing she couldn't deny and dismiss as wishful thinking on his part. Sandra had started out the same way, fed him enough to suspect she was interested in him, but kept him guessing until she was sure of him. He wondered what she would have made of Chantale, if they would have gotten along. He wondered if she would have approved of Chantale as a successor. Then he dismissed the thoughts.

"OK, Chantale. I'll tell you this much. Charlie Carver was visiting Filius Dufour every week for six months before he vanished. He was due there the day he was snatched."

"Well let's go talk to him," Chantale said, starting up the engine.

Chapter 21