The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,153

which other rules might apply.

“She believes it. That’s enough,” the traiteur replied. “Maybe he didn’t take it, but he’s certainly holding it prisoner. She’s his slave, and the place that held it is now empty. She’s like a house abandoned by its owner, open for anyone to enter.”

“I watched what you were doing,” Charbou said, looking down at the woman lying on the floor. “And she is starting to look a little better.”

“That is temporary, a momentary relief. The wolf will be back.”

Amaia darted a glance at him, feeling a stir of panic at that terrible phrase, and saw that the traiteur had noticed her. He was studying her closely.

“The doctors said she’s suffering from Cotard’s syndrome,” Amaia maintained.

“I agree with them,” the traiteur replied.

Charbou was looking for a reassuring explanation. “So you agree she’s mentally ill?”

“Of course. But she didn’t make herself sick. They made her sick, they induced it, the same as if they’d deliberately inoculated her with a contagious illness.”

“It’s always . . . okay, now just listen. I’m from New Orleans, I’ve heard about voodoo and zombies and curses and pincushion dolls for casting spells, all that stuff. But I always thought it was just stories. I never thought . . . And of course I never believed in any of it.”

“Whether you believe it or not, it exists. The bokor who did this is a priest of darkness, someone who calls on spirits to work evil. The world’s phony portrayal of voodoo does contain a grain of truth. It is a religion of spirits. That’s what the word ‘voodoo’ means: ‘the spirit who speaks.’ And when someone can speak to spirits, he can choose to speak either with the good ones or with the evil ones. Médora has an illness that makes her act and feel as if she were dead. I can’t imagine any greater anguish. But her mind won’t recover unless her soul is healed. Médora is ill because she believes. The ceremony of zombification is the bokor’s way of persuading his victim that she has died, the bokor stole her soul, and then he resurrected her dead body. That’s why the victim belongs to him.”

Amaia insisted, almost pleading, “Dupree said you’d help Médora!”

The traiteur pointed to Amaia’s abdomen. “I can help you, if you want, but we traiteurs have our limits. Taking an antibiotic might be a good idea. You ask Annabel.” He pointed to the woman who’d been next to Amaia. “These waters are full of microbes, and the women in the swamp are always getting cystitis.”

Amaia became aware that the discomfort that had afflicted her had now spread along her spine. The sharp pains were worsening and she urgently needed to pee—sure signs of a urinary tract infection. She pressed her lips tight and fought against the malaise. “But if you don’t help her, she won’t be able to help us. We need to ask her questions; the lives of two little girls may depend on what she can tell us.”

“I don’t think she’ll say any more than she already has.”

“She hasn’t said a damn thing,” Charbou declared.

The traiteur smiled. “Maybe not in your language, but I guarantee you that the one who was in there,” pointing at Médora’s supine figure, “did speak.”

53

STELLA TUCKER

Tampa, Florida

Agent Stella Tucker examined herself in the mirror as she washed her hands. Cropping her hair had been the right choice. She never had to worry about it being out of place now. Her skin was properly hydrated, although the tension and violent effort of the preceding hours had left their traces, especially in the hollow circles beneath her eyes. She tried out a smile and was pleased with the result. Her suit was in good shape, although she’d have changed her blouse if she’d had the chance. But it was too late to go back to the hotel. She couldn’t make a senator wait.

Director Wilson’s phone call from Quantico had taken up valuable time, but she’d enjoyed hearing him praise her work, even though Tucker knew Wilson and Verdon thought she was a bad apple. No reason to worry about that right now. With Dupree out of contact somewhere in New Orleans and his team in disarray, Stella Tucker wouldn’t have to work for him again. Given her success running her own team, nobody would deny her that.

A couple of sharp pings announced the arrival of the text message from Emerson she’d been expecting. The senator had just arrived from Washington and was entering the