An Evil Shadow by A. J. Davidson

evening was over, the quests would continue to be
entertained on board for several hours.
    Val told Marcus that it would be as well if he left
then, hinting that the day had taken a lot out of Duval. Angie pouted a bit,
saying she was having a wonderful evening and wanted to stay and dance, but
Marcus was having none of it. The three of them drove away from the wharf in
Marcus’s car. Val watched as the campus officer in his own unmarked vehicle
tailed them.
    Bickford and Val shared a cab. They were heading back
to Val’s place for a final drink.
    Val gave Bickford his shoulder to lean on as together
they stumbled up the front steps of his historic house. Bickford had consumed a
lot more booze than Val, but both men were far from sober. The light above the
door was out and somewhere in Val’s befuddled brain was the recollection of
having switched it on before leaving. He reached above his head to locate the
bulb. A half turn did the trick.
    The door was slightly ajar, its rim lock busted. Val
sobered in an instant. Signaling to Bickford to remain outside, he pushed the
door open with his toe and slowly crept in.
    The house was still.
    He switched on a light. Devastation was the sole
surprise lying in wait for him. His living room had been trashed. Bookcases had
been knocked over, the books’ covers and pages ripped asunder. Drawers had been
pulled out and their contents strewn about. Stuffing protruded from slashes in
the upholstery of his couch and armchair. His supply of bourbon had been
emptied onto the floor the bottles smashed. Pictures had been pulled off the
walls and their frames broken. The television screen was shattered the CD
player in pieces. There was a damp patch on a rug and the acrid ammonia stink
of urine was evident beneath the spilled bourbon. As far as Val could see,
nothing had been taken, but a lot of senseless destruction had taken place.
    Chicken blood had been used to daub the rough sketch
of a cross and a skull with a top hat. The veve of Baron Samdi, head of the
Gede family of spirits. The lwa of death.
    Val picked up the plastic bag, still half-full of
blood, and flushed it down the cloakroom toilet.
    Bickford wandered in. “If I was you,” he said, his
speech slurring slightly. “I’d hire myself a new housekeeper.”
    Val checked out the rest of the house room by room.
Whoever was responsible was long gone. Thankfully the bedrooms hadn’t been
touched, nor the bathroom or the kitchen. He picked up a fractured picture
frame that had held a photograph of his wedding. The photograph had been ripped
into pieces.
    The phone started to ring. The one in the living room
was in fragments but the bedroom extension was still working.
    “Val Bosanquet?”
    He didn’t recognize the voice. It was a white man’s,
high pitched, natural, not put on.
      “Yeah.”
    “I hear you’re looking for Donny Jackson.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “That doesn’t matter.”
    “Did you kill Trochan?”
    “No. Shut up and listen. I have a message for you. If
you’re half as smart as I take you for, then you’ll forget you ever heard the
name Jackson. The Duval girl has nothing to fear from him.”
    “Did Jackson kill her mother?”
    “Cut out the quizzing and pay heed. I’m trying to save
your life.”
    “Wasn’t Baron Samdi adequate warning?”
    “What are you on about? Forget about the girl, forget
about Jackson — he’s someplace where he won’t ever be found. Watch your back.
The bastards who killed Trochan don’t mess around.”
    “Which bastards?”
    Val’scaller
had hung up.

 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER EIGHT

 
 
    In the morning Val drove Richard to his Lafitte
Village apartment house. He had caught a couple of hours sleep at Val’s place
after insisting on staying to help straighten up. As bombed as Richard was, Val
was still grateful for his help, and it wasn’t as if it mattered if he dropped
something. The former contents of the living room