They had just stopped by a tightly packed bookshelf when they were approached by a tall African-American man in a handsome white suit.
“Welcome,” he told them. “May I help you?” Then he smiled, his eyes on Meg. “Ah, you’re a police officer, here to ask me about zombies.”
Lara’s eyes widened. How did he know?
But Meg only smiled and introduced herself as she pulled out her badge. “FBI,” she said. “And yes, we’re here to ask you about zombies.”
Lara followed suit and introduced herself, then said, “We’re hoping to learn, to gain insight, as Meg told you.”
The man smiled at her. “It’s all right, miss. I am an ordained priest, with a wonderful flock of the faithful here. Good people, gentle, working people. I am called Papa Joe, and you are welcome to call me that, as well. Voodoo, like any religion, may be twisted by poverty, fear and greed. My shop has been full since the media began talking about the so-called dead man who murdered his friend. I am more than happy to help you, though I’m not sure I can. Neither I nor any of my followers know anything about zombies, and we certainly don’t create them.”
“We never thought you did,” Meg assured him. “But we think that someone here in Miami has resurrected—no pun intended—some of the practices that were popular under Papa Doc’s regime. What we were hoping to talk to you about is the history of voodoo generally, and we’re curious whether you’ve seen or heard of anyone with a particular interest in zombies.”
“History?” Papa Joe said, his eyes brightening. “Ah, yes. I’m happy to tell you the history of voodoo. It is quite possibly as old as the continent of Africa. We believe that our spirits walk the earth with those of our ancestors. We believe in one great god and many saints, a pantheon based in Catholicism from the time when Europeans came to Africa and began the slave trade around 1510. And voodoo with the slaves to the islands of the Caribbean and the shores of the North American continent.” He paused for a moment. “I was a boy late in Papa Doc’s rule of Haiti, when we all feared the Tonton Macoute, his private army under the control of his devoted voodoo priests. I saw men who looked at the world with sightless eyes, as if they had no souls. How much of that was a result of fear of the priests and Papa Doc himself, and how much came from brainwashing—or the promise of power and the adrenaline rush of brutality—I don’t know. I do know that Papa Doc reigned through fear. My parents walked with their heads down. We were helped out of the country when I was a boy, and I thank God and my ancestors continually that they brought me here.”
Lara smiled; she found herself liking Papa Joe. “Did you ever hear of anyone—anyone specific, I mean—coming back from the grave?”
“Back then, of course. We heard about it frequently. There were always stories going around, rumors—as was intended. The men I saw, though, I don’t think they were truly dead. Many things can cause a trancelike state. Maybe they were using certain drugs, maybe they were using hypnotism. I heard about one particular man who came back, though. His family buried him, and then he showed up at his house a week later. He even talked a bit at first. Then he died again, and they buried him again. I think someone used the zombie poison on him, and because he wasn’t truly dead the first time, he miraculously came back. But I never heard of anyone who was known to have been buried and then came back with his mind intact, or who lived more than a week at most. If you want to know more, I can point you to the right books.”
“That would be great,” Lara said.
He led them to a shelf of books on the history of voodoo, its use in the United States and abroad and more. They made several selections, thanked him again and prepared to leave.
“If I can help you more in any way, let me know,” Papa Joe told them as they left.
“Thank you,” Lara and Meg said in unison.
“I’ll do some asking around for you, too,” Papa Joe promised. He shook his head. “Naturally, my flock is disturbed. Whenever talk turns to zombies, especially zombies right here in Miami, the spotlight falls on we Haitians. So you never know. Someone may have heard something.”
Lara got behind the wheel, and Meg had her head in one of the books before they were even out of the parking lot.
“Whoever is doing this has taken zombie poisoning to a level unseen since Papa Doc’s days,” Meg said after a few minutes.
“I don’t know. I mean, Miguel Gomez...maybe. They didn’t have a positive identification on the body, and his neighbor said he’d seen him. But Randy Nicholson... The man died in a hospital. There was a viewing at a funeral home, which almost certainly means he was embalmed. He was buried.”
“Except that he wasn’t in his grave,” Meg said. “Matt told me.”