Free In Search of the Dove by REBECCA YORK Page B

It was really a charm to bind him to this place.”
    A string of imprecations sizzled across the phone wires. “You’re using that voodoo garbage for something this important!”
    The priestess’s voice dripped with venom. “It suits your purposes well enough when you want it to.”
    “That’s just for show.”
    “Don’t be so sure. If I wanted to I could cover your body with boils—or something a lot worse.”
    His voice took on a steely edge. “But you know very well that if anything happens to me, a very thick folder on your activities will be delivered straight to the New Orleans police commissioner. It would make very interesting reading—particularly the times your sacrificial ceremonies have gotten out of hand.”
    “You wouldn’t dare.”
    “Push me and find out.”
    They were both silent. It was a stalemate that had spanned almost a decade. Each had a grip on the other’s throat. The one whose hold loosened first was the one who would strangle to death.
    Talifero finally broke the silence. “Xavier on the loose is a threat to both of us. You’re a lot safer if you deliver him to me.”
    “The man is about to crack. If you take him by force, he’s liable to do something crazy, and you’re not going to get what you’re after anyway.”
    Unfortunately, the woman was probably right. “Can you help him make the right decision?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “You’d better.” He didn’t say what would happen, but the threat was there nevertheless.
    Despite her bold manner, Moonshadow shuddered. She could sense the long arm of Jackson Talifero stretching toward her from the Caribbean island of Royale Verde. She suspected that it had the power to reach all the way to New Orleans.
    * * *
    C ONSTANCE M C G UIRE laid down the black sheets of paper covered with tiny white letters and glanced at her watch. It was already close to 3:00 p.m., and Amherst would be waiting for her in the solarium—probably rattling the teacups.
    After taking off her half glasses, she rubbed her aching eyes. Whoever had come up with the idea of photostating microfiche should be roasted in hell—preferably while reading a continuous ream of the stuff. Perusing the blurry white letters produced an almost instantaneous headache. Long association probably led to blindness.
    Thank goodness the newer material was being archived to optical disks and could be accessed from the terminal in the Aviary. But when the information needed had to be dug out of the old newspaper articles, there was really no alternative to the microfiche.
    The photostats had been sent by special messenger from the Library of Congress this morning. A rapid scan of the material had verified the startling contents. Knowing that the Falcon would want a summary, she’d set to work at once.
    Within minutes she printed out a report, slipped it into a folder, and was on her way to the solarium.
    Gordon was indeed almost at the edge of his control. Glancing up as she entered, he bit back a sharp comment about punctuality. He knew his assistant had spent the better part of the day getting ready for this briefing. If she’d been able to finish any sooner, she would have. Besides, judging from the glint in her usually calm blue eyes, he surmised that she had found something very interesting indeed.
    However, he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of asking what it was. The folder lay between them on the table while she poured herself a cup of tea and cut a piece of the chef’s excellent chocolate butter cake. The rich concoction was almost an adequate compensation for her labor with the photostats, she thought.
    “I’m sure you’re eager to hear what I’ve found out,” she told the Falcon after she’d enjoyed several bites of cake.
    Her employer grunted.
    “Jessica Duval is quite an unusual woman.”
    “Go on.”
    “Twelve years ago when she was a junior in high school in New Orleans, a seven-year-old girl in the neighborhood disappeared. When Jessica handled