Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 10, October 1990

“A gimmick,” Willis shook his head slowly. “You people are all alike. You tell him what shape Maurice is in?” he asked LeVoy.

“No, sir. Just that he’s — better than he was.”

“Ain’t sayin’ much,” Willis shrugged, “considerin’ he was almost dead. You know why they call him Mojo, Mr. Turco? You know what it means?”

“It’s — magic, right? Something to do with voodoo.”

“That’s right,” Willis said, “you afraid of voodoo?”

“No, sir,” Gary said evenly, “I’m not afraid of magic, or much of anything else.”

“That’s good,” Willis nodded, showing a wolfs grin, “a young man needs sand to get on in life. I don’t believe in magic neither, but Maurice was a seventh son, so he took it more serious. Still burns the candles, even thinks he brought himself back from the dead. You wanna see what’s left of Maurice, you go right ahead. And take a good look. ’Cause if any wrong comes to my family because of you, you’re seein’ your future. And if that don’t scare you some, boy, then you ain’t near as bright as you look.”

“I don’t understand,” LeVoy said somberly as they made their way through the cluttered aisles toward the front door. “I’ve seen him angry before, but not like this.”

“He’s afraid for you,” Gary said, “because of what the life did to your uncle. He’ll mellow out when we can show him some long green, and the sooner we get a session rollin’, the sooner we can do that. When can I meet your uncle?”

“Look, I really don’t think that’s such a hot idea,” LeVoy said reluctantly. “He was in a home for a long time after his stroke. He’s better now, but he’s still — pretty strange.”

“I promise not to upset the old guy, okay,” Gary insisted. “I just wanna see him, maybe hear him play. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it might be important.”

“I guess I can fix it,” LeVoy conceded, unconvinced. “This afternoon if you want. Time don’t mean much to Uncle Maurice. Tell you what, he lives on a little farm out in Oxford, 2203 Rathbun Road. Meet me out there around two. I’ll go out early, make sure it’s okay.”

“Why not just call ahead?”

“He’s got no phone,” LeVoy said, “and we better get a couple things straight. I’ll meet you in the yard. If I’m not there, don’t come up to the house. And if I say he don’t wanna see you, you leave right then, no argument. Understand?”

“Why all the mystery?”

“No mystery. He’s just a little—”

“—strange, right,” Gary nodded. “Would it be better if I came alone?”

“Might be better if you came with a battalion of Marines,” LeVoy sighed, “but Ax’ll have to do. But just you two. Nobody else.”

The farmhouse stood alone on a snow-crusted barren knoll, a two room white clapboard building, its windows iced over and eyeless. There was a swaybacked barn out back, a chicken coop, a hog pen, but no animals in sight. The only sign of life was a thin plume of gray smoke rising from the chimney.

“Sheesh, where’s Norman Rockwell when you need him?” Gary said, gunning the van up the rutted driveway. LeVoy stepped off the porch into the yard as the van crunched to a halt.

“Y’all can come in,” he said, his breath a white cloud in the icy air, “he’s in a fair mood today. Just be cool, okay?” He slid a pint of wine from under his sweater and passed it to Gary. “If he asks, you give this to him. But no weed, nothin’ else, understand?”

“No problem,” Gary said, “grab my guitar case will ya, Axton?” He scrambled out without waiting for a reply. Ax shrugged and followed, but bumped into Gary as he hesitated on the porch steps. A bloody hatchet was buried in a chopping block beside the front door, red stained feathers clinging to the blade.

“Organic McChicken,” Ax said, “homestyle.” Turco arched one brow, then trailed LeVoy into the house.

The living room was uncomfortably warm, a potbellied woodstove glowing against one wall, a box of firewood beside it, cheap Formica-topped table in the corner ringed by scarred wooden chairs. Tattered throw rugs were scattered about on the rough wood floor; the only decoration on the walls was a sepia waterstain shaped like Louisiana. A battered old V-shaped guitar stood in the corner leaning against a grubby Monkey Ward’s amp. The room was deserted, but Ax sensed a presence in the darkened bedroom doorway, watching them.

“Y’all just stand around a minute,” LeVoy said quietly. Ax scanned the barren room, looking for clues to the man who lived there. A worn leather belt was hanging from a peg behind the front door. A gunbelt, with an empty holster. Ax casually lowered Gary’s guitar case to the floor, unzipped his jacket, and moved between Turco and the bedroom doorway. There was a soft snick of metal and Maurice Tyrone brushed the blanket aside and shuffled slowly out, dragging his left foot.