An Evil Shadow by A. J. Davidson Page B

forcing Val to postpone
his talk with Duval. His estranged wife was looking more dazzling than usual
and blended in with the more glamorous guests as though she had been
genetically engineered for that very purpose. Marcus had excelled himself by
choosing to wear a vividly striped rowing blazer and a spotted bow tie. A
waiter offered canapés from a silver salver.
    “Have many parents have called to arrange transfers
for their kids?” Val asked Marcus as soon as the waiter had moved on.
    “Only three so far. Two changed their minds when they
were told that Marie would not be rooming in the student accommodation. The
faculty senate is ecstatic with the low-key attitude the media adopted. So is
the Chancellor.”
    “Have you seen Marie’s painting,” Angie broke in. “It
really is something special.”
    When Val said that he hadn’t, Angie insisted that they
go below to the salon to admire it. As they were descending the steep
staircase, the boat started to shudder and Val could hear the slapping of the
paddle wheel against the water.
    The goods to be auctioned were arrayed along the
length of the inside wall of the salon — at least, those small enough to be
brought on board. Photographs of the larger lots were displayed on gilded
easels. A silver Bentley Turbo and a forty-eight-foot sailboat took pride of
place. The auctioneer for the night was a twice Oscar-nominated New Orleans
actor whom Val had once arrested for possession of narcotics. Camcorders would
relay pictures to close-circuit screens all around the boat, so nobody would
miss the chance to bid.
    Marie Duval’s picture was mounted against the
varnished wall of the salon. It was a depiction of the rush-roofed barracoon
slave quarters of an eighteenth-century sugar plantation in Haiti. Her
background colors were somber and thickly applied — her human figures
stick-like and primitive. The pain and suffering of the slaves were visible in
every brush stroke; it seemed she was trying to contrast the picayune impotency
of the slaves to the might and resources of their white masters. There was a
lot of misery on the canvas. One thing was certain: it wasn’t a picture that
would ever find its way onto a calendar.
    A voice Val recognized called out his name. He turned
around and saw the grinning face of Professor Richard Bickford. There was no
need to introduce him to Marcus and Angie: he had tenure at the University of
New Orleans. Duval and Bickford swapped names and shook hands.
    Subsequent to their first meeting ten years before,
Bickford had sent Val a copy of his completed paper on law enforcement
subcultures. Val had called him to argue a couple of points and, at his
suggestion, they had met to discuss them over a drink. Rather a lot of drinks
as it turned out. From that night they were good friends, even though they
might not come across each other for months at a time.
    Bickford held up his champagne glass and stuck out his
tongue. “What do you say we give this horse’s piss a miss and go find a real
drink?”
    Val pulled a long face. “And miss the auction?”
    “There’s a cash bar on the bottom deck. Can you think
of a better way to make our charitable donations?”
    They left the others estimating how much each lot
would fetch and went in search of a decent drink.
    The lounge bar was done out in mahogany and brass with
yellowing antique river charts and nautical knots displayed on the oak
paneling. Bickford insisted on buying the first drink to celebrate Val’s
appointment as Chief.
    “Hail to the Chief,” he said, clinking his glass
against Val’s.
    “I didn’t think this type of event would have
interested you,” Val said, after he had taken his first swallow.
    “Philip Lausaux invited me. I can’t abide the man, but
he funded a post-graduate departmental research project in Haiti and if I
genuflect deeply enough and often enough, he may come up with more cash.”
    “What sort of research?”
    “Zombism.”
    Val didn’t hide his