by Kaye George
He asked if she had signed the paper.
"Nope."
"Why not? Did you read it? I’m giving you ten thousand dollars. Don’t you want that? How are you paying that friggin’ lawyer?"
"That friggin’ lawyer says I would get the ten thousand, period, if I signed your paper. I thought you were going to give me the house. And I need some checks from our joint account."
"I am giving you the house, baby. He misread it. I’ll give you the key, and a checkbook, right now."
He handed her a book of checks and a house key. His warm hand brushed her cold one. She ignored the feeling it gave her. She fished her own key out of her purse and lined them up.
"This, Toby dearest, is the one that does not fit the front door. I've tried it."
"Oh damn. I brought the wrong one. I’ll get it to you..." He glanced down at his palm pilot. "I’ll bring it to you day after tomorrow."
Misty shrugged, but did not sign the paper. Instead, she went to "their" house with a locksmith the next day. She had the checkbook in the name of Mr. and Mrs. that convinced the locksmith she owned the house. He also believed the tale about her husband being on a business trip and her being temporarily locked out.
She had no intention of living there again. In and out. She'd get the clothes she'd left behind first. Opening the closet door, she was astounded to see that it was full of unfamiliar women’s garments. She found her things squeezed over to one side.
Toby was living here with someone else. No wonder he changed the locks! Was he stalling, trying to get rid of his latest before he let Misty in? She took a deep breath, then called another locksmith company on her cell.
Meanwhile, she started gathering her shoes, shoved to the back of the closet floor, cramming them into a laundry bag. She fished around and found all but one. Naturally, it was the mate to her favorite pair. On her hands and knees, she spied a towel stuffed into the corner. When she pulled it toward her, it unrolled and a small handgun spilled out.
Whoa! Misty sat back on her heels. She didn’t know Toby had anything but the pistols they'd used for target shooting. And those were locked in a cabinet.
The doorbell rang. She saw the missing shoe in the other corner, and crammed it, the towel, and the gun, into the bag. No time to check if the gun were loaded or not.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that the locksmith was at the door, not Toby. He changed the existing locks and added another set for good measure. Misty said she was having trouble with a former cleaning lady who had stolen from her. He suggested re-calibrating the garage door opener, so she had that done, too. She was getting really good at lying to locksmiths. Now if she could just lie like that to Toby.
She was afraid to hang around, in case Toby showed up. She locked her new locks after carting her clothes, her bright pillows, and a few dishes to her car. But, as she started the engine, Toby pulled into the driveway and stopped his car beside hers, leaving his engine idling.
He gave her a questioning look and a shrug, then held up his garage door opener. When it didn’t work, he punched it again.
Misty started to back up, her hand sweating on the steering wheel.
Toby rolled down his window and yelled, "Wait a minute! I have to talk to you."
Misty smiled and drove away, leaving him shouting at her and pounding on the opener. At least she knew he couldn’t shoot her, since he couldn't get to the guns in the cabinet until he called a locksmith himself. Unless he had one in the car, of course. But he probably would have shot her if he had.
She was feeling smug and victorious, not ready for what happened next.
Her mother fixed a pot roast for dinner that night and Misty went to bed with at least her tummy happy. But sleep evaded her. She was normally a sound sleeper. Lately, however, she’d gotten out of the habit. At about one in the morning, she got up to fix a cup of hot chocolate. That usually put her to sleep.
As she reached the bedroom door and turned the knob, her window exploded inward and glass shattered onto the pillow where her head had been seconds before. A brick thumped onto the floor.
Misty stood frozen for a split second, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling, then ran to the front door, only to see the taillights of Toby’s Lexus disappear around the corner at the end of the block.
The next blow came that morning. The bank called to tell her that she had bounced two checks to two locksmith companies. The account was closed. She had to borrow again from her parents to cover the checks and the bank charges. She was afraid of ruining her credit rating.
***
Toby faces her from across the hockey field. There is enough light left to make out the hearty, false smile on his smug face.
"I'm glad you're giving me the paper, baby. You'll see, everything will turn out all right."
He starts walking, stretching his hand out to her.
***
"Misty, honey," her mother said, reaching over the kitchen table to smooth Misty's tangled hair away from her face with soft, smooth fingers. "It’s been two days now. You have to eat something."
Misty trembled and shook her head. She hadn’t been out of the house, or out of her nightgown, since the brick and bank incidents. There was another appointment with her lawyer that afternoon, but she didn’t see how she was going to make it.
Her mother had stayed home from work, worried about Misty.
"You need to get dressed. I’ll take you to Mr. Smith’s. Then you’re seeing the doctor. I made an appointment first thing this morning."
Misty nodded. Okay. Whatever. She was terrified to go out. Her stomach ached all the time. What if Toby was outside? What if he used a gun instead of a brick this time? But if her mother came with her? Maybe that would be all right.
Mr. Smith had her apply for a restraining order and the doctor gave her some pills. He said they'd make her sleepy at first, but she'd feel better when they took effect.
As she walked back into her parents’ house, her mother was on her hands and knees in the front hall closet.
"What are you doing?" Misty asked.
"Just cleaning out. Some of this stuff hasn’t been touched in ages. Go to the kitchen and I’ll fix you some popcorn."
Her mother had piled some things into a box. Misty spied her field hockey shin guards sticking out the top. No, she hadn’t used them for ages. In fact, she’d let her guard down for Toby, had left behind too many things. Misty picked up her stick, ran her hand over the wood, then saw a volley ball at the bottom of the box. Something snapped inside. Misty's spine straightened.
What’s going on? I’m being taken care of by my Mom like a two-year-old. He can’t do this to me! The slob thinks he has balls! Just you wait, Toby. We'll see who has balls.
The next day Misty told her mother she felt much better and convinced her to go into work. And Misty did feel better. She’d gotten a good night’s sleep, thanks to the new pills. She didn’t take any in the morning, but told her mother she did. She dragged herself around the kitchen having toast with her parents, acting woozy.
Misty hadn’t ever said anything to anyone about the gun she'd found. As soon as both her parents left, she dropped her drugged act, perked up, and got dressed. She got the bag of shoes out of her room and extracted the gun. She checked the magazine, saw it was loaded, then wiped the gun with the towel it had been wrapped in. She had no idea whether it was registered or not, but if it was, it would be registered to Toby.
Calmly, feeling almost like she were in a trance (maybe those pills were still working a little), she dialed Toby’s cell phone and managed to speak as if the brick, the bank, the bimbo—as if none of those had ever happened.
***
Misty drops her purse to the ground, holds the gun up, and points it at Toby's head. Her arm holds steady as a rock.
Toby stops walking. "That's not...not the paper. Misty, babe, you...what are you...?"
Her arm wavers. She grins and lowers her aim.
"No, it's not th
e paper. It's a gun I found in your closet."
"I can tell you how that gun got there if you'll calm down and listen." There's that smirk again. He takes two steps closer.
"You always had balls, Toby." She chuckles at her phrase. "But now..."
Toby lunges at her. Grabs her wrist. Throws her down and pounces on top of her. She's strong, though. She keeps her grip and twists around underneath him.
She takes one shot. Hits his kneecap. He rolls off her.
She shoots again, aiming for his testicles.
At that range, she doesn't miss. Toby screams and clutches his crotch. He writhes on the cool grass, two dark red puddles widening beside him. One from his knee, the larger one from his groin.
She will deny she's ever been here. She will lie like she did to the locksmiths. No one will know. Her word against his. If he lives.
Misty wonders, in a distant way, if he will bleed to death. She wipes the gun, drops it beside him, and walks away.
The house will need extensive redecorating. With no more lawyers to pay, she should be able to afford it soon.
BAYOU SCARS
Mary Ann Loesch
Blade cuts. Blood runs. Scars remain.
The words were burnt into the weathered wood above the doors of the church. Well, if you could call it a church. It was more a hut than an actual place of worship, though late at night people would crowd inside, chanting and swaying as the smell of incense swelled in the air. The bayou shook under the noise at those times, and people who were ignorant to the rites and ritual of voodoo would tuck themselves safely in bed, not daring to peek out.
I was not one of those people. My heritage ran through the blood-tainted swamps all the way back to Marie Laveau, the great voodoo priestess. She had fifteen children, and while her daughter, often called Marie Laveau II, was a well-known practioner of the faith, most of her other children were lost in the pages of history. But they existed, they survived, and my own great, great grandfather was eleventh in the line of Laveau’s children. Through the years his blood mingled with other Creoles until it had produced my family name, Renault.
I stood outside the worn down hut and read the words again: Blade cuts. Blood runs. Scars remain. To the outsider, it might suggest feelings of depression, a litany to suicide. However, I knew that here, in the bayou where the cypress trees swung low, it was the opening lines to a ritual. But which one? That’s what my boss had sent me to find out.
"Joan."
The voice meant only to be heard by my ears caused me to turn. I am a cop graced with the gift of second sight, and my spirit guide is the great voodoo priestess, my ancestor, Marie Laveau. Her aura pulsed next to me, and I waited for her to speak, accustomed to the smell of death that always accompanied her visitations. "Joan, you must not enter this house."
"Why?" I ignored the puzzled look of my partner, Dave. "What does it mean, Marie?"
I sensed Dave lose the puzzlement. He’s been with me for so long he no longer doubts the gift I have, though his strong Irish Catholic upbringing wants him to. When I start talking to things he can’t see, Dave just sits back and waits for me to finish.
"This is not a ritual, but a warning. If you enter this place, the knife of the beast will scratch your soul. The blood spilt will feed his passion. The scar will never heal as the loss you receive will be great," Marie said, her Creole dialect a sigh in the air, mixing with the breeze of the bayou. A little chill ran through me. "Take care. Stay outside and let the beast come to you."
I blinked and she was gone. My partner, impatient and hearing movement from inside the hut, began to creep towards the door. I grabbed his arm, squeezing it, pleased that he listened to the warning in my touch as he stilled.
"Not yet, Dave." I kept my voice low. "It’s a trap."
"But the kids," he said, and I knew he was thinking of his own two sweet angels at home.
"Too late for them." He flinched at the news. And it was too late. I sensed the spilled blood that painted the hut’s floor. There was no life left in it. "We wait. She’ll come out."
He nodded at me, another testament to our long relationship.
A wailing chant seeped through the walls of the hut. It was an incantation of power and vengeance—something meant to harm an enemy. The deep grating tone of the woman inside pricked at my ears as she tried to invoke the spirits. No sense in letting her go too far, though. One beast was all I wanted to fight today.
"Maddie!" I called out. "Maddie, we know you’re in there. Come out so we can talk."
The chanting stopped. I saw an eye press against one of the gnarled holes in the front wall of the hut. It twitched convulsively as it surveyed us, and I knew what it saw—two cops, one female with brown curly hair and one male with a blond crew cut.
"You go away." There was coldness in Maddie’s Creole cadence. "It’s too late now. Go and tell Jason his children are dead."
"Maddie, come out so we can give the kids medical aide." I had heard no remorse in the woman’s voice over her actions, and the trees around the hut shivered, as the other officers in hiding grew antsy at our exchange. Still, they would hold until I said differently. "It might not be as bad as you think."
"Oh, it’s bad. There’s so much blood. It’s dripping from the altar, running down the floor. I don’t remember the color of blood being so beautiful," Maddie said, and she broke into a hoarse laugh, mixed with madness and hysteria. "Go on now. I got to finish the ceremony so I can go home."
"Maddie, you need to come out. This won’t end well for you if you don’t cooperate."
"End well? It’s too late for happy endings. Jason’s got no one to blame but himself for that." Maddie’s words were causing Dave to get twitchy again. "I’m calling the beast to come and take me and my children home."
"We need her alive." The hushed anger in Dave’s voice was all too clear. "After what she did to Cassandra Hall, the kids…she doesn’t deserve an out like death."
"She’s a madwoman," I said. Perhaps he took that as agreement because he nodded and moved closer to the hut. Again I stopped him.
At the touch of my hand against his arm, a vision burst into my head. I saw Dave shaking me off, rushing into the building, the dim light costing my partner precious seconds to blink his eyes and adjust. Maddie would be lying in wait, holding the handle of a curved ritual knife. Chanting under her breath, her eyes wild with possession, she’d plunge the knife deep into Dave’s gut. I saw the beast, with its dragon-like head arise from the altar, smiting anything living in its path, stealing the soul from the body. Mine would be pulled as I pushed Maddie towards the creature, trying to get to Dave. But instead of my soul, it would be Dave’s that the beast took along with Maddie’s. I saw myself, listless, cradling his head in my lap, knowing I would never be forgiven for letting it happen.
But it hadn’t happened yet.
"Stop," I said, and this time I did more than grab Dave’s arm. I blocked him, turning my back to the house. "If you go in there now, you’ll die. I’ve seen it, and you know I am never wrong. Think about your family."
He stared at me, and for a moment, I thought he would brush me aside anyway. He could have. At 6’1", he towered above me and in strength, there was no physical way I could stop him. But like I said, the trust between us is deep. He nodded again and took a step back.
"It’s not Maddie in there anymore," I said. "She’s been gone a long time. Something old, something ancient resides in her skin. It was looking for a better place the second time around, and though thousands of years have passed since it last lived Earth side, the cycle of life has only repeated itself. The same events are replaying."
Behind Dave, a man peered out anxiously from the tree line. Jason, the husband of the woman in the hut, met my eyes, his worn face full of regret. I could sense the weariness though the space between us was great. The last forty-eight hours had been rough for him. His wife had killed his mistress and taken his children from him. Dave followed my gaze, glancing behind him.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath. "Who let him into the area?"
"It was meant to be," I said. "This has happened before."
I stepped aside, giving Maddie, her eye still pressed restlessly to the hole, a view of Jason.
"Jason," she whispered. The excitement at his arrival was unmistakable. "He’s here."
"Maybe we should let them talk," I said to Dave, lowering my voice.
"Our job is to bring her out. Not get the husband killed."
"He may be the key to finishing this."
We both looked at Jason, a tall man with fair skin and trim blond hair. I’d seen him in the society pages last week, never realizing I’d meet the good looking man who stood smiling next to a petite and fair skinned brunette. Cassandra Hall, the daughter of a prominent banker in our small piece of the world, had fallen for the charms of Jason Argo who was in the process of getting a divorce from his wife of ten years.
I guess Maddie didn’t take seeing the couple’s picture in the paper too well because the next day Cassandra Hall had been found dead, poisoned. The signs pointed towards Maddie as being the murderer.
"Jason." Maddie called to him, and he took a hesitant step from behind the tree. "That you?"
"Sir, I’d advise you to step back," Dave said, holding up his hand.
Jason halted, indecisive.
"Jason, baby." Maddie’s voice changed to an alluring purr. "Come on over here. Did you come to see me?"
"Maddie," Jason said, taking another step. "Where are the children?"
"They’re in here with me, darlin’. You come on in here and see them."
"Send them out. You’re mad at me, Maddie. Not them."
"You hurt me," Maddie hissed, the tone changing into a sudden summer storm of venom. "You cheated on me with that Hall girl, the slut! I’ve done everything for you, Jason. I gave up my life for you, took care of our children, went against my own family. How could you do this to me?"
"You’re a hard woman, Maddie, and you want…everything from me. There’s no room to breathe around you." Jason ran a hand through his hair as if he’d said these words before, but there was no arrogance in his tone. Just defeat. "Come out so we can talk. Bring the kids out, and let’s deal with this like grown-ups. The kids are innocent."