The barrel chair creaked and moaned when he pulled it out to sink into the soft cushion. "Sounds like my old bones," he said, putting the glass down in front of Liz. "Drink, cher. It make you feel better."
"I really need to go to bed." She propped her elbows on the table so she could cradle her chin in her hands. Her eyelids felt heavy, and so did her heart. "I fix one in the booth soon, but it be hard sleeping. The drink, it help. You get that warm stuff in your belly, you nod off like le bebe, yes?"
His dark, wrinkled face held such understanding. And those deep-set, round eyes reflected decades of experience. He'd seen it all, done it all, forgiven it all. If he said the drink would help, she believed him.
She sipped. "Blackberry brandy, umm, I always did have a taste for blackberry brandy."
"It taste like what you want it to," he replied.
"Yes," she said, having no idea what he meant. She took another sip.
The band resumed playing without him, and Liz continued sipping, sitting with Harris in companionable silence. Relaxation seeped through her body, and she soon discovered she wasn't sleepy anymore. Sleep would come, if she wanted, she was sure of that, but her body and heart didn't ache anymore. After a while, she realized she'd almost drained her glass.
"Could I have another?" she asked, surprised at how much she wanted it.
"One's enough, Izzy." He hadn't called her that earlier, but she found she didn't mind. It seemed right coming from Harris. He looked taller now, his skin firmer, his eyes a bit brighter, as if the passing of the night had made him younger. Leaning forward, he took her hand.
"You must listen carefully."
She widened her eyes in silent agreement.
"You go into darkness, girl. The time of le fantome is come. He have the power now, the fire opal be in his hands. Your papa, he want to make it right, but he have no guardian by his side, him."
Something told her his words were odd, but Liz paid it no heed and simply nodded. Right. She understood. The opal had to have a guardian "Go on."
"You is a woman now, but the heart of you got left when you ran from the bayou."
He pressed an object in her hand. She looked down and saw a gris-gris bag. An especially nice one made of chamois instead of the usual flannel. Her mother had made charms like these for the people who came to her for mystical advice on getting their hearts' desires.
Liz raised her eyes to Harris in mute question.
"It be an evil thing inside," he said, "but some of the time it take evil to fight evil. I put with it a stone and a powder that will keep it under your power—the two to keep the one at bay. This will protect you for now, cher, but it be not enough in the end. It take another kind of strength to fire up the opal and defeat Ankouer. You find it in your heart, the part that got left behind with Izzy. Look for what Izzy knew. It is in the book your maman wrote. Study it, and remember who you are. Other-the-wise, we all go back to the dark—man, woman, child, all fall into dark. We, us, everyone, need you. Mind what I say."
The music still played, and the cells in her body felt like lead, and she doubted she could move if she tried. She didn't feel like trying. It was a good feeling, really, rather like the aftermath of a massage . . . or of incredible sex.
"Yes," she said dreamily, his every word making perfect sense although, in fact, none of it made sense.
"Good on you," he answered. "And for the last. The man you run from, him, he is your defender. Trust him, 'cause he is a good man, and when the battle time come, he stand by your side. Be good to him—he love you for true."
She felt, rather than saw, Harris stand, and when he moved away, she continued sitting in her chair, caring about nothing, worrying about nothing, just sitting. The next thing she knew, Harris was taking her arms and lifting her from the chair.
"Come, Izzy, sleep now."
"Where's Zach?" she asked groggily, wondering how everything had changed so fast. She'd been talking to Harris just a minute ago, but now the band was gone. The room was completely dark except for a glowing light above the liquor cabinet behind the bar.
"Gone sleepy time." Harris nodded to a blanket-covered heap on a bench of one of the booths. "Just like you soon to be."
Right, she remembered hazily Zach had argued with the gargoyle. The man's ugly face popped in her mind and she giggled. Zach might have been drunk, but it hadn't hurt his eyesight any. Harris smiled, but didn't ask why she'd laughed as he led her to another booth, where he'd already placed cushions from the chair. "Lay you down. Morning come soon. Old soleil, he will be rising. You got toil ahead, cher, so rest now."
He helped her into the booth, then draped a big scratchy blanket over her. As she tucked her hands beneath her head, she turned her droopy eyes up to him.
"How come you Frenchies hardly ever call a woman by her given name?"
"It be much too dangerous."
She was too tired to convey her question by anything but raised eyebrows, but he got it anyway.
"If a man make a mistake during that loving time, why, cher, he'd'a be sleeping with that old dog till his hair turn white as mine."
Then he chuckled and walked away.
Liz was fast asleep before the echo of his chuckle faded, but she had one last thought before drifting off. Zach often called her Liz. That must mean something.
* * *
"Exactly where you tied it," Liz said when she spied the shirt scrap tied around the tree. "That was smart thinking."
"Sometimes the brain works," Zach replied, and she knew it was an oblique apology for last night. She sighed. It wasn't as if she'd never witnessed that kind of behavior before. Although her father often drank excessively, he rarely lost his temper. But she'd been there once or twice when he had, and he'd acted very much the same as Zach. Maybe worse.
"You're lucky Harris showed up before the giant tossed you all the way back to the Port."
"Gargoyle," Zach muttered.
"That pretty well says it." She laughed.
So did Zach. "I'd probably be looking worse than him if he'd gotten hold of me."
"Un-huh."
He slanted her a glance of mock offense, and Liz laughed again. They shared a moment of warmth that felt good after the argument, and for a brief time she just smiled up at him.
Zach broke it short, saying in a gruff voice, "Time to check out the attack site."
Liz kept pace with him as he turned into the thick stand of brush and trees. She felt good this morning despite the lack of sleep, and she'd had a lovely dream she couldn't quite remember, except that it included Harris. The man had awakened them shortly after dawn, with Zach looking a little worse for the wear. But Harris produced a razor and plenty of hot water. By the time they sat down to a breakfast guaranteed to put ten pounds on Liz's hips, Zach showed no signs he'd downed more vodka than she cared to think about.
When they approached the clearing where the raccoon had attacked, Zach put out his arm. "Hold on." He stepped between the trees. She wasn't exactly uneasy, standing in the cool shadows without him, but she dearly wished he'd hurry.
"Is the raccoon gone?" she asked when he returned.
"Not exactly, but it isn't a danger anymore."
Liz cocked her head. "You sure?"
"Yep, dead as a doornail." He motioned for her to come forward and started walking to the boat.
"How?"
Zach shrugged. "All that matters is he didn't do much harm. He did get into the storage bin, scattered stuff all over the place, and—well, you'll see for yourself."
He leaned forward, grabbed the rail of the boat, and swung his body over it. Then he turned and stuck out his hand. Liz took it and used his lift to vault up.
"Why didn't we use the ramp?" she asked.
Zach inclined his head in that direction.
The raccoon. Dead, all right. Rolled on its back with its small, handlike paws curled up, and its dark round eyes staring through its mask at the sky, it now seemed sad and harmless.
"Who
knows what kind of disease that crazy thing was carrying," Zach said. "I'll get rid of it as soon as we clean up the boat."
"You think it had rabies?"
"I dunno. All that matters is it can't hurt us now."
Liz nodded, gazing around the ravaged boat. All the bins had been opened, their contents scattered. Oddly, it looked almost like the animal had been searching for something, because the location of the tossed objects on this side of the craft wasn't random, as might be expected from a rabid creature.
Liz leaned to check the other side and saw the same loose organization. "It missed a bin," she said suddenly. She rounded the benches, stepping over clusters of charcoal to avoid getting too close to the ramp. "It's the one I stored my purse in."
She bent and examined the site. The vinyl had been shredded by sharp little claws, and frantic scratches marked the aluminum side wall around the latch.
"For some reason it couldn't get in this one," she said in bemusement, still bent over and staring.
Zach made his way around. Charcoal dust was already getting on their shoes, leaving tracks on the wooden deck. "No wonder. Luckily you completely secured the latch. Hardly anyone does that except in a storm."
"Lucky is right. My cell phone's in there, and it could come in handy later."
A visible shiver ran through Zach's body and he stared north for an instant. "I hope we don't need it," he replied. "But I'm worried about the weather patterns. It's an eerie place we're headed to."
Liz recalled what he'd said about unpredictable water and weather when Maddie first mentioned Quadray Island, but thought he was lapsing into over-caution.
"Heavens, Zach. The day's as clear a one as I've ever seen."
"Never pays attention to a thing I say," Zach said, turning his eyes to heaven.
Liz smiled at him, fascinated by how fiercely masculine he looked standing above her. A mild breeze rippled his hair like a field of wheat, and his blue eyes glowed against his tanned skin. He was all muscle and sinew, and she remembered then how close he'd come to kissing her on the dance floor, how thrilled she'd been at the prospect.
What if he hadn't frightened her by talking about her girlhood self? What would she have felt? Would she have let him enter her life, putting her in the agonizing position of leaving him again to prevent her illusionary self from shattering into a million pieces?
. . . he loves you, for true.
Harris's voice, as clear as if he stood in front of her. Liz had an urge to shake her head. She didn't recall Harris saying those words, and they spoke of a sentiment she preferred not to dwell on.
Then why did they warm her heart?
She cleared her throat and straightened up. "First thing, I need to clean up all this charcoal. It's making a mess of the deck. Where's the bag?"
"In shreds."
"Okay, I guess I'll have to empty a crate. You take care of the raccoon."
"Sure, give me the easy job."
He picked up one of the less-shredded tarps, then searched for a grappling hook, which he ended up finding wedged against the side of the boat.
"Almost as if the raccoon was hunting for something," Liz said, still troubled by this unlikely organization.
"Sure, Liz. Food."
She turned toward the shore. "Then why didn't it eat our dinners?"
The plate Zach had left on the ground was untouched, and the kettle still sat upright on the grill. Even the remains from Liz's meal hadn't been eaten.
"Like I said, it was probably sick. Which is why I want it out of here." He shrugged, but Liz thought his nonchalance seemed feigned.
He dropped the tarp over the raccoon, then rolled it down the ramp by pushing it with a foot. When he reached the bottom, he used the grappling hook to shove it to one side.
"You plan on giving it a Christian burial?" Liz quipped.
"I'm going to burn it." He came back to the ramp and picked up a gallon of gas. "I'd just as soon make sure it doesn't spread something catchy. There a shovel around here?"
Liz scanned the boat and spotted a small camp shovel hanging from the gunwale. He lifted the shovel, then returned to shore. In seconds, she heard the scraping of the carcass being dragged across the ground.
She resumed scooping up charcoal, using pieces from a roll of paper towels to drop them into a garbage bag.
Afterward, she found some rags, which she wet down in the bayou and used to mop up the deck. While she worked, the shovel scuffed at the dirt on the shore below. By the time she was ready to pack the other items into the storage bin, she smelled gasoline fumes.
"Any matches left?"
"Yep." She'd found them spilled inside the crate that once held the charcoal, and had already put them back into their box, which she now handed over the rail to Zach. As he started to turn away, she spotted something flying from the brush. "Zach!" she yelled.
"What the—" He whirled, then stopped dead still.
A pack of raccoons surrounded the shrouded corpse.
Chapter Eleven
"Git coons!" Zach bellowed.
"Come on in the boat," Liz implored, terrified the raccoons would attack him. "Please."
The pack clawed furiously at the tarp. At Zach's shout, one of them stopped clawing and lifted its head to regard them with intense hostility.
"Git!" Zach roared again.
The creature ignored him and returned to its task. The animals had now uncovered a paw belonging to the dead raccoon, obviously preparing to drag it away.
"Please, please get on the boat," Liz begged.
Finally, Zach spun for the ramp and raced up it to the bow of the boat, where he pulled a flare gun from beneath the console. He whirled back to point the gun at the raccoons.
It discharged with a crack, ejecting a flash of red that streaked toward the pack and the gasoline-soaked tarp. As a group they fixed their eyes on the whir of light. As it descended, the flare nicked one of the raccoon's flank. It shrieked, causing the others to spring for the brush. The scent of burned hair rose from the struck animal's smoldering coat. With more pained shrieks, it thrashed around in the dirt, then flipped to its feet and took off after the rest. With a whoosh of heat and light, the gas ignited. The tarp went up in flames.
"Well, that's that," Zach said calmly. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he bent to put the flare gun away. "Sure glad this baby was loaded."
Still speechless, Liz watched him sit down and start the engine. "Let's get out of here," he said. "it's been wet enough that the fire'll burn itself out."
"No argument from me." Liz walked forward and sat beside him. "Have you ever seen anything like that?"
"Nope."
"I was afraid not."
He steered the boat into deeper water. She could see him itching to give the craft more speed, and as soon as they reached the middle of the bayou, he gave in to the impulse.
"Something really weird happened back there," he said.
"There's a logical"—acrid smoke blew from the land and a cough broke her reply—"explanation, I'm sure"—another cough—"there is. We simply . . . don't know what ... it is . . . yet."
Zach looked back at the receding shore, prompting her to do the same. The blaze had ebbed, but a thick cloud spiraled up, carrying the stench of burning hair and flesh. The raccoon pack stood at the water's edge and followed their retreat with beady eyes.
Liz covered her nose and throat. "Hurry, Zach."
"Amen."
He punched up the speed even more, then bent for his flask. Liz suddenly wished she also had a convenient way to ease her fear.
Even after the burning raccoon and its caretakers were many miles behind them, she and Zach spoke no more of it. Deeply reluctant to explore the incident, Liz busied herself putting the rest of the items back in the bins. When she finally sat back down, she made a guess that Zach didn't want to talk about it either.
The seat felt hard and uncomfortable, and she was getting stiff. As she lifted her legs to prop them on the console, she f
elt the journal shift in her pocket.
Without knowing why, she'd felt compelled to read it. When she'd left Harris's that morning to walk back up the road with Zach, the journal had been a large presence in her mind, but the wreckage on the boat and the appearance of the aberrant raccoons had made her forget.
Now was as good a time as any to return to it. She pulled out the bag she stored it in, and saw it contained a new item. Turning the plastic bag upside down, she let both of them drop to her lap.
"Where did this come from?" she idly asked aloud.
Zach looked at her in question.
"This gris-gris bag. It wasn't here yesterday."
Zach's laugh carried an odd ring. "Just what we need. A charm to keep us safe."
Somehow she thought he believed it, if just a little, and she herself was very curious about what the little bag held. Small enough to stick in a pocket or a purse, it still felt heavier than she remembered them to be. She loosened the drawstring.
"You don't know how you got it?" Zach leaned back in his seat and reached for a cigarette.
"No." She had an image of a wrinkled black hand pressing it into hers, but it refused to come into focus. Neither did the contents of the bag. Black inside there, very black, due to a larger object blocking the light.
She tweezered her fingers around it and tugged.
The piece slipped from her grasp when it was halfway out and lodged there, its two outstretched arms hanging over the opening. A small needle protruded from the space between the arms.
"Ugh!" Liz gaped at the thing in horror. A voodoo doll, painted entirely black and staring at her with malicious round red eyes.
Zach jerked his head and uttered an equally disgusted sound. "Throw it overboard, Liz!"
She took it between her thumb and index finger, preparing to do just that, but as she slipped it out, she got the oddest feeling it was there to do her will. "In a second," she said, leaning to put it on the deck between their seats. "I want to see what else is in here."
"Not more black magic, I hope." He puffed quickly on his cigarette, then turned away.
Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set Page 11