Voodoo Love
And the Curse of Jean Lafitte’s Treasure
Victoria Richards
Copyright 2012
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons either living or dead, as well as any events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2012 by Victoria Richards. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any for or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the author.
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, any means of reproduction, either electronic or physical, of any part of this book, without written permission is unlawful piracy and deemed a theft of the author's intellectual property. You may use the material from this book for review purposes only. Any other use requires written permission from the author or publisher.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Episode 1- Gun Totin' Hottie
Episode 2- Dead Men Do Tell Tales
Episode 3- Voodoo Betrayal
Episode 4- Laveau's Lust
Episode 5- The Sacrifice
Paperback version
Prologue
They clung to one another, the waves pushing them up and down, while the brown waters of the Gulf of Mexico filled their mouths. Alive with fire, the water hissed on the oil of the crashed Coast Guard helicopter despite the pelting rain unleashed by the hurricane. The craft burnt and spewed out misshapen parts, even as it sank below the choppy surface.
“Hang on, Elizabeth,” the man shouted above the roar of the storm. Unsure if the woman plastered to his chest heard the words, he struggled to tread water, grateful for the orange life vest he'd put on before the helicopter went down. The pain in his arm and side increased, causing gray to gather at the edges of his vision.
Don't pass out. She needs you.
He shook his head, trying to clear his mind and get a better grip on what they were up against. The little locater beacon he’d strapped to his wrist blinked off and on, a strobe light adding to the hellishness of the scene as he moved his wounded, free arm. The life raft bobbed only a few yards away. If he could just get them to it…
The woman stirred, pulling her pale, scared face away from his chest to look up at him. Even in the storm, even with all they'd experienced, Elizabeth was still beautiful, and his heart contracted as their eyes met. She thought they were going to die. He could see the resignation in her. Guilt swamped the man, tugging at his conscience, threatening to pull him under just as the Gulf waves did. If he had made better choices, this wouldn’t be happening to her. She didn’t deserve to die in this little bay of water, caught between the entrance of the bayou plains of Louisiana and the saltwater of the Gulf of Mexico because he, Juan Montoya, had gotten sloppy.
Think, Juan, think. Save her!
“You’re going to have to help me,” he shouted, competing with the roar of the wind to be heard. “When we get to the raft, grab on. I’ll push you in.”
She nodded and together they swam towards the round raft. With a grunt of pain, he helped her climb in, giving a gentle shove with his good arm when she faltered. He grabbed the safety straps, ready to pull up, but the pain stopped him. Blood leaked from the laceration, and though he had seen his share of gruesome things and would defy anyone that called him a coward, the image of a shark popped into his head, flooding him with panic. Or maybe they were close enough now to the bayou for a gator to be his downfall. Both thoughts had him clawing at the boat, but the pain seared and he sunk a little deeper in the water.
That was when he knew he was going to die.
No matter how hard he tried he wasn’t going to make it into the raft by himself, and she didn’t have the strength to pull him in. He clung to the side, flowing with the waves, the pounding water numbing his body and mind.
“Juan?” Her face peered over the side of the raft. “Juan?”
She reached out, grabbing at the sides of his life jacket with shaking hands. He fought the scream of pain as she touched the wound on his arm, almost letting go. A strong wave slapped against the boat pushing her backwards and she disappeared from his sight. In that moment, he made a decision. He yanked the watch from around his wrist and tossed it into the raft, hopeful that it wouldn't get lost in the storm. Whoever the Coast Guard sent next to save them would be able to track it. Pushing off, he let the waters of the Gulf take him. Her face peeked back over the side.
“Juan!”
The raft and the woman he'd fallen hard for despite his best efforts not to, were carried away, lost in the hurricane, leaving him alone.
For a while, he just floated, going with the rise and fall of the waves as the rain pounded his face. He gathered his courage, reviewing the decisions of the last two weeks. With his good hand, he pulled the little gold coin he'd come to think of as his lucky charm out of his pocket.
Some luck.
But he gripped the coin tighter as the pain surged again. When it seemed he could take it no longer, Juan removed the life jacket, closed his eyes, and slipped beneath the water.
The end was swift. He didn't have the strength to fight it, and as the water filled his lungs, he rebelled only a moment. Darkness came.
And then there was a voice.
"Not so fast." The gruff words spoken with a French accent roused Juan, poking at the sharp edges of death. "You still have work to be done."
"Let me die."
"You've done that already, monsieur. But you've chosen a bad talisman for a keepsake."
Talisman? What could the voice mean? Surely, not the strange little coin…
"Aye, now you're getting the way of it," the voice continued in the darkness, its owner unseen. "You've got my coin and now you'll pay the price. No one steals from me!"
"It was a mistake," Juan said.
"One you'll spend eternity paying for."
Episode 1- Gun Totin' Hottie
Present
The dream is always the same. He reaches out his brown hand and I grab it, pulling him through the choppy water toward me. Even though we are soaking wet, even though the waves throw us and we bob like tops, I can feel his heart beating, as if it is strong enough to punch a hole through the life vest. That’s what gets me every time. The strength of that beat.
It's one of the few things I can remember clearly about our time together.
Two years have gone by since I last saw Juan at the bay between the Gulf and bayou of Louisiana, and yet, he is with me every day. It’s the guilt, I think. I let him slip away in the water. I didn’t mean for it to happen but it did.
Maybe it's more than guilt. Maybe it's the way he made my spine tingle with his touch. Or the way his laugh warmed me all the way to my toes.
I cannot let him go, which is strange when my mind has let so much of our time together evaporate. No matter how many questions I'm asked, how many times I'm yelled at, I can't remember much about our trip other than the little things.
My husband doesn’t understand. Eddie has no imagination or sense of adventure, though considering his profession some may find that hard to believe. He's a cop. Before you get carried away in your picture of him, let me just set you straight. He’s not Brad Pitt in a cop uniform or some guy off of the TV show CSI. With a newly developed gut that hangs over the uniform and all the head scratching he does when thinking about a problem, he’s more of a Barney Fife than a KoJack. But it doesn’t matter, because despite those things, Eddie is a good person—kind and patient to a
fault.
He would have to be in order to be "fake" married to me.
Juan Carlos Montoya would not have approved of my choice of husband. Yes, that really is the name of the man whose hand slipped from mine in the water, and yes, he was what you’re thinking—long brown hair, chocolate eyes, and a mouth that hardened when angry—the kind of man who made you feel hungry, though hungry for what was a whole other story! Juan definitely would have steered me clear of my husband.
But Juan Carlos, the Latino dreamboat, was not there when I made the smart decision to marry Eddie even though it was just for convenience. Juan was not the one who soothed me at night when I woke up screaming about being in the water. He didn't help me out of the bed those first few weeks in the hospital or check my house for intruders every day for six months until my bouts of paranoia lessened. Eddie did those things.
But it doesn’t matter. I can’t shake Juan Carlos. He is the source of my shadowy midnight dreams and screams, my paranoia—the scratch on the back of my throat that burns each time I smoke my contraband cigarettes. And until this morning, I thought I would never see him in the flesh again.
I was wrong.
***
I stood in line at Gator Mart with all the other disgruntled shoppers. I mean, dammit, here it is Friday afternoon, close to one o’clock, everyone in the world and their brother are trying to buy groceries and bam! The power kicks off. A loud collective moan and some colorful uses of the F word I’d never heard before stirred the crowd behind me. The check-out boy looked at us, fear in his face. Disgusted, the shopper before me spat a healthy wad of tobacco on the floor, muttered something in a deep, guttural Cajun accent, and then walked away.
“How’s it going, Billy?” I stepped up to the counter and gave him my best smile.
“F-F-Fine,” Billy stammered, his eyes on the people behind me. Already the anger and frustration level in the room was on the rise. Billy was right to be afraid. In the small town of Barataria, Louisiana some have been known to eat their young or feed them to the alligators. It’s all about survival of the fittest down here.
“Do you think you could just take my money for this and ring it up when the power comes back on?”
“Well, I’m really not allowed to do that, Miss Brown,” Billy said, eyeing my purchase. A slight redness blossomed in his cheeks at the box of Trojan condoms--size large--and the bottle of cheap Chardonnay I’d placed on the belt.
“It’s Mrs. Brown,” I pointed out to him. “Not Miss. I’m a married lady. Remember? We learned the correct way to address people when I tutored you last month so you could pass your history class.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I leaned over and opened my purse, revealing its contents to Billy. “Will you look at that? All I have is a twenty. Why don’t I give it to you and then you can ring it up when the power comes back on. Keep the change. After dealing with these upset people, you will need to find whoever it is that buys your underage butt some beer and toss back a few after work. What do you say?”
His eyes practically popped out of his head. I think maybe the Colt .45 snuggling next to my checkbook might have had something to do with that. He took the twenty, bagged my condoms and wine, and gave me a shaky smile. I smiled back. Behind me one of the can displays fell over as a shopper, blinded by the dim light of the store, bumped it.
“Have a nice day,” I told Billy.
Outside the small store, I couldn’t help but laugh. Eddie would not have approved of my methods. I don’t care though. Sometimes it feels good to fight back.
We moved to Barataria a year ago. It's a small shrimping town right on the bay where I was rescued after Juan Carlos left me. Eddie has told me many times that moving here is a big risk. We might attract the attention of the wrong kind of people, people who are still looking for the same thing Juan and I were after. Of course, since I can't remember how to find the thing we searched for, I don't really see that it matters.
However, the people of Barataria sure remembered me. I guess when you blow up a Coast Guard helicopter and then your town gets invaded by Federal agents who question anyone that crossed their path, people don't tend to be as friendly as they could be. The community of Barataria didn't find it necessary to welcome me with open arms. All of them steered clear at first, crossing to the other side of the street when I approached, and pointing at me when they thought I wasn’t looking. It might not have helped that my gun accidentally fell out of my purse in front of the town council members either.
Geez! What can I say? It slipped out. It's not like it was loaded…much. The bullet that fired off didn't hurt anyone. I paid for the restoration of that silly statue of Jean Lafitte they have in the town square. And after the tongue lashing Eddie gave me about it, I even apologized to the council.
But in this tight knit community, trivial things are harped on forever. Some hormonally challenged boys started a rumor that I was a gun totin’ hottie. Hard not to be flattered by that one. Unfortunately, only the gun toting part is true.
At 5'6" I'm hardly a super model. My blonde hair is longer than I'd like, and I've gained a pound or two in the last few years. Eddie calls me curvy in front of his buddies at the station, and he's pretty good about looking like it's something he appreciates.
That's one of the reasons I did feel a pinch guilty about embarrassing Eddie. He didn't want to live here in the first place. It's not like cops get many chances for promotions in Barataria, but unlike me, Eddie was actually thriving here. He had friends that would come over and drink beer on Friday nights. He'd joined a bowling league. Every few weeks, he would go out with one of the other cops and fish in the bay.
And what did I have? Nothing. Unless you count the vague memories of a guy I once had the hots for and the feeling that I had to be in Barataria. Something called out to me, making my blood race, and my mind know with certainty that the bayou surrounding the bay would never let me go. Not really.
Outside of the Gator Mart, condoms and wine swinging in the plastic bag, I pushed the unlock button on my key chain, hearing the annoying beep that lets you know you can get in. I was thinking about my plans for the evening and the shocking offer I was going to make my pretend husband. Wrapped in my daydreams, I popped the car door open and glanced across the hood.
The man stood about six feet away, his brown hair blowing in the wind. He stared at me with his chocolate eyes, a small smile playing across his lips. My bag dropped, shattering the bottle, the liquid invading my sandals. The stench of salt water mingled with the fruity perfume of wine, confusing me and making my heart beat in staccato. Shocked, I glanced down at my feet, but when I looked back up, he was gone. But I know what I saw.
Juan Carlos.
I closed my eyes, breathing deeply. The smell of the sea was still in the air. Though my skin prickled with goose bumps, my body physically reacted in another way as I felt desire rush through me. My mind flashed to the vague memory of a warm night, our bodies entwined, and the heat of sex surrounding us.
What was wrong with me? There was no way I could have seen Juan Carlos. It wasn't possible.
Dazed, I collected the box of wine saturated condoms, left the broken bottle on the ground, and slipped into my blue Scion. Paranoia, my old friend, embraced me as I glanced around. Shoppers pulled in and out of their parking spaces but there was no trace of Juan Carlos. I started the car, clicked the radio on, and tried to ignore the shaking in my hands.
Forget the past, forget the past. I repeated the thought like a little mantra, though I knew many people would argue that I was wrong to want that. I didn't care. As badly as I longed for Juan, as crazy as the dreams sometimes made me, I wasn't sure that remembering all that had happened was good. But of course, when the past wants to be remembered, it rushes at you with sharp claws, punching holes in the thin lining of the brain that seeks to block it. The memory of my trip to the Big Easy two years ago snuck back in.
****
New Orleans, for all its culture
and delicious food, was a dirty town. It had a seedy side to it that bubbled and festered in the landscape of Bourbon Street and the French Quarter. Despite that, I was half in love with the city, day dreaming about running away from my life as a teacher in Texas and living in a courtyard apartment just off of Canal Street. The weekend my life changed, I was there for a Girl's Retreat. There were five of us and we were cooking up trouble at a bar called The B Side, listening to Justin Timberlake croon about bringing sexy back.
“Are ya’ll in a sorority or something?” the bartender asked my friend Carla, eyeing her pink feather boa and tight black blouse which showed lots of squishy cleavage. It was our standard look for a night of drunken debauchery.
“Hell, no,” Carla answered with a wink. “We just drink like sorority girls.”
We all laughed and downed the shot which smelled a little like pineapple upside cake. It tasted so good we ordered one more, and after about our fifth shot, the decision was made to move to another club down the street where we could scream Timberlake songs to the wind without the disapproving looks of the seasoned bar patrons in The B Side. So pink boa feathers fluttering, we navigated through the crowd on Bourbon Street to our new destination.
Laveau's Lounge was supposed to be a "plethora of cheesy '80's music and good times" or so Carla claimed. I think she got it mixed up with the gay bar, Oz, down the street. From the moment, we stepped in to the place, fate started bearing down on us. Even the air felt heavier in Laveau's, and for a moment, the room swirled in my vision, causing me to lean against the entry wall for support. None of my friends noticed.
"Oh, you gonna git it bad tonight, little girl," a voice whispered in my ear.
Startled, I stepped away from the wall, only to bump into a short woman with gold, hoops dangling from her ears. They caught the light in the dim club and another wave of dizziness hit me. I squinted my eyes to see her better. She looked young, maybe in her late twenties, and her hair was braided into strands all around her head and then covered by a green kerchief which matched the color of her tight fitting dress. It clung to her dark skin, showing off curves I could only dream about having. Her exotic eyes watched me take her in, and I could see just a hint of amusement in them.
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