Surge (St. Martin Family Saga: Emergency Responders) Book 3: St. Martin Family Saga: Emergency Responders

by Gina Watson

  Clay waved and they returned the greeting, each step bringing them closer to their destiny. Toe to toe now, Clay took in the locked fingers between their bodies and raised his brow.

  “How was the drive in?” Clay asked.

  His voice was low and soft, an unusual attribute for him. Clara tried to remember when he’d ever been so quiet, but she couldn’t. He continued to speak softly with Jackson about the traffic. Next to him, Eve toyed with her own confusion at their linked hands. Her gray eyes traveled from their hands to Jackson’s face and back to Clara.

  Their connection was severed when two kids playing a game of tag around the statue of Andrew Jackson ran through the space that linked their hands. Like magnets they reconnected once the space between them was cleared. All eyes were on their hands.

  The tension was getting palpable. Eve spoke up. “Clay is taking me to see the tomb of the Voodoo Queen.”

  “Clara, you in? You love that shit,” Clay asked with a crease in his brow.

  “Oh, yes. Somebody painted the tomb pink with latex paint, which is not good because it will trap in moisture and cause deterioration.”

  Clay chuckled. “I really would like to know where you get all this information.” He took a few steps forward, leading the way. “Jackson, we’ll catch you later. Thanks for safely bringing my baby sister to me.”

  “He’s coming with us.” Clara said. Clay shrugged and they all trekked down St. Peter Street.

  At the cemetery they broke away from the intense eyes of Clay and Eve and chased each other up and down the rows of tombs until Jackson caught and tickled her senseless.

  It was an overcast afternoon and a storm was approaching. The weather caused the cemetery to appear all the more eerie and gray. The cement was dark with absorbed moisture, adding to the grayish blue hues. Tombs of varying height towered like giant marble gods creating irregular shadows that settled over the cemetery. Few inches separated one above-the-ground tomb from another.

  Clara remembered her grandmother telling her when she’d misbehaved that she’d bury her in the St. Louis Cemetery where the dead lie close together. So close there’s no peaceful rest to be had and the dead spend eternity in search of higher ground.

  “Il est mort sur le champ d’honneur.” Jackson read from a crooked epitaph cemented on a rectangular white tomb. “He died on the field of honor.” They walked the narrow aisle between the tombs having to turn sideways at times to fit. “Victime de son honneur.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he died because he had too much honor. In essence, it was his honor that killed him.” Jackson stopped in front of a faded red brick tomb encased with a black iron gate. The latch had rusted and the lock no longer worked to keep the gate closed. “Pour garder intact le nom de famille.” He pushed the gate open but didn’t walk through it. “To keep unsullied the name of the family.” He stared at the tombs for several minutes. “These men must have died in duels.”

  “Duels?”

  “Back in the day if somebody did you wrong you would challenge them to a duel—set a time and place and show up with your gun. Once the clock struck, you drew. Hopefully your fingers were faster than your opponent’s or you’d end up in here before your time with an epitaph such as this.”

  His story gave Clara a shiver. They walked to the back of the cemetery where a long row of vaults stacked three deep was situated. One person on top of another, on top of another, all the way down. Clara counted at least twenty-two rows in one of the long walls of vaults. “Are these paupers’ graves?”

  “This part of the cemetery is considerably less maintained. This is really creepy Bug. I can’t believe you like this place.”

  “It’s part of who we are.” She shrugged.

  “These wall vaults remind me of hospital morgue drawers.” He visibly fought off a chill.

  They walked to the center of the cemetery where the nicely maintained crypts were located. One crypt stood erect on a large marble slab and appeared as large and inviting as an entryway to a home. Clara imagined a spouse who had been left behind or a child seeking the guidance of a parent sitting under the eaves and speaking to their deceased loved ones as the rain fell around the cemetery. The intricate wrought iron gate wrapped around the structure and culminated in sinister looking finials. The entire structure was carved from marble. The top was comprised of five turrets each crowned with a massive cross.

  “This is a family crypt.” Jackson pointed and Clara walked up to stand next to him. “See the angel statues? The torches are pointed down indicating the death of a child.” Jackson scanned the area with his eyes. “It makes you realize how hard life was.”

  “It does and you’re right, this place is creepy. I want to see the Voodoo Queen.”

  “Piggy back.” He lowered and she climbed on.

  Jackson skipped a little too fast and Clara squealed.

  He stopped in front of the vastly decorated mausoleum of Marie Laveau. The tomb was tall and Clara wondered if the Queen’s body stood upright. She imagined Marie watching all the visitors who came to see her and leave her coins, beads, and flowers. Hers was the most decorated tomb in the cemetery. However, her resting place wasn’t as well kept as Clara thought it would be given the attention it garnered. Layers of paint peeled due to years of extreme weather conditions.

  “Here lies the body of Marie Laveau. All those who trespass will be damned.”

  Clara gasped. “It does not say that.”

  Jackson laughed. “Why is it decorated with mardis gras beads?”

  “Put me down,” Clara whispered in his ear. She stood in front of the crypt that towered above her. “The beads are offerings.”

  “Offerings?”

  “If your desire is met you must return and leave an offering.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Do you have a quarter?” She took the coin and drew an X on the tomb. Then she turned three times, knocked on the grave and yelled, “I wish for love to prevail.”

  “What, pray tell, are you doing?”

  “Don’t you know the legend of Marie Laveau?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.” His arms wrapped around her from behind and he rested his head on her shoulder.

  “She was a hair dresser by trade and she was good at her job. So good in fact that she was popular with society women.”

  “That is some talent.” He chuckled. Clara swatted his hand that rested on her stomach.

  “She knew everyone and everything. She was also very gifted. Her powers could heal the sick and she spent a lot of her time doing just that.”

  “So kind of like a doctor then, only I’ll bet she didn’t have to pay for malpractice insurance.”

  Clara ignored his insolence. “Her gris-gris bags had magical powers that could bring luck or protect the keeper from evil. To this day, her power transcends the grave, but first one must believe.”

  “Shh, listen,” his lips whispered and then he was gone. Footsteps crunched around her on the gravel as people meandered up and down the footpaths.

  She turned in a circle but had lost sight of Jackson. She whispered his name, but he didn’t show.

  Suddenly hands landed on her ribs encircling her from behind. He growled in her ear. “Gotcha.”

  She leaned into his side and he kissed her lips.

  Behind them a man cleared his throat, a man with a deep voice. She knew it would be Clay. They turned as one unit, Jackson’s arm around her waist and her body resting on his side. “Somebody want to fill me in here?”

  Eve pulled Clay’s arm. “I think we should go back to the hotel. We can go down to the pool, sit in the hot tub.” She tried really hard to distract him and it almost worked. Especially when she mentioned she’d brought the white bikini. Clay’s hand cupped her cheek.

  Clara wanted everything out in the open, wanted to stop hiding her love for Jackson, or being afraid to touch him, or kiss him. “We’re together.”

  Eve’s hand went to cov
er her mouth before she moved it. “Clara, no. Not here.”

  “Why not here? I don’t want to hide it anymore.”

  Clay wasn’t talking, wasn’t moving. “I wanted you to know that I love him. And he loves me.”

  His face turned into a storm with raging veins pulsing at the sides of his temples. His snarl was the first sound he’d made in a matter of minutes. “What the fuck do you mean he loves you? You love him?” His arms were soaring violently through the air as he expressed his thoughts. Next to him Eve tried to grab one and still it. “And you knew about this, Eve? You knew and you kept it from me?” Her face turned grave as her jaw dropped and her lips moved, but no sound came out.

  “I just have one question.” His head scanned from Jackson to Clara. “Have you been intimate?”

  Clara looked down to her shoes, but she heard Jackson. “Yes, we have. It’s my intention to marry her.”

  His certifiable laughter sent chills racing up and down her spine. “Oh, well that intent makes it okay for you to fuck my eighteen-year-old sister!”

  Jackson winced at the ear splitting yell.

  Clay leaned into Jackson until they were nose to nose. Eve tried to pull him away, but it was like she didn’t even exist. Clay’s focus was white hot and it was all aimed at Jackson. “How long has this been going on?”

  Oh, God. Not that question. Jackson would answer it truthfully, she knew it as sure as she knew her name. “Two years.” Clay’s hands scrubbed his face. His nostrils flared as he ran his fingers through his hair, ripping out several pieces. She watched his hand form a fist down at his side as his chest reared back to gain leverage. His meaty hand went soaring through the air. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound escaped. She told her arms to lift, but they wouldn’t. The sound of flesh colliding with flesh was unmistakable. The blow was so strong it knocked Jackson to the ground. Clay’s hand fisted in Jackson’s hair, pulling him to his knees and then he threw another punch while Eve and Clara screamed.

  “You—Are—Dead—To—Me!”

  He punched him again and Clara shrieked as she jumped onto his back. “Stop it! You’ll kill him!” He gingerly slid Clara from his back.

  He turned to Eve. “You lied to me. I deliberately asked you if something was going on between them and you lied to me.” Eve had to run to keep up with his retreating strides.

  Chapter 10

  Down on her knees, Clara looked into the mess that was Jackson’s beautiful face. “Cracker Jack.” She whispered.

  He squinted at her. “Not quite the reaction we’d hoped.”

  “Do you think he broke any bones?”

  He tested the motion of his jaw, moving it from side to side and spit out blood. “I don’t think so. My eye feels swollen shut. Is my eyelid cut?”

  “It’s swollen shut, but I don’t see a cut. What can I do Jackson?”

  “Help me up.” She put her head beneath his arm and he stood on shaky legs. “There’s a drugstore on Canal Street. We’ll pass it before we reach our hotel. I’m going to need a few things.”

  He put his sunglasses on, but they hardly hid the brutal beating Clay unleashed on his face. As he turned his head from side to side the subsequent ripping and wrenching sound made her cringe. Large salty droplets made their way down her cheeks and plopped onto her arm. She’d never seen Clay act in that way before and could hardly believe he had levied such brutality against another human being. They’d been friends for over ten years. Jackson was a brother, but all that would change. What had Clay said? Jackson was dead to him now. The tears kept flowing and she was certain that her emotions had never been so strained—not even after her accident. She’d been hurt, but she’d also been in shock for several weeks. It was Jackson who’d been there when she’d needed him most.

  Through her tears she asked, “Why didn’t you hit him back?”

  “Christ, Clara. In his mind I’m the guy that had sex with his sixteen-year-old sister. I deserve his wrath and abandonment.”

  Her head shook vigorously. “No.”

  “Let’s just focus on the drugstore.”

  She sniffled and cried until she could no longer breathe from her nose. They walked in silence except for occasional snorting and spitting from Jackson. Inside the drugstore he picked up a handheld basket and then removed his sunglasses. Clara gasped at the amount of swelling around his eye. She followed behind him as he went straight to first aid and started throwing things into the basket: gauze, butterfly bandages, Hibiclens antiseptic cleanser, peroxide, Dermabond, aspirin, anti inflammatory pills, and water.

  As they made their way to the front of the store people stared at his beaten face. He looked a fright with his bloodied shirt and neck. She crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing her arms. She wished he would let her do something to help, but he seemed intent on handling the purchase. When she attempted to take the sack from the clerk he snatched it from her hands.

  As they walked from the drug store to their hotel she had to jog to keep up with him. He opened the door to their room and threw the bag down on the bed. “Plug the sink and fill it with water.” He pulled his shirt over his head and threw it in the trash. While the water slowly filled the basin she grabbed the bag and laid out the items on the countertop. She heard the door open and went to see what was going on. She peered out into the hallway to see his retreating back, the ice bucket dangling from his fingertips. “Jackson?” Nothing. There again, she could have gone to get the ice for him.

  Frustrated, she returned to the bathroom to ensure the job he’d given her was completed to perfection. Once the sink was filled she turned off the faucet and waited for him.

  He walked in with the bucket of ice and dumped it into the sink, stirring it with his fingers. Her brow furrowed. She didn’t understand anything that was going on, but who was she to argue with a doctor?

  He waved his hand over the counter. “Move all of this crap so I don’t get it wet.”

  She fished the plastic sack out of the garbage and reloaded it with the purchased items. She gasped when she watched him plunge his face into the ice water bath. Thinking he should come right up she began to get nervous, especially when he started to moan. She retrieved a clean towel from the rack and waited for him to surface. He must have held his head down for close to a minute. When he rose he let out a low, raspy groan. She placed the opened towel across his arms and he patted his face.

  “Where’s my stuff?”

  “I put it on the bed.”

  “Get it, will you?”

  She guessed the pain was causing his agitation. Swiftly she retrieved the bag and brought it into the bathroom. She carefully laid out each item on the countertop just as before.

  He pushed the plunger down to drain the water and grabbed the red antiseptic soap out of her hands. “I’ve got this.” He leaned over the sink, snorted, and spit. “Clara, please go into the other room.”

  “What? No, let me take care of you.”

  “I can take care of myself. Go into the bedroom.” Her body experienced a deep ache at his stinging words. In one dramatic sweep of her arm she had all of the items back in the bag as she walked from the bathroom.

  “What the hell?” He followed behind her. With the handles of the sack laced through her fingers she sat on the bed. She willed the flood of tears to stop but they were not listening to her. “Clara, you know I need that stuff. What’s with this childish behavior?”

  And now she was childish. “Jackson, I love you and want to take care of you. I’m part of this too. I didn’t take the pain, but I am now. I need to take care of you. I need to know you will be okay. I can’t do that from the bedroom and I refuse to let you doctor yourself. Call it selfish, but I need to help get you back to rights to get past what happened today. I don’t know why you can’t understand that.”

  “My head feels like a football. I can’t really discuss this right now. Please, I need the pills and that water fast.” She jumped down off the bed and opened the water bottle, placi
ng it in his hands.

  “Which pills? Aspirin, inflammatory, or both?”

  “Two of each.”

  She placed the pills in his palm and headed straight into the bathroom. “Come sit on the toilet seat.”

  While he got situated she scrubbed her hands with the disinfecting soap. She pulled a piece of gauze from the box and squirted it with the vibrant red liquid until it was saturated. She delicately swabbed his face ridding it of blood and dirt. She completed this process several more times. “What’s next?”

  “Peroxide.”

  She cleansed each scratch and gash. “There are a few lacerations on your cheek and above your brow.”

  “The Dermabond.”

  “How does it work?”

  “Pull the skin together and dab it across. Hold it until it dries. Don’t blow on it.”

  She followed his instructions exactly as he’d dictated them. She was careful not to breathe her germs on the wounds while she waited for them to seal.

  “Now you can apply a butterfly bandage to the others. Just make sure they’re not set so tight it pulls the skin.”

  When she finished he stood and grabbed the ice bucket. “Do you need more ice?” She took the container from him and was gone before he could protest. On her way back to the room she found an unattended housekeeping cart and grabbed additional washcloths and hand towels. She placed several cubes of ice in a towel and wrapped it so that it was as flat as possible. Jackson reclined on the bed with his eyes closed. She held the icepack gently to the swollen tissues of his face. “Jackson?”

  His hand slid over hers. “Bug, I more than love you.”

  “Jackson, I’m sorry.” Her eyes filled with tears yet again.

  “Hey, it’s what we wanted, right? To share our love with the world, to finally come out of hiding. Things will start to get better now.”