Deadly Loyalty Collection

by Bill Myers

Suddenly he bolted upright. It took a moment to get his bearings, to realize he’d fallen asleep in the hammock on the porch.

  “You okay?” Becka asked. “It sounded like you were having a nightmare.”

  Scott frowned, trying hard to remember. “Yeah . . . I don’t . . . I think I heard screaming. In my dream, someone or something was screaming and — ”

  Doomba-doomba-doom.

  He froze. “What’s that?”

  Doomba-doomba-doom. Doomba-doomba-doom.

  The screen door creaked loudly. Aunt Myrna stepped onto the porch carrying two glasses of lemonade. “You kids want a cold drink?”

  “Aunt Myrna, what’s that noise?” Scott asked.

  She paused to listen. “Oh,” she said, handing out the glasses. “It’s them.”

  “Them?” Becka asked.

  “Yes. Big Sweet and his group. They have a voodoo ceremony most every night this time of year.” She gave a gesture of distaste. “You’ll get used to the drums after a while.”

  Scott and Becka exchanged glances, both knowing that they would never get used to it.

  “Oh, Rebecca?” Aunt Myrna stood at the door, ready to go in. “Did Lukey — you know, my goat — did he follow you out into the cane fields today?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Becka answered. “Why?”

  “Oh, no reason,” Aunt Myrna said, running her hands through her hair. It was long and gray and beautiful. “It’s just . . . well, I guess he’s run off again. Can’t seem to find him anywhere. Well — ” she forced a smile and headed back into the house — “I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  The door slammed shut behind her, but Scott barely noticed. He was feeling very sick.

  “Scotty, what’s wrong?” Becka asked. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded. When he spoke, his voice was strangely hoarse. “The screaming . . . in my dream . . .”

  “Yeah . . .”

  The drums grew louder now.

  Doomba-doomba-doom. Doomba-doomba-doom.

  “What about it?” Rebecca asked.

  “It definitely wasn’t a person or anything like that. I remember now. It was an animal.”

  “An animal?”

  Scott nodded. “And it wasn’t screaming — it was bleating . . . ’cause it was being slaughtered.”

  “Bleating?” Becka repeated.

  “Yeah, you know . . . like a goat.”

  The great conch horn sounded, sending its haunting echo throughout the woods.

  3

  The morning air was so fresh and beautiful that Becka almost forgot their purpose, let alone the danger that surrounded them.

  Almost.

  The weather forecast promised that rain would move in later that day, but for now everything smelled warm and moist and full of life. Becka especially loved the flowers. They were her passion, her weakness. They always had been. And as she and Scott headed down Aunt Myrna’s long driveway to the main road, a gentle breeze stirred and brought half a dozen different fragrances to her.

  Scott’s ankle was much better. He limped only slightly as they approached the mailbox and began the wait for the bus to Sorrento.

  Unfortunately, when the old, broken-down vehicle finally appeared, it belched out more smoke than Mom had created the last time she tried to barbecue. The metal beast screeched to a halt before them. As they boarded and headed to the back, any fragrance of flowers was blotted out by the smell of diesel oil and exhaust fumes.

  The gears ground loudly as the bus lumbered down the road. Soon they passed a large potato field, then a group of run-down shacks. Dirty-faced children in ragged clothes ran all around the yards.

  “Look how they’re dressed,” Becka said sadly.

  Scott nodded. “And check out their shoes.”

  Becka looked. “They don’t have any.”

  “Exactly.”

  Becka nodded. “I read that voodoo is most widespread among the poor. Like Z said, it’s a way for them to try to gain some control over their lives.”

  Scott grunted. “Doesn’t look like it’s working too well.”

  Becka watched a young mother rushing to pick up a dirt-smeared child who had fallen near the ditch. The little one didn’t appear hurt, but the mother carefully soothed and cuddled him, tenderly holding him in her arms. Becka sighed, touched by the love the mother had for her child, yet sad at the same time. “It’s terrible what happens to people who don’t have a lot of hope.”

  Scott nodded.

  Suddenly there was a loud explosion.

  “What was that?!” Becka cried.

  “A blown tire,” Scott guessed. He grabbed the seat in front of him and held on.

  Had the bus been a newer model, it might have held on to the road. Being old and decrepit, the bus went into a tailspin. The back end — where Becka and Scott sat — skidded toward the oncoming traffic.

  The two looked out of their window just as the bus hurtled toward a tractor. The tractor driver turned hard. But the bus kept going at it, brakes screeching as the tires smoldered from the friction with the road.

  At last they skidded to a stop only a few feet from the tractor. But the trouble wasn’t over yet. The bus started tipping. Becka let out a scream, certain they were going over. Suddenly it stopped and righted itself with a mighty thud.

  “Sorry ’bout that folks!” the driver called back. “Everyone okay?”

  Other than arriving in Sorrento an hour and a half late (it took the bus driver that long to find his tools and fix the tire), Becka and Scott were fine. Well, not exactly fine. Narrowly escaping a plane crash, nearly being chopped by a thresher, and now surviving a bus accident — all within the first twenty-four hours of their arrival — had taken its toll.

  “That does it!” Scott said as he stormed off the bus and over to a small park. “I’m not going anywhere the rest of the time we’re here!”

  “Scotty.”

  “Say what you want, Beck! Something’s after us. Somebody’s definitely put some sort of curse on us!”

  Becka took a moment to quiet her own fears, then tried to explain. “Remember what Z said? Even if it is a curse, even if it is real, the only power it has over us is fear. We have to trust that God — ”

  But Scott was in no mood to listen to reason. “I think we should turn right around and go back to California.”

  She knew he had a point. Something was definitely going on. If whoever — or whatever — it was wanted to scare them, it was doing a pretty good job. Still, Z had never been wrong before.

  She looked up to see Scott heading across the road. “Hey!” she called. “Where are you going?”

  Scott pointed to the large building directly in front of them. “Z said this Sara babe worked at the library, right?” He motioned ahead of him. “Well, there’s the library.”

  Becka crossed the road and joined him. “Listen,” she said as they headed up the steps, “better let me do the talking.” It wasn’t that she wanted to be the one who spoke to Sara. Far from it. She just knew from experience that Scott was in no mood to be overly sensitive — which meant he’d probably offend everyone in his path.

  They opened the library door and stepped in. Becka led the way to the circulation desk, where an older woman checked out books. “Excuse me,” Becka said, “we’re looking for Sara Thomas. Is she here?”

  The older woman smiled and nodded toward two young girls who were shelving books.

  One girl looked fairly normal. The other one had wild hair with purple highlights. She wore a black leather jacket with small chains attached to the pockets.

  Becka took a deep breath. “Well, here goes.”

  They walked across the room straight to the purple-haired girl.

  “Can I help you?” the girl asked.

  “Uh, yes,” Rebecca began. “This is probably going to sound a little crazy to you, but a friend of ours on the Internet, whose name is Z, asked us to visit you to . . . to try to help you through some sort of voodoo thing.”

&nb
sp; The girl made a face. “Some sort of what?”

  Becka tried again. “Your voodoo thing. We have some experience with the occult and . . .”

  “Voodoo?” The girl looked at Becka like she had a screw loose. “My voodoo thing? What are you, some kind of wacko? I don’t have any voodoo thing.”

  “But aren’t you . . . aren’t you Sara Thomas?”

  The girl snorted and shook her head. “No. My name is Stacy. This is Sara Thomas.”

  With great embarrassment, Becka turned to face the other girl — the “normal”-looking one — who now glared at her.

  “Nice job, sis,” Scott muttered quietly.

  “I’m sorry,” Becka stuttered. ‘‘I . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  The purple-haired girl nodded and went back to shelving books.

  Becka turned to Sara. “Hello.” She smiled self-consciously. “You’re Sara?”

  Sara Thomas nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was cold. “And you are?”

  “I’m Rebecca Williams. This is my brother, Scott. We’re here from California to — ”

  “Yes, I heard,” Sara cut her off. “You’re here to help me deal with my ‘voodoo thing.’ ”

  Becka tried to snicker, hoping that Sara would join in and they could laugh off the whole silly thing. But Sara wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t even smiling. Becka was forced to continue. “Yes, I’m sorry about that . . . I, uh — ”

  “Listen,” Sara cut her off again. “I don’t know you. I don’t even have a computer, so I certainly don’t know anyone named Z. And what’s more, I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. And I think you’d better go now.” That said, Sara turned her attention to her books.

  Becka stood for a long moment staring at Sara’s back, trying to think of something to say. Finally she cleared her throat. “Look, I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean any harm.”

  Without turning to her, Sara said, “Would you just go, please?”

  “Listen.” Scott stepped forward. The tone of his voice was not happy. “We didn’t come all the way to Louisiana just to — ”

  “Never mind,” Becka interrupted quickly. “We’ve, uh, we’ve bothered her long enough. We should go.”

  “Yeah, but — ”

  “Let’s go.” She took Scott’s arm and started turning him toward the door. It was only then that she caught sight of something that sent a chill through her. She hadn’t noticed it before, but Sara was now fingering something hanging on a chain around her neck. A small cloth doll.

  A doll that looked very similar to the ones the witch doctors used in Brazil.

  They were halfway down the library steps when Scott let out an exasperated sigh. “So tell me, could we have messed that up any worse?”

  “We just got off on the wrong foot,” Becka answered. “That’s all.”

  “Well, she doesn’t want our help. I think she made that pretty clear.”

  Becka nodded and was about to speak when something else caught her eye. Across the road was the small park beside which was a small church. “Isn’t that the church Aunt Myrna was talking about?”

  Scott followed her gaze and shrugged. “I guess. She said it was next to a park.”

  Becka nodded and started for it.

  “Becka . . .”

  “Come on. We’ve got an hour before the bus leaves.”

  A reluctant Scott followed. Although he limped a bit more, he joined his sister anyway.

  They knocked on the door of the church. The pastor was not there. Instead, an elderly lady answered and directed them to the parsonage next door.

  They crossed to a small house. Becka noticed that part of the porch stairs had rotted. It had also been a long time since the building had seen a paintbrush. She knocked on the door, but there was no answer. She tried again with the same result. Then one final time.

  There was no answer.

  As they started back down the steps, the door suddenly opened. A small, frail, elderly man appeared. “May I help you?”

  “Oh — ” Becka turned. “We thought no one was home.”

  The older man smiled. “I’m home, but I’m slow. It takes me a while to get to the door.”

  “We’re looking for Pastor Barchett,” Scott said.

  The older man nodded. “That’s me.”

  “My name is Rebecca Williams. This is my brother, Scott. We’re here visiting Myrna Carmen. She’s my mother’s aunt.”

  Pastor Barchett looked confused. “Who?”

  Scott shot a glance at Becka as if to say, “Here we go again.”

  “Myrna Carmen,” Becka repeated. “She attends your church.”

  “She’s been a member here for like a zillion years,” Scott added.

  “Oh . . . Myrna.” The pastor broke into a grin. “My goodness, yes. So you’re Myrna’s . . . what did you say?”

  “Great-niece and nephew,” Becka said.

  “Ah yes, of course.”

  “Anyway, we wondered if we could have a few moments of your time.”

  Pastor Barchett stepped back from the door and graciously waved them in. “Of course, of course.”

  Inside, the house was small and well kept . . . except for a cat box that needed to be changed.

  Pretending not to notice the odor, Becka said, “What a nice house you have.”

  “One of the ladies from the church comes in every few days and cleans it,” the pastor said as he closed the door. “All I have to do is pick up after myself and . . .” He trailed off, forgetting what the other thing was until he noticed Scott’s upturned nose. “And change the cat litter, that’s it! Sorry about the smell. I forget because the old nose ain’t what she used to be. Would you two like some tea?”

  Scott shook his head to Becka. She took the cue. “No thanks.”

  Pastor Barchett motioned for them to sit on the sofa. He took a seat across from them. “So . . . how can I help you?”

  Becka leaned forward. “Pastor, do you know much about voodoo?”

  “I should hope so.” The old man’s eyes sparkled with a bit of life. “With a church in the heart of Ascension Parish here on the bayou, I’d better know a thing or two.”

  Becka’s eyes widened. “Did you say Ascension Parish?”

  “Why, yes.” The old man nodded. “You know Louisiana is divided into parishes. It’s like counties in other states. And this parish is called Ascension.”

  Becka and Scott exchanged glances. They had had numerous encounters with the occult through a New Age bookstore back home called the Ascension Bookshop.

  “Now tell me, what do you want to know about voodoo, child?” Pastor Barchett asked.

  Becka told him everything: how Z had sent them to help Sara Thomas, about their experiences with the occult in California.

  She even described the necklace Sara wore.

  The old pastor leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and thought for a long moment.

  Then the moment became longer.

  And longer still . . .

  Finally, Scott whispered to his sister, “I think he fell asleep.”

  At the sound of Scott’s voice, the old man’s eyes popped opened. “I think I have your answer.”

  “You do?!” they both exclaimed at the same time. They leaned forward so as not to miss a single word of the wisdom he was about to speak.

  Pastor Barchett hesitated just a moment and then answered, “Pray.”

  Scott and Becka blinked. They remained silent, waiting for the rest of the answer. But there was nothing else.

  “Pray?” Scott said. “That’s it? Just pray?”

  The pastor nodded. “And believe. Pray that God will show Sara the error of her ways, that she will repent. And believe that he has sent you for a purpose that will not be thwarted.” Scott and Becka glanced at one another in exasperation. Another dead end.

  Once outside, it was Becka’s turn to show disgust. “Pray?” she said. “Pray?? We could’ve done that at Aunt Myrna’s. We could have done that in California.
”

  “And believe,” Scott snorted, shaking his head. “Don’t forget believe. It’s just the same pat answer we’ve heard a million times before.”

  Becka nodded. She knew it was good advice. There was nothing wrong with praying and believing. Still, she had to agree that the pastor’s advice was pretty much a formula answer and not very helpful in their particular situation.

  “Hey! There she is!”

  Becka looked up to see Scott pointing toward Sara Thomas. She had left the library and was heading down the street.

  “Come on!” Becka said.

  “What?”

  Becka started forward. Before she would admit defeat, she had to try one last time. “Sara, Sara! . . . Wait up!”

  The girl looked over in surprise — and annoyance. “What do you want?” she demanded as Becka arrived at her side.

  “I, uh . . . I thought maybe, you know, if you were going to lunch, maybe we could sort of treat you.”

  “You don’t think I can afford lunch?”

  Becka faltered. “No, that’s not it. I just . . . well, it’s sort of . . . you know . . . to make up for getting off . . . ,” the words were coming harder now, “on the wrong . . . foot . . .”

  For a brief second, something softened in Sara’s eyes. Like she appreciated the thought. Like she really wanted to talk. But suddenly, she reached for her stomach and doubled over.

  “Hey!” Scott said, moving to her side. “Are you all right?”

  “Get away from me — both of you!”

  Becka was taken aback. “Sara, are you sure you’re — ?”

  “Leave me alone!” She shoved Becka away hard — so hard that Becka stumbled back and fell against a lamppost. That hurt a bit, but not enough to stop her from heading toward the girl again until —

  “I’m warning you.” Sara was still doubled over and gasping for breath. “If you don’t stay away from me, the next time . . . the next time you’ll really get hurt.” Then, struggling to stand up straight, she turned and ran down the street.

  “Sara!” Becka called after her. “Sara, come back!”

  But she didn’t stop.

  Slowly Becka turned to Scott. She wondered if he was thinking the exact thing she was: What did Sara mean by “The next time you’ll really get hurt”?