Wooden Nickels: White Lightning Series, Book 1

by Debra Dunbar

She struggled to get his body upright. All his strength had left him, and it was like pulling dead weight out of the water. He managed to grip the back of her neck, however, and after considerable effort the two of them limped through the ankle-high water toward Teague’s boat.

  Teague trembled in her arms. The pain must be near unbearable. With a tilt of her head, she offered, “If you got any whisky, it may help.”

  But his eyes weren’t on Hattie.

  The side of Teague’s face illuminated in a soft red glow.

  Hattie paused, cringing in terror.

  She released one of her hands from around Teague’s frame, and waved it in front of her face.

  “Disappear, disappear…” she muttered, pinching light over the two of them with all her power.

  And all was quiet, save for the lapping water at their ankles.

  Hattie caught her breath. She opened her eyes and turned her head toward the shore. The creature stood at the water’s edge, its eyes and fingers burning a cool red. Its face stared forward, directly at them, though it had lost the Greek mask of fury it had held just moments ago.

  Hattie blinked at it, trying to hold as still as possible. The light pinch tugged hard at her already distressed heartbeat. There was no way she could hold this up for long.

  The creature took a single step forward, its eyes lifting a little. It expression was almost curious. The water gurgled and bubbled around its bare feet…just ordinary human feet, by all reckoning. It reached out with its flickering fingertips, moving in slow motions along the bubble of illusion Hattie had assembled.

  Hattie stared into its eyes, and for a fleeting second she saw something besides fire. There was depth to the empty orbits of its face. Impossible depth, reaching into some endless well of darkness. And within that darkness sat several points of light.

  Stars, perhaps? Or something more brilliant. Something bright hidden in that inky shadow.

  The creature stepped away, steam rising from its feet. It crouched down like a child playing in the mud and slipped its index finger into the mire, pulling its finger in lazy motions, just drawing in the mud.

  When it seemed satisfied, it straightened up and turned back toward Hattie.

  And looked straight at her.

  Nausea bubbled up through her chest, and she released the illusion. There seemed to be no point. Whatever this thing was, it could see through her light pinch.

  It balled a fist in front of its chest. Not a fist of anger. This was different, as if it were holding something in its hand, something that wasn’t really there. The being raised that fist out to her in a pantomime of offering.

  She stood stiff. What else was there to do?

  The being unwound its fingers, then pulled its hand close to its chest. The creature ducked its head once in what could have been a nod, and then turned to march back to its shack.

  The door swung shut on the opposite side of the building, and the red glow within faded to darkness. Water splashed along the coastline, and a light breeze rushed through the needles above. Then the surreal serenity was broken by a wet, hacking cough from Teague, followed by a weary groan.

  Hattie renewed her grip on the man and tugged him forward toward the boat. Settling him along the deck just fore of the helm, she took a quick inventory of the vessel. Diesel engine. Pump ignition. She’d seen Raymond operate his own boat enough times, and he’d even let her pilot the thing in the open water. After a minute of acclimation, Hattie had the engine started. She reached over the side, shoving off from the land as hard as she could. As the craft eased away from the shore and rocked on the slight waves, she rushed back to the helm and throttled the boat away from Deltaville and into the Chesapeake.

  Teague’s scarred flesh swayed suddenly before toppling forward. Hattie sucked in a sharp breath, then eased the throttle back to an idle as she tried to steady him into a seated position.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Apologize.”

  “Yes,” Hattie urged as she crouched beside him. “I apologize. None of this was supposed to happen. It was just a little…”

  “No. Me. I apologize. For selling you out. With the Feds.”

  His breath dissolved into a spasm of hacking, and she reached for his shoulder.

  He didn’t wince when she made contact. Not a good sign.

  “We’ll get you to a doctor, Teague. We’ll get you some medicine.”

  He shook his head again. “Bimini.”

  “The what, now?”

  “Take me…to Bimini.”

  “There’s a doctor there? A hospital?”

  Teague sucked in several breaths, ramping up enough air to respond. “It’s an island. East of Newport News. There’s a person there…Doc Freedman. They say he knows magic.”

  Hattie closed her jaw as her eyes bulged.

  Teague continued, “Sounds crazy, but true. Heard from the Richmond boys, while ago.”

  “What are you yattering about?” she grumbled.

  “He’s a hoodoo man from Caribbean. He makes a potion that heals. They say it heals all wounds. All…”

  His voice trailed off.

  “Teague, you’re losing your wits. Just lie down, and I’ll get you straight on to Richmond. Must be a hospital there.”

  He swatted at her with one arm. “Won’t make it to Richmond. Bimini. Find Doc Freedman. I’ll die if…if not…”

  Teague closed his eyes.

  Hattie sucked in a breath and watched him for a moment. His breathing continued…shallow, but steady.

  Bimini Island? Water magic? Hattie shook her head and returned to the helm to steer them south toward the James River.

  What sort of nonsense was he spouting? He was hallucinating, surely. Hattie had never met another pincher in her entire life, though she’d naturally heard about them. They were all property of the mob. Such was the way in America. If her parents hadn’t moved to the States, she’d have most likely been taken away by the Church. But here, where there were no kings and precious few bishops, the crime families were the ones who snapped up all free pinchers using them as tools in their business dealings. It was a life of servitude, of slavery. It was Hell.

  But if Hattie could have lived this long without falling into the hands of the mob families, it proved that it wasn’t impossible for there to be more free pinchers out and about. And just as the Bay provided endless inlets and tree-canopied rivers to hide the booze traffic, so too could they hide a water pincher.

  She eased back on the throttle once again, and checked the compass mounted to the helm panel. Newport News was just southwest. And if this magical elixir could heal Teague’s burns as life-threatening as they were…it might help her Da with his lungs.

  She steered the helm southwest and pushed the throttle hard.

  The boat sliced through the mild nighttime surf on its way toward Newport News. She knew the terrain fairly well. Each of the tiny islands scattering out along the mouth of the Bay offered solitude and privacy. It wouldn’t be hard for a Caribbean water pincher to set up shop and hide from the mob.

  The boat sputtered a bit, and she slowed to an idle to check the sight glass for the fuel level.

  “Well, you’ve cut it close with your diesel, Teague,” she mumbled. “How’d you expect to get home in the first place?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She turned to him. “Hope you have a fuel spot you don’t mind waking up in the wee hours. Teague?” She nudged his arm.

  He fell sideways, face landing against the deck with a slap.

  “Teague?”

  She reached for his nostrils and felt no breath. Laying a hand on his chest, she found it still. No breathing. No heartbeat. Cupping a hand over her mouth, Hattie slid to a crouch, and sat on the deck alongside Teague’s body. Tears welled in her eyes as the boat rocked on the slight waves of open water. Moonlight spilled over the eastern horizon and Hattie cried, sobbing into her hands. After who knows how long, she glanced up at the waning moon, wiping her tears away.

&nbs
p; “Stupid,” she muttered.

  It was stupid, this mythical elixir. Even if Teague had heard about it from the boater scuttlebutt, it was just a hair-brained yarn. A big fish story. Hattie slapped her shoulder in frustration. She was smarter than this. There were no easy fixes. No simple miracles. Nothing ever came easy, and Teague had just learned that the hard way.

  Standing up, Hattie gazed down at the corpse. There was nothing she could do for him anymore. The only thing to do now was to tend to her own business. Hers, Raymond’s and Lizzie’s.

  She crouched down to grip the body by the arm, tugging it high along the hull. With a final twist, she shoved it overboard. Teague’s corpse splashed into the water, floating along for a minute until it began to dip below the surface.

  This boat didn’t have enough fuel to make the trip all the way back to McComb’s, so she turned it around and pointed it back at the inlet north of Deltaville where the trawler would be coming for her.

  As she chugged past Deltaville from a distance, she spied the tiny clearing where so many lives had just been taken by that hellish creature. A tiny flicker of flames was still visible from the water, but it was already dying down. Probably the smoldering bodies of gangsters.

  Whatever that thing was, whichever corner of Hell it crawled out of, it certainly despised being provoked. And yet, despite its blazing fury, she’d seen something else in its face as it peered directly through her magic.

  Something almost innocent.

  Chapter 8

  “And that, dearest friends, is all the power I have this evening,” Vincent drawled in his languid faux-Arabic accent. “So, I must bid you all adieu.”

  He withdrew through the red curtains into his broom closet, shaking his head. French, again. What was it with the French, these days? He wondered as he pulled off his fez whether The Great Damir was Moroccan. Wiping the stage makeup off his face, Vincent waited for the customers to drop their honoraria and leave. Tonight he had two old ladies and a middle-aged man. They’d made it easy on him. The man had even written out a letter to his deceased wife. Vincent played that like a fiddle.

  Once he’d pulled on his jacket and ventured back out into the spiritual space, he found a surprisingly meager take waiting for him. He grumbled as he stuffed the bills into his pocket, thinking that the soup kitchen would be disappointed. That letter practically sold itself. There was no arguing the fact, though. If people were strapped, then there wasn’t much to squeeze from the stone.

  Easy nights were short nights, and Vincent found he still had plenty of energy. Rather than taking his usual route home, Vincent dropped his night’s earnings at the soup kitchen then spun west toward the Old Moravia. There was no official business at this hour, that he was aware of. The lobby bar ought to be lively as hell on a Thursday night. Nothing better to spend his walking-around cash on than a couple spills of the good stuff from Canada.

  The air packed a nice, balmy southern breeze. The walk to the hotel was comfortable enough for Vincent to whistle some Annette Hanshaw ditty he’d heard in one of the clubs the past week. He tipped his hat to passersby and they followed suit. By the time he’d reached the hotel, he was in a glorious mood.

  A four-piece band was plucking out a rhythm in the corner of the hotel lobby nearest the lounge. A muted trumpet bleated out something slow and sultry. Vincent nodded to the music as he rounded the potted palm toward the long, carved mahogany bar top. He ordered two fingers of blended Saskatchewan and found a spot near the end of the bar to people-watch. Several young couples had turned out. Men in striped suits and cufflinks; women in beaded dresses and cloches. Tobacco smoke drifted upward to the story-and-a-half ceiling, gathering in a smooth pall overhead.

  The whisky was smooth. Barrel aged. Up in Canada they bothered with taking their time, but in the States, where the only places one could find regular booze was the frontier or the Old Line State, the onus was more on speed than quality.

  A figure stepped directly into Vincent’s view.

  “Heya there, Vinnie,” Tony slurred with a sloppy, drink-fueled grin.

  “It’s Vincent,” he corrected as he shook Tony’s outstretched hand.

  “You here to cause some rumble?”

  “Nah, I’m peaches and cream tonight.”

  Tony snickered as if Vincent had told a devious joke. He swayed a little, then turned to lean against the bar.

  “You got a birthday or something I don’t know about?” Vincent asked. “Hittin’ the cheer kinda flush, there.”

  “Naw. Just knocking the edge off.”

  Vincent stood in silence alongside Tony for a moment. Having a casual conversation with one of the Crew felt unnatural. No one paid him a second thought, unless it was to keep him at arm’s length. If Tony hadn’t been three elbows deep in his own gin, he’d probably have done the same.

  The silence bothered Vincent, and he chose to pull the conversation forward.

  “What’s got your nerves up?”

  “Ain’t nothing. Just business.”

  “I know business.”

  Tony laughed loud enough for people nearby to look. “Hell, Vinnie. You know witchcraft. I know business.”

  “It’s Vincent.”

  “It’s just these jumped-up boat people causing trouble.”

  “What boat people?” Vincent asked.

  “The ones what run our hooch out to the Carolinas and up the coast? You know.”

  “Hadn’t thought much about it.”

  “Yeah, well, I have. Vito’s got me in charge of keeping them in line and paid what he thinks is a reasonable fare. Problem is…what he thinks is reasonable ain’t always what they think is reasonable.”

  Vincent nodded. “Them’s the breaks, huh?”

  “It’s broke, alright. Had a nice thing going for a week or so, ever since these Dryfork Reubens tried to end-run us. Now we’re missing a whole shipment, and I’m probably down to one boat now.”

  “Lost a shipment?” Vincent released a whistle. “You gonna be okay?”

  “Depends on whether we keep things smooth with Richmond. If not…” Tony stared into space for a moment, then pounded his entire drink.

  He slapped a hand onto Vincent’s shoulder, which slipped off at a lazy angle, and turned to order another. Vincent shook his head and pulled his attention away from Tony. That was the biz. Great trust is placed, and great consequences are paid. Nothing was low stakes. Everything was life-or-death in this world he lived in.

  A woman in a knee-length vermillion dress stepped into the lounge. A red velvet cloche sat atop her head, its tulip brim cocked just over her neatly lifted eyebrows, her bow mouth outlined in red.

  Fern. Vincent leaned toward Tony, and said, “I’ll see you later.”

  Tony released a non-committal mumble and busied himself with remaining upright.

  Taking his glass, Vincent wove through the crowd around the series of settees and lounge chairs, ducking through the lazy green fronds of a palmetto pot. Fern was gripping a flute of bubbling white wine, staring out the front window at the street.

  This was stupid. Dangerous. But what the heck. A guy should be able to talk to a gal without getting shot. Just in case, Vincent cast a glance toward the lobby. There was no sign of Cooper.

  As he approached from behind, Fern twisted away, turning fully toward the window.

  “Hiya, there,” he offered, standing alongside her at the window.

  She didn’t respond, choosing to mumble something passingly polite.

  He remained there in silence, before adding, “I wanted to thank you for what you done for me. Much obliged.”

  She tilted her face toward him, and her eyes widened. A brilliant smile swept across her face. “Oh, Lord! I didn’t recognize you.”

  Vincent grinned, lifting his drink. “It’s on account of I’m wearing clothes, I’m sure.”

  She laughed, the sound as elegant and beautiful as the rest of her. “Hello, Vincent.”

  He smiled. At least she got it r
ight. “So, that’s not usual for me, meeting ladies in my nightclothes. I’m usually more put together, I’ll have you know.”

  She angled her head slightly to the side and gave him a charming smile. “Well, there was a good reason for that. You have a condition. Don’t you?”

  A condition? As if his ability to cast magic was on par with a persistent illness. Taking a breath, he let what he assumed was an innocent comment pass. “Sometimes the magic takes a lot out of me. Sometimes it makes me sick.”

  “Where…did you learn it?” she asked in a near-whisper, eyeing him with a mixture of awe and admiration.

  “Learn it? Oh. No, I was born like this. All of us pinchers are.”

  “Pinchers? Is that what they call you?” she asked, her eyes warm on his face.

  “It’s a name that stuck. We pinch things, y’know? Like me? I pinch time.”

  “How?” she pressed.

  “Don’t rightly know. It comes to me like someone holding their breath. I just know that I mean to do it, and it happens. And I’d better start being more careful before it kills me.”

  She nodded. “It always hurts?”

  “Every time. But not so bad, if I keep it cheap.”

  “Okay, well you’ll have to explain that one to me.”

  He smiled and turned to face her, noting she was continuing to keep him partially in profile.

  “It’s like this. I decide to pinch time whenever it suits me. But it’s not worldwide. Just where I am and where they are.”

  “They being…?”

  “Whoever I need to mess with. Now, if I wanted that band over there to keep playing, but no one else would see it? I could do that. I’d pinch time, and everyone between me and the band would be frozen all sudden-like in their own bubble. But that’s a hell of a distance, pardon my French. It’s gonna cost me a lot more, as opposed to something like pinching a few feet around the two of us.”

  She dropped her head, then eyed him with a teasing smile. “You’re suggesting you want to pinch me?”

  He shot her a puzzled frown. “Well, I could. Or I could exclude you. You and me would be here, while everyone around us was stuck in place.”