by Angie Sandro
“My theory is someone hired him,” I say. “Check his bank records, Georgie. I bet he’s come into a fat inheritance in the last week.”
Landry runs a finger over the edge of his eye patch. “I agree with Mala. One of the prisoners warned me that someone had been asking for takers. That a hit had been put out on me.”
“Did he say why?” I ask.
“Dad and Rathbone are on the run. I wish I believed Dad wouldn’t have me killed so I won’t testify against him, but I don’t know anything anymore. Mom let Lainey die…”
Silence falls over the three of us. The quiet emphasizes the noises around us: the squawk of chickens, the hoot of an owl, the shifting of feet from something large hiding in the yard. I glance in the direction the sound comes from, but I don’t see anyone.
Landry takes my hand, squeezing my fingers.
George’s green eyes flicker with jealousy, but he doesn’t Hulk out. “Who do you think it is?”
“I think there’s a fourth guy,” Landry says.
My mouth goes dry. “Wh-ut?”
Landry squeezes my hand. “The night your mama died, I wasn’t in any condition to drive. It was the night after Lainey’s funeral…” He clears his throat. “I caught a ride with a friend who dropped me off at the end of the driveway so I walked in. I remember seeing three men dressed in black. One chased after Mala when she ran off. The other two carried me. I don’t know how long it took before my dad’s truck pulled up the driveway. I-it was confusing, but that means four. Dad, Mr. Acker, Doc Rathbone, and someone else.”
George steps forward. “Who?”
“If I knew, I would’ve told you.” Landry looks at me. “I never saw the other guy. After I was injured, Dad put me in his truck. Rathbone and the mystery guy drove off after taking care of your mom.”
By taking care of, he meant making sure they disposed of her burned remains. It would’ve been the perfect murder if they’d gotten both of us too. Instead, they have two potential witnesses in me and Landry. Only as far as I can remember, I never saw the guy.
George rocks back on his heels. “So, this fourth doesn’t know you can’t identify him. He puts out a hit on you to be sure you don’t tell. It’s obvious it must be someone who was close to your father.”
“What about Acker? Did you ever find him?” Landry asks.
I want to wave Landry into silence. The memory of Mr. Acker’s death painfully comes to mind. I never told. At first I didn’t remember. Now I don’t know how to admit I let him die. What would Dena say? How would she feel knowing her father murdered Mama, and then I let him die? Our relationship would be ruined. I’d never be able to look her in the eyes again.
“Oh, hell no!” Mama yells, shoving her chair back. “Speak of the devil and he arrives.”
Landry and I jump a second before the rocking chair crashes to the floor. George steps back from both of us, hand going to his gun again. His instincts are too honed for him not to figure out something weird is going on. He can probably sense the angry spirit crossing the yard. Mama tries to move between Acker and me, but the spirit is strong. He runs past her, reaches the steps, and bounces off an invisible barrier.
The salt I’d sprinkled around the house to keep Lainey out. Even with all the rain, it provided protection. Mr. Acker howls in fury. A mini-tornado of sticks and rocks launch through the air. I scream and cover my head. Landry grabs me and turns his back to the yard.
Georgie watches us like we’ve lost our minds, then ducks with a shout when debris pelts his back. A rock hits the side of his head, and he drops to his knees. Blood runs down his face. He searches the yard but doesn’t see the ghost, only the dust devil Acker’s presence causes to the visible world around him.
It hits me. How can I be in a relationship with a guy who’ll think I’m insane if I explain that a ghost attacked him?
“Get Georgie in the house,” I yell.
Landry wraps his arm around George’s waist and drags him through the front door. I huddle by the front railing with my hands covering my head.
“Mala, come on!” Landry waves at me from the doorway.
The ground explodes, and I scream. Chunks of dirt and rocks rain down on the porch stairs, but the debris doesn’t come close to hitting me. I stand with a whoop, shaking my fist at Mr. Acker. “Take that, asshole!”
Landry crawls over to me. “What are you doing?”
“Uncle Gaston rigged the yard with spiritual land mines.” I grin at him. “He died in Vietnam. He’s a weapons expert.”
“How much of this is real?”
Another explosion makes the porch buckle and surge. I launch myself into Landry’s arms and bury my face against his chest. “Those rocks Acker’s throwing around feel plenty real.” I take a calming breath and sit back, but I don’t let go of him. “As a vengeful spirit, he’s got mad mojo. But I also think part of this is all in our heads. Visions created within the spirit world, and we’re tapped into them. It’s real because we think it’s real. Can it hurt or kill us? I don’t know. Do people die in real life if they die in their dreams?”
The explosions cease.
Mr. Acker lies on the ground, moaning.
“What does he want?” Landry asks.
My heart swells. Landry’s taking this better than I thought he would. At least he hasn’t asked the one question I’ve been avoiding: how Mr. Acker ended up a ghost in the first place.
“We should interrogate him,” I say. “Bet he knows who the fourth guy is.”
Mr. Acker rolls over. “I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’. Not until you get my body buried.”
I lurch toward him, but Landry pulls me back.
“You tried to kill me, Acker,” I yell. “You don’t get to make demands.”
He blurs and disappears.
CHAPTER 13
LANDRY
The Exorcist
When you gonna learn how to set traps for these spirits, Mala?”
The voice comes from behind me and I turn, grabbing Mala and pulling her to my side. Burns and weeping fluids cover the man’s face and body. I choke back my yell. He gives me a level look, fingering the trigger of his rifle, which focuses my attention on his Vietnam-era uniform.
Mala places her hand on my arm. “It’s okay. Meet my uncle, Gaston. He’s an ancestor guardian like Mama, sworn to protect me.”
The tension in my shoulders relaxes. “Oh, he’s not real.” Of course he isn’t. A live person wouldn’t be able to function with as much physical damage as he has to his body. I’m afraid to ask why he doesn’t appear normal like Ms. Jasmine does. Maybe he just likes to scare the crap out of people.
“I’m real enough to save your asses,” Gaston says. Teeth show through an open hole in his cheek when he speaks, and my stomach lurches. He focuses on Mala. “Your brother’s bleeding all over your new sofa.”
Mala’s instinctive glare upon hearing “brother” vanishes when the rest of Gaston’s words sink in. She lets out a tiny eep and scoots around me to run for the door. Her high-pitched wails echo from inside. “Oh no, Georgie.”
My jaw clenches, and I step forward. I can already picture the scene. Mala with George’s head cradled on her lap as she presses kisses to heal his boo-boo. And if George is smart, he’ll milk the sympathy for all he’s worth.
Gaston steps in front of me, and I stumble back so I don’t walk through him. Walking through spirits makes my bones ache for hours. Plus it’s rude. Mala respects her uncle. The only way to get in good with her is to make a good impression on her family. The look he’s giving me says he’s not altogether pleased with my performance.
I cross my arms, prepared to schmooze him for a higher approval rating. “Thanks for your help with Acker. We would’ve been sunk without you.”
My fabled charm works about as well on Gaston as it does on his niece. What’s up with these LaCroixes and their ability to withstand my well-known charisma? Have I deluded myself all these years? Ninety-nine percent of high school gir
ls can’t be off that much. Course, Mala falls into the one percent who never noticed I existed before Lainey died and started haunting her.
Gaston’s single, singed eyebrow rises. God, I hope his abilities don’t include mind reading. Or if he can, that he’ll be able to catch the dry inflection of sarcasm in my thoughts. Otherwise he might think I’m really this egotistical.
“You and Mala got lucky. Acker hasn’t figured out how to manipulate the elements yet. If he’d been a more mature spirit, he would’ve turned that teensy-weensy dust devil into a full-on tornado and taken you out before I could manifest,” he says, striding down the porch stairs. I pause for a long second then follow, careful to hold on to the railing so I don’t fall. He points to the ground. “Mala laid salt around the house when Lainey was attacking her. It’s been over a month since it’s been reapplied, and with the rainfall, there are holes in the shielding.”
I squint at the ground, but don’t see anything. Salt?
“The man’s got a powerful rage—a vengeful, unnatural hatred for Mala. He’ll be back. How do you plan on protecting her?”
There he goes reading my mind again. I’m ashamed to admit how lost I feel. How helpless I am when dealing with this supernatural stuff.
Gaston stares toward the bayou. “You’re feeling guilty.”
The words slam home. Spoken out loud, they hurt more than the shank driven into my gut. I breathe out harshly, chest heaving. “Everything that’s happened is my fault.”
“Yes.” He squats and uses his knife to dig a hole in the ground, then gently lays what looks like a land mine into the hole. Where in the world it came from, I couldn’t say. Maybe he pulled it out of his ass.
The bitterness festering inside me escapes in a biting laugh. “Good to know I’m not wrong.”
“You handled last night’s incursion well.”
I glance toward the door, afraid our voices will carry and Mala will overhear, but we’re far enough away. Besides, she has George to occupy her attention. “You know about my father breaking into the house?”
“Who do you think woke you? Your father’s human. My traps won’t do a damn thing against him. I’ll handle guarding the spiritual realm. It’s up to you to keep her safe in the physical.” He moves a few paces and seeds another land mine. He must be replacing the ones Acker blew up. “Do you plan on telling Mala about him?” he asks.
“I thought you would.”
Gaston gives me a blank stare that makes my shoulders hunch. “Not my place. He’s your father.”
“I planned on telling her at breakfast, but then George showed up.”
“You’d already decided to keep your mouth shut before he arrived.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah, she’ll only worry if she knows the truth. And honestly, I don’t know what to do. He’s been skulking about for weeks. She spent her first night out of the hospital here alone. Why didn’t he get her then if he wanted to hurt her? He said last night that he has a debt to pay, but I don’t know what that means.”
“Figure it out quick.”
I look up, but I’m alone in the yard.
Gaston’s right. I need to figure it out, and I need to talk to the source of my confusion himself ’cause trying to decode my father’s motivations will drive me crazy. Questions pop into my mind. Like why did he carry me inside the house and lay me on the sofa after I fell down the stairs? He could’ve left me on the ground. And when he came in, I was unconscious. I couldn’t stop him from going after Mala. Instead he cleaned up the spilled gumbo and washed the pot. Why, why, why?
Pain doubles me over as I start up the staircase. It flares outward through my rib cage, and I gasp, trying not to choke ’cause it will only make it hurt worse. I grip the railing and pull myself up the last step, then pause on the landing as I catch my breath. Being hurt sucks.
Mala’s voice floats through the open doorway. It flutters like a hummingbird, vibrating with concern and admiration, the total opposite of how she speaks to me. She must really like the dude. I’ll never get what she sees in him. He’s so goody-goody he makes my teeth ache, but in her eyes, he’s the perfect guy, her Superman, while I’m the Frog Prince.
George sits on the sofa. His eyes have a glazed, unfocused cast. Drying blood stains his cheek and uniform. Mala sits beside him with a first aid kit on her lap. The smell of alcohol hits my nose. She dabs a cotton ball on the cut.
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
“Nah, I’m fine,” George says, and I snort. What guy would say “yes”? Still, he does a good job of looking pathetic, and Mala eats it up like red velvet cake.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I say, disgusted.
They’re so busy gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes, like lovesick cows, that they don’t bother to look in my direction. I grab my box of clothing and storm to the bathroom. My fist clenches. I want to punch George, but Mala would get pissed. I’d get kicked out for sure.
Gaston’s words come back.
How am I going to protect Mala? The perfect way would be to march out there and tell George about Dad hanging around. He’d call in the cavalry—SWAT team, search dogs. They’d easily track him down. Not like Dad has a lot of Survivorman-type skills, although he watched the television series religiously and bought Les Stroud’s book. The closest he’s come to surviving off the land is his annual hunting trip. Half the time he didn’t come back with game. I think he only went ’cause his friends expected him to.
Which also makes his part in killing Ms. Jasmine so shocking to me, and everyone else, I’m sure. He preached about turning the other cheek. He lectured me about standing up to bullies and protecting the weak. His words taught me to fight for others and gave me the strength to protect Mala.
How could he have completely lost sight of his values and ideals? And if it happened to someone as strong as him, could it happen to me too? It scares me to even think of the possibility. To wonder what sort of violence I’m capable of committing. The same blood flows through our veins, and it terrifies me.
I’m standing in the middle of the bathroom, staring into the toilet bowl as if it’s a Magic 8 Ball and one good flush will reveal the answers to my questions. The murmur of voices flows beneath the bathroom door, and I’m again reminded of how much Mala and George’s relationship has changed in the last month. George finally manned up. When Ms. Jasmine said they’d been kissing, a lead ball settled in my stomach. It crushed the little bit of hope I had left of her choosing me.
I pry up the bottom of my T-shirt. It sticks to my stomach, and I grimace. Not a broken heart after all. I peel off the bandage, glad they shaved my chest before sticking it to me, and study the wound in the mirror. I tore a couple of stitches. The first aid kit’s in the living room, but I’m not going back into the Love Shack to ask for it. A little blood loss won’t kill me. I stick some toilet paper on my wound and sit on the toilet lid with my eye closed. Exhaustion from fighting against the pain feels heavy within me. Or is it sadness? Maybe I’m depressed.
To hell with this!
I’m not here to play house with Mala. I made a promise, and I aim to keep it. I have to keep her safe, and the first thing I have to do is find my father. I drop the bloody toilet paper in the trash can. A search of the cabinet comes up with a heavy gauze pad and Ms. Jasmine’s half-empty bottle of whisky. A quick patch-up and a few shots later, and I’m ready.
I stare at my pale face in the mirror.
I look like shit.
A dark aura hovers an inch above my skin. I squint, staring hard. It ripples and churns as if the air passing through agitates it. I hold my hand over my arm and wiggle my fingers. Heat and static electricity make my fingertips tingle.
“What is this?” I lean closer. “Are you a demon?”
The response brings me to my knees. My nerve endings catch on fire. Pain arcs through my body. My chin hits the edge of the sink, and I flop back on the ground. My limbs convulse, and I bite into my swollen tongue. The scream sticks in my
throat. I can’t unclench my jaw to free it.
I black out.
I wake on the floor, curled into a ball. It takes another five minutes before I gather the energy to prop myself up against the tub. Silence, broken by my harsh breaths, fills my ears. I can’t stop shaking. I want to call for Mala…or Gaston or Ms. Jasmine. I’ll even settle for George seeing me with my pants drenched with my own piss if they can explain what happened to me and make sure it never happens again.
Instead I reach for the faucet and get the shower running.
* * *
George and Mala have moved to the porch by the time I exit the bathroom. I avoid them by going outside through the kitchen, only stopping to throw my soiled jeans in the washing machine. It rained this morning, and I search the ground for footprints. I find them by the toolshed. A quick peek inside shows it’s empty, but I find a rolled-up tarp and sleeping bag hidden behind the riding lawn mower. The footprints head toward the trail leading to the pond.
Jittery, muscular tics make my steps clumsy. I have to stop every couple hundred feet to rest and catch my breath. My memory trips back to the last time I walked this path with Mala. She’d worn baggy overalls with the pant legs rolled up to her knees, and a battered straw hat sat on her head. Her hair hung to her hips in pigtails. Just being with her that day eased my grief for Lainey.
A grin stretches my lips so much my cheeks ache.
A rustle in the bushes warns me that I’m not alone. I turn, fists raised. Dad steps out from behind a tree. I’m shocked by his appearance. Leaves and ground-in dirt coat his clothes and face. A ragged beard covers his cheeks. His eyes look wild and sunken. He’s lost thirty pounds, at least.
“Put your hands down. I won’t attack my own son.”
“You did last night.” My hands drop to my sides.
“You came after me first.”
“You broke into Mala’s house, threw a pot of gumbo in my eye, murdered a woman in cold blood, and kidnapped another one.”