*
Daniel scrambled across the seat, hit the latch on the passenger door and tried to dive through the opening when the thing gave his leg a hard jerk. He heard a pop and felt his kneecap come out of its socket. A rush of pain followed.
Stifling a scream, he swiveled, twisting to get leverage. For a moment the two faced each other, entwined like teenage lovers. The creature gripped Daniel’s face in one hand and ran his tongue from chin to eye socket—a fetid odor wafted from its mouth. Daniel retched but a new, more urgent, sensation replaced his revulsion. Something sharp poked through his uniform and jabbed the soft part of his stomach.
Daniel struggled to get Frank Malone’s gun from his holster. The blade slid deeper. Daniel wedged the gun between him and the creature and fired off a shot. The impact of the gunshot spun the creature backward. Daniel slithered across the seat and fell out the passenger door. Amazingly, the duffle bag landed next to him.
In a hurry to get away, he stood and felt a flash of heat in his abdomen. Something inside him slipped. Breath held, he touched his midsection gingerly. His intestines were pressing against the slit. Pushing them back in, Daniel balled up the front of his shirt and held it tight against the opening in his belly. He grabbed the duffle bag with the other hand and hobbled away into the swirling smoke, dragging his injured leg.
He nearly made it across the street.
The toe of his shoe caught the curb and he spilled forward landing hard. The slit in his abdomen tore. He smelled his own intestines as they spilled out onto the dirty sidewalk. He shoved them back inside, clutched a wad of his shirt against the widening tear and tried to scoot down the sidewalk on his butt. He pushed off with his good leg, dragged the bag to him, pushed off, dragged the bag. He thought about what kind of car he would buy with the money in the bag. He’d always liked the Diablo. A nice car, the kind of car nobody ever saw in a shit town like Reserve. He bled out before he crawled nine yards and died with his hand still clutching the duffle bag.
Chapter Sixty
Reserve, Louisiana
When they left the diner, Nathan had a strong chance of surviving his leg wound. Narried had cleansed the long, angry gash, while Nute held the screaming man in place. After cleaning it, she rubbed a special ointment inside the split flaps of skin, her fingers running lightly across exposed muscle. Nathan had ceased screaming, succumbing once again to oblivion.
Returning to the squad car they had no choice but to drive the deserted streets of Reserve in hope of sighting the boy and the man hunting him. Thick smoke swirled down through the streets, clinging to buildings and obscuring the familiar landscape. Narried put her small foot on the brake and slowed the cruiser, fussing under her breath. “The whole town’s on fire. Dat fool Dupier and his sister. This is all they fault.” She was not accustomed to driving and the car jerked forward, stopped and jerked forward again.
In the back seat Nute tried to keep Nathan’s injured leg stable. Each time the car jerked forward, Nathan moaned in pain. Without fail, Agador would raise his head up and cast an accusatory look at Nute.
Nute felt compelled to defend himself to the human-like eyes of the hound. “It is de only way. Don’t look at me dat way.” Speaking to Narried, he said, “Come now womon, you are going to kill dis mon.”
As they passed the Sheriff’s station the smoke swirled revealing an odd tableau in the parking lot.
Narried jerked the car to a stop. The two sat for a moment in silence, their eyes meeting in the rearview mirror. Finally she said, “I am gettin’ too old for dis.”
He smiled at her reflection, revealing his missing tooth. “Dis time we finish it proper or die tryin’. Either way girl, dis journey is almost done. ”
The logic in his words gave her strength. Steeling herself for the coming encounter she opened the door. A fleeting thought passed through her mind. She wondered what her life might have been if her father had entrusted her sister with the story of Brunache, the govi and the machete instead of her. It didn’t linger. She believed in destiny and knew like Nathan, the boy and his baseball, hers was unfolding just as the Loa had always intended. Adjusting her posture, she straightened and walked into the smoke filled night.
Chapter Sixty-One
Reserve, Louisiana
Griffin Tanner could feel the ancient spirit getting stronger inside of him, trying to take control and he didn’t mind, but there was still unfinished business at hand. Jared Riley needed to be taught a lesson. Barry would have called it an educational moment. Lying across the bench seat of the truck, Griffin peered down at the boy balled up on the floorboard. Even before he saw the figure he had felt the boy’s presence, it was as if the two of them shared a link.
Jar didn’t move. He didn’t need to peer out of his hiding place to know Griffin Tanner was inside the truck, inches away. He had felt him coming through the woods following the truck as it maneuvered through the streets of Reserve.
He tensed as he sensed the hand descending toward his neck. The next thing he knew he was being yanked across the seat and through the driver’s door. There was no doubt in his mind he was going to die and at that moment he would have welcomed death. He understood now how Suzy had felt on the bridge. He had seen the little snick when the movie had stopped playing for her and he could feel something akin to it happening in his own mind. It was as if everything was happening outside of himself and he was just an observer.
He could see Jean-Claude dancing merrily behind Griffin Tanner’s eyes. Whatever name it chose to call itself, the ancient evil had found its new home and from what Jar could see it was a real comfortable fit.
*
Griffin squeezed Jared Riley’s tender neck. The boy’s face turned purple. He saw acceptance in Jared’s eyes as though the boy had already seen what was to come and didn’t object to the ending. It couldn’t be that easy. He wanted the boy to struggle, to beg for his life. Loosening his grip, he let the boy take a breath of the heavy air.
Instinct for survival overrode Jar’s passivity. Gasping, he tried to suck air into his deprived lungs.
Griffin smiled and said, “You know I killed your father.” He pointed at Nathan’s truck. “He drove a truck just like that one. After shooting him, I put him back in his piece of shit truck and let him sink to the bottom of the Llano River.”
Jar could feel things coming through the hand holding his throat. Images poured over him along with wisps of information he’d gleaned from his shared time in the darkness. Not knowing where the words came from or what they meant he said, “At least my mother didn’t abandon me.”
The words had an immediate effect. Griffin slammed him against the side of the truck.
Jar hit hard. He felt the precious breath of air he had managed to take leave his body and his tenuous grip on consciousness started to slip away. From there, he didn’t know what was real and what was dream, but he thought he saw the woman from the diner appear out of the thick smoke, the woman Nathan had called Narried. Her hips swayed as she moved and he had time to think he’d never seen a woman move like that. Each step she took was a fluid, rolling motion that made him think of dark water and a ship riding endless waves. He rode along on her swaying hips, cresting each wave until his fingers slipped and he slid beneath those dark waters and into unconsciousness.
Narried approached Brunache with a confidence she didn’t feel. If she knew the way of this creature’s mind, there would be little doubt he would know hers. It had troubled her, the fixation the spirit had for this particular boy, but Nathan had shared pieces of Jared Riley’s story and now she knew who she was dealing with. Beneath the dark spirit the gypsy’s son lived. She didn’t have time to dwell on the irony of both mother and son falling prey to the same spirit. Sometimes the Loa worked in mysterious ways. It was her belief there were people who were marked for tragedy; they drew evil the way a picnic draws ants.
Without turning to acknowledge her approach, his gravelly voice asked, “Narried Savoi, do you really think y
ou can save this boy?” He pointed down at the lifeless body of Jared Riley.
“I didn’t come here for dat skinny little t’ing.” Her bravado was faked but it would have to do. If he suspected she had the slightest interest in the boy he would kill him immediately.
Her strong voice crossed the distance arriving before her small frame. “I knew your mother.”
The dark smoldering eyes swiveled away from Jar and came to rest on Narried. The spirit scoffed at her, “I have no mother.”
“No. No I imagine that’s true, but Griffin did. He still in there with you? You wouldn’t bother with dis boy.” Narried let her hand drift down toward Jar. “But Griffin, now that’s different, this boy mean someting to him. He still in control then?”
Narried cast her eyes past the dark shadow of Brunache. Speaking directly to Griffin she said, “You still want to know about your mother, Griffin? You want to know if she called out your name? What her last words were? I was there.” Her voice was softness itself, as if she were coaxing a frightened kitten from beneath a deserted house.
Something in those dark eyes flickered, it was the slightest movement, but Narried was watching for it and she didn’t waste a second.
“Anselina, a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” She sighed deeply as if she herself longed for a glimpse of the beautiful gypsy girl.
Inside the burned and damaged body, Griffin Tanner could hear the words of the old woman drifting on the smoke. He looked down at Jared Riley. The boy’s breathing was shallow, indiscernible to the naked eye, but he knew the child was still alive. He could finish the boy right there and kill the woman next. She was too weak and too old to stop him. Brunache, ready to taste the flesh of the child, urged him on. Finish it, forget the old woman.
All those years he had spent trying to track down his mother, all the unasked questions surfaced. He would kill the boy after he heard the details of his mother’s last days. “Tell me.”
Narried treaded across treacherous ground. No part of her story would pacify Griffin Tanner. The death of his mother had been a drawn out, grisly ordeal, and she had been a participant. The only thing she could hope to accomplish with her tale was a little bit of time. Enough time she hoped for Nute to get the boy and get going.
In the smoke-filled streets of Reserve, with a fire blazing across the town, Narried Savoi recounted the story of Anselina for the second time in one night. She left nothing out, including her role in the dismembering. She could tell how the details affected the man by the grip he held on the machete. During the grisly parts, his hands tightened and the blood left his fingers. It occurred to Narried in the telling she would not survive the encounter and the words she spoke would be her last. But the thought did not trouble her. She was right with the Loa and there was peace in knowing what had been set in motion so many years ago would end soon.
Finishing her story, Narried said, “She’s in there with you, Griffin. He’s hiding her from you but what you want to know is right there with you. Feel for your mother, Griffin. Everyt’ing Brunache ever touched is riding in there wit you. You got to be strong. Take what’s yours. I told you all I know, it’s up to you to get de answers you been searching for all these years.”
When the blow came, Narried wasn’t certain if it came from Griffin Tanner avenging his mother’s horrible death or from Brunache trying to silence her words. She looked down. All that showed was the hilt of the machete. It looked like a trick of the eye, like a child’s prank, a knife without a blade, just the hilt. But it was no prank. The burning was like nothing she had ever known. Trying to maintain her calm, and keep her purpose Narried at last glanced down at the wheel of the truck. The boy was gone.
Narried heard a savage cry and felt her feet leave the ground. The man had lifted her by the hilt of the machete embedded in her. Narried didn’t wait, she used the elevated height to her advantage. Gripping either side of Griffin Tanner’s head she began to chant in the ancient langay, invoking a ritual known to only a few mambo or Houngan outside of Haiti. Her palms, powdered with the ashes she had blown earlier, sizzled against his skin, and her words buckled his forehead until his eyes rolled back and he screamed with agony. Skin bubbled and slid away from his brow revealing bone. A fissure appeared in the white expanse of bone allowing a white essence to seep through like steam escaping a boiling pot. The ti-bon-ange stretched upward, dancing away from the writhing figure below.
Narried watched the spectral figure with fear and hope. Once the ti-bon-ange was free of its earthly body, Nute would be able to lure it away and capture it with the Govi. She could feel the guardian of the cross roads waiting for her, his top hat swept low out of respect for the dying. Her own departure from this world was only a matter of time—time enough to finish this last earth bound task.
She squeezed tighter.
*
Brunache felt the woman’s hands tighten like a vice grip and crush his skull with inhuman strength. The Loa were with her in her fight. Unbearable pain emanated from his ruptured head. It felt as if the top of his skull had been peeled back and someone was blithely pulling out the stuffing.
Bellowing with pain, he gripped the machete tighter and lifted the old woman into the air. Her palms peeled away from his cheeks, taking along strips of singed flesh. He held her aloft until the weight of her body wrought its own damage. The blade slid through bone and gristle exiting her breastplate and entering the more delicate flesh of her neck. With nothing left to resist its path of destruction, it slid sideways through her neck. Nearly decapitated, Narried Savoi’s lifeless body fell to the ground.
Nute watched from a distance. He saw a flurry of activity as the Loa surrounded Narried’s body—as a great Mambo, she was highly regarded among the Loa and warranted a personal escort to Guinee. Inside he grieved the loss of his oldest friend but he did not take his eyes from the ti-bon-ange hovering above the man’s head. Whispering secret words into his fist, cajoling pleas meant to woo the spirit, he kissed the creased section of his closed hand, flung it wide and sent the words into the night. They fluttered across the distance, drawn to the aura of the ti-bon-ange like moths to a flame.
It might have been the presence of the Loa, or perhaps Narried had failed to unshackle the ti-bon-ange before her death—either way the spirit reluctantly clung to its human husk, resisting Nute’s promises of a safe haven. For a moment it hovered just above the body of Griffin Tanner, a wavering wisp of spectral smoke. Then, as if spooked, it collapsed back through the skull bone. Reentering with such force it knocked the man to the ground.
Nute returned to the squad car with a heavy heart. He peered inside and saw the boy balled up in the front passenger seat. Nathan, pale and drawn, had managed to bring himself into a seated position in the back. He asked, “Is it over?”
Nute lied. “No worries mon, take the boy home, get him away from Reserve.” He opened the door and helped Nathan into the driver’s seat of the squad car.
During the transition, Nathan turned white but managed to stay conscious. He knew Narried had failed. Nute’s eyes, usually expressionless, revealed his loss. He said, “There must be something we can do.”
Nute shook his head. “Dere’s not’ing you can do. Go while you can.” He firmly shut the door on the squad. Holding the empty Govi, Nute turned and walked into the swirling smoke.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Reserve, Louisiana
The entire town of Reserve was ablaze. The fire, contained on one side by the flowing waters of the Mississippi, moved west along River Road devouring historic plantations as it drew irrevocably closer to the abandoned refineries lining the riverfront.
Nathan drove through the back streets trying to find a clear route to Highway 61. Each time he thought he was free of the fire engulfing the town of Reserve he would come to a road blocked by fallen trees still ablaze. Feeling like a rat in a deadly maze he would turn the squad around, backtrack and find a different route. Although the turns seemed random, the sequence of r
oad blocks began to feel deftly orchestrated as if he were being led in a certain direction. Good or evil, whatever forces were guiding him through the streets of Reserve they did not want him to find a swift exit.
Another tree fell across the road.
“Goddamn it!” He swung the squad around in frustration. The force of the turn jolted his injured leg. Fresh pain radiated out from the wound. A brown haze came down over his vision forcing him to pull to the side of the road. He sucked air through his teeth in quick, short gasps. Tentatively he reached down to touch his bandaged leg. It was wet. He was still bleeding.
Sitting there for a moment he considered the different roads out of Reserve. A dirt lane he hadn’t tried ran through the park. On the other side it hit a feeder road and ran alongside the highway. “Okay then.” He spoke more to himself than the boy as he pulled back onto the road. “Okay, let’s get the hell out of here.”
Several minutes later he drove past the baseball field and came to the dirt lane. The fire had not reached this section of town. The squad car bounced down the rutted road, each jolt sent a fresh wave of pain up Nathan’s leg. Halfway down the road a thick chain stopped him from proceeding. It had been put up to deter motorists from using the road as a shortcut to and from the highway. Nathan didn’t stop. He’d had enough deterrents for one night. He stomped on the gas pedal and broke through the barrier.
He took a deep breath knowing Highway 61 wasn’t but five minutes away. The next town over he’d stop at the hospital. The two of them were going to be okay.
“Go back.”
The Drought Page 33