Southern Spirits

by Edie Bingham

  And Mickey? Mickey could kiss the imprint of her ass that she left in their marital bed back in Chicago.

  She sat in Enrique’s lap, her thighs straddling his hips as he pushed up into her, repeatedly, the tip of his shaft stroking the walls of her sex in all the right places. She felt like such a small thing in his embrace, something that could easily be crushed without due care. But she knew him better. He would never hurt her. One of his hands had descended along her spine to cup her cheeks, squeezing hungrily and sending tiny jolts through her like sparks on the rails.

  But her teddy had become distracting enough for her to pull back and motion silently until her lover got the idea and relaxed his hold on her. When she cast it aside, however, he bent her backwards until she thought she’d fall from him, then he bent forward and engulfed one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking sharply and making her yelp. Her hands gripped his arms for support, and she stared upwards, the whirling wooden blades seeming to mesmerise her.

  And still Enrique drove into Val, even as she drove back, meeting him thrust for thrust, while his free hand manoeuvred between their bodies, touching her bush, then her clit, his thumb providing a gentle but insistent teasing that made her weak with the sensations running though her.

  ‘Oh sweet God!’ Riding the crest of it, she leant forwards once more, wanting to kiss him again, to push him harder, faster. She wanted him to lose control, wanted him to surrender to her for once, and fill her with his seed. She knew it would all be over, before either of them knew it.

  Neither of them heard the berth door open, and then close.

  However, they did hear the voice. ‘Adulteress.’

  Val and Enrique froze in mid-coitus at the sight of Mickey at the doorway, automatic pistol in hand, eyes cold, dark and disbelieving of what was before him. Val’s heart skipped a beat as her husband’s murderous glare flicked between the two lovers, as if unsure which one to focus his fury upon first. ‘Mickey –’

  ‘Get off him.’

  Val felt Enrique’s wilting cock withdraw from her, as she slowly untangled her limbs and rose onto shaking legs. Enrique moved to stand in front of her protectively.

  ‘Back away,’ Mickey ordered, chilling Val with the sheer deadness of the tone. She’d heard it before, more than once, and always before he was to go out and commit some terrible action.

  ‘Mickey,’ Enrique started, holding up his hands, ‘it’s not her fault. I forced myself on her. I threatened her.’

  Mickey gestured with his gun to make him shift further to one side of the berth. ‘Silencio.’ Then he looked back at Val, who was reaching for a shirt to cover herself. ‘No. Whores should be used to nakedness. Well? Is it true? Did he force himself on you?’

  An escape, at least for her. A last chance at staying alive, though Enrique was doomed.

  She wasn’t surprised, really, at her response. ‘No, Mickey. He didn’t. I love him.’ She had her hands covering her breasts and bush; now she dropped them to her sides. Modesty before her husband and lover seemed pointless now – especially if she was about to die. ‘I always have.’

  ‘I know. I had my suspicions for a while, and eventually learnt about an Enrique Cazenove.’ He raised his pistol, and his voice, at her. ‘How could you betray me?’

  Disbelief crept through her, threatening to paralyse her, but she couldn’t let herself slip into shock now, and let her anger at his attitude galvanise her. ‘How could you think I wouldn’t? You took me. Took me! Threatened my father’s life if I didn’t marry you. You made me think you’d treat me different from the other Mob wives, but you went and got yourself a mistress.’ She swallowed, calmer now, knowing her next words could be her last. ‘This was never about betraying you. This was about getting back what you took from me. You’ll never own me again.’ She said the last without spite, without malice. After all that had happened between them – what could still happen – she didn’t want to hurt him.

  And she saw that he saw it, too, saw the truth unfold in Mickey’s eyes. And the anger began to drain from him, eclipsed with a numbing grief. Mickey had done bad things, but he was no monster, mindless and unreasoning, and she hoped that when things calmed down, they could . . .

  Movement to her right made her turn, as Enrique took the opportunity to charge at Mickey. Mickey turned too, raised his pistol at the other man and, for the rest of her life, Val would wonder what made her go after them both, reaching for the gun, when common sense dictated she dive out of the way. The men grappled . . .

  And someone punched her in the chest, making her fall back and drop almost comically to her knees, her ears ringing as shots filled the berth. How did Mickey punch her? He still had the gun in his hand. Maybe it was Enrique. Accidentally, of course, but she’d still make him pay, in back rubs and chocolates. She tried to catch her breath, but failed and fell to her side. The wind must really have been knocked out of her.

  From behind her hair, she saw Mickey fall as well, onto his back, staring upwards, also gasping for breath like a fish out of water. And then Enrique was at her side, gently lifting her into his arms to cradle her, his face as white as a sheet and his body cold against hers. ‘Val? Oh God, Val, I’m sorry, ma chère . . . I’m so sorry.’

  Confusion made her frown, and her chest tightened in pain. She couldn’t bear to see the tears streaming down his face, but she couldn’t look away either. Or speak, though her mouth did open. She saw the charm still hanging around his neck, and thought mildly that she should have taken it from him earlier, she would have saved herself a punch.

  She wanted to tell him that everything would be all right, but he looked so upset. She prayed to Mamselle Belagrís to give him peace. Just give her a moment to rest, and then they’d be up and leave Mickey to sleep it all off . . . just a moment . . . she loved being in Enrique’s arms . . . there was nothing as sweet . . . oh, there was the crossroads ahead . . .

  . . . Papa Legba taking Cat in hand . . .

  ‘Catalina!’

  Cat opened her eyes again to look up at Nathan, the pain in her chest a white noise of sensation that nevertheless was drowned out by the sound of this strange man holding her, shaking her. ‘Agent Catalina Montoya! Wake up, damn it! Don’t stay locked in the vision. You could die with her.’ He slapped her face. ‘Damn it, talk to me!’

  ‘H– Hit me again, pajiero, I’ll have your cojones for breakfast.’

  Nathan’s face was a picture of intense relief as he hugged her, and she let him, still trying to collate the knowledge and feelings she’d experienced. There was a pain in her chest, perhaps some psychosomatic echo of the bullet that had torn into Val, but it was already ebbing as she regained control. ‘I thought . . . I thought I said I could handle myself.’

  ‘I knew you could. But you didn’t have to.’

  ‘You big chocha.’ She pushed him away, aware that Wheeler was still lying on the bed, hands cuffed behind him and trousers around his thighs, his cock limp and nestled against his balls, and aware that she was bereft of skirt and panties. She tugged at her torn blouse as Wheeler stared blankly upwards, obviously having been caught up in the vision as well. ‘Nothing. Nothing about the Silver Bell.’

  Cat’s sympathy for him was nonexistent, as she reached for her skirt and looked to Nathan. ‘It was Mickey who died with Val, not Enrique. Enrique must have disposed of the bodies, took the Mob money and ran, afraid of retribution from Mickey’s friends.’

  Nathan nodded. ‘Makes sense. I wonder what happened to him after that.’

  ‘Ask him yourself. He’s right behind you.’

  Nathan twisted in place, following her eyes to see Richard Newholme standing, holding a revolver in an echo of events on this spot, years before. He glanced around uncomfortably, as if taking in how close the decor was to the original design, but kept the gun fixed on the two agents on the floor.

  Wheeler looked up now, as best he could. ‘You?’

  Cat never took his eyes off the newcomer, or his weapon. ‘Cazenove.
New House. Newholme, anglicised. It seems obvious now.’

  He shrugged. ‘You’re the first person in fifty years to spot it, so something must have worked.’

  ‘When we talked last night about the woman you loved, who died in a “train accident”, you called her “my Cher”, which I’d assumed was her name, but you meant it as the Creole term of affection: “my dear”. And you may have lost a lot of body mass, but I can still see the exact same expression now that Val did, all those years ago.’

  The old man’s voice was like dried leaves, crackling underneath footsteps. ‘I bribed the night staff to arrange for the train to stop along a deserted route, and buried Valentina and Mickey in the woods. And I ran, ran north, changed my name, and even went to college. But I never forgot.’

  ‘Of course you couldn’t.’ Cat leant on Nathan and slowly helped herself to her feet, trying to present as non-threatening an image as she could to the man. ‘You went into the antiques and memorabilia business. Wheeler contacted you about purchases for Southern Spirits, you visited one day, and experienced the echoes of Val and yourself.’

  ‘Yes.’ And Newholme’s eyes lit up, his free hand loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, enough to reveal a familiar brass charm, one he tugged free from around his neck to hold out. ‘She should have worn this. It would have protected her. Belagrís swore to protect and serve all the Sauveterre family. But being here, feeling those memories again . . . it was like . . . like I had a second chance. A second chance to . . .’

  ‘Forget the mistake you made. I know. So why the gun?’

  Enrique indicated Wheeler. ‘You arrest him, you confiscate the train. I’ll lose her. Again.’

  ‘Um,’ Wheeler interrupted. ‘Not that I’m ungrateful, but can you get one of them to at least pull my pants up?’

  The others ignored him. Cat continued, ‘It’s over, Enrique. The running, the hiding.’

  ‘No!’ Desperation made him look as if he’d been struck. ‘The train wants me here!’

  ‘Yes, Enrique. But not to keep reliving old memories. It kept you coming back until we arrived, so that we could learn the truth. So I could then tell you what I learnt, what I saw and felt, from Valentina herself. And I can tell you this: there was no pain. No fear. No thoughts of betrayal or disappointment in her heart. All she felt, until the end, was the love she had for you. How much she loved being held by you, how you kept her close and safe.’

  Cat approached, and kept speaking. She wasn’t very conscious of her words, but it seemed to be having the desired effect. The restraint of a half-century’s guilt seeped from him along with his strength. And by the time she’d gently taken the gun from him and tossed it to Nathan, the tears running down Enrique’s face turned into sobs, and he almost fell into Cat’s supportive arms.

  15

  Jack Wheeler had gone for a shower and change of clothes, while the people who had upturned his work and ruined two years’ planning carried out their boring legal proceedings. Not long after Catalina had disarmed Richard Newholme – or Enrique Cazenove – Belle allowed access to the rest of the train, not that anyone had even noticed. The train driver and his assistant, trapped for many hours in their berth, accepted the story that some drunken passengers had taken over the locomotive. It was a serious incident, but they accepted a small monetary gift to help them forget it.

  They had arrived in New Orleans Sunday morning, on schedule, an amazing feat considering the circumstances. The Federal agents had contacted the local police to be at the station, ready to take Newholme into custody, where he would eventually lead them to the location of the bodies of Valentina and Mickey. Wheeler wondered if the coin would still be with Mickey’s remains, or if it was lost along the way. Damn, eight million dollars . . .

  He shook his head as he combed his hair. No, there was no point in crying over spilt milk. At least he still had Belle, a sweet little moneymaker. Now that the coin was out of his reach, perhaps he could use the cameras and microphones for a little judicious blackmail of the right influential people?

  He left his quarters and proceeded to his office, wondering where Faye had gone. Most likely she was still in someone’s berth, sleeping off a night of drink and sex. He wasn’t in too great a hurry to find her. Cat, however, was another matter, even if she was a Fed.

  He entered his office to find the current woman of his thoughts waiting there, sitting at his desk, staring at a spread of Tarot cards. Wheeler strode over to her, studied her activity. ‘That’s usually Faye’s domain.’

  ‘She’s busy at the moment. Tara dealt this spread out, gave me an interpretation.’

  He leant in closer. ‘Seeking your future?’

  ‘Yours, actually.’ She indicated each card. ‘The Tower: sudden, unexpected change. The Lovers, Reversed: betrayal. The Fool: new beginnings. The Two of Swords, Reversed: caution when dealing with others. And the Six of Swords: an imminent journey.’ She picked up the Fool card, looked at it, and then him. ‘I can see the resemblance.’

  ‘Amusing. But I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘No?’ She leant back and looked up at him. ‘Sorry you never got your hands on the Silver Bell?’

  He grunted. ‘It’s probably sitting in some mud patch in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Actually, it’s closer than you think.’ She reached into her pocket and produced a small shiny coin, moved it in her fingers.

  Wheeler’s jaw dropped, and he drew closer. ‘That’s . . . That’s it?’ He stared, as if hypnotised. It was . . . well, not beautiful. It was just a coin. What it was worth, however, was another matter.

  ‘Si. Eight million dollars of coin. And you had it all along.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘In that voodoo display case in the reception carriage, in the gris-gris bag. You see, when Enrique, as Newholme, was equipping your train with memorabilia, and you wanted some authentic materials, he put together a bag based on his own knowledge of the faith. I’m told they’re meant to protect the wearer from harm or bring good luck, and should contain oils, stones, bones, hair and offerings like silver to appease the spirits. Newholme put an old silver dollar in the bag, one he’d had for decades.’

  Wheeler stared at the coin again, laughing softly and shaking his head at the irony. It was almost too much to accept. ‘I’ve had it . . . had it all along?

  ‘Tara speculates that Mamselle Belagrís took its value and uniqueness as one hell of an offering to her, and that this boosted her powers and influence as much as the sexual energy generated onboard since Southern Spirits started.’

  ‘And now it’s going to gather dust in a museum.’ Wheeler’s heart ached.

  ‘I’ll honour my agreement, and pretend this was a lucky find.’ Cat slipped the coin back into her pocket. ‘Oh, and you should know that Donnie and Faye are being taken into custody.’

  Wheeler paled. ‘Faye? What for?’

  ‘Attempted extortion. It seems that Donnie had some sort of epiphany last night, and when he learnt our true occupations, he came confessing his sins – including how Faye had planned to use him to force you into signing over Belle and ownership of the Southern Spirits company to her. By force, if necessary.’

  The news made Wheeler’s blood run cold. Faye? Faye of all people? Yes, she had a temper, but had never shown any overweening greed or ambition. ‘Are you sure?’

  She nodded. ‘We found her with some legal papers ready for your signature. She’d been trapped in one of the public toilets for most of the night – and at one stage, the toilet had erupted its contents.’ She smirked. ‘Her fragrance matched her mood.’

  Wheeler grunted. He still didn’t know whether to be appalled or impressed with the woman’s audacity. ‘Well, nice to know the law was onboard to protect me.’ He smiled, drawing closer until he was almost brushing against her. ‘So, my delightful one, why are you here? If it’s to continue what we started last night –’

  Cat smiled up at him. ‘I’m here to help you.’

&n
bsp; That put him on an unexpected edge. But he remained cool. ‘That’s most beneficent of you, but I don’t see how.’

  ‘Donnie’s prepared to testify against his uncle, Leo Kolchak. In particular about the money laundering.’ She leant back in the chair until it creaked. ‘Once you’re named, I intend to have you indicted for your part in the operation.’

  ‘That’ll be his word against mine.’

  ‘No, that’ll be his word, plus the files we downloaded from your PC, against your word.’

  A chill ran down his spine. ‘What? You had no right!’

  ‘Sure we did. It came with the warrant.’

  He swallowed. ‘But what about our deal? You’d drop the charges –’

  ‘That concerned the conspiracy to steal the Silver Bell coin and smuggle it out of the country. I honoured that agreement. The laundering charges remain. However, if you are no longer the owner of this train and company, then there will be little point in pursuing an indictment against you.’ She folded her arms across her chest. ‘You sell Belle, and you’ll stay free.’

  Wheeler’s head ached from the offer. Sell everything he had here, start over? It was one thing to be able to do that when he had millions from the coin sale at his fingertips, but . . . ‘Please, enlighten me as to the part where you “help” me.’

  ‘Why, by finding you a willing buyer already: Tara Gilbrand. I’ve spoken with her about this, and she’s prepared to take Belle off your hands, and employ the Olivers to help her. There’s no reason Southern Spirits shouldn’t keep running – albeit without those illegal cameras and microphones you installed. Naughty, naughty, Jack.’

  Wheeler studied her, even as his heart sank. It was so abrupt. But, knowing Tara’s wealthy family connections, at least he’d get a decent price. ‘That seems . . . acceptable. But I won’t settle for anything less than –’

  ‘Three hundred dollars.’

  He blinked. ‘Excuse me?’