by Eddie Jones
The good news was, in hostage-for-ransom cases, the victims tended to survive their ordeal. Bad news was, my family was broke. I wondered if our presence in the plush condo at Palmetto Island had given the kidnapper the wrong impression. If so, my sister could be in bigger trouble than any of us imagined.
The light in Dad’s bedroom went off. A few moments later I heard him tiptoe into the kitchen and get a glass of water. The condo was so quiet I could hear Dad swallowing as he gulped water.
A few minutes later, I heard him quietly knocking on Wendy’s bedroom door. Mom came out, sniffling. They huddled in the kitchen, the two of them talking in whispers. It reminded me of when I was younger and I would sneak out of my room and watch while they put out our Christmas presents. Finally Dad’s car keys jingled, the front door opened, and light from the porch briefly fell across the living room carpet. Then it was quiet again.
I hated that Wendy was missing and I was to blame, but at least Mom and Dad were doing something together — even if it was only hanging out by the creek while awaiting an update from Officer McDonald.
Moonlight moved across the patio. The starfish clock ticked and ticked and … ticked. Outside I heard the Buick start.
I lay there thinking about my sister. Bet she’s not sacked out on a sofa pretending to sleep. Bet she’s bawling her eyes out and yelling for someone to come find her.
Turning onto my side, I closed my eyes and wished I could take back the past couple of hours, but I couldn’t. Wendy was gone, my parents upset, and for what? So I could write a stupid zombie story for Cool Ghoul.
I was still wide awake when soft knocking on the front door startled me. Jumping up, I went to the door and peeped out the little window. The girl from the creek, the one I’d seen wearing the faded denim shirt and jeans, was trotting across the parking lot, running away from our unit. I opened the door, looked down, and saw a note on the doormat.
If you want to find your sister, meet me at First Union African Baptist in ten minutes.
The hum of an electric golf cart caught my ear and I jerked my head up just in time to see her speeding away up the darkened street.
In a kitchen drawer I found a small flashlight. It fit nicely into the front pocket of my jeans. I slipped on damp sneakers and grabbed my lightweight rain jacket. For a few seconds I stood in the living room wondering if I should leave my parents a message telling them where I was going, but decided against it. The more it looked like a spur-of-the-moment decision, the better.
I eased open the sliding glass door, mounted my bike, and pedaled across the alligator lagoon into blackness.
CHAPTER FOUR
A GRAVE DISCOVERY
The main route across the island was a wide two-lane road with a landscaped median decorated with palmetto trees and pampas grass. A lit rustic wooden sign at the entrance to the shopping area welcomed visitors to “Palmetto Island — A Southern Slice of Paradise.” Pumping the pedals hard, I headed up the island, taking note of the expensive-looking homes with clever names like Bogey Nights, Caddie Shack, and Gopher the Greens. I knew Mom and Dad would be upset if they came back and found me gone, so I allowed myself one hour to find the First Union African Baptist Church, meet with the mysterious teen from the creek, and get back home.
When I reached the wildlife refuge center, I turned onto the sawdust path and headed into the woods. I came out on an elevated boardwalk spanning a marsh.
I love the smell of the wetlands. There’s nothing like the broad sweep of marsh grass and the sour odor of low tide. I know Mom might not find the coast of Georgia appealing, but as far as I’m concerned, the beach music sound of waves lapping on sand beats the howl of winter’s wind spitting snow any day.
The marquee sign in front of the church announced that Sunday morning’s worship would begin at 11:00 a.m. This week’s sermon by Reverend Patch Davis was titled “Buy a Vowel: Adding U to Ch rch.”
I pedaled under a tunnel of oaks and propped my bike against the steps of the white two-story chapel. On one side was a small cemetery; on the other, wooden picnic tables spaced among oaks. A breeze lifted beards of moss from branches, bringing with it the smell of the sea and pine.
“Over here.”
The girl from the creek sat on a swing beneath a tree. I wandered over. There remained enough moonlight shining through the branches for me to see she had sandy-blonde bangs, dimpled cheeks, and a long, slender neck.
“You know where my sister is?”
The girl pushed back and began swinging. “What were you doing in that boathouse?”
I jumped out of the way to keep from getting kicked. “Waiting for low tide. What about my sister?”
“That was dumb. That boathouse is abandoned for a reason.”
“And you are not supposed to build a bonfire. I know because the rules are printed on a magnet that’s stuck to our condo’s fridge.”
She shucked her flip-flops and leaned back, letting her hair trail behind. “Give me a push.”
I stepped around and gave the swing a hard shove. “I’m sort of in a hurry here.”
“You know about the Laveau girl, right?” She kept her head tilted back, revealing the creamy curve of her throat, and looked up at me with large opal eyes. “How she died?”
“Jumped from a riverboat like fifteen yeas ago is what I heard. I mentioned her accident in an article I’m writing. That’s why I went to the creek tonight, to see if her ghost or body or whatever would show up again.”
Before she could ask, I gave her a quick rundown of the Cool Ghoul Gazette and how I make money based on site traffic to my articles.
“Where you from?”
“Kansas.”
“Well, Kansas, here’s the thing you probably ought to know about the Laveau girl. After she died way back then, her parents tried to sue the riverboat company. She jumped, but her ma and pa claimed the crew was negligent for not keeping her from crawling over the railing. As part of their defense, the company’s lawyers requested an autopsy. I’m guessing they were hoping to prove she’d been drinking or was on drugs. But when they dug her up and opened that casket, all they found was a whole lot of nothing.”
“No way.”
“Way. No bones, no body. Nothing. The judge declared a mistrial. Or maybe it never got that far. It happened around the time I was born. Thing is, up until this past Sunday morning, nobody’d seen Heidi May Laveau since the day she jumped from that riverboat.” Suddenly she stopped swinging and shot to her feet. Tilting toward me, she said in a soft, almost whispering voice, “I heard you tell Officer McDonald a body floated up and grabbed the canoe. Was it her? Was it Laveau?” Her minty breath felt warm on my cheek. The way she asked the question, she sounded almost giddy.
“I don’t know. I’ve never even seen a picture of her. Only know in a general way what she looks like based on the tip I received from the Cool Ghoul website. The officer who interviewed me suggested that maybe it was a publicity stunt tied to this weekend’s zombie festival.”
“How much do you know about voodoo?”
“Like black magic? Not much.”
She slipped her feet back into the flip-flops. “Follow me, there’s something I want to show you.”
We left the large oak and headed toward the open field and cemetery. Given the number of stories we’d published on this topic in the Cool Ghoul Gazette website, it seemed possible, maybe even plausible, that there was such a thing as black magic. But I’d never heard of, much less witnessed, anyone putting a curse on another person.
We stopped beside a freshly dug grave. The moon’s light shone on the nub of a marble base. I still couldn’t figure out why she had me ride all the way up the island to talk to me about voodoo, black magic, and Heidi May Laveau. My sister, that’s what I want to know about. What do you know about my sister?
“How much time you spent exploring the island, Kansas?”
“My real name’s Nick. Nick Caden.”
“Good for you. I’m Katrina, b
ut everyone calls me Kat. You done anything fun other than sneak into that boathouse?” I told her my parents had kept my sister and me on a short leash since we’d arrived. “If you talk to the folks working in the hotels and club and such, listen to their stories. You’ll find that a lot of them speak with an accent.”
“Like yours.”
“What’re you talking about, an accent? This is how God talks.” She jabbed a thumb toward a row of weathered headstones. “That family right there? They’re Gullah.”
“Gull what?”
“Gullah; descendants of slaves. A good many of the blacks in this area still live in small farming villages and fishing communities. You end up going back to Kansas with a straw basket, chances are a Gullah person made it. They speak a sort of Jamaican, Creole dialect. This grave right here …” She kicked a dirt clod into the hole. “It’s for a housekeeper that worked at the resort’s main hotel. Service is this Saturday. Her granddaughter and I were best friends when I was little, but she moved awhile back. I might get to see her this weekend. Hang on, I need to check on something.”
She trotted back toward the church and disappeared around the far corner.
While waiting for her to return, I studied the rectangular pit at my feet. Three feet wide or so, six deep. I could still see where the backhoe’s tractor tires had left tread marks in the grass. In my mind’s eye I pictured the bib of artificial turf placed around the pit. Folding chairs would be deployed, stainless steel poles erected to support a funeral-home tent for mourners.
It’s funny how the imagination works, because in a split second, the picture morphed from a crowd of somber-faced men and women dressed in black to Mom and Dad standing alone beside a smooth polished steel casket. Wendy lay on her back with her hands folded one on top of the other. There was a slight smile on her face. In my mind I hadn’t picked out her burial clothes. Maybe she’d wear her cheerleading uniform or the dress she and Mom had picked out for this year’s Harvest Dance. The dress Dad hates because it shows too much of her neck and shoulders.
“Sorry, had to make sure it was still there.”
The girl’s comment brought my thoughts up from the grave.
“Where what was?”
“Forget it. You ever heard of a bokor priest? I’m guessing from that blank expression, your answer is no. A bokor is like a witch doctor, only worse. Zombies don’t have a will of their own. They’re like human robots, only dead. Most have a bokor that controls them.”
“You brought me to a church to give me a lecture on zombies?”
“Helps to know what you’re up against, Kansas. This ain’t no Halloween dress-up party you’re crashing. The thing that took your sister, if it’s how you say it was, is a whole different sort of evil. The kind you ain’t never seen before. Bet you’ve never been to Haiti, either?”
I shook my head.
“Some of us in church went on a mission trip there a couple of years ago. I didn’t go myself, but the people in our group that went into the mountains came back talking about how the Haitians still practice voodoo. They sacrifice children, put curses on folks, and worship the devil. Some really sick stuff. Drinking blood and all.”
“What’s that got to do with Wendy?”
“Just making the point that every Halloween when kids dress up in scary costumes, what they’re really doing is dabbling in black magic. Might not look like it. Might just look like an easy way to get free candy, but they’re worshiping the king of darkness.”
“They really sacrifice babies?”
“That’s what they told me. A woman in our group actually saw it happen. The reason I’m telling you all this is because back yonder that direction” — she paused, pointing past the church toward the water — “is Port Royal Sound. And beyond that nothing but creeks, snakes, gators, and miles and miles of swamp. You can’t see it from here — can’t hardly find the place till you’re right on top of it — but in the middle of all that water is a Gullah lady who knows about zombies and voodoo. Find her and you can maybe find out what happened to your sister.”
“And how exactly would I do that? I don’t have a boat.”
“That’s what I ran off to check on. There’s a skiff tied to the dock behind the church. The outboard can be hard to start, but once it’s running you should have no trouble.”
“If you think I’m taking a boat into a swamp to find a witch doctor, you’re crazy.”
“Gullah, not witch doctor. Big difference.”
I peered into the yawning grave at my feet. “We are a long way from Haiti.”
“Geographically speaking, yes, but culturally, it’s like some of them never left. There’s a mechanic at the marina that keeps a chicken coop out back of his trailer. He’s Gullah. A few months ago, he got into a scrape with an employee at the golf club. Crazy mechanic went and killed one of his chickens and smeared blood all over the golf club employee’s locker. Couple hours later, that golf course guy took sick and had to be hospitalized. Coincidence? Probably. My point is, a lot of what happens ‘round here dudden add up. And when it don’t, local folks swear it’s ‘cause someone put a hex on a body.”
I liked listening to her talk. She had a funny way of making normal words like “doesn’t” (dudden), “isn’t” (iden), and “wasn’t” (waden) sound interesting.
“Do you really think my sister was taken by a zombie? I mean, seriously?”
“You’re asking the wrong question.”
“Oh? What question should I be asking?”
“Who would want to take your sister? Think on that one. Now if it was me and my sister got snatched by someone dressed as a dead person, you can bet your bottom dollar I’d be doing everything I could to find her — including setting out to pay a call on Poke Salad Annie.”
“Poke Sally who?” I asked.
“Annie. That’s the Gullah woman I was telling you ‘bout. She makes a voodoo gumbo that’s to die for. Uses roadkill, water moccasin eggs, onion peels, rose thorns, shrimp, grits, rice, oysters, and bullfrog.”
She pulled a crudely drawn map from her hip pocket and handed it to me. “Everything you need to know ‘bout finding Annie’s place is right there. Follow the map I drew and you shudden have any problem.”
“How long will it take me to get to this Poke person’s place?”
“From here? Ten minutes tops.”
“I’ve only driven a boat one time and I almost hit the dock. Come with me.”
“I might could have if it waden so late, but I’m past my curfew. Uncle Phil will kill me if he catches me out this late. Keep a lookout for gators. Most times they won’t bother you as long as you stay in the skiff. Check to be sure there’s gas in the outboard. It has a fill tank on top. I shook the can. Sounded like it had plenty in it. Good luck.”
She started toward her golf cart. I couldn’t help but think of how much she reminded me of a girl I’d met last summer. Katrina didn’t sound nearly as cultured or smart, but I’d gotten better at not judging people based on how they talked and dressed. In an odd way, I liked the fact that she called me Kansas. Made it sound like I was from someplace important, even though Kansas is about the most boring place there is.
She slid behind the wheel of the golf cart and pointed up at the Spanish moss. “Be careful going under branches with that skiff. If a cottonmouth snake falls on your head, that could be bad.”
“Now you’re just messing with me.”
“See ya ‘round, Kansas.”
I watched her drive off. When the slipstream of dust disappeared, I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked around to the back of the church to see just what sort of shape this skiff was in.
CHAPTER FIVE
MY SISTER — DEAD TO THE WORLD
I found the flat-bottom boat, no problem. The people at the church were a trusting bunch. No padlock or chain. I checked the gas in the motor like she’d told me. Nearly full. Still, the idea of sneaking off the island, especially after what had happened to Wendy, left my stoma
ch in knots. I wandered to the water’s edge and looked west toward the smudge of light over the Savannah skyline.
So far, every move I’d made had brought nothing but trouble, and here I was thinking about sneaking off again without telling anyone. But what if Kat’s right? What if this Gullah person can help me find Wendy and I don’t go? What’s the worst case scenario?
I let that question rattle around in my head. I didn’t want to go there, didn’t want to think about the answer to that one.
She could die.
I kicked sand with my sneaker and thought about my parents. Nobody had to tell me that losing a child was tough on a marriage. A boy in my school lost his sister to a drive-by shooting. It wrecked his family. His mom started drinking. His father got caught fooling around. The boy ended up in foster care until the judge could sort things out between his parents. By the end of the year it was like he had died, too.
I didn’t want Mom and Dad to have to go through burying Wendy. Or me, for that matter. But at the same time, it didn’t feel right leaving Palmetto Island without asking first. I pulled out my phone. Maybe if I called and explained to Dad what Kat told me, he would go with me.
Before I could pull up Dad’s number from my contact list, an email message alert popped up on my screen. I swiped open my mail app and nearly dropped my phone when I got to the end of the first sentence.
Evening, Nick, look what I fished out of the creek.
Under the text was a picture of Wendy. She’d been blindfolded but still wore the Camp Kanata sweatshirt she’d put on before we left the condo. In the picture she appeared to be standing in a home or apartment or motel room. Behind her on the wall was a picture of a sailboat. The background was blurred, but it looked to be a small sailing dory.
Too bad your sister had to leave suddenly. From the sound of things, you two were having a good brother/sister bonding time. I am sure she would have loved to hear all about your dad’s bogus job offer and his big plans for moving to Palmetto Island.