“Is that your best shot?” She wheezed in a breath. “Not that easy to kill an old woman, is it, ofay?” She raised her cane and rapped it across his knuckles. “I said, get out of my way.”
The surge of adrenaline muted the pain radiating across back of his hand. He was on a mission, and he was going to complete it. Richard stepped down one step and gripped the wooden rungs of the banister.
Lise hit him again, this time against the side of his head. His ear burned. The old biddy was going to put up a fight.
“She’s going to fight you, Annie is.” Lise hissed at him. “She’s got fighting blood in her. It won’t be easy for you.” She raised her cane again.
Why won’t this woman just fall? He ignored her useless chatter. “Easy enough,” he said. He raised his foot, planted it in her chest and pushed her backward.
He’d thought she would scream for Annie or shout, but she tumbled to the bottom of the stairs without a sound. The bumps and thumps of her body could have been mistaken for thunder in the storm raging outside.
Richard hurried to the bathroom, where he’d left the light on. He flushed the toilet, washed his hands and turned off the light. He stood there in the dark for a moment, squeezing his fists together and trying to contain his excitement. From what he’d seen in the gloom, there was no way the old woman could have survived the fall. He was sure of it.
Richard opened the bathroom door and listened the breathing of his drugged wife. He wanted to shake her awake and tell her what he’d done and how things would go from now on. Instead, he took a deep breath of quiet satisfaction. Everything was his now. Everything.
He climbed into bed next to his Annie and fell quickly asleep.
~* * * *~
Annie’s piercing screams woke him too early in the morning. He pushed his hair off his forehead and stumbled to the stairwell. By the time he’d reached his wife, her screams had dissolved into sobs. She stroked the dead woman’s hair, arranging the twists into less disarray.
Resisting the urge to smile at his handiwork, Richard turned on the role of doting, caring husband. “Oh my God. Annie! Did she fall? Did you call 911?” He knelt beside the old woman’s body and felt for a pulse. “I’m sorry Annie. I don’t feel a heartbeat.” Of course he didn’t, the woman was cool to the touch. “Why don’t we call an ambulance.”
“Okay.” Tears streaked her face, and her voice was dull. “But I know she’s dead. She must have tripped and fallen last night during the storm. Annie sniffed. “But we have to call somebody.” She looked up at him, realization dawning on her face. “Oh my God, Richard. She’s dead!” She broke into fresh sobs.
He knelt and put his arms around her, drawing her up and away from her Grandmother’s body. “Come to the kitchen,” he said. The weakness of her body next to his thrilled him. She was completely under his power now. The old woman could no longer interfere. After a decent amount of time, he’d call in an appraiser. After, of course, the reading of the will.
He helped her sit in a chair and put on the coffee pot. “Drink the coffee.” He smoothed the horrid twists on her head. “I”ll make some calls.”
~* * * *~
Shivering, Annie sipped at the coffee her husband had brewed for her. She tried to banish the image of her grandmother, lying all twisted and bent at the bottom of the steps. It was horrifying.
“The police and the ambulance should be here in about fifteen minutes.” Richard placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to go up and get dressed. I promise I won’t be a minute.”
Annie nodded and took another sip of the scalding hot coffee. What was to become of her now? Grandmother had been her touchstone of strength and common sense. Still holding the coffee cup, she wandered into the parlor and stared at the Seminole Wars painting. Her scrap of a bonnet still hung from a bush and the buildings were still burnt.
And…her grandmother was dead.
Her knees buckled, and she fell into the overstuffed chair Grandmother Lise favored. The coffee slopped into her lap. The room still smelled of her cherry tobacco smoke and lemon mint. Annie placed the coffee cup on the floor, no longer interested in its contents. She gazed at the painting, mesmerized. If only she could go back and stay. Even the threat of death and slavery would be better, compared to the life of misery stretching in front of her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hassee stared at the blond man who announced himself as Annie’s husband. It wasn’t that he’d been unaware of Annie’s martial status or her husband being a white man. Miss Lise had grumbled about it many a time when he kept her company during lunch. It was the fact that Miss Lise was dead.
“So, we won’t need your services anymore.” Frowning down at him, Richard folded his arms across his chest.
“But Miss Lise wanted me to—”
“I’m in charge now. And I’m telling you, your services are no longer needed.”
Hassee said no more. Miss Lise had warned him about Richard. She told him he was nothing but a white devil and given the way he was acting right now, she was right. “Let me collect the tools I left in the attic and I’ll be out of your way.” He climbed the stairs.
Richard followed him.
Hassee guessed Richard wanted to make sure he didn’t steal anything. He was used to that from quite a few of his clients. They acknowledged he did good work and hired him, but they didn’t trust him. He made quick work of the stairs and was pleased to hear Richard’s breathing becoming more and more labored behind him.
Without speaking, he gathered his tools. He would leave the wood for the next contractor.
On their way back down, he heard a faint sob at the second-floor landing.
Annie stood there, looking ethereal in a light blue sundress. Upon seeing him, she made an unsuccessful attempt to put on a pleasant face. “Hassee? You’re not going to—finish the attic? Grandmother wanted...” Her voice hitched, and she leaned against the wall.
“Miss Annie. My condolences. She was a wonderful lady.” Aware of Richard’s disapproving presence, he said no more, but his heart—it ached to take her in his arms and give the comfort her husband withheld. Only a cold-hearted snake would allow his wife to suffer so.
“Yes.” She nodded and fiddled with a necklace of seed beads around her neck. Her eyes didn’t focus on his. “Thank you. For everything, Hassee.”
“I think Hassee has to go.” Richard interrupted the conversation.
“Of course. Yes. Goodbye.” Annie turned to go back to her room, then said, “May the Great Spirit guide your steps when there is no moonlight.” Nodding again, she stumbled back to the bedroom.
Hassee froze and stared hard at her. That very same phrase had been whispered to him by his grandmother on the night his wife passed away, so many years ago. His heart lurched as he watched her walk slowly up the stairs.
“Get moving,” Richard muttered.
Hassee cleared the last two flights in record time and went out the door.
~* * * *~
Richard handed her a glass of water and two pills. “The doctor says you’re supposed to take two more.”
Obediently, Annie took the pills and swallowed them with the glass of water. “She wanted to be cremated,” she said in a dull voice. “She wanted to be cremated and have her ashes scattered in the backyard.”
Richard patted her shoulder and brushed her hair back from her forehead. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
The day of the funeral, Annie sat and stared at nothing. Her back did not touch the back of the pew, and as people gave condolences, she touched each hand in turn without looking. If it hadn’t been for Richard, she doubted if she could have stood.
Hassee’s gaze was heavy on her when he came to pay his respects, but the medication had her so numbed, she couldn’t do anything but nod.
“I want to go to bed,” she said when they arrived back at the house. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of casseroles, cakes, and pies. It seemed like the entire town had brought some food for the two of them.
“I want to go to bed.” She tossed her light wrap on a kitchen chair and marched up the stairs, averting her gaze when she reached the spot where she’d found her Grandmother.
Upon reaching the bed, she slid between the sheets without undressing, and closed her eyes, praying to get away from this nightmare.
~* * * *~
Richard roamed through the rooms of the old house. Most of the rooms were stuffed to the gills with ancient furniture, knick knacks and piles of dusty linens. He gulped at the smoky liquid and grimaced. The old lady’s lawyer was as almost as aged as she had been. His hands had trembled when he paged through the will and took his time about coming to the point.
Lise Jackson had been a smart old woman. Annie wouldn’t get her hands on any money or be able to take ownership of the house for three years.
He wandered into the dining room.
Three years. He ground his teeth together and finished the glass of liquor while reaching for the bottle again. With an unsteady hand, he poured two inches of the amber liquid in the glass, slopping some of it on the mahogany surface of the dining table. He banged the bottle on the table, not caring about how much noise he made. Annie was upstairs asleep after having taking two sleeping pills at his urging. The last thing he needed to hear was her monotonous weeping. The sound of it made him want to shake her, especially with the most recent news.
How in the hell was he going to put up with that miserable woman?
The rage at the unfairness of it all—he worked for that money after all—bubbled below the surface of his skin, adding to the already oppressive humid heat. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he stalked down the narrow hallway to the parlor, which he figured was the best place for him to find something of value. If he could find just one thing he could sell, it might help him settle in for the three-year wait.
Flopping down on the dusty sofa, he took another swallow of his drink and set the heavy crystal glass down on the end table. He propped his feet on the silk chaise and for a brief second, pondered how much he could get for the marble mantle before focusing his attention on the painting above it.
The more he stared at the painting, the more enraged he became. “Revisionist history,” he mumbled to himself, feeling for the comfort of his glass. “Trying to make something out of nothing.” The liquor did nothing to quench the anger still roiling within him, and he threw the glass to the floor in an impotent rage. The glass bounced harmlessly on the thick rug, which made him angrier. “Goddamn bitch,” he grumbled. His head throbbed from the alcohol.
The air seemed heavier, and there was a faint humming in his ears. He waved at a mosquito buzzing past his face. Did he leave the back door open? Closing his eyes, Richard slumped and put his hand to his forehead.
An odor of rich, heavy vegetation wafted past, and he vaguely wondered if it were going to rain. The sound of branches rustling made him open his eyes.
There was nothing but darkness, and the cloying smell of pungent, fertile soil was stronger now. Thinking the lights had gone out, he shot to his feet and hit his head on a branch.
Was he that drunk that he had somehow wandered outside?
Richard took a deep breath. He felt different—older and more experienced as if he had years of traveling, buying and selling under his belt. He had a mission to accomplish now.
Two men came up behind him, their breaths heavy in the swampy air. “We caught wind of a settlement of them about a mile in.”
Richard touched the knife on his belt, easing into his newfound persona. Annie, no, Matilda had run, and he was going to catch her, just like he’d caught her before.
“Let’s go,” he said, slapping at the always-present mosquitoes, “We’ve got some slaves to round up.”
~* * * *~
The Village Realm
“Mattie, wake up.”
It was happening all over again. The shouts of the white men echoed across the swamp and the marshes.
“We must go. The white man has come to claim what he believe is his.” Haiola pulled her up, thrust a cloth bag and a tomahawk into her hands. “Flee into the swamp with the others.”
“What about you?” She reached for him.
“We must fight them.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her lips. “Do not worry. I will find you. Stay with the others.” He brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “Now go, cha-hi-wa. I will see you soon.”
She hurried with the crowd, taking the time to grab the hand of a frightened child and guide him to his mother. The pops of gunfire made her stomach cramp, but the high-pitched war whoops gave her courage. “Come on. We must move faster.” She covered her terror at leaving her husband’s side by giving others courage. What would she do if he were killed?
At this point, she didn’t want to go back to her twentieth-century life. As odd as it may seem, given that she was used to luxuries, she was happier and more content than she had been over a hundred years in the future.
Plus, if she did have to return, she would have to find a way to take Haiola with her.
Mattie led the small group of women and children through the dense foliage of the Everglades, using the skills she’d learned from Haiola. While the thought of him separate from her seized her heart with a cold iron fist, she kept her charges moving.
They walked along as silently as they could, communicating only in short whispers. She was beginning to feel optimistic about their chances when a group of four white men blocked the path in front of them.
Her muscles locked, rendering her unable to speak.
A child cried out, “Mama!”
This spurred Mattie into action. “Run!”
The small group scattered.
She also turned and ran, hoping to draw the men away from the others. Saying a brief prayer for herself, she retraced her steps through the marsh.
“Aye, she’s a runner, this one.” The men panted behind her, stumbling through the unfamiliar territory. “Split up, circle around. She should be easy to round up.”
“We will see,” his partner answered. “This swamp is a terror to get through.”
It was easy for her to lose them in the dark.
Unable to find her, they bumbled off in another direction.
Mattie held onto the rough bark of the cypress tree she was hiding behind, straining her ears for any further movement. From far off, she heard war whoop, accompanied by the dying yells of whom she hoped were her pursuers.
Alone and lost, she checked the stars and began walking in a northerly direction. Haiola had told her many times that the deeper in the swamp she went, she would find another Seminole village, and they would take her in.
The night was not kind. A hot, humid wind blew against her face and mosquitoes feasted on the back of her neck and bare arms. Would she be able to find another village, or stumble around until she ran into a hungry alligator?
Mattie reached a clearing and sank to rest her racing heart. Clouds had gathered in the sky, obscuring her view of the stars, and she was no longer sure about the correct way to go. She held the tomahawk in a loose grip at her side, put an arm across her face and cried. She didn’t wish to go back to Richard, to her miserable life. Instead, she prayed to His-a-kit-a-mis-i she would find her Seminole husband again.
The foliage to her right rustled, and she paused in her prayer. It could be an animal of any kind out there tonight. Resisting the urge to say, “Who’s there?” She pushed to her feet and staggered out of the clearing, away from the sound.
Straight up against a warm, human body.
Stifling a scream, she backed away two steps before she turned and fled back to the clearing. In her haste to flee, she slammed her shoulder into a tree, dropped the tomahawk and fell into the soft mud, biting her lip against the sudden pain.
Behind her, there was a loud thud and a curse. He had tripped over a root and fallen, from the sound of it.
She clawed at the earth, try
ing to pull herself forward and away from her captor. Where is the tomahawk?
A cold, clammy hand closed around her ankle. She screamed and kicked backward, connecting with only air.
“I got you now.” Richard’s voice was harsh in the thick darkness. “I’m going to cut you, so you’ll never walk again. I’ll take you back to South Carolina.” He squeezed the thick tendon at the back of her ankle. “One quick slash right here, and you’ll be all mine.”
Fright coursed through her, and she grabbed at the wet ground, frantic to escape his cold grip. It was like an iron shackle, tethering her to him forever. She fought as if death itself had her, for to be recaptured by him would kill her soul. She stretched her fingers to reach the handle of the tomahawk she’d dropped.
She gave one last desperate kick and was satisfied with the connecting of heel to face. Scrambling to her feet, she snatched up the tomahawk and turned to face him.
Richard knelt on the ground, holding the side of his face. His blond hair glinted in the moonlight. “You nigger whore,” he snarled, attempting to get to his feet. “Give me that.”
Nigger? He called me a nigger whore. That’s what he thinks of me. She gripped the handle, feeling the power of the weapon. “No.”
He’s your demon. Only you can kill him.
Richard pulled himself to his feet and wiped the blood from his chin. “You knocked out my blasted tooth, you goddamn bitch.” He made a motion with both hands. “Give me that hatchet!”
She pressed her elbows close to her sides to keep her arms from trembling. “Where do you want it? In the heart or the stomach?”
“You don’t have the courage of a weevil.” He took a step toward her. “We both know that. I fucked you and threw you away. You thought you were the only black wench I lay with?” He grinned, blood running from his mouth. “You were the only one who thought I loved you. Black or white, the others knew better. Then you ran away. Making me chase you through two states.”
Tea and Tomahawks Page 6