Nicky tried forcing her name out of his mouth with all his might—with Superboy power. “Sar—ah!” Once again, it came out choppy and crooked, but at least it sounded a little louder than what he’d managed before.
Not loud enough, though . . . Sarah still wasn’t moving. Her head was still flopped over, like a rag doll’s.
Feeling lonelier than he’d ever felt in his life, Nicky lifted his head, looked up to the stars, and sobbed, “Mama! Mama, please, please come and get me. Please, Momma.”
Somebody had to save them. Someone had to come. He didn’t care if the whole school heard him crying. If every boy in his class teased him for the rest of his life, he didn’t care. As long as someone came and got them out of the mud. Came to save Sarah first, then him. She was smaller, and she was a girl, so he’d go second. It was only right that she’d go first.
Nicky thought of his mother and wept even harder. He wanted so much to believe, so much to wish that she was out in the swamps looking for him. That she was the first one in a mega line of people who were hunting, searching for a little boy and a little girl. But no matter how hard he tried to imagine it, the only thing Nicky saw in his mind’s eyes was his mother lying on the couch, a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam on the coffee table beside her, and the slack face of drunk.
As Nicky lowered his head, wishing his hands were free so he could wipe the snot from his nose, he heard a loud PLOP! in the mud near his feet. After the plopping sound, all he heard was ka-thunk . . . ka-thunk . . . ka-thunk in his ears. It felt as if his heart had moved from his chest to his head, and it wasn’t allowing him to hear anything else but its rapid beat. Fear felt like a burrowing animal in the pit of his stomach.
Wanna be Superboy . . . need to be Superboy . . . mama . . .
He squinted and strained his eyes to see what might have fallen in with him. Even with the light from the massive moon, there were so many shadows everywhere that they overlapped to make more darkness.
Nicky felt the weight of movement over his legs.
He caught the glimpse of something . . . something silver? But not silver.
It moved up the length of his legs in a curling, wiggling, sliding motion. If he turned his head just right, Nicky was able to see mud stirring around his knees. He bowed his head and leaned forward slowly as far as he could. He didn’t have to lean very far before he saw an arrow-shaped head slither over the top of his thighs, heading for his face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sook aimed a pair of tweezers at the cut just below Poochie’s left eye.“Sugah, you wigglin’ like a worm fixin’ to be stuck up on a hook shaft. If you don’t hold still, I’m gonna wind up pokin’ your eye plumb out. Now put your head back and be still so I can get a good look see.”
Sitting in her scooter, Poochie tsked and leaned her head back against the top of the seat. “I don’t know what you poking around in dere for. I tol’ you I took all de glass out last night.”
“I just wanna check and make sure.”
Poochie sputtered through pursed lips, then closed her eyes and let Sook get on with her business. She’d been lucky. The night before when the light fixture had exploded right above her, Poochie’d had the good sense to shut her eyes a half-second before the shards of glass rained down over her. She hadn’t been able to move out of the way fast enough, though, to escape total damage. Tiny slivers of glass had jabbed her in the face; the two worst being in her forehead and in her left cheek. It felt as if she’d been pelted with bb’s.
The second after the light fixture had shattered, Angelle and Dunny had sprung into action. Angelle had raced off for a pair of tweezers, then hurried back began plucking out glass slivers. As she operated, Dunny stood watch with a dishtowel, dabbing specks of blood as they appeared. Funny thing was not one of them questioned the explosion. They hadn’t even talked about. It was as if they understood collectively that whatever was in the house had overheard their plans to find the children--specifically after Poochie had mentioned that she’d suspected finding the kids might cause a chain reaction that would send the spirits back to where they belonged. Evidently, those spirits didn’t want anything to do with being sent back, and Poochie figured the shattering light fixture had been another attempt to scare them away from their plans. How wrong they were. If anything, it made Poochie more determined than ever to put an end to all of this nonsense.
After spending the night huddled together in Angelle’s bed so they could watch over one another, the three women had gone through the motions of breakfast with very little appetite. Trevor had made it home about seven forty-five, looking like something that had been dragged behind an eighteen-wheeler for twelve hours. He didn’t even comment on the fact that they no longer had a kitchen light fixture or say a word about the small cuts on Poochie’s face—if he’d even noticed either at all.All he’d done was sit at the table, shovel in his breakfast, and gripe. In between bites of scrambled eggs and biscuits, Trevor had grumbled about having to work the three to eleven shift today, which meant he’d get only five hours of sleep before having to run back to the plant. Angelle, obviously trying to play nice after the spat they’d had the night before, had offered a few commiserative comments, but Trevor had been in such a foul mood, her words only solicited another argument.
No sooner had Trevor stormed off to bed than Angelle and Dunny began making plans to commandeer Bullet later that afternoon, after Trevor left for work. Poochie had been in the middle of trying to talk them out of going into the swamp alone—again, when Sook called, asking her to come down to the Bloody Bucket and lend a hand. Fearing that Angelle and Dunny might head out to the swamp despite her warning, or even worse, leave without her if they decided to really go, Poochie had been hesitant to agree. The fact that neither Angelle or Dunny could take the boat as long as Trevor was home had offered a little reassurance, but not much. As soon as the women had dropped Poochie off at the Bucket, which had only been a little over an hour ago, she’d been fidgety with worry. No telling what those two girls were up to left to themselves like that.
Poochie had promised Sook she’d stay at the Bucket until two, but right now she was so uneasy, so nervous, it felt like ants and collected under her skin and were scurrying about. She wished she’d told Sook no and stayed with Angelle and Dunny instead. Something was going to happen. Poochie felt it in her bones—under her skin—in the very roots of her hair. The problem was she didn’t know what that something was or where it was going to happen, or when, how, or to whom, which made her want to be everywhere at once.
Everywhere at once meant next to Trevor, even though he was probably still drooling on his pillow right about now—with Angelle and Dunny—even with Sook and Vern, even though they were only distant relatives by marriage. That was the problem with being the oldest in a family, especially the matriarchal root. The need to protect the family flock was inherent, but hard to do when your body was sliding into the shitter at warped speed.
“What happened to you?”
Poochie opened her eyes and saw Cherokee standing in front of her. The poker face he normally kept well intact had slipped aside, revealing concern. “Looks like you’ve been in a cat fight.”
“Non, not no cat.” Poochie flinched, “Ay-ii!” and batted Sook’s hand away. “Stop dat!”
“Sorry ‘bout that. I’m just tryin’ to help.”
“How? By peeling off de rest of my face?”
“It looked like a piece a glass.”
“Dat was skin, cuckoo! Now leave dat alone like I said!”
Sook threw up her hands and stepped back. She shook her head “All right, you go right on and be hard-headed then. It’s your own business. But you needa think on it twice before you go climbin’ up on another stepladder again. Leave the light bulb changin’ to Trevor, you hear?”
Poochie made a pfft sound and waved her away. The stepladder-light bulb story had been a bold-face lie, and lying was something she rarely, if ever, did. She was always afraid of the repercuss
ions. If a person lied, they got a lie back, or the lie told would end up coming true. Under the circumstances, though, Poochie figured God would understand the need for the fib. She’d given her word to Dunny and Angelle not to tell a soul about what they’d shared, and as far as she reckoned, there was no way to tell the story about the light fixture without discussing all the details that made it happen. And Poochie didn’t trust her brain not to slip up if she tried to tell part of the truth mixed in with part of the lie. Best to keep things simple.
“You were changing a light bulb?” Cherokee asked. He tipped his hat back, and his dark eyes glinted with mischief.
“What? You don’t think I can change me a light bulb? You bes’ think again. Jus’ ‘cause I’m old don’t mean nothing but I might gotta do it a bit slower den you, dat’s all. Me, I can for sure change a stupid bulb.” She harrumphed, then gave him a stern side glance, wanting to reiterate the seriousness of the matter.
“So I see.”
“You see, huh?” Poochie pursed her lips and bobbed her head slowly. “Tell me what you see den. What you was doing over to Angelle and Trevor’s house last night? Dunny tol’ me she saw you out by de bayou.”
Cherokee’s grin faltered. He pulled the tip of his hat back down with a finger, then turned away and headed for the swinging doors that lead to the bar.
“Where you think you goin’?” she called after him.
He didn’t respond, his black coat swishing gently against the back of his black jeans.
“Hol’ up,” Poochie called again. When he didn’t turn back, she cranked up her scooter and hurried after him. He made it into the bar before she could reach him, so she butted the doors open with the nose of the scooter. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim room, but she soon spotted him settling into a chair at his favorite table. She shook her finger at him. “Don’t you think you can jus’ run off and ignore me, non.”
“Who spit in your Cheerios?” Vern asked. He was wiping down the bar, moving ashtrays, saltshakers, and napkin dispensers around like someone was timing him with a stopwatch.
Pork Chop was perched on a stool across from Vern, Bud Light in one hand and a bowl of chili in front of him. He snorted. “What’re you talkin’ about? Poochie spits in ‘er own cereal.”
She whirled her scooter about. “Guess dat’s better den pissing in my own boots like you, huh, Pork Chop?”
Vern guffawed.
Pork Chop grumbled. “Ain’t funny.”
Poochie turned her attention back to Cherokee. “You gonna tell me, or you gonna make me sit here all day waiting for you mout’ to move?”
Cherokee sat back, stretching his long legs out in front of him. The grin on his face clearly said, “And what if I do?”
“Quit bustin’ his chops, Pooch,” Vern said.
“I’m not bustin’ nothing, me. I asked de man a question, and he won’t give me no answer.”
“Then there’s your answer. The man don’t wanna talk.” Vern aimed his chin at Cherokee. “I got some chili out back in the kitchen. Want some?”
“Sounds good,” Cherokee said. “Coke, too.”
Poochie gave Cherokee a stern look. She intended to have the last word, even if no more words were spoken.
He winked at her and grinned.
With a tsk, Poochie aimed her scooter for the bar and Vern. “And you, you, how come you rushing around like you drawer’s on fire?”
“Gotta get outta here while there’s still light.” Vern flipped the cleaning rag over his right shoulder. “Since Iberville ain’t sendin’ no more dep’ties to hunt for them lost kids, Barry Ancelet and me’s takin’ one of my boats to go look for them out by the back passes. Can’t keep sittin’ here hopin’ they’ll turn up."
“Hoping who turns up?” Beeno Leger pushed through the bar doors. He was dressed in his gray police uniform with its frayed cuffs and shiny black shoes. His salt and pepper hair was slicked back with enough oil to fry a batch of chicken gizzards. The man’s head had always reminded Poochie of a football that sat aslant on a trophy stand. The point of his crown and chin were so prominent, it obscured the rest of his face. Prop that head on a pudgy body and you had an overweight Barney Fife with a birth defect.
“Them two kids,” Vern said. “Gettin’ ready to go out to Slack Lake to look for ‘em. Don’t think anybody’s been out that far yet.”
“Figured you was heading out. Saw your boat hitched to your truck out front.” Beeno walked over to the bar and claimed a stool next to Pork Chop. “No use going out that far, though. We already been out there, even ran the dogs. Nothing.”
“Y’all tried the Flats?” Pork Chop asked. “Out by Turtle Bayou?”
“Yeah. Even had divers work Whiskey Bay.”
“What about Rooster Shoot and Gro-beck Point?” Vern asked.
“Iberville guys went out there day before yesterday. Still nothing.” Beeno motioned towards the bowl sitting in front of Pork Chop. “Chili?”
“Yeah.”
“Caught a whiff of it when I was driving by. Thought I’d stop in for a bite before going over to Woodard’s place.”
“What’s de matter wit’ de preacher?” Poochie asked.
Beeno gave her a side-way glance, then did a double take. “What happened to you?”
“Huh?”
“Your face.”
“Oh.” Poochie touched her forehead absently, then swatted the air with a hand. “Nothing. Ran myself into a light bulb, dat’s all. Now what you was sayin’ about goin’ to Woodard’s?”
Beeno shrugged as if the whole matter was nothing but a bother and he had better things to do. “I don’t know, said somebody made a mess in his church last night. Probably kids out pulling a prank.”
Poochie sighed. “Yeah, mais we know for sure what two kids wasn’t out dere fooling around in de man’s church.” She shook her head and tsked softly. “You know, it’s a sin and a shame, yeah. I been meanin’ to go back and see Larissa Trahan. You know, Nicky’s mama? She was tore up bad de day her boy went missin’. I need to go back dere and see how dat poor woman’s makin’ out.”
“Don’t bother,” Beeno said. He nodded a thanks to Vern, who’d placed a bowl of chili in front of him. “Larissa left town.”
“Left?” Poochie asked, dumbstruck.
“You’re shittin’ me!” Vern gaped at Beeno.
“Nope,” Beeno said. “Went out there the other morning to get one of Nicky’s shirts for the track dogs and the neighbor said she’d left. Had a suitcase with her and everything. Didn’t say where she was going, and nobody knows where she went.”
“What kind of woman leaves town without knowing where her kids are?” Cherokee asked, his voice rumbling deep and low with incredulity and disgust. Even though he was cloaked in shadows, Poochie sensed his body tensing with anger.
“A drunk one, I s’pose,” Beeno said. “I guess the stress of Nicky being gone was too much for the alcohol to handle, so she took off. Who knows?”
“Man, that ain’t right,” Pork Chop said. He shoveled a spoonful of chili into his mouth, then immediately spat it back into the bowl, sending a shower of spattering meat sauce across the counter. “Ughh!”
“Je-sus Christmas!” Beeno jumped up, checking his shirt and the front of his uniform pants for splatter.
“What the hell’d you do that for, Pork Chop?” Vern asked.
Porkchop swiped his tongue with a napkin, then gagged out, “Tasted funny.”
“Damn, boy, kill a man’s appetite, why don’t you?” Beeno said, his face screwed up with revulsion. He stuck a hand in his pocket, pulled out a couple of dollars and threw them on the counter. “Remind me not to sit by your nasty-ass next time I come in here to eat, a’ight?” He stormed out of the bar, shoving against the swinging doors so hard they bounced back and nearly hit him in the face.
Vern slapped a hand on the counter and leaned towards Pork Chop. “There ain’t a damn thing wrong with that chili, and you know it. I had me a bo
wl earlier, and it tastes fine, like it always tastes.”
Pork Chop was too busy guzzling beer to respond.
Shaking his head, Vern untied the half-apron he’d been wearing and tossed it behind the counter. “I swear, man, you ‘bout as dumbass as dumbass gets.” He rounded the counter and motioned to Cherokee. “Bar’s all yours, buddy. Keep dumbass there out from behind here while I’m gone, okay? I should be back by suppertime.”
“No problem.” Cherokee said, and got to his feet.
Pork Chop slammed his beer can down on the bar. “Hey, where you get off callin’ me a dumbass? I’m a payin’ customer.”
Vern stopped in mid-stride and eyed him. “My bar, my business. ‘Sides, you got a tab bigger’n my house mortgage. When you pay it, then you get to be a customer. ‘Til then, you a dumbass.” With that, he stormed off towards the swinging doors.
Feeling a sudden, unexplainable arc of panic when Poochie saw Vern heading out of the bar, she trailed after him in her scooter. “Hol’ up. Why you still going out dere? Beeno said dey checked everywhere already.”
“In case they missed somethin’.” Vern said, then with a wave of his hand, disappeared beyond the doors.
As Poochie watched the doors wobble to a close, a picture abruptly filled her mind’s eye. It made her shudder, stole her breath. She whirled her scooter about. “Pork Chop, you need to come and take me over to my house right now.”
Pork Chop cocked his head, gave her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. “What I look like to you, a taxi?”
“What’s wrong, Poochie?” Cherokee asked, having already taken his place behind the bar.
“Don’t know yet.” She zipped her scooter over to Pork Chop and slammed a fist down on his left knee. “I said you gonna take me to my house, and you gonna take me right now!”
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