by Sala, Sharon
Julie wrinkled her nose. “Brendan brought me ice cream. It was good. Do you think there will be ice cream?”
“If there’s not, I’ll get you some,” Kay said.
“Thank you,” Julie said, then closed her eyes. She hated this hopeless, helpless feeling. She hated that her life was so out of control.
As the nurse walked out, her father walked in.
“Are you okay?”
She combed shaky fingers through her hair, wishing for a band to make a ponytail.
“It was a dream. It’s over for now.”
“Is there anything I can get for you?”
“See if there’s a ponytail band in my things. I want this hair up.”
Happy to do something constructive, he opened the mini-closet, only to realize she didn’t have any clothes. That’s when he remembered they’d brought her in naked, and took a deep breath before shutting the door. He then searched through the drawer by her bed and found the one they’d taken from her hair in a small plastic tub with a brush and comb.
“Here’s one.”
“Thank you,” she said, as she pulled the hair back and fastened it off. “That feels so much better.”
“Anything else?”
“Where’s Brendan?”
“He went home. Said his brothers had to leave and he needed to get back to his mother and sister.”
Julie sighed. “Poor Bren. All the women in his life are suddenly helpless.”
He frowned. He didn’t like how Julie automatically included herself into Brendan’s family circle.
“We’re here for you,” he said.
“Yes. I know.” She hesitated and then added more forcefully. “I need to talk to Brendan.”
Grayson sighed. “Do you want to use my phone?”
“I’ll just use that one,” she said.
He handed it to her then started to sit down when he realized she would be wanting some privacy.
“If you’ll be okay for a few minutes, I’m going to go down the hall to the waiting room and get a Dr. Pepper. Would you like one, honey? It’s your favorite.”
“Yes, that would be great.”
Julie waited until her father was gone, then got an outside line and dialed Brendan’s number, waiting anxiously for the sound of his voice. She still felt tense inside and anxious—like someone was just out of sight, waiting to jump out of the shadows and grab her.
****
Brendan heated up the rest of the barbeque for the girls’ supper and was nursing a cup of coffee as they ate. Linny was unusually quiet, and both Delle and Brendan noticed. He arched an eyebrow at his mother, who shrugged and took a quick sip of iced tea.
He slid the coffee cup off to the side and then tapped the table with his spoon. As soon as he did, Linny looked up.
“Queen Belinda, I am concerned by your silence. I pray you are not ill.”
She shrugged. “I’m not sick,” she said and swiped a French fry through ketchup.
“Do you have something you want to talk about?” he asked.
She nodded, but didn’t follow through.
“So, you’ll never get an answer until you ask. What’s up, sugar?”
She took a quick breath then blurted it out without looking up from her plate. “What happened to Juliette?”
Delle quickly wiped her hands. “What do you mean, Linny? I told you she got hurt when the fire started.”
Linny’s frown deepened as she looked up. “Did she get burned?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Bren said. “The bar was empty before it caught fire.”
Linny picked a piece of meat off a rib with her fingers and popped it in her mouth, then dropped a small bombshell as she chewed.
“I heard the news.”
Brendan sighed. Shit.
Delle’s expression stilled. Linny was too young for such ugliness, yet it was the world into which she’d been born.
“What did you hear?” Delle asked.
“A bad man kidnapped her and hurt her before she got saved.”
Brendan scooted his chair closer to where she was sitting.
“The good news is that she’s safe,” he said and patted her arm.
“The news man said she was hurt bad.”
Delle leaned forward. “Belinda, exactly what did you hear?”
“That she nearly died. Is that true?”
Delle sighed. She didn’t lie to her children, but there were times when telling the whole truth wasn’t necessary.
“No, they said that wrong. The truth is that she could have died if the police hadn’t found her when they did. But she was talking to them and everything when they took her to the hospital, right, Bren?”
“That’s true, Linny. I talked to her myself the whole time they were putting medicine on her arms and legs.”
Linny looked up, tears welling in her eyes.
“Did she cry?”
“Yeah, baby, but then, so did I. It made me sad that someone had hurt her.”
The tears in his little sister’s eyes welled and rolled down her cheeks.
Brendan groaned. “Don’t cry. It hurts my heart when you cry. Come here and hug my neck.”
Linny shoved her plate aside and went from her chair to Brendan’s lap.
He wrapped his arms around her as she crawled up on her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him hard.
“Now that’s what I call a good hug,” he said softly, patting her bony little back.
Delle got up and left the kitchen. When she came back, she was carrying Rabbit.
“You’ve had a really big day, honey. Why don’t you and Rabbit go brush your teeth and get ready for bed? I’ll come tuck you in later.”
Brendan kissed her cheek and gave her backside a little pat.
“Good night, honey. Sleep tight and don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
Linny tuck Rabbit under her arm and slid off her brother’s lap, giggling as she tried to dodge his hand.
And just like that, the trauma of what she’d overheard had passed. She’d think about it again, for sure, but in her mind, the worst was over because the people she trusted most has made it okay.
Brendan envied the naiveté of her youth and began cleaning up the kitchen as Delle put her to bed. He was washing the last of the dishes when his cell phone rang. When he saw the call was from the hospital, he had a moment of panic as he quickly dried his hands. What if Julie was worse? By the time he answered, his gut was in a knot.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Bren.”
Relief washed through him. “Julie! Sweetheart! It’s so good to hear your voice.”
“I just wanted you to know I’m not feeling so crazy.”
“Thank God. Are your parents there?”
“Dad is, but he’s gone to get us something to drink.”
“Everything okay between you two?”
“It’s good enough. I’m going to be a long time getting past what was said to both of us.”
“Don’t make me a part of that relationship. You do what you have to do. You have to get right with your parents, but I don’t care if they never like me.”
“But I’ll care, Bren. Every thought I have of growing old has you right there with me.”
He was so touched by what she said that he had to make it a joke or start crying. “Growing old, huh? Am I old and fat in those thoughts?” He waited, then heard a slight giggle.
“And bald,” she added.
Brendan laughed. “Now that’s something to look forward to.”
“I’ll still love you, no matter what,” she said softly.
“Now you know what I meant when I told you it didn’t matter what you looked like. Do you get it now?”
She sighed. “I get it. So, what are you doing tomorrow?”
“Finding Count LeGrande. Job hunting. Going to see you. Staying busy so I won’t think about the fact that Mom and Linny have decided to go back to Anson.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sor
ry.”
“It is what it is. It’s not my place to tell Mom how to live her life, you know?”
“Yes, I know.”
“I’m not sure of the time, but I’ll be there with you tomorrow, okay?”
“It’s always okay. I love you,” Julie said.
“I love you, too. I’m so glad you called.”
She hung up the phone and then lay back and closed her eyes, thinking of Brendan old and fat and bald. She was still smiling when her daddy came back.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Growing old,” she said.
“What?”
“Never mind,” she said and reached for the Dr. Pepper.
The can was cold and wet with condensation. She held it to her forehead and then her cheek, savoring the cold against her hot, achy flesh before taking a drink.
“It’s good. Thank you, Daddy.”
Thankful to be in her good graces again, Grayson beamed.
“You are so welcome.”
Chapter Thirteen
Anson spent the whole afternoon making the rounds of his marijuana fields, then moved on to the bamboo in the shed and watered the ones already potted. They had a shipment ready to go out tomorrow to a wholesale flower market in Louisville, and that driver was always on time.
But the whole time he was working, he was thinking of his cash crop. Keeping thieves out of the marijuana patches was an ongoing problem. Someone was still helping themselves to a big armload of plants about once every six weeks, which pissed him off to no end. He’d already tried to get Sam and Chance to stand guard in order to catch them in the act, but they’d both refused point blank.
He kept on working with the bamboo, potting the new canes that were rooting and watering the order that was ready to go. He never noticed the evening coming to a close, or that the sun had already set. One minute, he’d been checking off an invoice and the next time he looked up, it was dusk. By the time he had everything packed, it was dark.
The swamp was alive with everything from crickets to the boom of bull gators—even the croak of tiny tree frogs were making their presence known. When the swamp suddenly went silent, he knew a bigger predator must be about.
The shriek of a panther a good distance away was followed by the howl of someone’s dog, but it didn’t faze him. He walked with his head up and his shoulders back, moving with the confidence of a man who was certain the world was more afraid of him than he was of the world.
He was almost to the back door when something on the doorstep caught his eye. He paused, wishing he had his flashlight, then remembered the penlight on his key ring. He aimed the weak beam toward the step and stopped, staring in disbelief at a tiny black coffin. The hair crawled on the back of his neck as he leaned down for a closer look. There was a picture of his face and a kitchen match on top of it.
Lisette’s little visit to Mama Lou via the voodoo express had just arrived, and it never occurred to him she would be responsible. She had already spilled her guts about him to the cops and been told his alibi was airtight. Certainly, she would then have assumed any countless number of others could have caused the fire. So what was this about? No one knew a—
He stood abruptly as a dark scowl crossed his face.
One man knew.
Voltaire LeDeux.
His scowl deepened. This was something he would never have suspected from Voltaire. Although he lived under the radar of everyone and everything, it had to be him. There was no one else who could have fingered him. The question now was what did he do about it? He felt a little uneasy that he’d been cursed, but refused to let it get under his skin. He wouldn’t accept that mere words, a fake coffin, and some chicken blood could make a man die. He kept staring down at the coffin, his mind racing, and then all of a sudden, it hit him. The scheme was so brilliant that he actually laughed out loud.
He picked up the coffin as casually as if it had been a jar of jelly someone left as a gift and carried it into the house, turning on lights as he went. He knew March’s men would be watching for them to mark the time he’d come inside. He dropped his picture in the trash, put the match and coffin in a small plastic bag, and then made himself a sandwich and a beer as if nothing had happened.
With an eye on the clock, he went upstairs, returning a few minutes later wearing hunting boots and dressed completely in black. He’d smeared his face with chimney soot to hide his identity, even though he didn’t plan on being seen, buckled on his holster and pistol, pocketed the baggie with the coffin, grabbed a flashlight, and slipped out the back door. If everything went according to plan, he’d be rid of every monkey on his back, including March’s guards, before the night was over.
It was almost two miles as the crow flies from Wisteria Hill to Voltaire’s hidey-hole in the bayou, and every bit of it rough going, but Anson didn’t have enough sense to be scared. He was too focused on payback to worry about snakes and gators.
He slipped through the woods on the north side of his property and headed for the road. The first thing he needed was to eyeball March’s guards. He knew where they parked and needed to make sure they were there.
He strode through the woods without worrying about being quiet, confident the city boys would be sitting with their windows rolled up and the air conditioner on. When he caught a glimmer of moonlight on the car they had backed up in the trees, he smiled. The first part of his plan was in place.
At that point, he took a sharp right and headed east at a trot, staying deep under cover. The mosquitoes were out in full force, swarming around his head, in his ears, even up his nose. He swiped them away and kept going, gaining confidence with every step. When he came to the first creek, he pulled out his flashlight and swept the area. No need asking for trouble by stepping on a snake, or even worse, walking up on some panther getting a drink. The creek was clear.
Even though the water was nearly up to his knees, he waded through it in four long strides and came out on the other side in a leap. Once he figured out how far he’d come, he shifted direction to the northeast and kept moving.
The undergrowth was thick, but timing was of the essence and kept his stride long and strong. He was about three-quarters of a mile from Voltaire’s place when he heard a hound bay and then another answer farther south. Someone was hunting. He didn’t want to run into them on the way back, and made note to change his return route.
Sweat was pouring from his hair and down through the soot he’d rubbed on his face, but he didn’t dare wipe it off for fear of removing the disguise, so instead of a dark face, it was now striped. His clothes were sweat-soaked, as wet as the socks in his boots. It had been a long time since he’d done anything this physical.
He walked into a spider web and spent a few moments slapping at his head and clothes to make sure he wasn’t crawling with spiders. Something swooped across his line of vision on soundless wings, most likely an owl. He heard the dogs again, signaling the fact they’d struck trail. They were closing in on their prey and so was he.
He came up on Voltaire’s shanty almost before he knew it, then stopped short to survey the clearing. There was lamp light on the far side of the tiny house, which reminded him there was no electricity on the premises. Even better for what he intended.
He pulled the plastic bag out of his pocket and started moving toward the front door in a stealth-like stride. When an owl suddenly hooted from a nearby tree, Anson froze. Knowing Voltaire, he would read that as a warning and moved faster, needing to get the set-up in place before it was too late.
He was almost at the front door when he caught a glimpse of the lamp light moving through the house.
Son of a bitch.
He ran the rest of the way in an all-out lope. With only seconds between him and the lamp light, he set the tiny coffin and the match on the top step and then turned tail and ran as fast as he could into the trees.
He was already there when he heard the squeak of the hinges and watched as Voltaire opened the door. Anson
saw the lamp and a vague silhouette of the man behind it and held his breath, waiting for Voltaire to step out.
To Anson’s dismay, Voltaire came outside without seeing the coffin, then walked out into the yard just far enough to reassure himself there was no one there. It wasn’t until he started to go back inside that he must have seen what was on the step.
The scream that came out of Voltaire’s mouth was sheer panic. Anson watched him stumbling backward, tripping, and then dropping the lamp. Lamp oil spilled out onto the ground and took fire, highlighting the tiny coffin even more. Voltaire was on his knees throwing dirt onto the fire, when all of a sudden the match on the coffin that was a few feet away suddenly flared and caught fire, as well.
Voltaire began frantically throwing dirt onto the lamp fire, and then on the coffin, desperate to keep the fire from spreading to the tinder-dry wood of his little house.
Anson could hear him bawling and praying out loud as he vaulted over the smoking coffin and into his house, then slammed the door behind him.
Now it was Anson who took a nervous step back. That match was too far away from the fire to have started from the heat, so how did it catch fire all by itself?
Then he shook off the thought. It didn’t matter. He’d done what he needed to do. The first phase of his plan had just been put in place, so he took off running.
****
Parker and Roberts were tired of chasing after Poe. It was their personal opinion that the man was way too smart to do anything that would get him caught. It was embarrassing that Poe had the balls to use them as his alibi when Frenchie’s burned. But, March signed their paychecks and a job was a job. The worst part now was the all-night stakeouts. Nothing ever happened, which made them boring as hell.
They’d decided early on in the beginning to take turns sleeping, and tonight was Parker’s turn to take first watch. He would wake Roberts at 1:00 a.m., then sack out in the back seat until daybreak. March had mentioned putting two other men on day watch and leaving the night shift to them, but it had yet to happen.
Parker downed the last of his coffee while watching a fat possum waddle across the road. They were weird-looking creatures, that when threatened, often played dead—unless, of course, someone got too close or tried to handle them and then they would bite—something like Anson Poe—lying low beneath the law’s radar, but way mean enough to bite if messed with.