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Bitch Factor – Chapter 15 – PLUS a Free Book

CHAPTER 15

Hell is a hard cot in a cold motel room, Dixie decided, pulling the scratchy wool blanket around her neck. The heating system moaned and clanked, doing its damnedest to pump warm air through the vents, but the tempest howling past the windows challenged the aging mechanism beyond its limits. Dixie had slept nearly seven hours. She could easily sleep another seven if only she could get warm and comfortable.

Scooting lower on the cot, she heard a rip and felt the canvas give way under her butt. A knife of cold air promptly stabbed her through the tear. Terrific.

She shifted her weight gingerly to elbows and heels, pushed herself toward the top of the cot, and held her breath as she settled. With the rip no longer under the heaviest part of her body, the canvas might hold.

Punching her pillow into a fluffier lump, she looked across the room to where Parker Dann was stretched out on the bed, snoring. Comfortable, no doubt, on his innerspring mattress. And warm. The only place to cuff him securely had turned out to be the bed’s curved iron headboard, its vertical bars strong and firmly welded in place.

Funny how bright the room was for just past midnight. The raging snow outside the windows reflected red light from the motel’s NO VACANCY sign. Dixie wriggled sideways to avoid an aluminum side bar and slowly relaxed her muscles, listening for the sound of fabric tearing… heard only the creak of the cot’s frame rocking beneath her… and drifted off to sleep.

Three hours later she awoke with her midsection wedged through the rip in the canvas, her frozen rump nearly dragging the pine floor. Flailing her arms, she groped for something to grab hold of to pull herself out; the canvas had trapped her just below the arms and above the knees. She must look like a giant bug tipped on its back, she thought, cursing softly and feeling a flash of empathy for the Kafka character who awoke as a giant cockroach.

She glanced at Dann. He was sitting up, leaning against the pillow-padded headboard and wearing his cocky grin, a twinkle of malice in his blue eyes.

“Merry Christmas! Be happy to lend a hand, only…” He rattled the handcuff along the iron bar where it was fastened. “Afraid I’m temporarily inconvenienced.”

“Perhaps you’d be less inconvenienced sleeping in the backseat of the Mustang. Or in that claw-foot bathtub.” Dixie swallowed her anger. It wasn’t Dann’s fault he had the more comfortable bed. She had actually considered cuffing him to a bathtub faucet knob, but there was no way he could’ve wormed his big frame into a sleeping position, and staying awake all night, he might’ve figured a way to get the knob off. From where she sat now, her decision needed reconsideration.

Pushing at the sides of the cot with her upper arms, she managed to gain enough leverage to pull herself out of the hole. She rose stiffly and stumbled to the bathroom. Splashed a handful of icy water on her face. Wiped it dry on a thin terry towel with faded yellow flowers.

Through the bathroom door, she heard bed springs creak as Dann shifted positions, and she knew he could hear the rush of water as she emptied her bladder. Never had she been in such intimate circumstances with a prisoner. She didn’t like it.

Emerging from the bathroom, she found he had turned on a reading lamp and was playing solitaire with a dog-eared deck of red Bicycle cards. The air had warmed up some and the wind had quieted down. In a partially open drawer of the bedside table she saw a scratch pad, pencils, a box of dominoes, and a book of crossword puzzles alongside the empty playing-card box. Apparently, Sisseton wasn’t brimming with tourist attractions.

Dann scooped up the cards and shuffled them.

“I suppose, sooner or later, the prisoner will get a turn at using the facilities,” he said. “Or did you carry in my Mountain Spring Water bottle?”

Dixie massaged a kink in her neck as she considered the wisdom of uncuffing him. He was smart enough to bide his time until he saw the perfect opportunity to escape, but she didn’t expect that would happen until they were out of the storm and into a more populated area, where he’d have a chance of melting into a crowd. Glancing out the window, she noticed it had stopped snowing and ambled over to look out.

“Holy hell,” she whispered.

Snowdrifts swooped and dipped across the landscape, level with the knotty pine windowsills. One drift completely covered the motel office entrance. Similar drifts barricaded the doors to the other cabins.

Dixie strode to their own door, twisted the lock, and pulled. For a moment it resisted; then she heard a sucking noise and the door swung free to reveal a wall of solid snow.

Packed tight.

Not a chink of sky showing anywhere. There were snowed in.

Frigid air curled into the room from the white barrier.

Why doesn’t it cave in? She touched a tentative hand to the center of the mass. A fist-size section tumbled to the floor. She shut the door quickly.

“Looks of that, we’ll be here all day, maybe another night,” Dann said.

Dixie strode to the window, an old-fashioned casement like the ones at home. A metal storm window was mounted outside it. She opened the toggle locks and pushed upward.

Stuck.

“Probably frozen,” Dann offered cheerfully. “Be surprised if these old windows were airtight.”

Dixie banged on the casement and tried to raise it, but it held firm. Ice had caked around the ropes and pulleys. What she needed was a crowbar.

“Sort of like being in jail,” Dann said, “only more comfortable.”

She could pry the window open and…

And what? Surely Buck and Emma Sparks had a back door to their house and tools for dealing with this sort of thing. It was three-thirty a.m., too early for the Sparkses to be awake.

“We won’t be going anywhere for a while,” Dann said. “Might as well get comfortable.”

The Mustang made a hump in the snow, its chrome side mirrors all that distinguished it from other humps, probably shrubs. Eventually, she would have to dig the car out, but until snowplows came through there’d be no place to go. Dann was right. She might as well relax until daylight, when the Sparkses would be up and around. It galled her, though, being trapped.

Behind her she could hear Dann shuffling the cards.

“Gin?” He had smoothed the chenille bedspread and had dealt two hands, the deck centered between them, a discard face-up. Catching Dixie’s eye, he wiggled his heavy brows so comically she almost smiled.

What the hell. They’d get through the day a lot easier if they were both comfortable. Might as well start by letting Dann wash up.

She picked up her keys from the windowsill where she’d laid them the night before and tossed them to Dann. So far he’d been a model prisoner, but she wasn’t about to get close enough for him to hook one of those tree-limb arms around her neck.

While he worked the handcuff lock awkwardly with his left hand, she retrieved the .45 from the floor beside the cot, took the gun’s magazine from her pocket, shoved it in place, and sat down in one of the wooden chairs. When Dann had freed himself, she held out her hand for the keys.

“Five minutes,” she said.

“Right. We’re on a tight schedule here.”

“You need more time than that, maybe we’ll get a doctor in to check you over, see if you’re getting enough fiber in your diet.”

“Flannigan, we got a bathroom here with no window, no sharp objects, no chemicals to build a bomb — on the off chance that I knew how to build a bomb. I’m flattered you think I’m so crafty, but short of stopping up the plumbing, I don’t think I can create much chaos in there.”

“Four and a half minutes.”

He shot her a dark look and slammed the door.

Dixie laid the gun and keys on the table. She emptied a packet of coffee in the automatic dripolator positioned on a pine shelf that served as a sideboard. Having filled it with water the night before, she now plugged it in. She inspected two cups for spiders. The pot gurgled, filling the air with a rich coffee aroma.

Scooping up one of the gin rummy hands — two aces; king, ten, and three of hearts; five of spades; deuce of clubs — she thought about checking out the other hand, wondered if Dann had already seen it, and before she could make up her mind, the bathroom door opened. Drops of water clung to the front of Dann’s dark hair. His shirttail was tucked in neatly. Being shut in together would be less frustrating, she realized, if Dann weren’t so obviously male.

She tossed him the keys. “You’ll have to double-lock the cuffs to keep them from tightening down as you move.”

“Ah, yes. ‘Trust not the deviant mind, though it be dulled by sloth or drink or age; ’tis nonetheless twisted and therefore… treacherous.’ Better lock me up, Flannigan. No telling how much mayhem I’d cause if allowed to move about freely.”

“Fancy yourself an intellectual, do you, Dann?”

He bounced the keys a few inches into the air, watched them clink back into his palm.

“A student, Flannigan. Merely a student of life.”

“Especially when you’re a few hours in the bottle, right?”

He flushed, which surprised her. Most drunks she’d known were hardened to criticism about their drinking, always certain they had it under control. She must have hit a nerve.

He bounced the keys in his hand again, making no move toward the handcuff.

“Being chained to this bed might make sense if there were somewhere for me to go. How far you think I’d get with four feet of snow on the ground?”

Dixie couldn’t argue the four feet of snow.

“I don’t cotton to spending another day and night cramped up with one arm anchored to that friggin headboard.”

Better than a cot with no canvas. Dixie sympathized, but she couldn’t let Dann roam freely about the cabin. He probably had a whole bag of tricks she hadn’t seen yet. She aimed the .45 at his kneecap.

Bunching his fist around the keys, he pointed to the phone.

“Say I did get free. Call the sheriff. A snowmobile would run me down in no time.”

With each word, she could see his anger mounting.

“Dann, you’ll be a damn sight less comfortable with a busted leg.”

“And you’d have some explaining to do. Listen to how quiet it is out there. Think that gunshot won’t ring out all over the countryside?”

Dixie reached behind her. The gun never wavering, she pulled the wool blanket off her cot and wrapped it around her gun hand.

“Now nobody will hear the shot.”

Dann stood his ground, blue eyes fierce in the lamplight.

“I don’t think you’ll do it, Flannigan. You won’t shoot me in cold blood.”

“Think again.” Dixie cocked the .45, the click barely audible through the folds of wool. “Remember those jailhouse stories you heard?” She hoped he’d heard the meanest ones.

He vacillated another thirty seconds, knuckles pale and rigid around the keys. Then he picked up the loose handcuff, snapped it around his wrist, and locked it.

Dixie put the gun down and accepted the keys, glad as hell he hadn’t called her bluff. Then she stood and turned her back to him, her hands shaking as she poured two cups of coffee. She set one cup on the bedside table for Dann.

“You really think we’ll have to stay another night?” she said, as if the past few minutes had not occurred.

Anger engraved in every line of his face, Dann picked up the coffee cup. She could see him making an effort to calm down. Finally, he glanced up at her. His blue eyes had regained their amused insolence. He had backed off this time. They both knew he’d try again. Meanwhile, the time would pass easier if they put the incident behind them.

“According to the radio reports,” he said, “this was a freak storm. Sudden, violent, widespread. They’ll clear the main highways and essential routes first, to airports, hospitals, shelters… I’d guess the storm hit this area hard, being on the plains. Means some folks will need emergency rescue.” Hooking the other wooden chair with his foot, he scooted it over beside the bed and sat down. The lines in his face had relaxed. He picked up his card hand and moved the deck to where they could both reach it. “Considering also that it’s Christmas, the cleanup crews will be shorthanded. All in all, lady, there’s not a chance in hell we’ll be out of here before tomorrow.”

Twenty-four hours, maybe thirty. Dixie recalled the snowflakes she had caught on her tongue, and one of Kathleen’s needlepoint maxims came to mind — Be Careful What You Wish. Dixie had gotten her white Christmas, all right. Unfortunately, she was spending it with a prisoner.

She fanned her cards, paired up the aces, moved the deuce to one side. After drawing a jack of hearts, she discarded the deuce, and for a few minutes they played in silence, the cards giving the antsy part of her mind something to do while another part wrapped around the problem of what to tell Buck and Emma Sparks about Dann.

If she managed to get the window unstuck and helped shovel snow, they’d wonder why Dann wasn’t helping, too. If she sat tight and waited until Buck Sparks dug the snow away from the door, he’d surely knock and she’d have to mince around to keep him from spotting Dann’s handcuffs. A lot depended on how friendly their hosts turned out to be.

“Strange job for a woman,” Dann said. “Bounty hunting.” He drew a card from the deck and tossed down the four of clubs.

“Strange job for anybody, but someone has to do it.”

He grinned. “Otherwise scum like me would be shirking their comeuppance all over the country.”

“Screwing up the judicial system, putting bail bondsmen out of business.”

“Cheating juries out of their moments in the limelight.”

“Not to mention disappointing the arresting officers.” She drew the four of hearts, thought about it for a moment, and dropped in on the discard pile.”

Dann drew a keeper, rearranged his hand to accommodate it, then discarded the six of clubs.

“Heard you were favored for stepping into the DA’s seat. Must be quite a story, you giving them the bird and taking up bounty hunting.”

Dixie looked at him over the top of her cards. The story wasn’t any secret. She’d joined the lower ranks of the DA’s office right out of law school. Like the Ghostbusters of movie fame, she wanted to rid the world of slime, but it oozed through loopholes, slithered back into society and expanded.

“Remember the Leigh Ann Turner murder trial?” Dixie’s last case had made national news.

“Turner… Turner…” Dann eyed the discards. “Accused of killing her aunt, wasn’t she?”

“Flora Riggs. A scrawny old woman with pink-tinted hair and clothes recycled from the decadent twenties. Good-hearted and stronger than horseradish.”

Dixie had met Flora Riggs a year before her death, after the woman witnessed a mugging. When Dixie questioned her eyesight, Flora had retorted, I saw those two boys beat that man as clear as I can see those ugly shoes you’re wearing. Dixie’s plain brown pumps were comfortable, which was what she required of all her clothes. She asked Flora if she tried to stop the boys. Oh, fah! It was over before I could get my old bones out the door. But I sicked Pooch on ’em. Pooch was the German shepherd that lay at Flora’s feet and growled at anyone who came near. He’s old like I am, and not a sharp tooth left in his head, but he can still bark a ghost back in its grave. Flora’s hearty cackle had made Dixie smile. Those boys took one look at Pooch tearing across the hard and they turned tail fast. Then I dialed 911.

Thanks to Flora’s swift reactions, the victim had lived, and for once the Texas judicial system worked as it should: the two young men went to prison. But the murder of Flora Riggs was not so easily resolved.

“Newspapers said a neighbor found her hanging from a ceiling fan,” Dann said.

“Engineered to look like suicide. The chair she supposedly climbed on was tipped over, as if she’d kicked it aside after fixing the rope around her neck.”

The neighbor had also found Pooch, dead beside his water dish, a nasty lump between his eyes. Me and old Pooch keep each other alive out of pure cussedness, Flora had told Dixie. We’re both too ornery to go first.

“But Ms. ADA Supersleuth suspected it wasn’t suicide, I suppose.” Dann’s voice held a barb, which Dixie ignored.

“Forensics examined the bruising on Flora’s neck, the direction the rope fibers were bent, and said, ‘No way it was suicide.’”

Like Pooch, Flora had been murdered. But why would anybody want to kill Aunt Flora? her niece, Leigh Ann, had protested. Everybody loved her.

Why indeed? The back door was unlocked. A number of family heirlooms, mostly jewelry and silver, were missing. Had Flora surprised a burglar? Dixie didn’t think so. A burglar wouldn’t have taken time for a trumped-up hanging, would’ve knocked the woman in the head, same as the dog.

“Leigh Ann’s thumbprint was found on the ceiling fan,” Dixie told Dann. “Of course, she might have touched the fan while cleaning it, but Leigh Ann didn’t strike anybody as a conscientious housekeeper. And she had moved out of Flora’s house more than a year earlier.”

“Cute little blonde, wasn’t she? Delicate, soft-spoken?”

“Picture of innocence.” To everyone but Dixie. “At first she couldn’t produce an alibi. Claimed she’d spend the afternoon shopping with a friend at the Galleria. But her friend wasn’t available to comment. Leigh Ann said she’d mentioned taking a trip.”

“Let me guess: the aunt was a rich bitch.”

“Not rich, but frugal. Inherited her home, and set money aside for years, living on the interest and the sale of her needlework. She took Leigh Ann in after the girl’s parents were killed in a car accident.” All the while that child was growing up, Flora had told Dixie, I worried something would happen to me and she’d be left all alone in the world. “Flora Riggs took out a half-million-dollar insurance policy on her own life so her niece wouldn’t be left penniless.”

“And you figured she murdered her aunt for the insurance money?”

“Yes, but the policy had a double indemnity clause for accidental death, so why make it look like suicide? Suicide doesn’t pay. That’s the part I couldn’t make fit.” Dixie shook her head. “Besides, Leigh Ann didn’t exactly need the money. She earned a fancy salary as an interpreter for the State Department, and her fiancé was an ambassador from some unheard-of country in South America.”

“Came out in the trial, didn’t it, that the girl’s aunt didn’t like the boyfriend?”

“Flora didn’t like him, but that’s a thin cause for murder.”

“Not when you add a cool million. Correct me if I’m wrong, but murder qualifies as accidental, for insurance purposes. Swipe a few fancy baubles, looks like the aunt was killed during a burglary.”

“That still doesn’t explain the business with the rope, though, does it?” Dixie knew Dann was feigning interest, hoping to win her over. But she was getting a kick out of hearing him puzzle it out the same way she had two years ago. He had a sharp mind.

He stood up, the handcuff sliding to the top of the rounded headboard.

“Here’s this sweet-faced blonde. Looks like she wouldn’t harm a fly. Yet evidence keeps stacking up against her.” He paused, rubbing his stubbled chin with his free hand. “Personally, I thought she was guilty. Reminded me of a Norman Rockwell painting — maybe you’re seen it — an angel hiding a slingshot under her wings.”

“The jury wasn’t fooled, either. When all the evidence was heard, they were ready to convict—”

Dann’s eyebrows arched suddenly. “That’s when the mysterious friend showed up.”

“Myra. Claimed she’d left for Europe the day after her shopping spree with Leigh Ann, and went from there to China, in no hurry to return home until she heard about the trial.”

Dann’s eyes narrowed, and he went silent for a beat.

“So the friggin jury, twelve persons good and true, almost convicted an innocent woman.” A slow drawl flavored his words with cynical amusement. “Proving circumstantial evidence can look damning as all hell and still be pure dogshit.” He yanked at the chain holding him to the bed. “Guess I know exactly how Leigh Ann felt.”

“Then you missed the rest of the story,” Dixie said. Dropping the cards on the bed, she stood and walked to the window. To the east, the sky had brightened. Wisps of pink limned the dun-colored clouds. Buck and Emma Sparks would wake up soon, and Dixie hadn’t yet decided how to handle the snow-shoveling problem. She trusted inspiration to strike at the right moment.

“You’re telling me Leigh Ann was guilty? I saw her and the boyfriend on television, boarding a plane for South America.”

Dixie folded her arms against the chill air near the window.

“Shortly after the trial, another witness surfaced. A neighbor recognized the ambassador in the news and remembered seeing him at Flora’s house on the afternoon of the murder.”

“Then you’re saying sweet-cheeks and her boyfriend planned the whole thing together.”

“Right down to Leigh Ann’s thumbprint on the ceiling fan and the missing Myra, who turned up precisely when her testimony would do the most damage to the prosecution’s case.”

“The prosecutor being you.”

“It couldn’t have worked any better if they’d had a ring through my nose, leading me from one clue to the next.”

Dann leaned against the wall, studying Dixie, his piratical brow furrowed with interest. “In the end, though, you figured it out?”

“Sure, I figured it out. When it was too damn late! The ambassador was exempted from prosecution — diplomatic immunity — and a jury had already found Leigh Ann innocent. She couldn’t be tried again, even if two dozen witnesses lined up to swear they saw her string her aunt from the ceiling fan. By the time I pieced it together, Leigh Ann was on that airplane to South America with the insurance check in her pocket.”

“So, they both walk — and angel collects a million dollars to boot.”

When Dixie nodded, Dann slammed the heel of his fist against the wall.

“Now that chaps my butt. Here’s my jury, ready to fry my ass good on circumstantial evidence. maybe I even did it, hell, I don’t know, I don’t remember, but if I did hit that child, I never intended it, like you’re talking about with this Leigh Ann, and I damn sure won’t do anything like that again because I’ll never again touch a drop of liquor and drive a car. How does a jury justify sending me up the road and letting real murders get off? He stopped, let out a heavy, exasperated breath, then kicked the bed frame. “I don’t frigging understand that.”

Dixie had heard every drunk-driving story in the books, and they all included the promise never again to drive after drinking. But she agreed with Dann about Flora Riggs’ killers. It enraged her that they were walking around free.

“The system’s not perfect,” she said quietly. “It’s rife with political pressures, inadequate prison facilities, incompetent attorneys, corrupt officials. Sometimes it just breaks down.”

“Well… you should know.” He fanned his cards out. “So that was the case that ripped your britches.”

Leigh Ann Turner and the ambassador weren’t the first killers Dixie had watched walk free, nor the most ruthless. But after the Riggs case, Dixie was filled to her gullet with bitter pills, would choke if she had to swallow another one.

Now her job was pig simple. She never concerned herself with a skip’s guilt or innocence. When a bondsman posted bail, the client signed a contract guaranteeing his own physical presence in court on a specified date. The bondsman in turn had to post collateral guaranteeing the court that his client would be available, much like backing a loan. If the client skipped, the bondsman owed the court the entire bail amount and had the right to “repossess” his client’s “physical presence,” through force if necessary, like repossessing a car.

Only hauling back skips paid a lot better than hauling cars. And there were times it earned emotional reward, as well. Such as bringing a child killer to trial.

Turning back to the bed, Dixie started to reclaim her cards, when Dann spread his hand on the bed, face up.

“Gin,” he said, his cocky grin and amused blue eyes full of mocking impertinence.

Join me here next week for the next chapter in Bitch Factor.

Meanwhile, CLICK HERE to receive the first book in the Booker Krane Mystery Series absolutely free.

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Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 28

CHAPTER 29

SILVER RAINDROPS TAP-DANCED ON TAUT UMBRELLAS as neighbors hurried to the church dressed in the somber colors expected at a funeral. Wind came in gusts, rain in spurts, a sprinkle followed by a downpour. Water collected underfoot in streams before it could run off. Lightning zipped through plum-bellied clouds, infusing the air with the smell of ozone. The thunderstorm had settled in for a long visit.

Booker opened the door for an elderly couple he vaguely recognized, then he and Bradley stamped in, wiping their feet on the muddied door mat. An organ dirge filled the room with appropriate melancholy. Mourners chattered in tight groups.

When Booker saw the number of funeral wreathes crowded into the room, later to be hauled to a stormy grave site, he felt better about forgetting to order flowers. The church already reeked of carnations and lilies.

Charles Bailyn Fowler lay in a burnished umber casket, not extravagant but decently expensive. Closed, of course. Considering what a bass-enriched lake had done to the corpse,

Booker was grateful.

Spying Roxanna in the second row, he scarcely hesitated before taking a seat beside her. Bradley slouched toward a back row to watch for Jeremy. After the photo shoot, everyone had gone home to change clothes for the funeral, and Bradley, having ridden from Bryan in Jeremy’s Chevy, had asked Booker to drive him back to the theater later, where his motorcycle was locked in the prop room. Maybe he’d work a while, he said. Booker hoped his son would change his mind and decide to stay overnight.

Roxanna, auburn hair sleeked into a complicated twist at the back of her head, looked classy and sophisticated in a dark green suit. She might own a multimillion-dollar hotel chain instead of a struggling bed and brunch.

“Who’s minding the inn?” Booker asked.

“I closed early. Everybody who stopped was in a hurry, most of them coming here.”

“Don’t your overnight guests check in today?”

“After four o’clock.” Her smile, properly low wattage for the occasion, gave him that familiar jolt. “I was too keyed up to hang around the inn all afternoon. Everything’s ready, and my fidgeting wouldn’t have made it better. I suppose I’m silly, getting butterflies as if it was a grand opening or something.”

“Going shopping might’ve been more calming than a funeral.” Booker eyed her careful attire, uncertain whether he was suspicious or jealous. “Guess I didn’t realize you and Chuck were friendly enough…well, he did double cross you.”

“A man’s sins die with him, Booker. And shopping takes money.”

Booker had turned sideways in the pew to talk to her. From this vantage he watched people enter the church. Sheriff and Mrs. Ringhoffer sat in the middle row, Cora Lee striking in a black dress with her yellow hair and plump little figure, the sheriff in his uniform. Perhaps he considered himself on duty.

Booker checked his watch. Services were due to start, yet the family hadn’t arrived. As the organist repeated her hymn medley, Booker recognized “Rock of Ages,” “I’ll Fly Away” and perhaps a slowed down rendition of “Your Cheating Heart,” though he wouldn’t swear to it.

Finally, Sarabelle entered, shaking raindrops from her black hat and looking properly mournful in a limp black dress, her face naturally pale and free of makeup. Aaron and Jeremy followed her, handsome in black suits.

In fact, the entire congregation looked grand. Booker, wearing a gray suit, the pants as much in need of a gusset as those he’d worn last night, wondered if he should’ve brought his camera. He wasn’t current on funeral etiquette, but people seemed determined to fill their online albums with pictures of every occasion. The corpse had already been well documented. Perhaps the living should receive the same attention.

He considered making a dash for the car and, at the same time, finding the men’s room. No way a preacher could pass up an opportunity for long-winded oratory in front of his largest congregation since Easter Sunday, but just as Booker spotted a door that undoubtedly led to the rest rooms, and decided against dashing for his camera, the preacher stepped to the lectern.

At that same instant, Melinda entered the church. A muscular fellow with collar-length salt-and-pepper hair skinned back in a stiff fringe at his nape escorted her. He wore a black western-cut jacket, black shirt, black string tie. He needed only a guitar and a prison tattoo to be the spitting image of an iconic country singer, also deceased but still popular.

Melinda herself looked like a movie star. Her black-veiled hat would make three of Sarabelle’s, as wide as a small umbrella and tilted dramatically over her eyes. Her dress fit as snug as a coat of black shoe polish, showing three inches of spectacular cleavage and six inches of shapely thigh.

A whispered urgency circled the room as Melinda and her escort, who could only be the infamous Ramsey Crawford, sat down in a back corner. Sarabelle glanced around to see what had caused the stir, and apparently didn’t spot the couple. Booker let out a breath of gratitude.

The organist played a mournful drum-roll to hush the crowd and launch the preacher’s commemoration. He did a fine job, too, hitting all the usual bases—good husband and father, good friend, good citizen, undeserving of such an early death yet destined for a better world—then went on to describe how the congregation might be equally deserving.

Follow the Ten Commandments. Avoid the Seven Deadly Sins. Most of all, attend church every Sabbath and tithe. When the tribute started winding down, Booker thought he might finally have a chance at the men’s room.

That’s when Pete Littlehawk stood and asked to say a few words about the deceased. His Choctaw vest, worn over black pants and a gray shirt, battled the funeral flowers for dramatic color, while his expression remained properly somber. No sign of his earsplitting grin.

“My friend Chuck was a great warrior. We competed many times, on water, on land, and in business. Sure-sure, we often disagreed. Chuck was a brutal, uncompromising opponent. I will miss him.”

He sat down. The flock went silent for a moment. Booker squirmed. In his experience, one such testimonial always prompted another.

Sarabelle stood, paused long enough to infuse the moment with gravity, then squared her shoulders and mounted the dais. Today her scrawny frame looked valiantly frail, her ashen face saintly, her granite eyes stalwart. She, even more than her husband, was the celebrity of the hour.

“Charles believed in himself, and he instilled in all of his family that same belief. ‘When a thing feels right, do it,’ he often said. ‘Never question intuition. It’s our inner confidence that gives us power.’

“The night Charles asked me to marry him, I knew it was right. It felt right and proved to be the driving force of my life until the day of my husband’s death, when I had to search again for that inner confidence. My husband gave me thirty-six exceptional years plus two glorious sons. Fortunately, he also gave me the strength to carry on in his absence.”

She remained collected throughout the speech, but her lips quivered and her voice cracked near the end. In the rows behind him, Booker heard sniffles.

Aaron was on his feet before his mother quit the lectern. He escorted her to her seat then stepped up to deliver his own message.

“Pop taught me everything I know, okay? Everything I consider important. When I was three years old, he bought me a pair of boxing gloves. ‘You don’t get what you want in life with an open palm,’ he said. ‘You fight for it.’ All the time I was growing up, I watched Pop fight for what he wanted. No trophy was unattainable, no opponent too strong. Pop was the best. He taught me to walk in his shoes, and I intend to be worthy of them.”

Aaron sat down. Another brief silence followed, punctuated by sniffles, but the ball was rolling now and wouldn’t stop until Fowler’s family and closest friends had said their piece.

Booker eyed the door to the rest rooms. With a resigned sigh, he reached under his jacket and loosened his belt.

In contrast to his brother, Jeremy moved haltingly to the front of the room, as if ushered by audience expectation but uncertain how to proceed. His young face, so animated the night before, now appeared lifeless, years older, and more distant than at the photo shoot. Tears glistened in his eyes. He coughed, started to speak, then cleared his throat and began again.

“My father never gave up on us. Never. Unlike Aaron, I didn’t fit the family mold. I wanted to. Especially, when I was younger. I wanted to do everything Pop and Aaron did. I wanted Pop to be proud of me. For some reason, I couldn’t learn to swim. Pop tried to teach me, but nothing worked. He held me up while I dog-paddled, showed me how to kick like a frog. He strapped weights on my ankles to build up my leg muscles.”

Tears streamed down Jeremy’s face, as if from an open faucet, but he seemed not to notice. Except for an occasional glance toward his mother, he stared forward, over the heads of his audience.

“When I was six, we went out in the boat. ‘Going fishing,’ Pop said. I hated water, was terrified of it, but I liked the boat. Out in the middle of the lake, Pop said we were changing plans. He was going to fish while I learned to swim. He tethered me to the stern with a twenty-foot rope, short enough to pull me in, I guess, if I really started drowning. Then he drove around the lake all day.

“I didn’t learn to swim, but Pop wouldn’t give up. We went out the next week and the next. Eventually, I learned. That day, when he reached out his big rough hand to pull me into the boat, the pride on his face was worth all the suffering. What I know about my father is when he said something was going to happen, it happened. You could write a contract on it. I know how to swim now.”

The boy blinked a few times, wiped a hand across his wet face, and sat down as haltingly as he had stood. This time the crowd remained quiet for a full minute, Booker noticed, and hoped they were deciding enough had been said. Then Emaline rose, which began a parade of eulogies. A few people managed to keep their seats, cutting the agony shorter than it might have been. Booker mentally searched out those few souls and thanked them.

“Let us not be shy,” the preacher said when the parade lulled. Booker wanted to muzzle him. “This is the time for sharing our feelings. Don’t be the one who regrets passing the opportunity to speak out.”

He shouldn’t have said it like that, Booker thought later. He could have put it any other way and maybe averted a disaster.

Hearing the tap of high heels from way in the rear of the room, Booker knew what was coming. He wished he’d been smart enough to take a seat near the door, like Bradley, so he could sneak out. The whispers started before she was halfway to the dais and grew like a wave behind her. Booker couldn’t differentiate the mutterings, but he knew the gist.

“What is she up to?”

“Just wait till Sarabelle sees her.”

“The nerve of the woman.”

“What will she say?”

“I can’t believe she’s even here. Somebody stop her.”

“What is she going to do?”

Sarabelle must have known, too, but she didn’t turn to look. A composed, poised, tolerant widow had replaced the embittered harridan. When the astonished preacher refused to relinquish his lectern, Melinda nodded and stood beside it, smiling shamelessly.

“Lying in church ought to send you straight to hell, shouldn’t it? Yet someone stood up here in front of you and lied through her teeth. Chuck was my friend and lover, my future husband. Now he’s dead, and the person who killed him is in this room. His murderer shouldn’t go unpunished, should she?”

Every head in the church, except the Fowler boys’, turned toward Sarabelle. She sat rigid and cool.

Melinda stepped down primly from the podium, strode back down the aisle and out the door, which Ramsey Crawford had opened for her. This time there were no whispers. But

Booker had a hunch the congregation would pass this story around the county for years to come.

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Bitch Factor – Chapter 14

Thursday, December 24, Interstate 29, South Dakota

“I don’t want to shoot you,” Dixie said, aiming the .45 at Parker Dann’s chest. He sat next to her now, in the driver’s seat, wearing a cocky grin that had spread across this face the moment she unshackled him. “I especially don’t want to shoot you in my car, where I’d have to mop  up the blood.”

His grin drooped at the corners. “So you want me to start this thing or what?”

She handed him the key. When he put it in the ignition, she leaned across the car and snapped a handcuff on his wrist.

“Dammit, woman, how am I supposed to drive all chained up like a rabid dog?”

“You have eighteen inches of chain between those cuffs, enough to shift gears and drive.” But not enough length to reach her with his big fist. When scoping out a control situation, Dixie always imagined herself in the skip’s place. Parker Dann could watch for the moment her attention wavered, grab the back of her head, slam her face into the dash until she was senseless, then kick her out of the car and be as free as a southbound goose. Now that they’d spent half a day together, she found herself thinking of him more as a beg teddy bear than a crazed killer. But that sort of thinking could get her in trouble. The cautious part of her mind said “cuff him,” so she had.

She rested the gun on her lap. “Do your stuff, snowbird. Get us out of here.”

Miraculously, the car had not run into another snowbank coming out of its spin, and Dann seemed to know what he was doing. He handled the Mustang with such skill that Dixie felt doubly embarrassed at her own incompetence. Why didn’t the damn car slide with him driving it?

Then, as her tension began to ease, the passenger-side wheels hit a bump.

“Watch out! You’re going off the road.”

“Gee, gosh darn. You’re downright perceptive.” Dann’s cocky grin was back in place, along with his irritating air of assurance. “Hanging two wheels on the shoulder gives us traction. That telltale bump warns us if we start to drift left or right.”

“So why didn’t you share that pearl of wisdom earlier?”

He tossed her a look of amused insolence. “Actually, fresh snow isn’t all that bad to drive on. You were overcompensating, is all. Natural, when you’re not used to the weather and road conditions. It’s ice under the snow that’s tricky, but this blizzard came so fast there hasn’t been much ice buildup since the roads were cleared.

Dixie nodded, and they rode in silence for a while. For the first time all day, she felt her shoulders and neck relax.

“Guess you know what a legend you are around the jailhouse,” Dann said.

“Legend?”

“You know, someone prisoners swap stories about.”

She knew what he was getting at, having fabricated a good number of the stories herself. Her reputation as a badass bitch made skips thing twice about resisting.

“Did you really follow a guy into the men’s room, cuff him at the urinal before he could zip his pecker back in his pants?”

More than once. “Catch a man with his pants down, he’s too surprised to fight back.” But she’d never transported a skip in the trunk of her car; those nasty rumors were useful but false.

“Another guy said you started a bonfire outside his bedroom window while he and his girl were getting it on. When they smelled smoke and came crashing out, you were waiting for him.”

“Wouldn’t call it a bonfire. A few sticks, some newspapers.”

Dann laughed. “Hell, you’ve got a cold heart.”

“Only kind to have in my business.”

His smile faded. “That’s a hint, right? Guess it’s not smart to listen to a prisoner’s story.”

When she didn’t answer, he turned his attention to the road. After a few minutes, he cleared his throat, and Dixie knew he was about to lay it on her.

“Truth is, I’d give anything to know for sure I didn’t kill that little girl. I honestly don’t know.”

“It’s hard to know anything when you’re falling-down drunk.”

“I was feeling no pain, for sure. Celebrating my first three-million-dollar sale – to a demolition company out of New Orleans.”

Three million? “What the hell did you sell, explosives?”

“Heavy equipment. Dozers, tractors, backhoes.”

Tuning him out as he droned on about making the sale, Dixie considered how to handle it if they managed to find a motel room. She’d have to leave him hitched to the steering wheel while she booked a room, then cuff him to the bed.

Her eyes felt sandblasted. She closed them against the strain of the swirling landscape, gray now more than white, with the sun setting. When she snapped her eyes open, twenty minutes had passed.

“Good timing,” Dann said. “Looks like a roadblock ahead.”

The faint glow of yellow lights dotted the road, one of them blinking.

“Keep that cuff out of sight, or I’ll have to turn you over to the sheriff.” She knew he’d rather take his chances with her than end up in a small-town jail.

As Dann coasted to a stop, she slid the .45 under her seat. A man in a heavy parka jogged up to the driver’s side. Dann lowered the window. When the man hunched over to look in, Dixie saw a highway department emblem on his coat and wondered if he might know McGrue. Doubtful, this far north. The parka’s hood was drawn close around the man’s face. Snow coated his mustache and brows, turning them white.

“You folks took a big chance coming through without chains.”

“Didn’t realize we were in for such a storm,” Dann said cheerfully. “Found out the hard way.”

“Not nearly as hard as it could’ve been. There’s sixty miles more of this and it’s still coming. Afraid we’ll have to stop you here.” He pointed. “turn right and go about four miles to Sisseton. You’ll see the Sparks Motel. Emma Sparks has a room waiting for you.”

“Waiting for us? Like she knew were coming?”

The officer knocked snow off his lashes with a padded-gloved hand. “Margie, from the Grandin Diner, said to watch for you guys. Otherwise, I’d be home now, with a warm fire and a hot meal.”

“Appreciate your waiting,” Dann said.

“You can follow me into Sisseton, get a good night’s sleep.” The trooper slapped a farewell on the car’s roof and jogged back to the pickup. Ten minutes later, Dann turned in and stopped at a red neon motel sign. The pickup blinked its lights and drove on.

Dixie eyed the office. Across the drive, four cabins angled toward the road, roofs laden with snow.

“Keys,” Dixie said, holding out her hand.

“You don’t really think I’d try to drive out of here?”

“I don’t think you’re that big a fool, but why risk it?”

With a shrug and a yawn, Dann slipped the keys from the ignition, dropped them into her hand. Dixie zipped herself  into his parka, shoving the .45 deep in a pocket, then trudged through gusting snow to the rental office. A bell jangled above the door. The rich aroma of roast pork filled her nostrils. A thin elderly woman in a green calico dress and round eyeglasses smiled across a counter sign that identified her as Emma Sparks, Proprietor. She wore a corsage of holly springs and gold Christmas balls. No computer-chip designs stamped into the gold finish, Dixie noticed, and felt absurdly uplifted by that fact.

Emma Sparks handed her a steaming mug of a liquid that smelled like hot apple pie.

“Spiced cider,” she said. “It’ll warm you right up.” The woman had an infectious smile.

“It’s wonderful.” Dixie hadn’t realized how ravenous she was. “Thanks.”

“Lord, I was worried sick you folks’d got yourselves stuck someplace. Told Arnie, that’s my son, if you didn’t turn up in another half hour he’d best go fetch you.”

Dixie tugged off her gloves and dug out her wallet.

“We appreciate your staying open for us, being Christmas Eve and all.”

“Honey, out on that highway you’d be a snowball come morning.” Emma plucked a brass key off a wall peg. “The cabin’s not a bit fancy, but it’s warm and the bed’s good.”

“Don’t suppose you have two beds in there, do you?” Dixie counted out some bills. Glancing up to see the woman’s smile had faded, she forced a grin. “That man kicks like a mule, but I’d hate to put him on the floor on such a night.”

“Ha! I’ve been there before.” Emma Sparks laughed and rang up the sale. “Got a dilapidated old cot, won’t be too comfortable. I’d let you have an extra room, but the others are all filled.” She opened a closet door behind her and lifted out an aluminum camp cot, the army green canvas worn thin in places.

Dixie rounded the counter to take it from her.

“There’s extra bedding in your cabin,” the woman said. “On the closet shelf.”

“Thank you. This will beat getting kicked blue.” Dixie hefted the cot, hating the deception but aware that no good could come from telling Emma Sparks that a child killer would be sleeping under her roof. Turning to go, Dixie remembered the acute emptiness of her stomach.

“Suppose there’s any place open in town to get a hamburger?”

The old woman’s smile brightened like a Christmas candle.

“Cafe’s closed, but I knew you folks’d be hungry, so I put a tray in your room. Nothing fancy, mind. Buck, that’s my husband, cooked up a big ham this morning, way more than we’ll ever eat. I made some sandwiches. Put some fresh fruit on the tray, too, and a thermos of that hot cider. The room has a little refrigerator stocked with juice and sodas, just pay for what you use, and there’s instant coffee packets, tea, cocoa – not the Hilton, honey, but we won’t let you starve.”

Sounded a damn sight better than the Hilton at the moment. Homemade ham sandwiches? Dixie’s mouth was already watering. Emma bustled around to open the door for her.

“Last cabin on the right. You can park on the side there, out of the wind.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Sparks. Sure was good of you to be open.”

“It’s Emma, honey, and listen, there’s a phone in your room, if you need anything. Just dial eight. We won’t have the office open, so no sense in your trudging over here in the storm.”

“How long does a storm like this usually last?”

“This’n’s worse than most, but I expect it’ll blow over by morning. Clearing the roads might take a day or two.”

Dixie couldn’t keep the misery from showing in her face. Even if the roads were miraculously clear by morning, no way she could be home by Christmas night. Seeing her feelings reflected in Emma Sparks’ inquisitive eyes, Dixie forced a smile before pushing back out into the blizzard.

The wind tried to wrestle the cot from her hands as she carried it to the Mustang and shoved it on the backseat.

“Let’s go.” She cocked a thumb toward their cabin, handed Dann the car keys, and wished like hell she hadn’t let Belle Richards talk her into taking this sorry job.

Join me next week, same day same place, for the next Bitch Factor chapter, because there are more tricky bends in this story you’ll want to read.

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Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 26

CHAPTER 28

Booker decided to sleep late Monday morning and was doing a fine job of it until the phone jangled him awake. He debated letting the machine answer, on the chance it was Melinda insisting they go to Fowler’s funeral together. Coward that he was, he hadn’t yet invented a plausible excuse.

On the last ring before the machine switched on, Booker snatched the receiver. The editor from Southern Affairs spoke crisply in his ear.

“Mr. Krane, the images you sent us are good. They really are.”

He could hear the “but” coming. “I’m glad you received them on time.”

“You’ve given us a taste of Texas country living, and we’ll run it with an article on outdoor cooking. You realize, of course, it won’t publish until next spring. We work eight months in advance.”

“Right.” He knew that. He hated it, hated waiting to see his photographs in a national publication, but he knew it.

“We’re considering doing more about Texas retirement living. Recreation, leisure. What do you think?”

What did he think? What did he think about what? It was their magazine. “Ah…that sounds like a great idea.”

“You realize we’ll need additional images by Wednesday.”

“Ah…” His brain scrambled to catch up. This was Monday. Two days to take the shots. Digitals, no time for anything else. “There’s an entire recreational haven here at Lakeside. If the weather holds, I could shoot horse riding, golf, fishing, boating, maybe water-skiing…archery.”

“Shopping, we can’t leave that out. R estaurants? Not high profile eateries but quaint cafes your average retired couple might enjoy.”

Quaint? “I know places like that.” At least one.

“Think ‘country moments,’ Mr. Krane. I’ll send a contract. Same terms as before?”

“Sounds fine.” Hanging up the phone, Booker grinned like an idiot. Hot damn! They liked his work. They wanted more. Hot double damn!

His big break, and he’d almost let it roll to voice mail. In the past few days, his priorities had missed a step. Changing professions required commitment, the sort Roxanna put into her business. Her hard work was paying off. He could take lessons in commitment, according to Bradley, anyway.

Perhaps the boy was right. An entire generation of talented, eager young photographers scrabbled for work every day, and by a fluke of time and circumstance, Booker had squeezed into the race. One slash of an editor’s pen could squeeze him out again. He could prevent that from happening.

He showered and pulled on a t-shirt and jeans, noticing a small rip at the bottom of the pants had started to fray. No matter. Commitment meant not sweating the small stuff.

Downstairs, while making notes on his new assignment, he brewed coffee and opened the foil-wrapped slice of pecan strudel he’d found in his hand after Roxanna shooed him out the door. Butter, cinnamon, pecans—a “taste of Texas,” as his editor had said.

Recalling Roxanna’s erratic behavior last night, practically telling him to get lost while tempting him at the same time, he wondered about the fine line between commitment and obsession. For his own part, Lauren had often accused him of being obsessed with his work. He couldn’t deny enjoying his job, unraveling puzzles, following threads of supposition, uncovering secrets. The financial world was riddled with secrets. Money brought out the worst in people. He supposed the same could be said for jealousy and otherdeadly sins, but he had more experience with the sort of crimes that greed invited. He also couldn’t deny that work had robbed him of marriage and family.

If he was serious about pursuing this new career, then he needed to partner up with obsession for the next few days. Also, he needed people. His experience working with models was sorely limited, but a lake without a fisherman didn’t say much about fishing.

How would Roxanna deal with such an obstacle? Faced with the need for a rug and no money to buy it, she’d summoned her ingenuity and painted one. And by damn, he could do this, models and all. What did a retirement community have if not scores of people with little to do all day?

The doorbell rang, three short jabs. Booker thumbed the lock release.

“Come up to the kitchen, Emaline. The coffee’s hot.” He placed the remainder of the strudel on another plate.

“Where’d you get off to last night, Booker? I dropped by to put you straight on your archery practice.”

He tossed a glance at her as he started a list of potential shots the editor might like. He wrote the number one.

“You wouldn’t be thinking of sandbagging me, would you? To hedge your bet with Littlehawk?”

Busying herself with strudel and coffee, she didn’t meet his eyes. “Pete hasn’t got the teaching ability of frog, and bad shooting habits are hard to break.”

“Isn’t he one of the best marksmen in Grammon County?”

“That’s not saying much. Grammon’s not as big as a good size ranch.”

True enough. Masonville fell into Madison County, Lowetta into Leon County, and Brazos County claimed Bryan-College Station. Grammon was shoehorned between them like a gusset in a too-tight garment.

He wondered if a tailor could work a gusset into his dress pants. Dieting had never been his favorite discipline.

“I’ll read Archery Basics,” he said, “and double-check everything Littlehawk tells me. How’s that?”

She finished the strudel and carried her plate to the sink. “Had any surprises this morning, Booker? Uranus and Mercury. You might get an unexpected call or two.”

He put down his pen and gaped at her. Like any superstition, astrology must hit the target once in a while. He told her about the call from Southern Affairs.

“Guess that takes you off the retired list and puts you back into gainful employment. What will you make for those fifty, sixty pictures you sent?”

Out of the three hundred he’d shot, only a handful would end up in the magazine.

“I can’t expect top scale, yet, but at least I’m paid for work I enjoy.”

“You need the money, then.”

“No, Emaline, I don’t need money. I have investments, just as you do, but—”

“How do you know what I’ve got?”

“You told me, remember? Had me check on some mutual funds?” He finished his coffee and shoved their dishes into the washer. “Why do you give golf lessons? You don’t need money.”

“That’s a lie. Me and Wall Street don’t have an agreement on how my money will survive another crash.” She picked up his notes. “Besides, I like giving lessons. What’s all this?”

“Notes for my new photo spread. Anything interesting at the golf course today?”

“The interesting thing this morning is a head of thunderstorms.”

“Can’t be!” He hadn’t heard any thunder. Through the window, though, the eastern sky looked like moldy cottage cheese.

“Hurricane Edgar fizzled out but sent his calling card our way. Rain and wind.”

Surely it wouldn’t hit for another hour.

“Emaline, I need your help.” Amazing to hear himself say that. “Help me set up an interesting scene on the golf course. One of your students, and how about Luther? We can pretend they’re taking a lesson from you. You’ll get to see your pictures in Southern Affairs.” Maybe.

“Luther’s off today. And I don’t give lessons on Monday, remember? The golf course is closed.”

“Even better! That means we won’t be in anyone’s way. Think of someone who’d be willing to model. I’ll pay for one of your students to have a free lesson.”

He knew she was thinking about it, since her mouth wasn’t running, but she shook her head and frowned.

“The weekend crowd will be gone by now, unless some of them stayed for the funeral. That’s at one o’clock, you know.”

Would a country funeral fit the magazine’s definition of recreation? Not likely.

“Residents, then. Some of your students are residents, aren’t they? Once it starts raining, I’m washed out of any outdoor shots.”

“I can go to the pro shop and call my regulars, but everyone will be dressing for the services. The Fowlers have owned property here since those two boys were pups. Everybody knew Chuck. No one will miss his funeral any more than they’d miss the County Fair.”

“I guess the golf shot can wait until after the funeral.” His shoulders sagged from the weight of thinking so hard. “What about the racetrack? When’s the next race?”

“Booker Krane, for an investigator, you sure keep your head in the sand. Our horses don’t run in August. It’s too danged hot. Won’t be any races until October.”

The situation was not looking good. He could still shoot a horse owner at the stables. “Archery! That’ll only take ten minutes to set up. You, Littlehawk, and anybody who happens to be at the lodge. Come on.”

He ran upstairs to load his camera bag.

“Call Luther,” he said, “while I load the Tahoe.”

“Maybe we should take my Wrangler, Booker. I don’t think you should drive in your agitated condition. Calm down before you hyperventilate.”

He was rushing around like a kid at a carnival, all right, but the magazine had requested his services. If he blew it, they wouldn’t ask again.

“That Mercury-Uranus aspect I told you about is affecting Ringhoffer’s chart, too. Have you talked to him?”

“Not since yesterday. Why?”

“The murder investigation isn’t over. Why you’re allowing him to shove it under a rug is beyond me.”

“It’s the sheriff’s call, Emaline. You and I don’t have any say.” But he did believe it was a tangle that needed unraveling. “All you’ll do is stir up suspicion if you keep sounding off about it. That won’t help Fowler, and it might hurt his family.”

“Seems to me his family would want to know.”

“Even if one of them killed him?”

She chewed on that for a moment. “You think it was Sarabelle.”

“I think it’s a marvel she didn’t kill him long ago.”

“Mercury and Uranus. It’s not over, yet, whether we want it to be or not.”

He phoned Bradley’s cell. When his son answered, Booker could hear hammering in the background.

“Jeremy and I are building a set,” Bradley explained. Then his voice muffled as if he’d swallowed his mouthpiece. “His father’s funeral’s today. He’s keeping busy.”

Booker told him what he needed.

“Sure, I can pose as an archery student, only I hate to leave Jeremy alone.”

“Two students would be even better. Bring him along. The funeral’s being held at the Lakeside Chapel.”

“Optimum, Dad. But Jeremy’s a professional actor. He may have to charge you.”

Booker had no time to dicker. He suggested a fair price, which Bradley confirmed with the “professional actor,” then arranged to meet at the lodge in forty-five minutes.

In the club dining room, Booker spotted his perfect third model. He hoped Littlehawk wouldn’t give him trouble about it. Surely the waitress, Kippy or Kitty, could spare a few minutes. Cute, young, and blond, what more could a magazine want? Except his editor had been specific about this article focusing on retirement. Well, college-age grandchildren were part of the retirement picture, weren’t they?

He spied a resident he recognized, white-haired, grandfatherly. Good contrast with dark, wiry Littlehawk, blonde Kippy, and the two boys, leaving Emaline for the golf shot later.

Littlehawk warmed to the idea immediately.

“The Caribou Club in a magazine? What an idea, Booker. This publisher pays well, am I right?” The club owner started gathering the entire staff and customer body for a group shot, which Booker quickly vetoed.

Outside, thunderclouds had rolled closer. Booker didn’t mind the absence of sunshine as long as the rain held off. Overcast skies intensified color, and the archery shot would have plenty of color to intensify. Red and yellow targets. Kippy’s wild summer print shirt. Littlehawk’s vest, which he insisted had been woven by his Choctaw grandmother. Bradley and

Jeremy would contrast well with older residents, young people visiting during summer vacation, climbing the picturesque stairs to the restaurant.

Booker set up a scene. Thumb on the trigger, he glanced over his shoulder at a flash of lightning in the rain clouds. A drop of rain hit his nose, then another. Then a downpour.

He snapped the shot just before his models ran for cover. Collapsing the tripod, Booker felt a tattoo of raindrops pounding his head.

“Bradley,” Littlehawk exclaimed as they pushed through the doorway. “Come see your father on the bulletin board. You, too, Emaline. Booker’s a hero.”

The cork board covered a section of wall at the entrance to the bar, where Littlehawk had collected snapshots of his patrons for years. One shot showed Emaline pouring a beer over the bartender’s head. Littlehawk on the putting green showed off the ball he’d sunk, fishermen proudly exhibited their catch, hunters their trophies. A stroke of dismay overtook Booker as he perused the wall. His Southern Affairs editor would find everything she needed right among Littlehawk’s amateur cell phone shots of the fun and camaraderie at Lakeside Estates. Sure, Booker had better cameras, but some of these candid shots were great.

“Booker Krane, hero!” Littlehawk had enlarged the snapshot showing Booker’s battered lip and bloody shirt, water dripping down his arm as he held an ice pack in place.

“As much a hero as the loser in a boxing match,” Emaline said.

“Shouldn’t fight with a younger man, Dad.” Bradley briefly examined the print then scanned the other pictures. “That’s you, Jeremy!”

He indicated a faded snapshot of a boy plucking a thin bow nearly as tall as he was, then another picture, a pair of grinning boys holding up two fresh-caught bass. “And your brother?”

“Yeah. Jeez, these are old, Pete.” Jeremy unpinned them.

Beneath, Booker saw a photograph of Chuck Fowler decked out in hunting camouflage, standing beside a pickup. A deer’s carcass lay barely visible in the truck bed, the seven-point rack silhouetted in a brilliant sunset.

“Five years ago,” Littlehawk said, reading the inscription. “Your father killed the first deer of the season.”

“He did that every year,” Jeremy commented.

“Not last year,” Littlehawk argued.

Jeremy was staring at a more recent Polaroid of his whole family, labeled: Grammon County Turkey Shoot. Chuck, Aaron, Jeremy, and Sarabelle all wore camouflage and carried hunting equipment. Jeremy’s long, thin bow looked primitive compared with the three compound bows. In the quivers slung across their shoulders, feather-fletched arrows matched three slain turkeys in the picture.

Booker recalled a line from Archery Basics. “It takes a heck of a fine woodsman to get close enough to a wild turkey to shoot it with a bow.” Yet every Fowler except Jeremy appeared to have bagged one. Booker knew Sarabelle could shoot, yet he’d never imagined her quite the expert this snapshot revealed.

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Paradise Cursed – Snippet 24

CHAPTER 21

The dining quarters looked remarkably tidy, considering the flaming tablecloths and other debris caused by the Bokor’s manifestation. I owed Demarae’s ladies a free dinner, at the very least, for tidying up. Perhaps they’d enjoy hanging out with our passengers later for Five O’Clock Swizzlers, then stay for one of Cookie’s second-night dinner creations.

Hard to believe this was only our first shore day. Usually, our more exciting events occurred later in the cruise.

I found Erin in the galley making a sandwich for herself and soup for Ayanna.

“She’s well enough to eat?” I asked.

Erin shook her head. “I’m hoping.”

I swiped a pickle slice. “For what I got you into this morning, I apologize. I’d no idea things would get that crazy.”

“Really? You certainly stayed on top of it. While I stood with my mouth open, you slew the dragon.”

“Hmmm, I wouldn’t have a clue how to slay a dragon.”

“But you’re skilled in slaying crocodiles, are you?”

“I’m at least acquainted with the process. Besides, this one vanished with one blow. Never saw that happen before. And if you hadn’t been there, would I even have seen it?”

She frowned at the tray, fingering a packet of crackers, as if uneasy with her thoughts.

“The snake was visible to me only while I was touching you,” I said, “and no one else seemed aware of it. When it changed and became more solid, sending tables and chairs flying in its wake, everyone ran screaming. I don’t know what they saw, exactly, but I’m wondering… how would you explain it?”

“You’re asking me? It’s your ship that seems to be a vortex of supernatural happenings.”

I left that alone. While she probably was correct to some extent, I believed her own psychic energy, along with the Sarah Jane’s, had acted as a magnifier of sorts. Erin, however, might not want to hear that.

“How was our patient doing when you left?” I said.

“Still in that weird trance state. Sometimes she opens her eyes, not to see what’s right in front of her but as if she’s looking at something deep inside or far, far away.”

Erin’s entire face registered such sadness that it made my heart ache. She’d come here to distance herself from guilt over the loss of her parents and her friend’s accident. Now I’d put her in the middle of another guilt trip.

“Ayanna is a strong woman who asked for our help,” I said, struggling to find words that didn’t sound feeble and patronizing. “We’re doing everything possible, and you’re a fine person, Erin, for taking such good care of her.”

Nodding quickly, as if to avoid breaking into tears, she took her tray and left to have lunch in Ayanna’s cabin. I thought about what she’d said while I put together a tray of sandwich makings and fruit for Shaman Demarae and his group. He and Marisha had joined the ladies on the aft deck, where they sat drinking wine coolers in the sun and chattering about the outcome of their healing ceremony.

I set the tray on a table, invited everyone to have a bite, then stood smoking and looking out at the sea. After Demarae finished his sandwich, I suggested we take a stroll and continue the conversation we’d started earlier.

“Tonight,” I said, “we sail for Roatan. How would you feel about joining us? You, Marisha, and your congregants, all who want to come, that is. Your passage in return for helping

Ayanna this morning and introducing us to Shaman Shawnte. You don’t have to be involved further. That is, not unless you want to be involved.”

When he grinned at me, it was so wide I noticed a gold molar shining.

“Captain, you talk a good game, but you will never fill your pockets until you practice better timing. I have been sitting in the sun wondering what it would take to finish out this cruise with you. Are you sure there’s room for all of us?”

“Plenty.” The Sara Jane had cabins for 100 passengers and 26 crew. At last count we were at half that.

He agreed to present the idea then transport everyone back in the launch to pack a bag and return before five o’clock. Sailing to Roatan would take all night unless we picked up a good tail wind.

Feeling rather smug about the deal I’d struck, I decided to look in on Ayanna. Erin was reading to her from Wuthering Heights. Earlier, she and Marisha must have bathed their patient and washed the blood from her hair. She looked peaceful enough, but she still stared with the eerie vacancy Erin had mentioned, which was even more worrisome than her gnarly skin.

I told Erin about inviting Demarae and his group to sail with us and make introductions to an even more powerful shaman at our next stop, Roatan Island. She listened without comment. When I turned to go, she followed me into the passageway.

“I’ve made a decision, too,” she said. “Before Dayna returns, I’m going to pack our things. We’ll take a water taxi to Grand Cayman and fly home from there. I know she’ll hate me for a while, but I can’t stay on this ship any longer. You made a generous offer, Captain. I’m sorry I can’t accept it.”

“Erin…” I couldn’t think of a single word to say next. After the scare we’d had that morning, she had every reason to go and none to stay. Reluctantly, I had to acknowledge it.

“Thank you for helping us. Without you, we would not have seen what Ayanna is fighting.”

She smiled, but with that same tearful sadness I’d seen earlier, and this time I couldn’t resist the desire I felt every time we were alone together. I stroked a strand of hair behind her ear, and when she looked up at me, I placed my lips softly against hers.

“I don’t want you to go,” I murmured. “But I understand why you feel you must.”

My intention was a friendly thank-you-and-goodbye kiss—or that’s the lie I told myself. But then her warm sweet breath fell against my cheek, caressed my neck, and with a cascade of shivers she came into my arms.

*

Standing in line was definitely not Dayna’s favorite thing to do, nor was herding passengers into the water taxis. She’d rather scrub every deck on the ship than hang out with tourists. Not that she didn’t like each of them individually, but together they were so noisy and needy. If she could just get them back aboard the Sarah Jane, every last straggly one of them, then maybe the first mate would allow her to man the sails instead of the galley.

The Sarah Jane. Jeez, she was beautiful, sparkling out there in the afternoon sun, past the harbor-hogging ocean liner whose passengers created most of the noise and confusion.

“Here’s a launch coming, look sharp there,” Jase Graham shouted.

She didn’t trust him, she decided. He was no sailor, no matter how many times he’d been at sea. More of a yachtsman than a true seaman. She could see him on a big fancy yacht, sure, going out occasionally to gather stories to impress his friends at the country club in some landlocked Middle America town. He knew the craft, but Jase Graham had no heart for the art.

Herding her last dozen people toward a launch, Dayna smiled and nodded as if actually listening to their babble about the “cute little shops” and “divine food” they’d found on

Grand Cayman. Just a little longer, then she’d have blue water below and as far as she could see.

*

Watching Erin walk away from me, I wanted to hit something. Wrong impulse, bad timing… the story of my life. Kissing her was worse than witless. It was asinine with an emphasis on ass. She was already horrified and confused, then I had the cheek to sweep her into a moment of passion.

My breath caught as I relived those few seconds… the hungry response of her mouth on mine, her fingers cool against the back of my neck, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts….

I didn’t intend it. She certainly didn’t deserve to be blindsided that way. Neither of us expected it. A frisson of sweet intimacy, perhaps, but not such a degree of intensity.

When else would I have had the chance, though, if not now? Erin was leaving.

Didn’t she realize that running away from her special abilities was no answer?

No, of course she didn’t. She would return home with the same problems that brought her to the Sarah Jane, and not the first to do so.

Yes, acting on my impulse to kiss her was brainless, but I’d do it again. Plenty of women in these many harbors come willing to warm my bed when I take a notion, but none I would risk knowing in a more personal way. Thus the most miserable aspect of my miserable cursed life is loneliness. If only for a sweet moment, Erin Kohl had seemed a risk worth taking. So now I stood in the late afternoon shadows staring at her cabin door and listening to a launch approach with our returning passengers.

Nothing for it now but to focus my attention on the individual who not only needed but also wanted my help. As soon as we set sail tonight, I would corner Shaman Demarae and have a heart-to-heart strategy talk about engaging this “outstanding” witch doctor. Even if Demarae was secretly taking a cut of Shawnte’s fee, no problem, as long as they delivered a cure.

What I wanted most at the moment was to get my hands on one bloody, soul-sucking Bokor and cut off his evil head.

*

“Perhaps it is time,” Demarae said, “to look in on our patient. I will feel much better about contacting Shaman Shawnte if Ayanna has come around and is able to talk with us. Proceeding without her consent is not a good idea.”

Yes, I had to agree, but hadn’t she already consented? Wouldn’t she want us commanding all our resources to help her reclaim possession of her mind and body?

Demarae knocked softly at Ayanna’s cabin door. The shaman’s shoulders drooped, and he looked older than he had before this morning’s ritual.

Marisha opened the door, anxiety written in worry lines around her eyes and mouth.

“Good. You are both here. I didn’t want to leave her to come find you.” She held the door wide so we could enter. “For only a few minutes, I was gone to find ice to melt in her mouth. I am afraid to give her too much water, even though she can swallow small amounts. When I returned… well, look.”

“Dear God.” Demarae took a quick breath. “This is not good.”

He was blocking my view. I stepped around him and a cold hand gripped my heart.

“God was not at work here,” I said.

From just above her breasts, Ayanna was covered by a lightweight sheet, but every inch of visible skin, including her face, was crocodile-rough and mottled in green-brown blotches. The structure of her skull appeared changed, as well, nose and jaw more prominent. Her mottled arms ended in flat, wide hands with curved nails—like claws.

“I wish we could know what goes on in her head,” Marisha said. “She seems so agitated.”

Ayanna’s hands twitched. Her facial muscles tightened and released sporadically, as if she were resisting the need to cry out. Her closed eyes abruptly opened wide. Her gaze darted frantically around the room, but she appeared not to see us standing there.

“What is that on her neck?” Demarae asked.

I pushed closer and drew her hair aside. Within the mottling was a dark patch, and quite clear within that patch, a number. The cold hand around my heart squeezed tight.

“Seventeen,” I murmured.

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Bitch Factor – Chapter 13

 Sunday, July 26, Camp Donovan, Texas

Ellie wriggled into her shorts, slipped her arms into the red camp shirt, and squeezed it over her head fast. She hated getting caught inside.

She smoothed the wrinkles over her tummy and scraped with her fingernail at a spot of something yellow. Mama would say to wear a clean shirt, the blue one or the white – both had CAMP DONOVAN on the front – but Ellie liked the red one best. She’d worn it every day since camp started.

Rubbing her eyes with a fist, she tiptoed to the door, praying she wouldn’t wake the other girls in her cabin. She’d woke up early so she could beat Anna to the flag. Yesterday, Miss Bower’d said the person who got to raise the flag to the top of the flagpole had to be an early bird.

Easing the door open, Ellie started down the steps. Then she remembered Courtney’s lucky penny.

No, her lucky penny. Courtney said she could keep it, and today Ellie needed lots of luck.

Creeping back to her bunk, she tripped on her untied shoestrings and made a loud thump. She crossed her fingers that Anna wouldn’t wake up. She and Anna had argued last night about who would get to do the flag today. Ellie knew in her heart that she could do a better job. Anna would probably drop the flag halfway up, and they they’d have to burn it. Everybody knew it was very bad luck to drop a flag.

She felt around under her pillow until her fingers closed over the penny. Pushing it deep in her shorts pocket, she hurried back to the door and down the steps. When the door banged behind her, she kept going.

Across the yard, Miss Bower, her blond hair scraggly from sleep, was leaving the Chow Barn, where everybody ate meals except when they had a picnic. Miss Bower had a coffee mug in one hand and the flag box tucked under her arm. Ellie raced across the damp ground to the circle where everyone gathered to salute the flag. Miss Bower was settling into her camp chair to drink her coffee.

“My goodness, Ellie. Aren’t you an early bird?”

“I came to do the flag.”

“Oh…” Miss Bower nodded, but Ellie could tell by the way her smile faded that it wasn’t a yes nod. It was the sort of nod Mama used when she said, “I see.”

“I won’t drop it, Miss Bower. I promise.”

“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t mean to, but it’s an awfully big flag for such a little girl.”

“I’m not so little anymore. See, my hands are big.” Ellie spread her fingers wide to make her hands as big as possible. She heard footsteps pounding behind her.

“Miss Bower! Miss Bower!”

It was Anna.

“Look!” Ellie clenched her fist to bunch up the muscle in her arm, as she pushed up the sleeve of her camp shirt. “I’m strong, Miss Bower.”

“That’s not a muscle,” Anna jeered, offering both arms. “Look at these.”

Just then, the bell rang, calling everybody to the circle.

Ellie had to admit that Anna’s muscles might be a teeny bit bigger than her own. Anna was already six and a half, as tall as second-year girls.

“But, Miss Bower,” Ellie argued, “you told us only early birds get to do the flag. I was the earliest of anybody.”

“Yes, that’s true, Ellie. I did say that, didn’t I?”

Ellie nodded helpfully.

“That’s not fair, Miss Bower. Ellie’s the youngest kid in camp. Us older girls should get to go first, and I’ve never done the flag.”

Miss Bower wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t recall your ever asking before, Anna.”

“No, ma’am, but I still—”

“Well, Ellie was the early bird this morning. Maybe you can get up earlier tomorrow.” When Anna started to object, Miss Bower put up a hand. “Meanwhile, it takes two girls to unfold the flag and keep it from touching the ground while I fasten it to the flag hoist.”

Behind them, Ellie heard cabin doors banging, feet pounding, as the other girls gathered around the flagpole. Miss Bower opened the box, took out the flag, and handed it to Ellie.

“One girl holds the end while the other girl unfolds.”

Anna pushed forward and grabbed the unfolding end. Ellie had to just stand there while Anna flipped the folded part over and back until it was stretched between them.

“Now, open it wide,” Miss Bower said, standing and moving to the flagpole. “Ellie, you hand me the top corner.”

Ellie knew the blue part sprinkled with stars was the top. Reaching to hand Miss Bower the metal ring in the blue corner, Ellie felt a tug. The flag slipped through her fingers. She grabbed quick, heart thumping furiously, and caught it before it touched the ground. When she looked up, Anna was grinning.

That grin was too much.

“Butthead,” Ellie whispered, with her most ferocious glare. She had learned the word from Courtney, but this was the first time she felt like saying it to anybody.

When Miss Bower finished hooking the flag to the rope, she made Anna step back. Then Ellie pulled hard on the rope, and the flag traveled a little way up the pole. It was heavier than she expected. She looked at Miss Bower, hoping she hadn’t noticed that Ellie had raised the flag only a few inches.

Bracing herself, Ellie tugged harder, the muscles in her arms straining with the effort. This time the flag moved a little easier. Hand over hand, like she’d seen the older girls do, Ellie pulled the flag to the top of the pole, where it snapped and waved in the wind. Then Miss Bower tied it off and everybody said the Pledge.

Ellie had only learned the Pledge since she came to camp. She wasn’t sure what all the words meant, but she said them in her biggest, most important voice.

Afterward, the bell rang again, calling everyone to breakfast. While the other girls ran past, Ellie looked up at the flag flapping back and forth and couldn’t stop smiling. She bet Courtney hadn’t got to pull up the flag on her first time at camp.

Watching the flag as she walked, Ellie started toward the Chow Barn – and fell flat in the dirt. Her chin hit hard. she bit her tongue, bringing tears to her eyes. Sitting up, she quickly rubbed the tears away. Big girls, who could pull a flag all the way to the top of the pole, didn’t cry.

“Nah, na-na-nah-na!” Anna stood jeering at her from the steps of the Chow Barn. “Forget to tie your shoes?” She stuck out her tongue then disappeared through the door.

Looking at her untied shoestrings, Ellie saw a dirty smudge where someone had stepped on one of them. She had a good idea who that someone was.

But she wasn’t going to let it spoil her best day at camp. She tied her shoes, brushed herself off, and ran to join the other girls at breakfast. Reaching the steps, she fished in her pocket for the lucky penny. Courtney had made Ellie promise to keep it with her to ward off any bad luck. Ever since Mr. Dann’s car ran over Betsy, Courtney had been worried about bad luck.

Frowning, Ellie felt in her other pocket, pulled it wide, and peered inside it. She saw a rubber band she had found under her bed and a piece of cookie from yesterday’s snack.

But the lucky penny was gone.

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Bitch Factor – Chapter 14

 Sunday, July 26, Camp Donovan, Texas

Ellie wriggled into her shorts, slipped her arms into the red camp shirt, and squeezed it over her head fast. She hated getting caught inside.

She smoothed the wrinkles over her tummy and scraped with her fingernail at a spot of something yellow. Mama would say to wear a clean shirt, the blue one or the white – both had CAMP DONOVAN on the front – but Ellie liked the red one best. She’d worn it every day since camp started.

Rubbing her eyes with a fist, she tiptoed to the door, praying she wouldn’t wake the other girls in her cabin. She’d woke up early so she could beat Anna to the flag. Yesterday, Miss Bower’d said the person who got to raise the flag to the top of the flagpole had to be an early bird.

Easing the door open, Ellie started down the steps. Then she remembered Courtney’s lucky penny.

No, her lucky penny. Courtney said she could keep it, and today Ellie needed lots of luck.

Creeping back to her bunk, she tripped on her untied shoestrings and made a loud thump. She crossed her fingers that Anna wouldn’t wake up. She and Anna had argued last night about who would get to do the flag today. Ellie knew in her heart that she could do a better job. Anna would probably drop the flag halfway up, and they they’d have to burn it. Everybody knew it was very bad luck to drop a flag.

She felt around under her pillow until her fingers closed over the penny. Pushing it deep in her shorts pocket, she hurried back to the door and down the steps. When the door banged behind her, she kept going.

Across the yard, Miss Bower, her blond hair scraggly from sleep, was leaving the Chow Barn, where everybody ate meals except when they had a picnic. Miss Bower had a coffee mug in one hand and the flag box tucked under her arm. Ellie raced across the damp ground to the circle where everyone gathered to salute the flag. Miss Bower was settling into her camp chair to drink her coffee.

“My goodness, Ellie. Aren’t you an early bird?”

“I came to do the flag.”

“Oh…” Miss Bower nodded, but Ellie could tell by the way her smile faded that it wasn’t a yes nod. It was the sort of nod Mama used when she said, “I see.”

“I won’t drop it, Miss Bower. I promise.”

“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t mean to, but it’s an awfully big flag for such a little girl.”

“I’m not so little anymore. See, my hands are big.” Ellie spread her fingers wide to make her hands as big as possible. She heard footsteps pounding behind her.

“Miss Bower! Miss Bower!”

It was Anna.

“Look!” Ellie clenched her fist to bunch up the muscle in her arm, as she pushed up the sleeve of her camp shirt. “I’m strong, Miss Bower.”

“That’s not a muscle,” Anna jeered, offering both arms. “Look at these.”

Just then, the bell rang, calling everybody to the circle.

Ellie had to admit that Anna’s muscles might be a teeny bit bigger than her own. Anna was already six and a half, as tall as second-year girls.

“But, Miss Bower,” Ellie argued, “you told us only early birds get to do the flag. I was the earliest of anybody.”

“Yes, that’s true, Ellie. I did say that, didn’t I?”

Ellie nodded helpfully.

“That’s not fair, Miss Bower. Ellie’s the youngest kid in camp. Us older girls should get to go first, and I’ve never done the flag.”

Miss Bower wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t recall your ever asking before, Anna.”

“No, ma’am, but I still—”

“Well, Ellie was the early bird this morning. Maybe you can get up earlier tomorrow.” When Anna started to object, Miss Bower put up a hand. “Meanwhile, it takes two girls to unfold the flag and keep it from touching the ground while I fasten it to the flag hoist.”

Behind them, Ellie heard cabin doors banging, feet pounding, as the other girls gathered around the flagpole. Miss Bower opened the box, took out the flag, and handed it to Ellie.

“One girl holds the end while the other girl unfolds.”

Anna pushed forward and grabbed the unfolding end. Ellie had to just stand there while Anna flipped the folded part over and back until it was stretched between them.

“Now, open it wide,” Miss Bower said, standing and moving to the flagpole. “Ellie, you hand me the top corner.”

Ellie knew the blue part sprinkled with stars was the top. Reaching to hand Miss Bower the metal ring in the blue corner, Ellie felt a tug. The flag slipped through her fingers. She grabbed quick, heart thumping furiously, and caught it before it touched the ground. When she looked up, Anna was grinning.

That grin was too much.

“Butthead,” Ellie whispered, with her most ferocious glare. She had learned the word from Courtney, but this was the first time she felt like saying it to anybody.

When Miss Bower finished hooking the flag to the rope, she made Anna step back. Then Ellie pulled hard on the rope, and the flag traveled a little way up the pole. It was heavier than she expected. She looked at Miss Bower, hoping she hadn’t noticed that Ellie had raised the flag only a few inches.

Bracing herself, Ellie tugged harder, the muscles in her arms straining with the effort. This time the flag moved a little easier. Hand over hand, like she’d seen the older girls do, Ellie pulled the flag to the top of the pole, where it snapped and waved in the wind. Then Miss Bower tied it off and everybody said the Pledge.

Ellie had only learned the Pledge since she came to camp. She wasn’t sure what all the words meant, but she said them in her biggest, most important voice.

Afterward, the bell rang again, calling everyone to breakfast. While the other girls ran past, Ellie looked up at the flag flapping back and forth and couldn’t stop smiling. She bet Courtney hadn’t got to pull up the flag on her first time at camp.

Watching the flag as she walked, Ellie started toward the Chow Barn – and fell flat in the dirt. Her chin hit hard. she bit her tongue, bringing tears to her eyes. Sitting up, she quickly rubbed the tears away. Big girls, who could pull a flag all the way to the top of the pole, didn’t cry.

“Nah, na-na-nah-na!” Anna stood jeering at her from the steps of the Chow Barn. “Forget to tie your shoes?” She stuck out her tongue then disappeared through the door.

Looking at her untied shoestrings, Ellie saw a dirty smudge where someone had stepped on one of them. She had a good idea who that someone was.

But she wasn’t going to let it spoil her best day at camp. She tied her shoes, brushed herself off, and ran to join the other girls at breakfast. Reaching the steps, she fished in her pocket for the lucky penny. Courtney had made Ellie promise to keep it with her to ward off any bad luck. Ever since Mr. Dann’s car ran over Betsy, Courtney had been worried about bad luck.

Frowning, Ellie felt in her other pocket, pulled it wide, and peered inside it. She saw a rubber band she had found under her bed and a piece of cookie from yesterday’s snack.

But the lucky penny was gone.

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Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 26

CHAPTER 27

“Let’s have our dessert in the parlor,” Roxanna said, leading Booker to a sitting room off the hall.

Apparently a gathering place for her overnight guests, the room provided two conversation areas with sofas, chairs, and loveseats. A glass-front cabinet held board games. A table, already laid with napkins, glasses and utensils, defined a small dining area. Dishes of potpourri on the buffet scented the air.

While he poked around, she’d brewed two mugs of coffee and had cut thick slices of pecan strudel. Now she flipped a switch, filling the room with harpsichord music. For a woman who started the evening declaring their status strictly platonic, the innkeeper had set a cozy scene for romance. Roxanna was certainly a puzzle.

Booker held a chair for her to sit.

She hesitated, a smile playing around her mouth. “You do this automatically, don’t you? Without even thinking about it.”

“Do what?”

“Act the gentleman. Open doors, pull out chairs, rise when a woman approaches. You haven’t entered the liberated age, Booker.” Her smile softened the words. “Today’s male is liberated from being a gentleman.”

“Maybe I’m influenced by the inn’s old-world elegance.” Tucking her chair under, he caught a whiff of perfume and absurdly envisioned a summer meadow with vanilla cookies and sex under an apple tree.

“I have wine, if you’d prefer it over coffee,” she said.

“Thanks, but I’ve done enough damage with wine tonight.”

“No damage at all. My sandals are good as new, see?” She lifted one foot for inspection.

He slipped the shoe off then ran his hand lightly over her toes and the bottom of her foot, enjoying the small intimacy. “You’re right, it’s perfect.”

Now, what had made him do that? He slid the shoe back on. Except for the tinkling harpsichord, silence descended. Feeling like an ass, he busied himself stirring his coffee. All evening he’d wanted to touch her. A dozen times in the theater he’d almost reached for her hand or rested his arm along the back of her seat. Watching her slide into the Tahoe, he’d wanted to kiss the curve of her neck.

“Actually, Booker, you may have started me on an extravagant pagan ritual.” Her eyes glittered with amusement. She lowered them and toyed with her strudel, but he could see the corners of her lips wanting to turn upward. “Some women swear the ultimate luxury is bathing in wine. It adds a rosy glow to the skin and titillates the senses.”

Picturing Roxanna in a bath of blush wine was titillation enough to be dangerous. “Sounds habit-forming.”

“Only if enjoyed with an appropriate partner.”

Booker laid his fork down. He allowed himself the brief pleasure of admiring the gentle curve of her throat. “Lady, unless you have lustier plans for the remainder of this evening than I do, we’d better change the subject.”

“I wasn’t the one who started with the foot massage.”

He couldn’t deny it. As they enjoyed what turned out to be an excellent pecan confection, he steered the conversation to O. Henry. She stood to take away the plates, and he rose to help.

“Would you mind looking at that guest room now?” she asked, frowning as they deposited the plates beside the sink. Her mood was suddenly dark.

“Not at all.”

Upstairs, she guided him to a snug bedroom with a four-poster bed that reminded him of his grandmother’s home. He touched the “wallpaper” before believing she’d created it with paint. The rug and hatstand, though not quality art by any means, were a brilliant job of fakery. As an artist himself, of sorts, he understood her need for validation. Anyone would find the room charming and comfortable. Southern Affairs might even find a story here: “Photographic Tour of a Quaint Texas Inn.”

“Impressive,” he told her, meaning it.

“You don’t think it looks penny-pinching?” Her eyes appeared moist, her mouth tight and white around the corners.

“Nothing penny-pinching about that goose-feather mattress.”

“You could tell?”

“My grandmother had them on every bed. Sink in, snuggle down, and sleep like Rip Van Winkle.” Roxanna’s self-confidence had impressed him from the beginning. Now he was seeing nervous insecurity. Complexities abounded in this woman.

As they descended the stairs, Booker debated how to approach the goodnight-kiss part of the evening. He ran a few scenarios in his mind, delaying the matter by visiting the necessary room.

Best idea was to let her call the plays. Moody or not, Roxanna was delightful company. When she shoved him out the door, he’d tip his hat and ride off into the sunset.

Metaphorically, of course. If he finished the evening without making a further fool of himself, maybe she’d agree to another non-date in the future. Possibly she’d be open to giving him archery lessons. She’d be more fun to learn from than Littlehawk.

Returning down the short hall, he saw her office door open. He paused and couldn’t resist popping in, this time to study Pocahontas’s quiver. His recollection had been correct: her arrows were fletched with turkey feathers, cock feather dyed red, exactly like the arrow that killed Fowler. According to a notation at the bottom, the Pocahontas photo was taken two years before Fowler’s demise. Besides, Fowler himself had a quiver full of those arrows.

As Booker turned away, a face in the Calamity Jane skit caught his eye, a face that churned up acid in his stomach. He lifted the picture off the wall and tilted it toward the light. It, too, was dated two years earlier. Booker didn’t recognize the man Calamity Jane had lassoed from the audience, but the late Chuck Fowler was sitting at a table near the stage. In her story of Fowler’s trickery over the mortgage agreement, Roxanna had failed to mention she knew her landlord long before she bought the inn from him.

Was he jumping to conclusions? Hopefully, yes…but if she hadn’t known Fowler when the picture was snapped, his presence seemed damned coincidental.

Returning to the living area, he found her waiting for him at the front door to the inn. She slid her arms around his neck, and Booker wished he could press “delete” on the suspicious part of his mind.

“Booker Krane, you’re a fine man and I had a fine evening. I appreciate more than you realize, your taking a look at that room, and even if you had laughed I’d still like you. But don’t leave here thinking my heart is anywhere but in this business.”

“Does that mean we won’t be seeing each other again?” His brain kept flashing an image of Roxanna and Chuck Fowler together. How well had she known the man?

“It means we can be friends, maybe even more than friends, but I don’t have time for games. I know exactly what it takes to make a place like this successful, especially on the frayed shoestring holding it together. If I blink, my business could vanish. I don’t intend to blink.”

She stretched high on her toes, pulling him down at the same time, and pressed her soft, warm lips to his. She tasted sweeter than their dessert, more intoxicating than the wine.

He wrapped his arms around her and enjoyed the firmness of her curves beneath the white silk.

Then she pushed him across the threshold, shoved a wrapped chunk of pecan strudel in his hand, and shut the door without another word. He was left wondering about the many moods of Roxanna Larkspur, wondering, appreciating, and praying that she was merely a charming eccentric, not a psychotic killer.

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Paradise Cursed – Snippet 23

A melon in the sun, lonely and dry, Ayanna waited to split open. She saw wavery people. Eyes not clear, captain and shaman shimmery in candlelight. Da heat of the Bokor’s fury burn inside her, like fire sizzle across electric wire. Yet she could not move.

Her belly sour-up, her feet useless melting ice, she try to open mouth, scream at captain, scream warning. Da Bokor clamp down, make big hurt in belly, in brain. She cannot move, cannot speak, cannot see in the shimmery yellow light. Cannot warn da dove. Eat da dove, swallow da dove, put dove in Bokor belly to make magic.

Ayanna push at the heat inside, push with her brain, shove da Bokor out, yeah.

One bitty moment to see clear, think good clean thoughts, then he push back. Too strong, Bokor like pushing wall. Like pushing mountain.

Ayanna cry inside. Useless. Tears melt in da yellow fire.

*

Erin, Demarae and I stood shoulder to shoulder confronting the yellow-eyed thing from Hell. In quick, darting motions, its gaze moved to each of us in turn. Staring at it and listening to Erin’s persistent reciting of the incantation, I tried to form logical thoughts. But how does one plot a course of action against a vision?

“Do not trust it,” Demarae was mumbling. His face had drained of color. “Do not trust your senses.”

Even as he spoke, the snake opened its mouth wide, as if to snap off Erin’s head in one gulp, its evil teeth wet and gleaming. Its tongue flicked outward and touched her cheek.

After one tiny flinch and a backward step, Erin remained steady, staring back and thrusting her amulet toward the reptile while continuing her chant. For a moment, she and the snake appeared locked in mental combat, tongue darting in mesmerizing rhythm with the spoken words.

Incredibly, the snake appeared to lose color. From yellow, scaly green and slimy pink, it faded to pale gray, almost transparent. Its mouth opened wide… wider… until the jaws unhinged, the way a python swallows a fully grown doe. Again I tried to yank Erin away from it, but I might as well have been tugging on a chunk of granite.

One of the women shrieked—then another—then a chorus of horrified cries as their music gave up its rhythm in a clangor of unrelated sounds. Could they see the thing now that it was fading? A quick glance told me they were staring not at the snake or at us but at something behind us. Ayanna. Was the ghastly vision merely a distraction? I turned to look.

No longer sitting, Ayanna lay crumpled in a heap inside the plastic tub, her skin the color it should be but her eyes like huge burnt coals. She was dead?

Erin’s relentless chant skipped a beat—she sucked in an audible breath.

“Dear God,” Demarae said again.

Erin resumed her incantation, now louder and fraught with fear. Demarae added his own terror-struck voice.

But I could not tear my sickened gaze from Ayanna. We had not helped this woman, we had killed her, but how?

Frantic shrieks filled with panic snapped me out of my trance. I whipped around to find the snake shedding its skin. With a ripping, sucking sound and a stench like swamp sludge, its face peeled back in ragged chunks, revealing a transformation.

This new nightmare came with substance.

Chairs and tables flew across the room as the writhing reptilian horror knocked aside everything in its path, including three women. The others screamed and ran to the door.

The thing taking form in front of us was incredibly tangible and growing larger with each crashing step forward. Not a slithering snake, but a scuttling crocodile, it’s gaze locked on Erin.

Its face faded…shifted.

One instant crocodile, the next man, then woman…not just any woman: Ayanna. Her jaws opened wide, wider, coming unhinged like the snake’s, with a hissing sound like steam but also thick and growling, shifting from one to the other as the face transformed once more into a reptilian monstrosity.

This time I succeeded in pulling Erin away, shoving her behind me. Her magic amulet had failed. Backing away from the vision that had become all too real, I realized Demarae was no longer at my side.

The smell of smoke snatched my attention. Even in the presence of monsters, fire on a ship means urgent danger. Instinctively, I looked for the flames and found them in the path of toppled dining tables and candles… then I kenned to the fact that we were in port, where fire was important but not deadly. Not like the thing scrambling toward me.

For an instant, I wondered if I could finally shake off my own curse by landing in the digestive tract of a giant crocodile. But only for an instant. The creature didn’t want me, it wanted through me to get Erin. Why, I could only guess. The Bokor had boarded the Sarah Jane as Ayanna to tap the ship’s rumored magic, only to find another source of spiritual energy aboard, and the Bokor wanted it all.

Besides, it wasn’t really a crocodile, I reminded myself, it was a vision. Solid enough to knock things about, but how real could it be?

Then again, if it was real, it could die.

I sprang for the machete, snatched it up, and whirled to face the beast again. It was closer, lumbering toward Erin, and I let it pass. Facing an alligator head-on is risky, I’d learned that after allowing a group of Florida fishermen to plot our course, and crocodiles were at least as dangerous. A beast this impossibly big would have a brain the size of a golf ball but jaws that could crush bone as easy as pudding.

Crouching low, I aimed upward for the soft part of its neck. Using both hands, I struck with all the force my legs and arms could throw into it and thrust the machete deep into its throat, aiming toward its tiny brain.

The croc screamed, a human scream.

Then it vanished.

Gone!? For a full five seconds I stood riveted, scanning the space before me.

The thing was gone.

But not dead. It—the Bokor/reptile—might be licking his wounds but also would be scheming for the next assault.

Of more immediate concern, the small fires—Marisha and Demarae seemed to have them under control. And Erin? She appeared stunned but otherwise all right, perhaps in need of a comfortable chair and a stout drink.

Ayanna’s need was more urgent. Cross-legged in the shallow water, she’d folded face-forward. I rushed to pull her out. Erin came to help, and together we laid her on the floor.

She wasn’t breathing. How long had she been out? The entire business with the reptile had taken no more than ten minutes, ten terrifying, nerve-shattering minutes.

We worked water from Ayanna’s lungs until she coughed and moaned, but the strange trance, which had overtaken her when the snake vision first appeared, persisted. She was alive, breathing but not recovered.

From the ship’s sick room, little more than a closet filled with emergency supplies, I retrieved smelling salts and a litter. With luck, Ayanna’s continued affliction was merely a faint. She responded to a whiff of the ammonia yet failed to come around completely.

I asked Demarae to help me carry her to her cabin. Marisha and Erin insisted on coming, too. Inside the tight quarters, we tucked her into her bunk.

“What is wrong with her?” I asked the shaman. “Should I get a doctor? I mean… a medical doctor?” Knowing that a shaman’s practice usually involves the healing of physical problems, I didn’t want to insult the man.

“We are fortunate in that respect, Captain. Marisha is a physician qualified to practice anywhere in the Islands. We met, in fact, when I hired her to sit in on my healing rituals merely as a precaution.” To Marisha, he said, “Do you have your bag?”

“Always.”

She did appear quite capable as she checked Ayanna’s vital signs. As certain as I could be that my first mate was in good hands, I gave Demarae a nod, and we left the women to take over. I was sorely in need of a pipe. Lighting it as we proceeded to the main deck, I remembered my manners.

“Do you smoke? We have cigars and cigarettes at the bar. I could use a strong drink. Would you care for something?”

“Though it’s barely lunch time, I would be grateful for a spot of whiskey,” he said. “This has been a morning like no other.”

Ascending to the upper deck, I considered what he’d said. Somehow, I’d been of the impression that dangerous visions were at least an occasional occurrence for a man in his profession.

“How could you not prepare us for this?” I said, unable to suppress my mounting fury.

“Do you believe I expected to be attacked by your girl’s hallucinations? Do you believe I would have subjected Marisha or my flock or any of us to that confrontation of horrors in your ship’s dining room?”

“You’re saying my ship is at fault!” Even while shouting it, I knew my anger was aimed at the wrong person. The dark arts attract the most sinister, fiendish, black-hearted practitioners imaginable, and I had not allowed my imagination full rein when considering Ayanna’s Bokor.

“I only suggest that your ship is an amplifier. It enlarges and intensifies. In this case, the Bokor exploited your ship’s energy much as we were attempting to do.”

“And did it better. We were outmaneuvered.” I banged bottles around and slammed cabinet doors venting the remainder of my annoyance. Once we were settled at the bar with a bottle of the good stuff and two glasses, I asked, “What do we do now?”

“We?” He gave one of his morose sighs. “My dear Captain, we are treading bitter waters, and I am sorely afraid my strengths have been exhausted in this circumstance. If you recall, we discussed the possibility that a second healing would fair no better than the first.”

“You can’t leave Ayanna this way! This thing that’s got hold of her is—”

“Is beyond my abilities. I warned you as such.”

“You scheming dog. You simply wanted to test the rumors about my ship, is that it?”

He gave a half nod and stopped. “Captain, we both know they are not rumors. In your time aboard the Sarah Jane… what would that be? Eight years? Ten?”

“Close enough.”

“Most men, coming upon what you faced tonight, would stand shivering in their shoes. Perhaps you didn’t expect to conjure a monstrous crocodile, but you were quick to respond, much too quick to never have been in a similar situation. So don’t be shaking your finger at me, young man.” He sipped his whiskey.

I swiveled my barstool to stare at out the sea. My pipe was slow at having its usual soothing effect, and for several minutes, neither of us spoke.

When Demarae cleared his throat, I did not immediately turn to look at him.

“You own this ship, true?” he said.

“Every plank and canvas. It’s been handed down, you might say. What makes you ask?”

“I am curious about its heritage. How could I not be? That girl you have aboard, the one glued to your hands earlier, she does have a touch of the psychic, soothsayer or evocator, perhaps, but nothing like I feel embedded in the soul of this ship. If I were a younger man, my friend, I would book passage with you in hope of soaking up all her secrets.”

Hmmmm. Now I turned, wanting to see his eyes as I asked the next question.

“What would you hope to do with those secrets?”

“Precisely what I do now, only more so and with greater success.”

“Pave your road to wealth?” I could not stifle the sarcasm.

He smiled, poured himself another finger of spirits. “Every man must earn his bread. I am no different in that respect, but great success is not measured by how many trips one makes to the bank.”

“Well said,” I conceded. My brain pushed at the nub of an idea. “You’re right when you say the Sarah Jane is rife with spiritual, if not supernatural, energy. And yes, while I’ve never before endured an attack by a huge raging reptile, I’ve seen nightmares manifest aboard my ship. By your own words, you’re a curious man, so I ask, can you walk away from what went down today without it nagging you?”

I could sense the gears whirring like mad behind the soulful brown eyes he leveled at me.

Footsteps sounded on the deck behind us, and I looked to find Marisha wearily lugging her medical bag our way. It didn’t appear to be heavy, so she must be weakened by the same sadness of spirit Demarae and I shared.

I swung around off the barstool and rescued the bag. “What might I get you from the bar, dear lady?”

“Coffee,” she said. “And a nip of whatever you’re having.”

“Coming right up.” I was not practiced at using our expensive new coffee machine, but I could serve up a decent mug of ordinary Jamaican joe. While it brewed, I set a whiskey glass on the bar for her.

“How is our patient?” Demarae asked.

“Resting as comfortably as I could manage. Her skin remains clear. Her mind? Who can say?” She poured an ounce or so of whiskey into the glass and sipped it. “As a physician, I would tell you she’s in a light coma. As your assistant, I’d swear she’s in a trance.”

“A trance?” I said.

“I don’t pretend to explain it.”

“As though she’s been hypnotized?” I set a steaming coffee in front of Marisha then made one for myself.

She nodded vaguely. “The mind has its way of escaping what it cannot bear to endure.”

“Learning that someone hates you enough pay a Bokor to curse you would be hurtful to anyone’s spirit,” Demarae said. A thoughtful frown drew his bushy gray eyebrows together.

“Discovering that the curse is turning you bit by bit into a reptile would drive many people over the edge of sanity. I cannot imagine the effect of knowing the Bokor’s loathsome presence is riding within you.”

I stared at the shaman for a moment then walked away from both my guests, ostensibly to relight my pipe. True, I did continue to crave the comfort of good tobacco, but his words had set off an alarm in my head. Laying it out like that, he’d made me wonder if bringing Ayanna’s cleansing ritual aboard had put my other passengers at risk.

Had our attempts to rid Ayanna of her curse summoned the Bokor’s wrath? Or would he have appeared at some point, regardless? Recalling the way I’d found the Kohl sisters last night, staring at a space amidships, clearly frightened but unwilling to own up to anyone hassling them, I wondered if they had encountered the Bokor in some form.

In any case, it made sense that an evil practitioner would not go to such lengths to hitch a ride on the Sarah Jane without first devising an offensive scheme of some sort. Might that scheme endanger my unsuspecting passengers? The ship didn’t have a brig, where I could stow our patient under guard until we returned to Jamaica. Nor, considering her condition, could I put her off at another stop. As captain, I was the law on my ship, so I’d be within my rights to confine her to quarters, restrained to her bed, if necessary.

Only, how would that prevent the Bokor’s spirit from moving about the ship and implementing whatever devious strategy he’d planned? Erin was the only person aboard who could see him—or rather, his apparitions— if he didn’t want to be seen. Perhaps I should wait and talk with Erin before making any decision about my first mate— other than passing her post to Jase Graham on a more permanent basis.

Buy the book now, because you’ll want to know what happens next…

 

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Bitch Factor – Chapter 12

Sunday, July 19, Conroe, Texas

Courtney watched the summer rain making ribbons outside the camp bus window and wondered if Ellie felt as gloomy as she did. Probably not. Ellie would already have met half the kids on the squeaky old bus.

Courtney had never worried about meeting people when Betsy was around. Being two years older, Betsy knew just about everyone. Now, Courtney would be the new kid all by herself.

When everybody teamed up, she would be the odd one out, the one nobody picked. The stupid snobs wouldn’t even realize she was an ace player. She’d have to sit on the bench until one of the camp counselors noticed and made the team let her rotate in. THEN he’d spike a volleyball over the net or hit a home run or shoot the winning basket (fat chance) and her team would wish they’d let her play sooner (yeah, right).

Maybe she should fake a two-week stomachache.

“Your first year?” The girl in the next seat was rummaging through a knapsack. She pulled out a snickers bar and peeled it like a banana.

“First year at Carnp Cade,” Courtney answered, “Last year I was at Donovan.”

“Baby camp, I graduated from there two whole years ago.”

The girl had hair the color of tomato soup, and a crooked front tooth. Courtney hoped she also had a mouthful of aching cavities.

Turning back to the window, Courtney wondered if fate had purposely seated her beside the Camp Toad. Why couldn’t her seat mate be another new girl, someone to team up with and share all the first day blunders?

“Ooh swmem?”

“What?” Caramel and chocolate had stuck the girl’s teeth together, garbling her words.

“Swim. Will you go out for the swim meet?”

“No.” Actually, Courtney was a good swimmer, better even than Betsy, but she didn’t want to encourage the Camp Toad. “I don’t much like swimming.”

“Just as well. I’m going to win again this year.”

“Again?”

“Sure.” The girl rolled the last bite of candy to the back of her mouth, then crumpled the wrapper and dropped it on the floor. “In last year’s meet, I beat out everybody. Even the third-year girls. Now I’m even faster.”

Courtney hadn’t been swimming since last summer at Daddy Jon’s house. He’d taught them all to swim, her, Betsy, and Ellie, when they were little. Sometimes she wished Mama were still married to Daddy Jon, even though he wasn’t her real father. Her real father went away when she was two years old. Daddy Jon was Ellie’s real father, He had adopted Courtney and Betsy. Now he and Mama were divorced and the girls spent every other weekend with Daddy Jon. Daddy Travis was okay, but older and never any fun.

“Tennis,”the Toad said. A glob of chocolate had stuck to her crooked tooth. “If you play tennis, we could double.”

“I haven’t played much,” Courtney admitted. She’d never played tennis in her life, but the girl seemed to be making an effort to be friends, and Courtney wondered if she had misjudged her. “I catch on quick, though.”

“Tough. You’ll have to find another partner. I’m a star player. A beginner would drag my score down.”

QUEEN TOAD, Courtney decided, turning toward the window. The rain had stopped. They should be getting close to Camp Cade. She wondered if Ellie’s bus had arrived at camp Donovan.

One of the second graders had promised to look out for Ellie, but Courtney had a bad feeling about this summer—bad enough that she’d given Ellie her lucky penny. Inside Ellie’s camp book she had written Daddy Jon’s telephone number. Daddy Jon was a good person to call if you got scared.

Listening to the other girls’ chatter, Courtney missed Betsy so much, she felt as empty as a shriveled-up balloon. She wished she could take back all the mean things she’d ever said and somehow let Betsy know she’d done a pretty good job of being a big sister. Courtney wasn’t sure she could ever measure up.

She wished, also, that she could take a BASEBALL BAT to the car that killed Betsy. She’d like to BUST all the windows and FLATTEN all the tires.

Even more, she’d like to BASH Mr. Parker Dann.

Meet me back here next week for the next Bitch Factor chapter.

Meanwhile, check out Slice of Life, the latest Dixie Flannigan thriller.

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