Chris Rogers's Blog, page 7

Paradise Cursed – Snippet 22

CHAPTER 19

Demarae brought his orichas aboard first. The women and the goat came by successive launches. I wondered why no other men were included in his ceremony, but that wasn’t my concern.

“Will this room suit the occasion?” I asked, and before he could answer, “Should we lower the window shades or keep them open?”

He must have sensed my agitation. His brown eyes sought mine.

“My friend,” he said, “calm yourself.”

“More easily said than done,” I countered. “We failed once. We must prevent another failure.”

“Yes. And your anxiety will only hinder our fortune. Lower the shades, please. We will have candles to help us focus our energies within the room.”

No matter how often I had seen or even engaged in such rituals, never before had I considered bringing one aboard my ship. My nerves were stretched like piano wires. Taking Demarae’s cue, I shut the sunlight from the room. Meanwhile, he and Marisha shoved two dining tables together against a wall. Over the clean white tablecloths already in place,  Marisha placed a heavier cloth from the supplies she had brought. Then she set a fat red candle on each table.

“To cleanse the room of negative energies,” she explained when she saw me watching. “When the ceremony starts, we will burn these.”

She set two dark candles beside the red ones.

“Black tobacco,” she said. “For protection.”

One by one, she brought the oricha bowls from their baskets, removed the plastic wrapping that covered them, and set them on the table. Around the bowls she placed platters of various fruits, vegetables and grains, in preparation, I assumed, for the offerings each saint preferred.

Hearing a clamor at the door, I turned to find two women bringing in a caged goat. A golden tan color with nicely curved horns, it did indeed appear healthy and well nourished. An animal to be sacrificed, I knew from times past, should be the best specimen available.

Marisha handed me a folded white garment and a pair of white paper booties.

“If you would, please, ask Ayanna to wear these and nothing else.” She handed me another folded garment, this one dark red. They both felt to be made of cotton. “The red is for our guest.”

I had explained by phone that Erin Kohl would be joining us, and why. Now, I took the hint and left them to finish preparing. When I knocked on Ayanna’s cabin, I found both women, gave them the clothing, and decided a walk would do wonders to calm my anxious stomach. I would also welcome a pipe. Even unlit the tobacco-scented candles had awakened my appetite.

The sea lay calm today. As I strolled toward the aft deck, where the remainder of Demarae’s helpers had gathered to quiet their own minds, I allowed the cool turquoise sea and sweet air to work their own brand of magic. The women, each clad in a white smock as before, lounged on our blue cushions. Having paid little attention to these ladies as individuals on our previous encounter, I recognized only three—a quite elderly woman with snow white hair and skin like old silk, a girl who couldn’t be more than fifteen, and a strikingly tall woman who could pass for Ayanna’s sister.

In response to my “Good morning, ladies,” I received a collectively murmured greeting and continued my stroll wondering if I should have requested Demarae bring more participants, a bigger pool of positive energy to battle the Bokor’s black magic. But if Demarae thought we needed more warm bodies, I felt sure he would not have needed my coaxing. He wanted this to succeed every bit as much as I did.

Strolling back to the dining room, I automatically checked the sky for thunderclouds. Of all days when we did not need to deal with the horrors of a rainstorm, this was it. Only clear blue as far as I could see.

I’ve watched many men die in my lifetime. Women, too. Many have died on my ship, some by my own gun, my own sword, some trying to save my worthless life. I’ve seen men hanged, gutted, beheaded, limbs hacked off, eyes gouged, tongues ripped out. Hundreds of men have bled out on my ship’s decks. I have tossed a few overboard to drown or be eaten by sharks or electrocuted in the murky eel-infested waters near Trinidad. In most cases, dying takes only minutes.

Today I wanted no dying.

Clear blue skies overhead was a good omen. I took a draw on my second-best pipe and felt the remainder of any tension leave my body.

We could do this.

*

The dining hall I’d left bore no resemblance to the one I entered. Flames from dozens of candles flickered on tables, glittered upon glassware at the bar, shimmered over white, brown and black faces, and rippled among shadows across the floor. The rich, sensuous aroma of tobacco saturated the air. The plinking of a stringed instrument, the rattle of beads, and a staccato drumbeat shivered up through the soles of my feet.

The sensation was so captivating I had difficulty breathing.

Then the door opened. Ayanna entered, followed by Erin. The single red garment suited her, set her apart from the women in white and strummed a note or two on my heartstrings. Seeing Demarae in his gaudy red tunic, however, pulled me back firmly into our reason for this event.

Marisha took Ayanna’s hand. Demarae took Erin’s. All four stepped aside for a whispered briefing while I found a place to stand and tried to blend into the wall.

Apparently, the shaman had a different role for me to play. He waved me over.

“Captain, you are the heart of this vessel. You must help us access the energy that permeates its hull.”

Before I could object, Marisha handed me a dipper and guided my hand to a deep bowl filled to the brim with a clear amber liquid.

“Bitter herbs Abre Camino, which opens blockages, and Apazote, which helps remove unwanted spirits, have been steeped in purified water and allowed to cool.” Marisha’s voice was low but clear, even against the music.

I saw Demarae remove one of his many necklaces and place it around Erin’s neck. Ayanna removed her slippers and stepped into a shallow plastic tub.

“Dip the herbal infusion and pour it over Ayanna’s body,” Marisha said. “Continue until the bowl is empty and every inch of her body has been cleansed.”

Okay. I could do that. She nodded for me to start.

I lifted the dipper from the pot to above Ayanna’s shoulder. Women who were not playing instruments rose from their chairs and began to dance around us, chanting. As I dipped and poured, they danced and chanted, often touching me or Ayanna in passing. I felt a cool hand on my cheek, then it was gone, and another touched my arm. The sensations of touch, scent, and sound so enveloped me that I became somewhat disoriented, swept up into a shared passion. The feeling was pleasantly intoxicating, yet not at all like drunkenness.

*

Ayanna inhaled the herbal scent into her nose and deep into her lungs as the water soaked her cotton shift. The water caressed her breasts, her back, her belly, yeah. It cooled her hot skin, sliding over her behind cheeks then down and between her legs to pool around her ankles. She expected, as before, to feel soothed of the sickness.

Instead, she felt invaded. Darkness invaded her mind, her skin. The dark was a cold place, vast and lonely, filled with rocks and sharp edges. A strange lightning flashed through the darkness, burning her, scalding her ears with its shrill brilliance. Then it was gone and she floated in murky green fog. Evilous thoughts came into her head…

They make bad smell on her tongue. She let go her legs, let dem go rubber, go slinky-down in da water pool, and she sat…listen to da evil bang around, fill her brain.

Da Bokor’s fire fill her eyes, da smoke clog her mouth, her nose holes, choke down her throat. Screaming in her mind but make no sound. Da Bokor slide da croc suit over his nakedness, big angry smile fill with ugly croc teeth, open wide to eat da dove.

Through her burning yellow eyes Ayanna saw da dove dress up in scarlet. Ayanna’s heart thumped with need. She need da dove. She need eat da dove. She need swallow da dove in her belly, yeah.

As I laid the dipper into the empty bowl, still oddly dazed from the heady atmosphere, Ayanna sank into the shallow water. Sitting limply but with wide-open eyes, she seemed to stare at some inner vision. I hoped this was good.

Shaman Demarae touched my shoulder. His chant had reached a fervent beat, his beads clicking musically as he dance-stepped lightly ahead of me. Erin followed, hands onDemarae’s waist, and he motioned for me to take a similar position behind Erin.

This wasn’t at all what I had expected when he said I should be involved in the ceremony. Dipping water was one thing. Dancing in his footsteps was something wholly different. It seemed a bit silly, even, like a Conga line at a party.

But I assumed our shaman had a serious reason for wanting the three of us to touch one another. As he and Erin danced past, I took my place behind her, hands somewhere near her waist, and did my best to match their rhythm. Around us, the women in white clapped and swayed to the steady staccato drumbeat.

The shaman’s chant repeated its way into my head. Though I had no idea what it meant, nor whether what I heard was precisely what Demarae was chanting, I found myself murmuring along.

“Oya dey, eeba, eeba, te-tey-ay, oya dey, eeba, eeba, te-tey-ay, la ro-yae, la ro-yae, oya…”

After a few minutes, the shaman danced to one side of the tub, where Ayanna appeared wilted and entranced. Marisha led the goat from behind the galley counter to a clear plastic sheet that had been laid out on the floor. Another woman stepped forward and helped Marisha turn the animal onto its side. From the leather loop on his belt, Demarae removed a machete.

“La ro-aye, oya dey, eeba, eeba…”

The drumbeat intensified. The music grew louder. The dancers became more animated. Demarae stepped onto the plastic sheeting, raised his weapon and brought it down at an angle to neatly cut off the goat’s head with one blow. I was impressed. Having beheaded a few men in my pirating days, I knew it was no easy feat.

As the animal collapsed, Demarae grabbed the severed head. Marisha placed a small bowl under the neck to catch the goat’s blood. When her bowl was full, she handed it to Demarae and began filling another.

The shaman dipped his hand into the blood and flung it at Ayanna. He danced around the shallow tub flinging more blood, and more.

I stood with my hands on Erin’s waist, still copying the shaman’s steps and murmuring his chant as we watched the blood spatter Ayanna’s sodden white shift that now clung to her curves, so sheer in its wetness that the tight buds of her nipples were clearly visible. The shaman danced while blood dripped and ran down Ayanna’s face, her arms—

A welcome sight silenced me and stilled my feet. The green scaly skin on Ayanna’s arms was vanishing, replaced by her own smooth golden tones.

“Do you see it?” I said to Erin. “It’s working.”

“Yes.”

She smiled at me over her shoulder. I grinned back, and both of us resumed our roles at once. This was no time to lay back on the job.

Demarae chose a stick rattle from items on his belt and waved it over Ayanna’s head. The voices and music quieted, although the drumbeat continued steady and soft. In a strong and deeper timber than I’d known him to use, the shaman recited words from the previous ceremony. “Huuuuuul, cleanse this good woman, Babalu Aye, hear our prayer…”

Ayanna remained unmoved since she’d first dropped into the water. Her skin was beautifully clear, and I hoped the internal illness was vanishing, as well. All in all, I felt quite satisfied with this healing ritual and proud of my ship’s involvement. Demarae had stepped up his part, providing a more intense ceremony, yet in his own words it would not have worked as well without the Sarah Jane‘s magic.

Tonight, I decided, a celebration would mark this good day. Although our passengers wouldn’t know why they were being treated so royally, any day that evil is thwarted on the Sarah Jane, her captain breaks out the free rum.

Abruptly, Erin stopped moving. Her body went rigid beneath my fingers.

I turned from watching Demarae and Ayanna. My heart missed a beat.

A serpent as big as a Volkswagen was coming through the wall, sliding directly at us.

Impossible. Not many snakes inhabit the islands, and none as dangerous, say, as a poisonous Jamaican centipede, which moves fast, eats tarantulas and can grow a foot long.

I have no particular fear of slithering reptiles. Nevertheless…

This thing was the stuff of nightmares.

Long, sharp, saliva-dripping teeth, yellow eyes hypnotizing in their intensity, it flowed toward us in quick, slithering motions. Its true length was impossible to judge, because part of it remained outside, yet it kept coming, growing longer and more massive in its serpentine path across the floor.

Incredibly, everything it touched passed right through. Tables, chairs, women, all were impervious, yet the snake appeared real and solid.

Only Erin and I seemed aware of its presence. Instinctively, I tried to push her behind me. She stood firm, lifting the amulet from inside her robe.

Demarae’s bloody machete lay on the plastic sheet. I reached for it before realizing that if tables and chairs passed right through the thing, so would a blade.

Did that mean it couldn’t hurt us? As real as it might look, it was only a vision.

Erin repeated the incantation I’d heard her use the night before, “Your sword shall enter into your own heart, your arrow shall be broken.”

The serpent kept coming, so close now that I could smell its fetid breath. Its tongue darted out and licked Erin’s face. Repulsed, I tried again to move in front of her.

She shook me off, brandished the amulet, and recited the incantation again.

Around us, though the music continued, everyone had ceased chanting and stood staring at us.

“What is it?” Demarae asked. “What do you see?”

“Are you telling me you don‘t see it?”

Slowly, his eyes wide with alarm, he shook his head, and I realized what must be happening. The vision manifested only to Erin and to anyone physically in contact with her.

I removed my hand from her waist. The snake vanished.

In the instant before it vanished, though, something had changed.

“Come here and touch me,” I told the shaman.

I laid a hand on Erin’s shoulder. Demarae placed his hand on mine.

“Oh, dear God,” he said.

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Bitch Factor – Chapter 11

Thursday, December 24, South Dakota

“Take it slow,” Dixie muttered to herself, shifting into reverse. “Slow and steady.”

“And light on the gas,” Dann warned, over her shoulder. “ You don’t want to set the wheels spinning again.”

But Dixie didn’t need his advice to tackle this part. She’d coaxed the Mustang out of plenty of mud banks; a snowbank couldn’t be a hell of a lot different. All it took was a firm hand on the car’s power and a bushel of patience to tease the wheels forward and back, until they rocked free of the trench.

She couldn’t see diddly through the sheet of ice on the windshield, but right now she didn’t need to see, only to feel. Bit by bit, the Mustang gained ground. Each time it rocked, the wheels traveled another inch, until, finally, the tires bit into the packed snow and the car lurched backward to the highway.

“Whoa!” Dixie said, relieved. “We’re back in the race.”

Another hard gust whammed the moving car sideways. She thought sure it would spin into another snowdrift. Despite the cold, sweat beaded her forehead. The car straddled the center lane, but at least it was back on the road, headed in the right direction. She turned on the wipers, hoping their friction would clear the windshield. The rubber blades scudded over ice without budging it.

“Got a scraper?” Dann asked.

“An ice scraper?” Dixie heaved an exasperated sigh. “Ask me if I have a high-intensity spotlight in case I need to change a tire at night on a dark highway. Ask me if I have road flares to alert passing motorists, spare cans of high-performance oil. Extra coolant for the heavy-duty cooling system. I have all that But why the hell would I carry an ice scraper in South Texas?”

“Woman, you’re a long way from Texas.”

A damn long way. At this rate she wouldn’t see Houston again before the New Year. She couldn’t even get moving again until she found some way to clear the cussed ice off the windshield.

“Got a credit card?” Dann asked.

“A credit card?”

“Stiff plastic, not one of those paper-thin jobs. It’ll take a few minutes, but you can scrape a hole big enough to see through.

It took more than a few minutes. Her American Express card snapped, she had to finish with Visa, but she managed to clear most of the windshield and a strip across the back window. She decided not to worry about the side glass. They weren’t likely to encounter any passing traffic.

Stiff with cold, yet reenergized by the prospect of moving out, Dixie slid back inside the car. She’d left the engine running, and the little heater had bullied the cold until the car felt downright hospitable. She shrugged out of Dann’s parka, removed the cumbersome gloves, and put the Mustang in gear.

The wind’s constant push assured her she was headed south. All she had to do was step on the gas and tool on down to Watertown.

Step on the gas, Flannigan.

But as long as the car remained stationary, the wind could do its worst and they wouldn’t be flung off the road. The moment she started moving again, the Mustang might skid out of control.

Besides, she felt a certain familiarity with her immediate environment, the cattle smothering one another on her right, the snowbank she had interacted with intimately on the left. Ahead lay the unknown, shrouded by a wailing white tempest.

“Turn on the radio,” Dann said. “Maybe there’ll be a weather alert.”

Startled out of her quandary, Dixie shifted into neutral, punched the ON button, and heard “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” At least somebody out there was enjoying Christmas Eve. She turned the dial, sweeping half the band before hearing a faint voice. Tried to tune it in. Lost it. Swept past and started over, almost to the station with Rudolph, when-

“- Denver’s DIA reports all flights cancelled until further notice… Greyhound bus routes canceled throughout Montana, Wyoming, North Dakota, South Dakota, eastern Colorado, northern Nebraska… North highways closed throughout the Dakotas, check with your local weather bureau for specific routes… Grand Forks airport reports winds at fifty-two miles an hour, temperature at minus two degrees Fahrenheit with windchill pushing that to forty-six below….” Even the wind was going faster than she was.

“No wonder I’ve been freezing my buns off out there -”

“Lady, you better get your buns down the road if you plan on making it to a town. Once they close this highway, we’re stuck.”

“Surely they can’t refuse to let us pass.” She put the Mustang in gear, eased up on the gas and felt the back wheels spin ineffectively.

You sat here too long with the engine running, you shit-for-brains Southerner. Didn’t Dann warn you what happens under the –

Abruptly, the wheels gripped the ice. The Mustang shot forward, sliding as much as rolling until Dixie got the steering under control. With a death grip on the wheel, she barreled forward at fifteen miles an hour.

Parker Dann was silent for the first five minutes.

“How far you reckon we are from the nearest town?” he asked.

“Forty, maybe forty-five miles to Sisseton.” She didn’t want to talk. She needed to concentrate on keeping the car on the road, which was next to impossible with no markers. No lane stripes. No reflectors. Everything covered with snow.

But hey! was that a road sign ahead? She strained her eyes to read it… CHAINS REQUIRED.

“Terrific! Why don’t they tell me something useful?”

Her arms ached from gripping the wheel so hard. Her stomach burned with hunger. Her bladder felt full enough to float her eye teeth. Dann could grouse all he wanted about using a water bottle, but at least he had an option that didn’t involve freezing his ass off.

“How long you reckon it’ll take us to get to Sisseton at fifteen miles an hour?” When she didn’t answer, Dann speculated. “Three hours, the way I figure it. Oughta be slap dab dark in twenty minutes. Storm isn’t letting up any.”

“What’s your point, Dann?

“My point is we aren’t going to make it with you driving.”

“You’re saying you could do better?”

“About twenty miles an hour better – which just might be enough to get us to town before they shut down this highway.”

She wished the radio would quit fading in and out. She could do without the Christmas music reminding her of what she was missing at home, but at least it was a connection to civilization. Without that she felt utterly isolated. They could easily be the only souls in a thousands of miles.

“What happens,” Dann said, “is the highway department swings a steel gate across the road. Couple officers wait around to let stragglers through, but they don’t wait forever. And I got to tell you, most folks up this way have enough common sense to stay off the roads in weather like this -”

“- all flights closed into Denver…” The radio faded in loud again, no change in the weather spiel, except for one cheery announcement: “…record storm sweeping the upper Midwest … worst blizzard in more than a decade.”

Dixie loosened her death grip on the wheel and tried to relax, but the caffeine keeping her awake had racked her nerves. She felt like a piano wire stretched to the snapping point.

Anyone who can rappel a three-hundred-foot cliff, she told herself, has no business freaking out at a little ice on the road.

Once, you rappeled a cliff. Once. And lost your breakfast as soon as it was over.

To be truthful, she didn’t even like driving in heavy rain. During a flash flood in Houston, the Mustang had hit a sheet of water on the freeway and Dixie found herself whipped around, heading back the way she’d come, wrong way in one-way traffic. After righting the car, she pulled off the freeway for ten minutes, shaking. That split-second loss of control had turned her backbone to jelly.

Barney Flannigan had schooled her to view such episodes as challenges, never to accept defeat. She could hear his lyrical brogue as if he were sitting beside her, “Never say ‘can’t’ lass. Tackle the fear head on. Grab it by the horns, and don’t let go till you best it it.”

She’d mastered roller skating, but never learned to enjoy it. After the hydroplane incident, she continued to drive on rain-slick streets, but never without the familiar churning in her stomach. This ice was a hundred times worse, and now was not a good time to test her grit.

Dixie didn’t want to consider Dann’s suggestion to let him drive, but she hadn’t seen another vehicle since the truck’s taillights disappeared, which seemed to confirm that the highway was closed behind. If it was closed ahead, then they were already stranded and it didn’t matter what she decided. But if Dann stood a better chance of getting them to a town before the road closed, maybe she should let him take the wheel.

Hidden behind a false wall separating the trunk from the backseat was a small arsenal. She could retrieve the .45 and cover Dann while he drove. For that matter, a shiv was tucked right here in her boot. She’d never use it unless backed into a corner. She hated knives. She had to admit, though, they were better than guns in close quarters – except for the psychological advantage of a gun, which wasn’t to be sneezed at.

Then again, maybe she was merely psyched after that close call with the deer. If Dann could handle the road at thirty-five miles an hour, she could, too. She was better acquainted with the Mustang’s idiosyncrasies.

lt would help if the cussed wind would let up.

She pushed the needle to twenty. Okay,so far, she thought. Which reminded her of the idiot who fell off a skyscraper and halfway down yelled to some people looking out a window, “l’m all right, so far.”

Ignoring the dread churning in her gut, she pushed the needle to twenty-five. Dann hadn’t said a word since his comment about driving. But his anxiety crackled through the air, fueling her own tension.

The folks at the diner had called it close when they said dark would come by four o’clock. In daylight, the driving snow was worse than a thick fog. Now that the sunlight was fading, visibility ended just past the front bumper.

At twenty-five miles an hour, her teeth were clenched so hard her jaw hurt, her fingers felt welded to the steering wheel, and her stomach felt like getting stuck in her throat. When she thought about going faster, panic rose like bile. But at this speed they wouldn’t make Sisseton for another two hours. She pressed the accelerator and watched the needle inch toward thirty. Okay, so far.

Then the right front tire hit an ice slick. The car whipped into a sickening spin.

Jerking her foot off the gas, Dixie steered into the turn, counting two revolutions before the car shuddered to a stop.

Sweat drenched her clothes. She sat without moving, her forehead on the steering wheel. When she could no longer stand the churning in her stomach, she opened the door and vomited.

Check back right here next week for the next Bitch Factor chapter.

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

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Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 25

He arrived only two minutes late, and the doorbell worked fine this time. As soon as his thumb hit the button, Roxanna answered. A pair of gold combs drew the auburn hair off her neck. She wore a knee-length, full-skirted silky white dress, strappy gold sandals, and a smile that charged him up inside. She looked terrific.

Seeing that she’d gone to so much trouble made him feel better about the evening ahead. Maybe she looked forward to their date as much as he did.

“Booker,” she said, her perfect eyebrows dipping in a frown, “I made a mistake about this dating thing. It can’t work. It can’t. I’m sorry.”

Now that was a greeting he hadn’t expected. Feeling that way, why had she bothered saying yes? He stood with his mouth open while the heat of anger crept up his neck. Then he closed his mouth, took her hand and dropped a kiss on the back of her fingers.

“Evening, Ms. Larkspur.” The effort to keep the bite out of his voice taxed all his mediation skills. “For a person who’s decided to slam the door in my face, you look incredibly lovely tonight.” He watched the corners of her mouth twitch upward.

“I don’t see any gain in sugar-coating a bitter pill,” she said. “Best to know what you’re swallowing.”

Booker would’ve preferred a little sugar-coating, but she had a point. Yet, there she stood, looking good enough to spread on a bagel.

“Since we’re both dressed up, and the play starts in fifty-nine minutes, and the community theater would undoubtedly appreciate our honoring the reservations, do you think we might discuss this bitter-pill business on the way?”

“As long as we’re straight about the way things are.”

“Well, if we’re being straight, I have to tell you my son decided not to join us.”

“He was invited, though?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then it’s his loss.” She flashed her bright smile, scooped up a white clutch bag from a table beside the door, stepped outside, and turned to lock up.

Booker felt off-balanced by the conversation. The woman had a disorienting manner about her. She sure was full of surprises, like that remarkable dress she wore. Sleeveless, cut low in the back and nipped in tight at the waist with a gold belt, it framed the graceful curve of her back. Not at all old-fashioned. The white silk accentuated her summer tan and a light spray of freckles. From a purely artistic viewpoint, she had the most beautiful skin he’d ever seen. Skin that invited touching.

Booker opened the door of the new Tahoe. Realizing it was a tall step for her size, he gently took her arm to help her up. The skin felt as good as it looked. A flash of shapely thighs made him wonder if she had time to keep up her dancing skills.

“I heard a review of this play on the way over,” he said, grimacing as he squeezed behind the wheel in his too-tight pants. “Seems it previewed last week to a record crowd. The reviewer said the acting was rough in spots, but O. Henry’s wit shines throughout.”

“I like a show that makes me laugh,” she said.

Then silence settled on them like a wool blanket. Booker turned on the radio. Ten minutes down the road, he found his tongue and the part of his brain that made it work.

“How’s the restoration coming upstairs? Looked like wall paint you were wearing on your cheek yesterday afternoon.”

She hesitated. “To tell you the truth, I may have ruined one of my guestrooms.” She picked at a loose thread. “Sometimes I have these wild, penny-pinching ideas, and they seem perfectly reasonable, but after the craziness wears off, I can see the mess I’ve made.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“What’s done is done. The guests arrive tomorrow.” She shook her head. “I swear, sometimes I’m just like chewing gum—”

Booker would’ve laughed if she hadn’t looked so serious. Chewing gum? He tried to make sense of it. Bouncy and sweet?

“—all motion and no progress.” She angled a look at Booker that made him want to straighten his tie. “Maybe you could help. Emaline said you’re a photographer.”

“Aspiring, as they say. Two paying jobs, only one with enough profit to buy more than a good breakfast. I suppose I’m not in it as much for the money, though, as the challenge.”

“I wish I could say that.” She blew out a deep sigh. “Anyway, an aspiring artistic eye is exactly what I need. If you’d take a look at my guestroom, I’d sure feel better, even if thenews is bad. I can take bad news.”

She nodded emphatically. “I can, really. I can. I’ll just say the bathroom flooded. Send the couple to a Holiday Inn in Bryan.”

The way she nodded and frowned at the same time gave Booker an odd feeling. He’d seen someone do that before, though he couldn’t recall who, and the memory bothered him. He cleared his throat.

“I’ll be glad to lend you my eye. But judging by your crowd the other night, the inn should be doing fine in no time.” That is, if she worked smart and didn’t carry too much overhead. A high mortgage, for instance. “You’re smart to watch the budget. In my business-examiner years, I saw almost as many companies go broke from overspending as from underselling.”

Her hands stopped fidgeting. “You worked with businesses before you retired?”

“More or less. Started out a hundred years ago in accounting, drifted into financial audit, and eventually into corporate investigation.”

“And now you’re a photographer.” She smiled brilliantly. “Changing professions takes common sense, determination, integrity, intelligence, optimism, stamina, and in your case, talent. It’s unlikely to find artistry and common sense in one person, but not impossible. Not impossible at all. Once I have all five rooms finished, the money won’t have to spread so far. I won’t have to be so resourceful.”

All in one breath, Booker noted, as she turned on the seat to face him, cheeks flushed, hands fluttering with excitement, tears shining in her eyes. Her mood shifts were damned sudden.

Abruptly, Booker recalled where he’d seen such sudden mood changes. The executive vice president at Investors National Savings had behaved similarly during the investigation.

His disposition had alternated between exhilaration and depression until the morning he shot Booker, then turned the gun on himself. That last morning, the man was deadly calm.

Booker tugged at the knot of his tie, which suddenly felt tight. Borderline personality? Schizophrenic? He didn’t know the medical term, but the executive VP had been scary nuts.

Roxanna was keyed up and worried about her business, but she wasn’t nuts. He hoped she wasn’t. Slowing the Tahoe as they entered College Station, he searched for the address while his mind-chatter continued to distract him. If Roxanna was emotionally disturbed, that threw an entirely new light on her association with Fowler. And since they’d already danced at the edges of the subject, Booker decided to step right in the middle of it.

“I understand Chuck Fowler carried your mortgage and was pressing for payment.”

“No secrets in a small town, are there?” Her voice held a hard edge. “Our agreement was half the down payment up front, the other half in a year. But I’d scarcely had the keys a month when Chuck asked me for more money. I could barely make the regular note. I’d budgeted for the note. But the balance of the down payment is ten thousand dollars. I don’t have it, and I told him so. He said I had friends in Houston who could come up with it.”

“Do you?”

“Possibly. But it’s not up to my friends to pay my bills.”

“I suppose you didn’t get this down-payment agreement in writing.”

“No. The original contract called for the down payment to be paid all at once. But we agreed verbally, then Chuck wrote it, and I signed it. Chuck said he would sign in front of a notary and send me a copy.”

“But the copy never came.” Booker missed the street and slowed to make a U-turn.

“Chuck denied agreeing to the changes. I have only the original signed contract with no alterations.”

“Have you heard from the estate attorney?”

“No.”

And she might not. At worst, she had several weeks, maybe months, before the attorneys sorted out Fowler’s properties and realized she owed half the down payment. If Fowler’s bookkeeping had been at all sloppy, and if Roxanna kept up her monthly installments, that ten-thousand-dollar balance might never come to light.

Booker wished the information wasn’t so incriminating. He knew he should press on and ask what had brought her to Lakeside Estates on Friday morning, but the show would start in sixteen minutes, and they still had to park. Anyway, from what he’d learned, the number of people with reason to kill Chuck Fowler was growing like wild onions, with nobody shedding tears. Just talking about the man had taken all the cheer out of the evening. Booker hoped the play would turn that around.

A sign promoting the theater directed them down a dark alley. They picked their steps carefully along an uneven sidewalk, dodging bricks that had crumbled from the building’s façade. The door, sporting a shiny new dead-bolt lock, showed signs of vandalism. Booker saw the evening spiraling downward fast. But when they finally wound their way through a shabby entrance and heavy black curtains, they found a lobby packed with theatergoers and filled with noisy good humor. He collected their programs then asked Roxanna if she’d like something from the bar.

“A glass of white wine sounds good.”

Ordering the wine, he watched Roxanna move outside to the terrace, and his heart quickened with appreciation. He liked the woman thoroughly, including her ample nose and quirky disposition. She was reading the program when he joined her cradling two over-filled plastic wine glasses.

“Dad! You made it!” Bradley’s shout came from behind Booker.

Startled, Booker spilled the wine, miraculously missing Roxanna’s white dress but splashing her gold sandals.

“Sorry,” Bradley said.

Roxanna inspected her dress. “No harm done.”

“We thought you wouldn’t be here, son.” Despite the rude entrance, Booker couldn’t help beaming as he squatted to wipe off Roxanna’s shoes with paper napkins he’d tucked in his jacket pocket. His two favorite people in the same room: the night was already improving.

“I’m working here,” Bradley said. “Lighting assistant and general techie. I came to tell you there’s a cast party after the show. The manager invited you both.”

“Sounds like fun,” Roxanna said. “Booker, don’t fuss with that. I’ll go into the ladies room and clean them.”

Actually, he was rather enjoying the task. Roxanna had perfect feet with painted toenails. Nice legs, too.

“I got most of it.” He wondered if she was wore anything between the dress and her bare legs, then decided that wasn’t a sensible thing to be thinking right now. He creaked to his feet. “You might want to wipe the insoles. If they’re ruined, I’ll—”

“They’re not ruined. Wait right here.”

“I have to get back,” Bradley said, turning to leave.

Booker stopped him. “You could’ve saved me an afternoon of worry if you’d mentioned your mysterious job was at the theater.”

“I didn’t know if I’d get it.”

Booker nodded. “After the performance, Roxanna and I might stop for a bite. Be glad to have you join us.”

“There’ll be food at the party. And I can show you what I do back there.”

“All right.” Not very private, but a crowd might alleviate that inevitable first-date tension. Non-date tension, Roxanna might say, though she didn’t seem at all tense since arriving here. “We’ll mosey on back after the last curtain.”

Bradley darted away, and Booker flipped through the program. He spied Jeremy Fowler’s name in the credits. The boy appeared in two scenes, also under “assistant director” and “technical assistance.” That cleared up the mystery of where Bradley had met him.

The lights dimmed, signaling show time. Locating the ladies’ room, Booker waited for Roxanna, praying the spilled wine would be his last catastrophe for the night. Tinkling piano music drifted through overhead speakers. When she emerged cheerful and smiling, he breathed easier and they took their seats just as the curtain went up. As the play progressed, Booker compared it with Broadway productions he’d seen, deciding that, overall, it stacked up pretty well. Afterward, the cast lined up in the lobby to greet the audience. Jeremy stood among them, as pale as his mother after removing his stage makeup.

“Congratulations,” Booker said, shaking hands. “Fine acting. You convinced me you were eighty years old as the railway conductor.”

“Thanks!” The kid was too high on success to immediately recognize Booker from their encounter at the lodge. “My first time on a real stage. I mean, except for school. I usually work behind the scenes. Props, sets—”

A wariness crept into the boy’s eyes as he studied Booker’s face. His lips thinned out, and Booker figured he was about to apologize for his brother’s fist. Not wanting to spoil Jeremy’s evening, Booker flashed his warmest smile.

“I hear you met my son. Bradley.”

“The new kid? He’s your son?”

“Don’t hold it against him. He’ll do a good job.”

“He’s fine with lights.”

“It won’t be your last time out front,” Roxanna told him. “You have talent.”

Your father would be proud, Booker wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure it was true. People pushed from behind, so he and Roxanna moved on. When he glanced back, the kid was already shaking hands with the next in line and saying, “Wow, thanks!”

Must be the resilience of youth that enabled the boy to put on such a show when his father had just died. Or maybe stoicism was hereditary. Aaron had seemed collected enough. And Fowler himself had a reputation for being a hard man.

Booker couldn’t help wondering if his own death would have such a fleeting effect on Bradley. The thought saddened him. The Krane father-son relationships hadn’t much history for closeness.

When they’d shaken every actor’s hand and commented on the performance, Bradley urged them into a rollicking throng of tech crew and guests.

“Wait’ll you see the spread of food. Pizza, tacos, guacamole.”

Roxanna entwined her arm with Bradley’s. “I’m as empty as a winter ballpark, but you promised to show us your part in this fine performance.”

“This way, then!” Full of enthusiasm, he led them up a short flight of stairs, fluorescent dots marking the path for actors hurrying along in the dark, then up another flight to a second-floor room that looked down on the stage. “This is where we handle lighting, sound, backdrops, everything mechanical.”

He explained all the knobs and levers, demonstrating how he’d finessed a particularly haunting twilight effect, and Booker recalled a time when he’d tried to explain to his own father the benefit of compound interest. “If that’s what oils your piston, son,” Brad senior had commented, revving his Harley loud enough to break eardrums. Booker wanted to exhibit considerably more interest in Bradley’s work.

“I hope you won’t be upset if we eat and dash,” Roxanna said, when Bradley led them back down to the buffet. “Your father promised to help me with something at the inn, and I couldn’t let him do that without offering coffee and a nice dessert.”

Booker didn’t hear Bradley’s answer, because he was trying to sort out what Roxanna had said. Considering their non-date status, he had expected to end the evening as quickly as possible after the cast party. Once again, the woman surprised him. She sure had a knack for throwing a guy off balance. The intimacy of the inn sounded inviting—not that he planned to take advantage on a first night out.

Surely that wasn’t what she had in mind. Right?

He wished he had more recent experience at this dating business. Officially, of course, they weren’t dating. Roxanna had made that clear. So what were they doing?

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Paradise Cursed – Snippet 21

CHAPTER 18

You go, girl! Dayna wanted to cheer right out loud as she watched Erin exit the dining room with Captain Gorgeous. Wipe that cheating jerk off your shoes, sister mine, and step into a summer romance. It hurt to see Erin so miserable, especially when Dayna felt so wild-ass happy.

“Your sister and the captain sure look cozy together.” Jase Graham fleeked his eyebrows suggestively. “Wonder where they’re going.”

Dayna wondered, too. She wanted to follow and see if the captain was taking Erin to his cabin. Where else would they be headed below decks?

And why was Acting First Mate Graham so interested? And where was the real first mate?

“Is Ayanna sick…?” Dayna swallowed the last word: again.

“I warned the captain about hiring her.” Leaning against the brass gunwale Dayna had just polished and chewing a plastic straw, he continued staring at the companionway where Erin and the captain had gone below.

“Warned?” Dayna’s back stiffened. Graham might be sexy but Ayanna was a role model. “How do you know Ayanna?”

“Sailed with her brother. Bad news, both of them. Into animal sacrifice, secret meetings where people go in clean and come out bloody. Having her on a ship like this is asking for trouble.”

Dayna frowned, her mind skipping to last night’s weirdness, which she’d desperately been trying to forget. “What do you mean, a ship like this?”

He took the straw from his mouth and looked at her for the first time.

“Cursed. Didn’t you know?” His smile was wickedly smarmy. Then he pointed to a launch that had pulled up to the gangway. “Chit-chat’s over, grunt. Go down and bring up those boxes of crabs.”

Dayna didn’t see any boxes, but there were several coolers. “Where do I take them?”

“Ask Cookie.”

“Yes, sir.” Jerk. After a few steps, Dayna looked back. Graham was headed down the companionway where Erin and Captain Cord had vanished.

*

“Ayanna, I’ve brought someone with me,” I called after knocking.

My change in tactic had come at the moment I realized how much Erin Kohl cared about other people. It should have occurred to me the night before, when she told of reading the cards because Ola begged her and then of her friend’s escalator accident.

When Erin so quickly was willing to return Ayanna’s amulet, even though she obviously wanted to keep it, I decided to take her to the person who needed our help. Her own heart would nudge her in the right direction.

Occasionally, I realize that I have actually learned a thing or two over the centuries.

The door opened. Ayanna wore shorts and a baggy shirt, typical barefoot cruise clothing, They revealed her changed appearance. While her beautiful face remained unmarred, the transformed skin on her legs now came above the knee. Her arms were scaly green from the wrist up to where her short sleeves covered them.

Beside me, I sensed Erin stiffen and take a breath. Her hand closed around the amulet.

Ayanna gave me a quizzical glance before she smiled at Erin.

“There is not space for three, but please come in.”

Being on a lower deck, the cabin had no outside visibility. Only an overhead bulb lighted the room.

Erin’s eyes remained fixed on my first mate’s mottled arms.

“I see what you mean,” she murmured, “about it being no ordinary illness. Ayanna, shouldn’t you be in bed? Sit down, at least. Is it painful?”

“Both of you,” I said, “please sit.”

Ayanna indicated for Erin to take the only chair, then she sat on the bed. “It does not hurt. Only in here, sickness.” She touched first her stomach, then her head.

I leaned against the wall beside the door while the women talked. Ayanna unfolded the story of the Bokor she saw in her dreams, which I had not yet heard in its entirety. Clearly, the curse was gaining hold on her as each day passed, but more so since she boarded the ship.

As I stood listening, another part of my mind became aware that footsteps had sounded in the passageway coming from the direction of the upper decks. The steps approached, growing slower and softer, and I did not hear them continue past Ayanna’s cabin. My fingers itched to yank open the door and see who had their ear against it, but I didn’t want to break the camaraderie developing between the two women.

“Today we are having another ceremony,” Ayanna was saying. “Here on the Sarah Jane, where perhaps Shaman Demarae and the orichas will have more success in overcoming the Bokor’s bad magic.”

“Your dreams,” Erin said, “can they be strong enough to become… I don’t know… not real but perceived by others?”

“Like the vision you encountered last evening?” Ayanna reached as if to touch Erin’s hand then stopped short and pulled back.

Erin took Ayanna’s hand in her own.

“I saw… something.” She looked at the mottles on Ayanna’s wrist and arm. “Was that you? I mean, was it a manifestation of your dream?”

“You used the Key of Solomon. How did you know what to do?”

Erin shook her head. “I didn’t know anything, just reacted.”

“Captain,” Ayanna said, “the angel, I think, that rides the Sarah Jane has taken an interest in what is happening and is very protective of this dove, who has brought her own magic aboard.”

What could I say to that? “My thoughts have been leaning in that direction. I believe having Erin at the ceremony would improve our chances of success this time.”

“I don’t have any magic!”

“And yet you were the only person aboard who saw the vision manifested by Ayanna’s dream.”

“How do you know?” she protested. “Maybe someone else—”

“I was there. I saw you and your sister, I heard you utter the words that apparently caused the vision to vanish, but I didn’t see what you saw.”

Erin closed her eyes. Her hand trembled as she withdrew it from Ayanna’s.

“Maybe I have more than my share of natural intuition.” Her eyes were again trained on the snaky arms, as if drawing her words from what she saw. “But that’s all I have. And I’m my sister’s only parent now. I can’t risk anything happening…”

Great. Although I felt as low as a bottom feeder for trying to bring her into this, my ship had attracted her aboard for a reason. Ayanna needed the Sarah Jane’s power. And Erin needed the Sarah Jane, that much I could count on. Would Demarae’s orichas prove helpful to both women? Or would helping Ayanna cause Erin to suffer in some way I couldn’t conceive of at the moment?

“Dayna will be ashore,” I said. “At any hint of harm coming to you, I’ll pull you from the room.”

Erin glared at me. “Are you so perceptive that you’d know what’s happening inside me? Not all harm is evident to an onlooker.”

“No,” I said. Taking two quick steps, I grabbed Erin’s hand and forced her to touch the scaly skin on Ayanna’s arm. “But it’s clearly evident that Ayanna needs all the help she can get to stop this unspeakable thing from continuing. This is reality, and it has progressed this far in less than two days. What does your intuition tell you, Erin Kohl? Will this woman still be human tomorrow, or will this horror overtake her completely, mind and body?”

Ayanna gaped at me, no doubt shocked by my outburst. But Erin’s eyes glistened with tears. I should back off. This was my responsibility, not hers. Instead, I sank even lower.

“What would Dayna want you to do?” I demanded.

“Captain, it is not for her to do this,” Ayanna said. “We have a powerful shaman, we have the ship—”

“And if that’s not enough?”

“Then we go to Roatan.” But the fright in Ayanna’s eyes belied her confidence.

“What will you become,” I asked quietly, “by the time another day’s sailing has passed?”

Staring again at the mottling, Erin tenderly ran her fingers over it.

“It’s cold,” she said. “Not actually rough, but the touch of it turns my stomach and causes a hissing pain in my head. I can only imagine how much worse it must be for you.”

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Bitch Factor – Chapter 10

Sunday, July 12, Houston, Texas ..

“Why can’t we go to the same camp?” Ellie persisted, sorting forks and spoons into separate plastic bins.

Courtney noticed her sister’s yellow sundress had puckered in front where she’d spilled lemonade. Ellie was still a baby, too young to pay attention to spills and such.

Smoothing out wrinkles as she worked, Courtney folded a green napkin into a neat triangle, then folded it in thirds. On Sundays, they worked with Mama at the restaurant. The smell of tomatoes and spices drifted from the kitchen, where Mama was cooking spaghetti sauce. The restaurant’s air conditioner hummed, pumping cool air on the back of Courtney’s neck.

“We can’t go together because I’m nine and you’re barely six,” Courtney explained for the zillionth time, even though she didn’t totally understand it herself. She’d volunteered to go to the younger camp. Going alone her first year, Ellie would be frightened.

Actually, Courtney wasn’t too keen on trying out a new camp alone, either. She’d never been away from home without Betsy. But Mama just shrugged when Daddy Travis INSISTED.

“lt’s time you two girls spent some time apart. Ellie acts more like your shadow then your sister.”

That had been on Friday, Courtney’s day to work with Daddy Travis at the hardware store. She had watched him choose a blue pencil from a collection in the breast pocket of his orange overalls, and note something on an order form, his short fingers pressing hard to write through all the carbons.

“Ellie and I like doing things together,” Courtney explained in her most persuasive voice, the one that usually got them fifteen extra minutes before bedtime.

“I know you do.” He tapped the pencil’s eraser on her nose. “And you might be lonely at first. But then you’ll meet new friends, and before long you’ll be having a great time. A great time, you’ll see.”

She waited until he looked back at the order form before rubbing the tickle off her nose.

“What if something happens to Ellie and no one’s there to care of her?” Taking care of Ellie was Courtney’s job, now that Betsy was gone.

“There’ll be a whole camp full of people to make sure nothing happens to Ellie.” His pale blue eyes twinkled in the morning sunlight. “A whole camp full. Now, stop being such a worrywart, and ask Mr Collins if he wants a basket for those tools he’s carrying.”

Nobody EVER won an argument with Daddy Travis. A few weeks earlier, the whole family had gone to the courthouse to see the man who ran over Betsy. Mama hadn’t wanted her and Ellie to go, but Daddy Travis said it would be good for them. “They need to see for themselves that the bastard who killed their sister won’t get away with it. Won’t be out driving drunk to run down some other kid.”

Courtney was glad the bastard had been caught – if he were driving around, she’d worry even more about Ellie – but she was surprised to see that it was Mr. Parker Dann. Mr. Dann seemed like a nice person when he came into the hardware store and cafe, always smiling and usually with a new joke to tell the other customers. He always told Mama how good her cooking was. On Sundays, when Betsy served him coffee at the counter, Mr. Dann sometimes gave her a dollar.

Courtney tried to imagine Mr. Dann running his car over Betsy

She pictured his big smiling face over the windshield like Betsy would have seen it. Couldn’t he TELL he was about to hit her?

“No skid marks,” Daddy Travis had said. “The bastard didn’t even slow down.”

Maybe Betsy had run in front of the car, like when Mama hit the dog. Maybe it was an accident.

Courtney remembered seeing the brown and black dog dart across the street, then feeling a thud when it hit the wheel. Mama had stopped the car and jumped out to see if the dog was all right.

Mr. Dann hadn’t stopped to see if Betsy was all right.

That Friday, at the hardware store, Courtney had seen him walking along the sidewalk.

“They let the bastard out on bail,” Daddy Travis explained.

Now, Courtney dropped the hopelessly messed-up napkin and hugged herself. Goose bumps pimpled her arms. She would try one more time to convince Mama that she and Ellie should go to the same camp, but Mama would probably only shrug again and listen to Daddy Travis.

Check back here next week to read the next chapter of Bitch Factor.

Meanwhile, check out Slice of Life, another Dixie Flannigan thriller.

Paradise Cursed – Snippet 20

CHAPTER 17

Ship-time stays rather flexible on the Sarah Jane, with passengers coming from various time zones. As I made a quick round, I found a number of people on the upper deck, fast asleep on our bright blue deck cushions. Fresh sea air and a canopy of stars is better than Ambien. Stragglers sat at the bar in deep conversation with Burke, who knew to start watering drinks after he decided enough was enough.

Down in the dining room, a late-night card game was in session, which looked like going on for a while. Cookie had left snacks on the counter for easy grazing.

Once again, Ayanna failed to respond to my knock. Probably sleeping, but I needed to see that she was all right. Using my passkey, I gently opened the door. Her light was on. She wasn’t in bed, nor at the makeshift altar.

Then I realized the shower was going. First mate and first-class passengers have private facilities, such as they are. In a space of twenty-four by thirty-six inches, you can sit on the commode, stand and, without moving a step, wash your hands or shower. An economy of space is required, but at least my guests aren’t slung side-by-side as in the early days, a fourteen-inch space allotment for each hammock and only one head forward, one aft, to service the entire population. We still keep it “real” by showering in cold water.

“Ayanna?” Calling it softly, so as not to wake anyone in the next cabin.

A moment later, the shower shut off.

Not knowing if she’d heard me, I said it again. “Ayanna?”

The door opened a crack and a hand groped for the towel hanging on a nearby hook. She emerged with wet hair, a bright smile, and the towel covering her most interesting parts.

“Captain!” Seeing me in my dress whites for the first time ever, she quickly snapped to attention and saluted, then grabbed the towel before it could fall. “Shaman Demarae is going to do it, yeah?”

“We need to talk.” Her left arm, which had been clear a couple of hours ago, now had mottled green skin from just above the elbow nearly to her shoulder, as did the other one. The scaly mottling on her legs also was higher, stopping at mid-calf. “I’ll step out while you put on clothes, then we have decisions to make.”

“Decisions? What to decide?” Frustration turned her words brittle.

“Put some clothes on and we’ll talk.” I stepped out, lit a make-do pipe, having lost my favorite to the waves, then paced down the passageway and back.

Minutes later, she opened the door dressed in short cotton pajamas. I knocked my tobacco over the rail before re-entering her cabin.

“Sit down.” Taking off my hat, I absently ran a hand through my hair and gathered my thoughts. I couldn’t help glancing at her abnormalities.

She sat stiffly on the bed and looked up at me, waiting.

“How do you feel?”

“Stronger in here,” she said, pointing to her head. Then, placing a hand over her chest, “Also in here. But you see what’s happening, and the dark dreams come now when I am not even sleeping.”

Attempting to keep my own leanings private, I laid out the two choices presented by the shaman. I couldn’t help noticing that the mottling of her skin, though horrific, was actually rather attractive, greenish brown tones blending into her natural golden-brown coloring. Touching it, of course, was an entirely different matter. And how would she look when it covered her face?

“If this is true, what Shaman Demarae says, who can know how much time I have before the Bokor takes me entirely? Roatan is another night sail away, and maybe this Shawnte is too busy, or is no better than Demarae. Before coming here, I asked everyone, ‘who is the best?’ Demarae was the name I heard. We need to do this again now.”

Not what I’d hoped she’d say. Although I had spoken confidently about having the ceremony on the ship, it wouldn’t be an easy thing to do. The passengers would all go ashore tomorrow, and weren’t expected back until Swizzle Time, five p.m. I could take stalling measures, but quite feasibly they could return anytime they wanted.

“If Demarae were to hold the ceremony at a proper church,” I suggested, “with more participants—”

“I believe he did the best possible on the island.” Her beautiful face became a study in fear, eyes rounded, mouth quivering. She clamped her lips tightly, then said, “Captain, we need the Sarah Jane‘s power.”

Ayanna was right, of course. We might have to move a few mountains to get it done. Even so, would it be enough?

*

Morning came sooner than I would like. My first task was putting Jase Graham in charge again as temporary first mate. His smirky grin made me wish there was someone— anyone—else who could do the job. As expected, he questioned my orders when I informed him that all the staff would have a shore pass, but he had the good sense not to question me twice.

I was glad to find Dayna Kohl helping Cookie. That meant he’d be less disgruntled when I sent him with Graham to keep the passengers corralled ashore. Once they left the launches, most would take off on their own. But for those who preferred a chaperone, no one was better than Cookie. He knew the islands, he knew the sunken-ship lore, the pirate lore, and he could point our guests towards the best diving and snorkeling options.

Mostly, I wanted him off the ship. I wanted everyone off the ship.

Story Time, I would make the announcement that repairs were being done today, would be completed by five o’clock Swizzlers, and at that time everyone could pick their entry for the crab races.

Meanwhile, there were two people I needed to talk with. The call to Shaman Demarae went well enough.

“Captain, after giving this some thought, I am grateful to have this opportunity. Many stories are told about your ship, and I welcome the chance to test its legendary magic.” He agreed to come at noon and bring everything necessary for the healing ceremony, including the best live goat he could find.

So Demarae was in. Now there was one more.

At first bell, I tapped lightly on Erin Kohl’s door and asked if she would join me in the dining room.

“I have an important question for you,” I said, “so I asked your sister what your favorite breakfast dishes might be. Cookie is preparing a Swiss and mushroom omelet, crispy home-fries, and English muffins with raspberry jam. Dayna said you prefer blackberry, but we don’t have it on hand. I hope that won’t be a deal breaker.”

Erin’s perplexed frown was almost comical. “With an opening like that, you know I have to ask what could be so important. And you won’t tell me until I agree to accept the bribe?”

“Let’s not call it a bribe. More of an incentive, which you will be free to enjoy even if your answer is no.”

She collected her purse and joined me in the passageway, a good sign. We strolled to the dining room in silence. Only after we were at the door did she finally turn a smile in my direction.

“Thank you for the invitation, Captain McKinsey. I will enjoy joining you for breakfast.”

Excellent. But that was the easy part.

Sitting eye-to-eye with her across the breakfast table, I found myself groping for words and reaching to the past for guidance. Way back, when Stryker was captain, a French fellow named Jem sailed with us. The old man was quite hard on Jem. Anything he wanted done, it’d fall on Jem to do it. One day ashore, Jem and I were headed towards Sailors Haven for a pint when he spied a book in a shop window. Right away, he had to go in.

The book was about hypnotism. It vowed that a man could learn the trick of putting his friends to sleep and making them do his bidding.

“Wonder would it work on a blighter what ain’t no friend atall,” Jem said, and bought the book on the spot.

Jem wasn’t all that good at reading, but once in the pub with a pint in front of him, he started sounding the words out loud. The book told how to go about mesmerizing by making your eyes go wide and glaring at your subject while burning a candle on a table between you. “Then you say in a firm but soft voice, ‘Yer eyelids look quite heavy, my friend.

Holding them open is verrrry difficult, near impossible, so just shut yer eyes for a bit, let’em rest, and let yer mind go empty ‘cept for the candle flame, which ye can see even with yer eyes closed, ye can see it right there in the darkness of yer mind, as it flickers slowly, verrrry slowly soothing like, and…’”

Jem’s voice tailed off. If I hadn’t moved the mug right quick, he’d have been face down in his ale. The first time he tried that mesmerizing trick on Stryker, the old man reached out his meaty hand, snatched Jem by the throat and threatened to throw him overboard if he didn’t quit giving him the evil eye.

All this passed through my mind as I was deciding how to broach an entreaty that I feared might scare Erin Kohl into jumping ship. I stalled until we’d finished eating and started on a second cup of coffee.

“The amulet Ayanna gave you—”

“Is it valuable?” She quickly grasped the gold chain with both hands as if to remove it from around her neck. “I don’t mind giving it back. We’ve hardly met, so I’ve no idea why Ayanna gave it to me.”

“No! I mean, I don’t know if it’s valuable, but I know she meant you to have it.” I took a breath to start again. “You see, Ayanna recognized something about you, a gift you have that might sometimes seem, well… like more of a burden than a blessing.”

Erin Kohl’s eyes grew wide, and she clutched the chain tighter. “No. There’s nothing. If you think I can do psychic readings for your guests, forget it. Tarot and astrology are not a form of psychic phenomena. I don’t conjure up spirits of lost loved ones or make predictions that someone will win the lottery by betting certain numbers or that they shouldn’t fly on certain days. It’s not like that, and I didn’t actually agree, did I?”

Before she could yank off the amulet and fling it at me, I placed my hands gently over hers. “Ms. Kohl, Ayanna wants you to have this. And no, you didn’t quite agree to my offer but said you’d think about it.”

I let go of her hands and sort of patted them in a feeble attempt to calm her.

“The thing is…” I fumbled for words. “Ayanna is ill. She needs a particular type of healing, which we attempted to obtain last night. We weren’t quite successful.”

“She looked fine when I saw her in the dining room. Flushed, maybe, but in great spirits.”

“We both thought the healing had worked. Later, she had what you might call a relapse.”

A deep furrow appeared between Erin’s eyebrows. Her eyes filled with concern.

“Is there something I can do? I don’t know anything about medicine, but I could sit with her if you want. Maybe there’s a doctor or nurse on board the ship.”

“I’m afraid that’s not the kind of medicine she needs.”

I let the statement lie there between us without further explanation and watched her face harden as she slowly took in my meaning.

“Captain, I told you, I’m not… I don’t… I mean, I can’t—”

Once again I took her hands and held them on the table between us.

“Ms. Kohl, how did you come to be on the Sarah Jane?”

“What?”

“Did you get bumped from another cruise that was overbooked, or win a contest, or—”

“Well, yes, a honeymoon drawing, but I’m not sure why we won. I don’t remember—”

“You don’t remember entering the drawing.”

“How did you know?” She retrieved her hands and put them around her coffee mug as if to warm them. “I thought it was weird. Is it a scam of some sort?”

“Not at all in the way you mean, but let me see if I can put this in a way that won’t seem frightening. I mean…” Her gasp told me I’d already failed at not scaring her. How many times had I attempted to explain the unexplainable? Thousands? Yet it was never easy, and every person reacted differently. “The Sarah Jane is an extremely old ship with a colorful past. During the days of piracy, a lot of men died here, and her decks soaked up not only their blood but perhaps some… essence, if we might call it that… of the men themselves, or at least their spirits.”

“Surely, you don’t mean there are ghosts on board. That’s just silly!”

“No, not ghosts, at least not today, and now please don’t negate what I’m saying until you hear me out. Is that fair?”

She hesitated but then nodded. “Fair enough.”

“For whatever reason, the Sarah Jane seems to act as an amplifier to certain energies that come aboard. And while you may not believe you have psychic abilities, there is an energy within you that draws you to tarot and astrology as a way of divining the unknown.”

“No, I—” She put her fingers over her mouth, then smiled. “Sorry. Go on. I won’t interrupt.”

I returned the smile and wished I could light my pipe.

“You may even have noticed that your natural human intuition— which we all have— is heightened since you arrived.”

Her eyes widened again but this time with what I took for interest, not fear.

“If so, you certainly aren’t the first passenger to feel that way. It happens so often I’ve come to expect it. And in some cases, such as yours, I hope, the amplification turns out to be a benefit, often with quite happy consequences.” I waited for the words benefit and happy to have an effect before continuing. “How much do you know about the religions practiced on the Caribbean islands?”

“Nothing, really.” She lifted an eyebrow quizzically. “Unless you’re talking about voodoo. That can’t be real, can it? I mean, I know it’s real, it’s practiced here, but no one really believes people turn into zombies. That’s even crazier than ghosts.”

I didn’t want to lie, so I decided it was time for her to see rather than merely listen.

“Will you walk with me for a moment?” I rose and held out my hand.

“Okay. Sure.” She took it, allowing me to help her up.

A good sign, I hoped. Once we were outside the dining room, I answered her first question and hoped she’d forget about zombies. “Voodoo is one of many religions here, and the movies have presented it as much darker that the reality, but most religions do have a dark side. Christianity has Jesus but also Satan, angels but also demons, so to speak.

“And some island religions have practitioners who entertain the dark side. The worst of the lot will summon a dark saint and, for a price, will place a curse upon a chosen victim. Ayanna is experiencing a curse that’s making her ill and causing terrible dreams as well as other problems.”

Erin Kohl shook her head, despite having more or less agreed to keep an open mind. I had expected such a reaction.

“Would you go with me,” I said, “to look in on her?”

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Bitch Factor – Chapter 9

In the rearview mirror, which had jolted sideways, Dixie’s eyes were dark pinpoints of strain, her complexion ash-gray, A tiny muscle twitched beside her mouth. Her hands were shaking. She tightened her grip on the wheel.

What a damn dumbass predicament. She knew better than to stomp the brake.

“Must’ve been a deer,” Dann commented. “Lot of whitetail around these parts.”

The engine had died, and the sudden quiet stretched like a vast cotton blanket, broken only by the relentless wind whistling at the window. With the fog lights off, Dixie realized how much the sky had darkened in only an hour.

“Natural reaction, you know. Stomping the brake like that. Been a real mess if you’d hit that deer.”

Dann’s words triggered a rerun in Dixie’s mind of the sudden streak of movement across the highway. This time she felt the impact, heard the crunch of glass, saw the Mustang smashed, herself unconscious… snow, blowing through the broken window, burying her still form, while her prisoner froze to death in the backseat… the Mustang slowly disappearing into an endless white terrain.

She wiped a hand across her face to dispel the image.

“You ever hit a deer?” she asked quietly, suddenly needing to hear a voice. Dann’s voice, she’d noticed, was resonant and oddly pleasing. Most of all, it was warm and human. The only thing she could think of worse than being stuck in the middle of God knows where in a blizzard was being stuck and alone.

“Nope, not a deer. Knew hit a guy hit a horse, though. Bashed up the front of his rig, put himself in the hospital.”

“What about the horse?”

“Dead.”

Dixie grimaced. True, they could be in worse trouble. But the thought offered little comfort.

She turned the key to start the engine. When it cranked right up, she heaved a sigh of relief, shifted into reverse, and stepped lightly on the gas. The Mustang kicked up a spurt of snow, started to pull out— then the tires whirled in place.

“Damn it all!” She killed the engine.

“Lady—”

Dixie opened the car door, had to shove it hard to clear the drift. The wind’s fury pushed her back, but her own fury won out. She slammed the door, sank knee-deep in snow, felt it trickle over the tops of her boots.

Sucking in a breath of frigid air, she kicked her way through the snow to the edge of the highway, almost relishing the dull ache in her lungs. Any feeling, even the worst pain, was better than the helpless reeling as the Mustang spun across the ice. Dixie closed her eyes. Instantly she was a child hugging the rail at a roller rink, small, nauseated with fear, yet determined not to let panic get the best of her. A common phobia, a doctor had assured her once, akin to one of only two fears humans are born with—fear of loud noise and fear of falling. Dixie wasn’t fond of loud noises, but she got white-knuckled terrified at losing control.

All right. So she had momentarily lost control of her car. All she had to do was put it back on the road and start driving. She was in South Dakota after all not the frozen tundra.

As if mocking her, the wind gusted fiercely, knocking her off balance. Dixie braced so hard against it—teeth clenched, hands fisted as if to punch the wind back in its corner—that when the gust abruptly let up, she fell forward on one knee.

“Hah! At least I didn’t fall on my Texas ass this time!” she yelled at the sky.

The wind lapped up her words and spit them into the distance.

Catching a glimpse of Dann’s face at the car window, Dixie flushed. Well, if he believes he’s traveling with a crazy woman, maybe he’ll think twice before trying anything stupid. Nevertheless, it was time to stop railing and find a way out of this mess.

A four-pronged diagonal rut marked the Mustang’s path where the tires had skidded treacherously into the drift. Snow had leveled the ditches and turned the fence rows to hills. If she was right, the car had landed on the opposite side of the road, headed in the wrong direction from where they started. The car, buried to its bumper, canted downhill.

Teeth chattering hard enough to bite off her tongue, Dixie scanned the distance for signs of life. A tow truck would sure as hell be welcome. But nothing stirred, except for the wind and snow.

Then out of the wind came a low moaning, like the bleat of a foghorn. Shielding her eyes against the flurry of snowflakes, she peered toward the sound. At first all she saw was a frenzied blur of twisting, whirling whiteness; then a brown patch shifted into view.

When the moaning sounded again, instinctive dread pulsed at the back of her neck. Behind her, Dann rapped on the window. Dixie ignored him, trying to discern the source of the moaning. When it came again, recognition struck like a wet snowball. A cow, you ignorant city fool.

But one cow wouldn’t present such a wide mass of brown. A number of cows,then. Hadn’t she heard that sheep and cattle would bunch against a fence on the downwind side of a storm – especially a sudden and violent storm? Each animal pushed mindlessly ahead until they sometimes smothered one another in panic.

Dixie’s teeth, chattering like castanets, began to ache. The biting cold stung her face. She tugged open the car and sank onto the seat.

“Two things,” Dann said. “ Here’s what’s happening under the car right now…” He paused a beat. When she didn’t respond he continued. “Residual exhaust heat is melting the snow. As fast as it melts, the wind freezes it again while the car’s weight compresses it. Soon we’ll be stuck in ice. I’ll give you one guess which is easier to get out of.”

Maybe trying to get out wasn’t the best idea. She’d played a game once called “Lost in the Arctic.” Survival hinged on whether to stay put and wait for rescue or to start walking. Players who elected to walk died.

Watertown was a hundred miles ahead of them, hours ahead, considering driving conditions that worsened by the minute. Even if she succeeded in getting the Mustang back on the road, what made her think she could keep it there?

Parker Dann had grown up with this sort of weather in Montana. He would know a hell of a lot more than she did about surviving it.

“You said two things,” she reminded him.

“If you’re considering waiting out the storm, you may as well shoot us both and save us a lot of misery.” She turned to look at him through the steel mesh.

“You think it’s cold now,” he said. “Wait till the sun goes down. That Levi jacket you’re wearing is better than my shirt, but not by much.”

She eyed his brown flannel shirt and the thick down-filled parka that lay beside him on the seat.

“If we sit here,” he continued, “we’ll have to run the heater to keep from freezing. We’ll be out of gas before daylight. Or dead from carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“What about rescue trucks?”

“Sure, there’ll be a few snowmobiles out. But unless you have a CB radio hidden in the glove box, Flannigan, we’ve no way to signal for help.”

She had a CB, all right, a portable. It’d been useful during the drive up, for maintaining contact with her patrol buddies through Oklahoma, Kansas, and Nebraska. But here in South Dakota, where she had no friends on a police force, and no contract to legitimize her picking up Dann, a potential kidnapping charge was a very real possibility.

“Stay here,” Dann said, “and by morning we’ll be just another snowdrift.”

The thought of being buried alive turned her bowels to water. Was Dann counting on that? She had noticed his subtle shift from you to we. Was he baiting her, betting on her inexperience for a chance to escape?

“Okay, snowbird, do you have a suggestion for getting out of this ditch?”

“Got anything in the trunk to dig with?”

“Wrenches, screwdrivers. A claw hammer, maybe. No shovel.”

“We can cut the top off this plastic water bottle. Use it as a scoop.”

Better yet, she had a gallon jug of laundry detergent in the trunk that she forgot to carry in after yesterday’s shopping trip. Since they were likely to freeze before needing clean underwear, she supposed the detergent was expendable. “Okay, so we have something to dig with. Now what?”

“Scoop the fresh snow away from the tires, then straighten the front wheels. We’ll try to take it out on the same ruts it made going in, but first we’ll have to find some gravel – or dirt or whatever – to throw under the tires for traction. Chances are they’re sitting on weeks of packed snow and ice from earlier storms.”

A light blinked on in Dixie’s mind. This was the same drill she’d use to get unstuck from Texas mud, except there she’d look for scraps of wood to wedge under the tires. She’d lived that scene often enough to know exactly what to do. If she could get out of a Texas mud hole, she could sure as hell get out of a snowdrift. Turning up her collar, she reached for the door handle.

Dann slammed his palm against the steel mesh.

“Hey! Aren’t you going to let me out of here?”

And have him knock her in the head first chance he got? She might know zip about blizzards, but she knew plenty about skips. In Houston, Dann was ninety-nine percent convicted, and his running would clinch the jury’s decision. Only a fool would return willingly; Parker Dann was nobody’s fool. Either he’d leave her here to freeze, or he’d lock her in the trunk and dump her at the first town on his way to Canada.

“Dann, your part in this project is to continue offering sage advice. You might also pray a little.”

“Aw, lady…”

She pushed the door handle and felt the blast of cold

“Hey!” Dann held up his parka. “At least take this. If you freeze, neither one of us gets out of here.”

Dixie nodded and lowered the back driver-side window for him to push the coat through. It was too big, only the elastic cuffs preventing the sleeves from hanging to her knees, but once she zipped into it, she felt a damn sight better about digging in the snow. Turning back, she opened the door again to flip the trunk latch.

“Find some big rocks,” Dann instructed. “Pile them in the trunk for weight.”

“Right.” Dixie squinted into the wind, wondering how to tell a rock from a clump of old cow dung when everything was buried under a swirling white coat.

Twenty-two minutes later, she yanked the door open and slid across the seat, pain needling her nose and fingers, feet numb inside her boots. Dann had been right about ice forming under the car. The top layer of snow had already started to crust over. She’d dug through it, though, scraping away fresh powder until she hit the packed snow that formed solid ground. She still needed some gravel to throw under the tires, but her hands had stiffened until she could scarcely bend her fingers. They had to warm up some before she could dig again.

She skinned off her frozen gloves and jammed her fists into the pockets of Dann’s parka. Better. But she couldn’t afford the luxury of sitting still for long. She glanced in the mirror; Dann was watching her through the mesh barrier, a cynical amusement in his eyes.

“Got a pair of dry gloves back there?” She’d noticed a pair stuffed in a pocket of his coat before pushing it through the mesh opening earlier.

“Wouldn’t need the gloves if you’d let me help. Be back on the highway by now.”

“Just hand me the gloves, Dann.” She fumbled the keys from the ignition switch and opened the mesh panel.

Dann handed the gloves through, then hooked his fingers over the bottom edge of the opening. “It’s getting cold back here. How about a cup of that coffee?”

Eyeing the thermos, Dixie decided a few sips would be welcome before braving the cold again, and she supposed she owed Dann something for the use of his coat. She observed a rigid set of rules, however, when transporting skips.

“Move your hand away from the screen,” she said.

“What the hell, one cup of coffee -”

She slammed the panel down on his fingers. The sharp steel edge cut into his knuckles.

“Goddamn!” He jerked his hand back. A narrow line of blood oozed across his middle finger. “Are you nuts?”

Dixie snapped the lock shut and pocketed the keys. She opened the thermos, poured a single cup of coffee.

“Hellfire, woman. You’re a real piece of work.”

The first sip burned her tongue, but the second felt good going down. She finished a third of the coffee before opening the panel and passing the cup to Dann. When he took it, she relocked the pass-through.

“Parker Dann, don’t have to be civil to you,” she said. “I’m not a cop.”

“No, you’re a goddamn bounty hunter!”

“- and you’re no longer a man. You’re chattel. The bondsman owned your ass the minute you skipped bail.” She opened the glove box and removed a first-aid kit. The single-wrapped alcohol swabs and Band-Aids slipped easily through the mesh.

“I could have waited out this storm in a nice warm bed back in Grandin,” Dixie said, pulling on the heavy gloves. They were too big for her hands. “You’d have spent the night in the trunk. Maybe you should be thanking your lucky stars that l’m reasonably humane.”

Outside, Dixie swallowed a surge of shame for being such a badass bitch. She hated doing it. But with a burly male prisoner, a 120-pound female couldn’t afford to relinquish control, even a little. She was already showing weakness in her ability to handle the storm. If she and Dann were stuck with each other overnight, he could become a threat, not only to her, but to others. Dann had to believe she’d shoot him rather than let him escape.

She kicked at the snowbank, wondering how far she’d have to dig to find gravel. The air felt colder than before. The driving snow felt wetter, clinging to her hair, clotting her lashes. Visibility had closed to a few feet. Using the lug wrench, she chipped through packed snow and ice until she hit a road sign that had been knocked down. Underneath it, she found a gravel shoulder. Hunching against the cold, she laboriously filled the makeshift scoop with dirt and rocks. Although the clumsy gloves impeded her, they kept her hands from stiffening up. Her ears felt cold enough to snap off.

She carried the scoop of gravel to the car and spread it out, barely covering the ice behind one tire. As she watched with sinking spirits, the wind picked up the smaller pieces and scattered them.

Another numbing gust knocked her sideways. Rocking on her heels, she braced her fall with one hand. She’d weathered a hurricane once, and the winds hadn’t felt much stronger than the one blowing now. Despair curled in a corner of her mind and nested. How the hell was she supposed to keep the car on the road once she got it out of the ditch?

Shielding her eyes, she scanned the highway in both directions, hoping for a search beacon, or at least a break in the clouds. As she watched the lashing snow, it occurred to her that no vehicle had passed during the half hour they’d been stranded.

She turned back to the patch of gravel at the roadside and refilled her scoop.

Check by right here next week for Chapter 10 of Bitch Factor.

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Here Lies a Brazen Woman – a new Booker Krane Mystery

When a friend of innkeeper Roxanna Larkspur, and a current guest at the inn, is discovered strangled in bed, Booker Krane wants to assist in finding the killer. But Lorraine, the victim, is daughter to a former Texas senator, still a powerful force in Austin. Masonville’s mayor instructs both Booker and the sheriff to butt out, preferring to have her own police chief investigate.

Police Chief Josephine Zanders has no experience in solving a murder case, so she deputizes Booker as an “Ancillary Homicide Investigator.” Cool. Booker now has her authority to follow the trail all the way to Austin, where the plot definitely thickens. Lorraine was a talented artist with an important contract pending. She also was an investor in a pair of Austin businesses. Yet she left Austin abruptly and hasn’t been in contact with anyone.

Back in Masonville, Lorraine’s insomnia and her habit of walking the streets at night, talking easily to complete strangers, makes identifying her killer close to impossible. It might even have been a trucker traveling one of the highways that insect at the small town. Declaring the case fully investigated, Mayor Garrett hands it off to the state police.

Booker’s unrelenting curiosity, however, won’t let go. And his curiosity almost gets him killed.

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Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 23

CHAPTER 24

“Booker, why are you reading this?” Littlehawk tossed Archery Basics on the grass. “Here I am, an expert at your service.”

With two hours to kill until his date with Roxanna, Booker knew he had to keep busy. Otherwise, he’d worry himself ragged, worry about making a fool of himself tonight, worry about Bradley. Quitter. The word ricocheted in his mind like a wayward arrow. He’d never realized how much he enjoyed being his son’s hero until he lost that status.

He’d hoped to find the Lakeside archery range empty so he could kill time and make mistakes without anyone watching. No such luck.

“You teach archery?” he asked Littlehawk, strapping on the leather arm guard.

“I am not half Choctaw for nothing, Booker. I am not half Blackfoot for nothing.”

Littlehawk could prove the Choctaw part. Booker had seen his genealogy posted near the restaurant’s bulletin board alongside the Native American status notification allowing government grants to help finance the Caribou Club. His Blackfoot heritage was more likely American melting pot, but that didn’t make as good a story. The only thing Littlehawk loved more than a good story was cash.

“What’s it going to cost me for a lesson?”

“Cost? You insult me. I offer to teach you, and you insult me. I’m hurt.”

“All right, I’m sorry. Look—”

“Booker Krane!” Emaline’s shout preceded her across the field. “What the devil are you up to?”

Headed toward the archery range, she picked her way among sunbathers around the club swimming pool. Meanwhile, Littlehawk corrected Booker’s stance and showed him how to mark a nocking point on his bowstring. Maybe he could use a few lessons, after all.

Booker nocked an arrow, the cock feather, in this case an off-colored plastic vane, at right angles to the notch as he’d learned from Spiner. He drew the string back.

“Sure-sure, that’s good. Now we mark an anchor, a spot where the hand points each time you shoot.”

Using Booker’s bow, Littlehawk showed where his third finger touched his chin at full draw. The bow was too long for the smaller man, but Booker got the idea. He tried it.

“Let your inner spirit guide you,” Littlehawk said.

Booker worked at it as Emaline finally approached.

“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Is that the ticket, Booker? Figured I’d be old and gray before I saw you take up shooting.”

“You are already old and gray,” Littlehawk said.

“That’s beside the point. What possessed him to do this?”

“That is not our business. Am I right, Booker? If he wants to shoot, he has found the right teacher.”

Emaline hooted. “Booker Krane, you can’t listen to this guy. Neptune conjunct Mercury in his third house. Nobody can tell a bigger lie or get you more confused.”

Booker muttered a neutral grunt. He did not want to land in one of their sparring matches, which seemed to occur any time they came within ten feet of each other.

Littlehawk nudged him. “Even the loudest foghorn doesn’t clear the fog. Am I right?”

Booker had to swallow a chuckle at that one.

“Pete,” Emaline huffed, “you remind me of a toothache I once had.”

Booker’s arm muscle quivered with the effort of holding the fifty-five-pound pressure before he found a comfortable anchor point with his thumb at his earlobe. “How’s this?”

“Sure-sure, that’s fine. Keep your arm up.”

“Hope you’re sighting with your good eye,” Emaline said.

Booker paused. “Good eye?”

“Sight with your off eye, you’ll shoot crooked every time. You didn’t tell him that, Pete?”

“I was going to tell him.”

Booker eased off the bowstring. “Tell me now.”

“Point at something,” Emaline said. “Both eyes open. Now cover one eye and see if your finger’s still pointing to the same spot.”

He did what she said. “It moved.”

“Is that the eye you were sighting with?” Emaline said.

“No, that was my left eye. I’m right-handed. I was sighting with my right eye.”

“Then you are fine,” Littlehawk said.

“You’re certain it’s okay? I mean, do I need some kind of gadget to sight with?”

“Nah, you’re okay,” Emaline said.

Exasperated, Booker nocked his arrow and drew the string to his anchor point. “How’s this?”

“Good, good. Now concentrate on the center of the target, Booker.”

“Got it.”

“Release the string easy.” Littlehawk leaned close, staring hard at Booker’s hand.

Booker released the string. The arrow hit the target in the bottom ring.

“Pow! That’s good! Emaline, Booker’s going to be a fine bowman.”

“You shot low,” Emaline said. “Try again, only put some back muscle into it.”

Booker nocked, drew the bow string, sighted.

“Imagine the target is a seven-point white tail,” Littlehawk said.

Booker’s hand slipped. The arrow missed the target completely.

“Why would I want to kill a deer?” he demanded.

“I didn’t realize you were only interested in competition.” Littlehawk looked disappointed.

“I don’t know that I want to compete, either. What’s wrong with learning just for the exercise and discipline?”

“Kyudo!” Emaline hooted.

“The way of the bow.” Littlehawk nodded.

“What?”

“Zen archery, Booker.” Emaline pulled an arrow from his quiver and handed it to him. “Spiritual warrior wisdom from twelfth century Japan. You can’t practice it with this equipment.”

“In kyudo, the objective is not to hit the target,” Littlehawk explained. “You search for discipline, precision, and truth.”

“Precision means aiming high to compensate for gravity,” Emaline argued, pushing Booker’s arm up.

“The sound of a kyudo string being plucked strikes fear in the hearts of evil spirits.”

Handy, Booker thought. Maybe as a kid he could’ve used kyudo to keep the monsters in the closet. He adjusted his draw.

“Watch the string doesn’t creep forward,” Emaline said.

His arrow hit close to the bull’s eye. Littlehawk frowned. Emaline sniffed smugly. Booker could see a real feud developing if he took advice from both of them. He decided to change the subject and practice what he’d already learned.

“Do either of you know an auto mechanic in Masonville named Ramsey Crawford?”

“A bad mechanic,” Emaline said. “A drunk hell-raising cheat, and that’s his good points.”

“Yes, I agree. Remember, I told you that mechanic was bad news, Booker. Everything Emaline said is so.”

Emaline snapped around to stare at Littlehawk. Agreeing with her, Booker figured, was a ploy the club owner hadn’t tried before.

“This man Crawford,” Littlehawk said, “he is not your friend, I hope.”

“Never met him, but I heard he and Fowler got into it over Melinda.”

“Venus squared Uranus, that woman makes trouble everywhere she goes,” Emaline said. “Been looking for a husband since the day she hit town, and isn’t particular about whose.”

“Grrrrrr!” Littlehawk’s grin spread like a shark’s as he elbowed Booker’s ribs. “What a woman, though. Am I right?”

Emaline glared. “Pete, if you ever see a mind reader, don’t let him charge you more than half price. What put you on to Crawford, Booker?”

He’d shot most of his twelve arrows. The ones that hit the target were clustered low left.

“Aaron Fowler,” he said.

“Aaron?” Littlehawk’s eyes widened. “You should have seen it, Emaline. What a drama, right there in the club. Pow! Got a picture of Booker for the wall, and now they’re best friends. Booker bought a truck!”

Now it was Booker’s turn to stare at Littlehawk. “I only bought it a couple hours ago. Guess you called Aaron for your commission.”

The club owner’s eyes widened. “Business is business.”

“What’s all this got to do with Melinda?” Emaline asked.

“Aaron says she wasn’t the first woman Sarabelle had to contend with,” Booker said. “Only the first to interfere with the marriage. Apparently, Fowler took his fiftieth birthday pretty hard.”

“What the devil’s wrong with fifty? I had some good times at fifty.”

“Sure-sure, but women live longer than men, Emaline. Look how long ago you were fifty. For a man, forty is the ideal age.”

“Your memory can’t be that good, Pete. You passed forty a few corners ago.” She guided Booker’s bow hand out straighter. “Now that you mention it, Chuck did get the grouches around January.”

“The end of hunting season,” Littlehawk agreed.

Booker loosed the arrow and watched it plunk into the lower left quadrant again. “Did something unusual happen last season?”

Littlehawk’s wide grin busted loose. “I took the Grammon Whitetail trophy.”

“If I remember,” Emaline said, “Chuck accused you of shooting that deer out of season.”

The grin faded. “Jealousy.”

“So Sarabelle asks Chuck, ‘What do you want for your birthday?’” Emaline straightened Booker’s shoulder. “And he says, ‘A divorce?’”

“Divorce is not so bad,” Littlehawk said. “I’m divorced. You’re divorced, too, Booker, am I right?”

Emaline snorted. “You can bet Chuck wanted custody of the money.”

Booker studied his grouping, trying to figure out what he was doing wrong. “Aaron did say his father had tightened the purse strings.”

“Right there in the club,” Littlehawk said, “Aaron and his father, a big blow-up over money.”

“Half the Estates heard it,” Emaline added. “Aaron wants to buy a piece of the dealership. Saved forty thousand of his own and wanted Chuck to match it.”

From what Booker had seen, and without auditing the books, it sounded like a fair investment. Aaron certainly had enough enthusiasm to make the business work. Scrutinizing the bull’s eye, Booker tried to recall what Archery Basics said about shooting low left. He headed for the target to reload his quiver. “Sounds like Fowler was stockpiling cash.”

“Like he expected another recession,” Emaline agreed. “And guess which real estate agent in her mid-flirties with the initials M.M. was planning to make Chuck’s money disappear?”

Even knowing Melinda as little as he did, Booker figured Emaline was right, and Aaron clearly resented his father’s interest in the “gold-digging barracuda.” Booker hoped he was wrong about Aaron, but the boy did have a temper.

Taking his shooting position again, Booker carefully angled his body ninety degrees to the target.

Emaline took hold of his elbow. “Keep your bow arm up as you release.”

“Sure-sure. Watch your follow-through, Booker.”

“Pete, you’re like the fizz on an Alka Seltzer, a bunch of noisy air. Betcha a nickel you won’t get him hitting the bull’s eye inside a week.”

“A nickel?” Littlehawk’s entire body came to attention. “What kind of bet is that, Emaline? Fifty dollars says I will have Booker shooting like a champ inside a week.”

Booker shook his head at the pair. Maybe he should mount a target in his back yard. He considered packing up. He could kill the time before his date by taking a nap. But the word “quitter” had stuck in his brain.

He shot the next arrow, and the next and the next, wondering how many of Chuck Fowler’s friends were as skillful at bow-hunting and as competitive as Gary Spiner and Pete Littlehawk.

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Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 24

CHAPTER 25

Roxanna’s fingers edged toward the phone. Hard, strawberry-colored plastic, with its oh-so-easy punch buttons for summoning a person, it sat there, silent.

Her heart had said yes to the first date in ten months. She still had time to unsay it.

A chemical smell of drying varnish drifted down the hall to remind her of commitment. Yet, truly, she could do nothing more in the guest rooms tonight. An evening out would clear her nostrils of the dizzying odor, clear her mind and soul, and sweeten up her disposition.

But a toe on the wrong side of discipline invited a fall. She snatched up the phone.

Put it down. She whirled away from it and marched into the bathroom. As her claw-foot bathtub filled with water, she sprinkled in a capful of Relaxation bubble-bubble-bubbles.

Half of knowing what you want, and getting it, she believed, is deciding what you’re willing to give up. Men were only a small part of what she’d given up to concentrate on her dream, her business, her headstrong, heart-racing grab for a better life. She’d struck a bargain with herself. So what Satan-sent temptation had made her say yes to Booker Krane?

She dropped her clothes in the hamper, slid into the cool water and stretched out. With the air conditioning off and the windows open to clear paint stench from the guest rooms, the air had turned scorching hot. She’d sweated buckets. The bath soothed her.

She poured soap gel on a rough sponge and sluiced it over her skin. The Relaxation salts sent their herbal bouquet to calm her thoughts. Leaning back, she took the pressure off her weary legs, urging them to unwind and be noodley, to float weightless on the water.

Her toenails poked up through the bubbles. The toenails needed work.

Didn’t everything? Her whole life wrapped around work.

She didn’t mind, most of the time. To get ahead, a person had to use resources wisely. Her resources, memorized in alphabetical order and chanted daily into her affirmation bank, included common sense, determination, good health, integrity, intelligence, a kind heart, optimism, stamina, and talent. Nowhere on the list appeared the word money.

“In business,” people had told her, “money talks.” In her case, it usually said “goodbye.” But if she used her resources wisely, money would come. She believed that.

She chose this business because she loved being around people. Folks who came to the inn for brunch or dinner, families, couples, even flirtatious old fools like Gary Spiner, renewed her conviction that she’d chosen right. But she couldn’t count those people as friends, could she? She could not think of a single person in this whole town she would call a friend. Yet she’d left scores of friends in Houston.

“Our eyes are in front,” Aunt Jane would say, “to keep us looking ahead.” Roxanna had dumped all her resources into the inn. No turning back. No point in looking back. But she sure needed a friend to confide in at times.

She had a hunch Booker Krane could be a fine friend, if she gave him a chance. His comfortable, folksy charm attracted her.

Her toenails definitely needed work, especially if she planned to wear sandals. The smallest details were always noticed. Anybody who didn’t believe that should see a drip of ketchup on a guest’s white jacket.

Roxanna inhaled the fragrance of bath salts. Relax, she told herself. Relax, relax…relax.

She would see her dream come true. Nothing would stop her, not poor planning or ill timing or bad luck. Nothing.

Not mean-spirited bill collectors or nasty-minded mortgagers. Nothing.

She had common sense, determination, good health, integrity, intelligence, a kind heart, optimism, stamina, and talent, thank you very much. Friends were a comfort, but they also could be a distraction. It wasn’t too late to call Booker Krane and beg off.

After all, what might she be getting into? When this date was over, would he expect another one? Worse yet, would he expect to end the evening with both of them in the same bed? She wasn’t ready for that.

He’d been awfully sweet when he asked her out, shy about it, even, as if he hadn’t been dating lately, either. But what about that real estate agent he’d sat with last night, Melinda McCray? If a woman ever had her hooks out for a man, it was her.

Melinda and Chuck, now that had been a pair. They deserved each other. Booker Krane was too fine a man to leave to a woman like Melinda. She’d rip out his heart and serve it to him for breakfast.

Roxanna pictured the silent telephone in the next room. She reached behind her for a bottle of nail polish remover and began taking the chipped remnants off her toenails. A nice bright coral would be perfect with her gold sandals. Perfect for a hot August night.

CHAPTER 26

Booker cursed and dropped the razor. Way to go, Krane! Another bloody cut on his already battered face. Neck, actually. Trimming up the beard line.

When was the last time he’d cut himself shaving? Two years ago? Ten? Naturally, it had to happen tonight. He hoped that wasn’t an indication of how the evening would progress.

He wanted his date with Roxanna to be perfect. Most of all, he wanted to get through the date without making a complete ass of himself. So far, it wasn’t looking good.

He never should’ve fallen asleep. At the time, sitting down with a beer to cool off from his archery lesson and watch the tail end of an old movie seemed a good idea. He was tensed up after the day’s events, especially the argument with Bradley. Now, he was thirty minutes behind.

A splash of aftershave set him gritting his teeth at the sting. When the cut continued to bleed, he daubed it with toilet paper, leaving the paper stuck to his neck and hoping he’d remember to take it off later.

At least his clothes were fresh from the cleaners. Since he rarely wore dress clothes these days, his closet offered many choices. He selected charcoal gray slacks, a blue-gray jacket, a blue shirt and a blue and gray rep tie. Safe clothes, nothing flashy. He had enough to think about without his clothes handicapping him.

What did people on dates discuss these days? Luckily, the play would take up most of the evening. Afterward, maybe he and Roxanna would compare thoughts on the performance. That should work. But what about before the play? Booker could hear the vast, empty silence, him trying to invent small talk that would amuse a woman like Roxanna.

What sort of woman was Roxanna, anyway? Refurbishing an old house and running the inn with period style didn’t mean she was old-fashioned. Witness the photographs on her office wall. Nothing old-fashioned about those.

Artistic. If the woman was anything, she was artistic. Booker traded the blue shirt for one the decorator had given him, plum, she’d called it, and the blue-gray rep tie for dark gray with a pink paisley design. Definitely more artsy-fartsy than he was used to.

He pulled on black socks, the shirt, the tie. Brushed his hair. Not bad. He climbed into his pants and buttoned them—

Hellfire and damnation they were tight! He knew he’d been gaining weight, but everyday clothes were more forgiving. He’d have to eat light at dinner.

Uh-oh. He hadn’t given a thought to dinner. The play started at seven, he was due at Roxanna’s at six. The drive to College Station took forty minutes, minimum. No time for dinner before the play. They’d have to stop afterward. At least by then they’d have something to talk about.

Unless the play was lousy. No, he wouldn’t borrow trouble. If he managed to pull off his own part without falling on his face tonight, O. Henry wouldn’t fail him. The play would be fine. Sliding into his jacket and loafers, he assessed his reflection in the mirror. Good enough, except for the toilet paper on his neck.

Plucking it off, he glanced at his watch. Just enough time, if he drove like Emaline.

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