Table of Contents
Epigraph
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ROOTBOUND Karin Slaughter
VANITAS Emma Donoghue
CORNELIUS JUBB Peter Robinson
DOWN AND DIRTY Fidelis Morgan
THE GOBLIN Lynda La Plante
THE SNAKE EATER BY THE NUMBERS Lee Child
STROKE OF LUCK Mark Billingham
TWO DEATHS AND A MOUTHFUL OF WORMS Denise Mina
FAVOUR John Harvey
PLAN B Kelley Armstrong
THE INKPOT MONKEY John Connolly
ACTS OF CORPORAL CHARITY Jane Haddam
NOT QUITE U. Laura Lippman
THE THINGS WE DID TO LAMAR Peter Moore Smith
THE EASTLAKE SCHOOL Jerrilyn Farmer
THE BLESSING OF BROKENNESS Karin Slaughter
Biographies
LIKE A CHARM
'It's fascinating to see some of my favourite crime novelists coming together to create a taut, tense thriller; each chapter stands alone as a powerful story, yet they also combine seamlessly into a great read. Genuinely gripping.'
Harlan Coben
Also by Karin Slaughter
Blindsighted
Kisscut
A Faint Cold Fear
Indelible
Faithless
Triptych
LIKE A CHARM
Edited by Karin Slaughter
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ISBN 9781409063476
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Arrow Books in 2004
7 9 10 8
Copyright © 2004 by Karin Slaughter
Copyright © in individual contributions remains with the contributors
Copyright © in illustrations remains with Bill Burgess
The moral right of the contributors, under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act, 1988 has been asserted
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First published in the United Kingdom in 2004 by Century
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ISBN: 9781409063476
Version 1.0
For Random House UK –
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ROOTBOUND
Karin Slaughter
Blood Mountain, Georgia, 1803
Macon Orme was so hungry when he found the squirrel caught in the snare trap that he ate it with his bare hands. The hot rush of blood hitting his stomach was like poison, but he swallowed the fatty meat past the gag that wanted to come, the squirrel's razor-like claws cutting into the sides of his face as he gorged himself on the sweet meat of the creature's underbelly.
Satiated, he fell back against a rock, his breathing coming in pants, the lingering taste of the squirrel sticking in the back of his throat like molasses. His stomach made a churning sound, and he put his hand there as if to quiet it. He could feel the blood dripping down his chin and caught it with his sleeve, hoping the dark material of his shirt would not show the mark of his sin.
'I'm sorry,' he said, an apology that would never be heard to the man who had set the snare.
Three days had passed since he had stood at the poctaw, the wishing circle of the Elawa. Hallucinations came easily with hunger, and when Macon closed his eyes he was sitting there again. He could smell the smoke from the fire, feel dark hair brushing against his bare arm. The woman had stood before him, half naked and gyrating in some dance that obviously had a religious meaning for her people but in Macon had only brought out burning lust. He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking about being inside her, feeling the gyrations first hand. So many years had passed since he had lain with a woman without having to pay first. So many years had disappeared into the quagmire of his mountain existence. When he thought of her beneath him, his balls ached with anticipation, even as a cold winter wind snapped through the trees.
Macon stood because he had to. He felt a flash of guilt for breaking his self-imposed fast, but three days without nourishment was a lifetime to a man whose belly was all too familiar with the pains of hunger. Bad fortune had made him go without food before, but it seemed like every time he thought of the woman his body demanded more nourishment than it had ever needed before. If he did not want her so much, he would hate her.
As if they sensed his need, animals seemed to taunt him, running across his path, veering in and out of his line of sight. A deer stood in the forest, eyeing him carefully, as if searching Macon's soul. A rabbit followed him for a mile at least, slowly hopping in Macon's footsteps, pausing now and then to clean its face. Most of his life had been spent trapping these beasts in the hundreds: laying snares and steel traps that cut so deep sometimes there would be an amputated paw waiting instead of a full-sized jackrabbit when he checked on his weekly rounds. Other times, he would see the teeth marks in the stubbed end of bone where they had gnawed off their own limb in order to free themselves. These were cunning animals, bent on survival. Macon gave them his respect because he saw in them something he saw in himself. He would survive.
Though he found himself of late wondering what this survival cost him. He had not seen a looking glass in many years, but often Macon would see his own reflection in a stream when he stopped for water. Age had descended harshly. White grew into his beard, and when he thought to comb his fingers through his hair chunks would come out in his hand, the roots sticking up like tiny fragments of his youth.
There had been a time when vanity had been second nature to Macon Orme. He had oiled his hair and done it proper with the bone comb that had once belonged to his father. Saturdays he had bathed before the weekly dance, where he would hold the neighbour's daughter close to his chest, smell the musky scent of her, dream of pressing his hips into hers. Sundays he had worn a starched collar that chafed his neck, pants that showed a fine crease down the front. He had kept a watch in his pocket on a slender silver chain. Macon Orme had been a farmer, a man concerned with the passage of time. Then the Muscogee came and destroyed the farm. The Indians were merciless. They stole the horses and gave his mother such a fright that she grabbed her chest and fell dead to the ground. They razed the crops and what they could not carry away on horseback they burned. They took it all like it belonged to them.
Macon punched his fist into his thigh. Here he was, fifteen years later, making a fool of himself for some dark-skinned heathen; the same sort of heathen who had birthed t
he bastards who took his farm. That farm would have been Macon's inheritance. He would have had something to give the neighbour's daughter, something to lure her into letting him press his hips into hers for real. He would have given her a child – many children. They would have grown old together but for that day when everything had been taken away from him.
And yet, he longed for the Indian woman in a way he had never known. He dreamed about her, tasted her in his sleep. Even before he had happened upon their camp three days ago, Macon had felt a tugging at his chest, as if a string had been looped round his heart and something – someone – was pulling him towards her. That last night before he found their small settlement, a powerful burning in his chest had awakened him, and he had abandoned his camp and stumbled up the hill towards the woman without even knowing why.
She'd stood there at the peak, wind blowing her wild black hair. Fire of a colour he had never seen spat up in front of her, the smoke climbing lazily into the night air. Macon inhaled, and the burning in his chest calmed with each deep breath. Peace came over him, and he crouched in front of the fire like a heathen and watched her dance.
'O-cko-wanee-ki,' she sang, her voice husky and without any particular music. Her skin was dark as pitch; hairless and smooth.
A gold chain trickled out either side of her fisted hand, and she held it over the fire, inches from the flame, so close that a sweat broke out over Macon's body just watching her. Slowly, she let out the chain, mumbling incomprehensible names for the small charms attached to the bracelet.
'A-shownee,' she said. Bear.
'Coskoo,' she said. Monkey.
Six charms slid out of her hand, snaking closer and closer to the fire. Macon watched, his mouth open, smoke wafting into his lungs, as a golden bear dangled over the flames. The detail was astounding, the creature almost lifelike as the flames licked up and down the side. He could see every part of the animal: the soft fur, the needle-thin claws, the pads of its one open paw as it stood on hind legs to strike. Macon leaned closer to the strange fire, hypnotized by the tiny red jewel at the centre of the bear's chest.
Hours might have passed, but Macon did not notice. The woman danced in a circle round the fire in all her naked glory. She twirled and leaped until the moon hid behind the mountaintops, and then she stopped as suddenly as it all had started, again dangling the bear out over the roaring fire. Her head jerked up suddenly, and she stared at him – right into him. Macon felt every muscle in his body tense, his bones aching from the pressure. He was panting; his head started to spin.
She chanted something under her breath, so low that even straining he could not hear her. Something flashed in the deep, dark black of her eyes and she held out her hand, the bracelet in her palm. Macon could see the charms, but his mind gave no name to any of them but the bear dangling at the end. This last charm she held swaying over the fire, so close her skin must have burned, yet she did not flinch.
The gold slowly melted and began to drip into the flames until all that was left was a tear-drop-shaped lump of gold with the red stone in the centre. As Macon watched, the woman took the bracelet, held it above her open mouth and bit off what was left of the bear. It sizzled on her tongue, then her neck moved as she swallowed. All Macon could think was how good it would feel if she swallowed him.
As a trader, Macon had wandered all over these mountains. He knew the peaks and valleys like a man knows his own heart: the Coosa and the Tallapoosa, Licklog, Slaughter Gap. Paths had been cut into the ground by Macon's own two feet as he trapped and killed, skinned then traded the animals for comforts he would not otherwise have known: coffee, tobacco, shoes, women. Two skinny rabbits got him a cake of soap. A tender-eyed doe that happened into a snare brought a sturdy old rifle with good sites. Indian jewellery would get him a woman; a rabbit's paw or some other trinket would buy the lard and lavender mix the madam sold to ease the friction when they fucked. Macon knew all the tribes in the mountains, traded with them because he had to, more often than not getting the better part of the deal. He knew the Lower Creek wanted arms while the Cherokee wanted silk, and that it didn't matter because Jefferson was forcing the filthy bastards the hell out of there anyway.
Yet, that night, stumbling upon the woman, Macon was shocked to find a people he had never known. The Elawa weren't like the other Indians Macon had seen. There were no tepees or mounds or animal skins strewn about. The woman's solitary dance was nothing he had ever witnessed during tribal rites or war parties. They spoke no English and seemed uninterested in learning any. He was not even sure what they called themselves. 'Elawa' had been a name of Macon's own design, borrowing from the Cherokee for earth.
They were living out of shallow caves carved into the belly of the mountain, scraping up gold dust and smelting it into jewellery the likes of which Macon had never seen. The quality of their work was remarkable considering the meagre tools they used: blunt instruments that seemed better suited to grinding flour than performing delicate deviations in heat-softened gold. The men toiled all day, their backs curved into permanent arcs as they held a round wooden platform between their feet, turning it this way and that with their toes as they created art that Macon knew would fetch significantly more up north.
Other things about them stood out. There were no useful animals around the compound – no horses or cows or even donkeys. Dogs had free reign of the site, but the people parted for them as if they required deference. The tribe flinched at the sight of the skins Macon offered to trade for their gold charms. Even when he brought out his better merchandise: deer, bear, chinchilla, they recoiled as if the death he held in his hands carried some kind of contagion.
After the woman had finished her dancing, a powerful-looking young man whom Macon took to be the chief came up the hill, his headdress riddled with solid black feathers, his body painted in animal designs: rabbit, snake, lion. Behind him was a gnarled old man who leaned on an even more gnarled walking stick. His eyes were cloudy white, like spoiled milk, his teeth as black as night. Red clay was smeared all over his body. Black dirt from the forest marked his naked genitals.
From the cotton pouch the man wore at his side, Macon guessed this was the medicine man, the healer of the tribe. He tried a smile, not wanting to get on the man's bad side, knowing instinctively that this was the most respected man in the group.
'Lapacha ko wanee,' the old man snarled. He reached into his bag and pulled out a handful of black dirt and threw it on the ground with disgust. Macon had no idea what it meant until the man spat on the lump of dirt three times in rapid succession.
It was a curse.
'Ha,' Macon tried to laugh, saying the word instead of making the actual sound. Indians had cursed him all of his life. There was nothing this old dirt-covered coot could do to Macon that hadn't been done to him already.
The chief clapped his hands once and the woman from the fire appeared. A crowd had formed, but they parted for her, and he understood that she was something special to them, something precious. She was dressed in a simple band of cloth round her waist, her bare breasts high, dark nipples taut enough to make him bite the tip of his tongue. The thin bracelet she had held over the fire was clasped round her wrist, the remaining charms tinkling as she moved.
She took Macon's hand and led him to one of the caves, showing him a root cellar. In it were several baskets of berries and roots taken from the forest and dried for the long winter. At the back of the cave in a sort of altar was a metal chest, animals of the hunt carved into the open top. A bear similar to the one from the fire reaching up to strike; a snake slithering along, fangs bared; a bird swooping down from a tree. Inside the chest was a mound of fresh earth. Macon stared at the dirt, his vision suddenly blurring. Was the dirt shaking? Was there a subtle vibration under his feet?
Without thinking, Macon moved forward, putting his hand in the cool earth. The moist darkness surrounded him. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he saw visions: a man playing a musical instrument he had never seen,
a woman dancing on the tips of her toes.
The visions snapped like a flash of lightning as the woman slapped his hand open, scattering the dirt on to the ground. With her feet, she pressed the earth into the ground, mumbling something under her breath.
Macon tried to apologize, though he did not know why. 'I didn't mean—'
Her piercing black eyes met his, and he felt paralysed again, rooted to the earth. She walked towards him. Her body pressed into his, her mouth just inches away. He inhaled her, took in her breath. His mind reeled and he leaned back against the wall, intoxicated.
She followed him, grinding herself harder into him until his cock stood out and his hands were exploring every part of her. Currents of desire spread through his body as she palmed him with her hand. Her other hand explored his chest, fingers curling into the hair, stroking across his nipples until she felt the beating of his heart.
She stopped, her hand over his heart, a question in her eyes.
'Yes,' he whispered, wanting her so badly his teeth ached in his head. 'Yes,' he breathed. She could have anything she wanted so long as she kept touching him.
Their mouths finally met and she sucked on his tongue, sucked his breath so that his lungs felt spent. Stars spun in front of his eyes and again his mind flashed on strange images: a key that wouldn't unlock any doors; a locket that held the secret to death; a kneeling angel who could not atone for any sins.
Then, just as suddenly, it was all gone. Macon found himself lying on the forest floor with nothing but the clothes on his back. No gun to hunt, no snares to set, no horse to carry him back to the woman. Though everything seemed familiar, he had no idea where he was. For three days, he travelled, judging his progress by the setting sun. At times he felt he was going in circles. Even the streams seemed to flow in the wrong direction. Night-time, he fell asleep on the south bank, only to awaken the next morning on what seemed like the north. Three days of this passed. Three days of hunger, of longing, of misery.
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