What a scoundrel and an opportunist Captain Henri had turned out to be. It was unconscionable that he was willing to profit from the free labor of helplessly bewitched people.
“What about him?” one of the crewmen asked, nudging the toe of his shoe into Jonas’s side.
“Leave him. He won’t wake up. Hurry, now; let’s go!
Don’t leave me. I’m awake! I can hear you. Please don’t leave me. Jonas attempted to wiggle and squirm. He struggled to blink his eyes, but couldn’t move a muscle.
Jonas watched helplessly as six pairs of legs moved out of his view. When he heard the creak of the wobbly steps that led above deck, he went into a panic. I’m alive; I’m alive, he shouted in his mind while his voice remained mute.
He heard the sounds of multiple splashes of water as the captain, crewmen, Emille, Terrance, and his now ex-wife abandoned ship, leaving Jonas behind.
Lying on his side, Jonas listened to the silence. The unmanned boat floated aimlessly. Sooner or later, someone would take notice of a boat adrift in the ocean. The Coast Guard would most likely respond. Being rescued meant that immigration officials would be involved. Like a criminal, Jonas would be sent to a detention center, and then deported back to Haiti.
Jonas would rather lie on the bottom of the boat and die than be sent back to a life where he had no means of earning a living. No way to pay off the huge debt to the lenders that had financed his trip.
Jonas needed to stay in America to earn money. Once the spell wore off, he’d be as good as new. Willing himself to believe that a bright future was possible, Jonas made plans. Instead of enrolling in school, he’d work night and day. He’d send his earnings to his mother, keeping only a minimal amount to get by. He’d continue his education only after the debt for his passage to America was paid in full.
CHAPTER 7
Time passed. Minutes. Hours. If only he could get off the godforsaken boat.
Jonas prayed that a kind soul would find him and take him to his relatives. If medicine didn’t work, perhaps his family knew of a witch doctor that was experienced in dealing with voodoo and dark magic.
The silent night was suddenly filled with the roaring engine of a speedboat, and Jonas was certain that his prayers had been answered. He was overjoyed when moments later, he heard voices and felt the vibration of footsteps directly overhead. But joy quickly dissipated when he recognized Alain’s dirty, scuffed boots descending the steps. Alain was followed by a man wearing a shiny, new pair of light brown boots.
Alain stood over Jonas as the other man knelt down and examined him, shining a flashlight in his face, and smacking his cheek to get a response.
Jonas’s wide-open stare was fixated on the man that scrutinized him. He was a white man, and he spoke in an authoritative tone. Was he an immigration official? Jonas was puzzled as to why Alain would bring someone from immigration to a discarded boat that had brought in refugees?
“That boy is dead; he’s no use to me,” said the white man.
“He only appears that way. He’ll wake up,” Alain said encouragingly.
“I don’t know . . .” The white man gave Jonas another look and then stood up straight.
“I’m giving you the boy at a good price,” Alain said in nervous, broken English.
“Boy! What boy?” the white man scoffed. “All I see is a corpse.”
“I’ve seen this many times. The boy will wake up in a few hours. He’ll come back to life, ready to work harder than any of your other workers. I guarantee it.”
“That’s a crock of shit.”
“It’s true. I’ll drop my price down to two hundred if you take the boy. You’ll get more than your money’s worth after he comes out of the spell. You have my word of honor.”
“You Haitians and your voodoo crap; you’re all full of it,” the white man said mockingly. “Madam Collette promised me two free laborers; I left the farmer’s convention and drove to her place as fast as I could. I get there and she tells me that another farmer beat me to it.”
“Free labor is a hot commodity. Another buyer picked up Terrence and Emille.”
“Yeah, looks like I ended up with the shitty end of the stick.”
“You got me, boss man.”
“You ain’t no prize. You got a lot of gall, wanting me to pay top dollar for your services when you never picked a Vidalia onion in your life,” the farmer complained.
“I learn fast,” Alain replied with a wide smile. “No worries, boss man. You’re getting a good bargain with this boy. He’s young and strong. He’ll do the work of four men.”
“This boy ain’t worth a plug nickel if he doesn’t get up on his feet and get to moving. I can’t linger around in Florida, waiting for some damn voodoo spell to break.”
“Give me fifty dollars for him, boss man,” Alain said urgently.
“Fifty? Well, that sounds fair enough. If he doesn’t wake up, I can use him as compost for my crops.” Laughing hard, the farmer slapped his thigh.
“Thanks, boss; you won’t regret it. Once this boy is up and about, he’ll pick onions from sunup to sundown.”
Lying on the back of a pickup truck and covered with tarp, Jonas was wedged between large bags of onions and metal objects. Oddly, he wasn’t afraid. He was greatly relieved to be off of the boat and on American soil. He’d overheard Alain and the farmer, and was aware that they were taking him to Georgia. He could see a map of the United States in his mind, and was thankful that Georgia wasn’t too far away from his aunt and uncle in Florida.
Alain turned out to be as conniving as Captain Henri. Poverty, Jonas surmised, sometimes brought out the worst in human nature.
There was no doubt in his mind that the moment that the poison wore off, he was going to take off running. He’d hitch a ride to Florida. He’d walk all the way if he had to. His relatives were expecting him. They had a job lined up for him—a paying job, and he didn’t want to miss one day’s work if he didn’t have to.
The truck exited the smooth highway and rolled onto a bumpy back road. Suddenly, one of the back tires began to wobble. The truck slowed and came to a stop. A door opened and slammed shut. Jonas heard the farmer gripe, “Goddamn tire; what the hell did I run over?”
Boots crunched against gravel as the farmer briskly made his way to the rear of the truck.
“Hey, Alain! Get your lazy ass out of the truck and help me change this tire.”
Alain made ambling footsteps to the back of the truck.
Jonas heard clanking and clanging as the car jack and other items were being moved around. For the first time since he’d stepped in the poisonous powder, he felt pangs of hunger. A gnawing, terrible hunger!
The farmer pulled back the tarp, and this time when he shined the beam of light in Jonas’s face, Jonas blinked rapidly.
“Well, what do you know? Somebody decided to wake up from his nice, long nap.”
Jonas was as surprised as the farmer. Not only could he blink his eyes, he could also wiggle his fingers and toes.
Scratching his scraggly beard, Alain peered down at Jonas. He broke into a huge grin. “Hey, welcome back to the living!”
The farmer presented a reptilian smile, and broke into laughter. “You woke up right in the nick of time. I was going to dig a hole for you—use you to fertilize my crops.”
Jonas winced from a wave of pain that felt similar to a punch in the stomach.
“Hey, I’m only joking. You’re coming to work for me on my farm. What’s your name, boy?”
Jonas spoke his full name, but the sound that came out of his mouth was similar to static—scratchy, unintelligible noise. His inability to articulate was unsettling. He licked his lips and tried again. More static.
“What’s wrong with your voice? Need some water, son?”
Jonas nodded. He wasn’t thirsty, but hoped that a sip of water would help activate his vocal chords. He had to let this farmer know that he didn’t intend to pick onions without pay. If the farmer offered fair wa
ges, he’d work a few weeks or as long as it took to earn enough money to pay for a bus ride to his family in Florida.
Concerned about the well-being of his free laborer, the farmer bellowed at Alain, “Grab that bottle of water from the cup holder.”
Alain quickly followed the farmer’s orders and handed him the plastic container that was half filled with water.
“Get busy changing that tire, Alain. I have to see what I can do to bring this boy back to good health.” The farmer lifted Jonas’s head and carefully placed the mouth of the bottle at his lips.
As Alain jacked up the truck, the farmer tended to Jonas as if he were a prized calf. Jonas tried to take in a sip of water, but hit with another attack of unbearable hunger, he quivered violently. Water dribbled down his chin. The hunger was outrageous. Like his insides were being twisting into knots. Staving off the severe pain, Jonas grimaced and drew his legs up to his chest.
“Whoa!” The farmer backed up a little. “Alain! To hell with that tire; come take a look at this boy.”
Alain dropped the tire iron and stood over Jonas.
“Why is he squirming and carrying on? Is that typical behavior?”
“I think so.”
“You think so? I thought you were an authority on voodoo. If this boy kicks the bucket, I’m not taking him on my property. I’m dumping him over there in those woods over yonder, and I want my fifty bucks back.”
“The boy’s all right, boss. Look, he’s calming down.” Alain pointed at Jonas, who was pulling himself into a sitting position. “He’ll be walking and talking and ready to work first thing in the morning,” Alain said sheepishly.
As Jonas listened to the exchange between Alain and the farmer, a base and primitive instinct was overwhelming him. Jonas battled to control wild and dangerous impulses that overpowered all rational thought. Consumed by an agonizing hunger, he gave up his internal battle. Relinquishing every shred of normal human behavior, he lunged for the farmer. Growling like an animal, he appeased his ravenous appetite with a bite out of the farmer’s shoulder.
The farmer screamed painfully and grabbed at his wounded shoulder. Startled, Alain hollered even louder.
The stunned farmer watched in disbelief as Jonas spat out a piece of bloodied shirt, and chewed hungrily on a hunk of his flesh.
Jonas was appalled by his action, but the hunger was stronger than his will. He swallowed the human meat, and the taste of blood lingered on his tongue. He wanted more. With spittle and blood trickling out of the corners of his mouth, Jonas pounced again.
Teeth bared, Jonas gripped the farmer by the ripped shirtsleeve as he aimed for a muscular bicep.
Tussling with Jonas, the farmer howled in distress and implored Alain to help him. Alain swung the tire iron, but instead of hitting Jonas, he hit the side of the truck. Alain’s second blow landed on Jonas’s forearm, loosening his grip on the farmer.
Acting swiftly, the farmer reached for the pistol that was tucked in the back of his pants. When Jonas sprang at him, he fired a single shot.
With a bullet lodged in the center of his chest, Jonas tumbled backward. Filled with a mixture of relief and sorrow, Jonas closed his eyes. He’d been turned into some kind of amoral beast, and he didn’t want to live that way. On the other hand, he regretted letting down his family. His mother and his little sisters were all depending on him.
The moisture of tears dampened his lashes as he felt life slowly slipping away. The farmer’s irate voice became distant.
“Dammit to hell; that sonofabitch bit me,” the farmer hissed. Stretching out the collar of his shirt, he examined his injury, but the glow of the moon didn’t provide adequate lighting.
“Get over here, Alain. Shine that flashlight on my shoulder, goddamnit!”
With his eyes shifting from the farmer to Jonas’s prone body, Alain crept forward with the flashlight in hand. “Is he dead?”
“If he ain’t, I’ma kill him again,” the farmer said illogically as Alain flashed the light on his injury.
His mouth twisted to the side, the farmer examined his shoulder. “Good thing I put that rabid fucker down before I brought him onto my property. No telling how many migrant workers he would have snacked on in the course of a day.”
He pulled a bandana from his back pocket and tied it around his shoulder, covering the wound. “I got scratch marks on my back from those convention hookers . . . now this! I don’t know how I’m gonna explain all this mangled flesh to the wife!” The farmer spat on the ground in disgust.
He pulled a shovel from the back of his truck. “Get to shoveling. We gotta bury this boy.”
Death was taking its time, and once again, Jonas was unable to move or speak. Though his sight was blurry, he was vaguely aware of his surroundings. Through eyes that were slit open, he saw the silhouettes of trees and the flash of twinkling stars. His hearing, however, was amazingly sharp as he listened to the unmistakable sound of a hole being dug. He heard a shovel hitting the ground, the thud of dirt landing in a heap, and the intermittent scrapes of metal against rock.
Jonas was dropped into the gaping hole like a rag doll. Though he welcomed death, Jonas was terrified of being buried alive. In his mind, he screamed for mercy as each heaping of dirt was piled on him.
Finally, it was over. He was embedded in the earth and completely covered with soil. Surprisingly, there was no struggle for breath. The end didn’t come in a fit of strangled gasps and choking. Instead, there was absolute darkness.
And peace, at last.
CHAPTER 8
In her bedroom, Holland swiped her finger across the screen of her phone, scrolling through pictures. When she came upon the image of the alien footprints, she grimaced. Unaccountably cold, she felt a sudden chill running up her spine. The footprints looked otherworldly and peculiar. It didn’t help that the Ouija board had taken it upon itself to bring up the subject. She no longer wanted her mother’s opinion. Wanting to forget she’d ever seen the ghastly footprints, she deleted the picture.
This should have been one of the happiest days of Holland’s life. She’d finally gotten Jarrett’s attention. The hottest boy at school was actually interested in her. He said she was pretty, and wanted to teach her to bowl.
Ordinarily, she’d be calling Naomi and giving her every juicy detail about her encounter with Jarrett, but tonight her heart wasn’t in it.
Phoebe was right. Something strange was going on, and whatever it was, Holland didn’t like it. She’d never entertained the silly idea that she could possibly be a witch, and she didn’t want to start.
The doorbell rang and Holland jumped at the sound. The Ouija board and microwave incidents had her spooked. She checked the time. Ten o’clock on the dot. Her mother’s client had arrived.
“Mom!” she yelled out into the hall. “Your client is here!”
Phoebe poked her head out of her bedroom door. She was in the midst of dressing and had on a black caftan with silver threads stitched along the V-cut collar.
“Can you let my client in, Holland? Her name’s Rebecca Pullman.”
“Aw, Mom! I don’t wanna be involved in this.”
The bell rang again.
“Get the door, please,” her mother said, sounding a bit aggravated. “Offer Ms. Pullman a seat, and tell I’ll be with her in a few moments.”
Holland opened the door and was surprised that her mother’s client didn’t look spaced out and crazy. Standing on the other side of the screen door was an African-American woman with flawless, mahogany colored skin. The attractive black woman looked completely normal. Holland stared at her and decided that attractive wasn’t the right word. Beautiful was a more accurate description.
“Hi, come on in,” Holland invited, feeling guilty that this unsuspecting person was going to be duped by her mother. Her mother meant well, but she really had no business charging people for her services.
The woman looked at Holland skeptically. “Are you Phoebe Manning?”
Holland gig
gled. “No, I’m her daughter. My mom will be with you in a few minutes.” Holland directed her to the living room and gestured toward the couch. “Have a seat.”
Ms. Pullman gave Holland a long look. “You smell divine.”
“I do? I’m not wearing perfume.” Holland gave a puzzled shrug.
Ms. Pullman closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Must be your natural pheromones.”
Holland laughed uneasily. Looks were obviously deceptive. Ms. Pullman was a kook, after all. Beautiful, but still a little screwy.
“Good evening, Ms. Pullman.” Phoebe Manning glided into the living room. Dressed for the occasion, she was wearing the black and silver caftan and a turban. In the center of the turban was a big rhinestone, clip-on pin. A zillion bangles clinked and clanked on her wrists. Every one of her fingers, including both thumbs, was adorned with chunky rings purchased from thrift shops.
Holland was mortified. Her mother was trying too hard. She should have left on the casual jeans and the shell top that she had on earlier this evening.
“Come into my consultation room. We’ll work some magic on your financial affairs.” Phoebe motioned for Ms. Pullman to follow her into the family’s former dining room.
Oddly, Ms. Pullman kept her eyes fixated on Holland. “Your daughter has a lovely scent,” she said as if enthralled.
“Her aura is beautiful, too,” Holland’s mother added with a trace of pride.
Two kooks! Holland awkwardly eased out of the living room and returned to the privacy of her bedroom.
It wasn’t easy having a mother like hers. She needed to talk to someone. Though she wouldn’t dream of discussing her weird-mother issues with anyone other than Naomi, she wished Jarrett would call her. Simply hearing his voice would make her feel so much better.
She could hear the vibration of a drum. Oh, God! Her mother was beating a drum—something she called drum healing. Holland groaned and covered her head with a pillow. The pillow was ineffective when the sound of a second drum filled the air. Ms. Pullman was fully cooperating with her mother’s wacko methods and was beating a drum along with Holland’s mother in an un-orthodox pursuit of money.
Midnight Cravings Page 5
