“Wait until TB gets a hold of this,” I say to myself.
“Except that there are two twin beds.”
I turn and find Dwayne standing on my threshold. The first thing that runs through my mind is he’s blocking my escape, but I smile and exhale the breath I’ve been holding, reminding myself that this man is a fellow travel writer, and despite what Carmine thinks, I doubt I’m in danger.
“Well, we’ll figure something out,” I say, but it comes out sketchy and I know Dwayne senses I’m nervous.
He leans an arm on the doorframe making his shirt stretch across his chest and I realize this man works out regularly. My breath catches once more.
“What do you want, Dwayne.”
He relaxes, looks around my trailer. “Nothing, I just feel we might have gotten off on the wrong path.”
“What makes you say that?”
He smiles and I relax a little. Nothing like having people appreciate good sarcasm.
“I wanted to make sure you still don’t think I was inappropriate last night.”
I’m way past that fear but now that he’s mentioning it, that horrid dream comes back in a flash. That and another thought that’s been roaming around my brain all day.
“So, if SCANCs touch the light, it can make them woozy?”
“Sometimes.”
“And you knew this.”
He starts to say something, but thinks better of it.
“On top of that knowledge, you gave me moonshine,” I add.
He huffs, looks down at his feet and shakes his head. “I was just coming over here to make amends.”
He moves to leave and he’s halfway down the steps when I blurt out, “You have no idea what it feels like for a woman to not know what she did the night before. What happened to her.”
He pauses, nodding his head, but I can’t see his face. He doesn’t turn, simply says, “Noted,” and walks away. But before he hits the parking lot and I can close the door, he turns, those icy blue eyes turning serious.
“I tell you what, why not come watch me do it?”
I swallow. “Watch you cross someone over?”
“I’ll show you how it’s done right, what my reaction is, and you can make up your own mind if I’m legitimate or not.”
I think back on Carmine’s warnings, both in his hotel room and sitting next to me in the bathroom stall. There’s history between those two and I’m not one to take a person’s word over actual experience. And yet, there’s something seriously off about this man. Maybe he really is a fallen angel, I think. Truth be told, that scenario only makes me want to see him in action.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too long,” he answers. “There’s only so many opportunities.”
“Yeah, about that…,” I start but Dwayne’s heading off to his trailer.
“French Camp,” he calls out without turning around, disappearing into an Airstream that’s much more modern than mine.
I’m beat, as much from all the food and tourist sites as from the ebb and flow of fear with Dwayne’s visit. I lock my trailer door and text TB to knock loudly when he returns, then lay down for a nap. Almost instantly, Cora’s there to greet me.
I’m sitting in the wagon seat next to Reynald who’s once again too close, his thigh rubbing up against mine as the wagon jerks and rolls through the dips in the highway. Each time his leg touches mine, my heart lurches. I turn my head to avoid his gaze, that creepy smile.
But wait, I think, it’s not me. And yet, it is. I extend my arm and gaze at my hands, both covered in leather gloves with mother-of-pearl buttons. Before me, my lap lies covered in calico material all the way to my boots.
Trace of a Ghost
Chapter Seven
“What’s with you?” Reynald says, and suddenly I’m on the outside looking in on the scene, watching the two of them approach an area where a wagon has stopped and several women are milling about.
“Let’s stop here,” Cora says.
“We’ll stop later.”
The fear builds in Cora’s chest. I feel it as if I’m still inside her body. She’s longing for company, anything to be away from this man who may have done her harm.
“It’s getting dark. I want to stop here.”
Reynald’s resolve is firm. “Not a good place,” and it’s then that Cora hears fear in his voice.
She jumps off the wagon, even though the horses are still in motion, and heads for two women sitting by a campfire and another cleaning clothes along the side.
“Greetings, sister,” the blond at the campfire says.
“Greetings,” Cora answers.
Reynald calls from the road, stern and demanding, but Cora ignores him, twisting her hands in front of her. The blond rises and takes one of her hands.
“Are you in trouble, dear?”
Tears fall instantly and Cora can only nod.
“Are you afraid of that man?” the blond asks.
Reynald calls her name again, this time louder, and Cora nods.
“I’m not going to stay here,” Reynald announces, then releases a string of obscenities.
The older woman lingering by the fire rises and turns to Reynald, who immediately quiets.
“We don’t appreciate that kind of language,” she yells back. “You’re welcome to park the wagon nearby and leave us be but we will not tolerate ugliness. Now, move on and we’ll see you in the morning.”
Reynald grumbles beneath his breath and drives the wagon a few hundred yards up the Trace, then parks beside the stream. He’s far enough away that the horses can be heard but too far to be seen.
“Thank you,” Cora whispers.
“What’s your name, dear?” the older woman asks.
“Cora Schumacher, ma’am.”
“I’m Nancy,” the blonde says. “And this is Melinda Jackson, who prefers to be called Mel. My sister, Teresa, is cleaning out back.”
“Nice to meet y’all,” Cora says.
“Do you want to tell us what’s going on?” Mel asks.
Cora explains how she inherited property from her uncle who lived outside Natchez and how she hired his driver to bring her south to claim it.
“He was kind and polite at first,” Cora says. “Then he took to drink and has become belligerent. I’m worried he may have done inappropriate things in my sleep and I fear he may do worse.”
Nancy takes hold of Cora’s hands and squeezes. “You’re safe now, sister.”
“But I have to find a new driver.”
Mel gives Cora a motherly smile. “First of all, there aren’t many out here to hire, and second, do you have money to hire someone?”
Cora looks down at her feet. “I sold everything I owned in Kentucky and gave it to Reynald for the journey.”
The two women look at each other, Mel shaking her head and saying, “We don’t have room.”
“She can walk behind,” Nancy says.
“I have my own wagon,” Cora inserts. “My driver doesn’t own any of it.”
Teresa appears, wiping her wet hands on her apron. “Well, then, I guess we have a new member to our party.”
Cora falls to the ground and begins to cry. “Thank you.”
Mel sits beside her and holds her close. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. The worst is over now.”
Cora peers over Mel’s shoulder. “What about him?”
“He won’t hurt us,” Nancy says confidently. “He’s scared of us.”
After all that Cora has witnessed in the past week — Reynald killing several animals, his drunken escapades at Buzzard Roost, and the fight he had with one of its visitors — she doubts he fears anything.
“This is Witch Dance,” Nancy explains. “Men don’t venture here.”
Cora wipes the tears away with the edge of her sleeve. “Witch Dance?”
Teresa sits at the campfire and makes herself comfortable. “The Trace is dangerous, more so for women. In fact, it’s doubtful you’ll see women traveling
here unless absolutely necessary.”
“When they do,” Nancy inserts, “they try to appear in ways to keep men at bay.”
“How do they do that?” Cora asks.
Teresa smiles knowingly. “By acting like witches, of course.”
Nancy sits on a log next to Cora, her legs folded beneath her for comfort as opposed to propriety. “Men have us at a disadvantage, Cora. They are stronger than we are and hold the power.”
“But they are secretly afraid of us,” Mel adds.
Cora straightens. It’s obvious she’s enjoying this new knowledge. “Why would they be afraid?”
“Because we’re smarter,” Nancy says with a broad smile. “And we’re powerful in numbers.”
Teresa laughs. “And there’s that witch thing.”
Mel leans in close. “They’re afraid we will put a spell on them and they will lose their power, not be able to tame us. So, the more we let them believe that, the more power we have over them.”
Nancy rises and walks past the edge of the campfire to a stretch of grass where a ring of dead foliage exists. “When women camp here, they pour a circle of salt around their camp. Men believe them to be witches and don’t come near.”
Ingenious, I feel Cora think, and know that for the first time that day she smiles.
“And,” Nancy adds, “it kills the grass and leaves behind circles so men don’t dare enter this area. They believe witches have danced here and caused the grass to die.”
Cora laughs and it feels good to hear her spirits soar. The women talk among themselves and she relaxes, leans into the fire for warmth, and the three travelers spoon her out a plate of beans and fatback.
Then, like thunder roaring from out of the blue, Cora stops eating, turns and looks straight into my eyes.
“Do you hear that?” she asks.
There’s knocking somewhere, as if evil is demanding entrance to this peaceful commune.
“Vi,” she shouts. “Wake up!”
I gasp and sit up in bed, shocked that a ghost arriving in a vision spoke to me. I’ve conversed with them while awake but dreams and visions had always been me watching from the side. I pull my fingers through my curls and try to make sense of it all, failing to contemplate that the loud banging was someone knocking at my door.
“Miss Valentine.”
I instantly think of TB but in my fog, realize that it’s Pepper’s voice. I open the door to find my Goth friend on the outside steps, looking as startled as I feel.
“Help me,” she says, tears falling down her cheeks.
I grab her shoulders and look her over but she seems unhurt. “What’s the matter? What happened?”
She wipes the tears with her sleeve, much like Cora had done in my dream, but she’s wearing black leather and it doesn’t satisfy. I grab my purse and pull out tissue — I’m from South Louisiana, which is notorious for sinus issues and I wouldn’t be caught dead without them — and Pepper blows her nose good and hard.
“What is it?” I ask and step back as if to invite her inside.
She shakes her head. “It’s at my trailer.”
We walk the lakeside road that connects the campsites until we reach the last trailer. Pepper hangs back, her arms tight about her, and those tears falling once more. I don’t know what she wants me to see but I follow her line of sight and head to the side of the trailer where a picnic table and fire grill are located. As I turn the corner, I spot the horror. A fox has been killed and left at the trailer’s back door, its entails pulled from its body and spread about, its eyes enlarged as if it died in immense pain.
I cover my mouth and fight back the urge to gag. I sense Pepper behind me and when I turn to comfort her once more, she’s pointing to the side of her trailer. There, in the fox’s blood, are the words, “Death to pagans.”
“Holy shit.”
I hear footsteps running and suddenly TB is there, glancing around the horrific scene. “What in the hell happened?”
Neither Pepper nor I can speak; we’re still too traumatized by the scene. TB pulls out his cell phone and makes a call. I hear him talking to Shelby, his voice elevated in fear, but all I can think of is who would be this disturbed to do such an inhumane act.
I grab Pepper and move her to the other side of the trailer, hold her close to try to calm her shaking. I hear a trailer door open and close a couple hundred feet away, see Shelby rushing to our side.
“Brace yourself,” I warn her as she moves to where TB is standing.
I hear Shelby’s startled reaction and TB calling the cops, but I can’t move. Pepper keeps shaking so I suggest we head back to my trailer and wait until the police arrive. We’re not there five minutes when TB comes in and looks us over.
“When did this happen?” he asks Pepper.
“I’m not sure,” she answers. “I came in and put my suitcase down, checked out the trailer. I’m pretty sure when I arrived I looked out the back window and nothing was there because I remember hoping to see some wildlife on the lake.” The tears come back in a rush. “I never thought….”
I squeeze her again, and glance up at TB. I think of the conversation Pepper and I had at the Visitor’s Center and Pepper showing off her gris gris bag.
“Could someone have done this in the time it took you to get the pickup?” I ask.
TB sits down next to us on the seat. “If they had already found and killed that fox, maybe. But, how likely is that?”
Pepper groans and TB, bless his heart, rubs her shoulder. There’s a knock on the door and it’s Carmine with the rest of the group in tow, all except Dwayne.
“The police are here and they want to speak with Pepper,” he says.
Pepper leaves our arms and heads to her trailer with Joe and Stephanie on either side. The rest of us settle into my trailer while I pull out some water bottles conveniently left in our fridge, by Shelby no doubt.
“Forget that,” Winnie says. “She put a bottle of wine in the cabinet.”
I pull out the cabernet and wine glasses and we all down the first glass almost instantly.
“Who do you think did such a despicable thing?” Winnie asks.
I pour them another round. “I can’t help thinking someone did this who knows her. ‘Death to Pagans?’”
“You think?” Carmine says inside his glass.
“You’re not assuming Dwayne did this,” I say.
Carmine places his glass on the table and sighs. “Oh, of course not. The man who nearly killed me, who took you out in the woods last night and messed with your head. He couldn’t have possibly done this.”
“He did what?” Winnie asks, looking at me.
“It’s a long story,” I answer, adding, “and will likely be much longer once Carmine decides to explain.”
He downs his glass. “Not the time.”
“And when is the time, Carmine?”
“What the hell is going on?” Winnie asks.
“Vi doesn’t know how to take simple directions,” Carmine says.
I shake my head in disbelief. “Yeah, I’m supposed to hear that this man is a ‘fallen angel’” — I mimic parenthesis with my fingers — “and take your word for it.”
I’ve gone too far and I know it. I trust Carmine, and even though the angel thing is a bit far-fetched to believe, if he knows it to be true I should accept it, or at least open my mind to the possibility. But I can’t help myself. I’m a journalist for a reason. I mean, really. Fallen angel?
TB moves forward on the table and puts his hands up. “Okay, let’s all take a breath and refocus.”
We exhale, almost in unison, some of us gulping down more wine. We’re quiet for what seems like an eternity until TB says, “Fallen angel?”
It’s the respite we needed and we don’t know if it’s the words he used or that he waited so long for my statement to process — I did say TB wasn’t the quickest — but Carmine, Winnie and I begin to laugh and it’s hard to stop.
“What?” TB asks, which makes
us all laugh harder.
And that’s how Sergeant William McGee finds us when he shows up for our statement.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asks when I open the door.
“No, officer.” Oh lord, am I slurring my words? “We were trying to make sense of it all and got into a nervous laugh.”
He doesn’t say a word or react, walks into the trailer and looks around.
“Do you know who did this?” TB asks.
He picks up the empty wine bottle and shakes it. “If I did, I wouldn’t be here.”
We all look at each other, like puppies caught peeing on the floor. Finally, Winnie clears her throat and straightens. “Sergeant, we are old friends but as far as I know, none of us have been on a trip with Pepper Snipe before. She’s quiet, she keeps to herself, she’s been no trouble.”
“She’s dressed like a punk and there’s writing on her trailer that seems to match,” he answers. “How do you explain that?”
I look at Carmine, waiting for him to pipe in about Dwayne, but he remains silent.
“Have you spoken with the whole group?” I ask.
The cop flips open his book. “The Penningtons, Pepper, Shelby Constantine who’s running the show and the driver, who showed up a few moments after he dropped off a man by the name of TB.”
He looks puzzled so TB raises his hand. “That’s me.”
“Oh, and a man named Garrett.”
This has us all ears. “Dwayne Garrett?” Carmine asks.
“Yes, he’s been really helpful.”
“Dwayne Garrett?” I ask again.
The cop’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
“No reason,” I begin, “except that….”
Now, how do I explain this, I think. We’re all quiet while McGee looks from one to another.
“He’s a little odd, that’s all,” Winnie finally pipes in.
“How so?” McGee asks and we’re on the spot once more.
Before we’re able to come up with an answer, there’s a knock on the door and it’s Shelby. McGee takes our names, — even though I’m sure Shelby gave them to him — asks where we were when the incident happened, excuses himself and leaves, and we can hear them discussing the incident outside.
Trace of a Ghost Page 10
