by Angie Sandro
Mr. Acker steps from behind the tree. A rolled-up black ski mask covers his crimson hair. Only seconds before, it shielded his face. “I found you…”
“No!” Not again.
The warmth of blood trickles down my forehead and drips into my eyes. They burn and blur. I stumble forward, trying to run. I can’t see! My arms rise to cover my head as I duck. The gun barrel bucks as if fired. My shoulder burns and goes numb. I can’t move my arm. He shot me.
I bounce off of a hard object. I push forward…moving away from the footsteps chasing me. I’m running through quicksand. Each step I take sinks me deeper until I’m dragging each leg forward. My chest feels tight. I can’t breathe.
Where’s my knife? A heavy weight wraps around my waist, dragging me deeper beneath the sand. My belt. The knife. I draw it and slash at Acker. He dances backward across the quicksand with a laugh. Why isn’t he sinking?
Acker darts forward, grabs the hand holding the knife, and bangs it on the ground. Pain radiates up my arm. The hilt slips from my fingers and drops into quicksand, which now reaches my armpits. I reach for Acker’s pant leg, but he grabs my arm and pushes it beneath the sticky sand.
“I begged for your help,” he says, palming the top of my head like a basketball. “Now you’ll see how it feels to die.”
“Mr. Acker, don’t…” I try to shake off his hand, but his grip tightens. “Don’t kill me, please.”
No mercy, no empathy, only hatred blazes from him—a bone-numbing chill that burns through my scalp down to my toes. Cold burns more painfully than heat. The weight pressing down on my head increases. Quicksand tries to pry open my pinched lips. It reaches my nostrils and slithers up my nasal passages. Invasive as a weed, it enters every open orifice. My ears clog. I sink deeper. The sand reaches my eyes. I squeeze them shut. My chest burns for air. I try to thrash, but the suffocating weight of the quicksand keeps me immobile.
Red light flashes behind my eyelids, then everything stops.
CHAPTER 19
LANDRY
Martyr’s Path Denied
Gun! My brain stutters and freezes, leaving me standing with my mouth hanging open. Mala’s high-pitched screams, like nails scratching the back of my neck, crack the cement holding me hostage. She ducks, spins, and crashes into my chest face-first, then bounces off with another bloodcurdling wail. I grab for her, but she slithers through my fingers. Boneless, she drops to the ground, curling into a ball with her arms covering her head.
Seeing her so helpless kick-starts a burst of adrenaline through my body that makes my heart stutter in my chest. My vision narrows. I grab the barrel of the shotgun and shove it skyward, then punch the guy holding it in the jaw. He cries out, falling to his knees. His grip on the shotgun loosens enough for me to snatch it from his grasp and turn it on him.
“Don’t shoot me!” the kid screams, doubling over in imitation of Mala’s position. Sobs shake him so hard his limbs look like they’re about to rip from his body. If they don’t tear off on their own, I might pull them off like I’d pull the wings off a fly.
My finger twitches on the trigger. I can barely see straight I’m so keyed up. “Which one are you?” I yell. The kid peeks through his fingers, and I recognize him—the skinnier, asshole-ish Acker twin. “Damn it, Carl.” My arms tremble as I lower the barrel to point at the ground. “I almost shot you.”
“I’m sorry, Landry. I didn’t know it was you.” He scrubs a forearm across his face, leaving a gooey trail of snot and tears on his bare skin, then points a shaky finger at Mala. “What’s wrong with her? Did I break her?”
I’m afraid he did.
Mala’s curled up in a fetal position with her head buried in her hands and her eyes squeezed shut. She shakes her head back and forth. I crouch beside her and touch her back. She reacts, lunging forward with a guttural wail. The tip of the knife in her hand slices my cheek, inches from my good eye. I rear back, bumping into Carl, who hides behind me. She swipes at me again. I grab her arm and throw myself on top of her, using my weight to pin her to the ground.
“Mala, stop!” I yell.
It’s pretty obvious by the glassiness of her stare that she can’t see me. The nightmarish vision playing in her head has taken over completely. “Wake up!” She strains toward me with the knife again. I bang her wrist on the ground, and the knife falls from her fingers. Her free hand slaps at my chest, and I hiss at the sting. God, don’t let her tear what’s left of my stitches.
I glance at Carl, who watches us with wide eyes. “Help me.”
He takes a creeping step forward.
Mala takes advantage of my distraction. She bucks upward, slamming her forehead against my chin and, like in a cartoon, sparkling stars steal my sight for a few seconds. My grip on Mala tightens. When I can see again, I find Carl huddled behind a tree. “Don’t just stand there.”
“I can’t,” he cries. “Mala’s scary even when she’s not freaking out. She’ll kill me.”
“I’ve got her. Hurry.”
He shakes his head.
“I swear, if she breaks free, Carl, I’ll let her have you,” I growl. “This is your fault.”
Carl pauses, then grabs her legs. She kicks him in the stomach, but even though he woofs as air escapes his lungs, he doesn’t let her go. High-pitched screams erupt from her throat over and over until my ears feel like they’re bleeding.
“I can’t hold on much longer,” Carl yells. “Slap her!”
Fury rushes through me, and I snarl, “Hurt her, and I’ll beat you bloody.”
He utters a choked sob in response. I meet his sky blue eyes. Worry creases his forehead beneath thick blond bangs. He’s breathing hard, about two seconds from either losing it himself or passing out. His cheek’s red and slightly swollen where I punched him.
Mala strains upward. “Mr. Acker…don’t…” she begs, “…don’t kill me, please.”
Carl’s eyes widen. He drops her legs and crawls backward. “What did she say?”
I lift up her torso, pin her arms against my chest like she’s wrapped in a straitjacket, and press her face into my shoulder. Unable to move, she strains against me one more time then wilts. Her head lolls on her neck. Did she pass out?
I shift her sideways until she lies in the cradle of my arm. I search for a pulse with shaking fingers. My racing heart beats so loudly I can’t tell whether the rapid pulse beneath my fingers comes from her or is an echoes of my own. I lower my face above her open mouth. A puff of breath warms my cheek.
“What did she say about my dad?” Carl asks again. Maybe he’s asked a few times but I hadn’t heard. I pretend not to hear now.
“Where’s Dena?” I don’t know what he reads on my face, but he cringes back, eyes wild.
“Answer me first!”
“You want the truth or a lie?” My jaw clenches. I’m prepared to answer with both. Too bad for Carl, since the kid’s only fourteen, but my patience flew away the moment I saw the gun.
He shakes his head. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” He starts to scramble off, but I grab his ankle.
“My turn. Where’s Dena?”
He blinks. “She said she has to work late tonight. That’s why I took perimeter duty, so I didn’t have to babysit the kids. Did you come to see her?”
“Yeah.” My lips tighten.
“How are you gonna get Mala home?”
I sigh. It’s a long way to carry her.
Carl grins shakily. He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket. “Swear you won’t tell Dena…I taught myself how to drive.”
He offers to help me carry Mala to his house, but I can’t let her go. I’m done walking the martyr’s path. I thought that I had ruined Mala’s life, and I encouraged her relationship with George, but she’s not cooperating. The idea of his hands on her skin, of him holding her in his arms, and kissing her velvet-soft lips…My gut clenches, and I shake the image. Nope, I tried to be the hero, but it’s too damn hard to not be selfish. I won’t push
her away anymore. Sorry, George, but you’re SOL.
I barely register Mala’s weight during the short walk through the woods, and she fits comfortably in my arms. Her face presses into the curve of my throat. Warm breath blows across my skin, letting me know she’s still alive. I press my face against the top of her head and inhale the sweetness of her floral shampoo. Her scent surrounds me, relaxing the tension in my body. She’s the perfect blend of soft and hard—squishy in the middle like the caramel center of a Lindor chocolate truffle.
Carl gives me a wild-eyed glance when I chuckle.
We enter the Ackers’ cluttered yard. Junked cars and machinery litter a corner by the dilapidated two-story, plantation-style farmhouse. Mom has a thing for architecture. She foamed at the mouth every time she visited this “culturally historic landmark” and railed about how it’s fallen apart due to Acker’s neglect. She tried to get Dad to buy it from Acker, but he refused to sell. Looking at the broken shutters on the windows and missing railings on the wide porch, I agree the place has seen better days. It won’t see better now unless Acker bought a good life insurance policy like Ms. Jasmine did.
In the other corner of the yard, rows of vegetables in various stages of growth lift green heads to the sky. A painted, wooden sign reading DENA’S GARDEN hangs on the gate. After her mother ran off, Dena took her place as homemaker. Her youngest brother, Axle, had just turned six. Now, four years later, he says he barely remembers her.
Carl runs ahead and bursts into the house, yelling for his brothers. They explode out of the front door.
“It’s Landry! Landry’s here…” Axle shouts, skipping in a circle around me.
Daryl, Carl’s twin, grabs my arm. “What’s going on? What happened to Mala?” He glances at his twin. “If Dad catches her here…”
Carl glances at Mala then meets my gaze. “He won’t.”
“If he comes home…”
“I said he won’t!” He grabs Daryl by the arm and drags him away from me.
“Did Dena make it home from work?” I ask Jonjovi, who holds Axle by the hand so he won’t poke at me. I shift Mala higher in my arms. No offense to Carl, but I’m not too thrilled with the idea of him driving. I’m even less enthused about my own ability. I haven’t been behind the wheel since I lost half of my vision. Hell, I can barely climb down the stairs without tripping ’cause I can’t see the last step. How am I supposed to navigate a road?
The twins huddle together, whispering.
Jonjovi bites his lip, looking at his older brothers. “Not yet. What’s wrong? Did something happen to Dee?”
“No,” I snap, voice harsh with impatience. The boy’s face crumples, and I force a smile. “Sorry, Dee’s fine. She was supposed to stop by Mala’s place this afternoon, but she didn’t show.”
Carl breaks away from Daryl, who stares at me with reddened eyes and hands me the truck keys. “She’s been working a lot of night shifts at Munchies. I’ll tell her you stopped by. Leave the truck at Mala’s, and I’ll come get it later.”
“I’m staying at her place now.” My cheeks heat when the twins share another eyebrow-raised glance. I bark, “Do you have something to say?”
Daryl takes the lead this time. “Papa disappeared about a month ago. It happened the night of the fire at Mala’s house. Carl said he hurt Mala’s mom. Is that true? Did he? Is that why he hasn’t come back…’cause he’s on the run from the law?”
“Yeah…” Why tell them the truth? Until his body’s found, the kids will sleep easier thinking he’s on the run. Especially if Dena doesn’t…no, she wouldn’t take off and leave them. My gaze touches the twins’ faces. They’re terrified, but hiding it from their younger brothers. Jonjovi’s brow bunches in confusion as he picks up on the tension in the air.
Axle grins. “Cool…he’s like The Fugitive. Think they’ll give me a reward if I find him?”
Carl slaps his baby brother across the back of his white-blond head. “Not cool, dummy.”
I carry Mala to the Ford F150. Axle opens the door for me, and I squeeze past him to set her inside. His blue-green eyes widen when I reach over to belt her in.
“You just touched Mala’s boobs,” he says with a gasp. Awe fills his voice. “What do they feel like? Are they soft?” His tiny, quivering hand inches toward her.
I smack him on the back of the hand. “Show your cousin some respect, kid!”
“Ow, no fair,” he howls. The look he gives me is unrepentant. I guess at ten I had a healthy fascination with women’s chests too. But this is Mala he’s ogling. Not cool.
The windy dirt road almost kills me. Literally. I drive off of the fucking road four times. It takes an hour to get back to Mala’s house, ’cause I’m terrified of going faster than five miles an hour. By the time I pull down the driveway, I’m shaking so badly it takes two tries to get the car into park. My stomach somersaults with nausea. I close my strained eye and rest my head on the steering wheel.
Mala’s breathing changes.
I roll my head in her direction. She sits in the same position, but coffee-black slits crack her puffy eyelids. Tears stain her cheeks. I twist sideways to face her. She stares at me silently. My hand trembles as I reach out to cup a cheek as soft as a baby’s bottom and brush her tears away with my thumb. “You’re not okay, are you?”
“I will be,” she whispers with a grimace. Her hand grips her throat as she mouths “Ouch.”
“Don’t talk yet.” I unhook our seat belts then shift toward her. My arm goes around her shoulders, and she snuggles into the hug without protesting. I rub her back in slow circles. After a while, I ask, “What happened, aside from the obvious…kid points a shotgun at your face?”
Her head tips back. “Kid?” she croaks.
“Carl trying to act like the man of the family.”
“Oh, I…” She lowers her head back onto my shoulder and sighs. “Flashback…I think, or Acker used the opportunity to get a little revenge.”
“Acker attacked you? Why didn’t I see him?”
Mala laces her fingers through mine. “I don’t k-know…it felt so real. I went back to that night, only instead of him sinking into the quicksand, I did. He laughed at me…again.”
I hug her hard enough that I expect her to struggle to get free. Instead, she nestles against my chest. She’s still trembling. I lose track of time as I rock her back and forth. When she’s ready, she sits up and looks at me with dry eyes.
“Whose truck is this?”
“Acker’s. The kids let me borrow it to bring you home.”
“Dena?” Her voice rises in hope.
“Carl said she’s working the night shift. The twins will have her call us when she gets home. Maybe she’ll decide to go look for his body by herself. You told her where he fell in, right?”
“Do you think she’ll run away? She’s doesn’t have to stay now that her dad’s dead.”
I feed her the same line of bullshit I used to soothe myself during the drive. “She won’t leave those kids, no matter how much they get on her last nerve. She loves them.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” She rubs her shoulder as if it aches. “I can’t believe I passed out. I wasn’t even shot.” Her laugh is forced. Lines still furrow her brow, and her eyes scan the woods.
I go around and help Mala climb out of the truck. She leans hard on my shoulder. I swing her up in my arms and carry her toward the porch. I hear the pop of gravel down the driveway and turn. The black Cadillac covered in road dust looks out of place. It also brings a tingling sense of foreboding.
I climb the stairs and sit Mala in the rocking chair. “Ms. Jasmine,” I yell. “We need you.”
The chair beside Mala tips. “What? I was watching my stories. By the by, thanks for leavin’ the television on.” She grins at her daughter then frowns when she notices how out of it Mala is. “What happened to you? Psychic attack?”
“PTSD,” Mala says with a sigh.
Ms. Jasmine snorts. Her attention transfers to the Cad
i, and she stands up. “Oh, you in for it now, Mala.”
“Huh?”
“Told you to get your sassy ass to Auntie Magnolia, but you didn’t listen. Now it’s too late. She’s come to collect you.”
Mala sits up with a hiss. “Well, I’m not going.”
“Cher, you got no choice. You made a promise at the crossroads.”
The Cadi pulls to a stop in front of the house. A man unfolds his lanky frame from within, and he makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The top of his head brushes seven feet, but he’s so thin the bones in his stooped back poke through the black suit jacket he’s wearing. He moves with ponderous, jerky steps to the back passenger door and helps an elderly woman from the car. Something about her scares the spit out of me.
I lean toward Mala as if she can protect me. “I’ve seen that woman before.”
“You couldn’t have. I’ve never introduced you.”
A cane flew at the window. Dad swerved, and the truck ran off the road. “No. I’ve seen her…” I shake my head, trying to recall the exact memory, but it’s hazy. So much of the accident is blurry. The more I think about it, the more unclear it gets. Does the when or how really matter? Maybe.
It seems to matter to Mala ’cause she says softly, “Mama’s right, Landry. I remember swearing at the crossroads. Aunt Magnolia said demons are raised at the crossroads. All I needed was a sacrifice, and Mr. Acker died that night. You died…If something came back…” Her eyes meet mine, and I feel like I’m staring into a dark, bottomless pit. “It’s my fault. I’m so sorry.”
Demons. Crossroads and sacrifices. I frown, not sure what the hell she’s rambling on about or why she’s apologizing to me. I glance at Ms. Jasmine, who looks terrified, and my heart plummets.
“Hey there. You gonna greet your auntie or sit there like bumps on a pickle?” the woman calls, and our attention fixes on her. Magnolia’s the epitome of a Louisiana Creole lady. She has an ancient but terrible beauty. Silver hair with a yellowed cast hangs down her back in a long braid reminiscent of the way Mala wears her own hair. Skin like parchment, in color and density, stretches over high cheekbones. Brown eyes with a yellow tint stare in our direction. No smile lights them.
