A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  Trula didn’t disagree. “Who killed them?”

  “Marinette.”

  It was as Trula suspected, a petro loa had committed the murders. “Who called her?”

  “That man hurt you.”

  Trula swallowed her impatience. “Yes.” Zeke Barnes had broken her heart but she’d allowed it. She’d known from the moment she laid eyes on him he was trouble and she hadn’t cared. She’d walked into the circle of his arms with her eyes open.

  “He hurt you bad.” The blind woman rubbed at her chin.

  “Yes.”

  “He shouldn’t oughta done that.”

  “No,” Trula said.

  “Men are always hurtin’ women. One way or another.” Eulie’s wrinkled face crumpled and her head shook from side to side. She looked old and sad and in need of a hot meal.

  “You’re right, Eulie. Why don’t we go back to my house? We’ll have breakfast.”

  Eulie’s sightless eyes searched the cemetery. “I was there when Posey died. She begged. Did you know that? She begged and that evil man laughed at her. I tried to stop him and he hit me upside the head. I heard the firecrackers go off, I heard Posey scream, and I heard him laughin’. He sounded like a demon straight from hell. Then he and his friend headed on over to Anderson’s for a shot of rye. Posey was dead and they went for a drink. There wasn’t anybody who was gonna do anything for a dead whore. I figured Posey deserved justice.”

  Trula’s heart stuttered. Surely she’d misunderstood.

  “I ain’t gonna let that man hurt you, Miz Trula.”

  Ice trickled through Trula’s veins and she shivered. Surely Eulie didn’t mean to call Marinette’s anger down on Zeke? Trula was hurt and angry, her heart was broken, but she didn’t wish a loa’s vengeance on him.

  “I can fight my own battles, Eulie.”

  The bones in the old woman’s hair clinked together. “She said you’d say that.”

  “Who, Eulie?” Trula shivered in the cool air.

  “You wanna stop her.”

  “Who?” Trula’s voice sounded shrill, even frightened.

  “Marinette. When she rides me I’m strong and I can see. I can see justice and vengeance.”

  “Marinette? Rides you?” Trula was missing something. Marinette rode Eulie? Eulie was a blind woman, crippled with age and bent with rheumatism. Eulie was confused. The murderer was strong, young, ruthless.

  Something tugged at Trula’s skirt. She turned. The now familiar ghost of a young boy clutched the fabric in his grubby fist, yanked again, and regarded her with beseeching eyes. She waved William away.

  “I ended those evil men’s lives.” Eulie’s sightless eyes stared into a horizon dotted with tombs and, farther away, brothels. “I never hurt a man who didn’t hurt a woman first.”

  “You killed them?” Trula gaped at the tiny, wizened, blind woman. There was no way she could have killed six men. They’d been gutted. Someone much bigger and stronger than Eulie had to have committed the murders.

  A sly grin lifted Eulie’s thin lips. “I ain’t never felt power like Marinette’s.”

  “Run,” the ghost urged. She was tempted to listen, to escape the cemetery and Eulie’s ravings. But, if there was even a chance Eulie would tell her who’d murdered the men in the district, she had to stay.

  “I wanna show you somethin’.” Eulie’s lined face looked almost cunning. “It’s right here, just around the corner.” Eulie beckoned her with curved fingers.

  Trula yanked her skirt free of the ghost’s grasping hands and followed the old woman to the far side of Marie’s tomb. A vevé, rendered in cornmeal and gunpowder, decorated the path. She recognized the design, the circle bisected with arrows. The crude hash marks, the cage, the wings, and the crab. “Eulie, what’s going on?”

  “Marinette was right. She told me you were fixin’ to stop her. I can’t let that happen.”

  “Run.” The ghost tugged again. His eyes pleaded. But Trula’s feet were frozen to the ground. Her brain felt thick as molasses, unable to process the sight of an old blind woman scrabbling round a voodoo vevé.

  Eulie pulled a bottle from the folds of her skirts. She opened it and sprinkled its contents on the ground.

  Blood. Its coppery scent filled Trula’s nose.

  “Run!”

  The ghost was right. This, what Eulie was doing, was evil. Trula backed away.

  Eulie danced around her cane. Each movement came faster, stronger. Her voice grew louder as she chanted in a language Trula didn’t know. Trula didn’t need to understand the words to understand their poison. Eulie was calling Marinette.

  Even the ghosts backed away, dissipating, disappearing, leaving her alone with a voodoo witch. All except for one. He tugged on her hand. “Run,” he said. “Please.”

  Trula gathered her skirts and turned.

  Eulie’s heavy, knobby cane descended in a whish of humid air. The wood cracked against Trula’s skull. Her knees buckled. She collapsed onto the path. The sharp edges of broken shells bit through her gloves and into her palms. Leaves and pink petals from one of the overblown roses atop her hat floated to the ground. Eulie lifted her cane again. Trula twisted, raised her arm to block the stick from landing another blow to her head.

  Thwack!

  Pain shot through her forearm.

  The old woman’s eyes flashed red. Her gnarled hands curled like claws. Eulie—Marinette—meant to beat Trula to death. She pushed herself off the ground. The world spun. Her stomach lurched. She stumbled against the voodoo queen’s tomb. She gripped the cold white stone to stay upright.

  “Eulie.” Her voice was a plea.

  The arthritic old woman danced like a child, all jerky limbs, uneven rhythm, and loose movements. Gone were Eulie’s painful joints, her hunched back, her withered limbs. With each step of the dance, the old woman grew younger, stronger, more deadly.

  The heavy end of the stick thudded against Trula’s ribs. Pain lanced her side. She sagged. Only the solid white expanse of Marie’s tomb kept her from falling. Another blow landed on her knee. The thickness of her skirt and petticoat spared her a broken bone, but agonizing pain shot through her leg. The next blow landed on her shoulder. Black dots shimmered at the edge of her vision.

  She was going to die. A pang of regret pierced her heart. She should have told her father how grateful she was he’d searched for her. She should have told Ned how glad she was that he was her brother. She should have told Zeke she loved him. It wouldn’t have changed anything but at least she would have died knowing she had the courage to speak her heart. A sob ripped at her throat.

  “He’s coming.”

  The words gave her strength. She couldn’t die now. She had too much to do. Too much was still unsaid, unfinished. Trula straightened her shoulders, pushed free of the tomb’s walls, and faced the voodoo spirit who possessed the old woman she’d always considered a friend.

  Eulie’s stick arced toward Trula’s head. She raised her arms to catch it.

  A sharp crack destroyed the cemetery’s silence. It shredded the quiet, echoing off the tombs. The few remaining ghosts recoiled and even the stone angels looked shocked that such a noise had invaded their domain.

  A red stain blossomed across Eulie’s chest. Her mouth formed an “o” and her eyes widened. The heavy stick slid from her wizened fingers and clattered to the ground. Her hands clutched at her breast. Blood welled between her fingers, soaking her ragged shirtwaist and skirt.

  Like a deflating balloon, Eulie shrank, closing in on herself, sinking to the river gravel and broken shells of the path. Marinette had disappeared, and only a broken old woman remained.

  Ignoring the sharp stabs in her knee, the throb in her shoulder, and the agony hammering in her skull, Trula stumbled toward Eulie.

  Trula gathered the woman into her arms and heard Eulie’s whisper. “I told you he was the angel of death.” She sighed softly. Trula’s tears splashed onto a still face with blank eyes. Eulie was the murderer. Eulie was d
ead.

  Zeke’s shadow darkened the path.

  “You killed her.” Trula’s voice was barely audible. It shook.

  Zeke towered above her, a gun held loosely in his fingers, his expression hard. “She was going to kill you.”

  He was right. She should thank him, but with Eulie’s blood staining her hands, she found she couldn’t. Instead, she gently wiped a smudge of cornmeal off the old woman’s cheek. “It wasn’t Eulie.” Trula gulped for breath. “It was Marinette.”

  “It was her or you.” The ice in his voice shocked her. His mouth formed a grim slash, his eyes burned with a strange fire, and his brows were drawn together. He was furious.

  She swallowed. Tried to breathe. “How did you know I’d be here?”

  Zeke kicked at the vevé, scattering cornmeal and gunpowder and blood. “William told me.”

  And then he knelt. His arms snaked around her shoulders, tempting her to believe he cared. He didn’t. She let herself relax into them anyway.

  A hysterical giggle bubbled up in her throat and escaped. It was wildly inappropriate to laugh. Eulie wasn’t even cold. Yet laughter slipped through her lips. She couldn’t stop it. She owed her life to a meddling ghost and a man who thought her a whore.

  Dark spots surrounded Zeke’s head like a demon’s halo. Eulie was dead. The murders were solved. Zeke would leave. The darkness around the Yankee grew. Spread. The spots were everywhere now. They filled her vision, clouded her sight, blacked out the gathering ghosts and Zeke.

  She laughed at the darkness. Zeke had his answer. Eulie had murdered those men. Zeke Barnes could go home. She’d never see him again.

  “Trula, calm down. Talk to me.” His voice was as soft as a cool summer breeze.

  She laughed until she lost herself in the darkness.

  …

  Trula’s laughter scared him. A trickle of blood wound its way from her hairline, across her cheek, down her chin, and into the collar of her shirtwaist. With every move of her head, silk flower petals sifted around her like crazed birds with broken wings. She rocked to and fro, clasping Eulie Echo’s hand as if she were a friend and not the woman who’d just tried to kill her.

  Zeke tightened his hold around her and she laughed harder. The sound was every bit as disturbing as the way her tears mixed with the blood on her face.

  “Trula.” He kept his voice low and soothing.

  She didn’t seem to hear him. Then her laughter died and her body went limp in his arms.

  Oh God.

  He couldn’t lose her. Desperate, Zeke searched for a pulse. A handful of people attracted by the gunshot gathered round them.

  “Someone go to Trula Boudreaux’s house and fetch Gumbo. There’s a reward in it for you soon as he gets here.” An eager boy broke away, his footsteps pounding on the oyster shell path.

  Zeke cradled Trula’s body against his chest. “Don’t leave me.”

  Gently he untangled her from Eulie’s corpse. He pulled her clear of the pool of blood and stroked the softness of her cheek.

  His heart shriveled in his chest. History had repeated itself. Once again, he held the lifeless body of a woman he loved. A tear touched her perfect cheek. “Don’t leave me.”

  Her lashes fluttered. His stalled heart resumed beating.

  What if he’d arrived too late? Trula would be dead. When he got her home, he was going to wring her pretty neck. How could she have put herself in such danger? He couldn’t live without her.

  He’d become accustomed to loneliness. Then he’d told her about William, and she’d smiled and listened and topped off his bourbon. He’d known at that moment he loved her, but he hadn’t accepted it until this one. He kissed her forehead, her hair, her eyelids.

  Unwilling to let go of her hand, he waited for help. A light wind ruffled her hair and caught a stray petal, tossing it into the air where it floated on an invisible current. His eyes followed the bit of pink fabric until it came to rest at the feet of a ghost.

  “You tell her I’m sorry. Miz Trula’s a good woman.” A transparent Eulie Echo beseeched him with milky eyes. “You did the right thing stoppins’ Marinette. She would have killed Miz Trula for sure. Tell her it wasn’t me. Tell her it was Marinette. And tell her that I’m sorry, you hear?”

  Zeke nodded, unable to find words to answer the ghost of the woman he’d just killed.

  She grinned at him. “While we’re talkin’ about forgiveness, I forgive you for killin’ me. You did the right thing.” Her grin faded. “You do the right thing by her.” She nodded her gossamer chin at Trula’s unconscious body.

  Then she straightened her bent spine, loosed the ghostly stick she no longer needed, and slipped through the crowd. The ghosts made way for her, as if they could sense she had an important destination. She walked into a white light.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Forgive him.”

  The voice wafted through Trula’s brain as insubstantial as bits of cottonwood fluff in the breeze. She ignored it.

  “Forgive him.”

  With her eyes closed, she could ignore the voice forever. Besides, her lids were too heavy to lift. And her head…it hurt. Sleep, or at least the appearance of sleep, would keep more than one voice at bay.

  “Forgive him.”

  She slitted an eye. The faint outline of a boy stood next to the bed. He crossed his arms and his foot tapped a soundless beat against the plank floors. Obviously the little phantom had forgotten the scene with the duke. “I already did.”

  The boy’s face twisted with annoyance. “Forgive Zeke.”

  That was silly. Zeke Barnes had broken her heart. Even now, a gaping hole yawned inside her. Not something she was likely to forgive. Ever.

  “Forgive him.”

  “I know how this works,” she rasped. “You’re going to repeat that until I forgive him. Except I won’t. You’re wasting your time.”

  “Forgive him.”

  William was as stubborn as a Missouri mule.

  “Go away.”

  The obstinate boy didn’t move or fade away. If anything, he looked more solid. Trula threw a pillow at him. It sailed right through his ghostly body, hit an occasional table, and sent a Chinese ginger jar crashing to the floor. Damn. She’d always liked that bit of porcelain.

  The door opened immediately.

  “Miz Trula?”

  She could hardly pretend to be asleep after breaking china clear across the room. She did it anyway. After all, her head hurt, her knee throbbed, and the ghostly child was laughing at her.

  Hattie shut the door firmly behind her. “You’re playin’ possum.”

  Trula sighed and opened her eyes.

  “You gonna tell me what happened?”

  All things being equal she’d prefer not to talk about it. Ever. “My knee hurts. Has anyone called Dr. Montrose?”

  “He’s in your sittin’ room along with Zeke Barnes, your brother, and your daddy.”

  “I don’t suppose you could send them all away. Everyone but Dr. Montrose, I mean.” Trula closed her eyes again.

  “I can’t get rid of them. You never heard such a ruckus as those men are makin’.” Hattie planted her hands on her hips, an unyielding gesture Trula knew far too well. “What happened?”

  “Forgive him.”

  “You gonna tell me? If not, I might could bring them all in here. Right now, they’re out there scratchin’ and peckin’ over who’s the biggest rooster in the henhouse. I reckon if I bring them in here, you can tell them.”

  Trula scowled at Hattie. The woman had a hard heart.

  Didn’t she deserve a little sympathy? A voodoo loa tried to murder her. Of course, Hattie didn’t know that. Maybe if she did, she’d be nicer. “An evil voodoo spirit rode Eulie and she tried to kill me.”

  Hattie rolled her eyes. “You’re tellin’ me that little blind woman beat you? Tell me another.”

  Trula shook her head, wished she hadn’t when pain lanced her temple. “It’s true. She called Marinette t
o murder the men who hurt women in the district. When the spirit rode her she was strong. Ask the ghost.”

  “There’s a ghost here?” Hattie took a giant step backward toward the door.

  Trula shrugged. The pain in her shoulder brought tears to her eyes. “He wants me to forgive Zeke.”

  Hattie didn’t seem to hear her. Her wide eyes were bouncing off the walls and furniture like a rubber ball. “I’ll fetch Dr. Montrose.” She disappeared.

  A soft tap announced Dr. Montrose’s arrival. His kind eyes met Trula’s as soon as he opened the door. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like ten miles of bad road.”

  His gentle fingers explored the lumps on her head. “Does it hurt much?”

  “Only when I breathe.” Or when she thought about Eulie dead in her arms. Or thought about Zeke, that made her heart ache. The doctor gave her a gentle smile and moved his fingers to her shoulder. She gasped.

  “How much does it hurt?”

  “On a scale of one to ten, I’d give it an eleven. Is it broken?”

  “No, but you’ve got a mighty fine bruise. Where else are you hurt?”

  “My knee.” She pulled back the sheet and revealed a leg turned black and blue.

  “That looks as if it smarts.” He probed the bruised flesh. “You’ll have to stay off it for a while. Do you have plenty of arnica?”

  “Yes.”

  “Use it.” He dug in his black bag and pulled out a hand filled with packets of headache powder. “These too.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” She gave him a weak smile. “I don’t suppose you could tell the gentlemen that you’ve given me a sleeping draught?”

  “Forgive him.”

  Trula glared at the ghost.

  “Miss Boudreaux, you’ve never struck me as a coward.” He pulled the sheet over her leg and patted her uninjured shoulder. “I can send them away, but they’ll be back.”

  She was tempted, but the doctor was right. She might as well face them now. He disappeared through the door. The same door where a moment later Ned and Zeke locked broad shoulders crossing the threshold at the same time.

  “We’ve been so worried.” Ned brushed past Zeke. He hurried to the bed, leaned over, and dropped a kiss on her forehead. Then he picked up her hand. “Trula, how are you?”