by C. J. Parker
Bobbie sat straighter in her chair. “I’m listening.”
“Me, too.” Derek waited.
Rhonda returned carrying the bat and a jimmy bar. “Found this. Looks like someone tried to break in.” She handed it to Derek. “No one came up stairs. I’m sure of that. And no one is down here but us.”
“Momma, can I have a pop?” Shane stood in the doorway. He kicked the floor with the toe of his shoe, head lowered, eyes peeking through a fall of carrot-red hair.
Rhonda reached out to take his hand. “Ask Miss Tabatha.”
“Of course. I bet there’s a surprise in the cookie jar, too.” Tabatha started to rise.
“I’ll get it.” Rhonda took Shane by the hand. “Come on, son. You can take your pop and a cookie to your room if you’re careful. Say thank you to Miss Tabatha.”
“Thank you, Miss Tabatha.”
Tabatha pushed herself the rest of the way out of Derek’s lap and sat on the other chair, missing his heat and scent instantly. “Why don’t you call me Tab, Shane? It’s much easier, don’t you think?”
Shane nodded.
“Let’s go, son.” Rhonda set the bat against the wall and led him away.
Bobbie scratched her head and dropped down on the fireplace inglenook. “I need a shower desperately, but I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s going on around here.”
Tabatha sunk lower into her chair causing Derek’s attention to snap back to her. She rubbed her eyes repeatedly like a person who had gone too long without sleep. A feeling he knew all too well. “Rhonda will be back in just a second. She can tell her part first. Then I’ll tell you what we’ve learned since I left here this afternoon.”
Rhonda strolled through the doorway with a bottle of beer for each of them. “Thought we could use one of these.” She handed them out, then sat at Tabatha’s feet. “You think it was them?”
Derek’s confusion grew. These weren’t typical women. He’d been on the force long enough to know women may be strong in an emergency but usually fell apart after the fact. These women sat around drinking beer and speaking of being shot at, being hunted as if open season on women had been started.
“Them who?” Bobbie stretched her legs out in front of her. “Will someone fill me in?”
Derek sat next to Bobbie on the fireplace inglenook, rolled his shoulders and leaned back watching their eyes. He could tell a lie from a mile off by the way a person moved their eyes or tilted their heads.
Answers at last. Ready or not, he knew he was about to hear it all, and he was sure he’d have to hang disbelief out on the line. He drew a swig from his beer. “Okay, let’s have it.”
Chapter Ten
John Phelps slammed his fist on the massive mahogany desk and stared at his stepson, Brian, with every ounce of contempt he could conjure. He wanted the boy to cower. Phelps loved the power he wielded over the weak and stupid. Brian was both. “What do you mean you couldn’t get in? How much trouble can it be to jimmy a back door?”
“Someone drove up. A man in a white SUV.” The teenager kept his gaze on the thick burgundy carpet. “You said not to get caught. So we ran.”
“Did he see you?”
“No.” The boy shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
He didn’t think. That was always the boy’s problem. “You don’t think, or, no, he didn’t?” Phelps raised his voice to the point it hurt his own ears.
Brian swallowed, cleared his throat. “I’m sure he didn’t see us.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and jangled the contents within. He glanced longingly toward the doorway. “We ran behind the garage. The man couldn’t have seen us.” The boy looked up, but quickly dropped his gaze away again.
Phelps had never seen a bigger wimp. “Where was your car?”
“We...” Brian cleared his throat again. “We left it around the corner. Didn’t want to take a chance anyone would see it.”
He’d give the boy credit for some sense. “Did you recognize the man in the SUV?”
“No, sir. Never saw him before.”
Phelps released a long breath. One less thing to worry about. “You’re dismissed.”
Phelps waited until the boy turned to leave before he spoke again.
“If I find out you’ve lied to me, boy.” Phelps paused enjoying the tension that suddenly tightened across the boy’s shoulders. “I’ll kill you.”
The sound of the kid’s throat trying to swallow sounded loud in the near silent room. “Yes, sir. I know.”
“Did he see you?” Phelps watched Brian’s eyes. The kid winced but held Phelps stare.
“No, sir.”
“Go.”
Brian didn’t give Phelps time to change his mind. He was out the door within the count of three.
Phelps lifted the lid of the humidor, picked one cigar out of many, bit off the tip and spit it into a nearby trashcan. He closed his eyes and savored the slow blend of flavors, the sting of nicotine, the slight touch of earthiness. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a .44 Magnum lighter and with a light touch on the trigger produced a flame. Smoke slowly escaped between his lips, its warmth mingling with savored flavors of his victim’s fear still lingering on his tongue.
A broad smile tightened his lips as a parade of women trotted across his memories. The women’s so-called magic couldn’t save them. They begged for their lives and pleaded for forgiveness.
His grin evaporated. All but one woman. She hadn’t begged for herself, but for her child and grandchild. She had no concern for her own life. No matter how much pain he inflicted on her, she refused to give him what he wanted. Refused him his pleasure. She had been strong and determined not to let him win. Begrudgingly he gave her respect.
Ah, but maybe the girl and her son will give me satisfaction. He’d never killed a child. As he ran the thought through his mind, his pants strained against his growing erection. Phelps’ eyes drifted closed. He could hear the whimper of the kid, moments before the blade sliced into his tender white belly.
Could see him hanging from the attic rafters, blood trickling down to the tip of the tiny dick—drip, drip—drip, down on the face of his mother, tied below him. Oh, Phelps would take his time, enjoy every second of it. He needed to hear the screams. Needed to hear the boy cry for his mother to help him and to see her horror when she knew she couldn’t. He unzipped his pants, took his dick into his hands. His heart raced, his mind reached out to watch the scene once again. He grew harder, the pressure building until his prick exploded, and his mind filled with color bursts.
Chapter Eleven
Derek gauged each person’s reaction to the story as it was being told. He searched to find any semblance of truth or something he could accept as such. Tabatha appeared calm, her demeanor guarded.
Rhonda wrung her hands and stole glances at everyone as if expecting them to turn on her and blame her for this whole mess.
Bobbie’s face held a hint of disbelief. “Damn,” she said, breaking the silence. “Who do you think told them about your gift, Tabatha? Who knew about you coming home?”
Tabatha ran her fingers through her hair. The air around Derek filled once again with the scent of it. His fingers itched to feel what the strands would feel like. Soft? Warm? He closed his fists and imagined her hair wound within them. He envisioned drawing Tabatha closer so her lips touched his. Her voice pulled him out of his revere. “Nyssa, my mom, Rhonda and Bertha. I think that’s it.”
Derek forced himself to keep his face neutral. What would she think—do if she knew his thoughts? Drawing several deep breaths, he distanced himself from his feelings and remained detached, unemotional, realistic. “How did you find out, Rhonda?”
“My birth mother told me about the list before she died, and I came here looking for Tabatha. Nyssa said she’d be returning in a few days.” She drained the last of her beer. “But, I swear, I didn’t tell anyone else.”
Derek stood, collecting empty bottles. “When was this?”
“The date
you mean?” Rhonda handed him her bottle.
He nodded.
“Two days before Tabatha came home.”
“And you.” He pointed at Bobbie. “When did you find out?”
She flipped her empty sideways, bottom toward him. “I told you. I worked with Tabatha. She said she was going home.”
He juggled the bottles in his hands, making room for one more. “When?”
Bobbie shrugged, which sent her sleek black hair swinging. “Tabatha told me about it on her last night at the hospital. I’m not sure when she left town.”
Tabatha handed her empty bottle to Derek. “Going for fresh ones?” He was still thinking about Bobbie’s answer as he grabbed the last bottle. “Yeah. Head me in the right direction.”
Rhonda pointed behind her. “Straight back. Can’t miss it. It’s this big white monstrosity of a room. Fridge to the left.”
The last thing Derek remembered was crossing from the dinning room into the kitchen, then he was on the floor with the worst headache he’d ever known. He stared into Tabatha’s concerned expression. “What happened? Bertha, what have you done? Where did you come from? I didn’t know you were here.”
“I was upstairs. I came down when I heard voices.” She leaned forward. “I’m sorry, young man, but how was I to know you were Tabatha’s friend? I don’t know you. I thought you broke in.”
Derek glanced toward the sound of the voice and was met by a tall, mountain of a black woman, with a cast iron skillet in hand. He pushed himself into a sitting position, and the world spun. His stomach lurched. He groaned, raising his hand to examine the lump on his head.
“You gonna die?” The woman stared down at him, a no-nonsense frown on her face.
“No. I think I’ll live.” He bit back what he really wanted to say. No thanks to you.
“Okay. Then I’ll make enough dinner for one more. Now, get on out of my kitchen.”
Derek allowed Tabatha to help him to his feet, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
“Beer.” Bobbie forced her lips downward into an exaggerated frown. “We needed beer.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know Bertha was here. I need to tie a bell to one of her tits.”
Derek glanced at Bertha, now that he was standing and able to look her over from top to bottom, instead of the other way around. “It’d take a hell of lot of string.”
“That’s okay, Detective. My man, he likes ‘em big.” Bertha laughed, her breasts bouncing. “Now, why you comin’ into my kitchen in the first place?” He couldn’t remember.
Bobbie and Rhonda turned the corner. Derek gritted his teeth, winced at the pain and then scowled at Bobbie. “If you laugh, I’ll lock you up and throw away the key.”
Bertha placed her skillet on the stove, reached into the cabinet, then tossed Derek a bottle of aspirin. “Well, help yourself, then get out. I got cooking to do.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Bertha.” Derek followed Tabatha’s lead into the living room.
Tabatha settled him in the easy chair and sat at his feet. “You sure you’re okay? You want to go to the hospital? You were out cold for a few seconds.”
He shook his head, regretting it instantly. He closed his eyes against the pain. “No. I’m fine. How well do you know these people?”
“Bobbie I’ve known for about two years. Rhonda most of my life. Bertha was my grandfather’s cook. When I left to go to boarding school, she quit. Came back as soon as she heard I was home.”
“What about this Nyssa you mentioned?”
Tabatha drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Her white hair shone in the sunlight from the window. He reached out and touched a strand of it. Soft. Warm. “She and her husband came to work for my grandfather before I was born. Her husband died in seventy-nine, I think, but she stayed on as groundskeeper. Nyssa was like a second mother to me, a best friend really.”
He flipped through his mental note pad, searching for filed away notes. “I can’t remember. Didn’t you say your father and grandfather are both deceased?”
“My father died when I was nine. My grandfather died nine months later.” She leaned her head against his hand, stilling his stroking of her hair. “According to the death certificates, both died of heart attacks. My grandmother died giving birth to my father. Mom’s my only living relative.”
Derek stored away this information inside his memory, to examine later. “Do you doubt the cause of death of your father and grandfather?”
She shrugged.
Bobbie and Rhonda returned with an ice pack for Derek’s head, bottles of beer and potato chips.
Bobbie handed Derek a beer. “Bertha said this is all she’s going to let us have. She ain’t gonna have us ruinin’ our dinner.” Bobbie imitated the black woman’s southern accent.
Tabatha reached for a bottle. “Did she say what we’re having?”
Rhonda grinned. “Gumbo, fried shrimp, and potato salad. I feel like I’ve died and gone to gourmet heaven.”
An iota of pity inched into Derek’s soul for Rhonda. A meal he accepted as normal fare was a treat for her. What must her life be like?
Bobbie screwed the cap off her beer. “Girls, what are we going to do about these men after us?”
“They’re not after you, Bobbie.” Tabatha crossed her legs at the ankle and leaned back. “They don’t know you from Martha Stewart.”
Bobbie huffed. “You’re my friend. You’re in trouble, I’m in trouble. We’re in this together.”
His brain ticked off each of the things he’d learned since meeting Tabatha. These so-called Guardians were after her and Rhonda. Didn’t know about Bobbie yet. But what was the motive? “Has everyone forgotten I’m here?” Derek realized they were ignoring him when they all turned their gazes toward him and smiled.
“Oh. Here.” Rhonda gently placed an ice pack on his head. “Nope. But you’re a cop. You won’t be no help.”
For the first time in ages, Derek found himself speechless. Maybe he’d been hit harder than he thought. He opened his mouth several times for a comeback, but each time he came up blank. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Rhonda’s face reddened. “You can’t fight within the law with these kind of people. Sometimes you just have to kill them.”
Derek smirked. “That’s when it might be good to have a cop on your side.”
Tabatha stretched her legs out in front of her and leaned against Derek’s chair. “I have a New York permit to carry. How hard will it be to get one here?” Bobbie nodded. “Yeah, I have one, too.”
Rhonda huffed. “Well, I want one.”
Derek rubbed his temples. New Orleans would never be safe again with Rhonda bearing a gun. God help them all. “Don’t you think you should check on Shane?”
“Yeah, he needs to wash up before dinner.” Rhonda set her beer on the floor and left.
Derek waited a few moments before he spoke. “Do you really think that girl should be allowed to carry a weapon?”
Tabatha turned to face him. She laughed, the smile making her nose crinkle. Her eyes danced with as much joy as the laugh held. “It’s a scary thought.”
Bobbie rolled her eyes. “Maybe she’d stop being such a crybaby. Gads, she makes Eeyore look jolly.”
“Who’s Eeyore?” Tabatha hooked her arm around Derek’s leg in a hug.
A hint of sadness burned in Derek’s chest. What child didn’t grow up reading about Eeyore? “Oh, come on. The sad donkey in Winnie the Pooh.”
Tabatha lowered her gaze and her face from view. “Sorry. Didn’t have a lot of time to read children’s books when I was a kid.”
Derek eyed the bat Rhonda had left behind. Where Rhonda had handled it, the wood was blackened and cracked. He sat up and leaned in for a closer look. “Are those burn marks on that bat?”
Tabatha reached out with her free hand to bring it closer. “Oh my God, it’s still warm.”
Derek stared at blackened patterns on the grip, then at
Tabatha. Bobbie took the bat from Tabatha, examining the wood closer. “Am I crazy, or are those perfect hand prints burned into this thing?”
Derek rolled his neck. What the hell? “Looks like it to me. What’s it mean?”
A wide grin spread across Bobbie’s face. “Could our little cry baby be a firestarter?”
Chapter Twelve
Derek watched Rhonda help Shane onto the box Bertha placed on a dining room chair for him. Her hands gently touched his face before ruffling his hair playfully. No sooner had a bowl of gumbo been set in front of the boy than he dug in.
“You hungry, son?” Bertha tied a makeshift bib around his neck.
Shane giggled, allowing a trickle of roux-thickened broth to trail down his chin. Derek sat back in his chair. Fires starter. This was getting too strange to believe. But why? He hadn’t believed in necromancers either. Why should anything else surprise him?
“So, Rhonda,” Bobbie rubbed her hands together, “how long you been a firestarter?”
Derek choked on his coffee. “Damn, woman, remind me to teach you the art of tact.”
The room plummeted into silence. Rhonda paled, the veins in her face and neck stood out in stark relief against the pallor of her skin. “What?”
Bobbie pulled the baseball bat from between her legs and held it up. “These your hand prints?”
“No.” Rhonda jerked her head side to side. “No, I don’t know how they got there. I... I...”
Bertha swatted Bobbie’s arm. “You leave her be. You ain’t no ivory walker, girl. You got power of your own. I can feel it sure as my own heartbeats. Onliest one in here that’s got no magic is Mr. Derek.”
He hoped not. But after what had happened between him and Tabatha, he wasn’t sure anymore.
Rhonda lowered her voice to a hush. “Shane doesn’t.”
Bertha covered Shane’s ears with her hands. “It’s dim, but it’s there. Remember how you tried to hide it? The shame you felt? Don’t do that to the boy. And the rest of you, drop this firestarter stuff for now.” She reached for the jacket hanging from a hook by the door and shrugged it on.
“Bertha, sometimes I wonder about you.” Tabatha sipped her tea.
