Voodoo or Die

by Stephanie Bond

  Her eyes rounded. "A body?"

  Zane sighed."Except he can't remember where." He made a gesture to his head that indicated he thought the man was addled, or perhaps under the influence of drink or drugs. "It could be nothing, but we'll check it out."

  "Did he explain why he had a gun?"

  "He has a permit to carry a concealed weapon, says he uses the .45 for hunting deer." He shrugged. "It's still deer season in this parish, so his story makes sense."

  More sense than the paranoid conclusions her mind had leaped to. Gloria expelled a pent-up breath and reminded herself she needed to relax lest she trigger another Meniere's attack.

  "Are you sure you're okay?" Zane asked. He shifted, and the light revealed the concern on his face.

  "I'm fine," she assured him, almost giddy from the ebb of adrenaline throughout her system. The memory of her guerilla kiss warmed her cheeks, and in the silence that ensued, she had the feeling that he, too, was remembering their intimate contact.

  He reached up and pulled a leaf from her hair. His smile made her chest expand with emotion, and she realized with dismay that she was well on her way to falling in love with Zane again. "Thank you," she murmured.

  "For what?"

  "For... protecting me."

  "Glad I was here," he said quietly, then they lapsed into silence again. Unsaid words clanged in her head so loudly that she was afraid he would hear them. Finally, he shifted his weight. "I guess I'll see you around."

  Since her tongue had lodged in the roof of her mouth, she could only nod.

  He opened her car door and she lowered her body inside, hoping he couldn't sense how mortified she felt over her brazen behavior. When she pulled away from the square, she looked in the rearview mirror, noting that he watched her drive away, his hands on his hips, his shoulders squared. Had he found something familiar in their kiss? Was his mind working furiously, trying to put the pieces together? When he closed his eyes tonight, would his subconscious link the pieces and jar him from a sound sleep with the truth?

  Or had he filed away Lorey, his high-school sweetheart, in a compartment in his mind that was guarded even from his subconscious?

  As she drove slowly along Charm Street, her mind went to Daniel Guess and the potential problem he presented. If he suspected Steve Chasen's death was anything other than accidental, he'd keep digging into the dead man's life. A good investigative reporter could probably get his hands on phone records, and it would be only a matter of time before he found the guy who was in cahoots with Steve's blackmailing scheme.

  Then a thought floated in her mind—who better than a reporter to sell info to someone like Steve? She chewed on her lip, wondering if Daniel Guess could have been the person on the other end of the phone today... and the person firing at her in the square?

  To keep her from revealing his extortion scheme?

  By the time she arrived at her rental house, a headache had descended. With her nerves jumping, she entered the dark house, turning on lights in rapid succession. When she stopped to listen, the creaky noises of the house settling in for the night were barely audible over her heartbeat, pounding in her ears. Gloria paused in the kitchen long enough to scoop a handful of ice into a dish towel as a makeshift ice pack for her head.

  On the way through the living room, she winced at the stacked boxes that would sit unopened for another day. On the other hand, unpacking the boxes before she heard back from the U.S. marshal seemed like a futile effort. One box in particular caught her eye, though, and stopped her. It was a small moving box marked keepsakes, holding items that she had salvaged from the hit-and-miss packing job that the marshals had done for her and her mother when they'd had to leave Schilling, New Jersey, so abruptly.

  She picked up the box and continued on to her bedroom, gasping when she saw her reflection. Her face was smudged with dirt, her clothing was askew and grass stained. She frowned down at the pale gray pantsuit—at the rate she'd been ruining clothes, she'd have to buy a new wardrobe before the first of the year.

  If she stayed....

  After a quick shower, she changed into soft cotton pajamas and downed a dose of Meclazine from the new prescription that Dr. Whiting had written for her. She scanned the label thinking if Zane got wind that the doctor was a proponent of voodoo, the men would likely exchange words.

  Gloria pulled the box of keepsakes onto the bed, then burrowed under the covers, leaned against the headboard, and set the ice bag on her throbbing head. When the coolness began to settle the pain, she lifted the lid on the box and surveyed the jumbled contents.

  The lone female U.S. marshal had apologized when the moving truck had arrived at their new home in Wisconsin. She'd explained that anything that had connected them to their previous life had been destroyed—photos, yearbooks, letters, and anything with the town or family names on it.

  Gone were the notes and cards Zane had passed to her between classes and for special occasions, the engraved locket he'd given her with their pictures inside, his sterling ID bracelet that he'd removed links from so it would fit her wrist.

  Gone was her diary that detailed her burgeoning love for Zane. Gone were all the photos of the two of them together—in school, at his football games, sitting under the one tiny shade tree in the backyard of her house.

  If she closed her eyes, she remembered those moments—no one could take away her memories—but it had broken her heart all over again to lose the photos. It had been like losing Zane twice. The marshal had told her not having reminders of her previous life would help her to move on, but Gloria still believed that having reminders of her previous life would have been soothing.

  There were days when she could almost convince herself she'd never been Lorey Lawson in Schilling, New Jersey, that she'd never fallen in love with a gray-eyed boy, that her father was still alive. It had been tempting to believe... but she'd felt as if the comforting lies dishonored her father and her love for Zane, so she'd stubbornly branded them on her heart.

  From the box she pulled a small bean bag dog that had once worn a collar that had said Schilling Summer Carnival. She was grateful that the marshal had taken the time to remove and discard only the collar instead of the entire toy. Zane had won it for her at a game where he'd shot wooden ducks in profile with a toy rifle. It had been one of those hot summer nights when they hadn't been able to stop touching, hadn't been able to get close enough to satisfy the sexual energy vibrating between them. On more than one occasion, Zane had pulled her behind a tent to steal a kiss and to palm her heavy breasts. She would stroke his erection through his jeans, and only the threat of being caught would force them apart. They would run back to the crowd, hand in hand, laughing and burning for each other.

  Gloria's breasts tingled now, as if Zane were lying next to her. They hadn't made love—Zane had agreed they should wait until she was older. But so many times she'd wished they hadn't waited, so she could have had the memory of Zane's body connected to hers, to warm her on those endless lonely nights after she and her mother had fled.

  She reached back into the box and withdrew the Baby Giggles doll her father had given her the day she'd started kindergarten. "She'll be your friend until you make new ones," he'd said.

  Gloria's eyes teared at the memory. Her father hadn't doled out hugs and kisses as generously as other fathers had, but she'd never doubted he'd loved her. Gloria lifted the doll's arm, triggering a chorus of giggles from the electronic box lodged beneath the doll's yellow dress and cloth torso. Gloria smiled at the familiar noise, comforted anew.

  From a small box she removed a necklace with a heart medallion her mother had given her after they'd been relocated, to cheer her up. But stubborn and miserable, Gloria had refused to wear it. Tears at her selfishness clouded her eyes as she fastened it around her neck. It was of nice quality, and her mother had probably done without something in order to buy it.

  When she dipped her hand into the box again, her fingers touched soft, fuzzy yarn. Zane's scarf.
She lifted the dark green scarf from the box, recalling the dozens of times she'd opened her front door to find Zane standing there, his cheeks pink from the cold, the scarf wound around his neck. He'd left it in her bedroom several times, and when she'd found it inside one of the boxes that the marshals had packed, she'd been overjoyed to have something of Zane's, if only accidentally.

  Gloria pressed the scarf against her face, the scent of Zane long gone but fodder for her imagination. God, how she'd loved him. The current emotions colliding in her chest seemed dangerously familiar, but she told herself it was impossible for her to be in love with a man she barely knew. These...feelings were simply nostalgia for a period in her life when she had been happy... and normal. Before she'd been ripped away from everything she'd known. If their romance had been allowed to develop without the interference of WITSEC, wouldn't it have run its course and wouldn't their relationship have eventually ended?

  She draped the scarf around her neck and leaned her head back. No doubt the traumatic events surrounding her departure and the fact that she hadn't gotten to say good-bye had stoked her feelings for Zane even higher. Falsely higher?

  Gloria pressed her lips together. Was it possible that, in the weeks and months and years following that harrowing evening, she had idealized her romance with Zane, taken a teenage crush and exaggerated it into more than it had actually been? And had Zane done the same thing?

  It stuck with me, he'd said about her disappearance. Had it kept him from forming attachments to other women?

  A strange gurgling gong sounded through the house, startling her. It wasn't her phone, she realized as she jumped to her feet, sending the ice pack to the floor with a plop. Was it the doorbell? She'd never heard it chime, although it made sense that a house this old would have a creepy-sounding doorbell.

  As she walked carefully toward the front of the house, her mind raced. Who would be visiting her? Penny? Marie? She swallowed hard. Someone with more sinister intentions? She stopped at a hall closet and removed one of the items she hadn't left for the movers but had transported in her car—a .38 semiautomatic handgun, loaded.

  In the long, boring hours of their seclusion in the hotel after leaving Schilling and before being relocated to Wisconsin, George had taught her about handguns and encouraged her to buy a weapon for self-defense and learn how to use it. Later she had taken his advice and now was, in fact, a pretty good shot, although she realized that putting holes in a silhouette at a handgun range was a lot different than putting holes in a real person.

  The doorbell gonged again, raising the hair on her arms. Glad she'd extinguished the lights in the small living room, she held the gun down and crept slowly into the room. A part of her reasoned anyone who intended to hurt her would simply break a window or force their way inside, but the marshals had warned her that many career criminals had gotten wise and traded in their gangster, headline-grabbing tactics for more low-key methods of accessing their targets: ringing doorbells, posing as a shopper, walking up to ask for directions.

  In other words, the killers looked like ordinary people.

  With her pulse thumping, she stopped at a side window and parted the heavy curtains a fraction of an inch, glancing toward the front stoop. The outline of the man revealed in the dim streetlight did little to relieve her anxiety—what was Zane doing here?

  She sighed and pushed the gun into the pocket of her pajamas. She considered going back for her robe, but her pj's were of the full-coverage variety.

  And it wasn't as if he hadn't seen everything she had anyway. Seen, touched, kissed...

  She ran her fingers through her damp, flattened hair and conceded that she couldn't do anything about the rat's nest. Steeling herself against his effect on her, she turned on the outside light, then unbolted the front door and swung it open. "Hello."

  Zane looked up and shifted awkwardly. "Hi. I was driving by and thought I'd check to see if you were okay." Then he gestured to her clothing. "But I can see that I disturbed you."

  "No," she said quickly, fighting a flush, wondering if she'd ever get used to the fact that she could actually see—and touch—him. "And I'm fine, thanks. Just doing some reading. In bed," she added unnecessarily and wanted to kick herself.

  "Are you having problems with your heat?"

  She frowned. "No. Why?"

  "That's some pretty strange reading gear." He grinned and reached forward to lift the end of the fuzzy dark green scarf—his scarf—that she'd forgotten she'd draped over her shoulders.

  The moisture left her mouth as her mind raced for an explanation. She gave a little laugh that sounded false to her own ears as she removed the scarf and stuffed it into her pocket, displacing the gun, which fell to the floor with a thud.

  They both stood there staring at the gun, and all she could think was she was so damned grateful it hadn't gone off and killed or maimed one of them. Gawd.

  Zane cleared his throat. "Do you always sleep with a gun?"

  "No," she said carefully. "But a woman can't be too careful."

  "Well, you could be a little more careful in handling a semiautomatic," he said, bending over to retrieve the gun. He removed the clip and saw it was fully loaded. A check of the chamber revealed another round inside. He raised his eyebrows, then handed it back to her. "Do you know how to use this thing, Counselor?"

  "Yes," she said, her voice curt as she took the handgun from him.

  "And I assume it's registered?"

  She bristled. "I abide by the law, Chief, but you're welcome to check."

  "No, I believe you." Then a wary glint came into his eyes. "Although I have a feeling that you're not being completely honest with me about something."

  Gloria decided to lob the subject back into his court. "Did you get to the bottom of the shooting?"

  "Maybe. Scaggs is still rambling—we're going to let him sleep it off in jail. Meanwhile, his gun had been fired recently, and his shooting hand tested positive for gun powder residue. Without the slug, we can't be sure, but looks like he's our man."

  She nodded, relieved at the explanation. The silence stretched between them, and Gloria wondered what he must think of her for throwing herself at him like she had. A flush started at her ankles and worked its way up her body. "If that's all, Chief, thank you for coming by." She moved to close the door, but he held up his hand.

  "There was one other thing."

  Her breathing stalled. "Yes?"

  "Back in the square, when... we kissed. I want to apologize."

  So he regretted it? "Apologize for what?"

  "It was highly unprofessional, and I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

  His words rankled her feminist sensibilities. "Chief Riley, you make it sound like you took advantage of a schoolgirl. As I recall, I initiated that kiss."

  He frowned. "Look, I'm just trying to do the right thing. Besides, you're an attorney, you understand the position I'm in."

  Her mouth tightened in anger. "You're afraid I'm going to sue you for improper conduct, is that it?"

  He lifted his hands. "All I'm saying is it won't happen again."

  She gasped at his audacity, then narrowed her eyes. "You're right—it won't happen again." Then she stepped back and slammed the door in his face.

  Frustrated and knowing she was overreacting to his backward apology, Gloria groaned aloud at the ridiculous, impossible state of her life. And Zane—how dare he apologize for kissing her when all she wanted from him was... more, dammit.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning Gloria parked in front of Primo Drycleaner's, which sat at the opposite end of the strip mall from her law office. With great effort she dragged herself from her car. Only the slight sedating effect of the Meclazine had helped her get a few scant hours of sleep after her confrontation with Zane. If not for Sheena Linder's appointment this afternoon, she might have opted to close the office for the day and sleep.

  Try to sleep, if her mind would stop replaying scenes with Zane—past and presen
t—to torment her.

  Heaving a sigh, she retrieved an armload of clothes from the backseat—her dust-covered clothes from the first day and the grass-stained clothes from last night.

  A bell tinkled as she walked into the dry cleaner's.

  A beautiful young woman wearing a colorful head wrap was in conversation with a wizened old woman wearing overalls and leaning on an ornate cane. They both looked up, the young woman smiling, the old woman frowning.

  "Hi," Gloria said. "I'm—"

  "You're the new lawyer," the old woman cut in, pointing her cane.

  "That's right, I'm Gloria Dalton."

  "I'm Cecily Knowles," the young woman said. "And this is my aunt, Jules Lamborne."

  The woman Penny had hinted might know something about the voodoo doll. "It's nice to meet you," Gloria said pleasantly.

  Jules squinted and lifted a bent finger. "You can't cacher here, missy."

  Gloria blinked at the woman's accusatory words. "Pardon me?"

  Cecily laughed nervously. "Aunt Jules, why would Gloria be hiding? Please forgive my aunt. She gets confused sometimes."

  Jules sniffed. "The only person confused is the lady lawyer."

  "That's enough," Cecily chided, then turned a sad smile back to Gloria. "We heard about Steve Chasen—we're very sorry."

  "No, we're not," Jules said sharply. "That man was spreading poison around this town."

  Gloria's pulse picked up. Did the old woman know something about Steve Chasen's blackmail scheme? "What do you mean, Ms. Lamborne?"

  "You'll learn soon enough," Jules muttered, then headed toward the door.

  "Ms. Lamborne," Gloria said, then weighed her words when the old woman looked back, waiting. "Someone left a voodoo doll by the door of the law office the morning of Steve's accident. Penny Francisco said you might know something about it."

  A light came into the old woman's eyes, but she shook her head. "Not me, although I'm not surprised." Jules leaned forward on her cane. "Folks spend all their time bein' scared of them dolls, when they should be grateful."