Long Night Moon (Bad Mojo Book 1)
Page 17
She was on a mission and would not be deterred.
The moment she stepped far enough into the clearing the flickering glow of fire revealed her presence. The music and dancers stopped. Seeing it was she, the voodoo service resumed but in earnest.
BJ Donovan kicked off her flats, held her skirt up midway with both hands. Alternated between stomping her feet then pirouetting, while she circled the campfire. The others backed up to give her more room. Chanting grew more intense. Hers. Theirs. Her long black curls whipped her face and gleamed with the radiant hues of the fire as she twirled faster and faster.
Couples embraced. Kissed. Fondled.
She crossed her arms at the elbows and fell on her knees. Reached out to the fire, tried to sweep its spirit into her soul. She thrashed about on the ground. Her breathing grew heavier, went deeper as she waved her arms to and fro drawing the smoke over her.
She got up, still writhing. Pulled off her blouse. Round and round she spun, twirling the garment above her head with dizzying madness; sweat beaded on her face, adhering strands of hair to her forehead and cheeks. A field of subtle, luminous radiation surrounded her.
The others joined her special dance.
Many feet pounded the dry dirt into dust with their frenzied movements.
The drummers slowed the beat.
She spread her feet apart and closed her eyes. Gripping her blouse with both hands, she held her arms high above her head and swayed side to side.
The bokor, the one she’d visited in times of great need, came and stood behind her. Took her blouse and cast it aside. Unzipped her skirt; let it fall to the ground. Rubbed scented oil over her body that grew warm then hot. He squeezed her breasts until she gripped his wrists and shoved his hands lower. She leaned back against him, both swaying to the slow beat of the drums. He slid his hand between her legs. She gasped, as his fingers pinched and probed expertly.
Reaching the first level of pleasure, anticipation rising to a fever pitch, she clawed his arms. “Prese prese!” she cried out. “Hurry!”
Four women ran forward. Lifted her off the ground. They carried BJ around the fire three times inciting a wild sex orgy in the others. They put her on a makeshift bed on the ground.
The bokor lay down beside her.
She stroked his dick with one hand, herself with the other. He put his hand over hers, made her go faster. Breathing raggedly through her nose, toes curling tightly, she came again. Opened her mouth and gasped for air.
Men and women danced around them, their voices raised higher in song. “She’s a whore, she’s a saint. She’s holy, she ain’t.”
She screamed in ecstasy. He gripped her hips with his large hands, sweaty biceps reflecting firelight. They moved their bodies in sync with the increasing rhythm of the drums. “Kounye-a,” she shouted, “Now!” Muscles flexed hard in climax, she sucked in a lungful of smoke and dank night air. Exhaled slowly, lowering her legs flat against his. Tears trailed along her hairline. He rolled onto his back and crossed an arm over his damp face. A woman stepped forward and covered them with a dark bed sheet.
BJ tried to catch her breath as the effects of the drug wore off and the drumbeats slowed, then stopped.
Minutes later, he asked, “Kisa pi nou fe?”
“What must we do?” A wry smile. She turned to face him. Hair spilled over her breasts. She propped herself up on one arm. Wiped her cheeks dry. “We must end an affair. That’s what we must do.”
“Kisa ou bezouen?” He got up. Collected her skirt and blouse, and set them beside her.
She stood. Put on her clothes.
“What do you need,” he asked again, patiently.
“I haven’t decided,” she replied, irritably.
She gathered up her hair and wrapped a cloth-covered rubber band around it while watching the others milling about without direction. Their bodies spent, satisfied. She counted twenty-five. Some stood in small circles and chatted. Others grouped close together to inhale a special yellow powder. Some stood alone smoking cigarettes or thin cigars, flicking ashes and butts in the dwindling fire. One brought forth a bucket of water to douse red-hot timbers.
BJ walked over to where the bokor, whose name she couldn’t pronounce, drank thirstily from a pricey bottle of wine. “I need something to put fire ants in a frenzy.”
He nodded, handed her the bottle.
She drank enough to ease a throbbing headache. Watched him set a threadbare valise on the trunk of a fallen live oak tree.
CHAPTER 59
Chef Donovan informed her kitchen staff her publisher had arranged an on-air interview with a television host in St. Louis, Missouri. She’d be gone for a couple of days. She told her wait staff they’d better flip the tables at least twice during every dinner service.
BJ took I-10 and headed for Houston, Texas.
Drove straight to the hotel Frank mentioned in his last phone call. She parked a little ways from the front of the building, and fixed her gaze on the main entrance.
While contemplating Plan B, she spotted him walking out of the lobby door with his arm across the slim shoulders of a gorgeous blonde. BJ started her car, nearly breaking off the key in the ignition. She followed them to a strip mall where they parked outside of a bookstore. Waited until they were inside. Already dressed in character, she casually strolled across the parking lot. Entered the store to find them browsing in the New Releases section.
She stood within eight feet of her husband.
Frank pulled down BJ’s book. Handed it to the woman.
She flipped the pages, roughly, stopping ever so often to read random excerpts to him, lick her fingers then flip some more. Speaking in a loud whisper, she mocked the writing. Mocked the words. Mocked their meaning. Mocked the author’s talent.
Frank laughed. Kissed her cheek. Headed off in the direction of the restroom.
The woman told a nearby shopper it’s the worst book she’d ever read. Didn’t notice the shopper was also the author. “Suite Sue? What’s that supposed to mean?” When blondie had her fill of the mockery, she crammed the book between two others with so much force she ripped the dust jacket on the upper spine with a long fingernail. “Oopsie-doo.” She snickered. Stuck out her tongue, babyishly.
When she saw Frank she went to him, looped her arm around his. They moseyed over to another section. The woman chatted on and on about their upcoming trip to Vegas.
Las Vegas? They’re on their way to Nevada? Anger consumed BJ when her mind replayed Frank’s last phone message. He was supposedly on his way home. She changed course and headed to the café. Purchased coffee. Hurried out to her car.
Donning sunglasses, they strolled across the parking lot holding hands. BJ half expected blondie to start skipping. Maybe ask daddy for an ice cream cone. Frank clutched a small white bag by its handle. BJ seriously doubted he had purchased her book. He never cared about her writing. Wasn’t even impressed when she got “the damn thing” published.
She worked her fingers into a thin pair of driving gloves.
They got in their car. Headed west on the less traveled scenic route.
Several miles from civilization, BJ accelerated until her car was beside Frank’s rental.
He glimpsed at her several times. Didn’t seem to recognize her with the red wig and sunglasses. Or, he was too busy trying to stop her from running his car off the side of the road?
She honked her horn several times. Distracted, he lost control of his vehicle and plowed down a short embankment. In the time it took for them to grasp the situation, BJ was already out of her car and running toward them. She yanked open the driver’s door and administered the special powder to the person she viewed as the biggest threat to her own well-being.
She ran around to the other side. The woman, screaming hysterically, locked her door, and then reached across Frank to lock his. BJ opened the door behind blondie’s seat, the door the stupid woman should’ve locked second. Made quick use of the powder.
Still no
other vehicles in sight, BJ drove her car in behind a thick grove of mesquite trees and parked. Ran back, shoved Frank against the woman, and drove his car in beside hers. Because of the god-awful thorns on mesquite trees she was fairly certain no one would be interested in prowling around there.
BJ retrieved the bright orange yardstick she’d purchased from a twenty-four hour discount store after visiting the bokor.
She laid Frank and blondie side by side on the ground a few feet below the passenger side of Frank’s car, out of sight of any passing motorists. Stripping them naked, she paused to imagine them in bed together. She gathered up their clothing, wallets, and paperwork for the rental—absolutely everything that might help the authorities learn their identity—and stashed it all in the trunk of her car. She picked up the white bag, and looked inside. Just another how to get rich quick book. About to toss the bag in with the other stuff she froze until an eighteen-wheeler rumbled by.
Knowing Frank and blondie also heard the truck pleased her. BJ walked in a straight line, looking over her shoulder once in a while making sure she hadn’t veered off course or lost track of the cars. Continued walking until she found what she was searching for. She stabbed the ground with one end of the yardstick. Sprinkled another special powder over the area.
The ground swelled, turned red. The slightest vibrations coupled with the powder had whipped them into an aggressive attack mode.
She dragged Frank, fully conscious but paralyzed, to where she’d planted the yardstick. Moving fast to keep herself out of harms way, she centered him over the sandy mound, let go and jumped back. If he’d been able to blink he would’ve known that’s exactly how long it took for hundreds of fire ants to cover his body.
She deposited the woman beside Frank, who had already become unrecognizable with his face and eyes covered in pus-filled blisters. While the ants did their thing on blondie, BJ wandered around the massive rock formations a few feet north of her loving husband, who continued to stare at the blazing sun.
Climbing on top, keeping a wary eye on the many crevices, she inched her way forward. She came upon a wide opening. A slim amount of sunlight reached the bottom, enough for her to see the writhing horror show below. A snake pit. Copperheads? Rattlers? Who cares? She couldn’t have found a better hiding place.
She descended with caution. Returned to her car.
BJ sipped cold coffee. The sandwiches she’d packed in a little ice chest had retained their freshness. She munched, as leisurely as a cow chewing its cud, and watched the sun dip behind the rock formation.
Singing just above a whisper, “I put a spell on you,” she pocketed a couple of small flashlights. “Because, you are mine.”
She kept her eyes on the yardstick and moved forward.
“I put a spell on you,” Humming the rest of the lyrics, she stood before the couple. They didn’t look so pretty anymore. She wasn’t sure if they were dead. Shock or an allergic reaction could’ve killed them. They’d better hope they’re dead. They’d never live long enough to climb out of the hole. So far, she hadn’t heard any airplanes. Still, if one or both survived long enough to make it to the top where they might be seen… Let’s not go there.
With a line of darkness underscoring the horizon, and the warmth of the day evaporating, the ants disappeared underground for the night, which was what she’d been waiting for. The second effect of the powder assured that most, if not all of the swarm, would be motionless by now.
BJ pulled a stretchy headband down over her forehead, and clicked on the built-in flashlight. Took hold of Frank’s wrist. She pulled and yanked him up the side of the rock formation. The going was slow and tedious. Her strong arms were stretched to their limit.
Noticing the beam of light growing brighter as the sky darkened she picked up the pace. Now her life was in danger. No way of knowing how many snakes were in the area. One misstep and she’d be a goner. Hang around too long, and they’d come out of hiding and search for food in the dark. They would search for her.
To her surprise and delight, she found the wide opening above the pit sooner not later. She shoved Frank in without an ounce of hesitation or remorse. Thought she heard a grunt when he hit bottom.
Rather than go back the way she’d come, she went down the front of the hill below the hole so she could walk faster. She spent a few extra minutes with blondie. Dragging her by her hair, she had her down the rabbit, er, snake hole in the time it took to say, “See ya, Malice.”
BJ got in her car. Snatched a tape recorder out of the console and clicked it on. Her hands were shaking too much to write down the pertinent information. She spoke in the recorder, told everything that had happened, beginning with her lying to her employees about where she was going. At the end, she added a personal note saying if anyone questioned her about the televised interview she’d claim it had been cancelled. And, if anyone ever asked about Frank, she’d say he left her for another woman.
All the bases covered, she drove onto the highway and headed for Louisiana.
BJ slammed on the brake, tires squealing to a halt. No other cars in sight, she made a fast U-turn. Removed Frank’s and blondie’s things from her trunk, and pitched them onto the back seat of the rental. She stuffed the paperwork in the glove compartment.
CHAPTER 60
BJ dropped her car keys on the foyer table. Poured a shot of tequila. She set the glass down, grabbed the bottle by the neck, went in her office, and clicked on the computer.
Although exhausted, she had to get the chapter written before the afterglow completely waned. She’d already lost valuable time from making the long drive home. She jotted down the personal notes she made earlier. Rewound the tape recorder, carried it to the kitchen and laid it on the table. Turned on the radio, raised the volume to its highest setting. Hit the record button. She could’ve easily destroyed the tape with a pair of scissors, but where’s the fun in that?
She opened her work-in-progress.
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Wearing a disguise, Alma sat at the hotel bar and watched her husband swap slobber with another woman. She followed them to Vegas. Ran them off the road... near a fire ant mound?
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“Mm, no. Can’t go there. Not ever. Not as long as there’s a chance Frank’s body will be found.” She’d returned their belongings to his car for that very reason. She wanted it to appear those two had run naked across the desert, laid on the ground to have sex, discovered they were on an anthill, climbed up the rock formation, slipped and fell in a snake pit.
There was a slim chance Frank might stay alive, but blondie wasn’t going anywhere. Before pushing her into the crevice BJ cut out blondie’s mocking tongue, and used the yardstick to cram it down her throat.
BJ doubted anyone would believe those two had run naked any damn where but they couldn’t discount the theory, either, so long as the possibility existed. It didn’t matter whether or not his body was found. What did matter was when he was found. Too early, she’d be a suspect. Much later, she could flat-out lie about her whereabouts the day Frank went missing. Who would know? Nobody was keeping track of her comings and goings. If they were, then they were doing a piss poor job.
Deleting the paragraph, she got an idea.
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Alma followed Rex and his girlfriend to a large marina in Houston, Texas. While they played slap’n tickle on the deck, music blaring through the speakers and mingling with blondie’s shrieks of delight, Alma pulled on a pair of gloves. She climbed on board. Found an empty closet below deck to hide in.
Minutes later, she heard the rumble of twin engines. Her body shifted when Rex idled the boat away from the dock. Waves lapped softly at the hull. She was thrown backward after he crossed the No Wake zone.
The woman entered the galley. Alma heard the tinkle of glassware. A light splash of liquid. She peeked through a crack in the bifold doors, watched the shitty bitch guzzle wine from the bottle while holding a filled glass in her hand. Carrying the drinks, she went topside.
Alma’s body fell forward slightly when the boat slowed. She listened to the metallic whirr of the anchor motor. Got ready.
Laughing over a silly joke, Rex and blondie raced each other down the steps to the galley. Alma burst through the doors screaming like a banshee. Caught them off-guard. She attacked Rex first with the special powder she’d gotten from a bokor.
Went after the blonde bitch with the fierce vengeance of a woman scorned. Spent time and effort mucking up her pretty face with a sharp filet knife.
Panting from the adrenaline rush, Alma grasped the bottle of wine by the neck, stepped over the motionless bodies, and climbed the stairs. She turned in a tight circle on the well-lit bow. They were far enough in the Gulf of Mexico she couldn’t see land. Hell, she couldn’t see any damn thing beyond the railing. She fought to remain calm. Did Rex make any turns after he left the marina?
No. He drove in a straight line.
Alma upended the bottle of wine and drank thirstily. Remembered blondie had drunk from the same bottle. “Bleh!” She wiped her mouth. About to pitch the bottle overboard, an idea came to her. She hunted around. Found a spare anchor chain in a compartment on the deck.
She pulled Rex up the stairs, laid him beside the lump of chain. Got a handful of blondie’s hair and dragged her beside him. Fastened their hands behind their back with zip ties.
She spent the next hour wrapping the chain around them. Brought the ends of the chain together and secured them with a padlock. Sweating profusely, she sat with her back against the railing. Wiped her face dry. Pulled off the red wig for a light breeze to cool her scalp.