by Jenna Ryan
“You wouldn’t be wrong to do so. For now, Rosemary, go into Madeleine’s shop and admire her collection of treasures. Desdemona’s away, caring for a neighbor who broke her ankle.” A smile entered Flora’s voice. “The door won’t jolt you twice. I imagine Madeleine was simply startled by your presence.”
“Turnabout’s fair since I was startled by hers. Is there a reason you don’t leave the shadows?”
“I prefer shadow to light. My family ties are to Madeleine. Yours are to Twila Black. There is more between them than you know at present. Eventually, you’ll come to understand what that is. In the meantime, I promise you, I’m not a ghost.” To prove it, a hand emerged from the darkness to clasp her forearm.
Something sparked instantly under Rosemary’s skin, like the snap of a shorting circuit.
“I have a modest level of ESP,” Flora disclosed. She removed her hand. “Extremely modest, I’m afraid. True ‘sight’ isn’t as common as people believe. I’m going to leave you now, Rosemary. Not vanish, merely walk to my home in the swamp. I don’t know if Desdemona will be back tonight or not, but you’ll be safe here. I believe Tanner has excellent instincts. You’re not alone.”
Rosemary didn’t see her go. Only the shifting shadows and a faint echo in her mind told her she was alone.
In the same way that she hadn’t seen Flora leave, she didn’t hear Tanner approach. Until her fingers were on the doorknob—no jolt this time, as promised—and his mouth was grazing her ear.
“Signal came and went mid-conversation.” The smile crept into his voice when she jerked sideways. “Sorry, I forgot about the rain and the fact that you’re reluctant to throw your mind out there even in extraordinary circumstances.”
She turned. “My mind isn’t the point, Tanner. Neither is the rain. You said you were a so-so shot, right?”
A faraway glimmer of lightning illuminated his features. “I said so-so. Hobby said crap. Man was a hard-ass back in the day.”
“Do you agree with him?”
“We play to our strengths. He taught the recruits in his charge how to do that.”
“Ben was all about infiltration,” she recalled. “I’m guessing your strength was stealth.”
“Pretty much. Is this going somewhere?”
“Not really. I’m settling my nerves. Do you know a woman called Flora?”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“From Desdemona?”
“Probably.” Impatience marked his responses now. “Why?”
“She was here, on the porch. She left, but we talked while you were walking back and forth on the roof of your truck, searching for a phone signal.”
“Whatever it takes, angel. What did she say?”
“She gave me a pep talk. She also told me that Madeleine was startled by my presence here. Apparently, I have the same thing Mama Madeleine had inside her—which isn’t something I was overly happy to discover. I got a shock from the doorknob, because, as Flora put it, like forces tend to repel.”
“Unlike forces do that sometimes, too.” Reaching past her, Tanner pushed on the door. “Case in point, you and me.” His eyes slid in her direction as he nudged her inside. “If your own aren’t bad enough, Rosemary, step across the threshold into Mad Mama’s nightmare.”
* * *
It was Leshad who’d given him the Reaper label. He wouldn’t have taken it on himself. But then, positions reversed, he wouldn’t have called himself Leshad. It seemed to him to bestow a little too much power on the swamp hag who’d invented it.
Leshad, however, was all about signs from the netherworld. The practice of voodoo in particular tended to set him right off.
No matter. The Reaper knew his place in the pecking order. And the money was damn good. He’d be a rich, rich man by the time he hit sixty-five.
For now he sat in a shabby bayou bar, listened to Elvis and sipped watered-down beer while he waited for his phone to vibrate. He was debating the merits of Aruba versus Panama as a vacation destination when it did just that.
Seven question marks on the screen told him what he needed to know. He took a last sip of beer and pressed Talk.
“Are you sober?” was Leshad’s first question.
“It’d take more than a glass of dog-urine draft to get me drunk. I know where she is.”
“Do you? And all on your own. I’m impressed.”
No, he wasn’t, but he wasn’t displeased either, and that could spell bonus—assuming all went well, which it might not with former Crucible dark horse Sean Tanner in the picture.
“She’s picked up protection.”
“They always do.”
“You don’t sound worried.”
Leshad chuckled, and the darkness of it crawled under the Reaper’s skin, like maggots at a feast of corpses. “Why on earth would you think I’d be worried? Eradicating that problem is your job, not mine. The woman’s all I care about. Don’t, under any circumstances, lose her.”
Now it was the Reaper’s turn to chuckle. “I only have to choose the moment, Leshad. Trust me, once I deal Tanner out of the game, she’ll be an easy pickup.”
“I hope so.” Leshad’s velvety tone had the maggots rushing back in. “Bear in mind, however, the last person who made that claim and failed to deliver hasn’t drawn an easy breath ever since. In fact, he hasn’t drawn any breath at all.”
* * *
The antique shop was a hoarder’s paradise set in a bursting-at-the-seams building that had once belonged to a local boot maker. That was back, Tanner informed Rosemary, when every day had been open season on alligators.
Given the age of the place and the wetland location, she was amazed the structure continued to stand. Maybe the wall-to-wall furniture, ancient appliances, rolled carpets, tools, gadgets, bric-a-brac, books, toys and more were holding up walls that would otherwise have toppled in on themselves.
The floor wasn’t an improvement. Bare strips of very thin wood sagged beneath her feet and shrieked like the dead whenever she or Tanner moved.
Strings of mismatched beads, hung like curtains, led to stuffed anterooms. Sparse overhead lights barely broke the shadows that crowded the haphazard aisles, and the bloodred bulb that burned in a lamp Rosemary couldn’t see only made the atmosphere more lurid.
“Was the shop like this when Madeleine Lessard ran it?” she asked from the entryway. “I mean,” she drew an air frame with her hands, “I’ll give you carnival funhouse, swamp edition, but only until the floor caves under our weight. Then it’ll be a bayou landslide. Desdemona doesn’t really live here, does she?”
“Her bedroom’s in the attic.” Tanner picked up and examined a dusty guitar, minus most of its strings. “This is a ’54 Les Paul.”
“Uh-huh.” Using her index finger, Rosemary turned the instrument around. “It might actually be worth something if it had a back.”
“That’ll be around here somewhere.” Tanner looked behind a bass fiddle. “Problem is, it could take a month or two to find it.”
She ventured down a darkened aisle. “Flora said Desdemona might not come home tonight. Should we lock up for her and drive to town? Please say yes, and that Nightshade has a hotel, motel or inn.”
“It does and we could, but here’s safer.”
She glanced way up at a ragtag collection of books, records and two old suitcases precariously stacked on top of the shelving units that dwarfed her. “Tanner, there’s no possible chance that this shop is anything other than a deathtrap waiting to let go.”
“On an unwitting sniper would be good.”
She opened her mouth, closed it again. “Your point. Look, if it’s all the same to you and the absent Desdemona, I’d like to shower and change out of these muddy clothes. Some food would be nice, too. I’d settle for bread and water at this point.”
“Not sure about the bathroom, but there’s a kitchen.” He made a vague head motion. “Somewhere around here.”
“So, we’re searching for the back of a Les Paul guitar, a
kitchen door and, we really hope, a bathroom.” Still looking up, she continued to walk. “Why do I think we’ll probably find the guitar back first?”
He didn’t answer, merely covered her mouth with his hand.
She slid puzzled eyes to his face.
“Heard a noise. Keep it to a whisper.” He removed his hand and at the same time reached for the Glock in his waistband.
Obliging him, she said softly, “Tanner, an animal walking on these floors would make them creak. Do you know for sure that Desdemona doesn’t have a cat or dog?”
“She had a bird once. It died. And it wasn’t the floor that creaked. It was a hinge.”
“Maybe Flora came back.”
“Doubt it. Don’t move. I need to hear. Do you sense anything?”
“Distance,” she reminded him. “Unschooled mind.” She hesitated, when something clattered deep in the shop. “Okay, you win, dogs and cats don’t generally swear.”
“Desdemona has a loser son, but he wouldn’t creep around. It could be Pyro Pete.”
“Oh, great.” She turned toward the rear of the shop. “So glad we came. Are we just going to stand here and wait for him to torch the place?”
“Assuming it’s Pyro Pete.” Tanner eased past her. “It could be a junkie or local passing through, looking for cash or jewelry. Something pawnable.”
“It’s a guy,” she said. “Twentyish. Not new to the break-and-enter game.” Shrugging, she tapped her temple. “Sometimes stuff slips through. Look, I deal with kids who do things like this. I could—Tanner?” Frowning, she swept exploratory hands through the shadows around her. “You’re gone. How can you be gone, and I didn’t hear it?”
But he was, and she hadn’t, and given that the floorboards were protesting regularly now, all she could do was stick close to the big furniture and make her way to the end of the aisle.
At a crossroads of sorts, the red bulb glowed brighter. Raising her gaze, she took in a high wall shelf overflowing with dolls. Some of them resembled puppets. One, lying facedown on the floor, appeared to have a nail stuck in its back. Not the most comforting sight.
Underneath the shelf, a compact rifle stood next to a miniature rocking chair. Although the chair was empty, Rosemary swore she saw it moving.
Rain dripped steadily in one of the offshoot rooms, and the floor continued to creak. The way this night was going, the intruder was probably hoping for a double whammy—a quick score and something flammable to ignite.
Thunder rolled through the swamp. Both the overheads and the red bulb began to flicker. Off, then on, then off.
The creaks stopped briefly, but started up again at a sudden, frantic pace.
Rosemary heard a thud and headed cautiously toward it. She spotted the source at the rear of the shop, one large and lumbering, the second lithe and fit. There was a thump followed by a loud bang as something heavy struck metal.
“Great.” Halting, she wound mental feelers through the antiques in an attempt to locate the larger man’s mind.
A strong sense of greed flooded into her head, coupled with a much larger dose of mean.
“Put the sledge down, pal,” she heard Tanner tell him. “You really don’t want me to shoot you.”
“Try it,” the man sneered back. “And maybe I’ll shoot you instead.”
A gun went off. Rosemary’s heart leaped into her throat. It wasn’t Tanner’s.
She ran forward now, with the idea of pushing thoughts into the man’s head. Words and images that would, if nothing else, confuse him into immobility.
She tripped. Couldn’t believe it, but she did. She went down hard on the floor and struck her head. The red bulb flickered back to life. The effect created ribbons of light embedded with red stars.
“Don’t piss me off.” Tanner’s warning reached her through a haze. His voice echoed in her ringing ears.
Climbing carefully to her knees, then to her feet, she squinted into the shadows. The shot that rang out from behind had her whirling so fast she stumbled into an armoire and almost fell through the broken door.
The intruder let out a cry of pain, like a wounded bull. Tanner swore, feet scraped, and the lights just kept on flickering.
Looking at the wall behind her, Rosemary searched the on-again-off-again darkness. The compact rifle she’d seen earlier was gone. Only the rocking chair remained. And the same wooden doll she’d seen at Tanner’s place, its features painted, its mouth opened in—Jesus, seriously—laughter?
She stared, unbelieving. How could a doll that hadn’t been there sixty seconds ago be sitting in a rocking chair laughing?
It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.
Drilling her fingers into her temples, Rosemary squeezed her eyes shut, and looked again. The picture remained the same. The wooden doll from Tanner’s guest room sat with its feet sticking out past the edge of the chair and its mouth open, as if laughing at the fallen man.
“Okay.” She backed away. “That’s it. Completely losing it now.”
And with the doll’s face joining the churn in her head, she let the blackness pulsing around the edges of her mind rush in.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Rosemary?” Trapping her chin lightly between his thumb and fingers, Tanner moved her head. “Come on, angel, time to rejoin the living.”
Her eyelids inched open. She blinked twice and would have bulleted to a sitting position if he hadn’t held her down.
“Not yet. You’ve been out for over five minutes.”
“Out.” She eased herself onto an elbow, pushing the fingers of her right hand into the center of her forehead. “I really hate this feeling.”
“Can’t argue with that. What?” He frowned when she snapped her head up and around. “If you’re worried about the junkie, he’s on the floor, tied to an anvil. I didn’t know you were hurt until after I had him secured.”
“Then you’re all right?” She winced. “He’s all right?”
“I’m good. He could be better. Bullet grazed his forehead. He claims he’s gone blind, but he saw my gun well enough when I shoved it between his eyes. What happened back here? Did you faint?”
“No.” She waffled a little. “Okay, well, sometimes it takes me out for a few minutes.”
“It?” Disregarding her attempts to evade his hand, Tanner probed her head. And felt a bump just above her hairline. “Bet that stings.”
“It didn’t until you poked it. What I mean is that too much weirdness rushing through me all at once can make my brain blip out. It can’t take what’s being thrust at it, so it takes a break instead.” Eyes fixed behind him, she clamped her fingers around his arm. “Tanner, the doll!”
Annoyance glimmered. “Again? Is this the same doll you saw in the cab of my truck?”
“In your truck earlier. In the rocking chair now.”
She pointed to a tiny rocker where, granted, a doll reminiscent of a wooden puppet lolled at a forty-five degree angle. But in his truck earlier was a bigger stretch than he was prepared to make. “Answer me logically, Rosemary. How could that thing possibly have been in my truck?”
“I have no idea—logically. But as long as you’re looking at me like I’ve sprouted horns, I might as well tell you I also saw it at your place right before Madeleine—I assume Madeleine—showed up.” She massaged her neck muscles and breathed out a resigned laugh. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
He replaced her fingers with his. “I think you hit your head and zoned out for a few. It happens.”
“So does too much weirdness. The shot I heard came from behind me.”
“From where the doll’s sitting?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, but I’m not saying the doll shot the intruder. That would be too weird. Besides, the rifle’s gone.”
He struggled with an urge to ditch all of this and head back home. Alone. “What rifle, Rosemary?”
“The one—never mind. Where was the intruder hit?”
“Bullet grazed his right tem
ple.”
“Your bullet? Be honest.”
All he had to do was stand and walk through the door, leave this mess and her to Desdemona. “Fine. Honest. I didn’t think I had a good angle, but it seems I’m better than I realized.”
“The intruder was facing me, not you.”
“Then my bullet ricocheted. You’re not going to win this, Rosemary.”
“It’s not about winning, it’s about figuring out what’s going on and why. And don’t you dare patronize me,” she warned. “Stuff’s happening, people are dying and/or getting injured, a doorknob all but electrocuted me and the shot I heard came from behind me. I’m not suggesting the doll squeezed the trigger, but I saw a rifle, also behind me, and now it’s gone.”
“Rifle’s not gone.” A Creole-accented voice made the announcement from the darkness to the left of the rocking chair. “It’s right here, and it’s sure enough been fired.” Cackling with glee, a buxom woman with a wide face and an even wider smile stepped into the dim red light. “Well, ain’t this one for Ripley. Sean Tanner taking notice of a female above the breasts.”
“Good to see you, too, Des.” He cocked a thumb over his shoulder. “I nailed a junkie thief who was making tracks for your cash box.”
She patted the rifle tucked securely under one plump arm. “You and Mr. Smith here.” She motioned with the tip. “Help the pretty lady to her feet, Tanner, so’s I can meet her proper.” A pair of cracked front teeth appeared. “I’m Desdemona, in case your mind’s still spinning.” Setting a finger under Rosemary’s chin, she walked her around in a semicircle. “My, but you are a pretty one, honey.” Her chuckle earned her a dark look from Tanner, which she dismissed. “Yes sir, you’re gonna give Mr. ‘I’m too sexy for my pants’ Tanner here a run for his money.”
“I’m not getting paid for this, you know,” Tanner muttered. To Rosemary, he said, “Des was Madeleine’s best childhood friend. She’s been running the antique shop alone since Madeleine died.”
“Since Madeleine was murdered,” Desdemona corrected.
“I was being discreet.”
“Like you know the meaning of the word.” Desdemona winked at Rosemary. “Man’s as discreet as an alligator in a field of sheep. You got the sight, don’t you.”
