Chapter 14 #2
Roman sat up. Ryder was thirty-three years old and to Roman’s knowledge, he had never asked a soul for help before in his life. “What’s wrong?”
“My wife has been kidnapped. I want her back, Roman.” His voice broke. “Dammit, I need her back. If anything happens to her, I won’t—”
“Where are you?”
“Ruban Crossing, Mississippi.”
“Hell, I knew that,” Roman muttered. “I mean physical directions to your home.”
Startled, it took Ryder a moment to reconnect his thoughts. Then he sighed. He should have known. After all, his brother was a private investigator.
“Got a pen and paper?” he asked.
“Does a bear—”
Ryder laughed aloud, drowning out the rest of Roman’s remark. It made him feel good, almost normal, to hear Roman’s ever present sarcasm. Some things never change.
He gave Roman directions to the Ruban estate, and when he hung up, for the first time since this nightmare had started to unfold, he knew a small sense of relief.
* * *
In a small, unused room in a forgotten part of Delaney Ruban’s house, candles were burning, on pedestals, in cups, on plates, even on the floor. Candlelight flickered upon the walls and on the bare, lithe body of Matilda Bass, giving the cafe au lait color of her skin a rich, golden glow.
Her hair was undone and hanging well below her waist and she moved as one in a trance, methodically unrolling a cloth she’d brought into the room. A handful of small, white bones fell out of the folds, arranging themselves in a crude sort of circle as they rolled to a stop.
She leaned forward, her bare breasts shifting, and she was barely aware of the thick, silken length of her hair against the skin on her back, blind to the candlelight surrounding her as she sat.
At her side lay a knife, the shaft, old and yellowed. The blade was long and thin, the kind that pierces and kills and leaves nothing behind but a tiny, red mark. The carvings on the handle were old and held a power all of their own.
When Joshua entered, Tilly sensed the air in the room stirring, and somewhere within her mind, she sifted through the change and knew that nothing threatened what she was about to do.
Her focus shifted again as she went to her knees before the circle of bones, whispering in a language that she’d learned at her grandmother’s knee.
* * *
Lash downshifted Fostoria Biggers’s small white compact and turned into the overgrown driveway leading up to her house.
It was nearly dark, and he knew that coming out here was risky, but he wanted to see for himself that the mighty Casey Ruban had been brought to her knees.
Using Fostoria’s car was just another way of blurring his trail.
The house was small and nearing total dilapidation.
In fact, if possible, it was in worse condition than his beloved Graystone.
Fostoria’s porch had sagged some years ago, and was nearly rotted through from the wetlands upon which it had been built.
Paint had peeled off all the siding except in a few sheltered places, and the curtains that hung at the windows were faded and limp.
The grass in the yard was ankle high and Lash winced as he thought of walking through it.
There was no telling what kind of reptiles were lying in wait.
He made it through the yard and onto the porch. Sidestepping the worst of the sag in the planks, he walked into the house as if he owned it. Bernie Pike spun toward the sound, his gun pointed directly at Lash’s chest.
“Dammit, Marlow, you scared the hell out of me.”
Lash frowned. “Point that thing somewhere else.”
Bernie did as he was told.
“Where is she?” Lash asked.
Bernie pointed toward the first door on the right down the hall. “I put her in there. It was the only room that had a bed.”
Lash nodded.
“When’s Skeet comin’ to relieve me?”
Lash frowned. “I told you two to guard her. I didn’t think I would have to set up a work schedule for you as well. Call him and find out for yourself.”
Bernie shivered and glanced nervously out the open door. “I’m ready to get my money and get the hell out of this swamp. There’s snakes and lizards and all matter of critters out here. When is it all goin’ down?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
Bernie frowned and then cursed. “What’s the holdup? I thought them people had plenty of money.”
Lash glanced down the hall at the closed door and then grinned. “Oh, they do, but I intend to delay the inevitable as long as possible. Why put her out of her misery—until she knows what real misery is like?”
There was an expression on Lash Marlow’s face that made Bernie Pike shudder. He shifted his gun to his other hand, thankful that he was working for this man, not running from him.
“So, what do you want me to do?” Bernie asked.
Lash took a deep breath, his pulse quickening as he glanced at the closed door. “Get out. Get out and don’t come back inside until I tell you to.”
Bernie looked startled and then a slow grin spread across his face as he did what he was told.
When the house was quiet, and Lash could hear nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, he gave his rabbit’s foot a last quick rub, and started down the hall.
* * *
Casey’s hands were numb and her throat was dry. She needed a drink in the very worst way, but calling attention to herself was the last thing she wanted to do. As long as her abductor thought she was asleep, he pretty much left her alone.
Something was crawling on the floor beside the bed and she prayed it stayed there. But the scritch-scratch of toenails on hardwood flooring was impossible to ignore. She kept telling herself that as long as she couldn’t see what was making the noise, then she couldn’t be afraid.
And then the air shifted, and another sound blended with those in her head and she tensed.
That was the door! Someone was inside the room.
Casey had learned a trick from Delaney early on in her life to take control of a situation by being the first to speak.
She saw no reason to change her strategy now.
“I would like a drink of water.”
A low, ugly chuckle centered itself within the waiting silence and Casey gasped. That didn’t sound like her abductor. Someone else had entered the picture.
“Casey, Casey, ever the prima donna, aren’t you? Tied up like a sow going to market and still giving orders. Now what do you suppose it would take to bring you to your knees?”
“Lash?”
The blindfold was yanked from her face.
Casey blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision as her eyes adjusted to the change in light. Lash leaned down and pinched the sides of her cheeks with his thumbs and fingers, squeezing and squeezing until speech was impossible and tears sprang to her eyes.
“That’s it. Cry for me, honey. Show me you care.”
Casey jerked, trying to free herself from his grasp, and then to her surprise, he turned her loose and shoved her, sending her sprawling. Before she could think, he had untied her ankles and straddled her legs.
Panic shafted through Casey’s mind. Lash’s intentions were all too plain. And when he leaned forward, pressing the palms of his hands against the swell of her breasts, she groaned and wrestled with the ties still binding her wrists. They wouldn’t give.
“Lash, for God’s sake, don’t.”
His slap ricocheted off the side of her jaw. “You don’t tell me what to do. I’m the one in control. I’m the one who calls the plays, princess, and right now, I’m going to take a little of what was rightfully mine.”
His fingers curled in the top of her blouse, and when he yanked, buttons flew, hitting the wall and scattering across the floor.
Something scurried out from under the bed and Casey knew that one good thing had come from Lash’s arrival.
At least that creature was gone. If she only knew how to get rid of this one for good, she would never ask for anything again.
He laughed, and then grabbed at the hem of her skirt as adrenaline surged through him. This was power. He wished he’d thought of it sooner. At last he felt like a man.
Casey kicked and bit and screamed until her throat was hoarse.
It served no purpose other than to arouse him more.
His hands were at the juncture of her legs when the room began to grow dark before her eyes.
A fresh sheen of perspiration broke out on Casey’s skin as the sensation of fainting became imminent.
Horrified at what he would do if she was unconscious and helpless, Casey thought of a prayer that didn’t make it aloud.
The darkness in the room was growing, and it was beginning to pull her in.
Her submission was so unexpected that Lash also paused, wondering what trick she was trying to pull.
But she was far too limp and far too still for a joke.
Frustrated that she would not be awake to suffer his touch, he thrust a knee between her legs, readying to shove himself in as well. And then Casey began to speak.
Surprised, he looked down. Her, eyes were still closed. She was still limp—almost lifeless. And he would have sworn the voice that he heard was not her own.
Her breathing had slowed, and at first glance, she seemed to be asleep.
But the words pouring out of her mouth were fluent in cadence, foreign in sound and speech, universal in intent.
One brief, staccato sentence after another, she was invoking a curse of such magnitude upon Lash Marlow’s head that he couldn’t do anything but stare.
Word after word, the curse continued, pouring upon every living person hereafter who might carry an ounce of his blood in their veins.
Spoken in the old patois of French-speaking slaves, the threat became even more insidious as the promises continued.