Voodoo Love (And the Curse of Jean Lafitte’s Treasure) (3 page)

"I see that you have lost many people. Your parents were taken from you long ago and you've had only a few relationships that mattered." Madame Euralie looked at me. "Am I right?"

"Yeah." I tried to keep my expression neutral, telling myself she was just making a lucky guess. My parents had been killed in a car accident when I was in high school, and after that, I'd never been great about letting people get close to me.

"You've been contemplating a move," Euralie said. "But it's mostly just a day dream to you. You don't have the guts to follow through."

No guts. Unable to follow through. Yep, that sounded like me, but I said nothing.

"You are going to meet a man who will change your life."

"I bet you say that to all the people you read for," I said. "No one wants bad news."

Her gaze narrowed and I had the feeling she wasn't looking at me, but in me. I could feel her mind probing against my own. Very unsettling.

"Not one man, but two." She looked sad, and I couldn't help but notice that she was truly beautiful. It was odd that I hadn't noticed it right away, but I swear she appeared to glow. Her skin had a luminous hint to it.  "There is a third man that will frighten you beyond all belief."

"Seriously? You don't think you are being a little melodramatic? I'm guessing that one represents the past, one the present, and the third one the future. I think I've heard this story already." Uncomfortable, I resorted to sarcasm, but despite my words, I had a feeling that something was about to happen. As if to prove this, a gust of wind rushed through the bar, knocking over drinks and causing cocktail napkins to fly. It lifted my hair, brushing across the back of my neck like the touch of a lover.

I turned to look behind me. A few yards away sat a man and the candle from his table cast shadows under his eyes. Even in the dim light, I could see that his hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, making me wonder what it would look like loose and free. His attention wasn't on me though. Thoughtful, he observed the boisterous girls at the bar. No. That wasn't right. He wasn't really looking at them. It was the man seated next to my friends that had caught his attention, a man who made me instinctively shudder.

"Be careful,
Cher
." Euralie leaned forward, capturing my attention again. "One of these men will try to kill you."

***

The memory stopped. My hands gripped the steering wheel of the car and I took a deep breath. For a moment, I'd been right back in Laveau's Lounge, could almost smell the stench of
Bourbon Street
. It was the first time in two years that I'd recalled anything clearly about that trip. Try as I might though, I couldn't remember what had happened next. I puzzled over it all the way home.

My cell phone chimed, letting me know I had a text message. I knew who the message would be from—Eddie.

Call me.

That's all it said, but I knew I was about to get a lecture.

             
Damn it! One little gun flash in the Gator Mart and suddenly you become Public Enemy No. 1.

             
At home I threw the pack of condoms on the table of our kitchen and reached up above the cabinets, pulling down an old, cracked cookie jar that belonged to my mom. It was one of those sentimental type things that I'd held onto for years. She stored coupons in it when I was a kid. I store my contraband cigarettes in it now. I shook one out, dialing Eddie’s number.

             
“It was not what you think,” I began as soon as his voice answered. No need for introductions at this point in the relationship. If you don’t recognize your spouse’s voice on the phone after a year of marriage, something’s wrong with you.

             
“How do you know what I think?”

             
“I could hear it in your text. It was filled with underlying subtext that read, ‘Uh oh, here she goes again, about to step off the deep end.”

             
“
Elizabeth
, it’s never a good idea in this day and age to flash a gun at a store clerk. They tend to interpret that as you robbing them. I know there was a blackout and the computers were down, but tough shit. You need to develop what we in the police business call patience,” Eddie told me but I thought I could hear a grin in his voice.

             
“You need to develop what we in the teaching business call a less condescending tone of voice or you will get a timeout,” I told him, taking a drag off my cigarette.

             
“Are you smoking?”

             
“Nooo….”

             
“You better not be. We talked about that—breaking old habits.”

             
“It’s hard and it's been a stressful day.”

             
"Why? What else happened?" His tone changed, got quieter, as if he didn’t want anyone standing nearby to hear him.

             
I hesitated. Should I tell him about thinking I saw Juan Carlos? Or that my memory was starting to come back?

             
"It was nothing. I just had another misunderstanding with the neighbor lady," I lied.

             
"Leave Ella Elderbee alone. She's a good neighbor. I don't know why you have to rile her up."

             
"She called me a whore that one time."

             
"No. She said you were a bore. You just heard her wrong."

             
"Whatever." I know what I heard, but it was pointless arguing with Eddie about it.

             
“I gotta go,
Elizabeth
. Just got a call I have to take care of. I may be late tonight but let’s talk then,” he said. "Oh, and take that damn gun out of your purse!"

             
He hung up. With a sigh, I removed the gun and placed it on the counter next the condoms. Obedient as ever, I went to the kitchen sink to drown my cigarette butt. Just as I was about to do it, I glanced out the window. Ella Elderbee, my next door neighbor, stared at me from her kitchen window, a frown on her face. She wrinkled up her nose at the sight of my cigarette and mouthed the words I'd heard her say many times before.

             
"Stick of death!"

             
Screw it and screw her. I was going to enjoy my smoke. I puffed away, blew the smoke in her general direction, and then yanked down the kitchen shade. Of course, that little move backfired on me, and the smoke hit me square in the face. Coughing, I opened the back door.

             
And that’s when I saw it. Placed near the stairs was a bottle. A playing card of some kind had been tied to it with red string. Butterflies of panic went off in my stomach, and I knew that I should pick up the phone and call Eddie back immediately. But that would have been too easy. Instead, I walked over, and picked up the bottle.

             
Cassagnoles de Spain.

             
It was the brand I’d purchased earlier this afternoon, the wine of choice that I’d dropped, the bottle which shattered on the ground in front of me because I’d thought I’d seen a dead man. The card attached to it made my heart beat a little faster--the Tarot card representing the Devil.

             
Careful not to touch the card, I looked around. The wind blew through the tall cypress trees in our backyard, causing them to sway gracefully. Somewhere in the neighborhood kids were playing, their chirping voices rising and falling. A shrimping boat out on the bay honked. These were all the usual sounds of Barataria and yet, something felt off. I couldn't see anyone in the back yard, but I felt eyes were watching me.

             
Not knowing what to do, I went back into the house, slipping the lock behind me. I placed the bottle on the kitchen counter, next to the pack of cigarettes. The Devil on the Tarot card stared at me. Interestingly, the artist of the card had opted not to make him grotesque or frightening. Instead, it showed a shirtless man with six pack abs and long black hair. His head was lowered slightly, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

             
The devil in Tarot does not represent a demon. At least not in the spiritual sense. It represents addictions
.
Addictions can be anything from drinking and cards to…a man.

             
The voice in my head sounded like Madame Euralie. Was this something she'd told me? I just couldn't remember.

A sound drew my attention. It was something small, a scrape of a shoe against the wood floor of my living room. My senses sharpened as I listened. There it was again. A footstep. It couldn’t be Eddie. He was a heavier man, never light on his feet. I grabbed my gun and crept to the entryway between the living room and the kitchen. Then I sprung forward like a jack in the box out of control.

             
Nothing. I surveyed the empty living room and let my eyes sweep over the green couch placed with special care by Eddie in front of the massive brown entertainment center. The front door appeared locked and every shade in the small room was pulled shut. Everything as I liked it.  Feeling stupid, I breathed a long sigh and set the gun down on the coffee table. 

             
As I sat on the couch, a voice behind me said, “I thought I taught you that it doesn’t matter how safe a situation might feel. You never leave your weapon where someone can grab it.”

             
Instinctively, my eyes went to where I left the gun on the coffee table. It was gone. A moment later it was pressed against the back of my head. My heart pounded, but I was not afraid.  No. It was the voice that was making my heart go crazy. I knew that voice.

             
“Juan?”

             
The gun moved away from my head, and with a noisy thump, was placed back on the end table. Suddenly, I
was
scared, scared to turn and look, scared of what I might see. What if Juan stood there, covered in seaweed, little pieces of his flesh gnawed off where sea creatures had taken a bite? What if the bone gaped through moldy skin or he was missing an eye? I knew he died. He had to be dead. He couldn’t really be standing in my living room two years after the fact.

             
There was movement in my peripheral vision. I drew a deep breath and turned to look.

             
“You’ve gone blonde.” Juan's brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail but one strand was free, doing a dance all its own as his chocolate eyes stared at me. Paler than I remembered, he still had the power to knock my senses around. His simple black t-shirt stretched across his chest showing off a muscular physique. Matching black pants gave him a faint military look, though why I thought that I don't know.

             
“You’re…not dead." I couldn't believe it. The man of my dreams, literally, stood in the room.

             
“How are you,
Elizabeth
?”