Water Witch (18 page)

“Them two kids,” Vern said. “Gettin’ ready to
go out to Slack Lake to look for ‘em. Don’t think anybody’s been
out that far yet.”

“Figured you was heading out. Saw your boat
hitched to your truck out front.” Beeno walked over to the bar and
claimed a stool next to Pork Chop. “No use going out that far,
though. We already been out there, even ran the dogs. Nothing.”

“Y’all tried the Flats?” Pork Chop asked.
“Out by Turtle Bayou?”

“Yeah. Even had divers work Whiskey Bay.”

“What about Rooster Shoot and Gro-beck
Point?” Vern asked.

“Iberville guys went out there day before
yesterday. Still nothing.” Beeno motioned towards the bowl sitting
in front of Pork Chop. “Chili?”

“Yeah.”

“Caught a whiff of it when I was driving by.
Thought I’d stop in for a bite before going over to Woodard’s
place.”

“What’s de matter wit’ de preacher?” Poochie
asked.

Beeno gave her a side-way glance, then did a
double take. “What happened to you?”

“Huh?”

“Your face.”

“Oh.” Poochie touched her forehead absently,
then swatted the air with a hand. “Nothing. Ran myself into a light
bulb, dat’s all. Now what you was sayin’ about goin’ to
Woodard’s?”

Beeno shrugged as if the whole matter was
nothing but a bother and he had better things to do. “I don’t know,
said somebody made a mess in his church last night. Probably kids
out pulling a prank.”

Poochie sighed. “Yeah, mais we know for sure
what two kids wasn’t out dere fooling around in de man’s church.”
She shook her head and tsked softly. “You know, it’s a sin and a
shame, yeah. I been meanin’ to go back and see Larissa Trahan. You
know, Nicky’s mama? She was tore up bad de day her boy went
missin’. I need to go back dere and see how dat poor woman’s makin’
out.”

“Don’t bother,” Beeno said. He nodded a
thanks to Vern, who’d placed a bowl of chili in front of him.
“Larissa left town.”

“Left?” Poochie asked, dumbstruck.

“You’re shittin’ me!” Vern gaped at
Beeno.

“Nope,” Beeno said. “Went out there the other
morning to get one of Nicky’s shirts for the track dogs and the
neighbor said she’d left. Had a suitcase with her and everything.
Didn’t say where she was going, and nobody knows where she
went.”

“What kind of woman leaves town without
knowing where her kids are?” Cherokee asked, his voice rumbling
deep and low with incredulity and disgust. Even though he was
cloaked in shadows, Poochie sensed his body tensing with anger.

“A drunk one, I s’pose,” Beeno said. “I guess
the stress of Nicky being gone was too much for the alcohol to
handle, so she took off. Who knows?”

“Man, that ain’t right,” Pork Chop said. He
shoveled a spoonful of chili into his mouth, then immediately spat
it back into the bowl, sending a shower of spattering meat sauce
across the counter. “Ughh!”

“Je-
sus
Christmas!” Beeno jumped up,
checking his shirt and the front of his uniform pants for
splatter.

“What the hell’d you do that for, Pork Chop?”
Vern asked.

Porkchop swiped his tongue with a napkin,
then gagged out, “Tasted funny.”

“Damn, boy, kill a man’s appetite, why don’t
you?” Beeno said, his face screwed up with revulsion. He stuck a
hand in his pocket, pulled out a couple of dollars and threw them
on the counter. “Remind me not to sit by your nasty-ass next time I
come in here to eat, a’ight?” He stormed out of the bar, shoving
against the swinging doors so hard they bounced back and nearly hit
him in the face.

Vern slapped a hand on the counter and leaned
towards Pork Chop. “There ain’t a damn thing wrong with that chili,
and you know it. I had me a bowl earlier, and it tastes fine, like
it always tastes.”

Pork Chop was too busy guzzling beer to
respond.

Shaking his head, Vern untied the half-apron
he’d been wearing and tossed it behind the counter. “I swear, man,
you ‘bout as dumbass as dumbass gets.” He rounded the counter and
motioned to Cherokee. “Bar’s all yours, buddy. Keep dumbass there
out from behind here while I’m gone, okay? I should be back by
suppertime.”

“No problem.” Cherokee said, and got to his
feet.

Pork Chop slammed his beer can down on the
bar. “Hey, where you get off callin’ me a dumbass? I’m a payin’
customer.”

Vern stopped in mid-stride and eyed him. “My
bar, my business. ‘Sides, you got a tab bigger’n my house mortgage.
When you pay it, then you get to be a customer. ‘Til then, you a
dumbass.” With that, he stormed off towards the swinging doors.

Feeling a sudden, unexplainable arc of panic
when Poochie saw Vern heading out of the bar, she trailed after him
in her scooter. “Hol’ up. Why you still going out dere? Beeno said
dey checked everywhere already.”

“In case they missed somethin’.” Vern said,
then with a wave of his hand, disappeared beyond the doors.

As Poochie watched the doors wobble to a
close, a picture abruptly filled her mind’s eye. It made her
shudder, stole her breath. She whirled her scooter about. “Pork
Chop, you need to come and take me over to my house right now.”

Pork Chop cocked his head, gave her a
you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. “What I look like to you, a
taxi?”

“What’s wrong, Poochie?” Cherokee asked,
having already taken his place behind the bar.

“Don’t know yet.” She zipped her scooter over
to Pork Chop and slammed a fist down on his left knee. “I said you
gonna take me to my house, and you gonna take me right now!”

Pork Chop yelped, cupped his knee with a
hand. “What the hell . . .”

“I said now!” Poochie hammered the hand
braced over his knee.

“Stop, goddammit!” It took a few more knee
hammers before Pork Chop finally gave up and did as he was
told.

Ten minutes later, when Poochie was finally
sitting shotgun in Pork Chop’s old black pickup and they were
barreling down the highway towards Angelle and Trevor’s, she
crossed her fingers and said a silent, persistent prayer.

Please, God,let dem be dere . . . please let
dem be dere . . .please let dem be dere. Please . . .”

After what seemed like days, Pork Chop
finally pulled into the driveway behind Trevor’s truck. Poochie
didn’t wait for him to help her out of the pickup. As soon as Pork
Chop pulled to stop, she flung the door open, crawfished her way
out of the truck, then pulled out her walked and headed for the
prayer tree in the backyard—where she felt called. Where she hoped
not
to verify the picture she’d seen in her head.

As Poochie hobbled around the house, she
heard Pork Chop yell after her. She ignored him, the same prayer
playing over and over in her mind . . .
Please, God, let dem be
dere . . .

When she finally reached the prayer tree and
rounded it to the bench where she normally sat, a little gasp
escaped her.

There it was, just as she’d seen in her
mind’s eye back at the bar—an empty spot on the prayer tree—where
the pink sneakers had been—the ones that belonged to Sarah Woodard.
Gone . .. they were gone.

And,
Oh, God
, if the dead had come
back for their shoes that had hung on the purgatory side of the
tree—did missing shoes on the other side mean the living were now
dead?

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Olm stood in front of his bathroom mirror and
slowly unbuttoned his shirt. The idea for what he was about to do
had come to him only moments ago. Another brilliant idea that had
seemingly come out of nowhere, only proving once again, that he was
being led down the path to rebirth. He planned to execute the idea
to the letter and make it as ceremonious as the sacrifice that
would be offered tonight.

As he moved from button to button, Olm
thought of his ancestors. Their skin had been such a luxurious
brown, much darker than his own. He pictured their long black hair,
some with lengths that reached the middle of their back.
Unfortunately, his hair was collar-length and cropped close to the
ears. He didn’t have time to grow it out.

However, he could rid himself of something
his forefather hadn’t possessed. Chest hair. Although his was
sparse and only traveled from nipple to nipple and down the center
of his belly, Olm felt it was a barrier between him and the great
warriors in his linage. He didn’t want anything to hinder what the
great Tirawa would send his way.

Once his shirt was completely unbuttoned, Olm
shrugged it off his shoulders, and hung it neatly on the hook
behind the bathroom door. Then he took a bar of soap that sat at
the corner of the sink, turned on the faucet, wet the soap and
began to lather his chest.

He grimaced as his fingers moved over his
left breast and the bruise that sat just below his left nipple,
where he’d been bitten. Another bruise, this one the size of a
baseball, marked the upper part of his right arm. The surprise
attack in the truck, the bites and bruises, were a small price to
pay. A man headed for greatness should be willing to give his all,
no matter what. And he was willing. He would have gladly offered
his entire right arm if it had been required of him. Bruises were
nothing, almost shamefully insignificant for what he would soon be
given. By ten o’clock tonight, he would possess power not yet
experienced by any other man on earth.

With his chest now completely lathered, Olm
rinsed his hands, grabbed a disposable razor and held it poised at
his chest.

“You have done well,” he murmured. “You have
performed better than expected, holding patient, determined. It’s
no wonder you were favored and chosen.”

With that, Olm ran the razor down the center
of his chest. When he reached his navel, he rinsed the hair and
soap off the blade, then aimed for another strip of hair.

“Did you see, Tirawa? Did you see the fear in
the children’s eyes when I was last with them?” Olm spoke softly,
as if the great deity were sitting behind him on the toilet,
listening. “Even without the help of all the great leaders that
came before me, I was able to build an altar of terror for you in
these children such as you’ve never seen. If this is indeed what
feeds you, Great God of the Universe, Creator, Leader of the
Morning and Evening star, then certainly you must already be
pleased with my efforts. Certainly, you find me worthy.”

With half of his chest free of hair, Olm
stood a moment and contemplated what the great deity might look
like. Did Tirawa possess the eyes of a wolf, cunning, sharp,
ever-seeing? Did he have the ears of a fox, so keen they could pick
up the sound of a feather floating its way to the ground? Were his
limbs like that of the bear, massive, destructive, and powerful?
And did he boast the wings of an eagle, able to soar up into the
heavens, then swoop down on his prey?

It excited him to think that Tirawa might
grace him with a physical presence, appear before him to personally
place upon his shoulders the mantle of supreme power. An extra
reward for all the work he’d done over the last few days, all of it
geared towards this purpose. There was no way Tirawa could turn his
back on him now, not when he’d exemplified such devotion and
meticulous work. In fact, was it not Tirawa’s hand that had stayed
his own from ending the lives of the children too early? Before the
apex of the full moon? In his exuberance and enthusiasm, he’d
almost been swept away, bringing about their deaths far too
soon.

Another swipe of the razor—more hair
gone—another rinse of the blade—another run, this one, the last
one, from nipple to nipple.

Smoothing a hand over his chest, Olm smiled
at the slick, hairless feel of his body. In the mirror, he no
longer saw the face of an average man. The Olm before him had a
strong jaw, prominent brow. He envisioned himself standing around a
campfire in full, brilliant headdress, felt the heat of a fire
against his skin, heard the first beat of a ceremonial drum.

Olm dropped the razor and lifted his arms up
high, his feet already beginning a steady
thump- thump,
thump—thump
in time with the drums. Then, in the distance, like
a cloud of smoke suddenly forced his way by a mighty wind, he heard
the cry of a thousand men, medicine men, warriors, priests. They
whooped and clicked their tongue, proclaiming in unison the start
of the Spirit Dance.

“
Hey-nah-hahna-hey-nah-hey
.
Untah-atah-atah-a
.
Oonah-untah-hey-nah-hey
.
Hey-nah-hey. Hey-nah-hey.
”

The chanting grew louder, louder still, and
soon Olm was prancing in place in front of the sink. Back and
forth, in a circle, watching his chest slick with water as he moved
in and out of view in the mirror. The roar of the fire he’d
imagined seemed to be roaring in his blood now, boiling it,
infusing it with adrenaline. He felt weightless as his feet pounded
the floor in rhythm to the chant.

“
Hey-nah-hahna-hey-nah-hey
.
Untah-atah-atah-a
.
Oonah-untah-hey-nah-hey
.
Hey-nah-hey. Hey-nah-hey.
”

Olm wanted to
feel
the chant, wanted
to feel the drums in his soul. Wanted to
be
the beat. Wanted
to be one with Tirawa so his own spirit would dance the Spirit
Dance on the floors of heaven. Wanted to see the Tirawa, touch the
headdress of the mighty warrior.

Oh, yes, what he planned to offer this very
night would be the greatest sacrifice of all time, in all the
history of his people. For generations to come, the name Olm would
be remembered, revered.
He
would be known as the Great
Warrior, the mortal man who’d touched the priestly dress of the
mighty Tirawa. His name would be synonymous with that of Tirawa,
for he would be considered mighty, too.

So much to do, so much. He wanted to make
sure that the climax of the sacrifice tonight would be the greatest
tribute that Tirawa had ever known.