Water Witch (8 page)

“Yeah, leave me be,” Pork Chop agreed. “Ain’t
none of your bid’ ness, anyway, Poochie. You ain’t my mama and you
ain’t my wife.” He popped the top on the can, pulled long and hard
on the contents, then let out a belch that sent beer and garlic
fumes wafting our way.

Even in the gloom of the bar, I saw Poochie’s
face darken. “No, thank de good Lord dat I’m not you mama.”

Porkchop snorted and took another hefty swig
from the can.

When he came up for air, Poochie held out a
hand. “Lemme see dat.”

“I thought you were all fired set to show us
somethin’,” Sook said.

Poochie ignored her and waggled the fingers
of her extended hand impatiently. “I said lemme see.”

“What?” Porkchop asked.

“Dat can.”

“How come?”

“Something’s on it.”

Frowning, Porkchop examined the beer can.
“No, there ain’t.”

“Yeah, dere is. I’m gonna show you.”

“Where?” He leaned towards her, holding out
the can of beer.

“See?”

“I don’t see nothin’.”

“It’s right . . . dere!” At the word there,
Poochie backhanded the can out of his hand, and it went sailing
across the room, beer splattering across the wooden floor in an
arc. The can hit the floor with a loud
thunk
, then rolled
out of sight.

“Hey! What the hell’d you do that for?” Pork
Chop shouted.
“Talk sass to me again and see what else you gonna get,” Poochie
yelled back.

Just then, Vern appeared in a doorway behind
the bar. “What’s goin’ on out here?”

Poochie harrumphed. “Just Pork Chop actin’ de
donkey. Go get de mop so he can clean up dis mess.” With that, she
revved up her scooter and headed for the back of the room and a
door that stood open about fifty feet way.

Porkchop sat open-mouthed, watching her, the
fingers of his right hand still curled as if holding a beer
can.

A deep laugh suddenly erupted from a dark
corner of the room, startling me. Evidently, I wasn’t the only one
surprised, because Angelle grabbed hold of my left arm, and Sook
gasped and slapped a hand to her chest.

“Lord, Cherokee!” Sook said. “You dang near
scared the earwax out of me. You got to start wearin’ somethin’
other than black, sugah. I didn’t even see you sittin’ over
there.”

I heard chair legs screech against the floor
and squinted to get a better look at the man getting to his feet
from behind a small table. He looked to be in his early forties,
and his body unfurled to at least six foot two. He sported a Van
Dyke, wore a black Stetson low over his brow, and a long black
leather coat over black clothes. “Sorry, about that, Sook.” His
voice reminded me of fine leather, rugged yet soft.

“I thought you was goin’ out with Leon and
Mark to hunt for them kids,” Sook said.

“Already been and come back.” He stuck a hand
in the right front pocket of his pants, pulled out a few dollars,
and dropped them on the table.

“Any luck?” Angelle asked, releasing my
arm.

Cherokee shook his head, then the Stetson
slowly turned in my direction. In that moment, Poochie saved me
from further scrutiny.

“
G-53
!”

We all turned in time to see Poochie’s
scooter bop over the backdoor threshold like it was a speed
bump.

“Where the hell you goin’, Pooch?” Vern
called after her.

“To de pier!” she yelled back.

“Whoa, hold up!” Sook took off after the old
woman, the bun on her head bobbling as she went, her shorts
flapping around spider-veined legs. “That old pier’s on its last
leg. You’re gonna wind up in the water if you’re not careful!”

Everyone hurried after Sook, Pork Chop taking
the lead.

“Jesus,” Angelle said, darting past me. “Does
that woman
ever
stop?”

By the time we all made it outside, Sook was
standing near the edge of a dilapidated porch, hanging onto the
rear wheel lip of the scooter, trying to keep Poochie from going
down the rickety-looking pier that butted up against the porch.
“Would you stop already?”

Poochie waved a hand, motioning towards the
end of the pier. “Go then! Go look. I seen it from out de window in
de storeroom.”

Without a word, Vern headed down the pier.
Porkchop followed him, as did Mr. Stetson, whose angular face,
black eyes, and high cheekbones were finally revealed in the
sunlight. The rest of us took up the rear.

When Vern and Pork Chop reached the end of
the pier, Pork Chop let out a low whistle. “Holy shit-eaten
crackers.”

“What is it?” Angelle asked.

“Looks like Woodard’s cow,” Vern said. He
glanced back at us. “Stuck ‘tween them pilin’s. The head’s cut
clean off, and it’s gutted like a fish.”

“How do you know it’s his?” Sook asked.

“The W brand on the rump.”

At the end of the onlooker train was Poochie,
and she slapped her hands together. “You see, I tol’ y’all dat man
was cuckoo.”

I was about to ask Angelle what a preacher
was doing with a cow, when a sharp pain shot through my extra
finger. I bit my bottom lip to hold back a gasp and clutched my
left hand with my right. The finger pushed against my palm as if it
meant to force its way out of the glove and fold over backwards.
I’d never felt such pain from it before. It made me sick to my
stomach. It had pinched when I hunted for water, but this was way
beyond pinching. Not even close. The pain was so excruciating I
could barely draw a breath. I felt sweat trickle down the sides of
my face. Then Angelle’s face entered my line of sight, her eyes
filled with concern. I wanted to say, get me out of here, get me
somewhere else, now. Now! But I was afraid if I opened my mouth, a
scream would fall out.

“Hey, where’s everybody at?” someone called
from inside the bar.

“Out here, Beeno,” Sook shouted over her
shoulder.

A short stocky man dressed in a police
uniform appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on?”

“Dat tock-uh-lock preacher done cut off his
own cow’s head, dat’s what.” Poochie said.

Sook admonished her with a tsk. “We don’t
know that Preacher Woodard did this, Pooch.” She looked over at the
cop. “Just a dead cow, Beeno. Vern says it’s carryin’ the Woodard
brand.”

Pursing his lips, the cop stepped onto the
pier. He acknowledged me with a nod, and I returned it, working
hard to keep a grimace and whimper in check. It felt like someone
was trying to saw my extra finger off with a dull knife. As he drew
closer, the cop asked,“Who’re you?”

Before I could answer, Sook said, “Look at me
bein’ rude again and not introducin’ a one of y’all.” She waved a
hand in front of her face as though fanning away a fart, then
pointed to me. “That there’s Angelle’s sister, Dunny. She came all
the way from west Texas. Dunny, this here’s Beeno Leger, the deputy
in Bayou Crow. And that one there in the shrimp boots, that’s Pork
Chop, and the big one over there, that’s Cherokee.”

Afraid my teeth would chatter with pain if I
spoke, I nodded a greeting to each. I had to get out of here, had
to get away from the water and whatever was in it. Had to get
out—the pain—stomach starting to churn, knot up. It took every
ounce of willpower I had to keep myself calm, my expression
cordial. I didn’t want to attract any more attention than
necessary.

“Don’t talk much, huh?” Beeno said, his eyes
hard brown marbles rimmed with suspicion.

Angelle grabbed my right arm and gave it a
tug, signaling it was time to leave. “She’s just tired from
traveling and has a bad headache. We came straight here from the
airport, so the poor thing hasn’t had a moment to catch her breath.
I’m going to take her home now so she can rest.” She gave him a
quick smile, then tugged on my arm again. “We’ll be back to pick
you up at four-thirty, okay, Poochie?”

“Yeah.” Poochie’s eyes darted from my face to
my clutched hands back to my face. The sparkle in her green eyes
told me she knew the headache excuse was a crock, and she fully
intended to uncover the truth.

Uncover the truth . . .

The truth shall set you free . . .

Not always—not for everyone . . .

As those unbidden thoughts tumbled through my
mind, a horrible sense crept over me, making me shudder. Uncovering
truths in this place might very well mean the death of us all.

CHAPTER NINE

Angelle’s house was only three blocks away
from the Bloody Bucket, but even that short distance seemed to do
wonders for my finger. The pain had eased to a dull throb, and it
had finally stopped feeling like someone meant to saw it free from
my hand. Now that we were alone, I took off my gloves, tossed them
on the kitchen table and let out a huge sigh of relief. My hands
were wrinkled from having been stuck in their own personal sauna
for too long. It really
was
too hot for gloves here.

“Want a Coke?” Angelle asked.

“Nah, I’m good.”

Angelle headed for the fridge. “Don’t see how
you’re not thirsty. Heat’s different here than back home, don’t you
find? Out there dehydration sneaks up on you because the humidity’s
so low. Here it just smacks you in the face. I’m thirsty all the
time. Gotta drink more water, though. You know what they say about
too many Cokes . . .”

It was the first time she’d spoken since we
left the bar. I knew my sister, knew she was holding back an
avalanche and was using small talk as a way to gather her thoughts.
I also knew from experience that it was best to wait and let her
drop the first rock. I pulled out a chair, sat at the table and
began massaging my extra finger. Starting at the knuckle that met
my hand, I pressed and kneaded, working my way up to the fingertip.
The exercise relaxed me, centered me—readied me.

As Angelle busied herself with ice and a
soda, I took in her kitchen—the pale blue wallpaper, the white lace
curtains over the window, the miniature tea kettles arranged just
so on a display shelf near the stove, two wicker baskets
overflowing with ivy on the counter, and a clock in the shape of a
rooster on the wall straight ahead. Angelle always did have a knack
for warm and homey. A room left to my care was typically shit out
of luck, getting stuck with same ‘ol, same ol, like wall-mounted
telephones and outdated pantries. Oddly, though, as bright and cozy
as Angelle’s house appeared to the eye, there was heaviness in the
air. The kind of heaviness that usually followed a person through a
funeral home during a wake.

“I like your house,” I said, for lack of
anything else to say.

Angelle joined me at the table, Coke in hand.
“Thanks.” She settled into her chair, then popped the top on the
can and took a sip of soda. It seemed to take her forever to
swallow. When she finally did, she set the drink on the table and
wrapped the fingers of both hands around the can. “What happened to
you back at the Bucket? Did you pick up on the kids?”

“I really don’t know what happened. A lot of
pain. Stuff I’ve never felt before. I didn’t get a bead on the kids
at all.” I massaged my finger again, but the exercise no longer
relaxed me.

“I saw how much you were hurting. You had to
have picked up on something.”

I gave up on the massage therapy, crossed my
arms and settled them on the table, remembering the fear that had
overwhelmed me, the fear about uncovering truths.I didn’t want to
frighten her by trying to explain something I didn’t understand
myself. “Yeah, there was something. I’m just not sure what.” I
fought to keep my voice steady, reassuring. “Look, why don’t you
tell me what’s been going on? Maybe that will help me make sense
out of what happened back at the pier.”

Angelle bit her upper lip, glanced over at
the stove, then towards the archway that led to the living room
where we’d entered the house. When she looked back at me, I saw
anxiety flicker in her eyes. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

I grinned and tried to lighten the mood.
“Girl, I’ve known you were crazy since we were kids.”

The attempt at humor didn’t work. Instead of
laughing, my sister’s eyes welled up with tears. Feeling like an
insensitive asshole, I quickly reached across the table and placed
a hand over one of her hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“You know, me asking you to come here wasn’t
all about Sarah and Nicky.” Angelle glanced over at the stove
again, and I waited for her to continue, my stomach doing a slow
roll. “It . . . it started about two and a half, three weeks ago,
about the same time Poochie moved in here. I was . . . I was
cooking supper, right there at that stove when it . . . it touched
me the first time.”

The hair on my arms jumped to attention.
“When what touched you?”

“I don’t know what it was.”

I stared at her, waiting, suddenly fearful of
what she had to say. When a long, silent moment grew into two, I
prodded gently. “I don’t understand.”

“It . . . my . . .my . . .” She wouldn’t look
me in the eyes, and her cheeks flushed bright pink. “Something
pinched my right breast . . .
h
ard
.”

I sat back, startled by her words.
“What?”

Angelle nodded.“And there was nobody in here
but me. Trevor wasn’t home; he was out running crawfish traps.
Poochie was in her room at the other end of the house.” She drew in
a shuddering breath and finally looked at me. “I was by myself,
Dunny.”

I gaped, then quickly scrambled for composure
so she wouldn’t be afraid to tell me more, even though a part of me
didn’t want her to. There had to be a logical explanation. Had to
be. “Could you maybe have just pinched yourself while stirring
something? Under wire in your bra maybe, or—”

“No!” She sobbed and pushed the soda away
from her. The can bobbled, and I scooped it up before it toppled
over. “Because it happened twice more, same place. And . . . and on
the other side, my other breast. Then . . .uh . . .a little later,
I felt something try to . . .try to . . .” She glanced at the stove
again, then leaned closer to me, the tears on her cheeks fat and
constant, and whispered. “Something tried to get between my
legs.”