Dark Paradise (28 page)

George barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Get together? Mala, we went on a few dates over Thanksgiving break last year. That's all. I didn't have time for much more than that. After break was over, she went back to Loyola. We kept in touch for a few weeks, and then one day, she stopped returning my texts.”

“Did you ever find out why?”

“No, I didn't care. It wasn't like she broke my heart or anything.”

“Maybe you broke hers, prick,” I say.

George frowns.

“Lainey changed into a self-destructive bitch last year. She went from caring about herself and her family to the person she became before she died. Whatever messed her up happened right after the two of you hooked up.” My fists clench, and I stalk toward him. “I don't know what you did to her, George, but you—”

Mala grabs my arm. “Landry, you said Lainey never told you what happened.”

“She didn't.” I tip my chin in George's direction. “But I bet he knows more than he's saying. He can't be as perfect as he seems.”

“Fuck you, Landry!” George snarls. He gets into his SUV and slams the door.

Mala shakes her head and winces. Her hand goes to her cheek. “Sorry. I wouldn't dump this on you if I didn't have to pick Mama up from the hospital.” She holds out the cardboard box that started all the trouble. “I found Lainey's diary. It's stashed in this box of goodies, along with everything else that she left at the motel.”

I snatch the box from her hands. “Seriously?
Now
you're telling—”

“
Shh
, this is why I didn't say anything in front of George. Play it cool.” Mala's voice lowers. “See if she mentions her boyfriend. If not, then at least try to figure out how many months along she was in her pregnancy because the baby, uh, fetus in the vision didn't look fully developed. He could've been conceived in late November.”

Worry pinches her eyes when she glances at George, and my stomach tightens into a knot. I don't want her to leave with him. It feels like I'll never see her again.
Crazy.
“Call me tonight or I'll call you.” My voice grows hoarse. “Mala, I…”

Suddenly she's beside me. “Don't worry. We're due for some good juju, and I bet the diary holds the answers.”

M
ama waits in a wheelchair by the hospital entrance. Her suitcase sits at her feet. “What took so long?” she yells as I park the truck in the loading zone.

“I'm sorry, boy drama.”

I throw her bag in the truck bed then help Mama into the passenger seat. Her swollen nose scrunches up. “Is that cologne I smell?”

“Don't know how you can smell anything.”

“Maybe 'cause it's strong enough to knock out a full-grown black bear.” She waves her hand in the air. “Tell that boy you're seein' that he don't need to use half a bottle unless he's tryin' to kill the girl he's wooin'.”

She leans her head back against the seat and closes her eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

“Hush up,” she says drowsily. “Let me sleep. I'm all worn out from being in that hospital. I swear, the spirits hauntin' that place are persistent. Kept bargin' into my room askin' me to give this or that message to their loved ones, like I got the U.S. Postal Service stamped on my forehead.”

“I felt them when I visited. They gave me the willies.”

“Wait until I die. Then you'll be able to
see
and
hear
them too.” She reaches out and turns up the radio station, effectively cutting off any further attempt at conversation. She dozes fitfully for the rest of the drive, occasionally letting out a soft whimper when we drive over a rut.

I run through the list of questions I want to ask her about the man she tried to blackmail. Who was he? What did she have on him that he so desperately wanted to keep quiet? What would she think about the vision I had of Lainey's baby? But I keep quiet and let her sleep. We'll have time to talk later.

That strange prickle of premonition I've been getting since finding Lainey starts up again when we turn onto the road leading to the house. With each revolution of the tires, it grows. By the time we reach the house, I can barely keep the truck on the road. The steering wheel feels slick with sweat beneath my palms. When I see the house, I slam my foot down on the brakes.

Mama jerks forward, the seat belt keeping her from striking her head on the dash. “What?” she mumbles.

I throw open the door and run. Rolls of toilet paper drape the trees in the front yard. My flowerpots have been smashed to pieces, and the remains of my geraniums litter the front porch. The words “WHORE” and “WITCH” have been sprayed onto the side of the house in bloodred paint.

“Look what they did,” I scream, spinning in a circle. “Mama, look what they did!” I kick a broken ceramic shard across the lawn. “I hate them!”

“Who, baby?” Mama asks calmly. She limps down the driveway, barely looking at the mess. “No point getting upset. What's done can't be undone. It'll just give you a tummy ache bein' so fired up. Help me into the house.”

I glare at her. “Fired up…tummy ache? Are you seeing what I'm seeing? They trashed our house!”

“Yep, did a fine job of it too.”

“I swear, when I figure out who did this, they will pay.”

“Mala, do you see I'm about to pass out? I can't climb these stairs. Help me.” She sticks out her hand. “Come on,
cher
. I know you can't hold onto a grudge for long. Let it go.”

I take her arm and help her up the stairs. The front door is unlocked.

“Stay here while I check out the inside.”

For once, Mama doesn't argue. She sits in the rocking chair, kicks out her legs, and closes her eyes.

I take a deep breath and slowly push open the door. I pull out the baseball bat we keep in the umbrella stand for protection and heft it, ready to knock someone senseless. I focus on slowing my ragged breathing and strain to hear a rustle, a footstep—nothing. Each room I enter has been systematically ransacked as if whoever broke in was looking for something in particular, but what—

Crap on toast—Lainey's box.

With a sigh, I go back to the porch and bring Mama inside. I help her change into a comfy nightgown and get into bed. Then I place a call to Ms. Dixie. She says she'll have George stop by once he comes on duty tonight. I dread seeing him. What if he's the guy who impregnated Lainey? I don't want to think it's him, but the timing makes sense. How do I ask my friend if he's a murderer?

As darkness falls, I lie in the hammock on the back porch. Caressed by the warm breeze, I drift between sleep and waking, surrounded by the scent of honeysuckle. I dangle a leg over the edge, and whenever the rocking slows, I give a little kick to set it back in motion. My eyes flutter open to fall on the waving mosquito netting.

I ignore the whisper, at first confusing the voice with the sound of rustling leaves. A cold patch of air settles on my skin, like a hand lain on my arm in warning. Goose bumps prick. I open my eyes to see a shadowed face inches from my own. I had left a citronella candle burning on the table, and its light falls across the guy's burned face, reflecting the full horror of the raw scars. My chest tightens, squeezing off my breath so I can't scream. He presses icy fingers to my lips.

“It's time,” he whispers. “They're coming. Are you ready?”

I shake my head, unable to move my numb lips to form an answer.
Who's coming?
I think frantically, but I already know. Something terrible approaches. I can't stop it. I can only hide and pray it doesn't find me.
I'm not ready.

His head drops as if he hears my thoughts. “Too late now. Wake up!” He punctuates the order with a hard slap on the edge of the hammock. I roll off the side, hitting the floor hard. I ignore the pain of landing flat on my back and push to my feet. My legs shake so badly that I almost lose my balance, and I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.

Voices echo in the yard, growing louder as they move closer, and I know, without a shadow of doubt, that danger surrounds my house. No one comes into the middle of the swamp. Not unless they're up to no good. Only poachers, scallywags, and murderers hiding bodies—like Lainey Prince's.
Oh crap, he's coming for us.

I tiptoe toward the kitchen door. Each time the floor creaks, I wince, sure that I'll be heard. My hand trembles when I reach for the knob, but before I can open it, the handle's wrenched from my grasp. I fall back, sucking in air to scream, but Mama jerks me into her embrace and presses my face into her shoulder.

“Quiet,” she whispers in my ear. She pulls my hand from where it clutches at her white cotton nightgown and presses a metal object into my palm. “Run, Mala. Hide in the woods. Don't let them catch you.”

“W-w-why?” I shake my head, so confused I can't think clearly. The stink of her fear fills my nose. “Come with me.”

“Can't. They're here for me. If they don't find me, they'll come looking and catch us both. I dreamed this, baby. I told you about my dream. The fire…darkness. Oh, sweet Jesus, I'm so scared.” She pulls me tight. So tight I can't breathe. Then she pushes me back. “I love you, baby. I never showed it much, but I do. Hurry. Go before they get too close.”

I step toward her, but she steps back. A crash of breaking glass comes from the living room window. Mama spins with a scream. The Molotov cocktail lands on our sofa, but the bottle doesn't break. Flames from the gasoline-soaked cloth set the couch on fire, spreading faster than I can blink.

“No! Not the house,” Mama cries, running across the room. I shove forward, but the cold spot hovering around my body grows colder. An invisible force thrusts me backward, and the door slams in my face. The doorknob twists in my hand. It's not locked.
He's
keeping me out. My hand lifts to strike the door, but I clench it at my side. I want to scream and yell. To pound until she listens and comes with me, but I don't. I can't freak out. I have to stay calm. Think rationally. If those men hear me, I won't be able to do anything to help her.

I can do this. I'm ready. I can save her.

The voices from the front of the property become more distinct. Angry male voices that don't try to hide or disguise the anger and hate that colors their words. Footsteps clomp up the front steps, and then a bang on the front door. Loud, echoing thuds send a shiver through my body each time the fist slams into the rotten wood.

I shove the switchblade Mama gave me into my front pocket, then raise my hand and press it against the back door, focusing. Magic is like breath for a LaCroix. Air enters, power exits. The door splinters, fracturing down the middle with a crack like a gunshot, then explodes inward, piercing the far wall with jagged pieces. Relief floods through me when I see the empty kitchen. If Mama had been standing in front of the door when it burst, she would've been impaled. Thick smoke rushes toward the door.

Mama screams from farther inside the house. I run inside, pulling the neck of my T-shirt up to protect my mouth and nose from the fumes. My eyes burn, watering. A sliver of wood digs into my right heel, but I ignore the pain. I peek around the doorway between the kitchen and living room. The remaining glass in the broken front window flickers with the glow of torches. I bite my lip to keep from shrieking when I see the three men, dressed in black deacon's robes with hooded masks over their faces, run up onto the porch. They hold rifles in their arms.

Mama ignores the pounding on the door, too busy using a blanket to smother the flames burning on the sofa. She gets the fire on the sofa out but still holds the burning blanket. The man in charge must get tired of waiting for Mama to open the door because I hear a loud
bang
against the wood.

“Leave it, Mama,” I yell, waving for her to come to me.

She drops the blanket and stares at me with wide eyes. “Baby, no! Get out!”

I choke on the fumes. They're burning my lungs. But worse, the blanket ignites her nightgown. Mama's on fire when I run to her. I stomp on the blanket, smothering the flames, then pick up the tatters to use it to put her out. Every time I grab for her, she shoves me backward. I trip over something on the ground, I can't see what. Another
bang
from outside and the lock on the front door pops. Two masked men run inside. I scramble beneath the table, curling into a ball. They pass by, close enough I can grab their feet, but I can't move. I'm a frozen, quivering coward who watches them drag Mama across the room.

Mama wails. The sound crawls up my back and settles in the base of my brain. She keeps screaming as they drag her onto the porch. I crawl toward the door, staying low to the ground. My lungs are burning from the smoke. I try to yell for them to stop, but I can't do more than cough. She looks so small and fragile as they hold her effortlessly between them. Seeing her twist and kick in her struggle to free herself obliterates all rational thought from my mind.

A rush of steps comes from behind just as I lunge toward the door. A hand clamps down over my mouth and nose, and I'm dragged back against a sweaty chest. I struggle, pulling at the hand around my waist, but the man locks me tight in his embrace. I kick, trying to free myself, but the arm squeezes tighter. I'm dizzy. I hang in his arms while he carries me out through the kitchen door. He pauses at the side of the house, then angles his run through the side yard, heading toward the path through the woods that leads to the main road.

He's leaving Mama behind. I've got to go back.

I buck, trying to break the grip around my waist. The guy loses his balance and falls to his knees. His hand drops from my mouth. I inhale a deep breath of fresh air and erupt into a coughing fit.

It hurts to breathe, but I still try to speak, “Who—”

His hand covers my mouth again. I twist my head, trying to break free.

Mama screams again, and I freeze.

What have they done?

The front yard glows with the light from the pyre burning in my front yard. Mama struggles and twists against the ropes tying her to a wooden cross planted in my flower garden. She screams and screams. The flames engulf her nightgown. Her hair catches. I have to get to her before it's too late. They're burning Mama alive.

The hands holding me loosen. I lunge forward, breaking his grip, and run toward the pyre. If I can get to the water hose, I can put the fire out. The man grabs my foot and drags me back. Fury races through me. I dig the switchblade out of my pocket and slash at the silhouette of the guy's face. Blood drenches my hand like a sticky, wet glove. He stumbles back, crying out, and joy at causing him pain rushes through me. All this time I had a weapon. Only I'd forgotten.

I lunge forward, slamming into his chest. He falls back with a cry while I straddle him. I strike with the knife again, aiming for his heart.

Pain whips my head back. The impact of the bullet creasing my scalp spins me sideways. The guy I almost killed shoves me off of his chest with a bloody hand. He crawls away, whimpering. I start to go after him when another gunshot echoes through the trees. I scream and lurch to my feet, wheeling my arms to keep from falling. The heat of another bullet skims past my thigh, and I take off into the thick underbrush.

Voices follow, and the cries of the man who grabbed me from my house and kept me from saving Mama. I hope he dies. I hope I cut deep. Sobs well up and pour out, making it difficult to breathe. Moonlight barely penetrates the thick canopy of Spanish moss overhead. I run on instinct. I've traversed this section of the forest enough times to know it by heart, but I still trip on fallen logs. Branches scrape the skin from my arms and legs.

I veer off the main trail into the swampy area—the Black Hole. The ground turns spongy beneath my bare feet, and I slow my steps. I move carefully. Pockets of quicksand hide beneath what appears to be solid earth. I know what signs to avoid during the day, but at night…I'm not confident I can get through this area safely.

The sound of a man cursing and bushes thrashing comes from behind me. The man who gives chase uses a flashlight that he swings in a wide arc over the ground. I hide behind a tree, just ahead of the light, and huddle against the broad base. I focus on slowing my harsh breaths so he won't hear me and peek around the trunk. He squats and touches his fingers to a leaf, then brings them to his nose and sniffs. He's tracking me like he'd hunt a wounded deer—by blood. I'm bleeding? Now I feel pain.