Dark Paradise (9 page)

B
essie hustles me out to the car.

I check the parking lot for Landry's truck. It's gone. His mama left him. She shouldn't be driving in her condition. Then again, neither should he. I should've stayed to be sure he's okay. I feel even worse for him now after seeing his mama in action. I sigh, staring out the window. The town fades to be replaced by fields of sugarcane, then woodland. “Hey, Bessie. I thought we were going to the station.”

Bessie grips the steering wheel. “I want you to go home and get some rest before you collapse. I'll get your statement tomorrow.”

I sigh, leaning my head against the seat. I'm too exhausted to argue. The last thing I want to do is spend hours talking about how I found Lainey. “I'm working with Dixie tomorrow. I'll give you my official statement afterward.” I chew on my lip, then blurt out, “So, what's really going on, Bessie? And don't tell me ‘nothing.' Not after what just happened. This isn't a normal case, is it?”

“It's turning out to be more than I bargained for,” Bessie says, turning on the air conditioner.

Lukewarm air hits me in the face, and I adjust the vents onto my sweaty body. “It's more than just Mrs. Prince?”

“I shouldn't be talking to you about this, but I think it may affect you in the long run.” She sighs. “I'm afraid Reverend Prince will stir up trouble once the autopsy results are in. The man has some beliefs that I don't hold with.”

“What kind of beliefs?”

“Nothing worth repeating, but we've gone rounds about it in the past.”

“So you're not besties?”

“Not even close. He prefers that I don't have dealings with him or his family. And after what just happened with his wife, I don't expect things to get any better.” She glances at me. “The sheriff put George nominally in charge of the investigation.”

My mouth drops open, and I force it closed. “But he's a rookie.”

“Yeah, but he's the face of the investigation. He still comes through me for everything important, but he'll pass along information to the family.”

“So, is it the fact that you're black or a woman that the good reverend finds unforgivable?”

Bessie shrugs. “Who the hell knows? I bet both. Mala, you should've seen his wife before today. I met her a few times doing charity work. A more broken, spineless creature I've never seen. Poor thing never spoke above a whisper. I tell you, seeing her charge into the morgue so filled with grief and rage—and dragging her son in with her. It shocked me.”

Mrs. Prince shocked me too. Should I tell Bessie how the woman beat on Landry? I've never told anyone about Mama slapping me upside the head. I've made excuses for her my whole life. What if I'm doing the same thing for Mrs. Prince, excusing her behavior due to grief, when maybe the public face of a cowed, submissive woman hides the true, hateful woman inside?

The scent of roses blows out of the air conditioner. I turn the vent toward Bessie, shivering.

“What's Landry like?” I ask.

Bessie cuts a sideways glance in my direction. “Oh, I don't know. I've never had contact with him before today. The whole situation must be pretty traumatic for him.” Bessie casts a sideways glance in my direction. “The two of you seem pretty close.”

“No, no, I felt sorry for him is all.” I wave my hand. “I've never talked to him before today either, that's why I asked.”

“Hmm, well. Best you stay away from him. I've kept your part in finding the body from the family. So don't go blurting out the truth. If Landry's inherited his pa's disagreeable streak, it could go bad for you.”

I close my eyes and picture the face that resembles his sister's—masculine features instead of Lainey's soft beauty. The same black hair hiding tortured gray eyes, instead of blue, that couldn't tear his gaze away from his sister's body. Landry should've been angry. He should've been cursing God, fate, his mama for bringing him to the morgue, his sister for dying, and me for intruding on his grief, but he didn't. I felt gentleness in Landry…he made me want to protect him. I'm not sure how. Or why? But I don't think Landry would hurt me—even knowing the truth about me finding his sister.

If I hadn't promised Bessie, I would've spewed my guts to him. Maybe it's good she made me swear to keep my mouth shut. Landry's parents sound like they're judgmental and unpredictable people, the kind who give good Christians a bad name by manipulating scripture to justify their evil ways. As their son, he'd be obligated to tell them about me if he knew.

Mama's truck is gone when I arrive home, a relief and a worry at the same time. I can't help but think about her death vision. How much of the events playing out in the Prince household have to do with her? She seems to feel that the girl's death and hers are tied.

The fire burns high. I stare into the flames, mesmerized by the flickering colors. Orange, green, and yellow all blending together. Sparks dance in the air, swirling in the warm wind. Shadows gyrate at the edge of the light—amorphous shapes without form, but alive with an energy that makes my skin tingle. I sway from side to side, my feet lift, and my arms stretch up to the night sky. With fingers splayed wide, I shift my weight, first to one leg and then the other. The breeze blows across my palms, wetting my skin with dew. I dance.

My movements are slow at first, then pick up speed to the pulsing rhythm. Bullfrogs croak, crickets scratch their legs in a whistling tune. An owl hoots, signaling death. And I spin, circling the oak tree, my fingers caressing the knobby bark. The wind blows hair away from my face, and my heart pounds in tune with the natural world around me.

I whirl faster and faster until I can't breathe, but I don't care.

From the corner of my eye, I see a flicker of blue. Bare white legs dance. The girl's blue dress swirls around her ankles and floats into the air when she kicks her feet. Black, thick, straight hair blends with the darkness that shrouds the girl's features—all but her blue eyes, which reflect the light of the fire. She stretches out a hand and beckons with her long fingers. Laughing.

I laugh with her. Her joy is so infectious that she draws me to her. I skip toward the fire, heedless of the heat or the flames that set my nightgown ablaze. Her hand beckons again, and I reach for it. Then notice I'm burning.

I jerk upright, slapping at my nightgown. Panic fills me, and I breathe in tainted air that tastes of smoke. The smell saturates my hair. Sweat plasters my nightgown to my skin. I thrash beneath the blanket wrapped around my legs, trapping me.

The soldier sitting on the floor at the foot of my bed has a stripped machine gun between his outstretched legs. He keeps his helmeted head down, and his fingers swiftly clean and reassemble the rifle.

I pull the blanket up to my neck. “I thought you blew yourself up.”

He lifts the assembled rifle and sets the scope to his eye. “It's ready,” he says. “Are you sure you know what you're doing?”

I shrug. “Can't be too hard.”

“Got to know what you're aiming for.” His head turns. The skin has burnt from his face, leaving a red ruin of muscle and bone. His lipless mouth stretches in a permanent smile. “If you miss, you're dead.” He points the barrel right between my eyes. “Only got one shot. Aim to kill, and shoot.” He pulls the trigger.

I wake with a scream and scramble from the bed. My foot slips in something slick, and I fall, which gives me a closer view of a pale, brown oil stain smeared on the hardwood floor. I touch it lightly, rubbing my fingers together.

Mama bursts into the room, wide-eyed with fear, with her nightgown flapping around her knees. When she sees me kneeling on the floor unhurt, her eyes narrow. “Girl, what're you about? Screamin' like that? You 'bout gave me a heart attack.”

“I saw…” The finger I point trembles. The oil stain on the wood and the one on my finger have vanished.

Mama presses her hand to her heart and stares inquisitively at the floor. “Somethin' startle you? A spider?”

Laughter bursts out, and it has a slightly hysterical pitch to it. I hug my arms around my stomach, giggling so hard that it hurts. Tears roll down my aching cheeks. I try to rein it in, but I can't. Raw, wild emotion rips out of me. Poor Mama stares at me in confusion, but I can't control my reaction. She sounds so disgusted at the thought of me screaming over a spider…good heavens, a spider is the least of my worries.

Mama's lips purse. “I take it that's a no?”

“No,” I wail then snort.

“So why'd you scream?”

“Oh, Mama, does it matter?” I stand up, still clutching my stomach as the muscles cramp. “I had a nightmare.”

“Humph, been havin' more than your share of bad dreams since you found that girl's body. Don't think I haven't felt you tossin' and turnin' at night.”

My mood shifts to anger lightning quick. Why does she have to ruin my morning by bringing up Lainey? I'm trying hard to forget. Her being nosy and acting like she cares only gives me a headache. “It's only been four days since I found Lainey. Not nearly long enough to get over the memory, especially with everyone weeping and wailing about the poor girl killing herself. Folks who probably never spoke to her while she lived are going on about how she was their best friend. It's total bull. If Lainey had all these friends that cared so much about her, why did she commit suicide?”

With each word I speak, my resentment grows. A bunch of hypocrites infest our town, and I despise them. “Do you think if I died they'd act like that? Or do you think it's because she's the daughter of the reverend and sister to their star quarterback?”

“Mala, it ain't like you to be so uncharitable.”

“I know.” I wipe perspiration from my face then stare at how my hand trembles. “I've just been so out of sorts—getting angry over little things.” I sit on the edge of my bed and pull the blanket over my lap. Part of me wants to lie back down and go to sleep. But I'm afraid I'll dream again. “I just want this week to be over.”

“I think what's goin' on with you is stronger than just feelin' sad. I know you don't believe in the Sight, but—”

“Leave it, Mama,” I snap, shoving the blanket back. “I don't want to hear any more mumbo jumbo about spirits.”

Mama crouches down in front of me and places her hands on the sides of my face. I try to pull back, but her hands grip my head. “Tell me about your dreams.” She removes her hands and places them on my knees. “Remember any of the details?”

“No, and I'm glad! Once I wake up, the nightmares get hazy, and the details fade. All I know is that I'm afraid. That I'm being warned something bad is coming, and I've got to be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“I don't know or care.” I shiver. “I think all your death talk messed with my head.”

“You're treadin' a slippery slope, Mala Jean. Haunts won't go away simply by pretendin' they don't exist, but the more credence you give to them, the more they take advantage and worm their way into your thoughts. Soon you can't get rid of them.”

“My brain's not infected by parasitic ghosts. They're dreams. Bad dreams. But it's normal to have nightmares. That's human nature, not haunts.” Tension tightens my shoulders. Mama's voice grates on my nerves. I'm sick of talking about death, of spirits or her stupid vision, of how helpless we are. I glance at the clock and gasp. “Shoot, I overslept. I've got to get ready for work.”

Mama stretches her arms around my waist and holds on. “Munchies or BPSO?”

“Munchies.”

“Then bring me home a Reuben dog and a pint of butter pecan.”

“Hope you don't plan to eat that combo together.” I hug her tight. “I'm sorry if I've been grouchy.
Mo laimm twa.
”

“I know,” she whispers. “I love you too.”

The outside matches my insides. Thick gray clouds cover the sun, and a cold rain bounces off my canary yellow rubber raincoat. The walk to the bus stop takes fifteen minutes. Even layered up, I'll get wet since my umbrella blows into a tree the minute I step off the porch. I run for the woods, pushing aside wet branches until the thick leaves overhead shelter me from the downpour.

If I hadn't been so annoyed with Mama, I would've put aside my pride and begged for a ride to the crossroads where the transit bus would pick me up. The steady drum of pelting rain muffles my footsteps. I miss the hush that usually comforts me. Today I'm on edge, nervous. Like some predatory critter hides in the bushes watching me, but I can't see it. The hairs rise on the back of my neck, and a nervous energy has me practically running despite the ankle-deep mud that tries to suck off my boots.

Halfway to the bus stop, the rain slows to a low drizzle. I pause.

Footsteps. Their pace matches mine. First one foot then another, two, not four paws. My heart stumbles in my chest, then races. I hold my breath, straining to hear what direction the steps come from, but the rain distorts sound. It comes from in front, the side. I spin to squint behind me. The empty path stretches back toward home. I'm tempted to go back. The woods look like an oversaturated watercolor painting. Colors blend together, faded and hazy. Bushes and trees in the distance blur to melt into a glob of varying shades of green and brown. I can't tell if what I sense is real or the remnants of my earlier nightmare bleeding over into reality.

I can't pretend everything is okay when I know it's not.

“Who's there?” I yell.

The crack of a snapping twig is followed by a muffled curse. I let out a high-pitched scream and spin in the direction of the noise. A flash of red in the distance darts behind a bush.