Death's Excellent Vacation (17 page)

“Oh my God, this is insane!” Nora said. “In-freaking-sane. I had an entire conversation with her. She said he came to the door, she was afraid of him, she could see him at the door, she said hello to him . . .”

Annie shook her head.

Nora grabbed her, shook her. Annie seemed limp, like a cast-aside rag doll. Peert pulled Nora’s hands from Annie’s throat.

FOUR in the morning. Nora lay dozing. The echoes of the past hours: the real fear in Annie’s voice, the blame in the Kirks’ accusations, the staring disbelief of that traitor Molly, the dazed surprise of Annie in real life. There were talks of charges to be brought, of a lawsuit by the Kirks. The network brass fumed; Nora knew, in her lawyer’s readiness, that she was going to be burned by this, very badly.

And all she’d tried to do was to bring a boy home, safe and sound.

A breeze poured in from the open balcony window. She was on the top floor of the Hotel Sint Pieter, where she belonged, and having drunk half the minibar when she got back to her room, her body felt feverish from the alcohol. She got up; the cooling ocean breeze was a relief. She was groping toward the bathroom when Jason Kirk said, behind her, “You made it very hard for me.”

She froze. She shook her head, as if to settle her imagination back into its distant corner of her brain. Then he said the words again, and she spun in stark terror.

Jason Kirk stood on the balcony, kissed by moonlight. The wind ruffled his light hair slightly.

She tried to scream and she couldn’t. Oddest thing. She sank to her knees.

He said, in a voice barely louder than the ocean wind, “You keep telling people you will never forget, you will never stop looking. Safe and sound, right?” He shook his head. “I needed you to stop looking. Do you know how hard it’s been?”

Nora’s mouth worked. How had he gotten here? It wasn’t possible. Not possible.

He looked better than his photos and his videos. Handsome face, high cheekbones. Even in the broken moonlight he had dark eyes, pools of black that could let you fall into their depths.

“May we talk?”

Nora nodded, and he stepped into the room.

“You’re alive,” she said. “Oh my God. Jason, the
story
this will be.”

“There is no story. You would let it go on forever, or as long as you could use me. There is no story. I need for there to be no story.”

She hardly heard him, her mind spinning with possibilities and ramifications. “Listen, you have to come with me. Now. Let your parents see you . . .”

“You don’t see how cruel that would be? I have to be . . . dead to my mom and dad. I have to stay that way.”

“I don’t understand.” She groped for the lamp, clicked it on. “Were you at Annie’s house tonight?”

“The tasty little maid? Yes. She only remembers what I want her to. I won’t bother her again.” He took a step toward her. He wore old jeans, a worn soccer jersey, and a long low cap favored by Sint Pieter toughs. Like clothes she’d seen on the neighbor’s clothesline at Annie’s house. “She played her part.”

“I don’t understand . . .”

“I wanted to draw you here, bait you with what you couldn’t resist. Me, on the verge of safe and sound. To bring you to me. Because you put my face everywhere, I couldn’t come to you to stop you. I couldn’t get near a boat or a plane or anything else. I needed you to come to me so we could have our chat.” He crossed his arms. “I need you to shut up about me, Nora.”

“I can . . . now that you’re found.” She nearly felt giddy. That little bitch Molly would be gone. The Kirks would see that she’d only meant the best. And having broken this case open, having
personally
brought their son home, she would be the undisputed queen of cable news.

“I’m not found. It’s time for the world to forget about me. Move on to the next tragedy.”

“But I don’t understand.”

Jason smiled; there was something wrong with two of his teeth. Small, pointed, in the lush curve of his mouth.

Nora said, “Oh.”

“The woman who made me—she left me. She didn’t like the sudden attention. She came to Sint Pieter to feed. She liked me so she left me . . . like she is. Not just dead. But you put my picture everywhere, you talked about me nonstop, I had to hide in the hills, far away. Live on rats, stray cats, rabbits. It doesn’t quite do, Nora. I’ve nearly starved to death because of you. I want to go where there are beautiful young things pulsing with life. Las Vegas. London. New York. Which means you have to let me go.”

Nora’s mouth worked. This was an even better story. This would change human history. Agree to whatever he wanted but get a photo, get his voice on tape. Her own camera was on the desk. Her gaze flicked to it. “Sure. Okay. Whatever you want. I’ll stop. I’ll never talk about you again.”

Jason said, “Let’s have everyone talk about you for a change.”

“TONIGHT, on
The Molly Belisle Show
—the one-month anniversary of the death of Nora Dare.” Molly gave her best steely-gazed look to the camera. “Nora Dare plunged to her death from her hotel suite in Sint Pieter while pursuing answers in a missing-person case. Now she is the story. Was it suicide, driven by an insane need to keep covering a story? Was she murdered by an islander who blamed her for the drop in tourism? Where are the police in their investigation—and are they dragging their feet to find the killer of a brave journalist? Stay tuned!” The music boomed; the opening credits showed Molly standing before her logo with a confident head tilt.

In Las Vegas, the hunter that was once Jason Kirk clicked off the television with a smile and headed down to the casino. He’d managed to stow onto a boat from Willemstadt to Panama, drink a bit from the crew without drawing attention, and hunt his way quietly up to America. His picture wasn’t on the news anymore, and now he had dark hair. Life—or afterlife, to be exact—was good. People never looked at him too closely, unless he was looking hard at them, and then they forgot. Or they died.

In Marysville, Sint Pieter, Annie Van Dorn watched her television and fought a little shudder. That Dare woman had been crazy. She rubbed at the little raw patch on her throat that had taken forever to heal. She was tired but not as exhausted as she used to be, and she no longer saw beckoning backyard shadows that both frightened and thrilled her.

In Los Angeles, Hope Kirk got up from the couch and thumbed off the television. She opened a beer—Jason’s favorite brand—and went to his room, sat on his bed, drank half her beer. She stared at the frat party photos and the track awards and the science fair ribbons, the remnants of her lost boy’s life. She felt drained of tears. She finished the beer and went to her own bed. Gary was already asleep. She curled close to her husband and wondered if she would dream of Jason tonight. Her night-mares, where he pleaded for her help to escape a trap, had vanished the night Nora Dare died. Hope didn’t dream of Jason anymore, and she could not decide if that was comfort or curse.

L. A. Banks, recipient of the 2008 Essence Storyteller of the Year Award, has written more than thirty-five novels and twelve novellas in multiple genres under various pseudonyms. She mysteriously shape-shifts between the genres of romance, women’s fiction, crime/suspense thrillers, and of course, paranormal lore. She is a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania Wharton undergraduate program with a master’s in fine arts from Temple University, and she is a full-time writer living and working in Philadelphia. Visit her website at www.vampirehuntress.com.

PORT ARTHUR, TX . . . CURRENT DAY

“I think you all need a break . . . maybe a vacation?” Sheriff Moore said, nervously fingering the brim of his hat. He dangled it between his legs as he sat forward on the small sofa, suffering the unbearable summer heat in the tiny trailer. “That’s what your momma woulda wanted, sugah. I knew her that well as her friend.”

The pretty young woman before him didn’t answer, just sat Indian style on the floral-patterned armchair wearing flip-flops, a tank top, and shorts, with her head in her hands, massaging her temples with her eyes tightly shut. The sight of her distress wore on him. Emma Atwater’s child shouldn’t have to be living like this. Her long braids created a curtain over her lovely face, but he didn’t have to actually see her expression to know that she’d probably taken offense. It was in the way she’d become eerily still for a few seconds, her shoulders tightening, before she’d blown out a long sigh.

A large fan in the window provided the only sound for a few awkward moments and seemed to invite in mosquitoes through the torn screen as it circulated humid, thick air in the cramped space. Ice cubes melted in his exhausted glass of lemonade and then chimed as they slid against one another. Texas heat was a bitch in August, and it was painfully obvious that if she couldn’t afford the electric bill going up from running the air conditioner, then a vacation was out of the question.

Sheriff Moore glanced around and then bit his bottom lip with an apology in his eyes. He was getting too old for all of this; his nerves couldn’t take it. But things being what they were, retiring at age seventy wasn’t an option. Everybody had bills to pay . . . Still, this girl didn’t even seem to have a chance. Other young girls would be on summer break from college, going to the beaches. Emma’s baby girl hadn’t ever done anything like that, not that he could remember.

Exasperated, he dragged his fingers through his gray hair, hating how what was left of it felt like it was plastered to his head with sweat. “I know times are rough for everybody,” he added, self-correcting his previous suggestion. “I just was thinking that if you and your brother got away for a little while, maybe changed your environment, you’d . . . uh . . . feel better,
then
we could talk.”

“Ralph is working, can’t take off, even if I could afford to go away.”

“But maybe your brother, he could help you . . . Even though he moved away from here, I know he loves you . . . and could be there to make sure you were all right, wherever you decide to go.”

Jessica looked up and just stared at the man for a moment, too weary to be pissed off. Constant patrolling had clearly been the culprit that weathered his skin to a ruddy light brown hue. His elderly blue eyes were clouded with worry and heat. The poor man looked like he was about to keel over. Sweat stained his uniform, especially under his arms and where his beer belly pressed against the tight buttons of his shirt.

He was right, everybody had bills to pay—so he didn’t need to feel sorry for her. Shame was, he was just as trapped in his life as she was in hers. Besides, not that it was any of the sheriff’s business, Ralph had changed his name to Raphael when their mother died and had moved to Houston—albeit, why her brother thought the woman hadn’t known things was beyond Jessica. It didn’t matter anyway. Although the sheriff was right, her brother loved her and she loved him dearly . . . Raph just found it hard to live his life around somebody that could see so much. Ordinary people wouldn’t understand.

“I really don’t think you should go away all by yourself, if you do get even a day away,” Sheriff Moore said in a tender voice.

“So, now I’m crazy?” Jessica lifted her chin and adjusted her yellow tank top that was sticking to her torso. “Okay.” She hadn’t meant to sound annoyed, but she was. The man wasn’t listening to a word she’d said.

“Aw, now, darlin’ . . . crazy is
not
the word I was using. I said
tired
. That’s
all
.”

Sheriff Moore leaned in closer, imploring Jessica in a conciliatory tone of voice when she simply sucked her teeth and looked out the screen door. “You know I respect what your mother used to do, and you seem to have picked right up on her gift, too. She could see things. The whole department relied on her to help solve murders, since as long as I can remember . . . Why you know, the boys in Beaumont, Galveston, even as far as Houston would come see her when they couldn’t crack a case—and you’ve got her vision. That’s why I came to you for this one, especially after you helped us find that little girl before something even worse happened to her. You’ve got the gift, no arguing that. So, I wasn’t casting aspersions . . . but you’ve also been through a lot. Losing your job at the store in town, losing your momma . . . brother moving away just a year ago . . . I just thought—”

“That I was also losing my mind?”

“No, I didn’t say all that. You keep putting words in my mouth.”

“It was
werewolves
, Sheriff Moore. Plural.” Jessica said as calmly as possible. She stared at him and held him with her gaze. Thoughts of the way her father had been found years ago danced at the edges of her mind and caught fire, but she pushed the old haunting memory aside. “Those bodies you keep finding in West Port Arthur right off Sabine Lake are not all chewed up because of Mexican drug wars and gators feeding off of what’s left. Mark my words,” she added, standing and stretching, “if you comb down the Sabine Pass and the Sabine River, you’ll find more.”

The sheriff’s shoulders slumped for a moment, and then he finally pushed himself to stand. “Jess, honey, what am I gonna tell them federal agents, huh? They’ve been finding bodies up and down the Gulf of Mexico—that’s why they have FBI all over it with them boys from Homeland Security. They said drug warlords did it; I said fine by me, let’s bring ’em in. This is the U.S. of A.”

“It’s not that simple, Sheriff,” Jessica said quietly, hating to ruin the elderly man’s sanity with the truth.

He let out a hard breath and then carefully placed his hat back on his head, his eyes never leaving hers. “I was frankly trying to lay low and stay out of all this drug business, but when folks from the area started showing up missing, I had no choice but to report what we found. But facts being what they are, I can’t go telling them boys from up north about werewolves eating good townsfolk in the bayou and then dragging them across state lines to dump them in West Port Arthur, Jess! They’d have me committed.”

They stared at each other for a moment, both seeming to know that he hadn’t meant to raise his voice. He was in a ridiculous dilemma where the plain truth was totally unacceptable.

Still, Emma Atwater was many things, a whole mess of contradictions, but she didn’t lie to her children. Jessica remembered clearly that her mother had told her that Jessica’s gift was pressed down and overflowing compared to her momma’s own—no doubt an expression Momma had gotten from scripture readings on the rare occasion that she went to church. The one thing her momma couldn’t countenance was hypocrites, and since her momma could sense feelings and thoughts, church gave her the hives. Jess sent her gaze out the window, remembering how her mother would get so mad at the whisperers that said nasty things about her and her children behind their backs.

“I do miss her,” Jessica finally said in a quiet voice, trying to shift the subject to let the troubled officer off the hook. “Maybe that’s part of it?”

“I didn’t mean to holler at you, sugah . . . I’m just in a delicate position. I think you should maybe take a drive to get away for a few days. When you come back, then, we’ll talk . . . all right?”

Jessica nodded but placed her hand on Sheriff Moore’s forearm to stay his leave. “I want you to look at the pattern of the killings . . . the phase of the moon when they happened. Get a farmer’s almanac and just do that for me. You don’t have to tell anybody. Then, I want you to go to the Navajo reservation and ask the shaman there for two things . . . See if they can make some silver bullets for you and your men, and a potion bag filled with silver shavings, wolfsbane—”

“Jess, honey, please . . .” He closed his eyes and let out a weary exhale.

“Just do that for me in secret, okay? Wear the bag the shaman gives you. You were one of my mother’s oldest friends. She really liked you, and you all trusted each other. So trust me and her now.”

He opened his eyes and nodded, becoming misty at the memory. “She was good to me and my wife when we lost our boy . . . That’s how I came to know her. She helped me find his body and who killed him. So I feel like I should be looking out for her baby girl, too . . . and this just hurts my soul to hear you talking out of your head like this, honey.”

“Well, my momma is standing right beside you,” Jessica said quietly, briefly nodding toward his left.

He glanced around quickly and spoke in a nervous voice. “She used to do that . . . would go see the other side and ask questions.”

“Yeah, I know. It was really a trip growing up with her.” Jessica let go of his arm. “Then again, I used to freak her out, too.” Inclining her head to Sheriff Moore’s left, Jessica spoke to what appeared to be thin air. “So he’ll believe me, Momma, tell me what he had for dinner last night?” After a few moments passed, Jessica shook her head. “Bourbon ain’t no dinner. At your age you need to be taking better care of yourself.”

“You think I should really get the silver bullets?”

Jessica nodded. “
And
the bag . . . And don’t go hunting for these suckers without those bullets when it’s a full moon.”