Water Witch (26 page)

“Hold on, girl, hold on . . ..” But I
couldn’t lean out far enough to secure the rope under her arms. The
best I’d be able to do was wrap it around her neck, and that simply
wouldn’t work.

How much time now? Forever.

Not giving myself time to think it through, I
threw a leg over the side of the boat and slipped back into the
water. “It’s going to be all right, you hear me?” With a series of
tugs, pushes, tucks, and pulls, I managed to wrap the rope beneath
Angelle’s arms and secure it with a slipknot over her chest. “All
you have to do is breathe now, you hear? Just breathe.”

I clambered back into the boat, making it in
on the first try that time. After grabbing the now taut rope, I
braced myself, ready to give it a good hoist in order to pull her
up, then remembered her hair was tied to the motor. With a growl of
frustration, I leaned over and frantically plucked at the knot in
her ponytail. Most of her hair pulled free, but a good handful had
settled into a rat’s nest that refused to untangle.

“Sorry . . .” I grabbed the base of her
ponytail and yanked, ripping the rest of her hair free. Her
beautiful hair. She’d kill me. Even so, I’d welcome her anger. As
long as she was breathing, she could stay pissed at me forever.
Angelle’s head bobbed under water, and suddenly I was the one who
couldn’t breathe. “Gelle!”

I grabbed the rope and pulled as hard as I
could, leaning back for leverage, hoisting, crying, begging
silently for the strength to pull this off. Angelle weighed about
as much as I did, but dead weight couldn’t be measured in pounds. I
felt like an ant trying to pull an elephant over a mountain. I
heaved, cursed, screamed . . . then finally . . .finally her head
and shoulders peeked over the side of the boat.

Grunting, straining, I pulled hard, harder,
wrapping the rope around my fingers, around my wrists—tugging,
tugging until my sister plopped onto the floor of the boat, her
head bouncing against the supply bag.

I immediately threw myself over her, stuck a
hand beneath her neck, lifted her head—pinched her nose closed,
opened her mouth—blew my breath into it. Sister breath was the
best. . . . sister breath was the best. Then, after folding my
right hand over my left, I placed both over her heart and
pressed—pressed—pushed. One—two—three—one, two, three. Back to her
mouth, lifting her head, pinching her nose—breathing,
breathing.Only she wasn’t . . .

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I became a machine meant for only one
function—make Angelle breathe—breathe.

“Breathe goddammit!” I pounded onher
chest—one, two, three . . . “Please!” The next round of chest
thumping brought action. Angelle coughed, and water spewed out of
her mouth and nose. I thumped the heel of my hand on her chest once
more for good measure. More water flew out of her mouth.

I quickly rolled her onto her left side. "Can
you hear me? Talk to me. Please, please open your eyes.”

Her eyelids fluttered. She coughed again,
spitting more water, then curled into a semi-fetal position.

I reached for the flashlight beside her,
stuck the beam directly in her face, and pulled up her right
eyelid. All I saw was white of her eye. Blood dribbled from the
gash in her forehead. I shook her gently. “Gelle, wake up! Wake up.
Look at me, look at me, please.”

Her body suddenly went limp against my hand,
and my heart stopped beating. God, was she dead? After all that
struggling to get her into the boat, I couldn’t lose her now,
couldn’t!

“Gelle!” I wailed and shook her hard. In that
moment, Angelle drew in a deep, shuttering breath, then her chest
began the slow rise and fall of someone in a deep sleep. I sobbed
with relief and pulled her to me, rocking—rocking. “Don’t fucking
scare me like that again. Just don’t . . .”

The extent of my medical training had been my
research on CPR, by far not enough knowledge to make a true
assessment of Angelle’s condition. All I knew for sure was that she
needed a doctor. I had to find help.

After laying her head gently on the floor of
the boat, I got to my feet and looked about. Water—shadows—trees,
no matter which way I turned, it all looked the same. I glanced
down and saw the face of the dead woman bobble up again next to the
cypress tree. Only then, in that moment of stillness, did I feel
sorry for her and wished I could help her. But there was really
nothing I could do for her now. There was nothing anyone could do.
Right now, getting Angelle to a hospital was top priority. Later,
once she was in good medical hands, I’d let someone know about the
woman, tell them where to find her.

Then, it suddenly dawned on me—How would I
let anyone know where she was? Not only did I have the challenge of
getting out here first, I had to
know
where I as in order to
direct someone else here. It wasn’t like I could say, “Just take
across from the grocery store, then a right besides the dry
cleaners.” I’d probably have to dowse to find her again. Just the
thought of having to come back to these swamps made me shiver with
nausea.

Staring at the woman’s pale, wet face, I
whispered, “If you know, tell me how to get out of here. Which way
do I go? Tell me, and I’ll send someone back for you. I
promise.”

The woman, of course, didn’t answer—thank
heaven.

Biting my bottom lip, stuck my left hand out
in front of me, the sixth digit flaccid and numb. I closed my eyes
and concentrated on the landing, on seeing that long concrete strip
where we’d back up the car and launched the boat, the grove of
trees where Angelle had hidden the car. That’s where I needed to
go. That’s where I needed it to lead me.

Show me . . .

I pictured Angelle’s house, pictured Poochie
inside, watching GI Jane, focused on the prayer tree and the shoes
hanging from it. I thought of the shrimp stew, the
thump
thump
thumping of Poochie’s walker when she made her way down
the hall.

Soon, all those images filled my mind with
the clarity of reality, and I felt the slightest twitch from my
finger. A nugget of hope sent my pulse racing. I focused harder—on
the bayou that ran next to Angelle’s house—the night I saw Cherokee
out there. I thought of Sook and Vern and the Bloody Bucket. My
finger twitched again, then sprang to full alert, overlapping my
regular little finger and my ring finger.

Pointing . . . pointing, northeast. Just like
it did before. Then the firecracker sensation went off in my
finger, and the pain was so intense, I thought for sure it had
literally blown off the tip this time. The same fire—burning that
occurred each time zeroed in on the children.

“No, no, not the kids. I have to get to the
landing, get help for Angelle . . .”

The pleading did nothing to change its
direction. If anything, it intensified the pain. Experience had
taught me that the heightening of any sensation usually meant I was
close to finding whatever I sought. If that still held true now, we
were closer to the kids than ever. What the fuck was I supposed to
do? Angelle needed help in the worst way, but I didn’t know how to
get her to that help. If I tried going back to the landing without
the aid of dowsing, there’d be no saving anyone.

“All right, come one, you’ve gotta get your
shit together,” I said, shaking my hands out like a boxer before a
fight. I sorted through my thoughts, trying to find a logical
solution.

My finger decided it wanted to be the only
one with answers and spiked the pain to an all time high. I doubled
over, clutching my left hand to my chest. “Shhiiiit!”

Moments later, when the worst of the pain had
passed, I leaned over and checked Angelle’s breathing.

In—out—in—out. Good, nice and steady.

I stood up, sweat dribbling down the sides of
my face, and gave thanks to the universe that she was still
alive.“Gotta start the boat,” I muttered, stepping over to the
motor. “Can’t do anything without starting the boat.” I grasped the
red bulb, squeezed it—squeezed it, the way Angelle had done. Then I
pressed the start button and twisted the throttle.

Nothing. Of course nothing happened. Nothing
but dead air and the smell of gasoline. Thinking I hadn’t primed it
enough, I grabbed hold of the bulb again and squeezed it a few
times. How many times had Angelle done this? Five? Ten? Fifty? I
added three more squeezes, then pressed the start button and
twisted the throttle for all it was worth. The engine sputtered,
coughed, then died, and a white plume of smoke filled the back of
the boat. Shit, I was flooding the damn thing. I tried the start
button once more, the throttle. . .This time the engine roared to
life—which was all well and good, but now I didn’t have a fucking
clue about what to do next.

Eventually, by trial and error, I got us away
from the bank and into the open stream. I soon puttered up to a
cut-off and pushed the throttle back, intending to take a left. The
waterway looked much wider there. A lake maybe? The Atchafalaya
River? Logically, if it was the river, the waterway would
eventually lead us to civilization. It had to. The bigger the
water, the bigger the boat needed to navigate it. The bigger the
boat, the bigger the chance there’d be channels leading to large
loading docks, not small boat ramps like the one Angelle and I had
used. There’d be buildings and people. Doctors. Lights.

The logic seemed plausible, so I steered
left. Immediately, it felt like someone had yanked the extra finger
out as far as it would go, then began sawing on it with a rusted,
serrated knife. I screamed in pain and held my left hand up to the
night sky. “What the
fuck
do you want from me? What?”

The only answer was more pain, more sawing
from the rusted knife . . . burning, stabbing pain. I had to turn
around. It was telling me in no uncertain terms that I had to
comply or else. Or else the pain would get so severe it might
actually stop my heart.

It
had taken over.
It,
that
which I’d seen as a curse all my life. That which Angelle called on
for help. That which had brought me years of embarrassment,
seclusion, isolation, and fear. After all that pain over so many
years, how dare
it
try to control me this way,
making
me go in a direction I didn’t want to go. I slumped from the
weariness of it all. From the pain. It took all I had to turn the
boat around. As soon as I did, the pain dropped to a level just
below excruciating.

Although forced into submission, the
direction clear, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with the
kids if . . .no, when, I found them. Two kids who’d been missing
for . . . what? Three days now? Maybe without food and water? How
was I supposed to deal with them
and
an unconscious sister?
It was all so overwhelming and answerless that all I knew to do was
pray that Poochie was standing at her prayer tree right now,
calling upon her god, or anyone else’s god,to help that dumbass
desert rat who knew nothing about swamps or swimming, boat motors
or kids. The dumbass who got herself stuck in the middle of it all
anyway.

With my right hand still on the throttle, I
dropped down to my knees, then leaned over and grabbed the
flashlight. Its beam had faded to little more than a fog lamp, but
at least it was something. I aimed it ahead of me, saw nothing
different than what I’d seen before, then moved the beam down to
Angelle and watched the steady rise and fall of her chest.
Good.

Left to the call of my finger, I got back to
my feet, twisted the throttle, and got the skiff moving again. The
wind shifted to the south, and with it came an odd scent—a mixture
of burning wood, cooked meat, and something rancid. The tail end of
that aroma was so sour it seemed to stick to the hairs in my
nostrils. In that moment, the electrical fire in my finger abruptly
turned to ice, and instead of overlapping my other fingers, it
aimed straight ahead, towards an inlet that appeared darker and
narrower than any we’d traveled so far.

Knowing better than to resist, I slowed the
boat down a little more and inched the skiff towards the mouth of
the inlet. I aimed the flashlight ahead, but its beam was so weak,
I could barely see the nose of the boat.

Creeping along, I soon spotted an odd shape
near the bank about fifty feet on my right. Thinking about the dead
woman back by the cypress, I hesitated getting any closer, but the
boat seemed to insist, nudging me nearer.

Closer . . . the odd scent growing stronger .
. . closer, until I could make out a boat. It looked like it was
tied to a clump of skinny trees. Instinctively, I released the
throttle, let the engine die, and the skiff drifted on its own
towards the object.

It
was
a boat. My skiff’s nose touched
it’s bow, which was close enough for the meager beam from the
flashlight to illuminate the biggest nightmare I’d ever seen in my
life. Beyond the boat, in an opening no more than ten feet away
from where I stood, two bodies—or what remained of their bodies—had
been tied to metal rods that protruded from the ground, then burned
beyond recognition. Brown, melted wax mummies with empty
eye-sockets. Both mouths were frozen in perpetual screams. I opened
my own mouth . . . and puked over the side of the boat.
Jesus!

When my stomach was empty, I chanced another
look at the bodies. I couldn’t tell if they were male or female.
What was this place? Where the waters belched up bodies, lost
children, housed gators and snakes bigger than Buicks? What the
hell was going on here?

The boats tapped noses again, and the hollow
ka-thunk
of aluminum hitting aluminum drew my attention to
the moored boat. It looked similar to the one we were in, same
color, same length. Same descriptive registration numbers. The only
difference was the name painted in large black letters along its
left side.