At Risk (5 page)

Leaving the lights off, she sat up and strained her ears.
It sounded like someone was definitely out there, prowling around in the alley. Was Rafe back, or what?

She wanted to open her door and call his name, but she knew that wasn’t such a good idea.
Logically, it couldn’t be Rafe. Why would he come back after half an hour? Whoever was outside was being stealthy, trying not to make any noise. As she listened, she thought he’d moved from the alley to the patio.

She tiptoed into the living room, dug her cell phone out of her purse, and started pressing numbers.
Not the cops. They hadn’t done her any good so far. Instead she called Rafe.

Chapter Four

It had been a hell of a day, Rafe thought as he crossed the bedroom in his B&B. He had just kicked off his shoes and put his gun on the bedside table when his cell phone rang.

He unclipped it from the holster on his belt and looked at the number.
It wasn’t familiar, and he wondered who was calling him at midnight. Not one of the people from the restaurant because he hadn’t given them his number.

“Hello?”

“Rafe.”

It was Eugenia, and the way she said his name made his breath catch.

“I’m sorry to call you—after you just left.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think there’s someone sneaking around outside my apartment.”

“I’ll be right there.”
He pulled his shoes on again, put his gun back into the waistband of his slacks and went back to his parking space. A couple of minutes after he’d gotten into his room, he was heading back toward Eugenia’s apartment. “Keep the phone on so we don’t lose touch.”

“Yes.
Thanks.”

He kept her talking, hoping that would reassure her, and glad for the innovation of modern technology.
“If they break in, hang up and call 911.”

She sucked in a breath, then answered, “Okay.”

“Do you hear anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is your outside light on?”

“Yes.”

A few minutes later he glided to a stop at the curb out front.

“I’m outside now.”

“Do you see anyone?”

“Not yet.
And I’m going to stop talking you.”

“Right.”

He entered her patio and started for Eugenia’s door.

There was something lying on the mat, something dark and nasty looking.
In the dim light, he couldn’t get a clear look at it, but he saw chicken feathers sticking out from the sides. A needle crowned the top, and other unsavory things added to the yucky effect. It appeared to be a voodoo charm.

He was so focused on it that he wasn’t aware of someone behind him.
And by the time he figured out that he wasn’t alone on the patio, it was already too late.

oOo

Something clanked onto the back of Rafe’s head, and he went down. The next thing he knew, Eugenia was bending over him and calling his name.

“Rafe?”

“Um.”

She was beside him on the cold concrete, her breasts brushing his chest.
He wanted to reach up and cup one, but a light was in his eyes, making his head hurt.

“Rafe?” she said again, “are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he answered automatically.

“You said to keep the phone on, and I heard you make a sound like you were hurt.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

He focused on her touch as one of her palms stroked his cheek, a very pleasant sensation. He wanted to enjoy that tender touch for another few moments, but something was nagging at him.

“The gris-gris,” he muttered.

“The voodoo charm?”

“You saw it?”

“Yes.”

“I was looking at it when someone hit me.” He thought for a moment. “It wasn’t there when I brought you home.”

“I guess whoever was sneaking around outside must have left it. It’s still there.”

He fought to keep his thoughts coherent. “Go get a plastic bag and put it inside.
Don’t touch it. Pick it up with a plastic fork or something.”

“I can’t just leave you here.”

“I’ll be fine.” When she stayed where she was, he said, “Go on. The sooner you take care of it, the sooner we can both go inside.”

She made a sound of distress, but she did as he asked.

As she hurried away, he waited a moment, then tried to push himself up. He was rewarded with a jolt of pain in his head, but he gritted his teeth and sat up. No way was she going to come back and find him still lying on the pavement.

It seemed like she was gone for a long time, then finally she was back.
He saw that she was wearing a long tee shirt over faded jeans.

“The gris-gris is in a plastic bag.
I put it inside the door. On the steps.”

“Okay.
Good.”

She came down beside him again, her voice concerned.

“Were you unconscious?”

“No.”
Maybe for a second, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

The headache was his only real problem.
Everything else seemed to be working fine.

“You should have stayed inside,” he said.

“You mean when you got hit? What was I supposed to do—leave you lying out here?”

“I would have made it into your apartment.”
He cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you saw who hit me?”

“No. Sorry.”

Too bad I was so focused on the gris-gris that I didn’t see him.”

“It was a man?”

“I’m just guessing—from the direction of the blow. It would have been a pretty tall woman.”

Figuring he might as well get it over with, he tried to stand up and fought another stab of pain.

“Rafe!”

Gingerly, he touched the back of his head.
“Shit.”

In the next second, the flashlight beam swung around, illuminating the sticky red stuff he hadn’t wanted her to see.

“You’re bleeding,” she gasped.

“It’s not serious,” he answered automatically.

When another very bad thought made its way into his fogged brain, he cursed again.

“What?”

“My weapon.”

“I found it.
Next to you. You had it when you were here earlier?”

“Yeah. I checked it at the police station.
Then got it back.”

“It’s right here.”

He thanked the voodoo gods for small favors. All he needed was to have a gun registered in his name involved in a crime in the city. That would have detective Cumberland dancing around the station house.

After checking the safety and jamming the piece into the waistband of his slacks, he let Eugenia help him up.
Slowly they crossed the patio together. Inside the stairwell, she paused to get the bag with the gris-gris, then helped him the rest of the way upstairs.

She dropped the charm onto the coffee table.

He eyed the nasty looking calling card. “Somebody left that to scare you.”

“We can deal with it later.
Right now, we have to take care of your head.”

“First, lock the door.”

“Right.”

“And close the blinds.
Do you always keep them open at night?”

“Not in the bedroom.”

He looked around her apartment while she complied, seeing a charming combination of what he judged were family pieces and flea market finds. He wanted to drop onto the three-cushion couch, but getting blood on it was a bad idea, so he wove his way down the hall, looking for the bathroom. When he found it, he closed the lid on the toilet seat and sat down.

Eugenia came in behind him.

“That gris-gris changes things,” he said.

“I guess.”

“It isn’t exactly a housewarming gift. It’s a very pointed warning. I don’t like it.”

“Maybe somebody’s just trying to scare me,” she murmured, obviously struggling to hold her voice steady.

“What’s their motive?”

“What if someone who was at the ceremony is mad at me?”

“You mean like Calista?” He thought for a moment. “It would be dumb of her to be so obvious. But it could be someone else who thinks it can actually do you harm.”

She didn’t protest that the thing was harmless.
Instead she said, “I have to turn on the light.”

He shut his eyes, then opened them enough to look at her through lowered lashes as she leaned over him to check his head.
This time, one of her breasts was practically in his face, and she wasn’t wearing a bra. He could see the dark circle of the nipple right at eye level and felt his heart rate accelerate.

What would she do if he lifted his hand to touch her?

Before he could find out, her arm brushed the top of his head, and a stab of pain reminded him why she was so close.

“Rafe, I’m sorry,” she murmured when he winced.
“I was trying to see your wound.”

“I know.
How is it?”

“I can’t tell yet.
I have to wash it off.”

She got a washcloth from the linen closet, then wet it with warm water and dabbed carefully at his scalp.

“Well?”

“A lump and a small gash.
I think you need stitches. Probably you should go to the emergency room.”

“Is it still bleeding?”

“It wasn’t—until I washed it.”

“It will crust over again. Forget the stitches.
I’m not going to waste hours at the hospital when whoever that was could come back. Just put some antiseptic on the cut.”

She opened the medicine cabinet.
“I only have alcohol.”

“Go for it.”

“It will sting.”

“My punishment for letting the guy brain me.”

He gritted his teeth at the sting of the alcohol. When she finished, she drew back and met his eyes. “You should get medical attention,” she tried again.

“I’m tough.” To prove it, he stood up, waited a moment to make sure he was steady on his feet, then walked down the hall to the living room where he sat down on the sofa and looked at the voodoo charm.

She followed him down the hall and turned on a low light in the corner of the room before sitting down in one of the chairs opposite him.

oOo

He gestured toward the gris-gris. “I’d like to find out if that thing is a practical joke—or if it’s meant to harm you.”

“How?”

“By seeing if I can go back to when it was made.”

“You’re not in any kind of shape for that.”

Maybe she was right, but he wasn’t going to wimp out now. Leaning forward, he reached out and grabbed the bag, pressing his fingers through the plastic and lightly squeezing the charm inside, avoiding the needle. It wasn’t direct contact, but it was enough. Immediately, the room swam around him and disappeared. He was somewhere else. A few hours ago when he’d touched the knife, he’d gone to the bayou. This time he was in a house. Nicely furnished. He saw an Oriental rug on the floor, overstuffed furniture. A lamp was on in the corner, but it was the only source of light. Was he going back to another voodoo ceremony?

He saw his hands.
A man’s hands, encased in surgical gloves.

A collection of objects was spread out on the low table in front of him. Chicken feathers.
Dried cloves. Dried garlic. A smelly crawfish claw. A couple of toothpicks. A needle. What looked like mustard but might not be. A broken knife blade. A small wad of paper towel. The man leaned down and spit on the towel, then crumpled it up and plopped spittle onto what looked like a blob of dark putty.

He moved his hand through the objects on the table, picking up pieces and turning them one way and the other. Pulling some down and picking up others, he pressed them into the base material.

Rafe had no idea who was fashioning the thing. Or where the room was. He wasn’t in his own body, and he had only minimal control of the situation. For example, he couldn’t walk out of the room. He had to stay where the man was.

But could he stand up for a better view of the interior space?
When he started to try it, he pitched to the side, falling against the corner of a desk. Pain seared into his side where the horizontal surface gouged him.

A voice came to him from far away. “Rafe, are you all right, Rafe?”

Was he?

His eyes blinked open, and he focused on Eugenia who had crossed the room and was sitting beside him on the sofa.
When he realized he was slumped over, he straightened up.

“Are you all right,” she asked again, her voice urgent as she closed her hand over his shoulder.

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I wanted to get an impression of whoever made that thing.”

“And you did?”

“Yeah. But not enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“I saw a room, but it was mostly dark.”

“A cabin?
Something in town?”

“In town, I’m pretty sure.
It was nicely furnished. I remember an Oriental rug.”

“Could you identify the pattern?”

He laughed. “I’m not that into decor. I saw someone putting the charm together, but I don’t know who it was.”

“Man or woman?”

“A man, I’m pretty sure.”