Dark Sacrifice (7 page)

“Damn you, George,” I yell, shaking my fist dramatically at the heavens. Lightning doesn't strike his car, nor does it make me feel better. I blink at the wet leaves and gray sky overhead and drag in a deep breath. The scent of the bayou fills my nostrils, and my shoulders relax. I'm home. Finally home.

I never should've left Bessie's with only a vague note. She's probably worried about me. But I don't feel bad about being home, only the way I got here. I turn in a slow circle with a frown.

Up ahead, the stop signs signaling the crossroad shine in the haze. I break into a slow jog until I reach the path by the bus stop that leads to my house. I set my hands on my knees and lean forward to keep my balance while climbing the slippery hill into the woods. This is always so much harder when I'm carrying my backpack.

Crap!
I left my bag in George's car. I wonder if he'll give it to Bessie. If he does, he'll also tell her about the fight, and it'll be another thing for her to give me hell over when she shows up at the house to give me hell for leaving. I shove aside the leaves blocking the path after a month of disuse. Mud and overgrown plants force me to watch my step. I slow even more when passing the stretch of bayou where I found Lainey Prince's body. Memories flood through me.

My problems started on the day I dragged that girl's body from the swamp. If I'd left her for gator bait, Mama would still be alive. I wouldn't see ghosts. My life would've gone on in the same direction as it had before.

No Georgie or Landry to break my heart.

One stupid decision and the course of my life changed forever.

The humidity sends trickles of perspiration down my back, soaking into my T-shirt. Flyaway strands of hair frizz in tight curls around my face, and the ends, dipped in sweat, stick to my cheeks. The woods look beautiful this time of year. The sky peeps between dark green leaves and the lighter gray-green Spanish moss. Bluish lichen spots some of the tall trunks and thick vines. Toadstools pop up from rich brown soil.

How do people not see the beauty in the decay? The new life growing within the rot proves death is not the end but the beginning of a new plane of existence. The spirits still lingering on this side of the veil are stuck. They can't go back. And they can't go forward until whatever keeps them here is concluded. I helped Lainey and Ms. Anne find peace. Now I don't have to worry about them haunting me anymore. Maybe helping the ghosts is the only way to keep me from going insane. Ignoring them sure didn't help Mama cope with her ability.

A broken limb has fallen across the path, and I stop to pull it free. The dirt beneath the leaves is still wet, which makes the fresh boot prints stand out. They point in the direction of my house. Adrenaline zings through me, and stomach acid burns the base of my throat. The last time I found prints in the mud, Landry had been debating the merits of taking me out assassin style. He ended up changing his mind. Whoever happens to be on my property might not have the same tenderhearted nature.

My nearest neighbors live five miles away. One and a half if I take the trail past the pond. The other side of my property borders Forest Service land. Sometimes hunters get lost and end up wandering around, but it's not hunting season.

My heartbeat quickens as I glance around. The density of the undergrowth keeps me from seeing too deep. There are a lot of places for someone to hide—like behind the fallen log to my left or behind the bushes up ahead.

I quickly strip the broken branch of stems and leaves. It forms a solid weight in my hand, and I give it a test swing. If anyone comes after me, it'll make the perfect club.

A twig snaps.

I spin.

Leaves rustle in the tree next to me. A crow sits on the branch. It cocks its head to the side and studies me with a beady eye. Its wings spread, and feathers ripple as it stretches. I draw in a deep breath.
Calm down.
I can't see or hear anything when on high alert.

I focus my senses outward. I think I'm alone. At least, no other human seems to be near, but I can't discount the prints. I'm stuck out in the boondocks, too far away to try to get back to town on foot.

I follow the prints until they dry up. Unless the guy takes an unexpected detour, my house is the final destination.

At the border of woods and yard, I pause, afraid to rush out. I scan the yard. The only movement comes from the chickens, and they don't seem startled. The lights are off inside the house. Only Mama's truck is parked in my driveway. How long should I wait?

My grip tightens on the branch. With a deep breath, I crouch down and cross the yard—dodging from tree to tree like a total idiot. My heart pounds, and by the time I reach the stairs, I can barely catch my breath. Clumps of mud in the shape of footprints dirty the steps. They might be the same size as the boot prints I found in the woods. I climb the stairs. The creaks from the rotten wood sound like a train whistle, and I freeze. I'm one hop away from dashing back to the safety of the forest.

I drop to my knees. If anyone looks out the front window, I'll be invisible. I crawl up the last stair and roll onto the porch. The squeaky spots are easier to avoid as I slither snakelike on my belly to get to the new front door. Seeing it, shiny blue and unbroken, makes my stomach clench at the memory of the cracking sound the old door made when the rev and his men kicked it down and burst inside to drag Mama out.

I squeeze my eyes shut, choking back the memory.

The doorknob turns in my trembling hand, and my jaw clenches. Bessie said the door would be locked when she gave me the new key as we left the hospital. This whole scenario feels wrong on so many levels. I blow out a slow breath. The door swings open—silent, with only a draft of humid air preceding my entry. Muddy footprints track across the linoleum and end in the doorway leading into the living room. The mud is dry, unlike the ones in the woods. When were they made? They could be from the workers who installed the door. That's the most likely explanation.

I don't hear anyone moving around, but they could be hiding, waiting for me to get overconfident so they can sneak up on me from behind. I enter the living room with the branch raised, ready to swing. The only eyes staring back are Black Velvet Elvis Presley's. Wish he could talk. Tell me if the rest of the house is clear.

I check the kitchen then cross back through the living room to go down the hall to check the bathroom, leaving the last room…Mama's bedroom.

I pause in front of her closed door. I press my ear against the wood. Muted voices leak from beneath the door. My hand shakes as I reach for the doorknob, then with a scream to wake the dead, I throw open the door and run inside.

A
shadow blocks the morning sunlight streaming through the blinds. I crack open my swollen eyelid to see DA—short for Dumb Ass—Cready, the man who's trying to fry me for murder, standing over the bed with a Cheshire Cat grin on his face. A shiver of fear runs down my spine.
This can't be good.

I tense, hands gripping the blanket. Time for the bomb to drop. The nurse said my injuries are healing. Is he sending me back to jail? Or did he really tell Mala he would drop the charges yesterday? My sketchy memories from the day before have more of the hazy shadows of a nightmare than reality, but I swear I couldn't have made up this one on my own.

Cready drops his briefcase on the end of the bed. He runs a long-fingered hand down the front of his gray, double-breasted, high-dollar suit, looking more like a loan shark than a prosecuting attorney. “I see you intend on playing the innocent victim role to the end,” he says, flicking an imaginary piece of lint off his shoulder. His gaze rakes over me. “I admit it. You've won.”

Ah, straight to the attack. The guy doesn't waste time.

I'm not exactly sure what he's implying, but I'm pretty sure I'm on trial. Better to plead the Fifth than fall into whatever trap he's laying for me. I pinch my lips together. Several minutes pass in silence. The tension builds. My jaw aches from clenching my teeth together. I'm seconds away from jumping out of my skin when he chuckles.

The sound raises the hairs on my neck. The crack in my will rebounds off the walls as I break first. “Get to the point,” I snap.

“Surely Malaise LaCroix gave you the good news.”

Yes! It wasn't a dream.
“The news?”

“You're going to make me say it? Fine. I've spoken with the judge. The charges against you have been dropped. You're a free man.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. As much as I hate to admit it.” Cready takes a step back with a snort. “God, you disgust me! You, your father, the others involved in Jasmine LaCroix's murder. How can you even look her daughter in the eye, knowing what your father did? What you helped him do. You may have escaped justice for now, but I swear, I won't stop until I find the evidence to lock you away for the rest of your life.”

Weariness fills me. “So, you still don't believe I'm innocent?”

“Why should I?”

“I told you what happened. I saved her. Doesn't that matter to anyone? I lost an eye. I almost got murdered in jail.” I thrust upward, but the handcuff bites into my wrist. “Stop looking to me as your scapegoat and catch the ones involved. Rathbone, Acker, my dad—”

“Your dad? Oh, I'm very interested in finding Reverend Prince.” He pauses to study me with narrowed eyes, then shakes his head. “Maybe you really are as stupid as you portray. Let me ask you a question, and I dare you to give me an honest answer.”

I let out a heavy sigh. My head feels too heavy to hold up. I sag back onto the pillow and shut my eye. “Go ahead.”

Thick, minty breath blows across my face. “Are you not curious about how dear old pa managed to escape?” Cready presses a heavy hand down on my shoulder when I try to rear up. His lips twist as he says “Don't you think the timing was impeccable? How
did
a man in a coma escape from the hospital without anyone seeing him?”

“I don't know,” I whisper.

The hand on my shoulder tightens, and I wince.

“Come on, Landry. You know your father better than anyone else. What do you think happened?”

I lick my dry lips. My voice cracks as I say “Someone helped him.”

Cready snaps his fingers. “Bingo. Give the man a prize.” He steps away from the bed, tugging down his sleeves. “That would be my supposition too.”

“It wasn't me,” I say quickly. “I was already in custody.”

“But you knew his plan. The reverend would never leave his only son to take the fall for him. No, he would have a contingency plan. He couldn't break you out of jail, but the hospital…He's done it before.”

The silence between us stretches until I work out what Cready's implying. My breath catches then releases in a rush. “You think my dad set up my attack to get me out of jail?” I press against the pillow. On some level it makes sense, but…“You're wrong. Caleb didn't go for a minor injury just to get me admitted to the hospital. He tried to stab me through the heart. If I hadn't woken up and fought him off, I'd be dead.”

“Now I can't seem to believe that.”

“Ask my doctor…”
Calm down. Don't freak out now.
“Hell, ask the guard who used CPR. Maybe you can fake a coma, but you can't fake death. Whether you believe me or not, it's the truth.”

Cready gives an elegant shrug. “Fine, I'll take you at your word. Your father had nothing to do with your attack. The truth is he killed Jasmine LaCroix. Do you think Mala's safe? She's out there right now. A target. Once your father and Rathbone get rid of her, who is left to testify against them in court? Mala's the only credible witness I've got.”

“I'll testify. I was there.”

“You? Nobody will believe a coward trying to save his own skin. I don't. But, son, you're missing the point of this conversation.”

I shake my head, frustrated by the wordplay. “Say it so an idiot like me can understand.”

“I'm saying Mala won't survive the week.”

My insides implode in a burst of air. My chest heaves up and down. Shiny dots float in front of my eyes. I fumble for the nurse call button. Cready takes the cable from my trembling fingers and punches it for me.

Cold sweat runs down my back. I wrap my free arm across my chest, shivering. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because maybe I'm wrong, and you're as innocent and naïve as you claim to be.” Cready opens his briefcase and pulls out documents, a handcuff key, and a large plastic bag with my property from the jail. He tosses them onto the bed. “Landry, if you really do care for Mala, then prove it. Keep her safe until I can find the men involved.”

The tricky bastard played me. The only way for me to prove I'm innocent of hurting Mala, whether I'm guilty or not, is by protecting her. Crazy, but slick.

Should I call her now?

No, first I need to get out of here before Cready changes his mind.

It hurts to move, but I crawl out of bed. I'm winded by the time I cross the room to the dresser. I lean against the wall, rest my forehead on my folded arms, and breathe through the pain in my chest. My dead eye throbs, and I'm tempted to gouge the good one out with a spoon because it hurts worse than the other. A milky film covers my vision, and I blink a few times. The mucus clears enough for me to search the drawers. The only clothing I find is the jail jumpsuit I was admitted in. I can't wander around downtown like an escaped convict.

“What are you doing out of bed?” a voice asks.

I turn, falling back against the wall. My hand presses against my chest. “Ouch…” Damn rubber hospital shoes are perfect for a stealth attack. Nurse Oliver wraps her arm around my shoulders. I don't protest as she helps me walk over to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Is there a reason why you're wandering around in your condition?” she asks.

I tip my chin toward the door. “The guard's not on the door anymore, is he?”

The woman's eyebrows flicker, but that's the only sign of unease she gives.

“The district attorney let me go,” I say. “I'm getting out of here before he changes his mind.”

Her heart-shaped lips tighten. “There's no need for that. Besides, the doctor won't release you until he's sure your wound won't get infected.”

“I'm leaving…” I breathe through a sudden spurt of pain. “Yeah, I know it's not the smartest move, but I'm ready to go home. Just give me whatever papers I need to sign. I promise not to sue if I die.”

Laughter like the tinkle of bells fill the air. “As long as you promise not to blame me.” A wisp of blond hair falls from her bun to curl between the V-shaped mounds of her breasts as she shakes her head. “For the record, this is stupid.”

Heat fills my cheeks as I tear my gaze away from her chest. “Yeah, I know. But I've got things to do. A girl I need to see.”

“Ah, so now the real reason comes out.” She walks toward the door, saying over her shoulder “Guess there's no point in arguing with a man in love.”

In love
…I scowl but can't refute the truth. I'm whipped. Still, my feelings for Mala don't matter. What's important is that I protect her this time, even if she hates me for not saving her mom.

Nurse Oliver returns about ten minutes later with a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt from their lost and found. I refuse her offer to help me shower, unable to hide the blush. Nancy Oliver isn't hard on the eyes. She's like the sexy
Playboy
bunny version of a nurse, minus the dowdy scrubs, and I've been locked up for too long for the fantasy version of my shower not to start running through my thoughts.

I need to get out of here.

I sign what needs to be signed, while pretending not to be in pain so the doctor doesn't give me grief about being released, wave good-bye to the people who saved my life, grab my pain medication and antibiotics from the pharmacy, and finally blow the joint. It's only the longest two hours of my life. The whole time I try to come up with a plan. I worry about being too late…too weak…too naive to save the girl who means more than my life.

How can Cready trust someone like me? Why doesn't he assign real police officers to guard her?

“We're bait on the hook,” I whisper.

I stand outside the automatic doors and breathe in the warm air. I'm free. Only now that I'm outside, I'm frozen with indecision. Mala said she's staying at Bessie's house. At least I know she's safe for now. Bessie would bury someone under the jail if they tried to hurt her, including me.

My first priority is finding a phone and calling for a ride. The hospital is about two miles from my apartment, and I feel like shit. But who should I ask for help? I've got to keep Dena out of it. Cready doesn't suspect her or he would've brought her in already. None of my other friends visited me in jail. There's only one person other than Mala who I think cares enough, but I haven't talked to her in months. I have enough loose change for the phone booth.

Clarice answers after several rings. “Hello?”

“Clarice, it's Landry.”

“Wh-who? Landry…” The pause stretches.

“I can hear you breathing.”

She sighs. “Why are you calling me?”

“I need a ride.”

“Oh, I…A ride? From jail?”

“No, I've been released from the hospital. I was injured then the district attorney dropped the charges”—I pause for a moment to swallow the lump in my throat—“isn't that great?”

Her voice quivers with false gaiety. “Sure. That's awesome. Fantastic. I'm so happy for you.”

“Are you? Really? 'Cause you're my best friend and not once did you visit me in jail.”

“I'm sorry, I've…my brother…he…”

“Hey, don't worry about it. I forgive you. I mean, what else could you think? The evidence looked pretty good. Solid enough to keep me locked up without bail. But I'm innocent, Clarice. I swear.”

“Sure, Landry. I believe you. Where do you want me to—” A muffled voice in the distance comes over the line, then gets louder. “Red, wait. It's Landry.”

“Asshole. Thought you were in jail—” Redford Delahoussaye barks into the phone.

I stiffen at the sound of his voice. “Thought you wouldn't still be a jerk after I kicked your ass.”

He snorts. “I went easy on you 'cause Lainey died. Why are you calling my house?”

“I didn't have anyone else to call.”

“Do you think I'd let my sister go anywhere near you?” His breathing roughens.

“Look, Red, we've had our differences, but I'm innocent. Even the district attorney dropped the charges against me. I can go home, but I don't have a ride. Clarice…”

The silence on the other end is deafening. I'm not sure when he hung up. I drop the phone in the cradle, not bothering to try to reach any of my other friends. I grew up with Clarice and Redford Delahoussaye. Our parents were best friends. If they don't believe me, nobody will.

It takes hours for me to walk from downtown to my apartment, only to find out from my landlord that it has been rented out to someone else. My asshole roommate kept the deposit and sold my stuff. My truck was impounded as evidence by the Sheriff's Office. No telling how long it'll take to get back. By the time I hike clear across town to the suburban neighborhood where my parents live, the sun has set. Across the street, the lights in Dad's church shine through the stained glass windows. It's Bible study night. Despite the warmth the church gives off, I bypass it and go straight home.

The key for the front door used to be hidden beneath a potted iris on the front porch, but both the iris and the key are missing. Not to worry, though. Dad's office window poses no problem to jimmy open. I don't bother with turning on the lights. I don't want anyone to know I'm here. After a quick shower, I'll figure out how to contact Mala. She said she's staying with Bessie. The detective doesn't like me, but I'll brave her wrath if I have to.

The house feels different. I'm not sure why. I navigate through the rooms in total darkness, reminded of all the times I sneaked out in high school. Only now nobody's here to catch me. I count the steps to the staircase, then each stair. At the top of the staircase, I turn toward my bedroom. I trail my fingertips across the wall. Another ten steps gets me to the door, and I push it open.