Water Witch (17 page)

Girls weren’t supposed to be treated the way
that man had treated her. Girls were supposed to be taken care of
and given presents. That’s what his mom had told him anyway. And
that must have been the truth because every time he looked over at
Sarah, all he wanted to do was take care of her. Nicky had never
been in a fight before, but he knew if he had the chance, he’d
fight that bad man, the one pouring the mud. He’d punch him in the
nose, make his mouth bleed, put a sleeper-hold on him the way the
wrestlers did in WWF. He’d take care of her. Yes sir, he would.

“Hey . . .” Nicky called out to Sarah as loud
as he could, but the word came out sounding like a warbled croak.
He tried again. “Hey, Sarah!”

She didn’t move. Maybe she was afraid to
move. Afraid the mud man was nearby and would dump more stuff on
them. As far as he could tell, though, they were alone for now.

“Psst!”

She still didn’t move. He turned his head
towards her as far as he could and squinted.

The moon was big enough and bright enough for
him to see that her head was leaning forward, not back like it had
been before, when she was sleeping. Nicky knew the man had put more
mud in her hole, too. What if he’d put too much? Sarah was a little
smaller than he was, suppose the mud went up to her neck and when
she dropped her head, she drowned? Maybe she drowned in the mud . .
. and if she drowned, then that meant she was dead . . . and if she
was dead, then that meant he was alone. He didn’t want to be
alone.

Nicky tried forcing her name out of his mouth
with all his might—with Superboy power. “Sar—
ah
!” Once
again, it came out choppy and crooked, but at least it sounded a
little louder than what he’d managed before.

Not loud enough, though . . . Sarah still
wasn’t moving. Her head was still flopped over, like a rag
doll’s.

Feeling lonelier than he’d ever felt in his
life, Nicky lifted his head, looked up to the stars, and sobbed,
“Mama! Mama, please, please come and get me.
Please,
Momma.”

Somebody had to save them. Someone had to
come. He didn’t care if the whole school heard him crying. If every
boy in his class teased him for the rest of his life, he didn’t
care. As long as someone came and got them out of the mud. Came to
save Sarah first, then him. She was smaller, and she was a girl, so
he’d go second. It was only right that she’d go first.

Nicky thought of his mother and wept even
harder. He wanted so much to believe, so much to wish that she was
out in the swamps looking for him. That she was the first one in a
mega line of people who were hunting, searching for a little boy
and a little girl. But no matter how hard he tried to imagine it,
the only thing Nicky saw in his mind’s eyes was his mother lying on
the couch, a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam on the coffee table
beside her, and the slack face of drunk.

As Nicky lowered his head, wishing his hands
were free so he could wipe the snot from his nose, he heard a loud
PLOP
! in the mud near his feet. After the plopping sound,
all he heard was
ka-thunk . . . ka-thunk . . . ka-thunk
in
his ears
.
It felt as if his heart had moved from his chest
to his head, and it wasn’t allowing him to hear anything else but
its rapid beat. Fear felt like a burrowing animal in the pit of his
stomach.

Wanna be Superboy . . . need to be Superboy
. . . mama . . .

He squinted and strained his eyes to see what
might have fallen in with him. Even with the light from the massive
moon, there were so many shadows everywhere that they overlapped to
make more darkness.

Nicky felt the weight of movement over his
legs.

He caught the glimpse of something . . .
something silver? But not silver.

It moved up the length of his legs in a
curling, wiggling, sliding motion. If he turned his head just
right, Nicky was able to see mud stirring around his knees. He
bowed his head and leaned forward slowly as far as he could. He
didn’t have to lean very far before he saw an arrow-shaped head
slither over the top of his thighs, heading for his face.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Sook aimed a pair of tweezers at the cut just
below Poochie’s left eye.“Sugah, you wigglin’ like a worm fixin’ to
be stuck up on a hook shaft. If you don’t hold still, I’m gonna
wind up pokin’ your eye plumb out. Now put your head back and be
still so I can get a good look see.”

Sitting in her scooter, Poochie tsked and
leaned her head back against the top of the seat. “I don’t know
what you poking around in dere for. I tol’ you I took all de glass
out last night.”

“I just wanna check and make sure.”

Poochie sputtered through pursed lips, then
closed her eyes and let Sook get on with her business. She’d been
lucky. The night before when the light fixture had exploded right
above her, Poochie’d had the good sense to shut her eyes a
half-second before the shards of glass rained down over her. She
hadn’t been able to move out of the way fast enough, though, to
escape total damage. Tiny slivers of glass had jabbed her in the
face; the two worst being in her forehead and in her left cheek. It
felt as if she’d been pelted with bb’s.

The second after the light fixture had
shattered, Angelle and Dunny had sprung into action. Angelle had
raced off for a pair of tweezers, then hurried back began plucking
out glass slivers. As she operated, Dunny stood watch with a
dishtowel, dabbing specks of blood as they appeared. Funny thing
was not one of them questioned the explosion. They hadn’t even
talked about. It was as if they understood collectively that
whatever was in the house had overheard their plans to find the
children--specifically after Poochie had mentioned that she’d
suspected finding the kids might cause a chain reaction that would
send the spirits back to where they belonged. Evidently, those
spirits didn’t want anything to do with being sent back, and
Poochie figured the shattering light fixture had been another
attempt to scare them away from their plans. How wrong they were.
If anything, it made Poochie more determined than ever to put an
end to all of this nonsense.

After spending the night huddled together in
Angelle’s bed so they could watch over one another, the three women
had gone through the motions of breakfast with very little
appetite. Trevor had made it home about seven forty-five, looking
like something that had been dragged behind an eighteen-wheeler for
twelve hours. He didn’t even comment on the fact that they no
longer had a kitchen light fixture or say a word about the small
cuts on Poochie’s face—if he’d even noticed either at all.All he’d
done was sit at the table, shovel in his breakfast, and gripe. In
between bites of scrambled eggs and biscuits, Trevor had grumbled
about having to work the three to eleven shift today, which meant
he’d get only five hours of sleep before having to run back to the
plant. Angelle, obviously trying to play nice after the spat they’d
had the night before, had offered a few commiserative comments, but
Trevor had been in such a foul mood, her words only solicited
another argument.

No sooner had Trevor stormed off to bed than
Angelle and Dunny began making plans to commandeer Bullet later
that afternoon, after Trevor left for work. Poochie had been in the
middle of trying to talk them out of going into the swamp
alone—again, when Sook called, asking her to come down to the
Bloody Bucket and lend a hand. Fearing that Angelle and Dunny might
head out to the swamp despite her warning, or even worse, leave
without her if they decided to really go, Poochie had been hesitant
to agree. The fact that neither Angelle or Dunny could take the
boat as long as Trevor was home had offered a little reassurance,
but not much. As soon as the women had dropped Poochie off at the
Bucket, which had only been a little over an hour ago, she’d been
fidgety with worry. No telling what those two girls were up to left
to themselves like that.

Poochie had promised Sook she’d stay at the
Bucket until two, but right now she was so uneasy, so nervous, it
felt like ants and collected under her skin and were scurrying
about. She wished she’d told Sook no and stayed with Angelle and
Dunny instead.
Something
was
going to happen. Poochie
felt it in her bones—under her skin—in the very roots of her hair.
The problem was she didn’t know what that something was or where it
was going to happen, or when, how, or to whom, which made her want
to be everywhere at once.

Everywhere at once meant next to Trevor, even
though he was probably still drooling on his pillow right about
now—with Angelle and Dunny—even with Sook and Vern, even though
they were only distant relatives by marriage. That was the problem
with being the oldest in a family, especially the matriarchal root.
The need to protect the family flock was inherent, but hard to do
when your body was sliding into the shitter at warped speed.

“What happened to you?”

Poochie opened her eyes and saw Cherokee
standing in front of her. The poker face he normally kept well
intact had slipped aside, revealing concern. “Looks like you’ve
been in a cat fight.”

“Non, not no cat.” Poochie flinched, “Ay-ii!”
and batted Sook’s hand away. “Stop dat!”

“Sorry ‘bout that. I’m just tryin’ to
help.”

“How? By peeling off de rest of my face?”

“It looked like a piece a glass.”

“Dat was skin, cuckoo! Now leave dat alone
like I said!”

Sook threw up her hands and stepped back. She
shook her head “All right, you go right on and be hard-headed then.
It’s your own business. But you needa think on it twice before you
go climbin’ up on another stepladder again. Leave the light bulb
changin’ to Trevor, you hear?”

Poochie made a
pfft
sound and waved
her away. The stepladder-light bulb story had been a bold-face lie,
and lying was something she rarely, if ever, did. She was always
afraid of the repercussions. If a person lied, they got a lie back,
or the lie told would end up coming true. Under the circumstances,
though, Poochie figured God would understand the need for the fib.
She’d given her word to Dunny and Angelle not to tell a soul about
what they’d shared, and as far as she reckoned, there was no way to
tell the story about the light fixture without discussing all the
details that made it happen. And Poochie didn’t trust her brain not
to slip up if she tried to tell part of the truth mixed in with
part of the lie. Best to keep things simple.

“
You
were changing a light bulb?”
Cherokee asked. He tipped his hat back, and his dark eyes glinted
with mischief.

“What? You don’t think I can change me a
light bulb? You bes’ think again. Jus’ ‘cause I’m old don’t mean
nothing but I might gotta do it a bit slower den you, dat’s all.
Me, I can for sure change a stupid bulb.” She harrumphed, then gave
him a stern side glance, wanting to reiterate the seriousness of
the matter.

“So I see.”

“You see, huh?” Poochie pursed her lips and
bobbed her head slowly. “Tell me what you see den. What you was
doing over to Angelle and Trevor’s house last night? Dunny tol’ me
she saw you out by de bayou.”

Cherokee’s grin faltered. He pulled the tip
of his hat back down with a finger, then turned away and headed for
the swinging doors that lead to the bar.

“Where you think you goin’?” she called after
him.

He didn’t respond, his black coat swishing
gently against the back of his black jeans.

“Hol’ up,” Poochie called again. When he
didn’t turn back, she cranked up her scooter and hurried after him.
He made it into the bar before she could reach him, so she butted
the doors open with the nose of the scooter. It took a moment for
her eyes to adjust to the dim room, but she soon spotted him
settling into a chair at his favorite table. She shook her finger
at him. “Don’t you think you can jus’ run off and ignore me,
non.”

“Who spit in your Cheerios?” Vern asked. He
was wiping down the bar, moving ashtrays, saltshakers, and napkin
dispensers around like someone was timing him with a stopwatch.

Pork Chop was perched on a stool across from
Vern, Bud Light in one hand and a bowl of chili in front of him. He
snorted. “What’re you talkin’ about? Poochie spits in ‘er own
cereal.”

She whirled her scooter about. “Guess dat’s
better den pissing in my own boots like you, huh, Pork Chop?”

Vern guffawed.

Pork Chop grumbled. “Ain’t funny.”

Poochie turned her attention back to
Cherokee. “You gonna tell me, or you gonna make me sit here all day
waiting for you mout’ to move?”

Cherokee sat back, stretching his long legs
out in front of him. The grin on his face clearly said, “
And
what if I do?”

“Quit bustin’ his chops, Pooch,” Vern
said.

“I’m not bustin’ nothing, me. I asked de man
a question, and he won’t give me no answer.”

“Then there’s your answer. The man don’t
wanna talk.” Vern aimed his chin at Cherokee. “I got some chili out
back in the kitchen. Want some?”

“Sounds good,” Cherokee said. “Coke,
too.”

Poochie gave Cherokee a stern look. She
intended to have the last word, even if no more words were
spoken.

He winked at her and grinned.

With a tsk, Poochie aimed her scooter for the
bar and Vern. “And you, you, how come you rushing around like you
drawer’s on fire?”

“Gotta get outta here while there’s still
light.” Vern flipped the cleaning rag over his right shoulder.
“Since Iberville ain’t sendin’ no more dep’ties to hunt for them
lost kids, Barry Ancelet and me’s takin’ one of my boats to go look
for them out by the back passes. Can’t keep sittin’ here hopin’
they’ll turn up."

“Hoping who turns up?” Beeno Leger pushed
through the bar doors. He was dressed in his gray police uniform
with its frayed cuffs and shiny black shoes. His salt and pepper
hair was slicked back with enough oil to fry a batch of chicken
gizzards. The man’s head had always reminded Poochie of a football
that sat aslant on a trophy stand. The point of his crown and chin
were so prominent, it obscured the rest of his face. Prop that head
on a pudgy body and you had an overweight Barney Fife with a birth
defect.