Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set (7 page)

"Oh, you will go. Duty call you very loud. You cannot
cover your ears."

With that, Maddie slid around the corner of the house in
much the same manner as the snake that had dropped from the dock.

"What was that all about?" Zach asked from the
door. He phrased the question in a way that made it sound as if he didn't
really care. But his shaken reaction in the kitchen hinted to Liz that he did.
And very much.

"You tell me. You heard most of it."

"It was weird, that's what it was. Did you really think
Maddie was your mother?"

Liz stared at him a second, then walked back in the house
without answering. Weird? Oh, yes. But so sweet in the moment. So, so sweet, to
touch her mother's face once more.

Zach caught up with her.

"You don't want to talk about it?"

"No. No, I don't."

He regarded her uneasily. Turning away to avoid any
additional pressure from him, she carefully replaced her mother's journal in
the envelope, put the package on the sideboard, and picked up the broom.

"You don't have to stay, Zach. I can manage."

He gave her another one of those piercing stares, with eyes
as blue as the sky, then picked up a pail and went to the sink to fill it.
"I'm staying until your father comes back," he said. "I still
owe him an apology."

Later, as Zach dumped another load of broken pottery into a
trash bag, he said, "Tell you what. I'll tie that tin can you came in
behind my boat and we can ride back together."

Instead of replying, Liz said, "Have you seen the
opal?"

"Maddie said it was— No, I haven't seen it."

"Maddie's crazy." She pointed to the center of the
top shelf behind the shattered glass of the display case that topped the
sideboard. "Mama always kept it there, for good luck she said, so it has
to be around. Help me look, will you?"

She crouched down to search, and Zach joined her. The floor
was fairly well cleared, making it easy to find a missing object if it was
there. They checked between the stove and the cupboards, behind the sideboard,
and even the fireplace.

"Opals are so fragile." Liz poked cautiously
through the ashes. "What if we stepped on it? Or dumped it with the other
trash?"

Holding back a sigh, Zach grabbed a fresh bag and began
methodically emptying the original one, grumbling, "Tarantulas and opals
for good luck. Most people think opals are cursed, and, hell, tarantulas are
poisonous."

"Not to people," Liz replied, still peeking into
corners and under cupboards. "Well, maybe some South American varieties,
but not that one." She gestured toward the jar on the sideboard, and Zach
felt an invisible something creep up his spine. "Besides, neither animals
or objects have anything to do with luck—oh, what's this?"

"You find it?"

"Not the opal. Papa's nitroglycerin." She looked
up, worry in her eyes. "Oh, Zach, he's out in that swamp without his
medicine ."

Liz threw herself into cleaning the last of the mess in the
kitchen while she worked out the problem. Maybe her father would return soon,
but somehow she doubted it. After about fifteen minutes of wiping down the same
surfaces, she decided to make some calls to town. She had no faith in Maddie's
truthfulness, which made the woman's sly evasiveness about her father's
whereabouts the night before a strong case for believing he'd actually been
there. But he may have returned to Port Chatre to belatedly fulfill his promise
to Liz.

Making ample use of the information service to get the numbers,
she phoned every place she thought her father might go when he realized Liz
wan't at home. No results. She snapped the phone shut and shoved it back in her
handbag, ignoring the worried glance from Zach that mirrored her own concerns.

Where was Papa? Out in the bayou seeking the stolen opal as
Maddie proclaimed? The possibility sent a shiver down Liz's spine. He'd been
acting unbalanced ever since she'd arrived at the Port. If he was really in
search of an island everyone knew didn't exist, that added fuel to her wildest
misgivings. What if he was in the grips of insanity? She'd have to do something
about it—make sure he stayed safe, get him treatment.

The inner turmoil surrounding this possibility evoked a wave
of self-disgust. Her father should be her only concern, but instead she was
filled with anxiety over having to explain him to her friends and associates.
Was she ashamed of him, as he'd asserted?

The explanation felt all wrong. Her quivering stomach and
clutching heart weren't signs of embarrassment. They signaled downright fear, a
deep, inexplicable dread that seemed to come from nowhere.

"Maybe he'll realize he forgot his pills and come back
for them," Zach said, breaking the long silence between them.

Liz shook her head. "He probably won't even miss them
unless he has an angina attack. By then it will be too late."

"I could make a few calls, have a search and rescue
team sent out."

Liz considered the offer briefly, then again shook her head.
"Papa would never forgive me. You know how swamp Cajuns feel about the
authorities."

"But if . . ." As his voice trailed off, he nodded
with clearly reluctant agreement. "Besides, your pa might not even have an
attack."

"My point." She still felt as confused as ever.
"Let me think some more, okay?"

Liz appreciated the way Zach didn't argue. Instead, he
busied himself with putting the remaining jars back in the sideboard. Liz
returned to wiping down the already clean counters, and even as she scoured a
nonexistent spot, she knew what she had to do. Jitters in her stomach, flutters
around her heart, neither of these would stop her from doing what was right.
Her father came first, and she'd be damned if she'd let some nebulous terror
keep her from looking out for his welfare.

She dropped the washrag in her hand, took a deep breath to
calm her fear, then turned toward Zach.

"I'm going after him," she announced.

"Do what?" Zach shot back.

"Papa has to have his pills." Which was a good
enough reason. Zach had no need to know of her concerns about her fathees
mental health.

He touched one of her arms, which she dimly realized she'd
rigidly wrapped around her body.

"You haven't been in the swamp in years, cher. Do you
even remember how to navigate?"

"How far could he have gotten?" She walked to a
cupboard and opened the door, checking for nonperishable food. "We'll be
back by nightfall. Morning at the latest."

"Depends on how powerful his boat is."

"It's just a fishing boat with a
 
small motor."

"But I'll bet it's faster than the one you rented from
Richard."

"I'm not taking that one!" She put a couple of
cans on the floor, then added some packets of dried soups. "I'm taking the
tour boat."

"The tour boat? You won't last more than a couple of
hours before you run up on some cypress knees."

"I'm going, Zach, that's all there is to it." Liz
had the oddest sense that the decision was out of her hands, and if she had to
go, she'd just as soon get on with it. "If you're going to keep trying to
talk me out of it, I'd rather you leave. But if you want to help, why don't you
check the provisions on the boat. I'll need water, some crates for the food. .
. ."

She ticked off the fingers of one hand as she spoke. All her
uncertainty had vanished, and as their eyes locked she grinned. In that
instant, Zach had her pegged. She'd become one of those people who were never
truly comfortable unless they had a plan. A valuable trait for a business
person, but not so valuable for someone about to embark in the swamps with
rusty boating skills.

"Okay,
cher
, I'll help." But letting Liz
head into one of the most treacherous areas of the bayou alone went against his
grain. An uncomfortable sensation wiggled inside him, a sure sign he might
regret his next words. "I'm coming with you."

Liz rearranged the storage bins beneath the rows of bench
seats. Plenty of gas, plenty of water, plenty of food. Matches, charcoal, even
a small outdoor table grill. Because her father often took out hunting groups
for trips that lasted several days, many of the provisions had already been on
the boat, and Zach had insisted on doubling the quantity of food she'd
selected. Looking at it all, one would think they were going out for weeks,
rather than just the day.

She heard a noise and looked behind her to see him balancing
one last crate on his shoulder. He pulled the front door shut and said,
"We ready?"

Liz nodded. "I've checked everything. Water, fuel,
food, rain gear, life jackets. But there aren't any rafts."

"Don't need 'em." Zach tilted his head toward the
two cypress canoes tied to cleats on either side of the boat. "We've got
the pirogues." He flashed a grin. "How quickly we forget."

"It'll come back to me."

"Like the bicycle thing? Don't kid yourself, Liz. A
mistake'll cost you more than a skinned knee. You're lucky to have me
along."

A bit exasperated by his cockiness, she said, "It's not
like we're boating around the world. I appreciate your offer, but how much
distance could my father have covered in that small boat?"

"Enough,
cher
." The teasing smile vanished.
"Enough. He knows what he's doing."

He climbed into the boat, stowed the crate in one of the
storage bins, then went to the pilot's seat. A moment later, the motor
sputtered to life. He reached for the shift lever, then paused, looking her
over rather critically.

"Those clothes," he said, "you'll
roast."

She was getting warm. She'd stripped off her raincoat while
cleaning up the kitchen, but now found herself tugging repeatedly at the neck
of the speckled sweater.

"Yeah," she said. "But I— Wait, my mother
said she kept most of my old clothes."

She rushed back to the house, climbing the outside stairs to
the second floor, and rummaged through her parents' closet until she found a
trunk near the back. A short while later, she pulled on a cap-sleeved cotton
top, then stepped into a pair of overall-type shorts with tons of pockets that
might come in handy. On her way out, she went to the kitchen for her coat, in
case they were still out when the sun set.

She snatched it up hurriedly, impatient with this small
delay, and as she passed the sideboard, she noticed the envelope she'd taken
from Maddie. Despite her impatience, she picked it up and slipped out the
journal, taking in her mother's familiar script that, typically, was part
French and part English. She flipped through the pages and when she neared the
end, she noticed an entry made on the day her mother died.

The sun sets soon on Port Chatre. Nights get warm now and
bring sweet
 
smells. Other afternoons, I
sit out on this
galerie
to watch that big bright ball
 
shine red on the water and am filled with
peace. But tonight bring a different
 
sunset.

With it comes
le fantome noir
and my night of
reckoning.

I must safekeep the fire opal. If it falls in his hands,
he will use it to walk the
 
land like
humans. But inhuman is his soul, and like the locust he will go forth,
 
eating all who cross his path.

All my life I prepared for this night, like
Maman
and her
maman
before her.
 
All the
way back to time begins, our women have borne this curse to guard the
 
fire opal against Ankouer.

When I wonder about those who die to give him strength to
seek the stone, I
 
feel a heavy sadness.
I tremble, too. I tremble and am afraid.

Most folks no more believe in
le fantome
. Even
Frank don't really believe. Ankouer be smart to make the world think this, so
none prepare for him no more. Except for me.

Will I be strong enough? Will my heart stay pure? Will I
defeat the evil one?
 
This I do not know
until the hour come. My dear Frank, he is not ready to
 
defend me, and if he fails, I stand alone.
Who can defeat Ankouer alone? Not
 
Maman
,
and her heart were pure as any angel.

If I die tonight, my sweet
fille
will hear the
call to take my place. She is the last
 
guardian. No other stands to take her place. Triumph, she must, so
darkness
 
does not fall upon the world.

Yet she be so unprepared. She turned from it so long ago.
If I die like Maman,
 
duty will look for
her. Run no more can she.

I pray for my Izzy on this my night of reckoning.

Oh, Mama, Liz thought, what horrific events you imagined on
your last day of life, and how sweet it was to touch your face one last time.
Tears lodged behind her eyes, and she was more than willing to let them flow,
but they immediately faded. She hadn't cried since the night she left the
bayou, and the unrelieved sorrow was nearly unbearable. The recall of the
moment she'd stroked Maddie's face only added to its weight. Listening to her
mother's voice and believing, oh, believing,
 
made Liz wonder if her mind was slipping like her father's.

She set the journal down. Perhaps madness did run through
her family, a madness that reading these pages could only feed. Better to leave
the journal here. Then later she would put it away unread as a memento of her
mother.

"Liz!" Zach called from out front.

"Coming. "

Instead of turning to leave, however, she continued staring
at the small, prettily bound book. Although she fervently disagreed with her
parents' beliefs, she'd never get a better opportunity to know her mother's
heart.