The Source (Witching Savannah, Book 2) (4 page)

Adam nodded his head, as if he accepted my words, but I knew he didn’t. He forced his body into a more relaxed stance, and reached into his pocket for his omnipresent little black notepad. I’d witnessed this behavior before when he had come to question me about Ginny’s murder. He used the notepad as a prop, drawing a witness’s attention to it, leading him or her to believe that it contained a list of indisputable facts that pointed to that witness as the prime suspect in the crime being investigated. The pad could be considered an anachronism, but it was an effective tool all the same.

Claire hung up the phone, and Adam slid the pad into his pocket, his attention returning to her. Still, Adam had excellent instincts, and he was nothing if not tenacious. He’d circle back to me. I knew that much for sure.

“He’s on his way,” she said to Cook. “Mercy, will you stay here and help Peter open up if we don’t return in time?”

“Of course,” I said.

Claire leaned in to kiss my cheek as she passed me. “There’s a good girl,” she said. “Officers?”

The four of them left, letting the door bang shut behind them. I felt a sudden wave of panic rush through me, and I forced the door back open, nearly stumbling outside. The fresh air embraced me like a welcoming friend, but then a cloud passed over the sun, leaving me chilled and uneasy.

FIVE

I stood outside the tavern’s door fighting off panic. I drew my arms up around myself, rubbing away at the goose bumps that prickled along them. Who was the old fellow who’d stumbled across my path? How could he possibly be connected to the Tierneys? Why had I been stupid enough to think I could resuscitate him?

“What’s wrong, pretty lady?” a man’s voice startled me. Muscle-bound; taller than me, but still short for a man; clean-shaven head. He wore a rebel-flag T-shirt cut into a tank top that revealed a sleeve of tattoos on his right arm. Even though my conscious mind failed to take in the many pieces that came together in the tattoo’s intricate design, my subconscious registered a few of the symbols and interpreted them as bad news. His accent, the way he moved, everything about him said “backwoods.”

I knew the first instant I laid eyes on him that I didn’t like him or his entire gestalt, but I forced a smile. My instincts told me to be civil. Not to challenge him. “I’m fine, thanks. Just had a bit of a morning.” His eyes—dark, hard, spaced a little too closely together, and shadowed by his brow—twinkled. He took a step closer. The sun glinted off the handle of a hunting knife, the kind you often heard called a “pig sticker,” that he wore strapped to his leg.

A woman, homespun bleach job worn in a braid and makeup spackled over bad skin, stepped up to him and slung her arm around his shoulder. “Looks more like a little bit of morning sickness to me,” she said. She turned her chin down and glared at me through narrowed slits. She was marking her territory. This man, she informed me wordlessly, belonged to her. Lord help her, she could have him, but he shrugged off her arm and drew up closer to me.

“Naw, that can’t be. She ain’t got no ring on her finger. You can tell by looking at her that she ain’t the type to spread her legs just to say howdy. Am I right there, boy?”

In my peripheral vision, I noticed movement. Another of their group, this one much younger. High school age? He already stood several inches taller than the leader of the pack. The younger man’s build qualified him as an ectomorph—very muscular, yet much leaner than his buddy. He skulked up behind the other two, hovering close enough to imply his complicity, but only just. Filthy jeans, dirty blond hair, angry blue eyes, a crooked smile. He was a good-looking kid, too good-looking to be theirs, and truth be told, a little too
old
to be theirs, even by bayou standards. A brother? Cousin? Cohort? Regardless of how they fit together, he still stood out as the prettiest of the trio. A look of excited expectation shone in those spiteful eyes. I felt my stomach drop when I realized that whatever excitement he expected had something to do with me.

“I should get back inside,” I said, feeling behind me for the doorknob.

“Ah, no need to run off so soon,” the older man said. “We were hoping to get to know you a bit. Learn a bit about your beautiful city here. Come on over here, Joe, and introduce yourself to the lady.”

The kid stepped up and completed a semicircle, blocking my path. The single escape was back through the door to the tavern. “Hello,” he said, and I could smell the excitement coming off him. Up close, I could tell he was a little older than my first impression had led me to believe. Sixteen? Eighteen? His eyes lacked any sense of empathy, humanity. He carried an aura that was exactly the right combination of innocence and danger to fascinate a girl who had a taste for crazy. I feared for any girl who’d let herself get caught up in his charm.

“See, that ain’t so bad, is it?” the man asked, but I wasn’t sure if the question had been aimed at me or at this Joe. “I’m Ryder. Ryder Ludke. This here is Birdy. Say hello, Birdy.”

The woman stayed silent until Ryder tilted his head slightly toward her, a promise of uncontrolled violence concentrated in such a slight movement. “Hello,” she said, cringing and taking a step to the side.

“Maybe you would like to invite us into your fine establishment and offer us a libation?” The question carried the weight of a command.

“Libation,” Joe parroted, and then guffawed. He and Ryder shared a glance that celebrated Ryder’s wit. These were train people, modern-day hobos with all of the nasty and none of the romance, I surmised. A race of panhandlers that had taken root in Savannah, taking over and occasionally scaring off the regular folk, the ones who sold palm-frond roses or picked out tunes on instruments. The train people used intimidation rather than souvenirs to liberate spare change from tourists’ pockets.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m not the owner, and the bar doesn’t open until five. We could lose our liquor license.”

“Come on. You’re free, white, and twenty-one, ain’t you?” Ryder asked. “You can do whatever the hell you want.”

“And what I want to do is get back inside and get ready for opening.”

I found the doorknob and grasped it. The three were standing too close to me. I’d have to move quickly or they’d be able to rush the door. I twisted on the knob and forced my back into the door, but it didn’t move. It had locked behind me.

“Here I thought y’all called Savannah the ‘Hostess City,’ ” he said, taking another step closer. Following his lead, the other two constricted the circle. “You ain’t being very hospitable. A man could take offense.” His hand lowered, and his finger traced around the top of his knife’s handle. Twelve and a half seconds ago, this place had been crawling with cops. Now that I could use one, there wasn’t a single officer in sight. I wondered if my visitors had been watching for the police to take off before coming this way.

I considered using magic to open the door. But they’d still be able to follow me into the bar unless I moved fast enough to slam the door in their faces. They had ambled another few steps closer as I considered this. I’d be able to reach out and touch them in another step or two. Or they could reach out and touch
me
.

I considered using my best trick—well, truly my only trick—to slide myself out of there, but I figured it would be best to try something a little less overt. The last thing I needed was to piss the families off further with open displays of witchcraft. I pushed back a wave of anger at how the families stripped me of my ability to adequately defend myself. I had to keep a clear head, and anger at people who were not even present would not help with that. I decided to pull something from my Uncle Oliver’s bag of tricks. Oliver reigned as the king of magic persuasion, half of which he seemed to back up with plain old self-confidence. “Well, on behalf of the Savannah Visitors Bureau, I apologize, but I do think it is time for y’all to move on.” I pulled myself up taller and crossed my arms, trying to look firm but relaxed, like I was the one in charge. Joe and the woman called Birdy took a few steps backward, but Ryder didn’t budge. “Go on now,” I commanded.

Ryder chuckled and then used the back of his hand to wipe away his smile. “You, little miss, are a right piece of work, ain’t you? You’re a pretty little thing, but you done and picked yourself up some real bad manners. I’ll gladly help you correct ’em.”

Normally, two out of three isn’t bad, but I had failed to compel this Ryder to take off. I’d have to talk to Oliver about it. Find out where I had gone wrong, but now I had a more pressing matter at hand. I breathed deeply into my diaphragm and envisioned a wall growing between us, not only separating us, but pushing Ryder backward, forcing all three of them to move on. Ryder’s tattooed arm reached out toward me, but then quivered and fell to his side.

He gave me a dark look and stepped up with his arms held wide open, bumping his chest against the invisible barrier I had built between us. He was not in the least little bit frightened of my magic. Worse, the look in his eyes told me he was thinking of challenging it, but then he turned away and swaggered back toward the river. Joe followed him, tagging a few steps behind like an enamored puppy. Birdy stood her ground the longest. “I don’t like you,” she said, giving me one final, hate-filled glare. The feeling was more than mutual, but I didn’t think it wise to antagonize her, especially since I had won this battle. I held my tongue.

“Birdy,” Ryder commanded, and she scurried to his side.

I watched until they were gone, and then turned my attention back to the lock. I slid a smidge of energy into it, envisioning the force molding to the inner workings of the mechanism and then condensing, hardening. My heart was in my throat as I turned it. I was thrilled when I heard the click—for once, my magic had worked as I’d intended.

I hurried inside, slamming the door behind me and quickly turning the deadbolt. I leaned against the locked door and sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I nearly jumped on the bar when a bell rang out. The old landline phone, yellow with gray buttons and absolutely no form of caller ID, sounded again. I hesitated, but then answered.

“Hello, sweet girl,” Colin said, the clunky receiver faithfully relaying the sadness in his voice. “I’m glad you picked up. I couldn’t remember your cell number for the life of me, but this one’s been in my head for thirty years.”

“Peter isn’t here yet, Mr. Tierney.”

“Ah, I know that darlin’, he’s here with his mother. That’s why I’m calling. The man who the police found. He was . . . he was family.” I grasped the bar to keep from falling flat to the floor. Accident or no, the guilt of what I’d done squeezed my chest like a boa constrictor, pressing the air out of me. “We won’t be opening tonight, so you best lock up and head on home.”

“Wait, Mr. Tierney. I’ll stay. I’d like to be here for you and Claire,” I said, even though my head reeled at the thought. I had no idea how I would ever face Peter’s parents after what had happened. Somehow I’d have to find a way to own up to it.

“I don’t want to hurt you, my girl, but Mother and I need some time for private grieving. We’ll be relying on you and my little grandson for comfort soon enough, but tonight, you’ll have to leave us be. Mother wants her boy with her, so I wouldn’t count on seeing Peter till tomorrow. I should get back to them now.”

“Mr. Tierney,” I called out before he could disconnect.

“Yes?”

“Who was he?”

“My Uncle Peadar, my father’s brother. Here for a surprise visit, I guess. We haven’t seen him in decades now, not since Peter was still in diapers, but Claire still felt very fond of the old fellow. Good-bye, Mercy.”

“Good—” I began, but he had already hung up.

SIX

I spent a nearly sleepless night and was haunted by nightmares of Peter’s great-uncle each time I drifted off. When I woke from the one that ended with a cottonmouth snake hissing out through the hole I’d left in the man’s chest, I decided that enough was enough and that I’d rather stay awake to greet the dawn. I found my phone and saw that Peter had texted me at some point while I was wrestling with his relative’s zombie in a dream. Peter’s messages said that he loved me. That his mom was upset.
Really
upset, considering that they hadn’t even seen Uncle Peadar in over twenty years. Maybe because the police thought he might have been murdered? He’d call after he finished the walkthrough with Tucker at the site of the job he was taking on.

First light found me up and heading to Colonial Cemetery, looking for Jilo. She did her magic a bit farther out, at a crossroads hidden off the dead end of Normandy Street, but she handled the money end of her business here in Colonial.

“Well you been busy, ain’t ya?” she said as she plodded across the field toward me, using the lawn chair she always carried with her to Colonial as a makeshift walker.

“How did you know?”

“Girl, they a police station right next door to this here boneyard, and Mother may be old, but she ain’t deaf. Now you tell her what you been up to.”

“A man showed up after you left the powder magazine,” I confessed, relieved to share with someone. Maybe it was unfair, maybe not, but I couldn’t help resenting my mother for her silence. She had to know I needed her. I touched the chain of her locket and pushed the thought away. “The poor man was sick,” I continued, trying to focus on the story I
could
share with Jilo. “Confused. I think he might have had Alzheimer’s or something.”

“Mm-hmm,” she prompted me.

“I was talking to him, trying to figure out where he belonged, when he keeled over. He wasn’t breathing. He had no pulse . . .”

“And you thought you would jolt him back to life with a wee touch of magic?”

I nodded.

“And ended up burning a hole clean through the old buzzard,” she said, and then started laughing, that unnerving wheezing of hers that always ended up sounding like a death rattle. She winded herself, and leaned most of her weight against the folded chair while she wheezed. I reached out toward her, but she held up her hand. “Don’t you go helpin’ Jilo none. She done seen what yo’ kind of help leads to, and she ain’t ready to stand outside them pearly gates just yet.”

She burst into another bout of laughter, but managed to gain control of herself again when she took note of the tears that were forming in my eyes. “Shoot. You stop worryin’, girl. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Ain’t got a thing to feel bad about. That old fella of yours, he already dead when you put your hands to him.” Jilo did her best to offer me absolution, but it didn’t stick.

“How could you know that? You weren’t there.”

“Did he have a pulse? Was he breathing?”

“No. He had turned blue.”

“Well, there you go then. A blue cracker is a dead cracker.” A smile of encouragement quivered on her lips. She reached out and wiped at my tears with her calloused fingers. “Hell, most folk would have never even stopped and tried to help him anyway. You a good girl. You done all you could for him,” she said, but then gave me the stink eye. “They somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ Jilo, though, ain’t they. Get on with it, girl. You tell Mother.”

She flipped the lawn chair open and eased her way into it. Sometimes she seemed like such a force of nature, but lately I could tell she was growing frailer. I sat down at her feet, and she pulled my head over to her knee, running her gnarled fingers through my hair. I don’t know exactly when it had happened, but over the past few weeks, I’d grown quite attached to the old woman of the crossroads, and I knew that whether she liked it or not, she had come to feel the same way about me.

The secret Jilo sensed weighing on me was the truth about my mother. I wanted so desperately to tell someone. To try to get a bead on what had happened. Jilo knew my family’s history better than anyone else. I felt certain she could help me understand the circumstances, but I wouldn’t betray my mother—at least not yet. She had made me promise to tell no one, and that definitely included Jilo. Besides, I could tell that the help Jilo was giving me in my attempts to find Maisie was taxing her. So until I knew the lay of the land, I couldn’t risk bringing her in on something that might just be more than she could handle. I offered up a lesser truth. “The man. When the police found him, he had a picture of Peter and his parents on him. Turns out he was some long-lost great-uncle. Peadar was his name. I guess they named Peter after him. Sort of, anyway. The Tierneys had no idea he was even in town.”

Jilo cackled softly. “Well, my girl, if that true, then you in for a good surprise.” I looked up at her. “That long-lost uncle you done barbequed? That picture not the only thing they found on him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Police ain’t tellin’ nobody yet, but that old man, he had a damn fortune in jewels and coins sewed up in the linin’ of his coat. Unless they prove it stolen, Jilo imagine it end up comin’ to yo’ brand new family, at least what the gov’ment don’ see fit to keep fo’ theyself, that is. The Tierneys, they probably don’t even know ’bout it yet. You know how the police are. They always tryin’ to figure out some motive, never figurin’ that they might be some well-meanin’ girl at the bottom of they troubles.” I tried to glare at her, but she smiled at me warmly. When her eyes looked away from me and up over my shoulder, any kindness faded to concrete.

“Two of my favorite ladies.” A man’s voice came from behind me. I turned quickly to see that Tucker Perry had managed to sneak up on us. Jilo’s hand gave me a gentle but firm push away.

“You best have the rest of my money to go with those sweet words, Perry,” Jilo’s teeth ground together as she spoke. She forced herself up out of her chair and strode toward Tucker, poking him in his chest with her forefinger. She had turned angry in a split second—angry at having been caught in a tender moment, angry at having been seen as anything other than the dark lady of the crossroads.

“You’ve been working spells for him?” I asked in disbelief.

“His money as green as anybody else’s,” she spat over her shoulder at me.

“Oh, Mother and I go a long way back, don’t we?” Tucker asked, stepping around Jilo and coming closer to me. I struggled to stand, and he offered me his hand. I refused, and worked my way up on my own. My center of gravity had changed, and getting around had become a little harder than it normally was. All the same, there was no way I’d let that man taint me with his touch.

Tucker acted as if he hadn’t noticed my refusal. “And now, the two of us have a long and mutually beneficial arrangement to look forward to as well.” I said nothing. I stared at him blankly, determined not to give him any satisfaction. “Thanks to your fiancé,” he continued. “I am sure we will have many opportunities to meet up,” he said and winked at me. “You sure are looking good, Mercy. I like you with a few curves.” I was just about to lay into him but then he turned back to Jilo. He pulled out an envelope stuffed fat with bills and held it out to her.

Jilo snatched it from him. “Pleasure doin’ business with you, Perry. Now get the hell out of here.”

He smiled widely at the two of us. “Yes, a pleasure as always, Mother.” He took his time making an exit, stopping once to examine one of the few remaining headstones.

“They say this cemetery full, but I’d gladly help free up a spot fo’ that one,” Jilo said, her expression as sunny as ever I’d seen it. Something about imagining the death of those who annoyed her brought out her best qualities.

“Why are you doing any kind of business for him anyway?”

“Like I done say, his money good even if he worthless hisself.”

“But
what
,” I emphasized the word, “are you doing for him?”

“Don’t you pay that no nevermind. Ain’t nothin’ to do with you.”

I kept my eyes glued on Tucker as he meandered out of the cemetery. “I don’t like it. I don’t like that you’re doing spells for him. I don’t like that Peter’s doing business with him. Don’t pretend you didn’t already know
that
,” I said, pointing at her.

“Jilo ain’t pretending nothing,” she said, “so you better get that there finger out of her face.”

“I’d hoped to have seen the last of him when Ellen cut him out of her life.”

Jilo looked at me, her expression inscrutable. “So you think Ellen has kicked him out of her bed?”

“Yes, she’s done with him,” I replied.

“Well they is done, and then they is done,” Jilo said. “And you can take what you like and don’t like and put it in yo’ hope chest, ’cause Jilo, she don’t care. She do business with who the hell ever she like.” Right on cue, Tucker circled by in his convertible, honking his horn and waving. Ellen sat by his side. She raised a hand too, but her greeting was halfhearted at best. She lowered her head and turned toward Tucker, probably reading him the riot act. She hadn’t wanted me to know she was spending time with him. Jilo let out one more cackle. “Now ain’t you sorry you made Jilo promise not to kill anyone?”