Page 3 of Cursed
Stepping on the gas, she speeded up, glad to leave the cheery little community behind. St. Germaine had certainly darkened her mood. As if to reinforce the oppressive feeling, she could see storm clouds gathering. Now they were purple edged—like a giant bruise covering the sky.
A battered green pickup truck was behind her. When she turned onto the narrow road that would take her to Belle Vista, the other driver did the same. Looking in the rearview mirror, she tried to see who was back there.
Two men, as far as she could tell—both wearing baseball caps pulled down over their eyes.
The truck stayed on her tail, a constant presence, making her feel like she was being stalked. She slowed down, hoping whoever it was would pass, if that’s what they wanted to do. But the car kept matching its speed with hers.
She was in isolated country now, the road an intrusion in the green and brown landscape. Stretches of dark water, gnarled pines, and low palmettos crowded the shoulders. Cypresses loomed in the distance.
Andre Gascon had described this countryside to her in his e-mails. He’d made it sound beautiful and poetic. A vast area lush with vegetation that was a perfect natural habitat for birds and animals. But now that she was out here alone with a pickup too close behind her, she wished for some signs of civilization.
She hadn’t seen a house in miles. And vultures circling overhead weren’t exactly reassuring.
The wind flared, whipping at the Spanish moss hanging from the branches of the taller trees. And a few fat drops of rain landed on the windshield.
When she spotted a sign that said, “Warning, Flash Flood Area,” she muttered, “Oh great!”
The truck speeded up, crowding too close, and she thought the driver would finally pass. Instead, he started riding her bumper, making her wonder if he was drunk.
Increasing her speed, she tried to get away, then took a curve too fast and realized she’d better slow down. But when she pressed on the brake, the response was sluggish—the mechanism no longer working correctly.
The road was narrow, and as she turned the next corner, she wove into the wrong lane. Thankful that there was no traffic coming the other way, she yanked herself back onto the right side of the blacktop as she frantically pumped the brake pedal. Despite her best efforts, the car hurtled forward.
The blacktop had quite a few bends now. And her hands melded in a death grip on the wheel as she struggled to keep from shooting off the paved surface.
Then she hit a sharp turn and found herself sailing off the wrong side of the road, onto the shoulder. Gravel crunched under her wheels, slowing her somewhat. But it was already too late to retain control of the car. One tire plunged downward, and she plowed into a water-filled ditch.
Mud sucked at her tires, and to her relief, the car rocked to a halt. The sudden stop carried her forward. But the seat belt snapped her back into place again.
She sat behind the wheel, slightly dazed, trying to catch her breath as she took a physical inventory. As far as she could tell, she was okay. The engine was still running, and she cut it off, feeling the vehicle shudder and go still.
The one-car accident hadn’t been her fault. Her brakes had failed, and only the ditch had prevented her from tearing off into the swamp.
The car had been okay when she’d driven on the highway from New Orleans. And it had still been fine when she’d toured St. Germaine forty minutes ago.
Now her brakes were shot. Had Bubba done something to them while she’d been in the ladies room? Was that the big joke the guys had been laughing about? Or was it the voodoo priestess who had hexed her car on the way out of town?
That last thought made hysterical laughter bubble in her throat. It choked off quickly when she caught a flash of movement in the side mirror. The pickup truck that had followed her from town had stopped a little way down the shoulder. As she watched, the two guys wearing baseball caps got out.
After a brief conversation, they started walking toward her. So—did they intend to help a lady in distress? Or were they planning to have some fun—or worse—with the librarian stranded on an isolated road in the bayou.
One of them was tall and muscular. The other was short and squat, with a big belly. It could be Bob Mansard, although she couldn’t tell for sure because his face was hidden by his cap and sunglasses.
Maybe good old Bob had made the suggestion about screwing with her brakes while she was in the ladies room.Maybe Bubba had put a pinhole leak in the brake fluid line, so that the car would drive normally until she was well out of town.
And maybe not. Still, she wasn’t going to take a chance on the goodwill of these guys
Quickly she ducked down below the dashboard, retrieving the purse that had fallen on the floor of the passenger side.
Unwilling to wait in the car like a sitting decoy, she pulled out her Glock and gripped it in her free hand as she opened the car door. It hit against the edge of the ditch, and a green lizard scurried out of the way. She drew her gaze to the dark, scummy water, and she felt her stomach knot. Probably there were snakes in there. At least the position of the car meant she could leap to the shoulder without getting wet.
Scrambling out into the hot, heavy air, she faced the men, holding the gun down along her leg where they couldn’t see it as they ambled toward her—like they owned this deserted stretch of road, and their quarry was completely at their mercy.
Well, they were in for a big surprise. Back at the gas station, she hadn’t wanted to reveal her real purpose for coming to St Germaine. But she could take these guys, just the way she could take anybody else who had dared to mess with her over the past two years.
She thrived on danger, and now she could feel adrenaline pumping through her veins.
“Bring it on,” she muttered under her breath.
