Page 12 of Ace
Keller swallowed hard, then gave it to Tucker straight. “She won’t be coming back. Mariposa Church passed away this morning before I had the chance to speak with her. Tell Isaiah I’m so—”
“She’s dead?” No one did obvious like Tucker Chase.
“Yes, sir,” Keller answered quietly, suddenly aware that the pad of his thumb was drawing tiny circles on the back of Miss Church’s hand. Tucker could get under his skin quicker than anyone Keller had ever met, yet as upset as his highly-strung boss was at this unwelcome turn of events—and he had a right to be—Keller was not. The calmest sensations floated up his arm from Miss Church’s skin, to his neck muscles where he carried his stress. There was still no sign of a migraine. Not even the slightest inkling. No aura. No urge to kill anything or anyone, either.
He locked eyes with Miss Church. She was nothing like the alleged voodoo queen he’d grown up with. Yes, there most certainly was a human skull in Gran Mere’sfancy cabinet. That by itself spoke of black magic and witchcraft, possibly murder. He might not have been able to read Miss Church’s mind, but empathy had its own language, and Keller knew the desperate people who practiced voodoo. He’d witnessed the dark side of it up close and personal as a kid. His mother was Cajun. She’d married a soldier, an alcoholic who’d never pleased her until the night he’d died in his sleep. After Keller’s father was gone, she’d turned her only child’s life into living hell.
Queen Elaine Boniface. That was how folks addressed her, as if she had anything to do with royalty. Keller knew better, and he knew wicked. His mother derived more pleasure than power from killing the chickens, kittens, lambs, and birds she’d used in her despicable rituals. She’d always made him watch, and he’d never been strong enough to defy her. He’d watched and afterward, he’d cried. Like a blubbering wuss, he’d cried for every one of those helpless creatures. It made him sick remembering. How they’d squealed and screamed. How they’d cried…
At her deepest core, Elaine was never anything more than a mean-spirited woman who’d cursed, hexed, and convinced others to believe that she could and would curse them if they didn’t do what she wanted. They had to buy their way off her hit list or risk losing a crop, a herd, or a child. Queen Elaine was cruel, and fear ran deep in both her chicken-shit son and the neighbors.
Hence the double hex Keller had lived under as a kid. Folks in Turkey Creek got back at Elaine by taking their revenge out on him. They spread stories and lies.Their children bullied him until he’d whupped every last one of their asses just so he could walk down the gravel road where he lived without having to run for his life. Fact was that he’d never have gotten out of Turkey Creek alive without sweet Carol Marie’s faith in him.
Back then he’d been a scrawny kid, all legs, no balls. Born dirt poor to the local drunk, he’d been looking for validation and redemption all his worthless life. The Army gave that to him, along with confidence, pride, and an unrelenting dedication to serve decent, law-abiding Americans. But it was Carol Marie who’d given him his first taste of heaven. She was the reason he’d sought out the local Army/Air Force/Navy recruiters. She was the only one who’d believed he’d amount to something better than getting drunk off one-hundred-ninety proof Everclear.
But that was a long time ago, and in the end, Elaine had taken Carol Marie, too. And here Keller was, nearly back home again. Close enough to smell its stink.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Tucker sputtered, jolting him out of his melancholy reverie. “Already? Damn. What’d she die of?”
Like cause of death mattered to Isaiah? “Old age,” Keller replied. An unexpected calmness still lingered as he studied Miss Church’s delicate, slender fingers. They were pink against his callused, scarred, and rugged skin. Even his palms seemed stained with use, but hers were clean. Dainty. Pure.
And once again, he’d crossed the line between agent and client.
Clearing his throat, Keller settled her palm to the tabletop and patted the back of her hand to signal the end of the touching. All this familiarity growing between them had to stop. She was off limits. Breakfast wasn’t going to happen, either. That had been an out of the blue invitation he still couldn’t believe he’d extended. She’d seemed so lost and… Yes. Okay. He hadn’t wanted to walk away from her just then, either. No child should have to face Death alone, and okay, she wasn’t exactly a child, but still. He couldn’t do it.
“Roxy admitted him two hours ago,” Tucker said, his voice a mere whisper. “He’s bad. They’re putting him on a ventilator. Possibly inducing a coma until...”
And so it begins. Another all-night vigil. Another tragic waste of a good man’s life. Another viewing. Then onto Arlington…
Looked like Keller was leaving after all. Breathing a ragged sigh of resignation, he rapped his knuckles on the tabletop and stood, needing to be gone. “I’ll catch the first flight home, sir.”
“Yeah. Okay. Sure. Whatever.”
The line went dead. Tucker had never sounded so deflated.
Chapter Six
The distress in the air carried the scent of ash and smoke. Of incense. Of Death. This was his way of saying goodbye. Agent Boniface had politely disassociated himself from Savannah the moment he’d released her fingers. Even now, his calculating brain fluttered over a to-do list.Call the hotel. Cancel reservation. Turn in rental car. Fly back to DC before—
Something was wrong. Savannah could smell it. “Who’s dying?” she asked gently.
The bleak glance Agent Boniface leveled at her did not invite her into his confidence. Where once a meaningful window had opened, shutters were now slammed tight. Locking her out. He seemed especially good at that. “Don’t worry. You’ve got enough on your mind—”
A silent whisper came to her like an unearthly summons.‘Isaiah. Me.’
Savannah leveled her unique gift of sight on the stone-faced man across the table as she told him, “Your friend is here, Agent Boniface. Isaiah is why you came to see Gran Mere, isn’t he? He needed something from her, didn’t he? He needed her. Why?”
Agent Boniface didn’t answer. The sadness welling in his honey-gold eyes confirmed the worst. “Isaiah’s dying. We thought your great grandmother could help, but now...”
“But now there isn’t time to waste,” Savannah said as she hurried into the other room and pulled the middle drawer of Gran Mere’s hutch open. “Please clear the kitchen table for me. I’ll be right back.”
Isaiah didn’t just needsomething. He needed to live, and just possibly, Savannah could help him do that. She had to. She sensed a terrible menace, a fear and a sin riding him, like conjoined twins tormenting him into an early grave.
‘You can help me?’that same small voice asked. A child’s voice, really. A frightened little boy’s voice.
‘I will most certainly try,’she told him honestly.
‘There is no try, only do…’
