OBLIGATION
By MeridyM
meridym@home.com
CHAPTER 6
Saturday Morning
Sipping her coffee, Monica watched Doggett eat his eggs,
grits, and sausage. He was paying the same single-minded
attention to the food that he did to most everything else.
And if the muffled moans and murmurs she'd heard coming
through their adjoining wall the night before were any
indication, he'd been paying that single-minded attention
to someone last night in a particularly enjoyable way.
She'd never before picked up so much as a hint that John
had a woman in his life, and she knew how embarrassed he'd
be if he found out she knew anything different now. So she
feigned ignorance of the elephant in the room and continued
eating her wheat toast with butter and honey, trying not to
smile too much.
She continued to watch him. He wasn't the same man she'd
met those years before, which shouldn't be any big
surprise; after all, she wasn't the same woman he'd met.
But the last year had changed him in subtle ways she didn't
think even he quite recognized. She was seeing glimpses of
something different, of an unconscious willingness to trust
other depths of instinct that he'd never been able to trust
before. That thing at Goodall's house, for example: He
might call that playing a hunch, but she would describe it
as listening to insight, working with senses he'd never
really used.
Maybe his year on the X-Files had simply attuned him a bit
more to the weird side of things. She knew he'd hate even
the thought of that, that it would disturb him. But she'd
always had a feeling that sooner or later it would
manifest, and that he'd always somehow known it would. She
suspected it was part of the reason why he had maintained
contact with her over the years since his son's case,
contact that had developed into an odd sort of friendship.
She sighed quietly. It was something else she didn't think
she needed to discuss with him, at least not right now.
Then, as she focused on his spiky brown hair, her eyes
opened wide as a thought occurred to her. He chose just
that moment to look up, and when he saw her expression he
put his fork down and leaned across the table, his face
concerned.
"Monica, what is it?" he asked her with a quiet urgency.
She met his eyes. "John, let's assume for a minute that
Goodall *is* the one who desecrated the churches and killed
Enrique Boadu. What if he's not only out to get the people
who lived through that epidemic that killed his wife--what
if he's out to punish their families as well?" She watched
his face tighten. "What if, in Goodall's mind, Dr. Dannah
let his wife die? And then Dr. Dannah dies, so he doesn't
get the revenge he wants. What--"
"Yeah, I get it," Doggett replied. "I thought of that too,
yesterday. I didn't want to say anything to Mrs. Dannah--
she has enough to be grievin' over." He grabbed his napkin
and wiped his mouth, then pulled out his wallet and left
some bills on the table, more than enough, Monica noted, to
cover their breakfasts and a nice tip. He stood up and
returned the wallet to his back pocket. Monica took one
last sip of coffee and stood up and followed him out of the
Perkin's.
"John!" she called out. "Where are we going?"
"Alachua P.D.," he said over his shoulder. "We need to
light a fire under their asses. And if they find what I
think they're gonna find, it'd be a good idea to call your
Sheriff Ritch, too."
She caught up to him. "What else?"
He stopped. "I think we need to get over to Deborah
Boadu's. And to the Dannahs'." He glanced at his watch.
"It's getting late. They're probably at the funeral right
now, or on their way."
Monica plucked at his coat sleeve, lightly, just enough to
let him know she was there for whatever needed to be done.
He met her eyes for a moment, and then they walked together
to the car.
* * *
It felt good to sleep late once in a while, Hugh Goodall
realized, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He added a
tablespoon of cream. It was fresh and unpasteurized, from
a dairy just outside of town, and drinking it with your
coffee was almost like having dessert. He took the coffee
and the morning paper out to the Florida room and sat down
with a sigh, crossing his legs.
He glanced at the clock. It was 10:15. The wake for Jack
Dannah would be starting in less than an hour, and he
really should go pay his respects. He smiled bitterly.
Respects. Respect. He'd had nothing but respect for Dr.
Dannah ever since he and Nora had moved here to this little
town. Not anymore.
He opened the paper and read for a while, restlessly
turning page after page to find something to engage his
attention. He couldn't concentrate. His mind was too
taken up with things, with people: The Dannahs, the black
heathens, that smug FBI man.
He finally laid the paper down on the table and stood up.
He walked over to the louvered windows and looked out.
What was *he* doing out there?
The small black man was kneeling in Goodall's side yard,
underneath the largest cypress. Goodall squinted through
the window. What was he doing? The little man's hands
were relaxed on his thighs, his eyes closed, his mouth
moving. Goodall cranked the window open and listened.
Chanting. The man was sitting in his yard chanting. And
what was that on the ground in front of him?
Goodall felt the blood rush to his face, and he told
himself to relax. He walked to the front door and went
outside, making his way quietly to the side yard where Old
Owdeye sat. He walked up behind the old man, and stopped
and looked down at him. There were bowls on the ground in
front of Owdeye, one full of sand and smoking incense, the
other full of what looked to Goodall like milk. There
were several beaded necklaces on the ground next to the
bowl of milk. The old man continued his chant, eyes
closed.. It was as if Goodall was simply not real to the
little man.
Goodall stalked around to stand in front of Owdeye. "What
are you doing here, old man?" he breathed, fury reddening
his face. "Do you want to end up like your friend Boadu?
Do you know how stupid you are to come here?"
Then Old Owdeye opened his eyes and looked up at Goodall.
"The pattern has been set. Do what you must. Your fate is
ordained, as is mine."
Goodall stared down at Owdeye. The little man was
maddeningly calm. "What are you talking about, old man?"
"Mr. Goodall," Owdeye said softly, "you have fallen into
darkness beyond all redemption. I have come to stop you.
And now all will unfold the way it will."
* * *
Doggett walked quietly into the Dannahs' living room,
holding on to the screen door so it wouldn't slam behind
him. He hated wakes, always had. He supposed they had their
place, but that didn't mean he had to like them.
He'd left Monica at Deborah Boadu's house and had come here
to talk to Mo. . .and, if he were to be totally honest, to
go back to see Hugh Goodall. He did a quick scan of the
crowd. The old house was full of friends and family. The
scene reminded him of his childhood, of similar gatherings
after church at the houses of relatives. Even the smells
were familiar: too-strong perfume, the heady scent of
food, the pungent odor of too many bodies in one warm place
together. He saw the tall, dark-haired Max over in the
corner of the dining room, talking to a heavyset gray-
haired man. He saw the top of Ruth Dannah's head lost in a
clutch of taller people.
Then he saw Mo. Dressed in a short, black sleeveless dress,
sandals, and a white picture hat, she walked from the
kitchen into the dining room carrying a casserole dish in
one hand and a glass of water in the other. She set the
dish down on the table and handed the glass to an elderly
woman who was sitting there. The woman reached up and
patted Mo's cheek, and Mo leaned over and hugged her.
God, she was a pretty woman. Doggett felt an ache in his
middle just looking at her, something not conducive to
working. He shook his head, feeling a little foolish, and
then noticed that Max's eyes were on him. He was smiling
slightly. It was unsettling, as if the younger man knew
exactly what Doggett had been thinking and feeling. Well,
maybe he did. He'd been married to Mo, after all. Doggett
felt his face flush.
He threaded his way through the crowd until he was standing
in front of Ruth Dannah. She smiled at him, and her
expression reminded him of Mo. It was something about her
lively eyes, though hers were as dark as Mo's were light.
Ruth reached out and took his hand.
"Agent Doggett, it's good to see you again," she said in
her gentle drawl, looking up at him.
"I just wanted to stop in and pay my respects, ma'am," he
said, hearing the South come through in his own words, even
the intonation of his voice.
"Thank you for that." She patted his hand. "I appreciate
it." Her eyes studied him for a moment. "Morgan didn't tell
me you were comin'," she said.
So Mo had been right: Her mother did know something was
up. Figured. "She didn't know. I'm working," he told
Ruth.
Ruth nodded. "Have you spoken to Morgan?"
"Not yet."
"Then you'd better go say hello," Ruth gave him a little
push in the direction of the dining room.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, with a shadow of a smile, heading
through the crowd toward the dining room. Mo wasn't there.
"She's in the kitchen." He heard the voice at his shoulder
and turned. It was Mo's sister, her dark eyes laughing. He
nodded his thanks and walked into the old kitchen. It had
been painted a cheerful yellow, the curtains on the window
white and filmy. A large gray tabby-cat blinked at him
from the windowsill. The kitchen was charming, but there
was no disguising the fact that the room hadn't been
remodeled yet.
Mo was at the sink, her hands in soapy water, her back to
him. "Max, could you hand me that casserole dish?" she
asked over her shoulder.
Doggett looked around and found the empty dish on the
kitchen table. He picked it up and carried it over to her.
"This the one you mean?" he asked quietly.
She turned, startled at the sound of his voice. "Yes,
that's the one. Thanks." She took the dish from him and put
it in the dishwater, then dried her hands on the hand towel
on the towel bar. She smiled at him. "So what are you doing
here?"
"I have some business," Doggett said. "And I thought I'd
stop by and pay my respects to your mother."
"Really?" She touched his hand, and he took her hand and
held it.
"Really." He reached out and tucked a stray curl under her
hat. Her hair was longer now than he'd ever seen it, and it
didn't have any less a mind of its own. It curled with
abandon around her nape, tendrils of it escaping to shadow
her neck, her throat.
"You sweet man. Thank you, John. That means a lot." She
smiled at him.
"Your mother's a lady," he said simply. He squeezed her
hand. "I need to ask you to do something."
Seeing his expression, her smile slipped a little. "Of
course," she said.
"For a while, I want you to make sure no one in your family
goes anywhere alone." His face was as serious as she'd
ever seen it.
She felt a sudden tension in her stomach. "You really
think there's a need for that?"
"I don't mean to scare you, but there's a possibility that
someone could try to harm your family." Doggett said
softly. "And maybe I'm overreacting a little, but I just
want to keep you safe--you and your family."
"Safe from what?" Mo looked him in the eye with an
expression he knew well. "What's going on, John?"
He hesitated. Fuck, maybe he shouldn't have said anything.
But he couldn't take any chances.
"John," she said, "you can't just walk in here and tell me
my family might be in danger and then walk out. And I
know you didn't mean to scare me, but you've scared me
anyway."
He should just go. Instead, he took hold of her arms and
held her. Didn't he owe Mo some sort of explanation?
Didn't he want her to be a part of that life he was trying
to get back?
Well, didn't he?
"I gotta go," he said. "Please, just do as I asked."
She turned her face away from him, and he watched her. He
could almost see her thinking. Then she impulsively
reached up and took his face between her hands and kissed
him.
His grave face grew soft with a certain wonder.
"Please be careful," she said.
"I will," he said, holding onto her arms for another
second. Then he turned to go out the back screen door.
"John--" she said.
He turned back to her.
"Nothing. I'll talk to you later," she said.
He nodded and went out the door and down the steps. She
went to the screen door and watched him walk across the
grass, the knot of worry tightening in her belly.
* * *
As Doggett walked through the back field to the lane where
the Methodist Church was, the dry grass rustled under his
feet, and grasshoppers buzzed and jumped to each side of
him.
**Please be careful.**
She'd said the very words his wife had repeated to him like
a mantra every morning for years, as he went out the door
for work. Be careful, John. Take care of yourself.
Please come home not dead. Or not stabbed or shot or
beaten or maimed in the countless other ways he knew she
imagined but was afraid to give voice to.
God, he'd loved her, through all the good times and, at the
end, through the anguish. What the hell had happened to
that? It had just all blown away, leaving them stranded,
isolated, incomplete.
**Please be careful.**
It felt good to hear a woman say it to him again, no matter
what the implication. It gave him an unfamiliar feeling,
something like hope.
He saw the sandy earth under his shoes. He was at the lane
already. He wasn't even paying attention to where he was
going. Jesus Christ, he had to get his head back into this
case and out of this personal shit. No matter how good it
felt, it was one quick way to get hurt, or dead.
Goodall's little house was there, just south of the church,
under the stand of moss-hung cypress. He walked up the
gravel path to the house. The louvered windows were all
closed tight, and he couldn't hear any sounds at all coming
from inside. He knocked once, then again, louder.
"Mr. Goodall! Hugh Goodall!" he called out, loudly.
"FBI!" He knocked again. Waited. Then he walked around
the house to the back. Nothing. Something was making the
hair stand up on the back of his neck. He unfastened his
holster and finished the circuit around the house.
Not a damn soul.
He squinted through the mossy tree branches, trying to get
a good look at the church next door. There was a good-
sized flock of crows darkening the tree--no, Doggett
remembered, it wasn't "flock"; it was a "murder" of crows.
He smiled grimly. Good choice of words for a bunch of
black birds. They looked like death.
Christ almighty, it was hot, and it wasn't even noon. The
heat radiated up off the ground even there in the shade.
He navigated past a big fire ant nest and made it to the
cement walkway up to the modest church. He unholstered the
Sig and opened the church door.
As he stepped inside, the side of his head exploded in
pain, and he fell, hard, unconscious before he hit the
floor.
Hugh Goodall looked down at the man at his feet. "I
wouldn't have taken you for an impatient man, Mr. Doggett,"
he said. "It's a dangerous character trait."
* * *
CHAPTER 7
Saturday Afternoon
Monica glanced at her watch. It was already 1:15 p.m., and
John had told her he'd be back by 12:30. She was beginning
to feel a dull worry-ache in her solar plexus.
"Agent Reyes," Deborah Boadu said, "may I get you
anything?" Deborah studied Monica, her face concerned.
"Mmm, maybe just a cold drink of something," Monica
replied. "No, don't get up," she said as Deborah Boadu
started to stand. "I can get my own water, or tea--if you
tell me where it is," she added with a smile.
"All, right," Deborah replied. "The tea is in the
refrigerator, in a jar. It will be easy to see."
Monica got up and went into the kitchen. As promised, she
found the tea easily. She pulled a cupboard door open, then
another, until she found the glasses. She pulled a glass down
and poured the tea into it. She stood for a moment, sipping
the sweet, cold tea, thinking. She glanced at her watch again
and pulled out her cell phone and punched in Doggett's number.
"The party you are requesting is unavailable," the
disembodied voice said to Monica, and she bit her lip and
put the phone back in her jacket pocket. It wasn't like
John to go off without backup or without letting someone
else know what he was planning. He was a good, methodical
investigator who seldom let things fall through the cracks,
and she knew he wouldn't turn his phone off when he was
working a case unless he had a damn good reason. Shit.
Shit.
She took the glass of tea with her back into Deborah's
living room.
Deborah stood up as Monica walked into the room.
"Something is wrong," she said.
Monica nodded, studying the other woman. Deborah had a way
about her--knew things for inexplicable reasons. Monica--
and John, too--had suspected from the first that Deborah
knew something she didn't want to share with them. Maybe
now that something would come out.
"Is it your partner?" Deborah asked softly, something like
understanding in her expression.
"Partner"--now, that might take some getting used to.
Monica tried a smile. "It's just that I don't know exactly
where he is, and I am starting to wonder a little, yeah."
She sat down on the sofa, and Deborah came and sat next to
her.
"If I may ask--could he be with the healer woman?"
Deborah's voice was hesitant.
"The healer woman?" Monica's face must have looked blank.
Deborah smiled, a little embarrassed. "Dr. Dannah's
daughter," she explained. "He is her oko, yes?"
Blank again. "Her oko?" Monica asked.
"I'm sorry," Deborah said. "He is her man--they have a
history together?"
"Well, he did go over to the Dannahs' in connection with
the case, but--" Monica stopped and stared at her. "How
would you know that?"
"Please, forget I said anything," Deborah hastened to say.
"It was just a thought. It came from nowhere."
No, I'm absolutely certain it didn't, Monica thought. And
it was pretty astute, judging by those moans and murmurs
she'd overheard the night before. Just then her cell
trilled in her jacket pocket, and she fished it out.
"Monica Reyes," she said.
"Agent Reyes?" a north Florida drawl crackled through the
phone. "This is Floyd Westenra. Y'all called about some lab
results this mornin'?"
"Yes," Monica said. "Do you have anything for us?"
"Yes, ma'am. I tried callin' Agent Doggett but couldn't
get 'im. Anyway, the results came back on the sample y'all
brought in. It's blood all right, Agent Reyes, but I dunno
if it's what you were thinkin'."
"What do you mean?" Monica asked. "What is it?"
"It's goat blood. It's sure not fresh, been on those boots
for at least three 'r four weeks. The lab says it's
impossible to pinpoint exactly."
"Goat blood," Monica repeated. Well, it wasn't evidence
that Goodall had killed Enrique Boadu, but it was good
enough to bring him in for questioning. It was certainly
good enough for her--and now she was thoroughly worried.
"Okay. That helps me. Thanks--Officer Westin, was it?"
"Westenra, ma'am. And you're welcome, now." The phone
went quiet, and Monica slid it back into her pocket.
"Goat blood," Deborah echoed in a small voice.
Monica frowned. "Yes. Goat blood." She moved closer to
Deborah, and the other woman saw Monica's hazel eyes
darken. "Deborah, you need to tell me what you know. I
know you haven't been telling us everything. You know who
we're looking for, don't you? The man who vandalized the
churches." Monica's eyes got wider. "You know who killed
your brother-in-law, don't you?"
Monica watched as Deborah's pupils dilated and her lips
parted. Damn, Monica thought, it's not too often you
actually get to see that happen. She'd seen Doggett with
witnesses and suspects before, and he was a past master at
reading body language, expressions. He knew when to press
and when to back off. She really wished he were here right
now.
"Agent Reyes," Deborah said, "I can't--"
"You can't what?" Monica asked, her voice brittle. "You
can't help me stop this man from killing someone else?
Come on, Deborah, you know who he is!" Her worry about
Doggett was getting to her, and she told herself to back
off a little. You don't know where he is, she thought. He
could be anywhere. He's probably fine. He's probably with
Morgan Dannah; it's obvious there's more there than meets
the eye.
But she knew he wasn't. She could feel it, just like she
felt something when she first met Morgan Dannah. And she
knew John wouldn't be off with a woman when he was working
a case.
"I am afraid he will come after my son," Deborah said
softly. "I'm afraid he will hurt Dr. Dannah's family. I
think he saw your partner with Dr. Dannah's older daughter,
and I'm afraid he'll go after your partner too."
"Then you need to help us," Monica said.
"I promised that I would not," Deborah said quietly. She
shut her eyes, and Monica saw the tears slide down her
cheeks. "But I know I have to. And believe me, Agent
Reyes, there are things involved that you won't be able to
accept, things I'm afraid to tell anyone."
Monica smiled and touched Deborah's arm. "You'd be surprised
what I can accept. And I'm especially curious about how you
know some of these things." Monica pulled out her cell phone
again. "I think it's time to call Sheriff Ritch, too."
* * *
Mo Dannah bent over the bottom rack of the dishwasher,
loading the plates and silverware. She pulled the glasses
and cups off the kitchen counter and loaded them into the
top rack. She put the soap into its little container and
closed the door and started the dishwasher. Sighing, she
stood up, rubbing the small of her back. It was only 2 in
the afternoon, but she was tired. Too many people, too much
emotion, too little sleep.
She walked from the kitchen into her mother's bathroom and
stood in front of the vanity, looking at herself in the
mirror. Fortunately, she didn't look as tired as she felt.
Nice how a little sunburn can make you glow, she thought.
She smiled. A night of loving didn't hurt in that
department either. She combed her fingers back through her
hair and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead.
"Mo!" It was Maeve's voice, from the kitchen.
"I'm in here, in mama and daddy's bathroom," Mo called out
to her sister. "Tryin' to assess the damage," she added
dryly.
Maeve walked in behind her and studied Mo's reflection in
the mirror. "Hey, nothin' a little lipstick and a good
night's sleep can't cure," she teased. "Do you know why
your Agent Doggett's car is still parked outside in the
lane?"
Mo blinked. "It is?" She frowned. "He left here a long
time ago." She thought about what he'd said to her before
he walked out the kitchen door, and the worry-knot in her
belly that had been there for hours tightened even more.
"Mo, what's wrong?" Maeve stepped to Mo's side and looked
up into her face.
"Nothing, really," she said. "John mentioned something to
me before. I think the case he's working on might be
putting him in danger."
"What did he tell you? You've been walking around here
ever since he left, waiting on people and worrying? Mo,
what's going on?" Maeve understood her sister's reticence
--it was how Mo dealt with the overload of feelings that
sometimes burdened her--but it was irritating Maeve right
now.
Mo couldn't get a deep breath. "He asked me to make sure
that none of us went anywhere alone. And he went over to
the church--" She glanced at her watch. "--over two hours
ago. And he hasn't come back yet to get his car?"
"The church," Maeve echoed. "So he thinks the vandalism
over there is directly connected to the murder?"
"Mevvie, I'm not a mind-reader. I don't know what he
thinks, and he wouldn't tell me. I just know he was
worried about our family maybe being in danger. I think
he was worried in general." Mo smiled, a nervous quirk of
her lips. "And, you know, I don't think he scares too
easily."
Maeve regarded her sister knowingly. "But he traveled a
couple thousand miles to see a woman he barely knew,
because he cared enough about her to worry about her. I'm
guessing he still worries about you."
Maeve watched as Mo's face went white beneath the sunburn.
She reached up and pulled Mo into her arms and held her
while her sister drew in shaky breaths, trying to ward
off the tears. "Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to
make you cry," Maeve whispered.
Mo squeezed her tightly and then pulled away from her. She
took a deep breath. "Do you know where mama put Agent
Reyes' card? If she knows where he is, then I'm worrying
about nothing. To hell with standing around and worrying,"
she said, walking out of the bathroom.
* * *
****John Doggett was lying in the back of Stuie Wilcox's '69
Chevy pickup bumping along the ruts of Route 82. They were
outside of Powder Springs, Georgia, way the hell out in the
sticks, and if he'd ever been more drunk, he couldn't
remember when.****
His head felt like it had been kicked by a good-sized
horse, and he was afraid to open his eyes. The air was
thick and smelled of heat and pine forest, but the truck
bed was cool, and he pressed his aching head against it,
trying to quench the fire on the side of his face. His
cheek scraped against the grit and dirt in the bottom of
the truck bed, and it scratched his skin and made the fire
burn hotter. The truck swerved, and a small, warm body
next to him shifted into him, and he groaned.
****Jennilee had been in trouble, and he'd gone and kicked the
ass of the stupid bastard who'd been grabbing her and
making threats. And now she was there with him in the bed
of the truck, pressing her pretty little self up against
him, pulling up his T-shirt and kissing him in places he
wasn't used to being kissed.
He was almost 18.
"John-eee, John-eeeeee!" The voice was a chant, a moan,
and she was straddling him now, her tongue leaving a wet
trail up his belly to his chest. He grasped her arms and
pulled her down on top of him.****
As Doggett slowly moved his head back and forth
experimentally, sickening dizziness hit him. His head hurt
more than he thought a head could possibly hurt. He opened
his eyes and immediately closed them again against the
bright assault and tried to move his arms and legs.
Nothing. He tried moving his head again, gently. There
was someone next to him. And where the Christ was he?
Not in Stuie Wilcox's pickup, that was for sure. But it
was a truck bed--and who the hell was that next to him?
The pickup swerved again, wildly, and Doggett rolled
against the side of the truck bed, hard, and stabbing pain
shot through his head. The driver righted his course, then
swerved again, righted again. --the fuck? Doggett thought
weakly.
As the truck continued on its journey to wherever it was
going, another wave of pain and nausea hit hard, and he
gave in to it and shut his eyes again.
* * *
"I was wonderin' if this sorta thing might happen on this
case." Al Ritch glanced over at Monica. He could see that
she was distracted, clasping and unclasping her hands in
her lap, staring out the window as if she were trying to
memorize the scenery that was going by as they drove down
Highway 27.
Monica looked over at the big man behind the wheel of the
Blazer.
"I mean, sometimes y' just don't get t' the bottom of a
case unless someone talks," he added.
As if she didn't know that. Monica rolled her eyes and
looked out the window again. Damn condescending men.
"Look," Sheriff Ritch said, softer now, "we'll figure out
what happened to him--your partner."
A flood of hot embarrassment passed through her for her
thought just now, and she turned back to him and smiled
weakly. He nodded, the crinkles around the corners of his
brown eyes as close as he came to smiling.
"So, Miz Reyes," Ritch said, turning the Blazer down the
lane to the Dannahs' house, "Deborah Boadu told you that
she witnessed the vandalism at the Methodist Church?"
"Yes," Monica said. "She said she watched him eviscerate
the goat, pull out the intestines and basically, well,
decorate the church."
Ritch laughed softly.
"The one thing she didn't explain was how the goat parts
got burned--especially how it got burned without burning
anything else in the sanctuary." That was true enough;
Deborah hadn't explained it, although Monica thought she
had it pretty well figured out. But she didn't think the
good sheriff needed those details. He wouldn't believe
them, anyway.
Ritch stopped the Blazer next to the rented Taurus sedan.
There were a number of other cars parked in front of the
house, and Monica realized that there must still be some
visitors here who'd come for the wake. She opened the door
and slid out of the car, and followed the sheriff up to the
porch.
~~~~
Sitting across the dining room table from the two Dannah
sisters, Al Ritch found himself thinking that neither woman
was hiding her concern very well. But Morgan Dannah's eyes
were shadowed and haunted, despite her attempt to maintain
a happy front. As he listened to the other people at the
table speak, he watched her quietly.
"Agent Doggett was here--I think it must have been around
11:30," Maeve Dannah told Monica. "He just stopped in for
a minute or two to pay his respects, and he left. I'm not
sure where he was going."
"I'm pretty sure he was going over to see Mr. Goodall," Mo
put in. "He walked across our back field to the church."
"Did he say anything to anyone?" Monica asked.
"He told me to make sure no one in our family went anywhere
alone," Mo said. "Of course I asked him why. He wouldn't
tell me."
Monica nodded.
"Agent Reyes," Mo said, "is he in trouble? Is he in
danger?" There. She'd finally just asked it.
"To be honest, we don't know," Monica said simply. "We're
going to try to find out." She stood up and looked at Mo.
"I'll keep in touch with you, okay?" she said gently.
"Let you know what's going on."
Mo nodded. "I'd appreciate that," she said softly. "I need
to know."
* * *
"Looks pretty deserted, Miz Reyes," Sheriff Ritch said as
they approached Hugh Goodall's little house.
Monica had to agree. It was completely quiet except for
the hum and buzz of insects. There weren't even many birds
around. Monica followed the sheriff up the gravel path to
the house, looking around the yard, for what, she wasn't
sure.
Something gleaming in the grass caught her eye. "Sheriff
Ritch," she called to him, and he stopped and turned back
to her.
She walked a few paces off the path and looked down at the
grass.
"What is it?" Ritch said, walking over to her.
Monica knelt down. There were two earthen bowls in the
grass, both of them partially overturned. One looked like
it had been full of sand. Monica touched the sand and
raised her fingers to her nose. Incense. The other bowl
was still partly full of milk, smelling overripe now. But
the gleam that had caught her eye was from the beaded
necklaces scattered there. She picked them up and held
them between her fingers. They were ilekes.
"Someone worked a Lucumi ritual here, fairly recently," she
said, looking up at Sheriff Ritch. "See--the incense was
in this bowl. Maybe there were other things too that I
haven't found, scattered in the grass. Whoever did the
ritual brought a bowl of milk as an offering. And he or
she left their ilekes here on the ground, which is very
odd."
Ilekes? Well, the whole thing seemed pretty damn odd to Al
Ritch, but he didn't say it out loud. "Why's that so odd?"
he asked instead.
"The ilekes are sanctified to the orishas--the
representatives of the gods. Only a sanctified Lucumi
wears them, and they're precious things. You don't just
take them off and leave them on the ground. Unless--" She
stopped and thought for a moment, pinching her lower lip.
"Unless you were expecting that something 'hot' was going
to happen--maybe violence, blood-letting of some sort."
She stood up. This wasn't the time for Santeria 101. "We
need to go inside and look around."
Ritch nodded. "I think it's time we put out a bulletin on
Hugh Goodall's vehicle too. In case he's gone 'n run off.
I for one would like to talk to him again."
Still holding the necklaces, Monica was already at the door
of the house, afraid of what she might find inside.
* * *
Deborah Boadu unlocked her front door and pushed it open,
walked inside and closed it quietly behind her. She
stripped off her headcloth and wiped her forehead. She was
tired. There had been a lot of cleaning to do at Mrs.
Teague's house, and she was glad to be home. It was just
after 6--three hours of hard, intense work. Stephen and
Old Owdeye would be coming over for supper soon.
She walked through the kitchen and stood at the back door,
looking out at the dry lawn, across at Owdeye's
rhododendron bushes and flower beds. They were glorious.
She sighed, wondering if she'd done the right thing by
telling Agent Reyes what she knew--well, most of what she
knew. Although this Agent Reyes had been more open-minded
than she would have thought possible, how could you ever
explain to someone that you could change into a bird? That
you could communicate with birds? They would surely pack
you up and take you to the nearest psychiatric hospital.
Deborah sighed and pushed her heavy braids behind her
shoulders.
Where *was* Old Owdeye? Now that she thought about it, she
hadn't seen him all day, which was unusual. He almost
always could be seen out in his yard doing *something* with
his trees and flower beds.
Deborah felt a sudden adrenaline jolt that left her warm
and shaky. What had he said yesterday? That he would make
sure the crazy man wouldn't hurt anyone else?
What had he done?
Deborah banged out the back door and down the steps. She
ran across the grass into Old Owdeye's small yard and up to
his back porch. She walked up the steps carefully,
quietly, dreading what she might find there. The screen
door was unlatched, and she walked inside. The house was
still and stifling, with no motion of air, no sound, no
signs of life at all. Decorated with colorful drawings
done by Owdeye's great-grandchildren, the refrigerator
hummed, the only sound in the silent house.
Deborah felt a clutch of panic in her middle. Then she saw
a cloth bundle on the kitchen table and walked over to it.
She opened it to find a pen carved from a small tree
branch, a silver amulet, and a beaded necklace. Deborah
pulled the necklace gently from the bundle. It was
Owdeye's ileke sanctified to the orisha Oya, she of the
winds and the birds. There was a piece of paper at the
bottom of the bundle, and Deborah pulled it out with shaky
hands.
Temi abure Deborah,
If I do not return, please give this pen and amulet to
Stephen. I would like you to have the ileke, because you
above all others know what to do with it. Do not worry
about me. I have faith that whatever happens was meant to
be.
My love and blessings to you,
Jacob
Deborah read it again: ". . .because you above all others
know what to do with it." She suddenly felt chilled at
the realization that she hadn't been fooling the old man
all this time. He knew about her. She wondered how long
he had known, and why he'd never said a thing. She kissed
the ileke and gently placed it around her neck. Then she
folded up the paper and replaced it in the bundle, gathered
the cloth together and took it with her as she left the
empty house, barely able to see through the sudden tears.
She ran blindly to her house, stumbled up the steps and
into the kitchen. She almost ran into her son.
"Stephen! Have you seen Old Owdeye? I think something has
happened to him."
The tall young man was confused. "Grandfather? He's not
at his house?" He took Deborah by her arms. "Mama, don't
cry! What's wrong? What's going on?"
Deborah looked up at her son. "I think he went to Mr.
Goodall. He said he was going to take care of him."
Deborah pulled away from Stephen and handed him the
colorful cloth bundle. "He left these for you. He would
not have left these things out for me to find unless he
thought he might not come back."
She sank down into a kitchen chair. "Stephen, this is my
fault. I didn't do what I should have, because I didn't
want to dishonor my babalosha, my priest. I thought it
would be all right if I simply kept watch over things. But
I should have known. Now this man has taken a policeman,
who has some connection with the healer woman, Dr. Dannah's
girl. I cannot let him be hurt, if hurting him will hurt
her. Stephen, I owe her father your very life." She drew
in a deep breath and stood up. "And now I'm afraid he has
Old Owdeye--and I owe him more than anyone. So now I need
to do what I should have done in the first place."
"Mama, let the police handle this," Stephen said.
"I can't, Stephen," she said quietly. "My omo, you must
understand. I will let them know about Owdeye, but I can't
just let them handle it. There's too much at stake." She
rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Now I have to find out where the
crazy man has taken them."
* * *
John Doggett opened his eyes slowly, not wanting a repeat
of his last attempt. This time, it was dark, and his eyes
were spared that piercing pain.
He was no longer in whatever truck he'd been in. Wherever
he was, it was cool and damp and smelled like water. Where
the hell *was* he? He tried to sit up, and realized that
he was bound hand and foot and couldn't move effectively at
all.
How the fuck had he gotten himself into this? Unbidden,
the image of Tommy Egan came to him--one of the toughest,
shrewdest guys he'd even known, in the NYPD or anywhere
else. Tommy would kick his ass from here back to Sunnyside
if he could see him now, trussed up like a turkey, caught
by his own impulsiveness. God knows he could use Tommy
right about now, even if it *did* result in a royal ass-
kicking.
His head still ached, a lot worse than it used to after one
of those lost weekends he'd pulled so many years ago, with
his buddies from the Lebanon hitch. He'd had concussions
before, and he knew he must have one now--by far the worst
one he'd ever had. He'd lost consciousness twice, and that
was something he'd never experienced before. He was going
to try like hell to stay conscious from here on out. Maybe
he'd figure out a way to get out of here alive.
He raised his head up a bit, and squinted through the
gloom. Where was the person who'd rolled into him in the
truck? And who *was* that, anyway? He lay his head back
on the cool earth.
Someone stirred and groaned just to his right, and Doggett
strained to move, to see who it was, where the sound was
coming from. He peered through the gloom. "Hey, you
there!" he hissed.
"Hello," a thin, weak voice said. "Who is that?"
"My name's John Doggett," Doggett said quietly. "I'm with
the FBI."
"I am Jacob Owdeye, Mr. Doggett," the voice replied. "I
would say I am happy to meet you, but this does not seem
the right occasion."
Doggett's laugh was thin and humorless. Owdeye. The man
was one of the West Africans, a Lucumi priest. Monica had
interviewed him two days earlier.
"Well, Mr. Owdeye, where do you suppose we are? I have a
pretty good idea *why*, at least in my case," Doggett said.
"I think we are in a cave of some sort," Owdeye replied.
"There are caves not far from town, at Ichetucknee
Springs."
A cave. Swell. Doggett closed his eyes again, his head
throbbing.
Shoes scraped along the hard earth, and his eyes opened
again. Someone was walking toward them, and Doggett felt
the adrenaline spike through his body in an almost painful
rush.
The footsteps came closer and then stopped. A man stood
between Doggett and Owdeye. "It's nice to see that you
gentlemen have become acquainted," he said, his voice a
soft drawl.
Hugh Goodall.
"What do you want, Goodall?" Doggett asked tiredly. "What
the hell are you doin'?"
"I'm just paying a debt, Mr. Doggett. And you and Mr.
Owdeye here just happened to show up at my door."
"Payin' a debt?" Doggett echoed. "You're not makin' a
damn bit of sense."
Goodall walked closer. "You're just a happy accident, Mr.
Doggett. Owdeye is the one I have serious business with.
You're just a whoremonger who consorts with witches."
What? Doggett had been called a lot of things over the
years, but he didn't think he'd ever been called a
whoremonger before. Witches? Did he mean Monica? Mo?
It was beginning to dawn on Doggett that Hugh Goodall had
sat in his empty, chintz-filled house and quietly gone mad.
On the surface he might seem to be an unassuming bible-
thumper, but scratch the surface and there was a real bull
goose loony. Doggett had pushed him before to see which way
he would jump, but now he realized that there probably was
no way to judge which way the man was going to jump.
"Dr. Dannah's daughter, Mr. Doggett," Goodall said
insinuatingly. "You seem to know her rather well. I've
heard talk about her New Age lifestyle. And you do know
what God says about witches, don't you? Exodus 22: 18:
'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' "
"Where is she?" Doggett's voice was dangerously still.
"Have you done something to her?"
"Oh, calm down, Mr. Doggett. She's safe at home with her
mama and her sister. But maybe I should bring them all
here and let you watch what I do to them."
"If you so much as touch her--touch *any* of them--I swear
to Christ I'll kill you myself," Doggett said, still quiet.
Goodall moved faster than Doggett would have thought
possible, swinging his leg in a vicious kick that connected
with Doggett's side. The pain was crushing, and Doggett
cried out despite himself. He couldn't move at all,
couldn't breathe at all.
And then Goodall kicked him again, and Doggett felt the
bitter burn of vomit at the back of his throat.
Through his haze of pain, Doggett didn't see Goodall double
over, clutching at his head with both hands, and finally
collapse to his knees.
* * *
CHAPTER 8
Saturday Evening
Deborah Boadu had showered and was clean and ready for
ritual. She poured the warm, scented oil into her hands
from the glass bottle on her dresser and rubbed her palms
together. Then she ran her hands across her forehead,
cheeks, neck, breasts, arms and belly. She ran her
oil-anointed fingers down each leg. She pulled on her
brilliant striped cotton caftan and wrapped her head in the
white headcloth she saved for ritual. She went to her
altar and lifted her ilekes off its surface and put them
over her head, one by one, kissing each one before she slid
it over her braids.
She knelt on the mat in front of the altar and shut her
eyes.
"Abure eiyele, abura eiyele, abure eiyele, abura eiyele,"
Deborah chanted softly, rhythmically. "Wa ti mo, abure.
Mo busi. Gon mi lele, gon mi lele. Eje o orun busi yi a
awo Moducue. Ajuba. Mo dide, mo dide!" Brother bird,
sister bird, brother bird, sister bird. Come to me, my
brothers. I bless you. Be my eyes, my eyes! Blood and
heaven grant you secret blessing. Thanks be to you. I
salute you. We rise, we rise!
Over and over, she chanted the words, singing them, praying
them, swaying and laughing as the room filled with birds:
doves, crows, wrens, swallows, swirling and banking and
diving around her, swooping and brushing her with their
wings and calling to her and to each other in their
cacophony of languages.
"Abure eiyele," Deborah said, "brothers and sisters, you
must help me find this eni, this one we have been watching.
We must find him and stop him, as I should have long ago."
* * *
Monica Reyes looked over at Sheriff Ritch as he steered the
Blazer back up the lane to the macadam road. "I'd like to
stop by the Dannahs' house again for a bit, if you can take
the time, Sheriff," she said. "I know it's getting on."
"It's okay," Al Ritch said, glancing over at her. "We've
got everybody else we can spare right now lookin' for Hugh
Goodall's truck--and, by extension, Hugh Goodall. And for
your Agent Doggett."
"I really appreciate that," Monica said. I need to call the
Jacksonville field office too. Ev Clyatt was pretty upset when
he heard that John had gone missing. They'll probably be sending
some agents over from there too."
Ritch was quiet. They hadn't found much at Goodall's house
that pointed anywhere, much less to anything criminal.
Maybe Goodall had left in a hurry, or maybe he was just
absentminded or sloppy: They'd found breakfast dishes in
the sink, a half-cup of cold coffee with congealed cream
floating greasily on the top, a half-read newspaper. Agent
Reyes' partner had last been seen around 11:30 a.m., almost
eight hours ago. He could be almost anywhere by now. Or
he could be--
Monica looked up at Ritch and met his sober brown eyes. He
hoped she couldn't read his thoughts, because she probably
didn't need to know what he was thinking, that they might
not find Doggett alive. He'd come to realize that he liked
this woman. She might be a little odd, but she was
politic, funny, strong and intelligent--she'd taken him to
school on this case, that was for sure, without once
overstepping her bounds or pulling rank.
He pulled the Blazer up in front of Ruth Dannah's house,
turned off the ignition and looked at Monica. He thought
she looked tired, her eyes dark, her golden skin dulled.
"You can just leave me here for now, if you need to get
back. I'll be fine," she said, her hand on the door
handle.
"You sure, now?" He kept examining her face, trying to read
what she was feeling. She smiled at him.
"I'm sure." She nodded. "I'll call you if anything comes
up. And if John left the keys in the rental car, I'll have
a car here." Fat chance of that, she thought. "If not,
I'll work something out."
"I'll call you the minute we hear anything," Ritch assured
her.
"Okay," she said. "Thanks." And she opened the door and
climbed down from the Blazer.
He watched her as she walked up the porch steps and into
the old house. Ritch, you're losin' it, boy, he said to
himself. Gettin' silly thoughts about a Fed. He shook his
head, and turned the Blazer around and headed back down the
lane, back to Gainesville.
* * *
Doggett slowly came back to awareness--of the gloom, the
smells, the dampness, the crushing pain in his side, the
ache in his head.
And a muffled voice tight with anger: "What did you do to
me, you filthy heathen?!"
Doggett heard Old Owdeye sigh softly. "I have stopped
you," the old man said in his quiet voice.
Doggett wondered what Goodall had expected to hear. He
drew in an experimental breath, and the pain rolled over
him in a scalding wave. Broken rib, probably more than
one. Shit. Then the next thought came: Does Goodall have
a weapon?
"You 'stopped' me? What does that mean? I was fine until
I found you sittin' out on my lawn doin' your satanic
mumbo-jumbo," Goodall said, his voice increasing in volume
as he spoke. "What did you DO TO ME?"
Doggett lifted his head as far as he could and peered at
Goodall through the semidarkness. Goodall was clutching
his head with one hand, but in the other was a knife, its
business end pointed right at the old man. It was big,
with a curved blade hooked at the end, a particularly
vicious-looking hunting knife.
It was time to change the subject.
"Mr. Goodall," Doggett said, his voice hoarse. "Why'd you
kill Enrique Boadu?"
Goodall turned away from Owdeye to Doggett.
"And you musta been the one who did all the church
vandalizing too, huh?" Doggett asked before Goodall could
say anything.
Goodall stood over him. "It was about duty, Mr. Doggett,
keeping promises--if you can understand that." The look on
Goodall's face made it clear what he thought.
More than you could possibly know, Doggett thought. "I
just have a hard time understanding how murder could be a
duty, or keep a promise."
"The Lord makes it very clear: 'The fearful, and
unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and
whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars,
shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire
and brimstone, which is the second death.' "
"So you just take it on yourself to decide who the
unbelievers and idolaters are, just like you decided I was
a whoremonger, huh?" Doggett said before he was seized
with a paroxysm of coughing that sent almost unbearable
stabbing pain through his side. He was sweating from the
pain in his head and his side. He didn't know how much
longer he could keep talking to this guy, but if he could
keep Goodall interested in him instead of Owdeye, all the
better.
Goodall turned the knife over in his hands, ran his fingers
over the tip. Doggett remembered the description of
Enrique Boadu's body, the dead animals, and remembered that
Goodall knew exactly how to use that knife, remembered that
he wasn't afraid to use it. He remembered that the man
wasn't quite sane.
If Goodall took it into his head to use that knife of his
on either him or Owdeye, it'd pretty much be over for them
both. For the first time, it occurred to him that he
really might die here.
It occurred to him that he might never get the chance to do
things he'd meant to do, that he'd wanted to do. To take
down Alvin Kersh. To explain to Dana Scully how much he
owed her, and tell Fox Mulder that if he didn't treat
Scully right he'd seriously kick his ass. To tell Kate how
sorry he was that they'd come undone the way they had, that
he'd loved her with a fierceness he'd never expected to
experience again. To acknowledge that there might be room
in his life for love again.
"God provides me with righteous judgment, Mr. Doggett,"
Goodall replied, pulling Doggett away from his thoughts.
Doggett breathed in carefully, as deeply as he could
without too much pain. "So, what, you just went and
grabbed the guy and killed him, is that right?"
"He was at the graveyard, and I took him across the river."
Goodall looked down at Doggett. He kept turning the knife
around in his hands, around, and around. "His death was a
warning, and a curse, to the family of the man who let my wife
die." Goodall added, rubbing his fingers over his forehead
fiercely, as if it would smooth the pain away. "I've been
thinking about you, Mr. Doggett," Goodall said softly. "I think
I know what your weakness is." He ran his fingers slowly down
the blade of the hunting knife. "Just like I figure hurting you
would be the worst thing I could do to Morgan Dannah. You're a
policeman--you help people. I could hurt you, and it really
might not faze you much. But if I hurt someone *else*--now,
that would be a different story, wouldn't it?" Goodall stood
up and moved over to Old Owdeye.
"Goodall!" Doggett said. "Let him be. I'm the one givin'
you shit. You just deal with me!" he said.
"That'd be easy for you, Mr. Doggett." Goodall knelt down
beside Owdeye. "I don't think so. His people lived. Mine
died. This one owes me a life."
"Goodall, he's an innocent old man! Don't do it!" Doggett
shouted, straining at the ropes.
Goodall looked down at Old Owdeye for a long moment.
The old man looked back at him, his eyes bright, his face
peaceful. "It is over," Owdeye said.
"Yes, it is," Goodall said, and then plunged the knife into
Owdeye's chest. The old man gasped, sighed, and then was
still.
"NO!" Doggett shouted again, his throat raw, and then he
coughed again, spasmodically. He squeezed his eyes shut,
feeling the hot tears behind his eyelids. "No," he murmured
again. "Ah, God, no, fuckin' bastard, no. . ."
* * *
Monica Reyes stood at the Dannahs' screen door and looked
out at the porch. The sky was starting to darken into dusk,
and the swallows were flying low after the mosquitoes. Mo
Dannah was sitting motionless on the top step, her hands on
the porch behind her, looking out toward the little town.
Monica didn't know the other woman well enough to know
exactly what was going on with her, but she pushed the door
open anyway. Nothing ventured, she always figured, nothing
gained. . .
Mo didn't look up, and Monica stood on the porch, silent.
Then she saw that the other woman's body was shaking with
quiet sobs. Monica approached her quietly and laid a gentle
hand on her shoulder.
Startled, Mo jumped and turned around, wiping her face.
"Agent Reyes," she said, confused.
"Ms. Dannah, we'll find him," Monica said. "John." She
nodded, her dark-hazel eyes intent on Mo.
Mo turned away, wiping her eyes surreptitiously. After a
moment she looked up again at the other dark-haired woman.
"I appreciate that," she said. "I just wish I believed it."
"I think you can believe it," Monica said, sitting down
next to Mo. "I just. . .think you can believe it, that's
all. We'll get him back."
Mo stole a sidelong glance at Monica.
"He means a lot to you." Monica said.
Mo sighed. Then she looked right at Monica. "Did he speak
to you at all, about. . ."
Monica laughed softly. "John? No." She shook her head. "I'm
not laughing because the situation is funny. I'm just
laughing because John would never--John doesn't talk about
that sort of thing."
"Then how--?"
Monica didn't say anything for a moment. She wasn't about
to mention the Ramada Inn's thin walls. "It's going to
sound weird."
Mo smiled ironically. "Weird doesn't bother me, Agent
Reyes."
Monica's brows rose. "Really?"
"You have no idea," Mo said drily.
"Is it too strange to tell you that when I met you the
first person I thought of was John?" Monica studied the
other woman.
"No," Mo said softly. "Not too strange." She looked at
Monica. "You know him well? I mean, you must have a
pretty good feel for--"
"For who he is?" Monica asked. "Well, I have a fairly good
idea, I guess. I mean, we were never intimate--I mean,
intimate friends." Monica smiled, a little embarrassed.
"I've known him for a few years. We worked together
through a really hard time for him."
Mo nodded. "He mentioned you once, a while back. You
worked with him when his son was. . .taken." Mo found that
she had a hard time saying it.
"Yeah," Monica said. "Well, then, you must know how it
ended. His little boy was murdered."
Mo rubbed her forehead. "I can't imagine how he must have
felt." She looked at Monica. "How could you bear to lose
a child who was born to you, one you held, one you raised?
I think I would have died along with my child."
Monica looked down at her feet and then back at Mo. "I
think John wanted to."
"You know, almost from the day I met him, I wondered what
had happened to him," Mo spoke softly, almost to herself.
"There was always a part of him, a part of his heart, that
was walled off. I could feel it, but I couldn't get past
the wall. For the longest time I didn't know why, and I
just let it be. After he told me about his son, it made a
little more sense." She looked at the other woman. "And
then the wall wasn't so strong anymore."
"You're an intuitive, aren't you? I thought so," Monica
said.
"I'm a healer," Mo said, her eyes bright. "That's all.
You seem to have a little talent yourself, Agent Reyes."
"A little," Monica admitted. "I just sense things
sometimes."
"You know," Mo said quietly, "I never had the chance to
tell him how much I care for him."
Monica reached over and put a gentle hand on her back. "I
think he knows," she said softly.
"I wonder," Mo murmured. "I wonder if he does."
They sat there together, quiet, as the dark settled over
the town, the birds went home, and the stars filled the
sky, one by one.
~~~~
Monica stood up, touching Mo's shoulder one last time, and
walked down the wooden steps toward the lane. She shoved
her hands into her jacket pockets and looked up into the
starry sky, restless, frustrated, worried. She was worried
that she hadn't heard anything yet from Sheriff Ritch, and
she was more worried about John than she would admit. She
wanted to put some distance between herself and Mo Dannah
right now, because if Mo really were as close to John as
she suspected she was, the last thing she needed was to
pick up on Monica's worry--something that was probably as
natural to Mo Dannah as breathing.
Walking down the lane toward the little town, she ran her
hands back through her hair, breathing in the spicy, humid
air.
Monica had been in the Bureau for seven years, and she
wasn't naive, despite what some people believed. Given her
specialization in ritual abuse, she'd dealt with some
horrors and had seen things that could easily have made her
old before her time. But right now she was feeling just
about as bad as she'd ever felt about a case. If it turned
out that Doggett were injured--or worse--she'd have to live
with the guilt that she'd gotten him involved in the first
place.
Monica walked, listening to the crickets' happy thrum,
breathing, trying to calm herself, to think clearly.
Maybe that was all she could do, she thought: Keep a clear
head, and do what she could to find him. She had to call
Sheriff Ritch.
She already had her hand on her cell phone when it rang.
"Monica Reyes," she said into the phone, anxious now.
"Agent Reyes? It is Deborah Boadu." She sounded agitated.
"Deborah," Monica said. "What can I do for you?"
"Agent Reyes, I know where he is," Deborah said.
Monica stopped dead in the middle of the lane. "What?
Who? Goodall?"
"Yes. He has Old Owdeye, and Agent Doggett."
Monica began walking back to the house. After listening to
Deborah for just a few seconds, she was running.
* * *
"I'm going with you," Mo said to Monica.
Monica frowned at her thoughtfully. "I don't think--"
"You said they were somewhere at Ichetucknee Springs. You
don't know how to get there," Mo said. "I do. If you go
with the Sheriff, I'll just go by myself." Mo smiled at
her. "You can't stop me," she added.
Monica just blinked. This was a side of Mo Dannah that she
hadn't yet seen, and it surprised her. "Ms. Dannah," she
said, "you could get hurt. I can't let you--"
"I won't get hurt. I might be able to help you. And, like
I said, you won't be able to stop me anyway." Mo looked at
Monica with calm, determined eyes.
It was pretty clear that Mo wasn't going to give an inch,
and Monica was the one to finally give. "All right," she
said. "I don't see much point in having Sheriff Ritch come
back here."
"Good," Mo said. "We need to hurry." She was already out
the screen door and halfway down the porch steps by the
time Monica moved to follow.
* * *
"You owe me a life." Goodall said. He looked down at Mo,
who looked up at him, her face peaceful.
"My life for his," she said. "Promise me."
"I promise," Goodall said to her, and smiled. He stabbed
down with the big knife with all his strength, the heavy
blade shattering her sternum. Gouts of bright red blood
gushed out, soaking her white shirt, and she shuddered as
the light faded from her eyes.
Doggett cried out, gasping awake, coughing. Breathing
hard, he looked around. Mo was nowhere to be seen. His
heart was hammering hard and fast, pounding the blood to
his head so hard that he thought he would throw up.
Through the sweat running into his eyes, he could see
Goodall sitting next to Owdeye's body, swaying back and
forth, moaning, clutching his head with his hands.
Then Goodall began to scream, tearing at his head and face
with his fingers, his nails scratching bloody fissures in
his skin.
Later, Doggett was never sure after that exactly what
happened in the cave that night. It was surreal, filtered
through his own haze of pain and sickness, so far off the
chart of what he'd ever understood to be reality.
Sounds. Smells. Blurred images. Things happening that
couldn't really happen.
A noise that sounded like the flapping of small wings, and
then the birds, dozens, hundreds of them, filling the
cavern with their cries and the air from their beating
wings.
A figure he couldn't make out, who bent down over Owdeye's
body and touched him tenderly, and then straightened and
turned to Hugh Goodall like the wrath of God.
The blinding flash of light, the screams, the smell of
burnt flesh. Doggett squeezed his eyes shut against the
brilliance, and the horror.
"Holy fucking Christ, what the hell--?" "This one's gone--
" "Over here, we need help here!" "Lady, you all right?
Lady?!" "Get the O2 the hell over here--move your ass!"
And then someone was kneeling over him, and there was the
light touch of fingers on his forehead. A blurred face
close to his, tears dropping onto his cheeks, a sobbing
laugh. A soft Carolina voice. "No, don't move, John. We
don't know how badly you're hurt."
Another person, much larger, kneeling beside him, cutting
the ropes that bound him with a gentleness belying his
size. "Agent Doggett," the person said in a deep Florida
drawl, "the EMTs'll be with y'all in just a minute. Y'all
hold tight, now."
Her hands were on his face, warm, soothing, wiping away the
sweat, giving him her strength. Once the ropes were gone,
she slid a hand into one of his and left it there, a silent
reminder that he was all right, that she was there.
"Is he okay--?" Another soft female voice. He opened his
eyes. A tall, female figure. Monica.
The EMTs came and did what they did, and they took him out
of the cave and into an ambulance.
As the ambulance moved slowly down the rutted road, she was
still there, her hand in his. And then whatever they were
dripping into his arm made him too sleepy to know anything
else.
* * *
CHAPTER 9
Sunday Morning
Monica Reyes walked into Doggett's room and stopped just
inside the door. He was lying motionless, his head turned
toward the windows, not asleep but not totally awake. How
vulnerable he looks, she thought, realizing that she hadn't
really thought of him that way in years, really not since
he'd worked his son's case with him. She pushed those
memories back down to the place where she kept them and
walked inside.
"John," she said to him softly. He turned his head slowly
and looked at her. She could see the ugly bruising on the
side of his face now. "Morgan Dannah's sister told me to
tell you that she dragged her home a while ago to throw her
in the shower and make her sleep for a while." Monica
smiled. "But my guess is that she'll be back here after
her shower."
So Monica had seen Mo's stubborn side. Doggett smiled a
little.
Monica wondered if he knew that Mo had sat there with him
all night, curled in the big chair by the side of his bed,
watching, dozing. She had a feeling the drugs had erased
that memory. "How are you doing, John?"
"Hard to breathe," he mumbled. "Hurts like hell."
"The doctor filled me in on the damage," Monica said.
"Stitches in your scalp, a concussion, three broken ribs, a
partially collapsed lung--I think they were worried about
pneumonia. They're giving you morphine and azithromycin
and fluids." She walked closer to the bed and sat down in
the big chair. "What do you remember?"
He leveled his intense blue eyes at her. "Before the
morphine? I remember everything." He shifted his body in
the bed slightly, trying to find a comfortable position.
Unsuccessful, he sighed and turned his face away from her
again.
Monica thought maybe it was a signal for her to go, but
then he turned his head on the pillow and looked at her
again.
"Any news about the case?" he asked.
She was surprised at the question, but then this *was* John
Doggett. Why let a concussion, broken ribs, a collapsed
lung and morphine fog get in the way of the job? Her lips
twitched with ironic amusement, and she leaned closer to
him.
"Hugh Goodall is dead," she said. She watched Doggett's
face. He nodded; he remembered that. "He must have been
losing his mind for a long time, and no one even noticed.
That's really pretty sad."
"Excuse me if I don't cry, Monica," Doggett said.
She raised her brows but didn't say anything. "He was
burned to death," she went on. "No one's saying how he got
that way, but I have a theory."
Doggett lifted a vague hand to her. Get on with it, it
seemed to say. Theories later.
"Deborah Boadu was found naked and disoriented in the cave
with you all last night. She's upstairs being observed by
psych, but I'm told they'll be releasing her this
afternoon. Jacob Owdeye went through seven hours of
emergency surgery last night and is in the ICU. He's
expected to live, which surprised everyone."
Including Doggett, apparently, if the expression on his
face was any indication. "He's alive? I watched Goodall
stab him to death--I thought so, anyway."
"I guess the knife just missed his heart, and he lost a lot
of blood and had extensive trauma, but the old man's still
hanging on." Monica wasn't really surprised. The old man
was a priest, and a strong one, from all indications. From
what Deborah had told her, Owdeye was the one who'd trained
the murdered priest, Enrique Boadu. Spiritual power
counted for something, she knew, whether Doggett understood
it or not. Monica glanced at her watch. "They did the
postmortem on Goodall a couple of hours ago."
"Who the hell pushed *that* through so fast?" Doggett
asked.
"Sheriff Ritch," Monica replied. "He seems to know the
right arms to twist," she added.
Doggett smiled. "I just think he likes you, Monica," he
said quietly.
She looked down at her lap with a small smile and didn't
say anything for a moment. Then she looked up at him.
"Do you want to know what they found, or do you want to
discuss my personal life?"
He smiled tiredly. "Well, discussin' your personal life
would probably be more fun," he said. "But, no, go on."
"Goodall's brain showed advanced degeneration. Way beyond
anything a disease could cause, even something like
advanced syphilis. I believe the M.E.'s technical term for
it was 'mush.' "
Doggett frowned. "How could *that* be? He sure as hell
wasn't sane, but he was able to carry on a damn good
conversation when we interviewed him. You can't do that if
your brain's turned to tapioca, Monica."
"I know, John," she said simply. "So it must have
degenerated fast. It'd be interesting to look at his
medical records just to see if he has any history--"
"Monica, do me a favor," he said quietly. "Just let it
go."
She blinked, drawn up short by his tone, the finality of
it. "What, John? What should I let go of? And why?"
"It's over. Goodall's dead. We both know no one else is
in danger anymore."
Monica stared at him. "That's probably true, John. But
aren't you the slightest bit curious about what happened to
him, and how it happened?"
Doggett didn't say anything. He remembered the old man's
words to Hugh Goodall in the cave: "I have stopped you."
He could still see Goodall screaming, tearing away his own
flesh. He had a feeling he might be seeing and hearing it
in dreams for a while to come.
"John," Monica persisted, "Deborah Boadu told me that Jacob
Owdeye assured her he would take care of Goodall, and
Owdeye's a Lucumi priest. He has certain, well, abilities.
He could have caused what affected Goodall, the
deterioration of his brain."
Doggett made a noise that somehow managed to sound tired
and dismissive all at once.
Monica stood up and folded her arms in front of her, took a
deep breath and let it out. "All right, John," she finally
said, softly. "We'll just pretend that we both don't know
anything, that none of this stuff ever happened. That Hugh
Goodall didn't die because a Lucumi priestess let a power
move through her that turned him to cinders, that his brain
was already disintegrating because of a ritual performed by
a Lucumi priest." She walked to the door and looked back
at him. "I'm sorry, John. Maybe I'll be more
understanding later. And maybe you'll be more able to
listen." She turned to go.
"Monica," he said.
She stopped in the doorway.
"Monica," he said again, and what she heard in his voice
made her turn and look at him.
Something in his eyes made her walk back over to him. She
sat back down in the chair and touched his arm. "John,
what is it?" she asked, her pique forgotten.
"Monica. . .I don't know if I can do this anymore."
"John," she said softly, "do what?"
"This work. This. . .nuts stuff. I just feel like my
whole life has gone to hell since I--well, since the X-
Files." He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked at
her again. "I know I need to stay, you know--there are
things goin' on I know I need to play a part in--it's the
right thing to do. But I can't help but wonder if I'm the
guy for the job."
"John, you're a good agent, one of the best, most
instinctive investigators I've ever known."
His laugh was dry. "Oh, I'm not doubtin' I'm a good
investigator. I'm just doubtin' if I can ever do what's
required to do this work. Monica, I can't work the way you
seem to be able to. I can't just accept the stuff that
seems so normal to you. I can't run off based on whatever
crazy hunch I might take into my head. I fucked things up
royally yesterday doin' just that, actin' like a fuckin'
amateur."
"I don't think you did," she said.
He laughed again. "Oh, I did, all right. Big time, major
league."
"John, you're just learning how to listen to your
perceptions--and your perceptions about Goodall were right
on the money. But you're bound to make mistakes. It's
part of the process."
"That's my point, Monica. I'm not wired the way you are.
There *isn't* any process. I don't have perceptions that
way."
"I think you do. I've told you that before. Where did
your impulse to look in Goodall's closet come from? John,
you need to give it a chance. And you need to cut yourself
some slack. You're human, and you make mistakes. Things
like that happen," she said.
"Not to me, Monica. They don't happen to me. And you know
as well as I do that in our line of work, makin' mistakes
can get you killed--other people killed. I can't shrug off
mistakes like they didn't happen."
"I know that," she said. "I'm not saying you should shrug
them off. But if you can't learn to let go, you'll drive
yourself crazy, John. Do you want to do that?"
"No! I just want to do what's right, whatever it takes!
And I can't just let go of things to make my karma all
better--or whatever the hell you want to call it, Monica.
I can't *be* like you!"
They stared at each other.
Monica pressed her lips together tightly, as if she were
trying to stop herself from saying something. "I don't
want you to be like me, John. But I don't want you to give
up, either."
He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers into them. She
noticed the IV shunt taped to the back of his right hand
and saw the pale purple bruising around the needle
puncture. Suddenly he seemed younger, vulnerable, tired,
injured, and it took all she had to keep from smoothing her
fingers back through his hair and telling him it would be
okay, that it would all be okay in the end.
He looked at her. "I'm just tired," he whispered, as if he
were reading her mind.
"I know," she said quietly, standing up. "I shouldn't have
stayed so long. You need to rest." She touched his hand,
and he squeezed it weakly. "I'll come back a little later.
You sleep now."
He closed his eyes. "Thanks," he murmured almost
inaudibly.
She walked to the door and almost bumped into Mo Dannah,
who was walking into the room. Her hair was damp, and she
looked harried.
Monica smiled at the other woman. "I'm glad you're here,"
she said. "He needs a friend--someone who can just care
about him, and not. . .push."
Mo smiled back, a little puzzled, and Monica left the room.
Mo looked after her and then followed her into the hall.
"Agent Reyes!" she called out, and Monica turned.
Mo caught up to her. "What did you mean in there?"
Monica looked at the other woman, weighing how much she
should say. "Ms. Dannah--"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, call me Mo!"
Monica smiled. "Okay. Then you need to call me Monica."
"All right, Monica, what did you mean?"
"Well, obviously, he's been through a lot," Monica said.
"Obviously," Mo said.
"But I think he's having some troubles reconciling the
things he saw. He's not the most open-minded person when
it comes to what you might call extreme possibilities."
Mo glanced around them and pulled Monica over to some
chairs away from the main hallway. "Monica, I really do
understand that sort of thing. Tell me what you think
happened in that cave."
Monica examined the other woman's face for a moment. Then
she made a decision.
"In just a few words?" Monica asked. "I think Deborah
Boadu focused some sort of energy and burned Hugh Goodall
to death. I think the little Lucumi priest did some sort
of ritual that would have eventually killed Goodall,
anyway. And I think that John saw it all happen, and
watched Goodall stab a helpless man while he was tied up
there, totally unable to do anything."
Mo looked like she'd been slapped, and Monica wondered if
maybe she'd said too much.
Monica was silent for a moment. "There are a lot of things
going on with him," she said. "I think he feels some guilt
--you know about survivor's guilt?"
Mo nodded.
"I think he's feeling something like that. He's had to deal
with that more than once in his life. I also think maybe he's
just beginning to accept things he's denied for a long time.
And he's not comfortable with it."
Mo took a deep breath and nodded. "Thanks. That helps me
understand a little better."
"I think John has a lot to think about right now--about
everything. It's hard to see things happen right in front
of you that you would have never believed," Monica said.
Mo nodded. "Monica, I appreciate your telling me this. I
really do." Mo touched the other woman's arm. "What are
your plans? Do you go home now, or--?"
"I need to spend a little time up at the Jacksonville
office tomorrow with an old friend, and then I fly back
home." Monica smiled. "Or what's home now. I just moved
from New Orleans last week, so things are still a mess."
"Do you need a ride to Jacksonville?" Mo asked. "I could
take you."
"Thanks," Monica said. "But I have a ride. I thought I'd
leave the rental for John."
Mo wondered if Monica's ride had anything to do with that
tall, solicitous sheriff, but she didn't say anything.
"I'm glad I got to meet you, Monica."
"I am too," Monica said. "Take good care of yourself."
"I will," Mo said. "You be careful too. You have an
awfully dangerous job."
Monica laughed softly. "I will," she echoed, and watched
the other woman walk back toward Doggett's room. "Mo!" she
suddenly called out.
Mo turned back to her.
"You might be the best person to be with him right now,"
Monica said. "Because you *do* understand."
Mo looked thoughtful. "I don't know," she said softly.
"Maybe." She continued on down the hall.
She walked inside his room quietly, then over to the bed.
He was asleep, looking very young, his face peaceful. She
sat down in the chair there, leaned toward him and lay her
hand gently against his cheek.
* * *
Monica held up her credentials so the front desk nurse at
the psych ward could see that she really was who she said
she was.
The nurse nodded. "Sarah," she said to a nursing assistant
walking by, "could you take the agent here to see the lady
the cops brought in last night?--the one in C-16 with Mrs.
Hartshorn?"
Monica followed the tall, blonde Sarah down the hall to the
last room on the right. "Thanks," she said to Sarah.
"I'll only need to be here for a few minutes."
"That's fine, ma'am," Sarah replied. "She's been real
quiet. I don't think she's any danger to anyone."
Tell Hugh Goodall that, Monica thought. "Thanks," she said
instead. She walked over to Deborah's bed and stood next
to it. Deborah looked smaller, almost frail. Her eyelids
were a translucent gray. She'd been through a lot in the
last few days.
She opened her eyes and looked up at Monica. Monica reached
out and put her hand on Deborah's arm and watched as the fear
in the woman's eyes faded.
"Deborah, how are you?" Monica asked.
"Agent Reyes," she said with a wan smile. "I am okay. I
want to go home."
"I wanted to let you know that I checked in on Jacob Owdeye
just now. They tell me he'll probably have to be here for
quite a while, but that he should be all right."
Deborah closed her eyes. "Ashe," she murmured. She looked
at Monica again. "Your partner? He is all right too?"
"Yes," Monica said, "John will be fine. I think they'll
keep him here for another day or so just to make sure he
doesn't develop pneumonia or have any problems from the
concussion."
Deborah nodded. She was still for a long moment. "Agent
Reyes," she finally said, "you know what I did."
"Yes, I think I do."
"Then I must tell you that I should have done it much
sooner."
Monica didn't say anything.
"If I had followed my own instincts--if I had not been so
careful to follow the wishes of my priest--neither Owdeye
nor Agent Doggett would have been hurt. That's something I
will always live with."
This seems to be a day for regrets, Monica thought, and for
guilt.
"You were doing what you thought you should do, Deborah.
Keeping a promise, isn't that what you told me?" Monica
said.
Deborah nodded. "It is not an excuse." She sighed. "Are
you going to tell. . . the others?"
"No," Monica said. "They wouldn't believe me if I did.
What would be the point?" She took her hand from Deborah's
arm. "May I ask you something?"
"Yes," Deborah said quietly.
"The birds? Was all that your doing? You were keeping
watch, through them?"
Deborah nodded. It was enough of the truth.
"And was it Shango who created the fire?" Assuming you
believed in the powers of the orishas, the orisha Shango
would explain the fire, the lightning-like flash Monica had
seen at the church that day. It would explain Goodall's
body. Monica wondered if Deborah's actions in the church
that day were out of anger or had a deeper purpose, though
it hardly seemed to matter anymore.
Deborah's brows rose. "Yes," she said. "Agent Reyes, you
know more than you let on. The orishas come to us when we
are in trance, as if we are the horses and they the riders.
I am sanctified to Oya and Shango. It is a duty that is
both beautiful and terrible."
"Yes," Monica said softly. "I can see that it would be."
As she left Deborah's room, Monica thought about how ironic
it was how people are so often chosen to do things they'd
rather not do.
And she thought of another irony: Deborah had more in
common with John Doggett than either of them could ever
imagine.
* * *
Tuesday Morning
It was steamy and overcast, hotter than a stove already at
8 a.m. Ruth Dannah pushed the screen door open and walked
out onto the old porch with her glass of tea. She sat down
in the rocker there and crossed her bare legs, sipping the
cold drink.
It was so quiet. It was going to take some getting used
to, she thought, being alone. Maeve had left on Sunday
evening, after supper there at the house with Morgan and
Max. Maeve and Max both had flights out of Jacksonville
around 9 p.m., so they left right after supper. Morgan had
helped her clean up the supper dishes, and then she had
gone too, back to Gainesville to the hospital.
Morgan had been back and forth several times a day since
Saturday night. The child was looking tired, but Ruth knew
her daughter and knew it wouldn't do her a bit of good to
tell her to stay there at the house and rest. Ruth had
learned over the years that it was usually fine to offer
gentle counsel but that it was a waste of energy and time
to try to impose anything on either of her daughters,
particularly Morgan.
Ruth sipped the tea. She would be 65 years old in
September. She had been married for almost 40 years to a
man she'd loved passionately and had borne him two
beautiful girl babies. She'd taught school for 30 years
and piano lessons for even longer. Her life had been good,
was still good, even though she would miss Jack Dannah
until the day she died.
It's just that change was never easy. She didn't fear it,
but she knew she didn't welcome it, either.
She watched the birds in the old pecan tree flit from
branch to branch. There were fewer birds out there now,
and they were quieter. It was as if something had changed,
as if some peace had fallen over them. Ruth smiled.
The screen door opened, and Mo came out to join her.
Dressed in her white shirt and denim skirt, she was
eating a fresh biscuit covered with butter and jelly.
Ruth smiled to see that her daughter's old habits hadn't
changed much. She'd always loved Ruth's biscuits, and
always with butter and jelly.
"Mama, how are you doing?" she asked, wiping her mouth
clean and kissing Ruth on the cheek.
"I'm doin' okay, sweetie. What have you decided?" Ruth
pulled the other wooden rocker over close, and Mo sat down.
"John leaves the hospital today. Mama, I'm going to fly
home to Virginia with him." Mo said.
Ruth looked at her daughter. "Well, I can't say that comes
as a big surprise," she said. "You don't really think
either of you fooled me, do you?"
Mo laughed. "Mama, you're somethin' else," she said.
"Well, he may not be the love of your life, darlin', but
it's been fairly obvious since he showed up here that you
like him more than a little bit."
"Yeah, I do," Mo admitted. "And you know what? I don't
know why I didn't learn this last winter when I came so
close to dying myself, but I think I've learned it these
last few days. I'm not going to waste any more time being
afraid and telling myself I don't really care for him.
Because I do. And life's too fragile. You just never know
when your choices aren't going to be there anymore."
Ruth covered Mo's hand with hers. "It's an important
lesson to learn, sweetie."
"It is, isn't it?" Mo said. "It's about time I learned
it." She smiled. "I'll probably only stay in Falls Church
a few days, though. I have to get home--I have a lot to do
there." She squeezed Ruth's hand. "I love you, Mama. I
probably don't tell you that enough, either." Ruth smiled
at her. "I'll have to go get my stuff together. I need to
get back to the hospital before too long."
"Do you need my help gettin' anything together?" Ruth
asked.
"No, Mama. Just your company. Always."
* * *
EPILOGUE
Falls Church, Virginia
Sunday Evening
Mo rinsed the last plate and set it in the rack. She
turned off the water, wiped the sink and counter and dried
her hands on the hand towel there. Then, resting her arms
on the edge of the sink, she stood for a moment and looked
out the window at the enveloping darkness outside, at the
lights from neighbors' houses, at the glimmering walkway
lights and the lights on spacious backyard decks. It was a
lovely neighborhood, peaceful, green, comfortable. Safe.
But it wasn't home, and the thought made her indescribably
sad. She needed to go home, to *her* home.
Home. She thought about the first night she'd spent with
him, back in the winter, at her house in Boulder. Barely
more than strangers, they'd taken each other's clothes off
with hardly any words and made love in her living room and
then again, later, in her big four-post bed. Afterward,
they'd lain under her heavy comforter while a fierce wind
threw swirls of snow against her bedroom windows. They'd
talked quietly, kissed, touched each other. She'd been
perfectly content to lie with him while he ran his hands
over her body like a blind man trying to learn her secrets.
After a while, he'd slept, and she had curled into his
warmth and slept herself, her arm wrapped over his waist,
her body curved around his. It had been a few hours of
peace and safety during the worst period of her life.
She'd needed him.
Maybe he'd needed her too.
She had trusted him, and he hadn't disappointed her.
Even injured, he moved quietly, and she felt more than
heard him come up behind her. She stood still, holding her
breath, feeling a shiver run through her body as she waited
for him to touch her. He slipped his fingers under one of
the thin straps of her blue silk top, slid it down off
her shoulder and ran his fingers up her bare arm to her
neck. He put his other arm around her waist and pulled her
close, touching his lips to the nape of her neck. Sighing,
she leaned back against him, and he held her, laying his
cheek against her hair.
If anything could make this place home to her, it would be
him, but she didn't think that wishing could make it so.
At last she turned around and looked at him. The bruising
on the side of his face was fading a little, but it was
still hard to look at. "Why don't you go on outside and
sit down, get comfortable? I'll bring you one of the beers
I bought."
Doggett's lips quirked up in an ironic half-smile. "Mo,
you don't need to wait on me," he said.
She held up her hand. "Just let me take care of you," she
said. "You took care of me when I was hurt."
He couldn't argue with that. He remembered holding her one
night last winter when she'd awakened, crying and shaking,
from a nightmare full of terrors that she couldn't remember
when she was awake. The memories only came back in her
dreams, and they kept coming back for months and months.
He didn't think his dreams had awakened her yet.
"And, you know, I actually *can* do domestic pretty well,"
she added, smiling. "Go!" She flapped her hands at him,
shooing him out the screen door to the deck.
He shook his head, smiling, and walked over to the glider
and eased himself onto it. God damn, how long was it going
to be before it wouldn't hurt to roll over in bed, to walk,
to sit up, to fucking breathe?
Mo slid the screen door open and stepped out onto the deck,
holding two cold Peronis. She walked over to the glider
and handed one to Doggett, then curled up against him on
the seat, pulling her legs up in front of her and tucking
her long silk skirt around her legs.
"Thanks," he said, putting his arm around her. He watched
her. "Mo, was your mom okay with this?"
"With this?" She looked puzzled, and then understanding
dawned on her face. "Oh, my coming here? Yes, I think it
pleased her, actually." She smiled at him. "I'm a big
girl now, you know."
"I know," he said. "I just wondered. I'd been wonderin'
what she'd think if she knew--"
"That you were sleeping with her daughter?" Mo said
wickedly. "Did you think she was going to get out the
shotgun?" She laughed. "You're so funny." He shook his
head, and she put her hand on his leg. "John, my mother
knows I care for you, and all she's concerned about is
whether I'm happy."
She smiled and lifted the beer to her lips and took a long
sip, enjoying its slightly bitter bite. She looked up. It
was a clear night, hot and humid and starry. The moon was
a tiny, waxing sliver in the purple sky.
"It's a pretty maiden moon," she said quietly.
He looked at her quizzically.
She realized that he had no idea what she was talking
about. They really were from opposite sides of the universe.
"A maiden moon is a crescent moon waxing," she explained.
"The full moon is the mother, and then the waning moon is
called the crone. It's a symbol of the triple goddess."
"I'm sorry I asked," he said wryly.
"No, you're not," she murmured, smiling gently. "Look at
the education you're getting." She laced her fingers in
his. "That, and free beer." She looked at him, expecting
him to laugh, and the look on his face surprised her.
He put his beer down and pulled her close to him wordlessly,
holding her tight. He didn't really know what he wanted from
her, what he expected her to give him, to tell him. Maybe he
just needed some of her strength. It occurred to him that he'd
never looked to her for that before, that she'd never been the
stronger one.
She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling his sudden upwelling of
pain. She ran her fingers back through his hair, massaged
the back of his neck with sure, practiced fingers.
"You're gonna be all right, darlin'. It'll all work out,"
she murmured.
"I know," he said into her hair. "I know. It's just too
soon, I guess."
"I understand," she said softly into his ear. "Darlin', I
really do."
He knew that she did.
"The worst part was not being able to help," he said.
"Feelin' so fuckin' helpless."
"I know. That's because of who you are down to your
core." She lifted his face to her so that she could see his
eyes. "That man knew that about you, somehow, and he used
it to torture you." She ran her fingers down his cheeks.
"But it's over, darlin'. He's dead, and you're here.
Jacob Owdeye is still alive."
"You make it sound easy," he said. "Like when it's over,
it should be over up here too." He touched his temple.
"Monica said something to me about lettin' go, like it's
easy."
"If I made it sound easy, I didn't mean to. It's not easy.
And I'll bet Monica didn't mean that either. This kind of
stuff is never easy."
They settled back onto the glider together. Doggett sipped
his beer and sighed. He shifted his weight, uncomfortable.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course," she said and waited for him to continue.
"What makes you believe?" he finally asked.
She blinked. "What makes me believe? Believe what?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "You know, the paranormal
stuff, the New Agey stuff." He checked to see if his words
had offended her and was relieved to see her smile. "Mo,
you can accept the damnedest things--you can *do* the
damnedest things. I mean, that first day I met you and you
sat there and just--" He shook his head. "You called it
magic, but whatever the hell it was you did, I could *feel*
it. I damn near fell off my chair."
"Do you mean this?" She shut her eyes and breathed in
deeply, spreading her fingers. And then, in just a few
seconds, Doggett felt it: The shift in the atmosphere, the
pressure on his eardrums, the hair standing up on his arms,
the back of his neck.
"Yeah," he breathed. "That."
She opened her eyes and smiled. "I'm sorry, darlin'. I
don't mean to tease." Her face grew serious. "You have to
understand that I was born able to do that. I don't know
what it's like not to be able to do it. So that might make
me different from someone else."
She wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned toward
him, suddenly energized. "If you want to know what makes
me believe, I'd just have to ask you what makes you believe
in gravity," she said, trying to explain herself. "It's
not really a matter of belief. It's just a given." She
shrugged. "That's how I feel about magic. It's life and
energy and the power at the heart of everything, and it's
everywhere. You have to learn to love the process, to
learn how to see it, how to work with it. Everyone seems
to tap into it in different ways. The Lucumi you met down
in Florida have their own ways, very powerful."
Doggett wondered if she'd spoken to Monica, or if she just
knew this stuff. He figured she probably knew it. He was
beginning to recognize just how much he didn't know about
this woman.
"I guess I just want you to know it's not anything to be
afraid of--the magic, or whatever you want to call it, the
ability," she added. She scanned his face. "Because I
think you're afraid of it, a little. Afraid you might be
giving in to something you don't believe in. Am I right?"
He shook his head. "I'm not really sure. I guess I'm
tryin' to figure it out. Like you said, maybe it's
educational." He smiled a little. "Or maybe you've just
grown on me, Mo."
She looked away from him, smiling. Then she looked back up
at him, right into his eyes. "Can I say something else?"
He nodded. "Sure."
Now it was her turn to hesitate. "I guess I just believe
that nothing else really matters more than love--love and
faith and sacredness." He could see that she was a little
embarrassed. "Maybe I have a different view of what sacredness
is than some people do, but it's important to me. And I just
need to tell you--" She looked away. She was nervous, her
palms damp, and she knew he could feel it too, and oh, God,
she was making a total mess of this--
She looked back at him, and those amazing eyes were intent
on her.
"--I just need to tell you that I love you."
Silence. She drew in a breath and waited a beat.
"Because you just don't know what life's going to bring
you," she hurried to add. "When you went missing, I was
afraid that maybe I'd never see you again. And I would
have hated it if you'd never found out how I feel, just
because I was afraid to tell you." She smiled at him
tentatively. "There. I'm done now."
His eyes were still uncomfortably intent on her, but their
expression was warm. "You don't have to make light of it,
Mo. Did you think I was gonna run away?"
She searched his face for a moment. "No, I guess I didn't,
not really," she finally admitted.
"It finally dawned on me last week, in Florida, that maybe
you did love me." He smiled. "Guess I'm a little slow.
And I guess I've been wondering for a while now what it
would be like to love you." He rubbed his hand down his
cheek. "I've been wondering for a while now about a lot of
things, to tell you the truth."
She nodded. "I got that feeling," she said gently. "You
Have a lot to look at right now, don't you? I don't want to
add more to it." She put a hand on his knee. "I don't want
you to feel uncomfortable about what I said."
"I know," he said softly. "I think I understand. You don't
want to let things slide."
She nodded. "Almost dying has a way of changing you, you
know?"
"Better than you might think," he said dryly. "But you
lovin' me isn't a burden. Why would you even think that?"
She looked at him in wonder. "I don't know. I guess I was
afraid it could complicate things." She pushed a wayward
lock of hair off her forehead. "It's easier when you're
20, you know? You're young--you tend not to see the shades
of gray. There's less history to get in the way."
He regarded her, saying nothing, knowing what she said was
true.
"I need to go home, darlin'," she added. "It's been
weighing on my mind the last day or so. There's stuff I
need to do, people who need me."
"I know that," he said, rubbing his fingers absently along
her arm. "It's where you belong, isn't it?" He knew that
was true too, though it hurt a little.
She nodded. "It really is." She took a deep breath and let
it out in a sigh. "Oh, Lord. I think I need another beer."
She smiled at him. "Or maybe a Valium."
"No," he said. "You need to come here." He pulled her
closer to him and up, gently, onto his lap. She rucked her
skirt up and straddled his thighs, careful not to jar his
still-painful ribs, and put her hands on his waist. He
combed his fingers back through her hair, holding her head
gently between his hands. "You're such an amazing,
beautiful woman," he said to her.
"You keep telling me that, I'll start to believe it," she
said softly.
"You should." He kissed her once, slowly, then again.
She lay her head on his shoulder, pressing her face against
his neck, breathing in the warm scent of his skin. He held
her, lazily caressing her bare shoulders and back, and they
rested together in the quiet, listening to the peaceful
sound of crickets in all the green back yards.
"You're not leavin' right away, are you?" he asked then,
his lips warm and soft against her cheek.
"No. I was thinking maybe Tuesday, if I can get a flight."
"Then be with me now," he said. "Let me love you."
She raised her head and smiled at him. "I'm here," she
said. "I wouldn't be anywhere else right now."
He kissed her again, harder, one warm hand on the back of
her neck, the other on her breast, circling the taut nipple
with his thumb until she moaned quietly.
He slid his hand under her skirt, his fingers drawing
languid circles on her naked thigh.
"Ah, darlin', don't stop," she sighed against his mouth.
"I think we'd better go inside," he said, amused.
"Or we could stay out here," she whispered, "and scandalize
your neighbors."
He laughed. "You don't have to live with my neighbors," he
said.
"True," she admitted, smiling. "I guess we should be good
and spare them the shock." She got up from his lap and
held out her hand to him. "Come love me, then," she said
softly.
He took her hand and stood up, and they walked inside,
sliding the door closed behind them. He locked the door,
and she turned off the kitchen lights.
And they walked upstairs together, in the quiet dark.
End
Notes
My father was born and raised in North Florida, and the
area is very familiar to me. Any inconsistencies are
mistakes of memory or simply artistic license. I
researched the Lucumi religion (Santeria), and I regret any
mistakes in respect to that. Of course, certain liberties
were taken for the sake of the story.