The Dumpster lid flapped open as it was lifted into the sky and the garbage dumped into the back of the truck. But like trying to get a baking sheet of Tater Tots to all go into a serving bowl, a few items didn’t quite make it. Some paper scattered. Something that looked like a partial head of cabbage bounced onto the asphalt of the parking lot and rolled a few feet.
A little box hit the edge of the truck, flipped over its side, bounced a couple of times and came to rest right next to John Littlefield’s bicycle.
The guy on the ground whistled and made a hand motion and jumped back onto the back of the truck and it rumbled off down the street.
I sighed. I would have liked to have been wrong this time.
JOHN LITTLEFIELD DIDN’T COME OUT OF HIS APARTMENT UNTIL close to noon. All I can say is that it is a very good thing that I have excellent bladder control. John looked like he might need to work on his bladder control when he saw the little box sitting next to his bicycle.
He didn’t pick it up at first. He stood and stared at it. He did a quick scan up and down the street. I slumped down in the Buick. My eyesight was good enough to see him at the distance I’d parked, but I was pretty sure his wasn’t good enough to see me. He nudged the box with his toe.
Nothing happened.
He pulled out his cell phone and made a call. He paced up and down in the parking lot, talking and waving his arms. I cracked the window of the Buick but could only catch bits and pieces of what he was saying. I caught the words
witch
,
curse
, and
doomed
. I wasn’t sure who he was talking to, but the subject matter was pretty clear.
He shook his head violently several times. Then his shoulders slumped. Finally, he hung up, picked up the box, shoved it into his pocket, got on his bicycle and pedaled away.
I waited for a few moments and then followed.
Following a guy on a bicycle when you’re in a car can be tricky. They can go places you can’t. They can go the wrong way down one-way streets, cut through alleys, hop up on sidewalks and disappear into parks. Littlefield did the one-way street thing. I swore to myself and screeched around the block as quickly as I could without risking running over a small child or attracting the attention of one of Chief Murdock’s minions. I could afford a ticket. I didn’t think I could afford the time to go back to the station house. With Littlefield having the doll in his possession, his time was limited. I knew how much the dolls affected me and they weren’t even meant for me. Emilia Aguilar made a powerful poppet, as Meredith had said. It would be even more powerful when it was in the hands of the person it was intended for.
As I sailed around the corner, I saw Littlefield drop his bike on the lawn of a church and run inside. He didn’t even stop to lock it up. Granted, it was kind of a hoopty bike, but it was his only means of transportation. As he ran, he took off his jacket and grabbed at his back.
I had an idea of what he was feeling. He was grabbing at the area that would correspond with the place on the doll that the matches were taped. It was my guess that he felt like that place on his body was on fire.
I parked the Buick a little ways down the street and made my way quickly and quietly to the church. I hadn’t even made it to the lawn when I heard Littlefield’s voice.
“You’ve got to help me,” he pleaded. “Help me destroy this thing.”
“That thing only has power over you if you allow it to have power over you, John,” a male voice said in a very reasonable tone.
Ha
, I thought. Spoken like someone who’d never been cursed by a
bruja
.
“Help me not to believe, then,” Littlefield begged.
“Of course. How about we read some Bible verses together,” the other man suggested. “I think we might find some words to comfort you in the Psalms.”
No wonder Littlefield could come up with a verse for every occasion.
“‘The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? Though an army encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war rise up against me, yet I will be confident,’” the man intoned.
“It still burns,” Littlefield said. “Can you help me with this?”
By now I’d made my way to the door of the church. I slipped inside. Littlefield was kneeling before this man and proffering up the voodoo doll.
“Let’s throw it out.” The preacher took the doll.
“That won’t work. I tried to throw it out, but it came back to me.” Littlefield was nearly babbling.
“What do you mean it came back to you?” The preacher looked confused. “How could it come back to you?”
“I put it in the Dumpster yesterday, and then it was underneath my bike this morning.” Littlefield wrapped his arms around himself. I could see him shaking from far back in the church.
True enough. I’d watched it happen.
The preacher rubbed at the back of his neck. “Is it warm in here?”
“It’s the doll,” John screamed. “It’s getting to you, too. Do something!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the preacher said. “It’s cloth and thread. It can’t do anything.”
His words sounded good, but he had started shrugging his shoulders, as if his back were uncomfortable.
“I feel like I’m on fire,” Littlefield said. “Right on my back. Right where those matches are taped.”
The preacher looked uncomfortable. I’m guessing he felt it, too, but didn’t want to tell Littlefield that.
“It’s the power of Satan, John,” he said. “He has no power if we don’t give it to him.”
“Help me stop him, then. Please, help me. I don’t want evil in my life. I want to do good.” Littlefield had started to cry.
“I know that, John.”
I was actually starting to feel sorry for Littlefield. The preacher knelt down next to him and they started to pray.
John leapt up. “It’s not working. It’s not helping. I need more than words.” He ran to the font, grabbed a handful of water out of the basin and threw it onto his own back.
I could hear the sizzle at the door and the smell of burnt flesh tickled my nose. Littlefield’s back steamed like a pan that was being deglazed.
The preacher fell back on the floor. “Devil,” he whispered. And then louder. “Devil. I cast you out, Satan. I cast you out.”
Littlefield whirled, wild-eyed. He ran at the preacher. “Give me your keys,” he yelled.
The preacher cowered back.
“Your keys,” Littlefield screeched. “Now!”
With shaking hands, the preacher pulled his keys from his pants pocket and handed them to Littlefield. Littlefield grabbed them and sprinted out the side door of the church.
I ducked back out the front and sprinted for the Buick. Littlefield came tearing out of the parking lot in a blue Camry. I leapt into the Buick and followed.
Littlefield careened around the corners of Elmville, headed in a generally eastern direction. He was driving so fast I didn’t even bother trying to be discreet. I just stayed on his tail. We were out of the town in a matter of minutes. He must have known I was right behind him. We were the only ones on the road. He didn’t seem to care.
I could hear the faint sounds of sirens in the distance, but they were miles back. They’d find us eventually; the road was long and straight without any place to turn off. They were still quite a few miles back.
Wherever we were headed, it was remote. There was nothing around us now. Littlefield sped ahead. I pressed down on the accelerator.
The road dead-ended in the parking lot of a reservoir. Littlefield fishtailed into the parking lot, leapt out of the car and ran toward the water, leaving the car running and the door hanging open.
I pulled in behind him and ran, too, shedding my shoes as I raced behind him. He was headed straight for the water. He ran down the boat dock and plunged headfirst into the water. I had closed a fair bit of distance between us. I’m pretty fast when I pour it on and I was pouring with all that I was worth. I wasn’t more than thirty seconds behind him as I dove in after him.
The water was dark and murky. I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of my face. I broke through to the surface. Littlefield bobbed up yards ahead of me and to my left. I kicked hard and sent myself in his direction. He ducked under the water again. I dove down after him.
Knowing which direction to look helped a lot, but it was still hard to find him under the water. I swam as hard as I could to where I thought I’d caught a glimpse of him, but he was already gone when I got there. I surfaced again and gasped in air.
A wave slapped me in the face. I sputtered and treaded water, catching my breath. I turned, doing a full three-sixty and saw nothing. I sucked in air and dove under again. I tried to stay still, to see if I could sense movement. Littlefield had to be doing something to keep himself underwater.
I didn’t see anything, but I did sense something. A little flicker of power. It had to be the voodoo doll. Littlefield must have carried it with him. I surfaced again to get more air and then dove down and tried to follow the flicker.
It’s hard sometimes to trust your senses. Your eyes can play tricks on you. You don’t always hear things correctly. How many times have you thought for a second that you smelled brownies baking and then realized your brother just farted?
The pull of an object of power, on the other hand, doesn’t often lie. I ignored the fact that my eyes told me nothing and my ears told me less. I followed the pull of the power down into the water. I was not thrilled about how far under I was going. I’m a strong swimmer with a reasonable set of lungs. I am not, however, immortal and do need to suck in oxygen on a very regular basis to keep myself functioning.
Why hadn’t I brought Ted with me? He was so much better at the holding-your-breath thing than I was. Oh, yeah, he would have killed me if he’d known I was here.
I kicked harder and practically plowed into Littlefield. He was in a dead float, arms outstretched, face down. I grabbed him under the arms, flipped him on his back and began kicking my way to the surface. He was dead weight and I was already tired. Spots started forming in front of my eyes. My lungs burned like they were on fire and my heart pounded so loud it was deafening. I kept kicking for the surface, though. A dim circle of light appeared. It seemed impossibly far. I kept swimming and pulling Littlefield up toward the circle of light with me.
I broke the surface, gasping for air. I made sure Littlefield’s mouth was out of the water, but he stayed desperately still. I lay back in the water. I’d been too late. I hadn’t been fast enough. Tears started to form in my eyes. Someone’s life had been on the line and I hadn’t been good enough. I hadn’t saved him. What’s more, I was going to be totally up shit’s creek without even the slightest hint of a paddle because of it. I was reasonably certain that Chief Murdock hadn’t been joking about arresting me if anything happened to Littlefield.
Littlefield twitched in my arms. I kicked upright. He twitched again and took a sputtering breath and then began coughing like crazy. I almost whooped. He wasn’t dead. He was breathing.
I made sure I had a good grip on him and started kicking toward shore. He reached around and punched me in the jaw. Hard.
“What the hell?” I nearly dropped him. Then I remembered being told that drowning victims often fought their rescuers. They were desperate. Terrified. They didn’t know what they were doing. I made sure my grip was solid again and swam.
Littlefield punched me again.
“Cut it out! I’m trying to save you!”
“Let me go!” He screamed right back.
“No! You’ll drown.” Lifesaving is generally not my thing. Mae didn’t train me to do it. She did, however, train me to respect it. Life, that is. I wasn’t sure I was crazy about John Littlefield. I didn’t like who he’d been and I wasn’t really enamored of what he’d become. I still didn’t want him to die and that was completely separate from the fact that I was highly likely to get blamed if he did.
“I don’t care. I’m on fire. I need it to stop. I need to go back under.” He struggled against me.
I held tight. “If you go back under, you’ll drown.”
“I don’t care. I just want to make it stop. Please let me make it stop.” He was begging.
“I can make it stop. I can help. My friend can help. We can get rid of that doll.” A wave slapped into my face and water poured into my mouth. I coughed and sputtered a bit. I must have loosened my grip.
Littlefield shoved away from me, reared up and smacked me in the nose with his elbow. “Witch!” he screamed.
For anyone who’s never been hit in the nose, it’s probably hard to understand how it can totally take a person out. There’s a moment, just after impact, where your eyes water so much that you can’t see anything but the nearly cartoon-like stars swirling in front of you. Add to that the blood that’s likely to be pouring down your face and it’s a great distraction, too. It’s totally incapacitating, which is why a palm strike to the nose is such an effective way to stop an attacker. I don’t know if you can actually kill a person with an upward palm-heel strike to the nose or not. It might be an urban legend. It might not. I don’t want to try and I sure as shooting don’t want anyone to try it on me.
Littlefield didn’t kill me, but he damn sure made me lose my grip on him. He followed up his elbow to the nose with a kick to my gut as he dove back underneath the water.
I went under, too. I doubled over as the air left my lungs. For a second, I was completely disoriented. I wasn’t sure which way was up and which was under or whether I’d be able to head the right way once I figured it out. My usual first step to calm myself—deep breathing—wasn’t going to help this time. I did my best to still my panic while holding my breath.
When I could finally straighten out and breathe, I tried to dive back under the water for Littlefield. My nose was clogged with blood and I could feel my eyes starting to swell. I heal fast, but not fast enough to overcome a broken nose in time to save Littlefield from drowning himself.