Page 52 of Ace (The Deuces Wild #4)

But the possibility of Savannah dropping dead made a smart man wonder.

What if Queen Elaine’s bullshit black magic really worked?

RJ knew Queen Elaine murdered Carol Marie all them years ago.

’Course, he knew. Doctor Scratch, the quack who’d given Queen Elaine the poison, was RJ’s old man.

And RJ’d been there that day. He’d seen Elaine slap Keller square across his smug I’m-in-the-Army-now, you-can’t-touch-me face when he’d accused her of murdering his wife.

RJ’d seen Keller pull back, his arm cocked and his eyes hard like he wanted to murder his ma.

By then, blood poured down Keller’s cheek from one of his ma’s gaudy rings.

The only thing that stopped him that day was poor dead Carol Marie. One glance back at her, and he’d gathered her up and took off running for big-city help.

Now that he thought about it, RJ wouldn’t put it past Queen Elaine to have put a hex on Savannah, too.

That actually made sense. Elaine might’ve already stabbed one of her ugly handmade voodoo dolls full of pins, all the while whispering her spells and her lies, cursing and killing Savannah with black magic.

RJ snorted. What the hell am I thinking? Her highness Queen Elaine Boniface was nothing but a big fat fake. If Savannah had dropped dead, it only meant that true love had once again struck Boniface—in the face. Bastard had to be dead by now, didn’t he?

Yes, he should be, but just in case…

Doctor John patted the medical bag at his side lovingly.

Yup, no way Boniface could’ve survived what RJ had personally pumped into his chest. Damned straight.

He’d been more than pleased to drag Boniface by one leg out of the ambulance and into that stall.

Made RJ the bigger, better man for a change, and that alone was priceless.

Boniface was bleeding plenty by then. Too bad Sand Dollar hadn’t stepped on him.

That would’ve been a helluva great way to die, stomped to death by another old nag. Ha!

But no matter. Bleeding to death by an incurable flu bug would work just as well.

Jacksonville …

Oh yeah, RJ remembered now. He was going to Jacksonville. Yes sirree Bob.

Pulling away from his parking place, RJ stepped on the gas and headed west toward the airport.

Man, them folks at the Center for Disease Control were running out of time—if the Fish and Wildlife folks had even called them yet.

Who knew? Maybe his clever little virus worked faster than he thought.

Maybe all them birds and them do-gooder folks who wanted to save the world were already dead. A man could hope.

The miles passed and the sun dipped low in the west. It was one of those rare, perfect Louisiana days when everything had gone right for a change.

Traffic was reasonably light. The sky overhead was darn near blue instead of smoggy or hazy gray.

There weren’t a cloud in the sky. Even the humidity hovered at a decent, breathable level.

If only he owned Gran Mere’s property. That was what he’d wanted out of her crappy little houseboat—the title to her land.

Sanctuary would’ve made the perfect location for another clinic, maybe a laboratory, butted up against the Pearl River Wildlife Management Area like it was.

No one would’ve bothered him while he worked on his elixirs and spells there.

It was secluded. Private. He could’ve lived like a hermit while he manufactured more special combinations. More viruses. More death.

That was what RJ craved, to see humankind brought to its knees for a change.

All them dogs, cats, and birds Savannah left behind would’ve made perfect lab rats.

They were already trapped in cages and kennels.

She’d kept them healthy, clean, and fed.

In just months, he could’ve been rich, and no one would’ve been wiser.

Hell, he might even mix up another batch.

Only he’d sell this one. It’d be the antidote.

Folks would have to pay if they wanted to live.

If they couldn’t, well, he weren’t any different than most pharmaceutical companies in the world now, was he?

They over-charged for life-saving drugs all the time, and, boo hoo, people who couldn’t afford to pay, died.

Who cared? Not the rich bastard CEOs of those multi-billion-dollar enterprises.

Not elected officials or law enforcement neither.

Not even the bully machine out of Hollywood cared unless one of them got infected.

Hmmm. Infect Hollywood. That idea actually felt—perrrrrr-fect. Yup. Everyone would know his name then.

But RJ needed to get his hands on Sanctuary first. The area was desolate enough, which had made it ideal for Savannah’s stinking dog pound.

She thought she’d rehabilitated feral dogs and cats?

That’d be the day. All she’d done was stick her uppity nose in other folk’s business, then act all high and mighty cuz she’d gotten her way and took their property from ’em.

But RJ knew she’d only gotten what she’d wanted cuz of who Gran Mere really was. Scary, that was what. Scary powerful.

No, she wasn’t!

RJ rubbed a quick hand over his chest at the sudden twinge that always came with the thought of Gran Mere’s powerful name.

He’d only messed with her the one time she’d caught him with a crack pipe.

He’d blubbered like a stuck pig that day, trying to convince her it was his first time, that he’d never do it again.

’ Course, she fell for it, even gave him the benefit of the doubt.

But then she cursed him was what she did.

Every time he even thought of lighting up and melting some rocks, his chest hurt like he was having a heart attack, only he knew better.

He was a bonafide physician, after all. He had science on his side.

It weren’t no heart attack. It was Gran Mere’s curse.

With the sun glaring through his windshield, RJ made his way across Jefferson bridge, over the levee and past the rice paddies. Cranking the wheel, he passed the chewed-up plot where Gran Mere’s houseboat used to stand. Good riddance to that garbage scow.

Yet she’d been another surprise, maybe even what you could call a damned rude awakening.

RJ had no idea the old bag owned as much land as she had when she’d passed.

Who knew she’d lived like a pauper while she squirreled away hundreds of thousands of dollars?

Right under his nose, too. Must’ve been why Savannah always seemed to have whatever she wanted.

The best part of Gran Mere’s property. All them gadgets to keep her precious Sanctuary secure. That boat—

Damn them both to hell!

Yup, damn them women both to hell, and damn Fontenette, too.

The houseboat should’ve been RJ’s. That was the deal, his ketamine in exchange for the boat and Savannah.

But Fontenette went and got hisself raided by the FBI.

Must’ve shot his big mouth off to the wrong folks.

How else would the FBI have known what Bruce was up to ?

RJ still hadn’t figured that one out. Those birds were Fontenette’s first foray into illegal smuggling.

It usually took years of backdoor sales and a shit load of investigative work before Fish and Wildlife had enough evidence to press charges.

But this time, instead of FWS raiding Fontenette’s place, the FBI showed up and pulled a magic act of their own.

They were the ones who’d executed the warrant.

They were the ones who had Fontenette now.

They’d almost snagged RJ in that raid, too.

Made him sweat just thinking about how close he’d come to getting caught.

Whew. He’d been toasting his success with Fontenette in the man’s elegant den, when he’d gotten one of his premonitions.

If not for stealing that ambulance and kidnapping Boniface, RJ knew he’d be in jail alongside Bruce.

Life just wasn’t fair sometimes, but things were about to change. Yes sirree, Bob. Things were about to change.

Yessssss. They are……