Page 20 of Cursed (Decorah Security 2.0, #14)

CHAPTER NINE

Morgan clung to the steering wheel, fighting terror that threatened to swallow her whole. She wanted to jump out of the car and run screaming into the bayou.

Right! With the snakes and the alligators and maybe the jaguar.

“Stop it!” she ordered herself. “Stop it. You’re safe and dry in the car. You’re not in danger here.”

Yet she knew some force outside herself was affecting her perception of the world.

“You’re safe and dry,” she repeated, over and over, even as she fought the sensation of water clawing at her, dragging her under. She wasn’t even sure what she was doing. But somehow, she got control of herself.

The terror ebbed, the way the water had ebbed in the real flood, leaving her limp and shaken. She sat behind the wheel, dragging in air and forcing herself to breathe out slowly.

When she felt in control, she glanced around at the wilderness landscape. Something lying on the shoulder caught her eye, something dark and evil looking.

Gris-gris.

She wanted to stay inside the car where the evil couldn’t touch her. Then she reminded herself she wasn’t going to pieces over a voodoo charm.

Grimly, she firmed her jaw and climbed out, feeling muggy heat envelop her as she stood on shaky legs, one hand on the door.

When she felt like she could stay erect on her own, she tottered across the road, her eyes fixed on the black blob—which turned out to be a small lump of tar, studded with foreign objects, like the one she and Andre had found outside the library window.

Straw and moss and a strip of paper were stuck to it. But what caught her eye was a scrap of limp and soggy leather. She gasped as she recognized what it was—part of a sandal she had lost in the flood.

Without thinking about what she was doing, she kicked out her foot, connected with the thing and booted it into the water, where it floated on the surface for several seconds, then sank with a gurgling sound.

The moment it disappeared from view, she knew she had let emotion sweep away reason. The gris-gris was evidence—and she had just chucked it into the water.

She was a disciplined, trained operative. Yet she’d acted in panic. A film of sweat bloomed on her body as she stared for a long moment at the place where the evil charm had disappeared below the surface of the water. No way could she retrieve it now.

Her knit top was clinging wetly to her upper body as she scrambled back into the vehicle and slammed the door. Jamming her foot on the gas pedal, she made the car lurch as she started toward town again.

Her heart had just settled down to a calmer rhythm when she spotted the voodoo priestess’s house. Most likely, the woman had left the charm on the road. What if Morgan stopped and demanded to know why?

And what if someone else had done it—to incriminate the priestess?

She wanted to slow down and look at the house. She wanted to speed up and flee from danger.

Somehow, she kept the car moving at a steady pace as she passed the dwelling. By the time she reached Main Street, she had convinced herself she was feeling almost normal.

There were few people in town, and when she cut her engine in front of a convenience store that offered fax services, hers was the only car.

As she walked toward the door, she was thinking she would have preferred to fax the material in private. But her laptop couldn’t handle hard copy. And if she used the machine in Andre’s office, he’d have a record of the transaction.

In the parking lot, she used her cell phone to call her office.

Teddy Granada answered

“Hi. It’s Morgan,” she said, feeling a wave of homesickness sweep over her. She’d wondered how she was going to survive after Trevor had died. The support of her Decorah friends had probably saved her life. Now she was far away from their help.

“Morgan! You’re on assignment in Louisiana, right?”

“I guess the news made it to the jungle telegraph,” she joked.

“So, did you just want to talk to a friendly voice? Or what?” Teddy asked.

“Actually, I don’t have a scanner, and I need to fax some maps. When they come through, give them to Frank.”

“No problem.”

After thanking the office IT guy, Morgan went into the store. As she approached the counter, the clerk did a double take.

“Something wrong?” she asked, trying not to sound confrontational

“You’re the librarian, right?” he asked.

She sighed. Apparently, everybody in town knew who she was. “Yes. Can I use your fax machine?”

“How many pages?”

“Two.”

“The machine will tell you the charges.”

“Thanks.”

He looked speculatively at her book bag. Need some help?”

“I think I can manage,” she answered, hoping the response didn’t come out sounding too sharp. “Where’s the machine?”

He pointed to a service area near the restrooms. Before he could insist on helping, she was rescued as a woman came in and asked for a cup of coffee.

While the clerk was busy, Morgan scanned the instructions.

The second map was halfway through the machine when the door opened, and another customer walked in.

This time she recognized the ruddy complexion and blond hair of Dwight Rivers, the president of the Chamber of Commerce.

When he spotted her, he strode in her direction.

Morgan gave the map a tug, hoping she hadn’t screwed up the transmission, then stuffed the paper into the carry bag.

Rivers eyed her. “You could have come to me if you needed to send a fax.”

“Oh, thank you. I didn’t know that.”

“I guess you weren’t just vacationing in town,” he observed with an edge in his voice.

She gave him an apologetic smile. “You probably heard about my run-in at the gas station. I didn’t want to get into another discussion about Andre Gascon.”

“Right. I understand. But I’m not like those guys.”

She answered with a small nod, turning her shoulder away from him.

Ignoring her body language, he asked, “Doesn’t Gascon have a fax machine?”

“It’s broken.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Aside from that, how are things going out at the estate?”

“Fine.”

“Good you got your car back.”

“Yes.” She kept her eyes on his and asked, “So what brings you out in the heat of the day?”

He waited a beat before answering, “We’re out of tea bags at the office.”

“Um hum.” She knew how small towns worked. Probably somebody had called him up and said that the librarian was in town and that she’d gone to the convenience store.

He took a step closer. “You know, I always thought Gascon got a raw deal from the town. I mean their blaming him for stuff going on in the bayou—just because it’s near his house.”

“Why do you think it happened?”

“Partly because he keeps to himself so much. People get suspicious of a guy who isn’t friendly. Who doesn’t fit in.”

Morgan nodded, thinking that Rivers was twisting the facts. Andre had come into St. Germaine a lot more before other people had started looking at him with suspicion. But she didn’t bother to argue the point.

“You take care,” Rivers said as he turned and walked down one of the aisles.

With the fax sent, Morgan drove to the gun shop.

After a few moments’ hesitation, she took the carry bag with her and walked toward the front door of the shop.

The sign in the window said Jacques Malvaux, Proprietor .

The man himself, at least she assumed it was him, was leaning against the counter cleaning a twenty-two revolver.

“I assume that’s unloaded,” she said.

“What do you think I am, soft in the head?” he asked.

“Of course not. I just like to make sure.”

“I didn’t know librarians had a lot of call for guns,” he drawled, looking her up and down.

“My father was a gun collector,” she answered. “He wanted me to know how to handle a weapon—how to defend myself.”

“Always a useful skill. So, what can I do you?” Malvaux asked, leaning back comfortably. When his gaze flicked to the window, she turned, but she saw nothing beyond the shop besides the street.

“I’m out in the country where anything could happen. I’d like a Glock model 23, if you have one,” she answered.

“So, you’re a little lady who wants the stopping power of a 40-caliber weapon, with reduced size for easy concealment.”

“Yes,” she answered, thinking that the gun part was right. The little lady part made her stomach curdle.

“If you’re recoil sensitive, you might want to try one of the Glock C models.”

“I think I can handle the 23,” she informed him primly.

“Okeydokey.” He unlocked the case in front of him, reached inside and brought out a semi-automatic that was much like the one she’d lost. When he set it on the counter, she picked it up and checked out the mechanism, then turned and sighted down the barrel.

“This will do.”

“You make up your mind fast.”

“Um hum.”

“I have to enter your application into the national data base—and make sure you don’t have a criminal record.”

“All right.”

He made a photocopy of her driver’s license, then handed it back before beginning to type slowly into a computer.

Finally, he turned back to her. “All set.”

She gestured toward the gun. Three refillable magazines come with it, right?”

“Correct. Holding ten rounds each.”

“Yes. And I’d like a box of bullets.”

Malvaux chuckled. “You sure you don’t want silver bullets?”

“Why?” she demanded.

“For that supernatural jaguar—out in the bayou—near Belle Vista.”

The way he said it sent a shiver slithering down her spine.

She kept her voice even as she said, “You’re saying the jaguar is supernatural?”

“I guess you’ll find out.”

“Why don’t you tell me more about the town legends?”

“Legends—well I don’t know about that.” His face had a closed expression as he put her purchases into a plastic bag, and she suspected he’d decided he was sorry he’d brought up the subject.

As she exited the store, she felt his eyes boring into her back.

When she reached her car, she stopped short and muttered a very unlibrarianly curse.