of her dress she brought out the head sheâd carved from a piece of wild oak. The face was crude, the eyes shadowed with black dye, and the top of the skull was round and bald. Carefully, Henriette positioned the head in place and then nodded her satisfaction.
The voodoo doll was finished.
Urged on by the thunder, black clouds rolled across the bayou, their flanks branded by white-hot scrawls of lightning.
Across the water, Henriette watched old Jacques St. Romain paddle his canoe among the buttressed bases of the bald cypress, the fishing lines dropped fore and aft glinting in the gray light.
A man with blue-black skin and white, curly hair cropped close to his scalp, Jacques feared neither lightning nor alligators, and he always carried a .45 in his pants pocket.
But he studiously avoided looking in Henrietteâs direction.
A swamp witch could put a hex on a man with a single glance, and Jacques trembled all over until he paddled deeper into the cypress, out of sight.
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Henriette watched the empty, rain-lashed space where the old black man had been, then turned her attention back to the doll.
She recalled her dream again and the fat man who had threatened her grandson Baptiste. Although she did not know from whence the danger to Baptiste would come, or when it would happen, she woke, cried out, and felt very afraid.
The fish crow, who possessed the soul of a man whoâd blasphemed Bondye, the one true God, had been alarmed and flapped his wings and croaked in a most pitiful fashion.
Henriette had quieted the bird and then told him she would protect her grandson from all harm, especially the dangers posed by the fat white man, who must be very powerful and evil indeed to have taken over her dream the way he did.
As thunder racked the bayou, Henriette took a swig from the jug to steady her nerves, and then removed the needle pinned to the front of her dress.
She did not wish to harm the fat man too much, at least not yet.
If danger threatened her dear Baptiste, other dreams would tell her what she must do.
Henriette took her needle and barely pricked the dollâs chest.
She removed the needle and smiled. There, that was enough.
For now...
CHAPTER SIX
A niggling chest pain troubled Abe Hacker as he sat higher in bed, waiting for Mickey Pauleen to show. He was a little short of breath but felt only a slight discomfort, so there was nothing to worry about.
His ticker was holding up quite well, and that pleased him.
All he needed was time.
The door opened and Nora stepped inside. She seemed a little disheveled.
Hacker grinned.
âOlâ Mickey nail you?â he said.
âHe tried,â Nora said.
âIâll kill him for you one day,â Hacker said. âBut right now I need him.â
âHeâs a snake. He needs killing.â
âI know. But heâs fast with a gun, maybe the fastest ever. Look what he did to the town marshal.â
âAn old man. He mustâve been eighty if he was a day.â
Hacker shrugged his fat shoulders. In the dead light of the hotel room he was fish-belly white, like an enormous slug.
âThe old coot got his chance to draw. Everybody saw it.â
Nora poured her morning glass of bourbon and without looking at Hacker said, âHe was a retired typesetter, for Godâs sake.â
âThen he shouldâve stuck to his trade,â Hacker said. âAnyways, it doesnât matter much. Mickey doesnât like lawmen, so he would have killed him eventually. Better sooner than later.â
Three sharp raps on the door sounded like gunshots in the room.
The door flung open and Mickey Pauleen stepped inside.
His carrion-eater eyes flicked to Nora and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
He shifted his attention to Hacker. âYou wanted to see me, boss?â
Pauleen was a small, narrow man, who could be as quick and sudden as the crack of a bullwhip. He affected the dress of a small-town