December 6, 1999

Go see New Orleans. Check out Bourbon Street.

Drink.
Throw beads.
See some titties.

How was I supposed to know Mardi Gras is only in February?

Jack knew. I’m sure of it.

The bastard tricked me into taking this case. He knew what to expect and neglected to fill me in on the minutia.

Now here I am in the prow of a canoe cutting through the murky water, in the middle of a bug and snake infested bayou, miles from fucking nowhere.

A mosquito stabs me on my upper lip. I’m already pissed off and I take it out on the bug.

Fuck! Shit! Fuck! Motherfucker!

I slap myself so hard in the mouth that my eyes start to water.

“You say sum tin, mon ami?” Gill calls up from the back of the canoe.

He’s a friend of Jack’s.

“No. Nothing.” I call back over the noise.

If he hears me over the farting sputter of the motor and the churning slur of the water as the canoe cleaves through it, he doesn’t acknowledge.

He’s a skinny old man who’s spent too much time under the sun and in even more time than me in the bottle.

Still, beyond the nearly imperceptible shake of his hands, there’s a steeliness to him.

The clarity in his eyes speaks of a deep and painfully earned wisdom. He carries himself with a confidence that can only come from years of being tempered by sorrow, and an indifference inherent in the acceptance of ones impending mortality.

He keeps his hunting rifle within easy reach.

“How much further?” I ask.

“Long time.” He holds up two fingers, both gnarled and knobby like old oak branches. “Two hours.”

Great.

I squirm carefully and try to find a more comfortable position without falling out.

* * * * *

Night comes quicker this time of year, and even down south, the temperatures tend to drop to the point of shivering.

After paddling for the last forty five minutes (apparently sound travels pretty far out in the bayou) Gill hops out and wades through the thigh deep water to the shore line.

“What about the crocodiles?” I ask as I search futilely in the darkness.

“Alligators. No crocodiles.” He says in a whisper.

Whatever.

“What about the alligators?”

He ignores me as he heaves the front of the canoe onto the bank. I’m still in the canoe and he has no trouble hauling it.

The guy is stronger than he looks.

I wait till the canoe is resting solidly on dry ground before I climb out. Since Jack didn’t inform me that I would be going out into the swamp, I didn’t come prepared with the appropriate foot ware for splashing through the muck and water.

Gill ties off the canoe to tree and grabs his gear. He slings an old pack over his shoulder. It looks like its seen some action in the trenches during the Great War.

He waits until I make my way over to him and then motions with a nod into the brush.

“Dis way. Be very quiet.” He says.

“We hunting rabbit?” I quip.

“No rabbit here, ami. Dis be an island. Snakes and gators all around” he motions a big circle with his antique Winchester rifle.

Sigh.

Another pop culture reference from my youth wasted on the oblivious.

Without another word he takes the lead and pushes into the undergrowth.

I follow.

…And take a stinging whip from a branch across the nose.

“Jeez.” I hiss, trying to stifle an outburst. That stings.

Gill shushes me from up ahead.

I prod at my nose lightly. It doesn’t feel broken, but can feel the thin ridge of a welt across the bridge.

I can still feel the fat lip I gave myself earlier.

I hate swamps.

Gill moves through the bush like a cat. I barely hear him. The occasional crack or rustle of grass is all I can make out of him moving up ahead.

Me, on the other hand, find every twig and stone and root that’s been cast down in front of me. I can tell Gill is annoyed with each hiss utters following one of my too loud encounters with Mother Nature’s obstacle course.

“Alright, I get it.” I snap back in a harsh whisper.

I take two more steps and bump into Gill.

His hand is up and in simple sign language he tells me to squat down.

We both crouch and he leans in close to me and says in a barely audible voice, “Stay.”

I wrinkle my nose at the smell of pickled cabbage and chewing tobacco he had for breakfast.

Gill moves off, the darkness swallowing him up instantly. I can hear him moving for a few moments and then nothing.

I strain my ears to listen. Still nothing.

Waiting patiently is something I don’t do well. Even under the best of conditions I get fidgety.

I can hear things moving about in the undergrowth all around me. I put my hand on my gun-

Something crawls quickly across my shoulder and I swat at it. I connect with something big and solid.

Shit! My voice warbles as I bite off a girlish cry.

I hear whatever I smacked drop into the leaves at my feet.

I scuttle backwards.

What the hell was that? A snake?

No. It felt prickly.

Like a centipede.

I heard of giant centipedes in Vietnam, but not here in the States-

Something races up my pant leg. I lay into it with a flurry of slaps. No sooner do I stop to shake it out than I feel a pinch under my left bicep. I jab at it. Something slithers through my hair and smash into it with my palm, smashing it to a pulp against my skull.

I check my hair but there’s nothing there. It could have slipped into the collar of my shirt-

I jump as something big lurches out of the bushes towards me. At the last second I recognize Gill. Lucky for him I didn’t already draw my gun. I might have shot him.

My heart starts beating again.

“What is the matter wit you, hey?” he asks.

“Bugs.”

I feel around and find no sigh of any. Damn it. I hate it when my imagination runs wild like that.

He shakes his head.

I can tell by the look he gives me that he suspects that I am somewhat mentally retarded. I know, because that is the same look I use when I suspect people of mental retardation.

I use that look a lot.

“Come on.” Gill motions for me to follow him.

We creep along through the thick swamp foliage when suddenly I smell smoke. Aside from the typical smell of a campfire, I can pick out something else. Something sweet. Like incense, but more cloying. It feels like its coating the back of my throat and I try to swallow down the disgusting paste-like film.

Gill looks at me and I can tell he is doing the same.

Then I hear the voice.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

The voice is human. Female. But it has a quality that makes me think of reedy wind instruments and a popping sound not unlike walking across a floor thick with snails.

Ahead of us I can see the orange glow of a fire though the screen of branches. Gill nods and I draw my revolver.

We duck-walk the last several yards until we reach the edge of the clearing.

The clearing is small with swaths of thick grass. Water glistens in patches on the ground where the light from the fire hits it. The sky is clear overhead. No trees obstructing the view.

In the center of the clearing, surrounding the fire is what I can only describe as something straight out of a Solomon Kane adventure.

A fire dances in a pit lined with fat stones, blackened by uncountable layers of soot. A lean-to hides her from view. I can only make out slight movement between the walls of its imperfect assembly.

Scattered across the clearing, without rhyme or reason, dozens upon dozens of staves jut up from the boggy ground. They are set thickest around the center, near the fire and the lean-to, thinning out as they reach towards the far edges.

Fetishes hang from them like trophies. Some are obvious ritualistic icons. I recognize a few rudimentary designs from Haitian hoodoo practices.

Others are just grim decoration.

I squint at one of the larger ones my guts twist as if flooded with venom. My brain translates what I see into horrific comprehension.

Bones.

Human bones.

Small bones.

Children’s bones.

They have been tied and tinkered together to form wind chimes. I can see at least twenty of them.

There are probably more.

Gill nudges me. I look at him. I didn’t hear him sneak up to me. My mind is still preoccupied with stoking my hatred.

He signs some sort of complicated plan.

He’s going to move somewhere else and he wants me to move somewhere else, and then he points to his eyes and then he points at me and then to the clearing.

He nods.

He waits for me to acknowledge.

I nod.

I have no idea where he is going or where I am supposed to go. All I can think of is the kids. My mind is too preoccupied to focus on any sort of plan.

I wait.

And wait.

Fuck this.

I get up and walk straight into the clearing. My foot sinks into a hidden hole and I nearly loose my shoe as the mud sucks at it.

Her voice is still droning on like a hive of angry bees with wings made of sizzling acid.

I kick at a stave and send it, and the etched stone fetish splashing into a pool.

Reckless, but I don’t care.

Her voice stops.

She hears me coming.

But it’s too late.

I step into the glow of the fire directly opposite her.

Her skin is shiny with sweat with streaks of grime running down her body in long stripes.

Aside from a grotesque choker around her throat, she is completely nude.

Her eyes flicker in the glow of the flames. I can tell by the look on her face that I caught her off guard.

Surprise, bitch.

She stares at me for what seems like an eternity. I stare back.

Focusing all my anger into a chisel of wrath, I stab her with it. I twist it, willing it deeper into her skull, picturing the bone splinter beneath my determination.

I want her to know why she is about to die. I want to connect to her on an intimate level and convey to her my absolute loathing.

And that I take great pleasure in killing her.

Suddenly, the witch’s face warps. In less time than it takes to blink she has shed the skin of a prey animal, and unsheathed the claws of a predator.

Something inside me, a primal shriek, rakes my soul like nails on a chalk board.

A shiver of trepidation threatens to take root and unnerve me.

I don’t let that happen. Aiming the gun, I pull the trigger.

The crack of the gunshot sends a rolling echo racing out across the night-veiled bayou.

The slug punches into her throat, shattering her choker in a spray of gore and crafts. Her body jerks backward and her feet leave the ground.

I’ve heard others describe scenes happening in slow motion, but I have never experienced it myself, until now.

She crashes into the ground.

Hard.

Hopefully she is still alive to feel it.

Walking around the fire I stand over her. I hear Gill splashing through clearing towards me.

Blood pulses out of the hole I put in her tracheae. Her eyes are open, but the life within them has already faded. She’s dead.

What the hell is that?

The remnants of her choker are moving.

They’re baby alligator heads.

The severed stumps are still fresh and oozing. A leather strap had been threaded through puncture holes located just behind the jaws bone.

I blink and rub my eyes.

Impossible. It’s a trick of the fire light.

I crouch beside the dead witch and watch the alligator heads closely. I can hear the tiny clicks as their jaws snap shut.

Their eyes, black, still moist with life, stare up at me.

I take a step back and bump into Gill.

He’s bitching at me, but I pay no attention to him.

What the hell is with those heads? How are they moving like that?

They’re still alive. How can they be?

I need to get away from here.

Turning, I push past Gill and head back towards the canoe.

Fuck the body. Let the swamp feed on it.

By the time I reach the edge of the clearing, I start to feel like myself again. The fog vaporizes and I can breath again.

The sickly sweet smell and the taste in my mouth is a distant memory.

Drug induced hallucination. That’s what the heads were. The witch was burning some narcotic and I inhaled too much of it. Now that I have put some distance from the fire and the air is clear, I am myself again.

Gill is still talking. And he sounds pissed.

“You crazy? Dat Witch makes bad mojo. Can touch you in the head.” He taps his skull with two fingers.

I shrug.

“She’s dead. Problem solved.”

I continue through the trees back to the canoe.

* * * * *

It takes me two days to drive home. I keep seeing the swamp, the clearing, the witch, the alligator heads.

The bones.

The echoes of the chiming won’t stop haunting me.

I lock my apartment door and kick my shoes off. It takes me a few minutes before I realize the phone is ringing.

I pick up the phone on the third ring. Or is it the sixth?

“Hello?”

“You’re back.”

Jack.

“Yeah. Just walked in.”

“How did it go?”

“Fine. The job’s done.”

I don’t feel like talking about it.

“Good to hear. How was Henry?”

Henry?

“Who’s Henry?”

“My friend.” Jack laughs. “You hitting the bottle already?”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

Why did I think his name was Gill?

“Just checking in. Gotta go. We still good for pool on Thursday?”

“Sure.”

“You’re buying the first pitcher. Later.”

Jack hangs up and I head off to bed.