Serials

Serials

Day 8

Illustration by Kristine HuThe next time Don's really, truly awake again, it's in the early hours of the next morning. He must have been out for the whole day.

He supposes he'd walked back to the hotel, but he doesn't remember. He can sketchily recall, though, stepping into the lobby and being hit by a sudden crippling wave of exhaustion despite the few hours of sleep he'd gotten, stumbling into the lift while the television buzzed loudly with the report of a gang shoot-out on the bayou

He pops out into the dark and silent corridor and buys a few packets from the closest vending machine. His first thought, when he enters his room again and looks over the small amount of luggage that has somehow managed to fling itself everywhere, is that there's no reason to stay anymore.

It takes a long time to pack. It doesn't have to, but Don finds himself putting things in then taking them out again, refolding and rearranging. It almost feels like reluctance.

He wonders if it's all another dream. If what he heard and saw was nothing more than one last flashing nightly vision. If everything will go back to normal once the daylight comes again.

Day 7

Illustration by Kristine HuHe makes it to the bayou in less than half an hour. The run is done on rote.

There's not even a moment of doubt before he spies the glow on the waterfront, a few hundred yards from where the St John's University back gates open out. He twists his arm to see his watch, and subtracts the hour he's still yet to set.

Midnight.

In the distance, he hears the first beat of a drum. It's deep, resonating, pounding in a steady rhythm that matches the rush of blood in his ears. But it's not loud, not very. It probably can't be, in an urban area like this. A chant starts up, sibilant and undulating, though he can't make out the words.

Day 6

Breakfast with Lentre is back the next day, during which Don's impression of the man as quite the appreciator of food is cemented as he updates him on the researches of the previous evening.

"It fits," Don is saying. "The police told me she had a record for disturbance and trespassing, was found once at a crime scene. But she's been tracking them for years, why would she do that?"

"There are," Lentre replies consideringly, "certain individuals in the community who may trust someone like your sister more than the official force."

"But as far back as the dates go, it must have started before she made her name."

"Or when she made it." Something blooms on Lentre's face, lines suddenly smoothing out as his eyes stare somewhere beyond the back wall.

Don sits up. "What is it? What can this have to do with her Voodoo?"

"I think," says Lentre slowly, "that it may be the reason for it.

"What? How?"

"That, I'm not really sure." And with those few words the doctor casually returns to eating his bacon.

Day 5

 

Lentre calls the hotel room the next morning to let Don know that he's working too early to catch breakfast, but can meet up at lunchtime to talk if Don wants to drop around the hospital. The walk to Storyville is made alone once more, past the cleared-down parking lots that cut like wounds through the lines of dull brown buildings that make up the poorest district in New Orleans. The key clicks like a solitary footstep as it turns in its metal cradle, a single toe across a line. The door creaks and groans the familiar sound of tired steel as it slides upwards and slides horizontal against the roof, almost clipping Don on the chin when he doesn't move back quite fast enough. He takes a step inside, then stops, because his eyes fall on the desk.

It's empty. Well, not really, because it's still littered with Adelaide's odds and ends, but the blue folder he placed down the day before is decidedly gone.

Day 4

Breakfast with Lentre seems fast becoming a routine. Don likes routines. The doctor only stays a little while this time before running off to work, though he leaves Don with a street map and tells him that the locker rental is an easy short walk.

He's right, and it's refreshing too. Walking down the New Orleans streets, he can almost pretend that he's a tourist on a much-needed holiday. Or even that he's on another visit to a sister who will be waiting for him on the other end of the journey.

Adelaide's locker is well-lit by the morning sun, and Don stands at the entrance simply staring over it all for a while. He's not sure if it's a horde, a collection dumped and left, or a reserve always ready to be dipped into. The space is quite large and not hugely cluttered, but the sheer single-mindedness in everything jumps right out at him. His eyes flick from side to side, and something on the desk glints in the morning light. Leaning in, he feels his breath catch.

It's the red coral paperweight. Not shoved in a corner somewhere to be forgotten either, but sitting on a pile of loose paper squares. She was still using it after all this time.

He snaps out of his stare after a few seconds, picking it up and setting it aside to examine the papers. Don thinks at first they may be contact details, but there's barely any information. No name, just initials, and a single odd sentence like J.L.—dog hit by car needs surgery, and C.D.S.—fears cousin has been stealing from accounts. He can't make sense of any of it.

Day 3

Through the Eye of the Serpent by A. E. Doylle: Day 3Lentre shows neither surprise nor vindication when Don calls the next morning. Within an hour they're at the same table as the previous day though this time he's got slightly more wits about him, at least sufficient to order his usual preference of pancakes.

The man is also rather talented at making small talk, Don reflects as he opens their conversation with an offhand comment on the hotel's interior colour scheme. Probably another one of those doctor-given skills. But this morning, riding on a night's worth of confusion which he's never dealt well with, Don presses forwards.

"So, these veves. Which one was our one, exactly?"

Lentre's expression maintains that calm blandness that seems to be his reaction to everything, unfazed as usual by the abrupt topic change. He puts down his cutlery and reaches across to pluck up the salt shaker, unscrewing the lid and tipping it over so the thinnest line begins to spill onto the tabletop. Don watches with slightly raised eyebrows as the symbol from yesterday is drawn out with a perfectly steady hand, and entirely from memory.

Day 2

Through the Eye of the Serpent by A. E. Doylle: Day 2Don jolts awake the next morning like he was burnt. He's shivering a little since he's still above the blankets, muscles stiff from apparently being in the same position all night. It's barely dawn outside his east-facing window and it can't be the light which woke him, but a feeling lingers that still makes him want to run, flee.

He strips off and doesn't bother opening his travel-case to get any more clothes, staggering to the bathroom and splashing cold water over his face and down his chest. There's no need, really, he's more awake and actually aware than he's been since he got the first call, but he squeezes his eyes shut and just lets himself feel the slow trickle of droplets against his skin. Calm, focused, just for a little bit.

Day 1

TThrough the Eye of the Serpent by A. E. Doylle: Day 1It's late Friday afternoon when Don steps off the plane from Boston into New Orleans airport, breathing in the scent of long-travelled miles and the air of a different history. There's a man tooting out jazz phrases on a trumpet as he makes his way outside, perched on a street corner with a coin-lined case open in front of him. Down the road he can spy a French bakery and an antique shop, across from a long and quaintly-designed house with gardens bursting in colour. The short walk to the taxi rank is made through the sound of car horns and revving bikes, a knock on a window and a scrap of shakily-addressed paper pulled from a pocket before he lets himself fall into the passenger seat .

Don's eyes are closed as they make their way through the winding streets. He vaguely hears the trumpet melt slowly into the distance only to be replaced by another, different tunes and instruments fading in and out every few blocks, but he's not really listening. He's barely slept in the past thirty hours, yet even with the darkness behind his lids and the lulling repetitive bounce of the taxi he can't possibly drift off now.

Chapter Thirteen - Bo

Buffley-chapter13a.jpgA car rumbled up the gravel road in front of the house around eleven o'clock on the worst night of any of our lives, ever. I had put Sydney to bed almost four hours before because she was weak and hot and fell asleep at the dinner table. Aunt Georgia had taken her temperature and given her Tylenol and a lukewarm bath to try to bring the fever down. Poor kid didn't even want me to read her a story, she was so tired. So Hayley and I watched a little TV and then went upstairs. Hayley was watching music videos on Youtube, and I made myself comfortable lying on my bed with my feet propped up on the wall.

"Your mom off work early tonight?" Hayley asked when headlights flashed across the backyard.

"I dunno," I answered. Momma worked eight to eight, five days a week, or at least that was what she said. She never seemed to take a sick day, not even now that Sydney wasn't doing so hot. She said she had such good helpers, and Aunt Georgia was capable of taking care of a kid with a fever. I knew mom was lying to me because she talked to me all fake cutesy like I was Syd when she called me her good little helper. I knew what she was probably doing all the time, but I didn't want to think about that.

Instead of passing by, the car turned off the road and up the driveway, keeping its headlights shining on the backyard. I went into Momma and Sydney's room to look out the window. The car's lights shut off, and a man got out. He  had long hair and a baseball cap on, and he was carrying something, but I couldn't tell what. The security lights Aunt Georgia had put on the house flooded the guy with bluish light that also lit up the room some. Even though he looked like a character in some mystery movie in that shadowy light, it wasn't hard to guess who he was. All the pictures of Bo from the newspaper showed him with long hair. The farm hands had all gone home hours ago, and none of them had a long ponytail. My stomach dropped to my feet. I ran back to Hayley.

"I think it's Bo!" I half whispered.

Chapter Twelve - Mother Dear

Bufflye by Jennifer GeorgeWhen Momma came home from work the next morning, I was waiting for her, sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor with the rolled-up baggie between my fists. Sydney wasn't in bed. Hayley was making pancakes with her in the kitchen, which meant they wouldn't be upstairs for quite a while. That was the plan. Hayley would keep Syd out of the way for a while so I could try to get the truth out of Momma. Or yell at her. Or something. I didn't really know what I was going to do, but there I was, nonetheless. My plan was kind of fuzzy after that.

"Hey, sweetie," Momma said lightly without really looking at me. She wore her green gas station uniform polo and black pants with sneakers. She dropped her keys on the dresser before pulling off her shirt and slipping into another one. I didn't look down. I was around her all the time, so it didn't matter that she changed clothes in front of me. We were both used to it. We were both girls, anyhow.

Chapter Eleven - Target Practice

Bufflye by Jennifer GeorgeIn less than a day, Aunt Georgia drummed up a plan to try to protect the farm and all of us from Bo. She had Jared call ADT and arrange for them to come out and set up a burglar alarm, motion detector lights, and even a camera at the front and back doors, and at the stable. She also called a locksmith to put extra locks on the doors. Even though I knew it was for my own good, I hated the idea of lock down. Aunt Georgia's sudden niceness couldn't last forever. With a crazy ex convict, ex-stepfather running around, though, the thought of shimmying down the tree at night wasn't so appealing.

While Jared stayed at the farm house with the security alarm people, Aunt Georgia spent the day with us in town. Our first stop was Walmart. I hadn't known they sold gun ammunition there, but Aunt Georgia led the way right back past the fishing rods to a counter where a man checked her ID, asked to see her gun license, and then sold her a couple of boxes of bullets. Hayley's eyes were wide. I tried to play it cool, like I'd seen bullets before. Sydney, however, asked, "Aunt Georgia, what'cha buying those for?"

"Target practice," Aunt Georgia said.

"Can I do targets practice?"

Chapter Ten - A Change

Climbing treeThree new things started happening within just a few months at Aunt Georgia's house. The first thing was the phone calls. The house phone never used to ring much before then. Sometimes Hayley's friends called in the evenings, but otherwise, all the calls came to the business cell phone. The land line started ringing five or six times a day or more. One time, it rang twenty different times. Aunt Georgia must have grown new legs, since she answered it before we could every time. I didn't know how she ran so fast to get to that phone, unless she carried it around in her sweater pocket or something. Every time she picked up the phone, she started hollering within just a few seconds. Then she would hang up and throw the phone down on the table or couch or whatever was nearby. Sydney asked who it was just once, and Aunt Georgia said it was a customer who got mad about her raising the price of her hay. Sydney had said "Oh" and gone back to coloring, but Hayley had looked at me and raised her eyebrows. Then Aunt Georgia made all of us sweep and pick up the upstairs one more time. I hoped Sydney wouldn't ask too many more questions. I may have been bored living out there, but I didn't want to fill the time with extra chores.

The second weird thing was that Aunt Georgia started wanting to know where Hayley and I were every second of every day. At first I was confused because Aunt Georgia had never shown much interest in any of us kids before. The constant questions got really old really fast, since we didn't really go anywhere of note, unless you counted the occasional ride we hitched with Jared to McDonald's. We were always in the same places--either in the stable or one of the barns pestering the workers, or up in Hayley's room. Oh, and of course, we went to the bookmobile and sometimes Kirsten's house. Now Hayley had to ask permission for even that much.

Bufflye by Jennifer GeorgeChapter Eight - It's Not Any Better

Hayley and I stomped our feet on the way up to the back door of Aunt Georgia's house, trying to get feeling back in our toes. This time of year was always cold, but it was twice as cold here, out in the middle of nowhere with no trees around. The wind blew hard enough to nearly knock us down. It stung our eyes and cheeks, and our fingers ached pretty quickly. It was worse for me because I didn't have gloves. Sometimes I got so mad at the wind, I swore into it, but the wind just took my words away. We had started riding our bikes to the stable in the mornings because it was faster. I had mostly forgiven Hayley for abandoning me at the party, so we were back to normal, laughing little frozen clouds out of our mouths as we rode.

Chapter Seven - My Education

Bufflye by Jennifer GeorgeWho needed school, anyway? I learned a lot from Hayley. Stuff like how to take care of horses, where to download music for free, how to ride a horse, and how to bum rides into town from Jared, one of Aunt Georgia's four farm workers. Hayley also taught me how to ride a bike, since Momma had never had the money to buy me a bike and we would've had to leave it behind somewhere, anyway. Most important, I learned how to keep quiet and stay out of Great Aunt Georgia's way. That old woman was every bit as mean as she was that first day when she yelled at my sister for singing.

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