“Give ’em hell, Roman.”
Roman looked back, just as he started out the door.“Is there any other way?”
* * *
Lash was making himself a ham and cheese sandwich.He’d even gotten out his mother’s good china on which to eat it.He slathered mustard on one slice of bread and mayonnaise on the other.And why not?It’s about time things started going my way.
The sandwich was thick with meat, cheese, and lettuce.He pushed a toothpick into an olive, then topped his sandwich by stabbing the toothpick into the bread with a flourish.Now there was only one thing left.He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of wine.Chilled to perfection.
He walked out of the kitchen toward the old dining hall with china, wine and food in hand.When he stepped inside, there was a feeling of relief unlike any he’d ever known.
Spiderwebs draped the dust-covered chandelier above the table like torn and tattered lace.One of the panes was out at the top of a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the back of the property and there was a bird’s nest in the corner of the room.But Lash didn’t see the ruin and decay.His jubilation was focused on former glory and future renovation.
The cork popped on the wine and he smiled to himself as he filled his glass.As he sipped, the chill of the grape and the dry, vintage taste of fine wine tingled on his tongue.He set the half-empty glass down in a patch of sunlight, admiring the way a sunbeam pierced the liquid.
He pulled the toothpick out of his food, popped the olive into his mouth, and chewed down.There was an instant awareness of an odd, unfamiliar taste as he gasped and spit the olive out into his hand.
And the moment he saw it, his flesh crawled.Somewhere within his mind, a drumbeat sounded.Then it began to hammer, faster and faster until he couldn’t move—couldn’t speak.He heard a cry, and then the faint, but unmistakable, sounds of a woman’s soft voice.The language was French, spoken in the patois of the slaves his great-great-grandfather had once owned.
He jumped up from his chair and flung what was left of the olive onto the dust-covered table before running out of the room.The celebration and his meal were forgotten in the horror of what he’d just seen.And as the sounds of his footsteps faded away, the carcass of a small, white worm fell out of the olive and into the patch of sunlight beaming down through the wine.
Lash ran out of the house and into the woods, searching for a solace his mind couldn’t find.To any other person, it would have been an unfortunate choice of an olive from a nearly full jar, but to Lash, it was the first step in a curse that had started to come true.
Decay.Everything around you will fall to decay.Flesh will fall off of your bones and be consumed by the worms.
Raised in a superstition as old as the land itself, in Lash Marlow’s mind, the curse Casey invoked had begun.He thought about what would happen if he just called the whole thing off.If he could, he would have turned back the clock, stopped what he’d started before it was too late.As always, Lash’s instinct for good was too little, too late.
* * *
Roman crouched beneath the low-hanging branches of a weeping willow, watching as Marlow came out of his house and ran into the woods bordering the backyard.He frowned.Whatever it was that had sent him running couldn’t have come at a better time.And still he waited, ever cautious, searching the grounds around the house for signs of other life.Except for the leaves in the trees, nothing moved.
Like a shadow, he came out from hiding, heading straight toward the dark blue sedan parked in front of the house.Within seconds of reaching it, he had secured a tracking device under the frame and was on his way back when he saw something that gave him pause.The fender of a small white car was just visible through the partially opened door of a nearby shed.
He frowned.According to the information he’d pulled from the Department of Motor Vehicles, Lash Marlow owned one car—a midnight blue, four-door sedan.He swerved in midstep and bolted for the shed, constantly searching the area for signs.of Marlow’s arrival.
The car was a small, white compact—at least eight, maybe ten years old.He glanced in at the gauges and whistled softly beneath his breath as he saw the odometer.Less than thirty thousand miles on a ten-year-old car?
What the hell, he thought.So, maybe Marlow just bought himself a second car and the change of ownership had yet to be registered.The mileage alone would make the car worthwhile.But he couldn’t let go of the notion that he was wrong.This was a little old lady’s car, not the type a man like Marlow would want to be seen driving.
And then it hit him.Little old lady!As in a woman named Fostoria Biggers?Her name had come up in conjunction with Marlow’s when he’d been into the bank records and he’d thought little of a lawyer being an executor of an estate.It was done every day.But what if…?
He dropped to his knees.Regardless of why it was here, it was another vehicle that would be at Lash Marlow’s disposal.Without wasting any more time, he affixed a bug to this car as well, and while he was on his knees, his attention was drawn from the car itself to the condition of the tires.He crawled closer.The treads were packed with mud and grass.He picked at the grass.To his surprise, it still bent to the touch.He frowned.Someone had recently been driving this car.But where?
A door slammed.Roman’s nerves went on alert.It was time to get out.He’d done what he’d come to do.
* * *
The call came in at exactly one minute to five.Every man in the room went on alert as Ryder reached for the phone.
“Ryder Justice speaking.”
Like before, the voice had been altered.A mechanical whir was audible in the background.
“This is a recording.In fifteen minutes, Ryder Justice is to bring the money to the corner of Delaney and Fourth.There is a newsstand nearby.It will be closed.Set the bags inside the stand and drive away.If anyone attempts to follow the man who picks them up, Delaney Ruban’s granddaughter will be meat for the ’gators.If you do as you’re told, Casey Justice will be released.”
The recording ended long before a trace could be made.Ryder cursed beneath his breath as he hung up the phone.He felt sick to his stomach.’Gator meat?God help them all.
He started toward the front door.“Put the bags in the car.”
