Free The Gone Dead Train by Lisa Turner

making a plaster. I see the bone has been bruised. That is why the discoloration is taking so long to go away. The plaster will clear the discoloration and relieve the soreness. The ewe will work differently. It will dispel negative energies from your recent trauma. Boil the herbs in water and strain it. Soak in a tub of the mixture for three nights. Both remedies are meant to ease discomfort.”
    His expression clouded as he put the herbs and the ceramic jar into a sack. Like Mystica, he must assume she had been a victim of abuse.
    â€œYou asked if I make ebbos for people other than my godchildren. I assume you want me to make them to help you.”
    Ramos might be the only person in the city with the means and ability to make a death curse, but if she confronted him with what she knew, he would deny it. This wasn’t an interview. It was more of a negotiation.
    â€œI’m interested in the types of ebbos you make,” she said. “I have questions.”
    â€œMay I suggest a few sessions of therapy? Just talking. Then we can work with the ebbos if you feel it’s necessary.”
    Let a powerful santero pry into her life? No way, too risky. “How about a few questions now?”
    He felt the face of his watch for the time. “My next client arrives very soon. I believe I have a card in my office. You may call if you wish to make an appointment.”
    He ushered her into the hallway before going into his office. She waited, angry with herself for coming so close to getting the information and failing.
    While he searched for the card, her gaze went to the series of photos she’d missed earlier, shots of people in groups, probably colleagues Ramos had met at conferences. It took a moment for one of the photos to register. It was an exterior shot of Robert House, the local center for homeless men and recovering addicts, a building she drove past every day. A group of about twenty men stood on the front steps. She spotted Sergio Ramos on the right. Little Man Lacy stood toward the back, towering over the rest. And there was Red Davis in the middle.
    Adrenaline hit, followed by a chill. The conjure bag wasn’t a guaranteed connection to Ramos, but this photo proved he had contact with the victims.
    She’d come here expecting to find a santero and possibly a scam artist. Sergio Ramos was more than that. She’d been impressed, intrigued. Now she was seeing him with different eyes. He could be the source of the curse. He could also be the person who had delivered it.
    Ramos appeared beside her with a card. “This will put you in touch with the person who books my appointments.”
    She took the card. “Thank you. I believe I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Chapter 14
    M emphis sits on the Fourth Chickasaw Bluff, a ridge formed by buckling tectonic plates and the twisting course of the Mississippi River. The bluff is the highest point on the river’s western bank between Natchez, Mississippi, and Cairo, Illinois. From the cobblestone landing in front of Billy’s barge, the riverbank rises to Riverside Drive then ascends to Front Street.
    Billy left the barge after sunset, the air thick with mosquitoes tracking him like tiny helicopters up the incline to the top of Monroe Avenue. He carried a copy of the Memphis Flyer , folded to protect the photos he’d discovered in Red’s jacket. His plan was to go to Bardog, order Aldo’s spicy four-meatball appetizer and a cold draft, and then work through the stack while watching a Cards game on TV.
    Jesus Junior, or “J.J.,” as he was known to every beat cop, stood on the sidewalk between Bardog and the Little Tea Shop. He was tall and brawny, an imposing figure in white track pants, a white jersey with HOLY GHOST written in rhinestones across the back, and spotless white sneakers. He made a living hustling tourists and selling the Flyer to people who didn’t realize every downtown doorway had a