Free Water Witch by Deborah LeBlanc Page A

way from west Texas. Dunny, this here’s Beeno Leger, the deputy
in Bayou Crow. And that one there in the shrimp boots, that’s Pork
Chop, and the big one over there, that’s Cherokee.”
    Afraid my teeth would chatter with pain if I
spoke, I nodded a greeting to each. I had to get out of here, had
to get away from the water and whatever was in it. Had to get
out—the pain—stomach starting to churn, knot up. It took every
ounce of willpower I had to keep myself calm, my expression
cordial. I didn’t want to attract any more attention than
necessary.
    “Don’t talk much, huh?” Beeno said, his eyes
hard brown marbles rimmed with suspicion.
    Angelle grabbed my right arm and gave it a
tug, signaling it was time to leave. “She’s just tired from
traveling and has a bad headache. We came straight here from the
airport, so the poor thing hasn’t had a moment to catch her breath.
I’m going to take her home now so she can rest.” She gave him a
quick smile, then tugged on my arm again. “We’ll be back to pick
you up at four-thirty, okay, Poochie?”
    “Yeah.” Poochie’s eyes darted from my face to
my clutched hands back to my face. The sparkle in her green eyes
told me she knew the headache excuse was a crock, and she fully
intended to uncover the truth.
    Uncover the truth . . .
    The truth shall set you free . . .
    Not always—not for everyone . . .
    As those unbidden thoughts tumbled through my
mind, a horrible sense crept over me, making me shudder. Uncovering
truths in this place might very well mean the death of us all.
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER NINE
    Angelle’s house was only three blocks away
from the Bloody Bucket, but even that short distance seemed to do
wonders for my finger. The pain had eased to a dull throb, and it
had finally stopped feeling like someone meant to saw it free from
my hand. Now that we were alone, I took off my gloves, tossed them
on the kitchen table and let out a huge sigh of relief. My hands
were wrinkled from having been stuck in their own personal sauna
for too long. It really was too hot for gloves here.
    “Want a Coke?” Angelle asked.
    “Nah, I’m good.”
    Angelle headed for the fridge. “Don’t see how
you’re not thirsty. Heat’s different here than back home, don’t you
find? Out there dehydration sneaks up on you because the humidity’s
so low. Here it just smacks you in the face. I’m thirsty all the
time. Gotta drink more water, though. You know what they say about
too many Cokes . . .”
    It was the first time she’d spoken since we
left the bar. I knew my sister, knew she was holding back an
avalanche and was using small talk as a way to gather her thoughts.
I also knew from experience that it was best to wait and let her
drop the first rock. I pulled out a chair, sat at the table and
began massaging my extra finger. Starting at the knuckle that met
my hand, I pressed and kneaded, working my way up to the fingertip.
The exercise relaxed me, centered me—readied me.
    As Angelle busied herself with ice and a
soda, I took in her kitchen—the pale blue wallpaper, the white lace
curtains over the window, the miniature tea kettles arranged just
so on a display shelf near the stove, two wicker baskets
overflowing with ivy on the counter, and a clock in the shape of a
rooster on the wall straight ahead. Angelle always did have a knack
for warm and homey. A room left to my care was typically shit out
of luck, getting stuck with same ‘ol, same ol, like wall-mounted
telephones and outdated pantries. Oddly, though, as bright and cozy
as Angelle’s house appeared to the eye, there was heaviness in the
air. The kind of heaviness that usually followed a person through a
funeral home during a wake.
    “I like your house,” I said, for lack of
anything else to say.
    Angelle joined me at the table, Coke in hand.
“Thanks.” She settled into her chair, then popped the top on the
can and took a sip of soda. It seemed to take her forever to
swallow. When she finally