Faye Longchamp 01 - Artifacts

devil of a time catching me.”
    And his blackmailer ran after her, taking his bullets with him.
    How much money had he paid the man he’d known first as Cedrick Kirby, then as Senator Cyril Kirby? He’d looked Abby’s father in the face every day, taken a paycheck from him every Friday, and stolen from him every chance he got, all because he was afraid of this man. Mr. Williford was never right in his mind after Abby’s disappearance and he had trusted Douglass with his affairs. When the old man’s will revealed that he’d left the construction business to Douglass, it eased a portion of the guilt. All the embezzlements that his blackmailer had forced him to execute were finally wiped away. Douglass had only been stealing from himself.
    Irvin Williford wasn’t cold in his grave when Douglass bought the old man’s beach house from his estate. Controlling the site of Abby’s death made him breathe easier. He remodeled the house before moving in—like any proud new owner who could afford it—and in the process sent the tiles from the patio to the landfill. He would never again look at them and remember the way her blood had looked, splashed across the gaily decorated floor. And he’d had the workmen demolish the outdoor wet bar with its wicked sharp corner. That corner had broken Abby’s fall, caved in her skull, and ended her life. It was gone now, along with the clothes he’d worn that night and his junky fishing boat. And Abby herself.
    Douglass wondered whether the wound in his chest was mortal and if God would let him see Abby when he died just one more time.

    Faye figured that she and the Senator each had an advantage in this life-and-death contest. He had a gun, and she was on her own turf. She would gladly trade her advantage for his. She’d even move this chase to Mars if it meant she could have a gun, too.
    Maybe Douglass was still alive. She liked to think she’d bought him another moment of life, but that’s all she could give him. It was all she could give herself. She could only take one moment, then another one, all the while hoping for a miracle.

    Joe, standing in the shadow of a pine tree, saw Faye jump and he saw Douglass fall. As soon as Faye, then Cyril, disappeared into the dense woods behind the big house, Joe stepped out of the shadows and pulled Douglass to his feet. The wounded man could stand, with help, but he couldn’t walk. Joe draped Douglass’ arms over his own shoulders, supporting him on his back. He hurried toward the house, with Douglass’ limp feet dragging in the dirt behind his moccasins. Hauling Douglass into the basement, he stashed him behind the secret door that led to the sneak stair.
    “I’ll be back for you after I find Faye.”
    “The bullet?” Douglass wheezed.
    “It went straight through. Must have missed your heart.”
    “I don’t think it missed but one of my lungs,” Douglass gasped, but Joe had already closed him behind a well-camouflaged door. If something happened to Faye and Joe, then he guessed he’d just become a grisly part of this grand house’s historical character.

    Hiding in a palmetto thicket had seemed like a good idea to Faye at the time, because her pursuer would never expect it. No one in his right mind would hide there. Palmettos, waist-high miniature palms, had stalks like serrated kitchen knives.
    She had slithered on her side deep into the thicket, trying to ooze around each jagged trunk without jostling it. Waggling palmetto fronds would look like fingers on a beckoning hand saying, “Shoot me, please shoot me.”
    Every joint ached from her jump off the gallery but the old wound on her thigh was throbbing worse than that. The cool mud she ground into the wound with each movement was oddly soothing.
    She had always believed she knew her island better than the markings on her own palm. She had eaten the squirrels and rabbits and birds Joe had shot here. She’d even eaten frog legs, fruits of his occasional frog-gigging ventures. Still, she’d had no idea that she lived in the midst of so many creatures.
    Just since she’d crawled into this thicket, she’d seen a water rat, an armadillo, a lizard, and two snakes. She could hear the cries overhead of birds that should by rights have settled in for the fast-approaching evening. Could all this unusual activity be triggered by the Senator’s mere presence? Could animals sense the presence of evil? If so, they were clearly smarter than she was.
    A possum ambled by