Sandra Hill - [Creole] (7 page)

Etienne made a slight bow to her from the waist with a hand extended to the open casket. “After you, my dear.”

“Huh?”

“You and I are going to hide in this casket. Cain will stand guard.” The black man—could he really be a physician?—was already crouched in one corner, settling in.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Cain. You have to nail the lid shut after we’re inside.”

“That’s right,” Cain grumbled, and stood again.

Harriet’s eyes widened as she tried to comprehend what Etienne was saying.

He started to climb into the open casket, then hesitated, looking at her. Holding her eyes, he made a great show of removing and folding his spectacles, then slipping them into a pocket in his jacket. And she remembered her earlier remark about men who wear glasses.

Oh, no! He couldn’t possibly think I would—

“Do you prefer top or bottom, honey?”

Don’t worry,” Etienne assured the woman when she balked at draping her body over his, face-to-face, in an inadvertently sexual position. “I lost all my…uh…male urges in the war.”

He gave himself a mental pat on the back when he managed to get the words out with a straight face. Especially considering the fact that her trim body was covered only by a little leopard-print chemise and some sinfully charming undergarment he’d returned to her, which she called
panties
.

She nodded with understanding at his disclosure about male urges.

Understanding? Lord, I must be a better actor than I’d thought. Or a liar. All those years as a double agent, I suppose. The Secret Service trains us well
.

Cain snickered.

To his chagrin, the woman, who claimed to be a mind doctor, pursed her full, naturally red lips—which he refused to view as kissable—and furrowed her smooth brow in se
rious contemplation. Which was ludicrous, considering the fact that she was lying on top of him in an open coffin—a most unserious situation. Even he, who’d lost his sense of humor—though it was coming back by leaps and bounds—could see how absurd they must appear. But, no, now she was bracing her arms on either side of his neck and raising her head to study him better.

“Impotence?” she inquired solicitously.

Cain, who’d been about to replace the lid sealing them in, hooted with glee, muttering something about him being hoisted on his own petard.
More like, hoisted on my own pizzle
.

But impotence? He gurgled with speechlessness. This time the woman had gone too far. “No, I’m not im…impotent,” he asserted, barely able to say the word. “I just don’t have the…uh, inclination all that often.” Well, that was partly true. Unlike Cain and Abel, he didn’t feel the need to part the thighs of every female in sight these days. He attributed it to his greater maturity and discrimination.

“Low sex drive,” Dr. Ginny diagnosed, bobbing her head in confirmation.

“Low…low…” he sputtered.

“Oh, God, I cant wait to tell Abel,” Cain chortled.

“Men place entirely too much importance on their sex organs. Really. They need to laugh at themselves a bit more. For example, did you hear what the elephant said to the naked man?”

“I don’t care what the elephant said to—”

“It looks fine but can it pick up peanuts?”

He choked with incredulity.

“Now, now, I’m a psychologist, remember? You don’t have to be ashamed,” the infuriating woman rattled on.
Good Lord!
She was giving him a diagnosis from a coffin. “I heard you mention Andersonville. I assume you were a prisoner of war. Lots of POWs suffer postwar syndrome, or post-traumatic stress disorder. Sexual dysfunction is one of the traits. I can recommend—”

“Put on the damn lid before I kill her,” he said see-thingly to Cain, who’d stopped laughing and was listening to the woman with professional curiosity. When it seemed as if Cain might engage her in a doctorly discussion, he grabbed the witch by the nape of her neck, shoved her face against his chest, and glared at Cain.

“When was the last time you had sex?” her muffled voice persisted.

“That is none of your affair.”

“Do you masturbate to orgasm?”

“Aaarrgh!”

As the lid was being pounded down, he heard Cain ruminating aloud, “Impotence? Postwar syndrome? Hmmm.”

The woman continued to babble on, throwing out words like “sexual therapy” and “test-ostrich-own” and “creative visualization.” He’d never met a woman who could talk so much in all his life. Or throw out so many big words.

Meanwhile, she was sucking up all the air provided by the knothole Cain had punched out of the side of the pine box, and squirming around to get comfortable. Not that there was much room to squirm in the tight confines.

Suddenly she went stone still.

“What now?”

“That hard object prodding my stomach had better be a gold bar.”

He smiled. At least now he knew how to shut her up.

“Are you smirking?”

“Can’t you tell by my body language, Doctor?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“If you’d lie still, this wouldn’t happen.”

“Can’t you control yourself?”

“I’m trying.”

“Not very hard.”

“
Hard
enough,” he remarked dryly.

“So much for your impotence.”

“
Mon Dieu!
I never said I was impotent.”

There followed a long silence. Long for her, anyhow.

“What are you thinking about now?” he asked. An unwise question, to be sure.

“My MCP scale.”

“What? Did I just tip the scale again? I didn’t do anything wrong…well, deliberately wrong.”

“Getting an erection with a woman in a casket clearly falls within the guidelines of a male chauvinist pig.”

He chuckled. “A ten?”

“More like a ten and a half.”

“Well, for your information, that’s not an erection. That’s just a little minor interest. A reflex. If I were really aroused, you’d know it, sweetheart.”

“Oh, God,” she groaned. “I still don’t see why we couldn’t have separate caskets.”

“Because there’s gold in the other boxes, too, and not as much empty space. Because I don’t want you out of my sight till I know who sent you. Because I enjoy having you molt your hair into my mouth. Because drowning in our combined perspiration is preferable to being shot in the back. Because you have the sweetest ass this side of Opelousas. Because—”

“Enough already!”

“You two had better stop talking,” Cain cautioned. “Much as I’m captivated by your entertaining conversation, you won’t be able to see if someone enters this car unexpectedly. And I won’t be able to warn you once they’re here. So, for God’s sake, don’t say another word unless I give you the password.”

“You’re right, of course,” Etienne said contritely, shamed at the way he’d allowed the woman to distract him when distraction could spell danger to them all.
Merde!
He was trained to be more careful. What was happening to him? Perhaps the headaches were causing his mental functions to diminish. “What’s the password, Cain?”

There was a short pause before Cain replied, “Rooster.”
Etienne didn’t have to see his friend to know he was smirking.

“Are you sure you two aren’t delusional psychotics? Perhaps there aren’t any real bad guys following you at all. Perhaps, with your severe distortion of reality, you’ve created a danger that doesn’t even exist. Perhaps—”

“Shut up, Harriet.”

“Oh, all right. If you don’t want my advice…” The woman settled down then with a deep sigh, followed by a yawn. “I’m so tired. I feel as if I haven’t had a good night’s rest in ages. If I fall asleep, are you going to attack me in my dreams again?”

Etienne stiffened, “I have never attacked any woman…not sexually, anyway. The women I make love to…they do not fall asleep. Furthermore, you and I have never made love, in or out of a dream.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” she murmured, clearly not accepting his claims. “Men with sexual inadequacies always overcompensate by bragging of prowess they don’t have. The superstud syndrome.”

He gritted his teeth.
Don’t strangle her now. You’ll have plenty of time later
.

Don’t worry, though.” She patted his cheek in comfort. “Intercourse isn’t the only sexual game in town. There are other methods of—”

“Stick out your tongue.”

“Why?”

“So I can cut it out.”

“Geez, why are you always so grumpy? Frustration? No, that can’t be it. You’ve been getting enough satisfaction from me to last a lifetime. Hey, maybe that’s why you’re having trouble getting the little soldier to rise. You’ve been wearing yourself out with me in my dreams.” She yawned again.

Grumpy? Little soldier?
The woman had a death wish. Before he could react to her latest outlandish statement, her
body slumped, and she fell into a deep slumber. Instantly. Like a rag doll.

He hadn’t done that since he was an innocent boy, tired out from long days exploring his beloved Louisiana bayous. He almost envied her.

“Did you hear that conversation?” he whispered to Cain.

“No, I’m laughing too hard,” Cain said softly. “How’s your ‘little soldier’?”

“Fine. How’s yours?” he grumbled.

“Seriously, Etienne. Laughter aside…this woman is rather strange.”

“Hah! Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“Who the hell is she?”

“Damned if I know.”

“If we get out of this alive, I want to ask her a few questions about that postwar disease. So curb your temper. Don’t kill her right away.”

“If we get out of this alive, you’ll have to stand in line to ask her questions. I reckon there will be a line of people wanting to kill her, too.”

“What’s that noise? Sounds like purring. Oh, I don’t believe it. What are you doing to her?”

Etienne made a
tsking
exclamation. “Give me a little credit for good sense, Cain. She’s snoring.”

“Oh,” Cain responded with obvious disappointment.

“How long do you think we’ll have to stay in these grave boxes? It’s hotter than blue blazes in here, and Harriet—that is the name she’s using, isn’t it?—might look like a small package, but she’s getting heavier by the minute. I feel as if I’m covered with a hogshead of sugar.”

“I don’t know, Etienne. Probably till New Orleans…about six hours.”

He groaned.

“Do you think Pope will come?”

“Never!” Etienne sneered. “The bastard delegates his dirty work. And he’s probably not even the head of this operation.”

Cain exhaled loudly with resignation. “Can you breathe well enough to last that long? Here, let me poke out another knothole from the opposite side. And try to sleep. No sense both of us keeping watch.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Etienne said, and proceeded to nod right off.

“How long you been here, nigger?”

The loud voice was immediately followed by a crash—probably a body slamming against the metal side of the freight car.

“’Bout three hours, suh,” Cain replied with a cry of pain. “Why’d you punch me? I ain’t done nuthin’. Just mindin’ my boss’s business here, suh.”

More punching, slapping noises and grunts of pain.

Etienne came instantly awake.
Three hours!
Normally, he was a light sleeper, attuned to the slightest rustle. How could he have conked out for so long? And how could he have not heard, immediately, the racket of men entering their hiding place?

“Have you seen three men skulking about?”

“Three men?” Cain echoed.

“Yes, one white man and two blacks. Thieves.”

Etienne blinked in the darkness of his coffin and realized that moisture coated his eyelashes. In fact, his entire body was wringing wet. The closed coffin was hotter than a sugarhouse during the
roullaison
boiling season.

He put a hand to the back of Harriet’s head, sensing in her rigid posture that she, too, had been awakened by the commotion. Her hair was plastered wetly about her head, dripping onto his chest. Skimming his palm lower, down her back, he found her little chemise to be a sopping film—probably transparent—covering her body. Now, that was a sight he wouldn’t mind seeing…later. If they survived the next few hours.

He squeezed her shoulder to signal caution, and she nodded. They both listened.

“Who’s your master, boy?”

“Mister Frogash, suh. But he ain’t my master. No sirree, I’s a free man. Mr. Lincoln said so.”

Oh, no! Cain’s hackles are raised now. He should know better than to react to mere words. Damn!

“Mr. Lincoln’s dead,” the first voice spat out with a cruel laugh, followed by another crash and the smack of flesh meeting flesh—from more than one set of fists, he’d wager. Listening carefully to the voices and placement of moving feet, Etienne concluded there were only two of them…thus far, anyhow.

“Yep, ol’ Abe’s eatin’ maggots,” the second man cackled, “an’ you’re gonna be joinin’ him if you get uppity again, nigger. Do you understand?”

The only response from Cain was a moan. Then he gasped out, “Choking.”

A short, mean laugh erupted from one of the men. Etienne recognized the sound of fabric passing quickly over metal and the thud of a heavy weight hitting the floor. Cain had probably slid to the floor when the thug released a choke hold on his throat.

Etienne would relish nothing more than to jump from his box and beat the two villains bloody, which was impossible with the nailed lid. Besides, they’d discussed the risks in detail. If one of them were in danger, the others were to consider the mission of more importance than any of their individual lives.

They’d worked together on other assignments before, for the Secret Service during and after the war, and now for President Grant directly. Cain had served well in “the doctors’ line,” a network of physician spies. Abel had entertained Rebel troops with his music in hotels and brothels throughout the South, where he’d picked up invaluable military information. And Etienne had been a much-prized double agent for four years before his incarceration, and an agent in the Secret Service since the war. But not much longer. Once they closed down this government corruption
ring, he would be free and clear. And President Grant had promised to intercede on his behalf, releasing all the back pay for years spent as a double agent.

Yes, they had the procedure down pat, Etienne reminded himself, returning to the present. Carry no identification. Confess nothing. Avoid provocation of captors. Wait for the right opening. Never let emotion guide actions.

Besides, these men were probably just blustering bullies. A needless death wouldn’t be the style of Pope’s men. The dishonest ex-Secret Service agent wanted no bloody trail that might lead to him. And, more than anything, he’d want to recapture his gold.

Still, Etienne barely restrained himself from banging on the lid to help Cain.

“Who’s your master?” the first man demanded again. “And what are you doin’ back here? Stealin’ property from good white folks’ trunks, I reckon.”

“No, suh, I’s not a thief. I work for Mr. Frogash. He’s a mortician.”