Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

Instead, he went back inside, poured a tall glass of iced tea and swallowed some aspirin. He carried the drink to the porch and sank down in one of the rockers. It had been a long time since he’d felt this sick and weak. He didn’t know what he was going to do about Nettle, because right now he couldn’t think beyond the moment. He didn’t know how he’d get through the next hour without a drink, much less the rest of the day, the rest of his life.

He stared out at the sun shimmering off the bayou, but what he saw instead was the long, dark road that lay ahead of him.

The phone started ringing inside the house, and Dave’s first inclination was to ignore it. He didn’t want to talk to anybody right now, least of all Marsilius, who was probably calling to check up on him. But if he didn’t pick up, his uncle was apt to show up on his doorstep, and Dave sure as hell didn’t want that.

He went inside to answer.

“Dave, it’s Titus.”

“I was beginning to think you’d just blown me off,” Dave said.

“Don’t think I didn’t consider it. Listen up. I followed your boy Nettle out here to a dive off Airline Drive.” He gave Dave the address. “You better get your ass down here quick ’cause you ain’t gonna believe who just showed up to meet him.”

When Dave walked into the Gold Medallion that afternoon, Bobby Ray Taubin was stacking beer cases behind the bar. He tried to bolt for the back, but Dave slid over the counter, caught him by the collar and slung him back into the glass shelves on the wall. Taubin went crashing to the floor amid an array of broken glass and spilled liquor.

Before he could get up, Dave was on him. He grabbed a broken whiskey bottle and shoved it under the bartender’s chin. “Nobody here but you and me now, Bobby Ray.”

Taubin’s eyes shifted back and forth as blood ran down the side of his face.

“I’m going to give you two choices, just like you gave me the other night,” Dave. “You either do as I say, or I give your parole officer a call, fill him in on what you been up to since you got off the farm. My guess is he’ll give you a one-way ticket back to West Feliciana Parish.”

“What do you want from me?” Taubin asked sullenly, lifting a hand to wipe the blood out of his eyes.

“It’s real simple.” Dave tossed the whiskey bottle aside and dragged Taubin to his feet. “You’re gonna help me nail Clive Nettle’s hide to the wall.”

Mist settled over the bayou as Matthew guided his pirogue through the cattails and lily pads that grew thick against the bank. Night had fallen and the half-submerged cypress trees were black against the starlit sky. A bullfrog croaked nearby, and he could see the gleam of beady eyes in the darkness, the twinkle of lightning bugs through the bushes. His oars dipped rhythmically in the water as he moved deeper into the swamp.

Rounding a sharp bend, he saw a light on the water up ahead. His pulse quickened as his gaze dropped to the bundle at his feet, and he saw that the blanket had shifted, exposing a tiny, pale hand in the moonlight.

Careful.

His very presence in the swamp at this hour could arouse suspicions, and if anyone saw what he had in his boat, let alone if they followed him to his destination…

Don’t worry, no one will see us. No one will ever know.

He pulled the blanket over the hand and straightened. The light was getting closer and the sound of laughter drifted over the dark water. Turning the boat, he paddled back toward the bank, carefully maneuvering the bow through a maze of cypress knees and rotting logs. Spanish moss hung like layers of silk from the trees, the lacy tendrils skimming the water’s surface, undulating gently in the current.

He drifted under one of the curtains and used his oar to steady the pirogue as he waited. The other boat was so near now he could hear the individual voices, even make out snatches of conversation. He held his breath as a light flashed over the area where he was hidden.

“There!” one of the voices said excitedly. “Did you see it?”

“Got it! Big ole fat one, too.”

He let out a quick breath. Nothing to worry about. It was just some kids out frog-gigging. Not his forte, but to each his own, he always said.

Still, he didn’t want them to see him, so he remained hidden until the voices faded in the mist. When he was sure they were gone, he paddled back out into deeper water. A sinewy ribbon skimmed across the surface in the moonlight and he shivered, all too aware of the dangers in the swamp.

Another turn and he was there. The dilapidated shack was perched at the water’s edge, the porch sagging and the roof caved in from rot and decades of Gulf Coast storms.

Drifting up to the bank, he looped a rope over a cypress knee, then jumped over the side of the boat into ankle-deep water. He reached for the bundle and cradled it carefully in his arms as he entered the shack.

Once inside, he turned on his flashlight and skimmed the beam over the dusty walls and corners. Cobwebs glimmered in the light and something small scurried across the floor at his feet.

The cabin was haunted by his past. The memories were so overwhelming that he started to tremble. If he listened closely, he could hear the beat of all those silenced hearts, feel the accusing stare of all those sightless eyes. He didn’t like coming here, but there was no other way.

Setting the flashlight aside, he pried up a loose board and then removed the blanket from the silent bundle beside him. Long dark hair splayed across the filthy floorboards. Eyes shimmered in the moonlight spilling in through a broken window.

He touched her cold cheek and shuddered.

The doll was nearly perfect. He had outdone himself this time. Each step of the process had been inspired. Sculpting the clay, making the plaster mold, firing the porcelain and painting the delicate features—the end result, a work of art.

He had tested the limits of his talent…but still he’d fallen short.

He wanted to weep in frustration. No matter how many times he tried, no matter how hard he worked, he could not capture the essence of the child with only his hands and a block of clay. There was only one way to truly do her justice. His special way.

Quickly, he placed the doll—another failure—inside the hole with the others, turning his head so that he wouldn’t have to see all those gleaming eyes and taunting smiles. Settling the board back in place, he stood for a moment, letting out a long shaky breath as he waited for his nerves to steady.

Then he returned to the pirogue, unfastened the rope and paddled away from the cabin without looking back.

He never looked back when he came here. He was too afraid of what he might see.

By Thursday, Claire’s hand was so much better that she decided to stay on after the gallery closed, and make up for lost time in the studio. The other glassblowers left one by one, until by nine she had the place to herself. Normally, she loved working alone, but tonight she found herself jumping at every little sound. Which was to be expected, she supposed, after everything that had happened in the past week.

Perspiration gathered at the back of her neck and along her spine as she rolled the pliable glass across the steel marver to smooth and shape the surface. She hadn’t slept well the night before, and the heat in the studio was quickly sapping her energy. She’d gone to bed early, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Mignon Bujold’s pale face staring up at her. And when Claire finally dozed off, she dreamed of being trapped in a cold, dark place, unable to move, unable to scream for help. She’d awakened struggling for breath, her heart pounding in terror until she realized it was only a nightmare. But she hadn’t been able to fall back asleep for hours.