Fever Moon (27 page)

Bernadette paced to the end of the porch where Florence was hidden. The camellia bushes were thick, but she held her breath as a small brown wren burst from the foliage, startling Bernadette so that she drew back. Florence felt exposed and wrong, yet she couldn’t leave. Not now.

“What is it you want me to do?” Michael asked.

“I don’t know,” Bernadette finally answered. “I want you to see the truth of Adele. Some will try to save her.” She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. “She can’t be saved, her.”

“They’ll kill her, Bernadette. You know that, don’t you? They won’t have any mercy.”

“Perhaps, in the end, that will be the greatest mercy of all, yes.” Bernadette leaned against the support. “Pray that God has mercy on her soul, Father. That’s what you can do.”

R
AYMOND was careful to remain still, as if he were asleep. The drugs Doc had given him were finally wearing off, and he needed to figure a way to get out of the bed. The empty cookie plate sat on the windowsill beside the coffee cups. In an afternoon breeze off the Teche, gauzy sheer curtains billowed inward, draping Florence in a diaphanous gown as she perched on the edge of a chair beside his bed reading a magazine. She brushed the material away, recrossed her legs, and continued to read. She was, without a doubt, the most physically perfect thing Raymond had ever seen.

He’d eaten the cookies only to please her. While she’d been gone to refill the coffee cups, he’d managed to determine that he wasn’t paralyzed. He was still a man, and as soon as he was alone, he intended to get free of the traction and get on with his work. Adele and Peat Moss were somewhere in the swamps.

A tap at the door sent Florence to her feet. She answered it, stepping back to reveal Elisha. His sister stared at him, her expression unreadable. He tried to sit up, but the pull of the weights fought him. He struggled to one elbow. “Go home, Elisha.” His voice was sharper than he intended. It was bad enough that Florence saw him like this, but he couldn’t bear that Elisha should see it.

“I heard you were injured.” Elisha hesitated in the doorway. She glanced at Florence, her gaze shying to the floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company.” She backed out of the doorway.

“Wait.” Florence crossed the room and grabbed Elisha’s hand. “Wait. Please. Come in and see your brother.”

“Florence!” Raymond’s voice cracked.

“It’s only his fear that makes him so bearish.” Florence didn’t release her grip. Slowly she drew the younger woman into the room. “He’s afraid he’ll be an invalid. That is such a gruesome fear, it pushes out his manners and”—she glared at him—“his common decency.”

Raymond closed his eyes and swallowed the curses he wanted to hurl at Florence. If this was payback for the trip to Baton Rouge, she’d succeeded. “I’m okay, Elisha. I’ll be out of here soon.”

“They say you killed Veedal Lawrence. That you deliberately ran over him.”

His sister’s eyes held no condemnation, only curiosity. The scene replayed in his head, the expression on Veedal’s face, the solid thump of his body against the bumper, the way the car bucked over the body. “It’s true.” He felt no remorse or guilt, and he wanted Elisha to see that. To truly know him, so she’d leave him be. “I’d do it again, too.”

“All of my friends were frightened of him.” She walked to the side of the bed and picked up his hand. “It was a good thing you did, Raymond.”

He found his throat suddenly constricted, so he squeezed her fingers instead of answering. As a child, Elisha had worn her dark hair in braids and had helped Antoine work on harnesses and leather goods. Her nimble fingers had often been stained by the Neatsfoot oil used to soften the leather. She’d been Antoine’s helper, his devoted little sister.

“I’m sorry.” The words came out as a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

Elisha’s tears wet his hand as she clung to it. “Raymond, come and see Mama. Please. Come to dinner Sunday.”

He shook his head. “I can’t. What I did … How can I face her when I know how much she misses Antoine?”

“We all miss him.” Elisha sat on the edge of the bed, his hand held between both of her. “You miss him. But you’re here, Raymond. Alive. And we miss you.” She lifted his hand and kissed it. “I miss my oldest brother as much as I miss Antoine.”

“The Raymond you loved is as dead as Antoine.” Raymond couldn’t look at her.

“I don’t believe that.” Elisha rose gracefully to her feet. “Still, I’d like that chance to look for myself. Dinner Sunday. I’ll cook your favorites.” She walked to the door and looked at Florence. “Thank you.” She closed the door behind her as she left.

Outside the window a jaybird squawked a protest. Florence leveled her gaze at him, waiting. One eyebrow lifted slowly. When he didn’t say anything, she leaned angrily on the foot of the bed frame.

“If you lose the use of your legs, will that be penance enough? How about if you’re paralyzed from the chest down? Will that be enough? Maybe you can’t use your arms, either. Would that be punishment enough?” She grabbed something from the bed. “Here’s the poultice Madame Louiselle sent to you. Why won’t you put it on?”

Raymond had no fight left. Elisha’s visit, Florence’s hot words. Even Madame had pointed the finger of self-destruction at him. Was it so much easier to carry the weight of guilt than to free himself? “Cut me out of this”—he waved his hand at the traction—“mess. I’ll put the poultice on.”

Florence didn’t bat an eye. She pulled a kitchen knife from her apron. “On one condition.”

The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile. “You’re one tough lady, Florence Delacroix.”

“I am.”

“What’s the condition?”

“That I drive you wherever you go. There are things I need to tell you. Things I overheard.”

There were a million reasons Florence shouldn’t go with him. She would listen to none of them, so it would be a waste of breath to go down the list. “It’s a deal.”

The sun dipped behind the trees leaving the sky almost colorless. Michael walked with Jolene along the side of the road, searching for prints as Sheriff Joe had told him. The sheriff had split the volunteer searchers into three groups. One had gone with him, another had gone with Clifton Hebert, and Michael’s group was under the direction of Praytor Bless. They were working the southwest corner of the parish close to Adele’s home and not too far from the place Henri Bastion had been killed.

Out of deference for Jolene, who looked like she might keel over at any moment, Praytor had assigned them the job of walking along the roadway, searching the damp sand for tracks or impressions. It was a job unlikely to yield anything, but it had to be done. The other volunteers, of hardier stock, were deeper in the swamp, sweeping systematically to the east. Praytor himself was somewhere in the woods, a tracking hound he’d borrowed from Angola prison dragging him through the sloughs and bogs.

Michael could occasionally hear the dog’s mournful bay. He couldn’t tell if the animal was on the trail or if it had lost the scent and was complaining. Michael could only hope that if Adele was in the section of swamp they searched, that it wouldn’t be Praytor who found her. He had no doubt Praytor Bless intended to kill her on sight.

“Do you think Marguerite has left for good?” Jolene asked.

Michael glanced at her. She was still shaken by her experience at the Bastion plantation, and she stayed within arm’s reach. Several times a small animal scurrying through the dead leaves had made her jump almost into his arms.

“Maybe.” He turned the conversation. “I hear Joe wants to run for the United States Senate.”

“That’s why he changed his name. Easier to spell.” She kept pace with him though she’d begun to breathe harder.

“He’s probably right about that.” Michael stopped to inspect what appeared to be the heel print of a small child. “Look!”

Jolene knelt beside him, her finger hovering over the indentation in the damp sand. “Peat Moss?”

Michael had prayed for a miracle. He’d asked God repeatedly for the return of the child, a truly helpless being who’d done no wrong. The print looked exactly like a child’s, but he wasn’t a tracker and he didn’t want to arouse the search party and then be ridiculed. “I’ll find someone to examine it. Stay here.”

“Alone?” Jolene looked at the lengthening shadows on the road. The sun had dipped lower, burning red now through the bare trunks of the trees. The sky was fired with pink and orange, moving toward mauve and purple on the eastern border. Night would be falling soon.

“I have to go into the swamp. Wouldn’t you rather wait here? Mark the spot?”

Jolene looked at the swamp and then at Michael. “I’m afraid.”

He clamped down on his impatience. “I won’t go far. I’ll just go in deep enough to find someone. Then I’ll come right back. If you yell, I can hear you.”

“What if she comes out of the woods? What if she’s watching us and just waiting for a chance?” Jolene’s voice rose with each new question. “What if—”

He grasped both her arms firmly. “You’re frightening yourself, Jolene. You have to get a grip.” Her eyes widened in alarm and her spine stiffened, the impulse to fight back showing in her face.

“That’s better.” He softened his grip. “You’re okay. I’ll be right back.” Before she could protest, he jumped over the ditch and hurried into the woods. As he stepped into the trees, he realized how close it was to night. The canopy of tree limbs overhead blocked out the little sun that still illuminated the sky.

“Praytor!” He decided to abandon all pretense of masculine poise. “Praytor! I’ve found a track. A child’s track!”

There was no answer, and for one awful moment, Michael had the sense that the men who’d stepped into the woods to hunt had disappeared forever, swallowed by the dense swamp.

“Praytor!” If there was an edge of panic in his voice, he didn’t care. “Anyone!”

His voice rang against the tree trunks, echoing back at him. A movement to his left caused him to freeze. He’d caught it out of the corner of his eye, and he turned slowly to face it. In the dimness of the swamp, he could see nothing alive.

“Father, protect this your servant from the ways of evil.” He made the sign of the cross. He was far beyond worrying about appearing ridiculous now. If the men of the search party were having sport with him, they could enjoy themselves. “Praytor! Somebody answer me!”

Just at the edge of darkness, something moved, shifting silently from tree to shrub. He saw it. This was no trick of imagination or flight of fancy. Someone was in the swamp nearby. Someone who wouldn’t answer his cry for assistance.

The trees around him were dark silhouettes now. Ahead was a black slough with cypress knees cresting from the water like the spine of some ancient sea monster. He backed up until he felt the bark of a tree at his buttocks.

In the total silence, something slid from a log into the dark water with a gentle splash. Turtle. Snake. Gator. He couldn’t be certain.

Turning to face the opposite direction, he saw only the trunks of trees and the underbrush that seemed uniform. He’d walked less than fifty yards from the road, but somehow he’d gotten turned around. With the sun setting and darkness falling over him, he couldn’t be certain which direction would take him back to the road and Jolene.

“Jolene!” He called her name, hoping he could find his way back to the road when she responded.

There was no answer. It was as if he’d stepped into a place bewitched. That was utter foolishness! He didn’t believe in magic. A search party of grown men didn’t disappear in the forest.

He didn’t believe in a woman who turned into a wolf.

Movement through the underbrush caught his eye. This time he distinctly saw the shape of a human. Someone on two legs. But the person had moved with such speed. And without making a sound.

Michael touched the crucifix that hung around his neck. For the ten years he’d been in New Iberia he’d avoided the swamps. He’d known, deep in his soul, that something lurked in the soft black soil rich with damp leaves and seeping springs. Something waited here just for him. He’d avoided it for years, and now he feared he would confront it.

“Father, give me strength to face the test before me.” He prayed with his eyes open, his gaze scanning the trees in front of him, turning slowly, hoping and yet dreading to face the attack when it came. “You are the creator of all things. This is yet one of your creatures. I will not fear it with the strength you give me.”

The creature stepped out from behind a tree. In the stillness of the woods, not even a leaf seemed to stir. Michael couldn’t tell what it was, exactly. It walked on two feet, but with a peculiar stoop, as if it might drop to all fours. Whatever it was didn’t move. It watched him, as if it waited to see what he would do.

“Adele?” He called to her, because it could be no one else. “Adele, let me help you. With God’s help, you can overcome this.” He had doubted Rosa Hebert and her bleeding hands. God forgive him, he had doubted her, wondering if somehow she were marking herself. He did not doubt the dark vision before him, though. It was Adele, and she stood in a way that was not completely human.

She didn’t move, yet she seemed to drift closer. He felt the tree at his back as he withdrew. He had to show more courage. He couldn’t fear her or he wouldn’t be able to help her. But he did feel fear. It was a blade in his gut, turning his legs to jelly and his bowels to mush. Still, he held his ground.

“Come back with me, Adele. Everyone is hunting you. They’ll try to kill you. If you come with me, I can keep you safe.” His own words seemed to calm him. God had sent him to this place. He wasn’t alone. If God had not intended him to help Adele, then why was he the one who found her? He took a step forward. “You have to come back with me. You need medical care.”

She moved so quickly that he almost couldn’t believe it. She was there, and then she was gone. He’d been staring right at her. Somehow, in the dim and failing light, she simply vanished.

“Adele?” He looked around but night had fallen thick and heavy. He had no idea how long he’d been in the woods. It was almost as if he were awakening from a dream. “Adele.”