Fever Moon (32 page)

“I appreciate the history lesson, but—”

John held up his hand. “Just listen. Many of the residents of these isolated villages were near starvation. A type of mold, ergot, infected the rye. This mold is a hallucinogen. The person under the influence develops delusions and what’s been described as superhuman strength. They ate bread tainted with—”

Raymond slowed the car to a stop. He turned to John, a terrible suspicion beginning to grow. “Where does that mold grow?”

“I haven’t researched it, but probably almost anywhere there’s a damp climate.”

Raymond cut the wheel sharply, sending the car bumping into the ditch on the opposite side of the road. He spun the steering wheel again and punched the gas. The patrol car straightened and hit a stretch of washboard that jarred both men almost off the seat.

John righted himself. “I gather our plans have changed.”

“I know part of what happened now.” Raymond pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The car bounced over the rutted road. “And you’re going to help me figure out the rest.”

Sarah Bastion’s shrill screams echoed off the beaded lumber walls of the post office. Chula tried to cradle the child in her arms, but Sarah fought her with surprising strength. Flight seemed to be her only thought, and she was determined to escape.

“Can I help you?” Florence asked, her hand on the drop-down countertop.

“No.” Chula wrapped her arms around the little girl and picked her up. “Excuse me.” She carried Sarah into the back of the post office where the bags of mail remained to be sorted. She had no idea what to do for the child, how to help her, or what had caused such a fit. One moment Sarah had been clinging to her skirt, seemingly content, and the next she’d been hysterical.

“Sarah,” she said softly, “it’s okay.” Chula gave up trying to pry Sarah’s fingers loose and simply held her tightly. “You’re safe with me. What’s wrong?”

The screams stopped and gradually the crying lessened. Chula rocked her back and forth gently, humming softly against her hair that smelled of Ivory soap.

Bernadette’s voice came clearly into the back room. “That child needs a spankin’. Whip some manners into her. Always pokin’ into folks’ bidness, spyin’ and whinin’.”

Chula gritted her teeth. The Bastion children had seen enough brutality to last a lifetime. If Chula had her way, Sarah would never have a hand raised to her again.

“The little girl’s life has been tough lately.” Florence lazily drawled the words. “If a whipping would do any good, I might just try to pound some compassion into you.”

Bernadette’s voice was bitter. “I came here to get my mail, not be smart-lipped by a whore.”

Chula peeked around the doorjamb. The last thing New Iberia needed now was a fistfight between two women, and Florence looked ready to snatch Bernadette bald-headed. She turned her attention back to the child.

“Sarah, I have to go out there.” Chula felt as if she were battering the child. Sarah was in such a state that she was almost rigid. “I’ll be right back.”

Chula walked to the door.

“Please!”

The one-word cry was electric. It bounced over the hardwood floors and struck Chula like a spear. She turned back to look at Sarah. The little girl stood with her hands clenched at her side, her eyes burning.

“Don’t leave me!” Sarah ran to Chula and threw her arms around her legs and held on. “Don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me!”

Chula balanced against the doorjamb. She couldn’t move her legs. The child held her in a viselike grip. At the counter Florence and Bernadette were watching. Florence bit her lip in sympathy, and Bernadette looked as if she’d been dipped in flour.

“She can talk.” Florence’s smile stretched wide.

Bernadette ran out of the post office. The bell jangled as the door slammed with enough force to rattle the glass panes.

“What devil got under her skirt?” Florence asked, humor in her voice.

“I don’t know and I don’t care. Florence, can I press you into working the counter?” Chula lifted the child with her. “The mail is sorted alphabetically. Just go through until you find the name.”

Chula strode to the back door of the post office and stepped out into the cool November air. She and Claudia had set two overturned Coca-Cola crates under a cypress tree. She carried Sarah there and eased her down.

“Now that I know you can talk, you’re going to have to tell me some things.” She kept her voice easy but firm. “Do you know where your mother went, Sarah?”

The little girl shook her head. “Don’t come back.”

Chula wasn’t certain if Sarah was saying her mother wouldn’t come back or that she didn’t want her to. What had terrified Chula was Bernadette Matthews. Sarah was afraid of almost everything, but Chula had seen her wet herself twice. Once when Clifton Hebert and his dogs came out of the woods and again when Bernadette had shown up at the post office.

She grasped Sarah’s hands and pulled them free of her skirt so that she could kneel and face the little girl. “Sarah, I’ll do everything in my power so that you can stay with me. I’ll fight to keep you, and I won’t let anyone else hurt you.”

Sarah’s grip loosened.

“Why are you so afraid of Mrs. Matthews?”

Sarah frowned. Her gaze focused beyond Chula to the back door of the post office. “Adele.” She said the name softly and began to pull away.

“Oh, Sarah!” Chula pulled her close and held her, rubbing her back and kissing the top of her head. “I’m so sorry for all the bad things. I’m so sorry.” She took the child’s hand. “You’re going to be safe, Sarah. I won’t ever let another person hurt you.” She tightened her grip for a moment on the child’s hand. “No one will harm you again.”

Sarah pulled her hand free of Chula’s. “Adele!” She ran toward the alley beside the post office.

Chula started to follow and stopped. Adele stood in the alley. Her torn clothing revealed limbs that were painfully thin. Long red scratches covered her legs and arms, and her face was gaunt. Her dark eyes, almost hidden by the tangle of her thick black curls, were focused on Sarah Bastion.

“No! Sarah!” Chula made a dive for the child, scooped her up, and ran toward home.

T
HE patrol car flew along the roads. Raymond held the wheel, fighting the sandy road and the sense that time was slipping away from him. Things had begun to shift into focus. There was only one person in town with a direct connection to France. While the Acadians all came from French blood, it was diluted, mixed. But the Mandeville blood was pure, and he knew this because Marguerite Mandeville Bastion made it a point for everyone to know. Marguerite was the person in the parish most likely to know of the ergot fungus and the gruesome history of the hallucinogen. Marguerite would benefit most from Henri’s death. But it wasn’t Marguerite who fed the fungus to Adele. That had to be Bernadette, who was living above her means with her man gone. The two women had conspired together—Marguerite to be rid of Henri and get his money, and Bernadette to punish Adele.

In his mind Raymond walked through Adele’s house, taking in again the smell of strong cleaner. She’d been sick with fever. Her babies had died, and she’d buried them herself in the swamp beside her dead sister. Adele had been obsessed with grief and death, yet her home was immaculate.

John leaned against the car door, seemingly relaxed. He didn’t ask, waiting instead for Raymond to reveal whatever he chose.

“I searched Adele’s home,” Raymond said. “I went through everything. There wasn’t food of any kind in the house.”

John picked up the cigarettes from the seat. He had to lean over and protect the match to get a light. Leaning back against the seat, he gave Raymond his full attention. “What are you thinking?”

“Adele has no friends, and Bernadette hates her. The person who cleaned her house was removing evidence.”

Raymond navigated a sharp turn, almost losing the car in a deep pocket of sand. When he was straight again, he asked, “What happened to the people who ate the fungus? Did it wear off while they were in prison?” He could keep Adele safe—away from Bernadette and everyone else—until she came to her senses.

John drew on the cigarette and tapped the ash out the window. “At that time, there weren’t trials, like now. The people accused were executed. Hanged and burned at the stake.”

Raymond pushed the accelerator to the floor. “We have to find Marguerite. Now.”

Michael checked to be sure his collar was crisp and straight. Throughout the night and early morning, he’d come to one conclusion. Being a hero was every bit as good as he’d dreamed. He’d found Peat Moss—stumbled upon her, actually—and he’d told everyone the truth of how it happened. Yet he was viewed as the man who’d saved a child from the jaws of the
loup-garou
. The aura of fame that he’d craved for so long had been settled upon his head by happenstance. God did work in mysterious ways.

He heard footsteps in the hall, and he gave one last look in the chifforobe mirror. A series of his parishioners had been by all morning to congratulate him. Not just the middle-aged women, but the men and some of the younger people. Their view of him had changed, now catching the reflected glory that God had blessed him with when He’d sent him to save Peat Moss.

He opened the bedroom door, smiling, prepared to receive another congratulation. His grip on the door tightened, and he felt the air leave his lungs. He tried to shut the door, but he wasn’t quick enough.

Adele Hebert pushed past him, bringing the smell of dead things into the room. Her body was savaged by the thorns and brambles of the swamps, and her face was obscured by a tangle of wild black curls. She was both exotic and terrifying, and Michael fell back from her.

She closed the door, shutting off his only means of escape by leaning against it.

“Holy Father, bless me and watch over me.” The prayer came to his lips automatically. Her gaze bored into him, and he fell silent. She circled him, moving with a grace and confidence that belied her sorry physical state. He could see bruises that must have gone to the bone, cuts and lacerations crusted with mud and infection. It was a miracle that Adele was able to stand and walk, much less move with the fluidity of a panther. She was more beast than human.

“Adele.” He spoke softly. This was the second time she’d shown herself to him. While everyone in town had hunted her for a week, she’d allowed only him to see her. She’d brought Peat Moss to him. Adele had played a role in God’s plan for him, and perhaps his work wasn’t finished. Over the past ten years he’d prayed for a miracle. When Rosa Hebert had developed the stigmata, he’d felt that God had personally answered his pleas. Now here was a second chance.

He felt the pinch of his left shoe on a blister. The pain was ordinary and familiar. A little reminder from God that this woman standing before him was just another wayward soul, an ordinary human in terrible trouble. “Adele, everyone is hunting you. They think you killed Praytor. And Henri. But you didn’t harm the child. You didn’t hurt Peat Moss.”

Her head cocked, as if she were trying to comprehend the real meaning of his words. The fact that she hadn’t attacked gave him confidence. Maybe, like Rosa, she’d come so he could save and protect her.

“Adele.” He took a step toward her. “Let me help you.”

She faced him squarely, the fire reflected in eyes that glittered yellow, then red. “My sister,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and unearthly.

Michael faltered. She sounded inhuman, as if some being spoke from deep within her. “Rosa?” He stumbled over the name.

“Help me!” Adele took a step toward him.

The only sound in the old house was the crackle of the fire and a board moaning in the hallway. Like something creeping down the hall.

Michael could stand it no longer. “Colista!” He broke for the door. When he gained the hallway, he slammed the door shut behind him and twisted the key in the lock. “Colista! Call the sheriff!” He backed away from the door just as Adele’s body slammed into the other side. The door shook, but held. Michael backed away, turned, and ran toward the safety of the kitchen and the telephone.

F
LORENCE tapped her fingernails on the countertop. An hour had passed and there was no sign of Chula—or anyone else. Something was happening south of town—she’d seen Joe Como flying down the street in his car and then Pinkney running, his old coat flapping behind him like a tattered ghost. He’d looked like he’d seen something resurrect and walk from the cemetery. By the time she’d gotten out from behind the counter and run to the street in her heels, he was too far gone to flag down.

She was stuck at the post office, waiting.

Impatient and bored, she walked outside, listening. She could almost hear a faint buzz in the air, a charge, like before a lightning strike. The heel of her shoe caught in a sidewalk crack, making her stumble. “Damn it,” she mumbled, bending down to check her shoe. When she looked up, a monarch butterfly fluttered so close she could have reached out and touched it. She backed away from the butterfly, the thud of her heart like a hammer. It was November. Butterflies were long gone from the area.

Something bad had happened.

That was the only explanation for Pinkney’s race down the street and Chula’s unexplained absence. Florence had checked all over the postal building and out back, but Chula and the child had simply disappeared.

There was a telephone in the post office and she picked it up, her hand shaking. There was no answer at the sheriff’s office. Her voice shook as she asked to be connected to Chula Baker’s home. Counting the rings, she tried to swallow the dread that lodged in her throat like a thick scream.

“Hello.” Thomasina Baker’s voice was precise but harried.

“This is Florence Delacroix calling from the post office. Is Chula there?” Florence forced a calm note in her tone.

“Damn it to hell, I was supposed to call you. We have an emergency here, Florence. Sarah Bastion is … ill. Chula had to bring her home, and we’re waiting on a call from the doctor. Can you manage the post office a bit longer? Chula asked me to call and tell you that Claudia should be there any minute, but I’ve been running around like a scalded dog.”