Luke (13 page)

“Are you sweating, April? Is it running between your breasts? What are you wearing? Is it wet?”

“You're sick, do you know that? You need help. If you can't afford private help, there are public mental health centers that will…”

The response was obscene. Also extremely graphic.

“You just proved my point, I think.” April forced the words through her tight throat.

There was no answer. She and the caller waged a war of wills, each waiting for the other to crack, to say something or hang up. April could hear the other person breathing, a short, hard sound as if his lungs were laboring. Somewhere in the distance, she could just make out a swishing noise that might be traffic from a busy street or highway.

After an endless time, there came a sharp click as the call was disconnected. April hung up as well, then put her face into her hands. She sat that way for a long time, feeling the shaking like a rippling vibration that came from inside her and radiated through her body down to her toes.

She couldn't stand this. Something had to be done, and she was the only one who could do it. But where to start was the question. Where?

Her computer was running, a quiet sound she was so used to that normally she didn't hear it. Now it seemed loud. She opened her eyes and lifted her head, staring at the screen. After a moment, she reached for her mouse and clicked the icon for internet connection. She navigated until she discovered the address she wanted. Her shaking stopped.

Next morning, she left the house early. Beside her on the car seat was a piece of computer paper with a small, precisely drawn map. She took the winding roads around the lake at a steady speed, making the turns that led her deeper into the swampland that bordered the water. She hadn't been this way since the days when she and Luke used to go riding on a Sunday afternoon. It would be easy to miss a turning
and get lost in the labyrinthine network of dirt-and-gravel tracks that followed no pattern but took the high ground, such as it was, while threading among a series of creeks and branches. These roads were nearly as winding and impenetrable as the swamp itself.

Luke had known the narrow, winding ways, just as he knew the water channels of the swamp. The area had been his backyard playground from the time he could walk; he'd spent much more time learning its intricacies than he had playing with other kids or competing in team sports. Any time anyone failed to make their way out of the backwater, it was Luke who was called in to find them. So far as April knew, he'd always succeeded.

He'd thought it a huge joke, back in the early days, to take her into the farthest depths of the lake where it turned into swamp and threaten to keep her there. She'd known very well that he wouldn't but pretended to believe he might. The forfeit he usually demanded for showing her the way to freedom had been willingly paid, though she often included a refinement or two designed to make him regret his daring. The memory of that horseplay between them brought back a flood of other scenes, other incidents. She pushed them from her mind with determination, directing her considerable concentration to the problem of the moment.

The driveway she was seeking was so overgrown with briers, palmetto and wax myrtle that she almost missed it. She had to back up to make the turn into the dusty track. The house trailer at the end was rundown, with faded paint and a sagging frame. Trash
and rusting pieces of cars littered the yard. A skinny cur with glassy eyes came running from the back, barking in warning.

The noise brought a man to the front door. He was tall with a barrel shape but had an air of carrying the weight of the world on his sloping shoulders. The waistband of his shorts showed above his much-washed jeans since he wore no shirt. He didn't call off the dog, but only leaned against the narrow frame and propped one bare foot against his other ankle as he waited for her to get out of her car.

April cut the engine and stepped gingerly into the yard. The dog circled her as she walked forward, but made no move to bite. She stopped halfway between her car and the sagging front steps.

“Hello, Frank,” she said in neutral tones.

He stared at her a moment longer, then a slow smile stretched his thin lips. When he spoke his voice was husky, as if he'd just climbed out of bed. “Well, well. If it's not our famous author. Long time no see.”

“I'd like to talk to you a few minutes, if you don't mind.” The sun was in her eyes so she had to squint up at him. She stepped closer, into the shade thrown by the trailer's bulk. The move brought her close enough to catch the smell of cigarette smoke and stale beer that wafted from the man in the doorway.

“Speak your piece.”

His tone wasn't particularly encouraging. His lack of an invitation to come inside was a conspicuous omission, but she didn't mind since it saved
her the trouble of refusing. “I don't know if you've heard that I've been having a little trouble.”

“Can't say I have. Wouldn't be with Benedict, would it?”

“Why would you say that?”

His bloodshot eyes, so hazel they appeared yellow-green, bored into hers and his jaw with its stubble of beard tightened. “Saw him at your place. He's trouble for any woman.”

“Meaning?”

“I shouldn't have to tell you.” He snorted in disgust.

“All that was a long time ago. This is now.”

“Folks don't change. He used my sister then threw her away. He didn't want her because he was set on having you. He was so set that he didn't give a shit if my El lived or died, didn't lift a finger to save her from burning to death.”

“How do you know? You weren't there.” It was ridiculous for her to defend Luke, but Frank's rabid accusations brought out that need.

“The evidence, that and what El told me. She was crazy about him, would have done anything for him, she couldn't stand it that he wouldn't even look at her. She called him a million times, went to see him late at night, crawled in through his window to talk with him…or whatever.”

“I didn't know all that.” She'd been aware that Mary Ellen liked Luke since that would have been hard to miss. That she'd gone to such lengths to get to him was a surprise. April couldn't help but see that being hounded by Mary Ellen was hardly Luke's fault.

“Nobody wanted to tell you he was running around on you. But everybody knows what he's like now. Seems he's made himself a career out of running around, don't it?”

“Has he?”

“Skirt chaser and a half. Gets under most everything he catches, too.”

She studied the man in front of her as she weighed the bitter undertone of his voice. “You hate him, don't you?”

“I raised El after our mama ran off and our dad died. She was all I had. She was a good girl, in spite of everything. Why she had to have one of the Bad Benedicts, I don't know, but she didn't deserve to die for it.”

“No,” April agreed. “But—I have to wonder if maybe you blame me as much as you do Luke.”

“Now why would I do that?” he drawled. “You were a town girl, all soft and pretty, always dressed nice. You were never too friendly toward my sister from back in the swamps.”

“She was trying to take my boyfriend, if you'll remember. Besides, she didn't like me very much, either.”

“Oh, she liked you. Fact is, she tried her best to be just like you so Benedict would want more from her than a roll in the sheets.”

“That's not the same thing.”

“Guess it ain't at that. Anyway, poor old El never had a chance. You were the one Benedict wanted around on a permanent basis. I saw why, even if I was older. Hell, so did every guy around. But you didn't want anything to do with folks in Turn-Coupe
once Benedict turned out to be such a shit. You shook the swamp mud off your dainty shoes and went off to college down in New Orleans. Found yourself a man there, for what good it did you. Look at you now, back again and not so different from when you left.”

Resentment lay beneath the words like slugs under rotting leaves. She'd sat with Frank Randall at a ball game once after the accident, had let him buy her a cold drink, but refused to go out with him afterward. He wasn't the only one whose company she'd avoided, but he didn't seem to know that.

“I didn't go out a lot after Luke and I broke up,” she said carefully. “It was—it just seemed all wrong.”

“Yeah, he screwed you over good, too, now didn't he?”

“I don't know about that, but I didn't want to risk getting burned again.” The unfortunate phrase was out of her mouth before she could stop it. She wasn't surprised to see Frank Randall's face flush with anger.

“My sister was the one who got burned! You came out all right, I'd say. You're famous, got your books and your face in all the stores, making all that money. Not much wrong with that.”

“It's no substitute for what matters.” She really believed that, she thought in some surprise. It wasn't just words.

“Well, don't come around talking to me about what's past or any troubles you got now. I'm not part of your problem, and I sure as hell ain't the
solution. Whatever's going on you'll just have to figure out for yourself.”

Whether it was truth or not, it was all she was going to get from of him. “Yes,” she answered quietly, “I'll see if I can't do that.”

O
n opening day of the festival, the general malaise that had hung over April for weeks extended itself to what she was going to wear. She couldn't decide which way to go, whether casual or costume. Few of those attending would be in fancy dress other than the festival organizers. Many of the women would have on the kind of sloppy T-shirts and cutoff jeans that made an ordinary sundress look like haute couture.

She didn't even know why she was worrying except she sometimes felt she was held to a different standard. She was expected to look romantic, whatever that might mean, or else like a successful writer. Staring at the choices she had laid out, a gingham halter top and skirt, or a Victorian era dress and petticoats that she'd worn a couple of times for special parties at romance conventions, she wondered why she cared. Luke was the only one who might actually say anything, and his opinion hardly mattered. No, of course it didn't, so she might as well wear what she liked. The swish of long skirts around her ankles made her feel graceful and feminine, and she enjoyed that as a change from her eternal jeans or shorts. With a defiant toss of her
head, she reached for the costume. If she put it on, it would have nothing whatsoever to do with not wanting to be a stick-in-the-mud.

The different reaction she got from men when she wore her petticoats was always a secret amazement. They gave way, stepping back as if afraid they might step on her skirts or get them dirty. Their faces softened and they had a tendency to stare, looking her up and down with a bemused expression that hovered between appreciation and intrigue. She was offered places to sit or help in getting around obstacles or through doors, and was positively not allowed to lift anything heavier than the hem of her skirt. Her patent helplessness, as annoying as it might be on occasion, seemed to bring out the gallant side of the men she came across. She'd thought more than once that the women of past centuries might have been onto something modern females were missing.

A crowd had already gathered at the river's edge when she reached the dock near the boat marina. The sun was hot and bright, though a light breeze blowing off the water tempered the heat. A couple of sheriff's deputies were parking cars in orderly rows on the long stretch of paving that bordered the river, and several tailgate parties were already underway with music blasting from boom boxes and tops popping on beer cans. Quite a few older couples had brought their lawn chairs and were sitting in comfort in the beds of their pickups, with drinks in their hands, hats on their heads, and faces shiny with sunscreen. People were in high spirits.

A number of houseboats sat in the marina slips,
from ancient, listing tubs to those that qualified as yachts. Most were familiar from visits April had made to the River Park nearby, but one stood out as a new addition. It was a sleek, blue-trimmed white vessel that featured a hull designed for the open sea, a flying bridge, large expanses of glass, and chrome-railed decks that were set with two tables topped by gaily striped umbrellas. She was fairly sure this was the party boat, even before she saw Luke's cousin Betsy standing at the stern.

April's progress toward the dock was slow. She was stopped with questions about her books, both what she had coming out next and her work in progress. She also answered queries about how she liked living on the lake, comments on how glad they had been to see a hometown person take possession of Mulberry Point when the big old house had gone up for sale, and how happy they were to have her back. She was warmed by the obvious goodwill, but also reminded of how much of a recluse she had become since she'd seen so few of these people in the year since her return.

The instant she stepped on the houseboat, Betsy hailed her and waved her toward the rear deck and the people sitting around the glass-topped tables. “Here she is, our local celebrity! April has written—how many books is it, now, hon? Nineteen? Twenty?” Hardly pausing for an answer, she rattled off introductions to a state senator and his wife, a doctor from Baton Rouge with his teenage daughter, a pair of engineers who were married to each other, the artist-wife of the boat's owner, and their host himself. The doctor pulled out a chair for her, the
boat's owner pushed a glass of champagne into her hand, and within seconds April was a part of the group.

They were an interesting bunch, with decided opinions and a witty way of expressing them. That they had known each other for some time was plain, and April soon realized they had all traveled upriver together, with the exception of Betsy. It was pleasant to sit back and listen to them while letting the breeze from the river finger her hair and watching the sun shift with a sequin glitter across the rippling water.

She sighed unconsciously as she felt herself relaxing. With almost guilty pleasure, she realized she had nothing to do and nothing she should be doing, except sitting here enjoying the gentle movement of the boat on the water. It was the same sensation she'd had in New Orleans. Added together, she thought the two instances were an indicator of the stress she was under, had been under for some time. She really needed to do something about that, and would as soon as she finished her current contract, as soon as she discovered who was harassing her, as soon as she found someone to share the burden of her many responsibilities….

Where had that thought come from?

She didn't mean it. The last thing she needed was anyone in her life.

She was temporarily out of the conversational flow as the group around the table discussed a Florida golf tournament. Rising to her feet, she moved to the rail, staring upriver. The boat's end slip position gave it a superb view of the curve of the
waterway where the pirate flotilla would soon heave into view. It shouldn't be too long now. Most of the crowd was gathering just past the marina, in the open grassy area of the park opposite the stretch of open dock where the dastardly villains would make their landing.

“What's matter, hon? Not in the mood to party?”

April summoned a smile for Betsy before she turned her head. “Nothing's the matter. I suppose I'm just waiting for things to get started, like everybody else. I was…thinking about Kane and Regina. Has anyone heard from them?”

“Are you kidding? Turn-Coupe is the last thing on their minds. We'll be lucky if we get a coherent word out of either one of them for a year—or until they make a baby, whichever comes first.”

“Oh, Betsy,” April said on a laugh.

“You think I'm joking? You shouldn't. You know Kane—and his Regina. Those two were any more wrapped up in each other, they'd require surgery to get them apart.”

“Must be nice.” It was the usual dry comment suited to such situations, April told herself. It didn't mean anything. Still, as her level of discomfort rose, she quickly added, “There's something I've been wanting to ask you, if you don't mind.”

“I won't know if I do or not until you lay it on me,” the other woman said cheerfully.

“It's about the Benedicts. Luke doesn't want me writing about the family history, but all he gave me was some vague excuse about his grandmother not liking it. Do you have any idea what it's all about?”

Betsy lifted a shoulder. “Beats me. I mean, you
weren't intending to turn our little town into another Peyton Place or make us out to be Southern ignoramuses like characters from
God's Little Acre,
were you?”

“Hardly,” she said with a smile. “Though now you mention it…”

“I know, I know. All towns have their types, as the guy said in
Fiddler on the Roof.
But you know what I mean.”

April sobered. “Too well. But my South isn't like that, just as the people I know aren't like that.”

“So what did you want to do that's put the fat in the fire?”

“Mainly the story of Luke's Native American ancestress who guided the first Benedicts into what's now Tunica Parish. She must have been quite a woman to go off into the wilderness with four men, brothers who were a few steps in front of the law. She married one of them and helped start a dynasty, but very little factual information exists about her. She apparently left her Native American name behind, was baptized and took a Christian name before she was married. Yet one story I came across said that when she died her people came and took her away to be buried on their tribal lands.”

“Yeah? I never knew that, and she'd be my great-great-however-many-grandmother, too. But you want to be careful how you dig around in that bone pile, dear heart.”

April gave her a direct look of inquiry.

“There was a branch of my late husband's family always claimed to have Indian blood, too—”

“Native American,” April corrected with a grin.

“Yeah, right. Well, a lot of folks around here had ancestors who ran in the woods, so to speak. So one of my husband's cousins decided to look into the situation. It seems the oil and gas revenues paid to the tribes in Louisiana, not to mention the government benefits, have been pretty substantial for a couple of decades. Now they're into this land-based gambling casino business, so it's higher still. Anybody who can prove they have an eighth—or maybe it's a sixteenth—Native American blood in their veins can share the wealth, pick up a monthly check. Some families pull in six figures. You can see cause to head straight for the courthouse and start checking out the family connections, yes?”

“So, where's the problem?”

Betsy gave a slow wag of her head. “It's in the records, sugar. My husband's cousin found out something she hadn't planned on. Seems her ancestors weren't here to wave old Columbus ashore. They came on slave ships instead.”

“Oops.”

“Exactly.”

April saw what Betsy was trying to say. There might be parts of the world where such a revelation would be as commonplace and mildly interesting as discovering Native American heritage. Louisiana was not one of them, though interracial relationships were growing more common every year. That Betsy didn't seem particularly upset about it was laudable, but it was her husband's bloodline in question, and the two had never had children. It might be different if it were her own.

“Do you really think the Benedicts might have the same situation?” April asked.

“Who knows? But a lot of these older ladies like Luke's Granny May are nervous about it, since their generation is the one that agonizes most about the whole thing. They'd rather not stir up something that could rear up and bite them. They'd rather nobody else did, either.”

“I can certainly see that, but…”

“But what?”

“How far do you think they might go to prevent it?”

“Good question,” Betsy said with a shake of her head. “Wish I knew the answer.”

Their attention was caught just then by a commotion running through the crowd onshore. It gathered in volume. Everyone was craning and staring upriver. A group of young boys were pointing and yelling as they teetered on the dock's edge. Abruptly, a single voice rang out.

“Here they come!”

The shout was repeated along the riverbank, a loud, clear warning that the festivities were about to begin. April shielded her eyes against the sun's glare with one hand as she gazed toward the wide bend where river pirates should appear. The heat haze and glitter off the water made visibility uncertain, though she thought she saw shapes dancing over the waves.

Suddenly the flatboat carrying the ferocious crew surged into view with its single sail bellied and straining. On it came, plowing the water as it bore down on them. A carefully camouflaged motor pow
ered the large raft, though the gang onboard made a mighty show of poling their craft shoreward. The tall mast that centered the flatboat sported a black flag above its sail.

A tall figure stood beside the mast. Dressed in a loose white shirt that billowed in the wind, leather knee breeches, stocking cap, and wide belt with a knife and a pistol thrust into it, he had one booted foot propped on a crate and a fierce grin on his face. It was Luke, looking raffish and untamed, and more handsome than he had any right in such a ridiculous get up.

He turned his head and his gaze met hers over the expanse of water separating them. Then it flickered down to her petticoats that flapped in a froth of white around her ankles. With his expression registering something near approval, he shifted upright and tipped her a brief, one-fingered salute. No doubt he was glad to have company in the costumed misery, she thought as she returned his gesture with a quick wave.

The flatboat rocked on the river waves, coming closer. One of the men next to Luke, perhaps Tom Watkin's son from down at the feed and seed store, leaned to say something to him. Luke glanced toward the houseboat again, his gaze moving over the other guests who had joined April and Betsy at the rail. He answered whatever comment had been made then laughed, a sound of rich merriment that echoed across the water.

Abruptly, a stunning thought struck April. Luke knew exactly where she was and what she was wearing. He had arranged for her to be on the
houseboat so he could be certain where to find her when the pirate abductions began.

She had been set up.

The flatboat rode nearer, pushing a rolling wave of yellow-brown water before it. People streamed toward the far end of the dock where it would land. The crowd had thickened since the last time April looked. Still more were coming, jumping out of their vehicles as they saw they were about to miss the climactic moment.

April waited until the pirate flatboat slowed, easing toward the dock platform. As those onshore rushed forward in the usual mock attempt to repel the invaders, she stepped away from the rail, then waited until she was sure a fair-size group of laughing, shoving teenagers were between her and the flatboat. At the same time, she made a hurried explanation to Betsy. Luke's cousin began to protest, but April didn't listen. Lifting her skirts in both hands, she spun around and headed for the prow of the boat. At the gangway, she leaped to the catwalk, then hurried along it to the dock. There, she blended with the flow of people. Instead of joining them, however, she moved against the flow of revelers, away from the landing.