The Sleeping Night (36 page)

As he cut through the open meadow
between the house and the old slave quarters, converted in the twenties to a guest house, Blue told himself it was liquor making his skin feel hot. He’d worked hard in the sun all day, the warmest they’d had so far. Probably had a little sunburn. And the bourbon on an empty stomach had gone to his head.

But as Ellie stepped out of the car at the guest house, he found his attention snared again. She was not his usual type. He liked soft, shapely blondes. Women who wore gauzy sundresses you could see through just a little bit. Women with easy laughter and soft edges and no causes to champion. The less serious the better.

Bimbos, Marcus called them. Blue preferred to think of them as easy to get along with.

Either way, Ellie Connor did not fit the profile. Small and too thin, with angles instead of softness, khaki shorts instead of floaty skirts, and curly black hair that fell in her face instead of that swing of blonde he found so appealing. From her posts, he’d known she was strong and smart and knew her mind, an impression reinforced now by the set of her chin and the sharp, no-nonsense way she met their eyes back there. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if she had a revolver in the glove box—she struck him as a woman who wouldn’t leave much up to fate.

But even she had to struggle, trying to lift a big suitcase out of the trunk.

Blue stepped forward. “Let me get that for you.”

“Thank you.”

He grabbed it while she picked up some other things and followed him to the porch, waiting behind him silently as he unlocked the door. Inside, he flipped on the lamp by the desk. “This is it. Small, but comfortable.”

She put a soft-sided case on the table. “It’s beautiful,” she said, and it sounded sincere.

“Thought you’d like it,” Blue said, shoving hair out of his eyes. “I took the liberty of dragging out some of the material we talked about”—he pointed to a neat stack of books and files on the desk—”and had Lanie—she’s my aunt, who lives with me—order some groceries to be delivered. She got most of the staples, coffee and milk and things, but if there’s something you don’t see, just holler. Nearest store is about five miles down the road, back the way you came.”

For a moment, she just looked around her. In a lazy way, he zeroed in on that mouth again. She might not be his type in a lot of ways, but that was one hell of a mouth. Bee-stung, his mama would have said.

The light was better in here, and he could see the exotic cast to her features, a faint tilt to her eyes, high cheekbones; together with all that glossy black hair it made him think maybe Russian or East European.

“Ah!” she said suddenly, and moved across the room to the counter, putting her hands on a CD player. “Excellent. I carry a portable with me, but this is much better.” She turned, and looked straight at him. “It’s really very nice of you to offer your hospitality this way,” she said, and a knowing glitter by her eyes. “Although I suspect you were drinking when you extended the invitation.”

Blue winced. “Guilty.” Not unusual of a late evening, which was when he generally signed on to the Internet, looking for a good argument. “How’d you know?”

“Your notes have a different tone. And you transpose letters.”

He crossed his arms, smiling to cover his discomfort. “Here I thought I was being so sly, and all the time, I might as well have been hootin’ in some club.”

“Not exactly. It was really just a guess.”

“Well, bourbon or not, I was sincere. The place is yours as long as you need it. I’m glad you’re doing the biography. It’s long overdue.”

“And whatever the circumstances, I’m grateful. I really hate looking for a place to keep April, and I won’t leave her in a kennel.”

At the sound of her name, the dog swept her tail over the hardwood floor. “That speaks well of you, Miz Connor.”

She looked at him, all calm sober eyes, and Blue looked back, and all the months of notes back and forth rose up between them. He’d liked her sharpness, a certain diffidence edged with wry humor. They’d stuck mainly to discussing the blues, but every so often, they’d go off on a sidetrack and he’d catch an intriguing glimpse of something more: a hint of anger, or maybe just passion, mixed in with the steadiness.

“It’s really a shock to see how different you are from how I imagined you,” he said impulsively.

Something flickered in her eyes, there and gone so fast he couldn’t really place it, before she tucked her hands in her back pockets and turned her face away. A sliver of gold light from the lamp edged her jaw, and Blue found himself thinking he liked that clean line. She had very fine skin. It made him think of the petals of an orchid in one of the greenhouses. “Ditto,” she said, and again raised her head and looked at him with that directness.

He wasn’t used to women who looked so straight at him.

As if she thought better of it, she moved to the table and unzipped the soft-sided case, revealing dozens of CDs in their plastic cases, and scooped up a handful. It was a restless gesture, the kind of thing a person did to fill up an awkward moment, and Blue realized he ought to take the hint and leave her to settle in.

But a person’s taste in music said more about them than they ever realized, and he couldn’t resist peeking into the case. “What do you have here?” He pointed. “Mind if I look?”

“No. Of course not.”

The CDs were piled in a jumble. “They have cases now that’ll stack ’em up for you.”

She made a rueful noise. “Yes, but they don’t carry enough.” She smiled at him, a quick bright flash. “I need my dog and my CDs to feel secure.”

He lowered his head, oddly unsettled. He looked at the titles, wondering if he really wanted to know that much more about her, but he didn’t stop sorting through them. Blues, of course. He
tsked
and took out a Lightnin’ Hopkins recording, shaking his head.

She plucked it out of his hands. “You’ve made your feelings plain about the Delta style, Dr. Reynard. Unhand my classics.”

He grinned. They’d had quite an argument about various styles. Blue didn’t like the tinny sound of Delta, and she didn’t care for jazz, which he considered just short of sacrilege. “Gonna have to turn you on to some good jazz, darlin’,” he murmured, and bent back to the case.

Besides the blues, there was a huge variety. A little alternative rock and roll, some country he thought of as “story” songs, some classical. “Baroque, huh?” he said, pulling out a couple of cases from that period and flipping them over to look at the lists.

A flicker of surprise crossed her face. “You like it?”

“You sound surprised, sugar.” He tossed the CDs back, the unsettled feeling growing along the back of his neck. “A man might say the same about you. Never saw you in the other music newsgroups.”

“Do you visit others?”

“Some.” That made him think about her comments on his drinking when he posted. Embarrassing. “Well,” he said, straightening. “I guess I’ll leave you alone. In the morning, I’ll be glad to take you around town—show you where the library is, and introduce you to some of the folks who might have some stories to tell.”

“You don’t have to put yourself out, Dr. Reynard.”

“Blue.”

“Blue,” she repeated. “I’m sure I can find my way around.”

“I’m sure you can. But things’ll go better if you let me take you.” He lifted a shoulder. “It’s a small town.”

Still, she hesitated. Then, “All right. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he said. On the way out, he paused to scratch April’s ear.

Out in the night, with lightning bugs winking all through the grass, Blue stopped, feeling a little off-balance. He put a hand to his ribs and took in some air, then blew it out and shook his shoulders a little. In his mind’s eye, he saw the bulging, soft-sided case and the big, well-trained dog. Security, she’d said. Music and a dog. Security for Miss Ellie Connor with the tough set of her shoulders and her head-on way of looking at him.

He shook his head. Probably just a case of the girls looking prettier at closing time. He needed some food, some sleep. But when he stepped back up on the porch, he said, “She’s not just into the blues. She’s got classical in there. And REM. Even some Reba McEntire.”

Marcus nodded and wordlessly handed him a fresh glass of bourbon, an offering of solace.

Blue drank it down, taking refuge in the burn, then poured another and put the bottle down on the wooden floor of the porch. After a long space of time, filled only with the lowering depths of the night and the faint squeak of the porch swing, he rubbed his ribs again.

“Not one of your bimbos there, that’s for sure,” Marcus said.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Hell of a mouth.”

“Yep.” Blue drank.

A dark, rolling laugh boomed into the quiet. “Oh, how the mighty do fall!”

“Not my type.”

“Mmmm. I saw that.” Marcus stood and put his glass on a wicker table. He pulled his keys out of his pocket. “I think I’ll go curl up with my woman.”

“Hell with you, Marcus.”

Laughter was the only reply.

JEZEBEL’S BLUES

By Barbara Samuel

Prologue

It wasn’t a big river. Mainly it ran sleepily and quietly through a sparsely populated stretch of farmland in east Texas. Fishermen angled for the catfish skimming its depths; young boys stripped and skinny-dipped in its pools; lovers picnicked on its banks.

Only a handful of old-timers remembered the old name for the sleepy river—a name murmured in hushed voices as stories were told of her power.

Jezebel.

Not the Jezebel River. Just Jezebel, a name reserved for women of lusty beauty and uncertain virtue.
Jezebel
.

There had only been one occasion in recent memory when Jezebel had awakened, like an aging courtesan, to remind those around her of the power she could wield. Only one life was lost that night, and as if placated by the sacrifice, Jezebel settled back into her sleep.

But the old-timers knew it was only a matter of time until she awakened once again to flash her eyes and spread her skirts.

Only a matter of time.

Not even hell could be so dark. His car headlights poked white fingers into the heavy rain, barely penetrating. The wiper blades sluiced the water away at a furious pace. It wasn’t enough. Only square inches of the windshield were clear at any instant—as soon as the blades slogged away the rain, more fell to blur his vision once again.

He’d slowed to twenty on the back country road and was no longer intimately familiar with the twists of blacktop and the tiny bridges that spanned dozens of creeks. His fingers ached from gripping the steering wheel. He hunched as far forward in his seat as he could go, trying vainly to see.

Storm warnings had been broadcast on the radio, of course. But he’d grown up in these thick woods, amid the floods and endless early-summer rains. He knew the television and radio people were prone to exaggeration. It sold papers and commercial time.

The car slid on the road, its tires unable to keep a grip on the pavement. Eric swore as he fought for control. It made sense to ignore the news people, but he probably ought to have listened to the boy in grease-stained overalls at the gas station twenty miles back.

But there was his pride to consider. Nothing scared him like driving in the rain, in the dark. A night like this had once shattered his life, and he knew instinctively that he would be truly lost if he let the fear overtake him tonight.

Doggedly, he kept driving. A green sign with reflective white letters flashed in front of his lights. The words blurred before Eric could read them, but he knew what the sign said: Gideon, 5 miles. Almost there. With the back of his wrist, he wiped the sweat from his brow. For once in his life, he wished he’d paid attention—he’d have been a whole lot better off staying overnight in a motel in the last town. He sure as hell couldn’t do much for his sister if he drowned out here.

His headlights picked out a wash of water pouring over a bridge just ahead. A new row of sweat beads broke out on his upper lip and he eased his foot from the accelerator. Sucking in his breath, he touched the brake. Easy, he told himself. His weakened fingers, slick with sweat, slid on the hard plastic steering wheel.

In spite of his care, the car hit the water with a hollow sounding
thunk
.
Easy now
. It wasn’t the first creek he’d forded on this nightmarish trip. Every little trickle in the county was brimming over tonight.

But this one had more than bubbled over. Eric saw the nearby pond with which the stream had mated, and the offspring of their union looked like an inland sea. Through the side window of the car, he saw an unbroken span of water reflecting the oddly misplaced light of a farmer’s barn.

The engine spluttered and coughed. Died. He slammed his good hand against the dash. When the car swayed under the force of the water that rose over its fenders, fear squeezed his belly hard. No time to brood.

He reached over the back of the seat, grabbing the heavy canvas backpack that held most of his earthly goods. Next to it was a guitar in a black case. He hesitated, fingers curled around the slim, plastic handle. A shiver of water shook the car.

He let go. It was no good to him anymore, anyway. It took a mighty heave to get the door open and then the water nearly knocked him down. Another flash of adrenaline sizzled over his nerves. Falling rain soaked his head and body in seconds. Shifting the backpack on his shoulders, he sloshed forward, head down. A big, broken tree branch swirled by him on the current.

Scared, man?

Damned right, he answered himself, putting one foot determinedly in front of the other. As he gained the other side of the bridge, the water gradually receded until it just covered the bottoms of his feet.

The little triumph pleased him. Only five miles to Gideon, to his sister, the only person in the world who mattered to him. And she needed him. It was bound to be easier to get to her on foot than in the car. So he ignored the beckoning lights of the farmhouse set back in the heavy trees and pushed onward into the thick, rainy darkness.

He trudged a mile. Two. He lost track. He crossed one stream, sloshing through water up to his knees, and when he got to the other side, he found the stream came with him, up to his ankles.

He thought about going back to the farmhouse, shook his head, and pushed on.

One foot in front of the other. Water obscured the road, making it hard to keep his bearings. He paused once to peer into the darkness, trying to mark familiar spots. There were none.

He reached into his backpack for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and slugged back a considerable mouthful. It warmed his chilled insides, calmed his racing heart. Thus fortified, he replaced the bottle, wiped water from his eyes and started out again. Not far now.

Celia Moon was making popcorn
when the lights suddenly failed. For several hours she’d been trying to resist food—since the rains had set in several days ago, her main activity had been eating. But the pervasive thought of butter and salt and fluffy white corn had proved impossible to resist.

The sudden failure of the lights seemed like a scolding from on high—but not even heaven could make her quit now. There was enough heat left in the electric burner to finish the popping. The butter was already melted and the bowl was ready. If she had to sit alone in the gloomy darkness of the old farmhouse, reading by candlelight, at least she’d have some buttered popcorn to comfort herself with.

Working easily in the dark, she pulled the bowl over as the bubbling sound of exploding kernels slowed, then lifted the heavy pan from the stove and aimed as well as she could. There would doubtless be popcorn strewn all over the table in the morning, but since she lived alone, what did it really matter?

She did need a light to pour the butter. There were candles in a drawer by the sink and Celia lit one. A piney scent rose from the plump green candle and mixed with the smell of hot popcorn.

The whole elaborate ritual was designed to be a distraction from the endless pattering of the rain on the roof and windows. Endless. “A hurricane caught in a holding pattern over the Gulf,” they had said on the news. Rain was forecast for tomorrow as well.

It was depressing. She’d been stuck inside the house for days, cleaning like a madwoman out of boredom when she should have been planting her first garden. A salad garden to start with, scallions and radishes and lettuce. Collards, maybe. Definitely popcorn. Her grandmother had always grown popcorn, sending big bags of it every fall to Celia in Brussels or Paris or Berlin, wherever her parents’ travels had taken them.

A sudden, urgent pounding on the front door crashed into the rain-framed silence. Celia started, sending butter spilling over the whole table. She scowled at the mess. The knock sounded again, louder this time.

Who in the world would be out on such a night? She headed for the door, shaking her head, then realized she couldn’t see anything without her candle and went back for it. The pounding rattled through the room again.

“I’m coming,” she muttered under her breath. She grabbed a handful of popcorn as she picked up the candle, then ran lightly toward the door, her candle flame bobbing with her steps.

She flung open the door—and nearly flung it just as quickly closed.

The man on the porch was soaking wet. No, not just soaking. Dripping. Awash. Streams flowed from the pack on his shoulders and from his hair. A cut on his lip was bleeding profusely, and he was panting. “I—got—stranded,” he managed to say, and stumbled forward, catching himself on the doorjamb.

Celia jumped back, alarmed. It was impossible to see much about him by the light of her single candle, but he was big. A stranger. He also smelled distinctly of whiskey.

He straightened and licked his lips. “I was trying to get to town, but that last creek nearly took me with it.”

Celia hesitated a moment more—measuring the weight of the storm against the big man who obviously wanted shelter. His voice, ragged and hoarse, was definitely local, with a certain, unmistakable cadence that marked him as a native. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him, but that didn’t mean much. She’d only been in town a few months, and small as it was, Gideon played county seat to a lot of farms.

She stepped back. “My grandmother would never forgive me for turning away a stranger in trouble. Come on in.”

The relief on his face, even in the dark, was unmistakable. “Much obliged. I won’t be any trouble.”

“Wet as you are, I’ll be lucky if you don’t die of pneumonia before morning.” She sized him up, thinking quickly. “Stay right there. I’ll get you something dry to put on.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he protested.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She headed for the back room, leaving the candle for him. He hovered near the door.

There wasn’t much to choose from, but Celia found an old pair of overalls of her grandfather’s and a shirt she was sure would be too small. Might not fit well, but it would be better than freezing to death.

The stranger still stood right by the door when she returned. A puddle had formed under his feet. His outer garment, a long vinyl poncho, had been shed, and the big pack rested against the wall.

The lights flashed on again, so suddenly they startled Celia. In the blazing, unexpected illumination, she stared at the man by the door. It was only by sheer force of will that she kept her mouth from dropping open. Men like this never walked into her quiet life. They crossed movie screens and album covers; they rode bucking horses in rodeos and raced cars in the Indy.

They didn’t appear on her porch in rural Texas in the middle of a rainstorm.

His hair was black as sin and already curling around his neck and ears. The face was broad and dark, with high cheekbones and heavy brows over thick-lashed eyes. Amid all the masculine angles and jutting corners, his mouth was uncommon and compelling, even with a bloody cut obscuring it. The lower lip was full, sensual; the upper cut into an exquisite firm line.

There was only an instant for her to absorb the lines of his body, for the lights flashed off as quickly as they’d come on.

She laughed a little breathlessly, not quite sure whether the sound stemmed from excitement or fear. “Well, that was fast. I wonder if we’re going to be treated to a light show.”

“Somebody at the plant better get smart quick and turn everything off,” he said, “or there’s likely to be fires all over the county.”

The man shivered and Celia hurriedly gave him the clothes. “I’ll wait in the kitchen.”

Standing there in the dark, nibbling popcorn from the bowl on the table, she wondered if she was completely insane. The world was not the same place her grandmother had lived in, although Celia supposed there had always been serial killers and rapists roaming the countryside. Computers had just made it simpler to track them down. The thought made her smile briefly.

The stranger’s voice, with its odd edge of roughness, sounded directly behind her. “Jezebel’s acting up tonight,” he said.

“Jezebel?” Celia echoed, turning.

He’d brought the candle with him, and the light cast eerie shadows over the hollows of his face. She saw a grizzling of dark beard on his chin and top lip. It added an even more rakish appearance to his rugged face. Celia frowned at the blood on his mouth. “You’re bleeding,” she said, and reached into a drawer for a dishcloth.

Distractedly, he pressed the cloth to the cut, then lifted it and licked the spot experimentally. “I didn’t even feel this,” he commented.

Celia lifted the candle closer to his face, and understanding her intention, he lowered the dishrag. “You probably need a stitch or two,” she said. “But it looks like you’ll have to live without them until morning.”

“I’ve lived through worse.”

There was no boast in the words, just a simple statement of fact. Celia realized she was still standing next to him, the candle held aloft, peering at his face for clues to his nature like the heroine in a Gothic novel. She put the candle on the table. “Who’s Jezebel?” she asked.

“The river. That’s what the old-timers call her.”

“Why?”