Fever Moon (11 page)

He’d known brave men, but none more courageous than Florence. She met life with a smile and a tender touch. Those were her weapons, and she used them as a warrior. He didn’t have to protect her, because her strength was greater than his.

A wolf’s howl came through the night, distant but clear, and he felt the hairs along his arms stand on end. Trappers had almost eradicated the wild creatures from the swamps—the bear and wolves and most of the big cats. A few survived, though. Had it been one of them that attacked Henri Bastion as he walked along the road? He hoped Doc Fletcher would have some idea of the beast that had bitten Henri.

Raymond felt the need for action, but Florence slept so peacefully, and it was so little to give her—a night of companionship after the generous bounty of her love. Her feelings for him were strong, but he couldn’t bear to know about them. He came to her two or three times a week, and that told him how much he’d come to rely on her.

The house he’d bought on the edge of town contained the necessities of life—a bed, a toilet, a lamp. The nights he spent there alone were tests of endurance. Often he didn’t try to sleep, avoiding the nightmares that plagued him and the pain that sometimes claimed his body in the darkness. Florence mitigated those things. Sometimes he vowed to stop seeing her, but he always returned. She was the only thing that made his life bearable.

Plaintive and chilling, a cry of loneliness, the wolf spoke again. There was no answer, and Raymond wondered if it was a solitary creature whose pack had been killed.

Adele’s face came unbidden, and he had a sudden surge of worry for Madame Louiselle. Guilt and anxiety made him want to leap up, but he held himself steady, listening to the slow breathing of the woman who curled against him.

Adele was weak as a kitten, if she were still alive at all. He had his doubts that she’d survive the fever. His worries about Madame were unfounded, and he forced his tense body to relax. His fingers traced the side of Florence’s face, and she snuggled closer to him. Before he went to war, he’d always thought a wife and family were his for the asking. He’d intended to do his duty and come home to resume the rhythms of life he knew in Iberia Parish. His secret dream involved an education—a type of betterment the army had made possible. He’d always been interested in journalism, the writing of facts, a modern-day historian. Journalists dug beneath the surface of things, and he’d always been good at that. Chula, even after their romance had faltered and died, had encouraged him in his dreams.

The war had changed him, though. He’d lost all ambition for an education. He’d come home and, despite the sometimes intense pain of his leg and hip, had settled into the job of deputy. There was little to dig into, but what digging was done in the Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Office, he did.

When the sun came up, he had some tracking to do. He’d failed to find Clifton Hebert, but some of the tidbits of gossip he’d heard had piqued his interest. Clifton lived far back in the swamp—no one could, or would, give an exact location. The one thing that all of his sources had been sure about was that Clifton Hebert kept a pack of savage dogs. Hog-catchers. Dogs so vicious and filled with bloodlust that they would jump the wild boars that roamed the swamps and hang on to the nose and ears until the human hunters could catch up and either shoot the boar or wrestle it to the ground and tie it for domesticating. It was said the meat would lose its gamey taste if the boar was castrated and fed corn or grain for several weeks before slaughter. Catching the dangerous boars alive was also part of the insane excitement.

Often the dogs were slashed by the boar’s razor-sharp tusks, and the men who hunted boar for sport sometimes didn’t come back alive. Raymond had been on several search parties for missing men where a body was found, the hamstring muscles in the back of the legs severed. Once the boar brought a man down, it didn’t waste a lot of time finishing the kill. Wild boars were dangerous game for men and dogs alike. Clifton Hebert made his living leading such hunting expeditions.

It had not escaped Raymond’s attention that the wounds on Henri Bastion could have been made by savage dogs. Or hogs. Clifton needed to answer to his whereabouts on the night Henri Bastion died.

Other things nagged at him. Rosa Hebert, for one. How was it possible that one family could contain such a wealth of misfortune? His compassion for Adele and Rosa, topped off by his suspicions about what had happened to Armand Dugas, had led his thinking down a long and tortuous road. His calls to the state penitentiary at Angola had gone unheeded. His requests for a state-verified list of prisoners sent to work the Bastion farm had been met with amusement by the deputy warden who took his call.

Strangely enough, it wasn’t Henri Bastion’s ravaged body that kept pricking his subconscious. It was Henri’s daughter, standing by the screen door. She’d clearly been terrified of him.

He closed his hot eyes against his churning thoughts. He had to be up at first light. He’d left his car in town and walked to Florence’s, as much for her reputation as his own. Some of her customers wouldn’t feel right about her if she was a deputy’s main punch. Some of the townsfolk wouldn’t feel right about him if they thought he was courting Florence. It was best to be discreet. Besides, he had work to do and the earlier the better. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

M
ICHAEL Finley used his finger to pull the starched clerical collar away from his neck. He’d gained weight during the summer, but the cold months would lean him back up. That was his body pattern—to eat and drink and enjoy during the hot days when sleeping through the afternoon was a necessity rather than a vice. During the winter, he chopped wood and found exercise to be more pleasurable—if cold weather ever came this year. November loomed close at hand and except for the storm that had blown through a few days before, there hadn’t been even a whisper of cool. Good for the cane and mosquitoes, hard for the people.

He brewed a pot of the strong Louisiana coffee heavily laced with bitter chicory. Since the war, real coffee had become hard to find anywhere, but the population of Iberia Parish had a head start on the rest of the country in learning to accept substitutes. Long used to isolation and self-sufficiency, the settlers of the marshlands of Iberia Parish preferred chicory coffee to the pure thing. It had taken Michael time to develop a taste for the Cajun blend, but now he loved it, topped off with scalded cream. He took a cup out the back door of his kitchen to wander his rose garden.

Try as he might, he couldn’t avoid the wrought-iron fence at the back of the garden and the magnificent oak beyond that. Another flood of guilt at the thought of Rosa Hebert threatened to swamp him. She’d known his joy in his garden and that tree. She’d also known how he betrayed her. That’s why she’d chosen that tree in which to kill herself.

He stood for a moment in front of a Fire and Ice blossom reordering his thoughts. His first act was to ask God for forgiveness. For Rosa, who’d acted in pain and torment. She’d never meant to harm him in any way. It was his own failing that gave him feelings of inadequacy. He’d let Rosa down when she needed him most, and it was that knowledge that kept the site of her suicide so fresh in his mind.

“Father Finley?”

The voice startled him and he turned swiftly, hot coffee slipping over his hand. “Who’s there?” The voice was female, and not one he could place.

“It’s Chula Baker. I have a letter for you. From Rome. I thought it might be urgent so I brought it on over.”

Chula appeared at the garden gate. If she was aware of the tree behind her and what it represented, she didn’t show it. She opened the gate on a metal protest and walked toward the priest, hand extended with a battered letter. “I knocked at the front door, but when no one answered, I figured you might be having coffee here in the garden.” She looked around. “It’s so lovely. Amazing. Mother’s roses are still blooming, too. Your mums are a nice touch, but the heat is hard on them.”

He took the letter. “Thank you, Chula.”

“Have a good day, Father.” The gate creaked like the cry of a banshee, and then she was gone.

Michael held the letter in one hand and his coffee in the other, trying hard to clear his mind. He put his coffee down and tore open the seal. He read the words twice before the pages fluttered from his hands.

Rosa’s suicide had undone all he’d worked to accomplish. He had direct orders from the Holy See to abandon his attempts to get Rosa declared an authentic stigmatic. The letter’s language was strong and clear—any further efforts on his part would be viewed as disobedience and heresy. He was to focus on tending to the needs of his parish in a “modest and humble fashion.” He didn’t have to read between the lines to see that he was being viewed as a glory-grabber.

He stepped on the pages as he walked to the gate. Holding the wrought iron like a prisoner might bars, he looked at the oak. It was said that every oak was a sign that Mary had visited. Wherever an oak grew, her foot was said to have stepped. But he could muster no belief that Mary or any other deity had found cause to put a foot down in this accursed land.

His fists gripped the gate as he slid to his knees. The bleak future rose before him, and he surrendered himself to the darkness of disappointment. A miracle had been put in his hands, and he’d destroyed it. His faith in Rosa had faltered. He’d questioned her late one evening, demanding to know if she injured herself. No matter how many years passed, he would never forget the look on her face. Later that night, she’d hung herself. His moment of doubt had made her doubt herself, and she was dead because of him as surely as if he’d knotted the rope around her neck and thrown her from the tree.

Solid hands gripped his arms. Shame at his own weakness touched him as he swiveled on his knees to look into the eyes of Colista LaSalle, his housekeeper.

“Come inside, Father Finley,” she said, urging him to his feet with her strong hands. “Come on with you. The garden’s no place to be found on your knees by any of the nuns or schoolchildren.”

He allowed her to assist him to his feet. “I was praying. For Rosa. And for myself.”

“Your breakfast is getting cold.” Her insistent grip pulled him toward the back door.

He stepped away from her. “Thank you, Colista.” He couldn’t meet her gaze. He had no desire to see the questions in her eyes. “I’ll be along in a moment.”

“You’re better now?”

He nodded curtly. “I’ll just finish my meditation and be inside in a moment.”

She turned and walked inside, never looking back.

Her footsteps faded and he got slowly to his feet. Not all the prayers in the world could undo what had happened to Rosa. The best he could do would be to go inside and eat the hearty breakfast she’d prepared as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

The musky smell of the moccasin drifted to Raymond on the breeze. He froze. If he was close enough to smell it, the snake had seen him. Behind him something large plopped into the water. He could only pray it was a turtle and not an alligator. Around his head a swarm of mosquitoes hummed and buzzed, an irritation he couldn’t afford to acknowledge. The snake was a danger that required all of his attention.

His gaze moved from the log in front of him to the pile of leaves and dead limbs, the scuppernong vine that for a moment made his heart pound. The snake, colored to blend in with the environment, was impossible to find. He dared not move until he did, though. Some snakes, like rattlers, gave a warning and only struck if frightened or provoked. Moccasins were more aggressive. The damn thing could be hanging in the trees, waiting to drop on his shoulders.

Lucky for him the water that lapped at the edges of the path was still and quiet. During floods, when the current was swift, he’d seen as many as fifty moccasins, all balled together, spinning in the water. Here, he should be able to spot the telltale V that would ripple across the still surface as the snake swam in lazy zigs and zags. The water gave back a perfect reflection of the swamp unblemished by movement of any creature. He moved his gaze to the land around him. In the muted tones of the earth, the snake was well hidden.

The stench was strong. He’d undoubtedly awakened the creature while it sunned, taking advantage of the warm October morning. He looked behind him, hoping he’d already stepped over the reptile. His gun was drawn and ready, but he preferred to use the machete he’d brought for just this purpose. Before he’d set out to find Clifton Hebert, he’d gathered tools for maneuvering around the swamps.

At last he saw the creature, not four feet in front of him. The snake was so thick and fat that he’d mistaken it for a dead stick. It watched him, completely motionless, waiting for him to step closer so it could strike above the top of his boot.

He took one step forward and brought the machete’s blade down, slicing off the snake’s head with a clean stroke. When he stood up, he was facing the open jaws of a powerful dog. The animal’s lips were curled in a silent snarl. It hadn’t made a sound as it approached him. One ear had been torn from its head, and there were scars about its muzzle and over its body. Some had been serious injuries that had been poorly sewn up.

He dropped his gaze. He’d been taught in the service not to challenge a dog with a direct look. He could shoot the animal, but he didn’t want to. He had no doubt that at last he’d come upon Clifton Hebert’s lair. He didn’t want to piss the swamp man off by killing his hound.

“Cesar!” The voice boomed through the trees, echoing so that Raymond couldn’t place where it came from. “Come here, you.”

The dog trotted back into the swamp, looking as if it walked on water.

“Clifton Hebert!” Raymond called out the man’s name. “I’m Deputy Raymond Thibodeaux and I need to talk to you. Your sister is in serious trouble.”

“Rosa is dead, and if that Bernadette is needin’ help and more money, you tell her to kiss my ass, her.”

Raymond filed that away and yelled, “It’s Adele.”

A curse was followed by the sound of someone slogging through water without a care for any of the dangerous creatures. When Raymond saw Clifton, he was waist deep in the water, a rifle held over his head to keep it dry, coming through the slough at a steady pace. Raymond had grown up in Iberia Parish, and he’d learned that those who didn’t tread with caution often died. No one had ever taught Clifton that lesson.