Fever Moon (14 page)

In twenty-one days, the moon would be full again. The November moon, called by the Indians the Snow Moon. But snow was far away from Iberia Parish. His Algonquin great-grandmother, who’d lived in the Appalachian Mountains and watched the change of seasons, had told him the Snow Moon brought man his harvest. He could still remember her eyes, black and shiny. She’d held his hand and warned him to be careful what seeds he sowed because the harvest always came.

“I’ll be in a little late tomorrow, Pinkney. Tell the sheriff I’m going to Doc Fletcher’s and then to talk to Father Finley.”

“Shore thing, Raymond.” He stood. “I’m goin’ in, too. I don’ much cotton to sittin’ out here alone.”

Raymond walked down the street to his car. Because he was a law officer he received more gas stamps than most. He had fuel for a drive, and tonight he felt the need to ride the parish, get a sense of things.

He found himself headed out Section Line Road toward Beaver Damn Creek. As he drew closer to the scene of the murder, he slowed, remembering his thoughts as he’d driven out the first time, when he’d assumed Emanuel Agee had come to tell him of a drowning.

As he rounded the bend in the road his headlamps picked up another vehicle in the exact location of the murder. He slowed and stopped. When he got out of the car he saw a lone man standing on the side of the road.

Tragedy always drew the vultures, a harmless breed of gawkers who derived some pleasure or solace from looking at accidents and murders. Raymond didn’t understand the impulse, but he knew such men weren’t dangerous. Still, his hand was on his gun when he got out of his car.

“Good evening, Raymond,” Praytor Bless said. He stepped out into the sandy road where Raymond could clearly see him. Praytor’s pants were crisply pressed, his shoes shined. Mrs. Bless made sure her son was well turned out.

“What are you doing out here, Praytor?”

“This is where Henri died, isn’t it?”

“Why are you so interested?”

Praytor walked down the side of the road. “If Adele Hebert wasn’t under the spell of the
loup-garou
, she must have been some kind of powerful. From what I heard, the body was savaged.”

“Why are you so interested in Henri’s murder?” Raymond asked again.

“Lots of folk are interested.” Praytor’s voice was lazy and slow, like his movements. “Most everybody in the parish was involved one way or another with Henri. Business deals, things of that nature.” Praytor scraped his foot along the ground.

“What nature?”

“You must get paid by the question, Raymond.” Praytor laughed. “Henri farmed, but he also had a hand in running a pint or two of untaxed liquor into New Iberia. You know that. Some of us boys had a little bit of the action. Just a little pocket money. I thought I’d confess in case you stumbled on the information and thought I was a suspect.” His smile was wide.

“Does ‘some of us boys’ include Clifton Hebert?”

Praytor laughed. “Henri handled the transport details, which has left the rest of us in something of a bind.”

Raymond should have cared that Praytor Bless had just confessed to running untaxed liquor, but he didn’t. “Do you know anyone who might have an interest in seeing Henri dead?”

Praytor leaned against his car and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Most ever’body who knew him. Henri had the Midas touch. We all disliked him, but we couldn’t help but do business with him.”

“Was there anyone in particular who had it in for him?”

“Not that I could point a finger at. Henri was shrewd. Men like him make enemies. I heard his body was torn to bits. You don’t seem to think Adele Hebert did it.” Praytor hooked a thumb in his suspenders. “You the only person in town who doesn’t.”

“I don’t think there’s such a thing as the
loup-garou.”
Raymond stated it flatly. “I’d appreciate it if you told that to everyone you talk to. Adele Hebert isn’t possessed by anything except a high fever.”

Praytor stood up straight. “Then who did kill Henri?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.” Raymond turned and started walking back to his car. “I’d get on home, Praytor. As far as I’m concerned there’s a killer still running loose in Iberia Parish.”

R
AYMOND sat in the empty examining room as the girl bundled the bloody sheets and began to clean the room. Henri Bastion’s body had been released for burial. Doc Fletcher busied himself with the tools of his profession, putting instruments on a tray for the girl to remove.

“I don’t have an answer.” Doc turned to Raymond after the girl had left the room. “Henri Bastion died from blood loss. That’s what I know for sure. I simply couldn’t tell which wound was the mortal one. Before he bled to death, he could have been strangled or possibly stabbed.”

“Were the bite marks human?” Raymond asked.

Doc pushed a strand of salt and pepper hair from his forehead. His brow was wrinkled, and Raymond could see the exhaustion in his face. Doc’s life involved the horrors of accident and disease. He was familiar with death, in many forms, but not in the manner of Henri Bastion.

“The wounds were savagely delivered.” Doc cleared his throat. “There were places where the bites were distinctly canine, but at other places … perhaps a wild hog.” He picked up a pair of scissors and studied them. “I can’t say for certain, Raymond. I know you want me to say that a wild animal killed Henri. I can’t. There was bruising around his abdomen, and several ribs were broken. I don’t think a dog did that.”

Raymond looked out the window and saw the Teche flowing quietly by. “Someone struck him with something?”

“That’s most likely what happened, but I can’t say that absolutely. The damage was extensive.”

“Someone struck him hard enough to break his ribs, and then when he fell to the ground, a pack of animals finished him off.”

Doc put the scissors down. He walked to the door. “That would be my professional guess. But it’s a guess, Raymond. The only thing I can say for certain is that his death was one of the most horrible I’ve ever seen.”

Raymond paced the room. “Doc, did you ever examine Rosa Hebert?”

Doc removed his white coat stained with blood. “I did.”

“And?” Raymond pressed.

“She had wounds in her hands identical to those that would be made with a large spike.” Doc walked to the door and Raymond had to grab his shoulder to stop him.

“Did she hurt herself?”

“I don’t know.” Doc’s brow furrowed. “She asked me to help her. She said she wanted the wounds to heal. I gave her some salve and bandages.”

“Did the wounds come back?”

Doc shook his head. “I don’t know. She hung herself two days later.” Doc sighed. “I don’t know who felt worse, me or Father Finley. Neither of us helped her.”

“If Adele was poisoned, is there something that would make her behave this way?”

Doc’s gray eyes grew suddenly sharp as he searched Raymond’s face. “What are you asking me?”

“I don’t think Adele had anything to do with Henri’s death. I think someone murdered him and set Adele up. Gave her something to make her act crazy so that the blame would fall on her.”

“Do you have any evidence for this theory?” Doc leaned against the wall, exhaustion in the lines of his face. “Raymond, you’re walking a line here. You know that.”

“This isn’t about me.”

Doc lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, really. I’ve been waiting awhile to hear you say that. A lot of people have been waiting.”

Raymond felt the flush touch his neck and begin to creep up his face. Doc was an astute bastard. “Is there some kind of poison that would do this?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll look into it. Until then, my advice is for you to take Adele to the state insane asylum where they can lock her up. For her own safety.”

“I won’t do that. She isn’t guilty of anything except an illness.”

Doc’s nod was slow. “I don’t know if you can save Adele, Raymond, but I pray to God you can save yourself.”

When Doc left the room, Raymond remained. The autopsy had neither helped nor hindered Adele’s case. If she had the element of surprise, she might have struck Henri with a bat or a limb, bringing him down for Clifton’s dogs to finish off. It could have happened that way, but Raymond didn’t believe it. Adele was innocent. And now he’d have to search harder to prove it.

Delayed for over a week, Henri Bastion’s funeral—due to a request from Deputy Thibodeaux—was a small and private affair. Michael stood in the church chapel counting the three Bastion children, Marguerite, Jolene LaRoche, who sat in back despite his request that she stay home, Veedal Lawrence, and five other men from the community. Michael had pressed the men into the service of pallbearers. No one wanted to carry the coffin of a man killed by a werewolf. Such contact was too close.

Michael reflected, with disgusted resignation, that had Thibodeaux not insisted on a private service, there would’ve been at least three hundred souls present. Drawing such a large congregation was, most times, a magician’s feat in New Iberia.

From his seat on the back pew, Thibodeaux walked to the front of the church. Michael knew the deputy had been eager to see who might attend a private service. Raymond had hoped to find a lead, a hint of someone come to see his, or her, handiwork committed to the grave.

“Father Michael, thank you for your assistance.” Raymond spoke so that his voice didn’t carry. “There are things you should know. Confidential things.”

Michael was intrigued. Thibodeaux had no confidants. “Go on.”

“I spent the morning with Doc Fletcher. He had the autopsy results, but he couldn’t make up his mind about the cause of death.”

Michael gave the deputy his full attention. “What do you mean? Henri was murdered, wasn’t he?”

“Yes and no. Doc said the bites on Henri’s body were definitely made by an animal. Dog or hog, he couldn’t say for certain. A wild animal could have killed him, or he could have been strangled or suffocated. Maybe even stabbed.”

“Doc couldn’t tell—”

“He could have, except Henri’s neck was chewed away, as were portions of the lungs. There is a possibility that all the damage to the body was done to cover up the real cause of death. Not a supernatural cause, but a very human one.”

Michael looked out over the cluster of mourners, who were growing restless as they waited for him to begin the service. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I need your help.”

Michael nodded, hiding his surprise. Raymond Thibodeaux asked no man for help. “What can I do?”

“Help me control the fear that’s taking over the parish. Tonight is Halloween. If something untoward should happen, even a prank, it could spark real trouble.”

Michael stared into Raymond’s dark eyes. He’d heard a story that once they’d been golden brown. He’d also heard reports that Raymond had single-handedly killed dozens of Germans, stalking them, rushing their foxholes, hiding in bombed-out buildings in deadly ambush. The man before him generated rumor and legend. Whatever the truth of the war, he suffered. Michael could read it as clearly as he saw his own pain. “I’ll do what I can. Which would be …?”

“You believe in miracles, don’t you, Father?”

The only answer he could give touched his lips. He had no idea where Raymond was leading him. “Yes. The doctrine of the church is filled with the miracles of Jesus.”

“Would it be a miracle if a human being were transformed into a wild animal? Say a wolf, for instance.”

The question had already nagged at Michael. “If you’re referring to the
loup-garou
, that would not be God’s handiwork but the devil’s. Evil creatures belong to their master, Satan.”

Raymond touched Michael’s arm. “That’s exactly the kind of talk I don’t want to hear from this pulpit today.” He rubbed at the weariness on his face. “It’s my belief that Henri was killed by someone. Someone strong enough to take down a healthy man, and someone who’s still walking the streets of New Iberia. Henri’s body may have been bitten by an animal, but it was a human hand that snuffed the life from him.”

Michael heard the restlessness of the congregation increase. “If Adele is the
loup-garou
, she would have the strength of a demon and the teeth of an animal, Deputy. That’s why the beast is referred to as a shape-shifter. Because it takes on the physical characteristics of another creature.”

“There’s talk of lynching Adele all up and down the street. A stigmatic is one thing, but a werewolf is something else. Please, Father, don’t contribute to a disaster.”

Several of the nuns were standing anxiously in the wings. Michael swung his gaze to the congregation. Marguerite Bastion looked brittle enough to snap in two, and her boys were kicking each other. He had to start the mass. “Please take a seat, Deputy. I’m beginning the service.” He stepped toward the pulpit, the white robes floating behind him.

As Michael took his place above the closed coffin, he tried to calm his mind, to find that connection that allowed him to comfort others. He surveyed the audience, hoping for divine inspiration in his words. The Bastion children needed more than he could give them. The boys had recovered from their grief and were punching each other in the pew. The girl stared straight ahead as if she no longer remained on this earthly plane.

Marguerite had done her duty as a wife. Henri’s casket was cypress, cut and polished by one of the best craftsmen in the state. The wood gleamed a burnished red as light from the windows struck it.

He went through the rituals of the mass of Christian burial, coming at last to his favorite part. He cleared his throat and looked out over the meager congregation. “Henri Bastion’s body is here with us, but his soul is in the hands of God. Like all mortals who passed before him and who will pass after, he must stand before God and be judged for the life he led.”

Only Jolene seemed to be paying any attention to him at all. Marguerite had captured one son’s shoulder in her hand and was pressing hard enough to make tears slide down the boy’s cheeks. Michael felt a stab of defeat. Nothing he’d prepared would be heard. Like every Sunday, his words would be ignored. Ten years had taught him the futility of trying to penetrate the dense web of ingrained belief and behavior that comprised the Cajun settlement. Raymond had nothing to fear from him or his words from the pulpit.