Fever Moon (26 page)

“Harmless. They’re all common for cooking, to calm nerves, some of the cures I taught Adele.” Her expression didn’t change. “Except for one.”

She reached into the pocket of her apron and brought out a small piece of purple cloth. “This I don’t know.”

Raymond felt like an invalid as he tried to push himself into a sitting position with the weights tugging him back down in bed. Sweat touched his hairline, and he felt the heat climbing into his face. Humiliation made him turn his face from Madame.

“Lie still.” She put her cool, dry hand on his forehead.

Raymond wanted to curse and rage, but he forced himself to fall back on the pillows. He was helpless. The thing he’d dreaded most had occurred.

Madame took the small cloth and unwrapped it. She picked up the bundle of grass. “This I don’t know,” she said. She rewrapped it and put it in his hand. “Is there someone who can tell you what it is?”

“Maybe Doc—”

She shook her head. “I took it to him. I heard you were hurt, so I chose to be your legs.”

Her words stung him, but he steeled himself not to show it. “Doc didn’t know?”

“He hasn’t studied the native plants. Doc Fletcher believes that true healing comes from a pill at the drugstore.” She smiled and reached into her apron pocket and brought forth a pack of Camels. She offered Raymond one and then lit both cigarettes with a match she struck on her thumbnail. “Doc doesn’t concede that the pills he finds so valuable come from the same plants that grow wild in the swamps.”

“I’d hoped you might have an answer for me.” His rage had passed and he was left with disappointment.

“Is there someone else who might help you?” she asked.

Raymond shook his head. “No. But thank you, Madame.” He took the cloth from her and held it gently. “Have you seen anything of Adele?”

“No.” She went to the window and looked out at the Teche. “She wants to die, Raymond. You must accept that. Whether it is starvation or a bullet, Adele has chosen this.”

“I don’t believe that. Someone is using her. Someone is setting her up to take the fall for a murder she didn’t commit.” It was hard to argue passionately from a sick bed. He handed the cigarette to Madame. She went to the window and threw both butts outside.

“How did you get here, Madame?” Raymond was slowly coming to himself.

“Chula brought me, but she left with her new man to go and search for Peat Moss.”

“I can call the sheriff to give you a ride home.”

“I’m not ready to go yet.” Madame picked up the poultice. “Why are you so afraid to heal yourself, Raymond? Why do you choose not to be whole?”

He knew the answer. He’d spent the last six months ferreting out the truth. “I don’t deserve to heal.”

“Ah, a challenge for any healer.” She put the poultice across his legs. “When your woman finally cuts your free, put this on. There’s a powerful gris-gris in it. Perhaps even strong enough to fight your darkness.”

She leaned down and her lips brushed his forehead. “The guise of darkness can fall away, Raymond. If you wish it.”

Her soft-soled shoes made no noise as she slipped out of the room.

Sarah Bastion sat on Chula’s lap as they waited on Vermillion Road for the others who would make up one of the search parties for Peat Moss Baxter. The fog had lifted at last, returning the world to a more normal view.

Chula’s fingers sifted through Sarah’s fine, dark hair. She’d had to cut several snarls out of it, and washing the child had been a battle. Beneath the dirt Chula had found bruises and cuts that showed long months of neglect. If Chula had her way, none of the Bastion children would be returned to their mother.

Sarah seemed content to lean against Chula and stare into the woods; her behavior was troubling Chula. She was too quiet, too docile. Except when Chula attempted to leave her. Then Sarah had clung ferociously to her, hanging on to her leg or skirt or whatever she could attach to. The end result had been to bring her along. A search party was no place for a child, but leaving her behind was worse.

The cry of a hawk drew their attention to the woods. The child cocked her head but didn’t utter a sound. Chula wondered if Jolene LaRoche had spun a total fantasy of what she’d seen—and heard—at the Bastion plantation. As far as Chula could tell, Sarah was mute.

“John will be back soon.” She spoke to reassure Sarah, because she’d seen the child’s gaze follow John. Sarah seemed to like him, and Chula acted on instinct, giving the child reassuring information. John had stepped into the woods, undoubtedly to relieve himself. He was too much of a gentleman to disclose such details. Chula smiled at the thought. A few months in the swamps would cure him of his modesty.

“Sarah, do you know where your mother went?” Chula spoke to the child at regular intervals, hoping that normal interaction might encourage the little girl to speak. Sarah continued to search the trees for a sign of the hawk.

“Shall we go for a walk?” Chula eased Sarah to the ground, got out of the car, and held out her hand for Sarah to take. The child was compliant. She took Chula’s proffered hand and clung to it. Together they walked along the road. The day was warm, perfect, and Chula felt her body revive with the gentle exercise. They walked for half a mile, rounding a bend in the road that hid them from the car.

“Your brothers are safe,” Chula said. Though she watched closely, she could see no reaction on Sarah’s face. She seemed to have no regard for any member of her family. “If we find your mother, you can go home.”

Sarah stopped, her face stricken. She stood braced as if her legs had locked. Urine spattered the dirt road, running down her legs and flooding her shoes. Chula looked up from the child to find Clifton Hebert standing in the edge of the woods, a pack of lean dogs at his side.

“Sarah, it’s okay,” Chula said softly, rubbing the young girl’s back. “It’s okay.” She felt Clifton’s gaze on her, and though she’d never been afraid of him, she didn’t trust the dogs. Their mottled coats showed battle wounds, and the bright gleam in their eyes let her know they considered her prey.

“Have you come to help us look for Adele?” Chula called to him.

“Adele, no.” Clifton stepped forward. The dogs sat without a single command. “I need a word with Bernadette, me.” He looked around, taking in the fact that Chula and Sarah were alone. “Where are the others?”

“We’re early.” Chula forced herself to remember that Clifton Hebert came to her home on a regular basis to bring liquor. He frequently sat at the kitchen table and shared a cup of coffee with her mother, pouring the hot liquid into his saucer to cool it, in the old way. To be afraid of him was ridiculous. Even worse, her fear would transfer to the child, who was already afraid. “Sarah, this is Clifton.” She forced a smile into her voice. “He’s the best trapper in Iberia Parish. Maybe in all of Louisiana.”

“She is not your
bébé
, no?” Clifton frowned, trying to fit the child into what he knew of Chula and her mother.

“This is Henri’s little girl.” Chula pulled Sarah against her leg. “She’s staying with me for a bit.”

Clifton assessed the little girl. “The little colored child is dead.”

Despite her best effort, Chula felt fear trace along her spine. “How can you be certain?”

“My dogs followed her trail. She went into the woods. The scent was strong and the dogs were on it, yes. I was certain I’d find her, me. But the trail stopped.” He held out both hands. “Vanished. Like the little girl was lifted up and taken by a bird.”

Unpleasant images darted through Chula’s brain, and she struggled against them. “Could someone have picked her up, Clifton?”

He shook his head. “The dogs circled, noses to the ground, smellin’ the trees and the dirt.” His dark eyes were intense. “There was nothing for them, yes. She was taken.”

“By the
loup-garou?”
Chula had to ask.

“By something not like us,
cher
. Call it whatever you want. It’s in these swamps.”

She tightened her hold on Sarah’s shoulder. She looked back down the road, relief palpable as she saw John striding toward them. She waved at him. When she turned back to Clifton, he and the dogs were gone, not even a leaf stirring in their wake.

Florence slipped the kitchen knife into the pocket of an apron she’d borrowed. She picked up the tray of coffee with sugar and real cream and a plate of peanut butter cookies that Myra Fletcher had prepared.

“Try to get Raymond to eat something,” Myra directed.

If the doctor’s wife was surprised that the town whore had arrived to play nursemaid to Raymond Thibodeaux, she showed remarkable fortitude in hiding it, Florence thought as she lifted the tray. “Raymond’s hardheaded.”

Myra laughed. “I remember him as a teenager. He and Antoine cut our grass during the summers.” Myra straightened the cups on the tray Florence held. “No men could work harder and Raymond taught Antoine, like a father would have. Despite the age difference, they were so close. When Antoine was killed, something died in Raymond.” She met Florence’s gaze. “When laughter dies in a man I’m not sure it can be mended.”

Florence had no reply.

“Doc has seen some horrible things, Florence. He’s seen some of the worst that man can do to man. Somehow, he’s managed to hang on to his humanity. He can sit down at the dinner table and tell a funny story. He isn’t … consumed by the evil of man.”

Florence cleared her throat. “Raymond suffers, Mrs. Fletcher. I know he does. But there are times I see beneath the pain.” It was amazing that she stood in the Fletcher kitchen having this conversation with the doctor’s wife. She stood a bit taller. “I don’t know if Raymond will ever let himself love again, but he can. He’s capable.”

Myra put her hand on Florence’s arm. “If he’s crippled, Florence, he’ll want to die. He’ll do whatever he has to to get out of a body that’s failed him.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Myra stared into her eyes. “Maybe you do. I see you love him. Just don’t put yourself in front of a hurricane and expect to walk away without being hurt.”

Florence smiled. “I thank you. Most folks wouldn’t take the time to care if I got hurt or not.”

“Most folks don’t take the time to think about anything at all.” Myra patted her arm and left the kitchen.

Florence started back to the bedroom. She passed two young black girls cleaning the room where Veedal Lawrence had died. The smell of bleach was strong, as if they hoped to sterilize the very idea of Veedal out of the floor.

Doc had put Raymond on the east side of the house, removed from much of the activity. The hope had been that he could rest. Florence made her way down the polished hallway lined with colorful prints of birds. A man named Audubon had come to Louisiana back before the War Between the States to draw the exotic birds, and Doc had bought or traded for some of his work. One day, when she had time, she wanted to examine the paintings, to study the intricate detail and shadings of color that made the creatures seem ready to fly from the frame.

She passed an exterior door that opened onto a small front porch, screened and private for those patients who had recuperated enough to sit and watch the traffic pass on the Teche. She’d stepped beyond the door when she heard Father Michael’s voice.

“Are you sure you haven’t seen Adele?” he asked. “If you’re hiding her, it could go harshly for you.”

Florence stopped. In the long list of her sins, eavesdropping would be a minor offense. Raymond would want to know anything she might hear about Adele.

“My sister has been taken by Satan, Father. The spirit of sin has blackened her soul. You must pray for Adele’s soul. When they find her tonight, they’ll kill her. Pray for her soul.”

Florence put the tray on a small table so that the cups didn’t rattle. She wasn’t certain who the female speaking was, but it stood to reason that it was Bernadette Matthews, Adele’s remaining sister. Who else would be begging a priest to intercede in Adele’s immortal judgment?

Florence slipped down the hallway and out the front door, making her way quickly around the house so that she stood hidden in the dense camellias outside the small screen porch. She had a clear view of the priest and the untidy woman who talked with him.

Bernadette’s resemblance to Adele was startling. There was the same dark hair and arching eyebrows. A closer examination showed the eyes beneath the brows were lackluster brown, the skin blotched. Where Adele was thin and angular, Bernadette was stouter, but they shared the same genes. Bernadette’s stance was aggressive, her expression angry.

“The
loup-garou
may be only a legend, Father, but Satan walks the back roads of Iberia Parish. Surely you haven’t lost your belief in the devil?”

The priest looked past Bernadette and into the live oaks near the pavilion. “I believe in Satan, Bernadette. I believe strongly in the devil. Sometimes it’s easier to believe in evil than in good. That, perhaps, is my greatest sin.”

Florence saw the struggle in the priest’s face. Her opinion of Father Michael had shifted. She’d always believed him an ambitious man, but she’d not counted on the humility and concern that touched his face. He was a priest, but that didn’t elevate him from wrestling with the same doubts that afflicted all humans. Florence had simply never expected Michael Finley to be so honest about his struggles.

“My sister,
Adele
, has given herself to darkness.” Bernadette stepped in front of the priest, demanding his attention. “She’s taken a child, Father. Maybe to try to replace her own dead boys, I don’t know. But Adele can’t care for a young-un. She couldn’t care for her boys, no. I tried to help her. I tried to show her what babies need.” Bernadette sat down hard in one of the cowhide rockers. “Before her babies died, Adele was strange. She and Rosa both.”

Father Michael wiped his cheek and Florence couldn’t tell if it was perspiration or a tear. “Rosa was a good woman, Bernadette. She didn’t ask for the stigmata.”

“Did she have it truly? Or did she pull a trick, yes?” Bernadette shook her head. “Both Adele and Rosa grew such desperation to be special, to have all eyes on them and tongues waggin’ their names. Even as little ones. Rosa was always praying. She would go out to hang the clothes and come back inside to tell us some conversation she’d had with the Holy Mother Mary. The clothes would still be in the basket.” Bernadette got up and began to pace. “Adele was as bad, in her way. She made up stories all the time. Stories that frightened us. While Rosa spoke with angels and saints, Adele danced with demons, yes. The things she told us were gruesome, and she did it because it was her nature. She’d chosen darkness even then.”