Fever Moon (31 page)

The old rocker creaked, reminding her of the long-ago fall days when she and her mother sat on their small front porch and the smell of the river came damp and clean on a strong breeze. They’d rocked side by side, talking about Florence’s future, about the things that dangled just out of reach for her. Catholic school would lead to college, an education that would allow Florence the luxury of steady work. She’d wanted to be a teacher. Strange that she shared that dream with Adele.

When she’d been raped in the garden, everything had changed. Even though her mother had urged her to return to school, Florence wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She was no longer the pretty young girl favored by the nuns. A moment in time had stolen the future from her. Perhaps that was what drew her so forcefully to Raymond. Tragedy had changed both of their worlds irrevocably. She couldn’t say if either of them would be able to overcome the past. She could only hope.

She pushed herself out of the rocker. It was a sign of old age that she was sitting out on her porch trying to make sense of life, when life wouldn’t hold still long enough to examine it. She was only thirty-four but time was slipping away. She’d come to a place that required a decision.

To that end she went into the house and changed into a blue-dotted dress, the most conservative thing in her wardrobe. She didn’t bother drawing lines down the backs of her legs to pretend she wore hose. She merely strapped on her black shoes and started walking—before she changed her mind. She had some money in a savings account, but most was buried. All together, it was enough to buy a house. Maybe in Lafayette or somewhere close. She’d find a job, something other than selling her body, and she’d wait for Raymond to court her proper. She’d meet him as his equal. Whatever it took, she could make this happen and leave behind the little girl crying in a garden.

The day was cool and brisk, and she took pleasure in walking through town. She passed the post office and hesitated. It might be nice to speak with Chula. On an impulse, Florence went into the post office.

“Florence,” Chula said. She was behind a partition and she was alone. Her hair was pinned up in an untidy bun, her dress deliberately plain, but her smile was warm. “How may I help you?”

“I’d like my mail.” Florence cleared her throat. “And to tell you thank you for last night. You treated me with kindness.”

“And the same could be said for you.” Chula came toward the counter, and Florence saw that Sarah Bastion clung to her skirt. Chula’s hand went to the little girl’s head. “She won’t let me leave her sight, so I just brought her to work.”

Florence studied the little girl. She didn’t have to be a gypsy fortune-teller to see the child had endured suffering. Whatever went on at the Bastion plantation must have been awful. All of the children were scarred—the boys devils and the girl a mute. “She’s a pretty little thing.”

Chula picked up the child and swung her onto a hip. “She is that. I just wish she’d talk. She hasn’t spoken a word since I’ve had her.”

“Jolene’s telling it around town that she was singing.”

Chula hesitated, obviously censoring whatever she started to say. It amused Florence. Folks said Chula spoke her mind—another exaggeration about the postmistress. “Jolene was upset. She came tearing up to the house, hysterical. It’s hard to know what she saw and what her mind created.”

“That’s a kind way of putting it.”

Chula laughed. “I guess I’m not much good at diplomacy, but I should at least get credit for trying.” She sat Sarah on the counter. “Jolene came into the house crazy as a run-over dog. I wouldn’t put any stock in what she
thinks
she saw.”

“None of it makes sense.” Florence leaned against the counter. “You’ve known Raymond a long time.”

Chula nodded. “We dated in high school. Turned out we were better friends than romantic partners. Truth is, Florence, I’ll always have a tender place for Raymond. It’s hurt me to see him suffer so.”

Florence took a big breath. “I want him to love me. Do you think he will?”

Chula settled the child on the counter as she sorted another handful of mail. “I saw a difference in Raymond last night, before the sheriff came to get him. I saw—” She smiled. “I saw just a hint of the man I used to know. I think you’re good for him, whether he likes it or not.”

“That gives me hope.” Florence stood up tall. “Thank you, Chula. I saw Raymond headed out of town. Do you know where he went?”

“John and Raymond have gone to hunt for Clifton Hebert.” Chula shook her head. “Those dogs of his worry me. They could tear a man apart.”

“And Adele?”

Chula stroked Sarah’s hair. “If you’d seen her, Florence. She was so weak she couldn’t hold up her head. Like you say, none of it makes sense. How could a dying woman kidnap and then care for a small child? Where would she find the strength? And to kill Praytor Bless.” She shook her head.

“Folks say Praytor had a heart condition, but that’s not true. His mama got him out of the army somehow.” Florence felt a chill touch her bare arms and she rubbed them.

“Only thing wrong with Praytor’s heart was greed.”

Florence was surprised to hear Chula voice her own thoughts. “He was a conniving man. He had his finger in a lot of folks’ business.”

“No matter what he had, he always wanted more,” Chula said. “Listen, John has to go back to Baton Rouge today, but he’ll be back on the weekend. Why don’t you plan on having dinner with us Saturday night? I’ll invite Raymond, too.”

Florence looked to see if Chula was joshing her. An invitation to the Baker home for dinner was not a social event; it was a political statement. Chula’s generosity would cost her in the town. “It might not be a good idea for me to come,” Florence said. “Lots of people don’t think I should socialize with—”

“Lots of people
let Henri and Praytor walk around town, doing business, intimidating people all over the place. You know what, I say
lots of people
can kiss my ass.”

Chula’s wide smile drew a matching one from Florence. “That’s bold talk, but you’ll pay for the rest of your life.”

“I’m not so sure I’m staying here.”

Florence felt a chill touch her. Only that morning she’d decided to leave New Iberia. “Where will you go?”

“I’m not sure.” Chula kissed Sarah’s head. “Somewhere safe for this little one.”

Florence understood then that Chula had no intention of giving the child back to Marguerite. She nodded her agreement with that decision. “You’re educated. You can go anywhere.”

Chula nodded. “It’ll break my mother’s heart, but I think she already knows. I can’t imagine belonging anywhere else. But talking with John has shown me that I don’t really belong here, anyway. I grew up here. I live here. But I don’t belong.”

Chula didn’t have to explain it. Florence understood. Sometimes tragedy damaged a person’s roots so deeply that they could never take hold again.

“Come to dinner,” Chula urged.

“Okay.” Florence was still reluctant. “Be sure Raymond knows you’ve invited me.”

“I’ll tell him the plan.” Chula lifted Sarah off the counter and to the floor. “Now I’d better get to work. I’ve got mail to sort.” She was about to swing around with the child when the bell over the door rang.

Florence stepped back from the counter and turned to leave. She inhaled sharply. The ghost of Adele Hebert walked into the post office. It took only a few seconds for Florence to recognize Bernadette Matthews, Adele’s sister, but she was so startled she took two involuntary steps back from the approaching woman.

The three women looked at each other in uncomfortable silence that was broken by the sound of Sarah Bastion wetting the floor.

S
UNLIGHT flashed through the trees, blinding Raymond and then dissipating as he hit another stretch of road with dense foliage. The world of shadow and the world of light. He’d been caught between, in limbo, but events had forced him through to the other side.

John rode in the passenger seat, quiet and thoughtful. Raymond appreciated the other man’s patience, his control.

“What did you want to talk about?” Raymond finally asked. They were almost to the site where Praytor’s body had been found. John hadn’t complained about the breakneck speed, but Raymond slowed the car. He had no idea what he hoped to find there. He’d searched the area twice already. There had to be something that linked Praytor and Henri to their killer.

John cleared his throat. “I heard some talk in the café this morning. Folks blame you for this. They think you’ve been cursed by the
loup-garou
. They think Adele Hebert put a spell on you, and you set her free.”

Raymond considered ignoring this, but he found himself answering. There was something about John, his willingness to listen, his easy confidence. “Adele is a contradiction. In all this time, I still don’t know who she is. Her sister calls her a whore, yet a convicted murderer tells me she’s a saint.”

“Which is it?” John asked.

Raymond remembered Armand Dugas’s words—that a person who impugned Adele had something to gain from it. “I’d come closer to believing the convict. He had nothing to—” He stopped. Bernadette had certainly gone a long way to paint Adele in the worst light. Because of childhood jealousies? Raymond slowed the car. What did Bernadette have to gain? That was the answer he should be seeking.

“What’s wrong?” John shifted so that he leaned against the passenger door.

“Probably nothing.” Raymond searched the woods that had once again closed around the car. “It’s just strange that Adele’s sister seems to
want
Adele charged with murder. Both Bernadette and Praytor seemed determined that Adele would pay for Henri’s death. I was wondering why.”

“That’s peculiar.”

Raymond turned off the heater in the car. The hot air was annoying. “Bernadette gains nothing that I can tell. Neither Adele nor Bernadette benefits from Henri’s death. Only Marguerite benefits, financially. I would’ve said Praytor Bless might benefit, but he’s dead. I’d begun to believe Praytor was behind this.”

Sunlight dappled the front seat, and John shifted again to block the light from his eyes. “Both Henri and Praytor are killed by the
loup-garou
, and the town wants to blame it on a half-starved woman who’s delirious with fever. It’s so much easier for all of us if something evil is out there because then we don’t have to look at how capable we are of violent acts, of murder. And worse.”

Raymond’s fingers clutched the steering wheel. He drove through a canopy of trees and then into sunlight that almost blinded him. The scent of pine, so clean and pungent, filled the car, and from far away he heard the cry of a hawk. “What are you saying, John? Say it plain.”

John sat forward, surprised at Raymond’s tone. “The belief that each of us contains the primitive, the wild. The duality. The wolf within. It’s part of my reason for wanting to write the book.”

Raymond could feel the sweat beading on his upper lip even though the air coming in the open window was crisp. “Tell me about your book.”

“It’s a blend of psychiatry and anthropology. The human animal creates myth and legend to explain the duality of our nature. We’re both domesticated and primitive. It’s the eternal struggle. In religious terms, it would be good versus evil. The werewolf legends are just examples where the primitive side has won. We recognize ourselves in the wolf, and it terrifies us.”

The dream image of Adele, cast in the carrion glow of the moon, came back to Raymond. She was alluring, exciting. And primitive. Raymond reached into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. His fingers found the crust of bread the priest had given him and the purple cloth of grass that he’d stuffed in his pocket when he left Doc’s house.

He grabbed the pack and matches. He lit a cigarette and tipped the pack toward John, forcing his brain to slow and think. He thought of Antoine, and how his brother’s death had changed him. He’d killed and killed and killed, a primitive creature savaging all who got close. He’d still be killing if he hadn’t been wounded. The government had given him medals for his actions, but Raymond knew he’d not acted out of bravery or nobility. He’d killed out of pain. The wolf had taken over, and Raymond knew he could never afford to let that happen again.

John lit a cigarette, his brow furrowed. He spoke slowly. “Raymond, are you okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re bleeding.”

Raymond touched his right ear. When he looked at his fingers, they were covered in blood. “I know Adele didn’t kill either of those men. I can’t prove it, and I can’t explain how a woman so sick she couldn’t hold up her own head is running wild through the town. Adele is not a
loup-garou
, and if I can’t prove that, she’s going to be shot on sight like a mad dog.”

John pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

Raymond wiped the blood from his jaw and steered the car around a sharp curve. “What I have to figure out is who would want to pin this on Adele. I’m positive someone is giving her something, but I just can’t prove it.”

“What would they give her?” John leaned forward, the cigarette dangling from his fingers.

“I thought I had it figured out.” Raymond pulled the bread and the bundled grass from his pocket and put them on the seat. “This is what I need to have examined at the university. Maybe someone there can tell me what that is.”

John studied the bread before he unwrapped the purple cloth. Raymond drove for what seemed like a mile before John spoke.

“Whatever this grass is, there’s some of it in this bread.”

Raymond kept driving for a moment. “I thought it was the same, too, but I don’t know what it is.” He began to slow.

“It would take someone with a microscope and more knowledge of botany than I possess to be able to say for positive.”

“Can you find that person for me? If I can figure out what she was given, I might be able to find out who gave it to her.”

John carefully rewrapped the two items. “Raymond, I can’t tell you the who, but I may know how. The werewolf legend comes from French history.” John threw his butt out the window. “Between 1520 and 1630 there were over thirty thousand werewolf trials in France alone. Seemingly normal people were afflicted with behavior attributed to lycanthropy. They had tremendous strength.”