Fever Moon (33 page)

“Is Sarah okay?” Florence felt some of her apprehension ease. “She was talking earlier.”

“We’re not sure. She saw Adele and now she won’t stop crying.”

“Adele? Here? At the post office?” Florence looked behind her at the back door. It was half ajar, like she’d left it when she went outside to look. If Adele was roaming the streets, insane, and she decided to come in …

“Joe Como just left here to go to Father Finley’s. Adele was there, last account.”

“At the priest’s home?”

“That’s what Pinkney said.”

“And Raymond?” If Joe had Adele cornered, Raymond needed to be there.

“He’s off with Professor LeDeux. Neither said where they were going.”

The sound of the back door opening at the post office made Florence almost drop the telephone. Claudia walked in, the empty mail sack slung over her back. She gave Florence a surprised look.

“Thank you, Mrs. Baker. I have to go now.” Florence hung up the telephone. “Chula’s at home. Sarah is sick.” She didn’t bother to explain anything else as she rushed out the front door. Ten yards from the post office she stopped and removed her shoes. Her bare feet dug into the dirt as she ran toward home and her car.

Louisiana’s nod at the coming winter was scattered in drifts along the narrow road. The wild sycamores, a few yellow leaves still clinging, glistened an eerie pale white in the morning sun. Raymond hit a pile of leaves at eighty, blowing them over the window and blinding him for a brief moment. His foot never eased off the accelerator.

Raymond took a sharp curve and entered town at breakneck speed. He didn’t slow. The streets were dead. No traffic, no one out and stirring. He crossed the Teche and headed north. He had the sense that he was too late, that time was slipping beneath the wheels of the car faster than he could drive. His fingers cramped from his grip on the steering wheel, but the pain balanced the hot wires that stabbed his back and hip. Doc Fletcher had told him to remain in bed, that movement might make the shrapnel shift closer to his spine. That wasn’t an option.

Raymond pulled up in front of Bernadette Matthews’s home. Both men got out of the car, and Raymond hesitated. “Maybe you should wait here.”

“Are you expecting trouble?” John asked.

“Maybe.” Raymond didn’t know what he truly expected. The house looked empty. There wasn’t a sign of any of the children.

“I’d rather go with you then.” John’s tone was reason itself. “It might be helpful if I knew what to anticipate.”

“Adele’s sister Bernadette lives here.” Raymond was aware how rash his actions were. He couldn’t prove anything—he was acting on instinct.

He took the steps two at a time. John followed close behind him. Raymond pounded on the door.

“It’s Deputy Thibodeaux. Open this door or I’ll break it down!” When he heard nothing, he kicked the door as hard as he could. The cypress, a wood as tough and strong as the swamp, held solid. Raymond kicked it again and felt the jolt of pain sharp as a blade in his spine and radiating down his leg. It infuriated him.

“Open the door or I’ll burn the house down!”

“Hey! You!” A boy appeared out of the woods, a rifle in his hand. “Quit kickin’ my house, you!” He called over his shoulder. “Hey, Stella, come out the woods and help me. Some men tryin’ to tear our door down.”

A young girl appeared at the edge of the woods about twenty yards from the boy. She held a book in one hand and used the other to shade her eyes. Raymond recognized them from his previous visit to the house.

“Mama’s gone,” the girl called out as she came toward them. “Come back later. She’ll be home then.”

Raymond was ready to charge into the house when he felt John’s hand on his shoulder. “Don’t frighten the children,” he cautioned. “If you want answers, those kids may have them.”

“I’m Deputy Thibodeaux,” Raymond said. “Can we go inside and talk?”

The girl and boy exchanged glances. “Mama told us to stay outside today”

“Just for a chat,” John said easily as the girl came closer.

Raymond saw the book in her hand and remembered his conversation with Dugas. “We’re trying to help your aunt Adele,” he said. “Maybe you know something that will help us help her.”

“Well, sure.” The girl came forward. “Mama said Aunt Adele was in big trouble.”

“She is that,” Raymond said as he stepped aside for the girl to open the door. They entered together. A foul odor like decomposing seafood came from somewhere in the house, and Raymond wondered if Bernadette had left shrimp heads in the trash.

“Stella, what’s your brother’s name?” John talked to the children in the front room while Raymond walked back to the kitchen. The contrast between Bernadette’s home and Adele’s was startling. The counter and sink were loaded with dirty dishes, some growing mold. The trash can overflowed with things that Raymond didn’t want to examine.

When he opened the cabinets, he found mostly empty shelves. A bag of cornmeal was alive with weevils. Several jars of what looked like tomatoes held a strange yellow cast. Raymond couldn’t help but wonder what the children were eating. He had the urge to swipe everything from the shelves and watch it hit the floor in a satisfying crash of broken glass.

He heard the murmur of John’s voice and realized the professor had developed a rapport with the children. Shifting the preserved tomatoes, he found a glass container far in the back. He pulled it from the shelf and examined it in the sun. The meal contained black and purple particles. Like the bread. Here was the link that firmly tied Bernadette to the bread, but still no evidence that would mark her as the person who deliberately contrived to frame her sister for murder.

With the jar in his hand, he walked toward the front room and was nearly gagged by the smell coming from the back of the house. “You okay?” he asked John.

“We’re fine here. Are you ready to go?” John’s eagerness to depart was evident in his voice.

“I’m going to check that smell.”

“Mama said not to go back there!” The boy’s voice was panicked, but Raymond ignored him. He heard John’s reply, his soothing voice.

Clutching the jar, Raymond stopped outside the bedroom door, which was locked with a padlock. Concern at what he might find on the other side made him hesitate. Bernadette Matthews, in her jealous misery, was capable of anything. It was possible that, at last, he’d find Adele.

He walked into the front room where John sat with the girl, going over a book. Stella was absorbed in relaying the story, but the boy watched him, wary.

“I’m going to get the tire tool to open the door.”

“Mama say to stay out that room!” The boy rose to his feet.

“It’s okay,” Raymond said. “I have to do this, son. John, maybe it would be better if you took the children outside.” He handed the professor the jar of meal as he ushered them outside.

Leaves crunched beneath Raymond’s feet as he went to the car. John took the children twenty yards from the house to a tree where a swing hung. Raymond could see that the professor spoke with animation, moving his arm in a large circle. As Raymond returned to the house, he could hear the girl’s clear voice talking rapidly about some character from the book. Raymond closed the door behind him as he went back inside.

The wood splintered as he pried the hasp loose. He pushed the door open slowly. The odor was like a wall. He heard it then. The buzzing of insects, a sound that haunted his dreams from the carnage of war. Fighting the memory and the smell, Raymond stepped into the room. His gaze fell on the bed. The body of Marguerite Bastion in the first stages of decomposition riveted his gaze.

Michael mumbled the “Hail Mary” over and over, trying to focus his mind on the words and shut out thoughts of Adele. She was in his room now, the door locked tight from the outside and wooden shutters nailed over the window. Even sitting at the kitchen table he could hear her fingernails clawing at the thick oak panels. If he let his imagination wander, he could feel the flesh of her fingertips tearing, the searing pain of cuticles rubbed raw. He gripped the edge of the table until the cup of hot tea that Colista had prepared rattled dangerously.

“Father Michael.” Colista’s voice was soft. “The sheriff just pulled up. He’s got Pinkney with him.”

“And Raymond?”

Colista craned to look out the kitchen window. “No, sir. Only Pinkney.”

Michael had pinned his hopes of controlling Adele on Raymond. For some reason the deputy had formed a bond with Adele. He’d protected her. Without him to intervene, Michael felt certain that Joe would simply shoot Adele. Joe would feel no need to try to take a foaming, bloodied, mad woman in alive.

“I’ll bring the sheriff.” Colista hurried to the door.

To quiet the trembling of his hands, Michael sipped the tea, which was heavily laced with brandy. Laced, hell, Colista had poured the teacup more than half full of the fiery liquor. He took a deep breath and drained it. He had to get himself together. Warmth surged into his stomach and he stood, his legs steady. When Colista led Joe and a wild-eyed Pinkney into the kitchen, Michael met them with a firm handshake.

“She’s locked in my bedroom,” Michael said.

“Then she’s contained?” The relief in Joe’s face was almost comical.

The sound of a body slamming into wood echoed down the hall, followed by a howl of rage. Colista, who’d hovered in the hallway, dashed across the kitchen to the sink.

“For the moment,” Michael said. “She’s working at the door pretty good and if she manages to loosen the hinges, she could take it down.”

“Lordy, lordy!” Pinkney edged toward the door. “That little gal hardly looked strong enough to turn a knob.”

Joe glanced at the teacup on the table, and Michael asked Colista to pour the sheriff a cup of tea. “Make it exactly the way you made mine,” he told her. “And make Pinkney a cup, too.” He gave Colista a smile. “Dutch courage. It may be the only thing we have.” Whether it was the brandy or the fruit of his prayers, Michael had found a bit of steadiness.

Colista made the tea and put the cups on the table. The sounds of rage and fury echoed down the hall as the three men drank without saying a word.

“Where’s Raymond?” Michael finally asked.

“Fired. Or he will be as soon as he gets back. He’s up and disappeared again.” Joe kept his gaze on his cup.

“We might need him here.” Michael kept his tone level.

“If it weren’t for Raymond and his high-handed shenanigans, we wouldn’t be here
to
need him. Adele would be locked in a cell.”

Anger made Joe’s voice rough, and Michael understood his frustration with the deputy. Raymond acted as if he had all the answers. He never bothered to explain any of his actions, which were often rash. Adele would be safely locked away in a mental institution or the state prison were it not for Raymond. Joe was right about that.

“I see your point, but Raymond has a bond with Adele. He might be able to reason with her. I’m afraid if we go in there and try to take her, you’ll have to kill her.”

Joe sighed. He met Michael’s gaze. “Have you ever thought she might be better off dead?” He leaned forward. “There’s a crowd growing outside. They were down at the sheriff’s office when you called. Some of ’em are friends of Praytor, though I didn’t know that he had friends. Others are simple folk who’re scared senseless. Once they hear Adele is here, in this house, they’ll come in and get her.”

Michael knew the three of them couldn’t stop a mob. “You’re afraid they’ll hang her?”

“Worse. I’m afraid they’ll burn her.” Joe didn’t flinch as he spoke. He held Michael’s gaze. “That’s supposed to be the way to kill a
loup-garou
and stop it from passing the curse on to others. It’s the evil eye they’re afraid of, Father. The plan is to catch her, put a flour sack on her head so she can’t look at them, and then burn her.”

“That’s barbaric!” Michael pushed back from the table and stood. “We can’t allow that to happen.”

Joe got up and walked to the window. “Lettie at the telephone exchange has been busy since you called to tell me Adele was here.” He pointed down the street. “Look what’s comin’ and then you tell me that a bullet wouldn’t be a kinder death.”

T
HE Matthews children were quiet in the backseat as Raymond drove to town. “Where’s your mother?” he asked. The camaraderie John had developed with them had disappeared as soon as Raymond insisted they get in the car.

“Bernadette may be in danger.” He wasn’t trying to intimidate the children. If Bernadette wasn’t involved in the murder of Henri, Praytor, and now Marguerite, then she might easily be the next victim. “If you know where your mother is, you need to tell me.” Raymond watched the children in the rearview mirror.

“Gone,” Stella answered.

She was probably eleven or twelve. Raymond met her foxy eyes in the mirror. She was frightened but determined not to show it. He admired that.

“Gone where?” he asked more gently.

She shook her head, and Raymond couldn’t tell if she didn’t know or refused to tell. He glanced at the boy who sat beside her. He was maybe eight years old, his dark eyes alert. “Son, where’s your father?”

“Gone,” the girl said.

“I was speaking to your brother.” He had to find Bernadette before more blood was shed. If Bernadette had Adele, Bernadette would kill her. Florence had told him what Bernadette told Father Michael—that death would be a blessing for Adele. More so for Bernadette, if she was guilty.

He focused on the boy, who seemed more willing to talk. “Son, I need to find your pa. Right now.” It was possible that the missing Mr. Matthews might know where to find his wife.

John turned in the passenger seat so that he could face the children. “If both your parents have abandoned you, you’ll become wards of the state and go to the orphanage in Baton Rouge.”

The girl’s lip quivered. “You can’t do that.”

“No, I can’t,” John said. “But he can.” He pointed to Raymond. “And you’d better believe he will. Now where’s your father? I know you don’t believe it, but we’re trying to help you.”

“He left us, him, ‘bout tree month ago.” The boy’s accent was thicker than the girl’s. “Mama’ll be back though. We aren’t ‘bandoned.”