A Twisted Ladder (51 page)

Madeleine scrambled in after her and tore wildly at the motor, and it roared to life. Zenon’s hands reached up from the water and grasped the side. He heaved himself, the boat tilting under his weight, and Madeleine knew it was too late to throw the throttle.

She grabbed the oar and bashed him full in the face, throwing all her weight into that single motion. Zenon fell back into the water, and Madeleine nearly toppled over the side after him.

She regained her balance and hit the throttle, roaring away as he grabbed at the side again. But he was unable to grip it, and Madeleine sped out of the cove. She felt the tug. An urge to turn the boat around and collect him. But Zenon’s skill hadn’t improved much, whereas Madeleine was getting good at letting his implanted thoughts pass through her like vapor.

The skiff entered the main waterway and was immediately broadsided by turbulent water. It floundered. The wind had intensified, white caps appearing and disappearing in winks on the surface.

The current pushed her sickeningly closer to the bank. She was forced to slow the throttle, and it took ages to point the nose in the proper direction. She cast furtive glances at the gunwale, half-expecting Zenon’s fingers to curl around it. She finally regained control and began speeding south.

Nightfall was hours away yet, but the storm allowed only battleship colors in the dimmest light. Rain sliced at her, and water sloshed in the boat.

She wondered if Zenon had drowned. She thought of his body, that lithe, solid thing that had nearly entangled with her own. She was stricken with incredulity. He was a madman; criminally insane. He would have a head injury from the bashing she’d given him. Maybe he did drown. Was drowning, even now.

But more likely, he was out there somewhere, already aboard his fishing trawler, coming after her. She’d had a solid head start, but he had the more powerful vessel.

The gale and tide kept trying to force her back inland. She would have gladly turned around and headed that way, but this particular channel led to nothing but swampy wilderness. Her best bet was to head south toward the open sea, turn down the Intracoastal, and then inland again toward home. First opportunity, she’d telephone for help.

The skiff chugged forward. The water whirled, the storm having liberated it from the marsh. She could now see almost nothing. One dim light glimmered behind her, so faint it might have been an illusion, but she had to assume it belonged to Zenon’s boat.

Her skiff rode the waves head-on, and the motor did not die.

NEW ORLEANS, 1920

I
N THE MONTHS SINCE
Chloe had sacrificed the Terrefleurs herd and they’d refined the sugar on the plantation, she’d had some luck in subsidizing cane through other smaller farms run by fellow black sharecroppers. She’d also put Bruce Dempsey to work for her in New Orleans, arranging for the transportation of liquors from those same sharecroppers’ cellars to underground buyers in New Orleans.

This had helped narrow the financial gap caused by these rogues who now waited for her in the parlor. They were representatives of the Sugar Trust, and much as she loathed them, she needed their cooperation in order to keep Terrefleurs from imploding. These men were staunchly opposed to conducting any business with her. She was about to change that.

She stood in the pantry with Rémi, her hands on his arms.

“Rémi, listen to me. Did you see those men? When I came through the door just now, did you see the men waiting in the parlor with Jacob?”

Rémi’s gaze chased through the pantry, sweat at his forehead. He stepped toward the parlor door. Chloe grabbed his arm and stepped in front of him.

“Rémi, no! They can’t see you like this.” She put her hands to either side of his face and made him look at her. “Answer me. Did you see them?”

Rémi’s eyes found hers. He nodded.

She said, “Tell me something about them. Ask the river devil.”

Rémi narrowed his eyes. “Ulysses. I will not go near him. Don’t you know what it means?”

“This plantation has a chance. We cannot continue refining sugar, but if we can make the Sugar Trust work with us, we may survive. You must tell me something about those men.”

But he wasn’t listening. His gaze had chased some drift of movement.

“Stupid man!” She slapped him across the face.

He caught her wrist and drove her against the wall. A jar of tepins tumbled from the shelf behind and smashed to the floor.

He looked at her, confused, and then his eyes snapped. “Woman, you must not do that. It’s dark in the tunnels. I don’t recognize you. The child . . .” He put his hand to her belly.

She shoved him away. “Another child, yes, and I will take them all away from here if this plantation dies.”

She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Oh, see? Now suddenly you hear me so clear.”

He stepped toward her. “Chloe, you could not do such a thing.”

“No? If I must care for all these babies, and we lose our home, what you think? I can look after crazy man too?”

He was staring at her, eyes dull. A despair that bordered on defeat.

She stepped toward him. She put her hand to his cheek, lifted her face, and kissed him. He did not respond. She took his hand and put it back on her belly.

“Rémi, the river devil pays no mind if he ruins us or saves us. You must be strong for your family. You must make him save us.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into her; let him feel the force inside. She lifted her face again and this time he kissed her back. His hands gripped her with restrained ferocity, as though he didn’t dare let go.

He said, “It frightens me when I realize I’ve hurt you.”

“But it does not frighten me. Now look. Look into the tunnels. Ask the river devil to show you.”

RÉMI THRASHED. HE FOUGHT
against something Chloe could not see, something beyond the layers. He had told her what she needed to know, but she wanted more. There were secrets in there beyond stupid tattle-tales. The more lost in a fever he was, the closer he could get to real truth.

“Tell me, Rémi, what do you see?” She reached out to him.

He fought. Her fingers closed over his forearm. To touch him was like passing a hand through flame without getting burned, a wavering pressure that radiated from him. She felt it course through her. The door from the parlor opened. The room spun, and she felt herself falling. Rémi was swinging his fists.

“Damn your eyes!” he cried.

“Rémi!” Jacob Chapman lunged for him.

Chloe was on the floorboards. She saw the astonished faces of the men in the parlor through the open door. She reached over and closed it gently as they stared, aghast.

Jacob struck Rémi. He hammered him to the ground. Easy to subdue, because Jacob was only fighting one man. In Rémi’s world, who knew how many attackers there were? He probably didn’t even know Jacob existed at this moment.

“Put him outside,” Chloe said.

“He wants me to kill the boy,” Rémi said. “The one with the blood eye. I will not!”

Chloe rose to her feet and stretched against pain, one hand to her back and the other to her belly. She opened the rear door to the stairs. Jacob hoisted Rémi and heaved him through it.

“Just leave him be now,” Chloe said, but Jacob had slung Rémi’s arm around his own shoulders, and was dragging him down the rear stairs.

Chloe closed the door behind them. Her hand went to her lips and came back with blood. Jacob must have thought that Rémi had hit her. He might have—Chloe wasn’t certain, but she suspected she’d injured herself as she’d swooned. So much power. She still felt a little drunk with it.

Beyond the window, Jacob was dragging Rémi toward the kitchen house. One of the workers joined them in the path and assisted.

The door to the parlor opened behind her, and one of her guests appeared.

“Madame! We are concerned for your safety!”

Chloe darted to him and stopped the door swing with her foot. “I’ll only be a moment longer. Bernadette!”

Bernadette appeared beyond the man’s shoulder.

Chloe said, “Please see that these gentlemen are refreshed with our best cherry bounce.”

The man in the doorway gaped at her with a look of horror. “We’ve enjoyed your drink already. Refreshing after the silly ban on alcohol. But really, I must insist . . .”

“In just a moment,” Chloe said, and closed the door on him.

She pressed her forehead against it. She had them, she knew it. Before she even stepped out and initiated the meeting, she had them. But already it wasn’t enough. Terrefleurs’ new crop, like so many other sugar plantations in southern Louisiana, was showing signs of mosaic cane-rotting diseases.

New Orleans. That was where she needed to look. The bootlegging with Bruce Dempsey had already yielded more than the sugar crop. She should focus on that. Use the warehouse on Magazine.

The back door opened and Jacob reappeared. “You’re hurt.”

“I am fine.
Ecoutez
, these men from the Sugar Trust, they have brought in cheap sugar from the islands and have skirted the tariffs.”

“What? That ain’t legal.”

“If we make it known, the plantations will revolt and the government will put them in prison.”

“Come now, Chloe, how could you possibly know this?”

“I have opened these secrets, and now we must use them to make these men resume business with Terrefleurs.”

“But that’s blackmail.”

She threw him an impatient scowl. “You will help me with these men?”

“Of course, I’m at your service. Y’all know I’ll help y’all out any way I can.”

“Is that really so?” she said, her voice softening.

He blinked. “Of course.”

She opened the door to the parlor.

“Wait,” Jacob said, but she ignored him and joined her guests.

They had their hands on their tumblers of cherry bounce, and looked up at her with both wonder and terror. Jacob grabbed her wrist and put his handkerchief to her mouth. She jerked away from him, but saw that the handkerchief was covered in blood. She frowned and dabbed at her lips with the handkerchief, and settled herself onto the lady’s chair.