Cry Wolf (31 page)

“You did your best.”

“It wasn't good enough!” she screamed.

The ducks departed in a flurry of wings and splashing water. Egrets and herons that had been wading in the shallows for fish took flight and wheeled over the bayou, squawking angrily at the disturbance. Laurel twisted away from Jack's touch and ran along the bank, stumbling, sobbing, frantic to escape but with nowhere to run. She fell to her knees in the sandy dirt and curled over into a tight ball of misery, dry, wrenching sobs tearing at her throat.

For a moment Jack stood there, stunned by the depth of her pain, frightened by it. Instinct warned him off, like an animal scenting fire. He didn't want to get too close to it, didn't want to risk touching it, but an instant after that thought had passed through his head, he was kneeling beside her, stroking a hand over the back of her head.

“Darlin', don't cry so,” he murmured, his voice a hoarse rasp. “You did your job. You did what you could. Some cases you win, some you don't. That's just the way the game goes. We both know that.”

“It isn't a game!” Laurel snapped, batting his hand away. She glared at him through her tears. “Dammit, Jack, this isn't Beat the System, it's justice. Don't you see that? Justice. I can't just shrug and walk away when the bet doesn't pan out. Those children were counting on me to save them, and I failed!”

It was a burden with the weight of the world, and she crumpled beneath the pressure of it.

Gently, Jack drew her into his arms and rocked her. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair and shushed her softly, and time passed by them, unnoticed, unmarked.

Justice, he thought cynically. What justice was there in a world where children were used and abused by the people who were supposed to protect and nurture them? What justice was there when a woman as noble, as brave, as truehearted as the one in his arms suffered so for the sins of others? What justice allowed a man the like of himself to be the only one here to offer her comfort?

There was no justice in his experience. He had never seen any evidence of it growing up. As an attorney, he had been trained to play the court system like an elaborate chess game, maneuvering, manipulating, using strategy and cunning to win for his client. There had been no justice, only victory at any cost.

If there was such a creature as justice, he thought, then it had an exceedingly sadistic sense of humor.

Chapter
Seventeen

They saw the commotion all the way from the dock at Frenchie's Landing. Cars were parked up and down the road. A crowd of considerable size had gathered. From that distance only the indistinct crackle of a voice could be heard through a bad speaker system; not individual words, just the rise and fall of pitch and tempo, but there was no mistaking the fact that something exciting was going on at the former Texaco station that had only yesterday stood empty across the road from Frenchie's.

Laurel glanced at Jack—something she had been avoiding doing all afternoon, since the humiliation of breaking down in front of him. His shoulders rose and fell in a lazy shrug. He was the picture of indifference with his khaki shirt hanging open, baseball cap tipped back on his head, stringer of glossy fish hanging from his fist.

He had no interest in what was going on across the road. His focus was on Laurel and the curious shyness that had come over her. He had never known a woman who didn't shed tears with gusto and impunity. Yet Laurel had shrunk from her emotional outburst—and from him—clearly embarrassed that she had shown such vulnerability in front of him.

He wondered if she ever cut herself an inch of slack. She demanded perfection of herself, a goal that was simply unattainable for any mortal human being. A trait he should have steered well clear of.
Le bon Dieu
knew he was the farthest thing from perfect. But he caught himself admiring her for it. She seemed so small and fragile, but she had a deep well of strength, and she went to it again and again, and accepted no excuses.

That's more than you can say for yourself, mon ami.

They crunched across the crushed shell of the parking lot another few yards, aiming for the bar, but Laurel's gaze held fast on the goings-on across the road. Spectators milled around, craning their necks for a better look at something. An auction, perhaps, she thought, though she couldn't recall seeing anything at the old gas station worth buying. The place had been stripped bare and abandoned back in the seventies, during the oil embargo. Then one word crackled across the distance, and stopped her dead.

“. . . damnation!”

She sucked in an indignant breath and let it out in a furious gust. “That son of a bitch!”

Before Jack could say a word, she wheeled and made a beeline toward the station, her shoulders braced squarely, her stride quick and purposeful. He should have just let her go. He stood there for a second, intending to do just that. He wanted to drop off the fish for T-Grace and have himself a tall, cold beer. He didn't want to stick his nose into some damned hornet's nest. But as he watched Laurel stomp away, he couldn't put from his mind the image of her in his arms, weeping against his chest because she hadn't been able to give Lady Justice the miracle of sight.

Swearing under his breath, he tightened his grip on the stringer of dripping fish and jogged to catch up with her.

“He's not on the Delahoussayes' property,” he pointed out.

Laurel scowled. “He'd damn well better have a lease on that place and a permit to hold a public demonstration,” she snarled, secretly hoping he had neither so she could sic Kenner on him.

“You've done your part, angel,” Jack argued. “You got him out of Ovide's hair—such as it is. Why you don' just leave him be and we can go have us a drink?”

“Why?” she asked sharply. “Because I'm here. I'm an officer of the court and have an obligation to the Delahoussayes.” She shot him a glare. “Go have your drink. I didn't say you had to come with me.”

“Espèces de tête dure,”
he grumbled, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, I am,” she said, never slowing her stride. “Hardheadedness is one of my better qualities.”

Baldwin and his followers hadn't wasted any time. The tall “For Sale or Lease” sign that had stood propped in the front window of the station had been replaced with one that read “End Sin. Find the True Path.” The door to the garage was open, and a stage had been hastily built across its mouth, giving Jimmy Lee a dark, dramatic background for his ranting and pacing routine.

His followers had gathered on the cracked concrete outside, crowding together despite the heat. Many of the women pressed toward the stage for a closer look at him, their faces glowing with sunburn and adulation. And Jimmy Lee stood above them all, drenched in sweat and glory, his hair slicked back and his caps gleaming white in the late afternoon sun. He stalked across the stage, his white shirt soaked through, his tie jerked loose, pleading with his followers to march valiantly on beneath the weight of their respective crosses, urging them to lighten his load by donating to keep the ministry going.

“I will fight on, brothers and sisters! No matter how Satan may try to smite me down, no matter the obstacles in my path, no matter if I have nothing with which to fight my battle except my faith!” He let his declaration ring in the air for a few seconds, then sighed dramatically and stood with shoulders drooping. “But I don't want to fight this battle alone. I need your help, the help of the faithful, of the brave, of the devout. Sad as I am to admit it, we live in a world ruled by the almighty dollar. The ministry of the True Path cannot continue to bring the good news to untold thousands of believers each week without money. And without the ministry, I am powerless. Alone, I am only a man. With you behind me, I am an army!”

While the faithful and the devout applauded Baldwin's acting skills, Laurel skirted around the edge of the mob. She watched them with a mix of anger and pity—anger because they were gullible enough to listen to a charlatan like Baldwin, and pity for the very same reason. They needed something to believe in. She didn't begrudge them that. But that they had chosen to believe in a perverted con man made her want to knock their heads together.

She didn't see the cameras until it was too late. Her gaze caught first on the van parked alongside the garage. It bore the call letters of the Lafayette cable television station that was home to Baldwin's weekly show. Then her eye caught one of the video cameras that was capturing the spectacle for the home audience. By then she was nearly at the front of the throng, and Baldwin had already spotted her.

His gaze, luminous gold and glowing with the light of fanaticism, flashed on her like a spotlight, and he broke off in midsentence. The anticipation level of the crowd rose with each passing second of his silence. The cheap sound system underscored it all with a low, buzzing hum.

Laurel froze, her heart picking up a beat as both the cameraman and Jimmy Lee moved toward her. She could feel the cyclops eye of the camera zooming in on her, could feel the heat of Baldwin's gaze, could feel the additional weight of a hundred pairs of eyes as one by one the crowd turned toward her. She braced herself and drew in a slow, deep breath.

“Miz Laurel Chandler,” he said softly. “A woman of intelligence and deep convictions. A good woman drawn in by deception to battle on the side of Satan.”

Gasps and murmurs ran through the crowd. The woman standing closest to Laurel stepped back with a protective hand to her bosom.

“I don't think Judge Monahan will be too pleased with the comparison,” Laurel said archly, crossing her arms. “But you're probably amused, being an expert at drawing in good people by means of deception, yourself.”

Those close enough to hear her began to grumble and boo. Baldwin cut them off with a motion of his hand. “Condemn not, believers!” he shouted. “Christ himself, in his infinite wisdom, preached forgiveness for those who would hurt you. He has counseled me in matters of forgiveness—”

“Has He counseled you in matters of the law?” Laurel queried. “Do you have any right to be on this property, holding this assembly?”

Something ugly flashed in Baldwin's eyes. He didn't like her interrupting his divinely inspired lines.
Tough shit, Jimmy Lee
.

“We have every right, lost sister,” he said tightly. “We have legal rights, granted by man. We have moral rights, granted by God Himself, to gather in this humble set-
ting and—”

“Appropriate setting,” Jack drawled. He stepped around Laurel to lean indolently against the edge of Jimmy Lee's stage, the stringer of fish still swinging from his fist. “You always did give me gas, Jimmy Lee.”

He was near enough that the mike picked up the last of his words, and people at the back of the crowd, who had come only out of curiosity, burst out laughing.

Jimmy Lee's face flushed a dark blood red beneath his artificial tan. His mouth quivered a little as he fought to keep from sneering at the man who was leaning lazily against his platform. Damn Jack Boudreaux. Damn Laurel Chandler. She was the troublemaker, the little bitch. Boudreaux only came along sniffing after her. But as much as he wanted to drag out all the dirt on Laurel Chandler, Jimmy Lee kept himself in check. His followers wouldn't tolerate an attack on a woman of her standing. Boudreaux, on the other hand, was a whole different breed of cat.

He smiled inwardly, a feral, vicious smile. “Do I indeed, Mr. Boudreaux?” he asked. “Shall I tell you what your books do for me? They sicken and disgust me, as they do any good Christian. The content is vile, brutal, a celebration of evil and an instruction manual in the ways of Satan. Or are you here to tell us you've given up that path of wickedness?”

A slow grin spread across Jack's face. He plopped his fish down on Jimmy Lee's wingtips, sending him scooting backward, and hopped onto the stage to sit with his legs swinging over the edge. “Well, hell, Jimmy Lee, that's sort of like askin' you if you've quit stealin' people's money. The way the question is phrased, denial is an admission of guilt. Having been an attorney in a previous incarnation, I know better than to answer.” He tipped his head and treated Baldwin to a merciless, wicked grin so hard and sharp, it could have cut glass. “Me, I'm just amazed to hear you know how to read.”

Another volley of laughter sounded at the back of the crowd and rippled forward. Jimmy Lee clenched his jaw against a stream of profanity. His fist tightened around his microphone while he indulged himself in the fantasy that it was Boudreaux's windpipe he was crushing.

“Evil is no laughing matter,” he said sternly. He turned his gaze back out across the small sea of faces that had gathered to hear him and pointed hard at Jack. “Do we want our children growing up on the kind of twisted and depraved tales this man tells? Tales of murder and mutilation and horrors that should surely be beyond the imaginings of decent people!”

“Hey, Jack!” Leonce called out from near the dusty old gas pumps. “What's the name o' dat book?”

“Evil Illusions!”
Jack called, laughing. “On sale everywhere for five ninety-nine!”

“And he laughs and makes money off this filth!” Jimmy Lee shouted to the devout above the laughter of the others. “What other sins might a sick mind like that commit? We hear every day about crimes against women and children in this country. Our own Acadiana is being terrorized by an animal who stalks and murders our women. And where do creatures like that get their ideas for their crimes?”

The grin vanished from Jack's face. He met Baldwin's gaze evenly, never breaking the stare as he rose to his feet and closed the distance between them, booting the fish aside. Hostility rolled off him in hot waves.

“You better watch your mouth, preacher,” he growled, gently pushing Baldwin's microphone aside. “You never know what kind of revenge a sick mind like mine might come up with.”

Jimmy Lee savored the small victory of striking a nerve, meeting Jack's hard stare with a smugness that came from having the safety of a crowd around him. “I'm not afraid of you, Boudreaux.”

“No?” Jack arched a brow. “Are you afraid of the words ‘slander suit'? You'd better be, Jimmy Lee, because I could have my lawyers tie you up in court for the rest of your unnatural life. I wouldn't leave you a pot to piss in, and this preacher act of yours will have been for nothing.”

Baldwin narrowed his eyes. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “It's a free country, Boudreaux. If I think reading trash pushes unstable minds to commit unspeakable acts, I can say so.”

“Uh-huh. And if you utter my name in connection with those unspeakable acts, I'll have the right to beat the ever-lovin' shit out of you—figuratively speaking.” He smiled like a crocodile and lifted Jimmy Lee's hand so that the mike picked up his next words. “Mebbe you oughta try to cast the demons outta me, Jimmy Lee. Run 'em into some pigs or somethin'. Give the folks their money's worth.” Baldwin glared at him. “No? Well, that's okay, Jimmy Lee.”

He bent and snatched up the stringer of fish and swung them hard at Jimmy Lee. Baldwin barely had time to react, catching the slimy mass against his belly with a grunt and a grimace.

“There you go,” Jack said. “Now you get yourself a couple'a loaves of bread, and mebbe you can do
that
miracle.”

Howls of laughter went up from the back of the crowd. Laurel pressed a hand over her mouth and tried to contain herself. Jack hopped down off the stage and sauntered toward her, slipping a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and dangling it from his lip.

“You are
so
bad!” she whispered as he turned her by one arm and escorted her away from the crowd.

His dark eyes sparked with mischief as he slanted a look at her. “That's what makes me
so
good, sugar,” he drawled. “Now let's go get that drink you owe me.”

They hadn't taken three strides toward the road when a terrible scream split the air—piercing, blood-curdling, a sound that cut straight to the bone. Laurel pulled herself up, chilled and shaken, her hand grasping Jack's forearm, her heart thundering in her breast. She could hear the crowd behind her murmuring, gasping, shuffling their feet on the concrete as they turned. Then the scream came again and again. It emanated from Frenchie's, a terrible, keening wail, that carried in it a note instinctively understood by all, and everyone stood, breath held, waiting.

Laurel's grip tightened on Jack's arm as she spotted the Partout Parish cruiser parked out front. Sheriff Kenner walked out of the bar and down the steps, his mirrored aviator sunglasses glinting in the sun. The side door on the building slammed, and a thin young man in surfer shorts and a neon green shirt jumped the rail and came barreling across the parking lot, running as if the devil were at his heels, his face chalk white, shirttails flying.