Fever Moon (17 page)

Her hand touched the handle of the screen door when she heard something behind her. Turning, she clutched the crystal ball, prepared to use it as a weapon if necessary. Her gaze scanned the front yard where shadows shifted as the wind blew the oak limbs beneath the moon.

She thought to call out but found her voice paralyzed. The screen creaked as she pulled it open and turned to step inside.

A strong hand on her ankle tore a scream from her throat, and she plunged headfirst in the front door, kicking at the grip that snared her leg. She was on her stomach, her only defense her feet. Her heel connected solidly with something, and that made her thrash harder.

“Hold on there, wildcat,” a male voice said, and there was a whine in the words. “Florence, calm down. You likta kicked me in the head.”

She flipped onto her back and sat up to find Praytor Bless kneeling on the top step and rubbing his shoulder.

“You ‘bout dislocated my shoulder there, Florence.” He stood up. “I came to get my fortune told.”

Anger washed over her in tides of red, but she forced herself to control her breathing and bite back the curse she wanted to hurl at Praytor. She took in the fact that Praytor had on a freshly ironed shirt, but she could smell whiskey on his breath.

“You scared the life out of me.” She got up and retrieved the crystal ball that had rolled across the floor. “You’re too late, Praytor. I’ve stopped gazing.”

“I was waitin’ for the young-uns to leave. Thought it would be more fun if it was just the two of us.”

She looked past him into the night. “Another time. I’m tired.”

“Seems to me you’re tired a lot of nights.”

He was already halfway in her home. Outside she’d been threatened by her own imaginings. Praytor wasn’t a man she feared, but she was also careful to maintain a certain front with him. He collected information, his sharp eyes seeing things that others missed. Tonight, he was drunk.

“Go home. Come back tomorrow. We’ll both enjoy it more.”

“Goin’ home wasn’t in my plan.” His gaze narrowed. “You don’t look busy right now. Maybe you got plans for later on?”

She sighed, calculating. It would be easier to take the ten minutes necessary to service him, but something in her rebelled. “My plans are none of your concern,
cher
. Go home and come back tomorrow.” She forced a smile. “I’m tired, Praytor. I want to give you full service, and I can’t tonight.” She touched her head. “My head is pounding.”

He stood there, staring at her, and she felt a tingle of warning glide over her skin like the lightest silk. Praytor had always reminded her of an insect, something that waited in a dark crevice to trap and devour other, weaker species.

“You refusin’ me?”

She swallowed. “Only for tonight. Come back tomorrow.” And when his car pulled up, she’d lock her door and refuse to answer it. She moved forward to the door, determined to show him she wasn’t afraid. “I’m tired,
cher
. My head aches. Tomorrow we’ll have some fun.”

She looked past him and felt something inside her chest grip. Someone—or something—was hiding behind the oak tree beside the road.

“What?” Praytor read the expression on her face and turned to look. “Who’s out there?”

“Someone.” Florence found her voice was breathy with fear. “There’s someone behind that tree.”

“Someone spyin’.” Praytor’s voice was edged with anger. “I’ll drag ’em out and teach ’em not to be spyin’ on me.” He stumbled down the steps and lurched across the yard toward the big oak.

Something big took off running, moving fast. Florence heard the small cry of fear that escaped from her as she watched the shadowy figure disappear into the trees across the road. She couldn’t be certain what she’d seen—a person or some type of large animal. The night was too dark for details.

“Hey! Hey, you, come back here!” Praytor charged into the road, stumbling.

She heard the sound of a car, and saw, too late, the headlights of a vehicle coming fast down the road. Praytor was illuminated in the vehicle’s lamps, his face showing horror.

The driver stepped hard on the brake, swerving at the last instant, so that the car careened through the woods across the street, the headlights bouncing up and down as the car bumped over ruts and shrubs.

Florence recognized the car. She ran past Praytor without a glance and into the woods where the car had come to a stop.

“Raymond,” she said, pulling the driver’s door open. “Raymond.” He sat behind the wheel, still gripping it. “Raymond.” She thought her chest would explode with her fear. “Can you hear me? Can you move?” She thought of the metal in his back and the things he’d never told her but that everyone else in town repeated—one day the shrapnel would shift and his spinal cord would be severed.

“I’m okay,” he said at last. “Who was that idiot standing in the road?”

She couldn’t stop the trembling. When she touched his shoulder she felt the solid muscle, the warmth, and she felt tears form in her eyes and fall down her cheeks. “Praytor. He’s drunk.”

“He’s going to be dead when I get out of here.”

Raymond shifted and slowly moved his feet from the floorboard to the ground. He stood, moving carefully as if he, too, wasn’t certain that something hadn’t changed.

She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him, to attach herself in a way that she could make certain he wasn’t hurt. She stepped back, though, and let him lead the way to the road where Praytor sat in the ditch, the smell of vomit strong around him.

“Praytor, I’m going to kick the shit out of you to the point there won’t be anything left but empty boots.” Raymond staggered slightly.

Florence held back, forced to watch the scene between the two men play out, helpless to stop whatever was going to happen. She didn’t care about Praytor. Raymond, though, was another matter, and Praytor Bless was known to carry a knife and fight dirty.

Praytor’s response was another stream of vomit.

“Shit.” Raymond shook his head. “You aren’t worth the effort.” He turned, looking from Florence to the headlamps of the car still shining into the woods.

He stepped toward Florence, and she felt a smile touch the corners of her lips. She moved to meet him when the sound of another car echoed on the empty night air. She saw headlights, and then the car slowed and stopped. Chula Baker jumped from the passenger side of the car.

“Raymond, I’ve been hunting for you everywhere.” She ran toward the deputy as a tall, handsome man in slacks and a jacket got out from behind the wheel of the polished Studebaker. He stood by the car, watching but not interfering.

Chula took a deep breath. “We saw something in Mrs. McLemore’s yard. Something strange. I finally tracked down Sheriff Joe, and he told me to find you.”

Raymond stood taller. “What did you see?”

Chula’s laugh was nervous, and Florence assessed her. Chula Baker was disliked by the town because she didn’t act womanish. Talk was that she’d acquired book learning and lost her femininity. Uglier talk implied that Chula and her employee, Claudia Breck, were
une gouine
. Florence watched the way Chula stood, feet planted solidly, her gaze holding Raymond’s as she spoke. Florence admired her.

“There was something in the backyard. We were walking by and I thought at first it was a prankster. But …” Her voice faded.

The man stepped forward, his hand going to Chula’s arm for support. “Whatever it was moved curiously. We couldn’t tell if it was human or animal.” His voice was low, calm.

The image reminded Florence of what she’d seen. “I saw it, too. It was here, just before you wrecked.” She walked closer to Raymond, Chula, and the man. “Praytor was going to chase it in the woods, but he was too drunk to run.”

Raymond’s face in the headlights of the car was severe. “Did you get a clear look at who it was?”

“No,” Chula admitted. “It was dark. Honestly, it could have been an animal.”

“And you?” Raymond looked at Florence.

“It was behind a tree, and it moved through the shadows.”

Raymond glanced toward Praytor, who’d passed out in the ditch. “Thank you, Chula. I’ll check Mrs. McLemore’s right away.”

“Glad to help, Raymond. This is John LeDeux, a professor at LSU. He’s working on a book, and he’d like to talk with you when you have time.”

“About what?”

Florence saw the way Raymond bristled. She stepped a little closer, envious of the way John LeDeux touched Chula, the accepted show of support and friendship a man might properly show a woman.

LeDeux offered a smile. “I’ll explain it all to you when you have a free hour. Right now, let me help you get your car out of the woods.” He removed his jacket and handed it to Chula. Without a backward glance he walked across the road and into the woods where the car waited, the headlights casting strange shadows in the trees.

Michael took the last popcorn ball and dropped it into the paper sack the little hobo held out. “Please don’t trick me tonight,” he said, smiling at the boy who was no older than six. “I hope to see you at mass Sunday morning.”

“Yes, Father,” the boy said. “Thank you.” He ran to his waiting mother.

Michael watched as the woman put her hand on the boy’s shoulder, keeping him tightly under her control as they walked away. He’d seen that same gesture all night long—mothers protecting their young.

He locked the front door and turned off the light. His treats had been demolished by the dozens of youngsters. The parish house was always popular with trick-or-treaters because Colista made the sticky popcorn balls, candied apples, brownies, tiny pecan pies, and other délectables that were highly sought after. Colista said it was his duty to tempt the young children into the ways of the Lord, and a little popcorn and syrup were a small price to pay.

“Doesn’t matter how you catch their souls, Father, as long as you draw them to the church,” she’d told him as she’d arranged the trays of treats beside the front door.

He had to agree. Bribery wasn’t always a bad thing.

He went to the sideboard and poured a small glass of port wine. The night was cool, and he wanted something to warm his blood. Or numb his mind. Images of Henri Bastion’s drab funeral were lodged in his brain.

Deputy Thibodeaux had ordered the coffin hammered shut with headless nails—an act to thwart the curious from gazing at the body. The undertaker had refused to answer any questions. Even Doc Fletcher had been tight-lipped and brusque. Raymond had buttoned up the town officials in an effort to calm the talk and stop fear from growing.

Michael took a seat before the small fire he’d built and sipped the port. The sweet, fiery taste soothed him. At least the cool weather would thin the insect population. The rampaging fevers would end. The latest news on the war seemed more hopeful than ever. American troops were crawling across Europe, routing the Germans. There was hushed talk that victory would soon be at hand.

He got out his missal to read the Scriptures for the following day. Preparing the homily had always been one of his favorite parts of the job. Rome dictated the Scriptures, but it was up to him to bring the interpretation to the residents of New Iberia, to explain it with parables and stories that made it relevant to the hard life of many of his congregation.

When he’d first joined the priesthood, he’d had no doubts about his calling. He’d known in his blood that the Lord had work for him, and he’d walked away from the rich history and relative comfort of his Boston family with the idea that he would eventually be posted to Ireland, where his family roots were embedded in the limestone. The focus of his studies—and interests—had lain with helping to settle the plague of violence that had rent Northern Ireland and pitted brother against brother. Instead, he’d been sent to the dark marshlands where language, culture, and tradition all worked against him.

In the ten years he’d served as priest at St. Peter’s, he’d found more questions than answers. Until Rosa. Rosa Hebert had been a gift from God, a messenger sent directly to Michael, a sign that God had not forsaken him and the people of lower Louisiana. Rosa, with her terrible suffering and the miracle of her wounds, would have been—should have been—the indisputable fact of God’s love and existence, for him and his congregation.

Rome had not seen it that way.

The Vatican had balked, finding reason after reason not to investigate the miracle, holding back approval or even acknowledgment of something so powerful. And while the cardinals debated the propriety of Rosa Hebert’s selection to bear the marks of Jesus, Rosa had begun to deteriorate. With each of her doubts, his own grew.

He’d seen it and been unable to give her the comfort and strength to stop the process. He’d been so caught up in the possibilities that her fame would bring that he’d been unable to help her. He’d failed her, and he’d failed himself. And in the process, he’d failed God.

He got his pen and paper from the desk and returned to the fire, pushing his feet out to warm. The parish house was drafty and cold, but cold was better than summer. Even his mind worked better in the cool months.

He jotted a few notes, pausing at the sound of tapping on the study window. He looked up, but the pane was empty. He returned to his work, but his concentration was fragmented. Lately, thoughts of Rosa had tormented him more than usual. All of this business with Adele and her transformation into the
loup-garou
was a mockery of Rosa’s true suffering. Satan could manifest himself, he knew it for a fact as surely as he knew that God could mark the hands of a woman with the wounds of a spike. What he couldn’t determine was whether Adele was Satan’s revenge, or if she were simply a woman deluded with grief and fever, as Raymond insisted.

The sound of breaking pottery made him stand up. He went to the study window and looked out over the garden. The moon wasn’t full, but it was bright, and he could see the paths that led among the dying roses. The last cool snap was finishing them off. In the moonlight, the mums were different gradations of silvery gray.

Nothing seemed amiss, yet he’d distinctly heard the sound of something breaking. The wind hadn’t been strong enough to blow over a pot. He put the pen and paper away and walked to the back door.