Fever Moon (23 page)

Raymond stepped away from the car as Pinkney put it in gear. The vehicle jerked forward, and he thought he heard a faint curse from Florence. It was the first word she’d spoken since they left Baton Rouge. He’d had no opportunity to tell her his regrets or to try to make amends. She was having none of him.

Shit was coming down like an August rain, thick and relentless. Everywhere he turned, things had shifted out of his control. There wasn’t a moment of any day that he didn’t feel the shrapnel in his hip and back. Most days he could put it out of his mind, ignore the sensation of metal on bone that could one day be his invitation to paralysis. The long drive to Baton Rouge had aggravated his discomfort.

Before he went inside the sheriff’s office, he walked down to Praytor’s car. The light from the window of the sheriff’s office was bright enough for him to check the tread on the tire. Expecting to find a match to the prints he’d discovered at Madame’s, he felt disappointment as he ran his hand over the rubber. There was a little tread left, but not much. Not like the prints he’d found. Someone else had been at Madame’s.

He walked into the sheriff’s office as Praytor drew back his hand and slapped the older Bastion boy.

“Listen, you little brat, you’re going to tell us what we want to know,” Praytor said.

Before anyone else could react, the boy launched himself at Praytor. He wrapped himself, monkeylike, around Praytor’s right leg and sank his teeth into the thigh.

“Oh, goddamn!” Praytor tried to shake the boy off. “Goddamn!” He spun, slamming his leg and the boy into a desk. The boy hung on, gnawing ferociously.

The younger boy climbed onto his chair and began to scream. “Bite him, Caleb. Tear out a hunk!”

Joe stood frozen in panic near the cells. Raymond took four strides and grabbed Caleb Bastion by the back of the pants and dragged him free of Praytor’s bloody leg.

“You fuckin’ little monster!” Praytor drew back his good leg and aimed it at the boy’s head. As he delivered the kick, Raymond pulled Caleb out of range. He deftly caught the heel of Praytor’s silver-tipped boot and flipped him backward. Praytor hit the floor so hard it knocked the breath out of him and for a moment he lay stunned.

Still holding on to Caleb, Raymond grasped the younger boy by the scruff of the neck. He propelled both of them into a cell and slammed the door locked. He turned to Joe. “What were you thinking? They’re children.”

“Where have you been?” Joe looked over the desk to see if Praytor was alive. “You likta killed him. His leg is bleedin’ bad.” He glared at the boys who were hanging on to the bars with both fists. They grinned back at him.

“Cockroaches have survived since man crept out of the muck. It’ll take more than a bite and a fall to kill Praytor.”

“Very funny. Where the hell have you been?” Joe tucked in his shirttail.

“We’ll talk later.”

“Where’s Adele Hebert? These boys say she was running loose through town last night.”

“Yeah, I heard that from Pinkney. Running and howling and slobbering. Aren’t these the boys who hung a scarecrow in a tree to torment a priest? Pretty reliable witnesses, I’d say.”

Joe looked at the boys and sighed. “Yeah. They did that. They told the priest that their daddy was meeting Adele in the tractor shed and that they saw her turn into a wolf and kill him.”

“And you’re willing to believe every word.”

Praytor shoved at the desk as he slowly sat up. He glared at Raymond. “You’re not so damn smart. The boys saw Adele runnin’ loose in town. You know it’s true, too. You’re protecting that crazy bitch. She’s killed a man and taken a young-un and still you won’t put a bullet in her brain and get it done.”

Raymond felt the pressure in his chest, the tightening of his scalp. After Antoine was killed, Raymond had become a killing machine. He’d taken any risky assignment, launched himself at the Germans as if he were invincible. He shot and stabbed and bludgeoned, but it was all too late. Nothing he’d done had been able to erase the sight of Antoine lying dead. In all of the violence, he’d accomplished only one thing—to add to the horror of his memory. When he’d finally been stopped by shrapnel and sent home, he’d vowed never to lose control, not of his temper or his heart. Now, though, the idea of smashing his fist into Praytor’s face was almost irresistible. “Praytor, why is it so important to you that Adele die? Surely a courageous man like yourself isn’t afraid of a werewolf.” He howled softly.

“Stop it.” Joe stepped between them. “Where is Adele, Raymond?”

“She’s safe.” He had no intention of saying anything in front of Praytor. Had he wanted to confide in Joe, he wouldn’t do so with an audience.

“You didn’t take her to Lafayette.”

“I know. She’s somewhere the likes of Praytor Bless and his mob can’t get her.”

“If I want her, that old conjure woman won’t stop me.” Praytor slowly gained his feet. “Neither will you, Thibodeaux. Folks around New Iberia deserve protection. Everybody knows you’re under the spell cast by Adele Hebert. Next full moon, you gone grow long teeth and hair. We’ll be shootin’ you along with her.”

For a moment Raymond could see nothing but a starburst of crimson. He fought to maintain control and willed himself not to beat Praytor to a pulp. “Most folks in town tolerate you, Praytor, because of your mama. They know you’re a coward and a fool, but out of respect for Mrs. Bless, they don’t say it to your face. Get out of here before I kick your ass up one side of Main Street and down the other.”

Praytor stood for a moment, then turned and limped out, a scattering of blood droplets flying from the wound on his leg as he stomped out the door.

Joe took a seat behind his desk, straightening a stack of papers. “Where’ve you been, Raymond?”

“Following a lead in Baton Rouge.”

“With Florence Delacroix?”

“Yes, sir.” He held Joe’s gaze. “Whatever else you think, Sheriff, don’t buy into this idea that Adele Hebert is the
loup-garou
and that she’s running loose all over town.”

Caleb Bastion shook the bars of the cell. “You either stupid as pig shit or lyin’. I’m telling you, Adele Hebert’s runnin’ loose in town. Halloween night she was in Mrs. McLemore’s backyard. I seen her and so did that post office woman. Likta scared her and her sweetheart into runnin’ home.” He laughed. “She can cover some ground, I’ll tell you that.”

“Raymond, I want you to go and get Adele now. I want her in a cell and locked down.” Joe placed his hands on top of his desk, fingers spread. “Don’t argue, just go do it. If she is runnin’ all over town, there’s a chance she has the Baxter child.”

Raymond knew he had no choice but to obey. If he didn’t pretend to go and get Adele, Joe would send someone else. By pretending, he could at least gain some time to try to find Adele.

“Yes, sir,” he finally said. He walked to the door. As he pulled it open, Chula Baker tumbled into the office, her hair askew and her body trembling.

“Raymond,” she said, grasping his forearms and hanging on. “Raymond, you’ve got to go to the Bastion farm. That foreman is killing two of the men.” She gasped. “I tried to talk to him, but he said if I didn’t leave he’d gut them on the spot. You have to stop him.”

Raymond pushed past her, realizing too late that she had a little girl with her. He almost tripped on the child as he ran toward the street where a pair of headlights came straight at him.

He could hear Joe talking to Chula, trying to calm her. He knew what was happening. Veedal had somehow figured out that Daniel Blackfeather had spoken with him. Now Veedal intended to make Daniel pay the price. Daniel and someone else, someone who hadn’t talked but who would make a prime example to the men of what happened when any of them broke the code of silence.

Flames from a bonfire leaped into the November sky. Raymond drove straight for it, cutting across the fields, the patrol car bucking and twisting. Instead of slowing, he pressed harder on the gas. The scene before him came directly from hell.

Veedal had erected two wooden crosses. Two human forms hung from them, the limp weight of the bodies dragging at the ropes that held them. Both men were either unconscious or dead. Huddled in front of the crosses were the rest of the convicts, and walking in front of them, tapping the handle of a whip, was Veedal Lawrence.

“Lawrence! Back away from the men!” Raymond yelled at him through the open car window. “Back away now!”

Raymond pinned Veedal in the headlights, hoping that the foreman would step away from the prisoners. Veedal saw the approaching vehicle as it bumped over the field, and he turned back to the men on the crosses. He raised his right hand, the barrel of the pistol pointing at Daniel Blackfeather’s chest.

Raymond pushed the gas to the floor, gripping the steering wheel with all of his strength as the front tires dug into the row, plowed upward, and launched forward. The center of the wooden bumper struck Veedal in the thighs. The foreman disappeared beneath the car, the surprise on his face almost comic.

Before Raymond could bring the car under control, he was thirty yards past the bonfire. He got out and ran back, ignoring what felt like a surge of electrical voltage that started in his back and made him clamp his mouth to keep back a cry of pain.

By the time he got to the cross where Daniel Blackfeather hung, he was limping severely. “Help me,” he called to the convicts.

In one clanking mass, they rushed forward to hold up Daniel’s body as he cut him down. They moved to the second man, the tall blond-haired fellow, and cut his bonds, too.

“Get water,” he told them.

“There ain’t none here.”

“Put Daniel and the other one in the car.” Raymond was sweating. He could feel it pouring from his head and down his back. His legs were on fire. “Where are the keys to your leg irons?”

“Veedal’s got ’em.” The men turned in unison to look at the foreman. Blood leaked from his mouth and he made strange floundering movements with his arms.

Raymond walked over and searched the foreman’s pockets until he got the keys. He unlocked the first man. “I’m taking these injured men to Doc Fletcher’s. I want you to unchain everyone else. I want you all to go up to the stables and get some water and food. Don’t try to escape. If you run, they’ll track you down and kill you. You’ll be part of a sport. Now load Veedal up in my car.”

“Leave him to us.” A small black man stepped forward. Scars ran across his face and arms.

Raymond shook his head as he picked up the pistol Veedal had dropped. “He’s going to the doctor along with the other two.”

“You can’t take him. You can hardly walk.” The man stepped closer to Veedal so that he could look down on him. “We should have him.”

Raymond pointed to three other prisoners. “I’ll drive the car back over here, and we’re going to load all three of them. If Veedal dies on the way, I won’t grieve it. But I’m not leaving him to die in the dirt.”

“You don’t know what he done to Blackfeather and Smith.” The small man’s eyes burned.

Raymond looked down at Veedal. The foreman’s eyes were clouded with pain, but he was conscious. And he was scared. His fingers clasped Raymond’s boot, squeezing, begging.

Veedal Lawrence deserved to die, for all the things he’d done in the past. He’d had no mercy on the men he was charged to oversee. If Raymond let him live, would he regret it? Raymond shook free of Veedal’s grasp. His hand tightened on Veedal’s gun, and he brought the barrel to point at Veedal’s forehead. Pain, like an electric current, sang along his spine as he stood in the dancing shadows of the fire.

The convicts were completely still. The only sound was the crackle of the bonfire and the rasp of Veedal’s breath.

“Kill him.” A convict stepped forward, leg irons clanking. “Do it.”

Raymond’s finger tightened on the trigger, almost involuntarily. Killing was the price he paid. He brought death. That was his job.

“Do it!” The prisoner stepped closer. “Do it!”

Raymond forced the gun down to his side. “No. Let him stand trial for what he’s done.”

He walked back to the car and drove slowly to where the men waited. His back hurt, and he was afraid he would lose control of his legs. He had to get medical treatment for the men. He had to get to Adele.

M
ICHAEL stood at the window of Doc Fletcher’s guest room trying to calm his thoughts. Behind him, the sound of labored breathing came from the bed where Veedal Lawrence struggled to live. Instead of generating sympathy, the sound was like a rasp against Michael’s skin, agitating and annoying. He’d administered the last rites, but he was finding it impossible to offer comfort to the man in the bed. His preference would be to walk out, but instead he surveyed the room, seeking strength in the orderliness of his surroundings. Men like Doc, a few men, had imposed order and civility on the swamp around them. It was possible to tame the wilderness, but now Michael better understood his distaste for Iberia Parish, for the primitive impulses that ruled land and creature. That nurtured men like Veedal Lawrence.

The horror of it was unsettling, and Michael tried to remember what the old physician had told him about the history of the house during spring socials as they sat in the shade. Built in the early 1800s by a North Carolina planter who’d settled in Acadia and tripled his wealth in rice and cane—until he backed the wrong side of the Civil War—the house had gracious rooms, each with a fireplace and crown molding that showed the intricate craftsmanship of a superior carpenter. It was a lovely house where time seemed frozen in the past, a place where the very ill came to either be cured or to die.

Outside the window the lawn sloped past elegant live oaks, a croquet field, bird baths, and a large pavilion to the quick waters of the Teche. Michael knew this because he’d spent many a Sunday afternoon on the pleasant grounds. Now, fog shrouded the familiar scene and muffled the sound of a tug headed downstream. Looking outside was like trying to see through multiple layers of cheesecloth. Only the harshness of Veedal’s breathing was sharply in focus on this bleak November morning.