“What is it?” Delta questioned. The fire leaped into the sky and seemed to come from close by. The noise became deafening. Above and intermingled with the drums and stamping of feet on the bare ground, came the sounds of ringing bells and chanting voices.
Brett took her arm, edging her into a thick stand of reeds. “A Voodoo ceremony,” he whispered directly into her ear, which was the only way she could have heard anything other than a shout.
Carl nudged his boat alongside Brett’s and jumped ashore. “Crazy Mary’s called out les petits habitants, oui,” he joked.
“Who?” Delta asked.
“That’s what the Anglais call us bayou folk.” Carl slapped Brett on the shoulder. “For truth, us bayou folk are all out tonight, mon ami. When this is over, Anatole, we expect you to throw a fais-do-do, sure.”
“Count on it,” Brett quipped. He nodded toward the sounds. “How do we get around this?”
“We don’t. We’ll go through, less chance of bein’ noticed that way. Stay in the middle; we’ll surround you.” Taking a kerchief from his pocket, Carl tied it around Brett’s head.
Delta’s brain whirred. Her mouth was dry. He looked like the pirate from her nightmare.
Brett grasped her hand. “Stick close until I tell you, then Carl will take you someplace safe.”
“And nearby,” she added.
He squeezed her hand. “Oui.”
Carl restrained Brett with a hand to his arm. “The place, it is ringed with troopers.”
Delta tensed. Her feet stopped in midstride.
Brett tugged on her hand. “Don’t let them spook you. You don’t look anything like that journalist who ran off with a gambler.”
“But you look like—” Anatole Dupré, she thought.
They moved into the pack of dancing, drinking people. Someone passed a bottle to Delta, and Brett whispered in her ear. “Take a swig. I doubt Maman would allow them to use anything—” he paused, shrugged, and she saw him grin in the dancing light, “—anything truly offensive.”
She glanced at the mouth of the jug, then back to him.
“Try to fit in,” he encouraged.
Lifting the jug, she took a swig of something that tasted like watered-down whiskey. “A ti’ drink,” she whispered, but he couldn’t hear for the noise.
Since he had begun to dance around in imitation of the other dancers, she tried it, too. All around her bodies swayed. Her loose-fitting bayou dress matched the garments worn by the other women, except for a few who wore long flowing robes.
Then she spied Crazy Mary. Garbed in a long white robe belted in purple, Brett’s mother danced alone on a platform near the bonfire. On her head she wore a kerchief that was tied in such a manner that numerous points protruded from her head like spikes. Around her neck she wore strand after strand of necklaces, some of gold, some silver, some glass. Emanating energy and power, Crazy Mary looked every bit the witch—unearthly and strangely beautiful.
Delta stared transfixed. “I thought she wasn’t a Voodooienne,” she called into Brett’s ear.
“She isn’t. Voodooiennes are free women of color, but she’s banking on Trainor not making the distinction. The Vodu is that snake in her hand.”
Delta’s breath caught in her throat. From all sides dancers jostled her, but she paid no heed.
“She’s dancing with a snake?”
“Not just any snake,” Brett said. “That’s supposed to be the holy serpent.”
Delta’s eyes widened.
“According to Voodoo legend the first man and woman were blind and the snake gave them sight, so he became the god of the Voodoo religion.”
Delta glanced behind her to see if any troopers had heard. Looking back to the center of the ring, she watched Crazy Mary toss the snake into the crowd. The dancers cheered. From below someone handed Crazy Mary a bowl, which she held to the heavens as though blessing it, afterwards drinking a long draft of its contents. Again the crowd cheered.
Crazy Mary began to chant. The crowd joined her. Since the words were French, Delta had no idea what was being said, but beside her Brett picked up the song.
“You’ve done this before?” she shouted in his ear.
He shook his head.
“How do you know the words?”
Drawing her to his side, he spoke close to her ear. “Because that isn’t a Voodoo chant, it’s a bayou song. I’ve been singing it all my life.”
“But what if—?”
He squeezed her hand. “Even if they recognize the song, they won’t know the difference.”
They made their way slowly through the writhing, chanting, dancing people. Delta cast about, searching for those who, like herself, might look out of place. She had no idea what the governor looked like, but he was certain to stand out in this gathering.
“Are they sure he’s here?” she questioned Brett.
He nodded.
On the platform Crazy Mary drank again from the bowl, then handed it down.
“Pass it around,” came the cry. “Pass it around.”
“What’s in the bowl?” she asked.
“Blood. Remember that chicken she killed the other day?”
“Chicken blood?” She shuddered. The idea that the bowl might make its way around to her with even a drop left in it became a nauseating possibility. “Old chicken blood?”
Brett chuckled. “What happened to that adventurous journalist I met on the showboat?”
Delta glanced right and left at his remarks. “She would never have drunk old chicken blood.”
“Never?”
She shook her head.
“Not even to save the hide of an old reformed pirate?”
Around them some of the men and women began dancing together. Delta slipped her arm around Brett’s waist and moved closer to his side. “Perhaps not never,” she admitted. “But I hope I don’t have to.”
He pressed her tightly against him, maneuvering her through the throng, which had by now formed into a writhing line that inched its way toward a cauldron bubbling on the bonfire. Each person who danced by dropped something into the pot.
“What are they doing?” she demanded, worried now lest they be discovered because they had nothing to add to the cauldron.
“That’s the Voodoo brew,” Brett explained, then added as if he had read her thoughts. “Don’t worry, we’ll slip through the crowd. That was Maman’s purpose in assembling such a large group, I suppose. We can move around unnoticed.”
Not until they reached the other side of the gathering did Delta realize that they were no more than a hundred yards south of Crazy Mary’s cabin, the opposite direction from the graves.
Suddenly the reality of their purpose here tonight worked its way through the frenzied fantasy surrounding them. Delta watched Brett scan the crowd. His traveling gaze came to a halt. She saw him glare across the gathering at a man who looked as out of place as she felt—black suit and tie, complete with starched collar. A choleric expression reddened his pale face.
William Trainor? Instinctively Delta knew that citified man must be the governor. So, he had come. Like a knife wound to the heart, she knew the dangerous part of their plan had now begun. Until now they had been skirting the issue, much as they had skirted the dancing Voodoos. Now they faced it.
As she watched, afraid to take her eyes away from the slight, balding man, a second man approached him from out of the crowd. They spoke.
Delta gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth before she blurted out his name.
“What?” Brett questioned.
“That’s Cameron. Talking to—”
Brett shrugged. “You knew to expect him.”
“I didn’t expect him to be on speaking terms with the enemy.” Her thoughts quickly formulated into a plan of action. “I’ll talk to him. Perhaps if—”
“No.” Brett’s arm left her shoulders. He grasped her tightly about the upper arm. “Everything’s set in motion, Delta. We can’t change the plan now.”
“Then take Delta,” Brett told him. He squeezed her shoulders again, drawing her near. When she looked up, his eyes were serious. “Go with Carl. I’ll find you when it’s over.”
They stood still as death, while the music and the chanting throbbed around them, beating up in her ears, closing out all the things she wanted to say, choking the words in her throat, damming the tears in her eyes. She nodded.
Carl took her by the arm. Brett moved away. She caught his sleeve.
When he turned back, she smiled. “Don’t worry about me. I promise not to play a meddling journalist.”
He winked, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.
She allowed Carl to lead her away from the clearing, her mind gyrating in much the same way as the dancers. Trained from an early age to trust her family, everything inside her cried to run to Cameron. Only with the greatest effort did she resist. Brett was right. The plan had been set in motion. Any change she made could cause it to fail.
And failure meant death, death for Brett. Desperately she strove to quiet her racing heart. Dozens of worries filled her mind. Questions buzzed like angry bees inside her head, but she dared not ask them now.
Carl led her into the dense woods beyond Crazy Mary’s house, along a route she decided must parallel the path to the graves. The undergrowth was thick and soon they were in total darkness. With no more than a tug, Carl indicated she should kneel. She complied.
Where was Brett? She hadn’t seen where he went, but she knew he must be close by—somewhere closer to the graves than she and Carl, she prayed. She wanted to ask but dared not make a sound.
She wondered where Gabriel and Pierre were, but she dared not ask that, either. The troopers were all about; there must have been a couple of dozen at the Voodoo ceremony. She had seen none of them around the woods, but she didn’t doubt that if a ruckus arose, they would converge on the area like a horde of hungry alligators.
And then there was Cameron. Had Stuart come, too? Had they brought a force of Pinkertons? Obviously they were here to aid the governor. How far would they go to that end? Anxiety gnawed at her stomach. She clenched her hands into fists and gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering.
She never had been good at sitting things out.
Brett distanced himself from Delta as quickly as he could. If he were discovered, he didn’t want her connected to him in any way. Gaston, Carl’s brother, whispered something in his ear and thrust a jug of whiskey in his hand.
Brett nodded—then waited while Gaston distracted the nearest trooper—before lifting the jug to his lips and staggering drunkenly away from the clearing. By the time he reached the nearest stand of trees, sweat had broken out along his arms.
Fear. He had lived with it off and on for ten years. Tonight he must make fear his ally. For Delta’s sake. And for his own.
Slipping quickly through the trees, Brett skirted the graves and hid behind the giant oak tree that marked Nicole’s grave. Setting the jug aside, he withdrew the knife at his waist and fingered its blade. He carried it only as a last resort, but if push came to shove, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
For two days he had pondered over what to do should Trainor fail to take the bait, and the knife had presented itself as the only solution. Unless he confessed, Trainor alive would always be a threat—to Brett and to Delta. If he used it, of course, they would be forced to live in hiding the rest of their lives. But unless Trainor confessed, they would have to do that anyway.
Footsteps crept stealthily down the path. Brett stood poised, alert. Away from the bonfire his night vision improved, aided by a shaft of moonlight that pierced the oak branches and fell in a scattered beam between the two graves. A small flickering light, the black candle, he supposed, burned at the head of the small grave, just beneath the listing wooden cross.
Although Brett could not see clearly, he could identify forms. And he would recognize William Trainor in the fires of hell, he thought, watching the governor approach the graves. Trainor peered clandestinely over each shoulder, then fell to his knees at the head of the little grave. Flinging the black candle aside, he began scratching in the earth beneath it.
Brett’s stomach contorted. For a moment he thought he might be sick. But there was the sick man—sick to the depths of his soul. Any man who would murder his own sister was sick. But the man who would murder an innocent child was evil through and through.
Brett fingered the knife. The urge to kill another human being struck him a powerful blow. He fought it down.
Trainor’s digging hands suddenly stopped. Brett watched him stare into the hole he had made, then begin to dig more energetically. Again Trainor stopped. This time he scooped a box out of the earth and tore into it.
Brett stepped into the clearing. “Looks like your luck just ran out, Trainor.”
The governor started. His eyes searched Brett from top to bottom, then riveted on Brett’s face. “You ignorant bayou scum.” He dropped the box and fumbled for something at his belt. “I’ve got you now.” His threat, emitted through a constricted throat, lost much of its emphasis.
Brett kicked the gun out of the governor’s hand before it cleared his belt. His knife blade glinted in the shaft of moonlight. “Pick up the box and look inside.”
Trainor glanced down at the little wooden box, which had fallen open on top of the small grave. Brett watched the man’s hand twitch, watched him recoil from touching the box.
“Pick it up—unless you’re afraid to.”
“You ignorant bastard,” Trainor spat. “You think you can scare me with all this hocus-pocus? Think again. I have two dozen state troopers around that witch’s house waiting for my signal.” When he attempted to rise to his feet, Brett kicked again, this time knocking the governor off balance.
“I said look inside the box.”
“It’s a trick,” Trainor accused, regaining his balance. “A trick played by that Voodoo witch you call a mother.”
“Then why did you fall for it?”
“I didn’t.”
“Why are you here?”
“To put a stop to her sacrilege.”
“Ah? Then why didn’t you send your troopers? I’ve known you a long time William Trainor. I’d wager that, except for their funerals, the last time you personally came into the bayou was to murder my wife and daughter.”
“Wager all you want. You can’t prove a thing.”
“No? Look inside that box.”
Trainor’s gaze wavered, but again he stopped short of touching the box. Using the toe of his boot Brett nudged the box closer to the man’s hands. When he did so, the stickpin fell out. Moonlight reflected off it.
Trainor stared at the piece of gold as though under a spell.
“Now tell me you don’t believe in witchcraft.”
“That’s what’s wrong with you people.” Disdain dripped from Trainor’s voice. “You rely on witchcraft, when you should use your brains. Not that you have any. I’ll—”
Brett ignored the man’s outburst. “That’s the stickpin bearing your illustrious family’s crest. The stickpin you lost in my kitchen the night you murdered my wife and daughter.”
Trainor’s hand darted toward the stickpin. Quickly he jerked it away. “That’s absurd. You can’t prove such a thing.”
“No? Madame Hebert saw you at the house that night,” Brett lied. “And the day of the funeral, M’sieur Hebert saw you groveling on your hands and knees, searching for something on my kitchen floor.”
Trainor reached for the stickpin. Without examining it, he clutched it in his hand. “The only thing this proves is your ignorance,” he retorted. “Yours and that Voodoo queen’s.”
“Call us any name you want, Trainor, except one—murderer is your epitaph.”
Trainor snorted. “You think so? You think this is evidence against me?” His eyes darted right
and left, taking in the dark forest that encircled them like the void of space encircles a star, isolating them, lending an aura of privacy, of secrecy. His eyes fastened on Brett. “If you want to hear it, all right. Yes, I killed that whoring sister of mine. Was I to leave her alive to ruin my chances for a respectable public service career? Think about it Dupré. I did you a favor.”
“You framed me,” Brett returned. “You murdered my wife—whether we loved each other isn’t the issue—and you murdered my daughter. A child, Trainor. An innocent child who never had a chance to do you wrong.”
“She saw me.”
Brett gripped his emotions. All he wanted at the moment was to bound across the grave and strangle William Trainor. To hell with the knife. He wanted to feel life ebb out of the man. But Delta was out there somewhere, waiting, watching. Delta, and his own future. And this time he would do everything right.
“So you admit murdering Nicole and Olivia?”
“I wouldn’t have killed the child, Dupré. Not if she hadn’t seen it all. I didn’t count on her being home when I sent word for Nicole to meet me at your cabin. I didn’t set out to kill Olivia. I’m not depraved.”
Brett tightened his grip on the knife handle. “You’re the only person in this world who could believe such a thing.”
“No.” Trainor stood, straightened his spine and his tie, and smiled broadly at Brett. “You’re the only person in the wold who will ever hear those words. I don’t have to kill you. I have two dozen men to take care of the task. But I figure the voters would like a good old-fashioned hanging.” He glared across the graves. “In the meantime if you dare utter one word of our conversation, I promise you, your mother will be the first to pay. And that girl who left the boat with you will be next.”
Brett’s stomach bunched in knots, but he returned the governor’s insolent smile with one of amusement. “Don’t count on it.” He lifted his hands, motioning to each side. “You can call me bayou scum all you like, Trainor, but I doubt you’ll ever call me ignorant again.”
Trainor stared, aghast, as several men stepped into the clearing. He turned to run, but before he could move two paces, other men stepped from the woods.
Sunrise Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Three Page 36
