He closed his hot eyes against his churning thoughts. He had to be up at first light. He’d left his car in town and walked to Florence’s, as much for her reputation as his own. Some of her customers wouldn’t feel right about her if she was a deputy’s main punch. Some of the townsfolk wouldn’t feel right about him if they thought he was courting Florence. It was best to be discreet. Besides, he had work to do and the earlier the better. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.
9
MICHAEL Finley used his finger to pull the starched clerical collar away from his neck. He’d gained weight during the summer, but the cold months would lean him back up. That was his body pattern—to eat and drink and enjoy during the hot days when sleeping through the afternoon was a necessity rather than a vice. During the winter, he chopped wood and found exercise to be more pleasurable—if cold weather ever came this year. November loomed close at hand and except for the storm that had blown through a few days before, there hadn’t been even a whisper of cool. Good for the cane and mosquitoes, hard for the people.
He brewed a pot of the strong Louisiana coffee heavily laced with bitter chicory. Since the war, real coffee had become hard to find anywhere, but the population of Iberia Parish had a head start on the rest of the country in learning to accept substitutes. Long used to isolation and self-sufficiency, the settlers of the marshlands of Iberia Parish preferred chicory coffee to the pure thing. It had taken Michael time to develop a taste for the Cajun blend, but now he loved it, topped off with scalded cream. He took a cup out the back door of his kitchen to wander his rose garden.
Try as he might, he couldn’t avoid the wrought-iron fence at the back of the garden and the magnificent oak beyond that. Another flood of guilt at the thought of Rosa Hebert threatened to swamp him. She’d known his joy in his garden and that tree. She’d also known how he betrayed her. That’s why she’d chosen that tree in which to kill herself.
He stood for a moment in front of a Fire and Ice blossom reordering his thoughts. His first act was to ask God for forgiveness. For Rosa, who’d acted in pain and torment. She’d never meant to harm him in any way. It was his own failing that gave him feelings of inadequacy. He’d let Rosa down when she needed him most, and it was that knowledge that kept the site of her suicide so fresh in his mind.
“Father Finley?”
The voice startled him and he turned swiftly, hot coffee slipping over his hand. “Who’s there?” The voice was female, and not one he could place.
“It’s Chula Baker. I have a letter for you. From Rome. I thought it might be urgent so I brought it on over.”
Chula appeared at the garden gate. If she was aware of the tree behind her and what it represented, she didn’t show it. She opened the gate on a metal protest and walked toward the priest, hand extended with a battered letter. “I knocked at the front door, but when no one answered, I figured you might be having coffee here in the garden.” She looked around. “It’s so lovely. Amazing. Mother’s roses are still blooming, too. Your mums are a nice touch, but the heat is hard on them.”
He took the letter. “Thank you, Chula.”
“Have a good day, Father.” The gate creaked like the cry of a banshee, and then she was gone.
Michael held the letter in one hand and his coffee in the other, trying hard to clear his mind. He put his coffee down and tore open the seal. He read the words twice before the pages fluttered from his hands.
Rosa’s suicide had undone all he’d worked to accomplish. He had direct orders from the Holy See to abandon his attempts to get Rosa declared an authentic stigmatic. The letter’s language was strong and clear—any further efforts on his part would be viewed as disobedience and heresy. He was to focus on tending to the needs of his parish in a “modest and humble fashion.” He didn’t have to read between the lines to see that he was being viewed as a glory-grabber.
He stepped on the pages as he walked to the gate. Holding the wrought iron like a prisoner might bars, he looked at the oak. It was said that every oak was a sign that Mary had visited. Wherever an oak grew, her foot was said to have stepped. But he could muster no belief that Mary or any other deity had found cause to put a foot down in this accursed land.
His fists gripped the gate as he slid to his knees. The bleak future rose before him, and he surrendered himself to the darkness of disappointment. A miracle had been put in his hands, and he’d destroyed it. His faith in Rosa had faltered. He’d questioned her late one evening, demanding to know if she injured herself. No matter how many years passed, he would never forget the look on her face. Later that night, she’d hung herself. His moment of doubt had made her doubt herself, and she was dead because of him as surely as if he’d knotted the rope around her neck and thrown her from the tree.
Solid hands gripped his arms. Shame at his own weakness touched him as he swiveled on his knees to look into the eyes of Colista LaSalle, his housekeeper.
“Come inside, Father Finley,” she said, urging him to his feet with her strong hands. “Come on with you. The garden’s no place to be found on your knees by any of the nuns or schoolchildren.”
He allowed her to assist him to his feet. “I was praying. For Rosa. And for myself.”
“Your breakfast is getting cold.” Her insistent grip pulled him toward the back door.
He stepped away from her. “Thank you, Colista.” He couldn’t meet her gaze. He had no desire to see the questions in her eyes. “I’ll be along in a moment.”
“You’re better now?”
He nodded curtly. “I’ll just finish my meditation and be inside in a moment.”
She turned and walked inside, never looking back.
Her footsteps faded and he got slowly to his feet. Not all the prayers in the world could undo what had happened to Rosa. The best he could do would be to go inside and eat the hearty breakfast she’d prepared as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
The musky smell of the moccasin drifted to Raymond on the breeze. He froze. If he was close enough to smell it, the snake had seen him. Behind him something large plopped into the water. He could only pray it was a turtle and not an alligator. Around his head a swarm of mosquitoes hummed and buzzed, an irritation he couldn’t afford to acknowledge. The snake was a danger that required all of his attention.
His gaze moved from the log in front of him to the pile of leaves and dead limbs, the scuppernong vine that for a moment made his heart pound. The snake, colored to blend in with the environment, was impossible to find. He dared not move until he did, though. Some snakes, like rattlers, gave a warning and only struck if frightened or provoked. Moccasins were more aggressive. The damn thing could be hanging in the trees, waiting to drop on his shoulders.
Lucky for him the water that lapped at the edges of the path was still and quiet. During floods, when the current was swift, he’d seen as many as fifty moccasins, all balled together, spinning in the water. Here, he should be able to spot the telltale V that would ripple across the still surface as the snake swam in lazy zigs and zags. The water gave back a perfect reflection of the swamp unblemished by movement of any creature. He moved his gaze to the land around him. In the muted tones of the earth, the snake was well hidden.
The stench was strong. He’d undoubtedly awakened the creature while it sunned, taking advantage of the warm October morning. He looked behind him, hoping he’d already stepped over the reptile. His gun was drawn and ready, but he preferred to use the machete he’d brought for just this purpose. Before he’d set out to find Clifton Hebert, he’d gathered tools for maneuvering around the swamps.
At last he saw the creature, not four feet in front of him. The snake was so thick and fat that he’d mistaken it for a dead stick. It watched him, completely motionless, waiting for him to step closer so it could strike above the top of his boot.
He took one step forward and brought the machete’s blade down, slicing off the snake’s head with a clean stroke. When he stood up, he was facing the open jaws
of a powerful dog. The animal’s lips were curled in a silent snarl. It hadn’t made a sound as it approached him. One ear had been torn from its head, and there were scars about its muzzle and over its body. Some had been serious injuries that had been poorly sewn up.
He dropped his gaze. He’d been taught in the service not to challenge a dog with a direct look. He could shoot the animal, but he didn’t want to. He had no doubt that at last he’d come upon Clifton Hebert’s lair. He didn’t want to piss the swamp man off by killing his hound.
“Cesar!” The voice boomed through the trees, echoing so that Raymond couldn’t place where it came from. “Come here, you.”
The dog trotted back into the swamp, looking as if it walked on water.
“Clifton Hebert!” Raymond called out the man’s name. “I’m Deputy Raymond Thibodeaux and I need to talk to you. Your sister is in serious trouble.”
“Rosa is dead, and if that Bernadette is needin’ help and more money, you tell her to kiss my ass, her.”
Raymond filed that away and yelled, “It’s Adele.”
A curse was followed by the sound of someone slogging through water without a care for any of the dangerous creatures. When Raymond saw Clifton, he was waist deep in the water, a rifle held over his head to keep it dry, coming through the slough at a steady pace. Raymond had grown up in Iberia Parish, and he’d learned that those who didn’t tread with caution often died. No one had ever taught Clifton that lesson.
“Where’s that fool Adele at?” Clifton spoke while he was still thirty yards away, but it was time enough for Raymond to take in the man’s stunning physique. He was possibly six-six or -seven with shoulders as wide as a door frame. His black hair, matted and filthy, grew to his waist. Though it was a warm day, he wore a dark green jacket with long sleeves, the pockets bulging.
“You deaf?” Clifton demanded when he was ten yards away. “Where’s my sister at?”
“She’s very ill. I took her to a traiteur.” Raymond didn’t want to tell him Adele was in jail.
Clifton walked out of the water and onto the path, a giant. Raymond was tall, but he looked up into Clifton’s face.
“What’s wrong with Adele? And why’re you comin’ to tell me? The law don’t normally bring news of sickness.” The planes of his face shifted forming a scowl. “Why’re you here, Deputy Thibodeaux?”
As if sensing the change in their master’s mood, three large dogs, including the one-eared mastiff, slipped out of the woods. None made a sound, but their exposed teeth told of their displeasure.
Raymond kept his attention on the man. “Henri Bastion was killed two nights ago on Section Line Road. Adele was found at the body. She said she killed him.”
Clifton didn’t move, not even to register a flicker of surprise. “Ain’t no business of mine.”
“Adele is your sister.”
He shook his head. “Nothin’ I can do. Adele grievin’ her babies. She’s not right.”
“She claims she’s possessed by the loup-garou” The swamp around him was so still that he heard a falling leaf touch the water. It was a place of magic as well as danger.
“Folks believe what they will.” If Clifton found such a thing ludicrous, he didn’t show it.
“She has a high fever. I believe she’s hallucinating.”
At last Clifton sighed. “Her babies died from the fever. She took it hard. Wouldn’t let no one help her. Buried them herself where no one would ever disturb them. Them and Rosa. She took Rosa’s body when the church wouldn’t have it.”
Clifton had moved upwind of him and Raymond had to work not to show a reaction to the stench. “Are you sure it was fever that killed her babies?”
For a moment Clifton merely regarded him, reading the levels of his question. “First week of October, Adele sent word to me to bring some herbs and things. The babies was sick. They was dyin’. I saw them myself, me. There was nothin’ to be done. Not even Madame could help.”
“Was Adele sick then?”
Clifton scratched at his head. “She wasn’t sick. She was wild. She runnin’ all around, cryin’ and beggin’ for her boys to get well. She ask Bernadette for help, but no one could change what happened. After the boys died, she put them in the swamp where she put Rosa’s body after she took it.” He looked back at the dogs and they sat down instantly. “It hurt Adele fierce that Rosa wasn’t in the church cemetery.”
“Mr. Hebert, would you mind coming into town and talking with me?”
“I don’t have no bidness in town, no.”
The dogs stood and moved three steps closer. The hair along their backs was standing on end.
“I’ll bring you back here.” Raymond felt water oozing through his leather boots, the only thing worth having that the army had given him. The heat was stifling, the odor of the fetid water mingled too strongly with Clifton’s unwashed scent.
Clifton shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?” Raymond knew arguing would get him nowhere. He’d have to shoot the man to subdue him.
“I stay in the swamps, unless bidness calls me out.”
Raymond had never heard of Clifton Hebert being in trouble with the law, but then Raymond had lost two years overseas when anything could have happened, and he hadn’t thought to check with the sheriff. Joe, for his part, couldn’t put two and two together if his fingers were held up for him.
“Is there a place we can sit down and talk?”
Clifton pointed to the ground. “Sit.” He eased to a knee.
Raymond squatted. “Look, I’m trying to help your sister. I don’t think she did this.”
“Henri Bastion was a righteous bastard. If someone kilt him, they did a good thing.”
“Someone surely killed him, and I don’t think it was your sister. Is Bodine Matthews working with you?”
Clifton shook his head. “Bodine gone. Bernadette hired herself over to the Bastion plantation, puttin’ on airs, her. She wash out Marguerite Bastion’s silk panties and think she’s good enough to wear ’em. She got so high falutin’, Bodine couldn’t take no more of her.”
“Do you know where Mr. Matthews might be?” Raymond saw him as a possible suspect.
“Me, I can’t help you.” Clifton started to turn and walk off.
Raymond thought about asking Clifton about his midnight deliveries of liquor. The bottles were untaxed by the state. Instead, he chose a different tact. “Are there any wolves left in the swamps?”
The question stopped Clifton. He turned slowly back. “Most been trapped.”
“I thought I heard one last night.” Raymond shrugged. “Could’ve been imagination, but I thought I heard it clearly.” He picked up a stick and drew out a rough sketch of the crime scene in a patch of dry sand. “Henri was here, and Adele was here. Henri was savaged by some type of animal. A wolf or”—he pointed at the three dogs—“something like that.”
Clifton walked close enough to look down at the drawing in the dirt. “When Adele got pregnant, I tell her I take care of Bastion for her. She never said, but I think he forced Adele. I think those bébés were his.” He waited until he had Raymond’s eye. “I meant it, when I tole her I’d take care of Bastion, yes. He would be gone in the swamps now if she’d say one word, but she never would say.”
“You had a grudge against Henri Bastion?” If Henri was the father of the twins, as Clifton suspected, it might give Adele motive to kill him. Especially if she had been raped.
For the first time Clifton smiled, revealing startling white teeth. Beneath the dirt, Raymond saw what would have been a handsome man.
“Name one man that didn’t,” Clifton said. “Henri cheat his mama outta her last crust of bread. He had a lot to answer for.”
“Adele worked for him. There’s talk that she was in love with him.”
The smile disappeared. “Talk ain’t worth nothin’. Adele had no use for Henri. Ask her.”
“She’s too sick to talk.” Raymond rose slowly to his feet, aware that the dogs
watched him with eagerness.
“If she gets better, she’ll tell you. If she doesn’t …” He shrugged. “Makes no difference then.” He stood and stepped back into the water and the dogs vanished into the underbrush.
“Clifton, don’t you care what happens to Adele?”
He kept walking. “I learnt long time ago, it don’t do no good to care what happens to anyone. Can’t change what’s got to be.” He was waist deep and moving away. “Don’t come back here, lawman, ‘less you hirin’ me for a huntin’ trip.”
10
THANK you, Claudia.” Chula took the key from her employee. “I’ll lock up.”
Claudia’s fingers closed over hers, holding for a moment until Chula met her gaze. “Don’t stay up here ‘til the wee hours, Miss Baker. You don’t get four hours sleep a night. I know you don’t believe in evil spirits, but it’s not good to be walking the streets alone at night. There’re plenty of bad men out to do harm. Doesn’t have to be a werewolf.”
Chula gently withdrew her hand and held it palm out. “I swear I’m going home right away. Mother’s about to bust a gasket. She has a ‘gentleman caller’ for me to meet at dinner.”
Claudia Breck’s pale eyes showed interest. “If he’s not right for you, cher, send him on to me. There’s not a decent man with two good legs who can stand up to finish a dance.” With her words the humor slipped from her face. “If this war doesn’t end soon, we’ll all go to our graves as spinsters. I want children.”
Chula put her arm around the plump young woman. “Justin Lanoux is coming home.” She’d hesitated about telling Claudia this. “When I took the letter out to his mama, she asked me to stay while she read it.”
“She thought he was dead, didn’t she?”
“She did, but it was news that he was wounded and has been transferred stateside. When he’s released from the California hospital, he’ll come home. For good.” She saw the hope in Claudia’s eyes. She’d been sweet on Justin since she was in fifth grade.
Fever Moon Page 9
