Darkness had just begun to fall when she heard a tap at her door. She’d told her regular customers that she wasn’t available, but it was too early for trick-or-treaters. She went to the door, surprised to see Raymond standing there in the fading daylight.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. His face looked drawn.
“Adele is gone.”
Florence drew him inside and closed the door. “Gone where?”
“Madame went into the woods to gather more herbs for her tincture and when she returned, Adele had dressed in the clothes I left for her and disappeared. Madame caught a ride into town to tell me.”
“Shit.” Florence realized the potential trouble this meant for Raymond. “Do you have any ideas where she went?”
He shook his head. “Home? Into the swamps? I don’t know. Why would she leave Madame’s? She was so weak she could hardly sit up.”
“Crazy people sometimes have tremendous strength.” Florence had heard stories from some of the older whores how men, enraged or demented, had committed impossible feats. One man, though small and most often timid, had murdered six whores in a New Orleans brothel after being shot four times by the madam. The story was that he’d kept slashing with his knife even after his heart stopped beating.
Florence touched the crescent scar on her cheek. Crazy people had surprising strength. She knew that from personal experience.
Raymond paced the small room, and she thought of offering a drink but knew he’d refuse. He was wearing his uniform and his gun, and Raymond didn’t drink on the job.
“There won’t be another full moon for weeks,” she said. “No full moon, no loup-garou.” Her words earned a smile.
Raymond walked to her and touched her cheek, lifting her face. “Thank you, Florence.” His voice was rough with emotion, and he bent to kiss her cheek so that she couldn’t see his features. Florence caressed his cheek. Raymond was afraid of losing control, of feeling too much. She chose to keep the conversation light.
“You’re welcome, kind sir. Would you like your future read? I have my crystal ball ready.” Florence gave him a flirtatious look.
He hesitated, and she knew him well enough to know he was thinking of time lost, of fading daylight, of a woman alone in the night, of Halloween and the pranks that came with it, and finally, of her own need for his time and attention.
“A quick reading would be much appreciated, Lady Gypsy.”
Few people would characterize Raymond Thibodeaux as gallant, but there were times she saw it. Sometimes his language revealed a man who had explored legend and story between the covers of a book. Sometimes his eyes told her that longings from his past, years dead, still haunted him. For just a moment, she’d seen something so alive in his eyes that she’d almost betrayed herself.
“Come and sit at my table.” She took matches to light the candles she’d set up, mostly to give the illusion that she was actually staring into the ball.
They both took seats, and she felt the pressure of his foot beneath the edges of the tablecloth that covered the ground and concealed their legs. She shook off her sandal and put her foot into his crotch, pleased at the expression of surprise on his face. “I see that you are a man who feels deeply,” she said, applying light pressure with her heel. “You are a sensual man who finds such delights to be a nuisance when your mind is on work.”
Raymond laughed, encouraging her to continue.
“Tonight an opportunity for resolution will present itself. You’ll find companionship and release with a dark-haired woman. A very pretty dark-haired woman with curls.” She increased the pressure of her heel, arching her foot so that her toes came into play.
“Does the Lady Gypsy see where I can find my escaped prisoner?”
Florence waved her hand in front of the ball as if clearing it. She leaned closer to it, her warm breath misting the glass slightly in the chill night air. A shadow seemed to fill the glass, shifting like fog. She was so startled she gasped.
“Very convincing,” Raymond said. His hand had found her foot and was massaging her arch. “What do you see?”
“A search,” Florence stammered, unable to shake the disquiet that touched her. “A search through the dark woods.”
Raymond eased her foot to the ground and stood quickly. “Are you okay?”
“Of course.” She tried for a laugh. “It’s a joke. The ball is empty.” She forced a glance at it. She’d seen something. Most likely the candlelight refracted in the round glass or a magnified shadow of the movement of her hands. Whatever it was, she’d lost Raymond. He walked over and kissed her on the cheek, darkness hiding the gesture from any who passed her house.
“I’ll be back once I’ve found Adele.”
“Happy hunting,” she said. Her fingers slipped down his arm, touching his hand lightly. “I’ll be waiting.”
12
CHULA sat in the window of Main Street Drug Company watching the young children dressed as witches and ghosts scamper down the street as their mothers called out warnings to them. The pharmacy boasted a full soda fountain and sweetheart tables with a view of the town’s main street.
She could hear the children’s chanting. “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.” Halloween had always been the best holiday of the year to her, and were it not for John LeDeux sitting across the small table from her, she would be at home, dressed as a witch, prepared to scare the children as they knocked on the door for candy.
“It’s amazing how many pagan traditions are still part of American celebrations,” John said. “Halloween may be the clearest example.”
She pulled her attention from a dancing ghost who looked to be six or seven and refocused on the man across from her. His honey-blond hair and tanned skin were better suited to a movie idol than an academic. He was handsome, no doubt, but that wasn’t what attracted her. Her intelligence was both her protection and her prison. She’d used her mind to ward off loneliness, but with the exception of Raymond, it had always held others at a distance. Now she turned to the facts she’d studied to find common ground. “Halloween stems from a Celtic ritual, right?”
“Part of Samhain, the beginning of the season of darkness when magic is strongest.” He captured the cherry on his banana split and offered it to her.
Chula closed her eyes and bit into the sweet fruit. John didn’t realize what an act of faith it took. Suddenly chilled, she pushed her unfinished ice cream away. John stood and removed his jacket to drape around her shoulders. She found the gesture attentive and welcome. “Thank you, John. I think it was your words rather than the temperature that chilled me.”
“To the Druids, the winter, or dark season, was part of the natural cycle, as were magic and the casting of spells. On November first, they would dress in the skins and heads of the animals they’d killed and dance around a bonfire. This is the one night when humans could shift into a different form. That tradition may be the genesis of the werewolf stories.”
“The pagan touch.” Chula slipped her arms into the sleeves of his coat. The scent of a spicy aftershave lingered in the wool.
“Halloween also has a bit of Roman influence.” John’s smile was self-deprecating. “I can’t seem to climb off the lecture platform.”
She laughed. Few men had the confidence to make light of themselves. “I enjoy this kind of conversation. A lot.”
His gaze touched hers and held. “The Romans worshiped Pomona, the goddess of fruits and gardens, another harvest theme.”
“And there’s a touch of Christianity from All Saints Day or Hallowmas.” She could see she’d surprised him. “I was never a student of religion, much to the sisters’ chagrin, but I remember the tidbits that interested me. I loved the idea of it because of dressing up as saints, angels, and devils. I still enjoy costumes.”
“Halloween is a mishmash of all the traditions. The children love it, don’t they?” He nodded to another group of laughing children. Two were dressed as witches, one as a clown, one a
ghost, and another a fairy.
“What’s different this year are the parents trailing behind them.” She nodded at several adults hustling to keep up with the eager children. “In the past, it was safe for the young-uns to trick or treat alone. Look at that mother’s face.” The woman who passed by the window looked terrified. “People are really upset by Henri’s murder.”
She’d turned the conversation to the pivotal place where she wanted to go. “I hope you don’t stir up more fear, John.”
He picked up her hand from the table and held it lightly. “That isn’t my intention. I’m here to observe, mainly. It’s rare to have an opportunity to see how people react to folklore, to a myth that seems to have sprung to life from our own prehistory, if you buy into some theories of psychiatry. I want to ask a few questions.”
“Questions can sometimes lead people’s thoughts in a certain direction.”
He studied her. “You have little faith in your fellow man, Chula. As Jung would point out, you see the wolf in all of us.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “I never thought of it that way, but I think you’re right. People panic and they do stupid things. I see it every day. We’re fighting a war that makes no sense. Powerful men disagree, and hundreds of thousands of soldiers with no opinion are dying. It’s hard to trust an organism that finds itself in such predicaments.” She waited for his reaction. If he was offended by her sentiments, it was best to find out now.
John’s laughter was unexpectedly loud. “I’m surprised you haven’t been hung and burned in effigy around here.”
“I’m not exceptionally well liked.” She shrugged, hiding the sudden jolt of pain.
“Because you’re a woman in a man’s job, or because you’re a woman with a brain who dares to express herself?”
“Both.” She found the admission difficult for some reason. She’d begun to believe she’d accepted her social isolation, yet now it was pinching her. Why did John LeDeux’s presence make it so?
“Have you ever considered moving away from here?”
The question was gently put, but Chula felt as if she’d been physically assaulted. “It wouldn’t matter. I’d still be odd man out.” She was mortified that her eyes had begun to mist over. “My heart is here, in this land. I could leave it physically, but I would never be a part of the next place.”
He squeezed her hand and then released it. “Are you so sure, Chula?”
“My mother’s family goes back here ten generations, to the first Acadians who were taken from their homes in Nova Scotia and shoved onto ships. They were forcibly removed halfway around the world to a land that no one else wanted—the marshland and bog that make up so much of this part of Louisiana. We made this our home.”
“I feel I should take notes,” he said, teasing her gently. “This sense of place is incredible to me. I’ve followed an academic career around the lower states and I’ve lived in some interesting towns. There’s never been a place I couldn’t walk away from.”
“To a Cajun, home is everything, John.”
“Yet you left to go to college.”
“A temporary exile.” The self-pity had passed and she could laugh at herself. “I beat it home as soon as I graduated, and now I have this very good job.”
He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “You probably make more money than I do.”
“Heaven forbid.” She mimed horror.
“Will you help me do some interviews?”
“Who do you want to talk with?” She wasn’t certain she wanted to be involved.
“The sheriff, his deputy, the traiteur, the widow, the young boy who reported the incident—the people most intimately involved.”
“What about Adele Hebert?”
“I’d give a lot to talk to her, but I don’t know if they’ll let me.”
“They say she isn’t speaking to anyone. She’s very ill.” Chula had a flashback of the young woman lying in Madame Louiselle’s front room, chest fluttering with short, shallow breaths. “She’s been in some type of coma. No one expects her to live.”
“Will you help me with the others? Your mother said you know everyone in the parish.”
She wondered at his motives. Did he see her merely as a means to the end he wanted, or did he see her as a woman? It wasn’t a question she could ask outright. “Yes, I’ll talk to the people on your list and ask them to speak with you.”
“Thank you, Chula.”
“There’s one warning, John. If you stir up trouble, I wouldn’t put it past Raymond Thibodeaux to toss you into jail. He ram-rodded the Bastion family into holding a small, private funeral mass for Henri this morning, thereby disappointing five hundred people eager for gossip.”
“When can we start? I have classes to teach in Baton Rouge, but if I can set up appointments, I can travel back and forth.”
“Raymond is the key to all the others. If he talks with you, the others will.”
“I’ll pay him a visit first. Now I suppose I should get you home. Your mother will be worried.”
Chula shook her head. “Wrong. I’m sure she’s clapping her hands with glee that we’ve found enough to talk about to occupy our late evening.”
They left the drugstore, laughing out loud as a child dressed as a pirate capered by. Moonlight peeked through the canopy of trees that lined the sidewalk while Chula talked about the development of New Iberia and how the coming of a railroad would change the town. “The days when the Teche is the heartbeat of the parish are ending.”
“Do I detect a note of sadness?”
Chula considered it. “I’m twenty-nine years old and I act like someone seventy, always despairing about how the world is changing. If you asked anyone else, they’d say the railroad will bring New Iberia and the world closer.” She hesitated, kicking a pile of leaves from the sidewalk. “I don’t want the world closer.”
“What about modern conveniences?”
“The price is always too high.” She gave him a wry smile. “We’re a special place, unique. All of that will change.” She caught a glimpse of a figure moving quickly through the bushes in the McLemore backyard.
“What’s wrong?” John touched her arm.
“Probably just a child playing a prank.” She paused to get a better look. “Mrs. McLemore lives alone. Maybe I should check.”
“I’ll go with you.”
They walked across the front lawn to the back, where the shadows were deepest. Chula scanned the yard, her gaze moving from the storage shed to a clump of azaleas and camellias, past a pecan tree. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. John stood beside her, and she felt him tense.
“There.”
At the very back of the yard where a thick wisteria covered the fence, she saw someone—or something—running. The creature looked neither human nor animal and disappeared into the darkness.
“Stop!” John took off after it with Chula right on his heels.
They dashed to the fence and halted. Whoever it was had made a clean escape.
“Did you see that?” John asked. “What was it? I couldn’t tell if it was an animal or a person.”
Chula’s heart still pounded. “It was probably some older boy, pulling a Halloween prank. Let’s go home and call the sheriff.” She took his hand and pulled him back to the sidewalk, out of the dense shadows. When they resumed walking, their pace was brisk, almost a jog. Sitting on the ground with his back pressed against a tombstone, Raymond watched the Spanish moss in the old oaks dance in the moonlight.
“Happy birthday, Antoine,” he said. He gave the distinct cry of the hawk. “I can’t stay long, but I wanted to visit a moment.” He got to his knees and turned to face the stone so he could trace the inscription with a finger. “Antoine Thibodeaux, 1927–1943, Beloved son and brother, he answered the call of duty.” Raymond had paid for the stone but hated the inscription. “Beloved son, left unprotected by his brother” would have been far more accurate. His poor judgment had cost Antoine his life. Hell, An
toine had barely become a soldier when he died, had never become a man in the truest sense of the word.
In the months since Antoine had been shot, the earth had mended with a new web of grass, but everything else about Antoine’s death was raw. No one in the Thibodeaux family had recovered from the loss, would ever recover. Tony had been the heart of the family, the thing that kept them all together and moving forward when Ambrose Thibodeaux had died in a boating accident. Now they were lost. Each in a different way, but lost nonetheless.
He could no longer speak with his mother. Pain radiated from her, peeling the skin from his bones. Antoine had joined the army, following Raymond, wanting to fight for his country, to make a difference. In both of their idealistic imaginings, the war was going to be something like shooting bottles on a fence post. One German down, two, three, four. Raymond was a skilled sharpshooter, and he’d imagined the war as death from a distance.
He’d learned differently on his first combat assignment. He’d tracked through woods and slipped behind a mortar nest of three German soldiers. He’d shot the first one in the chest and the second in the neck before either man knew what had happened. The third had turned to him, terror on his face, his gaze searching the woods for the bullet that would take his life. Raymond had shot him, because to do it meant saving American lives, the lives of his brother and comrades. But the dreams had started then, the images of bloodied young men holding out their stumps instead of hands, pleading for mercy. Mercy that Raymond couldn’t give. He was a reluctant but efficient killer, and the only solace he took from it was that by volunteering for such jobs, he kept Antoine safe.
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