by Tami Hoag
No one answered her. Mama Pearl had gone off to the realm that was her kitchen. Even as Laurel thought of seeking out Savannah so she could vent her spleen, she heard the Acura start and squeal away from the front of the house. Aunt Caroline had given her words of wisdom and retreated.
Suddenly restless, Laurel stood and paced along the gallery for a moment. The afternoon breeze caught at the hem of her blouse, stirred the trailing fronds of a hanging fern, fluttered the pages of Savannah's abandoned book. Sorely in need of a distraction, Laurel bent and snatched up the paperback.
Evil Illusions by Jack Boudreaux.
The cover depicted the swamp at night, misty and dark, the water shining like black glass under a pale moon. Among the dense growth along the bank, a pair of eyes peered out, glowing red. The artwork was enough to make Laurel shiver. She turned the book over and read the back copy as she stepped down off the gallery and wandered along a brick path toward the back of the courtyard.
Master of suspense, New York Times best-selling author Jack Boudreaux creates another spine-tingling read guaranteed to keep the bravest cynic awake nights.
Something is stalking the town of Perdue, Louisiana, preying on children and spreading a terror that threatens to tear the town apart. By day Perdue maintains the facade of a picture-perfect small town, but appearances are illusion, and evil lurks in the woods beyond, waiting for the sun to set.
Beautiful young widow Clarie Fontaine has come to Perdue with her daughter to claim an inheritance the locals say is cursed. Haunted by a violent past, she hopes to make a fresh start. But even as she begins a new career as a nurse practitioner in the local clinic, a shadow is falling across her path to happiness. A shadow of menace . . . and death.
As terror tightens its grip on the town, Claire must decide whom she can trust. Is the dashing Dr. Verret a worthy candidate . . . or a killer? Is resident magician Jalen Pierce a harmless huckster, or is his innocent guise . . . an Evil Illusion . . .
Intrigued, Laurel settled back on a stone bench in a corner of the courtyard and opened the book at random.
Night clutches the swamp in a grip as cold and black as death. Fingers of mist slither among the trunks of the cypress like ghostly snakes. From somewhere in the distance comes a roar that calls to mind prehistoric times, primeval swamps, ancient monsters.
Fear runs in rivulets down Paula's back. As she sits in the bâteau, waiting, watching, a sense of evil presses in on her. It is thick and heavy in the air. As thick as the mist. As suffocating as a blanket. She claws at the collar of her blouse and tries to swallow, swings around at a rustle in the underbrush behind her.
A nutria screams as it meets its death. A cottonmouth breaks the surface of the bayou, its long, lithe body wrapped around the thrashing body of a bullfrog. Overhead a winged black shape swoops down from the branches of a tree. Another night predator. An owl . . . a bat . . . something hideous . . . something terrifying . . . And a scream rips from Paula's throat. Hot, wild, raw. A scream like the nutria's. The scream of prey. Heard by no one. Swallowed up by the night.
“I'm flattered.”
Laurel jumped, her heart leapfrogging into her throat. Jack stood not two feet away, leaning indolently against one of Aunt Caroline's Grecian lady statues, his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans, one leg cocked. He looked tough and sexy in a faded black T-shirt depicting a dancing alligator and the slogan “Gator Bait Bar. Restaurant et Salle de Danse.” The cut above his left eye only added to his aura of dangerous mystery, and somehow complemented the tiny ruby that winked blood red on his earlobe.
Laurel gathered her indignation and hopped to her feet, slapping the book shut. “You scared the life out of me!”
Jack grinned at her outrage. “My editor will be glad to hear it. She pays me bags full of money to scare people.”
“That's not what I meant, and you know it. What do you think you're doing, sneaking up on me?”
He pressed his hands to his heart and looked too innocent to be believed. “Me, I was just walking along, thinking to myself I oughta do the neighborly thing and stop by for a visit.”
She crossed her arms and tapped her toe, eyeing him with open suspicion. Jack stepped closer, lifted the book from her fingers, and tossed it onto the bench.
“You know what your problem is, sugar?” he murmured, sliding his arms around her. She jumped, eyes wide at his nerve, and tried to bolt back, but he locked his hands behind her at the small of her back and held her easily. His wicked smile cut across his face. “You're too tense. You gotta loosen up, angel.”
“Let go of me,” Laurel demanded, holding herself as rigid as a post as her nerve endings snapped like whips in response to his nearness.
“Why? I like holding you.”
“I don't want to be held. I don't like to be held.”
He studied her expression for a long while, reading something like fear. Fear of him? Or was it something deeper, more fundamental? Fear of intimacy, maybe. Fear that she might actually enjoy it.
“Liar,” he said softly, but set her free just the same. She should have been afraid of him. He was a user and a bastard. If he'd had a shred of decency, he would have left her alone. But she intrigued him, little bundle of contradictions that she was. And he wanted her. He couldn't escape that fact, and he didn't want to deny it.
He pulled his cigarette out from behind his ear and dangled it from his lip as he bent to retrieve the book. Evil Illusions, his latest best-seller, for all it meant to him. He wrote to kill time, to give himself some outlet, some way to vent what was inside him. He had never set out to become a success, an attitude that drove his editor insane. She wanted him to go on tour, to play the celebrity. He refused. She wanted him to court booksellers and distributors. He stayed home. His attitude exasperated her, but Jack just laughed it off and told Tina Steinberg she had enough energy, enthusiasm, and ambition for both of them.
“Are you ever going to smoke that cigarette?” Laurel snapped.
Jack glanced at her from under his brows and grinned, cigarette bobbing. “Nope. I quit two years ago.”
“Then why do you keep sticking that cigarette in your mouth?” she asked peevishly.
His gaze held hers and all but caressed it, devilish lights dancing. “I've got an . . . oral fixation. You wanna help me out with that, sugar?”
Laurel scowled at him and at the wave of liquid heat that washed through her as her gaze strayed to the sexy curve of his lower lip and she remembered the feel and taste of his mouth on hers.
“Why horror?” she asked suddenly, reaching out to tap a finger against the book cover.
A wry smile pulled at one corner of Jack's mouth. Because it's my life. Because it's what lives inside me. Dieu, she'd run like a rabbit if he told the truth. Lucky he'd never had any particular aversion to lying.
“Because it sells,” he said, tossing the paperback down on the bench.
Better she think of him as a mercenary than a lunatic. A mercenary probably still stood a chance of getting her into bed. And a mercenary he was, after all. Hadn't he spent half the afternoon rummaging through old newspapers, studying Miss Laurel Chandler's life as a prosecuting attorney? Not because he wanted to know more about her as a person, he told himself, but because he found her intriguing as a character. He had even jotted down a few notes about her for future reference, thinking she would make a fascinating heroine with her mix of fragility and strength.
“Come on, 'tite chatte,” he said, nodding toward the back gate. He caught her small hand in his and started walking.
Laurel dug her heels in and scowled at him. “Come on where?”
“Crawfishin'.”
She tried in vain to tug her hand away even as her feet took a step in his direction. “I'm not going crawfishing with you. I'm not going anywhere with you!”
“Sure you are, sugar.” He grinned like the devil and drew her another step toward the gate. “You can't stay holed up in this garden forever. You gotta get out and liv
e with the common folk.”
She gave a sniff. “I don't see much of anything common about you.”
“Merci!”
“It wasn't a compliment.”
“Come on, angel,” he cajoled, changing tacks without warning. He sprang toward her, landing as graceful as a cat, and swung her into a slow dance to music only he could hear. “Me, I'm jus' a poor Cajun boy all alone in this world,” he murmured, his voice warm and rough like velvet, his accent thickening like a fine brown roux. He captured her gaze with his and held it, his head bent so that they were nearly nose to nose. “Woncha come crawfishin' with me, mon coeur?”
Temptation curled around her and drew her toward him. It seemed insane, this attraction between them. She didn't want a man in her life right now. She had all she could do to manage herself. And Jack would not be managed. He had a wildness about him, an unpredictability. He could tell her he had suddenly decided to fly off to Brazil for the day, and she wouldn't have been a bit surprised. No, he was no man for her.
But his offer was tempting. She could almost feel the mud between her toes, smell the bayou, feel the excitement of lifting a net full of clicking, hissing little red crawfish out of the water. It had been years since she'd gone. Her father had taken her and Savannah—against Vivian's strident objections. And she and Savannah had snuck away on their own a time or two after he had died, but those times were so distant in the past, they no longer seemed real. Now Jack was offering. Good-time Jack with his devil's grin and his air of joie de vie.
She looked up at him, and her mouth moved before she could even give it permission. “All right. Let's go.”
Chapter
Ten
They rode in Jack's Jeep down the bayou road, turning off on a narrow, overgrown path a short distance before the site of their accident. Lined with trees, rough and rutted, it had Jack slowing the Jeep to a crawl, and Huey jumped out of the back, eager to begin his exploration of this new territory. Laurel hung on to the door as the Jeep bounced along, her attention on the scenery. She knew the area. Pony Bayou. So named for a prized pony owned by a local Anglo planter back in the late seventeen hundreds. The pony was “borrowed” by a Cajun man who planned to use the stallion for breeding purposes. A feud ensued, with considerable bloodshed, and all for nought as the pony got himself mired in the mud of the bayou and was devoured by alligators.
Despite its gruesome history, Pony Bayou was a pretty spot. The stream itself was narrow and shallow with low, muddy banks and a thick growth of water weeds and flowers. A perfect haven for crawfish, as was evidenced by the presence of two beat-up cars parked along the shoulder of the road. Two families were trying their luck in the shallows, their submerged nets marked by floating strips of colored plastic. Half a dozen children chased each other along the bank, shrieking and laughing. Their mothers were perched on the long trunk of an ancient brown Cadillac, swapping gossip. Their fathers leaned back against the side of the car, drinking beer and smoking nonchalantly. Everyone waved as Laurel and Jack rumbled past in search of a spot of their own. Laurel smiled and waved back, glad she had come, feeling lighter of heart away from the aura of her family.
They parked the Jeep and gathered their equipment as if this were an old routine. Laurel pulled on a pair of rubber knee-boots to wade in, grabbed several cotton mesh dip nets, and clomped after Jack, who had nets tucked under his arm and carried a cooler full of bait. Huey bounded ahead, nose scenting the air for adventure. Jack scolded him as the hound splashed into the bayou, and Huey wheeled and slunk away with his tail tucked between his legs, casting doleful looks over his shoulder at Jack.
Jack scowled at the dog, not appreciating the fact that he felt like an ogre for spoiling Huey's fun. Laurel was giving him a look as well.
“There won' be a crawfish between here and New Iberia with him around,” he muttered.
“Depends on how good a fisherman you are, doesn't it?” She lifted a brow in challenge.
“When you grow up fishin' to keep your belly full, you get pretty damn good at it.”
Laurel said nothing as she watched him bait the nets with gizzard shad and chicken necks. He had grown up poor. Lots of people had—and did—in South Louisiana. But the hint of defensiveness and bitterness in his tone somehow managed to touch her more than she would have expected it to.
There was such a thing as being poor and happy. After her father had died, Laurel had often offered God every toy she possessed, every party dress, for the chance to have parents who cared more about her and Savannah than they did about wealth. She had known a number of families whose parents worked on Beauvoir, who had little and still smiled and hugged their children. The Cajuns were famously unmaterialistic and strongly family-oriented. But she had a feeling this had not been the case with Jack's family.
Curiosity itched inside her, but she didn't ask. Personal questions didn't seem wise.
They each took a net out into the water, spacing them a good distance apart. Jack worked quickly and methodically, the ritual as second-nature to him as tying his shoes. Laurel kept stumbling over tangles of alligator weed that was entwined with delicate yellow bladderwort and water primrose. The spot she had chosen to drop her net was choked with lavender water hyacinth that fought her for control of the net.
“Uh-huh,” Jack muttered dryly, suddenly beside her, reaching around her, enveloping her in his warm male scent. “I can see you grew up eating store-bought crawfish.”
Laurel shot him an offended look. “I did not. I'll have you know, I've done this lots of times. Just not in the last fifteen years, that's all.”
Jack set the net and helped her wade back to shore, balancing her when the roots and reeds caught at her boots. When they were back on solid ground, he gave her a dubious look.
“I saw where you grew up, sugar. I can't picture any daughter of that house wading for mudbugs.”
“That just shows what a reverse snob you are,” Laurel said as she stepped out of the hot boots and let her bare feet sink into the soft ground of the bank. “Daddy used to take Savannah and me.”
She leaned back against the side of the Jeep and stared across the bayou, thinking of happier times. On the far bank lush ferns and purple wild iris grew in the shade of hardwood trees dripping moss and willows waving their pendulous ribbons of green. In brighter spots black-eyed Susans and white-topped daisy fleabane dotted the bank like dollops of sunshine. Somewhere along the stream a pileated woodpecker began drumming against a tree trunk in search of an insect snack and the racket startled a pair of prothonotary warblers from their roost in a nearby hackberry sapling. The little birds fluttered past, flashes of slate blue and bright yellow.
“What happened to him?” Jack asked softly.
Emotion solidified in Laurel's throat like a chunk of amber. “He died,” she whispered, the beautiful growth along the far bank blurring as unexpected tears glazed across her eyes. “He was killed . . . an accident . . . in the cane fields . . .”
One swift, terrible moment, and all their lives had been changed irrevocably.
Jack watched the sadness cloud her face like a veil. Automatically, he reached for her, curled his arm around her shoulder, pulled her gently against his side. “Hey, sugar,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. “Don' cry. I didn' mean to make you cry. I brought you out here to make you happy.”
Laurel stifled the urge to lean against him, straightening away instead, scrubbing at the embarrassment that reddened her cheeks. “I'm okay.” She sniffed and shook her head, smiling against the desire to cry. “That just kind of snuck up on me. I'm okay.” She nodded succinctly, as if she had managed to convince herself at least, if not Jack.
He watched her out of the corner of his eye. Tough little cookie, bucking up when she wanted to crumble. She was a fighter, all right. He had learned that not only by experience, but through his reading. According to the papers he had culled out of his collection of a year's worth, she had been as tenacious as a pit bull going after the a
lleged perpetrators in the Scott County case. She had driven her staff mercilessly, but worked none harder than she worked herself in the relentless—and, as it had turned out, futile—pursuit of justice. He couldn't help wondering where that hunger for truth and fairness had come from. Reporters had described it as an obsession. Obsessions grew out of seeds sown deep inside. He knew all about obsessions.
“How old were you?” he asked.
Laurel pulled up a black-eyed Susan and began plucking off the petals methodically. “Ten.”
He wanted to offer some words of sympathy, tell her he knew how tough it was. But the fact of the matter was, he had hated his father and hadn't mourned his passing for even a fraction of a second.
“What about you?” Laurel asked, giving in to her curiosity on the grounds of good manners. He had asked her first. It would have been rude not to ask in return. “Do your parents live around here?”
“They're dead,” Jack said flatly. “Did he want you to be a lawyer, your daddy?”
Laurel looked down at the mutilated flower in her hand, thinking of it as a representation of her life. The petals were like the years her father had been alive, all of them stripped away, leaving her with nothing but ugliness. “He wanted me to be happy.”
“And the law made you happy?”
She shook her head a little, almost imperceptibly. “I went into law to see justice done. Why did you go into it?”
To show my old man. “To get rich.”
“And did you?”
“Oh, yeah, absolutely. Me, I had it all.” And then I killed it, crushed it, threw it all away.
Jack shifted his weight restlessly from one squishy wet sneaker to the other. She was turning the tables on him, neatly, easily, subtly. He shot her a glance askance. “You're good, counselor.”
Laurel blinked at him in innocence. “I don't know what you mean.”
“I mean, I'm the one asking the questions, so how come I'm all of a sudden giving answers?”
