Fever Moon Page 13

  Tony had followed him into the infantry, because he knew his big brother could protect him. But Raymond had failed. The cold stone against his hands was testimony of his dismal failing. The harvest he’d brought to his family was death and loss and suffering. This was the bitter crop his great-grandmother had warned against. When he felt the urge to live again, all he needed to do was come here and attend his harvest.

  The sound of a vehicle bumping over the rough road made him get to his feet. He felt as if he’d fallen asleep, though he knew he hadn’t. He’d only been at the grave for ten minutes or so, but the night had taken on a different cast.

  When he saw the old truck, his heart sank. He’d avoided the cemetery all day, hoping not to run into his family. His sister parked the truck beside his car and walked toward him.

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice was low.

  Raymond stepped back from the headstone. Elisha had the look of a witch, dark hair hanging in tangled ringlets. She’d once been pretty, a slender girl with eyes as tender as a doe, and this was what grief had done to her.

  He made a semicircle around her, determined to get back to his car and leave. He’d had his moment with Antoine, but he didn’t want to talk to his sister. He couldn’t face her, or his mother. He’d caused them too much pain already.

  “Raymond, please!” Elisha advanced on him. “Won’t you talk to me?” Tears glistened on her pale face. “Mama is dying, Raymond. Grief is killing her. Antoine is dead, but you’re not.”

  Raymond wanted to grab her by the shoulders and pull her against him, to hold her against the pain that was tearing her apart, but he had no comfort to give her. “I can’t help Mama. I can’t help anyone. She sees me and it makes it all fresh again. She sees me, and she thinks how Antoine is dead.”

  “She sees you and she sees her son.” Elisha held out a hand to him. “Raymond, she talks of you constantly, of how you look like Papa, of how you did this or that. Please, come and see her. Before it’s too late.”

  Against the dark night, Elisha moved like a wraith of suffering. She was too thin, her cheeks hollow and lines marking flesh too young and tender for wrinkles. No matter how much he wanted to comfort her, he knew his touch would ultimately bring only pain. “Go home, Elisha. Mama will be worried about you.”

  “Mama doesn’t worry about me.” Elisha wiped the tears from her cheeks. “She sits on the porch and rocks. That’s what she does, Raymond. She looks down the road, hoping that there’s been a mistake and that Antoine will walk home. She slips away more and more each day. She doesn’t know or care what I do.”

  Raymond felt the weight of her loneliness. “I would change things, if I could.” He stepped toward her. She was his little sister, a child he’d cuddled like a puppy when she was born. He and Antoine had taken her on their adventures, waiting for her when her legs were too short and stubby for running. My God, she’d become a woman and he wasn’t certain how it had occurred.

  “Why did you come back here?” Her tone held only confusion, no blame. “You won’t see your family. You have no friends. You walk the town like a ghost. Why did you come back?”

  He hesitated, but then decided to tell the truth. “Because I have no place else to go.”

  In the moonlight fresh tears tracked silver down her face. “I don’t know who I feel the sorriest for. You or me or Mama.”

  “Go home, Elisha. It’s dangerous out here. You should stay home at night.” Her unrelenting grief had driven away all of her friends and suitors, and that was his fault, too.

  Raymond walked to the car and got in. His headlamps caught and held Elisha as he backed out and left the family cemetery. He had to find Adele, before everyone in the parish learned she was on the loose. He had to find her and contain her—for her own safety. He couldn’t help his family, and if he failed Adele, he would accept that he was doomed.

  Adele was barefoot. That much Raymond could tell from her footprints. She was headed toward town—if she even knew what direction she followed. Using a flashlight, Raymond tracked Adele from Madame Louiselle’s and into the thick woods. Trying to find Adele was the only thing that quieted the demons that raged in his memory. Straining his eyes in the darkness, he concentrated on his task.

  He stepped cautiously, more afraid of a snake or gator than a predator. The length of Adele’s stride told him she had no such concerns. She was running, careless of her footing or what she might disturb. Almost as if she were a part of the swamp.

  He considered the story her tracks told. From a coma, Adele had risen, dressed, and stepped into the night. She’d begun to run, and for the last mile that he’d covered, she hadn’t slowed at all. A woman who was so weak she couldn’t sit up without help was now running. As Raymond’s boot slipped into an oozing bog of mud and cold water, he realized he could draw one of two conclusions. Either Adele had played them all, pretending to a weakness that was fake, or she was so ill she didn’t know what she was doing. The third option was impossible. She was not a shape-shifter with supernatural strength and powers.

  He splashed through the bog and kept going. The waning moon couldn’t penetrate the thickness of the woods, and he was forced to rely on the feeble beam of the flashlight. He found the high-arched print of her foot, the impression of the ball deep and the distance between steps nearly three feet. She was still running.

  When the trail came to a spring-fed branch, he stopped. The tracks disappeared in the water, and though he cast the beam on the other side, he couldn’t see where she’d exited. Or if she’d left the water. He brought the light down into the water, half expecting to see her dark hair and wide-open eyes staring at him from beneath the shallow stream.

  He found only dead leaves rotting on the bottom. There was nothing for it but to turn back. He couldn’t follow her now, and he certainly couldn’t keep the pace she set as he tracked her by flashlight. Her direction was northeast, as if she were being drawn to town.

  As long as she stayed in the woods, no one would hurt her. If she showed up on the streets of New Iberia, there was no telling what a panicked resident might do. Raymond hesitated on the edge of the stream.

  By refusing to chain Adele to Madame’s bed, he’d allowed her to put herself in ultimate danger. She was free and running loose because of him. Because of the decision he’d made. He stood a moment in the moonlight before he began the walk out of the woods.

  When he returned to Madame Louiselle’s, she took him to her kitchen where a bowl of soup steamed hot in the cool night. She stood behind him, her hands moving over his shoulders, and he listened to the gentle mumbling of a prayer.

  When she was finished, she moved to sit across from him. “I’m sorry, Raymond. I wouldn’t have left her if I’d thought she might run away.”

  He pushed his bowl away. “I never believed Adele could run away.”

  “You wanted to handcuff her, and I urged you not to do it.” Madame held his gaze with one dark and curious. “Is it possible I’m to blame for all of this?”

  “No, Madame. She was so sick. How could you know?”

  “Sometimes it isn’t possible to know the outcome of an action. Sometimes you have to act on faith.” She leaned forward. “How’s your back?”

  To his surprise, the pinching pain was gone. “Better. Thank you, Madame. I have one question. When you saw Adele last, was she quiet?”

  Madame nodded. “She asked for water, and she understood. She was coming around, beating the fever back. I went to gather some roots to brew her a calming tea. I had it in my head that she would be ready for a warm bath when I returned. I was only gone an hour or so. When I came back, she was gone, and I went to town for you.”

  Adele had moved from near invalid compliance to running wild in less than an hour. It was a repetition of a pattern that confirmed Raymond’s dark suspicions.

  “Madame, did anyone come to see Adele?”

  The old woman’s face showed sudden understanding. “It’s possible, cher, but I didn’t se
e anyone. I was half a mile away.”

  Raymond stood up. “Thank you, Madame. And don’t worry. We’ll find her.” On his way out, he put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

  When he was in the yard, he pulled the flashlight from his pocket and examined the ground. It took ten minutes, but he found what he was looking for. Tire tracks led up to the house. Someone had come to visit Adele while Madame was gone. To visit and to dose her again with the concoction that made her run like a wild thing through the woods.

  He knelt down to study the story of the tracks. The tires were in fair shape. Better than fair. Since the war, rubber was near impossible to find and most residents made do with tires so bald they had no tread. Raymond slowly rose to his feet, aware that his back made no complaint.

  Praytor Bless’s car had good tires. Somehow, Praytor, or his mama, had managed to obtain them. It would be worthwhile to pay a visit to Praytor in the near future.

  13

  THE sound of childish laughter disappeared on a gust of wind as Florence picked up her crystal ball and started toward the front door. Trick or treat was over. She’d handed out fortunes of adventure and wealth—along with apples, oranges, and the much sought-after peppermints she’d found in Baton Rouge. She was out of energy and treats, and something in the night had set her nerves on edge. She wanted to be inside with her door locked, waiting for Raymond to return. Tonight, she needed the comfort of his arms, the sense that for the dark hours of the moon, someone was there to protect her.

  Her hand touched the handle of the screen door when she heard something behind her. Turning, she clutched the crystal ball, prepared to use it as a weapon if necessary. Her gaze scanned the front yard where shadows shifted as the wind blew the oak limbs beneath the moon.

  She thought to call out but found her voice paralyzed. The screen creaked as she pulled it open and turned to step inside.

  A strong hand on her ankle tore a scream from her throat, and she plunged headfirst in the front door, kicking at the grip that snared her leg. She was on her stomach, her only defense her feet. Her heel connected solidly with something, and that made her thrash harder.

  “Hold on there, wildcat,” a male voice said, and there was a whine in the words. “Florence, calm down. You likta kicked me in the head.”

  She flipped onto her back and sat up to find Praytor Bless kneeling on the top step and rubbing his shoulder.

  “You ‘bout dislocated my shoulder there, Florence.” He stood up. “I came to get my fortune told.”

  Anger washed over her in tides of red, but she forced herself to control her breathing and bite back the curse she wanted to hurl at Praytor. She took in the fact that Praytor had on a freshly ironed shirt, but she could smell whiskey on his breath.

  “You scared the life out of me.” She got up and retrieved the crystal ball that had rolled across the floor. “You’re too late, Praytor. I’ve stopped gazing.”

  “I was waitin’ for the young-uns to leave. Thought it would be more fun if it was just the two of us.”

  She looked past him into the night. “Another time. I’m tired.”

  “Seems to me you’re tired a lot of nights.”

  He was already halfway in her home. Outside she’d been threatened by her own imaginings. Praytor wasn’t a man she feared, but she was also careful to maintain a certain front with him. He collected information, his sharp eyes seeing things that others missed. Tonight, he was drunk.

  “Go home. Come back tomorrow. We’ll both enjoy it more.”

  “Goin’ home wasn’t in my plan.” His gaze narrowed. “You don’t look busy right now. Maybe you got plans for later on?”

  She sighed, calculating. It would be easier to take the ten minutes necessary to service him, but something in her rebelled. “My plans are none of your concern, cher. Go home and come back tomorrow.” She forced a smile. “I’m tired, Praytor. I want to give you full service, and I can’t tonight.” She touched her head. “My head is pounding.”

  He stood there, staring at her, and she felt a tingle of warning glide over her skin like the lightest silk. Praytor had always reminded her of an insect, something that waited in a dark crevice to trap and devour other, weaker species.

  “You refusin’ me?”

  She swallowed. “Only for tonight. Come back tomorrow.” And when his car pulled up, she’d lock her door and refuse to answer it. She moved forward to the door, determined to show him she wasn’t afraid. “I’m tired, cher. My head aches. Tomorrow we’ll have some fun.”

  She looked past him and felt something inside her chest grip. Someone—or something—was hiding behind the oak tree beside the road.

  “What?” Praytor read the expression on her face and turned to look. “Who’s out there?”

  “Someone.” Florence found her voice was breathy with fear. “There’s someone behind that tree.”

  “Someone spyin’.” Praytor’s voice was edged with anger. “I’ll drag ’em out and teach ’em not to be spyin’ on me.” He stumbled down the steps and lurched across the yard toward the big oak.

  Something big took off running, moving fast. Florence heard the small cry of fear that escaped from her as she watched the shadowy figure disappear into the trees across the road. She couldn’t be certain what she’d seen—a person or some type of large animal. The night was too dark for details.

  “Hey! Hey, you, come back here!” Praytor charged into the road, stumbling.

  She heard the sound of a car, and saw, too late, the headlights of a vehicle coming fast down the road. Praytor was illuminated in the vehicle’s lamps, his face showing horror.

  The driver stepped hard on the brake, swerving at the last instant, so that the car careened through the woods across the street, the headlights bouncing up and down as the car bumped over ruts and shrubs.

  Florence recognized the car. She ran past Praytor without a glance and into the woods where the car had come to a stop.

  “Raymond,” she said, pulling the driver’s door open. “Raymond.” He sat behind the wheel, still gripping it. “Raymond.” She thought her chest would explode with her fear. “Can you hear me? Can you move?” She thought of the metal in his back and the things he’d never told her but that everyone else in town repeated—one day the shrapnel would shift and his spinal cord would be severed.

  “I’m okay,” he said at last. “Who was that idiot standing in the road?”

  She couldn’t stop the trembling. When she touched his shoulder she felt the solid muscle, the warmth, and she felt tears form in her eyes and fall down her cheeks. “Praytor. He’s drunk.”

  “He’s going to be dead when I get out of here.”

  Raymond shifted and slowly moved his feet from the floorboard to the ground. He stood, moving carefully as if he, too, wasn’t certain that something hadn’t changed.

  She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him, to attach herself in a way that she could make certain he wasn’t hurt. She stepped back, though, and let him lead the way to the road where Praytor sat in the ditch, the smell of vomit strong around him.

  “Praytor, I’m going to kick the shit out of you to the point there won’t be anything left but empty boots.” Raymond staggered slightly.

  Florence held back, forced to watch the scene between the two men play out, helpless to stop whatever was going to happen. She didn’t care about Praytor. Raymond, though, was another matter, and Praytor Bless was known to carry a knife and fight dirty.

  Praytor’s response was another stream of vomit.

  “Shit.” Raymond shook his head. “You aren’t worth the effort.” He turned, looking from Florence to the headlamps of the car still shining into the woods.

  He stepped toward Florence, and she felt a smile touch the corners of her lips. She moved to meet him when the sound of another car echoed on the empty night air. She saw headlights, and then the car slowed and stopped. Chula Baker jumped from the passenger side of the car.

  “Raymond, I
’ve been hunting for you everywhere.” She ran toward the deputy as a tall, handsome man in slacks and a jacket got out from behind the wheel of the polished Studebaker. He stood by the car, watching but not interfering.

  Chula took a deep breath. “We saw something in Mrs. McLemore’s yard. Something strange. I finally tracked down Sheriff Joe, and he told me to find you.”

  Raymond stood taller. “What did you see?”

  Chula’s laugh was nervous, and Florence assessed her. Chula Baker was disliked by the town because she didn’t act womanish. Talk was that she’d acquired book learning and lost her femininity. Uglier talk implied that Chula and her employee, Claudia Breck, were une gouine. Florence watched the way Chula stood, feet planted solidly, her gaze holding Raymond’s as she spoke. Florence admired her.

  “There was something in the backyard. We were walking by and I thought at first it was a prankster. But …” Her voice faded.

  The man stepped forward, his hand going to Chula’s arm for support. “Whatever it was moved curiously. We couldn’t tell if it was human or animal.” His voice was low, calm.

  The image reminded Florence of what she’d seen. “I saw it, too. It was here, just before you wrecked.” She walked closer to Raymond, Chula, and the man. “Praytor was going to chase it in the woods, but he was too drunk to run.”

  Raymond’s face in the headlights of the car was severe. “Did you get a clear look at who it was?”

  “No,” Chula admitted. “It was dark. Honestly, it could have been an animal.”

  “And you?” Raymond looked at Florence.

  “It was behind a tree, and it moved through the shadows.”

  Raymond glanced toward Praytor, who’d passed out in the ditch. “Thank you, Chula. I’ll check Mrs. McLemore’s right away.”

  “Glad to help, Raymond. This is John LeDeux, a professor at LSU. He’s working on a book, and he’d like to talk with you when you have time.”

  “About what?”

  Florence saw the way Raymond bristled. She stepped a little closer, envious of the way John LeDeux touched Chula, the accepted show of support and friendship a man might properly show a woman.