Fever Moon Read online

  LeDeux offered a smile. “I’ll explain it all to you when you have a free hour. Right now, let me help you get your car out of the woods.” He removed his jacket and handed it to Chula. Without a backward glance he walked across the road and into the woods where the car waited, the headlights casting strange shadows in the trees.

  Michael took the last popcorn ball and dropped it into the paper sack the little hobo held out. “Please don’t trick me tonight,” he said, smiling at the boy who was no older than six. “I hope to see you at mass Sunday morning.”

  “Yes, Father,” the boy said. “Thank you.” He ran to his waiting mother.

  Michael watched as the woman put her hand on the boy’s shoulder, keeping him tightly under her control as they walked away. He’d seen that same gesture all night long—mothers protecting their young.

  He locked the front door and turned off the light. His treats had been demolished by the dozens of youngsters. The parish house was always popular with trick-or-treaters because Colista made the sticky popcorn balls, candied apples, brownies, tiny pecan pies, and other délectables that were highly sought after. Colista said it was his duty to tempt the young children into the ways of the Lord, and a little popcorn and syrup were a small price to pay.

  “Doesn’t matter how you catch their souls, Father, as long as you draw them to the church,” she’d told him as she’d arranged the trays of treats beside the front door.

  He had to agree. Bribery wasn’t always a bad thing.

  He went to the sideboard and poured a small glass of port wine. The night was cool, and he wanted something to warm his blood. Or numb his mind. Images of Henri Bastion’s drab funeral were lodged in his brain.

  Deputy Thibodeaux had ordered the coffin hammered shut with headless nails—an act to thwart the curious from gazing at the body. The undertaker had refused to answer any questions. Even Doc Fletcher had been tight-lipped and brusque. Raymond had buttoned up the town officials in an effort to calm the talk and stop fear from growing.

  Michael took a seat before the small fire he’d built and sipped the port. The sweet, fiery taste soothed him. At least the cool weather would thin the insect population. The rampaging fevers would end. The latest news on the war seemed more hopeful than ever. American troops were crawling across Europe, routing the Germans. There was hushed talk that victory would soon be at hand.

  He got out his missal to read the Scriptures for the following day. Preparing the homily had always been one of his favorite parts of the job. Rome dictated the Scriptures, but it was up to him to bring the interpretation to the residents of New Iberia, to explain it with parables and stories that made it relevant to the hard life of many of his congregation.

  When he’d first joined the priesthood, he’d had no doubts about his calling. He’d known in his blood that the Lord had work for him, and he’d walked away from the rich history and relative comfort of his Boston family with the idea that he would eventually be posted to Ireland, where his family roots were embedded in the limestone. The focus of his studies—and interests—had lain with helping to settle the plague of violence that had rent Northern Ireland and pitted brother against brother. Instead, he’d been sent to the dark marshlands where language, culture, and tradition all worked against him.

  In the ten years he’d served as priest at St. Peter’s, he’d found more questions than answers. Until Rosa. Rosa Hebert had been a gift from God, a messenger sent directly to Michael, a sign that God had not forsaken him and the people of lower Louisiana. Rosa, with her terrible suffering and the miracle of her wounds, would have been—should have been—the indisputable fact of God’s love and existence, for him and his congregation.

  Rome had not seen it that way.

  The Vatican had balked, finding reason after reason not to investigate the miracle, holding back approval or even acknowledgment of something so powerful. And while the cardinals debated the propriety of Rosa Hebert’s selection to bear the marks of Jesus, Rosa had begun to deteriorate. With each of her doubts, his own grew.

  He’d seen it and been unable to give her the comfort and strength to stop the process. He’d been so caught up in the possibilities that her fame would bring that he’d been unable to help her. He’d failed her, and he’d failed himself. And in the process, he’d failed God.

  He got his pen and paper from the desk and returned to the fire, pushing his feet out to warm. The parish house was drafty and cold, but cold was better than summer. Even his mind worked better in the cool months.

  He jotted a few notes, pausing at the sound of tapping on the study window. He looked up, but the pane was empty. He returned to his work, but his concentration was fragmented. Lately, thoughts of Rosa had tormented him more than usual. All of this business with Adele and her transformation into the loup-garou was a mockery of Rosa’s true suffering. Satan could manifest himself, he knew it for a fact as surely as he knew that God could mark the hands of a woman with the wounds of a spike. What he couldn’t determine was whether Adele was Satan’s revenge, or if she were simply a woman deluded with grief and fever, as Raymond insisted.

  The sound of breaking pottery made him stand up. He went to the study window and looked out over the garden. The moon wasn’t full, but it was bright, and he could see the paths that led among the dying roses. The last cool snap was finishing them off. In the moonlight, the mums were different gradations of silvery gray.

  Nothing seemed amiss, yet he’d distinctly heard the sound of something breaking. The wind hadn’t been strong enough to blow over a pot. He put the pen and paper away and walked to the back door.

  “Colista?” She’d gone home earlier in the evening to attend to trick or treat at her house, but it was possible she’d come back. “Colista?”

  No one answered and he felt the emptiness of the house in a chilling way. Moving to the back door, he opened it and stood on the threshold, reluctant to step outside. If someone was in the garden, he didn’t see them.

  Then he remembered that it was Halloween. In all likelihood, one of the young boys from the church had decided to play a prank of some kind. He smiled, stepping out onto the garden walkway paved with bricks molded and fired by slaves.

  A gust of wind blew his cassock against his legs and he heard the creaking of the garden gate as it moved on rusty hinges. The sound was like cold fingers tracing his spine. His first impulse was to turn and run back inside. Exactly what the prankster hoped to accomplish.

  Forcing his stride long and his shoulders back, he walked to the gate to close it. He’d just touched the cold wrought iron when he looked beyond at the oak tree.

  A cry escaped him as he stared at the sheet-draped figure of a woman swaying gently in the breeze on the end of a stout rope.

  “Rosa!” He cried her name as he ran forward. “Rosa! No!”

  14

  THE first pale light of dawn filtered through the bars of the cell, now empty, where Adele should have been. Raymond stood at the open door, weighing the cost of his actions. Last night, when he’d seen Elisha, he hadn’t realized how much she reminded him of Adele. Now, looking at where Adele should have been, he knew he was right to avoid Elisha and his mother. No matter his intentions—and he had intended to protect Antoine, Elisha, his mama, and Adele—whoever he touched ended up suffering. As soon as Adele was found, he would leave. He was a man more solitary even than a loup-garou. Adele had captured his tender feelings because he saw himself in her. In her, he’d seen his possible redemption.

  Now she was alone in the woods, hungry, sick, and possibly drugged. He’d not found any proof to show she was innocent of a gruesome murder. If the townsfolk panicked, they would kill her. As soon as the sun was up good, he intended to find Praytor Bless, or at least Praytor’s car. He wanted to check the tires for a match with what he’d found at Madame’s.

  The door burst open and Pinkney blew in with a flapping coat and the smell of autumn. “Big Ethel’s on a tear! She jus’ heard her gran’baby’s been mis
sin’ since eight o’clock last night.”

  Raymond turned slowly. He’d been up all night, and his body was sore from the automobile accident. No physical pain compared to the dread he felt at Pinkney’s news. “Missing? You mean ran away or—”

  “Gone missin’. Peat Moss, thas her name, went to go to the outhouse and she never come back in.”

  A splinter of hope touched Raymond. “How old is Peat Moss?”

  “She four.”

  His hope withered. This was a young child missing, not a wayward teen. “She’s been missing since eight? Why didn’t they report it?”

  “They ain’t got no phone and they been huntin’. Didn’t have time to drive into town and track you or Sheriff Joe down.”

  That was the hard truth of it. Even if the family had come into town, there was no guarantee Joe could have been found, and Raymond had been out all night following Adele’s trail—he was certain that it was Adele roaming the night. His problem lay in the fact that he’d told only Florence that Adele had escaped from Madame’s. He hadn’t warned anyone. Now a child was missing.

  “How did Big Ethel find out the baby is missing?”

  Pickney had recovered his breath, and he tipped the old fedora he loved back on his head and swelled his lungs with air. “Big Ethel was in the kitchen at the café cookin’ some ham and biscuits when her son, Leroy, bust through the back door, all upset and lookin’ for volunteers to search the woods.”

  “Is Leroy still there?”

  “Was when I left. I got the biscuits and came straight here to tell you.”

  “Thanks, Pinkney.” Raymond picked up his jacket and the snap-brimmed hat he wore in cold weather. His gun was already strapped to his waist. He started toward the door.

  “What about your biscuit, Mr. Raymond?”

  “Enjoy it, Pinkney. When you see Joe, tell him I need to talk to him. Tell him to sit right here until he talks to me. Tell him it’s important.”

  “Should I tell him about Peat Moss?”

  Raymond nodded. “Tell him.” He stepped out into a wind that blasted him in the face with grit. His impulse was to run, but he forced himself to walk as he made the three blocks to the café. Instead of going in the front, he went to the back door. He could hear Big Ethel when he was still twenty feet away.

  The back door was screened, and he stood for a moment, letting her cries wash over him. Grief had come to another household because of him. He stepped inside and saw her seated on a stool, her apron thrown over her head as she rocked and howled. Two other cooks supported her, patting her back and whispering softly. There was no sign of Leroy.

  The first wisps of smoke rose from the oven, and Raymond walked over to it and turned it off, pulling the pan of scorched biscuits out. One of the cooks nodded her thanks, but she made no effort to leave Big Ethel’s side.

  “Is Leroy still around?” Raymond asked.

  “He went to find Clifton Hebert.” The woman spoke with resignation. “Say he gone get Clifton to find Peat Moss.”

  Raymond stepped closer. “Ethel, can you talk to me?”

  She heard him because her rocking slowed. The two cooks stepped back, waiting a moment to be sure she could support herself, and then returned to their work in the kitchen, tut-tutting and whispering low prayers. Ethel wiped her eyes and pulled the apron down, her fingers working the rosary beads she clutched.

  She was a heavyset woman with caramel skin and hair touched with gray. “My gran’baby been gone nearly twelve hours. She’s only four.”

  “I know.” He tried to organize his questions. “She went to the outhouse about eight o’clock. Tell me what you know.”

  “She was dressed like a ghost. She’d been trick-or-treating, though her daddy was set against it. Got a sack full of things. Leroy said she went outside, liked to show she was grown up and could go by herself. When she didn’t come back in, he went to check. She was gone.” Tears moved silently down her face. “She was jus’ gone. Peat Moss is a good chile, jus’ a little slow to catch on to things. She never cries, never fusses. She’s just good.” She turned her head and sobbed.

  “Is it possible Peat Moss simply wandered into the woods?”

  Ethel’s sobs subsided. “She likes the woods. Never was afraid of the dark like other children.” She inhaled raggedly. “You think she wandered off?”

  Raymond wouldn’t lie to her, not even for comfort. “Is there anyone who might have stopped by to get her? A relative took her to spend the night?”

  Big Ethel shook her head. “Not without tellin’ her maw. Nobody woulda took her. She only four. She don’t spen’ the night away from home.”

  Raymond had no children, but he’d been around his younger siblings and his cousins enough to know that a four-year-old wouldn’t deliberately walk into the woods on a dark night. Not alone. Not on Halloween. Not without either force or temptation.

  “Was anything else missing?”

  Big Ethel bit her bottom lip and shook her head. “Leroy didn’t say. Only thing he said was that he was gettin’ volunteers with guns and when they found whoever took Peat Moss, he was gonna kill ’em. He say Clifton Hebert can track a ghost and that they gone have Peat Moss home by nightfall.”

  Raymond kept his expression carefully neutral. The one thing he didn’t need was a vigilante group roaming through the swamps. “We’ll do everything we can to find her.” He heard the emptiness of his own words and looked down at his boots, so worn and caked with mud.

  At the sound of knocking, he looked up to find Pinkney at the kitchen door, his face a mirror of doubt and anxiety.

  “Mr. Raymond, got a message for you. It’s important.”

  “What is it?”

  Pinkney looked at Big Ethel and shook his head. “Best you come out here a minute.”

  Raymond patted Ethel’s shoulder as he walked past her to the door. “What is it?”

  “Father Finley done called. Says there’s a body hanging in his oak tree where he found Rosa Hebert.”

  The sun was moving higher in the branches of the oaks when Raymond pulled into the priest’s house, his old Chevy clanging and grinding. His collision in the woods had damaged the car, but it was too early for a mechanic to be open. The car ran, and he had no choice but to drive it.

  Instead of going to the front, he walked around the house, past the garden to the oak where he’d cut Rosa Hebert down. At the sight of a white-shrouded body swinging gently from a huge, arched limb, he felt dread touch him. The body was too small to be an adult, but it could easily be a four-year-old child.

  He looked around for Father Finley but the priest was nowhere in sight. He caught a glimpse of the black-clad priest in a window of the house. Like last time. When Finley had called to report another body hanging from the tree, the body of Rosa Hebert, he’d remained in the house while Raymond and the coroner had done their jobs.

  Raymond walked forward slowly. There was nothing for it but to lift the sheet and see what was beneath it. He heard the creaking of the rope as the wind teased the tree limb. His fingers felt numb as he lifted the sheet.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he said, dropping it. He turned away and took a deep breath. The remains of Kyle Fenton’s scarecrow was beneath the sheet. He walked to the trunk of the tree and sat down on a gnarled root because his legs were weak. It was a scarecrow, a pair of pants and shirt stuffed with straw and wired to a pair of crossed boards.

  When he looked up, Finley was approaching him. The priest was pasty with worry. “Who is it?” he asked, stopping twenty feet away.

  “Not who, what. It’s Kyle Fenton’s scarecrow.”

  He watched the emotions play across Michael’s face. First there was relief, then anger that boiled into rage. “What little bastard would play such a trick?” he asked. He walked to the rope that was tied off around the tree trunk and began jerking on it. “What terrible little bastard would do such a thing?”

  Raymond rose and went to the priest. He grasped Michael’s hands, already raw f
rom the bark of the oak, and held them. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” He heard the priest’s dry heaving as he struggled to check back his emotions.

  “Who would do this?” Father Michael looked to Raymond as if he might have a real answer.

  “I don’t know. Someone who wasn’t thinking. A kid.” He untied the rope and lowered the scarecrow to the ground. “I’ll send Pinkney over to clean this up.”

  “I thought it was Rosa.” Michael’s legs nearly buckled as he sat down on the root Raymond had vacated. He put his face in his hands. “I failed her, Raymond. I lost my belief in her, and she hung herself.”

  Raymond held the rope in his hands, helpless to do anything else. He felt sharp compassion for the priest, a man who was deviled by a Hebert sister just as he was.

  15

  A stand of sugar cane stood tall in the morning sunlight as Raymond pulled into Leroy Baxter’s front yard. The cane was disconcerting. The men of the family should’ve been out chopping and harvesting. The first heavy frost was overdue.

  The tarpaper and tin cabin was abnormally quiet. Raymond got out slowly, waiting for the sheriff to lead the way. Joe Como had felt it was his duty to talk to the missing girl’s mother. There had been no trace of Peat Moss Baxter in fifteen hours, and Joe was politician enough to want the family to see he was personally on the case.

  “I want to take a look around the outhouse,” Raymond said. He wanted no part of the pain and grief that Joe would have to confront.

  Joe gave him a helpless look, tucked his shirttail in, and walked to the front steps. He was knocking at the door as Raymond disappeared around the back of the cabin. Raymond heard the wail of Aimee Baxter and kept walking.

  The outhouse was some twenty yards from the cabin, and he knew there would be nothing to find. Whatever tracks had once been there were gone. Leroy and a dozen men had brought Clifton’s dogs over to try to follow the trail of the missing child. Raymond had mentioned to no one the irony of Clifton most likely tracking his own sister with the very dogs that had savaged Henri. This latest development, though, made no sense.