Fever Moon Page 15

  Even in her fevered madness, he knew that Adele would not harm a helpless little girl. Yet Peat Moss Baxter was gone, and there seemed no other explanation for it. Talk all over town was that the loup-garou had taken another victim. It was only a matter of time before Joe demanded that Adele be brought back to the jail. So far, the sheriff had been too distraught over the disappearance of the child to think through the logical steps he should take. He’d assumed, like everyone else, that Adele was still weak and incapacitated at Madame Louiselle’s. But Joe would demand to question her, eventually. At that point, Raymond knew the town would be out of control. No one would listen to him when he tried to explain there was something else afoot in Iberia Parish.

  The outhouse gave up no secrets, and he went back to the patrol car. In a moment, Joe came out, his armpits and back covered in sweat. The muffled sounds of Aimee’s sobbing settled around them as they drove away.

  “Go to Madame Louiselle’s and get Adele. Bring her back to the jail.” Joe stared out the front window of the car as he spoke. “I tried to tell Aimee that Adele couldn’t have harmed her child, that she’s too sick to have done anything, but there’s a lot of crazy talk that she was on the loose last night. All those reports of something scuttling around town aren’t helping. Whatever bastard hung that scarecrow …”

  Raymond drove without answering. Sunlight filtered through the trees, creating a flashing effect of black and white. He was aware that Joe sat beside him, sweating in the cool morning, but Raymond was no longer in the car.

  The winding downhill road of a small village stretched before him. Sunlight touched the walls of shops and houses, their colors muted by age. He carried his rifle as he walked, boots echoing on the empty stones of the street. He was part of a cleanup detail. The infantry had met fierce resistance, and after weeks of heavy casualties, they’d taken the town of Trieste. Most of the soldiers had moved through the village, leaving Raymond and a few others to bring up the rear. After the noise of the fighting, Raymond welcomed the quiet.

  As he moved along, he stopped to examine the bodies of German soldiers. Medics had evacuated the American wounded, and Raymond could still see the horror of the mangled men. He’d become an apt judge of death. He could read it on their faces, his friends and comrades he couldn’t help. It was better not to look, to focus on the enemy instead, to count each lifeless body as a step toward victory.

  In the heart of the town he walked from the shadows cast by the old buildings into the sunlight, stopping at the town square. Five Germans had fallen there, and he walked toward them, struck by their pallid youth. They looked no more than fifteen, and he knew the rumors that Hitler was drawing his army from boys who should have been in school were true. The war was turning, and Germany would lose, but not before a madman had devastated the population.

  One of the boys groaned, and Raymond knelt down, pulling a dead body out of the way. The boy’s face showed suffering and no fear.

  “You got a live one.”

  Raymond looked up to find Antoine walking toward him. His younger brother looked exhausted, and Raymond realized yet again that Antoine was still a child himself, only eighteen.

  “He’s hurt pretty bad.” Death had left a marker in the boy’s eyes. He knew he was dying. His torso and legs were buried beneath the weight of his dead comrades, but Raymond could see that his abdomen was destroyed.

  Antoine shifted from foot to foot. “What’re you going to do? The medics are gone.”

  Raymond stared into the boy’s eyes. His blue gaze was unrelenting, a dare. “Leave him to finish it in peace.” He made the sign of the cross and stood.

  “We can’t just leave him.” Antoine’s voice broke. “He’s a kid, Raymond.”

  “What else is there to do? I can’t shoot him like a sick dog.” Raymond spoke with anger. “By the time we find some medics, he’ll be dead.” Fighting for freedom for the world was one thing, but watching a child die was something else.

  “Maybe we could carry him.”

  Raymond shook his head. “He’s too far gone. Half his guts are missing.” If the boy were a farm animal, Raymond would put him out of his misery. “We’ll find Jimbo and get him to radio for a medic.” Raymond knew the boy would be dead in a matter of minutes. He walked past his brother. “Let’s go.”

  He’d made it twenty yards when he realized Antoine was not following. He turned back. Antoine was running to catch up with him, his boots ringing on the stones. The sharp report of a weapon cracked the morning light. Antoine stumbled, his face showing puzzlement before he fell to the street.

  Raymond looked at the young German. His icy smile never faltered as he held the pistol in his hand.

  “Hey! Raymond!”

  He turned to find Joe red-faced and angry.

  “I been talking to you for five minutes. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Sorry.” The wheel of the car was slick beneath his hands, and he felt the bone chill that memory always brought him.

  “I’m thinking we should transfer Adele to Lafayette. The sheriff there will take her.”

  He couldn’t argue with Joe’s logic, except Adele wasn’t in custody.

  “You got a problem with that?” Joe was belligerent.

  “No.”

  “Get her then. I’ll call up to Sheriff Burke and set it up. Bring her by the office first. I got some questions for her.”

  “Sure.” Raymond felt numb. Joe was going through the motions so he could tell his constituents that he’d questioned Adele. She hadn’t been conscious long enough to answer anybody’s questions, but Joe could say he tried. If someone didn’t kill her first.

  Raymond pulled up at the courthouse and waited for Joe to get out of the car. “I’ll be back,” he said as he put the car in first and pulled away from the curb. Only Madame and Florence knew Adele was missing. Raymond would find her—before anything else could be laid at the door of an innocent woman. He would find her, protect her, and then do what he did best. Bring desolation down upon the head of the person responsible for Adele’s troubles.

  Michael took the cup of hot coffee with a shaking hand. His body was covered with quilts that Jolene and Colista had warmed by the fire, yet he couldn’t stop the fits of sudden shaking that made his bones rattle. He was cold, but most of all, he was guilty. That soft underbelly of marbled culpability had been exposed to Raymond, and Michael was still unnerved by the deputy’s tenderness.

  “When Sheriff Joe finds the boys who pulled that prank, they’ll get the thrashing of their lives.” Colista wrapped another blanket around Michael’s feet. “It was a cruel and fearsome thing to do to a man of God.”

  “These days children have no discipline.” Jolene, who’d paced the study for half an hour, finally took a seat in one of the chairs near the fire. “Do you have any idea who would do such a thing?”

  Michael shook his head, then cleared his throat. “No.” It was more of a croak than a word. “I should’ve walked out to the tree and examined what was there before I called anyone. I failed Rosa, yet again.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Father Michael. Anyone seeing a hanging figure in a tree would have called the law. Anyone—” Jolene’s words were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

  Colista hurried to the front of the house as Michael sank deeper into the quilts. He had no desire to talk to anyone. He wished Jolene and Colista would leave him alone in his shame, let him writhe in the bitterness of his own craven fear.

  “Father Finley is not well.”

  He could hear Colista’s sharp voice that let him know whoever was at the door was being insistent. In a moment he heard the front door slam and the sound of scuffling footsteps headed toward the study.

  The door opened and Marguerite Bastion stood in the doorway, her boys squirming in front of her. In each hand she pinched the ear of a son. “Tell him!” She jerked the boys’ ears painfully.

  “I’m sorry, Father, we put the scarecrow in the tree.” The smaller of the boy
s choked out the words.

  “I heard them laughing about their prank.” Marguerite twisted their ears again. “They are vile children.”

  Both boys howled and Jolene stepped forward, her hand reaching out to stop Marguerite.

  “This is none of your affair,” Marguerite said to her. “I’m trying to save their souls. They’ve learned that lying is a form of sport, that cruelty is good, and that everyone around should fear and obey them.”

  The younger boy sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Mama, please. Let go my ear.” He could barely speak.

  Michael stood up, a waterfall of quilts dropping around him. “Mrs. Bastion, let the boys go.” She was clearly furious at her children, and Michael felt his own anger burning. But they were children, unaware of the ramifications of their prank. To any other person, it might have been a Halloween spook. These children couldn’t know the wound they’d opened.

  “They’ve been sent by Satan to destroy me.” Marguerite stepped back from them. “They lie and make up horrible tales. I want them sent to the reformatory today. They won’t get a penny of Henri’s money. Not one penny.”

  “Mrs. Bastion, the boys are just being children—” Jolene stopped at the look on Marguerite’s face. She bent to help the boys to their feet. “Go into the kitchen with Colista and wait there.”

  The boys needed no second invitation. Running footsteps hurried down the hall. When the boys were gone, Father Michael turned to Jolene. “You are my greatest support in this town, Mrs. LaRoche. You’ve made the worst of times here bearable, and you’ve been a true friend in my times of greatest need, but I need a word with Mrs. Bastion alone.”

  Jolene gave a nod of support before she left. Michael turned to Henri’s widow. “Whatever those boys did, I can’t condone physical brutality.”

  Marguerite took a deep breath. “You have no idea. The boys are out of control. They lie and spend their time creating mischief. Henri let them do whatever they pleased, and now I’m paying the price. I fear what they might have done. What they might do in the future.” Tears glinted in her eyes. “For the sake of their souls, I think they need to go to the reformatory where they can learn penance for their behavior.”

  Michael put his arm around her and felt the thinness of her bones. She’d lost weight, heightening even more her look of aristocracy. The Mandeville name went back to fifteenth-century France, woven with the Bourbon heritage for centuries. Perhaps now Marguerite could use her name and influence to help bring culture and civilization to the parish.

  “The boys need a firm hand, Marguerite. That’s all. I’ll help you. The community will help.” So much had happened since Henri’s death that he’d failed to give Marguerite the kindness she needed. She was overburdened with responsibilities.

  “I bore those boys, Father. They are my blood. But they are bad children.”

  “The boys have suffered the gruesome death of their father. It’s made them rebellious and wild. The prank they pulled…” He waved his hand at the window. “It was cruel and upsetting, but I’m sure they didn’t understand their actions.” He felt her tense but continued. “There’s no need to rush to action. Perhaps you could bring them to me each day for guidance. I’ll be glad to talk to them. Maybe a trip to New Orleans, to your family, some exposure to a more civilized life.”

  “You don’t understand, Father Michael. I can’t control them.” She ignored the tears that slipped down her cheeks. “They’re capable of anything. Henri allowed this. He said his sons would rule the parish. He taught them that they would pay no consequence.”

  “They’re still young. Such things can be corrected.”

  Marguerite walked to the doorway. When she spoke, her back remained to Michael. “You keep them, then. You correct their behavior.” She faced Michael slowly. “Henri taught them cruelty. Perhaps the church can undo what is done. I cannot.”

  She walked down the hallway, slamming the front door as she left the house.

  Michael stood, stunned, until Colista tapped at the door, her face furrowed in worry. “Father, those boys haven’t had a meal in almost a week. Should I feed them?”

  “Certainly.” He turned away so she couldn’t see his face. “Call Joe Como. Tell him the mystery of the scarecrow has been solved. Ask him if he can come talk to me.”

  16

  MARGUERITE Bastion aimed the Packard straight out of town toward Baton Rouge. Raymond watched her go, wondering what sent her off like Satan himself was biting at her heels. He was just glad she was gone. He had business at the Bastion plantation, and he could better conduct it if she wasn’t there. He was playing a hunch and there was no time to waste. Desperation tugged at his shirtsleeve, reminding him that Adele’s life hung in the balance and a little girl was missing in the swamps.

  He went to the plantation because Adele had worked there. Had possibly become impregnated there. It was a place she might go. Besides, he had run out of other places to search.

  Raymond parked on a farm road that led back to the fields and was used by the trucks to carry the cane stalks to the refinery. Sunshine warmed his shoulders and a sticky sweetness caught in the back of his throat as he stepped over the stubble that bled sap into the ground. He skirted the edges of the fields, staying among the cover of the brakes.

  He heard the prisoners long before he saw them. Their leg irons clanked, muted in the dirt as machetes thwacked against the cane. The rhythm of the stroke was a background pattern in his head. Circling the field, he found a position in a thicket where he could watch. Veedal sat his horse in the shade, a tin cup of water in his hand. The men never looked up. They worked with the rhythm of something mechanical.

  It was high noon before Veedal called a break. “Sit in the shade,” he ordered. “There’s water and food. If there’s any fighting, the loser gets ten lashes. The winner gets five.” He spurred the horse and the animal shot forward, leaping into a row of cane.

  The men shuffled to the shade, too weary to argue. Raymond walked out of the brake toward them.

  He’d seen men too beaten to show fear. The last time he’d seen it, he’d lost his brother. These men were fated to die at hard labor in a swamp where their bodies would find a shallow grave, if not be eaten by wild animals. Raymond had no reason to expect help or pity from any of them.

  “I’m looking for Armand Dugas.” He looked around the group. “Anyone can help me, maybe I can help him.”

  One of the prisoners was ladling food into tin plates that were being passed down the line. A dirty chunk of bread passed hand to hand. The men eyed it, ignoring him. For all of the hard work, the men had sufficient food. Marguerite must have intervened after his visit.

  “I’m a deputy here in Iberia Parish. I’m not making promises, but I could put in a word for the man who helps me.” They looked at him, smelling his desperation. He pushed harder. “If Armand is dead, I need to know how and why.”

  “Armand is lucky,” a tall man with dirty yellow hair said. “He got out. Don’t matter if it’s dead or alive. He’s free now.”

  Raymond nodded. “Armand isn’t my problem. Adele Hebert is.”

  That caught the attention of several of them, quick glances that fell back to the rich black alluvial soil. As he worked his way down the row, dark brown eyes held his a moment longer than the others. Raymond stepped closer to the middle-aged Negro. “What’s your name?”

  “Daniel Blackfeather.”

  Raymond could see the Indian heritage mingled in his features. The man’s eyes held a stillness that was absent in the others. “Adele’s in trouble. She’s accused of killing Henri Bastion.”

  Daniel’s smile was slow. “She shoulda done it here. I woulda helped her and she wouldn’t be in trouble now.”

  A few chuckles and grunts of assent passed down the line. Raymond had no time to wade gently into the conversation. “Adele’s in the woods and she’s in bad shape. There’s a search party out, and if they find her, they’ll kill her. If you can tell me
something that might help her, I’ll see what I can do to get you off this plantation. I’m not making a promise, except that I’ll do my best.”

  Daniel took a bite of bread and chewed it slowly. Several of his teeth were missing. “Adele brought us food when she could. She took a fancy to Armand. She believed he was an innocent man.” He looked around the group, reading the faces of the men he was chained to. “Armand was goin’ to escape. Adele was helpin’ him.”

  Down the line the chains rattled. Another prisoner stood up. “Shut up and eat, Daniel. Veedal don’t want us talking.”

  Raymond looked in the direction of the plantation house. Veedal would indeed return, and he wouldn’t be happy at Raymond’s presence. “Tell me about Dugas.” Raymond directed his request at Daniel.

  Daniel held out his tin cup for water. Raymond filled it from the barrel, and he wasn’t certain if he’d given an advantage or gotten one. His fingers touched Daniel’s as he passed the cup to him. “Tell us about Adele,” Daniel countered.

  “You know Henri is dead.” A nod went down the line. “Folks are saying Adele murdered him. Adele Hebert is not a loup-garou. She’s been set up, and Armand Dugas figures into what’s really going on. If Adele was ever kind to you, now’s the time to pony up.” He eyed the line of men. Most failed to meet his gaze, and he knew no help was forthcoming. When he returned to Daniel, he saw something else in the stillness of his eyes.

  “Armand had friends.” Daniel’s gaze never faltered.

  “You steppin’ too close to your grave.” A tall black man in the middle of the line stood and walked toward Raymond, dragging his chain and forcing the men on either side of him to stand. Even twenty pounds underweight, he was a large man, his skin shining in the October sun. “You get caught out here talkin’ at us, we’re the ones gone pay.”