Fever Moon Read online

  The bell jingled as Praytor left.

  “Chula, are you okay?” Claudia asked. “You’re like a sheet.”

  “I have a bad feeling.” She put her palms on the counter for balance. The search for Peat Moss, Praytor’s visit, Madame’s absence, the fact that Raymond had left the parish at such a critical time—she wasn’t certain what, exactly, had churned up such anxiety. She simply had the sense that tragedy had crossed the parish line and was headed straight for town.

  Colista collected the dishes from the table, her face pinched and her hands shaking. Michael sat across from the Bastion boys, wondering what duty required of him. In the brief time they’d been in his home, he was at a loss. The boys were savages. It had crossed his mind that if the church had refused to consider his stigmatic, the Holy See would never consent to exorcisms for two boys.

  He put his napkin on the table. “I’ve sent someone to your home to talk with your mother.” He wondered if Jolene was brave or just crazy since she’d taken on the chore of trying to reason with Marguerite. She was the boys’ mother and she had a duty to them—if Jolene could make her see it.

  “Won’t do no good.” The older boy, Caleb, banged his spoon against the empty soup bowl. “Daddy said we didn’t have to mind her and her high-bred ways. I’m still hungry.”

  Reaching across the table, Michael grasped his wrist. “Stop it.”

  “You’re not my daddy, and I don’t have to mind you. You’re just an old maid in a dress.” Caleb laughed out loud and his brother, Nathaniel, joined him.

  “Your mother wants you put in the reformatory. If I don’t intercede in your behalf, that will happen.” If he’d hoped to threaten them into good conduct, he saw that it was a vain attempt. “The reform school is an awful place. Terrible things happen to the children there.”

  “I want some cake.” Nathaniel looked around the dining room with sudden interest. “Got any cake here?”

  Michael knew better than to call to Colista. She’d reached the end of her tether. Caleb had hit her in the face with a piece of bread, and Nathaniel had poured his soup on the floor. Michael felt helpless to deal with the boys. He’d never met such a force of complete lawlessness and deliberate maliciousness.

  “There is no cake, but if you reform your conduct, perhaps Colista will bake you one tomorrow.”

  “I want it now.” Nathaniel edged his glass of milk along the table.

  “Knock that milk off the table, and I’ll punish you.” Michael knew he’d drawn a line, and there was no retreating.

  “You gone spank him?” Caleb asked, amused.

  “I’d prefer not to, but I will.” Michael eased back his chair. If action was required, he intended to deliver it swiftly. They were children, after all. Whatever Henri had had in mind when he’d allowed them to gain such an upper hand on adults, he couldn’t say. What would happen to them if Marguerite abandoned them would only teach them more cruelty.

  Nathaniel looked at his brother for guidance. Caleb kicked the leg of the table repeatedly.

  “I want to talk to you boys,” Michael said. “It’s important.”

  “What we gone get if we talk?”

  He thought about it and saw a way to give Colista some needed relief. “Ice cream from the drugstore. We’ll walk there and have a treat. But first you have to answer some questions. Important questions.”

  The boys stilled. “We can pick out our own flavor?” Caleb asked.

  “Certainly.” Michael felt an indefinable shock. It was as if they’d never had ice cream at the soda fountain. Their father had controlled the parish, yet the idea of an ice cream had accomplished more than threats of bodily harm.

  “What you want to know?” Caleb clearly wanted control of the conversation.

  “Your mother said …” He had to phrase it delicately. Marguerite hadn’t actually said anything, but she’d implied. “The night your father was killed, do you know where he was going?”

  Nathaniel picked up his spoon and began to tap it against the table. Michael ignored him, honing in on Caleb. “Tell me everything you can remember about that night.”

  “He went down to the shed.” Caleb kicked the table faster. “The loup-garou got him.”

  “What shed? What was he doing?”

  “The tractor shed. He went there sometimes.”

  “Why?” Michael forced his hands to release their grip on the arms of his chair.

  “That’s where he met her. The bad woman. That’s where they did it.” The expression on Caleb’s face was neutral, which made his revelation even more shocking to Michael.

  “Your father was meeting a woman?”

  “That’s what I said.” Caleb looked at him.

  Michael felt his nerve falter, but he had to be sure. “They were having, uh, relations, in the tractor shed?”

  Caleb nodded as something broke in the kitchen. Michael heard Colista mumbling a rosary. Sweat trickled down his spine. “Did he meet this woman the night he was killed?”

  Caleb picked up the salt shaker and shook the salt all over the tablecloth. He looked at his brother and they both laughed.

  Michael was stabbed by a pang of pity. Henri had stolen the boys’ childhood. By allowing them to run amok, to see the business of adults, he’d taken their innocence and their childhood.

  He cleared his throat. “When Henri was … finished in the, uh, shed, where did he go?”

  “He walked. Like he did ever’ night. Put his hat right on and took off down the road. Sometimes we followed.” Caleb was losing interest in the conversation. He glanced at his brother. “Can I have a double scoop of ice cream?”

  “Yes, just a few more questions.” Michael wanted to hit something. The things these boys had witnessed had damaged them. Henri had not been a guardian of his children, and now Michael better understood Marguerite’s frustration. Still, she’d implied that her own sons might have killed their father. To say he was concerned by the circumstances would be an understatement.

  “Hurry up, Father Michael. I want to go to the drugstore,” Nathaniel said. “I’m still hungry.”

  “We’ll hurry.” He cleared his throat again. When he’d spoken to Joe on the phone, the sheriff had asked him to get as much information as possible. “Did your father walk in the same place all the time?”

  “Yeah, down the road to Beaver Creek. That’s what he did. He’d finish at the shed and then take off walking like he had ants in his pants.”

  “He always went to Beaver Creek?”

  “We followed him sometimes. When he went down to the shed, Mama would lock us out of the house.” He drew images in the salt he’d poured on the table. “She said we were the sons of Satan and that we weren’t welcome in her home. Daddy would come back and make her let us in.”

  “The night your father was killed, did you follow him?”

  “Yeah.” Caleb laughed.

  Michael heard the back door slam, and he knew Colista had been listening and that she’d fled the premises. If the boys were going to confess to the bloody murder of their father, she didn’t want to hear it.

  “What did you see?” Michael asked softly.

  “We heard Daddy screamin’.” Caleb leaned over and punched his brother so hard on the arm that the younger boy fell from his chair. Nathaniel sat on the floor and began to cry.

  Michael grabbed Caleb’s arm and pinned it to the table, forcing his attention back to him. “What did you see?”

  Caleb leveled a kick at his brother’s head, but Michael managed to divert it. He tightened his grip on the boy’s arm. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “I seen the wolf woman come out of the woods, all pantin’ and slobberin’. She jumped on him and rode his back. When he stumbled and fell in the road, she tore out his throat. She was on her hands and knees, growlin’ and slobberin’ blood.” Caleb kicked the table so hard the dishes rattled. “I never knew Daddy could scream like that.”

  18

  RAYMOND clutched his notebook in his
hand as he walked out of the courthouse in Baton Rouge. The court record on Armand Dugas told the same story that Daniel Blackfeather had relayed. The state had prosecuted a murder one charge without a body—or any evidence that the elusive Aleta Boudreaux had ever existed. The follow-up on prisoners was abysmal. There had been the order of the judge to send Dugas to Angola on a ten-year hitch that had begun in 1940. There was no record of an appeal filed on Dugas’s behalf or any other record of the trial. There was only the paperwork on Dugas’s transfer to the state prison; nothing on his lease to the Bastion family.

  Dugas’s legal trail ended at the eighteen-thousand-acre prison farm bordered by the Mississippi River, and Raymond had no doubt that was the location where Dugas was expected to end his life—and as quickly as possible. The men who had orchestrated his trip there had anticipated that Dugas would become one of the hundreds of unmarked graves in the prison cemetery. The pimp had been smarter than anticipated; Raymond believed Armand Dugas was alive.

  As Raymond walked to the car, he felt regret settle over him. He’d wounded Florence. It had never crossed his mind that she’d think his invitation to ride to Baton Rouge was anything other than work-related. His life was about work, except for the few hours he spent with Florence. He’d been so focused on finding Adele—before someone else did—that he hadn’t thought of what Florence might think or feel. He’d asked her to “take a ride to Baton Rouge” simply because he hadn’t known how to ask her if she’d mind using her connections to help track down a pimp.

  When he’d left her on River Street, where the nicer cathouses were located, she’d refused to even look back at him. He checked his watch. He’d agreed to meet her at four, and he had to get a move on.

  Driving through the business district of the capital, Raymond noted the stately buildings where lawyers plied their trade. The war had destroyed his innocence and taught him that men of power never bothered to concern themselves with the havoc wreaked upon the poor and weak. Because of the oil beneath the Gulf waters offshore, Iberia Parish was becoming a primary interest of the politicians. Henri Bastion had controlled Iberia Parish in ways most folks didn’t understand. The average parishioner saw the Bastion plantation and understood that Henri was wealthy. The sugar cane plantation was only the visible evidence of Henri’s power and wealth, though. His interests extended to the railroad that was being built across the Atchafalaya Basin and into New Iberia as well as drilling rigs out in the Gulf of Mexico. Henri pulled the strings on everything, from the untaxed liquor that flowed into the parish to Adele Hebert. Henri had touched her life and driven her insane.

  Though he didn’t believe in the loup-garou, Raymond believed that greed and envy drove men to madness, and he was beginning to picture Henri as a man of voracious appetites. Raymond had to find out which of Henri’s interests had brought about his brutal death and how Adele had become caught in the middle. But first he had to find Florence and make amends. He took a folded legal document from his inside jacket pocket and put it on the seat of the truck.

  When he turned along River Street, he slowed. Florence was here somewhere, making a lazy afternoon visit with women who earned a living at night. Realizing the full impact of what he’d asked of her made him pull out a cigarette and light up.

  The houses, two- and three-storied, and now shuttered and quiet, spoke of a time of luxury before the war. Once elegant private homes in Grecian or Federalist style, the houses were well-known addresses for upper-class whores far removed from the hot pillow joints along the riverfront. It was this River Street section where a man with money came to rent the attentions of a young girl or the exotic beauty of an octoroon.

  When he spotted Florence sitting on white wicker furniture on a front porch secluded by elephant ears and banana plants, he parked and walked up the sidewalk to the front steps.

  Florence stood, nodding subtly to him. “Callie, this is my friend Raymond. He’s the one looking for Armand.”

  “Callie,” he said to the young woman who looked no more than sixteen. She was beautiful with a milky complexion, green eyes, and chestnut hair. “I need to find Dugas. Someone who helped him may be in serious trouble.”

  The girl looked up at Florence.

  “Raymond is telling the truth,” Florence said. “He doesn’t want to put Armand back in prison. He only wants to help Adele Hebert; she’s the one who helped Armand escape.”

  “He’d kill me if I told where he was.” Callie kept her gaze on Florence, trusting only what she read there.

  “But he is alive?” Raymond said.

  Callie flicked a look of distrust at him. “I know a man who calls himself Armand Dugas. Could be he’s someone else, just using that name.”

  “Could be,” Raymond agreed. “Could you deliver a message?”

  “Maybe. If I see him. Armand is only seen when he chooses to be. Sometimes he just shows up, then disappears like a whisper.”

  “Tell him Adele Hebert needs his help.” Raymond wrote down the sheriff’s office phone number and handed it to Callie. “Tell him to talk only to me.” He started to say more but stopped. It was possible Armand had slipped back to the bayous to settle his score with Henri Bastion personally. Adele might not be his highest priority. “Tell him to call me because if he doesn’t, I’ll find him. And then, if it’s too late to help Adele, I’ll make sure he goes back to Angola.”

  Callie’s nervous gaze shifted to Raymond and back to Florence.

  “He means it, cher. Adele is his personal mission. If he fails her, he’s going to be a very mean man to deal with.” She kissed the top of Callie’s head. “Take care, baby.”

  Raymond tried to put his hand on Florence’s elbow as they walked down the sidewalk, but she shook him off. “I’m not your paid escort, and you don’t have a right to touch me.” She got in the passenger seat.

  Sliding behind the wheel, Raymond studied her profile. It was going to be a long ride home.

  The golden light of late afternoon had faded, leaving the sky misted with pink. Chula sat at the wrought-iron patio table across from John. With John’s return from his unsuccessful attempt to find Clifton Hebert, her anxiety had abated, but unrest nibbled at her. She touched his hand on the table, an unconscious gesture that startled her once it was done. When had she become a woman who initiated such an intimate move? Since she’d met John, Chula felt as if she stepped from an amber prison, like an insect trapped for eternity. At night she was troubled with dreams, kisses and moments of passion, the cries of a baby—things she’d sealed away inside herself since she and Raymond had called it quits.

  “Chula, are you okay? You’re unusually reserved.” John sipped the iced tea Maizy had prepared.

  “Praytor was looking for you earlier. Did the sheriff talk to you?”

  John was surprised. “To me? Why?”

  “Someone told him you were writing a book about the loup-garou. He’s looking at you as an expert. He’s feeling a bit desperate from what I hear.”

  John brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “If it means I can spend more time here in New Iberia with you, I’ll be an expert. Chula, my feelings for you are strong.”

  She let her hand linger in his for a moment before she withdrew it. What he offered her was so large she couldn’t look at it head-on. Not yet. “That little girl, Peat Moss Baxter, is still missing. It’s been almost twenty-four hours.” She looked at the oaks that made the backyard so beautiful. “I hate for night to fall. People are so afraid. They aren’t thinking rationally.”

  He stood up, offering his hand to her.

  She put her palm in his and felt the electric friction that was both pleasurable and dangerous. “Let’s go find Joe and get this behind us. Gossip around town is that Raymond has gone AWOL. Joe is really on edge. I went to Madame’s today, but she was gone and so was Adele. I’m getting worried, John.”

  “Even with Raymond gone, can’t the sheriff handle it?”

  Chula couldn’t help but smile. “Joe’s a s
uperstitious fool. He means well, but Raymond does most of the work.”

  They turned at the sound of footsteps. Maizy all but rolled her eyes. “Miss Chula, Mrs. LaRoche is here to see you. She’s in the parlor. I gave her some brandy to help calm down. She’s in a state. I tried to call the doctor, but she won’t hear of it. She says she’s got to talk to you right now.”

  Chula didn’t waste any time wondering why Jolene LaRoche had shown up on her doorstep. She knew the woman from church, but they’d never been friends. Chula strode through the house, trusting that John would follow. She found Jolene slumped on the sofa, her hair disheveled, her dress stained with sweat and dirt. “Jolene, what happened?” She knelt in front of her, picking up a limp hand and chafing it.

  Jolene’s green eyes focused slowly. “I … I went out to talk to Marguerite Bastion.” Her wild gaze found John standing in the doorway but she didn’t seem to register his presence. “Father Finley has the older boys.” She stumbled. “Marguerite’s boys. I went to talk to her. I …”

  Chula picked up the brandy Maizy had poured and held it to Jolene’s lips. She helped her take a sip. “You have to tell me what’s happened. I can’t help unless I know.”

  Jolene closed her eyes and took a breath. “I didn’t know where else to come. Raymond isn’t in town and the sheriff is off on a search. Pinkney told me to come to you. He said you had a car and could find Raymond.”

  Chula patted Jolene’s arm. “I’ll do what I can, if you’ll tell me what happened. Are Marguerite and the children okay?”

  Jolene shook her head. “The older boys hung the scarecrow in Father Finley’s tree. Marguerite brought them and left them. She wants them sent to the reformatory. I went to talk to her, but when I got to the house, no one was there except the little girl, Sarah.” She covered her mouth as if to keep something from surging out. “I heard her singing in the back of the house. Oh, God.” She rocked back and forth.

  Chula held her still and offered her more brandy. Jolene sipped, her gaze once again shifting around the room until it stopped on John. “Who are you?” Jolene asked.