Fever Moon Read online

  She bent over the oven, pulling the pan of hot biscuits out. When the knock came at her door, her thoughts were so focused on Raymond that she expected to see him standing in the fog when she opened it. Instead, Pinkney Stole stood on her porch, hat in both hands and eyes unable to meet hers.

  “There’s a phone call for you, Miss Florence, up to the sheriff’s office.”

  “For me?” She was shocked. Her mother had passed away two years before. No one else had cared enough to keep in touch with her. “Who is it?”

  “Girl won’t say. She axed for Mr. Raymond first, but when I tole her he was laid up and hurt bad, she—”

  Florence grabbed the door frame for support. “Raymond is hurt?”

  “Yas’m, he’s hurt bad. Might never walk again is what Sheriff Joe says. He—”

  “Where is Raymond?”

  “He’s up at Doc Fletcher’s house all hooked up to weights and things. They mean to stretch him out, try to ease that metal off his spine.”

  Florence smelled the biscuits, a scent that had always meant morning and a new day. It clotted at the back of her throat like a gag, and only her grip on the door frame held her upright. “What happened to Raymond?”

  A worried frown touched Pinkney’s face. “You’d best come on to the sheriff’s office with me, Miss Florence. That gal is gonna call back and it was long distance. She said it was urgent for Mr. Raymond.”

  Florence had completely forgotten the phone call. She rushed to the kitchen and turned off the oven. On her way to the door she picked up her purse and keys. “Let’s go,” she said, taking Pinkney’s elbow to hurry him along.

  “You gone leave them hot biscuits to ruin?”

  She hurried back to the kitchen and pulled a paper sack from beneath the sink. She dumped the biscuits in the sack and grabbed a jar of scuppernong jelly. “I don’t have any butter,” she said as she slammed the door locked behind her.

  She climbed into the driver’s seat and put the car in gear as Pinkney hustled into the front seat, the momentum of the car slamming his door. “Lord, Miss Florence, you likta took off my legs.”

  “Tell me about Raymond!”

  “He went out to the Bastion place yeste’day to stop that Veedal Lawrence from kühn’ a couple of prisoners. Raymond ran over Veedal. He dead now. Raymond’s at Doc’s house.”

  Florence knew that whatever Raymond had been doing at the Bastion farm, it had involved Adele Hebert. She didn’t know—or care—what he was doing as long as he was okay. “Doc says Raymond won’t ever walk again?”

  “Says most likely. Says that metal’s been in there shiftin’ and movin’ a little each day.”

  As Florence reached the fog-blurred edge of town she saw nothing of the ghostly buildings. Instead, she remembered Raymond’s long, lean body in her bed, dark hair sprinkled over his legs. Her hand traced the scar that started at his lower back and ran down to the shallow indentation near his buttocks and grooved his flesh to his hip bone and then down his thigh. The wound, even after a year, had been red and puckered with dips in the firm muscle where flesh had been torn away.

  “Pinkney, I’ll let you out at the office. I’m going to Doc Fletcher’s.” Be damned what people thought. Raymond was injured.

  “No, ma’am. You need to talk to that gal. She sounded mighty upset, and she said she had to talk to Mr. Raymond or you. Sheriff tole me to bring you right back to the office. Said he’d skin me alive if I didn’t.”

  “I don’t have time to talk—” but before she could finish her sentence, she realized who was calling. “Okay.” She pulled in at the curb in front of the sheriff’s department. There were cars parked all around, men talking in clusters, their faces tense with worry. “What’s going on?” she asked Pinkney.

  “Posse or some such. Gone find that loup-garou. Good thing Mr. Raymond is tied down in bed or he’d kick some ass around this place.”

  Florence passed Praytor Bless holding forth vehemently about something. His face was swollen, his lip puffed and crusted with blood and he walked with a limp. He stopped talking as she walked by, and she ignored him. When she walked into the sheriff’s office, the telephone was ringing.

  “New Iberia Sheriff’s Department,” Joe said when he answered. He cleared his throat. “I’ll accept the charges.” There was a pause. “She’s right here.” He handed the receiver to Florence.

  “Hello.” She held the receiver tight, as if pressure on the black handset could clear up the buzz on the line. She heard Callie’s voice.

  “It’s me, Florence. I found the thing you and that lawman was lookin’ for. I gave him the message and he said he needed to talk with that deputy. He said tonight at ten at Mitch’s place up Bayou Teche.”

  “That won’t work. Raymond’s hurt.”

  “It has to work.”

  The line went dead and Florence held the telephone to her ear, knowing that Joe and Pinkney and the two Bastion boys in their jail cell were listening to her. “Yes, I’ll give him the message,” she said into the empty telephone line and then hung up.

  “What’s that all about, Miss Florence?” Joe stepped closer to her as he asked. “Something I need to know?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir. I’m sorry you were troubled by such a call. It won’t happen again.”

  “I had to accept charges for that call.” Joe’s mouth was a line of annoyance. “Sheriff’s office ain’t no place for personal long-distance calls. That woman said it was police business.”

  “She lied. When the bill comes due, you tell me and I’ll pay you back.” Florence nodded at him. “Now you have a good day, Sheriff. I’ve got to get back to my chores.”

  She walked past them without ever looking. She got in her car and headed east, toward Bayou Teche and Raymond.

  The afternoon sun slanted in through the plantation blinds, illuminating the room in a warm glow. Raymond woke from the grip of the dream like a man surfacing from deep water.

  Everything in the dream had been bathed in tints of red violence. He’d felt as if he were drowning in carrion shadows. Surprised that it wasn’t night, he blinked against the golden glow of sunlight that was a blessing. When he tried to swallow, his throat was dry and sore, and he couldn’t shift his legs. He felt as if something heavy had been laid across the lower half of his body, restricting all movement. For a moment he was thrown back in time to the first moments of consciousness after he’d been injured in the war.

  The blast of the grenade against his back had been percussive, a combination of sound and movement that had initially puzzled him. His body had been smacked hard and he’d fallen to the ground. He’d known something was very wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what. His legs hadn’t responded to his commands. His thoughts had been addled. He’d opened his eyes and stared into the ground, remembering Antoine. His baby brother. The person he loved most in the world.

  He felt moisture build beneath his eyelids and trace its way through the crow’s-feet and into his hair. He should have been the one to die. That was the truth he lived with, the reason he lived alone and isolated. Raymond had found that he was very good at war. The adrenaline, the danger, the rush—all for a cause he believed was right. He did his duty. After Antoine’s death, he became superb at his duty. The problems began when he tried to sleep at night. What he saw was Antoine, a wounded ghost stalking the night, his eyes filled with dread at what Raymond had become.

  In the doctor’s bedroom, Raymond felt the sun on his face. He would keep his eyes closed and delay reality for just a bit longer.

  “Raymond?”

  The woman’s soft whisper was like a touch. He knew the voice, but it wasn’t possible. He’d lost her by his carelessness. Somehow he must have slipped back into a dream. “Florence?”

  Her cool fingers wiped the tear from his temple. “I’m here.”

  He forced his eyes open and looked at her, a woman of such beauty. She was bathed in sunlight, almost as if the glow were internal. “Am I dead?”

/>   “I don’t think so.” She smiled. “You’re trussed up like a hog at butcher time, but the doctor says you aren’t close to dying.”

  He tried to shift his body and felt the pull of the weights. Doc Fletcher was trying to stretch out his spine. He remembered the discussion before the pain shot. Raymond had consented to the treatment, but traction wouldn’t help. He knew that. The metal moved toward its own destiny. It was too close to the spine for removal, and though Doc was trying his best, Raymond accepted that no one could halt or delay destiny. If the metal moved in one direction, he would be paralyzed. If not, he would walk with a minor degree of pain. This was the card fate had dealt him.

  “Untie me,” he said. “I have to get up.”

  “You’re talking to the wrong woman.” She sat up straighter. “I won’t have a hand in watching you cripple yourself. Besides, I couldn’t undo those knots if my life depended on it.”

  “Did they find Peat Moss?”

  She sighed, and he knew she was debating all that she should or should not reveal. “No.”

  “Daniel Blackfeather?”

  Florence held his gaze. “The two prisoners are going to be fine. Veedal Lawrence is dead.”

  Raymond tried to feel something, anything. Regret for what Blackfeather and Smith suffered was all that surfaced. “I killed a lot of men in the war. Men I didn’t know. I killed them because if I didn’t, they’d kill me. Because they were the enemy. I left one boy alive with the thought of getting a medic for him, and Antoine died because of it.”

  He swallowed dryly and Florence gave him a sip of water.

  “Veedal Lawrence is the first man I’ve taken any satisfaction in killing. I wish I’d done it last week, when I figured out what kind of man he was. That’s my curse, Florence. I’m intended to kill—I’m good at it—but too late. I get it done, but only after the innocent have suffered.”

  Florence took a cool cloth and wiped his forehead. “You’d best put your thoughts and energy into healing instead of killing.”

  “Have they caught Adele yet?”

  “No. Praytor Bless is organizing a big hunt. Folks have seen Adele roaming around the town.” She took a deep breath. “If what they say is true, Raymond, Adele must be flying from place to place. She’s covering a lot of ground.”

  “Hell, if she can change into a wolf, why not a bird? Or a damn bat? Maybe she’s flying all over the parish.” He tried to sit up but the weights tugged at his legs. “Goddamn it, cut me loose from this.”

  Florence put a restraining hand on his chest. “Chula Baker stopped by. Madame Louiselle was with her and she sent a poultice for you. She told me how to apply it.”

  “I don’t want a damn poultice; I want up!” The slightest pressure of her hand pinned him to the bed, and his weakness was infuriating. At least Chula had found Madame. She should have awakened him, though. “Can you find Madame? I’ve got to talk to her!”

  “Why are you so willing to risk everything to save Adele?”

  The question pushed him back into the pillows. He owed Florence this answer. “It isn’t what you think, Florence. It’s just …” He turned away from her gaze. “She’s lost everything she ever loved—she’s probably insane—but she didn’t kill anyone. If I can’t figure a way to stop this, she’s going to be executed for a crime she didn’t do. All because she can’t defend herself.”

  “She’s helpless? Is that it?”

  “Yes. That’s it.” He felt relief. Florence did understand.

  She got up and walked to the window, adjusting the wooden slats so that he could see the first tinge of amber touching the cypress trees that grew along the Teche. When she turned back to him, he found he couldn’t fathom the expression on her face.

  “Is it only the weak who’re worth protecting and saving, Raymond?” She waited half a moment for his answer and then walked to the door. “I’ll get us both some coffee. There’s someone waiting to talk to you.”

  She was gone before he could frame a reply.

  22

  RAYMOND drew on his tiny resource of strength to force his eyelids open. He found himself staring into the black gaze of Madame Louiselle. She looked at the potion lying on the table beside his bed and back at him. Though she didn’t speak a word, he heard her. “You’re a hardheaded fool, Raymond Thibodeaux. Suffering should never be voluntary.”

  “Madame, what about the plants I brought you?” He hated that he was flat on his back.

  “Harmless. They’re all common for cooking, to calm nerves, some of the cures I taught Adele.” Her expression didn’t change. “Except for one.”

  She reached into the pocket of her apron and brought out a small piece of purple cloth. “This I don’t know.”

  Raymond felt like an invalid as he tried to push himself into a sitting position with the weights tugging him back down in bed. Sweat touched his hairline, and he felt the heat climbing into his face. Humiliation made him turn his face from Madame.

  “Lie still.” She put her cool, dry hand on his forehead.

  Raymond wanted to curse and rage, but he forced himself to fall back on the pillows. He was helpless. The thing he’d dreaded most had occurred.

  Madame took the small cloth and unwrapped it. She picked up the bundle of grass. “This I don’t know,” she said. She rewrapped it and put it in his hand. “Is there someone who can tell you what it is?”

  “Maybe Doc—”

  She shook her head. “I took it to him. I heard you were hurt, so I chose to be your legs.”

  Her words stung him, but he steeled himself not to show it. “Doc didn’t know?”

  “He hasn’t studied the native plants. Doc Fletcher believes that true healing comes from a pill at the drugstore.” She smiled and reached into her apron pocket and brought forth a pack of Camels. She offered Raymond one and then lit both cigarettes with a match she struck on her thumbnail. “Doc doesn’t concede that the pills he finds so valuable come from the same plants that grow wild in the swamps.”

  “I’d hoped you might have an answer for me.” His rage had passed and he was left with disappointment.

  “Is there someone else who might help you?” she asked.

  Raymond shook his head. “No. But thank you, Madame.” He took the cloth from her and held it gently. “Have you seen anything of Adele?”

  “No.” She went to the window and looked out at the Teche. “She wants to die, Raymond. You must accept that. Whether it is starvation or a bullet, Adele has chosen this.”

  “I don’t believe that. Someone is using her. Someone is setting her up to take the fall for a murder she didn’t commit.” It was hard to argue passionately from a sick bed. He handed the cigarette to Madame. She went to the window and threw both butts outside.

  “How did you get here, Madame?” Raymond was slowly coming to himself.

  “Chula brought me, but she left with her new man to go and search for Peat Moss.”

  “I can call the sheriff to give you a ride home.”

  “I’m not ready to go yet.” Madame picked up the poultice. “Why are you so afraid to heal yourself, Raymond? Why do you choose not to be whole?”

  He knew the answer. He’d spent the last six months ferreting out the truth. “I don’t deserve to heal.”

  “Ah, a challenge for any healer.” She put the poultice across his legs. “When your woman finally cuts your free, put this on. There’s a powerful gris-gris in it. Perhaps even strong enough to fight your darkness.”

  She leaned down and her lips brushed his forehead. “The guise of darkness can fall away, Raymond. If you wish it.”

  Her soft-soled shoes made no noise as she slipped out of the room.

  Sarah Bastion sat on Chula’s lap as they waited on Vermillion Road for the others who would make up one of the search parties for Peat Moss Baxter. The fog had lifted at last, returning the world to a more normal view.

  Chula’s fingers sifted through Sarah’s fine, dark hair. She’d had to cut several snarls out o
f it, and washing the child had been a battle. Beneath the dirt Chula had found bruises and cuts that showed long months of neglect. If Chula had her way, none of the Bastion children would be returned to their mother.

  Sarah seemed content to lean against Chula and stare into the woods; her behavior was troubling Chula. She was too quiet, too docile. Except when Chula attempted to leave her. Then Sarah had clung ferociously to her, hanging on to her leg or skirt or whatever she could attach to. The end result had been to bring her along. A search party was no place for a child, but leaving her behind was worse.

  The cry of a hawk drew their attention to the woods. The child cocked her head but didn’t utter a sound. Chula wondered if Jolene LaRoche had spun a total fantasy of what she’d seen—and heard—at the Bastion plantation. As far as Chula could tell, Sarah was mute.

  “John will be back soon.” She spoke to reassure Sarah, because she’d seen the child’s gaze follow John. Sarah seemed to like him, and Chula acted on instinct, giving the child reassuring information. John had stepped into the woods, undoubtedly to relieve himself. He was too much of a gentleman to disclose such details. Chula smiled at the thought. A few months in the swamps would cure him of his modesty.

  “Sarah, do you know where your mother went?” Chula spoke to the child at regular intervals, hoping that normal interaction might encourage the little girl to speak. Sarah continued to search the trees for a sign of the hawk.

  “Shall we go for a walk?” Chula eased Sarah to the ground, got out of the car, and held out her hand for Sarah to take. The child was compliant. She took Chula’s proffered hand and clung to it. Together they walked along the road. The day was warm, perfect, and Chula felt her body revive with the gentle exercise. They walked for half a mile, rounding a bend in the road that hid them from the car.

  “Your brothers are safe,” Chula said. Though she watched closely, she could see no reaction on Sarah’s face. She seemed to have no regard for any member of her family. “If we find your mother, you can go home.”