Fever Moon Read online

  He clamped down on his impatience. “I won’t go far. I’ll just go in deep enough to find someone. Then I’ll come right back. If you yell, I can hear you.”

  “What if she comes out of the woods? What if she’s watching us and just waiting for a chance?” Jolene’s voice rose with each new question. “What if—”

  He grasped both her arms firmly. “You’re frightening yourself, Jolene. You have to get a grip.” Her eyes widened in alarm and her spine stiffened, the impulse to fight back showing in her face.

  “That’s better.” He softened his grip. “You’re okay. I’ll be right back.” Before she could protest, he jumped over the ditch and hurried into the woods. As he stepped into the trees, he realized how close it was to night. The canopy of tree limbs overhead blocked out the little sun that still illuminated the sky.

  “Praytor!” He decided to abandon all pretense of masculine poise. “Praytor! I’ve found a track. A child’s track!”

  There was no answer, and for one awful moment, Michael had the sense that the men who’d stepped into the woods to hunt had disappeared forever, swallowed by the dense swamp.

  “Praytor!” If there was an edge of panic in his voice, he didn’t care. “Anyone!”

  His voice rang against the tree trunks, echoing back at him. A movement to his left caused him to freeze. He’d caught it out of the corner of his eye, and he turned slowly to face it. In the dimness of the swamp, he could see nothing alive.

  “Father, protect this your servant from the ways of evil.” He made the sign of the cross. He was far beyond worrying about appearing ridiculous now. If the men of the search party were having sport with him, they could enjoy themselves. “Praytor! Somebody answer me!”

  Just at the edge of darkness, something moved, shifting silently from tree to shrub. He saw it. This was no trick of imagination or flight of fancy. Someone was in the swamp nearby. Someone who wouldn’t answer his cry for assistance.

  The trees around him were dark silhouettes now. Ahead was a black slough with cypress knees cresting from the water like the spine of some ancient sea monster. He backed up until he felt the bark of a tree at his buttocks.

  In the total silence, something slid from a log into the dark water with a gentle splash. Turtle. Snake. Gator. He couldn’t be certain.

  Turning to face the opposite direction, he saw only the trunks of trees and the underbrush that seemed uniform. He’d walked less than fifty yards from the road, but somehow he’d gotten turned around. With the sun setting and darkness falling over him, he couldn’t be certain which direction would take him back to the road and Jolene.

  “Jolene!” He called her name, hoping he could find his way back to the road when she responded.

  There was no answer. It was as if he’d stepped into a place bewitched. That was utter foolishness! He didn’t believe in magic. A search party of grown men didn’t disappear in the forest.

  He didn’t believe in a woman who turned into a wolf.

  Movement through the underbrush caught his eye. This time he distinctly saw the shape of a human. Someone on two legs. But the person had moved with such speed. And without making a sound.

  Michael touched the crucifix that hung around his neck. For the ten years he’d been in New Iberia he’d avoided the swamps. He’d known, deep in his soul, that something lurked in the soft black soil rich with damp leaves and seeping springs. Something waited here just for him. He’d avoided it for years, and now he feared he would confront it.

  “Father, give me strength to face the test before me.” He prayed with his eyes open, his gaze scanning the trees in front of him, turning slowly, hoping and yet dreading to face the attack when it came. “You are the creator of all things. This is yet one of your creatures. I will not fear it with the strength you give me.”

  The creature stepped out from behind a tree. In the stillness of the woods, not even a leaf seemed to stir. Michael couldn’t tell what it was, exactly. It walked on two feet, but with a peculiar stoop, as if it might drop to all fours. Whatever it was didn’t move. It watched him, as if it waited to see what he would do.

  “Adele?” He called to her, because it could be no one else. “Adele, let me help you. With God’s help, you can overcome this.” He had doubted Rosa Hebert and her bleeding hands. God forgive him, he had doubted her, wondering if somehow she were marking herself. He did not doubt the dark vision before him, though. It was Adele, and she stood in a way that was not completely human.

  She didn’t move, yet she seemed to drift closer. He felt the tree at his back as he withdrew. He had to show more courage. He couldn’t fear her or he wouldn’t be able to help her. But he did feel fear. It was a blade in his gut, turning his legs to jelly and his bowels to mush. Still, he held his ground.

  “Come back with me, Adele. Everyone is hunting you. They’ll try to kill you. If you come with me, I can keep you safe.” His own words seemed to calm him. God had sent him to this place. He wasn’t alone. If God had not intended him to help Adele, then why was he the one who found her? He took a step forward. “You have to come back with me. You need medical care.”

  She moved so quickly that he almost couldn’t believe it. She was there, and then she was gone. He’d been staring right at her. Somehow, in the dim and failing light, she simply vanished.

  “Adele?” He looked around but night had fallen thick and heavy. He had no idea how long he’d been in the woods. It was almost as if he were awakening from a dream. “Adele.”

  At first he thought he was hearing things, but the sound of the child grew louder. It was a cry of discomfort and peevishness. Not fear or danger. He forced himself to move forward through the underbrush to the place where he’d seen Adele standing. As he moved, the sound of the crying child grew louder.

  When he parted the hackberry limbs, he saw the vague shape of a child squatting. The little girl looked up at him and gave a cry of fear. She started to scrabble away, but he caught the hem of her dirty dress and clung to her.

  “Peat Moss?” he said.

  At the sound of her name she stopped scuttling. “Mama!” She began to cry softly. “Mama!”

  He cradled her in his arms. “We’ll get your mama.” He held her tightly against his chest as he rose. In the distance several lights were headed his way. The search party.

  “Over here!” he cried out. “Here!”

  “It’s the priest,” Praytor Bless called out and the searching men turned in his direction.

  “I’ve got the child,” Michael called, still unsure that he truly held the missing girl. “I’ve got her!”

  The hound and Praytor broke through the underbrush. “Well I’ll be damned,” Praytor said, holding the light on Peat Moss’s tear-dampened face. “Is she okay?”

  “I think so,” Michael said. “I can’t be sure until we get her someplace where we can look her over.”

  “How’d you find her?” Praytor was scanning the area, the dog straining at the leash.

  “Adele. She was here.”

  “Here? How long ago?”

  “Minutes.”

  Praytor pushed past him, letting the dog take the scent. “Get the baby out of here. The rest of you, go with Father Finley. I’m goin’ after that she-devil, and I’m gonna get her.”

  Florence pulled the patrol car into the shallow ditch only a few yards from the cluster of people milling around in the road. Raymond put his hand on the door release, but Florence restrained him. “Give them a moment. The child’s just been returned.”

  Staring out the window, Raymond saw Peat Moss’s dark head poking from beneath Big Ethel’s arms as she cradled her grandchild, laughing and hugging the young girl.

  “It’s a miracle! God sent down a miracle to us!” Big Ethel smothered the girl with kisses.

  Behind Big Ethel were Leroy and Aimee, both touching Peat Moss’s hair and arms and legs as if they didn’t believe she was real. The priest and Jolene stood in the background. Michael Finley looked dazed, and h
e kept glancing back into the woods as if he expected someone else to appear.

  “She wasn’t even a mile from her home,” Florence said.

  It was true. Though half the parish had hunted for Peat Moss, she’d been close. “She was hiding under a bush.” Raymond repeated what Pinkney had told him when the old man had run into Doc Fletcher’s home to tell him the child was safe.

  “Do you think she managed alone in the woods?”

  He watched the excited crowd. “She doesn’t look like she was hurt.” He opened the door. “But that’s what I need to ask her.”

  He felt the bite of his injuries as he went toward the Baxter family. When he held out his arms for the child, Big Ethel released her to him. Peat Moss smiled as she touched the badge on his shirt.

  “Peat Moss, were you alone in the woods?” he asked.

  She only laughed and pointed at her mother. Aimee took her. “She’s tired,” Aimee said. “Can you ask her questions tomorrow?”

  “Doc said she was fine.” He looked to the mother for confirmation. In all that had happened, it was difficult for him to believe the child had been returned unharmed.

  “She’s okay.” Aimee closed her eyes as she hugged her child. “By the grace of God, she’s okay. Father Finley gave us a miracle. There’s a celebration tonight in the Julinot orchard. Come share our joy” She turned to Leroy, and he folded both of them into his arms.

  Raymond let them go. He was left standing with Jolene and the priest as the crowd began to thin.

  “You’re a hero, Father Finley,” he said. “You found the child when the whole community was searching for her.”

  “I … Adele helped me.”

  “You saw Adele?” Raymond’s question was sharp. He looked around, as if she might be nearby

  “She was there. She led me to the girl.”

  “Did she say anything?” Raymond asked.

  Michael shook his head. “I tried to talk to her, to convince her to come back with me. I warned her that people were trying to kill her. Praytor is out there now, determined to bring her in. Dead or alive.”

  “Did she understand?”

  Michael shook his head. “No. I don’t think she did.”

  “Was there anything that might help me find her?”

  Michael reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of bread. “The child had this in her pocket. Someone gave it to her. I think Adele did it. Adele was trying to help her.”

  Michael took the bread, noticing the strange texture. It was stale and old with hard purple and black granules throughout. He put it carefully in his pocket. “Thanks. I’m glad you found her safe.”

  24

  THE bar was long and dark, a place where local men came without their wives for an hour of groping a strange woman on the dance floor and drinking and gaming away their paychecks. Arguments were settled with fists or knives, and several stains on the floor looked suspiciously like old blood.

  Walking through the door, Raymond met a wall of resentment. Strangers often meant trouble, or at least competition. He held Florence’s elbow, daring all who looked to make a move. His body was still weak, but he carried a gun tucked in his waistband, hidden by his jacket. The gun nudged his spine, reminding him with each step of the other deadly metal that shifted beneath skin and muscle. The poultice was wrapped into place, and the pain had lessened to the point that he could walk without limping.

  Midway through the bar, he stopped. Because he had no jurisdiction in St. Mary’s Parish, Raymond had left his badge behind. The air in the bar had changed from resentment to interest. In Florence. To the patrons, he looked like the luckiest man in the world. The men’s gazes lingered on her, as lewd as a touch. Raymond eased her closer to him. She didn’t need protection, exactly, but he wanted it clear that she was not available. His glance swept the narrow room. If Dugas was there, Raymond couldn’t begin to guess which man he might be. There’d been no picture of him attached to the court paperwork.

  He saw a table at the back of the room and moved toward it. Florence held close against him. She kept her gaze down, but it did nothing to prevent the men’s looks from raking over her body, probing her breasts and thighs. Raymond had never taken Florence into a bar before, had never felt the surge of anger that came when another man looked at what he considered his own. Though he’d lied to himself about it, in the past weeks he’d grown proprietary of Florence. He’d come to see her as his, deceiving himself about his true feelings, salving them with the knowledge that she made a living by pleasuring men. The thrum of blood through his muscles told him more about his feelings for Florence than his brain had ever let on.

  “Is he here?” Florence whispered as she took the seat beside his. They were both sitting with their backs to the wall where they could watch the entire bar. The problem with the seats was the lack of an exit. To get out if trouble arose, they’d have to go all the way to the front door.

  Raymond examined each patron. They appeared to be mostly fishermen and swamp men, those who lived on the fringes of society. They’d not been drafted because their births had never been registered. When they died, there would be no embalming or paperwork. They would disappear into the swamps where they’d lived.

  Three men sat at the bar, another two at a table with three women, all of whom looked the worse for wear. Florence was like an exotic flower in a ditch full of weeds. He shifted his chair a bit closer to hers.

  “Did I ever tell you how I came to get this scar?” She touched her cheek where the thin line of a crescent moon was barely discernible in her olive skin.

  “No.” This wasn’t going to be an entertaining story. He could see it in her clear green eyes.

  “When I was thirteen, Mama was working on River Street in Baton Rouge. It was one of the better houses, and we lived about two blocks south of there. We had our own place, and I was going to a private Catholic school nearby. The house was small, but there was a garden.” She smiled and Raymond knew she was far away from him in time and place.

  “It was a fall morning. Mama was asleep, and I went out to pick some flowers for her. There were butterflies all in the garden. Those big orange monarchs. One of them landed on my hand and just stayed. I felt like I was a princess in a story, and the butterfly was just about to turn into my fairy godmother.”

  Her laugh was raw, and Raymond felt his heart tear. He didn’t have to look at her to dread what she was going to say. For so long he’d walled himself up with his own past that he’d never looked at what Florence pulled behind her. Now he was going to hear it whether he liked it or not.

  “When I looked up, there was a man in the garden. He’d followed Mama home. Before I could do anything, he grabbed me by the hair. He put a knife to my throat, and he told me what I was going to do. When I tried to get away, he cut my face. He said he’d carve my eyeballs out.”

  “Florence, I didn’t know.”

  She held up a hand. “Right there in the dirt of my mama’s flower garden with those butterflies all around, I got my first taste of pleasuring a man.”

  He saw the tears in her eyes, and he knew she’d never allow them to fall. He put his hand over hers. “I’m sorry I’d never have asked you to go back there. Florence, I was wrong.” Her hand was trembling, and he held it to his chest.

  “Mama moved us to Shreveport the next day. She left the house she worked at on River Road because the man had followed her from there, had come back to her home and taken the only thing of value she had.” She stared at him. “When you asked me to go to River Road, you were asking a lot more than you knew.”

  “I was wrong.” He pressed her hand tightly to his heart. “I was wronger than I’ve ever been in my life. You deserve so much better than that.”

  “What is it I deserve, Raymond?”

  “Someone better than me. Someone who’s not half dead.”

  Her smile was sad. “That makes it so much easier, doesn’t it? You just tell me how much more than you I deserve and that way you don’
t have to try to meet my needs.” She withdrew her hand. “You and that man in the garden have something in common, you know.” Her words, weighted with sadness, were spoken almost too softly for him to hear. “Neither one of you gives a damn what I need. It’s all about your needs.” She stood up. “I’ve got to powder my nose.”

  He grasped her wrist, but lightly. “I may have acted like that in the past, Florence, but it’s not true.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a folded paper that he handed to her.

  “What’s this?” She didn’t look at the paper but into his eyes.

  “I had this drawn up in Baton Rouge while I was in the courthouse the other day. I knew how much I’d wronged you. This can’t make up, but it shows my intent.”

  She slowly unfolded the paper and read it. When she lowered it, she had tears in her eyes. “Why would you do this?”

  “If something happens to me, I want you to have my house. Sell it or do what you want. There’s money in the bank. Enough for you to have a different life. If I can’t give you a new life, at least I can give you the means to get one for yourself.”

  She turned abruptly and headed to the washroom. When she left the table, every man in the room watched her hips sway beneath the navy-blue skirt she wore. Raymond almost stood, ready to challenge any of them. Ready to pound his fists into all of them.

  He felt the tap on his shoulder and swung around, eager for the challenge. The man who stood before him was ageless, his face a weathered brown that hid more than it revealed.

  “You must be the lawman lookin’ for me.” The man smiled, revealing strong white teeth. “I like the looks of your deputy.”

  “If you’re Armand Dugas, I’m looking for you.” Raymond ignored the reference to Florence. He needed information, not a fistfight. Florence was right about one thing. This wasn’t about him, and if he intended to help Adele, he needed to act on that.

  The man shrugged. “Names change on necessity. I was told Adele Hebert is in trouble.”

  “She’s accused of murder.” Raymond saw Florence come out of the restroom and hesitate. He signaled her over. “This is Florence Delacroix.”