Fever Moon Read online

  The man assessed her. “I knew your mother,” he said. “If you ever think about moving to New Orleans—”

  “She’s not moving anywhere.” Raymond felt again the pulse of angry blood. He let his gaze bore into Dugas. “You were charged with murder.” He let that fact lie between them.

  “A woman who never existed.” Dugas moved to hold a chair for Florence. “A charge that could never be proved, and therefore never unproved.”

  “Why would they hang a false murder on you?” Raymond wasn’t certain how Dugas figured into Henri Bastion’s death, but somehow he did. Whatever thing had been done to Adele had taken root at the Bastion plantation. Dugas was the only lead Raymond had.

  The smile left Dugas’s eyes. “I knew too much. It was safer for me to be dead. No woman died by my hand, though I wouldn’t put it past them to kill a woman just to have a body.” His teeth were white in his tan face. “As it turned out, evidence wasn’t necessary at all. I was convicted, and I ended up with Henri Bastion, a man who had no hesitation about working a prisoner to death, which was my expected fate.”

  “Henri was just a happenstance?”

  Dugas considered the question. “I don’t know.”

  “And Adele?”

  He turned away, hiding whatever emotion surfaced. “She’s a good woman.”

  Raymond knew Dugas wasn’t telling the entire truth. “Was Adele in love with you?” he asked.

  Dugas shook his head. “Had you seen me, you wouldn’t ask. I doubt I weighed a hundred pounds. My body was covered in sores and lice. Another month, I would’ve been dead.”

  “Then why did she risk so much setting you free?”

  “I was the only man who’d try to escape. The others thought they’d die in the swamps. We were starved near to death.” His hand drifted to his bicep, which Raymond realized was smaller than his other arm. “They feared the gators more than Veedal Lawrence.”

  “Veedal is dead,” Raymond said.

  Dugas showed a spark of surprise. “How?”

  “I ran over him.”

  When Dugas laughed, he tilted back his head and let the sound dance around the bar until it was absorbed in the beer-sodden wood.

  Raymond waited for the other patrons to return to their drinks and conversations. “If you aren’t the father of Adele’s children, was it Henri?”

  Dugas looked shocked. “Adele had children?”

  Raymond believed the man was truly surprised. “Twin boys. They died a few weeks back from the fever.”

  “Damn Henri Bastion!” Dugas’s face twisted. “He had a woman, but it wasn’t Adele. She wouldn’t spit on Henri Bastion.” The lines beside his mouth deepened. “He was such a bastard. He may have taken her by force, but she never said anything. She wouldn’t kill him, but she knew I would have. That’s why she agreed to help me escape, so I wouldn’t kill him.” He struck the table with his fist so hard that all noise in the bar stopped. Dugas glared around the room and people went back to their conversations.

  “I’m sorry, Dugas.”

  “It wasn’t in Adele to harm anyone. She had tenderness for all living things.” His gaze shifted to Florence. “Adele was good-looking. She could have worked regular, had a good life. She refused. She said she wanted to be a teacher. Taught her sister’s daughter to read, she did.”

  Raymond felt as if Adele had shifted out of focus. “Are you confusing her with her sister, Rosa? She was spiritual.”

  Dugas shook his head. “Adele was a gentle person. She hated to see anything suffer. Man or beast. She wanted to be a healer, like the old woman in the swamps she talked about all the time. She worked for the Bastions to save up money.”

  The picture of Adele drawn by Dugas was in sharp contrast to Marguerite Bastion and Bernadette Matthews’s depiction. “I’ve been told that Adele was free with her body.”

  Raymond felt Florence’s gaze like a hot touch, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Adele is a beautiful woman, Deputy Thibodeaux. There’s no doubt she could have any man she wanted. Her interests, though, were not physical.” Dugas spoke with certainty. “If I hadn’t been running for my life, I would have taken her as a wife.” His hands slowly clinched. “With Adele, I might have had a respectable life.”

  Florence sat forward. “When Adele’s boys died, she got sick, too. She thinks she’s the loup-garou”

  Dugas studied Florence. When he spoke, his tone was quiet. “Adele is not a murderer. She may be a saint, but she isn’t a killer.”

  He stood up. “Adele was a good girl, a pure woman. By action and thought. Those who say otherwise have something to hide and a reason for slandering a kind woman. If you have more questions, ask them fast. There’s a boat I have to meet.”

  Raymond stood. “What can you tell me to help prove Adele’s innocence?”

  “Only that she isn’t capable of killing.” He took two steps away from the table, headed for the back door.

  “Where can I find you if I need to talk to you again?” Raymond asked.

  “Speak to Callie. She’ll get a message to me. Since I escaped from the Bastion plantation, I make it a point never to stay in one place too long. I never killed that woman, but that doesn’t mean the state won’t send me back to Angola.”

  25

  BENEATH the leafless branches of the pecan trees, a sense of joy had replaced the weary dejection of the searchers. Word had spread quickly that Peat Moss Baxter had been found unharmed. A large bonfire, built by Chester Julinot out of downed wood from his orchard, danced in the cool breeze. Julinot’s wife, Annie, stirred an enormous pot of gumbo. The nightmare that had haunted the community was ended.

  Chula accepted the bottle that Clifton Hebert handed her. She put it to her lips and took a small swallow of the whiskey before passing it on to John. The liquor was a hot contrast to the sweet relief of the little girl’s rescue. And by Michael Finley, of all people. The priest hated the swamps. He hated the darkness of night in the woods. It was ironic that with all the seasoned hunters searching for the child, it was the priest who found her. No matter. All that mattered was that she was safe and there would be no more talk of the loup-garou. Relief was like a kiss, making the cool night a promise of better days ahead.

  “Celebrate the miracle,” Clifton said to John. “Drink to the health of the bébé, yes.”

  “To the safe return of Peat Moss.” John took a long drink and handed the bottle back to Clifton. “Thank you, Mr. Hebert.”

  “At least folks will stop fretting about the loup-garou,” Chula said, her hand automatically going to rub Sarah Bastion’s back. The child had fallen asleep on a blanket on the ground, her tiny hand still clutching the hem of Chula’s skirt. “I hope Adele is okay.”

  The waning moon hung over the small gathering, and a breeze blew the smell of the gumbo toward them. Chula’s mouth watered. She was starving. Sarah had fallen asleep without so much as a complaint about hunger, and Chula was uncertain whether to wake the child to feed her or to let her sleep. The decisions of motherhood didn’t come naturally to her.

  “Praytor still hunts the demon spirit,” Clifton said, swigging from the bottle again. “He’s out there alone with a dog from the prison. ‘The best trackin’ dog in the state,’ he says.” He laughed. “Maybe the gators will get him and the dog, too.” He drank again. “My dogs are the best, but they won’t work for Praytor, no. He pay me money to borrow the dogs, but they won’t hunt for him. He brought them home and said they wouldn’t track.”

  A breeze fluttered the sleeves of Chula’s jacket and she drew her legs up beneath her skirt and covered Sarah with an edge of the blanket.

  “There’s still no sign of Adele,” she said. “She was so sick. I don’t understand how she’s able to survive out there. I’m afraid Praytor will kill her if he sees her.”

  Clifton looked up at the moon. “I thought Adele might find me. Always before, she find me when she need me.” He drank long from the bottle. “Bernadette, she find me.�
� He made a face. “I’d best go round up my dogs.” He handed the bottle to John. “Keep it.” In several strides he disappeared into the darkness.

  “I’ll get us some gumbo,” John said. He knelt beside Chula. “Are you okay?”

  “There’s been so much violence in Iberia Parish in the last week. I don’t believe in the loup-garou, but there’s something going on. Since the night of the full moon. Like a moon curse.” She stared up at the planet that half winked back at her. “John, do you think Praytor will find Adele?”

  John considered her question. “She can’t stay out there forever. She’s sick.”

  “He’ll kill her.”

  “Why are you so certain of that?”

  She thought about Praytor. “It’s what he is. It’s how he can prove he’s a real man.”

  John went to get the food, and Chula watched him, thinking about Praytor. He’d taken no bride, preferring to stay with his mother and sister. She’d thought at first that he was shy, but it had begun to occur to her that Praytor’s reluctance to go to the altar had to do with the available women. Since she’d gotten the post office job, he’d asked her out.

  She pushed Praytor out of her head and watched John as he chatted a moment with Annie Julinot before he took two bowls and a hunk of fresh bread. His arrival in town had changed her life. In a matter of a few days, she’d experienced a sense of belonging. Not to a man, but with him. He was her equal, and Chula found security in the fact that she couldn’t best him. Sarah, too, had initiated a huge shift in her world. The little girl had awakened a dormant maternal instinct that was stronger than the tidal pull of the moon. Chula touched the child, marveling at the softness of her skin, the perfection of her tiny body. Sarah was the most miraculous creation Chula had ever seen. And possibly the most dangerous.

  Marguerite would come to her senses and reclaim her daughter, and Chula would suffer. Even though Sarah was obviously scarred by her life with Marguerite, no court in the land would take a daughter from a mother. Chula would lose the child, unless she took her and ran.

  She looked around the orchard. About twenty people were there, most of them releasing the strain of the long search for Peat Moss. Bottles were passing and Robert Beaumont had pulled out his fiddle. Soon couples would be dancing beneath the leafless pecans. It was the rhythm of life in this place she loved. Trouble had passed, and now it was time to laugh and dance. The tax man or the devil might come knocking at the door in the morning, but for this moment, there was something to celebrate and music to dance to.

  “Thank you, John.” She took the gumbo and shifted to make room on the blanket. “Will you have to leave soon?”

  He put his soup aside and took her hand. “Leave with me, Chula. Come back to Baton Rouge. Bring Sarah and pray her mother doesn’t care enough to search for her.”

  His words touched her deeply. “Is that a proposal of marriage?” She forced a smile though the moon was a blur of silver through her unshed tears.

  “I want to marry you, but not yet. It would be insulting to act like you had to be legally bound to a man to chart the course of your life. Come with me. If you don’t like living with me, you and Sarah can leave, no strings attached.”

  “My job is here. In New Iberia. My home is here.”

  “You’re an educated woman. You can get a job anywhere. You know that as well as I do. Your roots are here, and it will be painful to tear them out. But they’ll regrow.”

  Chula tried to imagine a life away from Iberia Parish. She’d gone to school for four years. She’d been away, but while she’d lived the life of a college student, she’d also kept the ties to her old life, the one she would return to. She’d never truly left New Iberia. Not in spirit. To steal a child and run away with a man would end all ties. She thought suddenly of the letter from Madame Louiselle’s sister in California. How had the sister ended up so far from home? It was a question she’d never asked Madame.

  John’s fingers laced through hers. “Think about it, Chula. If you want to keep the child, and I think you should, you’re going to have to take her and run. I’ll marry you tonight, if that’s what you want. I want you to love me, to choose to marry me because it’s the thing you want to do most in life. But I’ll take you any way I can get you.”

  The passion in his voice calmed her. She touched his cheek. “I have to think about it.”

  “Good.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You have a very capable brain, and I’m sure you’ll come to the proper conclusion.”

  Chula was about to lean into his arms when she heard a car approaching. The headlamps cut across the field, slowly highlighting the different groups of people. The headlights found her and stopped. The driver turned the car off and in the darkness Chula heard the sound of two doors slamming. In a moment Raymond and Florence stepped into the glow cast by the bonfire. Chula felt a pang as she realized Raymond’s posture was perfect, but his face was lined with pain and worry.

  “Evening, Deputy Thibodeaux.” John held out the bottle. “Care for a swallow?”

  Raymond took the bottle and passed it to Florence. “I’d better hold off.” Florence held it at her side.

  “It’s been a hard few days for the town.” John signaled them to a place on the blanket. “I have to return to Baton Rouge soon, but I’d like to have that talk with you tomorrow if you have time.”

  Chula checked the sleeping child and moved her gumbo before she stood up. “It’s for a book about legend and folklore. About the use of myth in a community.”

  “A book?” Raymond sounded unsure. “I’m not the person you should talk to. I don’t believe in loup-garous or ghosts or witches. If that’s what you want to talk about, I’m the wrong man.”

  “Not at all,” John said. “Just hear me out. Could we meet at eight?”

  Raymond nodded slowly. “Okay. At the sheriff’s office. Or even better, at the café.”

  “Thank you. Now I’ll get you both some gumbo. I want the ladies to eat before they swoon from starvation.” John started toward the gumbo pot, his tall frame suddenly highlighted by another vehicle pulling into the field.

  The car roared into the gathering. Before it could stop, Joe Como flung open the passenger door and ran toward Raymond.

  “Come on, Raymond! Praytor Bless was just found down Section Line Road. He’s been torn almost in half by some kind of wild animal.”

  Raymond felt as if his body were being restrained by some invisible force. He started toward Joe’s car, but he moved in slow motion. Florence started to follow and stepped into the bowl of gumbo, splashing the hot liquid over the blanket. Chula threw her skirt over the sleeping child to prevent the hot soup from scalding her. Raymond saw the horror on Chula’s face, and the pain on Florence’s. The sound of the crowd, gathered round to hear the sheriff’s news, was like the roar of a boat motor tangled in weeds.

  “I’ll take Miss Delacroix home,” John said, and his words snapped Raymond out of the confusion.

  “Thibodeaux! Get in the damn car and follow us!” Joe was already back in the passenger seat of the vehicle he’d arrived in.

  Raymond turned away from the sheriff and to Florence. “I’m sorry to leave you like this. Will you be okay?” It was the respect a man gave a date, and he wanted everyone to hear it.

  Florence nodded, the surprise and pleasure clear on her face. “You go on. Mr. LeDeux will see me home just fine.”

  Her formal response made him smile. With Florence, it could have gone either way. She just as easily might have slapped his face. He turned to Chula. “Use what influence you have to keep this under control.”

  Joe reached across the seat and laid on the horn. “Raymond, get your ass in gear!”

  Raymond hurried to the patrol car and fell in behind the sheriff as they bumped out of the orchard and onto Section Line Road. In the rearview mirror he could see several pairs of headlights come to life. The mob, never far from the surface of any group, had sprung to life.

  Joe’s dr
iver, a man Raymond recognized from Joe’s morning coffee calls at the café, drove carelessly, taking corners with reckless abandon. They drove fast until they came to the bridge over Beaver Creek. Rains to the north had flooded the waterways in Iberia Parish, and the creek rushed dangerously close to the wooden platform. Once across, they picked up their pace again until the lead car swerved onto the side of the road.

  Raymond parked behind and was out of his vehicle before Joe could swing open his door. The lead car’s headlamps revealed a lump of what looked like dirty clothes on the side of the road surrounded by an ominous pool of black.

  Dread crept up Raymond’s spine. Peat Moss was safe. The panic over Adele had calmed, but this would torch it high. He walked forward, swinging his flashlight beam onto the thing in the road. At first he couldn’t make out what it was. Then the light caught a glint of metal, and Raymond recognized the fancy silver toe guard on Praytor’s boot. He knelt for a better look, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise up his throat.

  “Is it Praytor?” Joe asked the question as he stood behind the headlights of the first car.

  “I think so.” Raymond grasped a piece of cloth and pulled. The thing rolled wetly and an arm flopped onto the road. The beam of light found what was left of Praytor’s face. The teeth were there, along with the cheekbones. Most of the flesh had been savaged.

  The body had been doubled over on itself. Raymond unfolded it, pulling arms and legs in the direction they should have grown. The entire abdomen was gone, revealing the glistening sinew of the spine. He stood up slowly.

  “Are you sure it’s Praytor?” Joe asked.

  Tired of staring into the glare of headlights, Raymond walked over to speak to the sheriff. “It’s Praytor. Or what’s left of him.”

  “Shit.” Joe shook his head. “How’d he die?”

  “It’s going to be hard to tell. Most of his internal organs are gone.”

  “Shit!” Joe wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve. “Shit!”