Fever Moon Page 27

  “Bernadette may be in danger.” He wasn’t trying to intimidate the children. If Bernadette wasn’t involved in the murder of Henri, Praytor, and now Marguerite, then she might easily be the next victim. “If you know where your mother is, you need to tell me.” Raymond watched the children in the rearview mirror.

  “Gone,” Stella answered.

  She was probably eleven or twelve. Raymond met her foxy eyes in the mirror. She was frightened but determined not to show it. He admired that.

  “Gone where?” he asked more gently.

  She shook her head, and Raymond couldn’t tell if she didn’t know or refused to tell. He glanced at the boy who sat beside her. He was maybe eight years old, his dark eyes alert. “Son, where’s your father?”

  “Gone,” the girl said.

  “I was speaking to your brother.” He had to find Bernadette before more blood was shed. If Bernadette had Adele, Bernadette would kill her. Florence had told him what Bernadette told Father Michael—that death would be a blessing for Adele. More so for Bernadette, if she was guilty.

  He focused on the boy, who seemed more willing to talk. “Son, I need to find your pa. Right now.” It was possible that the missing Mr. Matthews might know where to find his wife.

  John turned in the passenger seat so that he could face the children. “If both your parents have abandoned you, you’ll become wards of the state and go to the orphanage in Baton Rouge.”

  The girl’s lip quivered. “You can’t do that.”

  “No, I can’t,” John said. “But he can.” He pointed to Raymond. “And you’d better believe he will. Now where’s your father? I know you don’t believe it, but we’re trying to help you.”

  “He left us, him, ‘bout tree month ago.” The boy’s accent was thicker than the girl’s. “Mama’ll be back though. We aren’t ‘bandoned.”

  “Where is she?” John asked. “No more foolishness.”

  “She go this mornin’. Took Adrian, Charles, Letha, and Joann. Lef’ me and Stella.”

  Raymond drove fast, but he watched John and the children in the rearview mirror. The last time he’d been at Bernadette Matthews’s home she hadn’t had a car. Which meant she was driving Marguerite’s.

  “Did she say where she was going?” John pulled a packet of Juicy Fruit gum from his pocket and offered the children a stick. The boy took one without hesitation, tearing off the wrapper and cramming it into his mouth. The girl was slower, but she took a piece also.

  “She didn’t say. She don’t tell us her business.” The girl answered before she popped the gum in her mouth, as if her grudging reply paid for the treat.

  “Why did your father leave? Did he find work over in Houma?” John kept it casual.

  The boy’s tone was matter-of-fact. “He just lef’, him. Say he’s never lookin’ back at us. Say he’s filled up with craziness.”

  “Shut up!” the girl hissed at her brother. “You keep flappin’ your lips, they’ll take us away for sure!”

  “That’s not true.” Raymond spoke softly. He didn’t understand how it was possible that the children would want to stay in the Matthews’s home, but their desperate desire to stay was plain. “I’ll do everything I can to find your father. I promise you that.”

  “He won’t take us.” The girl was bitter. “He says we’re not his.”

  “I’m sure your father was angry when he said it.” The answer to several questions was close, and Raymond edged toward it. “I guess your father was upset because your mother spent so much time at the Bastion plantation.” The Bastion boys had said Henri was meeting someone in a tractor shed, a woman. Caleb and Nathaniel had deliberately lied, to lead Raymond and others to think the woman he was meeting was Adele, but now he knew it had to be Bernadette.

  He couldn’t fathom Bernadette’s reasons for interest in Henri. He remembered the crystal knickknacks, the niceties of a home with an absent man. Financial would be his guess. And somewhere along the way, Bernadette and Marguerite had gone from competitors to conspirators. A man like Henri often drew his enemies together against him. “How often did your ma work at the Bastions?”

  “Mama went sometimes in the evening to help Mrs. Bastion,” Stella said. “Daddy said she should stay home, but Mama said she needed the money ‘cause Daddy wasn’t always working.” Stella looked down at her lap. “Mrs. Bastion gave me the books. She gave Vincent a gun. She said we were good children. She’s so pretty and … different. She said she’d teach me how to be a lady.”

  “Where’re the rest of the kids?” Raymond asked.

  “At Francine’s.” Stella spoke as if she were exhausted. “Mama took them there because of the smell in the house.”

  “But she left you two? All by yourself in a house with—” He broke off the sentence.

  “Mama told us to play outside. She said to get our toys and books and stay out the house. She said she’d come back and clean up the dead fish.” The girl’s concern was growing. “She should’ve been back. She’s been gone hours.”

  They’d reached the outskirts of the town, and Raymond slowed, checking his impulse to rush. The information he was obtaining was worth taking a bit of time. “Your mother and Mrs. Bastion must have been good friends?”

  Stella nodded. “Mama said Mrs. Bastion was a generous woman. She gave Mama a beautiful necklace. Gold.” Her hands went to her neck, as if her fingers could magically weave the necklace. “Mama said it was a reward for all her hard work, and Mrs. Bastion was going to give us a lot of money. After the wedding.”

  Raymond forced his fingers to relax on the wheel. If he was too eager, the girl would back away. He remembered something Pinkney had told him, some gossip from the café where Praytor was talking about who would marry Marguerite. She was the richest woman in town was how Praytor had described her. No doubt Praytor thought he was lined up to share that wealth.

  “I’ll bet your mother and Mrs. Bastion and Praytor Bless were all good friends.” Raymond spoke casually.

  Stella leaned forward, pushing her face toward the front seat. “They were. Mrs. Bastion said she was going to marry him. I was going to be in the wedding. In a pink dress. Brand-new.”

  He nodded. “You’d be a pretty bridesmaid. Mrs. Bastion must’ve been a regular visitor. She sounds like she was fond of your family.” The children had no clue to the horror in the back bedroom, and he hoped they’d never have to know the truth.

  “She came by sometimes.” The boy had crept forward on his seat so that he was close behind John. “She got sick the last time she came and passed out.”

  “When was that?” Raymond asked.

  “Tree, four, maybe five days ago.” The boy shrugged. “Hard to remember.”

  “Did she go to the doctor?” Raymond asked.

  “Mama told us to go down to the bayou and catch some fish for supper.” The boy’s face brightened. “I caught six.”

  Raymond’s foot twitched to press the gas pedal, but he held himself back. “Six fish. Cat or trout?”

  “Catfish. Mama fried ’em up.”

  “When you got back was Mrs. Bastion still there?”

  “She gone. Her car gone, too.”

  They entered town. He turned right and headed to Florence Delacroix’s. He had no other place to take the children, and he had no doubt that Florence would be kind to them. He pulled into her driveway and was almost to the house when he saw Florence’s car headed toward him at a reckless speed. He pulled between two oaks and got out. Florence’s car slewed to a stop. Her door flew open and she ran toward Raymond, her face telling him that something bad was afoot.

  “Adele is at Father Michael’s house!” She spoke as she ran. “They have her cornered. They’re going to kill her!” Florence stumbled on a tree root and Raymond caught her before she fell.

  Her bare arms were firm and warm in his hands. Her body heaved, struggling for breath. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at him. “They’ll kill her if you don’t get there.”

  Raymo
nd stepped away from her. “Will you look after Bernadette’s children for a while?”

  Florence’s eyes held a question as she captured Raymond’s gaze. She started to say something else, but when she glanced at the children she stopped.

  Raymond pulled her aside and spoke softly. “Marguerite Bastion is dead. At Bernadette’s house. Call Doc Fletcher and tell him I think she was poisoned, but we need an autopsy. I’ve got to go.”

  The children stood in front of John, his hand resting lightly on the shoulder of each. Raymond walked back to them. “You’ll have to stay here.”

  “You can’t leave us here,” Stella said. “She’s a whore.”

  Before Raymond could respond, Florence turned to the girl. “Yes, I’m a whore, but I’m a whore with hot chocolate and ham sandwiches.”

  The boy stepped free of John’s light grasp and walked toward Florence. “I’m goin’ wit you, cher. Stella can sit on the stoop and starve if it suits her. Me, I’m goin’ wit you.”

  Michael stood on the front porch as a mob of forty or more men pushed through the gate and onto his front lawn. They trampled the bed of mums he’d spent hours tending. The bright yellow and orange heads lay crushed and bruised, destroyed beneath the cardboard soles of their shoes.

  The crowd was mixed—Negro, Cajun, Indian, French, and German, rich and poor. Michael recognized most of the men, but not all. Some had come from deep in the swamps, hearing the news in a form of telepathic gossip that Michael had never been able to understand. They carried guns and rope. And sticks—dry kindling. Joe was right, Michael realized. They intended to burn Adele.

  “You folks should go home.” He waved a hand to shoo them away from his door. “The sheriff has things under control. Go on home before someone gets hurt.”

  “We come for the loup-garou” Leroy Baxter stepped out of the crowd. He held a length of rope in both hands. “We got to get her in the daylight, before she turns. Now you best get out the way, Father Finley.”

  “Peat Moss was returned to you without harm, Mr. Baxter.” Michael moved to the first step. He kept the advantage of height, but he wanted the crowd to know he didn’t fear them. He had failed Rosa miserably—had become a victim of his own fears—but he wouldn’t allow Adele to be burned. “You should be at home celebrating God’s miracle instead of here, trying to do harm to a woman who is sick.”

  “She the devil,” Leroy insisted. “We do God’s work. We send the devil back to hell.”

  “She isn’t the devil.” He wasn’t certain what Adele was, but even if she was the devil’s child, she would not burn. From deep inside he summoned strength. “She’s ill!” He roared the words, empowered when the crowd backed up a step. “Leave this to the sheriff and the doctor! Get out of my yard!”

  The crowd backed up again, and he saw doubt touch the faces of some of the men as they shifted from one foot to another. Heat like the kiss of a July morning touched Michael’s face. All of his life he’d craved the power to sway a crowd, and now he had it. He felt as if God had touched him, giving him words and the voice to speak them.

  “God is the judge of Adele Hebert, not you! Whatever you believe Adele to be, it’s not your place to decide her fate. Now leave this to God and go home to your families.” Several men in the front turned to leave. Michael nodded at the rest. “Go home.”

  Michael saw movement in the back of the crowd. The person was short, but he was making his way to the front, pushing and shoving. Foreboding touched Michael when Bernadette Matthews stepped out of the crowd to stand beside Leroy. She was the only woman in the gathering, and her face was twisted with anger.

  “Adele is evil.” She spoke to Michael before she turned to address the group. “She’s my sister, but she’s evil! She’s accepted Satan as her master! She’s bewitched the priest! Perhaps she’s bitten him and tonight he’ll roam the parish trying to steal our children. Adele has killed two men already. Maybe more. Marguerite Bastion is still missing!”

  A ripple of movement came from the crowd, and in one surge, the men moved toward the steps. Michael spread his feet for a steadier base and held his ground. “Stop!” He turned to the doorway where Colista stood, her face ashen.

  “Hand me my gun, and get the sheriff out here.” He spoke softly, but Colista scurried to obey. In a moment she returned with the shotgun he’d fired only twice in his life. He took the handful of shells she offered, glad that Colista knew more about weapons than he did.

  As he turned to the crowd, Joe Como stepped out onto the porch with him, his pistol drawn.

  “I will not let you harm a mentally ill woman.” Michael fought back his terror and lifted the barrel of the shotgun so that it pointed into the crowd.

  “I’ll shoot the first six people who try to come up these steps.” Joe raised the pistol. “The woman inside is sick. We’re taking her to the hospital in Lafayette, and no one here is going to stop us.”

  Michael stood shoulder to shoulder with the sheriff. The crowd shuffled and milled, but no one stepped forward. Bernadette looked behind her, assessing the crowd, before she faced Michael.

  “You’re under her spell, you, and the sheriff, too.”

  The crowd inched forward again. To his left, Michael saw Raymond Thibodeaux running toward the mob. Raymond’s gun was drawn, and the look on his face told Michael the deputy was serious about using his weapon. Michael had never thought he’d be so glad to see Raymond.

  “Go home. All of you. Go now before it’s too late to turn back.” Joe pointed to the road. “No harm’s been done. Leave before I start making arrests.”

  Bernadette barked, and it took Michael a moment to realize the sound was laughter.

  “Arrest us, Sheriff Como,” she said. “Put us behind bars.” Her strange canine laugh came again. “The only folks you can keep in your jail are children.”

  “Go home!” Michael pointed a finger toward the street. “Get out of my yard, Bernadette Matthews, before I press charges.”

  From behind him came an anguished scream that made the hair on the back of his neck stand. Several men in the crowd cowered and retreated. Colista rushed out of the house, pushing between Michael and Joe. She ran into the crowd, struggling against the human wall of resistance, until finally the men stepped aside and let her pass. Michael watched, momentarily stunned, thinking of how the Red Sea had been parted for Moses.

  “Sweet Jesus!”

  Joe’s breathless comment drew Michael’s attention, and he turned to find the sheriff staring at the open doorway where Adele Hebert stood, her wild eyes roving over the crowd of men and settling on her sister.

  “Get her!” someone in the crowd shouted. The mob lurched forward, and Michael ran down the steps, raising the gun as he went. Before he could fire, the crowd was on him. Someone slugged him hard on the side of the head, and he felt himself falling but was caught by the hands of the mob, his body an effective block against the tide of angry humans. The gun was pulled from his grasp.

  Raymond saw the priest pulled into the angry mob. Adele stood in the doorway, an expression of confusion on her face. She reached out a hand toward her sister. Her mouth moved, her words indistinguishable in the roar of the mob.

  The sheriff made a grab for the priest’s cassock and missed. Unable to assist the priest, Joe pushed back, trying to force Adele inside the house. “Get inside!” Joe screamed at Adele as hands reached from the mob and grabbed him.

  Adele didn’t move. Her gaze was locked with Bernadette ‘s.

  “Kill her!” Bernadette’s voice rang over the roar. “Kill her now!” Bernadette raised a pistol from her side. She held it with both hands, pointing at Adele.

  Raymond pushed against the crowd without success. The press of bodies held him at the edge of the mob. Bernadette meant to kill Adele. Had always meant that she would die. It was the only way to guarantee Adele would take the blame.

  “No!” He screamed the word. “No!”

  Amid the uproar of the crowd, Raymond heard the cry of a
hawk. He glanced into the cloudless sky, searching for the red tail feathers and open wings. The blue vista was unbroken. He thought of Antoine, the brother he hadn’t protected.

  He brought the pistol up and squeezed the trigger in one smooth action. The loud report of the gunshot confused the mob. They churned forward, then fell back, their mouths moving but no sound coming out. Bernadette clutched her chest and staggered. She turned to face him, disbelief touching her features before she fell, disappearing in the mob.

  Raymond stood with the gun raised. The sheriff scooped Adele into his arms and stepped inside the house. The door slammed, and suddenly Raymond was engulfed in a stampede of men pushing to get away from the priest’s house.

  They scattered in all directions, and Raymond was left alone with Bernadette. She lay on the grass on her side, her back to him. He walked forward, stopping when he was only inches from her. He knelt and rolled her onto her back. Her sightless eyes gazed into the sun, as if she, too, sought to catch a glimpse of a hawk.

  31

  RAYMOND stood outside the bedroom he’d occupied only two days before. Doc Fletcher was with Adele. Had been with her for most of the afternoon and evening. He wouldn’t leave her side—except to consult with other doctors on the phone. He’d ordered everyone except his wife from the room.

  A small, screened porch offered Raymond a place to sit in privacy, and he eased his body into an old rocking chair. The pain in his back was constant, a grinding of bone. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He’d found Marguerite’s car and determined that the tires matched the tread marks he’d found in Madame’s yard. He couldn’t be certain now whether Bernadette or Marguerite had paid a visit to Adele at Madame’s and slipped her more of the fungus-laden bread. Unless Adele came to her senses, he’d never know. Not that it mattered to anyone but him.

  He’d been waiting for hours for word on Adele. John had rushed to Baton Rouge with the grass, bread, and jar of meal. He’d twisted arms at the university, calling in favors from colleagues, and had called back to report that the fungus was indeed ergot, common enough in grasses and grains in the Dakotas but also found in Southern states. Severe hallucinations, and a few other unpleasant side effects, occurred when it was ingested. Deadly in cattle if eaten for long periods, the effects in humans hadn’t been studied. There might be the possibility of recurring episodes. Blood vessel constriction might cause a form of gangrene. The best anyone could say was that if Adele lived long enough the effects might wear off. Might.