Cry Wolf

Chapter Eleven

Savannah sat in a far corner of the bar, an aura of silence enveloping her like a force field, while all around her the air was filled with raucous sound. Filé was blasting out of the jukebox-"Two Left Feet." Billiard balls smacked together, people shouted to be heard above the general din. Savannah blocked it all out. Anger simmered inside her, hot and bitter and acidic.

The call from St. Joseph 's had broken in on her time with Cooper like an unwelcome news bulletin. Mrs. Cooper was suddenly having a bad spell, and couldn't Mr. Cooper please come? He had been there all morning and half the afternoon as it was. Selfish, greedy bitch. It wasn't enough that she had to hold on to him mentally, she had to drag him away physically, as well.

"I hate her," Savannah snarled, the feeling too strong to keep bottled up inside.

No one noticed she'd spoken at all. No one was paying any attention to her.

She took a gulp of her vodka tonic and did a slow reconnaissance of the room through the dark lenses of her sunglasses. The place was crowded for a Sunday evening. Thanks to Laurel. Laurel. Everybody's little heroine. Everybody's little savior.

The anger burned a little hotter, flared up as she tossed another splash of alcohol on the flames. The irony was just too bitter. Laurel was what she was because of Savannah. She was the chaste and pure one because Savannah had been her savior, her protector.

She stared hard toward the bar, where her Baby was being toasted and cheered by T-Grace and the regulars. And Jack Boudreaux stood by her side, the least likely white knight she'd ever seen. Baby was supposed to be home, brooding, hiding, weak, and in need of her big sister for comfort and support. Damn her. She was getting stronger by the day, by the minute, snatching away Savannah 's chance to be the stronger one, to play the role of protector again, to rise above her station of town tramp and be somebody important.

She picked up a matchbook off the table and mutilated it while she watched the way Jack hovered over Laurel, touching her shoulder, the small of her back, leaning close to whisper something in her ear then throwing his head back and laughing as she slugged him on the shoulder.

He had never whispered anything in Savannah 's ear, damn his miserable Cajun hide. She would have given him the ride of his life, but he'd never shown any interest in her beyond the casual flirting he did with every female on the planet. He was sure as hell showing an interest in Baby, and Savannah didn't like it one damn bit.

"Damn you, Baby," she muttered, polishing off the last of her drink.

"You talkin' to me, ma belle?" Leonce bent over her from behind, sliding one bony hand down over her shoulder to fondle her breast.

"Damn right, you jerk," she complained. "You're not paying any attention to me at all."

His scar repulsed her. It constantly drew her eyes to the grotesque lumps at either end of it and the misshapen end of his nose in between. She'd heard a story once that a woman had given him the mark with the business end of a broken bottle, but Leonce seemed to bear no ill will toward the gender. He came on to anything in panties.

"I'll pay anything you want if you get naked with me, chère."

Whore. You're nothing but a whore, Savannah…

Her anger spiked, breaking through her facade of boredom. She wasn't for sale. She did what she wanted when she wanted with whomever she wanted because she wanted to. Which made her a slut, not a whore. The bitter distinction burned in her stomach like an ulcer, and confusing, conflicting emotions twisted and writhed in her chest, the pressure building like steam in a radiator.

Needing to take it out on somebody, she grabbed a chunk of Leonce's beard and gave it a vicious twist, wringing a howl out of him. He staggered back the instant she let go and crashed into a pool player getting ready to take a shot, earning himself a jab with a cue stick and an earful of four-letter words.

Leonce ignored the other man, his glare fixed on Savannah as he rubbed his cheek. "What the hell you do dat for?"

Savannah stood up, kicking her chair back. "Go fuck yourself, Scarface. Save your money to buy yourself a brain, you asshole."

She snatched up her glass and threw it at him, bouncing it off his shoulder as he ducked away.

"Crazy bitch!" he yelled as sneers and chuckles rumbled behind him. "You goddamn crazy bitch!"

Savannah ignored him, snatched up her pocketbook, and went on the prowl. She didn't need to settle for Leonce Comeau; there were plenty of younger, good-looking bucks who would appreciate her company and her expertise. Her gaze caught on Taureau Hebert across the room, regaling his buddies with the tale of his latest run-in with the game warden.

She'd had her eye on him for a while now. He hadn't been nicknamed Bull for nothing. He was all of twenty-three and built for service from his mile-wide shoulders on down. It seemed like the perfect time to put him to the test.

But as she set off, hips swaying, tossing her wild mane back over her shoulder, concentrating all her considerable energy into the total package of allure, Annie Delahoussaye-Gerrard bounced into the picture, and the men at Taureau's table snapped their heads around to ogle her cleavage as she served their drinks and flirted with them.

Savannah fought off the wild urge to scream. This was her territory. Who the hell did this cheap little waitress think she was, anyway?

Young and pretty, that's who she was. And she had a sunny smile and a sweet laugh. Like her mother, T-Grace, Annie favored her clothes a size too small, pouring her ample curves into tight jeans and tank tops that left nothing to the imagination. A tangle of fake gold chains hung around her throat, and she wore a cheap ring on nearly every finger. No style at all, Savannah thought bitterly as she fingered the long strand of real pearls she wore and briefly contemplated wrapping them around Annie Gerrard's pretty young throat.

The little bitch had no business sniffing around the men here. She had a man of her own, a husband. Savannah very conveniently forgot the fact that Tony Gerrard-Annie's husband-had only just been released from a stay in the parish jail for knocking her around, and rumors of a divorce were in the air.

She strolled around behind the table, slipping in between Taureau and the waitress, sliding an arm around Taureau's thick, sunburned neck as if they were longtime lovers. She ignored his startled expression and fixed a hard-eyed look on Annie. "Why don't you run along and get me a fresh vodka tonic, sweetheart? That is your job here, isn't it?"

Annie narrowed her dark eyes and propped her empty tray on her well-rounded hip. "Mais yeah, that's my job," Annie sassed, looking her adversary up and down with undisguised contempt. "What's yours, grandmère? Molesting young men?"

Savannah didn't hear the obscenities that spewed from her own mouth. With a bloodred haze clouding her vision, she launched herself at the waitress, grabbing a handful of overpermed dark hair. She swung her other arm in a wild, roundhouse punch that connected solidly with Annie's ear.

Taureau and his buddies shot up out of their chairs, eyes round with astonishment. Someone yelled "Cat- fight!" above the blare of the jukebox. There was another call of "Grand rond!" and instantly a circle of spectators formed around the two women as they crashed into a table, sending bottles and glasses flying. Beer spilled in a foaming river across the wood floor, making the footing treacherous and giving an advantage to Annie, who was in sneakers.

Savannah didn't notice herself slipping. Her perceptions had become strangely distorted, her vision zooming close up on her adversary, hearing nothing but a loud, chaotic babble of sounds-screeches and screams and crashing. She felt nothing-not the other woman's hand yanking on her hair or fingernails biting into her flesh or toe connecting with her shin-nothing but the white-hot rage that roared within. She swung and clawed and shouted, holding on tight to whatever part of Annie Gerrard she could grab, and they spun, stumbling around the circle of spectators like wind-up dolls run amok.

T-Grace let out a sound that was something between fury and a war cry as she barreled out from behind the bar, elbows flying into the ribs of anyone who didn't get immediately out of her way. She plunged through the crowd, shouting at the top of her lungs, her eyes bulging wildly as she rushed to save not her daughter but her glassware and furniture. Annie could take care of herself.

Laurel jerked around on her bar stool to see what the commotion was all about, and her heart clutched in her chest as a red-on-white dress caught her eye. "Oh, my God, Savannah!"

Without a thought to her own safety, she launched herself off the stool and dove into the crowd. Jack swore under his breath as he grabbed her from behind and swung her out of his way. He made it to the melee about the same instant as T-Grace, and they danced around the combatants, angling to get a hold on one or the other of them to pull them apart.

An old hand at brawls, T-Grace was less than diplomatic. She didn't hesitate to land a few blows of her own or grab a handful of Savannah 's hair as she struggled to get her youngest child extricated from the fight that was smashing up the bar and putting a hold on drink orders.

Jack jumped in behind Savannah and wedged an arm between the two women, getting bitten for his efforts. An elbow caught him above the left eye as they lurched around the circle like rugby players in a scrum, reopening the cut he'd gotten crashing Savannah 's 'Vette. He gritted his teeth and cursed a blue streak through them, wondering what the hell had compelled him to get involved in this mess in the first place. He wasn't a fighter; he was an observer. If two women wanted to tear each other's hair out, he usually just stood back and took mental notes. He winced and swore in French as a spike heel dug into his instep. He wouldn't have to take mental notes this time; his body was going to be a pictorial essay on the intricacies of a barroom catfight. An elbow dug into his ribs, and he grunted and angled for a better hold while his feet slipped precariously in the spilled beer.

Laurel hovered on the edge of the action, her stomach twisting, her breath like two hard fists in her lungs, disjointed thoughts shooting through her mind like shrapnel. She hadn't even been aware of Savannah 's presence in the bar. Seeing her like this, locked in combat with another woman, was too surreal to be believed. She brought a hand up to her mouth and bit down hard on her thumbnail.

Suddenly an explosion rent the air, followed by a chorus of screams, and everyone went absolutely still for a split second. Laurel was sure her heart stopped, sure one of the women had fired and someone had been killed. But the fighters broke apart, Savannah with Jack dragging her backward, T-Grace with her daughter in a choke hold. Heads turned toward the bar.

Ovide held a smoking.38 in one meaty fist. The gun was pointed toward the ceiling, and a telltale plume of plaster dust was floating down. The bartender's face was as impassive as ever. He looked like a ridiculous cartoon character standing there, his walrus mustache drooping down, tufts of white hair sprouting out of his ears. He didn't say a word as his patrons stared at him, but set the gun down behind the counter, calmly picked up a glass, and went on drying it with the rag he had never bothered to put down.

T-Grace gave her daughter a rough shake. "Fightin' with the customers. Talk about!"

Annie wiped a drizzle of blood from her nose with the back of her hand, her gaze, still hot and angry, locked on Savannah Chandler. "She started it, Maman-"

T-Grace cut her daughter off with a wild-eyed look. "I don' wanna hear no more. Get on with you! Go fix yourself up." She gave her daughter a shove in the direction of the ladies' room and clapped her hands over her head as she turned back toward the rest of the crowd. "Allons danser!" she ordered as Roddie Romero and the Rockin' Cajuns wailed out of the jukebox.

The bar patrons drifted back to their prefight activities, several couples taking T-Grace's command to heart and swinging out onto the dance floor to work off the excitement by working themselves into a sweat.

Adrenaline was still scalding the pathways of Savannah 's blood vessels. She felt wild and irrational and didn't give a damn who saw it or what anybody thought. She shot Jack a pointed look over her shoulder. "If you wanted to put your hands on me, Jack, all you had to do was say so."

He let go of her abruptly. His face was set in stern lines. He pulled a handkerchief out of his hip pocket and offered it to her. "Your lip is bleeding."

Savannah just stared at him, recklessness rolling through her in big waves. Very slowly, very deliberately, she ran her tongue along her bottom lip, licking the blood away.

"You want to do that for me, Jack?" she murmured seductively, swaying toward him. "I'll bet you go for that sort of thing, don't you? Writing all those bloody, gruesome books gives you a taste for it, doesn't it, Jack?"

Jack said nothing. He had thought more than once of succumbing to Savannah Chandler's charms, but always something made him steer clear at the last second. Some instinctive wariness made him keep his distance. He hadn't understood until that second it was fear. Not of the woman, but of what they might become together. She would pull him over the edge with her, then only le bon Dieu knew what would happen as they tumbled together into madness. A cold chill trickled down his back at the thought.

"We're two of a kind, you and me, Jack," she whispered, holding his gaze.

Laurel arrived at her sister's side, pale as chalk, frightened and furious, trembling as she reached out to touch Savannah 's arm. "My God, are you all right? You're bleeding! Jesus, Savannah, what were you thinking?"

Savannah shrugged off the touch and glared at her. "I wasn't," she snapped. "That's your department, Baby. You think, I act. Maybe if someone could put us together, we'd be a whole person."

She spun away and bent to snatch up her red calfskin pocketbook from the floor, not in the least bit concerned that the hem of her dress rode all the way up to her bare ass as she did so. Laurel 's breath caught in her throat, and she took a step toward her sister meaning to pull the skirt down to her knees if she could.

" Savannah, for God's sake!"

Savannah gave a derisive sniff as she dug a cigarette and slim gold lighter out of her bag. "God's got nothing to do with it, Baby," she said as she lit up. She took a deep, calming drag and blew the smoke toward the ceiling, never taking her eyes off Laurel. "He's a sadist, anyway. Haven't you realized that by now?" She smiled bitterly, a smile made gruesome by the bright red blood staining her lush lower lip. "The joke's on us."

Satisfied with having the last word, she turned on her red stiletto heel and strolled out the front door as calmly as if nothing had happened at all.

"She gonna come to grief, dat one," T-Grace said, her voice vibrating with anger. She stood beside Laurel with her hands jammed on her hips, electric blue cowboy boots planted apart. Her tower of red hair was listing perilously to the left. Her leathery face was suffused with color, and her dark eyes bugged way out, making her look as if some invisible hand had her by the throat.

Laurel didn't bother to argue the point. Her heart sank at the thought that it was quite probably true. Savannah seemed bent on destroying herself one way or another, and Laurel had no idea what to do to prevent it. She wanted to believe she could stop it. She wanted to believe they could control their own destinies, but she didn't seem to have control of anything. She felt as if she were trying to stop a crazily spinning carousel by simply reaching out and grabbing it. Every time she caught hold, it flung her to the ground.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Delahoussaye," she murmured. "Please be sure to send the bill for damages to my aunt's house."

T-Grace wrapped an arm around her and patted her shoulder, instantly the surrogate mother. "Don' you be sorry, chère. You don' got nothin' be sorry 'bout, helpin' us out like what you did with dat damn Jimmy Lee. You come an' eat some crawfish, you. You so little, I could pick up over my head."

"T-Grace," Jack said, resurrecting his smile with an effort, "who you tryin' to fool? You could pick me up over your head and dance the two-step."

She shook a bony finger at him, fighting the smile that pulled at her thin ruby lips. "Don' you tempt me, cher. You so full of sass, I jus' might show you who's boss, me. You come on sit down 'fore dat bump on your head make you more crazy than you already is."

As they wound their way through the throng, T-Grace snatched hold of Leonce and ordered him to mind the bar. Leonce swept off his Panama hat and made a courtly bow, the tails of his Hawaiian shirt drooping low. He came up with a big grin that split his Vandyke and gave Jack a punch on the shoulder.

"Jumpin' into catfights, talk about! What you gonna do next, Jack? Mud wrasslin' with women and alligators?"

Jack scowled at his friend, reached out with a quick hand, and flipped Leonce's hat off Leonce and onto his own head, leaving Leonce blushing back across his balding pate. "You're just jealous 'cause you were only the warm-up act."

Comeau's face darkened at the reminder, his scar glowing an angry red like a barometer of his temper. He tried to snatch the hat back, grabbing air as Jack ducked away. "Fuck you, Boudreaux."

"In your dreams," Jack taunted, laughing. "Go water the liquor, tcheue poule."

T-Grace whirled around and boxed his ear, knocking the hat askew. "We don' water nothin' here, smart mouth."

She hardly broke her stride, continuing toward a little-used side door, barking orders at a waitress along the way and signaling to her husband to join them. Jack rubbed his ear and shot her a disgruntled look from under the brim of the straw hat-a look that was tempered by a twinkle in his eye.

They went outside and across a stretch of parking lot to the bank of the bayou, where a picnic table and assorted lawn chairs sat, divided from the yard of a tidy little forest-green house by the requisite flower shrine to Mary. The area was partially illuminated by cheap plastic Chinese lanterns alternated with yellow bug lights strung up between two poles. The sun had sunk, but night had yet to creep across the sky. The bayou was striped with bars of soft gold light and translucent shadow.

Ovide planted his bulk in a lawn chair and said nothing while T-Grace supervised the layout of food on the picnic table. Laurel hung back, uncertain, wary of why she was being treated as a guest. She glanced at her watch and started to back away.

"I appreciate the offer, Mrs. Delahoussaye, but I think I should probably go. I ought to find Savannah- "

"Leave her be," T-Grace ordered. "Trouble, dat's all what she'll get you, chère, sister or no." Satisfied with the spread, she turned toward Laurel with her hands on her hips and a sympathetic look in her eyes. "Mais yeah, you gotta love her, but she'll do what she will, dat one. Sit."

Jack put his hands on Laurel 's shoulders and steered to the picnic table. "Sit down, sugar. We worked hard catchin' these mudbugs."

She obeyed, not because she was hungry or eager to please, but because she didn't want to think what she would do if she could find Savannah. She wanted to talk, but the talk would invariably turn into an argument. When Savannah was in one of her moods, there was no reasoning with her. A headache took hold, and she closed her eyes briefly against the pain.

"Eat," T-Grace said, sliding a plate in front of her. It held a pile of boiled crawfish, boiled red potatoes, and maquechou-corn with chunks of tomato and peppers. The rich, spicy scents wafted up to tease Laurel's nostrils, and her stomach growled in spite of the poor appetite she'd had two seconds ago.

Jack tossed the Panama hat on the end of the table, straddled the bench, and sat down beside her, too close, his thigh brushing hers, his groin pressing against her hip. The air seeped out of her lungs in a tight hiss.

"She's a debutante, T-Grace," he said. "Probably don' know how to eat a crawfish without nine kinds of silver forks."

"I do so," Laurel retorted, shooting him a look over her shoulder.

Defiantly, she snapped off a crawfish tail, dug her thumbs into the seam, and split it open to reveal the rich white meat, which she pulled out and ate with her fingers. The flavor was wonderful, making her mouth water, evoking memories. In her mind's eye she could see her father wolfing down crawfish at the festival in Breaux Bridge, his eyes closed with reverent appreciation and a big smile on his face.

"You gonna be a real Cajun and suck the fat out'a the head?"

She jerked free of the bittersweet memory and scowled at Jack, who was slipping his arms around her to steal food off her plate. "Go suck the fat out of your own head, Boudreaux. That ought to occupy you for a while."

Ovide's mustache twitched. T-Grace slapped the arm of her lawn chair and cackled. "I like this girl of yours, Jack. She got enough sass to handle you."

Laurel tried unsuccessfully to scoot away from him. "I'm afraid you've got the wrong idea, Mrs. Delahoussaye. Jack and I aren't involved. We're just…" She trailed off, at a loss for an appropriate word. Friends seemed too intimate, acquaintances too distant.

"You could say lovers, and we'll make good on it later," he murmured in a dark, seductive voice, nuzzling her ear as he reached for another crawfish.

T-Grace went on, unconcerned with Laurel 's definition of the relationship. "A girl's gotta have some sass. Like our Annick-Annie, you know? She gets herself in a scrap or two, but she takes care of herself, oui? She's a good girl, our Annie, she jus' can't pick a good man is all. Not like her maman."

She reached over to pat Ovide's sloping shoulder lovingly, her hard face aglow with affection. Ovide gave a snort that might have been approval or sinus trouble and tossed a crawfish shell into the bayou. A crack sounded from the dark water as a fish snapped up the shell.

"We raise seven babies in this house," T-Grace announced proudly. "Ovide and me, we work every day to make a good home, to make a good business. Now we got this damn Jimmy Lee making trouble for us, sayin' Frenchie's is the place where sin come from. Me, I'd like to send him to the place where sin come from. Ovide, he's gonna get the ulcer from worryin' 'bout what dat Jimmy Lee gonna do next."

She patted her husband's shoulder again, brushed at the wild gray hair that fringed his head and poured out of his ear. She shot a shrewd, sideways look at Laurel. "So, you gonna help us wit' dat or what, chère?"

The other shoe fell. Laurel felt trapped with Jack on one side and T-Grace staring her down on the other. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench, wanting nothing more than to escape. She shook her head as she abandoned her supper and extricated herself from the bench. "I believe we've already had this conversation, Mrs. Delahoussaye. I'm not practicing law-"

"You don' gotta practice," T-Grace said dryly. "Jus' do it."

Laurel heaved a sigh of frustration. "Really, all you have to do is call the sheriff the next time Reverend Baldwin comes on your property-"

"Ha! Like dat pigheaded jackass would bother with the like of us!"

"He's the sheriff-"

"You don' understand, sugar," Jack drawled. He swung his right leg over the bench and stretched his feet out in front of him, leaning his elbows back against the table. "Duwayne Kenner only comes runnin' if your name is Leighton or Stephen Danjermond. He's got too many important meetings to bother with the common folk. He isn't gonna get mixed up with Jimmy Lee and his Church of the Lunatic Fringe unless a judge tells him to."

"That's absurd!" Laurel exclaimed, rounding on Jack. "That's-"

He raised his brows. "The way it is, sweetheart."

"He's sworn to uphold justice," she argued.

"Not everybody has the same conviction about that as you do."

She said nothing, just stood there for a long moment. He had no such conviction. Jack made his own rules and probably broke them with impunity. He joked about the system, derided the people who tried to make it work. But he knew she didn't.

He watched her, his eyes a dark, bottomless brown, his expression intense. He was trying to read her. She felt as if those eyes were reaching right into her soul. Abruptly, she turned back toward T-Grace.

"There are several attorneys here in town-"

"Who don' give a rat's behind," T-Grace said. She abandoned her plate on the ground, forfeiting her dinner to Huey, who crawled out from under the picnic table and laid claim to the crawfish. T-Grace ignored the dog, her hard gaze homing in on Jack. She walked up to him with her hands on her hips, her chin tipped in challenge. "Jack here, he could help us, but here he sits on his cute little-"

"Jesus Christ, T-Grace!" Jack exploded. He got up from the bench so quickly, it tipped over backward with a crash that sent the hound scurrying for safe cover. "I'm disbarred! What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Oh, nothin', Jack," she said softly, mockingly, not giving up an inch of ground. "We all know you jus' wanna have a good time." Daring more than any man would have, she reached up and patted his lean cheek. "You go on and have a good time, Jack. Don' bother with us. We'll make out."

Jack wheeled around in a circle, looking for some way to vent the anger roaring inside him. He wanted to yell at the top of his lungs, bellow like a wounded animal. He snatched a beer bottle off the table and hurled it, narrowly missing the bathtub shrine to the mother of God, and still the fury built inside him.

"Shit!"

T-Grace watched him with wise old eyes. "That's all right, Jack. We all know you don' get involved. You don' take responsibility for nothin'."

He glared at her, wanting to grab her and shake her until her bug eyes popped right out of her head. Damn her, damn her for making him feel… what? Like a cad, like a heel? Like a good for nothing, no-account piece of trash?

Bon à rien, T-Jack… bon à rien.

That's what he was. No good. He'd had that truth drilled into him since he was old enough to comprehend language. He had proven it true time and again. He had no business howling at the truth.

His gaze caught on Laurel, who stood quietly, her arms folded against her, her big eyes round behind her glasses. The champion for justice. Willing to sacrifice her reputation, her private life, her career, all for the cause. Dieu, what she must think of me… and all of it true.

That was the irony-and he had a finely honed appreciation for irony-that he was everything T-Grace accused him of and less, that he was exactly what he aspired to be, and now the image he had settled into was turning on him-or he was turning against it.

"I don' need this," he snarled. "I'm outta here."

Laurel watched him stalk away, a little shaken by his outburst. A part of her wanted to go after him, to offer comfort, to ask why. Not smart, Laurel. She had enough trouble of her own without taking on the burden of Jack Boudreaux's darker side… or the plight of Frenchie's Landing…

But as she turned back toward T-Grace, she couldn't bring herself to say no. It was no big deal, she told herself. Just a visit to the courthouse, a phone call or two. She wasn't taking on the world. Just a pair of honest, hardworking people who needed a little justice. Surely she was strong enough for that.

"All right," she said on a sigh. "I'll see what I can do."

For once, T-Grace was speechless, managing only a smile and a nod. Ovide hefted himself out of his chair and dusted remnants of crawfish shells off his belly. Laying a broad hand on Laurel 's shoulder, he looked her in the eye and growled, "Merci, chère."