Cry Wolf

Chapter Eighteen

Tony Gerrard sat hunched over the small table in the interrogation room like a sullen sixteen-year-old hood in detention. His curly black hair was renegade length, his wide jaw shadowed blue by his beard. The sleeves of his faded denim work shirt had been cut off to reveal bulging biceps adorned with the artistic handiwork of Big Mamou of Mamou's Tattoos fame. His right arm proudly proclaimed him to be 100% Coonass. An alligator lounged on his left, seeming to come to life as he reached for an ashtray to tap off his cigarette. The gator stretched and twisted, all but bellowing before shrinking back into complacency.

In truth Tony hadn't changed a bit in the ten years since he'd dropped out of high school. Physically, he had matured early, reaching his full height of five feet eight and bulking out with muscle the instant his hormones had sprung to life. Psychologically, he hadn't matured at all. His temper was still the volatile and unpredictable creature of an adolescent. He used his penis like a homing device, and his idea of a good time invariably included sports, crude humor, and mass quantities of beer.

He'd been in trouble off and on since junior high, but his trouble had never amounted to much, to his way of thinking-a few smashed cars, the occasional fist fight. Twice he had been hauled in for pushing Annie around, but he had never hurt her badly. The court never wanted to hear it, but she'd always given as good as she got, the little hellcat.

He smiled a little at the memory of her hurling beer cans at him, swearing at him a mile a minute. But the smile twisted into a knot of pain as he reminded himself that Annie wouldn't be around to throw anything at his head anymore.

He stared down at the plain gold wedding band on his left hand, unable to look away from it, unable to stop from twisting it around and around on his finger.

"You can take that off and hock it, Tony," Sheriff Kenner drawled, planting a boot on the seat of the only other chair at the table. He rested his forearms on his lean thigh and looked at Tony sideways, feeling exhausted and mean. He'd gotten two hours' sleep since the discovery of the body. "You're not married anymore."

Tony just sniffed and looked away.

"Divorce would have been cheaper," Kenner said, watching his man with narrowed eyes. "You don't have jack shit to sue for. Might have lost your truck, is all. You're gonna pay now, boy. They'll throw your pretty ass in Angola Pen, and you'll pay for the rest of your miserable life."

Tony blinked at the itchy pressure in his eyes, never glancing Kenner 's way, and mumbled, "I didn't kill her."

"Sure you did. You just spent six weeks in our little parish hotel 'cause of the missus. You had six weeks to get up a good head of steam. You got out, went to pay her back, got a little carried away…"

"I didn't kill her."

"Tell me, Tony, what's it like to wrap a scarf around a woman's throat and choke the life out of her? Did you watch her face? Did you watch her turn color, watch her eyes bug out as she realized the man she married was gonna kill her?"

"Shut up."

"Did you like the sounds she made, Tony?"

"Shut up."

"Or did you like it better when she was begging you to stop using that knife on her?"

"Shut up!" Tony exploded to his feet, sending his chair skittering backward on the linoleum. His face contorted with rage, and spittle flew as he shouted, "Shut the fuck up!"

Kenner pounced like a wolf, grabbing him by the back of his thick neck and digging his fingertips in. As Tony gasped at the pain shooting down his spine, Kenner leaned in close, invading the man's personal space in every way he could. "No, you shut up, dickhead!" he bellowed in Gerrard's ear. "Shut up and sit down." He let go of Tony's neck and shoved the old wooden straight chair back under him just in time to catch him.

Tony hit the seat of the chair so hard, it felt like a baseball bat hitting his balls. Another swarm of red and blue dots swirled before his eyes. He swallowed hard and propped his elbows on the scarred table, hanging his head and rubbing weakly at the back of his neck. What was left of his cigarette smoldered in the ashtray, the smoke nauseating him.

Kenner walked away to an old army green metal desk that squatted along one wall of the barren room and picked up a manila file folder. He took his time about it, believing firmly in fucking with a perp's mind. Tony Gerrard wanted out of this room. Let him think that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. Let him think that the reason why the cops figured they had all the time in the world to question him was that they were damn certain he did the deed.

"You're a sad sack of shit, Tony," he muttered, thumbing through the file. "Getting off on this kind of sick torture stuff."

"I didn't do it," Tony whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wanted to cry, and he hated Kenner for that. He wanted out of this crackerbox of a room. He wanted to stop thinking about Annie and words like "torture" and "murder."

"Hell, everybody knows you knocked her around."

"But I never would'a done-" He broke off and swallowed hard as the gossip came back to him in an ugly rush. Everyone in town was talking about what those hikers had found. "I never would'a done that. Never."

"You mean, this?" Kenner pulled the crime scene Polaroids out of the file and tossed them on the table.

For one long, terrible second Tony stared at the body of his wife, his brain cataloging the gruesome atrocities-the scarf knotted around her throat, the cuts the knife had made in her breasts and belly and thighs. In that one second the images were forever branded into his memory. The skin, unnaturally pale, mottled with bruises, sliced open in places, torn and ragged in others. And her eyes. Those beautiful big brown eyes, frozen in a stare of pure horror.

"She probably looks worse than when you dumped her body," Kenner said coldly. "She was in the bayou a couple days. Lucky there was anything left, what with the fish and the gators and-"

Tony swept the pictures off the table with a cry of anguish, then turned and vomited on the floor, his guts wrenching at the images flashing through his head.

"Annie! Oh, God, Annie!" he cried, the sobs tearing up from his heart. He rose in a half crouch, doubled over by the terrible pain of loss, and stumbled away from the table to sink down on his knees in the corner.

Kenner frowned and sighed. He picked up the snapshots, careful not to look at them, and slipped them back in the folder. The hot, acidic scent of Tony's stomach contents burned his nostrils, but that wasn't what left the bad taste in his mouth.

He had wanted Gerrard to be guilty, had honestly believed he could have committed the crime. A confession would have justified what he had just put Tony Gerrard through. It was a hell of a lot more gratifying to torment a guilty man than a grieving husband.

"You're free to go," he said in a low voice, then let himself out of the room.

The next door down the hall opened, and Danjermond walked out looking cool and composed, unaffected by what he had seen through the two-way glass.

"My God, you're a ruthless bastard," he drawled mildly.

Kenner watched him straighten a shirt cuff and align his onyx cuff link with the top stitching. "No," he said. "Whoever killed Annie Delahoussaye-Gerrard is a ruthless bastard. I just mean to catch him."

Danjermond glanced at him from under his brows. "You don't think Gerrard is guilty?"

He shook his head as he dug a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and hung it from his lip. "You saw him."

"He could be acting. Or perhaps what we witnessed was abject remorse."

"If he's acting, then he deserves the goddamn Academy Award." He struck a match and cupped his hands around his cigarette as if he were standing outside in a stiff wind. To banish the sour taste and smell that lingered in his senses, he drew the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaled through his nostrils. "I got a call in to the sheriff in St. Martin Parish, where they found that last dead girl. A hundred says the same piece of shit did this one."

He tossed his match down on the floor and ground it to shreds with the toe of his boot. "I'll catch the son of a bitch," he swore. "Nobody does this in my parish and gets away with it."

The very corners of Danjermond's mouth curled in a sardonic, unamused smile. "I appreciate your attitude. Killers running around loose don't do my career any good, either."

Kenner shot him a hard look, his eyes mere slits in his lean, leathery face. "Fuck your career, Danjermond. I got a wife and two daughters. This maniac comes sniffing around my turf, I'll tear his goddamn throat out."

He turned and headed for his office. Danjermond fell in step beside him, his stride fluid and graceful beside the sheriff's cowboy swagger. "Our constituents can be grateful you have the sensibilities of a pit bull, Sheriff."

"Yeah, and I'm mean enough to take that as a compliment." He glanced through the window into his office and pulled up short of the door, a headache instantly piercing his temples as he caught a glimpse of Laurel Chandler's profile through the venetian blind. "Shit. This is all I need. She's probably here to tell me Jimmy Lee Baldwin did it."

Danjermond gazed between the slats of the blinds, taking in the feminine lines of Laurel Chandler's face and the determined set of her chin. She sat in the chair beside Kenner 's desk with her legs crossed, and bent as he watched to scratch a spot on her stockinged calf. "She does have a reputation for being… dogged."

Kenner snorted and stubbed his cigarette out in the dirt of a potted orange tree that sat beside his secretary's desk. "She has a reputation for causing trouble, and I don't want any more than I've already got."

Laurel emerged from her interview with Kenner feeling like she'd just gone three rounds with Dirty Harry. How the man had ever won an election was beyond her. He certainly hadn't gone the route of charming the voters. More likely they had been afraid not to vote for him. A territorial sort, he'd torn into her first for invading his office. Then had come the "I have better things to do" speech. He calmed down only marginally when she explained herself, explained that the Delahoussayes didn't understand procedure and only wanted someone to act as go-between on their behalf.

Grudgingly he gave her the barest of details concerning the investigation. Because of the priority nature of the case, the autopsy was already being performed. He couldn't say when the body would be released. He wouldn't say if they had any solid physical evidence. No arrests had been made.

"You brought Tony Gerrard in for questioning."

He narrowed his eyes at her. She couldn't even see the pupils. A muscle ticked in his cheek.

"It's common knowledge, Sheriff. This is a small town."

He lit a cigarette and slowly went through with the ritual of shaking out the match and taking his first deep drag. "We brought him in. Had a little chat."

"I suppose you're aware that his wife had had relationships with a number of other men."

"You gonna tell me they all did it? It was a goddamn conspiracy, right? You're big on that kind of bullshit."

"I'm not telling you anything."

She wanted to tell him to do the anatomically impossible, she thought as she marched down the hall. He had her pegged as a head case, and everything she said he twisted into the ineffectual babblings of a hysterical woman. He wouldn't have believed her if she had told him the earth was round. Of course, Neanderthal that he was, he probably had doubts about that anyway. A nasty insinuation concerning the species residing in Kenner 's family tree ran through her head, and she smiled a little at the mental image of orangutans with slitted eyes and cigarettes dangling from their nonexistent lips.

"I've seen people convicted on the basis of a smile like that one."

Danjermond stepped out of the water fountain alcove, seeming to materialize out of nothing. Laurel 's heart jolted, but she managed to keep from shying sideways. She looked up at the district attorney, finding the quiet amusement in his clear green eyes both irritating and inappropriate-just as her smile must have looked.

"I should probably be fined at the very least," she said with a rueful look. "Psychic defamation of character."

He tipped his head. "Not on the books in the state of Louisiana."

"Then I'm off the hook as long as Kenner can't read minds."

"I believe his talents lie in other areas."

Laurel sniffed and crossed her arms, allowing a little of her anger to sizzle up. "Yes, I'm sure he's a whiz with a rubber truncheon and thumbscrews, but that's not my idea of a good time."

"No?" Danjermond chuckled, then the sound faded away and a heavy silence fell between them like a blanket of humidity. His gaze turned speculative and held fast on her face, searching, probing. "What is, Laurel?" he asked softly.

Something about his question froze her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She had the feeling, as she looked up into that calm, stunningly handsome face that he was running possible scenarios through his head. Hot, dark, erotic. The air around them seemed suddenly charged with his powerful sexuality. She felt it envelope her, felt it penetrate the skirt and blouse she wore and stroke over the silk beneath. A delicate shiver of arousal rippled through her, followed closely by something like revulsion. She wasn't sure she understood either.

"We might discuss it over lunch," he said quietly, his gaze lingering on her mouth, as if he were imagining watching her lips close over a red, ripe strawberry. He stroked the fingertips of one hand along the stylish silk necktie he wore, smoothing it with a lover's caress. His voice softened to the texture of velvet. "Or after."

"That seems a highly improper suggestion, Mr. Danjermond," Laurel said coolly, wishing fervently that someone else would happen out into the hall and break the sexual tension or at least witness it. But then she had the eerie feeling that no one else would see it or sense it. The signals he was sending out were for her alone.

Sliding his hands into the pockets of his coffee brown trousers, he smiled that all-knowing feline smile that made her feel as if he were a superior life-form who had taken the guise of a mere mortal for amusement. "I don't believe I've broken any rules by asking you to lunch."

Once again he had neatly maneuvered her into a corner. The realization annoyed her. If she wanted to make an argument against his statement, she would have to be the one to bring up the topic of sexual tension and implied propositions.

Or maybe she was just imagining the whole thing. Perhaps she had taken such an aversion to Vivian's notions of him as a son-in-law, she was reading into everything he said. Whatever the case, she didn't want to deal with him; she didn't have the energy.

"Thank you for the invitation," she said smoothly. "But I'm afraid I already have plans."

One straight brow lifted. His gaze seemed to intensify, his pale green eyes glowing like precious stones held up to the sun. "Another man?"

"My aunt. Not that it's any of your business."

He treated her to a full-fledged smile that was perfectly even, perfectly symmetrical, bright, white, handsome as she imagined all the Danjermonds had been since the days of the Renaissance. "I like to know if I have competition."

"I told you before," Laurel said, edging toward impatience. "I'm not looking to get involved with anyone at the moment."

The word "liar" rang in her head, and she had the distinct feeling Stephen Danjermond heard it, too. But he would have to call her on it. She wasn't bringing up the subject of Jack Boudreaux. Today she honestly wished she'd never heard the name.

"Sometimes we get things we are not necessarily expecting, though, don't we, Laurel?" he said.

He didn't like her rebuff. She could hear the faintest edge in his smooth, cultured voice, and behind the affable smile his eyes had a coldness about them that hinted at temper. Too bad. She had no intention of becoming entangled with him-emotionally or otherwise.

"Annie Delahoussaye certainly got something she wasn't expecting," she said, neatly shifting gears to business. God, how appalling that murder seemed safer territory than personal relationships.

"You're here on her behalf, Laurel? For someone who claims not to be interested in going back to work you certainly are spending a great deal of time in the courthouse."

"Her parents asked me to act as their liaison with the sheriff's department," she said. "They're devastated, naturally, and Kenner is less than forthcoming, to say nothing of the fact that sympathy is a completely foreign concept to him."

Danjermond nodded thoughtfully. "He's a hard man. He would tell you there's no place for sympathy in his work."

"Yes, well, he'd be wrong."

"Would he?" he asked, looking doubtful. "Sympathy can sometimes be equated with weakness, vulnerability. It can draw a person into situations where perspective becomes warped and emotion takes over where logic should rule. We're taught in law school not to allow ourselves to become emotionally involved, aren't we, Laurel? As you well know, the results can be disastrous."

He couldn't have cut her more cleanly if he had used a scalpel. And he'd done it so subtly, seemingly without effort. And once again, Laurel could say nothing without incriminating herself. She had the distinct feeling he was punishing her for turning down his invitation, but she could hardly accuse him. The best thing she could do was concede to an opponent she was no match for and get the hell out.

She took a very rude, very deliberate look at her watch and said flatly, "Oh, my, look at the time. I have to be going."

Danjermond gave her a mocking little half bow. "Until we meet again, Laurel."

She left the courthouse feeling battered. Kenner had been bad enough, but she couldn't encounter Stephen Danjermond without feeling she had walked into a tiger's cage. He was beautiful, charismatic, but there was a strength, an ego, a temper there beneath the handsome stripes. This time he had reached out and swiped at her with his elegant paw, and she felt as if his claws had sliced into her as sure and sharp as razor blades. She thanked God she would never have to face him in a courtroom.

The Acura was parked beneath the heavy shade of a live oak at the edge of the courthouse lot. Laurel slid behind the wheel, and the tension that had gripped her in its fist all morning finally let go, leaving her feeling like a puddle of melted Jell-O. She stared across the street for a moment, watching the weathered old men who sat on their bench in front of the hardware store.

They gathered there every morning in their summer hats and short-sleeved shirts, suspenders holding up baggy dark pants. Laurel knew the faces had changed over the years, but she could remember old men sitting there when she had been a small child. They took their places on the bench to watch the day go by, to swap stories and gossip. Today they looked grim, unsmiling, wary of every car that drove past, watchful of strangers. A woman emerged from the store, holding the hand of a daughter who had probably considered herself too old for it just yesterday.

Annie Delahoussaye was on a lot of minds today.

Was she on Jack's mind?

"Shit," Laurel whispered, her lashes drifting down as weariness weighed like lead on her every muscle-most especially her heart. His image drifted into her mind without her permission, that haunted, brooding look in his eyes, his face hard. She'd seen that look all night, heard his harsh, smoky voice. "I've got enough corpses on my conscience…"

He might have been referring to his work, but he had played the cynical mercenary hack every time she brought the subject up. He wrote horror for the money. He would claim he had no trouble distinguishing fact from fiction. Her thoughts turned back to what little mention he'd made of his life as corporate attorney for Tristar Chemical. Hardly a violent occupation. Still, every time she started to dismiss it, something pulled her back. He had crashed and burned, he'd said, and taken the company down with him. Why?

Intuition told her she would find some of the answers she was looking for in Houston, where Tristar had its headquarters. She had acquaintances there, could make a phone call… Practicality told her not to look. She was far better off leaving Jack and his moods alone. He obviously had problems he needed to work out-or wallow in, as seemed to be his choice. They would be disastrous together, both of them wounded, looking to each other for strength that simply wasn't there. He didn't want her anyway. Not in any permanent sense. They had had some fun together, "passed a good time" as the Cajuns said. That was all Jack wanted.

She ignored the way that knowledge stung, and reached for the ignition, firing the car's engine and airconditioning to life. How many times had she said she wasn't looking for a relationship? She was in no emotional condition to enter into one. That she had taken him as a lover was a whole other matter, a matter of letting herself live, of taking something for her own pleasure. She told herself she wanted nothing more than that from him, and did her damnedest to forget the way his arms had felt around her while she cried.

Lunch consisted of stuffed tomatoes and garden-fresh salad that no one seemed to have an appetite for. They sat at the glass-topped table on the back gallery, looking out at the courtyard where old growth was flourishing, now that it was free of choking weeds, and new flowers were growing fuller and more vibrant by the day.

Whether deliberately or subconsciously, Laurel thought Caroline had chosen to eat out here so they would be surrounded by positive affirmations of life and beauty when talk around town all morning had been of death and ugliness. They could sit and feel the breeze sweep under the shade trees and along the gallery, bringing with it the heavy perfume of sweet olive and gardenia. They could listen to the songs of the warblers and buntings and look out on the abundance of life in the garden and try to counterbalance thoughts of death.

"Me, I dunno what dis world comin' to," Mama Pearl grumbled, wagging her head. She dug a good-size chunk of chicken out of her tomato with a ferocious stab of her fork, but she didn't bring it to her mouth. Setting the fork aside, she heaved a sigh and rubbed a plump hand across her lips, as if to push back the words that might have spilled out. As tears rose, her eyes darted to the courtyard and she stared hard at the old stone fountain with its grubby-faced cherubs cavorting around the base.

Caroline toyed with her salad, turning a ring of black olive over and over with the tines of her fork. Her usual air of command seemed dimmed, subdued by the weight of events, but she was still the head of Belle Rivière, their leader, their rock, and she rose to the occasion as best she could. Drawing in a deep breath to fortify herself, she squared her dainty shoulders beneath the soft white chiffon blouse she wore.

"The world has been a violent place since the days of Cain," she said quietly. "It's no worse today. It only seems so because the violence has hit so close to home."

Mama Pearl gave her a sharp look of disapproval and hefted her bulk up from the table, scraping her chair back. "You tell dat to T-Grace Delahoussaye. I gots to check my cake."

Grumbling under her breath, she waddled into the house, her red print cotton shift swishing around her with every step. Caroline watched her go, feeling helpless to do anything to alleviate the grief and worry and anger that had tempers running short and fears running close to the surface of everyone she knew. She turned her gaze to Laurel, who was picking at her chicken salad.

"How are you doing, darlin'?"

"Fine." The answer was automatic. Caroline ignored it and waited patiently for something closer to the truth.

Resigning herself to the inevitable, Laurel set her fork aside and rested her forearms on the cool glass of the tabletop. "I feel stronger than I did," she said, a little amazed by the admission. "But with all the things that have happened… everything I feel myself getting dragged into… A part of me would like very much to run away to a resort someplace where I wouldn't know a soul."

In a gesture of love and an offer of support, Caroline reached across the table and twined her fingers with her niece's. "But you won't."

To leave now, with her word given to the Delahoussayes, with tension between her and Savannah, would be the coward's way out. She couldn't walk away and live with herself. "No, I won't."

Caroline squeezed her hand, her heart brimming with love, with sympathy. "Your father would have been so very proud of you," she said, her voice suddenly husky with emotion. "I'm proud of you."

Laurel couldn't think of a single thing she had done to be proud of, but she didn't say so. She didn't say anything for a minute for fear she would burst into tears. For a long moment she stared off at a particularly beautiful cluster of purple clematis that was twining around one of the gallery pillars, and just hung on to her aunt's hand, savoring the contact and the strength that passed to her from someone who loved her unconditionally.

She suspected a great many people in Bayou Breaux were paying special attention to family today, having been struck aware that loved ones could be snatched away in a heartbeat with feelings left unspoken and dreams never realized. Today, life would seem more precious, more urgent, something to be clung to and relished.

Bringing her emotions back in line, she gently extricated her fingers from Caroline's and reached for the stack of mail she had picked up at the post office on her way to the courthouse. "You've got some interesting-looking letters today," she said, sorting through the stack. She plucked out several fine-quality envelopes, each with a different postmark-Biloxi, New Orleans, Natchez-all of them addressed in flowing, feminine script, one smelling faintly of jasmine.

Caroline accepted them, a soft smile turning her lips as she perched her reading glasses on her slim, upturned nose and scanned the addresses. "How lovely to hear from friends on such a terrible day."

"Old friends from school?" Laurel asked carefully, watching closely as her aunt used a table knife to open the pink one. "Or business?"

"Mmm… just friends."

Laurel chided herself for her curiosity. Caroline's privacy was her own. Of course, Savannah might have just asked her outright.

"I can't believe Savannah is sleeping in so late," she murmured, wondering if today might not be the perfect time to start mending the tears in their relationship. Arguments seemed petty and pointless in the face of death, and life seemed so finite. They could take the rest of the day and drive down to Cypremort Point for bluepoint crabs and a view of the gulf at sunset. They would sit together with the salty breeze on their faces and in their hair, and talk and watch the saw grass sway in the shallows while gulls wheeled overhead. "Do you think I dare wake her up on the pretense of delivering her Visa bill?"

"Hmm? Oh, a-" Caroline glanced up from her letter. " Savannah isn't here, darlin'."

"Where did she go?" Laurel asked, annoyed that the perfect day that had painted itself in her mind was going to be put off. "More to the point, how did she go? I had the car all morning."

"I'm not sure. Perhaps she had a friend pick her up. I couldn't say; I was at the store. Did you have plans?"

"No. It's just that we've been talking about spending some time together. She wanted to do something yesterday, and then Jack showed up."

"She left here in a state yesterday, I do know that," Caroline said, folding back a sheet of pink stationery. "I take it she doesn't approve of your seeing Mr. Boudreaux."

"I don't think Jack is her problem." Concern tugged at the corners of Laurel 's mouth and furrowed her brow. She wrestled for a moment with the thoughts that had been troubling her since Savannah 's blowup, finally deciding they were best shared. "I'm worried about her. She seems so… volatile. Up one minute and down the next. She got into a fight with Annie Gerrard Sunday. A fist fight! Aunt Caroline, I'm frightened for her."

And for myself, she thought, in a small way. The child in Laurel had always depended on Savannah. That child felt lost at the prospect of Savannah 's not being dependable anymore.

Caroline set her letters aside and slipped her reading glasses off, her expression somber. "She was seeing a psychiatrist in Lafayette for a while. I think she might have gotten help there, but she wouldn't stay with it."

Naturally. Just as she never stayed with a job or anything else that might have given her help or a sense of purpose that didn't involve sex. Laurel 's hands fisted on the tabletop, and she wished for something she could hit to let off some of the impotent anger that was building inside her. "She's determined to let the past rule her life, dictate who she is, what she is. We had an awful fight about it the other day. I lost my temper, but it makes me angry to see her throw her life away for something that ended fifteen years ago."

For a moment Caroline said nothing. She sat quietly toying with one of the heavy gold hoops that hung from her ears and let Laurel's statement hang in the air, let it sink in not for her own benefit, but for her niece's.

"Tell me," she said at last. "Do you not still see those children from Scott County in your sleep?"

The abrupt change of subject jolted Laurel for a second. The question brought the faces up in her memory, and she had to force them back into the little compartment she tried to stow them in during the day. "Yes," she murmured.

"But that's over and done with," Caroline said. "Why can't you let them go?"

"Because I failed them," Laurel said, tensing against the guilt. "It was my fault. I deserve to be haunted by that-"

"No," Caroline cut her off sharply, her dark eyes bright with the strength of her feelings. "No," she said again, softening her tone. "You did all you could. The outcome was not in your hands. You had no control over the attorney general or the lack of evidence or what other members of the community did, and yet you blame yourself and let that part of your past torment you."

Laurel didn't try to argue her culpability; she knew what the truth was. The point her aunt was making had little to do with her, anyway.

"Are you saying Savannah blames herself for the abuse?" she asked, incredulous at the thought. "But what happened was Ross's fault! He forced himself on her. She couldn't possibly believe that was her fault."

Caroline stroked a fingertip thoughtfully along her cheekbone and raised a delicately arched brow. "You think not? Savannah is a beautiful, sensual, sexual creature. She always has been. Even as a child she had a certain power over men, and she knew it. You think she hasn't blamed herself for being attractive to Ross or that Ross hasn't taken every opportunity to blame her himself? He is and always has been a weak man, taking credit that isn't his due and shedding blame like water off a duck's back."

A fresh spring of hate for Ross Leighton welled up inside Laurel, and she recognized that a large part of her anger was for the fact that Ross had never been made to pay for his crime. Justice had never been served. Some of the blame for that was hers, she knew, and the guilt for that was terrible.

If only she had found the courage to tell their mother or go to Aunt Caroline. But she hadn't. Vivian was still in ignorance of her husband's atrocities. Caroline had found out the truth years after the fact. There had been no justice for Savannah… so Laurel had spent her life seeking justice for others.

I'm not trying to atone for anything!

God, what a lie. What a hypocrite she was.

Caroline rose gracefully from her chair, tucking her letters into a patch pocket on the full yellow skirt that hugged her tiny waist and swirled around her calves. She came around the table and slipped her arms around Laurel 's shoulders, hugging her tight from behind. "The past is always with us, Laurel," she said gently. "It's a part of us we can't ignore or abandon. And it's not always easy to keep it behind us, where it belongs. You'd do well to remember that for yourself, as well as for your sister."

She pressed a kiss to her temple and went inside, leaving Laurel alone on the gallery to listen to the birdsong and to think.

When her thoughts had chased one another around her brain sufficiently to give her a headache, Laurel turned her attention back to the mail, thumbing through the bills and pleas from missions. At the back of the stack was a plain white envelope with no address, return or otherwise.

Puzzled, she opened the flap and extracted not a letter, but a cheap gold necklace with a small golden butterfly dangling from it. She lifted the chain and watched the butterfly turn and sway, and a strange shiver passed over her, like a chill wind that had slipped out of another dimension to crawl over her skin.

The wheels of her mind turned automatically, searching for the most logical explanation for the necklace. It was Savannah 's-though Savannah 's tastes were much more expensive. Laurel had forgotten it on the seat of the car-but why was it sealed in an envelope?

No answer satisfied all the questions, and none explained the knot of nerves tingling at the base of her neck.

In his office in the Partout Parish courthouse, Duwayne Kenner leaned over his desk, hammers pounding inside his temples, acid churning in his gut. He leaned over the fax copies of crime reports from four other parishes. His eyes scanned the photographs the sheriff from St. Martin had brought along with him of Jennifer Verret, who had been found dead Saturday morning, strangled with a silk scarf and mutilated. On the other side of the desk, Danjermond stood looking pensive, twisting his signet ring around on his finger.

"There's no doubt in my mind," Kenner growled, his voice turned to gravel by two packs of Camels. "We're dealing with the same killer."

"Everything matches?"

"So far. We'll have more details when the lab reports on Annie Gerrard come in, but it's all there-the silk scarf, the same pattern of knife wounds. Most importantly, details that were kept away from the press match, eliminating the possibility of a copycat."

"Such as?"

"Such as the markings on the wrists and ankles, and the fact that each woman had items of jewelry taken off her body. Sick bastard likely keeps them as souvenirs," he mumbled, his eyes narrowing to slits as he took in the savagery one human being could commit against another. "Well, by God, I'll find out when I catch him. I swear I will."