Cry Wolf

Chapter Nineteen

One of Vivian's more annoying traits was her sporadic attempts at spontaneity. Laurel recalled the times during her childhood when her mother would snap out of her day-in-day-out routine of clubs and civic responsibilities and life as mistress of Beauvoir, and scramble frantically to do something spontaneous, something she thought terribly clever or fun, which the events seldom proved to be. There was always an air of desperation about them and a set of expectations that were never achieved. Not at all like the spur-of-the-moment notions of Laurel 's father, which had always been unfailingly wonderful in one way or another, never planned, never entered into with a set of criteria or goals.

"Seize the moment and take what it gives you," Daddy had always said with a simple joy for life glowing in his handsome face.

Vivian had always seized her moments with grasping, greedy hands and tried to wring out of them the things she wanted. Laurel had always felt sorry for her mother because of it. It wasn't in Vivian's makeup to be spontaneous. That she felt compelled to try, and tried too hard, had always left Laurel feeling sad, particularly when one of Vivian's failed attempts led her into yet another spell of depression.

Perhaps that was why, when Vivian had called to invite her to have dinner out with her-dinner and "girl talk," God forbid-Laurel hadn't managed to find an excuse during that slim five-second window of opportunity when lies can go undetected over the phone lines. Or perhaps her reasons had more to do with the day and the thoughts she had had of family and the fickleness of life.

Savannah would have no doubt had a scathing commentary on the subject. But as Savannah had yet to return from wherever she had spent the day, Laurel didn't have to listen to it. She accepted the invitation with an air of resignation and did her best to turn off the internal mechanism of self-examination.

They sat in one of the small, elegant dining rooms of the Wisteria Golf and Country Club, chatting over equally elegant meals of stuffed quail and fresh sea bass. The club was housed in a Greek revival mansion on what had once been the largest indigo plantation in the parish. The house and grounds had been meticulously restored and maintained, right down to the slave cabins that sat some two hundred yards behind the mansion and now served as storage sheds for garden equipment and between-round hangouts for the caddies-who were quite often black youths. No one at Wisteria worried about offending them with the comparison between caddies and slaves, and there were no other people of color to be offended other than hired help, because Wisteria was, always had been, and always would be an all-white establishment.

Laurel poked at her sea bass and thought longingly of bluepoint crabs and the colors of the Gulf sky at sunset, the sound of the sea and gulls, the tang of salt air. Instead, she had a grouper glaring up at her from a Limoges plate, green velvet portieres at tall French doors, a Vivaldi concerto piping discreetly over cleverly hidden speakers, and the artificial cleanliness of central air-conditioning. Her mother sat across from her, completely in her element, ash blond hair sleekly coiffed, a vibrant blue linen blazer bringing out the color of her eyes. Beneath the jacket she wore a chic white sheath splashed with the same shade of blue. Sapphire teardrops dripped from her earlobes.

"The world has gone stark raving mad," Vivian declared, spearing a fresh green bean. She chewed delicately, as a lady should, breaking her train of thought absolutely to savor the taste of her food. After washing it down with a sip of chardonnay, she picked up the thread of the conversation and went on. "Women being murdered in our backyards, practically. Lunatics running loose through town in the dead of night.

"Tell me why on earth anyone would want to vandalize St. Joseph 's Rest Home, scaring those poor elderly people witless."

Laurel went on point like a bird dog, straightening in her chair, her fork hovering over her mutilated fish. " St. Joseph 's?"

"Yes," Vivian went on with appropriate disgust as she took a knife after her quail and dismembered it. "Spray-painted obscenities outside one of the rooms, left a terrible mess on the lawn that I simply won't even speak of in public or anywhere else, banged on the windows, shouting and carrying on. It was an absolute disgrace, the things that were done."

"Did they catch this person?" Laurel asked carefully.

"No. She ran screaming into the night."

Foreboding quivered down Laurel 's spine. "She?"

"Oh, yes. A woman. Can you imagine that? I mean, one might expect a certain kind of hooliganism from a young man, but a woman?" Vivian shuddered at the thought of the natural order of things being so badly twisted. "I volunteer at the library, as you know. This was my day to take books to the rest home. Ridilia Montrose assists the activities coordinator there on Wednesdays. You remember Ridilia, don't you, Laurel dear? Her daughter Faith Anne was the one who had such extensive orthodontia and then wound up being elected homecoming queen at Old Miss? Married a financier from Birmingham? Ridilia says it was most definitely a female, according to the night staff."

She pressed her lips into a thin line of disapproval and shook her head, setting her sapphires swinging. "Terrible goings-on. I swear, some people just breed indiscriminately and let their children grow up running like wild dogs. Blood will tell, you know," she said, as she always said. And, as always, it made Laurel grit her teeth on a contradiction she had been trained not to voice. "Anyway, the person I feel most sorry for is that poor Astor Cooper. All this went on right outside her window. Can you imagine?"

What little Laurel had eaten of her meal turned into a lump of grease in her stomach. "Astor Cooper?" she managed weakly as her mind pieced together facts without her consent.

"Yes. Her husband is Conroy Cooper, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author? Such a charming man. So generous to the local charities. It's just a tragedy that his wife has to be so afflicted. Alzheimer's, you know. And I'm told her people up in Memphis are just lovely. It's such a shame. Ridilia said Mr. Cooper was absolutely beside himself over the vandalism. He's so very loyal to his wife, you know…"

Laurel placed her hands in her lap, fighting the urge to grip the table to steady herself. While her mother sat across from her, going on about Conroy Cooper's sterling character, that same voice drifted out of the back of her mind, admonishing her for her manners. Young ladies do not lay their hands on the table, Laurel… Then Savannah 's face came to mind, her expression sly. His wife has Alzheimer's. He put her in St. Joseph 's… I hear she doesn't know her head from a hole in the ground.

Sick dread ran down her throat like icy fingers. It couldn't be, she told herself. It simply couldn't be. Savannah had her problems, but she wouldn't resort to-As if to mock her defense, her memory hurled up a picture of her sister locked in combat with Annie Delahoussaye, screaming like a banshee and whirling like a dervish around Frenchie's.

" Laurel? Laurel?" Her mother's sharp tone prodded her back to reality. Vivian was frowning at her. "André would like to know if you've finished with your fish."

"I'm sorry." Laurel scrambled to compose herself, ducking her head and smoothing her napkin on her lap. She glanced up at the patient André, who watched her with soulful brown eyes set in a bloodhound's face. "Yes, thank you. It was excellent. My apologies to the chef that I was unable to finish it."

As the dinner plates were whisked away and the tablecloth dusted for crumbs, Vivian studied her daughter and sipped her wine. "I hear you've been to the courthouse twice this week. They're seeing more of you than I am."

An untrained ear may not have picked up the note of censure. Laurel received it loud and clear. "I'm sorry, Mama. I got caught up helping the Delahoussayes."

"Hardly the sort of people-"

Laurel brought a hand up to stop her like a crossing guard. "Can we please skip this conversation? We're not going to agree. We'll both end up angry. Could we just not have it?"

Vivian straightened into her queen's posture on her chair, her chin lifting, her eyes taking on the same cold gleam as the sapphires she wore. "Certainly," she said stiffly. "Never mind that I have only your best interests at heart."

That Vivian had never had any interests at heart but her own was a truth Laurel chose to keep to herself. If she provoked her mother into an argument in public, she would never be forgiven. A part of her thought she shouldn't care, but the plain truth was Vivian was the only mother she had, and after a lifetime of walking on eggshells to gain approval, to garner what Vivian would consider love, she was probably not going to change. Just as Vivian would never change.

The pendulum of Vivian's moods swung yet again as she turned toward the entrance to the dining room. Like the sun coming out from behind a thunderhead, a smile brightened her face. Laurel turned to get a look at whoever had managed to perform such a miracle and caught another unpleasant surprise square on the chin.

"Stephen!" Vivian said, offering her beringed hands to Danjermond as he strode to their table. He took them both and bent over one to bestow a courtly kiss. Vivian beamed. All but purring, she turned toward Laurel. "Look, Laurel dear, Stephen is here! Isn't this a lovely surprise?"

In a pig's eye. Laurel forced a smile that looked as if she had a lip full of novocaine. "Mr. Danjermond."

"Stephen, you're just in time for dessert. Do say you'll join us."

He treated her to a dazzling square smile. "How could I decline an offer to spend time with two of the most beautiful belles in the parish?"

Vivian blushed on cue and batted her lashes, impeccably schooled in the feminine art of flirtation. "Well, this belle needs to powder her nose. Do keep Laurel company, won't you?"

"Of course."

As she walked away from the table, Danjermond slid into the empty chair to Laurel 's right. He was, as she was, dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the courthouse that morning-the coffee brown suit, the ivory shirt and stylish tie-but he had somehow managed to come through the day without a wrinkle, while Laurel felt wilted and rumpled. Something about his elegance made her want to comb her hair and take her glasses off, but she refrained from doing either.

"You're angry with me, Laurel," he said, simply.

Laurel crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt, taking her time in replying. Outside, a squall line had tumbled up from the Gulf and was threatening rain. Wind pulled at the fingers of the palmetto trees that lined the putting green. She stared out at them through the French doors, debating the wisdom of what she wanted to say.

"I don't like the games you play, Mr. Danjermond," she said at last, meeting his cool green gaze evenly.

He arched a brow. "You think my being here is part of a conspiracy, Laurel? As it happens, I dine here often. You do concede that I have to eat, don't you? I am, after all, merely human."

The light in the peridot eyes danced as if at some secret amusement. Whether it was her he was laughing at or the line about his being a mere mortal, she couldn't tell. Either way, she had no intention of joining in the joke.

"Anything new on the murder?" she asked, toying with the stem of her water glass.

He plucked a slice of French bread from the basket on the table, tore off a chunk, and settled back in his chair with the lazy arrogance of a prince. Chewing thoughtfully, he studied her. " Kenner released Tony Gerrard. He feels the murder is the work of the Bayou Strangler."

"And what do you think? You don't think Tony Gerrard might have pulled a copycat?"

"No, because if he had, he would have screwed up. Our killer is very clever. Tony, regrettably," he picked a white fleck of bread off his tie and flicked it away, "is not."

"You sound almost as if you admire him-the killer."

He regarded her with a look of mild reproach. "Certainly not. He intrigues me, I admit. Serial killers have fascinated students of criminal science for years." He tore another chunk off the fresh, warm bread, closed his eyes, and savored the rich, yeasty aroma of it before slipping it into his mouth. As he swallowed, his lashes raised like lacy black veils. "I'm as horrified by these crimes as anyone, but at the same time, I have a certain"-he searched for the word, picking it cleanly and carefully-"clinical appreciation for a keen mind."

As he said it, Laurel had the distinct impression that he was probing hers. She could feel the power of his personality arching between them, reaching into her head to explore and examine.

"What do you think of sharks, Laurel?"

The change of direction was so abrupt, she thought it was a wonder she didn't get a whiplash. "What should I think of them?" she said, annoyed and puzzled. "Why should I think of them at all?"

"You would think of them if you found yourself overboard in the ocean," Danjermond pointed out. He leaned forward in his chair, warming to his subject, his expression serious. "In all of nature, they are the perfect predator. They fear nothing. They kill with frightening efficiency.

"Serial killers are the sharks of our society. Without souls, without fear of recrimination. Predators. Clever, ruthless." He tore off another chunk of bread and chewed thoughtfully. "A fascinating comparison, don't you think, Laurel?"

"Frankly, I think it's stupid and dangerously romantic," she said bluntly as her temper began to snap inside her like a live wire. Ignoring the dictates of her upbringing, she planted her fists on the table and glared at the district attorney. "Sharks kill to survive. This man is killing for the pure, sick enjoyment of seeing women suffer. He needs to be stopped, and he needs to be punished."

Danjermond scrutinized her pose, her expression, the passion in her voice, and nodded slightly, like a critic approving of an actor's skills. "You were born for the prosecutor's office, Laurel," he declared, then his gaze intensified, sharpened, as if he had sensed something in her. Slowly, gracefully, he leaned forward across the table until he was just a little too close. "Or were you made for it?" he murmured.

Laurel met his gaze without flinching, though she was trembling inside. The air between them vibrated with Danjermond's potent sexuality. He was close enough that she could pick up the hint of a dark, exotic cologne. Somewhere outside the cube of tension that boxed them in, thunder rumbled and fat raindrops spat down out of the clouds. The wind hurled handfuls under the veranda, pelting the panes in the French doors.

"You do fascinate me, Laurel," he whispered. "You have an astonishing sense of chivalry for a woman."

Vivian chose that moment to return to the table, and Laurel thought that if she was never grateful to her mother for anything else, she was grateful for this interruption. Stephen Danjermond made the short hairs stand up on the back of her neck. The less she had to be alone with him, the better.

He sat with them for coffee. Vivian ordered bread pudding and enjoyed it with a side order of political talk and chatter about the upcoming League of Women Voters dinner. Laurel sat studying the stubs of her fingernails, wishing she were anywhere else. Her thoughts turned unbidden to Jack, and she wondered, as she stared out at the rain, where he was tonight, what he was feeling.

Judge Monahan and his wife were shown into the dining room, capturing Danjermond's attention, and the district attorney abandoned them for more influential company. While Vivian took care of the bill, Laurel took her first deep breath in thirty minutes.

They walked out onto the veranda together and stood watching as the valets dashed out into the rain to retrieve their cars.

"This was lovely, darling," Vivian said, smiling benevolently. "I'm glad we could have this evening together after that unpleasantness with your sister Sunday. I swear, I don't know at times how she could even be mine, the way she behaves."

"Mama, don't," Laurel snapped, then softened the order with a request. "Please."

Instead of pique, Vivian chose to move on as if Savannah had never been mentioned at all. "I'm so glad Stephen was able to join us for a little while. He's very highly thought of in these parts and in Baton Rouge, as well. With his family connections and his talent, there's no telling how far he might go." Her white Mercedes arrived under the portico, but she made no move toward it, turning instead to give her daughter a shrewd look. "As I walked across the dining room tonight, I couldn't help thinking what a handsome couple the two of you would make."

"I appreciate the thought, Mama," Laurel lied, "but I'm not interested in Stephen Danjermond."

Disapproval flickered in Vivian's light eyes. She reached up impatiently and brushed at a wayward strand of Laurel 's hair, succeeding in making her feel ten years old. "Don't tell me you're interested in Jack Boudreaux," she said tightly.

Laurel stepped back from her mother's hand. "Would it matter if I were? I'm a grown woman, Mama. I can choose my own men."

"Yes, but you do such a poor job of it," Vivian said cuttingly. "I asked Stephen about Jack Boudreaux-"

"Mama!"

"He told me the man was disbarred from practicing law because he was at the heart of the Sweetwater chemical waste scandal in Houston." Laurel 's eyes widened automatically at the name "Sweetwater." Gratified, Vivian went on with relish. "Not only that, but it isn't any wonder he writes those gruesome books. Everyone in Houston says he killed his wife."

If her mother said anything after that, Laurel didn't hear it. She didn't hear the murmured words of parting, didn't feel the compulsory kiss on her cheek, noticed only in the most abstract of ways that Vivian was being ushered into her car and the gleaming white Mercedes was sliding out into the darkening night.

She stood on the veranda in a puddle of amber light from the carriage lanterns that flanked the elegant carved doors to the Wisteria. Beyond the pillars that supported the roof, rain pounded down out of the swollen clouds and splattered against the glossy black pavement of the drive. And it was Jack's voice she heard. "I've got enough corpses on my conscience…"

He wanted to kill somebody.

Jimmy Lee stalked the confines of his steamy, shabby bungalow in his underwear, frustration bubbling inside him, gurgling in a low growl at the back of his throat as he recounted all the shit mucking up his road to fame and fortune.

The cheap secondhand television he had picked up at Earlene's Used-a-Bit sat on an old crate in the corner. Instead of his own regularly scheduled hour of glory, the screen was filled with the flickering image of Billy Graham on a crusade to save the heathen communist souls of Croatia. A rerun hastily dug up to take the place of the fiasco that had been taped the day before at the old Texaco station.

The horizontal hold was slipping like fingers on a greased pig, the picture jumping up, catching, jumping up, catching. Passing the set on his circuit around the room, Jimmy Lee gave it a smack along the side that served only to send the volume blaring.

Swearing, he fumbled with the knob, managing to break it off in his hand. The control on his temper snapped just as readily, and he grabbed a lamp off an imitation wood end table and hurled it at the wall, the horrific crash drowning out Billy Graham right in the middle of his rage against the excesses of modern life.

Fuck Billy Graham. Jimmy Lee turned from the set, ignoring it even though it was rattling with the wrath of the master televangelist. The guy had one foot in the grave. He was old hat, passé, not in touch with what needy fanatics of the '90s wanted. In another few years, Jimmy Lee would be the one crusading around the world, begging the faithful of all races to stand up and be counted-and, most importantly, to stand up and have their money counted.

He'd be there, at the top, at the pinnacle, worshiped. And he wouldn't wear anything but tailor-made white silk suits. Hell, he'd even have tailor-made white silk underwear. He did love the feel of cool white silk. He'd have sheets of silk and curtains and white silk socks and white silk ties. Silk, the feel of money and sex. White, the color of purity and angels. The dichotomy appealed to him.

He'd get there, he promised himself, no matter what he had to do, no matter who got in his way.

Immediately several faces came to mind. Annie Delahoussaye-Gerrard, whose corpse had upstaged him in the local news. Savannah Chandler, whose taste for adventure dragged his thoughts away from his mission. Her sister, Laurel Goody Two Shoes, who plagued him like a curse. Bitches. His life was infested with bitches. Good for nothing but slaking a man's baser needs. On the television, a fat white broad who looked like Jonathan Winters in drag was belting out a chorus of "How Great Thou Art." Inside Jimmy Lee, the restless hunger burned. The night beckoned like a harlot, hot, stormy, tempestuous, and he cursed women in his best televangelist voice for leading him into temptation.

Jack prowled the grounds of L'Amour, too restless to be hemmed in by walls. He hadn't slept in… what? Two days? He'd lost track of time, lost track of everything but thoughts of death and worthiness… and Laurel. He couldn't get her out of his mind. Such indomitable honor, so much courage. He couldn't help caring about her. She was too pure, too brave, too good.

Too good for the like of you, T-Jack…

Dieu, what irony, as twisted as a lover's knot, that the most caring thing he could do for her would be not to care about her at all. Everything he touched died. Everything he wanted withered just within his grasp. He had no right to take her as part of his penance for other sins.

He walked down to the bank of the bayou and stood in the deep moon shadows of the live oak, staring out at the glassy water, the pirogue that bobbed at the end of the dock. The night sang around him, a chorus of frog song and insects in between thundershowers. A breeze teased the ends of the moss that hung down from the branches, and they swayed heavily, like ropes on the gallows.

He could see Evie's face hanging there in front of him, pale and pretty even in death, her beautiful dark eyes full of accusation and anger and disappointment. Evie, so trusting, so loving. He had loved her so carelessly, had taken so casually the precious gift she had made of her heart. Shallow, selfish bastard that he was, he had taken all she offered as if it were his due, part of the spoils of his success.

The guilt that weighed on him was heavier than anything in this world. It pressed down on him from above, in on him from all sides. He jerked around in a circle, looking for an escape route and finding none. He tried to back away, but came up against the rough trunk of the live oak, the bark biting into his back through the thin fabric of his T-shirt as the guilt pressed in on him.

Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes tight against the pain, and scalding tears trickled in a stream across his temples and into his hair. There were no adjectives in his writer's mind to describe the anguish, no words for the way it raked through his heart.

"Bon Dieu, Evangeline, sa me fait de le pain. Sa me fait de le pain."

He whispered the words over and over, a hoarse, broken chant for forgiveness, a mantra for relief from the terrible weight of his remorse. But he was granted no pardon. He knew he deserved none, because no matter how sorry he was, Evie would always be dead. And all the dreams she had dreamed would be dead. And all the babies she had planned to love would never be at all.

Because of him.

"Sa me fait de le pain," he mumbled, his face contorting against the pain. He turned into the trunk of the tree and pressed his cheek against the corrugated surface, clinging to the tree as regret wrung tears from him with merciless hands.

Sweet, sweet Evie, his wife.

Sweet, sweet Annie, like family.

Sweet, sweet Laurel…

Bad Jack Boudreaux. Never good enough. Not worthy of love, never meant for a family. Never anything a decent woman should want. A bastard, a cad, a killer.

What a cruel lie to think he could have anything. Better not to care at all than watch something so precious, something so deeply desired, slip through his grasp like smoke, like a magician's trick-there and gone in a heartbeat.

As fragile as life-there and gone in a heartbeat.

Whining softly with concern, Huey padded up to him and nosed the hand that hung limp at his side, sniffing for trouble or a treat. The dog's rough pink tongue slid along his palm hesitantly, offering comfort and sympathy, and Jack pulled away.

"Get outta here," he growled, swinging an arm at the dog.

The hound scuttled back clumsily, ears cocked, his head tilted in a quizzical expression. He woofed softly, falling into a play-bow and wagging his slender wand of a tail.

"Get outta here!" Jack roared.

All the anger and hurt that had gathered into a hard ball inside him burst like a nova and sent a hot, white rage through him. It tore out of him in a wild cry, and he lashed out at the dog, the toe of his boot just grazing Huey's rib cage. The dog let out a yelp of betrayal and fright, and ran ten feet away to stand cowering, looking at Jack with his mismatched eyes as hurt and innocent as a child's.

"Get the hell away from me!" Jack snapped. "I don' have a dog! I don' have a dog," he repeated, the adrenaline spent, his voice a ragged whisper. "I don' have nothin'."

And he turned and walked away from the hound, from L'Amour, and disappeared into the shadows of the night.