SIX MONTHS LATER
THE wind moaned
softly, an eerie, lonely sound. A snake slid from the low-hanging
branches of a tupelo tree and plopped into the water, swimming
away, no more than a ripple in the dark water. Overhead, dark
clouds, heavy with rain, boiled in the evening heat.
Saria stepped from
the pirogue to the rickety dock, pausing to inhale deeply while she
cast a careful look around, studying the shore and grove of trees
she had to walk through. Years earlier, one of the farmers had
planted a Christmas tree farm that had never quite taken off,
although the trees had. The town, small as it was, had grown to the
edge of the farm, and the variety of cedar, pine and spruce trees
were beautiful but had grown thick, creating a forest effect behind
the cypress grove on the water’s edge.
Moss hung in long
silvery webs, swaying gently from the twisted cypress branches
lining the river. The grove was fairly large, and with the gray
mist spreading like a fine veil, the cypress trees lining the water
appeared spooky and ghostlike. Behind that, the thicker farm trees
loomed, a silent dark forest. Icy fingers crept down her spine as
she stood there on the wooden planks, a good distance from
civilization.
Night often came fast
to the river, and she had waited for her brothers to leave,
checking on the fishing lines and crab pots before she took off to
come to the mainland. All the while, she’d had the feeling someone
was following her. She’d stayed in close to the banks of the river
as much as she could. Someone—something— could have kept up with her and
certainly could be ahead of her now. Her brothers had gone out in
the bass boat, leaving her the old pirogue, which was fine with her
as a rule, but something unseen in the night made her wish for
speed.
Lately she’d been
uneasy and restless, her skin too tight as if it didn’t quite fit
over her bones. Itching came in waves as something seemed to move
beneath her skin. Her skull felt too large, and her jaw and mouth
ached. Everything felt wrong, and perhaps that contributed to her
gathering fear that she was being watched.
Saria sighed,
moistened dry lips and forced herself to take that first step
toward the farm of trees. She could bypass it, but it would take
time she didn’t have. Her brothers were going to be back and they’d
be angry if they caught her going off by herself again. They’d been
as edgy as she was, and to her dismay, had taken to checking up on
her continually. The last couple of weeks the attention had grown
worse until she felt as though she were a prisoner in her own
home.
She began walking,
touching the knife strapped to her belt for reassurance. If
someone—or something—truly was stalking her, she was prepared. She
walked in silence, along the narrow path through the grove, toward
the old church.
Behind her and a
little to her left a twig snapped, the sound overloud in the
silence of the grove. Her heart began to pound. The mist thickened
with each passing moment, slowly drawing a veil over the dark
clouds and sliver of moon. The fog turned the crescent a strange,
ominous red. She quickened her pace, hurrying through the variety
of trees.
Saria erged from the
grove of Christmas trees straight onto a sidewalk leading through
the small town just off the Mississippi River. A large holding wall
helped to prevent flooding. Most of the land had been built up to
help with the flooding as well. She walked quickly down the walkway
along the river. The wind sent waves lapping at the wall and piers.
She took another cautious look around but didn’t slow her pace. The
church was just ahead, and she felt a pressing need to get
inside.
In spite of the
night, the air was very hot and heavy with moisture, promising rain
soon. She felt sweat trickle down between her breasts, but wasn’t
certain if it was the oppressive heat or sheer fear. She breathed a
sigh of relief when she gained the steps to the church.
Deliberately she paused there, covering her hair with the lace wrap
that had been her mother’s. While she did, she turned and surveyed
the street. Quaint gaslights lit the street, glowing a strange
yellow in the mist. She felt the weight of eyes watching her, but
she couldn’t spot anyone overly interested in her.
She turned her back
to the street and walked up the steps to the church door. Right
between her shoulder blades she felt an itch, and the hair on the
back of her neck stood up. She pulled open the door and slipped
inside, her heart pounding. The interior of the church was dimly
lit. Shadows clung to the walls and created dark valleys between
the empty pews. She dipped her fingers in holy water and made the
sign of the cross as she walked slowly toward the confessional. The
statues stared down at her with empty, accusing eyes. She had been
here several times since she’d found the first body, but she
couldn’t bring herself to confess, not even to Father Gallagher,
not even now that there had been two more.
She felt guilty, no
doubt about it, although she’d tried to get help and that had only
put her in danger. Now, the priest was her only hope—if she could
get up the courage this time to ask him. She waited her turn,
closed the confessional door and knelt on the small padded bench
provided. She bowed her head.
THE darkness and
privacy screen of the shadowy confessional prevented Father
Gallagher from identifying which parishioner had just entered the
small booth. He knew it was a woman by the faint fragrance of
lavender and wild honey. The scent was extremely subtle, but, in
the stifling heat of the confessional, the fragrance was a welcome
change from the sweat that sometimes was faintly
sickening.
“Father,” the voice
whispered.
He leaned closer,
alarmed by the note of desperation in her tone. Over the years he
had learned to recognize real fear.
“It’s Saria,” the
voice continued.
He knew Saria, had
known her since she was a toddler. Bright. Intelligent. Not given
to flights of fantasy. He had always known her to be a cheerful,
hardworking girl. Maybe too hardworking. She came from a large
family, like many of the Cajuns attending his church, but she had
stopped coming to mass and confession years earlier. About six
months ago, she had returned to confession—but not to the
service—coming faithfully every week, but not confessing anything
of importance that might have made her suddenly need to come back
to the church. Her whispers made him think perhaps there had been
another reason for her once again coming to the
confessional.
“Is everything all
right, Saria?”
“I need to slip a
letter to you. It can’t be mailed from this parish, Father. I’ve
tried, and the letter was intercepted. I was threatened. Can you
get it out for me some other way?”
Father Gallagher’s
heart jumped. Saria had to be in trouble if she was asking such a
thing, and he knew from long experience that the people in the
bayou as well as up and down the river were hardworking, large
clans that often kept troubles to themselves. She had to be
desperate to come to him.
“Saria, have you gone
to the police?”
“I can’t. Neither can
you. Please Father, just do this for me and forget about it. Don’t
tell anyone. You can’t trust anyone.”
“Remy is a policeman,
isn’t he?” he asked, knowing her eldest brother had joined the
force years ago. He didn’t understand her hesitation, but he had a
sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His comment was met with
silence. He sighed. “Give me the letter.”
“I need your word as
a man of God, Father.”
He frowned. Saria
wasn’t dramatic either. This strange conversation was completely
out of character for her sunny personality. She feared very little.
She had five very large brothers who would probably skin someone
alive if they tried to hurt her. They’d grown up rough, big strong
boys who had turned into formidable men. He couldn’t imagine why
she wouldn’t go to Remy. He had been head of the family since her
father’s death some years earlier.
“Should I be afraid
for you, Saria?” he murmured, lowering his voice even more and
pressing his ear to the screen. The situation would have seemed
surreal and dramatic had it been someone else, but Saria had to be
believed.
“Somethin’ bad is
happenin’ out in the bayou, Father, but I can’t call the police. We
need someone else. If you can get this letter out without anyone
from here knowin’, he’ll do something. Please, Father Gallagher,
just do this for me.”
“I give you my word I
won’t tell anyone, unless,” he
emphasized, “I think it is necessary to save your
life.”
There was another
small silence. A rustle of paper. “That’s fair. Please be careful,
Father,” Saria whispered and pushed the flat envelope through the
opening. “No one can see you with that. Not in this parish. Not in
this ward. You have to take it far from here to mail
it.”
Father Gallagher took
the envelope, noting it was sealed. “Say three Hail Marys and the
Lord’s Prayer,” he whispered, reminding her to keep up the charade
of confession if she wasn’t actually going to confess any sins. He
waited, but she stayed silent, and he blessed her, tucking the
envelope into his robes.
Saria crossed herself
and left the confessional, going up to the front pew to kneel
before the altar. There were several people in the church and she
took a slow, surreptitious look around, trying to see if anyone
could have followed her. She didn’t see anyone suspicious, but that
didn’t mean anything. Most of the people she knew attended the
church and could pretend, as she had done, that they had legitimate
business there.
Just a short distance
away, the Lanoux twins lit candles. Dion and Robert had recently
lost their grandmother, and it stood to reason they might be in
church. Both men were stocky with roped muscles and dark, thick
curly hair. Handsome men, they had quite the reputation as ladies
men in the community. She’d found both of them to be gentlemen
beneath their rough-and-tumble ways and she liked them
both.
Armande Mercier sat
beside his sister, Charisse, fidgeting while she prayed piously in
the second-to-last pew. Charisse’s head was bent, eyes closed, lips
moving, yet twice when Armande sighed heavily and ran his finger
around his shirt collar she sent him a sharp glare. He sent Saria a
glance and quickly looked away, unusual for Armande. He was
probably the biggest flirt in the ward. She found him selfish but
charming, and he definitely protected his sister, whom Saria was
quite close to. Saria’s brothers often gave Armande a free beer
when he came to their bar, feeling sorry for him having to take
care of his tyrant of a mother and his extremely shy
sister.
The two elderly women
in the back were well known to her as was the older man, Amos
Jeanmard, sitting in the corner, his walking stick close. She had
gone to school with his daughter, Danae, and knew his son, Elie,
who was older by a few years. She knew them all, just as they knew
her. They’d always been friends and neighbors—members of one of the
seven families on the edge of the swamp where she resided. She’d
gone to their homes, attended weddings and funerals with them. They
supported her family bait shop and grocery store. Many of them were
customers of the small store and bar the Boudreaux family owned.
Now, they terrified her. She had even grown to fear her own
kin.
She made the sign of
the cross and left the church, anxious to be gone before Father
Gallagher was finished hearing confession. She didn’t know if she
could face him and not give herself away. The stress was getting to
her, and her stomach had begun churning. She ran lightly down the
steps and headed back toward the dock where she’d left her
boat.
The night seemed
darker, the shadows longer, reaching for her as she hurried toward
the grove that would provide the shorter route back to the dock.
Quickly, she moved along the narrow path through the thick stand of
trees. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, goose bumps
raised along her arms and she shivered, cursing under her breath as
she hesitated, nearly turning back toward the lights of town muted
by the fog. As if on cue, the rain began to fall, a downpour of
warm drops that soaked her instantly. The deluge drove her into the
grove where the overhead canopy might protect her a little from the
onslaught. She hurried along the path, head up, searching for
anything that might be causing her warning radar to go
off.
A large shadow
shifted in the trees. Her heart jumped and then began pounding.
Something seemed to move, pushing against her flesh from the inside
out, leaving behind an itch as it receded. Her skin felt tight and
her jaw ached. She became aware of her hands hurting. She looked
down to see her fingers curled tightly, sharp nails pressing into
her palm. Behind her, cutting off her escape to town, she heard a
soft chuffing noise and her blood ran cold. Her heartbeat
accelerated out of control, thundering in her skull. Her breath
came in ragged gasps.
She took a cautious
step toward the dock, her hand slipping the knife from her belt.
The hilt felt solid in her palm and she curled her fingers tightly
around it like a talisman. Her own brothers wouldn’t kill her,
would they? Her mouth was dry.
She tried to listen
as she hurried, but her own heart and her gasping breath filled her
ears, the thunder a terrible roaring, drowning out everything else.
The veils of Spanish moss swayed, creating an eerie, ghostlike
presence in all the trees. The branches, twisted and gnarled,
reached out in the dark like ghoulish hands. She’d never been
afraid in the rovf trees along the river. She’d never feared
alligators or the swamp even at night. She was careful, as her
father had taught her, yet now terror gripped her.
She knew better than
to run, knew it would trigger the leopard’s instincts, but she
couldn’t stop herself from picking up her pace, moving as fast as
she could through the pouring rain without actually running. She
heard a whoosh, like the rush of a freight train. Something hit her
from behind, slamming into her back so hard, she felt as if her
bones had shattered. The heavy weight of it drove her down so she
hit the ground hard, landing with her hands pinned under her, the
knife still firmly in her grip, but completely useless. She felt
hot breath on the back of her neck and tensed, ready to fight. The
thing was far too heavy to push up. She couldn’t get her knees
under her, and the moment she started to struggle, it sank teeth
into her shoulder.
Saria opened her
mouth to scream, but got a mouthful of mud. Tears burned her eyes
as she waited for it to kill her. Claws gripped her hips hard,
warning her not to move. She went still beneath the heavy weight.
For a moment neither moved. Very slowly she turned her head. The
leopard shifted to bring his head beside hers. She found herself
staring into yellow-green eyes. Wide and unblinking, the thing
stared back at her. There was intelligence there, and a warning.
Breath blew hot against her skin.
She shuddered as the
large head drew near her face. The mouth yawned wide and she closed
her eyes, certain those terrible teeth would close around her face.
The rough tongue lapped once over her face, removing the stream of
tears. She drew in a breath and then felt fire raking down her
back, ripping through her shirt. She screamed again, struggling to
throw him off. His claw dug into her flesh and carved four deep
grooves from her shoulder blades to her waistline.
Deep inside of her,
something wild lifted its head as if awakening. Adrenaline pulsed
through her, rushing like a drug through her veins, strength and
energy pouring into her, lending her phenomenal strength. She
shoved up hard, gathering her legs under her enough to create a
small separation, just enough to roll. At the same time, she
brought the knife up, slashing toward the leopard’s
jugular.
The cat’s front paw
flew toward her knife hand, the heavy body pinning her as the great
claw shifted, and to her horror, fingers caught her wrist and
slammed her hand back into the muck. That human hand, coming out of
a leopard’s body, terrified her. It was grotesque and wrong and not
at all romantic like a young child had envisioned. Deep inside her
own body, something shifted and moved, pushing aside fear to ignite
a burning bright anger.
As they stared at one
another, fury smoldered deep inside her body. She could almost feel
something inside of her, living and breathing, furious that the
leopard dared to touch her. Her skin itched and her jaw ached. Her
entire body hurt, probably from the vicious hit when the cat
brought her down.
“Go ahead,” she bit
out, trying not to sob, trembling with a combination of fear and
anger. “Just do it.”
He held her down with
his heavy paws, breathing against her neck again. She closed her
eyes and waited for the death bite. Unlike most large cats,
leopards preferred to bite the throat of their prey and hold until
the victim suffocated. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the large
leopard backed away from her. She peeked out from under her lashes
and watched it as it steadily backed up, one silent paw at a time.
All the while, those yellow-green eyes remained on her
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She didn’t dare move,
afraid she would trigger more aggression in the animal. Long after
he disappeared into the fog, she lay on the ground, shaking, tears
running down her face. It hurt to sit up, her back on fire. The
rain soothed the fiery streaks. The bite mark on her shoulder
oozed. Infection was a real threat in the swamp. She couldn’t go to
a doctor, and if she went to the treateur, what was she going to say? That a leopard
attacked her in the cypress grove just outside of town? The woman
would have her committed.
She sat in the rain,
listening. Already the regular sounds of the night were resuming
and deep inside her body, whatever had stirred subsided. For
several long minutes, she sat in the mud with the rain pouring down
on her, weeping. Her stomach lurched unexpectedly, and she rolled
painfully to her hands and knees and retched again and
again.
She was a Boudreaux
and she’d been taught since birth not to trust outsiders. Her
family was shrouded in secrecy and she was cut off from the world.
She could leave the river—but she knew no other way of life. Where
would she go? Who could she turn to? Saria lifted her head slowly
and looked around her.
This was her home,
the wilds of the river, the bayous and lakes, the swamps and marsh.
She couldn’t breathe in a city. She wiped at the mud on her face
with her sleeve. The movement caused a spasm of fire to chase down
her back and small flames to burn over her shoulder. Her stomach
lurched. Stifling a small sob, she pushed herself up with one
trembling hand. Exhaustion set in. She stumbled her way to the
dock, every step painful. She was afraid the leopard had broken
something in her back.
It was difficult to
step onto the pirogue, but she did a lot of deep breathing as she
reached for her pole to push off. Her back muscles were on fire
with every movement. She looked back at the grove as she thrust the
flat-bottomed boat away from the dock. Her heart jumped. Red eyes
stared back at her through the mist. He was still watching her. She
stared right back at him as she pushed out into the current and let
it take her back downriver. The red eyes suddenly disappeared and
she caught a glimpse of the big cat running, using long leaping
strides, weaving in and out of the trees, heading into the
swamp.
Trying to beat her
home? Did she believe any of her brothers would harm her? Could one
be a serial killer? She’d found a second body three months ago, and
now a third. She’d tried to mail the letter out herself, but found
it taped to the bottom of her pirogue, scaring her nearly to death.
Her brothers were tough men, all capable of killing should the need
arise. But wantonly? Any of them? She shook her head, not wanting
to believe it was possible. But the evidence . . . Maybe if she
just told all of them when they were together, just blurted out
that she’d found bodies, it might be possible to tell from their
reactions.
Saria found it
impossible to think the rest of the way home. Using oars or a pole
required back muscles, and her body protested every movement. She
didn’t even care to see if the leopard cut through the swamps and
beat her home. There were several boats tied up to the dock and
music blared out over the water. Lights spilled out over the river.
A couple of men were standing outside the bar, but neither looked
up as she tied her pirogue to the dock.
The bar was open,
which meant at least one of her brothers was at home. She would
have liked to peek in and see just which one was there, because
that would rule him out as a suspect, but she didn’t dare take a
chance of anyone seeflat-bott
The house was nestled
back in the trees with the river running on one side and surrounded
by trees on the other three sides. She used to find comfort in the
trees, often climbing them and surveying the world from the heights
as a child. Now she searched the branches frantically for signs of
a large cat as she went around to the back of the house, hoping to
avoid her brothers if any others were at home.
There were no lights
on, and she paused on the back stairs, listening. Her hearing
seemed more acute sometimes, like a switch that went on and off, as
did her night vision. Right now, she could hear only her own ragged
breathing. She crept into the dark house, not bothering with
lights, trying not to make a sound as she made her way through the
small rooms to her bathroom.
Saria stripped off
her ripped jacket and examined the slashing tears before she
shrugged out of her shirt. The shirt was soaked with blood. She
held up the remnants, looking at the gashes that could only be made
by a large cat’s claws. The sight of all that blood and the tears
made her feel sick. She balled up the shirt, threw it into the sink
and turned her back toward the full-length mirror. The glass was
cracked in places, but looking over her shoulder, she could see the
grooves marring her skin. They looked angry and red—definitely an
infection waiting to happen.
She touched the
puncture wounds on her shoulder and burst into tears. Saria stood
in the shower, shaking, the hot water pouring over her, rinsing
away the blood, her back and shoulder stinging horribly. Her legs
gave out and she sank down onto the floor of the shower stall and
cried, letting the water wash away her tears.
She drew her knees up
and hugged herself tight, ignoring the burning along her back. Why
hadn’t the leopard killed her? Clearly he knew she’d found the dead
bodies. She breathed deep to keep from vomiting. She had no idea
what to do, other than scrub to remove all scent from her body and
then get rid of her clothes. Leopards had a great sense of smell,
and she didn’t want any questions.
Forcing her body back
up, she reluctantly took the soap and poured the gel over her back,
using a scrub brush to work it into her wounds. She had to stop
several times and breathe deep to keep from fainting. It hurt
beyond anything she could imagine. She rinsed off and repeated the
scrubbing with the bite on her shoulder. She patted her body dry
and rummaged in the medicine cabinet until she found
iodine.
Saria bit back a
scream as the iodine burned through the gouge marks on her back and
the puncture wounds on her shoulder. She pushed her head between
her knees, breathing deep as blackness edged her vision. Bile rose
and she fought hard not to get sick.
“Fils de putain.” She hissed the words between
clenched teeth, struggling to keep from landing facedown on the
floor as the world around her darkened and white spots fluttered in
front of her eyes.
It took several
minutes for her world to right itself, and she was able to
straighten again without her legs going rubbery on her, although
her back protested with a fierce burning. She breathed through it
and carefully bandaged the puncture wounds on her shoulder. She
couldn’t do anything about her back and knew whatever she wore
would be ruined, so she pulled on an old shirt and soft
sweatpants.
She couldn’t just go
to bed and hide beneath the covers, she had to get rid of her
shredded clothes. She picked up the jacket and shoved it in the
sinkhe shirt. Her brothers would smell them if she didn’t do
something about the blood before she threw them away. The only
thing she could think to do was pour bleach over them, which she
did. She left them to soak while she went to get water and some
aspirin.
The scent of bleach
and blood had permeated the bathroom by the time she returned. This
was not going to work. The bleach would definitely mask the scent
on her clothes, but her brothers would be suspicious. She rinsed
the shirt and jacket and cleaned the sink. She would take the
clothes out to the swamp and burn them.
Saria tried to still
her chaotic mind long enough to think the situation through as she
slipped out of the back of the house and into the thick grove of
trees toward the swamp. Why hadn’t the leopard killed her? The
shifter knew she had found the body. Wouldn’t it have been simpler
just to kill her—unless the killer was one of her brothers and he
couldn’t bring himself to kill a family member.
“Saria! Where the
hell are you, cher?”
Her heart jumped at
the sound of Remy’s voice calling from the back porch. Lately, he’d
been checking several times a night to make certain she was in her
room.
Swearing to herself,
she hastily dug a hole and shoved the tattered remnants of her
clothing into it. She had to answer. He would have seen her pirogue
tied to the dock and he would come looking for her. “I’ll be right
in,” she called as she buried the evidence. “I just was getting a
little air.”
“Hurry up, Saria, you
shouldn’t be out alone at night in the swamp.” His voice was always
gentle. That was Remy, but under all that soft, black velvet, there
was steel. She knew he’d come after her if she didn’t get
inside.
She dusted off her
hands and pushed up. “I’m coming. No worries. I’m tired
tonight.”
When she heard voices
in the front of the house, she hurried in and made a point of
closing her bedroom door loudly. She lay on her stomach, awake most
of the night, listening for the sound of her brothers, but after
their voices faded, there were only the comforting sounds of the
swamp.