Authors: Into the Fire
Laure's jaw sagged. "Was she the girl who made him decide not
to go to law school?"
"She did, but that wasn't the worst of it. She broke his heart.
After she left, for a time Louie and I thought J. D. might try to harm
himself." Remembering those long, terrible weeks made Elizabet rise and go
to open the curtains. "He was never the same after her. He never trusted
another girl again."
"How did he get involved with her?"
"Oh, you know how some of these poor girls get into college
on scholarships. I think they only do it so they can trap some boy into
marriage." She curled her fingers into the velvet edge of the curtain.
"I warned J. D. about her, but he thought he was in love and of course he
wouldn't listen to me. For six months, I lived in terror that he would get her
pregnant." She pulled aside the ivory tapestry drapes, and closed her eyes
as the sun touched her face.
"She didn't try to trap him into marriage, did she?"
"Not at first." Elizabet turned around to face her
friend. "She's not a stupid girl, you know. She worked her way into his
life gradually, taking up more and more of his time, luring him away from his
studies. Then she began poisoning him against his friends— the same boys he had
known since grade school." Elizabet straightened one of the curtain hems
before returning to sit beside Laure. "I knew when she nearly convinced
him to quit the football team that she was serious trouble. You know how much
J. D. loved playing."
Laure set aside her cup and leaned forward. "Did you speak
with her?"
"No. I felt like I held my breath for about six months,
though. When I heard she'd thrown mud at some of J. D.'s friends on the way to
a dance, I wasn't
even surprised." She refilled her tea, then added a drop to
Laure's barely touched cup. "Although to this day, I don't know what set
her off."
"You remember the way we were at school?" Laure sounded
vaguely sad. "All those poor girls we snubbed? I never was real
comfortable with that."
"You've always been too softhearted for your own good,"
Elizabet chided. "I know for a fact that J. D.'s friends were kind to her,
for his sake. They were all such nice kids." She smiled a little,
remembering. "Pity she couldn't be the same."
"Maybe they were jealous of her," a male voice said.
Elizabet's head snapped up, and she saw her husband standing just
inside the doorway. "Louie, you startled me. What in heaven's name are you
talking about?"
"Isabel, and the way she was. She wasn't a schemer. She was
sweet, and smart, and a hard worker." Eliza-bet's husband folded his arms.
"I couldn't say the same about J. D.'s other friends."
Laure set down her cup and stood. "Perhaps I should go."
"I will be happy to take you home,
chèrie."
Louie
gestured toward the front of the house. "Would you give me a moment alone
with my wife first?"
"Of course." Laure kissed Elizabet's cheek, squeezed her
hand, then departed.
"What are you doing, Elizabet?"
"I'm caring for my friend." She wasn't intimidated by
her husband's visible displeasure. "I'm also letting her know who she's
dealing with. Have you forgotten what that girl did to our son?"
"I remember it a little differently. So should you."
She set aside her cup. "Sometimes the memory becomes
unreliable over time."
"So now I'm an old man."
"No, you're not. That would make me an old woman." She
went to hug him, but he drew back. It didn't worry her. Louie never stayed
angry for more than an hour or two before he reverted back to his charming,
irreverent self. "You shouldn't worry about Isabel Duchesne. I expect
she'll land on her feet. Her kind have a knack for doing that."
"I have adored you since the moment I first laid eyes on
you," he said, his voice snapping out the words. "But I have never
been as disappointed in you as I am now."
That hurt, but she kept her expression smooth. "You'll get
over it, Louis, like you always do."
Elizabet didn't flinch when he slammed the door on his way out.
She already had a lengthy mental tally of Isabel Duchesne's sins against her
family, and this was simply one more item to add to the list.
"Get up, boy."
J. D. opened his eyes to find himself alone in the Martins' spare
bed, the business end of a double-barreled shotgun wavering an inch from his
nose. He remained still and gazed along the barrel until he met the angry gaze
staring down at him from a heavily scarred face.
The man was short and lean, with patchy white hair and more burn
scars than J. D. had ever seen on a living human being. He looked like hell had
chewed him up and spit out the gristle.
"Who are you?" J. D. looked around, but Sable was
nowhere in sight. His gun was tucked under the side of the mattress, but he
didn't want to move until he could distract the old man.
His attacker sneered, emphasizing his grotesque disfigurement.
"I am the devil—what do you think, boy?" he asked, his voice a
croaking rasp. "Am I not pretty?"
"Pretty, uh, no." Christ, he was going to be shot in the
face by a lunatic, and where was Sable? "But you look hard to kill."
"I am." The old man jerked the shotgun up a notch.
"Get up, now."
Sable came around him, carrying a stack of neatly folded clothes.
She was wearing a calico shirt and a pair of baggy jeans, and had braided her
hair back away from her face. Instead of being afraid, she gave the scarred man
an exasperated look, as if what he was doing was only a minor annoyance.
"What are you doing?"
J. D. used the distraction to slide his hand over the side of the
mattress and extract his weapon.
"What I should have done ten years ago," Remy told her.
When he turned back, his eyes widened.
J. D. kept the gun trained on the old man. "I'm a little hard
to kill, too, old man. Sable, go on out of here."
"D
é
posez le fusil de chasse
—put down the shotgun, Papa."
She came to stand next to J. D. and gave him the same annoyed frown. "And
I would appreciate it if you wouldn't shoot my father."
J. D.'s mouth curled. "Soon as he puts down the
shotgun."
She turned to the man. "Papa?"
"This is how he protects you? I could blow his head off while
he slept." Remy made a sound of disgust, but slowly lowered the weapon.
"City boys." He rubbed his chest.
J. D. lowered his gun and sat up, scrubbing a tired hand over his
scalp. "You can shoot me after I've had a cup of coffee."
"These are clean. Colette washed them." Sable left the
stack of his clothes on the end of the bed, then went to her father and tugged
on his arm. "Come on, Papa, let J. D. dress. We can talk downstairs after
you take your pills."
"I hate pills," the old man grumbled, but went along
with her.
J. D. dressed and left a few twenties under the lamp
by
the old bed, where Colette would find them later, then went downstairs to find
Old Martin and Remy arguing in French. The battered table was almost groaning under
the weight of a huge country breakfast. Remy's shotgun stood leaning against
the wall by the table. Sable was standing beside Colette at the stove, holding
a plate the old woman was stacking with pancakes. They were conversing in
French, too rapidly for him to follow, but it was something about someone named
Billy.
"Chère."
Colette nudged her when she
saw him, then gave him a big smile. "Look who didn't get his head shot
off."
He glanced back at Remy. "Yeah, lucky me."
"I got your reward for surviving Isabel's papa." She
handed Sable her spatula and filled a mug from a battered speckle ware pot,
which she brought to him. "Here. This will open your eyes the rest of the
way."
"Thanks." He took a swallow and closed his eyes as the
savory/bitter chicory washed the cobwebs from his mind. "Dear God. Divorce
Martin and marry me."
She giggled like a young girl. "You are lucky I am Catholic,
chèr,
or I might just run away with you. Sit down—I have hotcakes,
grillades,
and
grits."
He took the empty chair across from Remy, who directed his next
remarks to Sable. Sable brought more food over to the table, then sat down and
launched into a rapid exchange with Remy, also too fast and dialectal for him
to follow. Old Martin snorted a few times, gesturing and interjecting a few
words, then threw up his hands.
When there was a pause, J. D. touched Sable's arm. "He still
upset about me?"
"You, and other people." She rested her forehead against
her hand for a moment. "Papa thinks I should
leave the parish and
go stay with family. He doesn't believe anyone was shooting at me. He thinks
they were after you because you're a cop."
But that wasn't all Remy and Sable had said; he'd definitely heard
"comme un fils
à
moi," "son meilleur
ami,"
and
"ta m
è
re"—like a son to me, his best friend,
and
your mother.
"What about Marc's murder?"
"He thinks it has to do with Marc's political campaign."
She turned toward Remy when he muttered something.
"Vous savez que
Caine a eu quelque chose faire avec ceci, Papa."
That J. D. could translate—
You know that Caine had something to
do with this.
"Is Gantry involved in the attacks on Marc's
businesses?"
Sable hesitated before shrugging. "I'm not sure. No one has
said he is, but Caine and the other Cajun fishermen in this area have been hurt
by some legislation Marc supported. They're now required to purchase special
equipment and individual boat licenses to stay in business, and many of them
couldn't afford it. A lot of people are angry, as you saw last night."
"That's why you went to see Caine alone?" He put down
his mug and curled a fist around it. "Didn't it occur to you that he may
have killed Marc, and told his men to toss you to the nearest gator?"
Remy said something low and vile under his breath.
"No. Caine and those men have known me since I was a
baby," she snapped. "They may be a little rough and stubborn, but
they're not killers, and they would never hurt me."
"But they'd burn down someone's business to make a point,
wouldn't they?" He watched the doubt appear in her eyes, then noticed Remy
was listening to him very intently. "Whoever torched that warehouse
murdered Marc first, then tried to do the same to you."
She pushed the tines of her fork through the grits on her plate.
"Or maybe whoever started the fire thinks I saw them kill Marc."
"Grand-mère?"
Hilaire rushed into the
kitchen and skidded to a stop when she saw Sable and J. D. She wore an
old-fashioned white pinafore over a red puff-sleeved dress with a very short
skirt, and a straw hat on top of her curls. J. D. thought she looked exactly as
if she'd stepped out of a 1940s pinup. "Oh, thank goodness—I thought you
might still be here."
Sable got up and went to hug the girl. "I was going to stop
by the store to see you before we left." She glanced back at J. D.
"You remember my cousin, Hilaire Martin. Hil, this is—"
"I remember who he is." And her memories obviously
weren't fond ones, from the way she flicked her long nails at him before taking
Sable's hands in hers. "You have to get out of the bayou, right now. Caine
is looking for you."
J. D. went to check the windows, then came back. "No sign of
anyone. What does he want?"
"Dee at the roadhouse said a policewoman came over last night
and questioned him. Then he sent out all his boats at dawn this morning, but
not to fish. Jessie called me and said to look for you and the cop. They'll be
here soon."
"Why would Caine do that?" Sable's brows drew together.
"He couldn't wait to get rid of me last night."
"Jessie said everybody is angry, but Caine is the
worst." Hilaire shot another dark glance at J. D. "It's his fault—he
doesn't belong here. He's making everybody nervous."
And Caine most of all.
J. D. could think of a few
reasons why.
"I will go to Caine," Remy said, rising from the
table.
"He expects me to be looking for my Isabel; I can lead him away from
here."
"Here." Sable came over and tucked a brown plastic pill
bottle in the pocket of his shirt. "You take these when you're supposed
to, or you won't be leading anyone anywhere."
"We need transportation," J. D. told her. "Does
anyone around here have a car we can use?"
Sable shook her head. "People walk or use pirogues. The
police might be watching the roads, too."
"I brought my boat," Hilaire said. "I can take you
both out of the bayou and no one will see you."
"Can you get us over to the lake from here?" he asked
before he swallowed the last of his coffee.
"Yes, but what's at the lake?"