"You didn't do your job, Ms. Chandler… You blew it… Charges will be dismissed…"
"Come on, sugar, prove your case," Jack challenged. He took another pull on his beer. Dieu, he was actually enjoying this little sparring match. He was rusty, out of practice. How long had it been since he had argued a case? Two years? Three? His time away from corporate law ran together in a blur of months. It seemed like a lifetime. He would have thought he had lost his taste for it, but the old skills were still there.
Sharks don't lose their instincts, he reminded himself, bitterness creeping in to taint his enjoyment of the fight.
"It-it's common knowledge that's your dog, Mr. Boudreaux," Laurel stammered, fighting to talk around the knot hardening in her throat. She didn't hold eye contact with him, but tried to focus instead on the hound, which was tilting his head and staring at her quizzically with his mismatched eyes. "Y-You should be man enough to t-take responsibility for it."
"Ah, me," Jack said, chuckling cynically. "I don' take responsibility, angel. Ask anyone."
Laurel barely heard him, her attention focusing almost completely inward, everything else becoming vague and peripheral. A shudder of tension rattled through her, stronger than its precursor. She tried to steel herself against it and failed.
Failed.
"You didn't do your job, Ms. Chandler… Charges will be dismissed…"
She hadn't proven her case. Couldn't make the charges stick on something so simple and stupid as a case of canine vandalism. Failed. Again. Worthless, weak… She spat the words at herself as a wave of helplessness surged through her.
Her lungs seemed suddenly incapable of taking in air. She tried to swallow a mouthful of oxygen and then another as her legs began to shake. Panic clawed its way up the back of her throat. She pressed a hand to her mouth and blinked furiously at the tears that pooled and swirled in her eyes, blurring her view of the hound.
Jack started to say something, but cut himself off, beer bottle halfway to his lips. He stared at Laurel as she transformed before his eyes. The bright-eyed tigress on a mission was gone as abruptly as if she had never existed, leaving instead a woman on the verge of tears, on the brink of some horrible inner precipice.
"Hey, sugar," he said gently, straightening away from the Jeep. "Hey, don' cry," he murmured, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, casting anxious glances around the parking lot.
Rumor had it she'd been in some posh clinic in North Carolina. The word "breakdown" had been bandied all over town. Jesus, he didn't need this, didn't want this. He'd already proven once in his life that he couldn't handle it, was the last person anyone should count on to handle it. I don' take responsibility… That truth hung on him like chain mail. He leaned toward Frenchie's, wanting to bolt, but his feet stayed rooted to the spot, nailed down by guilt.
The side door slammed, and Leonce's voice came across the dark expanse of parking lot in staccato French. "Hey, Jack, viens ici! Dépêche-toi! Allons jouer la musique, pas les femmes!"
Jack cast a longing glance at his friend up on the gallery, then back at Laurel Chandler. "In a minute!" he called, his gaze lingering on the woman, turmoil twisting in his belly like a snake. He didn't credit himself with having much of a conscience, but what there was made him take a step toward Laurel. "Look, sugar-"
Laurel twisted back and away from the hand he held out to her, mortified that this man she knew little and respected less was witnessing this-this weakness. God, she wanted to have at least some small scrap of pride to cling to, but that, too, was tearing out of her grasp.
"I never should have come here," she mumbled, not entirely sure whether she meant Frenchie's specifically or Bayou Breaux in general. She stumbled back another step as Jack Boudreaux reached for her arm again, his face set in lines of concern and apprehension, then she whirled and ran out of the parking lot and into the night.
Jack stood flat-footed, watching in astonishment as she disappeared in the heavy shadows beneath a stand of moss-draped live oak at the bayou's edge. Panic, he thought. That was what he had seen in her eyes. Panic and despair and a strong aversion to having him see either. What a little bundle of contradictions she was, he thought as he dug a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and dangled it from his lip. Strength and fire and fragility.
"What'd you do, mon ami?" Leonce shuffled up, tugging off his Panama hat and wiping the sweat from his balding pate with his forearm. "You scare her off with that big horse cock of yours?"
Jack scowled, his gaze still on the dark bank, his mind still puzzling over Laurel Chandler. "Shut up, tcheue poule."
"Don' let it get you down," Leonce said, chuckling at his own little pun. He settled his hat back in place, and his fingers drifted down to rub absently at the scar that ravaged his cheek. "Women are easy to come by."
And hard to shake-that was their usual line. Not Laurel Chandler. She had cut and run. Even as his brain turned the puzzle over and around trying to shake loose an answer, Jack shrugged it off. His instincts told him Laurel Chandler would be nothing but trouble when all he really wanted from life was to pass a good time.
"Yeah," he drawled, turning back toward Frenchie's with his buddy. "Let's go inside. I need to find me a cold beer and hot date."
Chapter Three
" Laurel, help us! Laurel, please! Please! Please… please…"
She'd had the dream a hundred times. It played through her mind like a videotape over and over, wearing on her, tearing at her conscience, ripping at her heart. Always the voices were the worst part of it. The voices of the children, frantic, begging, pleading. The qualities in those voices touched nerves, set off automatic physiological reactions. Her pulse jumped, her breath came in short, shallow, unsatisfying gasps. Adrenaline and frustration pumped through her in equal amounts.
Dr. Pritchard had attempted to teach her to recognize those signals and defuse them. Theoretically, she should have been able to stop the dream and all the horrible feelings it unleashed, but she never could. She just lay there feeling enraged and panic-stricken and helpless, watching the drama unfold in her subconscious to play out to its inevitable end, unable to awaken, unable to stop it, unable to change the course of events that caused it. Weak, impotent, inadequate, incapable.
"The charges are being dropped, Ms. Chandler, for lack of sufficient evidence."
Here she always tried to swallow and couldn't. A Freudian thing, she supposed. She couldn't choke down the attorney general's decision any more than she could have chewed up and swallowed the Congressional Record. Or perhaps it was the burden of guilt that tightened around her throat, threatening to choke her. She had failed to prove her case. She had failed, and the children would pay the consequences.
"Help us, Laurel! Please! Please… please…"
She thrashed against the bed, against the imagined bonds of her own incompetence. She could see the three key children behind the attorney general, their faces pale ovals dominated by dark eyes filled with torment and dying hope. They had depended on her, trusted her. She had promised help, guaranteed justice.
"… lack of sufficient evidence, Ms. Chandler…"
Quentin Parker loomed larger in her mind's eye, turning dark and menacing, metamorphosing into a hideous monster as the children's faces drifted further and further away. Paler and paler they grew as they floated back, their eyes growing wider and wider with fear.
"Help us, Laurel! Please… please… please…"
"… will be returned to their parents…"
"No," she whimpered, tossing, turning, kicking at the bedclothes.
"Help us, Laurel!"
"… returned to the custody of…"
"No!" She thumped her fists against the mattress over and over, pounding in time with her denial. "No! No!"