"No?" Jack arched a brow. "Are you afraid of the words 'slander suit'? You'd better be, Jimmy Lee, because I could have my lawyers tie you up in court for the rest of your unnatural life. I wouldn't leave you a pot to piss in, and this preacher act of yours will have been for nothing."
Baldwin narrowed his eyes. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "It's a free country, Boudreaux. If I think reading trash pushes unstable minds to commit unspeakable acts, I can say so."
"Uh-huh. And if you utter my name in connection with those unspeakable acts, I'll have the right to beat the ever-lovin' shit out of you-figuratively speaking." He smiled like a crocodile and lifted Jimmy Lee's hand so that the mike picked up his next words. "Mebbe you oughta try to cast the demons outta me, Jimmy Lee. Run 'em into some pigs or somethin'. Give the folks their money's worth." Baldwin glared at him. "No? Well, that's okay, Jimmy Lee."
He bent and snatched up the stringer of fish and swung them hard at Jimmy Lee. Baldwin barely had time to react, catching the slimy mass against his belly with a grunt and a grimace.
"There you go," Jack said. "Now you get yourself a couple'a loaves of bread, and mebbe you can do that miracle."
Howls of laughter went up from the back of the crowd. Laurel pressed a hand over her mouth and tried to contain herself. Jack hopped down off the stage and sauntered toward her, slipping a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and dangling it from his lip.
"You are so bad!" she whispered as he turned her by one arm and escorted her away from the crowd.
His dark eyes sparked with mischief as he slanted a look at her. "That's what makes me so good, sugar," he drawled. "Now let's go get that drink you owe me."
They hadn't taken three strides toward the road when a terrible scream split the air-piercing, blood-curdling, a sound that cut straight to the bone. Laurel pulled herself up, chilled and shaken, her hand grasping Jack's forearm, her heart thundering in her breast. She could hear the crowd behind her murmuring, gasping, shuffling their feet on the concrete as they turned. Then the scream came again and again. It emanated from Frenchie's, a terrible, keening wail, that carried in it a note instinctively understood by all, and everyone stood, breath held, waiting.
Laurel 's grip tightened on Jack's arm as she spotted the Partout Parish cruiser parked out front. Sheriff Kenner walked out of the bar and down the steps, his mirrored aviator sunglasses glinting in the sun. The side door on the building slammed, and a thin young man in surfer shorts and a neon green shirt jumped the rail and came barreling across the parking lot, running as if the devil were at his heels, his face chalk white, shirttails flying.
The front door swung open again, and T-Grace literally hurled herself out onto the gallery, screaming, "My bébé! My bébé!" She fell to her knees, smashing her fists against the floor over and over, wild, terrible sobs tearing up from her very soul. Then Ovide stumbled out onto the gallery, feeling his way like a blind man. Finding his wife with his hands, he sank down behind her, tilted his face heavenward and cried out, "Bon Dieu avoir pitié!"
"Oh, God, Jack," Laurel whispered, tears crowding her throat and pressing at her eyes. The feeling that swelled inside her as she turned toward him was unmistakably grief, and a small, disconnected part of her brain marveled at the body's ability to react so strongly to something as yet unannounced.
Seconds later the young man who had dashed out of the bar arrived with the news: Annie Delahoussaye-Gerrard, who had not been seen since Sunday night, had been found. Her nude, brutalized body had been discovered by a pair of hikers along the bank of the bayou.
The murder rocked the town of Bayou Breaux to its core. As the terror of the Bayou Strangler had gripped other parts of Acadiana, residents here had felt immune. Partout Parish had seemed a safe haven, a magical place where bad things didn't happen. In the time it took Annie Delahoussaye-Gerrard to gasp her last breath, the illusion of safety had vanished. The world tilted on its axis, and the residents of Bayou Breaux cast about frantically for something to hang on to.
That evening the streets were abandoned. Businesses closed early. People went home to be with their families. Doors that had never been locked before were bolted shut against the threat of evil that lurked along the dark, misty banks of the bayou.
T-Grace, inconsolable in her grief, had to be carried to her bed and sedated. As if the news had been carried to them on telepathic waves, the rest of the Delahoussaye children began arriving. The family banded together to mourn, to offer each other strength, to fill the tiny house where they had all been raised and try to banish the emptiness left by that one missing face.
The bar was not open, but a core of regulars gathered inside in much the same way as the Delahoussaye clan in their home. They were family of sorts-Leonce and Taureau, Dede Wilson and half a dozen others. Annie had been one of them, and now she had been torn from the fabric of all their lives, leaving a ragged, ugly hole.
Leonce took charge of the bar, dispensing drinks without a trace of his usual carefree grin. His Panama hat hung on the rack by the front door, removed out of respect, and he had traded his trademark aloha shirt for a somber black T-shirt. The rest of the group sat at or near the bar, everyone avoiding the dance floor and stage, except Jack. He sat on the piano bench, drinking Wild Turkey and playing soft sad songs on his small Evangeline accordion.
Laurel watched him from her perch on the corner bar stool. He sat with his head bent, his graceful hands working the instrument, squeezing out notes so poignant, it seemed to be weeping. He hadn't said ten words since the announcement-to her or to anyone. Despite the fact that he remained physically present, she couldn't get away from the feeling that he had gone into retreat. He had pulled in on himself and closed all doors and shutters, the same as the residents of Bayou Breaux who had locked up their homes. His face was a stark, blank mask, offering nothing, giving nothing away. There was no sign of the man who had teased her or the man who had held her while she cried. She nibbled on a thumbnail and wondered where he'd gone… and wished he hadn't gone there without her.
She felt like an outsider again. The others all had their memories of Annie to bind them together, common tales and common experiences. She hadn't known Annie. Until recently, her life had never crossed paths with any of the people who thought of a place like Frenchie's as a second home.
An old feeling came back to her from childhood, a memory of herself and Savannah dressed in their matching Sunday best, standing on the sidewalk out front of the church, watching with longing while other children ran and played in the park adjacent to the church grounds.
"Can't we play, too, Mama?"
"No, darling, you don't want to get your pretty dress all dirty, do you?" Vivian, in a red-on-white dot dress that matched her daughters', an elegant wide-brimmed white hat perched just so on her head, bent and smoothed a sausage curl behind Laurel 's ear. "Besides, sweetheart, those aren't the kind of children you should play with."
"Why not?"
"Don't be silly, Laurel." She smiled that brittle smile that always made Laurel 's tummy knot. "They're common. You're a Chandler."
A stupid memory, she thought, trying to crush the residual vulnerability. This was a time of tragedy for the Delahoussayes; she had no business feeling sorry for herself. Besides, no one in their right mind would want to be included among the mourners.
"Here you go."
Laurel looked up and blinked at the tumbler of milk Leonce had set on the bar before her.
"My grandpapa, he had an ulcer," he said softly. He put his elbows on the bar and leaned toward her, a knowing look raising one dark eyebrow and the knot of scar tissue that interrupted it. "He used to rub his belly same as what you're doin'. When he ran out of the cabbage juice the local traiteur used to give him, he drank milk."