"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.