Lawrence Prejean stepped out of his office and walked right to her, as if he had sensed her presence. He was a small man, not much taller than Laurel, spare and wiry with an elegance that had long made her think of him as a Cajun Fred Astaire. He had a thin layer of neatly combed dark hair and big, liquid brown eyes that were perpetually sympathetic.
"Chérie, I'm so sorry for your loss," he said softly, sliding an arm around her shoulders.
Laurel wondered dimly how, after so many losses, so many tragedies, he could still dispense such genuine feeling to the bereaved.
"Your Tante Caroline called to tell me you were coming down," he said, taking her by the hand. "Are you sure you want to do this, chère?"
"Yes."
"You know we are transporting her to Lafayette tonight?"
"Yes, I know. I just want to sit with her for a while. I need to see her."
She almost choked on the words, and shook her head, annoyed with herself. She had gone back to Belle Rivière from Beauvoir, taken a long shower, followed the dictates of Mama Pearl and lay down for a time, thinking all the while that she was composing herself, that she would be able to do this without breaking down. "Comport yourself as a lady, Laurel. You're a Chandler; it's expected."
Prejean paused at the door to the embalming room and patted her hand consolingly, his big dark eyes as warm and deep as an ancient soul's. "She was your sister," he murmured. "Of course you need to see her. Of course you will cry. You need to grieve. Grieve deeply, chérie. There is no shame in that you loved your sister."
Her eyes glossed over, and she dug a hand into the pocketbook she'd borrowed from Caroline to pull out a crumpled pink tissue.
He ushered her into the room with a gentle hand on her shoulder. The aromas of flowers and dust spray were replaced by medicinal and strongly antiseptic scents, reminiscent of a high school biology lab. And beneath the overpowering smell of formaldehyde and ammonia, the fetid stench of death lingered. The room was as neat as any operating room, as cold and sterile. The linoleum shone under the glare of fluorescent lights. In the center of the floor stood the table.
Laurel stood beside the draped figure, still managing to find some fragment of hope that it wouldn't be her sister. Prejean pulled a chrome-and-plastic chair over and situated it in a way that suggested he thought she might pass out.
"You're ready, chère?" he whispered. After all his years in this business, he seldom tried to contradict the wishes of those who were left behind. Death stirred up many needs, both bright and dark. Only the one experiencing the loss could know what those needs were and how they had to be met.
At Laurel's nod he slowly folded down the drape, uncovering only the dead woman's face and carefully arranging the sheet so that it covered the horrible discoloration on her throat.
Laurel took one long, painful look at her sister's face, swollen and distorted, and that small, irrational part of her mind tried to tell her that her most desperate hope was a reality. This wasn't Savannah. It couldn't be. Savannah was beautiful. Savannah had always been the pretty one, and she had always been the little mouse. This couldn't be Savannah's wild, silken mane, this dull, matted tangle of hair. This couldn't be Savannah's elegant, patrician face, this flat-featured, gray mask.
But another part of her brain, the logical, practical part, overruled with a harsh voice. That's your sister. Your sister is dead. Dead. Dead. Dead… Her gaze seemed to zoom in on the grotesquely distorted features, on the single gold earring still pinned to the right ear-a loop of brightly polished, hammered gold that hung from a smaller loop of braided gold wire. Savannah had had a pair made in New Orleans. A present to herself for her last birthday. This is your sister, this ugly corpse. She's dead. The truth filled her mind, the putrid smell of it filled her nostrils and throat.
With a weak, piteous sound mewing in her throat, she sank down into the plastic chair and bent over her knees, torn between the need to cry and the need to vomit. Prejean had anticipated the possibility and sat a stainless steel bucket beside the chair. He squatted down beside her and brushed cool, soft fingers against her cheek.
"Are you all right, chérie? Should I call someone to take you home?"
"No," she whispered, swallowing hard and willing her stomach to settle. "No, I just want to sit here for a while, if that's all right."
He patted the hand that gripped the arm of the chair. She was a brave little thing. "Stay as long as you need, petite. The sheriff will be coming later. If you need anything, there's a buzzer near the door."
Laurel nodded, knowing the procedure. She had always stood on the other side of it, where it looked logical and necessary. From where she sat now, her perceptions distorted by emotion, it seemed unbelievably cruel. Her sister had been taken from her, killed, and now the authorities would put her through the indignity of dissecting her body. The ME might find some crucial evidence that could solve the case and condemn the killer, she knew. But in that moment when grief threatened to swamp all else, she had a hard time accepting.
Questions from childhood drifted up through the layers of memory. Questions she had asked Savannah about death. "Where did Daddy go, Sister? Do you think he's with the angels?" They had been raised to believe in heaven and hell. But doubts had edged in on those beliefs from time to time, as they did for every child, for everyone. What if it wasn't true? What if life was all we had? Where would Savannah go? Savannah, so lost, so tormented. Oh, please, God, let her find peace.
Time slipped away as she sat there wondering, remembering, hurting, grieving. She let go of all the tears she had tried to hold on to, of all the pain she had been so afraid to feel. It all came pouring out in a torrent, in a storm that shook her and drained her. She knew Prejean checked on her once, but he left her alone, wise enough to realize she had to weather the onslaught of her grief alone. Alone, the way her sister had died.
She thought of that when the tears had all been cried. The way Savannah had died, the way Annie had died, the way their killer had chosen her to play games with.
"Does he want you to catch him, Laurel? Or does he want to show you he can't be caught?"
"I'll catch you, you bastard," she whispered, staring hard at the shrouded body on the table. "I'll catch you before you can put anyone else through this hell."
The "how" of that question eluded her for the moment. She had no jurisdiction here. Kenner wouldn't let her interfere. But the "how" was unimportant just now. The vow was important. She had come home to hide from the shame and the failure of Scott County, where justice had not prevailed. She had wanted to turn away from the challenge here. She had watched Danjermond poke through the pieces of jewelry with his slim gold pen and listened to him ask her questions in his smooth, calm voice, and she had wanted nothing more than to turn and run. But she couldn't.
Justice would win this time. It had to. If there was no justice, then all the suffering was for nothing. Senseless. Meaningless. There had to be justice. Even now, even too late, she wanted justice for Savannah.
"What are you trying to atone for, Laurel?" Dr. Pritchard asked, tapping his pencil against his lips.
For my silence. For my cowardice. For the past.
Justice was the way.
She couldn't just put the past behind her. It would never be forgotten. But there could be justice, and she would do everything in her power to get it, she vowed as old fears and old guilts settled inside her and melded and solidified into a new strength. She would fight for justice, and she would win it… or die trying.
They came for the body at seven-thirty. Kenner and a deputy. They would escort the hearse to Lafayette and witness the autopsy, which would be performed by a team of pathologists. Partout Parish had neither the budget nor the need for the kind of equipment necessary for detailed forensic work. Laurel went out into the hall and stood there, not able to watch them zip her sister into a body bag. But she stayed until she heard the cars drive away and Prejean came back out of the room.
"I'll bring some clothes for her tomorrow," she said, her heart like a weight in her chest. "And there's a necklace-something our father gave her. I'll have to get it back from the sheriff. She wouldn't want to go anywhere without it."