Cry Wolf

Chapter Twenty-Four

News of the murder cut through Bayou Breaux like a hurricane that left emotional devastation and uprooted fears in its wake. By noon there wasn't anyone in town who hadn't heard a telling and a retelling of Chad Garrett's story. It was the hot topic over comb-outs and manicures at Yvette's House of Style, where Sava

The story was served up with coffee and beignets at Madame Collette's, where Ruby Jeffcoat pontificated on the evils that awaited girls who wore skirts cut up to their fa

The old men on their bench in front of the hardware store shook their heads over the state of the world and watched the street with rheumy eyes that held anger and fear, and frustration that they were too old to protect their loved ones or to avenge them. And down at Collins Feed and Seed the boys all patted a dazed Ro

All over town the details of the crime were broken down, scrutinized, analyzed, compared to the details of A

"No one ever did know what to make of him," Clem Haskell said, stirring a third packet of sugar into his coffee. Doc Broussard was after him to cut calories and reduce the size of the spare tire around his middle, but he was a cane grower and hell would freeze over before anyone got him to put chemical sweetener in his coffee or anyplace else. The stuff caused cancer and who knew what all, he was certain. His spoon rattled against his saucer, and he took hold of the cup and raised it to his lips, wishing he had something stronger to fortify his nerves. Too bad Reverend Baldwin frowned on strong drink.

March Branford forked up a chunk of cherry pie and stared down at it, his appetite in revolt as images of dead women flashed behind his sunken eyes like scenes from a movie. "What kind of twisted mind writes trash the like of that? No normal God-fearing man," he ventured, putting the fork down to tug on one long earlobe. "The Lord never intended for man to profit from evil. That's the work of the devil, that's what that is."

"That it is, Deacon Branford."

Jimmy Lee nodded sagely, sadly, looking out on the audience of eavesdroppers in Madame Collette's as he ran his tongue along the jagged edges of two chipped caps. There wasn't a soul in the place who didn't look edgy. They'd had two murders in a matter of days. A

"Didn't I say the very same to y'all when last we met to pray?" he said, struggling to keep from lisping through the cracks in his dental work. "Those books are the product of an evil mind. The poisonous spewings of Satan."

Ken Powers knew all about poisonous spewings. His stepson Rick listened to rock groups with names like Megadeth and Slayer. Bunch of long-haired drug freaks who screamed out nothing but Satanic messages. And the kid was rotten to the core because of it. No respect for God or man. Sneaking pornographic magazines into the house and doing who-knew-what with that crowd of hoodlums he hung out with. They probably all read Jack Boudreaux's books and acted out the sex and violence with rock music blasting in the background.

"I knew the minute he bought that whore's house there was something strange about him," Ken said, planting his elbows on the table and leaning toward the reverend, his round, pink face shining with conviction. He was himself a good Christian man, and wanted everyone to know it. By God, him and Nan and the rest of their kids would show the whole town what upstanding people they were. Never mind the bad seed son Nan had spawned from her first husband.

"He bought the house of a harlot who died a violent death. He writes of evil and vileness and sin. Now one of our own fallen daughters is found dead with a page from one of his books. It's a sign, as sure as the sign of Lucifer himself."

Jimmy Lee bowed his head and folded his hands on the Formica tabletop. "Amen, Deacon Powers. If only our good Sheriff Ke

While his deacons grumbled among themselves over who would have the honor of representing them with the sheriff, Jimmy Lee rubbed his tongue over his ruined teeth and wished Jack Boudreaux a nice trip to hell via Angola Penitentiary.

At that same moment Jack stood on the balcony at L'Amour, staring out at the bayou, suffering through a kind of hell Jimmy Lee Baldwin had never known-the hell of conscience. He had wandered the empty streets of town after leaving Laurel, trying to clear his head, and had ended up at Madame Collette's for a cup of coffee just as the breakfast crowd was coming in. Ruby Jeffcoat had wasted no time telling him the news, her eyes gleaming with malicious relish. Her sister Louise was a dispatcher in the sheriff's office and had it all firsthand. Some maniac had up and killed Sava

The rest of her juicy details had glanced off Jack. He didn't hear a word about how Chad Garrett had gotten sick and started a chain reaction with the deputies at the scene. He didn't hear Ruby's first sermon of the day on how women who behaved as whores were just asking for the kind of end Sava

Sava

No, not simply. There had been nothing simple about her death. It had been prolonged and hideous. "… unstable minds… unspeakable acts…" And she'd been found with a scrap of one of his books in her hand.

Stupidly, he wondered which book, which page, calling to mind a hundred scenes of death that had been telegraphed from his imagination down through his fingers and onto the pages of a book. Which one had Sava

Furious with himself, he stalked back into his bedroom and went to his desk. He didn't write to inspire; he wrote to entertain. He wrote to exorcise his own i

Christ, he knew that, didn't he? He wasn't responsible; it was someone else's fault.

His writer's mind too easily conjured up an image of Sava

He didn't want Sava

And he had another corpse on his conscience.

Clutching his hands over his head, he howled his rage and his pain up at the plaster medallion on the ceiling.

Why? When he wanted nothing from anyone, when he had given up all hope of having the kind of life he had always dreamed of-why did he still get pulled in? He'd done his best to avoid emotional entanglements. He'd made it clear to everyone that he shouldn't be relied upon. Yet here he was, in it up to his ears. The frustration of it hardened and trembled inside him. Eyes wild, chest heaving, he swung around in search of something else to vent it on.

Laurel stood in the doorway.

Everything inside Jack went instantly still and soft at the sight of her. The anger that had cloaked him vaporized, leaving him feeling naked and vulnerable, his heart pumping too hard in his chest. She looked like a waif in her baggy jeans and rumpled T-shirt. Her eyes, so warm and blue, dominated her small, pale face.

"Sava

"I heard."

She crossed her arms and kicked herself for wishing he would come to her and wrap her up in his embrace. That was what she had come here for: comfort and to escape the sound of sobbing and the incessant ringing of the telephone. Reporters calling in search of a story, friends calling to express genuine sympathy, towns-people calling on the pretense of compassion to appease their morbid curiosity. She had come to escape the ghoulish bustle of cops searching her sister's room and hauling her car away and asking redundant questions until she wanted to scream. She had come in search of a moment's peace, but as her gaze sca