Читать книгу Cold Bullets and Hot Babes - Arlette Lees - Страница 6

BLOOD BAYOU

Jeeter Tate hit the ground running—well, he might as well have been running considering the condition of his old Ford pickup. With a burp and a backfire he headed out of Bakersfield in a cloud of dust, his radiator boiling over on the long stretches of desert between California and Texas.

Jeeter was born in Texas and so was Charleen. Her five burley brothers were still there, fighting dogs, selling white lightning, biting the heads off chickens to freak out neighbors who wandered too close to the property line. Jeet had no way of explaining Charleen’s absence, so he limped the truck across the state line into Louisiana’s alligator country.

God, how he wished he’d never hooked up with Charleen, but like all the other high school guys he’d salivated at the sight of her juicy little bod. She was the cutest girl on the cheerleading squad with her fluffy blonde curls and bouncy boobs.

She’d fallen for him too, like a ton of bricks, just like the other hot babes that ran their fingers through his jet black shag of hair and gazed into his paler than pale blue eyes. Charleen said they were the color of moonlight reflected through a Coke bottle. Now, how many dudes had eyes this color? One in a thousand? Hell no, Jeeter knew he was one in a million.

When he started dating Charleen his cousin Huey told him there was no way she could get knocked up if they did it standing up. That method of family planning failed right off the bat and Huey laughed his fool head off even after Jeeter blackened his eye.

Three years married and there were already two squalling rugrats on the scene. He hadn’t known babies were capable of such heroic vocalization. He’d morphed from devil-may-care Romeo to a trained monkey on a short leash.

Charleen had managed to keep her trim figure and good looks while his were slipping faster than a clown on a banana peel, especially after he lost his two front teeth in a bar fight over a redheaded waitress. She might have had the decency to mention that her husband harbored unrealistic expectations regarding her fidelity.

“If you’d stay home where you belong these things wouldn’t happen,” said Charleen, rocking baby Skeezix in her arms. What a know-it-all! Next she’d be filing for divorce, asking for alimony and child support. First, she’d have to prove those brats were really his.

As if things weren’t bad enough, he lost his job at the auto repair shop. He’d taken Mayor Stapleton’s Lincoln for a joy ride when it came in for a lube. Except for the ding in the passenger side door and a rear flat tire, he’d returned it in pristine condition.

When Charleen took the last five bucks he’d earmarked for a pack of smokes and bought lotto tickets he’d had it. He broke into the repair shop after midnight and treated himself to some well-deserved severance pay. Even then, there was hardly enough cash to make it worth his while.

Almost out of money, he’d pulled into a clapboard grocery store on the edge of a mosquito-infested swamp. It wasn’t where he’d intended to end up, but his map was in shreds and he’d lost the main road about an hour back. He thumped a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a bag of chitlins on the counter.

“Hey, Pierre,” said the old witch behind the cash register. “I thought you never came off the bayou.” What a ding-bat! “Looks like you had a rough night, mon.”

He caught his reflection in the plastic donut case, a face thorny with stubble, hair as dirty as a mechanic’s rag.

“Ya, one hell of a night,” he said. The old crone looked like a voodoo queen in her Mardi Gras beads and towering head wrap. He’d seen fewer wrinkles on mummies. He told her to take off her mask, that Halloween was over. She pointed an arthritic finger in his direction and mumbo-jumbo’d a death curse that made him roar with laughter as he walked out the door.

What a weird backwater dump!

As he walked to his truck a mail carrier pulled into the lot.

“Hey, Pierre!” he called, with a friendly wave. Jeeter looked behind him but no one was there. What the hell? Back in California they called strangers dude or bro and laid on a high five. In Texas it was bubba or cowboy delivered with a playful punch to the shoulder. Pierre had to be a Louisiana thing.

The carrier shoved a passel of mail in Jeeter’s hand. “You’ve saved me a trip up Bayou Sang,” he said. “Give my regards to old man Devereaux.” He jumped back in his truck and was gone, leaving Jeeter standing there with his mouth open.

Bayou Sang? Jeeter got a D in French, but he was no dummy. He knew that sang meant blood. Blood Bayou?

He speculated on the contents of the envelopes. Some were addressed to Rémy Devereaux and a few to Pierre Marquet, Rt. 3, Bayou Sang. He could rip them open for the hell of it, check for cash, then scatter the letters along the roadside.

He’d been running on empty for about seven miles or so. He tapped the odometer but it had crapped out on him. He pulled into the first station he came to even though it looked like a throwback to the 1930s with its rusty pumps and a sign that hung from one hinge. The bony attendant shuffled out in baggy overalls, pumped his gas and cleaned the bugs off the windshield. He looked as if he’d blown in from the Dust Bowl.

“That’ll be eighty bucks, Mr. Marquet.”

Eighty fuckin’ bucks! That brought him back to the twenty first century. After doling out the cash he only had ten bucks left from the heist. And there it was again, someone thinking he was this Pierre Marquet fellow.

He checked the map that was taped to the office window. The turn-off to Bayou Sang was only three miles up the road, not a town really, but a large swampy district. The mail would be a perfect excuse to pay this guy a visit. He could case the joint while he was there, maybe come back in the night and rip something off.

The dirt track that cut through the swamp was almost impassable. Trees blocked the sun creating perpetual twilight. Jeeter clanked over potholes, dodged razor-sharp cypress knees and slid in places where the swamp had swallowed the road.

Eight maybe ten miles down the road and he hadn’t seen one house, not even a shack, just an occasional pirogue gathering moss at the water’s edge. Strange animal sounds emanated from the shadows. The engine light went on. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, risking his tires, running out his gas. He was about to turn around when he came to a dented mailbox in front of a clearing. DEVERE had been slopped on the side with black paint before the artistic genius ran out of space.

He swung the truck into a large yard of swept dirt in front of an unpainted house of cypress boards. The back deck straddled the bayou on stilts and pecan and willow trees shaded the roof. He’d expected a third world hovel of some kind but this was actually pretty damn nice.

By the time he’d switched off the engine the truck was surrounded by a noisy pack of redbone hounds. A man at work in a tomato patch dropped his shovel and picked up a shotgun that was leaning against a shed. He strode over, his gnarled bare feet kicking up the dust. He gave the dogs a few casual kicks. They let out a yelp or two and crawled under the porch, disappointed at having missed the opportunity of tearing Jeeter limb from limb.

Jeeter opened the truck door, climbed out and extended his hand.

“I’m Jeeter Tate,” he said.

The moment they touched hands a jolt of electricity zapped across the synapse between them. They were a mirror image of one another right down to the black hair and paler than pale blue eyes. The noses were the same, the cheekbones, the planes of the forehead. The only difference Jeet could see was that the Cajun had managed to hang on to all of his teeth.

“Mon dieu!” said Pierre.

“Holy shit!” said Jeeter.

Pierre leaned into Jeeter’s face like an entomologist examining a bug under glass, judging the stranger to be a strikingly handsome replica of himself.

Jeeter slapped his knee and laughed. “I guess everyone does have an identical twin,” he said. “Looks like we’ve found ours.”

“Qui sont vous, mon ami?” said Pierre.

“Sorry, compadre, I don’t speak the lingo.” He reached inside his jacket and handed Pierre the mail. “There’s also some stuff here for a Mr. Devereaux.”

“Oui, poor Uncle Rémy.” The Cajun spoke English but it was obviously his second language. “He was visiting in New Orleans when Katrina hit. That was over a month ago and we haven’t heard a word.”

“Well, he’s probably a goner,” said Jeet.

Pierre yelled toward the house.

“Suzette, get out here.”

The woman who pushed through the screen door held a fluffy white dog under her arm. She had a doe-eyed angel face, her long wavy hair was like soft black smoke. She did a double take when she saw Jeeter.

“My God, Pierre, he could be your identical twin!” Her English was far better than her brothers like maybe she’d had some schooling. Third grade. Maybe fourth.

“Jeeter Tate, ma’am.” If he’d had a hat he would have tipped it. “Just call me Jeet,” he said. Oh baby, call me anything, call me a dog and I’ll lick your toes and work my way up.

“My sister,” said Pierre. Jeeter was praying he wouldn’t hear the ‘wife’ word.

Woo! Woo! Woo! Things were sure looking up for old Jeet.

He figured her age between fourteen and twenty. He was never very good when it came to guessing. Her simple cotton shift was sheer from too many washings and what didn’t show through the thin fabric was implied in the way it clung to every curve and crevice of her nubile body. She peeked at him through a lock of hair. Her look was sweet and smoldering.

Woo! Woo! Woo! thought Jeet. I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Pierre caught the intimate exchange and let out a full-throated whoop of laughter.

A couple hounds started scrabbling among the tomato plants. Pierre cursed in French and raised the shotgun.

“Don’t shoot!” yelled Jeet without thinking. The gun went off with a deafening bang that left his ears ringing. The shot whizzed over the dog’s heads as they bounded for the trees. Pierre laughed and gave him a good-natured slap on the back.

“Come, mon ami,” he said. “We have plenty of chicken and dirty rice on the stove.”

Jeeter would have eaten horse shit if it meant getting closer to Suzette. When they entered the house, Pierre set his shotgun inside the door. Jeeter wasn’t quite sure what he thought of the guy but he felt a lot safer once the Cajun’s finger was off the trigger.

They ate at a picnic table on the deck above the swamp. Free-range chickens picked at the cooked rice Suzette scattered on the boards. It was the first decent meal Jeeter had had in days. Afterward they relaxed in lounge chairs. Reeds and water lilies grew along the water’s edge. If it weren’t for the damn mosquitoes it would have been the Garden of Fuckin’ Eden. He could sure get used to a life like this. Charleen and the boys already seemed like a mistake from another lifetime.

Jeeter caught Suzette’s eye and moved his chair closer to hers. She lifted her knee and he watched her skirt flutter upward toward her hips. Her golden skin glowed in the ambient humidity and the pungent scent of arousal hung in the air. Pierre grew silent, smoked a dark cigarette that looked French or Turkish and looked on with a combination of wariness and amusement. Jeet wished he could read his mind but the French don’t let you know what they’re really thinking.

“What if your beau decided to drop in at this very moment?” he asked.

“Sheriff DuBois?” said Suzette. Jeeter’s stomach roiled. Sheriff’s carried guns. He didn’t like the sound of that. After all, meddling with another man’s woman was how he lost his teeth. “Until he pops the question I’m free to do as I please.” She smiled and looked at the stranger who wore her brother’s face, his hair, his pale blue eyes. There was something dangerous about him, territory as yet unexplored. She felt the visceral pull of consanguinity, both forbidden and irresistible.

A pair of huge golden eyes broke the surface of the water at the edge of the deck and the spell was broken. Jeeter sat bolt upright.

“What the hell is that?”

Pierre looked at him as if he were from another planet.

“It’s just an alligator,” said Pierre. “Where you say you’re from?”

“California,” he said. As far as Pierre was concerned that was another planet.

“Just don’t dangle your feet in the water,” said Suzette. “They come for dinner scraps.” She might have let him in on that bit of information a little sooner.

Pierre tossed a handful of chicken bones into the water. A few more prehistoric reptiles swam over, snapping and churning the surface. Jeeter wasn’t half so relaxed anymore, a bit nauseous and weak in the knees. He walked to the truck and returned with the bottle of whiskey.

The moment he saw Suzette’s face he knew he’d made a big mistake. She gave him a frightened look but Pierre was already headed into the house for glasses. Jeeter gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed. She looked like she was going to cry.

“He’s crazier than a shithouse rat when he drinks,” she said. “Just one drink and he starts beating the crap out of me. Without Uncle Rémy here to protect me....” She let the thought hang. “You’d better hit the road before he starts in.”

When Pierre returned with the glasses the white dog began to tremble. “It’s all right, Bon-Bon,” she said, stroking his fur. Jeeter decided he’d seen enough of Bayou Sang, but how could he make a diplomatic exit without joining Pierre in at least one shot?

Before long Pierre had foregone the civility of glasses and drank straight from the bottle. First Jeet had run out half his gas getting here, now the Cajun was swilling down the last of his booze, stomping his feet, singing Jolie Blonde in French, the deck vibrating like a trampoline. The more he thundered on the boards the more alligators crashed the party.

Pierre reached down and grabbed a red hen that was picking at grains on rice. He started swinging her by the neck.

“Ain’t this the old biddy don’t lay eggs no more?” he said.

Suzette rose on shaky legs and set Bon-Bon on the deck.

“Give her to me, Pierre. She’s a pet. Stop acting crazy.”

“Crazy like this?” he said, tossing the hen in a high flapping arch over the water. The biggest gator almost stood on his tail as he broke the surface. He caught the bird with a snap of mighty jaws, threw his head back a few times and swallowed the bird whole. The color drained from Jeeter’s face.

“Well, it’s getting a little late for me,” he said, rising.

“What, I make you nervous, garçon?” said Pierre.

The Cajun reached out and grabbed Suzette by the arm.

“Stop playing around,” she said. Her voice trembled. She suddenly looked about ten years old and very small.

He dragged her toward the edge of the deck and she screamed. Bon-Bon growled. He sounded as ferocious as a squeaky-toy. He did however manage to sink his small sharp teeth into Pierre’s big toe. He cursed, released his sister and snatched the dog up by the collar. Jeeter could no longer distinguish the dog’s high-pitched yips from the girl’s shrieks. A flood of adrenaline coursed through his veins and his nerves snapped like fiddle strings. He drove a hard-soled shoe into Pierre’s groin and Pierre dropped the dog to the deck. Shit! Why had he done that? The Cajun would kill him if he was ever able to stand up straight again. From his hunkered down position Pierre looked sideways with a dangerous fire in his blue eyes. He reached out with a massive hand and grabbed the cuff of Jeeter’s jeans.

Jeeter freaked and jerked loose with such ferocity that the sudden release of tension sent the Cajun stumbling backward toward the edge of the deck. Jeeter instinctively reached out to pull him back to safety but it was too late. Pierre plummeted downward with a splash. His scream sounded like the roar of a chain saw, its echo reverberating through the swamp.

Bon-Bon flew into the house and Jeeter and Suzette looked down into the churning water. The king gator had his jaws clamped around Pierre’s torso. He death-rolled, thrashing and spinning until the water boiled with blood. The gator sank beneath the surface with Pierre in his deadly grip. For Jeeter it was surreal, like watching himself being eaten alive.

As suddenly as it had begun it was over. A snowy egret flapped into the branches of a cypress tree, the orange ball of sun sank low on the horizon, bream jumped among the lily pads and the gators were gone.

“I’m outta here,” said Jeeter. “That’s about all the excitement I can take for one day. Your brother got drunk and fell in. End of story.”

Suzette was shaking. She threw her arms around his waist. It was at least eighty degrees out but her body had turned cold with shock.

“Don’t go,” she said. “Not yet. I’ve never been alone out here at night. What if Pierre comes crawling out of the swamp?”

Jeeter’s eyes bugged. “Believe me, that ain’t going to happen.”

She rested her head on his chest and he felt her soft-as-smoke hair against his cheek. He should really run like hell, as far from Bayou Sang as he could get, but her body began to warm to his embrace and he could feel her breasts burning through the thin cotton of his Harley-Davidson t-shirt. She smelled of fear and sex and French perfume. He was a goner.

“You can leave in the morning,” she said. “but tonight I need someone to take care of me.” She looked as young and defenseless as an orphan fawn, so young in fact that he didn’t want to nail her down on specifics.

The crickets were in full chorus and a silver moon was rising above the cypress swamp. She took him by the hand and led him to the bedroom. “It’s all right,” she said. “I need for you to hold me.”

He did a lot more than hold her and their love-making proved an anesthetic against the terrors of the afternoon. She was by turns a kitten and a tiger, passive and submissive, gentle and fierce. She gave him everything he so desperately desired, indulged his every fantasy and even a few he hadn’t thunk up yet. Oh yes, this little cookie had been down the same road before, probably with the Sheriff who wanted the milk but wasn’t quite ready to buy the cow.

Then he told her his story...at least the story he thought she might like to hear, about how his beloved wife had died in an auto accident before they’d had a chance to create the family they’d so desperately dreamed of...well, that’s how he wished it had happened.

Deep into the night she whispered in his ear. “You can stay if you want to.” He’d told her how he was wandering the world alone and lost, almost giving up hope of ever being loved again. She’d swallowed it hook, line and sinker. “You can stay and become Pierre.”

“What do you mean?”

“You look like his identical twin. You could pull it off. You could play the part when people are around and when we’re alone it can be just like this,” and she kissed him with her warm, moist lips. “There would never be any questions about what happened this afternoon. We didn’t do anything wrong, but it could get complicated.”

He mulled that over for a moment. Having the run of the place was a hell-of-a-lot better than ripping it off for a few tomatoes out of the garden and some old fishing tackle. And since the silky, young Suzette was part of the deal...well, what hot-blooded, testosterone-fueled male wouldn’t go for that?

“Sounds good to me,” said Jeeter.

Jeeter slept late and woke alone in the big bed. When he got up to take a piss he noticed that Suzette must have driven his truck into town. He got dressed and didn’t think much about it until she came into the yard from the road on foot. He walked out onto the porch. The redbones sniffed at him but soon became bored and wandered off.

“Where’s my truck?” he said.

“Gone. I sank it in the bayou a few miles from here. You can’t afford to be connected with it.”

“WHAT?” He felt trapped like he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Other than his truck, he didn’t have a pot to pee in.

“Don’t get so excited. You can drive Pierre’s truck. Besides, if you ever blow your cover things could get sticky very fast. It’s always the stranger passing through that takes the fall for anything that goes bad on the bayou.”

Put that way, it made sense. Besides, the old Ford was crapping out and he was tired of fixing it.

He heard the distant growl of an engine. It sounded like a high-powered car and it was coming closer.

“Quick,” said Suzette. “This is your big test. Put on a pair of Pierre’s overalls and get rid of those citified shoes.”

A sheriff’s car swept into the yard amid a cyclone of dust. Jeet peeked around the bedroom curtain. A tall bull mastiff of a man unfolded his bulk and slammed the car door behind him. The redbones rubbed against his legs like he was the leader of the pack. Good-lookin’ guy, all teeth and smiles like a young Burt Lancaster. Jeet tried to calm his nerves. There was no way the word of his heist could have made its way to the Louisiana bayou. He found a pair of overalls and climbed into them.

“Étienne,” said Suzette. “What brings you off the beaten track?” She threw her arms around his neck and he swung her in a circle with casual intimacy. Jeeter’s blood boiled. Étienne set her back on the ground.

“I wish I had better news,” he said, “but, Rémy’s friends in New Orleans have no idea where he is. They fear the worst.”

“What now?” she asked.

“Just wait and pray, I guess.” He cupped her breasts in his big paws. “You still have those handcuffs I gave you? You still want to be my little Prisoner of Zenda?” She giggled.

Enough of this shit. Jeeter gathered his courage and stepped outside. The lovebirds drifted apart.

“Any word from Uncle Rémy?” he asked. He lacked Pierre’s tough calluses and the stones beneath his tender feet hurt like hell.

“Nothing to hang your hopes on,” said the sheriff. DuBois looked him up and down. Jeet’s mouth went dry. “You lose weight, Pierre?”

“I’ve had the flu or something. Lost my appetite.” If DuBois noticed the sudden loss of the two front teeth he didn’t say anything. Lack of teeth was almost a residency requirement back in the boonies.

After he drove away Jeet was light-headed with relief. Suzette laughed and threw her arms around his neck. “If you can fool Étienne, you can fool anyone.”

“You two an item or what?” He was jealous when it came to his women, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t set aside his moral compass if it got in the way of a hot one night stand.

“Not anymore,” she said.

“Since when?”

“Since last night, Monsieur.” She kissed him and probed between his lips with her tongue. He thought he’d explode before they made it to the bed.

Suzette had one evening dress, a red, strapless chiffon that fell just above the knee. After dark Jeeter dressed like a local yokel and they headed to a juke joint back in the woods so he could get a feel for Cajun culture.

The juke was a plain, square building that sat on pier blocks in a grove of willow and pecan trees. The wood floor was strewn with sawdust, cigarette butts and spilled beer. Everyone from toddlers to octogenarians stomped and hooted to Doug Kershaw’s rendition of Jambalaya. Jeeter sized up the crowd...clannish as gypsies...fiercely self-sufficient...incurably fun-loving. But, beneath the gaiety he could smell feral undertones. Scratch a dog you get a wolf. Scratch a Cajun and you’re in deep shit. Pierre was proof of that.

The energy in the room was dizzying until the bartender jerked the juke box cord out of the wall and the music stopped. A roar of protest went up from the crowd.

The bartender turned up the small TV that sat on the end of the bar. “I want to hear this,” he said. “Somebody in California won that big lotto.”

“Who gives a shit?” yelled a joker who could barely stand on his own two feet. Everybody laughed.

“Let’s watch,” said Suzette, dragging him over to the bar.

“Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we have a true Cinderella story,” said the announcer. A state lottery representative handed a pretty blonde lady one of those over-sized checks for 5.3 million dollars. Jeeter’s jaw hit the floor. “Mrs. Jeeter Tate of Bakersfield has been working three jobs to support her two darling little boys since being abandoned by her husband who robbed his former place of employment and vanished.” The announcer looked straight into Jeeter’s eyes through the TV. “How are things hanging with you Mr. Tate? Mrs. Tate just hired a big Hollywood divorce lawyer.”

Charleen was the golden girl of the moment. She was smiling and gracious and the camera loved her. Jeeter was devastated. He’d hoped his sudden departure would throw her into a state of catatonic despair and now she looked twice as good as she had before he dumped her.

He was shocked at the injustice of it all. She’d bought those lotto tickets with his five bucks. The winnings should be half his. By rights, it should be all his. What did she ever do to earn it except cook, clean, do laundry, take care of the kids, mow the lawn, wash the cars...? He’d completely forgotten about Suzette. He had to get back to California and make a case for himself. He turned on the bar stool in time to see her heading out the door in a huff. Trouble in paradise.

“Wait, sweet thing. I can explain.”

Her hands were frozen on the steering wheel as they drove back to the house. She looked straight ahead. When they pulled to a stop she ran through the front door. Jeeter grabbed her arm and she pulled free.

“Your beloved wife seems to have risen from her grave,” she said.

“Just listen to me for a second.”

“Cajun men do not abandon their families no matter how hard things get. I want you to take your things and go.”

“Listen baby, those winnings are half mine. All I have to do is get to California to stake my claim. When I come back with all that dough we’ll be rich. We’ll live like kings.”

“The way I live right now suits me fine.” Her voice was steady, her eyes as cold and hard as concrete. “I’m asking you to leave my house.”

“Okay,” he said. “Just give me the keys to the truck.”

“You don’t have a truck.” He felt that one coming.

“BECAUSE YOU SANK IT!” Blood rushed to his head and roared in his ears.

“If you hadn’t overreacted Pierre would still be alive and you wouldn’t be in this fix. I warned you. I told you to leave before he started acting crazy.”

Bon-Bon looked at Suzette with worried eyes. He whined softly.

Jeeter grabbed her purse and fished out the keys to the truck. He saw the handcuffs in the bottom of the bag. They struggled briefly until he heard her finger snap and she let go with a cry of pain. She took off a high heeled shoe and went for his face. The stiletto caught the corner of his eye. It teared up and clamped shut. He let out an angry bellow.

He grabbed her by the hair, dragged her into the bedroom and threw her unceremoniously on the bed. To think that just last night things were going so well. Bon-Bon started yapping and running in circles on the bedspread.

“All right,” she said. “Take the truck and go. Just go.”

His knee was planted in the center of her chest. He twisted her arm and cuffed it to the iron headboard.

“Étienne is going to kill you,” she said, her soft black hair falling over one eye.

“Thanks to you baby, he doesn’t know I exist.”

The redbones alerted to the row. They were growling deep in their throats. Their toenails clicked as they paced back and forth on the porch. And there was something else. A more subtle sound. He stopped and listened. It stopped. It had been a soft thumping, a tap, tap, tap, the kind of noise a boat makes when it knocks against the dock.

Suzette’s chest rose and fell beneath his weight. Her breasts strained against the delicate fabric of her dress. The frightened fawn look was back but now it angered him. He ripped the bodice of her dress down to the waist. Let her go juking in that, he thought spitefully. He stopped breathing. There it was again, coming from the direction of the deck. Tap. Tap. Tap. Every time he concentrated on it, it stopped.

He reached out to touch the girl’s bare breast. The dog nailed him good, bit his thumb to the bone. That little son-of-a-bitch. He threw a lamp but by the time it hit the wall the dog was far under the bed.

Women! They were the cause of all his problems. Any fool could see that. First Charleen goes and gets knocked up. That was damn inconsiderate. Then Suzette sinks his truck and tells him to hit the road with only the clothes on his back. He slapped her a couple times in the face before he left the room...not so hard as he’d hit a man...I mean, he wasn’t a monster...just enough to punish her for all the trouble she’d caused.

He rummaged through her purse and cleaned out her wallet. He heard something again. Suzette sobbed quietly from the bedroom but that wasn’t it. He walked slowly to the back of the house and turned on the deck lights. Nobody out there. No raccoons wandering about. He stepped outside. Frogs croaked in the darkness beyond the circle of light. He slapped a mosquito on his neck. There was an occasional splash as fish jumped among the reeds.

He walked to the edge of the deck and looked down. For some inexplicable reason he thought of the voodoo woman and her curse. You’d have to be a real hayseed to believe in that superstitious crap. Then again, he had to admit his nerves were a bit on edge.

Tap. Tap. Tap. He laughed out loud. There was a kid’s white ball floating among the pilings. He shrugged off the tension. Then the ball rolled over and it didn’t look so much like a ball anymore. The skulls mouth was open wide as if it wanted to go on screaming until Louisiana seceded from the union. One pale ice blue eye remained lodged in the socket. It stared right into Jeeter’s face.

Jeet screamed all the way to the truck. He’d run the gamut of redbones, losing a pant leg and both of his shoes and sustaining various abrasions and contusions.

The moment Suzette heard the truck rip out of the yard she strained against the handcuff and with her free hand grabbed the cordless phone she kept under the edge of the bed. She punched in the number of the sheriff’s department and broke into sobs when DuBois picked up.

Étienne flew over the wrecked road to Bayou Sang. His deputies intercepted Jeeter just before he turned onto the interstate. They hauled him into the station kicking and screaming and babbling about voodoo curses and a skull with a blue eye afloat in Blood Bayou.

“Pierre never was quite right in the head,” said Deputy LaRoque.

“The booze finally fried his brain,” said Deputy Chevalier.

Étienne found Suzette bruised, battered, and half-naked. The dog was curled up next to her shoulder. He wagged his tail when he saw the sheriff. The scene was self-explanatory, implying something vicious and incestuous. The sweet Suzette did nothing to correct the misconception. He released her from the cuff, took her in his arms and held her close to his chest.

“Pierre’s gone crazy as a coon,” she whispered.

“He’s always been crazy as a coon. Don’t you think it’s time we tied the knot so I can take care of you?”

* * * *

The prisoner swore up and down that he was not Pierre Marquet. He was Jeeter Tate and his wife just won the California lotto. He’d never eaten a crawdad in his life. He didn’t speak French. He said he’d driven to Louisiana in a truck he couldn’t locate and had identity papers he could not find. The deputies laughed their asses off.

Suzette was brought into the station to give a statement. “I’ve been living in terror for over a month,” she said. “One night Pierre got drunk and attacked me. When Uncle Rémy came to my defense there was a terrible fight. Rémy knocked out two of Pierre’s teeth...just look for yourself...at that point Pierre grabbed his shotgun and killed my uncle. He threw his body to the alligators. When I threatened to tell Étienne what had happened, he went nuts. He can make up any name he wants, but what other man has eyes like his?”

The D.A. heard every word from his chair in the corner.

“As absurd as it seems, let’s give this man every opportunity to clear his name before he gets what’s coming to him. Fly that woman out from California and we’ll listen to what she has to say.”

Jeeter breathed a sigh of relief. Suzette shifted nervously in her chair.

Charleen Tate walked into the interrogation room two days later. She looked like a million bucks in her pink Chanel suit and triple strand of pearls. Awaiting her arrival were Sheriff DuBois, Suzette, the D.A. and Jeeter.

“Baby doll,” said Jeeter when she looked his way. “I’m so glad you came to clear things up.”

“Well,” said Étienne, “is this your husband?”

“I’ve never seen this man before in my life,” she said.

“CHARLEEN! It’s me, Jeeter, the father of those sweet baby boys.”

Everyone in the room burst out laughing.

“Believe me, Sheriff,” she said. “when you win the lotto every Tom, Dick and Harry crawls out of the woodwork.”

The D.A. extended his hand. “So sorry to have inconvenienced you Mrs. Tate. I think we now have all the evidence we need.”

As she left the room she looked at Suzette and winked.

Out on Blood Bayou the moon turned the water to silver. Two skulls floated side by side downstream.