Cry Wolf

by Tami Hoag

  She turned and marched right up to the front of his stage and glared up at him.

  “Join us, sister,” Jimmy Lee said, holding his hand out toward her. “I don't know what hold this vile place has over you, but I know, I know you are a good person at heart.”

  “Which is more than I can say for someone bent on harassing law-abiding citizens,” Laurel snapped.

  “The law.” Jimmy Lee bobbed his head, a grave expression pulling down his handsome features. “The law protects the innocent. And the guilty would hide like wolves in sheep's clothing, hide behind the law. Isn't that true, Miss Chandler?”

  Laurel went still. His eyes met hers, and a chill of foreboding swept over her skin despite the heat of the day. He knew. He knew, and the bastard was going to use it to his own end. Without looking, she could feel the curious eyes of his fifty or so followers falling on her. He knew. They would know. That she had failed. That justice had slipped from her grasp like a bar of wet soap.

  “My friends . . .” Baldwin's voice came to her as if from a great distance down a long tin tunnel. “Miss Chandler has herself been a soldier in the fight against the most heinous of crimes, crimes against innocent children. Crimes perpetrated by depraved souls who would masquerade among us, showing us righteous faces by day and by night subjecting our children to unspeakable acts of sex! Miss Chandler knows of our fight, don't you Miss Chandler?”

  Laurel barely heard him. She could feel the weight of their gazes press in on her, the weight of their judgment. She had failed. “. . . unspeakable acts of sex. . . .” She shivered as she felt herself drawing inward, pulling in to protect herself. “. . . unspeakable acts of sex. . . .” “Help us, Laurel! Help us . . .”

  Jack watched her go pale, and he damned Jimmy Lee to eternal hell. His own personal philosophy of life was live and let live. If Jimmy Lee wanted to make a buck off God, that was his business. If people were stupid enough to follow him, that wasn't Jack's problem. He would have gone right on ignoring Baldwin and his band of lunatics. He wasn't out to fight anyone's fight. But the bastard had gone too far. He had somehow, some way managed to hurt Laurel.

  Before he could even fathom what lay beneath his response, Jack hopped onto the hood of Baldwin's borrowed truck and proceeded to climb over the cab. He jumped down onto the flatbed, landing right smack behind Jimmy Lee, who bolted like a startled horse, but didn't move quickly enough to get away.

  Jack caught hold of Baldwin's arm and deftly twisted it behind the preacher's back in a hold he had learned the hard way—from his old man. He grinned at the man like a long lost brother and spoke through his teeth at a pitch only Jimmy Lee could hear. “You got two choices here, Jimmy Lee. Either you can suddenly succumb to the heat of the day, or I'll break all the fine, small bones in your wrist.”

  Baldwin stared into those cold dark eyes, and a chill ran down him from head to toe. He'd heard rumors about Jack Boudreaux . . . that he was wild, unpredictable, affable one minute and mean as sin the next. Boudreaux was, by all accounts of the people who read his books, seriously unbalanced. The hold tightened on his wrist, and Jimmy Lee thought he could feel those small bones straining under the pressure.

  “That's right, Jimmy Lee”—the smile chilled another degree—“I'd sooner break your arm.”

  Restless murmurs began rumbling through the crowd like distant thunder. The preacher ground his teeth. He was losing his momentum, losing his hold on them. Damn Jack Boudreaux. Jimmy Lee had had them on the brink of a frenzy, champing at the bit to launch him on the road to televangelist greatness. He cast a glance at his followers and back at the man beside him.

  “Sin,” he said, and the pressure tightened. “I-I can feel the heat of it!” He rolled his eyes and swayed dramatically on his feet. “Oh, Lord have mercy! The heat of it! The fires from hell!”

  Jack let him go and watched with a mixture of cynicism and satisfaction as Baldwin staggered away across the flatbed. Obviously a disciple of the William Shatner/Captain Kirk school of acting, Baldwin stumbled and swayed, contorting his face, wrenching his back, calling out in staccato bursts as his audience gasped in alarm. Several women screamed as he finally collapsed onto the bed of the truck and writhed for another thirty seconds.

  People rushed for the stage. Jack strolled across to the prostrate form of the preacher and calmly snatched up the microphone.

  “Hey ever-body! Come on inside and douse those fires of hell!” he called, grinning like the devil. “Drinks are on me! Laissez le bon temps rouler! And tell 'em Jack sent you!”

  The contingent of Frenchie's patrons who had been standing at the back of the crowd or lounging on the gallery sent up a wild chorus of hoots and cheers and made a mad dash for the bar. Jack hopped down off the truck. Laurel didn't even look up at him, but turned and started back for the Jeep.

  “Hey, sugar, where you goin'?”

  “Home. Please,” Laurel said, emotion tightening around her throat like a vise. There was a pressure in her chest, in her head. She wanted—needed—to escape.

  Jack caught her by the arm and shuffle-stepped alongside her. “Hey, hey, you can't run off, spitfire. T-Grace is gonna have the place of honor all set for you.”

  “What for?” She stopped and wheeled on him, her body vibrating with tension, her face set in lines of anger and something like shame tinting the blue of her eyes. “I failed. I lost.”

  Jack's brows pulled together in confusion. “What the hell are you talkin' about? Failed? Failed what?”

  She'd choked. She'd lost it. If it hadn't been for his coming to the rescue, there was no telling what humiliation she might have suffered. She felt as if Baldwin had reached right into her and pulled out that part of her past to hold it up to his followers like a science experiment gone wrong.

  “You stood up to him, Laurel,” Jack said softly. “That was more than anyone else was willing to do. So you didn't deliver the knockout punch. So what? Lighten up, sugar. You're not in charge of the whole damn world.”

  His last line struck a chord, brought back a memory from her stay at the Ashland Heights Clinic, brought back Dr. Pritchard's voice. How egotistical of her to think that she was the center of all, the savior of all, that the outcome of the future of the world rested squarely on her shoulders.

  She was overreacting.

  She had come here to heal, hadn't she? To take control of her life again. If she ran now, from this, she would be giving in to the past when she had vowed to rise above it.

  She looked up at Jack, at the concern in his eyes, and wondered if he even knew it was there.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. She wanted to reach up and touch his cheek, but it seemed a dangerously intimate thing to do, and so curled her fingers into a loose fist instead.

  Jack eyed her suspiciously. “For what?”

  “For rescuing me.”

  “Oh, no.” He shook his head and backed away from her a step, raising his hands as if to ward off her gratitude. “Don' make me out to be a hero, sugar. I had a chance to make a fool outa Jimmy Lee, that's all. Me, I'm nobody's hero.”

  But he had saved her—several times—from her own thoughts, her own fears, from the dark mire of depression that pulled at her. Laurel studied him for a moment, wondering why he preferred the image of bad boy to champion.

  “Come on, 'tite ange,” he said, jerking his head toward the bar. “I'll buy you a drink. Besides, I've got a lawyer joke I just remembered I wanted to tell you.”

  “What makes you think I want to hear it?”

  Jack slid an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward Frenchie's. “No, no. I know you don't wanna hear it. That's half the fun of tellin' it.”

  Laurel laughed, the tension going out of her by slow degrees.

  “What's the difference between a porcupine and two lawyers in a Porsche?” he asked as they skirted around Baldwin's truck. “With a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside.”

  They crossed the parking lot, Jack laughing, Laurel shaking her head
, neither one aware that they were being very carefully watched.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  Savannah sat in a far corner of the bar, an aura of silence enveloping her like a force field, while all around her the air was filled with raucous sound. Filé was blasting out of the jukebox—“Two Left Feet.” Billiard balls smacked together, people shouted to be heard above the general din. Savannah blocked it all out. Anger simmered inside her, hot and bitter and acidic.

  The call from St. Joseph's had broken in on her time with Cooper like an unwelcome news bulletin. Mrs. Cooper was suddenly having a bad spell, and couldn't Mr. Cooper please come? He had been there all morning and half the afternoon as it was. Selfish, greedy bitch. It wasn't enough that she had to hold on to him mentally, she had to drag him away physically, as well.

  “I hate her,” Savannah snarled, the feeling too strong to keep bottled up inside.

  No one noticed she'd spoken at all. No one was paying any attention to her.

  She took a gulp of her vodka tonic and did a slow reconnaissance of the room through the dark lenses of her sunglasses. The place was crowded for a Sunday evening. Thanks to Laurel. Laurel. Everybody's little heroine. Everybody's little savior.

  The anger burned a little hotter, flared up as she tossed another splash of alcohol on the flames. The irony was just too bitter. Laurel was what she was because of Savannah. She was the chaste and pure one because Savannah had been her savior, her protector.

  She stared hard toward the bar, where her Baby was being toasted and cheered by T-Grace and the regulars. And Jack Boudreaux stood by her side, the least likely white knight she'd ever seen. Baby was supposed to be home, brooding, hiding, weak, and in need of her big sister for comfort and support. Damn her. She was getting stronger by the day, by the minute, snatching away Savannah's chance to be the stronger one, to play the role of protector again, to rise above her station of town tramp and be somebody important.

  She picked up a matchbook off the table and mutilated it while she watched the way Jack hovered over Laurel, touching her shoulder, the small of her back, leaning close to whisper something in her ear then throwing his head back and laughing as she slugged him on the shoulder.

  He had never whispered anything in Savannah's ear, damn his miserable Cajun hide. She would have given him the ride of his life, but he'd never shown any interest in her beyond the casual flirting he did with every female on the planet. He was sure as hell showing an interest in Baby, and Savannah didn't like it one damn bit.

  “Damn you, Baby,” she muttered, polishing off the last of her drink.

  “You talkin' to me, ma belle?” Leonce bent over her from behind, sliding one bony hand down over her shoulder to fondle her breast.

  “Damn right, you jerk,” she complained. “You're not paying any attention to me at all.”

  His scar repulsed her. It constantly drew her eyes to the grotesque lumps at either end of it and the misshapen end of his nose in between. She'd heard a story once that a woman had given him the mark with the business end of a broken bottle, but Leonce seemed to bear no ill will toward the gender. He came on to anything in panties.

  “I'll pay anything you want if you get naked with me, chère.”

  Whore. You're nothing but a whore, Savannah. . . .

  Her anger spiked, breaking through her facade of boredom. She wasn't for sale. She did what she wanted when she wanted with whomever she wanted because she wanted to. Which made her a slut, not a whore. The bitter distinction burned in her stomach like an ulcer, and confusing, conflicting emotions twisted and writhed in her chest, the pressure building like steam in a radiator.

  Needing to take it out on somebody, she grabbed a chunk of Leonce's beard and gave it a vicious twist, wringing a howl out of him. He staggered back the instant she let go and crashed into a pool player getting ready to take a shot, earning himself a jab with a cue stick and an earful of four-letter words.

  Leonce ignored the other man, his glare fixed on Savannah as he rubbed his cheek. “What the hell you do dat for?”

  Savannah stood up, kicking her chair back. “Go fuck yourself, Scarface. Save your money to buy yourself a brain, you asshole.”

  She snatched up her glass and threw it at him, bouncing it off his shoulder as he ducked away.

  “Crazy bitch!” he yelled as sneers and chuckles rumbled behind him. “You goddamn crazy bitch!”

  Savannah ignored him, snatched up her pocketbook, and went on the prowl. She didn't need to settle for Leonce Comeau; there were plenty of younger, good-looking bucks who would appreciate her company and her expertise. Her gaze caught on Taureau Hebert across the room, regaling his buddies with the tale of his latest run-in with the game warden.

  She'd had her eye on him for a while now. He hadn't been nicknamed Bull for nothing. He was all of twenty-three and built for service from his mile-wide shoulders on down. It seemed like the perfect time to put him to the test.

  But as she set off, hips swaying, tossing her wild mane back over her shoulder, concentrating all her considerable energy into the total package of allure, Annie Delahoussaye-Gerrard bounced into the picture, and the men at Taureau's table snapped their heads around to ogle her cleavage as she served their drinks and flirted with them.

  Savannah fought off the wild urge to scream. This was her territory. Who the hell did this cheap little waitress think she was, anyway?

  Young and pretty, that's who she was. And she had a sunny smile and a sweet laugh. Like her mother, T-Grace, Annie favored her clothes a size too small, pouring her ample curves into tight jeans and tank tops that left nothing to the imagination. A tangle of fake gold chains hung around her throat, and she wore a cheap ring on nearly every finger. No style at all, Savannah thought bitterly as she fingered the long strand of real pearls she wore and briefly contemplated wrapping them around Annie Gerrard's pretty young throat.

  The little bitch had no business sniffing around the men here. She had a man of her own, a husband. Savannah very conveniently forgot the fact that Tony Gerrard—Annie's husband—had only just been released from a stay in the parish jail for knocking her around, and rumors of a divorce were in the air.

  She strolled around behind the table, slipping in between Taureau and the waitress, sliding an arm around Taureau's thick, sunburned neck as if they were longtime lovers. She ignored his startled expression and fixed a hard-eyed look on Annie. “Why don't you run along and get me a fresh vodka tonic, sweetheart? That is your job here, isn't it?”

  Annie narrowed her dark eyes and propped her empty tray on her well-rounded hip. “Mais yeah, that's my job,” Annie sassed, looking her adversary up and down with undisguised contempt. “What's yours, grandmère? Molesting young men?”

  Savannah didn't hear the obscenities that spewed from her own mouth. With a bloodred haze clouding her vision, she launched herself at the waitress, grabbing a handful of overpermed dark hair. She swung her other arm in a wild, roundhouse punch that connected solidly with Annie's ear.

  Taureau and his buddies shot up out of their chairs, eyes round with astonishment. Someone yelled “Cat- fight!” above the blare of the jukebox. There was another call of “Grand rond!” and instantly a circle of spectators formed around the two women as they crashed into a table, sending bottles and glasses flying. Beer spilled in a foaming river across the wood floor, making the footing treacherous and giving an advantage to Annie, who was in sneakers.

  Savannah didn't notice herself slipping. Her perceptions had become strangely distorted, her vision zooming close up on her adversary, hearing nothing but a loud, chaotic babble of sounds—screeches and screams and crashing. She felt nothing—not the other woman's hand yanking on her hair or fingernails biting into her flesh or toe connecting with her shin—nothing but the white-hot rage that roared within. She swung and clawed and shouted, holding on tight to whatever part of Annie Gerrard she could grab, and they spun, stumbling around the circle of spectators like wind-up dolls run amok.<
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  T-Grace let out a sound that was something between fury and a war cry as she barreled out from behind the bar, elbows flying into the ribs of anyone who didn't get immediately out of her way. She plunged through the crowd, shouting at the top of her lungs, her eyes bulging wildly as she rushed to save not her daughter but her glassware and furniture. Annie could take care of herself.

  Laurel jerked around on her bar stool to see what the commotion was all about, and her heart clutched in her chest as a red-on-white dress caught her eye. “Oh, my God, Savannah!”

  Without a thought to her own safety, she launched herself off the stool and dove into the crowd. Jack swore under his breath as he grabbed her from behind and swung her out of his way. He made it to the melee about the same instant as T-Grace, and they danced around the combatants, angling to get a hold on one or the other of them to pull them apart.

  An old hand at brawls, T-Grace was less than diplomatic. She didn't hesitate to land a few blows of her own or grab a handful of Savannah's hair as she struggled to get her youngest child extricated from the fight that was smashing up the bar and putting a hold on drink orders.

  Jack jumped in behind Savannah and wedged an arm between the two women, getting bitten for his efforts. An elbow caught him above the left eye as they lurched around the circle like rugby players in a scrum, reopening the cut he'd gotten crashing Savannah's 'Vette. He gritted his teeth and cursed a blue streak through them, wondering what the hell had compelled him to get involved in this mess in the first place. He wasn't a fighter; he was an observer. If two women wanted to tear each other's hair out, he usually just stood back and took mental notes. He winced and swore in French as a spike heel dug into his instep. He wouldn't have to take mental notes this time; his body was going to be a pictorial essay on the intricacies of a barroom catfight. An elbow dug into his ribs, and he grunted and angled for a better hold while his feet slipped precariously in the spilled beer.