by Tami Hoag
A belated tremor of fear rumbled through Laurel. Fear of the control she had lost so completely. Fear of the incredible pleasure Jack had given her. An old fear that had its roots in a time of her life when she had seen sex as only a negative experience. She knew better now, but old fears never quite died—they just hid in dark corners of the mind and waited for the chance to slip out. Deliberately, she dismissed it and blinked her eyes open to look at Jack.
He lifted a hand and touched her cheek, idly brushing back a strand of hair. “Where'd you go, 'tite chatte?” he whispered, his brows drawing together.
“Nowhere important,” she said, dodging his gaze.
“Back to Georgia?”
“No.”
“But you do go back there, in your mind, oui?”
She thought about that for a moment, debating the wisdom of revealing anything about that time in her life. A part of her wanted to guard the secrets, hide the past, protect herself. But it seemed ironic to try to hide anything from a man who had shared the most private parts of her body, who had taken her to dizzying heights of pleasure and held her safe in his arms as they floated together to earth. She had opened her body to him, now she opened another part of her, tentatively, hesitantly, feeling more vulnerable than a virgin.
“It comes to me sometimes,” she said at last. She sat up and began dressing, not wanting to feel any more naked than was necessary.
Jack hitched his jeans up and zipped them, leaving the button undone. “Can you talk about it?”
She shrugged, as if it were unimportant or easy, when it was far from being either. “I guess you read about it in the papers.”
“I read some of what the papers had to say, but I've been around the block a time or two, sugar. I know there's a helluva lot more to any story than sound bites and photo ops.”
Dressed, Laurel sat on the blanket with her arms wrapped around her knees and stared at the bayou. A squadron of wood ducks banked around in tight formation and came down with wings cupped and feet outstretched. They hit the water in unison and skied several feet, finally settling down to paddle away, chuckling among themselves.
“It started with three children and a story about a ‘club' that met once a week,” she began, bracing herself inwardly against what was to come. Even now, months after the case had been taken away from her, the details had the power to sicken her, the images came back as bright and ugly as ever. Her hands tightened against her shins until her knuckles turned white.
“The allegations were incredible. Child pornography. Sexual abuse. The children had been sworn to secrecy. Small animals had been slaughtered in front of them, killed and torn apart, as a demonstration of what might happen if they talked. But eventually they became more frightened of what might happen if they didn't talk.
“They came to me because I had been to their school during career week. I had talked about justice, about doing the right thing and fighting for the truth.” Her mouth twisted at the irony. “The poor little things believed me. I believed myself.”
She could still see them, all those little faces staring up at her from the floor of the gymnasium, their eyes round as they absorbed her sermon on the pride and nobility of working to see justice served. She could still feel that sense of pride and self-righteousness and naivete. She had still believed then that right would always win out if one worked hard enough, believed strongly enough, fought with a pure heart.
“Nobody wanted me to touch their story. The adults they were accusing were above reproach. A teacher, a dentist, a member of the Methodist church council. Fine, upstanding citizens—who just happened to be pedophiles,” she said bitterly.
“What made you believe them?”
How could she explain? How could she describe the sense of empathy? She knew what it was to hold a terrible secret inside, because she had held one of her own. She knew what courage it took to let the secret out, because she had never been able to muster it.
The guilt twisted like a knife inside her, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. She had never found the strength to brave her mother's unpredictable temperament or risk her mother's love.
“Don't tell Mama, Laurel. She won't believe you. She'll hate you for telling. She'll have one of her spells, and it will be all your fault.”
If she hadn't been such a coward, if she had done the right thing, the brave thing . . .
A picture of Savannah swam before her eyes, rumpled, seductive, playing the harlot with a tragic sense of reckless desperation underlying her sexuality.
She pushed to her feet and walked down to the edge of the water, wanting to escape not only Jack and his questions, but her past, herself. He followed her. She could sense him behind her, feel his dark gaze on her back.
“Why did you believe them, Laurel?”
“Because they needed me. They needed justice. It was my job.”
The denial of her own feelings built a sense of pressure in her chest that grew and grew, like an inflating balloon. It crowded against her lungs, squeezed her heart, closed off her throat, pushed hard on the backs of her eyes. She had crushed it out before, time and again. She had railed at Dr. Pritchard for trying to make her let it out.
“I wasn't atoning for anything. I had a job to do, and I did it. My childhood had nothing to do with it.”
He just gave her that long, patient look that held both pity and disappointment. And she wanted to pick up one of the fat psychology books from his desk and hit him in the face with it.
“I didn't come here to talk about ancient history. I want help for what's happening now.”
“Don't you see, Laurel? The past is what this is all about. You wouldn't be where you are today if not for where you started and what went on there.”
“I'm not trying to atone for anything!”
She tried to suck in a breath, but her lungs couldn't expand to accommodate the humid air. The pressure was so great, she wondered wildly if she would simply explode.
Control. She needed control.
Ruthlessly, she tried to push aside the other thoughts and concentrate on simply relating the facts in a way that would satisfy Jack and keep her emotional involvement to a minimum.
“We worked day and night to build a case. There was evidence, but none of it could be tied directly to the accused. And the whole time, they were soliciting sympathy in the community, claiming to be the victims of a witch hunt, claiming that I was trying to climb on their backs to the state attorney general's office.” Her hands balled into tight fists at her sides as she tried to leash the fury building inside her. Her whole body trembled with the power of it. “God, they were so slick, so clever, so smug!”
So evil.
You believe in evil, don't you, Laurel?
She clenched her teeth against the need to scream.
. . . and good must triumph over evil . . .
“All we really had was the testimony of the children.”
She snatched half a breath, feeling as if her lungs would burst.
“Children aren't considered reliable witnesses.”
Don't bother telling, Laurel. No one will believe you.
“Parker—the state AG—” She was gasping now, as if she had run too far too fast. A fine sheen of sweat coated her skin, sticky and cold. “He took the case away from me—It—was politically explosive—He said I—I—couldn't handle it—”
Jack stepped closer, his heart pounding with hers, for her. He could feel the tension, brittle in the air around her, snapping with electricity. He reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder, and she jolted as if he had given her a shock.
“You did the best you could,” he said softly.
“I lost,” she whispered, the words lashing out of her like the crack of a whip, the anguish almost palpable. Shaking violently, she raised her fists and pressed them hard against her temples. “They were guilty.”
“You did your best.”
“It wasn't good enough!” she screamed.
The
ducks departed in a flurry of wings and splashing water. Egrets and herons that had been wading in the shallows for fish took flight and wheeled over the bayou, squawking angrily at the disturbance. Laurel twisted away from Jack's touch and ran along the bank, stumbling, sobbing, frantic to escape but with nowhere to run. She fell to her knees in the sandy dirt and curled over into a tight ball of misery, dry, wrenching sobs tearing at her throat.
For a moment Jack stood there, stunned by the depth of her pain, frightened by it. Instinct warned him off, like an animal scenting fire. He didn't want to get too close to it, didn't want to risk touching it, but an instant after that thought had passed through his head, he was kneeling beside her, stroking a hand over the back of her head.
“Darlin', don't cry so,” he murmured, his voice a hoarse rasp. “You did your job. You did what you could. Some cases you win, some you don't. That's just the way the game goes. We both know that.”
“It isn't a game!” Laurel snapped, batting his hand away. She glared at him through her tears. “Dammit, Jack, this isn't Beat the System, it's justice. Don't you see that? Justice. I can't just shrug and walk away when the bet doesn't pan out. Those children were counting on me to save them, and I failed!”
It was a burden with the weight of the world, and she crumpled beneath the pressure of it.
Gently, Jack drew her into his arms and rocked her. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair and shushed her softly, and time passed by them, unnoticed, unmarked.
Justice, he thought cynically. What justice was there in a world where children were used and abused by the people who were supposed to protect and nurture them? What justice was there when a woman as noble, as brave, as truehearted as the one in his arms suffered so for the sins of others? What justice allowed a man the like of himself to be the only one here to offer her comfort?
There was no justice in his experience. He had never seen any evidence of it growing up. As an attorney, he had been trained to play the court system like an elaborate chess game, maneuvering, manipulating, using strategy and cunning to win for his client. There had been no justice, only victory at any cost.
If there was such a creature as justice, he thought, then it had an exceedingly sadistic sense of humor.
Chapter
Seventeen
They saw the commotion all the way from the dock at Frenchie's Landing. Cars were parked up and down the road. A crowd of considerable size had gathered. From that distance only the indistinct crackle of a voice could be heard through a bad speaker system; not individual words, just the rise and fall of pitch and tempo, but there was no mistaking the fact that something exciting was going on at the former Texaco station that had only yesterday stood empty across the road from Frenchie's.
Laurel glanced at Jack—something she had been avoiding doing all afternoon, since the humiliation of breaking down in front of him. His shoulders rose and fell in a lazy shrug. He was the picture of indifference with his khaki shirt hanging open, baseball cap tipped back on his head, stringer of glossy fish hanging from his fist.
He had no interest in what was going on across the road. His focus was on Laurel and the curious shyness that had come over her. He had never known a woman who didn't shed tears with gusto and impunity. Yet Laurel had shrunk from her emotional outburst—and from him—clearly embarrassed that she had shown such vulnerability in front of him.
He wondered if she ever cut herself an inch of slack. She demanded perfection of herself, a goal that was simply unattainable for any mortal human being. A trait he should have steered well clear of. Le bon Dieu knew he was the farthest thing from perfect. But he caught himself admiring her for it. She seemed so small and fragile, but she had a deep well of strength, and she went to it again and again, and accepted no excuses.
That's more than you can say for yourself, mon ami.
They crunched across the crushed shell of the parking lot another few yards, aiming for the bar, but Laurel's gaze held fast on the goings-on across the road. Spectators milled around, craning their necks for a better look at something. An auction, perhaps, she thought, though she couldn't recall seeing anything at the old gas station worth buying. The place had been stripped bare and abandoned back in the seventies, during the oil embargo. Then one word crackled across the distance, and stopped her dead.
“. . . damnation!”
She sucked in an indignant breath and let it out in a furious gust. “That son of a bitch!”
Before Jack could say a word, she wheeled and made a beeline toward the station, her shoulders braced squarely, her stride quick and purposeful. He should have just let her go. He stood there for a second, intending to do just that. He wanted to drop off the fish for T-Grace and have himself a tall, cold beer. He didn't want to stick his nose into some damned hornet's nest. But as he watched Laurel stomp away, he couldn't put from his mind the image of her in his arms, weeping against his chest because she hadn't been able to give Lady Justice the miracle of sight.
Swearing under his breath, he tightened his grip on the stringer of dripping fish and jogged to catch up with her.
“He's not on the Delahoussayes' property,” he pointed out.
Laurel scowled. “He'd damn well better have a lease on that place and a permit to hold a public demonstration,” she snarled, secretly hoping he had neither so she could sic Kenner on him.
“You've done your part, angel,” Jack argued. “You got him out of Ovide's hair—such as it is. Why you don' just leave him be and we can go have us a drink?”
“Why?” she asked sharply. “Because I'm here. I'm an officer of the court and have an obligation to the Delahoussayes.” She shot him a glare. “Go have your drink. I didn't say you had to come with me.”
“Espèces de tête dure,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes.
“Yes, I am,” she said, never slowing her stride. “Hardheadedness is one of my better qualities.”
Baldwin and his followers hadn't wasted any time. The tall “For Sale or Lease” sign that had stood propped in the front window of the station had been replaced with one that read “End Sin. Find the True Path.” The door to the garage was open, and a stage had been hastily built across its mouth, giving Jimmy Lee a dark, dramatic background for his ranting and pacing routine.
His followers had gathered on the cracked concrete outside, crowding together despite the heat. Many of the women pressed toward the stage for a closer look at him, their faces glowing with sunburn and adulation. And Jimmy Lee stood above them all, drenched in sweat and glory, his hair slicked back and his caps gleaming white in the late afternoon sun. He stalked across the stage, his white shirt soaked through, his tie jerked loose, pleading with his followers to march valiantly on beneath the weight of their respective crosses, urging them to lighten his load by donating to keep the ministry going.
“I will fight on, brothers and sisters! No matter how Satan may try to smite me down, no matter the obstacles in my path, no matter if I have nothing with which to fight my battle except my faith!” He let his declaration ring in the air for a few seconds, then sighed dramatically and stood with shoulders drooping. “But I don't want to fight this battle alone. I need your help, the help of the faithful, of the brave, of the devout. Sad as I am to admit it, we live in a world ruled by the almighty dollar. The ministry of the True Path cannot continue to bring the good news to untold thousands of believers each week without money. And without the ministry, I am powerless. Alone, I am only a man. With you behind me, I am an army!”
While the faithful and the devout applauded Baldwin's acting skills, Laurel skirted around the edge of the mob. She watched them with a mix of anger and pity—anger because they were gullible enough to listen to a charlatan like Baldwin, and pity for the very same reason. They needed something to believe in. She didn't begrudge them that. But that they had chosen to believe in a perverted con man made her want to knock their heads together.
She didn't see the cameras until it was too late. Her ga
ze caught first on the van parked alongside the garage. It bore the call letters of the Lafayette cable television station that was home to Baldwin's weekly show. Then her eye caught one of the video cameras that was capturing the spectacle for the home audience. By then she was nearly at the front of the throng, and Baldwin had already spotted her.
His gaze, luminous gold and glowing with the light of fanaticism, flashed on her like a spotlight, and he broke off in midsentence. The anticipation level of the crowd rose with each passing second of his silence. The cheap sound system underscored it all with a low, buzzing hum.
Laurel froze, her heart picking up a beat as both the cameraman and Jimmy Lee moved toward her. She could feel the cyclops eye of the camera zooming in on her, could feel the heat of Baldwin's gaze, could feel the additional weight of a hundred pairs of eyes as one by one the crowd turned toward her. She braced herself and drew in a slow, deep breath.
“Miz Laurel Chandler,” he said softly. “A woman of intelligence and deep convictions. A good woman drawn in by deception to battle on the side of Satan.”
Gasps and murmurs ran through the crowd. The woman standing closest to Laurel stepped back with a protective hand to her bosom.
“I don't think Judge Monahan will be too pleased with the comparison,” Laurel said archly, crossing her arms. “But you're probably amused, being an expert at drawing in good people by means of deception, yourself.”
Those close enough to hear her began to grumble and boo. Baldwin cut them off with a motion of his hand. “Condemn not, believers!” he shouted. “Christ himself, in his infinite wisdom, preached forgiveness for those who would hurt you. He has counseled me in matters of forgiveness—”
“Has He counseled you in matters of the law?” Laurel queried. “Do you have any right to be on this property, holding this assembly?”
Something ugly flashed in Baldwin's eyes. He didn't like her interrupting his divinely inspired lines. Tough shit, Jimmy Lee.
“We have every right, lost sister,” he said tightly. “We have legal rights, granted by man. We have moral rights, granted by God Himself, to gather in this humble set-