“It sounds personal, the way you talk about it.”
Abigail wiped the back of her hand across her cheek. “Caravel Gautreaux had a thing with my husband. It was a long time ago, but it lasted a while. He’d say he was going hunting, but come back empty- handed. It was early in the marriage. A fling, he said. First of many, as it turned out.”
She said it without shame, but Michael felt the hurt and understood. It was dangerous business, trusting a person. “Tell me about her.”
Abigail gestured broadly: the trees, the forest. “The Gautreaux clan came over from France in the late 1830s, a mother with two grown sons and a daughter no more than thirteen. They originally settled on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, but were run out of Louisiana eight years later, eventually finding their way to the Carolina coast, then upriver and inland to Chatham County. The daughter, by that time, was twenty-one and pregnant by one of her brothers, though nobody was ever sure which. They made their living as slave traders and thieves; sold liquor to Indians, guns to anybody that could afford them.”
“Opportunists.”
“They stole when they could, killed when it paid, and the women were known to be worse-not just the mother, but the daughter and the twin girls she bore to whichever brother got her pregnant. They were prostitutes, all of them, healers and spell-casters known to give a man syphilis one day, then charge three dollars the next to cure him. They grew more isolated and dangerous as the county filled up around them. During the Civil War, they took in deserters with the promise of warm food and a dry bed, only to cut their throats, then strip the bodies bare.” Abigail favored Michael with a glance. “An old man in town still swears that, as a boy trespassing, he found a shed on their land with more than a hundred muskets stacked inside.”
Michael did not have a vivid imagination, but driving on that tongue of black-earth road, he saw how it could have been: a starving man hidden and fed, then nightfall and a hushed approach, the sheen of sweat and firelight as one of the daughters rode his hips on an animal skin bed, her body dirt-smeared and bare, eyes wide as her mother lifted the man’s chin from behind and put a blade in the cords of his throat.
“The story had a few different versions,” Abigail said, “but I’ve never doubted its inherent truth. After a century and a half on the same ground, they’re a family of snakes born of snakes, a foul brood grown hard on violence, pride and avarice.” Abigail made an unpleasant face. “You found Victorine beautiful?”
“Exceptionally.”
“Her mother was, too, once upon a time, pretty and earthy and raw. I’d think screwing her would be a lot like screwing a mountain lion. Some men favor that.”
“You’re too close to this,” Michael said. “I should go alone.”
“The girl is involved with Julian. I’m going.”
“You’re making this personal.”
“The mother is evil. The girl will be evil, too.”
Michael replayed the moment he’d been cut, the few short seconds after surprise and regret turned to feelings that were more complex. She’d been cruel and fast and ready to fight; but she’d been scared, too, and determined not to show it. He could have taken her down, blade or no blade, but in looking at her face, at the narrowed eyes and purpose, he’d seen so much of his own hard years. “That’s not what I saw,” he finally said.
“What, then?”
“I saw a survivor.”
Abigail thought about what he said. “Survivor, killer, slut.” She downshifted as the track dropped away and she worked the Land Rover into the stream at the bottom. “We should have burned these people out years ago.”
Michael sensed the change when they crossed onto land owned by Caravel Gautreaux. Smooth earth broke where granite shoulders humped up through the soil. Hardwoods disappeared, and pine rose up. Needles made a blanket on the ground. The forest darkened.
“Don’t let her touch you.”
“Why not?”
“Just don’t.” Abigail never looked away from the road. Her foot came off the gas, and she said, “Here it is.”
The vehicle rolled to a stop, trees stretching off to both sides, bare dirt and blue sky unfolding. Michael saw the old house, the sheds and animals with patchy coats. Then he saw the cop car. Parked in a shady patch across the bare dirt, it was dark and unmarked, but Michael had no doubt what it was. “Police,” he said.
“You sure?”
Michael checked the grounds, and saw no one. “Must be inside.”
“We should go.” She was thinking of him, his history, yet even as she reached for the key the front door opened and a man backed onto the porch, Caravel Gautreaux following.
“I guess we talk to the cops,” Michael said.
“You sure?” She was worried.
“Leaving now would look suspicious.” He slipped from the Land Rover and took in the details of Caravel Gautreaux. She was taller than her daughter, but did have an earthy quality that was hard to define. She wore a sleeveless shirt, and had deep eyes under black hair salted white. Her shoulders were broad without being masculine, her hands strong-looking. She had magnetism, he thought, something in the slow droop of her eyelids, the earthiness and ready confidence.
“Abigail Vane!” Gautreaux spoke before the cop could, her smile knowing and slow. “You bring me another one of your boys?” She stepped off the porch, and everyone seemed to follow her lead, the four of them meeting in the middle of the yard. From five feet away, her skin seemed to smooth out, becoming more dirty looking than rough. Another step, and her hair, too, had more shine than Michael expected. She looked at Michael and said, “I heard about this one.”
“From who?” Abigail asked. “Your daughter?” Gautreaux laughed and Abigail dismissed her. “Michael, this is Detective Jacobsen.” She spoke coolly. “Detective Jacobsen and I have known each other for some while.”
“Though it has been too long since we spoke.” The detective was a few years north of sixty, ruddy and thin. Animosity underlay his words, as did an obvious and easy distrust. “How is Julian, by the way?”
“We’ve had dealings,” Abigail explained to Michael. “From many years back.”
The tension was palpable as Jacobsen cataloged Michael from top to bottom. “The similarity is remarkable.” He addressed Abigail. “I wasn’t aware you had another son.”
“She doesn’t,” Michael said. “I’m Julian’s brother, but not her son.”
“He was adopted-”
“And I was not. Yes.”
The cop nodded. “What are you doing here?” He looked at both of them. “I was under the impression that you and Ms. Gautreaux had a long-running dislike for one another.”
“We want to talk to her daughter. It’s a personal matter.”
“Talk, talk, talk…” Gautreaux made it sound like a chicken squawking, and her laughter spiked as Abigail reddened.
“Have you found anything at the lake?” Michael asked.
“Not yet.” Jacobsen’s gaze hung on Michael’s face. Cool and clinical. Dissecting. “Divers are in the water. We’re canvassing the area. Beyond that, I can’t really discuss it.” He hesitated, kept his attention on Michael. “You really do favor your brother. Have you seen him lately?” He turned to Abigail. “Is he in town?”
“You’re wasting your time,” Abigail said. “Julian has never hurt anyone. He never would.”
“And yet, your husband has six lawyers at the house as we speak. Julian is unavailable for questioning. It all feels very familiar.”
“Any questions you have about my son can be addressed to our lawyers. We’re here to talk to her.” Abigail pointed at Gautreaux. “A personal matter. So, if you’re finished…”
“Finished? No. We’re just getting started.”
