Tami Hoag - Cry Wolf

Laurel wheeled her Acura into Meyette's Garage, dreading the thought of getting out of the car's air-conditioned comfort. She had shed her jacket, but the day had simply turned too hot to move. It was a day to be spent in a cool room with quiet music and a good book. That image would remain in her imagination, however, shimmering like a mirage for another hour or so.

Savannah had brought the car home with a near-empty tank and a coat of mud splatters from God knew where. Laurel had decided she would fill up on her way to Frenchie's Landing and wash the car herself after the heat of afternoon had subsided. The prospect of doing something physical, simple, and gratifying held enormous appeal. Just herself and her car in the shade of the driveway, a bucket and a sponge, Mozart playing softly in the background…

She pulled up along pumps of a type most stations had traded in for newer models ten years ago and got out, sending a smile to the mechanic who stuck his head out from under the hood of a putty-color Ford.

"Hey, Miz Chandler."

"Hey, Nipper."

"I'll be right with you."

"That's fine."

He beamed a smile at her, strong white teeth flashing in a lean face that was covered with grime and running with sweat. He was twenty-five, with a flat-topped hedge of brilliant red hair. Laurel thought he was probably something of a local heartthrob when he was clean, but she had only ever seen him tinkering under the hood of a car, looking like Pigpen grown up.

Meyette's was the kind of station that didn't exist anywhere but small, out-the-way towns. City folk would have shied away from the shabby buildings, the dark, dirty, cavernous garage. They might have found the old chest-type Coca-Cola cooler that squatted on the gallery by the front door quaint and might have tried to wheedle the antique away from the old rube who ran the place, but they would have let their bladders burst before asking for the restroom key and would have starved before trying a stick of the homemade boudin sausage Mrs. Meyette sold over the counter in the office.

The thought offered a margin of security. While Cajun country had become a trendy tourist draw, there were still parts of home that would never be violated.

Laurel 's gaze hit on Jimmy Lee Baldwin, who stood on the gallery of the garage, a bottle of Orange Crush in hand, and the word "violated" reverberated in her head. Her enjoyment of her surroundings dimmed. She couldn't look at him without thinking of the things Savannah had said about him. The man was slime. His mere existence was a violation against decent people. Preaching salvation and performing lewd sex acts on the side was a kind of hypocrisy that touched off an almost uncontrollable fury in her.

Straightening away from the side of the building as she marched toward him, he smoothed a hand over his slicked-back tawny hair, at the same time pasting on his too-white smile, making the two actions seem like cause and effect. He had sweated through his white dress shirt and rolled up the sleeves in a futile attempt to battle the heat. His skinny black necktie hung limply around his neck, pulled loose at the collar, and the button beneath it was undone. The crease in his black trousers had melted out, the total effect leaving him looking like a rumpled and disreputable traveling salesman.

"Miz Chandler, what a pleasant surprise," he said. He discreetly wiped the condensation from the soda bottle off on the side of his pants leg and offered his hand to her. He had given the subject of Laurel Chandler considerable thought as he had lain in bed this morning, the fan blowing across his naked body as he recuperated from his night's play. He wanted her if not as an ally, then at least out of the Delahoussaye camp. He was ready to pluck the rose of his future, but every time he reached for it, he was pricked by this lovely little thorn.

Laurel scowled at him as if he were holding out a dead rat for her inspection. "I don't see much of anything pleasant about it, Mr. Baldwin."

Jimmy Lee tightened his jaw against the urge to call her a snotty little bitch. He pulled his hand back and planted it at his waist. "There's no need to be hostile. We're not enemies, Miz Chandler. In fact, we could be allies. We fight on the same side, you and I. Against evil, against sin."

Laurel almost laughed. "Save the sermons for the poor fools who believe in you. We're not on the same side, Baldwin. I have my doubts that we belong to the same species. From what I've heard about you and seen of you, I'd have to say you're more closely related to things that crawl out from under dead tree stumps. Don't waste your time trying to charm me. I've dealt with too many snakes not to know one when I see one."

Fury burned hot in Jimmy Lee's belly. If there was one thing in this world he couldn't tolerate, it was a mouthy broad. He would have given just about anything for a chance to cuff her one, but he wouldn't have given up his shot at stardom, and Nipper Calhoun was too handy a witness.

He lifted his shoulders in a stiff shrug and stared down at her, his tawny eyes as cold and flat as gold coins. "That's not what I've heard about you," he said tightly. "The way I hear it, you point fingers at random."

The blow to her pride landed, but Laurel didn't bat an eyelash. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "It doesn't matter what you've heard about me. All you need to hear is what Judge Monahan has to say. As of today you are hereby ordered to cease and desist your harassment of the Delahoussayes and are forbidden from setting foot on their property. I'm pleased to give you the news in person," she said, flashing him a nasty smile. "The paperwork will be delivered. You have yourself a real nice day, Mr. Baldwin."

She turned and pranced away toward Meyette's office, prim little nose in the air. Jimmy Lee watched her go and felt all his carefully stacked plans for his big campaign tumble around him like a house of cards. Before he could stop himself, he had lunged after her and clamped a hand down on her shoulder, meaning to spin her around and tell her a thing or two about playing hard ball.

Jack stepped out of the shadows of the garage and hooked the toe of his boot in front of the preacher's ankle. As Laurel twisted away from the man's touch, Jack pulled back, and the Revver went sprawling, facedown in the dirt. Baldwin 's breath left him in a painful grunt.

"Oh, hey, I'm sorry, Jimmy Lee," Jack said without a drop of sincerity. "I guess I wasn' lookin' where I was goin'."

Baldwin shoved himself up onto his hands and knees, coughing and spitting dirt in between curses. He shot a vicious look at Jack over his shoulder, his face burgundy beneath the layer of gritty dirt.

"Bon Dieu!" Jack exclaimed with exaggerated shock. "There's some words comin' out your mouth I never seen in the Bible!"

"I doubt you ever cracked the spine of a Bible, Boudreaux," Jimmy Lee snarled. He hauled himself to his feet, trying in vain to dust his clothes off. His eyes locked on Jack in a stare as hard and cold as a billiard ball.

"Well," Jack drawled, "mebbe I never have read it, but I looked at the pictures." He put on a quizzical look and scratched his head. "Do you think Jesus got his tan at Suds 'n' Sun too?"

Jimmy Lee glared at him for a second, his jaw working to chew back his rage.

"What do you think, Miz Chandler?" Jack arched a brow at Laurel.

Laurel stared at him for several seconds, caught completely off guard by his appearance, to say nothing of his question. She hadn't expected to see him here, hadn't finished preparing herself for speaking to him after what had happened in the courtyard. She had strategies filed away in her brain for every kind of courtroom situation, but she had no strategies for near-miss sexual encounters. She had no string of lovers in her past to draw experience from. Her ex-husband was the only man she had ever been seriously involved with, and while Wesley was a good man, an intelligent man, a kind man, he wasn't the kind of man Jack was.