Tami Hoag - Cry Wolf

He wanted to kill somebody.

Jimmy Lee stalked the confines of his steamy, shabby bungalow in his underwear, frustration bubbling inside him, gurgling in a low growl at the back of his throat as he recounted all the shit mucking up his road to fame and fortune.

The cheap secondhand television he had picked up at Earlene's Used-a-Bit sat on an old crate in the corner. Instead of his own regularly scheduled hour of glory, the screen was filled with the flickering image of Billy Graham on a crusade to save the heathen communist souls of Croatia. A rerun hastily dug up to take the place of the fiasco that had been taped the day before at the old Texaco station.

The horizontal hold was slipping like fingers on a greased pig, the picture jumping up, catching, jumping up, catching. Passing the set on his circuit around the room, Jimmy Lee gave it a smack along the side that served only to send the volume blaring.

Swearing, he fumbled with the knob, managing to break it off in his hand. The control on his temper snapped just as readily, and he grabbed a lamp off an imitation wood end table and hurled it at the wall, the horrific crash drowning out Billy Graham right in the middle of his rage against the excesses of modern life.

Fuck Billy Graham. Jimmy Lee turned from the set, ignoring it even though it was rattling with the wrath of the master televangelist. The guy had one foot in the grave. He was old hat, passé, not in touch with what needy fanatics of the '90s wanted. In another few years, Jimmy Lee would be the one crusading around the world, begging the faithful of all races to stand up and be counted-and, most importantly, to stand up and have their money counted.

He'd be there, at the top, at the pinnacle, worshiped. And he wouldn't wear anything but tailor-made white silk suits. Hell, he'd even have tailor-made white silk underwear. He did love the feel of cool white silk. He'd have sheets of silk and curtains and white silk socks and white silk ties. Silk, the feel of money and sex. White, the color of purity and angels. The dichotomy appealed to him.

He'd get there, he promised himself, no matter what he had to do, no matter who got in his way.

Immediately several faces came to mind. Annie Delahoussaye-Gerrard, whose corpse had upstaged him in the local news. Savannah Chandler, whose taste for adventure dragged his thoughts away from his mission. Her sister, Laurel Goody Two Shoes, who plagued him like a curse. Bitches. His life was infested with bitches. Good for nothing but slaking a man's baser needs. On the television, a fat white broad who looked like Jonathan Winters in drag was belting out a chorus of "How Great Thou Art." Inside Jimmy Lee, the restless hunger burned. The night beckoned like a harlot, hot, stormy, tempestuous, and he cursed women in his best televangelist voice for leading him into temptation.

Jack prowled the grounds of L'Amour, too restless to be hemmed in by walls. He hadn't slept in… what? Two days? He'd lost track of time, lost track of everything but thoughts of death and worthiness… and Laurel. He couldn't get her out of his mind. Such indomitable honor, so much courage. He couldn't help caring about her. She was too pure, too brave, too good.

Too good for the like of you, T-Jack…

Dieu, what irony, as twisted as a lover's knot, that the most caring thing he could do for her would be not to care about her at all. Everything he touched died. Everything he wanted withered just within his grasp. He had no right to take her as part of his penance for other sins.

He walked down to the bank of the bayou and stood in the deep moon shadows of the live oak, staring out at the glassy water, the pirogue that bobbed at the end of the dock. The night sang around him, a chorus of frog song and insects in between thundershowers. A breeze teased the ends of the moss that hung down from the branches, and they swayed heavily, like ropes on the gallows.

He could see Evie's face hanging there in front of him, pale and pretty even in death, her beautiful dark eyes full of accusation and anger and disappointment. Evie, so trusting, so loving. He had loved her so carelessly, had taken so casually the precious gift she had made of her heart. Shallow, selfish bastard that he was, he had taken all she offered as if it were his due, part of the spoils of his success.

The guilt that weighed on him was heavier than anything in this world. It pressed down on him from above, in on him from all sides. He jerked around in a circle, looking for an escape route and finding none. He tried to back away, but came up against the rough trunk of the live oak, the bark biting into his back through the thin fabric of his T-shirt as the guilt pressed in on him.

Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes tight against the pain, and scalding tears trickled in a stream across his temples and into his hair. There were no adjectives in his writer's mind to describe the anguish, no words for the way it raked through his heart.

"Bon Dieu, Evangeline, sa me fait de le pain. Sa me fait de le pain."

He whispered the words over and over, a hoarse, broken chant for forgiveness, a mantra for relief from the terrible weight of his remorse. But he was granted no pardon. He knew he deserved none, because no matter how sorry he was, Evie would always be dead. And all the dreams she had dreamed would be dead. And all the babies she had planned to love would never be at all.

Because of him.

"Sa me fait de le pain," he mumbled, his face contorting against the pain. He turned into the trunk of the tree and pressed his cheek against the corrugated surface, clinging to the tree as regret wrung tears from him with merciless hands.

Sweet, sweet Evie, his wife.

Sweet, sweet Annie, like family.

Sweet, sweet Laurel…

Bad Jack Boudreaux. Never good enough. Not worthy of love, never meant for a family. Never anything a decent woman should want. A bastard, a cad, a killer.

What a cruel lie to think he could have anything. Better not to care at all than watch something so precious, something so deeply desired, slip through his grasp like smoke, like a magician's trick-there and gone in a heartbeat.

As fragile as life-there and gone in a heartbeat.

Whining softly with concern, Huey padded up to him and nosed the hand that hung limp at his side, sniffing for trouble or a treat. The dog's rough pink tongue slid along his palm hesitantly, offering comfort and sympathy, and Jack pulled away.

"Get outta here," he growled, swinging an arm at the dog.

The hound scuttled back clumsily, ears cocked, his head tilted in a quizzical expression. He woofed softly, falling into a play-bow and wagging his slender wand of a tail.

"Get outta here!" Jack roared.

All the anger and hurt that had gathered into a hard ball inside him burst like a nova and sent a hot, white rage through him. It tore out of him in a wild cry, and he lashed out at the dog, the toe of his boot just grazing Huey's rib cage. The dog let out a yelp of betrayal and fright, and ran ten feet away to stand cowering, looking at Jack with his mismatched eyes as hurt and innocent as a child's.

"Get the hell away from me!" Jack snapped. "I don' have a dog! I don' have a dog," he repeated, the adrenaline spent, his voice a ragged whisper. "I don' have nothin'."

And he turned and walked away from the hound, from L'Amour, and disappeared into the shadows of the night.

Thunder rolls like distant cannon fire. Clouds scud across the night sky like tattered wisps of smoke. The battlefield runs red.

The captive taunts and screams in the night in the swamp. Agony like a wild euphoria fills the air with electricity and the sweet, cloying scent of blood. Desperation and hate. Need and desire. Emotions twist and tear apart, overwhelming both captive and captor. The walls of the shack tremble with the terrible power of dark needs unleashed in the predator and in the prey lashed to the bed.