Tami Hoag - Cry Wolf

"She's doing well enough," he said. "One of the few saving graces of her illness is that she forgets unpleasantness almost as quickly as it happens. It's the rest of us who have to go on with bad memories lingering like the smell of smoke."

The past was gone, but its taint was stubborn and pervasive. An apt analogy, Laurel thought as she left the house.

She slid behind the wheel of her car and just sat there for a moment, her mind trying to go in eight directions at once. Cooper thought Savannah had gone to New Orleans. It didn't feel right. Savannah had always treated a trip to New Orleans as an event, something to fuss over and pack and repack for. She would have told Aunt Caroline, promised to bring back something outrageous for Mama Pearl just to hear the old woman huff and puff. She wouldn't have slipped away like a thief in the night, regardless of who she had gone with.

She would call the Maison de Ville, just to be sure, but there were other possibilities, and one of them was Jimmy Lee Baldwin.

Jimmy Lee stretched out across his rumpled bed and groaned. He felt near death with exhaustion. He smelled of rank, ripe sweat with an undertone of liquor and an overtone of sex. Without question, he needed a long shower before his lunch meeting with his deacons. Deacons. Christ, the saps would go nuts over that title.

"You're fucking brilliant, Jimmy Lee," he snickered, staring up at the creaking old ceiling fan as it strained to stir the stale air. "You're a Grade A-mazing, God damntastic genius."

It was the sign of a man who would go far. When things turned sour, he found a way to sweeten the deal. The taping at the Texaco station hadn't turned out the way he had planned, but ultimately it was going to be to his advantage. He would make sure of it.

The brainstorm had come in the middle of a wild, hard fuck. In a way, he had a whore to thank, ironic as that seemed. The answer to his troubles was what she had begged from him-mercy, sympathy. He would play on the sympathies of his followers. He didn't believe in giving sympathy himself. Go for the throat. Look out for Number One. Those were his mottoes. But the American people had traditionally loved an underdog. He would get a few key puppets whipped into a frenzy for his flagging cause, they would rally the troops, and he'd be back on track in nothing flat.

He smiled a wicked smile as he pictured it. The looks on their gullible, stupid faces as he poured his heart out to them about the plight of his ministry and his campaign to end sin. His cause was being sabotaged by Satan in the guise of Jack Boudreaux. He was being thwarted and made to look a fool at every turn, and he just didn't know if he had the heart to go on alone. Perhaps if one or two good men would be willing to shoulder some of his burden by filling the role of deacon… Their eyes would go wide, and their faces would shine with imagined grace.

The timing was perfect. Discovery of a mutilated female in their own backyards tended to turn people's thoughts to God and to vengeance. They would want a leader and a scapegoat, and Jimmy Lee intended to give them both.

He sat up just enough to snag the paperback off his nightstand and fell back across the lumpy mattress, thumbing through the pages.

Blood ran in rivulets, pearling and tumbling in the knife's wake. She tried to scream, but the sound vibrated only in her mind. Her throat was raw. Silk filled her mouth, like a stopper in a bottle, and the tie of the gag pulled her lips back in a macabre smile…

"Twisted stuff, Jack my man." He chuckled as he folded down the corner on the page.

This was all playing right into his hands. He fantasized about all the possibilities as he stripped and showered in the grungy, mildew-coated shower stall. Jack Boudreaux would get pinned for the murders. Jimmy Lee would be a hero. Free publicity. Fan mail. The faithful would come out of the woodwork and follow him anywhere, do anything for him. What a perfectly wonderful dream.

He was a happy and satisfied man as he dressed. He even hummed a few bars of an old gospel tune as he polished off the knot in his tie and stood back to critique his look in the mirror above the bathroom sink.

His tawny hair was slicked back, his cheeks perfectly tan and clean-shaven. He flashed a smile, euphoric as always with the dental wonders he had invested in. He looked, quite simply, perfect. The shirt and tie were neat, but the knot was just slightly loose and askew. The suit was sufficiently limp with just enough wrinkles to make him look a little downtrodden. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting his shoulders sag and the muscles of his face droop into a worried frown. For a crowning touch, he mussed his hair a little in front, flicking a few strands loose to tumble across his forehead.

The deacons wouldn't know what hit them.

Someone banged on the screen door, and Jimmy Lee let whoever it was wait a few seconds, setting the mood. It was probably one of his chosen come to check on him. He had sounded despondent when he'd called them this morning. He shambled out of the bathroom, head hanging low, hands dangling by his sides.

Laurel Chandler stared in at him through the screen. She didn't look the least bit sympathetic. She looked like trouble.

"Miz Chandler," he said, pushing the door open. "What a surprise to see you here."

"Yes, I suppose you'd be less surprised to see my sister," Laurel said. She stepped across the threshold, staying as far away from Baldwin as she could, never turning her back to him for a second. From the corners of her eyes, she did a quick reconnaissance of the shabby bungalow, her gaze lingering a second on the old bed with its scrollwork iron headboard and footboard.

Jimmy Lee let the door bang shut. His face carefully blank, his gaze steady on the woman who looked up at him with undisguised contempt, he pushed back the sides of his suit coat and planted his hands at his waist. "Just what is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what you think it means."

"You're suggesting I have a relationship with your sister?"

"No. I'm saying you have sex and play bondage games with my sister."

His reaction was something that artlessly combined incredulous laughter and choking astonishment. Jaw hanging slack, head wagging, he staggered back a step, as if her words had struck him physically and dazed him. "Miz Chandler, that's simply outrageous! I am a man of God-"

"I know exactly what you are, Mr. Baldwin."

"I think not."

"Are you calling my sister a liar?" she challenged, planting her hands on her slim hips.

Jimmy Lee bit his tongue and assessed the situation. Back in his youth, when he'd hustled small-time for pocket money, he had prided himself on being able to read a mark in nothing flat. What he saw behind the glasses, in the depths of Laurel Chandler's deep blue eyes, behind the temper and the intelligence, was a hint of vulnerability. Maybe she didn't approve of Savannah's freewheeling sex life. Maybe she was every bit as prim as she appeared to be. Maybe she didn't quite trust Savannah's sanity.

He sighed dramatically and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, forcing his shoulders down. Letting her hang for a minute, he turned away from her-not so far that she couldn't see him furrow his brow and frown, as if in contemplation.

"'Liar' is a harsh word. I think your sister is a very troubled woman. I don't deny she's come to me. I've tried to counsel her."

"I'll bet you have."

Her whole body vibrating with temper, Laurel took a slow turn around the room. When she came to the foot of the unmade bed, she stopped and curled her fingers over the curving bow of the foot rail. It was bumpy with layers of old paint, rough in spots where the rust was coming through. She gave it a yank, testing for sturdiness, and shot a look at Baldwin over her shoulder.