Michael shook his head. "It's eaten at me for so long, but I haven't told Bob anything." Torment etched his features. "I keep telling myself I'm only speculating, that I really don't know anything for sure. But I'm so afraid there will be another murder and that blood will be on my hands."

Shelby pushed her coffee cup aside, unable to drink with the turmoil inside her. She hadn't realized it until this moment, but she had come here hoping Michael would tell her that her suspicions were ridiculous, that their father couldn't possibly be a killer. "I have to go to Bob," she finally said, a deep weariness tugging at her. "I couldn't live with myself if I didn't and somebody else ended up dead. I have to at least tell him Big John is a strong suspect."

Michael reached across the table and grabbed her hand. "It's a horrifying thought, isn't it? That the man who sired us and raised us could be a man who preys on the weak, pitiful people of the swamp."

"There's a part of me that finds it so hard to believe, and yet there's a part of me that finds it too easy to believe." She squeezed Michael's hand. "And I think that's the saddest part of all, that I can believe he's capable of such a thing."

"You know if it's true, Mama and Olivia will be destroyed by it."

Shelby nodded and withdrew her hand from his. "I know, but I can't keep silent and let more people die. Mama and Olivia will survive, and I can't allow the murders to continue."

"So this exonerates Billy," Michael said.

"Yes." She rubbed the center of her forehead, again feeling a weariness of spirit, an ache of pain that wasn't physical. "But Billy is so angry about the deaths in the swamp. The people who died were his people, his friends, his family. I'm afraid of his anger, afraid I might be defending him against another charge." As much as she loved Michael, as close as she felt toward him, she couldn't tell him that her greatest fear was the spillover of Billy's hatred destroying the memories of the pa.s.sion they had shared.

"Ah, Billy will be all right. He's a survivor. Like us." Again his gaze was warm on her. "When are you going to tell Bob what you think?"

"Probably this afternoon. I can't put it off any longer. Even Tyler suspected Big John, and there is too much circ.u.mstantially to ignore."

"I'll go with you, if you want," he offered.

She shook her head. "That isn't necessary." She stood. "I'd better get out of here and let you prepare for your morning service."

"I'm glad you stopped by," he said as he walked her through the small living room and toward the front door.

"You've got a nice place here, Michael," she said as she looked around the cozy room.

"It's small, and the bathroom and kitchen need updating, but the church purse isn't exactly bulging, so I make do."

"It feels like a home," Shelby said. As she turned toward the front door her gaze fell on the cherry-wood secretary. The writing surface was cluttered with a variety of items-envelopes, bills, pens and paper clips. But it was the sight of one particular item that caused Shelby's blood to run cold. Pale blue stationery. It was the same kind of paper that had accompanied the flowers. Exactly the same.

"I'd better get home," she said, hanging on to her composure in desperation. She vaguely heard him say goodbye as she turned and walked toward her car.

Had Michael sent the bouquet? She fell into the car seat and started the engine, fighting a wave of nausea. Not Michael. Dear G.o.d, surely Michael wasn't involved in any of this. Please, don't let Michael be a part of the madness, she silently begged as she drove away from the church property. But the presence of the stationery refused to be silenced in her mind.

Along with the clamoring of the stationery came other memories. Michael, sitting at the dinner table, saying that he thought the killer was performing an act of mercy. Was it possible that the verbal abuse from Big John over the years had somehow made Michael snap? Was he now committing horrendous acts of murder and confusing them with acts of mercy?

It had been bad enough when she'd thought her father was responsible for the crimes, but to think Michael might be involved sent a dagger through her heart. Michael had been her sanity, her hero when they were growing up.

As always when she was upset, the first person she wanted to see was Billy. She stopped at the first pay phone she reached and called him, nearly sobbing in relief when he answered.

"I need to talk to you," she said.

"What's wrong?"

"I...I don't want to go into it over the phone." She needed his arms around her taking the chill from her body, she needed his strength buoying her to brave the face of her monster.

"I'll meet you in your backyard."

No questions, no need for explanations. She needed him and he was there. She drove home, her mind a chaotic ma.s.s of confusion. Thoughts of her father, of Michael and of Billy all swirled in her head.

Was it possible it had been Michael she'd seen on that night so long ago? Certainly the sight of her beloved brother stabbing a man to death would have been enough of a trauma to cause instant repression and horrible, haunting nightmares.

She parked her car and ran for the swamp without a backward glance at the house. Billy waited for her at the edge of the property, his arms open as if he knew her torment, recognized her need to be held.

For a long moment she remained in his arms, wondering what madness it was that drove her here to him and where the madness would eventually take her. Reluctantly she stirred from his embrace and stepped away. He took her hand and led her toward a fallen tree trunk, where together they sank down amid the jungle of greenery.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I went to see Michael. I wanted to talk to him about my father, my suspicions." She shuddered as she remembered that moment when she had spied the stationery. "I was getting ready to leave and saw that on his writing desk he had a stack of the same kind of stationery that came with the dead roses."

Billy nodded, appearing unsurprised. "You knew Michael was a possible suspect."

"Yes, but I never considered him seriously." Shelby dropped her head to her hands. "Michael was the one person in my family I thought I could always depend on. If he's capable of committing these kinds of crimes, then nothing is safe, nothing is sane in this whole world." Billy said nothing and she looked up to see him staring into the distance, his features as dark as the heart of the swamp. "Billy?"

He turned and looked at her, his eyes not radiating any light. "While I was looking over the autopsy reports, I discovered something interesting."

"What?" she asked, hoping it was something that would vindicate Michael.

"All of the victims were killed by knife wounds that thrust upward."

Shelby frowned. "You mean as if the murderer was shorter than the victims."

"Or on his knees."

Her frown deepened. "What would he be doing on his knees?"

Billy's gaze held hers. "Praying?"

NIGHT DESCENDED slowly, as if savoring the gulping of daylight. Shelby stood at her window, watching the dark shadows claim first the swamp, then the surrounding area.

Leaning her head against the pane of gla.s.s, she drew in a deep breath. She was exhausted, wearied beyond endurance. She'd spent the afternoon talking with Bob at the police station. It had been the most difficult conversation she'd ever had with anyone. Although she knew what she was doing was right, she felt like a traitor pointing an accusatory finger at the brother she loved.

Bob had agreed he had more than enough to bring Michael in for questioning. Not only did he have what Shelby had told him, he also had two witnesses who had seen Michael wandering in the swamp on the night of the last swamp murder.

Shelby had begged Bob to wait until the next day to pick up Michael. "It's Sunday," she'd protested. "Please, Bob, don't bring him in today. Wait and get him tomorrow."

But Bob had been adamant. He intended to leave to pick up Michael as soon as possible. Shelby had come home knowing that everything in her life, everything in her family, would change. Although her head told her Michael was the swamp serpent, her heart refused to completely accept the idea.

Something niggled at her, begging to be remembered but refusing to surface to her consciousness. She felt as if the puzzle was complete but she was left holding an extra piece.

Turning away from the window, she decided to call Billy and relay to him her conversation with Bob. As she went down the stairs to the living room, the house was silent around her. Her father, John junior, Olivia and Roger had all gone out to a fund-raiser dinner in Lake Charles and wouldn't be back until late that night. Shelby's mother had gone to her room right after dinner, stating she had a headache.

Before going to the telephone, Shelby wandered around the room where much of the family dynamics had played out over the years. It wasn't the same room from her memory. The decor had changed in the time she'd been gone. Even her memories now seemed to belong to somebody else. She had spent the years in Shreveport trying to reinvent her family. How sad that the one person she hadn't needed to reinvent was the most dysfunctional of all.

"Oh, Michael." She sighed as she sank down on the sofa. How could he be so warm, so loving to her, yet send her a hideous package to frighten her away? How could he preach the word of G.o.d on Sundays, then sneak through the swamp and commit murder in the night?

Picking up the phone receiver, she dialed Billy's number. He answered on the second ring, his deep voice a balm to her wounded soul. She told him about her conversation with Bob that afternoon, unable to hide the tremendous pain in her heart.

"You okay?" he asked.

"As well as can be expected. It just doesn't feel right. No matter how hard I try to put Michael's face on the figure I saw in the swamp with Layne Rocharee, it doesn't work." This time her sigh was one of frustration. "I don't know, maybe it doesn't feel right because I don't want it to be true. Bob was going to pick Michael up this afternoon. He said it would just be for questioning, but I have a feeling it will become a formal arrest. He indicated to me that Michael has been under suspicion for some time. He had several witness reports of Michael being in the swamp on the night of a couple of the murders. I haven't heard anything, but I a.s.sume Michael is now at the station." She swallowed against her tears. "If Michael has been arrested, I'm not surprised he hasn't called any of us. He wouldn't. He's always been very private." She wondered now if that privacy had instead been crafty secrecy.

"If that's the case and Michael really is guilty, then by this time tomorrow night the swamp serpent murders will be solved."

"Yes, and if Michael is the swamp serpent, then he probably killed Tyler and Fayrene, also." The words came with difficulty and she cleared her throat. "Tomorrow I'll ask Abe to drop all the charges filed against you. I'm sure he'd be quite agreeable. By tomorrow night you should be out from under the charges against you."

"And what will you be doing tomorrow night?" he asked.

"I don't know. Picking up the pieces of my family, I suppose."

"Your family has paid a high price for my freedom," he said.

Tears burned and she closed her eyes against them. "And the swamp has paid an enormous price because of my family."

For a moment silence fell between them, the gravity of the crimes creating a chasm Shelby didn't know how to bridge. She knew this was the beginning of the end of whatever had existed between Billy and her. Once Abe withdrew the charges against Billy, he wouldn't need her anymore.

"I'd better go," she finally said.

"I'll be in touch," Billy replied, then hung up.

Shelby slowly replaced the receiver into the cradle. Leaning her head back against the sofa cushions, she wondered how she had ever allowed herself to get involved with Billy. What madness had possessed her? She hadn't realized how much she'd come to depend on Billy's strong arms to hold her through rough times, hadn't recognized how deeply he was crawling into her heart until now when she was certain there would be nothing more between them.

Wearily she arose from the couch, deciding to go to bed. She was tired of thinking, tired of speculating. Everything was now out of her hands and there was nothing more she could do about the swamp serpent or Billy.

As she pa.s.sed the gilt-framed mirror hanging on the wall of the stairs, she caught a glimpse of her reflection. She stopped and peered at the mirror image, for a moment surprised to see how much she looked like her mother. With her pale face and features taut with strain, it was a younger version of her mother peering back at her.

She continued to stare into the mirror, her reflection blurring as her vision turned inward. The events of that night so long ago unfolded in her mind just as they had every night since she'd returned to Black Bayou. She saw herself walking through the swamp, drawn off the path by the sound of voices. In her mind she watched as Layne Rocharee died, then saw herself running back home where her mother was on the front porch. Shelby stumbled onto the porch, half in shock, unable to comprehend what she'd seen. "Mama, in the swamp," she gasped, trying to catch her breath as the words tumbled over themselves in an effort to be heard. "Something bad, I saw something..."

"You saw nothing," Celia said, her breath sour with the scent of gin. "Running in the swamp like a savage," Celia said scornfully.

"But Mama...I saw something bad...but I don't remember...I can't think...I need to talk to Mama Royce."

Celia snorted indelicately. "Don't go running to that old woman. She's dead. She died this evening."

The visions dissipated, leaving Shelby to stare into the mirror images of her wide, frightened eyes. That's what had nagged her all along. That's what had been bothering her...the extra piece of the puzzle. How had her mother known about Mama Royce's death?

Shelby knew she wouldn't sleep without the answer, and the only person who could answer was her mother. Turning, she went back down the stairs and down the hallway that led to her parents' bedroom.

She knocked on the door and waited for an answer. There was none. She knocked again. Seconds pa.s.sed. Minutes. Still no answer.

Drawing in a deep breath, Shelby turned the k.n.o.b and eased open the door. The dim lamp on the bedside stand was on. The bed was empty and the French doors that led to the patio and the lawn beyond were open.

Shelby ran to the doors and stared outside. Her mother wasn't on the porch, nor was she visible in the spill of the full moon anywhere on the lawn.

Shelby's gaze moved toward the swamp, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm. She knew. She knew the swamp serpent was hunting again. She knew in her heart the swamp serpent was her mother.

Chapter Eighteen.

Shelby paused only long enough to call Bob and tell him to get out to the swamp by her house. She spoke quickly, then hung up the phone and ran out the French doors.

The gra.s.s licked her ankles with dewy wetness as she raced across the lawn toward the tangled growth of the swamp. The moon hung low and full, just as it had all those years before, and the swamp beckoned like a familiar nightmare landscape.

Death and madness were in the heavy, humid air. She could smell them as clearly as she remembered the scent from her dreams...the scent of coppery blood mingling with pungent rotting vegetation and fragrant nightblooming flowers.

As she entered the thick greenery, memories exploded in her mind. Her mother, kneeling in front of Layne Rocharee, then rising up and at the same moment thrusting deep into his belly with a knife.

The moon had shone through the tops of the trees, fully illuminating her mother's face, a face Shelby didn't recognize, one filled with power, rage and madness.

Shoving the memory aside, she raced toward Billy's shanty, knowing if she was going to stop another serpent murder, she needed his help. The bridge to his place clattered beneath her feet and she didn't wait to knock, but rather threw open the door as she shouted his name.

She stopped short, surprised to see Gator, Angelique and Parker sitting at the table. "Where's Billy?" she asked without preamble.

"Your mother called and wanted to speak with him," Angelique said. "He went toward your place to meet with her."

Shelby's heart seemed to stop and yet she could hear the thunder of it beating in her ears. "My mother?"

Angelique's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"

"I...I have to find him. My mother...my mother is the swamp serpent." The words rode a sob as they escaped her. Without waiting for a response, she turned and ran out the door.

She didn't reflect on why her mother had lured Billy out into the swamp. It was impossible to speculate on the motive of madness. All she knew was that Billy was in danger. She ran through the swamp, half-crazed with fear, shouting his name over and over again. But there was no answer back. In fact, there seemed to be an unnatural hush pervading the swamp, as if it sensed evil and all the creatures silently waited for the danger to pa.s.s.

Shelby looked around, frantic. The full moon spilled down, ghostlike fingers of silver creating a dreamlike atmosphere and reflecting on the pools of water around her. Not a dream. A nightmare. Her nightmare. Her memory. And it was her memory that led her down an overgrown path toward the very place she had watched Layne Rocharee die.

She heard voices before she saw the figures. Two people in the clearing, silhouetted by the moonlight overhead. Her mother was stooped down, as if crying. As Billy took a step toward Celia, Shelby broke through the brush. "Billy, stop," she screamed. "Don't go any closer."

Billy paused, his face expressing surprise. "Shelby."

"Shelby, go home." Her mother stood, looking taller, more vital than Shelby had ever seen her before.

"No, Mama, I'm not going home." She stepped into the clearing where they stood.

"Shelby, you get on home. Billy and me are just having a little conversation. We were just saying that it's best if you leave Black Bayou and go back to Shreveport."

Shelby stared at her mother, new memories flooding back. "Trying to send me away, Mama. Like you did years ago?" She remembered now. Going to her aunt's in Shreveport had not been her idea. It had been a seed planted in her mind by her mother, nourished by the trauma of Mama Royce's death, the confusion over making love with Billy, and the unspeakable act she couldn't remember. "It's too late, Mama. I remember. I remember everything."

Even in the moonlight she saw the flash of rage flame from Celia's eyes. "d.a.m.n it Shelby, do as I say. Go home. We'll discuss all this later." Celia's lips twisted with cunning. "Go on, we'll fix this all later."

"Shelby?" Billy looked from her to Celia in confusion.

Shelby didn't answer him, but moved closer to where her mother stood. "Mama, it's over."