"Do all your 'dates' end the evening with a trip to the hospital?" she asked, gritting her teeth against the nauseating pain that ripped through her shoulder.

She started to sit up, but a wave of darkness swept over her. Vaguely, she heard Billy curse as she gave in and fainted into sweet oblivion.

Chapter Eight.

Billy knew the bullet that had pierced Shelby's shoulder had been meant for him, and for the first time he realized the depth of pa.s.sion stirred in Black Bayou by Tyler's and Fayrene's murders. Fayrene's loss was insignificant; it was the death of Tyler that had summoned fury, stirred fear. The good people of Black Bayou were accustomed to bad things happening to the swamp people, but Tyler had been one of their own.

The truck bounced and careened over the back roads, unconscious groans escaping Shelby with each jolt. She was slumped against his side, her breath warm against his neck. His right arm held her steady as his left hand worked the steering wheel.

He could tell her wound wasn't life threatening. He'd immediately ripped her blouse aside and had seen that the bullet appeared to have grazed the top of her shoulder, rather than pierced it. There had been an initial burst of blood, but by the time he'd gotten her in the truck, the bleeding had nearly stopped. Still, his heart beat an unsteady rhythm as he thought of how close she had come to being killed.

"d.a.m.n it." He slapped the palm of his hand on the steering wheel, a whisper of rage building in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't angry that somebody had attempted to shoot him. He'd half expected something like this. But his rage was built on the sloppiness of the shooter, who'd missed his target and instead hit Shelby.

One thing was certain. As far as this particular case was concerned, Shelby was finished. He'd take his chances with another attorney. He wouldn't risk her life to save his own.

He wheeled into Doc Cashwell's place and parked the truck in front of the back door that led to the office and examining room. Shutting off the engine, he got out of the truck, then leaned back in to scoop Shelby up in his arms. Her face nuzzled against his shirtfront, m.u.f.fling another soft groan against his beating heart.

Doc Cashwell must have heard them drive up, for he met Billy at the door. "What have we here?" The old man gestured for Billy to follow him through the small waiting room and to an examining room, where Billy placed Shelby gently on the paper-covered examination table.

"Gunshot wound to the shoulder," Billy said tersely, stepping back so the doctor could perform his magic. "She fainted almost immediately."

"How long has she been out?" Doc Cashwell quickly cut the blouse away from the wound.

"Just a few minutes, as long as it took me to get her here from The Edge."

The old man paused in his ministrations and cast Billy a curious glance. "Did you shoot her?"

Billy leaned against the doorjamb and grinned indolently. "No, Doc, there's no way anybody can pin this one on me."

"Git out of here so I can clean this up. If she doesn't come to soon, I'll bring her around when I'm finished."

Nodding curtly, Billy went back into the waiting room and sat down on one of the plastic chairs. The bullet to Shelby's shoulder changed everything. When he'd first realized he was the number-one suspect in the murders, he'd talked to several lawyers in New Orleans. None of them seemed willing to take on what they considered a losing case. It had shocked and surprised him when one of them recommended Shelby. The lawyer had told him Shelby had a reputation for tenacity, especially when defending an underdog. G.o.d knew Billy was an underdog.

For Billy, it had seemed right that he would be the reason for her coming back home. Especially since he'd been the reason for her leaving in the first place. But somebody had just raised the stakes and made this a deadly game. That bullet, a couple of inches one way or the other, could have been lethal. He couldn't consciously put Shelby in harm's way.

He'd have to take his chances alone, and if things didn't go his way then he'd take Parker and disappear so far into the swamp n.o.body would ever find him again. He'd do whatever it took to keep Parker mentally well and physically safe. h.e.l.l. He raked a hand through his hair, a rueful smile curving his lips. That particular sentiment was what had gotten him in this predicament in the first place.

SHE WAS EIGHTEEN years old again. The humid, thick night air embraced her as she tried to walk off the anger that always appeared after spending an evening with the family. As usual, her father had spent the family time raging at each child for some imagined sin. None of them had been spared vicious verbal lashings as Big John recited his litany of complaints and disappointments. He'd finally run out of steam over dessert and had left the house, slamming the back door with enough force to shake the foundation. One by one the children had drifted out as well, unable to stay in the oppression of the house with only their drunken mother as company.

As always, Shelby sought the comfort of the swamp, intent on ending the evening in a visit with Mama Royce. Mama Royce always made Shelby feel safe and warm... loved.

As she walked through the woods she practiced trying to be as silent as possible. Billy had told her that in order to walk with the stealth of a wild animal she had to become an animal, but she remained mystified by Billy's skill in traversing the wooded area without making a single noise.

It was a crazy moon night, the kind where the moon shone so full on the water it looked as if the swamp had swallowed the lunar globe whole.

She wasn't far from Mama Royce's shanty when she heard a soft whimper followed by hoa.r.s.e, guttural, but unintelligible words. Confused by voices this deep in the swamp, disturbed by the fear-filled whimpers, she parted the brush in front of her, searching for the source of the noise.

For a moment she didn't understand what she saw. Figures locked in a macabre embrace, shadows and slivers of moonlight splashing them in surreal lighting. She was too far away to see their features, but could tell it was two figures. As she watched one of them transformed, features blurring as skin turned reptilian. Suddenly it was no longer human, but rather an alligator. Maybelline. Clutched in her ma.s.sive grip was Gator, his wrist spurting blood as he whimpered like a child.

Consciousness came abruptly. Shelby sat straight up and batted a hand under her nose, fighting against the strong ammonia scent that pulled her from the strange nightmare and into the real world of pain.

"Welcome back."

She stared blankly at the white-haired old man, who looked vaguely familiar. "Wha...what happened?" She gasped as a fiery pain arrowed through her shoulder, bringing with it the memory of the sound of the gunshot, the grit of the gravel beneath her and Billy's animal-like watchfulness as he eyed the surrounding woods.

"You've been shot, dear. Do you remember what happened?"

She nodded and reached for her shoulder, her fingers encountering a bulky bandage and the unfamiliar material of a hospital gown. "Is it serious?"

"About as serious as a splinter." The old man grinned, and instantly Shelby recognized him. He was older, his hair no longer the sandy brown she remembered, but the smile was the same one that had graced his face when Shelby had been a child and had been brought to him for a variety of childhood ailments.

"It's just a flesh wound," Doc Cashwell continued. "The bullet grazed the top of your shoulder. It will be sore for a couple of days, but should heal up without complications. Unfortunately, your blouse is beyond my medical expertise." He held up the pale pink blouse, the shoulder ripped and b.l.o.o.d.y.

Shelby swung her legs over the side of the examining table and eased herself to a standing position. Clutching the edges of the hospital gown together, she felt as if she'd been run over by a semi. Her body ached and her ribs felt bruised. "Is Billy all right?" she asked.

"Fit as a fiddle and out in the waiting room." The doctor walked with her to the door. "Keep the bandage clean and check back with me in a couple of days."

He opened the door, and Shelby walked out into the waiting room just as Bob entered the small room from the back door. "Shelby." He rushed to where she stood. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she a.s.sured him, her gaze going to where Billy stood motionless at one end of the room. "What are you doing here?" she asked Bob.

"Doc called me, said you'd been shot."

"I'm duty bound to report all gunshot injuries," Doc interjected.

"What the h.e.l.l happened?" Bob demanded. He raised a hand and touched Shelby's cheek softly. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Shelby moved away from his hand, uncomfortably aware of Billy's dark gaze. "I'm fine. I'm just tired and I'd like to go home."

"Somebody needs to tell me what happened." Bob turned and looked at Billy. "What do you have to do with this? Why is it every time there's trouble, you're around?"

"I'm just lucky, I guess." Billy's voice held ill-disguised sarcasm. "We were leaving The Edge and somebody shot at us. If I was to guess, the bullet that hit Shelby was probably intended for me."

"Oh, I have no doubt of that," Bob replied. For a moment the enmity between the two men shimmered in the room. It was Billy who finally broke the moment. "Shelby, I'll wait for you out in the car." He spun on his heel and went out the door.

Bob sighed and raked a hand through his hair, his gaze focused on the spot where Billy had stood. "Someday somebody will put a bullet through his thick head." He looked back at Shelby, his features softened. "Shelby, I told you this was ugly, and promises to get uglier. Tyler's death has stirred emotions and there's no way I can police everyone's pa.s.sion." He sighed again and pulled a small notepad from his pocket. "You want to tell me exactly what happened so I can make out a report?"

Shelby leaned against the wall, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming her. "Bob, would it be all right if I come into the station tomorrow and make a report? I'm really tired and my shoulder hurts."

"I think that is an excellent idea," Doc Cashwell replied. "Shelby has had a nasty shock, and needs to go home and get some rest." He looked at the sheriff. "Surely the report can wait until tomorrow."

Bob closed the notebook and put it back into his pocket. "Okay, I can get the details tomorrow. You want me to drive you home?"

She shook her head. "Billy can take me. I'll be fine," she added as he frowned. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He hesitated a moment, as if wanting to say something else to her. She saw the worry in his eyes, a worry coupled with emotions too personal for Shelby's comfort. She had a sudden memory of her junior high school friends teasing her about big-eared Bob's crush on her. Bob had grown into his ears, but she had a feeling he hadn't quite outgrown the crush.

"Shelby, I want to give you some pain pills before you go." Dr. Cashwell broke Bob's inertia. With a final goodbye he left the office.

Minutes later, clutching a handful of sample pain pills and a package of sterile bandages, Shelby left the office and joined Billy in his pickup truck. "Just take me back to my car. I can drive the rest of the way home from there."

"You sure?" He started the engine and pulled out of the doctor's driveway. "I don't mind taking you all the way home."

"I'm positive, just take me to my car." She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes, momentarily lulled by the silence and the gentle movement of the truck. She didn't open her eyes until the truck pulled to a stop and she realized they were parked next to her car.

"I want you to go back to Shreveport." Billy broke the silence between them, his dark eyes glowing in the illumination from the dash lights.

"Pardon me?"

"You heard me. I don't want you working on this anymore. Pack your bags and go back where you belong." His tone was curt, harsh, and evoked in Shelby an anger that overwhelmed her battered exhaustion.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. "I'm not about to allow some coward hiding in the bushes with a gun to scare me off."

He shut off the engine, then twisted in his seat to confront her, his face stern and forbidding in the play of shadows from the dim lighting. "You don't understand. I'm firing you. I don't want your help any longer."

"I really don't care what you want," Shelby returned. "This has gone beyond you and become something personal. I'm not quitting this case and I'm certainly not leaving town."

She opened the car door and started to step out, but gasped as he grabbed her, his fingers curling around her wrist in a tight grip. He pulled her toward him, close enough that she could see the wicked flare of his pupils, smell the odor of soap and male sweat that emanated from him.

"I don't want you here," he whispered. "It was a mistake for me to call you, a mistake to drag you into this mess. Go home, Shelby. Go back to Shreveport where you belong."

"I've been pawed by a drunk, thrown down to the ground and shot all in a single night." She wrenched her wrist out of his grasp. "The last thing I need right now is for you to give me c.r.a.p." She got out of the truck and glared back in at him. "If and when I decide to go back to Shreveport, it will be my decision, not yours. I'm finished running, Billy Royce. I ran from here years ago feeling powerless and alone. n.o.body, not you, not my dysfunctional family and not some fool hiding in the brush is going to make me run again."

She bit her bottom lip, having said much more than she had intended. Realizing her emotions were at a fever pitch and veering dangerously out of control, she slammed the door and got into her car, thankful that Billy didn't get out of the truck and try to continue the argument.

As she drove home, her shoulder throbbed, a constant reminder that something was dreadfully wrong in Black Bayou. She was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of it. Fayrene and Tyler were dead, and if Billy went to prison for that crime it would be an enormous miscarriage of justice.

People were being stabbed, their bodies left to rot in the swamp that was their home, and the public outcry was but a whisper.

She frowned, remembering the nightmare she'd been suffering while in the darkness of her faint. Parts of it had the disturbing elements of a distant memory, and yet other pieces had been absurdly nightmarish. Crazy, obviously a mixture of her outrage over the swamp murders and a lingering disquiet about Gator and his colorful rendition of his war with Maybelline.

Still, there was no doubt about it. There was a core of rot here that far surpa.s.sed dirty politics or good-ole-boy networking. Black Bayou harbored a couple of monsters. One had killed Fayrene Whitney and Tyler LaJune. And somebody horribly disturbed was killing innocent people. Shelby knew she wouldn't be satisfied until the monsters had a face, until she knew the monsters' names.

Chapter Nine.

"What happened to you?" Michael arose from the dining table as Shelby entered the room the next morning, her shoulder bandage apparent beneath the light cotton blouse she wore.

"An evening with Billy." She grinned wryly, then winced as she sank into the chair opposite where he'd been sitting. "It seems Billy isn't very popular, and I got in the way of somebody's bullet."

"My G.o.d, Shelby." Michael moved to the sideboard and motioned to the coffee. Shelby nodded and he refilled his own cup, then poured hers and returned to the table. "I a.s.sume you've seen a doctor?"

"Dr. Cashwell fixed me right up." After she explained the previous evening's events, she looked at her brother curiously. "What are you doing here so early?"

"Twice a week I volunteer my time at the community center. I stop by here for coffee before I go. My coffee always tastes like tar sludge."

"What do you do at the community center?"

"Whatever needs to be done. It's been one of Big John's pet projects since its inception."

Sipping her coffee, Shelby raised an eyebrow. "Father has never been particularly interested in projects that don't benefit him."

Michael nodded, a wicked grin curling one corner of his mouth. "It benefits Junior, who receives positive publicity every time Big John gives a check or one of us volunteers time there. Even Mother spends one afternoon a week there reading to the children. It's all part of the major campaign to make the Longsford family look like they care about the 'little people.'"

"I should have known Big John never does anything that doesn't reap him large rewards." She smiled. "Tell me, Father Michael, is there a place in Heaven for a man like him?"

The smile fell from Michael's face. "I think there's probably a special place in h.e.l.l for Big John." He grinned again. "But even there, I imagine Big John will be running the show."

They fell into silence. Shelby sipped her coffee slowly, discovering that the simple act of swallowing caused sore muscles and bruised ribs to ache. She'd slept poorly, haunted by disturbing visions of the swamp and dreams of Billy. The throbbing heat of her shoulder had awakened her several times, and each time she'd been grateful for the interruption of those dreams.

"Are you going back to Shreveport?" Michael interrupted her thoughts.

"You think I should?"

He looked into his coffee cup with a rueful smile. "Shelby, I'm not our father. I would never tell you what you should or shouldn't do. I want you to stay here, but I want you to be safe, and it's obvious those two things might not be possible."

Shelby touched her shoulder thoughtfully. "Billy told me to leave, to go back to Shreveport. He tried to fire me."

"He's obviously concerned for your safety, too."

It was her turn to smile ruefully. "Billy is concerned with Billy. He knows if I'm accidentally killed, he'll be skinned alive." She frowned and sipped her coffee once again. "I'm not leaving, and I'm not going to stop digging into Fayrene's and Tyler's deaths. I know Billy is innocent."

Michael reached across the table and covered one of her hands with his. "I'm glad, Shelby. I'm glad you're going to stay. G.o.d help me if something happens to you, but I want you here. You give me strength."

She grasped the warmth of his hand lovingly. "I've always thought of you as the strong one."

Michael laughed ruefully. "Why? Because I didn't do as Big John wanted and go into politics?" He released her hand and touched the collar around his neck. "I'm not strong, Shelby. We have become a family of professional hiders." He looked at her, his blue eyes darkened in thought. "You're the only one who didn't find a place to hide."

"Yes, I did," Shelby countered. "While I was living here, I hid at Mama Royce's shanty and then I ran away and hid in Shreveport." She stared down reflectively into her coffee cup. "I realized last night that my life in Shreveport isn't real. I wasn't really living...I've been biding time, waiting to come back here where I belong."

"Why did you leave, Shelby? What drove you away so suddenly?"

She frowned, wondering exactly how to answer. She couldn't tell him that the depth of her pa.s.sion for Billy had frightened her away, although that had certainly played into her decision to leave. Nor could she tell him grief for Mama Royce had caused her to run. Although both those things had been partially responsible, there had been something else...a fear...an undefinable need to escape. How could she explain what she still didn't understand? She looked at Michael helplessly and shrugged. "It's too complicated to explain. Let's just say I knew it was time for me to leave, give myself a chance to see something of the world beyond Black Bayou. But now it's time to stay here where I belong."

Michael's hand covered hers once again. "I'm just glad you're back, Shelby." He finished his coffee and stood. "Why don't you come with me to the community center? Let me show you some of the good things that are being accomplished there."

"I'd like that," Shelby agreed, also rising from the table. "Besides, I promised Bob I'd stop by the police station and give him a statement."