Savoy. He stank.
“Mister Grant?” Savoy asked.
“Who’s asking?”
“Doctor Artémius Savoy.” He held out his hand. Grant did not take it. “Travelling lecturer from Cambridge University, Trinity College, professor of biology and secular member of the Order of St. Eustachius.”
“I’m not Catholic.”
“I gathered that.”
“You know what time it is?”
“I am here to inquire on your extraordinary case.” Savoy took his seat and opened his notebook on his lap. “I am curious, as you claim, when you first saw the—”
“Oh hell. Another rag-writer.” Grant moved toward the exit.
“There is no proof you were capable of such a crime.”
“You sure?”
“I would like to be.”
“You a priest or something?”
“Something like that,” Savoy said. “My place as a secular tertiary is confirmed, but it has been ages since I performed any useful service. I doubt my membership is still valid. I took an oath to dedicate myself to Christ and yet...” He took a breath. “I would like to think I can hear your case with...shall we say, an open mind?”
“Even what I’ve seen?” Grant asked.
“What exactly did you see?”
Savoy considered this bear of a man, his smell, his unkempt appearance. He had interviewed plenty of maniacs, and unless his intuition was wrong—which was rare—it seemed this man was not the type. Every lunatic he had known, in any capacity, always betrayed their disconnection. Grant’s eyes held more depth than his look would suggest. He could be a very convincing actor , he thought. He could have torn those men open in that alley and you, the idiot, sit alone with him?
Yes, he could be guilty, but who else would have suspected Reynard LaCroix to be a penitent man, an honest businessman, a loyal brother...a friend?
“You’re not really my counsel,” Grant said.
“No.”
“Read the newspaper. You won’t believe me anyway. I don’t need you to attract any more attention than I’ve already got. You understand?”
“No,” Savoy said.
“I don’t need her finishing what she started.”
“Who?”
“ Her .”
7
Darkness, then spots of creamy light came, like faint stars in the fog. Croaking frogs, the rotten stink of decomposing soil.
— Drink—
His clawed hands grasped at the muck to pull him forward, clawed feet and muscular legs propelling him like heavy springs. He darted around the murky water to thicker tuffs of grass, around cypress trees with their tentacle roots. He kept to higher hills, blending with the night—there, a blur—gone in a breath.
— Drink—
Globes of bright light appeared, stinking of rotten eggs, white in the center and blue-green at the edges. He paused where the bayou ended and the manicured lawn began, in view of the great house with its many windows. Voices echoed with a scattering of broken moments, memories: a flash of gunpowder, the stink of sewage, the dark, dripping recesses beneath streets and daylight, the ever-present raging hunger. He tasted the night air—the scurry of a lizard, the scum on a stagnant pool. The bayou breathed through him; every fleck and pebble and beating heart held its own glamour.
He considered the big house with its gaslights, his ears twitching at the faint, scratchy sound of music. He breathed in, deep, silent, pressing his nostrils to the ground, inhaling the scent of footsteps rolling over his tongue.
— Drink—
Too close. He flattened against the moist earth, did not flinch when a firefly lighted on his back. A part ached for the trees, but the deeper part, the wild part—
— Drink—
Sound. Wood on stone— click, click, clack, click .
Along a cobbled path walked two shapes: A taller female in a long, black dress and an old fashioned bonnet of black lace. She smelled of fish and lavender and hair oil. Beside her walked a small girl in a yellow dress and floppy round hat. She chatted with a constant noise like an excited bird.
— Drink—
— No—
—
“Mister Grant?” Savoy asked.
“Who’s asking?”
“Doctor Artémius Savoy.” He held out his hand. Grant did not take it. “Travelling lecturer from Cambridge University, Trinity College, professor of biology and secular member of the Order of St. Eustachius.”
“I’m not Catholic.”
“I gathered that.”
“You know what time it is?”
“I am here to inquire on your extraordinary case.” Savoy took his seat and opened his notebook on his lap. “I am curious, as you claim, when you first saw the—”
“Oh hell. Another rag-writer.” Grant moved toward the exit.
“There is no proof you were capable of such a crime.”
“You sure?”
“I would like to be.”
“You a priest or something?”
“Something like that,” Savoy said. “My place as a secular tertiary is confirmed, but it has been ages since I performed any useful service. I doubt my membership is still valid. I took an oath to dedicate myself to Christ and yet...” He took a breath. “I would like to think I can hear your case with...shall we say, an open mind?”
“Even what I’ve seen?” Grant asked.
“What exactly did you see?”
Savoy considered this bear of a man, his smell, his unkempt appearance. He had interviewed plenty of maniacs, and unless his intuition was wrong—which was rare—it seemed this man was not the type. Every lunatic he had known, in any capacity, always betrayed their disconnection. Grant’s eyes held more depth than his look would suggest. He could be a very convincing actor , he thought. He could have torn those men open in that alley and you, the idiot, sit alone with him?
Yes, he could be guilty, but who else would have suspected Reynard LaCroix to be a penitent man, an honest businessman, a loyal brother...a friend?
“You’re not really my counsel,” Grant said.
“No.”
“Read the newspaper. You won’t believe me anyway. I don’t need you to attract any more attention than I’ve already got. You understand?”
“No,” Savoy said.
“I don’t need her finishing what she started.”
“Who?”
“ Her .”
7
Darkness, then spots of creamy light came, like faint stars in the fog. Croaking frogs, the rotten stink of decomposing soil.
— Drink—
His clawed hands grasped at the muck to pull him forward, clawed feet and muscular legs propelling him like heavy springs. He darted around the murky water to thicker tuffs of grass, around cypress trees with their tentacle roots. He kept to higher hills, blending with the night—there, a blur—gone in a breath.
— Drink—
Globes of bright light appeared, stinking of rotten eggs, white in the center and blue-green at the edges. He paused where the bayou ended and the manicured lawn began, in view of the great house with its many windows. Voices echoed with a scattering of broken moments, memories: a flash of gunpowder, the stink of sewage, the dark, dripping recesses beneath streets and daylight, the ever-present raging hunger. He tasted the night air—the scurry of a lizard, the scum on a stagnant pool. The bayou breathed through him; every fleck and pebble and beating heart held its own glamour.
He considered the big house with its gaslights, his ears twitching at the faint, scratchy sound of music. He breathed in, deep, silent, pressing his nostrils to the ground, inhaling the scent of footsteps rolling over his tongue.
— Drink—
Too close. He flattened against the moist earth, did not flinch when a firefly lighted on his back. A part ached for the trees, but the deeper part, the wild part—
— Drink—
Sound. Wood on stone— click, click, clack, click .
Along a cobbled path walked two shapes: A taller female in a long, black dress and an old fashioned bonnet of black lace. She smelled of fish and lavender and hair oil. Beside her walked a small girl in a yellow dress and floppy round hat. She chatted with a constant noise like an excited bird.
— Drink—
— No—
—
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