The Whispering Room

According to Lena Saunders, Paul Courtland and his brother were related to Mary Alice Lemay, a woman who had killed all her male children because she feared they’d inherited their father’s evil gene.

Also according to Lena, Mary Alice’s youngest daughter, Rebecca, had not only helped in the execution of at least one of her brothers, but she might also be responsible for the slaying of Paul and David Courtland.

To call Lena’s theory bizarre was an understatement, but Evangeline had done enough research that afternoon to know that the gist of what the writer had told her was true.

Whether Nathan Mallet’s death was somehow connected to Paul Courtland’s, she couldn’t yet say. But one thing was certain. Something strange was going on. And for whatever reason, Evangeline seemed to be a part of it.

The night was hot and humid, but she found herself shivering as she got up and went inside. The house was secure and she had her weapon nearby. There was no real reason for her to be so on edge, Evangeline told herself as she got ready for bed.

Besides, she knew how to defend herself. Anyone trying to break in would find themselves on the wrong end of her .38. She was a crack shot, too, with a steady hand and a firm resolve. And she was fully prepared to do whatever was necessary to protect her home and her child.

Too wired to sleep, she stayed up for a long time watching an old movie, but exhaustion finally claimed her and she fell asleep to the flickering screen.

When she woke up sometime later, she thought the noise from the television had awakened her, even though the volume was turned low.

She clicked off the power, and it took her a moment to realize that the sound she’d heard wasn’t coming from the TV.

It was coming from the baby monitor.

Evangeline shot upright in bed. The tinkle of music through the speaker was as clear as if the mobile were in the same room with her. In her mind’s eye, she saw the tiny paper cranes circling over her baby, and a dark chill crept over her.

Reaching for her weapon, Evangeline quietly swung her legs over the bed and got up. Wincing at the squeak of the old hardwood floors, she padded across the room and slipped out into the hallway. Gun gripped in both hands and pointed downward, she eased along the wall, eyes and ears alert for any movement or sound.

The door to the nursery was open, and the night-light revealed a peaceful scene. J.D. was asleep in his crib, undisturbed by the soft jingle of the music box as the mobile circled slowly, the cranes barely adrift.

Standing beside the crib, Evangeline felt the cool gush of air from the air-conditioner vent. She put up a hand to still the mobile. The music stopped. The room fell silent. There was no sound at all in the house except for J.D.’s breathing.

Evangeline waited, and a moment later, the draft from the vent stirred the cranes again, the movement activating the music box. A few bars of the tune played out before the room fell silent once more.

Mystery solved, Evangeline thought with a breath of relief. She felt a bit foolish clutching the gun, but she didn’t return it to her nightstand until she’d made a complete round through her house.

Satisfied that nothing was amiss, she settled back down to sleep. But every little noise, every movement of shadow and light, brought a new shiver, and she couldn’t seem to shake the notion that out there in the dark, someone was watching.

Evil had slithered into her life and now lay coiled and waiting.

Nineteen

Ellis Cooper squatted on the slick, mossy bank and watched moonlight glisten off the bayou. He loved coming out here at night. The swamp was the play-ground of the nighttime predator.

Like him, he thought as he kept his eyes trained on the water.

Amidst the trills and croaks and chirps of the small, harmless creatures came the occasional bellow of a bull gator. All around him, he could sense the scurry of tiny feet through dead leaves, the watchful eyes deep within the shadows.

After a while, his patient vigil was rewarded, and he spotted the telltale ribbon of silver in the water. A snake swam, head up, toward the bank and a moment later, the thick body glided through the moss and underbrush mere inches from where Ellis perched.

The serpent must have sensed his presence for it stopped, hidden in the shadow of a rotting log. Ellis had a stick in one hand, and, rising, he struck it against the ground where the reptile lay concealed.

Most snakes would have slithered even farther under the log for protection, but not the cottonmouth. Water moccasins were stubborn and aggressive, and Ellis knew only too well that they would sometimes come at you if you weren’t careful.

The snake reared up out of the shadows, mouth wide open, fangs bared and ready. It sprang forward, whether to strike or to frighten, Ellis didn’t know. Or care. He was ready for it. His hand shot out, grasping the moccasin behind the fist-sized head. Laughing softly, he lifted the serpent up high.