by Nene Adams ©1999 - All rights reserve

CHAPTER ONE

The woman was driving east from Beaumont, making for Lafayette and hoping to get there before dawn. Her meeting had run late; she'd expected to be on the road by nine o'clock and now it was nearly midnight.

The road she'd chosen - an old and nearly forgotten stretch of blacktop optimistically built in the 1950's during the highway boom - was two lanes of empty, limitless darkness that stretched on and on, interrupted only by the occasional marker sign that proclaimed "Welcome to the John C. Cofflin Highway 13 - Proud to Serve the Louisiana Community Since 1956."

Personally, the woman thought they could have served her better by putting up some lights, dammit, the road was a deathtrap especially on rainy nights when visibility was nil; traffic - what little of it there was - had to cross over two bridges, neither of which had been built to accommodate anything broader than an anorexic VW.

If you slipped, it was a long drop straight down to Bayou Nezpique and into the welcoming arms of smiling, sharp-toothed gators. She'd heard stories about some of the grisly accidents that had taken place on Highway 13. The locals - and she was one of them - called it Coffin Alley, a play on the official designation of what was little more than a backcountry road.

But Coffin Alley was more convenient than the backed up, clogged, frustratingly busy mainstream arteries that were full of drunk drivers, assholes and people with more gall than common sense. Better to take the long, scenic route; the night was clear, the moon was out and the worst she could look for was running over a turtle.

She hadn't seen another car since coming onto Coffin Alley and that suited her right down to the ground. It was summer and muggy as hell; she stomped on the gas, cranked down the windows and drove fast enough to blow blood-hungry mosquitoes right back into the swamp.

The radio was blasting - Do You Love Her Madly by the Doors - and she was feeling mighty damn good, no worries, big fat order of computer hardware that was going to feed the mortgage... all in all, very much worth the trouble of driving all the way to Beaumont and doing a personal demonstration of her company's goods to a roomful of ignorant, suspicious businessmen who might have learned their negotiating skills from the cast of "Deliverance."

Xena Bonchance shook her long dark hair and pushed the wild, wind-blown locks out of her face impatiently. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel in time to the music; her pale blue eyes were narrowed against the continual blast of warm, humid air that brought with it the scents of decay, murky green rot and stagnant water.

She had just safely crossed over the second bridge, an unnamed chunk of rusting steel and concrete that arced over the tail end of Bayou Nezpique, and was already anticipating a hot bath, a glass of whiskey and her warm bed. Xena hummed along with the radio - this time, it was Sympathy for the Devil by the Rolling Stones - and relaxed, slouching down in the leather covered seat, guiding the old Chevrolet with bare touches of her hands and a well placed knee.

Lights piercing the suffocating darkness, illuminating the pitted asphalt road, gnarled trees that were swagged with dripping fringes of Spanish moss, the thick underbrush peppered with small glowing eyes of nocturnal animals, the girl in the white dress standing in the middle of the road...

Girl??!

Shit!!

Xena slammed on the brakes and wrenched the wheel around, knowing even as she did so it was too late. She braced herself for impact, already anticipating a hideous crunch as the heavy old car ground the girl's body to splintered hamburger or, miracle of miracles, missed the suicidal bitch and instead hurtled into a tree.

No time for action just reaction. Brief flashes of vision careened through her mind - the girl's white face, those wide green eyes - as she struggled with the wheel, each second flowing past with supernatural speed and yet at the same time seeming to linger. The car wobbled, thought about skidding into a spin, then lurched to a halt almost reluctantly, engine ticking over in a scolding cadence that could scarcely be heard over the pounding of Xena's pulse.

 Xena panted; the world was suddenly very, very quiet except for the Chevy's engine and the creaking chirp of love-stricken frogs calling to one another in the swamp just beyond the road. She shook her head, peeling her fingers slowly off the steering wheel, and tried to gather back the shattered fragments of the last several seconds.

Then as her heart began to slow and the world steadied in its course, she remembered something, that vital memory slamming back into her whirling mind with the force of a sledgehammer.

The girl!

Xena scrabbled at the door handle, finally managing to get the damned thing open and vaulted out onto the road, staggering and nearly falling in her haste. Pure instinct made her reach for the flashlight she carried under the seat and she flicked it on; the bright, pure light caused her to flinch, as if she were somehow intruding on the alien stillness of the night..

Almost afraid to look but knowing she had to - no choice! - the tall woman cautiously made her way back down the dark road, eyes wide and searching the underbrush for... what? A swath of blood splattered white cloth? A broken body flung like a ragdoll and lying limp, accusing eyes turned up to heaven? Or worse, a battered wreck of a human being, miles away from medical assistance, who'd die in her arms...

Hardly breathing, Xena strained her eyes and ears, knowing she'd seen a girl (flash of powder pale face, green eyes, white dress) directly in front of her car, illuminated at the last second against the midnight darkness.

Half of her was afraid of what she'd find, the other half knew she just couldn't turn her back and run. If there was any chance at all that the girl was still alive - and she hadn't felt an impact though God knew the whole accident happened so fast it was almost a blur - then she'd stay and keep searching until she was sure, one way or the other.

Xena was so intent on her own thoughts that when she felt a light touch on her shoulder, she leaped backwards several inches with a yelping scream. "Aiiii!"

A pale form swam up out of the darkness; Xena trained her flashlight on it, the yellow beam bobbing up and down with jerky flashes as her hand trembled violently.

It was the girl, standing there in her white dress, staring gravely with those luminous green eyes at the tall quivering woman.

Xena swallowed and pressed her free hand to her thumping heart. Two scares in one night was two friggin' many! "Jesus Christ!," she blurted, feeling beads of warm sweat rolling down the back of her neck and soaking her shirt. "Ya okay? I saw ya back there and thought... Jesus! You scared the shit outta me, cher!"

The girl's lips - was it the flashlight or were they as pale as the rest of her face? - curved upwards in a slight melancholy smile. "I been waitin' for somebody," she replied in a breathy little voice.

Xena frowned; that voice seemed to echo hollowly, as if the speaker was communicating from the bottom of a well. She didn't remember hitting her head but... well, accidents sometimes did strange things. If her hearing didn't clear up on its own, she'd go see Doc Lesombre.

She looked the girl up and down; she didn't seem to be injured. "Ya doin' okay, cher? I musta just missed ya."

The girl nodded. "I'm all right," she said in a Cajun drawl; that musical trace of slurred French in her accent was a dead giveaway. "I been waitin' for somebody," she repeated.

Xena wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Hotter'n hell," she mumbled. "Listen, cher. C'mon back to my car and sit down, okay? Lemme make sure ya ain't hurt or nothin'."

Demurely, the girl followed Xena back to the car and allowed the taller woman to settle her inside.

Xena took her first good look at the mysterious Cajun girl. Her all-white dress was off the shoulder, sweetheart neckline, with a broadly pleated skirt that was ballooned out further by at least a half dozen stiffly starched crinolines. Definitely old fashioned; in fact, the dress reminded Xena of something her mother had worn to her high school prom back in the 50's.

The girl's hair - which seemed in the dim light of the car's interior to be a sort of ruddy blonde - had been pinned back in a simple chignon, and an orchid corsage was fastened to the broad chiffon swell of her bodice. The girl seemed shy; answered Xena's questions in as few words as possible, kept her extraordinary green eyes lowered and didn't look at the taller woman if she could help it.

After ascertaining that the girl had no physical injury that she could detect, Xena asked, "What ya doin' here in the middle of the night, cher? Little thing all by yourself could get in trouble."

That faint smile again. "I been waitin' for somebody," she said enigmatically for the third time.

Xena impatiently blew a lock of black hair out of her face. "Okay, okay, whatever ya say, cher." She had been squatting down in the road by the open passenger door, checking the strange girl for scrapes, cuts or even grass stains. Nothing; the white satin was as spotless as the gloves that covered the girl's hands to the wrists.

"What's your name?" Xena asked, suddenly aware that they were two strangers on a lonely road and nobody else was likely to introduce them. "I'm Xena Bonchance, president of Bonchance Hardware Ltd."

The girl offered her hand; Xena grasped it gently and gasped. Even through the glove, the girl's hand was so cold it might have been carved of ice. "Gabrielle St. Martin," she said.

"Well, Gabrielle," the dark haired woman said, delicately squeezing the girl's hand, "Can I drop ya someplace? I hate to leave ya in the middle of nowhere; it's a long way to the nearest town and lemme tell ya, it ain't safe for a young girl to be out here all by her lonesome."

For the first time since they'd met, Gabrielle looked directly at Xena; that emerald gaze seemed to be searching, probing strongly for something indefinable, a sharp and penetrating glance that cut all the way down to the bone and exposed the soul.

Xena felt uncomfortable and squirmed a little, but Gabrielle's inspection didn't last long. Whatever she was looking for, she apparently found it; Gabrielle settled herself down more firmly in the seat and said, "Take me home."

The tall woman closed the passenger door and walked around the car, noting absently that several moths were flying in ecstatic loops, entranced by the bright beam from the car's headlights.

Once more behind the wheel, Xena flashed her passenger a bright smile. "So, whatcha doin' all the way out here, cher? You live in Bayou Nezpique or somethin'?"

Gabrielle nodded. "For a long time," she said in her musical lilt.

Xena started the car and was relieved that the engine turned over. Her old Chevrolet might have been a gas guzzling land yacht, but it was still a hell of a lot more reliable than those pieces of imported fiberglass crap-on-wheels most people drove.

"Where can I drop ya?" she asked, putting her foot on the gas and picking up some speed.

The girl was silent for a moment and simply stared out of the windshield. Then she replied, "I'll tell you when we get there, if you don't mind."

Xena's ebony brows drew together in a frown but she decided not to comment. Privately, she thought Miss St. Martin must be from a Cajun family, probably swamp dwellers; very proud, extremely independent. That dress the girl was wearing... must've belonged to her mother, Xena thought.

"Ya been out dancin', cher?" the dark haired woman asked. "Pretty dress; white suits ya."

Gabrielle sat straight up in her seat, her gloved hands folded in her lap. "I was out dancin' with my boyfriend," she answered after a pause.

"So where's this boyfriend of yours, huh? How come he ain't drivin' ya home?"

Gabrielle stared straight ahead, looking neither left nor right. "He left me," she said unhappily.

Xena nearly stomped on the brake. Her indignation was such that she struggled to speak; finally, she sputtered, "What the hell...? Ya mean the dirty bastard left ya out here in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere and just took off? Sunnuva bitch!" Her mouth worked and she fought the urge to spit out of the window.

This time, Gabrielle looked at Xena; her wide green eyes were sad and glistened with what might have been tears. "He hurt me," she said.

"What?!!" Xena couldn't help it; she was so pissed off that her hair was nearly standing on end. She reached over and switched off the radio, cutting off Led Zeppelin in mid-guitar riff. "Whatcha mean, he hurt ya? What 'd he do, cher?"

Gabrielle didn't answer; instead, she turned her gaze back to the windshield and remained silent.

Xena didn't know what to say; her heart bled for the girl, even though she'd just met her. There was something familiar about her, a touch of deja vu that kept insisting she knew Gabrielle even though they'd just met. There was a sense of vulnerability about the petite redhead; a melancholy vibration that roused all her protective instincts and made her want to rescue the girl from the world.

Strange, all things considered, but there it was. Sometimes you met a person and something immediately clicked.

Xena said more gently, "Look, ya don't wanna talk about it, that's okay. I don't know nothin' about it, but I tell ya, cher, any boy that hurts ya and leaves ya alone like that can't be no good. Ain't my business but there it is."

Gabrielle didn't say a word but Xena noticed a silvery tear glistening as it slid down her pale cheek.

The dark haired woman sighed. "I gotta tell ya, I had my trouble with men, too. Give up on 'em, in fact. Guess I ain't cut out to deal with all the bullshit."

She gave a nervous laugh. "Anyhow... I dunno why I'm tellin' ya this, but I finally figured out I like girls better. Fact is, I'm a woman who loves women, if ya get my meanin'. Ain't found a grand passion yet but I keep lookin'. Ain't givin' up, either. There's somebody out there for me, I know it; I'm just waitin' for her to come along."

Gabrielle's head turned; her emerald gaze focused on the woman beside her. "I been waitin' for somebody, too," she said softly.

"Yeah, cher, so ya said." Xena drove in silence for a moment before continuing, "What's this boyfriend's name?"

"William Lacroix," Gabrielle answered. "We're in school together."

"Uh-huh." Xena knew the boy's name sounded familiar but she couldn't put her finger on why. She'd think about it some more later. "Ya'll go out tonight to dance?"

"Yes." Gabrielle toyed with something in the folds of her skirt; out of the corner of her eye, Xena could see it was a little beaded purse. "He's a popular boy, him. I don't really like him much but I couldn't say no 'cause the other girls'd talk."

"School girls can be a buncha bitches," Xena said. "I say, do what ya feel like doin' and screw what everybody else thinks. Can't run your life worryin' about what folks might say or think about ya; just do it and to hell with 'em. How old are you anyway, cher?"

"Seventeen."

"Well, you're young yet, still a baby. Got a lot to learn about life, I 'spect. How'd this boy hurt ya, cher? Did he say somethin'?" She swallowed but kept her tone casual with an effort. "Do somethin'?"

"He hurt me," Gabrielle repeated.

Xena blew out an impatient breath. Prying answers out of the girl was about as easy as pulling teeth with blunt pliers. "Did he...?" She didn't know how to ask the question delicately and Gabrielle seemed so fragile, she hated to be blunt.

If Gabrielle understood the other woman's hesitation, she didn't acknowledge it. Instead, she turned her face to the side and stared out of the window.

Xena decided to drop it. She figured that Gabrielle probably had girl friends to talk to, maybe somebody in her family. Then again, if she was Catholic - and the probability was high - then that might be a whole 'nother can of worms.

"Ya know, cher, sometimes its easier to talk to a stranger than a friend," Xena began coaxingly.

Suddenly, the girl interrupted and cried urgently, "Stop! Right here!"

There was such fear and deep seated pain in her voice that Xena instinctively obeyed, bringing the car to an immediate halt.

As soon as the car stopped, Gabrielle began fumbling with the door handle, as if she were in a hurry to leave.

"Whoa there, cher! Ya sure this is the right place?" Xena looked around; they were across from the remains of the old Resurrection church; the place had burned down in the '60's and only a shell remained, draped in green-black vines and nearly hidden by weeds. A sagging iron fence outlined the boundaries of a small cemetery next to the church; the stone and brick houses of the dead were falling down, crumbling to bits beneath the onslaught of time and neglect.

Gabrielle nodded. "Thank you," she said breathlessly, finally managing to get the door open and stepping outside. "Thank you so much. I got to get home now."

Xena thought about getting out herself but instead, leaned her head through the open window. "Hey!," she called to the girl, who was walking rapidly away, her pale form barely visible in the darkness. "Be careful, okay? Take care of yourself, cher!"

The last sight she had of the mysterious Gabrielle was a barely visible blur quickly disappearing into the old Resurrection cemetery.

Xena sat there a minute, wondering if she should go after the girl. Finally, she shook her head and drove away; although she felt sorry for Gabrielle - certainly she wished she could've gotten the girl to talk some more about her sorrow and hurt - still, it wasn't her business. She could only wish Gabrielle luck and get on with her own life.

She continued to drive down the lonely highway, lost in thought. Absently, Xena reached out and turned the radio back on. Immediately, she recognized the song that was playing, a Kiss ballad, oddly enough:

"If ever I'd met you... If ever I'd seen you cry... you'll be a hard luck woman, a hard luck woman, baby till you find your man..."

Bubba, Xena thought as the long road stretched out in front of her and she was wrapped in humid darkness, you don't know the half of it.

The night swallowed her up until even the crimson taillights of the old Chevy had faded away; all that was left was the memory of rock n' roll and unspoken regret echoing through the smothering heart of the swampland.
 

CHAPTER TWO

A week passed...

Xena looked for what was perhaps the hundredth time at the small, beaded purse sitting on her kitchen table. She'd found it in her car after she'd given a lift to Gabrielle, a Cajun girl with whom she'd felt an immediate and inexplicable bond.

She had to go back to Beaumont; the new equipment had been delivered and there were problems that only she could smooth over. Sometimes, she wondered why she'd decided that being her own boss had any appeal; when you were at the top of the business food chain and what should have been a simple installation turned into a flaming FUBAR, there was literally nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

She drained her glass of whiskey and opened the purse again. The first time, she'd been almost afraid of what she'd find; it had also felt as if she expected some heavy hand to descend upon her shoulder and some authority - heavenly or secular - accuse her of theft or worse. Now, with the finesse of long practice, she drew out the purse's contents and examined them once more.

A compact, gold plated brass, the plating almost worn away; a lipstick in a shade of pretty, pale pink, quite appropriate to young ladies - or so Xena's mother would have remarked; a sturdy handkerchief embroidered with the initials "G. St. M."; and a book of matches from a dance club called the Jump'n Jive.

She'd tried looking up the club in the Yellow Pages without much success; a friend of hers had suggested she go to the library and try a reverse directory. Xena hadn't known any such thing existed but she'd taken the advice. The librarian had been quite helpful in explaining how to look up an address and find the phone number of a person or place. Unfortunately, the address wasn't to be found there, either.

Finally, curiosity gnawing incessantly, Xena had driven to the address on the matchbook; it was in a sleepy, slightly shabby little town called Oysterville. It had once been a fairly good-sized and prosperous place, settled in a sheltered cove on the Gulf, where the fishing had been plentiful and a nearby oil derrick had provided jobs and security. A monster wave in '74 had pretty much wiped Oysterville off the map, leaving behind a flooded wreckage of lives and property that had never really recovered.

The sole law officer of Oysterville - a white-haired old man whose hands shook with palsy - had told Xena that the Jump'n Jive had closed down in the '70's, but in its heyday it had been a popular juke joint that had drawn party seekers from all over the southern part of Louisiana.

The address proved to be an empty lot, overgrown with brittle weeds and heaps of trash.

But the matchbook looked new; even all the matches were intact, never been used at all.

No matter how often she turned it over in her head, Xena couldn't make sense out of this riddle. But she kept trying; God knew she was stubborn as hell - once she got her teeth into a problem, she hung on and refused to let go.

Well, she thought as she scooped the contents back into the purse and got ready to leave for Beaumont, on the way back I'll swing through Coffin Alley like I did before. I don't reckon I'll see Miss St. Martin standin' on the road again but maybe I'll spot a house or somethin' when I drive by. I see anythin', I can return her purse and maybe look in on how she's doin'.

On that optimistic note, Xena left her house and slid behind the wheel of her Chevy, laying the small beaded purse on the seat beside her and giving it an unconscious pat for luck.

Xena sang along with CCR, tapping the beat out with her fingertips on the steering wheel. Once again, it was nearly midnight - she'd spent all night tearing at her hair and doing her damnedest not to scream bloody murder at some poor S.O.B tech who'd been near tears himself. The installation was finally, finally underway; the clients had wanted some customized features but of course, hadn't told her or anyone else about it, figuring the relatively cheap modules they'd purchased could be transformed on-site with a magic wand into high powered, cutting edge technology.

It had taken all of Xena's self control not to strangle each and every one of those stupid bastards.

Now Xena was on the way home, blasting through the night, letting the muggy stench of swamp and rot clear her head of frustrations. She was driving down Coffin Alley, although in the whirlwind of nail biting and teeth clenching she'd endured today, she'd already forgotten why she was taking this longer route back to Lafayette.

Until she saw a flash of white loom up into her headlights; the sight jolted her from her reverie with all the subtlety of a lightning strike.

This time, however, there was no near miss. Gabrielle was standing forlornly by the side of the road, still wearing that white satin dress, gloves covering her slender hands, red-blonde hair in its chignon nestled at the nape of her neck.

Xena stopped the car. "Hey! Gabrielle! 'Member me? Xena Bonchance?"

Gabrielle looked in her direction lazily, almost as if she didn't care who or what she saw there. When she spotted Xena, however, her attitude changed to one of fairly eager anticipation. "I been waitin' for somebody," she said, walking up to the car.

"Yeah? 'Nother fight with the boyfriend? Hop in, cher. Lemme give ya a lift home." Xena leaned across the seat and opened the passenger door.

Gabrielle climbed inside without a murmur, settling down in the leather covered seat, hands folded primly in her lap.

Xena clicked off the radio and began driving again. "So, cher... it's one helluva coincidence, seein' you out here again."

Gabrielle nodded.

Xena frowned; was it her imagination or did the girl's voice sound hollow again? Maybe it had something to do with the acoustics inside the car or maybe she was just imagining things.

"How ya been?" the dark haired woman asked.

"I been waitin' for somebody," Gabrielle repeated.

"I gotcha the first time, cher. I hope whoever you're waitin' for shows up."

Instead of answering, Gabrielle turned her wide green eyes on the woman beside her. That luminous gaze made Xena feel as if the girl expected something from her and was disappointed that she hadn't reacted properly.

Xena smiled in what she hoped was a friendly manner. "You doin' okay, cher? Last time we met, your boyfriend had dumped ya. Ya'll still fightin'?"

"He hurt me," Gabrielle said.

Xena frowned. "Ya said that last time." She risked a glance at the girl and was startled to meet Gabrielle's thoughtful and penetrating gaze. For a timeless moment, pale blue and emerald met, a sizzling, breathless contact that left Xena feeling as if she'd fallen from the stars and drowned in a sea of tears.

She knew this girl, knew that faint scent of roses and cinnamon, could remember soft, supple flesh beneath her questing hands, could somehow recall the way Gabrielle smiled or laughed, cried in anger or in pain, heard in her mind's eye a spiraling cry of passion and desire fulfilled... Xena knew this girl in an almost atavistic sense; an unthinking, instinctive yet bred in the bones and coming up from the gut feeling of endless time and timeless eternity that stretched before and behind. That sense of infinite destiny engulfed Xena in one sweeping moment of flames and ice that left her covered in sweat and gasping for air.

"Jesus!" Xena exclaimed, tearing her eyes away. She gulped, willing herself to concentrate on the road. Her heart was pounding so hard she was afraid it would jump out of her chest.

Gabrielle said nothing; she merely picked up her little purse and held it in her lap, her eyes now turned towards the windshield.

Xena's mouth was dry; she swallowed several times, trying to force down the lump in her throat. Finally, when she could talk, she didn't know what to say.

The... experience... had left her dazed. Her mind scurried around in circles, trying to find a rational explanation for what had just taken place. If she couldn't find a comfortable familiarity, a hint of normality in all this, she just might go mad.

Gabrielle's voice came to her, that lilting drawl piercing Xena's heart and cutting through the fog of confusion. "He hurt me," she said. "I can't rest, can't go on. I been waitin' for somebody to help me get home. Things just stopped and it's gotta be put right. He hurt me and I been waitin' so long..."

Xena swallowed again. "Where's home, cher?" she asked thickly.

Gabrielle looked at her; Xena averted her eyes, keeping them fixed firmly on the road. After a pause, the girl said, "You know. You been waitin' for somebody, too."

Did she mean...? Xena shook her head. "I don't know whatcha talkin' 'bout, cher," she lied. She had more than a sneaking suspicion that she understood Gabrielle all too well... but right now, that mysterious knowledge was better off unacknowledged.

"There ain't nobody to wait for unless I get home," the girl said. "Then we'll have next time and all time. He hurt me and I been waitin' and waitin'." Her voice dropped to a barely discernible whisper and Xena couldn't make out what she was saying.

"What did he do to you, cher? What did William do to you?"

"He hurt me." Gabrielle spread out the skirts of her white satin dress; a bloodstain was growing there, tendrils of crimson creeping across the fabric like the petals of a ruddy rose.

The stain bloomed until it engulfed her bodice, dying the delicate chiffon in scarlet waves. The girl's face appeared to sink in and gather up the shadows until it seemed that she turned empty eye sockets in Xena's direction; her lipless mouth grinned helplessly, a skull of polished bone framed in an incongruous swirl of red-gold hair.

Xena bit her lip and fought to keep from screaming. The hair at the back of her neck prickled; despite the heat, the flesh of her arms rose up in goosebumps. She gripped the steering wheel in desperation, knuckles white, every muscle in her body rigid.

Gabrielle was continuing, "It's got to be fixed or nothin's gonna be right again. You gotta fix it, Xena. I been waitin'..."

Xena shook her head again, as if she could dislodge the girl's words by sheer physical effort. With a start, she realized they weren't moving; the car had come to a stop directly opposite the Resurrection cemetery.

The dark haired woman blinked; she was dripping with sweat, the stench of fear rising up off her body until she felt she was suffocating. She breathed deeply and warily slid her eyes towards the passenger side of the car.

Gabrielle was gone.

Xena blinked once more and looked out of her window. An indistinct blob of white was drifting into the cemetery, seeming to pass through the iron gates as if it had no substance, only a faint, swirling mist of white and stark red.

Unable to think, unable to do anything except react in a raw, primal way to the events she had just been exposed to, Xena jammed her foot down on the gas and took off in a choking roar of fumes and smoldering rubber, the back end of the Chevy shimmying a little as she fled in terror from the twin specters of destiny and the ghost of a murdered girl named Gabrielle.
 

CHAPTER THREE

After letting a few days pass and the first vivid flush of fear to subside, Xena began to do a little checking at the local newspaper office.

She still couldn't believe what had happened; still hoped in some corner of her brain that it had all been a hallucination brought on by too little sleep and too much whiskey, but in her heart she knew it was true. That was the hellish part, the constant reliving of those terrifying moments that snatched her from sleep and made her waking moments seem more unreal than dreams.

After hours of scrolling through microfilm, Xena finally found what she was looking for - a newspaper article dated June 2, 1962.

The article stated that Gabrielle St. Martin, the seventeen year old daughter of Pierre and Marie St. Martin, had disappeared following a date with her boyfriend, William Lacroix, son of Robert Lacroix, the millionaire oil baron.

William had told the police that he and Gabrielle had had a fight on the way home from a dance in Oysterville; at her insistence, he'd dropped her off on Highway 13, close by the Resurrection church. That had been the last time she'd been seen by anyone, including the priest of the little community church, Father Joseph Bouvier, who claimed to have been witness to nothing that night except his book of prayers.

Xena searched the rest of that year; in the beginning, Gabrielle's disappearance had been greeted with suspicion by the police and William had been a suspect. But lack of evidence and no body had eventually caused the case to take a backseat to more urgent investigations. The newspaper articles tapered off from there; the last one was a sparse, three paragraph mention in 1963 on the anniversary of Gabrielle's disappearance.

Now Xena knew why William's name had sounded so familiar. His father Robert had died four years ago in 1981, leaving son and heir William in charge of the family business. Lacroix Enterprises had dropped most of its oil interests in Louisiana and was now a huge, multi-national firm with diversified interests ranging from sheep ranches in Australia to radio stations in Alaska. William was listed as one of the ten richest men in America; his net worth was the size of some country's annual budgets.

And this rich boy killed Gabrielle. Maybe raped her first, Xena thought, nauseous with rage at the memory of that obscene bloodstain spreading across the girl's pristine white dress.

She rubbed aching eyes with the knuckles of her hand and clicked off the projector.

When Xena had gotten home that night - the night when she'd discovered the true nature of her pretty Cajun passenger - she'd rushed to the toilet and puked until she thought her toenails were coming up, then dry retched and heaved until she felt faint. She'd staggered to bed and collapsed, feeling sick, sore in every muscle and stricken by a malaise that had left her weak and almost crying.

That had been in the beginning. But gradually, as the knowledge soaked in; as the things she'd experienced were gone over again and again in her mind, becoming familiar instead of strange, heart-breaking instead of frightening... her attitude changed.

Now she was angry; so filled with righteous fury that her employees tip-toed around her, cringing at every flash of her pale and incandescent eyes.

Rationally, there could be no logical explanation for what had happened. So Xena decided to go with her gut; every instinct she had was screaming at her to do something, do it now, goddammit! She knew, somehow, that Gabrielle was "the one" - the woman she'd been waiting for all her life. But because of that prick William Lacroix, because of his actions, she'd been cheated out of something precious, a destiny that had been shattered by this asshole's interfering presence in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Yes, that's exactly how she felt - cheated! Everytime she thought about the situation, it enflamed her further. If things had run their course, then Gabrielle would have been a little younger than she was now but not by much. They might have met at a bar, or maybe at a concert or a restaurant, an introduction from mutual friends, whatever. They would have been together, two souls making a vital connection with one another, continuing the cycle of rebirth and eternal love.

That had all been ruined by William Lacroix. From what Xena had read, ghosts or "spectral entities" were restless souls, unable to find peace or go on to the next level of consciousness because of unfinished business that kept them tied to the earthbound plane.

Gabrielle had been murdered and her killer gotten off scot free, leaving her body in a shallow grave somewhere, so it was obvious that Gabrielle's soul was unable to tear itself free and continue on its never-ending journey. Lacroix's actions had separated them, damning Xena to a lonely existence and her destined lover to shadowy limbo in the realm of the dead. They'd never be together again... unless things were "put right."

It wasn't fair, dammit!

She found herself reacting as if Lacroix really had murdered her dearest love. Despite the fact that the only physical contact she'd had with Gabrielle had been brief and almost unreal, still... her guts twisted in pain and there was an ache behind her breastbone that just wouldn't go away.

Xena had to do something! She itched to confront Lacroix and kill him in a spree of murderous revenge. Part of her was frightened by the bloodthirsty monster that lurked within, ready to spring out and rend with fang and claw; but another part of her welcomed that beast, for it fed from her rage and grew strong... God knew she'd need all her strength if she was to put destiny back on its intended course.

Unfortunately, despite the fact that killing Lacroix would provide some small bit of personal satisfaction, that wasn't the answer she needed.

Xena left the newspaper office and went back home... unaware that her research had been observed.

William Lacroix's office was located on the top floor of the Lacroix building, an enormous skyscraper that dominated the horizon of New Orleans. All black, chrome and glass, decorated with priceless artwork and museum quality artifacts, it was a testament to a powerful businessman who could afford to flaunt his wealth because he dwelled in the rarefied stratosphere of the super rich.

When the telephone on his desk rang, Lacroix was busy going over the financial reports of a television station conglomerate he was considering purchasing... or rather, absorbing into his own empire by means of a hostile takeover. Lacroix considered himself a modern day pirate, leaping into the fray with cutlass and stock options in hand, taking down his unsuspecting prey in an orgy of corporate bloodletting.

While wealth had brought with it a certain amount of power, the thing Lacroix cherished above all else was his sterling reputation. He'd dined with presidents and queens, been cited on honors lists, had a roomful of trophies and plaques from grateful charities and other institutions. Lacroix was very, very careful to keep his public reputation untainted by any hint of scandal or impropriety; keeping certain things about his business practices and personal life under wraps and away from public scrutiny was one of his biggest obsessions.

And his shining reputation was the one thing he'd kill to maintain.

He reached for the buzzing telephone without taking his eyes away from the reports he was studying. "Yes?" he snapped.

His secretary - a buxom blonde whose husky, breathless voice practically oozed with the promise of unbridled sexuality - said apologetically, "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mister Lacroix. I have a woman on the black line and she insists on speaking with you personally."

Immediately, Lacroix pushed the papers away and sharpened his focus. The black line! A private telephone line - so private it wasn't even listed in the phone company's records - that he used for his more shady business dealings, transactions that either skirted around the law... or broke it entirely.

"I'll take it in here," he said, putting down the receiver.  He waited while his secretary switched the call, drumming his fingers impatiently on the top of the desk.

Lacroix was a fit and healthy forty-one, his physique sculpted by hours of aerobics and exercise with a personal trainer, his glowing tan achieved by the careful application of UV rays in an exclusive and very expensive salon. His wife was a well-preserved former debutante from an old money Creole family, a gracious hostess whose days were consumed with charity work, and his mistresses were discreet, beautiful and willing to accommodate his every desire, no matter how bizarre or degrading.

William Lacroix's biggest fear was that someday, something he had done - an illegal act, a sexual deviation - would come back to haunt him.

Although his stomach fluttered with a mixture of apprehension and excitement, he wasn't really prepared for the voice he heard when he picked up the buzzing phone.

"Mister Lacroix?" the voice said. It was an old woman's whispery croak, a cracked tone that spoke eloquently of too many cigarettes and too many slugs of bourbon disguised in a china teacup. "This is Harriet Vondredei. I don't know if you remember me or not, but I work for the Lafayette Gazette in the newspaper morgue. You know, back copies on microfilm and such..."

Lacroix grunted. "Get to the point, Ms. Vondredei," he said ungraciously. He didn't know this woman, had no idea where she'd gotten this number, and was beginning to get angry.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mister Lacroix, but some years ago you asked that I inform you privately if certain information was accessed by the public or if someone showed an interest in a certain subject. Those little bonuses you send me every month sure have helped..." The woman's voice was fawning and irritated Lacroix further.

"What information? What subject?" Lacroix barked. "I don't know how you got this number but..."

"Why, the disappearance of Gabrielle St. Martin back in '62!" Vondredei replied. "I'm only callin' because I had a woman in here a little while ago..."

Lacroix let the receiver fall from his ear; it dangled from his hand while he sat there, stunned and unable to respond. Gabrielle St. Martin! He hadn't thought about her in years; now, to hear her name mentioned out of the blue, to have that memory forced out of the darkness of two decades, made his heart skitter in fear, his sphincter clench against the sudden liquid heat that roiled in his bowels.

He'd been so young then. Just eighteen, a cocky rich kid who'd never been denied anything he ever wanted. Spoiled and proud of the fact. He'd wanted Gabrielle, despite her background of poverty, despite her shyness and reserve. He'd wanted her because she was beautiful and fresh, unspoiled and virginal... and because she'd turned him down several times before finally consenting to go out with him.

They'd gone to the Jump'n Jive, a popular juke joint, riding there in his brand new Jaguar. He'd consumed beers, whisky, vodka, whatever the bartender felt like pouring, drink after drink tossed down his inexhaustible maw. Gabrielle had danced with him a few times before he'd become too drunk to stand up straight, and the rest of the time had sat at the table, sipping her cola and turning wide green eyes on everything and everyone... including himself.

Even after the passage of years, Lacroix could still remember those eyes, staring at him, judging him and finding him wanting. That was what had fueled his teenage rage, pricked the pride of his burgeoning manhood; this girl, this nothing little swampie whose family didn't have a pot to piss in, daring to judge him! Daring to find him unsatisfactory! Daring to say no!

That's what had set him off, of course. On the way home, he'd stopped the car and told Gabrielle it was time to pay up. He'd taken her dancing, bought her drinks and showed her a good time, and now it was his turn to collect.

She'd refused, calling him names, slapping his face. That had caused his fury to flame higher and higher... and the angrier he became, the more aroused, until he'd attacked her in shameless, unthinking rage.

Gabrielle had struggled while he'd kissed her; fought and whimpered when he'd slid his hands under her dress and fingered her dry unwilling flesh. He'd torn at her clothing, panting and bestial with the need to prove himself, the need to wipe that look of cool disdain from her face and show the bitch that he was the man!

He didn't have to take any shit from her, she was nothing but a thing to be used, even abused, and she'd better take it, take it all, every last pounding inch, everything he had to give her and more. There! Take it, bitch! Take it all, whore! Cunt! Goddamn bitch! Who's superior now, huh? Who's better? Who's the best? Say it! Say it! You'd better not... goddammit! Stop that fucking screaming, you miserable whore, or I swear to God I'll kill you...

Lacroix blinked and shivered, pulling himself out of the past and back into the present. He put the receiver to his ear; Vondredei was saying, "Hello? You still there?"

"Yes," he croaked, then coughed to clear his throat. "Who was accessing the articles? Did you get the woman's name?"

"That's what I've been telling you, Mister Lacroix," Vondredei said in a scolding tone. "The woman's name is Xena Bonchance. I did some checking in the files; she owns Bonchance Hardware Ltd, out of Lafayette."

"I see." Lacroix noticed that drops of water were scattered on the top of the desk; he put his hand up to his forehead and realized he was sweating heavily. "Thank you for your help, Ms. Vondredei."

"I'll still get my money, won't I?" the woman shrilled. "You promised to keep payin'..."

"Yes, yes, of course." Lacroix spent a few more moments reassuring Vondredei, allowing the practiced phrases to fall from his lips without conscious thought. He was so lost in his own concerns that several minutes passed before he realized that the woman had hung up and the phone was beeping in his ear.

He hung up the receiver then buzzed his secretary. "Order the helicopter for four o'clock today," he said. "Cancel the rest of my appointments; call my wife and tell her I have some emergency business down in Lafayette and won't be home for a couple of days. Then call our Lafayette office and tell them to arrange some accommodations for me, I don't care where."

"Yes, Mister Lacroix," the secretary answered. He'd hired her not only for her impressive 46DD bust but also because she was efficient, did what she was told and never asked annoying questions.

Lacroix leaned back in his chair, thinking...

Then he unlocked a drawer in his desk, reached inside and pulled out a loaded .38 revolver. After checking to make sure the safety was on, he placed the gun inside his briefcase and as an afterthought, tossed in a box of ammunition..

For a man in William Lacroix's position, it always paid to be prepared for anything.
 

CHAPTER FOUR

Xena's anger and heartsick rage didn't dwindle; instead, it transformed into a cold and icy fury that swirled deep within her soul, a bone-chilling storm that left her emotionally frozen but still capable of calculated plotting and thought.

The first step, she knew, was finding evidence against William Lacroix. Unfortunately, she couldn't go to the police; if she told her wild story to the authorities, they'd be more inclined to stick her in a straightjacket for psychiatric observation than to believe.

Where to go? What to do?

She was walking down the sidewalk, lost in thought and chewing the inside of her cheek, body automatically guiding her around the people who had crowded into downtown Lafayette for shopping, dining and whatever entertainment they could find to ease the boredom of yet another weekend.

Xena was headed for The Weird Sisters, a bookstore run by a trio of drag queens, to pick up some books she'd ordered a month before. A chore she'd rather not have been distracted with, but Scat, one of the "girls" who ran the shop, had been calling rather insistently; Xena was tired of making excuses and listening to Scat's bitching. After she collected her order, she'd head straight home, eat some take-out Chinese, and think some more about Gabrielle.

Xena spent a lot of her time thinking about Gabrielle these days, trying to recapture the essence of the unknown, mysterious but still familiar lover she'd "lost."

She'd just reached a corner and was about to step off into the street when a big, black limousine rolled to a smooth halt, effectively blocking her way.

Xena was about to go around the car when two men exited; big, expressionless, with identical crewcuts and Armani suits, they flowed up to flank her without saying a word. The hairs on the back of Xena's neck prickled but before she could make a move, they grabbed her and without ceremony, tossed her into the back of the limo.

Xena landed on a plush seat, her mouth open in protest, body already in motion, ready to leave. The door slammed, almost in her face, and the car peeled away from the sidewalk. She tried the doorhandle; it was locked and the smoked glass windows were almost certainly bulletproof.

The entire event happened so quickly and smoothly, she hadn't even gotten off one good punch or a single scream to attract the attention of witnesses.

The interior of the limo was dim and cool, scented with rich leather, expensive cigars and what could only be described as "money." Xena hadn't realized that money had a distinctive smell; but the unidentified fragrance that permeated the atmosphere, a sort of odor of rarefied sanctity that reminded her of the crisp ozone snap of the air following a lightning strike... that could only be caused by the presence of wealth and power.

A man's voice came out of the gloom, startling her. "Ms. Bonchance, I presume?"

She focused her gaze and saw that there was indeed another occupant of the limo, seated opposite and nearly indistinguishable in the semi-darkness. "Who the hell are ya?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest and rubbing the gooseflesh.

"William Lacroix," he answered. An interior light snapped on and Xena saw him for the first time.

First time in the flesh, she said to herself. I've seen him on TV before and in the papers. She narrowed her ice-blue eyes. So this is Gabrielle's killer...

Lacroix continued speaking. If he noticed the animosity and anger that made Xena's pale eyes flare, he refrained from mentioning it. "My apologies for the somewhat rough handling, Ms. Bonchance, but I thought it would be better if we met in person and with as few witnesses as possible."

Warily, Xena nodded. "What's this all about?" she asked.

"I'm hoping you can tell me," Lacroix said with a charming smile, spreading his hands apart. "I've been reliably informed that you've been delving somewhat into my past, Ms. Bonchance. Perhaps you have something you'd like to say to me, some request you'd like to make?"

His tone was teasing, but the dangerous undercurrent that ran through his voice proclaimed the man a rabid junkyard dog rather than a pampered Pekinese; a dark hint of a practiced mankiller with razor sharp fangs, ready to tear flesh from bone when his victim was at its weakest.

Xena shivered slightly but it wasn't from fear. Lacroix was an extremely dangerous man, she could feel that knowledge seeping up from the primal reaches of her brain. However, this smug bastard was the murderer of her beloved and the sight of him made her want to spit.

"I dunno what you're talkin' about," she countered calmly.

Lacroix chuckled, relaxing in his seat. "Now, now, Ms. Bonchance," he replied expansively, "You've been checking into my past; specifically, you've been sniffing around the unfortunate circumstances of Gabrielle St. Martin's disappearance twenty-three years ago. I know all about what you've been up to; you can accept that as gospel. What I fail to understand is why the president of a computer hardware firm has become interested in such an old tragedy?"

Xena leaned forward slightly, unconsciously finding her balance and tensing her muscles, ready to spring. She fought the urge to let her upper lip curl, exposing her teeth like a wolf at bay. "That ain't none of your business," she said in her hardest tone. "Now let me outta here."

"I'm so sorry, Ms. Bonchance. But I really must insist on you telling me why you find Gabrielle St. Martin so interesting." Silently acknowledged between them was the unvoiced threat behind Lacroix's words; if Xena didn't comply, she might not leave the limo... unless her exit was feet first.

Xena's hackles rose. "Like ya said, that was a long time ago," she said. "What bug crawled up your ass, Lacroix? Ya ain't got no right..."

"I have every right," Lacroix spat. His genial mask faded, replaced by a look of pure hostility. "Gabrielle St. Martin's disappearance almost ruined my life. I was hounded by the police; me, Robert Lacroix's son! Even after the official investigation was dropped, I was still haunted by whispers and rumors. I've worked for years to put all that behind me and I'll be damned if I'll allow some piss ant bitch with an agenda to dredge that foul business up again!"

He was breathing hard and sweating. Xena noticed his slightly protuberant brown eyes were laced with prominent red veins and his face looked old, crumpled with lines and creases she hadn't noticed before. His pouting bottom lip and quivering cheeks reminded her of a spoiled, nasty child who has been denied another's child's coveted toy.

"What makes ya think I've got an agenda?" Xena asked, every sense alert, her body coiled and ready for action if required.

Lacroix wiped his face with his hand. "What else could it be?" he replied in an almost whine. "I've dealt with people like you before, Bonchance. People who know I have a position and a reputation to maintain and protect. Leeches who crawl around in the scum, trying to dig up dirt and hope I'll pay them to keep silent."

Xena didn't respond; the cold shell she had surrounded herself with was beginning to crack. She didn't know how Lacroix had found out about her investigation in the newspaper office but it was clear that he thought she was dredging for blackmail material.

The flames of anger began to glow in her belly; she pushed a stray lock of black hair out of her eyes and snapped, "I don't want no money, ya sunnuva bitch! There ain't nothin' ya got I want, not a goddamned thing! Now stop this car right now and lemme out or I swear to God I'll make ya regret it!"

Lacroix's nostrils flared and he chuffed out a breath. His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you threatening me? Not too smart, girl. I've dealt with problems like you before."

Xena didn't say anything; she was wrestling with an internal conflict. Half of her wanted to kill Lacroix on the spot; the other, cooler half hoped he'd give her enough rope to hang himself.

Lacroix licked his lips. "Gabrielle wasn't nothin' but a whore, Bonchance." His eyes glistened and he made an obscene gesture. "A little tramp from the swamps. The cunt was a tease, too; pretending to be so goddamned innocent when she'd do it for a pack of gum or a soda pop. Whatever happened to that red-headed whore, she deserved it. Deserved it right on down to hell."

That did it.

Xena's hard won control snapped. Her eyes ablaze with rage, she threw herself at him, hampered by the close confines of the car but still determined to silence his filthy lies.

There was a brief scuffle, then silence broken only by the quiet panting of Xena and the grunting of Lacroix. She was beside him, his body bent and twisted over her lap, her strong arms wrapped around his neck and pushing his straining head at an awkward angle. The pressure on his throat made it impossible for him to cry out; Lacroix tried hitting her thighs with his fists until she applied a bit more force. He bit his lip and ceased struggling.

"I could break your neck right now," Xena hissed. "Now listen to me, Lacroix. Stop the car and don't say nothin' to the driver, ya hear? Or I'll do ya, I swear!"

Lacroix nodded as best he could, ignoring the fiery lances of pain that coursed from neck to shoulders. He felt the pressure on his throat ease off; he coughed and carefully reached out to the intercom button.

"Stop the car, Perkins," he said hoarsely. "We're dropping off our guest."

"Yessir, Mister Lacroix." The limo immediately began easing over to the curb.

Xena suddenly wrenched at Lacroix's head violently; he felt tears gather in his eyes from the pain. "I know what ya did to Gabrielle St. Martin," she said in his ear. The temptation to break this bastard's neck was so strong, the woman was quivering with the effort of controlling herself.

"I know," she insisted coldly. "I'm gonna find evidence and you're gonna pay for what ya did. Understand? You're gonna pay, ya dirty bastard!"

The limo stopped smoothly.

Xena released Lacroix and opened the door. As she exited, she flashed him a look of complete contempt and absolute hatred from her pale eyes; the man felt as if splinters of ice had entered his heart.

"Believe me, she'll have her revenge... and so will I!" Xena spat as she exited the limo, slamming the door shut behind her.

The gleaming black car drove on and Xena watched it leave, oblivious to the stares of passers-by. Her chest rose and fell as she panted; her hands were trembling.

She took a deep breath and forced calm on her vibrating nerves. When the car was out of sight, she began looking for street signs; she was still in downtown Lafayette, so they must have been driving around in circles. Xena oriented herself and began walking back to her car.

It wasn't until she reached the old Chevy that she realized her face was wet; she'd been crying.

She wiped the tears away impatiently, jumped in the car and drove home; while her tires hummed on the asphalt, Xena thought about Gabrielle's words.

"He hurt me."

And her heart contracted with a mixture of grief, rage and the animal urge to howl her sorrow at the uncaring sky.

Lacroix was shaken; he sat back in his seat and smoothed his hair with his hands, struggling to regain his equilibrium.

That bitch had laid hands on him! Threatened him!

His neck still ached where she'd wrenched at it.

He rubbed the side of his throat and slowly calmed himself. He'd learned over the years that panicking didn't solve problems... cold-blooded calculation did.

As he thought and considered, two questions were immediately apparent:

How did she know? and What would she do?

It was painfully obvious that blackmail wasn't her scheme; Lacroix didn't pretend to understand the emotional excesses of hysterical women but Xena's reaction to his taunting had proven that she had some sort of personal agenda to pursue.

Specifically, revenge.

Well, Lacroix knew all about revenge. He'd taken great pleasure in hiring many of his fraternity brothers to various positions within his companies, only to snatch their dreams of golden parachutes and stock options away when they'd gotten fat and comfortable and least expected it. He'd never forgiven them for the humiliating "initiation rites" they'd forced him to perform in college and had waited for years for the opportunity to bring them low.

Lacroix was a man who never forgot a slight; his grudges were set in stone and cemented in place. But he wasn't impulsive, either; he'd wait patiently for a chance to devastate his victim, even pretending to be a friend if necessary - smiling, congenial, all handshakes and favors - until the moment came and the unfortunate was stricken down with all the swift viciousness of an attacking shark.

Oh, yes... revenge was an indulgence he enjoyed to the last, bitter drop.

He now regretted he hadn't brought his gun with him in the limo. He'd left it in his hotel suite, confident that his position and wealth would protect him, just as it had in the past.

Foolish! Foolish!

He berated himself; he should have known better. Lacroix also knew that whatever he planned to do about Xena Bonchance, he'd have to do it himself. That was another lesson he'd learned - always do the dirty work yourself, if possible. All the money in the world wasn't enough to pay someone to true silence; only the grave never gave up its secrets.

He relaxed in his seat and lit a cigar. After a moment, he ordered the driver to take him to the best seafood restaurant in town.

Deciding the solution to a sticky problem always gave him an appetite.

Especially when said solution involved... murder.

Lacroix puffed on his cigar and stretched his legs out in front of him.

After dinner, he'd have one of his men go out and fetch him a prostitute. An experienced woman, ready to do whatever it took to satisfy his jaded tastes.

He felt his growing erection and smiled. The thought of killing Xena Bonchance had him very excited, indeed.
 

CHAPTER FIVE

"Hey, boss lady! Where y'at?"

Xena turned her head. The speaker was Christopher Jean-Baptiste, a young dark-skinned man who was one of her most gifted salesmen. With his glib tongue, large liquid brown eyes and a sunny smile, Christopher could charm and cajole even the most recalcitrant customer into melted contentment.

"Nothin'," Xena answered shortly, slamming the phone book closed. She'd been looking up the addresses and phone numbers of psychics; although she inwardly quailed at the thought of consulting someone who was a potential fraud - no, let's be realistic; a fraud, period! - she had come to a dead end in trying to figure out a way to help Gabrielle.

Christopher frowned and sidled over, perching a buttock on the edge of Xena's desk. "Don' look like nothin' ta me," he said, running a finger over the closed phone book and giving her a wink. "Need some help in your love life, boss lady? Want your fortune told?"

Abruptly, Xena exploded. She'd already been angry; the confrontation with William Lacroix yesterday hadn't helped. Frustration and raw, adrenaline fueled rage suddenly took over; although Christopher didn't deserve it, he got the brunt of Xena's bad mood.

"Sunnuva bitch!" Xena hollered, banging her clenched fist down on the desk and making the young man jump. "Ain't ya got some work to do, Jean-Baptiste? Or are ya hangin' 'round here 'cause there ain't no customers to be sellin' to, and we ain't got no customers 'cause my fuckin' staff's sittin' on their goddamned asses drawin' salary and wonderin' about my love life?"

Christopher flinched but stood his ground. "Hmph," he asked, "somebody didn't get laid last night?"

"Jesus Christ!" For a bare second, Xena considered strangling him. "Will ya get the fuck outta my goddamned office?"

The young man grinned. Besides being boss and employee, he and Xena had been friends for a long time. In fact, when she'd started the company, he'd left his more lucrative position at another firm in order to help Xena get her business off the ground. "Maybe I better check my calendar, me," he replied. "It about time for your 'tite cousine to visit?"

Xena's face turned beet red; a vein throbbed in her forehead. She drew a deep breath, prepared to blast Christopher out of her office by the force of her shout alone, but then the young man winked again and blew her a kiss.

Her bad mood evaporated as suddenly as it had come and she laughed. "Shit, Chris! No to both your questions, ya goddamned snoopy bastard! 'My little cousin' don't visit for another two weeks, if it's any of your business."

"Oh, but it is," Christopher replied. "We all check our calendars, believe me. Ya get so nasty when the moon's comin' up high, I think ya got the loup-garou in ya!"

Xena laughed again and this time, Christopher joined her.

When they had both sobered a little, Christopher said seriously, "Ya got troubles, boss lady? Somethin' I kin help ya with?"

"I doubt it," Xena said, her smile already transforming back into the worried frown she'd worn for a couple of weeks. "Ain't nobody can help me 'cept myself."

"Maybe so, maybe no," Christopher insisted. "Tell me about it, cher. 'Least I kin do is listen."

Despite her earlier conviction that no one would believe her story, Xena found herself pouring out her heart to this young man who was one of her oldest friends. When she finished, he stared at her with what she recognized as sympathy in his dark eyes.

"I dunno what I kin say to that," he replied after a moment. "Ya got some hardship on ya, I b'lieve. Listen... ya want help, maybe I know somebody. My family been here a long time, cher; long time since workin' canefields but some t'ings never change, if ya know what I mean. My momma's sister, she kin help ya, I think."

"Who?" Xena asked. To her surprise, although tears had trembled on her lashes, she hadn't cried. In fact, she felt almost relieved to have finally shared her burden with someone who didn't mock and seemed genuinely concerned.

"Lemme make a call," Christopher said, sliding off her desk. "I got an idea, me."

Xena waited while Christopher went to his own desk and dialed a number; after speaking for several minutes, he hung up the phone and came back to her office.

"All set," he said with a smile. "She'll see ya at three. But I gotta warn ya, Tante Marie don' like it when folks is late. She a bit of a martinet, her. All us kids was scared of her when we was little, but she got a good soul. You'll like her, I think."

"Tante Marie? Jean-Baptiste, are we talkin' 'bout voodoo here?"

Christopher sighed. "Tante Marie is a mambo," he said. "She got a shop on Pompano Boulevard; if anybody kin help ya, she's the one."

A mambo? Xena knew that meant a priestess; one could hardly live in Louisiana without being exposed to the amalgam religion of West African, Haitian and Catholic influences called voodoo or vodun. Although she'd been raised a Catholic and had lapsed in her faith as an adult, she'd never held much belief in what she preferred to think of as the superstitions of voodoo but... Christopher would hardly steer her wrong; he knew - he believed! - and wanted to help.

"Okay," Xena said to Christopher's relief. "If ya think it'll help, I'll go see your Tante Marie."

Christopher smiled, leaned down and gave her a brief hug. "Bon chance," he whispered. "Good luck, cher. And be careful, boss lady... Lacroix like a poison snake crawlin' in the sugarcane. Ya got one chance to cut off his head or he'll strike back, him."

Xena returned Christopher's hug and whispered back, "Merci, ami. Thank you so much."

The young man's grin stretched from ear to ear. "Oh, don't thank me, boss lady. Wait till you see mon tante formidable! She more scary than Lacroix, I tell ya!"

Xena smiled... and for the first time in what seemed an eternity, felt her heart begin to sing a little with newborn hope.

Pompano Boulevard was in a rundown part of town, the sort of place that used to be referred to as the "wrong side of the tracks." Xena drove through the area, keeping her eyes peeled for the youth gangs who hung around on corners, drinking beer and selling drugs when they weren't trying to kill each other. They often thought it was funny to hurl bricks through the windshields of unknown cars.

She checked the address again; Christopher had written it down on a scrap of paper. More quickly than she would have liked, she soon found herself getting out of her car in front of a dirty-windowed little shop that looked as if it was being held together by spit and baling wire.

The window bore faded gray lettering that read: "Marie Jean-Baptiste: Pharmacie & Tarot by Appt."

Xena swallowed her misgivings and went inside, pushing open the screened door; a small bell tinkled, announcing her presence.

The interior was dim and amazingly cool for a hot summer day. A long, scarred wooden counter ran the length of the room on the right; behind the counter were shelves of bottles and jars, and an old fashioned brass cash register gleamed dully in the uncertain light.

A young girl with dreadlocks and a twisting scar on one blue-black cheek was standing behind the counter, idly tossing a handful of chicken bones down on the surface. When Xena entered, she didn't bother looking up. "We closed," she said in a thick Cajun accent.

"I have an appointment with Mrs. Jean-Baptiste. Tante Marie," Xena stressed. "Her nephew Christopher sent me."

The girl spat, the gobbet of spittle landing just short of Xena's shoes. "G'wan, git outta here, white trash bitch! We don' wan' ya here!"

Xena was momentarily taken aback by the hostility, then considered reaching over the counter and shaking the girl until her teeth rattled. Before she could act on her inclination, a woman's voice boomed from another room: "Valentine, ya foolish child! No use cursin' dat one; her soul stronger dan la magie noire!"

The girl looked up and her lips pursed. A spate of Creole was answered by the unseen person who kept herself hidden behind the beaded curtain. With a shrug, the girl called Valentine swept her bones from the counter, gave Xena another evil, narrow-eyed glare and then swaggered out of the shop, letting the door slam closed behind her.

Xena leaned an elbow on the counter, keeping her eyes turned towards the beaded curtain that hid a dark doorway. After a moment, the curtain was swept aside and a woman entered the main part of the store.

Her tread was so heavy it shook the floorboards, making jars rattle on their shelves.

This could be none other than Tante Marie; the aura of confidence and pure powerful personality that surrounded her was unmistakable. She was tall, an inch or so taller than Xena, and while she had run somewhat to fat, the arms that were exposed by her sleeveless blouse bulged with muscle.

Her skin was the color of rich chocolate and beautifully smooth; only the deep lines that ran from the side of her nose down to the corners of her mouth betrayed the ravages of time. A bright crimson scarf, heavily fringed in gold, was wound around her head, concealing her hair, and her flounced skirt jangled with gold, silver, bone and ivory ornaments.

The thing Xena immediately noticed was that while Tante Marie's left eye was milky and clouded with a cataract; her right eye was deep brown and focused on her with a penetrating gaze.

"Mademoiselle Bonchance," Tante Marie said. "My nephew Christopher called me about ya. He say ya gotta problem wit' de spirits."

Xena nodded. "One hurtin' spirit," she began, but the black woman held up a hand to silence her.

"Come wit' me an' we'll talk private, child," Tante Marie said; from the tone of her voice, it was a command which she confidently expected to be obeyed.

Xena soon found herself seated at a wooden table in the back of the store, which was outfitted as a kitchen. A pot of spicy file gumbo simmered on the stove, filling the air with its mouth-watering scent. Tante Marie bustled about, handing Xena a mason jar full of iced tea and sliced lemons, then plunking down a steaming bowl of the strongly pungent stew.

When Xena protested, Tante Marie said, "Eat, child. Ya needs strength for de soul an' body. No use starvin' both."

 While Xena ate, she told the mambo why she had come, omitting no detail, however insignificant. She found herself telling Tante Marie things she herself hadn't remembered; when she remarked on this, the black woman smiled and shrugged.

"De memory's a funny t'ing, mademoiselle. We t'ink we know all but sometime, we only remember what we want an' leave de rest. C'est la vie! Day come when we learn everythin' dere is to know, dat gonna be de time when the world quit turnin' 'cause dere won't be no reason to go on."

Xena felt an immediate liking for this confident, intelligent woman. She knew that Tante Marie could help her, could suggest a solution to the torment and anger that continued to make her nights sleepless and her days full of unexpected emotional turmoil.

When the dark haired woman finished her recital, Tante Marie frowned, the creases beside her nose and mouth becoming so deep they looked like bloodless knife slashes scarring her cheekbones and chin. "For dis," she said seriously, gazing deeply into Xena's pale eyes, "we got to call on some of de Guede. Dey ain't easy, dem, and nobody - no mambo or houngan or boucour - asks for de Guede's guidance wit'out payin' a heavy price."

"Who are these Guede?," Xena asked, pronouncing it "Gaddy" just as the mambo had done.

"Baron Samedi - loa of de dead, who may break open tombs an' free souls for his biddin'. Maitre Cimetiere - loa of de cemetery. Madame Brigitte - guardian of graves. Carrefour keeps de gate between worlds. Maybe even Marinette-Bois Cheche, she who is vengeance."

"These loa, they're what? Demons? Gods?"

"Gods, certainly," Tante Marie nodded. "Spirits of great power dat we all must serve, willin' or not. Gimme your hand, child."

Xena obediently gave the black woman her hand and Tante Marie began tracing the lines in her palm with a callused finger.

"Hmph," the mambo muttered, giving Xena a sharp look and releasing her hand, "Your z'etoile - de star of destiny - is broken, dat for sure. No fixin' in dis lifetime but maybe in de next, if we act wit' wisdom an' look for justice, not revenge. But not to worry, child. We gonna do what we can to free Gabrielle; it just ain't gonna be easy."

"I need to talk to her again," Xena said, surprised by the note of desperation in her voice. "I've been back to the cemetery but she wasn't there. I thought..."

Tante Marie chuckled. "Ya thought dat ya could call upon de restless dead an' it come when ya whistle, eh? Child, ya got a lot to learn." She shook her head, making the many golden hoops in her ears clash and jangle.

"What can I do to free her?" Xena asked. "Tell me what I need to know, please!"

"For dat, we must speak to Gabrielle herself but not in de place of hurtin'. Ya see, child, dis spirit dwells in a nightmare not of her makin'. She cannot break free because of pain an' sufferin'; it holds her tight wit' chains she cannot loose. We must break her free of dat curse, even if only for a little while, an' bring her to a place where she can speak wit'out fear an' evil bindin' her tongue. But it ain't gonna be easy; powerful forces keep her dere, an' I only attempt dis because of de Guede who can lend me strength an' power.

"Her ti-bon-ange and gros-bon-ange - de soul forces - are tangled up an' twisted by de hatred of another. Her z'etoile is broken as well. De one who did dis t'ing must be punished, but dat is for de loa to decide. Our task is clear; we must speak wit' Gabrielle an' she will tell us what she requires for peace."

The mambo leaned forward, pinning Xena into place with her good eye. "Ya must not falter, mademoiselle. Ya must not give in to despair, temptin' though it be. Listen, while I tell you what must be done..."

Eagerly, Xena drank in all of Tante Marie's instructions a nd left the little shop with a lighter step, the tiny kernel of hope she had dared to nurture beginning to blossom full blown.

CHAPTER SIX

That night, Xena found herself outside the hounfort of Tante Marie and her societe; part of the building was open walled but roofed, with a floor of beaten earth and a center post decorated in bands of bright color. There were other rooms but they had been closed off and sealed, the doors chalked with strange designs and sealed with wax.

The hounfort seemed crudely built but it was strong enough to have weathered hurricanes and the passage of decades. Sequined, technicolor flags had been tacked to the roofpoles and every solid surface covered in painted, lacy designs. A cement altar covered in candles, flowers and other offerings sat at the base of the centerpole; Xena had placed several bottles of white rum there earlier in the evening.

Religious ceremonies usually took place inside the hounfort, but since they would be invoking the Guede of the Petro loa rather than calling upon the more benevolent Rada, the ceremony was not being held within the sacred confines of their temple.

Xena and the others were outside in the yard where a ritual fire burned. Hollow gourds hung from trees surrounding the property, which was located about fifteen miles outside of Lafayette in the middle of the swampy Louisiana wilderness.

The earth was splashed and daubed with blood; two white goats had been sacrificed. Like the others, Xena was dressed in scarlet from head to toe, with a red scarf to cover her hair, and she was barefoot. She danced and swayed in place, almost entranced by the sharp, off-beat and frenzied drums that pounded such an insistent beat she couldn't help but allow the rhythm to sink in and nearly take her over.

Tante Marie, presiding over the ritual with an air of command that was palpable, leaned down and began drawing a design on the ground with a handful of white powder - a cross-like pattern with elegant swirls and scrolls that Xena had learned was called a veve. This was the lodestone that would call a loa to earth; before they could call upon the Guede to come and select a cheval to possess, they must first make an invocation to Papa Legba as the opener of the way. Without Legba's permission, no other loa could pass through the astral to the material world.

"Papa Legba, ouvri barrie pou nos passer!" the mambo cried, blowing the remains of the white powder to the four cardinal points and shaking her gourd rattle.

To Xena, the clicking rattle of the asson was like a call to arms. She shivered despite the extreme heat; the sweat that covered her body seemed cold as ice.

Tante Marie laid a flag upon the ground; it was colored in dark hues and upon the fabric was drawn a stylized coffin. She danced, taking mouthfuls of rum and spraying them at the men and women of the societe; some of them began to shake and mumble. The women of the hounsi canzo, the sacred chorus, swayed back and forth, fluttering their scarlet skirts and chanting to the loa to draw them down to earth.

Xena saw one of the women begin to stagger around in a circle, throwing out her arms and spasming. A couple of hounsis grabbed her before she could fall into the fire. She had been possessed by a powerful loa, her body mounted like a horse by the as-yet unknown spirit.

The cheval grunted and suddenly stood erect, shaking off the hounsis.

Tante Marie said loudly in satisfaction, "Baron Samedi!"

To Xena's vision, it seemed that the cheval stood far straighter and taller than her formerly petite stature could have possibly accommodated. She blinked; another figure was superimposed over the cheval's - that of a elegantly slender and tall gentleman dressed in dusty black clothing, a top hat perched jauntily on his head. A cigar smoldered between his fingers and when he grinned, she realized that his face was a naked skull.

"You seek a soul!" Baron Samedi announced, the deep, baritone voice coming incongruously from the girl's lips. Xena could see the skull's jawbone moving up and down in time with the words. This double vision was disconcerting and beginning to give her a headache, but she didn't dare tear her eyes away.

Tante Marie spoke at length to the cheval, periodically offering the possessing loa long drinks of rum from the bottle she held. When she finished, Baron Samedi spoke again. "What do you offer me?" he asked.

Xena cleared her throat and stepped forward out of the concealing shadows, allowing the firelight to illuminate her face. "What do you desire?" she countered as Tante Marie had coached her.

The Baron stood silently, puffing his cigar. Then unexpectedly, he threw back his head and laughed. "We desire what you desire!" he cried. "A servant of bones, a gros-bon-ange that belongs to the darkness rather than the light. Your work brings us closer, mademoiselle Bonchance. We aid you because it serves our interests rather than yours."

Xena sidled closer to Tante Marie. "What does he mean?" she asked in a hushed whisper.

The mambo offered the loa of the dead another drink and replied, "Never mind, child." A mysterious and chilling smile spread across her strong features. "De cost ain't to none of us but to another."

All around them, other members of the societe were staggering in the beginning stages of possession. Xena stepped back again to watch. Again, each time a cheval was mounted by a loa, she could "see" the new figure of the spirit superimposed over their human "horse."

A weeping woman dressed in floating white rags whose eyes burned with a strange, twisting fire; an old man who hopped about with a crutch; another woman whose hair was a mass of spectral flames that seemed to reach out and lash members of the societe, who fell down and cried out as if they had been burned.

Tante Marie said to Xena out of the corner of her mouth, "Madame Brigitte, Carrefour and Marinette-Bois Cheche," and nodded at each of the chevals in turn.

Another figure danced by; this one gnawing at a broken bottle, the glass crunching noisily as his jaws worked.. Xena exclaimed but the mambo stopped her instinctive move with a gesture. "He is possessed by Cinq Jour Malheureux, de Guede of five day's misfortune."

Xena grabbed Tante Marie's hands. "What? Why is he here? I thought they wanted to help!"

"Come wit' me," the black woman said, pulling Xena towards the quiet of the hounfort. Xena struggled but Tante Marie was just as strong as she appeared.

Having gotten the distraught woman away from the frenzied ritual and leaving her two assistants in charge, Tante Marie pushed Xena down onto a stool.

"She's comin'," the mambo said, her words cutting through Xena's protests like a knife. "De loa are bringin' her here. We must prepare."

The dark haired woman couldn't repress a shiver of mingled excitement and apprehension at the thought.

"Why a loa of misfortune?" Xena insisted on asking.

Tante Marie finished drawing a circular symbol around them with more chalky powder before she answered. "Ya must not take everythin' ya see as personal. De loa come as dey will; no man or woman can force dem to answer or keep dem away if it is dere desire."

The mambo lit several candles and indicated that Xena was to sit on the floor directly across from her, their knees touching. They were within the circle the black woman had drawn; one side was unfinished and Xena noticed that Tante Marie had a heap of powder conveniently at hand.

Before Xena could voice her questions, however, Tante Marie cocked her head to one side. "She comes," the mambo said, closing her eyes.

Xena held her breath. It seemed that a bubble of silence had descended, cutting them off from the outside world. The frantic beating of the sacred drums was distant and muted; the chants of the societe muffled and indistinct. There was a feeling of tremendous pressure, as if the very air were thickening; the tension was wire-taut and almost unbearable.

Tante Marie was gripping Xena's hands tightly. The dark haired woman felt a choking sensation, as if she were being suffocated; after a moment's panic, she remembered to breathe. Every indrawn breath was an effort that made her tremble; it grew so cold inside the hounfort that Xena thought if she cried, the tears would turn to ice immediately.

The mambo began to moan, her face contorted with effort. "She fights us," Tante Marie said with a long, drawn out groan. "Call to her... quickly! She fears an' will trust only de one she loves!"

Xena sucked in some air. "Gabrielle!" she called; her voice sounded faint and hollow, as if she were speaking from a great distance. "Gabrielle! Don't fight, cher! Come to me! Come to me!"

Tante Marie shuddered. "De bonds are loosened but dey won't remain so for long!"

 The pressure became greater; it seemed as if a giant fist was crushing her chest. Xena gasped, sweating profusely despite the chill.

Suddenly, there was a *pop* and Xena's ears cleared; she could breathe much easier, too.  It was like the bubble that enclosed them had been subject to immense forces, both inside and out, and now a slight tear had equalized things to the point of becoming bearable once again.

A misty white substance began to coalesce inside the circle. As soon as it manifested, Tante Marie let go of Xena's throbbing hands and grabbed the white powder, quickly drawing a line and completing the circle. Now, whatever was within would stay there until she allowed it to leave.

The form wavered uncertainly. Xena squinted, staring up at it; oddly enough, she didn't feel afraid at all. She could just make out Gabrielle's features; the spirit's face and form were blurred, as if a sheet of rippled glass stood between them.

"Help me!" Gabrielle said in her lilting drawl. The voice echoed slightly, the infinitely repeating words almost too faint to hear.

"What can I do, cher?," Xena asked. "Tell me what to do!"

"Find me." The ghost blinked out and immediately reappeared. "Find me."

Tante Marie groaned again. "Hurry!," she urged. "I cannot hold it much longer!"

"What d'ya mean, find ya? Please, Gabrielle!" Xena fought the nearly overwhelming instinct to wring her hands in distress.

"Find me," Gabrielle repeated. For a second, her eyes flashed with emerald fire then faded out again. "He hurt me. Find me and give me peace!"

"Do ya mean your body, cher? Your... bones?" Xena hated to say the words but knew it was necessary to find out all she could.

"Yes," Gabrielle replied. "Yes. Find me. Give me peace."

The wavering form began to flatten out and unravel.

Xena cried desperately, "Gabrielle! Don't go, cher! Please! Don't go!"

As the misty figure began to fade, Gabrielle's voice came once again, so low and distant that Xena strained to hear. "Three oaks," she said. "Follow me. Find me. Tomorrow."

And then it was over. Gabrielle disappeared like a snuffed candleflame, leaving nothing behind.

Tante Marie panted; her eyelids drooped and she was so weary with the massive effort she had undergone that her hands shook. Xena looked down at the circle; the mambo had rubbed out a section when it had become too difficult for her to maintain contact.

Xena swallowed. She could feel that the cloth around her head was dripping with sweat; so were her clothes.

Tante Marie gave the dark haired woman a slight smile. "Ya know what to do," she mumbled. It was clear that speaking was difficult. "Call my societe; the rites are over."

Xena blinked again. She got up and nearly fell over; her knees were weak and her legs were shaky. "Thank you," she whispered.

The mambo waved her away weakly.

Xena felt drained, as if she'd just run a marathon, climbed a mountain and stayed awake for a week. The drums were silent; as soon as she exited the hounfort, the members of the societe filed within, not sparing her a glance or a word.

The fire still burned outside.

Xena picked her way across the dark yard, headed for her car. She had to go home and get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow night, she'd have a lot of work to do.
 

CHAPTER SEVEN

William Lacroix scowled at the man who stood in front of him.

"Dammit, Pierce! Remind me why I'm paying your fees if all you can come up with is this crap!" Lacroix said angrily, tossing a fistful of papers up into the air.

Ignoring the fluttering pages floating to the floor, Anton Pierce said evenly, "You asked me to follow Xena Bonchance and report on her movements. That's it. She left work, went to a mambo named Marie Jean-Baptiste, went home, drove to a location outside of Lafayette and then participated in a voodoo ceremony of some kind. I wasn't able to keep complete surveillance on her there but I did catch that she was planning to do something tomorrow night. I haven't had time to tap her phone or plant some listening devices in her house, but give me a few days..."

"I haven't got a few days!" Lacroix raged. "Get out! Just get out! Useless, worthless, gutless son of a bitch!"

Anton Pierce, one of the best private investigators in Louisiana - and a man whose high fees were justified by his skill - coolly lit a cigarette and allowed the smoke to trickle from his nostrils. "If you'd tell me why you're in such a hurry..."

"Just get out, goddammit!" Lacroix picked up a paperweight from the desk and held it menacingly.

Pierce didn't get where he was by being a fool; he knew when to beat a tactful retreat. "I'll send you my bill," he replied as he exited, refusing to sacrifice dignity for haste.

Lacroix let the paperweight drop and rubbed his aching temples. Events were moving faster than he'd anticipated. He'd hoped to have at least a couple of days to come up with some kind of plan for dealing with Bonchance but now she'd forced his hand. He would have to handle this problem quickly or it could balloon out of his ability to control.

He got up and walked across his hotel suite to the bar, pouring himself two fingers of bourbon over ice. He sipped his drink and slowly calmed himself.

He'd gotten Anton Pierce involved because he needed someone who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut to follow Bonchance and report on her movements. Professionals like Pierce were discreet and willing to overlook coincidences if the person they'd been following suddenly disappeared, or ended up in the hospital or dead.

So, Bonchance is into voodoo, he thought to himself, wondering if this could be an angle he could use. After a little consideration, he discarded the idea; Louisiana might have been a God-fearing state on the surface, but beneath the piety ran a strong thread of superstition and the worship of dark African gods. Threatening to expose her religion wouldn't faze a woman like Bonchance; in fact, it might even enhance her reputation with her customers.

The whole thing had his mind running around in circles, chasing supposition and assumptions. Why would Bonchance go to a voodoo ceremony? There was nothing in the woman's past to indicate even a passing interest in the subject. Did she tell the Jean-Baptiste woman anything? Would this mambo become another problem?

Lacroix finally sighed; he'd confront the mambo if and when it became necessary. Right now, Xena Bonchance was the crucial disruption in his well-ordered life; a minor annoyance whose mysterious actions and intentions had turned her into a serious threat.

He poured himself another bourbon and drank it down while he pondered his choices.

It was clear that Bonchance was going somewhere tomorrow night. Perhaps she was meeting with someone? She never said she had evidence but would she have confronted him like that if she hadn't? Was she meeting with someone from the newspapers? TV? Or, God forbid, one of those expose programs that would gleefully plaster his sins on televisions from coast to coast?

Lacroix shuddered and poured some more alcohol into his glass.

At last, after consuming most of the bottle and running the emotional gamut from panic to false confidence to the bloody determination of a cornered rat, he decided on a course of action. Bolstered by bourbon and mortal fear, William Lacroix staggered to his bedroom and rummaged around in the briefcase he had brought with him.

After a little drunken fumbling, he came up with a .38 revolver gleaming dully in his hand.

He checked the ammunition, then checked it a second time before putting the gun and a handful of bullets into the inside pocket of his trenchcoat.

He'd make arrangements for a car in the morning...

Follow Xena Bonchance to her meeting...

And kill anything that moved.

With that resolution firmly entrenched in his mind, William Lacroix fell into bed, a beatific smile wreathing his features as he slipped into sleep, to dream of Xena's pale eyes opened wide as he blasted her again and again, hot bullets forcing the bitch into silence once and for all.

Xena waited until full darkness descended before leaving her home en route to Highway 13 and the old Resurrection cemetery.

She'd set the radio to an oldies station and now a soft harmony filtered through the car:

"Heavenly shades of night are falling, it's twilight time..."

With the windows rolled down and no fear of speed traps - the police never cruised Coffin Alley if they could help it - Xena put her foot down on the gas and sped towards her destiny. As the old Chevy roared through the night, Xena began to drift away from concentrating on the road and instead, other thoughts crowded her brain.

She'd have to find the three oaks first. Xena assumed they must be near Resurrection; once she'd located them, Gabrielle would lead her somehow to the decades-old corpse - or so the spirit had seemed to indicate. Xena didn't know how Gabrielle would accomplish this feat - Neon signs? A trail of ectoplasm? Breadcrumbs? - but she felt confident that before the dawn came bursting over the horizon, she would have freed her love from torment and in the process, taken down her murderer.

She had a shovel in the trunk of the car; leather gloves, a couple of flashlights and a Coleman lantern completed her equipment. Under the circumstances, Xena was as prepared as she could be. Going into an unknown situation made her a little nervous, but the thought of seeing Gabrielle again, of gazing one last time into those emerald eyes and hearing that musical voice, made Xena's heart pound with anticipation as well as dread.

She chewed the inside of her cheek; her fingers tapped the rim of the steering wheel.

Her pale blue eyes gleamed as memories flooded unbidden to the forefront of her mind: the sweet curve of Gabrielle's lips when she smiled, the glory of her red-blonde hair when it spilled down over her white shoulders, the unique scent of roses and spice that was the rarest incense in the world...

She didn't know how she could possess such delicious reminiscences, vignettes of a life they'd never shared together, but they seemed so vividly real that Xena couldn't question, was unable to deny. If she had still harbored doubts, they would have been washed away by the purifying and heart-breaking memories of her precious, lost treasure... Gabrielle.

She could almost feel Gabrielle's breath upon her skin, a tantalizing, whispered puff that smelled of honey and cloves. She could feel the strands of Gabrielle's hair slither through her fingers like silken rope. She could taste the other woman's fire, a shiver of delight and magic that dissolved on her tongue, a priceless pearl of memory that conjured up further images of love and loving that made her sigh with longing and regret.

Gone. Gabrielle was gone.

Fate's web had been shattered.

Tears threatened and were blinked away.

She must be strong, must not falter... for the sake of Gabrielle and herself.

If she succeeded, there was still hope, of a kind. Her life would go on until the inevitable end and then she and Gabrielle would be reunited to live and love again.

If she failed...

A yawning eternity of nothingness, loneliness and searing emptiness loomed before her.

Xena clenched her teeth. She would not fail!

She drove on absently, navigating with the unconscious skill of instinct, thoughts and images running riot in her head...

And never noticed the black Lincoln that purred along at a discreet distance behind her, its lights sensibly darkened, an ebony assassin glistening wetly as it focused on its goal.

Xena thought she was the hunter... but she was actually the prey.

William Lacroix squinted, following the dim red taillights in front of him.

Beside him, laying on the leather seat, was the loaded revolver. He reached over and caressed it, enjoying the slick gun oil that spread across his fingers.

He was alone. His lips stretched, exposing his teeth in a humorless grin that was more the snarl of a predator who catches the scent of his victim.

Lacroix was patient; he would follow the Bonchance woman for as long as it took, to hell if necessary, just as he had waited outside her home all day, unwilling to let her out of his sight for a moment.

She was his and he was determined to kill her, no matter what.

It was the only logical solution, he reassured himself.

He clicked on the radio, noting proudly that his hands weren't trembling at all.

"Even the stars at night are calling, it's twilight time..."
 

CHAPTER EIGHT

Xena walked up the road, shovel in one hand and lantern in the other. In the pockets of her ankle length leather duster, she carried the other tools she had brought.

The Chevy was parked up the road a little ways, the headlights shining but the yellow beams scarcely pierced the surrounding darkness.

All around her was a quiet hush, as if nature itself was holding her breath. The night was humid and Xena had already begun to sweat; a wind suddenly sprang up out of nowhere and on that cooling breeze the woman could detect the distinct tang of storm scent.

As if in answer to her thoughts, a few drops of rain splattered on the asphalt around her. Xena whispered a curse, looking up at the sky in a futile attempt to see the fat, thunder-bellied clouds that had boiled in from the Gulf. The ground was already wet; she'd have a hell of a time digging up the soft Louisiana muck even without the added difficulty of rain.

Something slid past the corner of her eye; she whipped her head around, lantern held high. The wind gusted strongly, lashing her dark hair across her face and bringing tears to her eyes because of the stinging pain. Xena shook her head and tried to refocus.

Lightning illuminated the landscape for a heartbeat, coloring everything around her in shades of gray and brilliant blue-white. At last, she recognized the sign she had been seeking - a trio of gnarled oak trees, twined around one another in a tortured embrace, their branches sagging with Spanish moss.

She picked her way off the road and into the woods, pushing aside grasping branches and trying hard not to trip on roots and vines. A sharply pointed finger seemed to scrape across the back of her neck hard enough to draw blood; Xena sucked in a breath and then let it out with a sighed obscenity. Just another goddamned man-eating tree, she said to herself, untangling her collar and moving on.

A flicker of white caught her attention. It glowed against the jungle landscape, luminous as a pearl. Xena shook wet hair out of her eyes and followed, stumbling and tripping, catching herself on tree trunks, heart in her throat. It had to be Gabrielle, leading her as she'd promised.

"Gabrielle! Cher! Wait for me, goddammit!"

The rain began in earnest, lightning stuttering and thunder booming, water cascading down as if the heavens had opened their floodgates. The wind howled, picking up speed and fury. A branch smacked against Xena's face; for a moment, she was blinded by the pain and the fiery stars that sprinkled her vision. Putting up a hand, she discovered that her cheek was bleeding. She wiped it impatiently on her sleeve and looked around. There was no sign of white anywhere.

"Gabrielle! Where are ya, darlin'?"

Xena ducked beneath some more branches and swore when her lantern crashed against a tree trunk, breaking the glass and extinguishing the light. Instantly, she was plunged into suffocating darkness and the hairs on the back of her neck rose in atavistic response.

Another flicker of white, this time closer than it had been before. Not close enough for Xena to make out anything except a blur but in her heart she knew it was Gabrielle.

"I'm comin'!" Xena yelled. "Hang on, cher! I'm comin'!"

She pulled out the biggest of the flashlights she'd brought and clicked it on. The light was pale and insignificant but it was still a comforting beacon that held the inky night at bay.

The luminous light began moving away...

"Goddammit!" Xena ground out. "Wait for me, will ya?!"

Xena followed, finesse forgotten in her haste not to be left behind, moving at a half-trot and nearly falling down a dozen times, only catching herself short and avoiding breaking her neck by dint of her excellent physical condition and almost supernatural sense of balance.

Finally, Xena stumbled into a clearing, out of breath and panting hard; the black hair plastered to her face and skull resembled runnels of spilled ink.

She fell to her knees, dropping the shovel. Rain dripped into her eyes, momentarily blinding her; she dashed a hand across her face and stared.

Gabrielle stood there, a glowing figure in the center of the cleared space. She looked so real, as if she were flesh and blood; her dress with its belling crinolined skirts and chiffon bodice was pure white again. She turned to face Xena, her green eyes incandescent as emerald flames.

"Find me!" the spirit urged; her voice, while faint, was still audible over the wind. "Please! I been waitin' so long..."

Xena scrambled to her feet and grabbed the shovel, drawing a breath that was almost a sob.

Lightning flashed and the woman's heroic figure was silhouetted against the night.

With determination and devotion, Xena began to dig.

The mambo howled, her firelit features screwed up into a demonic mask. "Pour les Morts! Pour les Morts nommes!"

All around her, the area where the societe danced and chanted was dry despite the fact that outside their supernatural circle of protection, the storm raged. Thunder growled angrily, lightning crawled across the sky then corkscrewed to the ground, a serpent's tongue of destruction.

Tante Marie screamed again, her deep, low pitched voice sending shuddering vibrations through the dancers. "Pour ceux dont les noms sont ouldies au passage du temps! Pour ceux dont les os sont sous et dans cette terre!"

One by one, members of the societe began to spasm in the beginning stages of possession, the women of the hounsi canzo moving in to restrain them.

Tante Marie threw back her head and laughed, shaking a fist at the roiling sky. "Triumphe!" she called loudly. "Come; take what is your due!"

A surge of power concentrated itself on one of the swaying dancers; the girl called Valentine fell to the ground, writhing and twisting, foam flecking her lips.

After several convulsions and growls, she suddenly lay still as if she had been stricken dead. Then, without any warning, she sprang up with a terrible scream, her blue-black skin glistening with sweat and the scar on her cheek seemed to glow like a livid brand. Her eyes had changed into the golden yellow of a hunting leopard's. With a snarl, Valentine leaped into the midst of the chevals, batting at them with hands that were curved into claws, herding them into a small circle that was centered on herself.

Valentine licked her lips and her eyes sought out Tante Marie. When her hot yellow gaze met the mambo's, she nodded once and then threw her arms out wide, seeming to gather more power to herself with each turning spin of the chevals who danced around her, with each throbbing beat of the drums.

The fabric of reality shimmered and vibrated; Valentine seemed to grow and she wailed, the cords in her neck straining, her grasping hands reaching out for something...

Lightning forked down, a blue-white bolt of pure energy that sizzled into Valentine's hands. The circle of protection was shattered; rain drenched the dancers and the roaring wind centered itself in a whirling maelstrom around Valentine and the chevals. The noise was almost unbearable; it seemed loud enough to shake muscle from bone, a sound so all encompassing it made the dancers clutch their heads and scream. The ground seemed to shake, the air to catch aflame; it was as if the centuries-old dead were raised from the embrace of their tombs and their empty eyes rolled towards heaven, seeking the redress of their wrongs by the gods themselves.

Lightning coursed down again and again, the bolts arriving so quickly there was no time to think, no time to seek shelter...

Tante Marie shielded her eyes with an upflung hand; when the flashes finally ended, she looked around and blinked.

Valentine and the chevals were gone. Disappeared as if they had never existed; not even a smoking stain remained on the ground.

The remaining members of the societe stumbled around in a daze; the drummers had collapsed over their instruments. Some of the hounsis had fallen to the ground; others wept and scrubbed at their soaked skirts with shaking hands.

The mambo allowed a satisfied smile to spread across her face. Ignoring the pelting rain, she took a long swig of rum and sighed, then let the bottle drop from her nerveless fingers.

The storm was moving away, chasing a tangle of lightning through the sky.

Payment was due and the loa always took exactly what they were owed.

Xena grunted; she was down on her knees, scraping away handfuls of dirt, the shovel discarded behind her. Her face was strained, lips drawn back in a grimace of effort. She panted, oblivious to the rain, the wind, the mud and filth that splattered her from head to toe. She moved in a mechanical rhythm, the pounding of her own pulse filling her ears and blocking out anything else.

At last, her questing fingers felt a solid, rounded shape. Xena scrabbled in the dirt, pushing aside the sodden earth that clung stubbornly to the grisly treasure it concealed.

Slowly, the mud yielded and Xena snatched up her flashlight, training it on the hole she'd dug.

A skull grinned up at her, its eyesockets filled with dark loam that was rapidly dissolving into sludge.

Tossing aside the flashlight, Xena began frantically clearing away the rest of the dirt, using her arms to push it aside, desperate to uncover the rest. In the depths of her fatigue-fogged mind, she was afraid that Gabrielle was smothering beneath the weight of her grave, the girl calling to her with a painful supplication that she could not disobey. Mouth open wide as she gasped, body shaking and muscles cramping, Xena fought to free her love from the earth's moist embrace, not stopping until the pitiful collection of bones was fully exposed.

Tears flowed down her face to mingle with the rain and mud.

She sat back on her heels and tried to control the wrenching convulsions that threatened to burst her chest.

As Xena trembled and shook, something in the grave caught her eye: a bright metallic glint that winked up at her from the bones of the corpse's hand.

Xena picked up the flashlight again. Her heart in her mouth, she reached out and carefully retrieved the object, wincing when the fingerbones of the skeleton tumbled apart.

It was a gold tieclasp, the solid metal still brilliant even after all these years. Xena scrubbed it on the front of her coat to clear off some of the encrusting dirt and then trained her light on it.

Tiny diamonds were set into the surface of the clasp; they spelled a name: William Joseph Lacroix.

Xena's hand closed into a fist; ignoring the sharp edges that bit into her palm, she whispered, "Gotcha, ya bastard."

Suddenly, she heard Gabrielle's voice clearly, as if the girl stood right beside her. "Look out!"

Xena's head tilted up and her eyes narrowed into slits.

Lightning flashed; William Lacroix was standing directly over her.

Somehow, Xena wasn't surprised by his presence. "See this?" she said, too angry to be cautious. "Take a good look, ya bastard!" She thrust the tieclip at him and laughed, a touch of hysteria that startled her. "Ya killed her, murderer! Murderer! You're gonna cook for sure!"

Lacroix didn't reply. Instead, he swept his arms down and a dark shape hurtled through the air, sweeping straight towards the laughing woman.

When the shovel crunched into her face, Xena collapsed without another word or thought, sent straight into oblivion by the enemy she had underestimated all along.
 

CHAPTER NINE

When Xena came to minutes later, it was to see the scowling face of William Lacroix bent over her, rain dripping off the end of his nose and splashing into her face.

Her nose was a blazing flare of agony and when she ran a tongue around her mouth, she could feel a couple of loosened teeth. The coppery taste of blood made her nauseous. She squeezed her eyes closed and opened them again; Lacroix's image blurred and shifted, doubling over itself.

Despite her faulty vision, Xena did her best to glare at him, trying to send every ounce of pain, rage and hate arrowing into the man she despised beyond all rational limits.

Lacroix straightened up with a grunt. He stepped back a pace and pulled a gun out of his pocket, aiming it at the woman on the ground.

"Good-bye, Bonchance," he said snidely. "Give my regards to Gabrielle when you meet her in hell!"

Unbelievably, the storm had gained strength. Rain smashed into the earth, balls of lightning skittered across the pitch black sky, the wind screamed with the force of an express train. Lacroix staggered as a particularly vicious gust whipped around him, nearly tossing him off his feet.

Xena struggled to bring Lacroix into focus; she gathered her legs under her and prayed she'd be strong enough. There was only one chance and she knew that if she missed, she'd die there and join Gabrielle, the two of them rotting together in a final embrace.

She shifted her position, watching Lacroix. He seemed to be having difficulty maintaining his balance. His feet slipped and slid in the mud; he windmilled his arms and tried to stay upright while the baleful wind tugged at his hair and clothes, threatening to send him sprawling.

Xena coiled her body and sprang up from the ground, hoping she hadn't misjudged the distance. She crashed into Lacroix, her shoulder striking his belly with enough force to drive the breath out of him, and they fell to earth, both of them grappling for the gun.

They struggled, rolling on top of each other; their battle was silent, punctuated only by gasps and the crisp smack of exchanged blows. This wasn't a polite brawl; this was two animals fighting for survival with bared teeth and bubbling fury. The only rule in this muddy arena was kill or be killed; each of them was determined to destroy the other, even if it cost them their own life.

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out, that sharp crack echoed by a rolling peal of thunder. Xena fell off Lacroix with a groan, clutching her arm with one hand. The bullet had broken the bone in her upper arm and dark blood welled up from between her fingers.

Lacroix staggered up, snatching the gun from where it had fallen. He trained it on the bleeding woman; his face was smeared with wet earth and rain, his eyes wide and pupils fully dilated. "Time to die, bitch!" he shrilled, his finger tensing on the trigger.

Xena rolled her head to the side. Gabrielle stood there; an electric aura crackled around her form. Her hair uncoiled from its demure chignon and lifted from her shoulders, the red-gold strands billowing outward like tongues of fire. Her eyes burned with hate but instead of watching Lacroix, her gaze was focused on the sky. Her hands curled into fists and she seemed to be waiting for something... or someone.

The howl of the wind was deafening; trees were bending backwards with crunching groans beneath that unstoppable power.

Lacroix, alerted by a sixth sense to the danger, looked up as well. His clothing was torn; one eye was swelling rapidly and a trickle of blood ran down his chin. Suddenly, the gun dropped from his hand and he fell, mouth open in a scream of denial and disbelief.

A funnel was reaching down from the clouds above; a swirling vortex of wind that dropped down into the clearing and hovered there, the cone twitching back and forth as it were seeking something.

Xena lay on her back and stared up into the whirlwind. Shadowy figures danced there, the winds buoying them up as they capered around and around.

Baron Samedi, she thought to herself, dazed. Madame Brigitte. Carrefour. Marinette-Bois Cheche.

All these and others, but paramount among them was a yellow-eyed woman whose scorching amber gaze threatened to set the trees aflame. She stared intently at Xena for a moment, then turned those incredible leopard eyes on the trembling figure of William Lacroix. The loa within the storm danced and laughed, but the woman was silent and serious. Suddenly, she smiled; Xena's heart contracted at the cruelty and delight in the yellow-eyed loa's expression.

Lacroix was on his knees in an attitude of prayer, gibbering in terror. "Please, God, help me!" he pleaded, weeping and groveling in the mud.

The unknown female loa's smile grew broader. She pointed a finger at the shivering, terror-stricken man. "It is time!" she announced in a surprisingly deep voice. "Come and serve your new masters, dog!"

The other loa floated up to join her; they stood in the eye of the storm, unsupported by anything except their own power.

Xena noticed Baron Samedi in the group; he removed the cigar from his mouth, doffed the hat from his head and gave her a solemn bow.

His words swam up unbidden: "We desire what you desire... we aid you because it serves our interests rather than your own."

And then the voice of Tante Marie: "De one who did dis t'ing must be punished but dat is for de loa to decide."

Xena smiled. It was a cold and chilling grin; had Lacroix seen it, he might have had a heart attack on the spot.

The funnel descended and Lacroix began to scream as he was enveloped in whirling winds and sizzling bolts of light. His scream seemed to grow thinner and fainter, as if it were being stretched across an immeasurable distance of space and time. Xena kept her eyes on the maelstrom but Lacroix was completely hidden from view.

After a moment, the twisting whirlwind ascended again, sucked back up into the sky by whatever power had caused it to appear. The spot where Lacroix had knelt was empty but his final protesting cry still echoed thinly until it died altogether, submerged into the sounds of an ordinary rainstorm that was already beginning to die.

Xena closed her eyes. It was finally finished; the quiet pattering of raindrops calmed and soothed away her aches and pains.

A glowing light close to her made the insides of her eyelids shimmer with red fire. Xena cracked her eyes open and looked straight into the beautiful face of Gabrielle.

The spirit knelt beside her; a look of complete peace and happiness had settled across her features. She reached out and brushed aside a matted lock of Xena's hair; the woman felt a tingle in that brief contact that made her blood sing.

Gabrielle leaned closer; Xena could see her own face reflected in the girl's emerald eyes. She could smell the sweetness of her love's hair, could almost feel the heat of Gabrielle's body. A tuft of chiffon tickled her cheek and Xena had to bite her lip to keep from crying.

Soft, warm lips pressed against her own; for a timeless moment, they were together, body and soul united in a bond that had at last been mended. Two souls made one; a silver ribbon stretching across infinity, melding one into the other until it was impossible to tell where Xena began and Gabrielle ended. It was more than a kiss; it was a bridge between worlds, a promise that when Xena was ready, her love would be waiting with open arms to welcome her to the other side.

Slowly, the pressure on her lips faded; Xena reached out and grasped at empty air. Her eyes flew open and she almost cried aloud when she realized that the spirit was no longer visible.

"I been waitin' for somebody," Gabrielle's voice whispered.

And then she was gone, the chains that had bound her to torment on earth finally dissolved. Freed to cross over; the stranglehold of fear and hate had been severed and now nothing held her soul in bondage. Gratefully, Gabrielle stepped into the light...

Xena lay there and wept, the pain of her injuries as nothing to the agony of her soul. She wept in mingled grief and profound happiness...

She was still sobbing like a child when the highway patrol officer who had noticed her abandoned car finally stumbled into the clearing and radioed for help.
 

CHAPTER TEN - EPILOGUE

Xena stood beside the coffin; she'd bought the finest mahogany box with solid silver handles that were elaborately chased with a pattern of vines and flowers. Gabrielle's bones had been released by the police department, along with a rusted and pitted compact made of brass and a blackened tube of metal that was once a lipstick case. Since no family members had come forward to claim the body, Xena had offered to give the long-dead girl a decent burial and had spared no expense in making sure the body of the woman she loved would be interred with suitable dignity and ceremony.

The dark haired woman ignored the droning voice of the priest and cast her mind back over the last several weeks. Her left arm was supported in a sling, the broken bone slowly mending from Lacroix's bullet. She rolled her shoulder, settling the sling into a more comfortable position.

The initial story she'd told the police had been a half-garbled and heavily censored account that had borne more than a touch of hysteria. The skeleton, with the golden tieclip miraculously restored to its bony grip, the gun, Xena's wounding, and the body of William Lacroix discovered tangled in a tree a few hundred yards from the scene hadn't contributed to a clear view of the half miraculous, half demonic events that had occurred that evening.

Fortunately, some of the scattered dwellers in their backwoods homes had seen the stormclouds and the tornado funnel; their testimony, together with the gleaned evidence, supported Xena's story.

When she'd woken up in the hospital following surgery to remove the bullet and repair her shattered arm, Xena had found a senior police detective waiting.

His name was Frank Duval and he'd been one of the officers who had originally investigated the disappearance of Gabrielle St. Martin twenty-three years ago.

Duval was an older man, nearing retirement but still very well respected; his cap of wooly curls was threaded with gray and his skin was a pale lemon yellow. His eyes were small and murky brown, the muddy iris blending into the red-veined white.

He had questioned her keenly, missing no nuance or hesitation on Xena's part. At last, due perhaps to fatigue and the gnawing ache in her arm, Xena began to tell him the entire story, from its beginnings on Highway 13 to the fantastic end of Lacroix at the hands of voodoo gods in the woods near Resurrection cemetery.

Her voice was raw; at times she wept uncontrollably, hand picking at the cool sheets. She had sense enough to keep the true nature of the relationship between herself and Gabrielle a secret, but the rest spilled from her lips in a bitterly tinged flood. She already missed Gabrielle and knew that the sharp pang in her heart would never go away entirely.

When she'd finished, Duval had sat and looked at her a long time with those blurred eyes, turning his pork-pie hat around and around in his hands.

At last, he'd sighed and shaken his head.

Xena had thought that this was the end; she might be arrested for something like grave robbery or obstruction of justice while the police tried to tie Lacroix's death to her neck with fabricated evidence that would be substantial enough to get her tried, convicted and sentenced to death.

It had happened before. She wouldn't be the first scapegoat to be executed by the State to silence public criticism and garner votes.

But Duval had surprised her.

She'd stared at him with wide eyes when he'd told her certain facts that had been uncovered by the police in 1962 and never released to the newspapers.

The fact that Gabrielle St. Martin had been undergoing initiate training in voodoo under the guidance of a houngan, Christian Espirit - and her companion in this training had been Marie Jean-Baptiste. The two girls had been best friends and confidantes, holding one another in the same affection as sisters, despite their very different backgrounds and against their families' protests.

The teenage Marie had refused to cooperate with the police, claiming that the loa they both had served would take care of Gabrielle - and anyone who had harmed her - in their own time.

Gabrielle's own mother, Nicole St. Martin, had been a voodoo priestess of some renown, famous for her eyes - which were an unusual amber yellow. Nicole had died when Gabrielle was a little girl and now the mother was worshipped by some societies as Madame L'ame Rasoir - the Razor of the Soul, a figure of motherly affection who nevertheless defended her children with the blood-hungry zeal of a lioness.

And then Duval had shown Xena something astonishing.

He'd reached into his back pocket, drawing out his wallet. From among some crumpled bills and tobacco-sprinkled papers, he had withdrawn a folded bit of white paper and handed it to her.

With hands that were none too steady, Xena unfolded it...

And saw her own face revealed there in a pencil and ink sketch.

Duval's laconic comments caused chills to skitter up and down her spine.

"Miss St. Martin drew that," he'd said, nodding to the paper in her hands. "I had to search the girl's private things to see if there was any evidence to support the theory that she was a runaway. When I showed it to Marie Jean-Baptiste, she told me that this was a face I should remember - it was the image of a Serviteur de Les Invisibles, a ku-bha-sah to strike down the enemy - in other words, a sword in the hands of the loa. Someone destined to find Gabrielle and lead her out of bondage.

"I admit, I didn't understand Marie's words; I just thought she knew much more than she was admitting. I had this face wired to every police department, every sheriff's office in Louisiana and Texas - and came up with nothing. Eventually, I gave up searching - there were other crimes, other criminals. But I never forgot Gabrielle St. Martin... and I kept this to remind me of a young girl whose life was cut short by someone, somewhere."

Xena had handed the paper back to him but he'd waved her away, getting up from his seat and thrusting his hat back onto his head. "I can't say that I understand it all, but I do believe. Yes, ma'am, I believe. But... well, if you want my advice, Ms. Bonchance," Duval continued as he walked out the door, "you got enough bumps and bruises to make a good case for concussion. A wise woman would claim not to remember much and keep that wild story to herself."

He pointed a stumpy finger in her direction. "I know you're a pretty damn wise woman, Ms. Bonchance. I'm wise, myself." Duval said. "If it's any consolation, I think you done all right."

You done all right...

Those words had been one of the few bright spots in the days that followed, when Xena had been interrogated by all and sundry, including lawyers representing the Lacroix family interests, sniffing around for possible grounds for lawsuits or compensation. She'd been hounded by newspaper and television reporters, had to change her telephone number to an unlisted one, and had eventually moved to a hotel to get away from the firestorm of publicity.

It had died down a great deal after the official police report had been issued. The coroner's verdict boiled down to "act of God" in the matter of William Lacroix. And the bones Xena had found were positively identified as those of Gabrielle St. Martin; cause of death: possible strangulation. The tieclip was circumstantial evidence, but the tireless newshounds sensed blood in the water and began to do their own investigating.

Slowly, William Lacroix's crimes and shady business dealings were being exposed to the light, much to his enemies' satisfaction and his wife's consternation.

A tugging on the sleeve of her jacket pulled Xena abruptly from the past. The priest was staring at her impatiently; it was clear that she'd missed her cue and he was waiting for her to say her piece.

She cleared her throat. Gabrielle was being buried in a plain marble tomb that stood next to Xena's own; she'd inherited both plots from her mother and thought it fitting that since she and Gabrielle had not been able to connect in life, they should rest side-by-side in death.

Xena laid an armful of white roses on the top of the coffin. The sun was shining brightly, the sky a clear and crystalline blue that was reflected in the dark-haired woman's eyes.

She licked her lips, unsure of what to say. She laid a hand on the coffin lid, the wooden surface hot against her palm.

Before she could speak, however, a breeze sprang out of nowhere. The cool eddy of wind swirled around Xena, snatching at her clothes and ruffling her black hair like the caress of a lover. In her ear, a faint voice drawled in a musical Cajun lilt:

"I was waitin' for somebody... and that was you."

A spectral kiss brushed against her mouth, a feathery tickle like butterfly wings...

"I love you. I'll wait, my heart. I'll wait forever. I swear."

And then it was gone as swiftly as it had come.

Xena stood there, the heat of the sun beating down on her head, and whispered, "Sleep peacefully, cher. Oh, baby..." Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. "Rest awhile and wait for me."

She stayed a moment, locked in grief, head bowed and shoulders shaking; that final ghostly kiss was burned into her memory, to be recalled a thousand times in the lonely days and empty nights to come...

And finally Xena nodded, stepping away to allow the coffin with its burden of pale roses to be slid into its rack in the little stone house of the dead.
 

THE END

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