Crusader's Cross (Dave Robicheaux 14)

"I'm too old for you."

"No, you're not." She placed her hand on my stomach and leaned down again.

"What you're doing is no good for either of us, Honoria," I said.

She took her hand away and sat very still. I could see her breasts rising and falling against the light from the street.

"I think the devil lives under the bayou. I think the devil lives in my father, too," she said.

"I believe you need some help with this stuff. I know a doctor in Lafayette," I said.

"A therapist?"

"I used to see him after my wife Annie was killed. He helped me a lot," I said.

She looked at nothing, her small hand by my hip. "Do you mind if I stay with you a while?"

"No, but I —"

"Just say yes or no."

"No, I don't mind."

"I didn't think you would. I always liked you, Dave. You're a misplaced figure from Elizabethan theater, you know. Your tragedy is the fact no one ever explained that to you."

And with that, she curled up next to me, her face on my shoulder, her arm across my stomach, and went to sleep.

The sun was above the rooftops when I woke. The space beside me was empty and my right wrist was free of the handcuffs that hung from the bedstead. My .45 and slapjack had been replaced on the nightstand, along with the key to my cuffs. From the kitchen I could hear someone clattering pots or pans on the stove.

After I used the bathroom, I pulled on my khakis and went into the kitchen. Honoria was dripping coffee, heating a pan of milk and stirring a pot of oatmeal. Both Snuggs and Tripod were eating out of their pet bowls on the floor. Honoria's hair was brushed and her face made up, but when she glanced in my direction her face had the stark expression of someone who has been caught unawares by a photographer's flash.

"There was no water in the cat's bowl," she said.

"He drinks out of the toilet," I said.

"That's disgusting."

"That's what I've been telling him," I said.

But she saw no humor in my remark. She served oatmeal in two bowls and placed them on the breakfast table, then began hunting for spoons and coffee cups. I looked at my watch. "I'm running a little bit late for Mass," I lied.

"Where's your butter dish?"

"I don't have one. Look, Honoria —"

"The oatmeal is getting cold. I fixed it for you. It would be nice if you ate it."

"Sure," I said, and sat down at the table.

She poured coffee, and placed toast, jam, and sugar in front of me, preoccupied, her eyes darting about the room, as though somehow she needed to impose order on it. "Your cat is climbing in the sink," she said.

"Snuggs is his own man," I said.

"You should train your animals," she said, lifting him off the drainboard and scooting him out the back door. "Don't you ever rake your leaves? A couple of days' work and this place would look fine."

"Last night you said the devil lived under the bayou and also inside your father."

"Where'd you get that?" she said, smiling for the first time that morning.