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The Fire Opal

Copyright 1998, 2012 by Connie Flynn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system
without the written permission of the author/publisher except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

"Come back from the dead . . ."

"Best-kept secret I've ever . . ."

"Her folks never said . . ."

They huddled together, casting furtive glances and
whispering among themselves from behind their hands. A misting rain shrouded
the gathering, and wind blew through the moss-hung cypress and oak with an
eerie whine that made a somber backdrop for the rites the priest performed.

Liz Deveraux gathered the hood of her lightweight raincoat
around her face, as much to block out their voices as to protect herself from
the cold and the rain. The townspeople were trying to be kind, she told
herself. They were trying not to show their qualms about the woman they were
putting to rest, about the daughter who'd somehow climbed out of a grave to
attend the funeral, but their hushed murmurs and thinly veiled wariness made
her feel exposed.

She'd run from this so long ago, from the sly looks and
whispers. From that odd mixture of love, respect, and fear that Port Chatre
residents had always shown Ellie Deveraux, and by proxy, her only daughter.

But Liz had loved the way a child loves. And she'd always
believed her mother would live forever, providing time to resolve their
differences. Wrong, oh so wrong, as the rain-slick marble cover leaning against
the vault attested.

The priest finished the rites. Attendants from the mortuary
took up the sides of the cover, sliding it into place with a baleful clunk. The
finality of the sound sent a shudder through Liz, but her eyes still remained
as dry as they'd been throughout the funeral.

"Come, Izzy. The time is now to go to the wake."

Liz turned to her father. Even at this sorrowful time, she
felt an urge to correct his fractured syntax, and with it came a pang of guilt.
Her parents were who they were, and if she'd learned to accept that, she
wouldn't now be feeling the weight of the unresolved issues her mother had
taken with her to her crypt.

"Weep,
mon fille
, you must weep. Keep tears
inside, they poison your soul."

"In my own time," she replied softly. She wanted
so much to cry. Her throat and chest ached, but somehow the tears just wouldn't
flow.

He acknowledged her answer with a nod of his bowed head, and
returned to staring at the freshly sealed vault. Unlike most of the other men,
he wore no suit. Raindrops had collected on the felt bill of his hunting cap
and on the nappy surface of his checked flannel jacket, making him look exactly
like the swamper he was.

Liz moved to the impressive crypt that she had ordered, glad
she could give at least this much. The marble was fresh and smooth, and the
indentations of the inscription were already filling with rain. She could feel
the rough edges left by the chisel as she traced the letters of her mother's
name, hoping the act would somehow fill the empty space inside her. But it
didn't.

When she touched the epitaph, she stilled her finger and
looked at her grandmother's adjacent vault. It bore the very same words.

Guardian of the Fire Opal

At Last She Rest

"This makes it sound like a blessing that Mama
died," she said sadly, running the flat of her hand across the markings.

"A blessing, no. But now she finally be free of Ankouer
and the burden of caring for the opal. That,
mon fille
, is a blessing
for true."

"But . . . it's so disturbing. Please have it changed,
Papa."

He fixed her with a bloodshot stare.

"
Non
. Every guardian have this on her vault. And
every defender, if there be one, carve it there as an act of love."

"It's total superstition."

"Superstition. Yeah. I think that, too. Once."

He ran his hand across his strong, stubbled jaw, and Liz
wondered how long it had been since he'd shaved. He wasn't prone to be slovenly
or to talk about things such as Ankouer and the purpose of the opal. It was her
mother who had followed the mystic ways that awestruck the townspeople and had
caused Liz such embarrassment.

"Then I seen him with my own eyes." He tapped the
marble as he spoke. With each word, the taps grew harder and faster, until they
sounded like angry cries. "Giantlike and black, swirling with evil. And he
suck my Ellie's life breath. I can do nothing, I, to stop him, though I try so
very hard."

"See what I mean, Papa?" She leaned over to stop
his tapping hand, then reached up to caress his face. He was grief crazed, that
was it. His sorrow had warped his judgment. "A stroke killed Mama, just
like
Grandmere
, but you're blaming yourself. That's what superstition
does. Please don't do this to yourself."

"No one else to blame." He covered her hand with
his other one and smiled sadly. It was the smile she remembered from childhood,
the one that said she was loved. "We talk no more of this. Richard has
been so kind to offer his home for your
maman's
wake. We not keep them
waiting, no?"

"No, of course not," she replied, giving a wan
grin to hide her dread.

Holding his hand, she turned to head out of the cemetery,
but a sudden drag signaled that her father had stopped. She lifted her eyes to
him in question.

"Tomorrow I give you the opal."

She shook her head. "I want you to have it."

"I cannot. The opal is now yours to guard. There be no
one else to carry on."

"To guard . . ." she repeated dully, involuntarily
glancing back at the twin vaults with their twin inscriptions.

"
Oui
. Only you can keep the stone from
le
fantome noir
. You be the last guardian There be no one else."

Her legacy, she thought bitterly. Instead of bone china or
jewelry like everyone else, she was inheriting an icon of superstition. She
started to protest again, then realized no argument would keep her father from
giving her that stone.

"I am sorry, Izzy," he said, tightening his grip
on her hand, and gazing at her with lost, haunted eyes. "For true I
am."

* * *

"Glad, you responded to my fax in person, son. I'm no
expert coroner"—Doc Allain stated this humbly, but his chest puffed up
with pride—"just a small-town doctor doing my best, and I didn't want to
put my suspicions in writing. Pretty sure you'll understand why when you see
what I got."

"Looking forward to it," replied Zach Fortier,
thinking that the guy was kind of an amazement. Had to be nearly ninety, and
the last time he'd seen the man, he'd been tottering on a cane. Now here he was
looking a healthy sixty, if that.

"Used to get a lot of notifications," Zach went on
to tell the doctor, "but the last year they kind of petered out. Yours is
the first I've seen in months."

"None of 'em panned out I suppose."

"Nope. Maybe this time. A man can always hope."

"Sure can. Probably should." Allain tilted his
head. "But what makes you doubt the official findings?"

Zach hesitated. He wasn't crazy about examining his reasons
too close. They were hazy, sort of, and came more from the gut than the brain.
But Allain deserved some answer, he supposed.

"Jed knew the swamp as well as any man, and he swam
like a gator. It doesn't make sense he'd drown out there. Plus that, the
escaped con he was chasing had drug ring connections. Throwing a body in the
swamp's a good way to cover up the real cause of death." He'd explained
enough, Zach thought, and he was impatient to see the evidence the doc had
faxed about. "So what have you got?"