The Fire Opal      "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, but failed to muffle their words.      Liz Deveraux gathered the hood of her lightweight rain coat around her face, as much to block out their voices as to protect herself from the cold and the rain. The town's people 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 only loved her mother the way a child loves. And she'd always believed she'd 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 sides of the cover, sliding it into place with a baleful clunk. The finality of the sound sent a shudder through Liz's body, but still her eyes 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. Keep tears inside, they poison your soul." He looked at her with lost and haunted eyes.      "In my own time," she replied softly. She wanted so much to cry. Her throat and chest ached, but somehow they 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, making him look exactly like the swamper he was.      Liz moved to the impressive crypt, 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 trace the letters of her mother's name, hoping the act would somehow fill the empty space inside her. But it didn't.      When her touch reached 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 blood-shot 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 followed the mystic ways that awestruck the town's people 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 an angry cries. "Giant-like 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 judgement. "A stroke killed Mama, just like Grandm'ere, 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, we mustn't do that," she replied, giving a wan grin to hide her dread.      With his hand in hers, 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 fatome 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." His face wore a tortured expression. "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. Show me what you have."      "It's not conclusive, you understand."      "You never know until you see the evidence," he replied impatiently, eager to see the results the doctor had faxed about. "Right, but let me give it to you in a nutshell. I compared the results of Ellie Deveraux's examination with the stuff you put on the wire about your brother, and—" The man's short cough almost seemed to be for effect. "Well, there's reason to believe Frank killed his wife."      "What?" Zach sputtered. "What did you find?"      "Just this." He handed Zach a medical file. "Couldn't do an autopsy without Frank throwing a fit. But I have plenty."      The thick folder was old, the edges bent, and they contained the records of every member of the Deveraux family. Odd these days, but Port Chatre was still a small old-fashioned town. Some of the papers looked worse for the wear, but a new top sheet contained the results of the doctor's examination.      Zach read the doctor's report carefully. Ellie Deveraux had died in her sleep. Frank found her the next morning. Just the idea of waking up to discover your wife laying dead beside you gave Zach the creeps. Just as creepy was the act of going through the family folder of the first girl he'd ever loved.      Were the results of Izzy's examinations in here? Did they mention her vitality? Her love of life? Those remarkably flecked amber eyes that always reminded him of the stone called cat's eye? Did those pages tell all these things about a young woman whose life was wiped out so early?      An unwelcome thickness in his throat made him turn his attention back to the report. Except for the lividity about the lips, the same unexplained blue cast Jed's desecrated body had also borne, nothing looked unusual about Ellie's death. A stroke, Doc Allian, had written, causing paralysis of the lungs, resulting in anoxia and eventual asphyxiation. A blood test revealed no oxygen in the blood stream. There was tissue decay of the fingers and toes.      Hell, Zach wasn't a coroner. But he didn't have to be to see this was another wild goose chase. This sweet old guy was one of those a backwoods physician with an honorary coroner's title who fancied himself a forensic expert.      He leafed through the folder, telling himself he wasn't really looking for something about Izzy, and when he came across a sheet on her, he quickly passed it by. Near the back he found a report on Catherine Deveraux, Ellie's mother. She, too, had died of a stroke. Same lividity about the lips, and decay of the digits.      "Those the same kind of marks found on your brother?" Allain asked.      "The bluish lips, yes." Zach said they were. "There wasn't enough left . . ."      "Petechiae under the eyelids?"      "Yeah." At least on what was left of the lids.      "You identify the body yourself?"      Zach reached for a cigarette. One thing about small Louisiana towns, no one objected to smokers, not even in the doctor's office. "Yeah," he said after lighting up. "I did."      "Must've been rough seeing him chewed up that way."      "Wasn't the easiest." He looked back down at Catherine's sheet. "Looks like strokes runs in the family."      "Or maybe murders. Frank brought Catherine in too."      "You examine Catherine yourself?"      "Yes, but those days I didn't know what I know now."      Bulls eye. Yep, give a man a little knowledge. One thing was clear,  Allain sure did want to prove he'd found a killer.      But accusing Frank Deveraux? Zach remembered the man's dark laughing eyes, the way his big, rough hands could so gently touch a kid's shoulder. Investigators didn't put much stock in coincidence, and he'd given years in the business, but connecting these death was a stretch he couldn't quite make.      True, Ellie's lips had shown a blue cast, so had Catherine's—and Jed's. Not uncommon in asphyxiation, but this particular marker was unusual because color on the lips usually faded rapidly as uncirculated blood pooled in the body. Another medical anomaly that would suddenly start popping up again and again? Maybe, maybe not. Regardless, despite the similarities to the findings on Jed's body, there was nothing in these reports that a stroke couldn't explain away.      "Frank's gone half bonkers," Allain went on, "saying Ellie died of la maladle malefique. Shows a guilty conscience, you ask me." The man chuckled derisively. "Evil illness, indeed. These swamp Cajuns and their hocus-pocus. Have to admit, though, it's one I haven't heard in a while. Hell of it is, some take him seriously enough they'd never think murder."      "Sure, Doc," Zach replied absently as he spied Izzy's name at the top of a sheet. This time he paused to look. She'd been in to see Doc about a sore throat. Strep, the doctor diagnosed, prescribing an antibiotic. Odd, considering her mother's reputation as a natural healer, but maybe the problem had gone on too long.      "Don't get many murders around here. Last one happened in eighty-nine. Old Pete Bourg went off half-cocked in Tricou's cafe, shot Louis Martin clean through the chest. Boy, what a mess. Pete carried Louis in, bleating like a goat that the devil make him do it, blood spurting all over the place, like to never clean it . . ."      Zach hardly heard. His mind drifted to his teenaged years. He and Izzy paddling through the swamps, sometimes alone, but more often than not with Jed tagging along. Lots of mischief, lots of laughs. Now he was the only one left.      How could that be? Sagging belly or not, he wasn't even forty. Too young to have lost two people so close to him who were even younger.      "Town's not the same since your folks left," Allain remarked. "Cannery's gone, tourists all over the place. I miss the old days."      Zach abandoned his trip down memory lane, and looked up.           "Ma couldn't run the cannery herself with Pa gone," he replied   "Too bad the buyers couldn't make a go of it. Time's change, I suppose."      "Sure do." The doctor chuckled again, for no apparent reason, then out of the blue he asked, "Think we should demand an autopsy? Get a court order, need be?"      Zach stared at the doctor blankly, reflecting on the possibility that the man's brain hadn't fared as well as his body. "That would just add to Frank's grief, and he's already had enough. Besides, your toxicology came up negative."      "But the presence of petechiae . . ."      "Look, Doc, I'm no coroner, but wouldn't a bit of hemorrhaging be normal from a stroke?"      "Not necessarily in the eyes and nose. And the same type were found in your brother's body, and in the prisoner's.      Zach swallowed an impatient sound and dropped his gaze back to the notes on Izzy. "I don't want to rain on your parade, partner, but there's only a slim connection. Not enough to warrant an autopsy. Thanks for contacting me, but—"      "The wake's being held right now over at Cormier's house. How 'bout just talking to Frank? See if I'm not right about his bizarre behavior. You could speak with the girl too."      Zach's head snapped up so hard the bones in his neck cracked. "Who?"      "Frank and Ellie's girl, Lizette I think. Yeah, Lizette. In her mid-thirties now, but you must remember her. You used to sniff around her enough."      "Izzy?" Zach's choked out. "No. Izzy's dead."      "Seems not. Drove in last night pretty as you please to attend her mama's funeral. Care to come see for yourself?"      The wake was abuzz with quiet speculation about Liz's reappearance in Port Chatre and about her mother's fate in the afterlife. Discussion ended quickly at her approach. The gossipers then turned en masse with cautious and sympathetic smiles to rev up their Southern charm and drawl polite questions in soft, lazy voices that never revealed their true thoughts.      Liz pried herself loose from the latest gossip pod and drifted only a few feet away before the morbid topic was resumed.      "The girl's cursed, just like her mama."      "Not cursed, a witch. Runs in the blood."      "I hear she rose outta her vault."      A short, tubby man snickered uneasily. "Sure she did. Like one of them Tales From the Crypt episodes."      "No, no," a woman interjected, lifting her hands and wiggling her fingers. "Ankooooor helped her."      The snickers got louder and longer, but still sounded spooked.      What rubbish, Liz thought. They couldn't honestly believe she was a zombie or that Ankouer truly existed. Judging by the anxious edge in their laughter, it was easy to believe they did. And it didn't help any that her father was sitting in the kitchen, telling his older cronies that Ankouer had sent la maladle malefique to kill his wife.      Wandering aimlessly through the spacious Cormier home, feeling very much like the young girl she'd left behind so many years ago, she sipped on a rum and Coke someone had pressed in her hand. Liquor was always present at Cajun wakes, along with enormous platters of shrimp and crawdads and plump grilled sausage, bottomless bowls of etouffee and dirty rice with beans.      Quite a feast, and one provided by the generosity of Richard and family. When she'd lived here, the Cormiers had been struggling to make their grocery a success, living upstairs, giving credit that wasn't always repaid. Seemed as if these twenty years had been kind to them.      According to the others—who were more than happy to fill Liz in—when the Fortier cannery folded, Richard Junior snapped up the wharf that once fed it. He renamed it a marina—a title as grandiose as this tiny town's name—and with the air finally freed of the stench of rotting fish, tourism picked up. Cash customers arrived, needing supplies, needing rental boat, which Richard supplied for a small king's ransom. The Cormiers then used those profits to build a small inn. And on it went.      Regular entrepreneurs. Judging by this mansion, a faithful replication of a Creole plantation house, she wouldn't be surprised to see their industries show up as her next hot penny stock. But their current kindness couldn't erase her memories of their constant bullying during her childhood.      Witch's child. Raggedy swamp girl. These were the gentler taunts. Other times they claimed she curdled milk or made babies sick with her evil eye. One day she hurled a curse at Richard in retaliation and he broke his arm that afternoon, adding fuel to their accusations.      Liz stopped before one of the large stone hearths to warm herself by the fire. It was unusually cold for an afternoon in the middle of May, and she was grateful for the heat. As she rubbed her hands, she found herself staring up at a crucifix hanging over the mantle, something that graced almost every Cajun home. To most this represented all that was holy, but to Liz it symbolized everything she'd fled.      "Praying for your mama's soul?"       It took a moment for Liz to realize the question had been directed at her. When she turned, a chill crept up her spine.      "Hello, Maddie," she said coolly.      "Lord Jesus watch out for you mama, Izzy. You must trust."      Liz regarded Maddie for a long moment, deciding not to bother with asking if she'd call her Liz. She noted with mild and somewhat catty surprise that Maddie, who was ten years her senior, somehow had managed to look not a day over thirty. Although painfully thin, a fact her sleeveless, scoop-necked gown emphasized, Maddie was nonetheless striking. Her dark skin and large almond-shaped eyes gave her an exotic beauty, and her bearing revealed a self-possession that even her ungrammatical speech couldn't belie.      "I pray for her." Maddie brushed back an imaginary stray hair. "I pray God take her soul to heaven and she be very happy."      "How can you pretend you care?" Liz asked acidly.      "It weren't like that between Ellie and me. I love her like a sister. Some things you don't understand, with them big city ways you got now."      Liz placed her glass beneath the feet of the crucified Jesus. "If you'll excuse me."      Instead of replying, Maddie stared at her long and hard. For a peculiar second, Liz felt as if those slanted dark eyes were searching her soul. But she met them boldly. As she did, an electric charge ran from the top of her head and down her spine. Words spilled involuntarily from her lips.      "You will die a violent death," she said in a strangely altered voice. "Fortunately it will be quick."      "Ah, you is the daughter of your mama, after all." A cynical smile crossed Maddie's face. "And got her gift of second sight."      The words shattered Liz's trancelike state. Somewhat stunned, she turned away from Maddie and rushed through the open French doors to the gallery outside.      She walked to the edge, propped her elbows on the carved railing, and stared into the distance. The dipping sun glowed behind a curtain of misting rain. Tiny drops of water fell from the trees and clung to the Spanish moss where they glittered like rhinestones. The splash of a fish breaking water from the bayou not far away added an alto note to the high chirrups of the crickets. Thunder rumbled softly in the distance.      What had happened in there?      Lord, she thought with despair, as intensely as she disliked Maddie, nothing justified what she'd said. And it scared the hell out of her that she'd done so. She suspected that somewhere in her morass of deliberately buried memories she might discover similar incidents. That scared her even more.      Everything about Port Chatre frightened her, in fact. The memories it held. The flood of suspicion and fear directed her way. The possibility that the false life she'd built for herself would be exposed. Even the potential risk that listening to these gently slurred accents would cause her to slip back into the speech patterns of her girlhood.      She didn't want to go back. Didn't want to remember. Which is why she'd vowed that nothing would ever make her return to Port Chatre. Nothing, that is, but her mother's funeral.      An event she'd somehow never taken into account. From The Fire Opal Copyright 2000 © by Constance K. Flynn. All Rights Reserved.