Chapter One
The urge to run was overwhelming. But Andrew Jackson Rule
had not survived the past fifteen years in a maximum
security prison by running, and so he walked through the
last set of locked gates leading to the outside world as
if he didn't care that this was the first breath of free
air he would be taking since his sixteenth birthday.
The security guard accompanying him seemed jittery.
Jackson knew that he'd garnered a reputation inside for
being a hard-ass. But he didn't care. It had kept him
alive and more or less in one piece, if you didn't count
the scars, both inner and outer, that he was taking with
him.
Jackson Rule had been convicted of only one crime, but it
had been an unforgivable act against God and society --
even in the minds of the most hardened of inmates -- and
one to which he had calmly confessed without blinking an
eye.
Finally, they were at the gate. The guard paused, eyeing
Jackson Rule's new denim pants and jacket -- compliments
of the state of Louisiana -- and the plain white T-shirt
he wore beneath it. He glanced down at Jackson's shiny new
boots and then handed him the duffel bag containing all of
his worldly possessions.
"Here you go, Rule. Don't forget to write," the guard
said, and then snickered at his own joke.
Jackson took the bag, but the look he gave the guard
silenced the man's chuckle. Then Jackson turned, squinting
against the searing heat and the barely stirring, thick
sultry air. He stared through the massive iron bars,
waiting for the gates to swing open and give him his first
unimpeded sight of Louisiana in almost half of his life.
When the gates began to move, Jackson's heart began to
pound in rhythm to the movement, but he didn't take a
step. Finally they stood ajar, and he moved through them
as swiftly as he'd passed from his mother's body on the
day he'd been born.
At thirty-one, Jackson Rule was birthed anew in the bright
light of day. He had lost his youth inside the high walls
of Angola State Penitentiary, but he had not lost himself.
Unfortunately, his sister, Molly, who was four years his
senior, could not say the same. She was as lost as a woman
could be. According to her doctors, who had been the
source of Jackson's only outside contact for the entirety
of his sentence, she went through the motions of living,
but without truly participating. But it was to be
expected. Nearly all of the patients in the New Orleans
home where she lived were missing a few active brain cells.
Tunica, the city nearest the prison, was located just off
the banks of the mighty Mississippi. If one looked
carefully, remnants of the Old South and the grandeur it
once stood for could be seen, but not on the dusty path
that led to the bus stop. Louisiana dust coated Jackson's
new boots with a dirty brown pall, and in honor of his
arrival, the sickly breath of wind managed to lift the
long hair hanging down the back of his neck. It whipped
wildly in the wind like the wings of a hovering crow. So
shiny. So black.
His expression was bland, but his mind was in turmoil. Now
that the long-awaited day of his release was at hand, the
memories that came with freedom were more than he'd
bargained for. He tried, without success, to remember
Molly in happier times, but he couldn't get past his last
image of her, covered in the blood of their father and
screaming until there was no breath left in her body.
Angry with the morbid thoughts, he lengthened his stride.
When he finally looked up, he was at the bus stop. An
empty bench beckoned. But Jackson had no intention of
spending his first free minutes outside of the
penitentiary on his ass. He had places to go and a sister
to see. And as he thought of her again, he knew that
theirs would not be a simple reunion.
Ah God, Molly, how can I let you see me like this? But
there were no answers, and he expected none. He hadn't had
a break since the day he'd been born.
When the bus finally arrived, Jackson walked up the steps
to begin the first day of the rest of his life. There were
two people on the bus, and neither one dared look him in
the face. It was common knowledge that this particular bus
stop was for inmates waiting to be transported back into
free society.
Jackson didn't notice the other travelers' reticence, but
if he had, it wouldn't have deterred him. He had a goal,
and, so help him God, no one was going to stand in his
way. The plan was a good one. But Jackson had been behind
bars just long enough to forget how fate had a way of
changing one's plans.
After spending long hours on Highway 61 South, staring at
countryside he had almost forgotten existed, Jackson
sighed as the bus pulled up to a small country store just
outside of New Orleans to refuel. His stomach grumbled,
and he remembered that he'd refused breakfast that
morning. He'd had no intention of starting his first day
of freedom with prison food in his belly. And then he
looked out the window and got another dose of reality. If
memory served, the bus had stopped only a mile or so from
the place where he'd grown up. Impulsively, he changed his
mind about riding into New Orleans in favor of a reunion
of sorts.
Rebecca Hill's ten-year-old pickup truck was as hot as she
felt. Her pink T-shirt was sticking to her body, and the
needle on the temperature gauge was rocking in the red as
she pulled up to Etienne's Country One- Stop ...