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Sick and helpless, I went to him, sat on the edge of the bed, and took his hand. It was clammy and trembling. With his eyes closed, he told me the rest in a broken whisper. “She never loved me. We didn’t meet in the library by accident. They’d planned the whole thing. I was just a . . . meal ticket. A patsy. Who could love me, the murderer, the freak, the awful lover? She f****d me for two years, and it was torture, she said. It was hell. She wished I was dead.” I squeezed his hand and vowed that the first thing I was going to do when I got back to New Orleans was have Eeny put a voodoo curse on this nightmare named Cricket Montgomery. Jackson’s head lolled sideways. His eyelids drifted open. His eyes were unfocused. He was very drunk. He whispered, “I left. I didn’t say anything to an
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