by Rebecca York
That wasn’t logical. But apparently the sheriff was using the opportunity to do some snooping around. When he got to her room, he threw open the door, then stood staring at the tangled sheets before looking back at her. She wanted to tell him that what had happened in the bedroom was none of his business. Instead she kept her hands at her sides.
“Touch any of my personal things, and you’ll hear from my lawyer,” she growled.
He stopped in the act of reaching for the lid of the suitcase that sat on a low table, then brushed past her and continued down the hall, opening more doors—into bedrooms that Morgan hadn’t seen.
All of the rooms were beautifully furnished, as though someone had enjoyed decorating each in an old-world style. But most were impersonal, as though they were waiting for someone to inhabit them.
Two rooms were different. One appeared to belong to a woman. An antique mirror and brush set sat on the dresser. Several paperback romance novels were piled beside the bed. And in the bathroom were face cream, lipstick, and other cosmetics, and a toothbrush.
The closet door was open, and Morgan could see dresses that Janet had worn on previous occasions.
Jarvis turned to her. “Your room?”
“Yes,” she answered in a strained voice.
“And she’d appreciate it if you removed yourself from it,” Morgan said.
“The fugitive could be in here.”
“You think he somehow got back to the house before you did?” Morgan couldn’t stop herself from snapping.
“I’m not making any assumptions,” Jarvis said mildly.
“And if I ask you to wait for Mr. Gascon’s lawyer?” she asked.
“I’d say you’d be hindering my investigation.”
Morgan had conducted enough illegal searches in her time to know why the sheriff was taking this opportunity. Since she couldn’t physically bar him from the house, she followed him down the hall to the last bedroom on the right.
It was much different from any of the others they’d entered. Obviously, a man’s private sanctuary, it contained a large dark dresser and chest, the fronts accentuated by bold carving details. Across from the dresser was a wide bed.
Floor to ceiling shelves occupied the short wall next to the bathroom. Although Morgan hated the sheriff’s being in here, she couldn’t hold back her own curiosity as she scanned book titles and looked at the old black and white photographs. The books were a selection of what she’d seen in the library.
The photographs must be of his family. She recognized people who looked like they were related to Andre. And in one, a small boy of around two or three stood between an attractive woman and a man who stood stiffly as he stared at the camera.
She and Jarvis both looked more closely. The boy could be Andre. He stood close to his mother. The woman had her arm around him, but there was an uncertain expression on her face, as though she wasn’t sure she belonged in the photo.
Jarvis yanked open the closet. Men’s clothing hung neatly inside, shirts and slacks arranged by color, and the aroma that clung to them was the aroma that she associated with Andre.
The bathroom smelled like him too. On the sink sat a razor, along with aftershave, a toothbrush in a glass and other evidence that the room was used by a man—specifically Andre Gascon. And that he was compulsively neat and orderly about his personal belongings.
But over on a side counter was something that made her eyes widen. She saw a hot plate with a small pot on the burner.
Jarvis saw it at the same time and charged across the room. When he lifted the lid, the pungent aroma wafted into the room—the same aroma that she’d caught on Andre’s skin.
“What’s this?” Jarvis growled.
“I don’t know. An herb extract?” she improvised.
“Or drugs. I’m taking this with me.”
Containing her own consternation, she said, “Wait a minute. You can’t do that. He’s not hiding in that pot. So, if you’re looking for evidence of a crime, you’d better come back with a warrant.”
The sheriff went rigid, then slammed the top back on the pot. “Right,” he growled. “But he may come back here to get this stuff.”
He strode toward the bed, looking at the neatly made surface. “He didn’t sleep here.”
She kept her head tipped up. “I told you—he was with me. All night.”
When Janet looked like she was going to say something, Morgan gave a small shake of her head, and the housekeeper’s features closed up.
Jarvis addressed both of them. “You’d better let me know if he shows up.”
Neither of them made a sound.
“No. Scratch that. I don’t trust you to do the right thing! I’m sending a couple of deputies out here. If he comes back, we’ll get him.”
Morgan knew she should keep her mouth shut. But she couldn’t hold back the words that sprang to her lips. “What’s going on with you, sheriff. Did the guys in town feed you a bunch of wild stories about Andre Gascon? Is that it? You think if you arrest him—or shoot him—that will solve all the problems in St. Germaine?”
“I don’t have to discuss this case with you!”
“You’ll have to discuss it with Mr. Gascon’s lawyer.”
“Yeah, maybe his lawyer will explain why he ran away.” His gaze drilled into her. “And if you go one beat farther—I’ll arrest you for verbal assault.”
Knowing he could do it, Morgan clamped her jaw shut. There was a lot more she wanted to say. She wanted to ask what the sheriff really thought about the murders in the bayou. If a jaguar was killing people—what did that have to do with Andre’s jacket? Jarvis couldn’t make a case out that. But what if the town was so out of control that Andre never reached trial?
Since she hadn’t completely lost her sanity, she didn’t ask any of those questions.
Jarvis strode out of the room and down the hall. They heard him descending the steps. Long moments ticked by before the front door slammed shut. Still, Morgan went to the landing and looked over. In their absence, the pickup truck had departed. Jarvis was already in his cruiser. As they watched, he revved the engine and pulled away.
Morgan looked back at Janet. “What was in that pot?” she asked, hearing the strained tone of her voice.
“Like you said, herbs.”
“For what?”
“For his allergies.”
She wanted to demand a better answer. She wanted to know if Andre was brewing up drugs. Instead she hit Janet with another question. “You said last night you had the second sight.”
Janet nodded.
“What does that mean?”
“That sometimes I . . . know things.”
“Do you know where Andre went?”
“No.”
“Does he have some place in the swamp where he sleeps?”
The housekeeper’s face contorted. “How do you know he sleeps there?”
“If he spends the night outside, he has to sleep somewhere.”
“He goes deep into the bayou. I don’t know if he has a special place,” she allowed. “And if he did, you wouldn’t be able to find it.”
“Well, he’s handcuffed and in trouble. If you can tell me where he is, you have to do it.”
“If I had any idea, I’d tell you, child. But he knows his way around. He’ll be okay.”
“Maybe he would, if his hands were free,” Morgan answered. She ached to go to him. If she had a hacksaw, she could cut the chain between the cuffs. But she didn’t have a clue where to find him.
She gave Janet a direct look. “Okay, you go down and act as normally as you can.”
The housekeeper headed for the stairs.
Morgan went back into her room and closed the door. Fighting the tight feeling in her chest, she called Decorah—hoping she could catch Dan before he left so he’d know what kind of situation he was walking into.
This time Frank Decorah took her call.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, obviously picking up on Morgan’s
tone of voice.
She swallowed. “We’ve had an . . . unfortunate development.”
“Better spit it out.”
“Andre escaped from the sheriff. He’s hiding out in the bayou”
“Not good,” Frank murmured.
“I know. But he’s not guilty,” she added quickly.
“He’s made himself look like it.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” Morgan snapped, then made an effort to calm her voice, since her anger wasn’t directed at her boss. “I called to tell Dan what happened and ask him to come straight to the house—rather than stopping in town.”
“He’s already on his way to the airport. But we’re flying him down in a private jet, so there are no restrictions on calling him en route. Just a minute, let me get his cell phone number.”
Morgan copied down the number. She was about to hang up when Frank said, “Do I detect that you’re getting emotionally involved with your client?”
The question sent a shock wave through Morgan. She’d hoped that Frank wouldn’t zero in on the personal aspect of her distress. Apparently, the man was tuned in enough to read between the lines of the conversation very well.
Morgan sighed. She might have denied it. But it felt like a relief to admit, “I guess you can say that.”
“You trust him?” Frank asked sharply.
Again, he was picking up more from the conversation than Morgan was actually saying. “I want to,” she whispered.
Frank cleared his throat. “When you came to us, you were so closed up. It sounds like you’re letting someone into your life again. I just wish I were down there so I could meet him. But I can’t. I’ll just say that if he hurts you, I’ll tear him apart.”
Morgan couldn’t repress a small laugh. “Thanks—I think.”
“Be careful,” Frank ordered. “I mean be careful of those small-town cops. And be careful of yourself. Or is it too late to give you that warning?”
“It may be too late,” Morgan whispered, then changed the subject. “I’d better get off and call Dan.”
“He should be there in a couple of hours.”
“Frank, thanks.”
Morgan had a quick conversation with the lawyer, filling him in on recent developments. After putting down the phone, she paced restlessly up and down the length of her room, frustration bubbling inside her.
She couldn’t just sit here and wait for the men from the sheriff’s department to take over the estate. If she wanted to do something constructive without anyone tracking her movements, it had better be soon.
Exchanging her tennis shoes for hiking boots, she stuffed her gun inside her knapsack. She was about to leave her room when she stopped. Going back to her luggage, she took out a bulletproof vest and put it on. It looked totally weird under her shirt, so she pulled out the leather jacket that she hadn’t needed since she’d arrived.
With the protection in place, she headed for the back stairs.
Janet was standing at the counter, kneading bread. Morgan stopped. Making bread was such a strange thing to be doing at a time like this that Morgan found herself staring at the woman, trying to figure out if she’d lost her mind.
Janet lifted her head so that Morgan could see the desperation on her face. And suddenly she understood better.
“I guess that helps calm you,” she said.
“Yes,” Janet answered grimly. “I love to cook. When anything worries me, I come into the kitchen and start pounding dough and beating batter.”
She peered at Morgan. “Child, what are you wearing?”
“I was feeling cold,” Morgan answered. “And I’m not so calm either. So, I’m going out to have a look around before the boys in blue get here.”
“Is that safe?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t just sit inside.” She hesitated for a moment. “If I’m not back in an hour, call my office.” Walking across the kitchen, she wrote the Decorah number on the pad of paper beside the phone.
“You should stay in. You’ll broil in that outfit.”
“I have to go out.” Turning, she cleared her throat. “Do we have a large hunk of meat I could take with me?” she asked.
Janet’s eyebrows lifted, “Why?”
“I need it for bait.”
Janet gave her a long look. “I guess I have to assume you haven’t gone off the deep end of the dock.”
“I hope not.”
The housekeeper nodded. “I was planning to have a roast for dinner. I’m certainly not going to serve it to those deputies—if they’re hanging around.”
“I believe I can put it to better use.” Morgan took the meat from the refrigerator, relieved that the housekeeper wasn’t asking more pointed questions. Sliding the roast into a plastic grocery bag, she stuffed the whole thing into her knapsack, then stepped into the humid afternoon. Her first stop was the potting shed, where she snatched up the long pruning pole designed for snipping off tree branches that were too high to reach from the ground.
Then she lifted a heavy bolt cutter off its hook. If the deputies were on the property when she got back, she might have to leave the cutters in the swamp. And that would probably make Andre angry when he came back.
When he came back. A sob snuck up on her, and she struggled to keep it locked behind her lips as she hurried out of the shed and closed the door behind her.
With her equipment in tow, she made for the swampy area beyond the lawn, heading toward the small river that had stopped her progress into the swamp the first day she’d explored the estate.
She stepped into the shadows under the trees, feeling the temperature of the humid air dropping several degrees as she walked into the shade. She’d intended to go directly to the island, instead she hesitated for a moment, then detoured in the direction of the road. When she was well into the tangle of underbrush, she called out softly, “Andre? Are you there? Andre?”
She held her breath, listening for an answer—or for the sound of leaves crackling. But the swamp was silent except for the sound of insects buzzing.
“Why did you run?” she asked.
Again, only the insects answered.
“It must have been for a good reason—otherwise you wouldn’t have taken the chance,” she said, hoping she could convince him that she was on his side.
Nobody replied. She might have been talking to herself, and she wanted to scream in frustration. Frank was right; she had become emotionally involved in a very short period of time. After two years of feeling dead—she was finally alive again.
“Don’t you trust me?” she demanded, her temper rising. Then she told herself that getting mad at him wasn’t going to do either one of them any good. And really, he could be miles from here and totally unable to hear her.
But she gave the conversation one more try. “I brought a bolt cutter. At least let me cut your handcuffs apart,” she offered.
When the silence lengthened, she sighed and walked back toward the river.
The sun had gone behind a cloud. Below the thick canopy of trees, the bayou was dark and forbidding. A shiver traveled over her skin as she looked down at the dark water.
Her friend the alligator was waiting near the makeshift bridge, looking log-like and innocent. But she wasn’t fooled. She had seen him in action before.
Opening her knapsack, she took out the roast Janet had given her, then pulled off the plastic covering. When she held it over the water, the alligator stirred.
“Come and get your dinner,” she called, waving the meat, then tossing it into the water. It landed with a splash, and immediately the alligator went after it, diving below the surface in search of her offering.
From the creature’s behavior, she knew that whoever had been coming to the island had been feeding the gator—keeping it here to do guard duty.
Well, now the guard dog was otherwise engaged.
A satisfied smile flickered around her lips as she stepped up onto the log. The pole she’d used the first time had been too
short. But this one was long enough to work. She set it carefully into the water, then took a step forward, before moving the pole to the next spot. She knew what to expect—on the log and below the surface of the water. And since she didn’t have to worry about the alligator, she could focus on what she was doing.
Using the longer pole and relying on the traction of her hiking boots, she worked her way slowly but surely across the log. It was still slippery. But her preparations had paid off. After five nerve- racking minutes, she reached the island and breathed out a sigh of relief.
She had made it.
Carefully she set down her balance pole—then straightened. Standing on the island gave her a strangely creepy feeling.
Was she alone here?
Looking down, she saw definite boot prints in the mud. Someone had been to this place recently. Not just once, but several times, since there were overlapping prints in the muck.
She looked back toward the far shore. The distance from the opposite bank wasn’t really all that great. But over on the island, she felt isolated from the rest of the world. Which was why whoever had been over here had used the place, she told herself.
She took in a breath of soggy air. She’d been outside only a few minutes, but the leather jacket and bulletproof vest were making perspiration pour down her body.
Reaching inside her knapsack, she slipped the revolver into her hand. The weapon gave her a sense of well-being as she started forward, following the trail of footprints from the log bridge.
She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she flicked her gaze from the ground to the foliage at shoulder level, making sure she wasn’t being stalked by someone lurking in the underbrush.
The island was long and thin. As she moved farther from the log, she was able to keep one bank or the other in sight.
After walking across to the far side, she started along the length. About a hundred paces from where she’d crossed over the log, she came to a spot that looked wrong. Leaves were strewn thickly on the ground, yet something about the arrangement didn’t seem natural.
Stooping down, she brushed them aside and found a camouflage tarpaulin. Excitement leaped inside her, but when she lifted it up, nothing was underneath.
