Masked by Moonlight

by Nancy Gideon

  She never made a sound. She never blinked, never twitched, never shrank away as the plastic was peeled down for her inspection. She didn’t see what they saw: the charred remains of a murder victim. She saw an exuberant smile, the tease of blue eyes, the bounce of blonde hair as Mary Kate Malone exclaimed in breathy confidence, “Terry McFee is going to love me forever.”

  “I will love you forever, Mary Kate,” she whispered, then nodded to the officer. But as he began to rezip, she stopped him, staring blankly at a smudge of brightness on the crisped curl of fingers.

  A man’s ring.

  It wasn’t Mary Kate.

  She turned to Dovion, her expression torn wide open in distress. “Who is this?”

  “The janitor. Benjamin Spratt.”

  Then she heard the most wonderful sound in the world: an ambulance gurney working its way through destruction.

  Mary Kate was alive.

  The ambulance attendants wouldn’t let her get close, wouldn’t let her ride along in the ambulance. Their grim expressions told her more than any words could. Maybe being alive wasn’t such a good thing.

  “Don’t expect miracles,” Dovion told her. “She took one to the temple, then they left her there to burn.”

  Cee Cee couldn’t go home, even after Dovion’s promise to keep her updated. Babineau took her for some hot, harsh chicory coffee, and she felt sorry for him. He was so eager to offer support, to listen to her recollections or lamentations. The silence was harder to endure.

  Why had Max said nothing? To protect Jimmy Legere, or to save her from rushing into danger? Perhaps both—it didn’t really matter now. Even if he hadn’t been there, he’d known, and said nothing.

  She couldn’t go home to face his blood on her sheets and his buttons on her floor.

  They drove around as the sun crawled up to color the Square’s shop windows. To break the silence, Babineau was grumbling over his new bride’s complaints about living with a cop. The missed dinners. The inconsistent hours. The worry. The isolation. Blah, blah, blah.

  “Want me to talk to her?”

  Alain glanced at Cee Cee, clearly surprised she’d been listening. “What? Talk to her about what?”

  “A little girl-to-girl about putting up or shutting up.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. That’s just what she needs. She thinks we’re having an affair.”

  “What?”

  “Relax. I told her you didn’t like men.”

  She scowled at him. “You wouldn’t be far from wrong. Idiot.” Men in general, no. One in particular, too damned much. She sagged back against the seat. It would be hours before she’d learn anything about Mary Kate’s condition. “I need more coffee. Intravenously, if possible.”

  He parked as close to Café du Monde as they could get. Cee Cee had climbed out and was plugging money into the meter when a call came on the radio. Babineau waved her on. “Café au lait with two beignets. Be right there.”

  “You just want me to pay the bill. I’m going to tell your wife you’re a cheap date.”

  She was paying for their breakfast when his hand slid on top of hers. She glanced up and her heart took a nosedive.

  “Charlotte, take a breath.”

  She tried, but couldn’t pull anything in through the sudden constriction of her throat. She could only stare with deer-in-the-headlights terror of what was about to hit her head on.

  “There’s been a fatal shooting at Jimmy Legere’s. The coroner’s on his way out.”

  She dropped without a sound.

  IT WAS TWENTY minutes by car. Walking, it was hours. Barely able to put one foot in front of the other, it took forever. He could have made a call and been picked up. He could have rid himself of all the hurt, all the misery on his own. But tonight, dizzy and disoriented from pain and grief, he chose to succumb to it instead. Because it was well deserved.

  Max wove along the side of the road, staggering, sometimes falling to the sharp, crushed oyster-shell surface. The occasional vehicle that passed him in the rain gave him a wide berth. He could imagine how he looked—like a drunk who’d gone five rounds with a road grader. Under his leather coat, his shirt was open and stained with blood from his nose. One of his eyes had swollen shut, and his cheek pulsed with a persistent ache. He’d cracked or even broken a rib when he rolled off the balcony rail and fell hard to the ground a floor below. But those were distant, dull pains compared with the agony that dragged his steps to a slow shuffle. The road was taking him from where he wanted to be to where he was afraid to go.

  He stumbled, his steps faltering, reminding him of the sick animal that had once wandered into their village. His mother had made him watch as their neighbors cornered the weak, frightened creature and beat it down to blood and bones. The sight had upset him into tears, but even worse his mother’s whispered warning as she shook him once, hard enough to scatter the moisture from his cheeks.

  Remember what you’ve seen. They will turn on you the same way if they find out you’re not like them. They will hunt you and hurt you and finally kill you. Be like them, act like them, walk among them. Don’t ever let them see what you are. Special. Blessed.

  He tried to obey, but it was hard to realize that things that came as naturally to him as breathing were dangerous. If she caught him the punishment was fierce, because she loved him and wanted to keep him safe. So he pretended to be less than he was, to blend into the sameness, to mimic what was acceptable.

  Then the shoes taught him the other lesson that would never ever leave him.

  The shame of bringing her boy barefooted to church was more than she could endure. She invited a man to dinner and sent Max to bed early. In the morning, they went to buy him shoes. His feet grew fast, and soon he was staying overnight at a neighbor’s while someone else stayed in his house. New shoes. They hurt his feet, pinching his toes, cramping his stride. And then he started hearing talk about what his mother did to earn them. He wasn’t sure what the words meant, but he didn’t like them. He didn’t like the men friends who came by in the night, and he didn’t like the shoes that made him look the same.

  He didn’t know why he was thinking about shoes now . . . something Charlotte had said. But he couldn’t let himself think about her. If he did he’d drop to the side of the road, curl up like that injured animal, and wait to die.

  It was raining harder. He lifted his face to it, wiping away the wetness and the blood with shaking hands. Another mile to go. Just another mile to go. But it hurt just to breathe, so it was hard to make his feet move when he knew the agony each step would bring.

  Yet what was his wretched walk compared with the hours, the days, two battered, frightened girls had spent in the hands of true monsters?

  He forced a step, hugging his splintered side. Another one, worse. But not as bad as the anguish that would catch up to him if he didn’t keep pushing on. If he could just get home, Jimmy could make things right in his mind again. Bad things only happened when he strayed off the path. Jimmy would show him the path and he’d follow, and things would be all right again. Simple. As they’d been before. Before he’d been tempted to stray.

  It had taken him by surprise that he’d paused to notice something outside the perimeters of any particular task he was on. He rarely paid any attention to his surroundings, beyond a wary caution. They simply didn’t matter to him. Those blinders were the only way he could shut out the fear that would press in and overwhelm him otherwise. Only Jimmy understood his need for focus, for simplicity, for the lack of distraction so he could continue to function without the madness that came with his curse. His mother had called it his special blessing but he knew better. There was nothing special or blessed about being different. But Jimmy had taught him its power. The power to inspire fear instead of shrinking from it.

  Fear was a tricky business, like balancing on a slender limb. Careful steps, with one hand holding on for safety. Looking down would jeopardize his footing. Always hold on, because there was no safety net—just a long, d
eadly fall. Now he’d lost his balance, and there was nothing for him to hang on to as he teetered wildly.

  Help me, Jimmy. Help me. I’ve lost my way.

  He’d sensed the two girls that day before he saw them. He’d come down to the warehouse to deliver something for Jimmy when the intensity of their terror, their pain, struck him like a club. He meant to walk right past the partially opened door; whatever was going on behind it was none of his concern. But he slowed, and he glanced in. And then he couldn’t look away.

  Two girls with their hands bound behind them, clothing torn, flesh bruised. One was fair and golden, the other dark and bronze. The pale one wept and whimpered in the shadow of the other, who was on her knees in a ridiculous attempt to protect her friend. Such fire, such fury, such hatred blazed from her dark eyes as she glared up at the figure standing between her and the door. Her defiance was futile but it was unshakable, even as the looming figure ripped his leather belt from its loops.

  “Why do you keep fighting?” the man had asked in irritation. “You know you can’t win. You know it’s only going to hurt you more.”

  She sent a large wad of bloody spit toward him, grinning fiercely as he jumped to avoid it. “Untie me, you bastard,” she’d snarled through that ferocious smile. “I’ll give you one hell of a fight.”

  “I don’t think so.” He doubled the belt, getting ready to swing, when he noticed Max at the same time the sobbing blonde girl did.

  “Please, help us!”

  The door slammed shut.

  Max knew the rules. Do what you’re told and only what you’re told. Don’t ask questions and don’t answer them. He started to walk away but couldn’t help glancing back at that closed door, seeing that boldly combative sneer, that indomitable spirit about to be crushed because it couldn’t be broken.

  He’d kept walking. And there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t wish he hadn’t.

  He stopped to wipe the rain out of his eyes again, and was surprised to see the start of the massive wall that enclosed Jimmy’s estate. He started along it, bumping it with his shoulder as his steps grew increasingly unsteady. Soon he was leaning into it, practically pulling himself toward the main gate. The cameras would be following him by now. Would they come out for him, or wait until they had him away from any prying eyes? He didn’t much care either way.

  The gates were closed. He wrapped his hands around the bars, sagging into them. Down the long drive he could see the house bathed in moonlight and shadows, even as the dawn began to build behind him. And he remembered the first time he’d seen it from the backseat of Jimmy Legere’s sleek limousine. He’d been awed and more than a little afraid. But more than that, deeper than that, was a huge, spreading sense of safety that brought a weepy feeling of gratitude up to clog his throat.

  The same way it did now.

  He pulled himself up, steadying his legs enough to hold him. Then he stepped back from the bars, staring straight into the camera as if he could look right through the lens into the eyes of whomever was watching on the other end. He waited, ignoring the pounding rain, the punishing weariness, settling into a deep, still calm that would give him the strength to remain there unmoving for hours, days.

  And then the gate swung open.

  Welcoming him home.

  Or inviting him to his death.

  Thirteen

  HIS HOPE OF slinking in unnoticed was quickly dashed.

  He’d just started up the stairs when he heard Jimmy call his name. Part of him wanted to continue on up as if he hadn’t. On all fours, he took a minute to gather his thoughts, to summon his waning strength before backing down the steps and reeling down the hall to Jimmy’s office.

  It wasn’t good. Jimmy wasn’t alone. Francis Petitjohn was with him, lounging on the sofa against the wall, and neither looked pleased. He stepped just inside the doorway, where the poor light might conceal him from their direct scrutiny. Or might not.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Just a little roughhouse with my girl.” He tried to smile, but the muscles of his face wouldn’t work.

  “And how does she look?”

  His eyes welled up with the image. “She looked great.” His voice softened. “She looked great.”

  The room did a slow somersault and he found himself on elbows and knees, his aching cheek pressed to the cool parquet floor. His heart pulsed with an equal anguish.

  “Get up, Max.”

  “I can’t.” He didn’t try.

  “I sent you to take care of something for me.”

  “She said no. She said to tell you that smart and brave weren’t the same thing.”

  “No? Stupid girl. And what did I tell you to do, Max?”

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t, Jimmy. Not a nun. Not in a church.” Because, for the first time, he’d seen value in the life he was ordered to take. And there was no way he could justify it as a right thing to do, regardless of the consequences. Her courage had brought him to his knees as they both struggled to protect the same thing.

  And she’d thought herself a coward? Hardly.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Legere raged. “What does that have to do with you? Since when does religion apply to you?”

  Max crossed his arms over the top of his head, not for protection but to hold in the sudden bittersweet memories. They flooded up to soothe the crippling pain behind his blackened eyes. Images he could barely recall except in his tormented dreams. Dreams he dreaded and cherished at the same time. “My mama took me every Sunday. I go with you every week.”

  “I never expected you to listen.”

  No, of course not, Max realized with numbing clarity. There was only one voice he was supposed to hear and obey.

  “Where have you been?”

  “I went to Charlotte’s.”

  “Detective Caissie’s. And what did you tell her?”

  “I didn’t tell her anything. I’ve never told her anything.”

  “I’m to believe that’s why she beat you to a pulp?”

  Max tried to laugh. “A woman with an attitude and a gun is no one you want to piss off.”

  Jimmy wasn’t amused. “And you just let her do that to you? When you could have crushed her with one hand?” He paused, then said in a low, aggrieved tone, “She should have killed you and saved me the trouble.”

  That settled in deep and cold where he was already shivering.

  “Why did you come back here, Max? Did you think you’d be welcomed back after making such a terribly wrong choice?”

  With a tremendous effort, Max lifted his head. He tried to focus on the man who had guided him through the main years of his life, but the image was vague, distant. Like the man Jimmy Legere had suddenly become.

  Though he felt sick and unsteady and pain pounded through him, one thing was clear. “This is my home. I have no place else to go.”

  “Your home?” Legere’s laugh was sharp and cruel. Cruel in a way he’d never been before. “This isn’t your home. Your home is out there, where we found you. Do you remember that, Max? Do you remember where we found you, crouched down in the muck, in the rot? A wild, dirty little beast gone crazy with fear and death?”

  Max took a breath that sent panic through his heart and pain stabbing through his ribs. The way hunger had knifed through him until he’d considered . . . he’d considered . . . the unthinkable to ease it. Horror shuddered through him. The damp and the blood pooling around him on the floor became the dank, heavy stench of the swamp. The raw terror of the darkness came crowding in around him. He made a low, fevered sound between denial and petition.

  Legere pressed on without pity. “Go back there, Max. Go back to that cesspool of poverty, violence, and ignorant fear. To being alone and afraid all the time. Live in that filth, in that stink, feeding on what can’t outrun you: an animal, hiding and cornered. Waiting to be discovered and destroyed. Back to that hell where I found you.”

  “Jimmy, please.” The words m
oaned from him, tortured, twisted by the awful things squirming through his memory.

  “Please what, Max? Please save you? I did. I took you from that place, brought you to my home, allowed you to live this life of wealth, comfort, and respect. You had every luxury anyone could ever dream of handed to you. You were loved, Max, cared for, protected. And what do you do to repay that trust, that love?”

  “Jimmy, please.” Desperate and dizzy, he stretched out his hands. He was lost. He couldn’t breathe.

  “Look at you,” Legere sneered. “Look at what you’ve let yourself become. Because of that woman. You’ve let her use you, hurt you, confuse you. And when she tossed you away, you crawl back here to beg for shelter.

  “You’ve betrayed my trust, Max. You’ve bitten that hand that always showed you kindness and care. And now you want me to extend it to you again. Why would I do that, Max? Why?”

  His eyes closed weakly, his will crumpling beneath the weight of fear and exhausting pain. “Anything you want, Jimmy.” A soft, plaintive whisper. “Anything you want.”

  “Get up.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Stop this right now. Pull yourself together and be what I’ve made you. Do it now, Max.”

  He drew his elbows under him, looking up briefly through eyes that were hot, golden, and red-centered, then tucked his head, breathing deep and slow. A long, fierce spasm rolled through his shoulders and rippled down his spine.

  And then he rose up to his feet, the movement fluid, strong, filled with powerful grace. And he regarded Jimmy Legere, his gaze cool and unblinking in a face unblemished beneath the blood.

  “We’ll have no more of these dramatics. Get cleaned up and come back here,” Legere ordered. “Then we’ll discuss what you’re going to do for me.”

  IN A SHOWER as hot as he could stand it, Max let the blood run down the drain. All the physical discomfort was gone, but he was weak and tired. And numb. Patterned instinct took over, requiring no thought as he efficiently shaved without really seeing his face with its perfectly normal, deceptively human features. After food and sleep he’d be as good as new.