by Deanna Chase
The moment the car came to a complete stop, Jon-Luc opened the door, slid his lengthy body inside and slammed it shut. His friend handed him a large Starbucks cup.
“God bless you.” Jon-Luc snatched it from his grasp.
“I figured it was the least I could do.”
“What do you know?”
“Not much, I am afraid. Only that the scene is not pretty.”
They sped off and he listened while Claude explained how a runner had found the body around sunrise along the river. Again the killer had left it on the shoulder, no longer hiding his prey in the water.
“This guy is swiftly escalating. He’s getting off on the notoriety. He wants the body found immediately, so he can see himself in the news. Is there a nightclub in the vicinity?”
“Oui, a couple. Why?”
“I think that’s where he found her. We need to circulate her picture and find out which one. Maybe we can get a description of this guy.”
“I already have men scouring the city with pictures of the last three victims as you suggested, but have not had any luck so far. Why are you so sure this is where he is finding them?”
“Call it a hunch.”
“Ah, now we are back to the old Boudreaux gut again. When are you going to tell me the truth, my friend?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Jon-Luc kept his face turned away.
“You are too modest. I happen to know you are the top profiler in the FBI, the one called upon for the most difficult cases. You are not my only friend in the States. Do you remember Lauren Holmes from our class?”
“The one you had a thing with back then? You’re still in touch with her?”
“Yes, we do speak now and again. Birthdays, holidays, that sort of thing. We did not just have a fling. We dated for over three years. If not for the distance, who knows what would have happened between us.”
“I had no idea.”
“It is not something that comes up in conversation. I was not hiding it, you see?”
“I understand. So, what did Lauren share with you about me? Why on earth would she be talking about me in the first place?”
“She was the field agent on a case you worked a few years back. This you remember, yes?”
Jon-Luc racked his brain as he thought about the tough-as-nails petite brunette. “Oh, yeah, the Alphabet Killer case. Man, that was five years ago.”
“Oui, you do remember. She said that another profiler started on that case and bungled it. The Bureau brought you on to clean up his mess, so to speak.”
“Hey, that was a tough case, it wasn’t his fault he got the profile wrong. Profiling isn’t an exact science. Sometimes you have to think outside the box.”
“Yes, and you have made a name for yourself thinking outside the box, as you say. You have a gift, my friend.”
“Or a curse,” Jon-Luc mumbled.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. Did she say anything else?”
“Just that before you came on board, they had been working the case for six months. Then you showed up and within a week they had caught the killer. She attributed that to you.”
“I don’t know about that. Lauren is a great agent.”
“Why do you not give credit where credit is due, my friend? I am certain that Lauren is good at her job, yes. But somehow, once you are brought in on a case, it is closed most quickly.”
“All this adulation is making me uncomfortable. Can we change the subject?”
“All I am telling you is that I know you have a secret. Why do you not share it with me?”
“There’s nothing to share. Really.”
They pulled up to the scene and Jon-Luc jumped out of the car before Claude could ask any more questions. He knew from experience that no matter how much a person wanted to know the truth, it was not always something they could handle. He did not want to lose his friendship with Claude, so it was best to keep his secret to himself.
They made their way though the throng of people that had gathered along the railing. A uniformed policeman held up the crime scene tape cordoning off the stairs. They strode down the steps single file so as not to disturb any possible evidence. When they got to the body, silence fell. Like Genevieve, the victim was missing her eyes and tongue, but this time the killer had also taken Claira's heart.
The image shifted. Jon-Luc now saw himself and Claude from above, the victim at their feet.
The killer was close.
He was watching him right now.
12
Angie sat in her seat at the symphony. The orchestra played Beethoven's Ode to Joy. Riveted by the performance, she hadn't noticed the tuxedoed man next to her until he snatched her hand and squeezed. She struggled to free her crushed fingers from his clenched fist. The more she squirmed, the tighter his grasp. She began to panic and looked up to see Jon-Luc, his face frozen in the same trance-like state she’d witnessed before.
She shouted, "Stop!"
Angie bolted up in bed and found herself in a strange room. Classical music blared from the CD player/alarm clock on the nightstand next to her. It took her a moment to realize she was in the Beauchamp guest cottage. She glanced at the digital display on the clock; the music had been playing for roughly twenty minutes. No wonder she didn't wake. The music was too soothing. She made a mental note to pick up a Green Day or Offspring CD and switch it out.
She slithered out of bed and made her way down the stairs to the kitchen. The search for coffee was slower than she'd have liked, the remnants of sleep still clung in her head like a fog. Finally she found ground coffee in the refrigerator, prepared the coffeemaker and turned it on.
Now fully awake, happiness didn’t even begin to describe what she felt standing under the glorious spray of hot water in her very own shower, in her very private bathroom.
The stall came equipped with a fancy liquid soap dispenser and some expensive shampoo and conditioner. She recognized the name, but could never afford it herself. As she massaged the shampoo into her hair, a heavenly aroma filled the air and she took a deep breath.
Damn, life is good.
That’s when Angie remembered she didn’t have to worry about being late. In fact, she could have slept longer. She no longer had to take the Metro, she was going to be driven to work. The moment her body was dry, she slipped on her robe and bounded down the stairs to grab a cup of coffee. After she’d poured it, she took a sip and savored the robust flavor.
She lingered in the kitchen drinking her coffee while gazing out the window to the beautiful gardens of the Beauchamp estate. She had daydreamed about having gardens such as these in a home of her own one day. Smaller, of course, but just as breathtaking.
Her eyes slid to the clock above the stove and she jumped. If she didn’t get moving, she would be late. After refilling her cup, she dashed up the stairs.
Angie stopped in front of the table by the door with minutes to spare and scooped her belongings into her arms. Instead of calling the main house, she thought she'd just walk on over to meet Demetrius. She opened the back door and stopped.
A shriek ripped from her throat.
Her arms went numb and her books dropped to the floor. Hanging from a rope a mere foot from her face was a mutilated rabbit. It was gutted from throat to bowels, its entrails dangled from the gaping wound. Blood dripped to the ground below. Slowly she inched back until her body made contact with something solid. Strong hands gripped her arms.
She let out a bloodcurdling scream.
“Claude, look up at the railing. Do you see a man watching us?”
“A few, my friend. Why do you ask?”
“Do any of them look familiar to you?”
“No, not exactly. Do any of them look familiar to you?”
“I’m having a bit of a vision problem at the moment. I can’t see.”
“What can I do?”
“Get someone up there right now and detain the male witnesses.”
“As you wish.” Rapid
French flew from Claude’s mouth and Jon-Luc heard the footfalls of several people rush past him.
Jon-Luc, as the killer raced across the street through heavy traffic. Horns honked as he narrowly escaped being struck by a car. Out of breath, adrenaline flooded his bloodstream until he felt he could fly.
He experienced the same emotional and physical sensations as the man who evaded capture. He chanced a look over his shoulder and noticed only one cop behind him. The killer had a good head start, so he ducked down a deserted alley.
He didn’t get far, the passage wasn’t a thoroughfare. Trapped, he did an abrupt about face. No sign of the cop yet. He searched for a place to hide among the boxes, discarded furniture and trash. The slap slap of shoes on asphalt alerted him the danger was close.
The killer backtracked and ducked behind some trashcans just in time. The running stopped at the mouth of alley. He heard the man’s labored breathing and the sound of a snap being released as the cop removed his gun from its holster. The killer held his breath. Careful steps passed his hiding place. He silently slid a knife from his boot. His fear turned to excitement in the blink of an eye.
The killer spied the cop from behind, his gun raised as he cautiously made his way down the path. The cop’s hands shook and the killer inwardly smiled. He had to be a rookie. He almost laughed out loud, this was too easy. Instead, he moved in for the kill.
Jon-Luc watched as one hand reached out, while the other released the blade in the knife. The sound alerted the cop and he started to turn, but the killer was too quick. He snatched the top of his hair with his left hand and yanked hard exposing his neck. The sharp blade sank easily into the flesh. The arterial spray reached several feet. The killer watched in wonder.
He held the man up till the gusher died down to a trickle. Then he released him and the body drifted slowly to the ground. He eyed the puddle of blood as it inched its way toward his feet, then stepped back. For a moment he was entranced. He snapped out of his reverie and surveyed the surrounding area.
He was still alone.
The people walking down the street paid him no mind. He got down on his haunches and cleaned the blade of the knife along the cop’s pant leg. That’s when he noticed his blood-drenched hand. He jumped up, looking around nervously. He grabbed the ankles and pulled the body behind the same trash cans where he'd hidden himself. Once safe from prying eyes, he pulled the guy’s shirt out of his pants for a clean strip of material to wipe his hand.
Most of the blood came off easily, but some had already caked into the creases of his dry skin. His hand looked like a map, the red lines like bloody roads leading nowhere. Panicked, he spit and rubbed. That did nothing. He tucked the blade back into the handle of the knife and slipped it into his boot. He then shoved both his hands in his pockets and strolled out of the alley as if he didn't have a care in the world.
Jon-Luc opened his eyes. An EMT sat next to him taking his blood pressure. “What-?” He sat up quickly, then clutched his head with both hands. His head felt like it might explode. He surveyed his surroundings and found himself on a gurney inside the back of a parked ambulance.
Rapid French flew out of the driver's mouth as he grabbed Jon-Luc, preventing him from rising. Although the language differed from his native Cajun roots, he got the gist. He had fallen and might have a concussion. The guy wanted to see if he needed to take Luc to the hospital.
“No, no, I’m fine." Jon-Luc managed brushing the guy away. He avoided hospitals at all cost. For someone like him, it was like a scene from a zombie movie. The walking dead all had questions and expected him to answer them.
He’d found out the hard way when he was just eleven and his appendix burst. He awoke after surgery to a crowed of spirits surrounding his bed, all vying for his attention. It had scared the crap out of him.
It happened again when he’d been shot a few years back, but that time the hospital had supplied him with a nifty little button to push for pain management. So he’d wake up, look around and find he wasn't alone. Then he’d push his little button and soon he’d be sound asleep in his own morphine-induced coma. Somehow he didn't think that was possible if he showed up at the hospital with a little bump on his head.
“Luc.”
Claude’s voice was close. He pushed the EMT aside and then he could see his friend through the open back doors.
“What the hell happened, Claude?” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.
“You passed out and hit your head on the ground. I couldn’t wake you. How do you feel?”
Jon-Luc stood and eased himself down from the ambulance, then used his friend’s shoulders to steady himself. “A bit dazed.” He rubbed the knot on his head. “But other than that I’m fine.”
“You should let them check you out at the hospital. The sound of your head hitting the cement was horrifying. The crack was so loud I swear they could hear it at the Louvre. I am surprised there is no blood.”
The EMT appeared in front of Jon-Luc with a penlight. “Follow the light.”
He obliged. Anything to get rid of this guy.
“Well, your pupils aren’t dilated. Do you feel nauseous?”
“I’m sick of you pestering me, but other than that I’m fine,” Jon-Luc said, mustering up his scariest face.
“It’s your funeral.” The EMT turned and closed the ambulance doors, then hopped up in the cab. The loud rumble of the engine filled the air as he started the engine.
“Are you certain, my friend? How is your eyesight?” Claude asked.
“Oh, yeah.” Jon-Luc rubbed his eyes as if checking them out. “They were blurry. But they’re okay now. Sorry if I worried you.”
“All right. We are done here, unless there is something more you need?”
Luc glanced around to get reacquainted with his surroundings. The crime scene. There was something he needed to tell Claude, but couldn’t remember what it was.
“We are still holding the male witnesses.”
“Oh.” Jon-Luc ran a hand through his hair. He remembered now. “Make sure you have photos of all the men. Then make certain to interview everyone standing around and see if they witnessed a man leading a heavily intoxicated woman down the street last night, early dawn.”
“I think perhaps that knock on the head did something to you, my friend. I already have my officers questioning the crowd and someone taping the onlookers.”
“Just checking. Make sure they circulate her picture to all the clubs within walking distance.”
“I have someone making copies of her picture now.”
“Right. Maybe you should have your men recheck all the alleys along this street. I think the killer was here. When you sent your men to secure the scene, he may have slipped into one and is hiding.” That was the only way Jon-Luc could think of to help them find the slain officer. He hoped against hope that the killer had left his DNA.
“Yes, yes,” Claude said, then turned to bark the order to his men.
“I want to see those recordings immediately,” Jon-Luc finished.
“Louis!” Claude yelled to the man with the camera. “When you are done, I need you to set us up in the viewing room so we can go over the recording of the scene.” The man nodded.
Claude’s phone rang and he stepped away to take the call. When he returned, he tapped Jon-Luc on the shoulder. “We need to leave. There is a disturbance at the Beauchamp Chateau.”
13
Still screaming, Angie turned and found herself trembling within Demetrius’ firm grasp. He stood almost seven feet tall with a strong jaw, brown curly hair, brown eyes, and a scar ran the length of his left cheek. Not too many people could intimidate Angie, but if she had to choose one, he would be it.
“You must stop that racket at once,” he said with his pronounced Greek accent.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” Angie pulled away and surprisingly he let her.
“It sounded as if someone were being killed, but you are in one piece.” His brows furrowed
.
“Where did you come from? How did you get into the house?”
He pointed behind him. “I came through the front door.” He looked at her like she were stupid.
“I checked that door last night before bed. It was locked.” Angie went though the process in her mind to be sure.
He shrugged. “It is not locked now. Why do you make hysterics?”
Angie pointed toward the open door. “That! That is why I make hysterics.”
His expression changed the moment his eyes landed on the butchered rabbit. To what, she couldn't be certain. He brushed past her and made his way to the animal. He took a switch blade from his pocket and lifted his hand toward the rope.
“Stop!” Angie rushed forward and grabbed his muscled arm, it took two hands to reach the circumference.
His eyes bore down on her. “I am just going to cut it down.” He glared at the hands pulling on his bicep. She released her grip. “I thought it disturbed you. Do you want to leave it up there as an ornament? I do not think Madame Beauchamp would appreciate it very much.”
Angie fisted her hands on her hips. “No. Leave it for the police.”
“Do not be ridiculous, they have better things to do then answer calls for something as silly as a prank.”
“I don’t consider this silly or an innocent prank," she retorted.
Just then the maid and cook came rushing across the lawn, then stopped short when they saw what was causing all the commotion. The young servant girl screamed and covered her mouth.
The cook crossed her ample bosom, saying in a heavy Irish brogue, “Dear Mother of God. Saints preserve us.”
Bringing up the rear was the woman of the house. “What is going on here?” The women stepped aside and Lissette’s eyes focused on the offending object. Without hesitation, she started barking orders. “Demetrius, put the knife away and go call the police from the main house.” He did as told before he rushed off.
