by Brenda Novak
Judging by the small group of frame houses, most of them built on pilings, plus a single two-story hotel, two gas stations, a bait shop and a coffee shop, she guessed there were maybe fifty people taking such a stand. And she was willing to bet almost all of them were fishermen. Someone had to own the motley collection of boats bumping against the dock. With only a sliver of moon in the sky, she couldn’t see them very well, but they obviously didn’t belong to the rich and famous.
What now? She turned in to one of the gas stations, but like the other, it was closed. Should she have gone back to her hotel and set out tomorrow morning, when she could’ve gotten an earlier start?
Now that it was dark, she had no idea how she’d find Fornier out on the bayou “somewheres.” And she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay in the tin-roofed hotel that hung over the water. Although there was nothing wrong with the hotel, except that it looked deserted.
She checked her watch. Seven-thirty. New Orleans was only an hour and a half to the northeast. She could drive back there tonight and arrive at a reasonable time. But she was hungry and exhausted, and she hated to waste another day on this search, especially if it turned out that Fornier couldn’t or wouldn’t help her.
After parking in a lot that was mostly crushed shells, she went into the hotel, where she found a big man who looked as weathered as the rickety dock she’d just passed.
“Wanna room?” The buttons on his flannel shirt strained with the effort of covering his barrel chest, and he was missing two fingers on his left hand, but he gave her a welcoming, gap-toothed smile.
“Yes, I do. But first I was hoping you could help me find someone.”
“Who d’at?”
“T-Bone.” Figuring there couldn’t be more than one T-Bone in a town of four dozen people, even in Cajun country, she didn’t mention the last name, hoping to sound more familiar with Fornier than she really was.
“T-Bone’s down de bayou near Port Fourchon.”
Down was good. She didn’t know how she could go much farther south without running into the Gulf of Mexico, which meant he couldn’t be far. “Can you tell me how to get there?”
He studied her for a moment. “Is T-Bone expectin’ you?”
She considered telling the truth, but rejected the idea. She couldn’t risk being stonewalled. She needed this man’s help, and she was willing to twist reality a little in order to get it. It was what any private investigator would do, but she still felt guilty.
“Actually, I’m here as a surprise.” She manufactured a coquettish smile. “A friend of his from Mamou sent me to meet him. Do you know…Poppo?” she invented quickly.
“No.”
“Well, he thinks we’d be perfect for each other,” she gushed. “Since my husband walked out on me, I’m hoping to meet someone new, and Poppo says T-Bone needs a woman even if he won’t admit it.”
The old man’s thick eyebrows slid up, but he hooked his thumbs into the bib of his overalls and grinned. No doubt he saw her as a harmless young lady, and that lowered his guard. “Lord, am I glad to see you. D’at poor boy need somet’ing, I tell ya. He on’y come to town meybe every udder week. I don’t t’ink he has a speck o’ company in between.”
“And here it is Christmas.”
“What a nice surprise.”
“So…can you give me some directions?”
“I can’t see no harm in d’at. Go six, seven mile down de highway—” he pointed one of his gnarled fingers at the door behind her “—d’en turn right on Rappelet Road. After another half mile or so, d’ere’ll be a road d’at goes toward Bay Champagne. He’s back d’ere in de swamp.”
Swamp. Ugh. “Is that a left or a right turn?” She needed to clarify as much as possible. There was no way she wanted to get lost in a place that frightened her as much as the bayou.
Taking a piece of paper from somewhere under the front desk, he drew her a crude map. “D’is will get you d’ere.”
She could barely read the writing. “There isn’t any chance of getting lost, is there?” she asked apprehensively. And that was all it took. With a motion quicker than she expected for a man of his age, he reached under the desk again. This time he produced a sign that said, Gone fishin’. Be back soon.
* * *
Within ten minutes the grizzled fisherman had led Jasmine to a large shack, which stood on a spot of dry ground tucked into a thicket of cypress and pecan trees interspersed with marsh grass. Spanish moss hung from the trees, blocking what little moonlight might’ve filtered through the branches, making it seem far later than it really was.
As she drove closer, she could see the flicker of a lantern or candle burning inside the shack. Someone was home, but her guide didn’t proceed to the house. He pulled over, his right-side tires practically in the water, and waved her up even with him.
She rolled down her window.
“D’at’s it,” he shouted, half hanging out of his truck.
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “You’re turning around?”
“I gotta get back to de hotel.”
“Right.” She studied Fornier’s place again, feeling uncertain about coming here after sundown. The man in this house had shot another man in cold blood. There were extenuating circumstances, of course, but still… “You’ll hold a room for me, won’t you?” she said. “I’ll be back tonight. If you don’t see me in an hour or so you might come looking for me.”
He laughed and slapped his door, making enough noise to bring a large man to the entrance of the shack, even though they were fifty yards away. Silhouetted by the light behind him, he stood with the door open, legs apart, hands on hips—as if he were king of the whole swamp and was none too happy at the intrusion.
Not only had Fornier killed a man, he’d lost his wife and daughter. And he’d served time in prison. Was he still sane?
Jasmine cleared her throat. “Or…you don’t suppose you could spare another couple of minutes to wait for me?”
Throwing back his head, the Cajun laughed again. “He won’t hurt you, podnah. I’d trust my own daughda wit’ him.”
“Right. You wouldn’t leave me if it wasn’t safe.”
“’Course not. He a good man.”
A good man… He’d suffered a great deal, and he’d avenged his daughter’s death. That didn’t prove he was a good man. But it’d been her idea to come out here, and she decided she might have better luck getting Fornier to open up if they didn’t have an audience. What they’d both suffered wasn’t easy to talk about.
After waiting for her to pass, the old man turned around. She watched his taillights disappear in her rearview mirror before concentrating all her attention on that broad figure in the doorway.
Quit being a baby. It was only eight o’clock. She might as well get what she’d come for.
Fornier didn’t move toward her even after she parked and got out. He crossed his arms and leaned against the lintel, watching her skeptically. At least she thought he was watching skeptically. It was difficult to be sure. She could only make out his general characteristics. Tall, maybe six-two or six-three—a full ten inches taller than she was—he had a lean, muscular build and the hyperfocus of an animal who stalks its prey. His hair was on the long side, making him look a bit careless or perhaps reckless, but the rest of him seemed very…together. Right down to his clothes.
Once she reached him, she could tell his faded jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt were clean and smelled of woodsmoke. She could also tell she’d interrupted him while he was relaxing, because he wasn’t wearing any shoes.
“I suppose you have a reason for being here.” His lazy Southern drawl was almost as deceptive as his stance was casual.
“Ya-Ya Collins sent me.” She clasped her hands together to get control of her nerves. “From Mamou,” she added.
“I know where Ya-Ya lives.” His voice was as rough as tree bark, but now that Jasmine was close enough to see him better, she could tell that those pictures in the newspaper
didn’t do him justice. He was much more attractive in person. “How’d you get past her?” he asked.
“I told her the truth about why I want to speak with you.”
With the shadows on his face, she couldn’t be sure but she thought his eyes wandered over her, sizing her up, drawing Lord knows what kinds of conclusions. “Which is?”
“I’m not a reporter or a journalist.”
He didn’t seem particularly relieved. “The process of elimination could take a while. Maybe we should start with what you are.”
She ignored the sarcasm. “You’re as friendly as I expected.”
“I don’t remember inviting you here.”
“I came because I’m hoping you’ll answer a few questions.”
He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “If it has anything to do with the last decade, I have nothing to say. I’ve put the past behind me.”
Obviously, he’d done no such thing, or he wouldn’t be living like a hermit. “It’s about the man who killed your daughter.”
“Of course it is.” With a grimace, he rubbed his neck. “You should’ve left your engine running,” he said at length, then he shoved away from the lintel as if he planned to go back inside and leave her right where she was. He probably would have, if she hadn’t stopped the door.
His gaze traveled from her hand to her face, but he didn’t force her to move.
“A man took my sister from our house while I was babysitting sixteen years ago,” she said.
“I’m sorry that happened, but it has nothing to do with me.” Removing her hand, he closed the door with a click.
“She’s never been found,” she said, raising her voice so it’d carry through the wood panel. “But I received a package three days ago. It contained the bracelet she was wearing the day she disappeared.”
No response.
“That package came from New Orleans, Mr. Fornier. I think he’s here…somewhere.”
Still nothing.
“Mr. Fornier?” Beginning to lose her nerve, Jasmine wondered what she was doing standing in the middle of a swamp bothering a man who’d already suffered enough. But that strange coincidence, the similarity between her sister’s case and his daughter’s, meant something. She knew it did.
“There was a note with it—a note written in blood.” She waited a few seconds to let that sink in before continuing. “Just like your daughter’s name on the wall. That kind of behavior is called a signature. It’s an unnecessary act driven by a perpetrator’s own compulsion or desires and it varies from criminal to criminal. So it’s highly unusual that two killers would do the same thing within the same time frame, and that they’d both have a tie to this area.”
When Mr. Fornier still didn’t respond, she rested her forehead against the lintel. Ya-Ya Collins had warned her, but she’d believed she could get through to him. “Are you listening, Mr. Fornier?”
A frog croaked somewhere off in the distance—and something much closer splashed into the water.
Chilled by the foreboding suggested by that sound, Jasmine glanced back at her rental car. She had a lot more to say—everything she’d been thinking about since reading those articles in the New Orleans paper—but it was no use. Fornier wouldn’t help her.
“Right. Thanks for nothing,” she muttered and trudged back to her car. She’d opened the door and was about to get in when he stepped out of the shack. He didn’t speak—just stood there watching her—which made it impossible to tell what he was thinking.
She gripped the window frame of her car door as she looked back at him. “I’m staying at the hotel in town if you change your mind.”
“Let’s do it here,” he said, and left the door open for her.
CHAPTER 5
Fornier’s shack was much nicer than Jasmine had anticipated. Though basic, it was clean and well-maintained. And he lived simply, but not as simply as she’d assumed. The light she’d noticed in the window wasn’t a candle. It was a television powered by a generator, judging by the rumble coming from somewhere behind the house.
Once she stepped into the living room, she could see a small kitchen off to one side and a short hall off to the other. A door that stood open at the end of the hall probably led to Fornier’s bedroom. With only the television for light, it was too dark to see much detail, but the neatness of the living room gave her the impression “T-Bone” made his bed each and every day with military precision.
The way he lived so comfortably with so little impressed her—no doubt because she’d half expected to find him drowning in booze. She knew what it was like to crave relief from the whys, to use whatever she could to block out the memories. But it appeared that he spent his time hunting and fishing instead of drinking. A stuffed alligator held pride of place in one corner, and pictures of Fornier and others, holding this catch or that, adorned the walls. Not one thing in the room looked as if it’d belonged to a woman or child. There wasn’t even a framed photograph of his family. He’d rid himself of all reminders of the past.
“It’s warm in here,” she said.
He let that comment hang without response, which made her wonder if he thought she was looking down her nose at him and his potbellied stove. But she didn’t follow it with anything more. She waited as he lowered the volume of the movie he’d been watching and motioned for her to sit across from him.
Inching as far away from the stuffed alligator as she could without being too obvious about it, she perched on the edge of an armless chair that must have hailed from the 1960s. “Thanks for giving me an audience.”
He nodded, but his silent perusal, and the suspicion in his eyes, made her nervous. She wondered if his face always looked as though it was hewn from stone or only when he was confronted with a stranger intent on probing his darkest moments.
“I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t think it was important,” she explained. “I want you to know that. I understand what you’ve been through—” she thought of the shooting and his subsequent incarceration and backed away from that statement a little “—to a point.”
“Are you a cop?” he asked.
“No.”
“You talk like a cop.”
He was probably referring to her explanation of a killer’s signature. “Together with two of my friends, I run a charity that helps victims, and I have some experience in criminal profiling.”
“But you’re here for personal reasons.”
“That’s right. I’m here because of my sister and that package I mentioned.”
“So what do you want from me?”
His brisk manner was insulting enough that she stopped trying to tiptoe so carefully around his feelings. “I want to know if you’re sure you killed the right man.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, but he raised a hand as if to acknowledge that he preferred the direct approach. “I’m positive.”
“How do you know?”
“They found my daughter’s blood on some of his clothing.”
“Was she sexually assaulted?”
He swallowed visibly, telling Jasmine the emotion he struggled to control hovered just beneath the surface—like the alligators swimming barely submerged in the bayou outside. “Yes.”
“Did you find anything else in the house?”
“A video of their time together.”
She winced, knowing how difficult that must’ve been for a father to see. “Did he keep any souvenirs—a piece of clothing or jewelry?”
“Like the bracelet someone mailed to you? Even if he did, it doesn’t mean the man who sent you that package has any connection to Moreau. A lot of sick bastards keep trophies.”
“There’s a connection,” she insisted.
“How do you know?”
The name had leapt out at her while she was reading the microfilm, made her heart beat faster. “Intuition.”
He laughed, but it was a cynical laugh. “Intuition. God, I should’ve let you leave.” Standing, he started for the door; their intervi
ew was over. “There’s nothing I can do for you, Ms.—”
“Stratford. Jasmine Stratford.”
“Ms. Stratford. You’re just another person grasping at straws to ease the ache in your chest. But take it from me. You’re wasting your time, and mine. Adele is dead. Moreau is, too. You need to search elsewhere for the man who took your sister.”
“We could be talking about a copycat killer.”
“Or a coincidence.”
He couldn’t deal with it. As tough as he tried to appear, he couldn’t handle the memories. Jasmine understood, even sympathized because she used to be the same way. And yet his stubborn denial frustrated her. “I’m only looking for a few facts.”
“It’s not my problem.”
“I thought you were a soldier,” she said softly.
He turned on her so fast she put out her hands to stop him and encountered a hard, solid chest. Her fingers burned from the warmth of his body, a warmth that didn’t reach the icy cold of his eyes. But he seemed to realize he’d frightened her. Abruptly stepping back, he opened the door as if he hadn’t reacted at all.
Jasmine didn’t walk through it. A photograph had caught her attention—and held her riveted. It was tucked into the glass doors of a bookcase shoved full of books and magazines. The dim lighting made it hard to see much detail, but she knew without drawing closer that it was Adele. That picture had been used in the newspaper and in the police flyers.
Fornier had kept one concession to the past.
He was still waiting for her to go, but she moved toward the picture instead—and an image crystallized in her mind.
“We’re finished here,” he bit out.
Jasmine barely heard him. She was having one of her visions, a random impression that came to her—a man’s hand, reaching into a locker somewhere to pick up a child’s pendant. She’d had enough experience with her abilities to know what it was, but that kind of sudden knowledge—of another place, another time—always unnerved her.
