by JoAnn Ross
Roarke wrote the note on the back of a scrap of envelope, then poled the boat away from the cabin, only starting the engine when he was far enough away that he didn’t think the sound would wake her. As he headed back through the waters he knew like the back of his hand, Roarke forced warm thoughts of Daria from his mind and concentrated on the mission of saving her life.
DARIA WAS DISAPPOINTED, but not surprised when she awoke to find Roarke gone. She’d known he was headed off to that bait shop to learn what, if anything, Michael had discovered. She also wished he’d wakened her. If anything should happen to him without her having a chance to tell him that she loved him...
No! She shook her head, refusing to even consider such a horrendous thought. Roarke would be all right. She couldn’t allow herself to think otherwise.
She pulled on her leggings, sweatshirt and sneakers, and went back into the kitchen, dumped out the beaten eggs that were still sitting in a bowl on the counter waiting to be made into omelets, and settled for toast and coffee.
Nervous as a cat, she paced the cabin waiting for Roarke’s return. She wished she’d gone with him. She should have gone with him. After all, he was only involved in this because of her. And what if Michael wanted to ask her a question? How could she be of any help all the way out here in the middle of nowhere?
“Dammit, Roarke,” she muttered, “when you get back we’re going to have to have a long talk about equality in a relationship.” She knew he was only trying to keep her safe, but Daria welcomed her irritation. It kept her mind occupied—almost but not quite preventing her from worrying.
She skimmed through a stack of magazines and noticed with disinterest that they all seemed to have to do with either fishing or hunting. Beneath the magazines she found a leather sheath holding the ugliest knife she’d ever seen. And, unfortunately, in her business she’d seen quite a few. As she put it back down, a memory flashed—a memory of a similar knife being held against a man’s throat as a rope was tied around his neck.
Her blood chilled, her knees threatened to buckle. She lowered herself to a straight-backed wooden chair, and although her first instinct was to shut her mind to the scene, Daria knew that it would provide her with an important clue.
She could see them as she’d remembered them before, in the bayou. A group of men holding torches and wearing executioner’s hoods, were standing in a circle. In the middle of the circle, a terrified young man begged for mercy.
“You had your mercy,” a deep, all-too-familiar voice said. “Handed down by what is laughingly referred to as the justice system. And now you’re going to have your punishment.”
He tugged the end of the rope, which was looped around the limb of a cypress tree. The prisoner’s feet lifted off the ground.
“You’ll never get away with this,” the young man sobbed. “Please, if you just let me go, I’ll never tell anyone. I’ll leave the city. The state. I’ll go to—”
“The only place you’re going to is hell.” That said, the man backed away.
A moment later another hooded man lifted a shotgun to his shoulder. Daria could hear the sound of the gun being cocked even over the prisoner’s continued entreaties. His eyes, in the flickering torchlight, were wide and terrified. And then something happened. A new expression came over his face and he looked as cold and evil as the men who were about to kill him.
“I may be going to hell, but you’ll end up there, too,” he threatened.
“That may be,” the voice she recognized answered in a pleasant tone that was in direct contrast to the horror of the scene. “But you’ll get there first.”
He made a slight motion with his hand. An instant later, the sound of the shotgun reverberated through the bayou like the roar of cannon fire. A hole the size of a man’s fist opened up in the prisoner’s chest; his dying heart pumped blood onto the ground like a geyser.
The men stood silently, watching as the moist earth soaked up their prisoner’s life force. When his legs had stopped jerking and his blood had stopped pumping, they cut him down and tossed him into the bayou with a splash.
When they pulled off their hoods, Daria watched in knew personnally, policemen and judges she worked with every day—shook the hand of their leader,James Boudreaux.
“Oh, my God.” She lowered her aching head to her hands and began to weep as she’d not been able to do that night.
It all flooded back. The six-month investigation that had led her into the bayou that night. The suspicion she hadn’t dared share with anyone—including the man she’d been engaged to mary. Especially the man she’d been engaged to marry.
She raised her head and looked down at the diamond ring that glittered mockingly on her left hand. She’d obviously made a fatal mistake.
She pushed herself to her feet and resumed pacing, more edgy than ever. She needed to tell Roarke what she remembered. But how?
“Dammit!” She went out onto the porch and looded out over the miles of empty bayou. There was no way to reach him. She had no choice. She would have to wait until he returned. And hope that it wouldn’t be too late.
THE BAIT SHOP was typical for the area—constructed of cypress, tin-roofed, with a boat dock, scales for weighing the daily catch, crayfish traps and tanks stocked with minnows for bait A handmade sign above the door instructed fishermen that if they sold their fish there, they were expected to buy their cheese—also used for bait—there, as well.
Knowing that to appear rushed was considered the height of rudeness in this part of the country, Roarke forced himself to pass the time of day with the group of men sitting around on the dock who were eating barbecue and drinking beer, discussing the weather, the fishing, the success or failure of the hunting and trapping, and, as always, those damn oil companies that had brought some wealth to the bayou, but even more environmental danger.
“One of these days, life as we know it will be gone,” one of the old-timers predicted. “The oil bust was bad enough Now all these alligator and crayfish farms sure aren’t helping. If people keep leavin’ it’s gonna be like another Great Exile.”
“I’d be like a sick dog if I had to leave here,” another man said.
The others murmured agreement No one asked Roarke what he’d been doing during his time away in the outside world. Life among what some of the old-timers still called “the Americans,” did not interest them. This was the real world. The only one that counted. And although he understood their parochialism, Roarke feared he was looking at an endangered species.
After promising not to be a stranger, he went into the office and hooked his laptop up to the phone on the rickety old pine desk.
Mike had obviously come through. But along with the files was another E-mail message to call immediately.
“What the hell took you so long?” Mike answered, back in New Orleans.
“I got a little sidetracked.”
“That figures. How is Daria, anyway?”
“She’s fine. And safe.” And Roarke had every intention of keeping her that way.
“That remains to be seen. We found what those cops were looking for.”
“What? And how?”
“Sugar went into the projects. Heard there was a kid there who likes to mug folks foolish enough to visit Marie Laveau’s tomb. He was run off by your lady friend’s would-be killer. But he came back the next morning to pick up any spare change that might be lying around the tomb and found a computer diskette.”
“What was on it?”
“A list of cases the prosecutor’s office had lost in the last six months.”
“So? That’d be a matter of public record.”
“This was a rather unique list,” Mike said. “All the acquitted were men. And all of them mysteriously left the parish shortly after juries found them innocent.”
“I don’t suppose it’d be unusual to want to get a new start.” Even as he said it, Roarke knew he was grasping at straws. The truth was, homegrown criminals rarely left the place where they felt s
afe. Where they had a support system.
“There’s always an outside possibility,” Mike allowed. “But we’re talking about six men. In six months.”
Roarke whistled softly.
“That’s not all,” Mike said. “Turns out that they all seemed to disappear on weekends that Congressman Boudreaux returned home to Louisiana to visit his constituents.”
And his fiancée.
“Hell.” Roarke dragged his hand through his hair. “Sounds like what we’ve got going is a rogue vengeance group.”
“Sounds like it You know, there were rumors of something called the Tribunal back when I was on the force. But I never really believed them. And no one ever would have invited me to join.” Mike paused. “It gets worse.”
“What?” As if things weren’t already bad enough. Roarke felt a fist twisting his gut
“Boudreaux flew into town this morning. He took off a little while ago in a police helicopter headed out into the bayou.”
A thought suddenly occurred to Roarke. A realization that there was a good chance James Boudreaux might be able to locate the cabin. The bayou had changed considerably over the years since they’d been boys together; most of the twisting, narrow old watercourses had been straightened and channelized by the Corps of Engineers. But from the air...
“I think it’s time to send in the cavalry.” With that, Roarke hung up the phone, turned off the computer and left the office.
“Gotta go,” he told the owner of the shop. He tossed a twenty on the counter. “This should pay for the phone call. And a round of beer for the guys.”
He ran down the dock to the boat, untied it, and took off with a roar of the engine.
With one eye on the darkening sky, he headed back into the swamp toward his cabin, and although it had been a very long time since he’d ventured inside a church, Roarke found himself praying that he wouldn’t be too late.
13
DARIA HEARD THE DISTANT sound over the still, dark water. At first she thought it was a boat engine. Perhaps Roarke’s Uncle Claude was returning from checking his traps. He could take her to Roarke. Or, even better yet, perhaps it was Roarke himself, back with news from Michael. Not that it was necessary, now that she remembered everything.
Including the horrifying knowledge that the place where the vigilantes murdered their victims just happened to be an alligator farm, which conveniently took care of the bodies.
The thought made her shudder. She stood and leaned over the railing, looking in the direction of the droning mechanical sound that was coming closer.
And then she saw it—the helicopter approaching like a huge bird of prey from behind a dark gray cloud. When she recognized it as a police copter, Daria’s heart trebled its beat and her mind leaped into overdrive.
“There has to be some way out of this,” she assured herself firmly.
She was, after all, an intelligent woman, with an unprecedented conviction rate. If she hadn’t succeeded in sending so many criminals to jail, a lot more bodies would have been turned into gator food. Even as her mind raced, she wondered if any of those angry men she’d sent to prison realized exactly how lucky they were.
She ran back into the house as the copter hovered nearby, the pilot obviously seeking out a landing place.
“What kind of hunting cabin is this?” she yelled in frustration when she found not a single shotgun, rifle or handgun anywhere.
She heard the sound of the rotors slicing the air as the helicopter came closer and closer to the ground. And then, nothing. Only a deathly silence.
In desperation, knowing that a knife would be no real defense against the weapons the rogue cops would undoubtedly be carrying, Daria grabbed the leather-sheathed knife, stuck it into the waistband of her leggings and pulled her sweatshirt down over it.
Then, deciding nothing would be gained by trying to hide inside, when they’d already undoubtedly seen her, she went back out onto the porch. And waited.
When she viewed the familiar face of the man walking toward her, Daria did not have to feign surprise. “James! What are you doing here?”
His smile was bright and friendly, the same one he used during campaign appearances to woo constituents. The same one he’d once used to convince her to marry him.
“That should be obvious, of course. I’m looking for you. I’ve heard the most distressing news concerning you lately, darling.”
“Really? What news is that?”
“I really don’t know where to begin.” He was climbing the stairs and for a quick, fleeting moment she considered pushing him back down and running. away. But the sky was growing darker again—she could taste another Gulf storm brewing in the air—and the idea of getting lost in the dark out here in the middle of this vast swampland was even more terrifying than anything this man might do.
“If it’s about Roarke O’Malley, I can explain—”
“You don’t have to explain anything. Roarke and I are old friends.”
“Really?” That certainly wasn’t how Roarke had described it.
“Of course. How do you think I knew about this place? We used to spend a lot of time here when we were kids. Fishing, hunting bullfrogs.” He was on the porch now, only a few feet away, when he paused and glanced around. “Once we got into high school, the O’Malley brothers started bringing girls out here.” His cold flat gaze reminded her of a reptile as it flicked over her. “I see not much has changed.”
“I’m sorry.” That was an understatement. Daria was truly sorry she’d gotten involved with a murderer. Even sorrier yet that she still hadn’t figured a way to survive whatever horrendous fate James undoubtedly had planned for her. “I suppose it wouldn’t matter if I told you that it was just a fling, that I’d met him in a bar, and—”
He slapped her face hard.
“I never would have taken you for a slut, darling.” Her blood, which was already chilled, turned to ice. His tone was the same pleasant one he’d used just before he’d killed that neighborhood drug dealer. “In fact, if I’d known you were the type of woman who slept with any man who propositioned her, I never would have proposed.”
His smile, a cold slash of white teeth, did not reach his eyes. “As an elected representative of the people of Louisiana, I have an obligation to marry a suitable woman.” His fingertips trailed over the skin his palm had reddened. “Obviously, that isn’t you.”
“Obviously.” She pulled the ring off her finger and held it out to him. “You’re right, I don’t deserve—”
Another slap, this time to her other cheek, cut her off again in mid-sentence and caused her to drop the ring. “We’ve been playing games long enough. Where is it?”
“What?”
He struck her again, this time hard enough to make her see stars. “The diskette. Where the hell is the diskette?”
“I don’t know. It’s the truth!” she cried out, this time lifting her arms to ward off his hand, which had curled into a tight fist “I had it at the hotel, when I discovered Martin dead. But then your hired police thug dragged me through the park into the cemetery and my purse came open, and when I woke up in the hospital, it was gone.”
His eyes narrowed. “If you’re lying—”
“I’m not.”
He gave her another long, probing look, then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The diskette doesn’t prove a thing. It only makes for intriguing conjecture. Without you to testify to what you saw in the bayou—”
“I didn’t see anything,” she said quickly.
Too quickly, she realized as she watched the satisfied expression replace the frustration on his handsome face. Dammit! It had only been a guess. And she’d blown it. Big time.
“I don’t suppose you’d believe that I’d keep quiet about this.”
“You? Ms. Dudley Do-Right?” He laughed at the notion. “Not for a minute.”
Daria opted for a different tack. “Why, James?” she asked quietly. “With all you have going for you, with all the success you’
ve achieved, why would you risk everything to kill those men?”
“They weren’t men, darling. They were trash. Lower than trash, they were scum. After the heinous crimes they committed, they deserved the death penalty.” His matter-of-fact tone revealed not an iota of remorse.
“But juries found them not guilty.”
His answer was a ripe, vicious curse. “If you and your colleagues had done your job, they never would have been released into decent society. But you and those other incompetent prosecutors failed, Daria. So we had to do your work for you.”
“We being the Tribunal.” She’d recalled all the details she’d uncovered about the group of rogue cops and judges while waiting for Roarke to return.
“You’re a clever girl, Daria. Too bad it’s going to cost you your life.”
“Speaking of killing, why did you murder Martin? He didn’t even know any details of the case.”
“We had no way of knowing what you’d told him. And, unfortunately, one of the men got a bit overeager.”
“You’ll never get away with it, you know.” Her calm voice belied her screaming nerves. “Roarke knows everything—”
“Your lover will be dead before nightfall. And his brother, too.”
She closed her eyes briefly, too pained for words at the thought of the death of the two men who’d risked their lives for a woman they’d not even known four days ago.
“Please, James, if you don’t kill Roarke—”
“Oh, believe me, darling, I will. In fact, I intend to take care of both brothers personally. The O’Malleys have been a pain in the ass for years. Even before Roarke decided to sleep with my fiancée. It’ll be a pleasure to watch them beg for mercy.”
“They’d never beg.”
He ran the back of his hand down her cheek in a parody of a caress. “Believe me, Daria, after a few hours, they’ll be begging me to put them out of their misery.”
His fingers trailed around her jaw, down her throat and slipped beneath the neck of her sweatshirt. “You know,” he murmured, “perhaps you’d like to watch. After I take you to bed, one last time.”
