Wild Man's Curse (Wilds of the Bayou #1)

by Susannah Sandlin

  No, he hadn’t been letting Lang hide out at his house.

  Yes, they could search it all they wanted, if they felt the need to waste their time instead of being out searching places where Lang might actually be.

  No, he had no idea what Lang wanted from Eva Savoie. He knew of no connection between them.

  No, he hadn’t known that Lang was staying with Tommy Mason nor for how long; he’d visited Tommy on a simple fishing expedition.

  No, he wasn’t screwing Celestine Savoie in order to help his brother get information or access to her cabin.

  That one really pissed him off.

  Warren had finally shown up with the sheriff, publicly chewed his ass up one side and down the other to make sure Knight and Ramsey heard his humiliation, then told him to get his worthless carcass home and wait so Warren could come by later and chew him up again.

  The worst part? He had to own it. Well, maybe not that part about Ceelie—she deserved better than for them to think she’d fall prey to such a ruse even if he had been some heartless, manipulative son of a bitch. She was smarter than that.

  Plus, he wasn’t a user. He wasn’t a game-player. He was just an idiot.

  Gentry’s heart sped up and pumped adrenaline through his system at the sight of a dark figure moving between the support beams beneath his raised house. Jamming his foot on the brake, he stopped the truck with a lurch behind Jena’s and Ceelie’s vehicles. He killed the engine and had boots on the ground in a split second, gun drawn.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “On the ground! Now!”

  The figure froze, and two muumuu-clad arms flew into the air. “Don’t you be shootin’ at me, Gentry Broussard. It’s Maxine!”

  Awesome. Now he’d almost killed his elderly neighbor, Maxine Vallieres. That would’ve made his night complete.

  “Maxine, what are you doing under my house?” Gentry holstered his gun and pulled his rifle and a bag of burgers from the truck. A dark blur sped across the yard at him before he could react, followed by a sharp pain that shot through his ankle like a knife blade.

  An outburst of angry growls and tugs on his pants leg followed. “Hoss? Why are you outside? Stop biting me.”

  The whole world had gone nuts.

  “I’ve lost Moose.” Maxine wandered over, wringing hands covered in a half dozen sparkling rings. His neighbor was a self-admitted home-shopping-channel addict. Her pink-sequined housedress glinted in the lights from her front porch. “Can you help me find him? He’s afraid of the dark.”

  Moose was part pit bull, part chicken. “Sure. When was the last time you saw him? Why is Hoss outside?”

  “I don’t know.” Maxine burst into tears, which made Gentry feel even worse about ordering her to hit the ground. “And you have a houseful of women, Gentry. Are they supposed to be there? I told them you never had women at your house.”

  “Yeah, I knew about the women.” Awesome. Now they’d know he’d not only exaggerated his dog’s fierce-factor, but that he had no social life.

  He had a sudden thought. “Maxine, have you seen Moose since the women arrived? Was he outside with Hoss when they got here?”

  She stopped crying and settled her hands on her hips, lips narrowing. “Now that you mention it, yes. You think those women stole Moose?”

  No, he thought they’d seen two dogs and made a false assumption. “I’ll get to the bottom of it; I bet Moose is in my house. You want to come in?” Might as well make it a midnight slumber party. Warren was divorced; maybe he could fix his lieutenant up with Maxine and divert his attention from Gentry.

  “No, just send him out if he’s in there with those women.”

  “Gotcha; get Moose away from the women. C’mon, Hoss, we need to stage a rescue.” Now that he had bitten and chastised his human minion, the French bulldog had wandered off in search of the ideal pissing spot du jour. Gentry caught him at the foot of the stairs and climbed up, trying to keep the canine and the burgers as far apart as possible.

  He rattled his keys outside the door so the women wouldn’t be startled, and paused at the realization that no one else had ever been inside his house besides Maxine and the cleaning service that came every other week. There was loner and there was pathetic; he thought he’d settled into Pathetic Town.

  Hoss went racing in ahead of him, followed by a flurry of screams from the living room as the Frenchie reclaimed his territory. Gentry stood in the doorway and watched the two dogs reunite on top of Ceelie, who’d collapsed into a ball of laughter on the sofa while Jena, all arms and legs, tried to untangle them.

  He grinned, which felt really good after the day he’d had and the night and day ahead of him. Not to mention, Ceelie’s husky laugh tightened something low in his gut that had no business tightening.

  “Moose! Come!” He had to call twice before the pit bull raised his brindle head, then took a leap off Jena’s back to bound across the room. Hoss was busy asserting his dominance over the women, so Gentry hooked a finger in Moose’s collar and tugged him toward the door.

  “Here you go, Maxine!” He waved and released Moose, who flew down the stairs toward the woman who called herself his “mom.”

  As soon as he’d made sure Maxine and Moose were safely inside their house, Gentry closed the door and walked back through the foyer. In the living room, things had settled down, or at least Ceelie had been able to sit upright and Jena had collapsed onto the floor. Hoss jumped down and ran to Gentry for an ankle bite. He scooped the dog up before he could draw blood. He’d never been able to break him of that bad habit.

  “Where did Hoss go?” Jena asked. “Although I’ve gotta admit, Gentry, that dog is the biggest, laziest couch potato I’ve ever seen. Plus, he ate most of the pepperoni-and-sausage pizza we ordered for you.”

  Gentry grinned, glad Maxine would have to deal with the noxious fallout from that feast. “It’s because that couch potato wasn’t Hoss. His name is Moose and he lives next door. This”—he hefted the squirming Frenchie—“is Hoss.”

  Ceelie burst into laughter. “I told you, Jena. That little dog’s been sitting outside the door and howling at the top of his lungs since we got here.” She walked over to Gentry and ruffled Hoss’s big ears. “You sure are cute.”

  “Thanks.” Gentry cleared his throat when Ceelie looked up at him with a playful sparkle in her eyes. A flush of heat spread over him that had nothing to do with the steamy night. “On behalf of Hoss, of course.”

  “Of course. Jena’s filled me in on everything that’s been happening.” Her expression grew solemn. “You look exhausted. Are you okay?”

  So much for pretending everything was normal. He set Hoss down and picked up the bag of food. “I’ve had better days, but . . . God, I’m sorry, Ceelie. My brother—”

  “Your brother is a murderer who likes to torture old women and play games with his victims,” she said, steel in her voice. “But he’s not you, and I get why you wanted to be sure before saying anything.”

  He closed his eyes, feeling ten pounds lighter. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted Ceelie’s forgiveness. How much he hoped she wouldn’t blame him or think he’d been helping Lang.

  He greeted Jena, sat on the opposite end of the black leather sofa from Ceelie, and wolfed down burgers while they filled him in on the unexpected appearance of Tommy Mason’s tongue. He brought them up to speed on how Tommy lost it in the first place, sparing them the worst of the details. The sight of that blood-drenched chin would haunt his dreams for a while.

  “His poor wife,” Ceelie said. “To have been the one to find him first.”

  Gentry had been halfway through his second burger; at the memory of Jennifer Mason’s desperate face, his appetite took a hike. “It’s my fault.” He pulled the meat off the burger and gave it to Hoss, who’d been sitting at attention next to his elbow, patient except for the slight butt trembling. “I accelerated things by visiting Tommy. I might as well have—”

  “Shut it.” Jena speared him with a pointed loo
k. “Did you really think your brother was alive when you went to the Mason house? No, you didn’t. And as soon as you realized Lang could be alive, you tried to call Warren.”

  “You should’ve tried harder.” Warren Doucet’s voice preceded him into the living room. “And you should start locking your door. If I were Langston Broussard and I thought the brother who tried to cap me three years ago was trying to get me caught, you’d be the next person I’d visit. It wouldn’t be for a friendly family reunion.”

  Gentry halfway hoped Lang would show up—not while the others were around or could be put in danger, of course. He desperately wanted to talk to his brother, however. He wanted to find out why Lang had made one bad choice after another. He wanted to know how things had gone so wrong. Drug addiction explained a lot, but not everything.

  He wanted to talk to his brother, and never mind that at the end of the conversation, one of them would likely end up dead.

  First, he’d get his continued groveling out of the way and save Warren the awkwardness of firing his former partner’s son. “I’m sorry, Warren. Lieutenant Doucet. If you want me to resign, I under—”

  “Shut the hell up, Broussard.” Warren Doucet might be in his forties, with short-trimmed hair that had a good bit of salt joining the pepper, but he was tough as they came. The lieutenant could hold his own with his younger agents physically and outthink all of them put together. “Any more pizza?”

  “Gentry’s neighbor Moose ate most of it, but there are a few slices left,” Jena said, ignoring Gentry’s eat-shit look. “Have you met the infamous Hoss, Gentry’s guard dog?”

  “That’s Hoss?” Warren looked down at the dog, and Gentry could tell he was trying not to smile. The light in his eyes gave him away. He shook his head and grabbed the pizza box. “Is it a dog or a bat?”

  Jena returned to her seat on the floor with her back against the hearth. “Take the recliner, Lieutenant. Have you met Ceelie Savoie?”

  “Not until now.” Warren introduced himself and took Jena up on the recliner offer. Gentry figured he should have offered his own seat, but he was almost too tired to move. Besides, he liked sitting on the sofa with Ceelie, even if Hoss was stretched out between them. At least so far, the dog hadn’t started snoring or farting. There was plenty of time for that to start, though.

  “I need to be brought up to speed, Broussard, but first let me say this,” Warren said. “You’ve apologized, and as far as I’m concerned that’s all I need to hear. But you’re gonna have to apologize to Sheriff Knight, to our regional captain, and to Detective Ramsey—formally. That means a personal visit and a letter.”

  Gentry nodded. He’d expected that, and he knew it could be a lot worse. “I know Ramsey thinks I’m working with my brother, but I swear to God I’m not.”

  Warren chewed a bite of pizza and gave him a long, steady look before speaking. “I knew both of you boys when you were little kids. You’re probably too young to remember much, but I can tell you this. Your dad worried about your brother until the day he died. Hank never worried about you, not for a single day. You were just like him as a kid, and you still are. That’s a compliment. You’re welcome.”

  He dug in the pizza box for another slice. “So save your breath about being an accomplice. Let it go. I never thought for a second that you were working with your brother. The sheriff’s just pissed off that we’re in the middle of his case. Not just you. Us. We’re all a team. Don’t forget that.”

  Damn, he must be even more tired than he thought, because Gentry felt the burn of tears behind his eyes. So he kept his gaze trained on the floor. “Thank you, sir. For everything.”

  Warren cleared his throat as if he, too, might be having a Moment. “Now, start at the beginning, from the minute you saw the killer who looked like Langston leaving the cabin. Don’t leave out anything.”

  So once again, this time with help from Jena, who contributed the conversations they’d had about it, Gentry went through the story. It was a lot easier this time, without John Ramsey’s insinuating questions.

  “I still don’t know why, though.” Gentry looked apologetically at Ceelie. “I don’t know why he would go after your great-aunt. There’s just no connection there.”

  Ceelie scratched behind Hoss’s ears. The dog had moved to curl up in her lap, ignoring Gentry. Smart dog. “Do you and your brother look alike at all?” Ceelie asked, frowning and staring down at the dog. “I remembered something on the way back from Cocodrie today, although admittedly it’s a stretch.”

  “Gentry and his brother could’ve been twins except for the height and age difference, at least when they were kids,” Warren said. “Why were you in Cocodrie?”

  Oh boy, Gentry thought, this should be interesting. Warren was a Baptist, a religious minority in South Louisiana. Baptists weren’t known for their tolerance of voodoo and Native American mysticism.

  “I wanted to visit with a mystic who learned the practice alongside my Tante Eva.” Ceelie had set up a rhythmic stroke along Hoss’s silky ears, and the dog sighed with contentment. How sad was it that Gentry envied his dog?

  Warren stared at her. “Practice of what?” Then it registered. “Oh.” He blinked a couple of times but recovered quickly. “What did you remember?”

  Ceelie turned to look at Gentry. “You remember the first day I met you, I thought you looked familiar?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “But I would’ve remembered you.”

  She returned his smile, and damn if that now-familiar heat didn’t settle somewhere in his nether regions again. “Well, I remembered who it was that you reminded me of. It was a boy who came to the cabin one summer for a couple of weeks with Nonc LeRoy’s nephew—or the man I called Nonc LeRoy. It would’ve been about 1996.”

  Gentry and Warren exchanged looks. “That was the year my dad died.” Still, he saw no connection. “What does it have to do with me or my brother?”

  Ceelie shrugged. “Probably doesn’t have any connection at all. It’s just that he looked a lot like you, or like you might’ve looked back then. He was a friend of LeRoy’s nephew and was fifteen or sixteen. I kind of had a crush on him.”

  “Do you remember this boy’s name?” Warren lowered the footrest of the recliner and leaned forward.

  “I think the nephew’s name was Tommy. But the other boy . . . I can’t remember for sure, but it was a funny name you didn’t hear very often. I think it was Lane or something like that. What’s your brother’s name?”

  Chill bumps had set up along Gentry’s arms and shoulders and he looked at Warren again.

  “His name is Lang.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Ceelie closed her eyes and coaxed her muscles to relax under the hot water from the shower in Gentry’s guest bathroom. It was the first real hot shower she’d had since her return to Terrebonne Parish. The cabin’s jerry-rigged shower spit water in uneven spurts and was more tepid than warm.

  Gentry’s house wasn’t large, but it felt palatial after the confines of the cabin on Whiskey Bayou.

  From its dark-blue siding and white trim to its interior that looked like it had been put together by a furniture-store decorator told to create a “bachelor-pad ambience,” the house had been exactly what Ceelie would’ve expected from a single man who worked long hours and hadn’t given two thoughts to home decor. The only things that told her anything about the owner were a flat-screen TV the size of a spaceship, an unmade king-sized bed, a spare room full of workout equipment, a desk, a docking station, and speakers for a digital music player. Plus, of course, the spoiled-rotten French bulldog.

  Hoss was Gentry Broussard’s biggest tell. He was all macho talk covering a soft-hearted, good man who wanted to save the world and all the puppies in it. She wouldn’t be voicing that opinion, however. She wasn’t sure he was even aware of it, and might find it insulting.

  The more Ceelie learned of Gentry Broussard, the more she liked him. A few days ago, she’d sworn a man didn’t figure into her future plans.
She’d also sworn Terrebonne Parish didn’t fit into those plans. Now? She wouldn’t swear to anything.

  As exhausted as she was from spending the entire night listening to the three agents spinning theories about the possible link between Lang Broussard and LeRoy Breaux, Ceelie couldn’t stop her brain from continuing to hash and rehash it.

  Tante Eva hadn’t liked LeRoy’s nephew much, or at least she hadn’t wanted Ceelie spending time alone with him. She’d thought it was because he was an older boy and her aunt thought it wasn’t proper. Now, however, she wondered if it wasn’t their age and gender Tante Eva didn’t trust, but something about Tommy himself.

  Gentry had finally told her that Lang Broussard’s best friend was Tommy Mason, and it was Tommy’s tongue that had ended up on her porch.

  Gentry had been twelve when his dad died, and although he didn’t say so, Ceelie could tell he’d idolized his father. Lang, at sixteen, was already rebellious, and while Gentry remembered his brother going away for two weeks that summer, he’d thought Lang was at Tommy’s house. There had been no reason to tie his visit with Tommy to LeRoy Breaux.

  It all kept coming back to LeRoy.

  Ceelie finished her shower, pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a red tank top she’d brought in from Jena’s truck, and wandered into the kitchen. Gentry was pouring a scoop of coffee into a fresh filter for a new pot. They’d started one just before her shower, so he must have been mainlining caffeine.

  She watched him for a moment; he was rubbing his temples as he watched the water drip through the filter with a gurgle. He looked sexy, in an exhausted kind of way.

  “How’re you doing?” She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee as soon as the drip slowed and took a sip. Strong, with chicory. Not her favorite, but probably a taste he’d picked up in New Orleans.

  “I can’t stop thinking about Lang. It had to be him that visited LeRoy Breaux at Whiskey Bayou. But how does that relate to what he’s doing now?”

  She leaned against the counter. “If anybody can fill in that blank, it’ll be your mom. When are you going to call her?” Ceelie and Gentry himself had both wanted him to make the call early this morning, about three a.m., as soon as they’d connected the dots between LeRoy Breaux and Lang Broussard. This was a murder investigation, after all, and if Gentry’s mom had to be awakened from a sound sleep, too bad. Langston Broussard needed to pay for what he’d done to Tante Eva. What he’d done to the guy who was supposed to be his best friend. And yeah, for forcing Ceelie out of her own home.