by Jenna Ryan
She glanced skyward again before retrieving the pack. Her head throbbed, but thankfully the double vision had receded. All she felt was overwhelming relief, both for Ryder’s timely arrival and for the miraculous fact that he hadn’t been shot.
She deposited the killer’s pack in the mud. As she did, his hand moved. Not upward to knock the gun from under his chin, but sideways to snatch up the knife she’d set down.
If he’d tried to attack, she knew Ryder would have stopped him. But instead of lashing out, he released a cry and plunged the blade into his left eye.
Blood erupted like water from a fountain. The killer bucked a startled Ryder off and rolled away. Mia jumped back. Ryder shoved her behind him.
He lunged, but the killer had already scrabbled out of range. While lightning forked and blood poured over his cheek, he drove the blade into his right eye.
“Beat you, you ugly little demon.” A gurgling laugh emerged. He had the knife repositioned before it ended. A massive thrust jammed the blade between his ribs all the way to the hilt.
The killer’s hands fell away. He swayed for a moment and then slithered into the mud.
Too shocked to react, Mia stared over Ryder’s shoulder. Lightning struck, and for a brief moment, she swore she saw something perched on the killer’s pack. Something that looked very much like a wooden doll. Very much like Billy the doll. Smiling at a serial killer one second.
And gone the next.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It took Crucible’s team less than six hours to get in and out of Blackwater with the corpse of Travis J. Pollard, former mercenary turned hired killer.
The phrase “hit man” came up more than once, but no one seemed willing to confirm Pollard’s status. No one seemed to know or understand his motivation for murder either. Or maybe it was closer to the truth to say that Crucible and the shadowy directors simply weren’t prepared to disclose his status.
Either way, Ryder was no longer sure he cared. Mia was safely back in New Orleans running her lounge and tearoom, the man who’d murdered his grandmother was dead and, well, actually, this part probably should matter, he was in a whack of trouble with numerous government agencies.
Seventy-two hours after that wild night in the swamp, he returned to the waterfront bar where he’d blindsided rogue agent Reid Grogan. Rain and wind pounded the creaky walls, and the lights threatened to go dark any minute.
“You don’t look overly worried, Lieutenant Ryder.” Crucible’s smooth voice came from the depths of a heavily shadowed booth. “Why is that, I wonder?”
Ryder kept his expression neutral as he turned. “I’ve been to hell and back, Crucible. Got one thing I wanted. Found and lost another. You can strip my badge for doing what I did, but that’s your play, not mine. Pollard’s dead, Mia’s safe. Case is done for me.”
Crucible’s stare could have penetrated lead. He motioned to the seat across from him before folding his large hands on the table. “We’ve been over this, Lieutenant: what you should and shouldn’t have done, how things worked out in the end. Minus a rational explanation from Pollard, the fact that those horseshoes you choked down might be in danger of losing their luster depends on the mood of the directors when they get through beating this dead horse to a pulp.”
Ryder studied his face. “So why the supplementary meeting? Are you planning to order me out of town until the horse beating’s done?”
“Nothing so drastic. I still have a few questions to clear up before you and I can call ourselves done.”
Two mugs of beer arrived courtesy of a pot-bellied man who crossed himself when he spotted Crucible. Ryder found that somewhat telling and braved a drink. “What is it you think I can tell you?”
Crucible leaned in on his forearms. “First up, how the hell did you find Mia in a labyrinthine swamp, in the middle of an electrical storm that reduced visibility to less than ten feet in any direction?”
Ryder shrugged. “I put a tracking device in her gris-gris. She might not believe in voodoo charms all the way, but she kept that pouch on her at all times.”
“Simple as that.”
“Believe me when I tell you, nothing about anything that went down was simple.”
A deep laugh rolled out as Crucible took a swig of beer. “Hell, maybe I should put you on the payroll for that.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“You did solid work, Ryder.”
“I got lucky. Mia’s smart, and she doesn’t panic. If she’d been anyone else, neither of us would have made it back alive.”
“Possibly. In any case, the killer of at least three people has been identified, and we’re in possession of a dozen calling cards discovered yesterday in Pollard’s New Orleans apartment.”
“So. Book closed?”
“Say a big chapter.” Crucible studied his face. “We’re still going over a statement Pollard made to Mia. He told her he didn’t murder, he dispatched, and that she would be the only person he’d ever killed for himself.”
Ryder swirled his beer. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that one, too. I’d speculate that either Pollard’s mercenary days weren’t entirely behind him, or he was insane enough to hear voices in his head.”
“Voices that directed him to commit predominantly random murders?”
“He told Mia he’d been seeing a face everywhere he went. And before he died, we both heard him say something about beating an ugly little demon.”
“The implication being that some inner demon drove him to kill.”
“It’s a theory.”
“A valid one in some people’s opinions.” Ryder knew Crucible deliberately moved on. “Be that as it may, Lieutenant, my offer stands, should you decide a change of career’s in order.”
Ryder glanced up as the overhead lights faded and surged. “Credit where credit’s due. It was the old lady who gave me a heads-up about Mia. Got me into the swamp sooner rather than later.”
“Bringing us to yet another conundrum. Mia mentioned the same old woman. The locals believed she was a swamp witch?”
“One local believed it. According to the woman, who claimed she wasn’t a swamp witch, she was on our late killer’s to-do list.”
Crucible steepled his fingers. “I find that point particularly intriguing, given the fact that, with the exception of your great-aunt and your grandmother, we have yet to establish a viable link between Pollard’s victims. Did this old woman give you any clue there?”
“Hell, I barely got her name, let alone an explanation.”
“You got her name?”
“Pretty sure I mentioned that to someone. It was Twila.”
Across the table, Crucible’s eyes sharpened to laser points. “Twila what?”
“No idea. Is it relevant?”
“You tell me. You already know that Madeleine Lessard, your great-aunt, was the first victim to receive a silhouette calling card. The second was an elderly woman named Twila Black. Twila was ninety-seven years old. Like Madeleine, she was also legally blind.”
“Blind,” Ryder repeated.
“It can happen to people who don’t have the surgery.”
Bracing, Ryder took another drink. “When you say surgery…”
“Cataracts, Lieutenant. Twila Black had something that’s seldom seen in this country. Fully mature cataracts. At the time of her death, her eyes were almost completely white.”
* * *
The Rose Noire was busier than usual—sofas, club chairs and cocktail tables all occupied, with a lineup at the door that snaked down the street.
Iona drifted from nook to nook, drawing the tourists’ attention whenever she paused and raised her head for ten seconds. Her mannerisms reminded Mia strongly of Desdemona, but thankfully, the tearoom fortune teller didn’t make dolls, and she had serious doubts about the ability of one to “transport” itself from place to place.
“I see you got given flowers, pretty kitten.” At the tail end of her evening break, Iona pushed a cup of te
a into Mia’s hands and forced her to sit on a high stool in the corner she habitually frequented. “Two dozen white roses in a crystal vase. Came from that big-bottomed lawyer in armchair five. I don’t like him.”
“Yes, I got that when the roses mysteriously found their way into the women’s restroom. It’s not a proposal of marriage, Iona, just a token from an admirer.”
“It’s a desperate wish from a sack of slime who wants to get his flabby hands under your dress.”
“Thanks for the visual.”
A firm finger nudged the teacup toward her mouth. “This is a special blend. You’ll feel calm after you drink it.”
“I’m calm now.” But Mia laughed at the older woman’s glare and took a sip. “I appreciate your concern. Unfortunately, Ryder wasn’t who or what he claimed to be. A murderer was stopped, I lived, the lieutenant achieved his goal, all’s well. And if you don’t stop scowling at me like a disapproving mama bear, I won’t let you read my leaves.”
Iona harrumphed and rearranged her skirt. “Don’t need to read leaves to know you’re unhappy.”
“I’m a little unhappy,” Mia lied. “I’m a lot more relieved.”
Snorting, Iona pushed the cup toward her again. “You’re a beautiful woman, and that man’s a fool if he walks away from all you got for him in your heart. Now drink that down, and we’ll see what’s what in the true manner of your upbringing.”
Amusement mingled with suspicion. “Are you sure you don’t have a cousin named Desdemona in Snake Scream Swamp?”
“Gonna stand right here on this spot until you drink that tea and give me your cup,” Iona warned. “Tears me to pieces knowing you got feelings for a man who don’t even trouble himself to pick up a phone and tell you he’s sorry for all the trouble he brought down on your head. You could have died because he let a dirty cop—”
“Don’t spit on the carpet,” Mia cautioned her.
Iona crossed herself instead. “I’m thanking the good Lord that dirty cop’s gonna be raked over the coals for what he did. Sergeant Despar.” She made a scornful gesture. “‘Despar-ate.’ Name says it all if I’d been listening and not out of my head with worry over you maybe dying.”
“Twila said something like that the night I met her outside the Honey Tree.”
Ryder’s voice emerged from the shadows at the base of the stairwell. Although Mia could barely see him, that didn’t mean she couldn’t draw a perfect mental picture. Dark hair, black jeans and jacket—a rock star cop from top to bottom, she reflected and finished her tea.
“Done,” she said to Iona. “Now take the leaves and go. My life, my decisions, remember?”
The older woman’s eyes slid from the cup to Ryder’s face. “My little kitten’s bayou born, Lieutenant. You best remember that.”
Mia twitched a shoulder as Iona strolled away. “She’ll die a diva, but she means well. Why are you here, Ryder, after five days of not here?”
“I figured you’d want some time and distance.”
“Did you?” A smile appeared, sharp as glass. “Do better, Lieutenant.”
He pushed off from the stairwell wall. “I was afraid you’d think the whole thing through and slam every possible door in my face. It’s a lot to take in overall.”
“Yes it is.” Standing, she started forward. “Did I ever mention that I’m clever, fairly adaptable and have a 140 IQ.”
“You were also chased through a swamp by a—140? Seriously?” His brows came together. “Isn’t that close to genius level?”
“Yes, and it’s also high enough for me to understand that that pursuit through the swamp could have had a vastly different outcome if you hadn’t been clever as well and slipped a tracking device into my gris-gris. What are you hiding behind your back?”
A gleam sparkled in his eyes. “Not Billy the doll.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.” She resumed her casual advance. “Could be there’s some thunder and lightning headed our way tonight. Iona says it’s a sure thing. The only sure things I know are that I didn’t die in the swamp, I hit my head very hard in the boat, and while Billy the doll might have places to go and people to freak out, the going and freaking won’t involve me.”
“You really thought you saw him in the swamp?”
“Sorry to say.”
“You saw Billy, and we both saw a dead woman.”
“We saw someone. Or something. I talked to Crucible, too, Ryder. He’s—Well, I suppose ‘baffled’ is as good a word as any.”
“He’s pissed, Mia, to be faced with a mystery he’s unlikely to solve.”
Mia let the mellow jazz playing deep in the Rose Noire smooth the ragged edges of tension away. “You can’t blame him for wanting clear cut answers. People in positions of control tend to live in black-and-white worlds. Any gray areas that exist must be of their own creation, otherwise—potential bafflement. My take? The killer thought Billy was a voodoo demon sent to haunt him. That’s why he put his eyes out, so he wouldn’t see Billy’s face anymore.”
“Wouldn’t see him between the time he blinded himself and the time he killed himself, which adds up to about three seconds worth of not seeing.”
“Seconds can read like hours to a man in that kind of fractured mental state.”
Ryder’s eyes stared down into hers. “What about your mental state, Mia? Can you live with all the non-answers?”
She slid a finger down the front of his jacket. “When you’re born and raised in the bayou, you learn very young that just because you don’t believe in a thing doesn’t mean it’s not real. It’s simply one of life’s many mysteries. Ask Iona about wandering spirits or Desdemona about dolls that can transport. I promise you, they’ll argue their points until you’re nine-tenths convinced. Or too muddled up to care.”
“Twila wasn’t—”
She set her fingers on his lips. “There’s more than one woman in the world named Twila. And people have been known to develop cataracts as they age.”
He drew her hand from his face. “You know that’s not a workable explanation for what we encountered. Who we encountered.”
“Would you feel better if I used the word ‘ghost’ or ‘apparition’?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then we should leave it alone.” She touched his mouth again. “Move on to what our minds can accept. It’s a sure bet Crucible and his uneasy allies will. Now, tell me what you’re hiding behind your back.”
He kissed the palm of her hand. “Not two dozen white roses, I’m afraid to say.”
She brushed her lips over his cheek. “What aren’t you afraid to say?”
“I love you.”
Easing back, she cocked her head at him. “So, loving me, you thought it best to make me wait five days before you came here and said it?”
He grinned. “I was afraid you’d hit me.”
“I still might.”
“Or worse,” he said, “not believe me. That’s why I’m hoping…” A single scarlet rose, so dark it was nearly black, appeared between them. There was a small card tied to the stem “I thought a bribe might do the trick.”
“Or at least stop me from setting Iona on you.”
“Open the card, Mia.”
She did, albeit with a glance at him from under her lashes. “I’m not sure I should …” Her eyes widened, and she laughed. “You’re taking me to Jamaica? In two days, for two weeks? I—Why Jamaica?”
“Because I thought you’d like it. I’m also really hoping they don’t practice voodoo there.”
“Ah, well.” She smiled and left it alone.
Curling his fingers around the back of her neck, Ryder held her gaze. “Whatever the case, my real hope is that we can start again. No fear, no deception, no crazed killers chasing us through the swamp.”
“No Billy the doll.”
“Is that a yes?”
Taking hold of his jacket, she pulled his mouth onto hers and kissed him until her blood began to sizzle. “Answer your question, Lie
utenant?”
“It might—if I could remember the question.”
“You wanted to know if I loved you enough to start again. And I said I have a bottle of French Merlot upstairs. I’m also wearing some rather seductive black lace lingerie under this dress. Let’s leave the mysteries of the swamp in the swamp and toast to a future with no more calling cards from Travis J. Pollard.”
“Let’s do that,” Ryder murmured, and covering her mouth with his, made her mind spin.
For a moment, deep in the shadows behind him, Mia thought she saw Billy the doll’s face come and go. However, where it came from and where it went were questions she chose not to ponder.
For now.
* * *
Crucible sat in his strappy black chair in his ultramodern office and tapped a pen on the top of his desk. It was done. The murderer who’d left at least three of the six calling cards with a Ripper-like silhouette on them was dead.
Unfortunately, so was Twila Black, a ninety-seven-year-old woman from San Francisco with full white cataracts. A woman who sounded very much like the person Mia and Ryder had met in Blackwater, Louisiana.
Impossible? Absolutely.
Coincidental? Unlikely.
Dismissible…?
The image of a swamp witch lingered, but that was local Blackwater lore. Nothing of substance in it. The woman Mia and Ryder had met said her name was Twila. Not the name of a swamp witch certainly, but of someone. Of something…Assuming you believed in the kinds of things that dwelled beyond the borders of human life.
Still holding the pen, Crucible rubbed his forehead. Until a quiet knock intruded. “Come.” He let his hand fall. “What is it, Killian?”
The man who entered wore his hair in a ponytail as sleek as the office. An earring dangled from his right lobe. It had five points: one for Crucible and each of the directors he worked for.
“There’s a problem, sir.”
Wasn’t there always? “What is it?” Crucible repeated.
“Murder. In San Francisco.” Killian laid a sheet of paper on the desk. “This is a printout of what was discovered on the body. It’s the same calling card as the ones found on six previous bodies. It’s as you thought, sir. In eliminating Travis Pollard, we’ve simply damaged part of what appears to be a much larger picture.”
