by Joanna Wayne
This could have waited until morning, but she was in the area and she was really curious to find out if someone was still leaving a white rose in front of the Robicheaux mausoleum.
She was almost close enough to tell when she heard the rumble of a vehicle on the road and then the squeal of brakes. A streak of fear shot through her and she almost ducked behind one of the stone structures before she realized how ridiculous she was being.
This wasn’t a New Orleans cemetery where tourists were warned not to venture alone even in daylight, let alone at dusk. Beau Pierre was a safe, friendly town.
Except for the body parts floating in its bayou.
The thought did nothing to calm her nerves as she waited to see who was joining her. An owl hooted what she could have almost sworn was a warning, followed by the loud crack of gunfire.
The bullet whizzed past her head.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CASSIE FROZE for a fraction of a second, then ran, darting through the cemetery in a zigzag pattern, around and between the mausoleums. She imagined the shooter right behind her, but she didn’t dare stop to see if he was actually there.
There was no fence to mark the boundary of the cemetery. It just fell away into the swamp. Her right sandal disappeared into the bog and she felt the mud squeeze between her toes and something sharp and painful dig into her heel.
The second shoe was sucked away as she hit standing water that splashed up her legs and wet the hem of her long, full skirt. She dodged low-hanging branches of cypress trees as best she could, but there was no escaping the prickly briars.
She wiped at her face, trying to dislodge the spider webs that caught in her eyelashes and clung to the sweat that poured from her like rain. Her foot tangled in a briar that didn’t let go, and this time she fell against the trunk of a towering cypress.
Gasping for breath, she listened for footsteps. The swamp was alive with noises. Sucking, rustling sounds that could be anything. Even alligators.
They’ll attack to protect their nest or their young.
Both could be nearby, feet from where she stood, yet invisible in the growing darkness of the swamp. She didn’t dare stay here—and didn’t dare move.
Something cold and slimy started crawling up her leg. A snake, a very long snake. She began to shake uncontrollably, then grabbed for it. Her hand closed around it, and she tried to pull it loose and sling it away from her. It dropped its hold on her leg, but curled around her arm, still inching upward. She gasped and tried desperately to keep the scream locked in her throat, but it escaped and echoed through the swamp.
She heard the footsteps then, running toward her. She tried to run, but she’d sunk too deep in the mire. And the snake’s tongue was flicking like a satanic lover.
“Cassie!”
John’s voice, or else she was hallucinating—or already dead. She started to call to him, then stopped. For all she knew, he could be the one who’d tried to kill her. But why? Unless the hidden secrets of Beau Pierre were his.
She turned away at the bright, blinding beam of a flashlight.
“Cassie! What happened? What are you doing out here?”
She didn’t answer, just stared at him pleadingly, both hands locked around the snake that was curled around her arm.
“Let go of the snake and it’ll fall loose, Cassie. It’s not poisonous. Just let go of it.”
John’s voice was calm, so low she could barely hear it above the hammering of her heart. She released her hold then gritted her teeth and waited for the snake’s next move. It fell to the ground and slithered away.
She slumped against the tree, then slid slowly to the swamp. Every part of her body ached, and her throat felt as if she’d swallowed a hot stone and it was stuck halfway down her esophagus.
John yanked off his shirt and used it as a cloth to wipe her face and eyes. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
His voice was strained as if his vocal cords were stretched too taut. He took her hands and tugged her to a standing position. She ached to fall into his arms, mud and all, but suspicion held her back.
“What are you doing here, John?”
“What am I doing here?”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“I stopped by the cemetery and saw your car. When I didn’t see you anywhere, I followed your tracks into the swamp. Now why the hell are you here?”
“Someone took a shot at me in the cemetery. It missed, and I took off running.”
“Did you see who fired the gun?”
“No.”
Something rustled the grass behind John. “Let’s get out of here. This is no place to be at night.” He handed her the flashlight. “You hold this.”
John scooped her up in his arms.
“I can walk,” she said.
“Not the best place to hike barefoot.”
He kept her in his arms and took off tramping through the swamp. Nothing made sense. Absolutely nothing. So she just held the flashlight tight in her hands and aimed the light in front of them. One beam in a world of black.
“Nice to be saved by a man with strong arms who knows his way out of a swamp.”
“Would have been. Too bad you got stuck with one who relies on the stars for direction.”
She glanced upward. There wasn’t a star in view. If he wasn’t kidding, they were in big, big trouble.
“I THOUGHT I’d run much farther than that,” Cassie said when they reached the cemetery minutes later. “It seemed like miles.”
“Miles, and you’d have had to walk back on your own.” John set her on her feet, thankful she was as light as she was. Chivalry was hard on the back. “Now that your breathing is somewhere near normal, tell me exactly what happened.”
“I was driving nearby and decided to stop.”
“Any particular reason why you’d come back here?”
“I wanted to see if someone had left another white rose.”
“And had they?”
“I didn’t see one, but someone has been leaving them here, not every day, but almost every day.”
“Can we skip the rose part?”
“You asked. Anyway, I heard a vehicle coming down the road and the squeal of the brakes when it stopped. I kept waiting to see who was there, but I never saw anyone. And then I heard the shot and felt something whiz right by my head.”
“But you didn’t see the vehicle or the person?”
“No. The tall mausoleum toward the front of the cemetery blocked my view of the road.”
In which case they might not have been firing at her. It could have been teenagers out getting in a little target practice. There had been that kind of vandalism out here before.
“Show me exactly where you were standing,” he said, once they reached the family burial vault.
“In front of the mausoleum. I don’t know exactly where.”
John directed a beam of light over the door, then scanned it across the stone wall. There was no sign of a bullet hole.
“What are you looking for?” Cassie asked. “Because I’m not interested in staying around to see if the sniper makes a return visit.”
“I’m looking for the bullet or the bullet hole. That might tell what kind of weapon the guy was using.” He scanned the bronze cross with the light, and there it was. A solid dent that hadn’t been there before. Head high.
It hit him full force then. Cassie was alive by inches, maybe less. Not only had the bullet struck dangerously close, it had ricocheted, giving it another chance to strike her.
She would have been dead, her brains spilled the way Dennis’s had been. Someone was desperate. And desperation produced the most dangerous situations of all.
He knelt in the grass and searched for the bullet. Cassie joined him, but even with the flashlight it was tough to see well enough to find a bullet that could have fallen most anywhere.
Finally, they gave up the search. He’d look again in the daylight, but even if he found it, he doubted Babineaux would make
any attempt to match it to a weapon. The sheriff was tucked away in Guilliot’s pocket.
Cassie didn’t say a word as they walked to the car, and he had no idea what she was thinking. He did know that somehow she’d entered into the circle of danger. Either she’d found out something in her interviews without realizing it, or someone feared that she would. But the bullet had been more than a warning. It had hit too close for that.
They were nearly to the road when Cassie broke the awkward silence that had settled between them. “Why me, John? Why am I being singled out for all this special attention? Both you and Guilliot looked me up. Now someone tries to kill me. I can’t believe every reporter who drives into Beau Pierre gets this kind of reception.”
“Whoever shot at you tonight thinks you know something, and I’m not ruling out that Guilliot took that shot.”
“What about you, John? Why did you seek me out that first day when you followed me out to Magnolia Plantation?”
“Maybe I liked your looks.”
“You were too upset that day to be thinking about my looks.”
“I figured Guilliot would target you for his campaign to label Dennis as a sick, troubled guy who couldn’t take the stress of the trial. I don’t want my brother’s name and reputation slandered by the man who either killed him or had him killed. And I wanted you to plant the suspicion in everyone’s mind that Dennis was murdered,” he said, seeing no real reason to lie.
She opened her car door, but didn’t get in. “I tried to see your side of the story, and you thanked me by feeding me half truths.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why didn’t you tell me Dennis had attempted suicide before?”
“So that’s what this is about. You talked to Guilliot, didn’t you? You talked to that arrogant, lying bastard and you believe him over me. I thought you were smarter than that.”
“Then don’t tell me half truths and try to manipulate me.”
“Dennis never tried to kill himself. He took a combination of painkillers and alcohol and passed out in his truck outside Suzette’s. Guilliot found him, took him into his clinic and took care of him.”
“Was Dennis addicted to painkillers at the time?”
“Yeah. He had a drug problem. That was six years ago. He went through rehab and he’d been clean ever since. And the trace of drugs found in his system at the autopsy was from a prescription Guilliot had written for him for headache pain. Any other of Guilliot’s garbage I can clear up for you?”
“No. Look, I’m sorry, John. Really sorry. I didn’t say any of that right, but my nerves are on edge and I had a really rough evening.”
“Mais sho’. Now we both have.”
He tried to tamp down the anger, but he couldn’t. The whole world was going crazy instead of just him for a change. He didn’t expect any more of Guilliot, but he hadn’t expected Cassie to turn on him like that. He’d thought…
It didn’t matter what he’d thought. She was a reporter, and he was part of her research. End of story.
“Thanks, John. You saved my life and I do appreciate it even if it didn’t sound that way.”
“My mistake. A smart guy would never save a reporter.” He turned and stalked to his car, hating that she’d gotten to him. Hating that she was still getting to him. Hating even worse that the anger swelling in his chest like a heart attack about to happen wasn’t going to get her off his mind.
Nothing would until he knew for sure who was behind the bullet that had missed her by inches. When he did, he was dead certain he’d have Dennis’s killer, as well. And somewhere in the mix, he’d find Guilliot.
And for once in his life John wouldn’t fail. He’d see Guilliot in prison—or he’d see him dead.
But how the hell would he keep Cassie safe in the meantime?
EVERYTHING HIT Cassie at once and her hands shook so badly that for a minute, she thought she’d have to pull the car onto the shoulder of the highway and wait until she regained control. She took deep breaths then lowered the window so that the air hit her in the face and cleared out some of the fetid odors that clung to her clothes.
A hot shower would take care of the mud. She wasn’t certain any amount of water or soap could remove the stench. And she was fairly certain nothing would ever remove the memory of how the snake had felt slithering up her body and winding around her arm.
She’d be in the swamp yet if John hadn’t gone searching for her. He’d not only saved her life, he’d ignored the mud and the stench of her and literally carried her back to dry land and safety.
For repayment, she’d attacked him like some Shakespearean shrew. Two nights ago she’d been fighting to keep from throwing herself into his arms. Tonight, she’d been in his arms and had struck back at him with accusations about his brother’s drug problems when Dennis had barely had time to turn cold in the grave.
Her feelings for John were entangled in a web of conflicting emotions that seemed to fly at her from all directions and not settle anywhere. Only, how could her physical attraction be so strong for a man she didn’t fully trust? How could she even fantasize about making love with a man who’d had a different woman between his sheets last night?
Thirty minutes later, she parked the car in the parking lot at Suzette’s and took her flashlight from the glove compartment and her new mud boots from the trunk before starting back to the cabin. Hot or cold, she couldn’t wait to step under the shower.
Olson wanted her on the inside. Well, she was there, no longer just a reporter gathering facts, but sucked into the danger. She had to figure out why and how and she had to do it quickly before she was dead herself and the only person she’d be interviewing would be Dennis and maybe the person who’d become food for the alligators.
Lost in her thoughts, she pushed open the door.
And stepped into her next nightmare.
The cabin had been trashed. Her clothes had been pulled from their hangers and thrown to the floor. The drawers in the one small chest had been yanked out and dumped upside down.
Her first impulse was to scream. The second was to fall across the bed and bawl her eyes out. But her body kept moving, and neither the scream nor the tears came. From the looks of things, the goon who’d done this had come through the window. It was still open and the screen had been removed. Probably took the guy under a minute.
She was tired, caked in mud and smelled like rotten fish. Now she had this mess to contend with.
She wished she were home, wished she’d never heard of Beau Pierre or Norman Guilliot or Ginny Lynn Flanders. If she’d known all this was coming, she’d never have even become a reporter. She’d have chosen a safer, calmer career, like fighting roaring forest fires or test-driving fighter planes.
She walked to the bathroom. First a shower, then she’d deal with the mess. The clothes were replaceable. The only things of real value here were her…
Her laptop. She spun and took a quick look about the room. Anger exploded inside her. They’d trashed her room and they’d stolen her computer and her stacks of notes. Wrecking the cabin was no doubt secondary to the real intent. They’d come for information.
Now they had it all. The notes from her interviews. Computer files of the copy she’d submitted and all the ideas and thoughts she’d typed in whenever she’d had a spare minute.
She opened the door and stepped into the night, wondering if the thieving varmint was out there, crouched behind the fronds of a palmetto plant and hoping to see her go running off in fear. Raising her fist in the air, she scanned the surrounding area then stared straight out at the bayou.
“Come out and face me, you scum coward. Tell me to my face what you want from me.”
The night was incredibly quiet, or it seemed that way after her taunting screams, but amazingly no one came out of the other cabins to see why she was yelling. She went back inside, slammed the door behind her and locked the deadbolt, though that was obviously a waste of time.
Well, screw the th
ief and Beau Pierre. But the fire went out of her anger as she stepped under the spray that ran cold tonight. She stood there, shivering, trying to make sense of things, but all she felt was a clutching sensation in her stomach and a tightening in her chest.
As the water finally grew warm, her mind went back to the time in the swamp and the snake that had wrapped itself around her arm. She’d never been so scared in all her life. And then John had stepped in and taken control. John Robicheaux, the attorney who’d freed a monster and run from life. Angry, grieving, John Robicheaux—the most unlikely of saviors.
A burst of scorching water shot from the rattling pipes and she jumped back to avoid the burn. A sign from above. Mess with John and she’d really get burned.
When the water cooled again, she tilted her head backward and let it cascade over her face and run down her body. The water ran almost black as it circled and disappeared down the drain.
She’d been that dirty, and still John had picked her up and carried her from the swamp.
The pipes began to squeal. She turned the knobs and the noise quieted enough that Cassie heard the rapping at her door. Her heart jumped to her throat. She’d screamed at the man to show himself. He might be about to oblige.
She stepped from the water and grabbed her robe, looking around for something to use as a weapon. There weren’t a lot of choices. She decided on the lamp, yanking it from the wall and holding it over her head as she moved to the door with adrenaline rushing so strong it felt like it might take her head off.
“Who’s there?”
“John. Open the door, Cassie. I need to see you.”
She dropped the lamp, opened the door and fell into his arms.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JOHN WAS STUNNED by the reception, but he realized pretty quickly it was due to more than just his irresistible charm when she pulled away and he got his first glimpse of the damage.
