by Lynn Lorenz
“Did you realize he was your mate at the time?”
Bobby leaned over the rail, clasping his hands together. “No. Yes. Sort of. I didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t want to break our rules. Didn’t want to deal with him bolting for the door.”
Ted stood, put his hand on Bobby’s shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. “You have to find him. That’s all. You know it, don’t you?”
“Yeah. We were supposed to meet up a third time, but he didn’t show. I waited for hours. Left my card with the bartender and a waiter or two and then came home.” He shrugged.
“Something came up. That’s all.”
“Maybe. Maybe he decided he didn’t want to see me again.”
“You’re sure he’s your mate?” Ted gave Bobby a hard stare.
“I am now. I can’t stop thinking of him. I…I…” Bobby closed his eyes and tried to gather his wits. “I can’t stop wanting him.” He turned so his butt rested against the railing.
“What do you want me to do for you?” Ted sat back down in his chair.
Bobby didn’t know what he wanted until Ted asked that question. Then it crystallized in his mind.
“I want you to find him for me. You were a PI. I want to hire you to find him.”
Chapter Twelve
“I’m flattered. But you were a cop. A sheriff for longer than I was a beat cop. I think you’d be able to find him better than me.” Ted picked up the empty bottles and tossed them into a trashcan in the corner. The clink of glass hitting glass told Bobby their beers weren’t the first the guys had pitched in there.
“I can’t. Not now. I don’t have the time. I’m the chair of the Rugarou Festival this year, and I’m up to my neck in gators with it. My opening band just canceled, and I’m dealing with all the logistics and shit.” He swiped his hand through his hair.
“Can’t it wait until after the festival?”
“No. Something is”—Bobby rolled his shoulders—“bugging me. Something is scratching at the back of my mind, and it tells me I need to find him and fast.”
“This some sort of wolf sense?” Ted’s mouth hitched up in a half grin.
“I don’t know. I’m starting to dream about him.”
Ted went full-on grin. “Dreams are good.” Bobby could see what Scott saw in the sexy man.
“It’s not that kind of dream. He’s in danger.” Bobby sank back into the chair. “Will you do it? Find him for me?”
Ted looked out over the woods. “It’s pretty here, you know. I’m happy painting. I am. Scott has his sheriff’s work. We’re happy. But I won’t lie and say I don’t miss being a cop or even a PI.”
Bobby waited, holding his breath.
“Sure. I’ll do it.” Ted reached out and gave Bobby a soft punch in the arm.
Bobby exhaled. “Thanks.”
“I have to tell Scott about this. I have to let him know I’m working on something for you.”
“Sure. But can you keep it just between us three?”
“Of course.”
Bobby stuck out his hand. “When I first came here, I just wanted to talk about being gay and shit. Guess my subconscious knew what I wanted, huh? Thanks for taking my case.”
Ted took it, and they shook. “I get eighty bucks a day and expenses.”
Bobby barked a laugh. “That all? It sounds too cheap.”
“Hey, that’s my price for friends.” He chuckled. “I’ll need all the details. Where, when, what he looks like.” Ted stood. “Let me get my notebook, and I’ll write it all down.”
“Sure.”
When Ted returned, Bobby related the facts, everything he could remember or thought might be helpful. He hoped he didn’t sound as head over heels about Mark as he thought he did, but Ted never batted an eye.
Bobby said good-bye and trotted down the stairs. For the first time in weeks, his steps felt lighter, bouncier. He’d put his trust in Ted, and for now, it was the best he could do. His hands were tied until the festival was over.
He just prayed Ted would find Mark before whatever premonition from his dream happened.
»»•««
Darlene Dupree sat on her sofa watching her soaps, thinking about what she was going to do about seeing Jesus. Scott was truly mad at her, even if he said he understood about her visions.
The cat sat, purring, next to her on the couch, its nose tucked under its tail.
A soft rumbling from outside made Darlene sit up. Someone had driven up to her cottage
“Merde, cat! Who could that be?” The cat opened its eyes and blinked at her, looking pissed she’d woken it up.
She got up, rushed to the bathroom, and straightened her hair, fussing the entire time. She didn’t like visitors, not unless she knew they were coming.
A knock at the door froze her. “Merde!”
She came out, gave the messy living room a glare as if it had betrayed her, and headed for the door.
“You could pick up after yourself, you know, cat.” She glared at it, but it just stretched its back and leaped up onto the top of the sofa to sit.
Darlene opened the door. “Why, Sarah Guillory, what brings you to my door?”
Sarah stood on the porch, her purse clutched in her hands. She pushed a lock of blonde hair out of her face and gave Darlene a big smile.
“I need your help.”
Darlene cocked her head at the woman. “My help?” She ran through the only possibility she could think of—charity work at the hospital where Sarah worked.
“Can I come in?” Sarah motioned with her hand.
“Sure.” Darlene held the door open for Sarah. “Pardon the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.” Darlene smiled. “Have a seat and tell me what I can do for you.”
Sarah sat on the couch, leaning away from the cat. “A cat? I didn’t think you were a cat person.” She and the animal glared at each other.
“I’m not.” Darlene waved her hand at the cat. It stood and hissed at Sarah, then bolted from the room.
“Well, I’ll get to the point.” Sarah took a deep breath. “Everyone talks about you, you know. About your powers.”
Darlene narrowed her eyes. “Do they now?” Uh-oh, this isn’t going to be good.
“Yes. Most don’t believe it, but some do.”
“And you?”
“I believe.” She nodded. “I believe you can help me.”
Darlene stared at her. “Help you what?”
“Marry Bobby Cotteau.”
Darlene laughed. “You want to marry Bobby Cotteau?”
“What’s so funny?” Sarah frowned. “It’s been three years since Carol died. He should be married again.” She sniffed. Darlene thought what she meant was I should be married again, and Bobby looks good. Well, he did. Couldn’t blame the woman for that.
“Nothing, cher. “ She patted Sarah on the knee. “How do you think I can help you do that?”
“Voodoo. A love spell. I need a love spell.” Sarah opened her purse. “I can pay you whatever you want.” She pulled out her checkbook and a pen.
Darlene fell back against the couch as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her.
“I don’t do voodoo.” Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, if Father Peder knew about this…
“I don’t care what you call it. But don’t deny you can’t do it or haven’t done it before. Everyone knows you cast spells.” Sarah’s eyes narrowed.
How could Darlene deny it? How could she get out of this mess? She’d used her powers only a few times and with disastrous results. Sort of. And she hated that others talked about her, called her a witch, when she was nothing more than a good Catholic woman who prayed often. Out in the bayou. At midnight.
“Have you tried doing a novena?” She patted Sarah’s hand. “Get the father to bless you?”
“I want something powerful, Darlene.” She shook her head. “I’m done praying.”
“Nothing’s more powerful than our Lord Almighty,” Darlene said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I promised my
son I’d never…pray like that again.” She shrugged. “Sorry, honey.”
“So, what am I supposed to do now?” Sarah wailed and lurched to her feet. She glared down at Darlene as she stuffed the pen and checkbook back into her purse.
Darlene stood, and walked to the door. “I guess you’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Flirt with him. Hell, I don’t know. Catch his eye.” How did women do it these days? “Text him one of those sexy things. Maybe a sexy picture?” Darlene had never wanted another man after her husband had died. Never saw the need for one. She was happy being alone.
Sarah obviously wasn’t.
“Text him?” Sarah sputtered. “I can’t believe you think I’d take a photo of myself naked and…and…”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” Jesus, save me. Sarah looked madder than a wet hen.
“Oh, never mind!” Sarah stormed out of the door.
“I’m sorry. I was only trying to help,” Darlene called out as Sarah stomped down the steps of the porch and then marched to her car.
Darlene closed the door before Sarah sped off.
The cat stood in the center of the living room.
“She’s gone.”
It jumped onto the couch and started licking its paw.
“Crazy lady.”
Meowwr.
“Poor Bobby.” She shook her head. “Think I should warn him?”
Meowwr.
“You’re right. He’s a grown man. Stay out of it.”
»»•««
“Professor Bradford, are you still planning to follow this ridiculous idea about swamp wolves?” Dean Winchell stared at Mark across the huge, highly polished wooden desk, his bright blue eyes pinning Mark like a bug to the chair where he sat.
Mark nodded. “Yes. I am. And once I have the video and audio evidence, I’m going to present my paper to the Scientific American.” At this point, nothing the dean had to say would change his mind.
“I have to tell you, once again, how foolish I believe this will turn out to be for your career.” He shook his head. “The idea that a pack of wolves are living in the swamp is just…ludicrous.”
“Why? Just because we haven’t seen them? The facts are all there. I have eyewitness accounts of wolf sightings all over the area around St. Jerome. With the state-of-the art equipment I have, the night-vision camera, the thermal registers, I’ll be able to prove it once and for all.” Mark knew he had to keep his temper with the dean. The man handled all the funding for the department at the university, and he could gut Mark’s research with a swipe of his blue ballpoint pen.
“Mark. Seriously. I know how much this means to you personally. It’s just that you’re too close, and you’re letting it influence your decision-making abilities. I know your father’s death shook you up badly.” Winchell scanned the pages of evidence Mark had laid out on the desk, pushing the papers around with his fingers as if afraid to touch them.
“Not badly enough to have hallucinated about what I saw that night.” Mark shook his head. “I know what I saw. I saw a wolf attack my father.” He ran his hand through the silver streak in his hair.
Dean Winchell sighed. “All right. I’ll sign off on this one last time. But if you don’t get the proof, I fully expect you to drop this hunt for the swamp wolves.” He paused and looked Mark straight in the eye. “If not, if you don’t stop, I’m going to have to reconsider your employment here at the university. I can’t have a professor teaching here with a reputation as a kook…a monster hunter…a fool.”
Mark winced at Winchell’s words. “Yes, sir.” Right now, that was the only acceptable answer he could give to the dean. He stood and gathered his papers.
“I’m serious as I can be, Mark. This is your last chance.” Winchell picked up the phone and began to dial.
Mark left, pulling the office door closed behind him. Winchell’s secretary glanced up at him, gave him a quick smile, then returned to her computer.
As he walked back to his office, Mark mentally went over the gear he’d need this week. It kept his mind from repeating Winchell’s voice warning him about the demise of his career. And it kept his thoughts off Bobby, thoughts that only led to a hard-on. Not what he needed now as he cut across the grassy square in front of the zoology building where his office was located.
Too late. Mark stopped, shifted the messenger bag to cover his bulging erection, and then took off, walking faster than before. Even so, he imagined the students were snickering about it, even if he knew they couldn’t see him.
The heat spreading across his face had nothing to do with them and everything to do with his image of Bobby on his knees sucking Mark’s cock. One that had been replaying in his head for weeks, ever since their last incredible weekend.
He could just kick himself for not getting the man’s last name. For not going back to the room, knocking, and shoving his business card into Bobby’s hand.
Now he’d run out of time. No more time to look for Bobby, only time to pack and head into the swamp for the mission of his lifetime.
He was going back to the scene of the attack. True, decades had passed since that night, but the evidence didn’t lie. All the sightings clustered around that spot deep in the swamp. All around the sleepy little town of St. Jerome.
He trotted up the steps of the building, through the doors, and to his office on the third floor. Classes were in session on the first and second floor, and students milled about, but on the top floor it was quiet.
He entered his office, put his bag down onto the desk, and went to the file cabinet to pull out the last of his hi-tech equipment. The pair of expensive night-vision goggles he’d paid for himself.
If he didn’t find the wolves, he’d have all the time in the world to look for Bobby.
He’d be unemployed, fired. A fool to his colleagues. Who would hire him then?
Why would Bobby want a disgraced college professor?
All Mark knew was this had to work. He had to find those damn wolves, even if it killed him.
Chapter Thirteen
Bobby hung up the phone, leaned back in the chair, and exhaled. He’d done it! Found the band from New Orleans, found the money to pay for it, just barely, and saved the opening of the festival.
He logged into the computer and brought up the weather. It had been changing, and it added to the long list of things he couldn’t control. This was supposed to be the perfect weekend, right down to the full moon that started on Friday and lasted until Monday.
Sure, the pack would be harder to control, but damn it, they were grown men, and if they hadn’t learned some control by now, they were all doomed anyway.
He zoomed in on the Weather Channel map to South Louisiana.
Damn. A major front was moving in, threatening to hit on Sunday. Saturday had a twenty percent chance of rain, but Sunday it went up to one hundred percent.
Bobby cursed again. If he lived to be one hundred, he swore he’d never do this again. He’d never had so much stress, not even as sheriff.
As chair of the festival, the entire town depended on him to make this event a success. So much money was tied up in it, not just for the club, but in the income it brought to their town. Tourism played a big role, and it was one of the major reasons they’d created the Rugarou Festival—to bring tourists to the town. The attendance at the festival had hit twenty thousand over the course of the weekend, and this year, with the bands he’d brought in, they’d estimated they’d hit nearly fifty thousand. That was a lot of money spread all over the town. To restaurants, to shops, to hotels and B and Bs, to every person who had a business, really.
Without the festival, and without the legend of the rugarou, which his pack kept alive, this town would have dried up and blown away years ago. Sure, a lot of money came from the oil and fishing industry, even hunting gators, but over the course of his life, Bobby had seen more than a handful of towns disappear.
He could imagine St. Jerome gone, like the others. Main Street shut down and boarded up
.
It would devastate the pack. And just like every member of the pack, his number one job was to protect it. Keep their secret, keep the money flowing to the town, keep their running grounds open and accessible.
What could he do about the weather? Sunday was their big day, nearly bigger than the opening day. Bands all day long. Food tents serving all day. And the contest for the best rugarou costume. Last year they’d had nearly thirty contestants, most of them from out of town, and the prize had been a three-night stay at Bayou’s End B and B, including meals at the town’s restaurants and a swamp tour.
This year they already had forty people signed up online to participate.
If it rained on Sunday, no one would show for the festival, much less the contest.
Bobby had to make a decision, but before he could pick up the phone, his cell phone rang.
“Cotteau here.”
“Bobby, it’s Father Peder.”
“Hello, Father. How can I help you?” Bobby figured if the priest was calling, it had to be bad. He got a weird shiver up his spine.
“It’s the oak tree. Did Scott tell you?”
Oh that. Bobby exhaled. “Sure. His momma saw Jesus. Again.”
“Right. I’m afraid it’s getting out of hand here.”
“Why? What’s going on?” Bobby leaned forward in his seat. He’d thought Scott had this handled.
“An entire school bus of pilgrims just unloaded in the church parking lot. They drove right through the yellow tape the deputies put up.” Bobby could hear the exasperation in the priest’s raised voice.
“Did you call Scott?”
“I did. He’s on his way. And the workers are here to put up the stage. They can’t get near the spot. Tempers are getting short, son.”
“So, what do you need from me?” Bobby wasn’t sheriff anymore. He didn’t have any legal power to move the people out. But he did have the authority to order the workmen to erect the stage, and right now that was his first priority.
“I thought if you could come down here, explain to the folks that they can worship at the tree on Monday, but to give us this weekend…”
