Before she had a chance to utter a response, the monster grabbed her by her wig. The hairpins digging into her scalp, he pulled her off the desk and shoved her toward a door behind the desk.
“I’m not going in there.”
“You are a feisty one, aren’t you? There’s no need to worry. It’s only my private bath.”
He jerked her head around, pushed the lever knob with his boot, and kicked the door open.
“No!” Miranda said when she looked inside.
Eileen Boyd lay on the tiled floor, bound hand and foot with thick rope. Her eyes were closed and she didn’t respond at all to their presence. She was out cold.
“What did you do to her?” Miranda hissed.
“Do you really have to ask?”
He’d drugged her. Just the way he’d drugged his brother. Had he done the same to Parker? No, Parker would have seen it coming. Right?
“Don’t hurt her,” Miranda said. “She’s just a young girl.”
“Young girl? She is no innocent. I took her off the streets, fed her, took care of her. And this is how she pays me back? She talked to the police. She has to pay for that. No one crosses me,” he shouted. “No one.”
“So she’s learned her lesson. She won’t do it again.”
“She won’t get a chance to. She said she wanted to know what happened to her friend? I will show her.”
What did that mean? Miranda had no idea. And no time to think it over. Again Duval grabbed her wig, jerked her head back and maneuvered his arm over her mouth. Something gold dangled before her eyes.
The bracelet of twisted gold. It had a small lid embedded in it, which Duval was twisting open with the fingers of one hand. Now she got it. The bracelet was hollow. That’s where he kept the stuff he slipped into drinks.
The bracelet couldn’t hold much liquid, but evidentially it was enough to do the trick.
Miranda pressed her lips together, turned her head.
“Drink, dammit.” His voice was harsh and raspy.
She knew better after her last case.
“Drink or I’ll have Gregor blow your redheaded friend’s head off.”
“Don’t do it, Steele,” she heard Wesson say.
But now it was a different story. She couldn’t let him kill Wesson. There was no weapon nearby. She couldn’t fight off this crazy monster without someone getting shot.
She opened her mouth.
Duval laughed as he poured in a mouthful. She tried to hold in on her tongue, but she couldn’t help but swallow some of it.
“Now it’s your turn, girlie,” Gregor said to Wesson.
“Don’t do it,” she tried to say. But already the room had begun to spin.
She heard Wesson say something. Duval shouted at her. Then the voices turned to echoes. Shuffling of feet. Duval said something about ransom…fetch a good price…someone in Atlanta will want them…No evidence.
She slid to the floor, and as her face hit the cold tile all she could hear was the echo of Duval’s wicked laugh.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Floating…floating…floating. Through light airy clouds. She danced over the puffy softness, flew through the wispy vapor like a bird, without a care in the world. Not about who she was or where she was going or where she had been. She was a pure white dove winging her way to peace and happiness.
And then hard granite slammed into the back of her skull.
With a start Miranda opened her eyes and saw nothing but blackness. With effort she moved her fingers and began to run her hands over the surface she lay on.
The tiles of the bathroom floor. Baptiste’s bathroom floor. She attempted to lift her head and a stabbing pain shot through the side of it. Where she’d hit the floor after Baptiste had—all at once her stomach rebelled.
In agony quickly she dragged herself up and over to the toilet.
She managed to get on her knees and get the lid up just in time. Her insides taking over, she barfed up whatever had been inside her. She retched several times. Until her ribs ached. At last it stopped.
Wiping her mouth with her hands she sat back on her heels, her head reeling.
What had happened? She remembered fighting Duval. The bastard pouring something he had in his bracelet down her throat. She recalled trying not to drink the potion and failing. She couldn’t remember how much she’d swigged of it, but it couldn’t have been much. She guessed she must be having a bad reaction to it.
Had she gotten it all out of her system?
She eyed the toilet, feeling sick. Better make sure. She forced a finger down her throat and finished the job.
When she was through, her head and stomach muscles aching, she grabbed onto the sink and raised herself shakily to her feet. She turned on the water, washed her hands and splashed her face. She found a towel to dry herself with, then looked at her image in the mirror.
Ugh. Her eyes were bloodshot, her makeup smeared. A false eyelash was stuck to her cheek. Gnarled and cockeyed, the blond wig looked like a long-haired porcupine on her head. She undid the pins, took it off and ran her fingers through her hair. She pulled off the fake eyelashes, took the towel and wiped off the remainder of her makeup.
How long had she been out? She had no idea. No one was here. Not Wesson. Not Eileen. Not Baptiste. Not even the creepy phoenix-tattooed Gregor.
They’d left her here alone. Why? No time to figure out the insane ragings of a lunatic. All she knew was that Wesson and Eileen were in trouble. She had to get Parker and go after them.
She hurried to the door and tried the latch. Locked. From the outside. But Baptiste wouldn’t want anyone coming in here accidentally. That meant the lock had a key. Which meant he’d kept people in here before. She eyed the wig she’d tossed on the floor. She could probably use the rest of those hairpins to open the door, but there wasn’t time for that.
She turned around and hurried to the window.
Blinking to clear her brain, she peered out. The inky waters of Lake Pontchartrain stretched out before her, beyond the riverboat, disappearing into a starry night sky. Below her were the lower decks of the riverboat, the rear side of the boat, opposite the entrance.
Movement caught her eye.
The lights from the back of the riverboat revealed a rear dock spanning its length. On the other side of the wooden expanse, another smaller craft was moored to one of the pilings along the dock. A fancy motorboat with a flybridge over the main cabin.
A yacht.
Figures moved alongside the craft. Two men. One on the boat, one on the dock. They seemed to be loading supplies. The man on the dock was heaving up a large burlap-wrapped package and handing it over to the man on the yacht’s deck. Another package lay on the boards at his feet.
Human-sized packages.
In the shadows she thought she saw a flash of orange on the head of the man on the dock. As the man on the yacht reached over the rails for the first package, the light caught the gleam of gold on his wrist.
That bracelet. The one with the potion in it.
It was Baptiste and his henchman, all right. And she’d bet her eyeteeth that was Wesson and Eileen wrapped in that burlap.
She had to get down there. Fast.
Duval’s bathroom window was narrow, a simple double-hung. She turned the latch. No lock here. She slid up the window, hiked up her skirt, and climbed out.
As soon as her feet reached the deck she peered down one way, then the other. No one here, thank God. There was a staircase nearby, twin to the one she’d used on the other side to get to Duval’s office. She hurried over to it, scrambled down, found the one to the lower deck, and ran to a spot where she could climb over the riverboat’s banister. In a few seconds she was on the dock.
Duval was already on the flybridge behind the controls. Gregor had disappeared.
Just as her feet touched the boards of the dock, the boat’s motor revved to life. It started to move. No time to think it over. No time to lose.
Hoping no one would s
ee her through the windows of the riverboat, she ran down the dock as fast her high-heeled feet would go. The boat pulled away from the dock just as she reached it. The gap wasn’t too big. Only a few feet. She could make it. Hoping she was right, she took a flying leap, cleared the rail, and landed on the deck near the back.
Thank goodness the chugging of the motor covered the thud.
Duval was on the flybridge manning the vessel so he hadn’t seen her. At least she thought he hadn’t seen her. If he had, she’d find out soon enough.
But as the boat chugged away from the casino and into the waters of the lake, she couldn’t stop the burning question raging through her mind.
Where was Parker?
Chapter Forty-Eight
It had taken far longer than it should have to loosen that door handle.
Parker had worked the pins with his pick, pried off the knob and the trim, but the inner screws were stripped and were giving him a devil of a time coming loose. Finally he got them out. He wrapped his hand with the end of his coat, grabbed onto the insert piece, twisted, turned the middle shaft, and pulled the plunger in.
The door opened.
He muttered a breath of thanks, rose, and returned the picks to their place around his waist. Then he straightened his clothes and stepped out into the engine room.
Its twisted pipes and gears gave the area same tight dungeon-like feeling as they did when Duval and his henchman brought him here. The ducts and conduits seemed to stretch into eternity. But no one was here. The space was empty now. Duval and Gregor were nowhere to be seen.
He had to find them. He had to find Miranda. And Wesson, where was she?
He climbed the metal stairs they’d forced him down earlier, pushed open the door at the top of it. Swiftly he moved down the narrow corridor to the entry to the casino.
Smoothing his hair and removing a bit of glue from his upper lip where they’d ripped off his fake mustache, he opened the door and stepped onto the gaming floor. He scanned the slot machines, the tables, the bar. Baptiste was nowhere. Neither was Gregor. He didn’t see Eileen or Wesson anywhere.
As casually as he could, he strolled through the tables to the restaurant. He bypassed the hostess, as if he were meeting someone, and scanned the diners at the cloth-covered tables under the crystal chandeliers. He peered around the faux marble columns. No one in here either. Though he didn’t think any of them would have stopped for a meal.
Pretending to find his party, he crossed the blue paisley carpet to a window, pulled back its gold brocade curtain and peered out into the night.
He took in the sight instantly. A rear dock. A boat on the far side of it. An Aquila Power Catamaran. He recognized it from the yachts his father had once shopped for. The boat was pulling away from the dock. A woman was on the dock running toward it. She leapt into the air and flew over its side with just enough distance to spare. As he watched her, Parker’s gut turned to ice inside him.
That woman was Miranda.
Wesson must be on that boat. And perhaps Eileen. With Baptiste and Gregor, too.
He turned and rushed out of the restaurant, not caring now if he made a disturbance. He moved through the gaming floor as fast as he dared. He made his way out the entrance, down the wharf toward the parking lot.
He found Labatte sitting in his unmarked Subaru with the window rolled down.
“What’s going on?” the detective said as soon as he reached him.
“Cover’s blown,” Parker said, taking in air. “I think Batiste has Wesson and Eileen. He just took off in a Catamaran heading north. Miranda jumped on board just as the boat cast off.”
Labatte’s eyes went wide with shock. “The bastard,” he said in his French-Cajun accent. “I will call the harbor police.” He picked up his cell and dialed.
An officer answered and Labatte quickly explained the situation.
“We can be there in ten. We can pick you up at the dock behind the Golden Dreams,” the officer said. “Do you know where the yacht is heading?”
Parker pointed off in the distance. “Northbound.”
The look on Labatte’s face made his gut twist.
“From the direction Mr. Parker indicates, my guess is the marshy bayous and swamps along the north bank of the lake.”
Parker’s blood chilled as he listened to the officer’s reply.
“Then there’s no time to lose.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Miranda lay on the fiberglass floor of the yacht, catching her breath, listening to the churning of the motor while the spray of water misted her face, and tried to come up with a plan.
She’d messed up. She’d thought it would be easy to get that ledger book. She should have realized someone with Duval’s power would never be so careless. She’d underestimated him.
But now it was time for the second round of this game.
As the waves gently rocked her, instinctively she bent her knee and felt along her calf until her fingers touched hard metal. Her Beretta was still there. Thank God. Without getting up, she eased it from its holster and checked the clip. Still loaded.
Baptiste wouldn’t have overlooked that. He must not have thought she was much of a threat to him. Now he was the one who was underestimating her.
She hoped Wesson still had her gun, too.
With her weapon drawn, slowly she dared to raise her head. It still ached, but the pain was lessening. No one here. Baptiste must still be on the upper deck, steering the craft toward God knew where. Was Gregor about somewhere? There was no sign of the tattooed henchman.
At her side a U-shaped row of seats edged the boat’s rear. The stern, she remembered from her fishing boat job in Maine years ago. A table stood in the middle of the U, forming a place to entertain guests.
To the other side, a few yards away stood a faux wood panel forming a wall with a door in the middle of it. A cabin. From the glimpses she’d gotten as she was scrambling down the stairs, that was where Baptiste had put his two burlap sacks. Eileen and Wesson had to be in there.
Keeping low, she raised herself to her knees and crawled toward the door. It wasn’t until she reached the wall that she dared to stand on her feet. Getting her sea legs, she felt along the panel for a latch, found something shaped like one and pulled. The door opened.
It was unlocked. Still underestimating her?
She slipped inside, felt for a light switch and flipped it on.
Light spilled onto the fancy interior. Bamboo shades covered the windows. On the far side of the space she caught the gleam of a goose-neck faucet and the stainless-steel and granite of a small kitchen. No sign of Gregor in there.
Just in front of the kitchen sat expensive-looking wooden cabinetry. In front of the cabinets, two large burlap sacks had been tossed on the floor. And just in front of the sacks stretched two ivory-colored leather couches facing each other.
But it was what was on those couches that took Miranda’s breath. Eileen lay on the one to her left, hands and feet still bound. Wesson lay on the other one, tied with rope in the same fashion.
She hurried to Wesson’s side, slapped at her face.
“Wesson,” she whispered as loudly as she dared. “Wake up.”
No response. Miranda put a finger along her neck to check her pulse. She found it. Wesson was still alive. She felt along her leg. Wesson still had her gun as well.
She tried again. “Wesson. Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
Not even a moan. How much of that stuff in his bracelet had Duval made her drink?
She rushed over to Eileen, bent to pat her cheek. “Eileen. It’s Miranda Steele. Time to wake up.”
Nothing.
She glanced back at Wesson and suddenly her eyes filled with tears. Another team member was in trouble because of her decisions. If they lived through this when they got back to Atlanta, she was going to tell Parker flat out she was through heading up his dream team. She wasn’t cut out for it.
But this was no time to cry about it.
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Gritting her teeth, she wiped her eyes and went through her options. She could untie the women, but if Duval found them that way before they woke up, he’d know she was on the boat and she’d have to fight him alone. Her Beretta gave her an advantage, but Duval would probably be armed, too.
She could make her way up to the flybridge, take Baptiste by surprise, and force him to turn the boat around. But she wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t know she was here. She didn’t know what might be waiting for her up there. Duval was a good fighter. If he disarmed her, then what? She’d have to shoot him before that happened.
It seemed like the only way. Take him down fast.
As quietly as she could, she turned off the lights and slipped back through the door. She looked around and saw a nearby ladder leading to the upper deck. Just as she took a step for it, she turned her head.
Far out on the water a light flickered against the waves.
Hope rose inside her. Another boat? Was it the police? But how long before it caught up with the yacht? She couldn’t be sure, but she hoped she was right about who was onboard that patrol boat.
Parker.
Then another thought struck her. If she had to shoot Duval, if she had to kill him, all she’d have was her testimony to prove he’d murdered Dr. Charmaine Boudreaux. It might not be enough to free Clarence. They needed more.
She looked back at the vessel following them. It seemed to be getting a little closer.
A cardinal rule of police and detective work came to her mind. Always wait for backup. She didn’t usually do that. This might be a good time to try it. Okay. She’d wait and see how close that police boat could get before she made a move.
And if the police captured Duval, it was back to plan A. She’d get him to confess to killing his brother’s wife in front of the whole department.
Crouching down, she made her way back to the bench near the table along the stern and, gun still drawn, she waited.
Chapter Fifty
The briny wind in his face, Parker peered out into the inky night and focused on the bobbing light that was far too far ahead of them.
Snakebit Page 23
