The stalking, p.18
The Stalking, page 18
Cheyenne gave him a quick glare and turned her attention back to the two of them. “Anything else you can think of? Anything at all?”
They stared back at her blankly.
She stood, and the men in the room stood, as well. “Thank you,” she said. “We’ll be in contact with you, and hope that you do remember something that just might help. No matter how small.”
Before they could leave, Guy Mason turned to Andre. “He really isn’t guilty of anything—I mean Emil. He’s old, and he lived his life in a place in this world that’s most unusual. People knew people and cared about them, and when he was a kid, no one even locked their doors. He knew the old legends, of course, anyone from the state does. But he’s a good man, and he is innocent.”
“I believe that, too,” Andre told him. “If we can find out what did happen, what was going on, we can clear him.”
They shook hands all around again, and Andre and Cheyenne walked out of the house together.
Cheyenne headed straight down the path to the gates at the side of the cemetery. She might think he had long legs and walked fast, but she was moving with real purpose.
He still kept pace, and when they came down the hill, he called her name. She turned to look at him, her features expressionless as she waited for what he had to say.
He tossed her the keys to the car.
“I’ll be a minute,” he told her.
She caught the keys, looking at him with a frown.
“I want to say thank you to Janine and Christian. They found...friends to help today. Two soldiers and a victim of the original Rougarou.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Cheyenne demanded.
“I haven’t had a chance yet. And I know that you’re angry—”
“I’m not angry. All right, I am angry. But that has nothing to do with the case. I’d never let my personal feelings about anything—”
“I know that, but I do want to say thank you.”
“I’ll come with you,” she said.
“Good. I’m glad you’re not angry with Janine and Christian.”
“Nope, just you,” she said, stepping around him and heading toward the field of graves and crypts and family mausoleums. “Janine?” Cheyenne said aloud as she approached the Dumas tomb.
“Hey, guys, over here!” Janine said.
When they turned, the group of them were still together: Captain Bouche, Lieutenant Kendall, Melissa—and Janine and Christian.
Janine walked over and gave Cheyenne a ghostly embrace. She more or less went right through Cheyenne. She stepped back, and Janine did the introductions. Cheyenne smiled at the Rebel and the Yank and gave her attention to Melissa Carrier.
“I’m so very sorry,” she said.
“Ah, well, I haunt the place with very good friends,” Melissa said. “And Janine and I...it’s fun to have a girlfriend amidst these menfolk.”
Fun, of course, and they could commiserate. Life had dealt them both brutal blows that had led to their deaths.
“Thank you for trying to help us,” Cheyenne told them, looking around the group.
“We are sorry only that we can’t tell you more, and certainly, a bit angry with ourselves that we didn’t know—that we didn’t see,” Captain Bouche said.
“We should have been aware, but we don’t even know if Lassiter used the house,” Lieutenant Kendall said. “I don’t know if we could have stopped anything or not, but...”
“This killer seems to be re-creating the original’s manner of accosting women,” Andre said, looking over at Cheyenne. “The young lady who survived was abducted by a rougarou—and Melissa also was attacked by a man dressed as a rougarou. When Janine was taken...”
“I just fell like a pathetic lovesick puppy for charm and maturity,” Janine said.
“But,” Andre noted, “Lassiter did have that charm. He was able to slip away with you easily. You wanted to go, and you knew your parents wouldn’t approve, so you certainly rather sneaked away with him. After the fact, people said that they saw you with him. That’s made me think that neither the original killer nor our present killer has that same kind of charisma—and thus they used a costume, dark alleys, forest paths—places where he could wear a costume and get away with it.”
“So, today’s killer is not so charming,” Cheyenne said thoughtfully. “He may look fine and normal, but he doesn’t have what it is that Lassiter had—that Bundy-esque ability to make people want to be with him because of his smile.”
“Ah, well, then, this man is most probably just—normal, whatever that may be,” Janine said.
“There was something you said earlier that had me thinking,” Andre said. “About kids. We came here as teenagers. Sad, but true, I think I had my first beer by the Duvalier tomb.”
Janine laughed. “Hey, you just had beer. I have to say that I even shake my head at those...well, let’s say I’ve seen a naked body or two in the cemetery that I never wanted to see.”
Cheyenne was looking at him thoughtfully. “Kids—you’re right. We could ask for any help at the schools.”
Andre nodded, and noted the sky.
The day was coming to an end. And in his mind, they hadn’t finished all that they needed to do out here.
He looked around again, nodding to the five spirits who were helping. “We’ll see you tomorrow. Cheyenne, we’ll go ahead and stay the night and head to the schools tomorrow.”
There were assents from all around.
Cheyenne said her goodbyes and followed him back up the path. As he walked, he put through a call to Jackson Crow.
His field director, he learned, had spent the day with the NOLA police and the local field office, trying to convince them that they might still have a serial killer on their hands.
“I can’t control what certain officers do and don’t believe, but the higher-ups have ordered that they be wary—and keep looking. I’m meeting with the coroner, and Angela has been heading around local establishments with pictures of all our victims,” Jackson told him. “Eventually,” he said softly, “we will find the detail that leads us where we need to go.”
Andre stopped walking, looking at Cheyenne as he told Jackson about their day.
“Garlic and men’s cologne or men’s aftershave,” she reminded him.
He nodded and passed on that information and then added, “Lacey told Cheyenne that she also saw something—someone, she thinks—out of the corner of her eye when the rougarou came to take her. Suggesting an accomplice.”
“Interesting.”
He explained how they had all used the cemetery at various times as kids, and that they were going to go to the schools to ask for help the next day. “I guess we’ll also get to a department store and round up samples of aftershave and see if perhaps there’s one particular scent Lacey recognizes.”
“We’ll keep in touch,” Jackson promised, and they ended the call.
“You don’t happen to have a family home here, do you?” Andre asked, looking at Cheyenne.
She shook her head. “Janine’s parents moved away. Mine are long gone, as well—closest thing I have to a family home out here anymore is that large tomb with the name Dumas chiseled atop the arch.”
“Any hotels or motels you like?”
“Sure, a nice—brand-new—little place just outside of Broussard. There’s a little mom-and-pop Italian restaurant near it. I haven’t eaten.”
“I haven’t, either. Food, place to stay. Are you planning on eating with me?”
“Of course.” He started to smile, but her look remained hard. “We’re partners on this. We will work it together, and we will bring it to a conclusion,” she said tightly.
“Do or die,” he murmured, and kept walking.
She definitely had a temper. She was trying her best to control it. He smiled slightly.
Cheyenne didn’t offer the keys back; better that way. She knew where she was going.
She drove in silence, heading straight to the local hotel.
“The restaurant is just down the street, walking distance. I thought we’d park, get our things out,” she said.
“Fine.”
The desk clerk immediately thought they wanted one room. Cheyenne corrected him.
The place had forty rooms that all opened onto the central pool, and theirs were side by side on the ground floor. He rolled his bag into his room—basic, with a bed, dresser, TV and coffeemaker—and went out to wait for Cheyenne.
The water in the pool was aqua and looked refreshing. Tranquil, with flower and foliage artfully arranged around lounger chairs and small tables.
Cheyenne reappeared quickly. “Shall we?”
“Absolutely.”
She still moved with her quick pace; he fell into step. They soon arrived at the restaurant, a small and adorable place called Angelina’s with an Italian flag in the window and checkered cloths on the tables. It was evident that Cheyenne knew them well, because they were greeted at the door. She hugged the hostess, who was apparently an old friend, and then the hostess’s parents—the owners—who came out. She introduced him, and the couple and the girl hugged him, too. Angelina—the mom and the restaurant’s namesake—then assured him that they could prepare just anything that would make them happy, and he in turn told her that he believed that anything she prepared would make him happy.
The were shown a table and he gave his attention to the menu, which informed all diners that the staff was happy to make all kinds of substitutions.
“Nice place,” he said to Cheyenne, and when their waitress came by, he opted for the lasagna and a house salad while she asked for chicken cutlets and a salad as well, both of them rounding out their meal with mineral water.
“You apparently know these people,” he said lightly.
“Cassandra—the hostess—and her family moved here when I was in high school. My parents are supersweet people and they made them feel very welcome, and we even helped out here when they first opened,” she said. “They were newcomers, and you know how people in small towns can be...”
“Communities can close ranks, it’s true,” he said. “Which makes it interesting how quickly some people have pointed fingers. Although almost everyone except for Detective Vine seems to think Emil Justine is innocent. I wonder what will happen to the cemetery. He is old. He probably isn’t even sure what he plans to do in the future. He won’t live forever, and his family seems to have moved on.”
“They’ve moved on—that doesn’t mean that they’ll let the plantation and cemetery go,” Cheyenne said. “They’ll be absentee owners.” She sighed. Their salads and bread arrived, and they thanked their waitress.
Neither spoke for several seconds—they were evidently both really hungry.
Their hands brushed as they reached for the rolls at the same time. She glanced at him with surprise, and something like a flash of fire seemed to pass between them.
It was quickly gone. She withdrew her hand and he apologized. “Please. After you.”
“No, no, go ahead.”
“Cheyenne, it’s a roll. We’re equal partners on the job, but at dinner let me be a gentleman with some common courtesy, as I was raised. Forgive me—take one, and then I can take one, too.”
She took a roll.
“We need to work on this eating-regularly thing,” she muttered.
“We do,” he agreed.
After a few moments of companionable quiet while they ate, Andre asked, “Is Angela coming out to stay with Lacey Murton? I just think it will be a lot better if one of us is watching her. Her mother is staying tonight, right?”
“I got that impression, but let me make sure.” She pulled out her phone and called the hospital, identified herself. She was put through to Lacey’s room. Andre heard her speak with Lacey’s mother, asking her if she was staying and then—after apparently receiving an affirmative answer—assuring her that someone with the FBI, very well-known and completely trusted, would be there the following day, and stay with them in the days to follow.
“Okay, we’re good on that end,” she told Andre. Cheyenne was quiet for a minute and then asked, “Angela is way over me in rank and seniority, I imagine. She’ll be okay to play watchdog and trust me to be investigating with you?”
“You’re the reason the case has come this far. The Krewe is great. Those guys never micromanage,” he said. “I’ve never been in a better working situation.”
Their entrées came. They were silent again, and when the check came, he smiled at her as he picked it up.
“Your expense account or mine—no difference, right? Humor me. Let me do the paperwork.”
She was silent as he paid.
Hugs with the staff went around again before they could leave. The family knew why they were there and wished them success.
“It’s terrifying to think that such a man might still be out there,” the mother, Angelina, said. She glanced quickly at her daughter. “I’m always begging Cassandra to be careful.”
“And I am careful,” Cassandra said.
“Be on the lookout and be doubly careful,” Cheyenne told her. “Watch out for anyone in costume, or anyone asking you to go anywhere. If anyone comes near you, scream the loudest you can and create the biggest disturbance possible. This killer, I believe, is drugging or knocking his victims out—that’s the only way he can handle them. Don’t let anyone close enough to get to you,” she said.
“You need to come home with us!” Cassandra’s father said.
For a moment, it appeared that Cassandra would protest. “Hey, you know what, sure. I’ll spend a few days bonding.”
“Great,” Cheyenne said. She hesitated. “We may be closing a noose, so...well, it’s a good idea to be exceptionally careful right now.”
“I wish I was you—an agent, not afraid of anything,” Cassandra told Cheyenne.
“I am afraid—and I’m wary. I believe I know how to handle myself, but...”
“We work as partners,” Andre said. “I have her back—and she has mine.”
Cassandra laughed. “Well, Special Agent Rousseau, I’d be delighted to have you at my back anytime!”
He grinned and murmured a “Thanks,” and they made their way out.
The night was shadowed; a moon, soon to be full, was lighting the sky.
“Big moon,” Andre noted.
“Almost full,” she said, and then she looked up at him. “Andre, do you think that will mean anything? We know this guy is dressing up as a rougarou, a version of a werewolf. Maybe he’s just waiting for the full moon to strike again.”
“Maybe. But I’d like to think he’s not going to try anything here—his lair was discovered. Lacey was saved.” He paused, looking up at the moon. “Hard to tell. His timeline has been haphazard, the way he’s taken women, kept them and then killed them. I do think that Lacey surviving has put a few kinks in his plans for the future.”
He looked up at the moon again, and his resolve hardened.
A man who dressed up as a rougarou just might think himself enhanced, stronger, invincible, when the full moon rose.
Cheyenne was right; time was against them.
10
When they reached the hotel, Cheyenne nodded to Andre and headed to her door without saying a good-night. She entered her room; he entered his.
Andre locked his door—double-bolted it—stripped off his jacket and tossed it on his bed, and then did the same with his holster, noting that there was a connecting door between his room and Cheyenne’s. He stripped off the rest of his clothing, longing for a shower. He started into the bathroom, and then paused, taking the Glock with him. With everything happening, it seemed prudent to have the gun be wherever he was.
He was glad they were in a brand-new place; the water heated almost instantly. The shower running over him felt like nirvana.
But in the midst of his shower, he paused, going dead still, thinking he’d heard something above the rush of the water. Leaving it flowing, he stepped out, grabbed a towel—and then his Glock. He slowly and carefully opened the bathroom door farther, glad that he’d left it ajar.
He frowned. To his amazement, a woman also clad in only a towel was in his room. It took him a second to recognize Cheyenne because her long red hair was wet and darker plastered down her back.
She was at the window, looking out. He noticed she was armed.
He said her name softly—hoping she was expecting him to be there and wouldn’t spin and shoot. Just in case, he’d kept the door halfway closed.
She beckoned to him; he walked out.
“There was someone here,” she said quietly. “I heard them walking down the path in front of the rooms, and I thought it was just another guest...and then, I could swear they tried my door and moved down to yours.”
He reached into the closet, hoping to find a robe. He did, donned it quickly, and he nodded to her and she flanked him. He opened the door to the outside.
There was no one on the path.
He lowered his hand and nodded to her. She covered him as he stepped out, as if enjoying a look at the pool.
Whoever had been there was gone.
He walked back into the room. Out of habit, he locked the door and put the chain on.
“It could have been a lost guest,” she said. “Someone who forgot their room number.”
“It could have been. I’m going to check with the front desk.”
He dialed zero on the house phone. He was quickly connected, and identified himself as Special Agent Rousseau, and then asked how many of the rooms were taken.
All of them on the ground floor; only three were empty on the second. “It could have been a lost guest. It could have been... I don’t know. The killer probably knows who we are, if he’s been paying even a little attention to the news.”
