Another wave of uneasiness swept through Nick. Six years ago he would have laughed at the suspicion on Alcee Martin's face. But experience had taught him that Lady Justice was not only blind, but cruel.
"Can you account for your whereabouts this evening?" Martin asked.
Pequinot put his hand down hard on the bar. "C'est tout du dregaille." That's all trash.
Martin looked uncomfortable. “I gotta ask, Mike. He's an ex-con. People are going to want to know."
Fury swept through Nick at the implication, a blowtorch burning him from the inside out. A child, Christ. "You know I didn't have a damn thing to do with that boy's disappearance."
"For chrissake, Alcee, Nick was here behind the bar all night!'
Martin stared hard at him. Nick stared back, aware that his blood was pumping hard. A lost child. How could anyone think he had anything to do with that?
The chief looked away first. "A couple of my deputies are setting up a grid search. Bob Boulee is going to bring in his bloodhound. We got one four-wheeler. Yancy is firing up the airboat for the swamp. A couple of guys on horseback are already out. The more people we have looking for that boy, the better our chances of finding him."
"The bayou is no place for a kid," Pequinot said.
Nick knew firsthand just how dangerous the bayou could be for a little boy. The pain of that never left him. It haunted his dreams, dominated his thoughts when he was alone. Some days the loss was more than he could bear.
"I know the bayou." Nick shot Martin a hard look. "Unless you have a problem with me, I'd like to help."
Martin stared at him. "You got ten minutes to get over to the police department 'fore we head out."
Alcee Martin tipped his hat and walked out.
"See you tomorrow, Mike." Nick tossed his towel on the bar and followed.
Chapter 10
The Bellerose police department was lit up like a football stadium when Nick arrived. A dozen four-wheel drive trucks were lined up on the street. Two men on horseback chatted with a police officer, the horses' steel shoes clanging against the asphalt. In the bed of a pickup truck, a saggy-faced bloodhound bayed at a three-quarter moon.
The people of Bellerose had turned out in force to look for little Ricky Arnaud. The boy's parents were well liked. Jim worked at the mill. Becky was a high school teacher in nearby Covington. As Nick took the sidewalk to the front door, he found himself thinking about another lost little boy and wondered if as many of the townsfolk had turned out for him.
He shoved open the doors and walked into the building. Heads turned toward him, but there were no greetings. Nick didn't care. When it came to finding a lost child, even the outcasts were expected to help.
Someone had taped a terrain map to the display board next to the reception desk. Beside it, the picture of a little boy with fat cheeks and freckles smiled impishly at the crowd of people who would be searching for him.
A hushed silence fell as Alcee Martin stepped up to the desk. "I want to thank all of you for turning out tonight to help us find Ricky Arnaud." Picking up a ruler, he used it to point out the photograph of the little boy. "Ricky is eight years old. Brown hair. About four feet, two inches tall. He was last seen wearing a purple T-shirt, blue jeans, and red sneakers."
He slid the tip of the ruler to the map. "The search area is marked in yellow." He turned to his audience. "Danny Lee?"
A hand went up in the crowd. "Right here."
"I want y'all on horseback to take the trail along Dove Creek. Becky was telling me Ricky liked to stop off at the creek occasionally to cool off."
"Gotcha, Alcee." A man in a western hat and boots sauntered out the door.
Martin scanned the crowd. "Where's Bob Boulee?"
Another hand shot up. "Yup."
"Bob, a couple of officers are going to take you out to old man Gray's property. Becky brought us one of Ricky's socks so you can scent your hound."
"We're on it," Martin turned his attention back to the map. "If the rest of you want to help, you'll need to stay away from the area marked here in orange. We don't want to mess up the scent trail. My deputy Matt Duncan is going to set up a loose grid search on the other side of Dove Creek. We don 't think Ricky ventured too far, but the more ground we can cover, the better."
He turned and set his pen against the map. "I want everyone to park at the Dove Creek Bridge here. Take the path to the water, and spread out from there on the west side of the creek. We've got a couple of dozen people. Stay within shouting distance of each other. Take at least one flashlight and insect repellent if you have it. Those damn skeeters are as big as crows down by the water. I don't have to remind anyone that time is of the essence."
The impromptu meeting ended abruptly with the sound of a woman's anguished keening. Nick looked over to see Becky Arnaud standing next to her husband, looking as if she were about to collapse. Her face was blotchy and red and wet with tears. "Please find my baby," she sobbed. "He's out there all by himself. He's afraid of the dark. Please help us find him."
He's afraid of the dark.
The words slashed with unexpected ferocity, and made Nick think of his own little boy. Brandon had been just two years old when Nick went to prison. He'd been only five when he'd drowned. That Nick hadn't been there to protect him tormented him every hour of every day. How terribly frightened Brand must have been when he'd realized he'd ventured into deep water.
Suddenly, Nat Jennings's words danced in the back of his mind:
Brandon's death wasn't an accident . . . your son was murdered . . .the man who took our children from us is going to kill again if someone doesn't stop him.
Even though the room was plenty cool, Nick felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. Had Brand's death been an accident? Or was there some merit to her assertions? Had little Ricky Arnaud become lost? Or was something more sinister in the works?
The unspeakable questions taunted him with agonizing possibilities ... possibilities he knew he could no longer ignore. As much as it destroyed him to consider it. Nick was going to have to talk to Nat about his son. He was going to have to find out what she knew, if anything. Then he was going to have to decide what to do about it.
Holding that thought, he turned away from the picture of the little boy and started for the door.
# # #
The nightmare came to her with the violence of the storm Rain lashed at the windows as she made her way down the hall toward her son's room. Lightning flashed like a strobe as she pushed open the door and peered inside. A frisson of uneasiness went through her when she found the bed empty, the Spiderman coverlet turned down. A few feet away the curtains billowed in the breeze coming in through the window.
Aware that her heart was beating too fast, she took the stairs to the darkened living room. Thunder crashed as she crossed the living room and peered into the kitchen. She saw the outline of glossy oak cabinets. Polished granite countertops. The curtains fluttering in the window above the sink.
Her heart slammed hard against her ribs when she spotted Kyle lying motionless all the floor. For the span of several heartbeats she stared at her son's form, unable to get her mind around the picture of her seven-year-old little boy lying silent and still on the cold tile in his teddy bear pajamas.
"Kyle?"
She smelled the blood before she saw it. Coppery and warm and as black as melted tar in the semidarkness. Horror and disbelief screamed through her. She could feel if tearing through her body with the violence of a hollow point bullet.
Her vision tunneled on her son. so tiny and pale and bleeding out right before her eyes. The pool of blood seemed to cover half of the floor. In a distant comer of her mind she wondered how such a little body could bleed so much . . .
"Kyle.”
Then she was rushing to her child, her breaths bursting from her throat in ragged gasps. In her peripheral vision she saw Ward sprawled near the cooking island. Another wave of horror exploded in her brain when she saw that his
pajamas were covered with blood.
"Ward! Ohmigod! Ohmigod!"
She dropped to her knees beside her son's prone form, her brain stumbling through basic first aid, knowing deep inside that it was already too late. "Kyle! Oh, baby, talk to mommy!"
She heard movement behind her: A brutal punch of terror took her breath when she realized whomever had done this was still in the house. Nat didn't know how she got to her feet, but the next thing she knew she was standing, shaking, dizzy with horror: She could hear herself breathing hard. The razor edge of panic cutting her: Her pulse roaring like a tornado in her ears. Every beat of her heart was like a fist pounding her chest.
The intruder moved toward her. She saw dark clothes. A ski mask. Light from the window flittered like blue ice on something in his hand, and she realized he had a knife. He's going to kill me, she thought and the terror of that paralyzed her.
"Bitch," he snarled and lunged.
Nat snapped out of her stupor just as the blade came down. Screaming, she raised her arms to protect herself. But at the last instant he changed tactics and went in low, slashing from left to right. She tried to get out of the way, but wasn't fast enough and the blade sliced across her belly. An animal sound tore from her throat as the shock of pain registered. The sensation of heat just below her ribs. The realization that he'd cut her.
Reeling backward, she crashed against the counter. "Get away from me!"
The knife went up. Nat reached behind her, grabbed the coffeemaker, dragged it across the counter and flung it at him. The carafe flew from its nest and hit the stove. Glass shattered. The coffeemaker clattered to the floor.
She lunged toward the phone on the built-in desk. but he beat her to it and ripped the cord from the wall. Remembering her cell phone recharging on the counter, she bolted past him. He tried to grab her, she felt the scrape of his fingertips on her arm, heard her robe tear as he snagged the fabric, but she broke free and raced to the counter.
Shock punched her at the sight of Ward's revolver. She pounced on the gun. The wood grip was cold and rough against her palm. She brought it up as she swung it around, leveled it at the figure standing in the doorway.
Choking out animal sounds, she pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. But the only sound that met her was the hollow click of the hammer against the firing pin.
"No!" She hurled the pistol at him and darted toward the cell phone. Before she'd gone two steps, vise-like fingers closed around her right biceps, jerked her around to face him. The knife arced, the blade glinting blue. White-hot pain flashed from her left breast to her navel.
The knowledge that she' d been cut shocked and horrified. She felt the warmth of blood on her tee shirt. The material clinging wetly to her. The metallic stench filling her nostrils.
Oh, dear God, he's going to hack me to death . . .
She tried to fight, but for the first time in her life she was paralyzed with fear. The knife came down again, and she felt the numbing pain of a razor slash on her belly. She tried to use her knee, but her bare foot slipped in her own blood, and then she was falling ....
Nat screamed in horror and rage as she went down. She couldn't believe this was happening. Violent crime didn't happen in Bellerose ....
Then she was on her hands and knees, crawling away from her attacker. Whimpering like a beaten dog, she made it to the cooking island and used the cabinet door to pull herself to her feet. She looked around, expecting him to rush her at any moment. But the kitchen was empty and silent.
"Oh, God. Oh, God!" Choking back sobs, Nat stumbled to the phone and punched 911.
Taking the phone with her; she dropped to her knees at her son's side, Touched his shoulder. "Kyle," she whispered. "Oh, baby. Mama's here. I'm here.” Gently, she turned her son onto his back. "Please, God, oh, please let him be all right ...."
Kyle's eyes were open, and for a moment Nat expected him to look up at her and smile the way he'd done a thousand times before. But when she pressed her fingers to the carotid artery, there was no pulse.
She heard a voice on the other end of the phone.
And then Nat Jennings began to scream.
Nat woke to her own scream. It was a terrible sound in the silence of the house. She found herself standing in total darkness, sobbing and breathless, her body slicked with sweat. She was cold to the bone and trembling violently. She could still feel the tight grip of terror. The ache of grief that never seemed to leave her.
"Just a dream," she whispered.
Pressing her hand against her wildly pounding heart, she stumbled in the darkness, bumped into a wall, found a light switch, flipped it on. She blinked, momentarily blinded. She was standing in the dining room. The quilt she'd dragged from the sofa lay in a heap at her feet. A magic marker was clutched in her left hand. She stared at it, dread whipping through her.
Then she slowly raised her eyes to the wall.
Monster has Ricky. wood house.
A sob escaped her as she stumbled back. The marker clattered to the floor. Nat stared. at the words, wanting desperately to believe she hadn't written them. But she knew there was no one else in the house.
Monster has Ricky. wood house.
The childlike scrawl was stark and black against the white paint. She didn't know who Ricky was, but she knew he was in danger. She knew the killer had him . . .
Blinking back tears, she glanced at the clock on the stove to see that it was not yet four A.M. The dead of night, she thought and suddenly felt very alone and very much afraid.
"I'm going to stop you," she whispered, trying hard to ignore the little voice in her head telling her she couldn't, that she wasn't strong enough, that no one would believe her. And for the first time since leaving the hospital, she thought about giving up. She could go to New Orleans and let her mother take care of her. She could leave this town and the horrors of that hellish night behind and never look back.
But Nat knew there was a killer out there. She knew he was going to kill again. There was no way she could turn her back. Or let the son of a bitch get away with what he'd done.
Pulling out a dining room chair, she collapsed into it and put her face in her hands. She would get through this. She'd gotten through other tough nights.
"You're going to be okay," she whispered.
Raising her head, she looked at the words scrawled on the wall.
Monster has Ricky. wood house.
It wasn't the first time she'd sleepwalked, but the experience never ceased to frighten her. Waking to a nightmare was bad enough. Waking to find that you'd written a message from the dead was infinitely more terrifying.
Rising, she rose and scooped the quilt from the floor and carried it to the sofa. The pillow she'd been using was on the floor, so she picked it up and sank: onto the sofa, curling her legs beneath her.
Nat nearly jumped out of her skin when the doorbell rang. Alarmed, she crossed to the foyer and checked the peephole. Surprise flashed at the sight of Nick Bastille standing on her porch.
Stepping away from the door, she pressed her hand to her stomach, her mind racing. What was he doing on her porch at four o'clock in the morning? Had the anger she'd seen earlier in the day reached its flash point, and he'd come to take it out on her?
But in some small comer of her mind it registered that he didn't look angry or out of control or even particularly dangerous at the moment. And on some elemental level. she knew why he'd come to her in the middle of the night. She knew he wanted information about his son. And she knew she was going to open the door and let him in, despite the alarms blaring in her head.
Quickly, she wiped the tears from her cheeks, then glanced down at the faded denim shirt and boxer shorts she wore. The ensemble looked like hell, but it was decent enough to answer the door, considering the hour. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she opened the door. His gaze met hers with an intensity that unnerved her immediately. "I was driving by and saw the light."
She didn't believe him, but she didn't close
the door. “What do you want?"
"You told me there's a witness who knows what happened to my boy. You can't drop a bomb like that and expect me to stay away."
She studied him, trying to gauge his frame of mind, but his expression was impossible to read as he stared back at her with shuttered eyes. "Come in."
He stepped into the foyer, and for the first time she noticed his appearance. A day's growth of whiskers darkened his jaw. His hair was mussed with a small twig tangled at the crown. He was wearing the same clothes from the night before. A white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and button-down jeans faded nearly white. Only now his clothes were rumpled and dirty. The shirt was tom at the sleeve and smeared with dirt. He looked haggard and wounded and tired to his bones.
An involuntary shudder moved through her when his eyes swept down the front of her. She felt his gaze like the caress of his fingertip against her skin. Suddenly painfully self-conscious, she folded her arms and stepped back. "You look like you've had a rough night."
"Looks like maybe I'm not the only one."
Nat could only imagine how she looked. Her face was blotchy from crying. Her hair was tangled and damp with sweat. The shirt was wrinkled. She told herself she didn't care. But even through the grief and turmoil of the last years, a tiny sliver of female vanity had survived.
"Did you get into a fight?" she asked, wondering if Hunt Ratcliffe had been waiting for him after he'd closed the bar.
"I was out with the search party."
"Search party?" The hairs at her nape prickled. "Who's missing?" she asked, but in some small comer of her mind, she already knew.
"Eight-year-old by the name of Ricky Arnaud. He disappeared while walking from his friend's farm back to his parents' place."
Ricky.