She must have been sitting next to the phone, because she picked up before the first ring ended.
“Hi, this is Andy. What’s up?”
“You fin’ dat girl yet?”
“We got a solid lead this mornin’, but it’ll be awhile before we know.”
“Ah hope she gonna be all right.”
“We all do.”
“How much longer am Ah gonna have to stay away from da restaurant? Ah’ve practically worn da linoleum on mah kitchen floor clear through Ah’ve washed it so many times. Mah furniture’s polished, mah rugs are shampooed, an’ Ah’ll give you a bran’-new hoop net if you can fin’ even a speck of dust over here.”
“How many days has it been since you were exposed . . . five?”
“Six. Don’ you be shortin’ me on dat.”
“Problem is, we haven’t much experience with the disease, so we don’t know how long the incubation period might be in folks exposed like you were. I’ll be callin’ the Health Department in a little while and I’ll talk to ’em about you and see what they think. So, hang on, you’re doin’ a good thing.”
“Yeah, well mah spies at da restaurant tell me you ain’t been in since Ah lef’.”
“It’s been so hectic here the last two days, I’ve barely had time for lunch. But there’s no reason why I can’t head over there right now.”
“Ah’m gonna call in ten minutes an’ see if you’re dere.”
“I’d better get started, then.”
Things were far from settled, but for an hour Broussard allowed himself the luxury of pretending it was a normal day. When he stepped out the restaurant’s front door, though, reality came rushing back, bringing with it oppressive guilt for having seen to his own comfort while Kit was still missing, quite likely in the hands of people capable of murder. On the way back to his office, his meal, which at first had rested lightly in his belly, turned sodden.
He conveyed his messages to the two health departments and got the opinion from Dick Mullen that Grandma O should probably stay at home until the first of the week. He also contacted Blackledge’s secretary and told her that if her boss checked in, he should know that the source of Walter Baldwin’s infection had been found. She gave him the number of the lab across the river and he left the same message there. He then reluctantly called Grandma O and told her she’d have to stay home a few more days.
Though guilt continued to rest in a grimy layer on his perceptions, he was dimly able to see he hadn’t wasted the morning. He’d beaten Blackledge at his own game and in the process had most likely saved some lives. And he’d generated information that might lead to Kit. But even this small glimpse of light was eclipsed by his secretary, Margaret, who came in with the news that Natalie’s funeral service was to be held at the Chapel of the Roses on St. Philip the next day at 2:00 P.M. and that there would be no trip to the cemetery because the Health Department had ordered the body cremated.
After Margaret left, Broussard reflected on how the damnable virus that had claimed Natalie had taken even her family’s right to mourn her as they pleased. It was as complete a defeat as he could imagine.
He arranged for flowers to be sent, then went down to the morgue to see how the day was shaping up, hoping there’d be plenty to do so he could keep from thinking about what the Coast Guard would find when they intercepted the Schrader.
Charlie Franks was just beginning the post on a man who had fatally shot his estranged wife in the parking lot of the Claiborne Winn-Dixie and then turned the gun on himself. It didn’t require much persuasion to convince Franks that Broussard should do the post on the other member of the unfortunate pair. There was far more discussion, however, about why Franks wasn’t wearing his metal gloves. Broussard was unyielding on this point, so when he left the suite, Franks was peeved, but he was also wearing his gloves.
Broussard was saddened to see how young the slain wife was. The tragedy of her death and the work he had to do to close out her life fully occupied his mind for the next few hours.
A little before 5:00 P.M., Phil Gatlin showed up in Broussard’s office. The look on his face told the story.
“They didn’t find ’em?” Broussard said.
Gatlin wiped his big mitt over his face, fuzzing his eyebrows. “No.” He dropped his big frame into a chair and gripped the armrests as if it were a carnival ride about to take off. “But you were right about the ship. They did smuggle some birds into the city. One of the crew spilled the whole story. Two of the crew apparently died at sea of that same disease. The rest of the crew was afraid they were contagious, so they threw them overboard.”
“But not the birds?”
“They didn’t realize the birds and the disease were connected, so they kept them. They didn’t report the deaths because they didn’t want to generate any curiosity while the birds were still on board. The plan was that as soon as they got a couple of hundred miles into international waters, they were gonna report that they’d just lost the men overboard in an accident of some sort.”
“Did they know anything about Kit and Teddy?”
“Apparently not.”
“Who was their contact here?”
“From the description, it was Beverly’s brother.”
“Is that gonna produce anything?”
“Nothing I can see.”
“I got some information, too, but don’t get too excited about it. I found a pet store that bought four parrots from our strangulation victim.”
Gatlin slid to the front of his chair. “That’s good. Now we’ve got a direct connection between Beverly’s brother and him.”
“I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got. The guy gave the pet store a fake phone number, and I’m sure the name he gave is phony, too.”
“Which is . . .”
“C. F. Dumond.”
Gatlin thought a moment then said, “Cafe Dumond?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll check it out.”
“What if we’re right about the name—are we at a dead end?”
“Maybe not. Before the Schrader hit port, they taped the birds’ beaks shut and stuffed each bird in a short length of plastic pipe that they packed in crates labeled as sewing machine parts. Those crates were in the trailer when they were unloaded.”
“Customs didn’t look in them?”
“This ship line drops empty containers off here all the time. Customs used to check, mostly for drugs, but they’ve been clean for so long, they just quit checking. But there must have been a truck that hauled those crates away. It’s too late today, but tomorrow morning I’ll go down there again and ask around. Now, I’m gonna go check on C. F. Dumond.”
At the door, he paused and stared for a moment at the frosted glass panel; then he turned. “You ever go two weekdays without mail at your house?”
“Not that I can recall. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
After Gatlin left, Broussard popped a lemon ball into his cheek and briefly considered Gatlin’s odd question. Then he rocked back in his chair, laced his fingers over his belly, and thought about how fine life had been before all this had begun.
18
This time, they’d put Teddy in the truck first, trying to be unpredictable, Kit thought. All day, she’d been wanting to talk to Larry without Roy around—to tell him Roy knew there was no money and that he was just playing Larry for a fool. But there’d been no opportunity.
Larry switched on the police scanner.
“Six eighteen, can you run a tag?”
“Go ahead.”
“Tennessee plate four, two, seven, Lima, Victor, Delta.”
“Roger, checking.”
“Six twelve, we’ll be special unless you get something that can’t wait.”
“Roger.”
“Ochoa to six leader . . . silver Lexus approaching.”
“Roger.”
In Kit’s courtyard, sitting on a chair he’d taken from the kitchen, Phil Gatlin lowered his radio an
d listened for the Lexus. A moment later, he heard it move into range. Most likely it was nothing; in fact, this whole idea that someone was picking up Kit’s mail during the night was probably nuts.
The Lexus was directly in front of Kit’s gate. . . . The engine slowed. . . . Gatlin slipped his 9-mm from his shoulder holster, hoping for the sound of a car door. But it didn’t happen and the car continued past.
Larry turned the truck onto Dauphine.
“Fortier to six leader . . . Lexus clear.”
Gatlin reholstered his gun and stood up. He adjusted his shorts and began a little stroll around the courtyard to get the stiffness out of his legs.
In the truck, Roy’s mind replayed the exchange he’d heard on the scanner, splicing out the intervening transmissions. “Ochoa to six leader . . . silver Lexus approaching. . . . Lexus clear.”
“Turn left on St. Philip and keep going,” Roy said suddenly.
From where he sat in his car parked to their right on St. Philip, Sgt. Victor Ochoa watched them turn. He remained interested only until he was certain they didn’t stop on St. Philip and send anyone back on foot. Then they were erased from his mind.
“Why didn’t we stop?” Larry said.
“Did you hear that transmission on the radio about the Lexus?”
“I wasn’t listening real close.”
“She set us up. Those were cops waiting at her house for us.”
“How’d she do that?”
“I’m not sure. But she’s clever.”
“Let’s just kill them both and get out of here.”
“We’re not leaving. There’s too much at stake.”
“But we are gonna kill them. . . .”
Kit could hear the eagerness in Larry’s voice.
“We’re going to keep them as bargaining chips in case we get into a tight spot. If they cooperate, when our business is done, we’ll let them live. Did you two hear that . . . the part about cooperating? If you fail to meet your obligation in this arrangement, it releases us from ours.”
In her imagination, Kit spit in his face. But even if she’d been able to, she wouldn’t have actually done it. Better to let him think they believed his lie.
“So I guess we have to give up trying to get her money,” Larry said.
“There never was any money,” Roy said.
Kit was shocked to hear him admit it.
“Like I said, it was a setup. I didn’t realize it until I heard it on the radio.”
“There ought to be a penalty for that,” Larry said.
“I agree.”
They drove for quite a while; then the truck came to a stop and Larry got out. A few seconds later, there was a sliding sound. Larry returned to the truck, moved it a short distance, and cut the engine. Both men got out and the rear doors were opened. Kit felt a tug and some sawing at her ankles that freed them.
“Out,” Roy said.
He helped her to her feet and pulled her by the arm, propelling her around the right side of the truck, over what felt like a dirt floor.
“Step up . . . about six inches,” Roy said.
She did as he said and the dirt under her feet changed to something hard, definitely not wood—cement maybe.
There was a light switch thrown and Roy pulled her another ten feet or so. A door opened and another switch was thrown. Roy removed her blindfold. He stripped the tape from her mouth and plucked out the headband gagging her.
“Welcome home,” he said. “It’s not much, but we’re simple people.”
They were in a small windowless room with a cement floor and chipboard walls. Overhead, a naked lightbulb with barely enough wattage to illuminate the inside of a refrigerator threw ugly shadows over a stained mattress on the floor. Two grimy pillows on the mattress were the only other objects in the room.
“Down.”
She got to her knees on the mattress and Roy pushed her over. It wasn’t far to fall, but it still hurt when her shoulder hit. Roy left without bothering to retie her feet, shutting the door behind him and securing it with what she believed were two sliding bolts.
Her arms ached at the shoulders and her mouth was an arid country. The air around her smelled of mold and wine and unwashed body crevices, some of the latter most surely her own.
Where was Teddy? The thought they were preparing him for one of those damn penalties sent a wave of anger through her. Intending to check the door for a crack that would allow her to see into the adjoining room, she pushed herself up on one elbow and tried to gather her legs under her to stand, but there was no way to get any leverage.
She dropped back onto the mattress and used one leg to raise onto her left shoulder, but from there she could do nothing more.
Damn.
Heart pounding from the effort she’d exerted, she lay there, frustrated at her inability to get up. All she could do was wiggle on the mattress like an inchworm.
An inchworm . . .
She sat up and quickly discovered that by using her heels and knuckles, she could inch from one place to another. If she could get to a wall, she could put her back against it and maybe . . .
Slowly, she made her way to the chipboard wall. Now, back against it. . . . Jesus, she was sweating like crazy, and now she was sure of it: She stank.
After a brief rest to gather her strength, she dug her heels into the mattress and pressed her back hard against the wood, hoping she could slide herself to her feet.
Uggggh.
Damn it. The angle was wrong, and all she did was press herself against the wall.
Suddenly, the bolts were thrown and Roy brought Teddy in.
“If you’ve hurt him again . . .” she began.
“We didn’t,” Roy said, pulling off Teddy’s blindfold. He stripped the tape from Teddy’s mouth and removed the headband gag. He brought Teddy to the mattress, swept his feet out from under him, and dropped him onto it, breaking his fall by holding on to his arm.
Larry had come in behind Roy and now they both came for Kit, picking her up by her arms.
“Leave her alone,” Teddy croaked. “Or I swear you’ll pay for it.”
Ignoring him, they took her into the adjoining room and sat her in a white folding chair they must have brought from the trailer. Roy bolted Teddy’s door.
There were no windows in this room, either, its illumination coming from a couple of fluorescent fixtures recessed into a drop ceiling liberally decorated with yellow water stains. The walls were painted plasterboard with saw-toothed raw spots where the facing had been peeled off. At least a dozen of the tile squares covering the floor were missing, revealing cement underneath.
To Kit’s left, two more mattresses were pushed against the wall. In front of her sat an old oak desk; behind it, against the wall separating this room from the one where Teddy waited, was a six-foot wall of cubbyholes. Though she’d been in the room mere seconds, she had already noted the location of every additional door . . . one beside the mattresses, two on the opposite wall . . . one behind her . . . all of them closed. Reconstructing the path they’d taken coming in, she believed the one behind her led to the truck.
Larry dug in his pocket and came out with a half-dollar that he held up so she could see it. Reaching into a grocery sack near his feet, he produced a small self-contained torch and put it and the half-dollar on the desk.
And of course they’d brought the damn twine.
Larry got down in front of her with a length of it to retie her feet. Seeing him in such a vulnerable position, her resolve to give no indication of resistance disappeared and she lashed out with both feet, catching him in the face and toppling her chair.
The next thing she knew, Roy was straddling her and his belt was around her neck.
“I will not have this nonsense,” he said, tightening the belt. His face was six inches from hers. She looked into his pale eyes and saw that his irises were abnormal—no striations or radiating rays of color variation, just a homogenous pale blue, as though they’d been cut from
construction paper.
The belt was pinching and bruising . . . constricting . . . pain. Her head felt as though it were blowing up like a balloon. . . . The pressure . . . everywhere tight . . . air . . .
“It’s death, Kit, so very close . . . just seconds away,” Roy crooned. “Are you thinking of God and how you’ve ignored Him? Are you praying? Blink your eyes twice for yes and three times for no and maybe I’ll stop.”
Kit’s head felt close to bursting and Roy’s face was beginning to blur, obscured by the Kit Franklyn memorial fireworks display commencing behind her eyes. She wasn’t thinking of God but, rather, was enveloped in hatred for Roy, the emotion pure and sharp, so strong it would permit no cooperation, regardless of the cost. Summoning the last of her waning resources, she poured them into the pathways controlling her eyelids, ordering them to remain motionless. It would have been so easy to close them and die, but that wouldn’t show him how she felt.
“Do it,” Roy ordered. “It could save you. Tell me. . . .”
She saw his face dimly now, superimposed on a night sky filled with white starbursts, yet her eyes remained open. The aerial display in her head reached a crescendo; then suddenly, it was over. With the pyrotechnic arsenal expended, the night closed in upon itself.
She thought at first she was dead, but then, accompanied by the beat of a kettledrum, she faintly heard Roy say, “You are one crazy woman.”
She was lifted from the floor and dropped in the folding chair. As the drumming in her ears began to subside, it was replaced by a horrid rasping sound, which she soon realized was her own breathing. Her vision cleared and there was Roy, sitting on the desk.
“You need psychiatric help,” he said. “Anyone who would put defiance above self-preservation is very disturbed.”
“You just bring out the best in people,” Kit croaked.
“We’re still gonna burn her, aren’t we?” Larry said.
“There’s no point. Get Ted in here.”
Louisiana Fever Page 19