Their mouths joined. They stayed together, lost in each other’s embrace until the water began to run cold.
A short time later, Rain returned from the kitchen, once again in her robe. She carried a tray with dense brown bread, cheese and cold cuts, fruit and two bottles of water. Trevor sat on the edge of the bed, talking on the bedroom phone. Having located his duffel bag, he’d changed into sweatpants and a well-worn Georgetown T-shirt. She waited until he disconnected the call before placing the tray on the coverlet.
“I called the hospital,” he told her. “The male had extensive internal injuries. He was confirmed DOA. The female’s in ICU on a ventilator. It turns out she’s also about eight weeks pregnant.”
Seeing his troubled expression, Rain eased down beside him. “Trevor—”
“I talked to the NOPD, too. They got a registration on the truck. It belonged to Armand Baptiste.”
Armand was a pied piper in the goth community. It made sense he’d used others to do his bidding instead of chancing capture himself. Rain wondered, had he been trying to exact some revenge against Trevor?
“Do you really think he could be Dante?”
“The evidence from the Ascension is pretty significant, but I still don’t know.” He looked at her. “Regardless, until we close this case, you’re still in danger.”
The sheets were turned back and the nearly empty tray of food placed between them on the bed. Rain had changed into pajama bottoms and a lace-edged camisole. She sat cross-legged, slicing an apple with a sharp paring knife. Although she busied herself with the task at hand, she’d been watching Trevor carefully. He’d been contemplative since making the calls to the hospital and police.
“Want to tell me what’s on your mind?” she asked, tentative.
He studied the bottled water in his hand. “Your conversation with Annabelle.”
Rain put the knife and what was left of the apple on the tray. They’d been on the verge of discussing the things his sister had told her when the truck had raced up behind them. “It’s the girl on the ventilator, isn’t it? She’s making you think about your own…injury.”
Trevor set the bottle on the nightstand. Moments passed before he spoke.
“I can remember waking up and being attached to that machine,” he confessed. “There was a tube down my throat, forcing air in and out of my lungs. It was the worst thing…”
He shook his head at the recollection. Touched that he’d opened up to her, Rain reached for his hand and waited for him to continue.
“Even once I was off the ventilator, my mind and my body…they weren’t working…right. The things I wanted to say weren’t coming out of my mouth.” Trevor’s eyes darkened. “I hated all of it. The weakness, the loss of control over my life.”
“You were young and strong. You recovered,” Rain reminded gently. “You survived a tragedy that would’ve destroyed most people.”
But she also asked herself, had he really? While Trevor had managed to overcome the most obvious damage, she realized there were deeper emotional scars he’d kept hidden far too long.
“How much do you really remember about that day? About what happened with your father?”
Shrugging, he gazed down at her fingers entwined with his. “I get scenes from time to time. Just random bits and pieces.”
“Have the memories been more frequent since you came home?” Rain saw her answer in his face. She moved the tray away and slid closer to him, tracing soft patterns against his back through his T-shirt. He bowed his head.
“Despite what Annabelle told you, I don’t blame her and Brian. They did what they had to.”
She nodded her understanding. “I know.”
“Brian found her in the bathroom, after she cut herself.” His voice lowered into a rasp. He swallowed, trying to control his emotions. “Did Anna tell you that? Brian was just twelve. I should’ve been here—”
“Trevor,” Rain murmured. “I’m so sorry, for all of you.”
“She tried to kill herself…because of what happened to me.”
“You don’t know that,” she reasoned. “There were other issues involved. There’s a lot of confusion and guilt that goes with sexual abuse, especially when the perpetrator is a family member—”
“What that bastard did to Anna wasn’t her fault,” he said angrily.
“Of course not.” She stroked his forearm. “But it wasn’t yours, either. Trevor, did Annabelle receive counseling? After the suicide attempt?”
“She’s had years of therapy. Brian’s been in addiction treatment, too.”
“What about you? Have you ever talked to anyone?”
His expression grew shuttered. “I get regular mental-health screenings through the FBI. It’s a job requirement.”
“It’s not the same thing,” she countered. “They’re only checking to make sure you can handle the pressures of your job. What I mean is, have you ever discussed your childhood or your trauma specifically?”
She felt his near-physical wince beside her. “I told Brian already…I just don’t see a reason to dredge things back up. I don’t need any couch time. I know you believe in all that—”
“I more than believe in it, Trevor. It’s what I do.”
He fell silent, rubbing his palms over his thighs.
“If you don’t feel anything, you don’t hurt.” Her quiet revelation caused him to look into her eyes. “It’s why you’ve distanced yourself from your brother and sister. From anyone who cares about you. But don’t you see? That kind of detachment is no way to live.”
He stared at her for a long time, his expression as open as Rain had ever seen it. Then he slowly brushed the still-damp hair back from her face and drew her against him. Rain found comfort in the solidness of his body and the clean, soapy smell of his skin. She could help him, she knew it. If he’d only stop running long enough to allow himself to heal. New Orleans was the catalyst that had brought back the memories he’d worked so hard to repress. But once the case was closed, what then? Rain suspected he wouldn’t be able to leave the city quickly enough. She felt an ache inside her chest.
“What I said earlier…I didn’t mean to insult what you do,” he tried to explain. “I’m not thinking clearly. I guess I’m just wiped out.”
“Then sleep with me tonight.” She caressed the strong line of his jaw. “The security alarm’s set downstairs and you’ve changed the pass code. You don’t have to stay up and keep watch. We’ll be fine.”
After a moment, he nodded in agreement. Trevor stretched out his free arm to check his gun that he’d laid on the nightstand. Then he reached for the lamp and clicked it off, bathing the room in darkness.
Rain was tired, too. She tugged the covers over their bodies, then settled beside him and shut her eyes. As the last vestiges of consciousness began to abandon her, Trevor pulled her closer.
“I care about you, Rain,” he whispered. “God help me, but I do.”
Armand Baptiste shoved his hands into the pockets of his wrinkled trousers to hide their tremor. The cocaine he’d snorted earlier was causing him to sweat, making his clothing damp and his palms clammy.
His shoes left indentations in the room’s plush carpeting as he paced its considerable length. He walked to the ornately curtained windows, careful to avert his gaze from the massive jowls and sharp teeth of the animal heads mounted on the paneled walls. Oil paintings in gilded frames depicted gory hunting scenes, and an actual coat of medieval armor stood guard in the corner. The room was ostentatious, even by his standards.
He bristled at the unfairness. His own assets had been frozen and his comfortable French Quarter home placed under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Two nights ago, he’d barely made it out a back door of the Ascension as law enforcement swarmed the club. Since then, he’d been taking refuge among those in his world who would harbor him. But it was only a matter of time until someone turned him in for the reward. What he needed was money and an escape route, both of which the man behind the d
esk could easily provide.
“You’ve gotten yourself into a fair amount of trouble, Armand. What do you want from me?” The voice was distinguished and well-bred, and the green eyes behind spectacles stared at Armand with a slightly bored expression, as if he were a bug that required squashing.
“I need cash.” Armand dug out a cigarette and held it between trembling fingers. “Enough to get out of the country and stay out—”
“Do I need to remind you of the artwork in here that won’t tolerate smoke? You of all people should know that.”
Armand stuffed the cigarette back inside his pocket. He felt his hold on his temper crumbling like old paper. His life had fallen apart and he was being told not to smoke? It was clear he was being toyed with—the room held the fermented aroma of Cuban cigars. A vintage humidor even sat on the desk, its oiled wood top gleaming in the light from the chandelier overhead.
“Are you going to help me or not?”
The green eyes regarded him coolly. “And if I don’t?”
Armand gulped. But he didn’t look away, the cocaine in his system boosting his nerve.
“Then I’ll make a deal with the FBI.” His voice rose fractionally. “I’ll tell them what your progeny was doing at my club.”
The threat hung in the air like smoke from a fire. The other man templed his manicured fingers in front of him, causing the emerald eyes of the serpent-like ring to flash. Sweat rolled down Armand’s neck and into his collar, but he continued.
“I saw him, you know. I saw him with the first girl, and then a few days later with the second one. He took them outside and he put them in your fucking Mercedes, Carteris. They suspect me of the murders because of what I was importing for you. I never asked what you wanted the reproductions for—”
Christian Carteris removed his glasses and laid them on the desk. “You never asked because it was none of your business. I’m your client, and you received a substantial commission for your services. Discretion is key to your trade, is it not?”
Armand exploded. “The rosaries are what linked me to the murders, goddammit! Let me tell you something—they catch me, they catch you! I’ll exchange what I know to get out of the drug charges!”
“You’re playing a risky game. What if the FBI isn’t in the mood to make deals? Especially with a loathsome drug dealer.”
“That’s why I’m giving you the first option to buy my silence.”
After a long pause, Carteris opened a drawer and withdrew a roll of bills. He tossed it onto the desk. Picking up the money, Armand flipped through it. But his bloodshot eyes quickly narrowed into slits.
“Ten thousand dollars? That’s not even a down payment.” He thumped his chest in self-importance. “I’m the link. I’m all the FBI needs to make the connection between those dead girls, the rosaries and you.”
Pressing his lips together, Carteris stood to his full height. As he went around to the front of the desk, Armand took an involuntary step backward.
“I’m disheartened you’d use our friendship in this manner, Armand. But I’m going to overlook it since I understand your current distress. I’m also going to fulfill your request, since it’s in both our interests for you to disappear. Come with me.”
Armand’s heart pulsed harder. “Where are we going?”
“To my safe.” Irritation laced Carteris’s words as he walked toward the wood-carved door that led from his office to the hallway. “Lucky for you, I keep a tidy sum in the house.”
Armand fell in step behind his brisk gait, aware of the solid build of his shoulders under the starched dress shirt. It was well after midnight, and yet Carteris had greeted him at the door, fully awake and impeccably dressed. He’d observed the bruise around the socket of his right eye and wondered how the surgeon had gotten it. Subduing one of his victims? The thought gave Armand a chill. The goth community’s inner circles had whispered of Carteris’s sanguinary activities for some time. But with the murders, it was clear he’d lost control.
“Where’s Oliver?” Armand asked.
“He’s not home.”
His morbid curiosity wanted to know the extent of Oliver’s involvement. Did he partake in the goods he spirited from the clubs, or was he merely the delivery boy? Oliver was an overprivileged punk, but Armand didn’t see him as a murderer. Carteris’s stony silence, however, warned him to keep his questions to himself.
They traveled down a wainscoted corridor lit by porcelain wall sconces. An Oriental carpet runner covered the polished wood floor. Every so often, there was another expensive piece of artwork, a rich oil painting or an antique vase on a mahogany stand. The place practically reeked of money.
“Where’s your safe, Bayou St. John?” Armand’s joke fell flat. He was growing jumpier by the minute. His high had begun to falter, and he wanted to be gone from this place before it abandoned him completely.
“Patience,” Carteris snapped. “Trust me, I want you out of here quickly.”
They finally stopped at a set of wide doors. Carteris pushed them open and Armand followed him into a cavernous space with a three-tiered trey ceiling. A built-in bookcase ran the room’s perimeter, and a rolling ladder on a brass railing system had been installed to reach the uppermost shelves. But the furniture and carpeting were covered in canvas drop cloths and sheets of white plastic, giving the area a ghostly appearance. Even the chandelier in the room’s center was robed in white like some sort of floating apparition. Carteris pointed up to the ceiling, and Armand noticed the crumbling plaster that hung down like globs of cottage cheese.
“One of the responsibilities of fine old houses is their continual upkeep,” Carteris lectured. As he walked across the room, bits of fallen plaster crunched under his shoes. “Something’s always under renovation.”
Ripping down a plastic sheet, he tugged at the edge of a gold-framed painting. It swung outward on hinges, revealing a wall safe. Armand stepped closer as Carteris twirled the dial on its door.
“I want a million.”
Carteris laughed. “You’ll get one hundred thousand. And I expect you out of New Orleans by daybreak, and out of the country by tomorrow night. I have a connection who can arrange a fake passport for your travel.”
The tumblers clicked into place and Carteris pulled open the safe’s door. Armand said nothing, deciding to take what he was offered, for now. He’d do his blackmailing from a safe distance, once the money he was given ran out.
“Cardiology must pay well.” He gaped at the stacks of bills being extracted.
“My research pays better. I still have ties to a private European firm, you know.” Carteris dropped the cash onto a canvas-sheathed table. “Very top-secret stuff.”
Probably tax free, too, Armand thought. He’d definitely be getting his full million in the near future.
“I understand you sent some of your minions on an errand tonight?” Carteris’s voice was muffled, his head and shoulders back inside the safe as he dug out more cash. For a second, Armand considered scooping up what was already on the table and making a run for it while the surgeon was occupied. But his greed won out and he waited, his nerves sizzling like exposed electrical wire.
“I asked you a question, Armand.”
Armand recalled the greasy-haired druggie coming back to him, moaning about the truck being scrap metal. The imbecile had still expected a handful of pills in exchange for his failed attempt. “Oh, yeah. It didn’t work out. Look, could we hurry this up? It’s going to be light in a few hours.”
Carteris placed several more stacks on the table. “What was your intent? To injure Agent Rivette?”
“Why do you care?”
“Rain Sommers was with him in the car.”
Armand shrugged, having lost all admiration for Desiree’s daughter. She’d started this disaster by bringing her new boyfriend into the club’s private sanctum. “What’s the saying? You’re no better than the company you keep.”
“Indeed.”
The blade was so sharp, A
rmand felt nothing as it slid across his throat. Grasping his neck, he stared in horrified surprise at the bright crimson spurting between his fingers and washing down his shirt. Blood splattered onto the sheeting protecting the floor. He tried to speak, but only gurgling noises emerged.
“You could’ve ruined everything.” Carteris ran his thumb across the wet surface of the knife, then raised the digit to his mouth for a taste.
“I’m very disappointed in you, Armand. I paid you well for your services. I even gave you information on Agent Rivette. And you thank me by threatening to pull me into your mess?”
Armand fell to his knees. He could feel energy rushing out of him, and his vision began to recede. His body hit the floor. His last sensation was of Carteris on top of him, lapping at his throat like a hungry dog.
36
Shallow morning light filtered through the gossamer curtains. Drowsily, Rain opened her eyes as Trevor got out of bed. She watched him pull on his sweatpants and T-shirt, then rummage in his duffel bag that sat on the floor.
“Rain?” His voice was low. “Are you awake?”
“No.” With a soft sigh, she rolled onto her stomach. The sheets against her naked skin felt pleasurable. They’d made love again during the night, their bodies still new to one another and the temptation of warm-silk flesh too strong not to give in. Even now, she wanted nothing more than to linger in bed with him, tucked away from the world.
“Will you get up?”
Rain lifted her head from the pillow as Trevor laced up his tennis shoes.
“You can’t be serious,” she mumbled, looking at the clock. “It’s Sunday and barely six-thirty. I don’t do six-thirty.”
“I need to go for a run before it heats up outside. I haven’t had the time to go for days and my legs need it. Which means you’re going with me. I can’t leave you here alone.”
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