Stop Me

by Brenda Novak

  Shivering because the mud and wetness of the ground had seeped through her jeans and sweater, she pulled her coat tighter and turned to survey her prison. The cellar, more like a crawl space, was dark, except for the crack of light beside the door and the beam of her flashlight, which created a perfect yellow circle on the cinder-block wall. She was hungry, thirsty, in need of a bathroom. But it was probably the knowledge that she couldn’t do anything about those needs that made her notice them.

  Fight the fear. Concentrate. She’d learned enough from Skye’s self-defense classes back in Sacramento to know that, above all, she had to remain calm and be resourceful.

  It would be easier if she weren’t so overwhelmed by dark images, images of violence and death.

  Covering her eyes, she tried to block out where she was and counted several deep breaths. There had to be another way out of here.

  Hunched over so she wouldn’t hit her head on the low ceiling, she recovered her flashlight and began to search for anything that might offer an opportunity or inspire a plan. Black had mentioned a trapdoor leading into the pantry. He’d said there’d been nothing but a sack of potatoes sitting on top of it the day he and Huff performed the search. That gave her some hope. With luck, the Moreaus hadn’t added any more heavy items and she’d be able to escape through the house.

  Unless it was Francis Moreau’s mother or brother who’d locked her in. If they were up there, Plan B might not end too well….

  No. It was Black who’d locked her in. She’d discovered those cigarette butts, hadn’t she? And he was the only one who knew she’d been planning to come here.

  “Pearson Black, I hope you rot in hell,” she said, because talking to herself seemed to help.

  Jasmine found the trapdoor easily enough, as well as a small lightbulb positioned next to it. When she pulled the dangling chain, the light went on and she felt slightly comforted. In a place like this, more light was definitely a good thing. But her feeling of relief didn’t last. She couldn’t get the trapdoor open. It was locked from the other side.

  What now? She had to get out of here before Black—or whoever else had locked her in—came back. If he meant to harm her, this was giving him plenty of time to plan the method. Lord knew he wouldn’t have to worry about getting rid of her body. He could simply bury her here. Or stuff her in a black garbage bag, seal it and drop it on top of that pile in the yard. No one would complain about the stench, because it couldn’t get much worse than it already was. And no one would report her missing. Not for days. By the time Sheridan or Skye got worried enough to initiate a search, she’d be dead. The police would go to the hotel. Maybe they’d even trace her movements as far as Mamou and Portsville, but that was where her trail would grow cold.

  Cursing, she picked up the flashlight she’d put down when she found the lightbulb and peered into the darker recesses of the cellar. She had to be creative.

  Could she dig her way out?

  Tracing the perimeter with her beam of light, she tried to assess her chances. The ground was damp, but she had nothing besides her flashlight with which to dig. Whoever had locked her in would likely return before she’d made any headway. Or the Moreaus would come home.

  No, digging wouldn’t get her anywhere. She had to wait for the Moreaus. They’d help her, wouldn’t they? Just because Francis had been a pedophile and possibly a murderer didn’t mean they were bad, too.

  But someone was bad—truly evil. She sensed danger in this place. And the memory of that unequivocal No Trespassing sign in the yard loomed large in her mind, robbing her of confidence. Obviously, the Moreaus didn’t want to be bothered by anyone and not only had she come onto their property without an invitation, she’d been nosing around.

  She wasn’t meant to come out alive.

  Wiping the tears rolling down her cheeks, she sat on the edge of the pallet and rested her head on her raised knees. Too bad she hadn’t gone to Romain’s after that telephone call. Making love with him would’ve made for a much more pleasant final night on earth than the one she’d spent.

  And then she heard the creak above her. Someone was home.

  She just didn’t know if that made things better—or worse.

  * * *

  “Why would he make such an outlandish claim?” Romain turned his back to the entrance of the small grocery, hoping for a few minutes of privacy while he talked. Pumping the pay phone full of quarters wasn’t the most convenient way to make a long-distance call, but this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have in front of Casey Lynn or any of the other people who’d let him use their phones.

  “You know Black,” Huff replied. “He’s a troublemaker.”

  “It sounded as if he was pretty adamant. I think Jasmine believes him.”

  “He’s got to justify what he did in some way, right?”

  Romain stepped aside as toothless “Doc” Crawley passed him with an armful of groceries. “Hey, Romain. You orderin’ up d’at bride?”

  Momentarily distracted by the question, Romain scowled. “What bride?”

  “Casey said you’re tired of livin’ alone. D’at you want a woman. It’s cold d’is here winter, eh?” he said with a knowing laugh.

  “Gossip,” Romain said and waved as the old man got into his 1950s Cadillac.

  “Romain.” Huff was trying to regain his attention.

  Romain plugged his left ear against the noise of Doc’s engine. “What?”

  “You’ve been through enough. Tell Jasmine Stratford to stay the hell away.”

  Good advice. And yet last night, when he’d called her, Romain had done everything he could to bring her back. “She’s looking for her sister.”

  “So?”

  So he couldn’t help feeling some sympathy for her. He understood what she’d suffered in a way few others could. And, for the first time in years, he wanted a woman, just like the gossip said. Maybe not a wife, but definitely a warm female body in his bed. And it couldn’t be any woman. He wanted Jasmine. “She’s been through a lot, too.”

  “I know. But her sister was kidnapped sixteen years ago. Chances are she’s not going to find her. And that happened in Cleveland. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Did she tell you about the note?”

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a coincidence.”

  “But she wrote the words the way they appeared in her note before I told her how Adele’s name was written on that bathroom wall,” he said.

  “The man who found Adele’s body has been running his mouth, that’s all. Someone’s heard the details, and now they’re using them. She’s probably dealing with some kind of Moreau copycat. Or a prank.”

  Maybe that explained the note. But there was more. “Jasmine said Adele’s killer took a necklace of hers before the actual kidnap.”

  No response.

  “Huff?”

  “I’m here.” He sounded weary, but Romain plunged on. He had to put this to rest. Trying to escape, to ignore the loose ends, wasn’t working.

  “She’s right,” he said. “Adele had a necklace that went missing just days before she did. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, didn’t connect the two incidents.”

  “Until Jasmine Stratford arrived.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Romain, children are always losing things. You don’t know that anyone took Adele’s necklace.”

  But Jasmine could describe the necklace even though she’d never seen it. If she could do that, why wouldn’t the rest of what she said be true? “Adele didn’t lose it. It was stolen,” he insisted.

  “Fine. Believe Ms. Stratford. I guess it’s possible. Moreau had Adele’s barrettes, didn’t he?”

  “She was wearing those the day she was kidnapped.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Moreau was out of town the week prior to the kidnapping, remember? He was in Tennessee, delivering those warehouse lights. We had to establish that he’d bee
n home in time to have taken her.”

  “And we proved that easily,” Huff argued. “Moreau was spotted at the school that morning, watching her on the playground. Where are you going with this?”

  “He wasn’t in New Orleans when the necklace disappeared.”

  “How do you know exactly when that was?”

  “Because it happened at the club.” Jasmine had said Adele’s murderer stole it from a locker. The only lockers Adele ever came into contact with were the pool lockers at the club, which was how he’d established the timing. “We went swimming there the Saturday before she disappeared.”

  “You think someone got into your locker and took her necklace.”

  “Why not?”

  “Presumably because it was locked.”

  “We never locked it because it required a quarter to get into it again, and the only things we ever took with us, besides a couple of sodas, were an extra pair of goggles and some sunblock. She forgot to take off her necklace before we left home that day, which is why it was in our locker.”

  “So you’re saying Moreau didn’t take her. You’re saying that whoever did it had to be a member of your club.”

  “Not necessarily. They were having a special promotion that day, and the place was open to the public. Free ice cream and swimming for the kids, providing Mom and Dad sat through a sales presentation.”

  “Oh, that narrows it down.” Huff sighed. “Don’t you realize that you have nothing to connect these two incidents except Jasmine Stratford’s claim that Adele’s abductor also took her necklace? Maybe someone else took it. Another kid who admired it or…whatever. Anyway, how would Jasmine know anything about it?”

  Romain didn’t want to get into that. “She just does.”

  “I’ve read up on her, Romain. She’s not psychic. She’s a fraud.”

  “I found nothing online to suggest that.”

  “Because no one wants to risk a slander suit. But I called the Sacramento PD and talked to some of the cops there. One guy told me he brought her in on a case where she insisted the victim was still alive, and they found her dead a week later. She’d been dead for three months. Don’t fall for the act.”

  Jasmine had already admitted that it wasn’t an exact science. And no one could’ve told her about that cut on his thigh. He sure as hell knew she’d never really touched it—or him. That he would’ve remembered. “She knows things about me no one else does.”

  “She’s trying to use you. She thinks you might be able to help find her sister. But you can’t. So leave the past alone. Trust me, you’ll be better off.”

  “I can’t leave it alone,” he snapped.

  “Yes, you can. If what she says is true, you killed the wrong man. Do you really want to live with that knowledge?” he nearly shouted.

  No, but he couldn’t care more about himself than the children who might be harmed, probably had been harmed, if Adele’s killer was still out there. “You don’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t,” Huff agreed. “Because if you did kill the wrong man, I’m equally responsible. I told you it was him. I still believe it was him.”

  “We have to face the possibility that we were wrong. We can’t let any more children be hurt!”

  “We weren’t wrong, damn it! We couldn’t be wrong. I saw that tape. I know what Moreau did!”

  Romain clenched his jaw against the image that flashed through his mind—his daughter crying for him while Moreau forced her to do unspeakable things. “You’re right,” he finally said. “I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking.”

  “You have more guts than anybody I’ve ever met. I admire you for that. But I’m done with the case, Romain. I don’t want anything more to do with it. What happened is behind us. We’ve both moved on, right?”

  Romain glanced around at the two-bit town that provided the basic necessities he hauled to his shack in the swamp. “Yeah, we’ve moved on,” he said.

  * * *

  Jasmine held her breath as she listened to someone cross the floor above her. Who was it? Were those footsteps heavy or light? She wanted to at least ascertain whether it was a man or woman. But she had no idea. Not really. She hoped it was Moreau’s mom. If it came to a physical confrontation, she’d have a better chance against a woman.

  So…should she yell? Jasmine couldn’t decide. She felt as much negative energy coming from above as she did everywhere else. It seemed as if the whole place was overrun with evil intent. She’d been trying to convince Romain that Moreau couldn’t have killed his daughter, that the child’s murderer must still be alive. She couldn’t figure out any other explanation for the note she’d received. But she sensed that someone had been killed here. She was getting odd, violent impressions. A struggle. A gun. Blood.

  She was about to bang on the trapdoor when she remembered the white fabric she’d noticed before she was imprisoned. She’d never figured out what it was, hadn’t thought of it since her focus had changed to escape. But she remembered it now. And she wondered whether it had something to do with the level of foreboding and despair that hung so thickly in the air.

  Swallowing hard, she pointed the beam of her flashlight toward the far corner. At first she couldn’t see anything except muddy earth but, against the dark backdrop, it didn’t take long to locate that snatch of white. It was over by the puddle.

  Plop…plop…

  As Jasmine inched closer, her chest grew tight with tension. She loathed this corner of the cellar even more than the rest. Cobwebs caught in her hair and on her hands, and the scratching of small rodents, scrambling to stay out of the spotlight, made her muscles ache with tension. No doubt the trash stacked on the other side of the wall attracted more rats than a normal cellar would, but now she was beginning to see a purpose behind all the garbage. Was someone trying to cover up the sickly-sweet stench that was becoming increasingly apparent?

  The scent of wet wood, wet earth and garbage combined to help camouflage what she thought she detected, but she was sure that something or someone was buried down here. And if it was murder, the police needed to know. There was probably a family somewhere, searching for a loved one, just as she’d been searching.

  Heart hammering erratically, she stopped a few inches from the white cloth, which stuck out of the ground as if attached to something bigger.

  Brushing away a clingy web, she steeled her nerves to grab hold of the fabric. It was wet and slimy to the touch, which made her shiver in disgust. She almost pulled back her hand. But she could see a button along the edge. It was a shirt.

  The footsteps above fell silent. In some corner of her brain, Jasmine acknowledged and recorded that information, but she was so intent on what she was doing, she didn’t react to it. Her arms felt weak as she yanked on the fabric and, when it wouldn’t give way, even weaker as she began to dig.

  But it took only minutes to discover what her heart already knew: it was a corpse.

  CHAPTER 10

  The body had been there for a while. Long enough to decompose completely. Jasmine wasn’t going to dig the skeleton all the way out to make sure, but the cranium she’d exposed had only a small bit of leathery skin still attached to the scalp and a patch of sandy-colored hair. There were teeth in the skull but of course no eyes.

  This wasn’t a child. But it was repulsive enough despite that. Shaking, more from shock and fear than cold, Jasmine scrambled away. What’d happened before this poor person was buried in the Moreaus’ cellar?

  Her mind created a picture of a desperate struggle, but nothing more.

  She had to get out. Before someone realized what she’d discovered. Before the man who’d locked her in here returned. Before she wound up rotting in a shallow grave like the corpse staring sightlessly back at her.

  Once again cognizant of movement above her, she hurried toward the trapdoor, planning to beg for help, if need be. But halfway there, she stopped. She couldn’t leave the body exposed. If the person inside the house was the one who’d taken that li
fe, and he or she knew Jasmine had found the remains, she’d be even less likely to survive the day.

  She had to cover it up.

  Struggling to collect her breath as well as her strength, she fought the dry heaves that made her body spasm and went back to the disturbed mud. She shook and shivered and gagged uncontrollably, but she managed to use her flashlight and her hands to begin the reburial. When she finished, no one would be able to tell she’d been digging. At least from the trapdoor. It was too dark.

  Almost there… Nearly done… Keep at it….

  Squeezing her eyes closed so she wouldn’t have to watch, she shoved the muddy earth over that white shirt and odd-looking torso, working her way toward the head. It was slow progress. She could barely make her arms obey the commands of her mind. She was too afraid her fingers might touch that flesh or bone or hair, didn’t want to think that this had once been a human being.

  A slight swell remained in the earth when she was done. She patted it down the best she could and crawled to the trapdoor. She was getting muddier by the minute, but she couldn’t stand, couldn’t walk. Her legs wouldn’t support her weight. It felt as if every bone in her body had turned to jelly. She’d seen some gruesome spectacles in her life, but generally in a designated “crime scene” setting with police officers in attendance. In those situations, she could maintain a certain detachment. Evaluate on a cognitive level. Analyze. Hypothesize.

  Now, it was her life in danger.

  “Hello?” Her fists felt like twenty-pound weights as she lifted them to bang against the trapdoor. “H-help me! Please! I’m locked in. Will you help me?” She began to knock with the butt of her flashlight and, eventually, she heard the creak of footsteps drawing closer.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it wasn’t the gentle face of the person who peered down at her.

  “Where’d you come from?” she asked, blue eyes behind a pair of glasses widening in shock.