Keeping Watch

by Jan Hambright

  The afternoon heat was sweltering, leaping off the asphalt in watery waves.

  Thunder heads hung on the horizon, mean, dark and building on the warm ocean currents driving Tropical Storm Linda straight for them.

  A search of Professor Bessette’s home in New Orleans proper and his office on campus hadn’t produced anything, save a hostile reaction from his secretary and her assurance that Professor Bessette was on sabbatical.

  The hell he was.

  Royce knew it wasn’t true, could feel it in his bones. Bessette planned to kill Adelaide tonight. Cut her throat and stuff her in the trunk of a car, just like her drawing had depicted.

  Unless he stopped him.

  Reaching up, he rubbed the torn gris-gris doll in his shirt pocket. His secret weapon against all of them, a weapon the professor had refused to touch the day they’d shown it to him in his office. An instrument of protection that had frightened Getty in the safe house.

  But it was what he’d found inside the gris-gris that Adelaide needed to see.

  The police radio broke squelch. “All units, go car-to-car scramble.”

  Royce pushed the scramble button on the radio, picked up the mic and keyed it. “Copy chief, unit thirty-four. I’m pulling off 90 West and heading due south along Rembrandt road. The turn into Bayou Gaudin should be marked. Bessette’s property is situated between Gaudin and the main canal. There’s a parking area two miles in on the left.”

  “Copy all units. Beckett is taking the lead.”

  Excitement mixed in his blood, tempered with caution. Bessette had been able to get away with murder for far too long. It was unlikely he’d surrender without a fight.

  He slowed and took a hard right onto a narrow dirt road marked Bayou Gaudin on a crude wooden signed nailed to a cypress tree.

  Sweeping nets of Spanish moss haloed the space overhead and darkened the afternoon light to eerie gray.

  The road had certainly been traveled, judging by the deep ruts formed in dried mud that grabbed his tires and set him in the track.

  It would be impassable if the rain hit.

  “All units. This could be our location. Keep your eyes out for anything that moves. Getty said the ceremony would be at a grotto, so look for any type of shelter. A crypt is highly unlikely with the high water table out here, but we’re dealing with a true believer, so anything’s possible.”

  “Copy that, Beckett,” Hicks said.

  Royce put the mic down on the seat next to him and scanned the dense woods. It was impossible to see anything through the brush and foliage.

  Bessette and his sect knew this bayou. Knew the canal and tributary system. That was how they’d placed victim number two, Wendy Davis. It was how the boatman had tried to escape with Adelaide.

  Water.

  Royce picked up the mic, his hand shaking as he keyed it. “All units, be advised, we’re going to park our cars and head for the water, search along the tributary banks. I believe they may use the waterways to get in and out of here.”

  “Good call, Beckett,” Danbury said over the radio. “I’ll put the call out to the water rescue unit, have some officers in to patrol Bayou Gaudin and Main Canal. Up the odds.”

  “Copy that, Chief. All units rendezvous in the parking area at the tail of the main canal.” Royce tried to settle his nerves as he made a left-hand turn off the road into a small clearing and parked the car.

  He glanced at his watch. Dusk was just around the corner. He popped the trunk, got out of the car and went around to suit up.

  In the distance thunder rumbled, setting him on edge. The storm was coming. They didn’t have much time.

  ADELAIDE LISTENED TO THE HUM of the motor, its vibration telegraphed against her cheek where she lay in the bottom of the aluminum boat.

  She’d lost all track of time since being pulled from the trunk of the car. Behind the blindfold she tried to open her eyes, to get a look through a crack or a hole in the cloth, but it was pulled so tight, there was only darkness. Behind the tape, a bitter taste filled her mouth, and she sucked in several deep breaths to keep from gagging. Had she been drugged? It fit their sadistic MO, and the fact that she couldn’t remember anything about the day.

  Stretching out her bent knees, she made contact with something. It moved.

  “Lie still,” Vincent Getty said.

  His gravelly voice made the hairs raise on her nape.

  “We’re almost there.”

  She could smell the pungent odor of swamp mud and decomposing plant matter. The bayou. But which one? The same one where they’d found Wendy Davis?

  The boat slowed as Vincent must have let off the throttle.

  The hull bumped and scraped along something. A dock, she guessed.

  “What kept you? It’s almost dusk. He’s anxious to get started.”

  It was a voice she hadn’t heard before. Maybe the driver of the car that hauled her away from the safe house. Away from Royce. Regret closed her throat, and she swallowed hard, working determination into her brain. She’d fight to survive. She’d fight to tell Danbury what they’d done.

  “There were fishermen at the ramp. I had to wait until they pulled out before I could load her.”

  The boat tipped to the right. She felt it sway with Vincent’s movements toward the bow to throw the tie line.

  She rolled into the tilt, rocking the boat down hard.

  “Damn!”

  The boat jerked, then popped back to the left as Vincent fell out and hit the water. The splash showered her, and she prayed like crazy it brought the alligators. Hundreds of them.

  “Get the boat.” He came up sputtering. “Grab the line before it drifts away.”

  Someone else hit the water near the bow, and she felt the boat surge forward.

  “Nice try,” Vincent hissed. “For that I’ll volunteer to dispose of you in Lake Cataouatche, after we slit your throat.”

  His threat ground over her nerves, but she’d become immune. She had nothing to lose fighting them every step of the way. She’d already lost what she wanted.

  The boat pulled up onto the shore, hitting the bank with a thud.

  The force lurched her forward. She smacked her head on something sharp. The bottom of the boat seat? Disoriented, she sat up, turned and felt for it.

  If she could get a tear going on the tape binding her hands, she could free them.

  Water churned next to her, displaced by heavy footsteps as someone trudged into the water beside the boat, and Vincent grumbled as he plowed out of the water on the other side of her.

  Seconds ticked by like hours as she felt along the seat, found the sharp edge under it and raked her bound hands over it a couple of times.

  Hands with an iron grip locked on her rib cage and she was dragged out of the boat, then dropped on the ground.

  “Let’s get her to the grotto. It’s almost dusk,” Vincent said from next to her.

  Drops of water flew off him and dribbled on the top of her head.

  Focus. Focus. She dug her thumbnail into the top of the duct tape where she’d scored it on the boat. It gave slightly and opened an eighth of an inch.

  Above her on her right, she heard a knife snap open and lock in place with a decisive click.

  Her heartbeat pounded in her eardrums and terror laced through her, but she continued to work the tear she’d opened in the tape.

  “Cut her ankles free. I’m not going to carry her,” Vincent said.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Do it. She’s got nowhere to run.”

  She felt pressure on her ankles, felt the back-and-forth sawing action of the knife blade cutting through the duct tape.

  He peeled it off, taking a layer of her bare skin with it.

  Blood flowed freely back into her toes. She gritted her teeth against the sting.

  A thick hand clamped on either side of her upper arms, and she was hauled up onto her feet.

  The tape gave some more. She worked it with her fing
ernail.

  “Is everyone here?”

  “No.”

  They propelled her forward, and she did her best to put one foot blindly in front of the other as they walked over the soggy earth beneath her feet. “Who’s missing?”

  “Derrick with the succinylcholine. He said the damn hospital was swarming with cops, said they turned it into a fortress when they brought a couple of their buddies in. He couldn’t get into the drug room.” Vincent snorted.

  Adelaide strained against the tape holding her prisoner. Could one of the officers in the hospital be Royce? Hope infused her as she worked the tape. It gave. She worked it harder.

  “We’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way. Ear to ear.”

  The man on her right chuckled. “I like it old school. It’s a lot messier, but if it satisfies the cause, I’m all in.”

  She was halfway through the double wrap of tape.

  Putting more tension on the tear, she felt it give for the last time and tear through. She held her wrists tightly together and prayed they hadn’t felt the slack in her arms.

  She had one shot. One chance to save herself.

  Her toe caught in the earth, she stumbled forward, lost her footing and jerked against the pull of the men on either side.

  Now. Adelaide planted her feet, heels down, and pushed back, catching them off guard.

  “What the hell?” Vincent bellowed.

  She pulled free, reached up and yanked the blindfold down. Light pierced her eyes, but she ducked to the side, just missing the swipe of Vincent’s fist in her direction.

  Adelaide bolted, staring at the path in front of her as she ran.

  Boots pounded the ground directly behind her, and she reached up, jerked the tape off her mouth and sucked in a desperate breath.

  Veering off the path she was sure led straight to the place they wanted her to be, she ran headlong into the brush.

  Digging and clawing, she fought the pull of the under-growth as it snagged her clothes and slowed her progress to a crawl.

  Her muscles burned, her lungs expanding with each desperate gasp of air she pulled into them.

  Branches splintered behind her.

  Angry yells and grunts warned her of her impending capture, but she kept moving, kept hoping.

  Then he grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked.

  A scream tore from her throat, echoing and bouncing through the cypress, loud and desperate in her eardrums.

  “I should kill you right here.” Vincent’s breath was hot against her ear as he reeled her in by her hair and locked his thick arm around her waist.

  He dragged her back the way she’d come and planted her on the path. “Your mother was trouble, too. She managed to give me this.” He brushed the deep, jagged scar on the right side of his mouth. “With a broken bottle, before I shut her down.”

  She held her breath and stared up at him.

  Into cold black eyes that never blinked, never flickered.

  “You killed her?”

  “No. But I watched. She was planning to expose the entire sect. She had to die.”

  Adelaide lashed out at the thugs, kicking and scratching, but they were stronger, and they easily captured her arms, stilling her resistance.

  “Just like you killed Clay Franklin.” She tried to catch her breath.

  “He was a weasel. Staring in your window night after night. He’s the one who told us about you after you drew the sketch of his mugger, but he couldn’t get over his obsession with you. We couldn’t risk the entire sect for one Peeping Tom.”

  “You were behind the wheel of the Mustang that night—you tried to run down Royce.”

  “Yeah. Too bad I missed your Protector when I had the chance, but he’s done now.”

  A veil of hopelessness settled over her as they dragged her down the path, around the bend and into a clearing where a gaping hole opened in a dome built amongst the cypress using rock and earth.

  There was death here. A feeling of finality she could smell on the rancid air, taste in the back of her throat.

  Movement at the mouth of the crypt sent fear rushing through her as a man wearing the high-ridged Songe mask parted the curtain of Spanish moss and came toward her.

  Her gaze traveled to the bowie knife in his right hand, to the way the fading light danced across the polished blade.

  In silence he stopped in front of her and nodded his head.

  “On your knees,” Vincent ordered, pushing her down with pressure on her shoulder, until she sagged to the earth in a kneeling position.

  Defiance claimed her heart and soul, and she spit on his shoes. “I’ll never bow to you. You’re nothing but a murdering SOB.”

  “Quiet,” he bellowed, the mask distorting his voice, making it sound hollow.

  He reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling and working it into a thick mass.

  Adelaide trembled as reality knifed into her brain.

  Humming deep in his throat, he jerked hard, raised the coil of hair and slipped the blade through it.

  Adelaide gasped and rocked back, staring up at the madman who held a chunk of her hair in his hand.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Adelaide. Hunting for you from the time your mother took you and hid you before I could sacrifice you both. You look just like her.”

  “Who are you?” She wanted to understand. She wanted to know the truth, even if it killed her.

  “You know who I am,” he whispered. “I’m the man who killed your mother and you will join her. You will never be allowed to expose our acts of dark magic again. Bring her to the altar.”

  “Police. Drop the knife!”

  Adelaide saw the man’s arm come up at the same time she heard gunfire over her right shoulder.

  The blade swung straight for her throat.

  Another burst of gunfire, and she dived for the space between his legs.

  The tip of the knife grazed the top of her head, and she went flat on her stomach, rolled over and watched the man in the Songe mask fall forward, a bloody hole in his back.

  Several feet in front of him, Vincent Getty lay on the ground, next to the man who’d dragged her from the boat. Neither was moving. They were both dead.

  She strained to see in the dim light as cops dressed in swamp-rat camouflage materialized out of the bushes and surrounded her. More of them rushed the flow of men wearing Songe masks as they poured out of the mouth of the crypt like spiders.

  “Royce!” She climbed to her feet and glanced around, recognizing Detective Hicks under a layer of bayou-green face paint and a reed-covered hat.

  “I’m right here, babe.” She turned and stared up into his face, focusing on his dark eyes in a sea of green.

  “You didn’t think I’d die and leave you all alone, unprotected, did you?”

  She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed as hard as she could. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. She let them spill out and pulled in a breath before releasing him, but only a tiny bit.

  Royce nodded to where the man in the Songe lay facedown in the dirt. “Hicks, let’s get a confirmation on his identity.”

  Detective Hicks waved over Detective Lawton. Together they rolled the dead man over and pulled off the mask.

  Hicks stood and shone his flashlight beam into Professor Bessette’s face.

  “Dear God,” Adelaide whispered, staring at the man who had helped her to understand her gift.

  “He killed her. He admitted it. The sketch was of my mother, not me.”

  Royce put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “He’s dead, Adelaide, you’re safe, Kimberly’s tormentor is dead and justice has been served.” He pulled her away from the carnage and up the trail a bit, then he reached into the pocket of his fatigues and pulled out the headless gris-gris doll.

  “I have something for you.” He opened his palm.

  “My gris-gris?”

  “Look inside.”

  She took the doll and squeezed the neck op
ening, spotting the folds of a piece of paper hidden inside. A message from her mother from beyond the grave?

  Blinking hard to see through her tears, she looked up at him.

  “There’s something I have to tell you first.” She swallowed. “When I saw you dying on the floor of the safe house, I knew I loved you. And now that you’re not dying, I still feel the same way.”

  He reached up and brushed her cheek with his hand. “When I saw the sketch of what we both thought was your death, at the time, I knew I had to protect you from it, and since you didn’t die, I love you back.”

  Royce reached down, grasped her chin and tipped her face up so he could kiss her.

  Deeply. Soundly. Forever.

  Epilogue

  Adelaide stared down at the paper in her hand and then back up at Royce, who sat across the desk from her in the hum of the detective division.

  If she folded it one more time she was sure it would turn to pulp in her fingers, but she swore she could almost feel the desperation her mother had experienced as she’d secreted it away inside the gris-gris doll, knowing one day her daughter would discover it along with the truth.

  What she hadn’t been prepared for was the listing of her father’s name on the document—David Laverue—and the subsequent information the revelation had produced. His thirty-three-year-old murder case, gone cold, now red-hot.

  “Did Chester Mendoza make bail this morning?” she asked.

  “Yeah, about an hour ago, and only because he gave us the details of the theft of adoption records from the Bureau of Vital Statistics, which Bessette used to track potential Beholders. We found Patricia Reed’s information, along with Kimberly’s. It looks like they were the only two he located with the records. Clay Franklin is the one who led Bessette to you. The other thugs we rounded up in the grotto have been charged with murder and denied bail, at least until we can determine what role each one played in the sect’s crimes and the murders of the other non-Beholder women used in the ritual.”

  Adelaide pulled in a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. It had been two days since Royce had rescued her from certain death in the bayou, and with his help they’d pieced together a grueling tale of love and murder that reached well into the past.