L06 Leopard's Prey

by Christine Feehan

  Remy pushed Bijou’s bottom lower as she began to crawl after Saria. “Use your elbows and toes to propel yourself forward.”

  Gage pushed the dining room door open to allow them to pass through. Two more bullets hit the door.

  “Where are you going?” Bijou asked as they scuttled through.

  “Hunting,” Remy said grimly. “It’s what I do best.” He put his hand on her bottom and shoved. “Keep moving. Get into Saria’s main livin’ quarters.”

  “You can’t go after him as a leopard,” Saria protested. “He has a gun.”

  “A sniper rifle to be precise,” Remy said. “And don’ worry about me. Be worried about him. He could have shot you or Bijou. You don’ mess with a man’s family.”

  They crawled through the kitchen to Saria’s side of the Inn. She had a comfortable three-bedroom home attached to the Inn. On the wall nearest the kitchen, a small hutch was in the entry way. Gage and Remy got to their feet and quickly moved the hutch, opening the entrance to the passageway behind it. Saria scrambled in with Bijou close behind.

  Remy caught Bijou’s shirt with his fist and pulled her to him. “Please, this one time, for me, do as Saria says. She knows the swamp like the back of her hand. She can lead you safely out of here. Don’ try to help us. Gage and I will take care of the problem. Dash will have alerted the other leopards and they’ll come runnin’ to protect you and Saria. Just follow Saria’s lead.”

  Bijou nodded solemnly, her eyes enormous. She leaned in to brush a kiss over his mouth. There was no crying. No hysterics. No pleading. Just her quiet acceptance—and her trust in him. Faith and trust were priceless gifts. He wasn’t about to let her down.

  “Be safe,” she whispered against his mouth.

  Remy kissed her again and then moved away from her down the passage, all business. He stripped off his shirt as he went, removed his gun and zipped it into the pack every leopard carried, adding a few extra magazines, giving him plenty of ammunition for a war should he need it. He left his shoes and jeans by the entrance to the swamp.

  The passageway was covered mostly by plants and trees and a lot of stonework, but few knew of its existence outside the family, so he was fairly certain no one was waiting. Remy shifted, allowing his large black leopard to take over. His sense of smell was acute and he would find the shooter quickly.

  Gage was right behind him, and as they emerged into the damp swamp, he gave Remy room, flanking him and shifting to his left side. Almost at once, the leopard scented the intruder and the rank smell of gunpowder. Snarling, the cat went low, slinking along the ground, using its fluid, flexible spine and its large cushioned paws to move silently. He didn’t disturb a single leaf or branch of a bush. There was not the slightest of warnings that the male leopard was anywhere in the swamp.

  Remy glanced sideways and saw that Gage’s cat had also gone to ground. Their quarry was up above them, in the crook of a cypress tree, but there was a second man, presumably spotting for the first. The stench of the Rousseau brothers filled his nostrils. The large cat snarled silently and began his approach, a freeze-frame motion, stalking his prey.

  “I can’t see anything,” Juste reported. “We should get out of here.”

  “They’re pinned down,” Jean snapped.

  “They can get out the front of the house, and no doubt they’ve called in reinforcements. We’ll have helicopters looking for us,” Juste said, the voice of reason.

  “I say we go to the house and put a bullet in their heads. I want to kill the whole damn family. Wipe them out. And then I’ll take my time with the women and beat them with my hands. It’s been too long since I’ve had that pleasure,” Jean said, and wiped his mouth as if the very thought made him drool in anticipation.

  “You’re a sick son of a bitch,” Juste laughed, but his voice was strained. “Jean, we’ve got to go while we can. We’ll come back and kill them, but not now.”

  The cat slipped through the brush until he was within striking distance. Smoldering intelligence shined in the focused stare. Remy’s leopard had marked his target. He would take the one in the tree, and Gage’s leopard, already moving into position, would go after the man already on the ground.

  It was impossible to see either leopard. Gage’s spots helped him to blend into the vegetation easily, and Remy’s leopard had sunk so low to the ground and moved with astonishing nearly frozen, almost imperceptible increments that he blended even when he was slightly exposed. The leopards had great patience, waiting motionless, eyes and minds completely focused on their unsuspecting prey.

  Inch by inch they crawled forward and then froze, belly to ground, stalking the hunters. Gage was so close to Juste he could have reached out and touched him. He waited for Remy to get into position. Jean was in the tree, lying in the crook of a branch, sniper rifle at the ready, aimed at the Inn. Remy would have to leap, using his superior weight and the force of his strike to knock Jean out of the tree and away from his rifle.

  Jean glanced down at his brother, reluctance on his face. “This is such bullshit, Juste, they just got lucky.” He began to pull his rifle from where he had it steadied on the tree branch.

  The leopard hit him with the force of a freight train right in the chest, knocking him backward out of the tree, breaking bones, the hot breath of death in his face as the cat followed him to the ground and landed on him, teeth sinking deep in his throat.

  They stared at one another. Pitiless, golden-green eyes focused solely on Jean’s terrified, shocked brown ones. The leopard’s suffocating bite went deep as the cat clamped down relentlessly. Jean thrashed, hitting helplessly at the creature that held him so easily with teeth and claws.

  Behind him and just in the corner of his vision, the spotted leopard had hit Juste from the side with the same ferocious and calculated intensity as the black leopard had Jean. He held Juste in the same suffocating bite. Jean had his head turned toward Juste, but already the light faded from his eyes.

  The two leopards held their prey in unbreakable grips, waiting for the life force to leave the bodies. The moment the brothers were dead, the humans took back control, forcing their cats away from their prey. As they did, Lojos and Drake broke through the brush in human form. Both of them carried weapons.

  Remy shifted, catching the pair of jeans Drake tossed him. Gage shifted and pulled on a pair of jeans his brother Lojos provided.

  “We have to get rid of the bodies quickly, before anyone comes along,” Remy said. “Take them to that monster of an alligator’s hole. No one ever disturbs him and he’ll hide the evidence of leopard’s bites better than anything else. Break the gun down and toss it in his hole as well. If we’re very lucky, no one in our lifetime will find it.”

  “Consider it done,” Lojos said. “We’ll take care of it.”

  “We didn’t find the brothers, obviously,” Drake added. “But we did find another body.” He paused with a small sigh. “Unfortunately, both you and Bijou know him.”

  18

  REMY crouched down as close as he could to the bloody mess that was Bob Carson and looked him over carefully, pushing aside the fact that the body, stripped of life and dignity, so brutally tortured, had once been a man. He was nothing more than a carcass hung in the tree, like a deer carved for its meat. Only Carson had been carved for his bones.

  Remy didn’t like the man. Carson had stalked Bijou for years—had probably entertained the idea of getting rid of her when she was an eight-year-old child so that he had a chance of inheriting Bodrie Breaux’s fortune. He’d tormented Bijou by keeping her in the tabloids, by feeding them so many misleading stories and headlines to photographs he manipulated into the worst possible lies in order to get money—and embarrass her.

  Still, no one should die like this. Hard. Mean. Screaming for mercy with no one but alligators to hear. Carson had been at the gallery a few hours earlier and Remy had helped to throw him out.

  “He always has his camera with him,” Remy said. “Find it. And where’s his
car? How did he get out here? I can’t see him walking out here by himself at night in those dress shoes he’s still wearing. He didn’t change his suit either, so he didn’t go back to his hotel and change before he was killed.”

  Carson wasn’t local. He wouldn’t just be fishing or hunting nutria for his family. He had no reason to be in the swamp. Even if he’d tried to work his way around to the back of the Inn, he’d go in by the lake. This particular spot was a place not far from Bodrie’s camp. Had Carson been going there when the killer ambushed him?

  Drake and Remy’s brothers had known better than to mess up a crime scene and they’d stayed away from the body. Mahieu had stayed behind to guard it and keep any alligators away while Drake and Lojos returned to the Inn to get Remy and Gage. Nothing had been touched, but still, something was off-kilter, just a little wrong.

  He paced around the outer edges of the crime scene, looking at it from all angles. The blood spatter was worse than usual, which meant Carson was alive a very long time, but some of the other victims had also lasted longer than one would expect under the circumstances. The altar was perfect as usual, without one drop of blood other than the pint in the bowl and the heart sitting behind it. The dead man’s left hand was oiled and had a candle tied to it. The rocks were arranged in the familiar rectangle with meticulous care.

  He stood a distance away, frowning, surveying the scene. Gage joined him. Forensics hadn’t arrived yet and the swamp seemed peaceful enough, but as always, living by its own laws. The continual drone was steady, insects buzzing around the body and feasting on what was left.

  “The Rousseau brothers could have done this, Gage. They were in the swamp for certain, and not far from here.”

  “Yep. They could have.” Gage watched his brother’s face. Every expression. Every nuance. The sharp intelligence in his eyes.

  “Carson, though? That doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t have been in the swamp at night alone, not dressed in his fancy gallery-showing clothes. He had to have been brought here. He’s not a target of opportunity for them.”

  “And they have a lot of others to choose from, people they were really angry with,” Gage agreed. He waited for more. Remy puzzled things out, a master at it, and learning from him would only make him better at his own job.

  Remy kept looking at the body. The altar was perfect. The discarded plastic suit was in the exact position it should have been, but there was something off and he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

  “If the Rousseau brothers did this, and I wish they had, it makes no sense at all to choose Carson.” Remy carefully moved closer to the body, wanting to examine the neck to the see if the killer had done the same thing to Carson as he had to Cooper.

  “Carson could have accidentally filmed something the Rousseaus didn’t want him to see,” Gage ventured.

  “We’ve got to find the camera,” Remy said over his shoulder.

  “Got it!” Drake triumphantly held up the very expensive camera still inside its case. “It was near the road, where the killer must have parked his car. He walked in. There are depressions in the grass. He carried Carson, so he’s very strong. I couldn’t find a decent print of a shoe, but he definitely walked in and it’s a long way to carry a grown man.”

  “Two people?” Remy asked.

  Drake shook his head. “I don’t think so, Remy. You can take a look yourself, but it looks like one man carrying a very heavy load. If Carson had been knocked out, he’d be even heavier. If he wasn’t, he would have been fighting and the steps wouldn’t have been so precise and steady.”

  “He’d have to carry his bag of equipment as well,” Remy mused. “I doubt if he’d make two trips. His car would be on the road for any passerby to notice and if he left his victim, anything could have happened, from a poacher huntin’ alligators at night to Carson coming to and getting away. He’s strong. Like a leopard strong.”

  “Robert was in custody,” Drake said, his tone neutral.

  “Jason Durang was in prison,” Gage said. “He worked out like most prisoners and he’s an extremely strong—and dangerous—man. He could easily have overpowered Carson. Carson’s not exceptionally big.”

  Remy kept looking at the body while Gage examined the photographs on the camera.

  “We do have an excellent timeline, Remy,” Gage pronounced. “Carson took a whole hell of a lot of photographs last night.”

  In the distance, they could hear the sheriff’s boat making its way toward the spot, coming in from the water with the forensic team. Word would be spreading up and down the bayou that another murder had taken place in their backyard.

  Remy continued to look at the body. Carson had taken a while to die, mostly because the killer hadn’t severed any arteries when he began carving him up. But still, there were no marks on the throat indicating multiple chokings. He sighed and ran a hand down the back of his neck. It was right there in front of him, but he wasn’t getting it.

  “Remy, you have to take a look at these pictures Carson took,” Gage said again. He walked the camera over to his brother. “Start here. There’s an entire series, startin’ at the gallery, inside, before we tossed him out. The first few pictures were of the sculptures in the gallery and then the more famous and wealthy jet-setters who came to fight for the right to purchase one of Lefevre’s latest creations. There are many photographs of Arnaud and Bijou. He’s definitely fixated on her.”

  “That’s not news.”

  “He took more photos with a zoom lens from across the street after we tossed him out, but the windows are glass and the place was lit up like a Christmas tree. Between those pictures and his scribbles for the headlines and article idea, we’ve at least got a timeline of his whereabouts right before his murder.”

  “Did we get lucky enough to get his murderer caught in the act?” Remy asked, half serious. Of course, had the murderer been on the camera, he would have ditched it in the swamp or canals. No one was that stupid.

  “Take a look, Remy,” Gage encouraged. “There’s a hell of a lot of photographs and some are very unexpected. I’d rather not jump to conclusions or influence you in any way. See for yourself.”

  Remy took the camera with a gloved hand, studying the photograph Gage had brought up. Bijou, looking beautiful and far too elegant, was laughing, looking into Arnaud’s eyes over his drink. The next picture was of the two of them, studying his latest creation, a look of rapt attention on her face. Arnaud seemed enthralled with Bijou, his gaze only on her. If one just looked at the series of photographs and knew nothing of Bijou and Arnaud’s relationship, they would believe the two were lovers.

  He moved on to the next few shots. They were taken from outside the gallery, Bijou and Arnaud dancing and then many more of Arnaud staring at Remy’s face. The artist looked enraptured. Even enamored. Definitely fixated on Remy now, not Bijou.

  “It’s interestin’ what interpretation one can put on a photograph,” he murmured. “I can imagine what spin Carson was going to put on these.”

  There were more photographs of Remy and Bijou dancing together and they definitely looked like lovers, dancing so close their bodies were practically entwined. There was one of Bijou looking up at him and his heart clenched hard. There was love stamped on her face. She looked beautiful, so beautiful. The moment should have been private between them, but Carson had planned on spreading it out in a tabloid, with photos of Lefevre as well and calling it “love triangle with a twist.”

  Remy went still when the next set of photographs appeared. He could feel Gage watching him. Rob Butterfield was hunched over the trunk of his car, one hand on the latch as he talked to Jason Durang. The two looked furtive, which had probably been the reason they drew Carson’s attention.

  Durang’s vehicle, a four-wheel-drive Jeep, was parked very close to Butterfield’s Mercedes. The next shots showed the Mercedes trunk open and Butterfield reaching in to extract a large plastic tarp and more plastic sheets folded. Remy’s mouth went dry. He glanced at hi
s brother, who looked grim.

  “Keep goin’,” Gage suggested.

  The next shot showed Butterfield spreading a leather-type case open on the hood of his car. Both men peered down at it. Carson used a zoom lens to focus on the set of surgical tools.

  Remy’s pulse leapt. His leopard snarled. They had planned a murder, but whose? Bijou’s? Had they planned to kill her and make it look as if the bone harvester had done it? He’d been worried about that for a while. Had Carson caught them in the act and then been caught himself?

  “Get a warrant, Gage. Let’s search both vehicles. We should have enough with these photographs for that.”

  Remy continued to examine the pictures Carson had taken that night. After he left the parking lot, he’d gone to the small studio Lefevre rented to work in. The room was surrounded on three sides by mostly glass for the light. Again there was a series of photographs, all capturing the Frenchmen engrossed in his work, busy sketching. At times the artist almost looked frantic, driven by his relentless need to create. There were dozens of sketches of Remy’s eyes. Of his face. Some just of his mouth.

  Remy could see how Carson could twist the photographs into something altogether different than an artist’s captivated interest in facial structure and features. He could definitely piece together photographs and make them look like a love triangle with Arnaud interested in Remy. Carson’s plan was to accuse Bijou of a threesome. The headline he’d chosen was “Bijou’s two lovers in love.”

  Arnaud clearly was totally absorbed in his work. Remy doubted, if Carson had actually been in the room with him, that the artist would have even noticed him taking photographs. Carson had zoomed in on the sketches just as he had the surgical instruments earlier in the parking lot. Remy’s eyes had been drawn over and over, but Arnaud had discarded the sketches in frustration, compelled to capture the exact look he had seen in Remy’s eyes and clearly failing.

  The next set of photographs was of two men in the shadows who seemed to be watching Arnaud through his studio windows. They were back in the alley and Carson must have caught them by accident. The second photo showed the two men appearing to argue.