Hall, Jessica

by Into the Fire

  "Murder weapon. It's official—someone caved in the victim's skull before they torched the place. Possibly left whatever they used behind." She went around behind the shelves, then emerged and gestured toward the stairs leading to the second floor. "Mind if I take a look?"

  "I'll go with you."

  He accompanied her up the staircase to the loft storage area, where smoldering spots had left the air thick and hazy. Water used to put out the fire still dripped from a fragment of roof that hadn't collapsed. "Any word from J. D.?"

  "No."

  He watched her as she walked around the white tape used to outline where Marc LeClare's body had been found. She'd shed her jacket sometime since he'd cornered her at the station parking lot, and the unadorned white blouse she wore looked wrinkled and wilted. Her short dark hair resembled a rat's nest. Weariness made her sharp cheekbones stand out even more.

  Cort had never liked Terri Vincent, or her natural talent for getting under his skin in less than sixty seconds. But she was a good cop and probably his brother's best friend.

  "If this is blood"—she knelt down and bent over until her nose nearly touched a dark uneven stain still visible under the puddle of wet ash—"then he was killed up here."

  "Forensics should be able to tell from the trace residue and the spatter pattern." He watched her hands, which were as long and elegant as her body, but she didn't touch anything.

  She stood and scanned the immediate area around the tape, then tilted her head to look up. "Came up behind him, maybe, from over there." She pointed to the pile of crates which had been scorched but still remained in a semiorderly stack.

  One of his men appeared at the top of the stairs. "Gil said you'd probably want to see this, Marshal." He held out a large evidence bag with the remains of a man's leather briefcase inside. "It was empty, but you can still make out the monogram. Initials are MAL."

  Cort took the bag and turned it over, examining the case. Everything had been removed except for two pens stuck in a side pocket. He handed it back to the tech. "Make sure that's processed inside and out for fingerprints."

  "Yes, sir." The tech retreated.

  Terri was pacing around the outline now. "Okay, so the killer whacks him; he goes down; he whacks him a few more times. Then Isabel walks in, he whacks her twice, and then he sets fire to the building and leaves her to burn with Marc."

  "He went out to the back alley to toss the last three gas bombs through the windows." Cort went to stand at the base of the outline, and then crouched down. He looked to the left and the right before rising and walking over to a tangled pile of wood.

  "Why did he leave the girl alive?" Terri followed him. "He'd already killed Marc. Why didn't he bash her head in, too?"

  "Maybe he thought she was dead."

  Terri went over to the window and glanced down at the alley before turning to look back at him. "He beat Marc's skull to a pulp, but then he only gives Isabel a couple of love taps? Doesn't sound right."

  "He could have been pressed for time."

  "We got something here." Gil came up the stairs and handed Cort another, smaller evidence bag. "Recovered part of a key from the front-door lock. Looks like it broke off."

  Terri glanced down the stairs. "When your boys responded, was the front entrance locked?"

  Gil nodded. "They had to break it down."

  "So he locked her in. Coldhearted bastard." She blew out a breath. "That makes it murder and attempted murder."

  Cort looked at a pile of wood, then went over to it. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to cover his hand as he pulled a long, heavy length of pine from the pile. The entire piece was burned, but not heavily, and one end had splinter marks and dark stains along the wood grain.

  Terri and Gil came over and stared at the wood for a moment. "Shit."

  Cort watched her face. "This your murder weapon?"

  "Might be. Sable has defensive wounds—wood splinters in her palms." She gnawed at her bottom lip. "Gray Huitt found splinters in Marc's brain, too."

  Gil took the club in his gloved hands and turned it over as he examined the odd-shaped end. "This looks like a tool of some kind, but not one I've ever seen."

  "It's a culling pole." She met Cort's eyes. "Really handy when you go oystering out on the bayou."

  The cold air made Sable shiver as she stood up with J. D. Her legs wobbled as she tried to find her footing, but he kept his arm around her and didn't let her fall.

  "We can't go back to the road," he said, scanning the immediate area around them. "Someone might be waiting there."

  "We can't stay out here, either." She pulled a hank of wet weed from the back of her collar and shook it off her hand. "Aside from the gators and the snakes and the bugs, the temperature's dropping fast, and it'll probably rain again before dawn."

  J. D. took a cell phone from his jacket, and held it up to watch the water dripping from one corner of its leather case. He removed the case and pressed a button before holding the device up to his ear. "Phone's dead."

  She took a look around to get her bearings and saw the old path that led from Gantry's dock back into the cypress. "I know a place nearby where we can go for the night."

  "Where?"

  "My cousin's grandparents live about a quarter mile from here." She climbed up the bank, then turned when he didn't follow. "They'll help us, Jean-Del."

  "The way Gantry was helping you?"

  His reluctance was understandable, but she was tired and wet and cold, and not inclined to curl up in a patch of poison ivy or a nest of nutrias. "Caine isn't my family. The Martins are." She held out her hand. "Come on."

  After a noticeable pause, he took her hand and followed her into the woods.

  She stopped once along the way to tug the ruined shoe covers from her bare feet. Luckily the path was worn smooth from generations of Martin women walking from their home down to the piers to meet Martin men coming in with the boats.

  He watched her. "You want to wear my shoes?"

  She eyed his feet, which were almost twice as big as hers. "No, thanks. My feet are pretty tough." As she straightened, a sharp arrow of pain pierced her right shoulder, and she took in a quick breath. "I'm going to be one big bruise in the morning anyway."

  "Take it easy." He slipped his arm around her waist as they started walking again. "How much farther?"

  She peered through the darkness and spotted a flickering light. "It's right up there."

  Seeing the familiar, moss-draped silhouette of the high, steep-pitched gable roof made Sable want to weep. Like most of the elderly Cajuns on the Atchafalaya, the Martins lived in a small house that had been built from native trees felled and split with the help of family and neighbors. Heavy blocks of cypress kept the house raised two feet from the ground, to avoid flooding, heat, and insect problems. Over time weather had seasoned the riven logs to appear as ancient as the scraggly trees surrounding the house.

  A lamp near one of the front windows cast golden light out on the flat stone walk leading up to the whitewashed porch. Smoke drifted from the top of the clay and stone chimney at the back of the house. Two hand-caned rocking chairs sat on the porch beside the narrow front double doors, and there was an orange marmalade cat curled up on the seat of one of them.

  A short, stout elderly man opened the doors almost as soon as J. D. knocked, and looked out of the center gap with wide eyes. "Qui est-il? Que voulez-vous?"

  "C'est moi, Isabel." She stepped into the light so he could see her face and smiled. "We've had a bit of an accident, grand-père. Can we stay with you for the night?"

  "Mais oui, come in, child." The old man opened the door. "Why are you all wet? You fall in the river?"

  "Something like that." She gave J. D. a rueful glance before adding, "This is Jean-Delano Gamble, my... friend."

  Old Martin gave him a suspicious look. "You throw our Isabel in the river, boy?"

  "No, sir," J. D. said with a straight face. "I fished her out of it."


  The old man snorted out an appreciative laugh, then ushered them in.

  The Martins' home was equally unprepossessing on the inside, with horizontal barreaux slats between the vertical posts and angular braces that held the homemade insulation of clay and Spanish moss bousillage in place. Lighting came from kerosene lamps of smoke-laced glass, with bits of colorful flannel and rock salt floating in their bases.

  Most of the furnishings Old Martin had made himself, out of the cypresses growing around his home, but here and there were heirloom antiques made of cherrywood, which had survived le Grand Dérangement—his Acadian ancestors' trip from Nova Scotia to Louisiana after being expelled by the British in 1755. A primitive painting of the same determined ancestors occupied a place of honor between framed religious portraits of Jesus and the Virgin Mary.

  Martin's wife, Colette, came into the front room, drying her hands on her apron. Unlike her husband she was tall and very thin, and wore her iron gray hair in a tidy wreath of braids. "Isabel! Mon Dieu, what are you doing here this time of night?"

  Sable explained as Colette fussed over both of them and brought out towels and prepared mugs of hot tea. After Colette went to locate a change of clothes for them, J. D. related an abbreviated version of what had happened. Sable noticed he didn't mention Marc's murder, the stolen car, or the shooting, for which she was grateful. The old couple didn't need the worry, and she wasn't sure they'd be so sympathetic toward J. D. if they knew he was a cop.

  "Here, bébé," Colette said as she handed Sable a stack of clothing. "You go on in the bathroom and take a shower. Then your man can have a turn." She turned a measuring eye on J. D. "My husband's not as big as you, chèr, but I found an old pair of jeans my grandson left here that might fit."

  Sable felt better after cleaning up and changing into the flannel nightgown and robe Colette had provided, but her arm and shoulder were sore and there was a place she couldn't reach on her back that felt raw. She came out to ask Colette to check it for her, and heard Old Martin say to J. D., "We don't have no phone, but you can walk down and use the one at my granddaughter's place in the morning."

  "My cousin runs a country store near the main road," Sable added, then winced as she tried to tighten the belt on her robe and new pain streaked down her arm.

  J. D. got to his feet. "What's wrong?"

  "I think I wrenched my shoulder. Feels like I scratched up my back, too." She rolled her shoulder carefully, grimacing. "I'll have Colette look at it."

  "She's rinsing out your clothes." He got up and came to her. "Let me take a look."

  She led him back to the tiny bathroom, where she shrugged off the robe and turned her back to him as she unbuttoned the nightgown. "It's just below my right shoulder blade."

  He worked the fabric down until her upper back was exposed and muttered something too low for her to hear. "You've got a couple of nasty grazes." He opened the old-fashioned tin medicine chest next to the sink and searched through it, then removed a brown bottle and some cotton swabs. "This is going to sting."

  "I've been through worse." She hissed in a breath as cold antiseptic touched the raw place, and fiery pain spread down her back. "Ow. I lied."

  He rubbed, and put his hand on her shoulder when she flinched. "I know it hurts, but hold still. I need to clean them out." He took care of each spot quickly but gently, then turned her around. "Can you lift your arm?"

  She raised her right arm, then groaned when the throbbing in her shoulder increased. "Yes, but I don't want to." As she lowered it, she grabbed the sagging front of the nightgown before it slipped over her breasts. Her fingers collided with his, and heat flooded into her face. "Sorry."

  He stared down at the pale skin between them, his dark eyes intent. "I'm not." He trailed his fingers slowly over the exposed top of one breast.

  Her mouth went dry as her nipples pebbled under the soft flannel. "Yes. Well." She pulled the edges of the gown together and edged around him. "I'd better leave you to take your shower."

  Before she reached the door, he caught her elbow. "Don't go anywhere without me," he said. "I'm done chasing through the swamp after you."

  She nodded and slipped out.

  The roadhouse was one of a handful on the outskirts of the bayou, catering to local fishermen, truckers, and anyone who was interested in a cold beer, hot crawfish, and a serious game of darts or pool. The only women who frequented the place did so in the company of their boyfriends or husbands, or they came looking specifically for more temporary companionship. The jokes were raunchy, the arguments loud, and every other voice spoke in French.

  It may not have appealed to the visitors who drove past on their way to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, but if someone wanted to know what was happening on the bayou, it was information central.

  Terri Vincent drew a lot of attention when she walked in, until she was recognized and the patrons went back to drinking, eating, and complaining about the tourists. Terri had grown up a few miles away, and while few of the locals approved of her job, she was accepted as only a native could be.

  She paused and inspected the interior before she saw the man she wanted sitting at the shadowy end of the bar. His dark eyes zeroed in on her long before she sauntered over and slid onto the empty barstool beside him, but he made no sign of welcome. "Hey, handsome." She nudged him with her elbow. "Buy me a drink?"

  Caine Gantry didn't look up from his beer. "Why? You broke?"

  "I'm happy to see you, too. Okay, I'll buy you one." Terri caught the bartender's eye, pointed to Caine's bottle, then held up two fingers. "What are you doing down here?"

  He turned a little and propped one foot on the bottom rung of her stool. "There a new law says I can't have a drink after work?"

  "Nope. Just not like you to drink around other folks. You're more the homebody drinker." She took a pack of cigarettes from her jacket, turned it over in her hands, then removed one before tossing the pack on the bar. "I gotta quit smoking."

  Caine took the cigarette from her, lit it, then took a drag before handing it back. "So quit."

  "It's not that easy."

  "Then don't." He lifted his beer to his lips. "Either way, quit bitching about it."

  "Hey, Terri." The bartender, Deidre, brought two bottles of beer and a clean ashtray. Light from the neon beer signs over the bar made rainbow streaks in her tinted hair, and she picked up a tip left two stools down the bar and tucked it into the front of her low-cut blouse. "This is old home week tonight—haven't seen either of you here for ages."

  "We've been busy, I guess." Terri glanced at the man beside her before lifting the bottle and taking a sip. "Thanks, Dee."

  "You got dirt on your face there, honey. Yell if you need anything." Deidre went to get orders from a pair of bikers, leaving them alone.

  "Damn." Terri squinted at herself in the mirror before grabbing a cocktail napkin and rubbing at the smudge. She needed a shower. The smell of smoke from the warehouse still clung to her clothes, too. "I hate arson cases."

  Caine met her gaze in the mirror. "What do you want, Therese?"

  She took a drag from her cigarette. "Some answers, chèr. Starting with where you've been today."

  "Out on the water."

  "You didn't happen to stop by the warehouse district in the city, did you?" When he shook his head, she took another drink of her beer. "Someone was. Someone torched LeClare's warehouse, with LeClare and a woman in it, but I expect you've heard about that."

  He nodded.

  "You know the woman—Sable Duchesne." She caught the faint droop of his eyelids and the subtle way his hand tightened on the edge of the bar. "Now, why do you think she'd be in an empty warehouse with the future governor of Louisiana?"

  He lifted his shoulders. "Maybe she liked his campaign speeches." He reached for his beer, and the light revealed the battered condition of his hand.

  "Those are nasty." She ran a fingertip just below the swollen, lacerated knuckles before he moved his hand out of reach. "How's the oth
er guy look?"

  "Worse." He drained the bottle with two swallows and pulled out his wallet to pay for the drinks. "I'm going home."

  She sighed. "Look, cos, I've had a really long, ugly day. You sound like you have, too. Don't make this more difficult than it already is."

  "I was out on the water from sunrise until dark. Ask around." He nodded toward a cluster of men drinking and playing darts in the corner. "That it?"

  She sighed as he stood. "I ought to get out the cuffs and haul your oversized ass downtown."

  He loomed over her. "You can try."

  "Maybe tomorrow, after I eat my Wheaties." She patted his arm. "One more thing. You or any of your men see my partner or Sable Duchesne around here?"

  "No." Caine tucked his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. "See you around, chère."

  Billy watched Caine leave, then followed his truck as far as the private road that led to his house. I can't go to Caine, not yet. Not until I have my money.

  The cop and the girl were surely dead. That car had careened right into the river. Even if Billy hadn't shot them, they must have drowned.

  He drove to the first pay phone he could find. "They're dead. No, I'm not going home—I'm going to celebrate. You just be on time tomorrow night."

  Chapter Seven

  Darkness settled around the Martins' home with creaky evensong provided by the swamp's expansive choir of frogs and crickets. Sable wished she could sit outside on the porch and watch for fireflies the way she had when she and Hilaire were little girls, trying to catch them in empty pickle jars. Being so close to J. D. and having to keep up a pretense of normalcy for the Martins was going from difficult to impossible, especially after the way he touched her in the bathroom.

  They couldn't stay here, either. What happens tomorrow, when we have to go back to the real world? He'd acted like he wanted to protect her now, but he was still a cop, and she was still the only witness to Marc's murder. Would he really protect her, or had he said that only to gain her trust?