by Rita Herron
Gryphon hesitated as if weighing his decision. Then Quinton read his thoughts.
Why not? He had nothing to hide.
Quinton gestured for him to lead the way. Gryphon seemed resigned as he stood and started down the hall. He showed Quinton two of the treatment rooms that he used for relaxation therapy and hypnosis, introduced him to two of the nurses on staff, then they walked down the hall housing the patients.
No electric shock treatments or anything that looked illicit. No demonic stench from Dr. Gryphon or the patients.
“Most of my patients are admitted on an outpatient basis,” he said. “But I have rooms available for the patients taking part in my current research project.”
Gryphon escorted him into a solarium where he spotted two men playing chess, an amputee in a wheelchair reading the Wall Street Journal, an elderly gray-haired man nodding off in a lounge chair, and a fourth younger guy staring out the window.
Quinton greeted the men playing chess, but they barely acknowledged him. He touched their shoulders and sensed they were troubled, but detected nothing odd about their skin coloring or scent. He walked over to the guy in the wheelchair and noticed he was reading about the stock market.
“I may be in this chair,” the man said, “but I still have to manage my investments.”
“Right.” Quinton forced a smile, then went to the young guy staring out the window. He seemed the most depressed, but when he looked up at Quinton, he realized the guy was blind.
“I like to feel the sun on my face,” he said quietly.
“I understand,” Quinton said and placed his hand on the guy’s shoulder, reading his thoughts. He felt trapped, was suffering from flashbacks of the explosion that had caused his sight loss. But he was determined to get his life back.
No suicidal or homicidal thoughts.
Quinton’s cell phone buzzed, and he quickly checked it, hoping for a lead.
He had a text.
His nerves instantly sprang to alert.
More fireworks on the way. A private show—just for you. Watch Annabelle die.
The scent of death and formaldehyde suffused Annabelle as she exited the elevator in the hospital basement and walked down the hall toward the morgue. She inhaled, trying to settle the nausea in her stomach as images of her father taunted her. What had gone wrong? Why hadn’t he held on?
The cabdriver had wanted to talk about the near bombing the night before, and had tuned the radio to a discussion of its disastrous effects on a city that had already seen enough trauma for a lifetime, while she’d wanted to hear anything except the news.
Her hands were sweating as she pushed open the door to the front office. A drawing of the human body and skeletal system hung on a faded chipped wall. A sickly smell greeted her as a doctor appeared, ripping off a pair of plastic gloves and tossing them into a bin designated for biohazardous material. The room felt icy cold, the smell sickening.
The doctor smiled, an odd smile revealing jagged front teeth. “Hello, Annabelle. Welcome to the morgue.”
“Dr. Andradre, phoned and said my father died,” Annabelle said, her heart in her throat. “Is he here?”
In a flash, he closed razor-sharp nails around her wrists, then a sharp sting pierced her arm and the world spun in a drunken rush.
She clawed for control, for something to hold on to, but a world of black drew her into its terrifying abyss.
Quinton phoned Annabelle as soon as his feet hit the pavement outside Gryphon’s office. Five rings later, and her voice mail picked up. He left a frantic message warning her that the killer might be after her and to call him back, then jumped in his car and drove to the hotel to see if she was there but just avoiding him.
After the way he’d left her, he wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t even want to speak to him.
He honked his horn and sped around slower traffic, careening into the hotel parking lot on two wheels, then jumped out and ran to the entrance.
His pulse pounding, he raced inside. But Annabelle wasn’t in the room.
He punched in her cell number again, but was once more connected to voice mail. Sweat beaded on his brow and neck as he ran back to the car. She must have gone to the hospital to see her father.
She was safe. She had to be.
Vultures soared above the car as if they were dogging him as he raced toward the hospital. Partygoers already clogged the streets in the evening hour as dark descended, embracing the charm and culture New Orleans offered. He wove through the throng, wondering where the Death Angel would strike.
If he had Annabelle, where would he take her?
Gears ground and his tires screeched as he drove into the hospital parking lot and jumped out. Again, he hit the ground at a dead run, racing past nurses and orderlies, shoving past a medicine cart to reach the elevator. Perspiration trickled down his forehead as he took the elevator.
When the elevator door dinged open, he jogged to Armstrong’s room. The older man lay in the bed, still unconscious, but Annabelle wasn’t inside.
Grinding his teeth, he rushed outside to the nurses’ station. “Have either of you seen or heard from Miss Armstrong this afternoon or evening?”
A blonde looked up and wrinkled her nose. “No, not today.”
The brunette nodded agreement. “I figured she’d be back by now.”
Panic tightened Quinton’s chest. He didn’t know where to turn. Where to look.
If only the message had told him something specific.
He had to call Vincent. Ask for his help. He was the only one who understood that they were looking for a demon. He clenched his cell phone and punched in Vincent’s number. His brother answered on the first ring.
“Quinton, I was just getting ready to call you.”
“Listen,” Quinton said, cutting him off. “I just questioned Gryphon. He’s not our perp. And I received a text message. I think the Death Angel has Annabelle, but I don’t know where he took her.”
“I have another person of interest,” Vincent said.
“Then tell me, dammit.”
“I cross-checked the list of guests attending the ceremony last night with a massive list of volunteers, doctors, social workers, all who’d aided the homeless in the last year, along with their schedules, looking for someone who travels around.”
“And?”
“Guess whose name came up?”
“Fuck, Vincent. I’m not in a guessing mood. He might have Annabelle.”
“The forensic specialist, Dr. Wynn. He’s been in all the targeted cities the past few months, does consultant work on various cases. He tends to rent a place when he’s in town, and I’m at his rental in Savannah right now.”
“And?”
Vincent exhaled. “Sam Wynn died over twenty years ago. This demon, the Death Angel, may have possessed his body from the grave.”
Quinton’s head reeled.
“Sam Wynn was a piece of work,” Vincent continued. “He had Asperger’s syndrome.”
“That’s a form of autism, right?”
“Yes, he was highly intellectual but couldn’t relate to others, to humans. Quinton, this guy was a serial killer who liked to chop his victims into pieces, then eat them.”
A cannibal? Quinton’s stomach turned. “Just like the vulture. He cleans their flesh. Then he collects the bones as his trophies to showcase his hunt.”
“It fits,” Vincent said. “He needs to be destroyed, Quinton. You won’t believe what I’m looking at.”
“What?”
“Bones,” Vincent said. “The man collects bones from various crime scenes. My guess is from those he’s killed.”
His stomach knotted. “The bones are his souvenirs.”
“Hell, yeah. This is one sick son of a bitch.”
“He owns a place in New Orleans?” Quinton asked.
“Yes. But if you’re at the hospital, I’d check the morgue first.”
Holy hell. The morgue—a perfect place to hide a body. Was Wynn go
ing to set off a bomb in the morgue and watch the bodies explode?
“If he’s not there,” Vincent said, “he might have taken Annabelle to his rental property.”
Quinton memorized the address as he raced toward the elevator to the morgue. Impatience gnawed at him as he waited, so he took the steps, jogging down them two at a time.
At the landing, darkness engulfed him, the scent of death, vile body odors, and chemicals wafting toward him. He pushed into the hallway, checked the signs, turned left and jogged down the corridor, then through a set of double doors. Someone should have been at the office desk, but it was vacant. He pushed through another door to the back cold room, scanning it for Annabelle, for Wynn. But the room was empty.
Except for the body bags in the storage room.
His breath tight in his chest, one by one, he forced himself to check each body bag.
Thank God, Annabelle wasn’t inside.
Heart racing, he headed outside to his car, punching in Detective DeLang’s number as he went.
“Detective, it’s Quinton Valtrez. We have reason to believe that Dr. Sam Wynn may be behind the bombings.”
“Dr. Wynn from the FBI?”
“Yes. I think he has Annabelle Armstrong. Send a crime unit to the hospital morgue to check for forensics.”
“Got it. I’ll put out an APB on him as soon as I hang up.”
“Thanks. Wynn has a rental house in the bayou. I’m going to check it out now.”
“Call me if you need backup.”
“I will.” Quinton hung up, knowing he wouldn’t call. If Wynn was there, if he’d hurt Annabelle, he’d forget the police. Demon or mortal—it didn’t matter.
He’d kill him.
Chapter Twenty-six
Fear snaked through Quinton. Annabelle could not be dead. Not the beautiful gutsy woman who’d had the audacity to challenge him. Not the one who’d willingly given herself to a dark man like him.
He ran to his car, frantic. Traffic crawled through the city, bright headlights nearly blinding him as he drove toward the bayou. Dilapidated and storm-tattered housing bled into view, and the smell of the backwater rose like a murky stench from the ground as he neared the dirt road leading to Wynn’s place.
Horrid images bombarded him. Did he have Annabelle? And if he did, what had he done with her?
He’d dealt the hand of death plenty of times without batting an eye, but a cannibalistic demon?
He slowed the car, flipped off the lights, and stopped. Once out of the vehicle he approached quietly, his gaze scanning the weed-infested yard, the strip of a muddy walkway leading to the river, and the gator-infested swamp. Eerie eyes peered up at him, and water splashed as a gator floated toward the bank, its sharp teeth gnashing as it whipped its tail and screeched an attack call.
Gators gathered at the bank, hissing and snapping at him as if he’d come to rob them of their meal.
Inhaling to control his temper, he knelt and focused on summoning strength from nature, on calling to the bayou and the gators and the spirits that drove them all. To the loup-garou who haunted this land with the swamp devil’s cry.
I am not your enemy, he willed them silently. I am your friend.
One gator whipped its tail, slapping the muddy Mississippi viciously, and water splattered his face. He brushed it off, didn’t have time for these games.
Utilizing every ounce of his physical, spiritual, and mental powers, he silenced their hisses and sent them floating back through the water on their backs, completely at his will.
Silently, he inched through the overgrown weeds and tupelo trees, letting the spidery moss of the giant oaks shield him as he approached the weathered shack. His training as a Ghost kicked in and he moved silently, his feet barely making a sound as he crossed the rocky path littered with dried leaves and twigs.
The biting wind brought the scent of a dead animal to him, reminding him of the dangers of the bayou and the cycle of life and death.
That death couldn’t be stopped.
Maybe not forever. But dammit, he refused to let it have Annabelle tonight.
Gray shadows hovered like clawing hands surrounding the rotting shanty, spiderwebs covered the porch awning, and inside, the place looked black. The stairs leading to the front porch creaked beneath his weight. He gripped his gun at the ready as he climbed them and peered through the fog-coated window.
From where he stood, the shanty appeared to be empty, but he prepared for attack as he tried the doorknob. The frame was so rotten that the lock sprang free with little force, and he scanned the interior.
Nothing.
He inched into the space, listening for a breath, a sound, but a cold, empty mustiness greeted him along with the acrid scent of death.
Cursing, he found a frayed old lamp and turned it on, the dim light it cast radiating across dingy walls.
Walls covered in bloodstained bones.
Annabelle struggled to regain consciousness, to understand what had happened to her, but the dark cavern was so black she couldn’t see two feet in front of her. And it was cold, so cold her body was numb, as if it had been frozen in ice.
Her limbs felt paralyzed as well, her lungs battling for a breath. Inhaling only drew rancid odors that sent bile rushing into her throat.
She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound died, echoing in the frigid empty darkness. Then reality returned. She had driven to the morgue to say good-bye to her father.
But she’d been attacked instead. The call had been a trap.
Tears blurred her eyes, freezing on her cheeks, and another blast of cool air assaulted her, sending a chill through her already numb body.
“Why are you doing this?” she cried. “Are you such a coward that you won’t show yourself?”
Suddenly the brush of sharp points—fingers, no, talons—made her skin crawl. They jabbed her skull and fire singed her nerve endings, sending a jolt of unbearable pain through her temple. She screamed, her body trembling as the pain sizzled through her head.
She had to fight. She wasn’t a quitter. Somehow she knew this madman or creature, whatever it was, had destroyed her father, and she wouldn’t let him win now.
As if to defy her courage, a vulture’s screech reverberated through the darkness, and she cringed, knowing he was stalking her, waiting for her to die.
Quinton’s face flashed in her head and she whispered his name.
“Please, Quinton, save me… I don’t want to die.”
Quinton stiffened, the faintest whisper of Annabelle’s voice breaking into his conscience.
“Save me…”
His gut tightened. “I won’t let him kill you, honey,” Quinton whispered. “Just tell me where you are. Give me a clue.”
But only the sound of the wind rattling the trees met his request.
And the broken and mutilated bones on the wall mocked him, nearly choking him with fear.
His mind raced with panic; he couldn’t think, didn’t know where to turn.
He had to call his brother again. He was the only one who understood what they were dealing with. The only one he could trust.
“Did you find him?” Vincent asked.
“No, but I just reached his cabin. You were right—the walls are covered with human bones. But he’s not here and neither is Annabelle.” His voice cracked. “I don’t know where to look now.”
“Listen, Quinton, I checked into that woman you talked to, Shayla Larue.”
“What does she have to do with this?”
A nervous pause. “Quinton, Shayla Larue has been dead for fifty years.”
Quinton’s shoulders tightened. “There has to be another Shayla Larue.”
“Maybe,” Vincent said. “Or maybe she rose from the grave on All Hallows’ Eve just as Wynn did.”
A bead of sweat slid down Quinton’s brow. “You think he took Annabelle to the shelter?”
“No. Shayla is buried in a graveyard in New Orleans, the same one where the famous voodoo prie
stess Marie Laveau is buried. Larue was rumored to be one of her descendants, a very powerful voodoo priestess with supernatural powers.”
Quinton rammed his hand through his hair. “What does this have to do with Annabelle?”
“Dr. Wynn… was buried in that same cemetery.”
Quinton’s blood ran cold. “You think Wynn might have carried Annabelle to the cemetery? That Shayla Larue knew his spirit had risen but didn’t know what body he had possessed?”
“It’s the best theory I’ve got,” Vincent said.
Quinton took off running toward his car. “Which cemetery did you say it was?”
“St. Louis cemetery. It’s one of the oldest in New Orleans.” Vincent’s voice dropped a decibel. “People say they see apparitions there at night in the passageways between the tombs.”
Quinton started the engine, sped down the dirt road and onto the highway, then raced past a slow-moving car, blew his horn at another to move out of the way. Precious minutes crawled by as he maneuvered through traffic. Sweat beaded on his neck and trickled into his shirt, and for the first time since he was a child locked in that dark closet, his hands shook with fear.
Dammit. He was never rattled like this on a mission. But he’d never tried to save anyone before.
And if Annabelle died, it would be very personal.
He had to reach her in time.
A dozen scenarios flashed into his mind. Annabelle being tortured, her brain fried in her head. Annabelle with a bomb strapped to her chest.
Annabelle burned at the stake as Vincent said their mother had been, screaming his name.
Him being too late.
Chest heaving, he parked along the edge of the cemetery, searching the bushes and trees beyond. Instead of being laid out in a grid pattern like most cemeteries, this one consisted of a labyrinth of narrow walkways that wound through massive wall vaults, dilapidated tombs that were unmarked, and marble mausoleums.
Shadows slithered between the tombs, a chill rippling through the frigid night air, while above a vulture flapped its wings and coasted as if to watch over the dead.