by Joanna Wayne
John sat up and refilled both their wineglasses, sliding hers next to her fingertips while she stared at a lizard who’d joined them on the deck. She wasn’t intentionally avoiding John’s question, but at this point, trying to remember something momentous about her life with Drake was difficult.
“We went on some interesting trips. A honeymoon in Hawaii. Cruising in the Caribbean. Snow skiing at Lake Tahoe.”
He reached across the space that separated them and let the tips of his fingers slide through a lock of hair that had slipped from the knot at the nape of her neck. “Those are places, not moments.”
The back of his hand brushed across her cheek and the awareness level spiraled out of control. These were the moments John was talking about, times when her breath caught in her throat and her heart seemed to skip around in her chest.
“Did Drake thrill you when he kissed you, Cassie? Did you ever want to make love to him so badly that you lost all control and did it right out in the open, not caring who saw or who knew?”
“No, of course not. Drake wasn’t like that. Drake was…”
John’s hand cradled her head, and he pulled her closer, leaning over her so that his lips were inches away from hers and she could feel his breath on her skin. This wasn’t about Drake. It was about her and John and an impossible situation that had pushed them together when…
His lips brushed hers, and for a second she lost all power to think or to reason. She would have kissed him and forgotten all the questions of right and wrong, but John pulled away.
Neither of them said a word, but he stood and stepped to the end of the dock, staring out at the almost-still waters of the bayou. His hands were gripped into tight fists and the muscles in his shoulders and arms were flexed and taut.
“Do you want me to go?” she asked, in a voice that sounded as if it had slid over sandpaper.
“That’s up to you. But if you stay, I don’t think we’re going to make it through the night on conversation.”
“Then I better go.”
“Your decision.”
She started back toward her car, knowing it was for the best, but aching to finish the kiss that had never really gotten started. But they wouldn’t stop with a kiss any more than they’d stop with conversation.
They’d make love, and her life that was already so complicated she could barely sleep or concentrate would become even more convoluted. She couldn’t deal with that now. Not with the dread surrounding her trip to Cocodrie tomorrow. Not when she didn’t really know or understand John Robicheaux or sometimes herself. She’d changed since the divorce, couldn’t get her hands around what she expected or wanted from a man anymore.
She crawled behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition, gunning the engine. She did a U-turn and sped away, escaping one of those moments that John had been talking about, the kind that would have lived in her memory forever.
It just might anyway.
JOHN POLED his pirogue down the bayou as he had so many times over the past seven years, seeking the solace of familiarity and the coolness of the evening breeze. It didn’t help tonight.
It had all caught up with him. His dad’s death. His mother’s walking out and never coming home again. Toni Crenshaw. Dennis. Land mines he couldn’t avoid or run from. And now there was Cassie Pierson to add to the mix.
He’d tried all week to get her out of his mind, but she’d refused to leave. He liked her style, her verve and her intelligence. But none of that was what he’d been thinking about on the dock this evening when he’d run his fingers through her hair or even before that when he’d been lying beside her with his eyes closed and trying hard to keep from having an erection.
If she’d stayed tonight, they would have made love. He could have seen what her breasts looked like outside that crisp white shirt. He could have freed her hair from those combs and run his fingers through it, could have watched it fall about her bare shoulders.
No fighting off the erection now. It was pushing hard against his jeans. In spite of all he was dealing with, in spite of the fact that there was no way on earth a woman like Cassie could fit into the mess he’d made of his life, he wanted her.
He wanted her in a way he hadn’t wanted any woman in a long, long time—if ever.
Thankfully, she’d had the sense to walk away.
He stayed on the bayou another thirty minutes, thought of going down to Suzette’s for dinner, but didn’t want to risk reliving the memory of being in there that last night with Dennis.
He pulled his pirogue in beside his dock, started to get out, then froze as a woman stepped from the shadows.
“What are you doing out here this time of night, Annabeth?”
“I had to see you, John.”
Not a good sign, unless she’d learned something about Dennis’s murder and had come to tell him. He tied the pirogue to the pier that held up the dock, then stepped onto the bank. “Does Norman know you’re here?”
“No. No one does. I need a place to stay, John. Not forever, but for a while.”
“Why?” John grabbed her arm, but when he pulled her close, he could see that she’d been crying. “What’s happened, Annabeth? What did you find out? Did your husband kill Dennis?”
“I’m pregnant, John.”
“Pregnant?”
“Pregnant. And it’s not Norman’s baby.”
THE ARTICLE was finished, faxed and on its way when Cassie began the two-hour drive to Cocodrie. It had taken her most of the night to write and, as far as she was concerned, the article was still a piece of journalistic garbage. It lacked substance and mood. It captured nothing of the mystery she’d hoped for.
There simply weren’t facts to back up John’s allegations of murder, and while his theory of a dark, deadly secret as the motive sounded halfway credible in conversation, it looked ludicrous in print. Worse, she knew she hadn’t been objective. Nothing about her feelings for John Robicheaux was rational or objective, so how could she possibly present him that way?
But the biggest hindrance to the writing was the dread concerning the meeting she was on her way to now. She’d been apprehensive before yesterday’s phone call from the mysterious stranger, but then she could at least come up with scenarios that made a semblance of sense, scenarios that didn’t put her mother in danger.
Now she was afraid to conjecture.
She took highway 308 north, though Cocodrie was west of Beau Pierre and as far south as you could go without a boat. Roads were limited in this part of the state since there was more marshland than people and laws designed to protect the limited wetlands discouraged new construction.
A few miles outside of town she passed the massive gate to Magnolia Plantation and then crossed the bridge over the offshoot of Bayou Lafourche, which ran behind the clinic. Roads that she’d never traveled before last week were becoming familiar now. She slowed at the sight of flashing blue lights up ahead.
When she got closer, she could see that the lights were from two state police cars parked on the shoulder of the road. The uniformed troopers were at the edge of the bayou, bent over something in the water. Two teenage boys were with them and a couple of dirt bikes were lying on the ground beside them.
The pickup truck in front of Cassie pulled off the road and a young guy in jeans and a muscle shirt jumped out and ran to join the officers.
She threw on her brakes and pulled in behind the pickup truck, a typical reporter reaction. She had three hours to make the drive to Cocodrie, plenty of time to check this out. Grabbing her notebook, she headed toward the action.
One of the state troopers was waving his arms by the time she reached the group. “Will you folks just get back? This isn’t the kind of thing you really want to stand around and admire.”
“What is it?” the guy asked.
“It’s a wrist with part of a hand attached,” one of the teenagers said. “Me and my friend here found it. We were just kicking around at a king snake and…”
“
I stepped on it. Man, it was gross.”
Cassie peered around the trooper. He was digging around in the mud at the foot of a cypress tree, but the body part was lying in the grass in full view. There wasn’t a lot of it left, and what was there was black and swollen. If it hadn’t been for the thumb and two fingers that were still attached, she’d have never taken the remains for human.
She sucked in her breath and tried to ward off the nausea. “Who called the troopers?”
“I waved some guy down who was driving by, and he called them,” one of the boys said. “He didn’t hang around, though. He said it gave him the willies.”
The young man in the muscle shirt stood at the trooper’s elbow. “What do you think happened?”
“Looks like the victim got attacked by gators,” he said.
“That don’t happen too often down here.” The young man leaned over for a closer look, as seemingly unperturbed as if they were discussing a dead fish. “More likely someone fed him to the gator after they’d whacked ’em. Surprises me there’s that much left.”
“It was buried in the mud right at the bank. Only reason I found it was ’cause I booted up a clod of mud when I was kicking at the snake.”
“Are you from around here?” the trooper asked, directing his question to the guy from the pickup truck.
“Down the road. Near cut off.”
“Do you know of anyone who’s gone missing lately? Male or female? There’s no way to tell from this.”
“A couple of slutty girls from down the bayou came up missing last fall, but they were always running away. Druggies. Now they probably up in New Orleans turning tricks in the French Quarter, them.”
The trooper nodded. “This one’s fresher than last fall. Could be as fresh as last month.”
Cassie turned and strode back to her car. She’d have to catch Olson, let him know to throw out that copy and wait for an update.
John’s theory of a dirty secret that someone would kill to keep hidden had just gained a lot more credibility, and the new article was already taking form in her mind.
Cassie raced back to the car for her camera. She needed pictures and quotes from the troopers and the boys who’d found the body part. She had to move quickly.
There was still a man in Cocodrie to meet.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CASSIE ARRIVED in Cocodrie thirty minutes before the appointed time. She had no idea where to go until she received further instructions, so she pulled into a service station for a diet cola. She picked up a package of cheese crackers, as well, since she’d eaten only about two bites of cold toast for breakfast and had completely missed dinner last night.
She’d give the crackers a try and hope they stayed down what with the anxiety about the meeting and the image of the body part wreaking havoc on her equilibrium.
Back in the car with her snack, she nibbled on a cracker and pulled out the spiral notebook. Olson had been thrilled over the prospect of a decent article to replace what he called “amateurish dribble,” but he wanted it pronto.
This time when she started writing the words flowed. The cell phone rang. The pen fell from Cassie’s shaking fingers as she grabbed for it. “Hello.”
“Hi, Cassie. It’s Dad.”
She glanced at her watch. Still fifteen minutes to spare. “I thought you weren’t getting home until late this afternoon.”
“We finished our meeting and I caught an earlier flight out than I’d planned.”
“How did it go?”
“Great. The merger is back on track. If all goes well, we could be signing the final paperwork by August.”
“That must make you feel good.”
“I’m too tired to feel good, but I’m relieved to have the worst of this behind me. Have you heard from your mother?”
She hesitated, feeling guilty that she wasn’t leveling with him, but she couldn’t get into all of this now. The phone had to be free for the stranger’s call. “I haven’t talked to her. Have you?”
“No, but I might have a new postcard. I’m going through the mail as we speak. Yep, here’s one…and another. That’s it. They were both mailed from Crete. One from Iraklion. The other from Ayia Galini. She wrote she’s having a great time, she’s fascinated with the Minoan ruins and that she’ll be home soon. Sounds like everything’s fine with her.”
“Sounds that way,” she agreed.
“I don’t understand what the confusion is with the Patsy David thing, but Rhonda will explain it when she gets home and we’ll have a good laugh over it.”
“I hope so.” She’d never hoped for anything more in her life. “Can I call you back in half an hour, Dad? I’m in the middle of something really important now.”
“Sure, baby. I’m going to jump in the shower and then catch a quick nap. I’m getting too old for continent hopping with no time to recuperate from jet lag between hops.”
“Keep your phone with you, Dad. Please. I really need to talk to you, just not right this minute.”
“I’ll be here.”
She felt as if she’d been cut off from a lifeline instead of a phone connection. She’d been angry at him more than once during this ordeal for his seeming lack of concern, but he sounded relieved when he’d talked of the newest postcards.
He might not be the perfect husband, but he was basically honest and good and he’d always been there for Cassie. He still was. She held on to that thought as she waited for the next call. The minutes ticked past. She tried to write again, but she’d lost all focus. There was nothing to do but wait.
And wait. And wait.
By twenty minutes past the scheduled time, there was no call.
HE PEERED through the lens of his high-powered binoculars, watching Cassie as she banged her fists against the steering wheel. She was frustrated, but so was he. She’d come just like he’d instructed, but she hadn’t followed the rest of his orders.
She’d run straight to John Robicheaux last night, and he was likely the one she’d been talking to on the phone a few minutes ago. The guy was no doubt around here somewhere, watching to see who approached Cassie’s car and ready to follow if she drove away.
Cassie Pierson, smug and secure in her little reporter world. That would all change when she learned the truth of what had gone down in Beau Pierre—if she ever learned the full truth. Chances were she never would.
Chances were she’d never live that long.
You should have listened to me, Cassie Pierson, and come alone so we could have a nice, long talk somewhere beyond the eyes and ears of Beau Pierre.
He was almost sure someone was watching her all the time in Beau Pierre, every minute of the day. The stakes were too high for anyone not to know what she was up to. If she’d just followed his instructions, he could have explained everything to her, and all he’d wanted in return was the guarantee that she’d never divulge her source.
The secret would be out, and no one would blame him. But she hadn’t followed his instructions. He could call and tell her that, but why bother! She could sit here and stew, then figure it out for herself.
“So you’re on your own, Cassie Havelin Pierson. Heaven help you.”
CANDLES AND LAMPS turned low provided the illumination. Sultry mood music provided the background. Babs provided the exhilaration.
Her tanned shoulders were bare and the slinky white sundress she wore not only accentuated her tiny waist and perky breasts but the high slit in the long skirt revealed inches and inches of seductive, luscious thigh. Butch’s guess was that there was nothing beneath the dress other than a light spray of perfume.
No wonder he loved spending evenings here. It was every man’s dream to step into a love nest and know that he’d never be disappointed—and never disappoint.
“You’re early,” Babs said. “I thought you were going to take a nap.”
“I had to pass on that. A problem came up.”
“That quickly? The merger team was all smiles when we left them in London.”
“This had nothing to do with the merger.” He walked to the bar and splashed a couple of fingers of his favorite scotch over ice. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing yet.” She adjusted the volume on the CD player and turned the lamps even lower. “You must have talked to Cassie.”
“I did.” He took the drink to the overstuffed sofa and sat on the far end, knowing Babs would curl up beside him. God, he’d miss this.
“So what’s the latest on Rhonda?”
“It looks as if she may not have gone to Greece after all.”
“You’re kidding, right? You have postcards.”
“Postcards, but no flight, at least not one that Cassie could confirm.”
Babs dropped to the other end of the couch and curled up with a throw pillow instead of him. “If she didn’t go to Greece, where is she?”
“According to the airlines, she booked a round-trip flight to New Orleans.”
“This is even more ludicrous than the story about the dead high school friend.”
“I know. I’m totally confused now. So is Cassie, and she’s worried sick over her mother.”
“She should be. The woman sounds as if she’s going nuts. Maybe it’s menopause. Some women go off the deep end with that.”
“I thought she went through it ten years ago when she lost interest in having sex.”
“Or maybe she only lost interest in having it with you. She may be having a wild, passionate affair with someone in New Orleans. When’s the mystery flight home?”
“Thursday.”
“Meet her at the airport and demand answers. Then whatever the problem is, you just have to deal with it.”
She made it sound much easier than it was in his mind. He didn’t even know what solution he was looking for.
He loved Rhonda in a special way that nothing would ever change. They’d been together for thirty years. She’d given birth to his daughter, had stayed up all night with him when he’d fallen from the horse on vacation and wound up in an emergency room of a hick-town hospital. She’d stood beside him at his mother’s casket.