[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine

by Barbara Monajem

  The animals might tolerate him, but the fates were laughing at him tonight. He swam across the bayou and lazed in the water’s caress for a couple of minutes, and then, from the pocket of his jeans on the far bank, his cell phone rang. Cursing, he struck out across the bayou, but the call had gone to message before he got to the other side. He hauled himself up by a convenient root and glanced at the display: Honey and Eyes. He dried off in a hurry and scrambled into his clothes and shoes. As he took off running through the woods, all hell broke loose: the screech of a hawk, the urgent swoop of a bat, and the distant sound of Lawless, howling fit to bust.

  Within two minutes he was on Marguerite’s back porch. He banged on the back door, calling her name, and Lawless whimpered in response. Using the spare key he’d abstracted from a kitchen drawer that morning while putting away her groceries, he went inside, but Marguerite was nowhere to be found. Her little Honda stood in the driveway. The chain was on the front door, so she must have gone out the back. But where? And why?

  Lawless scrabbled frantically at the locked doggie door. Constantine’s phone vibrated. He dialed voice mail and listened in growing dismay. If she’d been kidnapped… at gunpoint, maybe, so she’d been forced outdoors without the dog. Or maybe she’d just gone to investigate, crazy fool! The dog might show him. He opened the door and called desperately on his guide for help. Lawless tore around the side of the house, sniffing at the fence where this morning Marguerite’s bike had been stashed, and lunged through the gate. He snuffled across the front yard and bounded away down the road.

  She’d followed the van on her bike?

  Relief and hope stirred in him. With luck she wouldn’t get far before the van sped up and she lost it. But no reassurance came from his guide, only urgent cries for haste. He went inside for her keys, started up the little Honda, and took off after the dog.

  After the first burst of speed down the street and around the corner, Marguerite kept up easily with the van, which rolled contemplatively through the neighborhood from one stop sign to another. She left her headlight off and coasted directly behind the vehicle, out of view of both side mirrors. The driver might still see her in the center mirror, but that was a risk she had to take. Hopefully he would have no reason to check behind him until they reached a major artery, by which time she should have his license plate number and be on her way back home.

  But the license plate proved damnably hard to read. Mud plastered the sides and rear of the van, obscuring much of the plate, and one of its little sidelights had burned out. At the fourth unsuccessful attempt to get close enough to read the plate, it dawned on Marguerite that the van was trundling along far too slowly. Slowly enough, she realized, to make it easy for her to keep up.

  A dreadful coldness crept into the pit of her stomach. She hung back a little, telling herself not to be silly. There was no reason to think he had seen her, or that he even knew of her existence. He might even be some random person looking for an address, but she had to make sure. The van might be headed for a nearby gas station or an all-night supermarket; it might be going only as far as the next street or miles into the country. As long as the driver didn’t know she was following him, she would be okay.

  Actually, she felt downright stupid following a dream. It was one thing to believe that Constantine could send her dreams and another entirely to believe that a recurring nightmare had anything to do with real life or with a real van that happened to idle at the side of a road at night.

  Ahead of her the van approached a corner, veered a little to the right, and stopped. If Marguerite had been squinting at the license plate instead of pondering her next move, she would have collided with him. She skidded to a stop, heart skittering in her breast. The driver’s door opened, and a figure began slowly to emerge.

  His aura flared, its message clear. The man in the black van intended to kill her.

  Faster than thought, Marguerite flew around the passenger side of the van, teetering along the edge of the ditch, where there was scarcely room to pass, in terror that he would run around the front of the van and grab her.

  But no… He was supposed to run her down, wasn’t he, according to the dream? He had left just enough room for her to pass, and he climbed leisurely back into the driver’s seat and put the van into gear.

  Marguerite tore off down the street, thoughts racing. The closest well-lit area was several blocks away. He could catch up and hit her at any time. She shifted up onto the sidewalk, where the curb and the trees lining the road offered a little protection, and whipped around a corner. The van driver hung behind, not driving dangerously, just keeping up, waiting for his chance.

  Marguerite rounded another corner, and the sidewalk ended abruptly at a drainage ditch. In this old quarter of town, trees had uprooted the sidewalks, and there were new ones under construction everywhere. She skirted the ditch and crossed the street before the van reappeared. A new sidewalk had been completed on the other side, which took her for another two blocks. But twisting and turning, running out of breath, Marguerite knew she couldn’t keep it up for long enough. Following this erratic course, it would take two, three times as long to get to the main drag. Straight ahead of her, maybe five more blocks…

  But of course the driver of the van knew this, too. The engine picked up speed and roared behind her. Again the sidewalk came to an end. She fought the onslaught of panic, slipped, and an oak tree loomed out of nowhere. She skidded sideways and crashed, landing hard in a mess of weeds and grass.

  Constantine caught up with Lawless, who followed a fairly straight course for several blocks and then a progressively more twisted one. He covered the same street twice and plunged forward again, nose to the ground, around another corner.

  And stopped, nosing in the ditch, whimpering. Half in the ditch, its wheel bent against a huge oak tree, lay Marguerite’s bike.

  Constantine jumped out of the car. “Marguerite?” he called, and then again louder, but his answer came from the dog, who bounded into a vacant lot. He raised his hands, invoking the creatures of the sky to his aid. Find her, he pleaded. Save her. A bat wheeled and dipped in an erratic course ahead of the dog. An owl beat past on frantic wings. Constantine took off in pursuit.

  In a haze of fear, Marguerite scrambled up, abandoned the ruined bike, and plunged past a fence too high to climb into a vacant lot. She dodged around trees and stumbled through the remains of a demolished house, bruising her knees and scraping her hands on old bricks and concrete supports. He’s supposed to kill me with the van, she kept telling herself. That’s what happens in the dream. But it was just a dream, and she didn’t know anymore what was real and what wasn’t.

  Finally she had to stop. She heaved her lungs full again and again, gradually quieting her breath, and listened. The night was noisy with tree frogs and katydids, but even so, a vast silence and emptiness seemed to surround her, and for a while she heard no foreign sounds. She should call the cops, but she had no idea where she was. She crept through another vacant lot and more woods to the huge open parking lot of a church. Which church? She didn’t know, but if she crept around to the front, she would be all too visible in the ghastly light of the moon. She retreated to the edge of the woods and got out her cell phone.

  And froze. The engine purred its threat, and the van drifted around the corner toward the front of the church, quietly, patiently, without headlights. The moon lit up the driver’s head, smooth and horrifyingly featureless but for the eyes staring her way. Had he seen her? His aura roiled, flared, lunged with murderous intent. The church—dark, empty, and doubtless locked—offered no sanctuary. She dashed back across the corner of the vacant lot. There were houses on that side, but a six-foot fence surrounded the first yard. The van stopped in front of the church, and she heard, clearly as a shot, the sinister click of the closing of the driver’s door.

  Once again terror took over. She heaved herself at the fence, scrabbling and sobbing, and fell back. Much too high. Back through the vacant lot or
along the fence? Quick, quick, decide! No sound but her own breathing and the thundering of her heart. Then a crow, its slumber disturbed, cawed loudly overhead, and around the side of the church came a flurry of bats, swooping and diving. Marguerite fled before them along the fence. One bat flickered close enough to touch her, and then another, and she shied violently aside and fell through an unlocked gate at the far end of a yard.

  Marguerite scrambled up and with shaking hands locked the gate behind her. The bats wheeled back toward the churchyard. She crept through the dark, quiet yard, out the front gate, and across the deserted street into a garden. Yet another fence, a low one, and a bevy of barking dogs a few doors down. She slipped around the back of an empty house damaged by a fallen tree, forced herself across a tangle of wire fence and creepers, and turned into the next road in the opposite direction from the dogs. Under a tree in another yard, she caught her breath again and listened for the sounds of pursuit. Silence, except for the insect chorus and a few lagging yips from the dogs. She got out her phone, trying to figure out where she was so she could tell the cops.

  Then the engine purred its approach, and the van rolled around the corner toward her.

  Marguerite took off again through a maze of yards. A screech owl flitted from tree to tree ahead of her, calling tremulously. If she made a ruckus knocking on a door and calling for help, would anyone wake or come in time? What if she endangered someone? No, she had to go on, find someplace bright and public. And safe.

  Finally, finally lights showed in the distance, and the thin sound of voices raised in an eerie chant. Marguerite heaved herself over another fence into a wooded area without much underbrush. Maybe it was another abandoned lot; there were so many since the hurricanes. She threaded her way through the trees, fending off low branches, leaping fallen logs. Her pursuer scrambled over the fence behind her, breathing heavily but not desperately, bursts of sound like tiny chokes of laughter issuing nastily from his throat. Possessed of a demon, she thought stupidly as she ran. Almost there, almost there…

  Before her chanted a circle of people in flickering robes, surrounded by a shimmering dome of light. His breathing rasped close behind her. He touched her, grabbed at her shirt. Bats swarmed and dove, and the man grunted in rage. The owl screeched, the circle widened toward her, and Marguerite took one last desperate leap. She burst through the dome of light with a crack loud enough to rend the sky and blacked out before she hit the grass.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Zeb ran through the streets of Bayou Gavotte, searching for the black van. It felt as if he hadn’t slept in days. After playing suitably contrite while his dad ranted the whole drive home, he’d cleaned off the greasepaint and collapsed into bed, setting his cell for an hour later. These days and nights, nastiness was afoot, and he was the only one who could stop it. When he woke, he dressed, checked his dad’s room, and pocketed his ring of copied keys. It was getting pretty heavy, seeing as he’d copied any key he could get ahold of, but he never knew which vehicle or building he would need to open. A quick reconnoiter showed that the van wasn’t in Eaton Wilson’s driveway where it belonged. He set off to find out what tonight’s mischief would be.

  It looked like more than mischief, though. If anyone but Marguerite had fed him that story, he wouldn’t have even considered believing it. But Marguerite was safer than most people, and when she’d told him, months ago, that he didn’t need to keep his aura folded with her, he’d been blown away. It was like having an angel sent by his mom, which was about as hokey as you could get, but it sure felt good to let go.

  Only a few months ago, he would never have believed he could be thankful his mom was dead. Her heart would break over what faced him now. He’d been juggling for weeks, playing ugly games that were getting uglier by the day. What if Marguerite was right and Pauline had indeed been murdered?

  Too bad he couldn’t consult Constantine. Zelda’d been texting all evening, which was a goddamned nuisance at the club. U OK? she’d ask. What was he supposed to reply? Hunky-dory, girl—pimping’s my dream job. If he even hinted at what he was doing, she’d tell her mom, who was a freak about club rules. And Zelda wouldn’t take Busy L8R for an answer. She’d decided he needed life advice and was bent on getting him to talk to Dufray. If he didn’t know her better—Zelda was a straight shooter—he’d think she was in cahoots with the rock star. If he agreed, she might let up, but not if she knew why.

  He wasn’t about to ask Dufray for help, because the rock star would take matters into his own hands, and Zeb wasn’t ready for that. He had to make up his own mind about what needed to be done.

  He wished he didn’t have to go it alone, but for now there was no other way. He wished he could ask Constantine questions he really needed answered—such as how did a vigilante decide when murder was justified? When it was the only answer? How did Constantine steel himself to kill someone? He’d made inflicting pain look sickeningly easy.

  Zeb could have sworn Marguerite was safe, that she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time last night, but with each block he grew less and less certain, and without really intending to, he found himself approaching her house. Dark and quiet. Only the songs of a zillion bugs and frogs filled the night. If Lawless were here, he would come to the door to check Zeb out. And the car wasn’t there, which seemed strange. Was she spending the night with the old dude she’d been with at the Merkin? If she was dating Constantine, why would she go dancing with someone else? The guy looked like an old mobster. A bodyguard?

  Zeb circled Marguerite’s place, but Lawless didn’t bark, didn’t whine, didn’t come to say hello. More than a little uneasy, Zeb left her street and wove through the nearby neighborhoods, eyes peeled for any sign of the black van. Instead he found Marguerite’s car, empty and unlocked, by a crumpled bike in a ditch.

  “Marguerite.” A harsh voice battered her. “Wake up!”

  Marguerite surfaced in a paroxysm of terror and lashed out, sobbing, at the arms that imprisoned her.

  “It’s okay, Marguerite. You’re safe, babe. It’s okay.”

  She forced her lids open and met Constantine’s dark eyes. “Oh,” she sighed, sinking gratefully back into his embrace. “Thank God you’re here.” Then the whole thing slammed in on her, and sobs rushed up, unstoppable. She threw her face against his chest and shook with their force.

  His arms tightened, and he cradled her, rocking gently. A babble of voices broke through. Female voices. Lavonia, taking charge: “Bring her inside the house.” Lawless’s wet nose shoving at her, his worried whimper, and Constantine’s arm drawing away to comfort the dog and then cradling her again. Stray words: “Couch. Coffee. Doctor? Police? Can she walk? Better carry her.”

  “Leave us alone for a minute,” said Constantine. “Go make coffee, but no doctors. I’ve texted a friend who’s a cop. No, she’s fine. I’ll carry her in.”

  The voices faded, and Marguerite lifted her face, shuddering breaths slowing now. She sniffled and dug in her pocket for a tissue to wipe her nose. “Where are we? Did you catch him?”

  “Unfortunately no. I got here too late.”

  They were on a garden bench in someone’s backyard, and she was curled on his lap. She felt comfortable there, and safe, but she wasn’t a baby to be carried, so she resisted the urge to lay her head on his chest again. “Let me get up.”

  “Marguerite,” said Constantine into her ear, “I can’t have sex with you, but allow me the pleasure of holding you.” He paused. “Before I ask you what the hell you thought you were doing.”

  She struggled out of his clasp and sat beside him. “You didn’t answer your phone. He was driving away. I needed to get information any way I could.” She blinked, brushing the hair out of her eyes. Lights shone from the house, and Lavonia watched them from behind a set of sliding doors. She wore a long, dark, flowing robe. A meeting of her coven?

  “That’s no reason to risk your life.” Constantine spoke gruffly, his aura like the limp dangling of wilted lea
ves. “Let me handle this mess. I may be a brutal sort of guy, but I don’t want the deaths of innocents added to my fuckup account.”

  “You were going to find Zeb and beat the truth out of him. I had to follow that van.”

  He didn’t reply, and the cacophony of bugs singing love songs in the night only deepened the silence between them. Lawless panted at their feet, and the moon hung low in the sky.

  What had she expected? He wasn’t the sort of man to concede or change his ways. “It was an old Ford van, but I didn’t even get the plate number,” she said, dashing away more tears before they even had a chance to emerge. “It was half-covered with mud, and so were the lights around it, and I couldn’t use my headlight, and I didn’t have a flashlight… There was an 8J in the middle, but that’s all I’m sure of. Do you think Gideon can get somewhere with that?”

  “Maybe.” He took out his phone and sent a text message. “In the meantime, what am I supposed to do with you? You do need protection, girl.”

  “So does Zeb,” she shot back. Lavonia still hovered behind the French doors.

  His cell phone rang. “Jabez, I need you to pick up a little red Honda and bring it to me.” He gave an address Marguerite didn’t recognize.

  Marguerite gaped. “My car?”

  “Quickest way to follow you. I was in the bayou when you called.” He told Jabez where to find the car. “The keys are in the ignition. Say what? Okay, man—thanks.” He hung up. “If it’s been stolen, I’ll get you a new car, babe.”

  “Not necessary. In the bayou?” She shuddered. “What about snakes? You could have been bitten!”

  “I’m an Indian, babe. At one with nature. Snakes, birds, bats… we have a special rapport.”