[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine

by Barbara Monajem

  Two blocks further, the van turned into an all-night gas station downtown and pulled up at a pump. Zeb slid into the shadows at the roadside, panting, allowing himself some slack, letting the rain wash and soothe the bloody rips in his fingers. Still a chance. He crept along on the wet grass next to the sidewalk. Streetlights glistened on the wet pavement, and he hurried by, keeping just out of their reach.

  Next door to the brightly lit gas station an abandoned house slanted slowly toward demolition, bordered by a scraggly hedge. Zeb sank down behind the bushes and breathed and watched the van, trying to come up with a plan. Who could the bastard be after this time? Where could he be going? Not after Marguerite; God, he hoped not. She was with Constantine, so she would be okay, and she wouldn’t go running out at night alone anymore. He tried to think, to come up with a plan. Maybe he shouldn’t have chickened out at the Impractical Cat, but with his father right there, he just couldn’t take the chance. What were the odds that Constantine or anyone else would believe him? Because of his employment record and a couple of blood tests, people thought he was a druggie with a violent temper who couldn’t even hold down a job.

  The rain kept falling on the bushes and trickling down his back. He couldn’t even send up a silent prayer to his mother, asking for help. He had made her promises, and it looked like he was going to have to break them. She had always told him he could only do his best, but what did that amount to? How did someone like Constantine steel himself to harm—or even kill—someone he knew or maybe even cared about?

  The van door slammed shut, and Zeb scrambled forward, keeping low and directly behind the van. He wrapped his hands in the bottom of his T-shirt, gripped the rack, and positioned his feet on the bumper just as the van slid forward.

  They puttered through town in the steady rain, and Zeb crouched grimly against the rack. Past one street, two, five; even with the T-shirt as a cushion, his hands were killing him. Another block, and the van slowed, turned, pulled into the gravel parking area next to the small park in the middle of town. No one was in sight, and few lights showed in the houses flanking the park. Why had he stopped here? Zeb unclenched his hands and stepped lightly down, scuttling to the right into the yard of a dingy brick apartment building occupied mostly by dopeheads. He crouched in the muddy shadows beside the marijuana-scented porch, and watched and waited and tried not to hope.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Marguerite wasn’t in any shape to drive. She’d never been so enraged in her life.

  And upset with herself for distressing poor innocent Lawless. “I’m sorry, boy,” she said, reaching over to caress him. “I’m not mad at you.”

  He licked her hand, and she almost burst into tears. Then she noticed Reuben behind her, and the rage surged once more. She struggled, got herself focused, and made it through downtown Bayou Gavotte without running over any slow-moving pedestrians.

  It began to rain, and at the last minute, she drove past her own street. She had to calm down before going home. She had to decide what to say if any reporters were there, and she had to get past them—in and out—without showing how much she was hurting inside. She doubted Reuben would let her be stomped to death by a horde of reporters, but if she claimed she was still going out with Constantine, he would report it as another lie—and yet she refused to demean herself by publicly dissing Constantine either.

  After fifteen minutes of driving in circles, she went home, drained but in control. There were five unfamiliar cars parked near her house. She pulled up in the driveway. Jabez was on the porch, sipping iced coffee with a couple of women in suits. Three men leapt from their vehicles and came over to hers before she’d even had a chance to open the door.

  Jabez and Reuben were on them. “No comment, no comment, no comment,” they said, shoving them all aside, ushering her through the rain to her front door.

  Oho. Not giving her a chance to diss their beloved leader, huh? “Actually, I do have a comment,” she said sweetly, smiling at the women in suits. “Constantine is absolutely amazing, and some of the stuff you hear about him is true.” She paused. “And some of it’s not.” She went indoors. So there, she thought bitterly. Let them chew on that one. Maybe she wasn’t as hopeless at dealing with the media as she thought.

  Reuben followed her. “Are you still guarding me?” she demanded, doing her damnedest not to be pissed off at him. He’d only been doing his job when he’d tattled on her.

  “Just following you, ma’am,” he replied. That “ma’am” had an ominous feel to it.

  She took a small overnight bag from the hall closet and packed enough for a couple of days, including food and a leash for Lawless. She changed into clean clothes. Now all she needed was her sketch pad. She still hadn’t decided where to go tonight. Tomorrow she would go with Lawless to the levee in New Orleans, sit under a tree, and have a lazy time drawing the boats and the passersby. Her mouth was already watering for coffee and beignets.

  Where was her sketch pad? She’d left it on the coffee table the previous night. She was sure of that. She didn’t remember seeing it this morning, but she hadn’t been looking for it. She’d hardly been in this room at all. She went through the entire house, and then did it all over again, bitching under her breath. “Where the hell is it?”

  Reuben was hanging by the living room window, picking his teeth. “Looking for something?”

  “My sketch pad.” She opened the front door, beckoned Jabez inside, and asked if he’d seen or moved it.

  Total indifference. “No, ma’am.” He went back outdoors.

  “I need to speak to Constantine,” she told Reuben.

  “Don’t suppose he wants you back there, ma’am,” Reuben said, very cool, very sure, striking a chilly misery into her heart. They had a routine for dealing with cast-off sexual conquests.

  Assholes, that’s what they all were. “I didn’t say I wanted to see him,” she said. “I want to know if he moved my sketch pad or saw it or anything.”

  Reuben appeared to consider, heaved a jaded sigh, and sent a text message. Marguerite gritted her teeth and waited. She was close to exploding by the time the exchange of messages ended. Reuben said, “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “Didn’t see it, didn’t touch it.”

  Oh, shit. It had been there when she’d left to go out with Tony. There when she’d returned, because she remembered closing it to cover the sketch of her sex dream but leaving it on the coffee table. Someone had searched her house between then and when she’d returned with Constantine in the small hours, and her sketch pad was what they’d taken.

  “I need to talk to Constantine,” she said again.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Reuben said. “No can do. He wasn’t any too pleased I texted him. Said I should know better.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll handle it myself.” She picked up her overnight bag, but Reuben took it and silently carried it out to the car. She slung her backpack over her shoulder, locked the door behind her, and was ushered to her car by Constantine’s minions.

  She found Gideon’s card in her wallet and gave him a call. “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I need to speak to you. Something went missing from my house last night that I think you should know about.”

  “Does Constantine know about all this?”

  Marguerite took a breath to get her voice under control. “He won’t talk to me.”

  “Aw, shit. What’s eating the dude?”

  “I don’t know and don’t care. If you decide my information has any significance, feel free to let him know.”

  Big sigh. “Sure. Come on over to my place,” he said and gave directions. She drove a ways out of town along the river on Highway 43 and turned into a long driveway bounded by well-tended shrubs. At the end of the drive stood a sea-green Victorian house lit up by outdoor lights, with a riot of flowers on either side of the stairs and in pots on the veranda. A big mutt with blond curls raised its head from the porch, sniffed the air, and barked once. A woman
about Marguerite’s age with auburn hair in an untidy ponytail came around the side of the house with a wheelbarrow full of weeds and clippings, but she set it down and took off her gardening gloves when Marguerite pulled up and got out.

  “You must be Marguerite. I’m Ophelia. Ever since the baby was born, I have to fit in the gardening whenever I can. Fortunately, I have good night vision, but it’s going to start raining again any second.” She stuck out a hand. She had a cheerful aura and a dazzling smile, which quickly turned to a scowl when the red Cadillac drew up. “Reuben, what are you doing here?”

  “Following Ms. Marguerite,” the bodyguard said. “Constantine’s orders.” The dog on the porch stretched and came down the stairs.

  “Following her? Why?” She glanced at Marguerite and rolled her eyes. “Because he said so, I suppose. Well, I say you can leave.” The tips of a pair of fangs peeked out from beneath her upper lip but disappeared immediately, and an embarrassed flush crossed her face.

  Either Reuben didn’t notice or he already knew. “Sorry, Ophelia. No can do.”

  “I will not have Constantine persecuting people on my property,” the vampire said, and Marguerite began to relax. The blond dog panted cheerfully at the sight of Lawless through the car window. “You can let your dog out. We have three dogs here for him to play with.” Marguerite opened the door, and Lawless bounded out to join Ophelia’s dog in the standard sniffing routines.

  Reuben’s eyes flickered uneasily. “Please don’t tell Vi. I don’t mean to disrespect you, but I’m between a rock and a hard place here.”

  “Constantine being the rock, as in ‘dumb as,’” Ophelia said. “He makes me so mad sometimes.” She took a breath, her aura busy. “Tell you what. If he won’t let you leave, wait at the side of the road. It’s a public place and none of my business who parks there.”

  “That works,” Reuben said, cheering up. He backed his car out of the driveway.

  “So much for him.” Ophelia grinned. “Vi’s my sister, and the possibility that she might stop sleeping with him is too much for him to take.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, honey, are you all right?”

  “No,” Marguerite said and burst into tears.

  “What the fuck happened?” Lep said.

  Constantine hadn’t moved since returning to the rooftop apartment. Still sprawled on the sofa, he turned his head just enough to see his friend in the doorway. “She had a tantrum.”

  “Sure, but why haven’t you cleaned up?”

  Constantine hunched a shoulder.

  “This isn’t like you, bro.” He paused. “Looks like you had a lucky escape, though.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I mean it, man. You don’t need another Jonetta.”

  “She’s not like Jonetta.”

  “No?” Lep retrieved the tray from where it had landed on top of an amp and began picking up what remained of the plates. “Could have fooled me.”

  Constantine sat up. “Hey! That’s my mess to clean up.”

  “Then you should have done it by now, shouldn’t you?” Lep tossed the remains of the sandwiches onto the roof, where some bird or other would enjoy them. “I have news for you, none of it good. I talked to the dude who created the disturbance at the concert. Swore he hadn’t planned it. He’d had one beer before the concert, and that was it. Apologized like crazy, said he didn’t know what got into him. Said he’s been upset about stuff lately, but it wasn’t like him to go ballistic. I think he was telling the truth.”

  Constantine hunched a shoulder again. “It was just an idea.”

  “Another thing—Janie who works in the fan club’s been seen with Nathan once too often. She had dinner with him tonight. Think we should fire her?”

  “Whatever.” Constantine stood.

  “You might want to stay sitting down,” Lep said. “You haven’t heard the worst yet.”

  “There’s worse?”

  “I got an email from Nathan,” Lep said. “Not that I tend to believe what he says, but this had the ring of truth to it, and it was easily verified.”

  Constantine wiped the guitar dry. It might be salvageable, but he wasn’t sure he cared. “Just tell me.”

  “The cop who beat me up in Baton Rouge,” Lep said. “He was Marguerite’s uncle.”

  “Her uncle.”

  “By marriage,” Lep said, “which is probably why it took Nathan a while to find out. Marguerite’s mother and his widow are sisters.”

  The last tiny spark of hope inside Constantine went abruptly out. He felt the bird ruffling its feathers, but it remained silent. Constantine got down on his hands and knees and mopped up the rest of the tea Marguerite had spilled, while Lep put the tray on the dumbwaiter and came back to gather the scattered CDs. Constantine swept the floor and put the broom and dustpan away.

  There’s a valid explanation, the bird said at last.

  Maybe, maybe not, but that didn’t change a thing. He needed to do anything but think—about this or anything else. He picked up another guitar. “Jam with me tonight, bro?”

  Zeb crouched in the mud, anxious and shivering, until finally a fair-haired guy in a pale T-shirt and jeans hustled around the corner from the main drag. He slowed, peering into the empty park, then turned on a flashlight and poked around in a trash can. The van window came down, and the driver softly hailed him. The fair-haired dude went over to the van; the driver unfolded a large sheet of white paper in his gloved hands and shone a flashlight on it for the newcomer, who grinned and nodded and, after a few seconds’ conversation, went around to the passenger door. The newcomer looked vaguely familiar; Zeb had seen him somewhere before, but—

  No time to think about it. Zeb scuttled across the road and lifted himself onto the bike rack as the passenger slammed the door shut. Better prepared this time, he’d removed his T-shirt, using several layers of the fabric to cushion his hands from the metal rack. The van headed back across town, past the neighborhoods where Zeb and Eaton and Marguerite lived, past the university, out toward the Indian mounds. Zeb clung while the van rattled and bounced. Even with the T-shirt to protect him, every jolt hurt his hands, and his fingers ached from holding so tight. Where could they be headed? Maybe he was risking discovery for nothing. The bastard couldn’t do anything with a stranger around.

  The van bounded up past the mounds and kept on going, past the first picnic grounds, past the second, and pulled up at the third. The rain fell steadily, making plenty of noise, but still Zeb stepped down gently, at the same time as the driver and his passenger. His heart beat so hard he felt sick.

  The driver clicked on a flashlight, shone it in front of the vehicle, and found the path he was looking for. “Come on.”

  Zeb crept sideways into the bushes to wait until they had gone a little way and then followed. He stretched his cramped fingers, biting his lip against the pain.

  “Is it down here?” The new man was eager and excited, too loud for the rainy night.

  “Hold this for me, will you?” The driver passed the flashlight to his passenger. His gloved hand pulled a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt, held it up in the light, admired its glint.

  “Where—where are we going?” asked the other man, louder and uneasy now, but he didn’t have time for more.

  “To the River Styx.” He stabbed his passenger casually, up under his ribs, and caught the flashlight as it fell. The man slumped to the ground, twitching, and Zeb, shaking in the shadows, barely managed to stifle a sob.

  He had the proof he was waiting for. He knew what he needed to do, but he couldn’t move. Could only crouch there, muffling his breathing, trying to slow the thudding of his heart. He didn’t have a weapon, but even if he did, would he have the guts?

  He didn’t think so.

  The murderer waited calmly until the man was still, rolled him onto his side, pulled the knife out, and without even wiping it, restored it to its sheath. He clicked off the light and returned to the van. Jesus, was he going to leave the guy lying in the dirt? Wel
l, why not? Unbelievably, it seemed he really had killed poor old Pauline, and he’d left her at the side of the road and then run over her for good measure. But no, he was leaning into the front seat, doing something… He emerged folding a sheet of paper, and then folded it even smaller until it fit tightly in a back pocket of his victim’s jeans. With a grunt he picked the guy up and threw him over his shoulder.

  Zeb pulled on his T-shirt and followed the killer down the path through the woods, his faculties strangely focused and clear. Obviously, the body was to be dumped in the river. It might drift for miles and miles, or get caught on a branch or a rock close by. Probably there was no saving the poor bastard now, but Zeb had to make sure. And whether the guy was dead or alive, he had to find out what had been planted in that pocket. He must not hesitate, and more important, he must not get caught.

  He slid along the edge of the path in almost total darkness, keeping well behind. The killer made plenty of noise up ahead, stepping on twigs and crunching leaves as if nothing mattered. A grunt sounded, followed by a splash, and Zeb retreated hurriedly into the trees. He did not shake, he scarcely breathed, and the murderer sauntered by, shining the light ahead of him, scraping his boots on the gravel as he passed. Why not? No one would ever suspect him or examine his boots. He shone his flashlight casually around, then up toward the sky, and with a smile contemplated the raindrops in the shaft of light.

  He got into the van and drove away, and Zeb picked through the trees to the water. The body flickered and rolled downriver, almost at the bend, the guy’s pale T-shirt ballooning above the water. Zeb plunged in and let the current take him.

  For a few brief seconds, Marguerite wallowed in Ophelia’s sympathetic hug. Then she wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and went onto the back porch to talk to Gideon, who was painting an old wooden chair a vibrant orange, attended by a couple of lazing German shepherds. He waved her to a deck chair.