“But why?” Zelda cried. “What does he have against you?”
“He’s my father, too,” Constantine said. “Does Zeb have a cell phone on him?”
“No,” Juma said. “His dad confiscated it.” Pause. “Professor Bonnard is your father?”
“Whoa, that must be why Zeb reminds me of Constantine,” Zelda said. “So Zeb’s your brother!”
His little brother. His chance of redemption.
“How can he be your father, too?” Zelda asked.
Constantine tuned out as Gideon briefed the girls on his history. Zeb had done his best, but he probably loved his old man. Hoped he would change, be all right in the end.
Constantine had no such illusions, and no qualms about committing murder. A mourning dove landed on the windowsill and paced back and forth. Kill. Kill. Kill.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Zeb couldn’t risk following them directly until full darkness, so he sidled along in the bushes, took the first right and kicked up to a run, making a left at the end of the block. At the next intersection he waited, and just when he began to fear he’d miscalculated and lost them, Dad and Marguerite sauntered across the street a block away. Once they were out of sight, he took off again, looping around to the same street by the park where he’d hovered only the night before. Marguerite’s car was down this end of the block near a van and a couple of other cars.
Maybe the old man was just walking her to her car, but Zeb didn’t think so. He’d have to play it by ear. If Marguerite got into her car and drove off, perfect. If not… He lingered behind the pittosporum hedge that bordered the park, folded his aura tightly against himself, and waited for them to turn the corner.
Marguerite stopped to sip her coffee. Dad nudged her forward again. She elbowed him. Zeb sucked in a breath. Did she have no idea what the man could do? Maybe she knew she was a goner, so she didn’t care anymore. She didn’t look scared, though—just majorly pissed off.
They were arguing by the time they approached the vehicles. “I’m a terrible actress. He’ll know I’m lying.”
“For your sake, I hope he won’t.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to me. He may not answer his phone.”
“He’d better.”
“The lines may even be jammed, what with the whole world trying to contact him.”
“Not by his private number,” Dad said. “He keeps one line open for people that matter.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve made it my business to know,” Dad said.
“I have no reason to suppose I matter anymore, if I ever did.” Marguerite was practically spitting.
“If you don’t matter to him, you don’t matter to me either,” Dad said. He placed a hand on the back of her neck, and Zeb braced himself. His old man was strong; he could kill her with the twist of a wrist. Zeb couldn’t risk interfering unless she made a run for it, in which case he’d tackle the old man. But the park was deserted; she wouldn’t run if no help was in sight.
Suddenly, he had an idea. He opened his aura and spread it wide, wide. If she looked at the hedge, she’d see his aura sticking out at the end and above it, too. She might even recognize it as his and know he was there for her.
“As long as he cares whether or not you’re alive, you’re of use to me,” said his dad. “Bear that in mind, and don’t try to warn him, or you’ll be sorry.” He steered her past the vehicles and into the park in the direction of the hedge.
Zeb froze, hardly daring to breathe. Marguerite’s eyes flickered. She came to a halt and got out her phone.
“What a pity you lost your head over that dirtbag rock star,” Dad said. “Don’t lose it again now. Make that call and pray he answers.”
Finally, for the first time since his childhood, Constantine and his guide were entirely in accord. Zeb needed to live. So did Marguerite. Bonnard had to die. Whether or not Gideon got the proof he needed, there was no other way.
“I understand now,” Zelda said. “Zeb isn’t suicidal. He talked about dying because he’s afraid his dad will kill him.”
Constantine’s cell rang. Honey and Eyes.
His blood ran hot, then cold. He had to maintain his cool and play it right.
He let it ring until it went to message, then waited a good two minutes, his blood congealing to ice, before he said, “That was Marguerite. If she doesn’t call again, I’ll call her back. I need absolute silence, even if I say something that pisses you off.” He grimaced at Zelda. “If you can’t control your fangs, consider it a good sign.”
The phone rang again, and this time he answered. “What do you want now?”
Both Zelda and Juma stiffened at this.
Play along with me, he telepathed, focusing hard on Marguerite. Don’t be afraid. Everything will be fine.
There was a pause, then Marguerite’s trembling, furious voice. “I want nothing from you, Constantine. This call wasn’t my idea.”
He forced a laugh. “So whose was it?” Judging by the echo, he was on speakerphone at the other end. The dove had gone to roost, but a nighthawk called outside, and a great horned owl was perched outside the window.
“Zeb is with me,” she said. “He says he’s sorry he didn’t come clean with you earlier. He says he knows something about the murder last night. He wants to talk to you, but with no one else around.”
The truth or a lie? Had Zeb fucked up already and they were both at Bon-Bon’s mercy? “If he knows something,” Constantine stalled, “he should call the cops.”
“He can’t do that. Aren’t you listening to the news? The cops are after him. They won’t believe him.”
“And he thinks I will?” Silence at the other end. “He’s taking a big chance, babe. If he tells me the truth and I don’t want what he says spread around, I might have to kill him. If he’s lying, I might get pissed off and kill him. You know I don’t like liars.” He paused, eyeing the owl through the window. “I have a feeling you’re lying to me right now, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe! You don’t have any feelings at all, you two-timing jerk.”
Whatever reasons she might find to hate him, two-timing wasn’t one of them. She must have heard what he’d telepathed. Good girl.
Constantine managed a whoop of laughter. “I’m a rock star, babe. What do you expect?”
Zelda’s fangs slotted down, and Juma’s eyes narrowed. Gideon gave him a thumbs-up. Juma rolled her eyes, and Zelda reddened and sucked her fangs back inside her gums. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know you would never, ever be a two-timer.”
“I expect nothing from you,” Marguerite ranted.
“Wise of you, babe,” Constantine said and directed his focus to his spirit guide. Where? he asked the bird. We get it right the first time, or we’re screwed. “Put the kid on the phone. I’ll talk to him right now.”
More silence; no, there was the sound of a passing car in the background. They must be outdoors. Lep left the room in a hurry. A second later Constantine saw him on the roof making a call.
You’re doing great, he telepathed to Marguerite. I’ll come get you. I promise. He had never, ever cared so much about a message reaching its destination. Just keep playing along.
“He says no.” Marguerite sounded breathless. Afraid. Didn’t she believe him? “He says he can’t take the risk that you’re recording him.”
“Bring him to the Cat, then. I’ll have him escorted in.”
“Right past the cops? That’s impossible.”
Where? Constantine asked his spirit guide again. This could well be Dufray’s last stand. Let’s choose someplace memorable, in case we screw up.
The mounds.
He and the bird seemed unusually in sync today. He telepathed it as a suggestion, focusing on Marguerite but letting a little slip sideways. Would Bon-Bon recognize a thought that wasn’t his own? He’d never shown an aptitude for anything but cruelty way back when.
“How about out at the Indian mounds?” she said, and t
he owl gave a self-satisfied little flutter. Constantine didn’t answer, letting the silence drag out.
“It’s going to rain, so they’ll be deserted,” she added.
Still he said nothing.
Marguerite’s voice broke. “Constantine, please. You’re his only chance.”
“His only chance,” Constantine mimicked in a falsetto. “You’re such a drama queen, Marguerite. Don’t expect me to believe that obnoxious kid said anything as girly as that.”
“I hate you,” Marguerite sobbed, and Zelda’s fangs snapped back down.
“You and countless other people,” Constantine said. I’ll save you, he telepathed desperately. I swear I will. The horned owl broke into his maudlin promises. On the mound. Under the tree. Nine o’clock tonight. It flew away and disappeared against the purple evening sky.
“Tell the kid I’ll be on Papa Mound at nine P.M.,” Constantine said. “I’ll be by the big live oak.”
“Nine!” Marguerite wailed. “That’s an hour away.”
An hour in which anything might happen to her. Are you fucking sure? he asked the bird. If either of them dies, I’ll spend the rest of my life massacring you and your kind.
A nightjar laughed, and a barn owl screamed with mirth. Nine o’clock, came a distant call, and Constantine sighed long and loud. “I can’t just walk out, or the paparazzi and the cops will be right behind me. It’ll take a while to get away unseen. Take it or leave it.” He gritted his teeth and ended the call.
“Bastard,” Zeb’s dad said. “You’re not such a bad liar, Marguerite. I’ll give you a B-plus.”
Zeb clenched his fists. She’d done a great job, seeing as she was being threatened by a murderer, but he hoped like hell Constantine hadn’t believed her.
“Turn your phone off,” Bonnard said. She did. “Now throw it in the trash can.” She tossed the phone, and he guided her toward the cars. “Let’s go kill… some time.” He laughed. “We’ll get something to eat.”
“All right,” Marguerite said in a tight, furious voice. She unzipped the outside pocket of her backpack and took out her keys.
“Not in your car,” he said, pushing her forward. “In the van.”
Zeb hadn’t seen this particular van before—dark green and quite new—but he recognized the magnetic signs on the side, purportedly belonging to the Watershed Management Department. His dad had used them before.
“You don’t have to shove me,” Marguerite said, wrenching away, stumbling and dropping her backpack and keys. “If you want to avoid attention, be civil.”
“I like attention,” he said. “I deserve it. Get moving.”
She picked up the backpack and stomped toward the passenger side of the van. He opened the door for her and shut her in, then went around to his side.
“I should have gotten Master Teacher,” he said as he opened the other door. Why didn’t she just get out and run toward the main drag? Why had she even made that phone call? Zeb was pretty sure she’d noticed his aura. Didn’t she know he would help?
The old man must be holding something over her head—something big and really, really scary. But she’d dropped her keys and left them there, a clear invitation to follow. Or, more likely, to go for help. He would do both.
“Acting head of Chemistry. What a load of bull. They should make me head and be done with it. I’d be Dean of Science by now if the idiots at NSF didn’t keep turning down my grant applications.” His dad got into the van. “I’m the most brilliant chemist of the twenty-first century.”
Yada yada yada. Zeb had heard all this over and over again.
The engine of the van came on, but over its rumble the old man kept ranting. “My drugs are works of pure genius, and those are only the ones people know about. I deserve the Nobel Pr—” He slammed the door shut, backed into the road, and drove toward the corner where Zeb crouched. Zeb ducked around the end of the hedge just as the van passed it and waited, heart hammering, as the van approached the corner. The van picked up speed and drove away. It passed the next intersection and disappeared.
Zeb sprinted for Marguerite’s cell phone and keys. He punched in Zelda’s number with one hand and started the car with the other. He backed out and drove toward the corner, lights off, while the phone rang and rang. Please answer. Please.
She picked up just as he reached the corner. He edged forward, craning his neck. The van was already a couple of blocks away. He turned the corner but kept his lights off. From the phone came a hesitant, “Hello?”
“Zelda, it’s Zeb. Did you reach Constantine? That phone call he just received from Marguerite was crap. My old man made her say that.”
“We figured,” Zelda said and gave a little yelp.
Constantine’s voice came on. “Is she all right? Where is she?”
“She went with him in a green van,” Zeb said. “I couldn’t get the tag number without being seen.” He described the signs on the sides. “He told her they were going to get something to eat.”
“He’s taking her to dinner?”
“Why not? He doesn’t know anybody suspects him. There’s no evidence against him. There never is, but I think he has killed a whole bunch of people.”
“Not much doubt about that,” Constantine said. “Did she seem scared?”
Zeb thought about it. “Maybe, but mostly she acted pissed off. Maybe she doesn’t think he’s going to hurt her, or at least not yet. He said she’s useful to him as long as you care about her, and since you answered her call, I guess he assumes you do. But he made her throw her phone away, so he won’t be having her call you again. I’m afraid he’ll drug her or even kill her. I wish I’d told her everything. He makes all these weird drugs in his lab, and—”
Constantine interrupted. “Which direction did they go?”
Zeb pulled himself together and turned on his headlights. “They’re headed north on Oak. I’m going to follow them in Marguerite’s car, but I have to stay way back in case my old man realizes he’s being followed.”
“I’ll get someone else onto them ASAP. In the meantime, I’m counting on you, bro.”
Constantine was counting on him.
“I apologize for my earlier behavior,” Constantine said. “I shouldn’t have threatened you.”
“I should have trusted you,” Zeb said. “I just didn’t—I didn’t realize, and I didn’t think he’d—”
“You did what you could. Are they still in sight?”
Zeb centered himself again. “I just turned onto Oak. They’re about three blocks ahead, near Sacred Heart School. But don’t send the cops after them. He must be holding something over her head, something big.”
“Could be,” Constantine said.
Constantine didn’t sound convinced. “I know Marguerite,” Zeb said. “She wouldn’t lie like that without a really good reason. She did everything he said, and she didn’t run away when she had the chance.”
“I won’t send the cops,” Constantine said. “I’m going to keep that appointment at nine o’clock.”
“But he might kill you,” Zeb said.
“He can try,” said Constantine Dufray.
The instant he hung up, Constantine called Jabez and explained the situation and the meeting at nine o’clock. “We don’t know why Marguerite didn’t try to run when she had the chance. The bastard must be holding something over her head.”
“You want me to find out what it is?” Jabez asked.
“No, I’ll do that. All I need you to do is make sure the girl stays safe.”
“Will do,” Jabez said.
Fine, but Constantine had to make sure the bodyguard understood the priorities. “I need the guy alive, but nothing matters more than the girl.”
“Right,” Jabez said.
It still wasn’t enough. Did he really understand? Constantine had to just say it. “I love this girl, bro.”
“I got that,” Jabez said. “I’ll keep her safe.”
Al left the green van at the local mall and switche
d to a white one sporting Park Service signs, so they fit right in when they parked behind the mound museum. Al took the driver’s seat again but made Marguerite sit on the floor so she wouldn’t be visible from outside. She hadn’t dared to look behind on the drive over, nor could she risk glancing hopefully into the woods.
Constantine had telepathed reassuring messages, had urged her to play along. She had to play it cool and do what she was told… but why nine o’clock? What if Al went completely off his rocker before then?
Maybe that aura she’d seen in the park had been Zeb’s; maybe he’d retrieved her car keys and phone; maybe he’d contacted Constantine and told him what his dad was really like. All she could do was hope.
Al had visited a drive-through for slaw dogs and several orders of oily fries. Maybe the prospect of revenge—and probably more murder—gave him an appetite.
“Constantine’s an idiot. I’ve been messing with him for years, and he never figured it out.” Obviously, Al intended to kill her. Otherwise he wouldn’t be confessing about his whole, twisted life. He laughed around a fry. “That’s one of the advantages of being dead.”
Marguerite didn’t have any appetite, but Al seemed inclined to take it personally if she didn’t eat. She’d managed to force down one slaw dog. She sprinkled more salt and vinegar on her little pile of fries. “Huh?”
“I’ve been dead for years.” Al sucked down some Coke. “Threw a little money at one of those drunken Indians and had him spread the word that I got killed in a drug deal gone bad. Then I gave him a hit of something that didn’t mix with alcohol, and boom—no chance he’ll ever change his mind and tell the truth.”
By now, she’d figured out Al liked being told how bad he was. “That’s terrible.”
“Uh-huh.” He crammed down a bunch more fries. “Then I bought a rifle, got in some practice, and shot Constantine’s grandfather and little brother.”
“You—you—oh, how horrible!” she squeaked.
Al grinned and squirted a bunch more ketchup on his fries. “I didn’t have anything against the kid, mind you—unlike Constantine, he did what he was told—but the grandfather was an interfering old bastard, so I had to get rid of him. The kid happened to be in the path of one of the bullets. Just as well, though. Judging by Constantine and Zeb, he would have been a disappointment, too.”
[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine Page 29