by Rebecca York
The two men she’d seen in the car across the street from her house barreled in, a mixture of triumph and relief on their faces.
* * *
AS CRAIG DROVE into Houma, he kept alert for the men who had kidnapped him and Stephanie. He’d struggled to keep his thoughts to himself as he’d discussed this trip with Stephanie, but now that he was alone, he was aware that he was at risk. And as he thought about it, he couldn’t be sure if Lieutenant Broussard was on the up-and-up. He drove slowly past the Bayou Restaurant, looking in the window, trying to spot Broussard. Although he’d never met the man, he was pretty sure he could identify a police detective.
But as he glanced in his rearview mirror, he saw a van in back of him, a van a lot like the one the two thugs had used when they’d kidnapped him and Stephanie.
He cursed aloud, speeding up, wishing he knew the city better. He’d insisted that Stephanie stay at the B and B, and now he realized he’d given up the one advantage he’d had. Together he and Stephanie had psychic powers they could draw on. Alone, he was the way he’d been for all the years since Sam had died.
He drove across a bridge that spanned a bayou, then across another, surprised at how much water flowed through the city. The van stayed behind him as he turned down a side street, then came to a screeching halt when the blacktop ended at the bank of a river.
There was nowhere to back up, no escape in his vehicle. Throwing open the door, he sprang out and started running along the edge of the bayou.
He heard running feet behind him and then the sound of a bullet whizzing past his head.
He ran down a short pier, then dived in, swimming deep underwater as more shots were fired. His only option was to keep going, trying to put as much distance between himself and the men with the guns while he veered downstream to make it harder for them to figure out where he would surface.
Finally, when his lungs were bursting, he swam to the surface and dragged in air.
He heard a shout, then bullets hit the water around him, but he was already diving.
He let the current carry him farther downstream. When he came up again, low-hanging branches shielded him from view.
Looking back, he saw the two men running along the bank, but it appeared that neither one of them was going to plunge into the bayou.
When he heard a splash, he looked to his right and saw an alligator slipping into the water.
Teeth gritted, he used a cypress root to pull himself out of the water, putting a tree trunk between himself and the men with the guns.
His clothing was dripping. His shoes were covered with mud, and he was out in the open. If he turned around, he would likely run into the men.
His only option was to keep walking, his shoes sucking in the mud as he put space between himself and the two men. He had left civilization behind. There was only dense vegetation on both sides of the water, cypress and tupelo and saw palmetto, until he came to a shack near the water. In front of it was a pier, and tied to the pier was a pirogue, one of the small boats that the local residents used.
He looked behind him and across the water. The men had lost him in the swamp, and he thought it would be safe to cross the water again. The shack in front of him looked deserted.
Turning toward the pier, he walked onto the weathered boards, heading for the boat.
Before he had gotten more than a few feet, a voice rang out behind him.
“You—hold up, or you’re a dead man.”
* * *
STEPHANIE FACED the two men, determined not to give them anything Reynard could use against her. “Thank God you’re here.”
“Oh, yeah? Looks like you were pretty cozy here with Branson.”
“I thought his name was Craig Brady.”
“Craig Branson,” one of the men corrected.
“He was using a false name?” she answered, as if she was shocked.
“What were you doing here with him?” the shorter man asked.
“He was holding me captive.”
“What did he want with you?”
“I’ll talk to Mr. Reynard about that,” she said, hoping she could come up with a story he would believe.
The guy snorted, and Stephanie fought to project the impression that she was telling the truth.
“Come on, we’re getting out of here.”
“Going where?”
“Mr. Reynard is waiting for you.”
“Let me get my stuff.”
He hesitated for a moment, and she struggled to project the idea that he had to give her a few more minutes here—time to leave a clue for Craig.
* * *
CRAIG TURNED to see a grizzled old man with a week’s growth of beard, wearing a camouflage shirt, torn blue jeans and combat boots. He was holding a shotgun pointed at Craig’s chest.
“Don’t shoot. I need help,” Craig said, raising his hands above his head.
The guy’s face turned a shade less hostile as he took in Craig’s appearance. “What happened to you?”
“Two guys with guns were chasing me.”
“Yeah, why?”
Craig took a chance and asked, “Have you heard of the Solomon Clinic?”
“You one of the bastards who was runnin’ that place?”
Craig shook his head. “I’m one of the children who was born as a result of Dr. Solomon’s treatments. Somebody knows about us and is going after us.”
The guy lowered the rifle. “Yeah. My nephew was one of them kids. He’s dead.”
Craig sucked in a sharp breath.
“He was one of the ones who got together with another kid from the clinic—and croaked in bed with her.”
“I think my...girlfriend and I lucked out on that part. But somebody’s been chasing us since we met.”
“Where is she?”
“I left her at a B and B outside of town and came here to talk to a police detective who said he had some information for me.”
“Don’t never trust the cops.”
Craig was already having bad feelings about Broussard. “You may be right.”
His benefactor said, “You need dry clothes and a ride.”
“I’d surely appreciate it,” Craig allowed.
“I think I got something from my son that you can wear.” He turned and walked toward the shack.
Craig followed, sloshing as he went, then hesitated at the doorway.
“I’ll get your place wet.”
“The water will go through the cracks in the floor. Come on in.”
Craig followed the man inside. The interior looked a lot more comfortable than the ramshackle facade suggested. A lantern sat on a wooden table, illuminating a narrow bed, several chairs and a small kitchen area, all neatly arranged.
The old man opened a chest of drawers and pulled out a shirt like the one he was wearing and another pair of jeans.
Craig shucked off his wet clothing and put on the dry replacements. The pant legs were an inch too short, but they were better than what he’d been wearing. His shoes were still a muddy mess, but there was nothing he could do about that at the moment. His cell phone was ruined, and his wallet was soggy, but the money and credit cards inside would dry out.
“You got a way to get back to your place?” his benefactor asked.
“I left my car on the other side of the river,” Craig answered.
“I can take you across.”
They walked down the dock where Craig climbed into the boat and the old man cast off, using a paddle to propel them.
Craig looked back, seeing the dense swampy area where the shack was almost hidden from view.
“Thank you,” he said when they got to the other side. As he reached for his wallet, the old Cajun shook his head.
“No
need.”
Craig climbed out and started along the shore, watching for the men who had chased him. It seemed they had given up the chase for the moment, but what about Stephanie? He made it to his vehicle and climbed in, torn between caution and speeding as he headed back to the B and B.
He wanted to rush to the cottage, but instinct had him stopping down the block and proceeding on foot, casting his thoughts before him, trying to contact Stephanie. He knew she had to be worried—and probably angry that he’d left her alone.
There was no mental sign from her as he approached the cottage, and he felt his chest tighten.
Then he saw something that stopped him in his tracks. It was Ike Broussard climbing out of a car and heading for the cottage.
As far as Craig knew, the bastard hadn’t kept the appointment at the restaurant. What was he doing here now?
Craig sped up, calling out a mental warning to Stephanie as he watched the man push open the front door.
He’d barely disappeared inside when a massive explosion shook the little building, throwing Craig to the ground.
Chapter Fifteen
Craig covered his head with his arms as debris rained down around him. As soon as he could, he scrambled to his feet and ran toward the building.
“Stephanie. Oh, Lord, Stephanie,” he called out as he surveyed the damage. The building simply wasn’t there, and the man who had stepped inside had vanished.
Craig’s whole body was shaking. He’d left Stephanie here when she’d begged him to take her with him. He’d thought he was doing the right thing, and now she was gone—the way Sam was gone. That had been the worst thing that had ever happened to him. This was a thousand times worse.
He heard a siren in the distance. The fire department and probably the cops. Instinct told him to get the hell out of there before the authorities arrived.
Quickly he backed away and ran down the block to the spot where he’d left his car.
* * *
“SHE’S IN THE CAR. We’re on our way,” the man in the backseat said into his cell phone. He listened for a minute, then said, “We expect to be there in forty-five minutes.”
Stephanie knew that John Reynard had a number of residences. One was a plantation house about forty miles from New Orleans. Which was where they were going, Stephanie surmised.
After one of the men had hustled her out of the cottage, the other had gotten something out of the trunk and gone back to the cottage, but she’d had no idea what he was doing.
He’d given his partner the thumbs-up when he’d climbed back into the car. Then the three of them had sped away. Toward her doom? Or could she somehow save herself—and get back to Craig?
She modified that thought. She had to get back to Craig. She belonged with him, not with the man she’d promised to marry because of misplaced loyalty to her father.
She’d felt guilty about her relationship with him, and she’d told herself that was her fault. Now she knew it wasn’t true. It had as much to do with him as with her, and it was too bad she hadn’t seen that a long time ago.
But her father wasn’t her immediate problem. That was John Reynard. Every time the car slowed to take a curb or stop at a traffic light, she thought about jumping out and making a run for it. But that would only confirm her guilt. And what was the chance that she could actually evade these men?
She would have to face John, but what could she say to him that he would want to hear—and that he’d believe?
It was hard to make her mind work coherently, and she was still trying to figure out what she was going to say when the car stopped at the gate across the access road. Once the house had sat in the middle of cotton fields. Now it was a fortified compound, guarded by men and a fence that circled the area around the house.
The barrier slid open, letting the car through, then slid closed behind her—like a prison gate clanging shut. The long drive was lined with live oak trees, making a majestic approach to the restored plantation house that had been newly painted white. It had a portico across the front that reminded Stephanie of Tara in Gone with the Wind, except that the entrance was on the second floor as in most Louisiana plantation houses.
When the car pulled up beside the wide front steps, Stephanie dragged in a breath and let it out, preparing for what was coming next.
Unable to move, she simply sat in the passenger seat.
“Get out,” the man in back said, climbing out and opening her door.
There was no point in trying to stay in the car. It wouldn’t do her any kind of good. She climbed out and stood on shaky legs, looking up at the steps.
When a figure appeared, she blinked. It was Claire Dupree, the woman who had been helping her in the dress shop for the past few months. Once the shop had been her life, but she hadn’t thought about her business or her assistant in days. Now she tipped her head as she stared at Claire.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“John thought you’d appreciate having some female companionship.”
“John asked you here?”
“Yes.”
As Stephanie tried to work her way through the implications, a lightbulb suddenly went off in her head. Claire had come to the shop looking for a job not long after Stephanie had met John Reynard. She’d offered to work for almost no salary.
Now it was pretty clear why. Stephanie had been paying her a small salary, but she’d really been working for John Reynard. He’d sent her to Stephanie so that he could keep tabs on his fiancée.
“We’ve been waiting for you. Why don’t you come in?” Claire said, as if she was the owner of the house inviting in a guest.
With no other choice, Stephanie followed the other woman up the stairs and into the house, which had been furnished with many antebellum antiques as well as some comfortable modern pieces. The wide front hall boasted a sideboard imported from England with a gilt mirror hanging on the wall above. Like her father’s house, but in much better condition. On the polished floorboards was a rich Oriental rug.
“Where’s John?” she asked.
“He’s in the lounge. There’s some very interesting news on television.”
The edge in Claire’s voice made her wary, but she followed the other woman down the hall to the sitting room that John had set up like a room in a turn-of-the-century men’s club, furnished with comfortable leather chairs and couches.
The walls were wood-paneled, and the only piece of furniture that looked out of character in the room was the flat-screen TV on the wall across from the sofa.
John, who had been sitting in one of the leather chairs, stood up.
He looked from her to the television, where an announcer was breathlessly reporting some catastrophe and it took Stephanie a few moments to orient herself. First she realized it was in Houma. Then she saw it was at a bed-and-breakfast. The reporter was pointing to what must have been a house or a cottage; nothing was left but a blackened hole in the ground.
“Police say there are no survivors from the explosion that destroyed one of the cottages at the Morning Glory B and B about an hour ago. At the time a Mr. and Mrs. Craig Branson were registered at the cottage.”
Stephanie tried to take that in. In the background she could see the main building, and it looked as if the blackened ruin was the cottage where she and Craig had been staying.
“Sorry to report that your friend Craig Branson was blown up in an explosion while you were en route here,” John said, the tone of his voice making it clear that he wasn’t sorry at all.
Unable to catch her breath, Stephanie swayed on her feet. Claire caught her arm and eased her onto the couch, where she sat gasping for air.
John tipped his head to the side as he stared at her. “It isn’t confirmed that your friend was in the cottage, but I presume that he rushed back ho
me to you, opened the door and triggered an unfortunate incident.”
“No,” Stephanie whispered.
John glanced at Claire. “Go get Stephanie a glass of brandy. I believe she could use a drink.”
Stephanie watched the other woman leave the room. Then she swung back to John when he said, “You’re in a delicate position now.”
She answered with a small nod, wondering exactly where this conversation was going. She was still struggling to come to grips with her new reality—back in the clutches of John Reynard. If it was her new reality. The explosion was real, but what if by some miracle Craig was all right?
She had to cling to that. It was her only option, because if she admitted that he was dead, what was the use of her going on? Or to put it another way, what did it matter what John Reynard did to her?
He was speaking, and she struggled to focus on his words. “So whatever you’ve been doing with him, it’s over. And now we can take up where we left off.”
“Yes,” she managed to say.
“You refused to sleep with me until we were married,” he said suddenly, his words and his tone lancing through the wall she had tried to build around her emotions. “A very old-fashioned attitude, I must say. Did you sleep with him?”
She should have been expecting the question. Well, perhaps not so bluntly. Now she froze, knowing that she was skating on very thin ice.
Raising her head, she looked John square in the eye, calling on all the salesmanship she’d learned at the dress shop. “No,” she said aloud, and as she spoke, she did something else, as well—gathered her mental power and put it into her silent order to him. You believe me. You believe I didn’t sleep with Craig Branson. You believe it because you want to believe it. That’s the answer you want to hear, and you believe me.
Would it work? She certainly hadn’t been able to do anything like that before she’d met Craig. The power had developed as a result of her connection to him.
A stray thought danced in her mind, a thought that gave her hope. Or was it false hope?
She brushed aside that last part. If she’d developed this power with Craig, could she still use it if he was dead?