Bayou Nights

by Julie Mulhern

  “My wife and son.” The words were a plea for understanding. “She said she’d…” Tears rolled down the man’s face.

  Drake might have had some sympathy were it not for the knife at Christine’s throat and the fact that he was willing to trade one woman’s life for another’s. “Let her go.”

  “I can’t.” The man’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the knife too tightly.

  “We can help you,” said Drake.

  “No one can help me.” The man’s words were nearly lost in a sob. He took another step toward a wagon parked near the banquette.

  “I can,” Drake insisted. “I can sort this out.” His eyes scanned the suddenly empty banquette. The pedestrians had scattered and the ghosts seemed to have evaporated. Only one man approached, his nose buried so deeply in a book he risked walking into a lamppost. He wouldn’t notice the drama that played out in front of him unless it poked him in the eye. Surely—hopefully—one of the people who’d run away had alerted the police to a knife-wielding kidnapper.

  “You don’t understand.” The man’s voice was ragged, desperate.

  “Then explain. What’s your name?”

  “John.”

  A name. Drake could work with a name. “Okay, John. Someone’s holding your family, threatening your family, unless you do as you’re told?”

  John nodded.

  The man with the book was steps away. Perfect. All they needed was for the dapper little man to blunder into John. Christine might be cut.

  “I help people.” Drake set his voice to soothing. “It’s what I do. I can help you.”

  From behind her veil, Christine stared at him then at her feet. Her chin moved, the tiniest of nods. Her knee lifted beneath the cover of her skirts and she brought it down hard. Hard enough to make John gasp. Drake had seen the pointy heels of her shoes. Having one driven into the top of your foot probably hurt like hell.

  John’s eyes watered but his hold on Christine’s throat remained steady. “Do you think you can fool me?”

  The man with the book did exactly what Drake feared. He walked into John and Christine. But somehow the book became a gun. A cocked gun pointed at John’s temple. “Let her go.”

  Seemingly as surprised as Drake, John released Christine. She stumbled forward, tripped then landed in a heap on the banquette. John gazed at her for a moment then turned and swiped his knife across the gun-toting stranger’s chest. Not satisfied with a slash, he sank the weapon into the man’s gut.

  It happened too fast for Drake to react.

  But the man with the gun didn’t crumple. There was no bright bloom of blood against the starched white of his shirt. There was no grunt of pain or shock. The man simply raised his gun and shot John in the chest.

  It was John who fell to the banquette.

  His killer fingered his ruined suitcoat, scowled at the body on the sidewalk, then shifted his gaze to Drake. “Meet me at Antoine’s in an hour.” He strolled away as if the dead man was of no consequence.

  For a half-second, shock froze Drake to the banquette then he rushed to Christine. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine.” She brushed aside his concern. “Is he…?” Her gaze rested on John.

  Her would-be attacked stared sightlessly at the sky.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Poor man,” she murmured.

  Poor man? The bastard had tried to kidnap her at knife point.

  “Who shot him?” she demanded. “Was that Mike?”

  Far from it. Drake pinched the bridge of his nose. “I thought you knew him.”

  “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  “What happened?” A uniformed police officer stared down at them with thunder on his brow.

  “Please, sir, send for Detective Kenton.” Christine’s voice sounded watery and weak. Her hands shook but she lifted her veil revealing eyes that looked too big for her face. Her eyelashes fluttered and she stared at the policeman as if he’d been set on the earth to save her.

  The thunder on the policeman’s face changed over to a light spring rain. “Are you hurt, ma’am?”

  “Not really.” Her eyelashes fluttered a bit more. “That man”—she shuddered and pointed to John—“he tried to…” Her voice died as if the rest was too terrible to utter.

  The policeman knelt beside her and lifted his hand as if he meant to pat her back.

  Drake scowled and the young man wisely let his hand drop to his side. “You say you know Detective Kenton?”

  “He’s engaged to the girl who works in my shop. Molly.” Christine raised her hand to her throat, the very picture of a woman in distress. If Drake didn’t know better, he too would believe that the woman still plonked on the banquette was frail and silly and dependent on the kindness of strangers.

  Nothing could be farther from the truth. She was probably saving them hours spent in the police station.

  The detective somehow tore his gaze away from Christine’s and looked at Drake. “Who are you?”

  “May I show you some identification?” Drake reached slowly into his suitcoat and withdrew his credentials.

  The officer glanced at them, his brows rose then he pointed to the body. “Who’s that?”

  “Would you help me? Please? I feel like such a ninny sitting here.” Christine delivered her lines with the requisite wide-eyed fluttering of lashes and a smile sweet enough to rot teeth. Just yesterday, Drake would have condemned her tactics. Now, he silently applauded them.

  The policeman lifted her off the ground and she made a great fuss about straightening her skirts and her hat. Then she raised her hands to her cheeks. “Thank you, Officer—I don’t believe I know your name.”

  “Dufrene,” he supplied.

  “Well, thank you kindly, Officer Dufrene.” She glanced at John’s body then covered her lips with her hand. “He held a knife to my throat.” Her hand lowered to her neck where a thin line of red contrasted with the white of her skin.

  “You don’t need to talk about it, ma’am. What I need to know is who shot him?”

  “That’s the thing.” Flutter, flutter went her lashes. “We don’t know who shot him. It was a Good Samaritan.”

  Officer Dufrene stared at her for a moment.

  “It’s true,” Christine insisted, her eyelashes now fluttering like demented butterflies. “Mr. Drake was trying to reason with my abductor and a man walked up to us and told him”—she pointed to the lying dead on the banquette—“to let me go. When he didn’t, the Samaritan shot him.”

  “Then walked away?”

  “Exactly.” Christine smiled at Dufrene as if he’d uttered something of particular depth and insight.

  “I think you both better come down to the station.”

  Christine closed her eyes and swayed on her feet.

  Drake leapt forward and wrapped his arm around her waist. “Miss Lambert has been through a trauma. Surely a trip to the station can wait until tomorrow.”

  “I need a description of the Samaritan.”

  Drake’s mind went blank. Christine shuddered dramatically against his arm then said, “He was tall with dark hair and a handlebar mustache. He had a wound on his cheek. His clothes were”—she crinkled her nose—“rough.”

  The woman was brilliant. She’d just given the police a description of her attacker at the Absinthe Room. Then she opened her handbag and withdrew a card printed on heavy stock. Even on the street, Drake caught a whiff of flowers. She scented her calling cards?

  “You can find me at my shop, Officer Dufrene. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to lie down. Mr. Drake, will you hail us a hack?”

  Drake waved at a passing driver then bundled Christine into the carriage before the dazzled policeman realized he was letting two material witnesses to a murder leave the scene of the crime.

  They drove to the restaurant in blessed silence. Drake needed that silence, needed a few moments to rein in his galloping emotions, needed to stuff the terrified little boy he had been
back into a locked room in a forgotten corridor of his mind. What was it about Christine that brought up every emotion he’d rather forget?

  All too soon they arrived and Drake escorted Christine into Antoine’s.

  The Good Samaritan sat at a table in the center of the room—calm, relaxed, wearing a new shirt and suitcoat. No one looking at him would ever guess he’d shot a man through the heart less than an hour ago.

  “I don’t trust him.” Had Christine whispered those words or was Drake imagining things?

  She glanced up at him. “Not at all.”

  Good. Drake wasn’t losing his mind. At least not entirely. “I don’t either.”

  Together, they approached the table.

  The man, dapper as ever, stood and bent over Christine’s hand. “Thank you, my friends, for joining me.” The words were accented. Not the Southern accent that after spending a few days in New Orleans Drake hardly noticed. Not the odd accent that some of the locals favored—southern by way of Brooklyn. No, the man at the table was a foreigner. A foreigner who pulled out a chair for Christine, waited until she sat, then extended a hand to Drake.

  They shook, squeezing hard enough to cause the other discomfort. Neither flinched. A few seconds ticked by then the man loosed Drake’s hand and nodded. “A pleasure.”

  They took chairs on either side of Christine, the better to stare each other down.

  The man lifted a water goblet to his lips. “Thank you for coming so promptly. I am Hector Duarte.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Señor Duarte.” Christine sounded sincere but the skin near her left eye twitched. Drake was willing to bet she was still thinking about the dead man on the banquette.

  “We are going to be great friends, Senorita Lambert. You must call me Hector.”

  A second twitch. “You know my name?”

  “Tales of your beauty precede you.”

  Christine smiled. Drake recognized that smile. It was the one she wore when she wanted people—men—to underestimate her. “You’re too kind, Hector. I was so worried you’d been grievously wounded.” Her gaze lit on the unblemished whiteness of his shirt and the tailored perfection of his coat.

  “A mere scratch.”

  “I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.” She added another tablespoon of honey to her smile. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

  Duarte glanced at Drake then smiled back at her. “Any man would have done the same.”

  “Most men would have died from a knife wound in the gut.” Even to his own ears, Drake’s voice sounded clipped and hard.

  Hector stared across the table. “Mr. Drake, the pragmatic Yankee. Are we to talk business so soon?”

  Drake tried one of Christine’s perfidious smiles. “You can’t blame us for wondering.”

  Duarte glanced at Christine. She still wore a smile, a polite one, but her eyes were vacant. Then, as if she could feel Duarte’s gaze upon her, her lashes fluttered. “Mr. Drake is wondering. I’m just grateful.”

  Duarte sat a bit straighter in his chair and preened. “You have heard of Ponce de Leon.”

  “Fountain of Youth,” replied Drake.

  “He had a search party with him.” Duarte smoothed his lapels.

  “I remember the story.” Christine cocked her head to the side and lifted her fingers to her lips as if the act of remembering was taxing. “They found a fountain but it proved to be a disappointment. I’ve heard tell there was a man who nearly died. He drank the water and lived.”

  Duarte looked suitably impressed. How was he to know they’d heard the story only that morning?

  The Spaniard took another sip from this goblet. “I am that man.”

  “But—Christine’s eyes grew wide—“that happened hundreds of years ago.”

  Hector nodded. “This I know far too well. I cannot die.”

  “Ever?” she breathed.

  “Never.”

  “So the fountain…” Her voice trailed to nothing.

  “Eternal life.” Duarte sounded almost sad. He looked from Drake’s face to Christine’s and back again then wagged a finger. “I see you think of this as a gift. I assure you, my friends, it is a curse.”

  A waiter arrived and put menus in their hands.

  Christine didn’t bother looking. “Oysters Rockefeller, the pompano, and a salad—the one with the orange marmalade vinaigrette.”

  “The same.” Drake handed the menu back to the waiter then stared across the table at the man who claimed to be immortal. Given that he’d walked away from a knife in the gut, Drake was inclined to believe him.

  Duarte ordered and the waiter disappeared.

  Christine shifted in her chair. “You were telling us about the fountain.”

  Duarte smiled at her, an oily, knowing smile. “Indeed I—” He stood and stared at someone peering through the window.

  The air around them stilled, charged, sparked. Then the man with his nose pressed to glass jerked away as if he’d been shocked. A split second later Duarte resumed his seat and the air cleared.

  “It gave you more than immortality.” Christine took a sip from her water goblet.

  “Beautiful and clever. You should be careful, Mr. Drake. Someone will steal this lovely lady away from you.” When Duarte stared across the table this time, all semblance of affability was gone. Drake felt the challenge in his words.

  “What did you do?” Christine cleared her throat, politely, as if she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted Duarte’s notice. “What was that?”

  Duarte flicked his fingers. “Just a small talent.”

  Her eyes grew wide. If Drake hadn’t spent the past twenty-four hours watching her turn situations to her advantage, he might have believed she was impressed or frightened. He knew better.

  Duarte did not.

  The man beamed.

  “Why did you help me, Hector?”

  “I saw a lady in distress. You needed a white knight.”

  “I imagine at any given moment there are lots of ladies in distress. Why me?”

  “Let us just say I was in the right place at the right time.”

  Duarte stumbling upon them was about as coincidental as the thugs appearing at the Absinthe Room. Someone was pulling strings. Was it Duarte?

  Drake snorted.

  Duarte’s brows rose.

  “Hector…” Christine somehow managed to purr the name. “What is it you want?”

  “We share an enemy.” Duarte pitched his voice low. Drake had to lean forward to hear him.

  Christine tilted her chin like a curious robin but said nothing.

  “You carry a coin.” The words were a mere whisper.

  She answered with the slightest of nods.

  “You know where it can lead?”

  Again, Christine answered with a tiny nod.

  “There are people who must not find that treasure.”

  “And you should?” Drake’s voice sounded too loud. He lowered it. “What do you want with the water?”

  Duarte leaned against the back of his chair and glared. “To pour it out.”

  The waiter appeared and set their first courses in front of them. Oysters covered with what appeared to be spinach and bread crumbs.

  The Spaniard held up a finger. “A moment.” He ate an oyster and sighed. “The chef is an artist.”

  “Why pour out the water?” asked Christine.

  “To save anyone else from this curse.”

  Christine shifted her gaze to the oysters on the plate in front of her.

  “That’s very altruistic of you,” said Drake.

  Duarte shrugged and ate a second oyster. Apparently he didn’t understand sarcasm.

  “What about the man you shot?” asked Drake “That doesn’t seem altruistic.”

  “I did that man a kindness. He’ll never know what Desdemona did to his wife and child.”

  Christine sat straighter in her chair. “She still has them?”

  Duarte flipped his wrist as if he was shooing a fly.
“They too are gone.”

  “What is it you want from us, Hector?”

  “As I said, we share an enemy.”

  The man wasn’t telling the whole truth. Not even close. He probably wanted the coin. Everyone wanted the damned coin.

  “You can help rescue my father?” Christine asked.

  “Your father is dead.” Duarte reached across the table and patted her hand. “Would it be so terrible if he crossed over?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Excuse me a moment.” She stood and hurried toward a hallway that presumably led to a ladies’ room.

  …

  She needed to wash her hands. Immediately. That…that murderer had touched her. How fortunate that he’d given her an excuse to leave the table. Sitting with him for even one more minute…well, while the vision of the dead man still burned her eyelids, sitting with Hector Duarte was nearly intolerable. Smiling at him, flirting with him, how could she keep it up?

  A ghost looked over Christine’s shoulder and into the mirror above the sink. She wore a hoop skirt so wide it was a wonder she’d ever made it through the narrow doorway and a bonnet instead of a proper hat. “That’s a fine man you’re dining with.”

  Christine met her eyes in the mirror.

  “The tall one, I mean. The Yankee…although he is a Yankee. Still, there’s something about him.” She sighed softly. “You want to watch out for the other one, the Spaniard. I’ve heard stories…”

  Christine leaned against the edge of the sink. “What kind of stories?”

  The ghostly woman shuddered. “Stories.”

  What was the ghost up to?

  Christine didn’t trust a strange ghost any more than she trusted Hector Duarte. When had a healthy dose of skepticism become suspicion? Probably around the time independence became loneliness. If this continued, she’d end up as isolated and bitter as her mother and grandmother before her. “What stories?”

  “He’s a killer.”

  That Christine already knew. “And?”

  “He can’t die.”

  She knew that, too. “What else?”

  “Years ago, long before the war, he got into some sort of feud with Delphine LaLaurie. I’ve heard”—the ghost lowered her voice—“that he’s the one who set her house on fire. Not the cook.”