“Can’t you make this thing go any faster,” he barked to the officer behind the wheel, one of three on the boat in addition to Labatte and himself.
“Doing the best I can, Mr. Parker. This UTB can do six-eighty at twenty-six-hundred RPM’s, but that power cat’s fast. She’s at full throttle, doing at least twenty knots.”
Not very helpful information. Given the current of the lake, the two vessels were doing about the same speed. But the police utility boat was fifteen minutes behind the catamaran.
“He’ll have to slow down when he gets to the marshes and swamps along the northeast shore,” the officer added. “Too much algae for that speed.”
“Do you think that’s where he’s going?”
He nodded. “Be my guess. It’s where we think a serial killer tossed his victims’ bodies a few years back. We finally caught him in the act with a sixteen-year-old before he could kill her. We’re still looking for vics.”
Parker’s body went stiff.
His old fears of loss and bereavement tore at his heart. Had his decision to let Miranda have her head, to let her live out the destiny she was meant for lead to this? To losing her in the end? If he lost her and Clarence, too, he would never forgive himself.
But now wasn’t the time for recrimination. Forcing down the stubborn sense of dread, he focused on the matter at hand.
Overtaking that boat.
There was little he could do now. Until they reached the catamaran and overtook it, all he could do was wait and pray. Miranda was a good detective. She was willing to sacrifice herself for the sake of others, but she was smart. He hoped she’d employ a little patience right now.
He hoped Duval hadn’t set a trap for her.
Chapter Fifty-One
It was taking forever for that police boat to catch up to Baptiste’s yacht.
Miranda’s muscles were getting sore from crouching under the table on the stern. The wind whipped her hair around her face and into her mouth, making her wish she’d held onto some of those hairpins from her wig.
She pushed a few strands away and wondered where Baptiste was going.
She hadn’t seen the lights from the casino since she’d dared to look back across the water. She couldn’t tell how long it had been since they’d cast off, but it was a while. Golden Dreams was moored on Lake Pontchartrain. A big lake. She longed for Wesson’s guidebook to look up just how big.
But it wasn’t like they were sailing up the Mississippi. Baptiste would have to stop soon and the police boat would catch up, right?
Just as that thought flitted through her head, the yacht began to slow. Was it her imagination? Wishful thinking? No. She peered out over the side of the yacht.
They were in some sort of narrow waterway.
Under the moonlight and the boat’s lamps she took in a mass of tall trees hugging a nearby shoreline. Thick limbs and Spanish moss hung low into the water where inky green algae coated the stagnant lakeside. Spiky roots sprang up from the waters. In the gnarled branches green eyes glowed out at her, making her heart stand still. A furry creature waddled along the bank. Somewhere in the murky expanse she could have sworn she heard the snap of an alligator’s jaws.
Songs of Louisiana played in her head. Tunes about fishing boats and bayous. Swampland. A place full of gators and snakes. No wonder Baptiste was heading here. He probably had friends among the slimy inhabitants.
Parker’s boat—if he was really on it—was taking too long to get here. She had to do something. She went back to plan B. Climb onto the flybridge and take Baptiste by surprise.
The longer she waited, the worse it would be.
She checked her gun again and started to climb out from under the table. But before she could get to her feet, the engine stopped and the boat pulled up to a long pier supported by a row of pilings. She ducked back under the table and made herself as small as she could. Holding her breath, she watched Baptiste come down the ladder and tie the boat to one of the stabs. Then he headed for the cabin door and went inside.
Miranda risked a peek over the boat’s stern. Her heart sank. The craft with Parker in it seemed to have disappeared into the blackness of the night.
Just then Baptiste emerged from the cabin. Miranda ducked down again, but she could see he was carrying Eileen over his shoulder, still tied up. He had a large lantern in one hand. With the other he held Wesson at gunpoint.
Somehow he’d woken her up. Maybe he had another potion for that. But she looked groggy.
He poked her with the barrel. “I said move.”
“Stop it,” Wesson said. “I’m feeling a little woozy, thanks to you.”
Good for her, Miranda thought. Now get him talking about his brother.
Instead Wesson stumbled forward.
“Over the side,” Duval ordered.
Wesson stared out into the thick murky jungle surrounding them and shook her head. “I’m not going out there. Take me back to the casino.”
Miranda had to admire her spunk, but she was playing with fire.
“If you prefer,” Baptiste said, “I can shoot you right here. But that will be messy.”
“Don’t like to do your own clean-up, huh?”
The woman had balls. But she was making Duval angry.
“What if I shoot you in that pretty ass of yours and drag you out there for the alligators to eat?” He nodded toward the marshy water.
That got her to move.
“Okay, if you put it like that.” Looking perfectly miserable, Wesson climbed over the side of the boat.
Miranda wished she could send her a message to tell her she was here, but she didn’t dare risk being seen. She watched Baptiste jump off the boat and onto the pier with Eileen still on his shoulder and his gun still pointed at Wesson. It would have been the perfect time for Wesson to pull her weapon on him, if he didn’t have such catlike dexterity. And if Wesson’s head was clear.
Since it wasn’t, all Miranda could do was keep still and watch the party head over the pier and into the trees.
When she could just make out the light from Baptiste’s lantern, she scrambled out from under the table and headed after them.
One last glance over her shoulder told her the police boat wasn’t coming.
Chapter Fifty-Two
As she followed the jerky light of the lantern through the swamp forest, Miranda felt as if she were lost in one of her nightmares. Gun in one hand, skirt in the other, she kept up with Baptiste’s pace as best as she could.
The trail he was taking was nothing more than trampled vegetation surrounded by twisty trees and sharp roots sticking up from tall grasses. The floor was squishy and soft. She splashed through several puddles along the way, praying she didn’t step into a waterhole. Or on a snake. It wouldn’t be hard to get lost in here, never to be heard from again.
Spiders and bugs and crawling things were everywhere. As she hurried along tall reeds brushed against her legs. Spanish moss on the cypress branches tickle her arms and snagged at her hair. The air was dank and musty and so heavy with moisture Miranda thought she could have rung herself out like a sponge. Overhead owls hooted mysteriously in the cypress branches, as if warning of danger.
She already knew that.
A lizard skittered up a tree trunk beside her. She gritted her teeth to keep from yelping. She made her way around a curve and a furry short-legged creature scampered across her path. The trees rang with buzzing and low snarls. And then there were the ever-present yellow glowing eyes watching her in the darkness. Just when she thought she could take no more, Baptiste slowed and his light fell on a building up ahead. She squinted through the darkness to make it out.
It was an old hut in the middle of the swamp. She couldn’t imagine anyone living in it. The place had to be abandoned. Great.
As he got nearer, she could see it was actually an ancient wooden shack with a screen door and a dented tin roof covered with debris from the trees. Certainly Baptiste didn’t stay here for any length of ti
me. It wasn’t his style.
She had a feeling he used it for his dirty work.
She watched him open the screen door. “Inside,” he barked to Wesson.
With a hopeless look, Wesson obeyed and they all disappeared.
Now what?
Miranda crouched down and scooted up to the shack. It had a porch littered with debris. Empty paint cans, a rusted out wheelbarrow, rotting fishing poles leaning against the wall. She made her way around the corner and her heart jumped at the sight of light.
There was a window. And it was open.
She could hear Baptiste’s gruff voice barking out an order, but couldn’t make out the words.
Then she heard Wesson say loudly, “You can’t be serious.”
Heart pounding, carefully she stepped onto the wooden planks edging the house and skirted over to the sill. Staying low, she dared to peek inside.
Wesson stood on a wooden floor in a room with no furniture. “I won’t do it,” she said.
At her feet lay what looked like a small worn-out rug that had been tossed on the floor. Just beyond the rug two old-fashioned iron hinges had been fastened to a square cut through the wood of the floor. On the far side, opposite the hinges, a metal ring was attached to the square. A handle to lift it.
It was a trap door.
“Open it!” Baptiste roared.
Wesson’s eyes flamed with defiance. “No.”
Good thinking. Miranda could only imagine what might be under that door.
As the sound of Baptiste’s boots stomped across the floor to the corner, Miranda caught the top of Eileen’s dark-haired head.
The monster held the gun to her forehead. “Do it or I’ll blow her head off.”
Miranda watched Wesson press her lips together.
“Where—where am I?” she heard the young girl whisper.
Eileen must have just woken up.
Baptiste leaned down toward her, sheer hatred in his eyes. “You, my dear, are in hell. Where you belong for betraying me. No one crosses me and gets away with it.”
Still bound hand and foot, Eileen scooted away from him. “Is this what you did with Katy May?”
She was a feisty kid.
Baptiste drew himself up. “That is right. I promised to answer that. I will do that now.” He strode over to the trap door, pushed Wesson aside and lifted the square of wood.
Wesson and Eileen cried out in horror together as the air filled with hissing and spitting and an unbelievably putrid smell. They put their hands over their mouths and noses. It must be horrible in there. Miranda could smell the scent from the window. She, too, had to cover her nose to keep from gagging.
She knew that smell only too well. Actually it was two smells mixed together. The sickening, rancid stench of dead bodies—and the stink of snakes.
As if immune to the reek, Baptiste cackled with glee. “Here is what I did with her. Your friend is down there. Though her body hasn’t rotted enough yet to turn her into snake fodder. Maman is down there, too. But her body is long gone.”
Eileen glared at him. “You—you won’t get away with it,” she said, gasping for air. “The police with find out.”
Baptiste laughed harder. “Of course, I will get away with it. I always get away with it. The police will not bother me. I pay them off with the money I make from you, you stupid little whore.”
“Don’t call her that,” Wesson said.
“Why not? It’s what she is. What all women are.” He eyed her greedily. “You have such beautiful red hair. I will call you Crimson. Crimson and Raven dying together. How ironic.”
Outside, Miranda bristled. If that bastard dared touch Wesson, she’d make him pay for it.
But Wesson ignored him and got to the point. “You killed your brother’s wife, too. Didn’t you?” she said.
Now you’re thinking, Wesson, Miranda thought with a stab of pride. Get him to confess.
“That is correct,” she heard Duval say. “I found my twin brother in Atlanta. My identical twin brother. I drugged him just the way I did you two, broke into his house and killed his wife. I wore gloves to hide my fingerprints and I left my DNA so the police would think he did it. But it was my brother who provided the weapon.”
Just want they needed. Two more witnesses to Baptiste’s confession. If Miranda could get them out of here alive.
“The snake,” Wesson supplied.
“Yes. The western taipan. A beautiful exotic creature. My brother had no right to him.”
“But you did?”
Miranda peeked over the sill and watched Wesson take a step toward Eileen.
Her hand still shielding her mouth, she turned her body toward the wall, her holster side facing it. She must have just realized she still had her gun. What was she thinking?
“Of course, I did. I was always so much better than my brother. Yet he got the good life, the easy life. I fixed that. He’s been rotting in prison for ten years now.”
Where Baptiste should have been.
“You framed him?” Wesson took another step toward Eileen.
Miranda understood what she was doing now. She was going to draw her weapon and shield Eileen with her own body while she took a shot at Baptiste. She was going to risk her life for the girl.
But if Miranda could get the right angle, she could shoot the gun out of the monster’s hand before he could squeeze off a round.
“You are wasting my time, Crimson. I told all this to your lady friend, Miranda Steele.”
Wesson didn’t even flinch. “She’s my boss.”
“Whatever.” As if amused with himself he chuckled. “I left one thing out, though.”
“Oh? What was that?”
His smile was so evil, it had to come from the pit of Hell. “I made love to my brother’s wife after the taipan bit her.”
From the floor, Eileen let out a gasp. “You what?”
“That’s right, little Raven. I fucked her while she was dying. After the snake had slithered away, of course. She thought I was her husband. She begged me for help. I laughed in her face.”
Pure rage ripped through Miranda making her tremble from head to foot. She didn’t know how she would do it, all she knew was this guy had to go. She couldn’t wait for Wesson any longer.
She moved into position, aimed her gun.
But before she could pull the trigger, something crawled up from the trap door. A scaly head popped up, followed by a slithering yellow-brown body covered with a long row of black diamonds outlined in white. It fixed on Baptiste and shot out its tongue.
“Look out!” Eileen cried.
Baptiste laughed. “Do not worry about me, little Raven. He is for you. No snake can hurt me. I am invincible. Come here, cher t’bebe.” As if to prove his claim, he leaned toward the creature making kissing sounds.
He was crazy.
For a moment, the snake fixated on Duval. It swayed back and forth in a bizarre dance as if under some hypnotic spell. Was he right? Was the creature under his control? At one with him?
Then all at once the tail began rattling furiously. The next second the snake coiled into an S-shape, lifted half of its body, and struck Baptiste right on the cheek.
“Feet pue tan! You son of a bitch!” Disoriented and in pain, Baptiste swung his arm into the air and squeezed off a round.
The wild shot pierced through the tin roof with a clang.
Thank God it hadn’t hit anyone. But arm swinging, Duval was getting ready to shoot again. Heart pounding, from the corner of her eye Miranda saw Wesson lift up her skirt, grab her gun and aim.
They fired together.
Wesson hit the snake in the head, narrowly missing Baptiste’s torso. Miranda hit Baptiste’s wrist and knocked his gun out of his hand.
He fell to the ground screaming in pain. But that didn’t stop him from rolling over and crawling toward the gun to recover it. For a split second Wesson locked eyes with her and smiled. Just then Miranda heard shouts from somewhere in the forest. She
thought she saw the flicker of lights.
Parker? The police?
She couldn’t pay attention to that now. A second snake escaped from the hole, rattling and crawling fast.
Before she or Wesson could shoot, it coiled and bit Baptiste in the chest.
Eileen screamed as Baptiste fell back onto the floor of the hut.
“Non, non, non,” he cried out in agony, clutching his chest and the bloody wound on his face. “You cannot bite me. I am invincible.”
As delusional as ever. The sounds and lights in the forest were getting closer. But Miranda’s concern now was Wesson and Eileen who were taking cover in the opposite corner of the hut.
The snake was poised to strike again. She couldn’t get it without hitting Baptiste. Too bad. Without hesitation she fired. The snake’s head blew off and the bullet went straight into Duval’s forearm.
He screamed at the top of his lungs. His eye was almost swollen shut now, the wound on his cheek grotesquely distorting his face. “Why are you turning on me, my dear ones?” he said to the snakes. “I have only ever loved you. I have always taken care of you.” He began muttering more curses in Cajun French.
While he was writhing, a third snake crawled out of the hole.
Wesson had the presence of mind—and the guts—to inch over to the trap door and kick it shut with her foot. But the snake had already crawled onto Baptiste and was poised to strike.
It hit him right in the neck. Next to his tattoo—the same spot where Ozzie, the western taipan, had struck Charmaine Boudreaux. Groaning in anguish Baptiste rolled over on his side, grabbing the bloody wound.
The snake raised its body, ready to strike once more.
The door slammed open and Parker stood in the doorway, Glock in both hands. Instantly he took stock of the situation, knelt and fired. The third snake lost its head and this time, the bullet went through the wall on the other side of the hut.
And then all was still. Except for Baptiste’s cries of agony and the pounding of Miranda’s heart.
She looked over at Parker, locked gazes with him, and saw immense relief on his face. He must have thought she was a goner. She almost was, and so were Wesson and Eileen.
Snakebit Page 24