Wild Man's Curse (Wilds of the Bayou #1) Page 12

  “He is tired, and has said all he’ll say.” Joseph headed for the door, but Ceelie paused before leaving the old man with his thoughts and his elaborately shrouded walls.

  “Merci, Nonc Tomas.” She thought about hugging him, but wasn’t sure it would be appropriate. “Thank you for bringing my Tante Eva back to me, at least for a while. I can tell you cared for her. For what it’s worth, I loved her too.”

  She had turned to leave, but before she’d reached the door, Tomas told her to wait. The bones had been in a small drawstring bag in a drawer of his throwing table. He placed them in her palm and wrapped her fingers around them with both of his brown hands. They trembled slightly, the first physical sign that the warrior had grown weary.

  “These are blessed, daughter of Eva, but it will take you to make them yours.”

  She didn’t want them. “I have the ones that belonged to Tante Eva, and I don’t really know how—”

  “You have the sight, and each sight must have its own guide. Bury the bones of mon amie Eva Savoie, little one. They are no longer meant for the living.”

  A dollop of rain on the windshield jerked Ceelie back to the present. The visit with Tomas had been like traveling to a different world—like getting lost in a novel featuring a time-traveling heroine. What must it be like to live almost a century, to see how much the world changed, and how much it stayed the same? To see your people being absorbed into the broader culture but for the few who continued to fight? To see your ancestral lands sinking by fractions into the Gulf of Mexico?

  What hadn’t changed, and yet was ever changing, was the weather. In her years away, Ceelie had forgotten how much rain this place got. How quickly the sky would turn pitch-black in the middle of the day, storms exploding into wind and electricity and water. Then, just as quickly, they’d either wear themselves out or move on.

  After a tense fifteen or twenty minutes trying to see the road through the downpour and hoping she didn’t meet an oncoming truck, Ceelie drove out of the storm. In a matter of seconds, she was scrambling for her sunglasses. The rain reminded her of the call from Gentry and left her with a warmth in her chest—well, okay, maybe lower.

  To avoid thinking about things that would leave her more hot and frustrated, she let her mind wander back to what she’d learned today, and what she hadn’t.

  Nonc LeRoy was a thief. What had Tomas meant by that? What would Tante Eva have that LeRoy would want to steal? Was it the same thing being hunted by Eva’s dark-haired murderer, or had LeRoy shared whatever secret Eva kept, maybe told someone else . . .

  A memory hit Ceelie with such force that she lost control of the pickup for a moment and left the road.

  “Shit!” She steered along the shoulder and slammed on the brakes only a couple of feet before the shoulder disappeared into the concrete side rails of a narrow bridge. Canals crisscrossed the larger bayous throughout the southern part of the state, leading into lakes and smaller bayous and hundreds of winding, isolated waterways. If she drove this stupid truck off the road and into any of these murky bodies of water, she’d never be found.

  But she had remembered something, although the memory was as murky as the water around her. Nonc LeRoy had a nephew who came to visit him occasionally, sometimes when Ceelie, as a young girl, would be there. She hadn’t much liked him and didn’t remember his name.

  But one summer when she’d been eight or nine, the nephew had brought a friend with him, a boy whose name Ceelie also couldn’t remember. Both boys had stayed for a couple of weeks when Ceelie was visiting Tante Eva. The adults had made pallets for their visitors on opposite sides of the cabin floor, and they’d rolled something—a marble or a ball, Ceelie couldn’t remember—back and forth across the cabin in the semi-darkness until LeRoy got up, opened the front door, and threw it into the swamp.

  She couldn’t remember the friend’s name but she remembered what he looked like, because she’d developed a bit of a crush on him, or what a girl that age called a crush. He’d been older, maybe even fifteen. Old enough for her to think of him as dark and dashing.

  She’d asked Tante Eva when he’d be coming back, but he never had, or at least not while she was there. It hadn’t been too long afterward, maybe that same summer, that Nonc LeRoy had left.

  The boy had been tall and thin and lanky, with gangly arms and legs and big hands, like a puppy who’d eventually fill out to become a big dog. She’d loved his hair, dark and glossy and down to his shoulders, falling in curls she’d wanted to touch because her own hair was so straight and heavy. He had dimples and deep-brown eyes.

  That boy looked just like she’d imagine Gentry Broussard might have looked when he was fifteen or sixteen. It was why he’d looked familiar.

  The boy’s name hadn’t quite come back to her yet, and he might not even be important. LeRoy, though, was very important. That’s who she wanted to talk to Gentry about—and probably the sheriff’s investigator, since Gentry kept reminding her it wasn’t his agency’s case. LeRoy could be the key to this whole mystery.

  CHAPTER 13

  The white pickup was still parked beneath Tommy Mason’s house, so Gentry parked behind it as he’d done yesterday. He scanned the rest of the property for another vehicle but saw nothing. Whatever Lang had been driving could be behind the garage, though, or inside it.

  Hell, for that matter, it could’ve been Lang’s silver Honda that Tommy had been working on, rather than the woman’s. She could’ve been lying.

  His shoulders itched as if a parade of ants marched across them, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Well, even more wrong than going in alone to meet his strung-out, homicidal brother and his badass buddy Tommy. Bad odds from the start. But if he’d arrived with anyone visibly in tow, no way Lang would talk to him.

  Of course, if Lang had any common sense left at all, he’d be smart enough to assume Gentry was coming with backup, which was true. The sheriff had a SWAT team watching his every move and sitting on go.

  “No visuals,” he said softly. Warren, a couple of parish deputies, and Sheriff Knight himself were ensconced in an unmarked van parked at a boat launch a few hundred yards down the bayou. “Getting out of the truck now.”

  He exited slowly, knowing SWAT had his back but also knowing things could go wrong fast and they couldn’t get too close without blowing cover. The team had debated whether or not he should go in with his rifle or shotgun, but had decided to send him in wearing only his usual duty belt, to appear as normal as possible. He pulled out his SIG Sauer and camouflaged it against his thigh, scanning the area as he neared the stairs leading to the front door of the home.

  Through the support piers beneath the house, he caught a flash of movement near the side entrance to the garage and ducked behind the pickup to assess. The front bay of the structure remained closed, but a small side door stood ajar.

  A shrill shriek sounded from the garage, was cut short for a split-second of silence, then was followed by a full-out scream. A woman, damn it.

  “You hear that? Advise.” Gentry pulled out the fake phone and spoke softly. “Woman’s inside the garage. No one in view.”

  The woman’s screams turned to loud sobs, and Gentry watched as the garage side door opened wider and the woman he’d encountered at Tommy’s house on his previous visit staggered out. She dropped to her hands and knees, and vomited. He relayed this to the others. For the moment, he was their eyes.

  “Let her see you, Broussard.” Sheriff Knight’s deep, authoritative voice came through the phone. “Don’t make entry into that garage. See if you can pull her to cover.”

  “On it.” Gentry reholstered his pistol to make himself look as harmless as possible. He didn’t snap the strap to hold it in place, though. He might need it. He knew where the woman was, but Tommy and Lang could be inside the garage with guns pointed at his head.

  He stepped from behind the truck and walked slowly from the cover of the house’s support piers until he was within the
woman’s line of sight. He didn’t think he’d ever felt more vulnerable, despite knowing a shitload of firepower was hidden around him. “Ma’am?”

  She stood on her knees and looked around wildly until she spotted him. Dark rivers of mascara ran down cheeks that had turned a mottled shade of grayish-white, the contrast with her sprayed and styled blond hair giving her a macabre, funhouse look. Nothing fun reflected in her wide, frightened brown eyes.

  She staggered to her feet and ran toward Gentry. “Help me, please. Tommy . . .” The woman got within a foot of Gentry and crumpled; he reached out and caught her, pulling her behind a support beam to shelter them both from sight of the garage.

  “Ma’am, how many people are in that garage?”

  “Tommy . . . Tommy.” She fell against his chest and, when her legs gave way again, he lowered her to the ground, kneeling beside her.

  “Is Tommy in there alone?”

  She’d begun to whimper, rocking back and forth, her arms crossed tight over her chest. The question froze her movement long enough for her to look at him. “You were here this morning.”

  “Yesterday.” He noted her clammy skin and rapid breathing. Her confusion. The woman was in danger of going into shock. “You can call me Gentry.” If she knew Lang and heard the name Broussard, it might frighten her more. “Is anyone inside the garage with Tommy?” She shook her head and clutched her arms around herself more tightly, as if she could forcibly stop her own trembling. “Tommy’s dead.”

  “You hear that?” Gentry spoke into his phone, and got an immediate response.

  “We’re going in. Broussard, wait until we clear the building before you break cover.”

  Gentry closed his eyes for a second. If Tommy Mason was dead, it meant he knew enough for Lang to consider him a threat. Or maybe it was Lang’s way of sending a message to Gentry to back off and keep his mouth shut. Too bad. That ship had sailed.

  Movement on the left side of his peripheral vision caught his attention, and the woman saw it too. Her whimpers returned, and Gentry feared she’d start screaming again if she saw SWAT on the move. He needed to distract her in case Lang was still in that garage.

  “Mrs. Mason—are you Mrs. Mason?”

  She turned to look up at him. “Y-yes. Jennifer.”

  “Okay, Jennifer. When I was here earlier you had a baby. Where is your baby?”

  The question brought some awareness back into her eyes. “He’s . . . he’s in the house, taking a nap. He takes a nap every afternoon at three, but I was late putting him down today.”

  Gentry had caught more movement as the tactical entry team moved in stages toward the garage. She didn’t need to see it. “Is anyone else in the house besides your son? What’s your boy’s name?”

  Under his steady barrage of questions, her trembling calmed to a slight, rhythmic shake. “Cameron. C-Cam.”

  “Is anyone in the house with Cam?”

  “N-no.”

  “Okay, I’d really like to meet Cam. Will you walk upstairs with me and introduce me to him? Can you do that, Jennifer?”

  She sniffled and nodded. “Jenny.”

  He gave her a smile as absent of impatience and worry as he could make it, although he feared it came out more like a grimace. She didn’t seem to notice, but walked under the middle of the house toward the bottom of the front stairway. He placed a hand lightly under her elbow, not only to catch her if she collapsed again but to steer her in areas with as much cover from the garage as possible.

  She stumbled once on the climb up the stairs, but seemed more in control. Gentry relaxed a little. Unless Lang was in the house, they were out of sight of that garage and whatever waited in there.

  Outside, he heard the SWAT team making dynamic entry into the building. A lot of shouting, but no gunfire. Lots of cursing. Whatever they’d discovered was bad.

  He itched to run down the stairs and see what they’d found, but he needed to secure the house and make sure Tommy Mason’s family was safe. Not to mention letting the sheriff’s officers do their job. Their job, not his. He’d be lucky to even have a job by the end of this day. He just hoped he could keep Jena Sinclair out of trouble.

  The ice-cold blast from the air conditioning turned the sweat on his body and face to clammy cold as soon as he followed Jennifer Mason into the house. She’d obviously taken over the decorating duties; the small living room was neat and clean, but every surface held some little, breakable doodad. Ceramic animals, ceramic houses, baskets made of glass. Jennifer stood in the middle of the roomful of stuff, lost and broken herself.

  “Jenny, where’s Cam’s room?” So far, the noises outside hadn’t registered, nor the barrage of flashing lights Gentry glimpsed out the front window as reinforcements arrived. “Can we check and see if Cam’s still asleep?”

  The mention of her son got her moving again. “His room is all the way in the back.”

  Jennifer led the way into a long hall, past enough doors to make this a two- or three-bedroom house. Modest, but neat. Gentry let her move ahead of him as he checked each room, including a quick look in the closets. His gut told him the house was clean. That whatever Tommy had been involved in—or whatever Lang had roped him into—he’d kept it out of his home.

  Had Gentry gotten Tommy killed by coming here? He didn’t want to think about that. Not yet. It would provide plenty of nightmare fodder later.

  He caught up with Jennifer at the last door, leading into a small room that clearly had been decorated for a little boy. Blue walls, bright yellow and red toy trucks scattered across the top of a low table, books with trains on the cover, each engine with its own mocking, laughing face.

  The tiny boy lay on his back, a pacifier stuck in his mouth, limbs splayed in the unconscious way of a child who had never experienced fear or need. Whatever else Tommy Mason had or hadn’t done, he’d taken care of his wife and this child—or so it seemed.

  “He’s a fine-looking boy.”

  Jennifer stood looking down at him, tears forming new rivulets of mascara on her face. “He adored his daddy. What am I going to tell him?”

  “Let him finish his nap, and I’ll get someone to come and talk to you. Would that be all right? They can tell you how to help Cam.” The department had grief counselors on standby and, if Tommy were dead, they’d make sure Jennifer Mason had help, although little Cameron would still grow up without his father. How would Gentry’s own life have been different—and Lang’s—if Hank Broussard had lived?

  She nodded, but Gentry wasn’t sure anything was registering. He hated to leave her alone, but he wanted—no, needed—to see what was in that garage. Out of fear or self-doubt or whatever, he’d hindered this investigation without intending to. Now, he could help. He didn’t know much about Lang’s habits or contacts, but he knew the way his brother thought, or he used to.

  He assured Jennifer someone would be coming to help her, and on his way outside called Warren and asked for a counselor. “She says Tommy is dead.”

  “Oh, he’s dead all right.” Warren’s terse voice held more anger than a bayou held water after a hurricane surge. As soon as he saw Gentry, it would probably overflow the banks. “Get out there to that garage and see if you can help for a change. If they tell you to leave, haul your ass over here to the van. I’ll have someone stay with Mrs. Mason.”

  “Got it.” Gentry hung up, swallowing yet another apology because Warren wasn’t ready to hear it. Before the night was over, he expected there to be not only apologies but lots and lots of groveling.

  Walking outside was like entering a refinery. September in South Louisiana was as miserable as August, and prime hurricane season. So far this year, they’d lucked out.

  Gentry trotted down the stairs and cut under the house, noting the extra sheriff’s-department personnel who’d arrived and now scurried around the garage. The bay door remained down, so he entered through the side entrance, a single wooden door that led into a small workroom filled with a scattered array of hand tools, o
ld paint cans, and a table saw.

  A twin-sized blue air mattress covered by a tangle of sheets had been shoved into one corner. Gentry squatted next to it, careful not to touch anything. The one pillow had been punched into a ball. Blue-and-white floral sheets and pillowcase covered the plastic. A window AC unit above it churned out a noisy flow of cold air.

  “Think our killer was staying here?” Adam Meizel squatted next to Gentry. “Seen anything to confirm it was your brother?”

  He said it without judgment and, for the second time today, Gentry felt grateful. Meizel was a good guy.

  Gentry studied the mattress. “No way to tell, but if he’s been sleeping here, maybe your guys can find some fingerprints.”

  “They’ll dust it. He got any DNA samples on file from the drug bust in New Orleans?”

  “Doubt it, although he’d had a couple of run-ins with the law earlier, so there might be samples. As for the drug bust, we didn’t know he was involved until the end.” Gentry pressed his lips together. He shouldn’t be surprised that Meizel knew his story. First, it had been all over the news—“Wildlife Agent Takes Down Wild Brother” made a good headline. Second, this was a parish of small towns, and gossip traveled. “Obviously, there was no body.”

  “Hey, from what I’ve heard, everyone thought he was dead, even the feds. And he’s your brother. Don’t beat yourself up for getting stuck in a bad situation.”

  Meizel stood, and Gentry stood with him. “You’ve been decent about this, more than I deserve. I appreciate it.”

  “No sweat. You seen the main show yet?”

  No, and he might as well see what had befallen Tommy Mason, because he’d always carry part of the responsibility for it. Without intending to, he’d gone cowboy and a man was dead. “Lead the way.”

  They walked through an open doorway into the main part of the garage, and at first Gentry, trying to look on the floor through a dozen deputies, couldn’t see anything.