Wild Man's Curse (Wilds of the Bayou #1) Read online

  “Where are you now?” Over the phone, she heard a crunch of gravel, then the slam of a heavy door and an engine roaring to life. “I’ll come to you.”

  She looked up at the sign on the front of the convenience store. “I’m at the Jiffy Stop on Highway 55 about a mile north of the cabin.”

  “I’m on my way from Montegut. Sit tight.” He paused and it sounded like he took a curve fast. “Don’t go back to that cabin until I get there.”

  “I’ll wait on you. And Gentry, be careful.” These roads were awful in this weather, and she was beginning to feel silly.

  It didn’t even occur to her until she’d ended the call that she probably should’ve called the sheriff’s office rather than a game warden. But her heart knew what it knew, and it instinctively trusted Gentry Broussard. She’d have a long talk with her heart later, because those kinds of instincts could easily get her in a different kind of trouble.

  Unfortunately, her heart now also admitted that whoever had tried to scare her away from the cabin—and had succeeded, at least temporarily—would try again. Whatever had happened to Tante Eva, it wasn’t over.

  CHAPTER 9

  Gentry had been tempted to stay on the line with Ceelie to reassure himself that she was really safe, but she seemed to have calmed down, and he needed to make a couple of other calls. She’d been smart to go to a place where there were a lot of people around.

  First, he called Stella, gave her a brief update, and asked her to find out who the sheriff’s office had in the area. To his relief, the closest deputy was Adam Meizel, a veteran officer who’d worked Eva’s murder scene, so he knew the case. He and Gentry had worked together several times over the past few years and were on friendly terms. Gentry even had his number programmed into the phone.

  “Why’re you in the middle of this, Broussard?” Adam asked after getting the few details Gentry could provide. Ceelie hadn’t been quite coherent. “How come Ms. Savoie didn’t call us?”

  “We’re . . .” What were he and Ceelie Savoie, really? After one meeting, he couldn’t even say they were friends. He was way out of practice, so he could’ve misinterpreted their simple exchange as a spark of chemistry. However attractive he found her, Gentry wasn’t even sure he liked the woman. She planned to sell that piece of heaven that had dropped into her lap, for God’s sake.

  No, what he felt was guilt. “I was out there a couple of days ago answering questions about her aunt, so I was probably just the first person she thought of. This is your call; I’m just going as an acquaintance.”

  Sort of a friendly acquaintance. Maybe.

  The fact she’d called him first, though, and called him by his first name and not “Agent Broussard” when she cautioned him to be careful, sent a ridiculous surge of heat through his body. This was in no way, shape, or form a case in which he needed to be involved.

  First, he had mistaken the killer for his dead brother, which put his mental state in question.

  Second, he found Ceelie Savoie sexy as hell and it pushed every protective, macho button in his caveman brain. That was just inappropriate: he was a law-enforcement officer and she was a victim.

  Third, and probably most important, this case was not his jurisdiction, and the sheriff’s office wouldn’t tolerate him getting in the middle of it. Neither would his own lieutenant. Warren would stick him on permanent paperwork duty, or worse. Rumor had it, after Mac Griffin had mouthed off in a meeting one day, Warren had made him sharpen a hundred pencils with a manual sharpener.

  “Well, if you’re going anyway, acquaintance, you mind meeting Ms. Savoie at the Jiffy Stop and escorting her to the cabin?” Sarcasm cut through Meizel’s voice. Guess Gentry’s feigned disinterest hadn’t been very convincing. “I’m farther south than you and can get to the cabin faster if I don’t have to backtrack. You know, since you’re already acquaintances and all.”

  “No problem.” With or without Meizel’s go-ahead, Gentry had every intention of meeting Ceelie. He sped up as the rain eased slightly, now more of a gully-washer than a frog-splasher. He recognized Meizel’s attempt to banter with him over the acquaintance business, but he wasn’t taking that bait. He needed to make sure Ceelie was okay, and damn the reasons he shouldn’t get involved. Then he’d ponder the status of their relationship.

  You do not have a relationship, jackass. Guilt. Professional concern. A little physical attraction. Nothing more.

  He flipped on the blue emergency-light bar that crossed the top of his truck, both to help people spot him in the still-steady rain and to spur them to get out of his way. The drive was still slow, with water ponding on the road in low spots. One of these days, the rain would fall and the swamp would rise and this land would be gone for good. Not in his lifetime if he could help it, but he wasn’t optimistic that humankind could hang on to it forever.

  Finally, he spotted the old Chevy pickup in the Jiffy Stop lot and let out a breath of relief when he saw Ceelie’s silhouette through the rain and the truck window. He’d been afraid she’d called up her stubborn streak and gone back to the cabin alone, or else she’d been followed here by the waste of humanity who’d left a skull on her porch. At least, he thought that’s what she’d said in her disjointed description of what happened. And something about red paint.

  He whipped his truck into the parking spot next to her, and the fury in her face when she turned to look at him through the window took him aback. She’d been shaky when she called, frightened, and rightly so. Now she looked like a volcano on the verge of covering some poor village in molten lava. She didn’t need comforting anymore; she needed calming down.

  He motioned her toward his truck. Better to go in his vehicle since they were acquaintances anyway. He had plenty of firepower should Meizel need backup; LDWF agents were nothing if not well armed. The state equipped them to handle the wide variety of crap they might encounter. They’d even been armed with high-capacity rifles, since agents had taken gunfire while doing search and rescue in New Orleans after Katrina.

  Ceelie jumped out of Eva’s beat-up Chevy and climbed in his passenger’s seat, throwing a gray plastic Walmart bag ahead of her. He picked it up and peered inside at a tactical knife still in its packaging. “Planning to cut somebody?” From the look on her face, the answer would be yes.

  “You better believe it.” Water beaded on Ceelie’s black hair, and she swiped an already-wet sleeve across her face and shook her head like his dog Hoss after Gentry had insulted him with a bath. Her wet black top clung to every curve. He jerked his gaze back to the knife. Acquaintances didn’t notice things like curves.

  The woman had no clue how sexy she was, which made her even sexier. And wet. Gentry reached behind him in the extended cab, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and handed it to her. He tried not to watch as she pulled off a few sheets and scrubbed them over her face and hair.

  He failed; that was sexy too. Damn.

  She snatched the Walmart bag out of his lap and stuffed the wet paper towels in it, retrieving the knife. She handed the paper-towel roll back to him. “That son of a bitch gets close enough to me, he’s going to know how Tante Eva felt. I’m not afraid of blood.”

  Celestine Savoie might be mighty and fierce, but she was too petite to take on a six-foot-plus killer, especially using a knife straight out of the Walmart display case. That wasn’t sexist; it was just fact. He’d explain that to her. Later.

  “Tell me what happened before we go to the cabin,” he said. “I called the sheriff’s office and they have a deputy en route. It’s probably better for him to get there first and look around.”

  She’d been tearing at the knife’s packaging and almost had it open. “Thanks for calling them. I realized after I got you on the phone that it was probably something the sheriff’s office would handle. I just . . .” She stilled her hands and looked up at him. He’d give half his next paycheck to read her expression, but he couldn’t. He could read a criminal’s body language like a pro, but women had always been a myst
ery. Good thing he didn’t encounter many female criminals as an LDWF agent or he’d have to find a new line of work.

  “I don’t know why.” She shrugged. “Calling you felt like the right thing to do.”

  He smiled and cleared his throat when their gazes stayed locked too long. Good thing her skin flushed and she looked away so she wouldn’t see him practicing his Creole tomato impression.

  Yeah, there was chemistry, all right. He was out of practice but he wasn’t blind.

  “Tell me what happened.” Gentry kept his focus on the bright-green-striped awning of the Jiffy Stop, since he apparently had lost his ability to remain professional while looking at her.

  Ceelie described her early-morning activities before driving to Houma to deal with Eva’s estate. “Do you think he was watching me, waiting for me to leave?”

  Gentry shook his head and finally cautioned a look her way; she stared straight ahead, so he did the same. “No way to know unless we find some kind of evidence on the bank, and the rain’s probably ruined that chance. You said you smelled cigarette smoke, though, so he couldn’t have been gone long.” Or he was sitting out there watching her, more likely, which both pissed Gentry off and scared the hell out of him. The guy was a predator, no matter who he looked like, and Ceelie was in danger.

  “What happened when you got back from Houma?”

  “I got out of the truck, smelled cigarette smoke, walked around the porch to the front of the house, and ran right into that skull. God, it scared me.” She hunched her shoulders. “Then I saw the writing on the door. I thought it was blood, but now I realize it’s probably just red paint. When I saw a shadow moving on the bayou, I panicked and ran.”

  “That was the smartest thing you could’ve done.” Rage settled in the pit of Gentry’s stomach. Jena had been right; he needed a conversation with Warren ASAP, to let him know his concerns about Lang. Even if his brother hadn’t risen from the dead—and Gentry didn’t believe he had—he could give them a more detailed description.

  If it was his brother, risen from the ashes like some psychopathic phoenix . . . Gentry didn’t want to think about that.

  He leaned forward and cranked the truck. “The deputy should’ve had time to get to the cabin by now. It’s Adam Meizel. You probably met him when you first got back to the parish.” Which would make them acquaintances.

  “Name sounds familiar.” She opened the passenger’s-side door and turned to slide out. “I’ll meet you over there.”

  “No, wait.” Without thinking, Gentry reached over and settled a hand on her arm. It felt fragile beneath his fingers. “Ride with me. You can get your truck after you decide where you’re going to stay tonight.”

  The look she gave him was anything but fragile, and she tugged her arm free. “I know exactly where I’m staying tonight: in my cabin on my land.” Her voice rose. “This freak is not going to scare me away.”

  “This freak murdered your aunt and we don’t know why. It sure sounds like he wants back in that cabin.” Gentry took a deep breath. Stay professional. Stay detached. “Look, why don’t we see what Deputy Meizel has found and get his input before you decide anything.”

  Let Meizel be the heavy-handed officer coercing the stubborn victim to act like a sensible human being.

  “Fine, but I’m taking my truck.”

  He couldn’t help but smile at her defiance, which only increased the clench in her jaw. He threw up his hands. Call him a chicken and fry him for dinner. “Go for it. I’ll follow your lead.”

  For now, anyway.

  While they’d been talking, the rain had slowed to a light sprinkle and the sun had already reappeared. Gentry followed the old Chevy onto the highway and, in a mile or so, turned left into the muddy, puddle-filled drive. A white patrol car with the Sheriff’s Department logo on the side sat at the edge of the parking area, empty.

  Gentry glanced at the mud between the patrol car and the edge of the porch—the deputy’s footprints were almost submerged. Good. He’d been here long enough to make an assessment without feeling as if Gentry were butting in where he didn’t belong.

  Because he was just an acquaintance . . . or something.

  They met Meizel on the front porch, where he knelt in front of the door, scraping flakes of the writing into an evidence bag. He glanced up as they approached. “It’s paint, not blood. I’m taking a sample to the lab in case it has any unusual properties.”

  “Can I clean it up when you’re done?” Ceelie crossed her arms and looked at the door as if she’d like to set it on fire rather than try to remove the paint.

  “I’ve got a paint sample and photos, so it should be okay.” He put the evidence bag in a case he’d brought with him. “I need to take the skull with me.”

  “Want me to pull it down?” Gentry had a few inches on the deputy, so it would be an easy reach.

  “Yeah.” Meizel looked up at the ceiling of the porch. “Ms. Savoie, was that hook already up there?”

  Ceelie nodded. “When I was a kid, my aunt had wind chimes hanging there.”

  “We don’t need the hook, then,” Meizel said. “Broussard, see if you can get it down touching only the ropes. That way we don’t have to worry about your prints on the skull. And Ms. Savoie, you’re going to need to tell me everything. That skull wasn’t already here, was it?”

  “You mean because my aunt was the great voodoo queen?” Ceelie snapped, then closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled-for. No, I have no idea where the skull came from.”

  “That’s good, actually. It’s another clue.” Meizel smiled at her. Gentry recognized the smile and the tone of voice—it was standard law-enforcement conciliation. Calm down the victim. Minimize the drama.

  Ceelie spoke softly as she repeated her story twice more, thinking about her answers before responding to Meizel’s questions and keeping her anger under control.

  While they talked, after checking with the deputy to make sure he wasn’t interfering, Gentry picked up the groceries that had gotten scattered around the porch, putting them back into the gray plastic bags. He recognized the makings of red beans and rice, although there was an industrial-sized package of ramen as well. Almost everything she’d bought was inexpensive. Her only splurges appeared to be a couple of pounds of good andouille and the biggest container of salt Gentry had ever seen. Maybe she had a sodium deficiency. Or really high blood pressure.

  The legal papers had gotten wet, but he wiped them off the best he could and stacked them. They’d be fine once she could spread them out to dry. Ten acres of prime bayou property. Nice.

  Ceelie’s smartest purchase was the last thing he found—a new deadbolt lock. Gentry pulled the multitool from his duty belt and made quick work of removing the old lock and replacing it with the new one.

  He looked up from a crouch to find Ceelie looking down at him. Her lips were curved into a small smile but her eyes were red-rimmed; she’d been crying. Meizel had upset her. The man had the finesse of a rampaging bull gator.

  “Broussard.” Meizel gestured him over to the far edge of the porch while Ceelie took the new deadbolt keys from Gentry and went inside the cabin. The deputy held up a plastic evidence bag. “Found this on the porch. Don’t know if it’ll give us anything, but Ms. Savoie’s visitor is careless with his smokes.”

  Inside the bag was a cigarette butt, smoked down to within about a quarter inch of the filter. “Maybe we’ll luck out and get fingerprints. Should definitely get DNA.”

  God, he hoped they weren’t a match for his brother’s, who’d had a few minor police skirmishes before his death—or undeath. “Might get DNA, although that’ll take until Christmas to get processed in Baton Rouge.”

  “Ain’t that right.” Meizel folded the bag around the evidence and tucked it in his uniform pocket. “Listen, can you talk some sense into Ms. Savoie? She’s insisting on staying here tonight, and we both know that’s just plain dangerous. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say whoever killed her great-aunt
did this, and he wants her out of this cabin. We can’t force her to be smart.”

  Gentry nodded. While he’d been installing the new lock, he’d been thinking the same thing. “There’s something this guy wants. He either didn’t get it before or didn’t get all of it.” Whatever the hell it was. “So he wants another crack at that cabin. If we could get Ceelie to leave, I could stay in the cabin tonight and see if he shows up.”

  Meizel gave him a long, steady look. “No, you couldn’t. This isn’t your case, Broussard. If anyone stakes out this cabin, it’ll be the parish, not you.”

  Shit. Gentry held up his hands. “You’re right. Since I was the one who found old Eva, it feels personal. But I know it’s your case.” Last thing he wanted was to piss off Meizel or Sheriff Roscoe Knight. For now, Meizel was sharing information, and Gentry didn’t want him clamming up and seeing him as a problem.

  Meizel looked past Gentry at the open door of the cabin. Inside, Ceelie hummed that haunting song that had captured Gentry from the beginning. Her voice was remarkable.

  “Look, I get it, okay? You want to protect her and get the guy who did this.” Meizel dropped his voice and nodded toward Ceelie. “We’ve just gotta play everything by the book here so once we do catch this guy—and we will—there are no loopholes. Think you can talk her into leaving?”

  Gentry doubted it, but he’d already come up with a Plan B. “Let me see what I can do.”

  “Turn on that coonass charm you Dulac boys have.” Meizel grinned.

  Gentry seemed to recall the deputy was from the northern part of the state. “Yeah, a redneck cracker like you can only dream of such charm.”

  Gentry picked up the bags of groceries and took them inside. Ceelie stood in the little kitchenette, looking inside the refrigerator. As near as he could tell, it was almost empty. Time to turn on whatever coonass charm he possessed.

  “Here’s your food. I set the papers on the rocking chair outside.” He piled the bags on the counter. “Want to go to dinner? My treat.”

  Well, that was smooth as sixty-grit sandpaper.