Bad Moon Rising (28 page)

Oh well. Too late for that now.

Right. Kill her now and do her a favor
...
while she’s unconscious. Suffocate her
with a pillow. Quiet and painless. Because what the mob bosses would do to her
wasn’t going to be painless. They would make her suffer, then they would tie a
concrete block to her and sink her into the deepest part of the ocean—Hoffa
fashion.

He reached for his beer, took a long drink, checked
his gold and diamond Rolex. The prospect of killing Shana squirmed inside him,
unnerving him even more than blowing away DiAngelo.

Calmly as he could manage, he put down the gun and
beer, picked up the pillow, and gripped it in both hands.

Damn, it was hot. He hadn’t noticed the stifling heat
of the unair-conditioned room until now.

Swallowing, he stared down at Shana, her long black
hair spread around her. He felt regret over the swelling on her cheek—as he
always had anytime he had been forced to slam her. It was the dignity with
which she had tolerated his abuse that had most irritated him, because it had
forced him to respect her.

As if she wasn’t worthy of the discipline he administered
to the others who thought to defy him.

Damn the bitch, always gnawing at his conscience from
the first day he had picked her and Melissa off the street. Two wide-eyed,
frightened teenagers, desperate for help. While Melissa hadn’t had much going
for her, Shana had been different. Given different circumstances, she might
have been worthy of an ass like Damascus. Leading the privileged life. Good
things handed to her on a silver platter. Kids. She loved kids. She would have
made one hell of a mother. He’d known it from the way she nurtured the other
girls, took care of them, protected them.

Like Melissa. Shana had risked her life in coming back
to New Orleans to help her friend. Now she was a dead woman herself.

“Damn.” He tossed the pillow aside, his shoulders slumping.
He couldn’t do it—kill her. Besides, if he killed her, how would he collect his
bounty? It wasn’t like he’d brought around a stupid camera to take a picture of
her corpse as proof of his doing her in.

A knock at the door sat him erect, grabbing for his
gun and sliding it under his coat. Do or die time. Jesus, he was shaking.

Shana opened her eyes, watched as Tyron moved cautiously
to the door. “Who is it?” he said.

“DiAngelo, stupid. Who do you think it is—Avon calling?”

Think. She rolled her pounding head and looked toward
the bathroom.

Tyron opened the door, allowing DiAngelo in.

Honey had once mentioned that her ‘panic room’ was
there, in the bathroom. But where?

DiAngelo crossed the floor and stood beside her. “So
this is the bitch?”

“That’s her.” Tyron’s voice sounded sulky and shaky.

“Is she alive?”

“What difference does it make?”

DiAngelo nudged her with his foot. “She don’t look so
good, does she?”

“This ain’t no beauty contest. Alive or dead, she’s
worth two million.”

DiAngelo bent down beside her, grabbed her face so
hard Shana gasped.

He chuckled. “Playing possum, Miss Corvasce? Maybe
thought you’d make a quick getaway when we weren’t looking? Look at me, bitch.”

He shook her again, the pain in her cheek crucifying
as her eyes flew open and she stared up into DiAngelo’s smirking face.

“I might not kill you, Miss Corvasce, but I can sure
make you wish you were dead. I suggest you behave yourself. Understand me?”

She nodded, too immobilized by the grip on her swollen
cheek to do anything else. Then she saw the grip of the gun flash beneath his
suit coat, saw his hand slide around it as he began to stand, to turn toward
Tyron.

“Gun!” she tried to shout, but her jaw was locked
tight, the bones in her face grinding together like shards of glass.

The muffled pop of Tyron’s gun made her jump, and
DiAngelo staggered back, the gray shirt beneath his coat turning dark across
his belly. As he sprawled back on the bed, arms and legs akimbo, he made a loud
wheeze, like air escaping a punctured tire. Shana heaved herself up on all
fours, trying her best to lift her heavy head as she crawled toward the
bathroom, Tyron too focused on DiAngelo to notice.

“Jesus, oh, Jesus,” he shouted. “I did it. I shot the
fat bastard!”

He
has basked in the moon’s heat
for an hour
before
joining Melissa. The power of it has infused him with a headiness that makes
him slightly dizzy. Even dizzier than the pleasure he received watching Anna
Travelli announce to the entire world that he is back.

Yes, yes, he is back. Gloriously back and more
brilliant than ever!

How incredibly sweet to walk the streets and feel the
electricity of the people’s fear. To stand among them, hearing their whispers,
watching their cautious glances toward strangers. And there he stands, smiling
into their eyes, passing within a knife’s slice of their throats. He yearns to
kill them all. One by one. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. He has dreamed about
it. Imagined himself going down in history as the greatest killer of all times.
More notorious than Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy, or Jeffrey Dahmer.

Impossible, of course. He cannot kill all of them. But
he is destined for greatness, regardless. His next killing will streak his
crimes across the country in bold headlines. Perhaps even the entire world.
Then, perhaps, he’ll retire. He won’t need this bloody little hobby to arouse
him. Soon the entire world will adore him. Oh yes. The arms of this country
will embrace him. Trust him. And in one last brilliant stroke he will destroy
them all.

He smiles at Melissa, strokes her hair, and looks into
her distant, glazed eyes, running his fingertip along her bruised cheek, his
erection wondrously painful as he contemplates this incredible turn of good
luck.

“Remember Holly Jones?” he asks softly, thrilling at
the spark of surprise and fear that replaces the dead acceptance that has
dimmed Melissa’s eyes these last few days. “Of course you do.” He chuckles. “She’s
here, Melissa. Looking for you. Or should I say Shana Corvasce?”

He sits down beside her, crosses his legs, and trails
his finger over her breasts, circling each nipple before lowering himself to
kiss each one. Resting his head on her chest, he closes his eyes and listens to
her rapidly beating heart.

Oh yes, she can pretend that she no longer fears him,
that she welcomes death, but the heart doesn’t lie. Her terror expands inside
her chest, and with each frantic thud of her heart against his ear, the
anticipation of what is to come sluices through his groin like the knife at his
fingertips, its blade glistening in the lantern light.

“This finale will be even grander than the last one,
the killing of Laura and the children. I hadn’t planned on killing them. But
she left me little choice. I couldn’t have everyone know about the affair,
could I? She was an idiot to bring them along. What was I to do when they saw
me?”

He hums to himself, reminiscing in his mind about
Laura, her pale hair and remarkable body. It had begun as a game. He does so
love the game. Luring her in. Tempting her. Crumbling her resistance with his
sweet words of endearment and understanding. Unloved Laura. Unappreciated
Laura. Lonely, lonely Laura. A shame she had become too demanding. Stupid woman
for threatening to reveal their affair.

He speaks softly, his lips brushing her nipple, her
heartbeat causing his blood to pulse in his temples, to warm him, the sweat of
sweet anticipation beading on his brow.

“Killing her was ... bittersweet. And yet—the fear I
saw in her face was magical. Dying at the hands of someone you know intimately
must be the ultimate in horror.”

Sitting up, he yawns and leans back against the wall,
flips open the little black book—Melissa’s book—and holds it closer to the
candle flame. He laughs. So many familiar names. Friends. Acquaintances.
Family.

“I had almost forgotten about the book,” he says,
glancing down into Melissa’s face. “Would you like me to remove the tape from
your mouth? I will if you promise to be nice. No more insults about my
masculinity. Naughty girl.”

She nods and he reaches for the duct tape, peels it
away from her mouth, slowly, because he enjoys the drawn-out discomfort.

“Better?” He smiles.

“What are you going to do?” she asks in a dry whisper.
“Explain?”

“With the book.”

“Ah.” He nods and runs his finger down the page. “Opportunity knocks. And I have never been a man who locks the door to opportunity. Since I
was informed about Shana’s mission here—to shepherd you away from this unseemly
existence—I pondered on just how I could use her. But first, I would have to
get my hands on her. Not an easy task, considering. Then I remembered the
book.”

Taking a deep breath, he briefly closes his eyes, the
anticipation humming in his blood almost too much to bear.

“And there she is. Black on white. Right there. Holly
Jones. Home and cell. Imagine killing you both at once. The infamous Shana
Corvasce and the whore Melissa. Not that anyone will give a damn about you, I’m
sorry to say.”

Tears rise to her swollen eyes as she pleads, “Don’t.
Please, don’t.”

He reaches for Melissa’s cell phone, his smile growing.
“Would you like to call her, sweetheart? Or shall I?”

J.D. lay on the bed, the phone records scattered
beside him. He’d been too damn tired to do much more than glance at the
hundreds of numbers that had blurred before his grainy eyes. Jerry had convinced
him to get some sleep before poring over them, marking any suspect numbers
with a yellow highlighter.

Besides, he was much less interested in a serial
killer at that moment than he was in finding Shana. He was tempted to climb
into his Mustang again and cruise the streets, looking for Shana. But it would
do no good. She would lie low for a while, until she realized that her only
hope of surviving this nightmare was to turn to the FBI. Anna was right about
that.

So why hadn’t she already done so?

Unless Tyron had already gotten his hands on her.

“Son of a bitch.” He rolled from the bed, stumbled
through the dark to his clothes, dragged on bis jeans, and snagged his shirt as
he headed for the door, coming face-to-face with Anna in the hallway.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“Tyron’s.”

“Over my dead body.”

“That can be arranged, Anna.”

She grabbed his arm. “Killroy has put a car at the
Lucky Lady. If Tyron so much as sticks his nose out of that joint, we’ll know
about it.”

“Are you certain about that?”

“I don’t get you.”

“Christ. Killroy is Tyron’s client. The last thing the
chief wants is for Tyron to go down. Why the hell do you think Johnson hasn’t
been busted already? His list of clients probably consists of half this town’s
elected officials.”

“That’s a damning accusation, Damascus.”

“So is the bullet hole in Killroy’s shoulder.”

She nodded. “Okay. Give me a few minutes to call
Mallory. We check out your suspicions before we do anything. Did you have a
chance to look over those numbers? No? Then give it a shot while I make a
couple of calls.”

As she headed for a phone, J.D. returned to the bedroom
and collected the phone records, sank onto the bed, and did his best to look
them over as he tried not to think about Tyron Johnson getting his hands on Shana.
He rubbed his eyes.

The computerized series of numbers had been broken
down into incoming and outgoing calls—compiled into listings of repeated
numbers. Most were to clients he had called after business hours. There were
calls to Billy’s school, to May, his office, Jerry’s old number. His parents.
His brother’s house. Many from his brother’s house. Odd. The last couple of
years of her life, Laura had avoided Beverly, and she Laura.

J.D. rubbed his eyes again.

“Hey.”

J.D. looked up at Jerry, who was buttoning his shirt.

“Seems you were right. Killroy didn’t put a car at the
Lucky Lady.”

Standing, his gaze locked on Jerry’s troubled expression,
J.D. said, “You know something. What’s happened?”

Jerry briefly closed his eyes and sank against the
door-jamb. “Mallory’s at Tyron’s now. Seems a security guard noted his front
door was ajar and stepped in to check things out. He found a body. A woman.”

“Relax,” Anna told him. “It isn’t Shana.”

J.D. stepped around her, to the kitchen threshold, and
looked down into the woman’s open eyes. Around him the CSI were snapping
photographs of the body and waiting for the coroner to show before the body
could be moved.

Malloy stood near, jotting notes, glancing at J.D. “You
can ID this woman?”

“One of Tyron’s girls.”

“I’d say she got a kick from a bad horse,” Anna said,
stooping beside Honey’s body. Beside her lay the syringe. The elastic band was
still wrapped around her arm. “Poor kid didn’t know what hit her. I take it
Tyron’s her supplier.”

J.D. nodded and turned away.

“Figures. Keeps his girls dependent on him.” She
stood. “Any idea why he would want to take her out like this?”

He moved into the living room, caught between relief
that the corpse hadn’t been Shana’s and sadness over Honey. Another soul lost.
What a damn shame and a waste. But that wasn’t what troubled him the most at
that moment. Not by a long shot.

Anna followed. “Whatever the reason, he was apparently
in a big hurry if he didn’t hang around long enough to dispose of the body.”

J.D. walked to the plateglass window where the drapes
were open. He focused on the river, the bright neon lights of the casino
reflecting off the murky surface. Anna moved up beside him.

“What are you thinking?” she said.

“I’m thinking that he’s already got her.” He removed
his cigarettes from his T-shirt pocket, lit one as he continued to stare down
at the river. “I’m thinking that Shana went to Honey for help
...
and Honey was desperate enough to sell
her out for a hit.” He blew smoke through his lips. “He’d like nothing better than
to get his hands on her,

Anna. Not simply for revenge’s sake, but for that
bounty.”

“So we take a drive to Honey’s place. Check it out.”

He nodded, but didn’t move. “There’s one more thing,
Anna.” He swallowed and, with his wrist, wiped the sheen of sweat that had
risen to his brow. “I think I know the identity of Laura’s lover.”

Patrick tiptoed past his father’s office. The
door was closed, light
filtering beneath it in a slant of dim yellow. He made his way quietly up the
staircase, slowing as he noticed his door was open.

His mother sat on the bed. Around her, the room was in
shambles, the mattress shoved partially off the box springs, the drawers to his
desk open and emptied, the books and CDs scattered on the floor as if she had
raked them off the shelf in a frantic search.

The sheets atangle around her ankles, she looked up at
him, her face white and her mouth pursed. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Where have you been, Patrick? It’s three hours after
your curfew.”

He moved into the room, his face burning. “What the
fuck have you done?”

“I got a call from your grandfather this evening. He’s
missing a gun. Do you have it, Patrick? And don’t lie to me,” she said through
her teeth. “I’m sick to death of your behavior and don’t intend to tolerate it
a moment more. Did you take Granddad’s gun?”

“What makes you think that?”

“The maid saw you in his’ den the day of the party.”

He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “No.”

“I don’t believe you.” She stood and moved toward him.
Only then did he notice the articles in her hand. “Where did you get these?”

He focused on the small black books she thrust at him.
Lowering his gaze, he shrugged.

“Look at me.”

Patrick turned away, moved to collect his earphones
and CD player from the floor. Here it comes, he thought. Rage and ruin.

He wanted to smash his fist into the wall, his fury
over her searching his room as raging as his need to spew all the filthy
secrets out in the open, regurgitate them like bad meat. Maybe then she would
understand. Maybe then the pain and disappointment she felt over his behavior
would be forgiven. But, as always, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t destroy her that
way.