Bad Moon Rising (9 page)

Ah, blessed power. The aphrodisiac of complete control.

He moves through the fog to the Mustang. The humidity
has settled over the windows in a thick, wet haze. He is tempted to write some
cryptic note with his finger on the condensation, feed J.D. some clue that will
foster anger and suspicion. Not yet. Too early in the game. This time he will
be more careful. He’d acted too quickly those years before, murdered a hooker
too soon after she had serviced her last john.

But watching Angel Gonzalez tried for the slayings had
been entertaining, if nothing else. In some twisted way, he had been in control
even then. Because of him an innocent man was tried and convicted and put to
death. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Moving down the cracked and buckled sidewalks, he
stays close to the buildings, avoiding the diffused light from the overhead
streetlamps. It is a long walk to his destination, but he enjoys this time.
Enjoys the vibrations of anxiety he feels in the air. The night is unusually
quiet, the area vacant. That, too, pleases him. The district fears him. Even
now, the whores are trembling behind their locked doors. He needn’t kill again
for a while. The terror that he has brought to this community is enough, for
the moment, to instill him with the sweet, sweet feeling of domination and
authority. It fills him with euphoria as he almost glides down the backstreets
to the river, pausing to drink in the scent of the muddy water before
continuing down the stretch of old warehouses that have not yet been converted
into art galleries and such nonsense.

He hums as he walks, invigorated by what is to come.

The building is ancient, with crumbling bricks that
had been lain by sweating slaves’ hands a hundred and fifty years ago, the
timbers deteriorating, eaten away by age and mildew, crumbling into fine dust
that makes his footsteps all but silent.

He has researched the history of the cavernous building,
which juts out over the river on pilings. Once food was brought here to await
its trip up the river on boats, to the plantations between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. Hooks for slabs of beef still dangle from the overhead beams, bones of the
past. Early in the century, when electricity had become the norm, giant
lockers had been installed to keep the raw meat cool. It is here that he
stops. Presses his ear against the massive door, and listens, his breath coming
in short, audible pants of excitement. He heaves open the door and enters.

She is there, just as he left her. Huddled in the
corner of the locker, the kerosene lamp on the floor filling her wide, pretty
eyes with flames of fear. Her wrists and ankles are linked together with wire,
her arms upstretched above her head and anchored to the wall. She’s smarter
than most, knowing that if she struggles, the thin hobbles will slice into her
flesh and cause her pain. Still, as she stares up into his eyes, her body
trembles enough so the wires cut into her skin, causing fresh threads of blood
to dribble. She makes a mumbled sound behind the black tape over her lips.

He smiles. “Hello, Melissa. Miss me?”

Just as J.D. expected, the bleary-eyed cop on the
night shift wasn’t particularly concerned about Melissa Carmichael’s
mysterious disappearance. He typed out a report and tossed it into the stack of
a dozen others he had received since coming on duty. No doubt he was pissed
because he was stuck behind a desk and not out prowling the streets in hopes of
making a collar that would get his name in the paper and a commendation from
the mayor.

Throughout the interview, Holly had managed to keep a
tight rein on her irritation. The cat struggling in her arms had helped,
refocusing her short-wired patience each time J.D. suspected she was on the
verge of climbing across the cop’s cluttered desk to slap him.

J.D. had answered most of the questions and offered
comments of his own. No indication of violence. Yes, he had knocked on a few
doors, but the neighbors had not seen or heard anything suspicious. No, they
had not seen Melissa, but that wasn’t unusual, considering she came and went
mostly during the early hours of the morning. Hookers didn’t exactly work the
nine-to-five shift.

By the time he pulled the Mustang to the curb in front
of his apartment, Holly had fallen asleep with the cat curled up in her lap. He
didn’t notice the patrol car parked across the street until he had shaken Holly
awake and exited the Mustang.

The uniformed officer moved toward him through the fog
and shadows, one hand locked on Patrick’s arm, tugging his reluctant nephew
along.

Shit.

“What the hell is this about, Patrick?” J.D. stared at
Patrick, who attempted to yank his arm from the cop, avoiding J.D.’s eyes.

“Found him wandering the warehouse district. Said he
belonged to you.”

“Did he?”

“Does he?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

As Holly exited the car, Patrick pinned her with his
angry eyes, his expression growing sulky. “Who the fuck is that?”

Holly moved up beside J.D., gently stroking the cat.

Her expression looked sleepy and amused by his nephew’s
belligerence.

J.D. took Patrick by the scruff of his shirt collar. “Thanks.”

“Keep him off the streets. Next time, I’ll take him
in.”

“Right.” He was tempted to tell the cop to take the
kid in anyway. Give him a taste of what was in store for him if he didn’t get
his act together.

Patrick jerked away from J.D. and shuffled toward the
apartment, hands jammed into his baggy jeans pockets. Mounting the steps, he
stood, shoulders hunched, head down, and kicked the door.

The cop smirked. “Enjoy your evening.” Then he returned
to the patrol car.

J.D. glanced at Holly, who was scratching the tabby
between its ears, her drowsy gaze still assessing his nephew. “Bev isn’t going
to be pleased,” he said, glancing again at Holly, who narrowed her eyes as she
appraised Patrick more closely.

He didn’t bother looking at Patrick as he unlocked the
door, then waited for the seething teenager to enter. His mind was ticking over
just how he was going to deal with this sorry turn of events. The only
experience he’d had with delinquent teenagers was with those who had found
their way into the justice system. By that time they were already up to their
ears in rap sheets and on their way to juvenile lockdown.

Patrick flopped onto the futon, hands still jammed in
his pockets, his sharp gray eyes focused on Holly as she moved to the kitchen
to rummage through the cupboards for a water bowl for the cat. “New girlfriend?”
he sneered.

“None of your business.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and slumped deeper into the futon.

“What the hell are you doing out at this time of
night?”

“None of your business.”

“Drinking?”

“Not yet.”

“Drugs?”

He smirked. “Not yet.”

“Maybe I’ll just haul your smart-aleck ass down to the
lab and have you drug tested.”

“Fine. I don’t give a fuck.”

“You ganging it, Patrick?”

“What if I am?”

“I’ll kick your ass.”

“Nice one, Mr. Prosecutor,” Holly whispered behind
him. “Judge Judy would be very proud of your technique. Rip out his throat and
let him bleed all over the floor, why don’t you?”

Stepping around him, carrying the box of cold pizza,
she moved to the futon and dropped down beside Patrick. “I don’t know about you
guys, but I’m starving, and I happen to love cold pizza.” She peeled a slice
from the box and proceeded to eat, offering a slice to Patrick. He ignored her.

His hands on his hips, J.D. stared at his nephew and
tried to control his rising frustration. “What am I supposed to do with you
now? Your mom is freaked over your behavior. I’m gonna call her up at two in
the morning and tell her you were picked up wandering around the damn warehouse
district?”

Patrick shrugged and glanced at the pizza. “What were
you doing there, Patrick?”

“Nothin’.”

Raking one hand through his hair, J.D. searched the
ceiling for patience. It was one thing to remain cool when there was no
emotional involvement, but it was another when the kid was his own flesh and
blood, a semigrown image of his son. Perhaps that had been part of his recent
problem, his resistance to get involved more deeply in Patrick’s life. Although
Billy had only been seven when he died, the boys were uncannily similar. He
couldn’t look into Patrick’s eyes anymore without thinking of what he had lost.

“Christ.” He sighed. “Eric is gonna be pissed.”

“Who’s Eric?” Holly asked, chewing her pizza.

“My dad,” Patrick snapped at the same moment that J.D.
replied, “My brother.”

Her eyebrows shot up, and she shifted her gaze back to
J.D. “So Beverly is your sister-in-law. Interesting.”

J.D. narrowed his eyes at her before focusing again on
Patrick,’ who had apparently noted the look that had passed between him and Holly.
A new kind of anger flushed his nephew’s face.

“I’ll have to call your mom. If she’s already
discovered you’re gone, she’ll be beside herself with panic.”

“If she
had
discovered him gone,” Holly
said, “I suspect she would have already called you.”

Patrick gave her a nasty look. “Why don’t you mind
your own business? Who are you, anyway? My uncle’s newest piece of ass?”

She smiled. “I was only going to suggest that J.D.
take you home. You could crawl back through whatever hole you crawled out of,
slither beneath your bedcovers, and she would never need to know you were ever
gone, and no one would need to get freaked over this incident.”

“Maybe I don’t wanna go home. Maybe I want to live
here.”

“Maybe you don’t have a choice.” She tossed the pizza
crust back into the box. “You’re a minor and therefore your parents are
obligated by law to remain responsible for your welfare. They’re also
responsible for any mischief you commit while wandering the streets in the
dead of night. Aside from that, you’ve put your uncle in an uncomfortable
situation. He obviously loves you very much, but he also has a responsibility
to your parents, especially his brother. By involving your uncle in whatever
emotional flux you’re experiencing toward your parents, you risk alienating
him from your mother and father. What happens then?”

She tapped her temple with her index finger. “Think
consequences. Patrick. I realize that at your age, consequences have a way of
becoming diluted by swarming hormones. Been there and done that, so I can tell
you from experience that your actions risk ruining any hope you might have of
your uncle helping you through this difficult time. If you drive a wedge
between J.D. and his brother, you can bet your father will nip any future visitation
with J.D. in the bud. I don’t think that’s what you really want, is it?”

He stared at the toes of his sneakers, face red and
miserable.

“Is it?” she asked softly.

Shrugging, he shook his head.

“Hey.” She laid one hand on his shoulder, drawing his
angry eyes back to hers. “I know it’s tough. Sometimes adults don’t understand
what’s going on in a teenager’s mind. They forget what it’s like to be young
and confused. Trust me, if you hang in there and keep it together, it’ll get
better. It just takes time.”

He opened and closed his mouth, then turned away,
swallowed hard.

J.D. allowed Holly a faint smile of gratitude, then
moved toward the door. “Come on, pal. Let’s get you home before our goose is
cooked with your dad.”

Reluctantly, Patrick got to his feet, heels scraping
the floor. At the threshold, he stopped and looked back, skewering Holly with
his eyes. “I don’t give a fuck what my dad thinks. And I don’t like you and
your been-there-and-done-that shit. You don’t know nothin’, okay? You think you
know me and what I’m feelin’, but you don’t and you never will.”

Patrick stood in the deep shadows inside of
his house, watching through
the window as his uncle’s car silently, and without headlights, backed from the
driveway then eased off down the street, the red taillights swallowed up by
the fog.