Blood in Her Veins (Nineteen Stories From the World of Jane Yellowrock) (48 page)

“In a stolen car.” Clara brought me a glass of iced tea with a wedge of lemon and indicated I should take a seat on the love seat, across from Harold, in the tiny sitting area, and I centered the cell on the table between us. It was all very domestic, considering the circumstances. I took the tea, sat, and sipped. Clara said, “The sheriff thinks he probably stole an airboat off the wharf a mile or so north. One's been reported missing, and the stolen car was found there.”

Over the cell, Rick said, “CSI is on-site. There's evidence the women were in the car.”

I didn't want to ask what kind of evidence. I had a bad feeling about what they were going through. A real bad feeling.

“Anyways,” Harold said, which he said a lot, “the fishermen bailed. Haven't seen them since. But their room is ready anytime they want to come back. Extra pillows and blankets waiting.” From the satisfied way he smiled, I assumed that the men had already paid for the room. Whether they used it or not was up to them.

“The police think he'll head north along the waterways.” Clara handed me a linen tea napkin, like a cocktail napkin but classier. “They think he'll likely end up back in Alexandria.”

Rick said, “I'd agree, except for the tiny mention of a Cherokee female. I did some checking. This hasn't been released to the press, but the female werewolf you killed, Jane, was the prisoner's little sister, Victoria Wayne.”

My heart fell. I had already begun to consider that, somehow, the crimes were related to me. I'd just gotten the
why
s of it all backward. Of course,
I
hadn't killed the were-bitch, but I was the visible face of Yellowrock Securities. YS's previous hunt for the “wild dogs” in the area had hit the news about three days after we left Chauvin. My photo, taken directly from the pages of YellowrockSecurities.com, had stared back at me for all
of fifteen seconds on the news that night. No one had mentioned the presence of Rick and PsyLED, or the Younger brothers. Just me and the fact that I had stayed at the Sandlapper. Apparently I looked good on the small screen. My partners had made fun of me for days for being a movie star. I had figured that was the end of it. I'd figured wrong.

My fifteen seconds of fame was all it took for John-Roy to decide I'd killed his sister.

Rick went on, relentless in his cop voice, that toneless expression they use when they tell bad news. “The facts, ma'am. Just the facts,” courtesy of Joe Friday on
Dragnet
. “We had thought that the law enforcement roadblocks out of Angola forced him to steer south, but with Uncle Harold's statement, I've revised that scenario. It's only been a few days since John-Roy's sister died, and it isn't like he had Internet access in the state facility. He's looking for you, and because of the media, he thinks you're still in Chauvin.”

That made sense of a sort. “Go on.”

“According to the timeline we've developed, he took the women to make travel easier. Their families didn't notice they were gone until night came and they didn't come home. No one put two and two together for hours. No one was searching for an armed man traveling south with two females. And by then they were gone.”

“That's not the only reason why he took the women,” I said softly.

“No. Probably not.” The cop tone was stronger now, harder, colder.

“And he's got them down here in the swamps somewhere. Because he thinks, what?” I tried to think like an angry human. “His sister died in the area and the media posted it all over that I'd stayed here. So therefore Harold and Clara would know where I was?”

“That's what we think.”

We
. The cops. “Does he have survival skills? Weapons? Friends who might help?”

“Yeah. Also not released to the public. A pawnshop was broken into in Thibodaux,” Rick said. “Guns, ammo, and camping supplies were stolen. Some dehydrated meals. A first aid kit. And John-Roy has a former cell mate living in Galliano. Goes by the moniker Snake. Snake didn't show up for work this morning. Lastly we just discovered two DBs in a gas station bathroom. We think it might be the work of our missing felon.”

DBs. Dead bodies. I said, “So we have two missing women, probably already traumatized. Two cons, maybe together, maybe not. All four human. And a lot of swamp. Why are you calling me?” I figured I knew, but I believed in laying my cards on the table, and I wanted that from my sorta-boyfriend.

“John-Roy and Snake are hunting for you. I think once John-Roy regroups and gains access to the Internet and other media, he'll figure out that you live in New Orleans and he'll head there. That needs not to happen.”

I realized what he meant. It was hunt for them out there, where there were fewer possibilities of collateral damage—meaning dead humans—or have them hunt me in the city, where someone unrelated to the case might get hurt. It was a no-brainer.

“The sheriff's department might be willing for you to help track the guys.” He didn't say it, but with his cousin Nadine being the sheriff, it was likely he had already broached the possibility. More of those tangled familial ties. “I'd send Brute to help you track, but I need him here.”

I snorted a laugh. That one I hadn't expected. Rick's werewolf partner and I mighta worked together okay for a while, and I was grateful that he saved my life and all, but he was a pain in the butt. “I got another idea who I can get to help.” Not that I'd tell Rick who. Some secrets should go to the grave. “You want to notify Nadine and tell her to keep her men from shooting me and my team?”

Sarge was related to Rick and Harold and Clara. He was also a lone wolf, a werewolf who ran and hunted alone beneath the full moon, and had done so for decades—sane—all of which was unheard of for werewolves. He was a grizzled war vet and pilot, and at the time I had felt pretty good about not telling the world about him. About not filling him full of silver rounds. I felt even smarter about it now.
If
he would help me.

“Yeah. Thanks, Jane,” Rick said, his voice softening.

“Why is this so important to you?” I asked. “Your job is hunting supernaturals. This isn't your sister kidnapped. Your family wasn't harmed except for a self-inflicted flesh wound. The culprits and victims are human. What's PsyLED's interest?”

“PsyLED could give a rat's ass for this case,” Rick growled, his black big-cat sounding in his voice. “But all this came from our job down there. It's unfinished business.”

That I understood perfectly. I nodded. “Okay. I'll stay. I'll track the escaped prisoner. And I'll let the sheriff's office handle hostage negotiation and taking prisoners unless I see a reason to do otherwise. And this one's on me,” I added. “Like you said. It's unfinished business. Get Nadine to send all pertinent info to my cell and e-mail.”

I ended the call and dialed the Kid, the electronic genius member of the firm. The Kid—given name Alex, and sometimes still called Stinky because of his occasional lack of personal hygiene—answered, “Jane. Where are you? Eli said we're doing pizza tonight.”

I took a breath and prepared to accept the consequences of going off on my own. “You guys go ahead. I'm in Chauvin.”

I heard a faint click, a change in the ambient noise on the other end, and Eli, the weapons and tactics guy of the firm, said, “Why?” Never one to waste words, my partner.

“Unfinished business. The escaped Angola prisoner was brother to the were-bitch we took down. John-Roy Wayne picked up an old cell mate and they have two women, young mothers, hostage.”

“We'll be there in four hours.” The connection ended.

“Well, crap,” I said, staring at the phone.

“They're your brothers, dear,” Clara said, assuming. “Brothers are like that. They have to protect their sisters.”

I started to say that we weren't family, but we were all three orphans. We lived together. We did sorta physically resemble each other: Eli and Alex were mixed race, and I was Cherokee, giving us all dark skin and hair. We were more than friends.
Family
. “Yes,” I said. “My brothers are pains in the neck. Okay if we take our old rooms?”

“I'll get them aired out, dear,” Clara said.

I carried my empty tea glass to the sink and headed to the door. “I'll be back. I'm heading out to talk to a pilot and borrow a dog.”

Without turning from the sink, where she was washing my glass, Clara said, “Tell Sarge and Chris and their great monster dog that we said hi.”

“Will do,” I said. And took off down the stairs, to wade through the newsies who were waiting for me, blocking both exits, microphones extended. I thought about ignoring them but realized that this might be the best way of keeping the escaped con in the area. I slowed and said, “I have a statement.” The cameras and reporters gathered around me like flies
to beer. “I'm Jane Yellowrock. I'm in Chauvin. And I'm hunting John-Roy Wayne. You want me, Johnnie boy? Come and get me.” I climbed on Bitsa and took off, helmet still on the bike, my braid streaming in the wind.

One thing about riding a Harley. You can outpace a news van in no time flat.

•   •   •

Beyond a quick glance at the lush greenery, the kind only an earth witch can coax to grow in wintertime, I hadn't paid much attention to Sarge's place when Yellowrock Securities hired him to fly us to the kill sites of werewolf attacks. The house was an old tidewater, built on low stilts, with lattice covering the open space beneath. Sarge had been expecting us last time we came. Not so much now. The Vietnam War vet didn't like most people, and he had the guns to make sure they stayed away.

I pulled into his drive, up to the house, and walked to the door. Knocking was superfluous after the noise of Bitsa, but it was also polite, and good manners had been part of the curriculum in the Christian children's home where I was raised. I knocked. Sarge opened the door before I dropped my hand. He was holding a shotgun. At his side was PP, short for Pity Party. The part mastiff, part buffalo, part elephant growled at me, showing teeth. Freaking
big
teeth.

Beast padded to the front of my brain and glowered out at her. Beast chuffed, wanting to take the challenge PP offered. PP growled low, as if she detected a change in my scent, morphing into something dangerous. Most dogs could sense the big-cat of my Beast, my mountain lion, hiding deep inside. Or maybe Pity Party just didn't like me.

I shoved Beast down and raised both hands in the universal gesture of peace, or maybe the universal gesture of
I am not holding a gun. See? Don't shoot
. “Sarge,” I said, “I'm not here to cause you trouble. Or to tell anyone about your secret.”

“Then why
are
you here?”

“Partly because I need answers to a couple of questions.”

“I've never turned anyone. Not once. Ain't interested in making a pack. Never was. I got what I want. And I'll defend it to my last dying breath. That about cover it?”

I chuckled and said, “That covers the questions part of why I'm here.”

“What's the other part? I got lunch waiting.” PP growled again, this time deeper. And Sarge still had the gun leveled at my chest.

“I need a partner and the necessary equipment to help me track down an escaped inmate and another ex-con who took two women prisoner. They took off into the countryside. Waterside. Whatever you call this swamp. The men are violent, armed, have survival equipment and skills. And they'll kill us as soon as look at us.”

“Long as it ain't something dangerous, then,” he said, laconic, a twinkle in his eyes. Sarge broke open his shotgun and draped it across an arm, pushing open the door. “Come on in. I reckon we got a lot to talk about. Let her in, PP. And go get Christabel. Tell her we got company.”

The dog was gonna tell someone they had company? Huh.

PP padded away, her claws clicking on the floor. Inside, the house was decorated in French country, with lots of wood and crockery and copper pots hanging near the AGA stove. There were white quartz countertops and dark green walls with weathered gray cabinets. And flowers everywhere, in vases, in pitchers, stemless blooms floating in shallow bowls. Over the floral fragrances, I could smell Italian sausage simmering on the AGA and pasta and fresh bread and aromatic cheeses. My mouth watered. And it made me feel guilty, to think of my stomach while two young women were being . . . I shook my head to make the images go away.

“Sit a spell,” Sarge said as we entered a great room with matching leather couch, love seat, and recliner, upholstered ottomans, and a beautiful wall-hanging over the fireplace, made of different lengths and colors of horsehair, an image suggestive of the black water swamp and the sky under moonlight. “Hope you're hungry. My wife will insist you join us.” He didn't sound too happy about it, and placed the shotgun on a small side table instead of putting it away. I took that as a sign to be
very
careful. Sarge dropped into the recliner in the corner, house wall at his back, windows and doors in his line of sight, and shotgun about a quarter second from his hand.

“I don't have time to eat,” I said. “I don't have time to visit. I just need to know if you'll help me.”

“Sit,” he said again, this time pointing to the chair that put my back to everything important. I wanted to sock him to make him listen to me, but I took a seat catercorner to him, not the one he'd wanted me to take.
It wasn't the best seat in the house from a defensive standpoint, but it
was
second-best. Somehow my chair choice made a point for me; Sarge chuckled. “So, what do you want me to do for you?” he asked.

“I was hoping you and PP might join me.” He didn't appear to be opposed to the idea, so I took a quick breath and added, “Both on leashes.”

Sarge didn't shoot me. He didn't move at all. I heard ticking, slow and sonorous, and saw the pendulum of a grandfather clock swaying off to my right. The ticking seemed to echo through the house. My palms started to sweat. I didn't want to fight a werewolf in any form, especially not one with a shotgun close to hand. Weres are fast.