Bone Cold (16 page)

Still, her thoughts turned to those two women. She had read about them in the
Times-Picayune.
The newspaper hadn't mentioned the color of their hair. It hadn't made a point of the fact that the two had been out dancing the night of their deaths.

It had made a point of how they had died.

Raped. Then suffocated.

Anna shivered. Suddenly, the silence seemed forced. The deserted streets unnatural. The work of movie magic. Her low-heeled mules made a soft slapping sound with each step, a far cry from the heavier footfalls behind her.

Behind her.

Anna's heart skipped a beat. She scolded herself for her overactive imagination. She cursed Quentin Malone for planting the seed of terror in her brain.

She increased her pace anyway, anxious to get home.

The pace of the footfalls behind her increased as well.

She stopped. Silence surrounded her. Heart hammering, she forced herself to peek over her shoulder. The sidewalk behind her appeared deserted. She moved her gaze. The shadows around the Square and the shops' doorways were dark and deep. Threatening.

A squeak of terror rose in her throat and she
swallowed it, struggling to get a grip on herself. On her imagination. She began to walk, at a comfortable pace at first, then faster, acutely aware of the increasing speed of the footfalls behind her.

Two women were dead. Both redheads.

Truly frightened now, she broke into a run. She cut through the back of the Square, past the cathedral, its hulking shadow spilling across the sidewalk before her. She ducked onto St. Ann, then Royal, heading for the residential area of the French Quarter.

Still he followed.

Her slip-on shoes slowed her. She kicked them off, stumbling as she did, crying out as something sharp bit into the tender underside of her foot. Her breath came in short, heavy gasps. Her heart thundered. The gasping and pounding filled her head and she struggled to hear past them but couldn't.

She was almost home. Only four more blocks. To her left lay a narrow side street, one that ran between the rear of two rows of buildings. A shortcut home. Taking it would slice her trip in half. She had done it a thousand times.

Without pausing for further thought, she darted down the street. The darkness closed in on her as she careened ahead, all her energy focused on her forward movement.

From behind her came the sound of a tin can skittering across the pavement.

He had found her.

Now, she was alone with him. Dear heaven.
Instead of losing her shadow, she had virtually lured him into what amounted to an alley.

Fear rose like bile from the pit of her stomach, gagging her. Stealing all rational thought. She plunged
forward, stumbling again. Again losing precious seconds. In her mind's eye, she could see him on her heels, gaining on her, arms out.

The bogeyman had emerged from his hiding place in the shadows.

The end of the alley in sight now, she bolted for it.

And ran smack-dab into Quentin Malone. His arms went around her and she cried out in relief and clung to him, all but sobbing.

He searched her gaze, the amusement she had always seen in his gone. “My God, Anna, what's wrong?”

She fought to find the breath to speak. “Follow…someone was…”

He drew away from her. “Someone was following you? Where?”

“There.” She pointed down the side street. “And before.”

“Stay here. Let me take a loo—”

“No! Don't leave me.”

“Anna, I have to.” He set her away from him. “You're safe here, stand in the light. I'll be right back.”

She did as he suggested and stood under the streetlight, hugging herself, unable to stop her teeth from chattering—though not from the cold night air, from another, much more frightening kind of chill.

Malone returned after a couple minutes, though to Anna it seemed an eternity. “Alley's empty,” he said without preamble. “I didn't see anything that looked out of the ordinary. Are you certain someone was following you?”

“Yes.” She hugged herself tighter. “I heard…him.”

“Go on.”

“Because it was so quiet, I…I noticed his footsteps.”

“When did you first become aware of them?”

“Just after I…left Tips.”

He looked at her long and evenly, as if weighing her every word, every nuance of her voice. With a small nod, he shifted his gaze. “I'll walk you the rest of the way home.”

This time she didn't argue, but instead fell into step beside him, acknowledging to herself that she had never been more grateful for anyone's company in her life.

“Your teeth are chattering.”

“I'm cold. It's the bare feet.”

He lowered his gaze. And made a sound of surprise. “You're not wearing any shoes.”

“I kicked them off…somewhere. Back there.”

“I'll find them.”

“No. Forget them. I just…I want to go home.”

He hesitated, frowning. “I could carry you.”

“No, please…it's not necessary. Really.”

He looked like he wanted to argue with her, but didn't. Instead he glanced down at her, then ahead again. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

She did, beginning with her noticing the rain-slicked sidewalks and ending with landing in his arms.

“Are you certain you were followed into the alley?”

She didn't hesitate. “Yes. As I neared the end of the alleyway there was a clattering sound behind me, like a tin can being kicked out of the way.”

“But you didn't hear the footsteps.”

She shook her head. “I was running and between my pounding heart and ragged breathing, I couldn't hear anything else.”

He hesitated a moment, as if considering different
scenarios. “Could it have been me you heard behind you?”

She stopped and looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“When I realized you'd bolted from Tipitina's, I asked your friend Dalton the route you would have taken home and headed out. Did you take St. Peter to St. Ann?” She nodded. “Maybe until you darted down the alley, the footfalls you heard were mine.”

“What about the tin can?”

“A cat digging through a Dumpster.”

They began walking again.
Had she allowed Malone's comments to get to her? Had her imagination run so far and so fast that she had literally fabricated the whole incident?

“I don't know,” she murmured. “I was so frightened and it's not like me to…to go off the deep end that way.”

Except at night. When the nightmares visited. When Kurt came to call.

“Is that your building?” he asked, indicating the one just ahead.

She said that it was, then winced as she stepped on something sharp. “Ouch. Wait.”

She grabbed his arm for support, then looked at the bottom of her foot. It was bleeding. She lifted her eyes to his, light-headed. “It must have been glass. A…big piece.”

“Let me take a look.”

He did, muttered an oath and lifted her into his arms. She squealed, surprised. “Malone! Put me down!”

“Not a chance.” He closed the remaining distance to her building. “I should have done this two blocks ago.”

“I feel silly. What if someone sees this?”

“They'll think we're newlyweds. Besides, it's not every day I get to help a damsel in distress.”

“But you're a cop.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but my specialty is dead people. You got a key for this place?”

She rummaged in her purse for her key ring and handed it to him. “The round one's for the courtyard gate, the square for my apartment.”

Within minutes she was sitting on the edge of her bathtub, her foot on a towel in Malone's lap. He'd already called the Eighth District Station, explained what had happened and asked them to send a couple of uniforms to check out the scene. He also requested that they ask a few question at Tips.

Now his attention was focused on the bottom of her foot. “Yup,” he murmured, “it's glass. Looks like it was once part of an Abita Beer bottle. That's the French Quarter for you.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “Do you think I need…stitches?”

Her voice shook and he looked at her in concern. “Please tell me you're
not
going to pass out.”

“I'll try not to.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I really don't do well with blood. Ever since—” She sucked in a deep, fortifying breath. “You know.”

“I can guess.” He stood, went to the sink and soaked a washcloth, then returned and gently rinsed her foot. His touch gentle, he probed the wound. “Doesn't look too deep. I think you can do without a trip to the emergency room.”

She let out a pent-up breath, one she hadn't even realized she was holding. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” He got to his feet and went to the
medicine cabinet. “I need antiseptic, sterile gauze, tape and tweezers. Have any of those things?”

She directed him and within moments he was performing his brand of bathroom surgery on her. “Okay, doll,” he murmured, “bite on a nail, this might sting.”

He came at her with the tweezers. Anna squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath, waiting for the sting. It came and a whimper escaped her clenched teeth.

“Got it. Want to see? It's a nice-size chunk.”

“God, no.” She averted her head, just to insure she didn't peek by accident. “I'd faint for sure.”

“Thanks for the warning. Now hold on, here comes the bad part.”

He wasn't joking. She came off her seat as he flushed the wound with antiseptic. It burned like hellfire. “Hey, go easy on that stuff!”

“Sorry, babe. Worst is over, I promise.”

He grinned up at her, expression boyish, and her heart did this funny little thing—like a flip-flop or side step. She assured herself that the sensation was relief. Not awareness. Not attraction. Not one of those irrational sexual things that could get a girl in a world of trouble.

“You make a pretty good doctor,” she said, forcing lightness into her tone. “Maybe you missed your calling?”

Malone laughed. “Hardly. I had enough trouble getting through the schooling I needed to make detective first grade.” He quickly and deftly wrapped and taped her foot. “You have any ibuprofen?”

“In the cabinet.”

He retrieved the bottle and shook out a couple of the blue caplets, bringing them to her with a glass of water. “You'll be sore for a while,” he said as she took
the caplets, then washed them down with the water. “I'd suggest forgoing Tipitina's for now.”

“Maybe forever.” She eased to her feet, wincing as she put pressure on the injured one. “My dancing days are over.”

“Just take a cab next time, cher. Or bring a date.”

“I tried that,” she murmured, taking a cautious step toward the doorway. “He didn't show.”

“I can't say I'm unhappy about that.” He smiled at her. “It's not often I get to play doctor.”

Her heart did that jumpy thing again. Only this time she couldn't put it off to anything but what it was. Pure animal attraction. She cocked an eyebrow. “Why do I find
that
hard to believe?”

“Because you're a cynic?”

“Yeah, right. Come on, I'll walk you to the door.”

“Actually, I suggest you stay off your feet.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “If you'd like, I could tuck you into bed?”

Would she like him to? Yes. Would it be wise? Lord, no. Quentin Malone anywhere near her bed was definitely not a good idea. The man oozed more charm than a snake-oil salesman.

“I don't think so,” she replied. “But that was a good try.”

“Glad you think so. I'll try again.”

She ignored that—and the realization that she hoped he would.

They reached her door. “Thanks for everything, Malone. I'm really…I'm grateful.”

“NOPD, at your service.”

“Tonight was way above and beyond the call of duty,” she murmured, opening the door. “The truth is…you
might have saved…without you, who knows what would have happened.”

“I'm going to follow up on this, Anna. I'll let you know if I come up with anything.” He paused at the door. “By the way, I looked into Jaye Arcenaux's foster parents for you.”

Anna's mouth went dry. “And?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary materialized. In fact the Clausens seem about as true blue, apple pie as they come.”

A lump formed in her throat. A part of her felt relief, another despair. “Are you sure?”

“As certain as I can be. They've been foster parents to more than a dozen kids. I checked around, talked to a few of their former kids. They had nothing but good things to say about the couple, and according to Social Services' records, most of their fosters turned out okay.”

“Any of them run away?”

“I checked that, too, Anna. Yeah. And the ones who ran away turned up later. Alive and well.” His expression turned sympathetic. “It looks like your friend really did run away. And if she did, my bet is she'll turn up sometime. They usually do.”

“I wish I could believe that,” Anna whispered. “I want to. It sure beats the alternative.”

“Yeah, it does.” He reached up and trailed a thumb lightly across her cheekbone. “I'll be in touch. Sleep well, Anna.”

Saturday, January 20
The deep of the night

J
aye awakened to the sound of weeping. The sound echoed through the stillness, hollow and hopeless. The weeping of a lost soul. Another, just like herself.

The girl who had come to the door.

Jaye climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the door. She pressed her ear to the wood, aching for the other girl. Hurting for her. Understanding.

Jaye was certain that the other girl was also a prisoner. She wondered if their captor ever allowed the girl outside. If she ever had the opportunity to play in the park or go to a movie. She wondered if she had been snatched from the street, as Jaye had been.

How long had she been with this monster? Months? Years?

Sorrow rose up in Jaye. For herself. For the other lost soul. She brought her hands to the door, pressing her palms against its rigid surface. “Hello,” she called out softly, then louder. “It's me. Upstairs. Stop crying, come talk to me.”

The weeping ceased. Silence ensued. Moments ticked past. Jaye called out again. “Come upstairs. I'll talk to you. We'll have each other. We can be friends.”

Jaye waited. Seconds became what seemed like hours. Still Jaye waited. And prayed, heart thundering against the wall of her chest. Finally, she tried again. “Please,” she called. “Please come and talk to me.”

Somewhere in the house a door slammed, final and deafening. Jaye closed her eyes and sagged against the door. The other girl wasn't going to come. A whimper slipped past Jaye's lips; hopelessness choked her.

Alone. She was still alone.

Sudden laughter shattered the quiet. The sound broke through her thoughts and loosened the monster's grip on her. She wasn't going to give up the way the other girl had. She would never stop trying to escape, would never stop trying to beat him.

The laughter came again. The laughter of a group on the sidewalk below.

Below her window. A group of people who could help her.

If she could get their attention.

Jaye scrambled to the window and threw herself against the boards. She pounded on them like a mad-woman, screaming and clawing at them. The cuts on the tips of her fingers opened and began to bleed.

The blood ran down her fingers, sticky and wet. Sobbing, Jaye yanked a piece of peeling wallpaper from the wall and wiped the blood on it. It mixed with her tears, streaking across the faded floral design, creating a web of spidery-looking lines. Like the handwriting of an old woman.

Handwriting. Of course.

She stared at the lines. Her tears dried. Her hands
began to shake. She moved her gaze over the wall, looking for an area of loose paper.

She found one and carefully peeled it away. The paper, fragile with age, crumbled. Undaunted, she tried again. Then again, working the paper at the edges, slowly pulling it up and away from the wall.

She ended up with an irregular-shaped piece, slightly smaller than a sheaf of notebook paper. Her wounds had already begun to close, and she squeezed the tip of her right index finger, reopening it. She forced the blood to form a bead, then using the blood, began writing a message on the scrap of wallpaper. Minutes passed. When the first finger began to throb painfully, she switched to another. She repeated the process until she had scrawled:

Help me. I'm a prisoner. J. Arcenaux.

The building was old. The fit of window to frame poor. Maybe, just maybe, she could poke the paper through the slim opening between window and frame.

But first she had to worm her hand through a space between two boards. She managed to do it, though the position was agony; the process slow. Her hand and fingers cramped and sweat beaded her upper lip and the small of her back. She inched the paper forward until it fell away from her, away from the window.

Only then did Jaye realize she was crying. Silent tears of hope. And hopelessness.

She freed her hand and sank to the floor. She drew her knees to her chest and rested her forehead against them. And prayed. That someone would find the note and take it to the NOPD. That the police would mount a search for her and she would be rescued.

It had to happen that way. It had to.