In Search of the Dove (17 page)

He was definitely getting mixed signals from her. Had she changed her mind after all? Or maybe she felt uncomfortable working with the police. Many people did. When she opened the door, she hesitated for a moment and then slid onto the vinyl seat and closed the door.

“I think we’d better stop by Michael’s hotel room,” she said, her voice not quite steady.

“I thought you were in a hurry to get to the cemetery?”

“I am. But I have the feeling we should stop at his place first to look for—to look for...” She glanced down at the hands, clasped tightly in her lap. “I don’t know exactly for what. But I know it’s there.”

“Do you have Rome’s address?”

She supplied it but didn’t say anything else on the drive to the hotel.

Devine debated asking her what was wrong or maybe chucking the whole thing. But he was curious, and Ms. Duval’s obvious anxiety had aroused his detective’s instincts.

Jessica was glad Devine was with her to speak to the woman at the desk. His voice and manner conveyed gruff authority. In surprisingly short order, they were standing in the middle of Michael’s suite. Jessica peered around, feeling foolish that she didn’t know what she was searching for and yet confident that she would find it.

When her gaze collided with the cockscomb on the dresser, she drew in her breath sharply.

“Another voodoo charm?” the lieutenant questioned, following the direction of her eyes.

Jessica nodded and tiptoed over. Like the other talisman, this one fairly radiated a sense of evil. She didn’t want to touch it, but she knew she must.

“Lieutenant,” she said, “I have to ask a favor.”

“Yeah?” He was prepared for almost anything now.

She sat down on the Victorian couch. “I know this is going to sound strange, but could you pick up the charm and put it in my hand?”

“Why?”

“I had a reaction to the last one. I’d rather be sitting down.”

Devine shrugged. Jessica forgot to breathe as he carried the talisman toward her. Silently she opened her hand, palm up. This time there was no burning sensation. But the moment the shriveled piece of animal tissue touched her flesh, her senses began to swirl and she slumped sideways on the couch.

Devine had been watching her with guarded interest. Now he sprang reflexively into action. “What?” he snapped, trying to snatch the charm away. But her fingers closed tightly around the grisly artifact. She didn’t feel her body jerk convulsively as the thorn embedded in the cockscomb pierced her flesh. All she knew was that her body and mind were somehow being torn apart. She was here on the couch but she was also in a dark, musty enclosed place at the old Lafayette Cemetery, her limp form resting heavily on a cold slab of stone. A tomb—she was in a tomb. The smell of death made her retch. But then she was also somewhere else. In a dimly lit hospital room, the hot humid air weighing down on her immobile limbs, her mind screaming silently for help.

Another man, not Michael. Jed. The name came to her. He was in grave danger. But he was too far away for her to reach. Michael was here. In the musty, smothering darkness. She had to focus on that.

“For God’s sake. Ms. Duval—Jessica. For God’s sake, snap out of it.” Devine’s urgent voice drifted toward her as though from a dream.

Her mind refused to acknowledge the interruption. She had to concentrate on where Michael was. Not the enclosed place. The exterior. She must look for some landmark to tell her where he was. Doggedly she tried to bring the total scene into focus the way she had with the bookstore, or with Harley’s. But the graveyard was dark and shadowy. She could see rows and rows of little buildings that all looked the same except for a few obscure architectural details. But in front of one an onyx stone angel was sitting pensively with its chin resting on her hand. It was near Michael.

Michael. She was brought back more sharply to him again. He was trapped, suffocating, the charnel house all around him. She had to get to him before the black angel carried him away.

Her eyes snapped open, and the anxious face of Lieutenant Devine swam into her vision.

“What in hell happened to you?” he demanded, uncurling her fingers from around the cockscomb. A drop of blood glistened in her palm.

“Don’t worry about me.” Her voice was gritty. “He’s the one that’s dying,” she whispered.

“Who?”

“Jed. No, Michael.” Why was a man named Jed mixed up in this?

Devine stared at her chalky face. “Let me get something for your hand.”

She squeezed the injury, bringing fresh blood to the surface to cleanse the wound. “This will have to do. Please, Lieutenant. Don’t you understand? We’ve got to get to the cemetery right now.”

* * *

I
N HIS DANK PRISON
Michael’s senses returned slowly. His arms and legs had the pins-and-needles feeling of having been asleep. Only he felt as if they’d been moribund for a hundred years. It took intense concentration to even move his fingers.

Lonnie had told him what drug they’d injected him with. Phenodryl. He recognized the name. It was a powerful animal tranquilizer. Illegal. Used by poachers who stole stock for zoos. A large dose would keep a water buffalo quiet for hours or reduce a man to a near comatose state. It must have slowed down his metabolism. But the fact that he was beginning to think clearly again meant they hadn’t given him very much. The recovery process, however, was unpredictable. It still might be hours before he got back the use of his large muscles.

His sense of smell and touch hadn’t been totally obliterated. Now they returned. He didn’t know about his hearing or vision. His eyes strained against the darkness. Either he was blind or not a sliver of light was getting into the vault. If the latter were true, that probably meant no air was getting in either.

He could feel cold and dampness seeping up from beneath the stone platform on which he lay. His mind served up a piece of information he’d rather not have remembered. These old sepulchers were designed to be used over and over. When the tomb was needed again, the previous body was simply pushed to the back where it fell into a pit. That probably explained the fetid smell rising from below him.

If he could have vomited, he probably would have. If he thought any more about his desperate situation, he would go crazy. Was there any hope that he might be rescued? Certainly not from the Peregrine Connection. He hadn’t even told the Falcon where he was going.

How ironic that he should die in a crypt in New Orleans, of all places. He’d parachuted behind enemy lines and crawled through tunnels in Southeast Asia, survived days in a rubber boat in shark-infested waters when drug smugglers had blown up his craft off the Florida Keys... But then he’d been able to take some action to save himself. Now he could only lie here like a corpse on a slab in the morgue.

Devine would probably show up after ten-thirty, but he would go to plot 105, find the dope warehouse, and assume they’d taken him somewhere else. That left Jessica. Until the voodoo charm had burned her hand, he’d scoffed at her psychic ability. Now his mind clung to the tenuous hope that it might save him.

The image of her that came to him was not from the last time he’d seen her. He wanted to escape from this vault. The only route was through his imagination. He remembered the way she’d looked that morning when he’d awakened next to her. The covers had slipped down, exposing her creamy shoulders and the tops of her high, firm breasts. Even as he’d admired her beauty, he’d noted the innocence and exhaustion that mingled on her sleeping features. A feeling of protectiveness had welled up inside his chest at the same time he’d acknowledged that the lower part of his body was hardening with a more basic response. He’d had to climb out of bed to keep from pulling her into his arms. Since then his emotions and his intellect had been at war. Keeping her at a distance was imperative for his own peace of mind. But so was bringing her close—and never more than at this moment.

But not even thoughts of Jessica could hold reality at bay. The air in his prison was getting thicker. Every breath was becoming an effort.

Jessica, Jessica, Jessica.
Despite his conviction that the effort was probably useless, he called out to her in silent entreaty. That was the only hope he had to cling to.

* * *

H
UGH
D
EVINE POUNDED
on the door to the caretaker’s cottage, wondering if the cemetery custodian was as dead as everybody else around there. Finally Luke Gillespie appeared at the door in a gray chenille robe. His eyes were half closed, but the lieutenant’s police badge woke him up in a hurry.

“We need to find plot 105 on the double,” Devine explained.

“There was a fellow around here earlier looking for that plot. Young guy.”

Quickly Jessica described Michael.

“Yeah, that’s him, but he said he’d leave the grounds before I closed up.”

“Was there anyone else around?” Devine questioned.

“Mourners, you know.”

The fear that they were wasting precious time clawed at the inside of Jessica’s chest. Why were they standing there talking? She peered into the darkened cemetery, wanting to charge off in search of Michael. She’d never find her way by herself.

“We need to find the black angel,” she said.

Devine shot her a quizzical look. What was she talking about?

But she had already turned to the old man in the bathrobe. “Do you know a grave that has a statue of an angel carved from black stone?”

Gillespie’s wrinkled brow creased even more deeply. “Let me think about that. Angels are pretty popular around here. But most of them are white marble or granite. I do recollect an onyx one, though.”

Jessica wanted to shake his bony shoulders. “Where?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “It’s in that section.” He pointed toward the northwest.

“Do you have a flashlight?” she asked.

“Sure do. A good one. Sometimes we need it when we have vandals around here at night,” the old man said, turning back towards his little cottage.

“Bring a crowbar too,” Devine called out.

In a few moments the man had returned with the required items.

Jessica snapped the powerful torch on and moved it experimentally back and forth. The beam cast a strong stream of brilliance into the eerie darkness, illuminating the rows of little structures that made up the necropolis.

Devine sighed. Logic argued that they check plot 105 first. But he’d seen what had happened to Jessica back in Michael’s room. Maybe she was operating on something stronger than logic. Even without supporting evidence, it was almost impossible to discount the sense of conviction she conveyed.

“I can show you the quickest way,” Gillespie volunteered.

“Thank you.”

They started off at a much brisker pace than would have been possible on their own. It wasn’t hard to keep up with the old man, yet Jessica found her breath coming in short pants.

“Ms. Duval, are you all right?” Devine questioned.

“I don’t know. Michael isn’t.” Please keep him alive, she prayed silently.

Though it seemed as if they tramped through the darkness for hours, it couldn’t have been more than minutes. Finally the caretaker swung the light, illuminating the angel. Still panting, Jessica stared at it and then around at the nearby crypts. They were in the area of the cemetery she had seen in her vision, but she hadn’t a clue in which direction to turn.

“Michael,” she called. “Michael, can you hear me? Where are you?”

There was no answer in the silent graveyard.

* * *

G
OD
,
DID HE HEAR HER
calling him, or was that just lack of oxygen making his thoughts giddy? Jessica, Jessica. No sound came out of his mouth. But could he move somehow? Give her a signal? With every bit of strength he could muster, he struggled to lift his foot. The heel of his shoe scraped against rough stone.

* * *

“H
E’S SOMEWHERE
over there.” Jessica pointed to the right of the angel. “He needs me. Right now.”

Devine moved in that direction. A faint scraping noise caught his attention. “Rome, if that’s you, do that again.”

They strained their ears. For long moments there was only silence. Finally the noise was repeated, but more faintly.

“It’s this one,” Devine shouted, slapping the granite wall of a Gothic tomb.

Jessica was at Devine’s side, flattening her hands against the cold stone. Somehow it was like a direct connection to Michael. She could feel the life slipping out of his body. “He’s barely alive. We’ve got to get the vault open.” Seeking closer contact, she pressed her cheek against the granite. “Michael, hold on. We’re here. We’ll get you out.”

Gillespie offered the crowbar. “We have to open these things every time there’s a funeral. There’s a notch at the bottom of the slab. I’ll show you where to put it, but my back’s too weak to do you any good. It usually takes two men.”

Devine swore under his breath. A few inches of stone separated him from the trapped man, but if he couldn’t move it, it might as well be a mile.

Wielding the instrument as directed, he pressed his 250 pounds of weight down. In the light of the torch, Jessica could see his muscles bulge and perspiration break out on his wide forehead. The heavy slab groaned but didn’t move. Putting his foot on the bar, the officer pressed down with all his strength. The stone still didn’t give.

Jessica sprang to his side and added her weight to the lever. The slab protested and then fell forward. Both Jessica and Devine instinctively jumped out of the way. The massive rectangle broke as it hit the steps in front of the vault. Before the dust settled, Devine was pushing his shoulders inside the opening. He began to cough, but at the same time he pulled the slab forward. Michael tumbled out onto the ground.

Jessica knelt over him, listening for the sound of his breathing and feeling the pulse in his neck. Thank God, she thought, he was alive.

She looked at his face. His lips were blue from the cold and lack of oxygen. His eyes were open and staring at her.

“Are you all right?” she whispered.