Mind Games (23 page)

She heard footsteps on the gravel
. Oh, my God, he’s back. I can’t survive another night. Maybe if I stop breathing he’ll leave me alone. Please, God, please don’t let him kill some innocent because of me. Please.

* * * * *

J
enrette parked the SUV and the team approached the cabins on foot. “She could be in any of these three,” Farley said. “How do you want to do this? Each take one or go together?”

“Hell of a time to discuss it,” Cash said. “We could’ve talked about this on the way.”

“Will you pipe down?” the sheriff said. “We might as well announce ourselves.”

“Look, no car and no lights. There’d have to be a car around here, right?”

“Don’t mean shit. He could have hidden it. We did.”

“Shh, listen. You hear anything?”

“Enough of this bullshit,” Jenrette said. “Let’s get going. Cash, you take the far building. Farley, go to the middle. I’ll take this one. Check your watches. We go in exactly five minutes. That way no one will make any noise to queer the other two break-ins. If you find him, shoot the son-of-a-bitch. Understood?”

“We have to announce ourselves, Sheriff,” Farley said. “It’s the law.”

Jenrette drew a slow bead. “I know the law, Jake, and you’re right. Let me rephrase. Yell
Police
, then shoot the fucker.”

The three men nodded and quietly began their assault, guns drawn.

* * * * *

B
eecher’s team parked off road and chose to stay together. Their cabins were set far enough apart that they could approach them separately, without alerting anyone inside. The glow from a hazy moon offered the only light. Dumar, a lock-pick specialist, turned the door handle of the first cabin, found it locked, and chose the right instrument from his case. He inserted the pick into the lock, jiggled the handle a few times and opened the door. No sound. The three men bounded through the door and quickly spread to canvass the house. Empty. They headed for the next to repeat their perfect performance.

* * * * *

L
ucier eyed the structures at Bayou Fontenot. The grounds, overgrown with weeds and downed trees, became an unavoidable obstacle course of snapping limbs and crunching leaves. He saw no signs of life, no lights, no car, but Macon was smart enough to hide his vehicle from view, as they had. Or maybe he had already left. Lucier didn’t want to think of that, knowing the implication.

With his heart racing, he wished he had additional men and more time to plan a better course of action. Always the careful strategist, never a second-guesser, this time he surged forward with almost no preparation. Was Beecher right? Was he too involved to think straight?
God help me if I’m wrong.

Amos Moseley crept up beside him. “I’m gonna take a quick look around. Don’t do anything till I get back.”

“Be careful.”

“Even the leaves won’t know I’ve stepped on them,” Amos whispered.

Lucier would give anything for a sip of water to dampen his dry mouth. He willed himself calm. What good would he be if he couldn’t even hold his gun when he faced Harley Macon?

An eternity passed before Amos returned. “Now, I’m not positive, ’cause it’s dark, but looks to me like there’s been some recent action in the middle cabin. I saw tire tracks in the back and the path to the front door is tamped down pretty good. Back door’s got a lock.”

“I’ve done everything so far on instinct. No point stopping now.” The three men gave thumbs up and moved into position. Lucier listened at the front door, but heard nothing. If he was right, in a few minutes Diana would be safe and her kidnapper dead, killed in self-defense during an escape. That was the one thing he’d actually planned. Even if he breached protocol and wound up with a suspension, Harley Macon would not come out of this alive. He tried the door. Locked, which surprised him. He figured squatters used the cabins. He took a deep breath, pulled a credit card from his wallet and slid the thin plastic between the latch and door jam. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Turning the knob slowly to avoid making noise, he opened the door, and they slipped inside like eels, each slithering in a different direction.

* * * * *

D
iana started shaking. She heard him entering the house, coming her way. Why didn’t he light the lantern
? He wants me to see his clue. I’m not going to look. I won’t play his game. I won’t! I’ll pretend I’m dead.
Fear forced tears out of the corners of her eyes, but her shackled hands couldn’t wipe them away.
He can’t see me crying. Then he’ll know I’m not dead. Stop, Diana. Stop your damn crying. You’re dead. Just be dead.

The footsteps came closer, muffled sounds in the silence.
He’s trying to scare me to death. He’s going to shove some awful thing in my face after he lights the lantern. Some clue to a dead person, maybe even a body part. I’m not going to look. I won’t.

The footsteps stopped. Deafening quiet. Someone was standing over her. She whimpered, unable to control herself. Holding in her sounds caused needling stabs in her rib cage. A light shone in her face. A flashlight.

“Miss Racine?” the voice said.

“Who…who’s there,” she said through hiccups of sobs. Someone lit the lantern by the table. She couldn’t see.

“Oh, my God. Make sure the place is clear, then come in here,” Beecher called out. “She’s here.” He looked down at her, shock registering on his face.

She must have looked worse than the last time she saw herself. Her clothes were filthy and torn, face bruised and one eye swollen shut.

“Miss Racine, everything’s gonna be all right.” Beecher leaned down. She was shaking, trembling, unable to catch her breath. Tears of joy streaked her dirty face. “Carl, get these cuffs off. You’re gonna be fine, Miss Racine, I promise. We’re gonna get you to a hospital.”

Dumar gasped when he saw the woman lying on the bed. Halloran left the room, cursing under his breath.

Diana shrunk when the big man came close. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Dumar said. “I’m just going to unlock these restraints. Okay?”

Diana heard the gentleness in his voice and nodded. Her good eye darted from face to face. Dumar took a pick from his case and unlocked the cuffs that secured her wrists and ankles to the bed, paying special attention to her swollen wrist. When he finished, he covered her half-naked body with a blanket.

A dark form hung over her. She cringed in fear.

“Do you know who I am?” Beecher asked.

She nodded.

“Can you sit up?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. There’s something broken. Maybe more than one place.” She swallowed her sobs. “He’s coming back, Beecher. He went to kill someone.”

Halloran looked at Dumar. “She’s hallucinating.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Dumar said. “I think he went to kill someone.”

Beecher tried to help Diana sit up, but she was in too much pain. He stopped. “Easy does it, Miss Racine. We’re gonna get you to a hospital.”

“He’s coming back,” she said, trembling. “Get me out of here, please.”

“We’re here now. No one’s going to hurt you. No one. Stay with her, Halloran. I’m gonna call the lieutenant.” Beecher went outside, checking the second bedroom as he did.

“Ernie, we’ve got her.”

“How is she, Sam? Tell me she’s alive.”

“She’s alive but in pretty bad shape, physically and mentally. Ernie, I want to get this guy. I want to get him bad.”

“We will, Sam. If we have to travel hell and high water, we will. It’ll take forever for the EMS boys to get there. Have Halloran take her to the nearest hospital. You and Dumar stay put. If he comes back, I want someone waiting, and I want her out of there. I’m on my way.”

“Okay, but be careful. If I were you, I’d park way the hell out so he won’t notice the car and take off.”

“Right. Let me speak to her.”

“Hold on.”

Halloran was holding a glass of water to her lips. “Not so fast,” he said. “Too much might make you sick.”

“More, please,” she begged, her voice faltering. “Please.”

Beecher brought the phone to Diana’s bedside. “Someone wants to talk to you.”

Diana tried lifting her arm, but nothing seemed to be working. Numbness had set in. Beecher held the phone to her ear.

“Diana?”

When she spoke, her words were almost inaudible. “Yes, it’s me. Worse for wear but alive.”

“Diana, I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“I’ll be with you soon, okay?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Beecher took the phone, and two men carried her to the car as if she were made of eggshells. “He’s going after the prize,” she murmured, then dozed off. She came to when the big African American gingerly laid her on the back seat and strapped her in as best he could, then covered her with the blanket. He gave Halloran directions to the nearest hospital, and when he drove away, she conked out again.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Role Reversal

“W
hat the fuck!” Macon saw the flickering light speckled through the trees half a mile down the road and doused his headlights. He hadn’t lit the lantern before he left, and Diana was cuffed to the cot. Headlights were coming his way. He jammed the car into reverse and backed into a thicket off the road. The car sped past, navigating the rough terrain as he willed himself invisible. After waiting a full five minutes, he drove back the way he came by the dim light of the moon until he hit the main road.

So, they know who I am. But how? Joey. The stupid son of a bitch. But he didn’t know which cabin I chose. Damn him. I’m gonna fucking kill him.

He drove the back roads, his head throbbing, anger boiling over like an active volcano. Pulling onto a side street, he pulled into a business parking lot and shut off the car. He couldn’t panic and lose control. First, ditch the car. The cops must already know the make and model, especially if the one he shot at the hospital pulled through.

Diana would have to wait.

Diana.

She was in bad shape when he left. This would have been her last night anyway. But, damn, he needed this night. She’d taken twenty years of his life, and all he thought of for those twenty years was this night, so she could play his game and lose.

He needed time to regroup. He’d go north toward Baton Rouge. Just as he was about to turn on the car, an SUV zoomed past on the main street, heading toward the cabin. Maybe others would follow. He waited another twenty minutes. He needed to stay off the main roads. The cops would block them off when they realized he wasn’t going back to the cabin. Where could he dump the car and get another?

He veered onto a back road and drove another half an hour until he saw a swarm of cars and pickups in a large parking lot. A makeshift sign over the doorway of the building read “The Roadhouse.” He parked the Corolla between two battered pickups in the crowded back lot. Would they have already put his picture on TV? No, he had time. He could use a beer tonight, maybe even break tradition and order more than one.

He took a corner seat at the bar as the guy beside him got up and left. Even though he went to prison at age seventeen, he’d seen enough of these places. Back home he could get a beer pretty much whenever he wanted. Pussy too. Never a problem. Girls were all over him, but he bored easily. He wanted more. He wanted Diana Racine’s life.

And here he was, sitting in a sleazy bar on the run from the police. By morning, his picture would be plastered all over the newspapers and television. No place would be safe.

He scanned the faces in the bar. People stuck in the rut of nothingness with nowhere better to go than the local roadhouse. Faceless people doing the same thing week after week—same job, same friends, same night out. Same rut.

He laughed to himself. What could be a deeper rut than a twenty-year prison hitch in the same stinking pr
ison with a parade of lowlifes and deadbeat morons like Joey Dree? Amazing how smart
he
was. Yeah. His chuckle escaped. At least the ones here were free, even if they were trapped. Even if they were―

“What can I get you?”

He looked up.

“Hel-lo,” she warble
d in a thick, husky voice, waving her hand in front of his eyes to wake him up.

“Huh? Oh, sorry. What’ja say?”

She repeated herself.

“A draft’d be good,” he said. She proceeded to name a list of beers. He cut her short. “Pick one. I trust you. No light, though.”

“Comin’ up.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him as she filled a tall, frosty mug and placed it in front of him. “This is a New Orleans microbrew. Try it.”

He took a sip.

“Good?

“Yeah, pretty good.”

“You must have had enough of Mardi Gras. Going home?”

“Yeah, going home.”

“Where’s that?”

Macon turned his attention to the woman. Fortyish, not much older than him. Or maybe she was younger, with life etched hard on her face. A long time ago she might have been pretty, but now she looked coarse, a survivor of booze and drugs. She took a deep drag on her cigarette and leaned forward against the counter, both hands holding the ashtray on the bar in front of her, causing her ample breasts in the low-cut sweater to scrunch together and heave through the vee of the neckline. The gesture wasn’t accidental.