Stop Me (19 page)

Fucking pervert. What kind of man wanted to have sex with a boy?

He pressed the volume button on the remote. This was the part where Jasmine talked about her sister, and he didn’t want to miss it. He didn’t have to worry about the neighbors. No one was going to hear anything in the cement bunker he’d built.

That was the beauty of it. He could do anything down here.

“I was twelve years old when my sister went missing. A bearded stranger came to the door and asked for my father.”

Gruber smiled. He no longer wore a beard. According to his sister, who constantly pointed out his every flaw, he had a weak chin and needed the facial hair to camouflage the defect. But he knew it was important to periodically change his appearance. Maybe Jasmine was smart, but he was smarter. Even vanity couldn’t get in the way of survival.

“After he left, I realized my sister was gone, too,” she was saying.

He remembered that day as if it was yesterday. Peccavi had sent him to Cleveland to pick up another kid Jack had scouted the previous week, and he’d 112

bumped into Peter Stratford in line at a fast-food joint. They’d struck up a conversation, and Peter had offered him a temporary job.

Gruber still wasn’t sure why he’d ever gone to the address Peter had given him. Except that he’d been bored and looking for something to interest him. Then there she was. So easy. A gift. He’d promised her an ice cream cone for showing him such a nice cartwheel, told her they’d bring one for her sister, too, and she’d climbed right into his truck.

The phone rang. With a curse, he stopped the program and returned it to the beginning, planning to watch it all over again as soon as he was off the phone. He enjoyed studying Jasmine, enjoyed fantasizing about finally meeting her, looking into her eyes and telling her he was the one she’d been searching for these past sixteen years.

“Hello?”

It was Roger, or someone he called Roger. Gruber had no idea what his real name was. He only knew that he wasn’t as good a scout as Jack had been.

“What is it?”

“I have one for you.”

“Where?” he asked.

“Right here in the city.”

“Are you crazy? That’s too close.”

“This is a contract baby.”

Meaning Roger had found a prostitute or some other woman desperate enough to give up her baby for money or drugs. They acquired the children who went through their little company in a variety of ways. Buying them from crack addicts and prostitutes was the least dangerous—at least for him as the pickup man—

because they paid for what they took.

“It doesn’t matter,” Gruber insisted. Because of a close call years ago, and because they based their entire enterprise out of New Orleans, they didn’t usually take children, via any method, from their home area. Peccavi constantly stressed how important it was to keep all illegal activity as far away from the transfer house as possible.

“Peccavi’s making an exception,” Roger said. “He’s not happy with the money we’ve got coming in right now.”

And because babies were hard to come by and always sold for a premium, Peccavi occasionally relented on this rule. “Then why can’t you pick it up?”

“I’m in Detroit, looking for something a little more specific.” Gruber frowned and rubbed his bare chin as he stared at the frozen picture of John Walsh on his TV screen. “She’s giving it up on Christmas?” he said.

Apparently she was even more hard-hearted than his bitch of a mother had been.

“She wants to be able to buy herself a few things. Do you mind?” 113

“Some kids don’t have a chance,” he grumbled.

“That’s our business, isn’t it? Giving them a chance.” Gruber had to laugh. Roger’s self-delusions sometimes boggled his mind.

“You really believe that shit? That we’re angels in disguise?” Defensiveness infiltrated Roger’s response. Obviously, he didn’t want to face reality today. “I believe that Peccavi’s got his hands full right now, and he wants you to take care of this. Do you need him to call you?” Gruber almost said yes. Without some intervention, some distraction, he feared Peccavi would kill Jasmine before Gruber had the chance to confront her. But if Peccavi could stop Jasmine that easily, she wasn’t a worthy adversary. And Gruber couldn’t threaten his own livelihood—possibly his life—by doing anything to make Peccavi suspicious. Like her sister before her, Jasmine was an indulgence, a risk. He had to play it smart or the man he worked for would turn on him the way he’d turned on Jack….

“You gonna answer me? You there?” Roger asked.

“I’m here. Go ahead and give me the details.”

Roger spouted off a set of directions, which Gruber copied on the back cover of Sports Illustrated, a magazine he sometimes read to make himself feel like an everyday guy. He bought SI or even Playboy occasionally, although he knew it wouldn’t really work. He wanted to be an everyday guy. But he’d never been like other men. “Got it,” he said when he was finished.

“At least you don’t have to travel for this one, eh?” Roger said.

Gruber tossed the pen aside. “I guess.” The mother was home from the hospital and staying in a motel room courtesy of Peccavi. All he had to do was pick up the baby and take it to Beverly Moreau at the bungalow that served as their transfer house.

But leaving his bunker took him away from the pleasure of watching Kimberly’s sister talk about him on national television, and he hated Peccavi and Roger for that.

114

Returning to her hotel for a meal and a shower sounded better in theory than it actually turned out to be. By the time Jasmine reached Maison du Soleil, it was nearly six o’clock and dark. The businesses along St. Philip Street—and everywhere else—were already closed for Christmas Eve.

Jasmine pulled to the curb and stared up at the building. With its festive lights glowing eerily through the fog, she felt as if she’d entered a Christmas ghost town.

The fact that the French Quarter was normally so lively and boisterous made the loneliness seem more intense. And the weather didn’t help. Even the high-powered streetlights cast only a dim glow on wet, shiny streets.

“Some Christmas this is,” she grumbled. Even The Moody Blues was closed, leaving her with little hope of a meal. And the person who’d stolen her purse had the key to her room. He didn’t have her room number, but that didn’t reassure her. It was such a small hotel he could easily have gone door to door until the key worked.

Was he in her room, waiting for her?

The letdown after the adrenaline rush of the afternoon had left her exhausted but not relieved. She still felt apprehensive, although she couldn’t say why. If the person who’d pushed her into the cellar had wanted to harm her, he’d already had the chance. At this point, she was pretty convinced that was Phillip, who didn’t strike her as all that dangerous. Besides, even bad guys celebrated Christmas. If she’d learned anything in profiling, it was how normal—at least on the surface—criminals could be.

Hopefully, the man who’d taken her purse had a family and all the usual Christmas obligations. She’d simply get her room rekeyed and hole up until morning, when the money would arrive and she’d be able to move to a different hotel.

Her decision made, she drove a few blocks to the public lot, where she’d already paid for a week in advance. She parked the sedan and got out.

Her footsteps echoed on the pavement as she walked through the fog. She felt strangely bereft without the security offered by the contents of her purse and wished she had her Mace. But maybe she was being paranoid. She could buy another can tomorrow, after the money showed up.

115

As she reached the entrance to the alley, she glanced up at her hotel—and froze. The fog was so thick she couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw a light shining in her room. Had she left it on herself?

The fears and doubts she’d battled only moments before descended again as she wondered what to do. She couldn’t return to her room alone, not without a weapon. She could call the police or ask Mr. Cabanis or his wife or daughter to accompany her. But chances were she was jumping at shadows. And even if one of the Cabanises walked her to her room, there was no guarantee someone wouldn’t be hurt.

Then she remembered the fire escape. She could use it to take a quick peek, see whether it was safe to go back.

Grazing her fingertips along the gritty brick surface of the building, Jasmine walked slowly. She didn’t want to twist an ankle or fall over a pile of garbage or worse. She might be risking more by coming into this dark alley than by returning to her room, but her curiosity about that light coaxed her on.

A rock skittered across the ground, and she halted abruptly. She was pretty sure she’d dislodged it with her own feet, but the noise heightened the foreboding that’d settled over her when the wind died down and the fog rolled in. It took her a few minutes to recover the nerve to press forward, but the closer she got the more certain she was that the light was coming from her room.

The metal of the fire escape felt cold and clammy beneath her hand. It shook as she stepped on it, and she wondered if it’d bear her weight without pulling away from the building. The metal squeaked loudly as she gave it a strong jerk, but when it held fast, she managed to summon the confidence to climb it. If everything was okay, she’d be able to enter her room, at which point she’d pack up her belongings and ask to switch rooms.

But everything wasn’t okay. Her room wasn’t as she’d left it.

Although the light actually came from the bathroom, she could see that the bed had been torn apart, the drawers of the nightstand pulled open, her computer thrown to the floor….

Someone had come here, just as she’d feared.

Pressing a hand to her chest, she stood with her mouth agape, scanning the interior—until something moved. Then she blinked and refocused. A man, dressed in a long black trench coat and wearing a black ski mask stared back at her, just on the other side of the glass.

With a scream, Jasmine scrambled down the fire escape. She thought the locked door would give her a good lead but the fire alarm sounded briefly, and she knew he was coming after her. She could feel the fire escape shimmy as he jumped down a few steps with every stride.

116

She slipped and fell on the wet metal and had to get up again, which cost her valuable time. Still, she hit the ground before he reached her. But it was so dark she tripped on a pothole and nearly fell into a puddle.

He jumped to the ground only a few feet from her. She felt the air stir and briefly wondered if she’d be able to hide. She couldn’t outrun him. Whoever he was, he was in good shape. But her hope of hiding didn’t last more than a second. He had a flashlight, which he snapped on—and the beam found her immediately.

Croc, who owned the Flying Squirrel, was a widower. He’d grown up in Portsville and had one of the best shrimping boats in the area, but these days it was his son who used it. Croc went out on the bayou every once in a while, but he was getting old and seemed happier pouring beer for other fishermen, listening to their stories and retelling a few of his own.

Romain had always liked Croc, but he was never more grateful to have him in the community than during the holidays. Most other places were closed, especially for Christmas. But not the Flying Squirrel. Croc opened from four until midnight 365

days a year.

“You gotta love a dependable Cajun,” Romain said, as he tossed a few peanuts into his mouth.

“Who you talkin’ to down there?” Croc demanded.

Romain swiveled to face him. “You. I said I’m ready for another beer.”

“’Course you are.”

As Croc pulled the tap, Romain rested his elbows on the wooden bar and glanced around at the handful of people who were smoking, drinking and playing darts. It wasn’t the best Christmas Eve he could imagine—nothing could equal those he’d shared with Pam and Adele—but drinking made the holidays bearable. The Flying Squirrel beat his other offer, anyway. His parents had invited him to Mamou for the night, but his sister, Susan, and her family had already arrived from Boston.

They’d be staying for most of a week, so he intended to make himself scarce—

except for dinner tomorrow, of course. He’d join them for a couple of hours, but only because his parents would be disappointed if he didn’t.

“You were here last Christmas, too,” Croc commented, placing Romain’s beer in front of him.

“I didn’t know anyone was keeping track.” Romain had been sitting at the bar long enough to be drunk, but he wasn’t. He hoped that would soon change. Until Jasmine’s unexpected arrival, he’d been doing fine. If it wasn’t for the questions she’d stirred—and the holidays—he’d still be fine.

“I’m gonna have to drive you home again, aren’t I?” Croc said with a fatalistic frown.

Romain knew the old guy didn’t really object. “Maybe.” 117

“Once or twice a year isn’t bad, I guess.” Croc straightened the basket of peanuts and wiped the counter, although it was clean. Then he cleared his throat.

“You got something more to say to me?” Romain asked. It wasn’t like Croc to hover.

“I was hoping—wait a second.” He stalked off to handle an argument that’d broken out between the Gatlin twins over a game of darts. Although they were both in their mid-twenties, only ten years younger than Romain, they still lived at home.

They settled down when Croc threatened to call their parents, and he returned to the bar. “I hear you’re gonna order a bride,” he said to Romain.

Romain made an impatient motion. “One little joke, and now the whole town’s planning my wedding? I’m afraid you received unreliable information.”

“It’s a good idea. It’s not like you’re gonna meet anyone hiding out on the bayou. And you don’t wanna spend every Christmas with me, do ya?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Romain said. “I like it here.” He did mind, but he didn’t see how his life was going to change and figured he’d be better off accepting reality.

“I can tell you like it here.” Croc waved as someone else came in, then shifted his attention back to Romain. “Sometimes you like it so well you drink enough to risk alcohol poisoning. Then you stumble out to my truck, I drive you home, and you don’t show up for more than a beer or two until your daughter’s birthday or your wedding anniversary or the anniversary of your daughter’s death, and it’s time to drive you home again.”