Stop Me (7 page)

Between her accent and the French words, this woman’s English was difficult to follow, but misère obviously meant miserable or something close. “So he lives here?” She felt sudden hope, despite her new friend’s warning.

“No, he lives near Portsville, out on the bayou.”

“How far away is that?”

“’Bout five hours southeast, down near Grand Isle and Leeville, give or take twenty minutes. Mais, like I said, I think it’d be a waste of your time to drive down there. He barely speaks to his own kin.”

Somehow, Jasmine didn’t quite believe that Romain was as unfriendly to his relatives as this woman said. If the local gas station owner knew him well enough to tell a story about his childhood, the community was a close one and chances were good he maintained some ties to it. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” she said.

Lonnie had finished with the car. He stepped inside, grinning like an eager dog after fetching a stick, and his mother put a hand on his shoulder to give him the approval he craved. “Thanks, Lonnie,” she said gently. “Some things should be left as they are,” she told Jasmine.

“This isn’t one of them.” Her tears had dried—gone as quickly as they’d come. Now she felt only a fierce determination. “Fornier might be able to help me catch a killer.”

The woman’s eyebrows knitted. “He’s already shot one. What more can he do?”

“Stop another.”

“How?”

“By providing information.”

The woman’s lips pursed stubbornly. “I’d rather he didn’t get involved. I don’t want him to go back to prison.”

Jasmine spread out her hands, palms up. “If anyone gets in trouble, it’ll be me.

I have to stop the man who kidnapped my sister.” The woman reached up to smooth the hair on the back of her son’s head, as if he were ten years old. Mentally, he probably was. “It’s always the innocent who suffer,” she said. Then she sighed. “I can’t give you an address. T-Bone doesn’t have one. From what I hear, he lives alone in the swamp somewheres, without mail service or utilities.”

Jasmine’s heart sank. “How will I find him?”

“Portsville’s very small, beb. If you go there, someone will take you to him.

And when you see him, tell him Ya-Ya Collins sent you. That might help.” She frowned. “Then again, it might not.”

“Thank you,” Jasmine said and meant it.

“Good luck findin’ your sister.”

42

Jasmine nodded, got back in her car and turned around. It seemed she was going into the swamps, after all.

Now to avoid the alligators…

The headstones were a bad omen.

After passing several waterside towns with docks that disappeared into an inky morass, which grew inkier as night fell, Jasmine entered Portsville. It was located on Bayou Lafourche at nearly the southernmost tip of Louisiana. The cemetery was right there beside the road, but it was unlike any she’d ever seen. The aboveground tombs, all painted white, glowed eerily in a foot of water—the same marshy water that lapped gently at the telephone poles running parallel to the highway.

She wondered how people down here weathered each new hurricane, each storm. It’d take a certain stubbornness to hold out, people who loved this land more than she’d ever loved a particular location. She’d always felt a bit restless. There was no mystery as to the reason, of course, but she was envious of the devotion required to fight for existence in such a place. To say, “This is my home and I’m staying put.” Judging by the small group of frame houses, most of them built on pilings, plus a single two-story hotel, two gas stations, a bait shop and a coffee shop, she guessed there were maybe fifty people taking such a stand. And she was willing to bet almost all of them were fishermen. Someone had to own the motley collection of boats bumping against the dock. With only a sliver of moon in the sky, she couldn’t see them very well, but they obviously didn’t belong to the rich and famous.

What now? She turned in to one of the gas stations, but like the other, it was closed. Should she have gone back to her hotel and set out tomorrow morning, when she could’ve gotten an earlier start?

Now that it was dark, she had no idea how she’d find Fornier out on the bayou

“somewheres.” And she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay in the tin-roofed hotel that hung over the water. Although there was nothing wrong with the hotel, except that it looked deserted.

She checked her watch. Seven-thirty. New Orleans was only an hour and a half to the northeast. She could drive back there tonight and arrive at a reasonable time. But she was hungry and exhausted, and she hated to waste another day on this search, especially if it turned out that Fornier couldn’t or wouldn’t help her.

After parking in a lot that was mostly crushed shells, she went into the hotel, where she found a big man who looked as weathered as the rickety dock she’d just passed.

“Wanna room?” The buttons on his flannel shirt strained with the effort of covering his barrel chest, and he was missing two fingers on his left hand, but he gave her a welcoming, gap-toothed smile.

“Yes, I do. But first I was hoping you could help me find someone.”

“Who d’at?”

43

“T-Bone.” Figuring there couldn’t be more than one T-Bone in a town of four dozen people, even in Cajun country, she didn’t mention the last name, hoping to sound more familiar with Fornier than she really was.

“T-Bone’s down de bayou near Port Fourchon.”

Down was good. She didn’t know how she could go much farther south without running into the Gulf of Mexico, which meant he couldn’t be far. “Can you tell me how to get there?”

He studied her for a moment. “Is T-Bone expectin’ you?” She considered telling the truth, but rejected the idea. She couldn’t risk being stonewalled. She needed this man’s help, and she was willing to twist reality a little in order to get it. It was what any private investigator would do, but she still felt guilty.

“Actually, I’m here as a surprise.” She manufactured a coquettish smile. “A friend of his from Mamou sent me to meet him. Do you know…Poppo?” she invented quickly.

“No.”

“Well, he thinks we’d be perfect for each other,” she gushed. “Since my husband walked out on me, I’m hoping to meet someone new, and Poppo says T-Bone needs a woman even if he won’t admit it.”

The old man’s thick eyebrows slid up, but he hooked his thumbs into the bib of his overalls and grinned. No doubt he saw her as a harmless young lady, and that lowered his guard. “Lord, am I glad to see you. D’at poor boy need somet’ing, I tell ya. He on’y come to town meybe every udder week. I don’t t’ink he has a speck o’

company in between.”

“And here it is Christmas.”

“What a nice surprise.”

“So…can you give me some directions?”

“I can’t see no harm in d’at. Go six, seven mile down de highway—” he pointed one of his gnarled fingers at the door behind her “—d’en turn right on Rappelet Road. After another half mile or so, d’ere’ll be a road d’at goes toward Bay Champagne. He’s back d’ere in de swamp.”

Swamp. Ugh. “Is that a left or a right turn?” She needed to clarify as much as possible. There was no way she wanted to get lost in a place that frightened her as much as the bayou.

Taking a piece of paper from somewhere under the front desk, he drew her a crude map. “D’is will get you d’ere.”

She could barely read the writing. “There isn’t any chance of getting lost, is there?” she asked apprehensively. And that was all it took. With a motion quicker than she expected for a man of his age, he reached under the desk again. This time he produced a sign that said, Gone fishin’. Be back soon.

44

Within ten minutes the grizzled fisherman had led Jasmine to a large shack, which stood on a spot of dry ground tucked into a thicket of cypress and pecan trees interspersed with marsh grass. Spanish moss hung from the trees, blocking what little moonlight might’ve filtered through the branches, making it seem far later than it really was.

As she drove closer, she could see the flicker of a lantern or candle burning inside the shack. Someone was home, but her guide didn’t proceed to the house. He pulled over, his right-side tires practically in the water, and waved her up even with him.

She rolled down her window.

“D’at’s it,” he shouted, half hanging out of his truck.

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “You’re turning around?”

“I gotta get back to de hotel.”

“Right.” She studied Fornier’s place again, feeling uncertain about coming here after sundown. The man in this house had shot another man in cold blood. There were extenuating circumstances, of course, but still…“You’ll hold a room for me, won’t you?” she said. “I’ll be back tonight. If you don’t see me in an hour or so you might come looking for me.”

He laughed and slapped his door, making enough noise to bring a large man to the entrance of the shack, even though they were fifty yards away. Silhouetted by the light behind him, he stood with the door open, legs apart, hands on hips—as if he were king of the whole swamp and was none too happy at the intrusion.

Not only had Fornier killed a man, he’d lost his wife and daughter. And he’d served time in prison. Was he still sane?

Jasmine cleared her throat. “Or…you don’t suppose you could spare another couple of minutes to wait for me?”

Throwing back his head, the Cajun laughed again. “He won’t hurt you, podnah. I’d trust my own daughda wit’ him.”

“Right. You wouldn’t leave me if it wasn’t safe.”

“’Course not. He a good man.”

A good man… He’d suffered a great deal, and he’d avenged his daughter’s death. That didn’t prove he was a good man. But it’d been her idea to come out here, and she decided she might have better luck getting Fornier to open up if they didn’t have an audience. What they’d both suffered wasn’t easy to talk about.

After waiting for her to pass, the old man turned around. She watched his taillights disappear in her rearview mirror before concentrating all her attention on that broad figure in the doorway.

Quit being a baby. It was only eight o’clock. She might as well get what she’d come for.

45

Fornier didn’t move toward her even after she parked and got out. He crossed his arms and leaned against the lintel, watching her skeptically. At least she thought he was watching skeptically. It was difficult to be sure. She could only make out his general characteristics. Tall, maybe six-two or six-three—a full ten inches taller than she was—he had a lean, muscular build and the hyperfocus of an animal who stalks its prey. His hair was on the long side, making him look a bit careless or perhaps reckless, but the rest of him seemed very…together. Right down to his clothes.

Once she reached him, she could tell his faded jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt were clean and smelled of woodsmoke. She could also tell she’d interrupted him while he was relaxing, because he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

“I suppose you have a reason for being here.” His lazy Southern drawl was almost as deceptive as his stance was casual.

“Ya-Ya Collins sent me.” She clasped her hands together to get control of her nerves. “From Mamou,” she added.

“I know where Ya-Ya lives.” His voice was as rough as tree bark, but now that Jasmine was close enough to see him better, she could tell that those pictures in the newspaper didn’t do him justice. He was much more attractive in person. “How’d you get past her?” he asked.

“I told her the truth about why I want to speak with you.” With the shadows on his face, she couldn’t be sure but she thought his eyes wandered over her, sizing her up, drawing Lord knows what kinds of conclusions.

“Which is?”

“I’m not a reporter or a journalist.”

He didn’t seem particularly relieved. “The process of elimination could take a while. Maybe we should start with what you are.” She ignored the sarcasm. “You’re as friendly as I expected.”

“I don’t remember inviting you here.”

“I came because I’m hoping you’ll answer a few questions.” He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “If it has anything to do with the last decade, I have nothing to say. I’ve put the past behind me.” Obviously, he’d done no such thing, or he wouldn’t be living like a hermit.

“It’s about the man who killed your daughter.”

“Of course it is.” With a grimace, he rubbed his neck. “You should’ve left your engine running,” he said at length, then he shoved away from the lintel as if he planned to go back inside and leave her right where she was. He probably would have, if she hadn’t stopped the door.

His gaze traveled from her hand to her face, but he didn’t force her to move.

“A man took my sister from our house while I was babysitting sixteen years ago,” she said.

46

“I’m sorry that happened, but it has nothing to do with me.” Removing her hand, he closed the door with a click.

“She’s never been found,” she said, raising her voice so it’d carry through the wood panel. “But I received a package three days ago. It contained the bracelet she was wearing the day she disappeared.”

No response.

“That package came from New Orleans, Mr. Fornier. I think he’s here…

somewhere.”

Still nothing.

“Mr. Fornier?” Beginning to lose her nerve, Jasmine wondered what she was doing standing in the middle of a swamp bothering a man who’d already suffered enough. But that strange coincidence, the similarity between her sister’s case and his daughter’s, meant something. She knew it did.

“There was a note with it—a note written in blood.” She waited a few seconds to let that sink in before continuing. “Just like your daughter’s name on the wall.

That kind of behavior is called a signature. It’s an unnecessary act driven by a perpetrator’s own compulsion or desires and it varies from criminal to criminal. So it’s highly unusual that two killers would do the same thing within the same time frame, and that they’d both have a tie to this area.” When Mr. Fornier still didn’t respond, she rested her forehead against the lintel. Ya-Ya Collins had warned her, but she’d believed she could get through to him. “Are you listening, Mr. Fornier?”

A frog croaked somewhere off in the distance—and something much closer splashed into the water.