The Stalking, page 6
He could remember seeing Jacques, the church organist and an excellent musician himself, standing near the Dumas family.
Jacques had said that he didn’t think he could play that day; he’d had Janine in his chorus for years, and the emotion might be too much. The man had been about thirty then, thin and sour in appearance, with long sandy hair and light, green-gray eyes.
Emil Justine III—the contemporary Emil Justine—had been maybe forty back then, balding, serious, with large almond-shaped brown eyes that seemed as grave as the services his family provided. He had stood politely at just a bit of a distance.
Ryan Lassiter had been on the trail back up to the plantation—a very small slant, not even a hill by most standards, and still, it had seemed he stood up a bit distant on that trail, as if he was a polite observer and not someone who really needed to be there.
The man had been stunned when Cheyenne Donegal had pointed a finger at him, screaming out her accusations.
We got to get him! Jimmy had said without hesitation, and so he had run, hard on his heels as Jimmy shot toward Lassiter, then tackling him down.
He remembered other faces besides Janine’s family, he just didn’t really know everyone.
Jimmy might remember others—he’d lived in New Iberia until he’d graduated high school and come into the city for college.
But he knew, it wasn’t just who had been there—the question was, who might have been close to Lassiter, so close that they might have been in on the man’s kills?
“You’re brooding,” a voice, deep and masculine, said flatly. “Wasting time.”
He looked up quickly; his visitor was not unexpected.
Nor was he among the living.
Louis Marquette—a member of Lafitte’s band of merry men who had gone straight, changing his ways to become a tailor after the Battle of New Orleans—stood in the house, which had once been his. One foot forward, one hand on a hip.
While he’d died near the age of sixty, his spectral appearance seemed to be that of a man ten or fifteen years younger. That might have been because, according to the history of the man, he had lived determined on moving forward at all times, with energy and enthusiasm for life. He retained many of his dashing ways, with impeccable manners and a somewhat annoying habit of switching into French when he became annoyed or excited about something. His English was perfect, barely accented, but he knew that Andre’s French was weak, and that he could often irritate him into action—or into leaving—by going on in French.
He made a striking appearance, dressed in breeches and a fine waistcoat and brocade jacket. Most of the time Louis was a good “imaginary” friend, a man who devoured any talk shows about modern politics, eager to keep abreast with the news of the day.
His television habits were often troubling to the neighbors, since television sets would go on and off constantly when no one had been in the house for months on end.
Louis was an extremely talented spirit.
Andre’s parents did not see Louis—but his mother had never doubted him, and his father tended to believe whatever his mother told him. Lily Rousseau had come from a family steeped in traditions and beliefs, so the fact that Andre might “see” a pirate who had lived in the house over two hundred years ago seemed perfectly normal. While his dad was more practical, he’d often told Andre that it was almost scary how Lily knew when someone was coming or that something was going to happen.
Louis had not been the first dead man to speak to Andre. When he’d been a small child, he’d thought that everyone saw the people walking about who appeared and disappeared, who often wore funny clothes, and seemed to drift through walls when they chose. He’d been so young when it had all started that when he’d finally figured out that he saw the dead, he wasn’t afraid—just saddened that others couldn’t talk to them. He became quickly aware that he shouldn’t share information about his “friends” with others.
His dad had considered that, like many children, he was just seeing his imaginary friends. His mother had watched him more closely—it seemed that her own mother had often spoken with the dead. Lily had once done an incredible series of paintings called The Ghosts of New Orleans, which had sold for an exorbitant amount of money. She was more than open to the thought of sharing her home with a pirate, and though she didn’t see Louis, she often chided him for leaving the televisions on.
“Qui est la belle femme?” Louis inquired.
Andre stood and walked to the door, looking out; thankfully, Cheyenne Donegal was still peacefully sleeping on the sofa. Though they’d had a rough initial meeting, things seemed to have changed.
He preferred the new side of Cheyenne. Still, she was FBI—but she wasn’t Krewe.
“That is Cheyenne Donegal, an FBI agent.”
“Ah, mais oui! The nastiness about these dreadful murders. And you, but of course, are here because of them also?”
“Do you know anything?” Andre asked him.
The look Louis gave him was scathing. “You know that if I did, I’d have appeared first thing—with or without la belle femme in the room! I watch the news, as you well know. Speaking of which, the latest broadcast suggests that this Mortician has been found. I have been eavesdropping, so what do you think?”
“La belle femme—or Special Agent Donegal—has been on the case the past few weeks. She has a bad feeling about it.”
“There is still a woman out there somewhere. She may be dead already—she may not.”
“Louis, I should be looking for her, yes. But there’s a problem. We have no idea where she might be—I mean, none. The women that the newest killer has taken have been found in three different cities. Not areas—cities. Tomorrow, I’m going to the autopsy. I’m hoping to read everything and get up to speed, and work with Cheyenne and Detective Fournier. Sadly, the world isn’t going to stop for me to catch up.”
“Ah, my dear friend, you are still wasting time. The murderer must keep them at the same place—until he kills them. I believe that he must have a comfort zone where he knows he can hold on to the women and not be discovered. It’s too risky for him otherwise. He is careful about making sure his victims cannot be found—until he wants them found.”
“And if I had a clue as to where to start, Louis, I’d be out there now.” He frowned as he spoke. “Louis, you might have just given me something.”
“I remain to serve!” Louis informed him.
Andre ignored him.
He’d been thinking about the past. And while there had been those in the 1860s who had believed the Rougarou to be Emil Justine—original owner of what was now the Justine Plantation Mortuary Home and Cemetery—the current owner was now an Emil Justine, as well.
He had been there on that day.
It didn’t make the Emil Justine living today a killer.
But he didn’t have to be a killer for someone to be making use of the plantation house, or any of the outbuildings that were scattered on the property.
Andre strode back into the parlor. There was a map of southern Louisiana on the case board. Dots on the map showed the places where bodies had been found. He quickly marked the cities where the women had been taken. It wasn’t completely obvious, but the locations made a rough circle around the cemetery.
3
“Yes?” Cheyenne opened her eyes slowly, blinking, trying to dispel the fog that seemed to have claimed her mind and instead wake up instantly alert and aware.
She usually woke in a blink, completely cognizant the minute the alarm went off—or by any other sound, even a creaking floorboard.
But not now. She’d slept like...
The dead.
When she opened her eyes, he was there, Andre Rousseau, hunkered down by her side, trying to wake her gently. “Cheyenne, I’m so sorry. But I’d like to try an idea. It’s a long drive out and back, and I want to make it in daylight. I know you haven’t had any sleep, and you can sleep in the car if you like. It’s a drive I’ve made far more times than I could begin to count.”
She had no idea what he was talking about; it seemed that her mind was clouded. But she figured out that she had fallen asleep on his sofa and that she hadn’t wakened at the drop of a dime.
“Oh, no, I’m so sorry... I never do this... I’m sorry!”
She was embarrassed and so she jerked up.
And clunked him on his chin with her head.
“Oh!” she cried again. “I’m sorry again!”
But he was just laughing softy and rubbing his jaw.
“It’s all right, it’s all right—my fault. I should have used a squirt gun.”
“Really! I didn’t sleep all night, and I should have gone home and let others worry about the right or wrong of it, but I didn’t think I’d fall sleep...”
She winced, shutting up and standing quickly, straightening her jacket.
“I’m so sorry,” she said simply.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have let you sleep, but I want to get out to the Lafayette–New Iberia area right away. I think the Justine Cemetery is central to what’s going on. Look at the locations.” He pointed to the dotted map on the board.
“The cemetery?” she asked, frowning. “We checked on Emil Justine. Fournier had his doubts, but because of the history, I did check on Justine’s whereabouts when the women were taken. He was in Philadelphia for a daughter’s wedding during the abduction of Cindy Metcalf, and he was there a week before and a week after, so even if you play with the exact date she disappeared, he couldn’t have been the one to kidnap her. And trust me, I confirmed with multiple witnesses.”
“I do trust you. And still, the original Rougarou might have been the Civil War Emil Justine. There’s the house itself. It could possibly be a connection.”
“It’s still a working mortuary. So many people pass through it.”
“Argue with me while we drive,” he said.
He was impatient with her. And he might have good reason to be. The plantation house wasn’t all that remained. During the war, the house had been taken over by a Union general, and thus it had been spared any damage. The house and the outbuildings dated from the early 1800s. The smokehouse, carriage house, the original kitchen and seven small houses that had once been slave quarters still remained.
For the most part, they were abandoned. But she supposed it was possible that the property was somehow involved. It was there, in a way, that it had all begun—for her, at least.
“Let’s go,” she said. “It’s going to take forever if you try to take I-10. Going through Baton Rouge, we’d hit traffic, and we might get stuck at the bridge—”
“I’m taking 90, not I-10. I know where I’m going.”
He was waiting for her at the front door. He locked it as soon as she was out and started down the sidewalk.
She had to move quickly to keep up with him; his strides were very long.
Andre opened the passenger-side door of a small SUV for her as they reached it. She slipped in, murmuring a thank-you.
“Broussard is small,” she said, “and a lot of the population in the surrounding towns have been there forever—it’s not one of those places people flock to when it’s time to retire, but...”
“Your point?” he asked, sliding into French Quarter traffic and maneuvering around the tourists and the road closures.
“There could be a funeral going on,” she said.
“Well, the family hasn’t lived on the property in about eighty years, from what I understand. They’re in a new ranch house somewhere in town. In fact, Mrs. Justine died several years ago and the kids are grown, so I’m assuming that it’s just Emil. His children didn’t want to manage the place, and at the moment it’s run by a man who took over a few years back, after your cousin’s funeral.” He glanced her way. “They bring in an embalmer who works at other establishments, too. A lot of people in the surrounding areas have family tombs there, but these days, people do other things, too. I don’t think that there’s a daily funeral at the cemetery.”
“Probably not,” she said.
He glanced her way briefly again. “You’re not going to give me an argument about a search warrant and all that, are you?”
“I’m just along for the ride.”
“Hey, you’re the one who doesn’t believe you’ve found the killer.”
“We’re out of other leads, anyway,” she said.
Her reservations about going back to Broussard were at least in part because she was never sure about going home. Naturally, she still had friends in the area—and there was much she loved about her hometown.
Still, it would always hurt.
“I haven’t been out there in a long time,” she said.
“Only child—and your parents moved to a beach climate?” he asked her.
She smiled and nodded. “You?”
“Only child—and my parents moved to a beach,” he said.
She lowered her head, her smile deepening.
He did know the area, she saw. He’d made his way out of the Quarter and to the highway. Soon, they were moving out of the city, and then he could drive at a good pace. They’d gotten out of the house by about 1:00—no rush hour, and he knew exactly what route he wanted to take.
She was silent for a few minutes, then said, “Everyone is convinced that Braxton Trudeau was the killer, that my case is basically closed. I’m not expected anywhere until the autopsy. By everyone, I mean our local FBI office and the police. They’re doing press conferences, asking for help in finding Lacey Murton. Do you think that we could be right—or, rather, you could be right—and she’s out here somewhere? Wouldn’t that be a twist—using the Justine place. I mean, after everything...”
“Ryan Lassiter really had nothing to do with the Justine Plantation, other than imitating the original Rougarou. No one ever proved that the old Emil Justine was the Rougarou, but it’s an educated guess, as evidenced by Keri Wolf’s research,” he said. “Seems like a logical place to start looking, doesn’t it? Alicia Holden was taken from New Orleans, but according to all the information I was given, she was found in Lake Charles.”
“She was the first victim. I wasn’t on the case yet when she was found,” Cheyenne reminded him. She thought about the investigation that had led them to their chase of Trudeau. “I have to admit that what we had did lead to Trudeau. Timeline, credit cards, and of course, most damning, the fact that he vacated a table and a picture was found just as soon as he left it. We could have held him. We had warrants for his DNA. But even then, all we had on him was circumstantial. The greatest distance covered was with Cindy Metcalf. She was kidnapped in Biloxi, and then taken over the state line. But there was a week between her being taken and the discovery of her body. She could have been found just about anywhere in the country with that kind of time.”
She watched his profile as he drove. She was still so tired, and yet was increasingly aware that, at the very least, she needed to be grateful that they had sent her someone with an open mind. He could have played it the way everyone else wanted to play it, sure that they already had their man.
To be fair, everyone—meaning everyone in law enforcement, the police from Mississippi through every parish in Louisiana, the bureau and every other agency—were focused on locating the woman who was still missing. The problem was finding a place where the killer held his victims, which could be anywhere along that Mississippi/Louisiana line. Investigators had searched bars and cemeteries, hotels, gas stations and any properties that Braxton Trudeau was associated with. There had been no sign of the Mortician’s victims—until they had been discovered. Dead.
Local police in all the towns and cities continued to search.
“Janine,” she murmured. “My cousin... I’m thinking back to Lassiter. She went with him because she was charmed by him and flattered by his attention. He was so good-looking. All the young women in her class had a crush on him, and she was so excited that he’d chosen her. She knew who he was when she went with him.”
He glanced her way, surely wondering how she could know that with such certainty.
“Kids talk,” she added quickly. “No one wanted to believe it was Lassiter at first. He was such an amazing teacher when he was at the school, well liked, and I suppose it was easy for a girl her age to have a massive crush on such a man.”
“Here’s the thing—the man is imitating the Artiste who was imitating the Rougarou. A killer who has become more legend than fact, and the legend traces back to Justine Plantation,” Andre said.
“It does,” she said. “And still, would a killer chance such a thing?”
“Whatever he chanced, he has gotten away with it—whether it proves that the killer was Trudeau or not.”
“It’s strange,” Cheyenne said. “If I remember right, when I was younger, there was talk of the parish buying the plantation as a historical site because it’s so complete. We certainly don’t want to romanticize slavery, but it’s important that we do remember the history. There are... I think ten structures remaining outside the main house to the rear.” She turned to him. “I’ve never been in any of them. When I was twelve, about a year before Janine was killed, some classmates wanted to slip out at night and break into some of the buildings, spend the night somewhere in the field of tombs. Kids love cemeteries, and Billy, one of the older boys, wanted to tell tall tales. I couldn’t go—my mother got wind of the plan. And as it happened, my parents told the other parents, and all the kids were dragged home before it got very late. The odd thing was that it seemed all my friends who did go were thrilled that they’d got caught. Billy started telling them all that there was a real rougarou, a werewolf-like monster, and that he prowled the cemetery at night, hiding out, looking for people to eat. He’d cry out in his hunger, and he preferred young people because they were so tender. Everyone was totally terrified. I think they were happy they got rescued before the rougarou got them.”
