The Stalking, page 8
“If I’d seen anyone who shouldn’t have been here, I like to think I’d have noticed,” Janine said. “But I guess I wouldn’t always know who was and wasn’t supposed to be here. Nobody has slept here in some time, it seems.”
“But they keep it clean and freshen the sheets all the time, anyway,” Cheyenne muttered.
“Talking to yourself?” Andre asked politely from the doorway.
“Office? Family lounge?” she asked him, wincing inwardly.
“Clear. But to be honest, I think that if anyone has been using this place, they would have used the outbuildings.”
“I need to make sure to lock up,” Cheyenne said, hurrying to leave the room.
She shouldn’t have been in such a rush. She brushed past him in the doorway. He was rock solid, and she couldn’t help but be keenly aware of him as a man, of his physical structure.
It was a moment that gave her pause.
She was used to working with all types of men. Many of her coworkers in Miami were in great physical shape—it was a beach city, after all. But she hadn’t ever felt this kind of sudden sexual attraction for a man just by brushing past him in a doorway!
This was not to be tolerated. She didn’t need any awkward, distracting feelings. She was working, she hadn’t had any sleep and she was being accompanied by her personal ghosts.
Do they ever haunt anyone else? she wondered. She was going to have to ask.
They left by the front door. Cheyenne checked to make sure it was locked. Though, if other people knew where the keys were kept, there wasn’t much reason to worry.
She and Andre, however, would know they had done things right.
“This place really should have been a museum instead of a mortuary,” she stated. “I can’t help but think that there are so many ways people can be horrible, it’s good to remember—and hopefully make sure that we leave lessons for those to come after that we are capable of tremendous cruelty.”
“Good point,” Andre said, except she thought that he wasn’t really paying attention to her. He was looking beyond her, out at the slave quarters, as they walked.
But he had heard her, and he continued with a smile and a shrug. “My grandmother would agree with you, and her mother was Haitian. She lived as a very rich man’s mistress. He kept her quite comfortably—it was what was done in the day. She even liked his wife, and his wife liked her. She was often the babysitter for their children. It was very common in New Orleans. My grandparents went to New York to be married—no laws against marriage because of color there, ever. But some states had laws against interracial marriage that weren’t repealed until the latter half of the twentieth century. I recently read a report, though, that worldwide, there are more slaves today than at any time in human history, especially in many underdeveloped countries despite efforts to create laws to put a stop to it—forced labor, child brides, prostitution. Slavery started just about with the dawning of man—and still exists. There will always be hateful people. That’s one of the reasons we have this job.”
“I’m well aware that we need to worry about national security, but the greatest promise of our country is that we are the land of the free—opportunity for all. Let enough generations go by and we’re an impressive mix of all backgrounds.”
He grinned. “So that’s how a Cajun girl wound up being Cheyenne Donegal!”
“My family is a bit of everything,” she told him. She heard Janine sigh behind her. Cheyenne ignored her.
“So, I’ll take the smokehouse, the carriage house and the old kitchen. You can start with the slave quarters. How’s that?” she asked Andre.
“Keys?” he asked her.
“Oh!”
They were clearly marked; she took a minute to separate them, handing him the ones he’d need.
As her hand brushed his, she looked up and saw that Andre was staring at her inquisitively. She took a quick step back and looked out at the yard.
“I’ll do that one first,” she said and headed immediately toward the closest buildings. He walked off farther down the dirt path that led out behind the house.
“I really like him,” Janine told Cheyenne.
“I haven’t even known him twenty-four hours.”
“But you could do much worse. What am I saying? You have done much worse!”
“Janine, I’m trying to work here!”
The old kitchen hadn’t been used as one since the beginning of the twentieth century. The kitchen had originally not been a part of the house—there would have been little available help in case of a fire back then. The giant hearth remained, cold now, no cooking utensils anywhere near it. Whatever cupboards had existed were long gone. Now the building contained nothing but piles of tools for the upkeep of the plantation—and cemetery.
“I wish so badly that I did know something,” Janine whispered. “To think of what these young women suffer...”
“Nothing here. Let’s move on,” Cheyenne murmured.
She was starting toward the old carriage house when she saw Andre coming out of the small structure that was the farthest away.
“Cheyenne!” He shouted her name. The sound of his voice was harsh, and he was already pulling out his phone.
She went running toward him as fast as she could. His features were tense.
“I found her,” he said.
4
Lacey Murton was still alive.
Andre had found her chained to the walls. Her abductor had made use of shackles that were over a hundred and fifty years old. Andre had ripped out a structural rod to break the chains that held her—thankfully, the boards were weak. He assumed that she’d been given some kind of sedative, but she was also very close to death.
She’d been left with nothing. Naked, no blankets, no water—nothing.
She’d even come to for seconds here or there as they waited for help to arrive, Cheyenne checking her pulse while speaking on the phone with the doctor at the hospital in Lafayette.
But Lacey hadn’t said anything. Her eyes had opened wide a few times, and she’d tried to fight Cheyenne, who had soothed her, assuring her that she was all right. Everything would be all right.
Andre noticed that Cheyenne had a way with her, getting her to cooperate as the EMTs worked.
Cheyenne rode with the girl in the ambulance, while Andre followed closely behind in his car, making a call to Jackson Crow.
Jackson would inform the other agencies that the missing woman had been found alive.
Once they got to Lafayette, he paced in the waiting room. Eventually Cheyenne came out. She looked at him incredulously.
“How did you know?” she whispered. “Thank God you did, but how did you know?”
She looked exhausted and shell-shocked.
“The Rougarou,” he told her, and shook his head. “But if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have thought to come here.”
She sank into a chair, then leaped back to her feet as the doctor came out.
“Dr. Keaton,” he told them, and in turn, Andre introduced himself and Cheyenne formally. Keaton was a serious man in his early fifties, gray streaking through his dark hair, the lines on his face showing a lifetime of concern for others.
“I believe she’s going to make it fine,” Keaton said. “She’s been through a lot of trauma, but...” He paused for a moment, studying them. “I understand that her picture had been taken—the word has been out that she was missing and possibly still alive. I also understand that the killer, this Mortician or whatever, was found dead by his own hand this morning. It’s a miracle that you found her. Dehydration would have taken her soon. But thankfully, he hadn’t wounded her. He hadn’t gotten to that, so what we’re looking at is the trauma, a cocktail of drugs in her and severe dehydration. I believe, however, that she will pull through.”
“Thank God,” Andre murmured, and then he had to ask, “Is she lucid at all? Will we be able to speak with her?”
“Just a few minutes,” Keaton said. “I understand how critical it is that you know the truth of what happened, but if her abductor is dead, there is no reason to cause her further stress until she’s stronger.”
Andre thanked him. Not thinking, he took Cheyenne by the elbow, and they followed the doctor. Lacey had been transferred up to an intensive care unit. Her room was private—and directly in front of the nurses’ station with glass windows that allowed the staff to see her at all times.
Dr. Keaton went to her bedside first. Lacey’s eyes opened.
“It’s Dr. Keaton, Lacey. The FBI agents who found you are here. Can you talk for a few minutes?”
Lacey Murton’s sandy hair had been pulled back. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and her cheeks were hollow and gaunt-looking. She nodded, though, looking past the doctor to Andre and Cheyenne. “Thank you, ” she said. Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Lacey, we’re so grateful to have found you,” Cheyenne said, stepping forward and taking the girl’s hand. “And you’re going to be all right.”
Moisture dampened Lacey’s eyes and then tears trickled down her cheeks.
“I’m alive!” she said hoarsely.
Dr. Keaton would make them leave any second, and Andre understood why. He pulled his phone out quickly, bringing up a picture of Braxton Trudeau. He walked toward the bed and showed Lacey the picture.
“Lacey, I’m so sorry,” he said, “but we need to know—is this the man who kidnapped you?”
She was grasping Cheyenne’s hand. Lacey looked at the picture, frowning and shaking her head.
“No, no, that wasn’t him.”
Andre glanced quickly at Cheyenne.
“Do you know who did take you?” he asked Lacey.
She swallowed hard, her eyes closing.
“Lacey?” he pushed gently.
“It was a rougarou,” she said. “It was a rougarou!”
Andre was silent for a minute.
Yeah, he should have known. The damned rougarou at the museum had meant something.
He wanted to be careful when he spoke again.
“She’s been through a great deal,” Dr. Keaton said firmly.
“Lacey,” Cheyenne said softly, “do you mean that—”
Andre didn’t have to speak at all. Lacey was ready to tell them.
“I went out back of the bar. I’d had a few drinks, and when I do, I get the urge for a cigarette. And there was this...wolf-man. I was laughing... I thought he was off-date for a Mardi Gras thing or Halloween. He had a wolf’s head. And his arms...they were in fur, and there was fur at his legs... He hopped around and danced, and I was enjoying his little show, and then...then he was on me and I thought he meant to smother me... I blacked out, and then... I woke up in that shed, and I screamed and screamed, and then he came back, and he had a knife, and he said that I had to be pretty for my picture. That knife... Oh, my God, there was dried blood on it. I was terrified, and he said not to worry, yet, not if I just smiled pretty...he had a man’s voice, but, but...he was a monster!”
“She’s getting upset,” Dr. Keaton said. “And I’d rather not give her any more sedatives, given that we don’t yet know what’s been in her system. I’m going to have to ask you to leave now—for Lacey’s well-being.”
“Of course,” Andre murmured.
“Lacey, just get well. Rest, and get well,” Cheyenne said.
But Lacey clutched Cheyenne’s arm. “Don’t leave me. I’m so afraid. He’ll come back. He’s a monster, and he’ll come back.”
Cheyenne looked at Andre for help.
“Lacey, you’re in the hospital now, you’re going to be fine. We’ll let your family know, and someone can come and be with you,” she said.
Andre was already on the phone, calling Jackson—who had the power to see to it that the woman was protected, even if the general opinion was that the Mortician had died that morning.
He could tell that Cheyenne knew exactly what he was doing.
“Lacey, Andre is talking to his boss—they’ll get an officer out here to watch over you,” she said.
“I thought that the man who took her was dead?” Keaton asked quietly.
Andre spoke briefly with Jackson and it didn’t take long. That was one of the best things about being Krewe. Every member was trusted without lengthy explanations.
He looked at Dr. Keaton when he hung up. “There’s no proof yet that the man who died this morning was the killer. Until we do know, it’s prudent to see that Miss Murton is protected. An officer will come, but he’ll stay out of the way of your medical staff.”
“It’s okay, I know the drill. And Lacey, if that will help you, then I’m all for it,” Dr. Keaton said. “But now, young lady, you must try to get some rest, some natural sleep. See that IV—saline and just the right mix to get bad things out of your system and good things in.”
“You’ll come back?” Lacey begged the agents.
“Absolutely,” Cheyenne promised her.
They left the hospital room. Andre thanked Dr. Keaton for his help, and the doctor assured them that all the staff would watch over the young woman, and that she was in good hands.
“We’re not leaving until the cop gets here, right, or whomever Jackson is sending?” Cheyenne asked.
“Right,” he replied.
And so they waited.
The man who arrived was a young officer who introduced himself as Brian Wilmette. Andre was glad to see, he didn’t seem to think of this as a sleep-in-the-chair or play-on-his-phone kind of detail. Cheyenne and Andre both explained that—no matter what the media was saying—they didn’t know for certain that the Mortician was dead, and if the man they had found dead in the French Quarter early that morning wasn’t the killer, Lacey Murton could still be in danger.
“I’ve been following the case,” the officer assured them. “We’re all just grateful that the young lady is alive. I promise you, I will not take this responsibility lightly. I will guard her, alert and wary to all and any danger.”
They both passed him their cards, and finally, left the hospital.
It was nearly midnight.
“I’d have stayed overnight, if it wasn’t for the autopsy,” Andre said.
“And I’d have been glad to do so, but we’ve got to be there in the morning,” Cheyenne told him, leaning back. “Frankly, I’m glad it’s your car and that you’re driving. Is it okay if I try to sleep?”
“I did destroy your nap, didn’t I?”
She smiled at him briefly, settling as comfortably as she could into the passenger’s seat. “Andre, you really couldn’t ask for a better day, with what we do. I don’t know how your mind came around to searching the old plantation and cemetery, but if we hadn’t gotten there when we did...”
“A good day,” he agreed. “I can’t take all the credit. You were convinced that you might not have caught the killer. If you hadn’t shown up and talked about the past, the way things had been so close to what Lassiter did—”
He broke off, thoughtful, then shrugged.
“You made me think, so it turns out that the people in charge made a good decision, sending in agents close to the case. Your instincts were right, and that prompted my instinct. So...it was a good day, and for you a long one. You started out finding a dead man, but finished the day saving a life.”
“She still has you to thank,” Cheyenne said.
He glanced her way again; she was pleased, of course. They both were. And it was all right for them to be both surprised and grateful.
But he knew that they both believed it was far from over.
Her eyes were closing. She had to be exhausted.
“Hey,” he asked softly. “Before you drift off... Where am I taking you?”
“Monteleone. Royal Street,” she murmured.
“I know where it is,” he said. “You know, there are four bedrooms in my folks’ place. Maybe you should move on over. We have the board up, and it’ll be convenient if we need to move quickly on things.”
He would have put out the invitation to any agent. But he realized, she wasn’t any agent, she was an extremely attractive woman.
It might be misconstrued. Actually, it sounded like the worst pickup line in history. He started to apologize or try to explain. He didn’t need to. She was sound asleep.
He shook his head and forced his attention to the road. They had at least two hours to go, and the autopsy on Braxton Trudeau was going to be painfully early.
And he had a lot to think about. Cheyenne saw the dead. He’d seen the two ghost teenagers following her around the plantation house. She hadn’t said anything; she’d acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
Should he just confront her?
Or wait and let it all come out on its own?
* * *
Dr. Kevin Morley was one of the newest MEs for New Orleans Parish.
Cheyenne wondered if Andre thought that Trudeau should have been assigned to their oldest and best, but she liked Morley. She’d met him briefly the day before, when he’d come to the site after they’d found Trudeau dead.
Detective Fournier met them at the morgue. He was a good guy, Cheyenne thought. He seemed happy to meet Andre—just as he had been okay with the bureau sending her to work with him.
Shaking Andre’s hand as they suited up and headed in, he’d said, “This thing is crazy. Happy to have any and all help on this one, and glad that it’s really in your lap now.”
Cheyenne loathed autopsies. They were incredibly important, she knew. An autopsy could be the most crucial aspect of an investigation. Cause and method of death were key, but also the other information to be gleaned from a dead body: stomach contents could provide clues to be followed that might lead to an arrest; marks on the corpse could be instrumental—one case she’d been on in Miami had been solved because the medical examiner had found a tiny tattoo on the murder victim, and that had led them to the tattoo parlor where they’d found the murderer.
