Depth Perception (11 page)

Nat Jennings has no idea with whom she's dealing. He will stop her. Only this time, he will stop her for good.

 Chapter 9

Nick knew better than to pass the time thinking about Nat Jennings. The woman was trouble any way you cut it. She had it written all over that curvy little body of hers in big, bold letters. A more cautious man might have heeded the warning. But Nick had never claimed to be cautious, especially when it came to women.

He wanted to believe his interest in her was purely physical in nature. After all, he was a red-blooded American male and hadn't been with a woman for six long years. That was more than enough time to wear down a man's resolve to stay the hell away from trouble. But that resolve hadn't kept him from looking. It hadn't kept him from liking what he saw. It sure as hell hadn't kept him from wanting to do a lot more than just look . . .

But while he couldn't deny the hard tug of lust every time he laid eyes on her, he knew he wasn't going to do anything about it. Nick had enough personal baggage of his own without taking on someone else's. Nat Jennings was lugging around a ton of it. The last thing he needed in his life was a troubled, sexy-as-sin female with a boatload of demons to slay. He could barely handle his own these days.

"Hell of a night, eh?"

Nick looked up to see Mike Pequinot limp to the cash register and remove a thick wad of bills. "Not bad for a dive a stone's throw from the bayou."

It was almost midnight, and The Blue Gator had been winding down for the last hour. Two men were still at the back, shooting pool. Another man in faded coveralls was slumped at a table smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and nursing a beer. A haunting Peter Gabriel tune keened from the speakers.

“Must have been your night for crazy women," Pequinot said with a grin. "First that polecat ex-wife of yours, then the Jennings girl."

Nick ignored the reference to Tanya. "What's Nat Jennings's story?"

Pequinot shot him a knowing look. "She might be good to look at, but you don't want to get tangled up with her."

"I'm not going to get tangled up with anyone."

"If it's a woman you're wantin’, I can hook you up--"

"I don't want a hooker, Mike."

"Just askin'."

"So are you going to tell me about Nat Jennings, or am I going to have to ask someone else?"

"
Ti parele! Si! Laisee mon te dire!
" Talk about. "She's been a favorite topic down at the diner ever since it happened."

"She kill them, or what?" Nick asked.

Pequinot rolled a giant shoulder. "Folks say she did. But I don't know. You know, people like to talk. But she don't look like no killer to me." He laughed. "Man killer, maybe."

"So what happened?"

''Murders happened about three years ago. Cops get a 911 call in the wee hours. Deputy arrives to find her husband the minister shot dead and her seven-year-old son's throat slashed. From what I hear it was a hell of a goddamn scene. Cops puking and what not. That girl was hysterical and covered with blood. She'd been cut, too, but not like them. She claimed she heard something, went downstairs and found them in the kitchen. That the intruder jumped her.

"But the cops strung together a different version. They suspected she orchestrated the whole thing. Turns out her minister husband was having an affair with his secretary. Nat Jennings was in line for a five-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy. Cops had motive. They had her fingerprints on the knife. They got a doc out of 'Nawlins to say her wounds could have been self-inflicted. She claimed the intruder had come in through her son's bedroom window. But the knife that had been used to cut the screen was her own. And the screen had been cut from the inside, not the outside."

"Pretty damning evidence," Nick said.

"I'll say. Whole damn town was divided. I mean, you see that sweet face of hers and you think she couldn't possibly have done it. But you look at the evidence, and you're not so sure."

"So how did she get out of it?"

"She didn't, really. Alcee Martin arrested her the day they put her husband and baby in the ground. Cops pounded her all day and half the night. When they finally put her in a cage, she took a piece of tile and cut her wrists. Got the artery, too. Almost died, that one. Poor Alcee found her, carried her to his car, and drove her to the hospital hisself. But she lost so much blood she had some kind of stroke and went into a coma. I swear, Alcee ain't been the same since. He went above and beyond to make things right when he testified 'fore the grand jury."

It was the first time Nick had heard the story, and it shocked him. "Jesus."

"Can't figure why she's back, though. If I was her, Bellerose is the last place I'd want to be."

Nick thought about that. For a moment he considered confiding in Pequinot about the alleged witness she claimed to have with regard to his own son's death, but decided against it.

"If you want to go on home, Rita and I can close up."

Nick was tired. He'd been working nights at me bar and getting up at dawn, trying to work the farm back into shape. There was hay to be cut and baled, but the baler was on its last leg. He'd be lucky if he could get the damn thing running . . .

He'd just stepped out from behind the bar when the door swung open. A quiver of uneasiness went through him when Chief of Police Alcee Martin strode in looking like someone . had just killed his dog. His uniform was military neat. His boots polished to a high sheen. His Glock tucked neatly into its glossy leather holster.

 His gaze swept the room, stopping on Pequinot, who'd stopped counting cash and looked up. "Mike."

"Alcee," Pequinot drawled. "Get you a beer?"

''Not tonight." Martin looked around the bar, his gaze lingering on Nick an instant too long before going back to Pequinot. "I got a missing child on my hands. I wanted to let y'all know. We're putting together search parties. We can use all the help we can get."

Pequinot came around the bar, his expression concerned. "Whose kid?"

"Becky and Jim Arnaud's boy. Ricky. I think he's their oldest, seven or eight years old,"

"
Le Bon Dieu mait la main
." God help. "How long's he been gone?"

"Since about eight o'clock this evenin'. He was visiting little Jamie Beckett. Usually cuts through old man Gray's cornfield on the way home. Mama says he's always home before dark. But he never made it." Martin's gaze landed on Nick. "Gray's place is right next to your daddy's farm,"

Another wave of uneasiness swept through Nick. Six years ago he would have laughed at the suspicion on Alcee Martin's face. But experience had taught him that Lady Justice was not only blind, but cruel.

"Can you account for your whereabouts this evening?" Martin asked.

Pequinot put his hand down hard on the bar. "
C'est tout du dregaille
." That's all trash.

Martin looked uncomfortable. “I gotta ask, Mike. He's an ex-con. People are going to want to know."

Fury swept through Nick at the implication, a blowtorch burning him from the inside out. A child, Christ. "You know I didn't have a damn thing to do with that boy's disappearance."

"For chrissake, Alcee, Nick was here behind the bar all night!'

Martin stared hard at him. Nick stared back, aware that his blood was pumping hard. A lost child. How could anyone think he had anything to do with that?

The chief looked away first. "A couple of my deputies are setting up a grid search. Bob Boulee is going to bring in his bloodhound. We got one four-wheeler. Yancy is firing up the airboat for the swamp. A couple of guys on horseback are already out. The more people we have looking for that boy, the better our chances of finding him."

"The bayou is no place for a kid," Pequinot said.

Nick knew firsthand just how dangerous the bayou could be for a little boy. The pain of that never left him. It haunted his dreams, dominated his thoughts when he was alone. Some days the loss was more than he could bear.

"I know the bayou." Nick shot Martin a hard look. "Unless you have a problem with me, I'd like to help."

Martin stared at him. "You got ten minutes to get over to the police department 'fore we head out."

Alcee Martin tipped his hat and walked out.

"See you tomorrow, Mike." Nick tossed his towel on the bar and followed.

Chapter 10

The Bellerose police department was lit up like a football stadium when Nick arrived. A dozen four-wheel drive trucks were lined up on the street. Two men on horseback chatted with a police officer, the horses' steel shoes clanging against the asphalt. In the bed of a pickup truck, a saggy-faced bloodhound bayed at a three-quarter moon.

The people of Bellerose had turned out in force to look for little Ricky Arnaud. The boy's parents were well liked. Jim worked at the mill. Becky was a high school teacher in nearby Covington. As Nick took the sidewalk to the front door, he found himself thinking about another lost little boy and wondered if as many of the townsfolk had turned out for him.

He shoved open the doors and walked into the building. Heads turned toward him, but there were no greetings. Nick didn't care. When it came to finding a lost child, even the outcasts were expected to help.

Someone had taped a terrain map to the display board next to the reception desk. Beside it, the picture of a little boy with fat cheeks and freckles smiled impishly at the crowd of people who would be searching for him.

A hushed silence fell as Alcee Martin stepped up to the desk. "I want to thank all of you for turning out tonight to help us find Ricky Arnaud." Picking up a ruler, he used it to point out the photograph of the little boy. "Ricky is eight years old. Brown hair. About four feet, two inches tall. He was last seen wearing a purple T-shirt, blue jeans, and red sneakers."

He slid the tip of the ruler to the map. "The search area is marked in yellow." He turned to his audience. "Danny Lee?"

A hand went up in the crowd. "Right here."

"I want y'all on horseback to take the trail along Dove Creek. Becky was telling me Ricky liked to stop off at the creek occasionally to cool off."

"Gotcha, Alcee." A man in a western hat and boots sauntered out the door.

Martin scanned the crowd. "Where's Bob Boulee?"

Another hand shot up. "Yup."

"Bob, a couple of officers are going to take you out to old man Gray's property. Becky brought us one of Ricky's socks so you can scent your hound."

"We're on it," Martin turned his attention back to the map. "If the rest of you want to help, you'll need to stay away from the area marked here in orange. We don't want to mess up the scent trail. My deputy Matt Duncan is going to set up a loose grid search on the other side of Dove Creek. We don 't think Ricky ventured too far, but the more ground we can cover, the better."

He turned and set his pen against the map. "I want everyone to park at the Dove Creek Bridge here. Take the path to the water, and spread out from there on the west side of the creek. We've got a couple of dozen people. Stay within shouting distance of each other. Take at least one flashlight and insect repellent if you have it. Those damn skeeters are as big as crows down by the water. I don't have to remind anyone that time is of the essence."

The impromptu meeting ended abruptly with the sound of a woman's anguished keening. Nick looked over to see Becky Arnaud standing next to her husband, looking as if she were about to collapse. Her face was blotchy and red and wet with tears. "Please find my baby," she sobbed. "He's out there all by himself. He's afraid of the dark. Please help us find him."

He's afraid of the dark.

The words slashed with unexpected ferocity, and made Nick think of his own little boy. Brandon had been just two years old when Nick went to prison. He'd been only five when he'd drowned. That Nick hadn't been there to protect him tormented him every hour of every day. How terribly frightened Brand must have been when he'd realized he'd ventured into deep water.

Suddenly, Nat Jennings's words danced in the back of his mind:

Brandon's death wasn't an accident . . . your son was murdered . . .the man who took our children from us is going to kill again if someone doesn't stop him.

Even though the room was plenty cool, Nick felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. Had Brand's death been an accident? Or was there some merit to her assertions? Had little Ricky Arnaud become lost? Or was something more sinister in the works?

The unspeakable questions taunted him with agonizing possibilities ... possibilities he knew he could no longer ignore. As much as it destroyed him to consider it. Nick was going to have to talk to Nat about his son. He was going to have to find out what she knew, if anything. Then he was going to have to decide what to do about it.

Holding that thought, he turned away from the picture of the little boy and started for the door.

#   #   #

The nightmare came to her with the violence of the storm Rain lashed at the windows as she made her way down the hall toward her son's room. Lightning flashed like a strobe as she pushed open the door and peered inside. A frisson of uneasiness went through her when she found the bed empty, the Spiderman coverlet turned down. A few feet away the curtains billowed in the breeze coming in through the window.

Aware that her heart was beating too fast, she took the stairs to the darkened living room. Thunder crashed as she crossed the living room and peered into the kitchen. She saw the outline of glossy oak cabinets. Polished granite countertops. The curtains fluttering in the window above the sink.

 Her heart slammed hard against her ribs when she spotted Kyle lying motionless all the floor.  For the span of several heartbeats she stared at her son's form, unable to get her mind around the picture of her seven-year-old little boy lying silent and still on the cold tile in his teddy bear pajamas.

"Kyle?"

She smelled the blood before she saw it. Coppery and warm and as black as melted tar in the semidarkness. Horror and disbelief screamed through her. She could feel if tearing through her body with the violence of a hollow point bullet.