Louisiana Stalker (13 page)

Clint went down the stairs as quietly as he could, then moved across the first floor according to Milly's directions. He found himself at a closed door. He tried the doorknob, found that the door was unlocked. He opened it slowly, hoping the hinges wouldn't squeak. They didn't.

He stepped into the room, listened, and heard the even breathing of a sleeping man. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness in the room. When he could make out the man in the bed, he moved to it, pressed the gun to the sleeping man's forehead. The man woke up immediately.

“Move and I'll blow your brains out, Cooper,” he said.

The man stayed still.

“Where's my wife?”

“Upstairs,” Clint said. “She's all right.” He saw the man's gun on the night table next to the bed. He grabbed it and tucked it into his belt.

“Light the lamp,” he told Cooper. “We're going to have a talk.”

“About what?”

“Light it,” Clint said. “We'll get to that.”

He allowed Cooper to sit up nervously and light the lamp by the bed.

“Now what?” Cooper asked.

“Now you tell me who you work for.”

“If I do that,” he said, “I'm dead.”

“If you don't tell me, I'll kill you right now,” Clint told him. “Your choice.”

Cooper began to sweat.

“Can I take a minute—”

“No,” Clint said. “Answer the question.” Clint cocked the hammer on the gun.

“Okay, okay,” Cooper said. “I work for Jacques Pivot.”

“Doing what?”

“Intercepting people he doesn't want to see,” Cooper said.

“Anyone coming from Baton Rouge has to go by here first. Like Keller.”

“Yes.”

“And us.”

“Yes.”

“How did he know we were coming?”

“That I don't know,” Cooper said. “I was sent a message to stop you.”

“By name?”

Cooper nodded. “And description.”

“How did you get the message?”

“He sent his man.”

“Who?”

“A man named Lebeau.”

“How many more men does he have with him at his house?” Clint asked.

“I don't know.”

“Guess.”

“Maybe half a dozen.”

“And a wife?”

“No.”

“Any women?”

“He's an old man.”

“So as far as he's concerned,” Clint said, “you've stopped us.”

“Yes.”

“Because you've stopped every other person he's ever told you to.”

“Yes.”

“Will he send his man to find out for sure?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Probably this morning.”

“All right,” Clint said. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“I'm going to reunite you with your wife,” Clint said, “but first, tell me how to get to Pivot's house.”

When Cooper walked into the room and saw Milly tied up on the bed, naked, his eyes bugged out.

“What the hell—”

“Hello,
cher
,” she said. “Did he tell you he had his way with me? It was glorious!”

“What? You—” Cooper turned to Clint, who pointed the gun at him.

“Just stand easy,” he said. “Untie her.”

Cooper obeyed, and Milly rubbed her wrists where the ropes had chafed her.

“Now you, Milly, tie him to the chair.”

“Whatever you say, Clint.”

Naked, she started to tie her husband's hands behind him as he sat in the chair.

“Goddamn it, woman,” Cooper snapped, “cover yourself.”

She stood up, put her hands on her hips, and smiled at the old man.

“Clint likes to see me this way, don't you,
cher?
” She turned to Clint.

“Stop fooling around and tie his feet.”

“Yes, lover.”

Hearing his wife call Clint “lover” incensed the man, but there was nothing he could do about it.

She tied his feet securely, then stood up.

“There!” she said.

“Now get dressed,” Clint said.

“What? But I thought . . .” She looked pointedly at the bed.

“Not now, Milly,” he said, “and certainly not in front of your husband.”

Pouting, she started to gather her clothes.

Clint walked to the door and called out for Cappy and Henri to come down the hall.

As Cappy and the cab driver came into the room, Capucine saw Milly half dressed, her breasts still naked.

“You bitch!” she said. She took her gun from her bag and shot Milly through the chest, right between her perfect little breasts.

“No!” Cooper shouted from his position tied to the chair.

Cappy turned and shot him in the chest, as well.

“What the hell are you doing?” Clint demanded.

“They're killers!” she said, her eyes wild.

Clint walked to her and grabbed the gun from her hand.

“You had this all the time?”

“Well . . . yes.”

“Why didn't you use it before?”

“I was . . . afraid.”

“So now that she's half naked and he's tied up, you got brave?”

“I'm sorry,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I just . . . lost control.”

Clint checked the two bodies. Milly's eyes were wide with surprise, but she was dead. So was Cooper, slumped in the chair with the ropes holding him up.

Henri was standing off to the right, looking very frightened.

“Kid,” Clint said, “I still need you, but if you want to turn around and go back—”

“No, no,” Henri said, “I'm your man, Clint.”

“Okay. We're going on to Jacques Pivot's place. But first, I've got to find my gun.”

Clint went back downstairs and searched Cooper's bedroom. He found his gun in the top drawer of a chest. He slid it into his holster, tossed the other guns onto the bed. He went to the sitting room, where Cappy and Henri were waiting for him.

“I checked outside, boss,” Henri said. “There's a lot of water. That levee mighta gone.”

“We better get going, then,” Clint said. He looked at Cappy. “I should leave you here.”

“No,” she said, “not with . . . them. Besides, you'll need me.”

“Why?”

“Jacques is an old man, but he's always had a yen for me,” she said. “That's how we'll get in to see him.”

“If he has a yen for you, why would he put you in danger?” Clint asked.

“He's a businessman,” she said. “If it was good for business, he'd put his own mother in danger.”

Clint looked at Henri, who shrugged.

“All right,” Clint said. “You got any other weapons on you?”

“No.”

He put his hand out for her bag, which was a simple drawstring type. It was light, but he checked inside anyway. No derringers or knives. He handed it back.

“All right, Henri,” he said. “I've got directions to Pivot's house. Let's see if we can make it before we're knee deep in water.”

Henri was right about the water. It was ankle deep as they walked to the cab. The horse didn't like it either, but Henri kept him calm.

It wasn't dawn yet, but with the driving rain, it probably wouldn't have looked much different if it had been. The days had been gray, and would probably continue to be so for a while.

The road was all mud and the horse had to work hard to pull the carriage. Then, at one point, they either changed direction or hit higher ground, because suddenly there was less water.

“Is the water receding?” Clint shouted to Henri.

“No,” Henri said, “we're movin' further away from the river. If the levee goes, though, it'll catch up to us.”

Cappy gripped Clint's arm tightly with both hands.

 • • • 

It took several hours, but they finally came within sight of a large, two-story house with pillars all along the front. The house must have cost a fortune to build—but why would someone build such a house all the way out here?

He posed his question out loud and Cappy said, “Jacques is Cajun. He was born in the bayou, and he loves it.”

“Well,” Clint said, “I suppose there's something to be said for loving your home.”

They drove up to the front of the house. It could have been the gray rain, or the moss clinging to the walls, but up close the house looked to have fallen on hard times.

Henri stopped the carriage directly in front of the door. Clint stepped down and looked around. He was surprised that they had not attracted any attention.

He turned and helped Cappy down. Henri stayed right where he was.

“Do you want to come in?” Clint asked him.

“I think I'll be safer right here,” Henri said. “Wetter, but safer.”

“I don't blame you,” Clint said. “We'll be back soon—I hope.”

Clint and Cappy approached the front steps and walked up. Clint might have thought the house was deserted, but for the light in a couple of windows.

They reached the front door and Clint knocked. He was about to knock again when suddenly he heard a lock click, and the door opened.

“Capucine,” an old gent said. “What a surprise—and in this weather? Come in, come in, my dear, and introduce me to your friend.”

Several people had referred to Jacques Pivot as an old man. If this man was, indeed, Pivot, they were understating the point. This man was so old his skin seemed like translucent parchment paper. There was a map of blue lines beneath his skin, where they weren't obscured by wrinkles.

He closed the door and turned to face Capucine.

“Hello, Jacques,” she said. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Clint Adams.”

“Ah, the infamous Gunsmith,” the man said. “How wonderful to have someone of your import in my house. Excuse me if I don't shake hands, but my bones are very brittle these days. A handshake could actually break my hand.”

“I understand,” Clint said.

But the old gent's hands weren't too flimsy to lift one of Capucine's to his mouth so he could kiss it.

“Come with me,” he said. “We'll get you some coffee—or brandy—to warm you up.”

They followed him into a large, opulently furnished living room. He walked to a pull rope against the wall and yanked on it. In seconds a man who looked even older than Pivot appeared.

“Ah, Charles, my guests need to warm up.” He looked at them.

“Hot tea for me,” Capucine said.

“Of course. And you, sir?”

“Coffee.”

“Please,” Pivot said, “the brandy. Allow me the pleasure of watching you drink it, as I can't imbibe myself.”

“All right,” Clint said, and to Charles, “Brandy.”

“Yes, sir,” Charles said.

“Please, sit,” Pivot said.

The chairs were overstuffed, and dusty. Capucine gingerly lowered herself onto the sofa, while Clint chose one of the armchairs.

“What brings you here in such horrible weather, my dear?” he asked.

“Well . . . I'll let Clint explain it, Jacques.”

“Sir?” Pivot said, looking at Clint.

Clint was having his doubts, except for the fact that Cooper confessed to working for Pivot.

“Well . . . Capucine had been having a problem with someone stalking her, following her everywhere, and asked me to see what I could do about it.”

“And how does this bring you to me?”

“We thought the man behind it might be someone who was, uh, in business with her husband. I've been told you are his closest competitor.”

“And why would this lead to having her followed?” he asked.

Clint was surprised the man had not taken a seat, and had chosen to remain standing.

“Perhaps in an attempt to distract her husband from his business practices?” Clint asked.

“Nonsense,” Pivot said, waving a skeletal hand. He didn't offer anything further.

“Why is that, sir?” Clint asked.

“I don't have any need to distract Simon Devereaux. I have outfoxed him at every turn whenever we have done business. And I prefer to have him at his best when I do beat him—such as his best may be.”

“Sir, do you know a man named Cooper?”

“I do,” he said. “He and his wife run an inn in Lexington.”

“Do they work for you?”

“Certainly not,” Pivot said. “Why would I need an inn? Ah, here are the drinks.”

Charles carried a tray to Capucine, who claimed her tea, and then Clint, who took his brandy. He then tucked the silver tray beneath his arm and left. He walked painfully slow, and they waited for him to leave the room before continuing.

“Mr. Pivot, Cooper told me he works for you.”

“Doing what? Running the inn?”

“And keeping people away from your house.”

“How?”

“Pretty much by killing them,” Clint said. “Do you know a man named Keller?”

“Never heard of him.”

“And you didn't send anyone to follow Capucine?”

“I did not,” Pivot said. “I do not, however, know how to prove that to you.”

Clint studied the man, then said, “You don't have to. I believe you.”

“Then we drove all the way out here, and went through all of those things at the inn, for nothing?” Capucine complained.

“No, not for nothing,” Clint said. “Now we know Mr. Pivot, here, is innocent.”

“I am a little too old to be considered innocent,” Pivot said, “but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“So now what?” she asked.

“I guess we should get back to Baton Rouge,” Clint said.

“I wouldn't do that,” Pivot said.

“Why's that?”

“I have my own telegraph key in the house,” the man said. “Just a short while ago I received a message that the city is under water.”

Clint immediately thought of Eclipse, who he had left behind in Baton Rouge.

“The whole city?” he asked.

“Well, a good part of it,” Pivot said. “You are both welcome to stay here—at least overnight.”

“I was given to understand you don't like guests,” Clint said.

“Indeed, I do not,” the man said, “but rarely have I had a guest of your stature. And, of course, Capucine is always welcome.”

“I have a driver outside.”

A pained look passed over Pivot's face, but he said, “He may stay, as well.”

“Well,” Clint said, “I don't think we have much of a choice.”

“I will have Charles show you to your rooms. You will, of course, have dinner with me.”

“Thank you, Jacques,” Cappy said.

“Yes,” Clint said, “thank you.”

Pivot pulled the rope again. As slowly as Charles moved, he was right there. Clint didn't know how he did that.