A Whisper in the Dark (2 page)

The man stirred, tried to say something, but his voice was low, the words unintelligible.

“Don’t try to talk,” John said.

The man opened his eyes. Within their depths John saw pain, incredulity and a damning measure of humanity. The power of those things had icy sweat breaking out on his back.

The man lifted his hand, reached out. “I’m a . . . cop.”

John felt the words like a blade, plunging and going deep. Disbelief rose in a violent tide. He stared hard at the man, looking for a lie, praying for a lie, reminding himself that a suspect would say or do anything to save his ass.

“DEA . . . undercover . . .”

John didn’t want to believe it; he desperately didn’t want it to be true. But he saw the truth in the man’s eyes. And he felt the horror of it twist like barbed wire in his heart.

Aware that his hands were shaking violently, he tore the tiny halogen flashlight from his belt. He ripped open the man’s shirt, barely noticing when buttons popped and scattered. The earth seemed to shift beneath him when he saw that the Kevlar vest had been breached. Everything inside him froze into a solid block of ice when a Drug Enforcement Agency I.D. shined up at him.

Oh, dear God in heaven, he’d shot a cop . . .

He read the name on the I.D.
Franklin Watts
. A DEA agent working undercover. A man fighting the same war he was. Shot down like a criminal . . .

“Oh, man. Oh, Jesus.” John grappled with his radio. Vaguely he was aware of his fingers fumbling. His heart pounding wildly in his chest. The bitter taste of bile rising at the back of his throat. “I’ve got an officer down!” he screamed. “Officer down! Officer
down
! Where the
fuck
is the ambulance?”

Holstering the H&K, John yanked off his jacket, covered the agent with it, then looked into his eyes. “I didn’t know you were a cop,” he said.

“Undercover.” Franklin Watts closed his eyes. “Guy behind you . . . was going to plug you with that shotgun.”

Only then did John realize that this man had saved his life. Another layer of queasiness settled over the horror churning in his gut.

“How . . . bad?” the man asked.

Taking his hand, John squeezed it hard. “You’re going to be all right.”

“Yeah, and spring’s going to . . . come early this year.”

John had never shot anyone before, never even had to draw his weapon. That he’d shot a cop made him feel physically ill. None of the intel Vice received had given any indication that DEA would be at the scene. The enormity of the mistake dropped onto his shoulders with the weight of a thousand boulders, and he felt every ounce as if it were a ton.

How in the name of God had this happened?

Careful not to cause his fallen comrade pain, he opened the Kevlar vest and used his flashlight to locate the wound. He found it to the left and center of his breastbone. A sucking wound. Too much damage. He’d never seen so much blood, wondered how a man could bleed so much. All the while the burden of responsibility pressed down on him, crushing him so that he could barely take a breath.

“I need to stop the bleeding,” he heard himself say. “I’m going to apply direct pressure, okay? It’s going to hurt.”

“Already . . . hurts like . . . son of a bitch.”

John’s hands quivered when he set his palm against the wound. “You doing okay?”

“Can’t . . . breathe . . .”

“Hang in there. You’re doing fine.” But John could plainly see that he wasn’t. He could hear air bubbling as it escaped the hole in the other man’s lung.

Where the hell was that ambulance?

Franklin Watts’s breathing turned labored, and John knew that his lung was filling with blood. That he would either drown or bleed to death in a matter of minutes if help didn’t arrive soon.

Feeling helpless and more frightened than he’d ever been in his life, John leaned close to him. “I’m here, Frank. Hang tight, buddy. Paramedics will be here in a few minutes.”

Closing his eyes, the DEA agent took quick, shallow breaths.

“That’s it. Nice and easy.” John tried to stay calm, but he could hear the hard edge of fear in his voice now, the underlying pitch of panic. He reached for his mike. “
Where’s that fucking ambulance?
Goddamn it, I need it
now
!”

The radio crackled a response, but the voice barely registered. He heard sirens in the distance, shouting, and the pound of footsteps a few yards away, but he’d never felt more alone in his life. He looked down where his hand was pressed against the man’s chest, saw the blood leaking between his fingers, and he knew this man didn’t have much time.

He squeezed his hand. “Stay with me, buddy.”

But when he looked into the other man’s eyes, DEA Agent Franklin Watts had already slipped away.

ONE

 
Julia Wainwright stood on the sidewalk in the chill morning
air, a box of warm beignets in her hand, a stack of books tucked beneath her arm. She stared through the storefront window, taking in the display of leather-bound tomes artfully arranged on a red and gold tapestry, not quite able to convince herself it was her creation.

“Not bad for a kid who flunked second-grade art class,” she murmured, unable to keep the grin off her face.

The sun rising over the French Quarter’s St. Louis Cathedral warmed her back as she tugged the key from her coat and stuck it in the lock. Hugging the books to her body, expertly balancing the beignets, she shoved open the door with her foot.

The aromas of old building—paper dust and vanilla candles—greeted her like an old friend as she stepped into the Book Merchant, the antique bookstore she owned and operated.

Julia had had a love affair with books even before she’d learned to read, which had occurred at the ripe age of four. Immersing herself in wonderful stories, with characters who were every bit as real as her friends from preschool, had transformed a rather lonely childhood into a world filled with enchantment and adventure. She had understood and appreciated the power of the written word long before most of her classmates had even read their first book.

As she’d grown older, her love of books burgeoned to include rare and old books. She could sit for hours with a battered volume, thinking about all the people who’d held it in their hands over the years, wondering if they’d wept or laughed at the passages within.

Two years ago the Book Merchant had been nothing more than a pipe dream. Then she’d discovered the derelict storefront in a historic building in the French Quarter—and known it was perfect. The space had been damaged by water and suffered with years of neglect. But Julia had a gift for seeing potential—whether in people or old buildings—and she’d refused to listen to the naysayers telling her the place couldn’t be saved. Risking her life savings, she’d procured a loan, purchased the narrow space and begun the monumental task of transforming a dilapidated room into her dream. After months of backbreaking work and countless sleepless nights, the Book Merchant had been born.

Setting the books on the scarred surface of the old-fashioned counter, she worked off her coat. By the time she reached the coffeemaker, she’d already fished a beignet from the box and taken an enormous bite that would have sent her mother scrambling for her
Miss Manners’ Emergency Handbook
.

It was the one book Julia didn’t carry.

She chose a dark roast with chicory, and while the coffeemaker ground beans, she set her mind to the task of opening the shop. She lit the dozen or so scented candles she burned throughout the day. Yesterday had been vanilla. Today was hazelnut. Tomorrow maybe she’d try the café au lait she’d picked up at the candle shop on Magazine Street.

She’d just begun the task of counting petty cash when she spotted the envelope on the floor just inside the front door. Someone had slipped it through the old-fashioned mail slot, and she’d somehow missed it when she walked in. A chill that had nothing to do with the damp February weather ran the length of her.

Refusing to acknowledge that her heart was pounding, Julia crossed to the envelope and picked it up. The absence of a postmark indicated it hadn’t come through the mail system. This one had been hand delivered. The others had been mailed. The realization that he knew where she worked raised gooseflesh on Julia’s arms.

She slit the envelope. Like the others before it, the letter was off a laser and printed on ivory linen stationery in an Olde English font. Hating it that her hands weren’t quite steady, Julia unfolded the letter and read the short passage.

 
“What is that supposed to mean?” she whispered.

But deep inside, Julia knew. And the realization chilled her almost as much as the letter itself.

She jumped when the bell on the front door jingled. Relief swept through her when she looked up to see her sister, Claudia, enter the shop.

“Hi,” she said, tucking the letter into her pocket.

“Don’t ‘hi’ me.” Glaring at her, Claudia Wainwright crossed to the counter and hefted a cardboard box onto the scarred surface. “I can’t believe you sent me to pick up these books without warning me,” she said, brushing paper dust from her slacks.

“Would you like coffee to go with your bad mood? It’s fresh.” Unfazed by her younger sibling’s wrath, her mind still on the newest letter she’d received, Julia crossed to the coffeemaker and poured French roast into a tall mug.

“Black,” Claudia grumbled.

“What has you in such an uproar this morning?”

“Mr. Thornbrow is the rudest old codger I’ve ever had the misfortune of dealing with,” Claudia said.

Julia withheld a smile. The accused Mr. Thornbrow was a fellow antiquarian who ran a bookstore near Tulane, where Claudia attended law school. “He does have a knack for being difficult,” Julia said diplomatically.

“He tried to charge me twice for these books.”

Julie winced. She’d already paid fair market value for the books in question. “He’s a little forgetful.”

Claudia snorted. “He’s a crude little man and uses his age to try and cheat people. I honestly don’t know why you continue to do business with him.”

“I deal with him because he has one of the most extensive collections in the city.” More interested in the package her sister had brought her than her wily competitor, Julia tugged open the flaps and peered inside the box. “There are beignets next to the coffeemaker if you’d like one.”

“I am not going to let you appease me with beignets,” Claudia said, but her eyes were already drifting to the pastries. “Next time you can pick up your own books.”

Anxious to see the gems her sister had brought from Mr. Thornbrow’s shop, Julia pulled out one of the old tomes and her chest clenched with pride. “Oh, my. Victor Hugo,” she whispered in reverence. “A first edition. I can’t believe he parted with this.”

Claudia grumbled something about grouchy old goats, but Julia wasn’t listening. A flutter of excitement went through her when she slid the first book back into the box and pulled out the second. The redolence of aged leather and dust met her as the ancient volume in her hand came into view. “
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
,” she murmured. “First English edition. London. 1865. Oh, Claudia, it’s lovely.”

Rolling her eyes, Claudia took a bite of beignet. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a book I would consider lovely. Especially one as dusty and old as that one. They make me sneeze.”

Julia felt the burn of tears behind her lids at the thought of all the reading pleasure the book in her hand had brought to so many people in the century and a half since it had been published. Feeling foolish, she blinked rapidly and slid the book back into the box. “In any case, thank you for braving Mr. Thornbrow and picking them up for me. I would have had to open the shop late if you hadn’t volunteered.”

Claudia poured coffee and took it behind the counter. “Lunch at Arnaud’s would probably make up for it . . .”

Thinking she might treat her sister to her favorite French Quarter restaurant, Julia hefted the box and started for her desk. “I’d better get these books logged,” she said over her shoulder.

“Julia?”

“Hmmm?”

“You didn’t tell me you received another letter.”

The words stopped her cold. Putting on her best smile, Julia turned to see her sister brandishing the envelope she’d inadvertently left on the counter. Damn.

“It was delivered before I arrived this morning,” she said.

“I’m sure it hadn’t crossed your mind to hide it from me, had it?”

“Why would I try to hide it?”

“Because you know I’m going to make you to do something about it.” When Julia didn’t respond, Claudia raised the envelope and rattled it. “How many does this make? Seven? Eight?”

“Six.” Julia set the box on her desk. “If you’re counting.”

“I’m counting. And you should be, too.” Claudia put her hands on her hips. “Where’s the letter? I want to read it.”

Knowing she was busted, Julia slid the letter from her pocket and handed it to her sister. “It’s the same as the others.”

Claudia read the letter aloud. “Her tainted pen spills sin onto the page like the fevered blood from a sickle slash. Soon thine blood will be hers and vengeance will be mine.” Her gaze met Julia’s. “That is freaking creepy.”

Hearing the passage spoken aloud made the hairs at Julia’s nape prickle. “Creepy is a good word.”

“Do you recognize the author?” Claudia asked.

“Not this one, but the one I received on Monday came to me last night.” While she’d been lying awake, worrying about who might be sending her threatening quotes from books.

“Which one?” Claudia bent and slid from beneath the counter the manila folder containing five other letters.