Bad Moon Rising (11 page)

“I see you’re still cutting people’s throats, Tyron.”

Tyron took the chair next to his and reached into his
suit coat pocket for a thin cigar. He used J.D.’s Bic to light it, eyes hard as
he grinned. “You got me all wrong, J.D. I don’t decapitate men’s wives. I only
fuck ‘em.”

“Are you saying you fucked my wife before you killed
her?”

“Now wouldn’t that just be icin’ on the cake. How
sweet would that be? Me makin’ your pretty little wife pant and moan.”

“I think she had more class than that.”

“I doubt it. She married you, didn’t she?”

J.D. reached for his drink. “Where is Melissa?”

Tyron looked away as he smoked, his jaw working again
in anger. “I’d like to know that myself. Just like I’d like to know who the
hell showed up for Melissa’s john and shot the son of a bitch. Bad for
business, know what I’m saying, J.D.? Melissa and I are going to have ourselves
a talk when I find her.”

“I’ve seen your kind of talk, Tyron. She’s much too
pretty to have her face cut up.”

“Girls answer to the man. You know that.” He put out
his cigar in J.D.’s drink. “Now I’m gonna save you a lot of time, my friend.
You stay away from my girls. I hear you’ve been knockin’ on their doors and
snoopin’ round my business. I’m tellin’ you one last time, and unless you’ve
gone deaf, as well as dumb, you’ll disappear. I find out you been walkin’ my
streets again thinking on diggin’ up some shit on me, we’re gonna have
ourselves a chat. Up close and personal.” He tossed a hundred dollar bill on
the table. “Buy some flowers for your kids’ graves, why don’t you? From their
Uncle Tyron. With love.”

Holly awoke, startled, and sat
up
in bed.
Sunlight flooded the room
through the sliding glass doors as the rotating buzz fan on the nearby table
did little more than disrupt the air immediately around it. Heat penetrated the
apartment so her T-shirt and jeans clung to her with perspiration. The clock
showed eleven-thirty. No sign of Damascus, no indication that he had come home
after she had fallen into a fitful sleep.

Again, a banging on the door, then a rattle of a key
in the lock.

The door opened suddenly and an immense, angry African
American woman barged in, her hair in gray corn rows and massive silver hoop
earrings dangling from her lobes. She stopped short upon seeing Holly.

“Where the hell is J.D.?” she said so loudly the
startled cat scrambled under the coffee table and arched its back.

Groggy, Holly shook her head. “I don’t know.”

The woman stormed through the apartment, her weight shaking
the floor as she moved into the bedroom, stopped, planted her hands on her
hips, and muttered to herself.

“Who are you?” Holly asked. When the woman didn’t
respond, she raised her voice and repeated, “Excuse me? Who are you?”

She turned and speared Holly with a look. “I might ask
you the same thing.”

“A friend.”

“Urn hmm. I know your kinda friend.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You got no idea where that man is?”

“He never came home last night.”

Shaking her head. ‘That ain’t good. Not good at all.
Lord, Lord, what am I gonna do with that man? He done missed two court
appointments this mornin’.”

“Once again, who are you?”

“May. I work for him.”

Holly rose from the futon, rubbing her eyes.

May dropped into a chair that creaked with her weight.
“He gone and done it now. Judge gonna have his butt on a plate.” She watched as
Holly scooped up Puddin’ and moved to the kitchen, poured milk into the cat’s
bowl, then a glass for herself. “When did you last see him?”

“Two this morning.”

“What? What did you say?”

The obvious occurred to Holly. May was deaf as a
doorknob, or close to it. She returned to the living room and sat the glass on
the coffee table. “Two this morning,” she said more loudly, looking at the
woman directly. “He left to
...
take
care of some family issues.”

“Beverly again?”

“Sort of.”

May gave a disapproving grunt and shook her head.

Holly moved to the bedroom, to the desk, and picked up
the
Damascus
folder. The images within had
roused memories and nightmares throughout the night. She carried it to May,
watched the woman’s face as she opened the folder.

“What happened?” Holly asked.

May shut the folder and stared at the wall. “This ain’t
good.”

“Who killed his wife?”

“Same one who killed them hookers. Gonzalez. So the
D.A. say, anyhow. J.D. don’t believe it. Been eatin’ him up these last four
years. Chewed the heart right out of him.”

Holly braced herself. “And the children?”

May’s chin quivered. “Done killed them as well. Cut
their sweet throats. Lord, he loved them babies. They was his world.”

Holly sank onto the futon. “Why? It doesn’t make
sense.”

“Cops said Laura was just a victim of circumstance. At
the wrong place at the wrong time. Found her body in Woldenberg Park. Said she was killed sometime after midnight.”

“What was she doing at the park after midnight?”

May at last met Holly’s eyes. “Don’t know. J.D. was
out of town. He speculates that she was taken there for the killing. You know,
someplace public. He thinks that Tyron Johnson killed her and copycatted the
murders.” She watched Puddin’ pad across the floor and jump into Holly’s lap.

“May
...
are
you aware that the killings have started again?”

Her brow furrowed. “Girl, what are you sayin’?”

Standing, the cat cradled in her arms, Holly walked to
the front door and opened it. Heat radiated off the old brick street where
tourists ambled along the sidewalks, sweating. “Figures that you wouldn’t have
heard about it,” she said. “The cops will keep it quiet, considering the wrong
man was executed for the previous murders. Two women have been killed recently.
Same M.O. Slaughtered in their apartments. Another woman is missing. A friend
of mine. Melissa Carmichael.”

“Melissa? Ain’t she one of J.D.’s clients?”

Holly nodded.

With a huff of exertion, May left the chair. The phone
rang. May didn’t wait for the answering machine, but lumbered across the room
and snatched up the receiver. Holly watched her, hoping the caller was J.D. May
met her eyes and shook her head, frowning as she spoke to the caller, then
looked at Holly and mouthed: “You Holly Jones?”

Holly nodded.

May replied into the phone. “She’s here. I’ll tell
her.” She hung up the phone. “That was a Detective Chase. Said your suitcase
was found. Got it down at the station.”

“I need a ride.”

May nodded. “Come on.”

According to the testy, coffee-logged officer,
Holly’s luggage had been found
near a Dumpster on Canal Street by a foot patrol cop. Her clothes were all
there, but the money was gone. Figured. No sign of her car, of course. Figured.

As Holly took care of the necessary paperwork to retrieve
her belongings, May waited in the car, continuing to call J.D.’s apartment—no
answer—then the office—no answer. By the time Holly returned to the car, May’s
concern was mounting. Stuck in traffic, horns blaring and a rap station
crashing from a boom box perched on the shoulder of a Hispanic teenage boy
wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt, she drummed her big fingers on the steering
wheel and shook her head.

“This ain’t good. He don’t miss his court and client
appointments unless he’s on another one of his tears.”

“Which are?”

“Self-destruction.” She pursed her lips. “Catches up
to him now and again. Stands to reason if the killin’s have started again. Man
got a lot of anger and grief bottled up inside him. I swear he gonna explode
one of these days. I told him so, too. If his temper don’t kill him, the damn
ulcers will.” Her eyes widened and she pointed at the day-timer on the
dashboard. “Hospital. Get the number.”

Holly located the number and read it off to May as she
punched the cell phone, then inquired if Damascus had been admitted into
emergency. Another dead end. No sooner had she disconnected than the phone
rang. May answered and listened, her eyes rolling in exasperation. She glanced
at Holly and nodded.

“When did you pick him up? I been lookin’ for that man
for the last four hours. Um hmm. Assault? On who? Tyron Johnson. Lord have
mercy. All right. I’m on my way.”

Damascus
, smoking, sat on a bench beneath a
No Smoking sign as May stood
between a pair of detectives, one of whom was talking with the D.A. on the
phone. Holly sat beside him, occasionally risking a glimpse at his profile.
Eyes bloodshot, face pale beneath his dark beard stubble, he stared straight
ahead. The cigarette between his fingers shook each time he took a drag. Sweat
rolled down his temples.

He had refused to speak to her so far. Aside from his
initial glance, which had spoken volumes, he had ignored her.

Finally, May joined them. “They ain’t gonna press
charges but Tyron intends to file a restrainin’ order against you.”

In response, he blew a thin stream of smoke through
his lips.

May and Holly exchanged glances.

“Can you walk outta here,” May asked, “or do I need to
roll you out?”

He tossed the cigarette butt to the floor and crushed
it beneath his shoe. “Anybody ever told you you’ve got a smart mouth?”

“You, every chance you get.”

As he attempted to stand, Holly caught his arm. He
yanked it away and moved toward the door, one hand pressed against his stomach.
May’s look of exasperation turned to concern, and she shook her head, then
followed, Holly trailing behind, wondering just how she was going to face this
man now that she knew the entire truth about his life.

Now what? If she was smart, she would take her suitcase
from May’s car, walk off down the street, and not look back. She hadn’t come
here to get involved with a man who, as May described, was bent on
self-destruction.

She had returned to New Orleans to find her friend, to
remove her, once and for all, from the life. Before she ended up like Tyra and
Cherry, slaughtered by a soulless monster who, like a bad dream come to life,
had roused from hibernation to feed again on the helpless. Holly wanted to help
Melissa get out before Tyron’s power and control could destroy what little hope
and spirit Melissa had left.

May paused and looked back. “You comin’?”

She ran her hot palms up and down the butt of her
jeans. “Sure,” she finally said. “Sure.”

She sat in the backseat behind J.D. during the ride
back to bis apartment. He continued to say nothing, head rested back against
the seat, his eyes closed as May expounded on the consequences of his behavior.

“Judge is pissed at you. I do mean pissed. Said he was
gonna report your breach of ethics to the court and your clients to the
Committee of Professional Conduct and get your ass disbarred. Then what you
gonna do? What am I gonna do, for that matter? You go gettin’ disbarred and I’m
outta damn job. Just who the hell is gonna hire a sixty-year-old black woman
who’s deaf? And what you think you’re doin’ goin’ up against Tyron? That man is
mean as a snake and you go threatenin’ to kill him? That ain’t good, J.D. You
look like shit. Do you need a doctor? You bleedin’ again?”

Raking one hand through his disheveled hair, he
groaned and sank more deeply into the car seat. “Christ,” he finally said, his
voice a hoarse whisper. “You’re shouting again, May.”

“Obviously I ain’t shoutin’ loud enough ‘cause I don’t
think you’re hearin’ me real good.”

“I hear you, for God’s sake. People in Montana can probably hear you.”