Bad Moon Rising (19 page)

Standing in the morgue, steeling herself to identify
her friend, she had no doubt experienced only a small portion of the dread that
he had had that night not so long ago. To look upon the bodies of his
family—dear God, how could a human being survive such heartbreak and horror? To
live with those dreadful images every minute of every day, branded into every
waking and sleeping hour in his mind’s eye and heart.

At last the voices faded. But for the rain, there was
silence. No blaring traffic horns. No distant wailing of a saxophone from some
street-corner musician.

Holly sat up, slid her legs from the bed, and rubbed
her eyes. Every bone and muscle from her toes to her temples throbbed with
tension. As if someone had bludgeoned her.

She swayed as she stood. Cautious, she moved to the
bedroom door.

Damascus
sat in a chair in a pool of lamplight, elbows on his
knees, his face buried in his hands. His wife’s folder was lying open on the
floor.

He groaned and shook, fighting the emotions welling
inside him.

Holly moved to him, eased to her knees before him,
closed the file, and slid it away. Gently, tentatively, she touched his dark
hair.

As if the touch had been the catalyst, the groan
became a sob that tore up from the very heart of him. The words poured forth, a
ragged, desperate sound of torment.

“Ah God, this is all my fault. Holly. All of it.” He
rocked, his fingers twisting into his hair. “I should have let her go. She
wanted a divorce. I wouldn’t give her one. I wanted it to work. I couldn’t lose
my kids. Christ, I loved them so much. Besides my job, they were the only thing
that meant anything to me.”

He raised his head and his streaming eyes looked at
her with such mad desperation she felt her heart stop. “She would have taken
them away—to Milwaukee, to live with her parents. I should have let her. They
would all be alive now.

“I didn’t want to fail, Holly. I didn’t want to hear
from my father ‘I told you so.’ The bastard didn’t approve of us. Said it would
never work. She wasn’t from the right kind of family. Actually disowned me for
doing the right thing and marrying her. Hasn’t spoken to me in years because of
it.

“It was the first time in my life I didn’t bow to his
demands. Hell, I didn’t even want to be a lawyer. But he wanted us, me and
Eric, to follow in his footsteps. He
envisioned our stampeding our way through
politics—all the way to the White House. The daughter of a used car salesman,
who was forced to drop out of college because I knocked her up, wouldn’t
portray the proper image for a prospective First Lady.”

He sank back in the chair, his shoulders sagging, his
eyes staling off at nothing. “If I had only come home
a
day earlier. I could have,
Holly. I needed time. I knew as soon as I came home that the arguing would
start again. She wanted a divorce. I didn’t want to deal with it.”

“You didn’t know,” Holly said softly, her own eyes
tearing and her heart hurting so badly for him she thought it would break.

“I gave her everything, except what she needed. I didn’t
love her. I mean
...
I wasn’t in love
with her.
I
cared for
her. How can you not care for the mother of your children?”

J.D. closed his eyes and released a heavy breath.
“I
’m so damn tired of thinking.
Of hurting. Regretting. I keep seeing their sweet faces, hearing their
laughter. Sometimes at night
...
I
swear to God
I
hear Lisa
calling me. I feel her touch me. Butterfly kisses on my cheek. God, make it go
away.”

Covering his ears with his hands, his face ravaged by
fury, he wept, “I want to kill that son of
a
bitch. Tyron did it.
I
don’t care what the hell
everyone else says.”

He jumped from the chair, knocking Holly aside, and
staggered to the bedroom. Sinking to the floor, Holly stared after him, his
pain resonating through her, her own tears scalding her cheeks. How did one
comfort a man in such pain? He needed someone to hold him, to kiss away his
sorrow, to soothe the horrible raw wound in his soul.

Make it go away.

God, how she wished she could.

She looked up as he reentered the room, gun in hand as
he moved toward the front door.

“What are you doing?” She scrambled to her feet.

“I’m going to do what I should have done four years
ago.”

Throwing open the door, he vanished into the gray
sheet of driving rain.

Her legs felt leaden as she moved, stumbled to the
door, sound lodged in her throat along with her heart. “Don’t,” she cried
brokenly. “Oh God, John, don’t. Please don’t do it!”

She ran down the steps, whipping wind and driving rain
punching the breath from her. Shielding her face from the deluge, she ran past
him, stood between Damascus and his car door. “Don’t do this. Please, give me
the gun and listen to me.”

He shook his head and shouted through the rain. “Get
the hell out of here, Holly. I can’t take it anymore. That son of a bitch has
destroyed too many lives, including yours. He deserves to be exterminated, and
if the cops won’t do it, I will.”

“Nothing is ever going to take away the pain of your
loss. It was ... horrible. So tragic. But killing Tyron won’t bring them back.
It won’t rectify the injustice of it all. And what if you’re wrong. John?
Listen to me!”

She blinked the spray of rain from her eyes. “You have
friends who will help you, John. Jerry Costos. Detective Mallory. Me. Please,
let us help you. You’re loved and needed by so many. Your mother who adores
you. Beverly. Think of Patrick. Think about what this would do to them.” She
swallowed. “I need you, John. Desperately. God, you’re the only friend I have
in the world right now besides Melissa.”

There came a sudden, ear-shattering explosion of thunder.

“I need you,” she repeated more softly. “Please.”

Little by little, as the rain drove down on him, J.D.
relaxed. He stood with his head down, a man emotionally exhausted.

Holly moved to him, opening her arms to embrace him,
hold him as he sank against her, gripping fiercely, one hand tangled in her
hair as his body shook with sobs.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Cry all you want. Poor
baby. Poor darling. Lean on me, John. Let me help you. I so want to help you.”

They held one another, drenched by the deluge as lightning
skirted across the sky.

They lay together on the bed, J
.D.
curled in
Holly’s arms, his head resting
on her shoulder. She held him fiercely, her fingers gripping his wet shirt, her
mouth pressed into his damp hair... aching to absorb the pain from his heart,
assure him there would, someday, be sunlight after his storm.

Little by little his body had relaxed against her. His
trembling had ceased. She needed desperately to drift away with him. Not yet.
Not until she was certain that he had finally surrendered to sleep.

As she felt the easy rise and fall of his breathing,
his heart beating against her, she tried to recall a time when she had lain so
by a man, enjoyed the embrace of his arms around her.

Never.

The pleasure of it was boundless, the joy of it
brought tears to her eyes. For that moment in time, she mattered to someone.
She had made a difference. It was what she wanted most in her life, to make a
difference to someone. She had come back to New Orleans to help Melissa. Pray, dear
God, that she hadn’t been too late. But if she was
...

If she was, she would content herself in knowing that
she had been John’s port in a storm. The hand extended to him in a turbulent
sea of despair.

A man with no hope.

She understood completely. The emptiness. The burden
of guilt for mistakes. Broken spirits and dreams. She had been spiritually as
low as a human being could get. But she was proof that beyond even the most
cataclysmic storm, there is fair weather. She would make him see that. She wouldn’t
allow him to give up yet. Not ever.

Shutting her eyes, holding him closer, she felt a hot
streak of awareness sluice through her. What was she thinking? She had no
future with this man. Idiotic to even imagine it. She was a woman with a past
that no one aside from a saint or God himself would forgive. The realization
that she actually felt something for him other than pity staggered her.

Oh no. She wouldn’t let herself go there. He might
have nudged open that long closed and locked door to her heart, but she wouldn’t
allow him in. She wouldn’t invite the kind of emotions that inspired the sort
of daydreams normal women with normal lives confessed to friends over coffee.

If she was smart, she would get out now. Right now.
Nip the fantasy in the bud. She had always been pragmatic regarding her future.
Accepted it, for the most part. She was a realist, after all. Most mothers
ingrained in their daughters’ heads, “You can love a rich man as easily as a
poor man.” She, on the other hand, had long since acknowledged that she could
a love a poor man as easily as a rich man. It wouldn’t matter if he sold used
shoes from street corners, as long as he loved her. No need in setting her
standards too high, she told herself long ago.

Thinking that she stood any chance with a man like Damascus was ludicrous.

Once Holly assured herself that John was asleep, she
slid from beneath him and moved to the living room. Puddin’ lay curled on the
futon, amid the pretty pillows and chenille throw. She glanced around the room,
transformed from the dreary, unkempt apartment of a depressed, broke bachelor.
The pride she had experienced from the makeover rushed through her again. Home
sweet home. Pretty and comfortable. Nothing fancy. But... nice. The kind of
place she wouldn’t mind settling down in.

The idea that he had actually believed that she had
turned a few tricks to get the money to do it sliced at her heart. But she wasn’t
surprised. Retired hookers were exactly that. Hookers. She may as well go
through the rest of her life with a giant blazing
P
branded on her forehead. But
that wasn’t the worst of it. Not nearly the worst of it. A decent man, like Damascus, might, just might, forgive her prostitute transgressions.

But he would never forgive her for murder.

J.D. awoke, confused, with a splitting
headache. Then he remembered
the night before. Christ. He hadn’t come that close to killing Tyron since the day
he’d IDed his family at the morgue, since the obsession to find and kill his
family’s murderer had taken him over.

Not that it hadn’t come rushing back over him occasionally.
The shrinks who had counseled him had assured him that wasn’t unusual.
Antidepressants had helped for a while. But, eventually, he had weaned himself
off of them because he didn’t like their emotion-numbing qualities. He needed
the piercing pain of his loss to keep him centered and focused.

But, he had to admit to himself, last night the pain
and fury had crushed down on him more heavily than usual. Why? The beating he’d
just taken hadn’t helped. Lying there in bed for two days had given him too
much time to think, to dwell on his hatred for Tyron Johnson—his manipulation,
control, and abuse of women. The not-so-subtle threats the creep had made to
J.D. each time J.D. found a reason to drag Tyron’s sorry ass into court. The
cruel notes of consolation the bastard had sent regarding his family’s deaths.

Then Costos had shown up on his doorstep. Something
had triggered inside J.D.

He couldn’t explain it. He never could. It was there,
the grief and fury. And it had overwhelmed him in that moment. The grief
counselors had warned him about it and preached that if he didn’t let them
go—his family— the wounds would have no chance of healing. But he simply wasn’t
ready to let them go. He might never be ready.

Sitting up on the edge of the bed, he glanced at the
clock. Seven-thirty.

“You okay?”

He looked up. Holly stood in the doorway, her expression
concerned. “Yeah,” he replied and nodded.

“May called to remind you that you have a court case
at ten.”

“Christ.”

“To quote her, ‘You best get your butt down there or
Judge Patterson will find you in contempt
...
again.’”

“I’m not prepared.”

She grinned. “Damascus, you could show up in court
deaf, blind, and dumb and still win your case. Don’t forget how brilliant you
are.”

“I was. Not anymore.”

“Sure you are. Get dressed. I’m making you a decent
breakfast. You’re going to be at that courthouse by nine
a.m
. if I have to drive you there
myself. Oh, and your mother called reminding you of dinner tomorrow at her place.
She invited me as well.”

He grinned. “She likes you.”

“Nice lady. But I declined. I’m not the dinner party
kind of gal.”

“I
want you to go.”

She left the room and J.D. stood, took a deep breath
to clear his head, and followed her.

Holly
had
prepared
eggs,
bacon,
and
grits with
a
side of buttered toast
and
a glass of milk.
He
tried to
remember
the last time
he’d
eaten
a
decent morning meal.
He
usually skipped it completely
or made
a
quick stop
at the
local convenience store for
coffee and
a
donut. The
aroma of food made his stomach growl.

At the table, he flashed her a look as she poured him
a cup of coffee. “You’re spoiling me.”

She smiled. “Enjoy it. We all deserve to be spoiled
now and again.”

He reached out and closed his fingers around her
wrist. “Thanks. For last night. For this morning. For everything.”

She shrugged as her cheeks flushed, and she avoided
his gaze with a shy lowering of her lashes. “What are friends for?”

She pulled away and returned to the coffeepot, poured
herself a cup before turning to face him again. “So tell me about your case.
Something scandalous, I hope.”

“A custody case. It’s getting ugly. I really would
like you to go with me tomorrow, Holly. To my mom’s.”

“Don’t change the subject. Besides, to quote a
gazillion women before me ...” She giggled. “I haven’t a thing to wear!”

“I’ll buy you something pretty.” She buttered her
toast, then put it down. “I can’t. Please don’t ask me again.”

“Why?”

“I’m not
...
I’d feel uncomfortable. Besides
...
Beverly will be there—”

“I told you, there’s nothing going on between us.”

“She’s in love with you, John.”

“I’m not in love with her. And even if I was, Christ,
she’s my brother’s wife. Eric and I might not particularly care for one
another, but there’s lines a man doesn’t cross. My mom likes you. She told me
so.”

“She doesn’t know me. How can she like me?”

“How can anyone not like you?” He grinned. Averting
her eyes, she focused on her toast. “I can think of a few reasons.”

“Maybe you think too much.”

They sat in silence as J.D. dove into the scrambled
eggs and Holly nibbled on toast. The fog had begun to lift from his brain and
he was beginning to feel human again. He glanced at Holly.

“I spoke with Mallory about Melissa. He’s taking the
CSI to her apartment. Not a great deal they can do but go over the place for
any blood evidence. He’ll speak again with the neighbors. Maybe they’ll be more
willing to talk to a cop than they were to me. A badge has a tendency to shake
the truth out of people.”

Her eyes lit up. “That’s great.”

“Don’t get excited. Whatever happened to Melissa, if
something has happened to her, it probably took place on her way to meet her
john that night. At that point, about all they can do is circulate her
photograph. Question anyone in the area who might have seen her. Any ideas in
that regard? Places she hung out frequently?”

“She occasionally worked the River Rat Bar on Bourbon Street. Not often. No need to, really. She had her regulars. An occasional tourist.”

“Names, phone numbers of her regulars?”

She nodded. “But she kept it with her always.”

“They’ll question Tyron, of course.”

Her face paled. “They won’t tell him who reported her
missing, will they? That’s confidential, isn’t it?”

“Of course.” he replied softly.

There was something in the way the desperation had widened
her eyes that invited that niggling feeling of familiarity to tickle the back
of his mind. At some point in his career, he and Holly Jones had crossed paths.
He was certain of it.

Holly had been right.
By
eleven-thirty J.D. had
wrapped up his case nicely.
His client had attained full custody of her kids and her creep of a husband sat
simmering in his chair, cursing his attorney for his incompetence. J.D.
recognized trouble when he saw it, and Samuel Pierpoint was going to be
trouble. He was a time bomb ready to explode. His defiance of the restraining
order his wife had filed against him was evidence enough.

As his client shared tears and hugs with her parents,
J.D. shut his briefcase and glanced up at Judge Patterson, whose eyes were
narrowed and his mouth set in a grim line.

“Mr. Damascus, approach the bench, please.” Here we
go, he thought.

“As I recall, the last time you stood before my bench
I told you that if you didn’t cut your hair and get rid of that stud in your
ear, I would find you in contempt. Your appearance is blatantly disrespectful
to this court and your client.”

“No disrespect intended, Your Honor, but I don’t see
how my hair and stud have got anything to do with my capabilities to adequately
represent my clients.”

“I find it offensive.”

“I don’t.”