Bad Moon Rising (23 page)

“In time,” Helen said as her gaze moved over the
crowd, her eyebrow lifting. “Here comes Beverly. I understand the two of you
had words.”

J.D. moved closer to Holly, slid his arm around her
shoulders. She felt tense, as if she would bolt at the slightest provocation. “She’s
been crying on your shoulder again, I take it.” He grinned at his mother.

“Her sensitivities are very delicate. You know how she
is.”

“She’d better get over it.”

Beverly
moved into the shade to stand beside his mother. Her
eyes were slightly red and puffy. She avoided looking at J.D. at first, as well
as at Holly, and just zeroed in on his mother’s smiling face as she forced a
tight pleasantry into her voice.

“Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, Helen. As
always, you’ve done a marvelous job. The caterer informs me that he
’ll
be ready to serve dinner in
half an hour.”

“Splendid. If the three of you will excuse me, there
are a few last minute preparations.” Her glance at J.D. told him in no
uncertain terms to behave himself, then she marched away, leaving them standing
in tense silence.

Beverly
finally spoke. “Your mother is a remarkable woman.”

“No argument there.”

“She’s been my rock these last few hours.”

“I’m certain she had wonderful words of wisdom to
impart.”

Beverly
finally looked at Holly, focused on the necklace, the
color draining from her face. “That’s Laura’s pendant.”

“Was Laura’s pendant,” J.D. said.

“I know. I helped you pick it out.”

“Looks nice with the dress, doesn’t it?”

Beverly
forced a tight smile. “Lovely.”

“So you want to tell me what this party is all about?”

“Eric is going public with his intentions to run for
the Senate.”

“Ah. He’s passing the plate for campaign donations.”

“I wouldn’t be so crass as to call it that.”

“Shake a few powerful hands, make shallow promises
that he has no intention of keeping, just like Jack Strong. I take it the son
of a bitch is here as well.”

“What do you think?”

“Nothing like double-dipping into the voters’ bank accounts.”
He drank his vodka and glanced over the crowd. “Shouldn’t you be out there
schmoozing, flashing that First Lady smile, and telling them what a wonderful
husband and father Eric is and what an asset he’ll be to America’s families in this time of economic recession?”

“I’m not in the mood to espouse his humanitarianism.”

“Better get accustomed to it, sweetheart,” he said
more gently. “As a politician’s wife, you can be crying on the inside, but you
gotta flash those pearly whites like you’re the happiest woman in the world.
Give Hillary Clinton a call. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to give you a few
tips.”

“I really don’t appreciate your sarcasm right now,
John. If you’ll excuse me?”

As Beverly moved up the walkway, Holly pulled back,
drawing J.D.’s attention to her eyes, which were not simply nervous now, but
frantic.

“Look, I shouldn’t be here, John. I’ve upset Beverly even more.
...
Take me home. Please. This
is obviously meant to be a very special occasion and I wouldn’t want to do
anything—”

“Hey.” He reached for her hand. “Relax. No big deal,
honey. If I leave now, my mom will get upset—”

“Then give me the car keys and I’ll go alone.” She
swallowed. “I can’t stay here, John. I shouldn’t have come in the first place.
It was stupid of me. But I thought it was just a small gathering—just your
family—”

“So did I.” He frowned. Her hand had begun to tremble and
there were tears in her eyes. “What’s wrong, Holly? Tell me.”

She searched his face, cupped his cheek with her hand,
and appeared to be on the verge of speaking when someone called his name.

Before he could do more than give her hand a quick
reassuring squeeze, he was surrounded by several men he had known when he
worked for the D.A.’s office. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Holly back
against the tree, her head down as she looked toward the car as if searching
for an escape route.

He moves through the crowd, absorbing their energy,
feeling buoyant and slightly smug. What grand idiots they are. They have no
idea what he is, what he is capable of, whose presence walks among them. He,
the all powerful. The giver of life and death. He could destroy any one of them
if he cared to. And he will. Oh yes, someday
...

The woman is standing alone under the oak tree. He can
sense her distress. It shimmers like the heat in the air around her, drawing
him closer, a pull so powerful his blood feels like a moon tide, accelerating
his heartbeat, his body heat rising, his penis growing so wonderfully hard he
feels euphoric.

So beautiful and so vulnerable. A loner. Timid.

Closer, he feels her panic. Does she sense him? Of
course she does. There is something in human nature that detects danger. She is
on the verge of running—deliberates it as she glances toward the parked cars
on the street. He can almost hear her thoughts, clashing like a merging of
radio stations in her head. If he so much as breathed on her now she would
disintegrate.

He is tempted. So tempted. Just to watch the
shattering of the frail thread of composure she is struggling to maintain. But
no. It’s not the disintegration that compels him to move behind the hedge of
fragrant rosebushes and edge nearer, but the fright he appreciates in her eyes
that are so wide and moving wildly, her gaze shifting among the garden guests.

Her perfume wafts to him, musky and floral in the
heat.

The perspiration on her smooth forehead glistens like
diamond drops. She bites her full lower lip and clenches her hands, shifts
from one foot to the other, the high heels of her shoes puncturing the grassy
earth. There is a tiny run in her hose, inching up the back of her shapely leg.
Sexy. Very sexy.

His erection strains as he hears her whisper, “Oh God,
I’ve got to get out of here.”

Oh yes, she senses him. Sweet aphrodisiac, this
ability to control her emotions with his presence.

This stranger makes him hunger for the absolution that
he has not experienced in a while because the bitch Melissa no longer succumbs
to her fear of him. Soon he will be forced to move on from her. Yes, soon,
because she bores him, but not until he has made certain that he has caused her
to suffer for her disrespect.

Perhaps then, this beautiful, exotic stranger could entertain
him. Oh yes, she would do very nicely. Let the games begin.

As the group of acquaintances rehashed old times, J.D.
continued to glance back at Holly, whose discomposure mounted by the second. He
nodded idly as the men debated on court cases they had won or lost during his
tenure at the D.A.’s office, and when Holly appeared on the verge of outright
hysteria, he excused himself and rejoined her.

Her eyes wide and frantic, she grabbed his sleeve with
one hand and declared, “Get me out of here. Please. Now.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Shaking her head,
her fingers twisting more tightly into his sleeve, she took a deep, shaky
breath and tried to relax. “Look, it’s obvious this is meant to be a very
public and important occasion for your brother. I just don’t want to put a
damper on things, okay?”

Her meaning struck him then like the stab of a knife.
As he stared down into her eyes, he felt his face, his entire body begin to
burn, the truth sinking into his stomach like lead.

“You’ve recognized someone,” he said through his
teeth, hating his tone even as he said it.

Her gaze never leaving his, she swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

“Who is it?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“The hell it doesn’t. Who is it, Holly?”

With a flash of her old fury and toughness, she set
her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Look, Damascus, don’t stand there and look
at me as if I’m some damn nasty viral germ all of a sudden. Were you so dense
to believe that if you parade me around among your friends that eventually we
wouldn’t run into one of my old tricks? I am what I am, John. You can dress me
up like a lady so I’m presentable to your mother, but no amount of whitewashing
is going to change the fact that I was a whore. Now get me the hell out of here
before something happens to disgrace your family.”

“And just how am I supposed to do that without insulting
my mother?”

Thrusting her hand at him, she said, “Give me the
keys.”

“J.D.”

A hand slammed down on his shoulder. J.D. cursed under
his breath, turning to come face-to-face with a smiling Jack Strong, Eric at
his side.

“You going to introduce us to the little filly hiding
behind you? She’s got this whole place buzzing about how pretty she is. Come
on out from behind him, darlin’, so I can make your acquaintance. Hell, I can’t
pass up the chance to shake the hand of a potential voter, can I?”

Holly slowly stepped around him.

The smile froze on Jack’s face. “What the hell.” His
gaze turned hard and his cocky composure disintegrated into shocked disbelief.

“Hello, Senator Strong.” Her expression stony, Holly
stepped away from J.D.

“I take it you and Holly have already met.” J.D. flung
his cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with his shoe heel.

“Sure,” Holly purred, her eyes narrowing and her lips
curving. “The Senator and I go way back.”

Turning on J.D., his sweating face so close J.D. could
smell the bourbon on his breath, Jack said, “What the hell are you doin’
bringin’ that tramp to this function? Are you aware of who and what she is?”

“Sure I am, Jack. Her name is Holly Jones and she’s my
date. So I suggest, if you desire to avoid an ugly scene, you’d better remember
that.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Well, now, Eric. I thought your
brother had sunk just about as low as he could get. But fraternizing with a hooker
and a murderer to boot exceeds even my low expectations of him. You know who
this woman is? Why this is Shana Corvasce, the bitch who blew away Carlos
Cortez.”

The sudden
flood
of cameramen advancing across
the
gardens would have been Eric’s doing. Their mother despised the press and would
never have allowed such a media event in her home, regardless of the auspicious
occasion of her son announcing his plans to run for the Senate. No doubt he
had made a phone call in the privacy of their father’s office to let the
voracious newshounds in on their little secret. By six
p.m
. his name and face would be
blasted across every television screen in Louisiana and beyond.

So it was no wonder Eric glared at J.D. with a
mounting sense of panic as the camera crews spread out over the landscape like
an army of ants. But Eric’s discomposure over Holly Jones, aka Shana Corvasce,
was no greater than J.D.’s own. If one more revelation came out of the blue to
further shock him, he was going to lose it. And if Eric didn’t get out of his
face, he was going to drive his fist into his teeth and to hell with the
headlines and his mother’s sensitivities.

His hand fiercely gripping Holly’s arm, J.D. elbowed
his way through the guests, who were more than a little alarmed at the horde of
reporters surrounding them. Eric dogged him, growing more irate as J.D. ignored
him.

Finally, Eric stepped before him, planting one hand
against J.D.’s chest, feet braced apart and his teeth showing.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Eric said. “For
that matter, where the hell is your head—getting involved with this woman?”

“Unless you want tomorrow’s headlines to read that
I
punched out your lights, Eric,
you’ll shut up and get out of my way.”

“Is this some ploy to ruin my chances at the Senate?
Do you know what your association with that bitch will do to me? Have you gone
brain-dead, John? Christ, Carlos Cortez was a drug lord, among other things.
Don’t tell me you didn’t realize that. Her face was blasted across every
newspaper in this country four years ago.”

“Sorry. I was too busy mourning the death of my wife
and kids to give much notice to current events.”

Shoving Eric aside, hauling Holly behind him, J.D.
fought his way through the crowd, the shouts of the reporters bringing back
unwelcome images of his prosecutor days. With luck, the news crews would focus
their energies on Eric and Jack and he and Holly could make a clean getaway
without calling attention to their departure.

“Hey!” someone shouted. “It’s J.D. Damascus!”

Ah hell.

Suddenly there were microphones shoved in his face,
and as Holly did her best to turn her back to the cameras, a reporter cried, “Any
comments regarding the return of the French Quarter killer, Mr. Damascus? What
is your reaction to the news that the wrong man was apparently executed for the
murders four years ago?”

The reporter stopped him in his tracks. He’d
anticipated their line of questioning to be focused on his supporting Eric’s
candidacy, but obviously Anna Travelli, going public with the newest killings,
had already hit the media like a tidal wave.

Quicker than he could formulate his “No comment,” the
reporters’ interest in Eric shifted to him. Cameras were thrust into his and
Holly’s faces, whirring and clicking, bodies pressing, the shouts becoming a cacophony
that made Holly cover her ears and bury her face in his shoulder.

“Mr. Damascus, how do you feel knowing that the man
who slaughtered your family is walking the streets killing more women?”

“Four years ago, you went on record regarding your
feelings about the Gonzalez conviction. Do you somehow feel vindicated knowing
you were correct?”

“What are the legal ramifications to the state over
this debacle?”

“It’s obvious that Chief Killroy has kept a lid on the
latest murders. What’s your impression about why the FBI has become involved in
this case again so soon? Do you feel the local police are incapable of finding
this killer?”

As in the past, silence fell over the group as it
eagerly awaited his responses. As Holly trembled against him, his arm hugging
her close, he looked around the sea of anticipatory faces and replied, “No
comment.”

Not the wisest choice of words. He should have known
better. His refusal to respond to their questions only whipped the reporters
into a heightened frenzy, their voices rising as they jostled among themselves
to move closer, stabbing at his face with their microphones.

Holly tore herself away, and with her head down, her
hand up to shield her from the cameras, she elbowed her way through the press
of bodies, out of his reach. The shouts became a blur as he plunged into the
crowd after her.

At last breaking through the reporters, she ran toward
the street, past his car, which was parked at the curb. Like hounds on a scent,
the reporters followed J.D. to his Mustang, forcing him to move them aside, as
politely as possible, as he wedged himself through the open door and into the
car, doing his best to ignore their continued shouts and the camera lenses
thrust up to the car window.

By the time he had managed a U-turn, Holly was out of
sight. Carefully he pulled away from the frustrated reporters and floored the
accelerator so the tires squealed. The car fishtailed before catching traction
and hurling him down the narrow residential street.

Coming to a four-way stop, he glanced one way, then
another, and spotted Holly walking swiftly along the sidewalk. Making the
turn, he pulled up beside her and lowered the window.

“Get in!”

Her pace slowed. Then she stopped, her face down, one
hand covering her eyes as her shoulders shook.

“Get in,” he said more softly. “Please.”

Her head turned and she looked at him. Mascara
streaked her cheeks. Her hair streamed limply around her pale face. She had
removed her heels, and her trek along the cement sidewalk had caused her panty
hose to disintegrate.

He forced a smile as his hands gripped the steering
wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Come on, sweetheart. Before that
pack of hyenas comes after us. I’m sure neither of us is up to that bombardment
again.”

As she moved slowly around the car, he leaned over and
opened the passenger door. Once she was settled, her head resting back against
the seat, and her eyes closed, J.D. continued to drive, taking cautious glances
at her profile.

“I’m so sorry,” she finally said, her tone weary and
defeated. “So damn sorry about everything, John.”

“Hey.” He took her hand and gripped it hard. “I should
be the one apologizing, Holly. I shouldn’t have forced you to come along. I had
no idea this was going to be anything more than a family thing.”

Her fingers curling around his, she turned her face
away and stared out the window at the passing countryside. “Sorry,” she
repeated.

“What happened between you and Jack in the past.
..
it doesn’t matter. None of that matters,
honey. We’re going to start fresh. Bury the history.”

As the traffic light turned red, he stopped the car,
leaned closer to her, took her face in his hand, and forced it around,
searching her eyes, which were blue pools of distress. There was a tension in
his body that made breathing next to impossible.

“All that other crap about your being Shana Corvasce ...
he was mistaken is all. He’s confused you with someone else. I’ll set him
straight.” He swallowed. “Right? He’s got the wrong woman.”

Her hard, unblinking gaze drove into his own. “That
kind of self-denial didn’t make you this state’s most fearsome prosecutor,
John.”

Oh Christ. Oh no. This couldn’t be happening. Closing
his eyes, he sank back in his seat.

“My name
is
Shana Corvasce—”

“Shut up,” he said through his teeth. “I don’t want to
hear it.”

“I killed Carlos Cortez. Put a bullet between his
eyes. The only thing that kept me from getting life or execution for
premeditated murder was I turned federal witness. There are men doing time now
because of my testimony against them. Disreputable, infamous, and powerful men.
For that I was given my freedom and a new identity.”

The light turned green. The car remained stopped, engine
purring as J.D. stared out through the windshield, his chest swelling with an
ache that made each breath an agony. A car horn blasted behind them. Still, he
did nothing, forcing the frustrated driver to back up, then pull around them,
flashing an obscene gesture.

“You might say I was Carlos’s property. Tyron set us
up. You know the routine. Big shot comes into town and needs a little
companionship. I didn’t work much in those days. I didn’t need to. Tyron paid
me generously to entertain his more influential clients
...
such as the senator and others who
shall remain nameless. Problem was, I didn’t like him. I despised him and
everything he stood for. I wanted out. Desperately. But one doesn’t simply walk
away from a goon like Cortez. Eventually
...”

She looked away, the old recognizable coldness returning
to her voice. “I won’t bore you with all the gruesome details. They’ll only
come across as excuses for what I did. Suffice it to say, I finally came to the
conclusion that I would rather spend the remainder of my life locked away than
allow an animal like that to continue victimizing the helpless.

“But murder is murder any way you look at it, isn’t
it, Mr. Prosecutor? I had no right to take the law into my own hands. You would
have locked me away and flushed the key. Even now you sit there like stone,
judging me, hammered by indignation, your justice shaking its fist in the face
of my reasoning.”

Her voice softened, became tremulous. “For what it’s
worth, I wanted to tell you, after I realized that something special was
happening between us. But I didn’t want to disappoint you. You’ve been hurt too
damn much. I couldn’t bring myself to see pain in your eyes again and know that
I had put it there.

“I didn’t expect us to grow so close so quickly. It
was like a fairy tale. At least for me. For the first time in my life, I
experienced just a little of what it was like to be just a normal woman doing
normal things, falling in love with a great guy and hoping against hope that he
might care for me, too.

“You just can’t appreciate normal if you’ve never experienced
it, John. What’s mundane to you or Beverly, like sewing on your shirt button,
decorating your apartment, cooking you miserably failed eggs Benedict, and
watching you wolf them down with a grimacing smile, has always been something
enjoyed by other women. Taking care of you
...
you taking care of me. It was the first time in my life someone actually gave a
damn about me. I didn’t want to lose that.

“It was inevitable, of course. I knew that. But can
you blame me for wanting to hold on to that as long as I could?”

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t look at her. His eyes
burned and he turned his face away, stared through a watery blur out at the
skateboarding boys on the sidewalk who stopped to stare back at the car that
remained in the street, despite the blaring horns and the traffic zooming by.

The car door opened, allowing the sound of traffic to
flood over him as well as the muggy heat of the sweltering afternoon. Then
there was a gentle close and click. When he looked again toward the passenger
seat, Shana Corvasce was gone.

The television anchored near the ceiling of the
pub replayed the afternoon’s
fiasco on the ten o’clock news. No one noticed except J.D. Sitting at the bar,
a drink before him, a cigarette smoldering, he watched him self battle his way
through the reporters, clutching Shana Corvasce with one arm wrapped
possessively around her as she did her best to shield her face from the
cameras. Around him, life on Bourbon Street raged on. The sidewalks teemed
with shouting, laughing men and women, all on their way to inebriation. Music
from a nearby jazz club added to the cacophony as the photographs of murdered
women flashed across the screen. Tomorrow, in the throes of their hangovers,
the revelers would take notice. The women around him tonight, braless in their
skimpy tank tops and indecently short shorts, would read their morning papers
and shudder in shock and fear. They would think twice this time tomorrow night
about accepting drinks and a dance from a stranger. They would regard their
boyfriends with a niggling of suspicion. Mothers would phone their daughters to
beseech them to lock their doors and stay away from the Vieux Carre.