Bad Moon Rising (29 page)

His mother grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked it
back so hard he stumbled and let out a yowl of pain and surprise.

She shook him, the pain bringing tears to his eyes. “Answer
me, you young ass!”

“Ow!” He struggled, grabbing her wrist and shoving at
her. “You’re hurting me, Mom. Stop it!”

“Where did you get these books, Patrick?”

“What difference does it make? I found them, okay?”

“Where did you find them?”

“None of your business. Jeez, it’s just a bunch of
hookers’ phone numbers. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is they belonged to murdered hookers,
Patrick.”

Rubbing his head, he stared at the books, then into
his mother’s eyes. Jeez, she looked crazy. Looked like a zombie from his
favorite movie,
Night of the Living Dead.
Face white as death and eyes wide and glazed. She didn’t
look like his mother. Didn’t sound like his mother—no hurt, confusion or anger
in her voice. Just pure panic. And fear. Her body shook with it as she
repeated, “Murdered hookers, Patrick. Slaughtered by a serial killer.”

He backed away.

“I called your father, Patrick—”

“You told him?” He yelled it, his voice so tight in
his throat he sounded like a ten-year-old. “Oh, Jesus. You told him
...”
He moved toward the door, hands
fisted, throat convulsing as angry tears flooded his eyes. She was staring at
him like
...
like, oh Christ—”You
think it’s me? You think I killed those hookers?”

“We’ll get you help, darling. We won’t allow anyone to
harm you—”

“What did Dad say? What did he say?”

“To remain calm. He’s leaving Baton Rouge immediately.
He’ll take care of everything.”

He squeezed his eyes closed, dug the knuckles of both
fists into the sockets. “Stupid,” he groaned. “You should’na done that, Mom.”

“We’ll all go together to the police—”

His face burning, he began to cry. “I wanted to tell
you. Please, believe me, I wanted to, but I couldn’t—”

She looked, for a moment, as if she might shatter, the
books falling from her hands. “Oh, Patrick. Oh dear God.”

“I found them in Dad’s office. And those magazines,
too.”

Her grief-stricken face froze.

“I’ve followed him. Okay? The sick son of a bitch is
into hookers. How could I tell you that? How?”

Her hand flew up to cover her mouth as she backed
away, shaking her head.

“I wanted to tell you. I couldn’t hurt you. And there’s
his stupid political career. Hey, they’re just a bunch of hookers’ names and
phone numbers. That’s all.”

“Oh my God.”

“And he isn’t in Baton Rouge. All those nights he said
he was with the senator. He wasn’t. He was with them. Just like tonight. I
followed him to the old Redman Market warehouse. I think he must be meeting
them there—”

“Eric? You’re telling me it was Eric—”

“He hasn’t murdered anybody!” Fists clenched and
shaking, Patrick lunged at her, shouting, “He’s a sick pervert but he hasn’t
killed anybody!”

Patrick ran from the room, desperate to flee the look
of horror in his mother’s eyes, more desperate to escape the implications of
her words. Down the stairs, stumbling, bumping his way through the dark, into
the kitchen and out the door into the garage, gulping air, and feeling like he
needed to puke.

He stood in the dark, panting, eyes squeezed closed.
The anger that had eaten him up these last few weeks was boiling up inside him.

Not his dad. His dad was a sicko, but not a killer. Coincidence.
That’s all. Those damn hookers had simply serviced him. Maybe he stole their
books. Maybe, maybe, maybe—but not a killer. Oh Christ, not his dad.

Bastard. Lousy, stinking bastard.

His mind scrambled. The memories of following his dad
through the dark streets, watching him enter hookers’ apartments, following him
these last few days to the warehouse district, sitting in the night heat, simmering,
his anger and hate for his father building inside him, fighting the need to
sneak into that warehouse and confront him in the act—

He covered his ears with his hands. Conversations between
his mother and father, his mother and grandmother these last few days. Holly
Jones. Shana Corvasce. Dead hookers and missing hookers. Melissa something.
Shana Corvasce was in New Orleans looking for her friend Melissa...
.

“Bastard,” Patrick ground through his teeth, then dug
under the tattered green tarp covering the fishing equipment that had grown
dusty from lack of use, threw open the tackle box, and withdrew his grandfather’s
gun.

Holly scrambled on her hands and knees for the
bathroom. Almost there—almost
there. The room ahead appeared miles away through her blurred vision. At any
moment Tyron would snap out of his momentary mania over killing DiAngelo and
notice her. Don’t think about the pain. Concentrate. Don’t lose consciousness
again. Focus. Almost there. Tyron was still howling and babbling like a
lunatic. He wouldn’t kill her. He wouldn’t.

Oh God. Her head. Felt like a ton weight. Face on
fire, every movement excruciating. Her left cheek felt as if it was
disintegrating, bone by bone. She couldn’t breathe through her nose. Too much
blood. Now she could taste it in her mouth, like old copper.

Move. Move. One hand in front of the other. Don’t
stop. Don’t try to look back. Focus on his laughter. He hadn’t noticed her. Not
yet. Too full of himself for killing DiAngelo.

At last! She reached the bathroom, her hands slipping
in the blood that drained from her nose and onto the tiled floor. She slammed
the door, the sound drawing Tyron’s attention from DiAngelo. Clawing her way
onto her knees, she fumbled with the lock as Tyron’s footsteps thundered toward
her. Her fingers wouldn’t work. Too stiff. Too bloody. They kept sliding off
the lock—

It clicked into place as Tyron’s weight hit the door,
jarring the floor, the walls, the sound like an explosion whose impact drove
through her face so forcefully she felt momentarily frozen, bolts of
lightning-hot pain splintering through her.

Tyron kicked the door. “Stupid bitch, come out of
there!”

She shuffled back, away from the door. Think. Where
was Honey’s panic space? Room too small. No place to hide. Had she misunderstood
Honey? Maybe it was in the kitchen—like Melissa’s. No, no, that wasn’t it. The
bathroom. She was certain of it, but—

“I’m gonna beat the hell out of you again, Shana, if
you don’t open this door. I’m gonna smash in your whole face—”

She remembered the phone, tucked into her panties. No
time. Where the hell was that escape room?

The shower? Toilet? Sink? No, no, no—dirty clothes
closet?—

“There won’t be enough left of you, Shana—” She yanked
open the small door, spilling soiled clothes onto the floor. She flung them
aside, clawing her way toward the back of the little cubby. There! Oh God,
there, just a latch and small exit—

Tyron kicked hard enough to fracture the doorknob. Too
late, too late—

Suddenly, the door exploded inward, wood shattering.
Shana sank onto her back, stared up through her swollen eyes at Tyron as he
stood over her, wide smile as if painted on, eyes as hard and cold as the gun
barrel he pointed at her.

Breathing hard, he flipped on the light, the sudden assault
on Shana’s eyes making her wince and weakly raise one shaking hand to shield
her face.

Tyron shook his head. “I’m surprised at you, Shana. I’m
sensing a certain amount of disrespect from you— again, and you know how that
pisses off the man. Your brains leaked out your nose or what?”

He stooped beside her, nudged her with his gun. His
white face shone with sweat and his body trembled. “Hey, I killed him.
DiAngelo. How about that, huh? I really did it. Bet you thought I wouldn’t have
the guts.” Cocking his head to one side. “You saved my life, baby. Maybe you
care for the man more than I thought. Maybe you’re regretting now all the times
you spurned me? But guess what? That’s just too damn bad.

“Now you and me are gonna leave here quietly. Gonna go
someplace nice and secluded while I make a few phone calls on your behalf. And
maybe while we wait, we’ll get... reacquainted. Know what I mean, bitch?

Standing, he tucked the gun into his trouser waist,
bloody hands flexing into fists.

The sudden gunshot erupted through the small room like
a nuclear explosion, causing Shana to jump and scream, her gaze riveted on
Tyron’s face that began to disintegrate as if in slow motion, replaced by a
wall of blood that rained onto her in a hot wave. His body lurched forward,
fell onto her with a dead weight that drove the air from her lungs.

Can’t breathe, can’t breathe. She beat at the body,
shoved at his shoulders, trying her best to heave him away. Then DiAngelo was
there, looming over them, one hand clutching his belly as he struggled to stand
upright, the other gripping his gun. His mouth opened and closed like a gasping
fish as he looked into her eyes. Dead man walking. He was dying and fully
intended to kill her—

She slid one hand between Tyron’s body and her own.

DiAngelo sank against the wall, slowly raising the
gun.

Her fingers slid around the butt of Tyron’s gun. No
time to think, no time to second-guess, he was going to kill her—

With all her strength, she heaved Tyron aside, drawing
the gun and raising it, flashes of Cortez’s face streaking through her mind’s
eye as piercingly as the pain through her face.

She fired. Once, twice, again, again, squeezing her
eyes closed, pumping, pumping, unable to distinguish one shot from the other
until the only sound in the tomblike silence was the frantic
click, click, click,
of the emptied weapon.

Arm collapsing to her side, Shana opened her eyes.

Oh God. She looked away, too weary in that moment to
move, the rush of adrenaline numbing the pain in her face. Think. Police. Call
the police. Call J.D. Someone help her. Please.

A sound then. Beep beep. Her phone. Yes. Oh yes, thank
God. Please be J.D. Please.

Frantically, she pulled it out of her panties, swiped
blood from her eyes as she focused on the caller ID: M. Carmichael.

Melissa?

A sound escaped her—agony and relief. Hands shaking,
she punched on the phone and clutched it to her ear.

“Mel,” she wept through her teeth, the word ripping
through her head like a bullet.

“Shana?” Soft laughter. “Shana Corvasce?”

Confusion. Shana shook her head.

“Would you like to see Melissa again, Miss Corvasce? I
have her here. Right here. Would you like to speak to her?”

A noise. A whimper. A sudden terrorized screaming of
Shana’s name.

“Mel?” Shana cried, climbing to her knees, dragging
herself up onto the toilet seat.

Then he was back with soft laughter. “She’s a bit distressed
right now, as you can tell. Can you guess what will make her feel better? Of
course, you can. She wants to see you. As do I.”

Shana closed her eyes, breathed through her mouth. “Who—”
She tried to speak, but the pain was back, spasms clenching her teeth together
as she listened to his calm voice drone on.

“I want you here in five minutes. If you’re one second
late, I’ll kill her. Just like that. Just like all the others. All your whore friends.
I’ll send you her head in a box wrapped in a pretty pink ribbon. And don’t
think about calling the cops. If I even sniff a uniform, I’ll kill her.”

“Go to hell,” she ground through her swollen hps.

“Ah, very good. Just as I thought. You’re going to be
very ... stimulating, I think. Make you a deal, Miss Corvasce. I’ll trade
Melissa for your company. She’s really rather boring, while you, on the other
hand
...
The corner of Poland and Rampart Street, Miss Corvasce. Five minutes. After that
...
I start cutting.”

The phone went dead.

No. Oh, no. Not now.

She began to cry, her head hanging, each sob like a
drill bit grinding through her face. The sick bastard had had Melissa all this
time. Dear God, she had tried to tell them—the police. Why hadn’t they listened?

Think. He would kill Melissa, regardless. He would
kill them both if she went there.

She climbed to her feet. The room tipped and swayed,
forcing her to grab the sink edge as she sidestepped around Tyron’s body,
refusing to look down, focusing straight ahead, careful not to slip in the
blood.

DiAngelo had slumped across the threshold to the living
room. Don’t look down. Keep going. Only then did she realize she was still
gripping the empty gun in her hand. She flung it away, hearing it clatter on
the tile floor and stepped over DiAngelo. Don’t faint. Focus. Don’t think about
the pain. Think about Melissa. Only Melissa. One foot in front of the other.
Time was slipping away. No time to waste. Poland and Rampart Street was only
two minutes by car. No traffic now. Streets deserted this hour of the morning.

She fumbled with the cell phone. Punched 911.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“Help me. Please.”

“Hello, hello, I can barely hear you. This is the
police, what is your emergency?”

“Kill her—”

“What? Is someone trying to kill you?”

“Melissa.”

“Is your name Melissa?”

“Help Melissa!”

“Ma’am, are you alone in the house? Is someone trying
to kill you now?”

“Don’ understand. Not me
...
lis’en
...”

“Please give me more information, are you injured? An
officer is on his way. Try to calm down and tell me what’s happening. What is
your name?”

“Rum’ar Street—Killer—Shana—”

“Your name is Shana?”

“Umm—Street—go—Rum’ar Street.”

“Shana, is Melissa with you? Is she injured? Shana,
are you bleeding? Just yes or no. Now, have you been shot or stabbed or—”

“Corvasce—call FBI.”

“Shana, an officer will be there any minute, you’ll
hear the sirens, now tell me—”

“Lis’en t’me caref’ly, killer has M’lissa. Cut off her
head
...”

“Shana, who is Melissa? Is she there with you? Has
someone cut off her head?”

Shana threw down the phone. No time. No time.

She turned too quickly. The room spun around her. She
stumbled toward the bathroom, focusing through the red haze in her eyes. Red
everywhere. The floors, the walls, her hands—

Think. She needed keys. Car keys. Tyron’s pocket. Time
was running out. Carefully, stepping over DiAngelo, crossing to Tyron, turning
her eyes away, she dug into his suit coat, grasping his keys.

Gun. She needed a gun. Where the hell had she put her
gun?

Back into the living room, easing to her hands and
knees, she reached for her purse under the bed. How long since he had called?
One minute? Two? No time to dress.

She stumbled out of the apartment, clung to the
banister as she carefully descended the old steps to the alley. A pack of stray
dogs digging in the garbage scattered as she ran in bare feet toward the
fog-shrouded street.

The flashing lights of the patrol cars signaled
trouble.

As Anna pulled her car to the curb, J.D. jumped out.
Christ, oh Christ, he was too late.

He heard Anna shout his name. Don’t stop. He ran into
the alley where he was met by a pair of cops who reacted instinctively the
moment J.D. attempted to bulldoze his way between them. He hit the ground hard,
face ground into the slick brick pavement as the officer wrenched one arm
behind J.D.’s back.

“Back off!” Anna appeared through the fog, her shield
raised. “FBI. He’s with me.”

The officer moved aside, allowing J.D. to his feet.

“Get a grip, Damascus,” she said, stepping between him
and the steps leading to Honey’s apartment. “No way am

I
letting you into that apartment until I know what’s
happened.” She glanced at the officer, waiting.

“Two dead.”

“Male? Female?”

“Not sure.”

J.D. made a move toward the stairs. Anna set her shoulder
into his chest and said through her teeth, “One more step and I’ll have these
officers lock your ass in that squad car.”

Sirens screamed as an emergency vehicle pulled up behind
the patrol cars, several EMTs jumping from the van and rushing down the alley.