Bayou Judgment (6 page)

She lifted her head. “I didn't lose him. He was murdered. Shot. His life taken by the hand of another person.” Tears pooled in those hypnotically blue eyes of hers. “It's hard to forgive a criminal, you know? Someone who cared so little about another human's life.”

The waitress plopped his pecan pie down in front of him. “Anything else?”

He shook his head, swallowing against the tight lump in his throat. “We're fine.”

The waitress slipped the ticket under the edge of the plate and sashayed back to her post at the counter. The napkin holder scraped across the cracked Formica as she pulled it to her for refilling.

Spencer whispered a prayer, took a bite and studied Felicia. “Sounds to me like you're more angry than grieving.”

“Maybe I am. Frank's killer stole my future. My life.”

“It's been over a year, Felicia. If you've worked through the grief, don't you think it's time you worked through your anger and toward forgiveness?”

“I don't know if I can forgive Frank's murderer.” She gave a shrug. “I don't know if I ever can.”

His chest tightened with her words. “But you realize that's not healthy, right?”

Her eyes blinked brighter, and her hand trembled slightly as she took another sip from her cup. “Do you think the sheriff will shut down the center?”

Whoa, she shifted gears fast. He swallowed a bite of pie, the sugary texture going down slowly. “I don't think they'll be able to do that. At least, not now.”

Father, please don't let them shut me down. This center is my penance.

“I hope not. I don't know what I'd do.”

“Let's not worry about it unless it happens, okay?” He laid his hand over hers. The warmth spread deep within his spirit. Setting his fork against the remaining pie, Spencer nodded at her cup. “Want a refill?”

“Uh, no.” She eased her hand out from under his.

He tossed a couple of bills on the table and led her to the door. Keeping his hand under her elbow as he assisted her to the truck gave him a feeling of peace. Completeness. Happiness.

She faced him as he climbed into his seat and started the engine. “I know I need to forgive, Spence. I'm praying hard about it.”

“I understand how you're feeling now. But I'll be praying for you to find real forgiveness.”

She gripped her cane, tapping her nail against the handle. “I just don't understand violent people. They make me ill.”

Her words turned his stomach to stone. He whipped into the vacant space at her apartment parking lot. “Everyone makes mistakes, Felicia. Especially those in prison. Don't they deserve forgiveness?”

She opened the door and used her cane to step from the vehicle. “They do. I'm just not sure I'm a big-enough person to give it.”

Spencer's heart ached as she walked away. She'd confirmed his fears. She'd never be able to forgive him if she knew the truth.

He was as bad as those men behind bars. Worse. At least they didn't hide what they were. He'd been there, paid his dues, served his time and now walked among the good citizens of Lagniappe.

And none of them knew his secret.

S
pencer Bertrand perplexed the tar out of her. Sometimes she forgot he was a preacher and a counselor, and then he'd point out the Christian stance on issues. Like the whole forgiveness thing—something she wasn't quite ready to address. In principal, she knew she should forgive and move on with her life. The actual application was a totally different story.

Felicia finished her last set of leg presses with a vengeance born of frustration.

“Hey, sweet thang, the weights aren't your enemy.”

Concentration broken, she stared at Mark. “I'm sorry.” She eased off the weight bench, grabbing a towel to pass over her face. “My mind was a million miles away.”

“And focusing on something mighty fierce, I might add.”

“Pardon.”
She reached for her cane.

“No need to apologize. Use whatever you can to get through your sets. Physical therapy's grueling work, I know, but you did great today.”

“
Merci.
I'm gonna hit the showers.”

“Your car pulled up a few seconds ago.”

“I'll make it quick.” She gave him a sincere smile. “See ya tomorrow.”

The shower soothed her quivering muscles, but did nothing to wash out the cobwebs of confusion clouding her mind. She gave the driver the address she wanted to visit, her mind swirling with possibilities. She'd replayed her conversation with Spence over too many times to count. Could his sudden distance of the past few days have been because of her attitude toward Frank's murderer? Did he think her callous for her struggles with forgiveness?

Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to really let go of the past and move forward with her life. She'd grown weary of being the poor victim. First cerebral palsy, then Frank's murder. Wasn't it past time to get over the bitterness and lead the life God intended her to have?

“Ms. Felicia?”

She focused on her driver at the open door. “Yes?”

“We're here, ma'am. Are you sure you gave me the correct address?”

Felicia stared at the shotgun houses along the north side of the bayou. Boards were missing, glass broken from the windows, doors didn't close properly. She swallowed. How could people live like this?

“Ms. Felicia?”

“Oh. Sorry. Yes, this is the correct place.” She stepped from the car, ignoring the chill settling into her joints. Setting her chin, she smiled at the driver. “I'll only be a few minutes.”

He nodded, but she could almost see him dialing Luc as soon as she walked away.

“Don't call my brother, please.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She made her way up the cracked walkway. Kipp Landry really lived here? For a moment, Felicia wondered if maybe Jolie had the wrong number in her address book. Then she glanced up and down the street. Didn't matter if the number was right or wrong—all the houses along the street were in the same deplorable condition.

Mustering all the resolve she had, Felicia climbed the stairs to the front porch. The wood creaked and popped. She hesitated only a moment before rapping on the door with the end of her cane.

Creaks came from the other side of the door just before it swung open. A young man with greasy hair hanging into his half-hooded eyes glared at her. “Yeah?”

She wet her lips. “I'm looking for Kipp Landry.”

“You and everybody else, lady.”

“He's not here?”

“Like I told the police, ain't seen him in about a week.” He shook the hair from his eyes. “You with the police?”

“N-no. I'm just a friend, looking for him.”

“Hey, I'll be your friend.” His wide leer turned her stomach.

“If you see Kipp, tell him Felicia came by to see him, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.” He slammed the door in her face.

So much for being her friend.

Her driver opened the door without question. She slipped inside and gave him another address.

“Are you sure, ma'am?”

Why did everyone always second-guess her? Annoyance built in her chest. “Yes, I'm sure.” She didn't like how clipped her tone came out, but she was quite sick of everyone's attitude toward her decisions.

The car bumped along the bayou roads. Except for the few choice apartments, most of the residences clustered outside the city limits of Lagniappe. Still, it didn't take long to reach the jazz club. She jerked open the door before the driver could. No sense warning him not to call Luc about this stop. Her brother played his saxophone regularly here. Someone would surely mention her appearance to Luc later.

The haze of smoke hung just below eye level. Felicia bit back the cough clogging her throat at the smell. She'd better breathe through her mouth. Trying that, she almost gagged. How could the people squeezed into such a small space stand it?

She wove around the tables to reach the bar. The bartender shot her a funny look. “What can I get you?”

“Oh. Nothing. I'm looking for someone.”

“Most people are, darlin'.” He chuckled, then arched a brow. “Hey, aren't you Luc Trahan's sister?”

Couldn't hide in a town this small. “Yes.” She leaned over the counter to be heard over the zydeco band on the stage. “I'm looking for Sadie Thompson. You seen her?”

“Not in a while.” He paused. “Whatcha lookin' for Sadie for?”

“I just wanted to ask her something.” Like why she'd visited Jolie hours before her murder.

“Mmm-hmm. Well, she hasn't been in the past few nights.”

Felicia glanced over the people crowded around the small round tables. She didn't spot the woman's bottle-blond hair.

“Thanks,” she mumbled to the bartender before heading to the door.

She slipped into the car and instructed the driver to take her home. Sherlock Holmes she wasn't. Total strikeout. Oh-for-two. She'd need some answers pretty quickly. Once Luc found out she'd visited the “bad” parts of town, he'd blow up like a puffer fish and would do his best to limit her field trips in the future. She stared out the window.

Funny how she'd never realized just how far away the projects were from her world. The car came to a stop in the parking lot of her apartment building. She accepted her driver's assistance from the car. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma'am.” As was his routine, he waited until she rounded the corner to her complex before the echo of the door slamming followed her inside the apartment.

She locked the door, set her purse on the table in the foyer and turned.

And stared with a gaping mouth.

Her beautifully arranged living room was wrecked. Pillows all over the floor. Books tossed from the shelves. Drawers dumped onto the floor.

She gripped her cane tighter. Had the door been locked? She'd been so preoccupied that she couldn't remember. She retrieved her cell phone from her purse to call the sheriff, but when footsteps thudded down the hallway, she froze in place.

Kipp Landry stumbled into the room, jerking to a stop when he saw her. “Felicia.”

Her heart caught. She pressed the first speed-dial number on her cell phone, the one for the center, and held it down while slipping the phone into her pocket. Why hadn't she set a speed dial for the police? “Kipp, what're you doing here?” She glanced around the mess in the living room. “What've you done?”

He took a step toward her. His hair looked as if it hadn't seen a brush in days, his clothes were rumpled and stained and the stench of a homeless person clung to him. “Heard you were looking for me.”

Well, well, well…the greasy kid did know how to get in touch with Kipp. Or had Kipp been hiding there, after all? “So you broke into my apartment?” She eased around the couch.

“I need money. They'll kill me if I don't pay them. Just like they killed Jolie.”

“Who are they?”

“The loan sharks. They're watching me like a hawk, waiting to see if I turn on them. If I do, I'm a dead man.” His body shook. “I can't tell you who they are.”

Was he on drugs? With the wild edge in his eyes, he sure looked dangerous. She prayed whoever answered at the center would listen and not hang up. “But you can steal from me, yes?” Anger pushed against her heart. “What kind of man are you, Kipp Landry?”

“One who's running out of time.” His hand locked around her wrist. “Are you gonna give me the money or not?”

She jerked her arm free. “No. The police are after you, Kipp. You have to turn yourself in.”

All the rage left his face. “You think I killed my sister?”

Up until this afternoon, she'd have said no, but now…seeing him like this, like a junkie looking for his next fix? She tightened her grip on the cell phone in her pocket, praying someone could hear the conversation. Kipp's yelling had to tip somebody off that he wasn't sane. She had to keep him talking. “Hiding from the police makes you look guilty.”

His face contorted into a grimace. “I didn't kill Jolie. I loved her.” His voice came out as a creak.

“So much so that you didn't even have the decency to attend her funeral?” She fisted her hand on her hip. “Didn't even bother to pay your last respects?”

“I couldn't! They've been following me continuously.”

So he led them here? She couldn't help looking at the front windows.

He followed her gaze and rushed to the window, jerking the curtains closed all the way. “I need you to give me ten thousand dollars.”

She let out a snort. “Do you think I just keep that kind of money lying around?”

“You have it. I know you do.” He towered over her.

“Not in cash, and not here.” Maybe she should try reasoning.

“Kipp, paying them isn't going to make everything okay. Jolie's dead. Murdered. Stabbed multiple times.” Bile nearly choked her, but she forced herself to continue. “If these people are the ones responsible, by not going to the police, you're letting them off the hook. You're helping them get away with murder.”

The muscles in his jaw flinched. “Don't you think I know that? That it makes me feel like I'm no better than pond scum? But I can't do anything if I'm dead.”

“Paying them won't bring her back, or give her justice.” Keep calm, keep him talking, that was her plan. Her only choice, really.

“Justice? You think they care about justice? They don't. All they care about is their money.”

She inched away from him, slowly. “And then what? You pay them off and everything's okay? They back off?” She shook her head. “What about Jolie?”

“She's dead. As hard as that is for me to accept, I can't change that.” He scratched his fingers through his hair.

“And you're okay with paying
your sister's
murderers?” She took another slow step backward.

“If it keeps me alive, yes!” He closed the distance between them and gripped her shoulder. “Now, where's the money?”

Pressing her lips tightly, she ran through her options. Should she give him the money and send him on his way, try to outrun him and make it down the hall to the bedroom where her other phone sat on her nightstand or try to reason with him to call the police himself? She studied his expression, his eyes. Strike out option three—he wouldn't turn himself into the police. The tired muscles in her legs told her trying to outrun him wasn't really a choice, either. That left option one—give him the money and hope he left.

“I don't have it here.” His eyes turned dark, dangerous, deadly. “But I can write you a check.”

“And you'll call the police as soon as I leave and have them pick me up at the bank.”

She prayed someone on the other end of her phone had already made the call. “That's a chance you'll have to take.”
Lord, I need a little divine intervention.
“Take it or leave it. It's the best I can offer.”

Spencer's heartbeat kicked into overdrive. From the minute an operator had patched the call through to his cell phone, he'd listened to Felicia try to talk down Kipp Landry. He'd called the sheriff, then jumped in his truck. A sheen of sweat coated his palms, and tightening his grip on the steering wheel didn't help matters. Why was traffic so congested today, of all days?

“Let go of me.” Felicia's voice sounded strong, but her words sent icy chills down Spencer's spine. Eight minutes had passed since he'd called the police, but he still didn't hear any sirens or see any cruisers racing down the road.

“Are you going to give me the money or not?”

Spencer held his breath as he waited for Felicia's answer. What was happening? Did Kipp have her in a choke hold?
Lord, please let her be okay.

“Fine. Let me get my checkbook.”