Dark Lily: Shadows, Book 4 (4 page)

CJ would have mopped his heavily perspiring face, but he swore those question marks on the monitor had eyes. Rather than belabor what would be a sore point forever, he went to his figurative knees. “Tell me what you want me to do.” He knew it would be something dreadful. It always was. “Should I continue to try and locate Phoebe?”

“The whore won’t help me. It’s been suggested she’s not in full possession of the talents I require in any case. I’ve been advised that certain psychic abilities can bypass a generation, or give it only a quick kiss as it flits by. But that Phoebe Lessard should go to such extraordinary lengths to conceal her child’s existence based, I assume, on the prognostication of her mother and that hag, Twila Black, gives me the kind of renewed hope that’s really the only reason you’re not dead yourself.”

CJ knew better than to unravel and analyze that statement. “Am I to understand you want me to find the girl?”

“I do. And I’ll surprise you by adding that I don’t care how you do it or who you send to see that it’s done properly. All I care is that she be delivered to me unharmed. That’s of paramount importance. And getting back to the bitch you screwed to create her, it goes without saying that I want Phoebe Lessard dead.”

“I’m sure I can find someone to—”

“No, no, not find,” Leshad interrupted in a terrifying tone. “Do. With no assistance whatsoever. I want you to kill her. And bring me her eyes.”

Chapter Five

The oddest night of Mitchell’s life didn’t get any less odd on the drive to town. Gaby’s Land Rover refused to start, and she seemed disinclined to talk—beyond giving him directions that took them through a bog and along a Daniel Boone trail that finally, thankfully, connected to the island’s main thoroughfare.

The wind had been taking brutal punches at his Jeep for twenty minutes when he spotted the first scatter of outlying houses. Great thunderclaps continued to shake the ground, and if he’d been anywhere else, he’d have called the lightning bolts spectacular. On Bokur Island, however, they made him think of a voodoo version of Frankenstein’s lab.

“Park there.” Gaby indicated an empty stretch of curb outside a collection of mostly dark shops, offices and whatever else this spooky bayou town had to offer. “Where that light’s shining across the street is the police station. Deputy Fred’ll be on duty. His brother, Bo, runs the local garage. Could be he’ll have the tools to smooth out the worst of your vehicle’s dents.”

“Not counting on that.” But Mitchell was glad to see her check her phone. It meant the island boasted at least some form of cell service. “Where will you be?”

“Oh, around and about. I have to close up my shop, the Lily, for starters.”

“Right.” He grinned. “Books and unusual gifts.”

She glanced at him. “Somewhat unusual. I’ll talk to Annie at the hotel. I’m sure she can find you a decent room. Leaks don’t generally trickle down to the first floor until morning. Back in twenty.”

“Is that a promise?”

She merely smiled and stepped out into the rain.

The phrase “eerily mysterious” sprang to mind. Or maybe he meant ‘weirdly mystical’. Whatever the hell Gaby Jordan was, she wore the cloak of it better than Phoebe, and that was saying something. In the celluloid world of implants, nose jobs and Barbie-doll conformity, she might not have been deemed beautiful. But in his world, she was that and far, far more.

As it was also a dangerous thought, he blocked the rest of it and climbed out into a river of slow-moving rainwater. “Don’t like you much right now, Phoebe.” He directed a forbidding look toward New Orleans and didn’t really care that he was thinking ill of the nearly dead.

“With you in two shakes,” a harassed voice called out as he entered the poorly lit police station. “Got a thing going on back here.”

“I can wait,” Mitchell said. Because what else was there to do, except maybe check the street for Billy?

He wandered through the front area, took note of a metal filing cabinet, a prehistoric computer, two saggy office chairs with mismatched rollers and an empty frame hanging crooked on the wall.

Better and better
, he reflected, shaking his head.

His mind wanted to slide back and think about Gaby. Wanted to and did after a minor attempt to stop it.

She’d been wearing khaki shorts, a clingy white tank top, a baseball cap with jewels stuck to it and a pair of high-topped tan hikers, faded from use and badly scarred. Her hair was a long, straight sweep of blond. Her features? Well, indescribable was a good starting point. And haunting worked. Change her mood, change the portrait, Mitchell figured. And get very hard, very fast if he wasn’t careful.

“Sorry about that.” A wiry man about Mitchell’s age scuttled out of the back room. His carrot-colored hair was receding at the temples. His eyes bulged, and his right wrist was wrapped in a stained Tensor bandage. “What can I do for you?”

Mitchell made a head motion at the curb. “I came in on the last riverboat, and… What?” He glanced behind him as the man stretched clawed fingers in his direction. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You’re here.” A man he assumed was Deputy Fred rushed across the floor to clamp both hands on Mitchell’s shoulders. “You’re honest to God really here. You came. A month early, but you showed up.”

“I, uh, yeah. Gaby said I should talk to you about getting your brother…”

“You met Gaby?” The man’s grip tightened. “You’re not a ghost, are you?”

“Not that I’m aware of. It’s Fred, right?”

“Fred Ficket.” The deputy’s narrow face broke into a broad grin as he pumped Mitchell’s hand. “My family’s lived on Bokur forever. My cousin, Harley— Well, never mind him. No shed’s gonna burn in a downpour, right?”

“Probably not. Look, Gaby suggested—”

“Lotta stuff you need to know,” the man plowed on. “Firstly, you don’t want to be spending any time at the hotel. You talk to Gaby about arranging something better. Secondly, if you find folks a bit standoffish, it’s because no one like you’s ever come before, even when they said they would. We’ve, you know, gotten kind of used to doing for ourselves over the years. I figure the laws here are probably different than in other places, but so long as you keep the workers who are coming to fix the hotel from poking their noses into folks’ business, we’ll all get along just fine.” His big eyes searched Mitchell’s face. “You don’t mind things that go bump in the night, do you?”

“I worked a lot of night shifts in New Orleans, Deputy. Bumping goes with the territory. As for the rest…” Mitchell freed himself from Fred’s suction-cup grasp. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

Behind them, the door opened and closed. “Hey, guys,” Gaby greeted them. “It’s cats and dogs out there.”

Mitchell couldn’t deny he was more relieved than he probably should’ve been to see her. “Gaby, would you please tell Deputy Fred here who I am before he arranges a Welcome-to-Bokur-Island parade in my honor.”

“Oh, we don’t go in for parades on Bokur.” Eyes twinkling, she swept her sopping hair into a ponytail. “Rituals are more our style, maybe the odd street festival. Fred, this is Mitchell Stone, not Alan Debon.”

“Don’t care.” The deputy’s head bobbed. “He came, Gaby, a whole month early. I’ve been filling him in.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you. Do you mind if I borrow him for a minute?”

Fred’s nod brimmed with enthusiasm. “You go right ahead. Take him to Jassy’s bar and get him falling down drunk on my dime. I got stuff happening in the back, anyway. Slow night,” he added as if that explained something.

“What’s he growing and/or brewing back there?” Mitchell asked when the deputy all but tap danced into the other room.

Gaby squeezed the excess water from her hair. “Not what you probably think. His cousin’s a firebug. Celia, a friend of mine, gave him the recipe for a potion she claims will temper Harley’s urge to watch things burn. Which is really the only reason he sets fires.”

“So what you said earlier about not having much in the way of medical assistance on the island. It’s true.”

“We mostly fall back on Celia’s writings. Her cure-all works more often than it doesn’t. Not sure it would work quite as well without the voodoo aspect, but there you go.” She indicated the closed back room door. “Fred thinks you’re our new police chief.”

“Yep, got that ten seconds in. Why’d you stop me from correcting him?”

“Because our hapless deputy has the capacity for looking and sounding so crushed that people often find themselves agreeing to things they shouldn’t. They feel obliged, life gets awkward and in the end, we wind up scraping Fred off the floor. Don’t worry. I’ll handle him. You have a morning riverboat to catch.”

Amusement glimmered inside. “Are you afraid I’ll be tempted to take a position—one that’s already been filled, according to your deputy—simply to keep from hurting his feelings?”

“No. I’m afraid you’ll do it for Phoebe.”

He couldn’t stop the chuckle that climbed into his throat. “Because a two-month affair between your old lady and my old man’s gotta be worth a trip from hell on bayou rapids, followed by a close encounter with a wooden doll on a slick-as-snot road that all but totaled my Jeep, topped off with the prospect of maintaining law and order on Scooby Doo Island.”

“You could have said no to Phoebe. I sense you’re not afraid to use the word.”

“Did I mention she has an inoperable tumor?”

Gaby leaned against the shadowy station door. Her gaze slid up one side of him and down the other. That he could feel the slide physically didn’t worry him. That he had a sudden urge to close the gap between them and take her where she stood, rattled the living hell out of him. And it pretty much sealed the deal on his end.

“If it interests you,” she said with that sly half smile of hers, “I’m not a soft touch. I care and I love, but only when the caring and loving are warranted. I’m sorry Phoebe’s dying, but truthfully, I’m feeling sorry for a stranger.” She held up and dangled an old-fashioned silver key. “I got you a room at the hotel. Fingers crossed, Annie says it’s the only one that’s never leaked during a storm.”

Mitchell advanced slowly, fixing his eyes on hers and keeping his hormones, for the moment, on a tight leash. “Deputy Fred warned me not to stay at the hotel.”

“That’s because he believed you’ll be here for more than one night.”

“What would you have done if I’d actually been—what was his name?”

“Alan Debon. I’d have welcomed you with open arms.”

“Yeah? Might be worth a change of identity just to experience the reception. Your new chief’s due in a month, right?”

“Due, yes.”

He knew she was gauging every step of his approach. But she wasn’t retreating from it. That interested him.

Her expression remained watchful but not wary. “Five police chiefs have been hired in the twelve months I’ve lived on Bokur. Not one of them has showed up as planned. We’re hoping the sixth time’ll be lucky, but unlike Fred, I’m not holding my breath. Alan Debon’s a burnout from Baton Rouge. He claims he’s looking for quiet. Hotel renovation notwithstanding, he’s been told he’ll find it here.”

“If he bothers to come.”

“Sixty-four-thousand-dollar if.” She tipped her head to regard him. “It’s not wise to box me in, Mitchell. I don’t actually have to touch you to jolt you.”

He halted with less than a foot of hot, humid airspace between them. Lightning flickered outside, creating eerie pockets of light and dark in the room. “You’ve got more going on in your head than Phoebe realizes, don’t you?” he said. “So much of it that you’re afraid to probe too deeply at any given time. You don’t look, you won’t find. Or so you hope.”

“My, my, aren’t you the perceptive man, Mitchell Stone.” Her lips curved. “I almost find myself wishing you were our new chief of police.”

He knew better than to touch. Of course, knowing a thing and not doing it had always been a problem for him. Lifting a hand, he slid his fingers under her chin. It figured her skin would be pure silk. “If it matters to you, I did some checking before I came to Bokur. Phoebe was right to send you away.”

Her steady eyes met his. “Beating dead horses has never been my favorite pastime. We covered this topic earlier.”

“We covered the topic from your biological mother’s viewpoint. Your father’s is another matter.”

The smile spread to her eyes. “You are not going to tell me that Leshad’s my father.”

“No, but you’re getting warmer.”

“What, he’s my uncle?”

“Leshad’s an unknown commodity. However, if my information’s even partly correct, he knows the man who helped make you very well.”

“There’s a lovely thought.”

“Facts are facts, honey. You didn’t come from a cabbage patch, and Phoebe didn’t go to a sperm bank. She had sex with a flesh-and-blood man. A man by the name of Caleb Josiah Best.”

Surprise widened her eyes. “CJ Best? You’re telling me Louisiana State Senator CJ Best is my natural father?”

“Phoebe says he is.”

When no electricity—which he was seriously beginning to believe was possible where she was concerned—raced up Mitchell’s arm, he risked cupping her cheek. In the wild flashes of lightning, her gaze didn’t waver. “Do you believe her?” she asked.

“Yeah, I do. And it gets worse. CJ’s top aide, one James ‘Jimmy’ Quinn, worked for Leshad. He died working for Leshad. After he died, the focus of the calling-card investigation very quietly shifted to CJ.”

“So you and Phoebe believe Leshad will use his political buddy to do whatever it is Leshad wants to do to me.”

“The possibility exists. Leshad and Best are connected through the late James Quinn. How deep that connection runs hasn’t been determined, but chances are it has roots. My sources tell me Crucible believes. Phoebe definitely does.”

On that note, whatever had been keeping Gaby still shattered. She snatched his fingers from her face. “This is ridiculous. First you tell me I’m Senator CJ Best’s illegitimate daughter. Then you toss in a corrupt political aide who just happens to be dead. Whether by Leshad’s hand or at his command isn’t important. That it might put Best in league with a homicidal fiend is. According to you, I’ve got a mommy who wants to keep me safe and a daddy who wants to hand me over to a killer. Why? Who knows? But, hey, here’s an idea. Let’s ask Crucible, because whoever the hell he is, he seems to believe that Daddy Dearest is part of the big calling-card picture too.”

Mitchell sincerely hoped she wasn’t the type of person to act on furious impulse, because he needed her to look at him and listen. That meant he had to touch her again.

Prepared for the worst, he grasped her shoulders, holding firm even when she seared him with a look. “Take a breath, and lock the mad you’re building away. The link between Leshad and Best can’t be proved. That doesn’t mean it’s not real. What is real is that the man went into an election with all kinds of allegations and speculation buzzing around him, and he won.”

“Guess there’s no accounting for taste, huh?” The blistering glare showed no sign of diminishing. “Who’s Crucible?”

“He’s a government agent. Some believe he’s more of a ghost than a man. He works under the charge of four directors.”

“So we have four Wes Cravens directing a Garboesque star player in a totally gruesome horror film. I’m surreally fascinated.”

Definitely not the best time to chuckle
,
Mitchell decided. “I’d go with Tobe Hooper rather than Wes Craven, but you’ve got the idea.”

“Your
Salem’s Lot
versus my
Swamp Thing
.”