Diabolical (Shaye Archer Series Book 3) (19 page)

I
t took
Jackson twenty minutes to send a text that he’d forwarded the death certificate. By that time, Shaye had scrubbed her kitchen counters and picked the polish off two fingernails. As soon as she saw the text, she raced to her computer and pulled up the document.

Damn it!

No home address. No parents.

The informant was a doctor at the hospital. Cause of death was heart failure.

Stonewalled again.

Then a thought occurred to her and she looked at the certificate again. That name sounded familiar. She Googled the doctor and saw he was on staff with New Orleans General. His date of Jonal’s death was a couple weeks after she was brought into the same hospital.

The hospital must have gotten information on Derameau. At minimum, someone paid the bill when he died. That person could have been one of his children. She tapped her fingers on the desk. Her chances of getting medical records were absolutely none. The police could request them since Jonal was dead, but they still needed a reason. Hospitals didn’t just trot out confidential records for no reason, and getting a reason meant involving Jackson, who would likely have to involve others in order to get the request processed. Involving others in the police department was the last thing they wanted to do.

She jumped up from her chair and grabbed her car keys and purse, practically sprinting out of the apartment. There was someone who had access to the records. It would be breaking the rules, but Shaye was betting that the rules were the last thing on the list of Clara Mandeville’s worries.

The drive to the hospital provided her with some time to think about everything she knew so that she could explain it to Clara. She was about to ask the woman to risk her job, and that wasn’t something she took lightly. If Clara herself hadn’t been attacked, Shaye wouldn’t have asked at all. But given the situation, she felt Clara had the right to know the facts, however limited, and make her own decision.

Clara was sitting up in bed, sipping water and watching television, when Shaye entered the room. She smiled as Shaye approached the bed, then her expression sobered. “You didn’t come just for a visit.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Did you find something out?”

Shaye nodded.

“Then you best tell me.”

Shaye told Clara about the shop and what the woman had said about the goat mask and Derameau, then explained about the initials on the pentagram and the death certificate. She paused when she finished. Clara stared at her, frowning. Shaye felt her spirits fall a little. Even as she’d told Clara what she knew, Shaye herself had seen how flimsy her facts were. She was making an enormous leap to assume that the man was a Derameau. That Jonal Derameau, in particular, was the father in question. That finding any of the Derameau children might lead to the discovery of the man.

“I know it’s a long shot,” Shaye said. “And I don’t have anything else to offer you but a feeling.”

“You think you’re on the right track?”

“I do.”

Clara nodded. “Then I guess we need to get this Derameau’s medical records. There has to be something in them that can get you closer.”

“That was my thought, too, but I’m also worried about your job.”

“I’m not likely to have a job or a life if he gets another crack at me. I got away once. He won’t let that happen again. And quite frankly, I’m not interested in spending the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. That stalker darn near sent poor Emma Frederick into a nervous breakdown. I’m too old for that crap.”

Emma Frederick had been a coworker of Clara’s, and Shaye’s first investigation after opening her own agency. Emma was being stalked, but the police didn’t believe her and she didn’t know who the stalker was. Shaye had ultimately figured out who was stalking Emma, and Jackson had killed the stalker, but Emma’s nerves had been pushed to the breaking point. When it was over, Emma moved to another state, looking forward to a new start.

“It was hard on Emma,” Shaye agreed. She’d seen firsthand when the strong nurse had reached the end of her rope.

Clara narrowed her eyes at Shaye. “Hard on you, too. Someone may not be playing around with you, but you’ve got nine years of walking around not knowing if you’re looking that man in the face. Not knowing if he installed your cable or served you coffee. I’ve thought about it time and time again and each time I do, I wonder how you deal with it.”

“I had a choice to live with uncertainty or to hide away inside a fortress and not live at all. I didn’t see the second as an option.”

Clara reached out and squeezed her hand. “Neither do I. Now, hand me my robe. We’ve got work to do.”

* * *

J
ackson and Grayson
were running down leads on a homicide at a local nightclub when his cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out and saw Corrine Archer’s name in the display. Jackson hadn’t heard a peep out of Shaye except the thank-you text she’d sent after he’d forwarded the death certificate, and that had been at least an hour ago. He quickly answered, praying that Shaye hadn’t done something risky.

“I think I found her,” Corrine said, her normally even-keeled voice now high-pitched.

It took Jackson a moment to realize what she was talking about. “The girl that Clancy sold?”

“Yes. I can’t be sure, of course, but I found one who fits the criteria, is still missing, and she looks like Shaye. A lot. I sent her information to your and Detective Grayson’s emails.”

“That’s great. Thank you. I’ll check it out now.”

“Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” Corrine said. “It feels better doing something.”

“I understand that completely, and I’ll let you know.”

He disconnected the call and accessed his email, relaying the call to Grayson. When the image appeared on his phone, his jaw dropped just a little.

“Wow,” Grayson said. “That girl looks a lot like Shaye.”

Jackson nodded. “Enough to be sisters.” He scanned the attached report filed by CPS. “Looks like her aunt and uncle are a nasty piece of goods, but smart enough to avoid leaving any real evidence. The girl wouldn’t talk, so CPS couldn’t move forward with a case.”

“Typical,” Grayson said. “So now what? We have a potential ID for the girl, but leaning on the aunt and uncle isn’t going to give us anything. She probably ran away. Knowing where she might have run to doesn’t give us anything, either, because we already know that Clancy is the one who grabbed her.”

“No, it doesn’t move the case forward,” Jackson agreed, “but it does support my theory that this guy was trying to pick up where he left off.”

“What’s your theory on the chances this girl is still alive?”

Jackson shook his head. “With Clancy all over the news, her chances are really low, but we can’t stop looking until we’re sure.”

“I’m not stopping by choice. I just don’t know where to look.”

“Yeah,” Jackson said, frustration coursing through him. “Me either.”

* * *

R
eagan walked
around her stone prison, then stumbled and caught herself against the wall to keep from falling. She leaned against the smooth stone, waiting for the dizziness to pass, but it continued until she finally sank onto the ground.

The hamburger had been drugged.

She’d taken a small drink of the water, then waited for thirty minutes to see if anything happened, but when nothing changed, she took a bite of the burger. It had only taken twenty minutes to feel the effect of the drug. She knew the routine. He’d give her the drugged food, then return that night. She wouldn’t be completely passed out, but she’d be so looped she couldn’t stand without help. Then he’d inject her with something and almost everything went dark. Weird images and sounds would pop up in her mind as she started to regain consciousness, but they were fleeting and she couldn’t get her conscious mind to grab hold of them long enough to create a lasting picture.

But this time, things would be different. This time, she wouldn’t finish the burger, and when the monster came to inject her with more poison, she’d pretend to be out of it, until exactly the right moment. Then she’d stab him with the dagger and run until she found help, even if it meant running the skin off her bare feet.

She picked up the stone and ran the sharpened edge across the hamburger bun. The razor-thin edge cut the bread into two perfect halves. She smiled.

This asshole was about to get what he had coming.

S
eptember 15
, 2006

New Orleans, Louisiana

J
onal waited
until the maid left to visit her sister before leaving his house. He was stronger now—almost as strong as he’d been before the heart attack—and it was time to handle Emile. He had his pistol in his pocket. It was an old six-shooter, but he’d had it for a long time and it felt comfortable in his hand, even though he’d never fired it at a human.

Tonight, that would change.

Recovering the film and the pictures from Emile wouldn’t be enough. Jonal had done some discreet investigating of his own through old trusted employees and had learned everything he needed to know about Emile. His mother had been committed after killing a neighbor and then trying to kill herself. She’d finally succeeded by throwing herself off the roof of the mental hospital. Everyone said Emile was just as disturbed as his mother. Some went so far as to call him evil. One said Emile frightened him. Given that the man who’d uttered those words was six foot four and three hundred pounds of muscles, Jonal didn’t take his words lightly.

Evil didn’t need physical strength to blossom. It needed only cunning.

In the garage, he bypassed his Mercedes sedan and took the old pickup truck used by the landscapers instead. The Mercedes would stick out where he was going. A well-worn pickup would pass unnoticed.

The drive took him over an hour. The sun was already setting when he located the dirt road that led to Emile’s house. He’d hoped for more daylight, but perhaps this was better. It was easier to hide in the cloak of darkness. He turned onto the dirt road, slowing slightly every time the road narrowed until he was idling. When he reached a bend in the road that the detective said signaled the last stretch of road before the turn into Emile’s front yard, he turned off the lights and carefully rounded the corner.

Every couple seconds, Jonal caught sight of a flicker of lights through the trees. That must be the house. He continued inching down the road until he was afraid the motor would be heard inside the house, then he guided the truck into a tiny clearing off to the right and let it roll into the brush until it stopped. He got out of the truck and walked to the edge of the tree line to assess the situation.

The house sat in the middle of a clearing about twenty yards from where he stood. Approaching it directly would leave him out in the open, but he could skirt the edge of the woods and come within fifteen feet of the side of the house. So he set out walking a couple feet inside the wooded area, keeping a close eye on the house as he went.

The forest was eerily quiet, and Jonal found it unsettling. It was as if no other living thing wanted to be here. When he reached the edge of the forest near the house, he looked around, then started to step out when a noise from the woods behind the house made him pause. It was whistling. He took a step back into the foliage and peered through the leaves in the direction of the sound, trying to see something in the dim glow cast by the back porch light.

Several seconds later, Emile emerged from the woods pushing a wheelbarrow. Jonal watched as he approached the house, trying to make out what was inside. It looked like a pile of blankets, but why would Emile carry blankets into the woods? He moved farther down the tree line until he could see the back of the house. Emile had stopped in front of the back steps and was picking the blankets up from the wheelbarrow. He lifted the stack and that’s when Jonal saw a thin white leg and foot drop out of the edge of the blankets and twitch as Emile carried the bundle into the house.

Jonal drew in a breath. He had a person in that bundle. Based on the size of the feet, either a young boy or a girl. Jonal was betting on a girl. Emile had made clear his disdain for Jonal’s altar in the photos and video and the positioning of the girl, saying Jonal was weak and didn’t know how to properly worship the master like Emile did. Jonal would have been the first to agree with that. He didn’t know anything about the sort of worship Emile talked about. Even the girl had been a lie. He’d found her dead behind one of his clubs, a needle in her arm, and decided to use her for the film. He’d put her back where he found her after he’d gotten what he needed.

It wasn’t the sort of thing an honorable man did, but it was a far cry from using a live human being in a ritual of evil. Jonal felt his pocket for his pistol. Whatever Emile had been doing, it ended now. He took one step out of the woods, then heard a vehicle approaching. He watched as the headlights swung into the front yard. Four people wearing all black climbed out and went into the house.

Had they seen his truck? It had rolled a good ways into the brush and no moonlight could breach the thick pine trees, but if someone had been looking closely, they might have caught a glimpse of something large in the trees, or noticed the depression in the weeds that the truck had made. He looked back at the house and pulled out his pistol. He’d know in a minute.

He waited for a while, but no one came outside. Whatever was happening inside—and he didn’t even want to think about it—the people must have come for it. He had no choice but to wait. One old man and a six-shooter against five people at least half his age were losing odds. He thought briefly about going into the forest behind the house from which Emile had emerged with the girl, but decided against it.

If he wasn’t there when the people left, he might lose his chance to get to Emile. Too much time had been spent on his recovery. So he’d wait here until the people left. Then he’d end the nightmare he’d created.

Two hours passed before the people exited Emile’s house. Jonal had long since given up standing and had found an old tree log to sit on. His strength was flagging a bit and standing for hours would have sapped too much out of him. The bugs had been horrible, but they were the least of his problems. He watched as the four got into their car and drove away, then crept from his hiding spot and hurried to the side of the house.

A light was on in the back room and he eased under the window, then rose up high enough to peer into it. The room was a small, outdated kitchen. Peeling wallpaper, broken cabinet doors, and chipped countertops. There was no sign of Emile, but Jonal could see the back door that led from the kitchen onto the porch. Just as he was about to head for the back of the house, a door on the wall opposite the window swung open and Emile entered.

Jonal drew in a breath, his chest burning a bit at the quick intake.

He knew it was Emile based on his size and the way he moved, but that’s where all recognition ended. The black robe he wore was hooded and covered his body completely, leaving only his hands and feet exposed. But the mask was the worst. A goat head with giant scrolling horns. He’d seen a similar mask years ago in a trunk hidden beneath one of the plantation workers’ beds. But that mask had not been well crafted, rendering it more of an oddity than a fright-invoking piece, as it was intended to be.

This mask was anything but an oddity. It was fear itself.

Jonal watched as Emile washed his hands in the sink on the far wall, the blood running off his hands in stark contrast to the white porcelain. He waited as Emile wiped his hands and poured a glass of water, then exited the kitchen through a door on the right side wall that probably led to the living room.

This was it. If he was going to enter the house, now was the time to do it, while the back entrance was clear and Emile was in another room. He dropped down and moved around the side of the house to the back. He crept up the cement steps and turned the knob on the back door, hoping it was unlocked. The knob turned easily and he pushed the door open, one inch at a time, then slipped through the small opening and into the room.

The house was pier and beam, like most of the old structures, and Jonal hesitated before each step, worried that the old floor would creak and give him away. Old houses made plenty of odd noises, but the sound of a floor creaking when someone walked upon it was different from the odd rubbing of wood during a storm.

Halfway across the kitchen he paused, wondering if he should go into the other room first and check on the girl, but decided against it. Even if she was alive, he had no medical training and he could hardly drive her to the nearest hospital and check her in. Besides, if the girl could be helped, it made more sense to eliminate Emile first.

He continued across the kitchen, his pistol aimed at the door, when suddenly, the door swung open and Emile stared at him in surprise. He’d removed the goat mask but was still wearing the robe, although the hood was pushed back off his head. He took one look at the six-shooter and laughed.

“You think you can kill me, old man?” Emile asked. “I have power you never even dreamed of. I am everything people thought you were.”

“You are nobody,” Jonal said. “And you’ll die nobody.”

He squeezed the trigger and the bullet caught Emile in the right side. Emile’s eyes widened in shock and he clutched his side. Jonal leveled the gun at him again and fired another shot, but this one went wide, grazing the sleeve of the robe. Emile cried out again, so Jonal figured he’d gotten a bit of skin at least.

Clutching his side, Emile bolted out of the room and Jonal could hear the sound of pounding footsteps as he ran through the house. Jonal hurried after him and saw the front door standing wide open. Jonal ran through the door and onto the porch, but the dim porch light provided illumination for only a couple of feet. Jonal squinted into the darkness, trying to make out movement, when he heard a car engine fire up. A couple seconds later, Emile’s truck went roaring past the house. Jonal fired again, but he missed. The truck left the clearing and turned onto the road, its engine racing as it tore down the dirt road.

Jonal hurried back inside and ran for the door that Emile had come out of wearing the robe and mask. He paused in front of the door, dreading what he expected to find on the other side. Finally, he pushed the door open and gasped.

It was exactly as he’d feared.

The room was an addition onto the house and was made completely of stone. A set of steps led down into it. There was no overhead lighting that Jonal could see. Only the mass of black candles, their collective glow illuminating the girl on the altar in the center of the room.

She was young, probably a teenager, and wearing a tattered red dress. Jonal could see blood dripping down her exposed chest and onto the altar. He moved closer and could then see the extent of the abuse the child had suffered. He turned to the side, gagging, and barely managed to keep his supper down. His chest began to tighten and he drew in a deep breath, praying that his heart didn’t give out on him now.

He had to get out of this room. Had to get away from the evil that had created it.

He started to turn, then something moved at the edge of his vision. He whirled around, panicked that someone was in the room or that Emile had a secret entrance and had returned, then realized it was the girl.

She was alive!

Jonal sucked in a breath and stepped closer to the altar. He watched her chest and finally saw the almost imperceptible rise and fall from her breathing. It was so shallow he hadn’t even noticed it before.

Now what?

He couldn’t leave her here, but he couldn’t take her to a hospital, either. And that was assuming he could get her to his truck, which was questionable. Then he remembered the wheelbarrow. It was outside the back door. If he could get the girl to the wheelbarrow, then he could probably manage pushing her to his truck. If it was too much of a strain, then he’d get the truck and drive back to the house.

He stepped right next to the altar and stuck his arms underneath her, trying not to focus directly on her abused body. Given her emaciated limbs, he’d expected her to be light, but was still surprised when he easily lifted her. He started to turn, then noticed a stone in the center of the altar that didn’t have mortar surrounding it. He hurried out of the house with the girl and placed her in the wheelbarrow, then ran back into the room and stuck the tips of his fingers into the gap around the stone and shoved. The stone moved enough to allow him to dig his fingers underneath it and into a gap below. He pulled up as hard as he could and the stone flew backward off the altar and crashed onto the floor.

He leaned over and peered into the opening and saw the photos, film, and branding iron lying inside. He removed the branding iron and grabbed a candle off the floor, then lit the photos on fire, waiting long enough to make sure they burned. The film began to crackle and curl. He pulled one of the photos out and crumbled it, then lit it with the candle and placed it on the second set of film. It didn’t take long for the flames to burn the old photos and melt the film.

Clutching the branding iron, he ran out of the house, then placed the iron in the wheelbarrow with the girl. He lifted the handles on the wheelbarrow and set out at a trot for his truck. Emile might return at any moment. Jonal hoped the shot in his side was fatal, but he couldn’t be certain he’d hit an organ. If he hadn’t, Emile might be patching up his side now and planning on coming back for revenge.

Even if it wasn’t tonight, Jonal knew that unless Emile was dead, he would return.

His house!

Emile knew where he lived. It would be nothing for him to drive to Jonal’s house and wait for him to return home. Jonal wouldn’t be back tonight for a while. But his maid would. Jonal glanced at the child in the wheelbarrow and thought about what Emile would do to his maid. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, but it showed No Service. His stomach rolled and he upped the trot to a jog. He had to get back to New Orleans.

It took him about five minutes to reach his truck. He was breathing heavy and his chest ached some but otherwise, he seemed to be okay. He laid the girl and the branding iron on the seat of the truck and fired up the engine, anxious to get back to the main road. If Emile returned before he made it off the dirt road, there would be nowhere for him to go. There wasn’t even enough room on the road to pass, and Emile would know that it was Jonal in the truck. He’d driven the vehicle enough times while working at Jonal’s house.