Hurricane House (27 page)

I studied her through the binoculars. She moved with the grace of an athlete, jumping inside the canoe. As she pushed herself off, I ran through the woods to the boat shed. All of the boats were tied to launches. Rather than take the time to untie one, I cut the rope using the pocketknife on my keychain then pulled the boat into the canal.

By the time I reached the other side, Ellen stood at the front door of the mansion, and I heard my cell phone ring. Ellen was calling, as instructed.

I touched the answer button and heard her echoing footsteps on the floor as I ran up to the front door. The crystal became warm and turned from red to black as Ellen screamed.

The phone went dead.

I spotted a motorboat, a hundred yards away, roaring away from the mansion. I looked through the binoculars and saw the boat heading up the mouth of Red River. I couldn’t see the driver for the spiraling waves. Is that the murderer?

Holding the Magnum, ready to fire, I kicked open the front door of the mansion and entered the large foyer. To my right, I saw a stairwell leading to the second floor. On that same side, was a closed door. I opened it and found a large dark room.

I walked through the room, cautiously. Nothing. I looked inside the closet, bare.

With my back against wall, I sidestepped out of that room to the door on the left side of the foyer. It opened
into another dark space. I smelled vomit and saw someone attached to the room’s center column.

I walked closer. It looked like a woman, with her chin slumped on her chest. I couldn’t see her face, only a mass of black hair. Geneva.

I crammed the gun inside the pocket of my jeans. She was wearing a gag and a blindfold. I untied them, then cut the rope from her hands and legs, using the keychain pocket knife. In the process, I sliced my own fingers.

When I freed Geneva of her bondage, she folded on the floor in a fetal position. I checked for a pulse, but my own racing heartbeat made that difficult. I thought I felt a faint, slow beat in her right wrist. I couldn’t be sure.

I then spotted a figure lying in the corner of the room. I grabbed my gun and pointed it, ready to fire, but as I drew closer, I realized it was Ellen, lying peacefully, as if she’d decided to sleep that way. Her pulse felt stronger than Geneva’s.

Now what? This didn’t make sense. Up until then, I had assumed the driver of the motorboat was the murderer, but if not...he might be hiding inside the house. My whole body trembled at that thought, but I tried to keep my head, wondering why Geneva was here at Red River when Onyx had found her note on Paradise Isle? It didn’t add up.

Chapter Fifty-two

I searched the downstairs of the mansion, walking with my back against the wall to avoid surprises. Nothing. I climbed the stairs sideways, keeping my back to the wall. The stairs creaked with every step.

At the upstairs landing, a circular hallway connected five bedrooms. I searched each one, though I felt a strange sensation in my gut, telling me to get the hell out of there.

In the last bedroom, I found a briefcase chained to a clothing rod inside the closet. What’s that clicking sound? A bomb? Thinking the worst, I tried to break the rod with my weight to free the case, but I couldn’t.

Knowing time was running out, I raced downstairs and slapped Geneva’s cheeks, trying to rouse her. When she didn’t respond, I dragged her by placing my hands beneath her underarms. Lugging an unconscious Geneva was like pulling dead weight.
As soon as I got her outside, I ran back for Ellen. “Ellen, stand up,” I yelled. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

She didn’t budge. So I put my arms around her and tried to pull her to her feet, but her legs collapsed like flimsy rubber.

“I’m no Superwoman,” I whispered as I slipped my arms around Ellen’s chest and began dragging her toward the front door. Once I got her outside with Geneva, I flipped the canoe on top of us and said a prayer.

Chapter Fifty-three

He’d cut the motor to wait under the bridge before he looked through the binoculars. He had a clear view of the Red River mansion, a house he’d purchased and donated to a charity called Safety for Women.

He could imagine one of these late night comedians saying, “He gave the Red River Mansion to a group of feminists, who planned to turn it into a safe house for abused women, and he thought he was doing Safety for Women another favor by blowing the house to smithereens with two women inside.”

The SFW woman in charge, a man hater, wouldn’t see the humor. She wanted to “restore the mansion and preserve the history.”

Anyone with any gumption knows it takes more money, effort and time to renovate than tear down and rebuild. I’m actually doing these women a favor by blowing up this
mansion. If the bomb doesn’t work, I’ll go to Plan B: Rambo with an AK.

Plan B was risky, but he couldn’t allow a hitchhiker to outsmart him. Her fault he had to harm Geneva who was hallucinating with reddish-blue bumps on her feet and the backs of her hands. Chilblain. He regretted having to tie her to that post, but it couldn’t be helped. Won’t have to suffer long, dear.

He glanced at his watch and began the countdown. “Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three… two…one…” With the explosion came a colossal fireball billowing upward, rocking his motorboat from a mile away.

Chapter Fifty-four

“S
ome days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed,” Paula said. After the explosion, the helicopter whipped the air into a smoky pudding while taking Geneva and Ellen to the hospital. “I can’t believe this is all that’s left,” Paula said, pointing to one of the antebellum pillars, floating in the moat.

I hopped inside my truck, feeling imprisoned by Paula, but mostly by Keith, who stood beside Paula and frowned at his notes. What else did he want?

After his lengthy interrogation, I didn’t have another answer left. I’d given him the items I’d taken from Geneva’s beach house.

“You’ve hindered our investigation.” he snapped. “And you’re a pulse away from getting arrested. You realize that?”

I studied the crew of arson investigators and bomb experts picking through the wreckage. “You know damned well and good, according to your rules and regs, you didn’t even consider Geneva missing, and you’d have to get a court order to check out her computer. Also, I tried to call you today before all of this happened and couldn’t reach you.”

Keith faced flushed. His jaw flexed like a pit bull ready to strike. “Say what makes you feel better, Maeva. I’m building a case here. I can’t afford not to be methodical. Too many times I’ve arrested murderers and rapists and had their fucking lawyers walk them on a technicality.”

True, probably, but Adam’s words made more sense, “Slow-as-molasses justice system.” Whereas Keith’s words made me angry and I needed to vent.

“Who are your suspects, Keith? Who murdered Tara and Roxanne? What about Sandra Eddelman? Or maybe you don’t consider her missing yet.”

Keith exhaled a coffee breath in response, then called Geneva’s mother to let her know her daughter was alive. When he hung up from talking with the mother, he called Loughton VanSant.

Paula reached inside the window of the Silverado and stroked my head. “Time out, okay? Listen, Hon, why don’t you let me take you back to Huberta’s? You can soak in a hot tub. Have a glass of wine and rest. Sound good?”

It did. I had a painful muscle spasm in my neck. “Yes, but I still have Onyx. I haven’t been able to reach his owner yet.”

Paula chewed on a thumb nail and said, “Hey, I bet Sean Redmond would help us out. He’s around, isn’t he? He’ll look after Onyx for one night, don’t you think? Do you have a way of getting in touch with him?” Paula smiled as though she knew about my encounters with Sean.

“He can’t get inside my place. The door’s locked.” Keith made his cheeks puff out like a balloon; then released another stream of coffee breath. “Okay, listen, I know I’m the bastard of the day, but I’ve got a fenced-in yard. Why don’t you pick up the dog and meet me at Huberta’s? Just let me know when.”

“That’s very nice of you,” Paula said and kissed Keith’s cheek. “You’re a sweetie, even though you try not to be.”

“I’ll be in touch,” I said, hating the thought of driving back to Paradise Isle. “Thanks for the offer, Keith.”

Paula said, “I don’t think you should drive, Maeva.”

I cranked up my truck. “I’m fine.”

Chapter Fifty-five

I
f I’ve learned anything from my years on the road, it’s how to use the empty time to find answers. Even when my body’s aching, I’m able to zone out. On the hour-long drive back to Paradise Isle, I tried to problem solve. I thought of the person I saw in the getaway motorboat. He was a man, more than likely, and he had transported Geneva to Red River and arranged the meeting with Ellen.

He had access to Paradise Isle and probably lived there, and he’d stayed during the hurricane. He was the man who picked up Ellen and attacked her. He knew she’d do whatever Geneva wanted. More importantly, he knew Ellen could identify him.

In his deranged mind, he thought the best way to trap Ellen was to capture Geneva and perhaps Geneva had discovered something incriminating about him. Being crazy and an adrenalin junky, he’d planted the bomb, but with the news media on the case, he’d soon find out Geneva and Ellen didn’t die in the explosion.

Though Keith had promised to keep everything at Red River under wraps; he couldn’t, especially when media-lover Loughton VanSant knew his wife and Ellen were alive.

Chapter Fifty-six

The Silverado clock showed 6:12 p.m. when I pulled into Paradise Isle. By that time, I’d twisted the ribbon holding the crystal into knots and after considering what I knew, I had begun to fear Sean Redmond. If I saw him, I’d have to ask about the graphic prologue he’d written in his book. How could he write that unless...he’s guilty.

Regardless, I needed to find out the truth without risking my life on Paradise Isle, meaning I’d have to make an arrangement with the young soldier guarding the entrance. He looked like one of the actors in the movie Platoon. I’d spoken with him a number of times, coming and going.

“Hey, Jackson, how are you doing?”

He flashed a smile. “Better now that you’re here.”

I smiled back. “Does that mean I can ask you for a favor?”

“As hard as you work, Maeva, I’d say you’ve earned it.”

“Thanks for that.”

“What’s the favor?”

“I have an emergency to take care of here tonight. It might take me a little later than the curfew. Would that be okay? Can I still get out of here without a problem?”

He winked. “If you say it’s an emergency, it’s an emergency.”

I thanked him, waved goodbye and drove toward Blue Heron Way. I had a plan in mind, but my plan quickly changed when my truck came to an abrupt stop two blocks from my street. The truck had never completely died on me before, and I refused to think it would let me down this time.

I waited a minute, put the vehicle in park, counted to thirty then turned the ignition.

Nothing, no sound, not even a grunt came out of the engine.

“Come on, don’t do this to me.” I banged on the steering wheel and then took some deep breaths, said a prayer and tried again. Nothing.

I knew I couldn’t give up, I needed my vehicle and I needed to fix the problem pronto. So I jumped out and opened the hood.

A voice behind me said, “What’s wrong, Maeva?”

I turned to see Handyman Jim Grayson, powerfully built, about five-eleven, gray hair and mustache. His white tee appeared soiled and wet with perspiration. He’d once said he loved to work hard and sweat.

“Looks like a broken serpentine belt,” I said.

Jim leaned over the engine like someone doing a pushup. “Bummer. You have a replacement?”

“No, do you? Or know where I can get one?”
“Nope, sorry, might be able to help you out tomorrow if we can find a parts store open. For now, let’s push your truck out of the way to keep it from blocking the road.”

I nodded and jumped back inside the Silverado and slid the gears in neutral. I steered while Jim pushed my truck to the roadside.

Afterwards, he asked, “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

I grabbed my duffle. “Thanks. I’ll need a lift later. First I need to take care of a few things. Why don’t I meet you back here at seven, seven-fifteen? You won’t have to take me far. I’m staying at a friend’s house, ten minutes away.”

Jim rubbed his jaw. “You know about the curfew, right?” “Of course, but I’ve gotten permission from the guard. He said no problem.”

“Figures, you’re a good-looking woman, but...”

I waved him off. “We’ll be fine. See you in a little. Don’t leave me.” I gave Jim, a retired drill sergeant, a salute. Then I turned away to jog down Gulf Drive toward Blue Heron Way, only a block from where my truck had broken down.