Mimosa Grove (23 page)

Robert wanted to tell them they were wrong, that he’d been in a bad way before they came, but not now. Only he couldn’t seem to remember how to breathe and talk at the same time. He figured that would come back to him with time.

When the man started to get up, Robert panicked. He couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—be left alone in here again. Not even if the door was still open. Not even if the entire 45th Infantry Division was standing guard outside the door to keep him safe. He grabbed Harvey’s wrist and wouldn’t let go.

“Stay,” he begged.

Harvey rocked back on his heels, trying to imagine the hell of being shut in here to die, and then reached down and patted the man’s shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I promise.”

It wasn’t until they had loaded Robert into the ambulance and were driving away that Harvey realized they’d left the door to George’s crypt standing ajar.

“Do we have to go back?” Marty said. “Couldn’t we at least leave it until daylight?”

“Damn it, Marty. Sometimes you sound too much like my old lady for my peace of mind. Can you honestly tell me that you could go to sleep tonight, knowing you’d left old George to fend for himself?”

Marty frowned. “There’s not a feminine bone in my body,” he muttered. “And Old Man Gooden was mean enough in life. I reckon his ghost can take care of hisself, too.”

“We’re going back,” Harvey said. “And you can stay in the car while I shut the door.”

Marty frowned but remained silent. When they drove back into the cemetery and then parked in front of the old tomb, he pretended to be looking at something out in the Marshalls’ pasture that adjoined the cemetery lot.

“You might want to tell Doc Bartlett that you don’t need those glasses of yours after all,” Harvey said as he opened the door.

“What are you talking about?” Marty muttered.

Harvey grinned, then pointed off in the dark.

“There’s no moon, and I can’t see six inches in front of my face without the headlights of the car, but you seem to be enjoying the view at the Marshalls’ just fine without benefit of either light or glasses. So, I figured you’d suddenly been healed of your vision affliction and—”

“Shut up, Harvey. Just shut the hell up and go close that door,” Marty said, and sat back in the seat with his arms crossed across his chest and his chin thrust forward in a defiant gesture.

Harvey chuckled all the way to the old crypt. When he got to the door, he peered inside.

“Sorry for the interruption, George. Have a nice night.”

Then he pulled hard at the door. When it started swinging toward him, he jumped back. When the old door hit the facing, something clicked, and once again, George Henry Gooden was left to his own company.

Laurel was standing near the kitchen phone when it began to ring. She grabbed it the second it made a sound.

“Hello?”

“Miss Scanlon, this is Harper Fonteneau. I thought you would like to know that they found your father. He’s alive. They’ve got him in an ambulance at police headquarters in St. Lorraine, waiting for a Medivac chopper to pick him up and take him to the trauma center in New Orleans.”

Her legs went weak with relief as she turned her face to the wall.

“His condition…is it serious? Is he in danger of—”

“All I know to tell you is he has a head wound and he’s a bit out of it, but still fairly coherent when answering questions. They said he keeps repeating your name and telling you to hide. He says that you’re in danger and not to leave the property until DeLane is arrested.”

“Yes. All right,” Laurel said, and then, reluctant to break the connection, added before the police chief could hang up, “Chief, thank you. Thank you for believing me enough to check out what I saw. Thank you for my father’s life.”

Harper cleared his throat and then smiled.

“You’re welcome. As for believing you…well, you need to remember that us folks here in Bayou Jean had a lifetime with Miz Marcella before she passed. She broke the ground you stand on. So to speak.”

“Yes, I guess she did,” Laurel said. “Do you have the number of the hospital where they’re taking my father?”

“Yep. Got a pen?”

She picked up the pad and pen that Marie used to make her grocery lists.

“I do now.”

He gave her the address and phone number, then told her they would be out that way to check on her soon.

Laurel wrote quickly.

“Was that good news?” Justin asked. It was the first she’d noticed that he’d come into the room while she was talking to the police chief.

“They found Daddy,” Laurel said. “He’s alive and talking.”

“Praise God,” Marie said, and sat down in a chair as Justin took Laurel in his arms.

“You did good, love,” he said softly.

Laurel put her arms around his neck and leaned into his embrace.

“Yes. I did, didn’t I?” Then she added, “But I couldn’t have done it without his help. Whether he believed me or not, he went along with what I asked him to do.”

“And it turned out all right.”

“Harper said he kept begging them to tell me I was in danger. He said that DeLane is coming for me.”

It was reflex that made Justin look over her shoulder to the windows and then beyond.

“He’ll have to come through me to get here,” he muttered, then turned so that he was between her and the windows and pulled her close against his chest.

Trigger was crouched down in the trees surrounding the back yard of the old mansion when a woman suddenly walked past the kitchen windows. He got a brief glimpse of her before she moved out of sight, but the red hair was unmistakable. It was Laurel Scanlon.

His first instinct was to get closer. There was no moon, and the night was dark enough to hide his presence. But just as he started to move, a man appeared at the windows and pulled the curtains, and then he could no longer see.

He cursed and stepped back, then leaned against a nearby tree trunk. He was hot and hungry, and every place on his body that was uncovered, itched. All he needed was one good shot and this trip would be over. But he didn’t have his rifle, and a handgun was no good from this distance.

When he’d known he was going to follow Scanlon to Louisiana, he’d made a quick call to one of his father’s old army buddies, using the excuse that he didn’t want to travel alone in unfamiliar territory without some kind of protection but couldn’t bring his own weapons on the plane.

The old army buddy, who had more than an affinity for carrying arms of his own, not only understood but had been waiting for him outside the airport with the handgun he was carrying now.

It occurred to him as he was waiting for the lights to go out that the army buddy might be another loose end that needed tying up, but he would worry about that after this was over.

Then a buzz near his ear warned him that another mosquito was approaching. He slapped at the sound. He had no idea whether he’d killed the mosquito or not, although the buzzing was gone. Somewhere in the distance, he kept hearing the familiar sound of baying hounds. He didn’t like dogs and shuddered, then stood. As he did, something shifted in the bushes behind him. He spun abruptly, the handgun aimed into the dark. His heart was pounding as a fresh wave of sweat beaded on his brow.

Son of a holy bitch. Who would willingly live in a place like this? Give me a city with its homeless and druggies, even its muggers, any day.

Finally he decided it was his imagination that was making him jumpy and looked back toward the house, continuing to mark people’s locations by taking note of the lights coming on and going off.

He thought about moving closer. There was always the possibility that he would get a good shot at her through a window. The getaway would be a cinch in the dark, he decided with confidence based on the cocaine he’d sniffed two hours ago. When another mosquito began buzzing about his ear, he decided the idea was good enough to act on.

He began walking toward the house and was only yards from the front door when a loud, raucous shriek sounded over his head. He fell to the ground and rolled onto his back, his gun aimed upward into the limbs of the trees under which he’d been standing.

Again the shriek sounded. It was somewhere between a Hollywood version of a banshee and a girlfriend he’d once had. He didn’t know whether to stay put or take cover back where he’d been. But the longer he lay there, the more certain he became that the residents inside the old mansion were not coming out. Obviously, whatever ungodly creature was making the sounds was familiar to them.

With one last look upward, he rolled to his feet. Anxious to get away from whatever was up the tree, he abandoned the last of his caution and ran the rest of the way toward the house.

There were lights on in the foyer, as well as some to the right of the front door and also upstairs. He crept along the boards of the old porch, then paused when one squeaked.

Cursing the situation in general, he went flat against the wall, half expecting someone to come running outside to investigate. But again he was pleasantly surprised by a lack of interest and decided that the age of the place was working in his favor. There were bound to be any number of odd creaks and groans from a place like this.

He shifted the gun to his right hand, then stepped away from the wall and moved directly into view of the first of the front windows. Had anybody been looking out at that moment, they could have seen him, or at least the shape of his body, but there was no one there.

Silently, he moved on to the next, and the next, then realized that everyone must have congregated in the kitchen at the back. Anxious to finish what he’d started, he jumped off the veranda and began to circle the old house, dodging clumps of greenery and bushes as he ran.

He heard the dogs again but thought nothing of it. This was low country. Hunting country. There were bound to be dogs.

Now he was standing on the back steps, and through the window in the door, he could see the back of an old woman’s head, the profile of a man, probably the one who’d closed the curtains, and then Laurel herself. At that point, he grinned and raised his gun. She was directly in his sights. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger and it would be over.

He shifted slightly to accommodate the difference in elevation, holding his breath as his finger tightened on the trigger.

At the same moment he squeezed off the shot, something came at him out of the darkness. The shriek that came with it was unnerving and loud. Whatever had been up that tree had followed him and was in the act of attacking. He was so startled that his aim went wild.

It came at him in a rush of sound and feathers, and he fell backward off the porch and into the dirt. The gun went flying from his hand, landing somewhere to his right. It was attacking him now in a thunder of vicious stabs and shrieks. Somehow he got to his feet and then ran toward the safety of the trees without stopping, without looking back.

Laurel was worried about Marie. The old woman had stayed faithfully by her side all during the day, but the toll was beginning to tell in her expression. Her café-au-lait skin had taken on a pale, ashy hue, and her steps were dragging as she moved from stove to sink. Now that they knew her father was safe, she was willing to end this day.

“Mamárie…please go to bed,” Laurel begged. “I can’t bear to see you like this.”

Marie straightened her shoulders and frowned.

“Like how? You trying to tell me I’m too old to stand a little upset now and then?”

“I’m not telling you anything. I’m asking because I care,” Laurel said.

“It’s been a long day,” Justin added. “I’m beat, too. If you two don’t mind, I’d like to stay the night. Just to make sure everything stays okay.”

Laurel wouldn’t look at him. She didn’t want to see the worry on his face, knowing that he was worried about her father’s warning, though no more than she was.

“Yes, please,” Laurel said. “I would appreciate the company.”

“Well, that’s different, then,” Marie said. She’d hung up the dishcloth she’d been carrying and was on her way out of the kitchen when the shot came through the window in the door. She turned toward the sound as glass splintered.

“Get down!” Justin yelled, and saw Laurel drop flat. He grabbed the old woman, taking her down with him.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then they could hear Elvis’s repeated shrieks on the porch out back.

Justin rolled over onto his side, saw Laurel staring at him in shock from beneath the kitchen table, then grabbed for Marie.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Except for those crazy hunters, I’m fine,” she muttered, then winced. “I think I bumped my knee.”

“I’m so sorry,” Justin said.

“I’ve a good mind to go out there and give them a good tongue-lashing,” Marie said.

“No!” Laurel said. “You could get shot.”

“It must have been a stray shot,” Justin said. “We can thank God that it missed.”

Laurel rose up on her elbows, then to her knees.

Justin frowned. “Honey, I don’t know if it’s safe to—”

She pointed toward the wall.

“If it had been a little more to the left, it would have gone through my head.”

Justin paled.

“I want both of you to stay down,” he said. “I’m going to call the men in and send them home. We’re safer with a panther in the grove than a bunch of men with loaded guns.”

But Laurel wasn’t convinced. “Something isn’t right,” she said. “That shot sounded like it was right outside. Would it have been that loud if they’d fired from inside the grove?”

Justin rocked back on his heels. He’d been so focused on getting both women out of the line of fire that he hadn’t thought that far. But as soon as she asked, he knew she was right.

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Elvis is still pitching a fit,” Laurel said.

“He’s a pretty good watchdog,” Marie added. “Never would let the neighborhood children onto the place for trick or treat at Halloween.”

Laurel’s voice quavered. “What if it wasn’t the hunters?”

“Are you talking about the warning your father gave you?”