Stop Me (21 page)

123

The shrink didn’t seem to understand that talking wouldn’t make him the man he once was: the proud soldier, the doting father, the loving husband. She kept pointing to what he could give the world, claimed he could still have everything he ever wanted. But it wasn’t just the fact that he’d lost his wife and daughter that ate at him. It was the way he’d lost them, especially Adele. Moreau’s actions had stripped him of the confidence he’d always possessed that he could protect his own. Now the pursuit of happiness seemed more like a crapshoot. What good was anything that fragile?

It was pitch-black inside, and he was slightly unsteady on his feet, but he had no trouble navigating the furniture. Where was Jasmine? If she had to be here, she’d better be in his bed. Even if he was too banged up to make love to her at the moment, her warmth and softness pressed up against him might ease his aches and pains, help him relax. And there was always the possibility that he’d feel okay later on….

But she wasn’t in his bedroom. Once he lit a lantern, he found her on the couch. “What are you doing in my house?”

“Romain?” She stirred, squinting against the light.

“Does someone else own this place?”

“Can you turn that off?”

He was about to blow out the flame. But what he saw made him hesitate: she had almost as many injuries as he did. “What the hell?”

“The light!” She put up her hands to block it, but he ignored the complaint.

Lifting her chin, he shoved her hair out of the way so he could get a look at her.

“What happened to you?”

She gazed up at him, now fully awake, her eyes focused on his own injuries. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I had a little trouble at the Flying Squirrel.”

“Someone jumped you?”

“It was more like two someones. And I asked for it. Your turn.” Shivering, she drew the blanket higher. “It’s so cold in here.”

“Does that surprise you? It’s winter, and you came to a house with no utilities.”

“I’m already regretting it.” She tried to pull away, to get up, but he pressed her to the couch with one hand on her shoulder.

“I asked you a question.”

“I fell, okay?”

He set the lamp on the table and took her hands, studying the scrapes and gouges and broken fingernails he’d glimpsed when she’d tried to swat the light away.

They looked as if she’d clawed her way out of a coffin. “This happened when you fell?”

124

“That and more.” She folded back the blanket to show him, but the first thing he noticed was that she was wearing his clothes. His body reacted with a significant rise in hormones. But he was too concerned about the injuries on her knees and feet to mention the fact that she must’ve gone through his drawers.

“Where were you when this happened?” he asked. “Not here in Portsville—”

“No, in New Orleans. In the alley by my hotel.”

“What were you doing in an alley?” He wasn’t sure why, but finding her this way was sobering him up fast.

“Someone was chasing me.”

This didn’t sound like anything he wanted to hear. “Who?”

“I think it was Pearson Black. Or Phillip Moreau. Whoever it was wanted to kill me.”

That didn’t make sense. The danger was over. Moreau was dead; life was supposed to be normal again. “Why would anyone want to kill you?” She wilted as she considered the question. “I don’t know. Can we talk about it in the morning?”

He wanted to talk about it now. But there was no point in making things worse than they already were. She was here, where he could look out for her; she’d be fine until daylight. “Are you planning to stay on the couch?” He’d meant to be nice, knowing he’d have a better chance of getting her to accompany him to the bedroom if he could manage a little charm. But the words came out far too clipped for charming. They sounded more like a challenge.

He held his breath as he awaited her answer. I blew it. What the hell’s wrong with me?

“Do you have another suggestion?” she asked hesitantly.

His heart began to pound harder. Fighting the conflicting emotions inside him

—the pull of desire against the reluctance to feel any kind of need—he forced himself to respond with some heartfelt honesty. “I could keep you warm.” He hadn’t meant to sound that vulnerable, but it worked. “Warm would be good,” she said.

Relieved, he ignored his pain and carried her into the bedroom. And just the scent of her as she curled around him was enough.

125

Gruber hesitated, cordless telephone in hand. He knew Peccavi didn’t like to be bothered unless there was a good reason. But he was dying to know what’d happened to Jasmine. Was she alligator bait? Was the sister of his beloved Kimberly now dead?

Pivoting at the end of his bunker, he headed toward the couch and table, where he preferred to watch TV. A small closetlike room to one side held a cheap port-a-potty designed for RVs, but Gruber didn’t like emptying it. Unless he had a prisoner that made it necessary, he simply went upstairs.

He glanced at the clock. It was after midnight, but Peccavi would be up. He could phone, couldn’t he? What would it hurt?

He knew what Peccavi would say, that it was a risk. But they weren’t in any danger. There’d only been one close call—when Adele had tried to escape and Gruber had had to kill her to stop her from screaming. He should’ve done something other than dumping her body in that restroom; he should’ve hidden it in the bayou or driven it out of state. Instead, he’d made a public statement to punish her father for being so damn tenacious. If Adele hadn’t seen that news clip of Fornier talking to her, telling her how much he missed her and wanted her home, she wouldn’t have tried what she did.

He’d never forgive Romain for that.

Gruber set down the phone, then picked it up again. He had to know if Peccavi had killed Jasmine.

Preparing an excuse for the phone call, he dialed before the uncertainty returned.

“Hello?”

Gruber had his number blocked, so he identified himself. “It’s me. Gruber.” Peccavi immediately lowered his voice, and Gruber had the impression he didn’t want to be overheard. “This had better be good.”

“It is good. I wanted to tell you I got the baby to Beverly.”

“She already notified me. That’s part of her job, not yours.”

“But I thought you might like to know that the mother has a friend who might be a prime candidate for our…program,” Gruber lied.

“We don’t pee in our own pool.”

126

“You took this one,” Gruber said.

Peccavi hesitated. “The circumstances were right.”

“Don’t you want to at least hear what I found?”

“Fine. How far along is she?”

Gruber chose what he thought would be a tempting figure. “Seven months.”

“Did you talk price?”

“I told her we’d make sure she and the baby are happy. She’s so strung out she can’t take care of a child, anyway. We’d be doing the kid a favor.”

“And?”

“She said she’d think about it.”

“Did you get a number?”

“She doesn’t have a phone right now. But she knows how to contact you via the Web site.”

“Then I’ll get her the way I do all the others. This can wait—”

“Don’t go!” Gruber cried before Peccavi could hang up. When he didn’t hear a click, he assumed his employer was still on the line. “Did you take care of our little…problem?”

“What problem?”

“You know what problem. Our visitor from California.” There was a long pause, so long Gruber felt sure Peccavi had hung up.

“Hello?”

“No.”

“No?”

“She got away. And nearly killed me in the process.” Gruber couldn’t believe it.

“But don’t worry. I’ll take care of her,” Peccavi added, obviously determined not to let her get the upper hand a second time.

What had gone wrong? Gruber wondered but was afraid to ask. Peccavi was normally as efficient as he was greedy. He claimed they were successful because of his work ethic and self-discipline, but Gruber was the one on the front lines who actually did the kidnapping. Peccavi just managed the business and arranged for the false documents. He had his truck driver scouts find children throughout the country, kids who matched the “wants” of potential parents gathered through a network of adoption attorneys. Then Peccavi paid a premium for each referral and sent Gruber out to pick up the kids. After that, he ordered the forged adoption papers and birth certificate. How hard could the coordination of that be?

Trying not to think about how often he’d been slighted by Peccavi through the years, Gruber focused instead on the strange elation he felt knowing Jasmine was still alive. And that she’d bested Peccavi, of all people. If she’d managed to outsmart Gruber’s boss, she was worthy; she was everything he’d thought she’d be. Stop me…

127

“Where’s she staying?” he asked.

“She was at a small hotel in the Quarter, but I doubt she’ll go back there.”

“So we’ve lost her?” Gruber filled those words with an appropriate amount of concern, but he was smiling to himself. He hadn’t meant for Jasmine to attract Peccavi’s attention. Stupid Beverly should’ve called him instead. Jasmine had been locked in the cellar, for crying out loud. Gruber could’ve taken her home with him that night and told Peccavi she was dead.

The missed opportunity rankled. But ever since he’d framed Francis for Adele’s murder, Beverly didn’t trust him. Even after he’d planted that evidence and told her and Peccavi about Francis’s past indiscretions, she was tempted to believe her son’s protestations of innocence.

“We haven’t lost her, not entirely,” Peccavi was saying. “Beverly found a napkin in Stratford’s purse that has some directions written on it.”

“Directions?”

“To Portsville.”

Gruber put on the same episode of America’s Most Wanted so he could see Jasmine again. There she was…beautiful, just like Kimberly. “Portsville’s a pretty small town.”

“Exactly. She can’t hide there for long.”

I won’t give up until I find my sister… Jasmine was saying on the television.

The thrill of the hunt, perhaps the most fulfilling part of the killing ritual, swept through Gruber. Picking a new victim was almost as much fun as torturing her.

“Why not let me handle it?”

“You want this one?”

“I don’t mind helping out. It’s easier for me because I don’t have a family to worry about.”

“It’s outside your ordinary duties. What I have in mind is permanent.” Gruber nearly laughed aloud. Peccavi thought he was the only one who knew how to kill just because he’d taken care of Jack when Jack tried to get out of the business. “Consider it a Christmas present.”

There was a protracted silence.

“Well?” Gruber prompted.

“Make sure you take…the remains far out into the swamps.” They certainly couldn’t bury this one in the Moreaus’ cellar.

“No one will ever find it,” he promised. But he was in no hurry to dispose of her. He’d never broken a spirit as strong as Jasmine Stratford’s.

He wondered what it would take….

When Jasmine woke up, Romain’s hand was on her breast, but she was still wearing last night’s clothes.

128

Slipping out from under his arm, she turned toward him. She thought he might wake at the movement, but he didn’t. His chest rose and fell evenly beneath the blankets, and his eyelashes rested against his cheeks.

She frowned as she studied the damage to his face. He’d taken some hard hits last night, but he was still handsome. Especially in repose. Probably because it was the only time he ever let down his guard.

She wondered what he’d been like before the loss, the bitterness, the life-altering decisions. A few laugh lines bracketed his mouth….

He opened his eyes and gazed back at her, but he didn’t move. She wondered what he was thinking. Had he expected to find her in his bed? She’d smelled alcohol on him last night. Maybe he didn’t remember carrying her in here.

“Surprise!” she said softly.

He cocked one eyebrow. “I wasn’t that drunk.”

She laughed at how quickly he’d picked up on her thoughts. “I’m guessing you were drunk enough to give yourself a raging hangover. How’s the headache?” He winced as he touched his bruised cheek. “Nothing compared to the rest of it.”

“What happened?”

“Too much testosterone.”

Mixed with too much recklessness, no doubt. Romain had too much of a lot of things, especially sex appeal. “You want to tell me about it?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“I’m sure your story’s more interesting than mine. Why don’t we start there?” She combed her fingers through her tousled hair as she propped herself up against the headboard. The room was cold and uninviting compared to the space she’d occupied curled up beside him. She wished she hadn’t awakened quite so soon.

“Let’s see…. Yesterday I had my purse stolen, got locked in a cellar, discovered a corpse and stumbled on a man wearing a ski mask who tried to kill me.”

“Tough day at the office,” he said, but she could tell he wasn’t taking her experiences lightly. “Maybe you should give me a few more details.” Inhaling a deep breath, she told him everything, from visiting the police station to finding Black and learning about those marks on the cellar door, to returning to her hotel. He stiffened as he listened. She knew she was bringing a situation he preferred to leave in the past into the present, but he didn’t complain.

“So Black’s the only one who knew you were going to Moreau’s place?” he asked when she finished.

“Yes.”

“But like you said, it could’ve been Phillip.”

She nodded.

129

“It’s possible he saw me from the house and came around to the backyard.”

“What about the cigarette butts you collected? There was more than one, right? As if someone had hung out there for some time?”

“True. I was sure Black had left them. But Phillip smokes, too, and I couldn’t smell any evidence of it in the house. I’m thinking his mother makes him go outside.

And he’s not social enough to want to be seen by the neighbors. He probably stands under the overhang near the cellar door, where he has some privacy and solitude.” His expression revealed surprise. “How do you know he’s not social? Have you met him?”