Stop Me (8 page)

Chilled by the foreboding suggested by that sound, Jasmine glanced back at her rental car. She had a lot more to say—everything she’d been thinking about since reading those articles in the New Orleans paper—but it was no use. Fornier wouldn’t help her.

“Right. Thanks for nothing,” she muttered and trudged back to her car. She’d opened the door and was about to get in when he stepped out of the shack. He didn’t speak—just stood there watching her—which made it impossible to tell what he was thinking.

She gripped the window frame of her car door as she looked back at him. “I’m staying at the hotel in town if you change your mind.”

“Let’s do it here,” he said, and left the door open for her.

47

Fornier’s shack was much nicer than Jasmine had anticipated. Though basic, it was clean and well-maintained. And he lived simply, but not as simply as she’d assumed. The light she’d noticed in the window wasn’t a candle. It was a television powered by a generator, judging by the rumble coming from somewhere behind the house.

Once she stepped into the living room, she could see a small kitchen off to one side and a short hall off to the other. A door that stood open at the end of the hall probably led to Fornier’s bedroom. With only the television for light, it was too dark to see much detail, but the neatness of the living room gave her the impression “T-Bone” made his bed each and every day with military precision.

The way he lived so comfortably with so little impressed her—no doubt because she’d half expected to find him drowning in booze. She knew what it was like to crave relief from the whys, to use whatever she could to block out the memories. But it appeared that he spent his time hunting and fishing instead of drinking. A stuffed alligator held pride of place in one corner, and pictures of Fornier and others, holding this catch or that, adorned the walls. Not one thing in the room looked as if it’d belonged to a woman or child. There wasn’t even a framed photograph of his family. He’d rid himself of all reminders of the past.

“It’s warm in here,” she said.

He let that comment hang without response, which made her wonder if he thought she was looking down her nose at him and his potbellied stove. But she didn’t follow it with anything more. She waited as he lowered the volume of the movie he’d been watching and motioned for her to sit across from him.

Inching as far away from the stuffed alligator as she could without being too obvious about it, she perched on the edge of an armless chair that must have hailed from the 1960s. “Thanks for giving me an audience.” He nodded, but his silent perusal, and the suspicion in his eyes, made her nervous. She wondered if his face always looked as though it was hewn from stone or only when he was confronted with a stranger intent on probing his darkest moments.

48

“I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t think it was important,” she explained.

“I want you to know that. I understand what you’ve been through—” she thought of the shooting and his subsequent incarceration and backed away from that statement a little “—to a point.”

“Are you a cop?” he asked.

“No.”

“You talk like a cop.”

He was probably referring to her explanation of a killer’s signature. “Together with two of my friends, I run a charity that helps victims, and I have some experience in criminal profiling.”

“But you’re here for personal reasons.”

“That’s right. I’m here because of my sister and that package I mentioned.”

“So what do you want from me?”

His brisk manner was insulting enough that she stopped trying to tiptoe so carefully around his feelings. “I want to know if you’re sure you killed the right man.”

A muscle flexed in his jaw, but he raised a hand as if to acknowledge that he preferred the direct approach. “I’m positive.”

“How do you know?”

“They found my daughter’s blood on some of his clothing.”

“Was she sexually assaulted?”

He swallowed visibly, telling Jasmine the emotion he struggled to control hovered just beneath the surface—like the alligators swimming barely submerged in the bayou outside. “Yes.”

“Did you find anything else in the house?”

“A video of their time together.”

She winced, knowing how difficult that must’ve been for a father to see. “Did he keep any souvenirs—a piece of clothing or jewelry?”

“Like the bracelet someone mailed to you? Even if he did, it doesn’t mean the man who sent you that package has any connection to Moreau. A lot of sick bastards keep trophies.”

“There’s a connection,” she insisted.

“How do you know?”

The name had leapt out at her while she was reading the microfilm, made her heart beat faster. “Intuition.”

He laughed, but it was a cynical laugh. “Intuition. God, I should’ve let you leave.” Standing, he started for the door; their interview was over. “There’s nothing I can do for you, Ms.—”

“Stratford. Jasmine Stratford.”

49

“Ms. Stratford. You’re just another person grasping at straws to ease the ache in your chest. But take it from me. You’re wasting your time, and mine. Adele is dead. Moreau is, too. You need to search elsewhere for the man who took your sister.”

“We could be talking about a copycat killer.”

“Or a coincidence.”

He couldn’t deal with it. As tough as he tried to appear, he couldn’t handle the memories. Jasmine understood, even sympathized because she used to be the same way. And yet his stubborn denial frustrated her. “I’m only looking for a few facts.”

“It’s not my problem.”

“I thought you were a soldier,” she said softly.

He turned on her so fast she put out her hands to stop him and encountered a hard, solid chest. Her fingers burned from the warmth of his body, a warmth that didn’t reach the icy cold of his eyes. But he seemed to realize he’d frightened her.

Abruptly stepping back, he opened the door as if he hadn’t reacted at all.

Jasmine didn’t walk through it. A photograph had caught her attention—and held her riveted. It was tucked into the glass doors of a bookcase shoved full of books and magazines. The dim lighting made it hard to see much detail, but she knew without drawing closer that it was Adele. That picture had been used in the newspaper and in the police flyers.

Fornier had kept one concession to the past.

He was still waiting for her to go, but she moved toward the picture instead—

and an image crystallized in her mind.

“We’re finished here,” he bit out.

Jasmine barely heard him. She was having one of her visions, a random impression that came to her—a man’s hand, reaching into a locker somewhere to pick up a child’s pendant. She’d had enough experience with her abilities to know what it was, but that kind of sudden knowledge—of another place, another time—

always unnerved her.

“Ms. Stratford?”

Straightening, she confronted Fornier. “It wasn’t a crime of opportunity.”

“Your sister?”

“Your daughter.”

His chin jutted out. “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about my daughter.”

“I’m only telling you in case you’ve been beating yourself up for letting her ride her bike home alone.”

The blood drained from his face, making him almost ghostlike in the dark room. “It was only around the block,” he said, his voice a mere whisper.

50

She tried not to experience his pain—but that was impossible. “He stole her necklace from somewhere before that. I don’t know when, but it was at a—a gym or a dance class or maybe a swimming pool. Someplace that has lockers.”

“No, she lost it. I remember her crying when she couldn’t find it.”

“She didn’t lose it. He took it.”

“How do you know?” Cautious hope touched his voice. But Jasmine didn’t answer. He wouldn’t believe her even if she told him.

“I’m sure that’s why he went to the school. He was already fixated and he would’ve found her eventually,” she said instead, hoping it’d make a difference in Fornier’s recovery. Then, brushing past him, she headed to her car.

“What’d the necklace look like?” he called after her.

“You know what it looked like.”

“I’m wondering if you do.”

“It was the plastic Belle you bought at Disney World.” Romain hadn’t bought it at Disney World. He’d bought it at the Disney store.

But that seemed a minor difference when there were so many other types of necklaces she could’ve named. She hadn’t said it was a gold locket or a silver heart or a pink ribbon. She’d correctly identified Adele’s necklace as the Disney character Belle….

How?

He paced his living room, too keyed up to sit down. He’d moved to the bayou to gain some distance from the rest of the world. He’d needed breathing room, the peace of nature, a chance to achieve a better perspective on a society he no longer trusted. And he’d been doing that.

Until tonight. Who was this woman who’d appeared seemingly out of nowhere?

He had only her name and a few sentences about her sister being abducted sixteen years ago. But she’d understood, immediately, the regret that corroded his soul. Not for shooting the man who’d killed Adele. He felt no remorse for that—

couldn’t even remember actually pulling the trigger. It was the fact that he’d allowed such a despicable human being to get control of his daughter in the first place that hurt. As Adele’s father, he should’ve protected her, should’ve refused to let her ride her bicycle to Elizabeth’s house that day or any day.

He hadn’t realized that a block—a block—could pose such risk. They’d lived in a good neighborhood. But it’d happened anyway, and now it was too late. He’d lost his little girl in the worst possible way and every time he closed his eyes, he saw her being whisked off her bike and forced into Moreau’s rusty van, imagined the unspeakable torture she’d suffered. Torture that wouldn’t have happened if he’d said no….

51

Suddenly, he was standing in front of the bookcase, where her sweet face smiled back at him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, struggling against a familiar tightening in his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

As usual, there was no answer. Only the generator running in the background as Adele stared back, always with him and yet gone forever.

What did Jasmine Stratford really know about her and the man who’d killed her? If this woman could describe the necklace, she had to possess other information.

But he wasn’t sure that information would be as comforting as the tidbit she’d given him. It was equally possible that her answers would only lead to more questions. Or tempt him to doubt what he already knew to be true.

Leave it alone, he told himself, and went back to his movie. But he didn’t comprehend a single word and, after an hour, he finally gave up. By telling him he couldn’t have saved his little girl even if he’d been more vigilant, Ms. Stratford had offered him absolution. And absolution was irresistible.

Striding across the living room, he retrieved the keys to the motorcycle he’d built for himself and hurried outside. She’d said she was staying at the hotel in Portsville, but he had no idea for how long.

If he waited until the sun came up, she could be gone.

The engine of the motorcycle rattled the walls of Jasmine’s hotel room. She’d just put on the chemise and shorts set she liked to sleep in, but the moment she heard the racket, she wondered if it was Fornier. At eleven o’clock, the rest of the town was asleep; there was virtually no traffic.

She waited. If it was Fornier, and he wanted to see her, she’d receive a call from the front desk.

Instead, a heavy knock made her jump.

“Tell me the old guy didn’t send him up,” she muttered and grabbed the silky robe that matched her sleepwear. “Yes?” she said through the panel as she shrugged it on.

“It’s me.”

Fornier. Just as she’d guessed. The lies she’d told the old Cajun had come back to haunt her. He’d assumed she’d want him to send Fornier up and hadn’t bothered to call first.

Taking a deep breath, she cracked the door open. There wasn’t a chain or she might’ve used it because this man was so unsettled—and unsettling.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, unable to resist turning the tables on him.

“For starters, you can let me in.”

She hesitated briefly. “Why don’t we meet for breakfast in the morning?”

“Because I’m here now.”

She didn’t usually allow strange men into her hotel room, especially out in the middle of nowhere. But she didn’t sense any danger from Fornier. If he wanted to 52

harm her, he could’ve done it out in the swamp where he had a convenient place to toss her body and plenty of alligators to eat it.

Stepping back, she permitted him to open the door the rest of the way.

“You’ve had a change of heart?” she asked as he came in.

He closed the door behind him. “Maybe you could call it that if I had a heart to begin with.”

He did have a heart. That was the problem. His emotions ran so deep, he couldn’t cope with the pain they caused him so he tried to shut them off.

Uncomfortably aware of her skimpy attire, she tightened the belt on her robe.

“So you’re here because…”

A subtle shift in his body language told her Romain hadn’t missed the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. But he wasn’t obvious enough to let his eyes dip. “You know why. I want to hear how you knew about the necklace.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“What matters is that you understand this—even if Moreau hadn’t taken that particular opportunity, he would’ve kidnapped your daughter some other time.

There’s no way you could’ve stood guard over her every minute of every day, not when you couldn’t possibly recognize the danger.”

“I should’ve recognized it.”

The passion in his voice confirmed the depth of his remorse. “Not if you were busy living a normal life. Not when there was nothing to alert you.”

“There was the nightly news.”

“But it’s human nature to believe tragedies only happen to other people.” She watched him carefully, hoping he’d be able to forgive himself, to trust her to some degree, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.