The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) (37 page)

Because no one was out, even in the French Quarter, she’d been able to park close by. Bits of trees and plant debris formed a light carpet on her car.

Mike Aaron lived in Bucktown, out by Lake Pontchartrain. There might not be flooding there, she thought. Part of Bucktown was within the levee system.

It didn’t matter. She was going to try anyway.

Surprisingly, the streets were fairly clear. There were no floods and only smallish branches. She had to stop only once to clear a path.

Not wanting to walk in on a band of armed fanatics, she cased the house like a burglar. She wished she’d thought to ask what kind of car Paulette drove. But there was one car in the driveway, and one parked in front; she drew hope from that.

Sunrise was still hours away, the sky still dark with the storm, the lights still out. With her flashlight, she could see that Mike Aaron took pride in his house. It was neat and newly painted. The front curtains were drawn.

She moved to the side, using her now-familiar method of hanging onto anything that wasn’t flying through the air. The curtains were drawn here as well.

Damn. I’m out here without backup. I wish I’d brought Steve. But I can’t go back in this storm.

The backyard—probably where the choir had had its picnic—was enclosed by a Cyclone fence. She opened the gate and nearly slipped on a carpet of wet grass— more evidence of Aaron’s house pride.

She wondered what kind of man he was—former dope dealer was all she knew. On the surface, he was somebody who had simply “found Jesus” and used religion to leave behind an old way of life. He could be an innocent drawn to Jacomine’s good works—and possibly their beneficiary. Or he could know all too well about the violence; be a willing participant in it.

The same went for Paulette.

How far, she thought, are these people willing to go? Are they planning to kill these children?

She knew enough about cults to dread the answer.

The kitchen door was solid at the bottom, with nine small windowpanes on top. There was no curtain.

She cupped her eyes with her hands and looked in, daring to shine her light. The kitchen, unlike the neat exterior of the house, was a wreck. The contents of the cabinets had been more or less dumped on the floor. Broken dishes were everywhere.

Though it looked as if the kitchen opened into the living room, it was difficult to see in there. Skip strained her eyes, but couldn’t make out much at first. Gradually, as she adjusted, she saw that this room was also a wreck—something white was everywhere, maybe feathers from pillows. Furniture was overturned. It was definitely a scene more appropriate to an earthquake than a hurricane.

Who could go to sleep with a mess like that? So they must not be home, right?

She knew that was a load of manure, but she also knew she was going in that house, one way or another. First, she tried the door, which was locked.

But the front door might not be. If it isn’t, nobody’s home, because that would mean the last person to leave wasn’t Mike Aaron.

It opened.

A man was lying on the floor, arms outstretched.

Head blown off.

In each palm was a knife, nailing it to the floor. Tiny x’s had been cut on the chest, like the x’s on the tomb of Marie Laveau—but Skip didn’t think these were there for religious reasons.

She had entered the house with her gun drawn. Automatically, she moved through the rooms, making sure they were empty. There were only two others—bedrooms, separated by a bathroom. One was decorated with posters; littered with toys—footballs; baseballs and bats.

A boy’s room. The bed hadn’t been slept in.

The other was obviously Aaron’s. It had an odd feature for a small house—a walk-in closet. At the back of the closet was a wall hanging, a beach towel with a scene from Aladdin on it, held up by pushpins. That struck her as so odd she took it down.

Behind it, there was a small door cut in the closet—a square, something like a pet door, but bigger. She opened it, stuck her gun in, and shined her light.

Huddled up, trying to make himself as small as the mouse whose hole this resembled, was a boy. Every muscle was tensed. His face was in profile, and he didn’t turn towards her, didn’t want to face his killer. A single tear progressed down his cheek.

“Oh my God, you poor baby.” She lowered the gun and tried to get him to look at her, but he refused.

If l were this kid, I wouldn’t look at me, either.

“Look, whoever was here before, I wasn’t with them.”

A sound came out of him, an intake of breath, tears being swallowed. It was a hopeless sound.

“Something real bad happened here, but you’re gon’ be all right. You hear that, baby? Nobody’s gon’ hurt you, now; you’re okay now.” Her voice sounded like something she’d heard before, from someone else’s mouth. Its cadences were those of a black person.

Betty Ann.

The near-forgotten name slipped into her brain like a soothing unguent. Betty Ann was a woman who’d worked for the Langdons when Skip and her brother were preschoolers. While their mother was out doing volunteer work to raise her social status, Betty Ann had taken care of skinned knees and cut fingers. She must have talked like Skip was talking now.

“I need you to stay here one more minute, sweetheart, then I’ll be back to get you. Can you do that for me?” Eyes still straight ahead, the kid nodded.

Skip went and got a sheet to cover what was almost certainly the body of the boy’s father. It was hard to do, harder than looking at the shell that had been a person, harder even than finding the boy who’d lost his father. She was trained for these situations. But covering the body was tampering with a crime scene.

Still, she simply wasn’t prepared to take a chance on that quivering kid seeing the mess that had been his father.

If the scene hadn’t been so grim, she’d have had to laugh at herself. This was the third building she’d broken into in the last eight hours. She’d left her training pretty far behind.

The boy was letting go a little now; still trying to hold back sobs, but no longer trying to be heroic about it. He looked at her. He was a pale little kid, ten or eleven maybe, his brown hair fashionably clipped so his scalp showed through, a mole near his mouth that somehow unmderscored his vulnerability. He was dressed like a skateboarder, in long, loose shorts and oversized T-shirt. “‘I heard the shot. Is he dead?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Kneeling, Skip held out her arms. “‘Come here, honey.”

He didn’t hug her, but for the briefest of moments he let his head fall against her body.

She said, “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

“I don’t have anyplace to go.”

“Honey, come on.” She tugged at his arm, and he unfolded. She saw that he was taller than she’d thought, and skinny, a little awkward, shoulders slightly hunched. He was barefoot.

“Where are your shoes?”

“In my room.”

“You’re Mike Aaron’s son?”

“Yeah. Billy.” He sniffed, the mention of his dad setting off more tears. “Who are you?”

“Come on, let’s go get your shoes.”

She sat on his bed and fiddled with her radio while he searched for his shoes and put them on. “My name’s Skip Langdon. I’m a cop some of the time.” To her dismay, the radio was dead, too—the tower must be out.

She thought about it: no power, no phones, no radio. She couldn’t imagine what Headquarters would be like right now.

I’m not taking him there. Not after what he’s been through.
The realization was like a weight lifting, but it brought up a question:
What the hell am I doing with him?

I can’t take him to Steve. I need him myself.

Jimmy Dee? Uh-uh. Kenny’s got enough trouble right now
. She sighed.
Cindy Lou, I guess. But kids aren’t her thing—and she lives so damn far.

She said, “What happened tonight? Why were you in that little hidey-hole?”

“Daddy and I were doing a storm-watch—you know? And then this car came along in the rain, and he told me to go get in the hole and don’t come out, no matter what. See, it’s a place he had put in. He was a drug dealer. When Mom died, he wanted me to come here, but he was afraid of some people he used to do business with. So we worked out this system.” He shrugged. “Daddy said it wasn’t perfect, but it was better than a foster home.” There was something about the kid that was a lot older than his years—he’d learned to accept what life sent him.

“He told you he was a drug dealer?”

“Well, it wasn’t like I didn’t know. My mom died of an overdose.” He tied his shoe and stood up. “Where are we going? I’ve got to call somebody.”

“Right now, we have to get to the car. But we’re going to be soaked. Put some dry clothes in a backpack.” Though it meant a much longer trek to the car, she took him out through the kitchen. She couldn’t stand to think of him bearing for the rest of his life the memory of the bloody sheet in the shape of a cross.

The wind seemed heavier, and probably was—the worst winds usually came at this end of the storm. The kid held one of Skip’s belt loops, and slipped once, nearly taking her down with him.

Once in the car, she drove a few blocks and parked, wanting to think a little more about what to do with him. “Okay, let’s talk a minute. Who do you need to call?”

He bowed his head and stared at his lap.

He doesn’t trust me,
she thought.

She said, “Look, the phones are out. My police radio’s out. We can’t call anybody, but I could take you somewhere.”

Cindy Lou’s.

“Okay, the police station.”

That was the last thing she expected to hear. She realized with surprise how resistant she was to it—aside from what he’d go through, Skip would be there for hours. She couldn’t afford the time. “Why are you so eager to go to the cops?”

“A friend of mine’s in trouble.”

“Look. Billy. A friend of mine’s in trouble, too. In fact, two friends, and they’re both kids. I have a feeling whoever got your dad is after my kids.”

“Your kids?”

“Yeah. One of ‘em’s mine—or sort of mine. She’s like you—her mom’s dead.”

“What about her dad?”

“He’s somewhere else.”

“Oh. Deserter, huh?”

“Billy, we have to talk. What happened in there?”

He started to cry again. “They searched the house looking for Paulette. Dad’s girlfriend.”

Skip’s heart pounded. “Was she there?”

“No, but they thought she was. They didn’t find me, anyway. Dad said I was at a friend’s. They kept asking where was she, and had she been there, and I heard them hit him. I think …” he lowered his head and eyes again “… I think they did other stuff to him, too.”

“Did he tell them anything?”

“He didn’t know anything. That’s what they kept saying—tell them anything. Anything he knew about her.”

“She was his girlfriend. He must have known something.”

The kid didn’t speak, just looked away. She’d lost him.

“Look. I think Paulette’s got my kid—these guys are after her, do you understand? I’ve got to get there first.”

“Oh, come on. Think this is a movie or something?”

“Billy, listen. There are no phones or radios. There’s no way to call the police. At this point, I’m her only hope. If your dad told them anything, tell me.”

She watched the complex play of emotions on his face, from hopelessness to wariness to a little bit of hope.

She said, “You like Paulette, don’t you?”

“Yeah. She took care of me.”

“Took care of you?”

“You know. Cooking dinner and stuff. Dad tried, but he didn’t really know how.”

“Have you any idea where she is?”

He bit his lip. “My dad finally said … he said … her dad lives in Lockport. You know where that is?”

To her dismay, she did. It was in that part of Cajun country known as LaFourche Parish, for Bayou LaFourche—maybe forty, fifty miles away, an hour or so in good weather. The problem was, you had to take Highway 90 to get there, and 90 flooded—might already be impassable.

That settled it. She didn’t have time to slog either to the police station, or to Cindy Lou’s. She had to get Steve and get on the road.

She racked her brain and finally came up with a possible babysitter. She had a neighbor who was both a mother and a therapist.

Chapter Twenty-Six

THEY HAD LONG since lost power. They were sitting on the floor, the four of them, around a single candle, though there were others burning in the room. Paulette had made it as nice as she could, transparently trying to cheer the girls up.

First, there had been a screaming fight with her parents, ending in her father getting so mad he pushed her. But he’d forgotten what a powerful woman his daughter was. She had picked up a kitchen knife and threatened him with it, cool as a moose. There was no doubt in Torian’s mind she’d have jammed it right in his stomach if he hadn’t backed down.

Denis apparently thought so, too. He said, “That’s it, Paulette. Ya not my daughter anymore. Ya stay in this house and drown, you and ya little kidnap victims.”

Tootie, with a look of hate, had stabbed out her cigarette on her own floor and ground it with her heel, apparently to mark the transfer of ownership to Paulette.

They must really think the place is going to float away
, Torian thought.

When Tootie and Denis had gone off to their hurricane shelter, Paulette took the girls outside and made them look at the house. “See that? Two feet off the ground. Water’s gon’ come up past that? Naaaaah.”

Faylice said, “Paulette, it does. I’ve seen it on television. And the windows aren’t boarded. We ain’t ready for this.”

It was Sheila who asked what Torian was wondering: “Why couldn’t we just go with them to the shelter?”

“Le’s go back inside, and we’ll talk about it.”

When she had them gathered around her, she said, “Because I did kidnap y’all. We don’t know what po-lice we gon’ run into, or who mighta seen ya pictures on television.”

“But Paulette—why’d you do it?” Sheila’s voice got that desperate, whiny tone it took on when she was frightened.