Wild Man's Curse (Wilds of the Bayou #1) (22 page)

“Tu ne me connais pas.”
You do not know me.

“Je passe la malédiction
à
vous, Langston Broussard.”
I pass the curse to you, Langston Broussard.

“Tu ne me fais pas peur.”
You do not scare me.

For a fraction of a second, Ceelie saw a flash of doubt—maybe even fear—cross Lang’s face before it settled back into a sneer. She had rattled him with a few words pulled from long-ago memories.

The momentum might have swung her way, at least for a moment.

CHAPTER 26

There were no trolling motors on today’s version of the manhunt. The search was taking on a life of its own, and Roscoe Knight had told all the gathered law-enforcement officers at daybreak that he wanted Langston Broussard to hear them coming, and hear them coming hard.

Only he hadn’t used such nice words.

If Gentry hadn’t been so taut-nerved and restless, he’d have gotten downright teary-eyed at the dozens of officers, male and female, who’d gathered to cover every inch of the central parish east and south of Montegut. Sheriff’s deputies, state police, LDWF agents he’d seen only at regional events, even some officers wearing the dark-blue uniforms of the Houma PD. He’d never seen so many patrol boats in one spot.

He prayed it would be enough, and that it would be in time. And that the media wouldn’t pick up on where they’d set up base camp and put a lot of civilians in harm’s way—or muck up their chance of finding Lang and Ceelie. Bad enough that it was gator season and hunters all over the bayous were on the prowl for gators, raccoons, nutria, and feral hogs.

“Ready?” Paul Billiot strapped on his duty belt and checked the ammunition in his service pistol. The LDWF boat they’d come in on last night had been refueled out here in the middle of nowhere, thanks to some miraculous display of power pulled off by the sheriff.

“Let’s go. What’s our area?” Gentry followed Paul through the sawgrass that seemed a much easier walk in daylight than it had last night with only a flashlight. It was a wonder they hadn’t sunk through a patch of floating grass and broken a leg.

“We got the area just north of here, almost to the outskirts of Montegut.” Paul attached the boat’s kill switch to a lanyard and stuck the key in the ignition. They both had donned their life jackets and uniform-collar radios, and had rifles and shotguns in addition to their service pistols. Bulletproof vests added an extra layer of bulk under the life jackets. Gentry felt like a paramilitary Michelin Man. Probably a paramilitary Michelin Man who’d be on the verge of heatstroke before midday.

He didn’t care, as long as they found Ceelie and his dirtbag of a brother.

For the next two hours, they cut in and out of bayous and drainage canals and cutoffs. They stopped at every house and fishing camp, occupied or abandoned. Warren had Stella deliver their supply of business cards, so they left them whenever they found people, asking questions and leaving descriptions. They carefully searched every outbuilding and storage shed.

Finally, they found signs of recent occupation in one of the abandoned houses and spent a half hour combing through it, reporting back to a deputy at the staging area every few minutes.

They found piles of beer cans, pizza boxes, wine bottles, and other trash, but after a thorough search, Gentry shook his head. “I don’t think it was them.”

“I reached the same conclusion.” Paul kicked a pizza box out of the doorway. “This was some teenagers finding a private place to party. And it’s been here long enough for animals to get in it.”

They’d just gotten back to the boat when the dash radios—they had one for the sheriff’s office as well as LDWF—began a cacophony of chatter. Gentry’s cell phone rang, and he heard Paul’s follow right behind it. He walked to the rear of the aft deck.

It was Warren. “We found a new hideout, north and east of your current location. We’re still verifying but you might want to come this way.” He read out the GPS coordinates and Gentry handed them to Paul, who was ending a phone call with Mac.

The ride to the new location took about fifteen minutes, and Gentry’s body was pumped on adrenaline when the cabin finally came into sight. He jumped out of the boat onto the wooden pier. Sheriff Knight and Warren were standing in the front door just ahead of him. This was another fish camp, but it was a little bigger than Lang’s last spot, and its condition told Gentry it had been abandoned for at least a year or two—probably since the last tropical storm had come through and flooded the whole parish.

The bottom half of the structure’s outer walls were in midstage rot. The whole thing would fall in the bayou within another six months, faster if the parish drew the unlucky card and got another storm.

The area around them, a narrow waterway between Madison Bay and Bayou Terrebonne, was typical South Louisiana marsh, bits of solid ground interspersed among the flotons; floating bits of marsh that looked like land but couldn’t carry the weight of an adult. Occasional trees broke the landscape, as well as fish camps like this one where people would come out on weekends for the bounty of the fish-rich waters and waterfowl hunting.

Today, it was an anthill of outboard motors on patrol boats and law-enforcement officers as news spread that another hideout had been found. Next, the sheriff would set up a new base camp here and they’d all fan out again until they found either Lang or his next stopping place.

Gentry’s gut told him they were getting close.

The part of Ceelie’s situation that scared Gentry the most was her lack of knowledge about the gold coins, unless Lang had talked enough for her to figure out what he was after. When Lang got desperate enough and realized she couldn’t help him, would he decide she was too much trouble?

Two things worked in Ceelie’s favor. One, she was smart. If she could figure out a way to mentally stay ahead of Lang and his games, she could survive long enough to outmaneuver him—if she was physically able. Two, which tied back into one, Lang was smart, but he was impulsive. He’d never been one to think situations through to their logical conclusion. In junior high, he’d decided he wanted to play football because the uniforms were cool and the players always got the pretty girls; he’d made it through two practices before realizing that he actually had to earn the uniform.

Gentry could come up with a dozen examples of Lang’s lack of foresight, but this crime spree—killing Eva Savoie and Tommy Mason, shooting Jena Sinclair, kidnapping Ceelie—it all had the marks of a man growing desperate and spiraling out of control without the vaguest idea of where it would end.

Once he’d killed Eva Savoie and had the misfortune to be spotted by the one person in parish law enforcement who would recognize him, he kept digging himself deeper. He wouldn’t abandon the gold mine; he’d keep digging, trying to get the coins.

Gentry finally made his way down the pier and through the clump of officers gathered around the front porch of the cabin.

“Clear out of here!” Sheriff Roscoe Knight could bellow like nobody’s business. “Everybody out but Lieutenant Doucet and Agents Broussard and Billiot.” He glared at a deputy who couldn’t be older than twenty-two or -three. “Now!”

Everybody scattered, which made room for Gentry and Paul to go inside. The place stank of molding wood and sheetrock and animal shit. It sickened him to think of Ceelie here.

Gentry nodded at Warren and Knight, waiting to hear the details. “Looks like your brother and Ms. Savoie were here,” the sheriff said. “Since you know both parties, take a look around at what they left and see what you can tell us that we don’t already know. This room and the bedroom through that door.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Those are the only spots here we see any signs of them. You”—he pointed at Paul—“are supposed to be some hotshot tracker. Tell us what you can see inside, then look around outside.

They nodded and took a slow walk around the front room first. A rifle lay on a side table, absent its magazine. Gentry glanced at Warren. “This Sinclair’s weapon?”

“Yep—we checked the serial number. We have to assume he still has the shotgun, Sinclair’s SIG Sauer, and the pistol he used to shoot her,” Warren said. “He either left in a hurry, or he didn’t know how to get a clip for it. Sinclair must have detached the magazine before she lost consciousness.”

Smart. The shotgun and the two handguns were bad enough, but Gentry was relieved that Lang didn’t have a loaded tactical rifle at his disposal.

Paul squatted and studied the floor. “Have these footprints been disturbed?”

“No, we’ve been walking around them.” Knight crossed his arms over his chest. “Warren says you state guys have to know about tracking and you’re the best he’s seen. Figured you’d want to check them out.”

During their training, LDWF agents learned to track wildlife and the hunters who weren’t supposed to be killing them. Gentry studied the patterns over Paul’s shoulder. “Definitely two sets of recent prints, although there’s a lot of trash in here too,” Paul said. “One larger set, one smaller.”

Gentry let out a relieved breath. A smaller shoeprint meant Ceelie was ambulatory. That was a good sign.

He edged around the shoeprints and stepped into the bedroom, where an old rusted double bed had been pushed against a decaying wall. A cloth lay across the back of a wooden chair, and Gentry lifted it with one finger—a man’s plain navy T-shirt.

Lang’s, maybe? He examined the sleeves and found heavy bloodstains on the left side. Maybe Lang’s. He threw it back across the chair.

An old dresser in the corner didn’t appear to have been disturbed, but he saw something lying on the mattress and walked over to investigate. Blood—still fresh, judging by its color—spattered the mattress near the head of the bed, although there wasn’t enough of it to indicate a heavy cut.

He leaned over to see what had caught his attention from across the room. Small, round, white discs. A button. No—he counted them—four buttons. Like one might find on a blouse. Small bits of white thread were scattered around them. Gentry remembered Ceelie had been wearing a white blouse this morning—one with buttons that might’ve looked a lot like these.

The thought that Lang would touch Ceelie—maybe cut off her clothing—sent a rage through Gentry that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since New Orleans, when he’d called Lang’s bluff and shot him. He thought all this time that he’d been angry at himself, but this anger was too familiar. All along, he’d been angry at Lang for forcing his hand. And now, for shooting Jena. For taking Ceelie.

Three years ago, they’d been in a random situation Lang had tried to play to his advantage. This time, it was very, very personal, and Gentry’s anger burned hot.

He walked away from the bed, but turned to look at it again from halfway across the room. From this vantage point, he could see more scuff marks on the floor. Big boot prints. As if Lang had been pacing.

Something caught his attention from under the bed—a snake. He pulled out his pistol, ready to shoot it. When it made no movement he stepped closer, squinting in the dim light coming through the empty window casings. Not a snake . . .

He squatted and looked a few seconds longer before he recognized what were dark, soft strands of black hair.

All the adrenaline that had propelled Gentry through the past twenty-four hours drained from his body. He slumped to a seat on the floor, holding the long, thick strands of hair in his hands, stroking them as he’d done so often the last few days. Ceelie had never said so, but she was proud of her hair. It helped her define who she was, her heritage, her traditions. Lang would only do this out of meanness, to hurt her in an emotional way. Maybe trying to break her spirit.

“You okay, Broussard?” Paul walked in and studied the bed, bent over the buttons, and then looked at what Gentry held in his hands. His jaw clenched, and his dark eyes appeared jet-black in the dusky room. “That son of a bitch cut off her hair?”

Gentry nodded.

“That crazy fuck. This shit has to end.” Paul Billiot, who in the three years Gentry had known him had never uttered a curse word or raised his voice, stomped out of the room. Gentry almost laughed, probably out of hysteria, because his first thought was that he couldn’t wait to tell Jena that Paul had said not one, but three profanities.

Paul must have gone straight to their lieutenant with the news, because by the time Gentry had climbed to his feet, still clutching the hair, Warren was headed for him with a
don’t-screw-with-me
look on his face.

“Broussard, you’re off duty as of now. Go home. Feed that goofy-looking dog of yours. Get some sleep. Call me in eight hours and maybe we’ll talk about bringing you back on. Hopefully, we’ll have brought this to a close by then.”

“No. Warren, don’t ask me to do that.” Gentry held up Ceelie’s hair. “Do you see what he did to her? Do you realize this could be the least of it?”

The buttons. The blood.

“I’m not asking you. I’m ordering you.” Warren settled a strong hand on Gentry’s shoulder. “This is getting too personal for you, you’re emotionally spent, and I want you off duty for a few hours.”

“But—”

“No arguments, Broussard. Look, we just got word that Jena Sinclair made it through her surgery. She’s got a long recovery but the doctors say she’s gonna make it. If you don’t want to go home, go to the hospital in Houma. The doctors are waiting for her to wake up; let her see a familiar face when she does. If she’s able to talk and remembers, find out what else she knows.”

“But—”

“Broussard!” Warren raised his voice, then pulled it back. “Gentry, you can walk out of here and go off duty to serve a later shift; Mac Griffin’s running shuttle back and forth to the boat launch and the vehicles. Or I can fire you, in which case I’ll have Sheriff Knight throw you in a cell for being an unemployed civilian interfering in an active investigation. I am not joking. Your choice.”

Gentry stared at him a minute. He considered punching the man in the face, but that would be Lang’s way out. He was better than that, even though Warren was wrong. He needed to be here.

But if he couldn’t, at least he could talk to his partner.