Wild Man's Curse (Wilds of the Bayou #1) (9 page)

“Joseph, he been gone for years with the cancer. Tomas is still sharp enough—lives off Little Caillou Road, north of Cocodrie.” He paused. “You want I should meet you over there tomorrow? I ain’t checked on the old man in a while.”

After some debate, they’d agreed to meet at noon in the parking lot of a church in the area, and then she’d ride with Joe Assaud in a boat to his grandfather’s place. She wasn’t sure what she’d ask him, but Tomas had known Eva, had apparently learned alongside her. Maybe she had confided in him.

While she was at it, Ceelie also had done a search for LeRoy Breaux on the off chance that the man she’d called Nonc LeRoy was still alive and in the area, although she felt sure if that were the case, the sheriff would’ve already talked to him. No luck on that one.

A slamming vehicle door at the back of the house was quickly followed by Gentry, stomping off more mud before coming inside with a little window unit that looked brand-new.

Ceelie scanned it for any sign of a price sticker. “You sure you didn’t buy that?” Gentry Broussard struck her as having a bit of a savior complex, which was probably pretty common in law enforcement, although she tended to think of game wardens as a different breed from regular cops. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn he’d paid for it and was now lying about it so she wouldn’t mistake him for a nice guy. “’Cause it looks new.”

“Nope, got it from my friend Zack. He does good work.” Gentry looked around. “Which window you want it in?”

The window near the throwing table was the most centrally located, but she didn’t want cold air messing with her rituals, should she decide to do more. It would be too cold right over the bed. Which left only the other front window. “By the dining table.”

The installation took all of ten minutes. “Close the door and windows and let’s try it out.” Gentry squatted in front of the little unit and pressed a button; it roared to life with a gratifying surge of cold air Ceelie could feel from across the room.

“God, that feels good.” She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation of sweat cooling on her skin. You couldn’t escape the humidity in South Louisiana, but you could at least chill it.

“Now.” Gentry came to stand in front of her, and she looked up at him. Had he been this tall before, or was he just standing closer, or was she just too aware of him? “What are your plans for tonight, because I have a night shift starting in about eight hours and I need to catch some sleep.”

She swallowed the urge to tell him that her plans for the day—and night—were none of his business. Then she swallowed the urge to tell him he could sleep here at the cabin. Urge-swallowing was liable to give her a bad case of indigestion.

Instead, she’d try the truth. What a novelty. “I found an old guy who lives down near Cocodrie—he knew Tante Eva pretty well when they were young. So I’m going to drive down there and talk to him this afternoon. Then I’ll decide whether I’m going to stay here or get a hotel room in Houma. The short answer to where I’m staying tonight? I don’t know yet.”

He sighed. “That’s probably as good as I’m gonna get out of you, right?”

She nodded.

“Will you call and let me know what you decide?”

“Sure.” If she was smart she’d never call him again.

CHAPTER 11

Celestine Savoie was the most stubborn, exasperating woman Gentry had ever met. If it were possible, he’d keep her under lock and key until this whole cluster was sorted out—with himself providing personal guard duty, of course. Which spun his mind into a hot fantasy image he didn’t need.

Worse, she was endangering the keep-it-simple, keep-it-solitary way of life he’d built over the past three years. When the hell had he decided it was acceptable to kiss the victim of an ongoing investigation?

His inner alter ego piped up:
Not your investigation, though, dude. You’ve just gotta reel that fish in.

That might be true if not for the questions about Lang. Until Gentry came clean to Warren, he was right in the middle of this case, intended or not.

He needed sleep but he needed information worse, so he swung over to Dulac for a run past Tommy Mason’s trailer on stilts. A late-model white pickup was parked beneath the piers, so Gentry whipped his vehicle into the driveway behind it. He jotted down the pickup’s license-plate number in case he needed to run a check on it, then got out.

He strapped on his duty belt, weapons, and radio. This wasn’t an official call, but if Tommy Mason assumed it was? That was Tommy’s problem.

Gentry made plenty of noise climbing the steep stairs to reach the front door, and knocked hard. Sneaking up on anybody out here in the land of the armed and the free could be deadly. A child wailed inside, followed by a woman’s voice: “Hold on a dang minute.”

The woman who opened the door looked at Gentry with an expression that told him one wrong step could send her over the edge. She held a fussy toddler on her hip but, despite her less-than-glamorous surroundings, wore a heavy coat of makeup congealing in the humidity.

Ceelie
doesn’t wear makeup, at least not that you can see,
alter ego said.

Not helpful.

“Morning, ma’am. I’m looking for Tommy Mason. Is he around?” Polite and professional, that was Senior Agent Broussard.

“Lord, what’s that no-good sonofabitch done now? Wait, you ain’t a cop; you’re a game warden. What’d he do, run over a fish?”

Gentry gave her a small smile and a few seconds to let her laugh at her own joke. At least it had improved her demeanor. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that one, either. “Is Mr. Mason here, ma’am?”

Her laughter faded, replaced by a sullen pout. Her makeup caked around the laugh lines beside her mouth. Old and tired before her time—she was probably thirty going on sixty.

“He’s out back in the garage, working on my car. It’s his day off.”

Gentry wondered where Tommy worked, but he’d ask the man himself. No point in getting his wife or girlfriend involved. Besides, as far as he knew, Lang was dead and Tommy hadn’t been involved in the drug-trafficking case that went down in New Orleans.

Still, if Lang was alive and had come back to Dulac, Gentry’s gut told him Tommy would know.

He walked down the stairs and cut under the house to the back. Before he’d crossed half the length of the backyard, a man stepped out of the detached garage and stood waiting with his arms crossed. Either he’d seen the truck or he’d gotten a warning call from his significant other.

Gentry had left Dulac for LSU and life in Baton Rouge shortly after he turned eighteen and hadn’t seen Tommy Mason since, so it took a few seconds for him to reconcile early-twenties Tommy with this midthirties incarnation. Same white-blond hair, now receding amid its short cut. Same blue eyes and smart-ass demeanor, though. Probably couldn’t beat that out of him with a stick.

“How come I rate a visit from a game warden? Don’t hunt. Don’t fish. Don’t . . .” He trailed off when Gentry took off his sunglasses and hooked them in his pocket. Gentry traced the flit of nerves that crossed Tommy’s features before his expression settled back into deadpan arrogance. “Gent Broussard. Heard you’d come back to Terrebonne Parish after murdering Lang. Couldn’t stand the heat of the big city anymore?”

“Hey, Tommy.” Gentry put on his best blank face. Only Lang had ever called him Gent. Had Tommy remembered that, or had he talked to Lang lately? “What’re you up to these days?”

Tommy turned and went back into the garage. “Working over in Chauvin at Landry’s Auto Repair. You need a good mechanic, or is this an official visit? Either way, I got no time and nothin’ to say.”

Gentry followed him into the dark interior of the single-car garage. A portable light hung on the edge of the upraised hood of an older-model silver Honda Accord. As Tommy leaned over the engine with a wrench, Gentry said, “Just wanted to stop by and ask if you’d seen Langston lately.”

Tommy dropped the wrench, which bounced off the engine and came to rest on the battery. He wet his lips and fumbled to retrieve it. “That’s cold, man. You playin’ some kinda sick joke?”

“No joke.” Gentry studied the man’s body language. He’d retrieved the wrench, but was his hand still shaky? Yep, old Tommy definitely had a tremor. “You seem a little rattled, Tom.”

He walked to the opposite side of the car and leaned on it so he’d be on a level with the mechanic. “See, here’s the deal. I don’t think Lang’s dead. I think he’s here, back in Terrebonne Parish, and I think he’s doing some bad shit. If I was a betting man, I’d bet you know all about that.”

Tommy gave him a quick glance before looking back at the engine. “I don’t know nothing. You talkin’ crazy. Lang’s dead. I was at his funeral, sittin’ in the back while his mama cried and her fancy new husband and the brother that murdered him sat next to her, all dry-eyed.”

Gentry stood up straight. “It’s a funny thing about funerals, Tommy. Without a body, they’re nothing but ceremonies.”

“Lang’s dead, man. You need to have your head examined and let that shit go.”

Gentry wouldn’t learn anything here today, but Tommy was sweating way more than the morning’s humidity called for. Gentry pulled out his wallet and laid a business card on the Honda’s engine. “You have second thoughts about protecting Lang, give me a call and I’ll make sure nothing comes back to you. I strongly advise you to take that offer, Tommy.”

He got halfway to the door and turned. “And if you decide to be a stupid fuck and warn Lang I’m on to him, tell him not to worry about his brother the possum cop. Lang’s about to hit the Terrebonne sheriff’s most-wanted list.”

Gentry had no proof, but he had enough gut reaction to Tommy’s demeanor that talking to his lieutenant had gone from important to urgent. He tried Warren’s cell phone as soon as he got in the truck and backed out of the Mason driveway, but it went to voice mail. Next, he called Stella and learned that Warren would be in meetings all day at LDWF regional headquarters in Thibodaux.

“He should be back by six when you come on duty,” Stella said. “Can anybody else help you? Paul’s the senior agent on duty right now.”

“I’ve got his number, or I’ll wait and catch the lieutenant tonight, Stella. Thanks.”

Gentry stuck the phone back in its dashboard holder and considered calling Paul Billiot. He had a lot of respect for the agent, but Paul wasn’t up to speed on the Savoie case and chances were good that all he’d do would be advise Gentry to wait for Warren. Or, more likely, Paul would bitch Gentry up one side and down the other, and then advise him to wait for Warren.

He couldn’t call Meizel or the sheriff’s deputies investigating the case without Warren being blindsided.

Damn it. If he was right about Lang, and Tommy warned him, Lang would be desperate. Desperate men who thought they had nothing to lose might run. Or they’d call the bluff and do stupid things. Things that got innocent people like Ceelie Savoie hurt.

No way he could sleep now, so Gentry called Jena Sinclair. Red was working a day shift.

“I’m about to stop for lunch at the Kountry Kettle and I have a flash drive with the items you asked me to get for you,” she said instead of a simple
hello
. “Wanna join me?”

Gentry’s breakfast had settled on his stomach like an anchor, but he’d rather talk to Sinclair in person and he wanted the case files from New Orleans. “On my way.”

He swung by the cabin and gauged by the empty drive that Ceelie had left for her meeting with the voodoo guy or medicine man or whatever he was, which made Gentry feel better. At least she wouldn’t be sitting there if Lang made a quick, careless move. The cabin could be replaced. The thought of anything happening to Ceelie made him jittery. Despite his determination not to get involved with a woman who had no intention of hanging around the parish, he’d gotten way too invested in her welfare.

Ten minutes later, he parked in an empty spot behind Sinclair’s truck at the restaurant. It wasn’t quite noon, so things were still quiet inside and the ice-cold air hit him with a blast as soon as he entered. In another half hour, the dining room would be deafening and not nearly as cold.

He spotted his partner in a booth at the back and slid across the red vinyl bench opposite her. “Iced tea, extra lemon, no food,” he told the waitress.

“On a diet?” Jena took a sip of her soda.

“Late breakfast.” He pulled off his LDWF cap and set it on the bench beside him, then slid the salt shaker on the table in front of him so he’d have something to do with his hands. “And a bad case of indigestion.”

The waitress, a young woman with a shock of pink hair, brought his tea along with Jena’s burger. Gentry thought he might barf.

“What a face. Breakfast was that bad? And stop twirling the salt shaker—you’re giving me motion sickness.” She snatched it away from him and salted her fries, then set it out of his reach. He snaked out a hand and got the pepper shaker instead.

“I just paid a visit to my brother’s best buddy. Or at least his best buddy when we were growing up. I figured if there was any chance that Lang was alive and back in the parish, Tommy Mason would know about it.”

Jena froze with a French fry halfway to her mouth. “And?”

He shook his head and focused on the pepper shaker, twisting it round and round with his fingertips. “Man, I have a bad, bad feeling. Tommy was nervous. He should’ve been pissed off, or sad, or shocked. But his hands shook like he’d been mainlining caffeine the minute I asked if he’d seen Lang.”

Jena set the French fry back on her plate. “You’ve gotta talk to Warren now.”

“I tried to call him as soon as I left Mason’s house, and he’s out of pocket until tonight. Billiot’s the senior agent on duty today, but I think he’d tell me to wait and talk to Warren before going to the sheriff.”

“You just ruined my appetite.” Jena made a face at her burger, wrapped it in three layers of napkins, and stuck it in her bag. “You’re probably right about Paul. It’s just a few more hours.”

A few more hours. That was the problem. A properly motivated criminal could do a lot of damage in a few hours.

“What if I’m right and it is Lang? If Mason calls him, he could get to Ceelie before I even have a chance to talk to Warren.” He shoved the pepper shaker toward its resting place near the window. “I screwed up by not talking to him in the beginning.”

Make that screwed up
again
.

“You’re missing something obvious,” Jena said.

“Not possible. Everybody knows I’m perfect.” At her frown, he shrugged. “What am I missing?”

“You’re worried about him going after Ceelie Savoie. Seems to me the one you should worry about him going after is the brother who’s threatening to expose him. You gotta watch your back, Broussard.”

Gentry looked out the window. She was right; it hadn’t occurred to him that Lang would come looking for him. “I should have tried to shoot him in the shoulder or leg three years ago, so he could’ve been apprehended. He’d be cooling his heels in a federal prison instead of maybe-not-dead and out committing murders.” Never mind the three years Gentry had spent tearing himself apart with guilt.

But Lang had been ready to take a shot at Gentry’s partner, betting his little brother wouldn’t shoot him, and he’d lost his gamble. Gentry had reacted like a law-enforcement officer, not a brother, and it had cost Lang his life.

Only maybe it hadn’t.

Jena pulled a flash drive from her bag and handed it to Gentry. “It’s easy to say you should’ve done things differently in hindsight, but you had no reason to think your brother survived the drug seizure in New Orleans. I read the files this morning. Every reporting agency agreed he couldn’t have survived your shots, and that your quick action is the only reason your partner survived.

“It says clearly: Langston Broussard died, and you deserved the commendation you got.”

“Unless he didn’t die.” Gentry sighed and tugged his fingers through his hair. He’d thrown the commendation away. He didn’t want to be reminded of that night, much less be rewarded for it, although he’d done what he had to and would do it again.

Gentry didn’t know how to feel about the possibility of Lang being alive. For the first time in three years, since Warren had offered him a lifeline in the form of a transfer to Region 6, Gentry wanted to drown himself in a fine bottle of whiskey. He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since moving back to Terrebonne.

A half hour later, with nothing else to do and his energy level bottoming out, Gentry took one last run past Ceelie’s empty driveway before heading to his little house in Montegut. He needed to feed his dog and master, Hoss, and make some attempt at sleeping.

The steps to the raised front door seemed steeper than usual, or maybe he was suffering the aftereffects of his all-night vigil on Whiskey Bayou. Several years of hurricane-driven flooding had forced most folks to raise their homes in an attempt to survive, but climbing those steps also added an extra fatigue factor after a long day and night.

Hoss met him at the door with a round of barking and ankle-biting. “Hey, stop that, boss man. Your needs were met.”

When he’d decided to stake out Ceelie’s cabin last night, he’d called his neighbor to feed and walk Hoss and refill the dog’s water bowl. Mrs. Vallieres’s brindle pit bull, Moose, was Hoss’s best friend, although Hoss knew he was the biggest badass on the block and bit Moose’s ankles, too. With Gentry’s unpredictable work hours, it was great having a neighbor he trusted to take care of his dog.