The lane curved like a capricious river for a quarter of a mile. When the old house loomed into view, it was like seeing an old friend to whom the years hadn't been kind. The two-story frame had a wide front porch and tall, narrow windows. It had been built at the turn of the century and added onto a dozen times over the decades, giving it the haphazard look of a structure that had been thrown together. The house had never been pretty. Neglect had made it downright unsightly. The wood siding that had once been as white as winter frost was weathered gray and warped from the elements. The windows were grimy and dull with neglect. The shingles on the roof curled like palsied fingers.
Nick wondered if his father had fared any better. If the years had been kinder, the storms of his life gentler. If the Alzheimer's was as bad as Mike Pequinot had intimated.
On either side of the lane, fields that had yielded a hundred years of. sugarcane and cotton stood barren and overgrown with weeds as tall as a man. The Ford tractor Dutch had bought used twenty years ago sat in the side yard at a cockeyed angle, its right rear tire as flat as the Louisiana countryside.
"Home sweet home," he muttered as he took the concrete steps to the porch. The wooden planks creaked as he crossed to the front door. Setting the duffel at his feet, he knocked and tried hard to convince himself he'd' done the right thing by coming back.
A minute ticked by before the door groaned and slowly
opened. An. instant later he found himself looking at a man who was far too old to be his father. Eyes as dark as molasses swept down to his boots, then back to his face to glare. "T' as du gout." You've got a lot of nerve.
The years had been as brutal to Dutch Bastille as they had the house. Eyes that had once been as sharp as a cane knife were rheumy and bloodshot. Skin that had once lain like fine leather over strongly boned features now sagged from jutting cheekbones. Hair that had once been as black as a raven's breast had faded to a sallow color that was part gray, part yellow. With a two days' growth of white beard, he looked washed out and pissed off and none too pleased to see his only son.
"Hello to you, too, Pop."
Dutch made a sound that was part growl, part disgust. "I was wondering when you were going to show up."
Nick stared at him, not sure if he was more taken aback by his father's appearance or the rancor in his voice. He hadn't expected a warm welcome, but he hadn't expected open hostility either. At least not right off the bat. "The bus ride took a while," he said. "A lot of stops along the way."
"You look like a goddamn convict."
Nick looked away, focused on the overgrown fields. "I guess I do."
Dutch's eyes landed on his' forearms. "Why the hell did you go and get yourself tattooed like that? You think anyone's going to hire you with your arms tattooed like some carnival freak?"
"Just passing time.”
"I guess you figure you haven't already embarrassed me enough, huh?"
"Nobody's trying to embarrass you, Pop."
Dutch cackled, the sound of a bitter old man. "You've been an embarrassment to me since the day you took a match to that fancy restaurant of yours. You finally get a break, a chance to make something of yourself, and you fuck it up. Don't that sound familiar?" he said sarcastically. "I guess you've always been your mama's boy, though, haven't you?"
Nick met his gaze, felt a flare of what he could only describe as hatred burn deep in his chest. Of all the emotions he was feeling at the moment, that he could hate his own father when he hadn't seen him in eighteen years hurt a lot more than he wanted to admit. "I might be guilty of a lot of things, but arson isn't one of them."
"I lost my job at the mill because of that stunt you pulled."
Nick looked at him closely, wondering how much of the bitterness had to do with honest disappointment and how much was a result of the Alzheimer's disease. "You lost your job because of your memory, Pop."
"That's bullshit. My memory's as good as it ever was. This is all political. Those bastards wanted my job. Thanks to you, I got the boot."
Suddenly feeling very tired, Nick lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I'm not going to argue with you about your job. Pop. If you want me to leave. just say so. There's a halfway house in New Orleans I can go to. I just thought.. . after eighteen years, you might want to ... " For the life of him, he couldn't find the words to finish the sentence.
Growling like an old bear, Dutch swung open the door and stepped aside. "You may as well stay here. Just don't think you're going to sit on your ass while I work my tail off around this dump."
Nick picked up his duffel. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said and stepped inside.
# # #
Sheryl Crow was belting out a tune about leaving Las Vegas when Nat took the Mustang across the old steel bridge that spanned the muddy water of the Bellerose River. She slowed for a curve in the road, then made a quick left onto the gravel driveway. The two-story Victorian hadn't changed in the three years she'd been away, and the utter sameness of it shook her. The wraparound front porch still beckoned one to sit on the swing and sip sweet tea. At the dormer window, she could see the frilly curtains she'd hung a lifetime ago. In the front yard, the magnolia she'd planted the year Kyle was born was still in bloom, and it shocked her anew that the tree had outlived her son.
In the last six months Nat had made this pilgrimage a thousand times in her mind. She'd seen the house as it stood now, as Southern and pretty as a belle. A snazzy For Sale sign in the front yard touted the word Reduced in big red letters. The house had been on the market for over a year now. According to the real estate agent, lots of people had looked, but not a single offer had been made. She supposed people just couldn't get comfortable with the idea of living in a house where a brutal double murder had taken place. Especially when the killer had never been caught . . .
Trying not to think about that, she parked the Mustang and slid from the car. She felt as if she were walking through a void as she crossed to the porch and took the steps to the door. She knew it would be locked but tried the knob anyway, found it secure. Leaving the porch, she took the flagstone walkway to the rear of the house. The backyard was mostly wooded. At one time, there had been a path through the trees that led to the river a quarter mile away. She and Ward and Kyle had walked that path countless times-for swimming or fishing or just to watch the water meander through the forest. Nat could still make out the mouth of the path, but the trail itself was overgrown with tall grass, wild honeysuckle, and tangled kudzu.
She crossed to the French doors. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached for the key in the porch light, exactly where the realtor had said he would leave it. He'd been more curious than disappointed when Nat had taken the place off the market. The realtor had asked about her plans, but Nat hadn't elaborated, she figured the less people knew about why she was back, the better off she'd be.
The house smelled of stale air and mildew. Hardwood floors that had once been glossy and waxed were now coated with dust. To her right was the kitchen with its speckled granite countertops, glossy oak cabinets, and stainless steel appliances. Straight ahead the living room stood in the shadows of late afternoon.
Nat hadn't set foot in the house since the night her life had been tom apart by violence, and it was bizarre being back now. She'd almost expected to see the place as it had been three years ago. Full of laughter and life and the dreams of people who'd been utterly certain the future held good things for them. But the house was as silent and hollow as her heart.
Dr. Pettigrew had warned her against returning so soon. He'd told her that while her physical recovery had progressed better than expected, her psychological recovery could take longer. He'd told her that pushing herself too hard, too soon, could set her back. But Nat had already lost three years of her life. She'd lost her family. Her heart. She'd nearly lost her mind.
Her legs were shaking when she entered the living room. Someone had draped the furniture with sheets, and for a moment the room
seemed to be filled with ghosts. Annoyed with herself for letting her imagination run amok, she walked quickly through the room, yanking the sheets from each piece of furniture as she passed. Dust motes exploded as the sofa and chair and occasional tables appeared. She crossed to the foyer and jerked the sheet from the console table. She stared down at the glass top where some kind soul had placed the framed photographs facedown. And even though Nat knew better than to look, she remembered each photograph with startling clarity, as if she'd placed them on that table just yesterday. Kyle on his rocking horse when he was three years old. She and Ward on their wedding day, their faces young and beaming with happiness. Ward and Kyle in his fishing boat for Kyle's first fishing expedition. He'd been six years old and so kindhearted he hadn't been able to bait the hook...
For a full minute she stood there. aware that her heart was beating too fast. Not wanting to shatter the equanimity she had struggled so hard to achieve, she left the photographs facedown and backed away from the table. Behind her were the stairs. Turning, she took the steps two at a time to the second level.
Four doors opened to the hall. She started down the hall at a determined clip, opening doors as she went In the bathroom, she strode across the tile floor and flung open the window. The house needed air and light and life. She could feel the memories pressing down on her as she crossed to the guest room and did the same. She tried hard to shut out the ghosts, but they were powerful and encroached on her like an invading army.
In her mind's eye she saw Kyle running down the hall, his bare feet slapping against the wood floor. His sweet voice echoing in the hall, "Mommy! Daddy's home!"
Nat paused at the door to the room she and Ward had once shared. The place where they'd talked and laughed and made it child together. Not giving herself time to think, she shoved open the door. Ghosts scurried out of sight, but she knew they were there. She could feel their presence as surely as she felt the hot slash of grief.
The room was vacant and sullen, the mattress bare. A layer of dust had collected atop the dresser and chest. From where she' stood, she could see into the bathroom. Same off-white tile. Same etched-glass shower door. Everything was the same, less the souls of the people who'd once made the house a home.
She left the master bedroom and crossed the hall to Kyle's room. She shoved open the door and for an instant saw the room as it had been three years ago. A twin bed draped with Spiderman sheets and piled high with stuffed animals. The antique desk that had once been Ward's. A toy box in the shape of a boat. The scent of cedar from the hamster cage...
The sudden pang of grief took her breath. Some days she still couldn't believe he was gone. Couldn't believe the merciful God she'd always known would be so cruel as to take him away from her. The child she'd loved more than her own life. But Nat knew it hadn't been the Lord who'd taken him from her. The thought gave her the strength 'she needed to blink back tears she was determined not to cry. No, she thought darkly, she hadn't come back here to cry. She'd done enough grieving in the last three years to last a lifetime. Nat had returned to Bellerose to find a killer.
Taking a steadying breath, she walked over to the window that looked out over the backyard. It was open a couple of inches, probably by the realtor in an attempt to circulate air. Nat could hear the crickets chirping, the incessant buzz of the cicadas, and the song of a lone mockingbird. Signs of life that she badly needed to hear at that moment.
Spreading the curtains, she knelt and opened the window the rest of the way. Her eyes went immediately to the screen. The police report indicated the screen had been cut. Sure enough, just above the latch. a neat four-inch slit had been cut into the screen. She studied the curved edges of the hole, realized it was just big enough for a hand to reach inside and unlatch the lock.
She ran her fingertip along the edge of the slit. "How did you cut the screen from the inside, you son of a bitch?" she whispered.
Straightening, she left the bedroom and went downstairs and out the front door. She unloaded her suitcase from the trunk, snagged her purse and briefcase off the seat, and lugged everything inside. She set the suitcase by the stairs, then carried her bag and briefcase to the dining room table. Pulling out the manila folder, she opened it and looked down at the notes written in a painfully familiar childlike scrawl.
Mommy.
Bad man came in ar house n hurted me an daddy.
kill Branden to.
gona hurt more kidz
Make him stop.
hell hurt you to
monster in the woods
bad man take ricky. kill again. hurry.
Nat studied the third note she'd received. It had taken quite a bit of research, but she'd finally figured out the note was referring to Brandon Bastille, a little boy who'd drowned two years earlier. His death had been ruled an accident by the parish coroner's office. But Nat knew it was no accident.
The problem was going to be proving it.
Chapter 3
The Bastille place sat on river bottomland at the north end of the bayou where the soil was as black and rich as Texas oil. Nat stopped the Mustang at the end of the lane and stared at the faded letters on the battered mailbox, trying hard to convince herself she was doing the right thing.
She'd spent the last six months planning every detail of her trip back to Bellerose. Thanks to the Internet and newspaper archives, researching Brandon Bastille's so-called accidental drowning had been relatively easy. Having grown up in Bellerose, Nat knew of Nick Bastille. She knew he'd grown up poor. Knew his father was a cotton farmer and they still spoke Cajun French. But she and Nick hadn't run in the same circles. He'd left Bellerose for New Orleans some eighteen years ago, and their paths had never crossed.
It had been front-page news when he'd been sent to Angola State Prison. It had also made the front page when he'd been released just two days ago. A phone call to the local police department had confirmed that he was returning to Bellerose. People had a right to know if there was going to be an ex-con in their midst, after all. And so Nat had timed her pilgrimage back to coincide with his.
God help us both, she thought and turned the Mustang into the lane.
When she'd been safe in her room at the River Oaks Convalescent Home in Baton Rouge, approaching Nick Bastille had seemed like the most logical place to begin. Now that she was here, the nerves she'd been feeling all day had edged into a very bad case of uncertainty. It wasn't going to be easy convincing a man his son--a child whose death had been ruled accidental by the parish coroner--had been murdered.
A plume of white dust billowed as she sped toward the house. The place looked like the dozens of other farms in the area that had fallen upon hard times. The rail fence was badly in need of paint. The fields on either side of the lane were barren and riddled with milkweed and thistle and a hundred other weed varieties she couldn't name. A few scraggly stalks of last year's sugarcane quivered in the breeze.
The lane curved, and a moment later a two-story frame house loomed into view. It had once been white, but the paint had long since fallen victim to the elements. Nat spotted the Chevy pickup near the barn, and the reality of what she was about to do sent another jolt of uncertainty through her. Not giving herself time to rethink her decision to do this, she parked next to the truck and started toward the house. She'd rehearsed her lines a thousand times in the last weeks. She'd drilled them into her brain along with the knowledge that if she was going to get the job done she would have to keep her emotions out of it.
But as she took the crumbling steps and crossed to the door, all of her carefully rehearsed lines stuck in her throat like shards of glass. Her heart was beating hard and fast against her ribs as she rapped on the screen door with her knuckles. The urge to hightail it back to her car was powerful, but Nat had long since given up on the idea of running away.
She'd just rallied the nerve to knock a second time when the door swung open, and she found herself staring at Nick Bastille. Wearing nothing more than a pair of low-rise
jeans and a snarl, he was the epitome of primal male beauty. His piercing gaze was a lot more hostile than friendly. Heavy brows rode low over eyes that were as dark and mysterious as the bayou at midnight. His cheekbones were high, the planes of his face sharply angled. His jaw sported a day's growth of black stubble. He looked as hard and chiseled as a man could be and not be carved from stone.
As if of their own accord, her eyes did a quick sweep down the front of him. He was well over six feet tall, but for the effect he was having on her he might as well been the size of a mountain. His bare chest revealed pectorals that were rounded with muscle and sprinkled generously with black hair. His abdomen was as hard and flat as a frozen pond in winter. His arms were etched with the green-blue ink of intricate tattoos, reminding her that he was an ex-con, that she should be careful when dealing with him.
Still, something inside her stirred at the utter maleness of him. A rousing that was as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome. Nat had never been one to ogle men. She'd never been impressed by such topical things as physical attributes. But she wasn't so dead inside that she didn't acknowledge the fact that this man oozed sex appeal. That her body had noticed. And that a wave of heat was slowly making its way up her body and into her face.
That she was capable of feeling anything at all stunned her. Up until this moment, she'd thought that part of her was dead. Torn from her heart by grief and the loss of the only man she had ever loved.
"You lost, little girl?”
The smooth-as-whiskey drawl seemed incongruous with the rest of him, but Nat knew better than to be taken in by the refined voice. This man was about as refined as a pack of wild dogs. "Are you Nick Bastille?"
Folding his arms across his bare chest, he leaned against the jamb, looking amused. "You selling something?”