It was rage that had driven those spikes through Pam Bichon's hands.
Rage was no stranger.
The light went out in the second-story window. Out of old habit, Nick checked his watch-9:47 P.M.-and scanned the street in both directions-all clear. Renard's five-year-old maroon Volvo sat in the narrow parking area between the Bowen amp; Briggs building and the antiques shop next door, an area poorly lit by a seventy-five-watt yellow bug light over the side door.
Renard would emerge from that door, climb in his car, and go home to his mother and his brother and his hobby of designing and building elaborate dollhouses. He would sleep in his bed a free man tonight and dream the sinister, euphoric dreams of someone who had gotten away with murder.
He wasn't the first.
"Protect and serve, pard. …"
The rage built…
"Case dismissed."
… and burned hotter…
"I still think about what he did to her…"
"I saw what he did to her… I still see it…"
"Don't you?"
Blood and moonlight, the flash of the knife, the smell of fear, the cries of agony, the ominous silence of death. The cold darkness as the phantom passed over.
The chill collided violently with the fire. The explosion pushed him to his feet.
"He's gonna walk, Nicky. He's gonna get away with murder. …"
Nick crossed the street, hugged the wall of the Bowen amp; Briggs building, out of sight from the elevated first-floor windows. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he hopped silently onto the side stoop, doused the bug light with a twist of his wrist, and dropped down on the far side of the steps.
He heard the door open, heard Renard mutter something under his breath, heard the click, click, click of the light switch being tried. Footsteps on the concrete stoop." A heavy sigh. The door closed.
He waited, still, invisible, until Renard's loafers hit the blacktop and he had stepped past Nick on his way to the Volvo.
"It's not over, Renard," he said.
The architect shied sideways. His face was waxy white, his eyes bulged like a pair of boiled eggs.
"You can't harass me this way, Fourcade," he said, the tremor in his voice mocking his attempt at bravado. "I have rights."
"Is that a fact?" Nick stepped forward, his gloved hands hanging loose at his sides. "What about Pam? She didn't have rights? You take her rights away, tcheue poule, and still you think you got rights?"
"I didn't do anything," Renard said, glancing nervously toward the street, looking for salvation that was nowhere in sight. "You don't have anything on me."
Nick advanced another step. "I got all I need on you, pou. I got the stink of you up my nose, you piece of shit."
Renard lifted a fist in front of him, shaking so badly his car keys rattled. "Leave me alone, Fourcade."
"Or what?"
"You're drunk."
"Yeah." A grin cut across his face like a scimitar. "I'm mean too. What you gonna do, call a cop?"
"Touch me and your career is over, Fourcade," Renard threatened, backing toward the Volvo. "Everybody knows about you. You got no business carrying a badge. You ought to be in jail."
"And you oughta be in hell."
"Based on what? Evidence you planted? That's nothing you haven't done before. You'll be the one in prison over this, not me. "
"That's what you think?" Nick murmured, advancing. "You think you can stalk a woman, torture her, kill her, and just walk away?"
The nightmare images of murder. The false memories of screams.
"You got nothing on me, Fourcade, and you never will have."
"Case dismissed."
"You're nothing but a drunk and a bully, and if you touch me, Fourcade, I swear, I'll ruin you."
"He's gonna walk, Nicky. He's gonna get away with murder. …"
A face from his past loomed up, an apparition floating beside Marcus Renard. A mocking face, a superior sneer.
"You'll never pin this on me, Detective. That's not the way the world works. She was just another whore…"
"You killed her, you son of a bitch," he muttered, not sure which demon he was talking to, the real or the imagined.
"You'll never prove it."
"You can't touch me. "
"He's gonna get away with murder…"
"The hell you say."
The rage burned through the fine thread of control. Emotion and action became one, and restraint was nowhere to be found as his fist smashed into Marcus Renard's face.
Annie walked out of Quik Pik with a pint of chocolate chip ice cream in a bag and a little mouse chewing at her conscience. She could have picked up the treat at the Corners, but she'd had her fill of people for one day, and a prolonged grilling by Uncle Sos was too much to face. The politics of the Renard case had him in a lather. She knew for a fact he had bet fifty dollars on the outcome of the evidentiary hearing-and lost. That, coupled with his opinion of her current platonic relationship with A.J., would have him in rare form tonight.
"Why you don' marry dat boy, 'tite chatte? Andre, he's a good boy, him. What's a matter wit' you, turnin' you purty nose up? You all the time chasin' you don' know what, espesces de tite dure."
Just the imagined haranguing was enough to amplify the thumping in her head. The whole idea of buying ice cream was to be nice to herself. She didn't want to think about A.J. or Renard or Pam Bichon or Fourcade.
She had heard the stories about Fourcade. The allegations of brutality, the rumors surrounding the unsolved case of a murdered teenage prostitute in the French Quarter, the unsubstantiated accusations of evidence tampering.
"Stay away from those shadows, 'Toinette… They'll suck the life outta you."
Good advice, but she couldn't take it if she wanted in on the case. They were a package deal, Fourcade and the murder. They seemed to go together a little too well. He was a scary son of a bitch.
She started the Jeep and turned toward the bayou, flicking the wipers on to cut the thick mist from the windshield. On the radio, Owen Onofrio was still prodding his listeners for reactions to the scene at the courthouse.
" Kent in Carencro, you're on line two."
"I think that judge oughta be unpoached-"
"You mean impeached?"
As she slowed for a stop sign, her eyes automatically scanned for traffic… and hit on a black Ford pickup with a dent in the driver's-side rear panel. Fourcade's truck, parked in front of a shoe repair place that had gone out of business two years ago.
Annie doused her lights and sat there, double-parked, engine grumbling. This was not a residential street. There were no businesses open. A third of the places on this stretch of road were vacant… but the offices of Bowen amp; Briggs were located two blocks south.
She put the Jeep in gear and crept forward. She could see the building that housed Bayou Realty and Bowen amp; Briggs. There were no lights. There were no cars parked on the street. The sheriff had pulled the surveillance on Renard after the hearing, hoping the press would back off. Renard had been working evenings for the same reason. Fourcade was parked two blocks away.
" 'One man's justice is another man's injustice… one man's wisdom another's folly.' "
Annie pulled to the curb in front of Robichaux Electric, cut the engine, and grabbed her big black flashlight from the debris on the floor behind the passenger's seat. Maybe Fourcade was taking it upon himself to continue the surveillance. But if that were the case, he wouldn't park two blocks away or leave his vehicle.