Images of Lindsay Faulkner flashed through her mind- lying on the floor like a broken doll; head swathed in bandages like a mummy.
The messages rolled out of the machine. A Mary Kay lady who had seen her on the news and wanted to compliment her on her complexion. A distant Doucet "cousin" who had seen her on the news and wondered if she could help him get a job as a deputy.
She moved out of the living room and around the perimeter of the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of order. The old refrigerator hummed and groaned. The alligator on the door grinned at her. The table was clean. She had swept her notes and files together before leaving this morning and stashed them in an old steamer trunk that sat in her living room-just in case.
The answering machine continued chattering. A.J.'s psychologist sister-in-law, Serena, wanted to offer a friendly ear if Annie needed to talk. Two hang-ups.
Back in the living room, Annie made the same slow, quiet circuit, looking for anything out of place, pausing at the French doors to double-check the lock. The gator coffee table seemed to watch her as she skirted past it.
"What's the deal, Alphonse?" Annie murmured.
Silence. Then Marcus Renard's voice spoke to her.
"Annie? This is Marcus. I wish you were home. I wanted to thank you again for coming over last night." The voice was too sincere, too familiar. "It means so much to know you care." More silence, and then he said, "Goodnight, Annie. I hope you're having a pleasant evening."
The skin crawled on the back of her neck. She crossed the room and started down the hall as the machine reported two more hang-up calls.
The bathroom was clear. Her workout room appeared undisturbed. The tension ebbed a bit. Maybe she was still just reacting to the shooting. Maybe she was just projecting her feelings of violation at Renard having left another gift for her. He should never have been able to get into her home. The doors had been locked.
Then she turned the corner and opened the door to her bedroom.
The stench of decay hit her full in the face and turned her stomach inside out.
Nailed to the wall above her bed in a position of crucifixion, its legs broken and bent, hung a dead black cat. Its skull had been crushed, its entrails spilled out of the body cavity onto the pillows below. And above it one word was painted in blood-cunt.
"People should get what they deserve, don't you think? Good or bad.
She deserves to be confronted with the consequences of her sins. She deserves to be punished. Like the others.
Betrayal is the least of her crimes.
Terror is the least of mine."
37
He lay in wait like a panther in the night, anger and anticipation contained by forced patience. The glowing blue numbers on the VCR clicked the minutes. 1:43. 1:44. The low purr of an engine approached, passed one end of the house, and slipped into the garage.
The rattle of keys. The kitchen door swung open. He waited.
Footfalls on tile. Footfalls muffled by carpet. He waited.
The footsteps passed by his hiding place.
"Quite the night owl, aren't you, Tulane?"
Donnie bolted at the sound of the voice, but in a heartbeat, Fourcade materialized from the gloom of the living room and slammed him into the wall.
"You lied to me, Donnie," he growled. "That's not a wise thing to do."
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Donnie blubbered, spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth. His breath reeked of scotch. The smell of sweat and fear penetrated his clothing.
Nick gave him a shake, banging his head back against the wall. "In case you haven't noticed, Donnie, me, I'm not a patient man. And you, you're not too bright. This is bad combination, no?"
Donnie shivered. His voice took on a whine. "What do you want from me, Fourcade?"
"Truth. You tell me you don't know Duval Marcotte. But Marcotte, he called you on the telephone tonight, didn't he?"
"I don't know him. I know of him," he stressed. "What if he called me? I can't control what other people do! Jesus, this is the perfect example-I did you a good turn and look how you treat me!"
"You don't like the way I treat you, Tulane?" Nick said, easing his weight back. "The way you lie to me, I was tempted to beat the shit out of you a long time ago. Put in the proper perspective, my restraint has been commendable. Perspective is the key to balance in life, c'est vrai?"
Donnie edged away from the wall. Fourcade blocked the route to the kitchen and garage. He glanced across the living room. The furniture was an obstacle course of black shadows against a dark background; the only illumination, silver streetlight leaching in through the sheer front curtains.
Nick smiled. "Don't you run away from me, Donnie. You'll only piss me off."
"I've already managed to do that."
"Yeah, but you ain't never seen me mad, mon ami. You don't wanna open that door, let the tiger out."
"You know, this is it, Fourcade," Donnie said. "I'm calling the cops this time. You can't just break into people's homes and harass them."
Nick leaned into the back of a tall recliner and turned the lamp beside it on low. Donnie had traded the Young Businessman look for Uptown Casuaclass="underline" jeans and a polo shirt with a small red crawfish embroidered on the left chest.
"Why are you wearing sunglasses?" Donnie asked. "It's the middle of the damn night."
Nick just smiled slowly.
"You sure you wanna do that, Donnie?" he said. "You wanna call the SO? Because, you know, you do that, then we're all gonna have to have this conversation downtown- about how you lied to me and what all about Marcotte sniffing around the realty, wanting that land what's tied up there.
"Me,"-he shrugged-"I'm just a friend who dropped by to chat. But you…" He shook his head sadly. "Tulane, you just got more and more explaining to do. You see how this looks-you dealing with Marcotte? I'll tell you: It looks like you had one hell of a motive to kill your wife."
"I never talked to Marcotte-"
"And now your wife's partner is attacked, left for dead-"
"I never laid a hand on Lindsay! I told Stokes, that son of a bitch-"
"It's just not looking good for you, Donnie." Nick moved away from the chair, hands resting at the waist of his jeans. "So, you gonna do something about that or what?"
"Do what?" Donnie said in exasperation.
"Did Marcotte contact you or the other way around?"
Donnie's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "He called me."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
Nick silently cursed his own stupidity. "That's the truth?" he demanded.
Donnie raised his right hand like a Boy Scout and closed his eyes, flinching. "My hand to God."
Nick grabbed his face with one big hand and squeezed as he backed him into another wall. "Look at me," he ordered. "Look at me! You he to God all you want, Tulane.
God, He's not here gonna kick your ass. You look at me and answer. Did you ever have contact with Duval Marcotte before Pam was killed?"
Donnie met his gaze. "No. Never."
And if that was the truth, then Nick had drawn Marcotte onto the scene himself. The obsession had blinded him to the possibilities. The possibility that Marcotte's interest would be piqued by Nick's ill-fated visit, and that Marcotte would be drawn to the scene like a lion to the smell of blood.
"He's the devil," he whispered, letting Donnie go. Marcotte was the devil, and he had all but invited the devil to play in his own backyard. "Don'tcha do business with the devil, Donnie," he murmured. "You'll end up in hell. One way or another."
He dropped his gaze to the floor, reflecting on his own stupidity. There was no changing what he'd done, nothing to do but deal with it. Slowly Donnie's muddy work boots came into focus.