Читать книгу The Devil's Footprints - Amanda Stevens - Страница 8

Fourteen years later

Winter came late as it always did to the Deep South.

It arrived with only a whisper through the magnolia trees—a creeping shadow, an unwelcome presence easily ignored until a bitter cold front swept down from Canada, bringing freezing rain and record-breaking temperatures all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. Downed power lines, disrupted city services, massive pileups on the interstates—it was the kind of chaos New Orleans hadn’t known since Katrina.

Even without the inconveniences, Sarah DeLaune hated the cold. Earlier, as she listened to sleet pelt against her windows, she’d been gripped by a strange anxiety, and she found herself wondering how she would cope if summer never came again. If the winter storm raging outside her house was not merely an anomaly, but a permanent shift in the subtropical climate of the Gulf Coast.

As she fantasized about being trapped in a frozen universe, she’d slipped so deeply into the gloom of her own thoughts that even the Valium she’d taken mid-morning couldn’t dig her out.

She’d recognized the early stages of cabin fever, and in spite of the incessant warnings issued by the weather service, she’d gone out, precariously negotiating the icy streets to the French Quarter, where she found the seedy bar that had been her hangout of late warm and inviting.

The party atmosphere, along with a few drinks and half a Xanax, had nudged her toward a mellower outlook, and at midnight she’d gone home to bed, eventually sinking into the kind of bone-melting sleep she hadn’t known in months.

She’d been dreaming about her dead sister when the phone woke her up. She had no idea how long it had been ringing, because even after she opened her eyes, the sleep demons held her firmly in their grasp. Rachel’s disembodied head floated above the bed, and the barest hint of sulphur hung on the chilly air, then another piercing ring sent the nightmare skittering back to the darker realm of Sarah’s subconscious.

Her movements lethargic and dreamlike, she sat up in bed, willing her hand toward the receiver. But the caller had given up. In the ensuing quiet, Sarah could have sworn she heard the ghostly ticking of her alarm clock, even though she’d unplugged it days ago.

Leaning back against the headboard, she wondered how long she’d been asleep. She wanted to know the time, too, but not enough to get up and go find another clock. Nor did she check her phone to see who had been calling at so late an hour. A phone call after midnight was never a good thing.

Her first thought was that her ailing father had taken a turn for the worse. When she’d been there a week ago, the doctor had warned her that the old man had only a few months at best. The doctor had tried to break it to her gently, but he needn’t have worried. Sarah would hardly be grief-stricken when the time came. She and her father had never been close. Sometimes, when he looked at her with the same old contempt, she wondered why she even bothered. She could have drifted along quite happily in their estrangement if Michael—Dr. Garrett—hadn’t persuaded her to try and make amends before it was too late.

He liked to tell her that avoidance wasn’t a solution, but Sarah wasn’t so sure about that. Sweeping her problems under the rug had worked pretty well for her in the past. Might have continued to work, if the insomnia hadn’t forced her back into treatment. And now, thanks to her visits back home, the nightmares had also returned.

Everything is connected, Sarah.

Well, no kidding.

She jumped, realizing that she’d drifted off again. Sitting upright in bed with her eyes wide open. She hadn’t been asleep, but the last few moments—or had it been hours?—had passed without her awareness. Now the phone was ringing again.

Someone really wanted to get in touch with her.

Sarah waited a moment, hoping the caller would give up again. When that didn’t happen, she reached for the phone with a sigh, as she glanced out the window. Just beyond her tiny courtyard, the dead branches of an oak tree windmilled in a frigid gust.

“Hello?”

“Finally.”

She recognized the voice at once, and his exasperated tone was like the prick of a needle against her spine. How like Sean Kelton to think she had nothing better to do, even in the middle of the night, than wait for his call.

“Are you there?” he demanded.

“Yes, I’m here. What do you want?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

Her hand tightened on the phone. “What do you mean?”

“It took you forever to answer and now you won’t say anything. It’s like you’re there, but you’re not.”

“For God’s sake, it’s the middle of the night. I was asleep.”

Sean fell silent. “I’m sorry,” he said, after a bit. “I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.”

“It couldn’t wait until morning?”

“I didn’t know I’d wake you up,” he said defensively. “You never sleep unless…” His voice trailed off with the slightest edge of accusation. “What are you taking these days?”

“That’s none of your business. You gave up the privilege of poking around in my private life when you moved out.”

Hang up, a little voice urged her. Just press the button and make him go away.

His voice was so familiar, the regret it stirred was still so deep that Sarah’s free hand reached out for the pill bottle on her nightstand. Not finding it in the dark, her fingers scrambled across the wood surface.

“It may not be any of my business, but I still care about you, Sarah. I’ve been hearing things lately that worry me.”

“What kind of things?”

“You’ve been hanging out in some pretty rough places.”

“What, are you spying on me now?” The crab-like hand searched through the nightstand drawer and closed, like a claw, around a plastic medicine bottle. She cradled the phone against her shoulder as she twisted off the cap, then dry-swallowed half a Xanax. The bottle was alarmingly empty.

“I’m concerned about you. I know how you get when you drink. Especially if you’re still popping pills.”

“Oh, and how do I get, Sean? Why don’t you tell me?”

Another pause, one that seemed filled with his own regret. “You get reckless.”

“You used to like that about me.”

“There’s a difference between being reckless and self-destructive. Took me a while to figure that out, but I see it pretty clearly now.”

“Is that why you left?”

“You know why I left.”

No, she really didn’t, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to ask any more than it would let her chase him down the morning he walked out.

Looking back, Sarah realized that he had been trying to tell her for weeks that it was over, but she hadn’t wanted to hear it, so she refused to listen. She’d been out running errands that morning and had noticed something different about the house the moment she walked through the door. But she hadn’t stopped to consider what it might be. Instead, she’d gone into the kitchen for coffee and that was when she found his note propped against the sugar bowl.

You’re going to hate me for this, but I did what I had to do. If you want to talk, I’ll listen, but I don’t think there’s much left to say at this point.

Sarah had folded the note and slipped it into her pocket as she walked calmly into the bedroom, then opened the door of the closet as if trying not to set off a bomb.

Sean’s side was always a mess, but not that morning. His clothes were all gone. Suits, pants, shirts, everything. Nothing left, but a couple of hangers dangling from the rod and a crumpled shirt on the floor.

He’d cleaned out the bathroom, too, and as Sarah walked through the house, she saw what her subconscious had noted earlier. Missing CDs and books. His laptop. Favorite pictures.

Everything of his—gone.

A big chunk of her life—gone.

And now here he was, nearly a year later, calling her in the middle of the night.

“How long can you just sit there and not say anything?” he asked angrily.

“You’re the one who called me. I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Sarah—”

“Just get to the point, Sean. I’d like to go back to sleep sometime tonight.” Although she knew that wouldn’t happen. She was wide-awake now.

“All right,” he said in a resolved tone. “I’m calling because I need your help.”

Sarah was instantly suspicious. “I’m not in a generous mood these days.”

“It’s not personal. I need your help with a case. We’ve got a body covered in ink, but no ID. I was hoping you’d come have a look, see if you recognize the artist.”

Sarah clutched the phone, trying to ignore the surge of adrenaline that already had her heart thudding. She reminded herself that Sean Kelton never did anything without a motive. “Why me?”

“Because I couldn’t get your partner on the phone,” he admitted. “And because you know every tattoo artist in the city. Come on, you always loved working my cases with me. You were good at it, too.”

She smiled, in spite of herself.

“So will you do it? I really could use your help.”

“Would I have to come to the morgue?”

“We could wait and do it there, but I’d rather you come now. The body hasn’t been moved yet, and I’d like to get your take on something at the crime scene.”

“I’m a civilian, Sean. They’re not going to let me waltz through a police barricade without some kind of credentials.”

He hesitated. “Yeah, that could be a problem, but I’ll take care of it. I’m sending a cruiser to pick you up. It’s getting nasty out here. I haven’t seen an ice storm like this since I was a kid.”

In spite of her protests, Sarah was already scrambling out of bed, reaching for a pair of clean jeans from the stack on her dresser. An urgency she couldn’t explain drove her, but her movements were still sluggish and it seemed to take forever to locate a shirt.

“How long until my ride gets here?”

“A couple of minutes.”

A couple of minutes.

Which meant he’d dispatched the car before he called…or else the crime scene was that close to her house.

“Sarah DeLaune?”

The uniformed officer standing on her porch was young, probably around twenty-five, with a broad, pleasant face and twinkling blue eyes. He touched the brim of his cap. “Lieutenant Kelton sent me to pick you up, ma’am.”

“I’m almost ready—” She glanced at his name tag. “Officer Parks. Just give me a second to grab a coat and find my keys. You can come in out of the cold if you want.”

“Thanks just the same. I’ll go wait in the car, keep the heater running.”

“Suit yourself.”

Sarah left the front door open as she shrugged into the wool jacket and gloves she’d dug out of the back of her closet when the cold front hit. A frigid wind blew through the room, lifting the edges of the newspaper on the coffee table.

The paper had been there for a couple of days now, turned to an article about a missing Shreveport woman named Holly Jessup. Sarah didn’t know her, but for some reason, she couldn’t get the name out of her head.

Holly…Jessup.

Grabbing her keys from the hall table, Sarah stepped out on the porch. The icy wind cut through her blue jeans as she struggled with the lock. Then she turned and hesitated at the edge of the porch before negotiating the frozen steps.

Snow flurries whirled over the street and drifted like feathers down to the lawn. Her tiny front yard was white and glistening, a winter wonderland that would vanish as soon as the sun came up.

Sarah hated the cold, but even she could appreciate the rarity of a snowfall in New Orleans. It happened maybe once every thirty years. She wanted to take a moment to enjoy the pristine tranquility of the night, but instead she found herself scouring the icy darkness, searching for the evil that had been awakened by her nightmare.

Ashe Cain.

No matter where she went or what she did, he was always there—watching, waiting, creeping so close at times she could smell the death scent he wore like cologne.

He’d gone away after Rachel’s death, but Sarah’s dreams always brought him back. He was out there tonight. She could feel him.

A shudder gripped her, a cold, black terror. Sarah wanted nothing more than to retreat into her house, to lock herself inside until the nightmare faded, until Ashe Cain had crawled back into the shadows of her past.

Shivering, she forced herself down the porch steps and across the frozen yard to the curb. Officer Parks got out of the car and came around to open her door.

“You didn’t have to get back out,” she said. “I’m perfectly capable of opening my own door.”

“Detective Kelton made it real clear I was to take good care of you.”

“Oh, he did?”

Parks grinned at her tone. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon not get on his bad side.”

He waited for her to climb inside, then closed the door behind her. A moment later, he slid behind the wheel and flashed another grin. They were probably close in age, but the cop’s boyish looks and reverent demeanor made him seem much younger.

Sarah tugged off a glove and placed her hand over the heater vent. “Are you sure this thing is working?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s going full blast.”

Then why was she still so cold?

Maybe because the bone chill had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with her ultimate destination.

An icy sludge crawled through Sarah’s veins. She was on her way to a crime scene to examine tattoos on a dead woman. The newspaper article suddenly came back to her, and she wondered again at the familiarity of the missing woman’s name.

Holly Jessup.

Where had she heard it before?

“Ma’am?”

She turned. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You seemed a little out of it there for a minute.”

“Did I?” Sarah shrugged. “I was just thinking how much I hate the cold.”

He gave a low chuckle. “You call this cold? Trust me, you don’t know cold until you’ve spent a winter on Lake Michigan.”

“You’re from Chicago?”

“Slidell. But I went north to stay with my grandma when I was a kid.”

“Why’d you come back down here?”

“Why do you think? I couldn’t stand the cold.”

He was smiling at her again, and there was enough ambient light in the car that Sarah could see the brief flare of attraction in his eyes. She wondered how long his interest would hold once he got to know her. She’d always had the ability to frighten off even the more ardent admirers.

Sean had been the exception. He’d lasted longer than most. But in the end, he couldn’t take it, either. He could put up with the pills but not the secrets.

Parks nodded toward her seat belt. “You might want to buckle up. We’re not going far, but the streets are like glass. If we skid into a light pole, I don’t want you going through the windshield.”

“I don’t want that, either.” Sarah fastened the shoulder harness, then put her hands back up to the vent. She couldn’t seem to stop shivering. “Where exactly are we headed?”

“The body was found at a vacant house on Elysian Fields.”

Just a few blocks from Sarah’s place on North Rampart.

“Do you suppose that’s the killer’s idea of a joke?” she said dryly.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Greek mythology. Elysian Fields. The final resting place for the souls of the heroic and virtuous.”

Parks gave her an uneasy glance. “Ma’am, I don’t think that’s the kind of thing this guy’s into.”