Читать книгу A Father's Duty - Joanna Wayne - Страница 12

“Is this about Lily?” Burke asked as he closed the door.

“Am I that transparent?”

“You are now that I know what it’s like to be a father. Hope this doesn’t mean you got bad news.”

“No news. I comb the Quarter every night, ask questions, search the crack houses and dark alleyways. There’s no sign of her, and if anyone knows where she is, they’re not talking.”

“I won’t even claim to know how hard this must be on you, Tanner. If there’s anything I can do…”

“I don’t know what it would be. I’m not even certain she’s in the area anymore.”

“You want to sit down?” Burke asked.

Tanner shook his head. “I’d rather just say what I have to say and go.”

“Why do I have the feeling this isn’t something I’m going to like hearing?”

Tanner exhaled slowly, tempted to walk away and let things ride, but it wasn’t fair to anyone, most of all Conrad Burke. “You said you expect a hundred percent from all of us. I’ve got no quarrel with that. It’s the pledge I made when I signed on with you. But I can’t give it. I spend at least half my time searching for Lily. That’s just the way it is right now. I don’t think I can change that.”

“You wouldn’t be the kind of guy I’d choose for my team if you could.”

Tanner stuffed his hands in his pockets. This was tough, but putting it off wouldn’t make it any easier. “You need every man pulling his weight. I’m not pulling mine. I don’t know what else to do but resign from New Orleans Confidential.”

“Is this what you want to do?”

“No. Hell, no! I want to be out there. I want to be in the thick of the action. I want to get Senegal and Gaspard so bad I can taste it. And I want to be on the front line when we take down those scorpion-tattooed gorillas.”

Burke drew his lips into a straight, taut line and nodded slowly. Tanner felt the finality of his association with Burke and the Confidential team burn in his gut.

“It’s my loss,” Tanner admitted, “but finding my daughter has to come first.”

“We need you on the team, Tanner. I specifically picked you for what you have to offer. You’re tough and tenacious and loyal to the core.”

“I could come back when this is over, when I know Lily is safe.”

Conrad shook his head. “No. This isn’t the kind of situation a man can drop in and out of. You’re one of us or you’re not.”

“I understand.”

“I don’t think you do, Tanner. I’ll lose a good man if I have to, but not like this, especially when I don’t see your searching for Lily as a problem. While you’re out in the streets and crack houses and dark alleys looking for a lead on Lily, just keep your eyes and ears open for information on the Nilia rebels. I know you’re already doing that.”

“You’re sure?” Tanner asked, not wanting a reprieve now only to have to deal with this later.

“I’m sure.”

“The other guys may have a problem with it.”

“I doubt it, but if they do, they can take it up with me.”

“What about Bartley?” Tanner asked.

“What about him?”

“I’m not going to be able to keep an eye on him all the time if I’m out searching for Lily.”

“I didn’t pair Mason Bartley with you for you to keep an eye on him.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No. I hired him because I believe he’s the man for the job.”

“A leopard doesn’t change his spots.”

“That’s true of leopards, but men can and do change.”

Burke threw his arm around Tanner’s shoulder. “Do what you have to. In the end, that’s the measure of a man.”

“Thanks.” Tanner’s fears for Lily were just as strong as he walked over and opened the door, but the clenching in his stomach had eased. He was still a Confidential agent. He was still a member of the team.

LILY HARRISON leaned against the trunk of a cypress tree, so weak she could barely stand. She was hot and tired and so very hungry. She’d kill right now for fish and chips the way Bertoli’s on Edgeware Road made them. All crispy and golden. And water, clean, cold water that was fit to drink and not this murky mess she was standing in.

She closed her eyes and pretended she was back home in her own bed where the sheets always smelled of lemon and the down duvet was soft as a cloud.

Something swished in the ankle-deep water and she forgot the dream and took off running again. It was more difficult now. Her legs ached and her lungs burned as if someone were holding them to a torch, but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t let the two monsters catch her. Dying in the swamp, even being eaten by alligators, would be far better than the way they’d kill her.

She’d give anything to have never hopped on that bloody plane to New Orleans. To have never gotten caught up in the underage prostitution ring that had led to her witnessing that grisly double murder in the back alley of the bordello. Now Lily was fleeing for her life from two mob hit men, and she feared it was only a matter of time before they caught up with her again.

Something sharp dug into the heel of her right foot. The pain went all through like some kind of electrical charge. Tears burned and slid down her cheeks, but she managed to hold in the scream that tore at her throat.

All she’d wanted to do was come to the States and get to know her father. But Mum had been right. America was a frightening place. And her father didn’t want her in his life. That hurt a hundred times more than the pain and fear that was driving her over the edge.

And still she ran, fighting to stay a step ahead of death at the hands of madmen.

GEORGETTE SAT UP in bed and clutched her chest. She couldn’t see anything in the blackness of the room, but she could hear sucking noises behind her, footsteps in the swamp, coming closer and closer.

She kicked at the sheets, and all but fell out of bed before reality checked in enough that she could regain her equilibrium. She reached for the lamp and flicked it on, knocking over a glass of water she’d left on the bedside table.

She grabbed a handful of tissues and soaked up the water, though her mind was drifting back to the nightmare she’d been caught in minutes ago.

The same young woman who’d been haunting her while she was awake had now taken over her mind while she slept. Georgette had dealt with these crazy psychic experiences all her life, but never had they come at her with this frequency or intensity.

She wondered if this was what it was like for her mother and grandmother. Had they once fought it the way she did, only to finally give up and accept this as part of their lives?

No. Her grandmother maybe, but not her mother. Isabella Delacroix embraced the gift like a lover. It was Isabella’s life. It would never be Georgette’s. Yet Georgette couldn’t shake the fear as she walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk. She’d walked away from the gift every time before, but something was different this time.

Her mother would probably know why. But asking her mother would mean going back to the house she hated and admitting that the curse was claiming control over at least part of her life.

She took her milk to the balcony. Her condominium was on the top floor of a converted warehouse just a few blocks off the Mississippi River. The view from the balcony was magnificent, but all Georgette could see tonight was a swamp and a young blond woman running for her life.

Damn the gift and damn Tanner Harrison for forcing this on her. If he was involved with this young woman in any way, she’d find out and she’d make him pay. She’d find out at any cost.

Which meant that, as much as she dreaded it, she’d have to make a visit to Isabella Delacroix.

“YOU GOT A DOLLAR, mister? I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast, and I’m real hungry.”

“Hungry, are you?” The guy took the dirty hand Becky held out to him and pulled her beneath the streetlight. He shoved her mass of thick, black curls away from her face. “What’s your name?”

“Are you a cop?”

“A cop? Whatever gave you that idea? I’m a businessman, and I may be able to help you.”

“Hmmp. Not a lot of people looking to help me, but my name’s Becky Lane.”

“Are you from around here?”

“What’s that got to do with anything. I stay here now.”

“I see. Do you have any family here?”

“You sure ask questions like a cop.”

“I can assure you that I’m not in law enforcement.” He looked her over, from top to bottom and up again. “You may be exactly the kind of girl who can do well in my business.”

Becky studied the man, afraid of what he might really want from her. He was a honky, tall and skinny, with slicked-back black hair that looked as if he’d soaked it in motor oil. The man gave her the creeps, but he was dressed nice, and she was hungry.

“I just need a few dollars or whatever you can spare,” she said.

“What you need is a job, so you can buy your own food and some nice clothes. A young lady has needs.”

“What kind of job are you talking about? I’m not a hooker, you know.”

“A hooker? Such a disgusting term. I don’t deal in disgusting. I deal in class.”

“How old would I have to be to get this job?”

“Eighteen would be old enough. You look eighteen to me.”

She was barely sixteen, though she did look eighteen when she wore lipstick and had her hair fixed. She didn’t mind lying about her age, as long as he didn’t want some kind of proof. “I’m eighteen, but I don’t have a driver’s license or anything like that.”

“You won’t need to drive in this job.” He led her to the circle of illumination beneath a streetlight, then tugged on her blouse, pulling it to the back so that the fabric fit tight around her breasts. “You have a nice shape and nice skin,” he said, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “Men like light-brown skin when it’s as soft as yours. We’d have to do something with that hair, of course, and you’ll need decent clothes, something expensive. Have you ever worn silk?”

She didn’t answer, just stared down at her worn, dirty jeans and stained sneakers.

“I’m talking high-class, Becky. Very high-class. No gutter talk. No gutter clothes. No gutter ways. Just high-class dancing, and being friendly. You’re a friendly girl. I can tell. This will come naturally to you.”

“When would I start?”

“We’ll talk about that later. In the meantime, let me take you to see a friend of mine. She’ll see that you get a good meal and have a nice bed to sleep in tonight. The rest of this can wait until tomorrow.”

Food and a bed. She wasn’t about to turn that down. As for the job, she’d make up her mind about that later. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Mr. Gaspard.”

“That’s a nice name.” And so far he seemed like a really nice man. She hadn’t met too many of those. Maybe New Orleans would be the place where her life got turned around for good.

GEORGETTE PARKED her beige sedan in front of the shotgun house in old Algiers. Some guys next door were working on their car in the street, their jeans hanging so low on their hips, she could see the band of yellowed underwear at their waist. They were shirtless and shoeless, and one was gulping down a can of beer.

He finished it, crushed the can in his hands and tossed it to the curb as she got out of the car and started up the front walk to her mother’s house. Some parts of old Algiers had experienced a rebirth over the last few years. The historic old houses had been restored and the yards and streets cleaned up. They’d started neighborhood watches and gotten rid of the run-down vacant houses frequented by addicts looking for a place to flop.

A neighborhood like that would have tossed Isabella Delacroix out.

The old feelings were potent as Georgette climbed the front steps and knocked on the door. It had been over a year since she’d seen her mother and then it had been at a café in the Quarter at Isabella’s request. It had been five years since Georgette had been in this house. That had been the night her grandmother had died.

Georgette lifted her hand to knock again, then dropped it to her side. She couldn’t do this. She absolutely couldn’t be drawn back into curses and gris gris and mysterious spells. She turned and had reached the steps when she heard the door open behind her.

“Georgette.”

Her mother’s voice crawled under her skin the way it always did. It was lyrical and haunting, as much a part of who and what Isabella was as the bright colors she wore and the bracelets and earrings that jingled when she walked.

Georgette took a deep breath, then turned to face her mother. “Hello, Momma.”

“Come in, Georgette. Please. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”

Georgette looked for words but didn’t find them, so she just walked to the open door and stepped inside. Isabella hugged her then stepped away and started straightening some magazines on a small table. The house hadn’t changed. The front room was where her mother did business. Telling fortunes, reading tarot cards, giving psychic advice. As always, it smelled of incense and spices, and was dimly lit by lamps whose shades were draped with red silk cloths. Music played in the background, an aria from an unfamiliar opera.

“Come with me,” Isabella said. “Let me look at you under the bright light.”

Georgette followed her into the small kitchen at the back of the house. It was exactly the same as it had been five years ago. The appliances were old but clean, and the small wooden table and chairs were the ones Isabella had bought in a second-hand furniture store on Magazine Street when they’d first moved here from down the bayou.

Charcoal drawings Georgette had done in high school were thumbtacked to the wall next to the refrigerator, and an eight-by-ten framed picture of Georgette in her cap and gown hung on the wall behind the table. It had been taken the day she’d graduated from Tulane Law School.

Isabella ran her fingers through Georgette’s shoulder-length hair, then cradled her cheeks in her hands as if she were a small child. “You are so beautiful. You look like your grandmother did in her old pictures. You have the same hair. Silky and black as pure onyx.”

“You have the same hair, Momma.”

“Maybe once. I don’t remember. Are you hungry? I could fix us some lunch. I have an appointment at two, but nothing before then. That gives us a whole hour and a half to visit.”

Far more time than Georgette planned to be here. “I’m not hungry,” she said, “but fix something for yourself if you like. We can talk while you eat.”

“I’ll eat a bite later, but I’ll make us some herbal tea. It’s good for the tempers.”

They didn’t talk as Isabella filled the kettle and adjusted the flame on the front burner of the gas range. When she finished with that, she dropped two tea bags into a teapot and took two delicate china cups from the cabinet.

“I wish you’d come to see me just because you wanted to,” she said, taking the chair closer to Georgette, “but I think it’s something much darker that brings you here.”

“It is.” Georgette spread her hands on the table. “I’ve been seeing images of a young woman who appears to be in danger.”

“Is it someone you know?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“What do you see in the revelations?”

“The first time she had her hands and feet tied, but last night she was in a swamp. She’s running. I think someone must be chasing her but I only see the young woman.”

“She’s calling out to you.”

“Then why aren’t things clearer?”

“It’s the way of the gift. It only shows what it wants to show. When did the visions start to appear?”

“A few nights ago. I’d gone to the hospital to see a prostitute who’d been assaulted. She died while I was there.”

“So you think the images are tied to the victim?”

“I’m not sure. The first time they appeared was when I talked to the man who claimed he had found her and called an ambulance.”

“You sound as if you don’t believe him.”

“I don’t know what to believe. I saw him again a few days later and the images returned.”

“Do the images only materialize when you’re with this man?”

“No. Last night…” Her voice trailed off as the images shadowed her mind.

“What happened last night?”

“I had a nightmare. I was running through a swamp and when I woke my heart was pounding so I was afraid I might have a stroke or a heart attack.”

“You are experiencing her fear.”

“So what do I do to make the images stop?”

“Find a way to help the woman.”

“How can I? I don’t know who she is or where she is.”

“Go back to the man and tell him what you see. Demand that he tell you the truth.”

“I can’t do that, Momma. I’m a junior prosecutor. I can’t go around telling people about visions. They’ll think I’m …”

“Crazy as me?” Isabella reached over and put her hands on top of Georgette’s. “If I could have, I would have spared you this anguish, Georgette, but withholding the gift isn’t within my power. You have it. You must learn to live with it.”

The teakettle started to whistle. Isabella went to the range and poured the water over the two tea bags. Her long skirt swayed with her hips and the charms dangling from at least a dozen bracelets jingled with every movement of her arms.

Isabella was fifty-one, eighteen years older than Georgette, but she could have passed for mid-forties. She was striking, with dark eyes and thick black lashes that set off her soft brown eyes. She possessed all the beauty traits Creole women were famous for, and yet Georgette knew her mother never saw herself as pretty.

Not that she saw herself as ugly. It was just that Isabella lived on a different plane. She saw things no one else saw, but she never saw herself. She just took her looks the way she took life, as if it were in control and she was there to do its bidding.

Isabella set the teapot on the table and settled back in her chair. “Maybe you’re not giving the visions a chance, Georgette. You can’t fight them or try to push them away. That only thwarts the power that lies inside you and keeps you from seeing things clearly.”

“I don’t want to see any more, Momma. I want you to tell me how to make them stop.”

“And what about the young woman?”

“She’s not my responsibility. I didn’t ask for any of this. I refuse to let it claim my life.”

“It’s not so simple, my sweet one. You can’t choose when the gift shows itself or when it goes, but you must listen to it.”

“Why? Why do I have to pay attention to something that has no place in my life?”

Isabella took her hands in hers. “Look at me, Georgette. Look into my eyes and listen carefully to what I say. If you deny the gift and ignore the images you may be sentencing this woman to death. And if you do that, her blood will be on your hands and it will never go away. Never.”

Isabella put her hands in front of her, staring at them as if she could actually see blood running between her fingers and dripping onto the floor.

The room grew icy cold and Georgette longed to bolt and run away, but something held her. “Did you ignore the gift and let someone die, Momma?”

“It doesn’t matter. The past can never be undone. Tell me about this man who first caused the images to appear.”

“His name is Tanner Harrison. He’s a truck driver, I think. He doesn’t have a criminal record. I checked. But I have this feeling that he’s not leveling with me.”

“You must be careful, Georgette. Be very, very careful.”

“Then you think he’s dangerous.”

“All I know is that sometimes when the images are so strong that they won’t let you go, the danger can reach out for you, too.”

“What should I do, Momma? Please. You must tell me.”

“Talk to this man. Spend time with him, and go where the images lead you.”

“Are you saying I should go into a swamp and look for her?”

“It might help. All I know for certain is that you must let the visions guide you. Follow them, but don’t let your guard down. Not for a second.”

The tiny kitchen seemed to be closing in on Georgette, and she hated that she was here, that she was talking of spells and curses and psychic visions. Hated that her insides were tumbling around and making her nauseated. Hated that she’d been sucked back into a life she’d tried so desperately to escape. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“You’re right. I’ve probably said enough for now.”

Even Isabella seemed relieved to let the subject drop. Georgette drank her tea, then said a hurried goodbye. If she were half-smart, she’d go back to her office, bury herself in her work and not give any more thought to the blond woman in the swamp. She’d pretty much convinced herself to do just that when she turned on the radio and heard the latest news.

A young woman’s body had been pulled from the Mississippi River in Plaquemine Parish. She’d been identified as Simone Billings, a prostitute who’d been listed by her friends as missing a month ago.

…her blood will be on your hands.

Isabella’s warning echoed in Georgette’s mind as a new plan formed in her mind. Swerving into a U-turn, she headed toward Tchoupitoulas Street and another visit with Tanner Harrison.