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She ran to the river, passing pedestrians, avoiding puddles, feeling herself begin to sweat, her muscles lengthening, and she decided tonight she would run farther than usual, to the French Quarter, then walk back.
What was she missing?
Her heart was pumping, the sun low in the sky when she reached Jackson Square. She paused, breathing hard, and stared across the square to the cathedral, its three spires knifing upward. The tallest tower was in the middle of the church, a huge clock face mounted over arched windows and wide doors, its elegant spire topped with a cross that seemed to pierce the thin clouds.
Why here?she wondered, thinking of the attack as she walked through the park and observed the white cathedral. Was it just because whoever had stalked her knew her routine or did this cathedral have a deeper meaning? Something she couldn’t quite grasp. Bits of the messages slipped through her mind:
The wages of sin is death
The day of vengeance is . . . mine
Take vengeance upon her
Though she hadn’t planned it, she crossed to the cathedral, tied Dave to a bike rack, and said, “I’ll be right back.” Then she slipped through the massive doors and stared into the apse, a huge, beautiful expanse with arched, painted ceilings, stained glass windows, row upon row of pews, and the gilded altar. As ever, she was awed by the beauty of the cathedral and truly did feel as if God had blessed this house of worship. Her throat closed as she walked to the votive candle display and lit a candle for Jay. “Rest in peace, my love,” she whispered. “Go with God. We love you.” She touched her abdomen, thinking of her unborn child, made the sign of the cross, then bent a knee at the altar, which seemed acres away, and dashed a tear from her eye.
She exited and found Dave, patiently waiting, his tail brushing the sidewalk as she approached. “Let’s go home,” she said, and cleared her throat. Night was slowly but steadily closing in and it would be dark before she reached her house.
Whoever had attacked her hadn’t ruined her reverence for the cathedral, and though she wasn’t particularly religious, she did find comfort in prayer. She crossed the street, walking briskly. The attacker may have taken Jay’s life. But she wouldn’t let him ruin hers. No way. No how.
She was more certain than ever that whoever was behind the assault had intended to kill her and wouldn’t give up. Right now, he was toying with her, hoping to scare the life out of her. Enjoying her pain.
What had Mandel Jarvis said?
“Watch yourself, girl.”
She would, all right, she thought, and tugged on Dave’s leash for the long walk home. She’d watch herself, but she wasn’t backing off.
“That’s my girl,”she heard her husband say, though his voice was as faint as the slight breeze rolling off the Mississippi.
CHAPTER 32
“Idon’t like workin’ with the cops,” Bobby-Dean said as they cruised through a narrow stretch of the bayou, a spot that was unfamiliar to him. Clive was at the tiller, eyeing the thick vegetation.
“Better to keep them on our side.”
“Are they? Are they really?” A mosquito was buzzing around his head and, quick as a rattler striking, he nailed that tiny son of a bitch, caught it in his hand and squeezed, then discarded the insect’s tiny body with a flick of his finger. A smeared drop of blood showed on his palm. Probably his own from that little sucker.
The sun was getting lower, afternoon slipping away, clouds gathering. The air was sticky, warmer than it should be at this time of year. Bobby-Dean peered into the brambles and brush. They’d already passed several abandoned cabins—shacks, more like—that had deteriorated to the point that they were little more than rotten heaps of boards and a few bricks, places where only raccoons and skunks, wasps and snakes would call home. He didn’t like poking into them, was always certain some damned creature, mad at the prodding, would leap out at him, or maybe a swarm of angry yellow jackets would erupt.
No, sir. He didn’t like this.
He didn’t like it one bit.
And he sure as hell wasn’t comfortable working with the damned police. Bobby-Dean knew from experience you just couldn’t trust those cocksuckers as far as you could throw ’em.
He squinted past the prow of the boat, eyes narrowing as sunlight dappled the water, casting shadows. Dragonflies buzzed above the dark bayou, wings snapping as other insects buzzed and fish rose from beneath the surface. Bobby felt a little chill whisper up his spine, a bit of a warning that he always felt when he was nearing danger. He’d felt it seconds before he’d caught sight of that sick son of a bitch trying to kill the blond woman on the dock last night, a frisson of apprehension, and he felt it now, as if a ghost were passing across the back of his neck.
Raising a hand, he said, “Hold up.”
“Wha—?”
“I said hold up.” There was something here, something not quite right, something he could feel.
Clive cut the engine and the boat drifted, spider lilies and duckweed parting as the prow cut deeper into the shadows.
Was it his imagination, or had everything gone quiet? No fish jumping, no frogs croaking, even the damned insects were no longer humming. All Bobby-Dean heard was the sound of the boat cutting through water and the escalated beat of his heart. The back of his throat went dry.
“What is it?” Clive asked.
