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As for his friends, he wouldn’t drag any that remained into this mess. It was too dangerous and he’d already left a few in Oregon who knew too much for their own good. That bothered him. More than he wanted to consider right now.
So it came down to Kristi Bentz. Maybe he could strike a deal with her.
The agreement would be simple: if she helped him, he’d grant her an exclusive on her next book, one he was certain would become a best seller.
If he survived.
He gunned his Harley, leaving behind the laughter, bawdy jokes, and forever-celebration of the French Quarter where earlier he’d hidden in a dark bar, a hole in the wall. For a few hours he’d nursed a single beer, melding into the crowd, sitting near a raucous group of partygoers while he tried to figure out his next move. He’d turned a dozen options over in his mind: Should he stay in New Orleans or leave? Talk to his brother and take a chance that Reuben wouldn’t send him to Oregon, or try and disappear? Turn himself in, or keep running, forever looking over his shoulder?
None of the options were viable.
So he kept coming back to Kristi.
Not a great option, but the best he could come up with on the run.
No one would suspect that she would be his contact; her father was a cop, partner to Cruz’s brother.
At least Cruz hoped that was the case.
He drove a winding path and tried to figure out where he could ditch the bike where it wouldn’t be readily noticed, yet handy should he need it. He considered a few options, then landed on the parking lot of a motorcycle store about a quarter of a mile from her house. It neighbored a dive-bar and would blend right in.
He thought about the jump drive hidden deep in his saddlebag. His ticket out, should circumstances play the way he hoped. He would offer it to her and when she opened it on her computer, she’d see a grainy image of what had gone down that night near the Trask River in Oregon.
His insides still turned cold at the thought of it.
At the image of Lucia in the water.
Jesus, he missed her.
Slowing as he came to an intersection, he spied the bike store, situated, as he remembered, next to the bar. He stopped, boots on the ground, motorcycle idling, and surveyed the adjoining parking lots. Both places of business had cameras mounted under the eaves of the buildings, but those on the bar seemed all for show, not even pointed over the lot. Still, the cameras gave him pause and he zeroed in on an area that was slightly protected by a hedge and offered some cover from the street.
It would have to do.
He eased through the intersection and into the lot. Checking to see that no one was watching, he cut the engine, unlocked one of the bags, and searched in a side pocket. His fingers found what he was looking for. He pulled out the jump drive, stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans, then, remembering the deadly snake left in Kristi’s garbage can, he quickly withdrew his Colt Mustang Pocketlite and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket.
Just in case.
* * *
“I told ya. My boy wasn’t involved in any of that shit!” Eileen Hebert pointed a long, gnarled finger at Montoya as he stood on the listing porch of her single-wide mobile home, he on one side of a rusted screen door, she on the other.
On permanent blocks on a piece of land that bordered the bayou, the Hebert home was surrounded by small sheds and coops, and a longer, dilapidated, but more permanent structure that had once housed the freezer and body parts of the victims of the Bayou Butcher. Two hounds of indeterminate breed had howled when he’d knocked on the door and now stood on each side of Eileen. Her face was gaunt and chalky, her body slight, a few sparse wisps of gray hair visible at the edge of a knit beanie. She wore a housedress over jeans and a dark, disapproving expression.
Montoya wasn’t put off. “I’d like to talk to Ned. Is he here?”
“Jesus Christ, don’t you need a warrant or somethin’? I ain’t lettin’ you in here.”
“Mrs. Hebert—”
“For Christ’s sake, let him in, Ma,” a deep male voice yelled from within the trailer.
“No, I—”
“Just do it and get it over with,” the voice, presumably Ned’s, argued.
“Hell.” Eileen snorted. “I don’t like this,” she muttered. “Don’t like it one bit.” But she moved out of the way, unlatched the door, and the suspicious dogs let down their guard, their tails beginning to wag.
“Fred. Go lie down. You too, Wilma,” Eileen ordered. “Go on . . . git! Find yer beds!”
