Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
“I—I don’t understand.”
“The dirt came from a graveyard,” Sullivan repeated softly. “An old one—back when people weren’t so particular about how they buried their dead.”
In other words, a place where bones and other body parts would mix in with the soil.
“That doesn’t mean she’s dead.”
“Not conclusively, no.”
“Even if we prove through DNA that the blood is Katie’s, that might just mean she bled on the bracelet, then dropped it somewhere.”
“In a graveyard?” he asked.
“It could happen.”
Sullivan didn’t comment, for which I was glad. I knew I was grasping at air, but right now, I needed to.
He put his hand on my shoulder and drew me closer. “I wanted to tell you in person.”
I leaned on him, even though I shouldn’t. I identified with Sullivan; I just plain liked him, but I didn’t love him.
I rubbed my face against his shirt; my chest went tight with a longing to stay where I was safe, with a man who presented no mystery. But as his arms came around me, I knew that I couldn’t.
I inched away, surprised to discover a slash of wet across his light green dress shirt. I flicked his tie —navy blue like his j acket and dotted with teeny-tiny shamrocks—with my index finger. “I messed up your shirt,” I whispered.
He brushed my loose hair away from my face. “You can mess me up anytime, Anne.”
I took his hand, squeezed his fingers. His gaze went past my shoulder, and his tender expression disappeared.
John Rodolfo had arrived. His face turned toward us, his sunglasses shaded his thoughts.
“John?” I began, and he went out the back door, into the approaching darkness.
King shot me a dirty look, and I opened my mouth to defend myself, then thought better of it. I hadn’t done anything wrong.
So why did it feel as if I had?
Because I was the queen of guilt. I couldn’t forgive myself for not protecting Katie, couldn’t get over my inability to find her. I could find anyone, except the one person I really needed to.
And the one man I’d ever felt anything for was a man I kept hurting without even trying to.
“Thanks for coming to tell me.” I released Sullivan’s hand. “I’ll call my parents about the DNA test.”
“Good.” He reached for his wallet. “I owe you money.”
“No!”
Sullivan’s golden eyebrows shot up.
“I mean—forget it. I never found out anything and—” I paused, then plunged ahead with the truth. “I told Rodolfo that you hired me.”
The idea of taking money from Sullivan after I’d betrayed his trust, blown my cover, consorted with the enemy—take your pick—was an idea I couldn’t stomach.
“What the hell did you do that for?” he demanded.
“He isn’t who you think he is, Sullivan.”
His eyes met mine and concern softened the dark depths. “He isn’t who you think he is either.”
After promising to phone a colleague in the Philadelphia police department and ask for help expediting my sister’s DNA test, Sullivan left. I watched him walk away, his tall, bulky form a shadow against the encroaching night.
I made a quick call to my parents, spent several minutes apologizing for not calling them earlier, then biting my tongue to keep from saying, “The phone works both ways.” I loved them, but sometimes they drove me nuts.
“Have you found anything?” my mother asked.
I hesitated, unwilling to mention Katie’s bracelet, the blood or the graveyard dirt until I absolutely had to.
“Not really,” I answered. “But we might have a lead. I need you to take Katie’s hairbrush to Detective Ransom.”
“Why?”
“We need a DNA sample.”
The line went silent. I could hear both of them breathing.
“Is she dead?” my father asked.
“No,” I said firmly.
“Anne,” he began.
“No,” I said again. “Until I see her body, she isn’t dead.”
“Okay, Annie,” my mother soothed. “We’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
I said good-bye before they could ask any more questions and make me feel guiltier than I already did.
I turned away from the front window, where I’d gone to make my call, and stopped short at the sight of King’s glower.
“Did John come back?” I asked.
“No.”
King’s Bloody Mary-drinking pal had left too, presumably by the back door since he hadn’t passed me on his way out the front. I peered through the screen, hoping I’d catch the scent of Rodolfo’s cigarette nearby.
The thought made me remember the sketch of Baron Samedi. Voodoo might be a legitimate religion, but there was too much magic in it for me to become a believer. That I’d even considered John might be masquerading as a Gede to become a werewolf, or help someone else do so, only proved how much this place was getting to me.
I should leave, ASAP, but I wouldn’t.
I sniffed the air; I did smell smoke. Curious, I stepped through the door and caught sight of a shadow slinking past the garbage cans.
I leaned inside. “What’s the name of your cat?”
King’s head snapped up. “What cat?”
“The black one.”
“There ain’t no cat at Rising Moon, girlie. Never has been.”
“But I—” I stopped. Maybe the cat was a stray. I wasn’t going to argue.
Especially when I stepped onto the porch again and heard the distinct sounds of claws scrabbling nearby.
I rounded the heavy barrels and squinted into the darkness that loomed in the narrow passage between Rising Moon and the building next door. Keeping my eyes fixed on the other end of the alley, I followed, freezing when a distinctly canine silhouette appeared.
I tried to catch my breath and couldn’t. I also couldn’t tell in the faint light of the crescent moon if the apparition was a dog, a coyote, or a wolf. As it turned onto Frenchmen, I started to run.
The ancient pavement beneath my feet was slick with Lord knows what. I skidded and slipped, but eventually managed to burst out the other side of the narrow opening.
There wasn’t an animal of any kind in sight.
I grabbed the nearest tourist. “Did you see a—a dog run by?”
The man, wearing so many Mardi Gras beads his shoulders slumped from the weight, snickered and spilled most of his cocktail down the front of my shirt. “You drunk?” he asked, which I thought incredibly ballsy considering the source.
I stared at the spreading bronze stain on my white blouse. “Shorry,” he said, and began to brush it away, copping a feel in the process.
“Hey!” I snapped, and he lifted his hands in surrender so I didn’t have to slug him. As I hurried past he announced, “With a face like that, the least you could do is have a decent set of jugs.”
He and his friends burst into laughter. I reconsidered slugging him, but settled on the hope that they would come into Rising Moon later so I could spit into every one of their drinks.
I fought against the crowd; King was going to be overwhelmed if I didn’t get back soon, but even that concern didn’t stop me. I’d seen something, and I was going to find out what it was.
At last the crowd thinned. Ahead I caught sight of Sullivan’s familiar silhouette. I opened my mouth to call out just as he ducked down a side street.
Should I follow him, or continue in the direction I’d been going? If there’d been a wolf, or anything else strange on Frenchmen, wouldn’t someone have commented by now?
I was starting to believe I was seeing things, if not hearing them, when a long, low howl rose toward the sickle-shaped moon.
Only a few people milled on the street near me, but several of them stopped, frowned, and glanced at the sky.
“Did you hear that?” I asked the nearest woman.
“Coyote?” she said. “Sounded awful close.”
That wasn’t a coyote, and I figured it was closer than any of us realized. I sprinted for the opening
between the buildings where Sullivan had disappeared, then froze at the sight.
Too big to be a dog, too solid for a coyote, in truth the thing was bigger than any wolf should be. The trickle of silver from above kept me from identifying any color beyond pale, the bright lights behind me and the dimness of the alley in front kept me from seeing its eyes. As I stood, paralyzed, the beast lifted its snout and howled again.
The sound was so loud, so wild, so shocking, I blinked, and in that instant the wolf disappeared.
The absence allowed me to move, if not to think; I shot forward, away from the bustle and relative safety of Decatur Street, from the streetlights, the music, the people, and into the solitary darkness of that forgotten alleyway.
I ran hell-bent for the opposite end and tripped over something in the middle.
Flying forward, my hands scraping the pavement, I sprawled on top of someone, and slipped when I tried to get up in what I really hoped wasn’t blood, but probably was.
I opened my mouth to scream, but not a sound came out. My mind floundered as badly as my legs. It took me several seconds to think what to do.
I patted my pockets for the books of matches promoting Rising Moon, which I handed out at work whenever I was asked for a light, and struck one.
The snick was loud in the narrow alley that suddenly seemed so removed from the rest of the world. The glow was dim; yet enough to illuminate the victim’s bloodstained face.
“Sullivan?” I whispered.
***