The Grace Painter (The Grace Series Book 1) Read online

  The Grace Painter

  By Mark Romang

  Copyright © Mark Romang 2012

  Kindle Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig, Inc.

  Prologue

  Manhattan, New York

  January 18, 2006

  “I need help, Matt. Come quickly. Come alone.”

  These desperate words tormented Matthew London. The words kept repeating in his head like a skipping CD, and not even his jackhammering heart could drown them out.

  London screwed his mind shut against the persistent voice and hustled down a snow-drifted sidewalk. Adrenaline shoved at his back. He didn’t notice the bitter cold nipping at his skin, the snowflakes twirling in the black sky and landing in his wavy hair. Minor discomforts didn’t register, only the dark foreboding corkscrewing in his gut.

  London abruptly veered left and entered a cheerless brownstone. A buzzing chandelier illuminated a cramped lobby. London bypassed an antique elevator and charged into the ground floor stairwell. His breath billowed as he dashed up the steps two at a time. Graffiti-tagged walls blurred his periphery. He was racing time, and time had a head start. The call for help came 19 minutes ago. A lot can happen in 19 minutes.

  Most days London craved danger more than food. But tonight he could do nothing to quench the dread pooling in his stomach. A fear like he never felt before chewed at his insides.

  In short order he burst through the fire door off the third-floor landing and penetrated a shadowy vestibule. His chest heaved as he paused to gather his bearings. A stopwatch ticked away in his brain as he scanned.

  London pulled a Zippo from his pocket and flicked it on. The puny flame danced on the walls as he probed the shadows nearest him, his eyes moving and skimming for anything alive. But other than a cockroach scuttling across the tile floor, the vestibule could double as a mausoleum. He double-checked to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, and then sprinted down a vacant hallway, skidding to a halt in front of door 312.

  He rapped on the door.

  “Is that you, Matt?” Brian Delani called out from inside the apartment.

  London placed an ear to the door. “Yeah, I told you I would come.”

  “Did you bring any cops with you?”

  “I came alone, just like you told me to,” London answered. Come alone. Two simple words that can easily become troublesome when linked together.

  “Come inside, Matt. The door is unlocked.”

  Throughout his time in the police academy, London’s instructors hammered it into him to always have his partner’s back. So when his former partner called for help, he dropped everything.

  London grabbed the doorknob. His pulse quickened as the knob turned in his clammy hand. He suddenly wished he’d brought his duty gun. He could sense trouble lurking inside the apartment, could feel it drifting through the cracks in the doorframe.

  The door squeaked open. London stepped inside the dark apartment and froze in place just inside the entry. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimness. A Christmas tree twinkled in the living room and provided the only illumination. Empty boxes and shredded wrapping paper littered the floor around the tree.

  “Brian?”

  “We’re back here in Sam’s room.”

  “You know, Brian, your behavior is freaking me out. This is supposed to be the Christmas holiday. Good will toward men and all that.” London padded toward his goddaughter’s room. If he could just hear her voice he could relax a bit.

  The door to her bedroom stood ajar. He started to push it all the way open but stopped when he noticed something on the carpet next to his shoe. He focused his hazel eyes on the dark spot. Then he noticed other spots smearing the casing around the door.

  But they weren’t spots. They were…fingerprints. Bloody fingerprints.

  “Matt, I need you to come in the room and see something,” Brian said, his voice raising an octave.

  London loitered outside the doorway. He heard Christmas music playing from somewhere in the building. O Holy Night. As much as he wanted to, he could find nothing holy about this wintry night. “I don’t think I want to see it.”

  “But you have to. You have a role in the plan.”

  London’s mind whirled. “Is Samantha okay? She’s awfully quiet.”

  “Come in the room and see for yourself.”

  London hesitated. Negotiators always try to keep a closed door between themselves and the hostage taker. And like many other negotiators, he preferred to crouch behind a steel-plated shield for added protection. He didn’t know for sure if Delani held his daughter captive or not. He just knew he didn’t want to enter the room. “Uh, Brian, I should probably call my date and tell her I can’t make it.”

  “Sorry, Matt. There isn’t time for that. Now come in the room. We need to talk.”

  London tried to recall the procedural guidelines he’d been taught prior to becoming a negotiator for his precinct. He’d taken a half-dozen psychology courses in a quest to learn how to talk down an EDP--emotionally disturbed person. But now when it counted the most, his mind drew a blank. “Okay, Brian, I’m coming in. Just stay calm. Everything’s cool.”

  He poked his head inside the doorway. A ceiling fan stirred a coppery odor. He could only see a portion of the room, part of the bed and an overflowing toy box. To see any more he had to go farther inside.

  London stepped across the threshold. He found Brian sitting in a rocking chair and pointing a shotgun at his chest. An empty Wild Turkey bottle sat at his feet. Samantha lay sprawled out on the bed on her stomach. Blood seeped from underneath her chest and soiled her Barbie comforter. She didn’t stir, and she looked stiff.

  London gripped the door knob. “Why, Brian? Why did you shoot your little girl?”

  “I had to. It’s what the plan called for.”

  “You keep talking about a plan. Doesn’t seem like a good plan to me.” London looked at his goddaughter’s broken body. He suddenly didn’t care if Brian blew himself to hell or not. But he’d sworn an oath to keep EDPs alive, no matter how twisted their mindset. And to keep Brian alive, he had to keep him talking. “Where’s Barb? Is she okay?”

  “She’s in the other bedroom. I killed her first,” Brian confessed matter-of-factly. Sadness poured from his face, causing his red-rimmed eyes to droop like basset hound eyes.

  London stared at Samantha. Blood spattered the walls and carpet all around her. He tried to swallow, but desert sand filled his mouth. “So what are you going to do now? Are you going to take your own life? Is that what I’m supposed to see?”

  “I’m sorry, Matt. I really am. But I don’t have a choice. I have to do what’s best for my family.”

  London continued to stare at Samantha. He could be mistaken, but he thought he saw her back rise and fall ever so slightly. Maybe she’s still alive.

  “We can’t live in this world any longer,” Brian continued. “We have to go away somewhere safe; somewhere no one can hurt us. I’m just sorry you have to watch us die, Matt. But you’re the chosen one.”

  London looked at his unstable friend. The guilt of not seeing this coming wobbled his knees. How did he miss the signs? Convincing Brian not to take his life would be difficult. Each EDP requires unique handling. Sometimes you have to bring volatile people down, and in other cases bring despondent people up to stabilize them. Either way is tricky.

  “I think Sam might be alive. We need to call an ambulance
while there’s still time,” London said. He fumbled around in the pocket of his pea coat for his cell phone, but realized he’d left it at home along with his duty gun.

  Brian shook his head. Rivers of sweat poured from his scalp. His swarthy hair clung to his forehead like water-damaged carpet. “Sam has to die. We all do, except for you, Matt. You just have to watch us take our last breaths,” he said.

  “Calm down, Brian. Take a deep breath or two. I’m just going to reach over and check Samantha’s pulse. Nice and easy,” London said, praying that Brian wouldn’t come unhinged.

  He shuffled forward. When he neared the edge of the bed he stopped. He blinked back tears. Samantha brightened his world whenever she smiled. It didn’t seem possible she could be dying or already dead. As much as he hated to, he had to find out for sure.

  London reached out his left hand. His index finger hovered just above Sam’s carotid artery.

  He never made it.

  The shotgun’s booming report shook the bedroom walls. London collapsed over the girl, protecting her from further harm. Mingled blood from father and daughter washed over him, slicking his clothes. A coppery tang hung on his lips.

  Amidst the ensuing chaos he heard a loud crash. He looked up and saw men wearing black Kevlar. He felt their strong hands grasp him from behind and yank him off the bed.

  “Get him down to the street! Seal the apartment!” someone commanded. “Only EMTs and homicide detectives are to be allowed in.”

  They hustled him down the hallway, and then manhandled him into the elevator. One of them shoved his head down. He could only see his blood-splashed sneakers and the black leather jackboots worn by his abductors. They held his head down until the elevator began descending.

  When he looked up he saw four solemn-faced men wearing flak jackets and carrying assault rifles. London recognized they were from Emergency Services--elite police officers who are usually the first responders to a hostage scene.

  “Did he?” London asked the one closest to him, the tall one in the middle with the beady eyes and porcine lips.

  “Yeah, blew a hole in his chest bigger than my fist.”

  “What about the little girl? Is she alive?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see. But my guess is she isn’t going to make it. It’s probably best if she doesn’t. Her mommy and daddy are gone now.”

  ****

  London awoke from the flashback with a start. Sitting inside the crammed LaGuardia bus, he struggled not to scream. He needed air, and needed it quickly. The flashbacks were suffocating him. His doctor prescribed him trazodone, but so far the drug hadn’t helped.

  He glared at his watch, daring the minute hand to accelerate. Just hang tight. It won’t be much longer.

  The bus pulled up to LaGuardia International Airport three minutes later. London exited the bus with his single carry-on and entered the bustling airport. He completed his identity change two days ago when he received his new driver’s license. He had everything he needed now to start over. He could go underground. He could vanish.

  I’m no longer Matthew London, a Manhattan policeman. I’m Jon Rafter, a Louisiana crawfisherman that dabbles in Renaissance art.

  London headed for the line of people snaking up to the ticket counter. He tried to remain calm, but fear and loathing rioted in his head like an angry prison mob. He’d never run from a problem before. But this time he felt too wounded to battle back. Memories of Samantha lying on her blood-spattered bed shackled his every waking thought. And the child always haunted his dreams at night.

  In the repeating nightmare Samantha looks up at him through terror-stricken eyes. She reaches out trembling, blood-soaked hands and pleads for him to help her.

  And he can do…nothing.

  Chapter 1

  Eight years later

  Angola State Penitentiary, Louisiana

  At a quarter to nine the prisoner transport van rolled to a stop outside the Angola visitor center. Inside the van, correctional officer Kirby Haynes turned in his seat and addressed his passenger. “Boudreaux, there’s a guy named Jean-Paul here to pick you up. You know him?”

  Sebastian Boudreaux smiled for the first time in years. “Yeah, he’s my little brother.”

  Haynes nodded. He looked the paroled inmate in the eyes. “Then this is the day you’ve been waiting for, Boudreaux. Don’t mess it up. Make something out of your life. I don’t want to see your ugly mug back in here.”

  “Don’t worry, Kirby. You’ll never see me again.”

  Haynes snorted. “They all say that. And most of them come back. But you’re a smart guy, Boudreaux. Surround yourself with good people and you’ll do okay. Now get out of my van. I have places to be.”

  Sebastian grabbed up his duffel and exited the van. He shut the door and surveyed the visitor parking lot. He spotted his brother leaning against a red Audi sedan. A lopsided smirk gouged his boyish face. Jean-Paul caught his eye and waved.

  Sebastian slung his duffel over his shoulder and hurried toward his brother. Beyond the concertina wire an epicurean lifestyle beckoned him. Each stride he took brought him closer to a cache of three-million dollars. He had dreamt of this moment for two decades. And the wait ended this morning. He could almost smell the cash.

  Overhead, a cold drizzle fell from a thundercloud. Sebastian hardly noticed the storm clouds billowing over the prison yard or the drizzle slicking his bald head. He’d made it outside, and that’s all that mattered.

  “How does it feel to finally be free, brother?” Jean-Paul asked.

  Sebastian dropped the duffel containing his meager possessions to the ground. “It’s hard to put into words. I just know I never want to come back here.”

  Jean-Paul wiped at a tear. “Ah, give me a hug, Sebastian,” he said, holding out his sinewy arms.

  Sebastian winced. He’d been raped more than once during his incarceration at Angola. Embracing another man--even an innocent hug from his brother--made him uncomfortable. He pulled away from Jean-Paul’s clingy grip. “Come on, let’s go before they change their minds and lock me back up.”

  “They wouldn’t do that, brother,” Jean-Paul said as he tossed Sebastian’s duffel into the Audi’s trunk.

  Sebastian noted that the car was an A8, Audi’s flagship model. “Your tastes in vehicles have changed, Jean-Paul. You used to drive a rust-bucket Dodge,” he said, sliding into a luxurious leather seat.

  “This car is a loaner. I still have the old truck. I just thought it would be nice to pick you up in something special. So I borrowed this fancy German car for a little while.”

  “You really shouldn’t have gone to the trouble,” Sebastian said. He looked around at the Audi’s amenities. The raven interior contrasted starkly to the drab cell block he’d called home for the past twenty years.

  He felt fortunate to have made parole so soon. Prisoners don’t often leave Angola. The facility is filled with senior convicts who’ll never leave. Like forgotten mongrels at a dog pound, they sit listlessly in their cells, gray old men yearning to die.

  Jean-Paul turned the key and the Audi purred to life. “Wait until we get out on the open road, Sebastian. This car puts out an incredible amount of horsepower.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll take your word for it.” Sebastian found a lever underneath his seat and scooted it back, making room for his long legs. Jean-Paul steered the Audi through the parking lot and up to the guard hut. The guard checked Sebastian’s release papers for an extended minute, and then waved them on through.

  Just like he’d promised, Jean-Paul tromped on the gas when they reached the highway. Verdant cropland and fat cattle grazing in pastures sped by their windows.

  For a half-hour neither spoke. A ten year span separated their ages. And for the most part, Jean-Paul grew up an only child. What little camaraderie they once shared disappeared when trouble with the law fractured the Boudreaux clan.

  Sebastian took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could almost fall asleep.

/>   “Daddy took it real good. He didn’t cry a drop,” Jean-Paul said out of the blue. “It took him twenty-five minutes to die. I overheard the guards talking. They thought he might have broken a record. They injected potassium stuff in his leg.”

  “Potassium chloride,” Sebastian corrected.

  “Yeah, that’s the stuff. I guess our old man wanted to thumb his nose at the warden one more time.”

  “That would be like him. He always insisted on having the last word.”

  Jean-Paul nodded his head. “Amen to that.” He looked over at Sebastian “Did I tell you I got a poem in the mail from Daddy a day before they executed him?”

  “I don’t remember you mentioning it.”

  Jean-Paul took one hand off the wheel to reach into his jeans. He pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper and handed it to his brother.

  Sebastian smoothed the paper on his leg. He glanced at the paragraphs handwritten in black ink, finding it odd his father would write a letter to one of his sons. Claude never put much effort into building and maintaining relationships.

  Intrigued, Sebastian began to read. A lump formed in his throat.

  No regrets, no complaints. I’ve had my place in time. My day of reckoning has arrived and I’m standing first in line. Though my accusers anticipate my heart’s final token beat, I’m calm and complacent as my waning pulse pounds weak.

  Death surrounds me as I take my last living breath. Fighting hard, I struggle until I have nothing at all left. I hurtle though infinity, both time and distant space. Forgotten memories of youthful innocence cause tears to damp my face.

  Suddenly I’m a kid again, floating down a hidden stream. I’m on my back with arms outstretched. My heart is pumping outside my chest. My days are numbered, I cannot lie. The warden says I die tonight.

  In a vine-covered tomb facing east to west, my bloated corpse is laid to rest. But don’t despair; don’t shed a tear, that my gravestone is a rusty wheel. My Cajun bones are laughing last as they enrich the field.