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

  “How long does it usually take for Zaplata to e-mail you back?” Sebastian asked.

  Blaine shrugged indifferently. “Sometimes I receive a reply in minutes. But then I’ve never sent Zaplata an e-mail this early in the morning.”

  Henri snorted. “Carlos’ men won’t bother him this time of night. They know their boss entertains whores every night and shouldn’t be interrupted. They’ll wait at least until sunrise.”

  Sebastian nodded. “You’re probably right, Henri,” he said, hoping flattery would keep Henri’s legendary temper at bay.

  “Of course I’m right. Claude wasn’t the only clever devil in the family,” Henri crowed as he opened a fresh bottle of whiskey.

  Jean-Paul suddenly straightened up in his chair. “Hey, Sebastian, show Henri the poem daddy wrote. Maybe he can figure it out.”

  For a full ten seconds Sebastian couldn’t move. He swayed frailly on wobbly appendages as he glared at Jean-Paul. He should have known his doltish brother would wreck his only chance at taking sole possession of the ransom money.

  Sebastian fished a trembling hand into his pocket for the enigmatic poem. He felt as if he’d been blindsided and sucker-punched all at once, and decided right then and there that Jean-Paul would have to die. Twice in one day his younger brother destroyed his only opportunity at living a financially secure life. And for those unforgivable crimes, a severe penalty must be meted out posthaste.

  Jean-Paul will pay with blood.

  Drop by bloody drop.

  Chapter 8

  The hour hand pointed to one A.M. and Newton Laskey still burned the midnight oil. Like most days, his working hours stretched into early morning. Only repeated divorce threats from his longsuffering wife kept him from regularly working double-shifts.

  Laskey peered at a large Iberville Parish map. The map stretched across his desk like a tarp. He’d circled various locations with a highlighter. The highlighted spots on the map pinpointed Boudreaux residences and places known associates frequented. He kept poring over the map, hoping for an epiphany. But at this late hour the squiggly lines ran together like thumbprint ridges.

  Laskey massaged his forehead with one hand, while the other cradled a coffee mug. A nearly empty coffee pot sat like an oversized paperweight on his desk. Tonight, like most nights, caffeine was his mistress.

  Only a few other lights burned in the building. Two special agents worked together on a labor corruption case in an office not far away. But other than the two agents and a night custodian, Laskey had the building to himself.

  Laskey turned away from the map and studied his desktop monitor. The latest news on Hurricane Vera streamed across the screen. He sighed when he heard the reporter talk about a monster storm surge battering the coastline. Three small towns on the Barrier Islands had already been wiped out, and more were in peril. As usual, Mother Nature flung its wrath on Louisiana without letup.

  He typically did his best thinking late at night, but on this worrisome night frustration manacled his intellect. He had too much to sort out. Too many questions and not enough answers overwhelmed his cognition.

  He needed to go home and get some sleep, but knew sleep would evade him under the circumstances. Seven hours had passed since Annie’s last call. At that time she’d reported seeing no activity at or around Henri Boudreaux’s property, and contemplated moving on to another safe house the kidnappers might consider using.

  Laskey had since called Annie’s cell phone at least two-dozen times without getting an answer. Not hearing her voice caused foreboding to settle over his heart. Annie was good about keeping in touch. She wouldn’t turn off her phone without having a good reason. What would she have to gain other than the element of surprise? Perhaps she thought the Boudreauxs would hear it ringing. Even so, communication had to be maintained in an operation as dangerous as this one. Too much could go wrong.

  Despite his best effort at downplaying the situation, foul play reared its ugly head. In hindsight he should never have picked Annie to pursue Jean-Paul and Sebastian. But the psychology major in him thought Annie might be ready to put closure on her personal feud with the Boudreaux clan.

  Her troublesome past often sabotaged her promising future. And like any good boss who wanted to see their struggling employee improve their performance, he pushed her right into the fire.

  The dilemma he faced was how to go about simultaneously rescuing the Witherspoon girl and locating agents Crawford and Cooper. A scarcity of manpower hindered him. Ever since the 9-11 terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, nearly all available agents not working high-priority cases were commandeered by Homeland Security to monitor suspected terrorists operating on U.S. soil. Every FBI field office and resident agency across the nation dealt with this ongoing challenge.

  Laskey shoved the large map off his desk. I have to act now. Annie’s not going to call. She would have done it by now.

  He snapped up his phone. Instinct urged him to call Agent Brubaker. Kevin was his best available negotiator. Then he’d call Otis Grant and Palmer Hawkins. With these three tough and seasoned men, along with himself, he’d have a cobbled together Hostage Rescue Team.

  Punching the digits of Brubaker’s home phone number as fast as his fingers could move, he placed the receiver up to his ear. He slammed the phone down. No dial tone. Hurricane Vera had obviously knocked out portions, if not the city’s entire landline phone service.

  Laskey called Brubaker’s number on his cell phone. But after four rings could only get the agent’s voice mail. The same thing happened when he called Otis Grant and Palmer Hawkins.

  Laskey slipped into his shoes and stood up. He had no choice but to drive to each agent’s home. He hoped to God they were home. Flipping off his desk light, he hustled his way through the nearly deserted building. The inclement weather hindered his ability to make things happen. Conversely, the hurricane seemed to be helping the nihilistic Boudreaux brothers evade capture.

  Laskey tried to soothe his frustration by taking solace in the fact that the winds would eventually abate, the rain at some point would cease to fall, and the gloomy clouds would give way to a hot sun. And when these favorable events took place, Sebastian and Jean-Paul’s life on the lam would become a living nightmare.

  He’d make certain of it.

  Chapter 9

  Her dreams never made any sense. But sometimes they were fun, like this one. In her dream Annie found herself lying on an antique sofa positioned by a roaring fireplace. Tongues of flame lapped from a marble hearth borrowing heavily from Greek-Revival design.

  She determined after a bit that she slept in a parlor of some kind. Italian Renaissance paintings hung on the walls in gilded frames. Many more sat on easels all around her, and not all were finished.

  Annie admired the paintings as rain rattled against windows. But wanting to see more of the room, she sat up and visually explored her surroundings. Candles and a kerosene lamp perched atop a marble fireplace illuminated the parlor. Despite the room’s dimness, her roving gaze found ornate woodwork, extravagant wallpaper, and antique furniture.

  My dream is taking place in the 19th century.

  A booming thunderclap exploded in her dream. Maybe I’m only partially awake. And if I lay back down…the dream will stop. She tried out her theory. But it didn’t work. She gently poked her open eyes. I’m not dreaming this. So where the heck am I?

  Annie kicked off the afghan and swung her legs to the floor. Her head swam as soon as she stood up. She shuffled forward using tiny steps. Humid air filled the home, and she could feel sweat beading on her brow. Her bare feet stuck to the hardwood floor.

  Pressing on, she almost reached the room’s edge when her foot stubbed against an easel leg. She stumbled, tried to recover, but crashed clumsily to the floor.

  A dog barked at her fumbling around. Annie tried to get to her feet, but vertigo wouldn’t allow it. She sat back down. And as she waited for the dizziness to pass, she heard the dog boundi
ng toward her, his nails clicking on the floor. Her anxious mind pictured a Doberman mauling her body. The unpleasant thought forced her into action. She turned and army-crawled in the opposite direction. Her knees and elbows banged against the floor. As she slithered she tried to piece together her fragmented memory.

  She remembered reconnoitering Henri Boudreaux’s property; the Bobcat skid loader ramming their car; Frank Cooper getting shot, and the beating she took from a ski-masked assailant. But after that a blank spot fractured her memory. Her survival instincts told her to flee to a safe place and allow time to chip away her amnesia.

  But where is a safe place?

  An enormous dog appeared from behind an overstuffed chair and formed an imposing barricade. In the dim light the dog looked like a black bear. “Nice doggy,” Annie sputtered. “You don’t want to bite me. I have friends at animal control.”

  The dog padded up and sniffed her quivering body. “I’m sure I smell pretty bad. And I taste even worse, like bad cough syrup,” Annie said in a soft, soothing voice.

  “You needn’t worry. He only eats chili, mostly Hormel.”

  Annie looked up and saw a man holding a lit candle. He stood a dozen feet away. Lean and rugged, she guessed his height at a shade over six-feet. “Who are you? And why am I here,” she asked.

  “My name is Jon Rafter. And the reason you’re here is that somebody beat you to a pulp and left you for dead near my driveway. I brought you into the house and performed some basic first aid on you.”

  Annie pushed herself up into a sitting position. “Thanks for helping me.”

  “No problem.” Rafter sat down on the floor. Samson came and flopped down beside him. “Okay, you know my name. The way it works is that you’re supposed to tell me yours now.”

  “It’s Annie.”

  “Do you have a last name, Annie?”

  “Crawford.”

  “What do you do for a living, Annie Crawford? The dog and I think you’re either a cop or a private eye.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “We found an ammunition clip in your pocket.”

  A flash of lightning illuminated the murky room. Annie saw the man had a handsome face. “I’m surprised my FBI jacket didn’t give you a clue,” she said.

  “You weren’t wearing a jacket when I found you.”

  Annie touched her throbbing head, feeling for the first time the bumps on her scalp, and bandages on her cheeks.

  “If the perpetrator is a local I may be able to help. I’ve lived here for the past eight years,” Rafter said.

  Annie hesitated. Her rescuer’s genteel manner put her at ease. But she wasn’t one to trust strangers. Eventually she relented. She needed all the help she could get. “What can you tell me about the Boudreauxs?”

  “Can you be a little more specific? Boudreauxs are thick around here.”

  “I’m primarily interested in Sebastian and Jean-Paul, and their uncle, Henri Boudreaux.” Annie said.

  Rafter nodded. “The last I heard Sebastian was in the slammer on a kidnapping conviction that took place about twenty years ago. That’s all I know of him. Jean-Paul is his younger brother. People say he’s mildly retarded, and that he likes underage girls. I’ve also heard rumors that he steals cars late at night and drives them around for a few hours, then washes them and returns the cars before sunrise.

  “Henri is big and mean. The whole town shakes in their shoes when he walks by. The scuttlebutt on him is that he’s a mid-level heroin distributor for a Mexican cartel.” Rafter paused to allow Annie time to digest his summation. “Do you know for certain which Boudreaux attacked you?”

  “I’m pretty sure Henri is the one who assaulted me. He wore a ski mask, but his physical dimensions were huge. He looked as big as a football lineman.” Annie shuddered at the memory. “He used a baseball bat on me. My partner and I were watching Henri’s property, hoping Jean-Paul and Sebastian would show up when we were waylaid.”

  “Why the interest in the Boudreaux brothers?”

  “They carjacked a SUV from the Saint Genevieve ferry, dumping the driver into the river, not realizing a five-year-old girl slept in the backseat.” Annie looked at Rafter through puffy eyes. “Don’t you follow the news? The story is all over the place.”

  “Not usually. No news is good news to me,” Rafter said. “So what happened to your partner?”

  Annie swallowed hard. “He was shot in the fracas. I assume he’s dead. But I really don’t know for sure.”

  Rafter tickled Samson’s ears. “So why do you think they dumped you off near my house?”

  “Huh?”

  “It doesn’t make sense, Annie. Henri’s place is three miles from here. There’s no way you could have walked here in your condition. If the Boudreauxs wanted you dead, why provide you with an opportunity to be rescued?”

  “Maybe they thought I was already dead and wanted to pin a homicide on you,” Annie speculated.

  Rafter nodded. “I suppose that could be it.”

  “But why you?”

  Rafter sighed. “The townspeople think I’m a flake. Go figure. Just because I live alone in a big house and paint murals on the walls they think I’m Howard Hughes.”

  “Well, you can’t deny that you and your hobby are a bit unusual.”

  “But should my uniqueness make me a suspect for murder?”

  “The mysterious loner is always the first to be accused,” Annie replied. She suddenly noticed the clothing she wore. A New York Rangers hockey jersey swallowed her upper body, while gray sweat pants hung loosely on her legs. She looked up at him.

  Rafter’s face reddened. “I didn’t know how long you’d been lying in the road. I thought you might be hypothermic. So I exchanged your wet muddy clothes for some dry ones of mine. I promise I didn’t linger.”

  “Why didn’t you call an ambulance, or take me to an emergency room?” Annie asked. Her profession required her to be skeptical of people and their motives. She had witnessed the total gamut of debauchery during her time in the FBI. But unlike other agents, who were able to desensitize their emotions to criminal behavior, she couldn’t. Over time her perception of the human condition became jaded. She distrusted every stranger she came across that looked at her funny. Yet her finely tuned radar system couldn’t detect even a hint of malice residing in Jon Rafter.

  “I don’t have a phone, and the nearest hospital is a good fifty miles away,” Rafter said. “And despite the ugliness of your wounds, Annie, I didn’t think they were life-threatening. I thought it was safer for us to stay here in the house and not risk driving into floodwater.”

  Annie probed her tender ribs. “Have you had any medical training?”

  “A little. Years ago I took some EMT classes.”

  “So what’s your prognosis? How long do I have?” Annie asked. She watched a boyish grin flicker across Rafter’s chin.

  “I would say a very long time, judging by your fitness level. But the knots on your scalp suggest you have a concussion. And the blows to your head have made you susceptible to subdural hematoma. You’ll need to see a doctor as soon as the storm abates.”

  “That sounds serious. Can you translate that in layman terms?”

  “Subdural hematoma is a dangerous condition where blood collects on the brain,” Rafter explained. He picked up his candle and stood up. He walked over to her. “Miss, Crawford, my backside doesn’t have enough padding to sit for very long on a hardwood floor. You think you have your sea legs back yet?”

  “I can try.” She grabbed his outstretched hand and allowed him to pull her up to her feet. She began to sway, and he quickly placed an arm around her shoulders. “I really need to pee. Can you lead me to your bathroom?”

  “I can and will. But be warned, you enter at your own risk. Housekeeping is low on my priority list,” Rafter confessed.

  Annie smiled through her split lip. “Then I should feel right at home.” She leaned heavily on Rafter as each step jolted her ribs. They sto
pped at a door.

  “There are bath towels in the cabinet if you want to freshen up,” Rafter said.

  “That would be wonderful.” She took the candle from him and closed the door behind her. After she urinated, she glanced in the vanity mirror as she washed her hands. Her mouth dropped at the reflection staring back at her. Bruises encircled her eyes, and her swollen lips trickled blood. She looked like a prizefighter who just suffered a lopsided loss. Fighting back tears, Annie hobbled over to a claw-foot tub and began drawing water. A hot bath is just what I need.

  She stripped off Rafter’s clothes and climbed into the tub. She examined her bruised legs as water filled the tub. She tried counting the contusions but lost count. She had more spots than a leopard. Shutting off the tap, she scrubbed herself as best she could. She lingered in the warm water for a long time. An hour later she climbed out of the tub and put Rafter’s clothes back on. She found him in the kitchen stirring a pot of gumbo by candlelight. The aroma of andouille sausage simmering in roux made her mouth water.

  “Feel better?”

  Annie sat down at a nearby table. “I feel cleaner, not better. I must be difficult to look at.”

  “You look lovely to me. About all I have to look at around here is Sam,” Rafter said, jerking his thumb toward the Newfoundland sitting by the table. “Are you hungry?” he asked, removing the bubbling gumbo from the stove.

  “I’m starving.”

  Rafter smiled. “Good. Then you’ll think this is the best gumbo you’ve ever had,” He poured a generous portion of gumbo into a bowl filled with rice and set it on the kitchen table. “Eat up, Ms. Crawford.”

  Annie sat down at the table and ate the food with enthusiasm. She couldn’t remember tasting anything so good. Rafter joined her, but didn’t eat anything. He sipped coffee and kept her company as she ate.