

Other books from AJ Davidson

Non-fiction

Kidnapped

Defamed!

Fiction

Death Sentence – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

Moon on the Bayou – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

Sandman – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

Churchill's Queen

Wounded Tiger

Piwko's Proof

Paper Ghosts

Decoys

### AN EVIL SHADOW

By

AJ Davidson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

AJ Davidson on Smashwords

An Evil Shadow

Copyright © 2010 by AJ Davidson

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

To Shannon

CHAPTER ONE

New Orleans 2003

Donny Jackson turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door and entered the apartment, then used his foot to hook the door shut behind him. His hands were full. In one, he carried a medium-sized Samsonite case and a plastic bag containing a box of smuggled duty-free Cuban cigars, in the other his keys and a bunch of mail that had accumulated during his latest trip to Vietnam.

The temperature inside was just a few degrees from being chilly and he could hear the ceiling fan rotating slowly. For once, the building's super had remembered to turn the power back on for his return. He used an elbow to flick on the lights.

It felt good to be home. If you could call an apartment, he saw for less than two months out of every twelve home. There had been times when he felt it was nothing more than a five-room closet; a place to store his clothes and his MP3 player. Still, it wouldn't be for much longer. If all went to plan then he had only three more weeks before he had his hands on more money than he had dreamed possible in his wildest fantasy. He would never have to work another day in his life. No more long-haul flights in cramped, tourist class seats. No more cheap, flea-ridden hotels in fourth-world countries. No more having to take orders from a bunch of pricks.

Setting down the case and the cigars, he quickly sorted through his mail. Predictably, all were circulars addressed to the occupier of apartment 36. Donny was meticulous about keeping his name off mailing lists, and the apartment was leased under a corporate name, by the firm that employed him. But it took more than that to defeat the marketing men.

He had expected to receive a card from his mother. It had been his birthday the previous day. Celebrated by the devouring of a Big Mac and a strawberry shake in a Hanoi McDonalds. His forty-second birthday and she hadn't missed one yet. He went through the envelopes again in case he had overlooked it. Nope, nothing there. A little disillusioned, he threw the mail on the chrome and smoked-glass coffee table. He would trash them later.

Shaking off his jacket, he draped it over the back of a chair and slipped his feet out of his penny loafers. He sniffed at an armpit and screwed up his face. Boy, could he use a shower. He moved across the room to his MP3 player and selected a Garth Brooks album, turning up the volume. The music would help him unwind while he showered. Installing a remote speaker on the bathroom wall was his only contribution to the apartment's fixtures and fittings.

Jackson walked into the bedroom and through to the bathroom. He swung open the glass door of the stall and turned on the water. It would take a few moments to reach the temperature he liked. Studying his face in the mirror, he considered shaving, but since he would need another shave in the morning, what was the point? He screwed the top off a bottle of mouthwash, took a hefty swig, and started to gargle away the taste of airline food.

As he lowered his head to spit in the sink, he caught a face reflected in the mirror. A mountain of a man with skin as shiny and black as an eggplant, his long hair hanging down in braids tied off with red and blue ribbon. Warhol's Marilyn Monroe adorned the front of his short-sleeved shirt. The man grinned wickedly, displaying a solid gold bicuspid.

Jackson knew the dental work only too well. Gilett and he had worked together on countless occasions and Jackson had considered him an ally. The man's unannounced manifestation in his bathroom suggested that he had been wrong.

The stiletto blade in his hand confirmed it.

Jackson twisted around and spat a stream of mouthwash straight into the man's eyes. Momentarily blinded, Gilett's stabbing thrust veered off course slightly and deflected against a collarbone instead of severing Jackson's spine as intended. Locking his hands together, Jackson clubbed his attacker, catching him off balance. He followed up by grabbing a handful of hair and slamming the man's head against the Spanish tiles on the bathroom wall.

He seized hold of Gilett's right wrist. It felt as hard and rigid as a baseball bat. There was no way he could match Gilett for strength. He made a claw of his other hand and raked his eyes. Gilett caught his arm and pushed it away before he had inflicted any real damage.

They wrestled for dominance, grunting with effort, their feet slipping on the marble floor. A cloud of steam enveloped them as Garth Brooks started into Friends in Low Places.

Gilett's cannonball of a head was inches from Jackson's. Close enough for him to catch the heavy sour stench of rum on his breath. Jackson tried to sink his teeth into a cheek. Gilett pulled away and butted him.

His nose bone cracked and blinded him with pain. Blood poured into his mouth and resistance started to drain from him. With only seconds to live, all he could think about was how he should have anticipated something like this. Jackson, how dumb can you be?

Drawing on the last of his reserves, he brought his knee up into the black man's groin and was rewarded with a grunt and a slight loosening of the grip on his arm.

It was enough. He grabbed another handful of hair, jerking Gilett's head backward to expose his throat.

Jackson rose on his toes and sank his teeth into the vulnerable larynx. He felt the crack as a bridge of bone and cartilage gave way.

The two men twisted around and stumbled. Gilett's head cracked against the toilet. The stiletto went skidding across the floor. Jackson stretched for it.

Gilett's hand reached it first and he turned and sank the blade into the fleshy part of Jackson's thigh. His body went rigid and he screamed in agony, but the pain brought renewed strength and he drove a fist into Gilett's damaged throat. Gilett let go the knife to protect his damaged larynx.

Jackson used the rim of the sink to haul himself off the floor, the knife protruding from his leg like some evil, black leech. He limped into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed.

Above the music, Jackson caught the gagging sounds of his former ally fighting for breath. A cold fury exploded deep inside him. Fuck them and their treachery! Damned if he was going to make it easy for those cocksuckers.

Jackson gingerly touched the hilt of the knife and a wave of dizzy pain swept through him. He had seconds before Gilett would recover and come at him again.

Removing the knife would give him a weapon, but he was already in poor shape and could pass out from the effort. Even if he remained conscious, he was far from certain that a knife would be enough of an advantage.

He could make a run for it, but how far could he get with a knife in his leg, blood pouring from his nose and a gash in his shoulder?

His living room? The door of his apartment? If he could get that far, he could make the elevator. He might make even make it to his car. At least then, he would have a chance.

He ran.

CHAPTER TWO

Val Bosanquet knew right off that his brother intended to ask a favor of him, and a big one at that.

The phone call earlier that Sunday morning had taken Val by surprise — it had been two years since they had last spoken, twice that since they had met face to face — but the venue and the timing of the meeting intrigued him enough to agree to his brother's request.

He knew that Marcus's only possible reason for suggesting Jackson Square was the fond associations the place held for them both. Memories of other Sunday mornings long ago back when they were kids. Of their mother attending mass in St Louis Cathedral, while the three men in her life waited outside in the square. Their father would find a shaded bench to read the sports section, while Marcus and Val played at soldiers, their marching feet raising clouds of dust on what had once been the parade ground of the New Orleans Militia.

When mass was over, they would walk through Pirate's Alley, find a table at a banquette cafe and order chocolate and beignets. It was a cherished memory from a childhood that had little to commend it, but one that Marcus was not beyond invoking when it suited him.

The cathedral bells starting to peal snapped Val's thoughts back to the present and he quickly scanned the square. Little had changed. Swarms of rubbernecking tourists, clutching complimentary street maps in front of them like divining rods, were passing through on their way to the French Quarter, pausing briefly to admire the art hung along the wrought-iron railings. Outside the park, tired mules stood between the shafts of their buggies, flicking their tails at the pestering flies. A white-faced mime artist performed her routine in front of a group of twenty camera-festooned Japanese conventioneers.

Val had arrived early, knowing that Marcus would show up dead on time. They were both creatures of habit.

He picked him out the moment he entered the park. Catalog Man. Two years spent in Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar had left a deep impression on Marcus. He brought back an affection for a dress style peculiarly British.

Acknowledging that he lacked any sense of taste, he would order entire wardrobes out of the mail-order catalogs of London stores, replicating exactly the outfits that caught his eye. Today he was wearing cricket whites, with the sleeves of a pullover draped over his shoulders and knotted loosely at the front of his chest. A cricket cap finished off the ensemble. Val allowed himself a sardonic smile. His brother, Dean of the Creative Arts faculty at the University of New Orleans, might not have attracted much attention on campus, but in the middle of Jackson Square ...

He sat on the bench next to Val.

"It's been much too long. How are things with you, Valentino?"

Val flinched. Marcus was the one person who still insisted on using his full name.

"Pretty good."

"I'm glad to hear it. You haven't changed a bit."

"Marcus, tell me what I'm doing here? Has it anything to do with Angie?"

Angie — Val still couldn't speak her name without experiencing hollowness deep inside — was, technically, still his wife. Four years previously, she had left him to move in with his brother. Too devout a Catholic to contemplate divorce, yet possessing a wickedly dark sense of humor, she reveled in the ambiguity created by her married name corresponding with that of her new partner. Val had wondered on occasions if Angie and he would have been together still had he been an only son.

"Leave Angie out of it," Marcus said. "I'm here to offer you a job."

"I have a job."

"I mean a real job. One with a future. Designing and manufacturing illuminated signs for carnival floats is hardly what you'd call a long-term prospect."

"It suits me." Val wondered how Marcus had come to know of his latest entrepreneurial venture. There had been several ignominious failures in the first couple of years, but this time he had struck gold. Val and a few other members of the Black Cat carnival krewe had formed a company to cash in on the mother of all parties that was millennium year. Business had been good and the company was still turning over a good profit three years later.

It was evident from Marcus's troubled expression that he was having difficulty coming up with the right words to finish saying what he had started. To gain a few seconds, he shifted his gaze to an Oriental man asking a passing stranger to take a photograph of his group. By the time they had moved on, Marcus was ready to continue.

"The campus police chief is retiring — ill health. A stroke has left his right arm and leg paralyzed. The post will be advertised this week, but with the new semester only two weeks away, we need to find a replacement fast. I want you to apply. I can't promise anything, but my endorsement would carry a lot of weight."

"No thanks. I gave up being a cop four years ago."

"Don't say that. Once a cop, always a cop. It's in your blood."

"Maybe it's slipped your mind, but I left the department voluntarily."

A puzzled expression clouded Marcus's face. "I never understood what possessed you to resign. The youngest homicide detective lieutenant in the history of the New Orleans PD; the most decorated; a clear-up rate that kept you on the front-pages and made you the mayor's favorite son. Then one day, out of the blue, you just turn your back and walk away."

"I had my reasons."

"Sure you did. That damned perverseness of yours right up there at the top of the list. You've always taken after Dad."

Val felt a cold hand tighten around his heart. People say you only remember the good times, but what if there are times so bad you can never obliterate them? Their father had been prone to sudden, irrational bouts of violence, during which he would beat his two sons black and blue. These moods came on without warning, and usually without any grounds. Afterward he would be guilt-ridden and beg their forgiveness. Marcus never gave it, but for Val, the time it took for the hurt to dissipate grew shorter with each attack until, eventually, he became inured to it.

Marcus was still speaking. "... cursed with the same insane compulsion to mess up anything that could be good for you."

"And you're starting to sound like Angie," Val said, standing up. He hadn't articulated the reason for his decision to anyone, not even fully to himself. There were unexplored depths to some men's psyche that were best left that way.

"You may have turned your back on the one thing you were ever any good at, but don't try telling me you don't miss it."

"If so," Val snarled, "do you seriously believe that pushing paper across a desk and busting freshmen for smoking cannabis would compensate?"

"There's considerably more to it than that. You would be your own boss, answerable to nobody. A rent-free apartment comes as part of the package. The money's good, and you would be able to transfer your PD annuity fund into the university's. I happen to know you haven't vested it yet, so another few years of contributions and you could retire on full pension."

"You've obviously done your homework. Shame you wasted your time. Give the job to the assistant chief," Val said, turning to walk away.

"Don't go. I'm not through explaining."

"I'm through listening."

"You promised me ten minutes," Marcus said, raising his voice for the first time.

Val twisted around and gave him a hard stare. "Then cut out the bullshit and tell me the truth. Since when did you give a damn what I do? Is this some sort of scam Angie's lawyers have come up with so they can shaft me some more?"

Marcus stood up and placed a hand on his brother's arm.

"Do you remember a young girl called Marie Duval?"

"A Haitian Creole who did a Lizzie Borden on her mother. At the time of the killing she was six weeks shy of her tenth birthday."

"You were the primary investigating officer."

It was Val's turn to be baffled. What possible interest could Marcus have in a killing that had taken place ten years before? "There wasn't a whole lot of investigating required. What's it to you?"

"Duval's applied to the university to study Caribbean Art. We've accepted her. She scored over fifteen hundred on her SATs."

Like some dumb kid brother, Val said the first thing that came into his head. "And you want my opinion as to whether she's likely to kill again?"

"Not really. Professionals have already assured us that she poses a minimal risk. A condition of her acceptance by the university was her consenting to undergo psychiatric testing. The reports say that she is a gifted artist, well balanced and mature for her age — an ambitious young woman. Apparently her mother was a manbo — a voodoo priestess — who had been planning to initiate Marie. The child was locked up for nine days without food or water and was forcibly subjected to a series of barbaric voodoo rites and trials. The culminating test was for Marie's right hand to be plunged into a pot of scalding water. If she was deserving of manbo status, her spirits would protect her, and her hand would suffer no harm. Marie genuinely believed she would fail the test and, in a weakened state, terrified and fearing for her life, she attacked her mother. She was acting in self-defense. If you ask me, the mother was the truly dangerous one."

Val shrugged. It was much the same story as Duval's attorney had laid on him ten years before. Like any street-weary cop, he gave little credence to bizarre defenses and had heard his share of weird ones. Yet he had been reluctant to totally discount Duval's. His investigation into the Duval killing was the second time he had come up against the Art of Darkness. His first was as a rookie whose beat included a notorious Iberville housing project, plagued with petty crime the PD were powerless to do anything about. Then one day an oungan, a voodoo priest, stepped in and the word went out that there was to be an end to the vandalism, muggings and burglaries. The oungan was held in awe and was reputed to practice with both hands — magic and sorcery. Within a week, it was safe to walk the streets at night. It had been difficult for Val to remain cynical when confronted with results like that.

"The Haitians have a saying," he said. "Petit tig se tig. The child of a tiger is a tiger."

Marcus looked away, his face momentarily displaying the derision he bore the unenlightened − which usually included anyone who disagreed with him.

Val carried on. "You still haven't explained what all this has to do with you offering me a job."

Marcus turned back to face his brother. "Cards on the table. I've met Duval and was impressed with her determination. She has been turned down by half-a-dozen universities — she applied to out-of-state colleges at first. They're keen enough to interview her, but the moment they learn of her background ..."

"Who can blame them? Who would fancy sharing a dormitory room with a convicted axe-killer? I can't see your student body being thrilled when it learns who their latest freshman is."

"On the contrary. We anticipate very little opposition from that quarter; they would be more likely to protest if we announced that we had rescinded Duval's acceptance — not that it's been officially announced yet. It's the parents of the students who concern us."

"The ones who stump up the tuition you mean?"

Marcus nodded solemnly. "We have negotiated extra state and private funding to offset any shortfall that would accrue should parents start withdrawing students. The governor is keen for Marie to attend a Louisiana college."

"This funding. What form will it take?"

"Grants, endowments, a new Chair. Marie is being sponsored by the Assist Haiti charity, which has been lobbying strenuously on her behalf."

"And all this extra funding is dependent on her starting classes in two weeks' time?"

Marcus nodded hesitantly.

"And if you could find a way to limit the financial fallout, the university would come out in front, and you would be doing your career prospects a power of good at the same time. I was right when I sensed Angie's devious hand behind this. She threw the towel in on me when I left the department, so now she wants to see you make Chancellor."

"Why do you always think the worse of her? She's too fine a woman for that," Marcus said, his face slightly flushed.

"Maybe it's because I know her better than you."

"Still doesn't give you the right to denigrate her at every opportunity."

"It may not be the way of a gentleman, but chivalry died out the same day alimony was invented," Val said, grinding his teeth hard to stop himself striking Marcus. "You want me to apply for the post, so the university can reassure concerned parents that the homicide detective who arrested Duval originally will be around to keep a close eye on her. In the hope — and to me it's a long shot — some of them think twice before transferring their kids to Baton Rouge. Am I right?"

Marcus's face flushed a deeper shade as he admitted that that was the case.

"And how long will it be before the university decides I've served my purpose and replace me? One semester? Two?"

"That wouldn't happen. The job would be yours for as long as you wanted it."

Val jabbed a finger into Marcus's sternum. "You and your job can both go to hell." He walked away.

"We need to move on it soon," Marcus cried out after him.

Val preferred to do his drinking after dark, but sundown was too many hours away. Not really knowing who to be mad at didn't help. Had he honestly expected anything different from Marcus, a man as slippery as a water moccasin? And it wouldn't have hurt if Val had lightened up a shade. He found an empty stool at the end of Daft Eadie's bar on Decatur and snarled an order for a double shot of Beam over ice.

Eadie's thirty years of bar-keeping had equipped him with enough nous to set up a clean drip mat, dump some ice in a glass, pour the booze, and back off. A lesser man might have tried — as Marcus would have put it — to establish lines of communication. He might have got a smack in the jaw for his trouble. Val drained the glass, swirling the bourbon around his mouth before swallowing.

In a booth against the rear wall, two uniform policemen were finishing an early lunch. Their table was cluttered with serving dishes overflowing with empty shrimp shells. A couple of wine bottles had been upended in an ice bucket. One of them recognized Val and for a moment, it seemed he was going to heave his butt off the bench and come speak to him, but he must have changed his mind because he eased back and signaled to his partner with a jerk of his head that he was ready to go. Maybe it because Val was no longer a member of his fraternity, or maybe it was the way Val was crunching ice between his teeth.

The other cop pulled a wallet from his pocket and removed two five-dollar bills. He made a show of slapping them down on the marble counter as they left.

Eadie waved and gave the departing cops a friendly smile, but his eyes turned cold and he let the money lie. He'd rather comp a fifty-dollar meal to the uniforms than soil his hands accepting their derisory tender.

Val shrugged. He had more on his mind than Eadie's bruised ego.

Every homicide investigation has its own reasons for being memorable to those whose duty it is investigate, and for Val Bosanquet there were two damn good reasons why the Duval killing stood out, number one being that it was the first homicide he had been involved with after returning from his Hilton Head honeymoon; his first investigation as a married man.

The shout had come through to the Homicide squad room at the First District headquarters shortly after midnight. An anonymous male 911 caller had tipped off the uniforms at the Garden District station house and they had dispatched a patrol car to an address on the river side of the Irish Channel. Sergeant Williams had discovered the body and wasted little time landing the case in Homicide's lap.

Val averaged one homicide per week in the Channel. The area was due south of the Garden District, but a zillion miles separated the two it you talked average household income. Densely populated by poor African and Hispanic Americans, it had once been home to some hundred thousand Irish who had fled the Famine in their homeland in the 1840s only to discover that in Louisiana they were considered more expendable than the expensive third- and fourth-generation slaves. They found themselves in an underclass where poverty was something to aspire to.

There was a solitary patrol car and a crime scene technicians' truck parked outside the run-down Victorian building when Val pulled up. The June night was oven hot and the wind blowing off the river only added to the high humidity. Almost all the streetlights had been smashed, leaving the street and the building's entrance in deep shadow. As expected, in a neighborhood where the majority of residents are illegals, there was a notable lack of curious onlookers.

The mortuary van arrived as Val stepped from his car. The assistant medical examiner threw him a cheery grin and started to whistle The Night the Lights went out in Georgia, as he rolled the gurney from the van. Val left him to it and went in search of Sergeant Williams.

He was standing inside the front door. Sweat had stained his shirt dark under his arms and across his chest. Val knew Williams — they had both worked the same shift as uniform sergeants for a fourteen-month stretch immediately before Val had made detective. He was a racist and a bully, who justified the evil shadow he threw by claiming it got the job done. It came as no surprise that he was still doing the same job. Williams hitched his leather belt up over his beer gut and flicked a half-smoked cigar past Val's face into the street before leading him through to an apartment at the rear of the building.

A naked, low-wattage bulb hanging from the center of the roof illuminated the grisly scene directly below. A thin, dark-skinned female was lying face down in a pool of blood. She was barefoot and was wearing a loose-fitting dress in a faded, printed fabric. There were no visible wounds to her back, but all that blood had to have come from somewhere, Val thought.

"Was the door open when you arrived?"

"Yeah, with no sign that it had been forced, and the light was on."

The room was little more than a lean-to shack constructed in the rear yard of the apartment block. Erected without foundations, the walls were of high-density fiberboard. The roof was asbestos sheeting; the floor was cypress planking covered in cracked linoleum. Val guessed that, without any windows for ventilation, the temperature inside would rarely drop below the high eighties. Clothing had been hung from protruding nails. What little furniture there was appeared to have been salvaged from a Dumpster. The table and chairs were resin patio furniture. A mattress was pushed lengthwise against an outer wall, a single sheet lying in a crumpled mess. There was a camping stove in the corner with a couple of battered aluminum pots stacked next to it. Farther along the wall was a sink with a single cold-water faucet. The stuffy atmosphere smelt of poverty and despair. Robbery could be ruled out as a motive.

"Take a look at this," Williams said, a ghoulish grin on his face. He hunkered down on the woman's left side, where the blood had spread the least, placed a latex-gloved hand on either side of her head and raised it. There was a moist, sucking sound as the head broke free from the clinging blood. "It's my guess somebody took a meat cleaver to her."

It was impossible to make any sort of estimate about the woman's age; there wasn't enough left of her face. White bone and gristle showed though strips of flesh; a collapsed eyeball hung loosely from its socket. Her upper palate and tongue had been cleaved in two and the teeth of her bottom jaw were shattered.

"Not tonight, honey. I have a splitting headache."

"Cut it out," Val snapped, sickened by Williams's clowning.

The crime scene technician switched on a high-intensity portable lamp, flooding the room in brilliant light. Val wished he hadn't. The blood splattering had coated every surface in a five-foot arc around the victim.

"Any witnesses?" he asked the sergeant.

"Not one nigger saw or heard a goddam thing."

Val gave him a cold stare. "What do you have on her?"

Williams was not a man who would have balked at extracting information from the building's residents, by fair means or foul. He would have relished explaining to them that, contrary to what they might think, they had a lot more to fear from him than from the Immigration and Naturalization Service.

He dropped the victim's head back into the blood and straightened up.

"Her name's Valerie Duval. She's a Haitian illegal. According to the neighbors, she and her daughter arrived here from Haiti shortly after the Duvalier regime went belly up. The husband was a Tonton Macoute henchman for Baby Doc Duvalier. He and their son were amongst the first to be fitted with gasoline neckties after his boss pulled out for France. Wifey here still had enough clout though, to get herself and her daughter passage on the next refugee boat. She's been supporting the two of them with income earned from practicing voodoo. Apparently the nigger bitch was a manbo — some sort of freaking priestess. She would call down the spirits to put a grisgris on your enemies or cast a love spell in return for a few dollars or a good meal."

"Lay off the racist crap," Val warned him.

Williams sneered at him. "What are you going to do about it? File a fucking report?"

"No. Right now I have all the paperwork I can handle on my desk. I'd take your gun and drag your fat ass out front and 'cuff you to the nearest street light. Then I'd let this woman's friends and neighbors know what you've been saying about her."

Williams's face drained of color.

"Any sign of the daughter?" Val asked after a few moments.

The sergeant tried to give him a hard-ass stare, but thought better of it and backed off. This lieutenant didn't make empty threats.

"We haven't located her yet. Her name's Marie and the neighbors say she's around nine years old."

Val walked the edges of the room, able to examine the contents in more detail under the glare from the portable lamp. Behind the circular table was a set of three drums, unglazed pottery bases and dog pelts for the skins. The smallest of the trio had what could only be Golden Labrador fur still attached. Val was aware of the central role drums played in voodoo, being the principal means of summoning the lwa, or spirits. He was no expert, but had picked up a working understanding of the religion. After witnessing the influence of the oungan in the Iberville project, he had made a trip to the city library and borrowed a couple of books on the subject.

Tacked to the fiberboard of the rear wall were three lengths of lining paper, the sort interior decorators use when preparing a surface for hanging heavy wallpaper. Drawings of veves, symbols of the lwa, done in charcoal, covered the sheets of paper. More often outlined on the ground with chalk dust or coffee grounds, the veves were to ensure that the spirits knew exactly which of them was being summoned during rituals.

One sketch was of a heart bordered by snakes, the veve of Ezili, the goddess of love. The next sheet had a cross drawn on it. Similar in appearance to a Christian rood, in voodoo it represents the veve for the lwa of the dead, symbolizing the crossing from one life to another.

Val did not recognize the third drawing. The sketch had similar characteristics to Masonic imagery, with what could have been a set of dividers over a square at its center, and surrounded with interlocking curlicues. The duality of icons came as no surprise. When the eighteenth-century colonial French attempted to abolish voodoo on Haiti, the practitioners, mainly slaves, adopted many Roman Catholic and Masonic symbols to help dupe their masters.

There was a collection of coffee jars and plastic bottles on the floor under the veves. One of the glass jars held a pint of evil-smelling rum, the others contained snake vertebrae and colored pebbles. The plastic bottles were filled with dried herbs and spices.

A baby-faced uniform officer entered, carrying a flashlight. He was making a beeline for Williams until he spotted Val.

"I think y'all better come take a look at this," he said, waving the flashlight from side to side. "I was searching out back for the murder weapon when I found the girl."

Val asked the medical examiner to remain with the body while the rest of them went outside.

There were some scraggly flaming-azalea and myrtle shrubs planted along the perimeter of the yard, but little grass had survived, the earth having been compacted to hardpan. The officer led the way to a live oak at the far end of the yard. As they approached, not even the heady scent of night-blooming jasmine could mask the stench of putrefying flesh. Val's heart sank and he prepared himself for the worse.

Relief flooded through him when he made out the shape of several dark bundles suspended from the lowermost branches of the tree. The Simbi lwa were reputed to take up residence in trees, and carcasses, usually guinea fowl, are hung in the branches in offering, in the hope that the lwa will reciprocate with the gift of clairvoyance. What remained of the unfortunate Labrador had probably ended up the same way.

The moss-hung oak would have been planted around the same time as the building was constructed, probably twenty years after the War Between the States. The beam from the flashlight was directed at the bole of the tree, and then raised slowly upwards.

A mulatto girl sat astride a branch some twenty feet above the ground, both arms wrapped tightly around herself in an effort to control a bout of shivering that had enveloped her despite the night's high temperature. She was naked apart from flimsy nylon briefs. When the light from the flashlight struck her face, she shut her eyes and twisted her head towards the trunk of the tree. The movement caused her to slip and she shot out a hand to steady herself.

"Move the light off her," Val barked at the young officer "She's terrified enough as it is and may drop if we frighten her any further."

"I've already tried talking to her," he said defensively. "She won't answer and hasn't budged an inch since I first found her."

Williams suggested that they call the firehouse.

"No," Val said. "She could fall before they arrive. If she's a witness to what happened inside, she has to be on the verge of catatonia."

Val took the flashlight and shone it at the base of the tree. Several wire nails had been driven into the trunk. Each one had three inches left protruding out from the bark. The girl would have used them to reach the lowermost branches, but it was unlikely they would bear his weight. He lifted his left foot onto one and exerted some pressure. It bent as easily as rubber.

"No use."

"There's something we could use," the crime scene tech said, pointing back up the yard to a rusty oil drum lying on its side against the wooden wall of Duval's shack.

The drum was half-full of rainwater, which sloshed from the plughole, soaking their shoes as they rolled it across the compacted earth. It took them less than a minute to get the drum upended at the base of the tree.

Nixon would have been President the last time Sergeant Williams climbed a tree, and his partner was four inches shorter than Val. The crime scene tech held Val's jacket and gun while he slipped his ID and the flashlight into a trouser pocket. Williams steadied the drum as Val climbed on top. Expecting the rusty metal to give way at any moment, he stood up shakily. A desiccated turkey hen carcass knocked against his face. Snapping the cord that was holding it, he tossed the stinking, maggot-infested bundle to the ground. Val reached above his head and felt for a branch he could wrap his hands around. Grabbing hold of one and kicking his legs in the air, he managed to haul himself up. He found a stout branch to sit on.

The girl was three branches further up. Val called out to her, trying to sound reassuring. "It's okay, Marie. I'm a police officer. Nobody's going to hurt you, but we have to help you down, so we can have a talk."

The girl's head turned towards him, but in the gloom it was impossible for him to see her eyes. What light there was in the yard came from a three-quarters moon, but little of it penetrated the leaf canopy. He levered himself up onto a higher branch pulled out his shield, and shone the flashlights beam on it.

She didn't react.

"Don't be afraid," Val reassured her. "I'm going to climb up beside you and bring you down. You'll be safe soon."

As slowly as he could, Val reached across with his left hand and grasped the branch she was on. He didn't want to risk startling her with any sudden movement.

As it turned out, it was the girl who made the sudden movement. The flashlight's beam accidentally caught her face and for a split second her eyes, like those of a cat, reflected back the light. She produced a camping axe from somewhere and swung it at Val's left hand. He pulled away, but not quickly enough. The head of the axe buried itself into the branch, removing his middle finger at the first joint.

He dropped through the tree like a lead weight, landing on the small of his back across top of the oil drum, crushing it as though it was a milk carton. For a brief instant before passing out, he caught sight of the bloody stump and knew that he now had another reason never to forget the Duval investigation.

New Orleans General detained Val for two days. The surgeon tried his best, but was unable to reattach his finger. He patched him up and made lewd comments over what the loss would mean to him.

Marie Duval was being held under protective custody in a secure room at the same hospital. Immediately after Val's fall, Sergeant Williams radioed for the paramedics and the fire department. A fire fighter, using a ladder to climb the tree, had succeeded in bringing Duval down after a brief but fierce struggle. The girl had embedded the axe that deeply in the branch that she had been unable to pull it free. It didn't stop her sinking her teeth into the fire fighter's shoulder and she would have drawn blood if the man hadn't been wearing his thick bunking jacket.

She had yet to say a single word about her mother's killing, or anything else for that matter. She was unharmed, but had lost the power of speech. The doctors who examined her couldn't find any physiological explanation for her muteness and had called in a child psychologist.

Forensic tests had been carried out on the bloodstains found on the axe. The lab identified two types. They were a match for Valerie Duval and Val.

The chromed-steel axe, still coated with the light film of oil the manufacturer had applied prior to distribution, was a near perfect surface from which to lift fingerprints. The only prints found were Marie Duval's. A child's white cotton dress and scarf had been found hanging in the tree. Both heavily spattered with the mother's blood.

Val was hearing all this from Captain Paul Larson, a great bear of a man with a ruddy face, sleepy eyes, and a mop of wiry, gray hair. Contrary to the somnambulistic state his eyes would have you believe him constantly in, he was by far the most intuitive police officer Val had worked with. He was slouched comfortably in an armchair next to Val's hospital bed, drinking from a paper cup the Chivas Regal that he had brought for him. Angie had insisted on remaining at his bedside since his injury, but half an hour earlier the nurses had finally persuaded her to return home to catch up some sleep. She had gone reluctantly, promising to be back in a few hours with some fresh clothes for him. The shirt and trousers he had been wearing the night he had been brought in were torn and bloodied.

"Between the doctors, Child Protection and the psychologist, we can't get anywhere near the girl," Larson explained. "They've circled the wagons around her and have retained a specialist lawyer from the children's court to ensure she receives the kid-glove treatment from us. Though if she has genuinely lost the ability to speak, it's debatable what benefit will come from interviewing her."

Val grunted unsympathetically. "We know she can hear. Can she read and write?"

Larson poured himself another shot of Chivas. "The kid took an axe to her mother and has maimed a detective. She's hardly in any rush to put it on paper."

"Has she been placed under arrest?"

"Not yet. She's not going anyplace and I thought you should be the one to do it."

Val brooded over it for a few moments and realized that he had no strong feelings either way. Duval was a killer and it was his job to uncover enough evidence for the DA's office to successfully prosecute her. The fact that she was a child didn't really come into it. "Why not?"

"You're positive you're fit enough? I could assign another detective. All the evidence points to her having acted on her own, but with the media attention the killing has attracted, I want to make sure that nothing is overlooked."

Val held up his left hand with the heavily bandaged stump. "I may be incapable of saluting the press in a fit and proper manner but I can still do my job. As soon as Angie returns with my clothes, I start back to work."

Larson grinned and looked at Val's injured hand. "If it helps improve your keyboard skills, maybe some good will come of it."

Less than four hours later Val walked into the city morgue in search of the assistant medical examiner. He found him in the autopsy suite, halfway through a post-mortem on a Jane Doe floater. He was whistling Old Man River.

Val told him that he wanted a word, but that it could wait until he was finished. He knew it wouldn't be long.

Before witnessing his first post-mortem, Val's impression of an autopsy had been gleaned from television shows like Quincy. He had imagined that the autopsy suite would be similar to an operating theatre, spotlessly clean, equipped with lots of delicate, shiny surgical instruments laid out in rows. It came as quite a shock to discover that the majority of a medical examiner's tools appeared more fitted to pruning pecan trees than to fine surgical procedures. That discovery and the rapidity of a typical post-mortem were the indelible recollections he had of that first procedure — not the offensive stenches or the gore that had been retained by the majority of his fellow probationers.

"How's the hand, Detective Bosanquet?" the ME asked, when he finished and was peeling off his surgical gloves.

"Throbbing."

"You were lucky. It could have been a lot worse."

Val nodded. He had been thinking the same thing. It was part of cop folklore that a newly married officer would react differently to a threatening situation than a single officer, especially if a child was involved. He didn't believe he would have handled the tree incident any differently if it had happened three weeks earlier. "I guess so, if losing a finger can be described as lucky."

"I didn't mean in that way. Valerie Duval tested negative for HIV. The incidence of AIDS amongst Haitians has reached epidemic proportions, exacerbated by the island's extreme poverty and almost zero health education. Traces of the victim's blood on the axe could easily have transferred to your wound."

Val said nothing, but suddenly the throbbing did not feel so bad.

"You want the report on the Duval post?" the ME asked.

"Yeah, and I'd better take another look at the body. I'm still the primary investigating officer."

The ME brought him through to the mortuary storage facility, located the relevant drawer and slid it out on its rollers. He took hold of the zip and pulled it open along the body bag's full length. Val helped him ease back the plastic so he could better examine Valerie Duval's body.

The flesh of her face had been rinsed and loosely reassembled, the eyeball inserted back in its socket. It would have been a gaunt face even before the attack; now it was concave, the cartilage and bone structure of her nasal septum having been destroyed. Val allowed his eyes to descend slowly along her body, following the mid-line of broad sutures that ran from her neck to her pubic mound. She was severely undernourished; her pelvic bones seemed to be trying to burst through her skin.

"Take a look at her hands and arms," the ME said, extracting her right arm from the bag and rotating it. "No defense wounds. No cuts or lesions, no bruises or scratches."

"She wasn't expecting the attack?"

"That would be the obvious inference, though how exactly can you take someone by surprise when you're holding an axe?"

Not difficult, Val thought, if the attacker was the victim's nine-year-old daughter.

"What about the angle of the blows? Can you tell me anything about the height of the assailant?"

The ME tucked the arm back inside the body bag. "Unfortunately not. The victim was five foot two inches tall and was struck three times from above with considerable downward force. A tall killer would have no need to raise his or her arm above shoulder height, while a short person could have inflicted the same type of injury by swinging the axe in an arc above their head. Any one of the three blows would have been sufficient to cause death."

"Can you speculate as to the first blow?"

The ME shook his head. "That's all it would be I'm afraid — speculation — and I'm not prepared to do that."

Val questioned him for another quarter of an hour, but nothing of any significance came from it. He returned to his car and drove to the Irish Channel. The camping axe used in the killing had been brand new and how many camping and hardware stores could there be in that part of the city?

CHAPTER THREE

Val spent the rest of that day and the morning of the next questioning the owners and employees of stores within a ten-block radius of the Duval building. With the river to the south, it meant he had a semi-circular section of the city to cover. He worked east to west and eventually struck lucky with a camping and bait shop on Annunciation Street.

"I was meaning to phone in about it," the manager explained. "But you know how it is. The store gets busy and you put it to the back of your mind. By the time business quietens down, it's slipped your memory."

"What exactly are you talking about? What slipped your memory?" Val asked patiently.

"The camping axe. I read about the Creole woman's murder in the Times-Picayune and I said to Joe — that's Joe Walsh, he works for me part-time, helps out at the weekends. Weekends is our busiest time, especially coming into---"

"What was it you said to Joe?"

"I told him there was a good chance that the axe was one of ours. I have a rack of them over here."

The manager came out from behind his counter and crossed the well-stocked floor to a display of camping equipment. He lifted an axe and handed it to Val. Val didn't fish and hadn't been on a camping trip since he was twelve years old, but the paraphernalia to be found in stores like this had always held a fascination. He hefted the chrome axe in his hand to gauge its weight, rubbing his thumb along the rubber grip.

"Is that anything like what you're searching for?" the manager asked.

It was a twin of the one that Marie Duval had used to sever his finger, though Val wasn't about to confirm that just yet.

"What makes you think it was one of yours?"

The manager grinned. "A young coffee-skinned kid hoisted it from right under our noses. She walked in bold as brass, lifted it and walked straight out. I shouted for her to stop. She didn't, and the store was full of people so I couldn't chase after her. They do that — wait 'til the place is busy before they do their thieving."

"Did you get a good look at her?"

"Sure did. She must have been around nine or ten; had the face of an angel. A real cute kid."

"Do you think you would recognize her again if you saw her?"

"Don't know 'bout that. Don't know as though I would need to."

"What do you mean?"

The manager rolled his eyes. 'That's what I've been trying to tell you. I have it on a security tape and was intending to phone the station. Come through to the back and I'll show you."

The office was a mess. Catalogs, fishing magazines and invoices were piled high on his desk. Cardboard boxes with lengths of fishing rods protruding from them like porcupine quills covered the floor. The manager lifted off a game-fishing reel from a seat and told Val to sit down while he sorted through the tapes.

He surprised Val by finding the correct one on his first attempt. He inserted it into the player and switched on. The viewing screen was mounted against the wall above a filing chest. He wound the tape on until he found the relevant section.

It was just as he had described. The store was busy as Marie Duval came in and headed straight over to the camping axes. She lifted one and made no attempt to conceal it as she hurried out the door. The faces of several customers turned towards the door, presumably in reaction to the manager's shouted command for her to come back. Val had to take his word on that because the tape had no audio track.

The quality of the black and white picture was excellent. There was no doubt that the young thief had indeed been Marie Duval.

"Is the date on the tape correct?"

"Yeah, I always set it myself."

Marie Duval had stolen the axe three days before the murder. Val scribbled the shop manager a receipt for the tape and drove to homicide headquarters. After Lieutenant Larson had watched the tape a couple of times, he gave him authorization to prepare an arrest warrant for Marie Duval. Murder one.

Dave Wells was the lawyer the Child Protection department had called in to act on Duval's behalf. He was a lightly built man in his early thirties and came across as a well-intentioned and responsible member of his profession. Behind the lenses of wire-framed glasses, his eyes sparkled with intelligence and good humor. He would have great need of both in his chosen career, since much of his work involved arguing child custody cases. Cases where there were few winners. Val had caught up with him outside Duval's room at the General and, taking him to one side, had explained what he was there to do.

"I've been expecting it," Wells said, his voice full of regret.

"Has she spoken yet?"

"Not a word. She communicates with a pencil and a pad. Her spelling and grammar are below average for a nine-year-old, though her mind seems quick enough."

"Have you questioned her?"

"Not about her mother's death specifically. I have explained to her that I am here to represent her. She is happy for me to do so. I want to be there when you Miranda her."

"I have no problem with that. What does the psychologist have to say?"

"Nothing much so far. She's diagnosed temporary muteness brought on by the incident — classic post-traumatic stress syndrome. There's been no bed-wetting, rage or breathing problems. Speech could return in a day, a month, a year. Being grilled by you is not going to help."

"It can't be put off any longer," Val said, walking over to the door and reaching for the handle.

Duval was dressed in a hospital robe and was curled up in an armchair watching an episode of The Simpsons. She hadn't heard the door opening or the footsteps as they entered the room.

Wells cleared his throat. "Marie."

The kid turned to face them. Her eyes flicked from the lawyer to Val, then widened in alarm. She opened her mouth and screamed.

Captain Larson had one credo in life: a smart cop never takes anything for granted. Val knew it, the other homicide detectives knew it, and even the civilian clerks would have known it. The very moment you think you have an investigation down pat, it will turn around and bite you in the ass. This time it was Dave Wells doing the biting.

Duval's piercing reaction to Val's appearance at the hospital the afternoon before had set in motion a train of events. He was unceremoniously bundled out of her room by a couple of interns, who then sent for the pediatric resident. Val had hung around for an hour watching a series of white-coated specialists come and go, hoping that one of them would eventually permit him access to Duval. Wells was having none of it. Now knowing the seriousness of the charge, and with his client having regained her voice, he insisted on being given reasonable time to consult with her. Duval needed to be treated with understanding and consideration, Wells argued, if a further bout of speech loss was to be prevented, and he had a squad of doctors ready to back him.

Duval must have talked all night.

Captain Larson had called Val into his office early the following morning to break the news. He didn't try to sugarcoat it.

"Wells has broached a deal with the DA's office. His client will plead no contest to a charge of voluntary manslaughter if we drop the charge of assault against you."

Val stared at him bug-eyed, not believing what he was hearing. Duval was prepared to admit the unlawful killing of her mother, but that it had not been murder. She would end up serving a year, maybe two, in a juvenile detention center. The assault charge on a police officer would have carried a minimum four years.

"That's ridiculous. The DA's office will never buy it."

"I have a feeling they will. They're not convinced that a grand jury would indict the child on a murder charge — not once they listen to the story Wells has come up with."

"Let's hear it."

Larson pushed back in his chair. "According to a statement that the girl dictated, her mother had been initiating her as a manbo. She was confined without food for nine days and instructed in the rituals that a voodoo priestess uses to call upon the spirits. Voodoo initiation is seen as a rebirth. The neophyte dies — metaphorically — to be reborn as a permanent host for the lwa spirits. Duval's hand was to be immersed into boiling water during the concluding ceremony. It's known as a boule-zen. Apparently, the more severe the ordeal, the stronger the bond between the lwa and its host. The greater the manbo's asson, or power."

Val had heard enough. "This is bullshit. Duval wasn't confined. We have a security tape of her stealing the axe three days before the killing."

Larson shrugged. He was sympathetic, but saw the PD's job as the apprehension of the law-breakers. What happened to them after that was on somebody else's conscience. "We have no way of knowing how strict the confinement was supposed to be."

'To claim voluntary manslaughter, there has to be adequate provocation. The doctor who examined Duval found no evidence of abuse. She was malnourished, but so was the mother. There was no pot of boiling water at the scene. The victim had no defense wounds on her arms. It was premeditated, cold-blooded murder."

The captain pulled a wry face. "I'm not saying it wasn't, but can you imagine a jury's response to Wells's version of events? He's a genius at tugging on heartstrings. And he'll have a beautiful young girl at his side in the courtroom, while we're stuck with policemen and forensic experts. He'll tell them how the girl's father and brother died, about their perilous refugee flight from Haiti, the struggle for survival here, living from day to day, knowing that at any time they could be repatriated. The confusion created in the child's mind as what she sees in America collides with her own culture. He'll have the judge and jury in tears. And then he'll start on you. You'll be portrayed as the vindictive, heartless bastard who insisted on a murder charge being brought in retaliation for the girl's assault on you."

"Couldn't whacking your mother with an axe be considered just a little bit vindictive as well?" Val said, standing up.

"Where are you going? I haven't finished with you."

"We've only the girl's testimony on this initiation story. I want to check it out."

Larson relaxed. "How do you plan to do that?"

"Professor Richard Bickford is chair of anthropology at my brother's university. I once read a book of his on voodoo ritual. He could substantiate or discredit Duval's story."

Larson thought about it, before saying, "Go to it."

Val phoned the university's administration department and asked to speak with Bickford. The woman he was transferred to told him that the professor wasn't expected on campus that day and she refused to pass on his private number. Val gave her his number and asked her to have Bickford ring him.

He rang Val back less than five minutes later and listened without interruption as Val explained at some length what he needed from him. Bickford seemed reluctant at first, then, as though a switch had been thrown he was full of enthusiasm and said that he would pick Val up at headquarters and they could drive to the Irish Channel in his car. He promised to be outside the building in twenty minutes and rang off.

Bickford's car turned out to be a battered and mud-splashed British Land Rover with a canvas canopy and three rows of seats screwed to the flatbed. The university's crest painted on the sides. They traded names and shook hands.

The professor's appearance hadn't changed a lot, Val noticed, from the picture on the jacket of his book. His face, brown as a nut, was a little more lined than it had been then. His hairline had receded slightly, but he still had thick eyebrows and shoulder-length hair that he wore swept back in a neat ponytail. His arms were corded with sinew and muscle. He had on a T-shirt and shorts and his left leg was encased in a rigid leg brace. A set of elbow crutches was propped against the center seat.

"What happened?" Val asked, forced to raise his voice above the music blaring from the Land Rover's cd player.

"Fell off an overhang in Utah. I'm a rock-jock. Only this time I came down the easy way. At my age bones take longer to heal. My leg is the reason I might have sounded less than willing when you rang. I can slide in and out of this baby, but saloon cars are out of the question. He nodded to Val's hand. "You've been in the wars yourself."

Val gave him a brief account of his climbing accident. Bickford found it hilarious and his laughter was infectious. For the first time since it had happened, Val found himself able to smile about it.

"This book of mine you've read," he asked. "Where did you get your hands on a copy? It didn't exactly make the best seller list."

"City library."

"Cheapskate. What do you make of the cd?"

"Loud. What is it?"

"Arabian Fantasy, an album recorded by David Fanshawe, an English ethnomusicologist. He had the ships passing through the Suez Canal blow their foghorns, which he taped, then he wrote and arranged accompanying music. Must have scared the crap out of every camel for fifty miles."

"I don't know about that. They can make some pretty scary noises themselves."

Bickford laughed again, and then abruptly changed the subject. "Did this manbo of yours have a set of drums?"

"Yes, to induce the danse-lwa?"

He nodded and drifted off into the music. Val said nothing more, other than to give directions.

Daylight didn't improve the appearance of Duval's building. The stucco was cracked, the paint faded. They pulled up outside and Val waited on the sidewalk as Bickford eased himself out and slipped his arms into the crutches.

Yellow crime-scene tape sealed the door to the room. Val slid the blade of a penknife around the edges and pushed open the door. They were met by a swarm of large shiny flies and a stomach-turning stench, so thick it seemed to cling to their skin.

Bickford didn't turn a hair. He hobbled in and, without having to be instructed, started to examine the room, his attention immediately drawn to the drums. He extricated an arm from its crutch and started to beat slowly on the largest of the three.

"Rada drums," he announced eventually. "The drums of choice for initiation ceremonies. They honor the good spirits from Dahomey in West Africa."

Not what Val wanted to hear. "What do you make of these?" he said, tapping the wall below the three veve sketches.

Bickford moved over and examined them closely. "The heart-shaped one represents Ezili, goddess of love — often portrayed by a Virgin Mary figure. The middle one is the veve for rebirth."

"Would you expect it to be part of an initiation ceremony?"

"Absolutely."

"And Ezili?"

He took another look at the heart-shaped veve before saying, "Not that I've heard about − the Ayizan veve is normally reserved for that ritual — but it's impossible to rule it out."

"What about the third veve?"

"Not one that I'm acquainted with. I'd say it's derived from Masonic imagery. If you have no objection to my taking a picture of it, I might be able to run down some reference to it?"

"Go right ahead."

Bickford slipped a pocket camera from his shorts and quickly snapped a couple of shots.

They went outside to the yard.

Bickford poked at the compacted earth with the rubber ferrule of one of his crutches. "If there had been a poteau-mitan in the center, I would have said this area had been designated a sacred place, delineated by the four cardinal points."

"What's a poteau-whatever?"

"A circular pillar that links heaven and earth. Most of the ceremonial dances take place around it."

"Could an oil drum substitute?" Val pointed out the crushed remnants under the tree.

"Yeah, don't see why not. Let's have a closer look." He grinned broadly as he said, "I take it that's the tree you fell out of."

Painted in faded red-oxide and barely visible on the concertinaed drum were two snakes that Bickford stated were the lwa Dambala and Ayida Wedo.

"Let me get this clear," Val said. "Duval senior had the yard rigged as some sort of temple, and an initiation ceremony could have been conducted here."

"It's common enough practice. Voodoo has been driven underground so many times, its followers are well used to making do with whatever's to hand. What way was the girl dressed when you found her?"

"She was near naked, though we found a white dress and scarf hidden in the tree."

Bickford seemed almost apologetic. "Voodoo initiates are dressed in white. Catholic imagery again."

"So the girl could be telling the truth?"

''I guess so."

"Wouldn't there be a need for witnesses to the initiation ceremony?"

"Certainly the early stages, not necessarily for the boule-zen. Without the distractions of others, an initiate could be expected to be more receptive to the lwa, and any manbo worth her salt wouldn't want her secrets exposed for all to see."

Val tried one last shot. "We have conclusive proof that the girl wasn't confined for all the time she claims."

Bickford shook his head. "I wouldn't read much into that. Voodoo has survived countless attempts at eradication by constantly evolving, in contrast to the Christian or Islamic faiths that have changed very little over the years. The principal reason being that voodoo has no dogma to restrict it. The confinement might have been more symbolic than literal."

On the drive back to the First District, Bickford pumped Val for information about life in the PD. He was in the midst of preparing a paper on subcultures found in law-enforcement agencies. According to him, they have their own language, their own beliefs and rituals, and their own taboos.

If the professor was expecting an argument from Val, he was disappointed. Though he had overlooked one thing, Val reckoned. They also have their dogma. Too damned much of it.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was after midnight when Val left Eadie's bar, having squandered half a day brooding over a ten-year-old case. The outside air was still hot and full of ozone, thanks to an electrical storm winding itself up over the delta. Revelers thronged the narrow streets of the quarter. He hailed a cab to drive him home.

Home was a preservation-listed, timber-framed house off Magazine. Left to Marcus and Val equally by their mother in her will, it was the one thing that their father had never managed to lose on the ponies at the Fairgrounds' track. A bedroom short of being worth serious money, it was one of very few on the street not earning its keep as a guesthouse. Six months after their mother had died, Val had bought out Marcus's half. It had really burned him up to have to shell out yet another half its value to Angie on their separation, but he would do it a third time if it meant keeping the house.

Slumped in the back seat of the cab, his head spinning, Val made a conscious effort to expunge the Duval investigation from his mind. What was it to him that Marie Duval had not shown the slightest flicker of remorse and ended up spending just six months in a juvenile detention center? He had done all that was asked of him. So what if the assholes at the DA's office couldn't appreciate that Valerie Duval's homicide had murder written all over it? Maybe if they had seen into the daughter's eyes, as he had done for a split second before falling from the tree, they wouldn't have been so quick to accept Wells's deal. If he never heard her name again, it would be too soon,

Val didn't go into work the following morning; not because of the jackhammer remodeling the inside of his head, but because he was expecting Angie. He woke an hour later than usual and struggled into the kitchen to make a pitcher of iced tea to rehydrate his insides. He drank one glass, then poured himself another and took it back to bed. It was gone ten when he heard her key turn in the lock.

Angie walked straight through the living room and into the bedroom, waving a hand in front of her face.

"This place smells like a distillery."

Dressed in a simple wrap-around dress and wearing almost zero make-up, she still managed after all this time to take Val's breath away and he wondered yet again what it was she had seen that persuaded her to invest six years of her life in him. Time that had added a new depth to her beauty. Burnished gold hair which she wore long and straight; eyes that sparkled like fireworks; NBA legs; great posture — all had appreciated with age. Angie possessed a radiant vigor that is commonplace in kids of nineteen, but rarely found in a woman in her late thirties.

Val was not blind to her imperfections, though, and she had plenty. He knew what a bitch she could be when it suited her. She could be manipulative and self-centered. A dedicated pursuer of social-advancement, who scorned her own blue-collar background. The break-up of their marriage did not come as a bolt out of the blue. They both knew within the first year that neither was giving the other what they had hoped. Angie's affair with Marcus started three months before Val made his decision to leave the PD. When at last the marriage ended, they felt no need to apportion blame; instead, they agreed to do all they could to preserve the good memories and remain friends. They made plans to meet from time to time and talk as friends do. It was during the second of these encounters, three months after they had split up, that they surrendered to a mutual hunger and had gone to bed.

Val was still in love with his wife, and not for a moment since then, despite the damage it would do to his brother if he was ever to find out, had he considered calling a halt to their assignations.

She removed her dress, kicked off her shoes, and slipped under the sheet. They didn't talk much for a while.

Afterwards, it was Angie who brought up the meeting between Val and his brother.

"He was in a foul mood for the rest of the day," she said. "Couldn't you have gone along with it — for his sake?"

"No way, even if he had had the balls to come straight out with it."

Angie stood and wrapped a sheet around herself, toga style. "I warned him to be up front, but he's always been a little in awe of you."

"The only person Marcus is in awe of is anyone pulling down a larger salary," Val protested, though her comment struck a rawer nerve than she could have possibly guessed. He recalled how his brother had often claimed to know him better than Val knew himself.

"I'm serious. If you two are ever going to patch it up, then you'll have to be the one to make the first move. Brothers shouldn't fall out."

"You can choose your friends. You don't have that luxury with your relatives or your enemies."

"Damn you," she said, picking up a pillow and throwing it at Val. "I'd dearly love to know where you acquired your sense of morality. The only enemy you have is yourself. You're perfectly willing for us to cheat on Marcus, while he continues to blame himself for breaking up our marriage."

"I was a cop," Val said simply, as though that explained all. "If he wants a guilt trip, let him have one. I'm not cheating on anybody. You're still my wife."

"Don't remind me," Angie snarled. "I have something to tell you that concerns us both. Now I'm not sure that I want to."

"What is it?" Val asked, but Angie had disappeared into the bathroom.

After a quick shower, and without saying another word, she gathered up her clothes and dressed in the living room. Most of their bi-monthly sessions ended with them rowing. Val switched off the ceiling fan and lay back in bed to catch the traces of her scent on the pillows. The sound of the front door closing surprised him. It wasn't like Angie to leave without saying good-bye, no matter how mad she was at him. He stirred himself and went, bare-assed, in search of a third glass of iced tea.

He found Marie Duval standing in the center of his living room. It was a toss-up which of them was the most astonished. Duval recovered first.

"Your wife told me it would be okay to come in," she said, allowing her gaze to sweep slowly over him.

Val barely caught her words as he spun around and sought sanctuary in his bedroom. He slipped on a robe and pulled the belt tight.

Duval had made herself at home and was sitting on the window seat flicking through a magazine. She was wearing a man's shirt over a pair of faded 501s and had simple strap sandals on her feet. She had grown into an attractive woman. Not a classic beauty in Angie's Anglo-Saxon manner, but with a grace and confidence that went way beyond her age. Tall and lean, she was considerably lighter in color than her mother, though her high, well-defined cheekbones still bore the nobility of her Dahomey ancestry. Her hair was shaved closed to her scalp in a checkerboard design.

Val's immediate instinct was to throw her out, but first there was a question he needed answered.

"You have thirty seconds to explain what you are doing in my house."

"I want to ask you something. Face to face."

"What did you mean when you said that my wife told you to come in?"

"Angie and I have become good friends in the last few weeks — she's been very supportive. She explained about you and her and had me wait in the car."

"She brought you with her?" Val said, incredulously, promising himself that he would call her as soon as he'd seen the girl off. He had a mental flash of the bemused smirk sure to have been on Angie's face as she drove away.

Duval put down the magazine. "She seems to think that a personal appeal might succeed where your brother failed."

"What's it to you? As I understand it, your UNO acceptance has been more or less secured. Marcus wanted me installed as campus police chief to further his own aspirations."

"You're only partly correct. The university confirmed my acceptance this morning. But don't go blaming your brother. Marcus is a charming man, though a little pompous at times. He means well. But it was my suggestion that he offer you the job. At first he wouldn't hear of it, so I pointed out to him and Angie how it might prove advantageous to his career."

She had had her thirty seconds and had left Val with a dilemma: throw her out now or let her stay and say her piece. He let her stay.

"I'd have thought the last person you would have wanted on campus was me," he said.

"I have nothing against you."

Val held up his left hand. "That wasn't always the case."

"That was a mistake. I honestly believed you were climbing up that tree to kill me. I wasn't thinking straight."

He pulled a face. "Splitting your mother's skull with an axe can really screw up a kid's day."

Duval hesitated and for a second allowed her sassiness to slip, exposing a child-like vulnerability. "I didn't kill my mother."

"You signed a statement admitting that you did."

She nodded.

"You stole the axe."

Another nod.

"Your dress was saturated with your mother's blood. Your fingerprints were all over the axe."

"Yes, Yes. Yes." She bowed her head and her shoulders shook.

It left him cold. "Then you'll understand when I tell you that I don't believe you."

"I didn't kill my mother. I have never told anyone what really took place that night."

"You could start by telling me." His voice sharp and heartless.

"It isn't easy for me."

"Have it your own way. The door's over there."

"No it's time it was told." Duval sucked in a deep breath and started. "Something had been troubling my mother for several weeks. At first she was nervous, frightened of strangers, then one afternoon she came back home in a state of real panic and over the next few days became increasingly paranoid. She wouldn't tell me what was wrong, no matter how much I pleaded with her. She wouldn't leave the house, wouldn't allow me to leave. She hammered nails into the oak tree to make at easier for me to climb, and started to call the flat branch I liked to sit on my secret place. She told me I was to run and hide there if bad men came. I don't think she had ever been so scared, not even in Haiti when the mob killed my father. I was desperate to do something to help her, so I snuck out and stole the axe. Can you imagine how I felt when it was turned against her?"

"Your statement about the initiation ceremony was all lies?"

"Most of it was true. My mother started my initiation that first afternoon. She must have been terrified of something happening to her before she had a chance to pass on her secrets. But she would never have hurt me."

"If you didn't kill her, who did?"

"A policeman. A white man in uniform. The two of us were in the middle of a ritual when he knocked on the door. My mother seemed relieved at the sound of his voice. She opened the door and let him in. He saw the axe on the table and picked it up. He made a joke about it and asked my mother what she planned to do with it. Before she had time to answer, he struck the first blow. Her blood spilled on my dress."

"Had you seen him before?"

Duval shook her head and wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. "He struck her twice more, then wiped the handle and dropped the axe on the floor, staring at me all the time. He promised to hunt me down and kill me if I ever told anyone about him. Then he turned and left. I seized the axe and ran outside. I climbed to my secret place as my mother had instructed me to do."

"Did you tell all this to your attorney?"

"No. Wells wouldn't have believed me."

Val pulled a crumpled tissue from the pocket of his robe and handed it to her. "It's not an attorney's job to make judgments."

Duval dabbed at her eyes, then scrunched the tissue into a tight ball in her hand. "I know that now. I don't blame Wells. He was very gentle and patient when he broke the news that I was about to be arrested for murder. Explained what evidence was and that the police had already collected enough to make a case against me. When he asked if anyone else had been in the room, I didn't give him an answer. He admitted that it looked pretty black for me, but he couldn't begin to understand what was going through my head. All I wanted was for the police to leave me alone. I thought they would if I told them what they wanted to hear."

"What made you have my brother offer me a job?"

"I'm fond of him and Angie; they're good people. They both said that as a cop you were so straight, you would have made a flagpole look crooked. Angie told me about how you had resigned from the police department. I was intrigued and pumped her for more information. Then I heard about the campus police chief having a stroke and I thought it was too good an opportunity to pass up."

"Who the hell for?" Val asked, more perplexed than ever.

Duval took another deep breath. "I need a white knight. The man I saw kill my mother has resurfaced and has been following me. I saw him in a car outside my apartment and again near the restaurant where I work. The first time I thought I was imagining things, but the second time proved it. Since then, I've been making it hard for him. Left my job and have been sleeping at friends' apartments, but once I start university, he'll know where to find me. Will you be my white knight?"

"Go to the police department."

Her moisture-filled eyes fixed on Val. "They wouldn't want to know; not until it's too late."

"Hire a private investigator."

"I don't have the money for that. I want him stopped. I thought if you were to accept the campus police chief's job, then it would be your duty to protect me."

"What makes you think he's planning to do anything after all this time? You've kept your silence for ten years."

"What other reason would he have for following me?"

He shrugged. "What's his name?"

She smiled tentatively. "You believe me?"

"I didn't say that. What's his name?"

"I don't know. I've made a sketch of him. I see his face each night in my dreams."

Duval reached into her purse and extracted a folded sheet of paper. She opened it and flattened it out on her knees before handing it to him. "I'll never forget the way he looked at me after he killed my mother."

The pencil sketch was a good likeness. Duval had caught the facial characteristics of ex-policeman Donny Jackson. Val refolded the sheet of paper and slipped it into the pocket of his robe.

"Do you recognize him?"

"Yeah. You were right about him being a policeman."

Duval relaxed her face. "Now you have to believe me."

"No, now it's time for you to leave. You've taken up enough of my morning with your childish games." He took her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. "I don't know what your motivation is, or what you were hoping to achieve by this charade. It was well thought out though, I'll give you that. You almost had me buying into it. Blaming your mother's murder on a police officer would have helped to explain a lot: the lack of defense wounds on your mother's arms; your unprovoked attack on me. Especially when the officer you're pointing a finger at is one who was kicked off the department in disgrace. Give a cop a bad rep and the public is all too willing to believe the worse."

He pushed her towards the door.

She tried to shake his hand off. "I'm telling you the truth. How else could I known what he looked like?"

"Jackson's photograph was splashed all over the newspapers and television news for the best part of a week. You drew your sketch from that."

He slammed the door hard after her.

CHAPTER FIVE

Arena Victory's corporate headquarters were on Loyola, across from city hall, a few blocks from the Superdome. The building, a squat cylinder of green marble and reflective glass, had been purpose-built by the company as a testament to its phenomenal growth in the early nineties. Their core business was the manufacture of sport footwear. Astute marketing and the blank-check recruitment of top sport stars to endorse its products had transformed the company from a smalltime Louisiana slipper manufacturer into a multinational success. Two teenagers out of every three would trade their souls to be the first kid on the block with a pair of the latest AVs. Image is everything with American youth, and Arena Victory had it in spades.

That's why it was the talk of the police department when Donny Jackson walked into a highly paid corporate-security job with AV exactly two months after being canned from the force.

Jackson and his radio-car partner, Bill Trochan, had been convicted of helping themselves to a murdered woman's jewelry. They had been dispatched to answer a 911 call in the Garden District and found the victim lying prone on her bed, her eyes staring emptily, one hand clutching the phone. She had been strangled with a computer electrical cable. They checked for signs of life and, finding none, made a radio call to the homicide detectives and the medical examiner. With time on their hands, and only a corpse for company, the two uniforms spent the next twenty minutes rifling through the bedroom drawers and closets. They found three hundred dollars in cash and a gold Rolex. Jackson kept the cash, Trochan the watch.

No one was more surprised than them when the medical examiner arrived and, having performed a circumspect search for vital signs, discovered that the victim was still very much alive. The removal of the computer cable and the administration of CPR and an oxygen mask led swiftly to the low-point in the lives of the two police officers. Before she would allow paramedics to load her onto the ambulances gurney, she insisted, in a barely audible croak, that the uniformed officers be made empty their pockets in front of the homicide detectives, one of whom was Detective Lieutenant Val Bosanquet. The press scavengers enjoyed a feeding frenzy when the news broke.

Val left his car in a quiet, brick-paved alley and walked half a block to AV's front entrance. He explained to the girl behind the reception desk that he wanted to speak to Donny Jackson. She asked for his name, then pecked at a few keys on her computer and told him to take a seat. Someone would be along in a moment or two.

The moment or two developed into a quarter of an hour. Val spent the first five minutes watching the young corporate Turks entering and leaving the building. It seemed that no one over the age of twenty-five worked for AV. Feeling his age, he picked up a glossy prospectus for AV's upcoming stock market flotation and flicked through it. Inside the front cover was a map showing AV's principal manufacturing plants across the globe: one in New Delhi, one in Caracas, another in Port-au-Prince, one under construction in Hanoi. He wondered if any of the institutions that were falling over themselves to invest, appreciated the irony that few of AV's manufacturing employees could ever hope to purchase the product they had made.

"Jarvis Kraftson," boomed the voice of a slick thirty-something as he crossed the foyer towards Val. "Vice-president of Human Resources."

"Val Bosanquet." They shook hands.

Kraftson's palm was soft and felt oily, his suit shiny and expensive. Val speculated as to what percentage of casual inquiries at AV's front desk was attended to by vice-presidents.

''Nice place you have here.''

"I'm told you made a request to speak with Donny Jackson. May I ask in what respect?"

"It's a private matter. Mainly beer and broads. I used to work alongside him in the police department."

Kraftson flicked a strand of blonde hair back behind his ear. His eyes were the same vivid blue as a pool ball.

"You're positive it has no connection with Arena Victory?"

"You've got to be kidding. I wouldn't have troubled you only his home number's not listed and I was in the neighborhood. Last I heard, Donny was working here."

Kraftson's lips formed into a predatory smile. "Not any longer. I apologize if I seem unduly cautious, but we had to let Mister Jackson go and, regrettably, not under the best of circumstances. Arena Victory is proud of its reputation as a fair employer, but there are sometimes those who would delight in besmirching our name. We're all a bit keyed up over the flotation."

"It don't come as no surprise. What was old Donny up to this time? I lay twenty it was his pecker got him fired. He never could resist a short skirt or a high chest."

"I couldn't comment on that — it would be against company policy."

"Any chance of a current address for him?"

"I'm sorry, that would be---"

"\---against company policy. When did you fire him?"

"Just over a year ago. If there is nothing else I can do for you, Mr Bosanquet, I'll say good afternoon."

"Maybe there is another favor you could do me. Take a time-out and explain how come a company so mindful of its image would hire a man who'd steal from a corpse."

Kraftson's eyes hardened, but his answer was a polished as he was. "We believe that everyone deserves a second chance. Regrettably, some fail to grasp the opportunity."

Val left Kraftson standing in the foyer and departed. As he crossed the paved plaza in front of the building, his attention was caught by Arena Victory's logo erected on top of a chunk of raw green marble that had water streaming down its flanks. The logo was cast in bronze and was covered in verdigris. A mammoth splayed letter A sat astride a mammoth V. They were surrounded by a laurel wreath of honor. For years he had been seeing the logo stitched on the sides of countless sneakers and on big-dollar Hollywood-produced TV advertisements, but never before had he realized how much it resembled the dividers and square of Masonic imagery.

Kraftson remained motionless until his visitor had left the building. Then he waved over a man who had been observing from the rear of the foyer. The man listened carefully as Kraftson gave him swift and concise instructions. His manner made it clear there were to be no foul-ups.

Val detested cell phones and refused to carry one. He found a pay phone and called work. He told the production manager that he wouldn't be coming in that day, or any other day for the foreseeable future. The man passed him on to another of the firm's partners and Val explained that his leave of absence was unavoidable. His partner reacted scathingly, but came around when Val explained how any detrimental effect of his leave of absence could be minimized. They had on the payroll a young female designer who was very capable and desperate for an opportunity to prove herself. If she didn't get it soon, they would lose her. So compelling were his proposals, it felt like he was talking himself out of a job, so he called his brother and talked himself into another. Marcus didn't try to conceal his surprise at hearing from him.

"I'll take the Chief's job on three conditions," Val said.

"Which are?" Marcus asked warily.

"It will be for a single semester only. After that, you'll have to find someone else."

"And?"

"I refuse to wear a uniform."

"The third?"

"I won't carry a gun."

"If that's the way you want it, it's fine with me. What made you change your mind?"

"Something I should have seen ten years ago," Val said, before hanging up.

Back in the alley, fumbling for the car keys in his jacket pocket, Val's path was suddenly blocked by a couple of muggers on early shift. They must have followed him into the alley, Val assumed, though he hadn't been aware of them until they were in his face. The one holding the blood-filled syringe was white and had breath that smelt worse than week-old road-kill.

"Let's have the wallet, podna." His voice sounded hoarse as though somebody had poured lye down his throat. Val could see blood smears on the syringe's needle.

"Best do what he says," his Latin accomplice encouraged. "You don't want a taste of the virus."

The Latin was holding a telescopic steel baton in his right hand and was slapping it against the palm of his left. Extended, it could break an arm or crack a skull.

"Sure. Anything you say. Just don't stick me." Val reached slowly around to his hip pocket and pulled his wallet out. They were alone in the alley. The whites of their eyes were too clear for druggies, but Val had been wrong before.

"Give it here," the Latin said, snapping it from his hands.

He opened it and scanned the contents. Val's eyes never left his.

"Is this all you're carrying?" the man asked finally. "A lousy fifty bucks."

The guy holding the syringe stabbed it towards Val's throat.

"You holding out on us?"

Val shook his head. "That's it. I swear it."

That seemed to satisfy them and they started to back off.

"Now's not the time to try anything dumb," the Latin warned.

They turned on their heels and loped off down the alley.

Val opened the car door and climbed in. What sort of mugger, he wondered, turning the key in the ignition, takes the time to read the name on his victim's driving license before counting the cash? He had a strong feeling that he knew why Jarvis Kraftson had kept him waiting so long in the foyer.

Bill Trochan opened the door of his room in a run-down single resident occupancy hotel wearing nothing but a set of graying skivvies. It took him a moment or two to recognize Val.

Trochan sucked catarrh back down his throat. "What the fuck do you want?"

He was a small man and must have been right on the minimum height requirement for the department. He had a tiny, round face and a lopsided grin that made him appear to be constantly pulling a W.C. Fields impression.

"Can we talk inside?"

Trochan swung back the door and waved him in. The TV was on, though the sound was turned down. Everything in the room was a shade of brown. The drapes were sienna, the carpeting a dark rust color, and the furniture a cheap mahogany veneer. The stale air smelt strongly of dirty socks and milk on the turn.

"Okay, now you're in. What do you want?"

"To see you put on some clothes."

"You're a funny man."

Trochan slipped on a pair of trousers, but left it at that. His trouser waistband needed cinching with a belt.

"You've dropped some weight since you were at Garden," Val said.

"It's the welfare diet. You get to eat alternate days. You can fucking leave now if all you want to do is joke and talk nutrition."

"I'm trying to locate Donny Jackson. I thought you might be able to point me in the right direction."

Trochan didn't seem surprised by the inquiry, but he didn't answer it either.

"I hear you quit the department," Trochan said. "You walked; you weren't pushed. What made you do something like that?"

Val had a reply he knew would satisfy him. "I was tired of messing with people's lives."

Trochan lifted a pack of cigarettes from the table and slid one out. He lit it and took a long drag. "I know what you mean. They take two coonasses like Jackson and me outa the swamp, send us back to school for a couple of months, empower us with enough authority to make our heads spin and let us carry a shield and a gun to back it up, then turn us loose in a cesspool. They say a city gets the police force it deserves. Goes a long way to explaining why the NOPD are the poorest paid cops in the country."

He blew a thick stream of blue smoke from his nose.

"I'm not making excuses for what I did. I always knew we'd be caught sooner or later, I've been a fatalist since the first time my father give me a licking with his belt. That's why I don't hold no grudge against you for turning us in."

"Where's Jackson's crib?"

"Don't know. It sure ain't in any lousy SRO. The Fairmont is more that sonofabitch's style. He gave up his apartment soon after he started work with AV and moved someplace else. Your guess is as good as mine. I heard he was clocking up a heap of air miles for them."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Must have been about six months ago. I ran into him in the Quarter."

"Was he still with AV?"

"You best ask him when you find him. Though I reckon so, going by the slick suit he had on and the way he was throwing money around like he was some sort of big shot. The guy's been an asshole all his life."

"You sore at him for not fixing you up with a job with AV?"

Trochan took another pull on his cigarette. "Luck of the draw. We both had moonlighting details when we were wearing blue. Same race, different ponies. The nag I backed didn't last the course, while Jackson's long shot romped home for him."

"When did he first start working with AV?"

"Must be close to ten years now. Why don't you have them put you in contact with Jackson."

"I asked. They aren't keen on cooperating. How do you feel about doing some legwork for me? Pick up a couple of Franklins for yourself."

Trochan rubbed a hand over the bristle on his jaw. "Running Jackson down? Does he know you're after him?"

"I'm not sure."

"Do you want him to know?"

"Do what you have to do. It'll be okay with me."

"Okay, I'll give it a shot. Give me a number where I can reach you."

Val took out a pen and searched around for some paper. Trochan held out his arm for him to write on. That way, he said, he would always be sure to have it on him.

When he had finished writing, Val said, "Aren't you interested in why I want to talk to Jackson?"

Trochan gave him a melancholy stare. "What do I care? A man who can be bought for a lousy couple hundred dollars isn't going to be picky. You knew that; it's why you're here."

There were two messages waiting on Val's answering machine when he reached home. The first was from Marcus. Val's appointment as the new UNOPD Chief was confirmed and he was expected at the university's station house first thing Tuesday morning to complete the formalities. A press conference to announce Duval's university place would be arranged for the following morning.

The second message was from Angie. She had called to say how delighted she was that Marcus and Val were on speaking terms at long last, and asked when she would meet him again. There was still something she had to talk to him about. She ended her message by saying that Duval sent her sincerest thanks and that she would be staying with them until the freshman orientation week commenced in six days' time.

Val made a bunch of calls to cancel his credit cards and to notify his bank of the loss of his ATM card. After that, he pulled the cap off a bottle of Dos Equis beer and went and sat on the wood decking in his yard to watch the setting sun fill the western sky.

Mother Nature had pulled out all the stops. For the best part of an hour, it seemed the whole world was going up in flames.

CHAPTER SIX

Val felt ambivalent about carrying a shield again, especially that of Chief. On the one hand, he despised himself for going back, however temporarily; to a job he had sworn he was through with. On the plus side, being involved in an investigation once more brought the familiar surge of energy that charged his mind and allowed him to focus with a relentlessness that nothing else had ever come close to matching. And that troubled him.

The weight of the hand-sewn, shiny-with-age leather wallet which held the shield was the one tangible of his first twenty-four hours in the job. Tuesday had passed in a blur of frantic activity. His picture had been taken, he'd been finger-printed, sworn in, and issued with the shield. A cell phone − under protest −, a beeper, and a parking permit for his car's windshield were signed for by Val. The sergeant in charge of the gun safe took it personally when Val declined the standard issue .38 Ruger revolver.

All that had been quickly followed by an introduction to some of the troops. Each UNOPD officer had undergone his or her training at a police academy and was empowered to make arrests, by city, parish, and state commissions. Then Val was briefed on the two main security systems operated for the students' safety — the blue-light telephones and the escort-request service. Both briefings were rushed through in indecent haste, as though Marcus had spread the word that Val could change his mind before the ink was dry on his appointment.

Under him, Val had one captain, four lieutenants, eight sergeants, six detectives, and seventy-eight uniform officers. Thirty part-time auxiliaries — mainly police cadets could also be called on when extra manpower was required, most commonly for the policing of events at the University's Lakefront Arena. He was ultimately responsible for twelve patrol cars, six motorcycles, twenty-five mountain bikes, one station house and one lock-up.

The previous year's crime figures showed that larceny came tops, followed by liquor and drug violations, burglary, aggravated assault, and date rape. A female final-year Bienville Hall student had killed herself in her car and a member of the science faculty had absconded with two hundred and fifty grand. He was traced to Mexico City, but there had been no request for extradition. The man had already blown the money, and the university didn't need the bad press.

Val was sitting at his desk in his new office, familiarizing himself with the duty roster while he waited for Captain John Clements to show up. Clements had called in earlier and asked to meet with Val at ten o'clock, one hour before the press conference was due to commence. Val felt he already knew what Clements wanted to talk about. What police captain wouldn't feel bitter about a former lieutenant leap-froging into the chief's job?

The office door was open, but Clements rapped the glass panel before entering. He was wearing full uniform and was carrying his peaked cap. A tall broad-shouldered man, he had salt and pepper hair and an officious bearing. Ten years older than Val, Clements had been a campus cop for twenty-eight years. The previous chief had assessed him as an efficient and competent officer, though reading between the lines, Val judged that Clements's promotions had been earned more from time-served than inspired police work. He wouldn't have lasted a day in the Desire housing project. He was the sort of officer who would have been in the running for commissioner by now if he had been in the NOPD.

The few minutes they had spent together the day before had been awkward for both of them. Clements's grim expression did not hold out much promise that this meeting was going to be any easier.

Val stood up and gave him the keys of the Chief of Police vehicle.

"I want the standard rookie tour of the lakefront campus. We can talk in the car."

Clements opened his mouth to speak, then thought better and closed it. He pulled on his cap with a determined tug.

The UNOPD captain started the tour by pointing out that the creative arts building where Duval would be spending most of her time was directly opposite the station house. They turned left and drove past a clump of stucco accommodation blocks known as Lafitte village. The University of New Orleans was essentially a commuter campus, but there were some facilities for out of town students. During the vacations, the university rented out the rooms as lodgings for tourists traveling on a shoestring budget. With the new semester about to start, most of the buildings were deserted. Clements took a left at the engineering block and drove past the building that housed the performing arts faculty.

Val had often listened to Marcus bitching about how the UNO had to exist under the shadow of the more academically distinguished Tulane University. It seemed to be coping just fine.

"I'm sorry we didn't have longer to talk yesterday, John," Val said. "Things were a bit hectic."

"That's okay, Chief Bosanquet. I understand."

"Chief will do just fine. I've been reading your department record. You're a first-rate officer and an excellent administrator."

Clements dipped his head. "It's kind of you to say so."

"I'll be frank with you. You probably regard my appointment as some sort of nepotistic, political move. And you would be absolutely right. I wouldn't be surprised if you had your resignation already typed out and signed. We both know who should be sitting behind the Chief's desk."

Clements shifted uneasily. "It had crossed my mind. I can appreciate the university had to do what they thought was best — under the circumstances — but that doesn't make it any easier to stomach."

"It's not a job I wanted, nor is it a job I intend holding down for very long. What I need in the interim is for you to put all thought of resigning out of your head and take over the day-to-day running of the UNOPD. I'm not trying to shirk my responsibility. I'll be there if you need me, but I don't envisage spending much time behind a desk. If you do as I ask, then you have my word that immediately the dust has settled over Duval, I'm out of here."

Clements's face brightened. "You've got it."

"Good, now drop me outside the old library. It's time to perform for the press."

The press conference was to be held on the second floor of the library. The university boasted two libraries. The Earl K. Long library was a vast concrete and pillared edifice that had about as much character as a slab of marzipan. The old library was an ivy-clad, redbrick Victorian building that had originally been built as a fever hospital.

It had been Marcus's idea to host the conference there. The book stacks that lined the walls contained some of the university's most valuable texts and he thought they might help create the right ambience, one of gentle academe, slightly embarrassed at finding itself being intruded upon. Oxford was never far from his mind.

Facing the press were Val and Marcus; Philip Lausaux, in his role as project director of the Assist Haiti charity; and Duval herself. Although the twenty or so journalists were local, they were all stringers for the nationals and any one of them could guarantee nationwide coverage for a story if they felt it warranted. It was Marcus's fervent hope that they would see it as a strictly local issue — of little interest outside the Gulf States.

Marcus started the ball rolling by giving the assembled journalists a potted history of Marie Duval, starting with the death of her father and brother and her arrival in the US as a refugee, moving on to the manslaughter of her mother, and finishing with a resume of her academic achievements. He then switched tactics and went on the offensive.

"Marie Duval committed a heinous crime, of that there is no doubt. A crime provoked by fiendish mistreatment at the hands of her mother — abuse that we can't begin to imagine. She did not try to deny her crime or escape retribution; she accepted her punishment and benefited from it. Yet — and it does us no credit — when Miss Duval sought a college education, she turned to out-of-state universities in the mistaken belief that she would encounter greater tolerance. But those universities closed their doors on her. The University of New Orleans will not deny an education to anyone who seeks it. Ladies and gentlemen of the press, may I present our newest student, Miss Marie Duval."

The room erupted in noise and bright light as motor drives started to whir and flashguns fired. In response to the photographers' demands, Duval took a few cautious steps towards the front row. She was nervous and appeared overwhelmed at finding herself the center of so much attention. Questions were being fired at her, but she refused to be drawn. Marcus had cautioned her to let him answer on her behalf.

When the furor died down, Marcus gallantly escorted Duval back to her seat, then returned to the microphones.

"I'll take your questions one at a time."

A journalist from The Times-Picayune was the first to be given an opportunity to speak.

"Miss Duval claimed that she was provoked into killing her mother. How can you be certain that the same won't happen when she has an essay marked down? Will a C minus put the lives of the teaching staff at risk?"

"I consider it a contemptible trivialization to compare brutal and systematic child abuse to objective academic grading."

Cool it, Marcus, Val thought, as he watched the journalist scowl; don't get their hackles up.

A girl from Driftwood, the university's student newspaper, was next in line to ask a question. "How will Miss Duval find the money to pay her tuition?"

Marcus explained that the Assist Haiti charity was funding her studies and introduced Philip Lausaux. That brought on a barrage of probing questions about why a charity, ostensibly created to provide aid within Haiti, would deem it appropriate to foot the bill for Duval's college education.

Lausaux responded to their quizzing competently enough until a journalist asked him how he expected Duval's studies in Caribbean art to put food in Haitian bellies. Anger flared briefly across Lausaux's face and he said tersely that it was his charity's avowed aim to feed Haitian minds as well as their stomachs. The mood amongst the journalists was turning increasingly ugly when Dawkins, a widely read columnist with the New Orleans Magazine, raised the circumstances of Val's appointment.

"My congratulations to the university's new Police Chief on his appointment. Isn't he the former New Orleans Police Department detective responsible for Miss Duval's arrest ten years ago?"

Marcus assured the columnist that those were the facts.

Dawkins wasn't through.

"I would like to ask the Chief what circumstances led to him being offered the job and what reasons he had for accepting? Have they anything to do with Miss Duval not being as rehabilitated as the Dean would have us believe?"

Val joined Marcus at the rostrum. He leaned into the microphones. "It was not a decision I reached easily. My immediate response was to decline the post, but a personal appeal from Miss Duval had me reverse that decision. Seventeen years service with the New Orleans Police Department has provided me with some insight into the hostility and threats she will encounter."

"Surely," Dawkins said, "you mean the threat she poses?"

"No, that is not what I mean. Miss Duval is black. Her mother and she were illegal immigrants to this country. She is a young attractive female and a non-Christian. Threats will be made against her by white supremacists, the KKK, the Bible-Belters and a lot of testosterone-loaded young men. Confronted with obstacles like those, how many of us would take the easy way out and keep our heads well below the parapet? Marie Duval is an exceptionally courageous girl who deserves all the support she can be given. I will do my best to see that no harm befalls her. All you present have a chance to play your part by resisting the impulse to sensationalize the university's decision to accept Miss Duval. We all know the extremists we have on our streets. Let's not give them something to freak out over."

The mood of the journalists lightened and Val could sense an undercurrent of consensus sweep the room. One female journalist got to her feet and applauded. They fired a few more questions at him, but without the ferocity of before.

Marcus seized on a pause in the propitative questioning to call an end to the press conference. He thanked the journalists for coming and told them that they could pick up a press release at the back of the room. Then he ushered the participants of the panel into an annex to give the journalists time to disperse. Angie was holding a tray with a glass of chilled white wine for each of them. She took Duval aside and started a spirited conversation with her.

"That went better than I dared hope for," Marcus said, smiling broadly at Val and Lausaux. "I think we can expect a fair hearing from them."

"You have your brother to thank for that, Marcus," Lausaux said.

"Yes, yes indeed. Will you excuse me for a few moments? There's something that requires my attention. I'll be right back," Marcus said, then left.

Lausaux patted Val on the back. "You gave the reporters an opportunity to feel good about themselves, and believe me, that is not something they get to do all that often. I didn't expect such deftness of touch from a police officer."

Lausaux was Louisiana Creole, though his accent owed more to Cambridge, Massachusetts than to New Orleans. He was mocha-colored, with a thin, arrogant nose, angular cheekbones and a high forehead. He wore a suit that could only have been cut in London's Savile Row and which no doubt had attracted Marcus's envy. Val found his patronizing attitude offensive.

"I did only what you do every day," he said, allowing some edge into his voice. "Isn't that how a successful charity operates? In return for their, relatively speaking, pitiful contributions, the wealthy are allowed to feel virtuous. You massage their egos and give them the oxygen of favorable publicity. And after some creative bookkeeping, it ends up costing them nothing."

Lausaux's eyes zeroed in on Val as though he was seeing him for the first time. "How candid of you. It's intriguing to meet a man with the gall to criticize our methods, while totally bereft of all scruples over his brother's canvassing on his behalf. If I had a couple more like you on staff, my job at Assist Haiti would be a great deal easier."

Angie and Duval joined them. They were too keyed-up to notice that they had stepped between two combatants.

"Thank you, Val" Angie leaned into him and gave him a peck on the cheek. "For everything."

"What is it you have to tell me?" Val said softly.

Angie blushed slightly. "Not now, not here."

Lausaux picked up on it and raised an eyebrow a fraction. He turned to Duval and said, "Chief Bosanquet and I have been discussing how a charity operates. Perhaps you can persuade him to be my guest this evening on the Natchez. He'll have an opportunity to see at firsthand how we raise the bulk of our income and learn something of our plans for its distribution."

"Is that okay with you?" Duval asked Val. "Assist Haiti is holding a charity auction during an evening river cruise. One of my paintings has been entered. I'd love you to be there."

Lausaux smiled and said, "The Natchez will depart from Poydras Street Wharf at seven. Once we have our guests on the river, nobody's allowed off the boat until they've bought something."

It didn't sound like the sort of event where Jackson would put in an appearance, but it was clear that Duval wanted Val there.

"I would be happy to join you, as long as you bear in mind that a police officer's wages don't stretch to works of art."

Captain Clements entered the room, his face bleak. He indicated that he wanted a word with Val in private. They stepped into the corridor.

"I've had an urgent call from Chief of Detectives Larson. He wants you to meet him at St Louis Cemetery Number One. An ex-cop has been found with a knife in his back. Some guy called Trochan."

The St Louis cemeteries No. I and No. 2 are referred to by New Orleanians as the Cities of the Dead. A high water table prevents below ground burials, so the coffins were simply placed in position on the surface and the tombs built around them: row after row of concrete Wendy houses arranged along strips of St Antoine grass.

Tourists flocked to the cemeteries during daylight hours, but after dark they belonged to the city's malefactors. Come the new day, it wasn't unusual for the body count to have risen by one or more. The homicide detectives got to spend a lot of time amongst the marble.

Larson was made Chief of Detectives a month after Val resigned from the police department. A couple of the detectives had called him with invitations to a celebratory beer fest that the homicide squad was throwing for Larson, but he told them he wouldn't be coming along. He would have felt as out of place as George W. Bush at a spelling bee.

He left his car on Conti and crossed to the main Basin Street entrance. Larson wasn't hard to find. He and a bunch of assorted crime scene personnel were huddled around a large tomb just inside the cemetery gates. Val had worked with most of them at one time or another.

The tomb was very grand, marble, with sculptured angels, and intricate wrought-iron railings.

A crumpled figure was lying face down on the ground between the railings and the walls of the tomb. A trickle of blood stained the St Antoine grass.

Larson detached himself from the huddle and walked over. He held out a packet of Juicy Fruit gum. Val shook his head. Larson unwrapped the foil with one hand and slipped a stick in his mouth.

"Chief Bosanquet," he said. "Hope you're not expecting me to salute."

Val ignored his jibe. "How was Trochan killed?"

Larson worked the gum for a couple of seconds before he answered. "Skillfully. A stiletto blade into his spinal cord at the base of the skull, severing the cord. Quick, and with very little blood. He wouldn't have had time to think about dying."

"Any leads?"

"Just the one. He had your phone number written on his arm. One of the detectives called the phone company."

They walked over to the tomb. The assembled officers opened up and let them through. Trochan was wearing a short-sleeved guayabera shirt. His arm had fallen through the railings and the numbers, written in ballpoint, were as clear as a tattoo.

"He's been dead no less than eight hours, no more than twelve. He had five dollars and change on him, but this was no mugging that went wrong." Larson nodded at the medical examiner, who unrolled a body bag and laid it out on the path in front of the tomb. He was whistling Michael Jackson's Thriller.

It was apparent that everything that could be accomplished at the scene had already been done, and Larson had purposefully delayed the body's removal until Val had had a chance to view it.

"Tell me why Trochan had your number written on his arm?" Larson asked when the body was finally removed. His earlier affability had evaporated and he was all business.

"I wrote it there. He was doing some legwork for me."

"What sort of legwork?"

"He was trying to run down Donny Jackson. I needed to talk with him."

"That ass-wipe. I heard he landed a job with some sportswear firm. He not with them any longer?"

"No. He was fired."

"Why doesn't that surprise me? What were you and Jackson going to talk about?"

Val had known Larson was bound to ask, so he'd dreamed up an answer for him on the way to the cemetery.

"At the start of each semester he runs a poker school on campus. Every night during the first week. Cleans out a lot of freshmen. I wanted him to know that this semester he's going have to find someplace else to play."

"You expect me to believe that Trochan took a knife in the back because you wanted to break up a card game?"

"No. I'm telling you why he had my number on his arm. I doubt if his killing has anything to do with Jackson. They were patrol partners for years. Neither of them would have chosen to meet here."

They had to move back against the iron railings to allow the gurney to pass.

"Something must have brought him here," Larson said. "He was too savvy to risk this place alone after dark unless he had to."

"Maybe he didn't come alone."

"Safety in numbers." Larson worked his gum slowly and gave Val a searching look. The sun was shining directly in his face but Val kept his gaze steady. He heard a mocking bird call out from the branches of a live oak further into the cemetery. Larson knew that Val was holding out on him, but he also knew that there was not a thing he could do about it.

He broke eye contact when he spat the gum into the grass. "You'd best be running back to the campus. I'll be sure to pass your message on to Jackson when we find him."

Val turned and started to walk back down the path. Larson called out. "Bosanquet, you ever feel the need to be a real cop again, give me a call. I still have your shield in my desk."

CHAPTER SEVEN

By the time Val arrived, there were no fewer than a dozen immaculate limousines lined upon Poydras Street Wharf waiting to discharge their well-heeled passengers. The Assist Haiti fund-raiser had attracted a great many of Louisiana society's great and good. The favorable treatment that the Duval story had received on radio and television would have helped boost the attendance.

The steamboat Natchez stole the show from the expensively turned-out guests. A three-deck stern-wheeler, she was the last of the genuine article still steaming the river. All white, apart from her twin funnels, she resembled an intricately iced wedding cake. The steam organ on her top deck was blasting out a version of the 'Saints'. A steady stream of guests was walking up the suspended bow gangway. Val took his turn in the flow.

Philip Lausaux was greeting each guest as they stepped onto the wooden deck. He was dressed in a white silk tuxedo and was flanked by two stunning Haitian girls in national dress handing out glasses of champagne.

Delighted to have you with us, Chief Bosanquet. Miss Duval is already on board. I believe she's on the top deck. Lausaux treated Val to an obsequious smile, then dismissed him abruptly as he directed his effusive charm towards a couple coming up behind. Val guessed his wallet mustn't have been fat enough.

He found Duval keeping cool next to an ice sculpture — Assist Haiti spelled out in two-foot high letters — and watching a jazz trio set up. She was wearing a white dress that accentuated her slim waist and long legs. She had on some sort of cloche hat, also in white. He complimented her on her appearance.

"Just don't let me spill anything. Angie lent me the dress, and the hat has to go back in the morning."

He was hoping for a few minutes alone with her, to break the news that, on disembarking from the riverboat, she was to be the subject of a twenty-four-hour guard. Val was assigning three campus police officers, working shifts, to protect her. He felt bad about telling her. She was bound to question the need for such a precaution and he would have no option but to fuel her anxiety with his report of Trochan's murder. She was too bright a kid to bluff.

Marcus and Angie joined them, forcing Val to postpone his talk with Duval. His estranged wife was looking more dazzling than usual and blended in with the more glamorous guests as though she had been genetically engineered for that very purpose. Marcus had excelled himself by choosing to wear a vividly striped rowing blazer and a spotted bow tie. A waiter offered canapés from a silver salver.

"Have many parents have called to arrange transfers for their kids?" Val asked Marcus as soon as the waiter had moved on.

"Only three so far. Two changed their minds when they were told that Marie would not be rooming in the student accommodation. The faculty senate is ecstatic with the low-key attitude the media adopted. So is the Chancellor."

"Have you seen Marie's painting," Angie broke in. "It really is something special."

When Val said that he hadn't, Angie insisted that they go below to the salon to admire it. As they were descending the steep staircase, the boat started to shudder and Val could hear the slapping of the paddle wheel against the water.

The goods to be auctioned were arrayed along the length of the inside wall of the salon — at least, those small enough to be brought on board. Photographs of the larger lots were displayed on gilded easels. A silver Bentley Turbo and a forty-eight-foot sailboat took pride of place. The auctioneer for the night was a twice Oscar-nominated New Orleans actor whom Val had once arrested for possession of narcotics. Camcorders would relay pictures to close-circuit screens all around the boat, so nobody would miss the chance to bid.

Marie Duval's picture was mounted against the varnished wall of the salon. It was a depiction of the rush-roofed barracoon slave quarters of an eighteenth-century sugar plantation in Haiti. Her background colors were somber and thickly applied — her human figures stick-like and primitive. The pain and suffering of the slaves were visible in every brush stroke; it seemed she was trying to contrast the picayune impotency of the slaves to the might and resources of their white masters. There was a lot of misery on the canvas. One thing was certain: it wasn't a picture that would ever find its way onto a calendar.

A voice Val recognized called out his name. He turned around and saw the grinning face of Professor Richard Bickford. There was no need to introduce him to Marcus and Angie: he had tenure at the University of New Orleans. Duval and Bickford swapped names and shook hands.

Subsequent to their first meeting ten years before, Bickford had sent Val a copy of his completed paper on law enforcement subcultures. Val had called him to argue a couple of points and, at his suggestion, they had met to discuss them over a drink. Rather a lot of drinks as it turned out. From that night they were good friends, even though they might not come across each other for months at a time.

Bickford held up his champagne glass and stuck out his tongue. "What do you say we give this horse's piss a miss and go find a real drink?"

Val pulled a long face. "And miss the auction?"

"There's a cash bar on the bottom deck. Can you think of a better way to make our charitable donations?"

They left the others estimating how much each lot would fetch and went in search of a decent drink.

The lounge bar was done out in mahogany and brass with yellowing antique river charts and nautical knots displayed on the oak paneling. Bickford insisted on buying the first drink to celebrate Val's appointment as Chief.

"Hail to the Chief," he said, clinking his glass against Val's.

"I didn't think this type of event would have interested you," Val said, after he had taken his first swallow.

"Philip Lausaux invited me. I can't abide the man, but he funded a post-graduate departmental research project in Haiti and if I genuflect deeply enough and often enough, he may come up with more cash."

"What sort of research?"

"Zombism."

Val didn't hide his surprise. "The living dead? What possible use could that be to Lausaux?"

"He wanted it discredited. The islanders are said to be ninety percent Catholic, one hundred percent Voodoo. The oungans wield an immense amount of sway — to the extent that Zombies are officially recognized in Haitian law — and anything that disparages their influence is a step in the right direction. Unfortunately, we weren't a lot of help to him."

"How come?"

"Rather than discrediting Zombism, our field workers validated it. Or rather, they uncovered how the scam works. The oungans use Zombi juice: a cocktail of extracts from the liver of the puffer fish and the sap of the manchineel tree. The story is that the recipe was tested and perfected on the Duvaliers's political opponents in Dessalines barracks — right, across the plaza from the National Palace. Pharmacologists say its composition is similar to tetrodotoxin, a powerful neurotoxin. When the Zombi juice is administered by an oungan, usually surreptitiously in a glass of taffia — the local hooch — the victims experience pins and needles in their extremities, then hypothermia and severe catalepsy or muscular atrophy, symptoms which would, under cursory medical examination, be indicative of that person having deceased. Soon after, the oungan, who just happens to be passing, appears, administers an antidote, calls down a few lwas and puts on a show of resurrection. Powerful stuff."

"And if no antidote is given?"

"The victim will succumb within twenty-four hours, from respiratory failure."

Bickford drained his glass. He asked the barman to repeat the order. "When an islander is 'resurrected', he belongs to the oungan. The priest owns his soul and the Zombi becomes his slave. To prevent that happening, the bodies of the recently deceased — especially if they are young — will be beheaded by well-meaning relatives. God knows how many mistakes have been made: people in comas, oungan Zombi targets."

Val felt a deep need to lighten the mood, so he asked his friend if he had found time to fit in some rock-climbing over the summer. The skin on the backs of his hands had the texture of old, sun-dried leather.

"Spent a couple of weeks in Montana. It's getting harder to talk other rock-jocks into climbing with me. Most of my generation has given it up and the youngsters wouldn't be seen dead with an old-timer like me."

A buzz swept around the bar when a well-groomed mulatto entered, accompanied by two mean-faced bodyguards. Val estimated the man to be in his early seventies. His skin was the color of the copper arthritis bracelet he was wearing on his right wrist. His eyes were an intense turquoise, common amongst mulattoes. They sat down at a circular table that had been reserved and, after a few moments, Philip Lausaux joined them.

Lausaux crooked a finger at a waiter, who produced a silver salver loaded with a bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket. The waiter opened the bottle expertly and poured two glasses of the vintage champagne. The elderly man's eyes swept the bar and, for a fleeting moment, fixed on Val. His mouth tightened in a thin smile.

Bickford nudged Val with an elbow. "No domestic champagne for him. That's where the big money will come from tonight, and that toad, Lausaux, knows it."

"Who is he?"

"Jean Moncoeur, one of Haiti's haute bourgeoisie. He and others like him are the principal reason Haiti has remained the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. Their families are members of a Catholic oligarchy that has dominated the Haitian economy for two hundred years. The Duvaliers were part of it, though more by marriage than birth. They use the army, the Tonton Macoute, Voodoo, whatever, to keep control. And Washington stands back and does damn all about it."

"It doesn't sound as though he's on your Christmas card list."

Bickford ordered another drink. "I spent two summers doing fieldwork on Haiti. Christ, what a screwed-up country. During the time I was there, Assist Haiti was pioneering a scheme to help the peasant farmers of the Artibonite Valley become self-supporting. The reasoning behind it was sound enough: reduce the rural families' dependence on handouts by introducing a livestock scheme whereby they could become financially independent." Bickford shook himself. "Let's drop it and concentrate on our own charitable work here at the bar. I tend to lose my objectivity when I start on about Haiti. It would bore you rigid."

"No, I'm intrigued. Tell me more."

Bickford rolled his eyes. "Okay, you've asked for it. Just don't say you weren't warned." He flipped his ponytail off his collar. "The peasant farmers on Haiti used to rear hogs. They were one of the mainstays of the subsistence economy until Washington insisted that a compulsory cull be imposed to prevent a swine fever epidemic spreading to the US. Seventy-eight was a bad year for Haiti; Hurricane Christine hit and wasted two-thirds of the island.

"The charity's plan was to reintroduce hog farming. They helped set up and fund a marketing commission that would guarantee the price for an adult animal. Assist Haiti would supply the young hogs and enough additional fodder to rear them to market size — the disease-resistant hogs they imported from the US were incapable of surviving solely on the fodder the peasants could grow. Their diet needed to be supplemented with expensive US grain. Initially the farmers were reluctant to take a gamble, but the first year was such a success for those who did, the next year Haiti went hog mad. That was when I arrived. Every square yard of ground had one of those damned hogs on it."

"What went wrong? Some new more-virulent strain of swine fever wipe out the stock?"

Bickford threw a mean look towards the table where Moncoeur was seated. "Nope. He and the rest of the cronies had the Haitian government introduce a ban on the import of US grain. Damn hogs couldn't survive without the grain supplement and started to deteriorate. There was nothing the marketing commission could do; it couldn't be expected to guarantee prices when there was nothing to sell. The peasant farmers faced ruin and starvation. There was a chance that, given time, the hogs would adapt to a wholly Haitian diet, but with no money coming in the peasants had no option but to slaughter the hogs. Even that wasn't enough: their stomachs couldn't handle a high-protein diet. They needed money to buy vegetables and rice. They had to sell their land to survive. No prizes for guessing who bought most of it, and at knock down prices."

"Moncoeur and his cronies."

"Right first time, pal."

"Couldn't Assist Haiti have supported the peasant farmers until the hogs adapted?"

"They claimed, with some justification, that their budget had been stretched to breaking point by the demand for young hogs that year. The United Nations took an interest, but too late as usual. Doesn't it make you want to puke seeing Moncoeur at a fund-raiser? He'll spend a couple hundred thousand dollars tonight and have his picture splashed all over the papers as a generous benefactor, but it will be only a minute fraction of what he made off the hog fiasco."

"Could Lausaux have been in on it?"

"I wouldn't put it past him; the man's a slimeball. But if he was out to make a financial killing, then it's my guess he would have gone for a more straightforward scam. Diverting a percentage of the charity's income into a Cayman banking account would be more his style. He might not like it, but Lausaux knows that Moncoeur's butt has to be kissed if Assist Haiti is to achieve anything. He doesn't do anything without a good reason, but that's the way it is on Haiti."

As Bickford recounted the hog debacle, a great many guests stopped at Moncoeur's table to pay their respects. It seemed that his influence extended a great deal farther than his native island.

The close-circuit television screens flickered into life with a message that the auction would commence in ten minutes. Gradually the guests rose from their tables to drift upstairs to the salon. Moncoeur's party was one of the last to leave.

"What about it, Val?" Bickford said. "Shall we stick it out here or follow the money."

"Here will do just fine."

An hour later, as Bickford was extolling the joy of hanging from a rock, a thousand feet up by your fingertips, to an overweight oil company executive, Val excused himself and went in search of Duval. He met her on the stairs, on her way to find him.

"My painting went for five thousand dollars," she announced proudly, her eyes shining with excitement.

"Can you believe it? Five thousand dollars."

"Congratulations. Who bought it?"

"A Baton Rouge art dealer. The bidding started at a thousand and climbed."

Val hated to be the one to deflate her. "I wanted a word with you."

"What's wrong?"

They found a spot at the rear of the lower deck, directly above the flashing blades of the paddle wheel. A fine mist of water vapor settled on them. It was dark now as the Natchez lowered her twin funnels to pass under the Huey P. Long bridge. The wake was a luminescent green ribbon trailing after them, and beyond the levees the city sparkled with promise. It was too beautiful a scene to defile with talk of death, but it had to be done. The slapping of the paddle wheel ensured that they would not be overheard.

He told her about asking Trochan to run down his former partner and how, twenty-four hours later, someone had stuck a knife in the man's neck. He wasn't going to risk anything happening to her, he said, and explained the precautions he had taken. She took the news much as Val had expected. Her good mood evaporated, replaced by one of trepidation. He tried to play down any threat of physical danger, but clumsily succeeded in making it sound worse.

"You can help by being circumspect. Don't open the door to anyone you don't know. It doesn't matter if Marcus and Angie are there — it only takes a second. Do you have a car?"

"No, though Angie has offered me the loan of hers."

"Take her up on it. If it's not available, use a reputable cab company and make sure you're given a description of the driver. I don't want you walking the streets, day or night. And forget about dating for the moment."

"What about orientation week? I can't remain cooped up during that."

"You should be safe enough on campus. All my officers have been given a copy of the sketch you made of Jackson and told to keep their eyes open. Remember that there will always be an officer close by. Use the blue phones if you have to. Just don't do anything silly, and you'll be fine. More than likely I'm over-reacting."

"Shouldn't I let Marcus and Angie know about Jackson? They have been so considerate, and my presence may be putting them in danger."

"No, I'll speak to them. They already know that you'll be the focus of a hate-campaign from extremist groups and that they will be expected to take precautions."

"There's one other thing."

"What?"

"Would it hurt you to start calling me Marie?"

They joined Bickford in the lounge, watching the culmination of the auction on the close-circuit TV. The Bentley had just gone under the hammer. Inevitably, Jean Moncoeur had made the successful bid. Half-a-million dollars.

They could hear the thunderous applause coming from the salon above. It took a long time to die down.

The fund-raiser had turned into quite a party by the time the Natchez docked again at Poydras Street Wharf. A quick tally of accepted bids and pledges had placed the total raised that night to just under two million dollars. Good enough reason to carry on partying. Although the river cruise part of the evening was over, the guests would continue to be entertained on board for several hours.

Val told Marcus that it would be as well if he left then, hinting that the day had taken a lot out of Duval. Angie pouted a bit, saying she was having a wonderful evening and wanted to stay and dance, but Marcus was having none of it. The three of them drove away from the wharf in Marcus's car. Val watched as the campus officer in his own unmarked vehicle tailed them.

Bickford and Val shared a cab. They were heading back to Val's place for a final drink.

Val gave Bickford his shoulder to lean on as together they stumbled up the front steps of his historic house. Bickford had consumed a lot more booze than Val, but both men were far from sober. The light above the door was out and somewhere in Val's befuddled brain was the recollection of having switched it on before leaving. He reached above his head to locate the bulb. A half turn did the trick.

The door was slightly ajar, its rim lock busted. Val sobered in an instant. Signaling to Bickford to remain outside, he pushed the door open with his toe and slowly crept in.

The house was still.

He switched on a light. Devastation was the sole surprise lying in wait for him. His living room had been trashed. Bookcases had been knocked over, the books' covers and pages ripped asunder. Drawers had been pulled out and their contents strewn about. Stuffing protruded from slashes in the upholstery of his couch and armchair. His supply of bourbon had been emptied onto the floor the bottles smashed. Pictures had been pulled off the walls and their frames broken. The television screen was shattered the CD player in pieces. There was a damp patch on a rug and the acrid ammonia stink of urine was evident beneath the spilled bourbon. As far as Val could see, nothing had been taken, but a lot of senseless destruction had taken place.

Chicken blood had been used to daub the rough sketch of a cross and a skull with a top hat. The veve of Baron Samdi, head of the Gede family of spirits. The lwa of death.

Val picked up the plastic bag, still half-full of blood, and flushed it down the cloakroom toilet.

Bickford wandered in. "If I was you," he said, his speech slurring slightly. "I'd hire myself a new housekeeper."

Val checked out the rest of the house room by room. Whoever was responsible was long gone. Thankfully the bedrooms hadn't been touched, nor the bathroom or the kitchen. He picked up a fractured picture frame that had held a photograph of his wedding. The photograph had been ripped into pieces.

The phone started to ring. The one in the living room was in fragments but the bedroom extension was still working.

"Val Bosanquet?"

He didn't recognize the voice. It was a white man's, high pitched, natural, not put on.

"Yeah."

"I hear you're looking for Donny Jackson."

"What's your name?"

"That doesn't matter."

"Did you kill Trochan?"

"No. Shut up and listen. I have a message for you. If you're half as smart as I take you for, then you'll forget you ever heard the name Jackson. The Duval girl has nothing to fear from him."

"Did Jackson kill her mother?"

"Cut out the quizzing and pay heed. I'm trying to save your life."

"Wasn't Baron Samdi adequate warning?"

"What are you on about? Forget about the girl, forget about Jackson — he's someplace where he won't ever be found. Watch your back. The bastards who killed Trochan don't mess around."

"Which bastards?"

Val's caller had hung up.

CHAPTER EIGHT

In the morning, Val drove Richard to his Lafitte Village apartment house. He had caught a couple of hours sleep at Val's place after insisting on staying to help straighten up. As bombed as Richard was, Val was still grateful for his help, and it wasn't as if it mattered if he dropped something. The former contents of the living room were piled up on the sidewalk waiting for the trash pick-up. His wedding photograph scotch-taped together and inserted in a replacement frame. Baron Samdi hidden under two coats of fresh paint.

Val paid a speedy call to the UNOPD station house to confirm that they still had Duval under surveillance. Then he drove across Canal Street and took the Airline Highway.

The radio station he was headed for operated out of a single-level building situated between a roadhouse and a hot-pillow motel. Every morning for the past five years they had been broadcasting a short-wave radio show in Haitian Creole to the Tenth Department, the name given to the Haitian diaspora. The station had been firebombed twice and six months previously, the show's presenter had had his car run off the road and both his legs broken. A right-wing group called the Front pour l'Avancement et le Progres Haitian, or FRAPH, was behind the attacks. Amongst FRAPH's ranks was a bunch of Duvalier's former henchmen, the Tonton Macoute, whom he had modeled closely on Hitler's SS, except that in Haiti Duvalier had added a theatrical touch. He had them wear white suits and dark glasses, to fuel the rumor that they were Zombies.

That morning's show was just winding up when Val walked into the station's reception; he could see the man he had come to talk to still at work through a glass wall behind the front desk. Val told the teenager answering the phones what he wanted and was told to take a seat until the presenter emerged from his sound studio.

His name was Harry Nolan. He was close to sixty years old and had been a legend in the civil rights movement for two-thirds of that. He had been at the forefront of protest movements against segregation, Vietnam, Nixon, Reagan, abortion clinics, and the Gulf War. His contempt for law enforcement agencies was well known.

Initially, Nolan was reluctant to talk with him, but changed his mind immediately Val mentioned his interest in FRAPH. He led Val through to a small staff canteen at the rear of the building and organized two paper cups of coffee from a machine. They sat at a Formica-topped refectory table branded with cigarette burns. The presenter crossed his legs and started to poke at a tear in his jeans.

The walls of the canteen were decorated with protest posters connected to the various campaigns the station had endorsed. One of them was of particular interest to Val.

"I did a short piece about Duval on the show this morning," Nolan said, and took a sip of coffee. He grimaced. "It would have been longer, but we didn't receive our invitation to the press conference. Must have been lost in the mail."

Val shrugged. "I wouldn't know."

"How can I help you?"

"I want the lowdown on FRAPH. No rumors or hearsay. Just cold facts."

Nolan's fingers stopped probing the rip in his denims. "For what reason?"

Val tasted the coffee. It was foul. "Somebody paid me a visit last night. I wasn't home at the time, but they made certain I got the message. I need to know how active FRAPH are in the US and what they are capable of."

"Why don't you ask your friend Marie Duval? Her father was a big shot with the Tonton Macoute. They look after their own."

"He's been dead a long time. She remembers almost nothing about Haiti."

Nolan appraised Val's face for a few moments before saying, "FRAPH, an acronym for the Front pour l'Avancement et le Progres Haitian, but also a play on the French verb, frapper, to hit. To get a handle on FRAPH, you need to appreciate that refugee Haitians here are from two opposing camps, and they don't get on. When 'Baby Doc' Duvalier's dictatorship collapsed in eighty-six, a lot of his supporters — mainly the military and the Tonton Macoute — were forced to flee the dechoukaj, a prolonged period of bloody reprisals and civil unrest. President Aristide's attempts to introduce democracy helped to cool things down for a while. He even told former Duvalierists that they would be made welcome if they returned, though he passed a law forbidding any Tonton Macoute from holding political office. Many took up the invitation and on their return helped to form FRAPH. Covertly funded by the CIA and headed by Emmauel Constant, they are ostensibly the respectable face of the right wing and the military. In reality it was payback time. A second wave of refugees was forced to flee for their lives, only this time it was the poor and the uneducated, so naturally the US closed the door in their faces. A sizeable number still manage to make it each year, with FRAPH death-squads close on their heels. To answer your questions, yes, FRAPH is extremely active and is importing terror onto US soil."

"An ex-policeman was killed yesterday. He was working for me."

Nolan nodded. "I heard about it. His spinal cord was severed between the base of the skull and the first vertebrae. I can show you press cuttings of five identical killings — a method much favored by the Tonton Macoute. They also go big on rape, torture and kidnapping."

"The murdered man was trying to trace the whereabouts of another ex-policeman. Why would that cause FRAPH a problem?"

"Who can say? They have their fingers in a great number of pies. Did the murdered man have any family?"

"No. He never married."

"Good. The Tonton Macoute likes to spread fear by targeting the family of anyone who opposes them and they won't hesitate to kill women and children just for the fun of it. Watch your back it you're planning to go up against them."

"That's the second time I've been told that."

"It's sound advice."

"Ever heard of a Haitian businessman called Jean Moncoeur?'

"Sure. He's a very wealthy man. He owns a large chunk of lakefront real estate here in New Orleans. He's a leech and a scumbag. It's my ambition to live long enough to dance on his grave."

"Has he any connection with FRAPH?"

"Politically speaking, no, though he almost certainly helps fund them. The Mulatto oligarchy has no great love for the Duvalierists, who want to maintain the purity of the black race. But there is an uneasy alliance between the two — when it suits them."

Val pointed towards the poster that had caught his attention.

"You instigated a campaign last year calling for a boycott of Arena Victory's products. What was that about?"

Nolan screwed his face up in disgust. "Fat lot of good it did. The majority of American teenagers are too pampered to give a damn that the consumer goods they crave are manufactured under sweatshop conditions. Arena Victory pays the workers in its Port-au-Prince plant on average, eighteen cents an hour. Less than two dollars for a ten-hour shift."

"Slavery for the twenty-first century."

"No, you're missing the point. What AV is doing to these people is way worse than slavery. At least slaves were fed, given a roof over their heads, medical attention — however basic — when they required it. The Haitians working for Arena Victory have to pay for all that out of their eighteen cents an hour. Haiti was the setting for the world's only successful slave revolt. And what has it benefited them?"

"Could Arena Victory have engineered the collapse of the hog livestock program to guarantee a surfeit of workers for their new plant?"

Nolan's eyes hooded over. "You're very well informed."

"You haven't answered my question."

"I'm positive they did. By the time Arena Victory was ready to start production, fifty other American corporations had already set up on the island, greatly reducing the available labor pool. Did you know that most at the baseballs sold in this country are manufactured in Haiti?"

"I didn't."

"The biggest overhead in footwear manufacture is labor. Even with today's technology, it's still a labor-intensive industry. That's why a kid's shoe can cost close to an adult's, although it contains much less in the way of materials. The cheaper the labor the greater the profit. Arena Victory had a choice: pay higher wages to poach workers from other. assembly plants or find a fresh source of abundant cheap labor."

"Why has nothing been done about it?"

"Knowing it and proving it are two very different things, and Arena Victory have some of the sleaziest lawyers money can buy."

Val took on the role of devil's advocate. "You have to give them some credit though. One way or another, they invested capital and brought thousands of jobs to the island."

Nolan jumped up, sending his chair toppling over. He looked at Val as though he was a piece of dog shit.

"I should have known to expect a callous crack like that from a cop. For a while I thought you were different. Go on, get the hell out of my sight."

Val started to walk away, weighing up the perspective of a man who considers slavery an improvement on sweatshops, yet loses his cool over a remark like his.

Nolan had a parting shot to deliver

"Bosanquet. Five thousand jobs to be precise, at eighteen cents an hour. But if you have a scrap of humanity, spare a thought for how it must have felt for the other hundred thousand rural Haitians who exchanged life on their farms for the shanty town hell of Cite Soleil and no job."

Marcel Gilett had to wait for the automatic spiked gates to roll back. The second he judged the opening wide enough, he pressed down on the car's accelerator and squeezed through. Less than two inches clearance on either side. He drove quickly up the drive under the canopy of oaks, past the swimming pool and the tennis courts. In the three years that FRAPH had had him taking orders from Moncoeur, it was only the second time he had been summoned here. A sure sign that Moncoeur, normally the most composed of men, was rattled. Instructions were usually relayed in person by one of Moncoeur's American bodyguards.

Checking his watch, Gilett swore loudly. He was late after taking a wrong turn off for Lake Shore Drive. Moncoeur did not like being kept waiting, and Gilett had no wish to be the subject of the man's ridicule.

The mansion, built on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, reminded Gilett of an untidy stack of encyclopedias. Post-modernist, Moncoeur called it.

Gigantic slabs of gray concrete facing in all directions, apparently at random. Frank Lloyd Wright on speed was how one of Moncoeur's American bodyguards had summed up the building, not expecting Gilett to know whom he was talking about.

There was a brand new Bentley out front in the shade of a cantilevered overhang, the showroom shine still fresh, the silver paintwork gleaming. Gilett parked his junker next to it and climbed out. He was met by a bodyguard and escorted to the mansion's gymnasium. Despite himself, Gilett was impressed by the house's valuable, eclectic furnishings. The man sure knew how to spend money.

Moncoeur was taking a sauna. The air outside the pine wood sauna smelt strongly of eucalyptus oil. He had heard the bodyguards saying how Moncoeur liked to sweat the alcohol out of his system after a night's drinking.

Gilett hesitated.

"What are you waiting for?" the bodyguard asked.

He couldn't resist it. He stripped off his shirt and looked around for a towel or a robe.

The bodyguard grinned. "I don't think he was inviting you to take a sauna with him."

Gilett fixed the man with a mean stare as he put his shirt back on. The bodyguard held his gaze, something he wouldn't have done three years ago. Playing the simple, uneducated islander sometimes had its drawbacks. Even some FRAPH people were ridiculing him behind his back. He wasn't sure how much more of it he could take.

He opened the door and stepped into the sauna. The heat washed over him and for an instant he could have been back in his hometown of Carrefour.

Moncoeur was sitting on the top deck where the heat was most intense. Rivulets of perspiration ran down his face, gathered on the point of his chin and dripped onto the bottom edge of the newspaper he was reading.

"Good press coverage of last night's auction," Moncoeur said. He held out the paper so Gilett could take a look at a picture of Lausaux handing the old man a set of car keys. Moncoeur folded the paper and set it down on the bench next to him.

Moncoeur's skin hung in loose folds over his stomach. His pubic hair was gray and his flaccid penis uncircumcised. Gilett wondered if Moncoeur was deliberately trying to degrade him. Bragging of the half million he had spent on a car, then more subtly with his nudity. Haiti may be the oldest black republic in the world, but even so, the color of a man's skin still went a long way in determining social status on the island. The lighter the better, and there must have been more than a thousand shades separating the two of them.

"No trouble last night?" Moncoeur asked.

"None. I did exactly as you ordered."

"Excellent. Let's hope it's enough to dissuade Bosanquet from continuing with his snooping. Have you heard from the PI you hired?"

"Yes. He faxed me his report this morning. Bosanquet is forty-three. Separated, but not divorced. No children. Both his parents are dead and he has one married brother. Resigned from the New Orleans Police Department voluntarily — nobody seems to know why. Financially he's been walking a tightrope since then. Credit cards are maxed out, and he's heavily overdrawn at the bank. Has been involved in the start-up of a number of small businesses; all of which flourished for a while, then faded whenever he lost interest."

"Where is his estranged wife?"

Gilett knew exactly where she was, but he wasn't about to tell Moncoeur. It always paid to have an ace in the hole. "The PI hasn't been able to trace her. Do you want him to stick with it?"

"No, leave it for now. They've split up, so she would be of limited use as leverage. I have another job for you. I want you to take a trip to St Francis parish and set up surveillance on Jackson's parents' house. Watch out for anything unusual, anything that might suggest they know into which hole their son has crawled."

The assignment rankled Gilett. In swamp country he would stand out like rat shit in a bowl of rice. "How long do you want me down there for?"

Moncoeur filled a long-handled paddle with water from a wooden bucket. He splashed it over the hot coals. A cloud of super-heated steam climbed and spread along the roof of the sauna. Gilett could feel his nasal hairs burn.

"Until you learn something," Moncoeur said.

Gilett had a craving to snap Moncoeur's scrawny neck like a dry twig. Who the fuck did he think he was?

"It they know nothing, I could watch them 'til Christmas for all the good it would do. Isn't time a factor here?"

"Give it forty-eight hours, then do whatever it takes."

Moncoeur shut his eyes and lay back. The meeting was over.

Gilett pushed open the door.

"One more thing," Moncoeur said, his eyes still shut. "No loose ends."

This time there was no waiting around in the foyer of Arena Victory's headquarters. Val walked up to the security guard and told him that two youths were spray-painting graffiti on a section of the exterior marble cladding. The man thanked him and hurried off to investigate. Val gave the receptionist a quick flash of his shield and asked her which floor Jarvis Kraftson's office was on. She hesitated for a second too long, so he swept his arm across the top of her desk, spilling to the floor papers, a silver-name plate, and a desk calendar.

"The fifth," the girl blurted out.

He ripped the telephone's lead out of its socket and warned her, "If you so much as touch a phone for the next fifteen minutes, you'll be eating your Thanksgiving turkey in jail. Val rode the elevator alone. Those young Turks who had witnessed his performance in the lobby seemed happy to wait for the next one.

Kraftson's office was directly facing the doors of the escalator. Only he wasn't VP of Human Resources as he had claimed. He was VP of Development. Val charged in and waved his shield at another startled young woman. He saw how the pout of her lips had been enhanced by collagen injections. For a fleeting instant he wondered what it would feel like to kiss her.

"Is your boss in?" he barked. She nodded and plucked nervously at a silver locket at her throat.

"If I were you, I'd take my lunch break now."

She reached out a thin hand to her telephone. Val caught her by the wrist, took the receiver from her and replaced it.

"I said now."

She lifted up her purse from an open drawer, stood, and hesitantly backed towards the door.

With luck he might have two or three minutes alone with Kraftson before security intervened. He waited until she had left before charging into the inner office.

Kraftson was behind his desk, engrossed with his computer screen, clicking on a mouse under his right hand. He glanced across, and then jumped to his feet.

"How dare you intrude!"

"Sorry, I must have forgotten to make an appointment." Val went around his desk and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Kraftson projected an image of a man in control, but underneath he would be as soft as cotton. No match for the beast that lurked within Val. He lifted a cigarette lighter from the desk and rapped the heavy onyx base against the side Kraftson's head. The man's eyes widened in horror. Val could smell his fear.

"You fucked with me, now I'm going to fuck with you." He bounced the lighter off Kraftson's skull for emphasis. "Big mistake telling me that Jackson had been fired. You cost a man his life."

Kraftson's face blanched. Val gave his mouth an encouraging tap with the cold marble. Blood spurted out and his upper lip started to swell. He wouldn't be ordering any gumbo for a week or two. Val withdrew the onyx a couple of inches.

"I was given instructions," he croaked.

"By whom?"

"I can't tell you that." A drop of blood dripped off his chin and stained the front of his shirt.

"How about trying that one again?" He gave his mouth another tap with the lighter's base. Stone cracked against enamel. "Or do you want to find out how good AV's dental plan really is?"

"Stuart MacLean, our CEO."

Val had heard and read a lot about MacLean over the past few years. Ambitious, a talented businessman, brash, an upstart. Verdicts differed. But one thing the journalists all agreed on: MacLean was the powerhouse behind AV.

"That's more like it. Where can I find Stuart? Is he in the building?"

"No. He hasn't been here for months. He's been spending a lot of time in New York and Europe publicizing our flotation. I've only ever met him at half-yearly strategy meetings."

"What exactly is Jackson's job?"

"He's paid to take care of difficulties. Anything dirty needs done, he's the man. Leaning on labor organizers, bagman, payoffs, all kinds of things."

It didn't come as any surprise to Val. "Where is he?"

"We don't know. He vanished into thin air about a week ago. Told nobody where he was going. We were instructed to drop everything and search for him."

"MacLean's orders?"

Kraftson nodded.

"Why did Jackson kill Valerie Duval?"

Kraftson's eyes widened. "I've never heard of her."

"She was murdered ten years ago."

"For Chrissakes, I was still in college then."

Two security men crashed through the door. One of them was the man who had held a blood-filled syringe to Val's throat.

"Tell them to relax. We don't want anyone hurt here," he told Kraftson coldly.

The frightened man twisted his head towards the security guards. "Do as he says. He means business."

The two guards swapped glances, then took a couple of steps forward.

"Stay!" Kraftson shouted.

They stopped in their tracks.

"Do they do tricks as well?" Val asked, then turned to the security guards. "The VP and I have concluded our little tete-a-tete and I'm going to leave now. If anyone tries to stop me or come after me, I'll return and rip his fucking heart out."

Val let go of Kraftson's shirtfront and he slumped back into his chair. His top lip was turning an angry shade of blue.

Val waved the two guards away from the door and set the lighter back down. They glared at him belligerently but cooperated.

Val slapped the flat of his palm hard against the ear of the one he had recognized. "You can keep the cash and the credit cards, but I want my driving permit returned."

He was back on the street in less than two minutes.

Val bought a muffuletta sandwich and an espresso in a deli on Canal Street and took a seat at the window to watch a sudden thunderstorm bounce raindrops the size of pennies off the sidewalk. The smells inside the Italian restaurant were intoxicating. Rich spicy sausages were suspended from the ceiling, strings of dried garlic and peppers hung on the wall behind the counter, and three whole wheels of parmesan were stacked on top of each other next to jars of olives and pickled florets of cauliflower.

If Trochan had been murdered by FRAPH, as seemed likely, then it was probably because he had inadvertently stumbled across them in his quest for his former partner. It appeared that something had spooked Jackson, Val brooded, and he wasn't the sort of man to frighten easily. What exactly had he done to bring FRAPH's ire down on his head? His particular talents had been long employed by Arena Victory, whose operation in Port-au-Prince would have required some degree of alliance with FRAPH. Jackson and FRAPH; FRAPH and Jackson. They could have been made for each other. Natural allies, not enemies.

Val started to work backwards. Maybe some of the Tonton Macoute held a grudge against Jackson. After all, he had taken an axe to the wife of one of their number. They say revenge is a dish best enjoyed cold — but ten years?

It was time to talk to Marie Duval again.

She was sitting at a desk in Marcus's living room, checking off a pile of second-hand books she had bought against a reading list for her first semester. Angie had answered the door.

"Take a walk," Val told her. "I want to speak to Duval."

He was wound up and knew he'd blown it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. It was the wrong approach to take with Angie. Now nothing short of a hurricane would shift her. Fair enough. Maybe it was time she found out the sort of person she had admitted into her home.

He spun Duval's chair around and glowered down at her, stabbing a finger in her direction.

"You set me up."

Duval glared up at him, her eyes full of defiance. "What do you mean?"

"Val, how dare you come here and start bullying my friends," Angie protested, inserting herself between them. Two days back in the job and already you're reverting to type."

"Butt out, Angie," he said, taking hold of her wrists and moving her to one side. "This is between me and her."

He spoke to Duval again. "I'm not the only person you've told about Jackson. You talked to your friends in FRAPH first. Somebody must have got a warning to him and he went into hiding before they had a chance to kill him."

Angie's face lost its color and her mouth dropped open. Val ignored her and concentrated on Duval.

"They couldn't find him, so you recruited me. With my detective training and police department connections, you knew there was a good chance I would come through. But you hadn't planned to let FRAPH know about me, at least not until I had found Jackson for you."

"You're a crazy man!" Duval screamed. "No one but you and I know about Jackson."

"That's crap. Because of you and your story, I offered a man two hundred dollars to trace Jackson. It cost him his life."

Duval got to her feet, shaking with anger, her eyes full of hatred. Exactly the way they had been that night ten years before.

"I told you about Jackson and you didn't believe a word of it. You physically threw me out of your house. Now you burst in here claiming that you had somebody searching for him. That's one hell of a U-turn. I'm sorry for the man that has been killed, but it has nothing to do with me."

Val grunted. She had a point.

"Okay," he said. "So what if you initially thought that your ruse had failed? It doesn't alter the fact that a man died because you crave vengeance."

"You're so wrong. I don't want anything other than to be left alone to study and get on with my life. Can't you understand that?"

"Only too well. How hard did your friends at FRAPH have to lean on Assist Haiti before it agreed to sponsor you?"

All the fight suddenly left Duval's face. It took her a few moments to respond. "Is this another leap in the dark, or do you have some reason for saying it?"

"Work it out for yourself. You're far from the only bright Haitian kid in Louisiana. What would some of them give for the chance of a college education? Haiti needs teachers, scientists and doctors, a damned sight more than they need Caribbean Art graduates."

Duval broke down. She covered her face with her hands and started to sob, her whole body shuddering. Angie put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight to her chest.

She looked up at Val. "Proud of yourself? What sort of brute could do this to a young woman? Leave this house now," she hissed.

There was no point trying to explain that as a detective he had been expected to function in exactly this manner on a daily basis. Something he had become all too good at. He wheeled around and left.

Val strode across the street to the plainclothes officer taking his turn at watching Duval. The officer wound down the car window.

"Everything okay, Chief?"

"Yeah, everything's fine. You can report back to the station house. Tell Captain Clements that I'm pulling the surveillance on Duval."

The officer appeared surprised, but nodded and drove off.

Val climbed into his car and headed south across town to the Irish Channel. First stop was the building where Duval had lived with her mother. The exterior had grown considerably more decrepit in the intervening years: a section of roof tiles had gone and two of the top floor windows were blackened with soot. Nobody challenged him as he walked through the hall to the rear. The makeshift lean-to had been torn down; there was nothing left now to show that it had ever existed. The yard was a mass of weeds. He knocked on a few doors, but had no luck finding a resident who had been living there ten years before, though he talked to one woman who said the building was owned by a company called Crescent City Holdings. She wasn't able to tell him how long they had owned it.

Val spent the next couple of hours pounding the sidewalks, touring the district's thronged Haitian bars. The fronts were painted in bright vivid colors and a cacophony flooded out from their shutterless doors and windows. A combination of loud meringue music pulsing with African Caribbean rhythms, video games being played, and rapid, teeth-clicking Creole. Each time he brought up FRAPH, all he got was a lot of blank faces and a nervous shaking of heads. Moncoeur's name produced a similar response. Eventually he couldn't take the stink of cheap rum, reefer smoke and fried okra any longer and headed home.

CHAPTER NINE

Val took a call from a very irate Marcus early the next morning.

"Marie Duval has pulled out. She's saying that she won't register for her place at the university. Nothing Angie and I say can persuade her to change her mind. She's moving back to her apartment, going to bus tables full-time and plans to contact Assist Haiti later today to tell it of her decision. It's a disaster. And it's down to you!"

"All I did was to point out a few facts. If she can't live with them, then it's hardly my fault."

"Angie told me what you said. Have you the slightest shred of evidence to back up your accusations?"

"I don't need any. I'm not planning to indict."

"Do you realize or care how this will affect me? I went out on a limb for that girl."

"You want to discuss prospects, ask me about Bill Trochan's," Val said contemptuously. Guilt over Trochan's death was eating him up and it felt good to blow off some steam.

Marcus adopted a more conciliatory tone. "At least you'll be able to return to your illuminations company now. I know you weren't really committed to being a police officer again."

"I agreed to take on the job for a semester."

"And I'm deeply appreciative. But you must see the embarrassment it would now cause if you were to insist on remaining in the post."

"Not to me."

"To the university. I think it would be politic if you were to hand in your resignation today, effective immediately."

"I'm not prepared to do that just yet. You gave me a shield and I'm hanging on to it for a while longer."

"I've already talked to John Clements. I've told him about Duval and said that you would be stepping down."

"Then you're going to have to tell him that you spoke prematurely."

"I could have you fired."

"You don't have the balls," Val said, slamming down the phone.

Val packed a bag and threw it in the trunk of his car, next to his camera case and binoculars. There was no point phoning Clements to let him know he would be out of town for a few days if he wasn't prepared to tell him where. Besides, he wasn't in the mood to listen to Clements's grievances, no matter how legitimate they might be.

He followed Highway 90 west as far as Morgan City, then tracked the Atchafalaya river southwest. For a coonass like Jackson, the wetlands was as good as place as any to disappear. Val passed over a wooden bridge spanning Bayou Penchant, then pulled the car off the road alongside a cypress stump forest and climbed out to stretch his legs and take his bearings.

To a city boy like Val, who expected the swamp to be some great untouched wilderness, there seemed to be one hell of a presence of man. In the distant water of the Gulf he could make out the steel superstructure of half-a-dozen oil rigs, their gas-venting fires a vivid orange against the blue horizon. Shrimp boats were dotted as far as the eye could see. On land, a brace of RVs with inflatables lashed across their rear ends scuttled across the skyline like armadillos.

The bayou towns he had passed through weren't much more than two strips of timber buildings, separated by a course of dark, sluggish water edged with willows and with a wooden bridge at either end. Matching paved roads ran parallel to the bayou at the rear of the houses. He got back in the car and drove the last ten miles to St Francis, Donny Jackson's stamping ground. A derelict Dodge at the edge of town had the town's name spray-painted along its length. St Francis wasn't much of a town, but it had enough sportsmen passing through each day for his arrival not to attract attention.

He parked outside a boarding house that was touting for business by having a bunch of Polaroids tacked to a notice board. Smiling former guests held specimen speckled trout and largemouth bass up to the camera lens. There was a vacancy and he booked for two nights.

"Here to fish?" the proprietor asked.

"No, bird-watching's my game. Been intending to drive down this way for years, but was never able to make time."

"You sure came to the right spot. What line are you in?"

"I'm a partner in a manufacturing firm. We sell illuminated signs."

The man didn't pretend to be interested. "You'll be needing a boat. Prejean's is the place you should head. One of his won't cost you a fortune and most of them are still watertight."

The bait and tackle store was in the shadow of the town's water tower, and was the last building on the town's western edge. A bunch of fishermen were sitting round a picnic table, drinking ice-cold beer and eating a lunch of boiled crawfish. Prejean was out front baiting crab-baskets with nutria guts.

"I'm looking for a boat," Val said to him.

He wiped his hands on a filthy towel and stood up. He was Cajun.

"What are you after?" he asked, taking in the camera case and binoculars Val had slung over his shoulder. His shield was hidden in the base of the camera case, along with his cell phone that he had turned off.

"Something not too arduous. I'm here more for relaxation than serious ornithology."

"Blue 'erons 'ave been landing on Choac'o Lake. You could start there."

"Sounds good."

He led Val into his store and outfitted him with the basics for an afternoon on the bayou. He set a tank of gas on the counter, put a six-pack into a cooler and shoveled shaved ice on top. Val handed over a fistful of dollar bills. The beer drinkers had followed them in and had silently observed every part of the transaction. Their sullen faces did not encourage dialogue.

"I supposed to check your permit," Prejean said as he carried the equipment out to the jetty.

"I didn't bother with one."

Prejean didn't bat an eye. "Common enoug' mistake."

Val cursed his stupidity. What sort of birder wouldn't have a valid Wild Louisiana stamp?

Prejean loaded the gas and beer cooler into the flat-bottom boat and demonstrated the correct operation of the outboard motor. "You s'ouln't run into trouble as long as you steer clear of t'e lily pads and the morning glory vines. If t'e prop fouls, kill t'e motor. T'en tilt it up and untangle it with your 'ands. Use t'e pole if t'e water's s'allow."

Val made himself comfortable, his hand on the throttle, as Prejean cast off. He stood at the edge of the bayou and watched until Val passed under the wooden bridge.

Donny Jackson had been a great raconteur of tall tales about growing up in the wetlands. He talked of men-eating alligators, knife-duels to the death, and cocaine smugglers landing their seaplanes on the bayou that ran past his home just a mile or two northwest of St Francis. He boasted how his great-grandpappy, as a middle-aged man, had built a house from notched and pegged cypress boards, and when he had finished, had planted seven oak trees in a semi-circle around the front. One tree for each of the children he had fathered, but only three of whom carried his name.

It was mid-afternoon when Val came across the house. This part of the parish bore a greater resemblance to Val's mental image of the wetlands. The house was closer to four miles outside of town, isolated in the center of a bayou maze. It had been an hour since he had last seen another human.

He left the boat amongst a jumble of dried canes and cypress knees and found a vantage-point in a stand of willow trees. The house was raised off the ground on stone piers, its ancient cypress timbers the same gray as the moss hanging from the oak trees. The red brick of the massive chimney had weathered to a pale pink; the roof was of rusted tin. Azalea bushes were growing at the base of the piers and honeysuckle had wrapped itself around the railings of the porch. An overturned pirogue was resting on two wooden trestles at the gable end of the house and an oil drum had been cut in two along its length and the two halves welded back to back to form a barbecue and base. He could make out the name Jackson painted in yellow letters on a mailbox next to a low wooden bridge across a coulee.

The salt from the tidal marshes seasoned the air as he lay and waited. The swamp mud was alive with mosquitoes and biting insects.

He watched the house for an hour before seeing any sign of life. A rust-pitted pick-up trundled across the bridge and pulled up in front of the house. A man and woman got out, both white-haired. The man carried a bag of groceries into the house and shut the door.

Val watched on into the evening, until the light grew bad and the lamps were switched on inside the house, without observing anything out of the ordinary. He called it a day and backtracked to where he had left the boat. Jackson wouldn't be dumb enough to hide out at his parents' house, but Val had a gut feeling he was somewhere close by.

Back in St Francis, he arranged with Prejean to pick the boat up before dawn, bought a tube of insect repellent, had a supper of beef grillades and dirty rice in a bar and went to bed early.

He was back out on the bayou shortly after first light. A gentle breeze blowing in from the Gulf was enough to ripple the water and sweep away the stench of rotting vegetation. Two snowy egrets rose from the clump of willow trees as he approached. Nothing had changed at the Jacksons' place. The pick-up was still parked in the same spot as the evening before. He settled down for a long day.

The snick of a bullet being slid into a rifle's breech is unmistakable. It's a sound to still the heartbeat of any cop, especially when it has come from behind him.

"Turn round real slow," a man's voice commanded.

Val did as he was told, to find Jackson Senior three paces off and pointing a hunting rifle directly at his chest. He was unshaven and dressed in a green checkered shirt and dark green canvas jeans. His face was weather-beaten and the hand around the trigger guard was covered in liver spots.

"How long have you been out here?" Val asked.

"Since a little before dawn, like any self-respecting hunter. I saw signs of the ground here having been trampled, and we've been expecting visitors."

"Donny. He's inside?"

"Nope, but he warned me to keep my eyes peeled. Start walking towards the house. And don't try anything. I don't often miss what I aim at."

Val bent over to pick up the camera case and binoculars.

"Leave them," Jackson said, signaling with his rifle's barrel for Val to move away. He kept the gun on him as he reached down and took hold of them.

"I'm a police officer. My shield is hidden at the bottom camera case."

"I don't need to see no shield to know what you are."

"Then put down the gun. You aren't about to shoot a cop."

"You think not? We don't pay much mind to the law in these parts. I know a dozen ways to dispose of a body in the swamp. Now stop gabbing and start walking."

Val headed towards the bridge over the coulee. Jackson kept close enough to keep a bead on his back, but not so close that Val could jump him.

His wife appeared on the front porch of the house as they reached the dirt road. She was a tiny bird of a woman, her hair tied up and pinned, and she wore a flower-patterned apron over a plain yellow dress. She watched as her husband brought home his prize, her face devoid of emotion.

"What's your name, son?" she said, when they reached the bottom of the steps.

"Val Bosanquet."

Understanding flickered in the old woman's tired eyes. "Donny warned us that we might be getting a phone call from you. I don't think he was expecting you to show up though."

Val could only speculate as to whether Jackson had talked to Trochan or had seen the press conference on television and put two and two together. He favored the second. "It's very important that I talk to him. His life's in great danger."

"Don't he know it, but right now, I don't think he wants the kind of help you have in mind. I know my boy and I know the bad he's done."

The husband tossed the camera case to the wife. "Take a look in there."

She found the shield. She slipped it into her apron pocket, closed the case and zipped it.

"Have you had anything to eat?" she asked. "The least we can do is feed you until we decide what is to be done with you. Bring him on inside, Roy. He can join us for breakfast."

The interior of the house was clean and tidy. The furniture and drapes were old but of good quality and well cared for. The gray cypress floorboards were partially covered with Indian rugs. Hanging on the rear wall was a picture of Christ with an electric candlelight flickering below it. A small cherry wood sideboard set against the rear wall was used to display framed photographs. Above the huge fireplace was a set of bleached alligator jaws.

Mrs Jackson set the camera case and the binoculars on a dresser next to a thick pile of National Geographic magazines. Val was led through to the kitchen and told to sit at the far end of an oak table. Roy Jackson leant against a line of cupboards, his rifle still trained on Val's chest.

"How does eggs, link sausage and cinnamon toast sound?" Mrs Jackson asked.

"I'm not hungry. I'd rather talk about Donny."

Ignoring Val, she opened a refrigerator and lifted out a carton of orange juice.

"Mrs Jackson, your son has nothing to fear from me. I'm the law. But there are other men looking for Donny. Men who won't give up easily."

She cracked an egg into a skillet. "Then we'll have to take sure they don't find him."

"If you know anything about these people, you must realize that you're not doing your son any favor. I could bring the FBI in. Donny might have to go to jail, but at least he would be alive."

"Donny isn't going anyplace."

"Then think about yourselves. Your lives could be in danger as well. Staying here is madness."

The woman traded glances with her husband. "Our kin have lived in this house for four generations, and we're too old to think about moving."

Val ate nothing of the food she prepared. She was a good cook and it smelt wonderful, but his insides weren't up to handling anything solid. When he finally pushed the plate away, Roy walked him outside and had him carry a wooden porch chair into the living room and sit on it. His wife produced a chromed Smith & Wesson revolver from her apron pocket and held it on Val as her husband lashed his arms and legs to the heavy chair.

It was unreal. Had Bonnie and Clyde somehow survived the Arcadia shoot-out, driven a further 250 miles south, taken the name Jackson and settled down?

Jackson had an outdoor man's way with rope. It would take five minutes of determined sawing with a sharp knife before he could be free. His wife slipped the revolver back into her apron pocket.

"No point in gagging you," Jackson said. "There's nobody close enough to hear you."

"What about his boat?" she asked.

"I could smash a hole in the bottom and sink it in the bayou. He won't be missed until tonight. They'll not do anything about it until midday tomorrow at the earliest, and that won't be much. Just another city-boy who capsized and drowned. Happens all the time."

Val didn't much care for the direction the conversation was taking.

"My second-in-command knows why I came to St Francis. He's going to start wondering what has happened when I don't report in. First thing he'll do is have the parish sheriff drive out here."

"Then the sooner we decide what to do with you, the better," Mrs Jackson said. She turned to her husband. "Best call Donny and talk it over with him. Not from here though."

Her husband nodded thoughtfully. "Will you be okay on your own?"

"Don't see why not. He ain't going anyplace." She patted the stock of the rifle.

He lifted a bunch of keys off the dresser, slipped them into his pocket, and then pulled on a quilted vest and a John Deere baseball cap. He shut the door after him.

"Roy won't be long," she said. "Meantime I've got chores to be getting on with." She propped the rifle against the frame of the kitchen door and started to clear the breakfast table.

Val strained against his rope bindings for a few minutes, tensing and relaxing the muscles in his arms, before admitting that it was futile. The chair could be made to hop forward an inch or two at a time, but what benefit was there to that?

He divided the room into segments and started a detailed scrutiny of each, hoping to discover some way to free himself from the fix he was in.

He took his time over the photographs on the polished sideboard. There was a monochrome wedding scene, and a couple of Donny Jackson as a young boy, wearing a Roy Rogers cowboy suit and holding a BB gun. Presumably the yellowing, older pictures were of the grandparents. The largest picture was a group of laughing and smiling men, dressed in vacation clothes, posing under a coconut palm outside a hotel. Val recognized a younger Roy Jackson standing on the edge of the group.

The telephone was on a small, circular oak table at the far end of the couch. It might as well have been a million miles away.

Thirty minutes ticked by and he didn't come up with one viable option. He faced the disagreeable truth: he was at the Jacksons's mercy.

The woman washed and dried the dishes, stripped the bed and put the sheets in the washing machine. Then she dusted the living room. Twice, as she passed through the room, she checked the bindings around his wrists. He tried to start up a conversation with her, but she didn't want to know. She went into the kitchen and assembled the ingredients to mix cake batter.

The clock on the mantel read seven-thirty when he heard the pick-up clatter on the boards of the bridge. Mrs Jackson emerged from the kitchen and wiped her floury hands on a towel before she picked up the rifle. A truck door slammed shut. She walked across the room and opened the door.

Another truck door was slammed shut. Val shouted a warning to her, but his words went unheard.

The blast from the shotgun caught her squarely in the chest. It wasn't like in the movies when a sawn-off's victim is sent flying backwards by the force. She just seemed startled, then for an instant looked down at the blood staining her apron, before crumpling to the floor.

Two black men dragged an unconscious Roy Jackson into the house, one of whom bent down and picked up the rifle before they stepped across his wife's lifeless body. The man carrying the sawn-off shotgun was six-four, with an enormous chest and arms as thick as Val's thighs. He had dirty braided hair and a solid gold tooth. The man who had picked up the rifle was three inches shorter and wore a New Orleans Saints T-shirt. There were two angry red welts across Jackson's forehead and blood had caked in the roots of his white hair. He had taken a pistol-whipping.

It was clear from the expressions on their faces that the men hadn't been expecting to find anyone else in the house, much less someone trussed up like a Christmas gift. T-shirt leveled the rifle towards Val, but Gold Tooth spoke to him in rapid Haitian Creole and he lowered it. They carried Jackson over to the couch and threw him down. T-shirt checked the bindings holding Val, then went outside.

Gold Tooth rested his shotguns barrel against Val's forehead and smiled broadly. "I've seen your face on the TV news, Mister Chiefman." His English was good, but with a heavy accent. "You've been after Donny too?"

"Which of you killed Trochan?"

"Trochan?"

"The man in the cemetery."

He pulled the shotgun away. "Was that what he was called? Sure hope he wasn't a friend of yours, Mister Chiefman."

T-shirt came back carrying a small blowtorch. He turned the gas on and ignited it with a disposable lighter. On each of his fingers was a heavy silver ring. It took him a moment to adjust the gas flow until the flame was burning yellow. When he was satisfied, he handed the torch to Gold Tooth.

"Experience has shown us that our purpose is best served with a cooler flame. A clear flame destroys too many of the nerve endings." Gold Tooth moved over to the couch and said, "It's time to wake up our friend. He started to slap Jackson across the face. It took several blows before he stirred. He opened his eyes and groaned.

T-shirt sat next to Jackson on the couch.

Gold Tooth glanced at Val. "Seems it's you we have to thank. We spent the night in a motel and were headed out here when we saw the pick-up cross the bridge. Followed Jackson into town and watched him make a call from the gas station pay-phone. We jumped him, but the stubborn old fool wouldn't tell us where his son is. I think he'll talk now."

Jackson was starting to make sense of the world again. His eyes flicked from Val to T-shirt to Gold Tooth. He pushed himself upright on the couch and shook his head. Pain made him wince. He caught sight of his wife's body and tried to launch himself at Gold Tooth in a desperate attempt to tear the shotgun from his grasp. T-shirt pulled him off as easily as a puppy dog.

"Hold him steady," Gold Tooth ordered. His fellow-islander pinioned Jackson's arms high up his back and held them tight. The old man struggled, but he was as helpless as Val was.

Gold Tooth pulled a stiletto blade from a leather scabbard he had stitched to the lining of his trouser pocket and ran the blued-steel blade down the front of Jackson's shirt. The old man's chest was as white as candle wax.

"Giving up your son won't save your life. You're already a dead man. But you could make your dying a little easier."

Jackson spat full force in his face.

Gold Tooth wiped away the spittle, picked up the blowtorch and touched the flame against Jackson's chest. His screams filled the room. Val gritted his teeth and flexed every muscle and sinew in his body, twisting against the rope bindings. The rope sawed into his wrists, drawing blood. It was to no avail.

"Where is your son?"

"Fuck you," Jackson bellowed.

That earned him another blast from the blowtorch. Gold Tooth knew exactly what he was doing. Just enough flame to sear the top level of skin, inflicting maximum damage to the greatest number of nerve endings, but not enough to have Jackson lapse into unconsciousness again.

Val gagged as the nauseating stench of burning flesh reached him. He strained on his bindings again. His wrists were beginning to swell and the rope was tighter than ever, cutting deeper into his flesh. He ignored the pain. It was a trifle compared to what Jackson was enduring. Gold Tooth's mouth was split in an obscene grin.

He seemed in no hurry. He lit a cigarette from the flame and drew deeply on it before callously pressing the glowing tip against Jackson's nipple.

Val thought it impossible for a man to scream as loudly. Jackson's mouth opened, the cords in his neck stretched as taut as steel wire, and an animal sound emerged up his throat. Val wanted to clamp his hands over his ears to block off the sound.

Gold Tooth had finished the cigarette before he asked once again, "Where is your son?"

Jackson's pupils were the size of lead shot. He said nothing.

This time the soft white flesh of his stomach was the target for the scorching flame. Jackson's mouth snapped open but no sound came out. His body twitched and his eyes rolled back in his head as life left him.

Gold Tooth lost it. He brought the flame up into the dead man's face and watched the hair of the eyebrows and eyelids glow and shrivel. He kept the flame steady until the skin turned black and started to rend. Then, abruptly, he turned off the gas and faced Val.

"Two down, one to go."

Val's stomach fell through the floor of his abdomen. Was he referring to Donny Jackson, or to him?

Gold Tooth handed T-shirt the stiletto blade, hilt first. "Cut him loose. Mister Chiefman's coming with us."

"You sure? What about our orders?"

"Fuck them. I'm through being treated like shit."

The stiletto was useless against the thick ropes and T-shirt had to fetch a carving knife from the kitchen. His legs were freed first, then his wrists. T-shirt pressed the kitchen knife to Val's side and told him to stand up slowly.

Gold Tooth stood in the kitchen doorway surveying the carnage, resting the shotgun on one shoulder like a hunter.

"Have Mister Chiefman load them in the back of the pick-up. Find something heavy to attach to them. We'll give the gators an early lunch."

T-shirt prodded Val forward with the kitchen knife. He told him to pick up the woman's body.

Val made sure his back obscured T-shirt's view as he hunkered down beside her lifeless form. He slid a hand under her shoulder blades and raised her torso. She was as light as a sack of groceries. His other hand went into her apron pocket and came out holding the revolver. He let her drop and swung around to put two rounds in T-shirt's chest. Without taking time to rise, he brought the gun to bear on Gold Tooth.

For a big man the Haitian moved with surprising speed. He sidestepped out of sight into the kitchen. Val fired but the bullet smacked into the door jamb.

The barrel of the shotgun poked around the door and Val dived behind the couch as double-ought shot ricochet off the iron-hard cypress boards of the floor. The couch wouldn't provide much protection, but Gold Tooth needed to show himself if he wanted a clear shot. Val tried to listen for the creak of a floorboard, but his ears were still ringing from the gunfire.

Three rounds fired, three left in the revolver. He had no idea how many Gold Tooth had in the pump-action. What if he had already left by the back door and was circling around?

There was one way to find out. Val reached out a hand and grasped the telephone wire. He yanked on it and the telephone slid off its table and clattered onto the floor.

Gold Tooth burst out of the kitchen at full pelt. His first shot shredded the back of the couch, his second blew the telephone into bits.

Val fired once and caught Gold Tooth high in the left shoulder. He stumbled and crashed against the dresser, sending the stack of National Geographic magazines sprawling across the floor. Val emerged cautiously from behind the couch. Gold Tooth was already up on his knees, one arm hanging uselessly at his side, staring defiantly at Val and trying to rack the shotgun with his one good hand. Val shot him again. A spurt of blood burst from the right side of Gold Tooth's chest. His fingers opened and the shotgun dropped to the floor.

Moving slowly, the revolver held firmly in both hands, Val approached the kneeling man. He bent down, picked up the shotgun and threw it out the door.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Gold Tooth swayed slightly but said nothing.

"Tell me who sent you after Jackson and I'll use my cell phone to call the paramedics? You might make it."

"Fuck you!"

Val cocked the revolver and touched it to Gold Tooth's temple. His knuckle whitened as he applied pressure on the trigger.

"M'fin mouri," Gold Tooth whispered and collapsed to the floor.

Val reluctantly eased off the pressure.

He checked for a pulse and lifted an eyelid. Gold Tooth's prediction was wrong; he was still hanging in there. He retrieved his cell phone from the camera case and put a call in to the emergency services.

After he was finished talking, Val remained rock still for a few moments, letting the final traces of cordite dissipate. A few ounces of pressure on the trigger was all that had stood between him and the fulfillment of the destiny which haunted him. What sort of monster had he become?

His eyes slowly circled the room. Three people had died in this room within a short space of time. Two of them because they had a parent's natural desire to protect their only child. He owed them some respect for that, but it wouldn't stop him searching them or their place before the police arrived.

The bedrooms were first. He was hoping to find a change of clothes for Donny or something that would tell him that at least he had been on the right track. The closets were crammed with the cast-off clothing. Donny's parents were frugal people who appreciated the value of a dollar. He found nothing in either bedroom. Next stop was the living room and he spent some time going through the telephone numbers they kept in a pad on the table beside their phone. None of them jumped off the page at him. There was no point pocketing it, because the sheriff would be sure to relieve him of it.

He discovered a 2x2 photograph in Roy Jackson's trouser pocket, in the crease of five folded ten-dollar bills held in a silver money clip. The picture had been taken from some distance and without the benefit of a telephoto lens, but even so both the subject and background were discernible: Marie Duval on the sidewalk outside the restaurant where she had worked part-time. He tucked the picture into the wallet that held his shield and replaced the wallet in Mrs Jackson's apron just as he heard the first siren.

The parish sheriff was proud to be an elected official. He was a sixty-five-year-old, two hundred and seventy pound, former gas-station franchisee who had known the Jacksons all his life. He had attended the same high school as Rita Jackson, or Rita Kellerman as she had been then.

He sat on the tailgate of his SUV, a plaited straw hat pushed back high on his head, and listened to Val's story without interruption. One of his deputies had already ridden off in an ambulance with Gold Tooth.

It was obvious to Val from the order and perceptiveness of his probing questions that the man didn't take the responsibilities of his office lightly. It was, he told him right off, the biggest body-count homicide he had had to deal with in his fifteen years as sheriff, and he wasn't about to take any short-cuts in his investigation.

He knew all about Donny.

"The New Orleans PD contacted my office and requested I watch out for him. They didn't say anything about sending a detective down."

"I'm a campus cop, but I used to work homicide. Call Chief of Detectives Paul Larson at First District Homicide. He'll vouch for me," Val said, not at all sure that he would. Coming within a hair of blowing away the prime suspect in a New Orleans murder hunt was not the way to ingratiate yourself with Larson.

"All in good time. I'm not through asking questions. Neither of the Haitians was carrying ID. Don't suppose you can help me out with a couple of names?"

"Afraid not. They left their car in town, maybe if you locate it, there'll be something to help you get a fix on them."

"Any idea why they didn't kill you?"

"I can't account for it."

To the sheriff's way of thinking, two elderly, God-fearing people had been murdered in his parish, which was a tragedy but not one that he could reverse. The fact that one of the scumbags responsible was dead and the other in custody was right and proper and went a long way to balance things. But not all the way.

"Ain't a campus cop just some sort of glorified security guard? What gives you the right to come snooping around my parish without so much as a by your leave? There's only one man has jurisdiction around these parts and that's me!"

Val tried to appear suitably chastened. "I thought it would be a routine stakeout. There was no point troubling you unless Donny Jackson showed up. I had no way of knowing it was going to explode in my face."

"That may be so son, but you'll be riding back to town with me and cooling your heels in my office until I'm satisfied that your version of events checks out. That could take a while."

"How long?" Val asked irritably. "I have a lot of questions I want to put to Gold Tooth."

"You can forget all about doing that. If he lives — and the paramedics aren't taking any bets that he will — the only person doing any talking with him will be me."

Val knew it would pointless to argue. There was no way the sheriff was going to bend the rules for him.

"When will I be free to leave?"

The sheriff mopped his forehead with a white handkerchief. "What's your goddamn hurry? The buddies of those two Haitian goons will find you soon enough"

The nearest crime scene team that the sheriff could call on was based in Morgan City. They made it to St Francis at midday and started work on the Jackson house soon after. The sheriff went with them and left Val in the supervision of a deputy for most of the afternoon. Val typed and signed a statement setting out the sequence of events. It must have tallied with the crime scene officer's preliminary report, because shortly before six o'clock he was free to leave.

"You'll be notified about the date of the inquest," the sheriff said as he walked him to his car, still parked in the boarding house lot. He handed over the binoculars and the camera case with Val's shield and cell phone. "One of the crime scene officers mentioned that the revolver was cocked when he examined it, but that the last chamber was empty."

"I didn't know."

"Rita was like the rest of her family. They all knew how to handle a gun. She would have kept the hammer down on an empty chamber."

"Guess I was pretty lucky then that two rounds were enough to stop him."

The sheriff turned his head around and fixed his knowing gaze on Val. "I reckon you was."

Val shook hands with him and said, "Will you answer one question for me before I leave? What work did Roy Jackson do?"

The sheriff hesitated, then said, "He retired twelve months ago. Before that he worked for the power company."

"As what?"

"He was a line man. Why do you ask?"

"There was a picture of him and a bunch of guys I took for fellow workers on a table in the house. It had been shot in front of a Port-au-Prince hotel and it made me wonder what they were doing there. Haiti isn't what you'd describe as a popular destination for conventions."

"You thinking there's some connection with what happened this morning?"

"It's possible."

"I doubt it. Too long ago." The sheriff tilted back his straw hat and grinned. "It was no convention he was on. The picture would have been taken the time Roy and a crowd of other Gulf States Power Company employees were sent to Haiti to lend a hand with repairs after Hurricane Diana hit. I remember it was all Roy talked about after he came back. It was his first time out of the States and he and the boys had a ball when they went down there. Put up in a hotel, living on expenses, cheap booze, and no wives to rag on them for six months. It was sometime before I was elected sheriff. Sixteen, seventeen years ago."

Closer to twenty-one, Val thought.

CHAPTER TEN

It took a motorist in a BMW flashing his lights and leaning on his car's horn to snap Val out of his reverie just as he reached the outskirts of New Orleans. Lost in thought, he hadn't noticed how dark it had grown. He switched on his headlights and paid attention to the road. For a while at least.

Why would a man keep hidden in his pocket the picture of a young girl he had never met? More to the point: did that man have his son kill the girl's mother? Short of running a DNA test, there was no way Val could prove that Roy Jackson was Marie Duval's father, but he knew he was on the right track. What better explanation could there be for the child's life being spared? Having a woman with whom you once had a brief affair killed was one thing; it was a different matter when it came to your own flesh and blood.

Ten years later Roy Jackson may have learnt of his daughter's academic achievements and asked his son, her half-brother, to snap a photograph of her. Maybe at last, Jackson may have thought, he had a child he could be proud of.

Val had some of the answers, but not all. According to Marie Duval, her mother had been running on fear before she was killed. If she had been turning the screws on Jackson for money, then it was inconceivable she would have let her guard drop when Donny turned up. No, when Valerie Duval opened her door to Donny, she welcomed him as her savior, not her executioner. Who or what had been behind his about-face? Val's money was on Arena Victory. But what problems could one lone and frightened woman pose that had left them no option but to have her killed?

His phone was ringing when he reached home. It was Angie.

"Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to contact you since yesterday."

"Out of town."

"If you're going to switch your cell phone off, couldn't you at least let the station house know where you're going? And what's happened to the answering machine I gave you?"

"What is it, Angie? I'm tired and I want to go to bed."

"I'm leaving Marcus."

If Angie thought he would be ecstatic at her revelation, she was mistaken. "Why? I thought the two of you were getting along great."

"I'll tell you why when I come over."

"Why can't you tell me now?"

"I'd rather come over." Her voice sounded as soft and gentle as a caress.

Woman, he thought, Nolan's warning still fresh in his mind, you certainly know how to choose your moments. "I told you already, I'm really bushed."

"It won't be for long, promise."

He heard the hurt in her voice. "Not tonight, Angie. Go make it up with Marcus. He loves you."

"You're a prick," Angie snapped venomously.

"Goodnight, Angie." He cut the connection, left the phone off the hook, and went to bed.

He dreams of Duval.

She's wearing a white peasant dress and has a red kerchief tied across her head. Her feet are bare. It is shadowy and hot and her body is moving to the soporific beat of Rada drums. The scene opens up and Val sees that she is not alone. All around her are the dark, shining faces of other servants of the lwa. The incantation they repeat reminds him of the prayers his mother had whispered. He can smell a strong feral odor — a combination of the muskiness of their sweating bodies, the earth under their shuffling feet, and the oils they have anointed their bodies with.

Duval moves forward towards the central pillar, the poteau-mitan, and starts to circle it. Her arms rise above her head, her hands reaching out as though in supplication. Both eyes shut as she sinks into a trance. Her body is a horse, being ridden by her lwa.

A snake-like tongue flashes in and out of her mouth. The crowd edge closer. They start to touch. The red kerchief is removed, then their hands gently ease the flimsy dress from her body, revealing skin that is polished and firm, and tiny breasts the size and color of mangoes. The muscles of her calves ripple as she steps from the dress. Her pubic hair is a lush bush of tight dark curls.

The drums stop beating and a wooden cage is passed from person to person on upraised arms. Inside the cage, a cockerel, its feathers shiny as coal, flaps against the bars. Duval opens the small door and takes hold of the bird by its neck. She removes it from the cage. A knife appears in her a hand. She draws the blade across the bird's neck, then holds the dying cockerel up to the others. Their chanting ceases and they grow still.

Duval tilts her head to allow the cockerel's blood to flow into her open mouth. She swallows and a stream of blood bounces off her lips and splashes across her breasts.

A single drum starts to beat, matching the rhythm of her heart. She bends down and lays the body of the cockerel on the dusty earth. The bird lies motionless, but the participants of the danse-lwa are anticipating more. The bird's head moves a fraction; it flaps a wing against the dusty ground and struggles to its feet. The only sound is the slow beat of the drum.

The lucidity of the dream wakens Val. The shallow depression between his eyes is a pool of sweat, and a cold hollowness sweeps through him when he realizes that the repetitive noise he is hearing originates from some place inside the house. He opens the bedroom door and steps into the hall, his heart racing.

The house is in darkness, merging black and gray shadows. Nothing moves. His feet feel tacky against the bare wooden boards.

Val's heart starts beating again when he discovers the source of the noise: an operator-initiated electronic alarm that alerts a subscriber that their phone is off the hook. He replaces the handset and the phone starts to ring immediately.

It's his friend with the high-pitched voice.

"Look out your window," he says.

He does. A dark blue sedan is parked outside. Two white men are standing beside it. They are big enough to play defense for the Saints. Val moves away from the window and walks down the passage to the kitchen and takes a look out back. As far as he can tell there's nobody out there. He returns to the phone.

"I see them."

"We need to talk. They're there to escort you. Be seeing you shortly."

"What if I don't want to go with them?"

"You will if you're serious about finding Donny Jackson."

Val looks at his watch. It's a little after three in the morning.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Val's face-to-face with his secretive early-morning caller was to take place inside the church on the corner of Rampart and Conti, not far from the entrance to St Louis Cemetery No. 1. The men who drove him there refused to answer any of his questions. They sat in stony-faced silence, staring straight ahead, the muscles in the backs of their necks bulging over their shirt collars like swollen inner tubes.

At the main door of the church, the men told him to enter, take a seat near the front and wait. They didn't follow him inside.

The interior of the church was cool and unlit. What illumination there was came from the streetlights outside and a faint yellow glow from a few burning votive candles. The smell of incense and beeswax polish hung in the air. The sound of his footsteps on the stone slabs seemed excessively loud to Val as he walked down the aisle. He had been in the church a half dozen times before, mainly for hatching, matching and dispatching services. It housed a shrine of St Jude — the saint of impossible causes. A saint close to the heart of all policemen.

Val entered a pew and sat down. Lifting a bible out of the shelf in front of him, he ran a thumb along its fore-edge, then replaced it. He never felt entirely at ease inside a church. The prevailing sense of good intent was too alien to what he encountered on the streets. He looked around self-consciously. The wooden statue of Christ nailed to the cross was too life-like for his taste, the gore too real. The Madonna's expression in an oil painting a little too serene.

The door of the sacristy at the left rear side of the church opened and a man emerged. Only five six or five seven, he was silver-haired, slim and wiry. He moved delicately, with small unhurried steps. Val couldn't make out the color of his eyes. He was wearing a short-sleeved black shirt with a priest's collar. Kneeling in front of the altar, he crossed himself. His lips moved as he mouthed a silent prayer. When he was through praying, he walked over and placed two votive candles on the metal rack and lit them.

He slid into the pew in front of Val.

"I appreciate you coming," he said. It was the same voice that Val had heard on the phone.

"Then make it worth my while."

"My name is Malcolm Kellerman. Rita Jackson was my sister."

"I can see the resemblance. I'm sorry that your sister's dead. I wish I could have done something to prevent it."

"The sheriff told me what happened. He called to let me know how exactly my sister and her husband died. He wanted me to hear it from a friend."

Neither of them said anything for a few moments. Val was the first to break the silence. "This is not your church."

"No, though it once was — some years ago. I came here when I first left the seminary. I thought it prudent that we meet someplace that FRAPH would be unlikely to have staked out. I can't believe they intend me any harm, but, as you can see, I've taken some precautions."

"Bill Trochan was killed near here."

The expression of sorrow on the priest's face intensified. "May God have mercy on his soul. I watched a television news report of his murder. Bill knew I was Donny's uncle; we met years ago when my nephew was still in the police department. He came to see me and said that you were looking for Donny. I lied and told him that I hadn't spoken to Donny in years. I knew what sort of trouble Trochan could make for himself searching for my nephew, and yet I didn't try to stop him. When I heard that he had been killed, I made a solemn promise to God that I wouldn't stand by and allow the same thing to happen again."

Val nodded somberly, but one anonymous, obscure phone call was hardly what he would have described as going out on a limb. "What exactly has FRAPH got against your nephew?"

The priest's eyes bored into Val's. "Don't play games with me. We both know who killed Valerie Duval. The daughter must have told you. Am I right?"

Val nodded. "Yes, but who told you?"

Kellerman wrung his hands tightly, making the flesh under his fingers go white. "Just under a week ago Donny came to me desperate for my help. He was clearly frightened and had no one else to turn to. He needed money, clothes, a razor, but couldn't go back to his apartment. It was obvious that he was on the run. I promised to help him all I could, but only if he told me the truth. He admitted to the killing of Valerie Duval."

"Did he say why?"

"She was blackmailing his father. My brother-in-law was an honest working man and never had much in the way of savings. He offered her support for the child, but she wanted more than that."

"Where's Donny now?"

The priest allowed his head to dip. "I don't know. I wish I did. I was hoping that you might, that maybe my sister or her husband had said something before they were killed."

"They didn't. Where did Donny go after he left you?"

"He was hiding out on a quarter boat belonging to an old friend of mine who holds a contract to ferry supplies out to the Gulf rigs. But when I tried to contact him over his parents' deaths, I was told he had gone ashore. He'll have heard about Roy and Rita by now, and he won't rest until he takes his revenge. I want the killing to end."

"Have the cops spoken to you?"

"Yes, they've been to interview me. Just routine questioning they said. I didn't tell them anything. They'll never find him. Not if he doesn't want to be found. Who can evade the police procedural net better than an ex-policeman?"

"What do you want from me?"

Kellerman lifted his head. One side was in deep shadow, giving his face the appearance of a cheap Mardi Gras mask. "The Duval girl will listen to you."

When hell freezes over, Val thought.

The priest went on. "Maybe it you were to ask her, she could intercede with FRAPH on Donny's behalf."

"Why would she do that? Besides, I'm responsible for the death of a fellow islander of hers and the wounding of another, both almost certainly members of FRAPH."

"Her parents were killed, and now Donny's have been too. She's had her revenge. More killing isn't going to solve anything. If we were to work together to find Donny, maybe I could talk with him to convince him to give himself up without further bloodshed."

"Who will he go after? Who sent those FRAPH goons to your sister's house?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't mess me around. They were following orders."

The priest looked incredulous. "Duval must have a contact with the FRAPH hierarchy. At one time her mother would have had a lot of sway with the Tonton Macoute."

"She denies it."

The priest's tone became insistent. "Other than his parents, no one else knew about Donny's involvement. It has to be her. Ask her again."

"Okay, I guess it's worth a try."

"Are you a religious man?"

"No"

"That's a shame. I find that prayer can be a great comfort in times like this."

"My mother spent twenty years on her knees praying while my father gambled, and beat on her. It didn't bring me much comfort."

"Nevertheless I shall pray for you." The priest stood up and took a slip of paper from his pocket. "The men who brought you here will drive you home. Here's my private number. Please ring me it you learn anything. Anything at all."

Val rose, slipped the card into the breast pocket of his shirt, and left.

Outside, the two men were leaning against the side of the sedan, in exactly the same pose as when Val had first peered out his window. One of them pushed himself off the car and opened the door for him. They didn't speak.

Malcolm Kellerman sat down again in the pew and waited. He heard the sound of the car pulling away. Slumping backwards against the wooden seat, he let his head tilt back. The sacristy door opened and Jean Moncoeur entered the main body of the church. He walked over to the priest.

"What does he know?" he asked sharply.

"Almost nothing. We have nothing to fear from Bosanquet."

"Don't be ridiculous. He's been twice to AV's corporate headquarters asking questions and throwing his weight around. Don't tell me he knows nothing."

"Duval has told him that it was my nephew who killed her mother. He has no idea why."

"Maybe he suspects it."

"I don't see how?"

"Your brother-in-law may have said something before he died."

"Bosanquet says not."

Moncoeur directed an icy stare back at him. "And you believe him?"

"He told the sheriff the same thing. Believe me, Bosanquet is like a blindfolded man fumbling around in the dark."

Moncoeur did not appear convinced. "I hope it was worth the risk."

So did Kellerman, but then he had more to fear than the others.

"Bosanquet would have gotten around to me sooner or later. He would have recognized my voice. It was better we talk here and under my terms. If he had any lingering doubts why Donny has disappeared, they're gone."

"What time does MacLean arrive?"

"Two-thirty."

Moncoeur made a clicking sound with his teeth. "Why can't he fly like any normal person? He could have been here a week ago it he had taken a plane. I was expected back in New York by now. I shouldn't have to handle this by myself."

Kellerman nodded sycophantically, eager to channel Moncoeur's fury in another direction. "You did everything right. Bosanquet should have been gator bait by now. What the hell was Gilett playing at? What if he talks?"

"He won't. I've already been in contact with FRAPH and they've assured me that they're taking care of it. Meanwhile, locating and disposing of your nephew has to remain our primary objective. But first I want him to suffer. A lot. Wasn't five million dollars enough for the greedy sonofabitch?"

"Time is running out. We have a little less than sixty-two hours left to the deadline. Maybe we should reconsider? Let him have the fifteen million."

"What good would it do? Once he knows we're prepared to pay, he isn't going to be stop at fifteen."

Kellerman knew Moncoeur was right. None of them would be safe until his nephew was silenced for good. "What do you want me to do?"

"Play everything exactly as normal. We need to sit tight and wait for him to surface. He can't stay hidden for long, not without assistance."

"I have church volunteers checking hotels, motels and guest houses. They've been told that his parents have been killed and other members of his family are trying to contact him. We've even put the word out amongst the homeless. We'll find him."

"We'd better." Moncoeur's face turned red as the first ray of dawn light struck a stained-glass window.

"Forget about using any FRAPH troops for now; the police and FBI will be crawling all over them," Kellerman advised.

Moncoeur had no problem with that. He'd rather do business any day with muscle paid for in cash. With politically motivated thugs, you were never quite sure who was in charge.

Val's escorts were as uncommunicative on the ride home as they had been on the drive to the church. That suited him fine. He needed time to think.

Malcolm Kellerman had lied to him, of that he was certain. He had also deliberately attempted to mislead. The priest knew more than he was telling. Something that might explain why a God-fearing couple, as the sheriff had described the Jacksons, did not keep a single picture of Father Malcolm Kellerman displayed on their sideboard.

There was also the anomaly that Val himself had overlooked when he had torn into Marie in front of Angie. If Valerie Duval had had as much influence as both he and Malcolm Kellerman had hypothesized, then what were she and her daughter doing living hand to mouth in a ramshackle of a lean-to?

Maybe he owed Marie Duval an apology.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Val walked through the front door of the First District Police Headquarters shortly before eight on Sunday morning. He identified himself to the duty sergeant who permitted him to go unaccompanied up the familiar staircase to Chief Larson's second floor office. He stifled a yawn at the top of the stairs. Another few hours' sleep wouldn't have gone amiss.

He had expected to find Larson still at his desk because the previous night was often one of the busiest for the homicide squad. Two detectives, their faces haggard, were leaving Larson's office as he arrived.

"You saved me a trip out to the campus," Larson said, waving Val in and directing him towards a chair. "Coffee?"

"Thanks. Black, one sugar."

Larson poured two beakers of coffee and stirred creamer into one and sugar into the other. He handed Val his, then parked an ample haunch on a corner of his desk.

"That was some stunt you pulled in St Francis. Who the hell do you think you are? Bruce Willis."

"Things got a bit out of hand."

"That's one way to describe it. I took a call from the FBI early this morning, subject matter being you."

Val had been anticipating some sort of reaction from the federal authorities. You don't shoot it out with two foreign nationals, suspected of acts of terrorism, without attracting their attention.

"How come they didn't approach me directly?"

"You know they don't work like that."

Only too well, Val thought. When a FBI investigation places a police officer in the spotlight, however indirectly, the agents automatically assume he's corrupt. They would talk to him when they were good and ready. But some benefit could have come from their involvement. "Have they made positive ID on the Haitians?"

"Yep. The one in custody is Marcel Gilett; his ill-fated compatriot, one Pierre Malen. Neither completely unknown to our friends in the sharp suits. Apparently they've wanted to interview Gilett for some time over the kidnapping and execution of a Haitian army deserter. They're having him transferred to the Tulane Medical Center."

"I know one parish sheriff who won't be thrilled at that."

Larson drank from his beaker. "Maybe when they're through with him, I'll be given a crack. God only knows how many investigations I could close the book on."

"I'm pretty sure it was Gilett who killed Trochan. He was carrying a stiletto blade and seemed to know how to use it."

Larson rolled his eyes. "Did you have to go and shoot him twice? What if he doesn't make it?"

Val smiled apologetically. "He had a fifty-six inch chest and had a Remington pump in his hand. Discussion would have been wasted on him."

"Let's hope for your sake the FBI will see it the same way. If he dies, the agents will nail your ass to the sidewalk just to give themselves something to do. You could save yourself a lot of grief if you were to return to the department. I know the Commissioner has no objections."

Light broke inside Val's head. "So that's what was bringing you to the campus?"

Larson held up his hands. "Guilty as charged. Keep playing the maverick investigator the way you have been and you're going to wind up dead. We know how to lay on a pretty classy funeral."

"It's tough saying no to such an attractive offer, but I'm going have to pass."

Larson shrugged. "I don't give up easy, and I still haven't forgiven you for that bullshit story about Jackson and his poker school."

Val smiled. "I need a favor."

"If it was anybody else but you saying that, I'd take it as a bad joke. What is it you want?"

It took a while for Val to explain the direction his findings was guiding him. Larson listened carefully. Val covered Jackson's dubious assignments with Arena Victory and that firm's probable involvement in the relocation of the Artibonite Valley farmers; how Moncoeur had bought up their land for a song; Duval's accusation of Jackson, and the possibility that they shared the same father.

"Have you told Duval whose genes she could be carrying in her blood?" Larson broke in.

"No, and I don't intend to. She's been through a lot and I can't see what good it would serve."

"Maybe more than you think. Most of what you've told me is either circumstantial or supposition. Duval could be holding something back that would clinch it. The disclosure of her kinship might persuade her to talk."

"I can't see it helping."

"Whatever the motive for her mother being killed, it has to be the key to the whole damned thing."

"I agree, but I'm positive she's not aware of it."

"Then your only option is to find Jackson before FRAPH stroke Moncoeur does. They must want him bad. Any idea why?"

Val swept a shock of hair back from his forehead. "How does one-point-five billion dollars sound?"

Larson whistled and raised his eyebrows. "Like an awful lot of money."

"That's what Arena Victory's stockholders stand to make when the company is floated next Friday. I think Donny Jackson might be threatening to expose some of the company's less savory corporate practices to the financial press if they don't cut him in for a share. Any hint of a scandal or a skeleton in the cupboard at this stage would have a disastrous effect on the take-up of the stock. The flotation would flop. It could finish the company."

"Don't be so sure. Wall Street doesn't let a little thing like murder or exploitation get in the way of making money. Who is behind AV?"

Six years previously Larson had investigated the apparent suicide of a junk bond dealer who had flown in to New Orleans from New York for New Year celebrations. He had been able to establish that the man's death was murder and, with the help of a friend, had untangled the financial complexities to show motive. The killer had been the dealer's lawyer, who was now spending his days lodging appeals from a cell on Angola's death row.

"That's the favor I need from you. I could get sidetracked trying to unearth the current investors, with no guarantee of success. The flotation underwriters will provide me with a list of the registered stockholders if I ask for it, but it's my guess that they would be nothing more than holding companies with addresses in the Caymans and the Antilles. You still have that contact in the Securities and Exchange Commission? I could use some specialist know-how."

"Yeah, sounds right up his street. There's nothing he likes better than a legitimate excuse to stick his nose into offshore companies. I'll give him a call. Who do you have your money on?"

Val thought about it for a few moments. "Moncoeur for one, and a few of his Haitian buddies. MacLean, Arena Victory's CEO. Lausaux could be in on it too. Those three were the unholy trinity involved in the hog debacle. They may have pulled similar stunts in India and Vietnam. It worked once, why not a second and a third time? They could have taken on new partners as they needed to. While he's at it, ask your friend to check out a company called Crescent City Holdings. It's the company that owns the building where Valerie Duval was killed."

Larson stood up and went behind his desk. He scribbled a few notes on a pad. "Jackson might know the principals behind AV. That's one more good reason for getting to him first."

Val weighed up the pros and cons of telling Larson about Malcolm Kellerman. So far, Larson had expressed no interest in officially reopening the Duval investigation, mainly, Val believed, because there was only Marie Duval's word for what really happened. Producing correlative testimony, albeit hearsay, could change that. Val decided to hold back, at least until he could determine the priest's agenda in trying to mislead him. "That's about the height of it. I owe you one."

"I know." Larson grinned. "May the Prophet continue to smile on you."

John Clements was in his kitchen, helping his wife fill the dishwasher, when the phone went. They had just cleared the kitchen table after breakfasting with their son and his fiancée. His wife was closest, so she picked up the phone.

The call was for her husband. She handed him the receiver and went back to stacking the dishwasher.

"Clements here."

"Good morning, John. I'm phoning to say how shocked I was when I heard that the university had appointed Val Bosanquet, Chief of Campus Police. That job should have been yours."

"Who's speaking?" Clements instinctively realized the call meant trouble.

"Just a concerned citizen who has left a parcel for you in your yard. It's in your barbecue. A little something to compensate for the reprehensible manner in which the university has treated you."

Clements turned his back to his wife. "What do you want?"

"The same as you. We both want to see Bosanquet taken down a peg or two. I can be of some assistance."

"I don't want any part of this."

"Before you hang up, think of your wife. And what about your son and his beautiful fiancée? I hear he's getting married next month. It would be a pity if something were to happen to spoil their big day."

Clements's wife closed the door of the dishwasher and switched it on. She walked past him, displaying no inquisitiveness about the call. We could hear her walk upstairs. "What do you want from me?"

"I'll be telephoning you twice a day. Seven-thirty in the morning and seven-thirty in the evening. Don't bother trying to trace the calls; it would be time wasted. I'll use the name Troy Pollack. All you have to do is tell me what Bosanquet is up to. Where's he been, whom he has been talking to. I'll take care of the rest. In no time at all you'll be Chief and there be another package left some place for you to find. You can't lose."

"I won't be bought."

"John, you already have been. The parcel in your barbecue doesn't have a sender's address on it. It's yours now and I don't much care what you do with it. Hold on to it and throw your son and his bride one hell of a wedding celebration, or turn it in. Either way, you remain in my debt."

"Go to hell."

"Don't be so hasty. Think about it, John. Will your son's fiancée still want to marry a man after I have him gelded? Will your wife still consider your loyalty to Bosanquet honorable on the morning she opens a parcel containing her son's balls? I could have them mounted as earrings for her. Do we understand each other? Let me know your answer at seven-thirty."

Clements set the receiver down as though it was made of crystal. He rested his head against the cold tiles of the wall and struggled to keep his knees from buckling.

He had no idea how long he remained like that.

Later, he opened the back door of the house and crossed the yard to the gas barbecue. The parcel had been wrapped in plain brown paper and Scotch-taped to the underside of the metal lid. Sitting in his car, in the privacy of his garage, he opened it. He found a photograph of his son and five thick bundles of hundred dollar bills. He recognized the picture; it was the one that his wife kept on top of the piano in a mother-of-pearl frame.

He counted one of the bundles. Ten thousand dollars. Times five. Fifty-thousand dollars in used, non-consecutive notes.

Lee Stone was not at home when Val called at his house. His wife told him he could find her husband at a golf driving-range out near the airport. They had bought it when he had retired from the police department, she explained. Turned out to be a great investment, though she saw less of him now than when he was in uniform.

Val had considered asking Larson to provide him with a list of arrests that Jackson had made during his time as a cop, in particular those who had walked. Even better, he then realized, would be the names of those who Jackson had never given a ride in the back seat of his patrol car. The one man who could give him that information was NOPD Sergeant Lee Stone, Retired.

His quarry was encased in a wire cage on top of the lawn tractor he was driving across the flat, grass-covered range, towing a contraption to collect golf balls. One of his assistants went to wave him in and told Val to wait next to a practice sand trap.

Stone had been Jackson's sergeant for most of his time at the Garden District Station. He pulled up beside Val and gave him a friendly smile of recognition. He was black and had a scar that ran the length of his jaw. Stone told rookies that it was a knife wound, but in reality he had crashed through a plate-glass window one night when he was bombed.

"Good to see you again," Stone shouted above the throb of the diesel motor. He was dressed in sky-blue shorts and a navy-blue polo shirt. He didn't appear to have aged a single day since Val had last seen him.

Val asked him if they could have a word.

"Sure. If you don't mind riding with me. Stand on the footplate and grip the cage. The ball dispensers are almost out; Sunday's our busiest day."

Val suspiciously eyed the bays where upwards of two dozen golfers were single-mindedly driving balls skyward. He heard a tinny crash as a ball whacked into the two-hundred-yard marker.

"Don't worry, the odds are against being hit," Stone said.

"That's easy to say from where you're sitting."

Val climbed on board and Stone steered the lawn tractor back towards the center of the range, around the two-hundred-and-twenty-five yard mark.

"What can I do for you? I take it you're not here to groove your swing," Stone said.

"I'm not," Val replied, ducking instinctively as a ball clanged against the mesh cage, grateful that he was on the leeward side. "I need some information."

"I heard you took a job at the university. My niece is about to start her sophomore year."

"Remember an officer called Donny Jackson?"

"Sure do. What's he been up to now?"

"He's missing. I think you might be able to help me find him."

Stone turned the tractor in a wide arc and started another traverse across the range. The plastic discs on the ball-retriever were set a fraction narrower than the width of a golf ball. The balls lodged between the discs as Stone drove over them, then metal fingers scooped them into wire baskets. Val watched as a kid blasted a golf ball right at him. The prick seemed to be using him as a target.

"He must have loused up pretty bad for you to be interested."

Val closed his eyes and flinched as a ball whistled over his head, missing him by inches. "I think he may have heisted some university property."

"Seems to me you've got yourself a trifle out of kilter," Stone said, twisting around in his seat. "You're been backing that child axe-killer. Now you're trying to hang something petty on an ex-cop with a bad rep. I don't know that I want any part of it."

Val relaxed slightly as Stone started his turn for another traverse. Each crossing was taking the tractor further from the driving bays. They'd soon be at John Daly distance. He scanned the bays. Damn, the kid was reaching into his golf bag and taking out a longer club. He probably had a swing like Tiger Woods.

Now wasn't the time for discretion.

"The girl didn't kill her mother," Val shouted above the din. "It was Jackson."

Stone reached out and turned off the engine. "Why didn't you say so? I always had him read as a stone-killer. How can I help you?"

Val stepped onto firm ground again. "I'm not the only one after Donny."

"So?"

"He needs to keep some distance between him and them and can't rely on any of his recent associates to shield him. I'd figure he'd take up with somebody he knew a long time ago. Maybe another coonass who has moved up to the bright lights."

"Sounds like he's bitten into some real trouble this time."

"I thought you might have a name. Someone who might owe Jackson a favor."

Stone's face turned serious. "There were plenty of street hookers who owed Jackson, but he wasn't slow in collecting — usually in kind. Most of the girls he put the bite on would be long gone by now. If you were to wade into the right sewer, you could probably find Roland Galen. He could be worth talking to."

"I don't recognize the name."

"Galen comes from outside Morgan City. An army doctor, he returned from Desert Storm straight into a drug rehab program. He cleaned up his act, but it lasted only for a year or two. Eventually the army dumped him, and the AMA pulled his license to practice. His family had money, so they opened a weight-loss clinic in New Orleans and hired a legit doctor to front it. They thought they would be killing two birds with the one stone; Galen wouldn't need to risk being busted buying his drugs, and he would stay close to New Orleans and not come bothering them.

"The family got it wrong big time. Half the buzz for Galen was the danger involved in sourcing his drugs on the street, and the doctor they installed to run the clinic had expensive vices of his own. He was a gay stud with a libido that required the services of two or three juveniles a day. Galen kept him supplied with druggies who didn't mind who they had to blow for the price of their next fix. As trade-off, the doctor let Galen's activities slide. Pretty soon he and the Doc had diversified the clinic operation by adding an illegal but lucrative service. Abortions 'R' Us. They were also heavy into the treatment of STDs."

"Were they selling scripts?'

"No. Galen was too smart for that. He knew the wise-guys wouldn't have tolerated the competition."

"The clinic was never busted?"

Stone shook his head. "It was raided on three separate occasions, but no conclusive evidence was ever obtained."

"Somebody was tipping them off?"

"Sure seemed that way. Jackson was thought to have been responsible."

"Why was that?"

"Three months after he and Trochan are canned, the clinic is targeted again. This time the police department gets all the evidence it needs. The doctor loses his license and gains three years in Angola prison farm. He was killed his second week, for making a move on another con's bitch. Galen is handed down a heavy fine, which his family stumps up for."

"You think Galen could still be in New Orleans?"

"Sure to be — that's if he's alive. A druggie never strays far from his source."

"Who is?"

"An ass-wipe calling himself Logjam. His pappy named him Howard Woods. He's been up to the farm a couple of times."

"Where's his pitch?"

"He sells mainly around Tulane and Loyola. Sometimes he could be found on St Charles and Lee Circle. Had a partner, Bobby Deal."

Val tipped an imaginary cap to Stone and thanked him. He waited until the long-hitting kid had taken his swing before making a beeline for the side of the range. Stone restarted the tractor and went back to trawling golf balls.

Val had the name of the restaurant where Duval worked from the photograph he had taken off Roy Jackson's body. It was a trendy place on Tchoupitoulas Street's gallery row in the warehouse district, catering for expense-account executives, especially those with a taste for seafood. They served brunch on Sundays, which normally required a reservation.

The maitre d' took a haughty glance at Val's shield, then showed him to a table near the kitchen door. Val cast an eye over the menu as he waited for Duval to appear. He could have bought a three-course lunch at Daft Eadie's for the price they were charging for a bowl of chowder.

Duval was togged out smartly in a black skirt, white blouse, and burgundy mess jacket. She didn't notice him and continued to bus tables. The restaurant was crowded, and the headwaiter was keeping his staff on its toes.

Eventually she spotted him. He noticed how her lips tightened as she pretended she hadn't. Val stood up and walked over to her.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, not wanting to be overheard.

"I want to talk with you."

"Haven't you said enough?"

"To apologize."

He saw how his admission had taken her by surprise. Her eyes darted from side to side, unsure of what to do next.

"The restaurant is full. It's not a good time," she said finally, throwing a glance in the headwaiter's direction.

"I'm here now. Is there somewhere private? It won't take long."

Duval took another glance around. "You'd best come through."

She led him into the kitchen, stopping briefly to ask another member of staff to handle her tables while she took a quick break, into a room at the back. There was a row of metal lockers along one wall and a wooden-slatted bench in the center. Some Baywatch fan had taped a poster of a swim-suited Pamela Anderson to the outer wall. One of her front teeth had been blacked out.

"This had better be quick," Duval said, turning to face him.

"I was wrong about you having contacts with FRAPH. I realize now that their involvement in Bill Trochan's death had nothing whatsoever to do with you."

She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. The ridicule in her eyes made Val feel two feet high, but he held his gaze.

"My brother has told me that you have refused to register with the university. I was hoping you would change your mind."

"It's a bit late for that. I have already informed Assist Haiti that I couldn't accept its sponsorship."

"I can talk to Lausaux on your behalf. It shouldn't be a problem. There won't have been enough time for the money to be relocated yet."

"What planet are you on? How could you possibly think I would allow you to speak for me?"

Val was beginning to tire of humble pie. "It was you who involved me.''

"Boy, was that a mistake!"

"Then you talk to Lausaux," Val snapped.

"No. Morally I would have difficulty with that. You were spot on about a Caribbean Art graduate not being of much practical use in relieving the misery in Haiti."

"That was just me scratching around for anything that would help my argument hold water. Twisting the facts to suit."

"You're very good at it."

"You've twisted some yourself."

"I had a reason to. What's yours?"

"The truth. I needed to be sure you hadn't set me up."

"Can't you speak without shouting?"

Val lowered his voice. "Please reconsider. Orientation week doesn't really kick off until tomorrow. You wouldn't be missing out."

Duval's expression grew more determined. "I won't be changing my mind. I've been offered full-time employment here and I have already sent in an application for a mail-study course."

"What's it going to take to make you change your mind?"

Duval's top lip trembled. "A lot more than you've got. Now clear out before you get me fired."

Val turned sharply and, seething with rage, retraced his way back into the restaurant. He came close to bowling over the maitre d' as he pushed past him. One thing for sure: Duval hadn't heard the last of him. There was no way he was going to permit her to blow her chance of a college education. If she wanted to martyr herself, she wasn't going to hang it on him.

Monday week, Duval would attend her first lecture, even if it meant him taking her there and handcuffing her to her desk.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The duty sergeant came rushing out from behind his desk to give Val a hearty slap on the back as soon as he walked through the doors of the campus police office.

"Way to go, Chief!" he said, reaching for Val's hand and pumping it vigorously. "Been hearing on the radio about how you wasted a perp down in the wetlands. A bunch of reporters have been calling, wanting to speak with you."

Much to the sergeant's disgust, Val refused to allow himself be drawn on the incident. He brightened up when Val asked for an inventory of their spare handguns.

The sergeant guided Val through to the squad room, proudly produced a key and unlocked a gun safe bolted to the rear wall. Most of the weapons were Ruger revolvers, standard issue for the UNOPD officers, but there was also a 9-mm Beretta Centurion semiautomatic.

The sergeant explained that a former officer had purchased the weapon privately, before later moving to Europe. Before he left, he donated the gun to the UNOPD rather than sell it. Some ex-cops, the sergeant expounded, can't live with the thought that their gun might one day wind up in the hands of some scumbag liquor store thief.

Val picked up the Beretta and quickly stripped it. He examined the inside of the barrel for pitting and the spring and firing pin for wear. The gun had been well cared for and was still in mint condition. It weighed considerably more than the Ruger, but had the advantage of extra rounds before reload. He reassembled it and inserted the clip with its fifteen rounds. Pulling back the slide, he put a round in the firing chamber and clicked the safety on. Next, he removed the clip again and replenished it with a spare shell from a pack in the safe. He slipped the automatic into its holster and clipped it to his trouser belt. The sergeant gave a nod of approval.

It was Val's fervent hope that no incident would arise that would force into drawing the weapon, much less fire it.

In his office he had the sergeant brief him on what had been happening while he had been away. The freshmen students were currently arriving in force and Val could sense a buzz around the station house.

There had been two incidents reported so far, both minor. A female student had had her laptop stolen from the back of her father's car as they were unloading it; they had left the tailgate open between trips up to her dorm room. And a student had been arrested for public intoxication after being caught urinating outside the door of students' union building.

Captain Clements wasn't expected in until four o'clock. The Sunday evening of orientation week was usually pretty hectic and he would be on duty most of the night.

Val had the sergeant run the names of Roland Galen, Howard Woods and Bobby Deal through the state criminal database. As an afterthought, he added Philip Lausaux's name.

It took the sergeant less than ten minutes to return with the print out. Lausaux wasn't on file. Nothing current on Galen. Deal was deceased, a gunshot DOA six months previously. Woods had violated his parole and there was an arrest warrant out on him. There was no current address for him or Galen.

Stone hadn't promised him that it would be easy.

"Tell Captain Clements I want to see him as soon as he comes on duty," Val said.

"Will do. Anything else?"

He hesitated, in two minds about ordering a watch on his brother's house. He decided against it. Gilett was out of circulation and FRAPH had no quarrel with Marcus. Their grievance was with him and, if they wanted him, they knew where to find him.

"No, that's all for now."

Val waited for the sergeant to close the door after him, then made a call to the offices of Assist Haiti. He connected with an answering service, but he didn't have a message to leave.

Stuart MacLean had renamed his yacht Ocean Victory one month after he had bought it at its moorings in Marbella, Andalucía, from an Arab arms dealer fallen on hard times. He readily acknowledged the many millions of dollars he could have saved himself if he had sought counseling for his pathological fear of flying, but what fun would there have been in that? Besides, he was not the type of man who would contemplate admitting a weakness to anyone.

He opened a cedar wood closet off the recently refurbished master suite and started to select the clothes he would wear. He was in no rush, even it others were. Moncoeur had telephoned twice and had sent a car for him. The Bentley had been waiting on the Julia Street end of the Riverwalk for two hours. It could damn well wait until he was good and ready.

MacLean smiled. No one who knew Moncoeur and him would have ever thought of comparing them, but beneath the surface there were similarities. He wouldn't have been able to resist buying the car either if he attended the auction. Moncoeur and he were men with world-class egos, and enough money to indulge them. But the flotation meant more than money to MacLean. It was public acknowledgement, that he, third-generation immigrant stock, descended from Scottish cattle thieves, could take on some of the biggest, most successful sportswear companies in the world and come out on top. This week he was the public face of Arena Victory; the spotlights would all be on him, and he intended to make the most of it.

MacLean had had to obtain a special license before he could moor his yacht next to the Riverwalk, the covered shopping mall adjacent to the convention center. Arena Victory had lain on an enormous riverside party for Thursday evening to celebrate the flotation. They were flying in two planeloads of brokers from New York and Chicago. A dozen of the highest paid sports stars in the world would be there. Musicians, fine food and wine, and a spectacular cabaret show would make it a memorable night, culminating in the biggest laser and firework display New Orleans had ever seen. The extravaganza would guarantee worldwide media coverage. It had better, MacLean thought. He knew to the last cent what it was costing.

They would see fireworks of a different kind if the Jackson matter was not taken care of before then. Not that he was overly concerned. They had overcome bigger obstacles. Greed was Jackson's motivation and that was something with which MacLean could identify.

He finished dressing and went on deck. A crowd of curious shoppers had lined the Riverwalk windows to admire the sleek lines of the pristine white yacht.

Let them gawk, MacLean thought. They paid for it.

Clements put in an appearance a little before four. He walked into the office and Val told him to take a seat.

"You heard what happened down in St Francis?" Val asked him.

"I read a piece about it in the paper at breakfast. The story didn't refer to Duval, but I assume it had something to do with her?"

"Yeah. They'll make the connection sooner or later."

The frown lines on Clements's forehead deepened. "Maybe there's something I'm missing here. Our duty is to serve and protect university personnel and property. We don't have jurisdiction outside the campus, and the last I heard Duval isn't part of the student body any longer."

"Duval will be starting here next week."

"Then I suggest you don't mention that to the press until after you've spoken to your brother. The university issued a statement on Friday afternoon announcing that Duval had decided not to take up the offer of a place. How is she involved with the Haitians you ran foul of?"

"She isn't, at least not directly. I seem to have stumbled across an attempt, linked to the murder of Duval's mother, to extort money from Arena Victory, the sportswear company. But I don't have a shred of evidence to back it up."

"Who do you suspect is behind it?"

"The real killer of Valerie Duval, an ex-policeman called Donny Jackson. But he's unlikely to be working alone. Jackson was never the smartest of men."

"Whatever he has on them, it must be major league?"

"Yes." Val nodded thoughtfully, taking a close look at Clements. The man appeared stressed; too distracted to comment on Val's disclosure on Duval not having killed her mother. Maybe he had underestimated his second-in-command's ability to cope on his own.

Clements suddenly caught on that Val was evaluating him. He sat up straighter. "What are you planning to do about it? Pass everything over to the NOPD?"

"Not just yet. One way or another. I've landed myself in the middle of a showdown, and neither side will want me there. If I get in their face sufficiently, one of them is bound to react."

"Makes about as much sense as putting your nuts in a vise. Why don't you just walk away from it? None of this was part of the deal when you accepted the job."

"After killing the Haitian in St Francis I don't think I'd be allowed to. Those island guys have long memories."

"I'll assign you a couple of my detectives."

"No, I don't want to involve anyone else in this," Val said sharply. He noticed how Clements's pupils contracted. "I'm sure they're fine investigators, but the worlds the Haitians and the UNOPD inhabit are a million miles apart."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely. Is there anything you need assistance with?" Val asked, slightly surprised that Clements had acquiesced so readily.

"Not at the moment. Everything's in hand."

"Don't be afraid to ask."

"Thanks, I'll bear it in mind. If that's all, I'd best be getting on."

"Talk to you later."

Clements paused as he was leaving and looked back. "Watch your step, Chief. Don't forget, you've been in a different world yourself for the last four years."

Clements walked across the hall to the front desk. He collected his messages, then checked the duty-roster. They had one man off with illness.

He noticed a printout on the duty sergeant's desk.

"What's this, sergeant?"

The duty sergeant looked up from the credenza he was working at. "Just some names the chief wanted checked out."

Clements lifted the sheets and placed them with his messages. "Best not leave them lying around."

"Anything you say, captain," the sergeant said, returning to his filing.

Val was preparing to leave the station house when Angie appeared. The duty sergeant showed her through and asked if he could bring them coffee. Angie declined, so Val didn't bother. His wife was dressed in a striking two-piece black suit with corn yellow collar and cuffs. She had her determined, no nonsense face on.

"Why didn't you tell me what had happened?' Angie asked as soon as they were alone. "I had to read about it in the newspapers."

"It was late. I was tired."

"We need to talk. That's if you can spare me ten minutes of your valuable time."

"About you and Marcus?" Val asked.

"Partly. But mainly about you and me. I've been trying to find the right moment to tell you something, and Sunday afternoon, across a desk in the university's station house, is not what I had in mind. But since you seem determined to get yourself killed, so be it."

"Tell me what?"

Angie's face was transformed with a smile. "I'm pregnant."

Val swallowed hard. "You're what?"

"Pregnant. Can you believe it? It has yet to be confirmed by my doctor but the home-predictor test has a ninety-eight percent accuracy rate."

"Are you sure? You're---"

"Too old? I'm forty-one. Lots of women have children at that age. It's not so unusual."

Val was stunned. They had hoped for children, especially in the first few years of their marriage, but none had come along. Gradually, the idea cooled inside Val as self-doubts mounted. Angie, he knew, considered the absence of children to be a contributory factor to their break up.

"Which of us is the father?" was all he could think of to say.

"Does it matter? Can't you simply be glad for me without the need to qualify paternity?"

Val went to Angie and wrapped his arms around her. "No. I mean, yes. I mean ... I don't know what I mean." He kissed her.

When they broke off the embrace, Angie said, "You're my husband, and I want my child to be born into a proper family, meaning both social background and in the eyes of God. I'm going to leave Marcus and move back in with you."

"Have you told him?"

"Not yet."

"Then you mustn't," Val said, wishing he could bite his tongue off. The hurt on Angie's face drove a nail through his heart.

She stepped back. "I thought you still loved me? I know I love you."

"I do. I never stopped loving you. I've longed for the chance to try again. But right now it could mean putting your life in danger. Those men I shot are evil. They have evil friends. They take reprisals against the family of anyone who defies them."

Angie said nothing for a few moments. Her face had lost its radiance. "I'm your wife. If they're serious about coming after me, it won't much matter under whose roof I'm living."

"They might not know you're my wife. Other people have made the same mistake. Besides, there's no furniture in my place."

"No furniture?"

Val told her about the warning he had received and the form it had taken. "For the moment, it would be best if you stayed with Marcus."

She took his hand. "Can't you forget about being a policeman? Go back to designing signs."

"Too late for that."

"This is all Marie Duval's fault."

"She has nothing to do with it. It was my decision to go skulking around St Francis Parish. I can't begin to tell you how thrilled I am that we're going to have a child, but promise me that for the next few days you'll act as though you don't know me. Try to remain in the house as much as possible. Keep all the doors and windows locked."

"Val, you're frightening me."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to. Maybe I'm overreacting because I'm going to be a father. If it makes you feel any better, I'll detail some men to watch the house."

Angie nodded.

"I'll explain it to Marcus," Val assured her. "He won't much like it, but that's too bad."

"Okay. Don't do anything stupid. I want my baby to know its father."

"I guarantee it." He drew her to him and sealed the bargain with a kiss.

Immediately his wife left the station house Val called the sergeant in and told him he wanted his wife followed home and an around the clock watch put on her. He was to be informed by him of the slightest problem.

Val sat at his desk for a long time. He thought about Angie and the baby; he thought about Marcus. He even thought about Duval. The sooner this was over, the sooner they all could get on with their lives.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Val ordered a dozen oysters on the half-shell on the balcony of a restaurant on St Charles. He squeezed lemon juice over them and added a couple drops of Tabasco to each. He took his time over them as he watched a freshening wind stir up the canopies of the live oaks lining the street. A streetcar, its interior brightly lit, rattled past, heading for Lee Circle. It was cool on the balcony, the air loaded with the scent of hibiscus and bougainvillea, and Val was tempted to order a bottle of wine, drink a toast to his wife's pregnancy, and forget all about Jackson for a few hours.

Instead, he paid his bill and headed out. The warrant for Logjam was a month old and no dealer could stay out of sight much longer than that before his customers migrated to a new supplier. Logjam would have resurfaced by now.

The first place he visited was a washout. So was the second. He moved on to a zydeco joint. It stank of flat beer and stale smoke. The customers paid him little heed as he nursed a Canadian Club and ginger at the bar. He hadn't long to wait until he spotted who held the concession. The bartender handed three customers a complimentary book of matches each as he set down their drinks. Two of them already had cigarettes lit, their lighters squared neatly on top of their cigarette packets.

Val called him over.

"I'm looking for a friend of mine."

The man eyeballed him. "A guy like you has no friends."

"His name's Logjam. Have you seen him recently?"

The bartender wiped the zinc counter with a sponge cloth. "Never heard of him. Does he come in here?"

Val set his shield on the bar. "Have you a light?" he asked.

The bartender wasn't fazed. He picked up the leather wallet and pretended to have trouble making out the lettering.

"Bit out of your jurisdiction," he said finally.

"Must be your lucky night then."

"Guess so." The bartender closed the wallet and handed it back to Val.

"Being a cop is more a state of mind," Val said, pressing the bartender's hand against the surface of the bar by bending his middle finger back on itself. "See what I mean."

The man blinked rapidly. "He hasn't been around for a while."

Val exerted extra pressure. "Where do I find him?"

"Try the Perfumed River. Vietnamese restaurant on Calliope. Don't tell him who sent you."

Val released his grip and left.

MacLean's steak was just the way he liked it. Prime Texas beef, cut thick, and shown the inside of a hot skillet just long enough to seal the exterior. It was the first meal he had truly enjoyed in over a month. The British had turned pussy when it came to eating beef and his chef had stocked the yacht's galley with French meat. Not that theirs was any better. No wonder all the women he met in Paris looked as though the Allies had just liberated them from Belsen.

Couldn't fault their wine though. He had bought two dozen crates of Chateau Rothschild '83 while in Paris and had made Moncoeur a gift of one of them. The guy had the good sense to serve a couple of bottles at dinner.

He rubbed his mouth with a napkin as he studied Moncoeur across the table. Was the old man turning pussy on him too?

"You're suggesting that we go ahead and pay the cocksucker fifteen million dollars?" he boomed. "No fucking way. Not one red cent. Jesus, he stood to clear five as it was."

Moncoeur remained perfectly composed. He took a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket, unfolded it and pushed it across the table. "My sentiments exactly, until the latest fax arrived, shortly before six this evening. Sent from a public telephone jack point at the airport this time. He's upped his demand an extra five million because of what happened to his parents."

MacLean read it carefully. He always made it a habit never to rush a document. It was a practice that had paid handsome dividends over the years. Not that there was much to read in this case. The threat was concise and exact. The consequences too appalling to contemplate. Enough to have him reaching inside his jacket for his acid pills. He slipped one into his mouth and read the fax again.

"I see your point," MacLean said as he chewed. Two small patches of white appeared high on his cheeks. "Maybe we should be grateful that an extra five million is all he's asking. How the hell did Jackson come by this information?"

"He's obviously considerably more resourceful than we took him for. And he knows that moving the deadline up twenty-four hours greatly reduces our chances of finding the sonofabitch first."

"Smart doesn't begin to say it." MacLean waved the sheet of paper in the air. "He doesn't mention how he wants the additional five million to be paid."

"Presumably the same way. Canadian Treasury Bills."

"What does Kellerman have to say about this?" MacLean was very aware of the need for secrecy, but it complicated the decision making. It had been eight years since they had all been in a room together.

"He doesn't know about it yet. I'm certain he'll agree that to pay up is our only realistic option."

"So be it. I'll notify our banks to transfer the Treasury Bills first thing tomorrow."

"Why are you smiling? I don't see any humor in this."

"I do. Twenty million is one hell of a tab for a steak and a bottle of wine. Without even a quick fuck thrown in."

Moncoeur grinned, but was clearly irritated. MacLean enjoyed disturbing his sense of propriety with deliberate displays of uncouthness. He went on. "I wonder what his plans for collection are. The handover is when an extortionist is most vulnerable. It would nearly be worth parting with twenty million just to be given a chance to put a bullet in him."

The phone in Clements's office rang at exactly seven-thirty. He allowed it to ring five times before picking up. He brought it slowly to his ear, but didn't say anything.

"Troy Pollack here. You found the package?"

"Yes." Clements's answer was barely audible.

"Now you've had time to think about it, I'm sure you see the sense in cooperating. That is what you have decided?"

Clements had managed to replace his son's picture in its frame before his wife noticed its absence. He had hidden the money in a kit bag at the bottom of his office locker. "Yes."

"Wonderful news. I'm sure your son will sire several fine grandchildren for you. If the first's a boy, they should call him John, don't you think?"

"What is it you want?"

"Just what I told you earlier. Information on what Bosanquet is working on. Who he's been talking to, where he goes, what's his next move? I want to know if he has eggs for breakfast, which side of the bed he sleeps on."

"He doesn't confide in me; he plays it close to his chest. So far he's told me practically nothing."

"Then you're going have to find a way to make him open up."

"There's one thing ..."

"Spit it out."

"He's been running some names through the criminal database. But they might not be what you want."

"I'll be the judge of that."

Clements unfolded the printout. "There are four names: Howard Woods, a drug dealer; Bobby Deal, a known associate; Roland Galen; and Philip Lausaux, a charity organizer."

"Galen, what had the computer to say about him?"

"He's a struck-off medical doctor who was caught running an illegal abortion clinic."

"What address do they have for him?"

Clements picked up a change of tone in the man's voice. Galen must mean something to him. 'Nothing current on him. Deal is dead."

"What about Woods?"

"Nothing current on him either."

"I'll phone you again in the morning," the caller said abruptly and hung up.

Clements sat with the receiver in his hand for a long time. His stomach was nauseous and his bowels felt liquid. Eventually his eyes focused on the computer printout still lying on the desk and he replaced the phone.

He wasn't thinking straight and almost missed seeing it. His caller hadn't asked for the details of the fourth man, the charity organizer.

The Perfumed River was a new restaurant. The three-dimensional dragon that entwined itself around the front window still had a recently applied freshness to its red lacquer. Inside, black and gold dominated. The wooden tables had been sprayed gold, the walls and silk screens were predominantly black. The plates were black with a gilt border.

The staff had pulled the drapes and the floating candle lights on each table did little to alleviate the gloom. A restaurant for troglodytes. Val mustn't have been the only one to feel that way because business was slow, though the to-go trade seemed brisk.

He took a stool at the bar and ordered a drink. A pretty Vietnamese girl in a clinging midnight-blue silk dress handed him a menu and went back to taking orders. She wrote them on a pink pad. Roughly one in four she scribbled on a white pad. Those customers paid for their orders up front.

Val rose and walked through a beaded curtain, down a short corridor and straight past the door of the men's room. An emergency exit opened out into a small courtyard. The air smelt strongly of damp cardboard and stale cooking oil. Bars of light from the kitchens shuttered window made a pattern on the cobbles. Having come from the restaurant, his eyes were already acclimatized to darkness. He could hear the chatter of the Vietnamese staff as they went about their duties. As he was considering what way to play it, the kitchen door opened and a male Caucasian walked out with a mug of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Before the door swung shut behind him, Val saw that the man was Howard Woods. He was dressed in a white T-shirt and black pants, and was unaware that Val was observing him. He sat on the bottom step of the fire escape to enjoy his smoke.

"Logjam?" Val asked from the shadows.

Woods came out of the blocks like Carl Lewis. He hurled the coffee cup at Val, dropped the cigarette and fled back into the kitchen. Val started after him. The stone cobbles were slick with oil and water. He slipped and sliced his knee on a broken beer bottle. Cursing, he scrambled to his feet. His trousers were torn and his leg was bleeding. When he put weight on it, it was as though someone had tried to wrench off his kneecap. He hobbled the few yards to the kitchen door.

The bright glare inside the kitchen blinded him for a second. He screwed his eyes up and caught the back of Logjam as he careened through the swing doors leading to the restaurant. The heat from the stoves was incredible. No wonder Logjam had felt the need to cool off in the courtyard. None of the cooks, the kitchen porters, or the waiters made the slightest move to obstruct Val on his way through.

Logjam was on the street and sprinting towards Lee Circle. With his car parked two streets away, Val had no option but to hobble after him. He collided into a middle-aged man and his wife. They simultaneously yelled 'Fuck you!' after him.

His quarry darted across the street, weaving and dodging through the traffic, then along the neutral ground of the streetcar's tracks. A car's fender brushed Val's injured leg as he attempted to follow. He had to pull up to prevent the next vehicle hitting him square on.

It was useless. Logjam was too far in front.

A redheaded woman leading a small dog on an extendable leash stepped out of an art gallery. Logjam didn't have time to swerve. His legs entangled in the nylon and he went down hard. The dog's efforts to pull away deployed another few yards of the leash, and wrapped it around Logjam's feet like Christmas ribbon. With fresh enthusiasm, Val rejoined the chase.

There was a yelp from the dog when Logjam landed a kick in its ribs. The woman screamed and let go of the leash. Val was fifty feet away. His leg was killing him, but he was going to make it.

He threw himself on top of Logjam. The dealer grunted as all the impact knocked the wind out of his lungs. Val grabbed a length of leash, wrapped it around his throat and pulled on it hard. The dog was barking furiously and trying to sink its teeth into Val's leg.

"Howard Woods?" Val breathed into his ear.

The man was too winded to answer. His lips were turning blue and his eyes were bulging. The woman was making grabs for her dog.

Val slackened his grip.

"Okay! Okay! I give up," Logjam yelled as soon as he had sucked in some air. "You don't have to fucking strangle me."

"I want to know where to find Roland Galen?"

"Roland who?"

Val tightened the leash. "Galen. I'm told you're his pharmacist of choice."

Logjam couldn't speak. He nodded his head furiously. Val let him have some air.

"Jesus! All you had to do was ask."

The enraged dog sank its teeth into Val's injured knee. He screeched in agony, jerked his leg away, and released his grip on Logjam. Val grabbed the animal by the neck and pulled it off. The woman started to rain blows down on him with her purse.

Logjam fired an elbow into Val's crotch. Then another into his throat. It was Val's turn to turn blue.

The drug-dealer scrambled to his feet and landed a couple of kicks into Val's ribs. Then he noticed the blood on his trouser leg and switched his efforts in that direction, all the time urgently unraveling the leash.

Val rolled across the sidewalk and curled up in a ball. Logjam gave him one last kick, and then took off in the direction of Lee Circle. The woman pressed a button to retract the leash, picked up her pet, and scuttled off.

The words of a song playing on a bar's jukebox reached Val. He knew the tune. An old Leadbelly song.

He picked himself up and started to grin. The people on the sidewalk locked at him uneasily and moved away.

He hobbled back to the restaurant and went through to the kitchen. He asked the staff a few questions, but got nothing but a shaking of heads and rapid Vietnamese babble.

Val's cell phone rang as he was pulling his car alongside the curb in front of his house. His leg was throbbing and he was in a foul mood.

He unfolded the phone. It was Larson.

"Bad news, amigo. Just got word that Gilett's FRAPH buddies have sprung him. They used shotguns to shred the tires on the ambulance that was transporting him to Tulane. It flipped over, sideswiped a couple of cars and came to rest against a levee. They freed Gilett and scrammed."

Swell, Val thought. The perfect way to end a perfect evening.

"Thanks for letting me know," he said. "When did it happen?"

"Mid-day. It's not customary for FRAPH to risk men springing their troops from custody. Gilett must mean a lot to them?"

"What does the FBI have to say about that?"

"No comment."

"No surprise."

"Two agents and a paramedic riding in the ambulance were badly knocked about."

"I know how they feel."

"What?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Look on the bright side. Gilett may have bought it in the crash."

Val doubted it. He had almost certainly been wrapped in blankets and strapped to a gurney, which in turn the paramedic would have fastened down securely for the trip. Val couldn't think of any better way to survive a crash.

"Any luck on Jackson?" Larson asked.

"Only bad. Goodnight."

Val climbed from his car and pulled himself up the steps to his front door. His leg had a date with an ice pack.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Val made sure to time his arrival at the radio station for a full quarter hour before Harry Nolan began his morning radio show to Haiti's tenth district. Nolan was clearly surprised to see Val again. They talked in the studio as the broadcaster prepared for his show.

Nolan read the message that Val had hand-written on a sheet of copy paper. It was a personal appeal, made by the police officer involved in the FRAPH incident in St Francis and mentioning Val by name, for anyone who had known Valerie Duval in Haiti to come forward. They were to call Val's cell phone number.

The broadcaster put the sheet down. His expression wasn't one of enthusiasm.

"I did warn you about going up against FRAPH — not that you paid me the slightest bit of notice. Are you sure you want your name to go out on this?"

"Positive. When you've a tiger by the tail, you might as well give it a good hard twist. Though I'm concerned about any backlash against yourself or the radio station."

"Forget it. We've been a thorn in FRAPH's side that long, another jab won't make any difference. Why the renewed interest in Valerie Duval?"

"I don't know exactly. All I do know is that her daughter didn't kill her, but an NOPD officer did, who then went on to work for Arena Victory. I'm hoping a lead on why she was killed will help connect the two."

"Okay, I'll broadcast it. But your chances of a response will improve greatly if I ask our listeners to ring the radio station. There's lot of very nervous Haitians out there. They trust me."

Val nodded thoughtfully. "That means hanging around here for a couple of hours."

"I know our coffee stinks, but it won't kill you."

"It's just that I have a pretty tight schedule mapped out for today."

Nolan indicated the message. "I'll make sure this goes out right at the head of the show. Maybe you'll get lucky and somebody will call in before very long."

"I'd appreciate it."

Nolan glanced at the wall clock. It was almost time to start his show. "It's no big deal. Anything that puts a rocket up Arena Victory's backside is fine by me. You know that their CEO is back in town? MacLean has his yacht moored on the Riverwalk ready for Thursday night's flotation jamboree."

"I hadn't heard."

"What planet are you living on? MacLean's guesting on every radio show, every TV show, headlining every paper. He's a one-man public relations machine."

"I have a few questions of my own for him," Val said, already wondering what strategy he should adopt with MacLean.

Nolan started to arrange a stack of newssheets spread untidily around his console. "It's time for me to go to work. Treat yourself to some of our coffee and take a seat in the foyer. I'll wave you in if there's any calls."

John Clements had been sitting in his car parked across the street from the Assist Haiti headquarters since shortly after eight o'clock that morning. He wished it could have been earlier, but he hadn't dared leave the station until Pollack called. He didn't want him phoning his house and his wife answering; she had developed mild angina the previous year. Pollack seemed indifferent to news of the watch which Bosanquet had ordered on his brother's house, though Clements thought he sensed an increase in interest when he mentioned that Angie Bosanquet, though separated, was still married to Val Bosanquet.

Stifling a yawn, he squirmed about in the seat trying to get comfortable. He was tired and badly needed to urinate. On the seat next to him was an old copy of The Times-Picayune that had a picture of Lausaux handing a set of car-keys to a wealthy Haitian businessman. He had watched staff arrive for work, then a steady stream of callers after the office had opened, but so far there had been no sign of Lausaux. Maybe he was wasting his time. It may simply have been an oversight of Pollack's not to inquire about Lausaux. Clements figured that he could spend his time better by following Bosanquet; then at least he would have something to give Pollack the next time he called.

Now he had crossed the line, Clements knew there was nothing he wouldn't do to protect his son.

The two hours when the show was on the air ticked by excruciatingly slowly for Val. His Haitian Creole was basic and after the first ten minutes he gave up trying to follow Nolan's smooth-flowing chatter, though he registered the DJ mentioning his name every quarter hour.

He flicked through several six-month-old magazines that someone had left around the front office. Then talked to the teenager operating the switchboard for a while and made a couple of telephone calls. He risked another cup of coffee and breakfasted on a jelly doughnut that the teenager offered him.

Each time the phone rang he looked up optimistically, but none of the calls were for him.

Nolan emerged from his studio after the show and shrugged his shoulders.

"No luck," he said. "Though sometimes it takes a while. Do you want the request broadcast again tomorrow?"

Val shook his head. "A response would have been a bonus, but it doesn't mean that the message hasn't reached the ears it was intended for."

They shook hands. Val promised to let Nolan have the full story first, if there was one to be told.

He left the radio station and walked around to the parking lot at the rear of the building. It was a cool morning, the limpid air was less humid than usual for the time of year, the sky bright blue and almost cloudless.

Two men riding trail bikes drove into the parking lot, throwing a cloud of dust and grit up into the air behind them, the cacophonous motors deafening. They started to circle Val cutting him off from his car. Both men carried machetes and were trailing the tips of them on the ground. Their circling closed in on Val. He stood his ground.

They pulled up on either side of him and raised their machetes like Calvary soldiers of the old west, their faces hidden behind the visors of their helmets. The skin on their hands was ebony black.

"Bosanquet'?" The one on the right had to shout to make himself heard above the clamor of the bikes. His voice had a heavy Haitian accent.

Val swallowed hard. "You know my name. What about yours?"

The men ignored his demand. "You been asking questions about Valerie Duval?"

Tires squealed as a plain dark-blue panel van hurtled into the parking lot and braked sharply to a stop beside them. The rear doors were flung open. Inside was a third man, a motor cycle helmet obscuring his face. From his build, Val reckoned that he was considerably older than the bikers.

"Get in. You're going for a ride," he shouted.

The bikers switched off the motors and flipped the rests down. They shouldered the machetes as though on parade. Val jumped up into the back of the van and they leapt in after him. They slammed the doors shut and the van sped off.

The light in the rear of the van was poor. There was a Plexiglas window in the roof sprayed with a coating of white paint. They searched him and relieved him of the Beretta. Val had to grab hold of the van's side to stop himself from falling. He braced his legs as the van took a wide right turn.

The man who had ridden with the van said, "Why are you asking questions about Valerie Duval?" His voice was hard and intimidating.

"She was murdered. I want to find out why."

"That was ten years ago. Why the interest now?"

Val found the heat inside the van stifling. "I believe there's a connection between her murder and recent murders committed by members of FRAPH."

"They didn't kill her. She was one of them."

"So everybody keeps telling me. But there has to something more which links them."

The man didn't answer. All Val could see was his own reflection in the three visors.

"What do you need to know?" the older man asked eventually. The menace had gone from his voice. It appeared he had come to a decision about Val's probity.

"The motive for Valerie Duval's death?"

"Money. Macoute money."

"What money? I don't know what you're talking about. Duval had no money."

The biker on Val's left raised his visor. Clean-shaven, with dark-green eyes, he appeared to be in his early twenties. Val didn't recognize him.

"The Tonton Macoute money. The seven million dollars Duval's husband smuggled out of Haiti."

"News to me,' Val said. "Duval was living in poverty when she was killed."

The older man spoke again. "The Macoute had been looting Haiti for years. Baby Doc was finished and they knew it. They stole, accepted brides, defrauded the army, extorted, whatever, to lay their hands on every cent they could. They even relieved Baby Doc of some of the funds he had stashed. Duval's husband organized the transfer of funds to New Orleans. Only one slight problem, he was one of the first that they killed after Baby Doc boarded a flight to France. The seven million was never accounted for."

The van came abruptly to a stop. Val had found his absolute motive. All he needed to do now was to survive long enough to make use of it. "What do you want from me?"

The older man swung open the doors of the van and light flooded in. They were back in the radio station's parking lot. The bikers jumped from the van, straddled their machines, and kicked them into life. Val stepped down. The man tossed Val his gun and pulled the doors shut as the van moved off.

The bikers saluted him with their machetes, wheeled around, and sped away, their rear wheels churning up clouds of dust.

Val opened his car door and sat down. He took several deep breaths and held tightly on to the steering wheel. Once his knees felt solid again he turned the key in the ignition and pointed the car towards the airport.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lausaux was supervising the loading of a cargo aircraft at the New Orleans Moisant airport. A consignment of tinned formula milk and disposable diapers destined for Cite Soleil. It was a regular shipment, flown to the island once a month. Assist Haiti's storage facility was on the perimeter of the cargo compound, the far side of the airport from the passenger terminals. He was wearing a hard hat and was checking off a list on a clipboard. The frown that flashed onto Lausaux's face when he saw Val walking towards him was quickly replaced with a welcoming smile.

"Chief Bosanquet. You've come to see for yourself what happens to the money we raise?"

Val took a step sideways as a forklift truck bearing a loaded pallet reversed past him. It pushed its way through the transparent heavy plastic fronds hanging in front of the warehouse's main exit.

"Your office told me I could find you here."

Lausaux raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I came straight to the airport this morning. What can be so important to bring you all the way out here?"

"Is there some place quiet we could talk?"

"I'm very busy right now."

"It's important."

Lausaux stuck his ballpoint into his breast pocket. "The manager's office. Follow me."

Val followed Lausaux up a flight of steel stairs to a small elevated office constructed in the upper corner of the warehouse. Windows on two walls gave a bird's eye view of the activity below. Lausaux closed the door behind them. They had the place to themselves.

"This is our main collection and forwarding depot" he explained. "I like to drop in every now and again unannounced to ensure that pilfering is kept to a minimum. Now what can I do for you?"

"I want to discuss Marie Duval's tuition funding."

Lausaux's eyes narrowed. "I wasn't aware she had reversed her decision. Again."

"She hasn't as yet, though I'm hoping to persuade her to do so. If I could reassure her that her sponsorship is still available, it would be a step in the right direction."

"I'm afraid that's not possible. I have already reassigned the funds originally set aside. When Miss Duval spoke to me on Friday, she sounded resolute."

"Surely you could put your hands on alternate funds? What about using some of the cash raised at the auction?"

"No. Even if I could, I wouldn't. It wasn't just a question of finance when I made the decision to back Miss Duval. I had to call in a great many favors. Do you honestly believe any university would have offered her a place without significant input from people in high office?"

"I appreciate what you're saying, but ---"

Lausaux's voice turned icy. "She has caused considerable distress to some of the most influential people in Louisiana."

"They would be vindicated if she were to take up her place. You would be vindicated."

"It's too late. She has damaged my credibility with these people. Nobody does that."

Val was silent for a few moments, then asked, 'There's one thing I don't quite get. If you had to call in so many favors, why did you agree to back Duval in the first place? What was in it for you?"

Lausaux's mouth tightened. He opened the door of the small office. "I have a lot of work to be getting on with. Good day, Chief Bosanquet."

"Did you know Duval's father was smuggling large amounts of money out of Haiti before he was killed?"

"No. How could I? My involvement with Haiti started only when Assist Haiti came into existence in eighty-nine. Good day, Chief Bosanquet."

Val clattered down the metal steps and walked towards the warehouse's exit. The obduracy of Lausaux's refusal to reconsider Duval's funding had taken him by surprise. Didn't Lausaux realize he was cutting off his nose to spite his face? The guy had serious trouble coping with reality.

He recalled what Richard Bickford had told him about Lausaux. The man doesn't do anything without a damn good reason. So what precisely had provoked Lausaux's change of mind?

As Val drove back into the city on the airline highway, a convoy of coaches transporting conventioneers from the airport to the city hotels overtook his car. A dozen traffic cops, blue strobes flashing on their Harleys, escorted the speeding convoy. The mayor's latest initiative to help sell his city.

Val unfolded his cell phone and called the sheriff's office in St Francis parish. He was in luck: the sheriff was at his desk.

"I hear the FBI lost their no claim discount."

The sheriff laughed. "Ain't that the truth? The only thing the FBI can hold on to is their dicks. Take some advice from an old coonass and keep your head down. Our Mister Gilett ain't the forgiving type."

"I've started carrying a gun. It holds sixteen rounds."

"You may need them all. What can I do for you?"

"Have you done any checking into the Jacksons's finances?"

"Now why would I want to do that? I already know who killed them and why."

"Because you're a wily old coonass."

He laughed again. "Maybe I am at that."

"So you would know if the Jacksons withdrew a sizeable amount from their savings account about a month ago?"

"Depends what you call sizeable?"

Val had no idea of the current cost of college tuition fees, though he'd imagine that an art student's fees would come in less expensive than a science or engineering student's. "Thirty-five thousand dollars," he guessed.

"Bit more than that. The Jacksons withdrew fifty thousand in cash five weeks ago. It cleaned out most of the lump sum Roy had received from the power company when he retired. Any idea where it went?"

Yeah, Val said to himself. To help make up for something done ten years ago. "I'll get back to you when I know for sure."

Jean Moncoeur was the next name on his list. Val crossed Bayou St John on the Robert E. Lee Boulevard and headed north along Paris Avenue onto the concrete paving of Lake Shore Drive. He pulled up at the gates of the Moncoeur mansion and pressed the button on the security panel. Staring straight into the lens of the camera, he announced his name and the purpose of his visit — an interview with Jean Moncoeur. After a few moments, a voice instructed him to drive up to the house. The gates started to silently roll open.

A truck was parked at the side of the driveway about halfway along. It belonged to a firm of contract caterers who handled most of the big-money party arrangements for the Lake Pontchartrain houses. A squad of men in bamboo pith helmets was erecting an all-white tent. Two Afghan hounds loped over the grass, getting in the way and tangling the ropes. Moncoeur must have a celebration planned, Val thought, though not the high profile spree that MacLean was hosting.

A bulky bodyguard met Val at the main entrance to the house: one of the two gorillas who had accompanied Moncoeur to the charity auction. A man in tracksuit bottoms and a running vest was polishing the Bentley which Moncoeur had bought that night.

"Mister Moncoeur is having coffee on the terrace. He would like you to join him. Follow me and I'll take you there."

Val fell into step behind the bodyguard. The house's exterior belied its furnishings. Moncoeur had stuffed it with antique furniture from the Napoleonic era, hand-woven Persian rugs, and a collection of eighteenth and early nineteenth-century portraits in heavy, ornate gilt frames. He recognized one of Dessalines, the first black governor of Haiti. Quite a rarity, Val thought. Dessalines had been assassinated two years after taking power. A mob had dragged his mutilated body through the streets and left it to rot, until a lunatic woman gathered up the pieces and buried them.

Moncoeur was dressed in immaculate tropical whites. He was thin but appeared healthy enough. He was cradling an all-white fighting cock.

"Chief Bosanquet, please join me for coffee."

Val sat down opposite him while the bodyguard sorted out a cup and saucer and poured the coffee. He placed it on the glass-topped table in front of Val.

"Help yourself to cream and sugar," Moncoeur said. "Unfortunately my doctor denies me their simple gratification."

After the radio station's, Val was looking forward to some drinkable coffee. He wasn't disappointed.

"Would you care for some cognac with it?"

"No, this is fine. It's very good."

"Thank you. The beans are from my estates in Haiti. I don't grow them commercially, purely for my own use." Moncoeur stroked the neck feathers of the cock. "What do you think of Makandal? Isn't he a splendid fellow?"

Val didn't agree. The cropped comb, plucked lower neck — to deprive its opponent of a hold — and sharpened spurs made it grotesque. "I'm not fond of birds."

"What a shame. The gamecock is one of the noblest of creatures. Makandal is a purebred Rajah. I permit no one else to handle him. He is natural killer. Let me demonstrate."

The bodyguard unfastened a bamboo cage that was sitting on the flagstones at the edge of the terrace. An ebony-black gamecock strutted out, its unplucked neck feathers already sitting up in a ruff. Moncoeur placed Makandal on the ground.

"The black cock is a Cuban. They're strong, but no match for a Rajah. Breeding will always triumph in the end."

Especially when their opponent's spurs are blunt, Val thought.

The birds circled warily for a minute, glaring at each other and making hissing sounds. the Cuban, perhaps realizing he was the underdog, made the first move and darted towards Makandal. They came together in a clash of feathers and pecking. Neither bird gained an advantage and they separated for another bout of circling. This time Makandal made the first maneuver, and after a couple of feigning movements, flew at the Cuban. They made contact like cartoon cats, rising into the air from the impact, their beaks and claws clicking as they fought.

It was over in no time. The all-black Cuban landed on his back and Makandal dispatched it with the efficiency of a slaughterhouse butcher. He ripped at his opponent's throat with his sharpened spurs and opened deep gashes. Blood sprayed into the air, some of it staining the legs of Moncoeur's white trousers.

Makandal had opened a wound in the Cubans chest. It beat its wings a few times then expired. Makandal raised his beak in the air and gave a victory crow.

"More coffee?' Moncoeur asked.

"Not right now."

"I take it this is not a social call. What can I do for you?"

"What connections do you have with FRAPH?" Val asked bluntly.

Moncoeur didn't react. His turquoise eyes never shifted from Val's face. "As little as I can possibly manage. In Haiti it is necessary to profess some support for them, but I have no great love for fascists. My father was killed in a Duvalier-inspired purge of mulattoes. Papa Doc manipulated the Haitian people in much the same way as Hitler did the German people. He declared the mulattoes the cancer within and made inflammatory speeches about preserving the purity of the Negro. Blamed the mulattoes for all Haiti's economic woes. But history does repeat itself. As the Thousand-Year Reich is gone, so are the Duvaliers. FRAPH is an echo of Duvalierism and something I have no wish to encourage."

"So you won't have heard of Pierre Malen or Marcel Gilett?"

"Of course I've heard of them. Most of New Orleans has heard of them after what happened in St Francis."

"What about Bill Trochan?"

Moncoeur raised his cup to his mouth and took sip of coffee. He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin before he answered.

"I don't recognize the name."

"He was an ex NOPD officer. He was murdered while searching for Donny Jackson."

"Again, the name is not familiar to me."

"Jackson was a son of the St Francis victims. He worked for Arena Victory. You have heard of them?"

Irritation flashed across Moncoeur's face. "Naturally, they have a plant on Haiti that employs several thousand islanders. What exactly is it you want from me? A list of everyone I am acquainted with?"

"Just one more name. Have you ever met with Stuart MacLean, the CEO of Arena Victory?"

"Frequently. I admire his business acumen and intend to invest substantially in Arena Victory."

Val pulled a puzzled face. "I was told that you already were one of the main stockholders."

"You are misinformed. My business interests are many and varied, but, as yet, I own no stock in Arena Victory."

"So MacLean has never discussed with you the extortion threats made against his company?"

Moncoeur's eyebrows shot up a little too far. Val had struck a nerve.

"Certainly not. If such threats have been made, which I very much doubt, I'm sure the only people he would have discussed them with are the relevant law enforcement agencies. It would be in his interest to have the matter satisfactorily resolved as soon as possible. If it isn't, and the flotation was to proceed, he would be leaving himself open to prosecution by the Securities Exchange Commission."

"But if the threat became public before the extortionist was caught, the percentage take up of the stock would be greatly reduced."

"It's difficult to say. It would depend on the analysts' appraisal of the stock. If they considered the flotation price equitable, then there might still be a full take-up. Extortion threats are not exactly uncommon in the business world. Have you further questions for me? I'm a guest in the US, and as such keen to assist the police in any way I can, but I really don't see what help I can be to your investigations."

Val could think of a dozen questions at least. But without some hard evidence, there would be little point in putting them to Moncoeur. The man was an accomplished liar.

"That about covers it," Val said. "For now."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Lakefront campus was only a mile from Moncoeur's house, so Val headed there next. The first full day of orientation week was in full swing and the campus had sprung to life. Groups of students were everywhere, familiarizing themselves with the geography of the campus, making new friends, checking out the sports facilities. For the first time in his life, Val regretted never trying for a college education. Marcus had been destined for an academic life from early on, but Val's interest had been leaning more to the military until the night his father had launched his first attack on their mother.

As usual, an innocuous incident had triggered his father's fury. The family was finishing supper when Marcus reached across the table for a slice of bread and caught a glass of milk with his sleeve. Their mother mopped up the spill and poured another glass for Marcus. Without saying a word, their father closed his hand into a fist and punched her. She put a hand to her face and looked at him with uncomprehending eyes. He struck her repeatedly. She threw a tin of cookies at him. He kept on hitting her even as Val was phoning the police.

By the time the patrol car arrived, their father had cooled down. Their mother was resting on her bed, with their father holding her hand and begging forgiveness. Marcus answered the door and he told the officers it was a false alarm — but they refused to leave without speaking to his mother. One glimpse of her bruised and bloodied face was enough. They threw the culprit against a wall and handcuffed him. The police had released him the next morning when their mother refused to press charges, but Val never forgot the look of fear in his father's eyes as the cops had handcuffed him. Val knew from that instant that he was going to be a policeman. He would protect his mother and all the other mothers.

There had been a phone call from Larson's investigator friend at the Securities Exchange Commission. No message left. Val phoned him back, but he wasn't available. A nasal-sounding secretary advised to call again sometime later in the afternoon. Val made a note of the number on the back of the dog-eared envelope that went everywhere with him since he'd been given the cell phone.

Val's next call was to the press office of Arena Victory. A cheery-voiced girl answered it. He posed as a journalist and requested details of Stuart MacLean's itinerary for the rest of the day. The girl recited a list of engagements lined up for her boss. She offered to fax a copy through, but Val told her it wasn't necessary.

The last time Val had visited the Superdome was three years before and he hadn't been there as a spectator. His company had won the contract to supply some of the stage illuminations for a Rolling Stones' gig.

He had heard all the technical facts about New Orleans' largest landmark, and they never failed to impress him. Seating capacity for 76,000; 9,000 tons of climate-control equipment; that it was twenty-seven stories high. Home to the New Orleans Saints, it also hosted the Saturday games of Tulane University's football team. Arena Victory supplied its sports footwear.

Stuart MacLean was due to announce a new sponsorship deal with Tulane. The ceremony was to start at the Superdome at three o'clock. Two of the Saints's biggest stars, who had attended and played for Tulane, were also to be present. Predictably, TV vans and press vehicles gathered in a throng in their reserved parking slots.

Val flashed his shield at security and made for the raised platform in center field. The event designers had decorated the backdrop with Arena Victory's logo and blow-up photographs of some of their products. It was immediately apparent from the blank faces of the Tulane football players and the seriously disgruntled press that MacLean was running late.

Val took a seat at the halfway-line and prepared for a long wait. A high-school marching band sat in the club seats higher up, their instruments in the row behind them, the teenagers killing time joshing one another.

Voices of guides echoed across the playing surface as they showed parties of tourists around the Superdome. The two giant Diamond Vision screens played a rerun of a Saints game. Predictably, it was a game where the Saints had come out on top.

An hour crept by. More press arrived. The mood of the male journalists brightened considerably when a cheerleader team trooped out.

The first signal of MacLean's imminent arrival was when Jarvis Kraftson appeared in the stadium. Dressed in a pale blue suit, white shirt and yellow tie, he looked every inch the sharp executive going places. The bruise above his lip had almost faded. He walked straight over to the platform and chatted with the press, making apologies and smoothing things out. After that, he had a word with the student football players, and then headed to the sideline to wave down the band members. His gaze swept past Val to the musicians, then back to Val again. The confident manner evaporated.

"What do you want?"

"I'm here to speak to your boss."

"That's impossible. He's on too tight a schedule."

Val shrugged. "Didn't they warn you about being negative at MBA school? Nothing's ever impossible. Set it up. Or would you rather I talked to the press? Let them know what I've found out about Arena Victory."

Kraftson held up a placatory hand. "I'll see what I can do. Though it will have to be after the reception."

Val stood up.

"I'll be waiting for him in the mayor's suite."

Val hung around the edge of the playing field until MacLean finally appeared. The crowd in front of the platform had swelled considerably by then. They weren't disappointed; MacLean's entrance was presidential, sitting in the back of a '59 open-top Cadillac. The address system played the 'Rampart Street Rag' and MacLean waved and shook hands as the car moved slowly across the Astroturf. He was wearing a Tulane football jacket and an Arena Victory baseball cap.

The car stopped in front of the platform and MacLean climbed up the steps, smiling and waving all the time. The marching band started into its musical routine and the six leggy cheerleaders strutted their stuff. MacLean grabbed a football and he adopted a throwing pose for the press photographers.

Val had seen enough. He headed for the mayor's suite on the 300 Level.

A paper cup of soda was the only thing MacLean brought with him when he showed up three-quarters of an hour later. Val wondered what explanation MacLean had given his people for deserting them. Roughly the same height as Val, MacLean had mid-length red hair and pale skin. He joined Val at the viewing window and stared down at the bright green carpet below. The crowd, the band and the players had dispersed and already workmen were dismantling the platform.

MacLean shifted his gaze to Val. "I don't much like the way you do things. Making threats and physically abusing a member of my senior management."

"It doesn't keep me from sleeping nights."

MacLean took a drink from his paper cup. "Say your piece. I'm a busy man."

"Is Donny Jackson putting the bite on you and your partners?"

"No. Why should you think that?"

"Maybe he knows more than he should."

Two splashes of color appeared high on MacLean's cheeks. "About what?"

'The murder of Valerie Duval"

"Never heard of her."

"Jackson killed her, but you were party to it."

MacLean threw the contents of the paper cup into Val's face.

"You're a small man, Bosanquet. And small men get walked on." He stormed out of the box.

By the time he made it back to his car, Val had worked himself into a foul mood. His shirt and jacket were damp and sticky. He had lost most of the afternoon waiting for thirty seconds with MacLean and a face full of Seven Up.

Sorting through his pockets for a handkerchief, he came on the battered envelope with his phone numbers. That reminded him there was still a call he had to make. He found the number of the Securities Exchange Commission and tapped it into his cell phone.

He made a request to speak with Mike Rankin. "It's Val Bosanquet here," he added.

It took a few moments to be connected.

"Val, it's good of you to call me back. Sorry I wasn't available the first time. How are things in the Big Sleazy?"

"Much the same. Torrid and sordid."

"You want to see sordid, take a trip to Washington. Paul says you're with the UNOPD."

"For now. Have you anything for me on Arena Victory?"

"Are you kidding? That could take weeks, maybe months. I've just spent the whole summer proving end-proprietorship of a fraudulent shipping company. It was like unwrapping an onion. I had to peel my way through two hundred companies in fifteen countries, and each one brought tears to my eyes. No, Crescent City Holdings is the reason I called. I recognized the name straight off."

"How come?"

"It's an ethical investment company. Its sole stockholder is the archdiocese of New Orleans. Part of its portfolio is in property. They buy up old buildings and restore them. I'm involved with a Washington historical building preservation group and we've consulted with Crescent City Holdings. I can't give you much more than that. Is it relevant?"

"It could be. Do you have an address for the company?"

Val heard paper rustling in the background.

"Right here. I dug out some old correspondence when Paul Larson called me. The registered company address is Walmsley Avenue, the archdiocese office. The administrative address is 116 Ursulines Street."

Val scribbled it down on the back of the envelope.

"Thanks."

With most offices having closed for the day, Val was able to find a parking spot on Ursulines right in front of the building where Crescent City Holdings had its administrative center. Val rang the security bell and was buzzed through the main door. A uniformed security man at the reception desk asked him his business.

"I need to speak to somebody at Crescent City Holdings?"

"They've all gone. Come back in the morning."

"You sure?' Val took his shield out end showed it to the man. "It's police business."

"Give me a moment. I think Monsignor Charbonnet may still be upstairs, though he might not answer the phone. He doesn't like being disturbed. Gets through a lot of work when the office is quiet."

The man picked up a phone and pressed a button. More than a minute went by before Charbonnet answered. After a brief exchange, the security guard told Val to go up.

"Second floor. Third office on the left."

Monsignor Charbonnet was in his mid-forties, silver-haired, and had skin burnt the color of mahogany by the sun. He brought Val into his office and offered him a seat. Charbonnet closed the cover of a file lying on his desk.

Val showed him his shield and got straight to the point. "Have you heard of a Father Malcolm Kellerman?"

"Sure, I know him well. Has this something to do with what happened to his sister and her husband?"

Val nodded. "What sort of priest is Kellerman?"

Charbonnet gave him a questioning glance. "Very dedicated. A quiet, unassuming man. Not at all the type you'd expect considering his background."

"What about his background?"

"Kellerman came to the priesthood late in life. He was in his late thirties when he was ordained. Before that, he was an investment analyst with Salomon Brothers on Wall Street. He gave up a high six-figure income to take holy orders, though he still advises the archdiocese on its investments. That's how come I know him well. He and the Archbishop meet on a regular basis. The Archbishop's very committed to ethical investments and that was Kellerman's specialty. It can be a bit of gray area, tricky to navigate a path through. You think you've bought in stock that's green, and then you discover that the parent company manufactures land mines. Father Kellerman's approach is that it's best to invest in small companies, not listed, but with fresh ideas and plenty of potential. Buy in, make an acceptable profit, and sell out before too much of a good thing attracts predatory bids from the conglomerates."

"Sounds like a difficult way to make money."

Monsignor Charbonnet sighed "It is. Ethical investment comes with a high price-tag. I often wonder if it's worth it. Maybe we would better advised to chase the big bucks. Think of all the extra good we could do if only we had more cash. That's the dilemma facing the church. Without Father Kellerman, the archdiocese would be losing a packet on its ethical portfolio. He has a truly remarkable knack for spotting small companies with promise."

"Does Kellerman have a church?'

"Yes. A very beautiful one as it happens. St. Dominic's in the Irish Channel. He does a lot of good work with refugees and low-income families. Insisted on taking mass yesterday despite his personal tragedy."

"Crescent City Holdings owns some property in the Channel?"

"Quite a lot. We buy up historical buildings with the intention of restoring them and leasing them out at rents people can afford. Sometimes it can take years. The demand for emergency accommodation rarely slackens, so often the restoration has to take second place to putting a roof over the heads of needful families."

"Do you own any property in the French Quarter?"

"A little. Two nineteenth-century apartment houses, both of which have been restored."

"Exactly where in the quarter?"

"One's on Toulouse, the other's on Basin Street, opposite the entrance to St Louis Cemetery Number One."

Val held out his hand. "Monsignor Charbonnet, you've been a big help. I'd appreciate if you could keep this between us for the moment."

Charbonnet appeared perplexed for a moment, but his eyes went back to the file on his desk. "Certainly. Anything you say."

It was six twenty-five when the switchboard operator buzzed through to Captain Clements's office and announced that a Troy Pollack was on the line. Clements checked his watch and his insides turned to jelly. Why had Pollack broken his routine? Had Lausaux spotted him outside his office? Though he didn't know how. He had remained there until noon and Lausaux had failed to put in an appearance.

"Put him through."

"Troy here." Pollack's voice sounded mean and harsh.

"Why are you calling early? Has something happened?'

"You tell me. What has our mutual friend Chief Bosanquet been up to?"

Clements relaxed slightly. The timing of Pollack's call didn't seem to mean anything significant, probably intended to keep him off-balance. "He's been out most of the day. He had a message to call back some guy on the Securities Exchange Commission in Washington."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know. I called his cell phone an hour ago, but it was in use."

"Didn't you try again?"

"I was intending to, but you phoned early."

"John, I'm very disappointed with you. You're not keeping up your side of the deal. You've taken my money, but you're not doing anything to earn it. Maybe it's time I spoke to your wife."

"No! Please don't call her. She hasn't been well."

"What else can I do? We had a deal, but you're not telling me what I want to hear."

"You're asking too much of me. You can't expect me to hound-dog Bosanquet and run the UNOPD at the same time. He would catch on immediately that something was up if I neglected my duties here."

There was no response for a few moments. The delay was like a hand twisting Clements's gut.

"Okay, I won't disturb your wife this time. But I will in the morning if you mess me around anymore."

"I'll do whatever you ask."

"That's more like it. I want you to pull the guard on Marcus Bosanquet's house."

Clements hesitated. "I can't do that."

"John, tell me you didn't say that. Of course you can do it. Make some excuse, but stand down those officers."

"Why? What are you going to do?"

"That doesn't concern you, though I guarantee there will be no repercussions for you. This time tomorrow you'll be sitting behind the chief's desk and you'll never have to hear the name Troy Pollack again."

"I don't want anyone hurt."

"Nobody will be, just as long as you do this one last favor for me."

"Okay."

"That's more like it. Now you're thinking like a parent."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Val parked his car close to the entrance to St Louis cemetery No. 1 and stood on the sidewalk near the gates while he took a long, careful look around him. Fully aware of the dangers, Trochan must have had a valid purpose to come here after dark and Val thought he knew what it was.

He shifted his attention to the opposite side of the street. An expensive Italian restaurant was sandwiched between a restored apartment house and the offices of a legal firm. Trochan's body had been found just inside the cemetery, but what if he had been there so he could surveil the buildings opposite without attracting undue attention? Only he hadn't anticipated that there would be somebody watching the same building.

Val crossed over. Crescent City Holdings had done a fine preservation job on the apartment building. Restorers had repaired all the lacy filigree ironwork, casting new sections where necessary, and stripping generations of paint from the original iron before decorators had applied a fresh coat. Craftsmen had cleaned and re-mortared the redbrick. The wooden windows and shutters were varnished teak, the stucco of the sills end surrounds painted a lime green. Baskets of camellias hung from brass hooks fastened to the teak ceiling of every balcony.

Right next to the entrance was a small cast iron plaque proclaiming how Crescent City Holdings had carried out the restoration in 1995.

The building super was a black man in his early fifties, with a grizzled, gray beard. He was skinny and walked with a limp. The lenses of his glasses were thicker than the bottoms of shot glasses. Val gave him a quick look at his shield.

"What can I do for you, officer?"

"Is Donny Jackson a tenant here?"

The black man shook his head. "No sir. We have no one of that name."

"He may be using a different name." Val took a copy of Duval's sketch from his jacket pocket and unfolded it.

"This remind you of anyone?"

The super took the sheet and drew it close to his eyes.

"That's a lot like Lonnie Dupree. He ain't here right now."

"When do you expect him?"

"Could be a week, could be a month. Hard to say. The company leases the apartment. He doesn't spend much time in New Orleans. Usually lets me know in advance when he's due back, but must have forgotten this time."

"That could be him. I want to see inside his apartment."

The super squinted up at Val. "You got any paper?"

"Only the green sort." Val held out a twenty-dollar bill. The hand that snatched it moved faster than a striking cottonmouth.

"Right this way. The apartment's on three."

Val followed him into a smell elevator and made the short trip to the third floor. The super produced a bunch of keys, selected one, and opened the door to apartment 36.

"Let me put the power on for you. With Dupree being off so much of the time, I keep the juice turned off."

After some fumbling behind the door, the light came flooding on and the air-conditioning unit kicked in.

"You going to take a while? Only I've got plenty of chores to be getting on with."

"Don't let me stop you. I'll turn the power off before I leave."

"Mind you do," the super said. He closed the door after him.

Val took a quick look around the living room. There wasn't much to see. The furniture was generic; the type found in every twenty-five-dollar motel from New Orleans to New York. The one exception was an expensive sound system. Val had a riffle through the CDs. Donny was a big fan of country and of Cajun. There was a bunch of circulars on the coffee table. Val went through them all, without finding anything of interest.

The bedroom was next. The closet contained a selection of jackets and trousers, a couple pairs of jeans, a dozen brightly-colored Bermuda shirts, and a chartreuse seersucker suit. Val winced. Subtlety wasn't the guiding principle in Donny's sense of style.

The bed had been stripped, but there were no bedclothes in the closet or the bedroom drawers. There was, however, a matching set of well-worn Samsonite luggage. All present and correct, and all empty.

The bathroom was tidy and clinically clean, except for a long splash of dried blood on the underside of the ceramic sink. Val wouldn't have spotted it, only he had bent down to run his fingers along the gap between the pedestal and the wall.

Val found nothing of interest in the spare bedroom and the kitchen. What was he searching for? An address book, a journal, or some old correspondence, credit card receipts, check book stubs. Anything which would give him some clue as to where Donny was hiding out. Only he could provide the last few answers Val was seeking.

He went over the living room for a second time, checking under chairs in case Donny had taped something to their underside, examining the backs of pictures and mirrors. Opened every CD box. Fanned through the pages of three soft porn paperbacks. Stuck his fingers down the back of the couch and found a few quarters.

Reluctantly, Val conceded that he was wasting his time. He turned off the power, closed the door and rode the elevator back down to the lobby. A row of brass mail boxes were set into the wall next to the entrance, each one engraved with its apartment number. He found 36.

The super pocketed another twenty and opened it.

Two more circulars and one hand written envelope, addressed to Lonnie Dupree. Val slid a finger under the flap and removed the birthday card that it contained. Signed only by Rita, there was a letter from her written on the inside leaf.

She started by apologizing in advance should the card fail to reach her son in time for his birthday. His father and she had been preoccupied with finding a clandestine way to assist Duval locate a college place. They were getting nowhere, until finally, in desperation, they had approached Assist Haiti. At first, the operations director didn't want to know, but eventually reconsidered and agreed to help out. It was the perfect solution. If Roy came up with the cash, Philip Lausaux could guarantee Duval's acceptance by the UNO, and in addition, would pass it off as an Assist Haiti scholarship. The true identity of who was footing the bill for her education would never need be revealed.

Val stopped reading for a moment. He would like to know, now that the Jacksons were dead, what Lausaux had done with the money.

The letter went on. Rita hadn't taken to Lausaux and didn't think any man prepared to do something for nothing could be trusted. He was too fond of asking probing questions, too keen to delve into why Roy had kept Duval in the dark about who her real father was and the existence of her half-brother.

Val could understand Roy Jackson's reticence. What a family get-together that would have been.

Rita finished the letter with a warning. Ever since Roy's last meeting alone with Lausaux — when her husband had handed over the money — he had been acting moody; she had a feeling he might have let slip more than he should have.

Val closed the card and returned it to its envelope and pocketed it. One way or another Lausaux had tumbled the Jacksons's dark secret. His curiosity aroused by the Jacksons's entreaty, he may have compelled Roy into spilling the beans.

Exactly how many beans, Val couldn't be sure. Lausaux may have unearthed for himself the connections between Valerie Duval's murder, the implausible employment of Donny by Arena Victory, and Crescent City Holdings. Then, having put two and two together, he conceived a plan to profit from it and at the same time avenge the humiliation he had endured over the hog debacle.

All well and good, Val admitted to himself, but, as Paul Larson had so succinctly put it, Wall Street wouldn't let a little thing like murder or exploitation come between it and a profit. There had to be some other angle to the Valerie Duval killing. An angle that Lausaux must have established. His disappearance and the bloodstain in the bathroom pointed to Donny Jackson having provided it.

Val walked back to where he had left his car.

Angie was almost finished writing a letter to a cousin in Houston, sharing the news of her pregnancy and swearing her cousin to secrecy, when the ringing of the doorbell startled her. She put down her pen. Nobody was expected and Marcus was at a faculty meeting, not due home for another hour at the earliest. With the UNOPD car stationed outside, she knew she was being silly, but Val had upset her with his talk of Haitian thugs and she had been feeling jittery ever since. She left the security chain on when she opened the door.

"Madam Bosanquet, I'm so sorry to disturb you," Philip Lausaux apologized.

"Not at all." Angie's heart started to beat again and she removed the chain and opened the door fully. "Marcus isn't at home right now. Maybe you could come back later."

"It's really you I've come to see. To discuss what we are going to do with Marie Duval."

"I didn't realize. Please, won't you come in?"

Lausaux entered and Angie showed him through to the living room. She asked him to take a seat on the couch.

"May I offer you a drink?" she offered.

"Only if you join me."

"No can do. I've recently found out that I'm expecting. I'll stick to a soda. Cognac?"

"That would be perfect."

Angie moved over to the antique bureau that Marcus and she used as a drinks cabinet.

"How do you like it?"

"In a highball glass, lots of ice."

She poured a double shot and popped a can of diet soda for herself. She picked up the silver ice bucket. "Please, make yourself at home while I fetch the ice. I won't be a minute."

In the kitchen, she filled the ice bucket from a plastic bag in the icebox and opened a packet of cheese sticks and emptied them into a glass dish.

Lausaux was standing next to the bureau, admiring a painting Marcus had recently acquired. He had his highball glass in his hand.

"I hope you don't mind, it's been a very trying day," he said. "I've poured your soda."

"Not at all. Let me put some ice in that."

Angie used a pair of tongs to drop ice into Lausaux's drink and her own. They clinked glasses and sipped at their drinks.

"Val Bosanquet came to see me this morning," Lausaux started. "He asked me to renew the charity's offer of financial backing to Marie Duval. I'm afraid I was rather abrupt with him."

"I haven't spoken to him today."

"I've been thinking it over and perhaps I was too hasty. But the way I understood it, Miss Duval has made up her mind not to accept any financial help from Assist Haiti. She comes across as a very resolute young lady."

"She certainly is." Angie took another drink of the soda. It tasted odd. Her doctor had warned her that she might experience some alteration of her tastes. "You want me to speak to her?"

"If you would. Marie confided in me about what close friends the two of you had become in a short time. And she might listen to reason quicker if it was coming from another women."

"I'll do all I can," Angie said. She shivered and felt pins and needles tingling her arm. Maybe she had put too much ice in her drink. "But as you say, Marie can be very stubborn when it pleases her."

"At least we'll have tried," Lausaux said, then smiled apologetically. "Do forgive my rudeness. I didn't congratulate you on your pregnancy. What are you hoping for?"

"I haven't taken a scan yet, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it will be twins. A boy and a girl. Lots of twins in my family. I'm due in late May."

Lausaux raised his glass and smiled. "Let's drink to Gemini."

Val parked in a nearby street and followed the iron railings to the front gates of the church. Monsignor Charbonnet was right. St Dominic's was a very beautiful building. When the Irish had built it in the 1870s, they had spared no expense. Its architecture and stonework were exquisite. As is the way with churches, it had changed very little since its construction. Other than a coat of city grime and the installation of electric light, the church remained the same. The five largest stained-glass windows depicted the four apostles and St Patrick.

Inside, all was quiet. Two women were sitting apart in the center pews, their heads bowed. Val felt the familiar unease creep over him. Did his lack of any kind of faith mean something was missing from his life? Ten years ago he would have claimed a definite no, now he wasn't so sure. Like Voodoo, he had also had to adapt to a constantly changing world; to a world that contained passions and greeds that he couldn't begin to comprehend. But according to the laws of nature every action produces an equal and opposite reaction.

Perhaps the only Supreme Being was inevitability.

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and knocked on the sacristy door. A young male Latin answered, possibly Colombian. Val had disturbed his cleaning of two massive brass candlesticks, only slightly shorter than Val, their candles as thick as his wrist.

"Es Senor Malcolm Kellerman aqui?"

The young man wiped his hands on the polishing cloth. "No, he's gone to St Francis parish for a few days. To make arrangements for his sister's funeral. He's expected back on Thursday."

"Gracias."

"Is there a message I can give him?"

"No, thanks. I'll see him some other time. Buenas noches."

The young Colombian returned to his polishing. Val walked back through the church into the night.

Marcus called Val's cell phone as he was turning on to Loyola on his way home.

"Is Angie with you?" Marcus asked anxiously.

"No. Isn't she at home?"

"I've just returned from a faculty meeting to find the house empty and the security alarm not turned on. I've had a good look around but I can't see any note. She told me she would be in all evening."

Val's vision blurred. He pulled over to the side of the street.

"Have you spoken to the officers on surveillance duty?"

"There's no patrol car outside. Somebody's been here; there were two dirty glasses on the living room table."

Val told himself not to overreact. Maybe she had had to leave the house to go someplace and the police officers had tagged along after her. "I'll ring the station house and find out where she is."

"I thought she might have been at your place. I know she's still seeing you," Marcus said belligerently.

"Not now, Marcus," Val said and cut him off. He tapped in the automatic dial code for the UNOPD. The duty sergeant answered on the third ring.

"Chief Bosanquet. Let me speak to Captain Clements."

"He's not here right now."

"What's happening with the watch on my brother's house?"

"Nothing. It was terminated earlier this evening."

"On whose orders?" Val stormed.

"Captain Clements's. He said he needed the manpower and had okayed it with you."

"I want you to find him and have him call me. Now!"

Val restarted his car and drove the short distance to his house. Maybe Angie would be there, but he had a bad feeling about this. Angie had a mind of her own, but she was far from dumb. What on earth did Clements think he was playing at?

There were no lights on inside the house when he arrived home. He sat in the car and called the station house again to find out what was keeping Clements. The duty sergeant was surprised to learn that Clements hadn't been in touch. The sergeant had contacted him at home and Clements had assured him that he would phone Chief Bosanquet immediately.

Maybe he was calling his home number. Val sprinted up the steps.

He found a plain white envelope taped to his door. He opened it. Inside, there was a note and a gold wedding band. He knew without examining it that it was the one he had placed on Angie's finger a lifetime ago.

The note said he was to be at Woldenberg Park by the river at ten o'clock. He was to park his car near the Conti end of Front Street and to come on foot and to be alone. There was no threat or mention of any consequences should he fail to show. There didn't have to be.

Val checked his watch. Nine fifty-five. He was late. He stuffed the letter in his jacket pocket and hurried down the steps.

Two men approached him as he was unlocking the door of his car. They showed him their credentials, but he already knew who they were. FBI.

"Chief Valentino Bosanquet? I'm Special Agent Ben Lehman and this is Special Agent Mike Comeaux We'd like a word with you."

"Won't it wait until the morning? I'm on my way out. It's important."

"No, it can't," Lehman said. "A man was killed early this afternoon and we think you might be able to help with our inquiries."

Val felt his stomach flip over. "Since when has it been the FBI's job to investigate homicides?"

"The homicide may be tied in with one or our investigations. The NOPD called us."

"Who was killed?"

"Howard Woods, a convicted drug-dealer. Several witnesses have come forward and given the police accurate descriptions of a man seen chasing Woods on Sunday evening. A bartender called in and gave homicide your name. Said you had been in his place asking about Woods."

Val nodded. "Didn't any of your witnesses mention the fact that Woods got away from me?"

"Yeah, but only after you almost strangled him. Our SAC wants to know why you have the mark of Cain on you. It seems everybody you talk to ends up dead. That ex-cop, Trochan. The Jacksons, and now Howard Woods."

Val sneaked a look at Agent Comeaux's watch. Ten o'clock. "There's a very simple explanation. Let me come over to your office in the morning. I'll tell you all about it then. I didn't kill Woods; he was a drug-dealer for chrissake. It's an occupational hazard."

Lehman seized Val by the arm. "Now would suit us better."

"You two really know how to screw up a guy's love life." He held up his cell phone so they could see it. "At least allow me time to make one phone call. Tell the girl not to wait up."

Comeaux shook his head. "No calls."

Val let the cell phone slip from his hand. Both agents saw it fall. Lehman made a grab for it and collapsed like a house of cards when Val slammed a fist into his solar plexus. As Comeaux moved for his gun, Val stomped a heel down on the bridge of his foot. The agent groaned and tried to pull his leg away, but Val caught him by the arm. Unbalanced, he was easy to swing around Val's projecting hip. His head went through the driver's window as if it was sugar glass.

Val took to his heels, his injured knee forgotten. There were shouted demands for him to stop. Val half expected the agents to open fire as he ducked into the narrow alley between the backs of his neighbors' houses. He had known every inch of ground around here since childhood. They would never catch him.

Captain John Clements sat in his car in the privacy of his garage next to his house. He had his UNOPD revolver in his hand, but knew he wouldn't use it. His wife was at their prospective in-laws house finalizing wedding arrangements. Their son had driven her there, and then taken his fiancée to the movies. The girl's father had promised to drive his wife home. But what if she was to be the first back and the one to find his body? The shock would be bad enough for her without having to see blood and bits of brain splattered all over the interior of his car.

He set the revolver down on the passenger seat and opened the car door. He once had had to deal with the suicide of a beautiful young student. She had attached a garden hose to her car's exhaust and fed the other end through the window. She closed the door, sealing the gap in the window with a towel. She shut all the vents and sealed them with duct tape. Then she put the car in park and turned on the engine.

Clements's world started crashing down around him when the two FBI agents arrived at the station house. They wanted to interview Bosanquet in connection with the homicide of Howard Woods. A witness has seen the Chief at the scene, the agents told him. Somehow he had coped with their questions, knowing all the time that he was responsible for the man's death. That appalled him. He had signed himself off duty and driven home in a daze. Then, five minutes ago, the station sergeant rang to say that Angie Bosanquet had disappeared.

The beautiful student hadn't left a note.

Neither would he.

Philip Lausaux was waiting behind the wheel of a bronze Jeep Wagoneer when Val made it to Woldenberg Park at ten-thirty. He had flashed his headlights to attract Val's attention.

"You're late. I was beginning to think you weren't going to show." Lausaux said, when Val walked over to where he had parked. The Creole was smoking a thin cheroot.

"Where's my wife?" Val panted. He had sprinted all the way. Sweat had soaked his shirt and stained his jacket.

"Jump in and I'll tell you."

"I'm fine out here."

"I'd like it better if you were inside."

Val walked around and opened the passenger door of the vehicle. He climbed in.

Lausaux turned off the radio that had been playing softly. "Until I saw how she kissed you after the press conference, I had assumed the beautiful Angie loved only your brother. They're much better suited, don't you think?"

Val reached for the door handle.

Lausaux laid a hand on Val's arm. "Don't go. You haven't seen what I've brought with me."

"What?"

"This."

He handed Val a small phial of clear glass. It had a rubber stopper, but no label and was empty.

He grabbed Lausaux by the throat and cracked his head back against the door post. "You bastard. What have you done with her?"

"She's okay," Lausaux croaked. "As long as you do exactly what I ask of you. Touch me again and she's dead."

Val let him go and pulled the Beretta automatic. He thumbed the safety off, cocked it and jabbed it against Lausaux's breastbone. A white-hot fury had engulfed him. He wanted to kill this man.

"Tell me where she is?"

Lausaux made a show of checking the time on his watch. "Ten-thirty-five. Your wife ingested a powerful neurotoxin just under two hours ago, and is currently in a state of deep cataplexy. As long as you cooperate, she'll be fine. I know you're acquainted with the facts; your drinking buddy, Richard Bickford, mentioned that he had been discussing Zombism with you. I had lunch with him yesterday. He's a persistent man. Doesn't give up easily when he needs another post-graduate project funded. His unintentional disclosure gave me the idea of how you could be of some assistance to me."

"I should kill you right now," Val said, his finger applying pressure on the trigger. "There can't be that many places you could have hidden a grown woman."

"Finding her would be the easy part. You would also have to find the antidote. That was much easier to conceal."

"A hospital could supply the antidote."

"Unlikely. Strictly speaking, it isn't an antidote at all; merely a blocking formula which prevents further absorption of the Zombi neurotoxin until, eventually, the person expels it from the system. The doctors might come up with something similar, but they would need time to do perform tests, take blood samples, and run analysis. Angie may not have that long. The baby even less."

"You know about that?" Val said, astonished.

"Of course."

Lascaux had Val backed into a corner. Tight-lipped, he asked, "What do I have to do?"

"Simply be my driver for an hour or so. I need someone I can trust implicitly and, regrettably, my partner isn't able to be with me tonight."

"Donny Jackson?"

Lausaux smiled thinly. "I take it I have your cooperation?"

Val gave him a murderous glare. "For now."

Lausaux took hold of the automatic by its barrel and eased it from Val's grip. "We both know you won't use this. Now get out and walk round to the driver's seat. I'll ride in the back."

"Where are we headed?"

"The Moncoeur mansion. I happen to know he's going out tonight, but if we're early maybe we can catch him as he leaves."

Moncoeur sat behind two square meters of Louis XVI desk, calmly checking the Canadian Treasury bills. Satisfied that all was in order, he placed them inside an ox-blood leather briefcase and snapped the locks shut. He interlocked his slim fingers and pushed back in the leather captain's chair.

"What time is it?" MacLean asked. He had been pacing the floor of Moncoeur's study for the last hour.

"Five minutes further on from when you last asked. Sit down and try to relax. We don't need to leave for another three-quarter of an hour."

"How the hell can I relax? I'm about to hand over twenty million dollars to a cheap punk we should have dumped in the Mississippi five years ago." He pulled a cigarette from a carton and lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter. A gift from a London stockbroker.

"I don't think cheap is the most suitable adjective."

MacLean grunted. "Kellerman should be doing this. Jackson's his cocksucker of a nephew."

"You don't have to come. I'm perfectly capable of doing this myself."

"I wouldn't miss it for anything. But I would have preferred the priest to be with us."

"We both agreed to his proposal. It made a lot of sense."

"What guns do you have in the house?"

"What would you prefer?"

"Something small. Better make it a revolver. I'm only going to get one crack at this and I don't want an automatic jamming on me."

Moncoeur opened the bottom drawer of his desk and lifted out a snub-nose .45 special. He placed it on top of the briefcase.

"Have you another one?"

"Isn't one enough?" Moncoeur asked disparagingly.

MacLean blew a thick stream of blue smoke down his nostrils. "He'll have us frisked. If one gun is found, he might overlook a second."

Moncoeur produced an identical weapon. "Are you sure about this?"

"I've never been more sure. And when I've done with Donny, I'm going to deal with that Bosanquet bastard. Who the fuck gave him the right to poke his nose into our business? He's a fucking lousy campus cop for chrissakes?"

Moncoeur nodded. MacLean had been Kellerman's choice from his Soloman Brothers former associates as the man most capable of turning their dream into reality, but Moncoeur would be relieved to have the flotation successfully concluded and his association with MacLean ended. He had always found his brashness and his vulgarity unacceptable. It was a deficiency of character, a suspect trait. Now, under pressure, MacLean was becoming unstable, displaying signs of cracking. The breeding just wasn't there.

MacLean stubbed his cigarette out in the earth of a potted plant. "What the hell is Jackson playing at; dragging us all the way out to a phone booth in La Freniere Perk?"

"We'll find out soon enough."

"What if he spots the men I have watching the entrances and exits to the park?"

"My opinion hasn't changed. It is pointless having men there, I doubt very much if Jackson will be within a mile of the park. He probably intends to give us the runaround first. From telephone booth to telephone booth. He'd get a kick from ordering us about."

"Well I hope he enjoys it. It's the last laugh he's ever going to have. I'm going to blow his fucking brains all over Orleans parish."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The electrically operated gates of Moncoeur's mansion rolled open at twelve-twenty and the silver Bentley swept out onto Lake Shore Drive. Moncoeur was driving, with MacLean sitting in the passenger seat. The gates closed immediately behind them. The car flashed past the opening of the dead-end street down which Lausaux and Val were parked.

Val put the Jeep in drive, pressed down on the accelerator and started after them.

"Let them get well ahead," Lausaux warned him. "We don't want them to see us just yet."

"We'll lose them."

"No we won't. I know exactly where they're headed."

Val eased off. The traffic was light and the Bentley easily identifiable from a distance. The car headed south along Wisner Boulevard, parallel to City Park.

Lausaux was keeping a careful watch on other vehicles behind. He spent a lot of time twisted around in his seat, peering out the tailgate window. Val waited for the right moment and adjusted the rear view mirror so he could have a good reflection of Lausaux. Sodium street lights illuminated his features with a yellow brilliance each time they passed under a lamppost, then rapidly plunged back into shadow.

After the Bentley had taken the slip road for Highway 610 heading west across City Park, Lausaux finally appeared satisfied that they weren't being tailed. He turned to face the front and took a slip of paper from his hip pocket.

"Time to give our friends a call," he said. "Catch up on them. I want us right behind."

Lausaux pressed the barrel of the gun into the back of Val's seat as he leaned over the front seats and unhooked the cell phone. He tapped out the number of the Bentley's cell phone on the keypad, but waited until the Wagoneer had closed to a hundred yards before pressing the send button. A few seconds later Val saw Moncoeur's head dip as he leaned forward to answer.

"Jean, it's Philip Lausaux here. My apologies for calling at this hour."

Val couldn't catch the response. The drum of the tires on the asphalt and the noise of the engine drowned it out.

"Yes, it is important, very important. Take a look behind you."

Up ahead the heads of both the Bentley's occupants twisted round. Lausaux put a hand over the mouthpiece of the cell phone. "Flash the headlights."

He again pressed the barrel of the gun into the back of the seat. Val didn't need reminding who was in control.

Lausaux took his hand away from the mouthpiece. "I want you both to listen very carefully. The seats of your Bentley have enough C4 explosive packed inside them to blow both of you straight to hell."

The Bentley weaved and started to decelerate. It moved over to the inside lane. Val kept one eye on the mirror.

Lausaux took a small, black plastic object from his jacket pocket. The size and shape of a pocket radio, it was fitted with a matt-black aerial which Lausaux extended.

"All I need do is press a button on the radio-detonator I have in my hand and your own proctologist wouldn't be able to identify you. Drop your speed below fifty-five, try to outrun us, or cut me off, and you're history. Have I got your undivided attention?"

The Bentley increased its speed to a steady fifty-five. Val could see MacLean's head bobbing about, turning around to stare back at them every once in a while, but he could only imagine the frenzied dialogue in the other vehicle.

Know your enemy, Val thought. Lausaux had read Moncoeur like a book. Right down the line. He'd correctly anticipated that Moncoeur would bid for the Bentley. Pay whatever it took to possess it and to have his face splashed all over the New Orleans newspapers. And would be arrogant enough to drive it when the time came to make the payoff.

"Donny?" Lausaux was addressing the cell phone. "He was never part of this. Though he served a valuable purpose. To make it this far without sparking your suspicions, I needed a decoy to focus your attention in the wrong direction. As long as Jackson was AWOL, you dumb bastards didn't think to look any further for your extortionist."

Val cursed his own obtuseness. He'd been that focused on Jackson, he'd fallen for Lausaux's ruse as well. Which meant Gilett had to be Lausaux's partner. Presumably, their plan had been to kill Jackson and dispose of the body. Somehow he had managed to frustrate them and had vanished, believing himself targeted by FRAPH, the victim of a double-cross by Moncoeur, MacLean and Kellerman. Angie would love the irony of it. Jackson's elective disappearance had resulted in Moncoeur and company drawing the exact conclusion Lausaux had intended all along.

Lausaux sat back in his seat, the cell phone pressed tightly to his ear. Val studied his face in the mirror. The man was exulting in his triumph, savoring every moment, and in no rush to finish it.

"Moncoeur, you should have treated Gilett with a bit more respect. His skin may be darker than yours, but that doesn't mean he's stupid."

Suddenly, the wail of an ambulance drowned out Lausaux. It was coming up fast from behind. Val stared through the windshield at the road ahead. An accident was blocking the highway. He could see flashing blue strobes in the distance. Already the traffic in front was slowing.

A line of hazard flares was burning on the blacktop of the two outside lanes, channeling the traffic into a single lane. If it had been earlier in the evening there would have been an immediate back up. At this time of night, although the traffic was forced to reduce speed, it was at least still moving.

Lausaux sat forward and peered out the windshield. Two highway patrol vehicles blocked the outside lanes. It was their strobes that Val had seen from further back.

"Don't try anything," Lausaux snarled into the phone. "I'm right behind you and I have my finger on the detonator. If I see a window or a door open, then it's boom!"

The ambulance, still using the closed lanes, came alongside the Wagoneer. The police cars blocked its path and the driver signaled his intention to insert his vehicle between the Bentley and the Wagoneer.

"Close up. Don't let it in," Lausaux screamed.

Val fed the jeep some more gas and came close to clipping the ambulance's fender. The paramedic in the front seat gave him the finger.

A heavily laden flatbed truck had been tail-ended by a car, spilling some of its load of soda can cases onto the blacktop. A few cases had burst and vehicles were driving over the crumpled cans. Two police officers were tending to the injured car driver while their colleagues kept the traffic moving.

They cruised past the scene of the accident traveling at thirty-five miles an hour. The ambulance peeled off and stopped in front of the truck.

"That was close," Lausaux whispered to Val, then to the cell phone, "Move into the center lane and stay there. A steady fifty-five."

The Bentley surged ahead as its turbo kicked in. It took Val a few seconds to achieve the same speed.

"This is how it's going to happen." The accident had shaken Lausaux. He had lost his desire to gloat, and was now anxious to get down to business. "You will remain in the center lane and we'll draw up alongside you in the outside lane. Open the window and pass me the briefcase, or whatever it is you have the treasury bills in. Once we complete the transfer, I will fall back and tuck in behind you. We will leave the highway at the next slip road. You will stay on it until the one after that. Have you got that? Anything doesn't look right, you're dead men."

Val could see that Moncoeur and MacLean were in heated discussion. Their heads were bouncing about and there was a lot of animated gesturing going on.

"Fuck!"

"What's up?" Val demanded.

"They've cut me off," Lausaux said, punching the redial button on the cell phone.

Nothing. Lausaux tried again. He was mumbling curses to himself.

"What the hell are you playing at?" he screeched when they were reconnected. "I should press the detonator right now."

It must have been a fault in the cell grid, Val concluded. They were disconnected for too short a time for it to have been anything else.

Lausaux listened intently for a few moments.

"You'll be perfectly okay as long as you don't try anything. All I want is the money. I want to enjoy it, not to spend the rest of my life on the run."

They're terrified he intends killing them anyway, Val figured. They had every right to be worried. A good prosecutor could tie Lausaux into Gilett's killing of Trochan. The Haitian must have been keeping up surveillance on Jackson's apartment house in case he returned.

"You're just going to have to take my word for it," Lausaux assured the two in the Bentley.

......

"I don't give a damn if you don't think that's good enough. It's all you're going to get."

There was another bout of frenetic activity in the car in front. Judging by his body language, MacLean appeared to be going ape-shit. Val thought of how he had reacted at the Superdome.

Lausaux cut in. "Okay, here's what I'll do. You reach me the briefcase, and I'll pass you the detonator at the same time."

......

"I'm not about to do that. The explosion would kill us all."

......

"We've talked long enough. Let's do it."

Lausaux wound open the window and instructed Val to draw alongside the Bentley. As close as possible. The hot air of the slipstream started to raise the temperature inside the vehicle.

Moving into position, Val glanced across the empty passenger seat to a grim-faced Moncoeur staring straight at the road in front of him, concentrating on his driving. Despite the elevation of Lausaux's Wagoneer, it wouldn't be much of a reach for Moncoeur. The Bentley was no low-slung sports coupe.

Val allowed the Wagoneer to nose a few feet ahead of the Bentley. He moved the steering wheel a fraction to bring the two vehicles closer. Avoiding a collision would be principally his responsibility since Moncoeur would have only one hand on the wheel when he passed the briefcase over. None, if he was to grab hold the detonator at the same time.

MacLean must have been thinking along the same lines. He maneuvered himself through the gap between the Bentley's front seats into the rear. He hauled an ox-blood leather briefcase behind him, then straightened himself up and opened the window.

Val made a slight adjustment to the rear view mirror so he could watch the hand-over. With luck, he would seize an opportunity to take the gun from Lausaux. But what purpose would that serve? Until he knew where Angie was, shooting Lausaux would have to remain wistful thinking.

The two vehicles almost touched. A red Renault sounded its horn as it overtook them on the inside lane.

"Watch your driving," Lausaux snapped.

Val caught his first good look at MacLean's face. Even in this light, it was evident how incensed he was. Almost to the point where he would prefer to die in an explosion than make the payoff.

Almost.

The briefcase was barely small enough to make it through the window. Val realized instinctively that there was something wrong, but alarm bells didn't ring until he saw how Lausaux switched the detonator from his right to his left hand before taking a firm grip on the case's handle.

MacLean made no attempt to reach for the detonator. His right hand pulled a small snub-nosed revolver from inside his jacket. He brought it up towards Lausaux.

Val hauled on the steering wheel, almost side-swiping the central crash barrier, a hundredth of a second before he heard the shot. He regained control and floored the accelerator, risking a glance backward at Lausaux.

Damn! He was hit. The briefcase was nestled safely in his lap, but the front of his polo shirt was already turning crimson.

"Don't you die on me," Val shouted.

"Don't worry. I'm not the one about to die."

A hundred and fifty yards in their wake the Bentley was slewing to a halt, directly under a highway light. The driver's door opened and a black-trousered leg touched the asphalt.

The fireball from the explosion rose thirty feet into the night sky. Almost simultaneously the force of the blast scooped up the Wagoneer and pushed it forward. For an instant all four wheels lost contact with the surface of the road. The tailgate window disintegrated and Val could hear the ping of debris striking the vehicles metal skin.

"That's one for the hogs," Lausaux whispered softly. Then to Val, "Now let's get off this fucking road."

"I'm taking you straight to hospital," Val fired over his shoulder. The nearest would he Tulane.

"Forget it," Lausaux said, lowering the briefcase and raising the Beretta. "Take Highway Ninety and head towards Morgan City, then south to St Francis Parish."

"The Jacksons's place? That's eighty miles. You won't make it that far."

"I'll make it. Just you drive."

"Not until I know where you have Angie. And the antidote."

"Get me there and I'll tell you everything. You don't want to risk messing me around. I've taken all the crap I'm going to."

Val had no choice but to do cooperate. Until he knew where Angie was, he couldn't let Lausaux out of his sight. If Lausaux showed up at an Emergency Room with a bullet wound, the medics would alert the police immediately. Once they started questioning Val, the FBI wouldn't be far behind. After what he had done to Comeaux and Lehman, it would take most of the night to persuade them he was on the level and have them search for Angie.

"Why there?"

"Gilett's idea. It's empty and the nearest house is more than a mile away."

Val remembered an additional attraction. "And a seaplane can easily land on the bayou right by it. Is he meeting you there?"

"Yeah. He's hired a pilot to fly us to Mexico."

"Not the best of destinations for two fugitives requiring medical treatment."

Lausaux smiled. "Gilett's not as incapacitated as you think. The Morgan City docs did quite a job of fixing him up."

Then what was the rationale behind Lausaux coercing him into driving? Val thought he had the answer. They were approaching the slip road for Highway 90. He made a signal and moved across.

"When exactly is this plane of Gilett's expected to touch down on the bayou?"

Lausaux smiled. "I'll give you this, Bosanquet. You catch on fast. A real smart cop. First light, Wednesday morning."

"You brought the payoff forward by twenty-four hours. Gilett's the wrong man to double-cross."

"He'll have plenty to occupy him with the FBI on his tail and no money to buy his way out of the country."

"How much is in the case?"

"Twenty million in Treasury Bills."

Lausaux folded a handkerchief into a pad and pressed it against his wound. His breathing was irregular.

"There's a couple of things I don't understand. How did you persuade Captain Clements to stand down the guard on my brother's house?"

"With the right motivation people will do just about anything. Surely you can appreciate that at this precise moment?"

Understanding dawned on Val. "It was you who killed Howard Woods? Did you kill Galen also?"

"No. He and Donny holed up in a houseboat owned by Galen's family down on the Bayou Penchant, though they had moved out by the time I got there. Gilett was supposed to kill Jackson, but he messed up and succeeded only in wounding him. Jackson would have blown everything if he had taken it into his head to go after his uncle or Moncoeur, but I banked on that not happening until his injuries had had time to heal. Now, thanks to you, Jackson's still out there someplace, alive and well. Presumably, Woods warned him that you were closing in. What the hell did you do to him? I've never seen a man so numb with fear. Kept imagining you were hiding around every corner waiting to pounce on him. It didn't dawn on him until too late that he was stewing over the wrong man."

Lausaux's newly acquired affluence had him in a talkative mood. Val had another question. "How did Kellerman get hold of the Macoute money?"

"Some of Roy Jackson's pillow talk to Valerie Duval was about his brother-in-law the former Wall Street whiz kid turned priest. She told her husband, and he contacted Kellerman and asked him to handle the Macoute money. His expertise didn't come cheap I'd imagine, but Duval's husband was Catholic and must have thought Kellerman could be trusted; he was a priest and practically one of the family. Then Baby Doc Duvalier pulled out of Haiti, the killings started, and Kellerman saw an opportunity to make some serious money for himself. He brought in MacLean, an old Wall Street buddy, to front Arena Victory, and cut Moncoeur in for a third in return for his cooperation on Haiti. Valerie Duval discovered what they were planning for the Artibonite valley hog project and she threatened to blow the whistle. She contacted the one man she could depend on, Roy Jackson. He agreed to help her."

Lausaux started to cough. He wiped spittle and blood from the corner of his mouth.

"That's the point where good ol' Donny enters the story. His father tells him about his half-sister and asks him to move Duval and her mother to a safe apartment, out of the Channel and someplace where Kellerman couldn't find them. Donny figures there might be some advantage in it for him if he squeals to his uncle. He was right. Kellerman offers him a thousand dollars and some stock in Arena Victory to kill the Duval woman."

"Not the girl?"

"No. Kellerman reckoned if Roy's daughter was harmed, he might just go ahead and blow that whistle. As long as she was okay, Roy wouldn't say a word. Donny was still his son, no matter what sort of scumbag he had turned out to be."

"You got all this from Roy Jackson?"

"Most of it. All it took was a little coaxing. He had it bottled up inside of him long enough; he needed to tell somebody."

"If you had the whole story, why risk bringing Gilett in?"

"Moncoeur and MacLean wouldn't have lost much sleep over Kellerman. They would have given him up or had him killed, then cut a deal with FRAPH if they had to. But I had a trump card to play. Something I knew would turn their insides to stone."

"What was that?"

Lausaux started a second bout of coughing. It lasted a lot longer than the first and, took a heavy toll. When finally it ended, he said weakly, "That's enough talking. Shut up and drive. If you want to ask questions, try asking yourself how your wife's brain is coping with a reduced oxygen supply?"

The night was still black as pitch when they crossed the wooden bridge over the coulee and pulled up outside the Jackson place. The house was in darkness and dense rain clouds sweeping in from the Gulf had obscured the moon. There was no pickup parked out front, the sheriff would have had it driven into town. Val stopped the Wagoneer a short distance back from the house, where the headlights would illuminate the steps to the front porch. He switched off the engine. As he climbed out, the first plump raindrops of the cloudburst struck him. He could smell the mud of the bayou and Rita Jackson's honeysuckle.

Clutching the briefcase under his good right arm, Lausaux cautiously descended from the rear seat, keeping the automatic trained on Val at all times. The rear near side door of the jeep open to the rain. He had Val cross in front of the Jeep and step into the light first, and then he followed him.

Lausaux's breathing had deteriorated dramatically, erratic and shallow; each step he took seemed to send a spasm of pain coursing through him. The bullet had entered his chest just above his left nipple end exited at his collarbone. There were traces of frothing from both wounds, so it seemed likely that the bullet had penetrated a lung.

"Where's Angie?" Val demanded, his hair already sopping wet and water streaming down his face. "I've done what you've asked. I've cooperated fully."

Lausaux spat a stream of bloody saliva onto the ground. "You think I'm dumb enough to tell you one minute before the seaplane is preparing for take-off? We'll wait inside."

The sheriff had strung yellow crime-scene tape across the tops of the stanchions. Val angrily ripped it away and climbed the steps. He knew he would probably have a chance to turn the tables on Lausaux in the hour or so before dawn, but could he force him to talk. He wanted to heat pokers on the Jacksons's stove until they were red and insert them in Lausaux's eyes. He wanted to stake him to the ground and let the alligators chew on him. He wanted to take a bolt cutter to his fingers.

But could a man who has had a twenty million-dollar dream just ripped from his grasp, with nothing to look forward to but a number one Angola haircut and a date with the chair, be made to talk?

Probably not, Val thought. But it might be fun finding out.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Val had difficulty removing the crime-scene tape from around the doorframe. The illumination from the headlights didn't reach all the way up to the porch, so he had to work by touch. In the end he gave up, lowered a shoulder and broke open the door. The rain was coming down in torrents and the cypress boards were slippery underfoot. Lausaux stood directly behind him and prodded his back with the barrel of the gun.

"See if you can find a light switch," he said

Val's fingers groped around until he came on one. He flicked it, but the room remained in darkness. It he remembered correctly, the junction box was located behind the kitchen door.

"Power's off."

"Move on in. There's bound to be candles or a flashlight about somewhere."

Val took a couple of steps, trying to recall the exact layout of the room. He cracked his injured knee against something hard and swore. Lausaux collided into his back.

As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Val started to make out the silhouettes of furniture. Lausaux bumped into him again and grunted with pain. Val had had enough. He jabbed the point of his elbow backward into Lausaux's chest, roughly where he thought the wound should be. The man dropped the gun and doubled up, squealing like an injured animal. Val hunkered down and started to grope for the gun.

Before he had time to find it, every light in the room flooded on. The three bulbs on the wooden wheel hanging from the center of the ceiling, a standard lamp, even the wall sconces. The sudden brightness momentarily dazzled Val.

"Leave it!"

The command had come from behind him, in the direction of the kitchen. He didn't need to see a face to know who it was. It would have been difficult to forget the high-pitched voice of Malcolm Kellerman.

"Stand up slowly, Bosanquet. Then move over against the dresser. Take Lausaux with you."

Val clambered to his feet. The Beretta had skidded a yard away from where he had been searching. Kellerman was clutching a chrome-coated revolver in his fist.

"Go ahead and try for it. I'm a very good shot."

The parish sheriff had vouched for the Kellerman family's prowess with firearms. He took Lausaux's arm and helped him over to the dresser. The front of his shirt and the waist of his trousers were drenched with blood. The man would die if he didn't get medical attention soon. His lips moved as he tried to say something. Val bent down to catch it. Very faint, it sounded like, "She's drunk."

Lausaux's delirious, Val thought. He's trying to tell him about Angie drinking the Zombi Juice.

No, not drunk. Trunk!

Had Angie been in the Wagoneer's trunk for the last six or seven hours? It was hardly creditable, but where better to hide a comatose adult? Lausaux would have been pushed for time and needed to stash Angie where there would be no risk of accidental discovery. On the hour and half drive to St Francis, Val had given a lot of thought to where Lausaux had hidden Angie: Assist Haiti's storage facility at the airport, Lausaux's home, even his French Quarter office, and had rejected them all for one reason or another. It had to be the Wagoneer, especially considering the success Lausaux had had with his Bomb-in-a-Bentley stratagem.

Val turned to face Kellerman and edged a step closer. The priest was dressed much the same as when they had met in the church. He was still wearing his clerical collar.

"How did you know to be here?" Val asked.

"Just a hunch. Though, to be honest, I was expecting Donny. Who put a bullet in Lausaux?"

"MacLean. During the handover."

Kellerman's eyes flicked on to the briefcase Lausaux was still clutching tightly, then to the injured man, who was unable to straighten up under his own steam, his breathing coming in rapid, shallow gulps.

"Where's MacLean now?' Kellerman wanted to know.

"Dead."

"And Moncoeur?"

"They're both dead."

Kellerman didn't display any sorrow. "How?"

Val shrugged. "Ask Lausaux."

Kellerman said, "I don't think I will.' He fired a shot into the crown of Lausaux's head. Lausaux shuddered and dropped to the floor as though some invisible force had yanked his legs from under him. Val reeled. With one bullet, Kellerman had finished both Lausaux and Angie. He put out a hand and gripped the dresser to prevent himself from collapsing. Kellerman moved over to the Beretta, bent down and picked it up. He stuck it in the waistband of his trousers and pointed the revolver at Val.

"How did Lausaux plan to make his getaway? Seaplane?"

Val's pupils shrank to the size of match heads. "The killing has to stop."

"I did say that, didn't I?" He lowered the gun a fraction.

"Is Donny coming in on the plane?"

Val said nothing.

"I would like the opportunity of seeing him one last time. He has deprived me of a great deal of money."

"He might deprive you of more than that."

"We'll see. Close all the drapes. I wouldn't want to spoil his surprise."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The downpour delayed first light by a half hour. Twenty minutes after that Val heard the throb of an aero engine. Kellerman switched out the lights and pulled back the corner of a drape to peer up at the morning sky.

They hadn't traded more than a couple of dozen words in the last hour. Kellerman kept his distance, knowing a bullet would cover the ground between them a lot faster than Val could. He opened the briefcase and checked the treasury bills, but refused to be drawn by Val's questions and in turn seemed little interested in asking any of him.

Val had weighed the pros and cons of asking if he could check the trunk for Angie and decided against it. Kellerman was a stone killer and wouldn't think twice about putting a bullet in her. She was safer left where she was.

All he could do was sit and wait. The slimmest of chances, and he would pound Kellerman's head to a bloody pulp with his bare fists. So far no chance had come his way.

The engine noise grew in volume.

"I see it," Kellerman announced. "He'll be here soon."

Val could hear the plane banking in a circle above the Jacksons's house. Then it reduced power as the pilot feathered the props for a landing. Would the pilot leave his plane and come up to the house, or if nobody showed, simply take off again?

Kellerman checked both guns and took up position at the window.

Nothing happened for what seemed like a very long time. It was probably only minutes, Val imagined. The pilot must be expecting Lausaux to come to him.

Kellerman started to check his watch repeatedly. He strode across to the side window and moved the drape aside a minute amount.

"What the hell's keeping him? Didn't he see Lausaux's Jeep out front?"

As if in reply, there was a shot from outside and the window crashed in around Kellerman. He ducked down and shook shards of glass from his hair.

"What the hell is he playing at?" Kellerman whispered, not quite to himself.

"Lausaux, you double-crossing bastard. Show yourself," a voice hollered from outside.

Kellerman looked across at Val. There was confusion in his face. "Who the hell is that?"

"Gilett, one of Moncoeur's FRAPH buddies. He's Lausaux's partner. Donny had nothing to do with any of it."

Color drained from Kellerman's face. He wiped a trace of blood from his temple with the back of his hand.

"What does he mean about Lausaux double-crossing him?"

"I guess Lausaux didn't tell Gilett that he had brought the payoff forward by twenty-four hours."

There was a fusillade of shots and windows on three sides of the room disintegrated. Kellerman raised the revolver and blindly returned fire. He loosed off four rounds.

Once the reverberations of the firing died away, Gilett called out to the house. "You shouldn't have exploded the car, Lausaux. The newsrooms had the story on the air before the fire fighters were through putting out the flames."

"I wouldn't waste many more rounds like that," Val cautioned Kellerman. "From the direction of the shots, there are at least three of them and your ammunition is limited."

"Shut up! I'm trying to think."

"Maybe you should try talking. Tell them Lausaux's dead and offer them the money. It's what they're here for; otherwise they would have doused the walls of the house with aviation gas by now."

Kellerman looked at Val as though he had suggested the unthinkable. He picked empty shells from the revolver's cylinder and, his hands shaking, he reloaded with loose rounds from his pocket.

Val counted each one Kellerman inserted. One empty chamber.

"Talk to them," he urged.

"No way. I'm a dead man the moment I open my mouth."

"I expect they're still pissed at you for expropriating the Tonton Macoute retirement fund?"

"What do you know?" Kellerman spat back him. "If it was just that, don't you think I'd toss Gilett the briefcase?"

"Then what the hell is it?"

Another burst of semi-automatic gunfire raked the house. Gilett and his companions would know that they could shoot all day and the chances of it being reported were practically zero. Gunfire in the wetlands was far from an unusual occurrence, and the local inhabitants knew better than to go poking their noses in the business of strangers.

"There's a cell phone in the car," Val said. "Gilett shot up the only phone in the house last time he was here."

"Be my guest. Take a walk outside and fetch it."

That was one offer Val had no intention of accepting. "What makes you think Gilett has it in for you?"

Kellerman didn't answer he was staring at the door. "Give me a hand with the dresser."

Together they lifted the heavy dresser across, blocking the door. Val was marched into the kitchen at gunpoint and made to upend the kitchen table and wedge it against the back door. Kellerman had Val pull the kitchen blinds. They returned to the living room. Kellerman took up position next to one window. Val stood at the other.

"How long before Gilett starts to wonder why Lausaux isn't shouting back at him?" Val asked.

"Not long."

"Then let me talk with him first. I'll toss the briefcase out and explain that Lausaux's dead. We can lower his body through a window if he wants proof. He'll take the money and leave."

"It wouldn't work. Once he gets his hands on the money, there's nothing preventing him setting fire to the house."

Kellerman's assessment was spot on, Val conceded. But there had to be something they could do. Angie was in desperate need of medical attention. He racked his brains for a solution. Tell him that MacLean shot Lausaux, and the explosion destroyed the payoff? No, Gilett would never buy it. What were they doing here if they hadn't collected?

"Give me one of the guns, at least," Val said. If they decide to come at the house from two directions at the same time, you're finished."

"No way. You would shoot me in the back first chance you had."

"What chance would I have on my own? Besides, I'm a law enforcement officer. It's my sworn duty to protect you, no matter how much I may dislike it. If they knew there were two of us inside, they won't be in any hurry to rush us."

Kellerman cocked the revolver and pointed it at Val. "And if I were to put a hole in you now, I would have one less problem to deal with."

Gilett stuck his head out from behind a tree. "You have three minutes, Lausaux. Then we're coming in."

A trickle of sweat broke free from Kellerman's hairline and trickled down his temple. "Okay, talk to them. But one word about me and you're gator bait. If I didn't shoot you first, they'd kill you to get at me. Either way, you would be signing your own death warrant."

Val picked up a table lamp and used it to knock out a section of glass. The rain had finally eased off. He ripped down one side of the drapes and edged his head as close to the window frame as possible and shouted, "Gilett. It's Val Bosanquet here."

There was no response for twenty seconds. Then Gillett yelled back at him. "I remember you, Mister Chiefman. Where's Lausaux?"

"He doesn't feel like talking right now. He's asked me to negotiate."

"There's nothing to negotiate. I want the money and I want Lausaux. You get in the way of that, then that's your bad luck."

"I'm a cop, Gilett. You'd be stupid to kill a cop."

"I'm already a fugitive wanted on three counts of murder, Mister Chiefman. One more isn't going to change things."

"What about the men with you? Are they prepared to risk the chair as well?"

A bullet whacked into the outside edge of the window frame. A long splinter of wood split off and landed at Val's feet.

"There's your answer, Mister Chiefman. I should have killed you when I had the chance. My boys aren't going to allow me to make the same mistake twice. The three minutes start from now."

"Come one step closer and I begin burning Treasury Bills."

"Let Lausaux speak. I want to hear his voice."

Val waited a few moments, then shouted, "He says he doesn't want to talk."

"We think he's hurt bad or maybe dead, Mister Chiefman. From where I'm standing there's an awful lot of blood on the back seat of the Jeep. You're in there all by yourself."

"You think so. Just watch this."

Val signaled to Kellerman. "Throw me a gun. Take the clip out if you have to, but do as I say," he said, keeping his voice down to a whisper.

Kellerman pressed the release button and removed the magazine. He pulled back the slide and ejected the bullet from the chamber. He pocketed the magazine and the spare round, then tossed the empty gun to Val.

Val caught it one handed. "Now, let them see two guns at once. Okay."

They each displayed a weapon at their respective windows, and then quickly withdrew them before Gilett caught on that both the hands holding them were white.

"That proof enough?" Val yelled out. "Lausaux caught a bullet in the throat. He's okay, but he's not talking too good."

"So there's two of you. You have two minutes; then we're coming in."

"Say goodbye to the money."

There was no reply from the semi-circle of live oaks.

"Any more bright ideas?" Kellerman demanded. "With two of them to give covering fire, the third should be able to make it to the Jeep. Then the steps. Once he's under the house, we're finished."

Val didn't much like the idea of Kellerman firing at the Jeep, or of hot rounds coming up at them through the floorboards.

"You're going have to trust me and hand over the magazine. There's no other way. Two against three, we just might make it."

Kellerman took the magazine from his pocket. He rubbed his thumb along the black metal as he deliberated.

"Make your blasted mind up," Val said. "There isn't much time."

"Okay. You can have the revolver. Throw me the Beretta."

Val tossed it across the room. Kellerman caught it neatly and inserted the clip. He pulled back the slide.

"Quick, give me the revolver," Val hissed.

The priest released the hammer with his thumb and lobbed the gun across the room.

What was left of the glass in the windows came in around them as the Haitians opened up. For a split second Val seriously considered putting a bullet in Kellerman, but put wistful thinking aside and peeked his head around the edge of the window frame.

Two of the Haitians broke from the shelter of the oaks and started a crouching run towards the Wagoneer, their handguns held rigidly in front of them, blasting rounds wildly at the house. Their feet splashing and skidding on the rain-soaked ground, slowed their charge. Gilett had elected to remain behind his oak, presumably because of his earlier wounds.

Val realized the Haitian had handed them the advantage. Gilett could only keep one of them pinned down at a time. He stepped in front of the window and took careful aim at the man in front. The bullet struck him in the center of his chest and dropped him. Momentum bulldozed his face into the ground, pushing up a little ridge of mud.

Val shifted his attention to the second man. He fired two quick shots, and missed with both. A bullet fired in reply plucked at the sleeve of his jacket. He resisted the impulse to take cover, steadied his aim and fired once again. His target took a bullet in the thigh. It wasn't enough to stop him. He kept coming on, hobbling drunkenly like a racehorse which has shattered a leg mid-race. Val's final round caught him in the side of the head.

The odds had swung to their favor, but the defenders were reduced to one gun. Val looked across the room. Kellerman was leaning against the dresser, his forehead drenched in blood. He started to buckle.

Val stepped over Lausaux's body and moved quickly across the room to catch hold of Kellerman and lay him down on the couch. A bullet had clipped the priest high on the temple, the thick sticky blood made it appear worse than it was. The wound was a little more than a graze, a two-inch swath of silver hair shaved from his scalp. It wasn't life threatening, but he would have one hell of a headache when he came to.

Gilett stopped firing and the sudden silence was overwhelming.

Val slipped the Beretta from Kellerman's fingers. He checked the magazine. Three rounds left, plus the one in Kellerman's trouser pocket. He had no time to hunt for it now.

"Good shooting, Mister Chiefman," Gilett yelled out. But you've been holding out on me. It's been Kellerman the whole time. How is the bastard? I think I managed to nick him."

Val went back to his window. "He'll live."

"Now it's one on one, Mister Chiefman. How's your ammunition lasting out?"

"I have all I'll need."

"Glad to hear it. Give up Kellerman and you can walk away from here."

"I can't do that."

"Sure you can. A murdering bastard like that isn't worth dying over. You can keep the money, all I want is Kellerman."

"You want him? You come and get him."

"Maybe you'll change your mind when I tell you why I'm not leaving here without him."

"I'm listening," Val shouted back.

"My real name's Raoul Duval. Marie Duval is my half-sister. I was reported killed along with my father in eighty-six. His body and that of another man were burnt beyond recognition. Things in Haiti were very confused at the time. Mistakes were made."

Val popped his head out. The Wagoneer's battery had finally died; the headlights no longer shining. Gilett was lying stomach down in the lee of an oak. All that was visible was one leg and an ankle. The early morning sun had come out and the damp ground was steaming.

"Who made the mistake?" Val asked.

"The Haitian that Kellerman hired to kill my father and me. He was a small time crook, and a rapist who had fled Port-au-Prince while Baby Doc was still running things, but returned to carry out Kellermen's orders during the early days of the dechoukaj."

Val allowed the news to sink in. Small wonder that Gilett wanted a chance to reciprocate. "How can you know for sure that it was Kellerman?"

"My father's killer took a long time to die. When it was done, I swore a blood oath that one day I would come to America and kill the man who sent him."

"Why did you wait until now? Because of your mother?"

"Correct, Mister Chiefman. I bided my time until I had all their names. Every single one of them would pay for what they had done to her. No one would be allowed to escape the consequences."

"How did you find out about Donny Jackson? Lausaux tell you?"

"Right again, Mister Chiefman. He had chanced on my true identity from a contact of his in Haiti, though it meant nothing to him until Roy Jackson told him about Marie."

"Roy and Rita Jackson didn't deserve to die. They tried to help your mother. They were trying to help your sister."

"They used their silence to shield their son and Kellerman."

"Kellerman will stand trial for what he's done."

"He's a priest and an old man. Your American courts will be lenient on him. They won't sentence him to the chair."

"Living out the rest of his life in Angola prison farm would be a greater punishment."

From further up the bayou came the hacking cough of an aero engine kicking into life. After idling for a minute to circulate the oil, the roar increased as the seaplane turned into the wind and started its take-off sprint. Val watched it rise free of the trees about a quarter of a mile to the east. It soon became a dot in the sky.

"Looks like neither of us is going anyplace," Gilett shouted across.

"Suits me," Val yelled back at him. "Can't be long now before somebody starts to wonder what's happening at the Jacksons's. All I need do is sit tight and wait. Plenty of good clean water to drink, and all the tinned food I can eat."

"Ain't nobody for miles."

"These bayous are crawling with fishermen. I'll wager you this twenty million that right now several are making for town and the sheriff's office."

There was another shot and a bullet slammed into the set of bleached gator jaws the Jacksons's had mounted above their fireplace. It tumbled to the floor.

Returning fire at the oak Gilett was behind, Val saw bark and wood chips fly from it. Two rounds left.

Val checked his watch. A quarter past six. Angie had ingested the neurotoxin ten and a quarter hours previously. Was she still alive? Lausaux could have given her too strong a dose. Maybe it wasn't too late for the doctors to pump her stomach. Why not do as Gilett asked and give him Kellerman? No one would ever know or care. Angie was worth a hundred of Kellerman.

The priest stirred. His eyes blinked open and quickly shut again.

A wave of tiredness swept over Val. He had averaged less than three hours of sleep per night for the last six days. He yawned and rubbed a hand over his eyes. How long before Gilett decided to make his move? If he wanted Kellerman bad enough, nothing would stop him from torching the house. But to do that he would need gasoline and the only place he could now lay his hands on that was from the Wagoneer's tank.

What were his own options, Val wondered? The Wagoneer couldn't be started with a flat battery. He could try making a break for Lausaux's cell phone, but Gilett would pump round after round into the vehicle. He could set fire to the house himself, a controlled fire. Maybe somebody would report seeing smoke. Too risky, Val decided.

An hour ticked by.

Val's eyes hurt from the constant strain of focusing on the oak tree. His hand ached from holding the gun. His trigger finger had stiffened. Why hadn't Gilett made his move? What was keeping him? Was he still hurting too badly from his earlier injuries to chance it? Or was he out of ammunition? Maybe the seaplane hadn't deserted him. Gilett was bluffing about going nowhere, and had sent the pilot for reinforcements. Val listened for the sounds of an engine in the distance, but could hear nothing other than the chirping of crickets and the rasping croak of bullfrogs.

The temperature inside the house was rising; the air was that still it made little difference that most of the windows were out. Val licked his lips and imagined what a glass of fresh cool water from the kitchen faucet would taste like, knowing he couldn't abandon his vigil at the window.

"Mister Chiefman," Gilett called out. "Now you've had plenty of time to think about it, can't you see how dumb it is to protect Kellerman? He's not worth dying for."

Then Val heard it. At first it was so faint, he thought he was imagining it. But there was no mistaking that sound. A police siren in the distance, growing louder by the second.

For one brief moment, Val rested his forehead against the bare wood of the wall. He pulled back and looked out the window. Gilett had heard the siren too. He was up on his feet. Val braced his arm against the window frame as he tracked Gilett in his sights. Still too far away for Val to have any chance of hitting him, the Haitian was moving to his left, dodging from tree to tree. His intention was clear; he wanted to put the Wagoneer between him and the house when he made his charge.

Val reacted quickly. With help coming, Gilett wouldn't expect him to go on the offensive. He moved Lausaux's body and heaved the dresser away from the door. Then, sucking in a deep breath, he swung open the door and hurled himself over the railings of the porch. Although the ground was soft and he hit with his left shoulder, it still knocked the wind out of him. He rolled across the ground to the overturned pirogue. Bullets tore up the earth around him.

Bullets penetrated the boat tearing great splinters of wood from the flat hull. Val pushed himself up off the ground and knelt on one knee as he took careful aim. The charging Gilett reminded Val of one of those running figure targets that the army uses on their firing ranges. Only Gilett was no two-dimensional, monochrome picture.

The wail of the siren filling his ears, Val squeezed the trigger twice. Both shots slammed into Gilett's chest. He managed another couple of strides before flopping across the pirogue's hull. Val rose and took Gilett's gun from his hand and checked for a pulse.

Marie Duval's half-brother was dead.

The SUV of the St Francis Parish sheriff clattered over the wooden bridge, a deputy's car immediately behind. They pulled up beside Gilett's body and the sheriff and a deputy jumped out, their guns drawn. Val threw both guns to the ground and ran to the back of the Wagoneer and released the tailgate. Angie was inside, curled up in a fetal position. He couldn't find a pulse, though her body was warm. Let it be more than the heat inside the trunk, Val hoped. He lifted her tenderly in his arms.

"Get me to the nearest hospital," Val commanded the sheriff.

The sheriff caught the urgency on Val's face and wasted no time. He threw open the door of his SUV and helped Val lay Angie across the rear seat. Val climbed in beside her, and the sheriff, shouting instructions to his deputy the whole time, got behind the wheel. He was already on his radio asking the operator to patch him through to the Morgan City hospital as they crossed the wooden bridge.

"Tell them she was given a neurotoxin approximately twelve hours ago," Val said. "She'll need some sort of chemical blocker."

The sheriff started relaying the information to the Emergency Room. He wasn't holding back on the gas.

"Tell them she's in early months of pregnancy," Val added. He felt so useless. The help Angie needed most, he couldn't provide.

The sheriff turned his head slightly. "I see you finished what you started with Gilett. I had a call from the Coast Guard. Some seaplane pilot radioed in a report that World War Three had broken out down in the bayous."

Val looked up. "You better have them dispatch a paramedic team. I left a priest back there with a head wound. Tell your deputy to place him in custody."

The sheriff got busy on his radio again.

Val swept a blonde hair back from his wife's face. What had she ever done to deserve any of this?

The sheriff intruded on his thoughts. "The Emergency Room doctors want to know what sort of neurotoxin we're talking about?"

"A Haitian Zombi juice. A mixture of extracts from the liver of the puffer fish and the bark of the manchineel tree." Val caught the look of incredulity that flashed across the Sheriff's face. That was going to be the first hurdle to overcome at the hospital; convincing the doctors to take him seriously.

"They want to know if you can be more specific?" the sheriff reported.

"Have them contact a Professor Richard Bickford of the Anthropology Faculty of the University of New Orleans. He should be able to help them out."

Something Lausaux had said came back to Val. When he talked about the antidote, he said it had been much easier to conceal. He didn't use the word hide. Conceal. He probably had the antidote on him the whole time, or in the Wagoneer somewhere. Val considered what do to. Take a chance and have the sheriff turn around and go back to look for it, or concentrate on getting Angie to an Emergency Room as quickly as possible?

Lausaux had been a devious bastard. He would put the antidote where no one would think of looking for it.

Val used his thumbs to prize open Angie's mouth. A small glass phial lodged in the back of her throat. He used two fingers to fish it out. It was a match for the one Lausaux had shown him back at Woldenberg Park. Only this phial still contained a liquid. What if it was neurotoxin as well? If Lausaux had played one final bluff?

Val made his decision. He ripped off the rubber stopper and tilted the contents into Angie's mouth, making sure not to spill a single drop of the precious liquid. He gently massaged Angie's throat to help the liquid descend her gullet. Now all he could do was to wait.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Marie Duval's heart missed a beat when she saw him. The last person she expected to find waiting on her doorstep was Val Bosanquet. She had been to the neighborhood 7-eleven for some milk and cereal for her breakfast and had been gone less than ten minutes. Had something happened to Angie? Had he brought bad news?

Bosanquet had a parcel with him, wrapped in brown paper. "Can I come in?"

"Of course. Is Angie okay?' She had visited Angie the day before at Tulane Medical Center, and the toxin specialist assured her that she was going to be fine, although she had lost her baby.

"Yes, she's making a full recovery. The medical center plan to discharge her later today."

She turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. He followed her in and shut the door after them.

"Take a seat. Can I get you a coffee?"

"No thanks."

Marie sat on a chair at the small white table. Val sat on the end of the couch. Her apartment seemed a lot smaller with him in it. He had tired eyes.

"I brought you something,' he said, handing her the parcel.

She took it and set it on the table. The string that bound it was loose and easily removed. Inside were five thick bundles of one hundred-dollar bills.

"What is this?" she asked, totally confounded.

"It belongs to you. Fifty thousand dollars."

"I don't understand. How can it be mine?"

"Your father wished for you to have it."

Marie bit her lips. Val had broken the news to her yesterday of her real father's identity, and that Donny Jackson was her half-brother. They had talked for an hour in a family room at Tulane. Or rather Val talked, she had listened. He had explained how her mother had intended to go to the press and expose Arena Victory. How Kellerman had her killed. How he also had her father and brother killed all those years ago.

She pushed the money away from her. I can't accept his blood-money. Did he really think this would make up for what was done to my mother?"

"Your father was a good man," Val assured her. "He made one mistake. He trusted his son, then had to pay for it for the rest of his life. I don't care what you do with the money. Throw it in the trash can, donate it to charity. Or spend it the way your father intended."

Marie didn't want to think about it just now. "What will happen to Kellerman?"

"He's been indicted for the murder of Philip Lausaux. Other charges will follow."

"And Donny Jackson?" According to the late-evening television news, her half-brother was now in a New Orleans jail. He had tripped a silent alarm while attempting to burglarize Jean Moncoeur's empty Lake Pontchartrain mansion. When the NOPD patrol car turned up, he tried to make a run for it, but a leg wound, not yet fully healed, slowed him up. They caught him easily enough.

"The same. An indictment for murder," Val said flatly.

Marie caught his eye. "I'm so sorry for what I've brought on you and Angie. What do the doctors think? Will she ever be able to have another baby?"

"There's no medical reason why not. She and Marcus plan to marry as soon as the divorce comes through. They're already discussing IVF treatment with the doctors at Tulane. It's the right thing to do. Angie and I love each other, but she also loves Marcus, and he her. She will find her happiness with him."

"What about you? Don't you deserve some happiness as well?"

"That will come. I've decided to rejoin the New Orleans police department as soon as the university can appoint a replacement chief."

"Are you sure that's what you want to do? I thought you despised law enforcement."

"It wasn't law enforcement I despised."

Marie left it at that. Something inside Val Bosanquet had changed, and as to whether it was a good or a bad thing, the jury was still out. She suspected that he was holding something back from her, but if he was, then he was sure to have a good reason for doing so.

A shiver went up her spine.

After leaving Duval's apartment, Val sat in his car for a short time, listening to a news update on the radio. The Securities Exchange Commission had stepped in and called a postponement to Arena Victory's flotation. The journalist went on to speculate on the prospects of it ever going ahead, as, following recent press allegations and the announcement of a police investigation into the circumstances leading up to Stuart MacLean's death, the big stock-broking firms were hastening to disassociate themselves from it.

The news report that followed on was a linking story. Veteran New Orleans broadcaster, Harry Nolan, the man who scooped the Arena Victory story, had initiated a campaign for the boycotting of all sports equipment manufactured in sweatshop conditions. His crusade was snowballing and the network media were taking it up. All across the country, sport stars' agents were checking the fine print on their clients' endorsement contracts with equipment manufacturers.

Val turned off the radio, started his car and joined the traffic flow on Canal.

Other books from AJ Davidson

Non-fiction

Kidnapped

Defamed!

Fiction

Death Sentence – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

Moon on the Bayou – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

Sandman – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

Churchill's Queen

Wounded Tiger

Piwko's Proof

Paper Ghosts

Decoys

Read bonus sample of AJ Davidson's Death Sentence, the second Val Bosanquet Mystery

Chapter One

Reincarnationists maintain that new life springs from death, a time for celebration as well as sorrow. East Feliciana Parish Deputy Sheriff Val Bosanquet was not a believer, but before the sun sank on a fateful July day, he would readily agree that one man's demise had led to, if not exactly a birth, certainly a rebirth.

Val, a former New Orleans homicide detective, was a campus cop when Clinton middle-school teacher, Diane Laing, went missing. She was the fourth woman to disappear in a series of suspected abductions. Back then, he had his hands more than full with Crescent City iniquity to pay much heed to events along the Louisiana Mississippi state line. If it had not been for his cousin Nath, a young Marine, the Laing abduction might have quickly fallen off his radar. His cousin spent two weeks' leave as part of the search teams combing the woods and soya bean fields surrounding the location of the last positive sighting of the victim. Each evening he would phone Val, updating him on the search and picking his brains as to what direction the investigation should be taking next. Nath had thrown himself into the hunt with the same steely determination and vigor that would mark him out as a soldier of exceptional ability. With youthful naivety, he was convinced sheer energy would help good triumph over evil. He had attended the same high school as Laing, but could not swear to ever having spoken with her. Over one hundred people volunteered to assist the East Feliciana Parish Sheriff's Office look for the local girl. Despite their best efforts, the searchers did not discover a single trace of the missing twenty-three-year-old. Nath took it hard. He refused to believe the worse and insisted she was still alive.

Ten years were to pass before Laing surfaced.

During those years, Val had again dropped out of law enforcement. His brother Marcus manipulated him into signing on as the Chief with a campus PD. His stint on the university's payroll ended badly and he left New Orleans for the East Texas border where he found a job with a private investigations agency. The sheriff of East Feliciana Parish, as sliver-tongued as any snake oil salesman, had enticed him into trying his hand at rural law enforcement. The two men met during the cleanup operation in the wake of Katrina. Seeing the destruction visited on the city of his birth and witnessing the worse the human race could offer convinced Val that he had more to contribute to society than the checking of credit ratings for Texas banks.

Val moved northeast, bought and restored a ramshackle shotgun house outside Clinton. As he sawed and planed wood, he played rock albums on an ancient stereogram the previous property owner had left behind, and then, in his spare time, started to tour goodwill shops to add to the collection of 1970s vinyl. Since leaving a devastated New Orleans, Val had gained twenty pounds and developed a pathological hatred of golf. He slotted smoothly into his new job and there was nobody more surprised than he was when he rediscovered the investigative grit that had made him New Orleans youngest ever homicide lieutenant. However, the break that led to Laing's discovery had not sprung from any rejuvenated sense of purpose, but from a fatal accident and the contents of a department store's shopping bag.

Word of the fatality reached Val late on a Friday afternoon, the penultimate day of July. A few minutes later and he would have been off-duty and might have missed the shout. A vehicle had swiped a forty-three-year-old white male as he was returning to his car parked on St. Helena Street.

Val cradled the phone on his shoulder so he could search through the clutter on his desk for some scrap of paper to note the details. He found a dog-eared internal memo and turned it over.

"What did you say his name was?" Val asked the Clinton PD officer who had called him to report the fatality.

"Jake Harrell. He was carrying an out-of-date Louisiana driving permit."

The name sounded familiar to Val. Perhaps he had pulled him in some time or other.

The municipal cop continued, "He was unfortunate. From the preliminary eyewitness reports, the vehicle did not strike him that hard, but he stumbled backwards over a curb and his head connected with a concrete bollard. The impact smashed in the back of his skull like a spoon cracking a hard-boiled egg. The paramedics say death would have been pretty quick. The driver of the vehicle stopped and called the paramedics on her cell."

"Alcohol or drugs involved?"

"No cause to think so. The elderly female driver appears traumatized and the paramedics are recommending she be taken in for observation. The witnesses agree that speed was not a factor. Another officer is checking for security tapes, but as far as I can see, there's no camera covering this part of the street."

Val pulled a face. "Just our luck. Any suggestion it was deliberate?"

"Not so far. The two wits who had the best view of the incident both say Harrell stepped out in front of the vehicle. The driver did brake, but had no chance of missing him."

"Have you sealed off the scene?"

"Yeah. We were here pretty quickly. We were just a block away when the call came through. My partner preserved the scene and I rounded up most of the wits before they had time to melt away."

"Sounds like you're on top of things," Val said, happy enough to leave the incident in the hands of the Clinton cops.

"Pretty much," the officer confirmed. "Reason I contacted you was because the victim was carrying your card in his wallet."

It was the prompt Val needed to jog his memory. Harrell had been the elder brother of the second of four East Feliciana women abducted during a sixteen-month period starting eleven years earlier. One of his less-rewarding duties as the Sheriff's Office senior detective was the periodic review of historic, unsolved investigations. The missing women had been one of the first cases he had looked at after his appointment, spurred on by Last Seen, a true-crime book published by a local journalist. Predictably, the Sheriff's Office had come in for some heavy criticism for its failure to find the slightest trace of the women, or their bodies. The first woman abducted was Kristal Dean, then Samantha Thomas a week later. Six months went by before Jodie Ford went missing on her way back from visiting her older sister's college campus. The final victim was Diane Laing. Dean was African-American, the other three white. Val had spoken to all of the close family members of the disappeared women, but had unearthed nothing of value. The original investigators did as thorough a job as could be expected of them, considering the paucity of concrete evidence. He remembered handing Harrell his card the last time they had talked, asking him to get in touch if any fresh information surfaced. The dead man, like Val's cousin, had been a Marine at the time of his sister's abduction; a captain with the 1st Recon Battalion.

There was no good reason for Val to attend the scene. He had not heard from Harrell since their last brief conversation just days into the previous year. No good reason at all − not even his jurisdiction. But Val wanted to know why Harrell still carried his card?

"I'll be there in five," Val said, though it would mean skipping the customary last-Friday-of-the-month barbecue Sheriff Ted Harris was hosting at his house that evening. He would ask Deputy Blemings to accompany him. She was three months pregnant and had sworn off liquor. No point in spoiling the evening for Joel Wright, Val's usual partner, who was probably sitting down his generous backside next to one of Harris's spool tables at that very moment, with the thirst of a deranged wildebeest. Wright was due to start two weeks' vacation and did not plan to waste a single moment in sobriety.

Val left his office and signaled to Blemings that she should join him. She rose from her desk and slid her Glock into the paddle holster on her hip. He quickly explained the phone call. They would ride the short distance from Bank Street in Val's SUV.

"Has the victim's family been informed?" she asked.

Val was all too aware that more often than not a female deputy would have to deliver the very worse type of news. Equality in the workplace did not count for much when dealing with personal tragedy. He looked across at the young detective. Since becoming pregnant, Nicki had not worn a seatbelt. Her partner was a mortgage broker in Jackson. And a keen golfer.

"Harrell's only relative was his sister, the second of the girls who disappeared. Her name was Samantha Thomas. Orphaned as children, when a Baton Rouge train wreck had claimed the lives of their parents, the social workers tried their best apparently but were unable to place them with the same family. A childless couple adopted the girl, not much more than a toddler, within a few months. Jake Harrell, just into his teens, was cared for by a number of homes and foster parents, but was never formally adopted. He joined the Marines as soon as they would have him, and the life suited him. I was surprised to hear that he had resigned his commission. He seemed the sort of guy perfectly cut out to be a lifer."

"A hard ass?"

"Sorry to shatter your preconceptions, Deputy Blemings. He was bright, tight, and fit as a whippet. Looked good in camouflage combats, and came across as a man you could depend on in a crisis. Cool, calculating, not one to show his emotions. He didn't talk a lot."

"Could you be any more biased?"

Val grinned, everyone in the department knew of his fierce loyalty to the corps, even after Nath died in the hellhole they called Afghanistan. It was as though anything less than full on support would be dishonoring his memory.

"How did he take his sister's disappearance?"

Val turned onto St. Helena. "Hard to say. I didn't get to meet him until almost eight years after her abduction. He had sought permission to trace his sister when she reached the age of eighteen. She did consent to meet him, but I don't think it went well. There was no big emotional sibling reunion, and she went missing eight months later. Harrell was serving in Germany at the time and therefore was never a suspect. He appeared to have accepted that she was dead and was not holding out any hope that she might still be found alive."

"Maybe he was too busy holding a grudge against the cops."

Val shook his head disapprovingly. "So young and yet so cynical. It's as I said, he was hard guy to read. But I got the impression that he had lost his sister once before, so second time round it was easier to handle."

Blemings shot him a judgmental look, as if asking now who's cynical.

The accident had happened just in front of a department store, one of Clinton's oldest retail institutions. Friday evening was the busiest time of the week for the store and there was a heavy footfall of customers coming and going.

They swung into the curb, behind a garishly decorated patrol car.

"I see the crash investigation team is here," Blemings said, nodding towards two men in Day-Glo jerkins who were taking measurements and recording their findings on a clipboard. A third was taking photographs of the scene. An ambulance and a doctor-on-call car were partially shielding Harrell's body.

"Let's go stamp on some toes," Val said. He flashed his badge to the nearest of the crash investigators, and raised the blue and white incident tape so he and Blemings could duck under it. About a dozen shoppers were huddled in the still bright sunshine in the front of the store, their eyes fixed on the dead man. The police officer who had phoned Val stood next to the body, talking to a middle-aged black man who held a stethoscope in one hand. The doctor, Val concluded, proving beyond doubt that the sheriff's belief in his investigative ability had not been misplaced.

Harrell was on his back, his head oddly misshapen, one arm flung out to the side, the other tight against his body. He wore a white t-shirt and denim jeans. It appeared that the paramedics had moved him a few feet away from the concrete bollards so they could attempt resuscitation, but a dark smear of congealed blood identified the one that had inflicted the damage. Harrell's legs were splayed out, the left twisted at an impossible angle, its foot bare, the sneaker sent flying by the impact.

"More than a glancing blow," Blemings remarked, interpreting the same signs as Val.

Lying on the tarmac, not far from the forlorn sneaker, was a plastic shopping bag, emblazoned with the name of the department store.

"And you are?" demanded the investigator with the camera.

"An interested party," Val said.

His reply cut no ice with the investigator. "This is my crime scene. I decide who has access."

"Deputies Bosanquet and Blemings," Val said. "The victim is known to us from an investigation."

"A current inquiry?"

"Not exactly. His sister disappeared eleven years ago, presumed abducted and killed. No trace was ever found."

Val noticed compassion soften the officer's face. It did not linger.

"So you'll have no objections if this one takes precedence. I do have a body, a fresh one."

"Go right ahead. We won't get in your way," Val replied.

They turned away and approached the victim. Other than his face being of a darker hue than when they had spoken, Harrell did not appear to have changed. Val expected that he would have caught the summer sun working outdoors. Harrell worked sporadically as gamekeeper for some of the fowling clubs, out on the bayous and lakes in all weather. He also ran a one-man welding and fabrication business from a workshop at his home.

As Val was about to speak with the doctor, the medic's cell phone rang and he excused himself to take the call.

The deputy altered tack. "Have you found his car keys?" Val asked the municipal cop.

"In his pocket," he said, pointing to a dark blue Ford Taurus parked on the other side of the street. "I pressed the remote and the lights flashed."

"Searched it?"

The officer bristled slightly. "I was about to do so when the investigators arrived. They told me to leave it to them."

Val nodded. "They know best."

"No cell phone?" Blemings chipped in.

"Not unless it's in the car."

"Or it's been trousered," Val said, scanning the faces of the group watching the scene. A couple of the onlookers dropped their gaze and shuffled their feet.

He walked over to the shopping bag and hunkered down. Using a biro to push back the plastic he made a quick inventory of the contents. A copy of the The Watchman, Clinton's weekly newspaper; a carton of peanut butter cookies; a can of shaving foam; a twin pack of 60 watt light bulbs; a book of Sudoku puzzles. A final item struck him as bizarre.

He stood up and returned to Blemings and the officer. The doctor ended his telephone conversation and rejoined the group. Blemings introduced herself and offered her hand.

The medic gripped it tightly. "Doctor Luke Green. I'm a partner with a Clinton practice, brought in to confirm death."

"The victim was a local man," Val explained, taking his turn to shake hands. "Did you know him?"

Green nodded. "He was registered with the practice, but I rarely had to treat him. I wish more of my patients were as healthy as he was. Harrell took good care of himself: non-smoker; drank moderately and did a bit of running."

"You knew him socially?"

"Not really. Saw him about. I bumped into to him at a couple of chamber of commerce social events; Fourth of July barbecue; a Veterans' parade."

Val grimaced.

"Sorry," Green apologized. "Poor choice of words."

"Ever see him with a woman?"

"No, can't say I did. Pretty sure he wasn't married, but I'd have to check our files to be certain."

"Maybe he met someone recently," Val said.

Green did not seem convinced. "He was always on his own. I think he was a man happiest in his own company. Pleasant enough to speak with, I thought, but not one for idle chat."

The doctor's assessment of Harrell tallied with Val's own. Which made his recent discovery all the more puzzling. He now had a conundrum screaming out for a solution.

"We're done here," Val told Blemings. They made their farewells and passed on details of where they could be contacted. The accident investigators were erecting a screen around the dead man. Val took one last long look at the body before he climbed back into the passenger seat of their vehicle.

Blemings noticed the intensity of his stare.

"Something not right?" she asked him.

He did not answer.

"Listening to the Doctor describe him," Blemings went on. "You and Harrell could have been twins. Apart from the running, obviously."

Depressingly, Val had thought the same thing.

Storm ditches and bayous crisscrossed the countryside around Clinton, the productive farmland part of the original cotton belt. The alluvial soil was so fertile farmers said that a Popsicle stick pushed into the rich loam would sprout leaves within twenty-four hours. The two deputies drove between tracts of land planted with the summer soya crop, the neat rows reaching into the distance as far as the eye could see. As they drove past, Val could see the tangled vines heavy with clusters of fat pods ready for the vining machines that would soon be harvesting the crop on behalf of the numerous canning and freezing factories scattered over this part of Louisiana. As a teenager, he had spent his summers toiling in a canning factory. The hours were long, but the work was not that arduous and at that age, the wages had seemed little short of incredible.

Harrell's home was the former coach house of an antebellum mansion that a cotton mill owner had built twenty years before the War Between the States. Situated on prime farmland ten miles west of Clinton, fire had badly damaged the main house in the 1930s, the derelict shell later razed to make way for a Second World War flight school for long-range bomber pilots. The USAF kept the coach house to store supplies. It was too close to the runway to be habitable, and abandoned after the war.

A new owner dug up the runway in the sixties and returned the land to horticultural use. A year before the millennium, Harrell had made the landowner an offer for the crumbling coach house which had been accepted with alacrity. He replaced the roof and installed utilities. Apart from the addition of a bathroom and a kitchen, the interior had seen little improvement. Val recalled how he had broken the ice with Harrell by talking real estate renovation; explaining how he was working on his own project at that time.

"Home comforts could be described as Spartan," Val finished explaining to Blemings. "And that's being generous."

"Needs a woman's touch."

"That's it exactly. When I last spoke to him, it was clear that he was a man living on his own."

"Nothing wrong with that," Blemings said. "Maybe he was gay."

Val shook his head. "I shouldn't have thought so."

"Lacking style doesn't make him straight."

"There was a box of tampons in his shopping bag. What would a man like Harrell be doing buying tampons? Even if he had met someone, he wasn't the type a woman would ask to purchase intimate hygiene supplies."

Blemings mulled it over before she replied. "He may have wanted them for some other purpose. I've heard of sanitary towels being used as makeshift bandages; sterile and absorbent."

"Pull-throughs for cleaning shotgun barrels."

He signaled for Blemings to slow down. It was easy to miss the entrance to the track that led to Harrell's coach house, it being just the other side of a farm's machinery store.

"There on the right," he said, stabbing a finger towards the partially concealed opening.

Blemings swung the SUV onto the track, which had a healthy crop of grass growing along its center. The pot-holed laneway was a quarter-mile long and ended in front of the single-story, ivy-clad coach house.

As Val looked around the somnolent rural landscape, it was difficult to imagine that Flying Fortresses once made the ground shudder as they taxied for take-off.

Making straight for the main entrance, a picket door set into in a pair of double doors in an archway, Val rapped strongly on the lion's head knocker. With his customary impatience, he did not wait to see if anyone answered but immediately started to walk around the exterior of the house, peering through the windows.

"Nobody home," he announced, testing a closed top light. He tried the next window and found it loosely latched. Val pulled a penknife from his pocket and used the blade to lift the casement stay, then pushed the window open. He glanced at Blemings.

"Duh, baby!" she said.

"Lend me your shoulder then." Val scrabbled up the ivy-covered wall and, using Blemings for support, launched himself headfirst through the open window, knocking over a large wooden bench upon landing. A few moments later, the front door opened.

Val rubbed a knee. "Stupid place to leave furniture."

They lost no time in searching the coach house. An inspection of the bathroom and the only closet confirmed that Harrell had still been living solo. Although very little had been spent on decoration, the house was clean, dry and inordinately neat. The bed was made, the furniture dust free, the floor swept. All of the dead man's clothes laundered and pressed. His shoes and work boots cleaned and shined. Utility bills paid promptly and filed by date. A heavy padlock secured a metal gun safe fixed to the wall. Old newspapers and magazines were folded tidily and stacked in order of publication. The dishes washed, dried and put away, the sink rinsed and wiped free of any water drops. Canned goods and food in the fridge arranged in reverse use-by date.

"A bit OCD for me," Blemings said.

"When was the last time you were in a house where the only TV was a black and white model?"

The rear of the coach house had been partitioned off and the resultant space used as a workshop. Harrell had not invited Val through on his previous visits and the deputy was surprised to discover just how skillful Harrell was in his metalworking. A number of completed items awaited delivery: an Old Father Time weather vane; a sign for Eden Farms Organic Hogs and an ornate hay manger intended for a stable. Along one wall was a lathe, bench grinder and a serious looking drill. Two gas cylinders, hoses and a burner were stacked in a corner. There was also an electric arc welding kit, the protective facemask and gloves lying on top. Plastic trays housed a range of nuts, bolts and washers. Saws, hammers, spanners were hung on peg racks. In the center of the workshop's floor was an impressive double pedestal desk that looked like it may have dated from the same era as the coach house. Drawings for a set of ornate gates were lying on top, the draughtsmanship displaying the same neatness and meticulousness evident in the living area of the house.

"Our boy was a bit of a craftsman," Blemings remarked.

"He didn't learn this in Recon."

The sound of a vehicle drawing up outside brought an end to their observations. Val headed outside, Blemings trailed in his wake.

To say that the accident investigators were less than pleased to see them would have been considerable understatement, Val reckoned. The sergeant was apoplectic. His face turned a shiny red, then purple with blue patches. He was having trouble putting his rage into words. For a few moments, Val thought the man was going to suffer a stroke.

Finally, the irate investigator recovered his power of speech. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he bawled.

Val smiled warmly. "We were securing the victim's residence for you. How would it have looked if some opportunistic thief had been at the accident and thought to take advantage? No need to thank us. I could see you had your hands full at the scene."

Val opened the door fully and waved the investigators in. The two uniformed men eyed Val suspiciously, before pushing past him.

"Let's not forget our training," Blemings said, pulling a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and making a show of putting them on.

The accident investigators moved deeper into the coach house. The deputies followed them, further irritating the uniformed officers. The sergeant had Harrell's car keys with him and lost no time searching through them until he found the key that fitted the padlock on the gun safe. There were two shotguns and three boxes of cartridges inside. Next to the guns, was a leather gun case, with a cleaning kit inside.

Val and Blemings traded glances. Another theory crashed and burned.

The accident investigators' search would not take long. Not through any lack of effort on their behalf, but because there was so little to search through. Harrell was not a conspicuous consumer. The bulk of his personal belongings would have fitted into a decent sized suitcase. No computers, no diaries, no hidden safe, not even a porn magazine under the bed.

"There is not a single photograph in the house," Blemings whispered to Val.

"I don't have many in mine."

"Proves my point, he was a sad bastard."

The accident investigators finished their search and were obviously keen to be on their way. The sergeant closed the window Val had climbed through, making a point of securing the stay. His companion carried the two shotguns and the boxes of cartridges out to their car and secured them in its trunk. The uniformed officers lingered out front, reluctant to leave until the deputies had exited the coach house.

Val waited for Blemings to step through the picket door, and then he stepped back across the sill and put an arm round the edge of the door.

"Allow me," he said, pulling the door shut.

"I don't think we need worry about thieves?" the sergeant said, as he climbed into the passenger seat of his vehicle. "There's precious little worth stealing."

The patrol car pulled away, its driver spinning the wheels to throw up a cloud of choking dust.

"Back to the office?" Blemings asked.

"Not just yet. I want another look inside."

"How do we get back in?"

Val opened his hand and showed her a key. "I palmed this. Harrell was too much of an organized type not to have a spare. It was hanging on a hook behind the door."

"Smoothly executed. But I don't see any point going back inside. We've seen all there is to see."

"I'm not so sure."

"Something you're not telling me?"

"Let's go find out."

Back inside, Val made straight for the workshop at the rear. He crossed over to the desk and drummed his fingers on it.

"Odd place to put a desk," he said. "Restricts the work space, and you would be forever walking round it. If it was me, I would have placed the desk up against a wall."

The deputies cast an eye over the floor under the desk. Like the rest of the workshop floor, thick plywood sheets covered the original planking. They provided a non-slip surface, good insulation and were easy to sweep clean of metal shavings.

Val grabbed one end of the desk. "Everybody has something to hide. It is just a matter of knowing where to look. Give me a hand with this."

They moved the desk to one side, exposing the eight by four sheet of plywood underneath. Val took a flat-head screwdriver from its spot on the pegboard and inserted its point under the edge of the sheet. He pressed down and levered up the plywood slightly, then, seizing the sheet, he lifted it free.

"Jackpot," Blemings said, when she saw the steel trapdoor.

Val grabbed hold of the inset hand ring and raised the hatch. A set of wooden steps disappeared into the gloom beneath. He flicked a switch fitted to the wooden collar of the opening, flooding the hidden basement with light. He peered down into the oubliette.

"Looks like it was a wine cellar for the main house," he said. Built along one wall was a set of bottle racks.

Val took a few steps down into the basement. A sense of disappointment washed over him when he saw a rowing machine, an exercise bike, and a treadmill. It appeared Harrell had been using the basement for nothing more sinister than a home gym. On the opposite wall was an ancient door, looking as though it had not opened for half a century.

"Well?" Blemings asked.

Val ventured further down the steps. "Come see for yourself. Be careful, there's no handrail."

He held up a hand to offer the young deputy some support as she descended. He watched her eyes scan the contents of the hidden cellar. The original brick-lined walls had been lime-washed, better to reflect the light from the two bare bulbs hanging by their flex from the ceiling.

"It seems our boy was a bit of a mole."

"A vain one at that," Val said, indicating a large mirror fixed on a wall.

Blemings crossed over to the heavy oak door. "Presumably this would have led to the main house, probably coming out in the kitchens."

Her face showed her surprise when she found that the handle turned effortlessly and the door swung open on silent hinges to reveal another unlit room.

Val touched her shoulder.

"Let me check it out first, it could be dangerous."

Val used his hand to explore the nearest wall for a light switch. He was in luck and the room flooded into brightness. It was a third of the size of the first room. The brick walls again painted to help lighten the gloom. Three of them at least. Harrell had sheeted the fourth wall, the one opposite the door he had entered through, in galvanized steel and fitted a metal door in the center. Along the right-hand-side wall, was a pine table, stacks of paperback books, a couple of chairs and a Swedish-style closet. Ikea's finest.

"Looks like the door to one of our cells," Blemings whispered, echoing precisely what Val had been thinking. "There's even an observation panel."

A spring-loaded bolt secured the metal door. Val slid it back and hauled open the door.

His mouth dropped open.

Lying on a bunk inside the cell was a woman, her skin as shiny and white as candle wax. At her first sight of the deputies, she started to scream. Her piercing screeching reverberated off the steel walls of the cell, magnifying its intensity. For that's what the room was, Val thought grimly, right down to the metal toilet bowl and wash hand basin.

Blemings pushed past him and wrapped her arms round the terrified woman, stroking her hair and trying to comfort her. She told her that they were parish deputies and that she was safe now.

Val could only stand and stare, desperately trying to make sense of what they had stumbled across. The woman seemed in good health, well-nourished and groomed. An electric fire heated the cell and there was a bulkhead light above him.

Gradually the woman's ear-piercing shrieking abated, replaced with huge chest-wracking sobs. Blemings grabbed hold of the folded duvet from the bunk and wrapped it around the abducted woman.

It was ten long years since the East Feliciana Parish Sheriff's Office circulated her photograph to the media. But the intervening years did not prevent Val from immediately recognizing Diane Laing. The final one of the young women abducted. Four women in their prime had disappeared without a trace.

Until now.

Chapter Two

Val had nothing but admiration for the remarkable job Nicki did calming down Laing. The unfortunate woman's initial trepidation quickly transformed to euphoric relief when they produced their deputy badges and she fully grasped that her lengthy ordeal was finally at an end. Physically she seemed fine, but Val could only speculate as to her mental state. He recalled a couple of other long-term abductions: the horrifying Elisabeth Fritzl saga and, nearer to home, the Jaycee Lee Dugard case. He wished he had paid more attention as to how the authorities had handled the victims immediate to their release. He appreciated that Laing was about to find herself swept up in a whirlwind of well-meaning but intrusive attention from law enforcement officers, medical professionals, welfare agencies, the media and her friends and family. Val felt certain the more psychologically equipped she was for the battering, the better she would cope. He and Nicki's moral duty was to help prepare her, yet his experience told him that the next couple of hours would be crucial to the investigation. Was it conceivable that the other three missing women were still alive? Did Harrell have access to other concealed underground cells? They needed to locate the women before they died excruciatingly from starvation and thirst, now he was not around to tend to their needs.

"How did you find me?" Laing asked. "Where's Jake? Have you arrested him?"

Val and Nicki fielded the torrent of question as best they could.

"He can't harm you now," Val said, purposefully avoiding telling her of Harrell's death, mindful of Stockholm syndrome. For over a decade, Laing's only human interaction was with her abductor and, wholly dependent on him, God knows what complex relationship had developed.

Val hunkered down beside the bed and made solid eye contact with Laing. "You are safe now. Nobody will ever harm you again. I promise you that. I want you to come with us to the hospital. Do you feel okay with that?"

Laing nodded.

Val had to stop himself from pressing Laing's hand. Any form of physical contact from a male might traumatize her again. "Good. You have a sister?"

"Helen," Laing said.

Val had spoken to her during his cold case review. To have someone she could trust beside her would make the next few days a lot easier for Laing.

"I can arrange for her to meet us at the ER?"

"That would be nice. She lives in Slaughter, with my mother. She could pick her up on the way."

The sister had left her mother's house when she married, though she still lived in the same town. Laing's father had died the year before her abduction, but her mother was now in a care home suffering from advanced Alzheimer's. "Maybe just your sister at first. Your mother's elderly and it would be best if she heard the news from Helen face to face."

Laing nodded hesitantly. Nicki helped her to her feet and went to replace the quilt around her shoulders.

"Please don't. I don't need anything from here."

Val led the trio from the cell, leaving the door ajar. "Help Diane upstairs, I want to have a quick look around before we leave."

It was unlikely there were other concealed rooms they had missed, but Val had to make sure. Besides, he required some time to think. He intended taking Laing to the Earl K. Long ER in Baton Rouge. It was a charity hospital and Val knew one of the doctors. He could depend on Suzy Wong to handle Laing's medical evaluation and initial rehabilitation with compassion. There was a hospital closer, but the longer drive would afford him extra time for questioning. He suspected it might be the only chance he would get once the FBI learnt of the breakthrough. The agents from Baton Rouge's residency office would no doubt sweep in and claim jurisdiction. There were so many answers Val required from Laing before then, that any opportunity to talk with her was valuable.

Satisfied there were no further secret cells, Val climbed the steps to the workshop. He should stay here and preserve the scene, let Nicki drive Laing to Baton Rouge, but he had found her and he was not stepping aside just yet. He would phone the sheriff's office and have them dispatch a uniformed deputy to keep watch.

The two women were waiting for him next to the SUV. Laing's eyes were wide open in obvious delight as she absorbed the sights and sounds of the Louisiana landscape, one she must at times have thought she would never see again. Val took his cell phone from his pocket.

"Chunky phone," Laing said. "I imagined they would have got a lot smaller after all this time."

Just wait to you see everything a SmartPhone can do, Val thought, speculating as to what else Laing would have to catch up on. How informed had Harrell kept her? She was around for 9/11, but was she aware that America had gone to war in Iraq and Afghanistan? Or that US Special Forces had finally tracked down and killed Osama bin Laden? Did she know that America had elected its first black President? That Brad had left Jennifer for Angelina? How Hurricane Katrina had pulverized coastal Louisiana?

After Val finished on his phone, they climbed into the truck and headed for Highway 67 and Baton Rouge.

"I suppose there's all sort of things you want to ask me," Laing said from the middle of the rear seat. She leaned forward and rested her arms on the backs of the front seats. "I've spent months dreaming of someday being rescued and what I would say and do. I had it all planned in my head so many times."

Val made no comment. If Laing wanted to talk, then he was not going to stop her.

"I need to state right off that I was not sexually assaulted. Jake made no moves in that direction. He fed me well, ensured I made regular use of the exercise equipment, and bought me any medicines I needed."

Val fired a surreptitious glance at Nicki. Harrell, soldier and Southern gentleman.

Laing carried on, "I was driving home after an evening PTA meeting and stopped at a four corners country store to grab some groceries. As I left, a man I had never seen before, dressed in Marine fatigues, was putting a note on my windshield. He explained that he had scraped my fender with his car and was leaving his phone number and insurance details. I went with him to inspect the damage. I know it was a dumb thing to do, but he seemed normal, respectful, and was kinda neat in his uniform. He sprayed something in my face and I blacked out. When I came to, I was in the cell where you found me. Until a few minutes ago, I had never seen what was above ground level. For all I knew it could have been a city house."

"You're absolutely positive you hadn't seen him before that night?" Nicki asked.

"One hundred percent. In my mind, I have gone back over every moment of every day for the weeks before my abduction. Playing scenes from my memory like an endless loop on a VCR. Not once did I envisage ever having encountered him. What about the others?"

Val and Nicki traded looks.

"One of them was his sister, Samantha Thomas," Val said.

Puzzlement clouded Laing's face. "Jake never said. Not a word."

Probably ashamed of what he had done, Val reasoned. "She has a different surname; adopted as a child."

"But she's okay?"

Val cleared his throat. "She hasn't been located. Nobody has seen or heard from her since the night she went missing."

"Surely some trace was found?"

"Nothing. Not one solid lead."

"And the other two?"

"Same story. Still missing."

Laing slumped back in the seat as the enormity of what she had learnt struck home.

Val turned onto the highway that would take them to Baton Rouge. The asphalt rippled in the evening heat. Traffic was light and they would make good time. He glanced at the speedometer and eased off the gas. Another few minutes would not hurt.

They had driven a further ten miles before Laing spoke again.

"I wasn't allowed a TV or radio. No newspapers, no phone calls obviously," she said. "He did bring me books to read. Mostly historical fiction, nothing current. I was terrified of him for the first few weeks, expecting the worse, but the longer I knew him the more certain I became that he intended me no physical harm. Don't get me wrong, he probably would have used violence if I had tried to escape, but the chance never arose."

"You weren't shackled," Nicki said.

Val fired his fellow deputy a warning look. He did not want Laing feeling that they were accusing her of being complicit in her own imprisonment. Others would judge, but they had to be on her side without reservations.

"Soaking wet I don't weigh a hundred pounds," Laing explained. "Jake was twice that and a marine. Who do you think would have won that scrap? He made sure there was nothing I could use as a weapon. Plastic knives, paper plates and cardboard cups. Besides, he warned me that even if I made it up the steps, there was no easy way out. He pointed out that should anything ever happen to him, I would die slowly from thirst. You have no idea how I relieved I was to hear the trap door opening each day. I had nightmares of him having a heart attack while jogging."

Nicki reached through the seats and gave Laing's hand a comforting squeeze.

"Or falling ill myself," Laing added quietly.

Val's phone beeped. It was the sheriff, the barbecue abandoned, he had dispatched a car to Harrell's house and another deputy was driving over to the home of Laing's sister. Val brought him up to date and explained that they were on their way to the Earl K. Long ER. The call took longer than Val would have wished, eating up the miles to Baton Rouge.

"I'm going have to contact the FBI," the sheriff said finally. "This is way too important a break for us to handle by ourselves. We'll need its CSI technicians. I'll be crucified if there's any delay."

"I understand," Val said. "But I want to run with it as long as I can."

"Fair enough, just don't you go starting any pissing contests with the agents."

Val ended the call and pocketed the cell phone. Up ahead he could see the hospital on the skyline. He had little time to lose.

He looked over his shoulder at Laing. "We're almost at the ER. I'm guessing the doctors will not want us around while they check you out." He was reassured to see how well Laing was adjusting to her release. Her eyes moved from side to side as she took in the passing panorama of streets and buildings, capturing images that were new to her. He noticed her attention being held by a billboard poster advertising a children's clothing store. Not having had any kids would pain her. Though she was still young enough for that to change.

How do you possibly cope with losing ten years of your life? To have a stranger steal most of your twenties and a good chunk of your thirties. The best years of your life. No fund of good memories, nights out, or vacations to share with friends. All the birthdays, Thanksgivings and other celebrations she would have missed. No husband to spoon against on cold evenings.

Val recalled a fellow New Orleans detective who had caught a bullet one January night and had spent five months in hospital, finally being discharged when summer was at its peak. The guy would often talk about how the city and its people had changed in those few months. Stuck inside a building 24/7, he had had no opportunity to acclimatize. No chance to witness the minute daily shifts. The nuances of sunlight, temperature and humidity, the foliage, the clothes and mood of the citizens. It freaked him out for weeks.

How would Laing possibly cope with losing a decade?

Val cut short his reflections and dove right in. "We're almost there. Is there any information you can provide us with on the three missing women? Anything at all. Did Harrell ever explain why he abducted them? Give you any clue as to where he's holding them?"

Laing looked at him as though he had suddenly sprouted an extra head, then she started to laugh. Not an easy laugh, but one heavy with uncertainty and doubt.

"You really don't know?" she asked.

"Know what?"

"Jake didn't kidnap those women."

"He abducted and held you captive."

"Sure, but you couldn't be more wrong about the others. I suppose Jake's military training's kicked in and he's refusing to answer your questions."

"Not exactly."

Laing laughed again, bordering on hysteria this time. "Jake had nothing to do with those women going missing. He must have been trying to trace his sister, though he didn't want me to know."

"Why not?" Val asked, pulling up in an ambulance bay close to the ER's entrance.

"I see I'm going have to spell it out," Laing said. "He abducted me because he believed I was the one responsible. He conducted his own investigation and somehow came to the conclusion that I had snatched the three women. He insisted I would never again leave the cellar until I told him what I had done with them."

Incredulity transformed Nicki's face. "Didn't you tell him you had nothing to do with the disappearances?"

"Every damn day. He never believes me. He has made up his mind and there is no turning him. Jake claims to have proof."

"What proof?" Val asked. The last time he was this far off track was when he tried to coax a frightened young girl down from a tree and she had swung an axe at him, severing the tip of his finger.

"My abduction brought an end to the disappearances."

"That means nothing," Nicki said.

"Tell that to Jake. He won't listen to me. He's convinced he's identified and imprisoned the culprit. He acted as investigator, prosecutor, judge and jury. The court of Jake Harrell found Diane Laing guilty as charged."

Val stared at Laing, lost for words.

