Louisiana Fever Read online

  What the critics said about Louisiana Fever:

  “Delivers . . . genuinely heart-stopping suspense.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Sleek, fast moving.”

  —KIRKUS

  “Broussard tracks the virus . . . with a winning combination of common sense and epidemiologic legerdemain.”

  —NEW ORLEANS TIMES-PICAYUNE

  “This series has carved a solid place for itself. Broussard makes a terrific counterpoint to the Dave Robicheaux ragin’ Cajun school of mystery heroes.”

  —BOOKLIST

  “A dazzling tour de force . . . sheer pulse-pounding reading excitement.”

  —THE CLARION-LEDGER (Jackson, MS)

  “A novel of . . . terrifying force. . . . utterly fascinating . . . His best work yet.”

  —THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (Memphis)

  “The autopsies are detailed enough to make Patricia Cornwell fans move farther south for their forensic fixes. . . . splendidly eccentric local denizens, authentic New Orleans and bayou backgrounds . . . a very suspenseful tale.”

  —LOS ANGELES TIMES

  “A fast moving, . . . suspenseful story. Andy and Kit are quite likeable leads . . . The other attraction is the solid medical background against which their story plays out.”

  —DEADLY PLEASURES

  “If your skin doesn’t crawl with the step-by-step description of the work of the (medical) examiner and his assistants, it certainly will when Donaldson reveals the carrier of the fever.”

  —KNOXVILLE NEWS-SENTINEL

  “Keep(s) the reader on the edge of his chair and likely to finish in one sitting.”

  —BENTON COURIER (Arkansas)

  “Exciting reading . . . well planned . . . fast paced.”

  —MYSTERY NEWS

  “Tight and well-paced . . . Andy (Broussard) is a hugely engaging character . . . (the) writing is frequently inspired.”

  —THE ARMCHAIR DETECTIVE

  What the critics said about Sleeping with the Crawfish:

  “Streamlined thrills and gripping forensic detail.”

  —KIRKUS

  “Action-packed, cleverly plotted topnotch thriller. Another fine entry in a consistently outstanding series.”

  —BOOKLIST

  “With each book, Donaldson peels away a few more layers of these characters and we find ourselves loving the involvement.”

  —THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (Memphis)

  “The pace is pell-mell.”

  —SAN ANTONIO EXPRESS-NEWS

  “Exciting and . . . realistic. Donaldson . . . starts his action early and sustains it until the final pages.”

  —BENTON COURIER (Arkansas)

  “A roller-coaster ride . . . Thoroughly enjoyable.”

  —BRAZOSPORT FACTS

  “The latest outing of a fine series which never disappoints.”

  —MERITORIOUS MYSTERIES

  What the critics said about New Orleans Requiem:

  “Lots of Louisiana color, pinpoint plotting and two highly likable characters . . . smart, convincing solution.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (starred review)

  “An . . . accomplished forensic mystery. His New Orleans is worth the trip.”

  —NEW ORLEANS TIMES-PICAYUNE

  “Andy and Kit are a match made in mystery heaven.”

  —THE CLARION-LEDGER (Jackson, MS)

  “Nicely drawn characters, plenty of action, and an engaging . . . storytelling style.”

  —THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (Memphis)

  “Donaldson has established himself as a master of the Gothic mystery.”

  —BOOKLIST

  “The tension will keep even the most reluctant young adult readers turning the pages . . .”

  —SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL

  LOUISIANA

  FEVER

  D.J. Donaldson

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  LOUISIANA FEVER

  Astor + Blue Editions

  EBook Copyright © 2012 by D.J. Donaldson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by:

  Astor + Blue Editions

  New York, NY 10003

  www.astorandblue.com

  Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

  Donaldson, D.J. Louisiana Fever—3rd ed.

  Originally publishing in 1996 by St. Martin’s Press

  ISBN: 978-1-938231-35-3 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-938231-34-6 (epdf)

  ISBN: 978-1-938231-33-9 (epub)

  1. Detective Duo—Murder Mystery—Fiction  2. Fiction  3. Police forensic mystery—Fiction  4. —Fiction 5. Court Case—Fiction 6. —Fiction  7. American Murder and Suspense Story  I. Title

  Book Design: Bookmasters

  Jacket Cover Design: Ervin Serrano

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction to this Edition

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  This story would never have gotten off the ground without the advice of Dr. O.C. Smith, assistant medical examiner of Shelby County, Tennessee, who, with his usual sharp instincts, suggested exactly the right virus for the book in our first brief conversation about it. Thanks also to Dr. Jerry Francisco, medical examiner for Shelby County, Tennessee, who, along with Dr. Smith, read and commented upon the final manuscript. For the scenes in Dr. Blackledge’s laboratory involving ticks, I’m indebted to Dr. Lew Coons, who showed me those things in his own lab and who, in conjunction with Dr. Bill Lamoreaux, taught me what I needed to know about those odd creatures. I’m grateful as well to Dr. Bob Craven and Dr. Roy Campbell of the CDC for background information on tropical viruses, and to Dawne Orgeron for advice on emergency medical procedures. Thanks also to: Angie Baker, Eunice Steimke, Dr. David Smalley, Amanda Durbin, Bert Price, Dr. Harold Dundee, Vernon Foret, Dr. Joan Chesney, Kristy Cupples, Jeff Schryver, Ellen Karle, and Paul Sheffield. Apologies to anyone I’ve forgotten. If I’ve erred anywhere, it’s my fault.

  Introduction to this Edition

  This book marks the second Andy Broussard-Kit Franklyn mystery reissued by Astor + Blue. The first was New Orleans Requiem. It’s always thrilling to see one of my books get a second life, because it moves Andy and Kit back into the light. And that feels like something I owe them.

  In this one, they both suffer through some events I’m sure each of them would rather forget. In Kit’s case, her trials include discovering a secret about herself that will forever change her life. Broussard suffers, too, but in the process learns a huge lesson about someone he doesn’t like. On a personal note, sometimes people blame me for the bad things that happen to Andy and Kit. But these same people don’t blame ESPN when their favorite team loses a game, nor do they hold the weatherman (or woman) responsible when it rains . . . unless it was supposed to be dry. What I’m trying to say is, I’m just the messenger here. Sure, Andy and Kit get into a l
ot of jams . . . but it’s the nature of their work. So please . . . before you send someone over to my house to toilet paper my trees, think about what I’ve just said.

  —D.J. Donaldson

  Prologue

  Walter Baldwin rubbed his eyes and looked again, praying that everything would be back to normal. It wasn’t.

  The traffic signs and the words on the buildings were still gibberish and he still had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there.

  He’d lived all his life in New Orleans and knew each block of every major street. He was a salesman who drove them daily, for God’s sake. He knew them . . . he did. But today, he might as well have been on Pluto. He took a shaky breath to calm his rising panic and felt something warm run into his mouth.

  Shifting in his seat, he looked at himself in the rearview mirror. Christ, now he had a nosebleed.

  He pulled to the curb and grabbed a Kleenex from the glove compartment. Adjusting the seat so he could lie back, he stuffed a crumpled tissue into his left nostril. In this new position, his headache percolated from his forehead to the back of his skull.

  What the hell was happening?

  He lay there reciting his name, his address, his place of employment, looking for other gaps in the familiar and exchanging tissues until one came away with just a small amount of blood on it. He raised his seat back and watched himself in the mirror until he was satisfied the flow had nearly stopped.

  It had been several minutes since he’d looked out the window. Slowly, he shifted his gaze from the mirror to a sign a few yards in front of the car. NO PARKING HERE TO CURB.

  NO PARKING. . . . He could read it.

  Eagerly, he checked the buildings lining the street. He knew where he was. My God, it was less than a mile from home, a place he passed at least once a day.

  Elation at this return to normality was instantly pushed aside by the fear that he was losing his mind. He pictured his mother crawling around the floor of the mental hospital, sweeping imaginary tobacco into her hand.

  Mental illness . . . it runs in families they say. Was that where he was headed? Was the blood even real?

  He looked at the pile of bloody Kleenex in the waste-basket straddling the hump between seats. It seemed real enough. The thought that he might be going the way of his mother sucked at him until he felt withered and dry inside. Then the pain from his headache pushed through, demanding attention.

  Knowing there was a K and B drugstore five blocks from where he sat, he checked for approaching traffic and pulled from the curb. The fan on the ventilation system was already on its highest setting, but the car was so hot.

  He rolled his window all the way up and turned on the air conditioning, even though outside it was cool enough for a long-sleeved shirt. A mental ward . . . confinement . . . God, no.

  Two minutes later, the first stirring of nausea began. It escalated quickly, converting his stomach to a churning cesspool. The white line in the road began to undulate like a snake. He pulled to the curb, closed his eyes, and hugged the steering wheel.

  His vision soon cleared, but he still felt dangerously close to vomiting.

  Home . . . must go home.

  Sweat pearling from his forehead, blood again trickling from his nose, he lurched from the curb. A horn blared. Brakes squealed. Oblivious to the electrical-supply truck that had almost hit him, Walter drove on.

  Somehow, he made it to the parking lot of his apartment house without vomiting. Though he was now as sick as he’d ever been, he remembered to grab his briefcase off the seat next to him.

  The steps to the building felt rubbery as he hurried to the front entrance. He was definitely going to throw up, but he was determined to do it in private.

  Blood dripping from his chin onto his tie where it lay on his paunch, he hit the button to the elevators and saw through heavy-lidded eyes, a dark spot on the back of his hand that seemed to be spreading as he watched, further evidence of his escalating madness.

  He wiped at his nose with his arm—the blood that came away on his white shirt, a stark statement.

  After an eternity, the elevator arrived and he staggered on. Turning to face the front, he saw a familiar briefcase sitting back by the front entrance. He glanced at his own briefcase and saw that his hand was empty.

  The mental ward beckoned . . . a long finger that brought tears to his eyes. Stifling a cry, he reeled from the elevator and made his way back to the entrance, where he snatched up the briefcase and clutched it to his chest, now whimpering aloud.

  Thankfully, the elevator was still waiting for him and he was soon at his apartment door. He stabbed at the lock with his key, but the aperture danced away. The pressure built in his throat, a dam about to break. Finally, his key slid home.

  Inside, he slammed the door, dropped the briefcase, and ran for the bathroom. But it was too late. His body was ripped with a massive peristaltic convulsion and he emptied himself.

  The great contraction was followed by a succession of smaller sisters that kept him on his knees. When he was eventually able to open his eyes, a fist grabbed his heart. The carpet was soaked with a thick black liquid tinged with red. Though he didn’t know it, he’d also delivered a substantial portion of the tissue lining his stomach.

  Help . . . he needed help.

  But he was confused. Where would he find it? Then he vomited again, this time less black and more red, and more of his stomach.

  Walter’s problem was simple. In his travels that week, he’d picked up a tiny passenger that, without Walter’s knowledge, had conducted some commerce with him—taking something and giving something in return. And now, Walter was teeming with the progeny of what he’d been given.

  1

  Like the others, the single long-stemmed yellow rose had been waiting for her in the wicker basket under the mail drop when she’d arrived home from work. It was the third day in a row this had happened. Like the others, the rose was resting in white gift tissue in a slim white box tied with yellow ribbon. Unlike the others, the latest one had come with a note, neatly printed on a general-occasion card: “If you want to meet the one who’s been sending the roses, come to Grandma O’s restaurant at 1:00 P.M. tomorrow. Don’t worry about a description. You’ll know who I am.”

  There was, of course, no question she’d go. The mystery was far too tantalizing to ignore. And there was absolutely no danger involved, because the designated rendezvous was a restaurant where she ate lunch practically five days a week.

  As Kit neared the restaurant, she’d just about decided this was a prank being played on her by Teddy LaBiche. How he’d managed it was a puzzle, though, because he lived 125 miles away in Bayou Coteau, where he had his alligator farm, and had been in Europe for the last three weeks, lining up buyers for his skins.

  Kit paused in front of a mirrored window and dug in her purse. She applied a fresh coat of lip gloss and reset the faux tortoiseshell combs that kept her long auburn hair out of her eyes. She lingered a moment longer, appreciating how the spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose was less obvious in the cool seasons. Then it hit her. Grandma O . . . That’s how he could have done it, she thought, beginning to walk again. . . . And Bubba, her grandson. She smiled. . . . A conspiracy. Teddy had arranged it with Grandma O and was now back a few days early, waiting for her inside.

  She detoured around a wad of gum on the sidewalk and hurried to the restaurant’s front door, her heart high in her chest.

  Most of the noon to 1:00 P.M. lunch crowd had already left, but there was a small queue of laggards at the register, where Grandma O was trying to get them out as quickly as possible.

  The place was still about half-full, so it took Kit a moment to scan the occupied tables. Her eyes paused briefly at one in the back, where an older man dressed in jeans and a khakicolored shirt with epaulets seemed unusually interested in her, then she moved on, still looking for Teddy.

  But he wasn’t there.

  Her eyes went back to the man in the khak
i shirt and she now saw that he was holding a long-stemmed yellow rose.

  Disappointed that Teddy wasn’t at the bottom of this, she crossed the room. As she approached the man’s table, he rose to greet her.

  “Kit . . .”

  He spoke her name and hesitated, taking her in. He looked to be around sixty years old—disheveled white hair, heavy salt-and-pepper eyebrows shielding deep-set eyes, skin with a texture that looked as though it had seen a lot of sun and wind but that now had a pasty color. And there was a sheen of perspiration at his hairline, though the restaurant wasn’t hot. Suddenly, his eyes glazed, and his mouth froze in an O.

  His right hand came up and grabbed Kit’s wrist as his knees buckled. He went down, yawing to the left, and hit the edge of the table, rocking it off its pedestal, pulling Kit after him.

  Kit saw him slide down the tilted table in slow motion, pursued by the container of sugar and artificial sweetener and the napkin dispenser. Her own face was heading for the table-top. A scant second before she hit it, she turned her head.

  A megawatt arc light went on inside her skull. Then her mains blew.

  She was out only briefly, and when her eyes opened, the world was clad in blue-and-white stripes.

  She was sliding sideways.

  The stripes began moving, slipping past her eyes until they abruptly changed direction, to run perpendicular to their original course.

  A shirt cuff.

  “Are you all right?” a voice said.

  She turned onto her back and looked up into a face sporting a mustache with bread crumbs caught in it.

  “I think so. . . .”

  Behind him, she caught a glimpse of Grandma O’s worried face, her dark eyes glittering. Then she disappeared.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t get up.”

  “No . . . I can manage.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  And she wasn’t just being optimistic, because, with the man’s help, she was soon on her feet, her hold on consciousness unwavering.

  “Doesn’t look like he’s doing well,” the man said, looking behind her.

  Grandma O rarely wore anything but black taffeta, which magnified her already-considerable bulk and made her sound as though she was passing through a field of dry weeds wherever she went. When Kit turned, she saw her draped over the fallen man like a great bat, performing CPR.