Sleeping With the Crawfish Read online

  Not one to speculate on an issue when direct data could be easily obtained, Broussard reached for the door. “Only one way to find out.”

  Noell followed his example.

  Enjoying his role as a man of action, Broussard quickly headed for the path.

  “Andy . . .”

  He noted the odd tone in Noell’s voice even as he turned. This did not, however, prepare him for the shock of seeing a 9 mm Beretta leveled at his heart.

  21

  No way was Kit going to her phony Thibodaux address to change cars. With the heater on the governor’s loaner turned all the way up and the gas pedal flirting with the floorboard carpet, her trip home was hot and fast. Thankfully, no one behind her seemed to have the slightest interest in following her.

  When Lucky came running as she entered the courtyard behind the gallery, she swept him into her arms and hugged him until he yelped. She put him down only when a few minutes later, in her apartment, she needed both hands to make coffee. To get it as quickly as possible, she put a mug instead of the pot on the Mr. Coffee hot plate. While waiting for the water to percolate through, she stripped off her lab coat, balled it up, and stuffed it in the kitchen wastebasket.

  She couldn’t wait for her mug to fill, so she snatched it off the coffeemaker as soon as it contained something, replacing it with the pot so inexpertly, a small cascade of the dark brew hit the hot plate.

  Sipping the coffee and warming her hands on the bottom of the mug, she roamed her apartment, which now didn’t seem as bad as she’d remembered, mostly because anyplace was better than the inside of that freezer. She even found a certain bizarre comfort in the two-by-four brace holding up the ceiling.

  She drank two more full cups of coffee before turning to a job she faced with mixed feelings—talking to Tabor.

  He called back promptly after her page.

  “I screwed up. . . . I got the recorder placed, but someone saw me do it. They set me up so I had to work late and put something in the walk-in freezer. While I was in there, they wedged the door shut. I nearly froze to death.”

  “You sound okay now. Are you hurt?”

  “No. But you can forget the phone tap. Oh hell . . .”

  “What?”

  “When I left, I forgot to get the recorder that was in my locker. So I’ve lost both of them.”

  “That doesn’t matter. The important thing is you got away safely. How’d you get out of the freezer?”

  “I breathed on the temperature sensor until the alarm went off. Someone working late let me out.”

  “That was good work.”

  “I’m pleased with it. Sorry I let you down.”

  “You did your best.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t blame you for what happened. It was just . . .”

  “Slippage?”

  “Exactly.”

  At this point, Kit remembered something else she’d intended to pass along. “I don’t know if it means anything, but when I was tapping Woodley’s phone this afternoon, I saw in his appointment book he’s meeting someone at eight tonight in La Place.”

  “Where in La Place?”

  She gave him the address. “What will you do now?”

  “From this point on, it’s my problem. You’re a civilian again. Is it possible anyone followed you home?”

  “I checked, but I’m sure not.”

  “I’m confident we took sufficient precautions to hide your identity, but just to be ultrasafe, you should continue to carry the Ladysmith. And if you go out at night, avoid deserted, poorly lit streets.”

  “Am I going to have to join a witness protection program?”

  “Like I said, they don’t even know who you are. And if they did, there’s no reason for them to believe you’ve witnessed anything.”

  “But I should wear the gun and be careful where I walk.”

  “Probably good advice even if none of this had happened. And of course, you won’t want to discuss this even with friends.”

  “Loose lips sink ships.”

  “Something like that. Don’t worry, we’ll get this unraveled and have those thugs under indictment before you know it.”

  “Now I’ve alerted them, they’ll be more cautious.”

  “That won’t save them. I’ll tell the governor you’re out of the picture. I’m sure he’ll want to thank you personally.”

  “For lousing things up?”

  “For being a good citizen. We’ll talk again soon.”

  Then he hung up.

  This conversation left Kit troubled. The part where Tabor released her was what she thought she wanted. But his suggestion she watch her step for a while put that in a different light. He’d said she was likely not in any further danger, but suppose that opinion, too, turned out to be slippage. The risk she’d assumed when she’d agreed to help was acceptable because the actions that would lead to risk could ultimately put an end to any long-term threat. Now she was facing a long-term risk and personally doing nothing about it.

  How long would she have to wear the gun—a week . . . two weeks? Would she be jumping at shadows for a month . . . two months?”

  She looked at her watch. Jesus, Woodley’s meeting in La Place would be getting under way in twenty minutes. And La Place was about eighty miles from Baton Rouge. There was no way Tabor could get there in time.

  But she could.

  The voice of reason kicked in, telling her it was nothing but a dinner party at a friend’s home, that even if it was a clandestine meeting where incriminating things would be said, there’d be no way she could hear it. This calmed her and she dropped into a chair to reflect.

  Her thoughts quickly turned to the freezer and what a close call that had been. She had Rose Lewis to thank . . . and maybe Tom Ward. And who knows how many others. Woodley, to be sure . . . the warden at Angola and his brother at the funeral home . . . She relived her escape from her sinking car in Snake Bayou, feeling again the seat belt around her ankle as she fought to reach the surface. And Sheriff Hubly . . . so helpful . . . Bastards, one and all.

  In the end, the accumulated sins of this villainous cadre pushed her over the line.

  22

  Broussard’s shirt was stuck to his back and rivulets of sweat spilled from his eyebrows and ran down his glasses. His bow tie was long gone—thrown aside and covered with dirt. As his shovel once again plunged into the sandy loam, he recalled the old forensic axiom: Bodies will putrefy at a set rate in which one week in air equals two weeks in soil and eight weeks in water. If he didn’t come up with an idea quickly, he’d soon be fulfilling the second part of that axiom instead of thinking about it.

  The grave Noell was making him dig was now about two feet deep. When killers bury their victims, they rarely go deeper than three. Allowing for his extra bulk, he maybe had two more feet to live.

  He was working at the end of the hole opposite the edge where Noell stood looking down at him, her gun ready to drop him if he should try throwing a shovelful of dirt in her face. He still couldn’t believe or understand what was happening. And so far, she hadn’t responded to anything he’d said.

  During dinner at the Peabody, they’d definitely connected. He hadn’t imagined that. So how could she do this, and why? Surely she wasn’t involved in Hunter’s death, and if she was, he hadn’t found anything to point to her. This made no sense. But they were here, and he had no doubts she was planning to finish what she’d started.

  He stood the shovel in the ground, removed his glasses, and wiped the sweat from his eyes with his arm.

  Noell swatted at a mosquito with her free hand. “Keep working. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”

  Broussard looked up at her. “Why do you have to be here at all?”

  “Shut up and dig.”

  “I don’t think you want to do this.”

  “Look, I could just as easily leave you in the open for the animals to eat like a sack of garbage. But you deserve bette
r. I swear, though, I will if you don’t get back to work.”

  Buried or left in the open—Broussard figured the dead didn’t care either way. He returned to his labors only because it bought him a few more minutes to devise a way out of this difficulty.

  Whenever he moved to Noell’s end of the grave, she retreated a safe distance, out of his reach. When he was digging at the far end, she would return to the grave’s edge. That, he concluded, would be her undoing.

  To set the first part of his plan in motion, he slowly worked his way toward her. As expected, she backed up a few steps. Upon reaching the edge of the hole, he set to work, deepening it. But with each bite the shovel took of the bottom, he also removed some of the side wall.

  In a few minutes, he had undercut the wall as far as he could without arousing her suspicions. But was it enough? If not, Charlie Franks, the deputy ME in New Orleans, would soon be getting a promotion.

  To coax Noell onto the weakened ground, he worked his way to the opposite end of the hole. She returned to stand at its edge.

  And stand there . . .

  And stand there . . .

  It wasn’t enough. The blasted thing was not going to give.

  The hole was probably now deep enough to contain his body. Any moment, she would halt the digging. Before making a wild last-second move that would likely succeed only in getting him shot, he tried fitting the pieces of his predicament together in new ways, but all that emerged was dross. He thought about the fairy tale where the girl has to spin flax into gold. At least she had flax.

  “All right. That’s”—Noell’s voice rose two octaves and she practically shouted the last word—“enough,” as the undercut edge crumbled and she slid into the hole.

  She didn’t drop her gun, but the hand holding it flew upward as she fell, pointing it at the darkening sky. Broussard crossed the hole in two steps, the shovel cocked behind him. He brought it around hard and the blade clanged against the gun, knocking it from her hand, over the pile of dirt at the hole’s edge.

  She lay propped against the canted side of the hole, anger and surprise distorting her features.

  “Now you’ve got some explainin’ to do,” Broussard said.

  She was on her feet instantly, charging toward him. The crown of her head hit him in the chest, backing him into a dirt ridge that caught his heels and sent him toppling with her on top of him. His shoulders hit the other edge of the hole and she rode him down into a sitting position.

  Feeling her trying to get up, he wrapped her in a bear hug, pulling her breasts into his face. She punched him hard in the left ear. Shocked at the force of the blow, his hold on her loosened. Realizing she’d gained an advantage, she slithered upward, knees pummeling his belly until she got a foothold in his groin. He renewed the bear hug and her legs folded, both knees striking him in the face.

  She began clawing at the soil he’d piled at the hole’s edge, sending an avalanche onto his head. Then she was ramming handfuls of it around her knees into his face, up his nose. His grip loosened enough that she could rock her right knee back a couple of inches. With this maneuverability, she drove her knee twice into his nose, bringing forth a cascade of blood that washed the dirt from his nostrils.

  Holding on as tightly as he could with his left arm, his right hand roamed over her buttocks until his fingers got hold of her belt. While this grip kept her from climbing him, his left hand slid up onto her stomach. Pushing with his left hand and pulling on her belt with his right, he rocked forward as forcefully as he could, standing her up, then driving her backward, off her feet.

  She managed to get up a scant second before he could, so as his head lifted, she drove her knuckles into his left temple with a roundhouse punch. Dazed, he still managed to get fully to his feet. Through the light show playing behind his eyes and the dirt sticking to the sweat on his glasses, he indistinctly saw her in a crouch, fists raised.

  This woman was whipping his butt, partly because she was a skilled street fighter, partly because he believed there was never an excuse for hitting a woman. But with bloody dirt matting his beard and mustache, his temple throbbing, and a knot rising on his cheek, he thought it might be time to reassess that position.

  Noell charged and threw a fist at his face. Dodging to the side, he sloughed the punch. As her momentum carried her past, he fired his own right fist into her stomach.

  Her eyes rolled up, her mouth hinged open, and she dropped to her knees. She balanced there for no more than a second, then fell over in the dirt in a fetal position, gasping for air.

  Not completely pleased at what he’d done, Broussard considered stretching her out and helping her catch a breath. Then, imagining what she might do to him given the least advantage, he rolled her over, loosened her belt, and pulled it from the loops. He used the belt to tie her hands behind her, ignoring the horrid rasping sounds she was making.

  He was certain it would be a huge mistake to leave her feet free, but he didn’t want to sacrifice his own belt. Flax . . . Here he was again without flax. While grappling with the problem, he pulled his shirttail free and wiped the dirt from his glasses.

  Able now to see more clearly, he also remembered the long willowy tree roots he’d removed from the hole. This sent him looking for a suitable specimen.

  He returned with one just as Noell was starting to breathe normally. The couple of minutes she’d spent without air had drained her strength to the point where she exhibited little resistance as he trussed her feet with the root.

  Believing she was now capable of talking, Broussard tried again for an explanation. “Now will you tell me what this was about?”

  “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “Then maybe I’ll just leave you here for the night.”

  “Is that supposed to worry me?”

  She was right. It was a lame threat. But not being in the business of forcing information out of people, it was all he could think of. That left only one alternative.

  He frisked her for the car keys and transferred them to his own pocket. Then he picked her up and put her on the ground at the hole’s edge. After climbing out, he threw her over his shoulder and carried her to the car, where he dumped her on the backseat.

  The sun was now nearly gone and a deep gloom had settled on the woods. Dispelling the darkness with the car’s headlights, he circled the big poplar and headed back the way they’d come—through the oak forest, down into the fern hollow, past the rotted stump. And . . . He brought the car to a stop and stared out the windshield.

  The two dirt tracks he’d been following diverged into two identical sets. Coming in, he’d been glancing at Noell so often, he hadn’t paid a lot of attention to the route they were following. Left or right?

  Right, he thought. But maybe . . .

  He looked over his shoulder at Noell. “Which way?”

  “You figure it out.”

  Her response was about what he’d expected, but it had been worth a try. He chose the track on the right.

  Had this been a situation like the one Tabor had discussed with Kit, such that Broussard was trying to find a route he’d driven before, the odds would have favored his choice. But he hadn’t ever driven the route, so when he navigated the car around a sharp right turn that blocked his view of the tracks ahead, the car plunged into a mud hole they hadn’t encountered coming in. Lacking the momentum it had before it took the curve, the car became trapped in the thick muck.

  Rocking it forward and backward by quick shifts of the transmission did nothing to improve matters.

  He got out to inspect the situation and found the tires in so deeply, only the upper half of the wheel covers were showing. Now he really could use some flax.

  In the ever-deepening dusk, amid hordes of mosquitoes with no compunction about biting a man when he was down, he scouted the adjacent brush and woods until he found an old fallen tree. By the time he got back to the car with an armful of branches, there was barely enough daylight to permit their proper deploym
ent in front of the rear tires.

  Feeling like the featured item at a mosquito buffet, he returned to the driver’s seat and started the car. Forward and back . . . forward and back . . . Over the sound of the engine, he heard the crackle of snapping branches. His hopes rose.

  Forward . . . backward . . .

  The tires were eating into the branches, gripping.

  But in the end, they were merely ground into muddy pulp and the car remained stuck.

  He looked into the backseat. “I’m afraid we’re gonna have to spend the night here.”

  “Here . . . back in that hole . . . what does it matter?”

  Giving up on a problem was not a decision that rested lightly on Broussard’s mind. But his face hurt, he itched all over, and he was dead tired. Waiting until morning wasn’t exactly giving up. It was more like taking an extended break.

  He closed his eyes to rest, but his mind picked up a thread of self-criticism. Noell had made up the whole thing—the jewelry store burglary, the found notebooks. There wasn’t even a cabin. And he’d swallowed it like a big bream sucking in a fat cricket. She’d driven her own car here because she didn’t want to be in radio contact with Homicide. He should have found it odd that the department didn’t have another car for her to take on official business.

  She’d also neglected to bring a Handie-Talkie. That was another clue. He didn’t even catch on when there were no police cars at the supposed cabin site. That was a big clue.

  He’d been a fool all right. Had even thought about the two of them . . .

  This line of inquiry was far too painful to pursue. Better the mind rest along with the body.

  During the next few minutes, while he believed his attic lights were out, a small bulb continued to glow. In that pale light, the boxed stack of events leading him to this mud hole shifted, tilting the stack to one side.

  Eyes shut, on the verge of sleep, he scratched an itch.