Louisiana Stalker Page 9

  “How many bedrooms are there up here?”

  “Seven.”

  “That’s a lot of bedrooms.”

  “Simon sometimes has several overnight guests at a time for business.”

  “I see.”

  “What time will we be leaving in the morning?”

  “Early,” Clint said. “I told Henri to come by at six.”

  “All right.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

  He thought he knew what that meant . . .

  • • •

  Cappy’s stalker was waterlogged by the time he got home. But he was so intent on her that he hadn’t really noticed the impending flood conditions of Baton Rouge. He dried himself off and got into bed. He’d get an early start come morning.

  • • •

  Keller had made a new decision.

  Clint Adams was in the house with Cappy, where he couldn’t get at him. So he decided to follow Cappy’s stalker when he left. He was sure the man hadn’t seen him. He was focused only on Capucine, which Keller could well understand. Maybe he’d be able to do something to help her, after all.

  • • •

  As for Clint’s own private stalker, when he was sure Clint was in for the night, he went back to his own hotel for a good night’s sleep. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do about the flooding. He might have to leave the city, head for higher ground, and keep watch with his binoculars to see which way Clint Adams went when he left.

  Morning would probably tell the tale . . .

  • • •

  Clint lay in bed listening to the rain beat against the windows and on the roof. There seemed to be no end to it. He had no idea what they would find when they got to the bayou. He’d been out there before during visits to New Orleans, but never under these conditions. He had heard talk of past floods, of the dead bodies of animals and people floating in the water. The dead were not buried in the ground in Louisiana; they were interred in crypts. If the water got high enough, it swept the bodies right out of their resting places.

  Would this be as bad? He had no way of knowing.

  He heard the floor in the hall creak, reached out to let his hand hover over his gun, which was hanging nearby on the bedpost.

  The door opened and Capucine slipped in, wearing a nightgown.

  “Shove over,” she said. “I want you to warm me.”

  She wanted more than that.

  So did he.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The sex was intense, just this side of violent, and yet quiet so as not to wake the cook, Mrs. McGovern.

  They lay side by side later, sweat cooling on their naked bodies.

  “I’ve got one of my own, you know,” Clint said.

  “Your own what?”

  “Stalker.”

  “Someone is stalking the Gunsmith?”

  “Seems like it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t been able to get close enough to ask him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s very good at what he does,” Clint said, “much like your guy.”

  “So what’s that mean?” she asked. “You’re not going to be able to catch him?”

  “No,” he said, “I’m going to catch your guy. It’s my guy I’m going to have trouble with.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I’ll have help catching your guy,” he said. “Mine, I’ll have to catch on my own—and he’s very good at hiding.”

  “Well,” she said, snuggling up to him, “you don’t have to worry about it tonight, do you?”

  “No,” he said, opening his arms for her, “not tonight.”

  • • •

  The back door opened slowly and a man stepped in quietly. Mindful, but unconcerned, about the fact that he was leaving wet footprints, he made his way through the house to the staircase. He crept up the steps as silently as he could, avoiding the third step, the one that creaked. He then moved down the hall stealthily and stopped at the door to the room he knew to be Clint’s. Only two other doors were closed, the cook’s room and Cappy’s. That pointed to this room as belonging to the Gunsmith.

  He pressed his ear to the door and listened . . .

  • • •

  Clint slipped the nightgown over Cappy’s head, baring her smooth but bountiful body. A man who appreciated beautiful breasts, he gave hers all his attention for several minutes. She sprawled on her back while he worked on her, moaning as his mouth moved over both gorgeous orbs. At the same time, he slid his hand down between her thighs. She spread her legs to allow him to press his palm to her hairy bush. She was hot, and already wet. He slid his middle finger up and down her moist slit, and when he touched her “hot button”—as he had heard one woman refer to it—her legs stiffened and she gasped, closed her thighs tightly, trapping his hand there.

  His mouth moved from one nipple to the other as he placed his hand on one thigh and pushed her legs apart again.

  “You’ve got to let me in,” he whispered.

  “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. It was just a reflex. Nobody’s ever made me feel the way you do before.”

  He touched her again, this time with his thumb, while he slid his index finger inside her.

  “Oh God . . .” she breathed.

  He began moving both fingers at one time, while simultaneously sucking her nipples. The combination was too much for her to bear, and she spasmed, crying out before she could stop herself . . .

  • • •

  The man in the hall heard Capucine cry out. He looked up and down the hall, but the cook did not seem to have heard it.

  He pressed his ear to the door, a puddle forming at his feet as water dripped from his shoes, coat, and chin.

  He also had an erection . . .

  • • •

  “Jesus,” Cappy said as Clint continued his ministrations, “you’re going to kill me.”

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asked with his lips to her neck.

  “Are you insane?”

  He smiled, kissed her breasts again, then kissed his way down to the apex of her thighs. Before long, his mouth had replaced his hand. As he avidly licked and sucked her, she spasmed again and again . . .

  • • •

  The sounds of Capucine’s pleasure excited the man in the hall. He knew the cook’s room was down the hall, but she didn’t interest him. He had two choices. Burst into the room, or leave.

  He turned and made his way back down the hall, downstairs, and out the back door.

  • • •

  Cappy was recovering when Clint said, “Shh.”

  “I can’t say anything anyway,” she said wearily.

  He got off the bed, grabbed his gun, and padded naked to the door.

  “Wha—” she started, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand.

  He put his hand on the doorknob, turned it slowly, then yanked the door open. The hall was empty, but when he looked down, he saw the puddle at his feet.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Somebody was out here,” he said. “Stay inside and lock the door.”

  She started to say something, but he pulled the door closed as he stepped into the hall, still naked. He followed wet footprints to the stairway, and down. They led him to the kitchen door.

  Whoever the man was, he had come and gone.

  THIRTY-THREE

  While Clint was gone, Cappy caught her breath, stood up, donned her robe, and walked to the window. She looked out, saw the rain-drenched street in front of the house. At first she didn’t see anything, but then she thought she saw him. A figure in the rain, in the dark, staring up at her window.

  At her.

  • • •

  Clint came back up the stairs, his fee
t wet from having stepped in the water the intruder had left behind. If he’d learned anything, it was that this man was a watcher, not a doer. He could have slammed the door open and fired on Clint and Cappy while they were in bed. Instead, he chose to turn around and leave.

  As Clint passed the cook’s door, it opened and Mrs. McGovern looked out. Her eyes widened when she saw him, naked in the hall, but she did not back away, or close her door. In fact, she looked him up and down quite appreciatively.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked.

  “There was an intruder, Mrs. McGovern,” he said. “He’s gone now, but please lock your door in any case.”

  “I will,” she asked. “Would you . . . like to come in?”

  “Maybe another time,” he said.

  She laughed, withdrew, and closed the door.

  Clint walked back to Cappy’s door, tried it, and found it locked.

  “Cappy,” he said, knocking. “It’s me.”

  She unlocked the door immediately and pulled him inside.

  “I saw him.”

  “Where?”

  “Out front.”

  “You went to the window?”

  “Yes.”

  Clint walked to the window, brushed aside the curtain, and looked out. He squinted, but could not make anything out in the rain.

  He turned and saw her looking at him, her arms folded, hugging herself.

  “Where was he?” she asked.

  “In the house, outside the door.”

  “While we were . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “My God!” she said. “He could have killed us.”

  “He didn’t even try,” Clint said. “All he did was listen.”

  “What does this mean?”

  “Nothing that changes what we’re going to do,” he said. “We’re still going to the bayou, so I suggested we get some sleep.”

  She looked down.

  “Your feet are wet,” she said. “Sit down.”

  He sat on the bed. She fetched a towel and dried his feet. His penis hardened while she did it, but oddly she didn’t seem to notice.

  “This really has you spooked, doesn’t it, Cappy?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll stay with you all night, but we have to sleep. Right?”

  She looked at him and said, “Right.”

  They got into bed, under the covers, snuggled in close with her head on his shoulder, and before long they had drifted off to sleep.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  In the morning Cappy packed a small bag. It was on the floor by the front door when Henri arrived with his cab.

  “Still raining,” he said when Clint let him in, “but it seems to have let up some.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Take the lady’s bag to the carriage. We’ll be right out.”

  “Yes, boss.” Henri picked up the bag, then looked at Clint. “I didn’t see anybody out there watching the house. Did you do something last night?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I guess he just got tired of being wet.”

  Henri nodded and left.

  Clint looked up, saw Cappy coming down the stairs.

  “Do you think it’s safe for Mrs. McGruder to stay here?” she asked him.

  “I think so,” Clint said. “Nobody’s after her. Our leaving will probably make her safe.”

  “I’ll tell her we’re going,” she said, and went to the kitchen.

  • • •

  Henri may not have seen anyone watching the house, but they were there. Cappy’s stalker was down the street in a different doorway, keeping an eye on the front door. He saw the cab pull up, the driver go inside, and then come out with a bag.

  The bitch was going someplace.

  • • •

  Keller saw the same thing, but he was behind the stalker. He decided it was time to act, so that he’d be able to watch Cappy and Clint Adams without having to worry about anyone else.

  He eased up behind the man, reached around to cup his chin in one hand and pull it up. The man grunted in surprise, but Keller used the knife in his other hand to cut the man’s throat. He let the man slump to the ground, half in and half out of the doorway, and withdrew to see what happened next.

  • • •

  Clint and Cappy came out together and walked to the cab. As he was helping her into the backseat, he looked down the block and saw something. Henri was right—the rain had let up slightly, was no longer an unyielding curtain of gray.

  “Wait here,” he told Cappy.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just wait.”

  He walked down the block and soon realized he was looking at a body. He hurried across the street to the doorway. The man was lying half in, half out, the blood from his cut throat mixing with the water on the ground. Clint bent down and checked the man’s pockets, but came up empty. He stared at the man, saw that he had the blocky build Cappy had described.

  He hurried back to the cab, climbed in with Cappy.

  “What is it?”

  “Somebody killed your stalker,” he said. “Probably Keller. Slit his throat and left him in the street.”

  “Then it’s over?”

  “Far from over,” Clint said. “We’ve still got Keller to contend with, and whoever sent the dead man will probably just send another—or maybe even more than one.”

  “Jacques?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  Henri came down from his seat and stuck his head in the back.

  “We ready to go, boss?”

  “Ready, Henri.”

  “Uh, where are we goin’, boss?”

  “Iberia Parish, in Bayou Teche,” Clint said.

  “Yeah, I know that . . . but where?”

  Clint looked at Cappy.

  “Don’t look at me,” she said.

  “Have you been there before?”

  “One time, with my husband.”

  “So you remember where it is.”

  She hesitated, then said, “Not exactly.”

  “Cappy—”

  She looked at Henri.

  “Take us to New Iberia, Henri,” she said. “Someone—anyone—there will know where to find Jacques Pivot’s house. I’m sure of it.”

  Clint looked at Henri and said, “You heard the lady. New Iberia.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  It was raining too hard to tell if they were being followed. The roads were waterlogged, but that was from the rain, not from flooding—not yet anyway.

  Once, it appeared that one of the rear wheels was stuck in the mud. Both Clint and Henri had to get out and push the carriage while Cappy held the reins. At another time the horse stopped—just stopped. He refused to move for fifteen minutes, then started again. Henri took credit for cajoling the animal, but Clint believed the horse had just decided on his own to start moving.

  As they arrived in Lexington, the rain started to come down even harder. There was an inn there, where they were able to secure two rooms.

  “One for the lady,” Clint lied, “and one for my driver and me.”

  “Excellent, sir,” the innkeeper said.

  The innkeeper had someone take care of the carriage and horse. Clint had left Eclipse back in Baton Rouge, having first checked on him before they left.

  “Do you need someone to carry your bag, sir?” the innkeeper asked.

  “No, no, that’s fine,” Clint said. “We can handle it fine.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “How full are you on a crazy night like this?” Clint asked.

  “Not very full,” the man said. “Only one other room is taken.”

  “Someone else traveling in this weather?” Clint asked.

  “Yes, sir,�
�� the man said. “I was surprised, too. He arrived just before you.”

  Before? Clint thought.

  “Can we get something to eat?” Clint asked.

  “I’ll have my wife prepare it,” the innkeeper said. “Come down when you’re ready.”

  “Okay,” he said to Henri and Cappy, “let’s go on up to our rooms.”

  The three of them went up the stairs. As they walked past the other doors to their own, he wondered which room was occupied.

  Since the place was empty, they had managed to get rooms next to each other.

  “You’re in there, Henri,” Clint said.

  “But I thought you said—”

  “Henri.”

  “Oh,” the driver said, then, “Oh! I see.”

  “Get settled and meet us downstairs.”

  “Right.”

  Clint opened the door to the other room, let Cappy in first, then carried her bag in, closing the door behind them.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “What makes you think there’s something wrong?” he asked.

  “I saw your face downstairs,” she said. “Is it the other man?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “He got here ahead of us. I don’t like that.”

  “Maybe,” she said, “he’s just an innocent bystander.”

  “And maybe not,” Clint said.

  “So how do we find out?”

  “I’m thinking,” Clint said, “that we should just ask him.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  They met Henri downstairs and they were led into a dining room by the innkeeper, whose name was Cooper.

  “Have a seat, folks,” Cooper said. “My missus will be right out.”

  They sat at the long, rough-hewn oak table.

  “What about the other guest?” Clint asked. “Isn’t he going to eat?”

  “He said he’d be down,” Cooper said. “I expect him any minute.”

  “Good,” Clint said, “I’d like to see who else is crazy enough to be out in weather like this.”

  Cooper laughed. At that moment his pretty blond wife came in carrying steaming plates. Her husband introduced her as Milly, and Clint introduced himself and his companions. Mrs. Cooper was about twenty-five, probably half the age of her husband.