Revenge (11 page)

Cody swallowed, hugging her body. “Go away,” she said softly.

“Can't.” He shuffled around until he sat, knee propped up and arm draped over it. They stared at each other.

Frustration whipped through her. “I don't need your pity.”

“It's not pity.”

“You're a liar.”

Silence stretched between them, broken by the birds chirping and fluttering in the tree branches. Cody let her head flop against the trunk. A bitter taste lingered on her tongue, the taste of fear and death. She ground her teeth. Would she ever get out of this wretched pit of horror and blackness?

“My third year as a patrol officer I was called to the scene of a domestic disturbance. What I found inside the residence nearly made me go postal on the sleazebag who kidnapped, molested, and then butchered a six-year-old girl.”

Her attention snapped to Luc. Haggard lines were etched along his features, the normal glint of humor in his eyes, dulled.

“It was my first murdered child. Those images were imprinted on my brain forever. There were more after that, but you never forget your first.” He straightened his leg and bent forward. “I'm all too familiar with what you're going through.”

Running her tongue over her lips, she hunched over her knees. Everyone had a story, had a scenario for her to learn a valuable lesson from, yet no one had a solution.

“What you did back there to Anderson, you need to use that when it gets rough, Cody. Are you prepared to kill someone if it comes to that?”

“Everyone keeps asking me that, and I don't know,” she whispered.

“Let me rephrase it. Are you prepared to kill if Remy's life is in danger? Or Kim's, Anderson's, or mine? Can you pull that trigger?”

She lifted her head. Luc cocked his to the side and waited.

The rustle of foliage saved her from answering. Heath, with Kim hot on his heels, rounded the tree and dropped down to Cody's level. Kim reached for her, but Cody scooted away.

“Don't touch me.”

“Cody—” Heath cut Kim off and escorted her a few yards off.

“Going to shut her out?” Luc asked.

Cody glared at the ground. “Don't lecture me.”

“Just want to help.”

She didn't want his help—he was practically a stranger to her, and she didn't appreciate him butting in. Cody sank further into her pit. Damn Remy for pushing her to break up with him. And damn him for running off on her. He'd been the one able to bring her back the few times she'd succumbed to her PTSD. Now he wasn't here. Tears tracked down her cheeks. She rubbed her nose against her shirt-sleeve.

“Cody.”

The soft drawl pulled her out of her self-loathing. Heath's smoothly shaven face was inches from hers. “We won't go through with it. We'll stick it out during the day and do our best to find him. New Orleans is rough at night; I won't put you at risk.”

A shadow shifted behind him, and she looked past his head. Kim hovered, one arm crossed over her waist, the other clamped to her body as she chewed a nail. The worry seemed to leak from her and encompass everyone around Cody. Be safe; that was what Kim wanted. For them to stick together and no one running off to play hero.

Their best chance was to find Remy at night. He would be out there tracking down each and every person involved with killing his wife. At night the scum of the earth liked to emerge.

“No.” Cody's voice croaked on the word. She swallowed and stiffened her spine. “I won't risk it.”

Kim jerked her hand down and inched closer. “Your PTSD?”

“Can take a flying leap.” Cody struggled to her feet, Luc and Heath rising with her. “I can't let it get to me. We stay on track. I won't lose any chances, night or day, of catching him.”

“We'll start tomorrow,” Heath said. “I think you've proven you can stop an attacker well enough.” He craned his neck.

Cody noticed the flamed marks on his skin. Horror filled her. “I did that to you?”

“It'll fade by tomorrow.”

“If it doesn't?”

“Don't worry about it.”

Easy for him to say.

• • •

Another night of prowling. Remy escaped Vic's house while she was finishing her shift. Tonight he'd do this alone.

He twisted the throttle, and the Harley growled forward. The sultry night air whipped his face, hot and oppressive, yet still he wore his leather jacket. Deep claw marks of this place lingered on his soul. He'd never be free of the draw, the tug of New Orleans, but he didn't know if he could ever live here again.

If he survived this ordeal.

The review mirrors reflected the moonlight rippling on the surface of Lake Pontchartrain.

“When I look in your eyes, it's like staring at the Pontchartrain at night.”

Marie's words. The desire to please her in any way drove Remy to find a home as close to the lake as his pitiful cop's salary allowed. The ache in his chest intensified. Paul had every right to destroy the house if the flood damage was extensive. Did he even bother to salvage anything?

Slowing the bike, Remy turned off West End Boulevard onto the street he'd once called home. In the dark he could see the lasting damage. The ache seemed to sprout legs and crawl into his throat as he drew closer to the lot. He cut the engine and walked the bike forward to park in front of what had been the driveway, skimming the edge of the streetlight.

Brown, overgrown grass bowed and waved. Remnants of the pavement peeked through the foliage. The flowerbeds Marie had cultivated in front of the house were gone. If he closed his eyes, Remy could still see the brilliant reds and pinks of roses and azaleas, and the white siding with the dark green hurricane shutters.

Scanning the empty lot, he clenched his jaw. Wiped away, like no one lived, loved, laughed, and died here. Erased by those who didn't want to remember as if it had never happened.

He'd never forget.

Remy dismounted the bike and picked a path through the tall grass until he stood in the spot where the small porch once had been. He couldn't protect his emotions now as he unlocked the mental box. Memories spilled out and consumed him.

Remy jerked from the memory, his chest heaving. He moved further into the darkened lot, stopping where the living room had stood. The scent of blood assaulted his nose. His legs quaked as if recalling the next moment before his brain registered it.

Remy landed on his knees and bowed his head. Fury roiled through him. Swallowing, he let his head fall back and he stared at the midnight-blue sky. “I'll finish him, Marie. I promise.”

He let a few minutes pass, then climbed to his feet. Staggering back to the bike, he mounted and sat there, taking his last look at the lot. With a blink, he slammed the mental box shut once more and locked the horror away. Turning over the engine, he kicked back the stand and rolled forward. At the end of the street, he gunned the engine and roared out of the neighborhood. He took the city streets to his next destination.

Closer to the heart of
En Ville
, the stench of the river was heavy in the air. Remy guided the Harley next to the Pontchartrain Expressway until he spotted the street he wanted. Merging with the dwindling traffic, he followed a BMW, the streetlights reflecting off the car's gleaming body. When the BMW turned into the Garden District, Remy continued on a few blocks.

After a cursory check, he doubled back and headed straight for the enemy's camp. Jared's home. Remy parked the bike a block away then walked. Standing on the opposite side of the street, he stared at the beautiful Victorian house. A few lights burned inside, but otherwise it stood quiet.

He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and glanced up and down the street. Stepping off the sidewalk, he moved to cross. A prickle along his neck brought him to a halt. A wave of air slammed into him and forced him back a step.

Shaking his head, he tried again. This time the force of the air bowled him over and he stumbled backward. His boot heels caught the edge of the curb, and he slammed onto his backside.

“
Fils de putain!
”

Son of a bitch!
He sat there on the curb, staring at the house. What was going on? One knee up, he settled his arm on top and tapped a finger against his thigh. Was it the strange supernatural ordeal again? Someone or something didn't want him any closer.

Fine. There were other ways to skin a coon. Remy stood, dusted off his jeans, and headed back to his bike.

Eddy had given him a few names of other guys to deal with. Men who would cause a stir when Savard found out they were missing. Remy would take care of them first.

On the first night of the after-hours search for Remy, Cody came to a stark realization.

She hated Bourbon Street.

The stench, the noise, the blatant displays, and the constant stream of drunks made her wish she'd never agreed to this. Seeing and smelling the open containers parading past her did a real number on her battle to stay sober. But the groping and manhandling pissed her off more than the others. If one more pervert pinched her ass, she was going to crack his skull open with the butt of her Kimber that was tucked inside her boot.

“Let's take a break,” Heath said, pointing at a building.

Cody's stomach plummeted to the filthy street. A bar. He pointed at a bar.

“Heath, I can't.” Neither she, Remy, nor any of her close friends had told him about her problem with drinking. He didn't even know that the night before the assassin pinned them down at her ranch, she'd just sobered up from a binge. “We'll call it a night and try tomorrow.”

With all the lighting on the street, she was able to see him frown. “Cowgirl, we haven't gone inside any of these places yet. For all we know, LeBeau's in one of them.”

“I'm not . . . I can't—” Oh God, she was going to cry if she had to go in there and see all those people drinking. And heaven help her if she caught sight of a bottle of bourbon.

During the day it was easy to overlook places that sold liquor. The wonderful mix of spices and grilled meats coming from the wide array of restaurants helped her curb the cravings. But now, when most of the food establishments had shut down their kitchens for the night, it wasn't so easy.

“It'll be all right.”

She startled at the nearness of Heath's mouth to her ear and leaned back a bit. “What are you talking about?”

Cupping the back of her arm with his large hand, he guided her toward another building. Suddenly uncomfortable with the way he was touching her, Cody shrugged out of his hold, but continued to walk beside him.

“This looks like a dance club. Li'l less temptation,” he said.

“Less temptation from what?”

“Drinking.”

Putting the brakes on, she rounded on him. “Who told you?”

The orange neon sign above his head made Heath's frown look eerie. “Nobody told me anything.”

“Someone had to have told you about it. How else did you know about the drinking?”

Heath stared at her, features now blank, cop mode in full swing.

Hell's bells! She wasn't going to get anywhere with him like this. And if she had to take a wild guess, Kim had probably told him, begging him to reconsider their plan to search Bourbon Street at night.

Great. When would the people in her life back off and learn to trust her? Cody wasn't stupid; she had gotten help for the recovery, and she would continue to get it. Kim had no right exposing Cody's secret like that.

So, why was she balking? She wanted people to trust her. Why couldn't she trust herself?

“You know what, fine. We'll go in there, and we'll look. If he's not there, we leave, and we check the next one. In. Out. Done. Got it?”

Heath stepped aside and held out his hand in a “lead the way” gesture.

Marching past him, she veered through a group of girls wearing shirts declaring “I'm With the Bride,” and entered the dance club and its pulsating atmosphere. The multicolored strobe lights played havoc on her eyes, making her squint. Heath's hand settled in the middle of her back, and he helped create a path through the grinding bodies. Doing her best to ignore the weird feel of his hand on her, Cody scanned the club, trying to locate Remy.