One Blood (3 page)

Randy looked up from the note and studied Bill as if he was a newly discovered species. “Did you or anyone else read this?”

Bill met his gaze. “No. I took it from Officer Abshire and brought it straight here. What does it say?”

Randy lowered his eyes. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“
That’s not gonna work this time, Ran. It’s my duty to know.”

“
Then arrest me for obstruction.”

Bill stared at him incredulously and then looked away. After a moment he looked back. “I know a couple of good guys in the bureau who owe me favors. They know how to be discrete. Just say the word.”

“
Not a chance. Don’t you remember how badly they fucked up with Kristopher? I’ve got my own guys on this one.”

“
The same guys who can’t keep tabs on a teenage girl? I know this is a hard time for you, but you can’t trust Karen’s life to a bunch of hired guns.”

“
Bill,” Randy replied, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “If you want to help me out, make sure Officer Abshire forgets what he knows.”

Bill opened his mouth but then nodded his head. “Okay, Ran. I want you to know I am making it my personal mission to find Karen. I won’t sleep.”

“
Thanks. Let me know how things go back at the ranch—”

“
Hey, honey, I didn’t know you were home. Hi, Bill.”

Randy and Bill turned to see Coral descending the grand spiral staircase behind them. Randy glanced over at Bill knowing they were both wondering the same thing—how long had she been listening to their conversation?

She reached the landing and Randy took in her form-fitting (but appropriate for company, thank the Lord) blue, floor-length house dress. At least she had done her hair and makeup, a sign she was having one of her “good” days.

“
Hi, hon,” Randy said, leaning down to give her a peck on the lips.

The fact that she was dressed gave another positive signal. At least three days a week, Coral would wake, decide getting up was too painful, and stay in bed the whole day. She’d been battling bipolar disorder since her first pregnancy ended in miscarriage, nearly three years before Kristopher had even been a thought.

But even when she was at her worst, Randy refused to see Coral as a damsel in distress. She would always be the beautiful, vibrant angel he met years ago at the Consolata Cemetery in Lake City where his mother lay at rest. He always considered it providence that Coral’s grandmother’s gravesite lay just a few feet away from the Lafitte family plot.

Two years after his father’s death, Randy came to a crossroads in his life and went to the burial ground to confer with his mother. As he stared at Rita Lafitte’s tombstone, he collapsed to his knees as shame and confusion overtook him. After a moment he looked up to find Coral standing beside him, sympathy and caring pouring out of her stunning blue-gray eyes like a beacon of hope. Everything fell into place.

Through Coral’s influence, Randy found his purpose. Distraught over his parent’s deaths, he threw himself into public service. Coral was the perfect wife for a politician-on-the-rise—graceful, classy, with just the right amount of sweet, southern charm. They were poised to conquer the world. But Kristopher’s murder put his angel on an emotional rollercoaster where the valleys vastly outnumbered the peaks. Randy didn’t dare think of what Coral might do if she found out someone had kidnapped Karen.

Coral regarded Bill with dismay. “What brings you to our neck of the woods, Bill? You haven’t come by, well, since before Paula…I’m sorry, where are my manners? Can I get ya’ll something to drink? Emmanuel can whip up some lemonade in a jif.”

Bill gave Randy a quick look. “Thanks for the offer, Coral, that does sound delightful, but I’ve got to get back to the station. Ran, catch up with you later?”

“
Right. Thanks, Bill. Keep me posted all right?”

As soon as Bill was outside, Coral punched Randy in the shoulder.

“
Oww, hon.”

“
I thought I told you not to bring him into my house. What will the neighbors think?”

“
He was acquitted, remember?”

“
Thanks to your lawyer buddies. I never understood why you helped him get off. And don’t give me that one hand washes the other crap.”

Randy offered his softest look. “I just did what any friend would do, hon. You understand that right? Loyalty outweighs honesty.”

“
Well not in my book. If you ever did anything that terrible, I would hope you would tell
me
the truth.” Coral frowned, putting a hand to her head. “See, now I’m getting a headache. I need to lie down before Karen gets home. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve planned a little surprise get-together for her.”

“
You did what?”

“
Well, eighteen is a big deal. My sisters and I are going to take her out to celebrate her womanhood!”

Randy’s mind churned as he led Coral upstairs to their bedroom and tucked her into their California king bed. He had to come up with an excuse for Karen’s absence. After feeding her one of the more potent tranquilizers, he waited for the effects to manifest. “I have to tell you something, hon,” he said. “But you have to promise not to get too upset.”

“
I will promise no such thing Randall Albert Lafitte,” she whispered, already half asleep.

Normally Coral’s use of his biblical name would have brought a smile, but he could manage little more than a thin grimace. “I sent Karen and a few of her friends to Cancun for the weekend. They should be touching down soon.”

“
Cancun?” Coral asked, eyes bursting open. “Randy, how could you?”

“
I’m so sorry, hon. It was just…Christy, you know Bill’s daughter, let it slip that they were planning to run away this weekend…”

Coral’s face wrinkled in bewilderment. “Are you telling me that my husband, the most fiercely overprotective man I’ve ever known, just sent my daughter to Mexico unsupervised?”

Randy forced a smile and replied, “That’s right, hon, this old dog learned a new trick this week. She was gonna go anyway. At least this way she goes with our blessing, clear expectations, and a small security detail…”

Coral closed her eyes again. After a moment she said, “Well you could have consulted me first. She’s my daughter too, you know.”

“
I know, hon, there wasn’t much lead time on this one.”

“
Don’t let it happen again,” she said, her voice fading. Then, “You did good, hon. I’m proud of you…”

Randy’s resolve hardened as he looked into his wife’s peaceful countenance. He waited until her eyelids twitched before retreating to his father’s study. Sitting at the desk, gazing aimlessly at his father’s enormous collection of rare books, Randy read the kidnapper’s note until he memorized it. He had a feeling the author was bluffing.

Everyone had secrets, and obviously public figures had more to lose by exposing a clandestine fact than most. The genius of the term “secret” was that the kidnappers were betting on the fact that the recipient, in this case him, would automatically assume his most confidential revelation. Still, the reference to death bothered him and the last line,
WE WILL KILL HER
, could not have been any clearer.

Randy glanced at his watch. Three hours had passed since Bill’s call. That left four to prepare for first contact with the kidnappers. This was getting him nowhere. He had to use his time wisely.

There was only one man Randy trusted to get his daughter back—Snake Roberts—a tracker, bounty hunter, mercenary, and Randy’s strong right hand. Snake’s loyalty to Randy was inscribed in granite.

He grabbed the phone and dialed from memory. Voicemail picked up immediately.

“
Snake, it’s me. There’s an urgent situation that needs your expert attention. Potential for big money. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

* * * * *

Chapter Three

Friday

Just outside Lake City

“
Where are you holed up these days, Snake?” Randy Lafitte asked in his typical “
I’m the boss of you
” voice.

Snake Roberts stared at the traffic trickling past him as he sat on the roadside shoulder. “Yuh know me, Boss. If I can think, that means I need a drink.” He took a generous gulp of Snapple fruit juice and forced a belch. “Now, what’s this yuh say about a hefty payout? What’s the job?”

Snake sensed Randy’s hesitation, which was unexpected because Randy never hesitated when it came to his needs. It had always been that way. Even fifteen years back in that piece of shit bar in Cameron, where they’d met.

* * * * *

Snake had been sitting at his usual table in the quietest corner of the room, farthest from the door. A shot of Jamesons, one pint of Guinness, and one snifter of Bailey’s Irish cream sat on the table before him, beside a weathered copy of Joyce’s
Finnegans Wake
—what he thought of as his Irish quadruple mind fuck. The door opened, allowing enough sunlight inside to obliterate the bar’s number one feature besides the cheap liquor—ambient dimness. Snake was not a fan of daylight; it gave him headaches and irritated his freckled white skin.

The bastard in the doorway clearly held sunlight in high regard; he had the nerve to keep the door open longer than necessary as he tried to penetrate the dim.

“
Who you looking for, boy?” the barmaid, Gertrude, asked the intruder. “Think you might be in the wrong place…”

Snake doubted this because you had to go way out of your way down a less trodden tributary off the beaten path to find this hellhole. The visitor’s eyes scanned the room as he ignored Gertrude’s welcome, eventually coming to rest on Snake and his Irish posse. Blessedly, the man closed the door, then strode across the room to Snake’s corner.

It took Snake’s eyes a moment to adjust, but he finally got a look at the fellow when he sat down—directly across from him. Gertrude’s description was on the money as usual. He had the height, build, and manner of a disciplined man, but at the same time he wore the face of a boy, and a privileged boy at that. But the eyes…the eyes were those of a man who’d seen a particular brand of darkness.

Those eyes reminded Snake of his fellow Vietnam vets—men whose innocence was scrubbed away so thoroughly that only the sinewy layer of skin between air and taut muscle remained. But Snake knew that was the toughest layer the same way he knew the man before him had never seen a real war. He was too cloaked in indignant self-righteousness for that.

“
You’re a hard man to track down, Mr. Roberts.” The man-boy’s voice was a brilliant instrument, relaying all the right pitches of assertiveness, pleasantry, humor, and grit.

If he wasn’t a politician, Snake would eagerly gobble down his own shirt. Then it came to him in a flash of insight. He’d seen this man-boy before, as recently as a few weeks back, and much to the delight of his shirt-phobic stomach, he was a politician. Having placed the face, Snake reached for the name.

“
To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr…”

“
My name isn’t important, but the work I’m offering you could be. I was told you were a man who could get tough jobs done, discretely. I’ve got such a job…”

* * * * *

Fifteen years later, Snake was still cleaning up Lafitte’s messes.

“
I need you to find someone for me, Snake,” Lafitte said after a short pause.

“
And what do I do once I find this upstanding gentleman?” Snake replied, taking another sip of juice. Reminiscing was thirsty work.

“
It’s a woman. Her name is Desiree Deveaux. She was once a fortune teller calling herself Madame Deveaux, last known to live in New Orleans. I need you to find her by no later than tomorrow night and bring her to me.”

“
That it?”

Another uncustomary pause. Maybe the instrument needed warming these days, the way an old car did. As if to confirm this, Lafitte cleared his throat. “Snake,” he said. “Someone took my daughter today.”

So it begins
.

Snake had known this moment was rapidly approaching, but now that it was here, he almost felt bad…almost. “I’m sorry to hear that, Boss.”

“
I can’t have the police or Feds involved in this.”

“
Of course not. Who needs ‘em.”

“
I’m speaking to the kidnappers in about two and a half hours. Once I know their demands, I’ll call you back so we can put together our game plan.”

“
What if they don’t have any?”

“
Excuse me?”

“
Demands, I mean. What makes yuh think they’ve got demands?”

“
Everyone wants something, Snake.”

“
But what if yuh don’t have what they want or can’t get it in time?”

“
I’m paying you a lot of money to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Lafitte hung up.

Snake placed the cell phone in the cup holder. The square green sign just beyond his windshield announced Lake City’s municipal boundary. Snake had chosen his parking spot carefully, so he could remain within the city limits of Iowa (pronounced eye-a-way in Louisiana). He hated Lake City almost as much as he hated the sun.