[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine (32 page)

“Or
you
put them there,” she flashed.

He laughed, his aura showing such genuine surprise that she had to believe him. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an asshole.” She stuffed the articles and porn back in the envelope, put it in the backpack, and zipped it up. Oh, God in heaven, this
hurt
. He didn’t want to believe her. He didn’t
want
to trust her. He never had.

“I
am
trustworthy. I have a
gift
, and it’s
special
, whether you or anyone else believes it or not.”

He shrugged.

The rage simmering inside her surged up, hot, volcanic, and unstoppable. She grabbed the sandwich tray with shaking hands, shrieked at the top of her lungs, and threw it across his pristine room. Crusts scattered, plates shattered, and tea sloshed all over one of his guitars.

Lawless scrambled up, whimpering, and skittered out the door. Misery washed over Marguerite. “Believe what you want. It’s your loss, not mine. Come on, Lawless.” She hefted her backpack over her shoulder and left.

Go with her
, he told the dog, and Lawless went.

Constantine texted Lep downstairs to have her followed. He needed her out of the way, as far away as possible, as soon as possible. She had to believe he didn’t give a damn, because if the Enemy thought he cared about her, there was no telling what he might do. It was dumb luck that he’d had something with which to drive her away. For her own safety, she had to hate him. She had to want to stay away.

She was telling the truth,
the bird said forlornly, and Constantine found himself agreeing. Not that believing her did much good, because she would never take him back after this. He hadn’t expected her to react quite so violently—she didn’t seem the tantrum type—but perhaps it was all for the best that he now knew.

Keeping to the shadows, he went downstairs in Marguerite’s wake. His people had kept the back area free of reporters, but judging by the rage in her every movement, she would have mowed down anyone who dared to get in her way. She didn’t turn once, just marched out the back without a word and went straight to her car. She drove off, and silently, Reuben got into his Cadillac and followed her.

Zeb surged out of a coma-like sleep with a gasp. His heart banging, he held himself still and listened. Silence all around, but something must have made him shoot awake like that. Maybe the cops had found the van, in which case he was toast. With a sensation close to relief, he raised himself and peeked out the window.

The white van next to him now had a metal sign on it covering the university logo, but in the dim light he couldn’t make out what it said. What was going on? He’d thought nothing was planned for tonight, at least not until the small hours. Had he slept that long? It felt like he’d had five minutes max. He crept to the front seat at the other side of the van and waited, wishing he hadn’t disabled the vehicle, but at least the disconnected battery meant no telltale light would come on when he got out. The instant the white van’s engine rumbled into life, he slipped out, pushed the door gently shut, and sneaked around the back, considering his options. The white van was backing up toward him, its rack for abandoned bikes gleaming in the first few drops of rain.

He didn’t want to deal with this, whatever it was, but if he called the cops, if he went to Constantine, would anyone believe him?

The van stopped, the gears clunked out of reverse, and the vehicle moved forward. Zeb ducked behind the row of parked vehicles and sprinted parallel to the white van in the direction of the gate. The van came to a halt at the gate, Zeb crouched behind a bush, and the skies let loose. The driver got out to open the gate, cursing. As he got back inside the vehicle, Zeb made a mad dash through the rain, crouched low, shoving the terror of being caught back down his craw. He would do what he had to, whatever that proved to be. The driver drove through, got out, still cursing, closed the gate again, and hurried back inside the van.

Zeb took hold of the bike rack and swung onto it as the van moved slowly forward. He held his breath, praying hard, but the van kept moving and turned into the road.

The rain settled to a steady downpour. The metal of the rack bit into Zeb’s hands as he clung on. Up until yesterday, he’d thought he could handle things himself. He’d only had to counteract sick practical jokes. What if Marguerite was right and Pauline had been murdered… But, if so, how? And why?

He’d waited too long, trying to understand, to adjust, to be the thoughtful, considerate, forgiving kind of person his mom had wanted him to be. The van rolled steadily toward downtown, then slammed to a halt at a red light. Zeb’s head smacked the spare tire, the rack ripped his hands, and he fell onto the road. Heart lurching, he dragged himself up. He clenched his fists, gearing for battle, but the light changed and the van moved away.

He sprinted after it, keeping to the side of the road. He was a long-distance runner, never a great sprinter, but rage and desperation thrust him forward, past one street and around the corner of the next.

Two blocks further, the van turned into an all-night gas station downtown and pulled up at a pump. Zeb slid into the shadows at the roadside, panting, allowing himself some slack, letting the rain wash and soothe the bloody rips in his fingers. Still a chance. He crept along on the wet grass next to the sidewalk. Streetlights glistened on the wet pavement, and he hurried by, keeping just out of their reach.

Next door to the brightly lit gas station an abandoned house slanted slowly toward demolition, bordered by a scraggly hedge. Zeb sank down behind the bushes and breathed and watched the van, trying to come up with a plan. Who could the bastard be after this time? Where could he be going? Not after Marguerite; God, he hoped not. She was
with Constantine, so she would be okay, and she wouldn’t go running out at night alone anymore. He tried to think, to come up with a plan. Maybe he shouldn’t have chickened out at the Impractical Cat, but with his father right there, he just couldn’t take the chance. What were the odds that Constantine or anyone else would believe him? Because of his employment record and a couple of blood tests, people thought he was a druggie with a violent temper who couldn’t even hold down a job.

The rain kept falling on the bushes and trickling down his back. He couldn’t even send up a silent prayer to his mother, asking for help. He had made her promises, and it looked like he was going to have to break them. She had always told him he could only do his best, but what did that amount to? How did someone like Constantine steel himself to harm—or even kill—someone he knew or maybe even cared about?

The van door slammed shut, and Zeb scrambled forward, keeping low and directly behind the van. He wrapped his hands in the bottom of his T-shirt, gripped the rack, and positioned his feet on the bumper just as the van slid forward.

They puttered through town in the steady rain, and Zeb crouched grimly against the rack. Past one street, two, five; even with the T-shirt as a cushion, his hands were killing him. Another block, and the van slowed, turned, pulled into the gravel parking area next to the small park in the middle of town. No one was in sight, and few lights showed in the houses flanking the park. Why had he stopped here? Zeb unclenched his hands and stepped lightly down, scuttling to the right into the yard of a dingy brick apartment building
occupied mostly by dopeheads. He crouched in the muddy shadows beside the marijuana-scented porch, and watched and waited and tried not to hope.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

M
arguerite wasn’t in any shape to drive. She’d never been so enraged in her life.

And upset with herself for distressing poor innocent Lawless. “I’m sorry, boy,” she said, reaching over to caress him. “I’m not mad at you.”

He licked her hand, and she almost burst into tears. Then she noticed Reuben behind her, and the rage surged once more. She struggled, got herself focused, and made it through downtown Bayou Gavotte without running over any slow-moving pedestrians.

It began to rain, and at the last minute, she drove past her own street. She had to calm down before going home. She had to decide what to say if any reporters were there, and she had to get past them—in and out—without showing how much she was hurting inside. She doubted Reuben would let her be stomped to death by a horde of reporters, but if she claimed she was still going out with Constantine, he would report it as another lie—and yet she refused to demean herself by publicly dissing Constantine either.

After fifteen minutes of driving in circles, she went home, drained but in control. There were five unfamiliar cars parked near her house. She pulled up in the driveway. Jabez was on the porch, sipping iced coffee with a couple
of women in suits. Three men leapt from their vehicles and came over to hers before she’d even had a chance to open the door.

Jabez and Reuben were on them. “No comment, no comment, no comment,” they said, shoving them all aside, ushering her through the rain to her front door.

Oho. Not giving her a chance to diss their beloved leader, huh? “Actually, I do have a comment,” she said sweetly, smiling at the women in suits. “Constantine is absolutely
amazing
, and some of the stuff you hear about him is true.” She paused. “And some of it’s not.” She went indoors. So there, she thought bitterly. Let them chew on that one. Maybe she wasn’t as hopeless at dealing with the media as she thought.

Reuben followed her. “Are you still guarding me?” she demanded, doing her damnedest not to be pissed off at him. He’d only been doing his job when he’d tattled on her.

“Just following you, ma’am,” he replied. That “ma’am” had an ominous feel to it.

She took a small overnight bag from the hall closet and packed enough for a couple of days, including food and a leash for Lawless. She changed into clean clothes. Now all she needed was her sketch pad. She still hadn’t decided where to go tonight. Tomorrow she would go with Lawless to the levee in New Orleans, sit under a tree, and have a lazy time drawing the boats and the passersby. Her mouth was already watering for coffee and beignets.

Where was her sketch pad? She’d left it on the coffee table the previous night. She was sure of that. She didn’t remember seeing it this morning, but she hadn’t been looking for it. She’d hardly been in this room at all. She went
through the entire house, and then did it all over again, bitching under her breath. “Where the hell is it?”

Reuben was hanging by the living room window, picking his teeth. “Looking for something?”

“My sketch pad.” She opened the front door, beckoned Jabez inside, and asked if he’d seen or moved it.

Total indifference. “No, ma’am.” He went back outdoors.

“I need to speak to Constantine,” she told Reuben.

“Don’t suppose he wants you back there, ma’am,” Reuben said, very cool, very sure, striking a chilly misery into her heart. They had a routine for dealing with cast-off sexual conquests.

Assholes, that’s what they all were. “I didn’t say I wanted to
see
him,” she said. “I want to know if he moved my sketch pad or saw it or anything.”

Reuben appeared to consider, heaved a jaded sigh, and sent a text message. Marguerite gritted her teeth and waited. She was close to exploding by the time the exchange of messages ended. Reuben said, “No.”

“No, what?”

“Didn’t see it, didn’t touch it.”

Oh, shit.
It had been there when she’d left to go out with Tony. There when she’d returned, because she remembered closing it to cover the sketch of her sex dream but leaving it on the coffee table. Someone had searched her house between then and when she’d returned with Constantine in the small hours, and her sketch pad was what they’d taken.

“I need to talk to Constantine,” she said again.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Reuben said. “No can do. He wasn’t any too pleased I texted him. Said I should know better.”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll handle it myself.” She picked up her overnight bag, but Reuben took it and silently carried it out to the car. She slung her backpack over her shoulder, locked the door behind her, and was ushered to her car by Constantine’s minions.