[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine (43 page)

“Marguerite will say anything to get back in your bed. If I had any such evidence, would I admit to it? I’m a responsible citizen. I would never risk being an accessory to murder.”

“No, you’d commit it yourself,” Marguerite hollered. She’d retreated toward the edge of the plateau.

Constantine telepathed to her:
Keep talking, keep fighting me
. He focused on his father. “No deal without the evidence, Bon-Bon. I want my brother free and clear.”
Say it all out loud. Everything he’s done
.

“He’ll never give him to you,” Marguerite scoffed. “He wants control. He kills anyone who crosses him. He killed your grandfather and your innocent little brother.”

Rage and relief spiraled together. “That clears the Navajo people.”

Bon-Bon made a derisive snort.

“He killed your wife,” Marguerite said. “He killed my roommate. He killed your fans.”

“What a load of bull,” Bon-Bon said, his mocking laughter echoing through the night.

Who else?
Constantine telepathed.

Move in for the kill,
the owl said. Its curved beak glinted in another flash of light. Constantine turned the mask in his hands, around and around. Raindrops shivered across the copper in the rising wind.

“He killed Dufray, your mother’s husband,” Marguerite proclaimed, arms upraised, a naked, avenging goddess with hazel eyes and honey-blond hair. “He killed the Indian he’d bribed to spread the word he was dead. He killed Nathan, and he was going to kill me.”

“Anyone else?” Constantine asked, dancing now. Bonnard’s eyes flicked back and forth between him and Marguerite.

“He killed Zeb’s mother,” Marguerite said. “He drugged Roy Lutsky, causing the accident that took her life.”

The hair on Constantine’s arms stood up. The beads rattled; the feathers shook. “You hear that list, Bon-Bon? No self-respecting skinwalker would bargain with such a freak.”

“Then you won’t get your brother at all, Dufray.” Bonnard picked up his duffel bag. “He has no guts. He’ll be stuck with me, at my beck and call, for ever and ever, amen.” Electricity built in the sky, yearned toward the ground.

Constantine raised the mask. The bird spread its wings.
Now!

“Like hell I will!” Zeb lunged over the crest of the mound. “You killed my mother. I’m going to kill
you
!”

Bonnard whirled, snarling.

“Stay back!” Constantine, too, lunged at Bonnard, but the bird got there first, a missile of wings and claws, driving them apart as the lightning struck.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

M
arguerite flew across the grass and knelt beside Constantine. She saw no aura at all. She ran her fingers over his face, bent her ear to his chest.

His heart beat back at her, strong and firm.
Oh God, thank God
. She kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. He muttered, stretched and groaned, his aura pulsed into life, and he seemed almost to wake but then subsided. She lifted his head, pushing his wet, tangled hair back from his face. All the confusion that had crowded her at Ophelia’s house had resolved into a single truth. “I love you,” she said. “How could you believe I ever wanted to harm you? I’ve loved you for years.” But he didn’t hear her. Tears burned behind her eyes. “Thank you for saving my life.”

She shivered in the windblown rain. They had to get out of the weather, get dry and safe. She heard distant shouts; maybe help was on the way.

Something was burning. She got up and glanced around. Zeb was nowhere to be seen. Al Bonnard lay flat on his back not far away. What if he, too, were alive? She crept reluctantly toward the motionless body, needing to know for sure. Then she realized where the burning smell came from. She gagged and swallowed it down, recoiling from the stench.

The tree creaked ominously above her head. A bat swooped from among the branches. The tree creaked again, louder…

Marguerite ran back to Constantine and grabbed his shoulders. “Help! Zeb! Anyone!” She wasn’t strong enough to both lift and carry. She took ahold of his feet and tugged him away from the tree. “Wake up, damn it!” she sobbed, and heaved and dragged and heaved again.

A bough cracked, more bats dove; she hauled Constantine’s helpless weight another yard and another. Suddenly Zeb was there, heaving Constantine’s shoulders off the ground. Together they stumbled away from the tree. A massive branch of the oak crashed down, its base thudding across Al’s body and its outermost branches quivering inches from where they stood.

They lowered Constantine to the ground, and Marguerite keeled onto her knees, her arms and shoulders shaking. Zeb limped away, toward the edge of the mound. She sat on the wet grass and lifted Constantine’s head onto her lap, sheltering his face from the rain. He breathed, in and out, and so did she. At least they were both alive. The wind sighed softly over the grass.

Zeb appeared again, cradling something in his arms. “The lightning killed the owl. Is—is Constantine all right?”

“He’s still unconscious,” Marguerite said. “Are you okay?”

“I got thrown halfway down the hill, but I’m all right.” Warily, he glanced around.

Her eyes went involuntarily in the direction of the huge oak bough. “Your father’s under there.”

“Is he dead? What’s that smell?”

She tried to form the words. It turned out to be unnecessary.

“He got fried? And then crushed like a roach?” Zeb’s voice shook a little. “Good. He got what he deserved.” He laid the owl gently on the grass next to Constantine and shucked his T-shirt. He held it out. “Put this on. I asked my girlfriends to bring you some dry clothes, but right now they’re calling Gideon O’Toole and helping Jabez fend off the reporters.”

The media was here?

Oh, what the hell. After tonight, she could deal with anything, but at least she wouldn’t have to face them naked. “Thanks,” she said, moving Constantine’s head gently off her lap.

Constantine groaned and opened his eyes. “Zeb okay?”

“Thank God you’re awake.” She stood, pulling the wet T-shirt over her head.

“I’m fine,” Zeb said, adding a fervent, “Thank you.”

“Bonnard dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead,” Marguerite said. The T-shirt stuck stubbornly to her skin, but it almost covered her butt.

“Thank you,” Zeb said again.

“Mission ’complished.” Constantine’s voice was mildly slurred. “Damned bird. Still not sure what its plan was.”

Oh, dear. “Constantine, your bird is dead, too,” said Marguerite, pointing out the limp, scorched remains of the owl.

Constantine rolled slowly to the side and ran a gentle finger over the wing feathers, plastered together in the rain and wind. “A willing sacrifice. Damn, that can’t be what it meant to do.” A nightjar called plaintively from nearby, and
a screech owl cried. “Maybe one day I’ll get it right.” He sighed and sat up, turning wearily to Zeb. “Where do you think he would have put that knife?”

“I’ll find it,” Zeb said. “I know all his hiding places. He was bullshitting you if he said it would be sent to the cops. He would never take that kind of risk.” His eyes went to the massive limb under which his father lay. “I can’t believe I’m finally free.”

“I can’t believe I have a little brother.” Constantine stood, his aura shaky.

“I—I couldn’t do it myself,” Zeb said. “Mom said he had all this anger, and I should be kind and considerate, and then she was gone, and it got worse and worse, but I—”

Awkwardly, Constantine put an arm around Zeb and pulled him close. “Hey, there,” he said. “It’s over now.”

Zeb shook violently, and his aura wept.

“Your mom couldn’t have had a more loving son,” Constantine said. “And I couldn’t ask for a better brother.”

Marguerite turned away, a huge lump in her throat. The skies let loose, and she walked to the edge of the mound, blending her tears with the rain.

Constantine went down one end of the mound to deal with Gideon and the media, while Zeb escorted Marguerite down the other and through the woods. She’d never seen Zeb’s aura so relaxed and confident. They retrieved her wet clothes and shoes and rendezvoused with his girlfriends in the parking lot. Zeb and the girls went away to search for the missing knife, while Marguerite drove to Lavonia’s.

For once, Lavonia had very little to say. After exclaiming at the news of Al’s death, she listened in devastated silence to Marguerite’s catalogue of Al’s crimes. Afterward, she ran to the bathroom, was violently sick, and then huddled on the couch, wrapped in the lavender throw. “He was sleeping with Janie, too, wasn’t he?”

“It looks that way,” Marguerite said. “From what Zeb tells me, it was an on-and-off thing. Al had sex with her whenever he needed something, such as free concert tickets. He also gave her cookies to hand out at the concert the other night, but it’s unclear whether she knew what she was doing, since only a few of them were likely laced with drugs. We think she freaked out and left town when she heard Nathan Bone was dead. She was involved in setting up a meeting between him and Al, so I guess she put two and two together and feared for her own life.”

“Good riddance. She was causing issues within the coven, so we’re better off without her.” Lavonia lapsed into silence again. Marguerite made herbal tea and tried a couple of times to get her friend talking, or at least back to bed, but Lavonia just said, “You should go. I need to deal with this alone.”

“Sure, but… are you all right?”

“Of course not,” Lavonia snapped. “I’ve been sleeping with a serial killer! And now I’m—” Her aura flared hysterically, and she broke off, flapping a hand out from under the lavender throw. Determination smoothed her aura, but a chaos of other emotions seethed beneath it. She took a deep breath. “I’m wallowing in my anger. I want to be alone so I don’t have to hold it in.” She stood, speaking through
clenched teeth. “I mean it. Go.” But at the door, she softened. “Poor Zeb. How is he?”

“Relieved, I think.” Taking concern for Zeb as a sign that Lavonia was already working her way up and out, Marguerite left. To her surprise, Reuben in his red Cadillac was parked behind her car.

“Escort duty,” he said. “Powwow at the Cat.”

But by the time they got to the Impractical Cat, Gideon and the police chief were on their way out. The lab in Al Bonnard’s spare bedroom had yielded enough evidence, including spiked candies, to back up the sworn statements of Zeb, Marguerite, Jabez, and Constantine. The knife, which Zeb found below the bottom tray of a toolbox, proved to have plenty of blood on it but no prints at all. The police chief was inclined to arrest Zeb anyway, but a short, private talk with Lep—coupled, Marguerite thought, with a fierce little smile from Zelda—persuaded him to permanently change his mind.

Zeb and Constantine went to breakfast together the next day to discuss Zeb’s immediate future. He departed with a girlfriend on each arm. Which left Marguerite alone with Constantine. He picked up a guitar and sat at one end of the couch, tuning the strings.

She tried to read him. Something was bothering him, but for once she couldn’t figure him out—or maybe, after not pegging Al for a murderous lunatic, she’d lost her confidence. Up on the mound, she thought he’d telepathed that he loved her, but in all the chaos she might have been mistaken. Perhaps the uneasiness meant he still didn’t believe or trust her. Most likely he never would. “I guess I should go,” she said, rising from the couch.

“Zeb tells me you saved my life,” Constantine said, his voice as awkward as his aura.

“Um, yeah, with his help,” she said. “And you saved mine, so I guess we’re even.”

“No, we’re not.” Constantine picked a few melancholy notes. “Look, Marguerite, I’m sorry if you couldn’t read me up there on the mound, but I had to corral my emotions. I didn’t know whether I could handle Bonnard if I let anything affect me, and that included you.”

“I understand,” she said, twisting her hands together. “It’s all right. I really should go.” She eyed Lawless, who was curled up on a chair, looking very settled for the night.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll have Reuben take you home and keep the hounds off you.” Sadness washed through his aura and echoed through the guitar strings. “But I was hoping we might start over. Start afresh.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” she said, struggling nevertheless with a surge of hope.

He rubbed his face. “I know. I was terrified when I first realized Bon-Bon was alive. All I could think of was that he would destroy anyone or anything I cared about. Short of kidnapping you, the only way to keep you safe was to drive you away. I guess I can’t apologize enough to make it better, huh?”

That explained his discomfort. “I don’t need an apology,” she said. “I need to be trusted. I need to be believed.”

“I do believe you,” he said. So, at last, did his aura—shining through clear as clear. Her heart leapt with the joy of it.

“I know I have to become more trusting,” he said. “As Ophelia puts it, love doesn’t include emotional insurance.”

“No,” Marguerite said ruefully, “it sure doesn’t.”

“Now that Bonnard’s dead and I know I’m not losing control of my mind, I’m ready to give it a try,” Constantine said. “Actually, I’d say I’m desperate to give it a try.” His lips twisted. “With you, if you’ll let me.”