Diabolical (Shaye Archer Series Book 3) (4 page)

The man never made her swallow anything, so the drugs must be in her food. At first, it had taken days for the poisons to work their way out of her system. Now she didn’t feel groggy and spacey for more than a couple hours after waking up. She thought that meant it wasn’t happening as often, but then, maybe she’d gotten used to it.

Even though she had no way of knowing for sure, she thought she was still in New Orleans, or at least in Louisiana. The man had a Creole accent and he brought her shrimp and gumbo to eat sometimes. Besides that, something inside her just felt like she hadn’t left the state.

Not that it mattered. No one was coming to look for her.

She went to school for a while, but then people started asking questions that she didn’t want to answer—mostly about her mother—so she’d stopped going. It didn’t surprise her that no one came to check. Her teacher had called her “disruptive,” whatever that meant, and asked to speak to her parents. She didn’t have a father. Not that she’d ever known, anyway, and when she’d asked her mother about him, she’d never gotten a good answer.

Her mother never knew where she was and never asked, but this time was different. This time, she’d been gone for a long time. Her mother had made her go with the man, but surely, she realized that he’d never brought her back. But then, if she was still smoking that stuff and taking the pills, she might not care. The smoking stuff cost a lot of money. So much money that her mother traded their food money for it and they went hungry for days. With one less mouth to feed, her mother could buy more stuff. The stuff always made her happier than food.

She pushed a small pile of straw together and sat on it, but the thin strands didn’t provide much insulation against the cold stone. The only clothes she had was what she wore now, a pair of jeans that were too big and a T-shirt that was too small. She couldn’t even remember what she’d been wearing when the man took her, but she’d been through several sets of clothes since then. They were always used and rarely fit, but she was used to that. She’d never had new clothes that fit properly.

She sat in the silence and listened for the dreaded thunder. If it rained too hard, the floor flooded. She could only stand for so long before her weak body gave out and she had to sit. But the thought of sitting in cold water when she was already freezing brought tears to her eyes, and not many things did that anymore. Cold water and the red dress were the only two things that still made her cry, and sometimes she worried that even those things would no longer matter. That she’d give up entirely and figure out a way to end it all.

She knew how. She’d seen it on television. Two long cuts across her wrist would do the trick.

So far, she’d always found a reason not to do it, but she was afraid that might change. Lately, the man had looked at her with his dark eyes and instead of just raw fear, she’d felt her skin crawl and then the overwhelming feeling of wanting to cover up her entire body so that he couldn’t see any of it. Something else was coming. She didn’t understand what, but she knew it was different from before.

A thunderclap boomed overhead and she pulled her knees up to her chest, lowered her head to them, and began to cry.

S
haye jerked awake
, her heart racing. She tried to force all the details from her dream into her awakened mind, but they were already slipping away. Damn it! Her frustration grew as the harder she tried to remember, the quicker she forgot.

She’d been back in the stone room again and it had been cold, but there was more this time. Things about her mother that she’d never dreamed before. But now she couldn’t remember them. She rose from the couch and headed to the kitchen to fix herself a snack. Then she’d head to her office and work.

There was no use to try sleeping again.

Not after one of the dreams.

B
elles Fleurs Plantation
, 1936

T
he Haitian boy
hid in the shrubs and watched the plantation owner through the window of the big house. The owner was in the fancy room with a huge desk and bookcases. The Haitian boy knew it was supposed to be a place to work, but the owner had never worked a day in his life. Everything that hadn’t been given to him, he’d taken. He was evil and cruel, but he wasn’t the only one who could use those traits to make himself rich and powerful.

He watched as the man left the room. It was dinnertime, and he’d sit in an even fancier room while servants fed him, his pathetic wife, and the weak boy. The man would return to the working room when dinner was over and unlock the cabinet that held his expensive whiskey. He’d pour glass after glass and if he was in a foul mood, which was usually the case, he’d head upstairs and beat his wife or son, or he’d leave the house and beat one of the workers.

The Haitian pulled a burlap bag out of his pocket and jiggled it in his hand. The whiskey bottle would work. The locked cabinet presented no difficulty, nor did the window. No one would ever know he’d been inside.

He smiled. The owner’s son believed they had conjured a demon, but that was a lie. His great-grandmother didn’t know how to make demons appear, but she knew everything about the old magic. A person could do anything with roots, if they knew how.

Even kill someone.

S
aturday
, July 25, 2015

Ninth Ward, New Orleans, Louisiana

S
haye hesitated
before entering the apartment building. She’d been here once before, to the apartment that Lydia Johnson, her biological mother, had occupied. Nothing had been familiar, leading Shaye to believe at the time that she’d never lived there. The date in Clancy’s journal and Lydia’s occupancy date of the apartment confirmed what Shaye had felt. She’d never been inside the apartment until the night she entered it with Jackson.

But Lydia had lived here for twelve years. In that time she must have talked to someone, maybe even mentioned Shaye during a drug-induced haze. If Shaye could figure out where Lydia lived before she moved here, maybe it would spark Shaye’s memory of her past. If she could remember her time with Lydia, then she might remember her time with her captor. All the answers she needed were right there, locked away in her fragile mind. If she could just figure out a way to access them, all of this could be over.

Healing could begin.

She took in a deep breath and blew it out, then walked into the building and headed toward the apartment her mother had occupied. She stopped at the apartment across the hallway from her mother’s old unit and knocked on the door. She heard movement inside and after a short wait, the door opened and a woman peered out at her through the crack in the door, the chain latch still in place.

“Who are you?” the woman asked, looking her up and down.

“My name is Shaye. I’m trying to get information on the woman who lived across the hall from you—Lydia Johnson?”

“Already talked to the cops. Didn’t know nothing about no Lydia then. Don’t know anything now.”

The door slammed, and Shaye heard the dead bolt slide back into place. She stared at the door for several seconds, assessing the situation. The apartment manager had told her the woman had occupied the apartment across from Lydia’s for four years. How was it possible that she didn’t know who Lydia was?

The bottom line was it wasn’t possible.

The woman simply didn’t want anything to do with the police or anyone else. Unfortunately, it was common behavior. People didn’t want to get involved, especially when they could lose their benefits if someone clued in to any illegal activity. Like Lydia being a junkie.

Shaye sighed. Given what she was up to, Lydia probably hadn’t spent a lot of time chatting with other residents. But still, four years? Surely there was a conversation in the laundry room or in the back courtyard smoking at some point. She moved on to the next door and knocked again. It was a long shot to get information, but damn it, it was one of the only things she had to go on.

An hour later, she slumped into the drivers’ seat of her SUV, completely frustrated. She’d been through the entire building. Of the people who’d bothered to answer their doors, none had claimed knowledge of Lydia Johnson. They were lying, of course. Shaye could see the distrust and fear in their expressions. But what could she do about it?

Nothing. That’s what.

She started her car and pulled out of the parking lot. While she was on this side of town, she’d stop and see Hustle. She hadn’t checked on him in person in a while, although she’d spoken with Saul regularly and he’d reported the teen was doing fine. Seeing Hustle doing well would definitely improve her day.

It was just shy of 1:00 p.m. when Shaye parked her SUV in front of the Bayou Hotel. She yawned and blinked several times, trying to get her tired eyes to focus correctly. After the dream and her impromptu hour of work, she’d never managed to get back to sleep properly, instead tossing and turning the rest of the night, barely dozing and jumping awake at every little sound. Consequently, she was exhausted but knew if she tried to sleep, her overly active mind wouldn’t allow it. By tonight, she’d be so tired her mind wouldn’t have a choice. She was already counting the hours until her collapse.

She hopped out of the car and headed inside. Saul occupied his usual perch at the front desk and smiled at her as she walked inside.

“I was wondering when you would pay us a visit,” he said.

“I’m sorry I haven’t sooner,” she said. “I’ve had some stuff…”

“You don’t have to explain things to me,” Saul said. “Besides, I’ve got this under control.”

She smiled. “I knew you would or I wouldn’t have asked.”

At the center of the human trafficking case that Shaye had assisted the New Orleans police with was a street kid named Hustle. He’d helped Shaye on her first case and when his friend Jinx had gone missing, he’d sought out Shaye to see if she could help. Jinx had lived through a terrifying ordeal but was now reunited with her aunt, a good woman who would give Jinx the life she deserved.

Hustle had been happy for Jinx, but worried about his own future. With no parents and still a minor, he should be a ward of the state, but he’d fled foster care to escape an abusive foster parent and had zero intention of returning to the system. During the investigation, Saul had not only given Hustle a place to stay while Shaye looked for Jinx, he’d saved Hustle’s life by shooting one of the kidnappers as he was about to kill Hustle. Then Saul had gone a huge step further and agreed to foster Hustle when all the dust had settled and Jinx was safe.

“How’s he doing?” Shaye asked. “How are you doing?”

“We’re both doing fine. The kid’s a hard worker, and you weren’t kidding about the artistic ability. Come look at this.”

Saul walked around the desk and headed down the hall to the small dining area used to serve continental breakfast. He clicked on the lights and Shaye gasped. The walls had been painted with scenes of New Orleans streets, but from past times. Men and women in fancy dress, Mardi Gras parades, and other New Orleans traditions all came to life against a background of French Quarter buildings.

“This is incredible,” she said. “I knew he was talented, but I had no idea…”

“I took some pictures of this and he agreed to let me send them to some art schools. I can’t imagine they wouldn’t take him, and I’m guessing he’d get a scholarship besides.”

Shaye nodded. “I think you’re right. What about high school?”

“He’s doing the homeschool classes online. I thought it would be a bit of a fight, but he hasn’t said a word of complaint. We set a schedule for him with work and school and he’s stuck to it by the minute. He’s a sharp boy. It won’t take him long to get his GED.”

“I figured as much. What about other things?”

“You mean all the touchy-feely stuff? Well, that’s a little harder to navigate being that I’m a crotchety old Marine and he’s a skittish teenager, but we’re doing all right. He’s shared some stories about his mom with me, so that’s a good sign.”

Shaye felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “You don’t know how much I appreciate what you’re doing, Saul.”

“Yes, I do, but it’s not necessary. I would have taken the boy in whether you asked me or not. He’s a good kid, and he’s going to make a fine man. Doing what he did to find his friend…that’s serious heart, and you can’t teach a person heart.” Saul looked down at the floor for a minute and shook his head. “He reminds me of a member of my platoon. He would have been a fine man, if he’d made it back.”

“Well, whether it’s necessary or not, I still appreciate it. You know I would have been happy to take him myself, and Corrine wouldn’t have batted an eyelash if I’d asked her, but I think he needs a good man in his life. He’s never had that.”

Saul nodded. “Too many people discount the importance of fathers, including a lot of fathers. It’s a shame.” Saul cocked his head to the side and stared at her for a couple seconds. It was clear he wanted to ask something but wasn’t sure if he should. Curiosity must have won out because he finally asked, “Have the police figured anything out on those journals?”

Yeah, they’ve figured out I was one of Clancy’s products.

The words ran through her mind, unbidden, but she couldn’t bring herself to say them. Not yet. Not that way. “I’m not exactly in the loop on everything the police are doing, but I know they’re working on deciphering them,” she said. “But it’s a lot to cover. The journals date back almost twenty years.”

Saul’s eyes widened. “Jesus. I had no idea…”

“No one did. How could we? It’s the most incredulous and awful thing we’ve ever seen here. The police are as shocked and disgusted as the rest of us.”

He shook his head. “I can’t imagine trying to work all that out. All those victims…it must be heartbreaking. Is your man working it?”

Shaye felt a light blush creep up her neck. She’d gotten to the point where she’d readily admit to others that Jackson was a friend, and sometimes she’d admit to herself that she thought about him being even more, but she wasn’t anywhere near ready to call him her man.

“He’s not mine,” she said, “and as far as I know, he wasn’t assigned to work on the Clancy journals, but I haven’t talked to him in a week or so.”

Not since the last time she’d run into him at the station, after one of her many meetings to go over her statement concerning the Clancy case. He’d called a few times and left messages, but she hadn’t returned the calls yet. Something about Jackson made her so comfortable she actually wanted to talk to him about the things she never talked about. But she wasn’t ready for a conversation about the journals. He’d probably already been informed through police channels, and he was respectful enough not to bring the subject up unless she did, but she wasn’t ready to do that. Not quite yet, but the time was coming.

Saul raised his eyebrows a bit but he was smart enough to let it drop. Pushing Shaye for information was a waste of time. It only made her more silent. “Hustle’s painting.” he said. “Room 12.”

“Thanks.” She headed off, following the sound of rock music that trickled down the hall. It wasn’t loud. Saul wouldn’t allow that as other people were staying at the hotel, but with the room door open, the lead guitar and pounding drums echoed a bit.

She stepped into the room and took a moment to appreciate the cool blue Hustle was putting on the walls. The sad tan would soon be a thing of the past. She smiled, knowing good and well that Saul hadn’t picked the color. He was too traditional, but at least he’d been wise enough to take Hustle’s advice. The blue gave the room a relaxed feel.

“You do good work,” Shaye said.

Hustle gave a bit of a start and whirled around, grinning when he caught site of her.

“Saul just showed me the dining room,” she said. “It’s incredible.”

The teen blushed and looked down at the floor, still not used to receiving compliments, especially from adults. “Thanks,” he said. “I was surprised he let me do it. I figured he’d think it was too much. It wasn’t cheap, either, all those colors.”

“I’m guessing the blue was your idea too?”

“Yeah. I thought it looked like the ocean. I went there one time with my moms when I was really little. I don’t remember much about it but I’ll never forget that shade of blue.”

“It’s going to look great. Come sit with me for a minute,” she said and pointed to the little breakfast table in the corner.

Hustle put the paint roller down and slid into the chair, looking slightly uneasy.

“How are things going?” she asked. “Are you doing all right here? Because if it’s not working okay for you, we can find something else.”

His eyes widened. “No! I mean, it’s great here. Every morning, I wake up and I still can’t believe my luck. I thought the school part would be really sucky, but it’s not as hard as I thought it would be. I do the classes in Saul’s office. They’re more boring than anything, but Saul says it won’t take long to get my GED. At least that way I don’t have to go to actual school.”

Shaye smiled. “I’m so happy for you. You deserve something good in your life.”

Hustle dropped his gaze and shrugged. “People don’t always get what they deserve—the good or the bad.”

Shaye’s smiled slipped away. Having experienced too much too young was something she and Hustle shared. They knew better than most that the bad things that came at you weren’t often warranted. But they’d both survived. Shaye was accomplished and successful, and she had no doubt Hustle would be as well.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She tried to force the smile back but she knew it wasn’t very convincing. “I’m fine.”

He shook his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me. If you don’t want to say what’s wrong, then that’s okay, but don’t say things are fine when they’re not.”

Instantly, Shaye felt contrite. One of the things that had finally convinced Hustle to trust her was that she’d been honest with him about everything from the moment they’d met. “I’m sorry. There’s some things I’m dealing with…hard things…and most of the time, I don’t feel like I’m doing a very good job.”

“The police aren’t hassling you over Clancy or me, are they?”

“No. Nothing like that. The police have bigger fish to fry than worrying about me or you.”

“I’m glad. I wouldn’t want you getting into trouble for doing something good. So is what’s wrong a secret or is it too personal?”

Shaye considered how to answer. The real answer, she supposed, was yes to both questions, but the secret part was bound to come undone sooner than later. So far, news of her biological mother hadn’t leaked to the press, but Shaye knew it was only a matter of time. The question was, did she want Hustle to hear about it on the evening news or from her?

“It’s personal and secret,” she said, “but I know it won’t stay that way.” She drew in a breath and slowly blew it out. “They found my biological mother.”

Hustle jerked up straight in the chair, his eyes wide. “No shit? Wow! No wonder you’re freaked out. Have you talked to her? What did she say? Did she know what happened to you? Sorry. I’m throwing all this at you.”

“You’re fine. Trust me, I have plenty of questions myself. Unfortunately, she wasn’t alive to answer any of them.”

Hustle’s face fell. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. She was a junkie. She died of a drug overdose.”

Hustle was silent for a bit. “I don’t get it, you know? How the drugs take hold of somebody. I mean, I seen it happen a lot, but I can’t wrap my mind around it. Seems like you ain’t gotta suffer from it if you never do it to begin with.”