Mimosa Grove (19 page)

Weary from trying to decipher the tiny, spiderlike writing, Laurel laid the diary aside, then rolled over on the bed and closed her eyes.

Just for a few minutes.

Just to rest her eyes.

Instead, she fell asleep.

And she dreamed.

Darkness was all around her, but fear kept her moving. Something sounded in the woods behind her, and she started to run, enduring the slap of limbs on her face as she moved blindly through the night. She knew she was in the grove, because the scent of mimosa blooms and rotting earth mingled with the coppery smell of fresh blood. Vines along the forest floor caught and tugged at her ankles before breaking as she struggled to get free. Her lungs were burning. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. She needed to stop. She needed to rest. But there was someone behind her—moving faster than she—coming closer and closer. Someone who’d already brought blood. Someone who wanted her dead.

The light in Laurel’s room was shifting from the floor to the wall. The sun was beginning to move closer to the western horizon, but she didn’t know. In her sleep, it was already night, and she was about to die.

She moaned, then rolled over on her back. As she did, she flung her arms outward.

Something hit her in the back of the head, then in the middle of her back, and then she was falling—off the riverbank and into the water below. She thought she screamed but couldn’t be sure, although it was the last sound she heard as she was suddenly submerged.

Down, down, down, she fell…below the swift-moving surface. Water was rushing up her nose and into her eyes. Breath was gone.

She died—then found herself floating between heaven and earth, pulled toward a bright and pulsing
light, but, for some reason, equally locked into the gravitational pull of an earthbound soul.

She struggled to go forward, aching to know the solace she could sense in the light, but something kept holding her back.

“Help me. Help me,” she begged, reaching upward toward heaven, and still the weight around her ankles wouldn’t let go.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the light was gone. The weight, too, was gone from around her ankles, but it was too late. She was trapped in the dark between heaven and earth, with nowhere to go but mad.

Laurel woke up, gasping for air, her arms and legs flailing. Still locked into the dream, she believed she was beneath the water and trying to swim up. She groaned in disbelief as reality dawned, then crawled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. Splashing cool water on her face took away most of the horror, and by the time she got back to her bed, it was fading fast.

She dropped onto the side of the mattress and then picked up the diary. Her hands were shaking as she gently let it shut. Reading about Chantelle’s life was sad, but not nearly as sad as the truth about her death. There might be a mystery as to what happened to her, but there was no mystery as to where she was now and why she kept begging for help. And this she knew, because Laurel had not been the woman in the dream. That fugitive had been Chantelle. Now she was caught between heaven and hell, and for whatever reason, she needed Laurel’s help to move on.

“But how?” Laurel muttered, and held the diary close to her chest. “Help me, Chantelle…show me.”

She sat, waiting for a miracle—waiting for what was left of a young woman’s soul to conjure up enough energy to make the connection. But nothing happened, and finally she set the diary aside and began to undress. She needed to shower and change before her father’s arrival, and despite Marie’s insistence to the contrary, she was going to help with dinner, as well.

Robert Scanlon picked up his luggage and headed for the rent-a-car desk to pick up his vehicle. Minutes later, he was on his way out to the lot. The sun was bright. The air was hot. Soon he shed his suit coat and donned a pair of sunglasses. When he found his car, he tossed everything into the trunk and quickly started the engine, cranking the air conditioner up to high. Even with the vents all aimed in his direction, the air inside the car was still miserable.

A woman ran between his car and the next, then straight toward an approaching man. He watched the man’s face light up, saw him drop his suitcase as he caught her on the run and swung her up in his arms. A sharp pain hit Robert square in the heart, and he had to look away. Angry that he’d been emotionally moved by two complete strangers, he jammed the car into Reverse and quickly drove away. It had been years since he’d let himself think of the loneliness of his existence, but with Laurel’s absence and not having the job to compensate, it was no longer possible to ignore.

The rental clerk had given him instructions on how to get from the airport to the highway he needed, but the traffic was worse than he’d expected, and the route she’d mentioned had a detour due to some highway reconstruction. It took him a good forty-five minutes before he was clear of the city.

Although he had a general idea of how to get from Houma to Bayou Jean, he wasn’t taking any chances on getting lost later and had requested a car with an in-vehicle navigation system to make his trip as quick as possible. There were things that needed to be said to his daughter, and the sooner it was done, the better he was going to feel.

He drove south out of Houma with Laurel on his mind. He hated the way they’d parted, and hated even more that he’d been the cause. It wasn’t entirely her fault that she’d let herself buy into the idea that she was psychic. Her mother’s influence had started it, and his busy lifestyle had let it fester. Now it was too late to change her, but not too late to change their relationship. He didn’t believe for a moment there was such a thing as people who could see into the future as well as the past, but he wanted to believe in her. She was a good woman with a gentle heart, and she was his daughter. That was going to have to be enough.

As he drove, the air inside his car cooled off and his temper with it. He was so intent on following the proper route that he never noticed the gray SUV a short distance behind him.

Trigger had picked up a rental, as well, but had cursed his way through the city while trying to keep up with Scanlon. He wanted to talk to McNamara. He’d told Trigger he would call, but he hadn’t, and Trigger could hardly call him. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to the fact that he even knew the man beyond having attended some of the same parties over the years. All he had to go on was the last thing McNamara had told him to do, which was to snatch Scanlon’s daughter, and come hell or high water, that was what he was going to do. He felt smug about his plan, letting Scanlon take the lead, show him where she was, and then, when Daddy dear was gone, Laurel Scanlon would be his.

But Robert Scanlon’s rental car was not in on Trigger’s plans. Thirty-five minutes later, every caution light on the dashboard came on at once, followed by a loud dinging sound not unlike that of a medium-size bell. At first Robert was too startled to be concerned, but concern quickly followed, as he barely managed to steer the car off onto the shoulder of the highway before it died.

Neither the fancy navigational system nor the fine Corinthian leather seats made a world’s bit of difference to the fact that the engine beneath the hood was a dud. Frustrated beyond belief and cursing motors in general, he made a quick call to the rental agency, which promised a tow truck would soon be on the way.

“Fine,” Robert said, “but I also need another car. I have a meeting tonight that I can’t miss.”

“I’m so sorry, sir,” the agent said. “We don’t have any more vehicles available until tomorrow morning.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Robert said. “No cars…of any kind?”

“No, sir. There’s a quilting convention in town, and a lot of the women rented vehicles to go sightseeing.”

“Oh, great. Just great. I don’t suppose any of your competitors have anything, either?”

“I doubt it, but I’d be happy to give you their numbers.”

“Yes, thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

The clerk rattled off the other numbers, then disconnected, with a reminder that the tow truck would be arriving soon. Meanwhile, Robert was left sitting in the heat at the side of the road.

He got out and kicked at a rock on the side of the road, then looked up and down the highway, as if expecting a miracle to occur. And when he saw the turn signal of a late-model, silver-gray SUV suddenly blinking as the driver began steering the car off the highway and onto the shoulder of the road behind him, he realized he’d gotten his miracle.

But then he recognized the driver, and his suspicious nature kicked in. The coincidence of seeing Trigger DeLane in the airport, then being on the same flight, and now about to be rescued by the man, seemed too good to be true. But it was too hot and he was too pissed off to miss the opportunity.

He dropped his cell phone in his pocket and then stepped aside as Trigger DeLane pulled up and waved.

When Trigger, who had dropped back to follow several minutes behind, saw Scanlon’s car pulled off the highway, he panicked. What the hell was he going to do now? He could hardly follow a man who was going nowhere. Then reality hit, and he laughed at himself. He was going to do the proper thing one acquaintance would do for another. He was going to stop and offer his assistance. How priceless was this going to be? He was looking for Laurel Scanlon, and without skulking about or subterfuge of any kind, she’d just been delivered.

He put the SUV in Park, put on what he hoped was a surprised expression and got out of the car.

“Mr. Scanlon?” Then he shook his head in pretend disbelief. “It
is
you! When I saw you get out of the car, I couldn’t believe it. What are the odds of running into each other like this twice in one day?”

Robert had already asked himself the same thing, but it was too damned hot to delve too deeply into coincidence.

“Whatever they are, I’m grateful,” Robert said. “Where are you headed?”

Trigger shook his head. “I was heading south to the Atchafalaya Bay to do some fishing.”

“I would appreciate a lift to the next town. I need to try to rent another car.”

“Certainly,” Trigger said. “Let me help you get your things. Are they in the back?”

“Yes,” Robert said, and popped the trunk.

Within minutes his luggage had been transferred, and he’d called the rental company to let them know what he’d done.

Robert slid into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief and aimed an air conditioner vent directly in his face.

“Hot one, isn’t it?” Trigger said as he slid behind the wheel.

“This place is as close to hell as anything on earth,” Robert muttered, then buckled his seat belt and managed a smile. “Of course, I’m slightly prejudiced in that regard.”

Trigger arched an eyebrow as he pulled back onto the highway.

“You’ve been in Louisiana before?”

Robert hesitated, then sighed. “My wife was born and raised here.”

“Really?” Trigger said, then eyed Robert anew. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure.”

“She’s dead,” Robert said shortly, then turned to look out the side window.

Trigger was dense in some respects, but he knew when a faux pas had been made, and obviously, mentioning Scanlon’s marital state had been one. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “So, where were you headed?”

“A place called Mimosa Grove. It’s outside a small town called Bayou Jean.”

“Then that’s where we’re headed,” Trigger said.

Robert looked surprised.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t ask you to go that far out of your way.”

Trigger smiled.

“On the contrary, Mr. Scanlon. It will be my pleasure.”

“I don’t suppose you have anything to drink?” Robert asked.

Trigger smiled. “Check in my duffel bag. I believe there’s an unopened bottle of water.”

“Great,” Robert said, and turned around, unzipped the bag in the seat behind them and felt inside for the bottle. Instead, he felt the outline of a pistol wrapped up in some clothes, and froze.

“Find it?” Trigger asked.

“What? Oh…yes, here it is,” Robert said, as he jerked away from the gun and quickly retrieved the water.

R
obert stared out the window into the side-view mirror outside the car, watching the miles disappearing behind them and wondering why the hell Trigger DeLane was carrying a gun. Of course, lots of people did carry them, but after the restrictions on flying had tightened so drastically, there was no way he could have boarded that plane with a gun on his person or in his luggage. That meant he must have purchased it after getting to Houma. And since there was a waiting period for buying handguns, the only way Trigger had come by that gun was illegally. And what the hell did he need a gun for, anyway, just to go fishing?

He glanced briefly at the man again, considering asking him outright about the gun, then stopped, telling himself that he was probably being too suspicious. The man’s father was a four-star general, for God’s sake. There was no telling what Trigger did for a living. He could be some kind of undercover agent and the world would never know. If he was, he wouldn’t have needed to buy a gun. He could have brought it with him and passed through security without question.

Convinced that he’d answered his own questions about DeLane, he relaxed and began to enjoy the scenery. But almost an hour had passed before Robert felt relaxed enough to start a conversation.

“You fish down here often?” he asked.

Trigger looked truly surprised. “I’m sorry?”

Robert frowned. “I thought you said you were going fishing. Did I misunderstand?”

Trigger gave himself a mental cursing, then laughed.

“Sorry. I was lost in thought when you spoke. No, I haven’t been this way in several years, but I have a friend who lives on the coast. He invited. I accepted. That’s me. Always acting on impulse.”

“I see,” Robert said, but he didn’t really. He’d been a prosecutor long enough to recognize lies when he heard them.

“How about you? Do you enjoy deep-sea fishing?” Trigger asked.

“Can’t say as how I’ve ever been,” Robert said. “Not much on fishing.”

“Oh, best thing in the world to relax and clear your head.”

“I never felt like I had the time to relax,” Robert said, and then grimaced. That sounded pompous, even to him. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s not that I couldn’t take the time. I just didn’t. I’m a bit of a workaholic.”

Trigger nodded. “Just like my father.”

“Yes. Your father is a good man,” Robert said.

Trigger stifled a sigh. “That’s what everyone says.”

Robert absorbed the answer, mentally dissecting it and coming to the conclusion that, as a son, it must have been difficult to live up to the reputation of a man like Franklin DeLane.

“So Laurel is playing lady of the manor, is she?” Trigger asked.

Robert blinked. The transition from Trigger’s father to his own daughter was more than abrupt, but he chalked it up to the fact that DeLane probably didn’t like being compared to his old man.

“For the time being,” Robert said. “I’m sure it’s nothing permanent.”

Nothing was ever permanent,
Trigger thought, and pointed to a roadside sign.

“I’m going to pull off here and gas up. I’m told that towns are few and far between down here. I don’t want to get in the middle of nowhere only to find myself out of fuel.”

“Good idea,” Robert said. “And you must let me pay. It’s the least I can do for the ride.”

Trigger gave him his best hundred-watt smile. “I won’t hear of it. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
It may very well be one of your last peaceful days for some time.

“Thank you,” Robert said. “While you’re filling up, I think I’d better give Laurel a quick call to let her know I’ll be a bit late.”

Trigger frowned slightly as he angled off the highway, then headed for the small gas station and luncheonette. For some reason, the idea that Laurel Scanlon might know he was with her father made him nervous, but he didn’t know why.

He pulled up to the self-service island, and Robert Scanlon picked up his phone and began punching in numbers. Trigger was out of the car and reaching for the hose as Robert put the phone to his ear. Trigger ran his credit card through the pump before he thought, then cursed himself for doing it, knowing he’d just left a trail, should the question ever arise as to where he was on this day. However, it was too late to fix it now. He shoved the nozzle into the tank and then stepped back, eyeing the hand-painted sign on the window of the quick stop.

Chicken and Catfish—Fried Fresh Daly.

He snorted beneath his breath as he read the sign. Ignorant bunch of hicks. Can’t even spell
daily.
God only knew what the cooking would be like.

The heat of the day and the mingling scents of fried chicken and gas fumes were all but staggering as he waited for the tank to fill. He thought about getting a couple of cold drinks and started toward the store when he remembered the stories about Laurel. Now he knew why he’d been leery of Robert calling his daughter.

He pivoted sharply, staring through the windshield at Robert Scanlon’s face as he talked on the phone.

Shit! It was too late!

Laurel was sitting by the windows in her bedroom, still reading from the diary, when the phone began to ring. She looked up, absently glancing out the window as she moved, and realized that Marie was outside in the herb garden. Reluctant to break her concentration, she made herself get up and answer the call.

“Hello?”

“Laurel, it’s me.”

“Dad? Is everything all right?”

“Sort of,” he said. “I’ve had car trouble.”

“Oh, no!” She dropped down onto the side of the bed and kicked off her shoes. “Do you need a ride? I can come get you. Do you know where you are?”

Robert chuckled. “No, I don’t know where I am, but strangely enough, I don’t need a ride. You will never guess who was driving along behind me and picked me up.”

The moment the words came out of her father’s mouth, Laurel was struck by an overwhelming sensation of fear.

“Oh, God…oh, Daddy…don’t get in the car! Do you hear me? Don’t get in the car?”

Robert frowned. “What the hell are you talking about? It’s not like I got in a car with a stranger. I’m not that stupid, and please…don’t start with this psychic stuff now. Everything is perfectly fine.”

As soon as he said it, he thought of the gun in Trigger’s bag and then chided himself for letting Laurel get to him—even for a moment.

“Dad…Daddy, please! You have to—”

The moan that came over the phone sent cold chills up Robert’s back.

“Laurel? What’s happening?”

She stuttered, then slid from the bed onto the floor. There was pain in the back of her head; then she felt cold. Her senses were assaulted by the smell of damp earth and rotting vegetation. She tried to see where she was, but everything was dark. She could hear her father’s voice but couldn’t respond. Every sense she had was locked into the vision.

Then suddenly she saw a face and words came out of her mouth that she didn’t understand.

“McNamara. He’s there because of McNamara. You have to get out!”

Robert’s mind went blank. Laurel didn’t know about McNamara’s threats to him and his family, so why would she say something so off the wall? Then he flashed back on the coincidences of seeing Trigger at the airport—of being on the same flight, of breaking down, then being rescued from the side of the road, of the offer to drive him all the way to Mimosa Grove. At that point, another memory kicked in. Just before he’d left D.C., Estelle had mentioned Trigger DeLane calling for Laurel, only to be told that she was no longer in residence. His fingers tightened on the cell phone as he looked out the window—and straight into Trigger DeLane’s frantic gaze.

The look on the man’s face was a combination of panic and guilt, and for Robert, the last piece of the puzzle that was McNamara’s case fell into place. He had never been able to put together a good enough explanation to convince himself, let alone a jury, as to how McNamara had access to so many military secrets. Yet what better partner than a four-star general’s son?

“Son of a…”

“Daddy? Daddy?”

“Tell them it was DeLane,” he muttered, then hung up and reached for the door.

It was momentary panic that made Trigger hesitate, but he knew why he’d been bothered about Scanlon calling his daughter. He remembered the little tidbits of party gossip that he used to hear about her on a regular basis. There were those who swore she was a bona fide psychic, and if that was the case, then there was the chance that he’d just screwed himself up the ass by letting Scanlon even talk to her. What if she could tell, just by talking to her old man, that he was coming to get her? What if—

Suddenly everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

Scanlon looked up.

Their gazes locked.

He saw the shock on Scanlon’s face, then watched understanding dawn.

Even though he couldn’t hear him, he saw Scanlon saying his name, then reaching for the door.

At that point, he bolted toward the car.

The fact that the gas cap was on the passenger side of the car gave Trigger the edge. He’d parked fairly close to the pumps, which inhibited Scanlon’s escape attempt.

Trigger circled the car from the front and hit the door with his full weight just as Robert was trying to get out. The momentum slammed the back of Robert’s head against the door frame, trapping him between the door and the car and, at the same time, rendering him unconscious.

Trigger took one look at the blood dripping from a cut on Scanlon’s forehead and began to curse. Without looking up to see if anyone was watching, he shoved Scanlon’s unconscious body into the car, slammed the door shut, hung the gas nozzle back on the pump and jumped into the driver’s seat.

The receipt from the gas purchase was printing as he started the car. Then, as if his day wasn’t already screwed, a man pulled a dilapidated truck up to the pumps and parked directly in front of him. Slamming the car in Reverse, Trigger saw the receipt dangling from the pump as he began to back away. The impulse to retrieve it was strong, but he could tell by the look on the other driver’s face that he’d seen the blood all over Scanlon and was already pointing. There was nothing to do but haul ass and hope that the driver was too busy looking at Scanlon to get a good look at him.

Justin was coming out of the grocery store in Bayou Jean when he was struck by a wave of fear so strong that he almost dropped the sacks he was carrying. He turned abruptly, looking behind him, then up and down the street, but he saw nothing except the usual assortment of cars and trucks and familiar faces. There was nothing here that should cause such concern. But the feeling was still there—deep in his gut, hammering at his head—telling him to run.

Startled by the intensity of the emotion, he tossed the sacks into his truck and then slid behind the wheel. No sooner had he put the key in the ignition then it hit him. It wasn’t his fear he was feeling. It was Laurel’s.

Marie was coming in from the herb garden when she heard a car pulling up in front of the house. She glanced at the clock, surprised that Robert Scanlon would be arriving this soon, then remembered the men who were going to hunt the painter and set her herb basket on the table.

Before she could get out of the kitchen, she heard loud knocking on the front door, then the sound of running footsteps inside the house.

Frowning, she stepped out of the kitchen just as Justin came running down the hallway.

“What on earth?” she murmured.

He grabbed her by the arms. “Laurel! Where’s Laurel?”

“Uh…upstairs in her room, I think. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, but something is,” he muttered, and bolted up the stairs.

Marie grabbed the stair rail and started up behind him.

Justin’s heart was hammering against his chest as he reached the second-floor landing. The door to her bedroom was slightly ajar. He hit it with the flat of his hand as he ran inside, sending it banging against the wall.

She was on the floor, motionless. All he could think as he ran toward her was,
Please, let her still be breathing.

He felt for a pulse, relaxing only after he felt it beating steadily against his fingers. Then he examined her head, searching for a wound, or a knot that would indicate she’d been injured. When he felt nothing, he began running his hands over her body, searching for something that would explain her state.

“Laurel…darling…it’s Justin. Can you hear me?”

“She must have had a vision,” Marie said.

At the sound of her voice, Justin jumped. He rocked back on his heels and turned around.

“Does that happen often?”

“Enough,” Marie said. “Put her on the bed. I’ll get a wet cloth.”

Justin lifted her gently, then laid her carefully on the bed.

She moaned.

“Laurel…honey?”

She opened her eyes, then grabbed Justin’s arm.

“Daddy.”

“No, baby, I’m not your father. It’s me, Justin.”

She rolled over, then sat up on the side of the bed.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant.”

Marie appeared, then handed Laurel a cool, wet cloth.

“Here, baby girl. Maybe this will clear your head.”

Laurel wiped the cloth across her face, then handed it back to Marie.

“I’m gonna go call Tula. She’ll bring some of her tea. It’ll help calm you down.”

“No, I don’t—”

But it was too late. Marie was already on her way out the door.

“I’ve got to call his office,” Laurel muttered.

“Whose office?” Justin asked.

“My father’s office. He’s in trouble. It has to do with McNamara.”

“You’re not making sense,” Justin said.

Laurel took a deep breath, then shoved her hands through her hair. Red curls tangled and caught in her fingertips as she looked at him in frustration.

“I know. I know. It’s always like this. I see what I see.” Then she slid her arms around Justin’s neck. “Help me,” she whispered. “Help me find my father. I don’t know how to explain it, but I know something is very, very wrong.”