Wounded Earth (13 page)

And he would miss this house. It was one of his favorites. There were a few tasteful villas in Miami. They were merely overshadowed by the garish homes of the tawdry rich. He would miss this room with its understated wainscotings, its huge casement windows, its simple valances lightly accented with gold leaf.

And this house was so convenient to all those crude runways hacked out of the drier parts of the Everglades. The DEA knew they were there, but what could they do? There were too many of them, they were too inaccessible, there were too many people willing to risk everything to move something illegal into the United States. Why should smugglers be denied access to the world's biggest marketplace?

Babykiller smiled as he thought of the deals he had conducted in this house and in this room. And in so many other houses and rooms. It's hard to catch someone who has so many places to hide.

He felt almost strong again when he considered what he had accomplished that day. His machine still worked with precision. Fifty stolen and slaughtered animals had landed on fifty prominent doorsteps, and not one of his employees was caught.

The headlines would be delicious. He planned to spend tomorrow morning perusing major American newspapers.

The rest of the world might already be reading about his victory. He relished the thought of the British learning about his exploits while they ate their morning scones or kidney pie or whatever the hell they ate. He imagined the Hong Kong papers would have some entertaining things to say, too. The anticipation of reading them gave him a reason to get up tomorrow morning.

And then there was Larabeth. What a day he'd given her! A bloody wake-up call. An entertaining phone conversation. And, best of all—an afternoon with her daughter. It was too bad he couldn't be there to see her face, but he could dream about it. But first he wanted to talk to her about it.

Larabeth
stared at the ceiling of her darkened room and listened to loud, slapping footsteps outside the door. The hotel had hired a security guard to keep the criminals and their dead bloody animals away from the Lincoln Log Lodge, and he was not light on his feet. Headlights swung through the deserted parking lot at half-hour intervals and she knew they belonged to a patrol car because she had watched at the window the first three times it drove through.

At last, she had some police protection, of a sort. Why did she feel that they were no barrier at all for someone with Babykiller's capabilities?

She couldn't sleep and it was too late to work. She couldn't talk things out with J.D. He hated her. Who could she call at this time of night?

She didn't even have to turn on the light to dial Guillaume. She knew his number by feel. She wanted to talk to him about the Bambi Slasher, but mostly she wanted to talk to Guillaume because he had the most comforting voice in the world and she needed that.

His answering machine picked up and she smiled. Guillaume's messages were sometimes overlong, but they were well worth the inconvenience.

Welcome, my friend,
his rolling baritone said,
to my virtual home. This machine will perform as an electronic facsimile of a butler, acknowledging your kind call and courteously requesting a convenient time for me to call in return. How twenty-first-century, to replace a warm human being with a cold collection of chips and mother boards, not to mention the significant environmental degradation associated with the manufacture of the machine and its parts. Alas, but even I sometimes succumb to the siren song of modern conveniences when they allow me to perform my mission more effectively. And so, my friend, if you have a question or a message or would merely like to wax eloquent over my stupidity or the stupidity of a species such as ours which is bent on fouling its own nest, please express yourself immediately after the beep.

“You fraud,” Larabeth said politely to Guillaume's answering machine. “‘Succumbed to the siren song of modern conveniences’, my right eye. I happen to know that you air-condition that barn you call a house. And I'm glad you do, because it distresses me when my friends drop dead of heat stroke. This is Larabeth, by the way, in case you don't recognize the voice, although I'm sure you do. None of your other acquaintances make as much sense as I do. I'm staying at the Lincoln Log Lodge in lovely Lincoln, Nebraska, but I'll be back in New Orleans and hard at work before you crawl out of bed. Call me. Stay safe, and try not to get arrested until we've had our talk, okay?”

Larabeth hung up. It was too late to call anyone else. It looked like companionship, even telephone companionship, might not happen that evening.

Or perhaps it would. The telephone rang and it took barely a second for Larabeth to know who might be on the line at such an ungodly hour. It could be Babykiller, calling to gloat some more. But it could be that Guillaume was really at home, just screening his calls. Or it could be J.D., calling to make peace. The odds were two out of three in her favor, but there was a sick taste in her mouth as she answered the phone.

“Did you have a nice day, Doc?”

If a cobra had a voice, Larabeth thought, this is what it would sound like.

Babykiller didn't pause for a response. “You've had all day to think about me and I know you did. I don't believe in big talk or empty threats. I have shown you what I am made of. Wanton destruction—cropland, animals, livelihoods, lives—means nothing to me, not when I'm in pursuit of a worthy goal. I have shown you what I can do. I can move anything anywhere. I can, with sufficient funds, get certain people to do anything for me. I know where you are all the time, and I can get in touch with you any time I like. It would be unwise for you to resist that. If, say, you didn't answer the phone, then you wouldn't know what I was thinking.”

“I don't care what you're thinking,” Larabeth said, glad she'd remembered to hook her portable recorder to the hotel phone.

He chuckled. “Of course you care what I'm thinking. You know what I am. And surely you know by now that there is nowhere to run. You're not fully aware of all my capabilities. Not yet. Just let me offer some friendly advice. Put your affairs in order. Perhaps we should all put our affairs in order.”

Larabeth thought she heard him catch a slight breath before continuing. “Relax, darling. I won't leave you here to suffer through my revenge with the unworthy masses. Oh, no. I'm going to take you with me. Sleep well and stay close to the phone.”

Larabeth held the phone in both hands. She should call someone for help. Surely they would take Babykiller's threats seriously this time, after a bloody sea turtle crawled onto her doorstep.

If she called anyone, who would it be? This thing was too big for the police; there had been dead animals scattered across the country. She needed a federal agency. All right, then the FBI was the lucky agency who got her call.

But how much good could the FBI do, really, even if she gave them her tapes of Babykiller's veiled threats and paranoid ravings? How could they hope to find him, if he never admitted anything substantial and he never gave a clue to where he was?

And even if she called the FBI, suppose her stalker couldn't be found. What then? She could afford to hire a bodyguard or three and maybe they could keep her safe, but could she live the rest of her life under armed guard? No, under those circumstances, she didn't think she would want to live at all.

Larabeth came to a decision. Yes, she would do the good-citizen thing and turn her tapes over to the authorities, but she would do it in the morning. She had no recorded confession, no smoking gun that couldn't wait until daylight.

She doubted that calling for help would increase her safety level, for now. She was sleeping next-door to a detective, there was a security guard pacing past her door, and the police persisted in cruising through the parking lot outside her window.

Tomorrow, she would spend the morning in airports and on airplanes, two of the most security-ridden places on earth. She would be relatively safe until she got home. That's when she would call the FBI.

She would have liked to call J.D. Her world would feel safer if she could talk to him, but she was too damn proud. She wouldn't go crawling to him after what he had said to her, not if it meant they didn't speak to each other for another five years. Fifteen years. Not if it meant that they never spoke to each other again.

She listened to the security guard stomp by. His footsteps came slower; he was getting tired. The police car cruised through the parking lot for the fifth time that night. It had been nearly a week since she slept much and it looked like this night was going to be no different.

* * *

Larabeth arrived at the office at a fairly reasonable hour on Tuesday morning, given that her red-eye flight had dumped her at the airport at 7:30 a.m. and that she had gone home to change clothes. She had dressed to suit her mood and was, as a result, wearing her most severe navy-blue suit with the plainest white silk shirt she owned.

Norma greeted her with a snort. “I see you've decided to scare that delightful security consultant away by dressing like a corporate robot. And he's so much more interesting than the stuffed shirts you usually date.”

Larabeth's mumbled “Yeah” was not an invitation to chat, but Norma clearly wanted to discuss J.D. and his romantic merits. Larabeth glanced pointedly at her office door, and said, “We've got the inside track on the Nebraska herbicide cleanup and, politically, N-Deck has to award the thing quickly. Call Amanda and ask her to bird-dog the project for me.”

Norma took the hint and got down to business. “J.D. stopped by here a minute ago to tell you that he'd be working on internal security with the accounting staff all day today. Said there was no reason for you to be there. Oh, and he also said he'd be working through lunch. It looks like you're free today to do something minor, like run the company.”

Great. So J.D. had ignored her on the airplane, pointedly moving to an empty seat in the coach section and leaving her to stew in first class. Now he had come to work, but he was avoiding her. Responsible, but stubborn. And he still had no clue how to treat the boss. Some things never changed.

“The answering service said there was a very bizarre call just before I came in this morning.”

Larabeth paled. “It wasn't—”

“No, it wasn't that stranger that called before. It's someone you know. Probably the strangest person you know.”

“"Guillaume.”

“Exactly. He dictated a protracted message, which they took down word for word. Here it is,” Norma said, handing her three pink message slips, stapled together and covered with handwriting. “The upshot is that he wants to have lunch today. Please, for BioHeal's sake, don't go anyplace too visible. He's a nice man—a little weird, maybe, but nice—but I don't think it would help the company's image for you to be seen with one of those environmentalist lunatics.”

Larabeth actually cracked a smile. “You're a born PR wizard. I should move you to the marketing department, but I'd miss you too much. Don't worry about Guillaume. We'll eat at some greasy diner and drink Cokes out of the bottle and nobody that really counts will see us. They'll be in the French Quarter lunching on duck liver and sausage salad with grilled baby vegetables.”

Larabeth went into her office, closed the door, and laid her weary head on her desk. Trying to get comfortable, she rested her cheek on her right forearm and felt something lumpy and sharp under her elbow. It was broken glass.

Jerking herself upright, she traced the trail of glass across the broad expanse of her executive's desktop. An oval picture frame sat in the far right-hand corner of her desk, behind the telephone, in the position reserved for the obligatory family picture. Larabeth had always left that corner empty.

Her face was trapped in the expensive frame. So was Cynthia's. Someone had shot their picture in Nebraska, a moment after they met. Then they had gotten it to her office quicker than she could get there herself.

The strange frame was expensive, made of burnished mahogany and elegantly inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Mother-of-pearl. Mother. Her shadowy nemesis thought of everything.

Larabeth could see him, creeping into her office with this thing in his hand, and slamming its glass face on her desk. Tiny shards of glass had flown everywhere. She picked up the frame and her face fell out.

Behind the frame, hidden until she picked it up, was a nondescript pair of office scissors. Someone had brushed the glass from her sepia-toned face, then taken these scissors and slashed her head off.

Carefully putting her head back on, she studied the picture. She looked like a startled calf, meekly returning Cynthia's handshake. Her briefcase strap had pulled the neckline of her dress askew, revealing a sliver of bra strap. She assumed that Babykiller had left her this offering and it bothered her beyond reason that her lingerie was exposed. He had extracted another shred of her privacy.

And he knew about Cynthia. Of course he did. The coincidence of their chance meeting, smack in the middle of her slow torture at Babykiller's hands, was too great. It beggared credibility. She and Cynthia had been set up.

The phone rang and she reflexively checked the digital readout. It was Norma calling. Good. Babykiller preferred her private line.

“It's an Agent Yancey from the FBI.”