Dear Reader,

You’ve seen the news reports from post-Katrina New Orleans. A police force in shambles. The breakdown of law and order. Citizens cowering in their homes after dark. The old and infirm preyed upon by roving bands of thugs.

For Detective Evangeline Theroux, it’s just another day in the Big Easy…until death becomes personal.

A body covered in snake bites is found in an abandoned house in the Lower Ninth Ward. A connection to a notorious child killer is eventually uncovered. Throw in a Pandora’s box of family secrets, murder and insanity, and you’ve only scratched the surface of Evangeline’s story.

Known as the Ghoul Girl because of the cold and emotionless way she approaches even the most gruesome crime scenes, Evangeline has worked hard to be accepted as an equal by her male colleagues. She’s aloof, analytical and tenacious—traits that are sometimes at war with her Southern upbringing.

On a personal level, she’s a grieving widow and a single mother, the sister of an ex-con and the daughter of a couple whose forty-year marriage is disintegrating. But more important, Evangeline Theroux is a fighter. A survivor. A woman who will not go quietly into the night.

And for me, the writer, she is a character who refuses to say goodbye.

Welcome to her world.

Amanda Stevens

Amanda Stevens
The Whispering Room

For Pat and Lefty

And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.

—Mark 16:17, 18

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

One

July, 1976

The swamp bustled with the sounds of a summer morning. Mosquitoes buzzed in the shade, mockingbirds trilled from the pecan trees and in the distance, an outboard motor chugged toward the oyster beds and the shallow fishing waters of the Atchafalaya Basin.

But the house was quiet.

Too quiet, Nella Prather thought uneasily as she walked up the gravel driveway.

Something black and sinewy slithered through the grass, and she gave it a wide berth as she headed across the yard to the porch.

Slowly she climbed the steps and knocked on the screen door. When she didn’t get an answer, she cupped her hands to the sides of her face and peered inside.

The interior was so dark she couldn’t see anything beyond the shadowy front hallway, nor could she hear so much as a whisper from any of the children.

That’s strange.

Her cousin’s five offspring ranged in ages from eight years all the way down to thirteen months. With their blond curls and wide blue eyes, they looked like perfect little angels.

But even angelic children made some racket.

Despite the silence, the family had to be home. It was still early, and Mary Alice’s old station wagon was parked under the carport. They lived too far out in the country to walk to town or even to the nearest neighbor.

Besides, Mary Alice rarely left the house. She’d converted the back sunporch to a classroom so that she could homeschool the two older children, Ruth and Rebecca. If they were out there now, she mightn’t have heard the knock, Nella decided.

But she hesitated to call out in case the boys—Joseph, Matthew and baby Jacob—were still sleeping.

Turning, she glanced out over the bayou, where the lily pads were bursting with purple blooms. The air smelled of mimosa, moss and the wet green lichen that grew on the bark of the cypress trees lining the banks.

It was beautiful out here. So calm and peaceful. And yet apprehension fluttered in Nella’s heart.

Where are the children?

Except for an overturned tricycle in the dense shade of a cedar tree and a tiny, forgotten sneaker at the top of the steps, the place looked immaculate. Baskets of ferns hung from the porch rafters, and the lawn was painted with patches of red and yellow four-o’clocks and pink peonies.

Nella couldn’t imagine how her cousin managed to keep everything so orderly, especially now that her husband had left her. According to Nella’s mother, he’d just up and walked out months ago, leaving Mary Alice to fend for herself and the children.

Thank goodness she had a small inheritance from her father to fall back on, but that wouldn’t last long, what with feeding and clothing five little ones. Nella worried how her cousin would cope once the money ran out.

I should have come sooner. She’s my own flesh and blood, and I couldn’t be bothered to drive out here and lend a helping hand.

But she and Mary Alice hadn’t been close in years, not since the summer Nella had come home from her first year at LSU to find her cousin engaged to Charles Lemay, a dark, taciturn man fifteen years her senior.

Charles was extremely handsome, Nella would give him that. And she supposed there were some who might even consider him charming. But the way he’d flattered and cajoled and later browbeat a besotted Mary Alice had disgusted Nella.

And then the babies had started coming, some barely a year apart. Throughout her pregnancies, even the difficult ones, Mary Alice had worked like a dog caring for the house and children and making sure her husband was properly pampered.

Charles had put the family on a rigid schedule—dinner on the table by six and bedtime at eight, except on nights when they all attended church service together.

His church, naturally.

Mary Alice had been raised Catholic, but Charles would never allow his wife and children to drive all the way into Houma to attend mass at St. Ann’s, where she’d received First Communion. Instead, they’d joined a rural, nondenominational congregation that met in an abandoned gas station near the highway.

Nella had never gone to one of the prayer meetings, but she’d heard talk of snake-handling. Rumor had it one of the members had nearly died the year before when he’d been bitten by a pit viper.

A chill wind swept over Nella, an early breeze from the storm clouds gathering out in the gulf. Or so she thought.

But then she realized that the Spanish moss in the live oaks was completely still, the porch so silent she could hear the drone of a fly trapped on the inside of the screen door.

The cold breath that blew down her back wasn’t the wind, she realized. It was dread.

She pulled open the screen door, no longer concerned with whether or not she woke the boys. Something was wrong. She could feel it.

“Hello? Anyone home?” The door creaked as it snapped shut behind her. “Mary Alice?”

Nella’s flip-flops slapped against the old hardwood floor as she walked down the long hallway, glancing first in the parlor, then hurrying through the dining room to the kitchen.

She stood for a moment, gazing around in wonder. The room was pristine. Not a speck of dust or a crumb to be found anywhere.

But there was another fly in the window and, mindful of the loathsome insect, Nella placed the basket of food she’d brought on the table and made sure it was covered before she walked out back to the enclosed porch.

Here, the chalkboard was blank, the textbooks and lesson plans neatly stacked in the shelves. Nothing was out of place. No reason to think anything was amiss.

And yet Nella’s trepidation deepened as she re traced her steps to the front of the house. Something drew her attention to the cramped room beneath the stairs. The door was closed, but she’d heard a sound…a whisper…

A tremor of fear raced up her spine as she placed a hand on the knob. The door opened quietly and for a moment, Nella saw nothing inside.

Then, as the door swung wider, a shaft of sunlight fell across a child sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Head bowed, light haloing her golden hair, she cradled a doll in her arms as she rocked back and forth.

Mary Alice’s daughters were only a year apart, and they looked so much alike that it was hard to tell one from the other.

“Ruth?” Nella said softly.

No answer.

“Rebecca?”

Only silence.

“Where’s your mama?”

The little girl looked up then, her blue eyes eerily serene.

Slowly, she lifted a finger to her lips. “Shush. She’ll hear you.”

The hair at the back of Nella’s neck lifted as she leaned down. She’d meant to offer comfort to the child, but when the doll moved in the little girl’s arms, Nella recoiled in shock.

It wasn’t a doll, she realized in horror, but a newborn baby bundled in a towel and still bloody from the birth canal.

She heard a thud against the floor upstairs and she whirled, more terrified than she’d ever been in her life. Something was so very wrong in this house.

“I’ll be right back,” Nella whispered to the child. “You stay put, okay?”

Heart hammering, she closed the door and started up the stairs.

Mary Alice’s bedroom was right off the landing. The door was open, and as Nella reached the top of the stairs, she saw a bloody handprint on the wall outside the bedroom and a trail of wet footprints on the hardwood floor.

But Mary Alice was nowhere to be seen.

Nor were the other children.

Trying to fight off a wave of panic, Nella followed the tracks to a room down the hallway. The door was ajar and she could see something moving against the wall. She couldn’t tell what it was at first, and then comprehension struck her so hard she staggered back, fist pressed to her mouth.

Her stomach churned as she stared in horror at the shadow of a noose swinging back and forth against a sunny yellow wall.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone at the end of the hallway and she spun.

One of the little girls stood in front of the window, and the sunlight spilling in made her seem nebulous and golden, like a ghost child.

Without a sound, the girl started toward Nella.

“Are you okay?” Nella called softly, trying not to frighten the child.

When the girl didn’t answer, Nella said a little more urgently, “Where’s your mother?”

The child wore a blue dress with a matching hair ribbon. She looked angelic and sweet and it was only when she drew closer that Nella saw the bloodstains all down the front of her dress.

“Honey, are you hurt?”

The little girl shook her head. “Jacob got it on me when he grabbed my dress.”

“Is Jacob hurt?”

“No, he doesn’t hurt. Not anymore.”

Her soft voice was melodic, a tinkling bell, but the shock of her words stole Nella’s breath. “What do you mean?”

The girl’s movements were so lethargic she seemed under a hypnotic spell. She stared up at Nella with the same eerie calm as her sister. “Jacob was bad. They were all bad. Mama said they had the evil in them just like my daddy. It wasn’t their fault, but they had to be saved just the same.”

Nella drew a ragged breath, trying desperately not to let the horror of the moment overwhelm her. “Where are they?”

“Shush.” The child put a tiny finger to her lips, mimicking her sister. “It’s still here.”

“What is?”

“The evil. Can’t you feel it?”

Nella’s heart flailed like a trapped bird inside her chest as she stole a glance over her shoulder. Somewhere down that long hallway, a floorboard creaked.

Had someone come up behind her? The other girl?

For a moment, Nella could have sworn she saw something hovering at the top of the stairs. A giant shadow that was there one moment, gone the next.

The child’s gaze was transfixed, as if she could see something that Nella could not.

It was all Nella could do not to snatch the child up and run screaming from the house. Something terrible lurked in those shadowy rooms, in the beguiling depths of that little girl’s wide blue eyes.

She bent and put her hands on the child’s arms. “Where are your brothers? You have to tell me so that I can help them.”

The little girl’s gaze strayed to the room where the noose swung in a draft. “Mama carried them down to the swamp.”

Oh, dear God. “Can you take me to them?”

“I have to find my sissy first.”

She reached for Nella’s hand. Her tiny fingers were warm, but the fear that slid down Nella’s spine was ice cold.

Together they descended the steps, and Nella opened the door beneath the staircase.

The other girl was gone, but the baby lay wriggling on the floor. Nella reached for the tiny body.

I have to get them out of here. Lord, please help me save them….

But when she glanced over her shoulder, the hallway behind her was empty.

Ruth and Rebecca Lemay had vanished.

Two

Present day

There is no odor in the world like that of rotting human flesh, Detective Evangeline Theroux thought as she climbed out of the car.

The scent hung heavy on the hot, sticky air, an insidious perfume that stole her breath and turned her stomach. It was all she could do to stifle her gag reflex.

A group of uniformed officers stood in the overgrown front yard of the deserted house and Evangeline could feel their eyes on her. It was like they could smell her weakness and were anticipating with relish a mortifying display.

Jerks.

As if she would ever give them the satisfaction.

A female police detective wasn’t much of an anomaly these days, but there were those in the New Orleans PD who still clung to their good-ol’-boy mentality. Evangeline was accustomed to hostile scrutiny from some of her male colleagues, and she knew better than to give them any unnecessary ammunition.

Turning away from those condescending glances, she swallowed hard, though she pretended to survey her surroundings—a ghost street in the Lower Ninth Ward. A no-man’s-land of abandoned vehicles and tumbledown houses that served as an enclave for the city’s crack merchants and the homeless.

This was the section of New Orleans hit hardest by the floodwaters, and it was also the last neighborhood in the city to be rebuilt. Some referred to it as the “bad” side of the Industrial Canal because of the crime rate. Others called it Cutthroat City.

Her late husband, Johnny, had once called it home.

Evangeline mopped her brow as she waited for Mitchell Hebert to get out of the car. The swampy heat was not helping her queasy stomach. Earlier, clouds had drifted in from the gulf, bringing a cool breeze and a quick shower, but now the purplish banks had given way to a robin’s-egg-blue sky. At ten-thirty on a June morning, the temperature was already in the high nineties and the steam rising from the drying puddles felt like a sauna.

“You smell that?” Mitchell asked as he climbed out of the car. “That’s dead-body smell.”

“You think?”

The older detective eyed her suspiciously. “You don’t look so hot this morning.”

That was an understatement if she’d ever heard one. Evangeline had been up half the night with the baby, and she looked and felt like a hundred miles of bad road. But lack of sleep was the least of her problems. With the impending anniversary of Johnny’s death, she was finding it harder and harder to emerge from the dark cloud that had hovered over her since the funeral.

A year ago, her life had been as close to perfect as she could imagine, and now it lay in ruins, the joy and sunlight replaced by a cold, gray loneliness. Happiness was a concept she barely remembered. Now she awakened each morning to the stark reality of a future without Johnny. Sometimes she felt so hopeless and lost, she had to pull the covers over her head and weep before somehow mustering the strength to swing her legs over the side of the bed and begin another day without him.

But Evangeline’s lifestyle didn’t allow for a breakdown. She was a cop and a single mother. She had her and Johnny’s son to think about, plus all the responsibilities that her job entailed. Lives were on the line. She couldn’t afford the luxury of wallowing in despair, no matter how much she might wish to.

Mitchell was still sizing her up. “You’re not gonna faint or something, are you?”

She gave him a thin smile. “Have you ever known me to faint?”

“And that, in a nutshell, is your problem, girl.”

“I didn’t realize I had a problem.”

“You don’t always have to work so damn hard to prove how tough you are.”

Oh, yes, I do.

But all she did was shrug.

She knew that wasn’t the end of it, though. Mitchell had that fatherly look on his face, the one that signaled he was about to impart a necessary but unpleasant truth.

He nodded toward the officers. “They’re not the enemy, you know.”

“Sure feels that way sometimes.”

“Maybe you just need to lighten up.”

“If by lighten up you mean let a bunch of infantile ass-clowns humiliate me so they can feel good about themselves, then no thanks.”

“You know something? It might actually help if you let them see you toss your cookies at a crime scene once in a while. Li’l ol’ thing like you. You make them look bad.”

“That’s their problem. Besides, I don’t see you upchucking in the bushes to get brownie points.” Placing an icy can of Dr Pepper on the car’s fender, Evangeline tightened her blond ponytail. Her hair felt damp and lank even though she’d shampooed it in the shower that morning.

“Different situation,” Mitchell said. “I’m a man. We’re supposed to be hardcore.”

Evangeline cut him a look. “You did not just say that.”

In spite of the teasing quality in Mitchell’s tone, Evangeline knew there was an element of truth in what he said. She did try too hard to be tough and cold and cynical, and her stoicism in the face of blood and gore—and in the wake of Johnny’s death—made some of the officers uncomfortable. Of course, they didn’t see the reflection of a devastated woman that stared back at her from the mirror each morning. All they knew was the facade she erected for work and so they didn’t know what to make of her. Here she was, a mere slip of a woman with the constitution of a vulture, as she calmly and methodically picked through human remains.

Someone had called her a ghoul girl once and the nickname stuck. On the surface, the teasing had seemed good-natured, but there was a disturbing undercurrent of scorn in the murmurs and stares that accompanied her arrival at every crime scene. Especially since Johnny’s death.

Evangeline had discovered a long time ago that a woman in her position was damned if she did and damned if she didn’t. Showing weakness might make her more palatable to some of her macho colleagues, but it would also cost her their respect.

She would never admit it, even to Mitchell, but her cast-iron stomach was an illusion, just like the fragile veneer that hid her desolation. Her insides were still recoiling from the smell, and she would have liked nothing better than to join the young patrolman throwing up at the corner of the house, their smirking comrades be damned.

But instead she swallowed the bile in her throat and squared her shoulders as she walked across the yard. The sick officer looked up in embarrassment as he wiped a hand across his mouth.

“Here.” Evangeline handed him what was left of her Dr Pepper. “It’ll help a little.”

He took the drink with a shaking hand and held the cold can to his face. “Thanks.”

“Softy,” Mitchell teased as they climbed the porch steps.

“Shush. Someone might hear you.”

“And wouldn’t that be a shame?” He paused, as if bracing himself before they entered the house. “You ever think about getting out of this racket, Evie?”

“At times like this, yeah.”

“I’ve told you about my uncle, right?”

“The one who owns the security firm in Houston?”

“He’s getting on in years and he needs somebody he can trust to put in charge of his operation.”

“Meaning you?”

“That’s the plan. You play your cards right, there might be a place in Houston for you, too.”

Evangeline sighed. “It’s a nice thought, but I have too many ties here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Not to Houston, anyway. It was hotter than hell in Houston, just like in New Orleans.

If I move anywhere, it’ll be to someplace with snow, she thought wistfully as sweat trickled down her back.

“Just give it some thought is all I’m saying.”

“You’re like a dog with a bone,” she grumbled.

“I’m trying to look out for you, kiddo. A city like Houston has a lot to offer a smart gal like you. Might be a good place for you and J.D. to start over.”

“J.D. is barely five months old. He doesn’t care where we live.”

“Yeah, but police work’s not such a hot profession for a single parent. With Johnny gone, you’re all that boy has left.”

And just like that, with his name spoken aloud, Evangeline’s dead husband was right there with them on the dilapidated porch.

She couldn’t see him, of course, but for a moment, his presence seemed so strong, she was tempted to reach out and grab him, hold on for all she was worth.

She knew only too well, though, that her fingers would clutch nothing but air.

Still, Johnny was beside her as she stepped into that chamber of horrors. The chill at her nape felt like the whisper of his breath; the gooseflesh that prickled along her arms was the brush of his ghostly fingers.

Whether she could see him or not, Johnny was there.

He was always there.

Inside the house, the techs were already hard at work. Two uniforms stood just inside the door talking to Tony Vincent, the coroner’s investigator, and Evangeline acknowledged them with a brief nod before she quickly scanned the litter-strewn room.

A few years ago, the squalor would have appalled her because the house she grew up in had always been spotless. Now the filth barely registered as her gaze came to rest on the victim lying facedown on the floor.

She took note of his size—average height, average build, but the suit he wore looked expensive and she would bet a paycheck his loafers were Italian. This was no derelict. This was a guy who’d had access to money, and judging by the flash of the gold Rolex on his left wrist, plenty of it.

“Do we know who he is?”

“His name’s Paul Courtland. We found his wallet,” one of the officers explained when she raised a questioning brow. “Still had cash in it, too.”

“Looks like we can eliminate robbery as a motive,” Mitchell muttered.

“He has a Garden District address,” another officer piped in. “One of the historic places on Prytania.”

Mitchell whistled. “Old house, old money.”

“Paul Courtland,” Evangeline murmured. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

“He was all over the news last fall,” Mitchell said. “Sonny Betts’s attorney?”

“Oh, right.”

Sonny Betts. As slimy and vicious as they came and that was saying a lot for New Orleans.

Betts was one of the new breed of drug thugs that had flocked back to the city after Katrina. More ambitious and more brutal than their predecessors, guys like Betts no longer hid in the shadows to conduct their nefarious business practices because the city’s corrupt legal system and lawlessness allowed them to operate with brazen impunity in broad daylight.

“The feds put a lot of resources into building a case against Betts, and then Mr. Big-Shot-Attorney here goes and gets him off without even a slap on the wrist,” Mitchell said. “I think it’s fair to say they were more than a little pissed.”

“No kidding.”

He nodded toward the victim. “You think Betts had a hand in this?”

Evangeline shrugged. “Seems a poor way to thank a guy for keeping your ass out of a federal pen, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Tony Vincent walked up just then and Mitchell clapped him on the back. “Anthony! How goes the morgue business these days?”

He grinned. “Clients ain’t complaining.”

His gaze drifted to Evangeline, and she pretended she didn’t notice the lingering glance he gave her. She didn’t like the way he’d started looking at her lately. He was an attractive guy and he had a lot going for him, but she wasn’t ready to date. Not even close.

She couldn’t imagine herself going out to a movie or to dinner with anyone but Johnny. She couldn’t imagine another man’s lips on her mouth, another man’s hands on her body. She got lonely at times, sure, but never enough to betray the memory of her husband.

Which was not a very realistic or even sane way to spend the rest of her life, she freely acknowledged. But it was how she chose to live it at the moment.

Tony was still watching her. “Y’all ready to get this show on the road?”

Evangeline tried to ignore him, but, damn, the man really was something to look at. Almost too handsome in her book. She didn’t go for the pretty boy types.

Never in a million years would Johnny have been considered a pretty boy. Or even conventionally handsome. Not with his broken nose and crooked smile. But right up until the day he died, his boy-next-door looks had made Evangeline’s heart pound.

“What have you got so far?” she asked crisply, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

“Advanced putrefaction and seventeen-millimeter maggots. This guy’s been here for a while.”

She wrinkled her nose. “We can tell that from the smell. Can you be a little more specific?”

“Best guess, four to five days, but in this humidity…” Tony shrugged. “We’ll know more when we get him on the slab.”

“Cause of death?”

His eyes twinkled. “Oh, you’re going to love this.”

Yeah, I just bet I will.

They moved in unison to the body and squatted. With his gloved hands, Tony turned the corpse’s head so they could see the right side of his face, which was severely swollen and discolored.

Extracting a pen from his pocket, he pointed to a spot near the jawline.

“What are we looking at?” Mitchell asked curiously.

“Puncture wounds. Skin necrosis is pretty severe so you have to look hard to spot them. See here?”

“What made them?” Forgetting about her previous wariness around Tony, Evangeline moved in closer to get a better look.

He gave her a sidelong glance when her shoulder brushed against his. “Would you believe, fangs?”

“What?”

He laughed at her reaction. “No need to sharpen the wooden stakes just yet. I don’t think we’re dealing with a vampire. See this dried crusty stuff on his skin? I’m pretty sure that’s venom, probably mixed in with a little pus.”

A thrill of foreboding raced up Evangeline’s spine. She had a bad feeling she knew what was coming next. And for her, dealing with the undead would have been infinitely preferable.

“Holy shit.” Mitchell stared at the body in awe. “You saying this guy died from a snakebite?”

“Bites,” Tony clarified. “They’re all over him.”

“Jesus.”

A wave of nausea rolled through Evangeline’s stomach, and her skin started to crawl. She didn’t like snakes. At all. It was an inconvenient aversion for someone who had lived in Louisiana all her life. Serpents in the South were almost as plentiful as mosquitoes.

Evangeline was pretty sure her almost pathological loathing could be traced back to a specific incident in her childhood, while she’d been visiting her grandmother in the country. They’d been fishing from the bank of a bayou, and Evangeline had been so intent on the bobble of her little cork floater among the lily pads, she hadn’t noticed the huge cottonmouth that had crawled out from underneath the rotting log she’d perched on.

“Evie, honey, don’t you move a muscle. You hear me?” her grandmother had said in a hushed tone.

Evangeline had started to ask why, but then she froze when she saw the look on her grandmother’s face. She glanced down to find a thick, ropey body coiling around her ankle.

She’d seen snakes before, plenty of them. Her brother used to catch garter snakes in the yard and keep them in a cage in his bedroom.

But a cottonmouth was a far cry from a harmless garter snake.

The power of those sinewy muscles as they bunched around her leg both terrified and repulsed her. As she watched in horrified fascination, the snake lifted its black, leathery head and, tongue flicking, stared back at her.

For what seemed an eternity, Evangeline had sat there motionless, barely breathing. Finally, just as her grandmother arrived with a garden hoe, the snake unwound itself from her leg and glided to the water where it swam, head up, into a patch of cypress stumps.

But for the rest of the day, Evangeline couldn’t get the image of that serpent out of her head. She imagined it crawling back up out of the swamp and following her home.

Even safely inside her grandmother’s house, she saw that thick, patterned body everywhere—draped over a chair, coiled in a doorway, slithering underneath the covers of her bed. The hallucinations had gone on for weeks.

She shuddered now as she stared down at the dead man.

“I found bites on both ankles,” Tony said. “And two on his right hand. When we get him stripped, we may find even more. This guy was a veritable snake magnet.”

“Boy howdy.” Mitchell’s tone was grim, but Evangeline could detect an undercurrent of excitement in his voice. This was something different from their normal caseload of stabbings and shootings.

She wished she could share his enthusiasm, but snakes? It could have been anything other than reptiles and she would have been fine. A disembowelment, no problem. Mutilation, all in a day’s work. But not snakes. No way.

Mitchell shifted his weight, balancing himself on the balls of his feet. “Poor bastard must have died in agony.”

“No doubt,” Tony agreed. “Probably suffered heart failure.”

“No chance this was an accident?”

Tony shook his head. “Not likely. Do you know how rare it is for someone to die of a snakebite in this country? There’re only about a hundred and fifty cases a year.”

“Only?” Evangeline tried to suppress another shudder. “That sounds like a lot to me.”

Tony turned to her. “Relatively speaking, it’s not. Most hospitals and clinics stock antivenom, although I read somewhere that the supply is running low because the company that made it isn’t producing it anymore. I guess there isn’t enough profit in it.”

“He probably lost consciousness within a few seconds and the snake kept striking,” Mitchell said. “If it was a moccasin, those bastards are vicious. Some people will try to tell you their aggression is a myth, but don’t you believe it. I’ve got stories that would curl your hair.”

“I’ve always heard a bite from a cottonmouth feels like a hammer strike,” Tony said. “But I don’t think one snake could have done this much damage to a grown man. Not even a pit viper. Even after the first couple of bites, he should have still been able to get away.”

Unless he was restrained.

Gingerly, Evangeline lifted the cuff of the victim’s shirt with a probe and peered at his right wrist. There was so much swelling and the skin was so discolored, she couldn’t tell if he had ligature marks or not.

She moved to the left wrist, where she noticed faint bruising just below the edge of the Rolex.

“Could have been caused by the watch band when his arm puffed up,” Mitchell said over her shoulder.

“Maybe,” Evangeline said doubtfully. “But like Tony said, a grown man should have been able to get away, even after the first couple of bites. There must have been a reason why he couldn’t. And how the hell did he end up in here?”

“I wish I could help you out,” Tony said with a teasing smile. “But my job is just to bag ’em and tag ’em.”

“And we’ll need some time before you do that,” Evangeline said.

“Sure thing. Just holler when you’re finished.” His eyes glinted with amusement as he added, “Have fun, Ghoul Girl.”

Evangeline didn’t bother getting irritated. What would be the point? Instead, she turned back to the dead man.

The swelling and discoloration around the wounds was a good indication that he hadn’t died quickly. The venom had had time to spread, and what the poison had done to the body was ghastly.

“Looks like something from a horror movie,” Mitchell muttered.

“Yeah. Or a nightmare.”

Evangeline couldn’t help wondering who the dead man had left behind. A wife? Kids?

She knew something about the anguish and loneliness that faced his loved ones in the coming weeks and months.

For the longest time, she’d tried her damnedest not to let the victims and their families get inside her head, but no matter what she did, no matter how thick she built her defenses, they still found a way in.

They whispered to her in her dreams, screamed at her in her nightmares. And when their silent pleas tugged her from sleep, she obligingly rose in the middle of the night to go over and over the minutiae of their case files, hoping, always hoping, she would find something previously missed. She’d found that the young ones were especially tenacious.

This victim was no child, but what had been done to him was obscene and Evangeline knew it would haunt her.

It already did.

“What do you think?” she asked Mitchell.

“I think we’ve got ourselves an interesting case here.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

Mitchell glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. “Jesus, Evie. What the hell are we dealing with? Some kind of voodoo shit?”

“I don’t know. Could be, I guess.” But in spite of how the media tried to play up sensational cases, ritual murder was rare, even in New Orleans.

Evangeline moved to the victim’s feet and examined the soles of his expensive shoes. “Take a look at this, Mitchell.”

He came up beside her. “What’d you find?”

“The bottoms of his shoes are caked with mud, but I don’t see any muddy footprints in here, do you?”

“Which means he didn’t walk in here under his own steam.”

“No big surprise there.” Evangeline glanced around. “Whoever dumped him probably figured it’d be a while before he was found.”

“Question is, was the poor bastard alive or dead when they left him?”

“There should be evidence of lividity somewhere on the body.”

A movement in the corner of the room gave Evangeline a start, and it took all her willpower not to retreat from that filthy, ramshackle house as fast as she could. For all she knew, the serpents that had attacked the victim were still slithering around somewhere in the piles of rubble.

Great. Just great.

Coming face-to-face with a pit viper was all she needed to make her day complete.

All right, get a grip. It’s not a snake. Probably just a rat. Or a big old cockroach.

But Evangeline had a sudden mental image of the victim, hands and feet bound, a gag in his mouth to stifle his screams as sinewy bodies crawled all over him, up his pant legs and down the collar of his shirt.

She imagined his agony as the razor-sharp fangs sank into his soft flesh and the poison spread through his bloodstream, making him weak and sick and maybe even blinding and paralyzing him.

She stood so abruptly, a wave of dizziness washed over her and she put out a hand to steady herself.

Mitchell rose and looked at her in surprise. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I just don’t like snakes.”

“Who the hell does?”

“No, I mean…I’ve got a real phobia about them,” she admitted reluctantly.

A slow grin spread across Mitchell’s face. “Well, I’ll be damned. Detective Theroux has a weakness after all. Who would’ve thunk it?”

Evangeline’s answering smile was forced. “Okay, so now you know my secret. Snakes are my kryptonite. No need to let that get around, is there?”

Mitchell kept right on smiling. He was definitely enjoying himself. “Oh, hell no. We wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re human, now would we?”

“I’m serious, Mitchell. It’s like you said earlier. It’s different for a man. Different set of rules. But for someone like me…you know I’d never hear the end of it.”

Plus, it wouldn’t be above some of the guys to plant rubber snakes in her desk. Or even real ones, for that matter. She could just imagine the kick they’d get out of her reaction. Some of the more juvenile cops lived for that kind of crap.

“Now don’t you worry, Evie girl. I’ve got your back on this one,” Mitchell said, but he was still grinning from ear to ear and she had a bad feeling it was only a matter of time before word got out.

“So why don’t I trust you?”

“Beats me.” His amusement faded and his expression turned serious. “Hey, no joke, you don’t look so hot.”

She swatted a mosquito from her face. “I just need a little air. What do you say we get out of here and go knock on some doors?”

Three

As they stepped out on the porch, the humidity almost took Evangeline’s breath away. There wasn’t a lick of breeze, and the palm fronds and banana trees in the side yard stood motionless in the heat.

Her striped cotton blouse clung to her back as she stood in the warm shade of the porch, and her clammy black pants felt as if they weighed a ton. She thought of the shower she’d have when she got home. Cold at first, then hot enough to scrub away the dark, smelly nightmare inside that house.

Her gaze lit on an unmarked gray sedan parked across the street. Two men in dark suits and dark glasses leaned against the front fender as they watched the house.

Evangeline poked Mitchell’s arm, her nod toward the newcomers almost imperceptible.

He followed her gaze and she felt him tense. “Feds.” His voice dripped scorn, the same oozing tone he might have used to designate a boil or a blister.

Evangeline swore under her breath. “What are they doing here? This is a homicide investigation.”

NOPD rarely crossed paths with federal law enforcement because typically the big boys went after a different kind of prey. Plus, even though they tried to deny it, certain agents from a certain bureau had a nasty habit of looking down their noses at the locals, and their altruistic superiority bred a fair amount of antagonism among the rank and file.

“Not too hard to figure why they’re gracing us with their presence,” Mitchell said. “The victim is Sonny Betts’s attorney. Looks to me like the Fibbies are still trying to nail his rusty hide.”

Evangeline made a face. “I don’t give a damn what they’re trying to do. Our jurisdiction, our case. They try to muscle their way in, I say we go wompwomp on their smug asses.”

“Mighty big words for such a little girl,” Mitchell teased.

But Evangeline barely heard him. Her gaze was still on the men across the street. They were both tall with broad shoulders, polished loafers and closely clipped dark hair. She might have found their similar appearance comical if she hadn’t been so annoyed by their presence.

One of them suddenly took off his sunglasses and his gaze locked with hers. He said something to the man at his side, but his gaze never left Evangeline and she decided real fast that she would sooner pass out dead from heat stroke than break eye contact. No way would she let that arrogant so-and-so think he’d intimidated her.

His suit coat was unbuttoned and the whiteness of his shirt was almost blinding in the bright sunlight. Evangeline guessed him at six-one or-two, maybe one hundred seventy pounds. A little taller than Johnny and probably at least ten years older.

As he continued to stare at her, she was tempted to walk across the street and suggest a little come-to-Jesus meeting with him.

Instead, she folded her arms and stared back at him.

If he took her openly hostile demeanor as a challenge, so be it.

Special Agent Declan Nash had recognized her straightaway when she came out of the house.

Detective Evangeline Theroux looked much the way she did in the candid shot he had in his office. The blond hair and the pretty face—those things he’d expected, along with the wide blue eyes, which, even from across the street, he could tell were intense.

What he found surprising was her size.

From his vantage, she looked tiny. So slight, in fact, he wondered if a strong puff of wind might give her a problem. He knew from her file that she was five feet four inches tall and weighed one hundred and twenty pounds, though he thought the latter was an exaggeration because she looked much smaller to him.

But in spite of her petite frame, there was an air of toughness about her—in the way she carried herself and in the way she interacted with her fellow cops.

And in the way she challenged him, Nash admitted. She exuded confidence and he admired that about her.

In fact, as he’d studied her file, he’d come to the conclusion that, under other circumstances, Detective Theroux was someone he would very much like to know.

Nash respected people who did their jobs well, and Theroux had one of the highest arrest records in the department. Her evaluations were stellar, her commendations glowing. From all accounts, she was a strong asset to the New Orleans Police Department.

But of her personal life, Nash knew very little, only that she was Johnny Theroux’s widow.

And that was all he needed to know.

That was why he was here, after all.

Beside him his partner, Tom Draiden, made a wisecrack, but Nash ignored him. He didn’t want to lose concentration or break eye contact because he suspected if he looked away first, Detective Theroux would view it as some sort of triumph on her end and a sign of weakness on his.

Considering her hostile stance, she seemed to labor under the misconception that she was in a position of power, and Nash didn’t think fostering that impression would be advantageous to either of them.

“That her?” Tom asked.

“Yeah.”

“Damn, that is one fine-ass Sarah Jane.”

“Very professional observation,” Nash said dryly.

“Well, yeah, but you might have at least warned me about the eye candy.”

“I guess I didn’t notice.”

“What the hell? Check her out, man.”

“Seems to me you’re doing enough checking for the both of us,” Nash said.

Tom smirked. “No harm in that, is there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you should ask Laura.”

“You’re a real buzz kill, Nash. You know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“So what’s our strategy?” Tom drawled.

He’d been born and raised in Macon, Georgia, and despite a stint in the navy and bureau assignments in Denver and Salt Lake City, he’d never lost his drawl. He had a knack for dealing with people, and he wasn’t above pouring on the Southern charm when it suited his purposes. His laid-back charisma often came in handy when dealing with the local good ol’ boys.

Tom’s approach to their assignments was instinctive and organic while Nash tended to be more textbook and detail-oriented. He knew he could sometimes come off as arrogant and impatient, but he was neither.

What he was, was focused.

“Who owes us a favor at NOPD?”

Tom grinned. “You want me to make you a list?”

“A name or two will do.”

“I take it you’re down for a little arm-twisting,” Tom said. “You want we should do it the nice way?”

Nash slipped on his sunglasses, turned and opened the car door. “I don’t care. So long as it gets done.”

He glanced over his shoulder one last time at Evangeline Theroux. He almost hated to do this to her. The murder of a prominent attorney would get a lot of media attention and a high-profile investigation could be a real feather in a young detective’s cap.

But he had a job to do and the last thing Nash needed was Johnny Theroux’s widow anywhere near Sonny Betts.

Four

With its lush gardens and gleaming white columns, Pinehurst Manor might have been a slightly careworn cousin of the grand old dames situated along River Road, that fabled seventy-mile corridor of Southern plantation homes stretching on either side of the Mississippi between Baton Rouge and New Orleans.

But to the discerning eye, it soon became apparent that the house was merely a poor replica of its far grander predecessors. Built in 1945 as a personal residence for Dr. Bernard DeWitt, a noted psychiatrist and philanthropist from Baton Rouge, the original home was later expanded and converted into a private sanatorium.

Under Dr. DeWitt’s stewardship, Pinehurst Manor became one of the most highly regarded psychiatric institutions in Louisiana. For over thirty years, the hospital treated patients from all over the state, suffering from all manner of mental disorders, but by the late eighties, the once pillared splendor of Pinehurst was but a distant memory.

Rocked by the twin scandals of misappropriation of funds and inappropriate behavior by some of the male orderlies, the hospital fell on hard times. By the end of the decade, only a handful of forgotten patients remained in treatment and those unfortunate few were eventually turned out when Pinehurst was forced to shut its doors for good.

The building remained boarded up for over a decade until the state bought the property and reopened it as a medium-security psychiatric facility, admitting only those patients who were not considered a serious threat to society.

But all that changed with Katrina.

Hospitals affected by the storm had to be evacuated quickly and even though every effort was made to relocate the more violent patients—those designated criminally insane—to maximum-security facilities in other parts of the state, the sheer number of beds lost to flooding forced low-to-medium-security hospitals like Pinehurst to take in the overflow.

One of the patients evacuated to Pinehurst was Mary Alice Lemay.

For over thirty years, Mary Alice had been incarcerated at a branch of the South Louisiana State Hospital in Plaquemines Parish, a dingy, gloomy facility with cinder-block walls, chipped tile flooring and hallways that reeked of urine.

In that building, the worst of the worst were housed and treated—the serial killers, rapists and child molesters who had been remanded to a state psychiatric hospital rather than being sent to prison.

Mary Alice had spent the first few years of her custody under a suicide watch and in virtual solitary confinement. During that time, she received not a single outside visitor. Friends and relatives were so shocked by what she’d done, they couldn’t bring themselves to meet her gaze in the courtroom, let alone visit her face-to-face in a mental institution—especially considering most thought she deserved the electric chair.

The weeks, months, years of her internment were passed alone and in complete silence until a new doctor assigned to her case decided one day that integration into the general population of the institution would be beneficial to her treatment.

So the door to her room came open, and Mary Alice Lemay stepped through into a world unlike any she could have previously imagined.

A nightmare world of confusion, misery and perpetual terror.

She was encouraged to mingle with the other patients, but she didn’t like eating her meals in the cafeteria or socializing in the solarium or taking group walks around the grounds. Her ward was filled with all sorts of people suffering from all kinds of distress—addicts, schizophrenics, those with depression and bipolar disorder—and Mary Alice was afraid of them.

She’d been born and raised in a small town in Southern Louisiana. For the most part, she’d lived a very sheltered life, and what she saw inside the walls of that hospital shocked her.

Some of the patients were so violent, they were never allowed to leave their cells. Others were let out, but were kept restrained, and it was those patients that seemed to watch Mary Alice with more than a passing interest.

They were the ones with the dark stares and the knowing smiles, the ones who gave her a nod as she passed by in the hallway, as if to acknowledge a kindred spirit.

And then there were the sad cases, the distraught patients who tugged at Mary Alice’s heart. The elderly woman who stood in a corner all day long pulling imaginary spiders from her tangled, gray hair. The young man who drew nothing but eyes, then cut them out and taped them to the back of his head.

Sometimes Mary Alice wondered what that young man had been like as a child. Had he been happy and carefree, or had the seeds of his sickness already been sewn?

Sometimes Mary Alice thought of her own children, but she’d learned early on that it was unwise to look back. No good could come of living in the past, of trying to remember a time when she, too, had been happy and carefree.

It had all been so long ago.

Before evil had invaded her life.

Before she had been forced to do the unthinkable. The unforgivable.

Mary Alice didn’t want to look back, but the only thing she had to look forward to each day was art therapy where, instead of drawing eyes, she took up origami. Some of the doctors used the art of paper folding as a way to decrease anxiety and aggression in the patients, but for Mary Alice, it was an escape.

Her fingers were very nimble, her patience boundless, and she could lose herself for hours in the intricate folds. Soon her room overflowed with the tiny paper cranes, each one beautiful and unique and—to Mary Alice—each represented a very special wish.

She’d had to leave all her cranes behind when she was transferred to Pinehurst, but she didn’t really mind. The new facility was so much better. The building was old, but it had a lot of character and there where windows everywhere. The green-gold light that filtered down through the trees outside her room each morning reminded her of the bayou, and when she stared out that window, she could easily ignore the bars and imagine that she was back in her own bedroom.

But she refused to dabble in the dangers of make-believe, nor would she allow herself the luxury of losing her mind. Every hour of every day, Mary Alice Lemay was cognizant of where she was and why she was here.

She knew what people thought of her, what they called her here and in the outside world. But they hadn’t looked into the eyes of her children. They hadn’t seen what she’d seen. They didn’t know what she knew.

So, no, Mary Alice did not—would not—look back with regret.

Sorrow, yes, but not regret.

Whatever anyone else thought of her, she knew that she was neither a monster nor a martyr, but a mother who had willingly sacrificed her own soul in order to secure her children’s eternal salvation.

She had done what any loving mother would do.

“Mama?”

Mary Alice was sitting in a rocking chair, staring through the bars of the window. When she heard that voice—the sound like the sweet tinkle of a bell—she thought at first she must have imagined it. But when she looked up, she saw a woman in the doorway of her room.

A woman with golden hair and beguiling blue eyes.

A woman with the face of an angel.

Her angel.

Her beautiful girl.

She put out a hand and the angel floated toward her, graceful and elegant. So loving and sweet.

It was only then that Mary Alice realized her visitor wasn’t alone. A man had come into the room behind her. He was tall and dark and thin to the point of gauntness. His hair was swept back from his forehead and his dark eyes held a strange reddish hue. He had a terrible scar on the right side of his neck that looked as if he might have been burned years ago.

When his gaze met Mary Alice’s, a shiver of dread crept up her spine.

She’d seen those eyes somewhere before, or what was behind them.

“Mama, this is Ellis Cooper. He’s a very good friend of mine.”

The man leaned down and tried to take Mary Alice’s hand, but she pulled it away. For some reason, she didn’t want him to touch her.

He picked up a paper crane from the floor and held it out in his palm.

“This yours?” he asked with a smile that chilled Mary Alice to her very core. “I always loved origami. Some guy once told me about a Japanese legend. Seems if you fold a thousand of these things, your wish will come true.”

Mary Alice said nothing.

Ellis Cooper glanced around. “Looks like you’ve got a ways to go.”

Mary Alice refused to look up. She would not meet the man’s gaze. She would not stare into that dark abyss.

But she could feel his eyes on her.

“Your daughter’s told me a lot about you,” he said with a liquid smoothness. “I’ve sure been looking forward to coming to see you. If you don’t mind my saying so, this is a pretty special day for me.”

“Ellis,” said the angel. “Would you leave us alone for a moment?”

“Oh, you bet. Take all the time you need. I’ll just wait outside.”

He bent suddenly and put his face very close to Mary Alice’s so that she could no longer avoid his gaze.

And this time, he grabbed her hand before she could pull it away. He held it very tight between both of his. His skin was cold and dry, and there was something reptilian about those terrible, gleaming eyes.

“I expect we’ll meet again very soon, Mary Alice. And I do so look forward to that encounter.”

He released her hand then and straightened, and though Mary Alice still kept her gaze averted, she sensed something pass between the man and her daughter. A smile maybe. Or a brief, intimate touch.

A smaller, softer hand took hers once they were alone. “Everything’s going to be all right now. You’ll see.”

Mary Alice placed the angel’s hand between both of hers and clung for dear life.

“It’s okay, Mama. I know what I have to do. I’ve always known.”

That soft hand came up to stroke Mary Alice’s cheek.

“You taught me well. And now that I have Ellis helping me, it’s going to be so much easier.” The angel’s blue eyes shimmered with excitement as she leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mama…he’s one of us!”

No, Mary Alice thought in despair. That man is not one of us.

Ellis Cooper was one of them.

Ellis leaned a shoulder against the wall as he peered through the reinforced glass panel in the door, watching in fascination as the little drama unfolded inside.

Every so often, he would glance up the hallway in front of him and then over his shoulder behind him to make sure one of the patients or someone on the staff didn’t sneak up and catch him unawares.

He was probably being a little paranoid, Ellis realized, but he knew only too well of the trickery and deception that went on in a place like this. You couldn’t trust anyone.

Ellis had spent a couple of hitches in state mental wards, the first when he was only fifteen years old. Given his experience, he couldn’t say he was exactly happy to be back in one. But at least today, he had the freedom to walk out whenever he chose. That was something.

Normally, he steered clear of any type of institution, be it a government office or even a regular hospital. He had a fundamental distrust of anything that smacked of authority, of any place in which he was not in complete control, but he’d found the prospect of a meeting with the infamous Mary Alice Lemay too irresistible to pass up.

So he’d temporarily disabled his aversion, if not his paranoia. Ellis knew from past experience that he could stand anything for a little while, even the worst kind of torture.

Now that he was here, though, all those old feelings were creeping up on him again. And dear God, the memories!

The slack jaws and vacant stares.

The unholy smells that drifted from the open doorways.

He glanced up at the surveillance camera at the end of the hallway. There was another one at the opposite end and probably a few hidden in places that were not readily discernable.

Oh, yes, Ellis knew all about those cameras.

The incessant winking of the red eyes had reminded him night and day that he was never alone. Not in his room, not in the cafeteria, not in the showers or on the toilet. As long as those red eyes were blinking, someone was watching. Always.

Even when he prayed.

Maybe especially when he prayed, seeing as how it had been his religion that had netted him his first trip to the psych ward in the first place.

Well, not his religion exactly. Not back then. That was before his awakening.

It was his father’s interpretation of the gospel that had caught the attention of Child Protective Services in the backwoods Georgia town where he grew up.

His father, Nevil, had been a preacher and an avid follower of the teachings of George Went Hensley, one of the founders of the charismatic movement. Ellis’s father, like Hensley, had believed in a strict interpretation of the Bible, including the “signs” passage from Mark:

And these signs will accompany those who believe; in my name they will cast out demons;

they will speak in new tongues; they will pick up serpents with their hands; and if they drink any deadly poison, it will not hurt them; they will lay their hands on the sick, and they will recover.

As a boy, Ellis had been enthralled by the serpent-handling spectacle that accompanied some of his father’s sermons. Ellis hadn’t been a true believer back then, but he’d loved watching the snakes. To him, they were among God’s most glorious creatures. Even the thick, leathery water moccasins, with their white mouths and razorlike fangs, held a certain fascination.

Along with the rattlers and copperheads, the moccasins had been kept in cages behind the chicken coop at Ellis’s home. Once his after-school chores were done, he would head out there and sit in the grass for hours, mesmerized by the sinewy movement of the reptiles as they climbed up the mesh wire of the cages and wrapped themselves around one another.

By this time, Ellis was quite adept at catching the creatures in their natural habitats—underneath rocks and rotting logs and in muddy sloughs—but once they were placed in the cages, he wasn’t allowed to handle them. That privilege was reserved for his father and some of the elders of the church.

It was a common misconception that serpent-handlers believed the Holy Spirit would keep them safe. Every last one of them knew the dangers of what they did. Many had lost fingers and limbs as a result of the infection brought on by a bite. One or two had even lost their lives.

It wasn’t a matter of faith, Ellis’s father had once explained. It was about obeying the word of God.

Ellis’s first snakebite had come just after his fifteenth birthday.

He’d found a copperhead sunning on the bank of the creek that ran behind their house. Holding the head so that the snake couldn’t strike, he’d lifted the reptile close to his face, admiring the flicker of the serpent’s tongue, the dark gleam in the slitted, catlike eyes.

Ellis had become so engrossed in watching the play of sunlight on the glistening scales that he hadn’t realized the snake’s head had slipped free of his grasp.

The fangs caught him in the side of his neck, and the copperhead hung there for a moment as Ellis’s skin started to burn like wildfire.

Afterward, he hurried home, washed the bite with soap and water and kept his mouth shut. He didn’t tell anyone about his carelessness or that he’d flown into a rage and killed the poor snake before it could slither away.

A few hours later, he began to feel achy and weak, like he was coming down with the flu. The bite area was swollen and tender, but he told himself he’d be fine. Copperhead venom wasn’t nearly as dangerous as the poison from the other pit vipers. Sometimes the bites had no effect at all.

But within days, gangrene set in. His skin around the afflicted area turned black and felt cold to the touch.

Still, he tried to keep the wound hidden by wearing his collars buttoned, but his science teacher noticed the swelling and discoloration one day and sent him to the school nurse. She took one look and rushed him to the hospital.

What followed was a nightmare scenario of painful surgeries and skin grafts where the dead flesh had to be cut away from the bone.

Convinced he had been bitten as the result of his father’s dangerous religious practices, CPS removed Ellis from his home, but rather than placing him in foster care, they sent him to the state hospital for psychiatric evaluation.

It was there, in that place of misery and confusion, that he had finally experienced his religious awakening.

It was there, in a dark and reeking room, that Ellis Cooper had accepted his true calling.

A nurse passing him in the corridor gave him a curious glance. Ellis turned slightly so that she could see the “bad” side of his face. When she caught a glimpse of the scar tissue, she quickly looked away. Then her gaze came back to him, and she smiled in the tentative, flustered way that Ellis was used to.

He turned and watched as she hurried down the hallway, and when she glanced over her shoulder, the smile he flashed seemed to momentarily stun her.

Ellis gave a low chuckle. That was the cool thing about his appearance. His scarred, pale countenance seemed to attract even as it repelled.

Today he had on a black suit that was perfectly tailored to his thin frame. He cut a striking figure and he knew it. He was only thirty-seven, but he’d started to go gray during his incarceration in the mental hospital. By the time he was released, his hair had been as white as snow, which he took as an outward sign of his spiritual metamorphosis.

He’d worn his hair natural for a long time, but these days, he’d taken to dyeing it black, and he liked to slick back the glossy strands from his high forehead in the manner of an old-timey preacher.

But his hair and even the scar played second fiddle to his eyes. They were by far his most prominent feature. So dark a brown they were almost black, but in the center radiated the heat and fury of a fire-and-brimstone zealot.

Ellis didn’t think of himself that way, though. He considered himself a soldier and sometimes a prophet.

Turning his attention back to the glass panel, he lifted the origami crane he’d found in Mary Alice’s room and watched her over the graceful curve of the paper head.

She stared back without blinking. Her eyes were clear and blue and mesmerizing in their intensity.

And Ellis thought, almost in awe, She knows.

It was almost as if Mary Alice Lemay could peer straight down into his soul.

Five

The day was still, hot and hazy as Evangeline and Mitchell drove into the Garden District.

The streets in this glorious old neighborhood were lined with the gnarled branches of live oaks, and the lush, vivid yards—heavily painted with crepe myrtle, oleander and flaming hibiscus—provided a striking contrast to the gleaming white houses.

Underneath second-story verandas, ceiling fans rotated in the sluggish heat. Children played in the lawn sprinklers while gardeners dripping with sweat clipped hedges and weeded flower beds thick with petunias and geraniums.

This was a neighborhood steeped in history and quiet refinement; a lifestyle of summer garden parties, servants and drinks by the pool.

A world very different from the one Evangeline knew.

After leaving the crime scene earlier, she’d showered and changed her clothes, but the scent of Paul Courtland’s rotting flesh still clogged her nostrils as she pulled the car to the curb in front of his house.

She leaned her arms against the steering wheel and stared out the window at the house, dreading the moment when she would have to climb out of the car, walk up to the house and ring the bell.

Mrs. Courtland? I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.

Evie? I hate like hell to be the one to have to tell you this.

“Evie?”

For a moment, Mitchell’s voice seemed so much a part of her memory, Evangeline forgot he was in the car with her. She turned and glanced at him. “Yeah?”

“You ready to do this?”

“Can I just go have a root canal instead? Or maybe get some surgery done without anesthesia?”

“’Fraid not. Comes with the territory. Could be worse, though,” he added, and Evangeline knew that he was thinking about the night Johnny died, too.

Silently, they got out of the car and started up the walkway together.

The Courtland home was a three-story Greek revival with wide Doric columns in the front and a walled garden in the back. Baskets of trailing ferns hung from the balconies, and the carefully tended flower beds exploded with color.

The sound of splashing water and laughter drifted over the garden walls, and as Evangeline walked up the front steps, she heard a child singing in the back, a happy, inane tune that tugged at her heart and made her wish she was anywhere in the world but where she was—standing at a dead man’s front door.

A middle-aged woman with short gray hair answered the door straightaway. She wore brown slacks and a blue, nondescript top that she tugged down over her rounded hips. “Yes?”

“We’re NOPD,” Mitchell said as he hauled out his wallet and showed her his ID. “Are you Mrs. Courtland? Mrs. Paul Courtland?”

“No, I’m the Courtlands’ nanny.” Her hazel eyes flickered with uncertainty. “Is there some trouble, Officer?”

“It’s Detective. And, yes, I’m afraid there’s been some trouble. Is Mrs. Courtland home?”

“She’s out by the pool with her daughter. Hold on a second and I’ll get her for you.”

Instead of inviting them in, she closed the door in their faces.

Mitchell gave a nonchalant shrug. “Lots of riffraff in the city these days. Can’t be too careful.”

“You do look a bit dodgy. Where’d you get that shirt?”

“Salvation Army,” he said. “A buck twenty-five.”

They waited in silence until the door was drawn back again a few minutes later. The woman who stood on the other side this time was a thirtysomething blonde wearing a green-and-gold bikini top with a matching sarong fastened at the top of one hip. She was tan and lean with the kind of soft beauty and quiet elegance women of her social station seemed to acquire naturally.

Her full lips glinted with pale peach lip gloss and when she propped a hand on the door, Evangeline saw the same shade of shimmer on her nails. Fine-tuned was the first description that came to mind. Pampered was the second.

“I’m Meredith Courtland,” she said as her cool gaze skipped from Evangeline to Mitchell and then darted past them to the unmarked car at the curb. “How may I help you?”

“I’m Detective Hebert, this is my partner, Detective Theroux.” They both presented their IDs. “Ma’am, I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”

“Bad news?” She stared at them blankly, as if such a concept were unheard of in her comfortable, insulated world. “Is this about the accident?”

Mitchell glanced at Evangeline. “What accident would that be, ma’am?”

“The fender bender I had in the Quarter yesterday. I left all my information with the other driver, and I’ve already contacted my insurance company. I don’t know why he felt the need to get the police involved.” She looked mildly annoyed as she ran her manicured nails through the precisely clipped strands of her blond bob.

“We’re not here about a car accident,” Evangeline said. “This is regarding your husband.”

“Paul? What about him?” She must have glimpsed something in their faces then because her annoyance vanished, and for a moment, her blue eyes looked as if they were drowning. “Is he…” She drew a quick breath and seemed to dismiss the possibility of any real unpleasantness. “He’s all right, isn’t he?”

“No, ma’am, he’s not.” Evangeline tried to keep her voice neutral, without letting the pity she felt for the woman creep in. “If it’s okay, we’d like to come in and talk to you for a few minutes.”

For the longest time, Meredith Courtland didn’t say a word, just stood there clutching the door while, in spite of her best efforts to cling to denial, her world started to crumble around her.

Evangeline’s heart ached for her. She knew only too well what it was like to be on the other side of that door. To feel so overwhelmed by the news that you forgot how to breathe. You could hear someone talking to you. You could even make out their words. But what they said made no sense. Nothing made sense. How could the husband you’d kissed goodbye that morning, the man you loved more than life itself, be dead?

How, all of a sudden, could the life you’d shared with him be nothing more than a memory?

Evangeline could feel the burn in her eyes of a thousand unshed tears and she had to glance away for a moment. Sometimes even now a future without Johnny seemed too much to bear.

Meredith Courtland stepped back from the door. “Please come in,” she said shakily.

They stepped into a cool, terrazzo entryway with gilded mirrors and tall vases of pink and white roses. Sunshine spilled in from a domed skylight and dazzled the crystals of a huge chandelier. A floating staircase swept gracefully up to a second-story gallery, where a black maid temporarily appeared at the railing before vanishing back into the shadows.

Meredith Courtland’s gold sandals clicked against the marble floor as she led them down a wide hallway that opened into a large living area decorated with an eclectic mix of modern and antique furnishings.

A wall of French doors opened into the garden, a sun-dappled paradise of banana trees, palms and scarlet bougainvillea cascading over the stucco walls. Just beyond a white gazebo, Evangeline could see the sparkle of turquoise water in a kidney-shaped pool.

Indeed, a world very different from her own.

A little girl in a blue polka-dot swimsuit sat on the floor in front of the windows. She had a feather duster in one hand that she used to tease a tiny black-and-white kitten. When the adults entered the room, the child tossed aside the duster and got to her feet.

“Hello,” she said, with a smile that showcased a perfectly matched set of dimples. She looked to be about four, with gold ringlets and tanned, chubby little legs. “Do you want to see my kitten?” She picked up the tiny cat and clutched it to her chest. “His name is Domino.”

“That’s a good name for a black-and-white kitten,” Evangeline said, captivated by the little girl’s charm.

“Daddy wanted me to name him Bandit, on account of his mask. See?” She held up the kitten so they could admire the black markings on his face. “I like Domino better. Daddy’s just an old silly billy anyway. Right, Mama?”

Meredith Courtland stared at her daughter in stricken silence. When the nanny appeared in the doorway, she said on a quivering breath, “Colette, would you please take Maisie back out to the pool? I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

“Can Domino come, too, Mama? Please? Pretty please with sugar on top,” the little girl pleaded.

Meredith Courtland pressed a hand to her breast. “No, sweetie, cats don’t like the water. Domino can stay in the kitchen while you swim.”

“Can I give him a treat?”

“Just one.”

The child grinned impishly at Evangeline as she skipped out of the room behind the nanny.

“Please, have a seat,” Meredith said, indicating a white sofa behind a mahogany coffee table inlaid with chips of colored glass. As she sat down in a chair opposite the sofa, the gossamer fabric of the sarong floated gracefully around her slim legs.

Her posture was very straight, the lines of her face carefully composed. Except for the tears glistening on her lashes, Meredith Courtland looked rigid and emotionless.

She doesn’t dare let herself feel anything, Evangeline thought. Not yet. Not until she’s alone. And then the pleasant ennui of her once-cosseted existence would pass into memory with the dawning of a stark, cold reality.

She would awaken in the morning, mind swept clean by sleep, and turn, see the empty side of the bed and it would hit her again, that terrible sense of loss. That bottomless pit of despair.

“Paul’s dead, isn’t he?” Her voice was flat with acceptance, but there was a glimmer of something that might have been hope in her eyes.

Evangeline dashed that hope with one word. “Yes.”

Her eyes fluttered closed. “When?”

“His body was found this morning in an abandoned house in the Lower Ninth Ward. We think he’d been dead for a few days.”

“A few days? Dear God…” Meredith Courtland’s neck muscles jumped convulsively as she swallowed. “How did it happen?”

“We won’t know the exact cause of death until after the autopsy. But we have reason to believe your husband was the victim of foul play.”

She gave a visible start. “You’re saying…he was murdered?”

“I’m very sorry,” Evangeline said softly.

“But…” Her expression went blank again. “That’s not possible. It’s just not.”

Murder happened to other people.

“Is there someone you’d like us to call? Family or friends you’d like to have come and stay with you right now?” Evangeline asked.

“Stay with me? I don’t know….” She couldn’t seem to form a clear thought. She skimmed her fingers down one arm. “Colette and my daughter are here….” She closed her eyes briefly. “Oh, God. How am I going to tell Maisie? She adores Paul….”

Her voice cracked and her bottom lip trembled as she lost the struggle for self-control. “God,” she whispered on a sob and put her hands to her face as if she could somehow forcibly stem the tide of raw emotion that bubbled up her throat and spilled over from her eyes.

Evangeline fumbled for a tissue in her purse and handed it across the coffee table to the crying woman. Meredith Courtland took it gratefully and after a moment, she dabbed at her eyes as she turned to look out the French doors at her daughter.

In the ensuing silence, every sound in the house seemed magnified. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer. The soft humming of the maid upstairs.

And into that awful silence came the high-pitched laughter of Paul Courtland’s little girl as she splashed happily in the shallow end of the pool.

Meredith drew a deep, shuddering breath and folded the tissue into a neat little square on one thigh. But her eyes never left her child.

“I wondered if something was wrong when he didn’t come by for Maisie on Sunday,” she finally said. “They always spend the afternoon together, and he never missed a single Sunday. Never. He loved being with her. He was a wonderful father.” She paused to unfold the tissue as painstakingly as she had creased it. “A lousy husband, but a great father.”

Evangeline and Mitchell shared a look.

“You and Mr. Courtland were divorced, then?” Mitchell asked carefully.

“Separated. He moved out a few months ago. He has a place in the Warehouse District. A loft.” Her head was still turned away, but there was no mistaking the bitter, derisive edge to her tone. She may as well have informed them he’d moved into a whorehouse for all the scorn that dripped from her voice. “I guess the Garden District just wasn’t a cool or hip enough address for him anymore.”

Evangeline and Mitchell exchanged another glance. Mitchell’s nod was almost imperceptible.

“Do you have his current address?” Evangeline asked.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. It’s just off Notre Dame, I think. I don’t know the street number. I’ve never been over there. When I needed to get in touch with him, I called his cell phone or the office.”

She was still watching her daughter, and Evangeline studied her profile. There was a lot of anger beneath that cool surface. Was Meredith Courtland the kind of woman who would retaliate against a husband who had rejected her and her lifestyle?

It was hard to imagine, especially considering the way Paul Courtland had died. But then, Evangeline had seen a lot of things that were hard to imagine.

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Sunday before last. He came over early so that he could take Maisie to a movie she’d been begging to see. They had dinner afterward and then he brought her home.”

“You had no contact with him after that? Not even a phone conversation?”

She shook her head. “We rarely talked on the phone once he moved out. And we only saw each other when he came by for Maisie. But as I said, I did think it strange when he didn’t show up for her on Sunday last. I called his office the next day, but Lisa, his assistant, said he’d taken a few days off. I just assumed he’d gone out of town and forgotten to tell me. That wasn’t like him, but then…a lot of things he’d done in the past several months weren’t like him.”

“Such as?”

She gestured helplessly. “Moving out. Leaving his family. A year ago, I could never have imagined we’d be separated. Let alone…” She shook her head. “This all just seems like a bad dream.”

Evangeline gave her a moment. “How did he seem the last time you saw him?”

She turned with a frown. “What do you mean?”

“His demeanor. His mood. Did you notice anything about him that was out of the ordinary? Did he seem worried or anxious? Anything at all that you can remember?”

“Not really. He may have been a little preoccupied, but that wasn’t unusual for Paul. He had a case that was about to go to trial, and he always got a little strung out before going into court.” Her gaze dropped to her hands. Her nails had completely shredded the tissue. “I just don’t understand,” she whispered. “Who would want to kill him?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“I’ve been sitting here going over it in my mind. None of what you’ve told me makes any sense. You said his body was found in the Lower Ninth Ward. Why would Paul go there? Everyone knows how dangerous that area is. I can’t imagine that he would have a client in that part of town. Maybe…Is it possible this could be just some terrible mistake?” she asked in a hopeful voice, but her hands were balled into fists, and when she looked up, the pain in her eyes struck Evangeline anew.

My God, she thought. Is that how I looked?

Evangeline didn’t have to try to put herself in the distraught woman’s place. She’d been there herself. She knew exactly how Meredith Courtland felt.

Except she and Johnny had still been together at the time of his death. He had remained, until the very end, the love of her life.

“Identification was found on the body,” she said. “It’s highly unlikely there’s been a mistake.”

“But…” Meredith’s voice trailed off, as if she finally realized the futility of false hope.

“I know this has been a terrible shock for you, and I’m so sorry we have to burden you with all these questions at a time like this,” Evangeline said. “But the sooner we get them out of the way, the sooner we’ll be able to figure out what happened.”

Meredith nodded. Her blue eyes were brimming again. “Of course. I’ll do whatever I can to help. Paul and I had our differences, but he was…I still cared about him.” The latter she said with a catch in her throat. “I want you to find who did this. I want you to make them pay,” she said fiercely.

Outside the French doors, Maisie Courtland began to sing again, off-key and at the top of her lungs. She was a beautiful, happy child whose life, from this day forward, would never be the same.

J.D. had been born after Johnny’s death. Evangeline’s son had never even seen his father, never had the chance to know him, but maybe it was better that way.

Maybe you can’t miss what you’ve never had.

“Mrs. Courtland…” Mitchell leaned forward, his gaze searching the woman’s face. “Did your husband ever receive any threats?”

“What kind of threats?”

“Guys in prison have a tendency to blame their lawyers,” he explained. “Did your husband ever have any problems with disgruntled clients?”

“Not that I know of. But…even if he did, he probably wouldn’t have mentioned them to me. Paul was…He used to be very protective.” She swallowed and glanced away.

“What about his coworkers? Did he get along with the other attorneys at his firm?”

“Paul was the rainmaker. Everyone loved him.”

Now it was Evangeline who leaned forward, her gaze scouring Meredith Courtland’s smooth, tanned face. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted your husband dead?”

She blinked, as if confused by the directness of the question, and then her expression hardened. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You think I had something to do with this. The spouse is always the prime suspect. Especially when there’s an impending divorce.”

“Right now, all we’re trying to do is come up with a lead. If you can think of anything, anything at all that might give us something to go on, we would certainly be grateful for your cooperation.”

“My God, if I knew anything, don’t you think I would tell you? He was my husband. My child’s father!”

Her anger was so quick, the flash of fire in her eyes so genuine, that her reaction told Evangeline more about the woman than an hour’s worth of questions would have yielded. Despite the bitter separation, Meredith Courtland had still been very much in love with her husband.

Her eyes shifted away, as if she were embarrassed by how much her outburst had revealed.

“What can you tell us about Paul’s relationship with Sonny Betts?”

Meredith jerked up her head and she looked at Evangeline with a mixture of fear and revulsion. “They certainly weren’t friends. It was a professional relationship only. Paul believed everyone was entitled to the best defense possible. Even slime like Sonny Betts.”

“Did you ever meet Betts?”

“Once at Paul’s office.” She shuddered. “He was not someone I would ever have in my home. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when he and Paul parted ways.”

“When was this?”

“Right after the trial.”

“Did they have a falling-out?”

“All Paul ever said about it was that his services were no longer required.”

“The split was amicable, then.”

“I guess so….” She looked doubtful all of a sudden.

“What is it?”

She bit her lip as she glanced out the window, collecting her thoughts. “I don’t know if it means anything…I’d forgotten all about it until now….”

“That’s okay. The more you can tell us, the better chance we’ll have of finding who did this,” Evangeline persisted.

“It was a few days after the verdict came back.” Meredith placed the shredded tissue on her thigh and absently smoothed out the wrinkles. “Paul had scheduled some time off from work so that we could go to a friend’s place in the Bahamas. Then all of a sudden, he said he couldn’t get away. Something had come up at work, but he wanted Maisie and me to go on without him. I didn’t really want to…we hadn’t had a family vacation in ages. But he was so insistent, almost as if he were trying to get us out of town.” She paused. “Which I suppose he was and I was just too naive to see the signs.”

“So you decided to go on the trip without him?” Evangeline prompted.

“Yes, after some arguing. The night before we were to leave, I finished packing and went to bed early. I’d just dozed off when I heard voices downstairs. Loud voices. I thought Paul must have fallen asleep in front of the television, but when I came downstairs, I saw two men with him in his study. Which struck me as odd because it was after midnight. We never had visitors that late.”

“Did you recognize the men?”

“I’d never seen them before in my life.”

“You said you heard loud voices. Were these men arguing with Paul?”

“It appeared so. Paul was clearly angry. He kept telling them that he’d done what they asked, and now that the trial was over, he wanted out.”

“Did you know what he was talking about?”

“I didn’t have a clue. But the way he kept pacing back and forth…the look in his eyes…” She took another breath. “He wasn’t just angry. He looked scared. I remember he said something about a cop. ‘I don’t want to end up like that dead cop.’ Or words to that effect.”

A wave of shock rolled through Evangeline. Her face felt frozen, and for the longest moment, she didn’t trust herself to speak.

Beside her, Mitchell shifted forward on the sofa. “Do you know who he was talking about?”

“No idea.”

“Did you ask him about the conversation?”

“Of course I did. As soon as the men left. The way he was behaving…it frightened me. I don’t know why, but I had a feeling that those two men were also some kind of cops or agents, and they were trying to get Paul to do something he didn’t want to do. Something dangerous. When I confronted him, he said it was nothing to worry about. Just a misunderstanding about a case.”

“You believed him?”

She sighed. “I didn’t have any reason not to. Then.”

Evangeline hesitated for a split second to make sure nothing in her voice betrayed her agitation. “Did you ask him specifically about the dead cop?”

“Yes, but he said he was just being melodramatic. Trying to make a point. Paul could be very theatrical when he needed to be. That’s why he was such an effective trial lawyer.”

“He didn’t mention the cop’s name?”

Something in Evangeline’s voice caught Meredith’s attention. She gave her a thoughtful look. “Not that I remember.”

“What about the two men? Did he call either of them by name? Or a title? Detective So-and-So, for instance. Or maybe Agent So-and-So?”

“I don’t believe so, no. But as I said, I’d forgotten about the incident until now. Maisie and I left for the Bahamas the next day, and when we got back, Paul had already moved out. He told me the marriage hadn’t been working for him for a very long time.” She shook her head, as if she still couldn’t believe it. “Just like that, our marriage was over. And I thought everything was so good between us. We had arguments, of course, like every married couple, but for the most part…” Her voice thickened. “I guess that’s why they say the wife is always the last to know.” Her tears spilled over and Evangeline handed her another tissue. “I’m sorry. This is bringing back a lot of painful memories.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Evangeline fished a card from her purse and laid it on the coffee table. “Here’s my number if you think of anything else. My cell number is on the back. Call anytime, day or night.”

“In the meantime, we’ll need someone to come to the morgue to ID the body,” Mitchell informed her.

“But…you said identification was found on the body.”

Hope springs eternal, Evangeline thought wearily. “A positive ID is just routine procedure. If you’re not up to it, we can talk to another family member.”

Meredith winced at the suggestion. “Oh, no, please don’t call his mother. Not until I’ve had a chance to break it to her first. This is going to kill her.”

“I understand.”

“It’s just…it hasn’t even been a year since she lost her other son. Paul’s younger brother.”

“I’m so sorry,” Evangeline said.

“It was such a horrible accident and poor Leona…she’s never gotten over it. None of us have. I still have nightmares about it.”

“What kind of accident was it?” Mitchell asked.

“Paul’s family has a fishing cabin on the bayou near Houma. David took the boat out alone one day last summer and he must have hit something in the water. The boat overturned and he was…” She trailed off on a violent shudder.

“He drowned?”

She shook her head and put a hand to her throat. “It was like one of those terrible things you hear about but don’t really believe. An urban legend or something. The water where David fell in was infested with water moccasins. He was bitten over a dozen times before he could swim to the bank.”

Six

A few moments later, Mitchell put voice to his skepticism as they pulled away from the Courtland home.

“I’m telling you, Evie, this case is starting to give me the creeps.”

“No kidding.”

“What are the chances that two brothers dying of snakebites within months of each other could turn out to be just some bizarre coincidence?”

“In my professional opinion? Slim to none.”

Mitchell was driving this time and Evangeline turned to glance back at the house. She couldn’t get Meredith Courtland out of her mind. Now that her husband was dead, their separation would haunt her even more. She’d find herself constantly wondering about the what-ifs and the what-might-have-beens if they’d stayed together.

Evangeline knew all about those games and how they could creep up on you in the middle of the night. How they could undermine your memories, make you think of all the stupid little things you should have done differently, all the petty arguments you wished you could take back. She knew firsthand how all that blame could wear you down night after night, month after month, until you had nothing left but regrets.

Mitchell looked at her. “I’m wondering if someone’s been playing around with the goofer dust.”

“The what?”

“You know, graveyard dirt. Zombie powder. The Brothers Courtland may have crossed someone dabbling in something a little heavier than the practice of law.”

“Like voodoo?”

“Voodoo. Hoodoo. Conjure.” He scowled at the road. “A lot of names for the same crazy-ass mumbo jumbo.”

“Yeah, I admit the snake angle is freaky. And pretty damn messed-up. But my money is still on Sonny Betts. He’s involved in this somehow, we just have to find the link. I say we pay him a visit, rattle his cage a little. See what falls out.”

Mitchell rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger. “You know, a lot of guys like Betts are into Santería. Especially the ones with connections to the Mexican drug cartels.”

“Oh yeah?” Evangeline peeled her sticky ponytail from the back of her neck.

“I saw a show about it on the Discovery Channel.”

She turned to stare at him.

“What?”

“You watch the Discovery Channel? Somehow I figured the Cartoon Network was more your speed.”

“I’m a man of many tastes,” he said. “You should know that about me by now.”

“So you were watching the Discovery Channel…”

“Yeah, and like I said, it was about these drug dealers using Santería to impress their enemies and keep their underlings in line. Only they called it La Regla de Lukumi. Or some shit like that.” He rolled down his window and a breath of hot air rushed in. “This car smells like a friggin’ ashtray.” Like a lot of ex-smokers, Mitchell had a low tolerance for cigarette odor.

“I’ve never even heard of…what did you call it?”

“La Regla de Lukumi. I’d never heard of it, either, until I saw it on this show. Anyway, there’s a group that operates along the border called the Zetas. They’re militia and ex-military officers from south of the border with some Guatemalan Special Forces thrown in to boot.”

“In other words, a bunch of real badasses.”

“Badasses with a capital B. The drug cartels recruit these guys to act as enforcers. And now they’re deepening their networks into cities like Houston and Dallas. From what I saw, they’re about as nasty a gang as you’re ever likely to meet up with, and get this—they even have their own witch doctor, shaman, big kahuna…whatever you want to call it…that advises them.”

“You think these Zetas have made it all the way into New Orleans? That’s who Betts is trying to impress?”

“Not the Zetas, per se, but their employer. You gotta understand how these people operate, Evie. They don’t just believe in taking out the enemy. They think if he dies screaming, they’ll still have power over him in the afterlife. Hence, their affinity for torture. I’m willing to bet Paul Courtland and his brother did some heavy-duty screaming before they died.”

“I don’t doubt it, but it all sounds a little too spiritual for a guy like Betts.”

“I’m not saying he believes it. He’s just not above using it to make a point.”

Evangeline reached over and adjusted the air conditioner vent so that it would blow directly on her face. Mitchell took the hint and rolled up his window.

He shot her a quick glance. “So what do you think?”

“I’m not sure I buy the whole Zeta thing, but I guess I wouldn’t put much of anything past Betts.”

“Exactly. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’ve been thinking about those two men Meredith Courtland saw in her husband’s study that night. From the way she described that meeting, it sounds like they were putting the screws to Courtland. She heard arguing and she could tell her husband was angry. The trial was over, he’d done his part…yada, yada, yada. If those guys were federal agents, isn’t it possible Courtland was playing both ends against the middle?”

“Working for the feds, you mean?”

“Let’s say, cooperating with the feds.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something? It was Courtland who got Betts off.”

“So?”

“If Courtland was ‘cooperating’ with the feds—” Mitchell put the word in finger quotes “—why would he work so damn hard to get Betts acquitted?”

“Maybe they had bigger fish to fry. The middleman, for instance, between Betts and the cartel. What better way of finding out who his supplier was than by putting someone inside his operation that he trusted? His lawyer, no less.”

“So Betts’s acquittal, according to your theory, was all some master plan by the men in black?” Mitchell thought about that for a moment. “What about Courtland’s brother? Where does his death fit into this whole grand scheme of yours?”

“His death was a warning. Or an insurance policy. Betts didn’t go to trial until the fall, but Courtland would have already been prepping the case in the summer when his brother was killed. Betts ordered the hit, then threatened the rest of Courtland’s family if things didn’t go in his favor. That could be when Courtland started cooperating with the feds.”

“And the snakes?”

Evangeline suppressed a shudder as she turned to stare out the window. The gardens along St. Charles flashed by the window in a colorful blur. “Maybe they wanted to make it look like an accident to anyone but Paul Courtland.”

“Or maybe, like I said, Betts wanted to impress the head honchos.”

“Yeah, maybe so.”

Mitchell was still frowning at the road, deepening the creases in his forehead and around his eyes. He never wore sunglasses and probably didn’t even own a bottle of sunscreen. The skin on his face and arms was like old leather. “So a few days after Meredith Courtland overhears the conversation in the study, her husband moves out and tells her the marriage is over. What do you make of that?”

“It sounds to me like Paul Courtland was trying to put some distance between himself and his family.”

“Yep. That’s what it sounds like to me, too. Or maybe, like she said, she just missed the signals. The trouble between them could have been brewing for a long time. Meredith Courtland wouldn’t be the first person to lie to herself about the condition of her marriage.”

They fell silent for a few minutes while Mitchell negotiated the heavy traffic in the Quarter. As they drove by the liquor stores and souvenir shops on the lower end of Decatur, Evangeline could tell something was on his mind. He was still watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“Okay, spit it out,” she said.

He suddenly looked uneasy. “How long are we going to ignore the elephant in the backseat?”

She pretended not to know what he meant. “What elephant?”

“‘I don’t want to end up like that dead cop.’ That’s what she said her husband told those guys that night, right?”

“I guess.”

Mitchell turned and dropped his chin, as if he were peering at her over the top of invisible glasses. “You guess?”

“All right, yeah, that’s supposedly what Courtland said.”

“So let’s talk about it,” Mitchell said impatiently. “Because I know damn well you’re thinking about it.”

Evangeline closed her eyes as she let her head fall against the back of the seat. It was a relief to finally say it. “What if he was talking about Johnny?”

“You know that’s a long shot, right?”

“Why?”

“Why?” He ticked off the reasons on one hand. “One, Johnny’s not the only cop who’s been killed in this city. Two, we don’t even know that he was talking about an NOPD cop. Three, there’s not a shred of evidence that connects Johnny to Sonny Betts or Paul Courtland.”

“That we know of.”

“Four…four,” he insisted when she tried to talk over him. “Johnny’s death was a random act of violence. Tragic and senseless, but that’s all it was. He was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I know you don’t, but it happens, Evie. New Orleans is a dangerous place. We don’t call tourists ‘walking ATM machines’ for nothing.”

He eased his way around a stalled car, and from Evangeline’s perspective, they seemed to squeeze by with only a hair to spare.

“George Mason was the lead on Johnny’s case. He’s a determined guy. If there was something to find, he would have found it.”

“Not if the crime scene was swept before he got there,” she said.

“Well, hell. Why didn’t I think of that?”

She responded with an irritated glower.

Mitchell sighed. “Okay, humor me, here. Swept by who? Elvis?” He shook his head. “Do you hear what you’re saying? Do you know how you sound?”

She knew exactly how she sounded, but she wasn’t backing down. This had been eating at her for months. “You were the one who brought it up.”

“I was hoping if we talked it through, you’d get how ridiculous this all sounds. If you keep going on like this…” His mouth tightened.

“What?”

He hesitated. “Okay, I didn’t want to get into this, but maybe it needs to be said. You want to know why some of the other cops have a hard time looking you in the eye these days? Why they’re not so crazy to work with you anymore?”

“Uh, because they’re a bunch of macho asstards?”

He ignored that. “It’s because ever since the shooting, you’ve made it clear you think something about the investigation wasn’t kosher. You’ve been letting some none-too-subtle insinuations slip out about a cover-up. Hell, for all I know, you think I’m in on it, too. Whatever it is.”

“You know I don’t think that.”

“The God’s honest truth? I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t have the slightest idea where your head is these days. Kathy said you’d called the house at least a dozen times last week looking for Nathan.”

“That’s an exaggeration. I called twice.”

Nathan Mallet had worked cases with Johnny in the year before his death. They weren’t officially partners, but Nathan would know better than anyone if Johnny had been involved in something dangerous.

But the shooting had shaken him up. He’d been a mess at the funeral and afterward he wouldn’t return Evangeline’s phone calls. Now it seemed he’d dropped off the face of the earth. His wife, Kathy, claimed she hadn’t seen him in weeks.

“I just don’t understand why he won’t talk to me,” Evangeline said.

“No big mystery there. From what I hear, he’s down in New Iberia working on one of his old man’s shrimp boats. I talked to his sister not too long ago, and she said the last time she saw him, he looked terrible. She thinks he may be on dope. Crystal meth, most likely. That shit is everywhere these days.”

“And you don’t find that kind of behavior at all suspect? He hasn’t been the same since Johnny died, and you know it.”

“You try losing a partner and see how it affects you.”

“He and Johnny weren’t partners.”

“Neither are we,” Mitchell said. “Not officially anyway. But I’d hate like hell for something to happen to you. Even if you do exasperate the crap out of me at times.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly. “What I can’t get over is how Nathan left. He didn’t even resign. He just dropped out of sight.”

“Like that’s unusual around here. We’re the Big Easy, remember?”

She shrugged.

“Besides, Nathan’s always been a flake. Comes from being raised by a drunk. His old man was always half-stoned, even at work. I’m not surprised Nathan has some of the same reliability issues. They say addiction runs in families, don’t they?”

“Yeah, that’s what they say.”

Evangeline decided to let the matter drop, but she still had her own theory regarding Nathan Mallet. His behavior sounded to her like the manifestation of a guilty conscience. Why else would he go to such pains to avoid her?

“I wish you’d just let this go,” Mitchell grumbled.

“I will. Just as soon as I find some answers.”

“And if you don’t find the kind of answers you want?” His worry for her seemed to settle in all the deep grooves and crevices of his careworn face. “You think Johnny would want you obsessing about his death like this?”

Evangeline didn’t answer.

“Hell, no, he wouldn’t. He’d want you to get right back out there and build a life without him.”

She drew a breath and said quietly, “If the situation were reversed, he’d be doing the same thing I am.”

“You sure about that? The Johnny Theroux I knew would make sure his kid was his main priority.”

“You think I’m neglecting J.D.?” Her voice sounded more hurt than she wanted it to.

“I never said that. But one of these days, that boy is going to need a daddy, Evie.”

She stared at him in outrage. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

His shrug was anything but apologetic. “Call me old-fashioned, but I happen to think a boy needs a male role model. And no offense, but you’re not—”

“Not what?” she demanded. “Getting any younger?”

He grinned. “I was going to say, you’re not taking care of yourself. Look at you. You’re as skinny as a fence rail.”

“So? I’m also as healthy as a horse.”

“Physically, maybe,” he muttered.

“I heard that.”

His grin broadened. “It’d do you good to get out more. Have some fun, is all I’m sayin’.” His tone turned sly. “A blind man could see that Tony Vincent’s got a thing for you. Would it kill you to throw the man a bone? Maybe have dinner with him or something?”

“What are you, his pimp?”

Mitchell chuckled. “You could do a lot worse.”

“I don’t even know why I’m having this conversation with you. It’s ridiculous. We should be talking to Sonny Betts right now.”

“That’s going to be tricky. The feds consider him their territory.”

Evangeline shrugged. “He’s a person of interest in a homicide investigation. He’s our territory now.”

“Okay, but if we’re taking a ride out there today, I need some fortification first. How about lunch? I’m in the mood for catfish. Let’s go to Dessie’s.”

Mitchell let her out in front of the restaurant while he drove around the block to find a parking place.

As Evangeline stood in the shade of the colonnade, she spotted a dark gray sedan in the traffic on Decatur. She wondered for a moment if it was the same gray car they’d seen at the crime scene that morning, if they were being tailed by the feds.

But when Mitchell came whistling around the corner, she decided not to mention it to him. He’d probably think she was starting to obsess about that, too.

“Hey,” he said. “Give me a day or two and I’ll see if I can find out where Nathan is staying. The old lady’s pretty tight with his sister.”

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