boats, to the plantations between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. Hooks for slabs of beef still dangle from the overhead beams, bones of the
past. Early in the century, when electricity had become the norm, giant
lockers had been installed to keep the raw meat cool. It is here that he
stops. Presses his ear against the massive door, and listens, his breath coming
in short, audible pants of excitement. He heaves open the door and enters.
She is there, just as he left her. Huddled in the
corner of the locker, the kerosene lamp on the floor filling her wide, pretty
eyes with flames of fear. Her wrists and ankles are linked together with wire,
her arms upstretched above her head and anchored to the wall. She’s smarter
than most, knowing that if she struggles, the thin hobbles will slice into her
flesh and cause her pain. Still, as she stares up into his eyes, her body
trembles enough so the wires cut into her skin, causing fresh threads of blood
to dribble. She makes a mumbled sound behind the black tape over her lips.
He smiles. “Hello, Melissa. Miss me?”
Just as J.D. expected, the bleary-eyed cop on the
night shift wasn’t particularly concerned about Melissa Carmichael’s
mysterious disappearance. He typed out a report and tossed it into the stack of
a dozen others he had received since coming on duty. No doubt he was pissed
because he was stuck behind a desk and not out prowling the streets in hopes of
making a collar that would get his name in the paper and a commendation from
the mayor.
Throughout the interview, Holly had managed to keep a
tight rein on her irritation. The cat struggling in her arms had helped,
refocusing her short-wired patience each time J.D. suspected she was on the
verge of climbing across the cop’s cluttered desk to slap him.
J.D. had answered most of the questions and offered
comments of his own. No indication of violence. Yes, he had knocked on a few
doors, but the neighbors had not seen or heard anything suspicious. No, they
had not seen Melissa, but that wasn’t unusual, considering she came and went
mostly during the early hours of the morning. Hookers didn’t exactly work the
nine-to-five shift.
By the time he pulled the Mustang to the curb in front
of his apartment, Holly had fallen asleep with the cat curled up in her lap. He
didn’t notice the patrol car parked across the street until he had shaken Holly
awake and exited the Mustang.
The uniformed officer moved toward him through the fog
and shadows, one hand locked on Patrick’s arm, tugging his reluctant nephew
along.
Shit.
“What the hell is this about, Patrick?” J.D. stared at
Patrick, who attempted to yank his arm from the cop, avoiding J.D.’s eyes.
“Found him wandering the warehouse district. Said he
belonged to you.”
“Did he?”
“Does he?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
As Holly exited the car, Patrick pinned her with his
angry eyes, his expression growing sulky. “Who the fuck is that?”
Holly moved up beside J.D., gently stroking the cat.
Her expression looked sleepy and amused by his nephew’s
belligerence.
J.D. took Patrick by the scruff of his shirt collar. “Thanks.”
“Keep him off the streets. Next time, I’ll take him
in.”
“Right.” He was tempted to tell the cop to take the
kid in anyway. Give him a taste of what was in store for him if he didn’t get
his act together.
Patrick jerked away from J.D. and shuffled toward the
apartment, hands jammed into his baggy jeans pockets. Mounting the steps, he
stood, shoulders hunched, head down, and kicked the door.
The cop smirked. “Enjoy your evening.” Then he returned
to the patrol car.
J.D. glanced at Holly, who was scratching the tabby
between its ears, her drowsy gaze still assessing his nephew. “Bev isn’t going
to be pleased,” he said, glancing again at Holly, who narrowed her eyes as she
appraised Patrick more closely.
He didn’t bother looking at Patrick as he unlocked the
door, then waited for the
past. Early in the century, when electricity had become the norm, giant
lockers had been installed to keep the raw meat cool. It is here that he
stops. Presses his ear against the massive door, and listens, his breath coming
in short, audible pants of excitement. He heaves open the door and enters.
She is there, just as he left her. Huddled in the
corner of the locker, the kerosene lamp on the floor filling her wide, pretty
eyes with flames of fear. Her wrists and ankles are linked together with wire,
her arms upstretched above her head and anchored to the wall. She’s smarter
than most, knowing that if she struggles, the thin hobbles will slice into her
flesh and cause her pain. Still, as she stares up into his eyes, her body
trembles enough so the wires cut into her skin, causing fresh threads of blood
to dribble. She makes a mumbled sound behind the black tape over her lips.
He smiles. “Hello, Melissa. Miss me?”
Just as J.D. expected, the bleary-eyed cop on the
night shift wasn’t particularly concerned about Melissa Carmichael’s
mysterious disappearance. He typed out a report and tossed it into the stack of
a dozen others he had received since coming on duty. No doubt he was pissed
because he was stuck behind a desk and not out prowling the streets in hopes of
making a collar that would get his name in the paper and a commendation from
the mayor.
Throughout the interview, Holly had managed to keep a
tight rein on her irritation. The cat struggling in her arms had helped,
refocusing her short-wired patience each time J.D. suspected she was on the
verge of climbing across the cop’s cluttered desk to slap him.
J.D. had answered most of the questions and offered
comments of his own. No indication of violence. Yes, he had knocked on a few
doors, but the neighbors had not seen or heard anything suspicious. No, they
had not seen Melissa, but that wasn’t unusual, considering she came and went
mostly during the early hours of the morning. Hookers didn’t exactly work the
nine-to-five shift.
By the time he pulled the Mustang to the curb in front
of his apartment, Holly had fallen asleep with the cat curled up in her lap. He
didn’t notice the patrol car parked across the street until he had shaken Holly
awake and exited the Mustang.
The uniformed officer moved toward him through the fog
and shadows, one hand locked on Patrick’s arm, tugging his reluctant nephew
along.
Shit.
“What the hell is this about, Patrick?” J.D. stared at
Patrick, who attempted to yank his arm from the cop, avoiding J.D.’s eyes.
“Found him wandering the warehouse district. Said he
belonged to you.”
“Did he?”
“Does he?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
As Holly exited the car, Patrick pinned her with his
angry eyes, his expression growing sulky. “Who the fuck is that?”
Holly moved up beside J.D., gently stroking the cat.
Her expression looked sleepy and amused by his nephew’s
belligerence.
J.D. took Patrick by the scruff of his shirt collar. “Thanks.”
“Keep him off the streets. Next time, I’ll take him
in.”
“Right.” He was tempted to tell the cop to take the
kid in anyway. Give him a taste of what was in store for him if he didn’t get
his act together.
Patrick jerked away from J.D. and shuffled toward the
apartment, hands jammed into his baggy jeans pockets. Mounting the steps, he
stood, shoulders hunched, head down, and kicked the door.
The cop smirked. “Enjoy your evening.” Then he returned
to the patrol car.
J.D. glanced at Holly, who was scratching the tabby
between its ears, her drowsy gaze still assessing his nephew. “Bev isn’t going
to be pleased,” he said, glancing again at Holly, who narrowed her eyes as she
appraised Patrick more closely.
He didn’t bother looking at Patrick as he unlocked the
door, then waited for the
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