OH NO. NO, no, no.” Rocky Hebert smelled death, the stench hitting him hard as he approached the doctor’s kitchen door. He was no stranger to the smell of a decaying body, having encountered it multiple times during his career. But this was different.
This was . . . not more important, because all of the dead were important.
Well, not all of them, he allowed. Many of the dead deserved their fate. But the doctor wasn’t one of them.
He’d needed the doctor alive and well.
And able to tell him things. Important things.
Maybe the dead guy isn’t the doctor, he thought. But it was a fool’s hope, he knew. The doctor lived alone, and nobody came out this far into the sticks without good reason.
Maybe he’d died of natural causes. Maybe it wasn’t anything nefarious.
Maybe they were both simply unlucky, he and the doctor.
Rocky eyed the doorknob with a growing sense of dread. The lock was scratched up, like someone had broken in. He withdrew a disposable glove from his pocket and twisted the doorknob, unsurprised when the door opened easily.
It’s a trap. Turn around and leave. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was so close. He needed to know if this was the doctor or— He released the breath he’d been holding, reflexively sucking in another when the stench hit him full force. Fucking hell. His eyes stung, his stomach rebelling. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It was the doctor, all right. Or it had been. The man’s throat had been slit and—
He swallowed hard, taking a step back, away from the grisly sight.
The man’s throat had been slit, his gut eviscerated. There was blood and intestines and—
Spinning around, Rocky vomited into the doctor’s rosebushes.
Goddammit. He was too late.
Too late by at least a day, if the flies covering the man’s open wounds were any indication.
He hovered over the rosebush, frozen in place, hands on his knees as his body continued to shudder. I should call the police. But not here. And definitely not from my own phone.
Luckily, he had a burner—the same one he’d been using to communicate with the doctor for the past two weeks as he’d nagged and encouraged and begged the man to meet with him.
He’d stop on his way home and make the call. The guy deserved better than to be left to rot on his own kitchen floor.
He spat again, wishing for a strong drink. Wishing he hadn’t finally gotten sober.
Wishing he’d done so many things differently.
He straightened with a muted groan, looking around to be sure he wasn’t about to meet the same end as the poor doctor. There was no one around, the only sound the croaking of frogs in the small marshy canal behind the doctor’s house.
There was more than frogs in that water. Gators were more than likely, this close to the bayou.
Rocky wondered why the man’s killer hadn’t simply dragged him to the water’s edge and tossed him in. And then he froze again because he knew why.
I was supposed to find him. They knew I was coming.
Except he didn’t know who “they” were. He’d been searching for “them”
for more than fifteen years.
I was so damn close.
Or was I?
At this point, “they” were probably just playing with him. Cats taunting a mouse.
Rocky drew his gun from his holster. “I ain’t no damn mouse,” he muttered, making his way to the shed in the doctor’s backyard with unsteady steps. He half expected to be gunned down before he reached the rusted-out shed. Half expected to be attacked from behind, to feel the bite of a knife against his throat.
But nothing happened and he opened the shed door without incident, peering inside and feeling a small wave of relief when he found what he’d been hoping for.
Bleach, the jug about half full. He took the jug and dumped its contents over the rosebush, rendering any DNA in his vomit useless.
Then he walked to his old Ford truck, tossed the jug in the bed, closed the tailgate, and slid behind the wheel. He’d seen no one lurking in the shadows.
Didn’t mean there was nobody there, but he had a feeling that if someone had been there, he wouldn’t be alive to be wondering about them.
He drove for a half hour, pulling over when he reached a point halfway to his own home. Taking the burner from the truck’s glove compartment, he dialed 911, reported the man’s death, and hung up, refusing to give his name.
Driving another five minutes, he slowed the truck on a bridge, rolled the window down, and tossed the burner into the river. Nobody would find it.
More than thirty-five years of being a cop had taught him all the best tricks.
He hesitated, thinking of Gabriel. His son would be working, doing what he loved best. Rocky was glad he’d seen him the weekend before, glad he’d hugged him hard when they’d parted. Glad he’d told Gabe that he loved him.
Because he had the awful feeling that it would be the last time he did so.
As much as he didn’t want to be the mouse, the cat was powerful, its reach long, its claws sharp. At least they wouldn’t go after Gabe. He’d at least done that part right.
Gabe knew nothing of any of this. He never had. His boy would tell him,
“Call the police, Dad!” Because Gabe still thought the cops were the good guys.
Maybe I should have told him the truth. Maybe I should have warned him.
Maybe I should warn him now.
No. He’d done the right thing, keeping Gabe in the dark.
Rocky continued to drive, his thoughts in turmoil. He was half tempted to bypass his own house, the home into which he’d carried Lili over the threshold when they’d been young and carefree newlyweds, the home in which they’d raised their son to be a good man. He was tempted to keep on going, tempted to run.
But to where? There wasn’t anywhere he’d be able to hide.
And what kind of life was that anyway?
But Gabriel . . .
Rocky’s chest ached at the thought of never seeing his son again. Of not finishing what he’d begun.
Of not getting justice for the real victim of this nightmare.
In the end, he decided to face the inevitable, because running away was not who he was.
M e t a i r i e , L o u i s i a n a
S U N D AY, J U N E 1 2 , 11 : 4 5 P. M .
Pulling into his driveway, Rocky sat looking at his house, thinking about the doctor lying dead on his own kitchen floor.
Don’t let Gabe find me that way. Please.
Hands trembling, he reached for his cell phone, tapping his camera roll and staring at the last photo. Him and Gabe last weekend, standing shoulder to shoulder for the photo. Both smiling.
He traced a fingertip over his son’s face. Everyone said that Gabe resembled him, but all he could see was Lili’s eyes smiling at him. She’d be proud of their boy. So proud. And, should the worst happen, he’d see her again.
The thought made his heart trip. He’d missed her so much, and he was so damn tired. He’d never understood what hell she’d gone through with the chemo, not until he’d started treatment himself.
Damn cancer. Knowing that his time was running out had made him take risks that he never would have taken otherwise. Made him pressure the doctor to meet him, and now the doc was dead.
It’s my fault. Logically he knew that the true fault lay on the killer’s shoulders—or killers’ shoulders. There were probably multiple heads on that hydra. But he’d pressed the issue, threatening to expose the poor doctor.
Giving him no choice. He should have been more careful.
He should have done a lot of things that he hadn’t done.
And if “they” came after him? The joke was on them. The doctor had been his last hope. He’d never figure out who “they” were now. He didn’t have the time.
But he’d fight a little longer. For Gabe.
He closed his camera roll and opened a text window. To Gabe.
Just in case.
Hope you’re having a good night, mon ange, he typed. Love you, son.
If the worst happened, Gabe would figure it out. His son was smart.
Hopefully smarter than me.
Rocky dug into his pocket for the small leather pouch that he’d started carrying with him everywhere. He poured the contents into his cupped palm
—a paper clip and an unused SIM card. Willing his hands to steady, he popped the SIM card from his phone and did a factory reset, wiping everything stored on the phone’s internal memory.
Then he inserted the new SIM card into his phone and slipped the old one beneath the floor mat at his feet.
Just in case. If he lived to see the morning, he’d fetch the card and put it back, then restore his phone’s memory from the cloud. If he didn’t live to see the morning, he wasn’t making it any easier on them. Whoever “they” were.
Dragging himself from his truck, he forced one foot in front of the other until he was at his own front door. He turned the key in the lock, stepped inside, and had a single moment to register the lack of a barking dog before cold metal pressed against his temple.
Shoulda run. But there was nowhere he could hide, and he found that he didn’t want to.
His only regret was that Gabe would find him.
Gabe would mourn him.
But Gabe would pick himself up and go on, because his son was strong.
“Where is my dog?” Rocky asked quietly. If they’d harmed one hair on his dog’s body . . .
The thug gave him a shove, remaining silent.
Rocky stumbled forward. “To where?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” another voice called. “Bring him to me.”
Rocky felt a laugh bubbling up from his gut. It came out sounding hysterical. Which was understandable, he supposed. The kitchen was where they’d killed the doctor. “Of course.” It was darkly poetic, in its own way.
He moved stiffly, narrowly missing the rocking chair that Lili had loved so much. He brushed a hand over the smooth wood. Soon, mon petit chou .
Soon.
His eyes had adjusted by the time he reached the kitchen and he abruptly stopped at the sight of the man sitting in Lili’s chair at the opposite end of the table from his own place.
Fury bubbled up, replacing the hysterical laughter. Because he recognized the man. He’d never met him in person, but he recognized him all the same.
“Get out of her chair,” Rocky growled, surprising himself with the words.
There were so many others that he could have said. That he should have said.
The man simply lifted his brows, black threaded with silver. He looked expensive. He looked like a movie star.
He looked . . . bored.
Rocky wanted to tear the bastard’s heart out for all that he’d done. For the lives he’d ruined.
For desecrating Lili’s kitchen chair.
“Why are you here?” Rocky demanded.
“Because we’ve come to the end of our dance,” the man drawled. “And I needed to be sure this was done right. Finally. You should have listened, Rocky. You should have backed away years ago.”
“I did.”
“And then you didn’t.” The man studied his nails, then lifted his gaze to Rocky’s. “Sit.”
The thug behind him shoved the gun into his temple when he didn’t immediately obey. “You heard him, Hebert. Sit the fuck down.”
That he recognized the gunman’s voice should have been a surprise, but it wasn’t. He lifted his chin defiantly. He didn’t want to sit. He’d die standing.
A sad sigh from behind him signaled the presence of a third man. “You should’ve let it go, Rocky. Please, sit down. It’ll go easier for you this way.”
Rocky tensed. He knew that voice, too. But it couldn’t be . . . Except that it was. “No,” he whispered, the weight of betrayal too heavy to bear.
He slumped into his chair, trying to remember all the good times he and Lili had shared around this table over their years together. All the birthdays, the holidays, the anniversaries. Her last meal.
Anything but this treachery.
Rocky was barely aware of his gun being removed from its holster, being laid on the table just out of his reach. The barrel of the pistol disappeared from his temple and the man gripped his nose, pinching it shut, forcing his head back.
Rocky struggled, but he was no match for the strong hand that held him immobile. He tried to resist when a glass was pressed to his lips, tried to keep his mouth closed, tried not to let a drop in. But eventually he had to breathe, and the liquid burned his mouth, his throat. All the way down.
He hadn’t had a drink in three years and the fact that the taste was like an old friend shamed him.
The table began to sway, the face of the man in Lili’s chair blurring.
There must be more than booze in this glass.
His last thought was that Gabe was going to think he’d broken his promise. That he’d broken his sobriety. I’m sorry, son. I’m so damn sorry.
