Page 23 of Cursed (Decorah Security 2.0, #14)

Stunned, she tried to cope with the implications—just as the sounds of shouting and banging made them both look up. Once again, someone had interrupted their conversation before she could find out what she needed to know.

Andre took off toward the house. Morgan followed him. When they arrived at the front of the structure, they found a man pounding on the door with his big fists. He had obviously come here to make trouble, and Morgan gripped her purse, wondering if she was going to need her gun.

“Show your face, you bastard,” the guy shouted. “Show your face.”

“I take it you’re talking to me,” Andre said calmly from the driveway.

The man whirled. “Yeah, you.”

He came charging down the steps, his hands still balled into fists and his eyes flashing.

Morgan tensed and slipped her hand into her purse.

Glancing at Andre, she saw he was standing with his arms dangling casually at his sides. But the tension in his shoulders told her he was ready to repel an attack.

“What’s the problem, Carl?” he asked.

“Where were you when my brother delivered that car yesterday?”

“I was here—with Ms. Kirkland. What’s the problem?” Andre asked again.

“What did you do to my brother?” the man demanded.

“Your brother, Rick Brevard?”

“You damn well know who I mean.” His gaze swung to Morgan, then back again. “Did you see him yesterday?”

“If he was one of the men who delivered the car—yes,” she answered.

Andre took a protective step closer to her. “Could you tell us what this is all about?”

“The last I saw Rick, he was on his way out here—driving your rental car.”

“And he left again,” she said quickly. “With another man.”

“Henri Dauphin. I was damn well expecting them yesterday evening. They’re not back.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you,” Andre said.

“Where were you all day?” Brevard demanded. “And last night?”

“Last night, I was sleeping,” Andre said evenly, his gaze flicking to Morgan.

A few minutes ago, he’d said he was in the swamp. Had he slept there? He must have, he couldn’t stay up twenty-four hours a day.

“Today, I was in the bayou to saw up some logs and split them for firewood.”

“So you say.”

“Well, the fresh-cut logs are by the back door,” Andre said. “And I can help you look for the men.”

“I don’t need your help!”

“Then why are you here?”

“To tell you they’d better show up.”

“I hope they do,” Morgan answered.

“Yeah, you’d better hope so,” the man growled, his eyes on Andre. For a long moment, they stood facing each other, and Morgan was afraid Carl Brevard might do something stupid. Instead, he brushed past them, climbed into his car and slammed the door.

As he roared down the drive, Morgan breathed out a little sigh and pulled her hand from her purse.

“What were you going to do—pull a gun on him?” Andre asked.

“How did you know?”

“I saw your hand go into your purse.”

“It was an option,” she murmured.

“But not a very good one.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I would have done it—if I needed to.”

“You don’t want to get arrested because of me.”

“You think that would have happened?”

“Chere, the least little thing that happens around here—they call the cops.”

She nodded tightly, then changed the subject. “What do you think happened to the men who brought the car yesterday?”

“You saw them drive away.”

“Yes!”

He sighed. “I don’t know what happened. But I think I’d better go look for them.”

“Let me help.”

“No,” he said quickly and firmly. “If something happened in the bayou, I want you safe in the house. Is that understood?”

“I could help you,” she insisted. “Two sets of eyes are better than one.”

“Not necessarily. I told you, I know my way around the backcountry—since I’m there every night. I know how to avoid the dangers. If you were with me, I’d only worry about you. And your going off by yourself is out of the question.”

“Rick could be waiting to jump you.”

Andre nodded tightly. She wanted to insist on going with him. She wanted to say she would be worried every moment he was gone. But she kept those words locked inside and clamped a hand on his arm. “You’re willing to help him? Even if he hates you?”

His gaze scorched hers. “Especially if he hates me.”

A noise from the landing made her glance up, and she saw Janet gazing down at her—looking upset.

“Come in,” she said to Morgan in a quiet but insistent voice.

Two against one, Morgan told herself. She still could have protested, but now she and Andre had an audience.

Lowering her voice, she said, “We have to talk—about Linette and Andre.”

“Yes.”

At least he’d conceded that much, although maybe he was just agreeing so she’d stop arguing with him.

“I have to go,” he added. “Don’t make me worry about you tonight. Promise me you’ll stay inside.”

“All right,” she whispered. Then, before she could change her mind, she climbed the steps. At the top, she turned and stared down at Andre, who was looking up at her. “Stay safe,” he growled.

Then, stiffly, he turned and trotted away. She wanted to ask what he was thinking right now. She wanted to ask where he would look for the men and how he could possibly locate them in all that wilderness. Instead she watched him disappear into the trees.

Shoulders slumped, Morgan followed Janet into the house.

“He told you he goes into the swamp at night?” the housekeeper asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s more than he’s told anyone else.”

“And what do you know about it?” Morgan demanded.

“I won’t give away his secrets, child,” the woman said before turning away.

Morgan wanted to follow her into the kitchen and demand a better answer. She knew she’d be wasting her time. Janet was loyal—and stubborn.

So, she went up to her room and tried to do some online research. But she couldn’t find anything on the history of Linette Sonnier and Andre Gascon.

A knock at the door made her glance up sharply.

“Come in,” she called out.

Janet opened the door. “Would you like to have dinner?” the housekeeper asked.

After a silent debate, she answered, “Well, I’ve had a pretty tiring day. Would you mind if I just took a sandwich up here?”

“Since I got the oven back, I made a nice shepherd’s pie. You could take some of that.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Morgan said. “I was just trying not to make any extra work for you.”

“The dinner’s already made. You can eat on the sun porch,” Janet said quickly.

Morgan wasn’t sure what the polite thing to do was, but she decided that Janet might not want her company, either.

So, she followed the housekeeper downstairs, then took a tray of food out to a room at the side of the house where she hadn’t been before.

It was furnished with wicker chairs and a wrought iron patio set.

Several ficus trees and pots of flowers were set around on the slate floor.

Through the big windows, she could look out at the last glimmers of light from the sunset.

The view would have been appealing if she’d been able to relax and enjoy it.

She had very little appetite. But since Janet had gone to the trouble of making dinner, she finished as much of it as she could.

When she took the tray back to the kitchen, she was relieved to find the room empty. After a quick glance over her shoulder, she scraped the remaining food on her plate into the disposal and ran the appliance before putting the plate in the dishwasher.

Up in her room, she stood at the window for a long time, wishing she could see something—even a light in the swamp. But it was pitch dark, and she didn’t know how Andre could function out there.

Bone-deep worry gnawed at her. If he were anywhere else besides the middle of a swamp, she would have gone outside to look for him. But she knew that tramping into the bayou was as dangerous as it was futile.

Again, she tried to distract herself. As she did most evenings, she checked her e-mail. At least there was something to take her mind off Andre—a message from Decorah.

One of the agents, Zane Marshall, had looked at the maps Morgan sent and confirmed they seemed to be a geological survey. But he wasn’t familiar with the notation and was sending them to an expert. Morgan should expect to hear something in a day or two.

After thanking Zane, Morgan looked at some of the bulletin board digests she usually checked out.

But the messages simply didn’t hold her interest. Finally, she gave up, took a shower and pulled on clean panties and a tee shirt. Always prepared to get out of bed quickly, she set out a pair of jeans over the arm of a chair.

She lay in bed for a long time, listening for Andre to come in. Finally, she drifted off, only to startle awake at the sound of chanting. It took a moment for her to figure out where she was and what she was hearing.

The damn voodoo priestess was back.

Morgan felt her throat close, felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her. Wanting to get a look at the damn woman, she got out of bed, then had to grab the edge of the mattress to keep from falling over. It took several moments before she felt steady enough to walk.

Still, her steps were shaky as she crossed the room, then stood at the window, breathing hard.

She felt as if she were trying to function underwater. After her experiences on the road and in the graveyard, the chanting voice and the sound of the drum seemed to reach her on a deeper level—pounding at the frayed edges of her sanity.

The words beat in her head. She had to get away. Out of this room. Out of the house. Out of Louisiana. If she didn’t leave, she would die. She knew that on a gut-wrenching, fear-ridden level.

Panic clawed at her chest, at her throat—until she ordered herself to get a grip.

“You will not fall apart. It’s just a woman out there trying to scare you,” she told herself. “Stop it this minute.”

Her fingers dug into her palms as she fought to catch her breath. Panting, she focused on the pain as she struggled to ground herself.

The small jabs helped bring her mind back to reality. She had been caught in the grip of a panic attack. That was all! The woman was trying to put her under a spell. Only now she had a better idea how to fight against it.

“You shouldn’t have left those charms. I’m on to you now,” she muttered. “I’m not going to let you scare me.”

Taking several seconds to catch her breath, she looked out into the darkness, searching under the trees. At first, her eyes could see little. When she had adjusted to the low light, she zeroed in on the spot where she’d seen the priestess the first time at the estate.

This time, she saw nothing. Blinking, she stared harder. But she wasn’t mistaken. The woman wasn’t there, and she felt a spurt of disappointment.

She had been so sure she would find the culprit. But the spot was empty. And the chanting hadn’t stopped.

Again, fear leaped up, blocked her windpipe.

Not fear for herself. For Andre. He was outside in the dark. And he had told her the priestess hated him—that her curse had some kind of power over him. Maybe, this time, the chant was meant for Andre. And maybe a voodoo charm had already done something to the men who were missing.

Whirling away from the window, Morgan grabbed her jeans and quickly pulled them on.

Scuffing her feet into shoes, she looked toward her purse.

Her gun was in there. And she wanted the comfort of its weight in her hand.

But after the episode in the graveyard, she knew that taking it could be dangerous.

The wrong person could get shot—especially in the dark.

Throwing open her door, she started for the stairs. She was halfway down the hall when someone grabbed her arm from behind.