station wagon, a Chevy, and onto the paved drive. He braced his arms against the steering wheel to ease his cramped back. The quack said Louis needed to lose God knew how much weight. Garbage. He might be softer than he used to be because he was too busy to work out, but it wouldn’t take so much to tighten up those muscles.
Beneath the avenue of live oaks that framed the driveway, a tall figure walked toward him on the verge. He wore all black except for the white clerical collar visible at the throat of his short-sleeved shirt. Louis felt a pang of irritation at the man’s cool appearance. Then he remembered. The handsome face, dark curly hair and broad shoulders belonged to Father Cyrus Payne of St. Cécil’s Parish in Toussaint, a town just over the line between Iberia and St. Martin parishes. He’d been visiting Charlotte and Vivian the last time Louis came down.
Money-grubbing man of God. Probably fishing around for fat contributions. Well, Louis would find an opportunity to make sure the ladies didn’t waste money, or anything else, in that direction. It was his responsibility to guide them now.
Father Cyrus waved and smiled and Louis grudgingly stopped the Jag. He rolled down his window again. “Afternoon, Father.” Curtness would be wasted on this heartthrob ray of sunshine. Louis bet that those clear and holy blue-green eyes only had to look sincerely at all the sex-starved wealthy widows, or bored wives—and their daughters—around these parts to make sure he got plenty. Louis didn’t believe abstinence was possible.
“Good afternoon,” the priest said, ducking to look at Louis. “Mr. Martin, isn’t it? Louis Martin?”
Louis made an affable, affirmative sound.
“Well, welcome,” Payne said. “Charlotte and Vivian will be pleased to see you. They mentioned you were coming.”
The guy was too buddy-buddy with the Patin women who were both good-looking. He checked his watch. “That’s right. I’d better get along or they’ll be wonderin’ where I am. Afternoon to you, Father.”
“And to you.” The priest nodded and straightened his long, muscular body before setting off for the road.
Louis eased the car onward, but watched the man in the wing mirror, disliking every easy swing of those big, wide shoulders. Oh, yes, he’d surely have a word with Charlotte and Vivian. He drove around a bend and lost sight of Cyrus Payne.
DETOUR.
What the fuck? Sweat stuck his shirt to the soft leather seat. He closed the window and turned up the air-conditioning.
A homemade detour sign, nailed to a stake and stuck into the soil beneath a large potted laurel bush pointed in the direction of a side road through thick vegetation. The holy man could have warned him.
Crawling the car between brambles he was convinced would scratch his shiny new blue paint, Louis squinted through the windshield and sucked air through his teeth at the sound of scraping branches.
He stuck to the narrow, overgrown track, jogging right, then left, and right again.
DEAD END.
“Freakin’ crazy.” He stomped on the brakes. This wasn’t helping him get back to New Orleans before dark and he didn’t see so well at night.
Knuckles rapping glass, close to his head, startled Louis. He swallowed the bile that rushed to his throat, turned, and stared at the masked face of a man who hooked a thumb over his shoulder and indicated he wanted to speak to Louis.
Sucking in air through his mouth, Louis threw the car into reverse only to back into something. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw a tall shrub falling, a tall potted shrub that hadn’t been there seconds ago.
The man hammered on the window and gestured for Louis to stop.
Louis put the car in Park and rolled the window down an inch.
“Allergies,” the man shouted, pointing to his covered head. “This thing works best for keeping stuff out. Damned hot though.”
Reluctantly, Louis lowered the window all the way. He felt sick.
The man pushed his head abruptly inside the car. Alarmed, Louis drew as far away as possible.
“You lost?” the man said, repeatedly scratching his face through the dark mask. “You—”
“Dead end.” Louis pointed to the freshly painted board and added, “Wouldn’t you say that’s a redundancy? I’m not lost, just pissed. I’m a busy man. I don’t have time for paper chases. I’ll just get that thing back there out of the way and turn around.”
“No need for that,” the man said and opened Louis’s door. He placed himself with the door at his back so Louis couldn’t attempt to close it. “Just follow my directions and you’ll get where you’re supposed to go.”
The voice was expressionless, serene even, and with the power to raise hair on the back of the neck. “I’ll do just fine,” Louis said. He screwed up the courage to say, “Can I give you a lift?” even as he prayed the fellow would refuse.
He did.
“I’m goin’ to be your guide, Mr. Martin.”
Louis shivered. “How do you know who I am?” Instinct suggested he should hit the gas and shoot backward out of there, no matter what he had to drive over, only he could likely kill this menacing nuisance. It might be hard to convince a judge that a person with no visible means of making trouble, had scared the shit out of Louis who then acted in self-defense.
“Pass me the briefcase.”
Louis’s throat dried out and he coughed. He moved his right hand to put the car in reverse.
“You don’t want to do that again. Turn the car off. Give me the briefcase and I’ll let you go.”
Louis didn’t believe him and his hand continued to hover over the gearshift. The inside of his head hammered.
The man reeked of rancid sweat and when he pressed even closer, Louis turned his head away.
What had to be a gun jabbed into his ribs and the sharp point of a knife, pressed gently against the side of his neck, ensured that Louis didn’t make any more moves. “Turn off the ignition.”
Louis did so.
“Good. Now the briefcase. Slowly. Keep your left hand on the wheel and pass over the case.”
That was when Louis saw that the man wore tight-fitting gloves.
“No. I’ve changed my mind. Put it on your lap and open it.”
Louis did as he was told. He shifted slightly and felt the blade open a nick in his skin. A trickle of warm, silky blood drizzled from the wound.
“Open it,” the man repeated in his soft voice. “Thank you. I want the envelope. You know the one.”
Oh, my God, I’m going to die. Louis’s hands shook as he opened the case wider. The Patin file and the envelope in question were all it contained.
“Good. Really good. Remove the envelope, then close the briefcase and put it back on the
