The Valentine Hostage Read online

  For a moment, Monique wondered if she’d have gone to such lengths for her brother.

  Not if he’d murdered their parents, she decided, a shiver running up her spine.

  But maybe Maria honestly believed Ben was innocent Maybe she’d convinced herself there had been a look-alike in Augustine’s. That way, she wouldn’t have to face the horrible truth.

  Monique glanced at Ben once more, curious about the details of the story Sandor Rossi had backed off telling. She was leery of asking too many questions, but since Ben had been the one to raise the subject in the first place…

  “Who,” she finally asked, “did this Rossi say set you up?”

  “He didn’t Not exactly. He just referred to the guy as The Nose—which he said was nothing more than his own code name for the guy. And I guess that’s all it was, because my lawyers checked around and discovered The Nose didn’t mean anything to anybody. At any rate, Rossi promised he’d name real names in court.”

  “He didn’t, though.”

  “No. Somebody obviously got to him, because he sat there in the stand and claimed he didn’t really know a thing. Even worse, he implied my lawyers had tried to put words in his mouth. That blew any chance of a not guilty verdict out of the water. That and Ezra Dean Slaughter taking a hike right in the middle of the proceedings.”

  When Ben said nothing more, Monique slowly sat back in her seat, suddenly aware she’d been leaning forward in interest. He’d sounded so sincere that if she hadn’t known better he’d have drawn her right into his story.

  She did know better, though. Psychopaths had a talent for sounding sincere, for making people believe them.

  But even a top Hollywood makeup artist couldn’t have made anyone else look enough like Ben DeCarlo to have fooled five people in Augustine’s.

  Then, just as she was thinking that, an image slowly drifted up from her subconscious. It was from earlier in the day. From the street in front of the courthouse. And it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

  Chapter Three

  Tuesday, February 4

  2:52 p.m.

  Monique sat staring across the Bronco at Ben, but it wasn’t him she was seeing.

  The image from earlier in the day grew stronger and stronger, until it became so vivid she was virtually reliving those moments in front of the courthouse.

  She glanced along the street, looking for an empty cab, and her heart almost stopped when she saw Ben DeCarlo.

  But it couldn’t be. He’d been wearing a suit, not a sweatshirt and jeans.

  Then, while she stood staring at him, looking for telltale differences, the real Ben had put his hand on her arm.

  And that was when this nightmare had begun— driving all thoughts of anything else from her mind.

  Now, though, she’d remembered about the other man, and the recollection was enough to make her tremble inside. He’d been standing about twenty feet from her. And from that distance she’d been certain he was Ben.

  Her heart beating rapidly, she thought of how, in the courtroom, the defense table had been at least twenty feet from the witness stand. And it was from there that the eyewitnesses had pointed to Ben as the man they’d seen murder Antonio and Bethany DeCarlo.

  In the restaurant, though, Ben had been closer than twenty feet to her. Hadn’t he? But even if he had, the room had been so dim…

  The image from in front of the courthouse dissolved into one of Augustine’s. Then that horrible scene began replaying in her head for the millionth time.

  She looked around when she heard a woman say. “Why, there’s Ben,” and saw an older couple sitting at a table in the corner.

  While she watched, the man half rose and spoke. Then the woman started to say something more. But her words faded and her expression grew uncertain.

  Why?

  Until this moment, Monique had assumed Ben’s apparent anger had caused his mother’s reaction. Or that she’d spotted his gun.

  But was it possible Bethany DeCarlo had looked puzzled because she’d realized the man she’d taken to be her son actually wasn’t?

  No! That couldn’t be possible. Five people couldn’t have made the same terrible mistake, couldn’t have identified the wrong man and sent him to prison.

  So what was the explanation for that man on the street today?

  Monique realized she was digging her fingernails into her palms and consciously relaxed her hands, but it did nothing to relieve the tension in the rest of her body.

  She had no explanation for that other man. No explanation unless she’d merely imagined him.

  Which meant that had to be what had happened. After sitting in the courtroom, watching Ben when the verdict was read out…

  She’d been so focused on him, and her emotions had been so intense, that when she’d gotten outside and seen someone who resembled him her imagination had simply run wild.

  Yes, that would explain it. And it was certainly easier to believe than the possibility of Ben DeCarlo’s look-alike defense having any solid foundation to it

  “We’re here,” he said.

  She glanced at him, his words making her aware they’d stopped. Then she looked out and saw that while her mind had been miles away they’d left even the dirt road behind.

  They were parked in a thicket of towering looselimbed willows with water stretching out before them. Huge cypress trees stood rooted in it and lily pads clustered along the shore, while a broad expanse of algae covered much of the dark surface.

  “Let’s go,” Ben said, opening his door. “We’ll get our stuff out in a minute.”

  He didn’t bother to grab her hand and drag her along with him this time, but why would he?

  What was she going to do? Try to escape through the swamp in her high heels? With only the vaguest idea of where they were and no idea at all of how to get back to civilization?

  Of course she wasn’t. As much as she hated Ben DeCarlo, as frightened as she was of him, she’d have to stick to him like glue. Psychopathic murderer or not, she was totally dependent on him.

  She climbed out of the Bronco, only then realizing they were parked on what looked like a wider than normal section of railway track without the rails.

  When she stepped off the lengths of wood, she discovered their purpose. The ground was so soft and oozing with moisture that it seemed to almost bend beneath her feet.

  “This way,” Ben said.

  She followed him toward the water’s edge, the ground sucking her heels down with each step she took. As they neared the shoreline, he stopped and lifted one corner of a green-and-brown camouflage tarpaulin that she hadn’t even noticed. It blended perfectly with the vegetation.

  “I could use a hand here,” he told her.

  She helped him pull the tarp completely back, revealing a small motorboat Then they got their things from the Bronco and loaded them into the boat—everything except her wig, which she left on the back seat She’d hardly have use for a wig in the middle of a swamp.

  Finally, they dragged the canvas over to the Bronco and covered it, making it disappear before their eyes.

  By the time they’d shoved the boat into the water and climbed in, she was wet up to her thighs and her suit looked as if she’d worn it every single day for the past five years.

  Once Ben started the motor and they left the shoreline behind, Monique kicked off her sopping shoes and draped her coat across her legs for warmth. The damp chill in the air above the water was almost as cold as the chill of fear around her heart.

  BEN HAD A GOOD SENSE of direction and more or less remembered the route from the times he’d visited the cabin. To be on the safe side, though, he kept checking his hand-drawn map, because the swamp was a confusing maze of open water, bayous, willow islands and channels.

  That was why so many people—from eighteenthcentury pirates to modern-day escaped cons like him—had used it to hide out. Getting lost was easy. Getting found wasn’t.

  And dammit, he’d really
made it here! He almost couldn’t believe that.

  Of course, it was only step one. But being a free man after spending so long in that hellhole made him feel terrific.

  “Ben?” Monique said.

  He glanced at her.

  “You do know where we’re going, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ve been to this cabin before?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “A lot of times?”

  “Enough. We’re almost there.”

  “Whose is it? Now, I mean. You said it used to belong to an old hermit.”

  “Now it’s mine,” he lied, then looked away before she asked any more questions. Given the euphoric way he was feeling he might let something slip, so he had to be careful.

  By this point, Monique would have realized how well organized his escape had been. And that he couldn’t have orchestrated all the details from a jail cell.

  Which meant she had to have figured out that he’d had help. But he didn’t want her knowing, for sure, who it had come from.

  The cops would be all over Maria and Dezi as it was—probably already were. On their list of suspects who might have helped Ben DeCarlo escape, his sister would be right at the top, and the manager of his wine bar—who also just happened to be his best buddy—would be number two. So telling Monique the old hermit had been Dezi’s uncle, and that the cabin now belonged to Dezi, would be downright dumb.

  A convicted murderer had nothing to lose, but Maria and Dezi did. When all this came to an end— whatever the end proved to be—Ben didn’t want Monique LaRoquette being able to name names and point fingers.

  They’d reached the inlet leading to the cabin, so he slowed the boat There were snags he had to steer clear of. “It’s just up this channel,” he offered.

  Monique glanced at Ben when he spoke, then sat staring across the front of the boat, watching for the cabin—and wondering if it was where she was going to die.

  There was certainly no way she’d be able to escape from it on foot. She’d seen snakes in the water, and a few mostly submerged logs that she’d suspected were actually alligators. She would never risk trying to run away from Ben into the swamp. And even if she somehow got a chance to take the boat, she’d never be able to find her way back to real land.

  Surreptitiously, she checked her watch once more. It had taken them less than an hour to drive from the airport to Houma, and barely half an hour from Houma to where they’d left the Bronco.

  Adding the half-hour trip in the boat, that meant they were only about two hours from New Orleans. Yet, under the circumstances, it might as well be two million.

  “There it is,” Ben said. “On that willow island up ahead.” When she spotted the cabin, a sinking feeling lodged in the pit of her stomach. The little structure was roughly constructed of weathered wood, with only one small window at the front. Primitive was the kindest word she could think of to describe it.

  Reminding herself that trying to be pleasant was still the best ploy she’d thought of, she merely said, “It’s built on poles.”

  He nodded. “Stilt houses are a good idea in a swamp. The floor stays dry when the water rises. And being off the ground usually keeps the alligators from coming inside.”

  She looked at him and thought she detected the trace of a grin. But as far as she was concerned, there was nothing even remotely humorous about any of this.

  “’Course,” he added, “a lot of snakes are good climbers, so it doesn’t help much with them.”

  “Then it’s just as well I’m not afraid of snakes, isn’t it,” she muttered. Given the situation, she wasn’t finding it exactly easy to be pleasant.

  Ben cut the motor and they drifted the rest of the way to the dilapidated dock. She eyed it warily while he tied up, deciding it was missing more boards than it had.

  But they got out of the boat without incident and headed for the cabin. They’d just reached the steps when Ben stopped and looked down the channel the way they’d come.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I hear a boat,” he said quietly, putting his sports bag on the steps.

  When he tugged down his sweater, she realized he was making sure his gun was hidden. That started her heart pounding. As slim as the chance was, it might be a police boat coming. And she knew Ben wouldn’t surrender without a fight.

  Trying not to imagine what it would be like to get caught in the middle of a shooting match, she set her suitcase down beside Ben’s bag and gazed along the channel—half hoping it was the police, half terrified it might be.

  It wasn’t Their visitor proved to be a man in his early twenties who gave Monique a creepy-crawly feeling before he said a word.

  Even though the afternoon had grown downright chilly, he was wearing only a tight pair of jeans that clung suggestively low on his hips. A large knife in a scabbard hung from his belt.

  Tanned and muscular, he had dirty, shoulder-length dark hair and a decidedly unfriendly expression. Clearly, he wasn’t about to offer them a welcome-tothe-swamp drink from the open whiskey bottle dangling from his hand.

  But that was just as well. There was no label on the bottle, and it was so dirty he must have been recycling it for months.

  Cutting his motor, he drifted to the dock—standing with his feet spread wide for balance and appraising her and Ben through slits of eyes.

  “Looking for someone?” Ben asked as the boat gently bumped to a stop.

  “This ain’t your place.”

  “It is at the moment. So is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Name’s Duh-wayne,” he drawled. “But people jus’ call me Spook.”

  Ben merely nodded.

  “Jus’ spotted you an’ the lady a mile or so back,” Spook went on, looking Monique over in a way that left no doubt what he’d like to do to her.

  It almost made her squirm, but she forced herself not to move a muscle.

  “Jus’ wondered what you was doin’ here.”

  “Uh-huh?” Ben said “Well, we’re just here to get away from the city for a while. Spend some time on our own,” he added, his soft Southern accent more pronounced than usual. “So if there was nothing in particular you wanted…”

  Spook took a swallow from his whiskey bottle, then began to slowly rub his thumb up and down the scabbard. “Jus’ wanted ta see who ya’ was. Jus’ wanted…”

  His words trailed off as Ben wheeled to one side, whipping his gun from beneath his sweater.

  He stood pointing it in the direction of a stand of bamboo for a minute, then turned back toward Spook and casually tucked the gun away again.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, Spook,” he said. “But I thought I spotted a copperhead in that canebrake.”

  Spook glanced toward the bamboo, then looked suspiciously back at Ben. “Have ta be a durn good shot ta getta snake at that distance.”

  “He’s an excellent shot,” Monique said quietly.

  Tuesday, February 4 5:29 p.m.

  As THE SUN SLOWLY dropped in the sky, Monique was getting colder on the cabin steps, even though she was wearing a cozy sweater and had her coat draped over her shoulders. But she wasn’t quite ready to go inside.

  Fortunately, knowing that if the deliberations had dragged on she’d be staying over in New Orleans, she’d packed jeans and a few other comfortable things to wear in her hotel room. She’d never imagined, though, she’d be staying in a cabin that was light years away from the Clarion Hotel.

  A noise inside made her glance up at the door, which was standing partly open because Ben said he liked to listen to the sounds of the swamp. She suspected the real reason was so he’d know if she tried to make a run for it, but there was about as much chance of her doing that as flying.

  Turning her gaze back toward the setting sun, she watched it grow ever lower, painting the sky a pale orange behind the stark shapes of dead cypresses. In a surreal way, the swamp was surprisingly beautiful. Beautiful but frightening.

  And
it wasn’t only the snakes and alligators that had her feeling uneasy about it now. That bayou boy who’d come calling had scared the devil out of her. If she’d been alone, if Ben hadn’t been with her…

  She took a long, slow breath—remembering, again, how glad she’d felt that he’d been there to protect her.

  The more she thought about that, the more it worried her. Did it mean she was losing perspective? That after less than a day the Stockholm Syndrome was kicking in? Making her have positive feelings toward her abductor?

  No, she told herself. She wasn’t having positive feelings, plural. She’d merely had a single, fleeting one. And only because, at that specific moment, Ben had seemed a whole lot saner and safer than Duhwayne-call-me-Spook.

  But she wasn’t forgetting that Ben DeCarlo was a psychopathic killer. Or thinking that just because he hadn’t done her any real harm, thus far, she was guaranteed future safety. Even though he’d said he had no intention of killing her…

  She realized she was actually starting to think he might not, and that took her aback.

  Warning herself she was probably pushing wishful thinking to the extreme, she sat gazing out into the twilight for a little longer—serenaded by a chorus of frogs and listening to the quiet stirrings in the water and the occasional call of birds.

  Once the sun finally slipped completely behind the vegetation of the swamp, leaving only an orange glow that was fading quickly to black, she rose and went into the cabin, pulling the door closed against the dampness of the night.

  Inside, a fire was crackling in the woodstove, singeing the air with the smell of smoke, and its flames had driven the dampness from the room.

  “Getting cold out?” Ben asked.

  “A little.”

  He semi-smiled at her, which made her feel funny inside. It didn’t seem appropriate for the kidnapper to smile at the kidnappee.

  Then she found herself semi-smiling back, aware that being pleasant to him was no longer quite as difficult as it had been earlier.

  After he turned toward the small kitchen counter again, and went back to cleaning the fish he’d caught from the dock, her gaze lingered on him.