Rising Moon

Chapter Twelve



By the time Sullivan came downstairs empty-handed, I’d regained my composure.



“When did you find Klingman?” I asked. “Where?”



His dark brown eyes contemplated me with curiosity. “I thought you didn’t know the man.”



“I don’t. But—” I glanced around for. King, and when I didn’t see him anywhere, leaned in to whisper.



“You hired me to look into the disappearances. Shouldn’t I know all there is to know about the latest one?”



“He didn’t disappear,” Sullivan reiterated.



“Just tell me, Conner.”



His brows lifted at my use of his first name, then he shrugged. “He was found in Lake Pontchartrain.”



“I thought he was on fire.”



“Maybe that’s why he wound up in the lake—either trying to put himself out or it could be whoever lit him up didn’t want to attract too much attention.”



” When was he found?”



“This afternoon. Although he could have been floating a while. We don’t know yet.”



I wasn’t sure what to make of that bit of info. What had I been hoping he’d say?



If Harvey had been found dead last night, would that have let Rodolfo off the hook for killing him? Not even close, since he’d shown up beat to hell and gone. For all I knew, my boss had been struggling with Harvey instead of muggers.



The thought caused me to frown. I truly doubted a blind man could kill a healthy, sighted one, start him on fire, or vice versa, then dump him in the lake. Besides, I’d seen Klingman walking around after the sun came up. A fact that I should relate immediately to Detective Sullivan.



But I wasn’t going to.



At least not until I’d talked to Rodolfo.



That proved harder to accomplish than I’d imagined. Rodolfo didn’t show up that night, or the next, or the next. I started to get worried, and when King didn’t share my concern, I got mad.



“If he turns up dead somewhere, I guess that’ll let him off the hook with Sullivan,” I snapped.



“He won’t turn up dead.” The big man’s lips twitched, which only made me madder. “This isn’t the first time he’s gone AWOL.”



“What does that mean?”



“Just what I said. Every so often Johnny needs to get away, so he does. He always comes back.”



“Unless he’s at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain,” I muttered.



“He isn’t.”



King seemed certain, and since he knew Rodolfo better than I did, I figured he was right. I also figured I knew why Johnny had needed some alone time. He’d wanted to get away from me.



So despite my unease, I didn’t look for him. I didn’t even check the third-floor room. If he ever came back, he knew exactly where to find me.



Still, I didn’t sleep well. Each night I stared out my window as the moon shrank to gibbous, then a crescent, and finally disappeared altogether, leaving the sky dark but for the stars.



Downstairs, something went thud. Since King had left hours ago, the sound drew me away from my contemplation of the navy blue night. I’d taken one step toward my door when a squeal from outside made me return just in time to see a squat, somewhat roly-poly shadow dart away.



“There are no pigs in New Orleans,” I murmured, though I didn’t know if that was true.



I peered down the alley, but nothing, no one, was there. I decided to head to the tavern for a bottle of water. It was something to do.



I’d had no luck finding anyone who recognized Katie, though with the Mardi Gras festivities increasing daily, the crowds had also improved. I’d stay until Lent began, and tourism understandably fell off, then I’d return home.



According to the New Orleans Times-Picayune there’d been no more disappearances or murders—at least none without an explanation. I’d spoken to Sullivan a few times, and he confirmed the same. If there was a serial killer, perhaps he was waiting for the full moon, unless he’d skipped town, or been the victim of an untimely death himself.



I frowned, thinking of Harvey Klingman.



That thought flew right out of my head, as I let myself out of my room and immediately caught the scent of smoke. The same door was aj ar as before, and when I opened it I discovered the altar had reappeared.



This time I knew better than to walk away and let the thing disappear. Instead, I strode in and scooped the tiny wooden animals into my hand. The candle went out as if blown by an invisible breath.



A chill trickled over me as complete darkness descended. My eyes were wide open, yet I could see nothing. How did Rodolfo stand it?



Another thud from downstairs had me slipping the icons into the pocket of my paj ama bottoms and hurrying down the steps, silent on bare feet.



The tavern was also dark. I sensed movement in the room, though I wasn’t sure where. My shin whacked into a chair; I stumbled over a table. Maybe all the movement was my own.



Still, I could have sworn I heard heavy breathing, so close my hair stirred. I paused, sweeping my arms in a circle, expecting to hit someone, maybe something, but there was nothing.



A footfall behind me, a tiny sigh ahead of me, the air swirled all around. I was disoriented, frightened, and I wished I’d stayed in my room.



The back door banged open suddenly, spilling in just enough light from the distant street lamp so I could see that no one was here but me. Except how had the door come to be open?



Most likely when the altar maker left.



I crossed the short distance and slammed it shut, flipping the lock, then returning to the tavern and flicking on the lights. I shrieked as a large, man-sized figure loomed in front of me.



Tanned, blond, and buff, he could have been a surfer in one of the Annette Funicello movies Katie and I had laughed at on Saturday afternoons. Despite the youth of his face, his hair and his clothes appeared to have escaped from the fifties.



He had a flattop, something I hadn’t seen out and about in years. His shorts were shorter than his hair, exposing beefy, brawny thighs. He wore a white tank top, out of which his mountainous arms swelled. I didn’t know what to make of him.



“Where is he?” the guy demanded.



“Who?”



“The alpha, the master, my lord.”



Oh, great.



“Um, could you be a little more specific?” I inched toward the front door. The nutj ob followed.



“He who is supreme. The one from whom all beasts spring.” He leaped across the short space between us and grabbed the neck of my paj amas, then yanked my face close to his.



His breath was rank; I didn’t want to know what he’d eaten last. His teeth were amazingly white and a little sharp. I leaned as far back as I could, but he only pulled me nearer and buried his nose in my hair, inhaling deeply.



He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Mother,” and licked my collarbone. My skin crawled, and I brought my knee up fast and hard.



He was quicker than anyone I’d ever known and whirled away before my blow found its mark. At least he let me go. His growl caused the hair on my arms to lift. I’m not proud to admit it, but I ran.



I didn’t get far before his fingers tangled in my hair, and he threw me to the floor. His eyes seemed to glow in the faint light, and his smile became feral. I was going to die, but probably not soon enough.



“Get away from her.”



The words were spoken softly, but they held an undercurrent of command. I glanced up and so did my attacker.



John Rodolfo appeared no worse for wherever he’d been. He was dressed in black, his sunglasses firmly in place.



I saw no evidence of bruises on his face; the hand wrapped around his red-tipped white cane sported not a single scab. He certainly did heal fast. He moved with the innate grace I’d noticed the first time I’d seen him. Even blind he trod with more confidence than any man I’d ever known. If he’d broken a rib, I certainly couldn’t tell.



“She yours?” the man asked.



Rodolfo set his cane against the nearest wall, took a final pull on the cigarette he held in his other hand, ground it out beneath his shoe and murmured, “Yes.”



I opened my mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. I’d rather be Rodolfo’s than this guy’s.



“I want her.”



“No.”



Though I don’t know how he carried anything in that small scrap of fabric he wore as shorts, the nut reached into his pocket and withdrew a long, thin metallic obj ect. He flicked his wrist, and the distinctive swish of a switchblade followed.



“Are you worthy?” he asked.



Rodolfo’s smile was equally feral. “Let’s find out.”



I scrambled to my feet, muttering what I meant to be a denial but must have been nothing more than gibberish since the two men ignored me and rushed each other.



Panic descended. How on earth could Rodolfo fight a sighted man, let alone a crazy person with a knife?



I dived for the phone behind the bar, figuring nine-one-one was my best bet, but before I’d taken two steps, I was only able to watch, fascinated.



Rodolfo ducked the first strike, j erking back from the second, which swished through the air centimeters from his nose.



Poised on the balls of his feet, head cocked as he listened intently, he became calmer as the other man became more agitated.



The beach bum thrust and parried, but he never came within an inch of Rodolfo again, though John seemed to be almost egging him on, letting him get near, then dodging away.



“You f uck,” the stranger muttered, and John laughed.



The resulting howl of rage was inhuman. The man dropped to the ground on all fours, the knife skittering across the tile as he convulsed.



My inertia broke, and I dialed nine-one-one, requesting both the police and an ambulance. From the way the guy was twitching, he was going to need a pill, if not a straitj acket, and then, hopefully, a nice comfy padded cell.



As I hung up the phone, John felt around for the knife, which had slid to a stop near his feet. I didn’t caution him against it, better he had the weapon than Mr. Insane-O. But as his fingers closed around the hilt, surfer dude gave a guttural cry and launched himself at Rodolfo.



Startled, John turned in his direction, and the blade sank into the man’s chest to the hilt.



“Shit!” I blurted, then clapped my hands over my mouth.



I expected the wounded man to fall to the ground, or grab on to Rodolfo, maybe take him to the ground too. Instead he tore himself free and, with the knife still protruding grotesquely, raced for the door.



” Pas argent,” John muttered like a curse, then moved forward.



I stayed him with a hand on his arm. “He won’t get far.”



Not with a knife in his chest.



Nevertheless, I started after him myself, reaching the gaping back door just as the guy passed beneath the streetlight.



In the garish glow, I caught one glimpse of his face.



It wasn’t quite human.