Chapter 1
Battle
not with monsters
lest ye become a monster
and if you gaze into the
abyss
the abyss gazes into you.
--Friedrich Nietzsche,
German philosopher
Prologue
New
Orleans
Four years ago…
The
man who’d murdered Romain Fornier’s ten-year-old daughter didn’t
look like a killer. He sat slumped in the courtroom with puffy bags beneath his
eyes, a halo of mousy brown hair circling his otherwise bald head and jowls that
hung lower than his chin. There were moments when even Romain couldn’t believe
frumpy, middle-aged Francis Moreau had done something so vicious, moments when
he glanced back over the days and weeks since Adele’s abduction and felt
as if he was living someone else’s life.
The
judge pounded his gavel, bringing the noise in the courtroom to an abrupt halt.
It grew so quiet Romain could hear the defense counsel shuffling his papers.
“The law is very precise on this matter,” the
judge announced. “The police may have obtained verbal approval from the
proper authority, but they didn’t get the affidavit signed until after
the search of defendant’s home, which means the evidence found in that search
is not admissible in court.”
Romain heard the
gasps of his family. His parents sat on one side of him; his sister sat on the
other. Without that evidence, we don’t have a case. The D.A. had
stated that over and over.
Romain’s muscles bunched
as he leaned forward to whisper to Detective Huff, who sat a row in front of him.
“Is this as bad as it seems?”
“Don’t
worry,” Huff whispered back. But his voice sounded odd, almost strangled,
and his expression didn’t promote much confidence. When a witness for the
defense revealed that Huff had searched Moreau’s house without legitimate
paperwork, Huff’s face had flushed crimson. It was still crimson and several
beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead.
Desperate
for definitive answers, Romain was nonetheless distracted when the prosecutor
asked to approach the bench. The judge waved both him and the defense counsel
forward. They kept their conversation muted, but the way the D.A. gesticulated
with his hands suggested that he was in the midst of a heated argument.
This case couldn’t get away from them now, not when
there was no doubt they had the right man, Romain said over and over to himself.
But the D.A. wasn’t happy when he finally returned to his table. Before
sitting down, his eyes searched the crowd, singling out Huff, whom he gave a look
of such contempt Romain could no longer breathe.
“They’re
going to let him off,” Romain said to no one in particular. His sister sat
like a statue; his mother was crying, his father trying to comfort her. “He’s
going to get off!” he repeated, and this time he gripped Huff by the shoulder
to guarantee a response.
Huff twisted to face him. A
fan thrummed in the corner. The air-conditioning had been out for two days and
the weather had turned unseasonably warm for October. “He did it, Romain,”
he said, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. “I saw the tape.”
Romain had seen part of the tape, too—as much as he
could bear to watch. Which was partly why he couldn’t wrap his mind around
this. How could the technicalities involved in serving a search warrant take precedence
over a child’s life? His child’s life?
“They
can’t let him walk,” Romain said. But the judge pounded his gavel,
curtly announced that the D.A. was dropping all charges and exited the courtroom.
Stunned, Romain stood with his mouth agape as Moreau’s watery blue
eyes cut to him and a victorious smile curved his colorless lips. Sight of it
caused everything around Romain to go black. For a moment in time, there was only
the two of them, staring across the courtroom at each other.
“It’s
the detective’s fault?” his mother was asking. “Why didn’t
he get the affidavit signed before he searched?”
“Moreau
knew the police had been tipped off. He would’ve destroyed the evidence
had Detective Huff waited,” his father responded.
Huff
must’ve heard them, but he kept facing forward. He was staring at Moreau,
too, whose attention and “you lose” smile had shifted to the detective.
Then the defense attorneys started shaking Moreau’s hand, congratulating
him.
The crowd surged toward the door. Romain’s
sister started pulling on him, trying to get him to follow her. But he remained
rooted to the spot. The judge and the lawyers had to come back. This wasn’t
over. It couldn’t be over. Moreau was a killer.
Since he’d been so determined to stay, he wasn’t
sure how he eventually got out of the courtroom. He didn’t remember making
the decision to leave, walking toward the exit or passing through to the outside.
He only remembered seeing the detective remove his jacket and swing it over his
arm while they descended the steps--and sensing the presence of Huff’s gun
in its holster as they moved side by side, jostled by the crowd and attacked by
the media, who waited like a pack of wolves.
“Mr.
Fornier, what do you have to say about seeing the man who allegedly killed your
daughter go free?”
“Mr. Fornier! Mr. Fornier!
Do you still believe Francis Moreau murdered Adele?”
“Can
you tell me if you’ll pursue this in a civil proceeding?”
As
one reporter after another shoved a microphone into Romain’s face, he saw
Moreau only a few feet away, pandering for other cameras—and suddenly craved
a gun in his hand more than his next breath. He was an excellent marksman. At
this distance, he’d scarcely have to aim. One pull of the trigger and he
could fix everything that’d just gone so terribly wrong.
And
the next thing Romain knew, a blast rent the air, Moreau fell to the ground, and
Detective Huff began forcing him to the hot, gritty concrete.
Chapter 1
Sacramento,
California
The present...
When Jasmine Stratford
opened the package, she was standing in the middle of a crowded mall, but suddenly
she couldn’t hear a single sound. The laughing, the talking, the click-clack
of shoes on the colorful floor, and the Christmas music that’d been playing
in the background, disappeared as her ears began to ring.
“What
is it?” Sheridan Kohl touched her arm, eyebrows gathered in concern.
The words finally came to Jasmine as if from a great distance,
but she couldn’t speak. Her lungs worked frantically, but her chest grew
so tight she couldn’t expand her diaphragm. Sweat trickled down her spine,
causing her crisp cotton blouse to stick to her as she stared at the silver and
pink bracelet she’d just pulled from the small cardboard box.
“What
is it, Jas?” Frowning, her friend took the bracelet from Jasmine’s
cold fingers. As she read the name spelled out with letters separated by pretty
pink beads, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh God!” she murmured, pressing
a hand to her chest.
Jasmine’s head spun. Afraid
she might pass out, she reached for Sheridan, who helped her to the center of
the mall and asked a man sitting in one of the few seats to move.
He
gathered the shopping bags piled at his feet and jumped up, allowing Jasmine to
sink into the plastic, scooped out chair.
“Hey,
she no looking good, eh? She sick or somet’ing?” he asked.
“She’s
just suffered a terrible shock,” Sheridan explained.
The
words floated over Jasmine as if they’d been written in the air, each letter
flying past her without triggering a response. Her nervous system seemed to be
shutting down. Overload. Rejection of current input. Refusal to cope.
“Don’t
move,” Sheridan barked and put the bracelet back in the box on her lap.
“I’ll get you something to drink.”
Jasmine
couldn’t have moved even if she wanted to. Her rubbery legs refused to support
her weight, or she would’ve walked out of the mall. People were beginning
to stare.
“What’s wrong?” someone
murmured, pausing near the Mexican man who was still watching her curiously.
“I don’t know, but she no look good, eh?”
he repeated.
A teen-age boy ventured closer. “Are
you okay, lady?”
“Maybe someone should
call the paramedics,” a woman said.
Wave them
away. But Jasmine’s thoughts were so focused on what was in her lap,
she couldn’t move. She’d made that bracelet for her little sister.
She remembered Kimberly’s delight when she unwrapped it on her eighth birthday,
her last birthday before the tall man with the beard entered their house in Cleveland
one sunny afternoon and took her away.
Jasmine’s
mind veered away from the memories. Until she was twelve, she’d led such
a safe and happy life she’d never dreamed she would encounter a threat in
her own home. Strangers were those people outside on the street. This man had
acted like one of her father’s workers, the faces of which changed so often
she never grew familiar with them all. They were always coming to the house to
pick up equipment for his satellite TV business, to get a check, to drop off some
paperwork. Occasionally he hired vagrants to organize his warehouse or build a
fence or even clean up the yard. Regardless, she’d believed their visitor
was a nice guy.
Heaven help her, she’d believed
he was nice. And she’d let it happen....
“You
want I should call for help?” the Mexican man ventured.
Jasmine
had to cover her mouth so the screams inside her did not escape. Breathe deep.
Get a hold of yourself. After nearly destroying each other with their bitterness
and grief, her parents had given up hope. But she’d kept a candle burning
deep inside. And now this...
Sheridan returned and
nudged her way through the four or five people who were watching to see if Jasmine
would rally. “I’ve got her. Everything’s fine,” she told
them, and they began to drift off, but not without a backward glance. “Drink
this,” she said.
The freshly squeezed lemonade
tasted reassuringly normal.
A man seated next to them
stood and offered Sheridan his chair. She thanked him and perched on the edge
of it.
After a few minutes, Jasmine’s breathing
and heart rate slowed. Still, she was damp with sweat and when she tried to talk
tears slipped down her cheeks.
“It’s okay.”
Putting an arm around her, Sheridan squeezed her shoulders. “Take all the
time you need.”
Jasmine appreciated her friend’s
empathy, but now that the shock was wearing off she had so many questions. Who
had sent the bracelet? Why had they sent it after so long? What’d happened
to her sister? And, the biggest question of all—was there any chance
that Kimberly could still be alive?
“I’m
so sorry I brought that package with me, that you had to deal with this in a public
setting.” Sheridan’s expression revealed her chagrin. “When
I saw it sitting on the reception desk with the rest of the mail, I thought it
might be something you’ve been waiting for. I knew you weren’t planning
on coming to the office today so I was...” she shrugged helplessly “...trying
to be helpful.”
Jasmine wiped her tears. “It’s
okay. Of course you’d never expect something like this.”
“Who
sent it?”
“I don’t know.” She
studied the box. There was no return address. There wasn’t even a note,
just some crumpled packaging material--
Jasmine’s
pulse spiked. Wait a minute... There was something written on one of
the papers that’d been wadded up.
Being careful
not to tear the note or put her fingerprints all over it, she flattened it out--and
saw two words printed in what appeared to be blood: “Stop me.”
