really you?"
"Yes."
"Where did you — I haven't seen you in so long. And now you come back like this, scaring the life out of me..." She swallowed and pushed at her black hair with the back of her hand. "You're with the FBI, aren't you?"
"Not exactly."
"But you're a cop, aren't you? Your grandfather said..."
"Not exactly a cop."
"Let me up, Sam.
He stood up in the dim hallway. Light came through the shuttered door to the rear gallery, making bright yellow bars on the faded rose-colored carpet. Dust motes danced in the swirl of air currents when he moved. The girl stared up at him with slowly widening eyes.
She was lovely. She had the wild beauty of the dark bayous in her, with the raven night caught in her disheveled black hair. The depth of deep bayou pools was in her eyes. Her mouth was wide, her lower lip full and sensuous, trembling until she caught it between even white teeth. The buttons of her chambray shirt had broken loose and he saw the smooth curves of her unsupported breasts. He remembered her vividly as a girl, meeting him behind her father's store in Bayou Peche Rouge. How long ago since he had last seen her? Ten, twelve years? He remembered the awkward, exploratory nights they had shared. Their first experience, the first for either of them. He had never forgotten her. She had grown into a rich, dark beauty, like the wild orchids that bloomed in the green fastness of the delta swamps.
"Are you remembering, Sam?" she whispered.
"This isn't the time to remember anything," he said. "Where is Pierre?"
She rose gracefully to her feet. She was tall for a woman. "What brought you here just now, Sam?"
"I'm looking for Labouisse," Durell said flatly. "I came down from Washington to try to keep something from happening to him."
"You came too late. It's already happened."
"Did you search this place, Angelina?"
No.
"Did you see who did it?"
"No."
"What were they looking for? Did Pete tell you?"
"I don't know. He can't talk. He..." She shook her head. In the gloom of the hallway, her face reflected deep terror. "I came back to get some things for him. To try to help him. And then I heard you come in. My heart almost stopped. It's still beating — so crazy — Sam, don't look at me like that. Please. Not now."
"Where is Pete?" he asked again.
"Ill take you to him," she said softly. "I know I can trust you. Some men caught him and did terrible things to him. He got away from them, though, and came through the swamps in a pirogue. I found him down in Petit Gauche Channel. Remember it?"
"I remember. Is he still there?"
"Come," she said. "I was just picking up some bandages. But I think I'm too late, anyway. I think he'll be dead when we get there."
Chapter Five
Durell walked to the gallery door and looked out. The lane and the board fence and the swamps beyond were drowned in silent sunshine. He looked beyond the scrub pines that merged into the oak and cypress a little farther out. Nothing moved that he could see. But he did not expose himself to anyone who might be out there. He turned back as Angelina came toward him. Her hands were empty.
"Where are the first-aid supplies you came to get?"
"You didn't give me a chance to pick them up." Her hand was spread on her breast. "You frightened me so, Sam..."
"Get the stuff well need," he said briefly. "And stay away from this door. Don't go out until I join you." He saw her dark eyes go wide again. She understood their danger. "Which is Pete's bedroom?"
She pointed down the hall. "That one, I think."
"Don't you know?"
She smiled. "Yes, it's that one, Sam."
He left her and went into the bedroom. It had been ransacked like the rest of the house, but much more thoroughly than the shop and the darkroom below. Durell paused in the middle of the room. The air smelled dead behind the closed shutters. In the faint light that seeped through the slats, he saw that the bed had been torn apart, the mattress slewed to the floor, and every drawer in the huge
"Yes."
"Where did you — I haven't seen you in so long. And now you come back like this, scaring the life out of me..." She swallowed and pushed at her black hair with the back of her hand. "You're with the FBI, aren't you?"
"Not exactly."
"But you're a cop, aren't you? Your grandfather said..."
"Not exactly a cop."
"Let me up, Sam.
He stood up in the dim hallway. Light came through the shuttered door to the rear gallery, making bright yellow bars on the faded rose-colored carpet. Dust motes danced in the swirl of air currents when he moved. The girl stared up at him with slowly widening eyes.
She was lovely. She had the wild beauty of the dark bayous in her, with the raven night caught in her disheveled black hair. The depth of deep bayou pools was in her eyes. Her mouth was wide, her lower lip full and sensuous, trembling until she caught it between even white teeth. The buttons of her chambray shirt had broken loose and he saw the smooth curves of her unsupported breasts. He remembered her vividly as a girl, meeting him behind her father's store in Bayou Peche Rouge. How long ago since he had last seen her? Ten, twelve years? He remembered the awkward, exploratory nights they had shared. Their first experience, the first for either of them. He had never forgotten her. She had grown into a rich, dark beauty, like the wild orchids that bloomed in the green fastness of the delta swamps.
"Are you remembering, Sam?" she whispered.
"This isn't the time to remember anything," he said. "Where is Pierre?"
She rose gracefully to her feet. She was tall for a woman. "What brought you here just now, Sam?"
"I'm looking for Labouisse," Durell said flatly. "I came down from Washington to try to keep something from happening to him."
"You came too late. It's already happened."
"Did you search this place, Angelina?"
No.
"Did you see who did it?"
"No."
"What were they looking for? Did Pete tell you?"
"I don't know. He can't talk. He..." She shook her head. In the gloom of the hallway, her face reflected deep terror. "I came back to get some things for him. To try to help him. And then I heard you come in. My heart almost stopped. It's still beating — so crazy — Sam, don't look at me like that. Please. Not now."
"Where is Pete?" he asked again.
"Ill take you to him," she said softly. "I know I can trust you. Some men caught him and did terrible things to him. He got away from them, though, and came through the swamps in a pirogue. I found him down in Petit Gauche Channel. Remember it?"
"I remember. Is he still there?"
"Come," she said. "I was just picking up some bandages. But I think I'm too late, anyway. I think he'll be dead when we get there."
Chapter Five
Durell walked to the gallery door and looked out. The lane and the board fence and the swamps beyond were drowned in silent sunshine. He looked beyond the scrub pines that merged into the oak and cypress a little farther out. Nothing moved that he could see. But he did not expose himself to anyone who might be out there. He turned back as Angelina came toward him. Her hands were empty.
"Where are the first-aid supplies you came to get?"
"You didn't give me a chance to pick them up." Her hand was spread on her breast. "You frightened me so, Sam..."
"Get the stuff well need," he said briefly. "And stay away from this door. Don't go out until I join you." He saw her dark eyes go wide again. She understood their danger. "Which is Pete's bedroom?"
She pointed down the hall. "That one, I think."
"Don't you know?"
She smiled. "Yes, it's that one, Sam."
He left her and went into the bedroom. It had been ransacked like the rest of the house, but much more thoroughly than the shop and the darkroom below. Durell paused in the middle of the room. The air smelled dead behind the closed shutters. In the faint light that seeped through the slats, he saw that the bed had been torn apart, the mattress slewed to the floor, and every drawer in the huge
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