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  Randy’s calm was wavering. He was used to getting calls about his wild daughter’s erratic behavior; it was something he had almost come to expect, much like high taxes or criticism from the press. But what Bill was alluding to was impossible. Coral and Karen had been assigned twenty-four hour security ever since Kristopher’s death. How could she have shaken her guards?

  Randy swallowed, tasting metal in the back of his throat.

  Where are my Rolaids?

  He jerked open the top left desk drawer, revealing his private pharmacy. Pulling too hard, the drawer flew out of its slot and clattered to the ground, scattering orange canisters, pill packs, and bottles filled with colorful elixirs around his feet. Before he could set things right, Bill clicked back over.

  “Ran, you still there?” he asked.

  “I’m right here, Bill. So what’s this Jessica business again?” He scanned the floor frantically and finally located the acid reducers buried beneath a pill pack of antibiotics. As he popped one, his heart-rate reducing beta-blockers called up to him, so he swallowed two of them as well.

  “One of my guys just found a wrecked motor bike out on Freeman Road by Barton Coliseum. Somebody tried to hide it in the weeds off the side of the road, but they must have been in a rush because it wasn’t hidden so good. He ran the plates and guess whose bike it is?”

  “Jessica’s, right?” Randy’s palms had turned to blocks of ice, a telltale sign he was about to experience a panic attack. He regulated his breathing, sucking in air for a count of four and pushing it out for a count of eight until he felt his heart-rate begin to slow.

  “My guy found two pairs of skid marks not far off,” Bill continued, “one most likely made by the bike, and another from a much larger vehicle—one with four-wheel drive. There was a bloody trail leading from where the bike was ditched to the start of the skid marks. It looks like whoever was bleeding was dragged to the vehicle from the ditch.”

  “Thanks for the details, Bill, but Karen doesn’t ride motorcycles,” Randy replied, squelching the evil vision of his daughter crushed beneath a Harley.

  “Ran, Jessica admitted to loaning her bike to Karen. Said it was a birthday gift. Do you get where I’m going with this? It looks like somebody knocked Karen off the motorcycle and into the ditch on purpose and then dragged her into the back of some sort of truck or S.U.V.”

  Clarity broke through Randy’s natural coping mechanisms of denial and rationalization. His eyes narrowed as he mentally recited his personal mantra: confront the brutal facts, focus on what you can control, be proactive. He sucked in as much oxygen as his lungs could handle. “Okay,” he said, after exhaling. “So you think someone took my Karen. But that can’t be right, because if she was…kidnapped, there would be a ransom note, right? Where’s the note, Bill?”

  “That’s what that call was about,” Bill replied. “My guy found it in the bike’s glove compartment. It’s being delivered as we speak.”

  “Did he read it?”

  Bill’s hesitation told Randy all he needed to know.

  “Who else knows about this?” Randy asked, praying that Bill had contained this thing.

  “Come on, Ran. Let me do my job. If I don’t follow procedure, the Feds will be living in my colon.”

  “So you turned it over to the FBI?”

  “Not yet,” Bill replied, sighing. “Only Officer Abshire, myself, and the Racquet Club manager know anything.”

  “And we’re going to keep it that way, right?”

  “Haven’t I always been there for you? But please don’t ask me to risk my job. These first few hours are crucial; especially first contact, and frankly I could use the extra resources the Feds bring to the table.”

  “Don’t ask you to risk your job?” Randy repeated, seeing white spots before his eyes. “I believe smashing in your cheating wife’s head with a brick did a pretty good job of that. You wouldn’t have a job to lose if I hadn’t gotten you off, remember that.”

  “That’s not fair, Ran…”

  “It’s not about fairness,” Randy replied. “One hand washes the other. Always has, always will.”

  He could almost hear Bill’s brain working trying to come up with a suitable response. “But…but going public could help flush the kidnappers out—”

  Randy cut him off. “Save it. There’s more to this than you know. Meet me at the house in an hour and I’ll fill you in. In the meantime, I need you to keep things quiet for me. I can trust you to do that, right?

  “Of…of course. I—”

  “Good.” Randy hung up. He suppressed his urge to drown four Xanax in alcohol. He needed a clear mind to think. Panic was paralysis. Not an option. He closed his eyes; his mind flooded with scenario after scenario.

  Where are you, Karen?

  An angry tear snaked down Randy’s clenched face as he managed to slide the drug drawer into its slot.

  “Everything alright in here, sir?”

  Randy sat up quickly and saw his secretary standing in the doorway. “Yes, yes. Everything’s fine.” He turned and wiped away the moisture on his face. “I need you to cancel the rest of my appointments today. I have to get back home. Please call the chopper for me.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  * * * * *

  Later, as he entered the helicopter cabin, Randy couldn’t get the image of that old newspaper headline out of his head. The Ultimate Survivor. He closed his eyes and saw his son’s lifeless blue irises staring back at him. The bloody handprints on his cheeks. Randy shut his eyes as tightly as he could until a single ominous thought remained.

  Maybe I really am cursed.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Two

  Friday

  Lake City, LA

  Randy struggled to compose himself prior to arriving at the Lafitte plantation—his weekend refuge from the Governor’s mansion in Baton Rouge. His ancestor, Luc Lafitte, built the formidable waterfront estate in the early 1800’s. After World War II, his father reclaimed the family’s land and rebuilt the plantation. Upon inheriting the land, Randy erected what he thought of as his “American Chateau.” The only trace of what stood before was the weathered live oak tree just off the driveway that Randy believed would outlive them all.

  Randy stared at the tree, oddly named Melinda Weeps, still mulling over the best way to explain Karen’s disappearance to Coral. He decided to cross that chasm when he came to it.

  Bill pulled into the circular driveway in an unmarked car.

  Randy felt a migraine brewing. He greeted Bill and invited him inside. He sounded calm enough, even though the compulsion to rip Bill’s gun from his belt, shoot him, and then himself nearly overtook him. Instead, Randy opened the sealed envelope Bill handed him, unfolded the paper inside and read:

  THE ONLY WAY THREE PEOPLE CAN KEEP A SECRET IS IF TWO OF THEM ARE DEAD BUT SOME SECRETS ARE JUST TOO BIG TO BE CONTAINED IF YOU WANT TO KEEP YOURS SAFE GO TO THE PAY PHONE ON AUGUST STREET BEHIND THE 7 ELEVEN AT EXACTLY 11 PM TONIGHT DO NOT BE LATE OR WE WILL KILL HER

  Randy looked up from the note and studied Bill as if he was a newly discovered species. “Did you or anyone else read this?”

  Bill met his gaze. “No. I took it from Officer Abshire and brought it straight here. What does it say?”

  Randy lowered his eyes. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  “That’s not gonna work this time, Ran. It’s my duty to know.”

  “Then arrest me for obstruction.”

  Bill stared at him incredulously and then looked away. After a moment he looked back. “I know a couple of good guys in the bureau who owe me favors. They know how to be discrete. Just say the word.”

  “Not a chance. Don’t you remember how badly they fucked up with Kristopher? I’ve got my own guys on this one.”

  “The same guys who can’t keep tabs on a teenage girl? I know this is a hard time for you, but you can’t trust Karen’s life to a bunch of hired guns.”

  “Bill,” Randy replied, placing
a firm hand on his shoulder. “If you want to help me out, make sure Officer Abshire forgets what he knows.”

  Bill opened his mouth but then nodded his head. “Okay, Ran. I want you to know I am making it my personal mission to find Karen. I won’t sleep.”

  “Thanks. Let me know how things go back at the ranch—”

  “Hey, honey, I didn’t know you were home. Hi, Bill.”

  Randy and Bill turned to see Coral descending the grand spiral staircase behind them. Randy glanced over at Bill knowing they were both wondering the same thing—how long had she been listening to their conversation?

  She reached the landing and Randy took in her form-fitting (but appropriate for company, thank the Lord) blue, floor-length house dress. At least she had done her hair and makeup, a sign she was having one of her “good” days.

  “Hi, hon,” Randy said, leaning down to give her a peck on the lips.

  The fact that she was dressed gave another positive signal. At least three days a week, Coral would wake, decide getting up was too painful, and stay in bed the whole day. She’d been battling bipolar disorder since her first pregnancy ended in miscarriage, nearly three years before Kristopher had even been a thought.

  But even when she was at her worst, Randy refused to see Coral as a damsel in distress. She would always be the beautiful, vibrant angel he met years ago at the Consolata Cemetery in Lake City where his mother lay at rest. He always considered it providence that Coral’s grandmother’s gravesite lay just a few feet away from the Lafitte family plot.

  Two years after his father’s death, Randy came to a crossroads in his life and went to the burial ground to confer with his mother. As he stared at Rita Lafitte’s tombstone, he collapsed to his knees as shame and confusion overtook him. After a moment he looked up to find Coral standing beside him, sympathy and caring pouring out of her stunning blue-gray eyes like a beacon of hope. Everything fell into place.

  Through Coral’s influence, Randy found his purpose. Distraught over his parent’s deaths, he threw himself into public service. Coral was the perfect wife for a politician-on-the-rise—graceful, classy, with just the right amount of sweet, southern charm. They were poised to conquer the world. But Kristopher’s murder put his angel on an emotional rollercoaster where the valleys vastly outnumbered the peaks. Randy didn’t dare think of what Coral might do if she found out someone had kidnapped Karen.

  Coral regarded Bill with dismay. “What brings you to our neck of the woods, Bill? You haven’t come by, well, since before Paula…I’m sorry, where are my manners? Can I get ya’ll something to drink? Emmanuel can whip up some lemonade in a jif.”

  Bill gave Randy a quick look. “Thanks for the offer, Coral, that does sound delightful, but I’ve got to get back to the station. Ran, catch up with you later?”

  “Right. Thanks, Bill. Keep me posted all right?”

  As soon as Bill was outside, Coral punched Randy in the shoulder.

  “Oww, hon.”

  “I thought I told you not to bring him into my house. What will the neighbors think?”

  “He was acquitted, remember?”

  “Thanks to your lawyer buddies. I never understood why you helped him get off. And don’t give me that one hand washes the other crap.”

  Randy offered his softest look. “I just did what any friend would do, hon. You understand that right? Loyalty outweighs honesty.”

  “Well not in my book. If you ever did anything that terrible, I would hope you would tell me the truth.” Coral frowned, putting a hand to her head. “See, now I’m getting a headache. I need to lie down before Karen gets home. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve planned a little surprise get-together for her.”

  “You did what?”

  “Well, eighteen is a big deal. My sisters and I are going to take her out to celebrate her womanhood!”

  Randy’s mind churned as he led Coral upstairs to their bedroom and tucked her into their California king bed. He had to come up with an excuse for Karen’s absence. After feeding her one of the more potent tranquilizers, he waited for the effects to manifest. “I have to tell you something, hon,” he said. “But you have to promise not to get too upset.”

  “I will promise no such thing Randall Albert Lafitte,” she whispered, already half asleep.

  Normally Coral’s use of his biblical name would have brought a smile, but he could manage little more than a thin grimace. “I sent Karen and a few of her friends to Cancun for the weekend. They should be touching down soon.”

  “Cancun?” Coral asked, eyes bursting open. “Randy, how could you?”

  “I’m so sorry, hon. It was just…Christy, you know Bill’s daughter, let it slip that they were planning to run away this weekend…”

  Coral’s face wrinkled in bewilderment. “Are you telling me that my husband, the most fiercely overprotective man I’ve ever known, just sent my daughter to Mexico unsupervised?”

  Randy forced a smile and replied, “That’s right, hon, this old dog learned a new trick this week. She was gonna go anyway. At least this way she goes with our blessing, clear expectations, and a small security detail…”

  Coral closed her eyes again. After a moment she said, “Well you could have consulted me first. She’s my daughter too, you know.”

  “I know, hon, there wasn’t much lead time on this one.”

  “Don’t let it happen again,” she said, her voice fading. Then, “You did good, hon. I’m proud of you…”

  Randy’s resolve hardened as he looked into his wife’s peaceful countenance. He waited until her eyelids twitched before retreating to his father’s study. Sitting at the desk, gazing aimlessly at his father’s enormous collection of rare books, Randy read the kidnapper’s note until he memorized it. He had a feeling the author was bluffing.

  Everyone had secrets, and obviously public figures had more to lose by exposing a clandestine fact than most. The genius of the term “secret” was that the kidnappers were betting on the fact that the recipient, in this case him, would automatically assume his most confidential revelation. Still, the reference to death bothered him and the last line, WE WILL KILL HER, could not have been any clearer.

  Randy glanced at his watch. Three hours had passed since Bill’s call. That left four to prepare for first contact with the kidnappers. This was getting him nowhere. He had to use his time wisely.

  There was only one man Randy trusted to get his daughter back—Snake Roberts—a tracker, bounty hunter, mercenary, and Randy’s strong right hand. Snake’s loyalty to Randy was inscribed in granite.

  He grabbed the phone and dialed from memory. Voicemail picked up immediately.

  “Snake, it’s me. There’s an urgent situation that needs your expert attention. Potential for big money. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Three

  Friday

  Just outside Lake City

  “Where are you holed up these days, Snake?” Randy Lafitte asked in his typical “I’m the boss of you” voice.

  Snake Roberts stared at the traffic trickling past him as he sat on the roadside shoulder. “Yuh know me, Boss. If I can think, that means I need a drink.” He took a generous gulp of Snapple fruit juice and forced a belch. “Now, what’s this yuh say about a hefty payout? What’s the job?”

  Snake sensed Randy’s hesitation, which was unexpected because Randy never hesitated when it came to his needs. It had always been that way. Even fifteen years back in that piece of shit bar in Cameron, where they’d met.

  * * * * *

  Snake had been sitting at his usual table in the quietest corner of the room, farthest from the door. A shot of Jamesons, one pint of Guinness, and one snifter of Bailey’s Irish cream sat on the table before him, beside a weathered copy of Joyce’s Finnegans Wake—what he thought of as his Irish quadruple mind fuck. The door opened, allowing enough sunlight inside to obliterate the bar’s number one feature besides the cheap liquor—ambient dimness. Snake was no
t a fan of daylight; it gave him headaches and irritated his freckled white skin.

  The bastard in the doorway clearly held sunlight in high regard; he had the nerve to keep the door open longer than necessary as he tried to penetrate the dim.

  “Who you looking for, boy?” the barmaid, Gertrude, asked the intruder. “Think you might be in the wrong place…”

  Snake doubted this because you had to go way out of your way down a less trodden tributary off the beaten path to find this hellhole. The visitor’s eyes scanned the room as he ignored Gertrude’s welcome, eventually coming to rest on Snake and his Irish posse. Blessedly, the man closed the door, then strode across the room to Snake’s corner.

  It took Snake’s eyes a moment to adjust, but he finally got a look at the fellow when he sat down—directly across from him. Gertrude’s description was on the money as usual. He had the height, build, and manner of a disciplined man, but at the same time he wore the face of a boy, and a privileged boy at that. But the eyes…the eyes were those of a man who’d seen a particular brand of darkness.

  Those eyes reminded Snake of his fellow Vietnam vets—men whose innocence was scrubbed away so thoroughly that only the sinewy layer of skin between air and taut muscle remained. But Snake knew that was the toughest layer the same way he knew the man before him had never seen a real war. He was too cloaked in indignant self-righteousness for that.

  “You’re a hard man to track down, Mr. Roberts.” The man-boy’s voice was a brilliant instrument, relaying all the right pitches of assertiveness, pleasantry, humor, and grit.