“A facilitator?” Charbou asked.
“An individual or even an organization,” she replied, keenly searching Dupree’s face, “dedicated to identifying victims to feed to psychopaths, pedophiles, or collectors who are willing to pay enormous sums for them. They choose victims who are seriously at risk, for example, very young girls or runaways. And now Médora Lirette has reappeared, and she just told us where Samedi is.”
“That’s exactly why you have to get me out of this place,” Dupree said in a strangled voice.
“To go where?” Johnson protested. “I know they’ve told you how serious your condition is and how dangerous it is to turn down medical supervision.”
“They also told me they have no way to treat it. All they could suggest was that I lie here like a log. You have to get me out of here.”
Johnson, intent and anxious, covered one of Dupree’s hands with both of his own. “And where would we go? For the love of God, Dupree! Things out there have gone to hell since yesterday! The water kept rising throughout the night, and now eighty percent of the city is underwater. The hospitals have run out of medicine. National Guard units from surrounding states have been dispatched, and there’s still not enough personnel to deal with this. People are looting supermarkets. There’s total anarchy out there. You’re asking me to move you, but where could we go?”
Dupree beckoned him close. “If I stay here, I’ll die. I need a traiteur. You have to take me to the swamp.”
Johnson straightened up. He turned to the others. “What the hell is he talking about?”
Bull explained. “A traiteur is a Cajun medicine man.”
Thunderstruck, Johnson turned back to Dupree and sputtered. “I swear by all that’s holy—”
“Let’s go,” Dupree whispered hoarsely. “And let’s take Médora with us.” Before Johnson could react, he added, “They can’t cure her here.”
Amaia gave Dupree a grim look. “We’re going after him, aren’t we?”
He said nothing.
“That’s why you want to take Médora. You think she knows where the girls are. And you’re expecting her to lead us there.”
Dupree took a deep breath and spoke with great effort. “Ten years ago, we had something that was maybe a lead,” he said, his eyes on Amaia. “It led us to a shanty town out in the swamp where we found evidence, a little brooch Médora’s mother identified as hers. Solid proof. And that clue took us to an enormous estate, a former plantation abandoned years before. When we got there, we found a fence around it, electrified and equipped with security cameras. We couldn’t get a search warrant the same day, because that was the day Jerome Lirette disappeared and Agent Carlino turned up . . .” He looked away, unable to complete the sentence.
Bull continued the account. “I’ve kept an eye on the place ever since, and we know the estate belongs to a Dutch corporation. In the property records, it’s been retitled as Janssen Huis, but originally it was known as Le Grand Bayou Plantation. The Cajuns always simply called it Le Grand.”
“That’s what Médora said,” Charbou confirmed, almost against his own will, “when you asked her about Samedi.”
“Do you really believe there’s any possibility at all they’re still keeping abducted girls out there ten years later?” Amaia asked.
Bull responded, “Why not? We never got a search warrant. And we never mentioned the place in any of our reports. No one’s aware we even know about it.”
Charbou looked Dupree directly in the eyes. “Bull and I would be outside our jurisdiction.”
“Kidnapping is a federal offense. You two would be on my team purely as guides, that’s all.”
“Listen,” Bill Charbou said. “We’ll take you to your traiteur, and we’ll take a look at the house. And if we find nothing, we’ll come back to NOLA with leeches up our butts.”
Bull was impressed. “I didn’t think he’d be able to convince you.”
“Yeah, well, I get excited at the idea of sticking my nose outside my own jurisdiction.”
All eyes turned to Amaia.
Dupree spoke. “Salazar, what do you say?”
“What about the Composer? We’ve made a lot of progress here. I believe we correctly refined the profile regarding the ages of the children. Nelson still doesn’t fit it exactly. We talked with his partner on the rescue team, who admitted he covered for him. But he also described disorderly, impulsive, and confused behavior that’s completely inconsistent with the actions of Martin Lenx and the Composer. The hypothesis that he’s an adjustor sent to disaster scenes is starting to look like our best bet. I talked to a senior manager at the American Insurance Association, and in just a few hours, I’ll have a list of names we can work with.”
“In a few hours?”
“Yes, probably by noon tomorrow. It all depends on my finding a telephone line.”
“Give me those hours,” Dupree said. “Please.”
“What?”
“You’re right. I brought you along to track down the Composer. Samedi simply turned up along the way, but now that we’re aware of a crime and have the means to pursue the perpetrators, we can’t let it drop. I won’t abandon you here, and I won’t force you to come if you don’t want to. But I’m begging you to give me those hours. Give me until tomorrow.”
“I have a lot of unanswered questions,” she warned him.
“I’ll answer them all.”
“And I’ll ask them all,” she said in a steely voice. “Even the most complicated ones. I want the whole truth; if I think for a moment that you’re hiding something from me, you can count me out.”
“Agreed.”
“And we come back to NOLA for the Composer as soon as possible.”
Johnson interrupted them. “Bad news!” He was aghast. He held up his BlackBerry to show them the email he’d just received.
Dupree and Amaia looked at him.
“Tucker arrested Nelson in Tampa. They staked out his wife’s house and even had SWAT team members stationed inside. Nelson came back from his trip, parked in front of the house and sat in his car for an hour, evidently trying to work up his courage. Then he jumped out of the car, raced around the side of the house carrying his service weapon, kicked in the back door, and went in shooting. He took down the SWAT member in the living room but got a bullet in the chest in return. Nelson’s unconscious in the ICU and in critical condition.”
Amaia gave Dupree a disgusted look. “Tucker doesn’t know a fucking thing, does she?”
50
ANNE-FRANCE
Elizondo
Inspector Anne-France Renaud glanced at her partner and was tempted to slap him out of his seat in their official vehicle. Ludovic was well intentioned, young, cute, and a computer whiz; in fact, they were here because of him or, to be more precise, because of his computer skills. He was one of those odd types who shine at college but remain practically infantile in many other aspects of their lives. He’d just gotten his driver’s license, and now he was always begging to drive the way a Labrador puppy whines to be taken out for a walk. Inspector Renaud, in her late fifties, was impressed by his computer abilities and oddly satisfied to be driven around all day by her brainy young assistant. She bragged discreetly about him to her colleagues, even though he often got on her nerves. She’d driven from Biarritz almost to the border, but when they reached the quiet roads of the French Basque Country, she’d slowed down, enchanted by the beauty of the countryside. It lulled her into stopping and turning the driving duties over to him. Their progress since then had been slow but agreeable, but for the last five minutes here in Elizondo, he’d been trying to parallel park on the street that ran along the River Baztán. She’d tried to focus on the charm of the little town as the rising spring mists dissipated in the midmorning sun, but she erupted in a sharp huff of annoyance the second time she felt the rear bumper hit something.