Chapter Twenty-four
I left my card with Mrs. Fitzhugh in case the police wanted to talk to me. I was certain they would. Right now, I was too disturbed to wait around for them to show up. I had a feeling most of New Orleans’ finest were still out searching for Sullivan. Maggie would be another missing person in an increasingly long line of them. They might not rush right over.
Besides, I had a theory about her disappearance and a burning desire to check it out ASAP.
So I went to Rising Moon, retrieved the file Sullivan had given me on the murders and disappearances, then returned to the Internet cafe.
“Find her?” the kid behind the counter asked.
“No.”
“Shit,” he muttered. “I’ll have to open again tomorrow.”
I took the chai tea I’d ordered—my stomach was not up to coffee—and my computer card to the carrel that housed my favorite rental. I typed in the Web site address for the lunar calendar I’d used once before.
I entered the dates that did not match up with a full moon, including the last night anyone, including me, had seen Maggie. The information tumbled onto the screen.
“I hate it when I’m right,” I muttered. The maj ority of the disappearances and deaths over the past six months had taken place under a crescent moon.
To be fair, that particular phase occurred twice a month and lasted several days. When it began and when it ended was fuzzy, unlike the single night of a truly full moon.
In addition, no one could be certain when some of the victims had last been seen or what day they’d been killed. Nevertheless, the coincidence was too strong to be ignored.
Too bad I couldn’t tell anyone about it.
Maggie was gone, Sullivan too. I didn’t think it wise to mention to Mueller that there might be a loup- garou loose in New Orleans.
I’d do best to keep my insane theories to myself. But I was starting to get disturbed by my diminishing roster of friends. Were they being killed because of me?
Nah.
Then again, someone had lured me here with a doctored picture of Katie.
Concern for Rodolfo flooded me. I was closer to him than I’d been to anyone else—at least physically.
What if someone were stalking him even now?
I tapped at the computer and after a few cross-references found his address. The Internet was a private investigator’s wet dream—and if most people knew how easy it was to be found with a few simple strokes of the keys, it would be their worst nightmare.
I tossed my empty cup into the trash, returned the computer card, and left my number with braid-boy, just in case Maggie showed up. I only hoped she didn’t show up with a tail and fangs.
I took a cab to Rodolfo’s. His apartment was typical of those in the area—business on the first floor, wrought-iron balcony with French doors on the second-floor apartment level. Some apartments had new windows, new paint around them, baskets of flowers cascading over the railings, droplets of water shivering on the blooms, then falling slowly to the ground.
Rodolfo’s didn’t. His windows were old, one was cracked, the paint was gray and peeling. There wasn’t a flower to be had. Did the lack of home improvement mean he didn’t plan to stay? Or that he just didn’t care to waste time or money on something he couldn’t even see?
I rang the bell. It took him so long to answer, I was tempted to break the small window in the door and let myself in, but I was terrified I’d find another empty house—all of his things right where he’d left them but no John.
So when he opened the door, sunglasses in place even though his shirt was unbuttoned to his waist, his feet bare and his beard more overgrown than I’d ever seen it, I murmured, “Thank God.”
He winced, as if the sunlight were too bright, then shrank into the shadows. “God doesn’t come here anymore, chica.”
Turning sharply, he headed up the stairs, leaving the door open, which I took as an invitation and stepped inside.
“That’s a strange thing to say.” I hurried after, nearly slamming into him when I reached the landing and walked into the biggest, emptiest living room I’d ever seen.
“Why?” he asked.
I wasn’t much of a philosopher, but I still believed, as I always had, that God showed up now and again
—usually when we weren’t expecting him.
Which might be why I still hadn’t felt his hand in my search for Katie. I expected God to help me. Why wouldn’t he?
“You have to believe,” I blurted. “In God.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe.”
“You do?”
“Of course.”
Now it was my turn to ask, “Why?”
His lips curved. “First you insist I believe, then you ask why I do? What brought this on? Or maybe I should ask, what brought you here?”
I was uncertain what to say. I was all alone in this city. Did I trust Rodolfo enough to tell him what I knew? Or at least what I suspected?
“Are you a werewolf?” I blurted.
His dark eyebrows shot up from behind his sunglasses. I expected him to laugh, or at least be insulted.
Instead he answered me with complete seriousness. “No, chica, I am not.”
I wished I could see his eyes, gauge his sincerity, but all I had was his word. I decided to take it.
“I saw a man turn into a wolf last night.”
“Your friend Sullivan?”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve lived here all of my life. I know people.” He gave a Gallic shrug. “They tell me things. Sullivan was attacked by an animal. He seemingly died and rose again. His behavior at the hospital was rabid to say the least. I can put two and two together.”
“You believe me,” I said in wonder. I hadn’t realized until that moment I’d been afraid he wouldn’t, afraid he’d laugh, or worse, call the people with the big butterfly nets. Then again, I was talking about a man who frequently held conversations with himself in the dark.
“You asked why I believe in God,” Rodolfo murmured. “I’ve seen great evil.” His mouth twisted into a wry grimace. “Or at least I saw it once, and if there can be such evil, such utter lack of God, there must be God, no?”
He had a point.
“You aren’t bitter because of—” I broke off, uncertain how to proceed.
“This?” He pointed to his eyes. “No.” He smiled sadly. “Well, maybe a little. But I have no one to blame for God’s wrath but myself.”
“You believe you’re blind because of God’s wrath?” Seemed a little Old Testament to me.
“I believe God has every right to hate me, and that whatever punishment I receive is much less than what I deserve.”
“John,” I began, but he held up his hand to stop me.
“There are things I’ve done, Anne, for which there is no forgiveness.”
Sunlight rained through a skylight and splashed bright light across his wrist, highlighting the thin, white line that marred his skin.
I crossed the short distance between us, took his hand and pressed my lips to the scar. He j erked, but I wouldn’t let him go.
“Is that what this was about?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Can’t you tell me what happened?”
“No.” He yanked his hand away and slid out of reach.
“Promise me you won’t try to hurt yourself again.”
“You don’t have to worry. I can’t seem to kill myself no matter how hard I try.”
That wasn’t a promise, but I suspected it was the best I was going to get.
“Besides.” He turned his face upward, bathing in the light. “I have something to do first.”
His words reminded me of my vow to find Katie. I wasn’t doing a very good j ob. I’d been distracted by all that was going on around me. I couldn’t blame myself too much. Things—I let my gaze wander over the long, broad line of Rodolfo’s back—and people had been mighty distracting.
“Why did you come here today?” he repeated.
“I was worried.” Quickly I told him about Maggie.
“You don’t have to be concerned,” he said. “I’ll be around a long, long time.”
He didn’t sound happy about it.
I couldn’t help myself. I went and wrapped my arms around his waist and laid my head on his shoulder.
“You say God is punishing you.”
“Someone is,” he muttered.
“But God forgives, John. That’s what he does.”
“Not me.”
“Why are you special?”
“I’m not.” His muscles tensed, rippling beneath my cheek and hands. “I’m less than special. I’m—”
When he didn’t finish, I prompted, “You’re what?”
“Tired.”
Despair radiated off him like a fever; his shoulders slumped. I knew only one way to make him forget, at least for a little while, all that haunted him.
Reaching around, I slipped the last two buttons from their holes and his shirt fluttered to the floor. I traced a thumb along the ridges of his abdomen, swirled a finger around his belly button, then traced my nails just beneath the waistband of his loose, cotton pants.
“Anne,” he protested, and grasped my wrist.
I scraped my teeth across his shoulder, and he shuddered. I took encouragement from the fact that he wasn’t pulling away. He could if he wanted to. I wasn’t strong enough to hold him.
His skin smelled exquisite, like velvet midnight, summer wind, and man. He tasted even better when I opened my mouth and suckled the curve of his neck.
The grip on my wrist loosened; I took the opportunity to dip my hand lower and wrap my fingers around his erection.
My breasts pressed to his back; I wished I were naked too, but time enough for that later, when he’d forgotten his name, let alone his belief that he’d been marked by the wrath of God.
He swelled in my palm; his groan reverberated against my mouth still locked on his neck. I couldn’t get enough of the taste of his skin. He began to pump his hips slowly forward and back, running his erection through the tight circle made by my hand.
“I can’t,” he muttered.
“You are.”
He stilled, and I cursed my big mouth. Tightening my fingers, I increased the tempo. “You will.”
“No.”
“Yes,” I insisted, and ran my thumb over his tip. Moisture swelled, and my lips curved against his neck.
His body couldn’t lie; he wanted me.
Maybe I should have felt bad about pushing him. Maybe I should have left him alone. But I believed he needed the connection to me as much as I needed the connection, right now, to him.
He turned in my arms, and suddenly we were face to face, my hand down his pants, his bare chest heaving . enticingly close to my mouth. I leaned forward and licked him.
His sharply indrawn breath sounded like a droplet of water tossed onto a griddle. I carved a moist trail from just below his collarbone to just above his right nipple, then I lifted my head, my breath coming faster, harsher, sending puffs of air across his skin. As I watched, the nipple hardened to a tight, brown bud and I flicked it just once with my tongue.
John backed up so quickly, my hand came out of his pants with a thunk as the elastic waistband was stretched and released. For a minute I thought I’d gone too far, until he reached out with both hands and yanked my shirt open.
Buttons flew everywhere, pinging against the wall, the floor, his chest. I should have been scared, at the least annoyed, instead I was aroused. No one had ever wanted me as much as this man did. I wasn’t sure if anyone ever would.
Frantic now, we tossed clothes right and left. His erection brushed my stomach. I made a yummy noise and rubbed against him.
“I can’t—” He began.
“Don’t start that again.”
He laughed, short and so very sweet. “I meant I can’t wait.”
“Where’s your room?”
“First one on the left.”
The place was shrouded in shadow—heavy, dark curtains covered every window. Day sleeper, like me.
As devoid of “stuff” as the rest of the house, the Spartan decor reminded me of a monk. His mattress lay on the floor; his clothes were folded in neat piles against the wall.
I tumbled onto the bed. He stood above me, silhouetted by the sunlight streaming down the hall. Even his outline was perfect—the honed biceps, wide shoulders, slim hips. I shouldn’t be so fascinated by his appearance, but I was.
Plain girls didn’t warrant the attention of men so beautiful they belonged on a magazine cover. We
certainly didn’t date them. We never got to sleep with them.
Unless they were blind.
Perhaps John was a rare breed—a man who cared more for the person beneath the package. Maybe he’d been that way even before he lost his sight. Maybe.
He moved away, fumbled a bit, found the door and slammed it, effectively removing the last bit of light from the room. I could only see a dark outline as he continued to stand while I lay naked before him.
What was he waiting for?
“John?”
At the sound of my voice, he tilted his head. He seemed to be staring at me from beyond the dark glasses, then he lifted his hand and removed them. A slight click split the silence as he set them on the nightstand.
I couldn’t see his eyes—not a hint, not a glitter—because of the lack of light, the lack of eyes, or had he merely shielded the ruined orbs with his eyelids once more?
With a sigh of surrender, he covered my body with his. “This is such a mistake.”
“Oh, yeah.” I arched, and he slipped inside. “Huge. Mistake.”
His hips flexed. “Huge?”
“Mmm. Definitely.”
His laughter tumbled over me like warm rain. Something shifted in my chest, and I caught my breath in wonder. Reaching up, I touched his face, traced my fingertips through his short, soft beard until my nails brushed his skin, and he stilled.
“Don’t, Anne. Don’t make this more than it can be.”
Deep inside, the first tremors of an orgasm built. His arms trembled, as he stilled.
Determined not to let what we had fall away, I began to move, slow, sure strokes, sliding my body up and down against his. His breath came in short, sharp pants, as did mine. He couldn’t help himself; he couldn’t stop and as one we came together.
His cheek against my breast, my hand still on his face, I whispered, “You’re the one who said we always want it to be love.”
He rolled until he was on one side of the bed, and I was on the other. “In my world, what we want the most is what we can never have.”