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Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictitious, and any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintended by the author. "The Pretender" is a protected trademark of MTM Television and NBC and the characters of that series are used herein with no mean intent or desire for remuneration. It is, instead, a tribute to innovative television, that rare and welcome phenomenon.
The Third Highway Series Part 08:
Lassez le Mal Temps Roulle
Chapter 1
Witch1
The White House
Washington, D.C.
President Bill Clinton draped his arm casually over the shoulder of his guest of honor, resting his big hand on a tasseled gilt epaulet. "Well, your Highness, I guess you're probably pretty tired of shaking hands right now. I'll tell you what: I sure am," he said.
His Royal Majesty, the King of Azerbaijan smiled back. "Ah," he sighed, "I'm afraid in my country I am not required to apply so much 'hands on' to the commoners." His heavy Eastern European accent not- withstanding, Clinton got the other man's joke and laughed.
"These receiving lines bore the hell out of me--always have, always will," Clinton continued. "But the wine you so kindly provided sure helped me get through it tonight."
"Ah, yes: the grapes are grown on our steepest and most inaccessible hillsides, high among the veil of mists," the King answered, "and pressed, it is rumored, between the firm, ripe breasts of young peasant maidens--all virgins--who sing, I am told, while so engaged, our colorful native folk songs."
Clinton gaffawed heartily. "You're a real character, your Highness, if I do say so myself!"
"Yes, this is what my American wife so often tells me."
"That's one hell of a good-looking women, your Highness--I'll tell you what: two more glasses of this Stregormortis or whatever the hell it's called and I'll probably offer to trade you Hillary AND Tipper Gore straight up for one night with her!"
"The wine is called 'Strega Mora', Mr. President, which means witch-woman, and please, just call me Jarod."
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The White House Pastry Chef, Roland Mesnier, had created a cookie dough replica of the king's ancestral royal castle for dessert and all conversation ceased as it was ceremoniously presented; a huge, vaguely nightmarish structure in pinks and creams, topped with spun sugar turrets and tiny marzipan Azerbijanian flags. Only Jarod looked truly delighted by it. The United States Air Force Strolling Strings, who had positioned themselves amongst the tables in the State Banquet Hall, switched tempo from "Largo for Strings" to Glen Miller's "In the Mood", the violins soaring over the notes in unison, and Laura just shook her head, leaning closer to Jarod to whisper in his ear: "This is so totally cool."
After dessert, The Strolling Strings finished their set with the "Duelling Banjo's Theme" from Deliverance and then the rest of the String Orchestra filed back in, and, after a suitable pause, began a classic Straus waltz. Jarod stood and took Laura's hand, actually bowing before leading her onto the empty dance floor. "Ohmygod!" she whispered, "If I trip I'm going to feel like the world's biggest doofus!"
"Shut up and just let me lead for once," he answered, starting a graceful first swirl around the floor. They moved effortlessly together, Laura's long white organza skirt floating like a cloud behind her, and slowly other, less graceful couples began to join them. "If you let any of these ugly old guys with bad weaves and lecherous grins cut in I'll fucking kill you," she warned him.
"But I thought you enjoyed flirting with powerful men, Laura--they are that, you know, even if they aren't beautiful. The most powerful men in the world, and there isn't one of them that doesn't want you. You are beautiful, did I tell you that? Beautiful and spectacular and- -"
"Enough, Jarod--it's too much! Too wonderful, too romantic, too special . . . what is all this about, by the way: why are we here? Some sting you're setting up, right, some bad guy about to feel the Wrath of Jarod?" She stole a glance around the room. "Someone who's here tonight, right? Some sleazoid political scumball that will all too soon be on his knees begging you for mercy . . . "
The waltz ended and another began and they didn't leave the dance floor. "This is for you," he explained, leading her around the floor again, "All of this is just for you. No other reason at all."
"Right--you made this guy up--"
"Oh, no--the King exists, except he hasn't exactly been returned to his rightful throne by popular decree. No, I'm afraid the real King still languishes in what sounds like very comfortable exile in Paris. What I made up was the popular uprising, the acclimations--"
"How? How do you do this stuff?"
"Well, pretty simply, actually: first I hacked into the CIA computers and added some fake intelligence about the King's return, then I provided verifying documentation in the state Department's files-- plus of course photos of myself--then I put a few bits of information in--"
"OK, OK! Let's just say that once again you did the impossible. And how about the uniform? You look totally gorgeous, by the way--what is it about men in uniforms, anyway?"
"Laura, I made that up, too. All for you: because I love you. I wanted tonight to be perfect. A fairytale, just for you."
She smiled, thinking that he must really, really feel guilty about Jenn and disappearing for so long if he was willing to do all this just so she could be a guest of honor at the White House. And wondering if something else weren't up, as well--it WAS wonderful, and romantic and fun, but she kept waiting for some mysterious other shoe to drop.
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The Madison Hotel
Washington, D.C.
Laura stretched and yawned and then twirled around one more time in her Gianni Versace gown--a strapless, tightly fitted bodice that pushed her breasts upward, fitted her wasp-waist snugly and then fell into the full long organza skirt. A dress to kill for. A night to kill for. And Jarod in that story-book Prince Charming uniform, with the cute phony accent. He was starting to unbutton his jacket and she went up to him and put her arms around his neck and tugged him further into the middle of the room. "Just one more waltz, Big Guy," she begged, "just once more for me."
He laughed and spun her around as best he could without banging into furniture, and then he kissed her and ran his hands possessively over her back and shoulders, kissing the long warm stretch of her neck as she closed her eyes and leaned backwards, sighing and lost in some bliss.
"I still don't understand who you are," she said, "or what you are, for that matter, and why the hell you hang around with me . . . "
"Because you are all women, you are all sex, you are everything I want that I'll never really have--"
"Why, your Royal Majesty," she interrupted in mock surprise, "I do believe you're trying to seduce me!"
"I just want to get laid," he said, working on her zipper, "can you blame me? It's been a long time . . . "
"But why ME, Jarod? I mean, haven't you noticed that the world is filled with sex-starved females . . . "
He was still trying to unzip her dress. "This damned zipper is stuck. "
"That happens," she answered. "What's the huge hurry?"
He took her hand and placed it squarely on his crotch. "THAT is the huge hurry," he answered, "you know, for twenty thousand bucks you'd think they'd sew in a zipper that worked! I should be a designer, you know--I could do better than this; the first thing I'd do is replace all the zippers with velcro . . . "
"And you could change the course of human history with that one innovation. You know, maybe tonight I'm in the mood for more foreplay, " Laura teased, twisting out of his grasp, "and champagne. More cuddling and kissing and telling me how beautiful I am--"
"Foreplay?" he snorted, "you're always telling me that bores you, that what you want is for me to just fuck you and get it over with. Which is exactly what I want to do right now. Come here and let me work on that zipper." He caught her and started trying to ease it down again. "Hold your breath, " he commanded.
"But we haven't seen each other in weeks and weeks and weeks! Tell me what you've been doing: how many bad guys have rued the day they crossed your path, how many different Jarods you have been--"
"Actually," he said, "it has been interesting: I was an orthodontist and then I found out I have a brother, and it turned out to be Kyle-- you remember I told you about Kyle?--and I went back to the Centre to get him out and I have a sister and I saw my mother but I couldn't talk to her--"
"Hold on, Jarod! You have a brother and a sister and--"
"Got it!" he said as the dress fell to her feet. He turned her around and reached for her bare breasts, trying to kiss her as she pulled away once more.
"I want you to tell me about all this--"
"Look at you!" he exclaimed, "you're standing there wearing nothing but stockings and a garter belt and those lacy panties with your hands on your hips demanding I TALK to you--"
"I'm wearing my heels, too," she reminded him, putting her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him. "Does the uniform come off, your Majesty, or do I need to work around the medals and the sash?"
"If I take it off, will that count as sufficient foreplay?"
"And if I toss you on the bed and climb on top does that count as seduction?" she teased.
Jarod was tugging his uniform off and Laura laid down across the bed on her back and stretched her body languorously, sighing, thinking it had been a perfect night. "So," she said, "tell me about this thing with your family--that's so exciting! But I feel like I've missed so much--"
He interrupted her, kissing her mouth and then her throat, working his way with infinite slowness down her torso, kissing and licking her breasts and watching her nipples harden tightly as he did so.
"What's Kyle like? Does he remember you, too, and--'
"Laura, what do you want: talking or foreplay? I mean, I really want to just take you immediately, to tell you the truth, but if you want foreplay then that's what I'll do. But I can't talk about my family at the same time." He kissed her flat stomach, laughing at the little silver ring piercing her navel, wondering what exactly Bill Clinton would have thought of THAT, then spreading her legs with his palms and licking the insides of her firm thighs, noticing that she was suddenly blessedly silent, except for small moans. Jarod found the hard little button of her clitoris within the tuft of her pubic hair and sucked it gently, hearing her gasp as he did, feeling her hand in his hair, her whole body convulse. He caressed the warm lips of her labia with light strokes, and then entered her with first one finger and then a second, massaging her inside and out, then using his tongue again to tease her, feeling her thighs clamp down on his head as she arched her back and moaned something that sounded demanding but which was muffled by his present position. He moved back to licking her thighs and reached up to find her nipples again, then worked his way upward with slow kisses, lingering on her breasts, squeezing each one gently with both hands in turn, sucking on her nipples and listening for her moans, pacing himself to the rhythm she was setting.
Laura ran her hands firmly over his back, using her nails to scratch him lightly, which he realized suddenly felt wonderful. "You can hurt me if you want," he whispered, "I don't mind if you draw a little blood." She gasped and dug harder at his firmly muscled shoulders and was surprised by his delighted moan, at the intensity of his kiss. She levered her body against him, rolling him unto his back, reciprocating by moving over his chest with slow kisses, pinching his taut nipples and drawing her nails over his torso with hard little scratches.
"I thought I knew you," she laughed, "but you're a different man every time we make love. When did you start to like THIS?" she asked, amazed that his erection literally jumped in her grasp as she used her other hand to scratch the insides of his thighs. "Oh, God, Jarod, your cock is so hard," she gasped, wrapping her lips around his penis, licking it's shaft and working her way slowly up to the hard, smooth knob, using just the tip of her tongue to tease him, licking each small glistening drop of come as he creamed a bit and moaned harder, then stopping to delay him, moving her warm mouth down to his balls, cupping them in her hand and licking their swollen firmness.
Jarod ran his hand through her hair, remembering exactly why it was he always seemed to end up back in bed with Laura. Remembering-- vaguely--Nia and Jenn and all the others but just overwhelmed by Laura, who clearly knew exactly what he wanted her to do and then enthusiastically complied.
"Are you reading my mind?" he asked between moans. "Not that I mind . . . " She'd gone back to trying to seemingly swallow him whole and was using her free hand to scratch the inside of his thighs again and there was just a rush of sensation--with perhaps some perfect pain mixed in--and infinite desire.
She straddled him, completely delighted that he seemed too lost in sensation to be anything but passive, and rubbed herself on his erection, grasping it firmly and teasing him over and over again while using it to massage her clitoris, then just taking him a tiny bit inside her, enjoying using his body just for her own pleasure. But when she drew her nails over his chest--slightly startled to see red welts rise under his curling chest hair, still startled that he wanted her to actually hurt him--he groaned and grabbed her hips firmly, pulling her down on himself and then rolling her over, pushing himself as deeply as humanly possible inside her without any finesse at all, taking her completely.
"I want you, want you," he stammered, "Need you. Love you. Want to fuck you until I die, Laura, until one of us just dies . . . "
She gasped something about love and death being all the same and wrapped her long legs around his waist and he felt the warmth and wetness of her vagina welcoming him, clamping down on him as she began literally screaming his name, and then, almost immediately, he felt her laughter running right up his body from his erection to her mouth as he kissed her. Like electricity, he thought, like magic, like love. Like Laura.
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"Are you asleep?" he asked, afterwards, and felt her nodding 'no' with her head resting against his chest. He felt wonderful: satiated and happy. Which made what he had to tell her that much harder to say. "Laura, I wanted tonight to be special because I may not be able to spend much time with you for a while--"
"As if we spend all that much time together, anyway, Jarod: I mean, this is sort of how it is, isn't it, you call me when you want to get laid, we do the wild thing, like, a million times until you're all used up, and then you disappear . . . "
"But this time I may be 'disappearing' for a long time." He stopped when she sat up and glared at him--that angry look.
"Well, what do you know," she said, "looks like you're turning into a regular guy after all, who plans a wonderful evening, gets laid and then disappears."
"I need to finish it, Laura--I was so close to actually knowing who my parents are. I need to focus on that, without distractions. I want you to understand--it's not because I don't want to be with you . . . And if I do find them, well: I'm not sure how doing this will fit into having a real family for the first time in my life."
"Meaning you want to find Jenn, right--you're still obsessing about all that--"
"Laura, we're talking about her possibly carrying my child--"
"Yeah, well let me know when you're picked out your china pattern, OK? "
"It would help if you could find her for me, Laura--'
"If she doesn't want me to find her then it ain't happening, pal! I told you that!"
"Laura, I don't want to hurt you, but--"
"Jarod, cut the crap, OK? We've spent, what--a handful of days and nights together in all these months--it's not like I want you to be around all the time, anyway. We tried that and I thought you were going to drive me completely insane. What we have is great sex, and that's about it. But if this is it, if this is really 'goodbye', then just fucking spit it out, OK? You do realize, don't you, that as far as I'm concerned every goodbye could be final with you, anyway, right? I mean, if one of your stings backfires or if Miss P finally collects you and you disappear for good into the Centre, what do you think, somebody is going to call me up: 'Ah, Miss Greggor, we have a dead guy here that we think you know', or, what, Sydney will call to tell me where you are? One day you're going to just vanish, pal, and I'll never even know what the fuck happened to you! So don't start getting all maudlin on me because you want out--go, if that's what you want! Just tell me it's over so I can get on with my life."
It wasn't at all what he'd expected she'd say, and the whole concept of her worrying about him, of Laura having taken the time to consider what would happen if he did end up dead or captured, astonished the hell out of him. He just had never imagined she thought about him that way, or done a simulation to work out what she DID think or feel. And he wasn't sure why; he'd just gotten used to finding her mysterious and unpredictable. Or perhaps he obsessed so much about what he felt for her that he had neglected to take the equation any further. Of course the anger, that he had expected, but she mostly sounded hurt, and that was something he hadn't counted on at all.
"I . . Laura, I'm sorry, it never occurred to me--"
"Save it, Jarod, save it for someone who freaking cares!" She rolled over, pulling the covers up to her chin, and thumped her pillow into a more comfortable shape. "I'm going to sleep. Do whatever you want. But if you're going to leave and have a flight already booked out of here, don't wake me, OK? I hate goodbye scenes. Especially at fucking airports."
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So that when Laura did wake up late the next morning she wasn't surprised that she was alone in the big hotel bed. She stretched and looked around the room: her dress on the floor where she had left it, her shoes and underwear--nothing of Jarod's. So he was gone. She rolled onto her stomach and hugged the pillow hard. In a sense it was a test: she knew very well what she'd done, that night in her house on the island. She'd lit a pink candle and said the words--the Spell of Making--and asked for one thing only: she wanted him, always. It was what Margrit would call a love spell, alright, and she's done it fully conscious and aware. She'd never had love, not once in her whole freaking life, and this was the man she wanted. Mostly just because he was so strange--where in the world would she find another one like Jarod? So if he'd left her she figured she'd know soon enough it the spell had worked or not. But she knew better, deep inside, already: as surely as she held his semen still inside her she held a whol lot more as well. He could think about leaving, and even try it, but she knew it wouldn't work. Not for Nia, not for Jenn, not for that obsessed Parker bitch, and not for his mommy either. She just had to be patient. He would be back.
But it was still a scary and lonely feeling, and she hadn't felt so totally alone in a long, long time--not since she'd been a young girl all alone in the world, after she'd gotten out of the Centre and decided she would never, never go home to her father and step-mother again. She remembered bitterly a night she'd spent trying desperately to stay warm, curled up in a road side ditch in Kansas: she'd been hitch-hiking and couldn't get a ride and hadn't eaten in over two days. When she woke up there had been snow on her face, and she felt the sheer terror of that moment, and the awful, brain-numbing cold of it, even as she lay there in that over-priced hotel room in D.C., missing Jarod.
Well, she'd seen a lot of life since then. She'd done awful things, and wonderful things, and she'd loved and been loved. And there was no way--absolutely no way--that Jarod was now going to just walk out of her life, no matter what he thought
She got up and wandered into the bathroom, knowing that she'd feel better if she washed her face. And then she wanted breakfast--and coffee. She pulled on the thick terry robe hanging on the bathroom door and opened the door that led to the outer room in the suite.
And of course when she opened the door into the outer room, there was Jarod, sitting in front of the TV, clicking quickly through channels while tapping something into his lap-top's keyboard with his other hand. He smiled when he looked up and saw her standing there. "There's hot coffee," he said, "and I ordered you a big breakfast." His bag was packed and stood, next to the DSA reader, near the door.
So that it was Laura's turn to be dumbstruck by an unexpected turn of events.
"I need your help," Jarod continued, seeing the look on her face. "There's a situation--in New Orleans--something I have to do before I go looking for my family again."
She smiled weakly--it was just a delay in the inevitable, evidently, just something to attend to before he disappeared, allegedly for good. But she'd learned to live in the present, and he was still there, and she was hungry and desperately in need of caffeine. At least now she was warned and understood--when he left the next time she knew what to expect. Plenty of time then to worry if the love spell had worked.
"Tell me about it," she said, "this isn't about that guy on death row- -Gordon Radtke--is it?"
"No", he answered, "something else entirely. I was there because of something I thought Sydney had sent me--a clue about my parents--but it turned out Angelo actually sent it. And then, well, there was this guy who died, and I took his place--he was a hitman hired to kill this other guy--"
"'Hitman'? As in paid assassin?"
"Right. So, anyway, well, it gets complicated but I saved the two people who were supposed to be killed--Ben and Doris Worth--and set it up so that the guys who hired me to kill them--Tug Beaulieu, and his nephew Donny--basically confessed on video tape, and meanwhile I of course had the dead guy iced down in the shower--"
Laura sat down and poured herself a cup of coffee. "The shower? You are going to explain all this in some sort of detail, right? Because I'm already lost."
"Well, it's not really all that complicated. Besides, this is all that matters," Jarod turned the laptop around so that she could see the screen. He'd found the on line edition of the New Orleans Times- Picayune, and the headline confronting her was : "Beaulieu to Testify Against Uncle: Defense Hints at Secret Deal."
"He's a free man, Laura; the nephew. I can't believe they would do this--he's as bad as his uncle, if not worse. How could they make a deal with him? It's not right he's on the street--I need to make sure this is set right. And I want you to help me."
"And last night? All that talk about needing fewer 'distractions'?"
"I packed," he said. "I got that far--" he gestured toward the door and his duffle bag. "And that was it. What do you do to me, anyway? Sometimes I seriously think I am addicted to you. I really do think I should leave, Laura--like you said, it isn't fair to you, you deserve better--but every time I try to leave I sort of feel lost. And then I find some reason to stay."
He was expecting some cynical reply, some smart-ass comment, but instead was literally shocked when she practically ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him, laughing, then pulling him down on the loveseat against her body, sighing in pleasure as he snuggled against her breasts. "Don't you want breakfast?" he asked her, "you're always starving in the morning. Or am I going to be your breakfast this morning?"
She just smiled, thinking there were some things he was so much better off not knowing.
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The Worth Residence
New Orleans, Louisiana
Ben Worth smiled over at Laura again and she smiled back in spite of herself--he was so clearly flirting with her and Jarod was so completely oblivious to it that it was starting to get funny. "Now, I don't mean to interrupt, Jarod," he was saying. "but I can't help but feel inhospitable. I mean, it must be ninety this evening, and you've hardly touched your Hurricane, and meanwhile Laura looks like she's apt to melt--don't you, darlin'? And here's this big old pool just sitting her, with only my sorry ass in it. I've got a bunch of suits, all sizes, in the cabana--who 'bout you folks get comfortable, get wet, have another drink, get happy?"
She laughed and got up. "Sounds good," she said. "I want to take a dip. Jarod?"
But he was too intensely focused on trying to get some facts out of Ben to even acknowledge her question. She walked over to the cabana, raising an eyebrow at Ben in mocking jest at Jarod's cluelessness, and felt the buzz from her two Hurricanes as she tried to walk a straight and steady line.
She laughed again when she looked at herself in the cabana's full-length mirror : Ben did indeed have a wide selection of bathing suits for guests, but all the women's suits were tiny string bikinis in an assortment of vivid colors. She's chosen a hot tangerine that set off her tan and turned to check how much of her butt it covered--not much. It certainly left little to the already over-active male imagination. She looked at herself more closely, running a hand over her thighs. God only knows she spent enough time working out, but she still looked great for forty. She looked at her midriff critically--the navel ring was a nice touch. Let Ben Worth drool over her. Perhaps Jarod would even notice and find it interesting.
He did, of course--since Ben fell right off the edge into the pool when Laura walked out. Even Jarod couldn't help but feel the testosterone wafting through the air. She knew he got high off that-- other men wanting her. She dove right in and started swimming endless, strong laps while the two men talked. Eventually Jarod would tell her what was up. Until then she just wanted to enjoy herself.
"That son of a bitch!" Ben was explaining. "He's a slippery one, I'll tell you what. Rolled over on Tug and gave the old man up. Look, Jarod--you gotta know I want to see Donny Beaulieu go down. But how are you going to do it this time? He knows you, he's not going to let you trick him again."
"That's why Laura's here. I had a feeling he might be interested in anything she might say to him."
"You're using her as bait?" Ben said in shock. "Jarod--ah, forgive me if I'm out of line here, but that's one beautiful lady. If she was mine I wouldn't want her anywhere near a slimeball like Donny Beaulieu . . . "
"Laura," Jarod assured him, "can take care of herself."
"Yeah. If you say so. I'm just a little concerned, is all. You seem to think this will be easy--"
"It should be," Jarod replied. "I just need a little time to set it up." He looked at Laura, who was still effortlessly doing laps. "She is special, isn't she?" he asked Ben.
"'Special'? Hell, yes, she's special! What, don't you have eyes, son? So--you and her--you're like, an item, right?"
"An 'item'?" Jarod asked.
"Right, I mean, you're balling her, right?"
"Right," Jarod agreed, "absolutely. And Doris, Ben--I don't notice her around . . . "
"We're still, you know, separated."
"Still in a 'healing period'?" Jarod asked.
"Well, I suppose. It would sure heal a hell of a lot quicker if she'd lose that pool boy, I'll tell you what!" Ben replied bitterly. "Women!" he exclaimed.
Jarod sipped his Hurricane for the first time--it was sweet, he found, sort of like lemonade, but with oranges and cherries, too. "This is very good," he told Ben.
"To women: tits, ass and attitude!" Ben said, clicking his glass against Jarod's. The two men sat back contentedly in their chairs, watching Laura as she swam.
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Maison Dupuy
French Quarter
New Orleans, Louisiana
It didn't surprise Laura that Jarod was up long before her the next morning; he seemed to exist on hardly any sleep to begin with, and she felt totally worn out from the night before and had slept unusually late. She'd insisted they go dancing--first to a tiny bar where C. J. Chenier was playing zydeco, then to the Cat's Meow, a pretty wild dance club in the Quarter. Jarod had discovered the take- out, open-air Hurricane place down the street, conveniently located right next to an ATM machine, of course. At that point he still hadn't quite realized that the deceptively sweet, icy Hurricanes were about fifty percent alcohol, and he'd ended up completely emptying out the ATM just to see if he could, stuffing an obscenely fat role of bills in his pocket. As they walked away Laura heard some poor SOB behind them, thumping the machine and cursing roundly because it was out of cash. Jarod then dragged her into OZ--a great club, really, except that it was really a gay bar and he kept getting hit on even though he was with her. She'd given up trying to explain what was happening after an actual fight had broken out between two guys who both insisted they'd seen Jarod first and she'd had to go into pretty clinical detail about that to get him to fully understand that, yes, that guy who had put his hand on Jarod's butt had wanted to put more than that there. He kept saying that of course he KNEW some people were gay, but had never really known exactly what they did and wasn't it all just fascinating. . . Laura giggled a bit thinking about it. She loved that about him, of course: it was utterly charming that he could still in some ways be so innocent. And then turn around and in the next instant do some completely remarkable and amazing feat that left her breathless. She stretched and rolled out of bed, stumbling out into the suite's outer room, and finding him gone. The morning's Times-Picayune was lying on the table, and the headline read:
"Beaulieu Found Dead in Jail--Voodoo Hex Rumored"
She sat down and skimmed the story quickly: Tug Beaulieu had been found dead in his cell late the night before. Other inmates testified he was terrified that a Voodoo spell had been placed on him by the family of one of the men he was charged with having killed. The usual clichés: dolls with pins in them, dead animals showing up mysteriously in his cell. All the police were saying was that at that point they hadn't ruled out any possibility.
At the very end of the article it mentioned that it was thought Tug's entire considerable estate--the string of clubs he owned in the Quarter, all his money, his big house--would most likely go to his nephew, Donny, since Tug had no children and only a long-since divorced wife.
Laura put the paper down. She knew Jarod well enough to understand how incensed this new twist would make him. And she was sure he would suspect that Donny had a hand in his uncle's death. "Natural causes", indeed!
Accompanying the news story was a picture of Beaulieu's house. She went back in the bedroom and started getting dressed. She didn't need a red notebook to know where she would find Jarod.
Lassez le Mal Temps Roulle
Chapter 1
Witch1
The White House
Washington, D.C.
President Bill Clinton draped his arm casually over the shoulder of his guest of honor, resting his big hand on a tasseled gilt epaulet. "Well, your Highness, I guess you're probably pretty tired of shaking hands right now. I'll tell you what: I sure am," he said.
His Royal Majesty, the King of Azerbaijan smiled back. "Ah," he sighed, "I'm afraid in my country I am not required to apply so much 'hands on' to the commoners." His heavy Eastern European accent not- withstanding, Clinton got the other man's joke and laughed.
"These receiving lines bore the hell out of me--always have, always will," Clinton continued. "But the wine you so kindly provided sure helped me get through it tonight."
"Ah, yes: the grapes are grown on our steepest and most inaccessible hillsides, high among the veil of mists," the King answered, "and pressed, it is rumored, between the firm, ripe breasts of young peasant maidens--all virgins--who sing, I am told, while so engaged, our colorful native folk songs."
Clinton gaffawed heartily. "You're a real character, your Highness, if I do say so myself!"
"Yes, this is what my American wife so often tells me."
"That's one hell of a good-looking women, your Highness--I'll tell you what: two more glasses of this Stregormortis or whatever the hell it's called and I'll probably offer to trade you Hillary AND Tipper Gore straight up for one night with her!"
"The wine is called 'Strega Mora', Mr. President, which means witch-woman, and please, just call me Jarod."
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The White House Pastry Chef, Roland Mesnier, had created a cookie dough replica of the king's ancestral royal castle for dessert and all conversation ceased as it was ceremoniously presented; a huge, vaguely nightmarish structure in pinks and creams, topped with spun sugar turrets and tiny marzipan Azerbijanian flags. Only Jarod looked truly delighted by it. The United States Air Force Strolling Strings, who had positioned themselves amongst the tables in the State Banquet Hall, switched tempo from "Largo for Strings" to Glen Miller's "In the Mood", the violins soaring over the notes in unison, and Laura just shook her head, leaning closer to Jarod to whisper in his ear: "This is so totally cool."
After dessert, The Strolling Strings finished their set with the "Duelling Banjo's Theme" from Deliverance and then the rest of the String Orchestra filed back in, and, after a suitable pause, began a classic Straus waltz. Jarod stood and took Laura's hand, actually bowing before leading her onto the empty dance floor. "Ohmygod!" she whispered, "If I trip I'm going to feel like the world's biggest doofus!"
"Shut up and just let me lead for once," he answered, starting a graceful first swirl around the floor. They moved effortlessly together, Laura's long white organza skirt floating like a cloud behind her, and slowly other, less graceful couples began to join them. "If you let any of these ugly old guys with bad weaves and lecherous grins cut in I'll fucking kill you," she warned him.
"But I thought you enjoyed flirting with powerful men, Laura--they are that, you know, even if they aren't beautiful. The most powerful men in the world, and there isn't one of them that doesn't want you. You are beautiful, did I tell you that? Beautiful and spectacular and- -"
"Enough, Jarod--it's too much! Too wonderful, too romantic, too special . . . what is all this about, by the way: why are we here? Some sting you're setting up, right, some bad guy about to feel the Wrath of Jarod?" She stole a glance around the room. "Someone who's here tonight, right? Some sleazoid political scumball that will all too soon be on his knees begging you for mercy . . . "
The waltz ended and another began and they didn't leave the dance floor. "This is for you," he explained, leading her around the floor again, "All of this is just for you. No other reason at all."
"Right--you made this guy up--"
"Oh, no--the King exists, except he hasn't exactly been returned to his rightful throne by popular decree. No, I'm afraid the real King still languishes in what sounds like very comfortable exile in Paris. What I made up was the popular uprising, the acclimations--"
"How? How do you do this stuff?"
"Well, pretty simply, actually: first I hacked into the CIA computers and added some fake intelligence about the King's return, then I provided verifying documentation in the state Department's files-- plus of course photos of myself--then I put a few bits of information in--"
"OK, OK! Let's just say that once again you did the impossible. And how about the uniform? You look totally gorgeous, by the way--what is it about men in uniforms, anyway?"
"Laura, I made that up, too. All for you: because I love you. I wanted tonight to be perfect. A fairytale, just for you."
She smiled, thinking that he must really, really feel guilty about Jenn and disappearing for so long if he was willing to do all this just so she could be a guest of honor at the White House. And wondering if something else weren't up, as well--it WAS wonderful, and romantic and fun, but she kept waiting for some mysterious other shoe to drop.
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The Madison Hotel
Washington, D.C.
Laura stretched and yawned and then twirled around one more time in her Gianni Versace gown--a strapless, tightly fitted bodice that pushed her breasts upward, fitted her wasp-waist snugly and then fell into the full long organza skirt. A dress to kill for. A night to kill for. And Jarod in that story-book Prince Charming uniform, with the cute phony accent. He was starting to unbutton his jacket and she went up to him and put her arms around his neck and tugged him further into the middle of the room. "Just one more waltz, Big Guy," she begged, "just once more for me."
He laughed and spun her around as best he could without banging into furniture, and then he kissed her and ran his hands possessively over her back and shoulders, kissing the long warm stretch of her neck as she closed her eyes and leaned backwards, sighing and lost in some bliss.
"I still don't understand who you are," she said, "or what you are, for that matter, and why the hell you hang around with me . . . "
"Because you are all women, you are all sex, you are everything I want that I'll never really have--"
"Why, your Royal Majesty," she interrupted in mock surprise, "I do believe you're trying to seduce me!"
"I just want to get laid," he said, working on her zipper, "can you blame me? It's been a long time . . . "
"But why ME, Jarod? I mean, haven't you noticed that the world is filled with sex-starved females . . . "
He was still trying to unzip her dress. "This damned zipper is stuck. "
"That happens," she answered. "What's the huge hurry?"
He took her hand and placed it squarely on his crotch. "THAT is the huge hurry," he answered, "you know, for twenty thousand bucks you'd think they'd sew in a zipper that worked! I should be a designer, you know--I could do better than this; the first thing I'd do is replace all the zippers with velcro . . . "
"And you could change the course of human history with that one innovation. You know, maybe tonight I'm in the mood for more foreplay, " Laura teased, twisting out of his grasp, "and champagne. More cuddling and kissing and telling me how beautiful I am--"
"Foreplay?" he snorted, "you're always telling me that bores you, that what you want is for me to just fuck you and get it over with. Which is exactly what I want to do right now. Come here and let me work on that zipper." He caught her and started trying to ease it down again. "Hold your breath, " he commanded.
"But we haven't seen each other in weeks and weeks and weeks! Tell me what you've been doing: how many bad guys have rued the day they crossed your path, how many different Jarods you have been--"
"Actually," he said, "it has been interesting: I was an orthodontist and then I found out I have a brother, and it turned out to be Kyle-- you remember I told you about Kyle?--and I went back to the Centre to get him out and I have a sister and I saw my mother but I couldn't talk to her--"
"Hold on, Jarod! You have a brother and a sister and--"
"Got it!" he said as the dress fell to her feet. He turned her around and reached for her bare breasts, trying to kiss her as she pulled away once more.
"I want you to tell me about all this--"
"Look at you!" he exclaimed, "you're standing there wearing nothing but stockings and a garter belt and those lacy panties with your hands on your hips demanding I TALK to you--"
"I'm wearing my heels, too," she reminded him, putting her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him. "Does the uniform come off, your Majesty, or do I need to work around the medals and the sash?"
"If I take it off, will that count as sufficient foreplay?"
"And if I toss you on the bed and climb on top does that count as seduction?" she teased.
Jarod was tugging his uniform off and Laura laid down across the bed on her back and stretched her body languorously, sighing, thinking it had been a perfect night. "So," she said, "tell me about this thing with your family--that's so exciting! But I feel like I've missed so much--"
He interrupted her, kissing her mouth and then her throat, working his way with infinite slowness down her torso, kissing and licking her breasts and watching her nipples harden tightly as he did so.
"What's Kyle like? Does he remember you, too, and--'
"Laura, what do you want: talking or foreplay? I mean, I really want to just take you immediately, to tell you the truth, but if you want foreplay then that's what I'll do. But I can't talk about my family at the same time." He kissed her flat stomach, laughing at the little silver ring piercing her navel, wondering what exactly Bill Clinton would have thought of THAT, then spreading her legs with his palms and licking the insides of her firm thighs, noticing that she was suddenly blessedly silent, except for small moans. Jarod found the hard little button of her clitoris within the tuft of her pubic hair and sucked it gently, hearing her gasp as he did, feeling her hand in his hair, her whole body convulse. He caressed the warm lips of her labia with light strokes, and then entered her with first one finger and then a second, massaging her inside and out, then using his tongue again to tease her, feeling her thighs clamp down on his head as she arched her back and moaned something that sounded demanding but which was muffled by his present position. He moved back to licking her thighs and reached up to find her nipples again, then worked his way upward with slow kisses, lingering on her breasts, squeezing each one gently with both hands in turn, sucking on her nipples and listening for her moans, pacing himself to the rhythm she was setting.
Laura ran her hands firmly over his back, using her nails to scratch him lightly, which he realized suddenly felt wonderful. "You can hurt me if you want," he whispered, "I don't mind if you draw a little blood." She gasped and dug harder at his firmly muscled shoulders and was surprised by his delighted moan, at the intensity of his kiss. She levered her body against him, rolling him unto his back, reciprocating by moving over his chest with slow kisses, pinching his taut nipples and drawing her nails over his torso with hard little scratches.
"I thought I knew you," she laughed, "but you're a different man every time we make love. When did you start to like THIS?" she asked, amazed that his erection literally jumped in her grasp as she used her other hand to scratch the insides of his thighs. "Oh, God, Jarod, your cock is so hard," she gasped, wrapping her lips around his penis, licking it's shaft and working her way slowly up to the hard, smooth knob, using just the tip of her tongue to tease him, licking each small glistening drop of come as he creamed a bit and moaned harder, then stopping to delay him, moving her warm mouth down to his balls, cupping them in her hand and licking their swollen firmness.
Jarod ran his hand through her hair, remembering exactly why it was he always seemed to end up back in bed with Laura. Remembering-- vaguely--Nia and Jenn and all the others but just overwhelmed by Laura, who clearly knew exactly what he wanted her to do and then enthusiastically complied.
"Are you reading my mind?" he asked between moans. "Not that I mind . . . " She'd gone back to trying to seemingly swallow him whole and was using her free hand to scratch the inside of his thighs again and there was just a rush of sensation--with perhaps some perfect pain mixed in--and infinite desire.
She straddled him, completely delighted that he seemed too lost in sensation to be anything but passive, and rubbed herself on his erection, grasping it firmly and teasing him over and over again while using it to massage her clitoris, then just taking him a tiny bit inside her, enjoying using his body just for her own pleasure. But when she drew her nails over his chest--slightly startled to see red welts rise under his curling chest hair, still startled that he wanted her to actually hurt him--he groaned and grabbed her hips firmly, pulling her down on himself and then rolling her over, pushing himself as deeply as humanly possible inside her without any finesse at all, taking her completely.
"I want you, want you," he stammered, "Need you. Love you. Want to fuck you until I die, Laura, until one of us just dies . . . "
She gasped something about love and death being all the same and wrapped her long legs around his waist and he felt the warmth and wetness of her vagina welcoming him, clamping down on him as she began literally screaming his name, and then, almost immediately, he felt her laughter running right up his body from his erection to her mouth as he kissed her. Like electricity, he thought, like magic, like love. Like Laura.
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"Are you asleep?" he asked, afterwards, and felt her nodding 'no' with her head resting against his chest. He felt wonderful: satiated and happy. Which made what he had to tell her that much harder to say. "Laura, I wanted tonight to be special because I may not be able to spend much time with you for a while--"
"As if we spend all that much time together, anyway, Jarod: I mean, this is sort of how it is, isn't it, you call me when you want to get laid, we do the wild thing, like, a million times until you're all used up, and then you disappear . . . "
"But this time I may be 'disappearing' for a long time." He stopped when she sat up and glared at him--that angry look.
"Well, what do you know," she said, "looks like you're turning into a regular guy after all, who plans a wonderful evening, gets laid and then disappears."
"I need to finish it, Laura--I was so close to actually knowing who my parents are. I need to focus on that, without distractions. I want you to understand--it's not because I don't want to be with you . . . And if I do find them, well: I'm not sure how doing this will fit into having a real family for the first time in my life."
"Meaning you want to find Jenn, right--you're still obsessing about all that--"
"Laura, we're talking about her possibly carrying my child--"
"Yeah, well let me know when you're picked out your china pattern, OK? "
"It would help if you could find her for me, Laura--'
"If she doesn't want me to find her then it ain't happening, pal! I told you that!"
"Laura, I don't want to hurt you, but--"
"Jarod, cut the crap, OK? We've spent, what--a handful of days and nights together in all these months--it's not like I want you to be around all the time, anyway. We tried that and I thought you were going to drive me completely insane. What we have is great sex, and that's about it. But if this is it, if this is really 'goodbye', then just fucking spit it out, OK? You do realize, don't you, that as far as I'm concerned every goodbye could be final with you, anyway, right? I mean, if one of your stings backfires or if Miss P finally collects you and you disappear for good into the Centre, what do you think, somebody is going to call me up: 'Ah, Miss Greggor, we have a dead guy here that we think you know', or, what, Sydney will call to tell me where you are? One day you're going to just vanish, pal, and I'll never even know what the fuck happened to you! So don't start getting all maudlin on me because you want out--go, if that's what you want! Just tell me it's over so I can get on with my life."
It wasn't at all what he'd expected she'd say, and the whole concept of her worrying about him, of Laura having taken the time to consider what would happen if he did end up dead or captured, astonished the hell out of him. He just had never imagined she thought about him that way, or done a simulation to work out what she DID think or feel. And he wasn't sure why; he'd just gotten used to finding her mysterious and unpredictable. Or perhaps he obsessed so much about what he felt for her that he had neglected to take the equation any further. Of course the anger, that he had expected, but she mostly sounded hurt, and that was something he hadn't counted on at all.
"I . . Laura, I'm sorry, it never occurred to me--"
"Save it, Jarod, save it for someone who freaking cares!" She rolled over, pulling the covers up to her chin, and thumped her pillow into a more comfortable shape. "I'm going to sleep. Do whatever you want. But if you're going to leave and have a flight already booked out of here, don't wake me, OK? I hate goodbye scenes. Especially at fucking airports."
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So that when Laura did wake up late the next morning she wasn't surprised that she was alone in the big hotel bed. She stretched and looked around the room: her dress on the floor where she had left it, her shoes and underwear--nothing of Jarod's. So he was gone. She rolled onto her stomach and hugged the pillow hard. In a sense it was a test: she knew very well what she'd done, that night in her house on the island. She'd lit a pink candle and said the words--the Spell of Making--and asked for one thing only: she wanted him, always. It was what Margrit would call a love spell, alright, and she's done it fully conscious and aware. She'd never had love, not once in her whole freaking life, and this was the man she wanted. Mostly just because he was so strange--where in the world would she find another one like Jarod? So if he'd left her she figured she'd know soon enough it the spell had worked or not. But she knew better, deep inside, already: as surely as she held his semen still inside her she held a whol lot more as well. He could think about leaving, and even try it, but she knew it wouldn't work. Not for Nia, not for Jenn, not for that obsessed Parker bitch, and not for his mommy either. She just had to be patient. He would be back.
But it was still a scary and lonely feeling, and she hadn't felt so totally alone in a long, long time--not since she'd been a young girl all alone in the world, after she'd gotten out of the Centre and decided she would never, never go home to her father and step-mother again. She remembered bitterly a night she'd spent trying desperately to stay warm, curled up in a road side ditch in Kansas: she'd been hitch-hiking and couldn't get a ride and hadn't eaten in over two days. When she woke up there had been snow on her face, and she felt the sheer terror of that moment, and the awful, brain-numbing cold of it, even as she lay there in that over-priced hotel room in D.C., missing Jarod.
Well, she'd seen a lot of life since then. She'd done awful things, and wonderful things, and she'd loved and been loved. And there was no way--absolutely no way--that Jarod was now going to just walk out of her life, no matter what he thought
She got up and wandered into the bathroom, knowing that she'd feel better if she washed her face. And then she wanted breakfast--and coffee. She pulled on the thick terry robe hanging on the bathroom door and opened the door that led to the outer room in the suite.
And of course when she opened the door into the outer room, there was Jarod, sitting in front of the TV, clicking quickly through channels while tapping something into his lap-top's keyboard with his other hand. He smiled when he looked up and saw her standing there. "There's hot coffee," he said, "and I ordered you a big breakfast." His bag was packed and stood, next to the DSA reader, near the door.
So that it was Laura's turn to be dumbstruck by an unexpected turn of events.
"I need your help," Jarod continued, seeing the look on her face. "There's a situation--in New Orleans--something I have to do before I go looking for my family again."
She smiled weakly--it was just a delay in the inevitable, evidently, just something to attend to before he disappeared, allegedly for good. But she'd learned to live in the present, and he was still there, and she was hungry and desperately in need of caffeine. At least now she was warned and understood--when he left the next time she knew what to expect. Plenty of time then to worry if the love spell had worked.
"Tell me about it," she said, "this isn't about that guy on death row- -Gordon Radtke--is it?"
"No", he answered, "something else entirely. I was there because of something I thought Sydney had sent me--a clue about my parents--but it turned out Angelo actually sent it. And then, well, there was this guy who died, and I took his place--he was a hitman hired to kill this other guy--"
"'Hitman'? As in paid assassin?"
"Right. So, anyway, well, it gets complicated but I saved the two people who were supposed to be killed--Ben and Doris Worth--and set it up so that the guys who hired me to kill them--Tug Beaulieu, and his nephew Donny--basically confessed on video tape, and meanwhile I of course had the dead guy iced down in the shower--"
Laura sat down and poured herself a cup of coffee. "The shower? You are going to explain all this in some sort of detail, right? Because I'm already lost."
"Well, it's not really all that complicated. Besides, this is all that matters," Jarod turned the laptop around so that she could see the screen. He'd found the on line edition of the New Orleans Times- Picayune, and the headline confronting her was : "Beaulieu to Testify Against Uncle: Defense Hints at Secret Deal."
"He's a free man, Laura; the nephew. I can't believe they would do this--he's as bad as his uncle, if not worse. How could they make a deal with him? It's not right he's on the street--I need to make sure this is set right. And I want you to help me."
"And last night? All that talk about needing fewer 'distractions'?"
"I packed," he said. "I got that far--" he gestured toward the door and his duffle bag. "And that was it. What do you do to me, anyway? Sometimes I seriously think I am addicted to you. I really do think I should leave, Laura--like you said, it isn't fair to you, you deserve better--but every time I try to leave I sort of feel lost. And then I find some reason to stay."
He was expecting some cynical reply, some smart-ass comment, but instead was literally shocked when she practically ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him, laughing, then pulling him down on the loveseat against her body, sighing in pleasure as he snuggled against her breasts. "Don't you want breakfast?" he asked her, "you're always starving in the morning. Or am I going to be your breakfast this morning?"
She just smiled, thinking there were some things he was so much better off not knowing.
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The Worth Residence
New Orleans, Louisiana
Ben Worth smiled over at Laura again and she smiled back in spite of herself--he was so clearly flirting with her and Jarod was so completely oblivious to it that it was starting to get funny. "Now, I don't mean to interrupt, Jarod," he was saying. "but I can't help but feel inhospitable. I mean, it must be ninety this evening, and you've hardly touched your Hurricane, and meanwhile Laura looks like she's apt to melt--don't you, darlin'? And here's this big old pool just sitting her, with only my sorry ass in it. I've got a bunch of suits, all sizes, in the cabana--who 'bout you folks get comfortable, get wet, have another drink, get happy?"
She laughed and got up. "Sounds good," she said. "I want to take a dip. Jarod?"
But he was too intensely focused on trying to get some facts out of Ben to even acknowledge her question. She walked over to the cabana, raising an eyebrow at Ben in mocking jest at Jarod's cluelessness, and felt the buzz from her two Hurricanes as she tried to walk a straight and steady line.
She laughed again when she looked at herself in the cabana's full-length mirror : Ben did indeed have a wide selection of bathing suits for guests, but all the women's suits were tiny string bikinis in an assortment of vivid colors. She's chosen a hot tangerine that set off her tan and turned to check how much of her butt it covered--not much. It certainly left little to the already over-active male imagination. She looked at herself more closely, running a hand over her thighs. God only knows she spent enough time working out, but she still looked great for forty. She looked at her midriff critically--the navel ring was a nice touch. Let Ben Worth drool over her. Perhaps Jarod would even notice and find it interesting.
He did, of course--since Ben fell right off the edge into the pool when Laura walked out. Even Jarod couldn't help but feel the testosterone wafting through the air. She knew he got high off that-- other men wanting her. She dove right in and started swimming endless, strong laps while the two men talked. Eventually Jarod would tell her what was up. Until then she just wanted to enjoy herself.
"That son of a bitch!" Ben was explaining. "He's a slippery one, I'll tell you what. Rolled over on Tug and gave the old man up. Look, Jarod--you gotta know I want to see Donny Beaulieu go down. But how are you going to do it this time? He knows you, he's not going to let you trick him again."
"That's why Laura's here. I had a feeling he might be interested in anything she might say to him."
"You're using her as bait?" Ben said in shock. "Jarod--ah, forgive me if I'm out of line here, but that's one beautiful lady. If she was mine I wouldn't want her anywhere near a slimeball like Donny Beaulieu . . . "
"Laura," Jarod assured him, "can take care of herself."
"Yeah. If you say so. I'm just a little concerned, is all. You seem to think this will be easy--"
"It should be," Jarod replied. "I just need a little time to set it up." He looked at Laura, who was still effortlessly doing laps. "She is special, isn't she?" he asked Ben.
"'Special'? Hell, yes, she's special! What, don't you have eyes, son? So--you and her--you're like, an item, right?"
"An 'item'?" Jarod asked.
"Right, I mean, you're balling her, right?"
"Right," Jarod agreed, "absolutely. And Doris, Ben--I don't notice her around . . . "
"We're still, you know, separated."
"Still in a 'healing period'?" Jarod asked.
"Well, I suppose. It would sure heal a hell of a lot quicker if she'd lose that pool boy, I'll tell you what!" Ben replied bitterly. "Women!" he exclaimed.
Jarod sipped his Hurricane for the first time--it was sweet, he found, sort of like lemonade, but with oranges and cherries, too. "This is very good," he told Ben.
"To women: tits, ass and attitude!" Ben said, clicking his glass against Jarod's. The two men sat back contentedly in their chairs, watching Laura as she swam.
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Maison Dupuy
French Quarter
New Orleans, Louisiana
It didn't surprise Laura that Jarod was up long before her the next morning; he seemed to exist on hardly any sleep to begin with, and she felt totally worn out from the night before and had slept unusually late. She'd insisted they go dancing--first to a tiny bar where C. J. Chenier was playing zydeco, then to the Cat's Meow, a pretty wild dance club in the Quarter. Jarod had discovered the take- out, open-air Hurricane place down the street, conveniently located right next to an ATM machine, of course. At that point he still hadn't quite realized that the deceptively sweet, icy Hurricanes were about fifty percent alcohol, and he'd ended up completely emptying out the ATM just to see if he could, stuffing an obscenely fat role of bills in his pocket. As they walked away Laura heard some poor SOB behind them, thumping the machine and cursing roundly because it was out of cash. Jarod then dragged her into OZ--a great club, really, except that it was really a gay bar and he kept getting hit on even though he was with her. She'd given up trying to explain what was happening after an actual fight had broken out between two guys who both insisted they'd seen Jarod first and she'd had to go into pretty clinical detail about that to get him to fully understand that, yes, that guy who had put his hand on Jarod's butt had wanted to put more than that there. He kept saying that of course he KNEW some people were gay, but had never really known exactly what they did and wasn't it all just fascinating. . . Laura giggled a bit thinking about it. She loved that about him, of course: it was utterly charming that he could still in some ways be so innocent. And then turn around and in the next instant do some completely remarkable and amazing feat that left her breathless. She stretched and rolled out of bed, stumbling out into the suite's outer room, and finding him gone. The morning's Times-Picayune was lying on the table, and the headline read:
"Beaulieu Found Dead in Jail--Voodoo Hex Rumored"
She sat down and skimmed the story quickly: Tug Beaulieu had been found dead in his cell late the night before. Other inmates testified he was terrified that a Voodoo spell had been placed on him by the family of one of the men he was charged with having killed. The usual clichés: dolls with pins in them, dead animals showing up mysteriously in his cell. All the police were saying was that at that point they hadn't ruled out any possibility.
At the very end of the article it mentioned that it was thought Tug's entire considerable estate--the string of clubs he owned in the Quarter, all his money, his big house--would most likely go to his nephew, Donny, since Tug had no children and only a long-since divorced wife.
Laura put the paper down. She knew Jarod well enough to understand how incensed this new twist would make him. And she was sure he would suspect that Donny had a hand in his uncle's death. "Natural causes", indeed!
Accompanying the news story was a picture of Beaulieu's house. She went back in the bedroom and started getting dressed. She didn't need a red notebook to know where she would find Jarod.
