Vengeance of the Demon: Demon Novels, Book Seven (Kara Gillian 7) Read online

  I processed that tidbit while I also wrestled their son Boudreaux into the picture. “We’re looking for different information than the feds,” I said. “Might be a dead end but worth checking out.” I glanced at Pellini. “Are you up for a field trip to the stud farm?”

  “Stud farm?” He lifted his chin. “I’ll blend right in.”

  I rolled my eyes and held back a laugh. “In your dreams.”

  “What about Jill?” Pellini asked.

  “I’ve got her,” Bryce said. “Idris is here as well.”

  “I’m in the room, you know,” Jill said with asperity then sighed. “Thanks, Bryce. I know I’m safe with you on the watch. And, before anyone starts lecturing me, I’m calling in immediate leave. The department can send a tech out to pick up the files. And, yes, I’ll move into the house. I know that makes security much simpler.”

  “You can have the guestroom,” Pellini said. “I’ll take the futon in the computer room.”

  I huffed out a dramatic sigh. “Darn it! I had my compelling and heart-wrenching speech all ready, and Jill had to spoil it by being sensible.”

  “Save it for when you run for office,” she said. “I’m not budging until after this kid is born. Except maybe to go to the hospital.”

  If my guess was correct about a headstrong teleporting baby in her tummy, I doubted she’d have a choice in the matter.

  Chapter 21

  The windshield wipers beat in a furious thwap-thwap against the deluge of a summer squall. Pellini flipped on the headlights and settled into a speed sensible for the rural highway. “It’s Sunday,” he said after a moment. “Boudreaux might be home.”

  “Maybe he won’t know we’re there.”

  He shrugged. “No idea what the layout of the property is.”

  “He lives with his mom and McDunn?”

  “Nah, he’s on his own. Has a little house. That’s all I know. He’s never invited me out.”

  I eyed him. “I thought you two were pretty close.”

  “At work, yeah,” Pellini said. “But he keeps his private life private. We go out for the occasional beer or watch football at my house.” He shrugged. “This last year he helped with the costuming for the contest, but that’s pretty much it.”

  I watched the rain sheet across the road. “Do you think he knew what his stepdad was into?”

  His mouth twisted beneath his mustache. “Every now and then he’d crow about McDunn and how the Child Find League recovered or closed cases on twenty kids last year or whatever. Never a bad word.” A wince flashed across his face. “Could be he knew about the ugly side and his talk was just a smokescreen.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  Lightning speared across the sky. “I’ve been wrong about people before,” Pellini said. “And ninety-nine point nine percent of the world was wrong about Mr. Benevolent Saint Farouche. The press grabbed the story that most of the murders Farouche ordered were vigilante justice against child molesters and abusers, and now there are people singing his praises.” He paused as thunder rolled over the truck. “Even considering what happened to his kid, who knows how much of that vigilante story is true?”

  Almost twenty years ago, Farouche’s five-year-old daughter Madeleine had been kidnapped and never found. Not long after that, Farouche formed the Child Find League and a number of other charities devoted to the welfare of juveniles—all of which had a stellar record for child advocacy. McDunn was Farouche’s right hand man for all of it. How did such a noble mission go so far off the rails?

  “Bryce would know how much is true,” I said quietly. “He never talks about specific hits he made for Farouche, but he did tell me that Farouche had Jerry Steiner kill Paul’s dad for brutalizing him. Given Farouche’s personal history, the vigilante aspect makes a sick kind of sense.”

  Pellini scowled and scrubbed at his mustache. “And Steeev got snipered by a dead man’s flunky.” He made a turn onto a blacktop road that ran through a mixed pine forest. “What are Steeev’s chances for, uh, surviving?”

  “I told Jill they were high,” I said without pulling my gaze from the monotonous scenery of pines. “But to be honest, I don’t know.” Sighing, I rubbed my eyes. “Theoretically, chances are decent the first time through the void. Not so much for a second death. He’s never died on Earth before, so that helps his odds.”

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Pellini clicked off the wipers, and within a quarter of a mile sunlight blazed down onto a bone dry road. Louisiana weather. Gotta love it.

  Pellini smacked the steering wheel. “Shit!”

  I jerked, startled. “What?!”

  “You! You died over there! In the demon realm!” His mouth widened into a pleased smile. “That’s why you appeared out of nowhere without a stitch on.”

  I couldn’t answer for several seconds. “You saw me naked?”

  His smile exploded into a grin.

  Groaning, I dropped my head back against the seat. “Yeah. It was after I found out the Symbol Man was Chief Morse. I started the whole dying process here on Earth, but Rhyzkahl brought me to the demon realm to finish dying so that I had a chance of surviving it.”

  His grin evaporated. “Fuck me. I went out on that scene. Arcane garbage all over the place. And the chief . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, and I didn’t blame him. Rhyzkahl had torn the chief’s head clean off. It hadn’t been a pleasant sight. Pellini cleared his throat. “So, did Morse shoot you? Is that why you were dying?”

  I gave him a long look. “No. A reyza who was working with Morse eviscerated me.” I paused, unsure if I should name names since the reyza in question was one of the demons Pellini said he knew. Then again, Pellini was bound to find out sooner or later. “It was Sehkeril.”

  “Shit.” Pellini winced and shifted in his seat. “I feel like I should apologize.”

  “Not your fault,” I said with a firm shake of my head. “I still don’t know why he was helping Morse.”

  He chewed his bottom lip. “If Sehkeril was helping him, that means Kadir condoned what Morse was doing, right?”

  “It means that Kadir condoned at least one facet that served his agenda,” I said. “I don’t know if it was the murders, the summoning and binding of Rhyzkahl, or an aspect I haven’t discovered.” An aspect I haven’t discovered. The phrase reverberated in my mind. Kadir was beyond clever, and his extended and subtle grooming of Pellini demonstrated his patience. What kind of long game was the creepy lord playing? More importantly, what else had resulted from the Symbol Man’s murder spree and summoning attempt?

  “We’re here.” Pellini’s voice broke through my thoughts. I sat up and paid attention. He turned off the road and passed through open wrought iron gates with “Emerald Star Thoroughbreds” worked into a bronze arch above. A driveway lined with bright white fences crossed pastures toward a distant cluster of buildings. When the driveway forked, Pellini veered right toward two long barns and a tidy Acadian house with a small barn behind it. A large house and several other buildings hunkered a quarter mile down the other fork.

  Pellini parked in a gravel lot that held a handful of other cars. I stepped out and slipped my sunglasses on. A light breeze carried the scent of newly mown grass, and a bay mare as pregnant as Jill nickered to us from a paddock.

  We strolled to a pasture fence and watched the antics of a chestnut foal as he cavorted around his grazing mom. Less than a minute later the sound of boots on gravel had us turning to see a lanky black man with grey at his temples sauntering toward us.

  “Morning, folks.” His tone was friendly and open, but the wary flick of his eyes betrayed his suspicion. “What can I do for you?”

  His caution didn’t surprise me one bit considering that investigators had surely crawled all over the property and questioned everyone. I gave him what I hoped was a disarming smile. My mood was shit, but if I let it show I wouldn’t get any of the information I wanted. “Hi, we’re looking for Catherine McDunn.” I jerked my thum
b toward Pellini. “Tall dark and silent here is her son’s partner at the PD.”

  The suspicion dropped away to be replaced by a broad grin. “Vince Pellini, ’bout time you made it out this way!” He extended a hand to Pellini. “Lenny Brewster. Barn manager.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” Pellini said gruffly, shaking the offered hand.

  “Ain’t no sir,” he said with a snort. “Just Lenny.” He offered his hand to me next. “You also work with Boo?”

  “Used to,” I said. He had a strong grip and the rough calluses of a man who got things done. “I’m Kara Gillian.”

  “Ms. Gillian.” He gave a knowing nod. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Crap. That could span anything from the size of my tits to my role as a murder suspect in Farouche’s death. I did my best to act unfazed. “I bet you have,” I replied and faked a chuckle. “Though I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that not all rumors are based in fact.”

  “Boo always said you were a sharp cookie,” Lenny said with a friendly wink. “Never told me you were modest, too.”

  The hell? Boudreaux talked nice about me? That was a new one. “I have my moments,” I said. Apparently Lenny didn’t know about my alleged connection to Farouche’s murder. “And please, call me Kara. Is Boudreaux around?”

  Lenny waved a hand toward the woods and fields beyond one of the large barns. “He’s out on the trails with Psycho right now.”

  Whew. With luck we’d be long gone before he returned.

  “Psycho?” Pellini asked. “Is that a horse or a woman?”

  Lenny laughed, from the belly and unashamed of it. “I gotta tell Boo that one! Nah, Psycho’s a horse—top of the line stud. Miss Catherine’s out by the track. Here, I’ll walk you down.”

  With that he led the way along a path toward the breezeway of the small barn. Over the entrance “Copper to Gold” stood out in crisp white lettering, but above the name someone had painted “Psycho” in broad and deliberately crude crimson letters and allowed the paint to drip like blood.

  “That’s Boo’s house there,” Lenny said with a nod toward the white Acadian with green shutters. “Mr. Farouche had it built for him after the accident so he could be close to Psycho.”

  Accident? I started to ask what he meant, but my question fled my mind as we passed into the barn. Photos of a gorgeous chestnut horse lined the wall—in races, in winner’s circles, and as a foal. I didn’t know much about thoroughbreds, but I had to admire the fierce beauty of this horse.

  I stopped dead in my tracks to stare at a large photo of Psycho. The jockey on his back had his helmet and goggles off, and a proud smile lit his face—

  “Boudreaux was a jockey?” I blurted. Once again I had to adjust everything I thought I knew about him. I felt like the GPS in my car every time I ignored its instructions and it began to bleat, Recalculating . . . recalculating . . .

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lenny said. “A damn fine one, too.” He peered over my shoulder at the picture. “Boo always had a way with that horse like no one else.” Pride softened his voice.

  “You mentioned an accident,” I said. “Is that why he isn’t still a jockey?”

  Lenny’s smile dropped away. “Near thirteen years ago now. Bad race spill with Psycho that ended both their careers. Boo’s femur got broke in three places. Psycho got a cannon bone fracture. Boo’s leg healed, and he could still exercise ride, but couldn’t hold up for racing.” He exhaled. “Another jockey died, and Boo got blamed. And with Copper to Gold,” he tapped the picture, “being an undefeated grade one stakes champion, the media took it and ran with it.” Anger deepened the lines around his eyes. “Didn’t matter that Boo got cleared of fault. Folks like having someone to blame.”

  “People suck,” I said, more bitterly than I intended. Boudreaux’s smile in the pictures was one of pure joy. He loved riding and racing, and had lost it all in one tragic moment. It didn’t excuse his becoming a bitter, obnoxious asshole, but I valued the insight. “How’d he go from this,” I said, gesturing toward the photos, “to being a cop?”

  Lenny tapped the picture. “Losing this lifestyle just about killed him,” he continued in a somber voice. “But Mr. Farouche never gave up on him. Not for a single minute. Stood by him through the accusations. Tried to keep him full time with the horses—training and exercise riding—but Boo shut it down. Had a bad spell with alcohol until Mr. Angus and Mr. Farouche shook him out of it. Boo took up policework thinking he could help protect kids.”

  Protect kids. “Because of Farouche’s daughter,” I murmured.

  “Boo was only twelve when Miss Madeleine went missing,” Lenny said, face long. “It hit him hard. He loved that kid. She used to follow him all over the farm, and he’d watch her like a hawk. I still remember him stapling flyers up all over town.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeve without shame. “His dad started working for Mr. Farouche right after, and those two men made it their mission to do everything possible to keep kids safe. If Boo couldn’t race ride, he wanted to follow in their footsteps.” Lenny gave Pellini a sidelong glance. “I don’t think becoming a cop worked out like he’d expected.”

  Pellini winced, nodded. Boudreaux’s romantic notions of policework had probably died after a few weeks of dealing with drunks and responding to loud music complaints. I had a feeling the closest he’d come to protecting kids was directing traffic in a school zone. As long as I’d been a cop I couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been the target of department bullies and innocent jokesters.

  Recalculating . . . recalculating . . .

  Lenny continued through the breezeway and onto a pathway of spongy interlocking emerald green tiles. A dirt practice track lay a hundred yards ahead.

  “Did you know any of this?” I asked Pellini under my breath.

  “I looked him up right after we got put together as partners,” he replied, voice low. “Saw the news stories and knew about the accident, but he never talked about it. Not once. Didn’t feel right to push the issue.” His gaze swept over the fields and track and barns.

  Made perfect sense to me. If the guys at the station ever got wind of his former profession, the teasing would be merciless.

  A secret life, I mused. I knew all about that sort of thing. As did Pellini, with his Kadir connection and, on a smaller scale, his costuming sideline.

  Two horses and riders rounded the turn on the track and thundered down the straight, neck and neck. Lenny went up to the rail, leaned on it and put a foot on a battered crate that seemed to be placed for that very purpose. “Miss Catherine will be clear in a minute.” He gestured to our right at a dark-haired woman in jeans, boots, and a blue t-shirt, who leaned against the rail in a similar pose by the gate about a hundred yards away. She divided her attention between a stopwatch in her hand and the two horses as they galloped by.

  “How long has she worked here?” I asked.

  “She grew up here just like Boo,” he said. “Pops, her dad, used to be head trainer. She worked her way up and has been head now for close to ten years.”

  I caught Pellini’s eye. “We should go introduce ourselves,” I said to Lenny. “Would you excuse us for a few minutes?”

  A flicker of worry passed over his face, but he simply gave a nod and went back to watching the horses.

  Pellini and I strolled down the rail. “Boudreaux’s family has been here for generations,” I said. “No wonder he’s so messed up about Farouche’s death.”

  He nodded, grim.

  We waited for the horses to slow before approaching. “Mrs. McDunn?” I said when she looked over. “I’m Kara Gillian. I used to work with your son. This is Vince Pellini, his partner.”

  “What do you want?” she asked, sounding more tired than defensive.

  “I’m sorry, I know this is hard on you,” I said. “I’m sure various investigators have already spoken to you, but I was hoping you’d answer a few questions about your husband, Angus.”

  To my relief, she gave me a firm
nod. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” she said, mouth tightening in undisguised anger as she slid the stopwatch into the front pocket of her jeans. “I can’t believe that man lied to me for all these years. All those terrible things he did! I hope they track him down and put him away for the rest of his life.”

  “You believe the accusations?” Pellini asked.

  “Every one of them,” she said with conviction. “The bastard called me the day after the plantation fire wanting help. He didn’t deny any of it.”

  Pellini and I exchanged a quick glance. It was clear we shared the same thought. “Did the cops happen to get a recording of that conversation?” I asked.

  “Not that one,” she said. “But after that I gave them free rein to tap the phones.” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “They got one last night when Angus called to try to tell me he loved me and god knows what else. I didn’t want to hear it.” She dashed away a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Mrs. McDunn,” I said. “I take it you—”

  She yanked her hand up. “Ms. Kinsley,” she corrected sharply. “I’m filing for divorce and going back to my maiden name.”

  “Understandable,” I said, though I wondered how Boudreaux felt about that. “What did Angus want when he called that first time?”

  “Cash,” she said, a mix of fury and hurt in her eyes. “Can you believe that? Not, ‘I’m sorry I ruined your life.’ No. Money to get him by until he met up with some other people—other criminals, no doubt.” Her eyes followed the two horses coming off the track. “I need to go. Anything else?”

  Pellini cleared his throat. “No, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”

  She forced a smile and headed toward the long barn in the wake of the horses.

  “Can you get hold of that recording?” I asked Pellini as we walked back toward Lenny.

  “Tricky,” he said. “I may have to call in a favor or two, but I’ll do what I can. We have to hear it.” He nudged me with his elbow and pointed toward the far side of the track.