Joanna Wayne - Alligator Moon

Possibilities swirled in the fog that filled John’s mind. He looked up as a black Porsche skidded to a stop along the shoulder of the road.

Dr. Norman Guilliot crawled from the low-slung car and took a few steps toward them with the same air of authority he probably flaunted in the operating room. But a few steps were all he’d be taking. Dressed in white trousers and a light blue pullover shirt, he wasn’t about to traipse through the murky water the way the rest of them had.

At least not in the hot glare of the day with witnesses all around. Last night would have been a different story. John imagined him, slinking around in the dark, startling Dennis then sticking the pistol to his head. Dennis would have been an easy target, like blinding a doe with a high-powered flashlight and taking it down at point blank range. The kind of high-stake, no-risk operation a man like Guilliot would choose.

The sheriff started toward Guilliot and the rest of the entourage followed, leaving Dennis’s body to the insects and the stifling humidity.

John felt the hate swelling inside him and welcomed it. He could get his hands around hate, it was so much easier to deal with than the pain. He strode toward Guilliot, reaching him a few seconds after the others.

“I’m sorry about this, John, really sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I’m still reeling with the shock of it myself.”

“Shock doesn’t show much on you, Guilliot.”

Guilliot fixed his gaze on John, a study in faux compassion. “I’m not going to get into an argument with you at a time like this. I won’t show that kind of disrespect toward Dennis.”

“Your concern is underwhelming.”

Dr. Guilliot shrugged his shoulders. “If blaming me helps you deal with this, go right ahead, John. But it doesn’t change anything. Dennis took his own life, and I guess that means we all let him down, including you.”

“Dennis didn’t kill himself. He had no reason to.”

“Guess you best take that up with Sheriff Babineaux.”

The sheriff sidled up next to Guilliot. “I told you we don’t need no trouble out here, John. Why don’t you go back to your place and clean up a bit? Call you a friend to go to the funeral home in Galliano and make what arrangements need to be made.”

John turned and stared at the sheriff, studied his gray eyes, his two crooked front teeth and the way his bottom lip curled downward as if it wanted to crawl away from the rest of his mouth. He’d known Babineaux all his life, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever really noticed him until today. Now everything about the sheriff and the entire morning were searing their way into the lining of John’s brain.

“I expect, no make that demand, an autopsy, Babineaux. You see that it’s done or I see your ass in court.”

Guilliot moved into John’s space, his eyes narrowed and accusing. “Making a big show’s not going to bring Dennis back or atone for that little girl you set the monster loose on, John. So why don’t you just let your brother rest in peace?”

John fought the sudden urge to bury his fist into Guilliot’s gut. Instead he turned and walked back to his truck, wondering how in hell Dennis’s life had come to nothing more than a decaying body half-buried in a stinking bog on the edge of the road.

Both Babineaux and Guilliot probably thought this would blow over, that John would go home and drown his grief in a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, but they were wrong. Someone had murdered Dennis and John would see that the man who had done it paid if he had to strangle him with his bare hands.

If it turned out to be Dr. Norman Guilliot, the act would be pure pleasure.

CASSIE DROVE to Beau Pierre on Sunday afternoon, more to scope out the place than to do any kind of in-depth investigating. The newspapers and TV news broadcasts would carry the facts surrounding the suicide, but sterile details were not what Olson would be looking for.

Cassie had some ideas brewing in her mind, but she wanted to get a feel for the lay of the land and the emotional climate of the setting before she met with her boss the next morning.

She’d done her homework yesterday, searched for any information she could find on the small town of Beau Pierre. It was no more than a dot on the map, a fishing village a few miles south of Galliano.

It was like dozens of other fishing villages in the area except that Beau Pierre was home to the Magnolia Plantation Restorative and Therapeutic Center, the clinic that drew the rich and famous from all over the world to have the renowned Dr. Norman Guilliot surgically restore their youth.

She’d already stopped at the café in town and asked a few questions. Mostly she’d learned that folks didn’t hang out in the café on Sundays and that the waitress named Lily didn’t care much for reporters.

Cassie slowed and glanced at the map she’d printed from the Internet. If her directions were accurate, she should be close to the Center now. A half mile later she saw the gate, a massive iron affair just off the road.

She pulled into the paved drive and pushed the button on the entry panel. The intercom hummed softly, followed by a female voice.

“Welcome to Magnolia Plantation. How may I help you?”

She felt a little like a predator at the home of one of the little pigs. Let me in so that I can eat you. Or she could just say she was a reporter. That would get her about the same reception.

“I’m interested in touring the Center.”

“I’m sorry. The plantation and grounds are private. No one’s admitted except our registered guests and our staff.”

“How do I find out if I want to be a registered guest if I can’t view the facilities?”

“You can make an appointment during business hours and Dr. Guilliot will meet with you personally.”

“I drove all the way from New Orleans. Can’t I just take a quick look around?”

“I wish I could say yes, but the rules are strictly enforced to preserve the privacy of our guests. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

And keeping out reporters was just a little lagniappe. Cassie climbed from her car, walked over to the gate and peered through the ornate pattern of iron bars. The driveway was long and winding, the extensive grounds perfectly manicured. Only glimpses of the plantation house were visible through the trees, but Cassie saw enough to tell that the place was not only massive but beautifully restored.

She was still staring when a mud-encrusted black pickup truck pulled in and stopped, blocking her car between its front bumper and the gate.

The man who stepped from behind the wheel was tall and muscular with long, straggly hair and a tanned face spiked with coarse black whiskers. He walked toward her, emanating a kind of raw animal potency that seemed more than a little menacing.

“Are you looking for Dr. Guilliot?” he asked, his hard stare never wavering.

“Not particularly.”

“Then who are you looking for?”

None of his damned business. She started to fire that comment at him, but stopped herself. It wasn’t smart to start fights when she was sniffing out a story. “I’m just interested in the clinic.”

“Like hell you are. You’re interested in digging up dirt for that magazine you work for.”

“How do you know who I work for?”

“You didn’t exactly sneak into town quietly. Even if you had, a stranger always gets noticed here.”

“Who are you?” she demanded, wishing he wasn’t standing between her and her car.

“John Robicheaux.”

“Any kin to Dennis?”

“His brother.”

“I see. I’m sorry. His death must have been a shock for you.”

He ignored her expression of sympathy. “Did Dr. Guilliot ask you to come see him?”

“I haven’t talked to Dr. Guilliot.”