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Minutes later the boat moved away from the dock. A few minutes more and Kristen hoisted the white sails to catch the tropical breeze. A mile from shore, she pulled the photo from her pocket. It was one of six she’d stolen from a file in Salva’s office. She didn’t know the man in the picture, but her husband must— Salva had gone to a lot of trouble to have the picture blown up to cover one entire wall in his office.
In the moonlight she studied the reckless-looking man with the shaggy black hair. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties. His sun-baked muscular chest and massive biceps looked as if they’d been carved from a slab of iron. His long, oaklike legs were crammed into well-worn jeans, and his feet were bare.
He had the look of a fisherman.
The unexpected assumption simply popped into Kristen’s head as she searched the photo. The background was out of focus, but the iron man was hunkered down over a hydraulic winch used on a fishing boat.
Hydraulic winch?
How did she know what he was repairing? Or that the winch was part of a fishing boat? Had she suddenly remembered something connected to her past?
From the moment Kristen had planned her escape, her destination had been St. Petersburg, Florida. It made sense. Salva said they’d met there.
But now…
She flipped over the photograph, anxious for another memory to pop out of thin air. On the back was written the name “Blu Devil,” and beneath that “Algiers, Louisiana.” Once again she brought her gaze back to the man in the photo, willing him to speak to her in some way.
Was it possible she knew him, possible he knew her? There had to be a reason why she’d been drawn to his picture besides his good looks.
Kristen had waited three years for a clue as to who she was. And now, suddenly, here it was. She could be trading one nightmare for another, but if there was a chance the Blu Devil was the answer to her prayers…the smallest chance.
Salvador Maland ground Davis Carmichael’s face into the quarry stone beneath his feet while his mother, Miandera, watched. “You’ll die slowly, Carmichael, screaming for a quick end. But it won’t come. Kristen’s gone and you say you don’t know who invaded my home and abducted her. How can that be? You were the guard on duty.”
“No more! Please, no more!”
Ignoring his plea, Davis was kicked in the ribs again where he lay on the terrace bleeding and moaning in pain. Close to becoming unhinged, Salva screamed, “No more, you say! There will be plenty more. She’s gone, you bastard! Gone!”
Another vicious kick stole the guard’s breath, the third rendered him unconscious. Salva motioned to the two guards who stood awaiting his instructions to take the man away.
“Yes, take him,” Miandera insisted. “Then clean up this mess.”
While the guards stepped forward to carry Davis Carmichael away, Miandera tangled her arm around her son and led him out of the gate toward the beach. Nearly as tall as Salva, Miandera Maland was sparrow-thin, and her sleek black hair was the longest on the island—reaching past her knees. Her skin was a golden brown from years spent in the Caribbean, her makeup as spare as her European smile.
As they walked the sandy beach, Salva admitted, “Kristen hasn’t been off the island since I brought her here, Mother. She hasn’t been out of my sight for more than an afternoon in three years. Dammit, how could something like this happen?”
“You feel betrayed. As you should, darling. The guards have failed you…us. They will be punished,” she assured him. “And Kristen, if she left on her own, also must be punished.”
Salva jerked to a stop and gazed down at his mother. “Are you suggesting that she’s left me? That she snuck off in the night while I slept?”
“We must consider every possibility, darling. There was no forced entry. The dogs didn’t even bark. And there’s been no ransom request.”
“Would that make you happy, to learn that she’s betrayed me? You never liked her.” Salva turned his hot anger on his mother. “Answer me! Are you happy that she’s gone?”
“Nothing that pains you would make me happy, darling. And my granddaughter is also gone, remember?”
His mother had been jealous of Kristen from the moment she had laid eyes on her. But when Salva had told her about the baby that he and Kristen were expecting, Miandera had quickly tempered her animosity—a true Maland heir was rare, something to covet, to cherish and protect.
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
“I have every confidence that you will return my granddaughter to me unharmed.” Miandera reached for her son’s hand and clasped it as they continued along the beach. “I did warn you, however, darling, not to fall in love with such a young girl. I do not say this to sting your pride, but Kristen never really came around as you had hoped—youth can be so fickle. She never understood the Maland way. And her lack of memory has been a problem from the beginning. She admitted once, she wished she could remember falling in love with you.”
Salva refused to react to his mother’s criticism, or discuss Kristen’s young age or lack of memory. “Someone has breached the compound and taken them,” he reasoned. “I’m certain Kristen didn’t leave on her own, Mother.”
“I hope you’re right, darling. But the sailboat is gone. For what purpose would kidnappers steal the boat?”
“As a diversion, of course.”
“That’s possible, yes.”
They walked on.
“I saw the bruises yesterday, darling. The ones on Kristen’s arms. I only thought she may have left because—”
“She bruises easily, Mother.”
“I’m not criticizing you, darling. Some women need a strong hand. I suspect your young bride is one of those women.”
Salva refused to believe Kristen would leave over a few silly bruises. And yet, they had searched the entire island without gleaning a single clue.
“The yacht is ready,” Miandera supplied in her husky voice. “All Porter needs is a destination. Where will you search first?”
“I have a phone call to make, then I’ll decide.” Salva stopped and reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Seconds later he heard the voice of a man he had hoped never to talk to ever again.
“Crawford’s Boat Tours.”
Salva didn’t identify himself. All he said was, “She’s missing.” It was a long shot, but he needed to ask anyway. “Have you seen her?”
“No. Don’t tell me the bitch is on her way back here?”
“I don’t have a confirmation on that just yet, but she is gone.”
“Still empty-headed?”
“Yes.”
Salva turned away from his mother’s questioning gaze. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if Kristen stopped taking her medication and started to remember. He only knew for all concerned, he had to get her back before that could happen. And he had to do it while keeping Miandera on a short leash. There were things he hadn’t told her. Things his mother must never find out.
“What about your kid?”
“Gone, too,” Salva answered.
“In your line of work it doesn’t pay to have weaknesses, Maland. The bitch is your weakness. You should have had your fun with her, then killed her.”
Salva didn’t want to hear what he should have done. Three years ago he had simply taken what he had wanted and damned the consequences. It had always been the Maland way. His little princess had, indeed, become his weakness. But he wasn’t prepared to give her up—not at any cost.
“She’d only come here if she started remembering. Let’s hope Little Krissy stays stupid.”
“You have my number. Day or night, call me if you see her.” Salva disconnected the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. Facing his mother, he said, “Tell Porter we’ll hold one more day. If I haven’t received a ransom note, and Kristen still doesn’t turn up on the island, I’ll head for St. Petersburg.”
“And the Blu Devil? What of our plans for him?”
“We put them on hold for the time being.”
“On hold? But we’ve already done that too many times. You promised—”
“Be patient a little longer, Mother. A Maland’s promise is his honor. I give you my word that the Blu Devil will die. But first, I will see that Kristen and Amanda are brought back to the island. And, if there is punishing to be done, I will see to that, too.”
Chapter 2
The dockside stench could curl a sensitive nose at twenty paces. The tourists who frequented the waterfront in Algiers, looking for a taste of culture, complained it griped their bellies and killed their appetites, too.
Blu duFray had grown up on the docks and, as a seasoned fisherman, he rarely noticed the ripe odor or the refuse and floating beer cans as he unloaded his day’s shrimp catch off the Demon’s Eye—his favorite among the fleet of seven aging shrimpers he owned.
Today’s heat had crowned one hundred, a humid hundred that had forced Blu out of his T-shirt well before ten that morning. He wiped away the sweat clinging to his neck and glanced around, noting he and his crew were the last to unload their day’s catch. By now the others were either on their way home or on a bar stool at Cruger’s.
Out of the corner of his eye Blu saw something dark move and he turned in time to see a nun perch herself on a crate outside Thompson’s Fishery. She looked miserably uncomfortable as she fidgeted in the hot sun. She damn well should be, he thought, noting the way the black habit hid all but her small, round face.
He shook his head, sure she had been sent to sting his conscience and make him feel guilty. Well, it wasn’t going to net her more than a heatstroke, Blu determined. Everyone knew the Blu Devil didn’t own a conscience. And he sure as hell hadn’t reformed like the hungry-for-a-story journalist at the New Orleans Times-Picayune had claimed. But whether he had or hadn’t, the damage was done. Since he’d rescued those six kids from a slave trader last year, he’d been plagued weekly by mission-minded angels harassing him to donate a few extra crates of shrimp to their soup kitchens.
Frankly, Blu was fed up with the whole damn situation. Yes, he’d saved those kids, but there had been a reward, compensation for his trouble, and he hadn’t been shy in accepting it. Still, his picture had been plastered on the front page of the newspaper along with a lengthy article playing him up as some kind of modern-day hero.
Well, the nun had made a trip to the docks for nothing unless she had a few extra pounds to sweat off, because his pockets were empty for whatever charity she was selling. No one on this side of the river except for Spoon Thompson—the wholesale crook Blu was forced to sell his shrimp to—could afford to ante up weekly for a tax write-off.
Blu glanced at the nun once more and found her staring straight at him. Oh, hell, she was working him, all right. She had her eye on his shrimp.
Again, he cursed the unwanted publicity he’d received. If he had known how much trouble those kids were going to cost him, he would have never… No, that wasn’t true; Taber Denoux had earned his iron cage, and those scared kids had deserved a happy ending.
He was all done questioning his actions. He may not like it, and most of the time he didn’t, but long ago Blu had accepted that a higher power navigated his path. Oui, he was all through questioning why it had been him who had discovered Denoux’s merchandise that night. In all honesty, he’d felt good seeing those kids reunited with their parents, but he’d also been eager to accept the sizable reward.
Yes, indeed, the Lord did work in mysterious ways—he didn’t owe the bank his soul any longer, his men had regular pay checks, and he no longer had to work a second job.
An hour later, the shrimp unloaded and the boat cleaned, Mort said, “If that’s it, you mind if I take off for a while? I got something to do.”
“You got nothing to do, mon ami,” Blu drawled. “What you got is a few bucks in your back pocket and a memory burning your insides.”
Mort grinned. “She had a pretty smile.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“If you were me, what would you do?”
Blu had no authority over Mort after hours. He’d been the oldest of the kidnapped kids Denoux had planned to peddle on the slave market—the only one who’d had nowhere to go after Taber Denoux had been put out of business and hauled off to jail.
It wasn’t as if Blu had any regrets inviting Mort to join his crew. The kid had turned out to be a hard worker. He’d easily earned his wage, plus room and board. But from the beginning Blu had made it clear that Mort was expected to take care of himself. He didn’t want the responsibility or the aggravation of keeping tabs on a teenager. He’d made it clear he didn’t preach morals, give advances, or advice—hell, that would be like satan giving a lecture on the benefits of reading the Bible.
“You got something more for me to do?”
Blu shook his head. “No. Cross the river and take her someplace quiet.”
Crossing the river meant catching the ferry and heading for New Orleans or taking the Crescent City Connection. The girl in question with the pretty smile worked at a hot dog stand along the Riverwalk.
“I’ll see you later then,” Mort promised.
“Oui. The Nightwing is all yours tonight. I’m staying at the Dump, again. I got payroll to finish,” Blu explained.
The Dump—rather, the building in discussion—had been a purchase Blu made with some of the reward money he’d received for his “heroic deed.” The rundown two-story on Pelican Street, a few blocks from where he’d grown up, seemed to be a good investment at the time.
He wasn’t so sure of that now, though it had certainly pleased his mother and sister. They had been after him to settle down—preferably with a nice girl.
Blu had laughed out loud on hearing that, then promptly told them both that “settling down” was for old people, and that “nice girls” were for saints not devils.
He glanced in the direction he’d last seen the nun, but she was no longer there. Relieved the heat had driven her off, he pulled on his gray sleeveless T-shirt and jumped from the boat. Swearing as a burning pain shot into his left leg, he reached down to rub his thigh through his worn jeans as he headed toward the fishery.
The bullet wound, courtesy of the Denoux ordeal, had been slow to heal. The doctor had told him the infection he’d endured for the four days he’d kept the kids alive had resulted in permanent tissue damage and that he would always walk with a limp.
The minute Blu walked through Thompson’s front door, Spoon looked up from his desk and grinned. He was a short, wiry little man with gray hair and insightful green eyes. In his fifties, twice married and single once more, Spoon had stepped into his father’s shoes in much the same way Blu had; the only differences between the two men was their age and which side of the desk they worked on.
“A good catch today, duFray. You doubled my boys.”
“Always do.”
Blu’s blunt reply didn’t offend Spoon. The duFray Devils were top-notch, and no one in Algiers would argue that fact, or that Blu duFray was the number one reason why his fleet was still in business.
“Like I’ve always said, you got the nose for it. Your daddy had it, too. But I think yours is even better. They say you can’t teach it. I sure as hell believe it. That’s what makes your nose worth paying through the nose for.” Spoon chuckled at his own joke.
Blu remained stone sober.
At twenty-five, he was the youngest fishing fleet owner in Algiers. But it wasn’t Blu’s age or ability that had sparked the number of outrageous wagers down at Cruger’s Bar over the past few years—with his uncle Pike’s help, Blu had taken over the duFray Devils at age eighteen after his father had unexpectedly died. No, the wagers had nothing to do with whether Blu was smart enough to step into his daddy’s shoes, but whether the “old tubs”—as his boats were referred to—would be able to stay afloat, what with the inflated prices on repairs over the years by the marine yards and the decreasing wholesale prices on shrimp.
“Name your price, duFray,” Spoon insisted. “Today I’m feeling generous.” Blu opened his mouth, but the older man held up his hand. “I’ve offered to buy you out before, I know. But I’ll say it again, mon ami, you’re too young to be workin’ like you do and gettin’ paid half of what you’re worth. If I was you, I’d lighten the load and—”
“You’re not me.”
“But if I was—”
“You got my tally ready?”
“I can appreciate you feelin’ loyal to your daddy’s memory, son. But if you would have taken my offer two years ago your reputation would still be worth a damn and your mama could hold her head up like she used to.”
“Leave it alone, Thompson, or I’ll head over to Paradise Point and sell my catch to old man Aldwin.”
“That’ll be hard to do. Ain’t you heard? He’s all washed up. Under-sellin’ me finally bellied him up. Either that, or that no-good worm of a grandson sucked him dry.” Spoon grinned, obviously pleased with the other man’s misfortune no matter what had caused it. “Besides, I heard you and Aldwin had a partin’ of the ways a year or so ago. Don’t suppose you’d care to set the record straight as to why that was?”
Blu had no intentions of trading information with Spoon Thompson. What had passed between him and Perch Aldwin was business of another kind. And it was too late to make amends—he’d already tried.
Spoon shook his head. “One of these days those old tubs of yours ain’t gonna make it back in. Why don’tcha—”
“My tally,” Blu reminded, growing tired of the sound of Spoon’s voice and the same topic they argued over daily.
