Chapter Twenty-four
I left my card with Mrs. Fitzhugh in case the police wanted to talk to me. I was certain they would. Right now, I was too disturbed to wait around for them to show up. I had a feeling most of New Orleans’ finest were still out searching for Sullivan. Maggie would be another missing person in an increasingly long line of them. They might not rush right over.
Besides, I had a theory about her disappearance and a burning desire to check it out ASAP.
So I went to Rising Moon, retrieved the file Sullivan had given me on the murders and disappearances, then returned to the Internet cafe.
“Find her?” the kid behind the counter asked.
“No.”
“Shit,” he muttered. “I’ll have to open again tomorrow.”
I took the chai tea I’d ordered—my stomach was not up to coffee—and my computer card to the carrel that housed my favorite rental. I typed in the Web site address for the lunar calendar I’d used once before.
I entered the dates that did not match up with a full moon, including the last night anyone, including me, had seen Maggie. The information tumbled onto the screen.
“I hate it when I’m right,” I muttered. The maj ority of the disappearances and deaths over the past six months had taken place under a crescent moon.
To be fair, that particular phase occurred twice a month and lasted several days. When it began and when it ended was fuzzy, unlike the single night of a truly full moon.
In addition, no one could be certain when some of the victims had last been seen or what day they’d been killed. Nevertheless, the coincidence was too strong to be ignored.
Too bad I couldn’t tell anyone about it.
Maggie was gone, Sullivan too. I didn’t think it wise to mention to Mueller that there might be a loup- garou loose in New Orleans.
I’d do best to keep my insane theories to myself. But I was starting to get disturbed by my diminishing roster of friends. Were they being killed because of me?
Nah.
Then again, someone had lured me here with a doctored picture of Katie.
Concern for Rodolfo flooded me. I was closer to him than I’d been to anyone else—at least physically.
What if someone were stalking him even now?
I tapped at the computer and after a few cross-references found his address. The Internet was a private investigator’s wet dream—and if most people knew how easy it was to be found with a few simple strokes of the keys, it would be their worst nightmare.
I tossed my empty cup into the trash, returned the computer card, and left my number with braid-boy, just in case Maggie showed up. I only hoped she didn’t show up with a tail and fangs.
I took a cab to Rodolfo’s. His apartment was typical of those in the area—business on the first floor, wrought-iron balcony with French doors on the second-floor apartment level. Some apartments had new windows, new paint around them, baskets of flowers cascading over the railings, droplets of water shivering on the blooms, then falling slowly to the ground.
Rodolfo’s didn’t. His windows were old, one was cracked, the paint was gray and peeling. There wasn’t a flower to be had. Did the lack of home improvement mean he didn’t plan to stay? Or that he just didn’t care to waste time or money on something he couldn’t even see?
I rang the bell. It took him so long to answer, I was tempted to break the small window in the door and let myself in, but I was terrified I’d find another empty house—all of his things right where he’d left them but no John.
So when he opened the door, sunglasses in place even though his shirt was unbuttoned to his waist, his feet bare and his beard more overgrown than I’d ever seen it, I murmured, “Thank God.”
He winced, as if the sunlight were too bright, then shrank into the shadows. “God doesn’t come here anymore, chica.”
Turning sharply, he headed up the stairs, leaving the door open, which I took as an invitation and stepped inside.
“That’s a strange thing to say.” I hurried after, nearly slamming into him when I reached the landing and walked into the biggest, emptiest living room I’d ever seen.
“Why?” he asked.
I wasn’t much of a philosopher, but I still believed, as I always had, that God showed up now and again
—usually when we weren’t expecting him.
Which might be why I still hadn’t felt his hand in my search for Katie. I expected God to help me. Why wouldn’t he?
“You have to believe,” I blurted. “In God.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe.”
“You do?”
“Of course.”
Now it was my turn to ask, “Why?”
His lips curved. “First you insist I believe, then you ask why I do? What brought this on? Or maybe I should ask, what brought you here?”
I was uncertain what to say. I was all alone in this city. Did I trust Rodolfo enough to tell him what I knew? Or at least what I suspected?
“Are you a werewolf?” I blurted.
His dark eyebrows shot up from behind his sunglasses. I expected him to laugh, or at least be insulted.
Instead he answered me with complete seriousness. “No, chica, I am not.”
I wished I could see his eyes, gauge his sincerity, but all I had was his word. I decided to take it.
“I saw a man turn into a wolf last night.”
“Your friend Sullivan?”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve lived here all of my life. I know people.” He gave a Gallic shrug. “They tell me things. Sullivan was attacked by an animal. He seemingly died and rose again. His behavior at the hospital was rabid to say the least. I can put two and two together.”
“You believe me,” I said in wonder. I hadn’t realized until that moment I’d been afraid he wouldn’t, afraid he’d laugh, or worse, call the people with the big butterfly nets. Then again, I was talking about a man who frequently held conversations with himself in the dark.
“You asked why I believe in God,” Rodolfo murmured. “I’ve seen great evil.” His mouth twisted into a wry grimace. “Or at least I saw it once, and if there can be such evil, such utter lack of God, there must be God, no?”
He had a point.
“You aren’t bitter because of—” I broke off, uncertain how to proceed.
“This?” He pointed to his eyes. “No.” He smiled sadly. “Well, maybe a little. But I have no one to blame for God’s wrath but myself.”
“You believe you’re blind because of God’s wrath?” Seemed a little Old Testament to me.
“I believe God has every right to hate me, and that whatever punishment I receive is much less than what I deserve.”
“John,” I began, but he held up his hand to stop me.
“There are things I’ve done, Anne, for which there is no forgiveness.”
Sunlight rained through a skylight and splashed bright light across his wrist, highlighting the thin, white line that marred his skin.
I crossed the short distance between us, took his hand and pressed my lips to the scar. He j erked, but I wouldn’t let him go.
“Is that what this was about?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Can’t you tell me what happened?”
“No.” He yanked his hand away and slid out of reach.
“Promise me you won’t try to hurt yourself again.”