“Morning,” I said, hugging them and then easing them to the ground. “Am I in time for breakfast?”
“Uncle Eli is putting it on the table right now,” Angie said. “He’s makin’ us French toast,” she said, saying it like it was an exotic, mysterious food. And then I heard the term.
Uncle Eli?
“And syrup,” EJ added. “Lossa syrup.” He whirled and raced back through the open door and inside, his tiny blue sneakers pounding. Angie pulled me in after him, and I shut the door on the chilly air. I washed up and locked my weapons in the weapons safe in my closet, since I didn’t want to open the safe room. No need to make the kids think they should explore.
I joined the others at the table. Evan and his kids sat with their backs to the windowed wall over the sink; my chair had the best vantage point since Eli was cooking, my back to the kitchen windows, but with both entrances in sight. Alex dragged to the table and slouched into his place, still wearing his flannel SpongeBob pj pants and holey T-shirt, eyes glued half-shut, and his body stinking of sweat. He might have steered himself down the stairs while asleep, but if so, he’d picked up his electronic tablets on the way. Or maybe he slept with them cradled to his chest. I grinned to myself, betting the latter.
Eli shoveled two pieces of French toast onto each child’s plate; onto the adults’ plates, he shoveled bacon and eggs, with sides of French toast. I say shoveled, because the flexible spatula looked big enough to garden with. He slid the syrup down the table into Big Evan’s hand and Evan poured syrup onto the children’s toast. “Thanks, Uncle Eli,” I said, letting my lips curl up on one side.
He grunted, sat, and started to eat, but was interrupted by Angie, the bite halfway inside his mouth. “God is great, God is good.”
EJ finished with “Let us thank him for our food.”
“Amen, dig in,” they both said. And did.
Eli finished the bite and chewed, his eyes looking over the people gathered at the table. When he reached me, I waggled my eyebrows, as if to say, Fun, eh? He wiggled his eyebrows back, a bored, minuscule brow-twitch while he swallowed, and took another bite. Yeah. Like having a real family.
The Kid stuffed in an entire piece of French toast and chewed, eyes still closed. He drank down a half mug of strong coffee after and made an exaggerated sighing sound of happiness. It looked as if he’d had a rough night.
When the children finished and had been dismissed to morning TV, Alex managed to get his eyes and vocal cords to function and said, “I found where and when Molly came to NOLA.”
• • •
Once the anger—on Big Evan’s part—and the delight—on my part—ended, he pushed his tablets across the table and said, “It wasn’t easy. That side trip she took? It was most likely to her mother’s house to pick up a credit card.” He took a swig of coffee and poured another mug, looking at Big Evan under heavy lids. “She lied to you, man. Your motherin-law, I mean, when she said she hadn’t seen Molly. She not only saw her, but she rented a car for her in Knoxville, on her home PC. And she gave Molly a credit card. Molly used the same credit card for gas, food, hotels, everything. But for the last thirty-six hours or so, there’ve been no charges on it.”
The Kid handed me a slip of paper, folded. Evan’s eyes followed the motion and he frowned, but Alex quieted his worsening anger with the words “That’s for that Leo stuff you asked for.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire, I thought. But it was a good lie, as it kept Evan calmer. I glanced at the page and said, “Hope you didn’t catch Big Brother’s eye on this one.”
“No chance of that. I’ll have more intel later.”
“Okay.” I pushed back from the table. “When you find where Molly went, let us know. I have an errand to run for this.” I tapped the paper and left the house, wondering why the Kid hadn’t wanted Evan to know what was on the paper—the words The Hilton on St. Charles Avenue. Checked in two days ago, under name Bedelia Everhart. Paid up front for seven days. The room number was at the bottom. And then I realized. Evan would have insisted he go with me. And what if Molly was dead in the room?
The hairs lifted on the back of my neck. Molly had been in New Orleans for two days and hadn’t called me. I crushed my fear and pain deep inside and helmeted up, letting the Harley roar for me as I pulled out and headed for St. Charles Avenue.
I valet-parked my bike, entered through the center of three huge arched openings, and headed for the elevator as if I had the right to be there. I rode up with a bellman and got off on the second floor, took the stairs up to the third floor, and made my way down the hallways to Molly’s door, checking the security camera locations. Molly’s room was in a little alcove at the end of the hall and out of the coverage area of the stationary camera, with a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging on the knob.
I was sweating and my palms were damp. My breath came a little too fast. I was nervous. Terrified. And I was angry. Molly came to New Orleans and she didn’t call me or warn me or tell her husband. She abandoned her children. Whatever had happened that forced her here, it could not be good. Some panicked part of the back of my mind was cursing and shouting and weeping. Beast was close under my skin, her pelt abrading my flesh, making me feel itchy and tight. A trickle of cold sweat slid along my spine.
No one was in the hall but me as I knocked on the door. When no one answered, I gripped the lever handle and drew on Beast’s strength. Twisted the knob down and shoved. I heard the sharp snap of broken wood, the faint squeal of bending metal, and the door opened. I stepped inside and shut the door, leaning my back against it to survey the room.
Molly’s scent filled my nostrils, warm as a hug and a mug of herbal tea. But Molly wasn’t here. I knew that by the fragile, old feel of her scent. But there was no trace of blood. The fear that had been my constant companion on the way over eased slightly. No blood. No smell of her death.
I had more than halfway expected to find evidence of a fight, or the scent of Molly’s blood—or even Molly’s dead body—and the relief that rolled over me was as intense and pounding as an ocean storm. But it was arrested instantly. Molly wasn’t here. I didn’t have to deal with the horror of a murder scene, but I did have to deal with the stink of vamp and fear.
I closed my eyes to take in the scents, breathing in through my open mouth, letting Beast help with the identification. Three vamps, I thought. My skin crawled, as if small snakes crept up my limbs, at the smells—vamp scent. Dry and arid, a faint hint of old roses, blooms wilted and hanging on browned stems, and the underscent of turmeric, slightly spicy and almost medicinal. Not vamps I knew. Nothing in the signatures that identified a particular vamp. Not yet. I opened my eyes.
Three vamps against Molly. Not last night. The night before. Over thirty-six hours ago, just after Molly got here, three vamps had come to her room. The door hadn’t been broken until I broke it, so that meant either she had left the door open and vamps had somehow found her and kidnapped her, or followed her in at vamp speed or . . . Molly had let them in.
The room was neat, the floral spreads on the double beds folded at the feet, one with an indentation on a blinding white pillow and rumpled white sheets, as if someone had lain down for a moment, but not spent the night. Or been tossed there and then pulled upright. The drapes were open, no luggage in sight from the doorway; the TV armoire in the corner was closed, hiding the TV, which was on, the sound muted, the picture flickering through the crack.