to her face, but he didn’t force her to move.
“A man took my sister from our house while I was babysitting sixteen years ago,” she said.
46
“I’m sorry that happened, but it has nothing to do with me.” Removing her hand, he closed the door with a click.
“She’s never been found,” she said, raising her voice so it’d carry through the wood panel. “But I received a package three days ago. It contained the bracelet she was wearing the day she disappeared.”
No response.
“That package came from New Orleans, Mr. Fornier. I think he’s here…
somewhere.”
Still nothing.
“Mr. Fornier?” Beginning to lose her nerve, Jasmine wondered what she was doing standing in the middle of a swamp bothering a man who’d already suffered enough. But that strange coincidence, the similarity between her sister’s case and his daughter’s, meant something. She knew it did.
“There was a note with it—a note written in blood.” She waited a few seconds to let that sink in before continuing. “Just like your daughter’s name on the wall.
That kind of behavior is called a signature. It’s an unnecessary act driven by a perpetrator’s own compulsion or desires and it varies from criminal to criminal. So it’s highly unusual that two killers would do the same thing within the same time frame, and that they’d both have a tie to this area.” When Mr. Fornier still didn’t respond, she rested her forehead against the lintel. Ya-Ya Collins had warned her, but she’d believed she could get through to him. “Are you listening, Mr. Fornier?”
A frog croaked somewhere off in the distance—and something much closer splashed into the water.
Chilled by the foreboding suggested by that sound, Jasmine glanced back at her rental car. She had a lot more to say—everything she’d been thinking about since reading those articles in the New Orleans paper—but it was no use. Fornier wouldn’t help her.
“Right. Thanks for nothing,” she muttered and trudged back to her car. She’d opened the door and was about to get in when he stepped out of the shack. He didn’t speak—just stood there watching her—which made it impossible to tell what he was thinking.
She gripped the window frame of her car door as she looked back at him. “I’m staying at the hotel in town if you change your mind.”
“Let’s do it here,” he said, and left the door open for her.
47
Chapter 5
Fornier’s shack was much nicer than Jasmine had anticipated. Though basic, it was clean and well-maintained. And he lived simply, but not as simply as she’d assumed. The light she’d noticed in the window wasn’t a candle. It was a television powered by a generator, judging by the rumble coming from somewhere behind the house.
Once she stepped into the living room, she could see a small kitchen off to one side and a short hall off to the other. A door that stood open at the end of the hall probably led to Fornier’s bedroom. With only the television for light, it was too dark to see much detail, but the neatness of the living room gave her the impression “T-Bone” made his bed each and every day with military precision.
The way he lived so comfortably with so little impressed her—no doubt because she’d half expected to find him drowning in booze. She knew what it was like to crave relief from the whys, to use whatever she could to block out the memories. But it appeared that he spent his time hunting and fishing instead of drinking. A stuffed alligator held pride of place in one corner, and pictures of Fornier and others, holding this catch or that, adorned the walls. Not one thing in the room looked as if it’d belonged to a woman or child. There wasn’t even a framed photograph of his family. He’d rid himself of all reminders of the past.
“It’s warm in here,” she said.
He let that comment hang without response, which made her wonder if he thought she was looking down her nose at him and his potbellied
“A man took my sister from our house while I was babysitting sixteen years ago,” she said.
46
“I’m sorry that happened, but it has nothing to do with me.” Removing her hand, he closed the door with a click.
“She’s never been found,” she said, raising her voice so it’d carry through the wood panel. “But I received a package three days ago. It contained the bracelet she was wearing the day she disappeared.”
No response.
“That package came from New Orleans, Mr. Fornier. I think he’s here…
somewhere.”
Still nothing.
“Mr. Fornier?” Beginning to lose her nerve, Jasmine wondered what she was doing standing in the middle of a swamp bothering a man who’d already suffered enough. But that strange coincidence, the similarity between her sister’s case and his daughter’s, meant something. She knew it did.
“There was a note with it—a note written in blood.” She waited a few seconds to let that sink in before continuing. “Just like your daughter’s name on the wall.
That kind of behavior is called a signature. It’s an unnecessary act driven by a perpetrator’s own compulsion or desires and it varies from criminal to criminal. So it’s highly unusual that two killers would do the same thing within the same time frame, and that they’d both have a tie to this area.” When Mr. Fornier still didn’t respond, she rested her forehead against the lintel. Ya-Ya Collins had warned her, but she’d believed she could get through to him. “Are you listening, Mr. Fornier?”
A frog croaked somewhere off in the distance—and something much closer splashed into the water.
Chilled by the foreboding suggested by that sound, Jasmine glanced back at her rental car. She had a lot more to say—everything she’d been thinking about since reading those articles in the New Orleans paper—but it was no use. Fornier wouldn’t help her.
“Right. Thanks for nothing,” she muttered and trudged back to her car. She’d opened the door and was about to get in when he stepped out of the shack. He didn’t speak—just stood there watching her—which made it impossible to tell what he was thinking.
She gripped the window frame of her car door as she looked back at him. “I’m staying at the hotel in town if you change your mind.”
“Let’s do it here,” he said, and left the door open for her.
47
Chapter 5
Fornier’s shack was much nicer than Jasmine had anticipated. Though basic, it was clean and well-maintained. And he lived simply, but not as simply as she’d assumed. The light she’d noticed in the window wasn’t a candle. It was a television powered by a generator, judging by the rumble coming from somewhere behind the house.
Once she stepped into the living room, she could see a small kitchen off to one side and a short hall off to the other. A door that stood open at the end of the hall probably led to Fornier’s bedroom. With only the television for light, it was too dark to see much detail, but the neatness of the living room gave her the impression “T-Bone” made his bed each and every day with military precision.
The way he lived so comfortably with so little impressed her—no doubt because she’d half expected to find him drowning in booze. She knew what it was like to crave relief from the whys, to use whatever she could to block out the memories. But it appeared that he spent his time hunting and fishing instead of drinking. A stuffed alligator held pride of place in one corner, and pictures of Fornier and others, holding this catch or that, adorned the walls. Not one thing in the room looked as if it’d belonged to a woman or child. There wasn’t even a framed photograph of his family. He’d rid himself of all reminders of the past.
“It’s warm in here,” she said.
He let that comment hang without response, which made her wonder if he thought she was looking down her nose at him and his potbellied
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