Two Weeks Later
Reid stood outside room #342. He had a job to do. A quote from Sherlock Holmes ran through his mind – “There's the scarlet thread of murder running through the colorless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it.”
Murder. It consumed his mind and sent adrenaline surging throughout his body. Three years he had been waiting and planning for this moment. Now that it was here, he found himself unable to move, feet frozen to the floor. What if he was wrong, if he was making a huge mistake? All his searching would have been for naught. An entire assignment – trash-canned.
Just like his relationship with Anne. He cringed as he recalled the angry, hurtful words he'd hurled at her. Yet he felt justified in scaring her away. It had been the only way to protect her from himself and the criminal element surrounding him.
He didn't know how she explained his absence on the basketball court each evening, but as he sat alone in his apartment working to the accompaniment of the thump, thump, every bounce of the ball was like a spike in his heart. He missed the time with Doug and Callie. He missed Anne. On the occasions her image refused to leave him alone, he would remind himself she'd judged him and found him unsuitable, unchristian.
Her loss! His pride argued.
This was not the time for emotional meandering. Reid gathered his tender feelings together and stuffed them deep inside and out of reach. Sucking in a bracing breath, he choked on the stench of the old and dying, common odors in places like this – nursing homes. In his opinion, murder was a better way to go.
Reid looked once again at the number on the door, wrapped his hand around the worn brass knob, twisted and pushed the door open. He stepped into a repository...a veritable museum. Walls, shelves, table tops, every conceivable surface displayed World War II memorabilia. There were flags, medals and artillery shell casings. A glass-fronted cabinet held weapons, both guns and knives, a bayonet and a small mortar shell. Pictures, framed and unframed, of soldiers in action filled the available spaces and tied everything together.
Reid looked back as the door closed behind him, wondering for a moment if he'd stepped into an alternate universe. It wouldn't surprise him. Strange things had become the norm since his arrival in Roulette, Louisiana.
The only other occupant of the room was swallowed up by a huge, leather arm-chair the color of ox blood. A haze of blue smoke encircled the wizened, little man. It then drifted in a cloud to the ceiling where it was sucked away through carefully concealed vents.
Since when was smoking allowed in group retirement homes? Reid shook his head to dislodge the irrelevant thought. He sniffed, smiled, then slowly drew the sweet aroma into his lungs. He couldn't remember the name of the tobacco, but he'd never forget the familiar scent that had hovered around his father throughout his childhood. Memories swept over him, bringing tears to his eyes and a knot the size of a fist to his throat.
The white-haired figure pulled a pipe from his mouth and used it to wave Reid closer. “Come closer if you expect me to see and hear you.” The rasp of the voice fit that of a lifetime smoker.
Reid dammed up the tears and unwanted emotions trying to swamp him and dragged himself back from the past. This was no time to get soft and sappy. Get a grip, Derringer. Squaring his shoulders, he advanced across the room.
Rheumy eyes followed Reid's every move, then squinted at the stained and worn backpack hanging from his shoulder.
“Darn. Don't tell me you're a salesman. If you're here to sell me insurance, real estate or a vacation package, you're wasting your time and mine – besides, I don't have much time left. Done bought and paid for my burial plan, too.”
Reid couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped. “No, Mr. Bouguet (Bo-get). I'm not here to sell you anything.”
The old guy eyed the backpack again, then glared at Reid. “You're not running away, are you, boy?”
Reid flinched. His foster-father had called him 'boy' and the word usually carried with it a punch or two and a world of disrespect.
“Better not to run, boy. It's best to face up to your problems and work through them. If you run, they come back around and bite you in the butt. Every time. And notice I used the plural not singular noun. That's 'cause a man will have more than one problem arise before he dies. Sure thing.”
As the old man called him 'boy' again, Reid realized the term oozed fondness and caring. This from a man he'd never met – yet felt like he knew intimately. Strange.
Reid pulled the pack from his shoulder and held it at his side. “So is that what you did? Face up to your problem? Or did you run?”
The old guy shivered as if he'd flashed back to unpleasant times. “A mite of both, I expect.”
“Well, Mr. Bouguet, I'm not running. I'm here to face a certain problem. As for the bag, I carry this everywhere I go. It has more miles on it than some space shuttles. I have a few interesting items in here that I brought to show you.”
“Well, if you aren't here to sell me something, and you're not hiding or running away, then have a seat. I could certainly use some intelligent conversation. Too many senile minds in this place.”
Reid chuckled and took a seat opposite his host. He settled the pack at his feet and opened the front flap. Reaching into the depths of the bag, he pulled out a peppermint carnation boutonnière and tossed it into the old man's lap.
There was a gasp, then a fit of coughing, followed by gales of laughter. Still snorting and chuckling, tears tracing the wrinkled seams of his face, the man's gnarled fingers wrapped around the bowl of the hand-carved Meerschaum and jabbed the air, emphasizing his words. “Memories. Many, many memories. Is this why you're here?”
Reid didn't answer but settled back in the chair and tried to relax. Tension fought and won, but using his hand like a trowel, he swiped it down his face and smoothed any visible emotion away.
“What do you know? Tell me,” the old man demanded.
Looking directly into the faded brown eyes, Reid spoke with assurance. “I know you're a murderer.”
Silence as thick as a London fog blanketed the room for a space of time.
“Murderer...no!” A lock of gray hair flopped across his forehead, as the man vigorously shook his head. “An executioner? Yes. An avenger...most definitely.”
“A rose by any other name...is still a rose. You snuffed out seven lives. Call it what you wish.” Reid's hand disappeared once again into the deep pocket of the backpack. Locking his gaze on his host's anxious face, he slowly pulled out a Colt .45.
A gasp brought on another bout of coughing. When his breathing eased, the old man raised his bushy brows. “Is that mine?”
“You know it is.” Reid attached the handmade suppressor. “Recognize it now?”
“Oh, my.” Tears filled the rheumy eyes. “Please. Tell me who you are.”
Reid cleared his throat and stamped out the compassion trying to rise in his heart. He refused to feel sorry for a killer. Even though the withered figure across from him didn't look capable of squashing a cockroach, Reid knew the younger version had indeed killed seven men, in cold blood.
Reid explained that he investigated cold cases then used them as a basis for the murder mysteries he wrote. “As you know, this series of murders took place over twenty years ago, and I've spent the last three years investigating the crimes, digging up new evidence, tying it all together, and tracking you down.” Reid failed to say that as a result of his investigations, the police were often able to capture a criminal previously lost to them.
“Oh, my. The past does have a way of coming back to haunt you, doesn't it, boy?”
“Yes, Sir, it does.”
Shaky hands set the Meerschaum in a nearby stand then folded together, fingers interlaced. “What do we do now?”
Reid was confounded. Though he had come here with every intention of bringing this man in to face the punishment he deserved, he hesitated.
“Well, Mr. Bouguet...”
A gnarled hand rose, palm toward Reid. “Stop. I deal in complete honesty now.”
Reid arched a brow. “We must have a different definition of complete honesty. To my knowledge, you haven't turned yourself in and confessed to the crimes in your past. You are hiding and lying, even today.”
The faded eyes glared at Reid then closed in resignation. “You're right. Since I confessed to the Lord and He's forgiven me, I hoped to avoid bringing my past into the open for the world to see. Though each of those seven men was morally corrupt and lived only to cheat and steal, I acknowledge I broke the law – God's law. But, the coward in me wants to die before having to pay society for my crimes.”
Reid flinched at the reference to God and forgiveness. Christianity was like a disease around this town. It seemed almost everyone he met was infected with it. Roulette had been hit with it in epidemic proportions.
“Are you interested in my story?”
Reid nodded. “I would love to hear of your motivation for becoming a serial killer.”
The old man flinched. “Sounds pretty terrible when stated in those words.”
“Killing people is terrible.”
“All right, young man, I agree. Now what do I call you? You jump every time I call you 'boy'.”
The old man may appear senile, but he was still sharp as the proverbial tack. “My name is Reid Derringer. Just call me Reid.”
“Derringer?” A smile carved new lines in the already seamed face. “Great handle for a mystery writer. Okay, Reid. I must first correct a mistake that has served me well over the years. A simple misspelling that inadvertently covered my tracks.”
Reid watched the man's shoulders shake, and he made a sound like a childish giggle. “My name is Lee Bouquet, pronounced bo-k, not Bouguet, pronounced bo-get.”
A flash of memory went off in Reid's mind. He'd found the paper Anne had scribbled on and put back under the plant on his kitchen table. On it she'd circled the first letters of the last names of the men killed. It spelled BOUQUET. “Lee Bouquet?”
“Junior,” the old man added. “My father was Lee Bouquet, Sr., Lieutenant Lee Bouquet. He headed a little-known group of soldiers who operated under the guise of special services and out of view of the general hierarchy of the army. Certain commanders of the army assigned this band of warriors dangerous tasks that no other group could or would undertake. We're talking World War II and the Nazis.”
“Unsung heroes, huh?”
The gray head nodded. “For a while. Then, I'm sorry to say, they got tired of putting their lives on the line with no recognition. They gained a bad rep, mainly as cover in the beginning, but as time went on, they rightfully earned it. A fluke opportunity allowed them to steal a fortune in gold, hide it and wait for the war to be over.”
Reid leaned forward, totally engrossed. This would be great back-story for his book. “I believe that happened with many valuables during that war. History books say it was a common crime in the midst of all the wars.”
“Yes, you're right. Well, as happens with lots of crooks, there was a falling out. Greed and disagreements drove the seven men in the group to kill their leader, my father. His body, what's left of it, lies somewhere in Germany.
“I was a little boy at the time, and when my daddy never came home, my mom quit living too. I lost everything.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Boug...Bouquet. Many families were destroyed then.” Reid watched the old man mentally sorting through the ashes of his past. Sadness gripped him. He, too, had lost his parents, and though he didn't want to feel sympathetic, he did nonetheless.
When Lee Bouquet didn't speak, Reid prompted him. “What made you hunt down these men, and how did you find them? If your father never returned, how did you learn what happened?”
With a jerk, Lee straightened in his chair and reached into a drawer in the table at his elbow. He withdrew a small, tattered black book. With reverence, he offered it to Reid.
With great care, Reid opened the fragile book. It's pages, yellowed with age, were covered with a spidery script. Some pages bore water spots, and others had rust-colored smears – blood.
“My father's journal. It took years and many twists and turns to find its way into my hands, and I now realize it was God directing the path of this book. I believe He wanted me to have it.”
Before Reid could question that statement, Lee continued.
“Not that I'm saying God wanted me to seek revenge. He didn't. It was my lost soul and human nature that set me on the road to avenging the wrongs done to my family. God didn't get hold of me until I met a young lady a couple of years ago.” He smiled so beautifully it transformed his face. “Precious girl. The Lord used her to reach this old heathen and tell me the truth about Jesus.”
It felt like a hand gripped Reid's heart. A precious girl had tried to reach him for her God, but he'd fought and run. He was still running. Jerking his attention back to the book resting in his hands, Reid flipped through several pages then stopped to read a few lines.
We have decided to name our band Le Bouquet. It was a simple accident that revealed the rather unique name. Isaac was playing his usual game of scrambling words and letters when he realized the last names of the men in our unit spelled my last name.
We decided it was a sign. Fate pointed out this weird situation. We went so far as to pick a flower to represent each of us. Mine is the red and white, peppermint carnation.
Strange what men on the brink of death will do to pass the time and keep their minds from exploding like a bomb.
Amazing! The flowers and their meanings were key elements in each case. Reid hoped he'd be given the opportunity to read the book in its entirety.
A knock on the door, followed by the appearance of a young man with a lunch tray, served to break the comfortable silence that had settled on the two men in the room.
Reid gently placed the book back in the old man's hands. “Mr. Bouquet, your meal is here. I won't hold you up any longer. I wonder if I may come again? I'd like to continue our conversation.”
“I am rather hungry, and usually take a little snooze after I eat. Could you find the time to come tomorrow morning? I'm sharper in the mornings.”
Reid stood and picked up his backpack. “Thanks. I'll be here around nine if that is okay with you.”
Walking out the door, something caused Reid to turn back for a last glance. Mr. Lee Bouquet, Jr. was smiling as he tucked the boutonnière in the breast pocket of his shirt. One crooked finger gently stroked the red and white flower as if it were the soft cheek of a loved one.
Strange. Reid was drawn to the man. Was it because they shared the trauma of losing parents during childhood? More likely, it was the three years he had spent digging up every detail of the man's life.
“No, that's not it,” Reid mumbled under his breath. He hadn't even known the man's correct name nor his history. All his investigations had served to do was tie the seven cold-blooded murders together. Then, he'd delivered boutonnières to the veterans' dinner and managed to hang around listening to stories of the war. That's when someone had dropped a key bit of information in his ear. It seems Bouquet, known as Bouguet, selected and paid for the boutonnières and sent a message with them. It was announced at the dinner that the peppermint carnation meant...“Sorry I can't be with you.”
Reid hadn't realized at the time how significant that phrase was until he saw Anne's scribblings on his list of names and flowers. Then everything fell into place. Each block of information stacked up to build a solid case against Mr. L. Bouguet. aka Lee Bouquet, Jr.
Reid decided to do something he'd never done before. He wanted Lee to read the fictional accounts of the murders he'd written for his book, then give his input. Make corrections. Embellish details.
Excitement coursed through Reid as he tossed his pack onto the passenger seat of his rented jeep. This could be his best book yet.
As he pulled onto the road leading back to his apartment, he wished he could talk to Anne, to tell her of his visit with Lee Bouquet. Her emerald eyes would sparkle with curiosity and interest, and she'd ask dozens of questions.
Reality punched a hole in his imaginings when a dark sedan pulled in behind him. His tail was back and he'd yet to identify the creep. He could easily lose him, as he'd done several times before, but what he really wanted to do was catch the guy and ask him a few pertinent questions. Was this guy out to steal his manuscript and notes, or did he have a more sinister plan? Is he the one doing copycat murders in Roulette?
Reid's gut said danger was following him, and until he put a stop to it, he had to maintain his distance from Anne. There was no possibility of reconciliation in the near future.
Probably best anyway. What could he say? She would still want him to change his beliefs, and though he had read the Christian books she'd left for him, he was not to the point of accepting all they taught. He wasn't ready to do a one-eighty in regard to his previous stand on God. Maybe he'd ask Lee a few questions if the subject came up again.
Meanwhile he needed to stay away from Anne. The thought depressed him.
No basketball.
No lemonade.
No Anne.
ALONE.