She drove through New Orleans until she found a quiet street where she could pull over and, using a pen light, search the glove compartment for an address. The necessary insurance document and vehicle registration was neatly stuck in a plastic case. “Thank you, Mr. Fontenot,” she said aloud.
He lived along the river, just north of the canal, in the same parish she was staying in, although she often used a boat to get to her current residence and Wyatt Fontenot had a much more convenient drive. On her motorcycle. The bastard. Rat bastard.
Flame pulled back on the street and drove with care, not wanting to bring attention to herself as she located the address. The last thing she needed was for a cop to stop her, In any case, she wanted Gator to feel very pleased with himself. She wanted him lured into a false sense of security and settled nice and comfortably into his own bed. If her motorcycle had been looked after properly, she might just be a nice girl and not drive his Jeep into the Mississippi, which is what he deserved.
All the while she drove, she thought of each item in her saddlebags. Had she left anything that might be a trail leading back to her? The address on her insurance and registration was from long ago. What else did she have? She often traveled with emergency belongings in the off chance she had to run. She had money stashed in the bike, but most likely, Gator would never find it, not unless he took the bike apart, and nothing would help him if he did that. Nothing. No one.
Flame crossed the bridge and worked her way through a ribbon of narrow streets surrounded by water until she found the long drive that circled back toward the river and the Fontenot home. When she was certain she had the right property, she parked the Jeep beneath a canopy of trees and curled up on the seat to go to sleep.
All the girls in Whitney’s school of torture had been trained to set and use internal clocks. She slept for two hours, giving Gator Fontenot plenty of time to feel safe and secure. Stretching to get the kinks out, Flame left the Jeep at the end of the road and took off on foot, not chancing alerting him to her presence. She walked slowly, taking her time, orienting herself to the place. She wanted the quickest escape routes possible. The property had iron gates and few people in the parish had them. These were high and closed to seal the property off from the road.
She could jump over the gates, of course, but why would Fontenot have his home fenced in? She noted an old flatbed with the wheels off one side and a broken-down pickup, just inside the fence, but nothing else. Certainly nothing to warrant a fence. Unless… She reached out with her mind and found the dogs. Hunting dogs if she wasn’t mistaken, already becoming aware of her presence. Before they could send out a chorus of warnings, she stopped them.
Of course he’d have dogs. Careless mistake. “And all because I lost my temper. See, Flame. That’s what happens when you get all bent out of shape. It’s not personal. Don’t take it personally.” Like hell it wasn’t personal. It didn’t get any more personal than someone stealing her motorcycle. Her fingers itched to wring his neck. She went over the fence, landing lightly, waiting to make certain the dogs stayed quiet and no sound gave her presence away.
There were two large buildings. The main house was dark and silent. The dogs moved restlessly in a nearby kennel. The second building, obviously the garage, was set slightly back from the house and had locks on the pull-down double door and the smaller, single entrance. Flame circled closer, wary of the entire setup.
She knew better than to get in a hurry. She cased the place first, checking on the enemy, determining how much room she’d have for escape, how long it would take her, and mentally mapping out several routes if she ran into trouble.
Flame knew she could be walking into a trap, but she wasn’t leaving her bike behind. First rule: Never treasure anything so much you can’t leave it behind on a moment’s no- lice. “Damn you to hell, Whitney. I won’t live like that. You can’t rule my life.” But he did. He would always rule her life until he had her killed. He played her like a puppet. She knew not to go into the garage. Whitney had taught her that. And he knew her inside and out, knew she detested his authority. Refused his authority.
The ground beneath her feet shifted and the trees swayed ominously. The dogs in the kennel whined. Flame leaned against the broad base of a tree and forced air through her lungs. Her head was killing her. She’d used too much psychic energy tonight and she was already paying for it. That was a bad sign. And she absolutely had to stay under control.
Gritting her teeth, she approached the garage. It wasn’t all that difficult to dispense with the locks and there wasn’t an alarm anywhere, so she gained entrance quickly. No motorcycle. Her precious baby was being held prisoner somewhere else.
Without hesitation, Flame made for the house. The stairs creaked under her weight and she moved off of them immediately, circling the deep porch to find a way to the roof. She was always more comfortable in high places. She went up the side of the house, using the porch railing and roof to gain the second story with ease. She crept onto the small balcony and found the French doors unlocked.
Easing the door open just enough to slide inside, Flame went in low, close to the wall, shutting the door without a sound. She stayed motionless, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the difference in lighting. The room smelled of gardenias and lavender. A rose-colored sheet covered a gray-haired woman sleeping in the four-poster bed. She looked especially fragile and Flame frowned, wondering why Whitney’s hunter had led her to civilians-unless he’d stolen the Jeep.
Flame moved with care, not wanting the floorboards to creak as she moved across the room to the door. There was a vanity with an old-fashioned brush and mirror set and several pictures just to the left of the door. Flame glanced at the pictures, trying to make out the faces in the dark. This was a home. It had the bayou trappings, but smacked of money. Somewhere along the line the family had come into money. She wondered if the money had come from Whitney, a bribe for Gator to hunt her down and bring her back.
Had Gator gone after Dahlia? Poor Dahlia. Flame remembered all of the other girls, every single one of them. Whitney hadn’t been any fonder of Dahlia than he had been of Flame. He’d locked Dahlia up in a sanitarium and kept her from the world, kept her from a home and family-just as he’d done with most of the others one way or the other. Dr. Whitney had experimented on infants, continued the experiments on them as toddlers, teens, and even into their adult lives. He was never going to let them go and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the world discover what he’d done.