Stop Me (Last Stand #2)(8)
Author: Brenda Novak

“I don’t think so. Prison made him even tougher than he already was. He appealed to the public for help when his daughter was first missing. But he didn’t want anything to do with publicity after he got out. In the clip I saw, he kept turning away from the camera, refusing to comment, until a reporter cornered him as he was getting into a car. Then he looked right into the camera and said, ‘I’d do it again.’”

Jasmine rubbed away the goose bumps that rose on her skin. “Do you know how Fornier managed to track down Moreau?”

“I couldn’t give you the details, no.”

“Thanks.” She smiled as if Fornier’s story was merely one of those horrific tales that fascinated the casual listener, but there was nothing casual about the impact it’d had on her. She’d once feared her father would follow a similar path; now she felt her own thirst for vengeance.

Stop me. How far would she go in order to accomplish that?

Chapter 3

There was a sketch artist listed in the Yellow Pages under Forensic Consultants, but Jasmine wasn’t convinced she could rely on the talents of a woman named Rayne Gulley. She was pretty sure the listing had to be a misprint or maybe a joke—until she called. Then she spoke with Ms. Gulley, who sounded surprisingly capable and experienced.

“I’ve been drawing for nearly forty years,” she said. “Completed more than two thousand composite sketches and, boy, have I met a lot of interesting people during that time.”

“I’d be describing a man I haven’t seen for sixteen years,” Jasmine admitted.

“So we’re talking about age progression.”

“Yes. And you should probably know that I was only twelve when he came to the door.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

“I think I will.” It was a relief just to be able to say that, to feel confident that she could finally describe the bearded man’s features in enough detail to walk away with a good likeness. In the first few years after Kimberly’s abduction, her parents and the police had her meet with several sketch artists. But no matter how hard she tried, each session resulted in a picture that didn’t resemble him in the least. The constant failure created so much frustration and stress that, at sixteen, Jasmine had been hospitalized for anxiety disorders. At that point, her doctor forbade her parents to speak about the abduction in front of her. He told them to accept what had happened and go on with their lives, and to take better care of the daughter they had left. It was as if they’d all but forgotten her. But nothing he said made any difference.

Her parents were mere shells of the people they’d once been. Her mother had started sniping that she should never have married outside her race and religion. Her father had started suggesting she go back to “her people.”

After her stint in the hospital, Jasmine couldn’t picture her sister’s kidnapper anymore. He’d become an out-of-focus face with a beard. That was all. And the drugs she took in her late teens made the image even fuzzier. She’d thought she’d lost those details—until three days ago, when she’d seen him in her mind’s eye.

“I have company for the holidays,” Ms. Gulley said, “but I’d be happy to set up an appointment with you for after they leave.”

The holidays. Jasmine felt none of the festivity or excitement. Christmas had become an irritant to her, an obstacle that made what she was trying to accomplish more difficult. “When will that be?” she asked, unable to conceal her disappointment.

“Tuesday?”

That was a whole week away! “Is there anyone else in the area who could help me sooner?”

“Frank West might be available. He just moved here, but he’s done a lot of work for various police departments in Tennessee.”

She spoke politely, but Jasmine sensed an underlying vein of annoyance. Ms.

Gulley felt she had the right to enjoy Christmas without interruption, and she did—but Jasmine couldn’t sit and do nothing until the world was ready to turn again. “Is he any good?”

“I’m better. Especially if you want age progression. That requires a certain knack.”

Jasmine wished she didn’t believe Ms. Gulley’s frank appraisal of her own ability, but the woman’s confident manner and decades of experience had convinced her. Torn and impatient, she hesitated, but ultimately conceded. “Fine. Where’s your office?”

“I work out of my house. In Kenner. Where are you staying?”

“The Quarter.”

“I’m about fifteen miles away. Do you have a car?”

“Not yet, but I can get one.”

“Shall we say two o’clock?”

Jasmine swallowed a sigh. “That’s fine. I’ll see you after Christmas.”

“Ms. Stratford?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let this get the best of you,” she said and hung up.

Jasmine sat in her small chair at her small desk in her small room and slowly set the phone in its cradle. Ms. Gulley’s advice came far too late. The abduction had gotten the best of her sixteen years ago. She’d lived beneath the crushing weight of it ever since.

Suddenly yearning for the Christmases that once were, before Kimberly was taken, she picked up the phone and dialed her father. These days he lived with a woman and her two kids whom she’d met only once in Mobile, Alabama, which wasn’t far from New Orleans. But imagining how the call might go—the stiff formal reception, the underlying current that led her to believe her father would rather not hear from her, even during the holidays—she hung up before it could ring. Then she went to the library.

The New Orleans Public Library, located only a mile from Maison du Soleil, was too quiet. Like the call to Rayne Gulley, it reminded Jasmine that it was Christmastime and everyone else was out shopping, trimming trees, baking, celebrating. But at least the solitude meant she probably wouldn’t be interrupted.

She sat on the third floor in the microfilm section, with only the male librarian at the desk for company, poring over past issues of the Times Picayune, New Orleans’ biggest paper. She was searching for anything that stood out or brought to mind the man who’d taken Kimberly. Mr. Cabanis didn’t recall hearing about any stranger abductions since the Fornier case, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been any. Hurricane Katrina had dominated the news for so long, a case involving a young girl or early teen found murdered could have turned into one more statistic, especially if there were no leads in the case, no parents screaming for action. If the man with the beard had begun targeting easier victims, victims whose absence wasn’t so quickly noticed, he could be here, indulging his sick impulses just as his note suggested.