Free Louisiana Stalker by J. R. Roberts Page B

nodded and watched him go out the door.
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    Across the street the man stood in the rain and watched as Simon Devereaux got into his carriage and instructed his driver to move on.
    This left Capucine Devereaux in her house, alone.
    But he wasn’t ready to take advantage of that.
    Not quite yet.
    So he remained where he was, the sky raining down on him, watching, and allowing himself to be watched—if she could even see him through the driving rain.

TWENTY-FOUR
    Clint found Henri waiting outside, sitting beneath his own half roof.
    â€œJust getting an idea of how the passenger feels,” he told Clint. He hopped down, noticed that today Clint was wearing his gun and holster, but he didn’t comment on it. “Where are we off to today?”
    â€œWe’re going to visit a lady at home,” Clint said. “Let’s get moving and I’ll give you the address.”
    Clint got in and Henri climbed up top.
    â€œSorry to make you drive in the rain,” Clint said.
    â€œIt’s my job, boss.”
    Clint gave him the address and Henri flicked the reins. His horse shied, but the driver quickly got him under control, and they were off.
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    When the cab pulled to a stop in front of the house, the man watching backed into a doorway, out of the rain, out of sight.
    Clint stepped down from the cab, asked Henri, “Would you like me to ask the lady to let you wait inside?”
    Henri looked at the two-story house, standing on a block filled with similar, large, blocky shapes in the rain well beyond what his means were or ever would be.
    â€œI’ll sit in the back and wait,” Henri said. “It’ll be dry.”
    â€œSuit yourself.”
    â€œI always do,” Henri said with a smile. In that moment the young man looked no more than eighteen, although Clint figured him to be at least twenty-five.
    Clint walked up to the door and knocked.
    Cappy opened the door and came into his arms.
    â€œI’m so glad you’re here.”
    â€œI’m all wet,” he said, pushing her away, but not hard. Only at arm’s length.
    â€œCome inside,” she said, grabbing his arm and pulling.
    He entered and closed the door behind him.
    â€œI think he’s out there,” she said.
    â€œWho? Keller?”
    â€œNo,” she said, “him. The one.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œCome.”
    She brought him to the front window.
    â€œAcross the street.”
    He looked out the window. It was hard to see anything in the rain. He could, however, see Henri’s cab, with the young man sitting in back.
    â€œAre you going to go out after him?” she asked.
    â€œNo,” he said. “I’m going to play it differently this time.”
    â€œHow differently?”
    â€œLet him watch,” Clint said. “Come on, I could use some hot coffee.”
    â€œCoffee?”
    â€œYes, coffee. You can make coffee, can’t you?”
    â€œI have someone who can make it, yes.”
    â€œWell, all right,” he said. “let’s have some.”
    Puzzled, she said, “Come with me.”
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    She left him in the dining room at a long teakwood table and went into what he assumed was the kitchen. She came out alone and said, “Coffee will be here soon.”
    He shivered a bit.
    â€œYou need an overcoat.”
    â€œI’ll have to buy one if this rain continues.”
    â€œNonsense,” she said. “Wait here.”
    This time she did not go into the kitchen. She went back into the entry hall and then he heard her going upstairs.
    An older woman came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and two cups.
    â€œWhere is madam?” she asked.
    â€œShe’ll be back,” Clint said. “My name is Clint.”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œClint Adams.”
    â€œMr. Adams,” she said, setting the tray down.