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registered somewhere in
Frank's foggy brain. He could fuck Rand
until Kingdom Come and every time was more mind-numbing than the last. He wrenched the last strains of
Rand's climax from his damp body and
collapsed on top of him.
    Long minutes later, his
breath still erratic, Frank eased out and flopped onto the mattress beside him. "Jesus, maybe I am
getting too old."
    "No," Rand whispered. "You're getting
better."
    "I don't know about you, but after that, I
need to sleep."
    Rand's voice sounded like he'd already
entered dreamland. "Uh-huh."
    "Tomorrow, we get down to serious business,
so get some rest."
    "Food," Rand murmured.
    "We'll hit Stella's for
crawfish, jambalaya, and gumbo when we wake up."
    "Yum."
    In short order, Rand's
rhythmic breathing drifted around Frank. How he wished he could ditch the feeling of sick uncertainty from
his mind. Maybe he'd been a bit
serendipitous hauling Rand along so soon.
    He hadn't even met with the
parents or Sister Francoise to get a feel for the case, yet the nagging, sinister force hounded him, called
to him from beyond the grave. Damn, the
sooner he put order to what really happened to the missing boys, the better the chances of finding them. He
closed his eyes, mimicked Rand's somnolent breathing and soon all
the muscles in his body followed
suit.
     

Chapter Three
     
    Frank sent Rand uptown to
meet with Sister Francoise with a promise to meet him at a restaurant on Bourbon Street. Soon, Brent
and Charlie's parents would arrive in the
Courtyard with recent photos, a list of their favorite hangouts and their closest friends. Frank didn't
have a thing to tell them yet, but he sure
intended to listen to their version of what happened to their sons.
    However, right now, he
needed a shower. He dug in the bureau drawer and laid out clean
clothes on the bed—a black T-shirt and faded jeans. Upon entering the bathroom, he heard a knock on the
door, pivoted and walked across the room.
A look through the peephole showed an empty hallway. Certain someone had rapped, he shook his head.
Perhaps they had the wrong room and moved
on.
    He returned to the
bathroom, stripped down to his boxers, and turned the hot and cold faucets on. Another knock at the
door rose above the sound of water gushing
from the shower head.
    "Son of a bitch," he bit
out under his breath and headed for the door again.
    Rather than look through
the peep hole this time, he unlocked the dead bolt and yanked the
door open, didn't give a damn if the entire housekeeping staff stood on the other side.
    About to ask what the hell
they wanted, he saved his breath and realized he'd be talking to empty air. He glanced down the hallway in
both directions and a cold chill nipped
the back of his neck. Whoever had knocked didn't have time to make
it to the end of the corridor, and to his right, his gaze met a
dead- end wall.
    He closed the door with a
favorite cuss word and, for the third time, walked into a warm, steamy bathroom. Cutting his usual time
in the shower short, ten minutes later he stood in front of the
mirror and dressed.
    His eyes narrowed. Words
glared back at him in the mirror, backward words. Turning around, he lifted his eyes to the paneled
wall, acutely aware of his thundering heart.
    In solid, dark letters, the
words, You're dead, you're dead stared back at him.
Jesus, had someone knocked on the door and entered his room while
he showered? With his heart in his throat,
he wandered toward the door and reached for the knob, cranking it
right to left. Locked. Next he checked the deadbolt with a sinking feeling and realized it too remained
in place. He spun around, expecting to
encounter someone in the room. Behind the heavy curtains? Under the bed? Had he missed someone behind the
bathroom door?
    Frank tiptoed to the bed
and retrieved the Glock from underneath his pillow. With the gun in his hand, he lowered himself to the
floor and lifted the fancy, lace bed
skirt. Nothing. He rose and walked to the draperies,