a cell. But[RG6] he might as well have declared his guilt, as far as the sheriff was concerned. And his hands were still cuffed. What the hell was he going to do about that, out in the wilderness where a man needed a fighting chance against the dangers lurking on all sides?
Chapter Thirteen
Morgan went back to her room and put on a clean shirt, thinking that she could go into town and make it clear that she was supporting Andre—even if that wouldn’t do her much good until Dan Cassidy arrived.
She had just reached the front hall, when the sound of cars roaring up the driveway made her whole body go rigid. The sheriff and the angry men had left ten minutes ago. Now what was happening?
Quickly she threw open the front door.
She goggled when she saw the police car was back, then allowed herself to feel a spurt of hope. Maybe Sheriff Jarvis was finally admitting that he’d made mistake, and he was bringing Andre home.
When she saw the pickup truck with the Brevards trailing along behind him, she was more confused than ever. Her heart was pounding as she ran down the steps and looked into the back seat of the cruiser. It was empty.
As she came down the curving staircase and stared at the place where Andre had been sitting, a feeling of sick panic rose in her throat.
“What happened?” she gasped out. “Where’s Andre?”
“The bastard escaped.” Jarvis answered.
“Oh, God. How?”
“Assaulting a police officer,” Jarvis snapped.
She stared at him. “You mean—you?”
“Who the hell else?” he snapped.
She shook her head in denial. Andre was too logical, too disciplined for that. “He couldn’t have.”
The Brevards joined the sheriff in the driveway. “Maybe you don’t think so, but we saw it. He kicked Sheriff Jarvis in the stomach. Then went tear-assing into the swamp. It that don’t prove he’s guilty, nothin’ does.”
“He’s not,” she whispered, trying to figure out what had happened. All she knew was that Andre must have been desperate. Or getting arrested had driven him over the edge. Had the sheriff threatened him? She stared at the man. His face was red, his trooper pants were streaked with mud, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes, but she couldn’t be sure what any of that proved.
As she stood there wondering what to do, the man brushed past her and climbed one of the curving staircases, then yanked open the front door without bothering to knock. Janet dashed into the front hall.
“What are you doing back here?” she gasped out.
“Looking for a fugitive.”
“Who?”
“Gascon. Your employer has escaped.”
Janet’s eyes shot to Morgan for confirmation. She nodded even as Jarvis clumped across the front hall and started up the stairs.
The Brevards charged up the exterior steps and toward the door. Janet blocked their way. “You trash, hold it right there. You have no call to come in here,” she shouted and slammed the door in their faces.
Morgan could hear them cursing on the front landing as she and Janet trailed the sheriff to the second floor of the house. He began striding down the hall, opening doors as though he was the master of the plantation.
“You can’t do that! You don’t have a search warrant,” Morgan called after him.
His pace didn’t slacken. “I don’t need a search warrant. Like I said, I’m in hot pursuit of a fugitive from justice.”
That might be technically true. But the police cruiser had driven out of sight. Did Jarvis really think Andre had mucked his way through the swamp and back here faster than a car and truck could drive?
That wasn’t logical. But apparently the sheriff was using the opportunity to do some snooping around. When he got to her room, he threw open the door, then stood staring at the tangled sheets before looking back at her. She wanted to tell him that what had happened in the bedroom was none of his business. Instead she kept her hands at her sides.
“Touch any of my personal things, and you’ll hear from my lawyer,” she growled.
He stopped in the act of reaching for the lid of the suitcase that sat on a low table, then brushed past her and continued down the hall, opening more doors—into bedrooms that Morgan hadn’t seen.
All of the rooms were beautifully furnished, as though someone had enjoyed decorating each in an old-world style. But most were impersonal, as though they were waiting for someone to inhabit them.
Two rooms were different. One appeared to belong to a woman. An antique mirror