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      For the Seventy-Niners plus two,

      adventurers all.

      We were three.

      We took our names for their meanings.

      Guido, the leader.

      Ulisse, the hater.

      Brizio, the craftsman.

      We were young and wild. We killed cheap. A trio of urban mercenaries.

      A game? Yes. A game of hide, seek and destroy. It eased the boredom while we waited for a purpose and no one ever knew; no one ever found out.

      Until Ulisse betrayed Brizio and Guido broke the pact. Guido found a conscience and confessed to another.

      Guido died a perfect death: slow agony, a traitor’s reward.

      Ulisse, ah Ulisse. He still plays the game of hide-and-seek, but waits patiently to destroy again, to avenge.

      I am Brizio the craftsman. My skill is sublime, the results perfect. I open like a surgeon, swift and sure, but I never close the wound.

      See them bleed.

      I might stop, but I am forced by Guido’s confessor to continue. This so-called man of honor blackmails me to kill for him.

      For now I enjoy playing his game.

      Excitement swells, beats beneath my skin. My beautiful knife is ready to cut again. Already I see the fear, the blood, hear the pleading, smell the fecund odors of terror.

      Kiss them goodbye.

      Chapter 1

       The first day

      Hay-ell. Saved by the bell, or the egg he guessed he should say, the golden egg. That big and unexpected dude had gotten itself laid in the nick of time, and right at the feet of Louis Martin, Attorney At Law, of New Orleans, Louisiana.

      Driving to Iberia, just about through Iberia until the parish all but ran out and melted into St. Martin Parish, wasn’t Louis’s idea of a good time, but he wanted to make this trip. He had good reasons, the best of reasons.

      There’d been a fire in the Patins’ famous New Orleans restaurant and David Patin—owner and the glue that held the business together—had died. Nobody guessed David had hidden huge losses and brought the business so low it would have to be sold. Except for Louis, who had known all about it.

      Louis rolled the driver’s window of his powder-blue Jag down a crack to let in a sideswipe of warm September afternoon air scented by the eucalyptus trees that arched over the roadway. To his left, Bayou Teche made its sluggish, slime-slicked way past banks where bleached cedars dripped Spanish moss.

      An okay place to visit, he guessed, but he belonged in the city and the minute he’d given David Patin’s widow, Charlotte, and their daughter Vivian the good news, he’d be heading east once more. East and New Orleans before nightfall. He would lock himself away with his memories and dreams. There would be even more to think about.

      His destination was Rosebank, the house David had inherited from his older brother, Guy, not more than a couple of weeks before his own death. Guy had planned to leave the property to a preservation society but changed his mind on his deathbed, possibly because he knew about his brother’s financial mess and wanted to help.

      Louis slowed to a crawl to drive through a village bleached and dried by sun and etched with moss. Aptly named, Stayed Behind had died but no one had thought to bury it yet.

      A general store with wide slat siding weathered to the color of bones, a scatter of single-storied houses, brown, gray, green, on blocks, their porches decorated with refrigerators, swings and dogs, and not a soul in sight. Louis itched to slap his foot down on the gas but figured that somewhere there were eyes watching and hoping he’d do just that. He surely didn’t see any way for the folks around here to bring in a little revenue other than from speeding tickets.

      Honeysuckle or jasmine—he’d never been too good at recognizing flowers—or some such cloying scent made him think of hot honey dropped from a spoon. Sweet, golden and sticky.

      He took a bite from the hamburger balanced on the passenger seat beside his briefcase and chased it with a clump of french fries.

      In what felt like seconds, Stayed Behind receded in his rearview mirror. There wouldn’t be another settlement before he got where he was going. Occasionally he caught glimpses of fine old plantation houses set back from the road and surrounded by mature gardens. Trees shaded most of them and if you looked quick enough, each facade might have been a black-and-white photo missing only the stair-step lineup of parents and children dressed in white and posing out front.

      The next perfumed attack was easy to recognize, roses, banks of white roses intended to be clipped into an undulating hedge but shaggy today. Louis slowed a little and leaned to peer over the wheel. The gold signet ring on his left pinky finger felt tight and he twisted it through a groove made by swelling. The heat made his head ache.

      Rosebank. Guy Patin’s shabby pride and joy sat on a deep five acres surrounded by hedges like this one. Charlotte and Vivian had told him they intended to make the place pay. Something about a hotel. He didn’t remember the details exactly because he had other things on his mind, like how he’d make sure Charlotte remained his client. After all, he couldn’t see how two women alone would turn a rambling old house into anything, particularly when they had no money to speak of. Although Charlotte had agreed to the first loan he’d arranged, she wouldn’t hear of taking another and the money was running out.

      But Guy’s treasure hunt had come to light exactly as the man had planned and the little ladies should have no financial difficulties once they secured their windfall. They’d have to find it—darn Guy’s perverse fascination with intrigue—but he had promised that the sealed instructions now in Louis’s briefcase would require only clear minds and perseverance to follow. The envelope, with a cover letter to Louis, had arrived from Guy’s lawyer two days previous. Apparently these would never have been revealed unless there was danger of Rosebank passing out of Patin hands. The lawyer had been left instructions to decide if this was ever the case and apparently took his duties seriously.

      White stone pillars topped with pineapple-shaped finials flanked the broad entrance. Louis swung past an ancient maroon station wagon, a Chevy, and onto the paved drive. He braced his arms against the steering wheel to ease his cramped back. The quack said Louis needed to lose God knew how much weight. Garbage. He might be softer than he used to be because he was too busy to work out, but it wouldn’t take so much to tighten up those muscles.

      Beneath the avenue of live oaks that framed the driveway, a tall figure walked toward him on the verge. He wore all black except for the white clerical collar visible at the throat of his short-sleeved shirt. Louis felt a pang of irritation at the man’s cool appearance. Then he remembered. The handsome face, dark curly hair and broad shoulders belonged to Father Cyrus Payne of St. Cécil’s Parish in Toussaint, a town just over the line between Iberia and St. Martin parishes. He’d been visiting Charlotte and Vivian the last