An excerpt from Linda Castillo's stunning novel DEPTH PERCEPTION:

“Let the dead Past bury its dead.”--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Chapter 1

Nick Bastille stepped off the Greyhound bus, hefted the duffel onto his
shoulder and pulled in a deep breath of air that reeked of stagnant water,
sun-baked foliage and day old armadillo road kill. He’d been breathing free
air for three hours and fourteen minutes, and no matter how badly it stank,
he still couldn’t get enough into his lungs.

The October sun beat down on him like a hot cast iron skillet as he started
down the narrow stretch of asphalt. His shirt clung wetly to his back, but
he barely noticed the Louisiana heat mingling with the stench of his own
sweat. Returning to Bellerose after eighteen years was like entering a time
warp and traveling back in time.

The gas station out on Parish Road 53 still had only one full service pump
that didn’t accept credit cards. Old man Pelletier still grew cotton and
sugar cane and drove that rusty old John Deere tractor. The shotgun shacks
that sprang out of the mud like cattails on the south side of town were
still just a nail or two away from sliding into the black water of the bayou
with the alligators and water moccasins.

But while the town of Bellerose hadn’t changed, its wayward son had.
Eighteen years ago an ambitious and idealistic Nick had left this muddy
little hellhole for the dazzle of New Orleans and the promise of a better
life. At seventeen, he’d been on a mission to conquer the world and willing
to take on any army to do it. He might have been born the son of a cotton
farmer, but Fate had cursed him with a proclivity for big dreams. He’d been
just enough of a gambler to pursue those dreams with the blind ambition of a
reckless fool.

But Nick had soon learned that Fate was a fickle bitch with a penchant for
cruelty and little compassion for ambitious young fools. He’d learned that
dreams didn’t come without a price. That hard work and a willingness to go
the distance weren’t always enough. That love was a fallacy and trust was
an illusion believed only by those who were too naïve to see the truth.
In the end his dream had cost him six years of his life. Six hellish years
that had ripped the last of his humanity from his soul. It should have
bothered him that he was no longer even human enough to mourn its loss. But
he’d long since stopped grieving over things that could never be
resurrected.

Now, Bellerose’s farm-boy-turned-restaurateur had nothing to his name but
the clothes on his back and a hundred dollars in the pockets of his prison
issue trousers. Standing in the hot Louisiana sun with the smell of swamp
mud in his nostrils and a thousand regrets in his heart, he found the irony
as black and endless as the bayou itself.

At the edge of town, where the cattails and alligator grass met the crushed
shell road, he stopped outside the not-so-august portals of The Blue Gator,
Bellerose’s only drinking establishment. Eighteen years ago, the place had
been an escape from the endless work of the farm and the heavy hand of his
father. A place to dream and dazzle the pretty women who drove in from all
over rural St. Tammany Parish. Back then, the one story clapboard structure
hadn’t seemed quite so derelict.

But The Blue Gator was as dilapidated as a place could be and still be
standing. The front porch drooped like a sway back nag. The weathered wood
was as warped and gray as sun bleached bones. The neon beer on tap sign
looked incongruous behind the smeared glass of the single ancient window.
It was the kind of place that wouldn’t last a week in New Orleans, where the
health inspectors made it their mission in life to hassle restaurant and bar
owners, and maybe even make a little cash on the side from the ones who
could afford to avoid the aggravation of citations. But The Blue Gator was
exactly the kind of place that wouldn’t think twice about hiring an ex-con.

Holding that thought, Nick swung open the door and entered the dimly lit
interior. The bar reeked of spilt whiskey, old cigarette smoke and the
musty redolence of rotting wood. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the semi
darkness, and he was surprised by the quick jolt of familiarity. The same
dented jukebox huddled against the wall next to the men’s room door. A
battered pool table sat at the rear of the room, its green felt surface
scarred by decades of misuse and cigarette burns. Mike Pequinot, a man he’d
gone to high school with a lifetime ago, stood behind the bar with a broom
in his hand. Pequinot was an ex-biker with a fondness for Harley Davidsons,
blondes in black leather and Saturday night specials—as long as the serial
number was filed off. He’d lost a leg in a motorcycle accident right before
Nick left for New Orleans. He’d never bothered with a prosthesis, but it
didn’t look like the missing limb had slowed him down.

Pequinot stopped sweeping and looked at Nick. “Mais, gardez dont sa.”
Well, just look at that. He said the words in fluent Cajun French. “If it
ain’t my favorite con.”

“Ex-con,” Nick corrected and walked to the bar. “Il n’a in bon boute.” It
’s been a good while.

“When did you get sprung?”

“Cet avant midi.” This morning.

Leaning on the broom, Pequinot turned and snagged two shot glasses and a
bottle of dark rum from the shelf. The good stuff he saved for special
occasions. He set the glasses on the bar and proceeded to break the seal
and pour.

“I’ve been saving this for you, Nicky.” Pequinot’s biceps were the size of
cypress trunks and just as hard. His brown hair was receding slightly, but
he’d slicked it back and pulled it into a neat ponytail that reached halfway
down his back. He wore a black leather vest with silver studs, faded blue
jeans with a big silver buckle and steel-toed biker boots.

“Welcome back to bumfuck, my man.” He slid a shot glass to Nick. “This one
’s on the house.”

Nick looked down at the glass. “I’m on parole, Mike.”

“Fuck the Louisiana Department of Corrections. I sure as hell ain’t going
to tell them.”

Nick didn’t mention that he would be driving down to New Orleans to piss in
a cup once a week for the next five years. But he knew that by the time
next week rolled around, the alcohol would be long gone from his system, so
he picked up the glass. “To new beginnings.”

“And old friends.” Pequinot downed the double in one swallow.

Nick did the same, shuddering when the rum burned all the way to his belly.
He watched a heavy set woman in tight jeans and a black halter top feed
quarters into the juke box. An instant later, an old Stevie Ray Vaughn song
blared from mammoth speakers situated on either side of the bar.

“That your wife?” Nick asked.

“Rita.” Pequinot refilled his glass. “We tied the knot last year. She’s
mean as a hornet, but keeps me out of trouble.”

Not wanting to get into the subject of wives and trouble, Nick didn’t
comment. “You seen Dutch around?” he asked, referring to his father.

“He doesn’t come in much anymore. I saw him at the diner last week.”
Pequinot grimaced. “Damn shame about the Alzheimer’s.”

“Knowing Dutch, I imagine he’s taking it pretty hard.”

Pequinot shot him a questioning look. “He keep in touch with you? Drive up
to see you?”

Nick shook his head. “I told him not to,” he lied.

Stevie Ray Vaughn yielded to a lively Zydeco number and with the alcohol
beginning to hum through his veins and the music pounding in his ears, the
place didn’t seem quite so derelict, his life not quite so bleak.

“I see that ex-wife of yours around plenty, though.”

Because Nick didn’t want to talk about Tanya, he shrugged. “We’re
divorced.”

“Never should have married that one, Nicky. Pretty and crazy. That’s a bad
combination.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say about hindsight.” Nick considered
himself an expert on the subject.

“Divorcing you like that. It’s a fucked up thing to do to a guy when he’s
doin’ time.”

Because the divorce had had nothing to do with his being incarcerated, Nick
looked away. “It was a mutual thing, Mike.”

Nick had spent four years of his life married to Tanya Chantal. Back then,
she’d been a pretty farm girl caught up in an abusive relationship. Like
some lovesick fool, Nick had rushed in to save her. The consummate rescuer,
he’d fought for her and won. In the end, he’d confused lust with love and
it had cost him more than he could ever have imagined.

“She’s in here just about every night, getting shit faced and handing it out
to whoever wants it. I swear to Christ, I’d rather stick my dick in a
Tasmanian devil. She’s fucking nuts. Been on a downward spiral ever
since—” Pequinot cut his words short, looked down at the scarred surface
of the bar. “Le Bon Dieu mait la main.” God help.

Nick tried not to react, but he felt the recoil deep inside. He tried to
cover it by sliding his glass across the bar for a refill. But his hand was
shaking.

It had been two years since Nick’s son drowned, but the grief still cut.
Some days it cut so deep, he thought he might just bleed out and die.

“Look,” Pequinot began, refilling his glass, “six years is a long time for a
man to be without a woman. I can set you up. On the house for you . . .”

Though the idea of sex appealed greatly, Nick figured the last thing he
needed in his life was a woman. Especially a hooker—on the house or not.
He was smart enough to know when he was better off alone, and this just
happened to be one of those times.

“I was actually wondering about the job, Mike. I saw the Help Wanted sign
out front.” He rolled his shoulder. “I thought I might apply.”

Pequinot looked amused. “This dump’s a far cry from that highfalutin place
you had yourself down in the Big Easy.”

“Highfalutin is overrated.” Nick grinned, but it felt tight on his face, as
if his facial muscles no longer remembered how. “Alcohol’s the same no
matter what kind of glass you serve it in.”

“You want the job, it’s yours.”

Relief shuddered through Nick. Once upon a time he would have laughed at
the notion of working in a dive like The Blue Gator. Funny what a little
desperation did to a man’s pride. “Thanks . . .”

Pequinot waved off his gratitude. “I figured you’d want to spend some time
getting the farm back into shape. I hear Dutch has pretty much let
everything go to shit.”

“I’ll work the farm during the day.” Nick finished the last of the rum and
picked up his duffel. “Spend my nights here.”

“Ain’t you going to ask me how much the job pays?”

Nick shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. When do I start?”

“How about tomorrow night? We do a good business on Fridays. Shift at the
mill ends at four o’clock. Guys come in thirsty. I’ll need you till we
close at one A.M.”

“I’ll be here.”

Pequinot stuck out his hand. “Welcome home, Nicky.”

Nick shook the other man’s hand. “Thanks,” he said and wished like hell he
could say he was glad to be back.

* * *

Nat Jennings was going to have to stop for gas. The mustang had been
running on fumes for the last twenty miles. She’d planned on stopping at
the Citgo station on the highway only to find the windows boarded up, the
pumps gone and knee-high weeds sticking out of the concrete. Now, unless
she wanted to backtrack all the way to the interstate, she was going to have
to fill up in Bellerose.

“So much for anonymity,” she muttered as she drove slowly down Main Street,
past the courthouse on the square, Boudreaux’s Corner Drug Store and Jenny
Lee’s Five and Dime.

She tried hard not to notice the double takes and shocked expressions of the
people who recognized her. But then she’d known before ever coming back
that the upstanding citizens of Bellerose had long memories when it came to
murder.

Ray’s Sunoco was located on the bayou side of town. The service station had
only one pump and hadn’t yet made the technological quantum leap of
accepting credit cards. Nat slid out of the car, careful to keep her back
to the highway, and pumped the gas in record time.

Once the tank was full, she grabbed her purse and went inside to pay. A
teenaged boy wearing a dirty work shirt and a sour expression sat behind the
counter, eyeing her with unconcealed curiosity. A pregnant woman in a
bright green maternity top was eyeballing the candy bar display.

Nat smiled at the boy. “Take a check?”

“’Slong as you have a driver’s license.”

Tugging her checkbook from her bag, she crossed to the counter.

“Sixteen fifty-three,” he said.

Nat began making out the check. She could hear the low hum of the RC Cola
machine out front. The hiss of the occasional car as it passed on the
highway. Behind the counter, wooden shelves with peeling white paint
displayed cans of 10 W 40 motor oil and filters and various sizes of engine
belts. One of the cans was rattling, blending with the buzz of a fly
trapped against the window.

The dizziness struck her like a sledgehammer. Too late she realized the
buzzing wasn’t from the soda machine or the can of oil or even the fly in
the window. The high frequency hum was inside her head, as powerful as a
jet engine, the vibrations jolting her body all the way to her bones. Dread
and alarm coiled inside her as the warm shock of energy penetrated her
brain. Sensations and thoughts and images flew at her in dark, undulating
waves.

Dear God, not now, was all she could think.

She tried to finish writing the check, but her hand fumbled the pen. Her
arms drooped as if they were paralyzed. It was a terrifying sensation, to
be trapped inside her own body and unable to control her limbs. She was
aware of her left hand grappling for the pen. Her nails cutting into her
palm. Her knuckles going white as her hand swept across the check.

“Lady, are you okay?”

She heard the words as if from a great distance. Vaguely, she was aware of
the boy looking at her strangely. She wanted to answer, to reassure him
that she was fine. But the breath had been sucked from her lungs. Words
and thoughts tumbled disjointedly inside her head. She tried to focus, but
his face kept fading in and out of her vision.

An instant later her legs buckled. Her knees hit the floor with a hollow
thump!

“Oh, good Lord!”

Nat heard alarm in the pregnant woman’s voice. She heard the shuffle of
shoes against the floor. Felt a gentle hand against her shoulder. “Honey,
are you all right?”

Slowly, she became aware of cool wood against her cheek. She was lying on
her side, still gripping the pen. She wanted to get up, but she was dizzy
and disoriented and an inch away from throwing up all over the woman’s
Nikes.

“Ma’am, are you sick?” came the boy’s voice.

Bracing her hand against the floor, Nat pushed herself to a sitting
position, and shoved her hair from her face. “I’m okay,” she heard herself
say.

Her checkbook lay on the floor next to her. She picked it up, saw that her
hand was trembling violently.

“You need me to call Doc Ratcliffe for you?” the woman asked.

Nat shook her head. “I’m fine. Really, I just . . . got a little dizzy.”

Shaken and embarrassed, she rose unsteadily and brushed at her
jeans. The vibrations had quieted, but her thoughts remained fuzzy and
disjointed. She felt as if she’d just stumbled off some wild amusement park
ride and had yet to regain her equilibrium. She glanced at the boy behind
the counter to see him staring fixedly at the check, his expression
perplexed.

“What’s that?” he asked.

bad man took ricky. kill again. hurry.

Gasping, Nat snatched the check off the counter. “Nothing,” she muttered.

The woman shot her a wary look. “It said something about killing.”

Unwilling to explain—not sure she could even if she knew what to say—Nat
shook her head. “I just . . . must have gotten confused for a second, right
before I blacked out.” She tried to smile, but was too shaken to manage.
“I have epilepsy.”

“Oh.” But the woman didn’t look appeased.

Nat knew it the instant the woman recognized her. Her eyes widened, then
she took a step back, as if she’d ventured too close to something dangerous.
“You’re Nat Jennings.”

Sliding the ruined check into the pocket of her jeans, Nat began writing a
second one. She had wanted anonymity for her return home. She should have
known that was the one luxury she would never afford in a town the size of B
ellerose. “That’s right,” she said.

The clerk and the pregnant woman exchanged startled looks. Nat did her best
to ignore them, but her hand was shaking when she tore off the check and
handed it to the clerk. “Thanks for the gas.”

“If I’da known who you was, I never would have let you pump here,” the clerk
muttered.

“Yeah, well, it’s too late to do anything about it now.” Nat started toward
the door.

“Bitch,” he said to her back.

Nat felt the word as keenly as if he’d thrown a rock at her. She’d known
her return would be met with hostility. But she wasn’t going to let that
keep her from doing what she’d come here to do. She’d waited three
unbearable years for this moment.

Once in her car, she pulled the note from her pocket and read it again.

bad man took ricky. kill again. hurry.

A chill passed through her as she studied the child-like scrawl. Aside from
seeing that justice was done, there was nothing she could do for the ones
who were already gone. Nat knew all too well that the dead could not be
resurrected. But if she could prevent the death of a single child, whatever
she faced in the coming days would be worth it.

Staring at the note, she set a trembling finger beneath the words.

kill agin.

“Not if I can help it you son of a bitch,” she whispered and jammed the car
into gear.