Dead on the Delta

Fourteen



I snatch my paper bag off the ground with a huff, suddenly angry. My chat with Cane has managed to do what repeated head trauma had not. I feel lousy. Completely, physically lousy. Achy and horrible and damaged. And worse, wide awake.

There’s no way my brain is going to shut down and let me “get some rest,” no matter how exhausted I am. I’ll be up all night, tossing around everything Cane said, the voices in my head arguing for and against the chances of Happy Ever After and then doing their best to convince me to pack my bags and leave town.

But I can’t leave. I have friends here, a review tomorrow, a Breeze operation to shut down, and a killer to help find.

Yep, good job with that so far. You forgot to tell him about Barbara and what Benny told you and—

“Whatever.” It’s not like Cane gave me the chance to tell him anything.

I fumble in the bag, stab two Restalin from their punch card, and shove them into my mouth. I dry-swallow as I stomp up the stairs and into the house, not bothering to kick my heel back to keep the screen door from slamming. Bernadette’s awake. I would swear I heard her blinds snick shut as Cane pulled away. By tomorrow afternoon the entire town will have heard the story of our lover’s spat and Cane’s sort-of proposal.

It was a proposal... I think. Or at least a strong hint that a proposal is around the bend. Despite his penchant for eating organic and avoiding technology, Cane isn’t hippie-rific enough to shack up and squeeze out a few puppies outside of wedlock. He’ll want a ring on my finger, the Cooper last name on my Social Security card, and a jointly filed tax return every April... which could be tricky.

Cane doesn’t know how much money I actually make. I mean, he knows FCC agents are paid well, but I don’t think he knows how well. I’ve always secretly wondered if he’d be bothered by the fact that I make more money than he does. Probably not. He’d probably take a look at my tax records—and the hundred-thousand-dollar per year donation to Sweet Haven—and think I’m a goddamned saint. Which I’m certainly not, which is why I make the donations anonymously. I don’t want anyone to think well of me for giving to those kids. I was one of those kids. Giving to Sweet Haven is like giving to myself. It’s a selfish act, because I’m largely a selfish person.

Why can’t Cane see that? Why does he have to love me and look at me with those sweet brown eyes and make me wonder if I’m something better than I’ve assumed?

I lock the door behind me, making a mental note to find my house key so I can start dead-bolting my doors when I leave the house until Donaldsonville feels safe again, and flick on the light. Inside, life seems shabbier than usual. The overstuffed yellow love seat and tiny, antique coffee table I filched from the junkyard sit smugly in the front room, confident they’ll never be traded in for furniture more conducive to a family of two or more. The pictures on the walls—surreal sketches of dead fairies pinned like butterflies that an old med-school friend drew for me before we lost touch—are macabre and inappropriate for children.

But that’s fine. I’ve never wanted children. I don’t want them now. But Cane... I want Cane. I do want him … don’t I?

Sure you do. That’s why you kissed Hitch like the world was on fire.

Ugh. No. I’m not going to do this right now. I’m too worn down to spend the night thinking about the past and Big Mistakes or the future and Big Decisions. I don’t like to think about those things even on the best of days.

I stalk through the living-room door, passing through the bedroom without sparing a glance for the rumpled sheets. Once inside the kitchen, I plunk my paper bag down on the scarred wooden table and cross to the fridge.

The door is full of a vast collection of condiments—mayonnaise, two kinds of mustard, three hot sauces of various scorch levels, and an entire shelf devoted to all things pickled. The large compartment, however, houses only a half-empty case of beer, three Cokes, and a couple of Marcy’s Tupperware containers. The Tupperware is empty, but I haven’t gotten around to washing or returning it. The containers crouch on the top shelf, festering, the remnants of home-cooked goodness turning toxic within.

Like my life, or my potential, or some other such analogy I could draw if I was in the mood.

Ugh. Blah. Blergh.

I reach for a beer.

I know I shouldn’t, a head injury and two Restalin are pushing things already, but I pop the top and chug while standing in front of the open fridge, letting the cool air soak through my scrubs and into my skin. By the time I finish the first and reach for the second, my core body temp feels normal for the first time all day.

It was a typical, late-August-in-Louisiana scorcher and it’s likely to be worse tomorrow. I have to get up and around early if I hope to be out in the bayou before the worst of the heat sets in. I don’t usually do early, but it seems like a good idea to start looking for those footprints as soon as possible. I can do a scope of the Breeze house while I’m out there, and take some pictures for the FBI’s evidence file. Some kissing up before my review with Stephanie can’t hurt my chances of getting off the hook for my past transgressions.

The last of my second beer sloshes into my tummy. I put the empty back in the case with the rest and think about looking for some pretzels in the pantry. Instead, I reach for my third, and slide to the floor in front of the fridge.

The third I drink more slowly, savoring the sharp taste of hops, the slight tang of orange rind, and the gradual dulling of the jagged edges of my mind. Alcohol is a sanding tool that leaves me shinier, glossier, better than I was before.

At least I feel better. After a couple Restalin and a few beers, nothing seems quite as scary. Hell, I could probably do motherhood as long as I stay buzzed for the first few years, until the kids learn not to eat electrical cords or toddle out into traffic. Too bad intoxication is frowned upon during pregnancy and the raising of small children.

Children. Babies. God.

I tip my cool brown bottle back and pour the liquid straight down my throat.

By the time I stand and close the refrigerator door, my knees are wobbling, making me think I may have underestimated my head injury. Normally, a few beers—even drunk in swift succession—and a couple of sleeping pills are barely enough to calm me down, let alone mess me up. But I bang my hip on the doorframe on my way to the bedroom and trip on the rug as I shuffle into the bath. Peeing is another adventure in body control as I wrestle with pants and underpants and paper and hands and fingers and all those little things that suddenly feel very big. And annoying. And stupid.

Sleep. I need sleep. And less light. The row of giant bulbs above the sink are killing me. I lift my eyes to the mirror. And cringe. There I am, heavy-lidded and slack-faced and obviously in less than stellar shape. Dark circles smudge the pale skin beneath my eyes and my pupils are pools of black that flood out the green.

Dilated pupils, a possible late-onset sign of a serious head injury, the wanna-be doctor within me chirps. You should call the ER.

Right. I should call the ER and tell them I popped two Restalin and had a few beers. And they’ll send an ambulance to drag me back to the hospital for observation, and probably a one-way ticket to some sort of twelve-step program.

So... you’re going to put your life at risk because you don’t want to look like you have a problem?

“I don’t have a problem,” I mumble to my reflection, then spit out my toothpaste, not sure whether to laugh or cry when the frothy glob lands on my hand.

Screw my reflection and the voice of reason. I’ll be fine, as soon as I get some sleep. My wonky pupils are probably just a sign that the fairy venom’s still working its way through my system. If I can just … sleep … oh, sweet elixir of sleep …

“Ahhh.” I sigh as I fall into bed, not even caring that the faint, spicy scent of Cane lingers on the sheets. It’s almost … comforting, like a part of him is still here with me. I’m not as alone as I feel right now. I have friends. I have … a cat.

I sniff, wishing I’d made the time to swing by and pick up Gimpy. It would be nice to hear his cranky yowl from the back porch. Or maybe I’d let him sleep at the end of the bed, with his blue cooler tucked in beside him.

God. I’m longing to sleep with a cat that hates my guts? What’s wrong with me?

I grumble something to myself that I can’t hear over the thub-thubing in my ears. My pulse has picked up, another bad sign that my heart is working too hard to adjust my blood pressure, but I ignore it and reach for my clock. I have to set my alarm. I’ve forgotten why, but there’s some reason I have to get up early and pretend I’m a fully functional human being.

I swipe at the clock, missing the glaring red numbers that announce it’s one in the morning—once, twice, three times. Grunting with frustration, I swing my hand out again. I swear I miss a fourth time, but it flies across the room, hitting the wall before sliding to the floor.

Blargh. I stumble out of bed, grab the clock, and am crawling back when I notice the blinking green light peeping on my landline’s base. A message. I didn’t think to check. No one ever calls my landline.

I force myself to aim my finger at the button on the phone.

“Annabelle, are you there? If you’re there, pick up. Please … pick up.” In the seconds of static-filled silence that follow, my brain connects the low, anxious voice to a face. Fernando. “Okay, so I guess you’re not there … Listen, I only get one phone call. I know you turn off your cell after five, but hopefully you’ll get this message sometime tonight. I’m at the police station. They’re acting like they’re going to hold me overnight.”

What? What what what? I fall on the bed and squeeze my eyes shut, willing my ears to suck less.

“They’ll have a bail verdict tomorrow morning,” he says, the utter seriousness in his tone leaving no doubt this isn’t a prank. “I could really use your help … arranging that. I … I just don’t know who else to call. I can’t believe this is happening.” He sucks in a deep breath and for a second I can see his face, see how close he is to losing his famous sense of humor. “Anyway, if you could come see about me in the morning, I’d appreciate it. I’m counting on you, slut.”

The last word makes me feel better. If he’s still calling names, he’ll be okay until morning. And it isn’t like the Donaldsonville jail is a hotbed of danger. Cane will—

Cane … damn. This was what he was talking about. That “thing” that could wait until morning if I “heard anything about it.” That bastard.

“And … be careful for me, will you?” Fernando speaks again, his voice not much more than a whisper. “Make sure your doors are locked. There are some bad people out running loose while the police are locking up minor offenders. See you tomorrow.”

Minor offenders? So he has done something illegal, but in typical Fern fashion he isn’t going to share the gossip over the phone.

The message beeps off, and a shiver passes over me, making the hair on my arms prickle. He’s right. There are bad people roaming around out there. I ran into two of them myself, and one might be a bad person that no one can see, no can stop...

I reach for the clock again, this time managing to slide the alarm button without knocking it to the floor. I roll onto my back with a sigh and close my eyes, blocking out the spin of the ceiling.

Surely that man isn’t really invisible. It was probably my head-injured eyes playing tricks on me. Or maybe he’s just really, really fast and stayed out of my line of sight.

Even the fairies, creatures that myths through the ages have imbued with a wide variety of magical powers, are animals like the rest of us. They glow and fly, but they aren’t magical. They don’t grant wishes or cast spells or put princesses to sleep for hundreds of years.

Sleep. Sigh … sleep...

Unconsciousness creeps upon me, sucking me down before I can worry any more about invisible predators or friends in trouble or the fact that I’ve ignored Fern’s warning and left my back door wide open.