Dead on the Delta

Twenty-seven

Three and a half weeks later …

September is a sweaty, sticky, summer month in the Deep South. Days creep by, the heat a drug that boils your brain and leaves you too spent to do anything not absolutely necessary to life.

But September nights … The nights can be downright glorious.

Cane and I linger under the shade tree where a few rare fireflies drift in and out of the gathering darkness. A late summer wind whips down the street, carrying the smell of magnolia, the screams of the neighborhood kids riding their bikes, and the songs of the Junkyard Kings, something bluesy about the women who’ve done them wrong. As if any of them has touched a woman in the past decade. But the song is nice. More than nice. It’s a lovely evening, one that will come damned close to perfect if Cane lets me convince him to stay.

“Come on, you’re off duty in ten minutes.” I want to flick open the snaps at the top of his uniform shirt, but keep my hands at my sides. We’ve been out to dinner a few times since that day at Camellia Grove, but physically we’re on a “time out” until I decide things that are too big for me to decide right now. “I made a pitcher of mojitos, and Fern’s pouring three glasses.”

“No. I don’t want to interrupt your girl talk.”

“You won’t. We can girl-talk with you here. And Fern’s not mad at you anymore.”

Cane grunts as if he doesn’t quite believe me. “That’s forgiving of him.”

“He’s a forgiving guy. And he knows you were led astray.” I shift closer, nudging his hip with mine. “So stay. Have a drink on the porch.” I figure my best course of action is to get Cane drunk enough that he forgets about happily ever after and focuses on happy for now.

So far, he’s having none of it.

“I’ve gotta get to the shuttle,” Cane says. “I told Mama I’d head into Baton Rouge and grab a few things she can’t get here in town. You need anything while I’m there?”

I shake my head. Screw Baton Rouge. I haven’t been there since the FCC—cough, Jin-Sang, the ass—suspended me for a month.

Despite Stephanie’s recommendation that I be reinstated, I’m still on the not-fit-to-scoop-poop list. But whatever. It’s probably for the best. The bayou has been wild the past few weeks, with immune teams from Keesler raiding Breeze houses and collecting people from the swamp like crazy. Including Skanky, who I could barely keep from hugging when I saw her alive.

But I didn’t hug her. And I didn’t confirm any of her nutsy stories about the invisible people really running her Breeze operation, either. Cane didn’t believe her, of course. No one did. Just like no one would believe me if I was stupid enough to open my mouth about Tucker and the Big Man. Everyone else thinks the Big Man is just a garden-variety bad guy.

The footprints outside Grace’s window and the footprints of the man who attacked me were an exact match. I know now that the Big Man was probably watching over Grace, trying to keep her safe from her own family, but there’s no way I can tell the police that, either.

Stephanie is the only other person who’s not seen the Big Man—Fernando dealt solely with Amity for his Breeze, and Amity isn’t doing much talking about invisible people or anything else from the camp at Keesler. I’d briefly considered e-mailing Stephanie about it, but decided it was best to let it go. She must have convinced herself there’s another explanation. Just like there’s another explanation for how her lung reestablished pressure by the time Hitch and the DPD broke into the big house and found us down in the basement. There’d certainly been nothing about invisible people or regenerative powers in her report, though she did mention seeing me swollen from an allergic reaction caused by Libby’s would-be killer shrimp muffins.

An allergic reaction I don’t have anymore. I’ve had crawfish three times this week alone. It’s as yummy as it always smelled.

“Maybe some frozen crawfish tails?” I ask, realizing I’m running low. “If you have room in your cooler.”

“I’ve got room,” Cane says, brow furrowing in a way that makes me want to smooth my fingers across his scruffy head. I miss his head. I miss a lot of things about him. “But are you sure it’s smart to keep eating those things? What if your allergy comes back?”

“It won’t.”

“Seems dangerous to me.”

“What can I say? I’m wild and untamed.”

Cane laughs and threads his fingers through mine. “Tell me about it.”

And suddenly we’re not talking about crawfish anymore, we’re talking about us, but it’s … okay. There’s no anger in his voice, just that same patient, persistent affection. He’ll wait. At least for a little longer. Maybe a lot longer. When he leans down to kiss me, pressing those soft, full lips to mine, I can feel how deep his feelings run. Cane’s love is a still, quiet pool that I could dive into and maybe never touch bottom.

As my lips move against his and my breath grows faster, I wonder if maybe I should jump, just dive in and trust that I can learn to be all the things he needs me to be.

“Have a good night, Lee-lee,” he whispers, and presses one last kiss to my forehead.

“You too,” I say, heart tugging in my chest as he slips into his cruiser. “Tell your mom ‘hi’ for me.”

He smiles, his dark eyes sparkling in the fading light. “Will do. See you Sunday.”

“Sunday.” I wave goodbye until he disappears down the street before turning back to the house. Fern slams out the screen door a second later, confirming that he’s been watching me and Cane, waiting for a good moment to interrupt. Still, he knows better than to say anything about Cane’s departure.

“You sure you don’t have some Cuban in you?” he asks, swirling the icy drinks in his hand as he bounces down the porch steps. He doesn’t look too bummed that there’ll only be two drinking tonight. Maybe he hasn’t forgiven Cane as completely as he insists. “Because these are amazing.”

Or maybe he’s just glad there will more mojitos for us.

He hands me my drink and claims the hammock, leaving me the plastic folding chair. I flop into it just as another strong breeze sweeps through the front yard, making the leaves whisper. It really is a lovely evening, one of many I’ve had in the past few weeks filled with drawn-out sittin’ sessions in the yard with Fernando or Theresa and her sisters or Bernadette, who’s finally stopped listening at the window and joined the world. Since the afternoon I borrowed her car we’ve been driving in her convertible six or seven times.

I find driving therapeutic and Bernadette unexpectedly charming. She’s no Marcy, but I enjoy her stories of Donaldsonville in its prime, of days when the river carried an endless stream of fascinating people to our town. In the time before the dam, and the poverty, and the crime, and the fairies.

Always the fairies.

They come to me almost every night now, filling my dreams with their strange language that—in my crazier moments—I swear I can understand. I do my best to ignore them. For now. I need time. To rest, to recover, to make sense of the impossible things that happened in the darkness beneath Camellia Grove.

“This mojito tastes exactly like what Granny used to slip in my sippy cup.” Fern sighs and smacks his lips. “Exactly. You’re hiding a spic in that family tree of yours, I’d put money on it.”

“Nope. No spic. Just Irish and more Irish and a couple of cousin-lovers way back.” I take a slow pull on my drink, relishing the perfect mix of lime and cane sugar. It is a damned fine mojito, if I do say so myself. I love the way the rum lurks beneath the rest of the drink, secretive and so easily underestimated until it swirls through your head with a sudden one-two punch.

Ahh … sweet punch. So nice. So very nice. I’m so glad the only thing I’m good at quitting is quitting itself.

I lasted a day and a half without liquor, until Hitch called from the hospital in New Orleans to assure me that Stephanie and the baby were going to be fine. He sounded so happy. So … complete. I decided I just had to help him celebrate with a shot or seven of Jack Daniel’s and a long cry in the shower. The next day, I bought some beer and other sundry supplies and continued with business as usual.

“You know you can’t say that word, right? Only Hispanic people can reclaim that shit. You’re going to have to stick with reclaiming ‘slut,’ “ Fern says, but the joke falls flat.

We’re still recovering from our brief falling-out after he was released from prison, when I wasn’t sure I could forgive him for the lies and the Breeze. In the end, I had no choice. With Marcy gone and Cane and I still on the fence while I decide if I’m ready to Commit, I’ve been in dire need of companionship.

Besides, I’ve hardly been a slut lately. Aside from a few graphic dreams, I’ve been a nun. A lonely nun. A nun who’s realized the reason she can’t promise forever to the second man she ever loved is because she never really fell out of love with the first. Of course, it’s far too late to do anything about that. Too late to tell the truths I held back, too late to show Hitch I’m still the girl he thought I was … deep down.

“Thinking about him?” Fern asks, humor leaving his tone.

“No,” I lie.

“Good, he’s not worth it.”

We both know which “he” he’s talking about, and it isn’t the tall, dark, and handsome cop who just drove away. It’s the man with the fiancée and the baby due in February, who I’ll probably never see again now that Grace’s murder is solved and the Breeze houses near Donaldsonville dismantled.

I know I should forget about him, pretend he’s dead and buried, but I can’t. He comes to me in my dreams, too—sometimes angry, sometimes laughing like we never lost each other. The happy Hitch dreams are the worst. Those are the ones that make me wake up in physical pain, aching all over for what could have been. Sometimes, on those nights, I reach for the phone and dial, needing to talk to Marcy so badly that I forget she’s not going to pick up.

Marcy doesn’t seem to be coming back, despite the fact that no charges were filed and most people assume she’s away caring for a sick relative. That’s the story she fed Regina, the woman who took over for her at Blessed Hands. That’s also the story I fed Deedee when she ran away from Sweet Haven. She showed up at my place in the middle of the night last week, begging me to call Marcy and ask her if she’d adopt her.

“Sorry, honey, I don’t have her number and her … aunt is really sick,” I said, hating the lie and the fact that I couldn’t listen to that voice inside that said maybe I could take care of Deedee … maybe just for a little while … until Marcy gets back …

“Gotta take a piss. You want me to go for you?” Fern rolls off the hammock with one smooth movement, keeping his empty glass perfectly balanced in one hand.

“No, but get me a refill on your way out.” I hand him my cup and squirm my bare feet deeper into the grass. It’s nice to have grass. I’m glad I let Bernadette convince me to lay sod.

Now if I can keep it alive, we’ll see about other, larger, more delicate things, like a child whose mother’s death I feel responsible for, even though it wasn’t my fault. Really. At least not entirely.

“More ice?”

“No, just booze,” I say.

Fern laughs and disappears into the house. The screen door smacks closed behind him, leaving me alone for the first time since I fetched my mail and the blue envelope with my name on it from my box. I didn’t want to open it in front of Cane or Fernando … just in case … in case it’s something more menacing than its innocuous color suggests.

After a quick look over my shoulder, I pull the square from my back pocket and open it, my stomach knotting when I see what’s written inside.

9. 12. 2. 3.

That’s it. Just four numbers, separated by firm, black dots. It’s … weird. Ugh. I’ve had enough weird for one summer.

Good thing it’s nearly fall. Another season, another reason, for makin’ weird.

“That’s whoopee,” I say aloud.

“Talking to yourself again?” a familiar voice asks, making my head snap up.

There he is. The man I would have sworn I’d never see again, standing on the sidewalk in front of Bernadette’s. He’s snuck up on me, footsteps hidden by the sound of children’s laughter and the blues.

“I’m good company.” I shrug, playing it cool, like Hitch pops up from New Orleans for a visit all the time, like I’m not wishing he’d shown up a few minutes earlier when Cane was here. Of course, it wouldn’t have really mattered if he had. Hitch has a fiancée and a life. He wouldn’t be jealous that I might be on my way to having the same. The fact that I’m even thinking about jealousy is only a sign of my own patheticness.

The thought makes my forehead wrinkle. “What are you doing here?”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. No gel this time, just curls throwing a fuzz party all over his head. “That … is an excellent question.”

“I’m full of them.” I stand, shoving the envelope in my back pocket, refusing to acknowledge the quickening of my heart.

He hasn’t come here to tell me he’s left Stephanie and their unborn baby and rushed back to reclaim our long-dead-and-started-to-rot-and-stink love. There’s some other reason, some good reason that he’s standing here in a beat-up Barenaked Ladies T-shirt and a torn pair of jeans, looking so much like his old self that it’s all I can do not to give him a hug.

“I’m here on business,” he finally says, the words sounding like a lie.

“Hmm. Where’s your suit?”

“Personal business.”

“Oh … okay.” Oh. God. Could it … it can’t … but what if … what if …

“Possibly illegal business,” he continues with a nervous grin. “That could get me fired. Or put in jail.”

“Oh.” My foolish hopes crash and burn.

“So I figured … since you still had some time before you head back to work … ” He shuffles closer, onto my new grass, until I can smell his Hitch smell. “I thought maybe you’d want to help.”

“With the illegal business that could get you fired or put in jail?”

“And you fired and put in jail, too. Of course.”

“Of course,” I say, the yucky feeling in my stomach fading. He’s here to ask for my help. Doing something illegal. It’s way more flattering than it should be. “Are you going to tell me anything more specific?”

“A man I worked with was part of the task force that tracked down the locations of the Breeze houses around Donaldsonville.” He runs his hand through his wild hair a second time and swallows. When he speaks again, his voice is hushed. “Two days ago he was murdered.”

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

“But before he died, he sent me a package.” Hitch stares at my new sod, obviously not wanting to talk about his friend’s death. They must have been close for him to be so upset. “He found something else while he was out in the bayou, something someone didn’t want him talking about.”

“What was it?”

“The entrance to a cave,” he says. “And several former FBI employees going into the cave with captives and coming out alone. He took some pictures and did some digging beyond his clearance level in the FBI database, and found out two of the people used to work in chemical weapons development.”

Wow. “So … he hacked into the FBI’s computer, and—”

“And fourteen hours later, he was dead.”

Oh. Shit. “So you’re thinking … ” I let out a long breath. “If it was someone in the FBI, you’re risking a lot more than getting fired, Hitch. If whoever killed your friend finds out you’re looking into this, they could decide you need to die, too.” And anyone who’s helping him would likely share the same fate. Hitch is asking me to risk my life.

He nods, and gives me a look that says he’ll understand if I have to tell him no.

“What about Stephanie? Does she—”

“Stephanie knows I have to do this,” Hitch says, a bite in his tone that assures me Stephanie is a subject he would prefer remained off-limits. Fine with me. It’s easier to pretend she doesn’t exist if I never speak her name. “So … ” He steps closer, nudges my bare foot with the toe of his tennis shoe, an action that sends electricity skittering across my skin. “What do you think?”

What do I think? I think it sounds like possible suicide. But it also sounds noble and important and Agent of Justice-y. And there’s a chance I can keep Hitch safe. I saved my life and Stephanie’s life, and so far my new “powers” seem to be going strong. I haven’t had the chance to inflate any lungs lately, but I’ve been practicing moving things around the house with my mind. Usually when I’m drunk enough not to be freaked out by seeing the contents of my fruit basket float across the kitchen. I’ve gotten better; able to manipulate matter without getting angry the way I had to at first.

I haven’t had any contact with Tucker or the Big Man and I’m still not sure what’s happening to me, but I know I can be useful to Hitch. And then there’s the staggering knowledge that he thinks I can be useful, too—or he wouldn’t be here. That feels pretty damned good considering he branded me a Drunk Waste of Brain a month ago.

Besides, helping Hitch is certainly a better use of my time than sitting around drinking with Fern, worrying about invisible people, and waiting to go back to scooping poop.

“Absolutely. Sounds like fun,” I say. “When do we start?”

“You’re sure? You understand that—”

“I understand.” I meet his tired eyes and nod. “I want to help.”

The relief and gratitude in his expression light me up from the inside, and I know in that moment that I would risk my life half a dozen times to see that look on his face again. “Good,” he says. “I’ll meet you at Swallows at seven tomorrow morning?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Make it nine.”

“Eight,” he says with a grin.

“Nine,” I counter, trying to ignore the vaguely sexual vibe weaving through the air between us.

“Eight-thirty.”

“If I’m going to end up in jail or dead, I want a good night’s sleep first,” I say. “Nine. Take it or leave it.”

“Okay. Nine.” His grin becomes a dimpled smile that makes my foolish heart want to throw itself into the blue sea of his eyes and drown. “See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow … ” I watch him turn to go, resisting the urge to see if his butt still look as fantastic as it once had in that beat-up pair of jeans. “Hitch?”

“Hm?” He turns back, an almost shy glance over his shoulder.

“Thanks for …” Thanks for what? For coming back? For smiling at me? For asking me to risk my life for something important? For trusting me? For maybe, just maybe, considering me a friend? “Thanks for … thinking of me.”

“I think of you all the time.”

And then he turns and walks away, strolling slowly from the scene of the crime. It has to be a crime to drop a bomb like that into an interpersonal landscape like ours. What did he even mean by that?

“Annabelle! Annabelle Lee!”

I turn, startled by the urgency in Fernando’s tone, hoping he hasn’t seen Hitch. I’m not in the mood for another lecture. “What?”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you have a bike?”

This was worth screaming my full name? “I’ve always had a bike.”

“Ha ha. You’re funny. And insane. How did you get it into the kitchen? I was only in the pisser for five minutes.”

What?

“And FYI, the cat looks pissed.”

“The cat always looks pissed.” Gimpy pulled through surgery just fine and is back to his hissing, weird-stuff-eating, blue-cooler-cuddling ways. He’s snuggled up with Old Blue in the kitchen right now, staring at the wallpaper, or the backs of his own eyes, or the fifth dimension, or whatever it is cats see when they stare off into space.

“More pissed than usual,” Fern says. “And I can’t blame him. There’s no room for a Harley in your kitchen.”

A what? A … Harley …

Suddenly, I’m back in the dark at the bottom of the stairs, listening to a promise I don’t want the Big Man to keep. Prove you’re more than one unlucky pichouette, and I’ll buy you a real bike myself.

As far as I’m concerned, the best thing that could happen to our relationship is for us never to see each other again. I assumed—from the silence the past few weeks—that the Big Man thought the same. But now … Surely, he didn’t. Surely …

“How did you even fit it through the door?” Fernando asks as I rush by him, heading toward the kitchen. “It doesn’t look like it’s wide enough to—”

“Shit.” I freeze in the doorway. There, no more than three feet from Gimpy’s bed, filling my tiny kitchen to overflowing, is a big, black and red, shined-until-I-can-see-my-startled-face-in-the-chrome Harley-Davidson motorcyle. With a matching helmet on the seat.

I shuffle forward, touching it with a finger and drawing back as if it’s burned me. It’s real. It is completely real. And in my kitchen. Where—according to Fernando—it hadn’t been a few minutes ago. I spin in a circle, wondering if he’s close enough to see me, to watch my reaction to his gift.

“What’s wrong?” Fernando asks, vaguely amused. “You look like you’ve seen the ghost of the man who gave you herpes.”

“I don’t have herpes.”

“Amity’s friend, Monique, said you did. She’s been in Swallows talking some serious smack about your ass. You know who else has been in? Barbara Beauchamp, and girl, that woman can tie on the Kendall Jackson Chardonnay like nobody’s—”

“I have to go to sleep now, Fern.” I turn and shove at Fernando’s chest, urging him back toward the front door. If the Big Man is out there, he’s probably peeking in the back window, the better to see my shock and dismay. I don’t want to risk that he might come in while Fern’s here. I don’t want to lay the burden of the Big Man’s acquaintance—or the danger associated with it—on one of my only remaining friends.

“You’re kicking me out?” he asks, appalled. “Because I think it’s crazy that you brought your toy into the kitchen?”

“No, because I’m tired. Really tired.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Yes, that too. I have to take a huge dump before I go to sleep, a really huge—”

“La la la, not listening.” Fernando smashes his hands over his ears and lets me push him the rest of the way to the door. The man has serious problems acknowledging that women do number two, which I find strange considering he doesn’t even like to sleep with women. What the hell does he care what does or doesn’t come out of our anal cavity?

“See you tomorrow,” I say, forcing a smile.

“So we’re still on for supper?”

“Yep. Your place. You cook, I’ll eat.” I open the door and shove him onto the porch where he stops and turns back to me.

“You’re really kicking me out,” he says, befuddled. “What about my drink? Don’t I even get a red plastic cup for the road?”

“No. Go. Talk tomorrow, love you, ’bye.”

“Okay, ’b—” I shut the door gently in his face and make a run for the bathroom. I duck inside, slam the door, and wait the interminable twenty seconds I know it will take Fern to stare inside after me and then finally turn to leave. Then I wait a few seconds more, hoping some trick of magic might cause the motorcycle to disappear before I make it back into the kitchen to investigate.

But I should know better. Magic is clearly on the side of the invisibles.

When I creep back into the kitchen, greeted by a low yee-owl from the Gimp, the bike is still exactly where it was before. I stalk around it, staring at all its massive parts, wondering just how in the hell I’m supposed to get it out of my house. The key is in the ignition, but Fernando was right, it doesn’t look like it will fit through the back door. Then I notice the storage compartment on the back. The locked storage compartment, with a row of shiny silver combination lock numbers, the first of which is a perky number 9.

Unexpectedly, it doesn’t take me long to connect the dots between my present and the letter in my mailbox. I pull the envelope from my pocket and spin the numbers on the dial until they match the numbers on the card. 9. 12. 2. 3. The storage area pops open with a click and I slowly lift the black-leather lid, cautious until I see the cylinders lying all in a row. It’s full of shots. I’m safe.

Or mostly safe. If you call being in possession of a dozen prepped syringes safe.

Despite the fact that each one is topped with a red cap, I still have a hard time reaching my hand inside to grab the scrap of paper on top. I can’t help but feel that they’re dangerous, maybe even deadly.

You’ll need a booster every four weeks. Take the first in three days, and enjoy the ride. Looks like somebody likes you, Red. You’ll find the Big Man’s a good friend if you know how to keep his secrets. Keep your mouth shut with the police and the FBI and you’ll do just fine. If you’re good, I’ll be in touch soon to teach you a few tricks, Tucker.

Shots. Just like the ones Libby stopped giving Grace. Every four weeks. For how long? And what the hell is in them? Am I poisoning myself if I do, or if I don’t? And what’s the story with Tucker? Is he friend or foe? And is the Big Man a super-duper bad dude I shouldn’t trust, or just your garden-variety drug dealer/vigilante? He killed two people—that I know of—but he also seemed to care about Grace, and I have felt much better since I had my first shot.

And now he’s given me a Harley. Surely, nothing says “I care” like a shiny motorcycle full of prepped syringes.

Gimpy growls, making me turn to his side of the kitchen in time to catch a flash of movement. I jerk to the left, wishing I had the gun I locked away in the safe beneath my bed.

Thankfully, it turns out to be nothing worth shooting over. Just one of the full glasses Fernando left on the kitchen table floating into the air and out the door, accompanied by deep laughter that makes me shiver. Tucker. Who knows how long he’s been there? For a second, I consider calling out to him, demanding he come back and give me answers. But I have a feeling he’s already told me everything he’s going to tell. If he wanted me illuminated, he’d be chatting me up, not stealing a mojito and wandering onto my back porch.

So instead of calling after him, I focus on my own drink, willing it up into the air, floating it into my waiting hand, showing him I’ve already learned a few tricks of my own.

“To magic,” I whisper, and lift my glass.