Dead on the Delta

Four



The trip to Baton Rouge seems endless.

An hour in an armored vehicle with no windows and iron sides too thick to allow a cell signal is rarely fun, but today it feels like the wheels will never stop rolling. It makes me long for the early days of the mutations, before a few blood-hungry fairies smashed their way through the supposedly impenetrable glass windows of the shuttles and ruined the view for everyone.

Admittedly, there isn’t much to see on the road from Donaldsonville to Baton Rouge aside from the toothy ruins of petrochemical plants, miles of abandoned strip malls, posh residential ghost towns, a theme park, and a trio of giant crosses angry citizens pulled to the ground after the existence of killer fairies was confirmed.

All in all, it makes for depressing scenery, but at least there would be something to look at. Something to keep my mind from flipping through the Beauchamp murder investigation, worrying the pages, doodling notes in the margins of mental pictures of a dead girl.

Why did someone kill Grace? Was it just some sick f*ck who got off on brutalizing children? A kidnapping gone wrong? Or something else entirely?

I slouch lower in my seat, hiding from the driver’s mirror as I tip my can back for a drink and try to focus on other things. Like what I’m going to tell Jin-Sang when I arrive at the FCC office in Spanish Town. There has to be some way to spin the discovery of the Breeze house, to make it seem like I wasn’t—

“You gonna share?” The vaguely familiar woman across the aisle casts a pointed look at my brown-bag-wrapped can.

I’d gone with a twenty-four-ounce import—higher alcohol content, superior taste—since I’d lost my storage for a six-pack. Gimpy wasn’t keen on letting me actually touch my cooler. He was even less keen on being shoved into one of the animal compartments under the shuttle for the trip, but I was afraid animal control would snag him if I left him roaming the square without a collar and tags. Still, I’m probably going to lose an eye when it comes time to pull him out.

The thought makes me take another swig.

“You better have brought enough for everyone, or I’m going to have to tell the driver you’re breaking the rules,” my new friend threatens, holding out a thin, bony hand.

“What is this, third grade?”

“Don’t mess with me, girl,” she warns. The smell of old cigarettes drifts from her fingers, making my nose wrinkle. Why do some people’s bad habits have to stink so much more than mine?

“Aren’t you on your way to work?” I hug my can tighter. Her Happy Helper maid uniform looks clean and her frizzy hair is tucked up beneath a white bandana.

She smiles. “That’s why I need a drink.”

“I feel your pain, but this is my only can. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry, sugar, just hand it over.” Her voice rises, making the two boys three seats up twist to stare at the back of the bus. Despite my wild hair and bayou stink, they’d eye-fondled the front of my tank top when I boarded the shuttle.

“I would,” I say, a little too loudly, “but I have oral herpes, open sores all over the inside of my mouth.” The boys turn back around. Take that, raging hormones. “You don’t want to drink after me. It’s really contagious.”

She rolls her eyes like she isn’t buying my excuse, but turns back to digging through her purse without hitting the call button to alert the driver to trouble in the cabin. I hadn’t expected her to. Most normal people—no matter how cranky and alcohol-deprived—won’t risk making the driver stop outside the iron gates of Baton Rouge. There’s the very real danger of the shuttle being attacked by venom-crazy highwaymen, as well as some scary urban legends about fairies sneaking in through the exhaust systems of parked cars.

In truth, the buggers push their way in through the outdoor vents. If they want in badly enough, fairies can get in, whether the car’s running or not. That’s why people without a death wish take the shuttle. It isn’t safe to drive a normal car between iron-protected towns. Of course I could have driven without any worries, if I’d been so inclined. But I’m not. Guess I didn’t want to see the view as badly as I thought.

I take another drink and close my eyes, feigning sleep between sips.

Ten minutes later, the shuttle pulls to its first stop outside the state capital. It’s still the tallest in the nation, the better to view the wreckage surrounding the impressive white building. I chuck my empty into my purse along with the few samples I salvaged after my scuffle, ignore Skinny Cigarette Chick’s condemning snort as I ease into the aisle, and amble down the steps and around to the animal compartments, giving the driver a chance to fetch Gimpy from his cage.

Outside, the air’s even more stifling than it was an hour ago, a steamy, oppressive dog-lick to the face with a side of yuck. My lungs struggle to find oxygen hidden somewhere in the humidity. Hopefully, if I dawdle, the driver will accidentally set the Gimp free to roam the streets of Baton Rouge, looking for another owner with a bigger, better cooler.

But Gimpy’s still there when I turn the corner, entwined with his true love and only moderately cranky. He even tolerates being lifted and set into my red shopping cart, though now I have no place to put the weird groceries I’m supposed to fetch from Capitol Gourmet. That’s fine by me. I’m not in the mood to hunt down the ingredients for Cranberry Nougat–Stuffed Pork Chop Lamb Shank or whatever Cane’s planning for dinner. It’s doubtful he’ll be in the mood to cook it, either.

Even if he isn’t mad at me for leaving the Breeze head out in the bayou, he’ll be wrapped up in the murder investigation. He’s only had a few murder cases in the time I’ve known him, but they always tie him in knots. Knots that make him so much more attractive. There has to be something wrong with me that I find the tense, brooding, noncommunicative version of my f*ck buddy sexier than the sweet, laid-back, tolerant version who cooks me gourmet meals.

Probably many things wrong, which I’m sure Jin-Sang will underline, highlight, and footnote for me in a few minutes.

The slight Korean man is prowling the front porch of the FCC bungalow when I rattle up the street, his knobby knees poking annoyed jabs at his pants legs. In contrast to my clearly piqued supervisor, the office itself is cheery and welcoming, a crazy grandma you love to visit after school. The aging wood has a fresh coat of purple paint with orange detail in keeping with the hippie vibe of Spanish Town. Yellow rockers on the front porch complete the “come on over, y’all” look, inviting the curious to come sit a spell and read the Fairy Containment literature proffered in plastic holders nailed along the railing.

There are no curious tourists about today, however. Jin-Sang probably scared them away with his frown brow and prune face. The man’s mouth spirals into a cat’s anus when he’s pissed—which is most of the time as far as I can tell. He’s obviously in a mood this afternoon. Playing nice would be a waste of time. Better to come out swinging and hope the “a strong offense is the best defense” theory works in my favor.

“Sucking on lemons again, Jin?” I ask from the bottom of the steps, smiling when he turns to glare. He hates it when I shorten his name. His brow-crease grows deeper, a canyon where his uni-brow goes to die. “That’ll destroy your tooth enamel.”

“The office will close in two minutes.” Jin-Sang checks his watch with the requisite amount of drama. “Now … one and a half.”

“Then why are you out here? Shouldn’t you be inside making sure all the coffee mugs have been washed and put away?” I nearly lost a hand for leaving a lipstick-stained mug by the kitchen sink a couple of weeks ago. Another reason not to bother with makeup: you’re less likely to leave trace evidence at the scene of the crime.

“I will tolerate you today, but just mostly. Don’t press it, Annabelle.” Jin-Sang was raised in Dallas with his sister, but you can’t tell it by his creative use of the English language.

“So … I guess you heard about the murder?” I can’t imagine any other reason he’d be willing to “mostly tolerate” me.

“I did. I also heard you very closely vomited on the evidence,” Jin-Sang says, descending the steps with sharp jabs of his threatening knees.

“Yeah.” My beer roils in my stomach and I wish I’d popped a piece of gum. Jin-Sang isn’t afraid to get up close and personal when he’s in a snit, and I don’t want him smelling beer on my breath. I don’t make a habit of drinking on the job. It’s just been … a day. To put it mildly.

Still, I should’ve waited until after this meeting before declaring it five o’clock somewhere. But the metal walls of the bus had been pressing in more than usual. Almost everyone living in the Delta struggles with anxiety—there’s a reason the medic trucks hand out Xanax like candy when they sweep through a town—but most people have real reasons for it. They aren’t immune, any of the lucky people to get a free pass.

Too bad having no excuse for the apprehension pricking at your insides doesn’t make it stop. When I was younger, right after the emergence, anxiety had made me a prisoner in the halfway house, a shy freak of a kid who considered ending my own torment … until my new roommate introduced me to vodka. I was a pot girl in my old life, but after Caroline’s death the smoke that had once made me giggly and relaxed only made me more paranoid. But alcohol … Just a shot or two and the fear went to sleep—a baby with whiskey slipped into its milk—and I was free to say and do and be the things that anxiety and regret had stolen away.

“Yeah,” I repeat, tucking my chin to my chest. Jin-Sang stops inches away, hands propped on his hips, carefully manicured nails pressing into his belt so hard the tips turn white. “It wasn’t easy. It was a kid. I knew her. Not well, but … ”

I keep my eyes on Jin-Sang’s hands, relieved when his white nails flood pink and his breath rushes out with a sympathetic sigh. “Those things are always difficult. But part of the road we’ve been chosen to travel.”

Jin-Sang is one of the immune who consider themselves blessed by God. He’s a loyal attendee at one of the churches that have popped up like mushrooms on cow shit in Baton Rouge in the past decade, one of the people who shun free tranquilizers and sleeping pills, preferring to shoot up every Sunday and Wednesday with the opiate of the people.

I haven’t been to church since I left New Orleans. I don’t see the point. Churches are run by people, the same people whose filth and stupidity and violence and hatred helped bring about the fairy mutations in the first place. All in all, people could color me unimpressed and God … well, I doubt he’s that impressed either.

“Yeah.” I shove my hands in the damp pockets of my cotton pants. “So I was already late getting to the site and then—”

“Then you did something stupid. I’ve been contacted.”

Thanks, Dom. It would have been nice if he’d waited a couple of hours so I could break the news myself before making the required call to my supervisor. What happened to “I’ll give the paperwork straight to Cane”?

“I wouldn’t call getting attacked by a Breeze head stupid.” I shrug and shift my weight to my back foot, putting more distance between us. “Maybe unlucky or—”

“Don’t shit on me, Annabelle.”

I laugh. I can’t help myself. The snort’s out before I can suck it back in. Jin-Sang scowls so blackly that his eyebrow furrow turns into an ominous “V” that stretches to his hairline.

“This is not funny. This is serious business time. That drug house could have compromised all of your samples. You should have scouted that sector and made sure it was clear.”

“I did. I tracked through the entire area twice a couple of months ago.” And I had. The fact that I was hungover and sleep-deprived at the time is a matter better kept to myself. “They must have had the Breeze house covered or camouflaged or something or I’m sure I would have seen it.”

“You should have seen it anyway,” Jin-Sang says, obviously not impressed with my excuse. “And you definitely shouldn’t have left a bite victim alone in the bayou. That was a big mistake for you, Annabelle, a very big mistake.”

“She isn’t just a victim.” My voice rises, summoning a growl from Gimpy. “She’s a junkie who was trying to kill me. She’s crazy; how was I supposed to—”

“Make a review of your handbook. The protocol is clear.” His brow smooths, his irritation decreasing in direct proportion to my own. The smug note in his tone makes me want to growl along with my cat. “You should have restrained the woman and then called for help if you were unable to bring her into the proper authorities alone. You should have waited with her until—”

“And what if she had friends out there? With guns? I’m supposed to sit around with my thumb up my ass and wait for some Breeze head to shoot me?”

“Rules are rules, and you knew this work could be dangerous when—”

“I’m a shit and egg collector!” I yell. “Why would I assume that would be a dangerous line of work?”

It hadn’t been when I first signed up to train with the FCC, before some freak figured out that fairy droppings can get people high. You have to wonder about things like that. Who was the first person who decided it was a good idea to eat fairy poo? Or, better yet, mix fairy poo with bleach and snort it up his nose? I’d like to meet that freak. And punch him in the face a few dozen times for making my job suck more than it had in the first place.

“I’m sorry you see your work with those eyes.” Jin-Sang looks as if he genuinely pities me for not believing that wading around in the swamp putting water in tubes and scooping dead fairies into jars is the most noble work on the planet. “Perhaps we should discuss a transfer to a different department.”

“Jin, come on, I don’t want to transfer. I just—”

“After you deal with the FBI.”