Dead on the Delta (7 page)

“Right. Another great idea. Thanks. See you, Jin.” I turn and clatter off down the street. My cart rattles over humps in the pavement, making Gimpy’s face jiggle and his gurgly purr morph into the more familiar yee-owl. I ignore him and hustle toward the shuttle stop. The wretch is on my shit list for kissing up to Jin-Sang and deserves shaken-cat syndrome.

Meet them at the station,
my ass. The
last
thing I’m going to do is seek out the FBI. I’ll lay low with the usual crowd at Swallows, let Captain Munoz take immune-personnel point, and hope this all blows over in a few days. It
is
Friday and after five o’clock. Well-paying job or not, the FCC is still just a job, not my life’s calling.

So what
is
your life’s calling? Professional slacker? Pill-popping loser and future cat lady of America?

My phone screams in my purse, the horror movie shriek I chose for Cane’s ringtone startling me from my unusually self-critical thoughts. I
wouldn’t say that I particularly love myself, but I’ve come to a place where I’m content with my choices. I slack at my job, I need help getting to sleep. So what?

At least I took a job with the FCC like a good, community-minded immune member of society. There are other people with my good fortune who use their privileged status in more selfish ways. One man took over hundreds of acres of farmland just south of D’Ville—not to mention a few
very
expensive historical homes—and declared himself the cotton baron of southern Louisiana.

He, along with the other immune he’s convinced to work for him, makes millions every year, profiting on the fact that there’s no one else left to farm the rich Delta soil. Most immune folks are busy at the camps or collecting samples for scientists or running the river ports, helping keep the trade routes functioning despite the fact that it often seems the rest of the country has declared Mississippi, Louisiana, and parts of Alabama a dead zone.

It’s like the “normal” states are afraid to interact with the infested areas, as if eating Louisiana crawfish or wearing delta cotton will infect them with fairy venom. What they really fear, of course, is that the mutations will find a way to live in other climates and expand their territory.

“Your phone is screaming.” A narrow woman with hot pink hair gelled into a star shape points to my purse as she eases by me on the sidewalk. The
sparkles on her cheeks send images of Grace’s glittery pink nails surging to the front of my mind.

There are definitely reasons to feel lousy about myself today.

A girl’s life was stolen, her chance to grow up and be whatever she’d dreamed of being obliterated by a monster who deserves to die in one of Louisiana’s many electric chairs. Professional slacker or not, I should do everything in my power to help catch and destroy that person.

I fish out my phone, but freeze before I hit the green square to accept the call.

This call isn’t about the Beauchamp murder—Cane wouldn’t tell me anything about an ongoing investigation. Once my evidence collections duties are over, I’m as excluded from official police business as the next citizen, at least until they need me for other “immune only” duties. This call is probably about the Breeze house or the Breeze head. Or maybe he’s calling to yell at me for touching Grace’s sleeve or tromping through the Camellia Grove grounds. Or maybe this is personal, a call to ask how I’m holding up, or gently criticize me for making poor choices …
again
.

Cane cares about me. Eighty percent of the time, he makes me feel like a better person. The other twenty, his sad brown eyes and quiet disapproval make me more miserable than I’ve been in years. Letting Cane down reminds me of all the other people I’ve let down—Mom and Dad and Marcy and
my professors and all the others who once believed I could be something wonderful. And Hitch, who loved me for the mess I was. Who was nearly as big a mess, and yet still found a reason to hate me.

No, not
found
a reason. I gave him a reason. Like I gave everyone a reason. No matter how hard I tried—and I
did
try—the whole
trying
thing never worked out. In the long run it’s better for everyone if I don’t try. If I clock in, toe my line, and go home alone. As soon as the investigation’s over, I’ll make sure I go home alone again. I have to end things with Cane, before I hurt him and add another name to the list of people who think I suck donkey balls.

Gimpy yowls and rolls his eyes, flexing a claw at my phone as if he’ll answer the call himself.

“Oh, shut up.” I tap the red rectangle, sending the call to voice mail.

According to my display screen, it’s five after five. Cane knows I turn my phone off at the end of the day. He actually approves of it—though I’m sure he wouldn’t want me telling his big brother, Abe, that he thinks it’s a good idea for the only immune person in Donaldsonville to make herself unavailable after quittin’ time.

But Cane believes it’s good to disconnect, to spend time playing cards and taking walks on the levee instead of watching the mutation update boards on the Internet. He’s an unusual man, and a general class act. How he got mixed up with me, I haven’t a clue, but it’s a mistake I’ll remedy for him soon enough.

The thought threatens to make me sad, but Gimpy banishes my angst with a hiss and a swipe at my face as I pick him up and shove him back into the animal containment unit under the shuttle. There’s no time to comfort him, even if I were in the mood. The shuttle driver fidgets impatiently near the door, as ready for the end of the workday as I am.

I hurry to fold up my grocery cart. “Two seconds,” I say, scanning the tightly packed luggage compartment. Looks like Donaldsonville is going to be tourist-filled this weekend.

Wonder if our visitors know there’s been a murder in town? Probably not. The only news program covering Louisiana comes out of New Orleans and they have bigger, scarier things to report. New Orleans never really recovered after Hurricane Katrina, when the iron gates were ripped from the ground and the fairies turned my hometown into a death zone. The mayor, police, and National Guard barely pulled the Big Easy back from the edge of complete annihilation. It still isn’t safe to go out at night, even in the Bourbon Street area, no matter what the tourism board tells the Mardis Gras revelers every year.

“Here, let me get that.” Nelson, the driver, has worked the route between Donaldsonville and Baton Rouge for as long as I can remember. He knows I fail at spatial relationships. There’s a reason my purse is big enough to fit a lawn gnome and still have space left over.

“Thanks.” I hug my giant purse—the better to
conceal the empty can I’ve forgotten to throw in a recycling bin—and head for the door, casting a final glance at the Capitol building before I climb inside.

I don’t know why I turn to look. I’ve seen it a million times before and find it more depressing than inspirational. The upper levels are posh apartments for rich people who moved downtown when the suburbs turned deadly, and most of the bottom level has been bought out by a bank. Only about an eighth of the structure has anything to do with democracy. There’s a tiny courthouse, a tinier meeting room for the shrunken number of state representatives, and a couple dozen cramped offices. The FCC was in one until Min-Hee threw a fit, demanded more room to safely store our samples, and got the office moved into a house down the street.

So why the hell is Barbara Beauchamp hurrying up the white stone steps like a woman on a mission? On any other day, I might assume she has business at the land office or the DMV—she drives a specially designed iron minivan—but today …

What could be so important that she left her family only hours after learning that her youngest daughter is dead?

I step around the corner of the shuttle, watching her newly curled blond hair bounce as she climbs. She clutches her thousand-dollar purse to her side, but I’m sure she isn’t hiding empty cans or bottles. It looks like she’s hiding
something,
however. The tense line of her spine, her rushed steps, the nervous
glances she casts at the men in suits streaming out the front doors, all reek of secrets. Bad secrets.

Whatever Barbara Beauchamp is doing in Baton Rouge today, I have a nasty feeling it has something to do with her daughter’s murder. It’s hard to believe she’d hurt Grace—she obviously loved the girl—but my gut screams that I should follow her and see what she’s up to. Just in case …

Instead, I turn and board the shuttle, heeding Nelson’s warning that he’s ready to head out. This is none of my business. I’m not a detective; I’m a shit scooper.

And I’m officially off-duty.

L
ess than an hour later,
I ease through the battered red door of the tavern and take a deep, healing breath of central air. Yet another reason—aside from draft beer and food that doesn’t come from a box—that coming to Swallows is so much better than going home. My ancient window unit never cools down the kitchen; it barely makes it comfortable enough to sleep in my bed.

Some nights I still end up dragging my mattress onto the floor in front of the screen door where a hot summer breeze blows from the front porch to the back, proving shotgun houses are both cheap
and
practical. Sure, someone could theoretically shoot a bullet straight through my living room, bedroom, kitchen, and out into my backyard if all three doors were open, but what are the chances of that happening?

People in this town need me too much to shoot bullets through my house, even if I weren’t a decent
neighbor and friend. Which I am. I love this town, these people.

Especially
these
people. Swallows is filled with several of my favorites. Shane and Nell, sixty-plus each and newly married, snuggle near the end of the gleaming bar nursing a pitcher of Blue Moon. Bryce, Alvin, and Patrick, old friends who make arguing look like more fun than most marriages, dominate a table for six in the dining room, while Fernando and Theresa huddle in the curve of the bar near the entrance, dark heads bent together, in the midst of some serious gossip. As usual.

Fernando turns as the door slams closed behind me, his amber eyes sparkling above his freshly shaped goatee. “Annabelle! You little slut, we were just talking about you.”

“Don’t call her a slut.” Theresa pinches Fernando’s well-muscled arm. He’s wearing one of his many skintight black tank tops, the ones that cling to each sculpted pec and washboard ab, showcasing the perfection of his body. The better to taunt we straight women with the majesty of the Latino god we’ll never have, I suppose.

He certainly isn’t hoping to hook up with someone at Swallows. Most of Theresa’s clientele is over the hill and all of them are straighter than the broom shoved up Jin-Sang’s ass. Fernando’s own bed-and-breakfast/antique shop/wine bar is the best (and only) place to meet and mingle with other men in Donaldsonville. It’s at the end of Railroad Street,
and aptly named The First and Last Chance Wine Bar and Flophouse.

“It’s okay, she knows she’s a slut.” Fernando grins, dimple popping. “Right, honey?”

“That’s right, Fern.” I lean down, letting Fernando kiss my cheek just for the joy of seeing his nose wrinkle.

“Shut the front door! You smell like ass.”

“You would know.” I grin and plunk my purse down on the floor before sliding onto the stool next to Fernando’s.

“Oh, bitchy
and
slutty today. So, tell me, is it true you were shacking up in the middle of the day with both your doors wide open and—”

“Buffalo wings or cheeseburger?” Theresa interrupts, rattling her armful of bracelets at Fernando like he’s a cat to be scared away. Speaking of cats …

I turn to peer at where my bike and trailer are parked in front of the bar, feeling oddly pleased to see Gimpy still asleep in the back. I’m starting to get attached to the bastard, and would have brought him in if I didn’t know for a fact that Theresa would cut me if I toted something hairy into her place of business. She’s only five feet tall and small enough to wear her twelve-year-old daughter’s clothes, but she’s tough and not a fan of four-legged things.

She grew up in White Castle, the next town over, in a trailer full of six brothers and sisters and triple the number of cats. Rumor has it she drowned them all—the cats, not the brothers and sisters—the day her
mother died of a fairy bite, just shoved the rheumy-eyed mongrels in a sack and pitched them into the Mississippi on her way into Donaldsonville.

I’m not sure the story is true, but I’ve seen Theresa draw a gun on a dog that lingered too long near her Dumpster. She didn’t kill it—just fired in its general direction—but still …

“Which one?” she pushes when I hesitate a second too long. “Or are you going to appease my motherly side and order some grilled chicken or something healthy?”

“You have a motherly side?” I ask, grabbing a handful of peanuts from the bowl in front of me.

“My kids think so, but the brats don’t know any better.” She doesn’t bother smiling. We both know she’s kidding. She’d give her life for Dina or Diego. “So, wings, I’m guessing?”

I nod. “With extra blue cheese and an Abita Amber.”

Theresa clicks her tongue and turns away, but not before reaching out to pat my arm. Just once, a swift pat-squeeze that’s over before it begins. Still, the gesture throws me. Theresa isn’t touchy-feely. She must have heard about the body … about what I had to do to the body.

Looking around the room, I spot the sympathetic glances from Shane and Nell and even Patrick—who I haven’t seen look anything but red and angry since the Saints were sold to some frigid state up north where they can’t even pronounce “who dat”—presses his lips
together and nods. Ugh … it’s almost enough to make me get up and go home. If I hadn’t already ordered, and Fernando wasn’t acting as catty and gossip-hungry as ever, I might have seriously considered it.

“So you were Afternoon Delighting with police boy, weren’t you?”

“I was. And if Bernadette doesn’t want to hear, then she can close her door or turn up her soaps or something.” I make a mental note to steal my eighty-two-year-old neighbor’s newspaper on Sunday morning. Nothing makes her madder than someone taking her coupons. A petty gesture, perhaps, but I’m sick of her spreading the sordid tales of my love life all over town. Honestly, what does the woman expect? Our houses are less than three feet apart. Even if I closed the doors—which I won’t because it’s too hot to have sex in the summer without ventilation—she’d probably still be able to hear every sigh and moan.