Bayou Corruption (3 page)

“She's not okay, CoCo, and her condition didn't just happen overnight. She's had to have been going downhill for some time.” She propped her hands on her hips, guilt putting a sassy edge to her words. “Are you blind to have not seen it?”

“Grandmere's getting older, that's all. The doctors will tell you she's healthy as a horse for a woman her age.” CoCo laid a hand on her shoulder. “Everyone looks feeble in a hospital bed.”

Alyssa shrugged free from her sister's touch. “That's something I want to talk to her doctor about tomorrow.” She grabbed the tube of lip ointment from the pocket of her robe and glided the balm over the itchy scar. “Maybe we should take her to New Orleans. Or Shreveport. They have better doctors.” She shoved the tube back into her pocket. She had to
do
something. That woman lying in the hospital wasn't the grandmother she remembered.

“The doctor here is fine. We'll talk to him in the morning.”

“I have to be at the sheriff's station at eight-thirty.”

“Whatever for?”

“To give my official statement about what I saw tonight.”

“Oh, right. Why don't you get some sleep? We can look in on the sheriff in the morning, after you give your statement and before we visit Grandmere. Tara will go to the hospital as soon as she gets off work and stay with her until I get there in the morning.”

Alyssa nodded and trudged up the stairs.

“Al?”

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

“I'm glad you're home.”

This. Was. Not. Her. Home.

 

In the emergency room, the doctors and nurses hovered over Bubba. Jackson stood in the corner of the area, grateful they hadn't relegated him to the waiting room. His friend still hadn't regained consciousness. From what he could gather from the doctors' discussion, things weren't looking too positive for the sheriff. Jackson had caught the phrases “punctured lung,” “broken ribs,” “ocular damage,” “broken nose” and “perforated kidney.' Not good, and Bubba still hadn't regained consciousness.

The attack was linked to the case. Nothing else made sense.

One of the machines hooked up to Bubba beeped and then squealed louder than the police scanner. A doctor jumped to press buttons while another pried open Bubba's swollen eyes and inspected with a little flashlight. Nurses bustled, handing confounding-looking instruments to the doctors. Suddenly, as if one, they moved Bubba's bed into the hall.

“Where are you taking him?” Jackson asked a nurse who rushed behind the group.

“Surgery,” she called over her shoulder as she jogged to keep up.

Lord, please protect Bubba. He's a good man. A Christian. Guess I didn't need to tell You that, huh? Just watch over him, please, God.

Jackson ran a hand through his hair and shuffled to the waiting room. Maybe there'd be coffee available. It'd be bad, he knew, but nothing could be worse than the sludge he'd become accustomed to at the
Times-Picayune.
He maneuvered his way among the throng of activity in the emergency room. For such a small hospital, a lot happened. And the stench. Man, he hated the smell of hospitals, as if clouds of death and illness permeated the halls.

He recalled what Alyssa had said. Bubba pleading not to let someone get away with something. Using his name, obviously trying to give him a message. Two men hurrying before they were caught. What had she said about the car? Metallic blue Pontiac. Could he trust her impression? She hadn't seemed hysterical. Upset and shocked, yes, but hysterical and unreliable, no. As a journalist, she'd been trained to pick up on minute details. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his BlackBerry. Within seconds he'd accessed the e-mail address for his friend at the New Orleans FBI office. He punched buttons.

 

NEED INFO ON ANY STOLEN BLUE PONTIACS IN VERMILION PARISH. ASAP. WILL EXPLAIN LATER.

 

He hesitated a moment, then he added one more sentence:

 

ALSO, ALL INFO YOU CAN FIND OUT ON AN ALYSSA LEBLANC. REPORTER IN SHREVEPORT. THANKS.

 

Once he sent the message, he turned off the BlackBerry and slipped the gadget back into his pocket. His thoughts were jumbled and he fought to organize them. While following up on a report of underage drinking, Bubba had found money dropped in the bayou—a payoff for something being smuggled. The sheriff had hooked Jackson up with a family friend, Frank Thibodeaux, to help him land a temporary job on the docks ten miles from Lagniappe. The local union allowed the intercoastal port to hire temporary workers at their own discretion. Jackson was scheduled to start work tonight. He glanced at his watch. Scheduled to start work in two hours, to be exact.

The hospital's automatic doors slid open with a whoosh. The splattering of rain against concrete echoed. Three uniformed deputies, including Gary Anderson, stomped inside. Their steps rang out sure and determined, and their wet soles squeaked against the linoleum floor.

“Deputy Anderson,” Jackson called out.

“Mr. Devereaux.” Gary strode toward him. The other officers trailed two steps behind. “How's the sheriff?”

“They took him to surgery.”

“Surgery? For what?” one of the other deputies asked.

“I'm not sure. They just left a few minutes ago.”

Deputy Anderson stared at him. “Did he say anything?”

“He never regained consciousness. That's really all I know.” He hooked his thumb in his jeans pocket. “Anything come up with the case?”

Anderson huffed. “Guess you know the Feds will be here soon to take over. Assault on an officer of the law. I'm sure they'll want to talk to you in the morning. Why don't you plan on coming back by the station first thing tomorrow?”

A question sounding more like a directive.

One of the other lawmen cleared his throat. “We'll go check on the sheriff.” He turned and headed for the nurses' station, the other man walking in perfect step alongside him.

Deputy Anderson tossed Jackson a steady look before joining the other two men.

Taking a sip of the tepid coffee, Jackson studied them. Yep, the FBI would rush in to take control. Their nosing around could hurt Jackson. He needed to be totally undercover on the docks to get to the truth. How would he handle the agents poking around?

Jackson Devereaux intended to find out exactly what was going on in Lagniappe.

Purpose dogging his every step, he hurried out into the rain to his truck. Bubba wouldn't want him to give up his undercover gig. Now more than ever, he needed answers.

The truck tires sang on the wet pavement as he cut through Lagniappe and hit the highway. Ten minutes and he'd be at the dock. He glanced in his rearview mirror. Between the rain and the stress, he looked the role of grunt laborer.

Jackson parked his truck and ambled to the dock. A bushy-bearded man a couple of inches shorter than Jackson approached. “Can I help ya?” he hollered when Jackson reached the dock.

“Frank Thibodeaux recommended me for a temp job.”

The man sidled up to Jackson. The stench of chewing tobacco filtered around him. “Doing what?”

“Loading and unloading. Anything for pay.”

“Huh. Yeah, he mentioned it.” The man's gaze drifted up and down Jackson, taking in his ratty jeans and hole-filled flannel shirt. He held out his hand. “Name's Burl. I'm the night foreman here.”

Burl. Wow, did that name ever fit.

Jackson shook his hand. “Jax Delaney.” Good thing he still had papers reflecting such a name. Who knew having an alias could come in handy so often?

“Ever done any dock work, Jax?”

“Yes, sir. Down in N'Awlins.”

“Member of a union?”

“No, sir. I do scab work.”

Burl nodded and passed him a pair of leather work gloves. “Let's go ahead and get ya to work. If ya do a good job, I'll put ya on the payroll tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Jackson gripped the coarse gloves. Too bad he didn't have to fill out paperwork before being put on the dock. He'd been counting on that. Oh, well. Go with it.

But he'd keep his eyes open for when opportunity knocked.

H
arsh lights. Beeps. Voices.

Her heart raced. Oh, the sting. The pain.

The tears ran down her cheeks. Someone swiped them away with a rough cloth. Her face burned, especially just below her lip.

Scorching. White-hot throbbing.

A doctor prying her eyes open to shine a light in them. Bright, too bright. His voice calm, soothing, asking her if she remembered the wreck.

The crash.

Momee! Papa!

Alyssa sat upright, the sheet twisted into a tight wad at her feet. Another nightmare. She shook her head. It'd been years since she'd had one. Three, to be exact—the last time she'd visited. Just being in Lagniappe brought her nightmares back full force.

The bayou's chief export was pain. Always had been, always would be.

Alyssa moved to the bedroom window and watched the wind rip dried leaves from the limbs. The storm had passed through the night, escorting in a cold front. Alyssa shook her head. Yeah, right. A cold front in Lagniappe? Not hardly. Then again, she'd have said there weren't any attractive, good men here, either. Well, aside from her sister's boyfriend.

The image of that handsome man, Jackson Devereaux, kept flittering to her mind. His kindness in pulling her car out of the ditch. So courteous, despite wanting to go check on his friend. His image refused to be banished from her mind. Just as it had for the majority of the night, making her sleep restless and putting her in a cranky mood. Probably partially causing her nightmare.

Where had she seen him before?

Movement on the bank of the bayou caught her attention. CoCo in her airboat, checking on her beloved alligators. Why her sister wasted a good college education studying the prehistoric reptiles was beyond her realm of comprehension. Didn't CoCo see the bayou would forever be doomed?

Alyssa turned from the window, letting the pink curtains drift back into place. The lacy things she'd picked out at the tender age of fourteen. Her heart hiccuped.

She lifted the picture sitting on her bedside table. Her parents. Oh, how she longed for them to be with her today. Her mother, always on an assignment with the newspaper, had a camera looped around her neck. Would Alyssa ever measure up to her mother's expectations? Standing beside Momee in the picture, her father smiled down at his wife with love and adoration in his eyes. Could Alyssa ever find someone who'd look at her like that?

Oh, I miss you both so much.

Tears filled her eyes. She blinked several times, refusing to go down the path of her past. Not today. She had to move forward. But here, where memories assaulted her every moment? At least in Shreveport she had a life—a promising career, a nice apartment, a normal church life. Lagniappe offered her nothing but the memories of how much she'd lost—her parents, her childhood, all sense of normalcy.

She grabbed her sneakers and slipped them over her socks. Fastening on her watch, she noted the time. Lovely. She'd barely have time to chug a cup of coffee before she had to go to the sheriff's office. At least she could smell the strong java.

A half pot awaited her in the empty kitchen. Without Grandmere and her sisters, the house was entirely too quiet. Too still. As if holding its breath in anticipation of something. Alyssa's heartbeat quickened. She jerked the glass pot free from the warmer and poured a cup. Her hands trembled. Coffee splashed onto her hand. She jumped, hitting the carafe against the porcelain sink. The pot shattered with a loud crash. Glass and coffee spilled into the sink, on the counter and onto the floor.

Couldn't anything go right?

The blame lay with the bayou. Didn't everything? When her parents had died and she'd been forced to leave New Orleans, her family's involvement in voodoo had given her schoolmates every reason in the world to hate her. To ridicule her, to torment her every school day. Now she could even smell the destruction in the air, lurking to wreak havoc in her life again. But she'd matured, wised up. The bayou wouldn't beat her down this time. Alyssa stiffened her spine and went about passing a mop.

The front door slammed. Alyssa tossed the dish towel into the open washer before CoCo called out, “Al?”

Alyssa gritted her teeth against the nickname. Better than
Boo
at least. If only she could make her sister understand Cajun wasn't a real language—only a mix of several different ones.

CoCo cleared the kitchen threshold, her long curls held captive by a ponytail at the nape of her neck. “Good, you're up.”

Why not just state the obvious? “Of course, I'm up. I have to be at the station in twenty minutes.” She felt as if her nerves rested outside her body.

“I know. Listen, I'm going straight to the hospital to relieve Tara.” CoCo studied Alyssa. “Unless you want me to go with you?”

“No. It shouldn't take long to give my statement. I'll meet you at the hospital.”

“Okay.” CoCo moved to the counter as Alyssa swung her purse over her shoulder and strode toward the door. “Where's the coffeepot?”

Alyssa chuckled under her breath and escaped the confines of the house. Wind tickled her long bangs against her forehead. Leaves danced on the breeze, twisting and turning and carrying the scent of the bayou. The stench. Alyssa ducked into her car as quickly as possible.

The torrential downpour had made the roads so muddy that going more than twenty miles per hour could ditch a car faster than greased lightning—like last night. Alyssa parked the car, straightened her shoulders and strode into the building nearly covered with kudzu.

Chaos had taken over the sheriff's office. Phones rang unanswered, several men dressed in jeans milled about, and the odor of burnt coffee hovered in the air. Alyssa stood in the waiting area, staring at the unmanned counter. No one addressed her—they didn't even seem to be aware she'd entered.

“Excuse me.”

No one even bothered to look up.

The scar under her lip burned. Shaking off the memory, she reached for her lip balm. She applied the balm, stuck the tube back into her pocket, cleared her throat and hollered louder.

A platinum-haired woman stuck her head around the door next to the counter. “I'm sorry, hang on a second.” A moment passed before she faced Alyssa, popping her gum. “How can we help you?”

“My name is Alyssa LeBlanc and I was to—”

The woman's eyes widened. “You're the one who found Bubba?”

“Well, yes.”

“
Merci,
ma'am. You probably saved his life.” She dabbed at her face with red-tipped nails. “Just a minute.” The woman didn't take a step away from the counter, just turned and shrieked to the room at large. “Hey, the woman who found Bubba is here.”

Every head turned to stare at her as if she'd sprouted a third eye, and all activity ceased. Only the constant shrill of the phone remained.

Time transported Alyssa back to high school, when she'd been stared at before. To the girls' bathroom.

She washed her hands, the water lukewarm. Three cheerleaders came in, took notice of her, stared and laughed.

“Ooh, get a load of that outfit.”

“Is that your sister's old jacket, or did you get that wearable patchwork quilt at the consignment shop?”

The head cheerleader smirked. “Y'all had better be nice. Don't ya know—her grandmother's the voodoo queen. She'll cast a spell on you.”

“Or her sister.”

Their taunting continued to ring in her ears. Alyssa swallowed and blinked slowly.

Would someone please answer the phone?

The room shifted.

No! Not here, not now. No daymares, please. Alyssa grabbed the counter and braced herself.

As if someone threw a switch, everyone snapped out of their trance. Phones were answered, voices rose above the hum of machines. Two men in black suits approached her.

“Ms. LeBlanc?” The man was handsome, tanned, fit and wearing an interested look.

She didn't reply. She couldn't be sure she wouldn't zone out.

“I'm Agent Lockwood with the FBI.” He flashed a smile sure to weaken some women's knees.

The room righted itself. Good. She released her grip on the grooved counter. “Mr. Lockwood.” She gave a slight nod, aware of her tenuous hold on her equilibrium.

He motioned to the bald man standing beside him. “This is Agent Ward.”

She acknowledged Agent Ward before focusing her attention back to the handsome Lockwood. “A deputy told me last night to come in and give my statement.”

“Yes, ma'am. Come on back.” He held open the little swinging door attached to the counter. Southern manners at their best, yet the agent hadn't spoken with an accent.

She followed him into the large area, then down a hall and into an interrogation room. He waved toward the table. “Please, have a seat.”

As she settled in the hardback chair, she studied the young agent from beneath lowered lashes. Short, dark hair. A trimmed goatee. Not too tall, but not short. Trim and muscular. What some women would call a catch. But something in his eyes caught Alyssa's attention. An arrogance…a lurking deception. She decided she didn't like him.

Turning her attention to the other agent, Ward, she noticed the lines etched deep into his face. Older than his partner but, as she scrutinized his eyes, not wiser. He, too, had something about him that blared untrustworthiness. She didn't care for him, either.

“Ms. LeBlanc, we have the notes from Deputy Anderson, but if you wouldn't mind, would you please give us a recounting of what transpired last night?” He pushed a button on a digital recorder and laid the small gadget on the table. “We tape this to make sure we're accurate in your statement.”

Yeah, right. She used recorders constantly in interviews, mostly to trap someone in a lie. Still, the quicker she got this done, the sooner she could leave. Alyssa took a deep breath and retold what had happened the previous night.

The agents took notes as she spoke. Good interview habits—she did the same thing herself.

“Did you recognize the men?” Agent Lockwood asked.

“No, I couldn't see them clearly. Just figures and voices.”

“Would you recognize their voices?”

The one who'd said to hurry, she'd never forget his. Even now the memory of the deep timbre gave her the heebie-jeebies. “One of them. The other, maybe.” She ran her finger over the burning under her lip and lifted her shoulder—casually, she hoped.

“Now, can you elaborate on what Sheriff Theriot said to you?”

“Only what I've already told you. I know nothing more than that.” Were they dense, or trying to see if she would lie? Why would she? She didn't even live here, much less know what the sheriff had meant. She only recognized him because he'd just been elected sheriff when she'd last visited.

“I'm sure you understand assault of a police officer is a federal offense. A felony,” Lockwood said.

Did she really care whose jurisdiction the case fell under?

“You're the only material witness,” Ward interjected. “An eyewitness.”

An eerie sensation washed over in waves. Sweat lined her palms.

“Until we know more, we'll have to ask you not to leave town for the time being.”

“What?”
No!
The urge to scream rose in her throat. She bit the inside of her throbbing lip. “I have a job in Shreveport I have to get back to.” Her voice quivered, but she didn't care. She couldn't stay here. She'd had enough experience with government officials to know their process could take a mighty long time. Something she didn't have a lot of—not if she didn't want to lose her place at the paper. Or her sanity.

“I'm sure your editor will understand. Hopefully, it'll only be for a couple more days.” Lockwood flashed that disarming smile of his. “If we bring a suspect in for questioning, we might have to put them in a lineup to see if you can pick out the voice.”

She couldn't stay here—she'd run as far and as fast from her past as she could when she'd left. Alyssa balled her hands into tight fists, the urge to hit something powerful. Right now, Special Agent Smiley looked like a pretty good target. “I can't stay here.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but we can't let you leave yet,” Agent Baldy said.

“You can't make me stay.” She jerked to her feet, the chair scraping against the battered linoleum floor.

Lockwood stood as well, only more dignified. “Actually, we can. We could place you in custody.”

“But we'd rather you stayed because you know it's the right thing to do,” Ward said.