Blood on the Bayou (18 page)

Something crashes to the floor in the kitchen with an epic
scraa-bam!

The second my focus splits, Grandpa Slake shoots into the air, rushing for the window. I dive back, getting a hand on the crank handle and spinning it closed seconds before his body hits the glass. He bounces back into the bathroom, tumbling into the sink with a hiss.

Scrambling to keep him from bolting a second time, I grab a towel from the rack and throw it over the entire sink, then upend the trash can by the toilet and slam it down over the towel. Hopefully the towel and metal trash can will be enough to keep Grandpa trapped until I decide what to do with him.

Right now, I need to go take care of whoever is in my kitchen.

I back out the door to the bathroom and slam it
closed, then drag my bedside table in front as an extra barrier, not caring if the person snooping around in my house hears me. I hope they do. I hope they hear me and get the hell out. I’d be happy to avoid a confrontation with an intruder in my underwear and dirty tank top.

Of course, there’s a good chance this is an intruder I know. Maybe Tucker decided to pop in for another visit. If so, he’s going to regret sticking his handsome nose in my business today. I need answers and it’s past time Tucker gave them up. I’m not even going to try asking nicely. I’m going straight to threatening at gunpoint and see how far that gets me.

I grab my gun from the safe I didn’t bother closing last night, and stalk toward the now silent kitchen. “Who’s in there?” I demand, but the only response is more silence.

Grr.
I am so
sick
of people sneaking into my house. Whatever happened to respecting people’s privacy? Whatever happened to
asking
before you let yourself in or lurk in wait to stab people with needles or steal their frosty beverages or dump a Harley in their kitchen or hide out in the shower and poop on the soap?

“I’ve got a gun,” I say, louder this time. “And I will shoot the shit out of you and I will enjoy it because I’m in
that
kind of mood this morning!”

Still no response. If the hairs on my arms weren’t standing on end, I’d think Gimpy had knocked the coffeepot off the counter or something. But I can
feel
another person breathing my air, taking up my space, smelling their smell in my . . .

“Hitch?” The verification that the Hitch smell is indeed attached to my ex comes as I step into the doorway. Hitch stands at the far edge of my kitchen, wedged into the corner by the Harley, which is now lying sideways on the floor.

I should have known that crash was too big for a coffeepot.

He doesn’t look up when I speak his name. He keeps staring at the hog at his feet and the leather storage compartment that has popped open, spilling syringes out onto the floor. Syringes. Glass syringes. Like the ones that were stolen from the dock, that are somehow related to the death of his friend. Syringes I haven’t bothered to tell him I have in my possession because I’m forbidden to speak of them. Because the Big Man will kill anyone I tell and then kill me for telling.

But here we are. With Hitch bending down to pick a needle up from the ground and me standing in the doorway with a loaded gun that can do nothing to protect us from the danger that’s been unleashed in my kitchen.

H
e looks up, tragic blue eyes meeting mine. He looks so hurt, so utterly betrayed. I expect him to start hurling accusations, to ask what I was really doing down at the docks, to ask how much I know about the missing medical supplies and the cave and all the rest of it, but instead he asks, “Are you going to shoot me?”

I startle, arm shaking as I realize I still have the gun aimed at my “intruder.”

“No. Jesus. Of course not.” My breath rushes out and the weapon falls to my side. “I thought . . . I didn’t . . .”

I take a shaky step into the kitchen and drop the gun on the table, wishing Gimpy were still in his bed underneath. I could use some fluffy support right now. But Gimpy’s already up and about. He must have decided to make use of the cat door I installed in the kitchen. Or maybe Hitch let him
out
when he let himself
in
.

Which raises the question . . .

“What are you doing in here?”

“We were supposed to meet at six o’clock,” he says, his voice flat.

I shake my head. “No we weren’t. I . . . I told you everything last night. I assumed the meeting was off.”

“I assumed it was on,” he says. “When you didn’t show up, I thought something had happened. I came to the back door because I remembered you said your neighbor spies on people who come to the front. I saw the motorcycle and I know you don’t have a motorcycle, so I . . . came in.”

“And knocked it over?”

“It fell over,” Hitch says. “I didn’t touch it.”

“It’s been sitting there for days and it didn’t fall over.” I huff, wondering if it’s possible to keep arguing about stupid things and never get around to talking about the needle Hitch clutches so tight his knuckles have gone white.

“What are you doing to yourself?” he whispers.

“I’m not doing anything to—”

“Heroin or Breeze?” he demands, in his no-nonsense, I’m-a-doctor-and-have-my-shit-infinitely-more-together-than-you-do tone. The tone instinctively pisses me off, even before I get the meaning of what he’s asking.

He’s asking what I’m
on
—heroin or Breeze. Both highly additive monster drugs only fools think they can use in moderation. I know better. I worked in the emergency room and saw firsthand what happens to people who stick needles in their veins. I’d have to have a death wish to get involved in that level of drug use. I’d have to be insane.

But I guess Hitch doesn’t find that so hard to believe.

I should be grateful that he jumped to the druggie conclusion instead of the involved-in-conspiracies conclusion, but I’m not. I’m hurt. And angry. I want to slap that sad, pitying, disappointed look from his face.

Instead, I point to the door. “Get out.”

I have a fairy locked in my bathroom. I don’t have time for the drama, and the longer Hitch stands there, the better the chance some invisible person will wander by and see that he’s found my shot stash. I need to get him out, and then I need to hide those shots somewhere none of my visitors—invited or uninvited—will find them.

Then I’ll track Hitch down, and make sure he doesn’t talk about what he saw on my kitchen floor. Ever. After all the favors I’ve done for him, he can do that much for me.

“Out,” I insist again, when he makes no move toward the door.

“No.” His jaw tightens. “I won’t let you kill yourself.”

“I’m not killing myself! God! Of all the self-righteous, preachy, conclusion-jumping—”

“Why are you doing this?” He steps over the handlebars of the fallen bike, needle still clenched in his hand like a smoking gun. “Why are you throwing e
verything
away?”

“I’m not,” I snap. “You have no idea what’s going on.”

“I know what you told me last night.” His words hit me in my already rotten-feeling guts. I don’t want to think about what I told him. I don’t want to think about how we kissed afterward. And I certainly don’t want to think about it while standing in front of him in nothing but panties and a tank top.

“Please, leave.” I angle myself behind one of the kitchen chairs, hoping it will offer some cover.

“I care about you.” He crosses the kitchen with obvious purpose, only stopping when his knees hit the legs of my chair. “I want to help you.”

I would roll my eyes, but he’s too close and I’m too semiclothed and vulnerable and angry and frustrated.

Instead, I try to snatch the needle away, but Hitch won’t let go. He holds tight with one hand and grabs my wrist with the other. Before I can think about pulling away, he’s kicked the chair out from between us and pulled me close, until our tangle of arms is the only thing keeping my body from his and I can feel his jeans against my bare legs and his fingers brush my chest, making my skin heat in spite of all the awful emotions swimming inside me.

“I can get you checked into a treatment center by lunchtime.” His mouth is so close to mine that I can smell the hint of coffee on his breath. “I know some great people. Therapists and doctors who can save your life if you’ll let them. If you’ll let
me
.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “Please, let me . . . Please.”

I look up, blinking, shocked by how much he wants to save me. Too bad I don’t need to be saved.
Well, maybe I do. But not from anything as “easily” solved as a drug addiction. Double too bad that I find the fact that he’s jumped to Annabelle-damning conclusions again after our talk last night absolutely enraging.

Absolutely. En. Rage. Ing.

“Jesus,” he mutters beneath his breath. “Your eyes . . .”

“I’m not high,” I say through gritted teeth. “And I find everything you’ve said in the past three minutes very,
very
offensive.”

“I’m not judging you. I’m only trying to—”

“Yes you are.” I jerk my wrist free and stumble back a few steps, half-falling against the wall. “You’ve been judging me since you showed up last month in your fancy new suit with your stupid new hair and your perfect new life. But trust me, Hitch, you have no idea what’s going on in this town. Or with me.”

“I helped with the Breeze investigation. I think I know how prevalent drug use is in this part of Louisiana.” He props his hands on his hips, holding up his saggy shoulders, looking so weary it’s all I can do not to scream.

“Listen to me.”

“I am lis—”

“Forget all the things you think you know and really
listen,
” I whisper. Bernadette is probably awake next door. I can’t afford to have her popping over to check on me. The fewer people who see the shots, the better chance we all have of living through the day. “There are bad things happening in Donaldsonville
that have nothing to do with drugs. And I’m involved in them, whether I like it or not.”

I take a step closer, curl my fingers around his arm and hold tight. “And unless you give me this needle and walk out of here and pretend this morning never happened, you will be, too. And then you’ll be dead.” I meet his gaze without flinching, willing him to look into me and see the truth the way he once could. “Because that’s what the bad guys do when you break the rules. They kill you and they kill everyone else they think might know their secrets.”

Hitch’s eyes go wide. “You know what’s happening to the medical supplies.”

It’s the other logical conclusion, but it’s still not the
right
conclusion and it only proves that Hitch is determined to think the worst of me. Even though it makes sense for him to think the things he’s thinking, I hate him for thinking them. I hate him for pitying me and for the hard suspicion creeping across his face. I hate him enough to open my mouth and let the dangerous truth spill out.

“No. I don’t.” I tighten my grip on his forearm, letting my nails dig into his skin. “I was bitten by fairies while I was saving
your
life. And all that stuff they say about the immune not being affected by fairy bite? It turns out that’s not true. At least not around here.”

He pales. “You mean you—”

“I’m not infected, not the way a nonimmune person would be.” I’m still not quite angry enough to let him fear the worst. “But I started having reactions.
Dilated pupils and horrible headaches and . . . other things.”

“What other—”

“I can move things. With my mind,” I blurt out before I lose the courage. Hitch can give me his she’s-finally-lost-it look all he likes, but in the end I can
prove
what I’m saying. I can lift that Harley off the floor; I can snatch the gun on the table up with a thought and bring the butt down on Hitch’s thick skull.

“Move things,” he repeats carefully.
Too
carefully.

He’s probably wondering who he’ll have to call to have me forcibly admitted, but that doesn’t stop me. I’ve started the story; I might as well finish it. As angry as I am, it’s still a relief to finally tell
someone
what’s really going on.

“Yes. With my mind. And I can manipulate matter at baser level, too. Like when Stephanie was dying.” My heart beats faster. “I know it sounds nuts, but I healed her. I fixed the hole in her lung.”

Hitch’s eyebrows lift and I see the Delusional Disorder, Grandiose Subtype, with possible Schizophrenic Overtones diagnosis flitting behind his eyes. “Annabelle, I—”

“I saved the-woman-you’re-too-chickenshit-to-call-your-wife’s life,” I say, losing what’s left of my temper. “But the only way I was able to do that was with this.”

I shake his arm, making the needle bounce between us before he flexes his muscle, stopping it cold. He’s stronger than he used to be. All those
crack-of-dawn runs and manly push-up and sit-up sessions have paid off. There’s no way I’ll be able to physically overpower him and take the needle.

Unless I call my own bluff and see how strong my mental workouts have made me. I moved a two-ton truck yesterday. I could force Hitch’s fingers open with a thought. To prove myself, I might have to. But not yet. The honest to god insane part of me still hopes he might listen. That he might believe.