Hall, Jessica (7 page)

What they'd shouted at her, however, kept ringing in her ears,
sending surges of heat up her throat and into her face.

"Hey, coon-ass! Where's your boyfriend?"

Sable had never suspected that they would be waiting for her
outside the dorm. Jean-Delano always picked her up for their dates, but he'd
left a message at the desk saying he would be late and asking her to meet him
in back of Smith Hall. Maybe if she hadn't been so nervous about going to the
dance with him she would have realized that something was wrong.

Jean-Del had never left messages, because he'd never been late
before. If anything, he'd shown up early.

She'd hurried out of the dorm, worried thai someone had tried to
talk him out of taking her as his date, and had walked straight into them.
Sixteen football players and their sorority girlfriends, standing in the
shadows behind the old dormitory, waiting. All of them were dressed up just
like her—only better. She'd stopped and stared at them in disbelief. J. D.
wouldn't bring his friends with him, not to pick her up.

But J. D. wasn't there.

"Going somewhere, fish bait?"

The boys wore fine black tuxes, eerily identical, like their game
uniforms. They wore them with the confidence of boys who didn't have to rent
their formal wear.

It was their dates who were truly breathtaking. All the girls wore
dazzling pastel-colored silk gowns, with fancy trims and beads that made them
appear like young, chic brides. Sable's ecru lace dress, which had seemed so
feminine and classic in her dorm room, appeared dingy by comparison. The
expensive diamond and gold jewelry they wore made her only necklace—a single
strand of faux pearls— look painfully cheap.

One thing was clear—from the looks on their faces, they hadn't
come to walk her over to the dance for Jean-Delano.

She'd tried to move around them, but they'd formed a tight circle,
closing her in an envelope of designer perfume. "Where did you get that
little rag? Kmart? The Salvation Army?"

She knew what they were like from six months of similar torment,
and although her heart rabbited in her chest, she kept her voice calm and asked
them to leave her alone. The girls had laughed at her. They were a tight-knit,
arrogant group, all pledged to the same sorority, all dating jocks, all
children of old, established Creole families. Just like their boyfriends.

Sable was none of those things. She had never been
invited
to join their clubs and social circles. Her scholarship only covered her
tuition, so after classes she worked serving and busing tables in the school
cafeteria, and even then she had to count her pennies. The awful uniform and
hairnet the administration insisted that the cafeteria staff wear made her an
easy target for the wealthier, privileged girls whose parents paid for
everything. When she'd started dating one of the best-looking guys on campus,
that only compounded the problem.

It wasn't just her poverty and her lack of pedigree that made the
girls hate her, though. It was the way their boyfriends looked at her when
Jean-Del wasn't around to see.

She'd given up on reasoning with the group and had tried to break
through the circle. One of the boys had pushed her back, and she'd nearly
fallen in the mud, only just stopping herself with one hand.

Sable shifted in her seat and wrapped her arms around herself.

Before she'd left the dorm, she'd tucked her new gloves in her
purse so they wouldn't get dirty. Having saved up her tips, she'd taken the
long bus ride to the city to buy them. Ml the other girls wore white gloves to
the senior dances, and Sable hadn't wanted to embarrass Jean-Del by showing up
with bare hands. Bad enough she'd had to make over one of her mother's dresses
to have something decent to wear.

Thank goodness she hadn't put them on; they would have been ruined
by the mud.

"Euuww." One of the girls pointed at Sable's mud-smeared
fingers. "If she's serving the punch, I'm not touching it!"

"I don't want to do this," one of the other girls said,
sounding a little frightened. She was a petite blonde, the quietest one of the
group. "Let's go now."

The boy with her had scoffed. "What are you, afraid of a
coon-ass?"

Sable hadn't been foolish and shouted at them. That would have
only made things worse. Besides, she could always wash her hands. She looked at
the girl who had tried to stop them, saw the pity in her eyes. She tried making
an appeal to her. "Please, I have to go. I don't want to be late."

The girl looked as scared as she felt, but Sable's plea made no
difference to the others. "What's the matter," another girl had
cooed. "Afraid he'll stand you up for someone with shoes?"

Trying to run only got her shoved back again, and this time she
went down, face first. Mud splattered her face, her hair, and the front of her
dress. While the others laughed, she stayed down, knowing it was over then,
wishing she were dead. This wouldn't wash off. She couldn't go to the dance;
she couldn't be with Jean-Del.

They would never let them be together. "I promised him I
wouldn't be late," was all she could think. "He's going to be so
upset."

Everyone laughed as she got up on her hands and knees.

"I think she needs a little bath," one of the girls
drawled.

The one girl who had protested tried to stop them. "Don't do
this, she's had enough!"

The boy carrying the bucket shrugged the girl off and then tossed
the contents of the bucket at Sable.

She didn't know where they'd gotten the duckweed—they were twenty
miles from the nearest bayou. But suddenly she was covered with the slimy green
stuff, and soaked with the cold, brackish brown water it had grown in. All she
could do was shield her head with her arms and keep her eyes and mouth closed
until it was over.

Like now.

Sable knew what she had to do. She had to protect
herself
until she could get away. Then she would run—run as fast and as far away as she
could.

J. D. didn't want coffee. He wanted to grab Sable, march her out
of the station, and take her somewhere quiet. Then he wanted to shake the truth
out of her. She was hiding something; he could see it in her eyes—but what?
What possible connection could she have with Marc LeClare? She was dressed like
a businesswoman; it might be just as she'd said—she'd been looking to rent some
property and she'd gone to the warehouse for business reasons only.

But why did his gut tell him there was more to it than that?

She's young and beautiful; Marc LeClare was old and rich. Doesn't
take a genius to figure out that equation.

The thought of Marc putting his hands on Sable made J. D.'s hands
curl over into fists.
It had better damn sight be business only.

"I
don't like that look on your face," Terri said as she walked
up and handed him his mug, then sipped from her own. "That look says 'I'm
thinking with the little head. I'm going to do something macho and idiotic and
get myself suspended.' "

He swallowed the boiling-hot coffee without feeling the burn.
"I'm not thinking with my dick."

"A rare and valuable trait not often found in the male of the
species. I'll have to alert the media." Terri gestured toward the
interview room where he'd left Sable. "Does she know that?"

"She's just shaken up."

"I imagine nearly being burned to death creates something of
a shock to the system. So does being questioned by your ex-boyfriend. You break
up with a guy; you just never want to see his ugly face again." Terri
took
a sip from her mug. "By the way, your current girlfriend stopped in. You
were supposed to take her to lunch. Do call her."

Moriah. He hadn't given her a single thought.

"I told her you were tied up taking a statement from our
witness," his partner said. "And Laure LeClare will be here in a few
minutes. I don't think she'll be too happy to hear you used to be sweethearts
with the girl her hubby was likely bopping on the side, do you?"

Before he could snap her head off, a uniform from the front desk
approached them. "Uh, Lieutenant Gamble? Captain wants you and Sergeant
Vincent downstairs now. Press is swarming."

"Thanks," Terri said, and waited until the officer
retreated before hunching her shoulders. "Damn it, I knew I should have
taken that vacation time this week."

"You go," J. D. told Terri. He was in no mood to deal
with the media. "Tell Cap I'm showing Sable some mug shots."

"That had better be the only thing you show her," his
partner warned as she tugged on her jacket and headed for the stairs.

He filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee and added a spoon of sugar,
then took it with him to the interview room. Sable looked up as he came in and
then down at the phone.

"Did you get in touch with your family?" he asked as he
set the cup in front of her. She didn't touch it or answer him. "Black,
one sugar, the way you like it."

She shook her head a little and glanced at the window.

Dark thoughts had been humming inside his head since he'd seen her
at the fire rescue unit, but now they bloomed into something primal and
violent. She
wouldn't speak to him; she wouldn't touch the coffee. She
rejected him now as completely as she had ten years ago.

J. D. didn't like it any more than he had then, but now it wasn't
about a stupid dance or slinging mud at some of his friends. Now her life was
on the line.

"Listen to me," he said, keeping his voice low and even.
"You hate me—that's fine. I'm not real fond of you, either. But I'm the
only friend you have here. Talk to me."

She met his gaze. Something had changed—the fear in her eyes was
gone, replaced by something darker and angrier. "I don't need your
help." Each word dripped with contempt.

She wasn't going to play him this way. Not this time.

"Wrong. There's nowhere for you to run. No place to
hide." His vision sharpened as he focused on her face and smiled.
"I've got you, baby, and you're not going anywhere."

She shoved back away from the table, out of reach. "Don't
touch me. I swear to God, I'll scream my head off."

His mouth thinned. "Then I'd have to shut you up." He
came around the table, pausing only to wedge a chair against the doorknob.
"Which I would enjoy. Please, be my guest."

Sable stumbled out of the chair, knocking it over as she
frantically looked for an avenue of escape. "I'll talk to the other
cop—that woman, your partner." Her teeth were almost chattering. "Not
you."

He hesitated, tilting his head to one side as he regarded her.
Yes, she was angry, and frightened of him—which was smart; he hadn't felt this
furious in years. But why would she choose Terri over him? Terri
didn't
know her. He wanted to shake her; he wanted to hold her in his arms and comfort
her. "Why are you doing this?" He made his tone gentle and soothing.
"Let me help you."

"I don't need your help." She jammed herself between the
watercooler and the wall. "I don't need anything from you."

"Maybe you're right." He started advancing again.
"Marc LeClare and my family have been friends for years. He was a good,
decent man who wanted to make things better for everyone. You're just some girl
I dated in college." Which was a lie. She was the girl he'd loved, the
only girl he'd ever loved. He'd planned to ask her to marry him at the dance,
the night she'd run away from him. "Something happened in that warehouse,
and you're going to tell me—if I have to beat it out of you."

Somehow that got to her, because color flooded back into her face
from the neck up. She started moving her head from side to side, slowly, like a
dreamer in denial.

"Yeah," he said softly. "You will." It gave
him deep, fierce satisfaction to have her under his total control. She couldn't
escape him this time, and once he straightened out this mess, he'd make sure
she'd never run away from him again.

Before he could touch her, she shoved at the heavy watercooler,
and knocked it over.

Terri wanted nothing more than to ditch the impromptu press
conference and get back upstairs before J. D. did something unforgivable—or
worse, prosecutable. But Captain Pellerin was in a lousy mood, and the
reporters smelled blood. Someone had leaked the news that gubernatorial
candidate Marc LeClare had been found burned to death in one of his own
warehouses, and aside from Mardi Gras, there was no bigger news than that.

She stood at Pellerin's side as he issued a terse, no-frills,
no-details statement, refusing to identify the victim until the next of kin
were notified; then he parried a few pointed questions before dismissing the
media. The reporters tried to suck her into spilling something, but Terri knew
better than to open her mouth.