Blood on the Bayou (40 page)

“I’m sure they will,” I say. “But what are we—”

“I told them you were helping me answer an anonymous tip at the Gramercy docks when we spotted the swarm and took shelter in the garage,” he says, answering my unspoken question. “I’m writing up the report on the dead men we found right now. Putting it down as accidental poisoning until I learn different.”

He’s not completely ignoring the bodies. It makes me feel a little better.

“This might end up being a federal case, but even if it isn’t, Dom and I aren’t going to be able to finish the investigation or remove the bodies until the FCC lifts the code red. So there’s not—”

“You and Dom can’t go out there. You’ve only got one iron suit and didn’t you leave it—”

“I’m going to borrow a couple of suits from the FBI,” he says. “Agent Rideau said he’d have some sent up from New Orleans when he sends the car back.”

“What?” Surely I heard him wrong. “He did? When did you—”

“Talked to him a few minutes ago. He’s giving Abe a ride back to town before heading to New Orleans in my cruiser. Said he figured a suit loan was the least he could do.” He pauses, then adds in a stiffer voice. “He wanted me to tell you he’d talk to you soon.”

“Oh. Okay,” I say, not knowing quite how to feel about that.

It makes me crazy that Hitch had the balls to leave a message for me with Cane, but it’s also kind of a relief. He’s taking a step away, back to Stephanie and the baby and his life in New Orleans. I know there will come a time when we’ll have to talk about the lab and Stephanie’s part in it and where we go from here, but I’ve got my own life, and it feels like our past has finally been put to bed.

Bed. I’m going to need another one. I can probably find a frame in the junkyard, but I’ll have to special order the mattress from New Orleans. But maybe—if I file the paperwork tonight and Deedee gets to come home with me in the next week or so—I can borrow a mattress from Bernadette. I know she has a daybed in her guest room.

“Annabelle? You still—”

“Cane?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to skip dinner and go start some paperwork at Sweet Haven.” I don’t know where he and I are going from here, but he deserves to know Deedee might be along for my half of the ride. “I want Deedee to come live with me. Assuming she’ll still have me after—”

Cartoon cats crying crystal tears flash on my mental screen.

“Gimpy! Shit!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Gimpy’s at the vet again,” I say, pacing away from the wall. “I totally forgot. I have to go check on him, too, so I really can’t—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Do what you need to do. I’ll swing by your house tomorrow morning before work. We can talk then.”

“Okay. Sounds good. We should talk.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe . . . You want me to come over later tonight instead?”

“Tonight? When?”

“Around nine?”

I dart a quick look over at Tucker, who’s not even making an effort to act like he’s not listening anymore. He lifts a brow, issuing a silent challenge. “That’s okay,” I say. “Tomorrow morning would probably be better.”

Tucker smiles and I scowl, hoping he realizes that Cane’s loss will not be his gain. I have enough on my
plate tonight. And I’m exhausted. I need a nice, relaxing evening with
no
men in it.

“All right,” Cane says, concealing any hurt he might feel. “I’ll see you then.”

“See you.” I’m about to hang up when he says—

“I meant what I said, Lee-lee. I love you, and . . . I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” I say, throat tightening. I’m not looking forward to telling Cane what I learned from Fernando. I have a feeling that confrontation is only going to make the motivation for his visit last night more upsetting. “See you in the morning. Knock at the back door, okay? If there’s a miracle and Deedee gets to come home with me tonight, I’ll put her in the front room.”

“I’m proud of you,” Cane says. “You’re going to be a great foster mom.”

I hear his hope for babies of our own in his voice, but refuse to take it too seriously. I’m not going to be taking anything seriously for the next several weeks. As soon as I get my cat and work things out with Dee, I’m prescribing myself a full month of laying low.

Even if the Big Man hadn’t demanded it, I need it. It will be good for me. And Deedee. And god knows Gimpy needs some downtime. I’m going to have to catproof the house. Maybe Deedee will help. Something like that seems like it would be right up her alley.

“See you in the morning.” I end the call, and am pulling up my first message when Tucker wanders over with a sigh.

“We should go,” he says. “We’ve got a few miles to walk and—”

“Let me check my messages. Two seconds.” I close my eyes, making a great show of listening hard as Jin-Sang’s voice whispers in my ear.

Really
whispers.
Why the hell is he whispering? He
never
whispers. Jin’s an all loud, all the time kind of guy.

“I don’t have much time,” he hisses, his accent thicker than I’ve ever heard it. “An armored car is waiting. I erased your warning. You’ll be having interviews soon, but when you are, say nothing about the new species. It is
very
important this big concern goes away. I’ll call when I can. Delete this message as
soon
as you are hearing it.”

Jin’s voice cuts off with a rattle. I scowl down at the phone as I hit delete and start the next message. Why is he so upset? And why does he want me to cover up the new species? Jin’s even more of a line-walker than Cane. He lives for regulations and protocol. There has to be something very wrong for him to advocate prevarication.

“What’s wrong?” Tucker asks. “Who was—”

“Nothing.” I’m not ready to discuss this with Tucker, not until I get more information from Jin. Hopefully he’ll be in touch before my interview so I can get the dirt.

I plug my ear as Deedee’s voice comes on the line. “It’s me. Gimpy’s sleeping. I’m goin’ back to Sweet Haven, but I’m comin’ to visit him tomorrow. I can. I take back my promise not to sneak out. It’s okay to
break promises to people who don’t keep
their
promises.” She sighs a long, labored sigh, but she doesn’t sound as angry as she’s pretending to be. “Bye. Call me if you get this before lights-out.” I delete the message, secretly hoping we’ll be picking the Gimp up from the vet together.

The last message is from Dr. Hollis, saying she wants to keep Gimpy overnight for observation. She thinks he’ll be fine, but that we should talk about anti-depressants.

For a second I think she’s talking about medication for me, but then she starts extolling the benefits of Prozac for cats and I have to laugh.

“I’m serious, Red,” Tucker says. “We aren’t the only people trying to get out of here. We need to move before we—”

“I’m done.” I shove my phone back into my pocket. “Keep your panties on.”

“I don’t wear panties.”

“Boxers?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He loops a finger through my empty belt loop and tugs me closer. “Maybe we’ll have time for you to find out before supper.”

I cover his hand with mine. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”

“Maybe not tonight.”

“Not any night. I’m swearing off men.”

“Is this like the time you swore off booze?” he asks with a grin. “How long did that last? A day?”

“A day and a half,” I grumble, shoving him away
when he starts to laugh. I turn and start down the last stretch of the tunnel, a still chuckling Tucker on my heels.

Within a few moments, I have to stoop down, and not much later I’m crawling, wincing as rocks dig into my knees. This can’t be the main entrance. A person much larger that I am would have a hell of a time fitting through. Tucker’s on his belly by the time we reach the end, his broad shoulders scraping rock on both sides.

“You going to make it?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he grunts. “But hurry it up, will ya? I’m not a fan of tight places.”

“Learning so many fascinating things about you today, Mr. School Spirit.” I deliberately slow my pace. “I bet you were the cutest thing, in those tight little cheer shorts.”

“I’m serious, Red,” he says. “Move it!” He slaps my ass, but his awkward position ensures the smack is more symbolic than painful.

“Okay, okay.” I gingerly stick my head out into the world, ready to draw back inside should I spot a swarm of pixies or fairies or any recently liberated, venom-crazy felons wandering around looking for a crime to commit. But of course there’s nothing that
reasonable
waiting for me, only a quiet clearing with a peek of bayou visible through the cypress trees.

And my shiny red and black Harley propped up in a patch of grass.

I scramble out of the hole and up into the light, with Tucker close behind me. He shoves his shoulders
free, but pauses when he gets an eyeful of the motorcycle. “Well, well,” he says, a sly smile creeping across his face. “Guess we won’t be walking after all.”

“How did he get it out here?” I keep my distance, leery for some reason.

“He has his ways.” Tucker pulls himself free and jumps to his feet, shaking his head and arms like a dog fresh out of water.

“But how did he know this is where we’d end up? There are at least two other ways out.”

“You ever heard that phrase about not lookin’ a gift horse in the mouth?” Tucker throws an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in for a celebratory bear hug. I can feel how glad he is to be out of the tunnels, and laugh in spite of the bad vibe I’m getting from the bike.

“Yeah. I’ve heard it.”

“Same applies to gift choppers.” He ruffles my hair before starting toward the Harley. “I’m driving. You can ride bitch.”

“You are obscenely politically incorrect.”

“One of the things you love about me, right?” He smiles as he straddles the seat in a way that’s both sexy as hell and silly at the same time.

“What about helmets? Don’t we—”

“We’ll be all right. I’ll dig a couple out of storage before we go riding again.”

“You’re assuming I’m going riding
now
. I don’t—”

“Trust me, Red. You’re going to love this. By the time we get back to your place, you’ll be begging me
to take you out again.” He turns a dial and pulls a knob and fusses with enough switches to make me certain I’m never going to learn how to drive the stupid bike, before turning the key and jabbing the red starter button.

But instead of rumbling to life, the engine makes a high-pitched whining sound, and something under the gas pan rattles like a snake ready to strike.

R
un!” I shout, but Tucker’s already on the move. He shoves away from the bike and sprints toward me as the rattling becomes a roar and the bike goes up with an air-scalding blast.

His body slams into mine and we hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I cough and flinch as pieces of flaming metal fly through the air and the heat of the explosion warms my feet. I try to roll over and run, but Tucker has me pinned.

“Get up,” I shout. “We have to—”

Something hits his back, sending a shudder through us both. There’s a sick-sounding thunk and his eyes close with a groan. He collapses on top of me, squeezing the wind out of my lungs a second time, leaving me breathless as the last pieces of the Harley fall to the ground.

And then the swamp is quiet, but for the cries of frightened birds and the hiss of the fire licking at what’s left of the Big Man’s present.

The Big Man. He has to be responsible for this.
Tucker was wrong. I’m not safe. And neither is he. In fact . . .

“Tucker?” I ask, voice muted and strange in the ringing silence. I run my hands up his back, pulse slowing when I feel the gentle movement of his ribs as he draws breath.

He’s not dead. My arms tighten around him.
Thank god
.

Trembling with relief, I continue my exploration, tracing his spine up to his neck, pushing aside his tangled hair until I touch something hot and wet at the base of his skull. I apply gentle pressure. Within a few moments, my fingers are sticky and slick. He’s bleeding. A lot. But head injuries do that. It’s probably not as bad as it feels.

“He’s going to be fine,” I say, then repeat, “you’re going to be fine,” in case he can hear me.

We just have to get back to town and everything will be okay. I’ll get Tucker patched up and then . . . then . . .

Then what? I come out here and hunt the Big Man down? Kill him before he can kill me? Even though he’s invisible and powerful and has a small army of people doing his bidding? It’s impossible. He’ll find me first and he’ll finish the job he started and—

“Is it her?” The question is distant, hushed, but I hear it. I freeze, fingers going slack in Tucker’s bloody hair.

“It is. It’s the ginger woman,” says a second voice, more guttural than the first. It’s coming from the
other side of the clearing, not far from what’s left of the Harley.

“Is it dead?” asks the first.

“Not yet. Soon. We wait.”

“We finish it,” the first voice replies with a screech I’m guessing is the monster’s version of laughter.

Fairies. Fucking
fairies
. And I’m all out of magic. I might be able to shove Tucker off of me and make a run for it, but I’d never make it back to town before the Fey caught up with me and I can’t leave him here unconscious and maybe bleeding to death. There’s no way out. This is it. If they’re willing to die to kill me, then I’m dead. The end.