Dead on the Delta (24 page)

I bolt into a seated position, and immediately regret it as the world whips in a dizzy circle. Oh crap, I feel woozy, light-headed, and generally like I’ve been whacked on the head one too many times in the past twenty-four hours.

“Let me loose. Let me loose!” Amity screams. “I didn’t do nothin’!”

“It was that bitch,” the other woman says. “She threatened me on the bus. She told me she was going to give me her herpes if I didn’t give her money.”

“Shut up, Monique,” Amity says.

“She did! I swear to god!”

“This one’s got two priors for public intox and assault.” Abe ignores his sister. His lightly wrinkled face remains set in a grim mask. No one observing would guess he’s related to one of these women. “I’m going to take her in and book her.”

“You can’t book me! Book
her
! She told me she’s got sores all over her ass,” Gold Lamé Girl—whose name is evidently Monique—screams as Abe pulls her away. “Ask those college boys on the bus!”

“I told her they were in my mouth, not my ass,” I mumble. Dicker shoots me a vaguely disgusted look, and I vow never to lie about diseases that cause open sores ever again. “And I never threatened her with herpes or anything else, I—”

“She’s a liar,” Amity says. “She pulled a gun on me! I was defending myself, Cane.”

My fingers fly to my gun, which is still safely buttoned in my holster. I didn’t even remember I was carrying it. Stupid. Not that I would want to draw down on my could-be future sister-in-law … but still, it would have been good for threatening and running away purposes.

“Cuff her, Dicker,” Cane says, not buying the gun accusation. “You smell like gator bait, Amity. What the hell were you up to last night?”

“Put me down!” One of Dicker’s cuffs snaps around Amity’s wrist, and her thrashing becomes a slam dance of crazy. “Let me go, or I swear to God,
you’ll kill me! You’ll kill your own sister! They’ll kill me!”

Her voice breaks, and her struggles grow so spastic that Cane nearly drops her. At the last minute, he shifts his grip, slipping one hand between her legs and another around her torso and locking his fists, pinning her like a toddler in the middle of a tantrum. Dicker cuffs her free wrist before scrambling back, as if he fears Amity will take a chunk out of his neck if he stays too close.

“She’s on Breeze. Or she’s
been
on Breeze.” I have to yell to be heard over Amity’s now wordless wailing as I sway to my feet. “I saw the injection marks under her arms.”

Cane’s jaw goes slack and grief flashes across his face. When he speaks, his voice is a raw, painful thing to hear. “Guess that explains the smell.”

Breeze heads like to let nicotine build up on their skin. It helps hold the Breeze in longer before they start to sweat out, and smoking cigarettes in endless succession apparently seems like a good idea when you’re floating the fairy wind. Cane knows that. He also knows even a few weeks of using Breeze can take years off a life. He realizes the seriousness of what his sister has done; it’s plain in every tiny wrinkle around his sad eyes.

“Looks like it’s worse than that.” Dicker grunts under his breath. “Pin her head back, Cane.” After a second of hesitation, Cane tightens his grip, but keeps a sharp eye on Dicker as he points one blunt fingertip
at the skin behind Amity’s ear. “Call me crazy … but … ” His gaze shifts nervously from me to Cane and back again. “Well … that
looks
like a damned fairy bite.”

Amity howls, making us all flinch. “That ain’t no bite! I ain’t got no bite! Fuck you, Dicker. Fuck you!”

Her words morph into more mindless screaming, finally drawing the attention our fight should have attracted five minutes ago. Across the street, the barbershop lingerers—men who spend most of the day inside Sid’s Old-Fashioned Cuts soaking up the free air conditioning—have come out to point and stare. Next door, Walter’s wide, round face hovers in the window of the hardware store, chubby cheeks working as he traps sunflower shells between his teeth one after another, spying on the festivities from between the rakes and the shovels.

Too bad he didn’t think to bring out a shovel and whack Amity and Monique off of me when I was pinned to the ground. I would get my feelings hurt—I consider Walter a friend, whose Eskimo prostitute stories I’ve listened to enough times at Swallows that he should have my back in a fight—but even Dicker, a man with the authority to make an arrest, was reluctant to engage with Amity until Cane gave the order.

Maybe that’s why Amity thinks she can get away with shooting Breeze and attacking people on the street, because everyone in town is too afraid to stand up to the Cooper brothers.

As I move closer, standing on tiptoe to get a look at
what indeed seems to be a scabbed-over fairy bite on Amity’s neck, I let my eyes slide up to Cane’s face. If he wasn’t my lover or my friend, how would I feel about him? Would I still trust him with my life? Or would I wonder if he and his brother didn’t have their own agenda in this town, one that included special treatment for friends and family and special punishments for those who mess with those friends and family? Is my relationship with Cane the reason the Junkyard Kings and every other allegedly sketchy or dangerous person in town leaves me alone? Will my life become even more dangerous if I lose that protection, if Cane becomes an enemy rather than a friend?

“Dammit,” Cane whispers.

“I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry.” There’s real compassion in Dicker’s voice. It’s a first in my experience, but then everyone knows what a fairy bite means for a family.

“I’ve got to get her inside, and start making the calls.” The misery in Cane’s voice makes me want to hug him, but I’m with Dicker—I’m not getting anywhere near Amity’s teeth.

Instead, I touch Cane’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, too.”

Sudden doubts aside, Cane is losing a sister. Amity isn’t severely allergic or she’d be dead already, but she’ll still be processed and sent to a camp within the next few days. Cane and his family will have to apply for special passes to visit her and only get a few hours, two or three times a year, with a woman they’re used to seeing every day.

They’ll spend their limited time together separated by a wall of protective glass. They’ll never hug Amity again, they’ll never spend another Sunday chatting on the porch over endless glasses of sweet tea. And in a few years—maybe five if she’s very lucky—they’ll bury her before her time.

I’ve never been a fan, but it makes me so sad. Sad for Amity, and much, much sadder for the man I love.

Cane’s brows draw together, and he subtly pulls away from my touch. “Did she or Monique hurt you? Do you want to press charges?”

“No, I’m fine,” I lie, ignoring the dull thrumming in my skull. At least the pink and green flashing lights are gone and the wah-wah song has stopped. I’ll live. Amity can’t say the same.

“You’re not fine.” He sounds angry, despite the fact that I’ve given him the answer he wanted. “You need to get to the ER. Dom’s right, your eyes are wrecked.”

“Okay … I will,” I say, ignoring the sharpness in his tone. He’s just found out his sister will never be coming home again, I can’t expect his Sunday manners. “I just need to arrange bail for Fernando and then—”

“Bail was denied. We’re holding him.” Cane nods to Dicker. “Go get the padded room ready for Amity. Make sure it’s clean.”

“Wait a second.” I hurry to keep up with Cane as he starts across the parking lot. Dicker scurries ahead, chubby thighs churning inside his polyester pants, hustling faster than I’ve ever seen him move. “What
do you mean? How could bail be denied? Fernando has never even had an unpaid parking ticket, I—”

“Perverts who kill kids don’t get out of jail, Annabelle,” Cane snaps, loud enough to make Amity flinch. Cane winces and tightens his arms in a gesture that’s more hug than restraint. When he speaks again, it’s in a whisper. “I don’t care about his clean driving record, and neither did the judge.”

“No, Cane.” I shake my head. This can’t really be happening. This is insane! “You’ve got the wrong person. Fernando didn’t kill Grace, he would never do something like that.”

“I can’t talk to you about an ongoing investigation.” He circles around me before pausing to throw his parting shot over his shoulder. “And you need to renew your license for that piece. I know it’s expired. If I see you carrying it again without a current license, I’ll arrest you.”

“Jesus, Cane, I—”

“Annabelle! Can I have a few words? Whenever you’re finished?” Even from across the street, I can smell Hitch’s signature smell. I turn, glad to see him looking healthy and whole in a light blue button-down shirt and a pair of khakis. But really, couldn’t he have waited until Cane was inside the station? We haven’t discussed my new relationship status, but he has to know that Cane and I aren’t “just friends.”

Or that we weren’t before last night, anyway.

“Sure, just a second,” I call before turning back to Cane.

Now there’s nothing friendly in Lieutenant Cooper’s face. It’s almost as if he blames me for Amity’s condition, as if I invited some damn fairy to bite her while she was out in the bayou scoring Breeze. That has to be why she was bitten. It might have even happened yesterday, while she was stealing the earrings off the woman who attacked me. My thoughts race, full of suspicions about Amity’s connections to the big bad man who attacked me and his big bad drugs that must have gone missing.

Fernando warned me that Amity’s place was a hotbed of sketchiness. I should have listened, I should have asked more questions. Maybe then I’d have something to go on to help me clear Fernando’s name.

I have to find out more. I have to get Dom to tell me if the footprints in my pictures match the footprints at the Beauchamps’. Or maybe the footprints are still there … right outside Grace’s window. Maybe I can get Libby to take me on a tour of the grounds this afternoon and get a look at them myself.

“Stay out of this, Annabelle. It’s none of your business,” Cane says, almost as if he’s read my mind. Or maybe he just knows me
that
well. A scary thought, if there ever was one. “I don’t want you near a crime scene or inside the station unless you’ve got legitimate FCC business or you’re coming to give Dicker your statement.”

“Cane, please. You know Fern, you know he wouldn’t—”

“I don’t know shit. The past twenty-four hours
have made that pretty clear.” The muscle in Cane’s jaw leaps and his eyes turn angry with a side of bitter. “I meant what I said about that gun. And keep your hands off FBI weapons, too. Last night was your only free pass.”

My jaw drops as he walks away without so much as a goodbye. What was with the parting shot? Was it really a warning about carrying weapons I’m not licensed to carry, or a dig of a more personal nature?

His sister is infected, and he’s working a murder case. He has bigger things to worry about than telling his ex-girlfriend to stay away from her ex-boyfriend’s “gun.”

“Annabelle?” Right. Hitch—and his gun—are waiting for me across the street.

Ugh. Blechk. Blergh.

I take my time gathering my glasses from the ground and slipping them back onto my face, literally dragging my feet as I head Hitch’s way. I don’t check the street before I cross, either. Getting hit by a car might be a blessing at this point.

“How are you feeling?” Hitch asks when I finally sluff up onto the sidewalk beside him.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

“You’re the one with a head injury and a dozen bite marks.” He reaches out, smoothing fingers over the bare skin at my shoulder, inspiring a minor cardiac event. “Jesus, that’s amazing. I can barely see them.”

I refuse to shiver. The wonder in his voice is for the medical miracle of my mended flesh, nothing more.
The warmth spreading through me as my body celebrates his touch, however, is personal. No matter how wrong that kiss, a part of me wants to do it again. And again. And again, until all the bridges we burned are rebuilt and the distance between our past and present eaten away.

The other part of me wants to run to the station and get Cane alone. Surely, if I talk to him one-on-one, I’ll see the same man I saw last night. The one who loves me, who doesn’t care about the past as long as he can be my future.

A third part of me just wishes I could see Hitch’s eyes. Stupid sunglasses. If I could see his eyes I’d have a clue what sort of “words” we’re going to have and my heart might be able to take a break from all the clenching and lurching. A fourth part of me screams that it’s time for a drink—damn the early hour and the head injury—Bloody Mary at Swallows! Stat! While a fifth part wants to go home and sleep for a few days.

I am at fifths with myself. It’s a … fractured feeling.

I clear my throat and Hitch pulls his hand away with a self-conscious flex of his fingers. “Yeah.” I glance down at my mostly unmarked skin. Faint, hairline breaks in my pale flesh are the only evidence of the fairy attack. “They did heal fast. I was expecting to get a few scars.” I shrug. “Good skin, I guess.”

He shakes his head. “Good skin or not, there should be scabbing. You haven’t had enough time to—”

“You’re right.” From a medical standpoint, I know he’s right, but in all the excitement, I haven’t had time to stress about my battle scars—or lack thereof—and I don’t want to stress about them now. “Maybe the bites weren’t as deep as they looked.”

“No, I saw them.” Hitch’s know-it-all voice is in full effect as his fingers return to my shoulder, spreading the skin tight, searching for the secrets beneath. “You should absolutely have scabbing, at least some kind of—”

“Sorry to disappoint.” I pull away, swallowing hard, trying to ignore how desperately I want him to keep touching me. “Other than acquiring some scabs, what else can I do for you?”

He slips off his sunglasses, tucking them into the front pocket of his shirt, making my breath catch. Damn, he’s pretty this morning and looking at me with those eyes.
Those
eyes, the ones I remember, the ones that don’t think I’m the lowest form of scum ever to be scraped off the bottom of a cesspool. “I think it’s more what
I
can do for
you
that you’ll be interested in.”