Dead on the Delta (6 page)

“Yeah,” I repeat, tucking my chin to my chest. Jin-Sang stops inches away, hands propped on his hips, carefully manicured nails pressing into his belt so hard the tips turn white. “It wasn’t easy. It was a kid. I knew her. Not well, but … ”

I keep my eyes on Jin-Sang’s hands, relieved when his white nails flood pink and his breath rushes out with a sympathetic sigh. “Those things are always difficult. But part of the road we’ve been chosen to travel.”

Jin-Sang is one of the immune who consider themselves blessed by God. He’s a loyal attendee at one of the churches that have popped up like mushrooms on cow shit in Baton Rouge in the past decade, one of the people who shun free tranquilizers and sleeping pills, preferring to shoot up every Sunday and Wednesday with the opiate of the people.

I haven’t been to church since I left New Orleans. I don’t see the point. Churches are run by people, the same people whose filth and stupidity and violence and hatred helped bring about the fairy mutations in the first place. All in all, people could color me unimpressed and God … well, I doubt he’s that impressed either.

“Yeah.” I shove my hands in the damp pockets of my cotton pants. “So I was already late getting to the site and then—”

“Then you did something stupid. I’ve been contacted.”

Thanks, Dom.
It would have been nice if he’d waited a couple of hours so I could break the news myself before making the required call to my supervisor. What happened to “I’ll give the paperwork straight to Cane”?

“I wouldn’t call getting attacked by a Breeze head stupid.” I shrug and shift my weight to my back foot, putting more distance between us. “Maybe unlucky or—”

“Don’t shit on me, Annabelle.”

I laugh. I can’t help myself. The snort’s out before I can suck it back in. Jin-Sang scowls so blackly that his eyebrow furrow turns into an ominous “V” that stretches to his hairline.

“This is not funny. This is serious business time. That drug house could have compromised all of your samples. You should have scouted that sector and made sure it was clear.”

“I did. I tracked through the entire area twice a couple of months ago.” And I had. The fact that I was hungover and sleep-deprived at the time is a matter better kept to myself. “They must have had the Breeze house covered or camouflaged or something or I’m sure I would have seen it.”

“You should have seen it anyway,” Jin-Sang says,
obviously not impressed with my excuse. “And you definitely shouldn’t have left a bite victim alone in the bayou. That was a big mistake for you, Annabelle, a very big mistake.”

“She isn’t just a victim.” My voice rises, summoning a growl from Gimpy. “She’s a junkie who was trying to
kill
me. She’s crazy; how was I supposed to—”

“Make a review of your handbook. The protocol is clear.” His brow smooths, his irritation decreasing in direct proportion to my own. The smug note in his tone makes me want to growl along with my cat. “You should have restrained the woman and then called for help if you were unable to bring her into the proper authorities alone. You should have waited with her until—”

“And what if she had friends out there? With guns? I’m supposed to sit around with my thumb up my ass and wait for some Breeze head to shoot me?”

“Rules are rules, and you knew this work could be dangerous when—”

“I’m a shit and egg collector!” I yell. “Why would I assume that would be a dangerous line of work?”

It
hadn’t been
when I first signed up to train with the FCC, before some freak figured out that fairy droppings can get people high. You have to wonder about things like that. Who was the first person who decided it was a good idea to eat fairy poo? Or, better yet, mix fairy poo with bleach and snort it up his nose? I’d like to meet that freak. And punch him in
the face a few dozen times for making my job suck more than it had in the first place.

“I’m sorry you see your work with those eyes.” Jin-Sang looks as if he genuinely pities me for not believing that wading around in the swamp putting water in tubes and scooping dead fairies into jars is the most noble work on the planet. “Perhaps we should discuss a transfer to a different department.”

“Jin, come on, I don’t want to transfer. I just—”

“
After
you deal with the FBI.”

W
hat?” The FBI?
He must be confused. Captain Munoz is New Orleans police, not federal government. “The DPD are calling in immune law enforcement to get the woman who attacked me, but it’s not—”

“The FBI liaison called twenty minutes ago. They’re sending a team from New Orleans on the eight o’clock shuttle to Donaldsonville.” Jin-Sang turns his attention to the cat in my basket and absentmindedly reaches down to scratch Gimpy behind the ears.

Amazingly, the Gimp’s glittery green eyes narrow in pleasure and a garbled, mucus-y rumble that might be a purr fills the air. It figures the bastard would bond with someone equally evil. Or maybe it’s just Jin-Sang’s cat-anus mouth that’s fooled Gimpy into thinking the man is one of his kind.

I cross my arms and curl my lip at the spectacle Gimpy’s making of himself as he rolls over and offers Jin-Sang his belly. “There was a murder. I’m sure the FBI is—”

“It is the Fairy Investigation division, not normal FBI.”

His words give me pause, just as he knew they would. Surely the feds haven’t been called in because of one lousy Breeze house. The government does its share of cracking down on fairy drugs, but only the big-time operations. If they’re coming to Donaldsonville, it means one of two things: either my find isn’t the first in the area, or they’re coming to town in more of a “policing their own” sort of capacity.

I’ve only known two FCC workers who were arrested. One was taken into custody by military personal at Keesler, the other hauled off by the Fairy Investigation division of the FBI.

“Immune agents or non-immune?” I struggle to think of anything I’ve done that might warrant arrest. I haven’t been the busiest worker bee, but I get the job done. A little late, a little sloppy, maybe, but I wasn’t worried about getting fired, let alone arrested.

But maybe Dom and Jin-Sang are right. Maybe leaving that woman tied up out in the bayou is a more serious offense than I’d thought …

“They didn’t say,” Jin-Sang says, the hint of a smile twitching at his lips. Either he’s really in love with my cat or really enjoying my misery. “They only advised me to make sure my local field agent was available to them.”

Only
. Whether he knows it or not, Jin-Sang’s given me an angst-reprieve.

Doesn’t sound like the feds are coming to haul me off to the hoosegow. Sounds like there’s an excellent chance that the FI unit is coming to Donaldsonville for reasons that have nothing to do with me. Or mostly nothing. If they aren’t immune, the FBI will need the local FCC field agent to wade out into the swamp and take pictures of the Breeze house and collect evidence and yada yada yada.

But with Captain Munoz on her way to town, I’ll get a break from that sort of thing. At least for a few days.

“Well then, I guess I’d better get back to town and see if they’re going to need any help.” I pull my cart away from Jin-Sang, interrupting the love fest. Ten minutes ago, I would have given Gimpy to the first interested party, but now I’m feeling strangely territorial. I don’t really want my new pet, but neither do I want my new pet that I don’t want to want a chode like Jin-Sang more than he wants me. I reach into my purse and grab the box of test tubes I fished out of the water. “Do you want these? I know the area’s contaminated as far as habitat research is concerned, but—”

“Of course. I enjoy evidence that you’ve actually tried to do your job.”

“Ha ha,” I say, though I know he’s not joking.

Jin-Sang takes the box, being careful not to make bodily contact, reminding me how filthy I am. Mud lingers beneath my nails, emphasizing the square end of each finger. It would probably be a good idea to run home and snag a shower before I head to Swallows for
a beer and something fried. But even as the thought passes through my mind, I know I won’t bother.

Who cares if I’m frizzy and stinky and have obviously skipped my last seven or eight manicures? The only person I bother getting pretty for is going to be busy locking up the Breeze head Munoz brings in and filling out the paperwork to get a collection team from Keesler to come pick her up. Then he’ll have to stay at the police station to welcome the feds arriving on the eight o’clock shuttle.

Cane and his big brother, Abe, are the senior officers at the DPD and will be in charge of making the introductions between the FBI and Captain Munoz. They’ll also have to arrange housing for the feds, get Munoz settled in the visiting police guest quarters, and so on and so forth until God knows when. As long as I turn off my phone, I’ll be able to eat and drink in scruffy peace.

After the day I’ve had, I know I should be upset that the person I’m closest to isn’t going to be around to offer comfort and support. Instead, I’m relieved. I don’t want comfort and support. I just want a beer or four, some buffalo wings with blue cheese dressing, and a few sleeping pills.

Which reminds me …

“I’ll come into the office with you,” I say, stopping Jin-Sang halfway up the stairs. “I need to pick up a bottle of Restalin.”

Jin-Sang sighs and his angry face returns. “Didn’t you pick up two bottles the last time you were here?”

“Um … yeah.” I shrug, making it clear I don’t care if he thinks I take too many sleeping pills. Who doesn’t? Once you’ve been taking them a few years, one Restalin stops working. After that, you either up your dose or spend half the night tripping out with the sweats and shakes and weird half-waking dreams that accompany withdrawal.

According to the FDA, the pills are supposed to be non-addictive, but just about everyone knows better by now. The detox from Restalin is supposed to be miserable. Not that I’d know. I’ve never gone more than a few nights without my pills. Why bother? It’s not like I’m some hippie who wants to cleanse my body of toxins. I like toxins. I figure they’re human preservatives. I’ll probably live to see Cane and the other organic-eating, healthy-living people dead and buried. I’ll be like a cockroach, obnoxious and toxic and indestructible.

“That’s a sixty-day supply.” Jin-Sang frowns. Again.

“Not if you take more than one at a time.” I smile, refusing to let him get a rise out of me.

“You should still have at least thirty pills left, Annabelle. It’s dangerous to chew so many pills.”

“That’s why I don’t chew them. I swallow them.”

“Don’t use words with me,” he says, just begging for me to ask if he prefers elaborate hand gestures. I resist the urge, but just barely. “Come back in two weeks. You can have more then.”

I shake my head, refusing to believe I’ve heard him correctly. “But you can’t do that. Meds are a part
of my employment package.” They have been since the early days, when the immune were in charge of cleaning up the dead. It was the only perk to dealing with the horror, one the government hasn’t gotten around to taking away yet. And I want my perk. Now. “Those pills are free for field ops.”

“I’m not asking you to pay me for them. In two weeks, I will give them—”

“I can’t wait two weeks. I need to sleep now. And last time I checked, you weren’t my doctor. Dr. Doughtry told me to take two if I couldn’t sleep.”

“This was during your last physical?”

“Yes. She also told me to take iron supplements and eat more red meat.” I’ve been doing the latter religiously. Nothing like an excuse to have steak twice a week.

“And your last physical was what? Two … nearly three years ago?”

My mouth opens and closes. Surely it hasn’t been that long. Min-Hee’s been after me to get in to see the doctor at one of the monthly well calls, but I kept brushing her off. I have better things to do on Saturdays then get poked and prodded and told I’m not dead yet.

“Dr. Herget is the new physician for Baton Rouge,” Jin-Sang says, all smug and full of his rightness. “He’ll be in tomorrow from noon to six. If you aren’t too busy with the FBI, perhaps you can come talk to him about your drug problem.”

“I don’t have a drug problem, I have a people
problem,” I say, angrier than my casual tone suggests. Min-Hee has never questioned me like this. She just lets me into the med room and gives me a paper bag like any reasonable adult who knows to keep her nose out of other people’s habits.

“I apologize, but I’m your supervisor.” He cradles my samples in his hands, as if they’re some kind of treasure instead of a bunch of stinking egg sacs and vials of polluted swamp. “As such, I am entitled to supervise your work and your access to FCC equipment and benefits. You will not be allowed inside the medical cabinet until your file is up to date with a current physical.”

It’s all I can do not to scream. “What happened to two weeks from now? What the fuck is—”

“You will use nice words or this conversation is over.”

“Jin-Sang, please … ” I soften my voice, open my green eyes wide, and think precious, baby-kitten thoughts. “The work’s been hell today. I could really use a little—”

“I understand. But I truly think your work would improve if you were to chew fewer sleeping pills.” Then the bastard has the nerve to smile, like this is some sort of friendly chat, not a power-play smackdown with my sanity on the line. Two more weeks with the kind of non-sleep I’ve had the past few nights will make me crazier than I am already. “Maybe then your eyes will work better when you’re awake.”

Or maybe I’ll come back here and strangle him with his own shoelaces.

“Great idea. I’m sure that will work.” I bare my teeth in an expression more snarl than smile. “Tell Min-Hee I miss her.”

“I will.” He bows slightly, pretending he doesn’t get the message that I can’t wait for him to take his pointy knees and prune face and go back where he came from. “And please give my greetings to the FBI. I’m sure they would appreciate it if you were waiting at the shuttle station when they arrive.”