“Did she leave you?”
“No. No, she’s not going to leave her credit cards and her big house and her allowance,” he said.
Maggie stared at him for a moment. “Why did you marry her at all? You said you’ve never been in love.”
Boudreaux took a sip of his drink. “She was a young widow from an old, politically-connected society family that had run out of money,” he said. “I was starting to make money, but I was an overeducated Cajun boy from the bayou. We served each other’s needs at the time.”
“You know it’s incongruous that you won’t divorce her because you’re Catholic, right?”
“I know that, yes,” he said. “But, despite the fact that I no longer need her family’s connections, I don’t see how getting divorced would benefit me.”
Maggie looked at him a moment, thought about her words. “Maybe you wouldn’t be so sad,” she said finally.
“Do you think my marriage makes me sad, Maggie?” he asked quietly.
“I think being alone makes you sad,” she said.
He looked at her over his glass as he took a long sip of his drink. The wind blew a small handful of hair across his forehead, and he ran a hand through it before he spoke.
“Perhaps that’s one of the things that draws us to each other,” he said. “We see a sadness in each other that we want to repair.”
“I have a wonderful life,” Maggie said. “I have a great family, and Wyatt.”
“And yet…” Boudreaux said.
“And yet, what?”
“You tell me,” he said.
“Maybe I’m a little sad sometimes,” she said. He waited, and she took a healthy swallow of her drink, stared at her fingerprints in the condensation on the glass. “I get this weariness, deep in my bones, when I think about another fifteen or twenty years in this line of work,” she said quietly. “That’s so many dead and broken people, so many grieving families.”
She set the glass down on the arm of the chair and glanced over at Boudreaux. He sat quietly, drink in his lap, his chin on his free hand.
“So many images I’ll wish I could bleach from my memory,” she added.
Boudreaux stared back at her a moment before speaking. “I suspect you’ll do it, though. I think you need to help people.”
Maggie shook her head slightly. “Helping people is keeping horrible things from happening. That’s not what I do. I come in after the horrible things. The best I can hope for is to put someone in jail.”
“Aren’t you underestimating the value of justice?” he asked.
“No, I just know that justice doesn’t put people back the way they were,” she answered.
“Perhaps not,” Boudreaux answered. “But doing nothing isn’t an answer.”
Maggie wanted to say something sharp, but caught herself. She wasn’t angry with Boudreaux, she was angry with the world.
“It takes something out of me,” she said instead. “This case I’m on now is taking something out of me.” She looked over at him. “A young girl I used to know. Raped.”
“How old?” Boudreaux asked.
“Fourteen,” she said.
“A year younger than you were,” he said quietly.
“Yes. And even if we catch this guy, even if he’s indicted for first degree sexual battery of a minor, he’ll probably cop a plea, or have some doctor there to tell the jury how disadvantaged or damaged he is. At best, he’ll get sentenced to thirty years and do ten, still be a young man when he gets out.”
“Well, if you find out who he is, you could always just let me know instead.”
Maggie turned back to look at him, her brows knitting together. Boudreaux gave her a slight smile.
“I’m a cop,” Maggie said, only a little surprised. “I’m not going to have you kill a rape suspect.”
Boudreaux calmly took a swallow of his drink. “I expected as much,” he said mildly. “But it would have been impolite of me not to offer.”
Zoe sat on the edge of the upholstered chair in the living room, holding her cell phone in one hand and petting the gray cat in her lap with the other. She sat ramrod straight, her ears listening for every sound in her immediate environment, as they had been doing all day.
It had been Aunt Paulette’s first day back at work, and Zoe hadn’t been able to do anything but watch and listen, even in the light of day. She turned on the TV for company, then turned it off because she was afraid it would mask other, stealthy noises. She desperately wanted a shower, but the idea of being naked while alone in the house was out of the question. She would wait. If she had to wait until tomorrow, she would wait.
Her aunt had called to check on her around five, had said she’d be home shortly, but it was now almost eight and she wasn’t there. This would not have surprised Zoe last week, and it didn’t surprise her tonight as much as she wished it would. She knew Paulette had stopped at one of her friends’ houses, to drink beer and maybe smoke a little. Her hope now was that she’d be home before dark, but dark was well on its way, and Zoe was starting to wonder how she was going to stand being so watchful for so long.
There were no groceries to speak of in the house, so Zoe had called and ordered a pizza. After eating pizza two or three times a week for the last several months, Zoe was sick to death of it, but she was hungry. She’d used the debit card her aunt left at home for just in case, and ordered sausage even though she didn’t like it much. It was silly, she knew, but she thought maybe if she ordered Paulette’s favorite, the woman would miraculously appear, saying she was sorry to be so late, but the lines at Piggly-Wiggly had been long.
Zoe heard the gravel crunching out front, dumped the cat from her lap, and ran to the front window. She had hoped it would be her aunt getting dropped off, but it was just the pizza guy, a young guy around twenty-five or so, with bleached blond hair. He’d delivered to her many times before. She opened the door as he jogged up the sidewalk.
“Hey, how are you?” he asked cheerfully. “Here you go, fresh and hot.”
Zoe tried for a real smile, but she knew it was only a tight, polite one. “Thank you,” she said.
She waited as he opened the insulated bag, and she didn’t know if it was the smell or what, but she was suddenly slightly nauseous and sorry she’d ordered the thing.
“Extra sausage, extra cheese are in the house,” he said pleasantly as he pulled the pizza from the bag.
Zoe stared at the box. Every hair on her body was electrified. She was cold and hot, suddenly and simultaneously. The phrase “in the house” seemed to burn into her ears and down her throat.
“It smells good,” she said, and her voice sounded very small, and very far away.
She kept her eyes on the pizza, saw his hand as he put her credit card receipt and a ball point pen on top.
“Here you go. Just sign the top one and the bottom one’s yours,” he said. Zoe felt bile rising, and was suddenly afraid that she was going to vomit.
“Thank you,” she said again, from somewhere else.
She reached out and took the pen, though she didn’t want to touch it, didn’t want to touch it, didn’t want to touch it. She watched her hand shake as she remembered to add a tip, then signed her aunt’s name. The pen trembled as she held it out. He didn’t take it right away, and she was forced to look up. He was staring at her, his smile much smaller, barely there.
“Sorry,” she said, smiling weakly. “I’ve been sick for a few days.”
He put most of his smile back in place. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said politely. “Glad you’ve got your appetite.”
He held out the pizza, and she took it from him. She was so aware of the horribly small distance between them that she could physically feel it adjust when he backed down one stair.
“You have a nice night now,” he said.
“You, too,” she said, then made herself close the door gently and lock it, like a regular person would do in the regular world. Then she threw the pizza onto the floor and r
an to the front window. Her hot, panicked breaths bounced off the curtains and back into her face as she tilted her ear at the window and waited for the sound of his car. She wasn’t sure her heart was still beating until he finally pulled away, and then her heart began pounding so hard that she thought she might faint. She peeked out the window, afraid it was some kind of trick, but he was gone.
She ran to the back door. From just a few feet away she could see that it was still locked, but she jerked at the knob anyway, checked that the sliding lock above the door knob was tight. There were sounds coming out of her that she didn’t recognize, sounds that had no meaning to her, but she couldn’t stop herself from making them.
She tripped over one of the cats as she turned to run back to the living room, and found herself sprawled on the tile floor near the dining room table. She didn’t feel her bottom teeth as they cut her lower lip; all she knew was that she must not be on the floor.
She half climbed, half crawled into the living room, managing to get to her feet as she reached the chair she’d been sitting in. She snatched up her phone. It took her trembling fingers three tries before she got her password right, and she nearly screamed before they did. She could hear her voice in her ears, but for some reason she couldn’t understand what she was saying.
She found her recent calls screen, and had to tap the number several times before she got it to go.
Maggie was on 12th Street, just passing Weems Memorial on her way home, when her cell rang from the passenger seat. She glanced over long enough to see that it was Zoe, answer it, and hit the speaker button. “Hey, Zoe,” she said, as she crossed Avenue I.
At first, all she could make out was a low, breathy, grunting sound, and her heart leaped up into her throat.
“Zoe? Zoe!” she yelled.
Zoe made some noises that sounded like “unh, unh, unh” and Maggie barely managed to look both ways before she floored it through the next stop sign.
“Zoe!” she yelled again. “Talk to me!”
“It—it—it’s the pizza man, it’s the pizza man,” the girl finally blurted out.
Maggie reached over and turned on her dash light, flipped the siren. “Is he there?” she yelled.
“He was here! He was here!”
“Is your aunt there?”
“N—no,” the girl answered, and Maggie could hear her gagging or trying to catch her breath.
“Three blocks, Zoe!” Maggie called, trying to sound calmer. “I’m right there! Three blocks!”
She reached over and grabbed her handset, keyed her radio, and forced her voice to be steady and slow. “Franklin 100 to Franklin,” she said.
“Go ahead, Franklin 100,” the dispatcher responded.
“10-12 with subject by phone, two-zero-two one-two street, subject was at the residence, may still be in the area. Requesting back-up.”
“10-4, Franklin 100,” the dispatcher responded. “Franklin 103, Franklin.”
Maggie heard Carl Pitasniak respond. “Franklin 103, 10-18, 10-51.”
Maggie could hear Zoe gasping for breath over her phone’s speaker, and she forced herself to speak calmly. “Zoe, I’m almost there.”
“Franklin 1 to Franklin,” Wyatt’s calm voice said over the radio. “10-51, 10-18 to Franklin 100’s location.”
Maggie felt a certain comfort in that, as she whipped into the housing development, mindful of her speed in a neighborhood where kids still played outside. She threw the Jeep into park, grabbed her Glock 23 from her purse on the seat. She snatched up her phone, and was out her door while the gravel was still settling.
“Zoe, I’m here! Open the door, baby,” she said into the phone.
She heard a siren not far off as she reached Zoe’s steps, then the door was yanked open. Zoe was wild-eyed, clutching her phone to her chest. She was about to say something to Maggie, then just started taking in long, sucking breaths. Maggie stepped inside and wrapped her arms around the girl.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Maggie said. She held the girl away from her. “Was he inside? When was he here?”
“No, he just delivered the pizza,” Zoe said. “Like five, ten minutes ago.”
Maggie stuck her weapon in the back of her jeans and put her hands on Zoe’s face. “What happened?”
It took Zoe a moment to answer. Maggie watched her try to slow her breathing enough to speak. “I ordered a pizza. From the place we always get pizza. It was him, the guy that delivers the pizzas.”
“Which pizza place?” Maggie answered. Zoe looked past Maggie at the floor and Maggie turned around. There was a pizza box on the floor, half crushed. Pizza One. She looked back at Zoe. “What happened?”
“I left him a tip,” Zoe said. “I remembered to leave him a tip.”
“What? Did he know you recognized him, Zoe?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure,” Zoe answered, and Maggie could feel her ratcheting up again. Behind her, she heard a siren approaching, and then the crunching of tires on gravel.
“Zoe, how’d you recognize him?”
“His voice,” Zoe answered, squeezing her eyes shut. “He said something about the house and I recognized his voice. Maybe an accent. I don’t know, but I know it was him.”
“Zoe, look at me,” Maggie said calmly. “I’m here. You’re okay.”
Zoe nodded, then looked over Maggie’s shoulder. Maggie turned to see Wyatt stalking up the sidewalk. She stepped toward the door as Wyatt came up the steps.
“It was a delivery guy from Pizza One,” Maggie said. “He brought a pizza maybe ten minutes ago.”
“She make him for sure?” Wyatt asked.
“She thinks so.” Maggie turned to Zoe. “What does he look like?”
Zoe stared past Wyatt at the open doorway. “He was maybe twenty, twenty-two? He has really blond hair, like fake blond. Brown eyes.” She held her hand up above her head. “About this tall. Not skinny, but not built.”
“Fits,” Wyatt said quietly.
Maggie turned and looked past Wyatt as a cruiser pulled in behind Wyatt, followed more slowly by a red Skylark. Carl Pitasniak got out of the cruiser and headed for the house. Wyatt went to talk to him, met him halfway down the sidewalk.
Paulette Boatwright got out of the passenger side of the Skylark hesitantly, then hurriedly shut the door as the car backed out of the driveway.
Maggie stalked out the door and past Wyatt and Carl.
“Where were you?’ Maggie demanded.
Paulette looked frightened. “I was at work. What happened?”
“You work from eight to four!” Maggie snapped. “Where were you?”
“I just stopped—”
“You’re high, dammit!! Maggie said.
“Maggie,” Wyatt said behind her.
Maggie ignored him. “You selfish—”
“Maggie!” Wyatt said more loudly. “Not now.”
Maggie poked a finger in Paulette’s direction. “If I could charge you, I would,” she said. In truth, she felt maybe she would have shot her if she could.
“What happened?” Paulette called.
Maggie’s boots clumped along the sidewalk as she walked back to the house. Zoe backed up as Maggie went back inside.
“Do you want to come with me?” she asked, sounding angrier than she meant to.
Zoe looked out the front door, where Paulette was talking to Wyatt as she tried to light a cigarette. The woman was weaving a bit.
“Okay,” Zoe said.
“Go pack a bag,” Maggie said. “Bring your school stuff.”
“How much do you want me to pack?”
Maggie shook her head. “Just pack for a few days. You can wash clothes if you need to.”
She watched Zoe head for the hallway, then she stepped back outside. Wyatt walked away from Paulette and met Maggie halfway. “Forget about the aunt,” he said.
“Forgotten.”
“We’re gonna head over to Pizza One,” Wyatt said. “Dwight’s gonna meet us over there.”
<
br /> “Zoe’s coming with me,” Maggie said.
“You need the aunt’s permission. She’s not sixteen. Unless you want to call DCS, and that’s a whole different can of hell.”
“I’m not calling DCS,” Maggie said, already walking away. She stopped in front of Paulette. “Do I have your permission to take Zoe with me?”
Paulette blew out some smoke. She looked more scared than someone that high usually did. “Like protective custody?”
“I’m just taking her with me,” Maggie said shortly. “I have your permission, right?”
Paulette glanced over Maggie’s shoulder at Wyatt, then back at her. “You think I’m a bad person,” she said.
“I’m not thinking about you,” Maggie answered. “Do I have your permission to take Zoe with me for a few days or not?”
Paulette focused a moment. “Go on, then,” she said.
Maggie turned back around. “When are you going?” she said to Wyatt.
“As soon as you pull out,” Wyatt said.
“I’m fine, Wyatt,” she said.
“I know that,” he said.
He followed her back to the house. Maggie kicked the pizza box aside and walked down the hallway to Zoe’s room, then stopped in the doorway. Zoe was standing in the corner, between her closet and the wall, a couple of hangers with tops on them clutched to her chest.
“Zoe?” Maggie asked.
“I can’t move,” the girl said quietly.
Maggie stepped into the room. Zoe’s bag sat open on the bed, a hodgepodge of items thrown into it.
“It’s okay, baby,” Maggie said gently. She felt Wyatt come in behind her, glanced back at him, then looked at Zoe. “This is Sheriff Hamilton. Wyatt. He’s my friend.”
Zoe looked at Wyatt, then back to Maggie. “He was right there,” Zoe said.
“I know. But he’s gone.”
“I can’t move,” Zoe repeated.
Wyatt stepped past Maggie, stopped a foot away from Zoe, and held out his hand. “Zoe? Can I help you?” he asked gently.
After a moment, Zoe took his hand. Wyatt made as though to step back and walk her to the car, but she went to him and dropped her face on his chest, still clutching her hangers. Wyatt bent and picked her up, and turned to leave.
Awash (The Forgotten Coast Florida Suspense Series Book 6) Page 13