Dead on the Delta

by Stacey Jay

  I recover fairly quickly—jaw closing, fingers spasming around the napkin Fern places in my hand—but I know Hitch has seen it. My weakness. He’s seen that I still love and hurt and regret. He knows that I’m the big loser in the game of love.

  Some game. Some dumb, shitty game. It makes me remember why I don’t want to play anymore.

  I silently resolve to end things with Cane immediately, before we have the power to do this to each other one hot, sunny afternoon down the road. I have to live in this town; I can’t deal with having a real ex tromping about, flashing his sex eyes and smelling his perfect smell where I could get a glance or a whiff at any time. It’ll kill me. I’ll have to move, and I can’t imagine that. Donaldsonville is the only home I have left, the only place that’s somewhere I want to be.

  “Hello. Annabelle? I’m Stephanie Thomas.” The voice is tight and perky, but with a husky undertone, hinting at a sensuality her conservative black suit and casually upswept brown hair are doing their best to conceal.

  Still, it’s obvious this woman is pretty. Very pretty. And standing very close to Hitch, who is also working the business look. I scan him up and down, taking in the dark blue summer suit with the light blue shirt underneath, pulled together with a conservative white-and-blue-striped tie. His wavy brown hair is so short it barely teases his ears and he’s evidently tried to tame it with some sort of “product.” There’s a crisp, damp look to the curls despite the fact that they’re dry, and not a hint of the usual scruff on his chin.

  He looks so amazingly tidy, professional.

  I’ve never seen Hitch in anything but scrubs or cut-up jeans and T-shirts so threadbare you could see his skin through the fabric. Occasionally he’d whip out an ancient flannel or sweater he saved from high school, for warmth during the brief Louisiana winter, but I hadn’t realized he could look so damned fancy. Even when we’d gone out, we’d gone in jeans and T-shirts. My mind doesn’t know what to do with the dressed-up, business-ified Hitch standing next to this dressed-up, business-ified woman.

  What the hell is he doing here? Why does this chick know my name? How long will I sit here staring at her outstretched hand before I shake it?

  Hmm … I don’t know. How long? It’s already been too long. Way too long. Probably best to avoid it altogether. I’m not much of a mind to touch “Stephanie,” anyway. I rather hate “Stephanie” at first sight.

  “Yeah, I’m Annabelle.” I glance at her hand and then at mine and shrug. “Sorry. Wing sauce.” I waggle my fingers in the air and smile, watching irritation flicker behind her soft brown eyes with the green flecks. My smile widens. It pleases me to annoy Stephanie, gives me something to work at besides pretending that seeing Hitch doesn’t make me want to puke for the second time today.

  Speaking of Hitch, I have to acknowledge him sometime. With words instead of gaping.

  I turn, keeping my grin in place, but the second our eyes connect I flinch. Even that still feels so intimate. “Hey, Hitch. How are you?”

  “Not so good,” he says with an answering grin. “Someone was supposed to meet us at the shuttle station, but apparently everyone in Donaldsonville is too busy for the FBI.”

  “The FBI?” I parrot, my mind refusing to believe what my gut has already realized. “You’re kidding.” Surely he’s … surely that wouldn’t … and he couldn’t … and … and … and—

  “I’m Special Agent Stephanie Thomas, fairy investigation division.” Stephanie flashes her badge with more aggression than necessary, punishing me for my refusal to touch her evil FBI flesh. “And you know Special Agent Dr. Herbert Rideau, fairy forensics.”

  “Herbert?” Fern—who up to this point has remained mercifully silent—can’t resist commentary. “Did you punch your mama on the way out?”

  “It’s a family name, Herbert Mitchell. My friends call me Hitch,” he says, his unsinkable grin still in place. The man could smile while fishing maggots out of the garbage. Nothing dents his damned cheeriness. Almost nothing, anyway. “But y’all can call me Dr. Rideau while I’m in town.”

  Oh, no. He didn’t. He didn’t just said “y’all.” If he expects me to call him “Dr. Rideau,” he can take his fancy new badge and shove it up his—

  “Right. Absolutely, doctor, Ms. Thomas. Glad to have y’all in town.” Fernando nods respectfully, picking up on the angry vibe beneath Hitch’s superficial pleasantry. He’s off his stool a second later. “Well, Miss Lee, I think I should head back to the ranch, make sure all the boys are settled for the night.”

  A pathetic part of me wants to latch onto his arm and beg him not to leave, not to abandon me to the scary people in suits, but I can’t. Fern has every right to flee this uncomfortable situation. I, however, have nowhere to run. They’re right. I should have met them at the station. Or at least someone should have.

  I wave goodbye to Fernando and take a moment to wipe my face and hands, hoping to win back a few having-my-shit together points by not being covered in sauce. “Listen, I’ll be glad to help y’all out with whatever you’re here to do.” Please, God, don’t let them be here to arrest me. Not Hitch. And “Stephanie.” “But getting visiting law enforcement settled really isn’t my responsibility. The Donaldsonville Police have a couple of—”

  “The Donaldsonville Police are pretty busy tonight.” Stephanie slips her badge back in her pocket and crosses her arms, doing her “tough” impression. She looks like she’s chastising a five-year-old for eating too much ice cream, and I’m not scared. I can imagine hating Stephanie—am actually well on my way to hating all people named Stephanie in her honor, in fact—but not fearing her.

  It’s hard to tell who’s supposed to be the good cop and who the bad cop. They’re both pretty pleasant. Of course, I know the unpleasant potential hidden beneath Hitch’s sweet, Southern exterior. I’ve seen him screaming angry, veins standing out against his forehead, hands curled into fists I suspected he wanted to punch me with.

  But he hadn’t. He’d just screamed, cried a little, and walked away, leaving me alone in the house we’d shared. I’d packed my things that night, signed the official paperwork to withdraw from school the next morning, and left New Orleans without bothering to say goodbye. I was enrolled in the FCC training program at Keesler before supper, and shacked up in my new dorm by nightfall.

  Six years have passed since then, six years without a hint of what Hitch Rideau might be up to. He’d sold his house, changed his phone number, and left to finish up his residency at another hospital without telling anyone where he was going. Every drunken phone call to old friends and late-night Google hunt came up empty. Hitch didn’t social-network, he didn’t blog, he didn’t post on the fairy message boards. He wasn’t listed in any public database or phonebook. It was like he’d vanished off the face of the earth.

  Or joined the FBI.

  “The man we spoke to on the phone … ” Stephanie pauses to consult a small notebook she’s pulled from one of her many magic pockets. “Captain Abe Cooper. He said half his force just got off a double overtime shift, he’s got one officer on fence patrol, and the other is working an iron suit job in the bayou at the edge of town. His dispatcher is out sick, so he wasn’t able to leave the station to—”

  “Wait. What suit job?” Concern for Cane sizzles along my skin, banishing some of my Hitch-induced angst. Cane’s always the first to volunteer for suit jobs, no matter how many times I beg him to call me before he sets foot in the fairy-infested areas.

  Call me. Shit. He can’t call me.

  I fumble in my purse, searching for my phone. I have to check my messages, find out where Cane is. Surely he’s called, probably more than once. “What kind of job, why are—”

  “He’s retrieving an assault suspect.” Hitch watches me paw through the mess in my purse with raised brows, as if he’s vaguely repulsed by my disorganization. Or maybe it’s the giant empty beer can rolling around at the bottom of my bag.

  Shit again. Why didn’t I throw that away?


  “Captain Munoz couldn’t make it up from New Orleans. She’s two weeks from her due date and her doctor said it wasn’t safe for her to travel,” Stephanie provides, her expression making it clear she isn’t any more impressed with the contents of my purse than her partner. “There wasn’t anyone else available to pick up the woman you left tied up in your research area and law enforcement couldn’t get in touch with you. Captain Cooper recommended we look for you here.” She pauses, brown-and-green eyes lingering on my empty beer glass. “At the bar.”

  Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Ohhhhhhh. Shit.

  My hand finally closes around my phone. I jam the on button and jump off my stool without waiting for it to complete the series of swishing sounds. I head for the door, but Stephanie blocks me with one thin leg and a sensible black pump.

  “We’re going to need you to answer some questions, Annabelle.”

  Crap! I can’t deal with this right now. I really can’t.

  Stephanie continues in her soft, sensible voice. “Restraining an allegedly infected person—”

  “There was nothing ‘alleged’ about it. She was covered in bite marks.”

  “As I said, restraining someone you believe to be infected and leaving them—”

  “Can we argue about this on the way to the site?” I interrupt, wincing when I see the red dot on my phone announcing seven missed calls. “I need to get out there and help.”

  “I think the police station would be a better place for you to give your official statement,” Stephanie says. “I’m sure Lieutenant Cooper is qualified to retrieve a suspect.”

  So it is Cane. Dammit. “Sure, he’s fucking qualified,” I yell, making the young mother seated a few feet away “hmm-mmm” in annoyance and tell her two boys to close their ears. I lower my voice, blushing. “But he’s not immune to fairy bite. It’ll be dark soon and fairies are more likely to swarm when—”

  “I’m a special agent with fairy investigations.” Stephanie’s smile turns patronizing. “I’m aware of the typical behavior of the—”

  “Good for you. Someone should give you a cookie.” The smart-ass is so thick, the people in the next room can probably taste it settling on their French fries. “I’ll make you one myself, but right now you need to get out of my way.”

  “Come on, Steph.” The familiarity in Hitch’s voice and the ease with which he shortens his partner’s name add to my suspicions that they’re more than colleagues. “We need to check out the site, anyway. Might as well give this guy some help. I’m sure he’s using one of the old suits that weigh a damned ton.”

  “He’s definitely using one of the old suits,” I confirm. The new, lightweight iron cling overwear is ridiculously expensive. Not even the New Orleans police department has more than a few.

  In Donaldsonville, where people refuse to vote in a half-cent sales tax despite the fact that we can barely pay our city workers and are half a million dollars in debt to the federal government, it’s doubtful we’ll be getting those new suits anytime soon. Or ever.

  “We can put off the questioning, don’t you think? I mean, you’re the boss, but I’d hate to see someone infected if Ms. Lee here can help prevent it.” Hitch’s honeyed drawl, the one that once made me melt, seems to have a similar effect on “Steph.” I shift my gaze in time to see the hint of a secret happiness smear the edges of her lips into a smile.

  “You’re right.” She nods and shifts out of my way. “Where’s your car?”

  “I don’t have a car.”

  “You don’t have a car?” she asks, as if I’ve just confessed that I like to skin kittens for fun on Sunday afternoons.

  “I ride a bicycle. It’s environmentally friendly.”

  Hitch grunts under his breath before pushing through the door and out onto the sidewalk. The grunt could mean that he knows damn well I don’t drive a car because I’m rarely sober after five o’clock. Or maybe he’s just pissed that we’re going to have to walk. Maybe he’s forgotten that I like my hooch, or that he once enjoyed it as much as I do.

  Right. And maybe Stephanie is going to take me up on that cookie offer and we’ll become best friends and spend hours braiding each other’s hair.

  “I’d like to remind you of your right to have an attorney present before you discuss the events of this afternoon.” Stephanie reaches for the door and holds it open, letting the sticky evening ooze inside Swallows. “Everything you say in front of myself or Agent Rideau will be considered on the record and could be—”

  “Close the door! I’m not paying to air-condition the street!” Theresa calls out, hustling to the front of the restaurant with a pitcher in each hand, either oblivious to the fact that she’s yelling at the FBI or not giving a good goddamn. Stephanie releases the door and opens her mouth, but I beat her to it.

  “Hey, Theresa, can I borrow your car?” I ask, the thought of the long walk to the bayou with Hitch and Stephanie enough to inspire a panic attack even if I didn’t know every minute we waste could be bad news for Cane. The sun isn’t down yet, but it will be soon. I don’t want him out there in the shallows when the air starts to cool. “I can have it back in an hour or two.”

  “Are you drunk yet?” she asks bluntly, staring me straight in the eye, ignoring Stephanie now that she’s allowed the door to swing back into place.

  I feel my cheeks heat and for the first time in a long while I wish I wasn’t a beloved “regular” at my local bar. “You served me one beer, how could I—”

  “That’s not what I asked. I asked—”

  “No.” I cross my arms and clutch my phone as it vibrates. A glance down reveals a text from Cane’s older brother and boss, Abe, warning me that the FBI is looking for my ass. He’s actually used the words “my ass,” confirming he’s as pissed with me as I assumed. I wonder how many of the missed calls are from him, reaming me for putting his brother in danger on the same day he found the body of a murdered girl.

  “Good.” Theresa nails me with another of her piercing looks. “Don’t get that way until you get my car back. Keys are by the cash register.”

  Then she turns and walks away without asking why I want the car or waiting to be introduced to my new acquaintance. But then, Theresa isn’t a nosy person and doesn’t particularly care for people who upset her friends. I guess it’s obvious Stephanie and I aren’t long-lost sorority sisters.

  I grab the keys and hurry out the door, not bothering to see if Stephanie’s following. I do, however, stop to check on my cat. Gimpy’s still asleep. Hopefully he’ll stay that way until I come back to get my bike. If not, he’s a big boy and can take care of himself. He might have to someday soon, since I’m pretty sure they don’t allow cats in federal prison.

  Hitch is waiting for us outside the door, smoking a clove cigarette. The murky sweet scent curls through the air, teasing at my nose. I want to stick my tongue out and taste it, let it sneak inside me and burn. As powerfully as I hate the stink of tobacco smoke, I just as intensely love the tang of a clove. I would smoke them myself … if they didn’t remind me so entirely of Hitch.

  “We’ve got a car. Are you smoking?” Stephanie asks. “I thought you’d already had one today.” She sounds like his mother, or his girlfriend, or a terrifying mix of both. I watch a hint of irritation flit across Hitch’s face before his lips stretch into his usual, easy smile. He winks at Stephanie, then takes one long, last drag.

  “Well, shit.” The smoke spirals from his lips with a sensuality that compels me to watch. “I guess I decided to have two.” He crushes the cigarette out on the brick wall of Swallows and tosses it into the trashcan nearby. “I may even have three.”

  Stephanie sighs, but it isn’t an easy sound. “Fine. I don’t think—”

  “We should get going,” I say, plowing between them, reaching for the door of Theresa’s Taurus. Cane’s waiting and I can’t take another minute of the Hitch and Stephanie show. They’re tripping me out. It’s too weird to stand next to a man I screwed in ways too filthy and wonderful to be
spoken of in broad daylight while he stares into the eyes of another woman and pretends I was never a part of him.

  But maybe I wasn’t, maybe—

  “I’ll drive.” Hitch plucks the keys from my hand. The place where his skin brushes mine screams in protest, revolting against the sudden sense memory of what it feels like to touch this man. “I’d feel safer, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m an excellent driver.” I stare him down, daring him to contradict me. The intimacy is there again, and for a second I would swear he feels it too, a secret thing that swims between us, electrifying the air.

  “You’ve also got an empty container in your purse.”

  Without breaking eye contact, I reach into my purse, grab the can, and hurl it toward the trashcan where his cigarette disappeared a moment before. The clatter of the can knocking against the rest of the trash as it lands inside is one of the more satisfying sounds I’ve heard all day. The second Hitch turns over his shoulder to ascertain that I really am that awesome, I snatch the keys and slide into the driver’s seat.

  Where I intend to stay.

  Eight

  Turns out driving is just like riding a bike. Except you get where you’re going faster and there’s less sweating involved. We’re off Railroad Street, through the historical district, and heading down the half-mile stretch of road toward the southwestern edge of the gate in minutes.

  “The Beauchamp house is going to be on the left,” Stephanie says over her shoulder to Hitch, who’s thankfully taken the backseat.

  I don’t want to sit next to him. Being trapped in a vehicle with his smell—that damned smell that keeps making my body remember things I don’t want to remember—is bad enough.

  “We should stop by tomorrow morning,” Hitch says, “and show the parents the pictures.”