Dead on the Delta

by Stacey Jay

  With a sigh, I start down Magnolia, sticking to the cracked sidewalk. My borrowed shoes start to pinch almost immediately. Benny’s feet are a couple sizes smaller. Not many women her height wear a size ten, or have long, bony toes that jab at the end of a shoe like they’re trying to start a fight. Ow. I consider taking the sneakers off, but the street is lined with thick trees that block the glow of the streetlights. With my luck, I’d step in an unseen pile of dog poo in my sock feet. Better pain than poo.

  I walk faster, ignoring my squished toes.

  The faint throb of the music from Coop’s pulses through the air, audible even from three streets over, an annoying dum-dum-dum that overpowers the peaceful chirping of the frogs and crickets. But other than that, the night is oddly quiet. No barking dogs, no beeping horns, not even the soft chatter of neighbors out on the front porch with a glass of sweet tea. Even this late, there are usually people up and about, especially on a Friday night. But maybe news of the murder sent everyone to bed early, even people who normally have trouble—

  “Crap.” Marcy. She’s always up late. I was supposed to stop by her place, but in all the excitement of the head-bashing and snake-biting, I’d forgotten.

  I pull my cell back out of my purse and mash Marcy’s name. She picks up on the second ring. “You done? Are you hungry?”

  “Yeah, I’m done. I guess. And no, I’m not hungry. I’m actually not going to make it over tonight.” Before she can yell at me for “failing to honor my social obligations,” I fill her in on the events of the evening. Most of the events, anyway, minus the invisible man, kissing Hitch, and getting ditched by Cane.

  “Are you all right? Do you need anything?” Marcy asks, gearing up into full mother-hen mode. “Do you need me to come bring you some food, or medicine, or—”

  “No, I’m fine. I’m just beat. I’m going straight to bed.”

  “Are you supposed to sleep when you have a concussion? Won’t you need someone to wake you up every few hours?”

  “No, that’s just on soap operas.”

  “I don’t watch soap operas, I watch telenovelas,” she says, the familiar huffiness in her tone as she realizes I’m messing with her and therefore, probably going to live. “And that’s only so I can work on my Spanish.”

  Right. Marcy is addicted to telenovelas on the Spanish language channel. At the moment it’s the melodramatic tale of twin sisters separated at birth who have been reunited only to be torn apart by an evil drug lord who wants to marry the twin who worked as his secretary before she knew he was a drug lord and not an innocent baron of industry. Or something. I do my best not to pay attention when Marcy starts summing up the latest episode of Teresa’s Secret Sin.

  “Well, you be safe and call me in the morning.”

  “I will.” I smile. I’m lucky to have Marcy, to have someone who loves me despite what a messed-up kid I was when I first met her. Which reminds me … “Hey, Marcy, you remember when Grace Beauchamp used to come to Blessed Hands, right?”

  “Sure. Been a few years, but she came most every Friday there for awhile, when her mama went to her Junior League meetings in Baton Rouge.”

  “What was she like? Was she a good kid? Hard to handle? Or—”

  “No, she was a good girl. Very good. She was a weird eater, only ate peanut butter sandwiches and bananas, wouldn’t touch nothing else you put in front of her, but real sweet.” Her voice holds a note of sadness. It isn’t right to be talking about Grace in the past tense. She should have grown up to discover the joys of eating more exotic foods than peanut butter. “She was shy, but I figured that was because she wasn’t in the class all the time with the rest of the kids. She played real good, though, went down for her nap, toileted without any—”

  “Okay, okay. I don’t need the potty rundown.”

  “Fine. But it was fine. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just … wondering. I heard something about her seeing a therapist last year.”

  Marcy grunts softly. “Well … it might have been for the food issues. I’ve had a couple of kids who needed therapy for that sort of thing,” Marcy says. “But then, I haven’t seen the child since she was four years old, so I can’t say for sure.”

  “Yeah. That was kind of weird, right? She just stopped coming all of a sudden?”

  Marcy sighs. “Mrs. Beauchamp said she pulled Grace because Libby decided to stay home to do her college work on the Internets.”

  Marcy refuses to recognize the fact that “Internet” is singular. I quit trying to correct her years ago.

  “But I’m guessing she had other reasons. A lot of people stopped doing the drop-in program after Kennedy disappeared with her daddy … or whoever took her.”

  “Listen, I haven’t had the chance yet, but I’m going to talk to the FBI before they question you,” I say. “I’ll make sure they know you had nothing to do with that.”

  “No, I’ll be fine. You just take care of yourself. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I do worry about you. I love you, you know that.”

  I can hear her surprised smile. Marcy and I love each other, but we don’t talk about it much. Okay, I don’t talk about it much. I grew up in a family that considered displays of affection—even verbal displays—uncomfortable and rather gauche. Those three words still feel funny in my mouth, even when they lack romantic connotations.

  “You should love me,” Marcy says. “I’m keeping this pain in the ass cat of yours overnight.”

  “Oh, shit.” Gimpy! “I’m so sorry. I totally—”

  “You’re hurt, and had to rush a dying man to the hospital. This time, I’m going to say you deserve to cut yourself some slack.”

  Maybe she’s right, but still, I need to get my act together. And I will. Come tomorrow morning. I’m not up to getting anything together tonight except the energy to change into pajamas before I fall into bed. “Thanks, Marcy. I’ll come get him first thing.”

  “Take your time. He’s not so bad … as long as you don’t touch him or talk to him or feed him. Or look at him too close.”

  I laugh under my breath as I hurry off the corner and move onto the street. The junkyard comes into view, great piles of trash silhouetted against the night sky. There’s no sidewalk surrounding the oversized block that serves as the dumping ground for the large, non-perishable items D’Ville residents are finished with. The trash sprawls all the way to the edge of the hard-packed dirt, occasionally trickling into the street if we go too many months without a visit from the Baton Rouge solid-waste division. Broken television sets, old mattresses, and the rusted remains of cars create a mini-mountain range at the northeast side of town, a kingdom a few homeless men have claimed as their own.

  I walk faster, not wanting a run-in with the Junkyard Kings tonight. I haven’t brought any alcoholic treats, and I’m not in the mood to deal with the heckling I receive on treat-free nights.

  “He’s cranky, isn’t he?” I ask Marcy, keeping my voice low.

  “He is. You two should be a match made in heaven.”

  “I’m not cranky.”

  “No, you’re prickly. Like a sticker bush.”

  “Thanks.” I’ve proudly cultivated my sticker bush personality, but for the first time in a long while, I wonder if maybe I should try to soften up a bit, tell people I care more often, make sure Cane knows how much he matters to me whether or not what we have is true love.

  “Good thing I like sticker bushes,” Marcy says.

  A rattling tickles through the air, closer than I would like. Maybe it’s just trash settling, maybe not.

  “I figured you might,” I whisper, trotting the last ten feet to where the sidewalk picks up again. I smell cigarette smoke, the cheap kind the Kings buy in bulk at the Piggly Wiggly when they’ve saved up enough loose change. They aren’t too close yet, but they will be if I don’t hustle. Eli and Nigel, the youngest Kings—two scruffy black men in their late forties—have excellent hearing.

  “Why are you whispering?”
Marcy whispers.

  “No reason.” I jump the curb and move back onto the sidewalk, toes protesting inside my borrowed shoes. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals the street behind me is still empty. Eli has trailed me to my front door once or twice, but apparently tonight I’ve slipped by unnoticed.

  Or maybe the Kings deliberately left me alone. As I draw closer to my house—the last shotgun shack on the right—I see the shadow of a police cruiser parked under the willow at the end of the road. Cane. I must have misheard him. He must have said he’d meet me at home, not give me a ride home.

  “I gotta go, Marcy. See you in the morning.”

  “Okay. Be safe and sleep well.”

  “You too.” I hit the power button, ending the phone call and shutting down for the night. The only person I want to talk to is already sitting on my front step.

  Maybe Cane will want to stay and watch some mindless television before he heads home. Despite the lingering heat, being curled up in bed with Cane, watching the flat screen flicker, drooling on his bare chest as I’m sucked into sleep by a couple of pills, sounds like the most wonderful thing in the world.

  I smile as I cross my front lawn. “Hey, you,” I say, still in something close to a whisper. My spying next-door neighbor, Bernadette, is probably asleep, but it pays to be careful. “I tried to call, but your phone was off.”

  “I turned it off.” Four words. Only four words, and I already know something bad has happened. Cane’s voice is so deep I can feel the reverb dancing along my ribs from five feet away.

  I freeze, eyes straining in the dim light. I don’t make a habit of eating my carrots, or any other vegetable for that matter, but tonight I’m seeing better in the darkness than I normally would. I can make out the tense outline of Cane’s shoulders against the blue wood behind him and the way his head hangs down, the curve of his neck expressing an eloquent mix of anger and defeat.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” I close the distance between us, and run light fingers over the bunched muscles at the back of his neck. Instead of relaxing into my touch, he turns away and the knotted muscles grow knottier.

  “I wasn’t going to come over. I know you need your rest.” His voice is so low I can barely make out his words. “But I couldn’t stay away.”

  “You can come here anytime.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.” I continue kneading softly at his neck until he stands and paces across the yard, hands on his hips, head still hung low. My stomach clenches. “Listen, I know I haven’t said that enough, but I mean it. You’re always there for me, and I want to be there for you. If you need me, all you have to do is ask.”

  It isn’t a profession of love, but it’s sincere. I hope it will be enough to let him know he doesn’t have to keep whatever’s bothering him locked away.

  “There are two cameras in the police car,” he says, stating the facts in his smooth, steady voice. “One on the hood, one in the ceiling.” Oh … no. Cameras. In the police car. Where I’d kissed Hitch, the FBI agent I had pretended not to know.

  I’m suddenly reminded that no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse.

  Cane turns. I can feel him watching me, but I can’t see him. His features are cast in shadow, the street light behind him offering only enough illumination to emphasize the amazing breadth of his shoulders.

  “The cameras turn on automatically when the blue and whites are activated,” he continues, “but they don’t turn off until the officer on duty shuts them off. After he finished cleaning the car, Dicker turned the camera off, then skipped back through the recording to see if he could find anything that might help us identify the man who attacked you.”

  Which meant Dicker saw me kissing Hitch, too. Cane won’t even been able to keep his cheating girlfriend a secret. If I know Dicker and his big mouth, the entire police force will know by tomorrow morning. Not that anyone else knowing matters to me. Cane’s the one I care about.

  I do care. I really do. I’ve never wanted to hurt him.

  But you did. Big surprise.

  I take a breath, gathering my courage, determined to at least try to make this better. “Cane, I don’t know what to say, but I—”

  “You were driving ninety miles an hour on the way back to town. The camera recorded your speed. You were up to a hundred in some places. It’s amazing you didn’t kill yourself and that agent.” Cane ambles a step closer. His tone is easy, but his muscles are strung so tight it makes my body ache just looking at him. “You’ve got some damn fast reflexes. Better than I gave you credit for.”

  “Not really.” I’m shocked to hear I was driving that fast. I’m not particularly skilled behind the wheel, and usually feel anxious at speeds above seventy-five. “I guess it was the adrenaline, thinking someone was going to die and … all that.”

  “Someone.” A loaded word if I’ve ever heard one.

  “Yeah … ”

  Cane stops a few inches away. The tension spikes between us, making it hard to swallow. I take another breath and inhale Cane’s cop smell—soap and polyester and a hint of bug spray. Inexplicably, it makes me want to cry. It isn’t a particularly nice smell, but it’s Cane’s. Cane. My friend, my lover, a person I don’t want to lose.

  Especially not today. Not like this. I thought I was done with moments like this, spared the risk of betraying someone I care about by refusing to commit in the first place. But bonds can be forged without words and they can be broken without them, too, despite the fact that no one has “technically” done anything wrong. Cane and I aren’t exclusive, at least not in words, but in our unspoken hearts …

  Well, we both know we’re more than friends with benefits. He deserved my honesty about how well I knew Agent Rideau. I hadn’t given it to him. And then I’d upped the ante by sticking my tongue in another man’s mouth. On camera. So Cane could watch.

  God. I have to think of something to say.

  “Were you going to tell me?” His hurt and anger make me flinch.

  “No.” Why lie? It’s too late for lying to do any good. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone. I didn’t think … I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  “Obviously. Seemed like you two weren’t getting along so well up to that point. Must have been a tough breakup.” The sarcasm is a slap in the face. Cane doesn’t do smart-ass, especially not nasty smart-ass. The contempt in his voice is shocking.

  “Please, don’t—”

  “Don’t what? Don’t call you on your bullshit?” His enraged face is suddenly inches from mine. My breath rushes in and my paper bag falls to the dry grass with a heavy thwick. “Answer me!” he yells, loud enough to make me jump.

  “I—I don’t know. What do you want me to say?”

  “Say something so I don’t feel so stupid.” His hands fist by his face and shake the air, but I know he’d rather be rattling my teeth.

  I hate that he’s angry and hurt, but at the same time, on some level, this is a gratifying exchange. This is what I’ve been waiting for, confirmation that Cane knows he’s too good for me. Now it can be over; now I can wash my hands of the terrifying business of trying to love again.

  “I’m not that man, Annabelle,” Cane says, soft and low, under control once more. “I’m not going to become that man for you.”

  I swipe at my nose and sniff, only realizing I’m crying when I feel the wet mess on my cheeks. I bite my lip, willing the tears to stop. “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do,” he says. “I’ll paint your toenails, I’ll play hooky from work with you, I’ll stay up late and read books to you when you can’t sleep.”

  So much for stopping the tears. “Cane, I—”

  “I’ll take care of you when you’re sick,” he interrupts, continuing in that safe, sane voice that scares me more than his anger. “I’ll take out your trash, I’ll cook you meals, and I’ll tell my mama to leave you be so you can eat your dinner in peace when we go over to her place. But I won’t let you
lie to me or treat me like a fool. I’m a simple man in a lot of ways, but I’ve got too much pride for that.”

  “I … I know.”

  He catches my gaze and holds it until I squirm and drop my eyes to the ground. He sighs, and I can hear that he’s not happy with whatever he saw in me. “I erased the recording. There wasn’t any sign of the man who attacked you, and I couldn’t see the sense in keeping it. I told Dicker to keep his mouth shut, too, at least until we find who murdered the Beauchamp girl. We don’t need personal shit getting in the way of what’s important.”

  “Okay,” I say, eyebrows drawing together as I sniff again. What’s going on? Is everything okay now? Or are we breaking up? Why can’t I ever tell the difference?

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Good luck with the questioning. Just stick to the truth, and Agent Thomas shouldn’t have any reason to give you more than a warning.” He turns, striding back toward his squad car.

  “Cane, wait!” My voice breaks, and my hands claw at the thin fabric of my borrowed scrubs, but I can’t seem to get my feet to move. Thankfully, Cane comes back, crossing the yard in four steps.

  He reaches for me, cupping my face in his big, rough hand. “I love you. I want it to be you and me. If you decide that’s what you want too … you call me.” He leans down, presses a kiss to my forehead, whispering his next words against my skin. “But be sure you mean it.”

  “I’m sorry.” I want to grab him around the neck and pull him down for a kiss, to pull him inside the house and show him—skin to skin—how sorry I am, but I sense he won’t allow it. He’s drawn a line in the sand, way up ahead of me, maybe too far down the trail for me to follow.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says, pulling away. “I forgive you.”

  My eyes open wide, then squint again. “You do? Just like that?”

  “Just like that.” Wow. That’s … unexpected. And he really doesn’t seem mad anymore. The electricity popping in the air between us has died away, absorbed by the sticky heat of the night. “I don’t care that you kissed some man you used to know. I just need to be sure that you and I want the same things before we do this anymore.”