Dead on the Delta

by Stacey Jay

  “Definitely. Especially the footprints. I think these are going to be key, no matter what Cane … ” Dom shoots me a nervous glance through his long, baby-llama lashes. “Never mind. But, yeah, I think—”

  “It’s okay, Dom. It’s not a huge deal.” I shrug and try to smile, even as I casually sneak a glance across the open front office, back to where Cane and Abe usually camp out in the glass walled conference room with the Bunn coffee maker and the Little Debbie snack machine. This morning, the room is empty, making me wonder where they’re holding the virtual bail hearing for Fernando. As far as I know, the conference room’s the only place equipped for something like that. “Anyway, it’s cool.”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah. It is.” More shrugging. See me shrug. See how little I care that a bunch of people who are friends with my boyfriend watched me make out with my ex-boyfriend. “Cane and I are in a fight. It’s not a big deal.”

  “You are? Really?” Dom’s shock makes me want to slap myself in the face. Fabulous. Cane actually made good on that promise to keep Dicker quiet and I’ve ruined it with my big mouth.

  “Um … yeah. Sort of.”

  “But you two are so great,” he says, lowering his voice. “Is it because of Fernando?”

  “Yes. It is.” I seize the easy out. Not only is it a great excuse, but I smell a chance to find out more about Fern’s situation and I’m not about to let that pass me by. If the judge deems it necessary, I’ll be trucking down to the bail bondsman’s and plunking down fifteen percent of Fern’s Get Out of Jail fee, and I’d like to know what breed of trouble I’m paying to get him out of. “I’m pissed about it.”

  “I can imagine. Well, I can’t, really, but … yeah … it’s pretty hard for me to believe. Even with the evidence.”

  My skin prickles. Oh no. No way. There’s just no way they could be holding Fernando for Grace’s murder. The thought is ludicrous. He’s a snarky slut with a heart of gold. He’d do anything for a friend and a hell of a lot for a stranger. Fernando sincerely tries to make the world a happier, if slightly more gossip-filled, place. I can’t imagine what he did to earn an overnight in jail, let alone a bail hearing, and there’s no way he has anything to do with what happened to Grace.

  But maybe the DPD isn’t as enlightened as yours truly. Time to pump Dom for information. “It’s hard to believe because it’s not true,” I bluff. “Fernando would never do something like that.”

  “I can’t really say anything on the record.” Dom’s voice is hushed, complete with a glance over his shoulder to where the temp mans the phones a few feet away. “But I think you’re right. And I think these pictures are going to help prove it.”

  “You think? How?” I ask, desperate for more information as the bad feeling inside me blossoms into a full-fledged stink-flower of worry. Why would my pictures of a killer’s footprints help Fernando’s case unless …

  “This is crazy, Dom.” I flip my glasses back onto my head, needing eye contact. “Fernando would never hurt anyone. You’re not honestly telling me they think—”

  “I’m not telling you anything.”

  “Dom, this is me! You know I—”

  “Sorry, Annabelle. I can’t discuss a case with a civilian. I hate to think of you like that since you help us so much and all, but I can’t.”

  “Right, I get it.” I’ve heard this before, every single time I’ve been out for beers with the boys after an interesting arrest and they ask me to leave the table so they can get their gossip on. Small-town cops or not, the DPD is fairly professional when it comes to keeping outsiders uninformed.

  But right now, I have to have information. Fernando’s future could depend on it. If he’s been wrongly accused, I’ve got to do more than bail him out. I’ve got to find him a damned fine lawyer.

  “Can you at least tell me whether you think I’m going to have to post bail?” I ask, hoping Dom can bend enough to give me a hint if my fears are grounded. “If Fernando’s not going to be released on his own recognizance, then I’m in charge of the bonding.”

  “You’re going to need to post bail,” he says. “There’s no way he’s getting out without bail. He’s got Judge Wade.”

  Judge Wade. Evil Judge Wade, the only judge in Baton Rouge who still puts people away for pot possession. In the wake of the Breeze epidemic, and all the other crap we deal with, being the infested armpit of the United States, most judges in the Delta don’t bother with weed convictions anymore. But Wade does.

  It makes me feel better. Maybe Fernando is just getting the sharp end of the stick. Maybe he isn’t in as much trouble as my gut’s telling me.

  Right. And maybe you should start hunting down lawyers. Asap.

  I sigh, and check the clock. Nine thirty-five. They’ve only been live with the judge for five minutes, and that’s if Wade showed up on time, which he probably didn’t. Louisiana government types are never on time, especially on Saturdays. I have plenty of time to get to the bail bondsman down the street, figure out how to post bail, and get back before the verdict comes down. And I certainly have no urge to linger here. The last thing I want to do is spend the next half hour giving a leering Dicker my statement.

  And he will leer when the time comes, of that I have no doubt. Catching a woman cheating on tape is the kind of thing Pervert Santa lives for.

  Decision made, I slip back through the doors, into the increasingly sweltering morning. It’s going to be brutal. Already, the sidewalk burns hot enough to feel it through my shoes.

  “Reoowr.” Gimpy welcomes me back with a groan.

  He crouches near my bike in the shade, pressed up against a trailer wheel, evidently too spent from munching grass to jump inside. I lift him in, and watch him snuggle up next to my cooler with a slightly arthritic hitch of his back leg. It makes me wonder how old he is. Dr. Hollis, the town vet, will probably be able to tell me. Maybe I’ll swing by and see if she’s in on the way back from the Beauchamps’. Her office is on the way, a good ten blocks from the human hospital where I should be taking myself directly.

  “Blah, blah, blah.”

  Gimpy stares at me with a humorless expression, seconding my opinion that nothing good can come of taking my health too seriously when I could be attending to his needs. We’ll see if he still agrees when Dr. Hollis suggests a round of shots for his fluffy butt.

  I leave the Gimp sitting in the shade and head across the parking lot. It’s faster to cut through the park behind the station on foot than bike the quarter-mile over to Morales Bail Bonds. Or it would be faster, if my safe passage weren’t blocked by a pair of angry, ropey, black women.

  Amity Cooper and a vaguely familiar, scrawny chick with an Afro wearing gold lamé pants, lean against Cane’s squad car. It looks like Amity has just left her brother a note. A square of white paper lies pinned beneath one wiper and an ink pen is clenched tightly in her fist. Considering Amity attacked me with a loaf of crusty bread the last time we had words, I don’t want to see what she’s capable of armed with a blue Bic. Fernando’s warning that the youngest Cooper is out for my blood is way easier to believe when Amity’s pen hand rises like a one-fanged serpent preparing to strike. The woman next to her props a hand on her hip and takes a threatening step forward. “That her?”

  “Yeah, that’s her,” Amity growls, the menace in her tone enough to bring back sense memories of the way that crusty bread stabbed the center of my chest.

  Right. Running away. Clearly the best call.

  I turn back toward the station—even chatting with Dicker is preferable to a run-in with Cane’s sister and her henchwoman—but apparently Amity isn’t in the mood to let her prey get away so easily.

  “Annabelle Lee, get your skinny white ass back here.”

  “Like you two have room to talk!” I smile as I spin to face them, but continue backing away. Amity stalks across the pavement with Gold Lamé Girl close behind. “Really, Amity. You and your girl need a sandwich. Or maybe some pancakes. Have you two had break
fast yet? Because I was—”

  “Shut your mouth.” The rumble in Amity’s voice reminds me of Cane. She sounds like she smoked a pack of cigarettes last night, and smells even worse. The stink of tar and nicotine lingers on her clothes—sparkly black pants and a tank top that I’m betting are last night’s club wear—making me wince when she shoves into my personal space.

  “You want me to hold her?” Gold Lamé Girl asks, slithering up beside me. She smells even worse, but at least her stink gives me a positive ID. She’s the woman from the bus, the one who tried to bully me into giving her my beer.

  Shit. Maybe if I’d handed it over, she wouldn’t be so eager to help kick my ass, or whatever is going down here.

  “Come here, girl.” One bony hand snatches at my arm, but I twist free.

  “Don’t touch me,” I warn as I stumble away. Amity follows, jabbing her pen into my sternum hard enough to make me wince. My hand whips up, blocking a second stab. This is ridiculous, she can’t physically attack me every time we run into each other, no matter who her brothers are. “Stop it with the stabbing, Amity. I’m not going to—”

  “I thought I told you to shut your mouth,” she says, shocking the hell out of me with a full-fledged backhand across the jaw.

  Ah! What the hell? What the fracking hell?

  My glasses fly from my face. Light gouges at my eyes, and pain blooms in my jaw as I lurch in a half circle, wide-eyed and stupid, too amazed that my boyfriend’s sister has actually struck me to know what to do with myself. Give me a cracked-out Breeze head and I can fight back with the best of them, but I wasn’t raised to fight with people I’ve had supper with. People who might one day be my family if her brother has his way.

  The Jerry Springer–ishness of the interlude is too much for the former junior deb in me to assimilate so quickly, giving Gold Lamé Girl time to grab my elbows and force them behind my back.

  “You fucked up this time, girl,” Amity says, closing in once more. Her diamond chandelier earrings catch the light and flash, making me wince and rack my brain. Why do those look so familiar? “You fucked up big time. I know it was you. You were in the swamp yesterday and you’re that faggot’s best girlfriend. So tell me where the fuck you put it.” She fists her hand in my braid. I’m on my back on the ground at her feet before I can suck in a breath, let alone answer her question. “Tell me!”

  It’s last night all over again, but this time with a very easily seen and felt woman demanding I tell her where some unknown something is hidden. I give myself three guesses what these two are looking for, and the first two don’t count.

  I remember now where I’ve seen those earrings before. On the woman in the bayou, the one I tied up, the one working the Breeze operation. This has drug stink all over it. Literally.

  The stale, muddy smell of nicotine and the brighter tang of a Breeze high that’s been sweated out and dried on the skin linger all around these two. The certainty that Amity is in deep, drug-related trouble hits even before my eyes skim across the marks high on her upper arm. In any other position, I wouldn’t be able to see them. But from my place on the ground, I have a killer view of her deodorant-crusted pits, and the swollen injection wounds healing amidst the ingrown hairs.

  Amity’s been shooting Breeze. Which certainly explains the crazy and the strength with which she so easily lifts me off the ground only to slam me back into the pavement again.

  “Tell me, bitch!”

  “You better talk up,” Gold Lamé Girl seconds, leaning over Amity’s shoulder to get a better view of the beating.

  I blink and the sky pulses pink and green as my eyes decide whether or not they’ll burst from my skull. “I don’t know, I don’t—”

  Amity’s fist flies at my face, but I block it, grunting as our bones connect and my forearms bruise. Shoving her away, I try to sit up, but am stomped back onto the ground with one kick of Gold Lamé Girl’s boot.

  Pain flashes through my skull, humming around to punch at my eyes as Amity gets her hand back in my hair and slams me into the pavement—once, twice, three times. Black and white stars twinkle against the pink and green sky, pulsing and throbbing. I already have a head injury. At this rate, Amity could kill me if I don’t get my hair out of her grabby hands.

  “Talk up, Lee, I swear to God, I—”

  Her words end in a groan as I jackknife my body, sending boot-covered feet surging toward her face. Later, I assume my eyes were playing tricks on me, but at that moment I would swear that my intention connected before my feet. Seconds before my shoes strike her face, Amity arches backwards, chin snapping, feet flying off the ground, as if she’s been struck by someone a hell of a lot stronger.

  The momentum would have carried her a few feet away—allowing me to regain my footing—if she hadn’t maintained her viselike grip on my hair. But she does, and I skid along the pavement behind her, crying out as my jeans ride down and the skin scrapes off my tailbone. Gold Lamé Girl hustles after me with her fist raised.

  “Stop it!” I kick in Lamé Girl’s general direction, Amity screams something about killing me, and the wind sings a wah-wah-wah song that booms through my aching head, promising more pain if I don’t get off the damned ground.

  I kick my friend from the bus in the gut, then move my fingers to dig into Amity’s hands, vowing to cut off all my hair at the first opportunity so there will be nothing for an attacker to hold onto. But before I can claw myself free, a shadow falls on my face and big hands close over mine.

  Eighteen

  Let her go, Amity! Amity! Let her go!”

  Cane. Thank God. With Dicker and Abe behind him. Abe already has Gold Lamé Girl’s arms behind her back, making me breathe easier even before Cane’s shadow blocks out the sky as he pulls Amity away. She gives my scalp one last tug and then she’s in the air, tucked under Cane’s arm, kicking and thrashing, cursing like a rabid muskrat while Dicker fumbles a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

  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.