“But right now, they’re not saying whether or not they even have her?”
“Right. As for Roy, a couple of drunks think they saw him leave with a Dora Bernadina, who is married to a roughneck, Jimmy. Jimmy’s been out on the rigs for the last month, but came in this morning, and nobody’s seen him or Dora and they’re not answering their door.”
“Get a warrant, get in there, make sure they’re not there. Check to see if they’ve gotten on a plane or bus or whatever.”
While they talked, the pilot swooped low and Cam surveyed the canals and woods for any sign of Bobbie Faye. This wasn’t a needle in a haystack. This was a molecule in the ocean.
He realized Benoit had said something, and he focused again.
“I said,” Benoit repeated, “you should probably know the Professor’s acting all weird and shit.”
“How weird?”
“Freaking out. Saying he doesn’t want his attorney, babbling all sorts of strange conspiracy theories; something about Napoleon figured in one which never did make sense. He’s either scared out of his mind or losing it.”
“You put him in that private cell?”
“Yeah. Vicari makes a pass in there every fifteen minutes.”
“Can you interview him again? Without Dellago?”
“I’ll try, if he’ll just quit crying. And assuming Dellago isn’t still hovering around here.”
Ce Ce’s positive energy matrix was falling apart.
“People, if you have to go to the bathroom, you’ll have to wait until I put someone in your place. Do not . . . I repeat, do not leave your position. You have no idea how much damage you can do.”
She looked around the room and knew she was going to have to go for more drastic measures than the energy matrix. They’d been at it for several hours, eating and going to the bathroom in shifts, and still there was no good news. Nothing about Bobbie Faye. Nothing about Stacey. The customers were trying their best, but the cold hard truth was, they were tired of staying in one position for such a long period at a time.
Of course, there was the extra little helping of crazy with a now-unconscious Social Services worker.
“Ce Ce,” Monique said, as she took the woman’s two legs. “Next time you decide to knock someone out, pick someone smaller.”
Ce Ce grunted, having taken the woman’s arms. The social worker easily weighed two hundred pounds, and though Ce Ce was fairly well over that mark herself, she hadn’t fully appreciated just how much work moving the woman might be. They dragged her to the back supply room where Ce Ce had a cot they could heft her onto, assuming they had any heft left by the time they got back there.
“I think you’ve been around Bobbie Faye too long,” Monique continued. “You think this is normal.”
She might have a point with that one.
“What are you going to do with her when she wakes up?”
Ce Ce was wondering if she’d knocked out the wrong person.
“I don’t know, honey,” she snapped at Monique. “Since she drank almost the whole glass, I’m just hoping she wakes up.”
Monique jerked her reddish eyebrows up at Ce Ce.
“Well, honey, you never know how this stuff is going to affect some people. I thought for sure she’d have been out cold by the second swallow. I’ve never had someone make it through a whole glass before.”
“I’m hoping you have a plan.”
“Right now, Monique, I’ve got two hands full of social worker, fifty customers out there doing the pee pee dance because I can’t substitute people fast enough, and my girl is running around in the swamps, destroying half of the state. I haven’t quite worked out a full plan yet. Give me a minute.”
Twenty-Six
Well, ma’am, that $300 warranty does cover all acts of God, but we couldn’t possibly afford to cover acts of Bobbie Faye. I’m sorry.
—salesperson Amanda Eschete to customer
The helicopter’s radio crackled in Cam’s headset. He heard Jason’s call sign announce and then Jason’s excited patter.
“Head to Bobbie Faye’s birthday, and I can give you some news.”
And with that, the radio went silent again. Cam stared at the radio and suddenly guessed that Jason had looked up Bobbie Faye’s birthday—June eleven—so Cam flipped to channel eleven.
“I caught something else,” Jason said once Cam arrived at the channel and hailed him. “They’ve ordered an airboat.”
“The Fibbies?”
“Yep,” Jason said, his voice lowering. “I heard they were putting down at Sabine’s Landing.”
Sabine’s was at the northern tip of Calcasieu Lake, and about three miles southwest of where Cam was currently searching. He closed his eyes, picturing the vast lake that overlapped the Sabine National Forest and the countless rivers and bayous which spilled out into the Gulf. To the east, there were more rivers and then another large lake, appropriately named Grand Lake. He remembered his childhood, sitting in a bateau, fishing back in hidden canals. Never seeing a soul for hours and sometimes days at a time.
If the Fibbies found them first in that vast, nearly uninhabited sprawl of lakes and woods and bayous, they could put a bullet in Bobbie Fay and Cormier and no one would ever know where to find them.
“Where’s Ol’ Landry?” he asked Jason, and he heard a slight inhalation.
“You’re not thinking of sending him after them, are you?”
“You know a better tracker in that area with his own airboat?”
“But Cam. He can’t stand the police.”
“He hates the Feds more, especially in his backyard.”
“Well, he hates Bobbie Faye more than the Feds.”
True. Old Man Landry was something of a legend in the swamps. Some people said he had the eye. That he could see things that weren’t possible to see. Cam believed there was something more logical behind it. (He didn’t listen to the rumors of magical insight.) He had seen the old crank work firsthand and concluded his so-called eye was born of a well-honed ability to observe little details, to ferret out what others weren’t saying by tuning into their body language. Cam had hunted and fished a couple of times with the old man, which hadn’t been easy, but Cam had been determined to learn from the best. On his good days, Landry was as welcoming as a porcupine wearing a vest of rusty razor blades.
He never had any good days.
Jason broke into Cam’s thoughts, asking, “Did you ever find out why she shot him? Or why he didn’t press charges?”
“No. But find him. Tell him what’s up and ask him to track the Feds and keep me posted.”
“And Bobbie Faye?”
Was this going to be one of the dumbest things he ever did? Or the smartest? No clue. He knew that Landry had trapped and tracked in places around Calcasieu Lake where few people had ever ventured. The man knew that area better than God.
“He owes me. Tell him not hurting Bobbie Faye would even us up.”
“Is he big on paying his debts?” Jason asked, and Cam knew it was a question born more from liking Bobbie Faye than it was questioning Cam’s authority or judgment.
“I have no idea.”
Bobbie Faye found herself amused at the look of surprise on Trevor’s face.
“I promise. It’s not even worth two whole dollars.”
“You called it a tiara when you were on the phone.”
“Right,” she said. “It’s just one of those family jokes, handed down from mother to daughter. I don’t even know how far back it went, but one of my great-great-granddads made it for his daughter and it’s just been passed down.”
“So it has no jewels, no gold, no silver?”
“Nada. It’s actually kinda rusty. I need to have it sealed.”
She watched him process this information, struggling to hide his incredulity. Was he disappointed? For himself? Or just stunned, as she’d been, at what felt like a completely insane task?
“I know,” she said, before he could formulate a question, “it
makes no sense.”
“Maybe it has some sort of historical value?”
“I don’t see how,” she said, and they fell silent. The trolling motor hummed as they eased through the shallow bayou.
“Why go to that sort of trouble, then?” she asked him. “I mean, if it’s simply historical significance, the kidnapper could have waited until I wore it at the parade and swiped it then. It’s not like I’m sporting bodyguards for the thing while I’m moving through the crowds. It would have been much simpler.”
“True,” he mused, easing them around rotted tree stumps protruding from the still, black water.
“So something made getting it right now a priority. Since the kidnapper wanted me to bring it to him, and there was someone in the bank waiting to rob me of it—”
“Wait,” he interrupted. “You didn’t say before they were specifically waiting for you.”
“I hadn’t had a chance to think about it. But I think they were. Which probably means some sort of double-cross.”
She turned to look out over the woods they were slowly passing. Her purse was still in her lap, and she’d eased her hand in there as she’d been talking, resting her palm on the Glock he’d given her earlier, one of the ones taken from Alex’s storage shed. If he was a part of the double-cross, would he try to dump her now? Or wait until he had the tiara?
“You don’t need to shoot me, Bobbie Faye,” he said, low, quiet, the words falling softly between them. “I’m not after the tiara.”
“Did I just say what I was thinking out loud? Or do you have some sort of microphone in my head? Because, seriously, it’s pretty messy in there and I’d like to clean up first if there are going to be visitors.”
He shook his head. She wasn’t sure if it was from amusement or confusion. Still, she held the gun.
“No, it was a natural thing for you to think. I’m here, I’m helping you, and you know I could have left at any point, especially after the truck went into the lake. So I don’t blame you.” He watched her a moment. “Of course, that’s what any good criminal mind would do right now, try to gain your trust, so you’re just going to have to decide if I’m here because I’m trying to help you or because I’m double-crossing you.”
She considered his calm demeanor, the way he looked her directly in the eyes, the way he never faltered in the tedious navigation of the bayou in spite of the fact that his life was on the line.
His was the type of calm born from being in too many dangerous situations.
“What made you get a divorce?” she asked him.
His brow furrowed at the non sequitur.
“Why?”
“Curiosity.”
“I was an ass,” he shrugged. “Then I was never home. Bad combination.”
She sank her chin into her hand, studying him.
“Why’d you ask that?”
“To see if you’d tell me the truth,” she said.
“And did I?”
“No,” she said, giving him a small smile. She put her purse beside her on the bateau’s seat. “But for the right reason.”
It was the first time during the whole frenzy of the day that she’d seen him look genuinely, utterly confused. She shrugged, refusing to clarify. She could easily be wrong about him. Was it instinct guiding her? Could she even trust instinct? Did a man who still had enough respect for an ex-wife to shoulder the blame have something of honor in him? She met his gaze, seeing the curiosity simmering there. Heat. She’d intrigued him, she knew. What she also knew was that Trevor was holding the map to where the geeky boys were holed up with the tiara. He didn’t need her to get to the tiara now, and yet, he hadn’t made a move to get rid of her.
Yet, she reminded herself, keeping her purse, and gun, very close.
Roy gaped at the TV screens in Vincent’s office. Two of the networks were actively tracking Bobbie Faye “sightings” and a third network was currently interviewing her ninth-grade teacher.
“Oh, she always was a firecracker, that one,” the elderly Mrs. Boudreaux drawled, squinting through her bifocals at the camera. “It’s not true, though, that she blew up the chemistry lab just by walking past it. She had actually been inside that day, doing her lab experiment just like everyone else. It wasn’t her fault those chemicals were mislabeled, bless her heart.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Roy caught a too-satisfied smile emanating from Vincent. Roy looked his direction and then followed Vincent’s gaze to the center console. A male anchor, with a badly dyed toupee, yammered, excited.
“And so far, no word on the whereabouts of the niece. In other news, we now have reports that the social worker sent out to investigate Ms. Sumrall’s capacity of being a fit guardian for this niece has now also vanished. There have been allegations that Ms. Sumrall may be trying to get out of the country with the niece and there is speculation that the social worker has met with some unfortunate end as a result.”
“Holy shit,” Roy said, and instantly regretted gaining the attention of Vincent, Eddie, and The Mountain.
“Have no fear, dear Roy,” Vincent purred. “Bobbie Faye doesn’t have Stacey. I do.”
Twenty-Seven
Bobbie Faye tracking charts now available. Red Cross strongly suggests bringing all children and small animals inside for protection. Please stay tuned for frequent coordinate updates.
—news ticker scrolling across Channel 2 News
Cam rappelled down a rope from the helicopter onto the airboat waiting below him. The muggy heat from the humid spring day, coupled with the utter stillness of the bayou, smothered him as much as if he’d slid down into an oven. He dropped the last couple of feet, his boots thumping against the airboat’s deck, rocking the craft and the milky-eyed man sitting in the driver’s seat. The helo moved away, the wind rippling the limbs on the trees and the tall grasses at the bayou’s edge.
He took a moment to assess the man. He hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, but he looked pretty much the same. The skinny old bastard was barely more than sinew and bone, baked skin taut and suntanned to a deep hickory, leather face lined with so many wrinkles, he was practically an ad for sunscreen manufacturers world ’round. But it was the cataracts that caught everyone’s attention. That, and the fact that the man could barely see, but could navigate and find anything he wanted to find.
“You found the FBI?” Cam shouted over the loud thrum of the engine.
Old Man Landry revved the airboat’s giant fan, skimming the boat across the top of the swamp. “You ain’t looking for the FBI, boy,” the old man snarled. “You’re looking for that crazy-ass, snake-bit girl.”
“And you know where she is?”
The old man gave him a dismissive shrug.
“What makes you think you can find her?”
“I find things, boy. You know that. You cracked your head lately? Or maybe Bobbie Faye cracked it for you?”
“What the hell d’you mean by that?”
“Nothin’, you idiot. But when you get ready to find that ring you done thrown in the lake there by your house, you give me a call.”
Sonofabitch. Cam reined in his expression, grinding his teeth until his jaw hurt. Benoit was the only person who knew where the ring was, and Benoit wasn’t the type to gossip. He liked holding as many cards as he could, so the old man either had a spy or . . . Cam didn’t want to contemplate the “or.”
“Have you seen her?” Cam asked, pissed that he was forced to do all of the asking. Landry delighted in control. The old man tapped his head by way of an answer and Cam cursed.
He needed to know that he wasn’t just going to find her body. He needed to prepare what the hell he was going to tell the Captain. It really wasn’t that he needed to have the feeling back in his hands, needed to stop the throbbing behind his eyes, needed to be able to pull in a deep breath and feel like his lungs weren’t on fire.
“You never did tell me why she shot you,” Cam said.
“None of your damned business, boy,” the old
man snarled.
“You know it is.”
“Know nothing of the sort. You’re fishing in a dry hole, there, boy, and you should know better ’n that by now.”
“You’re a bastard, you know that?” Cam said, finally reaching his limit.
“Yep. Heard that a time or two, but usually from people prettier ’n you.” The old man turned his milky-white eyes to Cam. “Ask the question you want to ask or don’t bother me.”
“Is she alive?”
“Yep. Pissed as hell, as usual.”
“How do you know?”
The old bastard just tapped his head again.
“I’m beginning to see why Bobbie Faye shot you.”
The old man barked with laughter, wiping away tears.
“Son, you don’t know the half of it.”
Then he clammed up again, and Cam wondered if he’d ever know the real story between the old man and Bobbie Faye.
They rode awhile in the airboat, going deeper southeast into the swamps, and eventually the old man slowed the boat and the roar of the engine dropped to a tolerable level. He navigated through a small bayou, and every cell in Cam itched to grab the controls and just hurry the hell up.
“When she was a little girl,” Old Landry said, startling Cam, “she lost her brother once at the park.”
“You knew Bobbie Faye when she was kid?”
“Boy, shut up and listen.”
Cam seethed, but did as he was told.
The old man continued. “Like I was saying, she lost her brother. Her mamma was off—drinking, I s’pose, wasted—and it was up to Bobbie Faye to look after Roy. I think she was maybe ten.
“Well, after looking all over the park, she saw a bunch of boys with a tree house fort in the neighboring woods, and they were dressed up as cowboys. They were hootin’ and hollerin’ and acting like they’d won something. She heard one of ’em braggin’ ’bout capturing an Indian and they had him in the fort, so she went over to see what they were up to.”
“Roy,” Cam said, and the old man nodded.
“Now, all these boys, they were bigger ’n her, and they laughed when she told ’em to let her little brother go. The biggest one, ’bout twice her size, stepped up and shoved her and told her to go away and go cry like a little girl somewhere else.”
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