Hardass (Bad Bitch)

by Christina Saunders

  Lincoln beamed, looking almost boyish as the redhead stared at him with open adoration. They were a striking pair.

  All three dodged the greeter drunk and came to where I was at the bar.

  Evan shook Wash’s hand. “Good to see you again.”

  So they knew each other?

  “Same here. I didn’t realize you and Linc . . . well, it doesn’t matter. Congratulations.” Wash’s voice was strained, but his gaze rested on his older brother, not Evan.

  “Good to see you, Wash.” Lincoln smiled, and there was something almost vulnerable in it, as if he expected Wash to hurt him.

  “Yeah.” Wash turned and resumed his seat at the bar. Burn.

  Kennedy shrugged. “And this here is Yvonne. And the blonde on the end is Caroline Montreat.” He leaned up and whispered something in Lincoln’s ear.

  Lincoln tried to play off whatever information changed hands, but he smiled and shot me a couple of furtive glances.

  “Fuck, I need a drink.” The redhead climbed onto the barstool next to me and signaled the bartender with an authoritative wave. I could already tell I liked her.

  “Evan, is it?”

  “That’s me.” To the bartender she said, “Hey, whose dick do I have to suck to get a drink around here?” Her accent was almost harsh to my ears, definitely not southern. But the way she talked just made me smile like an idiot.

  “That would be mine.” Lincoln moved up behind her and handed his credit card to the harried bartender. “Start a tab. Anything she wants.” He kissed her on the top of her head and went back to talking to Kennedy.

  She smiled, and not a minute passed before she was sucking down a hurricane through a twizzle straw.

  “So, what do you do, Evan?”

  “Lawyer. Mostly plaintiff’s work. You?”

  “Lawyer. Criminal defense.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Tried any cases? Give me some details. You got lots of bad guys? Some real dirt? Nasty shit?”

  Something about the way she asked made me think of an addict looking for a hit. I shrugged and went with it. “Wash and I have a murder case right now. Heard of the Bayou Butcher?”

  She nodded, her smile growing.

  “He’s our guy. We’re working the case right now. Wash and me . . .” For some reason, likely named “alcohol,” I let the end trail off as I pondered the implications of “Wash and me.”

  She gripped her temples. “Brain freeze, but that shit was worth it.” She’d drained her oversized glass. She glanced over my head and then refocused on me. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since I got here. You know that, right?”

  “I, um, I guess?” In fact, I did not know that. I took another drink.

  She smiled. “Okay, let me help you out. You’re a bad bitch. I can see this already. Us bad bitches have to stick together.”

  She kept rubbing her temples, and I leaned closer.

  “These Granade boys.” She waved her hand in an arc and almost smacked me. “They are a different breed, okay? They are complicated, smart, sweet, and monsters in the sack. At least that’s been my experience with Lincoln.”

  I nodded. “Yes, same.”

  “Good. Now, the trick with Lincoln.” She crinkled her nose, as if she were deep in thought. “Actually, the trick with Lincoln was that he never gave up on me.”

  She motioned for the bartender. “Another one of those, and get one for my friend here.”

  “Thanks.” I’d already had three drinks, but a hurricane didn’t sound half bad. I would go home early and have a snack. Yes. I would have a snack and soak up the alcohol and not have a hangover. Right.

  “Where was I? Yes. Perseverance. That’s the key. I’ve worked with Wash. I know what he’s doing with that whole ‘I’m a dick’ persona. I am intimately familiar with how to use said persona. But that’s what it is. A persona. Get to the man underneath and sink your nails in.” She dug her nails into the bar for emphasis. “And don’t let go. Got me?”

  “I got you.” I clawed at the air.

  We both devolved into laughter and accepted our fresh drinks from the bartender.

  “Bottoms up, bitch.” She toasted me.

  We drank. And laughed.

  And drank.

  And then I was in my bed.

  And then there was an earsplitting noise. I cracked my eyes open and saw the blur of my ceiling fan. What the? The earsplitting noise was my clock radio playing a soft tune at the lowest volume. I wailed on the poor snooze button.

  I closed my eyes and dozed off until the noise began again. Three more times I destroyed the snooze button.

  “Hey. Rise and shine, my favorite drunk.” Terrell’s voice cut through my haze. “You have a date with disgusting destiny this morning at the morgue.”

  I almost retched right then and there.

  “That’s what I thought. Jesus, you still smell like a vodka distillery.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “You don’t remember Wash and some redhead dropping you off at midnight?” Terrell came into focus, already dressed for work in an impeccable suit and tie.

  “No.”

  He peeled back my covers. I was wearing a T-shirt and panties.

  “How did I—”

  “I changed your clothes. Saw you naked and everything. I promise nothing happened.” He smiled and shook his head. “But you may be pregnant. Just saying.”

  I snorted, which was a bad idea. My headache had been a distant echo; now it was a jackhammer in my ear.

  “Come on.” He handed me a fizzy glass of water. “Drink up. I’m going to turn the shower on. I want you up and in it before I walk out the door. I’ll just tell everyone you’re running late because, oh, I don’t know, I’ll say you’re having that period thing or something.”

  I groaned. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Kidding, kidding. I think everyone probably knows by now that you and the hardass got trashed last night. He was doing only marginally better than you. That redhead, though, she could hold her liquor.”

  “She was . . . she was . . .” Who was she?

  “Doesn’t matter. Drink and then shower.” He went to my bathroom and got the shower going as I chugged the medicated water that tasted the way dirty gym socks smell.

  “Yick.” I scooted to the edge of my bed, the room spinning, and shucked off my T-shirt. I sat still until the spin calmed down to just a slight wobble.

  Terrell came out and averted his eyes. “Ugh. I mean, uh, yeah, boobs and stuff. Yay. Please tell me you don’t need help getting in the shower.”

  I dug the heel of my palm into my face. “I think I don’t.”

  “Fuck.” He came over. “You owe me for this, breeder.” He helped me up and walked me to the steaming bathroom.

  I dutifully slid my panties down and kicked them away. He helped me into the shower, the hot water like a slap in my face.

  “Better?” He closed the curtain.

  “I think. Yes. I think better. I can make it.”

  “Okay. I can stay, or maybe run out and get you a Life Alert?”

  “Go. I’ve got it now.” I let the water jar my dulled senses back to life.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be there in like an hour.”

  “Okay. I’ll make you some toast on my way out.”

  “Thanks, Terrell.”

  His steps retreated from the bathroom. “You’re welcome.”

  I leaned my head on my forearm as the water cascaded down. What had I done last night? At least it sounded like Wash had been just as blotto as I was. If nobody remembers what happened, then nothing happened. Surely that was the way it worked. Surely.

  I took a longer-than-usual shower and was slow to get ready. I didn’t even bother playing my sex vixen game with my wardrobe, just threw on some dressy slacks and a black V-neck sweater. I eyed what I considered sensible heels, but I didn’t even trust those not to land me on my face. I went with a pair of kitten heels instead.
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br />   My toast was popped up, cold but ready. My stomach turned just looking at it, but I knew if I didn’t at least nibble something, vomit was all but assured. I grabbed a piece and made my way to work.

  I kept my sunglasses on even as I sank down at my desk. I hadn’t been this hungover in years, probably not since the first year of law school after a particularly raucous Halloween party.

  Terrell must have heard me, because he dropped in. “You going to make it, legal eagle?”

  “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” I put my head on my desk.

  “Mr. Granade was here when I got in. His door’s closed, though.”

  “So he was messed up last night, too?” Maybe I could rely on that to save me. He wouldn’t throw stones from his glass house.

  “Yes. When he dropped you off, he kept asking if he could put you to bed.”

  “He what?”

  “Yep.” Terrell bounced his palm off my doorframe. “Sure did. I had to politely decline his offer.”

  “Thank you.” I think.

  “Sure thing. Anyway, just rest. I figure you won’t have to leave for your trip to the—”

  I groaned.

  “To that, you know, that place you’re going, for about fifteen minutes.”

  “Go.”

  “Bitch.” His voice had a smile in it.

  I lifted my head. “Thanks. For everything.”

  He shrugged. “By the way, I got one more thing for you.”

  “Yeah?”

  He grinned like a devil. “Yvonne called in sick today.”

  I smiled. Bitch couldn’t handle a hangover. “Pussy.”

  “Ding ding ding.” He laughed and trudged away to his office.

  I dropped my head back down and willed the fizzy solution and toast to get me back to some sort of equilibrium.

  “You ready?” Wash’s voice. Had it been fifteen minutes?

  “Yeah.” I fumbled with my bag and my legal pad but eventually got everything straight. I stood and followed him to the elevator.

  He seemed collected, his smooth stride giving nothing away. But he didn’t fool me. He was wearing the suit from the day before.

  I couldn’t contain my snicker. He glanced over his shoulder, his locks falling across his forehead and begging my fingers to brush them back into place.

  “Something funny, Ms. Montreat?”

  “No. Nothing. Not a thing, Mr. Granade.”

  We made the trip to the morgue without incident, though my dread grew with each block. What if I passed out? What if I vomited, which actually had better odds than ever before?

  “It’ll be fine.” He pulled into a parking spot marked law enforcement outside the hospital’s back entrance. I liked his style.

  Another car pulled up next to us, and a middle-aged man with a nearly bald pate stepped out. Dr. Snider. I’d taken him the wooden pieces earlier in the week. He was brilliant, but he was a talker. It took me an hour just to extricate myself from his presence. I feared today would be worse, since we were in his wheelhouse, so to speak.

  “Try to give me some advance warning if you’re going to eat it, okay?” Wash smiled at me.

  I didn’t find his joke amusing, mainly because of the real risk of just such an occurrence. We got out and shook hands with Dr. Snider before walking through the automatic doors and heading down to the basement.

  “Any news on the blood testing?” Wash asked.

  “The presumptive test was positive for blood, but we haven’t gotten the types or any other indicators yet. It’s not as easy when the blood has been dry like that for so long. As long as there are still some white blood cells intact, we should be able to extract DNA for comparators. Just going to take some effort, is all. We’ll do everything we can.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  The doors opened, and we entered a secured area where we had to check in. At least we weren’t searched.

  Dr. Snider led us down the hallway, clearly knowing his way around. He took a left and pushed through a set of swinging doors. We followed.

  The smell was almost instant. It wasn’t strong, but it was everywhere. Something dead, something rotten. It’s the sort of smell that makes some part of your primitive brain wake up and tell you to run. Death. There was no other word for it.

  Dr. Snider kept marching forward, as if oblivious to it.

  “You can do this.” Wash took my elbow and led me forward through another set of doors, metal this time.

  The smell grew stronger. We were in a room with a few rows of metal litters, all thankfully empty. Along the back wall was a counter with neat rows of tools and instruments that I knew for a fact I never wanted to see in action.

  A hospital worker was washing up in the sink. She turned when we entered. “Hi. What’s up, Dr. Snider?”

  “Morning, Cindy. We’re here to see the Bayou Butcher victims.”

  She finished washing and adjusted her high ponytail, making it painfully tight. “They’re in the deep freeze. You know where it is?”

  “Sure, you know the bays?”

  “No, I’ll get them for you. Hang on.” We followed her, my heels sliding across the slick tile floor. I tried not to look at the drain in the center or wonder what was in there.

  We followed her to a wide metal freezer door. Cindy pulled a clipboard from the wall next to it and flipped a page. “They’re in seven through thirteen. Looks like sequential from estimated time of death. Here. I’ll make you a copy.” She left and came back in a moment with a copy of the manifest.

  “Holler if you need me. I’ve got to do some check-ins from last night.”

  “Will do. Thanks, Cindy.” Dr. Snider gripped the long door handle and looked back at Wash and me. “We ready?”

  I tried to calm my racing heart.

  “It’s going to smell worse. Just brace yourself. Be strong. You can do this.” Wash’s voice in my ear gave me strength to nod.

  “Here we go.” Dr. Snider pulled the door open.

  A blast of cold air and the smell hit me in the face. I was certain my face was green, because my stomach churned and threatened to upend itself all over my shoes.

  “Just stand here for a minute.” Wash’s hand tightened at my elbow.

  I peered through the swirl of frosty air and saw racks of black body bags. They were stacked like catering trays, but instead of food they were full of lost lives. Dr. Snider disappeared to the back of the space, and I heard a rolling metal-on-metal sound.

  “Got the first one. Taking some pics. Come on in when you’re ready. Some interesting stuff,” he called.

  “We’ll wait here as long as we need to.” Wash dropped my elbow and wrapped an arm around my waist. “It’s just a part of the job, Caroline. I’m sorry. I wish I could save you from it. But this is what we do.”

  I looked up at him. There was concern in his eyes. Kindness lived there, too. I could do this.

  I steeled myself and refused to puss out. “Let’s go.”

  “All right. If you want to leave, just tell me.” Wash and I eased into the deep freeze, the cold setting up shop in my skin, my mind.

  Dr. Snider was hunched over a body, turning it this way and that to get a view of everything. The body was almost bloodless, like all the other victims. White, so white. The cuts along her torso were clean somehow, the blood washed away. Just open gashes showing the bone and sinew underneath.

  “What we got, Doc?”

  “The pictures sent over from Dr. Russell were very good, really. He didn’t miss much in his initial examination. Clearly, cause of death was this acute injury across the neck. Perhaps a serrated blade, given the fine tears in the skin. She bled out in a matter of moments.”

  I focused on the black bag as Dr. Snider continued. I glanced up when he found something of particular interest and found myself looking more and more often as he explained the injuries and marks on the victim’s body. The main point of note was the carving in her upper back.

  “Looks like it was done with some artistry
, but whatever it was supposed to be was distorted by the process of bloating and soaking in the water. No way to know. But the multiple lines and incisions, as well as the indicators of blood around the wound, suggest it was done while she was alive and done with several cuts. Would have been painful and bloody.”

  I cringed and exchanged a knowing look with Wash. Carved. Just like the wooden totems we’d found in Tyler’s room.

  “You sure you can’t tell if it looks like anything?” Wash asked.

  “Look for yourself.” Dr. Snider continued examining the rest of her body, remarking on the missing pinky finger and on the ligature marks.

  Wash and I approached her back and peered at the carved marks there. Dr. Snider was right. Whatever had been there was erased by decay. It was just a mess of cuts and pain.

  “This is so fucked up.” I said it on a hard exhale.

  “Here.” Wash backed us up as Dr. Snider concluded his exam.

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’m not going to faint. But I may have to take a shower immediately after we leave.”

  “Me, too.”

  We spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon at the morgue. Dr. Snider went over each victim, taking pictures and dictating notes as we inspected right along with him. Each woman had the strange carving in her back and was killed with a bloodletting. It was ritualistic, sick.

  Wash and I thanked Dr. Snider on the way out, and Wash instructed him to have a report ready within the next few weeks. We would call Dr. Snider at trial for our side, mainly to deflate any testimony from Dr. Russell that might implicate our client. The cause of death wasn’t in question. The only real question was who did it. Rowan’s face flashed through my mind, the way he’d leered at me. Was he capable of this?

  The fresh air outside the hospital was like a second chance at life, though I feared the particles from the deep freeze were ingrained in my skin.

  Wash started up the car, and I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

  “You didn’t swoon.” Wash smiled at me.

  “Neither did you.” I smiled back. It was like we’d gone through a five-hour hell together. Bonded.

  “I almost did a couple of times, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of you.”