by W E DeVore
Torture all the squirming beasts
Release control and they will breed
I have to kill what I cannot hide
This infestation grows inside
This disease came on so slow
Insect songs lull the victims as the hive grows
This infestation has taken hold
As the audience erupted in howls of appreciation, a shiver ran up Q’s spine and she exclaimed into the microphone, “Holy fuck, I missed this! How the hell are you, New Orleans? Y’all ready to party?”
When the room shook with the crowd’s affirmative response, Tom launched into the next groove without preamble, sending the five people on stage raging into their seventy-minute set. As each song flowed into the other, Q lost herself to it, merging with the music they were creating.
After the last song ended, she stood up and took Derek’s outstretched hand, threading her fingers through his and taking a bow with him, waving at the appreciation thundering around them. Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for Sanger. She found him leaning against the wall in the hallway, directly in front of the piano. She wondered when he’d arrived. Turning to her bandmates, she said, “Change of plans, boys. Let’s do one more. Y’all remember how to play ‘Dynamite and Fire.’”
“Of course, I do,” Charlie grumbled. “It took me two weeks to figure out a horn part for that hick tune.”
She turned to Derek. “It’s in E-Flat.”
He shrugged. “I know. I love that song.”
“Of course, you do,” Q said, wondering when she’d ever learn that Derek’s knowledge of music was nearly encyclopedic. She sat back down at the piano and said into the microphone. “We got one more. This one’s for my favorite cowboy. One, two, one, two, three, four.”
Tom pounded out the intro, slipping into a disjointed, swaying groove that announced one of Sanger’s favorite songs. Derek played a twangy honky-tonk melody that Q echoed on the piano. She winked over her piano at Sanger and sang:
Baby, baby, baby
Hear what I say
You got me goin’ crazy
Every single day
The way you love
Never makes me tire
You and me are dynamite and fire
Baby, baby, baby
When it’s cold at night
We move under the covers
And spark a white hot light
The way you love
Never makes me tire
You and me are dynamite and fire
You light my fuse
You ignite my flames
That way you love
Puts other men to shame
Hold me tight when I explode
Let’s erupt and let that lava flow
You blow me up and I ain’t no liar
You and me are dynamite and fire
As the crowd applauded, Q impulsively leapt off the stage and into Sanger’s arms, kissing him while he lifted her off the ground. “You’re late, cowboy.”
He smiled at her. “If you’re asking me, I’m just in time.”
“You like your song?” she asked. He covered her mouth with his by way of a response. “When did you get here?”
“About a half an hour ago. Sorry, I missed most of the set. I had to take care of some paperwork.”
Q studied his face. “What kind of paperwork?”
“Later,” he said, nodding towards the stage. “You’d better get back up there before this crowd tears this place down.”
She opened her ears to the world around her and realized that the audience was intent on more. Hopping back on stage, she blew a kiss at Sanger and sat back down at the piano just as Tom launched into the next groove, calling what would be the first of at least a dozen of their favorite songs to jam.
◆◆◆
It was well past three in the morning by the time the audience thinned out. Q sat at the bar with Derek and Sanger, relieved that they weren’t sniping at each other for once. While Derek turned to sign an autograph for an enthusiastic female fan, Q asked Sanger, “Spill. Why were you late?”
He took a sip of his beer and said, “Gus Multer got out of prison last April.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said. “So?”
The news that the former Louisiana Senator who had tried to have her killed seven years earlier had been paroled wasn’t a surprise. As the child of a former ADA, her father’s friends had let her know months before he was actually released. She’d been so consumed with recording and her pregnancy, she hadn’t given it a second thought.
His eyes widened and he pursed his lips. “You don’t think it’s odd that the man who hired a professional hitman to have you beaten to death was released from prison, and less than two months later you and Ben were shot?”
“You think Gus Multer is the person who hired someone to kill Ben and me?” she asked, shocked.
Sanger gave her a frustrated look. “Don’t you?”
“No, I do not,” she said. “It’s too sloppy. Why a drive-by? Why not have someone kill us on the street? We were all sitting outside at Manny’s. Why bother at all? It’s not like killing me would do a damn bit of good to help him. He only tried before because I knew what he did to that poor woman when she was a little girl. You said you thought Ben was the target, not me. Why would Gus Multer want to kill Ben?”
Sanger took her hand in his, running his rough thumb over her palm. “I’m just beating all the bushes, Clementine. I can’t figure this one out. Desk duty has me with a lot of time on my hands, so I’ve been going down a list of people who might want to hurt you. Just in case. The Multers, Gabrielli, Ethan Nichols, one of Niko’s exes, Chris fucking McMillan…” He exhaled out his nose at the last name on his list, still enraged by the man who had shot him. Q shivered as he listed all the people who had hurt her over the years, never having considered how many enemies she’d made since the Multers had killed her former bass player’s girlfriend seven years ago.
“Jesus,” she said under her breath. “There’s so many.”
His fingers tightened around her hand. “Yeah, but Gus Multer is the only one on that list in a position to do anything.”
“No, he’s not, Aaron,” she said. “You can hire a hit from inside the joint. It might even be easier.” Q’s stomach turned. “Where’s Gabrielli?”
“What?” he asked, surprised.
Of all the people on that list, Vincent Gabrielli, the former police lieutenant who had wrongfully arrested Ben for murder, was the only one with a vengeful streak. After her father had discovered he was on the take, Gabrielli had used Q’s rape as leverage to get the right honorable Henry Toledano, Esq. to drop the charges against him.
“Where is Vincent Gabrielli?” she repeated. “Everyone you mentioned had a reason for doing what they did. He’s the only one who did it to cash in a grudge against my family. He’s part of the reason Daddy had to retire to Grand Cayman.”
Sanger shook his head. “It’s not him. After he got fired for that mess with Ben…”
“You mean when he arrested Ben for murder and let a serial killer attack me.”
He gave her an annoyed look. “I was there, Clementine. I’m not the enemy here. It’s not Gabrielli. He’s in a home.”
“What kind of home?”
“A nursing home. He had a massive stroke two years ago. After he was fired, he started drinking too much, went downhill pretty fast. It’s not him.”
“You can hire a hit from a nursing home.”
“Not if you’re broke and living on Medicaid and Disability. It’s not him.”
Q backed down. “So, Multer? Why?”
“I don’t know, but I took out a restraining order on him today just as a precaution. Talked to his parole officer in Baton Rouge.” His eyes pleaded with her. “Please, take this seriously. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about, but…”
She kissed him. “Of course, it’s serious. I’m serious. I'm also beat. Come on, let’s go home.”
They said
their goodbyes and threaded their way through the remaining stragglers as they left the Cove. Q looked around for Sanger’s truck. “You take a Lyft or something?”
“No, I had to park down on Tchoupitoulas near Mike’s old spot.”
“I hate that place. All I can think about is you sitting there bleeding.” Q shivered and he pulled her closer. “But that is the first time you told me you loved me, so there’s that…”
“Not the first time,” Sanger corrected. Sanger draped his arm over her shoulder and she leaned against him as they walked down the dark, uneven sidewalk.
“You keep saying that,” she replied. “But I don’t remember a single time before.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Good lord, you’re dense.”
She backhanded him on the chest and he grunted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
As they walked down Tchoupitoulas towards Sanger’s truck, he asked, “Do you remember when I found out Tori was pregnant and we were splitting a bottle of tequila in my kitchen?”
“What are you talking about, cowboy?” She squinted her eyes at him, not liking the direction this conversation was taking.
“I told you about a woman. A woman that I loved…” he prompted.
“Sure, I remember. I’d never heard a man talk about a woman like that. Not even Ben, and he was very good at finding new ways to tell me how much he loved me.” They stopped at the street corner and Q turned to face him, stepping closer and smoothing his shirt with her hands. “You don’t love her now, though, do you?”
“Of course, I still love her,” he said.
Q chewed on the sides of her tongue and steadied her breathing, possessiveness churning her stomach. “Well, who is she? How long did you date? Why didn’t it work out?”
“Dense,” he exclaimed to the sky.
“Answer the questions, Sanger,” she said, putting her hands on her hips.
He gave her a sideways grin. “She was in love with someone else. She didn’t love me,” he said. “But she’s free now, so maybe I’ll get my shot after all.”
An unfamiliar jealous creature crawled up Q’s spine and she fought against it. “What the actual fuck, Sanger?” she snapped. “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He teased, “You’re jealous.”
“I don’t do jealous,” she said. “Answer the goddamn question.”
“You don’t do jealous, huh? You’re doing a pretty good impression of it right now.” He started walking across the street and she followed after him.
Stalking ahead of him, she muttered, “I am not, fucking asshole.”
“Dense!” Sanger exclaimed before he jogged up to her and took her hand, holding her back. “Admit that you’re jealous and I’ll answer any question you like.”
She threw her hands up in the air. “Of course, I’m fucking jealous. I was jealous of Yvie and Elaine so why in the hell wouldn’t I be jealous of the woman that makes you feel like a motherfucking warrior. I got jealous that day when you told me about her. I thought that any woman who was loved by you like that was somehow simultaneously the luckiest woman in the fucking world and the biggest moron who ever lived for letting you go.”
He lifted her chin so that she could see his face. “Then I guess that makes you the luckiest woman in the fucking world, moron.”
She twisted her face, dumbfounded.
“It’s you, you hayseed,” he teased. “I was talking about you.”
Disbelief and confusion held her mute and he took her hand, continuing to walk.
He tilted his head, regarding her face while he talked. “I was just drunk enough, just desperate enough to tell you. All of it. How you made me feel. Lucky for me, you didn’t put two and two together. Saved me from making an ass out of myself and missing out on the best two friendships I’ve ever had.”
They turned the corner and arrived at Sanger’s truck.
“I make you feel like a warrior?” Q asked.
He put his finger on her lips and pushed her back against the side of the pickup, continuing to stare into her eyes. “Listen to me, my love. Every time you’ve ever heard me talk about loving a woman, it was you. It was always you. You are the strongest, bravest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever known and you make me feel like a warrior whenever I’m with you because you’re a warrior, too. Two words from you and my day can’t get any better. And no matter what happens between us, I will spend my entire life loving only you.”
The puzzle pieces fell into place, and half a dozen different conversations they’d had over the years suddenly made complete sense. She was amazed at how many times her best friend had found a way to tell her how he felt about her without crossing the line that separated them. She pulled him down to her, aching to have him touch her.
“Which two words?” she asked.
“Guess.”
“Hello, cowboy,” she whispered.
“Motherfucking super detective, god damn,” he said, grinning at her. He picked her up and held her to him, his tongue dancing around hers.
She slid her lips to his ear and whispered, “Shut up and take me home.”
They got into the truck and Sanger smiled over at her. “I love you, Clementine. But I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to make sure you fall in love with me, too.”
Q bit her lip and cupped his face with her hand. “Too late, cowboy. It’s already a done deal. I’m too far gone to ever go back.”
He gazed at her in amazement and she moved to him. He did the same and met her in the center of the bench seat, taking her face in his hands and twirling his tongue around hers. Q straddled him and he moved his mouth down to her neck as she took his earlobe between her teeth.
“Tell me,” he whispered.
She formed the words in her mind, trembling with the force of it. His phone abruptly vibrated in his pocket. Sanger moved to answer it but she held his hand until it stopped. When the vibrating began again immediately, he moved Q off his lap and pulled his phone from his pocket. Q watched him listen intently to whomever was on the line. When he hung up, he reached over and took her hand in his. “Clementine, there’s a boy having some kind of psychotic episode in the Seventh Ward precinct, begging for someone to shoot him. He says he shot a pregnant woman and her husband on their porch last summer and he can’t get the baby to stop crying.”
Q gasped.
“I’m going to need you to come with me.”
◆◆◆
Q watched the boy through the window of the interrogation room. He was rocking back and forth, his arms wrapped around his stomach as if he were trying to hold his insides together. His hand flew up and he slapped at his ears, screaming, “It won’t stop crying!”
Tears ran down his face as he spoke to the cop sitting across the table from him, “Please, kill me. I did something so bad and there’s no way to make it right. That baby is all alone in the wilderness and I did it. Jesus can’t save me. I’ve been asking, but I know I’m evil. I killed a baby. I killed his mother. Nobody can save me. I’ve tried. But nobody can save me. Please.”
The detective in the room with him squirmed in his seat and chewed on the straw in his mouth. He replied a little too sharply, “Calm down, son. The devil ain’t here now, is he?”
Q squeezed Sanger’s hand. “You should go in there. That guy’s not going to get anywhere. That kid’s about to spiral out.”
“You’ll be ok?”
She nodded.
He left the room and she watched through the window as he entered the room to take a seat next to the detective. “What’s your name, son?”
Sanger flashed an easy smile and the boy grasped onto it like a drowning man in a flood. He slapped his right ear three times, each hit harder than the one before. Sanger repeated his question and the boy muttered, “Remi. Remi Soniat.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Seventeen.”
Sickening dread filling Q’s body as she did the math. She closed h
er eyes and saw her killer mouth his apologies. Then she saw it. The fear. The horror. The desperation. She’d missed it. In her own fear and horror and desperation, she’d missed it. “I’m sorry” was the end of his statement, but she’d missed the warning. Remi’s hand pointing downward, his mouth moving around two words. Two words she’d missed.