What Washes Up
Page 7
She found herself with nothing to do but think, and too many things she didn’t want to think about. When she got off the bridge from Eastpoint into Apalach, she turned right, intending to go home, but the thought suddenly made her feel more alone than she wanted to be. Instead, she decided to stop at Boss Oyster. She hadn’t eaten since the day before, and Gray would be coming in soon; she’d be able to see him and the kids as they passed Boss on the way to the marina.
She got a seat out on the deck, overlooking the docks and Scipio Creek. There were several other occupied tables, a mixture of tourists and locals, despite the almost malevolent heat. There was at least a slight breeze off of the water, and Maggie lifted her hair off her neck and tried to feel it as she sipped her sweet tea. She found herself wishing it was a glass of wine, or even a mojito, but she knew that she was feeling far too introspective for alcohol to be a good idea.
Something had been slowly unraveling inside her since she’d walked across the dunes and looked at Gregory Boudreaux’s body lying on the beach. It was as though the string holding a package together was steadily working itself loose, and when it had finished, she would find that nothing was held together as neatly as before, that she would find that she was not as neatly put together as she had thought.
It had started with not telling Wyatt about her connection to Gregory. At that point, she had strayed from the very narrow path between right and wrong, law and unlawfulness that she had defined for herself.
Then Boudreaux had stepped into her life, and suddenly it was as though she were occupying two worlds. She was, in some ways, more honest with Boudreaux than she was with anyone else, and yet she was keeping secrets from Wyatt. She was even keeping Boudreaux’s secrets, which had inexplicably become far too intertwined with her own.
For weeks now, she had been wondering who and what she actually was, with one foot on either side of a line that was becoming harder to see. She was almost grateful for the news that Boudreaux had probably been behind the deaths, or at least responsible for the deaths, of those poor Guatemalans. While it angered her, disappointed her, and even hurt her on some level she didn’t want to define, it also made things easier. She didn’t need to worry anymore about liking him a little too much for her own conscience.
She let out a breath and took another drink of her tea as she watched an egret float down and settle in the grass beneath one of the live oaks near the deck. The moment was ruined for her by the tourist in a Tommy Bahama shirt at the table to her right, who sat with his back to her, noisily sucking the meat from a Blue crab claw while his portly wife poked at a brochure with her oyster fork.
Apalach depended on the tourists, but there were days when she would have been happy to hear they’d stopped coming. She listened to the woman suggesting various plans for their stay, then tuned her out, annoyed with both her nasally voice and her apparently carefree week.
“Hello, Maggie.”
Maggie started as she looked up at Boudreaux, standing there in a crisp blue linen shirt, a fresh bottle of Red Stripe beer in his hand. It was as though she’d conjured him up by thinking about him too hard.
“Mr. Boudreaux,” she said automatically.
“I saw you out here when I walked in,” he said. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
Maggie’s first instinct was to say that she damn well did, but she thought better of it. Why shouldn’t he sit down and be made to account for himself?
So she nodded, and he pulled out the chair on her right. The table next to them was quite close, and the man in the Tommy Bahama shirt glanced over his shoulder, a tidbit of crab meat on his lower lip, as Boudreaux’s chair tapped his.
“Pardon me,” Boudreaux said politely, and scooted his chair in as he sat.
Maggie looked out over the deck rail at the water, trying to corral all of the things she wanted to say into one cohesive mass.
“I’ve just been speaking to Agent Tomlinson,” Boudreaux said quietly. “I needed some fresh air.”
Maggie looked at him. His startling blue eyes were as sharp as ever, but there seemed to be a few more fine lines at their corners, a few more shadows beneath them.
“And how did that go?’ she asked him.
“About like you’d expect,” he answered. “Was it you that told him he should take a look at me?”
“Yes,” she answered flatly.
“Well, there’s nothing illogical in that, is there?” he asked mildly.
His eyes narrowed just a bit and cut over his shoulder for a split second, as the man in the Tommy Bahama shirt noisily sucked out some more crab meat. The wife was talking about going to the beach on the island.
“No, there isn’t,” Maggie said.
“You’re upset with me,” Boudreaux said.
“I’m a lot of things,” she answered quietly. She felt the anger pressing against her throat from the inside.
Boudreaux opened his mouth to say something, then stopped as the crab man spoke up next to him.
“No, I don’t want to go the beach,” he was saying petulantly. “Not with all those bodies they found out there.”
Boudreaux and Maggie stared at each other.
“Well, it’s not like they’re still there,” the wife said.
“Whatever,” the man said, then lowered his voice just a hair and spoke in a grumbling tone. “It’s too bad and all, but I’m fed up with them coming here anyway, so they can live ten to a trailer and take American jobs.”
Maggie stared back at Boudreaux. His left eye twitched almost imperceptibly, and he took a swallow of his beer and set it down gently before turning around in his chair and leaning close to the man.
“Do you know why they live ten to a trailer?’ he asked quietly. “Because they all work two jobs, jobs no Americans want by the way, so they don’t mind sharing bedrooms and eating ramen six days a week, because that means they can send more money home to the three generations of family they support.”
Boudreaux’s voice was quiet and level, but Maggie had never heard it sound quite so icy. She glanced around, but only one other person was paying attention, a local fisherman at the table across from them, who had stopped chewing his grouper sandwich and was watching Boudreaux.
“What the hell?” the crab man asked, surprised.
“You think you’re superior to them because you’re an American?” Boudreaux asked, somehow sounding almost polite. “Look at you. I can’t see you doing manual labor sixteen hours a day so your kids can go to the doctor and your wife has something to feed them besides corn meal.”
“Listen, friend—” the man started.
“No, you listen,” Boudreaux said calmly. “And I’m not your friend, you arrogant redneck. You need to limit your conversation to things you understand, which I suspect is very little.”
He stood up, without urgency, and Maggie’s right hand automatically touched the Glock 23 in her back holster, though she didn’t actually think she’d need it.
“You got a lotta nerve, buddy,” the crab man said, but he looked less brave than he was trying to sound.
Boudreaux put a hand on the man’s shoulder and bent down.
“I have more nerve than you should be comfortable with,” he said quietly. “It’s only out of respect for your wife that I don’t put that crab claw through your right eye.” He looked at the wife, who sat with her mouth open. “Please pardon the intrusion,” Boudreaux said, “And enjoy the rest of your stay.”
He turned and nodded at Maggie. “Maggie,” he said, then quickly walked away. Maggie heard the screen door slap shut, and watched the crab man gather his wits.
“Who the hell does he think he is?” he asked weakly. The fisherman across the way let out a short, sharp laugh and both Maggie and the crab man looked at him.
“Dude, if you knew who he was you’d have crapped your pants. I almost did, and he wasn’t even talking to me.”
He went back to his grouper sandwich, and Maggie jumped up and went after Boudreaux.
“What was that about?” Maggie snapped.
“What do you think it was about?” he snapped back. “The man was a moron.”
“You can’t just go around threatening to poke crab claws through people’s eyeballs,” Maggie said.
“Why not? Because it will hurt my reputation, or because I was sitting with someone from the Sheriff’s Office?”
“Because it’s illegal,” she shot back.
He cut his eyes at her. “That’s probably the silliest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
They reached his black Mercedes, and he stalked to the driver’s side and opened his door. Maggie glared at him over the roof.
“I didn’t say it to be cute,” she snapped.
“And I didn’t put his eye out,” Boudreaux snapped back. Maggie had never actually seen him angry, and if she weren’t so angry with him, it might have scared her a little. “I didn’t have to, and you and I both know I have more self-control than that.”
“I don’t know as much as I thought,” she said.
“What’s that intended to mean?”
“Those people are dead! Children are dead!”
Boudreaux slammed a hand down on the roof of his car, and Maggie jerked back just a little. “I know good and damn well they’re dead!” he said, raising his voice for the first time in her hearing. “The only person who’s more aware of that than me is that little boy they’ve got over at the hotel!”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed at the reminder.
Boudreaux took a deep breath. “Maggie, I’ll be frank. I’m a little disappointed in you right now.”
Maggie’s mouth opened a couple of times before she could speak. “You’re disappointed in me? What the hell for?”
“Because I might be a killer, but I’m not a degenerate,” he said, without a trace of irony.
Maggie glared at him, pinching her lips shut to keep from screaming at him. He looked away, toward the front door of Sea-Fair, and Maggie saw him take a deep breath before he looked back at her.
“Get in the car,” his voice smooth and quiet again.
“What?” Maggie asked incredulously.
“I’d like you to get in the car, please.”
“Why?”
He stared at her a moment over the roof of the car. “Do you remember one time I told you that there might come a day when you might need to understand me just a little?”
Maggie did recall. She had asked him why they were suddenly having frequent and sometimes personal conversations, after decades of existing in the same town without ever having one.
“What about it?” she asked.
“This is one of those days,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she asked him.
“No, I think you’re just smart enough to get in your own way,” he snapped. He reached into one his front pants pockets. “You have a 45-caliber pistol in your belt and probably another one in your purse or on your ankle. I have a pocket knife, which you may have.”
He slid a long, thin knife across the roof, and she caught it as it started to fall. She’d seen him cut mangos with this knife and it had a wicked blade. She had no idea what else he might have done with it, but she couldn’t help wondering if this was the knife he’d used to kill Wilmette.
“Please come with me,” Boudreaux said, making an effort to keep his voice even.
Maggie stared at him a moment, and he slapped the roof again, though not as hard as before.
“Get in the car, dammit.”
Maggie knew who and what he was. She knew what he had done. Yet, she’d never felt afraid in his presence; in fact, she had sometimes been oddly comforted by it. But she’d never seen him display anger before, and she couldn’t help the tingling in her stomach.
She’s always known that he wanted something from her, that he wasn’t just befriending her out of guilt or curiosity. She was also a police officer, and he was a killer who knew she knew that. It would be stupid to get into his car.
She opened the door and got in anyway.
She settled onto the soft beige leather of the passenger seat and shut her door, waited as he slid in and shut his. The car was immaculate, as she would expect. There was just a whisper of Boudreaux’s expensive, understated cologne in the air, and not a gum wrapper or leaf in sight.
As Boudreaux started the car, Maggie put his switchblade in the glove compartment and gently shut the door. When she looked over at him, he was staring at her.
“What?” she asked.
“Your seat belt, please,” he said.
They both buckled up, and Boudreaux pulled smoothly out of the parking lot and headed for the one red light at Hwy 98, which was called Main Street in town.
“Where are we going?” she asked him, as they turned right.
“Just outside Chipley,” he said.
“Chipley!” she said. “That’s an hour away.”
“Yes. Do you need to be somewhere?”
Maggie looked out her window. “Not really,” she said.
They rode in silence for the next several minutes. Maggie glanced over at Boudreaux and thought it almost interesting, the way she was only now seeing this other layer of his, this tightly coiled, carefully controlled danger that everyone else was aware of all along, but which she had never really felt from him, despite the fact that he intimidated her on several levels.
She also noticed that he seemed preoccupied for the first time since they’d started this odd relationship of sorts. One of the most compelling things about Boudreaux was that he had a knack for giving a person his complete and undivided attention, sometimes to the point of discomfort.
But today, he was focused on something either outside the car, or something deep within himself. She wondered if he had a string slowly unraveling, too.
As they drove out of town, Maggie could see the bay through Boudreaux’s window, and she longed to be on it. They passed her parents’ home, and she longed to be there, too. She wondered if Boudreaux would stop the car and let her out if she asked, but she didn’t ask.
They pulled into the BP station just outside town, and up to the pump. Boudreaux got out, slid a credit card into the slot, and then started the pump. Maggie noticed that he got the premium gasoline. He shut his door from the outside and leaned in. “Excuse me for a moment, please,” he said, and she watched him walk into the station.
A large stretch of empty land across the highway obstructed her view of the bay, so Maggie sat and stared at the scrub pines in the lot next to the station. She considered getting out of the car and refusing to go anywhere with Boudreaux, then felt silly for it. She did, in fact, have a large- caliber weapon on her, and she wasn’t doing anything she hadn’t made a conscious decision to do.
Boudreaux appeared at her window, a can of RC in one hand, a 7-Up in the other. “Which would you prefer?”
Maggie reached out and took the RC, and set it on her lap as Boudreaux put the gas pump away. The can of RC made her feel, stupidly, as though David were with her, and it felt silly to be comforted, but she was, all the same. Everything was turning inside out. She was sad and she was scared and Wyatt was angry with her. She swallowed as she thought how much she would like to be out on David’s shrimp boat, discussing it all with him. It would be so easy, as it had always been.
“Thank you,” she said to Boudreaux, as he got back in the car and started the engine.
“You’re welcome,” he said politely.
He put the 7-Up in the cup holder of the console, and Maggie popped her top, closed her eyes as she took a swallow of something as fam
iliar and important to her as coffee. Then she put her can in the console as well.
They didn’t speak again until they were outside town limits.
“Do you mind if I put the windows down?” Boudreaux asked with his usual impeccable manners. “I don’t really care for air conditioning.”
“No,” she said to her window as it slid silently downward.
Thick, soupy air blew into the car as Boudreaux sped along, going just over the speed limit.
He was quiet again, and Maggie let him be. She watched him as he drove with his wrist resting lightly on the steering wheel. The sun glinted on the straight, brown hairs on his knuckles, and the hand looked far more relaxed than the owner. His lips were pressed together, making his slight overbite more pronounced, and Maggie could see his heartbeat in the artery on his neck.
Still, it struck her fresh how attractive he was physically, and how charismatic personally. If he were thirty years younger and there was no Wyatt, she realized that she could probably fall for the man, despite everything she knew, and she was glad that those circumstances didn’t exist. It was bad enough that she was voluntarily riding in a car with a man that she knew had chopped a body into pieces and thrown it into the ocean. It was bad enough that she had liked him, anyway.
“What did you tell Tomlinson?” she asked after a good forty minutes of silence.
“I told him the truth,” Boudreaux said. “But only as much of it as he needed to know.”
He sighed, and looked over at her for the first time since they’d left the gas station. “I don’t buy human beings,” he said.
“Then why were you there?”
“To receive them,” he said.
“I don’t know what that means,” Maggie said.
“They paid for someone to transport them here. I was giving them somewhere to go.”
“Who brought them?”
“I don’t know their names,” he said. “I know the name of their boat, and I gave it to Tomlinson.”