Dead on the Delta (4 page)

This part of the bayou is a perfect place to make Breeze. When this many fairies occupy the same hunting ground, they designate areas for shitting and pissing, usually patches of dry land in the middle of the swamp, high enough out of the water that they won’t be subsumed after a heavy rain and contaminate the area.

Fairies have the sense not to eat their own poo, or
sniff it up their noses, or liquefy it and shoot it into their arms. Many
people,
however, do not. What this says about the chance of humanity outliving the Fey I don’t want to think about.

I also don’t want to think about what Jin-Sang will do to me when he finds out I missed something like this during my initial scout. He’s going to send a report to the regional head at Keesler and I’m going to get reamed. They won’t be happy to hear I screwed the annual report by letting a Breeze house sit for months on land that was cordoned off for research seven years ago.

I’m suddenly possessed with a powerful longing for my iPod. A little “Islands in the Stream” would really cheer me up. Or maybe a stiff drink would be better.

“Or maybe a drink and some music.” I pat the woman on the back before grabbing her under the armpits—ugh, as gross as I feared—and pulling her into a seated position under a nearby tree. She’s still groggy from her time under the water, but if she’s too high or crazy to stay upright and un-drowned until I get back, that’s her problem. At least the fairies seem to be keeping their distance, so she shouldn’t lose any more blood.

Just to be safe, I catch a bit of sweat from my forehead and brush it across her pulse points. That’ll keep the bloodsuckers away and considering the way she smells, a recently bathed person’s sweat is probably a hygiene improvement.

“Don’t touch me … bitch,” she mumbles. “Stupid … bitch.”

“
I’m
rubber and you’re glue,” I whisper.

There’s probably no one in the camper—surely they would have come outside while Skanky and I were thrashing in the water—but I prefer not to take chances. I already have a goose egg on my head, and have reached my scuffle limit for the day. I learned how to fight during my time at Sweet Haven, but only when it’s unavoidable. In an ideal world, I prefer to fight with a smartass comment. Or a thumb war. Thumb wars are a great way to settle conflict.

Of course, I’ve got big thumbs.

I back away from the boat, grab my kit, and hustle to my bike as fast as my waterlogged britches will allow. I’m not doing anything else out here without backup. They can call in the immune chief of police from New Orleans. It’s an hour trip up from the Big Easy, but she’ll hightail it to the next shuttle for a Breeze house. Gathering evidence for a murder is something they’ll pass on to a local immune field agent with a dummy kit and an enforcement order until they find out if the victim is someone worth caring about. But this …

Shutting down the Breeze operations is Governor Schmidt’s pet project. He’s pinning his hopes of reelection on his fairy-drug-fighting image and everyone in New Orleans knows it. Captain Munoz won’t risk letting Schmidt find out she’s passed a Breeze investigation on to a sample-collecting field agent without a lick of crime-fighting training.

I make a solemn vow to continue avoiding the criminal justice seminars Cane tries to drag me to. Untrained = Not responsible. Exactly the way I like it.

“Reeeoow. Owww.” Gimpy the Cat yowls as I toss my kit into the trailer behind my bike, and hisses when my soaking waders follow after.

“Don’t,” I warn, but I don’t try to throw him out.

And—I realize as I climb on my bike and book it back to the gate—I’ve named him. So much for avoiding responsibility.

But really, in the scheme of things, how much trouble can a cat be?

T
hat’s a nasty beast.”
Dicker backs away from my bike and sticks his finger in his mouth, sucking at the place where Gimpy scratched him.

“That’s real sanitary, Dicker.” Dom, Dicker’s partner, a lanky Italian boy who grew up in Donaldsonville, tosses an antibacterial wipe at Dicker’s feet before heading back around the house. He’s a compulsive hand washer, but usually an upbeat guy.

Today his springy step is decidedly unsprung. I’ve never seen him so down. Dom’s the guy who’s always smiling, even when he’s hauling drunks into the tank. But today his duties are a lot more intense than wrestling Shane and Nell away from each other after the newlyweds have a few too many at Swallows. He’s making a third pass of the Camellia Grove grounds, looking for clues to help find the man who killed a little girl.

Meanwhile, Cane’s questioning the Beauchamps inside the house and Dicker is … using his mad
detective skills to think of where the investigation should proceed next? Watching the car? Slouching in the shade doing jack shit?

I’m betting on the last option.

Dicker leaves the wipe on the ground and continues to suck at his wound.

“Dom’s right,” I say. “You shouldn’t stick your finger in your mouth. It’s a good way to get an infection.”

“Spit’s cleaner than cat claws.”

“Really?” Doubtful. The human mouth’s a pretty gross place, but I don’t want to get into it with Dicker. He’d argue with a stump.

I cast another look toward the front door of the Beauchamp home. Still shut tight. I didn’t think questioning the family would take this long. Hmm … could Cane be thinking that the Beauchamps … In cases like this it’s often someone close to the child who—

Nope. Once again, none of my business.

I snag the wipe from the ground and swipe my face. What I really need is a long, hot shower to wash off the swamp nasty, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. I have to get my ass to Baton Rouge before the FCC office closes for the weekend.

“Hell, yes, cats are filthy.” Dicker says. “Where you think cat scratch fever comes from? Damn
cat scratches,
that’s where.” He has the lack of foresight to point at Gimpy a second time, earning himself another swipe—which he narrowly avoids—and a hiss.

In the cat’s defense, I wouldn’t want Dicker’s pudgy sausage fingers anywhere near me, either. He’s a round, cheery-looking guy, but skeevy. Like a perverted, cranky black Santa, complete with chubby cheeks and a graying beard Cane lets him keep against county regulation and common sense. What kind of nut job wants fur on his face during a southern Louisiana summer?

Dicker, apparently.

“Nasty. Little. Bastard.” Dicker shakes his head. “You should get that thing put down.”

“Can’t. He’s not mine. I just can’t get rid of him,” I say. “And I’m not up on cats, but cat scratch fever is caused by bacteria.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“
Bartonella
bacteria, two different strains.” I learned a few things in med school, though I don’t like to admit it. “
Bartonella henselae
and
Bartonella
—”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a smart-ass.”

I grunt in agreement and steal another look at the house. Doesn’t seem like Cane’s coming out anytime soon.
Dammit.
I’ll have to give Dicker my request. Suckity suck. Cane would have kept my mistake quiet, or as quiet as possible considering Captain Munoz is going to be called in. But with Dicker doing the paperwork, Theresa’s visit is ensured to be A Deal. And maybe even A Big Deal.

Unless …

Dom would probably take care of the request for me without a fuss. I could wait for him to come
back from the other side of the house where Grace’s window—the window she was allegedly pulled through the night of her disappearance—is located. Or I could sneak under the crime scene tape and go find him. Cane won’t be happy to know I contaminated the scene with another set of footprints, but I figure I’ve earned the right to contaminate with what I had to do this morning.

“Watch my cat, Dicker.” I head out of the shade and across the wide side lawn.

“I thought it wasn’t—Hey, you can’t go back there,” Dicker calls after me as I duck under the bright yellow tape. “You’re going to piss everyone off.”

I ignore him, but keep to the stone path as I walk around to the back. He doesn’t come after me. A glance over my shoulder reveals he hasn’t even left the shade of the live oak where my bike and the squad car are parked. Real dedicated to the job there, Dicker. I would tattle on him, but who am I to throw stones? I’m the girl who’s over a week late with her field samples and somehow missed a Breeze lab sitting right in the middle of her location, that’s who. Poster girl for Dedication and Excellence I am not.

I spot Dom’s stabby brown hair near the steps leading to the back porch, and hurry over. “Hey, Dom. Can I ask a quick favor?”

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” he says, but he doesn’t sound upset.

Or surprised. He doesn’t even stand up, just stays in a squat, staring at some mud near the side of the
house. It looks like there was a hose leaking there not too long ago. It’s damper than the light rain last night could have managed on its own.

“Yeah, I know, but I didn’t want to ask Dicker. You know how he is.”

“What do you need?”

“I need you to call in Munoz from New Orleans,” I say, relieved now that I’ve confessed. It always feels good to pass the buck. “I found a Breeze house while I was collecting samples today.”

“You’re kidding.” He still doesn’t look at me. Must be something really interesting there in the mud. I inch closer, peering over his shoulder. Are those footprints? They’re enormous.

I look up. Grace’s window is on the first story, about four feet off the ground. If I stand on tiptoe I can peek through the pink curtains, see the unicorn mural on the wall. There’s a blond girl riding one of the unicorns, a big smile on her face. I wonder if the guy who took Grace saw the mural, or if it was too dark. I wonder—

“Nope.” Focus. I have to focus. I don’t want to think about Grace or who killed her. I did my part. I can put it behind me now. “Found a Breeze house and a Breeze head who tried to drown me.”

“What?” Dom finally turns, brown eyes wide. He actually looks concerned. I always thought he was more Cane’s friend than mine, but maybe he really cares. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I shrug, glad the goose egg on the back
of my head is hidden by my hair. I don’t want any pressure to get checked out. Hospitals remind me of other things I’d rather put behind me. “I tied her up with her belt, and propped her up against a tree.”

“You didn’t.”

“Um … I did,” I say, the shock in his voice making me wonder if maybe this is a bigger deal than I’d thought.

“You didn’t.”

“I did. For real.”

“Annabelle.” He blinks four or five times in rapid succession. “You can’t just tie someone up and leave them in the swamp, what the—”

“What else was I supposed to do?” I ask. “She tried to
kill
me, Dom. And she’s already been bitten, so … ”

“Crud. Crud, crud, crud.” Dom doesn’t cuss. He says his mama raised him right. “Crud” is probably the nastiest word I’ve ever heard come out of his mouth. “There’s alligators out there. And crazy people.” He stands with a sigh, hands on his narrow hips. He looks skinnier than usual. With a metabolism like his, even twenty-four hours of increased stress and poor appetite can make a difference. This isn’t a man who should be forced to think about murdered kids.

But then, what sort of man should?

“And snakes and all kinds of … ” He runs a frustrated hand through his spikes, making them prickle. “We could have another dead body on our hands, Annabelle! Crud! Fudgin’ crud.”

Hmmm … fudgin’ crud indeed.

Maybe I should have asked Dicker, after all. At least he wouldn’t have cared that I left a Breeze head to chill out in the bayou for a few hours. Really, she’ll be okay. I didn’t tie her feet, so she’ll be able to run if she sobers up. Not that she should need to run from anything. The fairies have already had their piece of her and most of the other predators don’t come out until after dark.
She’s
probably the most dangerous thing in the swamp at the moment.

Still … Dom’s crudding makes me feel guilty.

“You’re right.” I take a big breath and let it out. “I’ll just … go get her.”

“No, you can’t go get her.” He shakes his head. “You don’t have the training to handle a violent suspect.”

Whew. Thank God. What would I have done if he’d taken me up on my offer? Screamed “prank call” and made a run for it on my bike?

I need to stop saying things I’m not sure I mean.

I wince as a memory flashes through my mind. Me, Cane, and two Big Gulps full of Jack Daniel’s and Vanilla Coke. It was his night off. We’d walked to the town square to see the summer movie in the park and then back to my house. We were drunk by then, and laughing, and he’d felt so good. Too good. The words had been out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. Those three little words that I didn’t really mean, that I hadn’t meant since I was nineteen and Hitch was … everything. And then Cane said them back.

It still makes me queasy. I wonder if he remembers?
He hasn’t said it again, or mentioned the incident, but today, the way he held me afterward felt … different. Safer and more dangerous at the same time.

“So you’ll call Munoz?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’ll call her.” Dom takes another long look at the ground beneath the window. Definitely some footprints in the mud. Huge footprints. If they belong to the guy who took Grace, he wears a size thirteen or fourteen. Maybe even bigger. “Come on, let’s go get the paperwork out of the cruiser. I’ll call while you scribble.”

He heads off across the lawn and I hurry after, forcing my brain not to start running through every man in town with clown feet. Cane will do that. He’s good at investigative work. “Actually, Dom, I was hoping you could do the paperwork for me. I’m already late to turn in my samples and—”

“Sure, no problem. You did your share for us today.” He slows and turns back to me with a pained look on his face. I know what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth. “I’m so sorry you had to do that. I know some things have to be done before we move the body but—”