The Baddest Ass (Billy Lafitte #3) (8 page)

"I'm not going to be spoken to like this."

"Maybe if you'd listen once in a while."

"This was a mistake. I shouldn't have." She stands, but can't put down the phone yet. "I came all this way."

"You could have told me about Ginny when you called."

"All this way, hoping you would do the right thing just once. Just
once
." Her voice grows louder. She's shaking.

"I thought Jesus told you to come. Was he wrong? Did he fuck up?"

She sucks in a lungful. Then, "It's not even a single demon in there, is it? It's a whole legion. That's who you are. I bet there's not one shred of Billy Lafitte left."

"Shit, you're gonna start speaking in tongues now, aren't you?"

She sets the phone on the desk so Billy can still hear and pulls Ham from behind her. Hands on his shoulders, turns him towards his father, still sitting there with the handset pressed to his ear. "Wave good-bye to your Father. I don't think we'll need to see him after this."

"I don't want to."

"It's not for you. It's for him. Wave to the man and we'll leave."

"Can I talk to him again?"

"No, sweetie. He was very disrespectful."

"Will he ever come home?"

"This is his home and he can never leave. And he will never again say hateful things to you or your mother. This is what the Devil can do to you."

Billy grows redder by the second. He finally coughs and says, loud enough to be heard even with the phone far away, "I'd bet on my devil against your Jesus any day, woman."

"Come on, Ham."

Once more from the phone, rattling like a kazoo. "Raise him however you want, but that boy's Lafitte blood. You hear me?" And now the long room echoed. "You fucking hear me?"

They walk towards the guard standing at the door. Small quick steps, the pink coat dragging the ground under one arm while she holds onto Ham with the other. He's about to open the door when all the lights go out.

Just like that. It's all dark.

And on the other side of the glass, it gets loud.

Ri'Chess is taken away first, leaving Colleen to get dressed, catch her breath. He didn't have the biggest cock, so she doesn't really hurt down there. But the fat fucker had definitely bruised other parts of her. And then the first condom broke and before she even knew or could do anything about it, he'd ripped both off and just gone on all the way. What could she do? By then she was on her knees and not willing to watch over her shoulder. But then he was done and she realized what had happened and
shit
she hasn't been on the pill for so long, no need for it after Nate died and she hadn't been looking for sex in all this time.

Oh god. Oh fuck. This was. It was. Rape. It was rape. She sits with her pants pulled up, knees together. She stares straight ahead. The plastic trashcan beside her, empty when she came in, is now filled to the rim with tissues and toilet paper, trying so hard to clean herself. A scalding shower, still not enough to keep the chills and chattering teeth at bay.

It's not rape. You did this to yourself. You've been so stupid. You had a choice. You should have called his bluff. There's no way…he was just…no, you were in the clear. No one knows, not a one. And still, look at you, scrubbing yourself raw.

There's still steam rising from her hair. The make-up is gone. She pulls her hair tight and wraps the band around it, one two three times. Lips tight. She's not going to cry, fuck it, she's not. Lips tight. Breathe through her nose. Needs to get out and call Rome. It's not fair that he gets to mourn over there in the Minnesota woods, drunk off his ass while this piece of shit negro uses her as a cum dumpster.

She swears she's not racist. It's not that. Of course not.

The voice again, same one that tells her it isn't rape. Sounds an awful lot like Nate: Of course you're a racist. You know good and damned well and don't even try to deny it. This isn't about rape or race. It's about you getting in too deep. Let it go. Lafitte's life is already fucked. It always will be. Killing him just sets him free from Hell.

No, she thinks. Killing him
sends
him to Hell. A real Hell.

Get with it. What happened to you just now? That's Hell. And both you and Billy did it to yourselves.

Shit, why is Nate such an asshole now that he's dead?

Besides, doesn't matter if it was that fat nigger or a spic or a white farm boy redneck, it was still rape.

Except it wasn't and she hates herself for it, especially if it ends up to be for nothing.

On with the bra. The shirt. The jacket. She still feels filthy. Itchy all over, like she is after getting a flu shot. Creepy crawly.

You walk out of here and keep walking and tell Rome the deal's off. You go back to being a cop. You move on.

I watched you
burn the fuck up
. Right in front of me. Lafitte left me there to watch you burn. He didn't even try to help.

He doesn't have an answer for her. He never does.

She walks to the door, bangs on it with the side of her fist. She steps back. Within a few minutes, the same woman guard opens the door, stands aside. "Ready, ma'am?"

In the hall is a same male guard as before. They both know. It's beyond embarrassing.

Then why didn't you shout for help? You could've. You know it.

Almost hisses
Shut up
before remembering they would hear her.

Down the hall. Out the door. Hugging herself. Not a word. Not a thought. Long drive back, maybe, wonders if she can make it the whole way or if she'll need to find a room. An anonymous hotel room. A two, three hour shower or soak. She still smells whatever body wash Ri'Chess had slathered on himself. Gag reflex.

Past the visitor's waiting area, they're about to hit the final stretch to the doors when another guard steps out from around the corner, like he was waiting there for her. Hands behind his back. Slick, preacher-like hair.

"Excuse me, Miss…Hartle, isn't it?"

He shouldn't know that. Colleen's stomach tightens. "Who?"

"Hartle. Colleen Hartle, Minnesota Bureau of Investigations? This is you, right?" He hands over a printout from a printer that looks to be running out of ink. There's her ID photo, right next to a rundown of her personal stats. "I know you're in a hurry, but please, come sit and talk. I think we've got something to discuss."

"Really, she looks like me, but—"

"We know, Agent Hartle. We all do. So let's…" He ticks his head down the hall. "My office? I've got a nice little space heater in there. And the coffee's better than you think. One of those one-cup-at-a-time machines I brought in."

He starts walking without waiting. The guards behind Colleen don't do anything. No helpful guiding by the elbow. Why not just arrest her? Can she leave if she wants? But the same as Ri'Chess, they're counting on her being more afraid of the fallout back in the real world than of what they have to tell her now.

Small steps, but she takes them. She hears the jingling of keys as the guards follow her, keeping a respectful distance. At least she's not so cold anymore.

*

It doesn't feel like a real office. More like they mocked it up especially for her. Simple card table and a folding chair, an area rug too long for the room, so the ends lap onto the walls. The other chair in the room is on wheels, an office chair you would buy at Staples, on a flattened cardboard box so it could roll, barely. The space heater tower sits in the corner. Glowing, doing a good job. Colleen starts to sweat. Some plastic storage containers hold up the coffee machine in the corner. The new, more senior guard is holding out a couple of pods.

"This one's normal, but we've got cinnamon roll, too."

"I'm fine."

"Really, I insist."

She doesn't drink coffee. Hates it. "Cinnamon roll sounds good."

The guard—name on his shirt says "Garner"—fusses with the machine and sets a throwaway cup under the dripper. The machine whirrs and spits out a stream just like that. The room smells like cinnamon and it itches Colleen's nose. She sits on the folding chair, hands in her lap. She doesn't even have a proper ID on her. They could lose her in the system here if they wanted. Or keep her toasty with fresh cups of coffee until the Feds showed up to arrest her, take her away, all of this—lying, setting up a hit, getting
raped
, yes, that's what it was, stealing an identity—for nothing. Would she roll on Rome? You bet she would. As soon as they slap the cuffs on her, she would sing all the way back to the Cities.

Garner sets the cup in front of her. She mumbles thanks and takes a sip. Just like she remembers—crap. Garner sits across from her, his chair at an angle so he can cross his legs and twist left and right in his fancy-assed chair. Distance. Yes. That's a good one. Not her style for interrogation, but she gets it. He's tall and in charge with an arm braced on the tabletop by the heel of his palm, tapping fingers.

"So, I take it things aren't quite going the way you expected them to."

"I still don't know what you're talking about."

"I feel it's my fault, a little. I should've gotten to you before we let you see our boy Ricardo. But we had to be sure."

"Sure of…what, exactly? I need to make a couple of calls, so if, you know, I could get. A.
Phone
, maybe?"

He laughs, low and short, and shakes his head. "Hey, we're just talking here. I didn't say anything about an arrest or whatever."

"Well, now you have."

Tap tap tap. "That's good. You're sharp. Again, I apologize for…I'm assuming you didn't want to go through with it, right? It was just a way to cover up your real business with Ricardo?"

Colleen squeezes her hands tightly, imagining her pistol in them. About the only time she's seriously considered turning it on herself after these past few years. Goddamn. This is worse than actually getting fucked.

She says, "I would like to make those calls now."

A sigh. Just like on TV. The stereotype of every evil prison guard in one noise. "I'm going to let you make one call. It's going to be the person you're working with on the outside. Whoever's got the cash, that's who you call. And you will tell him or her that in order to make this happen, we'll need fifty thousand, not seventeen."

Colleen bites clean through the inside of her lip. Won't let him know that, though. She swallows the metallic blood and realizes that Ri'Chess was the exact wrong person to talk to about this thing. He's a bragger. He needs to be in charge. He told the guard about the hit, got them interested, in exchange for something more important than money in here. Shit, what good would money be? Ri'Chess wanted favors. A sit ton of them.

"Don't have it." She shows him her palms, wiggles her fingers. "We have what we have."

"Then get it. Get a loan. Home equity, something like that. Together, you should be able to come up with it. We'll even take the seventeen as a deposit today. Get the money into the right account and you'd even get to see his dead body before you leave. That good enough for you?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Each word flat. "I would like to make my calls now."

He's up and leaning into the table. Grabs her chin between his thumb and two fingers. "You think it's a sting? That's rich. You think so? Did you notice how bare-bones it is around here today? Did you ever think that maybe we're a lot more careful with family visits than this? Some guy's babymomma, not even his wife?"

Colleen tries to pull back, but he's a vice grip. He shakes her head for her.

"No? Really, not so smart. Not at all. Now I see why you needed outside help to get your job. I see why you're barely hanging on by your fingernails."

Through gritted teeth: "Phone. Call."

He lets her go, but then wails off and slaps her, bruising. She loses it and makes a scared little girl yelp that she regrets, oh fuck, can she take that back? She can't, she can't, damn it damn it damn it.

He's still talking. "—dumbest shit I've heard someone try to pull in a long time. That son of a bitch has put a hurting on everyone who's taken a turn at him. Shit, he broke some kid's neck a few days ago. You think we want him? The absolute biggest target in the whole country?"

Play along. "So you're the one that wants to do it? Here? Like no one will have any questions about why all your high-tech cameras show some guards murdering an inmate?"

"Self-defense. Obviously."

"How many are in on it?"

"Enough."

"You think fifty grand is enough to keep one of these rednecks from selling an even bigger story for even more money?"

"Not if it sends them to prison. Listen." He sits down again. "Every person on staff here today knows what's up. It's a skeleton crew. We knew the storm was coming, that's why we arranged your visit for today. The warden is out of state, gone to a conference in Utah. Except for one little hiccup, the whole thing is a greased pig. No one will be able to get a handle on what really happened. I promise you. It's a need to know thing. That money and the fear of being locked in with the same people they guard will shut these guys up."