Dead on the Delta (10 page)

Hitch is waiting for us outside the door, smoking a clove cigarette. The murky sweet scent curls through the air, teasing at my nose. I want to stick my tongue out and taste it, let it sneak inside me and burn. As powerfully as I hate the stink of tobacco smoke, I just as intensely love the tang of a clove. I would smoke
them myself … if they didn’t remind me so entirely of Hitch.

“We’ve got a car. Are you smoking?” Stephanie asks. “I thought you’d already had one today.” She sounds like his mother, or his girlfriend, or a terrifying mix of both. I watch a hint of irritation flit across Hitch’s face before his lips stretch into his usual, easy smile. He winks at Stephanie, then takes one long, last drag.

“Well, shit.” The smoke spirals from his lips with a sensuality that compels me to watch. “I guess I decided to have two.” He crushes the cigarette out on the brick wall of Swallows and tosses it into the trashcan nearby. “I may even have three.”

Stephanie sighs, but it isn’t an easy sound. “Fine. I don’t think—”

“We should get going,” I say, plowing between them, reaching for the door of Theresa’s Taurus. Cane’s waiting and I can’t take another minute of the Hitch and Stephanie show. They’re tripping me out. It’s too weird to stand next to a man I screwed in ways too filthy and wonderful to be spoken of in broad daylight while he stares into the eyes of another woman and pretends I was never a part of him.

But maybe I wasn’t, maybe—

“I’ll drive.” Hitch plucks the keys from my hand. The place where his skin brushes mine screams in protest, revolting against the sudden sense memory of what it feels like to touch this man. “I’d feel safer, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m an excellent driver.” I stare him down, daring him to contradict me. The intimacy is there again, and for a second I would swear he feels it too, a secret thing that swims between us, electrifying the air.

“You’ve also got an empty container in your purse.”

Without breaking eye contact, I reach into my purse, grab the can, and hurl it toward the trashcan where his cigarette disappeared a moment before. The clatter of the can knocking against the rest of the trash as it lands inside is one of the more satisfying sounds I’ve heard all day. The second Hitch turns over his shoulder to ascertain that I really am
that
awesome, I snatch the keys and slide into the driver’s seat.

Where I intend to stay.

T
urns out driving is just
like riding a bike. Except you get where you’re going faster and there’s less sweating involved. We’re off Railroad Street, through the historical district, and heading down the half-mile stretch of road toward the southwestern edge of the gate in minutes.

“The Beauchamp house is going to be on the left,” Stephanie says over her shoulder to Hitch, who’s thankfully taken the backseat.

I don’t want to sit next to him. Being trapped in a vehicle with his smell—that damned smell that keeps making my body remember things I don’t want to remember—is bad enough.

“We should stop by tomorrow morning,” Hitch says, “and show the parents the pictures.”

They’re stopping by the Beauchamps’? With pictures? Then this visit isn’t solely about the mess I made.

“There aren’t parents. Just a mother, no father,” I
say in my most helpful voice.
See how helpful I can be, FBI? See how easy it would be to just let my mistake slither under the rug and stay there? Forever?
“Barbara Beauchamp adopted Grace when she was a baby. Barbara’s also got two grown children, James and Libby.”

“That’s in the file.” Stephanie doesn’t approve of helpful Annabelle anymore than unhelpful Annabelle. I can practically hear her frown deepen. “Hitch just didn’t have time to look over the Beauchamp case. He was too busy reading up on the protocol for your particular code violation.”

“And collecting all our data on the Breeze houses in the area,” Hitch says, throwing me a bone. Repulsive ex-girlfriend or no, he doesn’t seem as determined to play head games as his partner. “Y’all have quite an epidemic on your hands.”

It’s exactly what I was hoping to hear, but the news that there are other Breeze houses is far from comforting. Sure, it means the FBI has bigger fish to fry than yours truly, but it could take months to dismantle a Breeze network. A series of Fairy Wind–producing houses, all offering each other materials and sanctuary, acts like a toxic underground railroad, ferrying a mind-melting product north to freedom. Freedom to steal the lives of countless people with Breeze’s instantly addictive high.

A part of me protests that I’m the last person who should be preaching against addiction, but alcohol doesn’t make my brain bleed or my teeth fall out.
Alcohol doesn’t make me dangerously violent or supernaturally strong; it doesn’t drive me to steal and kill in the name of my next fix.

And besides, I’m not an addict. I am a
habitual consumer.
There’s a difference.

“So you’re here to dismantle a Breeze network, and slap me on the wrist,” I say, hurrying on before they can confirm or deny that all I’ll be getting is a slap on the wrist. “But what about the murder? You think that’s related to the Breeze houses in some way? Is that why your unit’s involved?”

“Not that we know of,” Hitch says. “We’re looking into the Beauchamp case as a favor for the—”

“Should we share details at this juncture?” Stephanie interrupts, leaning forward to peer at Camellia Grove as we pass by. Darkness has fallen early at the plantation, hastened along by the live oak trees arched protectively over the house, mourners at a funeral that can’t take place until the autopsy is performed.

For the zillionth time today, sadness settles along my skin. No matter how much I believe in Cane and Abe or how much I hate having “Hitchanie” on the case, it’s good to know the FBI is going to be involved. I want Grace’s killer found. Soon.

“Unless you want me to suit up and do all the work myself, then she’ll have to be told what we’re looking for sooner or later. It’s up to you.” Hitch casually defers to his partner’s seniority once again, as if he doesn’t care if she decides to send him into a
potentially life-threatening situation just because she doesn’t want to share information with a slacker FCC agent.

I’m getting ready to tell Stephanie exactly what she can do with her condescending, dangerous attitude—ex or not, there’s no way I’ll allow Hitch to put himself in danger—when she speaks. “No. You’re right. We don’t want to put you at unnecessary risk.” She turns back to me as I pull onto the dirt road leading to the iron fence. “We’re aiding the New Orleans criminal division of the FBI. They couldn’t spare a team, but they think Grace’s murder might be the latest in a string of serial killings. There are four other girls dead. All found in Louisiana, all between the ages of seven and ten with blond hair and blue eyes. They have a few suspects, men with a history of abuse who were in the right place at the right time. We’re hoping the family might remember seeing one of them on the property in the past few weeks.”

“God.” I don’t know what else to say.

“The killer usually leaves a clue at the murder scene as to where he’ll strike next,” Stephanie continues, hand moving to her seat belt buckle even before I pull to a stop next to Cane’s empty police cruiser. “We’re hoping we can find the clue in time to make this murder the last one.”

“There was a snow globe with a plantation inside buried near the body of the last victim,” Hitch says, his voice gentler than it has been.

He knows about my sister. He knows about the
camping trip that ended with me lugging Caroline’s dead body into the backseat of my car while the two boys we’d brought with us ran screaming as the newly mutated fairies tore into them. We’d all thought the highway signs warning us to watch out for killer fairies were a joke. A lot of people had. A lot of people who were now dead.

I swallow and cut the ignition. “So I’ll get to go on a treasure hunt tomorrow. Sounds great.”

Hitch makes an angry sound. “Your sarcasm isn’t appreciated, but your help would be. A girl is dead, and—”

“I wasn’t being sarcastic.” I turn to him, meeting his judgment-filled blue eyes, hurt that he thinks I’d be flippant about something so awful. Seems he has an even lower opinion of me than I assumed. Hitch must have forgotten that there’s a good person buried beneath my bullshit.

Or maybe he never believed I was a good person, maybe he stayed with me for three years for the sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. Not that there was much drug use—aside from beer and the occasional upper to get us through a long night at the hospital—or rock ’n’ roll. Hitch liked to play bluegrass, sing old country songs in a voice that oozed like molasses through the night, filling me with such simple happiness I wasn’t sure my body could contain it. And sometimes it hadn’t: sometimes the joy spilled over in tears, or laughter, or into Hitch’s mouth as I kissed him and kissed him, certain I’d never have to come
up for air, that I could survive on the taste and feel of the man I loved.

I was never happier than when I was with Hitch. I can remember that happiness, even though I cut away a long time ago the part of me that grieved for it. I can understand amputating a poisoned limb, but you shouldn’t forget it had once served you well. It had once held your morning coffee, scratched the places that itched, smoothed softly over where you hurt and left pleasure behind.

But Hitch has forgotten, the disgust on his face proves it.

I drop my eyes to the floor at his feet. “I had to collect the initial samples on Grace this morning and carry her body back to the fence. She didn’t weigh much more than my cat.” I turn and hit the buckle on my seat belt. “Anything that will help you catch the person who killed her
does
sound great. Sincerely.”

Hitch sighs, and for a second I think he might apologize. But he doesn’t. Instead, he pops the top of his briefcase and begins rustling through a pile of neatly organized folders. From what I can see in the rearview, he’s now a color-coding and tab-using kind of guy. This from the man who was officially reprimanded twice during his residency for misplacing paperwork and only believed in folding clothes if there wasn’t a clear piece of furniture left to throw them on.

Maybe this isn’t Hitch at all. Maybe he’s been body-snatched
by aliens, and this anal, dressed-up, cold-eyed version of him is a virus from another planet masquerading as my ex-boyfriend. The thought, though unlikely, makes me feel better.

Leaving alien Hitch in the backseat, I slam out of the car and follow Stephanie to the edge of the fence, scanning the dirt road beyond. The air blushes with sunset glow, and the pink and gold lights of the fairies flash brighter than they did earlier in the day. They’re moving faster, shaking off the sluggishness inspired by the August heat. Watching them dive and dance, pausing to pop a mosquito or tear into a wasp here and there, makes my heart beat faster. Cane is out there, walking among those beautiful predators, risking his life because I couldn’t be bothered to keep my damn phone turned on.

“I’m going over the fence. I’ll walk down to the … ” My words fade when I hear the distant, rhythmic rattle.

“What is it? Do you—”

“Sh! Listen.” The rattle grows louder. I watch the road beyond the fence, gravity easing its death grip on my shoulders when a tall, iron-clad figure trudges around the corner. The suit is ridiculous-looking—the tin man from Oz crossed with a robot from a ’50s horror flick—but I’ve never been so happy to see it whole and intact.

“That’s him!” I’m through the gate without another thought, running down the stretch of road that separates me from Cane. I’ll feel better so much
better when I’m by his side, protecting him with my unappetizing-to-fairies stink.

I don’t slow until I’m a few feet away, close enough to see the suit is indeed hole-free … and the anger in Cane’s dark eyes. Oh. Dear. Even through the plexiglass shield covering his face, I can see that he’s pissed.
Really
pissed. In a way I haven’t seen him since Amity forgot his mother’s birthday last year.

Yes, my six-foot-two, buff, gun-toting lover is a big ol’ mama’s boy, and not the least bit ashamed of it. His mama raised three children on her own and put herself through nursing school while working two jobs to keep her kids in clothes and shoes. She’s a hero to Cane, his first true love … but he stood up to her. For me.

I’d barely poured my sweet tea at my first Cooper supper before Mae was grilling me about my past, my future, my goals, my faith, my family, and dwelling at length on my feelings about children. Did I want them? How many? How soon? Blah, blah, blah, until I was a stuttering mess.

I can understand her eagerness to grow a crop of grandkids—Abe is forty-two and married to his job, Cane’s nearing forty and his ex wasn’t able to have children, and Amity is thirty-five and still busy partying until three in the morning. I can feel Mae’s pain, but I am
so
not the girl she wants me to be. I care about Cane, but I don’t even want to
think
about babies. Ever. I’m with him for the laughs, the companionship,
and the damned fine, totally protected, non-procreative sex.

But try explaining
that
to your man’s mama. It was easier to fake a stomach virus and run for home. Literally
run,
even though I’d been wearing high-heeled sandals. Cane, however, stayed behind and gave Mae a talking to. I know he did. He never told me what went down, but the change in Mae’s behavior made it clear that her son had asked her to back off. He’d done that—gotten tough with his beloved mama—on my behalf. It’s just one of the things that proves he’s a better man than I deserve.

“I’m sorry.” I wrap my hands around his iron-covered arm and fall into step beside him. “I’ll never turn off my phone again. I suck. I know I suck. I’m so sorry. I’d never want you to get hurt,” I say, all my noble, ending-our-relationship intentions vanquished by the relief rushing through my veins. I’m just so glad he’s okay.

More than glad. I’m giddy, dizzy with gratitude. I can’t wait to feel his skin against mine, to have his hands everywhere, to kiss him from the top of his scratchy head to the tip of his moon-shaped toes and show him how truly sorry I am. It might already be too late for a merciful breakup. If his safety is this vital to my existence, I’m probably already in too deep.