Dead on the Delta (17 page)

“You’re going to be fine, Lee-lee. Don’t worry, we’ll get this sorted out.”

“Thanks.” But his words offer little comfort. Cane can’t help me with this. No one can. I’m going to have to go back into the bayou tomorrow and search for something on the man who hit me.

If I can find footprints, I’ll be able to prove there was someone else out there, someone who will divert the sole responsibility for the Breeze head’s fate from my fairy-bite-covered shoulders. Surely, even an invisible man has to leave footprints. He certainly left other physical marks. I touch the lump on my head again, flinching at the size of it.

“Don’t touch it.” Cane stops at the front desk. A pretty, big-eyed, coffee-with-cream-skinned woman I haven’t seen before holds out a clipboard and pencil.

“Just sign here to verify none of your information has changed, Miss Lee, and Benny will bring you right back.” The girl—
Infinity,
if her name tag is to
be believed—passes me the clipboard before darting a swift, admiring look up at Cane. Somebody must have told her my name, but not that I’m intimately attached to the cop who has me by the waist.

I wonder who she thinks I am? A victim of a crime? A suspect?

No, Cane’s too gentle with me. She must think I’m a victim, and that Cane will be finished with me once he makes sure I’m in a nurse’s capable hands. Maybe that’s why she’s so eager with the clipboard; she’s ready to get the Lieutenant alone. A stab of jealousy I have no right to feel makes me glare at her as I sign the form. I just kissed my ex-boyfriend; I have no right to be possessive. But I am.

“Miss Annabelle?” Benny, a forty-something nurse with the most chapped hands I’ve ever seen, appears at the door leading into the exam stations. She comes into Swallows every now and then with her two teenage boys, mostly on nights when the boys are jonesing to watch a basketball game not being aired on network television. She’s very nice, very tolerant, and doesn’t judge people for having a beer or two to unwind at the end of the day.

Hope sparks within me. This emergency room visit might not be a total waste, after all. Benny can probably be convinced to slip me a few Restalin before she hands over my discharge papers. After the day I’ve had, I need to sleep tonight, and that won’t be happening without serious chemical assistance.

I move toward the door, but Cane stops me with a
soft squeeze. “I’ll wait for you, and drive you home. Tuck you in,” he says, in true knight-in-shining-armor fashion.

On impulse, I stand on tiptoe and press a kiss to his cheek. “Thanks. I … I appreciate you.”

He smiles, that smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the edges. “I appreciate you too.” There’s something in his tone, something that speaks of his assurance that I more than
appreciate
him that makes guilt gurgle in my stomach. But then Benny calls for me again, and I go.

I follow her down the narrow white hall, trying not to think about what happened with Hitch. It was a mistake, a weird reaction to stress and a near-death situation. For better or worse, it won’t happen again.

Less than two
hours later, I’m showered, bandaged, dressed in a loaner pair of Benny’s scrubs, and checking my reflection in the full-length mirror nailed to the door of my room. The pants are short—Benny’s closer to five four than five eight—but the pale peach color makes me look healthier than I have all day. My cheeks flush pink beneath my freckles, my burnt nose seems kind of cute, and my frizzy auburn curls are drying in relative ringlet fashion in the cool hospital air.

More importantly, I don’t stink the stink of a thousand stinks. That’s definitely a plus when going out to meet the man in your life.

The door handle twitches. I step away as Benny eases back into the room she commandeered for our
use. It is indeed a quiet night in the ER, with only a handful of patients for an equal number of nurses.

“Here you go.” She hands me a paper to-go sack full of yummy drugs. Yay. “I put in a two-week sample pack of Restalin, but don’t take one tonight. You hear me? Wait until you’re symptom-free for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mentally, I cross my fingers behind my back.

“I put some six-hundred-milligram ibuprofen in there for the pain. Take that, avoid alcohol or anything else that will make you sleepy, and you should be good to go.”

“Thanks, Ben. And thanks for the clothes and tennies.”

She makes a pooh-pooh face that tells me what she thinks of my thanks. “Girl, it’s nothing. I’ve got ten pair of shoes and double that of scrubs. No rush getting those back. I know you’re busy.”

“Thanks.”

“So you really didn’t see who hit you?”

“No, he snuck up behind me. It was already getting dark … ” I let my words trail off. I feel bad for lying, but I can hardly tell the truth.

“Too bad. That’s a nasty bump. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve got a hairline fracture in there somewhere.” Benny already consulted with Dr. Connie, who confirmed what I already knew: there’s nothing to be done for a crack in the skull other than to avoid getting hit again. I can be sent home without an X-ray
or an MRI as long as I only have symptoms of a mild concussion—minor dizziness, blurred vision, etc.

I have none of the above. My dizzy spell’s passed, and I actually feel pretty good. The hot shower worked wonders for my worldview. I can barely feel my bites and bumps. Either that ibuprofen Benny gave me is magic or I’m made of tougher stuff than I thought.

“Seriously,” she says, “the man who did this to you should be locked up.”

“I’m going to work on that tomorrow,” I say, figuring there’s no harm in telling Benny my plan. “I’m thinking I’ll head back to where I was attacked and see if I can find any footprints.”

“Well, be careful. Make one of the tough guys out there suit up and go with you.”

“Will do.” I shift my weight toward the door, but Benny doesn’t move. Instead, she crosses her arms and stares at the ground, lingering a few moments too long. I get a bad feeling in my stomach even before she speaks.

“So … do you know if they found out anything about that Beauchamp girl’s murder? You were the one who found her, right?”

“No, I didn’t find her. The perimeter patrol saw something this morning and called me in to have a look since the body was beyond the gate.” I shrug, not really wanting to get into this, but feeling obligated: Benny
has
slipped me prescription drugs without a prescription. “I don’t know much about the investigation.
Just that the FBI is going to help out with it while they’re here.”

I leave out the part about the suspected serial killer. If that particular piece of gossip gets out, there won’t be much doubt where it came from. I don’t want to be blamed for having loose lips in addition to all my other flaws.

“Hmm. Well, I hope they find whoever did it soon.”

“Yeah, me too.” I would leave it at that, but there’s something in the way she said “whoever” that makes me think she’s got a person in mind. “Did you know Grace?”

“Not really. But I treated her about a year ago.” Benny snags a bottle of lotion off the nearby sink and squeezes some onto her chapped hands. “She was brought in for an overdose.”

“Of what?” I ask, figuring Benny’s already violated nurse-patient confidentiality.

“Xanax. The family said she got hold of her mother’s prescription and it was a big old accident, but I don’t know … ” Her narrow shoulders rise and fall. “Usually, you don’t see children six or seven years old chewing a bunch of nasty-tasting pills. It’s not like they taste like candy.”

“Wow … so you think … ” I don’t even want to speak the words out loud. It’s a big accusation, especially against the Beauchamps. Without their plantation, there’s a good chance D’Ville would have gone the way of so many other small Louisiana towns and died a swift death after the mutations.

“I don’t know what I think,” Benny says. “But Cane should take a damn long look at everyone living in that house. That’s all I’m saying.”

Like Barbara Beauchamp, who was dressed up and running around Baton Rouge hours after her daughter’s body was discovered. The thought makes me sick. I know as well as anyone that mothers aren’t always what we’d have them be, but why would Barbara kill her adopted daughter? She seemed so dedicated to Grace, to all her kids.

“Not that I’m saying anything, you got me?” Benny’s newly moisturized hands rise at her sides in the universal sign of “I had nothing to do with this.”

“Got you.” She wants me to pass on the information without letting anyone know where I got it. I fist my bag o’goodies and reach for the door, making a mental note to tell Cane what I saw in Baton Rouge and relay Benny’s message on the drive back to my house. I’ll wait until we leave the hospital so he’ll be less tempted to come back and start nosing around himself.

“I mean, I know that girl wasn’t right,” Benny says as we emerge into the hall. “But she was just a little girl.”

I slow, waiting until Benny walks beside me. “You mean her heart condition?”

“Well, yes.” Benny shoots me a sideways glance. “And … other stuff.”

“Like what?”

She lowers her voice to a whisper. “For a while, the
Beauchamps had some big-shot child psychologist from New Orleans up here every week. He worked with Grace in the behavioral therapy room. Rumor was she’d scream the entire time, and even bit him once.”

“Really?” That’s … hard to believe. “But she came to Marcy’s when she was a toddler for the drop-in program. Marcy never said anything about her being hard to handle.” But then Marcy is amazing with kids. Even the most messed-up kids get their act together under her care. I’m living proof of that.

Benny shrugs again. “Yeah, well, she seemed like a sweet girl to me, but … whether she was sweet or not … ”

“Right.” Whether she was sweet or not, she didn’t deserve to be murdered.

We walk the rest of the way to the discharge desk in silence. Benny leans over, hollering at Infinity’s back. “You need anything else from Miss Annabelle?”

“No, she’s good. We’ll file with her insurance.” Infinity waves over her shoulder.

Benny motions me back to the door leading into the waiting room.

“Hey,” I say, hoping to get one last piece of info. “Do you know how the FBI agent with the snakebite is doing? Is he going to be okay?”

“He was doing good last I checked. Stable and comfortable, but Connie’s going to keep him overnight for observation. Did you want to stop by his room?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll check in with him tomorrow.” I smile, relieved that Hitch is going to be locked up for the night and there’ll be no risk of seeing him again until I have some much-needed sleep. “I’ll get the scrubs back soon.”

“No worries.” Benny opens the waiting room door, dismissing me with a smile before plucking a chart from the wall and calling the next name.

There are a few people occupying the ugly paisley chairs—a woman with a red-cheeked baby who stands at Benny’s call, a man with a black eye, and an older couple with an oxygen machine shooting judgment-filled looks at the man with the black eye—but it still isn’t crowded. I should be able to spot Cane right away.

But I can’t find him. Not in the chairs, not by the water fountain, not trolling the hall near the snack machines. I spin in a slow circle. He isn’t inside. Maybe he’s gone to supervise the cleanup of the squad car. I walk through the automatic doors, out into the muggy night. Even at nearly eleven, the air is hot and heavy. My ringlets begin to puff and frizz. Not that it matters. There isn’t going to be anyone to admire my pretty hair.

The squad car has disappeared from the front drive, and the parking lot across the street is police vehicle-free. Cane is gone.

I
check my cell for missed
calls. Nothing. Odd.

Cane wouldn’t usually leave without telling me. And even if he’s on an emergency call, he’d find the time to send a text. I try his cell and then his work line at the station. Both calls are sent to voice mail. Weird, and … unsettling.

My house isn’t far, but now that I know I won’t have a ride, those seven blocks seem daunting. I’m tired. Very, very tired, and past ready to pop a couple of Restalin and hit the sack. For a second, I contemplate heading over to fetch my bike, but it doesn’t make sense to walk half a mile in one direction only to turn around and bike a mile back.

With a sigh, I start down Magnolia, sticking to the cracked sidewalk. My borrowed shoes start to pinch almost immediately. Benny’s feet are a couple sizes smaller. Not many women her height wear a size ten, or have long, bony toes that jab at the end of a shoe like they’re trying to start a fight. Ow. I consider taking
the sneakers off, but the street is lined with thick trees that block the glow of the streetlights. With my luck, I’d step in an unseen pile of dog poo in my sock feet. Better pain than poo.

I walk faster, ignoring my squished toes.

The faint throb of the music from Coop’s pulses through the air, audible even from three streets over, an annoying
dum-dum-dum
that overpowers the peaceful chirping of the frogs and crickets. But other than that, the night is oddly quiet. No barking dogs, no beeping horns, not even the soft chatter of neighbors out on the front porch with a glass of sweet tea. Even this late, there are usually people up and about, especially on a Friday night. But maybe news of the murder sent everyone to bed early, even people who normally have trouble—

“Crap.” Marcy. She’s always up late. I was supposed to stop by her place, but in all the excitement of the head-bashing and snake-biting, I’d forgotten.

I pull my cell back out of my purse and mash Marcy’s name. She picks up on the second ring. “You done? Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, I’m done. I guess. And no, I’m not hungry. I’m actually not going to make it over tonight.” Before she can yell at me for “failing to honor my social obligations,” I fill her in on the events of the evening. Most of the events, anyway, minus the invisible man, kissing Hitch, and getting ditched by Cane.