Dead on the Delta (35 page)

“Once she saw us together. Once she knew …”
Libby lets out a shuddering breath that I envy. It’s a miracle I’m still conscious considering the minuscule amount of oxygen my heart and brain are currently receiving. “It changed everything. It wasn’t the same. He was going to leave forever.”

“I saw her that morning, before the police found her.” The Big Man sounds unimpressed. So am I. I’d seen Grace, too. I’d carried her tragic little body out of the bayou. “Animals had chewed her face off. Did you see that, Libby? What our Grace looked like after you threw her away?”

Libby sobs again, a cry that turns into a yelp of pain. “Please, please! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought she was evil! I thought she was possessed!”

“You’re a good liar, Libby. I always liked that about you … before.”

Libby gags and the frantic sound of legs churning against the dirt floor fills the air. “Please! Please!” Her words end in a tangled choke as she begins to suffocate in earnest. It’s time. I’m not going to get a better chance.

I scramble into the light, ignoring the numbness in my hands and the lightness in my head, hustling as quickly as I can to Stephanie’s side. I half fall over Percy’s bulk, but force away the horror of touching a dead woman, and lean over to peer into Stephanie’s face.

She’s alive. I know it immediately, though her eyes are closed and blood covers her chest. Still, she needs medical attention, the sooner the better. She’s losing
a lot of blood and who knows what internal injuries she sustained during her fall down the stairs. I have to get help. I have to save her life, my life, maybe even wretched Libby’s life. I don’t want Libby to die here in the dark; I want her to live to suffer for what she did.

I fumble in Stephanie’s suit jacket pocket, fingers questing for a phone even as I strain to see where her gun fell when she tumbled down the stairs. Nothing.
Nothing!
Her pockets are empty and the gun nowhere to be found. What the hell am I going to do? There’s no way I can make it up the stairs. I’m too dizzy, too—

“My belt,” Stephanie whispers. My eyes fly to her face, relieved to see her conscious. “There’s … another gun … on my belt.”

I reach for her waist, find the pistol at the small of her back, and work at the heavy snap holding it in place with my thick fingers. My heart races and the room spins. It gets harder to keep my eyes open with every passing second, but still I pull and tug until finally,
finally,
the snap gives with a pop.

I cringe—certain the Big Man heard the sound—but after a moment it becomes clear he’s still busy with Libby. She’s weeping hysterically now, babbling about being good or better or best, whatever she thinks it will take to spare her life.

“Tell your brother I said hi. I’m sure he’s warming up the hot tub in hell for ya,” the Big Man says, not a trace of pity in his tone.

“I called … for backup,” Stephanie whispers,
the effort it takes for her to form words obvious. “Please … don’t let him … hurt me.”

Good grief. Isn’t
she
the professional who’s supposed to be protecting my sorry ass? Still, who am I to judge? I’d be peeing myself if I wasn’t fairly certain the Big Man isn’t planning to kill me. He might let me choke to death, but he seems like the type who reserves torture for people who’ve personally offended.

I pat Stephanie’s hand, assuming she can see well enough to know why I won’t be whispering any words of assurance, and turn back to the weapon, making sure it’s ready to fire.

“The baby … I don’t … ” She winces and the softest moan slips from her lips. “Lose … the baby.”

Oh, God. She’s pregnant. With her fiancé’s child. Hitch’s child. The thought would make me physically ill with complicated ex-boyfriend-related emotions at any other time, but we’ve got much bigger things to worry about right now.

A juicy crunch echoes through the room. Libby stops crying, stops breathing, stops … being. I can feel the moment her soul abandons the playing field, leaving me and Stephanie alone in the dark with the Big Man.

The Big Man who knows exactly where we are.

“Annabelle, I’m not real happy right now, as you can probably guess,” he says, footsteps landing heavily on the dirt floor as he crosses the room. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.
You
weren’t supposed to
happen.” He sighs, the effort-filled exhalation of large man who’s exhausted himself with a double murder. “Grace was going to be the last one. She was such a sweet kid, and so … powerful.”

I fist the gun and sit up, positioning myself between Stephanie and the Big Man, fighting to stay conscious. Stephanie said she called for backup, but until it arrives it’s up to me to protect her and the baby.

The baby.
Hitch’s
baby.

Does he know she’s pregnant? Or will he find out after we’re both dead and the autopsies performed? Will he blame me for taking everything he loves away from him? For ruining his life a second time?

“But Grace’s sister didn’t keep up her end of the bargain. She stopped giving Gracie her shots, and the kid started to lose her damned mind. Now she’s dead. It’s time to move on. To adapt. That’s the name of the game around here.” The air stirs, knees crack, and I know he’s squatted down to my level. He’s close. Close enough to touch, close enough to be certain I’ll hit some part of him if I aim the gun hidden in my lap in his direction. “So I’m going to give you a unique opportunity. I know Tucker slipped you a dose without my permission, and I saw the work you did on that lightbulb.”

I flinch as the Big Man’s fingers brush my knee only inches below where Tucker pierced my jeans with his needle. Slowly, carefully, I move my other hand to conceal the gun. Has he seen it? Does he
know? Should I shoot him now, or wait for him to prove that I have no other choice? If I wait, will I get another chance?

“So, there’s no reason a shrimp muffin should be making you look like the goddamned kid from
Mask.
You ever seen that movie? The one with Cher? Damned fine film, and that woman looks
good
on a motorcycle.” He laughs, a genuine chuckle, as if he’s truly put the horror of the last few minutes behind him. That laugh scares me. A lot. Enough to edge the gun ever so slowly in his direction. “You ever ridden a motorcycle, Annabelle? I think you’d look good on a chopper. Get people to take you more seriously than that bicycle of yours.”

The barrel of the gun peeks through my fingers and tilts up, up, toward the sound of his voice, stopping where I guess his torso would be if I could see it. My heart races impossibly faster, until I wonder if it will actually burst from my chest.

“Let me tell you what,” the Big Man says, shifting his weight, making me second-guess my aim and my sweat-slick finger ease off the trigger. “If you get your act together, take care of yourself and your friend over there, and prove you’re more than one unlucky
pichouette,
then I’ll buy you a real bike myself.” His knees crack again as he stands. “How’s that sound?”

It sounds stupid,
really
stupid. The only good news is that it doesn’t seem like he’s going to kill us himself. He’s going to let us take our chances on whether help will arrive in time.

The stairs creak as he climbs toward the light. I let the gun fall back into my lap. There’s no reason to shoot him, not if he isn’t posing a direct threat to my or Stephanie’s safety. It isn’t my job to play judge and jury for what he did to the Beauchamp kids, especially not when I had similar impulses myself. Minus the torture.

“I’ll be locking this door from the inside and arming the plantation security system,” the Big Man says from the top of the stairs. The door swings shut but for a few inches, ensuring it’s too late for me to rethink my decision not to shoot the bastard. “The FBI lady might live long enough for the cavalry to ride in and save the day, but you’re about two minutes from pitching over, Annabelle. Better reach down deep and figure this shit out.”

The door slams, plunging the cellar into complete darkness, leaving me alone with a dying pregnant woman, three dead bodies, and nothing to hold on to except a gun and the age-old question of whether it’s better to die of asphyxiation brought on by anaphylactic shock or a bullet to the brain.

I throw the gun into the dark, knowing it’s better to be unarmed than in possession of such a tempting out. I have to keep fighting, have to “reach down deep and shit myself,” or whatever it is the crazy man told me to do.

“Who … who …” Stephanie sucks in a breath that’s too gurgly for my liking. “I … couldn’t … I couldn’t see … ”

She couldn’t see him, either. So at least I’m not crazy. That’s good to know.

Not just good. Vital. He really is invisible. Grace really did make things move with her mind. And so did you. Pull your head out of your ass and do it again. Before it’s too late.

The inner voice … it might have a point for once in its worthless, self-bashing life. I made that light-bulb move. I shifted matter with my mind. And what is my body if not matter? There’s a chance … if I focus … if I “reach down deep.”

I start with my throat, imagining the walls of tissue receding, the swelling fading away until I can pull in a deep, cleansing breath. I visualize so hard it feels like my skull is turning inside out, but nothing happens. Nothing. Nothing, fucking,
nothing.

And then Stephanie has to go and open her big mouth. “He … still … loves you. He just won’t … admit it. It’s why … I wanted to punish you. For him.”

Hurt and rage spike inside me. How dare she? How dare she think she has any right to “punish me”? How dare she talk about Hitch and me and what either of us might feel, as if it’s her business? How dare she force me to spend my last few minutes of life listening to her clear her fucking conscience?

The anger washes through my cells, honing my energy to a knifepoint. A few seconds later, the pressure on my throat abates enough for me to pull in a breath, a real breath, one that washes through me from head to toe. My brain celebrates the influx of
oxygen by ordering my mouth to tell Stephanie to “shut up.”

Except it comes out more like “shuh uh,” since my tongue still lies thick and useless in my mouth and my lips are puffed to three times their normal size.

Better than five times.

Yes. Yes, it is. At this rate, I might not be checking out today. If I can just stay angry, I might be—

“I requested this … assignment,” she says. “I thought if he saw you … were a failure … I thought … ”

Anger achieved. I visualize my face smoothing, lips shrinking, eyes opening wide, then move on to my hands. I’ll need my fingers in good working condition to slap Stephanie across her stupid face.

Except that I can’t slap her. Because I don’t go around slapping people who haven’t slapped me first, and because she’s pregnant.
Pregnant
. She’s having Hitch’s child and they will be connected forever, no matter what. The thought is so painful it makes me want to scream, summoning a fresh wave of anger and grief, banishing the knots from my stomach and the puff from my cheeks.

“I’m … sorry.” Stephanie moans again, a mewl of pain that makes me hurt for her in spite of my anger. “It was a mistake.”

“Shuh up,” I say again, words clearer this time. “You uh hurt. And bleeding.”

“But I—”

“Shuh up.” I’m pretty sure I’m going to live—at
least until help arrives. It’s time to make sure Stephanie isn’t going to check out before I can use everything she’s told me to blackmail her into writing me a stellar review recommending a full pardon for my mistake out in the swamp.

My hands reach through the darkness, finding the sleeve of her jacket and patting over to the shoulder where I think most of the blood is coming from. The second my fingertips smooth over the entry wound, I know she’s in trouble. I’m willing to bet serious cash the bullet’s gone into the pleural space surrounding her left lung, causing part of it to collapse. A doctor will need to listen with a stethoscope and maybe order an EKG to be sure, but I just …
know
what’s happened. I can almost see it, all the sad pink tissue straining to pull in breath despite the screwed state of the air pressure in her chest.

Pneumothorax doesn’t have to be deadly, but it’s certainly a medical emergency. Depending on the severity of the collapse, she could suffer from hypoxemia—insufficient oxygen in the blood—within a few minutes. And if the oxygen levels get too low …

“Tell him … I love him.” Stephanie sniffs, her voice rich with grief and the knowledge that she might not snap back from this. “Don’t tell him … I knew … about … the baby.”

Well … there’s one question answered. Hitch doesn’t know. And if I don’t do something, he might not know until it’s too late for that baby to be anything but one more thing to cry about.

“I’m not going to tell him. You’re going to tell him.” I place my hand over her chest, send out a quick prayer to that God I’m not sure I believe in, close my eyes, and think. Hard. As hard as I’ve ever thought.

I think about my mother and father and the way they threw me away, even before Caroline’s death. I think about Grace and the adulthood she’ll never have, about Hitch’s brother and what he did when I still had a hint of “young and trusting” left inside me. I think of poor Deedee without a mother, and James and Libby and their arrogant assurance that they were worth more than the rest of us, and innocent Fernando who could have spent his life behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit.

I think and I think and I send all the furies I’ve summoned into Stephanie’s lung, willing it to expand, to recover, to heal.

But even as I do, a part of me can’t stop thinking about dead rabbits. About how much easier it would be to use this rage inside me for something else. Something evil.

Three and a half weeks later …

S
eptember is a sweaty, sticky, summer month in the Deep South. Days creep by, the heat a drug that boils your brain and leaves you too spent to do anything not absolutely necessary to life.