But maybe Dom and Jin-Sang are right. Maybe leaving that woman tied up out in the bayou is a more serious offense than I’d thought …
“They didn’t say,” Jin-Sang says, the hint of a smile twitching at his lips. Either he’s really in love with my cat or really enjoying my misery. “They only advised me to make sure my local field agent was available to them.”
Only. Whether he knows it or not, Jin-Sang’s given me an angst-reprieve.
Doesn’t sound like the feds are coming to haul me off to the hoosegow. Sounds like there’s an excellent chance that the FI unit is coming to Donaldsonville for reasons that have nothing to do with me. Or mostly nothing. If they aren’t immune, the FBI will need the local FCC field agent to wade out into the swamp and take pictures of the Breeze house and collect evidence and yada yada yada.
But with Captain Munoz on her way to town, I’ll get a break from that sort of thing. At least for a few days.
“Well then, I guess I’d better get back to town and see if they’re going to need any help.” I pull my cart away from Jin-Sang, interrupting the love fest. Ten minutes ago, I would have given Gimpy to the first interested party, but now I’m feeling strangely territorial. I don’t really want my new pet, but neither do I want my new pet that I don’t want to want a chode like Jin-Sang more than he wants me. I reach into my purse and grab the box of test tubes I fished out of the water. “Do you want these? I know the area’s contaminated as far as habitat research is concerned, but—”
“Of course. I enjoy evidence that you’ve actually tried to do your job.”
“Ha ha,” I say, though I know he’s not joking.
Jin-Sang takes the box, being careful not to make bodily contact, reminding me how filthy I am. Mud lingers beneath my nails, emphasizing the square end of each finger. It would probably be a good idea to run home and snag a shower before I head to Swallows for a beer and something fried. But even as the thought passes through my mind, I know I won’t bother.
Who cares if I’m frizzy and stinky and have obviously skipped my last seven or eight manicures? The only person I bother getting pretty for is going to be busy locking up the Breeze head Munoz brings in and filling out the paperwork to get a collection team from Keesler to come pick her up. Then he’ll have to stay at the police station to welcome the feds arriving on the eight o’clock shuttle.
Cane and his big brother, Abe, are the senior officers at the DPD and will be in charge of making the introductions between the FBI and Captain Munoz. They’ll also have to arrange housing for the feds, get Munoz settled in the visiting police guest quarters, and so on and so forth until God knows when. As long as I turn off my phone, I’ll be able to eat and drink in scruffy peace.
After the day I’ve had, I know I should be upset that the person I’m closest to isn’t going to be around to offer comfort and support. Instead, I’m relieved. I don’t want comfort and support. I just want a beer or four, some buffalo wings with blue cheese dressing, and a few sleeping pills.
Which reminds me …
“I’ll come into the office with you,” I say, stopping Jin-Sang halfway up the stairs. “I need to pick up a bottle of Restalin.”
Jin-Sang sighs and his angry face returns. “Didn’t you pick up two bottles the last time you were here?”
“Um … yeah.” I shrug, making it clear I don’t care if he thinks I take too many sleeping pills. Who doesn’t? Once you’ve been taking them a few years, one Restalin stops working. After that, you either up your dose or spend half the night tripping out with the sweats and shakes and weird half-waking dreams that accompany withdrawal.
According to the FDA, the pills are supposed to be non-addictive, but just about everyone knows better by now. The detox from Restalin is supposed to be miserable. Not that I’d know. I’ve never gone more than a few nights without my pills. Why bother? It’s not like I’m some hippie who wants to cleanse my body of toxins. I like toxins. I figure they’re human preservatives. I’ll probably live to see Cane and the other organic-eating, healthy-living people dead and buried. I’ll be like a cockroach, obnoxious and toxic and indestructible.
“That’s a sixty-day supply.” Jin-Sang frowns. Again.
“Not if you take more than one at a time.” I smile, refusing to let him get a rise out of me.
“You should still have at least thirty pills left, Annabelle. It’s dangerous to chew so many pills.”
“That’s why I don’t chew them. I swallow them.”
“Don’t use words with me,” he says, just begging for me to ask if he prefers elaborate hand gestures. I resist the urge, but just barely. “Come back in two weeks. You can have more then.”
I shake my head, refusing to believe I’ve heard him correctly. “But you can’t do that. Meds are a part of my employment package.” They have been since the early days, when the immune were in charge of cleaning up the dead. It was the only perk to dealing with the horror, one the government hasn’t gotten around to taking away yet. And I want my perk. Now. “Those pills are free for field ops.”
“I’m not asking you to pay me for them. In two weeks, I will give them—”
“I can’t wait two weeks. I need to sleep now. And last time I checked, you weren’t my doctor. Dr. Doughtry told me to take two if I couldn’t sleep.”
“This was during your last physical?”
“Yes. She also told me to take iron supplements and eat more red meat.” I’ve been doing the latter religiously. Nothing like an excuse to have steak twice a week.
“And your last physical was what? Two … nearly three years ago?”
My mouth opens and closes. Surely it hasn’t been that long. Min-Hee’s been after me to get in to see the doctor at one of the monthly well calls, but I kept brushing her off. I have better things to do on Saturdays then get poked and prodded and told I’m not dead yet.
“Dr. Herget is the new physician for Baton Rouge,” Jin-Sang says, all smug and full of his rightness. “He’ll be in tomorrow from noon to six. If you aren’t too busy with the FBI, perhaps you can come talk to him about your drug problem.”
“I don’t have a drug problem, I have a people problem,” I say, angrier than my casual tone suggests. Min-Hee has never questioned me like this. She just lets me into the med room and gives me a paper bag like any reasonable adult who knows to keep her nose out of other people’s habits.
“I apologize, but I’m your supervisor.” He cradles my samples in his hands, as if they’re some kind of treasure instead of a bunch of stinking egg sacs and vials of polluted swamp. “As such, I am entitled to supervise your work and your access to FCC equipment and benefits. You will not be allowed inside the medical cabinet until your file is up to date with a current physical.”
It’s all I can do not to scream. “What happened to two weeks from now? What the fuck is—”
“You will use nice words or this conversation is over.”
“Jin-Sang, please … ” I soften my voice, open my green eyes wide, and think precious, baby-kitten thoughts. “The work’s been hell today. I could really use a little—”
“I understand. But I truly think your work would improve if you were to chew fewer sleeping pills.” Then the bastard has the nerve to smile, like this is some sort of friendly chat, not a power-play smackdown with my sanity on the line. Two more weeks with the kind of non-sleep I’ve had the past few nights will make me crazier than I am already. “Maybe then your eyes will work better when you’re awake.”
Or maybe I’ll come back here and strangle him with his own shoelaces.
“Great idea. I’m sure that will work.” I bare my teeth in an expression more snarl than smile. “Tell Min-Hee I miss her.”
“I will.” He bows slightly, pretending he doesn’t get the message that I can’t wait for him to take his pointy knees and prune face and go back where he came from. “And please give my greetings to the FBI. I’m sure they would appreciate it if you were waiting at the shuttle station when they
arrive.”
“Right. Another great idea. Thanks. See you, Jin.” I turn and clatter off down the street. My cart rattles over humps in the pavement, making Gimpy’s face jiggle and his gurgly purr morph into the more familiar yee-owl. I ignore him and hustle toward the shuttle stop. The wretch is on my shit list for kissing up to Jin-Sang and deserves shaken-cat syndrome.
Meet them at the station, my ass. The last thing I’m going to do is seek out the FBI. I’ll lay low with the usual crowd at Swallows, let Captain Munoz take immune-personnel point, and hope this all blows over in a few days. It is Friday and after five o’clock. Well-paying job or not, the FCC is still just a job, not my life’s calling.
So what is your life’s calling? Professional slacker? Pill-popping loser and future cat lady of America?
My phone screams in my purse, the horror movie shriek I chose for Cane’s ringtone startling me from my unusually self-critical thoughts. I wouldn’t say that I particularly love myself, but I’ve come to a place where I’m content with my choices. I slack at my job, I need help getting to sleep. So what?
At least I took a job with the FCC like a good, community-minded immune member of society. There are other people with my good fortune who use their privileged status in more selfish ways. One man took over hundreds of acres of farmland just south of D’Ville—not to mention a few very expensive historical homes—and declared himself the cotton baron of southern Louisiana.
He, along with the other immune he’s convinced to work for him, makes millions every year, profiting on the fact that there’s no one else left to farm the rich Delta soil. Most immune folks are busy at the camps or collecting samples for scientists or running the river ports, helping keep the trade routes functioning despite the fact that it often seems the rest of the country has declared Mississippi, Louisiana, and parts of Alabama a dead zone.
It’s like the “normal” states are afraid to interact with the infested areas, as if eating Louisiana crawfish or wearing delta cotton will infect them with fairy venom. What they really fear, of course, is that the mutations will find a way to live in other climates and expand their territory.
“Your phone is screaming.” A narrow woman with hot pink hair gelled into a star shape points to my purse as she eases by me on the sidewalk. The sparkles on her cheeks send images of Grace’s glittery pink nails surging to the front of my mind.
There are definitely reasons to feel lousy about myself today.
A girl’s life was stolen, her chance to grow up and be whatever she’d dreamed of being obliterated by a monster who deserves to die in one of Louisiana’s many electric chairs. Professional slacker or not, I should do everything in my power to help catch and destroy that person.
I fish out my phone, but freeze before I hit the green square to accept the call.
This call isn’t about the Beauchamp murder—Cane wouldn’t tell me anything about an ongoing investigation. Once my evidence collections duties are over, I’m as excluded from official police business as the next citizen, at least until they need me for other “immune only” duties. This call is probably about the Breeze house or the Breeze head. Or maybe he’s calling to yell at me for touching Grace’s sleeve or tromping through the Camellia Grove grounds. Or maybe this is personal, a call to ask how I’m holding up, or gently criticize me for making poor choices … again.
Cane cares about me. Eighty percent of the time, he makes me feel like a better person. The other twenty, his sad brown eyes and quiet disapproval make me more miserable than I’ve been in years. Letting Cane down reminds me of all the other people I’ve let down—Mom and Dad and Marcy and my professors and all the others who once believed I could be something wonderful. And Hitch, who loved me for the mess I was. Who was nearly as big a mess, and yet still found a reason to hate me.
No, not found a reason. I gave him a reason. Like I gave everyone a reason. No matter how hard I tried—and I did try—the whole trying thing never worked out. In the long run it’s better for everyone if I don’t try. If I clock in, toe my line, and go home alone. As soon as the investigation’s over, I’ll make sure I go home alone again. I have to end things with Cane, before I hurt him and add another name to the list of people who think I suck donkey balls.
Gimpy yowls and rolls his eyes, flexing a claw at my phone as if he’ll answer the call himself.
“Oh, shut up.” I tap the red rectangle, sending the call to voice mail.
According to my display screen, it’s five after five. Cane knows I turn my phone off at the end of the day. He actually approves of it—though I’m sure he wouldn’t want me telling his big brother, Abe, that he thinks it’s a good idea for the only immune person in Donaldsonville to make herself unavailable after quittin’ time.
But Cane believes it’s good to disconnect, to spend time playing cards and taking walks on the levee instead of watching the mutation update boards on the Internet. He’s an unusual man, and a general class act. How he got mixed up with me, I haven’t a clue, but it’s a mistake I’ll remedy for him soon enough.
The thought threatens to make me sad, but Gimpy banishes my angst with a hiss and a swipe at my face as I pick him up and shove him back into the animal containment unit under the shuttle. There’s no time to comfort him, even if I were in the mood. The shuttle driver fidgets impatiently near the door, as ready for the end of the workday as I am.
I hurry to fold up my grocery cart. “Two seconds,” I say, scanning the tightly packed luggage compartment. Looks like Donaldsonville is going to be tourist-filled this weekend.
Wonder if our visitors know there’s been a murder in town? Probably not. The only news program covering Louisiana comes out of New Orleans and they have bigger, scarier things to report. New Orleans never really recovered after Hurricane Katrina, when the iron gates were ripped from the ground and the fairies turned my hometown into a death zone. The mayor, police, and National Guard barely pulled the Big Easy back from the edge of complete annihilation. It still isn’t safe to go out at night, even in the Bourbon Street area, no matter what the tourism board tells the Mardis Gras revelers every year.
“Here, let me get that.” Nelson, the driver, has worked the route between Donaldsonville and Baton Rouge for as long as I can remember. He knows I fail at spatial relationships. There’s a reason my purse is big enough to fit a lawn gnome and still have space left over.
“Thanks.” I hug my giant purse—the better to conceal the empty can I’ve forgotten to throw in a recycling bin—and head for the door, casting a final glance at the Capitol building before I climb inside.
I don’t know why I turn to look. I’ve seen it a million times before and find it more depressing than inspirational. The upper levels are posh apartments for rich people who moved downtown when the suburbs turned deadly, and most of the bottom level has been bought out by a bank. Only about an eighth of the structure has anything to do with democracy. There’s a tiny courthouse, a tinier meeting room for the shrunken number of state representatives, and a couple dozen cramped offices. The FCC was in one until Min-Hee threw a fit, demanded more room to safely store our samples, and got the office moved into a house down the street.
So why the hell is Barbara Beauchamp hurrying up the white stone steps like a woman on a mission? On any other day, I might assume she has business at the land office or the DMV—she drives a specially designed iron minivan—but today …
What could be so important that she left her family only hours after learning that her youngest daughter is dead?
I step around the corner of the shuttle, watching her newly curled blond hair bounce as she climbs. She clutches her thousand-dollar purse to her side, but I’m sure she isn’t hiding empty cans or bottles. It looks like she’s hiding something, however. The tense line of her spine, her rushed steps, the nervous glances she casts at the men in suits streaming out the front doors, all reek of secrets. Bad secrets.
Whatever Barbara Beauchamp is doing in Baton Rouge today, I have a nast
y feeling it has something to do with her daughter’s murder. It’s hard to believe she’d hurt Grace—she obviously loved the girl—but my gut screams that I should follow her and see what she’s up to. Just in case …
Instead, I turn and board the shuttle, heeding Nelson’s warning that he’s ready to head out. This is none of my business. I’m not a detective; I’m a shit scooper.
And I’m officially off-duty.
Six
Less than an hour later, I ease through the battered red door of the tavern and take a deep, healing breath of central air. Yet another reason—aside from draft beer and food that doesn’t come from a box—that coming to Swallows is so much better than going home. My ancient window unit never cools down the kitchen; it barely makes it comfortable enough to sleep in my bed.
Some nights I still end up dragging my mattress onto the floor in front of the screen door where a hot summer breeze blows from the front porch to the back, proving shotgun houses are both cheap and practical. Sure, someone could theoretically shoot a bullet straight through my living room, bedroom, kitchen, and out into my backyard if all three doors were open, but what are the chances of that happening?
People in this town need me too much to shoot bullets through my house, even if I weren’t a decent neighbor and friend. Which I am. I love this town, these people.
Especially these people. Swallows is filled with several of my favorites. Shane and Nell, sixty-plus each and newly married, snuggle near the end of the gleaming bar nursing a pitcher of Blue Moon. Bryce, Alvin, and Patrick, old friends who make arguing look like more fun than most marriages, dominate a table for six in the dining room, while Fernando and Theresa huddle in the curve of the bar near the entrance, dark heads bent together, in the midst of some serious gossip. As usual.
Fernando turns as the door slams closed behind me, his amber eyes sparkling above his freshly shaped goatee. “Annabelle! You little slut, we were just talking about you.”