by Stacey Jay
Don’t screw up any more today, Lee, those claws say.
I don’t plan on it. I’m prepared to kick ass, take names, and snap pictures of the kicking and the taking. My uber-megapixel, waterproof camera hangs around my neck. Any pictures I take can be blown up nice and gigantic, perfect for hanging on the evidence-room push board. Hopefully, I’ll come back with a few incriminating footprints and maybe even some Breeze house evidence to keep Stephanie busy and off my back.
Unless you don’t come back at all.
The thought doesn’t scare me. Stupid or not, I don’t think I have anything to fear in the bayou this morning. Even when I steer my bike onto the inlet where skid marks in the mud speak of just how fast I hauled ass out of here last night, I don’t feel the slightest apprehension. All the fairies are tucked away sleeping off their nightly feeding, white and blue herons stalk lazily through the shallows, and the air rings with frog song. The swamp is as peaceful and safe as it will ever be. I feel that truth in my gut.
No … not my gut. It’s more a nervous-system thing. My skin feels different this morning, tingly and hyperaware, sensitive to the slightest vibrations.
Maybe the head injury has reactivated some part of my brain dulled by alcohol and the general blehness of being in my late twenties.
“Or maybe I’m just crazy,” I whisper into Gimpy’s fur as I snag my waders. He makes a sound half-purr, half-growl, but doesn’t swipe at my face. I figure it’s a step in the right direction.
After pulling my hair into a quick braid, I push the bike into the shade, ensuring the Gimp and his cooler won’t get overheated, and head for the water. Amazingly, even the murky depths of the bayou hold no fear for me today. The fact that the sun has broken the horizon and turned the swamp a charming ruddy gold helps, and my waders certainly don’t hurt. A thick layer of rubber between skin and reptile teeth is a good thing.
It makes me wonder how Hitch is doing. I thought about calling the hospital this morning and checking on him—for all of five seconds, before deciding that was just stupid. I don’t want to talk to the FBI right now. Or my ex-boyfriend. Considering Hitch is both, I figured an inquiry about his health could wait.
The wade over to where I was attacked is relatively uneventful. I spot a couple of dead fairies drifting in the reeds near the shore, but nothing truly menacing. Still, I pull my gun from its holster before tromping onto solid ground. Today is about being safe, not sorry, about thinking ahead and cutting trouble off at the pass. Or at least not giving it a head start.
But the narrow clearing is deserted and the energy in the air calm. After a few moments, I feel dumb holding a gun on an innocent circle of trees, so I holster the weapon and turn on my camera.
A closer look at the ground reveals there was definitely someone with me last night. Giant footprints—the tread of the shoe makes me think my attacker was wearing work boots—form a circular pattern around a pair of smaller prints. The man’s feet make my size tens look ridiculously precious. It’s scary to imagine how big the rest of him must be, but also a little exciting.
Surely there can’t be that many bad guys with feet this large. This is going to narrow down the police search, and maybe help confirm the identity of Grace’s abductor. If the prints here match the prints Dom found outside Grace’s window …
I snap a few dozen pictures, wider shots and close-ups of the tread marks, before wandering back to where I left my Breeze head tied up and taking a few more. The prints aren’t as easy to find, but I get a decent shot of what looks like a size six sneaker heading off toward the water. It isn’t the belt or a fingerprint, and I have no way of knowing if the woman made the print before or after I tied her up, but it’s something, some small clue that might lead to a positive ID down the line.
Satisfied with my progress, I turn toward the Breeze camper/houseboat and pull my gun back out, making sure the safety is off. For the first time this morning, a shiver of apprehension does a shimmy down my spine. I still don’t think I’m going to run into anyone, but who knows what I’ll find inside that house? Something disgusting, no doubt. And awful. And filthy to the yarf degree. I don’t imagine Breeze heads—especially Breeze heads who are also venom infected and hot on the trail of batshit crazy—are known for their housekeeping skills.
Visions of rotted food, mounds of fairy poo, and the bloated bodies of rodents dance in my head as I mount the three steps to the rickety screen door and pull it open. It squeals on its hinges, announcing my presence, but I feel obligated to knock. Just to prove that some people still have manners.
“Hello. This is Annabelle Lee, Fairy Containment and Control.” I bang again, long and loud. “I need you to open the door.”
I think about adding that I’m armed and dangerous and that anyone inside should “come out with their hands up,” but decide it’s lame to play cops and robbers at my age. After a few seconds of silence, I also feel too stupid to keep talking to people who aren’t there. I reach for the cheap metal handle and am both pleased and pissed when the aluminum door swings inward.
So much for a good excuse not to check this place out. I flip my glasses on top of my head and squint into the darkness.
Hot air puffs from inside, carrying a pungent mix of bleach, the feared fairy shit, and fried-onion scented sweat that’s dried and re-dried so many times it’s taken on a musky, animalistic odor. But still … the stench isn’t as bad as I feared. There’s nothing dead in here—I would know if bodies large or small had been baking inside this thing—and the cramped room is actually in fairly orderly condition. For a drug den.
Filmy black curtains hang on the windows above a sagging black pleather couch, and a black shag rug—now matted with grass and mud, but obviously once intended as a decorative statement—lies heavy on the floor. The tiny aluminum sink and cracked counter-top to my left are painted red, and the red folding table across the room is covered with Breeze-making equipment—glasses, burners, beakers, and piles of ash-gray shit left to dry on foil. A larger pile of fresh poo awaits treatment in the corner in a red trashcan.
Red and black. It’s a theme. How gothic chic of her. Or them …
Next to the door, two jackets hang on bronze hooks. One of them is obviously intended for a small female, but the other is large. Not large enough to cover a giant, but a man’s coat. I snap a few pictures, then, being careful to breathe through my mouth, step inside.
My gun leads the way, sweeping back and forth only once before I feel safe tucking it in its holster. There’s no place for a bad guy to hide. Even the bathroom, a cramped affair with a toilet and a shower so small I doubt a grown man could fit inside, is visible from the main room.
I snap wide shots and then move in for close-ups of just about everything: the chipped coffee cups and glasses in the sink, the box of Nilla wafers and the wide variety of Cup O’Soup boxes on the counter, the red pillows on the couch, and all the drug paraphernalia from the smallest dish to the biggest bottle of bleach. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I suspect more is more where Stephanie and evidence are concerned. She seems like the anal-compulsive type.
I’m moving into the bathroom, intending to get a shot of the toilet for the sake of thoroughness, when I see it—the litter box.
A cat. This woman had a cat, one she cared for quite a bit, if the snazzy black ceramic litter box with the words “Satan’s Helper” scrawled in red paint pen along one side are any indication. It’s very craftsy, and makes me sad to think about Skanky being dead or on her way to a containment camp. Crazy, drug-peddling, head-bashing bitch or not, she went to the trouble to paint-pen her cat’s litter box. It’s sort of … sweet.
God, what’s wrong with me? I’m becoming a cat lady. For real. Might as well paper my bedroom with kitten posters and buy a calendar. Or a mug with a kitten dangling from a tree with “Hang in there, it’s almost Friday!” in pink bubble letters underneath. Or maybe a flask is a better idea …
For the first time since last night, a nip
or three doesn’t sound bad. Encouraging. Hopefully that means my head is healing and I’ll soon be back to normal. Or close to normal, newfound soft spot for furry things aside.
Hmmm … furry things.
I turn back to the main room, crossing to the couch, eyeballing the red pillows. There, a medley of black and white hairs cover the fabric, just as they coated my tank top yesterday after I plucked Gimpy from the shuttle. There are no pictures or other hard evidence, but I’m willing to bet my next paycheck that my Gimpy is also the Breeze head’s Satan’s Helper.
As much as I hate to admit it, Skanky picked the better name.
“Well, he’s Gimpy now,” I mutter, feeling strangely territorial. Maybe it’s the way Gimpy nuzzled my hand for a split second this morning after I refilled his cooler with fresh ice and a few cans of Coke. Or maybe it’s just that I need something safe to love.
I swipe my hand across my forehead, determined to get out of here before the morning gets any hotter. Thankfully, my nose went numb after the initial stink-invasion, but the fairy shit in that trashcan isn’t getting any fresher. I shove my hands into my waders and dig out a pair of plastic gloves and a few Ziploc bags from my jeans pockets.
Perfectly prepared. It feels good.
I pull on my gloves and head for the cabinets above the sink and the surrounding drawers. If there’s a paper trail connecting this Breeze house to others in the area, I assume I’ll find it in there somewhere. There isn’t any other place for it to hide. Aside from the couch, the Breeze-making setup, and a few laundry bins full of clothes stacked near the bathroom, the place is pretty spare.
I glance into the cabinets—empty but for cans of cat food and some cereal that rodents have already infested—then move on to the drawers. I tug open one after another, snapping pictures of their contents, but not bothering to shove anything into my baggies. Utensils, a collection of needles I’m not going to touch with a ten-foot pole, and a charger cord for a cell phone. There’s nothing that gives me any clue who ran this house or whether they’re connected to a larger operation. It’s as if someone’s been here before me to clear away the evidence.
But if that’s true, why didn’t that someone take the Breeze-making equipment or the fairy shit? Or at least the Breeze that’s already prepped and ready to sell?
Wait a second …
Ready-to-go Breeze would probably be in cold storage. It doesn’t have to be refrigerated, but it stays potent longer if it doesn’t get too hot.
I slam the final drawer closed and step back, scanning the tiny kitchen. There it is, a brighter square on the once-cream linoleum. It isn’t big enough for a full-sized fridge, more likely one of the mini numbers, but I still can’t imagine my scrawny Breeze head carrying it away. Even pumped on a toxic high, she wouldn’t get far with something so heavy. It must have been someone else. Her partner, maybe? Or … or … maybe …
Where is it? Tell me, where did you hide it? The invisible man’s words drift through my head.
What would a man wandering around near a Breeze house be looking for that would get him het up enough to start bashing heads? A few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of Breeze—roughly the amount that would fit in a fully stocked mini-fridge—would probably do it.
My gut, the one that assured me I’d be safe out here today, cramps in silent confirmation. Fabulous. My invisible man could be a Breeze head dealer as well as a kidnapper. I won’t know the latter until Dom takes a look at my pictures and compares the footprints to the ones he found under Grace’s window, but selling drugs and ransoming rich little girls don’t seem like contradictory career paths. Maybe he didn’t intend to kill Grace, maybe something had gone wrong, maybe—
The rumble of an approaching engine cuts through the stale air inside the camper, making me reach for my gun. I hurry to the door, sticking my head out into the increasingly muggy morning only to curse and pull back inside. The sunlight is still killing me. I flick my glasses over my eyes as I hustle down the steps and through the clearing, but the light still makes me squint, which means my pupils are probably still as big as saucers. I’ll have to get Connie to run that MRI we skipped if things don’t improve by this afternoon.
Or if I’m not killed by Breeze heads looking for their stash.
I can’t see what’s coming down the road just yet, but by the sound of the engine, it’s big. Bigger than a police car or a pickup, but not as big as a shuttle bus. Which makes sense. The shuttles don’t come this way. Nothing does. That’s why the camper went undiscovered for so long. A body could go undiscovered just as easily, assuming you’re careful where you pitch it.
So why was Grace’s body laid out in plain sight, so close to the Beauchamp mansion? Where the patrol would be sure to see it from the fence?
Excellent question, brain. One I’ll have to think on if I get out of here alive.
Sixteen
Death isn’t in my future. At least not immediate death of the murdered-by-Breeze-heads-and-tossed-into-the-water-for-the-alligators-to-munch variety.
Even from my hiding place—crouched in the long grass across the water—I recognize the iron-sided van pulling into the inlet. It’s the Beauchamp family van, the one Barbara Beauchamp probably used to drive into Baton Rouge yesterday for whatever urgent errand pressed her into the city on the day her daughter’s body was discovered.
Today, however, there’s someone else at the wheel, an obviously distraught Libby Beauchamp, Grace’s much older sister. Even before she twists the key in the ignition, shutting down the roar of the van, I swear I can hear her sobbing.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she had the window down on the passenger’s side, but there’s no way she’d be that stupid. The fairies are drowsy and sluggish this time of day, but if they smell fresh blood they’ll come swarming from whatever mud hole or hollow tree they’ve shacked up in. Rolling down the windows during a drive outside the iron gates is suicide.
But then … people have done crazier things after the death of someone they love.
There were times, after Caroline died, when I contemplated sneaking down to my parents’ garage and turning on all four cars, crawling into the tarp-covered boat in the corner, and taking a very long, very permanent nap. There were times when I think my parents would have preferred that I sentence myself to the ultimate punishment for the crime of getting my beautiful big sister killed.
Libby and Grace were adopted sisters, but did that really make a difference? From the grief in Libby’s sobs, I’m guessing it didn’t. Losing a sister is still losing a sister, and losing a sister to murder when she’s still so young and innocent and full of possibilities …
Well, I know how that feels. I also know there’s nothing I can do for Libby.
I move into the water with a deliberate splash, and begin the journey back across the bayou to the inlet. Libby must not have noticed my bike parked in the shade, but I’ll make sure she knows I’m coming.
In my peripheral vision, I see her pale blond head snap up, scanning the water. I can feel the second I’m spotted, prickles along my skin that make me want to cringe. Her last sob is swallowed by the sticky air. An uncomfortable silence, broken only by the water sloshing against my waders, follows me onto the shore. I wait until I step out of my rubber pants and shake off the water before lifting eyes to the van.
I intend to give a wave, dash to my bike, and be on my way. I don’t anticipate that Libby will look so happy to see me. We’ve run into each other at Grapevine—the nicest restaurant in town, with the wine list Fernando adores—but we’ve never been officially introduced. Aside from a friendly smile or two, we’ve never exchanged pleasantries or names or anything that should make her feel obligated to wave me over.
But that clearly doesn’t matter. Libby seems eager to make contact. Her slender fingers flutter a few seconds too long, and a shaky smile twitches at her lips before fading into a look of such longing even I can’t ignore it.
I force a smile, cast a glance a
t where Gimpy lies curled around my cooler—obviously preferring me to his last owner as evidenced by the fact that he’s stayed in my trailer rather than jumped out to roam his old stomping grounds, take that, Skanky—and trudge toward the van. No matter how much I want to run for it, I can’t. The part of me that knows what it’s like to lose a sister demands more human decency than that, and the amateur sleuth in me wonders …
Why did Libby drive out to the middle of nowhere to cry? Surely, that giant mansion has a place where she could grieve in private. But instead, she’s driven out here, into fairy country, risking madness or death if one of the Fey gets ballsy enough to push through the ventilation system into her van. She must need to get away from her house pretty badly. Benny’s warning that Cane should take a close look at everyone in the Beauchamp house swirls through my head, finishing the job of making me very curious.
Like that cat. The one that died.
I push aside the dramatic thought, do a quick check to make sure nothing winged and Fey is hovering nearby, and hurry into the van, slamming the heavy door closed behind me. Curiosity might kill me someday, but it won’t come stabbing in the form of Libby Beauchamp. The girl is the definition of non-threatening.
I know she’s in her early twenties, but with her white-blond hair swept into a ponytail and makeup-free face, she looks about fifteen. The steering wheel she clutches in her hands is bigger around than her wrist and I’m guessing the blue silk sundress she wears is a size zero.
Or maybe a double zero. Such things exist at the types of places her family shops.
“Hi.” I can’t think of anything better to say. I also can’t bring myself to offer the usual apologies or ask the expected questions about how she’s holding up. Obviously she isn’t holding up, and me being sorry won’t make her feel better.
