Dead on the Delta

by Stacey Jay

  “Of course,” I say, the yucky feeling in my stomach fading. He’s here to ask for my help. Doing something illegal. It’s way more flattering than it should be. “Are you going to tell me anything more specific?”

  “A man I worked with was part of the task force that tracked down the locations of the Breeze houses around Donaldsonville.” He runs his hand through his wild hair a second time and swallows. When he speaks again, his voice is hushed. “Two days ago he was murdered.”

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

  “But before he died, he sent me a package.” Hitch stares at my new sod, obviously not wanting to talk about his friend’s death. They must have been close for him to be so upset. “He found something else while he was out in the bayou, something someone didn’t want him talking about.”

  “What was it?”

  “The entrance to a cave,” he says. “And several former FBI employees going into the cave with captives and coming out alone. He took some pictures and did some digging beyond his clearance level in the FBI database, and found out two of the people used to work in chemical weapons development.”

  Wow. “So … he hacked into the FBI’s computer, and—”

  “And fourteen hours later, he was dead.”

  Oh. Shit. “So you’re thinking … ” I let out a long breath. “If it was someone in the FBI, you’re risking a lot more than getting fired, Hitch. If whoever killed your friend finds out you’re looking into this, they could decide you need to die, too.” And anyone who’s helping him would likely share the same fate. Hitch is asking me to risk my life.

  He nods, and gives me a look that says he’ll understand if I have to tell him no.

  “What about Stephanie? Does she—”

  “Stephanie knows I have to do this,” Hitch says, a bite in his tone that assures me Stephanie is a subject he would prefer remained off-limits. Fine with me. It’s easier to pretend she doesn’t exist if I never speak her name. “So … ” He steps closer, nudges my bare foot with the toe of his tennis shoe, an action that sends electricity skittering across my skin. “What do you think?”

  What do I think? I think it sounds like possible suicide. But it also sounds noble and important and Agent of Justice-y. And there’s a chance I can keep Hitch safe. I saved my life and Stephanie’s life, and so far my new “powers” seem to be going strong. I haven’t had the chance to inflate any lungs lately, but I’ve been practicing moving things around the house with my mind. Usually when I’m drunk enough not to be freaked out by seeing the contents of my fruit basket float across the kitchen. I’ve gotten better; able to manipulate matter without getting angry the way I had to at first.

  I haven’t had any contact with Tucker or the Big Man and I’m still not sure what’s happening to me, but I know I can be useful to Hitch. And then there’s the staggering knowledge that he thinks I can be useful, too—or he wouldn’t be here. That feels pretty damned good considering he branded me a Drunk Waste of Brain a month ago.

  Besides, helping Hitch is certainly a better use of my time than sitting around drinking with Fern, worrying about invisible people, and waiting to go back to scooping poop.

  “Absolutely. Sounds like fun,” I say. “When do we start?”

  “You’re sure? You understand that—”

  “I understand.” I meet his tired eyes and nod. “I want to help.”

  The relief and gratitude in his expression light me up from the inside, and I know in that moment that I would risk my life half a dozen times to see that look on his face again. “Good,” he says. “I’ll meet you at Swallows at seven tomorrow morning?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Make it nine.”

  “Eight,” he says with a grin.

  “Nine,” I counter, trying to ignore the vaguely sexual vibe weaving through the air between us.

  “Eight-thirty.”

  “If I’m going to end up in jail or dead, I want a good night’s sleep first,” I say. “Nine. Take it or leave it.”

  “Okay. Nine.” His grin becomes a dimpled smile that makes my foolish heart want to throw itself into the blue sea of his eyes and drown. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow … ” I watch him turn to go, resisting the urge to see if his butt still look as fantastic as it once had in that beat-up pair of jeans. “Hitch?”

  “Hm?” He turns back, an almost shy glance over his shoulder.

  “Thanks for …” Thanks for what? For coming back? For smiling at me? For asking me to risk my life for something important? For trusting me? For maybe, just maybe, considering me a friend? “Thanks for … thinking of me.”

  “I think of you all the time.”

  And then he turns and walks away, strolling slowly from the scene of the crime. It has to be a crime to drop a bomb like that into an interpersonal landscape like ours. What did he even mean by that?

  “Annabelle! Annabelle Lee!”

  I turn, startled by the urgency in Fernando’s tone, hoping he hasn’t seen Hitch. I’m not in the mood for another lecture. “What?”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you have a bike?”

  This was worth screaming my full name? “I’ve always had a bike.”

  “Ha ha. You’re funny. And insane. How did you get it into the kitchen? I was only in the pisser for five minutes.”

  What?

  “And FYI, the cat looks pissed.”

  “The cat always looks pissed.” Gimpy pulled through surgery just fine and is back to his hissing, weird-stuff-eating, blue-cooler-cuddling ways. He’s snuggled up with Old Blue in the kitchen right now, staring at the wallpaper, or the backs of his own eyes, or the fifth dimension, or whatever it is cats see when they stare off into space.

  “More pissed than usual,” Fern says. “And I can’t blame him. There’s no room for a Harley in your kitchen.”

  A what? A … Harley …

  Suddenly, I’m back in the dark at the bottom of the stairs, listening to a promise I don’t want the Big Man to keep. Prove you’re more than one unlucky pichouette, and I’ll buy you a real bike myself.

  As far as I’m concerned, the best thing that could happen to our relationship is for us never to see each other again. I assumed—from the silence the past few weeks—that the Big Man thought the same. But now … Surely, he didn’t. Surely …

  “How did you even fit it through the door?” Fernando asks as I rush by him, heading toward the kitchen. “It doesn’t look like it’s wide enough to—”

  “Shit.” I freeze in the doorway. There, no more than three feet from Gimpy’s bed, filling my tiny kitchen to overflowing, is a big, black and red, shined-until-I-can-see-my-startled-face-in-the-chrome Harley-Davidson motorcyle. With a matching helmet on the seat.

  I shuffle forward, touching it with a finger and drawing back as if it’s burned me. It’s real. It is completely real. And in my kitchen. Where—according to Fernando—it hadn’t been a few minutes ago. I spin in a circle, wondering if he’s close enough to see me, to watch my reaction to his gift.

  “What’s wrong?” Fernando asks, vaguely amused. “You look like you’ve seen the ghost of the man who gave you herpes.”

  “I don’t have herpes.”

  “Amity’s friend, Monique, said you did. She’s been in Swallows talking some serious smack about your ass. You know who else has been in? Barbara Beauchamp, and girl, that woman can tie on the Kendall Jackson Chardonnay like nobody’s—”

  “I have to go to sleep now, Fern.” I turn and shove at Fernando’s chest, urging him back toward the front door. If the Big Man is out there, he’s probably peeking in the back window, the better to see my shock and dismay. I don’t want to risk that he might come in while Fern’s here. I don’t want to lay the burden of the Big Man’s acquaintance—or the danger associated with it—on one of my only remaining friends.

  “You’re kicking me out?” he asks, appalled. “Because I think it’s crazy that you brought your toy into the kitchen?”

  “No, b
ecause I’m tired. Really tired.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “Yes, that too. I have to take a huge dump before I go to sleep, a really huge—”

  “La la la, not listening.” Fernando smashes his hands over his ears and lets me push him the rest of the way to the door. The man has serious problems acknowledging that women do number two, which I find strange considering he doesn’t even like to sleep with women. What the hell does he care what does or doesn’t come out of our anal cavity?

  “See you tomorrow,” I say, forcing a smile.

  “So we’re still on for supper?”

  “Yep. Your place. You cook, I’ll eat.” I open the door and shove him onto the porch where he stops and turns back to me.

  “You’re really kicking me out,” he says, befuddled. “What about my drink? Don’t I even get a red plastic cup for the road?”

  “No. Go. Talk tomorrow, love you, ’bye.”

  “Okay, ’b—” I shut the door gently in his face and make a run for the bathroom. I duck inside, slam the door, and wait the interminable twenty seconds I know it will take Fern to stare inside after me and then finally turn to leave. Then I wait a few seconds more, hoping some trick of magic might cause the motorcycle to disappear before I make it back into the kitchen to investigate.

  But I should know better. Magic is clearly on the side of the invisibles.

  When I creep back into the kitchen, greeted by a low yee-owl from the Gimp, the bike is still exactly where it was before. I stalk around it, staring at all its massive parts, wondering just how in the hell I’m supposed to get it out of my house. The key is in the ignition, but Fernando was right, it doesn’t look like it will fit through the back door. Then I notice the storage compartment on the back. The locked storage compartment, with a row of shiny silver combination lock numbers, the first of which is a perky number 9.

  Unexpectedly, it doesn’t take me long to connect the dots between my present and the letter in my mailbox. I pull the envelope from my pocket and spin the numbers on the dial until they match the numbers on the card. 9. 12. 2. 3. The storage area pops open with a click and I slowly lift the black-leather lid, cautious until I see the cylinders lying all in a row. It’s full of shots. I’m safe.

  Or mostly safe. If you call being in possession of a dozen prepped syringes safe.

  Despite the fact that each one is topped with a red cap, I still have a hard time reaching my hand inside to grab the scrap of paper on top. I can’t help but feel that they’re dangerous, maybe even deadly.

  You’ll need a booster every four weeks. Take the first in three days, and enjoy the ride. Looks like somebody likes you, Red. You’ll find the Big Man’s a good friend if you know how to keep his secrets. Keep your mouth shut with the police and the FBI and you’ll do just fine. If you’re good, I’ll be in touch soon to teach you a few tricks, Tucker.

  Shots. Just like the ones Libby stopped giving Grace. Every four weeks. For how long? And what the hell is in them? Am I poisoning myself if I do, or if I don’t? And what’s the story with Tucker? Is he friend or foe? And is the Big Man a super-duper bad dude I shouldn’t trust, or just your garden-variety drug dealer/vigilante? He killed two people—that I know of—but he also seemed to care about Grace, and I have felt much better since I had my first shot.

  And now he’s given me a Harley. Surely, nothing says “I care” like a shiny motorcycle full of prepped syringes.

  Gimpy growls, making me turn to his side of the kitchen in time to catch a flash of movement. I jerk to the left, wishing I had the gun I locked away in the safe beneath my bed.

  Thankfully, it turns out to be nothing worth shooting over. Just one of the full glasses Fernando left on the kitchen table floating into the air and out the door, accompanied by deep laughter that makes me shiver. Tucker. Who knows how long he’s been there? For a second, I consider calling out to him, demanding he come back and give me answers. But I have a feeling he’s already told me everything he’s going to tell. If he wanted me illuminated, he’d be chatting me up, not stealing a mojito and wandering onto my back porch.

  So instead of calling after him, I focus on my own drink, willing it up into the air, floating it into my waiting hand, showing him I’ve already learned a few tricks of my own.

  “To magic,” I whisper, and lift my glass.