Charmed and Dangerous

by Toni McGee Causey

  “Your map is pretty convoluted,” Trevor said, reviewing it as Bobbie Faye climbed into the bateau.

  “Yeah, well, I could draw you one straight to the shack, but you’d have to cross out in the open in a couple of places or go near a few of the spots where I know the Feds have set up surveillance. This way, you can stay hidden. It’ll take you longer, but you’re probably a lot safer.”

  Marcel handed their satchel of stolen guns and supplies over to them. “You’re gonna need this more than me,” he said. “But Bobbie Faye? Please give Alex his stuff back. I dunno what you’ve got, but he sure gets real moody when he thinks about it.”

  “I would imagine a moody gunrunner is a scary thing,” Trevor observed, and Marcel nodded.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Marcel,” Bobbie Faye said, wrapping her fingers around his forearm, surprising him. “If I get all the way to this shack and those kids aren’t there? I’m going to hunt you down.”

  Trevor eyed Marcel. “I’d suggest you move to Texas, but I don’t think it’ll do you any good.”

  Marcel laughed. “It’s not too late to save yourself.”

  “She owes me a truck.”

  “Oh good freaking grief, it’s just—”

  Trevor held up his hand, and she shook her head, annoyed.

  “Right, right, I forgot. It’s never just a truck.”

  “I’m sticking to her ’til I get another one, or die trying.”

  “If you stick around Bobbie Faye too long, the emphasis is gonna be on ‘die trying.’ ”

  She smacked the gunrunner on the arm and he laughed, then gave her a good-bye peck on the cheek, which seemed to entertain the hell out of Trevor when she realized she’d just been slimed by tobacco juice.

  “Dammit, Marcel!”

  He laughed again, and said, “Chère, try not to blow up the swamp.” And then he was off, using a push pole to maneuver his big boat down the fork in the bayou, taking the easy, wider path to the left.

  Trevor sat at the front of the bateau, one hand guiding the trolling motor as he eased them along the narrower passage.

  The sunlight barely washed through the tangle of trees laced above them to reflect off the brackish water, which was nearly hidden beneath a layer of duckweed; when she looked farther downstream, the water seemed to disappear under a layer of green to the point where it looked like mossy-covered land instead of the small bayou that it was. From what little she could see of the sun’s position, they were heading south, deeper into a vast network of bayous and streams and lands still nearly as virgin as they had been when the country was being explored. Bobbie Faye closed her eyes a moment and listened: birds, bullfrogs, crickets, the rare splash of a mullet jumping in the lake nearby. The boat beneath her glided smoothly through the water, rocking slightly, and a tiny breeze brushed against her face. When she opened her eyes, it was as if she’d moved backwards in time, hundreds of years, to some primordial place where people were insignificant.

  How on earth was she supposed to get the tiara to the kidnappers and prevent them from killing Roy or her once they no longer needed either of them? Why on earth did they want her tiara? It was crazy. She wasn’t anyone special. She was just a girl whose nicest home had been a trailer; who didn’t know, sometimes, how she was going to put the next meal on the table. How in the hell was she supposed to win this?

  She shuddered, then hoped Trevor hadn’t seen. When she glanced his direction, he seemed to be studying the map. She hit redial on the cell phone. She had to start somewhere, and step one was to get Stacey out of that school and someplace safe.

  The Mountain escorted Roy to the bathroom, an area defined more by the stains and mold coating the walls than any actual partitions. There was an awful lot of rusty-colored stuff on the floor and splattered on the walls and Roy decided to pretend that it was some new painting technique gone bad.

  “This here’s the john,” The Mountain said, shoving Roy forward. Roy clamped his jaws against the bile rising in his throat; the stench of something rotting assaulted him and his eyes streamed.

  “I figured Vincent woulda had a nice bathroom on account of how his office looks.”

  “He does. It’s on the other side of the building by his office. He don’t let the vics use that one. That’s what this one is for.”

  Roy turned to the urinal, trying to ignore the mammoth psychopath behind him.

  “This one’s the workshop,” The Mountain continued.

  Roy knew he was going to regret asking, but it was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “The workshop?”

  “Yeah, where we get busy with the breaking and the killing. Vincent don’t want none a’ that done in his office much ’cuz of the crap that spatters everywhere.”

  Roy threw up.

  With his hands bound in front and ankles loosely tied—the only way they’d agree to let him out of the chair—he rocked out of balance and then leaned against the urinal and hoped he wasn’t now wearing his own vomit.

  The Mountain, however, didn’t seem to notice. He kept on talking as if everything was business as usual. “Hey, you know stuff, don’tcha?” he asked. “ ’Cuz I was thinking I could get in the Guinness Book of World Records, but Eddie says I can’t. Eddie says I’d just get into trouble instead, but I think Eddie’s kinda jealous.”

  “Uh, world record?” Roy straightened, zipping his jeans, and then hobbled over to the sink. He prayed for water to wash his face.

  “Yeah. For the biggest collection of doorknobs, ever.”

  “Doorknobs?”

  “Yeah! It’s cool, man. Every time I crack somebody, I go back to their house later and take a doorknob. So I can keep them with me. I got, like, the biggest collection. You wouldn’t believe. Go on. Ask me.”

  “How—how many do you have?”

  The Mountain opened the bathroom door to lead Roy back to Vincent’s office.

  “One hundred thirteen. I hate odd numbers, though. An’ thirteen’s really unlucky.” They wove past stacked office cubicles, filthy with dust. “I really need to get another one. But don’t you think I could get into Guinness? I think so.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Roy said, his voice cracking a bit. “I think you have enough right now.”

  “Really? You think so?”

  “Yeah. Maybe you’re right, maybe Eddie’s just jealous. Does Eddie collect anything?”

  “Nah, Eddie ain’t smart enough. He’s studying on bein’ a decorator or somethin’.”

  “Well, see, there you go. I think you ought to call them, see if they’re interested.”

  “But Eddie said I could get into trouble.”

  “For collecting doorknobs? C’mon, he’s just trying to steal your limelight.”

  “Yeah. He’s just trying to steal my limelight.”

  “That’s right. You deserve to be famous. You put all that hard work into it, and I bet you have ’em all labeled and everything.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Oh, anybody can see how smart you are at this. It takes real talent. I think Guinness would be real interested in hearing your story. They might even do some sort of feature on you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You should call ’em. Right away, you know, before someone beats you to it. They never print the second person that comes up with something brilliant, you know.”

  Roy didn’t catch The Mountain’s answer as he pushed open the door to Vincent’s office and ushered Roy inside. Roy shuffled back to his chair on the blue tarp, only just realizing as he passed where Vincent was sitting at his desk that Vincent was on the phone.

  His tone, when he finally did speak, was low and lethal and sent shivers up Roy’s arms.

  “That Professor,” Vincent seethed, obviously unconcerned that Roy was listening, “couldn’t mastermind his way out of an open cardboard box.” Vincent paused for emphasis. “Find out who the double-crossing scum is and bury them.”

  The thin veneer of so
phistication dropped from Vincent for a moment, and the raw, boiling murderous intent evident in his expression made Roy yearn for the warm, fuzzy conversation back in the bathroom.

  Twenty-Three

  We wanted to do a reality-type show, called Surviving Bobbie Faye, but it scared the hell out of the network. They thought we’d be sued for cruel and unusual punishment and we couldn’t find contestants brave enough to shoot a pilot.

  —producer Corey Steven New

  Cam’s state police helicopter flew low over the southern part of Lake Charles; confused and angry fishermen were being corralled up by state police and rangers from Wildlife and Fisheries, as much for their own safety as it was to interview anyone in the area who may have seen Bobbie Faye.

  It bugged him, this “it” thing the FBI were referring to. What the hell was “it?” And was it the same thing as the “piece” they’d also mentioned?

  Benoit radioed in, and Cam keyed the helicopter’s microphone, asking, “Any word on the family’s whereabouts?”

  “We’ve got the sister still in lockdown rehab. The kid was dropped off at school this morning according to witnesses. We can’t get through on the phone to confirm. I’m sending a car over there to check on her. And I haven’t found the brother yet.”

  “Check on Brew’s Bar. Or Joe’s. As a last resort, Podilli’s over on Fifth. Roy’s usually in one of them when he gets off a turnaround, hitting on the women ’til he goes home with one.”

  “Got it.”

  “And see what exactly Bobbie Faye was doing at the bank this morning.”

  “Hang on,” Benoit said, shuffling papers in a file. “I talked to Mosquito—”

  “Melba?”

  “Right. She said something about Bobbie Faye cashing a paycheck and looking at her mamma’s tiara.”

  “The tiara? What’s it doing at the bank?”

  “According to Melba, she hid it there since Lori Ann was selling everything in sight.”

  “She doesn’t usually wear the tiara until the last day of the festival. Did she take it with her?”

  “Lemmee see . . . The tape shows she threw the cash in a plastic bag. The Professor grabbed the bag from her and dumped his own money in there. It doesn’t really look like there’s something else in it. From the angle on her on the tape,” Cam could hear Benoit rewinding it and playing it again, “hell, I can’t see anything in that bag. It looks empty.”

  “Let’s make sure. And how’s the Professor doing?”

  “Freaking out. I got nothing else out of him from interrogation. We let him have the jail cell where he can see the TV news on the sergeant’s desk. I got tired of him asking what was going on two hundred times. Then he saw something, flipped out, and was about to piss himself in the corner of the cell, but he won’t talk. Dellago is still hanging around the station, so I have no clue what’s up.”

  Cam hung up, then stewed. None of it made sense. Of course, Bobbie Faye was involved, so if it had made sense, he would have worried that the end of the world was about to arrive. As it was, he had nothing to go on, except that she was after something that a lot of people wanted. Something people would kill to get.

  How that could tie into her looking at that ratty old tiara, he had no clue. If it even did tie in.

  Bobbie Faye muttered, “Dammit,” as she listened to yet another round of busy signals on the cell. She itched to throw the damned phone into a tree and it took all her newfound maturity to refrain.

  When Trevor raised his eyebrows at her, she explained, “I still can’t get through to Stacey’s school. Nina’s got voice mail on, which means she can’t answer, and Ce Ce’s private line is also busy.”

  “I’m just shocked we’re down to only one swear word instead of ten. You’re losing your touch.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to get letters from all the mama squirrels.”

  She stared at the phone a second, then dialed Roy’s number. She listened to Vincent’s silky answer, braced herself, and said, “I want to know that my brother is all right.”

  “Not until you have the tiara, Bobbie Faye.”

  “I’m close to it. I swear.”

  “ ‘Close’ doesn’t interest me, my dear. Get it, or I’ll be sending you your brother in a baggie.”

  “Don’t you fucking dare. You hurt him, you’ll never see the tiara.”

  Roy screamed in the background. She ground her teeth at Vincent’s smooth chuckle.

  “You’re disappointing me, Bobbie Faye. Roy had such confidence in you. And by the way—don’t threaten me again. Remember, I can pick up your sister whenever I like. It’d be so easy, just waving a vodka martini in her general direction. Of course, your lovely little niece, Stacey, is mine to have. You have no idea how easy it is for me to just, poof, make her disappear.

  “You won’t win. Bring me the tiara. You have one hour to get it and contact me again.”

  He severed the call.

  “One hour?” she squeaked, but the phone was definitely dead. She hugged the phone to her chest, her mind seared blank. This was so far beyond anything she’d faced before. Miles beyond the regular idiots Roy normally crossed. She couldn’t feel, couldn’t process thoughts, until she realized she’d been staring at Trevor’s hands. She caught his expression, something akin to sympathy. Something tender.

  “If you even look like you’re going to give me a hug—”

  “Do I look suicidal to you?”

  That elicited a small smile from her.

  “I’ve got to find someone to go pick up Stacey. Someone who can protect her in case . . . well. In case the kidnappers decide Roy isn’t enough.”

  She redialed Ce Ce’s, only to be met with a busy signal again. Damn it to hell. Hadn’t she told Ce Ce for fucking ever that she needed to add call-waiting?

  There was only one person she could think of who could handle the heat. God help them all.

  When she dialed Cam’s phone, she got the voice mail instead.

  She wasn’t sure when she passed the sign that read, “Hell, Seventh Level, Home of Bobbie Faye Sumrall, but she was going to demand blinky lights and arrows immediately.

  She left Cam an inept message, knowing she should probably tell him more, but the battery beeped incessantly in her ear, and she had to save some battery time to try and reach Ce Ce. She held no illusions that he still cared about her, but maybe, just maybe, he still cared about the kid.

  Ce Ce knew it was bad news as soon as the woman walked in the door and appraised the energy matrix all the customers had formed. It wasn’t just the threadbare navy polyester suit she wore, the too-ruddy complexion, the cast-iron black helmet hair, or the lace-up wedge-soled shoes which set Ce Ce’s intuition tingling. No, it was the battleaxe expression, the snide, bureaucratic assurance that she was going to kick someone’s ass which warned Ce Ce this was going to be bad. Ce Ce pegged the woman as being roughly ten percent Irish, ninety percent sledgehammer.

  “Is there a Ms. Ce Ce Ladeaux here?” the woman asked, spreading her disdain around evenly toward all of the customers still in their matrix.

  “I’m Ce Ce Ladeaux,” Ce Ce said, stepping forward.

  The woman whipped a business card from seemingly thin air and slapped it into Ce Ce’s hand.

  “I’m Mrs. Banyon, from Social Services. Where’s the girl?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Excuse you? Highly unlikely,” Mrs. Banyon snorted, drawing her wide chunky body up, throwing her shoulders back, doing a damned fine imitation of a brick wall. “Not after your stunt today.”

  Ce Ce looked around, confused. “Honey, why would you care if we did an energy matrix? It’s only for positive flow, adjusting the karmic chi—” She stopped when Mrs. Banyon held up her hand.

  “I have no idea what you just said,” Mrs. Banyon snapped. “I’m talking about Stacey Sumrall. I’ve been over to the elementary school and she’s not there. They gave me some insane story about the FBI picking her up, which is completely bogus. Since you’
re listed as the emergency person along with a woman of seriously questionable morals, a Ms. . . .” she referenced a clipboard of notes, “Nina McVey, I can only surmise that you’ve picked up the child and conspired to keep her from me while your employee, Bobbie Faye Sumrall, is on the run from the police.”

  “What do you mean, completely bogus?” Ce Ce asked, unable to breathe properly. Her heart had stopped beating at those words and it had taken a moment to regroup while the Social Services woman was prattling. “The school called me and said the FBI had picked up Stacey.”

  “Ms. Ladeaux, I must warn you, keeping a child away from Social Services is illegal.”

  “Honey, call the FBI, ask them. You’ll see that she’s—”

  “I’ve already called them. They do not have the child. I insist you produce her at once or I’m calling the police!”

  Ce Ce saw the flare in the woman’s nostrils and the fury burning in her eyes and knew, without a doubt, that someone had Stacey, and it wasn’t the FBI. She thought for a moment that her body was caving in on itself, and then absolute dread took over: Bobbie Faye was certainly going to kill someone when she found this out.

  Mrs. Banyon spun slowly. “If you think for one minute, Ms. Ladeaux, that I’m not going to file a report of the utter unsuitability of you as a sitter for this child, you’d better think again. I’ve heard of your Voodoo reputation, though until I came in here, I thought it was surely exaggerated. None of this is good for that child.

  “And yet, as bad as this is, it pales next to the fact that Ms. Sumrall doesn’t even have a home anymore, not to mention is wanted by the police. I’m going to take that child into protective custody for her own safety and good, and if you try to stop me, you’ll be sitting in jail.”

  The oppressive heat in the store gained weight and form, as if a heavy wool blanket had covered the room and blocked out the light. Sweat soaked through Ce Ce’s shirt and she felt an immense desire to lie on the ground.

  Across the room, Monique served the customers water while they waited in their matrix positions, watching the drama unfold. Ce Ce could only think of one thing to do, and she rubbed the back of her neck when she glanced over to Monique, hoping Monique remembered the private signal they’d worked out. Monique nodded and left the room.