by Nancy Gideon
“Stop acting like you’re either of those things. You’re a lying crook, just like that bastard Legere. I’m not going to let you screw me over and say thank you. I’m not your cop bitch girlfriend.”
Silence, then a low rumble. “ ’Cuse me? What did you just say to me? Something like, ‘Please kill me now for being stupid enough to let these words come out of my mouth’? I think I’d like an apology. Now.”
“I’m not scared of you, Savoie. This is my place and I can say what I please. If you don’t like it, get the hell out and consider our arrangement ended. And you can expect your cop whore to receive a tape of your ‘getting to know you’ meeting with that sweet little stripper you’ve got on the side.”
Silas heard a deep, amused chuckle. “Send it, Carmen. We’ll watch it together. I think we’d enjoy that.” His chair skidded back and Silas turned to see Savoie rising out of it with a powerful thrust that brought him halfway across Blutafino’s desk with his palms planted flat and their noses inches apart. “Don’t you ever think to blackmail me, or I’ll make gravy from your cowardly marrow and eat you for lunch with a side of red beans and rice. And I don’t make threats.”
Blutafino sat frozen, a trembling mouse beneath the gaping jaws of a lion.
Then Savoie straightened to assume that civil mask once more. “I think we should adjourn this meeting until cooler heads prevail. We’ll speak again, Carmen. And I’ll want that apology.”
As Savoie crossed to the door with an arrogant strut, Silas set Blutafino’s martini on the desk, noting the deep grooves Savoie had torn into the leather desk pad with his nails.
Savoie softly closed the door, and Carmen Blutafino’s glass shattered against it as he screamed, “You son of a bitch! No one talks to me like that. No one! You’re going to regret it with your last breath!”
Jacques LaRoche glanced up from the beer tap into the mirror to see a familiar face behind him. Grinning, he turned. “Charlotte, when did you find time to sit still long enough to get that tan?”
Despite the deeper color of her café au lait skin, Detective Charlotte Caissie looked far from rested. Her eyes were shadowed by sorrow, her brow creased with worry. But her smile for the big bartender was genuine.
“Sun, sand, and sex. Just what the doctor ordered.”
“You’re killing me,” he groaned. “I haven’t had a vacation in . . . ever. Did you bring Savoie back with you, or did you use him up and leave him behind?”
“He’s meeting me here in a while. I was in the mood for something familiar.”
“Like my face?” His grin widened. He liked and admired Savoie’s Upright girlfriend, who joined Jacques in fearlessly protecting their clan leader’s back. She was one of the few humans allowed in his club and, after several rocky, distrustful months, was accepted there. “Get you your usual?”
A husky voice said, “Hello, Lottie. You don’t remember me, do you?”
Cee Cee swiveled on the bar stool toward the new waitress at Cheveux du Chien. Jacques had given her the job after her intercession had stopped a group of Shifters from attacking Charlotte out front.
Charlotte smiled her gratitude. “Of course I do. And thank you again. How’s Jacques treating you?”
“He works me like a dockhand, but I have no complaints.” Then a mysterious smile. “We’ve met before. A long time ago, when we were children.”
Cee Cee studied her closely, then gave a small cry. “Oh my God! Mony? I don’t believe it!” She told Jacques, “We grew up at St. Bart’s together. We haven’t seen each other for, what, fifteen years?”
“So long ago. It’s Nica, now. Mony makes me sound like a tweenager.”
Cee Cee remembered the toughly independent kid with the hard, suspicious eyes. She hadn’t been young or innocent when she’d been brought as an orphan under Father Furness’s sheltering wing. Most of the children were afraid of her glowering stares and moody silences, which only Mary Kate Malone could draw her out of. She’d followed the effervescent Mary Kate around like a stray puppy—and then she’d disappeared, a runaway at twelve.
“You took off without a word to anyone. Why?”
Nica rolled her eyes and gestured to the room of patrons behind her. “Let’s just say I had an identity crisis.”
Cee Cee understood: she’d discovered her Shifter heritage.
“Have you seen Father Furness yet?”
Nica smiled evasively. “I plan to. I have a lot to thank him for. How’s Mary Kate? Married and raising a basketball team of her own?”
“No. I just got back from seeing her. She’s in a rehabilitation facility in California.”
Nica’s eyebrows shot up. “Rehab?”
“Not that kind.” The truth was much more painful. “She was involved in a shooting and a fire. For a while they didn’t think she’d live, or ever wake up.”
Nica’s hand rested gently on her forearm. “Is she better now?”
“Hey,” came a loud shout from a table. “What happened to my drink?”
“I’m giving you time to absorb the gallon you’ve already put away,” Nica called, blowing the customer a kiss to make him grin. Then she looked at Cee Cee. “I’ve got to get back to work. It was nice seeing you.”
“Let’s get together and catch up. Soon, okay?”
Nica nodded and gave her drink orders to Jacques. Yes, soon.
“Mr. Savoie.”
Max paused with a hand atop his big town car, one step from getting inside. He knew who was approaching him before he even turned.
“I don’t think I know you,” he said as he sized up the man from Manny’s office. He was tall, meeting him eye to eye with a direct, steely gaze. He carried himself well, clearly confident and capable of getting things done.
But there was something else, too. When Max first looked around, there was a glint of emotion in the man’s face, like intense light flashing off the barrel of an assassin’s gun before a killing shot. Then it was gone, masked behind a narrow smile.
“I wanted to make myself known to you out of respect for your position in the local clan.” He reached for Max’s hand, bowing over it slightly with stiff formality. “I’m Silas MacCreedy. I’m working undercover with Alain Babineau.”
A detective and a shape-shifter, Max mused. “How long have you been in New Orleans?”
“I transferred in from Baton Rouge to work the Tides that Bind case with Detectives Caissie and Schoenbaum. I wanted to speak to you about a rather delicate situation before you heard the details from Jacques LaRoche.”
Max’s attention sharpened. “Heard what, exactly?”
“About the four Shifters who attacked Detective Caissie.”
Charlotte had said nothing about the confrontation, and finding out about it secondhand did not please him. “Go on.”
“Two of them are dead. LaRoche took care of their bodies so no questions would be asked.”
“And the other two?” he asked, figuring that was where this conversation was going.
“They’re in hiding at my suggestion. They’re working for Blutafino.”
His people aligned with Manny? That couldn’t be good. “Where are they now?”
“They’re in the bayou near Marrero, expecting me to bring them get-out-of-town money. I thought you might like to come along and ask some questions of your own.”
Max knew from harsh experience that being an officer of the law didn’t necessarily mean abiding by it. The vibes he was getting from MacCreedy were all over the place, too subtle to pin down. A fierce rip and ebb was going on under his smooth surface, but Max couldn’t tell which way that current flowed until he waded in.
“Let me make a quick call.”
Max walked to the end of the block and keyed a number into his cell. “What do you know about a Silas MacCreedy?”
“MacCreedy?” Charlotte’s curiosity was audible over the loud background revelry of Cheveux du Chien. “He got temporarily assigned to work that last case with us. He was partnered with Stan
until he was put on disciplinary leave. Good cop: tough, smart, coolheaded.”
“Beyond the badge, is he someone you trust, sha?”
“I haven’t spent much time with him, but yes, I got that impression. What’s this about?”
“He and I are going to do a little sightseeing. I might be late. Wait for me at the house. I have things to discuss with you.”
“What kind of things?” she asked warily.
“That’s what I plan to find out.”
“Max, be careful. I don’t know him well.”
“Noted.” He closed the phone and returned to smile easily at MacCreedy. “We’ll take my car.”
The interior of the plush vehicle was silent as they crossed over the Mississippi River Bridge and headed for LA 45.
Silas stared intently ahead, so aware of Savoie beside him his nerves were jumping. A prime opportunity was slipping by with every mile, but he couldn’t manage interrogative small talk. Usually he had no trouble remaining stoic even under the most trying circumstances, a survival skill he’d cultivated in the dangerous political clime where he’d grown into manhood. To show one’s emotions was to reveal weakness or betray an advantage. That gift of impassiveness that served him well at Blutafino’s gaming table had also kept him and his loved ones alive after the brutal purge.
He caught himself rubbing the scars on his wrist, and stopped before Savoie took notice.
The Terriots had scoffed at rumors of Savoie’s unusual powers of perception, but Silas believed them. He’d found the most bizarre impossibilities, like the superstitions so steeped in their culture, were usually based in fact.
As they left the sprawl of clustered communities behind for long stretches of wilderness, Silas used all his concentration to control his breathing, his heartbeat, even his perspiration, lest Savoie scent something was wrong. If the ruthless clan leader sensed the darkness swirling through his soul at being within reach of the cause of his ruin, Max would act without mercy. As his father had before him.
So Silas quieted his fevered thirst for revenge and played the role of cop and submissive rather than that of avenger, even as it beat savagely in his heart.
Wait. Patience will be rewarded.
By making this offering to Savoie, he hoped to gain a level of trust that would give him access to other key opportunities. And if Nica became too great a danger, having Savoie as an ally wouldn’t be a bad thing. She wasn’t afraid to go boldly after him, but Savoie’s presence might give her pause. He didn’t want to be the one to take her life, and he didn’t want to order it done, either. If an alliance with Savoie could get her to stand down and give him room to finish his business, Silas would make it. He’d see to his family’s future, then satisfy his need for restitution. And maybe both he and Nica would walk out alive.
“Where do your loyalties lie, MacCreedy?”
Savoie’s question startled him. Had the mobster sensed the direction of this thoughts? “What do you mean?”
“Are you a cop or are you of the clans? Which comes first if you have to choose?”
“I enjoy being a detective, but it doesn’t define what I am inside.” He looked over to meet Savoie’s intent stare. “Just like you’re a criminal, but that’s not who you are down deep where it counts.”
A smile quirked Savoie’s lips. “Then we are much the same. On the surface. You’ve taken off your glasses.”
Silas withdrew them from his pocket. “They’re just for appearances.” He put them on. “Clark Kent.” Took them off. “Superman.” At Max’s puzzled frown, he laughed. “Never mind.”
“What’s that mark you bear?”
Silas extended his wrist as if it was no big thing. “It’s a clan tattoo of allegiance from when I was too young to be on my own.”
Max’s thumb traced over the brand, following the scars that resembled the symbol for pi, measuring the pulse beneath it as he asked, “What clan?”
“Terriot. I’m a distant relation. Do you know of them?”
“I’ve heard the name,” he said, giving no indication of what it might mean to him or what he knew about their history with his own family. He released Silas’s wrist and asked bluntly, “Did they send you here to kill me?”
For a moment, Silas didn’t breathe. Nor did he blink at the other’s hard scrutiny. “No,” he answered. “Whatever beef they might have with you isn’t my concern. I look out for my own family. The Terriots have done me no great favors; I don’t owe them anything. My job brought me here.”
“Your job as a cop?”
“To see justice done.”
“And are you good at your job?”
“Yes. Very.”
Savoie gave thatas a low putter as they glided closed-lipped smile again, then told his driver, “Pete, take a right on three-oh-one.”
The swamp tour office was a small Quonset in a yard draped with souvenirs. Silas wondered if his own teeth and claws would be hanging up with those luckless predators’ when this trip was finished.
He asked about a private charter, and the teenage girl selling tickets to a busload of tourists pointed over to a group of boat captains wearing logo T-shirts.
Savoie was standing at the car, stripping out of his suit jacket and tie in the steamy late-afternoon heat, then tossing them and his dress shirt into the backseat before joining MacCreedy. In the snug white A-shirt, he looked lean and powerful, making Silas weigh whether he’d be able to hold his own if things got ugly. If rumors were true, that Savoie had ripped seven Trackers sent down from the North into pieces too small to find, it wasn’t a slam dunk.
Soberly, he approached the captains to ask about a ride to Troy DuPree’s while dangling the alligator tooth he’d been given to earn their cooperation. Captain Ray Bob Pascal, a barrel-chested man with a Cajun accent so thick he could spread it on biscuits, said he’d take them and named an outrageous fee. Savoie stared at the man through impenetrable sunglasses, then silently opened his wallet.
Captain Ray Bob took the high seat in front of the huge caged blades on the flat-bottomed airboat, and Silas and Max settled into two of the six seats in the bow, buckling up and securing noise-canceling headphones. What began as a low putter as they glided away from the dock soon racheted up to a jet engine roar that whined and throbbed through their ear protection. The airboat pounded over Bayou Barataria with a surprising speed until the captain turned off into one of the narrow ribbons threading into the wetlands and swamps. With no breeze or cooling spray, the broiling sun glittered blindingly off the water.
As an asphalt and steel city boy, Silas was used to targeting dangers in dark alleys and empty buildings, not in this muggy backwater jungle. He kept a cautious eye on the shadowed shoreline as they steered in close, searching the exposed roots, low-hanging branches, and the wispy gray beards of moss for signs of anything living.
Savoie eased off his headphones to turn to their captain, who cut the engine down low to hear him.
“Are we almost there?”
“Jus’ round dat bend a piece. Troy gots a little shack back dare on da right.”
“Let me off here.”
Silas glanced at the ominous network of vines and stumps choking the bank and looked at Savoie like he was crazy.
“They’re not expecting you to have company,” Max explained. “Better that you go in alone so we don’t spook them.”
“Knock yourself out.” As long as he didn’t have to get out on anything less solid than a dock, it was okay with MacCreedy.
Max unbuckled his seat belt and moved to the narrow platformed edge on the side of the boat. With a quick leap, he was out and perched upon one of the twisted tree branches. Silas motioned for the captain to continue. He didn’t look back to watch Savoie’s progress because if he went into the water, there was no way in hell Silas was going in after him.
As soon as they rounded the bend, he could see DuPree’s rickety cabin balancing on precariously thin stilts like a water bird. Captain Ray Bob nudged the airboat
up against a long wooden dock that led to the front porch, making it sway. Something large moved out from under its shadow to slip underwater, and Silas’s stomach tightened.
He eased out of the boat onto the warped boards, instructing the captain to return in a half hour. As the boat started away, the dock rocked with its wake. Silas rode out the motion, then worked his way cautiously to the porch. He crossed to the door and was about to knock, when it opened.
And he found himself staring down double barrels.
Six
Get that out of my face,” MacCreedy growled.
The shotgun lowered. “Was beginning to think you weren’t gonna show,” Nash said.
He moved aside so Silas could enter. The rustic shanty contained one all-purpose room. A cracked sink basin, a hot plate, and a refrigerator probably as old as he was, along with a card table and four folding chairs, were on one side. Two army surplus cots, a portable television tuned to a loud game show, and a stack of tattered porn magazines made up the living area. Empty bottles were scattered on every surface. A curtain in the back portioned off the bathroom. The room reeked of sweat, stale beer, pot, and fear.
Willis was lying on a tangled sleeping bag atop one of the army surplus cots, his face fever-flushed, his eyes glazed.
“What’s with him?”
Nash pushed shaky fingers through unkempt hair. “Took one in the shoulder a few weeks back. By the time I dug it out, infection was already spreading. He’s getting better.” There wasn’t much hope in that claim, clearly made for Willis’s benefit. His features tightened. “Upright bitch had silver bullets.”
“I don’t appreciate you calling my girlfriend a bitch,” a deep voice rumbled. “And I really don’t like that you tried to kill her.”
The sight of Max Savoie in the doorway like a dark, avenging spirit made Nash go deathly gray. Uttering a hoarse cry, he fell to his knees.
“We didn’t mean her no harm, Mr. Savoie. Honest. We was just trying to scare her off so she’d stay out of our business.”
“What business is that?”
