Sure.
“Nope. But I’m stupid enough to try something worse.” Lafitte lifted his helmet as high as his scalp before saying, “Fuck it” and tossing it into Tordsen’s yard. He got the bike going and took off.
EIGHT
“Oo, Oo, there he goes,” Colleen said. She had the binoculars.
“Yeah, I see him. Hold on.” Not that they needed the specs. Nate was right beside her and could see Lafitte’s weird blue bike and the dust trail it kicked up. They were parked on the other side of the river in Colleen’s Corolla, the backseat cluttered with a few shotguns, several pistols, stun guns, and a whole lot of ammo. She’d showed up within five minutes of Nate’s call, ready to go in her skintight jeans and long-sleeved Gretchen Wilson T-shirt, sneakers, hair pulled tight into a braid tucked into her collar. Oh baby. It got Nate heated up, but she brought him back down.
She’d said, “You staying in uniform?”
So he worked on changing out of his uniform in the cramped car, finally into street clothes, barn jacket, and Wolverine boots.
Got his boot tied a few moments after she shouted out. They watched Lafitte’s bike rumble downhill until it took the turn out of sight. They knew he only had one way out.
“So…” Colleen’s hands gripped the wheel at eleven and one. “We take him?”
Nate slipped a mag into his 9mm. “I don’t know. I don’t want to fuck up the FBI job, but…I don’t know.”
“Baby, if you’re the one who catches Billy, they can’t keep you out. You’ll be a hero.”
“We both will.”
She grinned and shrugged, put the car in gear. “I’m in it for the fun.”
Colleen was a tough chick, built like a tank all over, goddamned ass that wouldn’t quit. Nate had fallen hard because they both got jazzed by guns and action flicks, plus she was a farm girl who loved horses. Just what Nate’s mom had hoped he’d find. She decided on being a cop after a couple of guys had attempted to rape her at a party her freshman year of college. She nailed one in the crotch and nearly broke the other’s arm. Never wanted to feel looked at that way again, though.
Nate had never looked at her like that. Nate worshipped her.
“You’re right,” he told her. “Let’s take him.”
She jerked the car into Drive and started to go but then slammed the brakes, slid to a stop.
Nate pushed himself back from the dash, rubbed where his forehead had taken a shot. “Baby?”
Colleen grabbed his shirt and pulled him across the cup-holder and emergency brake for a deep hard kiss, her teeth clacking his, little bites on his lips. Then she let go, hands back at eleven and one.
She said, “This is going to be cool.”
NINE
Desiree leaned straight-armed against the bathroom sink and examined her reflection—flimsy silk wraparound loose at the waist, stark naked beneath, a sheen of sweat glistening, yes, glistening, and that little grin she couldn’t shake. It made her laugh. Then she inhaled deeply and felt the muscles in her legs cramping ever so slightly from what had happened between her and Franklin.
She’d slapped the shit out of him and he wanted more, so she had done it again, and then he went down on her while she barked at him, called him awful, terrible, but true names. After she came hard, Desiree got up and grabbed Franklin by the collar, trailing him behind her to the bedroom, where she shoved him to his knees. He took it, no complaints, kept saying, Whatever my baby wants, and she saw the erection in his pants. Painful, pressing against the zipper. She sat on the edge of the bed, reached her foot over and rubbed the fabric covering his cock. Heavy breathing, moaning, and then she slipped her toes under his balls…and kicked them.
Franklin did her proud. He gritted his teeth and said Whatever my baby wants again. She pulled her foot away and grabbed his balls with one hand, squeezed tight.
“Baby wants you to suffer. Baby wants you to bleed.”
“Whatever my baby wants.” Strained.
Oh god, now that did it for her. She slapped him across the face one last time and then said, “Get your fucking cock out. But keep your clothes on.”
She teased him another twenty minutes, stripping slowly, demanding he not touch his throbbing cock, sometime coming over to him and threatening to claw his eyes if he didn’t watch her dance without music in front of him, touching herself while she weaved and kicked and squatted. And when she was dripping wet, she let her husband fuck her.
The memory sent her giggling again. Desiree couldn’t look at herself, too embarrassed. Retreated to the toilet seat, leaned across to turn the bathwater on. A long hot soak. Time to think. Maybe she had been too rough on him all this time, but she had believed when the time came, she would know when to forgive. Her own mother had told her that if she wasn’t going to leave him—which is exactly what she should have done, Mom thought, after he laid one finger on her, and Desiree had actually been leaning that way most days—she needed to break him into a thousand pieces, absolutely destroy him, then build him back one at the time like a jigsaw puzzle. But no one had told her how much more gratifying it felt to tear him down rather than give him any encouragement or hope or even a clue. Whatever this was tonight, though, she could live with that.
When Franklin had finished and Desiree laid beside him, her head on his chest, she still wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Gave him more grief to drive the point home: “It doesn’t change a thing yet, mister, but it’s sure as hell a sign of hope.” And him: “I deserve everything you can dish out. Don’t back down, please.”
They talked more after that, Franklin opening up about what he was doing to help the FBI with the Lafitte investigation. Desiree had thought he was forbidden to work on the case, but Franklin said the Bureau changed its mind. After all, who knew Lafitte better than Rome, right? She warned him to be careful, knowing what had happened before.
“I’m insulated this time, not out there on the front lines. I won’t even see him. Not even face to face until we’re in court.”
“His wife’s really that gone?”
“I don’t know. Looks more like a show to me.”
Maybe it was meant to seem honest, but Desiree had known him too long. Franklin was holding something back. About his involvement in the case? About the ex-wife?
Frail white single mother? Put a little pressure in the right places…
Desiree wanted to dig, but then his goddamned cell phone rang. Felt to her like it was set to “Hypnotize”. Franklin was out of bed, nearly running to the office to catch it. So she decided to take a bath.
As the tub filled, she poured in some moisturizing lavender-tinged crystals. How far could this go? She would have to do a little internet research. How would Franklin react to a whip? Or maybe she could tie him up. It had never occurred to her before. People who did those sort of things were freaks and sickos. Normal married couples, in spite of ups and downs, still needed tenderness and romance. If that was all true, then why the hell did the idea of Franklin tied wrists and ankles to the bed while she struck him on the thighs and chest with a leather strap make her tingle again? She closed her eyes. Her hand slipped between her legs…
Goddamn it, this wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. Franklin was up to something. She checked the water level, eased the stream off to a trickle, then went to find her husband.
His voice became more clear as she climbed the carpeted stairs to the second floor where Franklin kept his office. “But you cooled him down? I’ll…yeah, I’ll talk to him tomorrow. No, I’m keeping my word to him.”
Desiree crept up the last step, stood outside the door so he couldn’t see her. Sounded like more on Lafitte, though. Routine. Of course.
“Listen, I’ll talk to Mrs. Lafitte again tomorrow. She’s…well, oh yeah, I know. Could if I wanted to. You never can tell if that sort of thing will help the case though. Make her trust me more, perhaps.”
Desiree looked down at her right hand. It had balled into a fist and was shaking wildly.
She held it down, eased back down the stairs. Even with only one side of the conversation, it sounded like what it sounded like. Could be anything. Yeah, sure. Well, what did you expect? Freeze out a man for so long, you think he’s not going to build another fire?
But what about tonight? With me?
Two fires are better than one, honey.
She backtracked into the bathroom and ramped up the hot water until it was like a hot springs. She let her wraparound fall to the floor, stepped into the tub, one foot—way too hot—bit her tongue. Second foot. Take the heat, the pain. Take it.
Just got Franklin back. I’m not letting him go again.
She sank her body into the tub, plunged her head under the water, the heat stinging but then easing off, every muscle relaxing, the grin creeping back to Desriee’s lips as she resurfaced.
She thought, My man, and I’ll keep him on a leash if that’s what it takes.
TEN
Open road. 212 was a long two lane stretch through farm country that intersected I-29 in South Dakota, about forty miles west. Lafitte figured on stopping only when he was truly tired, like blacking out tired. Wanted to get as far South as Kansas City if he could. Eight hours, seven if he kept at top speed. He’d pulled all-nighters with Steel God before, helped a bit by a little crank and the extra testosterone from the steroids. Probably wouldn’t be using those any more, but he’d need to do something to keep the new hard mass from melting to blubber.
Along this stretch, wind gusts rocked the bike and Lafitte fought to keep the thing straight. Crows on the road pecking at flattened rabbits flapped and lifted, hovering in Lafitte’s path before curling up and away like a shot. The sun had faded and everything left and right and straight ahead was gray.
He thought through what Tordsen had told him, about Rome using his family on that old gangbanger case. Nothing to worry about—the body had never been found and the only eyewitness, Lafitte’s partner, was dead. All Ginny could do was assume, so whatever Rome thought he had would come up a dead end. Lafitte was guessing this wasn’t about the gangbanger, not even about the law, but rather about flushing an enemy out of hiding. Rome was telling his people one thing, but it dawned on Lafitte that once he showed his face, Rome had his own private idea of what would occur between them.
Fuck it. Lafitte had made his choice. He’d find out one way or the other now.
Without the helmet, the wind screamed in his ears like white noise, perfect fit with the flat fields, dead deer on the shoulders, leafless trees in small clumps. Summer in those parts fooled everyone like an ugly chick in good make-up. Once washed clean, you get a good look at what you’d really gone to bed with, made promises to, planted your seed in, and then you were stuck. Lafitte wondered, if he survived, whether or not he would return North, swallow his bile and try to mend things with Steel God, or go the other way and see if Tordsen would be willing to take on a “new face“ in the department, new name and backstory and all that. No one would raise a finger if he kept his head down, grinded it out. Looking around at this purgatory landscape, he’d prefer to take his chances with Louisiana, Texas, maybe even farther South into Mexico, some modern day cowboy. Damned chopper was pretty much a horse, right? But that aqua blue shit would have to go. Lafitte was thinking a gray the color of storm clouds.
He heard the whine a mile or so back, thought it was a four-wheeler or some little hatchback. But then it got louder, coming up fast. Lafitte glanced at his mirrors. A little riceburning coupe almost on top of him. Kids, probably. Let them pass.
Closer still, on his tail. Another glance in the mirror, maybe the passenger a bit familiar. The road was straight and clear. Lafitte hoped they would pass quickly, end the gnawing in his stomach.
They gunned it, pulled into the left lane, pulled slowly abreast of Lafitte. He took a peek. Staring right into the face of Deputy Nate, his thick little gal pal at the wheel. The boy had a rock hard face, but Colleen looked giddy. Nate kept his hands down, Lafitte guessing they were full of guns.
The car passed, swerved into the right hand lane, slammed on brakes. Lafitte took a wild swerve, hard left, clipped the rear bumper hard with his leg—God…DAMN, that took off skin. He stayed on the bike, but the car was already back at his side. Trying to ram him. Lafitte checked the lane ahead. A bend towards the right coming up. He couldn’t see around it. He sped up, launched himself ahead of Colleen’s car and tried to pull away. Leg throbbed like a son of a bitch. He couldn’t get to his pistol while on the bike. Stupid, lack of foresight. Plain dumb.
The car gunned again, this time not bothering to pass. She waited until Lafitte was into the curve before bumping him, like she wanted to try a PIT maneuver, send him off sideways. Instead, she caught the open tire, stutter-stopped it as Lafitte went over the handlebars, wishing he hadn’t dumped that fucking helmet in Tordsen’s yard. The bike twisted and bounced off the front of Colleen’s car, cratering the front grill. She careened left, popped a tire, and flipped. Scraped across the road on her hood.
The pavement was coming up for Lafitte’s face. He turned his body hard, landed on his ass, tumbled off the shoulder into the ditch. Everything burned, ached. He found his hands, flexed them, then moved his legs around. Lucky motherfucker.
Lafitte checked back towards the road before trying to push himself up. He had to shout Fuck a few times in order to get himself off the ground and moving again, but he did it. Nothing felt broken. He checked the leg that had smashed into Colleen’s bumper. Cut right through his jeans. Not pretty, probably needed stitches. He wasn’t getting any stitches, so best to just find some rubbing alcohol or something, clean it as best he could. The rest of his shin was bruised real bad. It hurt to take steps, but he didn’t have a choice. Staggered back towards the bike off in the grass. He lifted it. Crushed pipe, another shorn away. Lost a couple spokes. Dents, bruises, maybe a crack in the frame, but he couldn’t see it clearly enough right now. A bit dazed.
Shit. It was all he had to drive.
Colleen’s car was upside down and leaking gas. Both still inside. He took a long gaze both ways down the road, figuring it might be a few minutes before anyone else would make the scene and give them a hand.
“Unbelievable.” Lafitte started towards the car. He picked up Colleen’s voice within a few feet, talking to someone.
“Please hurry. I…I think he might kill us. Oh god, please. Can’t you hear me?”
Lafitte eased himself into a crouch at her door. Her window was pebbled but still there. She was talking on a cell phone. Turned to him, then away in a flash.
“He’s right outside, please. Oh god.”
Lafitte shook his head, crashed his hand through the window. Colleen screamed. He grabbed her cell phone, brought it out and tossed it off into the ditch.
“Jesus, I’m not going to hurt you. You guys need to get out.”
“I don’t. I don’t…I can’t…” She was hyperventilating.
Lafitte looked across her to Nate. He was hanging upside down like Colleen, but out cold, his chin dangling, blood dripping off in strings. His nose was a bloody mess. Lafitte scuttled around the front to Nate’s door. Window gone, frame fucked so he couldn’t open the door. He reached in, checked to see if the kid was breathing. Yeah, still something there. Lafitte slapped Nate’s face. Tried again. That roused him. Nate coughed, spit blood. Lafitte noticed the guns all over the roof below them. He pulled out his pistol and spoke loudly, firmly.
“Colleen, undo your belt and climb out your window. Nate. Nate? Can you hear me?”
Rattling breath, more coughing, but he was getting better. “Yeah.”
“Undo your seatbelt. Easy. Then get out of this thing as fast as you can. But if you grab one of these guns and try anything on me, I’ll shoot you in the face. Understand?”
A nod.
“I need to hear it.”
“Yeah, I got it. Colleen’s okay?”
“She’s fine. You’re both going to be fine. But you’ve got to get out of the car
.”
The smell of the gasoline was getting to Lafitte. Colleen flopped down with a grunt.
“Good girl, but don’t touch those fucking guns. Get out, hands held high, and move way up front so I can see you.”
A pick-up truck passed by, tapped its brake lights, slowed to nothing, the three guys in the cab gawking. Lafitte stood and showed them the gun and expected one of two things—they’d puff up and bring out their own guns, or they’d get gone.
They got gone. Pedal to the metal.
Lafitte had been distracted. Colleen was out of the way, hands high, mighty pissed off. Then there was the thump from Nate. Then a scramble. Lafitte couldn’t get No off his lips fast enough, as Nate poked his arms and shoulders out, revolver and pistol, suddenly going Pop pop.
Lafitte did a quick step towards the back out of aim’s way. “What did I tell you? What the fuck did I tell you?”
Colleen came running up to help Nate. Lafitte fired a warning shot over her shoulder, sent her scurrying. Yelling Cocksucker murdering traitor bastard. Fine with Lafitte, as long as she stayed out of the way.
Lafitte trained his gun on Nate’s head and shoulders as they pushed farther out of the car. “Drop the guns and get out before the car catches fire!”
Nate twisted toward Lafitte’s voice and stuck out the revolver, got a shot off. Lafitte dropped to his knees, in the clear, and took aim. Just the arm. Just his arm.
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