by Tami Hoag
A.J. felt her enthusiasm cool. He raised his head an inch or two. "You know, you can hurt a guy making him stop like this."
"That's a lie," Annie said, appreciating his attempt at humor.
"Says who?"
"Says you. You told me that when I was a sophomore and Jason Benoit was trying to convince me I would cripple him for life if I didn't let him go all the way."
"Yeah, well, I would've crippled him if he had." He touched the tip of her nose with his forefinger. "Friends again?"
"Always."
"Who ever thought life could be so complicated?"
"Not you."
"That's a fact." He glanced at his watch. "Well, I suppose I should go home and take a cold shower or page through the Victoria's Secret catalog or something."
"No work?" Annie asked, following him to the door.
"Tons. You don't want to hear about it."
"Why not?"
He turned and faced her, serious. "Fourcade's bond hearing tomorrow."
"Oh."
"Told you so." He started to open the door, then hesitated. "You know, Annie, you're gonna have to decide whose side you're on in this thing."
"I'm either for you or against you?"
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah," she admitted, "but I don't want to talk about it tonight."
A.J. accepted that with a nod. "If you decide you do want to talk, and you want to talk to a friend ... we'll work around the rest."
Annie kept her doubts to herself. A.J. pulled the door open, and three cats darted into the entry and pounced on the muskrat box, growling.
"What is in that box?"
"Dead muskrat."
"Jeez, Broussard, anybody ever tell you you've got a morbid sense of humor?"
"A million times, but I'm also in denial."
He smiled and winked at her as he stepped out onto the landing. "I'll see you around, kiddo. I'm glad we're friends again."
"Me, too," Annie murmured. "And thanks for the flowers."
"Ah—sorry." He pulled a face. "I didn't send them. Uncle Sos assumed..."
Annie held a hand up. " 'Nough said. That's okay. I wouldn't expect you to."
"But feel free to let me know who did, so I can go punch the guy in the nose."
"Please. One assault a week is my limit."
He leaned down and brushed a kiss to her cheek. "Lock your door. There's bad guys running around out there."
She shooed the cats out of the entry and went back into the apartment. The bouquet sat dead center on her kitchen table, looking almost as out of place there as it had in the store. Her apartment was a place for wildflowers in jelly jars, not the elegance of roses. She plucked the white envelope from its plastic stem and extracted the card.
Dear Ms. Broussard, I hope you don't think roses inappropriate, but you saved my life and I want to thank you properly.
Yours truly, Marcus Renard
11
He wondered what she'd thought of the flowers. She should have seen them by now. She worked the day shift. He knew because the news reports about his beating identified her as "an off-duty sheriff's deputy." She had been on duty at the courthouse yesterday, and had helped save him from Davidson's attack. She had been on duty the morning Pam's body had been found. She had been the one to find it.
There was a thread of continuity running through all this, Marcus reflected as he gazed out the window of his workroom. He had been in love with Pam; Annie had discovered Pam's body. Pam's father had tried to kill him; Annie had stopped him. The detective in charge of Pam's case had tried to kill him; Annie had again come to his rescue. Continuity. In his drug-numbed mind he pictured the letters of the word unraveling and tying themselves into a perfect circle, a thin black line with no beginning and no ending. Continuity.
He moved his pencil over the paper with careful, featherlight strokes. Fourcade hadn't damaged his hands. There were bruises—defensive wounds—and his knuckles had been skinned when he fell to the ground, but nothing worse. His eyes were still nearly swollen shut. Cotton packing filled both nostrils, forcing him to breathe through his mouth, the air hissing in and out between his chipped teeth because his broken jaw had been wired shut. Stitches crisscrossed his face like seams in a crazy quilt. He looked like a gargoyle, like a monster.
The doctor had given him a prescription for painkillers and sent him home late in the day. None of his injuries were life-threatening or needed further monitoring, for which he was glad. He had no doubt the nurses at Our Lady of Mercy would have killed him if given ample opportunity.
The Percodan dulled the throbbing in his head and face, and took the bite out of the knifing pains in his side where Fourcade had cracked three of his ribs. It also seemed to blur the edges of all sensory perception. He felt insulated, as if he were existing inside a bubble. The volume of his mother's voice had been cut in half. Victor's incessant muttering had been reduced to a low hum.
They had both been right there when Richard Kudrow brought him home. Agitated and irritated by the interruption of their routines.
"Marcus, you had me worried sick," his mother said as he made his way painfully up one step and then another onto the veranda.
Doll stood leaning against a pillar, as if she hadn't the strength to keep herself upright. As tall as both her sons, she still gave the impression of being a birdlike woman, fine boned, almost frail. She had a habit of fluttering one hand against her breastbone like a broken wing. Despite the fact that she was an excellent seamstress, she wore dowdy five-and-dime housedresses that swallowed her up and made her look older than her fiftysome years.
"I didn't know what to think when the hospital called. I was just terrified you might die. I barely slept for worrying on it. What would I do without you? How would I cope with Victor? I was nearly ill with worry."
"I'm not dead, Mother," Marcus pointed out.
He didn't ask why she hadn't come to the hospital to see him, because he didn't want to hear how she hated to drive, especially at night—on account of her undiagnosed night blindness. Never mind that she had hounded him to buy her a car years ago so that she wouldn't have to feel dependent upon him. She rarely took the thing out of the carriage shed they used as a garage. And he didn't want to hear how she was afraid to leave Victor, and how she disliked hospitals and believed them to be the breeding grounds for all fatal disease. The last would set Victor off into his germ litany.
His brother stood to one side of the door, his face turned away, but his eyes glancing back at Marcus, wary. Victor had a way of holding himself that was stiff and slightly cockeyed, as if gravity affected him differently from normal people.
"It's me, Victor," Marcus said, knowing it was hopeless to attempt to put Victor at ease.
Victor had been in his teens before he figured out that putting on a hat didn't turn one person into another being. Voices coming from a telephone had baffled him into his twenties, and sometimes still did. For years he would never do anything more than breathe into the receiver because he couldn't see the person speaking to him, and, therefore, that person did not exist. Only crazy people responded to the voices of people who did not exist, and Victor was not crazy; therefore, he would not speak to faceless voices.
"Mask, no mask," he mumbled. "The mockingbird. Mimus polyglottos. Nine to eleven inches tall. No mask. Sound and sound alike. More common than similar shrikes. The common raven. Corvus corax. Very clever. Very shrewd. Like the crow, but not a crow. A mask, but no mask."
"Victor, stop it!" Doll said, her voice scratching up toward shrillness. She sent Marcus a long-suffering look. "He's been on his rantings all day long. I'd like to have lost my mind worrying about you, and here was Victor droning on and on and on. It was enough to make me see red."
"Red, red, very red," Victor said, shaking his head as if a bug had crawled into his ear.
"That lawyer of yours had better make the sheriff's department pay for the suffering they've caused this family," Doll harped, following
Marcus into the house. "Those people are rotten to the core, every last one of them."
"Annie Broussard saved my life," Marcus pointed out. "Twice."
Doll made a sour face. "Annie Broussard. I'm sure she's no better than any of the rest. I saw her on the television. She didn't have a thing to say about you. You blow everything out of proportion, Marcus. You always have."
"I was there, Mother. I know what she did."
"You just think she's pretty, that's all. I know how your mind works, Marcus. You are your father's son."
It was meant to be an insult. Marcus didn't remember his father. Claude Renard had left them when Marcus was hardly more than a toddler. He had never come back, had severed all ties. There were times when Marcus envied him.
He closed his eyes now and let a wave of Percodan wash the memory from his battered brain. The miracles of modern chemistry.
He had gone straight to his bedroom and shut out his mother's incessant whining with a pill and two hours of unconsciousness. When he came to, the house was quiet. Everyone had settled back into their routines. His mother retreated to her room every night at nine to watch television preachers and work her word puzzles. She would be in bed by ten and would complain all the next morning that she had barely slept. According to Doll, she hadn't slept through a night in her life.
Victor went to bed at eight and rose at midnight to study his nature books or work on elaborate mathematical calculations. He would go to bed again at four A.M. and rise for the day precisely at eight. Routine was sacred to him. He equated routine with normalcy. The least deviation could set him off into a spell of upset, causing him to rock himself and mumble, or worse. Routine made him happy.
If only my own life were so simple. Marcus didn't like being the center of anyone's attention. He preferred to be left alone to do his work and to work at his hobbies.
His workroom was located just off his bedroom and had probably been a study or a nursery at one time in the house's history. He had claimed the small suite as his own the first time he had walked through the house with Pam. She had been his real estate agent when he had come to Bayou Breaux to interview with Bowen & Briggs—another strand in the thread of continuity.
The suite was on the first floor at the back of the house and you had to walk through one room to get to the other. A worktable held his latest project, a Queen Anne dollhouse with elaborate gingerbread and heart-shaped shingles on the roof. Houses he had designed and built over the years were displayed on deep custom-built shelves along one long wall. He entered them in competitions at fairs and sold all but the most special to him.
But it wasn't the dollhouse that claimed his attention tonight. Tonight he had risen from bed to sit at his drawing table. He worked to bring a mental image from his mind to the page.
Pam had been a lovely woman—small, feminine, her dark hair cut in a sleek, shoulder-length bob, her smile bright, her brown eyes sparkling with life. She had her nails done every Friday. She shopped at the most exclusive stores in Lafayette, and always looked as if she had just stepped from the pages of Southern Living or Town and Country.
Annie was pretty in her own way. She was taller than Pam, but by no more than an inch; sturdier than Pam, but still small. He pictured her, not in the slate blue sheriff's department uniform, but in the long, flowered skirt she had worn last night. He rid her of the sloppy denim jacket and put her instead in a white cotton camisole. Delicate, almost sheer, teasing him with the shadows of her small breasts.
In his mind's eye, he combed her hair back neatly and secured it at the nape of her slender neck with a white bow. She had a retrousse nose; a hint of a cleft gave her chin a certain stubborn quality. Her eyes were a deep, rich brown, like Pam's, but with a tantalizing tilt at the corners. He was fascinated with the shape of them—slightly exotic, slightly almond-shaped, like a cat's. Her mouth was nearly as intriguing. A very French mouth—the lower lip full, the upper lip a delicate cupid's bow. He had never seen her smile. Until he had, he would superimpose Pam's smile onto her face.
He set his pencil aside and assessed his work.
He had missed Pam these past three months, but he could feel the ache of that loneliness beginning to subside. In his drug-induced haze, he visualized having been parched all that time. Now a fresh source of wine was ebbing closer, tantalizing him. He tried to imagine the taste on his tongue. Desire stirred lazily in his blood, and he smiled.
Annie. His angel.
12
Bail hearings in Partout Parish were held Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, a schedule carefully structured to produce revenue. Anyone bailed out on Friday had the weekend to break another law or two, for which they would have to be bailed out again come Monday. Wednesday was thrown in for good measure and civil liberties.
The presiding judge, as luck would have it, was old Monahan. Nick groaned inwardly as Monahan emerged from his chambers and took his seat on the bench. Cases were called. A mixed bag of petty offenses on this Friday morning: drunk and disorderly, shoplifting, possession with intent to distribute, burglary. The defendants, their eyes downcast like dogs that had been caught soiling the carpet, stood beside their lawyers. Some of the accused looked ashamed, some embarrassed, some were just used to playing the game.
The gallery of the courtroom filled steadily as the cases were dealt with in short order, one scumbag loser at a time.
If these people going before him were losers, Nick thought, then what did that make him? Every person who came before the court claimed to have a good reason for what he or she had done. None was as good as his, but he doubted getting up and telling the court he had only done the job the court had shirked would win him any points with Monahan.
The esteemed members of the press filling the pews behind him were no doubt drooling for precisely that kind of dramatic statement. They waited restlessly through the preliminary goings-on, eager for the main event. Monahan seemed irritated by their presence, his mood more churlish than usual. He barked at the attorneys, snapped at the defendants, and set bail amounts at the high end of the spectrum.
Nick had exactly three thousand two hundred dollars in the bank.
"Don't piss off His Honor, Nick, my boy," Wily Tallant murmured, leaning toward Nick. "I do believe he's got an Irish headache today. Don't meet his eyes. If you can't look contrite, look contemplative."
Nick looked away. Tallant was a sly, scheming bastard— good qualities in a defense attorney, but that didn't mean he had to like the man. He only had to listen to him.
The lawyer was nearly a head shorter than Nick, with a lean, European elegance about him. His thin, dark hair was slicked back neatly, accentuating the distinguished lines of his face. He wore black suits year-round and a Rolex that cost more than Nick made in four months. Wily's clients may have been scumbags, but they tended to be scumbags with money.
Nick scanned the crowd again. A number of cops had found their way into the balcony that had been the gallery for black spectators in the days of open segregation. He spotted a couple of sheriff's deputies, a couple of Bayou Breaux uniforms. Broussard was not among them. He thought she might have come. This was what she wanted: him facing the music.
In the balcony front row, Stokes touched the brim of the ball cap he wore low over a pair of Ray-Bans. Quinlan, another of the SO detectives, sat beside him, along with Z-Top McGee, a detective from the city squad they had worked with a time or two.
It struck Nick as odd that anyone other than Stokes had come. He had spent no time cultivating friendships here. More likely their attachment to him was through the job. The Brotherhood. He was one of them, and here but for the grace of God ... Ultimately, their concern was for themselves, he decided. A comforting cynical thought.
He dropped his gaze to the main gallery seating, skimming the faces of the reporters who had hounded him from the outset of the Bichon case, and one who had hounded him longer than that—a face familiar from New Orleans. New Orleanians generally cared little what went o
n beyond the boundaries of the Big Easy. The Cajun parishes were a separate world. But this one had smelled Nick's blood in the water and had come hungry. Unexpected, but not surprising.
The surprises sat ahead of the New Orleans hack. Belle Davidson and, two rows in front of her, her erstwhile son-in-law, Donnie Bichon. What were they doing here? Hunter Davidson was not among the unfortunate waiting their turn before the judge. Pritchett would want to downplay that bail hearing. Pressing charges against a grieving father would be unpopular with his constituents. Pressing charges against "a rogue cop" for the same crime was an altogether different matter.
"State of Lou'siana versus Nick Fourcade!"
Nick followed Tallant through the gate to the defense table. Pritchett had remained silent through the previous proceedings, letting ADA Doucet deal with the petty stuff, saving himself for the feature attraction. He rose from his chair and buttoned his suit coat, twitching his shoulders back and smoothing a hand over his silk tie. He looked like a little gamecock preening his feathers and scratching the dirt before a fight.
"Your Honor," he intoned loudly. "The charges here are extremely egregious: aggravated assault and attempted murder perpetrated by a member of the law enforcement community. We're dealing not only with a felony, but with a gross abuse of power and a betrayal of the public trust. It's an absolute disgrace. I—"
"Save your preaching for another pulpit, Mr. Pritchett," Judge Monahan barked as he snapped the cap off a bottle of Excedrin and dumped a pair of pills into his hand.
The judge glared at Nick, black eyebrows creeping down over piercing blue eyes.
"Detective Fourcade, I cannot begin to express my disgust at having you before my bench on this matter. You have managed to turn an ugly situation hideous, and I am not inclined to be forgiving. Could you possibly have anything to say for yourself?"
