He knew the answer to the last two questions, and those answers had prompted his rare trip into Houma. It was time to pull his head out of the South Louisiana mud and deal with hard truths, however inconvenient.
He couldn’t let it go because of that boy, Morgan Tyler. The kid had been only seventeen years old and had blown off the top of his head because of whatever that black powder had done to his brain. From all Cole had read since—which had been a lot, thanks to his tablet and the library visit—this drug was very, very bad news. It was the kind of drug that turned kids into killers.
Maybe they killed themselves, like Morgan Tyler had.
Or maybe they went into a theater and started firing on a bunch of strangers.
Or maybe they went into a department store looking for someone with whom they had an ongoing feud, maybe an ex-girlfriend or a class bully, and began a deadly rampage of death and blood.
Cole had seen it happen, and he couldn’t just sit back when there was any chance of it happening again, not here in this place that, somehow, he’d come to love even if it was rife with poverty and the people talked funny and the land was slowly sinking into the Gulf of Mexico. If he didn’t tell someone in authority about Big Bull and the wrong person got hold of that drug, he’d feel responsible for the consequences. It was as simple as that.
Profiting from an illegally obtained gator was one thing. Keeping quiet about a potentially deadly drug was on another moral plane. It was as simple as that.
As simple as telling the truth.
As simple as holding on to whatever humanity, and sanity, he had left.
Still, after spending years extricating himself from society, he was reluctant to do something like pick up the receiver of a pay phone, assuming he could find one, plug in some change, and dial a number. He’d been working his way up to it.
Thus, the shopping.
And now the pay phone.
He’d been sitting outside the mini-mart on Highway 55 south of Montegut since his failed snack cake adventure had ended fifteen minutes earlier. In front of his truck sat what might be one of the only pay phones left in Terrebonne Parish. In his right hand he clenched a fistful of quarters. In his left hand he clenched Jena Sinclair’s business card. Jena Sinclair, who for the last few days had taken up residence in whatever part of his brain and body wasn’t otherwise occupied.
He could do this. It was just a phone call.
Cole opened the truck door and approached the old-fashioned pay phone as if it might itself be lethal. Maybe it wouldn’t work. He’d take that as a sign.
He grasped the receiver, pulled it free of the tangle of its heavy metal cord, and plugged his coins into the slot. Damn it. A warbly dial tone filled the ear he’d pressed so hard against the receiver it would probably leave an indentation.
He punched in Jena’s number, listened to several rings, and then let out a shaky breath at the message: You have reached Wildlife and Fisheries Agent Jena Sinclair. Please leave a detailed message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, please call . . .
No, he didn’t think he’d be doing that. Maybe he’d read her demeanor and body language wrong—God knew he was out of practice—but he thought Jena Sinclair would believe him when he said he’d found the gator and the drugs. She wouldn’t take one look at him, toss him in jail, and do the fact-checking later. Not that local law enforcement wouldn’t do its job, and not that he wasn’t innocent. But people were freaked out and the paper made it sound as if the task force was desperate for an arrest.
For some reason that had nothing to do with reason, he trusted Jena to stand behind him.
He could come back tomorrow and try her again, but would he? Or would his deep-seated paranoia and distrust of life in general win out if he gave it another day?
No, he needed to see her tonight, or at least make the initial contact. Leaving a message on the phone didn’t feel right, though. If he couldn’t talk to her directly, he needed to see her.
He plugged in the change again and this time called a number dredged from deep inside his memory. Pressing those buttons still felt natural; he’d done it so many times his fingers moved from muscle memory. When Mike Leonard answered, the voice of his best friend took Cole back to a time that robbed him of breath for a few moments. Long enough for Mike to call him a perv and hang up.
Damn it, you don’t need chickens to get chicken shit, Ryan. You are chickenshit.
He went into the store and got more quarters, then slipped them into the pay phone slot before he could think about it too hard.
This time, Mike sounded pissed. “Look, buddy, whoever you are, you—”
“Mike, it’s Cole.” And just in case his old friend had forgotten: “Cole Ryan.”
The pause seemed to stretch forever, but he finally heard a heavy exhale of breath. “Cole? Oh, thank God. Man, is that really you? Where the hell have you been? Where the hell are you?”
If he was going to ask a favor, at least he could be honest. “I’ve been living in South Louisiana since . . . since I left Mississippi. I’m sorry to call after all this time. I know I don’t have any right—”
Mike’s voice grew softer. “Cole Ryan, you don’t owe anybody an explanation, especially me. I was there, remember?”
Like he could forget anything that happened on March fifteenth, five years ago this month.
“Cole, are you ready to come home?” Mike’s voice sounded tentative. “Because if you’re not, that’s okay, man. I’m just glad to know you’re alive and somewhere, even if it is in Louisiana. What’s going on with you?”
Cole’s throat muscles had grown so tight he sounded like a frog. “I’m okay. It’s just . . . been hard.”
“Do you need anything? You only have to say the word.”
He knew Mike meant it.
“Can you find me an address for somebody?”
Fifteen minutes and a pile of quarters later, Cole had what he needed: the address of one Jena G. Sinclair of Chauvin, Louisiana. She’d only been at the address a month.
He hung up the phone, walked back to his truck, and sat behind the wheel, staring out the front windshield into another life. God, that had hurt, but in some ways he felt better. He’d never told Mike where he was, but the man was no idiot; he’d probably already known and was testing to see if Cole was ready to be found.
He trusted Mike to let what little family he had left know he was alive and relatively intact without revealing where he was. He couldn’t see any of them yet, even Mike. Until today, he’d thought he never would. Now, maybe. Maybe he could at least think about coming back from the unthinkable.
One step at a time, however. He flipped over Jena’s business card, where he’d written down the address. He probably wouldn’t have the guts to stop, but he’d at least see where it was.
The house took him by surprise. Jena hadn’t struck him as the show-pony type, but the house was a monstrosity. Painted a stark white, it had a fountain in the center of its circular front drive and a double stairway leading in a curve around either side of a first-floor entry. The glorious excess culminated in a grand second-level front door with an elaborate arrangement of windows and columns surrounding it. Door and windows? Also white.
Maybe he’d misjudged her. Badly.
There was no sign of a vehicle, which gave Cole a few minutes to size up the place. A high brick privacy fence, also painted white, circled the massive backyard.
He was here, though, and he’d do this before he backed out.
Digging in his glove compartment, he found an old envelope and pulled out a Sharpie he’d bought at the convenience store.
Have info that might help drug case. Will drop by again tomorrow abt 5. Will only talk to you. No other officers. Please.—Coleman Ryan
No woman with a lick of common sense—or man, for that matter—would respond to that kind of note, but Cole didn’t have anything else to write on. He could wait for her, but . . . no, not a good idea. Wa
iting would put him in stalker territory.
He added: P.S. I know this sounds nuts, but I am not dangerous.
Yeah, like that would help.
He climbed the curved stairs and left the envelope on the mat in front of the entrance. Someone had slipped up and introduced color into the place; the mat was dark green. He anchored it down with one of his new tools from the hardware store.
Then he got into his truck and drove back to the house on Sugarcane Lane as fast as he dared. He needed a drink.
CHAPTER 15
After returning from the trip to Thibodaux and the bizarre visit to Mac’s buddy in Bourg, Jena stood in front of her full-length mirror, sizing up the fourth outfit she had tried on: simple jeans and a lightweight sage-green sweater.
Tonight would be the first time since she’d been shot—well, longer, if she were to be honest—that she’d tried to make herself look attractive. Working in often-uncomfortable conditions, whether by herself or with her primarily male colleagues, she found playing up her looks both counterproductive and ill-advised. Except for a good SPF, makeup and swamps didn’t mix, and she had no desire to impress her colleagues in any but a professional way.
She’d grown up trying to be girly because her mother was all over the makeup-and-heels thing, and whatever Grace Sinclair wanted, Jena tried her hardest to give her. It was never enough.
The inner Jena, at thirty, was no kinder than her mother: You’re six feet tall, and the biggest curve on you is the puckered scar where a bullet got dug out of your breast.
She’d carefully covered the facial scars with makeup. She couldn’t completely smooth her skin out without spreading foundation on like pancake batter, but she could manage a consistent color.
The things she’d always had going for her were her legs and her hair, so she’d learned early how to play up her assets. Her legs were a mile long and had a nice shape, so if she’d been meeting a man for dinner—and damn her as an idiot that Cole Ryan’s face popped into her mind—she’d go girly with a dress. Nothing too short but enough to show off her long legs.
She pulled her hair back in a ponytail, wishing she could put on her baseball cap. Ceelie wouldn’t care, but somehow tonight felt important to Jena, this first foray back into polite society. To mark the occasion, she even put on honest-to-god earrings, and . . . Jena looked around her room, realizing she might not own a purse.
What kind of woman didn’t own a purse? Certainly no daughter of Grace Sinclair’s.
Digging through the half-unpacked boxes, she came across two backpacks, a rolling suitcase, and a black camera case that might have been a possibility except that Nikon had been emblazoned across the front in bright yellow. No way to pass that off as a purse.
Finally, she shrugged and placed her wallet and her SIG Sauer in a plastic evidence bag, keeping out one credit card. She slipped the card into one of the jeans’ slit pockets and, when she got to her truck, tossed the plastic bag through the open door onto the passenger seat. She’d stash it in the glove compartment when she got in. Ceelie was engaged to an LDWF enforcement officer, after all. She was used to riding in trucks filled with guns and electronics.
A few minutes later, she pulled her truck into the drive of Gentry’s raised house on Bayou Terrebone in Montegut, parking alongside the beat-up two-toned pickup Ceelie had inherited from her great-aunt. Ceelie sat on the porch and waved when Jena pulled to a stop. “I’ll be ready in just a minute. His Highness is searching for his spot du jour.”
Since Gentry’s truck wasn’t in the drive, His Highness had to refer to Hoss, Gentry’s bat-eared little French bulldog. Sure enough, Jena spotted him deep in the shadows under the house, snuffling around for the best spot to pee. It was a ritual Gentry claimed to find amusing. After the first few times waiting for Hoss to do his business, however, Jena was convinced that she was, indeed, a cat person at heart. What Boudreaux lacked in obedience (he was a cat, after all), he made up for in affectionate indifference and a low-maintenance lifestyle.
“How about A-Bear’s?” Jena asked when Ceelie joined her in the truck. “It’s all-you-can-eat catfish night.”
“God, I haven’t been there in ages, and Gentry won’t be home until sunrise. Let’s do it.”
They made small talk along the way into Houma. Ceelie was as petite as Jena was tall. With her blue eyes and dark skin that revealed her Native American, Cajun, and Creole gumbo of ancestry, she was gorgeous.
“You’re letting your hair grow out. Are you going to grow it long again?” Jena had been in the hospital when Ceelie had been kidnapped last fall. Ceelie had walked away with no lasting injuries, but the monster had tormented her by using a knife to saw off the beautiful black braid that had hung to her waist. Now, her hair hung in curls to her shoulders.
“Probably not much longer than this. It’s easier to take care of than the braid. Had to let it grow out a little, though.” Ceelie slid her gaze toward Jena with a smile. “Y’know, so Gentry has something to hold on to when we—”
“Ack! TMI!” Jena held out a hand in the universal sign for Shut up. “No intimate details about my former partner, please.”
Ceelie laughed. “You’ll be partners again once this drug case is over. I’m pretty sure Paul wants Mac under his thumb again.”
“Poor Mac. You know, he’s really a good agent.”
“I know—Gentry says so too. But Paul knows he’s afraid of him and just enjoys it too much to give up the power.”
Jena shook her head. “Paul needs a life.”
“Paul needs a woman,” Ceelie said.
“Poor thing.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence. She and Ceelie had speculated on numerous occasions about what kind of woman it would take to loosen up the parish’s most senior enforcement agent. Jena wasn’t sure such a woman existed.
“Here we are.” Jena pulled the truck into the A-Bear’s parking lot, a gravel area the size of a postage stamp beside an old blue-painted wooden cottage. The porch pillars were made of unfinished wood, and beside the door sat a rustic rocking chair.
The sound of a Cajun fiddle reached them from inside. “I think there’s music tonight, so let’s see if we can get in a quieter area,” Jena said.
The waitress managed to squeeze them into a table tucked as far from the Cajun band as possible, and by the time they’d ordered and gotten their iced tea, the band was taking a break.
“Good, we can talk. There’s something I need to ask you,” Ceelie said. They waited while the first wave of catfish arrived, then dug in.
“If it’s about last fall, Ceelie—” Jena took a deep breath and set aside her forkful of catfish fillet. She knew Ceelie didn’t blame her for the kidnapping, and neither did Gentry. Jena blamed herself, though, and she valued Ceelie’s friendship. If there were any ill feelings, she wanted to know. “Just know that I couldn’t be sorrier about—”
“Hush.” Ceelie put her fork down as well. “That wasn’t your fault. None of it. You were indulging me because I insisted on getting out and running around instead of staying safe. That’s all we’re going to say about it. I have something much more important to ask.”
Jena blinked back tears. Even knowing Ceelie didn’t blame her, she had needed to hear those words again. The world around her felt lighter. “What did you want to ask?”
“Well, okay, I know it sounds silly because I’m not the white-dress-and-fancy-reception type, but would you be my maid of honor when Gentry and I get married in May?”
Jena had taken her fork, speared a quarter of a fillet, and had it halfway to her mouth, but set it down again at Ceelie’s words. Damn if she wasn’t going to cry. Again. “Of course I will. I’d be honored to do it. But, uh, do I have to wear a pink dress?” Visions of the deep-rose chiffon monstrosity floated across her mental vision.
Ceelie laughed. “God, no. I might wear a dress, but I’m not even promising that. We have a couple of months to decide; you can help me plan it. Gentry’s threatening
to wear his LDWF dress uniform, but your only rule is not to show up in forest green.”
“Well, our dress uniforms do have white gloves,” Jena said.
“Yeah, and black ties. That would be a no.”
“Well, well. Look who I found.” A deep drawl reached them from above Jena’s head. Jena almost swallowed her tongue when she looked up to see none other than Ray Naquin pulling a chair up to their table. “You told me you had dinner plans but didn’t say we could make it a threesome.”
“You know this . . . gentleman?” Ceelie asked, keeping her narrowed gaze on Ray and slipping into a heavier Cajun accent. “If not, I have a few spells I could be throwin’ his way.”
Jena stifled a grin at Ray’s frown. “Celestine Savoie, Raymond Naquin. Ray’s one of the parish nuisance hunters. Ceelie is Gentry Broussard’s fiancée, and I’d recommend you not mention threesomes lest the news get back to him.”
“Aw, I was just jokin’.” Ray signaled for the waitress and ordered a tea. Jena and Ceelie exchanged exasperated looks. The guy had big balls, she’d give him that much, and he cleaned up well.
But he was no Cole Ryan.
Good thing Jena and Ceelie had gotten their most important talking out of the way, because clueless Ray was perfectly happy to carry the load by talking about his favorite subject, which was Ray.
They heard about the worst gator catch ever, the pug he’d managed to extract from a gator’s jaws and rushed to the veterinarian in time to save the dog and the day, his growing notoriety for being able to catch venomous snakes while having been bitten only once (he displayed a twisted, scarred left index finger to accompany that story), and how Wildlife and Fisheries could help him do his job better by calling him whenever a gator was involved instead of handling things themselves.
“See, you shoulda called me when that old lady off Bayou Pointe-aux-Chenes reported that gator behind the cane fields.” Ray punctuated his words with a fork, at the end of which dangled a French fry he’d taken from Jena’s abandoned plate. “What buyer’d you take it to? What happens to the money if a gator’s brought in by a game warden?”
Black Diamond (Wilds of the Bayou Book 2) Page 11
