by JoAnn Ross
“Do you know if she went?”
“She did. Which didn’t go over real well with Mike when he found out she was talking about their so-called private family stuff.”
“Shit. Mike always was a goddamn hothead.” A temper Regan wouldn’t have thought him possible of possessing licked at the edges of Nate’s voice.
“And as useless as tits on a bull,” Orèlia said. “Lord knows what Shannon was thinkin’ when she married him. She can sure do a lot better than that, she.”
“Would you mind jus’ waiting here a minute?” Nate asked Regan. “While I take care of something?”
“Sure.”
Regan watched as he went over to the woman and said something she couldn’t hear. He pulled off her sunglasses, the same way he’d done to Regan at the airport, and shook his head at the ugly dark bruise surrounding an eye red-rimmed from crying.
Regan had seen it all too often as a beat cop: a battered wife seeks medical care, maybe goes so far as to kick her abuser out of the house. Occasionally she’d get brave enough to call the cops. But more times than she cared to count, the woman would inevitably end up taking the guy back. And the cycle of pain would begin all over again, inevitably spiraling downward, until in the worst cases, Regan would end up at the house investigating a homicide.
Obviously something Nate said struck a chord. The woman slapped him. Hard. Then, wrapping her arms around herself, she turned away.
“Anybody can talk her into escapin’ a dangerous marriage, it’s that boy,” Orèlia, who was also watching the little drama, said. “Not many people can resist Nate Callahan once he gets an idea into his head.”
“I’ve noticed. They seem close.”
“They went together for a while in college. Back when Nate was playin’ ball for Tulane. They were Blue Bayou’s golden couple: the local boy headed toward a pro baseball career and the pretty, sweet prom queen who’d always wanted to be a first-grade teacher.”
“Nate Callahan played professional baseball?” Not that she cared, but it did explain the easy, fluid way he moved. She was not the least bit surprised to learn he’d dated a prom queen. She suspected there were a great many cheerleaders and beauty contestants in the man’s past.
“Played all the sports, he, but the big thing was his baseball scholarship. College recruiters were buzzin’ around this place like bees to a honeycomb his senior year of high school. Like to drive his maman crazy. A lot of people who know a lot more than me about sports said he was a phenom—that’s like a natural, but better, so they tell me—but then he ended up havin’ to come home his freshman year.”
Huh—he’d undoubtedly flunked out after too many frat parties.
Nate took the former prom queen in his arms; she threw her arms around his neck and clung. He held her tight for a long, silent minute, then curved his hands over her shoulders and put her a little away from him. His expression was warm and caring, but determined.
Shannon Chauvet blinked against the tears that had begun streaming down her face. Bit her lip. Then nodded.
Regan saw not a hint of seduction in his smile as he skimmed a knuckle up one of her badly bruised cheekbones, then dropped a quick kiss on her lips.
“Call Jack,” he said to Orèlia when he returned to the counter. “Ask him to come get Shannon so she and Ben can stay at Beau Soleil for a while. Then call the state police and ask for Trooper Benoit. Tell him you’re calling for me, explain the situation, and tell him that I’m claiming that favor he owes me.”
“Good idea.” She reached for the phone.
“Harboring abused wives can be dangerous,” Regan said. Violent husbands were often at their most volatile when the women finally got up the nerve to leave. “Shouldn’t you have asked your brother if he wanted to take her in?”
“Jack won’t mind. He and Shannon had a little bit of a thing back when they were kids, before Jack fell heart over heels for Dani. They stayed friends.”
Both brothers had dated her? “Definitely a friendly town you have here,” she said dryly.
“I told you it was,” he reminded her, ignoring the dash of sarcasm.
“Jack may not mind, but what about his wife? Surely she won’t feel comfortable with one of his ex-girlfriends sleeping in her house.”
“Dani’s got a heart as big as all outdoors,” Orèlia offered.
“The important thing is to get her somewhere safe before she gets seriously hurt, or Ben, her fifteen-year-old son, gets hurt trying to protect her. Besides, Jack’s thing for Shannon ended long before he and Dani hooked up,” Nate said. “Since he gave his heart to Dani, he’s become a born-again monogamist. She doesn’t have anything to worry about.”
“It looks as if you and Shannon stayed real good friends after your thing, too.”
His eyes filled with humor. “Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights about anything I say being used against me before you ask a leading question like that, detective?”
“Skip it.” Disgusted with herself for asking, Regan gave him a withering look. “It’s not germane to the situation.”
“Germane.” He chuckled and rocked back on his heels. “Damned if you aren’t reminding me more and more of Finn, which tends to get a little distracting, since you sure smell a whole lot better.”
He skimmed a finger down her nose.
“I believe we were talking about your brother Jack.” That treacherous finger was now trailing around the line of her jaw. She batted at his hand. “And would you please stop touching me.”
“Sorry. You had a little smudge of dirt on your face.” He dipped his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “And touchin’ is jus’ one of those natural things I do without thinking. Most women don’t seem to mind.”
“Maybe they just don’t tell you they don’t like it.”
“Maybe.” He considered that possibility. “But I don’t think so. Women down here might have a reputation north of the Mason-Dixon line for being too accommodating, and I suppose, on occasion, some might be. But I’ve never met one yet who won’t let a man know when she’s not happy. We southern men are very well trained.”
“What a sterling testimony to southern womanhood. Scarlett O’Hara would be so pleased.”
“You’ve got a sassy mouth on you, Detective Delectable. Good thing I always preferred Scarlett over Melanie. As for Jack, the trick is going to be keeping him from cleaning Mike’s clock for laying hands on Shannon. Which is why I’m having a state cop come make the arrest.”
“That sounds like a sensible decision.”
“Why, thank you, darlin’. I do have my moments.”
The doors to the ER swung open again, and a slender woman wearing a white lab coat came out. She greeted Nate warmly, then drew back and looked at Regan. “I’m Dr. Eve Ancelet. I hear we have you and Nate to thank for saving that little boy’s life.”
“It’s good to meet you. I’m Regan Hart, and I’m just glad I was able to help out.”
“As am I.” Friendly, intelligent eyes drifted to the badge. “Looks as if Nate’s found the perfect person to be our new sheriff.”
“I’m not the new sheriff.”
“Detective Hart keeps tellin’ me that she’s going back to L.A. after she gets some personal business taken care of,” Nate said. “I’m hoping to change her mind.”
“Blue Bayou would be quite a change from Los Angeles.” The doctor’s gaze turned professional, and Regan knew her expert eye was taking in the faint tracing of scars.
“I suppose it would be,” Regan replied equably.
“How’s the kid doin’?” Nate asked.
“Fairly well, considering what he’s been through. He’s a little underweight, but I have no way of knowing whether or not that’s a longtime problem, or something that’s occurred recently during his time on the road.”
“Did he tell you how long that’s been?” Nate asked.
“He’s claiming he doesn’t remember anything prior to the accident, which could be valid,
since retrograde amnesia certainly isn’t unheard of after a blow to the head or even some traumatic incidents. But it’s my guess he’s attempting to avoid getting sent back home.”
“Did the exam show any sign of abuse?” Regan asked.
“Several, actually.”
Every muscle in Regan’s body tensed. “What kind?”
“Small white circular scars over his back and chest.”
Unfortunately, Regan had seen those before. “Cigarette burns.”
The doctor nodded.
“Christ,” Nate breathed, “that’s out and out torture. What kind of person would do anything like that to a kid?”
“A monster,” Regan said grimly. “What else?” she asked the doctor.
“Some longer, narrower scars across his buttocks. I’d say they’d been made with a belt or some sort of strap.”
Nate looked as sick as Regan felt. All these years on the job but she’d never get used to the idea of anyone purposefully harming a child.
“What about sexual abuse?”
“There were no physical signs.”
“Well, that’s good news,” Nate said.
“Not all abuse leaves evidence,” Regan pointed out. Personally, she didn’t have a very optimistic view in this case.
“True,” Doctor Ancelet agreed. “And he’s so close-mouthed, it’s hard to tell what he’s running from. But he claimed all the truck driver did was give him a ride. I spoke with the driver, who didn’t appear to fit any profile.”
“Do you have experience with abuse profiling?”
“Actually, I do. Before I went into family practice, I was in a residency program specializing in the treatment of both abused children and their abusers, who, with the exception of sexual abuse, are often merely people who never learned parenting skills.”
“Even if the driver’s not a pedophile, he’s still guilty of breaking regulations against taking on passengers,” Regan insisted. “He could also possibly be charged with criminal recklessness at the crossing.”
“The troopers are handling that, since the accident was on a state highway,” Nate said. “The state cops will probably also question him about the kid. But meanwhile, we don’t even know the accident was his fault. It was awfully foggy.”
“I heard the whistle from your office. He should have heard it from the tracks.”
“Maybe he made a major mistake. But you’ve got to give the guy credit for being a Good Samaritan by picking up the kid. What was he supposed to do, leave the boy alone out there and freezing?”
“He had to know he was a runaway,” Regan argued doggedly. “He should have called the cops.” She turned back to Eve. “I don’t suppose the kid told you where he’s from, either.”
“No.” The doctor shook her head. “I’m afraid his so-called amnesia struck again. I have a call in to the Department of Social Services. Hopefully once they get him temporarily settled somewhere, he might begin to open up.”
When they entered the treatment room, the teen was sitting atop the metal examining table, clad in thread-bare jeans and an Ozzie Osbourne T-shirt. A huge man wearing navy blue coveralls and a custodian’s name tag stood at the doorway, arms like tree trunks folded across his mighty chest. His speckled face, which appeared perpetually sunburned, was set in a forbidding scowl. Regan doubted many people would want to test him.
“How are you doing?” Regan asked the teenager after Nate had introduced her to the misnamed Tiny Dupree.
“Fine. Or I will be when I get the hell out of here.”
“Hospitals aren’t the most fun places,” she agreed. “Just tell us where you’re from, and we’ll call and have someone come get you. You can be back home by morning.”
His face and eyes hardened. “I already told the doc I don’t remember.”
“Well, I’m sure we’ll be able to help you with that,” she reassured him in her best Good Cop voice. “Have you ever heard of NOMEC?”
Those hard young eyes narrowed suspiciously. “No.”
“It stands for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. It lists every child reported missing in America. I’m sure it won’t take any time at all to find out who you are.”
He met her mild look with a level one of his own. She’d seen that expression on the faces of kids who’d grown up in dangerous, violent homes. He wasn’t the least bit afraid of the badge she’d pinned to her shirt. In fact, he seemed to be daring her to do her best.
“Cool. ’Cause it’s a real bitch not knowing who I am.”
“Well now,” Nate entered the conversation. “I’ve got myself an idea. How ’bout you and me go get a bite of supper? I haven’t eaten since noon, and after all that happened out at the crash site, I’ve got a powerful hunger.”
“May I speak with you out in the hall, mayor?” Regan asked on a frosty tone.
“Sure.” He squeezed the kid’s too-thin shoulder. “We’ll be right back.”
“Like I care.”
Regan turned on Nate the moment they left the room. “You dragged me into this, Callahan. So would you care to explain why you felt the need to interrupt my questioning?”
“I thought he might find it easier to talk to me.”
“Because you’re a man? I’m not surprised you’d take a chauvinistic view of the problem.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the man/woman thing.” When his finger skimmed over the badge she’d yet to take off, Regan could have sworn the metal heated. “Given his situation, he might not feel all that comfortable with a police officer.”
They were wasting time. As relieved as she was that they’d been able to get the driver and kid out of the truck, she hadn’t come here to take part in any rescue operation. She certainly hadn’t wanted to get involved with an uncooperative runaway. What she wanted, dammit, was to find out some facts about the woman who could very well be her birth mother.
Unfortunately, until this situation was taken care of, she wasn’t going to have Nate Callahan’s help. Only a few hours ago she wouldn’t have thought she’d needed it, but having watched him in action, she realized that he could be an asset. Not only did he seem to know everyone in town, he also possessed some sort of aura, as if he was sending out brain-altering vibes that made everyone do exactly what he wanted.
No wonder he’d been elected mayor. Regan was just grateful he’d chosen to use that personality trait for politics, because if he’d decided to be a con man, he probably would have been a crackerjack one.
“Well?” Nate asked.
“You’ve got a point,” she allowed. “But if he starts saying anything that could implicate anyone in a crime—”
“I promise I’ll shut my mouth and save any further questioning for you so I don’t mess up a court case.”
It wasn’t a bad solution. And right now it was the best they had. “Okay. Then let’s get this show on the road.”
She still didn’t quite trust Nate Callahan, but didn’t see that she had much choice. The thought of Dwayne the parking-ticket-writer tackling such sensitive questioning wasn’t at all appealing.
11
The cafeteria was small and designed to cater more to staff than to family members of patients. Since it was past visiting hours, most of the Formica tables were empty. Someone was making French fries. The smell made Josh’s mouth water.
The guy who’d dragged him out of the truck handed him a tray, then picked one up for himself. “You ever have crawfish étouffée?”
“Hell, no. Crawfish look like bugs. Who’d want to eat a bug?”
“They may not be real pretty. And you’re right about them looking kinda buglike, which I guess is how they got the name mud bugs. But they sure taste good.”
“I’d rather have a burger.” His stomach growled at the thought of a huge hunk of ground beef dripping with mayo.
“One burger, coming up,” the woman wearing a hair net and white apron standing behind the open pans of food said. “What you want on that, cher?”
“Everything.”
“You know,” Nate said, “I think I’ll have a burger, too. But hold the onions.” He shot Josh a grin. “Never know when you might have the chance to kiss a pretty girl.”
“Like that cop?”
“Detective Hart?”
“Yeah. You got something going with the bitch? Like are you shacked up together or something?”
“Contrary to what you may hear on the radio these days, life’s not a rap song,” Nate said mildly. “Why don’t you try calling her a lady?”
“What kinda lady packs heat?”
“An interesting one. And we’re not shacked up together or anything. What gave you the idea that we were?”
“Don’t know.” He shrugged, wishing he hadn’t brought it up. “She’s kind of okay looking. For a cop.”
“She’s real pretty, cop or not. And she smells good, too.”
She did. But not like she’d bathed in some too-sweet stink oil, like Josh’s mother’s old hooker pals. He looked around. This place wasn’t exactly Mickey D’s, but it was sure a lot better than some of the places he’d been eating in lately. Hell, back home if you turned your back on a bologna sandwich long enough to get a can of Dr Pepper out of the refrigerator, the roaches would carry it away.
“That sure was some wreck,” Nate said conversationally. “Lucky thing nobody got hurt too bad.”
“Yeah.” Although he couldn’t admit it, he was grateful to the guy for having saved him. Not that he was sure he deserved saving.
When he’d been younger and a lot smaller, his mother had gotten arrested for drug dealing and he’d been sent to live with his grandmother, who had never let alcoholism get in the way of her old-time fire-and-brimstone religion. She used to beat him with a leather strap, trying to knock the devil out of him, and although Josh didn’t really believe in God or the devil or heaven and hell, deep down inside, he wondered if maybe the reason no one had ever wanted him was because he’d been born bad.
