Charmed and Dangerous (26 page)

His was the type of calm born from being in too many dangerous situations.

“What made you get a divorce?” she asked him.

His brow furrowed at the non sequitur.

“Why?”

“Curiosity.”

“I was an ass,” he shrugged. “Then I was never home. Bad combination.”

She sank her chin into her hand, studying him.

“Why’d you ask that?”

“To see if you’d tell me the truth,” she said.

“And did I?”

“No,” she said, giving him a small smile. She put her purse beside her on the bateau’s seat. “But for the right reason.”

It was the first time during the whole frenzy of the day that she’d seen him look genuinely, utterly confused. She shrugged, refusing to clarify. She could easily be wrong about him. Was it instinct guiding her? Could she even trust instinct? Did a man who still had enough respect for an ex-wife to shoulder the blame have something of honor in him? She met his gaze, seeing the curiosity simmering there. Heat. She’d intrigued him, she knew. What she also knew was that Trevor was holding the map to where the geeky boys were holed up with the tiara. He didn’t need her to get to the tiara now, and yet, he hadn’t made a move to get rid of her.

Yet, she reminded herself, keeping her purse, and gun, very close.

Roy gaped at the TV screens in Vincent’s office. Two of the networks were actively tracking Bobbie Faye “sightings” and a third network was currently interviewing her ninth-grade teacher.

“Oh, she always was a firecracker, that one,” the elderly Mrs. Boudreaux drawled, squinting through her bifocals at the camera. “It’s not true, though, that she blew up the chemistry lab just by walking past it. She had actually been inside that day, doing her lab experiment just like everyone else. It wasn’t her fault those chemicals were mislabeled, bless her heart.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Roy caught a too-satisfied smile emanating from Vincent. Roy looked his direction
and then followed Vincent’s gaze to the center console. A male anchor, with a badly dyed toupee, yammered, excited.

“And so far, no word on the whereabouts of the niece. In other news, we now have reports that the social worker sent out to investigate Ms. Sumrall’s capacity of being a fit guardian for this niece has now also vanished. There have been allegations that Ms. Sumrall may be trying to get out of the country with the niece and there is speculation that the social worker has met with some unfortunate end as a result.”

“Holy shit,” Roy said, and instantly regretted gaining the attention of Vincent, Eddie, and The Mountain.

“Have no fear, dear Roy,” Vincent purred. “Bobbie Faye doesn’t have Stacey. I do.”

Bobbie Faye tracking charts now available. Red Cross strongly suggests bringing all children and small animals inside for protection. Please stay tuned for frequent coordinate updates.

—news ticker scrolling across Channel 2 News

Cam rappelled down a rope from the helicopter onto the airboat waiting below him. The muggy heat from the humid spring day, coupled with the utter stillness of the bayou, smothered him as much as if he’d slid down into an oven. He dropped the last couple of feet, his boots thumping against the airboat’s deck, rocking the craft and the milky-eyed man sitting in the driver’s seat. The helo moved away, the wind rippling the limbs on the trees and the tall grasses at the bayou’s edge.

He took a moment to assess the man. He hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, but he looked pretty much the same. The skinny old bastard was barely more than sinew and bone, baked skin taut and suntanned to a deep hickory, leather face lined with so many wrinkles, he was practically an ad for sunscreen manufacturers world ’round. But it was the cataracts that caught everyone’s attention. That, and the fact that the man could barely see, but could navigate and find anything he wanted to find.

“You found the FBI?” Cam shouted over the loud thrum of the engine.

Old Man Landry revved the airboat’s giant fan, skimming the boat across the top of the swamp. “You ain’t looking for the FBI, boy,” the old man snarled. “You’re looking for that crazy-ass, snake-bit girl.”

“And you know where she is?”

The old man gave him a dismissive shrug.

“What makes you think you can find her?”

“I find things, boy. You know that. You cracked your head lately? Or maybe Bobbie Faye cracked it for you?”

“What the hell d’you mean by that?”

“Nothin’, you idiot. But when you get ready to find that ring you done thrown in the lake there by your house, you give me a call.”

Sonofabitch. Cam reined in his expression, grinding his teeth until his jaw hurt. Benoit was the only person who knew where the ring was, and Benoit wasn’t the type to gossip. He liked holding as many cards as he could, so the old man either had a spy or . . . Cam didn’t want to contemplate the “or.”

“Have you seen her?” Cam asked, pissed that he was forced to do all of the asking. Landry delighted in control. The old man tapped his head by way of an answer and Cam cursed.

He needed to know that he wasn’t just going to find her body. He needed to prepare what the hell he was going to tell the Captain. It really wasn’t that he needed to have the feeling back in his hands, needed to stop the throbbing behind his eyes, needed to be able to pull in a deep breath and feel like his lungs weren’t on fire.

“You never did tell me why she shot you,” Cam said.

“None of your damned business, boy,” the old man snarled.

“You know it is.”

“Know nothing of the sort. You’re fishing in a dry hole, there, boy, and you should know better ’n that by now.”

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” Cam said, finally reaching his limit.

“Yep. Heard that a time or two, but usually from people prettier ’n you.” The old man turned his milky-white eyes to Cam. “Ask the question you want to ask or don’t bother me.”

“Is she alive?”

“Yep. Pissed as hell, as usual.”

“How do you know?”

The old bastard just tapped his head again.

“I’m beginning to see why Bobbie Faye shot you.”

The old man barked with laughter, wiping away tears.

“Son, you don’t know the half of it.”

Then he clammed up again, and Cam wondered if he’d ever know the real story between the old man and Bobbie Faye.

They rode awhile in the airboat, going deeper southeast into the swamps, and eventually the old man slowed the boat and the roar of the engine dropped to a tolerable level. He navigated through a small bayou, and every cell in Cam itched to grab the controls and just hurry the hell up.

“When she was a little girl,” Old Landry said, startling Cam, “she lost her brother once at the park.”

“You knew Bobbie Faye when she was kid?”

“Boy, shut up and listen.”

Cam seethed, but did as he was told.

The old man continued. “Like I was saying, she lost her brother. Her mamma was off—drinking, I s’pose, wasted—and it was up to Bobbie Faye to look after Roy. I think she was maybe ten.

“Well, after looking all over the park, she saw a bunch of boys with a tree house fort in the neighboring woods, and they were dressed up as cowboys. They were hootin’ and hollerin’ and acting like they’d won something. She heard one of ’em braggin’ ’bout capturing an Indian and they had him in the fort, so she went over to see what they were up to.”

“Roy,” Cam said, and the old man nodded.

“Now, all these boys, they were bigger ’n her, and they laughed when she told ’em to let her little brother go. The biggest one, ’bout twice her size, stepped up and shoved her and
told her to go away and go cry like a little girl somewhere else.”

Cam flinched. He felt sorry for that boy, somehow.

“Yep, she beat the ever lovin’ crap outta him. Made him eat dirt. Actual dirt.” He laughed. “And the next one that stepped up, too. The rest of ’em ran off, an’ she got Roy outta there.”

“So you’re saying she’s going to be fine.”

“No, boy. You really need to learn to shut up. I’m sayin’ Bobbie Faye thinks she ain’t got nobody but herself to fight what she’s up against and she thinks she can win with just sheer force of will.”

He turned to look at Cam again. “She can’t, this time, boy. Only she don’t know it, yet.”

Cam would have asked him how he knew, but the man wasn’t going to tell him. It was the most Cam had ever heard the old man say in all of the years he’d known him.

“Why the hell do you care? She shot you, remember?”

“Yep. She did. Good shot, too. She coulda killed me if she’d wanted to.”

“So why are you helping her? Or are you?”

The old man paused, and Cam saw something of regret pass across his face, then disappear.

“Let’s just say, I have a debt to pay, boy, that you know nothing about. And it ain’t paid yet. I’d like her to stay alive long enough not to owe her.”

The old man slowed the airboat. They were navigating a difficult area where old logs bobbed just below the surface of the water; the green moss covering the trunks blended them in with the dark water.

Cam started to ask the old man if they were close, but the old man put his fingers to his lips to hush him.

While they wound through the bayou, Cam checked the portable GPS he’d taken from the helicopter. Still working, sending off a beacon. He’d punch in a code as soon as he knew he was close and get the SWAT team in there.

He tried not to think about the fact that the old man didn’t
believe Bobbie Faye could win against the odds this time. If it were anyone else, Cam wouldn’t have paid it any attention. He stretched his arms, trying to get the feeling back, trying to breathe.

This wasn’t a good day for breathing.

Bobbie Faye had never seen a more beautiful sight in her entire life than the one before her: about a hundred yards away, on a peninsula jutting out where their bayou met a larger canal, was a small shack. It looked out of place in this setting, with its gunmetal gray steel siding, its flaking, rusted tin roof, and industrial windows with security bars. What made it beautiful was that this was the “X” on Marcel’s map.

The geeky boys were supposed to be inside.

Finally. Something had to go right, for once that day. Not even
she
had this much bad luck.

Trevor pulled their bateau over to the bank of the small canal.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked as he climbed out to tie their boat off to a tree.

“Let’s just ease up on them, okay? Wouldn’t hurt to be safe.”

“Out here in the middle of freaking nowhere? What are they going to do? Air guitar me to death?”

She didn’t want to have to trudge all the damned way to the shack, through the muddy water along the bank of the bayou. And she knew Trevor well enough at this point to know they weren’t going to walk up on the land and leave footprints. No, that would have been
much
too easy.

She might as well have been talking to the fish, for all of the good it did her. Trevor had already slung the gunrunner’s satchel-o’-goods over his shoulders, pulled out his gun, and headed toward the shack.

“Next time,” she muttered to herself, “kidnap someone a lot less bossy.”

Trevor led the way to the shack, crossing onto the peninsula only when grassy undergrowth would prevent them from leaving footprints. There was no way to see into the
windows past the heavy black-out curtains so he was being careful. Extra careful with a dollop of pokey on top.

Trevor eased toward the building, sweeping a glance across the ground, pausing to search for other footprints, carefully moving from tree to tree with such stealth he probably could have tiptoed up to a big white-tailed buck and hung bells on the horns.

It was driving her fucking insane.

She (barely) resisted the urge to ram her gun into his ribs to hurry him along.

“Will you quit being all 007 and just go the hell in there?” she whispered, unable to disguise the snarl edging her voice.

“We need to be careful,” Trevor whispered back.

“Why? Because they might start chanting algorithms? I think we can take ’em.”

They could hear the electronic pinging and whirring and clangy music of some sort of electronic game.

“See?” she said. “They’re don’t know we’re out here. Let’s go.”

She started to rise from their crouched position behind a tree and he snagged her jeans and pulled her back.

“We need to go slow,” he bossed. “You have no clue what’s in there. You have to have patience for this sort of thing.”

“Buddy, Patience hopped a bus a few hours ago and is slinging back margaritas with a bunch of sailors in some bar on the west coast by now.”

She marched over to the shack before Trevor had a chance to pull her back again, then she kicked the door in as Trevor rushed to cover her. He was back to muttering again, something about hog-tying and women, but she ignored him as she went in low, her gun drawn, forcing Trevor to go in high.

As their eyes adjusted to the dim interior, she saw a man sitting in a chair, twirling the tiara. A man whose shape looked a little too familiar, and when her eyes fully adjusted to the dim light in the room, she damned near shot him on the spot.

“Alex! What the hell are you doing here?” she shouted, and he laughed.

“Well, now,
chère,
I realized something after we left you out there. You have something I want, and you’re pretty good at weaseling out of giving it back. I knew where you were heading and I knew you needed something of your mamma’s, and I figure this must be it. Now, I think, we’re even.”

“You bastard,” she seethed, pointing the gun directly at him.

His eyes narrowed a bit and he nodded to the opposite corner.

There were two of his gunmen there, guns pointed at Bobbie Faye and Trevor. On the floor next to them were the geeky boys, tied up and gagged, both looking like they’d wet their pants.

“See, now, Bobbie Faye. I’ve got two men over there who ain’t a bit from Louisiana, an’ you know what that means?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Dat means,
chère
, that they don’t give two shakes if you’re Contraband Days Queen or not.”