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Both.
He clicked the brights, haloing the grasses growing on either side of the dirt road. No one was out this early in the morning, not even the shrimpers. The road was uneven, jarring him, but there was no other way out except by boat. He reached the turnoff and headed north on the highway hugging the Bayou Lafourche. Businesses and houses lined the highway on either side of the water. He crossed a lock bridge to reach the other side and rode thirty miles in silence toward Houma. Each mile brought him closer to a no-win situation.
He’d go to jail. Maybe even Angola.
He swallowed and tried to focus on the smattering of businesses outside Houma. The interstate would be quicker, but Sal didn’t want to go fast. He knew what lay ahead. Billy wasn’t smart enough to pull the scheme off. Sal should have known better than to mix himself up with a piece of bayou trash like Billy. He turned past the entrance ramp for I-49 and took Highway 182 instead, finding peace in the old highway that would eventually cross the Bayou Tete, the very bayou he’d spent so much time on, fishing and contemplating what a failure he’d become.
The road twisted like a serpent, winding around the Louisiana wetlands before brushing against the tangled trees, sad against the February darkness. It made Sal feel melancholic. He yearned for better times. Bait on his hook, Pabst Blue Ribbon in hand, herons gliding to perches on the bayous off the Atchafalaya. How had he come to this?
His headlights caught a shape in the road. He jerked the steering wheel hard, standing on the brakes at the same time. Too late. The image of a gator in the road flashed through his mind at the same time the truck crashed through the guardrail and went airborne. Cypress limbs blocked his vision just before a sickening thud jarred the vehicle. Sal threw his hands in front of his face as the trunk of a tree hurtled toward him. His head snapped backward at collision and he vaguely registered falling, flipping, hitting the water with a loud crack.
Sal gasped for air as water the color of weak coffee poured into the mangled cab. “Hep!”
His mouth felt stuffed with cotton and he couldn’t make his legs move. His lungs starved for oxygen. He gulped at the air, hoping to drink it, telling his body to move. No use. “Hep!”
His mind raced though his body could not move. Broken rail. Someone would see. Water deep. Truck sinking. He could taste the fecund water of the swamp. It filled his mouth, stinging his nostrils as he inhaled the essence of Louisiana, his birthplace, his home.
His hands flopped useless beside him, like large oars adrift in a current. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t save himself. He’d cheated death one victim that night when he’d taken the girl to Enola, but it would wait no longer to claim a replacement.
Sal said a prayer as the water reached his eyes, but there was nothing to comfort him. Nothing except the sound of justice and regret roaring in his ears.
And the last thought to register before he slipped into a place of darkness was no one would know what had happened to Della Dufrene.
CHAPTER TWO
South Louisiana, 2010
ANNA MENDES, AKA ANNIE PEREZ, stared down at her charge and cursed her bad luck for being the only woman at the agency fit for the job. Masquerading as a nanny? Not exactly easy. More like impossible. “Please tell me you’re joking, Spencer.”
The five-year-old stood next to a potato-chip display making a horrible face. “I’m sorry, Annie, but I think I’m gonna fro up.”
Annie looked down at her shoes—her new running shoes she’d bought with her first paycheck—then back at Spencer, who had squeezed his eyes closed. He did look green around the gills. Perhaps the chocolate milk had been too much. She glanced desperately around the gas station/deli as if there might be someone lurking around the overcrowded shelves to help her. Her gaze landed on a bottle of pink bismuth. Perfect. “How about some medicine? Something to settle your—”
Too late.
Spencer jackknifed forward and reacquainted Annie with the pint of chocolate milk he’d guzzled after they’d left the outskirts of Baton Rouge.
“Oh, God.” Annie jumped back about a yard and stared at the child, waiting for his head to spin around. Then it registered. She was in charge. Of the child. Of the situation. She needed napkins and cold water. “Okay, Spencer, okay. It’s fine. We’ll get this cleaned up.”
The boy looked up, tears welling in his big brown eyes. “I’m sorry, Annie. I didn’t mean to.”
Her heart melted even as she felt queasy herself. Poor kid. The whole thing was her fault. A child probably wasn’t supposed to drink that much on a road trip. She should have known, but no discussion of chocolate milk had been in any of the parenting books she’d pored over in preparation for this assignment. It hadn’t been in Know Your Child: A Study on Child Behavior or in So You Think You Can Parent? She knew. She’d read both from cover to cover, and still had no clue what in the hell she was doing.
She grabbed a stack of napkins from next to the slushie machine and mopped Spencer’s face. “Don’t worry, Spence. Are you feeling better?”
He nodded his head, “Uh-huh.”
“Good. Let’s go wash up. I’ll find the store manager and report our little accident.”
“What in the name of—” a voice shrieked behind her.
Annie spun around. Obviously, the gas-station manager had found them. “We had a little accident.”
Spencer whimpered so Annie placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“A little accident?” the woman said, screwing up her nose. She had bleached-blond hair and wore a Breaux Mart T-shirt three sizes too big for her small frame. Deep pocketed eyes, tanning-bed faux tan and smoker’s lips made Annie think of the prostitutes sitting on stools of the clubs surrounding the military base where she’d worked security years before.
“Yes, an accident,” Annie said, hardening her gaze. Spencer settled his head against her thigh so Annie moved her hand up to rub his head. The books had been very emphatic about young kids needing constant affection and praise. She rubbed harder.
The older woman spread her hands. “I can’t believe I gotta clean this up. I just got through cleanin’ all the johns this morning. Jesus.”
“Good to know the bathroom is clean. Come on, Spencer. Let’s let this nice lady do her job.”
The manager stared hard at Annie, making her glad she had combat training. If looks could kill—well, Annie would be on the floor forcing another cleanup on the paper-product-and-automotive aisle.
Spencer allowed himself to be tugged toward the neon bathroom sign in the back of the store, only putting the brakes on when he saw the candy aisle. “Hey, Annie, can I have—”
“Don’t even think about it, bud,” she interrupted, toeing the bathroom door open with her foot. She’d made a mistake at the airport giving in to the milk. She wasn’t stupid. Spencer wouldn’t see candy until he was returned to his mother.
“But I want candy!”
“Too bad.” Annie shoved him into the dark bathroom and flipped on the light. Yep, the bathroom was clean. Sorta.
“You have to give it to me. I’ve been good. You said if I was good on the airplane I could have a prize. I want a candy bar.”
No more relying on advice from a book. She went on instinct. “No. You puked all over the floor, and now that lady has to clean it up. The last thing you need is candy.”
He stuck out his bottom lip.
“Wash your hands,” Annie said, in the voice she’d used on suspects she apprehended.
Spencer didn’t move.
“My way or the highway, bud.” She flicked the faucet handle so water gushed into the sink and glanced in the mirror as Spencer finally got the message and shoved his hands under the flow.
Lord, she looked terrible.
Her normally tamed hair had slipped from its clip and frizzed around her face. Usually her olive skin glowed, but today it looked mottled. Her gray eyes looked tired. Confused. Resigned to a crappy life she had never intended.
Oh, she knew how she’d gotten back to square one. She’d dared to hope for a normal life back in her home state of California, throwing away a perfectly good career for a man, his daughter and a shot at being happy homemaker—all because she watched It’s a Wonderful Life and decided she needed a do over.
She’d been beyond naive. Okay, bordering on stupid.
So now she worked on a trial basis for Sterling Security and Investigations, LLC, as an undercover nanny. God, it sounded like a movie starring Sandra Bullock. No, she’d been a beauty queen or something. Still, having her first assignment encompass planning playdates and scrubbing mushy graham crackers off her T-shirt wasn’t what she had in mind when she told former FBI agent Ace Sterling she’d take the job. Typing reports for the firm would be better than being stuck in BF, Louisiana, with a conniving, adorable five-year-old and his celebrity parents.
“I’m done,” Spencer said, holding out his dripping hands.
Annie grabbed a paper towel. “Good job. Always wash your hands. Germs can make you sick.”
“And chocolate milk,” Spencer observed gravely.
“Yes, and chocolate milk.”
They exited the bathroom, passing the unhappy manager, and walked out into the oppressive heat. First day of fall, her ass. Felt more like a mid-August heat wave. No wonder her hair looked like it belonged in a Twisted Sister video. But, really, why did she care? She had never worried about her hair, her makeup or wearing kicky little kitten heels. Annie was a professional. Hair got in the way. Makeup wasn’t necessary. And she’d be damned if she ever wore anything on her feet like Tawny Keene did. Spencer’s mother was asking for a broken ankle.
She pressed the button on the key fob, unlocking the doors of the rental car sitting by the pump. Spencer wriggled into the booster seat in the back and grabbed his iPod touch. Annie made sure the seat belt was snug and then swiped the credit card issued by the Keene family and filled the car.
Even though they were only thirty minutes from their destination, Annie knew a full tank of gas was always a good idea. Be prepared. First as a security officer in the Air Force and later as a field agent in the FBI, Annie had taken pride in expecting the unexpected. She had never been without extra ammunition, money, false IDs or any other necessities an agent might need.
She glanced around, taking stock of her surroundings. No one had followed them from Baton Rouge. Whoever had been sending threatening messages to the Keene family was likely back in California, but she couldn’t be too careful. Her job was to protect Spencer while helping to investigate the threats. That’s what she was getting the not-so-big bucks for.
Annie set the gas handle in its cradle and screwed the lid on the tank. She had to stop beating herself up. She’d gotten herself into this situation and she’d have to make lemonade from the lemons. She could always toss in some vodka to make it less painful.
But not on the job. Never on the job.
She slid behind the wheel and started the engine, determined to have a better outlook—after all, she’d avoided vomit on her new shoes, hadn’t she?
Just as she pulled forward a government car swung in front of her. She held one hand over the horn, but pulled it back as the car slid into a parking spot in front of the gas station/deli. The door opened and one long leg emerged followed by its owner.
The man wasn’t in uniform, but Annie knew automatically he was a cop. Or a detective, more likely. Something about him had that aura. Smart. Disciplined. Sexy.
She shook her head at the last thought and inched forward, wondering if the heat had gotten to her.
The man turned toward her, giving her a nice view of a strong jaw, dark hair and crooked nose. The nose, whether acquired in a bar fight or merely a hazard of the job, made him more interesting. He worked out, that was certain. His chest was broad, but he looked quick enough. He must have felt her perusal because he zeroed in on her as the car swooped by him.
She saw the antenna raise and bleep in his mind. Awareness of something different. Rental car. Note license plate. File away in recesses of mind for later use if necessary. It was exactly what she’d have done.
Spencer started humming as she pulled onto the highway, glancing at the GPS affixed to the windshield. Twenty-two more miles until the turnoff for Beau Soleil, the plantation home where Carter and Tawny Keene waited for them. The mansion served as a backdrop for the movie Carter was directing, some mystery or horror movie starring Spencer’s mother as the dumb blonde who ironically doesn’t get axed in the opening. Or something like that. Annie hadn’t paid too much attention—horror films didn’t interest her. She liked period pieces, so maybe the old house would be interesting. She would be staying there with the Keene family while the rest of the cast and crew stayed at a local motel.
The drive to Bayou Bridge, the town nearest the plantation home, was uneventful. Tangled woods with palmetto lurking beneath branches lined the highway with the occasional pasture interrupting. Then there was the long bridge over the mysterious swamp basin with thin trees and brackish waters giving rise to the flight of the odd egret. It had a unique beauty that drew Annie’s eyes from the monotonous asphalt more times than it should.
The cell phone sitting in the cup holder chirped. She looked down. Tawny again. The woman was a high-maintenance nightmare, but she worshipped her Spencer. Annie ignored the jittering phone since they would be there in ten minutes and she didn’t want to pull over and waste time.
“Is that my mom?” Spencer asked.
“Um—” She didn’t want to lie. The books had said be truthful with children. “Hey, we’re almost there. Then we can see about getting some of those crawfish for dinner, huh?”
“Really? Cool.”
Mission accomplished.
She exited the interstate and drove through the charming Bayou Bridge before taking the turn on the highway that hugged the Bayou Tete. Annie wanted to stop the car and indulge in the sight of colossal live oaks fanning their branches over the snaking river, but didn’t. Beau Soleil sat on the bank of the bayou so there would be plenty of time to contemplate the land of Evangeline later. She could only imagine the breathtaking sunsets and her footfalls on the hidden paths beside the water. Maybe she could sneak a run in that very evening.
“Am I gonna get to see a real alligator, too?” Spencer interrupted her yearning for tranquility and a good sweat. She never knew kids asked so many questions, but they did. Lots.
“I don’t know.”
“But this is Wouisiana. I gotta see an alligator.” Spencer allowed a little whine into his voice. She’d given him a picture book about the bayou state when she found out they’d have to go. He’d studied the thing on the plane, pointing out Mardi Gras floats, crawfish and his absolute favorite subject—alligators. Then she’d found a book called Mr. Breaux Bader and his Ghost Town Gator at the airport and read it three times while they waited on their luggage.
“It’s Louisiana, and I’m sure we can find someone who will take us to see an alligator.”
“Cool. I can’t wait.”
The trees hung over the road, blocking out the afternoon sun, and as Annie took a big curve, she saw the iron gates opening to Beau Soleil. First impression was stately, old and very Southern. Annie felt a shiver as she drove through. She wasn’t sure if it was a sense of homecoming, which would have been weird, or a sense of foreboding, which would be alarming. But something snaked along her spine.
“We’re here.”
She heard the iPod touch thump against the seat.
“What’s that?” Spencer asked.
“What’s what?”
“That.”
Annie swiveled her head to see a small patch of ground ringed with an old iron fence laced with rose bushes. Concrete tombs surrounded a huge mausoleum sitting in the center. “Um, a cemetery.”
“What’s that?”
The questions the kid asked. Jeez. They hadn’t addressed death in those books she’d studied. Wasn’t that a parent’s job? Be truthful. “It’s where they bury people when they die.”
“They put you in a box like that? I thought you got put in dirt or something. That’s where they put my gram. They covered her up with dirt.”
“Well, usually they do, but this area is below sea level so they can’t do that here in South Louisiana.”
“What’s sea wevel?”
Lord, help me. She glanced in the mirror. He looked perplexed. “Ask you mother.”
Explaining death, burial and the fact bodies would float if they were buried below sea level wasn’t in her job description. She had to draw the line somewhere.
The car crunched down the gravel road framed by thick woods on either side. Finally, the view opened to reveal a huge yellow plantation home.
“Wow,” Spencer breathed from the backseat.
His response was an understatement. The home sitting at the end of the drive was beautiful in the way a grand old dame was. Clinging to the vestiges of beauty, showing the good bones beneath but helpless against the ravages of time. It was the perfect house for a Southern Gothic horror flick.
Spencer bounced around in the backseat.
“Hey, are you out of the booster?”
“Yeah. We’re in the driveway.” He said it with a teenager’s “duh” tone.
“Doesn’t matter. If I applied the brakes, you could get hurt.” She tapped the brakes a bit to show him. Spencer flew forward and smacked his head on the console.
“Owwww!” he cried.
Crap. She smothered another stronger curse under her tongue and stopped in the middle of the drive. She turned to the boy who had started wailing. “Oh, Spencer, I’m sorry. Let me see.”
