Eleven

Two blocks from Sun House, Ava and Tenny slowed, and even held hands, so they looked like a couple out for a stroll, rather than fugitives. Tenny was convinced the security thugs wouldn’t pursue them in broad daylight, and Ava agreed. They were walking beneath the cool shade of a no-doubt hundred-year-old live oak dressed in moss like Christmas tinsel, when Tenny’s phone chirped in his pocket.

“Hi, love,” he answered, and Ava looked down at their joined hands, and sighed.

“Convincing,” she muttered, and he swung her arm back and forth in a petulant, punishing way that made her snort, and him squint one eye and stick his tongue out at her.

Then he stilled all over. He kept walking, but his stride turned purposeful, and the rest of his body iced over like a pond in winter, expression flat, eyes darting across the street and then straight ahead. “Yeah. Yeah. We’ll meet you there.” When he slipped his phone away, he tugged her hand and they started jogging again.

“What?”

“They found Regina.”

“Shit, where?”

“Holding a gun on Alex’s mother.”

~*~

After the screaming phone call, the blonde fumbled a pack of cigarettes from her purse one-handed, and was trembling so badly she barely got one lit. Throughout this ritual, her gun hand drooped, and wavered, and Tina debated throwing herself to the floor and crawling for safety. The problem, though, was that even an unsteady gun hand was still holding a gun , and it would take longer to run than it would to shore up a grip and fire.

So Tina sat, feeling stupid and helpless, anxious sweat trickling down her back, but she didn’t dare reach to scratch the itch it left behind for fear it might set the woman off. She was…not doing well.

“You sit there, bitch,” she said, mostly to herself, cigarette bobbing off her lip as she paced back and forth in front of the sink. “You just sit there, and your son’s gonna come, and Harlan’s gonna come, and it’ll be because of me .” She slapped her free hand against her chest, above the neckline of her dress, and when she lifted it, skin peeled from skin with a sticky sound; she was sweating, too. “My mama tried her whole fucking life to get those boys, but it’ll be me . I’ll be the one to get them.” Her smile was a feral rictus, bleached teeth shadowed deeply at the edges from nicotine.

With a jolt, Tina realized who “Harlan” was. She envisioned Alex sitting across from her at this very table, his face, so handsome and broad and strong-featured, so like his father’s, pinched between the brows and the corners of his eyes with worry. Remy had been a thoughtful man, easily troubled, prone to brooding over his thoughts stoically, and Alex was the same way. But he’d told her about the agent digging up the bodies in the swamp, the one giving him grief, the one hellbent on going after Felix: Harlan Boyle.

What was an FBI agent doing messing around with a woman like this? Approving of her actions or not, he knew she was running around town with a gun in her purse. He was…

Cold dread filled her stomach, and she was glad she hadn’t eaten, because there was nothing to come back up.

She didn’t know if Boyle had figured out that Felix and Alex were related: most likely, if he saw a photo of Felix and compared the two of them even a little. All three of Remy’s boys could have been triplets, had they been the same ages. Boyle had some sort of obsession with Felix, that much Alex had made clear a few months ago. If that obsession now included Alex – and what else could she surmise about a trembling woman holding a gun on her and demanding she get Alex here now? – it meant that Boyle was an equal opportunity Lécuyer hater…or that Alex had interfered on Felix’s behalf, and put himself in Boyle’s crosshairs.

The blonde peered out the window over the sink, and then turned back to Tina. “Where is he? Why isn’t he here yet?”

“I don’t know. I have no idea where he was to start with.”

The blonde bared her teeth. “Did you tip him off? Did you say something ?”

“You were standing right there. You heard the call.”

“Shut up.”

Alex had told her a story, once, about a hostage situation he’d witnessed as a trainee. The recruits hadn’t been allowed to get involved, merely watched what happened on the monitors in the van the feds were using as a communications center. It had been a bank robbery, and the robber had turned out to be only eighteen, and terrified, and Alex had marveled at the way the negotiator talked him down; chipping carefully at his edges until the kid broke down in tears, and laid down his weapon, and walked out of the bank with his hands up.

He'd shared a bit of wisdom the negotiator had shared with the recruits that day, after it was all over: people didn’t do crazy, illegal things for shits and giggles. There was always a reason, and it was always personal. Something in their life had gone wrong, and by God, they were going to get theirs, in some fashion, usually at the expense of innocents. Soft targets , Alex had called them. People the perps thought they could use or manipulate.

Tina supposed she was the soft target, in this scenario.

But she thought, if she could play it delicately, that she might could play negotiator, too.

“I’m sorry,” she said, softly. She didn’t have a soft voice, usually. She was blunt, and her accent was thick, and she didn’t say anything she didn’t mean, so why play at demure? She’d always been a tall and leggy sort of girl, and she couldn’t stand when anyone over five-seven pretended they were dainty and fragile. But now, while the blonde stubbed out her cigarette on the edge of the counter and fumbled for a fresh one, she made her voice small, and soft, and placating.

The blonde paused with the lighter trembling in front of her cig, flame wavering back and forth. The gun was steadier, but not by much, aimed at the top of the table. “What?”

“That phone call you got,” Tina said. “I couldn’t hear anything, but it sounded rough.” Venturing further, inwardly wincing: “He doesn’t sound like a very nice guy, your Harlan.”

For a moment, the blonde didn’t move. Tina feared she’d screwed up, that she was about to be pistol-whipped – but then the woman’s lips curved upward in a humorless smile around the cig’s filter, and she lit it, and snorted.

“No shit. What was your first clue?” she asked, exhaling around the cigarette while she tucked her lighter back in her purse. After, she gripped the cig between her fingers and withdrew it to tap ash onto the floor. “Point me out a man who’s not a shithead, and I’ll call you a damn liar.”

Tina was so shocked not to have drawn her ire that she sat for a moment, stupid and uncertain of what to say next. Finally, once the blonde had fixed her with an expectant look, she said, “My son’s not a shithead.”

Her smile widened, mocking, now, but less frantic than before. She took another drag, and said, “Yeah, well, he’s a mama’s boy, then. You’re not fucking him – fucking men turns them into assholes.”

Tina shrugged and nodded. “Yeah. It’s why I’m not married.”

That seemed to surprise her. Her brows lifted on her next drag. “Yeah? Old Man Lécuyer ruin you for everyone else?” Her voice went snide at the end, her smile cruel: she enjoyed delivering what she thought was a heart blow.

Tina said, “I mean, he was hung.”

The blonde nodded as if to say of course .

“But he wasn’t the love of my life or anything. I’ve never had one of those, and I don’t guess I ever will.”

The blonde smirked, eyes flashing with disgust. “That kinda shit’s made up anyway.” She peered at Tina over the smoking cherry of her cig, and then nodded, as though she’d come to a decision. Tina read it as approval, for some reason.

“I hear his son likes to torture people for fun.”

“Which one?”

Flash of teeth. Tina felt clever, and worried she could feel that way right up until she caught a bullet between the eyes.

The blonde said, “The one who’s supposed to be my brother.”

“I think he is your brother. Half-brother. He’s Dee’s son.”

Another shrug.

“You ever met him?” Tina ventured.

“Have you ?” the blonde countered, and they shook their heads at the same time.

“Alex has. I think – I think that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Why you wanted Alex to come? To get to Felix?”

The blonde’s next drag was short and sharp, agitated. Her lips twitched downward, and Tina knew she’d pushed too hard. Whatever fragment of good will she’d engendered before, the blonde dismissed it with a restless tap of cigarette ash onto the floor.

“That’s none of your fucking business,” she snapped. “You–”

The doorbell rang.

There was a speaker for it in the foyer, and here in the kitchen, above the wall-mounted clock, and both of them startled hard at its tinny, cheerful bing-bong .

The blonde flicked her cigarette into the sink where it hit a puddle with a hiss. “Fuck. Harlan.” She lit up for a moment, her smile manic, her hand trembling so badly Tina thought – hoped – she might drop the gun. She twisted, poised to rush toward the front door, and then froze. Her head snapped around toward Tina, and the gun leveled and steadied.

“Go answer it,” she said, just as the doorbell sounded again.

Was it Harlan? Or Alex?

Tina didn’t want to find out firsthand, but, well, the gun was trained on her face.

When she pushed up from the table, she found that her knees were trembly and weak, and she had to clutch at the edge of the table for balance.

“Get going,” the blonde snapped. “Stop faking that shit.”

It wasn’t fake – neither was the way her heart kicked like a triphammer. She seemed to be moving in slow motion down the hall, the light that fell through the sidelights on either side of the door miles distant, the end of an endless tunnel. But then, before she was ready, she was at the door, her hand on the knob. She turned back to look over her shoulder.

The blonde had ducked into the dining room, nothing but her face and gun hand visible. She pointed at her eyes, and then at Tina. I’m watching you. Don’t try anything .

Tina turned back to the door, braced herself, and opened it.

It was neither Boyle nor Alex, but a woman. She spotted a flash of blonde hair, and bit back a groan of dismay. Did this bitch have a sister? A friend? Was another gun about to be unsteadily thrust into face, by an overprocessed, washed up showgirl?

But then the differences leaped out at her.

The woman standing on her welcome mat was tall, and indeed blonde, but her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and her makeup was light and practical, and not caked over a fake orange tan. She was dressed in a t-shirt, fitted dark slacks, and a blazer. Low-heeled boots.

She beamed at Tina. “Tina, hi!” And then, before Tina could react, swept her into a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you!”

“What?” Tina said, startled.

In her ear, barely audible, the woman whispered, “My name’s Izzy. I’m an agent. Alex sent me.”

An agent! Alex sent her! Hope leaped in Tina’s chest, and her arms closed tightly around the woman – Izzy – on helpless, joyful instinct.

But as quick as it came, the hope was dashed by the knowledge of what lay behind her in the house. “She has a gun,” she whispered back.

“I know,” Izzy whispered, then pushed her back at arm’s length. “You look great.” She steered Tina back into the house, and turned her, so that she stood between Tina and the doorway to the dining room.

Oh no. A glance proved the blonde had ducked out of sight, but that wasn’t reassuring.

~*~

Tenny had a slender, collapsible pair of binoculars held to his face where they were ducked down across the street from Alex’s mother’s house, hidden behind the rear end of an old Buick parked at the curb.

“Shit,” he murmured, tucking the binoculars back into the inside pocket of his jacket. “It’s that blonde fed from the café.”

“Duet?” Ava asked, startled, and stood up straighter to get a better look over the Buick’s trunk. Sure enough, Isabella Duet stood in the open door of the house, hugging an older blonde woman who must be Tina Bonfils as if they were old friends. “Shit, do they already know each other?”

Tenny let out a quiet whistle. “Man moves fast, I suppose.”

Ava shook her head, watching as Duet backed Tina into the house and then heeled the door closed. “No. Alex must have called her and asked her to swing by.”

“How’s that for trust?”

“Yeah.” Ava didn’t like that a badge-wielding agent had joined the fray, but this was Alex’s mom: he was understandably panicked and wanted all the help he could get. But, selfishly… “She better not arrest Boyle,” she said, darkly. “I want that fucker mounted on a wall somewhere, not eating three squares in a cell.”

“You’re assuming he’d do hard time,” Tenny said, drily, and then began crab-walking sideways down the length of the Buick. “Stay here. Keep an eye out. Call me if someone pulls up.” He paused at the Buick’s nose, hands braced on the hood, and shot her a hard, pointed look. “ Stay here ,” he repeated.

“God, okay. Just go.”

He went, with an unimpressed look that said he didn’t trust her. He was smart not to.

~*~

Tina widened her eyes and tipped her head in a silent bid to convey the blonde’s location.

Izzy’s face was tense, ready, and she nodded. She kept one hand on Tina’s shoulder, and with the other reached inside her blazer; the fabric shifted and Tina saw that she had a gun in a shoulder holster there, and that she gripped its butt tightly. When she spoke – voice falsely bright – it concealed the quiet pop of the safety strap coming off the holster. “Gosh, it's been a long time! Did you get my email?”

Tina glimpsed movement from the dining room doorway. “Look–” she started.

Izzy whirled.

A gunshot cracked through the foyer.

~*~

Ava heard the shot, and her whole body went still and hot and tight as a sprung hare’s, before her pulse skyrocketed and adrenaline flooded every nerve. It had been a loud, booming shot, a cannon blast not unlike that of the .357 she’d used to dispatch the pretend Mercy in her mudroom.

Not anything Tenny was carrying.

Not a service-issue nine mil that a fed would carry.

Boyle.

Ava pulled her own gun – the deceptively light .45 she’d nicked from her dad’s personal stash – and charged across the street toward the house.

Skkkkkkreeeeeee–

Tires. Those were squealing tires.

Ava registered the sudden, winding-down roar of an engine, and skidded, and jumped, and saw a Honda sedan slam to a halt in the center of the street, just inches shy of where she’d been a moment before.

She caught herself hard with one hand on the pavement, felt grit and gravel score her palm, then scrambled back to her feet and found herself face-to-face with the driver’s side window, and the driver beyond it.

It was Boyle.

“ Fuck .” The word exploded out of her, along with all of her breath, and she saw his lips form the same word.

Then the tires squealed again as he stomped on the gas.

“No!” She saw the license plate receding from here as if in slow-mo, the letters and numbers searing into her brain. Then she lifted her gun and fired.

The back window shattered. Black-centered silver flowers bloomed along the bumper and the trunk. She aimed for the rear tires, but the car was moving too quickly, and then whipped around a corner and disappeared.

“No!” she shouted again, arms shaking where she still held the gun aimed down the street.

Then another shot echoed from inside the house – the neat, staccato pop of a semi-auto that was Tenny.

“Fuck,” she swore again, and went charging across the lawn and up the porch steps.

The scene that greeted her in the front hallway contained far too many blonde women.

Tina Bonfils stood nearest the door, both hands clapped over her mouth, eyes wide and staring.

Isabella Duet was sitting with her back against a doorjamb, one hand pressed to her left arm, blood leaking between her fingers, her teeth clenched, face pale with pain.

The other blonde’s minidress had gotten rucked up around her thighs to reveal a scrappy teal thong and bottle-orange thighs. Tenny was up by her head, kneeling on her shoulders and pinning her down. Her right knee was a bloody, pulpy mess. Tenny’s hand clapped over her mouth had turned what were doubtless ear-piercing shrieks into muffled grunts and whimpers. Mascara had run down her face in black streaks, and her eyes bugged out of her face when she spied Ava. There was recognition there, and anger, and fear, and no small amount of pain.

“Here.” Tenny lifted a hefty, blue-barreled .38 over his shoulder, and Ava took it and jammed it through her belt. He grunted as he shifted his weight and shoved the woman’s head roughly to the floor. Her eyes squeezed shut after the thud . “Lucky for Alex’s lady friend, this one’s a terrible shot. Who were you shooting?”

“Boyle.”

His head snapped up, brows lifted.

“He was in a car. Almost ran me over. He got away.”

“Bastard,” he said absently. “There’s a syringe in my back pocket. Come get it.”

As Ava walked around behind him, she caught Duet’s eye and said, “You okay?”

“Bitch shot me.” Duet grimaced, peeled her bloody hand off her arm, and peered at the hole in her blazer. “But I’ll live, yeah. You were at Café du Monde this morning,” she said, and Ava gave her props for being this cogent after being shot. “Both of you.”

Ava crouched and fished the syringe from Tenny’s pocket; passed it over his shoulder. He uncapped it with his teeth and jammed it into the side of the blonde’s neck. The contents took effect within moments. She went lax. Her head tipped back, and her eyes fell shut.

“Are you friends of Alex’s?” Duet pressed.

Ava’s adrenaline was beginning to ebb, and without it, she felt tired, and frustrated, and more than a little cranky. “I’m his sister-in-law,” she said as she stood, and holstered her own gun, finally. “Ava Lécuyer.”

Duet’s eyes widened.

Tina Bonfils actually gasped.

Duet said, “Your son’s the little boy who’s missing.”

Ava bit back a smart remark – honestly, she was too damn exhausted for it. “Yeah,” she said, and left it at that.

“Does Alex know you’re–”

“Yeah. We were making sure you weren’t being followed this morning.”

As though in a daze, Tina lowered her hands and said, “You’re Felix’s wife?”

“Yeah.”

Her gaze shifted to Tenny. “And you’re–”

“My Belgian Malinois,” Ava said.

Tenny said, “Hey – well, no, actually, that’s a compliment. Not mad about the possessive, though.”

Ava kicked him in his skinny butt. She gestured down at the woman with the shot-out knee. “You did that?”

“Obviously,” Tenny said.

“Who is she?” This she directed at Tina, who shook her head. “I have no idea.”

But Ava thought she did. There was a bag, lying on the floor inside the dining room, where it had either been dropped or flung when the woman was shot. Ava pawed past two packs of smokes, a lighter, a pill bottle, a baggie of what was definitely coke, and finally unearthed a wallet.

“Regina Carroll,” she read off the license she found inside, and when she looked back at the woman’s ruined knee, she was flooded with satisfaction – and an urge to inflict greater harm.

“I figured you wanted her alive,” Tenny said, note of a question ringing in his voice.

“Oh, definitely.”

The front door still stood open, and through it Ava heard another engine, and more squealing brakes, followed by the pounding of feet over the grass. But the desperate call of, “Mom? Mom!” as the footsteps reached the sidewalk meant she didn’t draw her gun.

Alex burst into the house at a dead run and grabbed his mother up in both arms, lifting her feet off the ground as he hugged her.

“I’m okay, sweetie, I’m okay.” It was jarring to watch Tina go from stunned and flustered to composed and reassuring within a span of seconds. Ava felt like she didn’t see the real her until she was patting Alex on the back and assuring him that she was okay. “Your friend is hurt, though, honey.”

He set her down, but didn’t turn her loose completely, one big hand on her shoulder as he turned to Ava and Tenny, then to Regina Carroll, sprawled unconscious on the floor. His brows flew up when he saw what sort of condition she was in.

Ava said, “No, dumbass, it’s Duet.”

Then he whipped around and finally spotted Duet propped up and bleeding against the wall and he said, “Oh, Jesus, what happened?” and dropped to one knee at her side.

Duet’s forehead was shiny with sweat, and her throat bobbed jerkily as she swallowed. “I think–” Her teeth were chattering so hard it was difficult to understand her. “I’m gonna…pass out.” And then she did.