Tami Hoag - A Thin Dark Line

He's insane, she thought. She'd seen what he was capable of. She cut a glance at the duffel bag sitting on the bench. Two feet away. The zipper was open. If she was fast… If she was lucky…

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about," she said, keeping her mouth in motion to buy time. "Kudrow's trying to jam me up with the department so I don't have anyone to turn to but his side. I wouldn't work for him if he paid in gold bullion."

Fourcade didn't seem to hear her.

"Would he chance all that?" he mused to himself. "That's the question. 'Course, he'd only have to pay off the blackmail 'til he's dead, and that won't be long…"

With all the power she could muster, Annie brought her right knee up into his groin, then dropped to the floor as Fourcade staggered back, doubled over, swearing.

"Fils de putain! Merde! Fuck! Fuck!"

Oh please oh please oh please. She plunged her hand into the duffel bag and groped for the Sig. Her fingertips grazed the holster.

"Lookin' for this?"

The Sig appeared before her eyes in the palm of Fourcade's hand, one finger hooked through the trigger guard. He had dropped to his knees behind her and now pulled her head back by a handful of hair and shoved his body into hers, pinning her against the bench.

"You fight dirty, 'Toinette," he murmured. "I like that in a woman."

"Fuck you, Fourcade!"

"Mmm…"he purred, pressing against her, pressing his rough cheek against hers. "Don't give me ideas, 'tite belle."

Slowly, he rose, his hand still tangled in her hair, drawing her up with him.

"You, you're not much of a hostess, 'Toinette," he said, directing her toward the kitchen where the light was bright and cheery. "You haven't even offered me a chair."

"Sorry, I flunked home ec."

"I'm sure you have other talents. A flair for decorating, I see."

He took in the small kitchen with amazement. Someone had painted a dancing alligator on the door of the ancient refrigerator. Canisters in the likeness of stair-step doughboys lined one counter. The wall clock was a plastic black cat whose eyes and tail twitched back and forth with the passing seconds.

One chair was pulled out at the chrome-legged table. He sat her down. Snatching up the pen she had left on the tabletop, he backed up to the counter.

Annie stared at him. Some of the wildness had gone out of his eyes, though his gaze was no less intense. He stood with his arms crossed in front of him, her gun dangling from his big hand as if it were a toy.

"Now, where were we before you tried to kick my balls up to my back teeth?"

"Oh… somewhere between delusional and psychotic."

"Was it Kudrow? He buy you and Stokes?"

"Stokes?"

"What? You thought you were getting all the pie? Stokes got me into that bar. Why go there? Nobody ever goes there. To be away from the grunts, he tells me. And Bowen amp; Briggs, that just happens to be right across the alley. How fucking handy. Then along comes little 'Toinette to keep an eye on me while ol' Chaz goes his merry way."

"Why would I let Kudrow buy me?" she asked. A futile attempt at reason, she supposed. "Yours isn't the only career taking a beating here, you know. I'll be mopping out jail cells before this is over. Kudrow doesn't have enough money to make up for that."

Nick tipped his head to one side and considered. He hadn't eaten all day, but had fed on anger and frustration and suspicion, and washed it all down with a few belts of whiskey. And now something black and rotten surfaced in the brew and slipped out of his mouth in a whisper.

"Duval Marcotte."

Son of a bitch. The pieces fit with oily ease. The similarity of the cases would appeal to Marcotte's sense of irony. And he sure as hell knew how to buy cops. The face of the New Orleans reporter at the courthouse came back to him. Shit. He should have seen it coming.

He pounced at Annie, making her bolt back in the chair. "What'd he give you? What'd he promise you?"

"Duval Marcotte?" she said, incredulous. "Are you out of your mind? Oh, Christ, look who I'm asking!"

He leaned down into her face, wagging the nose of the Sig like a finger. "He'll take your soul, chère, or worse. You think I'm the devil? He's the devil!"

"Duval Marcotte is the devil," Annie repeated. "Duval Marcotte, the real estate magnate from New Orleans? The philanthropist?"

"That son of a bitch," he muttered, pacing along the counter. "I shoulda killed him when I had the chance."

"I don't know Duval Marcotte, other than to see him on the news. Nobody bought me. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Believe me, I regret it."

"I don't believe in coincidence."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I don't have any other explanation!" she shouted. "So shoot me or leave me the hell alone!"

Turning possibilities over in his mind, Nick reached back and scratched behind his ear with the nose of the gun.

"Jeez! Will you be careful with that thing!" she yelled. "If you don't shoot me, I'd rather not be left to scrape your brains off my cupboards."

"What? This gun?" He twirled it on his finger. "It's not loaded. I figured it might be too tempting."

Relief surged through Annie, and she rubbed her hands over her face. "Why me?"

"That was my question."

"I've told you all I know, which is exactly nothing. I would no more be in league with Chaz Stokes than I would be with someone like Marcotte. Stokes hates me. Besides, who sets up a frame that completely relies on the framee actually committing the crime? That's stupid. If someone wanted to set you up, why not just kill Renard and make it look like you're the guy? That's a piece of cake. So why don't you just take your elaborate conspiracy theories to Oliver Stone. Maybe he'll make a movie about you."

Setting the empty gun aside, Nick leaned back against the counter. "You got a mouth on you, chère."

"Being terrorized brings out the bitch in me."

He almost laughed. The urge to do so surprised him almost as much as Annie Broussard surprised him. He pressed his lips together and stared at her. She returned his stare, indignant, angry. If she was as innocent as she professed, then she had to think he was insane. That was all right. Perceived psychosis carried certain advantages.

"Tell me something," she said. "Did you go to Bowen and Briggs that night of your own accord?"

He thought of the phone call, but answered the real truth. "Yes."

"And you made your own decision to beat up Renard?"

He hesitated again, knowing the answer wasn't so simple, remembering the flashbacks that had burst in his head that night like fireworks. But in the end he could answer only one way. "Oui."

"Then how is this anyone's fault but your own?"

Annie waited for his answer. He had never struck her as the kind of man who would shirk his responsibilities. Then again, she hadn't believed he was crazy either.

"Stokes didn't put you in that alley," she said. "Nobody held a gun to your head. You did what you did, and I was unlucky enough to catch you. Quit trying to blame everyone else. You made your own choices and now you have to live with the consequences."

"C'est vrai," he murmured. Just like that, the frenetic energy was shut off and he seemed to go still from deep within. "Me, I did what I did. I lost control. I can't think of many people who deserved a beating more than Renard, and I feel no remorse for providing it-other than the impact it will have on my own life."

"What you did was wrong."

"In that force ultimately defeats itself. I disappointed myself that night," he admitted. "But the tendency is for every aspect of this existence to continue to be what it is, mais oui? Interfere with its natural state and the thing will resist. Fundamentally, I find it difficult to embrace a philosophy of nonaction. Therein lies the crux of my problem."