Tami Hoag - A Thin Dark Line

Nick expected shouting, then remembered Renard's fractured jaw and felt not remorse, but discomfort at the power of his own anger. Renard came toward the bank.

"You're violating the court order," he said, hands curled into fists at his sides.

"I think not," Nick said. "I'm on a public waterway."

"You're a criminal!"

Nick clucked his tongue. "A matter of perspective, that."

"We're calling the police, Fourcade!"

"This is the jurisdiction of the sheriff's office. You really think they'll come to your aid? You have no friends there, Marcus."

"You're wrong," Renard insisted. "And you're breaking the law. You're harassing me."

Yards behind him, Victor had fallen to his knees to rock himself. His banshee shrieks drove the birds from the trees.

Nick looked innocent. "Who, me? I'm just fishing." Lazily he straightened away from the push-pole, moving the pirogue from the bank. "Ain't no law against fishing, no."

He let the craft drift backward, following the curve of the land until his view of Renard's house and his brother was gone and only Renard himself remained in his line of vision. Focus, he thought. Focus, calm, patience. Exist within the current, and the goal will be reached.

Annie sat in an old ladder-back chair with a seat woven from the rawhide of some unfortunate long-dead cow. The view of the bayou was pretty from Fourcade's small gallery. She wondered if Fourcade ever idled his motor long enough to appreciate it. He didn't seem a man to care about such things, but then he had proven to be full of surprises, hadn't he?

It didn't surprise her that he lived in such a remote, inaccessible place. He was a remote, inaccessible man. It surprised her that his yard was neat, that he was obviously working on the house.

Her stomach growled. She'd been waiting an hour. Fourcade's truck was here, but Fourcade was not. God only knew where he'd gone. The sun was going down and her resolve was running out in direct proportion to her increasing need for a meal. To occupy her mind she tried to imagine a hiding spot in the Jeep where she might have tucked away an emergency Snickers and forgotten about it. She'd already been through the glove compartment and looked under the seats. She concluded that Mullen had stolen the candy, and was perfectly happy to waste another few moments hating him for it.

A pirogue came into view, skating through a patch of cypress deadheads. Nerves tightened in Annie's stomach, and she rose from the chair. Fourcade guided the boat in alongside the dock, took his time tying off the pirogue and walking up the bank. He wore a black T-shirt that fit him like a coat of paint and fatigue pants tucked into a pair of trooper boots. He didn't smile. He didn't blink.

"How did you find this place?" he asked.

"I'd be a poor candidate for detective if I couldn't manage to dig up an address." Annie stepped behind the chair, resting her hands on its back.

"That you would, chérie. But no. You got initiative. You came to take the bull by the horns, out?"

"I want to see what you have on the case."

He nodded. "Good."

"But you have to know up front this doesn't change what happened Wednesday night. If that's what you're really after, then say so now and I'll just go on home."

Nick studied her for a moment. She kept one hand close to the open flap of her faded denim jacket. She doubtless had the Sig Sauer handy. She didn't trust him. He didn't blame her.

He shrugged. "You saw what you saw."

"I'll have to testify. That doesn't make you angry? That doesn't make you want to-oh, say, plant a live snake in my Jeep?"

He leaned toward her and gently patted her cheek. "If I wanted to hurt you, chère, I wouldn't leave it up to no snake."

"Should I be relieved or afraid for my life?"

Fourcade said nothing.

"I don't trust you," she admitted.

"I know."

"If you pull any more of that crazy shit like you did last night, I'm gone," she declared. "And if I have to shoot you, I will."

"I'm not your enemy, 'Toinette."

"I hope that's true. I have enough of them right now. And I have them because of you," Annie pointed out.

"Who ever said life was fair? Sure as hell wasn't me."

He turned and walked away. He didn't invite her in; he expected her to follow him. No social niceties for Fourcade. They passed through the parlor, a room furnished with a toolbox and a sledgehammer. The floor was covered with a dirty canvas drop cloth. The kitchen was an absolute contrast -clean, bright, newly Sheetrocked, and painted the color of buttermilk. As tidy as a ship's galley. Nothing adorned the walls. Fresh herbs grew in a narrow tray on the windowsill above the sink.

Fourcade went to the sink to wash his hands.

"What changed your mind?" he asked.

"Noblier pulled me off patrol because the other deputies won't play nice. I gotta figure he won't promote me into your job anytime soon. So, if I want in on this case, you're my ticket."

He expressed no sympathy, and asked for no details about her trouble with Mullen or the others. It was her problem, not his.

"Get yourself assigned to Records and Evidence," he said, turning around, drying his hands on a plain white towel. "You can read the files all day, study the reports."

"I'll see what I can do. It's up to the sheriff."

"Don't be passive," he snapped. "Ask for what you want."

"And you think I'll just get it?" Annie laughed. "You're really not from this planet, are you, Fourcade?"

His face grew hard. "You won't get anything you don't ask for one way or another, sugar. You better learn that lesson fast, you want this job. People don't just give up their secrets. You gotta ask, you gotta pry, you gotta dig."

"I know that."

"Then do it."

"I will. I have," she insisted. "I spoke with Donnie Bichon today."

Fourcade looked surprised. "And?"

"And he seems like a man with a conscience problem. But then maybe you don't wanna hear that-the two of you being so close and all."

"I have no ties to Donnie Bichon."

"He bailed you out of jail to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars."

He rested his hands at the waist of his fatigue pants. "As I said to Donnie, I will say to you: He bought my freedom, he did not buy me. No one buys me. "

"A refreshing policy for a New Orleans cop."

"I'm no longer in New Orleans. I didn't assimilate well."

"That's not what I've been reading," Annie said. "I spent the better part of the afternoon at the library. According to the Times-Picayune, you were the quintessential corrupt cop. You got a lotta ink down there. None of it good."

"The press is easily manipulated by powerful people."

Annie winced. "Oooh, you know, it's remarks like that that lead people to draw unflattering conclusions about your sanity."

"People think what they want. I know the truth. I lived the truth."

"And your version of the truth would be what?" she pressed.

He simply stared at her, and she saw the bleakness of a soul who had lived a long, hard life and had seen too much that wasn't good.

"The truth is that I did my job too well," he said at last.

"And I made the mistake of caring too deeply for justice in a place that has none, existentially speaking."

"Did you beat that suspect?"

He said nothing.

"Did you plant that evidence?"

He bowed his head for a moment, then turned his back to her and pulled a cast-iron skillet from a lower cupboard.

She wanted to go to him, demand the truth, but she was afraid to get that near him. Afraid something might rub off on her-his intensity, his compulsion, the darkness that permeated his being. She was already involving herself in this case beyond the call of duty. She didn't want to go beyond reason, and she had a strong feeling Fourcade could take her there in a heartbeat.