Tami Hoag - A Thin Dark Line

"He hates his mother, resents his brother. Feels shackled to the both of them. This guy's head is a psychological pressure cooker full of snakes."

She couldn't argue with Fourcade's diagnosis. It was his vehemence that bothered her.

"What he said about that truck-the guy that supposedly helped him with his car that night," she said. "Did you check it out?"

"Ran the partial plate through DVM. Got a list of seventy-two dark-colored trucks. None of the owners helped a stranded motorist that night." He gave her a sharp look. "What you think, chère -you think I don't do my job?"

Annie chose her words carefully. "I think your focus was proving Renard's guilt, not verifying his alibi."

"I do the job," he said tightly. "I want my arrests to stand up in court. I do the job. I did it here. I don't just think Renard is guilty. He is guilty."

"What about New Orleans?" The words were out before she could consider the folly of pushing him. The necessity of trusting him and the reluctance to trust him were issues too important to ignore, especially after his sin of omission regarding his visit to Renard.

"What about it?"

"You thought you knew who did the Candi Parmantel murder-"

"I did."

"The charges against Allan Zander were dismissed."

"That doesn't make him innocent, sugar." He strode over to a neat stack of files on a corner of the table, digging down to pull one out. "Here," he said, thrusting it at her. "The DMV list. Call 'em yourself if you think I'm a liar."

"I never said I thought you were a liar," Annie mumbled, peeking inside the cover. "I just need to know you didn't run through this case with blinders on, that's all."

"Renard, he winning you over, chère?" he asked sardonically. "Maybe that's what this is all about, huh? He thinks you're pretty. He thinks you're cute. He thinks you'll help him. Good. That's just what I want him to think. Just don't you believe it."

She was pretty, Nick thought, letting that simple truth penetrate his temper. Even with her hair a mess and a cardigan two sizes too big swallowing her up. There was an earnest quality to her that the job would eventually rub off. Not naivete, but the next thing to it: idealism. The thing that made a good cop try harder. The thing that could drive a good cop toward the line so that obsession could pull her over it.

He skimmed his fingertips down the side of her face. "I could tell you you're pretty. That's no lie. I could tell you I need you, take you to my bed even. Would you trust me then more than you trust a killer?" he asked, leaning close.

The edge of the table bit into the backs of Annie's thighs. His legs brushed against hers. His thumb touched the corner of her mouth and everything inside her turned hot and sensitive. She tried to catch a breath, tried to make sense of her response with a mind that felt suddenly numb.

"I don't trust Renard," she said, her voice thready.

"Nor do you trust me." His mouth was inches from hers, his eyes burning black. He traced his thumb down her throat to the hollow at the base of it where her pulse throbbed.

"You're the one who said trust is of no use in an investigation."

He arched a brow. "You investigating me, chère?"

"No. This isn't about you." Even as she said it, she wondered. The case was about one woman's death and one man's guilt, but it was also about so much more.

"No," Nick said, though he wasn't certain whether he was just repeating her answer or issuing a command to himself. He took half a step back to break contact, to distance his senses from the soft, clean scent of her.

"Don't you help him, 'Toinette," he said, brushing back a stray lock of her hair. "Don't let him use you. Control." He curled his hand into a fist as he pulled it from her cheek. "Control."

I'm not the one in danger of losing it, Annie thought, ignoring the telltale shiver that ran through her. Fourcade dug a cigarette out of a stray pack on the table and walked away, trailing smoke. The truth was, she didn't feel she'd ever had control. The case had swept her up and swept her along, taking her places she hadn't expected to go. To this man, for instance.

"I should go," she said, talking to his back as he stood at one of the dormer windows. "It's late."

"I'll walk you down." His mouth twitched as he turned around. "Check that Jeep for snakes."

The night was soft with humidity, cool as a root cellar and rich with the fecund scent of earth and water. In the blackness beyond the fall of Fourcade's porch light, a pair of horned owls called in eerie harmony.

"Uncle Sos used to tell all the kids the stories about the loup-garou," she said, looking off into the darkness. "How they prowled the night looking for victims to cast their spells on. Scared the pee out of us."

"There's worse things out there than werewolves, sugar."

"Yeah. And it's our job to catch them. Somehow that seems a more daunting prospect in the dead of night."

"Because the darkness is their dimension," he said. "You and I, we're supposed to walk the edge in between and pull them from their side to the other, where everyone can see what they are."

It sounded like a mythic task that would require Herculean strength. Maybe this was why Fourcade had shoulders like a bull-because of the strain, the weight of the world.

She climbed up into the Jeep and tossed the DMV records on the passenger's seat.

"You watch yourself, 'Toinette," he said, closing the door. "Don't let the loup-garou get you."

It wasn't a fictitious creature she had to worry about, Annie thought as she drove the road that cut through the dense woods. All the trouble she was facing had to do with mortal men: Mullen, Marcus Renard, Donnie Bichon-and Fourcade.

Fourcade.

He was as enigmatic as the loup-garou. A mysterious past, a nature as dark and compelling as his eyes. She told herself she didn't like that he had touched her, but she had allowed it and her body had responded in a way that wasn't smart. Her life was enough of a mess at the moment without getting involved with Fourcade.

"Don't go down there, Annie," she muttered to herself.

She tuned in to the scanner to let the chatter distract her. Nothing much going on Sunday night. What bars were open at all closed early, and the usual troublemakers refrained out of token deference to the commandments. There was no traffic. The only life she encountered was a deer darting across the road and a stray dog eating the carcass of a dead armadillo. The world seemed a deserted place, except for the lonely souls who called in to the talk radio station to speculate about the possible return of the Bayou Strangler. No one had been strangled, but people seemed confident it was just a matter of time.

Annie listened with a mix of fascination and disgust. The level of fear in the population was rising, and the level of logic was falling in direct proportion. The Bayou Strangler had come back from the dead. The Bayou Strangler had killed Pam Bichon. Conspiracy theories were plentiful. Most centered on the cops having planted evidence four years ago to pin the murders on Stephen Danjermond after he was already dead, which tied in neatly with current theories about planted evidence implicating Renard and damning Fourcade.

Annie wondered if Marcus Renard was listening. She wondered if the rapist was out there somewhere soaking up the satisfaction of his infamy, smiling to himself as he listened. Or was he out there somewhere selecting his next victim?

Spooked, she pulled the Sig from her duffel bag when she turned into the lot at the Corners. She locked the Jeep and went up to her apartment, her senses tuned to catch the slightest noise, the slightest movement. She twisted sideways as she worked the lock with one hand, and looked out over the parking lot and past it. There were no lights on at Sos and Fanchon's house. There seemed to be nothing stirring, and yet she couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on her. Nerves strung too tight, she thought as she let herself into the house.