Girls Just Wanna Have Guns (35 page)

Lori Ann’s little pert bow-shaped lips formed a line so thin, they almost disappeared.

“I don’t think she’s speaking to you, yet,” Roy said. “But she made me come so we could—oof.” He doubled over, as Lori Ann elbowed him. “We came to help.”

“You turn around and take her back. She’s got to finish this stint or they won’t let her out at the end of the month.”

“You’re my sister,” Lori Ann said evenly. “Not my boss, not my jailer, not my conscience.” She stomped up to Bobbie
Faye, so short that she barely came to Bobbie Faye’s chin. “So just
shut up
and listen.”

“We don’t have long,” Trevor interrupted, bouncing the GPS unit in his palm.

“He’s the agent guy?” Lori Ann asked Roy, and Roy nodded. “You,” she said to Trevor, pointing at him, “stay out of this.”

“I,” he said, gently, to Bobbie Faye’s surprise, “care too damned much for your sister—I am trying to keep her from getting killed.”

“Well, okay, then, good plan. I’ll speed this up.” She turned to Bobbie Faye. “You don’t get to keep bossing me around, telling me that I should have come to you for help with the drinking and with Stacey and then you just go run around, blowing up half the state!” When Bobbie Faye started to interrupt, Lori Ann held up her palm. “And then you were
blue
! And being
shot at
! And then the silo! And the fire! I’m not completely incompetent, you know. I
could help
.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt!”

“So it’s okay for
you
to get hurt? It’s okay for the Great Almighty Bobbie Faye to never have to ask anyone for anything?”

“I . . .” Fuck. She wanted to be angry. Hell, she was an expert in Angry, and probably could get certified in Immature, too, but she saw the tiny tremble of Lori Ann’s lips, and realized, holy shit, she mattered to Lori Ann. Really mattered. And her sister was afraid of losing her. She pulled Lori Ann into a hug, and her little sister hugged her back . . . hard.

“I hate to break this up,” Trevor said, and walked to the back door, about to toss the GPS unit into the lake; Bobbie Faye stopped him, grinning. She had an idea, and he gave her his sternest FBI worried look.

“Trust me,” she said, and she held out her palm.

“Trusting you doesn’t mean I think you’re sane,” he groused, but he dropped the unit into her hand. “We have to get moving. You have everything set?”

She turned to hand the GPS unit to Lori Ann, about to fill her siblings in on where to go and what to do, when she suddenly wondered aloud, “Wait—how’d you know I was here?”

Roy turned a deep red and pointed to the mounted fish that had fallen to the floor earlier and said, “Um, I like to be able to check and see if anyone’s been here while I’m gone, because, um, you know—some guys get a little bent—and I had one of those little cameras installed in Henry over there . . . I can pick up the images on my cell phone.”

“Oh. My. God,” she said, when she realized what he had seen of her and Trevor earlier.

“Yeah. I gotta go dig my eyes out with a spoon now.”

“I’ll help.”

Cam rushed into the antiseptic corridors of the hospital, sprinting past chiding nurses, hurdling over carts, and dodging around wheelchaired patients until he rounded the corner where a large number of fellow cops milled about, drinking bad coffee and looking glum, but stoic.

“Any word?”

“No, not really,” one of the officers, an older, tired cop named Amon said. “They’re working on stabilizing him and there’s a neurosurgeon that came out a few minutes ago just to tell us that they’re going to be operating soon. He’s got one bullet very near his spine and one in his shoulder.”

Cam didn’t think it was possible to grow colder, but his hands went icy. “Spine?”

“That Bobbie Faye bitch shot him in the back,” the man said. Then realizing who he was speaking to, “Sir. Sorry.”

“She didn’t do this.” Nearly all of the cops shook their heads, disgusted.

“You gotta be kidding,” Amon said, losing all pretense of respecting Cam’s rank. “Even
you’ve
got to see she’s out of control.”

“No.” He needed them to know, to believe, so they
wouldn’t be gunning for her. “She wasn’t there. This is a mistake—she—”

“Seriously?” a big cop, Eric, snapped. He was the kind of man whose idea of “subtle” was refraining from shooting someone, and he unraveled as he stepped between Amon and Cam, getting into Cam’s face, actually looking down into Cam’s eyes, which put his height over six-four. He outweighed Cam by at least seventy-five pounds. “I think you’re too damned close.”

“Back down,” Cam instructed, but the man—who had been mentored by Benoit—made no sign of hearing him.

“That’s your friend in there,” the big man gestured toward the surgery wing, “and you’re still defending her! You’re blind, man. You always help her get out of trouble and now you can’t see that she’s completely played you.”

“First, you don’t know what you’re talking about. She
wasn’t there
. She was—”

“I think she’s twisted you nine ways to Sunday. We have her
on the cameraman’s tape
. How much more is it going to take? You let her run around, blowing things up, and now
murdering
people and
shooting cops
. Someone needs to take her down. If you’re too whipped—”

Cam wasn’t even aware he’d clenched his fist and thrown a punch until Eric landed on the floor, out cold. Cam stood over his fellow officer, both satisfied and horrified. Several of the other cops knelt, helping Eric as the captain huffed out of the triage area, his ruddy complexion especially florid and a sweaty sheen glistening on his receding hairline. He took in the situation with one sweeping glance.

“Moreau, get your ass in here,” he said, indicating a waiting room.

Cam followed him to the partially secluded waiting area, aware that his fellow officers were being particularly quiet in order to hear what the captain said.

“I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you lately, but you’re just not yourself. You’re usually the most levelheaded cop I’ve got and look at you. You punch a hole in
the wall, you go missing for half the day, you don’t call in, and now you knock out a fellow officer. I think you’ve got to take time.”

“No, sir,” Cam argued, vehemently. “I’ve got a break on this case. Bobbie Faye wasn’t there. I can prove it.”

“Then turn all your notes over to Fordoche.”

“Sir, I’m fine. She didn’t—”

“Turn it over, Detective. Period. If she didn’t shoot Benoit, fine, but if she shot a cop, I don’t want her in a position to talk her way out of this one. She’s going to have to deal with
me
. Not you. As of right now, you’re on leave until this case is solved.” Cam started to argue and the captain put his hand up. “No. Go somewhere, cool off. We’ll call your cell phone as soon as Benoit comes out of surgery and I’ll let you see him, as his friend, but not as a cop. Now go.”

Cam struggled with what to say. He’d lost the woman he loved, he was in danger of losing his best friend, and now his job, since it was clear the captain didn’t believe a word he said. Maybe someone else saw them go into the camp and could place Bobbie Faye away from the scene of the crime.

“You’ll be back on duty when this is over and you’ll thank me for it,” the captain said, dismissing him. Cam nodded, knowing that nothing he said was going to make any difference.

As the captain walked away, he turned, pausing as if this were an afterthought. “You know anything about that surveillance footage Benoit was supposed to have had in his truck?”

“I’ve heard the rumors. Why?”

“It went missing. Damn fool girl went to all that trouble to get that footage back, and then she forgets the cameraman’s camera. She’s losing it, Cam. You stay away from her. If she’ll shoot Benoit, she’ll shoot you.”

The captain stalked back to the area where the other cops were murmuring and Cam knew their minds were made up. He saw a TV mounted in the waiting area—silent,
though the picture was on—showing a terrible old photo of Bobbie Faye with an “armed and dangerous” banner slapped above it and “wanted by the police” below. She was going to be in every yahoo-with-a-gun’s crosshairs. His phone rang as he left the hospital; he hadn’t even been sure where to go, how to help, until that call.

Zooming up and over the Mississippi River bridge—particularly on the Harley—reintroduced Bobbie Faye to her old friend Fear of Heights and his best buddy, Panic Attack. It did not help that her brother followed too closely. He was probably going to run her over while he argued with Lori Ann.

The wide black river rolled lazily beneath her and as they reached the peak of the bridge arch, she could see Baton Rouge’s Old State Capitol off to her left, just beyond one of the riverboat casinos and the downtown USS
Kidd
museum. The Old State Capitol stood out from the rest of the normal French and Spanish architecture, with its unusual castle construction: four stories, with towers flanking the front and back entrances. It had been built in the early 1800s on a natural levee that overlooked the expansive lawn that sloped down to the Mississippi River, and had been saved (and burned and salvaged) over the years.

One of the postcards from Marie’s had indicated that she would have several pieces at the Art Show benefit hosted by the governor in the old building tonight. The FBI had assured Trevor that all of those pieces had been thoroughly inspected and there were no diamonds to be found.

Bobbie Faye knew Marie was wilier than that.

Worse, now she knew Francesca was wilier than that.

The reality flooded in . . .

People are dead
.

People are
dead
.

Benoit’s been
shot.

Don’t think about it. How do you put that into a compartment and shut it away and deal with it after a disaster is over?
Don’t think about it
. How does the horror not claw against its confines?
Don’t think about it
. How could she keep putting one foot in front of another, keep moving forward, find a way to end the nightmare?
Don’t think about it
.

The black river pushed the dark banks wide apart, and she felt as if she and Trevor hung there over the enormous void of the mirrored water. They were suspended in the darkness, the hum of the bike the only thing that riveted her to this world, the rhythm of the tires slapping against the bridge’s construction joints like a staccato drum line underneath a bluesy song. It was one of the few places in Louisiana where the inky horizon felt big and open and not crowded with trees, and even though there were lights to the city and even though there were lights on the bridge and even though there were headlights and taillights from the cars speeding nearby, Bobbie Faye felt swallowed up by the great big darkness of the night.

She fucking hated the dark.

It was hard not to
think
in the dark.

As she and Trevor raced down the bridge, Adrenaline was talking about unionizing Fear and Flight because they were seriously overworked and underpaid. She just could not give in. She
would
not give in.

They exited the off-ramp, speeding past the large River Center entertainment complex and then up the natural bluff and parked at the building next to the Old State Capitol. The all-glass Manship Theater was stunning in its minimalist lines, and with its proximity to the castle next door, it seemed as if its owners were intent on showing the juxtaposition of the passing centuries . . . and Bobbie Faye hoped it would make it to the next decade, because her first thought when she saw all of the glass:
fuck
. This was
asking
for Trouble to show up with a torpedo and a bad attitude.

Everything for the big televised Art Benefit that evening was being set up inside the Capitol. Floodlights washed over the sides of the castle while wait staff and valets for parking milled about; caterers scurried, carrying in trays and tables and scads of linens from the big catering vans parked a block away. Trevor climbed off the bike after Bobbie Faye, and they watched as Roy parked his car, unfolded himself lazily and sauntered up to one of the vans; she thought at least four of the waitresses were going to collectively bean him in the head with their trays—apparently, his womanizing reputation extended beyond Lake Charles—but they pointed him toward the woman who appeared to be in charge. When that big, bosomy woman gave him a backbreaking hug, Bobbie Faye figured Roy and Lori Ann would be able to carry out their part of the plan. Of course, that’s when she saw Lori Ann eyeing the liquor part of the catering supplies with the same expression Stacey got when she gazed upon the candy aisle: pure nirvana was almost within her grasp. Yep. Trouble. Torpedo. And Bobbie Faye had a target painted on her back.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Trevor asked. “I could have the whole place in lockdown, and we’d find the diamonds.”

“But with no evidence for the murders.” No, there was
no way
that was going to happen. “Just show me the stupid dress I have to wear. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

He grinned, and she knew she was going to regret trying to be the planny type. “Hey,” he shrugged a little too innocently, “it was the contact I happened to have, and the quickest way to get you inside the benefit.”

She followed him through the double glass doors of the theater building into a massive, high-ceilinged glass entrance. He greeted and seemed completely at one with the quintet of well-dressed men who, in spite of the spiffy rental tuxes, looked like they had a thousand years of wear
on their faces and could personally attest to every line of every blues song written. Trevor slapped a handshake on the oldest—a guy in his sixties who cradled his saxophone like a beloved child; the man turned and handed the wad of cash Trevor had just given him to the next man, who peeled off hundreds and passed them out. Each man got at least three.

“Holy geez,” Bobbie Faye muttered, aware of her voice echoing in the cavernous room. “Since when did you turn into an ATM machine?”

“When I started traveling with a woman who’s destroyed half of the state and the other half doesn’t take the Universal Platinum Card.”