the old woman. The less she knew the better. News would sweep across Louisiana, and though Mere lived on desolate Houma land far off Bayou Lafourche, she went to town upon occasion. Four times a year or so. He climbed back into the cab and cranked the engine. He glanced at where his grandmere stood, cradling the child, muttering words of comfort. As he shifted into Reverse, he saw the child rest her head upon the old woman’s shoulder.
From the open window he heard Mere say, “Don’t worry yourself, minnow. Ain’t no one gonna hurt you or my name ain’t Enola Cheramie.”
Something crept round Sal’s heart and he knew somehow he’d done the right thing. He crossed himself at that moment even though he hadn’t attended Mass since he’d left Holy Rosary and headed to Lafayette over fifteen years ago. Yes, God approved. This he knew.
He backed up and left the old woman and child, heading back toward the dirt road that would connect to the highway, which would connect to the interstate that would take him back to Bayou Bridge where he was currently in an ass load of trouble.
The night draped around him, oppressive and warm for February. A mosquito buzzed near his ear. He fanned the pest away, rolled up the window of the old truck and turned the AC up two notches, but obviously the owner hadn’t bothered with the expense of Freon. Warm air blew from the vents, failing to cool his body, now drenched in sweat. Was it from the damn Louisiana humidity or the sheer terror rising in him?
Both.
He clicked the brights, haloing the grasses growing on either side of the dirt road. No one was out this early in the morning, not even the shrimpers. The road was uneven, jarring him, but there was no other way out except by boat. He reached the turnoff and headed north on the highway hugging the Bayou Lafourche. Businesses and houses lined the highway on either side of the water. He crossed a lock bridge to reach the other side and rode thirty miles in silence toward Houma. Each mile brought him closer to a no-win situation.
He’d go to jail. Maybe even Angola.
He swallowed and tried to focus on the smattering of businesses outside Houma. The interstate would be quicker, but Sal didn’t want to go fast. He knew what lay ahead. Billy wasn’t smart enough to pull the scheme off. Sal should have known better than to mix himself up with a piece of bayou trash like Billy. He turned past the entrance ramp for I-49 and took Highway 182 instead, finding peace in the old highway that would eventually cross the Bayou Tete, the very bayou he’d spent so much time on, fishing and contemplating what a failure he’d become.
The road twisted like a serpent, winding around the Louisiana wetlands before brushing against the tangled trees, sad against the February darkness. It made Sal feel melancholic. He yearned for better times. Bait on his hook, Pabst Blue Ribbon in hand, herons gliding to perches on the bayous off the Atchafalaya. How had he come to this?
His headlights caught a shape in the road. He jerked the steering wheel hard, standing on the brakes at the same time. Too late. The image of a gator in the road flashed through his mind at the same time the truck crashed through the guardrail and went airborne. Cypress limbs blocked his vision just before a sickening thud jarred the vehicle. Sal threw his hands in front of his face as the trunk of a tree hurtled toward him. His head snapped backward at collision and he vaguely registered falling, flipping, hitting the water with a loud crack.
Sal gasped for air as water the color of weak coffee poured into the mangled cab. “Hep!”
His mouth felt stuffed with cotton and he couldn’t make his legs move. His lungs starved for oxygen. He gulped at the air, hoping to drink it, telling his body to move. No use. “Hep!”
His mind raced though his body could not move. Broken rail. Someone would see. Water deep. Truck sinking. He could taste the fecund water of the swamp. It filled his mouth, stinging his nostrils as he inhaled the essence of Louisiana, his birthplace, his home.
His hands flopped useless beside him, like large oars adrift in a current. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t save himself. He’d cheated death one victim that night when he’d taken the girl to Enola, but it would wait no longer to claim a replacement.
Sal said a prayer as the water reached his eyes, but there was nothing to comfort him. Nothing except the sound of justice and regret roaring in his ears.
And the last thought to register before he slipped into a place of darkness was no one would know what had happened to Della Dufrene.
CHAPTER TWO
South Louisiana, 2010
ANNA MENDES, AKA ANNIE PEREZ, stared down at her charge and cursed her bad luck for being the only woman at the agency fit for the job. Masquerading as a nanny? Not exactly easy. More like impossible. “Please tell me you’re joking, Spencer.”
The five-year-old stood next to a potato-chip display making a horrible face. “I’m sorry, Annie, but I think I’m gonna fro up.”
Annie looked down at her shoes—her new running shoes she’d bought with her first paycheck—then back at Spencer, who had squeezed his eyes closed. He did look green around the gills. Perhaps the chocolate milk had been too much. She glanced desperately around the gas station/deli as if there might be someone lurking around the overcrowded shelves to help her. Her gaze landed on a bottle of pink bismuth. Perfect. “How about some medicine? Something to settle your—”
Too late.
Spencer jackknifed forward and reacquainted Annie with the pint of chocolate milk he’d guzzled after they’d left the outskirts of Baton Rouge.
“Oh, God.” Annie jumped back about a yard and stared at the child, waiting for his head to spin around. Then it registered. She was in charge. Of the child. Of the situation. She needed napkins and cold water. “Okay, Spencer, okay. It’s fine. We’ll get this cleaned up.”
The boy looked up, tears welling in his big brown eyes. “I’m sorry, Annie. I didn’t mean to.”
Her heart melted even as she felt queasy herself. Poor kid. The whole thing was her fault. A child probably wasn’t supposed to drink that much on a road trip. She should have known, but no discussion of chocolate milk had been in any of the parenting books she’d pored over in preparation for this assignment. It hadn’t been in Know Your Child: A Study on Child Behavior or in So You Think You Can Parent? She knew. She’d read both from cover to cover, and still had no clue what in the hell she was doing.
She grabbed a stack of napkins from next to the slushie machine and mopped Spencer’s face. “Don’t worry, Spence. Are you feeling better?”
He nodded his head, “Uh-huh.”
“Good. Let’s go wash up. I’ll find the store manager and report our little accident.”
“What in the name of—” a voice shrieked behind her.
Annie spun around. Obviously, the gas-station manager had found them. “We had a little accident.”
Spencer whimpered so Annie placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“A little accident?” the woman said, screwing up her nose. She had bleached-blond hair and wore a Breaux Mart T-shirt three sizes too big for her small frame. Deep pocketed eyes, tanning-bed faux tan and smoker’s lips made Annie think of the prostitutes sitting on stools of the clubs surrounding the military base where she’d worked security years
