Waters Run Deep Page 20

  As Annie closed the gate, something flashed beyond the perimeter. Someone was in the woods. She saw movement and then a large man moved in the open, peering at the setup. He almost looked as if he were canvassing the area.

  Maybe he was one of the bounce-house guys scouting for the best spot. But why would he come out of the woods? Strange.

  She started toward him.

  When he saw her, the man jerked his head and took off running.

  What the hell?

  Her senses tingled and instinct kicked in.

  People didn’t run unless they had something to hide. She sprinted toward the outskirts, angling in the direction the man headed. Her forethought paid off, and she caught a glimpse of a fairly large guy in athletic shorts and T-shirt. He had dark hair closely shaven and fair skin. He moved pretty well but not as fast as Annie. He shot through the trees, limbs cracking underfoot. When he attempted to vault a felled tree, his shoe hung and it slowed him down. Annie used it to her advantage, spying a huge limb off the fallen tree, hitting it perfectly and flying through the air toward the man scrambling to his feet.

  She tackled him low and he went down, rolling in the dusty leaves. She held on, clamoring up his body, reaching for his arms in classic takedown procedure. She wasn’t fast enough. He got a hand up and swept her off to the side. She jumped to her feet and tackled him again as he tried to lung away.

  “Freeze,” she said, grabbing for his hand. She missed again and instead snapped his waistband. Something fell to the ground as she managed to get a hold on his wrist. “Freeze!”

  But the man didn’t cooperate. Instead he swung his elbow, hitting her hard in the chest, sending her sprawling backward, skidding on the fallen leaves. She tripped over a root and fell hard on her ass, trapping one leg behind her. Before she could jump to her feet, he’d sprung free, disappearing into the dense foliage. She finally gained her balance and rose, but her foot wobbled. She’d twisted her ankle.

  “Shit,” she muttered, grabbing onto the trunk of the fallen tree and steadying herself. She wiggled her foot. Not too bad, but she wouldn’t catch up to the guy. She sighed, cursing her bad luck.

  She heard Nate coming before she saw him. He held his gun at his side and when he caught sight of her, he applied his brakes, sliding on the leaves carpeting the wooded area much as she had. He righted himself and an arched a questioning brow.

  “He got away,” Annie said, pointing toward where the man had disappeared into the woods.

  “Who?”

  She shrugged. “Not sure, but he didn’t want to be caught.”

  Nate holstered his gun before vaulting the tree as easily as an Olympic athlete and following the path the man had taken. She slumped against the rough bark of the tree, her hands trembling with a surge of adrenaline, her breathing ragged from exertion.

  She’d forgotten she was no longer FBI. Old habits die hard and all that. Sweat dripped in her eyes. As she swiped them with the hem of her t-shirt, her gaze caught on what the man had dropped.

  Her gun peeked out from behind a large maple leaf.

  The realization slammed her—that was the guy who had taken her gun several nights ago. He was the person sending the threats. She almost reached out to grab her weapon before remembering the guy hadn’t worn gloves. There was a good chance they could get prints off the piece.

  Nate crunched back into view, drawing her attention from the gun lying in the leaves. He shook his head. “He made it to a dirt road. Had a car and was halfway down the road before I broke out of the woods. Plates were covered in mud, so I didn’t make the tags.” Nate slumped next to her, breathing hard, wiping sweat.

  “He’s the guy.”

  He slid his eyes to meet her gaze. “The guy making threats?”

  Annie toed the maple leaf off the gun. Filtered light hit the barrel glinting like a clue in a movie. “My gun fell from his waistband.”

  “Ah, hell. We could have had him.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, but we’ll get the bastard. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and we’ve seen him. We can ID him.”

  They both sat in silence, the enormity of the situation soaking in.

  “What was he doing? At a church?” Annie asked.

  “No clue. Doesn’t make sense, but none of this does. I need to get back to the station, call Blaine and get a sketch artist to sit with you. We’ll plaster this guy over several parishes and see if we can get a hit.” He pulled a kerchief from his back pocket and bent toward the gun.

  “You carry a handkerchief? Who does that? It’s not hygienic.”

  He wrapped the white linen around the stock of the gun then checked the safety, before tucking the cloth around the entire firearm. “I always carry one for such cases as this.”

  She almost smiled, but her ankle had started throbbing. It was a slight sprain, but it would be no picnic trudging back to the church. She took a step, winced, then took another, determined to get back and assess what they now knew.

  “You’re hurt?” he asked.

  “I fell and caught my foot behind me.”

  “Hold this,” he said, carefully handing her the wrapped gun. Then he scooped her into his arms.

  “Whoa,” she yelped, unable to steady herself because she held the best piece of evidence they’d obtain for nailing the bastard. “I can walk.”

  He nodded, starting through the woods, heading back in the direction they’d come. “Yeah, but we’d get there on Christmas. I want to run the latents and get a sketch drawn up. Enjoy the ride.”

  How could she not enjoy the man’s arms around her? Even just a little bit. Her heart pounded with excess adrenaline as sweat rolled down her back. Sticks and leaves tangled in the wild corkscrew curls stuck to her sweaty face, and she was pretty certain she smelled like dirt, but she’d never been carried in such a manner, especially not by a man who could claim her soul.

  So even if she should be focused on the case, she enjoyed the feel of his heart beating against her breast, the way his five o’clock shadow made him look even sexier and the smell of citrus cologne mixed with hot, perspiring male.

  Father Benoit met them in the clearing of the church grounds. “What happened?”

  “Annie saw something and then she tripped and twisted her ankle. Women,” Nate said with a smile. Annie elbowed him in the ribs, causing him to grunt and set her down.

  “Why is she holding a gun?”

  Annie lowered her weapon, still carefully protected by the clean white linen. “I found this in the woods.”

  “Good gracious,” Father Benoit said, which sounded very odd coming from such a vital, young dude’s mouth—priest or not.

  Nate raised a brow, a habit that was both annoying and oddly seductive. Father Benoit cleared his throat. “Guess Sister Mary Regina is rubbing off on me. I meant to say ‘What the hell?’”

  “Better,” Nate said, steadying Annie with a hand on the elbow. She handed him the gun.

  Father Benoit stared at the wrapped firearm. “Who do you suppose had a gun in those woods? Nothing back there for miles, except an old oil pump. Kids sometimes park and make out. Think one of them was screwing around with a gun? Or do you think it might be a weapon used in a crime of some sort?”

  Nate shrugged. “Won’t know until we run some tests on it and trace the number, so we better get going, Padre. Don’t worry about Saturday. Everything will go smoothly. Picou is on it.”

  They said goodbye and Annie managed to walk gingerly to the car. She slid into the heated car facing the afternoon sun, and felt an urgent need to get back to Spencer.

  The guy had a face and now the threat felt even more real. The guy was here in Bayou Bridge, up to something but ready to do whatever it took to remain at large. If she’d been faster and less clumsy, she could have caught him and it could have been over. But she’d failed. As had Nate.

  Nate had already bagged the gun, using the kit in his trunk. He climbed into the car and cranked it, punching up the AC. “We need to secure Spen
cer before we go to the station. Call Tawny and ask if he can come with us to the station. We’ll fingerprint him and give him a fake badge while you meet with the sketch artist. I don’t want him out of our sight. Time to lock him down.”

  She nodded. “We missed this guy today. Let’s make damn sure we don’t miss again. You need to pull strings with the lab to get this guy made. By the looks of him, I’d say he’s in the system.”

  Nate pulled from the curb and headed toward Beau Soleil. Annie put in a call to Tawny, who sounded frazzled enough to agree to whatever Annie suggested as long as it meant taking Spencer off her hands. She knew how Tawny felt. As much as Annie adored Spencer, he could drive a woman to drink.

  Kids.

  Can’t live with them, can’t let a lunatic take them.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE NEXT DAY NATE SAT at his desk studying the report from the parish crime lab.

  Sean Shaffer. Six-foot-two, two-thirty and wanted for hot checks and forgery in Cobb County, Georgia. Affiliated with a biker gang, the twenty-seven-year-old had served time for drug possession with intent. He’d been charged with aggravated assault and battery, but charges were dismissed. Sean Shaffer was not the sort of fellow a gal brought home for Sunday dinner.

  So why was he in Nate’s parish messing with the Keenes?

  Nate hadn’t a clue. He could find no associations with Carter or his family.

  Wynn breezed in to the pit with a coffee cup in one hand and a stack of sketches in the other. “I’ve gone all over town and no one has seen this guy. One trucker said he might have seen him outside Lafayette, but he wasn’t sure. He said the dude rode a fine-ass Harley and had a fine-ass broad in his bitch seat.” He tossed the sketch on Nate’s desk.

  “We don’t need the sketch anymore. We got a positive ID from the prints. Just sent the mug shot to everyone’s P.D. Maybe we can freeze him, but I bet he’s gone.”

  “No shit,” Wynn said, sinking into his desk chair. “So who is he?”

  “Not sure. I put in a call to Kennesaw P.D. One of the guys there said he was a local punk who’d spent year after year getting into trouble. They think he was in on a meth lab, but couldn’t make him on it. He did a little time. Nothing hard. Associates are still stinkin’ it up in Cobb County and haven’t seen Shaffer in months.”

  Wynn thumbed through the report. “So how’s he connected with Keene?”

  “No clue. I called the FBI guy Keene’s been pushing on this case. Also put in a call to Hollywood division to see if they can hunt something up on this dirtbag.” He’d also talked to Ace, Annie’s boss, and given him the information. He had a feeling the case meant much more to the man. Meal tickets had value and their firm would pull out all the stops to nail Shaffer.

  “So…”

  “If he’s lying low and being careful, we got to smoke the bastard out. Bayou Bridge P.D. and every guy in our department are on alert. Got guys rousting motels and bars as we speak. If he’s still here, we’ll find him.”

  Wynn stuck a toothpick in his mouth and eyed his wife who tapped on a computer. “I hope this don’t turn out bad. We need to do this by the book or we’ll have spit on our neck for all the breathing people will be doing. Anything you need to tell me?”

  Nate glanced up. “No. Think I’m holding back?”

  “You’re holding something. I’ve been with you too long to not know.”

  Nate shrugged. He didn’t want to reveal anything about Annie to Wynn. He trusted the man with his life. He just didn’t trust him not to tell his wife. Kelli lacked self-control at times. It was one of the things that had hooked Wynn. He clearly loved the way his wife embraced everything with wild abandon. That and her cavernous cleavage.

  Nate wanted everything between him and Annie secret.

  Maybe later they could creep out from their blanket of anonymity. And then creep back under the blankets for some responsible fun. Maybe. “Everything’s cool.”

  “Right.” Wynn spun in his chair and tapped a few keys on his computer. “You never told me what you found out on that Cheramie chick. Didn’t you go down to Lafourche?”

  Hell. Nate took a deep breath. Too much going on. Sally Cheramie would be there in two days. How could he keep everything under wraps? Annie’s true identity. Sally’s true identity. The damn bounce-house owners who were now at war over who was hired first. Picou. Spencer. A possible unplanned pregnancy. Like a snowball rolling downhill, everything meshed together to form something he couldn’t control. He felt as if he stood in its path with no hope of saving himself.

  It was a helluva way to feel.

  Everything coming to a head.

  Bursting. Exploding. Raining shit on him.

  “Wynn, you trust me, don’t you?”

  Wynn looked back at him. “Always been integral.”

  “Give me some room on this. I’m asking not in a work-related capacity, but as your friend. Things are coming unraveled and I can’t stop them.”

  Wynn looked hard at him and nodded. “I got your back.”

  At least someone did.

  Nate pushed his chair back, tossing his phone messages to the side. Abram had called once. Darby not at all. The other calls dealt with a few active cases and many cold cases—something he’d had no time for. Guilt flooded him. Radrica Moore waited. Along with Emile Brossette, Timmy Hargon, Sheridan Kinney. So many waiting for him to figure out what had happened to them.

  But he had no time for the dead.

  The living demanded his present.

  He grabbed his gun. “I’m heading out to Beau Soleil.”

  “Later,” Wynn said, not looking from his screen. Nate saw him searching for info on Sean Shaffer. Maybe Wynn would have luck. “I’ll catch up with you. Oh, and Abram called—said you weren’t answering your phone. He wanted to know if his sister was still coming this weekend.”

  Nate slammed his hand on the desk. “Damn it.”

  Wynn turned with a shit-eating grin. “No, I didn’t tell Kelli. She’d be planning a damn party. But you should have told me. Trust, and all that.”

  Nate shook his head. “Abram talks too much. It’s going to get him in trouble one day.”

  “You really found her? No kidding?”

  Nate nodded. “Yeah, but it’s complicated. We’re trying to get our feet under us. She’s coming to see Picou this weekend, during the feast. We’re going to hope everyone thinks she’s a distant relation or something.”

  His friend nodded. “I’ll be your smoke screen. I’m your guy, you know?”

  “I know.”

  Nate turned and walked out of the station, feeling as if the chill of the giant snowball had permeated his defenses—picking up speed, erratically changing course but destined to crash into him.

  He shivered despite the heat.

  * * *

  ANNIE WAS LOCKED AND loaded. And sweating her butt off. She wore a thin jacket over her jeans and tank, but nothing was lightweight enough to keep her from sweating like a thoroughbred after the derby. Still, the gun beneath her navy blazer made her feel secure.

  Of course, it wasn’t her gun. Hers was tagged and sitting in an evidence locker, with no prints other than Shaffer’s and a serial number belonging to Anna Mendes. Nate had suggested it had been stolen, which was true, if not mildly fabricated. Only a matter of time before everyone found out Anna Mendes was a former FBI agent and current employee of Sterling Investigations and Security. Her undercover status was in jeopardy.

  The Sig-Sauer P226 she now carried was one of Nate’s. Twice as expensive as a Glock and heavier in her holster, the gun was fairly accurate with a quick trigger. He’d loaned it to her earlier, right before he went in to talk to Picou about Sally Cheramie’s visit. She hadn’t seen him since.

  It felt good to have a partner again.

  “Annie, let’s play soccer some more.”

  “Let’s not, bud,” she said. The late afternoon shadows fell across the lawn, but it was still Louisiana hot. She wondered when
it cooled down in this neck of the woods. Sure would make wearing a blazer easier. “It’s too hot and I’m ready for supper.”

  Spencer frowned. “I don’t want supper. I wanna play soccer.”

  Tawny and Carter would be shooting well into the night for the next four days, then the movie would wrap. In one way, it worked out well Spencer’s parents were abnormally busy. Annie now wanted to be with Spencer at all times. Unfortunately, Spencer wanted to do things outside involving her running, kicking and tweaking the ankle she’d already banged up.

  “I’ll fix you mac and cheese,” she said, using his favorite temptation.

  Spencer kicked the ball at her. “No!”

  Annie placed her hands on her hips. She’d had enough. She didn’t know anything about raising children, she’d admit to as much, but she knew how a decent human should behave—and Spencer needed to learn he wasn’t the center of the universe. She picked up the ball and walked toward the shady porch.

  “Hey, give me the ball.”

  She didn’t stop, didn’t speak.

  “Annie!” Spencer screeched. She heard him stomp his feet. She stomped hers, too. Up the porch steps. She sank in a rocking chair, placed the ball on her lap and watched as Spencer threw himself down on the grass and pitched a royal fit. It was quite the spectacle. Finally, after several minutes, he looked up at her, his cheeks wildly flushed, his hair plastered to his head.

  Not failing to do her job, she watched the perimeter like a hawk while the little boy rose to his knees. Finally, he stood and started walking toward the porch.

  She waited.

  He clomped up the steps, wiping his nose against his short-sleeved shirt, before stopping in front of her. “Please?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  His lower lip trembled and she felt something tug at her insides. She almost rose, but didn’t. “Why not?”

  “Because you’re not acting nice. You’re acting like a spoiled brat, and no one likes a spoiled brat.”