to brush his teeth, but he couldn’t even manage that. He sank to his knees and hung his head over the toilet once again.
When he rose this time, weak and shaking, he stripped off his underwear and climbed into the shower. He stood under the spray for a long time, hoping the water would help beat back the demons.
When he finally got out, he brushed his teeth again and then took a quick look at his reflection. His face was still bruised and battered from where he’d been worked over the other night, and now he also had bags under his eyes and a sickly yellow tinge to his skin.
He glanced away quickly, not liking what he saw—and hating what he’d done. Eight months of sobriety down the toilet along with last night’s dinner. At that moment, Dave didn’t even want to contemplate what lay ahead of him. As soon as he could, he had to get himself back to an AA meeting.
He went into the bedroom and pulled on a pair of jeans, then walked downstairs buttoning his shirt. He figured Marsilius had come over this morning and let himself in, but instead it was Angelette he found at the stove. She had on the same red dress she’d worn the night before, but now she was barefoot, her dark hair tangled from sleep.
She looked up with a grin as she turned the bacon.
“Morning, sunshine.”
He leaned a shoulder against the door frame and folded his arms. “What are you doing here?”
Her smile faded. “Are you telling me you don’t remember last night? I’m hurt, Dave.”
“Angie—”
She laughed at his scowl. “Relax, hotshot, nothing happened. I drove you home, helped you to bed and then spent the night on the couch. See?” She pointed with the spatula, and he glanced over his shoulder, saw a blanket folded at the end of the couch, and let out a slow breath.
“Sit down,” she said. “Breakfast is almost ready.”
“I don’t think I can eat.”
“Yeah, you don’t look so good. But you’ll feel better when you get something in your stomach.”
Somehow Dave doubted that, but he sat down and watched as she dished up a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, and carried it over to the table.
He forced himself to pick up the fork and take a few bites. “It’s good. Thanks.”
She sat down at the table with him, but she only had coffee.
“You’re not hungry?”
“I’ll have something later. Right now, I’m more concerned with what you plan to do about Nettle.”
“I don’t know yet.”
“It’s not going to be easy taking him down, Dave. If he feels cornered, he’ll come out fighting.”
He gave a brittle laugh. “No shit.”
“He did that to you? I wondered.”
But didn’t care enough to ask, Dave thought. “He already thinks I’m working with someone. If you want to keep your name out of this, you better keep your distance from now on.”
She studied him for a moment, as if trying to figure something out. When she spoke, her voice was cool and detached, and she rose from the table without looking at him. “That’s good advice, Dave.”
Walking over to the couch, she picked up her purse and hooked the strap over her shoulder. “You take care of yourself, hear? I have a feeling that from here on out, me and you won’t be seeing much of one another.”
Dave waited until he heard Angelette’s car pull out of the drive, then got up and carried his dishes into the kitchen. Dumping the rest of the food into the garbage, he stacked his plate and cup in the sink, then went outside to the porch.
The day was already hot and humid, and he could feel sweat collect at the back of his neck and run down his spine. His hands and legs were shaking. It was all he could do not to walk over to Marsilius’s place, take a longneck from the cooler and pop it open.
Instead, he went back inside, poured a tall glass of iced tea and swallowed some aspirin. He carried the drink to the porch and sank down in one of the rockers. It had been a long time since he’d felt this sick and weak. He didn’t know what he was going to do about Nettle, because right now he couldn’t think beyond the moment. He didn’t know how he’d get through the next hour without a drink, much less the rest of the day, the rest of his life.
He stared out at the sun shimmering off the bayou, but what he saw instead was the long, dark road that lay ahead of him.
The phone started ringing inside the house, and Dave’s first inclination was to ignore it. He didn’t want to talk to anybody right now, least of all Marsilius, who was probably calling to check up on him. But if he didn’t pick up, his uncle was apt to show up on his doorstep, and Dave sure as hell didn’t want that.
He went inside to answer.
“Dave, it’s Titus.”
“I was beginning to think you’d just blown me off,” Dave said.
“Don’t think I didn’t consider it. Listen up. I followed your boy Nettle out here to a dive off Airline Drive.” He gave Dave the address. “You better get your ass down here quick ’cause you ain’t gonna believe who just showed up to meet him.”
When Dave walked into the Gold Medallion that afternoon, Bobby Ray Taubin was stacking beer cases behind the bar. He tried to bolt for the back, but Dave slid over the counter, caught him by the collar and slung him back into the glass shelves on the wall. Taubin went crashing to the floor amid an array of broken glass and spilled liquor.
Before he could get up, Dave was on him. He grabbed a broken whiskey bottle and shoved it under the bartender’s chin. “Nobody here but you and me now, Bobby Ray.”
Taubin’s eyes shifted back and forth as blood ran down the side of his face.
“I’m going to give you two choices, just like you gave me the other night,” Dave. “You either do as I say, or I give your parole officer a call, fill him in on what you been up to since you got off the farm. My guess is he’ll give you a one-way ticket back to West Feliciana Parish.”
“What do you want from me?” Taubin asked sullenly, lifting a hand to wipe the blood out of his eyes.
“It’s real simple.” Dave tossed the whiskey bottle aside and dragged Taubin to his feet. “You’re gonna help me nail Clive Nettle’s hide to the wall.”
Twenty-Two
Mist settled over the bayou as Matthew guided his pirogue through the cattails and lily pads that grew thick against the bank. Night had fallen and the half-submerged cypress trees were black against the starlit sky. A bullfrog croaked nearby, and he could see the gleam of beady eyes in the darkness, the twinkle of lightning bugs through the bushes. His oars dipped rhythmically in the water as he moved deeper into the swamp.
Rounding a sharp bend, he saw a light on the water up ahead. His pulse quickened as his gaze dropped to the bundle at his feet, and he saw that the blanket had shifted, exposing a tiny, pale hand in the moonlight.
His very presence in the swamp at this hour could arouse suspicions, and if anyone saw what he had in his boat, let alone if they followed him to his destination…
He pulled the blanket over the hand and straightened. The light was getting closer and the sound of laughter drifted over the dark water. Turning the boat, he paddled back toward the bank, carefully maneuvering the bow through a maze of cypress knees and rotting logs. Spanish moss hung like layers of silk from the trees, the lacy tendrils skimming the water’s surface, undulating gently in the current.
He drifted under one of the curtains and used his oar to steady the pirogue as he waited. The other boat was so near now he could hear the individual voices, even make out snatches of conversation. He held his breath as a
