“What the hell do you think you’re doin?” she spat.
Bundy scooped up the little boy and rubbed the top of his head-as if he had the capacity for affection.
“Hey, kid.” His smile was half snarl. “You look like a tough little guy.”
“ Porca vacca!” Camille’s growled from somewhere low in her chest. The sound of it made Fargo’s jaws lock up.
The woman’s face twisted into a silent scream. Her shoulders began to shake. “You put my baby down right damn now or so help me…”
“After we’ve talked awhile,” Bundy whispered, drawing the little guy to him. “I need something from you fir-”
“I said put my baby down!” Camille launched herself at Bundy, claws out, grabbing for the child with one hand and slashing out with the other.
Bundy kicked her hard in the belly, shoving her away as he pushed the baby out in front of him as a shield.
Camille went down hard, falling flat on her bottom with a loud whump. Shaking her head, she sprang back to her feet in an instant, enraged past the point of seeing.
“Okay, okay, Mrs. T.” Bundy grinned a savage grin, like someone who held all the cards.
She grabbed the squalling baby and backed away toward the wall, eyes smoldering with rage. Her face had gone pale and she kept one hand on her stomach. The kick had hurt her more than she was admitting.
Fargo felt his stomach churn. This was all getting so out of hand.
“I think you’d best calm down, Cornmeal,” Bundy hissed through clenched teeth. “I’d hate to see your kid get hurt because you lost your temper.”
“ Me ne frega!” Camille screamed, flicking the fingers of her free hand under her chin in disdain. “I don’t give a damn what you’d hate.” Tears welled, but pride kept her sobs bottled up as if she might explode.
Bundy stepped sideways over a pile of folded towels, putting some distance between himself and the furious mama bear. His eyes shot to Fargo as if to say: “Your turn.”
Fargo held up both hands, trying to gain control of a deteriorating situation. He couldn’t help but think that if the gunnery sergeant came home now, they were dead.
He gulped. “You have to understand, Mrs. Thibodaux. This is a matter of national security. A friend of your husband’s-Jericho Quinn-has vanished, along with his family.”
Camille kept steely eyes trained on the men while she maneuvered her little boy behind her. “And that gives you leave to come in here and terrorize me and my kids?” She shook her head emphatically, her voice barely above a whisper. “I said get out of my house or I’m callin’ the cops-”
Bundy clapped his hands together with a loud pop, causing everyone in the room, including Fargo, to jump. “Cornmeal,” he sneered, wagging his bald head. “We are the cops. Now, it’s important for you to know Jericho Quinn is wanted on some very serious-”
Camille snatched up an eight-by-ten photograph of her husband in his dress blue uniform and hurled it at Bundy. The heavy pewter frame caught him square in the shoulder, shattering the glass, then bouncing off the far wall.
“It’s important for you to know,” Camille hissed, “that I don’t aim to let anyone come bargin’ in my house uninvited! I am not gonna stand here and listen to a single word from you.” She took a half step toward them with an aluminum baseball bat she’d grabbed from behind the door.
Bundy licked his lips. For an agonizing moment Fargo was afraid he might actually shoot the woman. Instead, the trained Echo simply raised his hands and walked toward the door. Once outside, he turned to look back. “Tell your husband we stopped by,” he said, a little too smug for Fargo’s taste.
“Oh, I’m gonna tell him, all right.” Cornmeal Thibodaux’s lips pulled back into a hysterical laugh. “And when I do, he’s gonna shove this baseball bat up your ass.” She patted her little boy on the head without looking down. “Don’t worry, sugar. Ass is a Bible word…”
The house shook when Camille slammed the door behind the two intruders. Brad, her youngest, stood beside her in a sagging diaper. Already rattled, he jumped at the sudden noise and threw back his head to bawl at the ceiling. The older boys were playing down the street. That was a blessing. Both took after their daddy. Only nine and eleven, neither had a smidgen of patience when it came to a bully. Camille was sure they would have done something stupid with the two suits. They probably could have taken the one named Fargo-but the bald one had a mean bone. He was dangerous. Camille had run into men like him when she was tending bar, before she met Jacques. They were men who had a rip in their moral fabric, men who not only lacked a conscience, but reveled in the pain of other folks.
The look he’d given her sweet little boy made her legs go weak.
“Mama.” Denny, her seven-year-old-and the most sensitive of her boys-stood at the top of the stairs, flanked by his five- and three-year-old brothers. The three held hands, sobbing quietly as they looked down with their blinking doe eyes that always made her think of Jacques. They’d seen the whole horrible episode.
“Mama,” Denny stammered, his little voice graveyard quiet. “Were you gonna really hit those men with my bat?”
“If I had to, sugar.” Not much of a crier herself, emotion showed itself in crimson blotches on her neck.
“Why was he holding Brad?” Denny was the official spokesman, but all three boys stared down at her, demanding an answer.
A wave of nausea swept over her and she had to use the bat as a crutch to keep her feet. She caught her breath, patting the top of a squalling Brad’s head. She was a Marine wife, and these were Marine sons. There was no need to lie to them.
“He was trying to scare me,” she said.
“Why?” Denny demanded.
Camille suddenly thought of the other boys playing up the street. A stabbing pain shot low across her abdomen, arcing like an electric shock. A veteran of six pregnancies, she’d never felt a pain so severe.
Overcome with nausea, she dropped the bat and fell to her knees. She doubled over, cradling her swollen belly, trying to keep from throwing up.
Denny ran down the stairs to cup his mother’s face in both hands. “Mama! What’s the matter? Should I call nine-one-one?”
She pulled him closer, tears of agony streaming down her cheeks. “You gotta promise me something, sugar.”
Ashen faced, the boy nodded quickly, but sounded unconvinced. “I’m gonna go call nine-one-one-”
Camille grabbed him by his T-shirt as he turned to get the phone. Of all her boys, Denny was the one most likely to obey her.
Her shoulders began to shake uncontrollably. Searing pain grew like a pool of hot acid in her gut. She pulled her son close to her, using him as a support to stay upright for just a little longer. “Promise me you won’t tell your daddy about those men.”
“But Mama…”
“Promise!” Camille screamed like a crazy woman.
“Yes, ma’am,” Denny stammered. “I promise.”
Camille fell back onto a pile of laundry, writhing, imagining she was in hell. She was vaguely aware of her son’s voice talking to the 911 operator.
She prayed that her little guy would keep his word. Jacques could never know about the men. He was sure to kill them if he found out-and that would land him in prison.
“Oh, Jacques,” Camille whispered, the pain growing more intense. She felt the room close in around her. He couldn’t go to prison. She felt sure she was bleeding to death inside. With her gone, the boys would need him more than ever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Washington
