A Thin Dark Line

is all about, huh? He thinks you're pretty. He thinks you're cute. He thinks you'll help him. Good. That's just what I want him to think. Just don't you believe it.'

She was pretty, Nick thought, letting that simple truth penetrate his temper. Even with her hair a mess and a cardigan two sizes too big swallowing her up. There was an earnest quality to her that the job would eventually rub off. Not naivete, but the next thing to it: idealism. The thing that made a good cop try harder. The thing that could drive a good cop toward the line so that obsession could pull her over it.

He skimmed his fingertips down the side of her face. 'I could tell you you're pretty. That's no lie. I could tell you I need you, take you to my bed even. Would you trust me then more than you trust a killer?' he asked, leaning close.

The edge of the table bit into the backs of Annie's thighs. His legs brushed against hers. His thumb touched the corner of her mouth and everything inside her turned hot and sensitive. She tried to catch a breath, tried to make sense of her response with a mind that felt suddenly numb.

'I don't trust Renard,' she said, her voice thready.

'Nor do you trust me.' His mouth was inches from hers, his eyes burning black. He traced his thumb down her throat to the hollow at the base of it where her pulse throbbed.

'You're the one who said trust is of no use in an investigation.'

He arched a brow. 'You investigating me, chere?'

'No. This isn't about you.' Even as she said it, she wondered. The case was about one woman's death and one man's guilt, but it was also about so much more.

'No,' Nick said, though he wasn't certain whether he was just repeating her answer or issuing a command to himself. He took half a step back to break contact, to distance his senses from the soft, clean scent of her.

'Don't you help him, 'Toinette,' he said, brushing back a stray lock of her hair. 'Don't let him use you. Control.' He curled his hand into a fist as he pulled it from her cheek. 'Control.'

I'm not the one in danger of losing it, Annie thought, ignoring the telltale shiver that ran through her. Fourcade dug a cigarette out of a stray pack on the table and walked away, trailing smoke. The truth was, she didn't feel she'd ever had control. The case had swept her up and swept her along, taking her places she hadn't expected to go. To this man, for instance.

'I should go,' she said, talking to his back as he stood at one of the dormer windows. 'It's late.'

'I'll walk you down.' His mouth twitched as he turned around. 'Check that Jeep for snakes.'

The night was soft with humidity, cool as a root cellar and rich with the fecund scent of earth and water. In the blackness beyond the fall of Fourcade's porch light, a pair of horned owls called in eerie harmony.

'Uncle Sos used to tell all the kids the stories about the loup-garou,' she said, looking off into the darkness. 'How they prowled the night looking for victims to cast their spells on. Scared the pee out of us.'

'There's worse things out there than werewolves, sugar.'

'Yeah. And it's our job to catch them. Somehow that seems a more daunting prospect in the dead of night.'

'Because the darkness is their dimension,' he said. 'You and I, we're supposed to walk the edge in between and pull them from their side to the other, where everyone can see what they are.'

It sounded like a mythic task that would require Herculean strength. Maybe this was why Fourcade had shoulders like a bull-because of the strain, the weight of the world.

She climbed up into the Jeep and tossed the DMV records on the passenger's seat.

'You watch yourself, 'Toinette,' he said, closing the door. 'Don't let the loup-garou get you.'

24

It wasn't a fictitious creature she had to worry about, Annie thought as she drove the road that cut through the dense woods. All the trouble she was facing had to do with mortal men: Mullen, Marcus Renard, Donnie Bichon- and Fourcade.

Fourcade.

He was as enigmatic as the loup-garou. A mysterious past, a nature as dark and compelling as his eyes. She told herself she didn't like that he had touched her, but she had allowed it and her body had responded in a way that wasn't smart. Her life was enough of a mess at the moment without getting involved with Fourcade.

'Don't go down there, Annie,' she muttered to herself.

She tuned in to the scanner to let the chatter distract her. Nothing much going on Sunday night. What bars were open at all closed early, and the usual troublemakers refrained out of token deference to the commandments. There was no traffic. The only life she encountered was a deer darting across the road and a stray dog eating the carcass of a dead armadillo. The world seemed a deserted place, except for the lonely souls who called in to the talk radio station to speculate about the possible return of the Bayou Strangler. No one had been strangled, but people seemed confident it was just a matter of time.

Annie listened with a mix of fascination and disgust. The level of fear in the population was rising, and the level of logic was falling in direct proportion. The Bayou Strangler had come back from the dead. The Bayou Strangler had killed Pam Bichon. Conspiracy theories were plentiful. Most centered on the cops having planted evidence four years ago to pin the murders on Stephen Danjermond after he was already dead, which tied in neatly with current theories about planted evidence implicating Renard and damning Fourcade.

Annie wondered if Marcus Renard was listening. She wondered if the rapist was out there somewhere soaking up the satisfaction of his infamy, smiling to himself as he listened. Or was he out there somewhere selecting his next victim?

Spooked, she pulled the Sig from her duffel bag when she turned into the lot at the Corners. She locked the Jeep and went up to her apartment, her senses tuned to catch the slightest noise, the slightest movement. She twisted sideways as she worked the lock with one hand, and looked out over the parking lot and past it. There were no lights on at Sos and Fanchon's house. There seemed to be nothing stirring, and yet she couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on her. Nerves strung too tight, she thought as she let herself into the house.

She had left a light on in the apartment and added more to it as she made a systematic check of the rooms, gun in hand. Only after that task was finished did she put the Sig Sauer away and let go the anxiety that had gathered in tight knots in her shoulders. She pulled a bottle of Abita from the refrigerator, toed off her sneakers, and went to the answering machine.

With all the angry calls since the Fourcade incident hit the airwaves, she had considered unplugging the thing. What was the sense of offering convenience to people who wanted only to abuse her? But there was always the chance of a call on the case, or so she hoped.

The tape spilled its secrets one at a time. Two reporters wanting interviews, two verbal-abuse calls, a breather, and three hang-ups. Each call was unnerving in its own way, but only one ran a shiver down her back.

'Annie? It's Marcus.' His voice was almost intimate, as if he had called from his bed. 'I just wanted to say how pleased I was that you stopped by today. You can't know what it means to me that you're willing to help. Everyone's been against me. I haven't had an ally except for my lawyer. Just to have you listen… to know you care about the truth… You can't know how special-'

'I don't want to know,' she said, but stopped herself from touching the reset button and pulled the cassette out instead. Fourcade would want to hear it. If things progressed with Renard, it could conceivably be deemed evidence. If he became infatuated with her… If the attraction evolved into obsession… Already he thought she was his friend.

'Don't you help him, 'Toinette… Don't let him use you.'

'And just what do you think you're doing, Fourcade?' she murmured, slipping the tape into her sweater pocket.

The faint scent of smoke clung to her sweater. She let herself out the French doors onto the balcony for a