A Thin Dark Line

Annie turned the Jeep off and sat looking up at the apartment, her thoughts drifting back in time to her mother. Lovely Marie, so unto herself, so complicated, so mysterious… so deep. So deep she had drowned in herself, swamped by the intensity of her emotions.

There was nothing wrong in not wanting that. There was nothing wrong in staying safe on the ledge above that abyss.

She took a cleansing breath, feeling silly for having overreacted. She barely knew Fourcade. He'd stolen a kiss. Big deal.

She wanted him. Big deal.

She locked the Jeep, slung her duffel bag over her shoulder, and started toward the building as Sos came out onto the porch.

'Hey, chere, what you doin', draggin' in dis hour?' he asked, grinning. 'You on a hot date or what?'

'I could ask you the same,' Annie retorted, shuffling toward the edge of the gallery. Sos had left, the security lights on, something he rarely did because he had a grudge against. the electric company.

'Mais non!' He laughed. 'T'es en erreur. Your tante Fanchon, she'd take a stick after me, chere. You know it.'

Annie managed a smile.

'You been out with Andre?'

'No.'

'Why not? How you ever gonna marry dat boy, you never see him?'

'Uncle Sos…' She couldn't bring herself to go into the speech, partly because of fatigue and partly because of a vague sense of guilt she had no desire to explore.

Sos stepped down off the porch, his boots scuffing on the rock. 'Hey, 'tite chatte,' he said softly, his face creasing into lines of concern. He touched her cheek with callused fingers. 'You and Andre have another fight?'

'You've got A.J. on the brain,' Annie muttered. 'I'm just tired, that's all.'

He sniffed, indignant, and pulled her with him to the steps. 'Come on. You sit your pretty self down here with your uncle Sos and tell all about it.'

Annie sat down beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder, wishing she could just tell Uncle Sos and sort it all out, the way she had done when she was small. But life had grown so much more complicated than when she was ten and didn't have a mother to take her to the mother-daughter tea at school. Sos and Fanchon had been there for her then, always. She didn't want them touched by what was going on in her life now. She would protect them any way she could.

Sos clucked his tongue softly and hugged her against him. 'Like pullin' hen's teeth with a pliers, gettin' a story outta you. You all the time like dat, you know, even when you was just a tiny li'l thing. You don' wanna bother no one. How many times I gotta tell you, chine, dat's what family is for, huh?'

Annie closed her eyes. 'It's just the job, Uncle Sos. Things are hard for me right now.'

'Because you stop that detective from killing that man what ever'one says is guilty?'

'Yeah.'

He hummed a note. 'Well, I'd like to see him dead, too, but that don' mean you did wrong. Somebody wanna say different, they can come to me.

'Dat horse's ass Noblier, he don' deserve you for a deputy, chere. You can always come work for your uncle Sos, you know. I'll give you a quarter you come seine the shiners out my bait tanks.'

Annie found a chuckle for his teasing, then turned and hugged him fiercely. 'I love you.'

Sos patted her back and kissed the top of her head. 'Je t'aime, cherie. You get some sleep tonight. Leave the rascals to me. I got fresh buckshot in the gun.'

'Oh, that's a comfort,' Annie muttered dryly.

She dragged herself up the stairs to the apartment. A small package waited for her on the landing, wrapped in paper sprigged with tiny violets and tied with a lavender bow. Automatically suspicious, she picked it up with care, listened to it, shook it a little, then carried it inside.

The light on the answering machine was blinking impatiently. She hit the message button and listened as she unwrapped the box.

'It's me,' A.J. said. 'Where you been? I thought maybe we could do that movie tonight, but… uh… I guess not, huh? Are you still pissed at me? Call me, will you?'

The confusion in his voice dragged at Annie's heart.

The machine beeped and a reporter came on asking for a few minutes of her time. He might as well have asked her to hit herself in the head with a hammer.

'This is Lindsay Faulkner.'

Annie's hands stilled on the white gift box.

'I've been thinking about some of the questions you asked the other day. I'm sorry if I've seemed uncooperative. That wasn't my intent. This has just dragged on, and I- Please call me when you get a chance.'

Annie looked at the cat clock on the kitchen wall. 10:27. Not too late. Abandoning the package on the table, she paged through the phone book, then dialed the number. The telephone on the other end rang four times before it picked up.

'Hello, Ms. Faulkner, this is-'

'This is Lindsay Faulkner. I can't take your call right now, but if you'll leave your name, number, and a brief message at the tone, I'll get back to you as soon as I can.'

Annie blew out a breath in frustration, waited for the tone, and left her name and number. The expectation that had shot upward at the sound of Lindsay Faulkner's voice dropped like a rock, and she was left with nothing but questions that couldn't be answered.

She had felt all along that the woman was holding back on her. But when she'd read over the statements from the file, they seemed very straightforward. Stokes had not included any notes regarding concerns about Faulkner's candor or anything else. He, rather than Fourcade, had dealt with her during the murder investigation because he had already established a relationship with her during the stalking investigation. Asking him for his opinion was out of the question.

Resigning herself to waiting for Lindsay's revelations, she hit the message button on the answering machine again.

The next one began to play-a snickering, sniveling stream of profanity and lewd suggestions. Annie raised her eyes heavenward and made a mental note never to appear in front of a television camera again.

She turned her attention to the box, lifting the lid carefully, braced for the possibility of unpleasant surprise. Another dead muskrat, perhaps. Another live snake. But nothing sprang out at her. No aroma of death assaulted her senses. Nestled in layers of tissue was a sheer silk scarf, ivory printed with tiny blue flowers.

Frowning, she took it out and ran it through her hands, the cool, sensuous feel of it having the opposite of its desired effect. The card read: 'Something lovely for a lovely person. With thanks and gratitude-again. Marcus.'

Among the gifts he had given Pam Bichon was a silk scarf.

It appeared he had taken the bait Annie had never intended to dangle.

She set the scarf aside and picked up the phone to call Fourcade.

27

'Our topic tonight: double standards in the justice system. You're tuned to KJUN, home of the giant jackpot giveaway. This is your Devil's Advocate, Owen Onofrio. We've learned today that Hunter Davidson of rural Partout Parish, the father of murder victim Pamela Bichon, was released from jail this weekend