A Thin Dark Line

room and slammed him into the wall.

'You lied to me, Donnie,' he growled. 'That's not a wise thing to do.'

'I don't know what you're talking about!' Donnie blubbered, spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth. His breath reeked of scotch. The smell of sweat and fear penetrated his clothing.

Nick gave him a shake, banging his head back against the wall. 'In case you haven't noticed, Donnie, me, I'm not a patient man. And you, you're not too bright. This is bad combination, no?'

Donnie shivered. His voice took on a whine. 'What do you want from me, Fourcade?'

'Truth. You tell me you don't know Duval Marcotte. But Marcotte, he called you on the telephone tonight, didn't he?'

'I don't know him. I know of him,' he stressed. 'What if he called me? I can't control what other people do! Jesus, this is the perfect example-I did you a good turn and look how you treat me!'

'You don't like the way I treat you, Tulane?' Nick said, easing his weight back. 'The way you lie to me, I was tempted to beat the shit out of you a long time ago. Put in the proper perspective, my restraint has been commendable. Perspective is the key to balance in life, c'est vrai?'

Donnie edged away from the wall. Fourcade blocked the route to the kitchen and garage. He glanced across the living room. The furniture was an obstacle course of black shadows against a dark background; the only illumination, silver streetlight leaching in through the sheer front curtains.

Nick smiled. 'Don't you run away from me, Donnie. You'll only piss me off.'

'I've already managed to do that.'

'Yeah, but you ain't never seen me mad, mon ami. You don't wanna open that door, let the tiger out.'

'You know, this is it, Fourcade,' Donnie said. 'I'm calling the cops this time. You can't just break into people's homes and harass them.'

Nick leaned into the back of a tall recliner and turned the lamp beside it on low. Donnie had traded the Young Businessman look for Uptown Casual: jeans and a polo shirt with a small red crawfish embroidered on the left chest.

'Why are you wearing sunglasses?' Donnie asked. 'It's the middle of the damn night.'

Nick just smiled slowly.

'You sure you wanna do that, Donnie?' he said. 'You wanna call the SO? Because, you know, you do that, then we're all gonna have to have this conversation downtown- about how you lied to me and what all about Marcotte sniffing around the realty, wanting that land what's tied up there.

'Me,'-he shrugged-'I'm just a friend who dropped by to chat. But you…' He shook his head sadly. 'Tulane, you just got more and more explaining to do. You see how this looks-you dealing with Marcotte? I'll tell you: It looks like you had one hell of a motive to kill your wife.'

'I never talked to Marcotte-'

'And now your wife's partner is attacked, left for dead-'

'I never laid a hand on Lindsay! I told Stokes, that son of a bitch-'

'It's just not looking good for you, Donnie.' Nick moved away from the chair, hands resting at the waist of his jeans. 'So, you gonna do something about that or what?'

'Do what?' Donnie said in exasperation.

'Did Marcotte contact you or the other way around?'

Donnie's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. 'He called me.'

'When?'

'Yesterday.'

Nick silently cursed his own stupidity. 'That's the truth?' he demanded.

Donnie raised his right hand like a Boy Scout and closed his eyes, flinching. 'My hand to God.'

Nick grabbed his face with one big hand and squeezed as he backed him into another wall. 'Look at me,' he ordered. 'Look at me! You he to God all you want, Tulane.

God, He's not here gonna kick your ass. You look at me and answer. Did you ever have contact with Duval Marcotte before Pam was killed?'

Donnie met his gaze. 'No. Never.'

And if that was the truth, then Nick had drawn Marcotte onto the scene himself. The obsession had blinded him to the possibilities. The possibility that Marcotte's interest would be piqued by Nick's ill-fated visit, and that Marcotte would be drawn to the scene like a lion to the smell of blood.

'He's the devil,' he whispered, letting Donnie go. Marcotte was the devil, and he had all but invited the devil to play in his own backyard. 'Don'tcha do business with the devil, Donnie,' he murmured. 'You'll end up in hell. One way or another.'

He dropped his gaze to the floor, reflecting on his own stupidity. There was no changing what he'd done, nothing to do but deal with it. Slowly Donnie's muddy work boots came into focus.

'Where you been tonight, Tulane?'

'Around,' Donnie said, straightening his shirt with one hand and rubbing his cheek with the other. 'I went to the cemetery for a while. I go there sometimes to talk to God, you know. And to see Pam. Then I went and checked a site.'

'In the dead of night?'

He shrugged. 'Hey, you like to go around in sunglasses. I like to get drunk and wander around half-finished construction sites. There's always the chance I'll fall in a hole and kill myself. It's kind of like Russian roulette. I don't have much of a social life since Pam was killed.'

'I suppose an unsolved murder in your past puts the ladies off.'

'Some.'

'Well… you watch your step, cher,' Nick said, backing toward the kitchen. 'We don't want you to meet an untimely end-unless you deserve it.'

He was gone as quickly and quietly as he had appeared. Donnie didn't even hear the door shut. But then, that may have been due to the pounding in his head. The shakes swept over him on a wave of weakness, and he stumbled into the bathroom with a hand pressed to his burning stomach. Bruising his knees on the tile, he dropped to the floor and puked into the toilet, then started to cry.

All he wanted was a simple, cushy life. Money. Success. No worries. The adoration of his daughter. He hadn't realized how close he had come to that ideal until he'd blown it all away. Now all he had was trouble, and every time he turned around he screwed himself deeper into the hole.

Hugging the toilet, he put his head down on his arms and sobbed.

'Pam… Pam… I'm so sorry!'

Annie dreamed she caught a bullet in her teeth. Tied to the bullet was a string. Pulling herself hand over hand along the string, she flew through the night, through the woods, and came to a halt with a rifle barrel pressed into the center of her forehead. At the stock end of the gun stood a shimmering apparition with an elaborate feather mask covering its face. With one hand the apparition removed the mask to reveal the face of Donnie Bichon. Another hand peeled away the face of Donnie Bichon to reveal Marcus Renard. Then Renard's face was peeled away to reveal Pam Bichon's death mask-the eyes partially gone, skin discolored and decomposing, tongue swollen and purple. Nailed to her chest was the dead black cat, its intestines hanging down like a bloody necklace.

'You are me,' Pam said, and fired the rifle. Bang! Bang! Bang!

Annie hurled herself upright on the sofa, gasping for breath, feeling as if her heart had leapt out of her chest.

The banging came again. A fist on wood. Bleary-eyed, she grabbed for the Sig on the coffee table.

''Toinette! It's me!' Fourcade called.

He stood at the French doors, scowling in at her.

Annie went to the doors and let him in. She didn't bother to ask the obvious question. Of course Fourcade wouldn't come to the front door. Her tormentor might have been watching from the woods, returning to the scene of his crimes. She asked the second-most obvious question instead.

'Where the hell were you?'