“Even Camille?” Quinn chuckled.
“Are you kiddin’ me, beb?” Thibodaux threw up both hands and scoffed. “Hell yes, even Camille. I love her to death, but my little Cornmeal is the worst. Sometimes, when I’m lookin’ down into those spooky eyes of hers, I can see her with a pair of scissors tippy-toein’ up on me when I’m fast asleep…” His broad shoulders shook with a full-body shiver. “Ohhh-weee, that little woman can bring some misere.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Spotsylvania, Virginia
Lieutenant Colonel Fargo kept to the paving stones as he picked his way across the yard. He stayed a half step back from his partner, wanting him to reach the door first. Piles of dog crap lurked like land mines, half hidden in the thick grass. Three overturned bicycles, a red tricycle with no wheels, and assorted cap pistols and water guns lay strewn from street to porch. A headless GI Joe doll hung by one leg from the dead branch of a lone elm in front of the modest gray two-story.
Dogs and kids… they both gave Fargo the creeps.
Both Fargo and his partner wore dark suits and Wiley X tactical sunglasses, looking every inch like the proverbial government men in black that they were. Though members of the American military rarely went armed on the soil of their own country, drastic times called for drastic measures, and each carried a Beretta M9 pistol in a shoulder holster under his suit coat.
First Sergeant Sean Bundy, a classic thug if the Army had ever seen one, tossed a condescending look over his shoulder as the two men wove their way through the maze of toys and lawn clutter. The stinger of a three-inch scorpion tattoo stuck above the size-eighteen collar of his white dress shirt. Sunlight shone off the pink of his freshly polished scalp. “Tell me this guy’s name again?” Bundy asked.
“Marine Gunnery Sergeant Jacques Thibodaux,” Fargo said, feeling a touch superior as the words left his mouth. “You know, this is the second time you’ve asked me that. I thought you Echoes were keen on remembering the slightest details.”
At the steps now, Bundy spun, his top lip pulled back in a quivering half snarl. “I’m not asking because I want to know,” he snapped. “I’m asking to give you a concrete thought to focus on… sir. You’ve been whistling a bad rendition of a Rossini opera ever since we got into the car this morning.”
The blood drained from Fargo’s face.
“You need to calm your ass down… sir.” Bundy glared. “I’ll handle the gunny’s blushing bride.”
Any trace of superiority left Fargo as if a plug had been pulled. From the moment he’d met Sergeant Bundy his gut had felt as if he’d drank a quart of curdled milk.
A day ago, when they were putting together their action plan, it had seemed like a good idea to interview Mrs. Thibodaux while her gigantic husband was away. Now that they were actually standing on her front porch, Fargo wasn’t so sure. He would have turned away had it not been for fear of looking weak in front of a man who was his subordinate. He bit his bottom lip. Had he really been whistling Rossini?
“His wife’s name is Camille,” Fargo offered, trying to save some semblance of dignity. “Maiden name was Bottini. Her friends call her Cornmeal.”
“Cornmeal,” Bundy chuckled, turning back to the door. “That’s messed up.”
Sergeant Bundy pounded with his fist, rattling the entire house. Fargo felt his flesh crawl.
“Maybe they’re not home,” he muttered, half under his breath.
Bundy looked over his shoulder again and shook his head. “I hear footsteps. They’re home.”
A shadow drifted across the glazed oval window and the door flew wide open.
“Help you?” A pregnant woman leaned into the narrow gap between the door and the frame. Mussed, coal-colored hair was pulled back in a faded blue bandana. Her white T-shirt stretched tight against the beginnings of a swollen baby-belly. A small child wearing nothing but a sagging diaper clung to the leg of her gray sweatpants.
“Gunny Thibodaux hereabouts?” Bundy asked, without introducing himself.
“Who would be askin’?” The woman glared with haggard green eyes under a furrowed brow. Fargo thought she might be attractive if she put on a little makeup and lost the baggy sweats. She certainly filled out the white T-shirt with more than just her belly.
Fargo stepped up next to Bundy, drawn forward in spite of his nerves. He opened his black credential case and held it at belt level. “Army CID. Actually, we’re trying to find a friend of your husband’s. Jericho Quinn.”
Camille touched the corner of Fargo’s credential case, looking back and forth from the photo to his face.
“Your picture don’t favor you at all.” She smirked.
The snot-nosed kid at her leg reached up and tugged at the case, trying to have a look of his own. Fargo yanked it back and slid it in his suit pocket.
Camille tossed her head, blowing dark bangs out of her eyes. “Listen, boys, if you’ll excuse me I got baths to give and supper to cook. Leave your card and I’ll tell Jacques you stopped-”
Without warning, Bundy shouldered his way inside the house. Fargo’s gut lurched into his throat, but he followed dutifully.
Camille’s look shot daggers as both men barged past.
“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-”