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
C ongressman Hartman Drake sat against the edge of his desk, accidentally knocking a stack of loose papers onto the floor. He ignored them, focusing on the glossy photographs in his hands. In the great scheme of things they weren’t half-bad pictures. Damning, sure, but the angles were incredible and did a wonderful job of showing off his physique.
He wasn’t a tall man, barely five feet seven, but the two hours a day he spent in the House gym showed in the way his arms and chest swelled under the starched white shirt. He was particularly proud of the fact he’d been able to bench-press three hundred and fifty pounds for three clean reps on his forty-fifth birthday. His office was rife with photographs of him skiing, horseback riding, mountain climbing, and sky diving. If it was adventurous, he did it, took a photo, and put it on his wall. The lurid photographs he now held in his hands would have fit right in with the other trophies.
Drake peered over the top of the photographs at his aide, David Crosby. “Nietzsche had it right, you know.”
“About what, sir?” Crosby sighed, pale eyes casting around the room like a cornered animal.
“ ‘The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.’ See?” The congressman glared, half grinning, across the top of his black reading glasses. “I’m normal. Anyone other than you see these?”
Crosby, a freckled Midwestern law school graduate with a sparse blond beard, shook his head emphatically. “I open all the mail myself.”
Drake breathed a sigh of relief. If he could trust anyone it was his smarmy assistant. He’d helped the kid cheat on his bar exam. Crosby was bought and paid for.
There were three photographs in all, each showing Drake completely nude, getting athletic with the same busty brunette. They were of excellent quality and left little doubt as to Drake’s identity. In a way, he felt bad for depriving others of a look at the pictures.
The congressman chuckled a little despite the situation. The bitch must have had one of those hidden nanny cams. He held up the bottom photo for Crosby to see. “Come on, Dave,” he leered. “Tell me you wouldn’t make the beast with two backs if that came along and threw herself at you. I mean, if these get out, who’s gonna blame me? Besides Kathleen, I mean.”
“Congressman.” Crosby swallowed hard, shying away from looking too long at the photograph of his boss and the brunette. “It’s obvious this is an attempt at extortion. And the timing could not possibly be any worse.”
Drake nodded, almost absentmindedly. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off that last photo. The girl was drop-dead gorgeous, there was no question about that-with bouncing, pixie-cut hair that made him think she might be Tinker Bell’s evil twin. But this particular photo caught his quads at just the right flex… At least if the photos got out on the Internet, he’d have nothing to be ashamed of in that regard. It was a crying shame Kathleen wouldn’t allow a camera in the bedroom.