a knife, had taken him by surprise. He could make it look even better by uncuffing Duane after the double-execution. No one would ask many questions—especially after the lab confirmed the twin’s truck matched the one at the Bordelon lynching.
Bobby aimed at Duane’s degenerate face. He heard a round enter the chamber. But by then his rage had left him. A bitter loathing for the subhuman twins remained, but loathing alone could not justify vigilantism. He lowered his weapon and, acting with the last of his adrenaline-fueled strength, hog-tied Duane and cuffed the unconscious Wayne. Then he clutched his bloody arm and stumbled to his cruiser to call for back-up.
Chapter 9
G eoff parked around the corner from the diner on Prytania Street. He felt sore and dizzy, like he had taken tumble down a rocky hill in his sleep. Marisol looked rested and alert.
The waitress was manic as she served them coffee. They looked like tourists. She asked them where they were staying, where they dined, what they saw. Like the storm had never happened. Or it had happened and everything was fixed. Or better.
When Eileen joined them, the tourist mask dropped away. The waitress looked sad and pitiful and hard when she set down Eileen’s cup. “Any progress, hon?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
Geoff knew they were talking about insurance, rebuilding—progress toward normalcy. A new standard greeting question among locals. Like the quirky cliché
Where y’at?
Or, in the weeks after the storm,
How much water did you take?
They ordered food and Eileen said, “Sorry I’m late.”
Geoff introduced the two women. Eileen barely glanced at Marisol. “You hired a private investigator?”
Geoff felt a flash of irritation when Marisol answered before he had a chance. “Sort of provisionally. We’ll see if Mr. Kincaid needs my services, through Geoff.”
Geoff said, “We doubt he will—we’re meeting him this afternoon before he talks to the sheriff again, but I’m not too worried about it. Not after our meeting with T-Jacques last night.”
“Oh?”
“He didn’t have much. Just a flash drive with no data except a number on it—here.” As his stomach completed three summersaults in rapid succession, Geoff pulled it from his pocket a scrap of paper on which he had transcribed the number—three zeros, then a bunch of eights and sixes. “Mean anything to you, Eileen?”
“No.” She had hardly glanced at it. “That’s all T-Jacques had?”
“That’s all that was on the drive,” Marisol said. “I even scanned for metadata—nothing.”
“So it was a wasted trip, except for some decent jazz.” Geoff pocketed the scrap. “How’s the report coming?”
“It’s coming. No surprises.” The scientist seemed to relax a little. “The plume of contamination is clearly emanating from the refinery. There are several regulated pollutants present. It’ll be your job to prove as a legal matter that this is a continuing violation of the Clean Water Act—something I think you can handle. Case closed.”
“Thanks, Eileen.”
Nodding, she sipped her coffee.
“Ms. Kim, did Dalia’s work include any research on unusual animals at the lake?”
Eileen looked at Marisol straight on for the first time. “What?” She paused. Geoff recognized her old temper flaring, her taking in of breath to keep it at bay. Eileen would never correct her, but could guess his old friend the professor would have preferred that Marisol call her “doctor.” But he also sensed that Eileen’s annoyance went deeper than the mere omission of an honorific. She seemed nervous, almost frightened. Paranoid. His mind drifted to T-Jacques.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Eileen said. “What makes you ask that?”
“T-Jacques mentioned evidence of weird creatures—”
“
Creatures
? Dalia was a serious scientist. She wasn’t out there looking for ‘creatures,’ like some crackpot taking fuzzy pictures at Loch Ness. She
was
studying the
Bobby aimed at Duane’s degenerate face. He heard a round enter the chamber. But by then his rage had left him. A bitter loathing for the subhuman twins remained, but loathing alone could not justify vigilantism. He lowered his weapon and, acting with the last of his adrenaline-fueled strength, hog-tied Duane and cuffed the unconscious Wayne. Then he clutched his bloody arm and stumbled to his cruiser to call for back-up.
Chapter 9
G eoff parked around the corner from the diner on Prytania Street. He felt sore and dizzy, like he had taken tumble down a rocky hill in his sleep. Marisol looked rested and alert.
The waitress was manic as she served them coffee. They looked like tourists. She asked them where they were staying, where they dined, what they saw. Like the storm had never happened. Or it had happened and everything was fixed. Or better.
When Eileen joined them, the tourist mask dropped away. The waitress looked sad and pitiful and hard when she set down Eileen’s cup. “Any progress, hon?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
Geoff knew they were talking about insurance, rebuilding—progress toward normalcy. A new standard greeting question among locals. Like the quirky cliché
Where y’at?
Or, in the weeks after the storm,
How much water did you take?
They ordered food and Eileen said, “Sorry I’m late.”
Geoff introduced the two women. Eileen barely glanced at Marisol. “You hired a private investigator?”
Geoff felt a flash of irritation when Marisol answered before he had a chance. “Sort of provisionally. We’ll see if Mr. Kincaid needs my services, through Geoff.”
Geoff said, “We doubt he will—we’re meeting him this afternoon before he talks to the sheriff again, but I’m not too worried about it. Not after our meeting with T-Jacques last night.”
“Oh?”
“He didn’t have much. Just a flash drive with no data except a number on it—here.” As his stomach completed three summersaults in rapid succession, Geoff pulled it from his pocket a scrap of paper on which he had transcribed the number—three zeros, then a bunch of eights and sixes. “Mean anything to you, Eileen?”
“No.” She had hardly glanced at it. “That’s all T-Jacques had?”
“That’s all that was on the drive,” Marisol said. “I even scanned for metadata—nothing.”
“So it was a wasted trip, except for some decent jazz.” Geoff pocketed the scrap. “How’s the report coming?”
“It’s coming. No surprises.” The scientist seemed to relax a little. “The plume of contamination is clearly emanating from the refinery. There are several regulated pollutants present. It’ll be your job to prove as a legal matter that this is a continuing violation of the Clean Water Act—something I think you can handle. Case closed.”
“Thanks, Eileen.”
Nodding, she sipped her coffee.
“Ms. Kim, did Dalia’s work include any research on unusual animals at the lake?”
Eileen looked at Marisol straight on for the first time. “What?” She paused. Geoff recognized her old temper flaring, her taking in of breath to keep it at bay. Eileen would never correct her, but could guess his old friend the professor would have preferred that Marisol call her “doctor.” But he also sensed that Eileen’s annoyance went deeper than the mere omission of an honorific. She seemed nervous, almost frightened. Paranoid. His mind drifted to T-Jacques.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Eileen said. “What makes you ask that?”
“T-Jacques mentioned evidence of weird creatures—”
“
Creatures
? Dalia was a serious scientist. She wasn’t out there looking for ‘creatures,’ like some crackpot taking fuzzy pictures at Loch Ness. She
was
studying the
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