In the Teeth of the Wind (15 page)

found himself coming up against an impenetrable barrier.

"Busy?" Rhianna repeated.

"He sent me to pick you up, Marek," Corbettson insisted. "How do you think I knew what flight you'd

be on?"

"He wouldn't have!" Rhianna insisted, anger crowding out the worry. "He knows how I feel about you

and he hates your damned guts as much as I do!"

"He sent me to pick you up, Marek!" Corbettson repeated.

"I'm not going
anywhere
with you!" Rhianna spat at him. Turning to her rescuer she asked, "Will you

help me?"

"Damn it, Rhianna! Look here, woman - "

"Where are you heading?" Franc Boucharde asked Rhianna, cutting off the other man's explosive

curse.

"I've got to find a phone," Rhianna muttered, looking around her. "I've got to call my partner."

"Partner?" Franc echoed.

"We're cops, asshole!" Corbettson growled, again reaching for Marek's arm.

"Keep your hands off her," Franc ordered. He looked for a phone kiosk, then pointed. "Over there."

Corbettson's mouth dropped open as the stranger drew Marek with him toward the bank of phones.

Murderous rage showed in his hunched shoulders. He plowed through the dwindling crowd behind

Marek and the stranger, shoving aside any straggling traveler who had the misfortune to get in his way.

"Who's the bastard?" Franc asked as he swept his coat back to fish in his pocket for change.

"C.C. 'Chuck' Corbettson. Detective First Class, if you can believe it," Rhianna answered as she

plucked a quarter from Franc's extended palm. She turned to the phone, lifted the receiver and dropped

in the coin.

Corbettson put out a restraining hand and found himself sprawled gracelessly on his back, staring up

into the set face of Special Agent Franc Boucharde.

"Want me to break it?" Boucharde grinned, twisting Corbettson's arm.

"Get off me!" Corbettson tried to pull his arm free, but found that it was trapped in an iron-fisted grip.

Franc leaned over his captive. Whispered words fell like ice pellets on Chuck Corbettson's ears. "I

know what you are," Franc said. He twisted Corbettson's imprisoned wrist until he groaned.

Fear shafted through Corbettson's eyes as he stared into the rigid face hovering above him. "I don't

know what you're talking about," he managed to stammer.

"You're a bully," Franc spat. "And a bully is only as powerful as he's allowed to be." Another slight

turn on the crooked wrist brought a yelp of unrestrained agony from the man on the floor. Franc released

him and straightened.

As her call rang through to the station, Rhianna looked back to see Corbettson scrambling to his feet,

glaring at the FBI agent and massaging his injured hand.

"Now, get out of here," she heard Franc order, "and leave her alone.

Corbettson's lower lip thrust out. "I came to take her home."

Franc shook his head. "I'll take her where she needs to go." Steel threaded through his Southern

drawl.

"All the way to New Gregory?" Corbettson sneered.

"All the way to New Orleans if need be." Dismissing him, Franc turned his back on Corbettson.

Rhianna clutched the phone closer to her ear when her partner came on the line. "Goddamn it, Triplett!

Are you all right?"

"Rhee?" Trip inquired. "Sure I am. What's up?"

"What's up?" she snapped. "What's up? Why the hell weren't you at the airport to pick me up?"

Silence poured from the other end of the line, then a muted curse followed by a loud thud that could

have been a man's fist slamming against a desktop. "Are you there already?" Trip asked with a little boy

voice.

"Didn't you get my message?" she hissed into the mouthpiece. "I called you this morning to let you

know I was taking an earlier flight!"

After a long silence, a remorseful Neville Triplett begged her forgiveness. "I'm sorry, Rhee! I didn't get

any note. Who'd you give the message to?"

Rhianna cut him off. "Did you send C.C. over here to get me?"

"C.C.?" Trip gasped. "Hell, no!"

"Then how did he know which flight I'd be on?"

The short pause, which followed the question, was broken by an intense burst of concern. "Is he

there?
"

"Yes."

"I'm on my way! Don't go anywhere with that son of a bitch!"

"You know better than that!" Rhianna exclaimed. "And don't bother coming to get me, Triplett. I'll take

a cab home!" She slammed the receiver into the cradle. "Asswipe," she murmured.

Franc smiled. "Need a ride?" he asked. He thrust out his hand. "Special Agent Francois Etienne

Boucharde, White Knight-in-Training, at your service, m'lady."

She looked past his shoulder to where Corbettson glared at them with unconcealed fury. Her lips

twitched with satisfaction at the humiliation painting C.C. Corbettson's face. Flinging the hair out of her

eyes, she lifted her hand.

"Rhianna Marek," she said, switching her attention back to Boucharde. "Detective Second Class

Rhianna Marek, Damsel-in-Distress." Her hand settled in his, safe and warm. "Nice to meet you, Sir

Knight. Let's get my luggage and head for New Gregory!"

****

They stopped just outside Altoona to grab a bite to eat. Neither one had enjoyed the pre-fab

cardboard meal served on the plane. As they sat in a hard plastic booth watching the rain beginning to fall

lazily outside, sharing a large order of fries with which they scooped up copious amounts of ketchup, they

began to ask questions.

"What part of Florida are you from?" she asked, biting into her burger. He hadn't told her he was from

Florida, but, being from Georgia, she recognized the accent.

"LA," he answered, slurping down his soda.

"Pensacola?" she inquired.

Franc smiled and shook his head. "Milton."

"Home of the P'thers!" Her voice rose shrilly on the P, then sank with teenage giddiness on the 'thers."

He sat back in the booth, astonished. "And how did you know that?"

"Been there, heard that," she replied, popped a soggy fry into her mouth and grinned.

"Yeah?" He snitched a fry from the foam container where she'd poured them and dragged it through

the ketchup. "When?"

"My Dad was an officer in the Navy. We were stationed at Whiting Field for a couple of years." At his

arched brow, she shrugged. "I started college at the University of West Florida. It was while I was going

to school there that I got interested in law enforcement. After all, that area was a hotbed of crime."

"You can't mean drug smuggling?" he asked. "On the Blackwater?" He shook his head in mock

surprise. "I don't believe it."

"Marijuana capitol of the South," she laughed. "More churches per capita than any place else

according to the Guinness Book of World Records."

Franc wobbled his drink cup around on the table top. "You are amazing, Marek."

"In what way?" she asked. She crammed the last of her burger into her mouth.

"Not many people would have understood when I said I came from L.A." He grinned. "You have to

admit Lower Alabama isn't a very endearing nickname for the Florida Panhandle."

"Tourist Department sure doesn't think so, either."

"And you know about my Alma Mater, the Milton High Panthers."

"P'thers," she corrected with the appropriate shrill.

Franc chuckled. "Pretty bad, huh? God, I hated those damned insipid little cheerleaders!"

"No worse than my Alma Mater. Our school colors are green and orange!"

"Ugh." He cringed. "Had to be a Native American theme."

"The AHS Indians." Her eyes widened and she shook pretend pompoms in the air. "_Go Tribe!_"

"Which is where, exactly?"

"Albany, Georgia," she sighed. "At least that's where I grew up." Her grin turned cocky. "But I was

born in Sarasota."

"A native Floridian!" he gasped, hand to heart. "How rare!"

"You?" she asked, grinning.

"Born in a little smear of dust called Frostproof, but I grew up in Milton."

"The Orange Grove Capitol of Florida. Been there, seen that."

"So how'd you wind up in Iowa?" he asked as he finished the last of the fries. "It's a long way from

Sarasota."

"Just lucky, I guess." She folded her paper napkin and put it away. "After I graduated with a degree in

Criminal Justice, I started looking for jobs as far away from the South as I could get." She looked out the

window. "I wanted some place quiet and peaceful. Where crimes could be solved and criminals could be

caught."

"Iowa," he stated. He put his arm along the top of the booth. "The last bastion of normalcy in

mid-America."

"Are you with the Field Office in Des Moines?" she asked as she drained the last of her lemonade, put

the empty cup on the tray, then pushed the litter-strewn plastic receptacle aside.

Franc nodded. "Yep."

"I saw you get on the plane in Hotlanta. Were you on a case?" she asked.

"I'd been down in Tampa for my godson's wedding." He cocked his head to one side. "Speaking of

which, there's no tell-tale band on that left hand of yours, Marek." His look became steady. "Married?"

Rhianna shook her head. "Nope."

"Engaged?"

She held up her hand and wiggled her fingers. "Unh-unh."

"Taken?"

Rhianna fused her gaze with his. Obvious interest showed on his open face. "No," she said softly,

folding her hands on the tabletop.

"Seeing anyone in particular?"

"No," she replied, shaking her head.

"Want to?"

A faint tug at Rhianna's heart made her take a deep breath. It had been five months since Conor's

disappearance and the grief, which would never leave her, had retreated somewhat; the pain lessening

with each passing day.

"There was someone," she answered truthfully. "Another cop." She looked down at her hands. "He's

missing."

Franc lowered his arm, reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. "I'm sorry, Rhianna."

"Me, too," she replied.

"Too soon to think about anyone else in your life?"

She nodded. "Yeah, it is. I just - " Her voice trailed away and she turned once more to look out the

window where the rain was falling in a thick curtain. Gently, she removed her hand from beneath his.

"Weather's getting worse. We'd better get going."

Franc didn't say anything as she slid out of the booth and dragged on her raincoat. He took up the tray

and emptied its contents into the garbage bin, then waited for her at the door. The rain had slowed to a

drizzle. "I bet your traffic record's clean in this town," he said with a sad lilt in his musical voice he did

little to try to hide. "I
know
you know your way around better than I do." He handed her his keys. "Here,

milady. Take the reins to the chariot."

****

Chuck Corbettson ground his teeth as Marek and the Fibber climbed into the gray seduction scene on

wheels the Fibber had earlier claimed from long-term parking and pulled out of the parking lot. "Bastard,"

he hissed, his feral glower following the man sitting in the passenger seat. Trust the slimy sonofabitch to

have a car that cost more than he made in a year. And trust him to try to get to Marek by letting her drive

that machine.

Three*

"I don't think I could eat another bite if my life depended on it," Trip grumbled. He tossed the soggy

end of his second foot-long meatball sandwich onto the paper and leaned back against the sofa.

"Are you going to finish the chips?" Rhianna asked, seeing where he was looking.

"Nah," he answered, waving away the suggestion. "I'm stuffed."

"I can't imagine why," she laughed. Triplett could eat more than any man she'd ever known.

"I feel bad."

"I know."

"I mean REALLY bad, Rhee."

"It's not your fault." She knew he was referring to not having been there at the airport for her.

"Goddamn C.C."

"I agree."

Trip lay down and stretched his long frame out on the sofa. "Lord, I could just crash right here."

"Full belly will do it every time." She looked at her watch. "It's past eleven. You might as well stay. It's

a long walk back to your house."

"Don't think I could make it, darling," Trip confessed. He turned on his side and folded his hands

beneath his head for a pillow.

"You should have driven over here, anyway," she chastised him.

"Needed the exercise," he said, yawning. "Need it more, now."

"Yeah, right." She got up, stuffed her sub wrapper and his into one of the plastic bags and crammed

the three empty barbecue chips bags in behind them. "I'll get you a blanket."

"God bless you, sister," Trip mumbled. He was already half-asleep.

Slurping down the remainder of her lemonade, Rhianna took the garbage into the kitchen and dropped

it into the can. After making sure the door was locked, she padded back into the living room, checked

that door, then turned off the light.

"Blankie," Trip reminded her as she passed the sofa.

"Uh-huh."

Retrieving a light wool blanket from the hall closet, she came back in and covered her partner. The

man was snoring softly, his mouth open. Rhianna shook her head and went on to bed.

****

Rhianna sat up in the bed and listened. Something had awakened her, and her heart pounded in her

chest as though she had been driven from a nightmare. Outside, the wind roared and rain drove against

the window, scratching for entry.

"Rhee?" was the soft inquiry.

Trip.
She relaxed. She had forgotten he was there.

"What?"