Mississippi Blues (11 page)

He hobbled out.

The breath she'd been holding whooshed out of her. She couldn't believe she'd said that about his mama, but in that moment she realized he wasn't going to do her bodily harm. His anger at Jimmy Ray surprised her. Why should he care what happened to her? As he'd pointed out, she'd asked for it by going with the creep last night.

Jace came back carrying the first aid kit he'd taken from the boat. “Sit down.”

She did as he instructed watching him warily, still holding her borrowed shirt together with both hands.

“Let go.”

Her eyes on his, she moved her hands, and the slip of material fell away. When she started to cover herself again, he put his hand over hers and shook his head. She lifted her chin and stared at him as he took a moist towelette from the package and unfolded it. Powerless, she sat as he wiped the cold square across her scratches. Her nipples peaked, and her belly tingled in a way she'd never felt before. Her pulse pounded like a river, whether from fear or shock she couldn't say.

Although she talked big, no male had ever seen her vulnerable like this before. At the eighth grade dance, Homer Bellafonte had put his hand on her breast, over her blue taffeta gown, and she had slapped him so hard he said his ears rang. Word got around and no one else had ever dared to go that far for a long time after. Since she'd run around with Candy, Lindy had made out with a few boys, but this felt different. Forbidden. Tantalizing.

Homer had grossed her out, but she wished Jace would keep ministering to her. Her breasts and stomach ached in a way that had nothing to do with her wounds.

Could he tell she wanted his hands on her? She stole a glance at him. His expression was neutral. A while ago, he had told her she needed to fill out. Did he find her appealing now that he saw her mostly nude? If he did, he didn't show it. Like a doctor, his movements were clinical, efficient. He didn't even seem to notice her bare breasts. She might not have the biggest boobs, like Charity Ann Clawson's fat old Ds, but hers were perky.

Lindy sniffed. Charity Ann couldn't wear a leotard like she could. Ryan Fairchild had played the prince in last year's ballet production of
Cinderella
and she'd seen him sneak a peak at her when they changed costumes between scenes. He hadn't seemed to think she was too small. Plus, she knew she had great legs and a flat belly from riding and dancing. When she'd gotten her bellybutton pierced last summer, the guy who'd done the job had commented how great she'd looked in her belly shirt.

• • •

Jace concentrated with all his might. It took every ounce of self-control to keep his mind on the task at hand and not his throbbing groin. Lindy had been nearly raped last night. He didn't want to do anything to scare her. He knew what a woman who had been through that kind of trauma experienced because he'd seen his mama the day after she'd been raped and left for dead in the rain.

With her features battered, they'd barely recognized MiLann. Soloman not only violated her person, he'd beaten her to a pulp and cut open her beautiful face. The doctors hadn't expected her to live. When Jace saw his mother lying in a heap, tubes and needles sticking out of her, he lost it.

The Hills thought the Chief would have an arrest within hours. When he did, they rejoiced. But, for reasons no one ever made clear, Soloman was released within a day. Jace charged into the Chief's office, demanding answers. The policeman gave lip service about not enough evidence and having no choice but to release Soloman.

Stunned, Jace had made his fatal mistake. He raged at the Chief, promising to find Soloman and get a confession even if he had to beat it out of him.

Good to his word, he kept the promise.

He'd searched out Soloman to beat him half to death.

And sent himself straight to the bowels of hell. Angola Federal Prison.

He pulled another towelette from the package and dabbed at the dried blood where Lindy had been bitten. He brushed the cloth over the bite. “This has to sting.”

She bit her lip as he cleaned the wounds. He ran the cloth over the scratches on her legs, then took a tube out of the kit and opened it. “This is antibiotic ointment. It should keep your cuts from getting infected.”

With careful movements, he spread the medicine over her scrapes and bruises as gently as possible, although her legs shook. Then he replaced the cap. Wiping his fingers, he said, “There's a spare T-shirt in the stuff from the boat. I'll get it.”

With her shoulder to him, she mumbled thanks when he tossed her the tee. She smiled when she saw the logo over the pocket. Juliet Police. He didn't smile back. Her expression turned serious as she faced him full on. “You've got to get out of here. Leave me. I won't tell the Chief where you went. I promise. But, you've got to go.”

“Since when do you care what happens to me?” He couldn't allow himself to trust her. She hadn't been in her right mind last night. Soon she would be thinking clearer. Remember who she was — a Bouché. Duty-bound, she'd turn on him in a jumpin' jack flash.

She turned away and tugged the tee over her head. “I don't care. That doesn't mean I want to see you get killed.”

“I'm not going to get killed 'cause I have you for insurance. Your daddy isn't going to hurt me as long as you're along. So until I figure out where I'm going, you're stuck with me.” He forced his voice cold and mean. “You chose to put yourself this position. You're along for the ride now.”

“No problem.” Her tone matched his. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere for awhile. I like it here. I can rest, think, come up with the perfect plan.”

“There isn't any perfect plan. The Chief won't quit until he has you back behind bars.” She didn't sound positive.

“I'm not worried about your old man.” Jace stepped close and gripped her chin in his hand. “Know why? Cause he's nothing to me but a bad memory.”

• • •

Trey was worried sick.

By noon he knew he should've kept searching for Lindy. She thought she was so grownup, so independent, but the truth was she was still a young girl. He hated to think of all the things that could happen to her. Half the women back in Afghanistan had been raped. Some by their own people, some by American soldiers.

Just for a moment, he allowed his mind to return to Katia, a young woman he'd known there.

• • •

His unit had come across a burned out village. In one still-standing, but badly used building a group of women and children huddled, terrified for their lives. One woman, about twenty, had stood up daring them to fire. He'd admired her spirit. All the guys had.

Reassuring her they meant her no harm, they'd taken the women and kids back to base for medical treatment and a safe haven for those who were physically well but had nowhere to go.

Katia recovered from her ordeal faster than most of the others. Her English improved every day and she found odd jobs around to make herself useful. In spite of his feelings for Summer, Trey found himself drawn to the little spitfire. Nothing like Summer, petite, with dark hair and eyes, Katia thawed the ice around his heart just a bit.

They spent a great deal of time together, healing.

The orders came down from brass that the women were to be moved to a refugee camp outside camp.

Trey was helpless to keep her from going.

He promised to find a way to bring her back.

When he didn't hear from her in a few weeks, knowing she wouldn't just disappear without a word, he tracked her to an unmarked grave on a hill overlooking the city. Grief-stricken and enraged, he didn't give up until the story came out.

Just as she had stood up to the American soldiers, Katia dared the Taliban to harm her.

Her bravery cost her life.

She'd been murdered, her throat slit.

• • •

Trey forced thoughts of Katia away. He had to focus on a woman he could help. Where to begin? First, who did Lindy hang out with? He didn't have a clue if she still ran around with the same kids he used to know. If she did, none of them had been at the quarry last night. He hadn't recognized any of them. Bothering his mother wasn't an option. Neither would the Chief have time for this right now. Who else would know anything?

Etta. The family's housekeeper. She was the pulse of the family, had been for as long as he could remember. She'd be home now from her visit with her daughter. She'd made Lindy's celebratory dinner, but hadn't stayed to serve it. He went to the kitchen to find her.

The old black woman was bent over the stove, removing a tray of fresh cinnamon pecan cookies. Seeing him, her eyes went wide and she let go of the tray. It clattered to the floor, scattering her cookies. “Mr. Trey. You came home. Oh, lordy, thanks be alive.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He enveloped the tiny woman in his arms. Her ice white hair tickled his nose. “All because of you. I couldn't stay away from my girl any longer.”

“Pshaw.” She wiggled out of his arms. “Never mind that. You've been gone too long.”

“Yes.” He knelt to reach for the cookies and she swatted his hand away. “I got it. Just you sit down at the table proper. You're in my kitchen now, not some camp on a mountain.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Obediently he sat at the table and poured a tall glass of orange juice. He took a sip and waited for her to pick up the crumbled cookies. Then he said casually, “Do you know who Lindy spends her time with nowadays?”

Etta's mouth puckered as if she'd swallowed something distasteful. “No, sirree, I don't. All Missy Lindy's friends used to come here. I haven't seen any of them in longer than a beaver's front teeth.”

“Not even Becca? Or Mary-Gray?” He held the glass poised halfway between his mouth and the table. The three girls had been inseparable since the second grade.

“No, sirree. None of them.” She turned away, but not before he saw the sadness on her face.

He stood up and put his hands on her shoulders, moving her toward him. “Miss Etta? What is it?”

She kept her gaze locked on his feet and dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. He lifted her chin, and tried to read into the depths of her black eyes. “What's wrong?”

She shook her head. “I ain't gonna talk poorly of this family. No matter who done what.”

“Just tell me what's troubling you so much,” he urged. “I need every lead I can get to find Lindy.”

She took a deep breath. “I'm worried.”

“About what?” His pulse sped up.

She was obviously reluctant to talk. “Missy Lindy.”

“Miss Etta, what about her?” He let go of her chin and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Tell me. I want to help, but I can't if I don't know what the problem is.”

“Missy's gone, that's what.” Tears filled her eyes again. “I just know something bad's happened to her.”

Trey's heart lurched. His fears exactly. “How do you know that? She's probably just spent the night on someone's couch.”

“I doubt that,” Etta muttered. “You been gone for a long time, Mr. Trey. Missy Lindy isn't the girl you knew. She gone … bad. Real bad.”

“What do you mean?” He kept a tight rein on the surge of fear that coursed through him. His version of bad and an old black woman's might be somewhat different.

“Missy is disrespectful to your mama and daddy, number one.” She held up two bent fingers. “Number two, she runs with a rotten bunch of skunks. Lilah told me she saw my young miss at that trashy joint on the outside of town. And you know them kind that runs outta there.”

“Lilah knows this for a fact?” His heart pinched into a painful crease. What was Lindy thinking?

Etta nodded. “Yes, sirree. My Lilah don't lie none.”

“What else did Lilah say?” Trey planned to make sure Jimmy Ray got his ass kicked. He had no business allowing an underage drinker in his bar. Everything from illegal guns to drugs was rumored to be found there. A girl like Lindy would be an easy target for the scum who trolled around there.

“Nothin'.” Etta held up a third crooked, arthritic finger. “Another thing. Most days I hear my missy come in about the time I get up. I might not be as young as I once was, but I still got ears and I still climb out of bed plenty early. Yes, sirree, I do.”

All her life, Etta rose before the sun came up. Close to daybreak most mornings. In her opinion, the most productive hours were the earliest. Who in the hell was Lindy spending her nights with?

“What does the Chief say to her?”

“I ain't told on my missy.” The housekeeper hung her head again and for the first time, He noticed how fragile she seemed. When had she shrunk so much? “Mr. Samuel's so tied about in knots about Miz Emily he can't stand it. I didn't want to burden him more.”

“He hasn't noticed Lindy's actions?” The Chief had never been soft with his children. Why hadn't he put Lindy under restriction?

She twisted her perfectly pressed apron in her hands. “If he has, he hasn't said.”

“You should've said something,” Trey said gently.

“I couldn't.” Etta studied her feet. “Because of what he'd do to her. Send her away. Same's he done to you.”

Trey didn't have a response for that one. She was right. If the Chief found out his teenage daughter was running wild, no telling what he'd do to her. Whatever the punishment, it was bound to be severe. He had to be torn up bad by Emily's illness to let something like this slide. Trey knew he better run interference and find out what was going on, fast. He gave the top of Etta's head a light kiss and her thin shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Try not to worry anymore.”

She wiped her wrinkled cheek with a corner of her wrinkled apron. “Go on now. Git. I gots chores to do.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Ducking her lightning fast slap, he grabbed two warm cookies off the tray. Licking frosting off his fingers, he went to find the Chief.