Waters Run Deep

Both.

He clicked the brights, haloing the grasses growing on either side of the dirt road. No one was out this early in the morning, not even the shrimpers. The road was uneven, jarring him, but there was no other way out except by boat. He reached the turnoff and headed north on the highway hugging the Bayou Lafourche. Businesses and houses lined the highway on either side of the water. He crossed a lock bridge to reach the other side and rode thirty miles in silence toward Houma. Each mile brought him closer to a no-win situation.

He’d go to jail. Maybe even Angola.

He swallowed and tried to focus on the smattering of businesses outside Houma. The interstate would be quicker, but Sal didn’t want to go fast. He knew what lay ahead. Billy wasn’t smart enough to pull the scheme off. Sal should have known better than to mix himself up with a piece of bayou trash like Billy. He turned past the entrance ramp for I-49 and took Highway 182 instead, finding peace in the old highway that would eventually cross the Bayou Tete, the very bayou he’d spent so much time on, fishing and contemplating what a failure he’d become.

The road twisted like a serpent, winding around the Louisiana wetlands before brushing against the tangled trees, sad against the February darkness. It made Sal feel melancholic. He yearned for better times. Bait on his hook, Pabst Blue Ribbon in hand, herons gliding to perches on the bayous off the Atchafalaya. How had he come to this?

His headlights caught a shape in the road. He jerked the steering wheel hard, standing on the brakes at the same time. Too late. The image of a gator in the road flashed through his mind at the same time the truck crashed through the guardrail and went airborne. Cypress limbs blocked his vision just before a sickening thud jarred the vehicle. Sal threw his hands in front of his face as the trunk of a tree hurtled toward him. His head snapped backward at collision and he vaguely registered falling, flipping, hitting the water with a loud crack.

Sal gasped for air as water the color of weak coffee poured into the mangled cab. “Hep!”

His mouth felt stuffed with cotton and he couldn’t make his legs move. His lungs starved for oxygen. He gulped at the air, hoping to drink it, telling his body to move. No use. “Hep!”

His mind raced though his body could not move. Broken rail. Someone would see. Water deep. Truck sinking. He could taste the fecund water of the swamp. It filled his mouth, stinging his nostrils as he inhaled the essence of Louisiana, his birthplace, his home.

His hands flopped useless beside him, like large oars adrift in a current. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t save himself. He’d cheated death one victim that night when he’d taken the girl to Enola, but it would wait no longer to claim a replacement.

Sal said a prayer as the water reached his eyes, but there was nothing to comfort him. Nothing except the sound of justice and regret roaring in his ears.

And the last thought to register before he slipped into a place of darkness was no one would know what had happened to Della Dufrene.

CHAPTER TWO

South Louisiana, 2010

ANNA MENDES, AKA ANNIE PEREZ, stared down at her charge and cursed her bad luck for being the only woman at the agency fit for the job. Masquerading as a nanny? Not exactly easy. More like impossible. “Please tell me you’re joking, Spencer.”

The five-year-old stood next to a potato-chip display making a horrible face. “I’m sorry, Annie, but I think I’m gonna fro up.”

Annie looked down at her shoes—her new running shoes she’d bought with her first paycheck—then back at Spencer, who had squeezed his eyes closed. He did look green around the gills. Perhaps the chocolate milk had been too much. She glanced desperately around the gas station/deli as if there might be someone lurking around the overcrowded shelves to help her. Her gaze landed on a bottle of pink bismuth. Perfect. “How about some medicine? Something to settle your—”

Too late.

Spencer jackknifed forward and reacquainted Annie with the pint of chocolate milk he’d guzzled after they’d left the outskirts of Baton Rouge.

“Oh, God.” Annie jumped back about a yard and stared at the child, waiting for his head to spin around. Then it registered. She was in charge. Of the child. Of the situation. She needed napkins and cold water. “Okay, Spencer, okay. It’s fine. We’ll get this cleaned up.”

The boy looked up, tears welling in his big brown eyes. “I’m sorry, Annie. I didn’t mean to.”

Her heart melted even as she felt queasy herself. Poor kid. The whole thing was her fault. A child probably wasn’t supposed to drink that much on a road trip. She should have known, but no discussion of chocolate milk had been in any of the parenting books she’d pored over in preparation for this assignment. It hadn’t been in Know Your Child: A Study on Child Behavior or in So You Think You Can Parent? She knew. She’d read both from cover to cover, and still had no clue what in the hell she was doing.

She grabbed a stack of napkins from next to the slushie machine and mopped Spencer’s face. “Don’t worry, Spence. Are you feeling better?”

He nodded his head, “Uh-huh.”

“Good. Let’s go wash up. I’ll find the store manager and report our little accident.”

“What in the name of—” a voice shrieked behind her.

Annie spun around. Obviously, the gas-station manager had found them. “We had a little accident.”

Spencer whimpered so Annie placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“A little accident?” the woman said, screwing up her nose. She had bleached-blond hair and wore a Breaux Mart T-shirt three sizes too big for her small frame. Deep pocketed eyes, tanning-bed faux tan and smoker’s lips made Annie think of the prostitutes sitting on stools of the clubs surrounding the military base where she’d worked security years before.

“Yes, an accident,” Annie said, hardening her gaze. Spencer settled his head against her thigh so Annie moved her hand up to rub his head. The books had been very emphatic about young kids needing constant affection and praise. She rubbed harder.

The older woman spread her hands. “I can’t believe I gotta clean this up. I just got through cleanin’ all the johns this morning. Jesus.”

“Good to know the bathroom is clean. Come on, Spencer. Let’s let this nice lady do her job.”

The manager stared hard at Annie, making her glad she had combat training. If looks could kill—well, Annie would be on the floor forcing another cleanup on the paper-product-and-automotive aisle.

Spencer allowed himself to be tugged toward the neon bathroom sign in the back of the store, only putting the brakes on when he saw the candy aisle. “Hey, Annie, can I have—”

“Don’t even think about it, bud,” she interrupted, toeing the bathroom door open with her foot. She’d made a mistake at the airport giving in to the milk. She wasn’t stupid. Spencer wouldn’t see candy until he was returned to his mother.

“But I want candy!”

“Too bad.” Annie shoved him into the dark bathroom and flipped on the light. Yep, the bathroom was clean. Sorta.

“You have to give it to me. I’ve been good. You said if I was good on the airplane I could have a prize. I want a candy bar.”

No more relying on advice from a book. She went on instinct. “No. You puked all over the floor, and now that lady has to clean it up. The last thing you need is candy.”

He stuck out his bottom lip.

“Wash your hands,” Annie said, in the voice she’d used on suspects she apprehended.

Spencer didn’t move.

“My way or the highway, bud.” She flicked the faucet handle so water gushed into the sink and glanced in the mirror as Spencer finally got the message and shoved his hands under the flow.

Lord, she looked terrible.

Her normally tamed hair had slipped from its clip and frizzed around her face. Usually her olive skin glowed, but today it looked mottled. Her gray eyes looked tired. Confused. Resigned to a crappy life she had never intended.

Oh, she knew how she’d gotten back to square one. She’d dared to hope for a normal life back in her home state of California, throwing away a perfectly good career for a man, his daughter and a shot at being happy homemaker—all because she watched It’s a Wonderful Life and decided she needed a do over.

She’d been beyond naive. Okay, bordering on stupid.

So now she worked on a trial basis for Sterling Security and Investigations, LLC, as an undercover nanny. God, it sounded like a movie starring Sandra Bullock. No, she’d been a beauty queen or something. Still, having her first assignment encompass planning playdates and scrubbing mushy graham crackers off her T-shirt wasn’t what she had in mind when she told former FBI agent Ace Sterling she’d take the job. Typing reports for the firm would be better than being stuck in BF, Louisiana, with a conniving, adorable five-year-old and his celebrity parents.

“I’m done,” Spencer said, holding out his dripping hands.

Annie grabbed a paper towel. “Good job. Always wash your hands. Germs can make you sick.”