Not One of Us(86)

“And here’s your sergeant’s bars,” Oliver said, holding out the patch—three gold chevrons.

Applause broke out, and I swallowed hard as I accepted the patch. “Well deserved,” Oliver said gruffly.

I wanted to thank him for his trust in me, but that would have to come after I got myself together. My coworkers would never let me live it down if I did something so disgraceful as cry. Oliver nodded, as though sensing my temporary inability to form coherent words. “Later, Blackwell.”

“This calls for a celebration,” Mullins announced. “Dinner at Broussard’s tonight. My treat.”

“Anything I want?” Sinclair asked. “Because if that’s the case, I’ll order lobster and—”

“Not you, idiot. I’m only paying for rook . . . I mean, Dep . . . I mean, Sergeant Blackwell. You two clowns are on your own. What do you say, Sergeant?”

I cleared my throat to dislodge the giant lump threatening to strangle my windpipe. “That would be great. Just great. Could we invite Carter Holt?” I had to admit the agent still wasn’t my favorite person in the world, but he’d done an exemplary job of discovering a drug-smuggling operation that had been running for years under everyone’s nose—with the help of Dana Adair, of course. He deserved some well-earned applause, which I felt certain he didn’t experience much of in his undercover work.

I debated inviting Dana. She’d proven to be an honest, valuable informant whose only motivation was to stop the infiltration of drugs into the bayou. She’d been through her own personal hell of addiction and didn’t want anyone else to go through it. But as far as a victory celebration with cops, I wasn’t so sure that would be the right call. I resolved to treat her to dinner in private. It was the least I could do.

“Too bad Dempsey and Granger won’t be around to witness your promotion,” Haywood remarked with a snicker. “The bastards have been sent to a federal penitentiary and placed in protective custody until trial. Serving time in an Alabama prison is going to be quite rough.”

My lips twisted grimly. Those two were worse than I’d ever imagined. A search of their homes turned up the gun used in the attempt on Holt’s life and other evidence. Both of them, along with the men arrested from the boat, had fingered Hank Rembert as the kingpin of the operation. Our mayor had been arrested, and the trafficking charge against him was solid. I supposed it was wrong of me to find satisfaction in the Dempsey and Granger arrests, but after years of having to put up with their snide remarks, I allowed myself to enjoy their plight. “You know what they say about karma,” I said.

“It’ll be a bitch for the likes of them,” Mullins grumbled. “Dirty cops deserve everything they get in the end.”

There had been so much corruption, so much bloodshed. Jackson’s face flashed before me—youthful, handsome, and utterly debased at only age sixteen. He’d paid dearly for trying to blackmail his uncle. Justice, as well as karma, could also be a bitch.





Chapter 40


JORI


Mimi appeared to be having a good day. You’d never know from her outward calm that turmoil had rocked our family only two weeks earlier. She’d been shaken at the news of Buddy’s death, but not as much as I would have thought, especially because of her stalwart commitment to family over the years. Perhaps the fog of dementia buffered the grief. For half a second, I envied her that fog. When I lay in bed at night, I continuously heard the boom of the shotgun from the recording. Over and over. Boom, boom, boom. Red and black shards piercing a black canvas in my mind.

And then my mind would replay Uncle Buddy calmly preparing to kill me. The man I’d regarded as a father figure in my life. He’d reach for the gun, cool as a bite of watermelon, aim it at me, and I was helpless to fight back. Me. His niece.

Mimi stood in front of the stove, stirring a pot of pinto beans. “Needs a little more honey,” she announced after scooping up a mouthful and tasting.

I sat at the kitchen table and watched as she removed the cornbread from the oven, marveling at her oblivion. She baked it in an iron skillet so that the bread crisped at the bottom, just the way Zach and I liked it. Mom, too, when she was with us. How many dinners had Mimi prepared for us over the years? Thousands, I reckoned. Had I never really understood my own blood and flesh?

The TV provided a cozy background noise from the den, where Zach sat on the couch with his LEGOs, watching a home renovation program on HGTV. I didn’t need to be seated in the same room to know that his blue fleece blanket would be wrapped over his legs, his torso swaying side to side in a rhythm provided by an inner music only he could hear. Since my escape from Uncle Buddy, I’d spent more time with Zach, recapturing our former closeness. Growing up, I’d been the one to care for him while Mom and Mimi worked extra jobs on nights and weekends to make ends meet. We used to play in the old tree house during the day and watch rented movies at night.

In some ways, my colored hearing, unique and idiosyncratic, formed my own private world no one else could envision, much as Zach’s world was unexplainable and unknowable to anyone but himself. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if researchers one day discovered a neural connection between synesthesia and autism. Reality might be fluid and flexible, influenced greatly by individual perception instead of set in stone.

“Going to pop the bread in for another minute,” Mimi mumbled. The oven door banged shut. Leave it to my grandmother to bring me out of my head and back down to the present moment.