Chapter 4
Very Early Sunday Morning
It had been an absolutely perfectly fucked up day. They had determined that Harmon Rabb and Cici Jenks were nowhere to be found. Not at the shack where Webb had left them or at any of the other nearby, and not-so-nearby, shacks, vacant or occupied. After they had asked every person they could find along the river, the only thing they came up with was one old man, who appeared to be at least 100 years old and opined that maybe jess maybe now I done seen a boat goin’ down stream near bout the time the sun were jess over the rise, but with the cataracts and all, I cain’t be sure bout that.
They had returned to the jail shortly after dusk. Webb refused to abandon the search until everyone else did, insisting on holding body and soul together from the case of orange juice and the box of Pop TartsÔ she had picked up at the Sam’s Club in Jackson last Monday afternoon and a brief nap in the back of her Jeep. When they returned to the office, he scarfed down two of Mary Sue’s meatloaf sandwiches so fast she blurted out, "Damn, easy there, you’re going to choke or something!"
"I have a mother, thank you, Sheriff."
Well that had started it, though she let the opening salvo pass with a muttered, "Jerk," that only MacKenzie overheard.
Chegwidden filled them in on the invasion that would hit first thing Sunday morning. When she demanded why they needed a Marine Force Recon team and a SEAL team when they had the state’s National Guard, he told her just how important that lost laptop was and who Clayton Webb was. When he finished, she just sat there and stared at the CIA agent. She had known he was something out of the ordinary, just not that out of the ordinary. "What the hell was the CIA doing in Helensburg?"
"You been asleep, Bobbi Jo? Getting Rabb’s car fixed!" That was two. What the hell was his problem? Fuck strike three!
"Okay what was the CIA doing traipsing all over the country in a classic Corvette, with a Navy commander? What the hell were you two doing? Reliving that old television show! With a laptop that suddenly everybody and their brother are up in arms over because you lost it! You couldn’t have come to me and said, ‘Sheriff Thibodeau, we are stuck in your little town for a day or two and I would appreciate it if you could keep this in a safe place!’"
Oh, she had been tired and mad and he had been tired and evidently out of control. The shocked looks on Chegwidden and MacKenzie’s faces had attested to that.
"Well you looked like you were going to snap my head off for just smiling at you. Or, like you weren’t in the mood to help out two FAGGOTS! Why would I ask you for anything!"
"You sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch! If you had stayed in that room…"
"We both would have been killed by one of your boys out there!"
Chegwidden finally blew his top. "Do you two mind if we get to the meat of this?" They had sulked like spoiled children and there was no reason for it. They barely knew each other and she was damned if she was going to go all mushy over hazel eyes and a lock of hair that wouldn’t stay in place.
But it had taken the explanation of the missing dead ‘deputy’ to put the final cap on the day.
"Webb, tell us again what you saw when you shot the Klansman."
"I told you, uniform pants like all the deputies out there are wearing. Nightstick, 18 inches long, holstered gun, no idea what make, and a holster with handcuffs visible, two sets now that I think about it."
"What about the shirt? Jacket?"
"No, the robe got caught on his nightstick. I never saw the jacket."
Even before Chegwidden called in a young FBI agent who had been born and raised in the state, she had understood the import of the question. She ignored Webb’s look when she groaned and had listened with her head in her hands as the agent explained that the state police wore the exact same pants as the Crawford County deputies. "Lots of little counties do that, they get a better deal from the uniform manufacturer."
"And my men?" She asked the floor.
"Well, Sheriff, we’ve questioned them all and everyone of them has an alibi for the time in question. Deputy Hickock brought in Miss Smith and we convinced her to repeat what she told you. Though, we can’t find Mr. Chammers to collaborate her story and the women down in the holding tank are refusing to talk without a lawyer present."
"Where’s Preston?"
"According to his wife, he had to leave town to visit his ailing mother."
"Preston’s momma has been dead for ten years."
"That’s what Deputy Evans said. We have an APB out on Preston, but we don’t know why really. Deputy Evans and Deputy Hickock both expressed doubt that the man is a member of the Klan."
"No. He has too good a record in the black community here."
"All in all ma’am, your deputies have been reasonably forthcoming and helpful. In fact," he blushed and looked down at the floor as if knowing what he was going to say would just embarrass the shit out of her. And, of course, it did. "Several of the deputies, all but one who said something about he didn’t think his momma would approve, have opened their homes to our men. Most have spare rooms they are willing to lend us. And Deputy Evans, Horace, made a phone call and his brother-in-law is going to open up his fishing shack on the river as more people join the search. Though I’m sure the SEALs and the Marines will bring tents with them."
Of course she had to go face them. But they weren’t ones to hold on to petty grudges. Well yes they were, but they had cut her some slack – after letting Horace rip her a new one.
"Bobbie Jo Thibodeau! We know you don’t think much of our brains and I’ll grant you that none of us are up to FBI or LAPD standards. But we do just fine for Crawford County. We may be rednecks but we gots our pride and so be that. Ya’ll will think what you want about us, but that you could think so little of your daddy. Lands girl, he would whump your bottom red for thinkin’ he would have him any Klan members on his force. Don’t you remember nothin’?"
Not firsthand. And, white folks seldom talked about it. Occasionally, when she was a little girl, a black man or woman would stop her on the sidewalk. "Girl, your daddy’s a good man. He’ll always be sheriff if I gots anything to say about it. Wouldn’t be able to vote if it weren’t fer your daddy." She had never understood it. She had asked him, but Thomas Thibodeau had just waved the assertion away with, "Lord, child. Them folks had the right. The feds would have got to us eventually. That’s what I told Horace and that’s what I told all those folks." Bobbi Jo was 16 when she finally heard the story of how, while her mother was in the hospital delivering her in 1968, her father, only a year in office and with only Horace to back him up, had faced down the town’s biggest bigot and the High Dragon of the local KKK and told everyone in the mob outside the courthouse that if men of color could fight and die along side of him in Viet Nam, then, by God, they could vote along side of him in Helensburg.
"Your daddy would never abide any Klan member being a deputy, Bobbi Jo. And he hired everyone of us. Ya’ll should have known that. And ya’ll should know that, even if he didn’t approve of men carrying on with other men he would have tarred and feathered any man that would have been a part of running them out of town like that. Long as I’m part of this force you can believe that or not!"
She stood there and took it, like she deserved. She knew most of her deputies were dyed in the wool southern good old boys with dyed in the wool southern predispositions. But they seemed to keep it buried while on the job. Come to think of it, she had never had a complaint against any of them from the 1000 or so black residents of the county. And, when Donell Jefferson’s little girl was lost in the cypress swamp that straddles Crawford and Buford Counties, her men had all volunteered extra shifts to find the child. Damn, living in the south was strange and she didn’t think she could get used to it again.
After making sure that Chegwidden, MacKenzie and Manetti were settled in her two guest rooms, Bobbi Jo set the coffee maker for 7:30 and went to bed. Promptly at 3:30, just like she had never left LA, she was wide-awake. Only in Helensburg, she didn’t need the hour to dress and the hour and a half to battle the traffic to work. She was out of the shower and glaring at the still dormant coffee maker at 4:00.
She quietly left the too-big house that she rented from the mayor’s brother-in-law and drove around the sleeping metropolis of 1,362 people and wondered what she would do once they found Rabb, dead or alive, brought the perps to justice, one way or the other, and uncovered all the dirty little secrets that they were sure to uncover in the process. She knew she couldn’t stay here. Coming back had been a mistake. She had let the unreasonable guilt over her father’s murder, the inability to make her bastard boyfriend understand that what happened hadn’t been her fault and she didn’t need help getting past it, and the general ennui with her stagnating position with the LAPD, affect her decision to return to a place she had hated for most of her 36 years.
She parked the car at the station. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door. Otis, who had volunteered to do the graveyard shift, sat at the desk in the corner with two of the FBI agents. They all looked up from the cards in their hands. There was nothing to do in the night but guard their reluctant witnesses and man the silent phones.
"Bobbi Jo." Otis scowled. Of all her deputies, he would be the slowest to forgive, but then that was just Otis.
"Sheriff." The two young agents nodded and looked a bit sheepish.
"Go on and play you guys, I just wanted to get in early and start that paperwork and get a cup of coffee."
"It’s fresh, Bobbi Jo."
"Thank you, Otis."
That he was still talking to her at all made her throat constrict.
She grabbed up her mug, noticing that a sleeve of cups had appeared. They hadn’t had paper cups since she had arrived. Well, with all the extra people, they wouldn’t be able to keep up with washing coffee cups.
She approached her office and wondered how he was doing at the motel. He had gruffly advised one and all that his things were there and that as bad as it was, Suriname had been worse. Everyone had recognized it for what it was – a macho version of getting back on the horse or something. She would have to ask him about that someday. Yeah. Right. The gray dawn barely illuminated the room. She hadn’t had the heart to change anything in her daddy’s office. It was still full of his memorabilia, his pictures on the walls, his desk and chairs, the gigantic overstuffed leather couch that had always been there. Many a night, when he had insisted on taking his turn at the late watch, he had slept on that couch. Sometimes he had slept there when her mother had been in one of her high-blown snits. He had always covered up with the old quilt that rested in the back closet.
Carefully, she opened the closet door and pulled it down. Letting it fall open, she walked back and gently covered him. She let her hand smooth the wrinkles over his chest before turning away. His hand caught hers before she could escape.
She gulped and wouldn’t look at him. "I guess some things are worse that Suriname."
"Not many." He voice was harsh from sleep. He tugged until she turned to face him. He sat up and pulled her until she was sitting next to him. "It was too quiet. I had become used to the noise."
"And you’re worried about him."
"Of course. If anyone is going to kill Harmon Rabb, I get first…" His voice trailed off and he buried his head in his hands. She didn’t keep herself from offering comfort and caressed her hand over his back. The shirt was clean and he had obviously showered. He smelled so much better than he had earlier in the day. "Rabb has used up more lives than three cats and is going to die in this godforsaken…"
"Hush. We’ll find him." He turned to her and she felt her heart skip. This was not happening like this. "How much sleep have you had?"
A crooked little smile upturned at his lips. "I thought we had established the fact that I have a mother, Bobbi Jo."
"Oh yeah? Is she half as insane as mine?"
The smile faded but not in anger. "No. Not insane at all. She’s all I had for a very long time. My father died when I was seven."
"Man. I can’t even imagine how I would have made it through childhood without my father. He was my rock. It must have been nice having your mother there for you."
"It was. She’s a good lady."
"She worries about you?"
"She understands."
"But the girlfriend doesn’t." Oh well that was subtle. His gaze never wavered. In fact, he got a little closer. Well it was hard to see in this light, she thought.
"No girlfriend. What about you? Are you seeing anyone?"
"In this town? Please."
"Why are you here? You obviously hate it." She heard the note of exasperation in his voice and backed off a bit.
"You don’t understand. There are some things I have to do."
"And you have to do this, why?"
Had she really thought they had been connecting? This time when she stood up he didn’t try and stop her. "Go back to sleep, Mr. Webb. Or, don’t. I have work to do." She walked to her desk and sat down. Turning on the ancient desk lamp she pulled out an incident report form and began to write the notes she should have started yesterday.
:: :: :: ::
Mac wasn’t sure when her life had begun to go so badly of kilter again. She had thought, after the whole thing with Dalton had sent her into a tailspin, she had pulled herself up and faced her demons. She couldn’t have the man she really wanted so she looked for the next best choice and for a long time she had convinced herself that Harmon Rabb was an excellent substitute. Hell, after she had saved him from a watery death and watched Mic walk away, she convinced herself that her best friend should be her life partner. But, the cooling off period that they had both agreed to evidently cooled off too much. She had remained celibate and faithful to building a relationship that would bloom into…Jesus, why didn’t she just read a few more romance novels.
It was never going to happen for her. Not with Mic, not with Rabb, and evidently, from the way the looks were sparking between Webb and Bobbi Jo, not with him either. Not that she hadn’t already considered that avenue and rejected it. He was an aggravating friend. A dear friend, who had saved her life, and treated her with respect at all times. But, he knew. And because he knew, he had evidently taken himself out of the running. How he knew was beyond her understanding. Spy or no spy, she had thought she had buried her feelings for AJ Chegwidden. She had been down that path once with Farrow and she wasn’t going there again. Never going to happen. Besides, AJ didn’t want her. He told her years ago they both knew what was right. Of course, his track record was damn near identical to hers, right down to the dead girlfriend and the fiancé who had up and walked out of his life. Meredith had refused to talk to her about it. In fact, Meredith hadn’t returned her last call at all.
She stared up at the tiled ceiling and sighed. She and Manetti were sharing a very nice room with double beds and a bare dresser. Nothing on the walls lent the room any personality. A rag rug was the only covering on the floor. Bobbi Jo had explained that the house had come with the beds in both the spare bedrooms as well as the 50’s rendition of Early American in the living room. "I hope you don’t think my taste runs to orange sofas with brown pheasants on each cushion. But, my leather couch and chairs were too big for this. They’re in storage in LA. All I brought was my bedroom set."
The beds were comfortable and the water was hot. She, then Tracy and finally the Admiral had taken turns in the shower. She was in bed when she heard him stalk down the hall to the room next door. The walls were thin and she could hear him prepare for bed. This was worse than any time she had spent with Rabb in close quarters. They had played at professionalism then. Both insisting that the scantily clad form of the other had no effect. Evidently it hadn’t. And now she was alone with no prospects. Alone to consider just how unfair life was.
She marveled at the way Bobbi Jo had just up and changed the entire course of her life. Left LA to return to this small town. She wondered what it would be like to do something different than JAG? True she had left once before, but for all the wrong reasons. If she left again, there would be no return. He wouldn’t take her back this time. He… She groaned as the imagines of him filled her head. So commanding in his dress uniform. So perfectly handsome, when he dressed in civilian clothes. So damn hot all sweated up in his running clothes. Why had Meredith left him? He must have hurt her badly if the woman couldn’t even bare to talk to any of his staff. She had always considered herself to be Meredith’s friend. She had fixed them up, hadn’t she? Damn it! All she wanted was for him to be happy and completely out of her reach. If he was happily married then maybe she could get over him at last.
It was impossible to stay in bed listening to Tracy thrash restlessly in the bed next to her. The girl had it bad. But then she suspected that all of Harm’s women fell hard. Even she had devoted herself to his needs. His quest to Russia; his timetable. Christ, he could suck the lifeblood from a person. But, no more. She would rather be alone. Alone in her misery. Not that she had a choice.
She threw off the covers and walked out into the silent hallway. It was 0416 hours and she had heard Bobbi Jo leave just a few minutes before. Would she go to the motel and check on Clay?
She looked at the door to the room with the full-size bed. She wondered if he was comfortable or did his feet keep hitting the iron footboard. The bed was an antique. But that wasn’t what attracted her to it. Other images assailed her senses. What she could do to him after she had tied him to the supports. Would he struggle? Oh God, stop torturing yourself. Biting her upper lip, ignoring the chill to her legs and arms, she walked into the kitchen. The Mr. Coffee was set up on a timer. She hit the on button and stood there tapping her bare foot. She really should go put some clothes on she supposed. Her usual attire of boxer shorts and tee shirt weren’t appropriate in this weather. Damn, wasn’t the south supposed to be warm, even at this time of year? Her nipples hardened. And she almost groaned at the feeling. As the last hissing spluttering of coffee filled the carafe she started opening cabinets looking for cups.
At his hiss of surprise, she spun around to face him.
Even her gift fled her as she stood there staring at him, dressed in boxers and a tee shirt. His eyes were riveted to hers and for the first time since that time in his bedroom she saw the truth in his eyes. Lust, desire and need were there. Longing and anguish, so intense, that she almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Her chest was heaving and she could tell he was struggling to move. To flee. Not this time, AJ. She and Rabb had dressed like this in front of each other on countless occasions and neither had done more than crack jokes about it. Well, Mr. Former SEAL, I know what’s right? Lets see what you’re made of.
"Coffee, sir?"
"Huh?" He shook his head.
"Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"Well, uhm…I just came out to get a glass of water, Colonel."
"Indeed? Well help yourself, sir. But the coffee is made." She busied herself pulling out another cup and then walked over to the refrigerator to search for milk. She kept any wiggle or sexual sway from her hips. She wanted to see how far he would go but she didn’t want him bringing her up on an Article 66. Opening the door, she saw a carton of heavy cream on a lower shelf. Oh well. Not my fault. She bent over and reached for it. Standing back up, she closed the door and turned around, only to find herself right up against his chest.
"What do you think you’re doing, Colonel MacKenzie?" His growl was low, sexy and made her instantly wet.
"Getting some cream, sir." Keeping her eyes locked on his, she held it up. "Would you like some cream, sir….for your coffee…of course."
Passion smoldered in his eyes and once again they were faced with it. He wavered but this time she didn’t let him escape. Stretching just a fraction, her lips were on his and his arms were around her. It was everything that she had imagined it would be. Only there were fewer clothes between them and the heat of his body was burning her, branding her. She groaned into his mouth and his tongue sought hers. His hands were holding her ass tight against his erection and she knew now what that kiss in the closest had felt like to Tracy. TRACY! Tracy, who was in the other room. Tracy, who if she walked out right now and saw them, could – would have no choice – but to ruin his career. She jerked back, terror in her eyes. "Oh God."
Anger replaced hunger; shame replaced the passion in his eyes. She wanted to explain, but before she could, he spun around and left the room. Just as his door slammed shut, another opened. Oh God, please let her go to bathroom. Please don’t let her come in here. Her knees nearly buckled when she heard the bathroom door open and shut. She hurried into the bedroom and by the time Tracy returned, she had on jeans and a Marine Corps sweatshirt. They had agreed that casual wear for the search was acceptable.
"Morning?" Tracy moaned.
"Morning. I made coffee."
"Good. Food?"
"I think we should go to that café Webb mentioned last night."
"Okay. Should we wait for the Admiral?"
"No. Let him wake up. You know he’s a bear in the morning."
"Oh yeah. Give me a minute."
"Sure no problem." She took an inordinate amount of time tying up her boots. She was definitely going to have to stay out of his way. Oh God, what had she done.