To Catch a Fox

Geoffrey Knight * Ethan Day

Smashwords Edition

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or
by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, situations and incidents are

the product of the author? imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter One

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Fox,” she said with a lamp-lit smile, “but I do

declare—it’s time for you to die.”

The words drifted across the smoky sitting room, tinged with mild amusement,

dripping with that sweet Southern accent and stained with her glossy, blood-red lipstick.

Like a kiss left on the rim of a glass.
Or on a shirt collar.
Which was precisely the evidence Jonathan Fox had found in the young chauffeur’s

apartment to prove Delta Deveraux was having an affair. Which was, evidently, the same
reason Delta herself had broken into his house to kill him.

At first he wasn’t sure if she was bluffing or not.
That’s when she pulled the small, pearl-handled revolver from her purse.
Nope. No bluff.
“My only dilemma,” she said, her shiny red lips snaking into an even wider smile, “is

where to put the first bullet.” She eyed him playfully, like a cat with a mouse. He was
handsome, there was no arguing that. Dark eyes hiding secrets with lips to match. And
just the right age—thirtyish, she guessed—still young enough to appreciate his own cock,
yet old enough to know how to use it properly.

Delta pointed her gun. “I could finish you off quickly with a single shot straight to the

heart, but I’m suspicious that heart of yours may be made of stone and the bullet might
ricochet off. Then again, I could shoot you through the stomach and make things slow
and painful, much like the humiliating divorce proceedings my foolish husband believes
he can force me to suffer through. But then again, I’m tempted to instantly gratify myself
and put the first bullet right between your legs. In terms of size, it certainly looks like the
easiest target.”

Delta Deveraux cocked the hammer on the revolver.
“Yes,” she said, taking aim at Fox’s crotch, her finger squeezing gently on the trigger.

“I do believe that would give me a great deal of satisfaction indeed.”

Fox simply sighed, his broad shoulders slumping just a little.
He didn’t back away.
He didn’t squirm.
He didn’t give any sign of fear.
He simply said—
“Can I at least fix myself a drink first? It’s hotter than hell.”

***

Twenty minutes earlier, Fox’s pickup had rocked back and forth as he turned off the

river road, which ran alongside the levee that stood between him and the Mississippi, and
onto the dirt lane that disappeared into the tree line just ahead. Fox cursed the hissing air
conditioner which seemed to be gasping for its last breath. He hammered the dash, no

longer able to ignore the fact he needed to break down and buy a new vehicle.

Fox’s fist clobbered the dash in a frustrated attempt to fix the air, but his banging only

killed the headlights.

“Terrific!”
Fox wiped the sweat off his brow, then ran his fingers through his matted black hair.

He loosened his tie even further down his chest and unbuttoned his shirt a little more. The
late afternoon rain had turned the early June heat into a sticky sauna, and even with the
sun having disappeared beyond the horizon, the air was still thick and heavy.

In the dying light, Fox passed into the patch of woods that separated his destination

from the prying eyes of the outside world. He knew this track well from when he was a
child, though now every turn and pothole and bump and groove was a reminder of how
much his life had changed from those days long gone.

Funny, he thought. It’s the little things that stay with you.
The big things, the important things, they’re always the things you lose.
One of the reasons behind his decision to move back into the family home was his

choice of occupation. Not surprisingly, being a private investigator requires, in no
uncertain terms, privacy. Fox liked the fact that the family home was secluded, but at just
over an hour’s drive from the French Quarter it was still close enough to the action. And
the work.

Despite all the horrible things that had happened here when he was a child—the

things that had driven him away from De la Fontaine—to this day it was still the only
place he could remember ever being truly happy. He hoped that fact had a certain cache
to it, as if immersing himself in it might somehow bring him some peace.

Suddenly the truck broke through the woods and there it was, sitting in the middle of

the ten acre plot of land.

De la Fontaine.
From here he could only catch glimpses of the thick columns from the Greek revival

antebellum plantation through the massive oak trees, all of which were well over two
hundred years old, surrounding the house on three sides. As night set in, the full moon
began to rise and break through the canopy of the trees. The low-hanging, moss-covered
branches looked black and skeletal, stretching out like charred bones.

Fox couldn’t help but think how deceptive it all was from a distance, the way the

painted white exterior of the mansion gleamed in the moonlight. Much like his own life:
grand from a distance, but with each step closer the dream slowly faded and the truth
revealed itself by way of decay, created by time and the elements. Neglect had taken its
toll. The once elegant and well-manicured gardens and courtyards were now being
swallowed up by the overgrown grounds and the swamp that sat along the back of the
property. The bronze fountain, after which the plantation was named—once a grand and
illustrious structure that stood almost a story and half high, decorated with pretty winged
angels and handsome harp-playing youths—was now a twisted tangle of thorny vines.

Slowly, surely, the Maurepas Swamp was re-staking its claim, taking back what

rightfully belonged to her.

Yet there was still something about this place, he thought, listening to what was left

of the once graveled road pop and crackle under the slow roll of the tires. He felt a
kinship to it, standing there proud and defiant, even when on the very brink of ruin, like a
fuck you to Mother Nature.

A chill ran right up his spine as if he’d just tempted fate even thinking those words

after Katrina.

Fox shook it off. That attitude was something Granddaddy Fox might have approved

of. By all accounts, the man was a real son-of-a-bitch. He wondered if certain family
traits really did skip a generation, as there were times he felt more attune to the
grandfather he’d never known than his more refined and gentile, pillar-of-the-community
parents.

De la Fontaine had once been the Grand Dame and largest of all the great sugar cane

plantations that once thrived throughout the region. Then along came his granddaddy
who bought the plantation just for prestige, forcing himself upon the so-called polite
society, breaking rules and making new ones, winning friends and enemies as he made a
somewhat successful attempt at rewriting the robber-baron Fox family history.

“You were some piece of work, Granddaddy,” Fox said.
He laughed, realizing how exhausted he was and how it was starting to show. All Fox

wanted after the week he’d just had was a drink and something to eat. A shower. His bed.

The pickup rounded the final curve and slowed to a stop, not next to the house itself

but beside Virgil’s rickety old distillery shed, a few short steps away from the small
single story stucco building which sat just behind the main house.

This was the kitchen house.
It was unassuming, shadowed by its much larger sister whose massive two story

columns stretched upward, creating the bi-level covered porch that wrapped around all
four sides of the manor house.

Fox pushed open the creaky old driver’s door and made his way across what used to

be the paved pathway that led to the kitchen house door. He flipped on the light switch
and headed straight for the old, white refrigerator on the opposite wall—past the long,
rustic wooden table in the middle of the room where servants and children and, in more
recent generations, the Fox family themselves, had once upon a time enjoyed the heartiest
of home-cooked meals; past the cast iron skillets and miscellaneous copper pots and pans
that had been dangling from the walls and ceilings for God-only-knew how many years;
past the 1960s gas stove and the original wood-fired kiln next to it, sitting side-by-side
like a museum display of cooking throughout the ages—to investigate what was inside
the fridge.

To this day, he still wasn’t sure why no one had ever updated the kitchen or bothered

to move it inside the main house for that matter. Back in the day, kitchens were kept
separate from the main house due to the risk of fire. But in today’s world it wasn’t
exactly practical. Just another thing to add to his mind-numbingly long list of
renovations.

A list that left his head, along with every other care, the moment he opened the

refrigerator door.

“Virgil, I love you, man!” He grinned, removing the pot of leftover gumbo and

shoving the door shut with his hip. Snatching a century-old tin spoon out of a drawer, Fox
began wolfing down the gumbo, cold and delicious, the flavor stewed and cooled all the
way through.

Fox managed to devour half the pot before placing the rest back in the fridge. He

turned off the light and left the kitchen house.

His belly satisfied.

But still in need of a drink.
Something stronger than the cold beers he’d spotted in the ice box.
Quietly he passed between the columns of the manor house, careful not to make too

much of a ruckus for fear of waking anyone.

He got as far as the back door of the manor house—
—and froze in his tracks.
The door was ajar.
“Damn it, Virgil.” He surveyed the grounds, listening for any signs of Miss

Savannah, praying he wouldn’t find her out wandering barefoot in the moonlight, picking
the wildflowers that grew by the edge of the swamp, wearing nothing but a smile.

“Deliver me from ever witnessing that again,” he mumbled.
It hadn’t been an easy decision, bringing his mother back here to live with him. Her

state of mind had been in question ever since the day Fox’s father died, but now as she
grew older she was suffering from dementia as well. Savannah didn’t know who Fox was
most of the time, which he found preferable to days when she thought Fox was his father,
based on the uncanny—and on those particular occasions, disconcerting—resemblance
between father and son.

But while taking Miss Savannah out of the nursing home facility had felt like the

right thing to do, Fox worried that bringing her back here might somehow make her
worse.

That was his biggest fear of all.
He harbored no delusions that she would ever get better.
But if her return to De la Fontaine ever led to her ultimate demise—whether one night

wandering obliviously into the alligator-filled swamp, or even worse, the sheer emotional
impact of living in the house where her husband had committed suicide pushed her to do
the same in a fit of madness—

—Fox couldn’t bear the thought of it.
Desperately, he pushed it out of his head, then quickly scouted around the house

searching for any sign of his mother through the trees or down by the swamp.

He knew what he was looking for.
A small, ghost of a figure.
Her arms plucking gently it the low-hanging twines.
Her bare feet stepping assuredly through the grounds where she had once planned

massive, elaborate parties.

Her soft voice trailing through the night, humming a tune she once sang to him at

bedtime.

But there was no sign of her, not tonight.
With a relieved sigh he returned to the back door and entered the house, intent on

checking Savannah’s room, hoping she was fast asleep.

Inside, the house was quiet, but the air even more stifling than outside. There wasn’t a

breeze to be found in all of Louisiana on this night.

He paused momentarily, noticing the faint glow of lamplight emanating under the

door to his father’s study.

Make that my study.
Far down the central hallway that ran clear through to the opposite side of the house

—broken up only by the large oval antechamber which housed the helix staircase that

twisted and curled up much like a coil, providing access to the second and third stories—
Fox could see the slightly open door to the study.

As well as the tendril of smoke which crawled out into the great hall.
Even from here he could smell it.
Cuban.
Sweet. Delicate. It was the smoke from a woman’s slender cigar.
Not the cheap carton crap that Virgil loved.
And given the fact that Savannah didn’t smoke, Fox realized instantly that the back

door had not been left open by either Virgil or his mother, but rather an intruder.

One who was waiting for him.
Cautiously he made his way down the central hallway, pausing at the large accent

table that sat in the middle of the antechamber. When Fox was a child, the table had
never been without a large display of fresh cut flowers from his mother’s green house, the
one that now sat in ruins on the edge of the ever-encroaching swamp, sliding plank by
plank, one pane of glass at a time, into the mossy black waters.

In the middle of the antechamber, Fox paused and glanced upward, looking all the

way up to the eye-shaped glass dome in the ceiling three stories above.

The moon slid into the corner of the eye-shaped skylight.
Growing up Fox always thought the moon was watching him through the roof.
He ignored it, glancing back to the open door of the study.
He cursed himself for being so quick to blame Virgil for leaving the back door open

that he neglected to check if the lock had been tampered with. He was working too much
and he knew it. Between that and the added stress of bringing Miss Savannah back home,
it was making him careless. Not exactly the sort of attribute one might hope to find in a
private investigator.

Yet his instincts were still intact enough to guess who had broken into his family

home.

He’d immediately recognized the scent of those Cubans, the same scent that had

lingered on the chauffeur’s shirt with the lipstick traces on the collar.

He stopped on the creaky boards in front of the door, which was sitting slightly ajar.
Before stepping into the study, Fox shot a glance back toward the staircase,

wondering if he had time to wake Virgil and get both him and Miss Savannah out of the
house. Fox knew he was the only thing standing between Delta and what was sure to be
an imminent divorce where she got nothing for breaking the Deveraux’s pre-nup by
having had an affair with the family chauffer.

Despite the fact he couldn’t imagine Delta was capable of violence, if Fox had

learned one thing from his recent years of detective work, it was that desperation changed
everything and cheating spouses who got caught could easily become convinced they had
nothing to lose.

He pushed the door open slightly in order to get a better look inside and the study

revealed itself, as well as the figure of woman sitting in his father’s favorite armchair.

He could make out the leg of her immaculate red pant suit.
The matching heels.
The perfectly-set blonde hair.
And there was no mistaking—
“Delta Deveraux.”

“Surprise,” she said without getting up, or even bothering to turn her head.
Fox sighed, pushing the door fully open, listening to it creak as if attempting to

scream a warning.

He folded his arms, leaning against the door jamb. “But I was expecting a pony.”
She turned to eye his figure in the doorway. “What a shame, you got a mare who’s

ready to kick the shit out of you instead!”

Fuck, he hated these types of cases.
They always got messy and usually led to more trouble than they were worth.
Fox knew he should have turned down the Deveraux case. He should have told his

uncle no, but Jackson Deveraux was apparently a family friend. That probably meant as a
state senator, he was well connected. He hated to think what favors the man might have
done for Uncle Mason over the years. Frankly, he didn’t want to know.

“Are you going to be standing in the doorway much longer, Mr. Fox?” Delta asked,

her voice as thick and smooth as honey. “Or might I finally enjoy the pleasure of your
company?”

Delicately she twirled the end of her slender Cuban into the silver ashtray on the side

table by her chair, smothering the embers.

Fox walked into the room leaving the only exit wide open, remembering unexpected

encounters often called for quick getaways.

As he moved casually into the room, she gave him a cool, calm smile. Her face was

immaculately made up, fully painted—her lips glimmering, her high cheekbones brushed
with rouge, the surrounds of her eyes thick and black with mascara and long false lashes
—although on this particular occasion Fox sensed it wasn’t for vanity, but for war. It
made her stand out even more sitting amidst the faded and worn fabrics and furnishings
that decorated the study.

An oil painting of Savannah, as she looked at the time she married Beauregard Fox,

hung above the fireplace mantle.

Fox couldn’t look at his mother’s coy, smiling face for long before forcing his gaze

back to Delta. It stung seeing his mother like that, captured in time and a constant
reminder of a woman he could barely remember.

“She was lovely once,” Delta said, his eyes having given him away.
There was almost a sense of yearning, of sadness, in the way Delta had said that, as if

she too longed for days gone by; when every man turned to look whenever she entered a
room. Delta was still quite beautiful. She’d been well-cared for and it showed. Her curves
were likely fuller than they’d once been, but that only served to add to her femininity.

She stood up in one smooth, languid movement. It was almost seductive, an art she’d

crafted over the years.

Fox took a step back from her.
“Mr. Fox, you seem a little… uncomfortable. Is it this room? From the stories I’ve

heard about you over the years, I hadn’t imagined you to be the type to spook easily.”

The fact was he hated that she was in here. Hell, he didn’t even like to come in here,

and it ate at him for anyone else to see it. But he didn’t want her to think she had an upper
hand. Casually he backed up to what used to be his father’s massive mahogany desk. He
hoisted himself up and took a seat on top of it. “Spooked? No.”

“Oh, but why wouldn’t you be,” Delta taunted. “This room,” she said, turning in a

circle before meeting his gaze once again, “Why, it’s practically a shrine to your parents.

All that moonlight and magnolia…days gone by.”

She certainly had him dead to rights on that one. The room was like a museum or,

more appropriately, a mausoleum. For thirty odd years Virgil had lived out here and
never so much as moved a goddamn thing. Like every other room in this house, it was a
time capsule. Everything sat exactly as it had before his father had hung himself, forever
shattering what had been, up until that point, an idyllic childhood for Fox.

“What are you doin’ here, Mrs. Deveraux?”
Delta laughed. “Oh, come now, Mr. Fox. I think we both know the answer to that.”
“If this is about keeping me from sharing the photos of you and your chauffer with

your husband, you’re wasting your time.”

Her face darkened momentarily before placing her hand theatrically over her mouth.

Her fingers, expertly tipped with long red nails, trembled.

“Please. You simply can’t turn over those pictures, Mr. Fox. My husband will leave

me with nothing. If you had any idea…”

Quickly she took a petite handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at tears that didn’t

actually exist.

“Careful you don’t ruin your make-up,” Fox said, crossing his arms over his broad

chest, refusing to buy her first attempt to dissuade him from doing the job he’d been paid
to do.

Delta took a step closer, only to stop. “You don’t understand my position. He’s

certainly been no saint, you know. He wants to cast me aside after all I’ve done to get
him where he is today. The pain, not to mention the price of humiliation, is more than I
can bear. My mother suffered the humiliation of my father leaving her, I couldn’t
possibly go through the same thing. Mr. Fox, please. I’m begging you.” She dabbed at
her empty tear ducts once more. “If not for me, please think about all the time and money
I devote to my charity work…all the less fortunate children I’ve shined a light on to make
their miserable lives a little brighter. To provide them with a warm bed and a reason to
smile.”

Fox felt the corners of his own mouth curling up over that one. “Like your chauffer,

you mean?”

She straightened, her eyes transforming from fake tears to an angry storm as her hand

slowly dropped back down to her side.

“You certainly give him a warm bed and a reason to smile, don’t you, Mrs.

Deveraux?” Fox could see the rage boiling over in her eyes and marveled over how
relaxed her body seemed in contrast. “He’s what, eighteen, nineteen now? But he was
about twelve when you first met him, if I remember from my research. Couldn’t find any
playmates your own age?”

A big throaty laugh escaped from between her lips, her head falling back ever so

slightly. It seemed well rehearsed. Delta took the four or five steps required to close the
distance between them.

“Is that what’s really bothering you?” she asked. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you

were jealous.” She bit her lip, taking in all of Fox as her gaze moved down his frame,
settling on his crotch. “I’d be more than happy if we could settle this whole mess in a
much friendlier manner.”

Even he hadn’t seen that one coming.
Her hand suddenly slid between his legs.

Seductively she ran her palm up his inner thigh. "Surely we could work something

out?"

Fox raised one eyebrow as he gazed over her face, a little too close for comfort now.

He watched her mask began to slip, her smile begin to fade, as she took note of the lack
of amusement on his.

Coldly, matter-of-factly, Delta Deveraux removed her hand and backed away.
"I'd heard rumors you bent that way," she said, retrieving a slim cigar case from her

purse and lighting another of her slender Cubans. Delta Deveraux suddenly struck Fox as
the type who'd eat her young if she thought it might get her something. That's what it all
boiled down to for people like Delta. Social vampires—sucking the life out anyone and
everyone they could.

It was one of many reasons Fox shied away from the so-called better classes.
She inhaled deeply now and blew smoke in Fox’s direction, her eyes undressing him

once again “Never have I seen a bigger waste of such a prime piece of meat.”

The gentleman who was enthusiastically sucking me off earlier this evening didn't

seem to think so. A smile flickered across his face and his cock twitched at the thought of
it.

Delta, however, was still trying to get a different kind of rise out of him. “How does it

feel to be such a disappointment of a man?”

“If by disappointment you mean something you can’t have,” Fox smiled, listening to

the scrape of his five o’clock shadow as he rubbed his chin, “then it feels pretty damn
good.”

Delta glared at him.
The glowing tip of the cigar brightened as she inhaled deeply.
She propped her purse under her arm and withdrew the cigar from her open lips. For a

moment the silky smoke from her lungs pooled in her mouth, as though it thought twice
about leaving her—

—before she blew it away like she didn’t give a fuck.
“You think this case is closed, don’t you Mr. Fox. You think your check is in the

bank. But the game’s not over yet.”

“Let me assure you, Mrs. Deveraux, there isn’t a thing you could offer me that would

prevent me from turning those photos over to your husband. Not that I believe he’s any
more or less morally corrupt than you. But he is the one who hired me, and unlike you, I
take my commitments very seriously. Now why don’t you leave before you end up
incriminating yourself even further.”

Fox slid off the desk and waved his hand toward the open door on the off chance he’d

get lucky for once and she would leave without creating a further scene.

Delta smiled instead, showing no signs of vacating. “I must say you’re not at all what

I was expecting. I’m seldom wrong about people, but I confess, had I met you before now
I wouldn’t have wasted my time with this whole charade. Funny that someone like you
would even pretend to know the difference between wrong and right. What with such a
rich history of deviant behavior, no less. Didn’t you nearly beat another man to death
during a bar fight at one point?”

Fox could feel his jaw clench and he forced himself to relax.
She laughed again, louder this time.
Fox heard the floorboard creak above his head. He took note that Delta looked up at

the ceiling, her expression and demeanor never changing.

“This isn’t about my past,” Fox said. “It’s about yours. I left a message for your

husband on his cell phone earlier this evening. By now he already knows.”

Delta reached into her purse, exchanging her sleek silver lighter for a phone. “You

mean this cell phone? My husband always was a forgetful man. A stupid man, who also
stupidly uses one of three passwords for all his personal security. They were each
painfully easy to figure out, I’m afraid. So you see, your message has already been
intercepted and erased by me.” She dropped the phone back into her purse and took
another long drag of her cigar, exhaling defiantly.

She flicked her ashes onto the threadbare area rug with a smile, daring Fox to react.
On the inside, he fumed.
On the outside, he didn’t move a muscle.
“Having said all that, you were a worthy adversary, Mr. Fox. I rather suspected my

husband had hired someone, but to give you your due—and as paranoid as I am—I never
once saw you tailing me. Not so much as a blip on my radar.”

“I’m flattered,” Fox said with a snarl, as if her compliment made him feel sick to his

stomach. “I have no doubt that without you by his side, your husband would still be the
car salesman he once was rather than a state senator.”

“And a handsome one at that. But time takes its toll. Beauty fades. But not for you.”
Fox eyed her suspiciously. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Fox,” she said with a lamp-lit smile, “but I do

declare—it’s time for you to die.”

Delta pulled a small, pearl-handled revolver from her purse.
“My only dilemma is where to put the first bullet. I could finish you off quickly with

a single shot straight to the heart, but I suspect that heart of yours may be made of stone.
Then again, I could shoot you through the stomach and make things slow and painful,
much like the humiliating divorce proceedings my foolish husband believes he can put
me through. But then again, I’m tempted to instantly gratify myself and put the first
bullet right between your legs. In terms of size, it certainly looks like the easiest target.”

Delta Deveraux cocked the hammer on the revolver.
“Yes,” she said, taking aim at Fox’s crotch, her finger squeezing gently on the trigger.

“I do believe that would give me a great deal of satisfaction indeed.”

Fox simply sighed. “Can I at least fix myself a drink first? It’s hotter than hell.”
Mrs. Deveraux’s smile broadened. “Why, of course. I wouldn’t say no to a spot of

bourbon, myself.”

Fox made his way casually over to the silver bar trolley, his half-mast tie swinging

from left to right across his sweat-drenched shirt. He could feel his muscles tensing up
the slightest bit, as if preparing themselves for the first opportunity to take control of this
situation. Somehow.

He continued the conversation to keep Delta distracted. “Seems like shooting a man’s

dick off might draw a little unwanted attention, don’t you think? This is the south, after
all. You better make damn sure you never get caught.”

“You underestimate me, Mr. Fox.”
“Not at all. But planning a murder isn’t the same thing as planning a charity ball. You

have to make sure you’ve got every last detail covered.”

The noisy chorus of crickets on the lawn, and the frogs in the swamp chirping their

night songs, mingled with the clink of the crystal decanter against the rim of the first
glass. He poured a generous amount into a lowball glass for Mrs. Deveraux then
proceeded to pour his own—straight to the top. He took a long sip immediately, the
bourbon sliding smoothly down his hatch, before handing Mrs. Deveraux her glass.

“For example?” she asked.
“For example, your fingerprints are now on the glass. The lipstick and traces of your

DNA will be the second you take your first sip. The ash of your Cuban cigar on the rug.”

Delta laughed. “I can’t bear that you think so little of me, Mr. Fox. Pretty soon,

everything in De la Fontaine will be ash. Once I shoot you, I fully intend to burn this
entire place to the ground.”

Fox’s casual demeanor jarred.
Instantly he knew he needed to draw her away from the house before he made any

attempt at taking the gun from her. He wasn’t willing to risk a stray bullet making its way
through the ceiling and into Savannah’s bedroom, which was located above the study.

Mrs. Deveraux noticed Fox’s body tense and smiled as they each heard the

floorboards creak from the floor above once more. “Why Mr. Fox, you look anxious all
of a sudden. Perhaps you should have thought about your precious mother before you
took this case. Before you decided to fuck with Delta Deveraux.”

With that, she lifted her glass and threw back her entire portion.
Suddenly she gasped.
Her eyes shot wide open.
“Sweet Jesus! What that hell is this?”
Fox leveled his gaze. “It’s Virgil’s home-brewed bourbon. I grew up with it. It’s an

acquired taste. One hundred percent proof. Murder on your throat if you aren’t used to it,
but worse than that—

—it burns like hell in your eyes!”
Fox pitched his arm forward, holding tightly onto his tumbler as his entire glassful of

bourbon flew across the room and splashed in Delta’s face.

The scream of pain and surprise that came from Delta was followed by the sound of

her own glass smashing to the floor.

She scratched at her burning eyes with one hand—
—finger-painting crazed streaks of mascara down her face—
—while at the same time firing off two bullets.
The base of a lamp on the desk exploded.
Followed by the decanter on the bar trolley.
But Fox was already gone.
He was out the door before Delta’s tumbler hit the floor, bolting as fast as he could

down the hall, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before Delta would come
charging after him in a blind fury.

“You son of a bitch!” he heard her scream from somewhere behind him.
By that time he’d made it through the antechamber and was closing in on the back

door. A third bullet spliced the air beside his ear and splintered the wood moldings by the
back door just as he laid his hand on the doorknob.

He ducked out of instinct more than anything, the shot already fired, before yanking

the door open and racing out into the sticky night air.

The paving stones of the courtyard, loose and cracked and covered in weeds, shifted

under his sprinting feet, grating against one another as he bolted under the full moon. He
made a single, assured leap over the four-foot wall at the end of the courtyard, clearing
the blooming Jasmine that perfumed the night air.

Up ahead he saw his truck and dived behind it, reluctantly using it for cover, wincing

at the sound of a bullet slamming into the chassis. Another shattered a head light. “Sorry
old girl,” he muttered to his truck before pushing himself away and bolting between the
kitchen house and the distillery.

Ahead of him, Fox saw the grove of trees at the edge of the property, the skeletal

remains of the old green house rising above the tree line farther back.

Behind him, he heard another bullet puncture the side of his truck with a metallic

clang. It was followed by the click of an empty chamber. Delta’s reckless, bourbon-
blinded shooting spree had just bought Fox a few more moments. Enough time to make a
break from the trees and into swamp beyond, where he’d have a decent shot at getting the
jump on her.

He made it as far as the first tree before learning that Delta was faster at reloading

than he’d given her credit for.

A bullet splintered the tree trunk only inches next to his head, a chunk of shredded

bark hitting him in the forehead.

A second later, the night itself split open with Delta’s enraged, shrill screams. “You

think you can run from me! Come back here, you bastard!”

“Hell hath no fuckin’ fury—” Fox said under his breath as he crashed through the

overgrowth and hunkered down, landing on the soft, damp ground on his elbows and
knees at the crack of another shot echoing through the swamp. Quickly he scanned his
surroundings, eyes wide, head turning sharply listening for any sounds. He noticed the
night had gone still, as if all the creatures that inhabited the swamp had sensed the
intrusion. He listened for Delta, but she too had fallen silent.

She was on the hunt.
He glanced back at the kitchen house, the distillery. There was no sign of her.
She had vanished in the shadows.
Invisible.
Unlike himself.
In the full moon, his white shirt made him an easy target. It practically glowed. Even

on his hands and knees in the overgrowth, he may as well be skulking around with a
flashing neon sign pointing straight at him.

Swiftly he unsnapped the buttons and shoved the shirt under a thicket.
As he crawled through the tangle of weeds and grass and scrub that grew thicker and

more entwined the closer he came to the swamp, it crossed his mind that the damn
cottonmouths might get him before Delta had a chance to—

Suddenly he froze as he came face to face with one of the deadly swamp vipers, its

beady black eyes glinting in the moonlight.

“Ah, Fox,” he breathed to himself. “What’d ya have to go and think him up for?”
As man and serpent stared into each other’s eyes, both slowly backed away. Fox’s

shins slid backward across the damp earth, his palms squelching against the ground, one
then the other. At the same time, the cottonmouth began to recoil. But not to retreat.

Something Fox realized almost a second too late.
As the snake coiled back and sprang forward with lightning speed, fangs like daggers,

Fox threw himself backward, hearing the snap of its jaws right in front of his face before
he managed to scramble to his feet and sprint as fast as he damn well could, sliding and
slipping till he stumbled straight inside the ruins of the old green house, its door hanging
off its hinges and half-devoured by the vegetation.

As was the case with the entire structure.
Originally, it had been quite an impressive edifice, stretching out over the swamp on

pylons, similar to a pier and included a small dock—built half on land and half over the
water.

But like everything else in Fox’s world, time had taken its toll.
The green house stretched up into the air like a giant, rusted web, its metal beams

once forming a perfect dome several stories tall. Now, a number of those beams had
collapsed, some bent and broken, some twisted and tired and leaning against one another
in precarious resting positions. Vines had twisted and wrapped their way around the
ironwork. Brittle curtains of Spanish moss clung from everything, hanging down and
gracefully shifting back and forth whenever the occasional breeze blew through the
dozens of glass panes that had either fallen or been smashed in storms over the years; the
ones that remained intact were black with dirt and grime.

Once upon a time, a series of walkways had criss-crossed the floor of the green

house. Now they looked like abandoned boardwalks, dilapidated and rotten. Those in the
back half of the structure tilted down into inky dark waters. That was where the swamp
had begun to rise up and swallow the structure— or had the structure begun to collapse
and sink into the swamp? Fox decided it was a bit of both. Mother earth was taking back
what we had forcefully pried away from her long ago.

In its original state, the green house had been a source of beauty and pride. Savannah

had always loved flowers, so Beau had it built as a present for their first anniversary so
she’d be able to grow and have all of her favorites year round. He had vague memories of
this place from when he was a child, playing in the dirt while Savannah surveyed the
work of the botanists she hired to cultivate her colorful crops. It was now reduced to a
mere shell, haunted by the memories from his past.

The moment Fox had staggered inside the green house, the boards beneath his feet

groaned loudly.

He quickly pulled himself to a halt, realizing his charge through the overgrowth had

no doubt given him away.

Sure enough, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a red-hued shadow

through the grimy glass wall to his left.

Instantly he felt his muscles tighten, wondering how badly he’d get cut up if he were

to dive right through the glass and attempt to tackle her. Instead, he swiftly, silently,
made his way deeper into the green house. His lean, muscular torso wriggled its way
through a jagged jigsaw of iron bars and weaved through a snarl of vines. He stepped
over what had to be hundreds of clay pots, most of which lay broken on the bed of nature
underfoot.

He could feel a bead of sweat run down the center of his back; the air was hot and

still.

He forced himself not to smack at the mosquitoes that were lining up for the buffet.
Carefully he made his way along a walkway that sloped into the murky black waters

of the swamp. He walked ankle deep into the swamp before ducking under the walkway

railing, and maneuvered himself behind an overturned potting bench, partly submerged in
the mud.

As he crouched there, watching the shadow of Delta make its way cautiously toward

the door of the green house, Fox caught the reflection of the moon dancing in the gently
rippling swamp water.

And in between the water and the moon—
—was the reflection of the beam.
The beam on which Fox’s father had hung himself all those years ago.
Fox turned his face upward and a chill swept through his body.
It was one of the few beams in the place that refused to give way or crumble. There

was no yielding to time or nature. No, this beam was strong, spanning the entire width of
the green house. The one supporting beam that prevented the entire structure from falling
to pieces and sinking into the swamp completely was the one beam that had fractured
Fox’s family forever.

Staring up at it directly above him made Fox sick to the stomach.
He could feel his jaw clenching as the slow burning ache boiled up from somewhere

deep inside. He knew it was pointless, that he’d never understand it, but here in this
place, he struggled to control the anger he’d spent years fighting to overcome.

“Oh shit,” he heard Delta curse to herself, her voice carrying from the open doorway.
Fox jerked his head back and saw Delta struggling, her shoes digging into the spongy

ground before even getting to the decrepit walkway. He figured heels weren’t exactly
best suited for a place that Mother Nature now considered her domain.

The fucking bitch probably hadn’t had to work this hard in decades, Fox thought,

almost laughing as she clutched her revolver in one hand and pulled at her shin with the
other, until eventually she yanked her foot free, leaving the shoe protruding from the
ground.

Clomping along the walkway, one step three inches higher than the other, Delta

aimed her gun into the dark, searching for Fox, winding her way through the twisted
metal and twined vegetation.

Quietly, Fox leaned down and gathered up two large remnants of clay pot from the

mud.

“You might as well come out, Mr. Fox. It’s no use hiding. I can assure you, you

won’t be leaving this God forsaken hellhole alive.” She smiled as she added, “Just like
your daddy.”

With a hoist of his arm, Fox hurled one of the clay shards twenty feet in the air. It

flew soundlessly and landed with a loud splash, at which point Delta spun on her one heel
and fired two shots into the mud and water, shattering the clay.

“Come out, damn it!” She was sounding a little more unhinged. “I will not let the

likes of you ruin my life. You who had everything handed to you on a silver platter only
to throw it all away.”

The detest she held for him in the tenor of her voice said it all. She not only hated

him, she genuinely wanted him dead. He knew her hands were trembling with rage, as
well as a fair amount of fear—he could hear her rings clattering against the pearl handle
of the gun.

Keep coming, he repeated to himself. Come on, you bitch.
The rotting boards groaned under her uneven steps.

Fox tightened his grip on the shard of clay pot in his hand.
“Just look at yourself,” Delta continued to taunt him, trying to coax him out. “You’re

nothing. And when you die, the Fox family name will be nothing too. Gone. Forgotten.
Forever. It’s pointless trying to even fight it. There’s simply nowhere left for you to go,
Mr. Fox. Especially out here. The swamp is a dangerous place at night.”

As if to confirm this, something suddenly moved through the black water fifteen feet

or so behind Fox.

Something big.
Crouching behind the overturned bench, Fox realized he and Delta weren’t alone.

Delta heard the swoosh of water. She stepped ever closer to the overturned potting bench.
She saw the ripples sweep up the moon’s reflection and she pointed her gun at the water.

Fox could hear the slight quiver in her voice now. “Mr. Fox? Was that you?”
He looked up and saw the glint of silver in the moonlight as the tip of the barrel came

into view above him. “No, but this is.”

Fox launched himself to his feet, jumping out from behind the overturned bench,

swinging his arm wide. With a crash of clay and a crack of a bullet, Fox smashed the pot
shard against the barrel of the gun.

The bullet shot across the green house and shattered a pane of glass as the gun was

knocked out of Delta’s grip.

The revolver flew forward, hitting the planks of the walkway that sloped down to the

swamp. The weapon bounced and spun before coming to a rest at the edge of the water,
where the swamp lapped against the sunken walkway.

Meanwhile Delta reeled backward, letting out a scream as her arms flailed and her

uneven legs staggered awkwardly as she fell backward, landing flat on her back on the
walkway.

Immediately Fox turned for the gun.
But Delta moved swiftly, kicking at Fox’s left calf with her heeled foot, striking so

hard her stiletto pierced his trousers and punctured the flesh right through the muscle.

Fox let out an angry roar and collapsed, landing facedown, cracking several rotten

boards, falling three feet short of the revolver.

Delta was already up and scrambling on all fours, clambering straight over the top of

Fox, her nails scratching shreds of flesh off his bare back and pulling at his hair as she
clawed her way over him and slid down on her stomach across the walkway toward the
gun.

Her fingers locked onto the handle.
In one graceful move, she flipped herself onto her back, then up into a seated

position, her back to the swamp and her gun aimed straight at Fox as he hauled himself
up onto his hands and knees.

He stared down the barrel, panting, as she stared at him, smiling, her lipstick barely

smudged.

“You lose,” was all she said.
The black waters directly behind her turned into a sudden torrent.
Delta spun about to see the white reptilian monster charge at her, thrashing and

splashing and hungry for meat.

With a terrified scream, she dropped the gun in the mud and tore back up the sloping

walkway as the killer—a ghost white albino alligator—caught the heel of her shoe in its

wildly-snapping jaws. Her foot slipped free and Delta continued to scramble across the
wooden planks while the great white beast pursued, pulverizing the designer footwear
between those man-eating teeth before chasing Delta up the walkway.

Before he could be trampled, Fox quickly rolled left out of the way, dropping straight

off the walkway and into the shallows of the swamp as Delta and the alligator thundered
along the decaying walkway until—

—CRACK!
Delta’s leg fell straight through a rotting wooden plank.
She tried to pull herself free but couldn’t.
All she could manage to do was twist around and watch in fear as the alligator

charged straight at her.

Suddenly the gun went off, followed by the sound of glass smashing.
Delta was terrified, her body jolting as a few tiny shards scattered around her.
The alligator stopped in its tracks.
Delta and the beast both turned to see that Fox had climbed back onto the walkway

behind them and was standing with one arm raised, revolver now in hand.

He’d retrieved the gun from the mud and fired a single shot into the air to startle the

white alligator.

For a moment nobody moved.
Then suddenly Delta screamed at Fox, desperate and crazed. “Shoot it! Hurry! Shoot

it now!”

Fox lowered the gun and shook his head. “I’d rather not. We’ve all gotta eat, right?”
Clearly, he was enjoying the sight of her squirming, trapped in the path of the

snarling, salivating alligator.

“You’re crazy!” Delta heaved through clenched teeth. “Just like your mother.”
“I warned you to leave my mother out of this.”
“Okay! Okay! Just do something! Get rid of this thing before it’s too late.”
“Alright then,” Fox agreed, before putting his fingers to his lips and whistling, like he

was whistling a dog. “That’s enough, Snowflake, go on, get the hell outta here!”

Delta stared at him, wide-eyed, as though he truly were insane.
But the gator simply snorted and turned to hiss at Fox, as if it were pissed at having

his dinner ruined, before sliding out over the side of the walkway and dropping into the
swamp water, the sheer weight of the creature taking half the rotted boards with it.

With a swoosh of its tail through the water, the alligator returned to the distant depths

of the swamp.

As soon as the imminent threat to Delta’s life was over, the evil in her eyes returned.

“Why the hell didn’t you shoot that thing when I told you to?”

Fox opened the chamber of the gun, revealing it was empty before dropping the

revolver into the water. “Rule number one, always count your bullets. Always keep one
left in the chamber… in case of nasty surprises.”

Delta fumed even more at his patronizing logic. “I’ll make you pay for this, Jonathon

Fox!” Her face was all fury as she attempted to free her leg.

“No, Delta. This case is closed.”
“Over my dead body!” she grunted, still struggling to free her leg. “This is still your

word against mine and we all know your word is shit around here.”

“Will you give it up? You’re through, you’re done. Your marriage is—”

From above Fox suddenly heard the sound of glass clinking.
He looked up and saw a pointed, foot-long shard, sharp as a knife, swing like a

pendulum from the frame of the bullet-smashed pane—

—directly above Delta.
“Delta, give me your hand,” Fox ordered, grabbing for her arm.
She fought him off. “Get away from me. I don’t need your help.”
Fox glanced up.
The swinging shard slipped even further out if the bracket of the framework, almost

coming entirely loose, holding on by a mere inch now.

“Delta, I’m not asking. Take my hand.”
“Don’t you dare touch—”
Suddenly, with a sharp criiink, the shard of glass broke off the edge of the framework.
Delta looked up and gasped.
The shard plunged through the air, a broken stalactite made of glass, heading straight

for her.

Fox seized Delta by both hands.
But as he slid his palms against hers, Delta’s fingers suddenly spasmed and twisted

into talons. Three of her nails—perfectly manicured and maintained her entire life—
snapped. Her eyes bugged, eyelids unblinking, pupils dilating into large, black, unfocused
pools.

Fox didn’t hear the glass shard land.
And at first, he couldn’t see it.
But as Delta’s stunned face tilted ever so slightly, the moon gleamed all the way

down the length of the vertical sliver of glass, now protruding out of the top of Delta
Deveraux’s skull.

Delta stayed frozen for a moment, head tilted a fraction, fingers digging into Fox’s

hands, before she said with a puff of panic, “I think I have something in my hair.”

As she spoke, a single, thick, shiny rivulet of blood ran from her hairline, down the

middle of her forehead. It detoured left at the bridge of her nose and ran into her eye. She
tried to blink it away.

Then her entire body began to shudder and convulse.
Fox wrenched his hands free and grabbed her shoulders, trying to stop her wild

shaking. “Delta. No, shit, Delta! Stay with me!”

But as he held her shoulders, he felt her spasming body begin to melt in his grasp.
Her eyelids fluttered crazily.
Her eyes rolled back into her head.
And Delta’s entire body sank backwards until eventually the shuddering stopped.
Slowly, he lowered her down onto the walkway, lifeless and limp, before he wiped

his sweating brow and muttered a pissed off, “Son of a bitch!”

Irritation was the first thing that swept over him, something he took out on a buzzing

mosquito that landed on his neck. Fox smacked the life out of it, looked at the smear of
blood on his palm, then back to the pool of blood beneath Delta that was quickly soaking
into the rotting boards and dripping into the swamp below.

“Fuck!”
How the hell was he going to explain away the dead wife of a Louisiana state senator

to the police? But on the bright side, he thought, “Apparently I’m a real lady killer after

all.”

Fox made his way through the maze of metal, his own aches and pains more

pronounced as he stumbled back out into the night air. Heading toward the house to call
the cops, he made a solemn promise to himself to have that piece of shit cursed
greenhouse dismantled before it claimed the life of anyone else.

Crossing the overgrown lawn, he heard the faint sound of sirens off in the distance

and wondered if someone else had already made the call.

As if on cue, Virgil came bursting out the back door of the house, trying to tie the

tattered chord of his bath robe, his white, bony legs jutting out beneath the flapping
flannel material and a rifle tucked under his arm. He looked even older to Fox in the pale
moonlight, scrawny as ever, like a bony-ass skeleton wrapped in skin.

As soon as he spotted Fox, the yelling commenced.
“What the hell is goin’ on out here? You could wake the devil with that ruckus!
“So happy to see you’ve finally come to my rescue,” Fox grumbled, rounding the bed

of his pickup.

“Damn it, Johnny!” Virgil cursed. “You oughta be in bed! And that goes for you

too!” He pointed a bony finger at the albino alligator, which grumbled and hissed back at
him.

Virgil simply pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes out of a pocket in his bathrobe. “One

day you’ll quit your bitchin’, you nasty old gator.”

“And one day you’ll quit callin’ me Johnny; I’m not a kid anymore.” Fox thumbed

back toward the direction of the swamp. “There’s a dead woman in the green house.”

Virgil’s jaw dropped and for one surprised moment, there was nothing but silence.

After that, the pitch of his voice lifted somewhere amid the stars. “A dead what in the
where! What in Hades’ Hell you done, Johnny?!”

“Would you keep it down, you’ll wake Miss Savannah.”
“Oh, and you don’t think the gunshots and the screaming banshee didn’t already take

care of that?” Virgil asked.

Fox stood there for a moment and shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck trying to

think straight now that he was coming down off the adrenaline rush.

Virgil looked nervously out toward the road leading in from the highway. The sirens

were indeed getting louder. “I already done called the cops.”

Fox nodded, able to tell Virgil was second-guessing that decision. “I can hear that,

thanks. You beat me to it.”

“What the hell you gonna tell the police?”
Fox shrugged once again. “The truth, I guess.”
Virgil’s voice blasted off for the sky again. “Which is what, exactly?”
“I dunno! She tried to kill me. It was self defense. An accident. Something like that.”
“Why the hell you got enraged females chasing you around in the dark tryin’ to kill

you!” Virgil struck a match and fired up his smoke. “What the hell kinda homosexual are
you, anyway?”

Fox didn’t give Virgil the pleasure of a response. Instead, he turned and stepped

around the pick-up, then stopped at the sound of something splashing beneath his shoe.

He sniffed the air.
He looked down to see the ground was covered in liquid.
He looked across at the bullet hole in the pick-up’s gas tank.

Fox shot a panicked look at Virgil—
—just as Virgil tossed his lit match into the air.
“No!”
But he was too late.
As the match flew through the air toward the large pool of gasoline on the ground,

Fox threw himself through the air in the opposite direction, crashing into Virgil and
sending them both rolling and tumbling across the lawn, away from the spill, just as—

Fffoooooomp!
The match hit the gasoline and ignited it.
A blue flame spread across the ground, rushing toward Fox’s pick-up.
As Virgil tried to push Fox off the top of him, cursing and groaning, Fox quickly

shoved the old man back to the ground and covered him.

A second later, the truck exploded, creating a whoosh of blistering hot air that blew

over them. Glass shattered and metal popped as a few flaming, twisted pieces of truck
landed around them, still on fire.

Fox lifted his head cautiously, catching a glimpse of Snowflake casually crossing the

lawn and heading back to the safety of the swamp, before rolling off Virgil and onto his
back.

“Sweet Jesus and his Mama!” the old man was spluttering.
Fox, too, coughed on the smoke and shielded his eyes from the heat as the two men

both sat up at the same time. He was beginning to take things personally, thinking he was
only one dead family pet away from being reduced to a pathetic country music song.

“Will you just look at my truck!” Fox demanded.
“There ain't nothin' left to look at,” Virgil remarked.
“Thanks to you!”
Another large pop of metal startled both of them as the truck bed collapsed in on

itself, making a huge racket. Fox could see the red and blue lights flickering through the
tree line as the blare of the sirens were now competing for his attention while the truck
continued to roar in flames.

“Damn it all to hell,” Fox grumbled before letting out a resigned sigh.
“Trouble follows you like a clap of thunder to lightnin’, boy.”
“Difficult to argue that one at the moment.” From somewhere on the other side of the

truck, Fox caught sight of more glowing flames. “That ain’t what I think it is, is it?”

Virgil’s eyes turned to saucers. “Oh, Hell’s bells! Not my bourbon!”
With a squeal Virgil tried to jump up, but Fox yanked him back down to the ground

as the old distillery shed erupted like an atom bomb, sending an almighty fireball rolling
into the sky, setting the branches of trees alight as it towered into the night.

At that moment, several cop cars screeched to a halt.
Sirens squealing over the roaring blaze.
Blue lights flashing against the intense glow of orange all around.
Fox and Virgil sat up once again, this time with a few less eyebrow hairs.
A half-dozen cops leapt from their vehicles, guns drawn. “Freeze! Put your hands in

the air!”

Slowly, Fox and Virgil raised their hands.
Virgil shook his head, unable to take his eyes off the inferno. “I can’t believe it. I

keep this place up for twenty-five years, and you’re here five months and damn near burn

it to the ground!”

“It’s good to have me back, huh?”
All Virgil could do was roll his eyes.

Chapter Two

A few months later…

In the shadows just outside the line of sunlight spilling across the floor boards, Fox

sat with one eye closed as he stared through the telephoto lens into the two-story building
across from him. A shorter one-story antique shop separated the two taller buildings,
providing just enough distance for Fox to go unnoticed by the man he was now watching.

The rundown apartment in which he sat was empty, minus the folding chair, small tri-

fold table that held his equipment bag, and the tri-pod that was currently hoisting his
massive digital camera into the air. He licked his lips from thirst, his hand fumbling
blindly for the bottle of water that sat by his chair, next to an array of miscellaneous
Styrofoam take-out containers left scattered across the floor.

He swallowed, feeling the lump in his dry throat, but he either refused or was simply

unable to tear his gaze away from the man dancing and singing in the apartment across
the alley.

His name was Tucker Wilder.
Fox had been following him periodically for just over a week now, even renting this

shit shack that some slum lord was attempting to pass off as an apartment in order to
ascertain Wilder’s level of involvement in his newest case.

He’d only intended on watching the guy for a few days. He was now concluding that

his behavior was walking a fine line, bordering on the obsessive. Fox heard the faint
groan escape from his throat at seeing Tucker step out his shower, wailing along to the
thumping club music that was playing loud enough for Fox to feel the faint vibrations
from it in his chest.

An ever so familiar ache was currently occurring between his legs as he watched

Wilder toweling off. The golden mane of wavy blonde hair was a shade darker when wet,
and his tanned, toned skin glistened. The muscles in his arms and shoulders were bulging
as he ran the towel through his hair. Fox’s gaze drifted over the man’s well-defined chest
as he imagined what it might be like to lick and tease the two dark brown hard nipples.

Fox reached down, nudging the raging hard on, nearly creaming in his jeans when

Tucker bent over to dry off his legs and feet. “Christ, I love my job.”

He sat back in the metal chair and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply in

an attempt to calm himself down. It was taking everything he had not to stand up, yank
down his pants and whack one off. Fox never realized what a deviant voyeuristic streak
he had until this moment, but he was getting off on it. He wasn’t sure he liked that.

He tried convincing himself it was about doing the job when he leaned back over the

camera and peered through the lens, but he knew that wasn’t the truth…at least not
anymore.

Tucker was now dancing across the wood floors in his apartment. Spinning around,

his thick, soft cock and heavy balls were bouncing between those thick muscular thighs.
Fox’s mouth watered, as if self lubricating, despite the fact he wouldn’t be wrapping his

lips around anything. The dark blond patch of hair surrounding Tucker’s junk was
trimmed short, as was the dusting of hair across his chest. The treasure trail on his lower
abs made his body seem dipped in gold when the light hit just right.

Fox watched as Wilder pulled out a pair of white boxer briefs from a drawer. Wilder

smiled, laughing at himself as he sang out in a not too great falsetto. Fox smiled, thinking
it sounded a little like a tortured cat wailing.

Wilder was, hands down, one of the sexiest men Fox had ever laid eyes on, and he’d

seen plenty in his day with which to compare. Those full lips opening into a laugh as
Wilder nearly fell pulling on his briefs. That smile was like nothing else—would’ve been
knee weakening had Fox been standing. Whatever it was Tucker had, Fox decided he
wouldn’t mind having it for a little while. With each passing day, he came to realize he’d
never wanted anything more, and the intensity of that desire shocked him. It wasn’t an
emotion that had ever been a part of his repertoire in the past.

Fox had more than one guy scattered throughout the Quarter, willing and ready

whenever he called round for a fuck. In fact, he prided himself on giving every one of
them a night they wouldn’t forget, each time. He knew he’d never be able to give anyone
anything more, he was entirely too fucked in the head…too many hang-ups for that. So,
he did his best to compensate by making sure he attended to their needs in the only way
he knew how.

He didn’t know when or where, but no matter how long it took, Jonathon Fox knew

come hell or high water, eventually he’d do the same for Tucker Wilder.

***

Tucker laughed, balancing himself as he slipped on his underwear, nearly falling

over. He reached down the front, adjusting the jewels. The second the phone started to
ring, he ran over to the antiquated stereo from the early nineties, which was sitting on top
of his dresser, and turned off Madonna’s club remix of Hung Up before whoever was
calling decided to do the same.

He hightailed it across the room and snagged his cell off the foot of his bed. He

checked the caller ID and said a quick prayer before answering.

“Please tell me you’ve got good news.” Tucker’s free hand now rested on his hip.
“Look Tuck, I tried, but you are out,” his agent, Natalie Boxer said in her usual

clipped staccato voice. “And before you start bitching at me, I warned you from the very
beginning.”

“I know, but come on! Seriously!” Desperation was passing over Tucker in waves.
“Oh, don’t pull the serious card on me, cookie. Right now I’m as serious as a nuclear

submarine with a traitor on board.”

“But Nat, that script is my baby!”
“A baby you effectively gave up for adoption the instant you sold the option to a

producer. I told you a hundred times…I swear you’re as stubborn as your mother was.”

Tucker cringed, hating that one phrase more than anything else in the world. Times

like these he wished his agent hadn’t grown up best friends with his aunt and the loser-
druggie, waste of a mother he’d been unfortunate enough to have been born unto.

“The producers call the shots, babe. When it comes to making movies, the son of a

bitch that controls the purse strings is god. And you can’t call god an ignorant, pig fucker

and expect him to continue showering you with his benevolence.”

Tucker sighed, all but crumpling onto the foot of his bed, as if his legs had given out

on him. He cursed his short temper; even though he was right…Jacob Grant was an
ignorant pig fucker, if he’d ever seen one.

“Damn it,” he said in a whisper.
“Look…sweetie,” Natalie began, eliciting an eye roll from Tucker. “I’m not dropping

you, so don’t freak out, it’s not the end of the world. And you’ve already pocketed fifty
thousand against the five hundred you’ll receive now that your script is going into
production.”

My script, he thought, now knowing it would be nearly unrecognizable by the time it

made it to the screen. He was too fucking proud to tell her he’d already burned through
almost all of the fifty thousand.

“Asshole or not, Jacob Grant gets pictures made, you shouldn’t have been so

goddamn difficult to work with. You’re lucky he isn’t the vindictive type; otherwise, I
would be dropping you because you’d be dead in this town. But so help me if you ever do
anything—”

“I get the message,” Tucker said. “I know you only took me on out of obligation, so

thanks for not kicking me to the curb.”

“That family connection got you in the door, gorgeous.” He could tell she’d placed

her hand over the phone, her muffled voice barking an order at some unfortunate soul in
her office. “You’re brilliant, which is the only reason I’m wasting my time with you.
You’re fucking hot, too…the camera practically dry humps you, it loves you so much.
You could’ve been the next Brad Pitt, but you had to go and let the gay thing get in the
way.”

The "gay thing," she called it, like it’s a belt he can change to match his outfit. “I’m

sorry, Nat, but I can’t go back into the closet.” I like dick too much. Sue me.

“I know…I get it,” she paused. “All the money we…you could’ve made, but I get it.”
They sat in silence for a few moments.
“So now that you’re back home where you can hopefully keep yourself out of trouble,

start writing your next masterpiece.”

Tucker smiled thinking about the sweet, little old lady he met a week ago, Betty

Black. “I’m already onto to something.”

“Something commercial?” she asked.
“So commercial you’ll be shitting Reese Witherspoons and Scarlet Johanssons.”

Tucker said.

“You just made me moist…seriously, how gay could you be?”
Tucker laughed, setting the phone down after hearing she’d disconnected the call

without so much as a goodbye. It was as if she moved to her own speed, which was faster
than the rest of the world. He’d asked her once what the hell she was on, and she laughed,
but a little too nervously for his comfort

He noticed the time in the display of his cell and he shot up off the bed, making a

beeline for the rickety old armoire that currently held all his clothes. One day, he’d be so
damn rich he’d be able to fucking buy himself a house with a decent sized closet…which
he could then fill to the brim with all the Dolce and Gabbana money could buy.

“Until then I’ll be serving crawfish e’touffee, and red beans and rice at Millie’s,” he

said unhappily, still unable to believe that only a few short weeks ago he’d been in L.A.,

so close to fulfilling all his dreams. “Me and my big, fat mouth.”

He hated himself for feeling as if working for his aunt, Millicent Delacroix, was

beneath him. He knew she’d disapprove, and he didn’t actually believe he was above it,
but at this precise moment, it felt like one giant step backward.

I prefer moving in the opposite direction.
Millie had always disapproved of his wanting success and material things, what she

called fame. She liked to say that he didn’t need more than the good Lord was willing to
give.

Unfortunately, I’m not the type to sit around waiting on any man, not even the good

Lord.

There’d been times back in high school when he’d catch his aunt looking at him

funny, as if Tucker were a ticking time bomb ready to explode in her face at any given
moment. He never really understood where that came from, unless they all feared he’d
turn out like Loretta. That’s what he called her, his mother…by her given name. He
didn’t think she deserved any proper titles.

Aside from a short fuse, he’d never given Millie any trouble. He’d always been

grateful to her for taking him in and raising him as her own. Someday he’d very much
like to plunk down a big sack of cash in front of her.

She always said he was too pretty to look at for his own damn good. A fact he often

used to his benefit, usually able to charm his way back into people’s good graces after
effectively pissing them off.

Apparently, Jacob Grant was the exception. That stung even more, considering Jake

was gay, but he was the hot commodity in Hollywood, not Tucker. Everyone wanted a
piece of Jake, which made one stiff cock as interchangeable as the next. It was a side he
wasn’t used to being on, and Tucker was ready to do whatever it took to ensure he
wouldn’t stay on his current side any longer than he had to.

Finally dressed, he looked at the time. He needed to get over to The Times-Picayune

and pick up the information his reporter friend, Sara Harding had been able to dig up on
the mysterious Clay Shaw. He could feel it in his gut. This was going to turn into
something big.

“My ticket back to L.A.,” he said, closing the apartment door behind him.

***

Fox was sitting across the street from Millie’s Café, watching Tucker sit down in a

booth with the crazy old woman who’d instigated the entire mess Fox now found himself
drowning in. He reached for his phone, quickly answering it.

“Hey Bryan, what do have for me?”
Bryan was one of the many guys Fox had scattered throughout the Quarter. Like all

the others, Bryan was much more than just a hot piece of ass; he was also uniquely placed
in a position to be of further use to Fox outside the bedroom. Bryan worked circulation at
the newspaper and had turned out to be one of his better sources over the years. The man
was a natural born snoop. The heat from their relationship on Fox’s end had dwindled, if
that was indeed what one might call it. Bryan was still fun in the sack as well as
consistently appreciative of the time they shared, even now when those occasions had
become fewer and far between.

“You owe my ass some considerable time and attention for this, Jonathon Fox,”

Bryan said, sounding slightly put out. “I’m talking eight inches of attention in case there
was any confusion.”

Fox laughed, keeping his eyes peeled on the pair across the street.
“I’m serious,” Bryan huffed. “I got roped into a goddamn baby shower in order to get

this information for you.”

“You name the time and place, Bryan, and I promise I’ll kiss it, getting it nice and

wet, before I make it all better.”

“Goddamn it all to hell, but you do say the sweetest motherfucking things.”
Fox grinned, thinking that was about the same kinda talk that came out of his mouth

each time he’d fucked him.

“Why the hell these damn straight girls think gay men wanna spend their Saturday

afternoons tasting baby food and cooing over cake and—”

“You were just about to tell me something?” Fox interrupted, knowing the man well

enough to understand he could rant the hind leg off a mule if you let him.

“Oh…right, got a pen?”
“Always,” Fox lied, continuing to stare at Tucker and Betty Black in the café. He

never bothered writing anything down, having always had near perfect recall.

Bryan cleared his voice as if preparing for an important speech. “It would seem

Wilder…who is smoking hot might I add—”

“How ‘bout we stick to the facts and cut out the unnecessary commentary,” Fox

interrupted.

“You sound jealous,” Bryan said. Fox didn’t need to see him to know he was grinning

from ear to ear.

“To the point, Bryan,” Fox said, noticing his face was flushed after seeing his

reflection in the rearview.

“What the hell do you want with Wilder anyway?” Bryan asked, the tone in his voice

not sounding all that helpful anymore.

“It’s about a case I’m working, Bryan, you know I can’t say.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bryan mumbled. “Client privacy…such nonsense, it’s a stupid rule.

You know damn well that a man who looks as good as Wilder thinks the sun comes up
just to hear him crow.”

Fox didn’t doubt that for an instant, watching Tucker in the restaurant across the

street. He felt a sudden kinship with the sun, praying deep down he wasn’t about to get
himself burned.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Bryan added after Fox neglected to respond, having

gotten lost in lustful thoughts.

He shook his head to snap himself out of it. “I’m not trying to hustle the man.” At

least not yet. “Now are you going to help me or—”

“I got a name for you,” Bryan blurted out, cutting Fox off. “Clay Shaw. I tried

angling for more, but our roving reporter, Sara Harding, wasn’t in a very chatty mood. I
only got the name because it was still typed into the search engine on her computer.”

“You never cease to impress, Bryan.”
“She thought I was angling for an introduction to Wilder, which is how I got roped

into the damn shower.”

Fox could hear the irritation creeping back into his voice.

“You’ve been a huge help, Bryan,” Fox cut in, stopping him before he could get

started.

“You’ll give me my reward soon, I hope?”
“Schedules permitting, I might be able to make things right by the weekend.” Fox

smiled, hearing Bryan groan seductively on the end of the phone. “Maybe even late
tonight, if you like.”

“Oh, Fox…baby,” Bryan said, his voice now sounding sweet as honey.
He grinned, loving the effect he had. “Just hold onto that thought, Bryan.”
“Yes sir, big daddy,” Bryan said, before Fox disconnected.
Fox quickly opened his text app and tapped out a quick message asking Eva to see

what she could dig up on any Clay Shaws from New Orleans in the past fifty years. Upon
finishing, he locked the phone in his glove box.

Removing his sunglasses, he squinted, watching as Betty Black finally got up from

the table and waved goodbye to Tucker. This is normally when Fox would break away
and follow the old gal, but considering this newest piece of information, Fox was no
longer convinced that Mr. Wilder wasn’t involved somehow after all. He was trying to
convince himself that Tucker was merely doing research for some new screenplay. That
was Wilder’s job, so it wasn’t exactly inconceivable, but something deep down in his gut
wasn’t buying it.

Deciding to stay put today, Fox waited until Betty got into her car and was far enough

away before he exited his Jeep and crossed the street. He was trying to make the
connection, but had yet to come across anything that tied these two people together. As a
matter of fact, the sweet looking Mrs. Black was turning out to be a bit of an enigma.

As he stepped up onto the curb, waiting for a couple walking their tiny dog to pass

by, Fox tried to steady his nerves. This was about to be his first actual, up-close and
personal, contact with Wilder. He was startled by the fact he was nervous, an affliction he
almost never suffered from. He took a moment to think back over what he did know,
starting with his initial meeting and introduction to Granny Gun Mol.

Two weeks earlier…
Fox’s building on Chartres St. in the south west corner of the French Quarter…

“Goddamn it, boy!” Mason Wilkes threw his arms up into the air, exasperated. “It’s

been nearly three months since the unfortunate incident with Senator Deveraux’s wife
and I’m still trying to manage the fall-out.”

Fox frowned, less than happy his near-death experience with a mad woman had been

downgraded to an unfortunate incident. He slumped down in the dark green leather chair
behind the desk in his office, wondering how his uncle would have referred to it had the
psycho succeeded.

The building that housed his office was a tall and narrow three story Creole

townhouse constructed after the fires of the late 1700s. Set at the sidewalk with three
bays, the outside doors were tall and arched with barred transoms. The first door, known
as the family entrance, was otherwise inaccessible from the first floor office space. It had
a ground-level flagstone passageway leading to a loggia in the rear with a curving
stairway. The building also featured two narrow balconies, just three feet deep and
supported by scrolling brackets of hand-wrought iron, which looked down onto the street

below from the second and third floors.

Fox had gutted the entire building, knocking out a large section of the second floor in

the front half. His glassed-in office took up the back half of the second floor and looked
down upon the sitting area below where Evaline Du Bois, or Eva as she liked to be
called, sat behind the polished mahogany counter, her long red nails tapping away on her
keyboard. Thick cables stretched up and hooked into the ceiling, supporting the catwalk
that hung along the front exterior walls, providing access to the second story balcony and
a walkway for Fox, who was often restless, preferring to move around as opposed to
sitting behind a desk.

The rest of the first floor consisted of a bathroom, small kitchen, a room that opened

onto the private courtyard where he kept weights and other miscellaneous equipment he
used to keep himself in shape, and the safe room, which held the safe Fox had hidden in
the floor. The third floor had been converted to a loft where he’d lived over the previous
two years, before moving out to the plantation with Virgil and his mother. He still used
the apartment on nights when he worked too late to make it home, or whenever doing
any…entertaining.

Uncle Mason had done his best over the years to keep Fox out of trouble, a job Fox

had never made easy. He also ran the Fox family businesses, which included
pharmaceuticals, imports and exports, along with some interests in gulf coast oil. The
renovation had cost a pretty penny. It had been the first time Fox had taken a large sum of
money from the Fox business coffers. After turning thirty, he fully inherited all the family
holdings and interests, so it was certainly within his rights. But Mason ran the business
and Fox wanted to keep it that way. Being a captain of industry held no appeal for Fox. It
was a delicate enough dance already with Mason and family money. Despite owning the
companies, Fox felt like anything that came from the company had annoying little strings
attached. The money he took for his building on Chartres came with the incessant
hounding from Mason to draw up a will. Fox knew it was the right thing to do.
Thousands of people worked for Fox Industries, likely many more if you went outside the
States. He had a responsibility to protect their interests and livelihoods.

Fox had always been comfortable, thanks to the trust set up by his father. His Aunt

Caroline, Mason’s wife, had been deemed trustee after his father died and Savannah went
mad. Fox had loved his aunt, whom everyone called Linney. She had been the last vestige
of family for him, so warm and kind; there wasn’t a soul who’d been able to resist her.
She’d been unable to have children of her own, and after Fox lost his parents she’d been
right there, like a salve to the wounds of his spirit. Her premature death from heart failure
when Fox was a teenager had been the final straw for him. It was as if the world had
decided to beat him down until he was nothing and had no one left. But instead of lying
down defeated, Fox lashed out. A damn near unstoppable anger grew slowly, starting
deep down in his gut until it eventually boiled over.

Any good will or sympathy that had come his way due to all that had happened to

him throughout his childhood, he’d destroyed throughout his teens and early twenties. He
cut a path of deviant behavior and destruction throughout the French Quarter and nearby
Faubourg Marigny. Kicked out of more private schools than he could count, he then
partied and drank his way through multiple universities. Each time Fox wound up in jail,
Mason would swoop in and make it all go away.

The final straw had come for Fox one cool November evening when he nearly beat a

man to death for calling him a faggot. The guy’s girlfriend had watched in horror,
screaming as Fox beat and kicked the man bloody in the middle of Bourbon Street. He’d
been three sheets himself, fracturing several bones in his hands. His own memories of
that night survived only in bits and pieces now, but he remembered giving himself over to
the rage. The thing that haunted him most was, had two other men not jumped in and
subdued Fox, he knew he wouldn’t have stopped and that man’s death would have been
on his head.

The subsequent fallout from that night brought about the end of the man he used to

be. He’d narrowly escaped jail time, because Mason stepped in once again, covering all
of the victim’s medical and rehabilitation bills as well as providing a hefty settlement in
exchange for not pressing charges.

Yes, Mason had always been there, but Fox, while grateful, felt it had more to do with

managing any scandal that might harm the corporation than anything else. Nevertheless,
while there may not have been any real sense of love or family, he knew he was indebted
to his uncle.

“Damn reporters are hounding me morning, noon, and night.” Mason sighed, rubbing

the palm of his hand over his face. “Like a pack of vultures trying to pick us apart. They
refuse to let the story die. That damned Sara Harding bitch from the Times-Picayune is
the worst of them. She must really hate you.”

Fox was trying to bite his tongue and let his uncle blow off steam, but he was already

beginning to lose his temper. Usually he sat back and let Mason vent until it all blew
over, but this hadn’t been one of those situations where Fox had fucked up.

“I knew this P.I. business would be a mistake,” Mason added. “I told you it was like

asking for trouble and now look what the hell has happened.”

“I hate to point any fingers,” Fox finally cut in, “but I didn’t want anything to do with

this case. I don’t do cheating spouses, but you came to me. All but begged me to help out
your friend, Senator Deveraux.”

“Because I thought you’d be discreet!”
Fox slammed his fist down onto the solid wood desk. “Discreet doesn’t matter so

much when the client’s married to a gun-toting psychopath!”

They were each staring at the other, breathing heavily as if they’d just gone a couple

of rounds in the ring, when the intercom buzzed. Fox reached over, holding down the
button on the phone.

“Yeah Eva, what is it?”
“First of all, don’t you snap at me, Jonathon Fox, ‘cause I will march right up those

stairs and knock you into next week.”

Fox rolled his eyes. “Sorry, what do you need, gorgeous?”
“I’ll pretend like I didn’t see that eye roll,” Eva said, causing Fox to grin as he

glanced down at her staring back up at him with a smirk. “Your three-thirty’s here.”

Fox glanced at the clock and noticed it was twenty till four. He wasn’t sure if Eva had

been waiting for the fireworks to die down or if his next client had been late.

“I’ll be right down.” Fox cut off the intercom and saw Mason shaking his head.
“That woman could make a preacher cuss. I don’t know how the hell you can stand

it.”

They both smiled, sharing a quick laugh.
“It’s day to day, but she keeps me honest,” Fox said, getting up from behind the desk.

It was certainly no lie. Eva had been in his life as long as anyone had. She’d been best

friends with Savannah, both of whom had grown up together in Baton Rouge. She was a
Louisiana Creole through and through, the daughter of an impassioned preacher whom
she was often at odds with. Her skin was the color of café o’lait and she had more curves
than the mighty Mississippi. If Fox’s life were a film noir movie from the forties, Eva
would no doubt be cast in the role of femme fatale.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you, Jon.” Mason extended his hand. “I know you had no

control over what happened.”

Fox shrugged an apology, shaking hands. “Perhaps it’s just habit.”
“I know you’ve changed, son.” Mason patted him on the shoulder. “But I guess I’ll

get out of your hair for now and keep you in the loop with regard to the company.”

“Nobody knows that business better than you Mason. We both know I could never

run it, and we both know I never want to.”

Fox followed his uncle down the stairs and past the counter where Eva sat, watching

Mason with more than a little skepticism. Of course, to Eva, everyone was a little fishy
for one reason or another. Fox imagined she had none too high an opinion of him half the
time, considering she felt the need to constantly put him in his place. To Eva, it was her
world and everyone else was just suckin’ up her oxygen.

Fox stopped, saying goodbye to Mason as the little old lady, who had been patiently

waiting, got up from her seat and made her way toward Fox. He did his best to hold back
the grin, watching her ogling Mason as he left. His uncle smiled at her like a politician
running for office. He couldn’t believe the old broad was still interested at her age. Then
again, Mason was kinda dashing, for sixty something, and Fox knew he had women on
the side. But he’d never re-married after Linney died. Fox admired that in Mason. It was
nice to know his aunt had been loved like that.

“How may I help you, Mrs…?” Fox asked, pulling her attention back to him.
The glazed-over look in her eyes vanished, and she smiled warmly, as if she were just

about ready to offer him some pie. “My apologies, Mr. Fox.” Her face went slightly pink
and she giggled. “Black. My name is Betty Black.”

Fox led Betty into the small glassed-in conference room located behind Eva where

she declined any need for refreshments. He took the legal pad and pencil Eva had ready
for him, even though it wasn’t something he needed. He’d discovered clients seemed to
fret over the fact he never wrote anything down, so he began faking it for their benefit,
and his, by pretending to scribble down notes during initial meetings.

He sat down across the table from her, sipping his coffee. He wasn’t much of a

caffeine kinda guy, most of the time. But he’d been sleep deprived over the past few
nights dealing with Miss Savannah, who seemed to require almost no sleep. Two nurses
had come and gone over the past three months, and finding a new one was proving
difficult. He was beginning to wonder if he’d been placed on a list somewhere. He
couldn’t really blame them—between Virgil, who was so surly most of the time it was
like living with sandpaper, the press and scandal following the Deveraux case, and not to
mention, Snowflake, who wasn’t the cuddliest pet to have around—his new family wasn’t
exactly the most appealing.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Black?” Fox asked, setting his coffee cup onto the table.
Her face froze momentarily, as if she was unsure how to proceed. Her white hair was

teased up into a cotton-candy-like bouffant. Betty’s face was still full, though certainly

marked by time, yet even her conservatively-styled clothes were outshined by the crisp
blue clarity of her eyes. Fox was struck by the fact she came off quite youthful when their
gazes met.

“Well Mr. Fox, I wasn’t hoping to purchase your services so much as your knowledge

and expertise.”

Great, another crackpot writing a book.
“You see I have a unique problem, and it’s not the sort of thing I can have anyone

else looking into other than me.” Betty relaxed back into her seat and again Fox felt as if
she were searching out the right combination of words she hoped would garner the
outcome she desired.

Maybe she’s watched too many episodes of Murder She Wrote and has delusions of

becoming a real-life Jessica Fletcher.

Fox smiled at her, setting the pad and pencil down. “You have my complete and full

attention, Mrs. Black.”

“Oh that’s very kind of you, dear. You see, I need to find someone,” she explained,

blinking yet never taking her gaze away from his.

“A first love?” Fox grinned, as did she.
“No, not quite.”
“A child?” Fox asked, wondering if she’d given someone up for adoption at some

point in her past.

“Well, I’m certain they were someone’s child, but no. That’s not it either,” she said.
Fox decided to give her a moment, so he stalled by taking another sip from his coffee

cup.

“Well, I suppose I’ll just come clean, Mr. Fox.” Her forehead scrunched up. “I need

to find this individual so I can kill them.”

Fox choked, the hot coffee going down the wrong pipe. He stared at her, his eyes

watering as he coughed, not having seen that one coming.

“Obviously I can’t have you find this person for me, because once I murder them in

cold blood you’ll most likely feel the need to rat me out to the poe-poe.” She said it
plainly, as if asking him to please pass the salt. Her use of slang was nearly comical
despite the apparent earnestness in her eyes. “I’m too old to go to prison, you see. Who’d
want me to be their bitch at my age? I’d probably not survive a week.”

“Wha…um,” Fox started. “Of course.”
“So you see my dilemma?” She smiled, crossing her hands over the purse that lay

politely on her lap.

“Yes, ma’am.” Fox cleared his throat and took another careful sip from his mug.
He now realized the meaning behind her body language and lack of interest in settling

in. This was probably not the first P.I. office she’d been to, likely not even the second or
third. She was fully prepared to get up and leave once he declined to help her. He sighed,
knowing she had no intention of stopping until she found someone unscrupulous enough
to take her money and show her what she wanted to know, or worse yet, someone who’d
just take her money. It wasn’t as if she’d be able to report it to the poe-poe.

Excuse me officer, this man took my money then neglected to show me how to find the

person I want to murder!

Somehow, he could almost hear her saying it, thinking she was apparently not playing

with an entirely full deck.

He groaned on the inside, not in the mood for this sort of thing at the moment. But

considering he was light on cases, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do. If he kept
her close, perhaps he could find out who she was after, and could keep her from making a
huge mistake… or getting herself killed.

“I’ll make you a deal, Mrs. Black,” Fox finally said. “You give me a few weeks to try

talking some sense into you, and if I fail, I’ll teach you what you need to know, no
charge.”

He could see the disappointment play out over her face, but she didn’t get up and

leave, so that was a start.

“As kind as your offer is, Mr. Fox, any attempts to change my mind will simply be a

waste of your time.”

“I understand.” Fox said.
“Very well, then,” she said with resignation. “Two weeks. I’ve waited this long, I

suppose. But I’ll be very upset with you if I die before getting to kill this man.”

Fox smiled, happy to have gotten something useful out of her. The person in question

was a man, and whatever the mystery man’s offense, it wasn’t recent.

“But I won’t change my mind,” Betty added, earnestly. “They really have to die.”
Fox held back a smile. “Got it, your mind’s made up. I’ve been warned.”

***

Present Day
The sidewalk outside Millie’s Café…

Fox stepped through the open French doors into the near empty restaurant. He’d been

in Delacroix’s a time or two before, though it wasn’t one of his haunts. They served up
the usual New Orleans fare, everything from gumbo and red beans and rice, to crawfish,
fried catfish and Po Boys. The food was usually somewhere between decent and great,
not always consistent but never horrible. He listened to the wood floors protest as he
crossed the room. The butter-yellow plaster walls were covered in black and white
framed photographs and newspaper articles depicting a pictorial history of the Quarter.

Fox could still catch the slightest hint of fresh paint, nodding as he glanced up at the

dark, glossy brown colored tin ceiling. Eva had their lunch delivered from here a few
times a month. A kid on a black-framed bicycle with a large basket strapped onto the
handlebars usually dropped it off. He remembered it because of the decals plastered all
over the frame, including Marvin the Martian, which had been a favorite of his growing
up.

In all his years, he couldn’t seem to ever recall running into Tucker, someone he was

unable to currently imagine ever being able to forget. That being said, Fox had already
discovered his real name was Tucker Delacroix, that he was the nephew of one Millie
Delacroix who had raised him after being deserted by his own parents. His mother had
been in and out of drug rehab over the years and was currently living in a halfway house
for women in Atlanta. There was no father listed on Tucker’s birth certificate, and Fox
wondered if perhaps that was what all this Clay Shaw business was about. He might
simply be looking for his father.

“Sit anywhere you like,” Tucker called out, the tone of his voice warm—in that

rehearsed hospitality worker sort of way.

Fox’s research had picked up a few small items mentioning Tucker Wilder in the

Hollywood trade rags. He’d spent the better part of the last two years living in Los
Angeles where he’d sold his first screenplay called A Carolina State of Mind. Not
surprisingly, about a strong-willed, matriarch named Carolina Boudreaux who
singlehandedly raised a pack of eccentric children in southern Louisiana.

The breeze from an old-school copper oscillating fan sitting on the end of the counter

blew over him, creating a moment of relief before spinning away. Tucker had barely
given him a sideways glance and half smile, so Fox decided on one of the round stools
that ran along the counter as opposed to a table. Fox had noticed the trays of ketchup
bottles, salt and pepper shakers, silverware, and other miscellaneous condiments, which
had been gathered up and stacked behind the counter waiting for Tucker to refill. He’d
have a better chance at making a personal connection and subtly pumping Wilder for
information if he kept himself close to where the man was stuck working.

It never ceased to amaze him the things people would blurt out while in the process of

mind numbingly menial duties such as this. It had a tendency to cut their focus, their
brain occupied with such tedium. Drugs and torture were a waste of time by comparison,
and a whole lot messier. The best part was the target usually never realized they’d let
anything slip.

An antique brass cash register sat at the far end, tarnished by age and the fine layer of

grease that hung in the air of most restaurants. There was a long window along the back
wall that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Fox could hear an unseen women
singing from somewhere on the kitchen side of the window. Fox assumed it was the aunt,
Millie.

There were tables scattered throughout covered with red and white checked plastic

tablecloths and a row of booths ran along the back wall, which was where Tucker and
Betty usually sat, away from the prying eyes and ears of any other patrons.

It was suspicious, but Fox was desperately hoping Tucker wasn’t involved with any

of this mess for a multitude of reasons. The main one being, he was running out of time
with Betty, his two weeks were almost up, and he had yet to even figure out who the hell
she really was. All he did know was that Betty Black was not her real name. The
woman’s rental car and the apartment she was renting were all paid for in cash and she’d
always managed to get in out of Fox’s office without touching or drinking anything. She
left no DNA or fingerprints behind, which took an amazing amount of forethought on her
part.

Betty was a whole lot craftier than he’d originally given her credit for.
Fox suspected she’d somehow enticed Tucker into looking for information on this

Clay Shaw. He was hoping the old lady was confiding in Tucker, though deep down he
didn’t think it was likely unless he was as involved in the outcome as she was. Staring at
the man’s backside, he prayed Wilder wasn’t, as he wouldn’t mind bedding the boy
down.

Fox tried to shake the lingering thoughts of lust from his head, twisting his neck until

it popped. He glanced up at the ceiling, at the six plain brown metal fans that ran down
the center of the room providing the only other relief from the heat. This was the kind of
restaurant people went for comfort food, not necessarily to be comfortable.

Fox finally turned his attention back toward Tucker after deciding the gentleman

finishing his sandwich was totally engrossed in the newspaper he was reading. The only
other patron was a young girl, sixteen or seventeen, who was laughing while tapping
away on the keyboard of her phone and sipping on a large glass of iced tea.

Texting, Fox thought. The most ridiculous form of communication yet. A couple of

his French Quarter boys were overly fond of it. Fox was certain it would be the ruination
of society, wondering how the hell we’d gone from the written word back to symbols and
gibberish.

Might as well go back to fucking painting on cave walls.
He licked his lips, which were parched from dehydration, patiently waiting and

watching Tucker, whose back was still turned to him. He felt an unfamiliar catch deep in
his chest, as his gaze ran up and down the man’s backside. The well-muscled shoulders
and back wrapped in the snug white t-shirt. The damp spot just above his ass created by
the black plastic booklet which held all his receipts that he kept shoved down the back of
his cut-offs. The tight waist and worn denim that snuggly wrapped around that ass, so
round and supple. Fox closed his eyes for a moment attempting to imagine the way it
would feel to palm it, squeezing the flesh as he pressed his fingers into Tuckers tight
hole.

He shivered slightly, feeling his cock hardening. His lips parted and he felt the corner

of his mouth curling up as he inhaled slowly. The scent of sweat and spicy Cajun
seasoning invaded his senses.

He opened his eyes and found Tucker standing in front of him, arms folded as he

watched Fox. Fox cleared his throat and sat up straighter, setting off the mega-watt
matinee-idol smile that spread across Tucker’s face. It was a smile that, if rehearsed, was
award worthy in its otherwise perceived sincerity.

“Must’ve been some day dream,” Tucker said.
His voice laced with a teasing, borderline-flirty tone. It was like raw silk: expensive

but with a unique texture all its own.

So much for moving in slow and easy, Fox thought. There’d been precious few times

in his life when he’d been sorry he had a penis, so few they could be counted on one
hand. Right now was about to be added to that list, thanks to the bulge he was packing.

“You have no idea,” Fox said. How anyone could preach abstinence as a serious

lifestyle choice was beyond him. The fact he’d barely had time to get himself serviced
over the past few months was screwing with him in all the wrong ways, and the fact
Wilder had picked up on the sexual tension told Fox the man was perceptive.

Fox squirmed in his seat a little in an attempt to readjust his business. Either that or

he has a nose for erections.

Fox took the menu Tucker had grabbed from underneath the counter and handed to

him.

Tucker glanced down, poised and ready to take his order. He mumbled, “I think I

might have an idea.”

Fox perused the menu, but he was now grinning from ear to ear, wondering how the

hell they’d moved so far so fast. “So what do you recommend?”

Tucker laughed, and Fox wondered if perhaps the man was thinking about something

not on the menu. “The gumbo’s especially good togay.”

Fox felt his eyebrows arch upward as Tucker allowed a whispered, Shit, slip out from

between his lips.

“To-day,” Tucker blurted out. “The gumbo is good today.”
Fox stared intently, taking a somewhat perverse pleasure in the fact he was making

the hottest piece of ass he’d ever laid eyes on squirm under his focus.

“Sorry, I don’t know where my head’s at,” Tucker said, as if attempting to deflect the

sexual chemistry that now hung in the air along with the humidity.

“Really?” Fox glanced back down at his menu. “Doesn’t seem like that big of a

mystery to me.”

Tucker grinned, shaking his head slightly, a confusing mix of amusement and

disapproval. “Be careful you don’t bite off more than you can chew, Scooby Doo.”

The Scooby comment had Fox wondering if his reputation had preceded him after all,

but if it had, Tucker didn’t seem put off by it.

“You gonna take that man’s order or stand there and flirt with him all day?” A

younger woman asked from the kitchen window, seeming less than pleased over the
delay.

“Can’t I do both?” Tucker asked, yelling back at her.
“Not if you’re gonna let the poor man starve to death.” She snapped back.
From the look of her, Fox got the feeling she’d rather be anywhere else in the world.
“He doesn’t look to me as if he’d mind all that much,” Tucker replied, appearing

irritated by the heckling.

Fox laughed under his breath, closed the menu, and set it down onto the far edge of

the counter. “I’ll try some of that gumbo that comes so highly recommended.”

“You won’t be sorry.” Tucker grinned, ripping the ticket loose from the pad before

turning to pass it to the woman in the kitchen. “Please forgive my enthusiastic yet
inappropriate co-worker.”

She was beautiful in that generic, multi-racial Jessica Alba sort of way. Her dark,

curly, bobbed hair was the color of molasses, tied back with a dark blue handkerchief.
The sleeve of her chef coat was rolled up, revealing part of a dragon tattoo that curled
around her arm, disappearing under the white fabric. The features of her face were soft,
inviting, but at the same time, she exuded a vibe that screamed, ‘back the fuck off.’

Fox laughed, seeing the woman’s lip curl up into a snarl as she snatched the ticket

from Tucker’s hand and disappeared from view.

Tucker turned, shoving the hard copy of his order slip into the black book. He stared

at Fox for a moment as if attempting to make some sort of decision, and then walked
back over to toward the lunch counter, shoving the ticket book into the back of his pants.
“My name’s Tucker and the loud mouth back in the kitchen is my cousin, Leigh. You
know what they say about family.

I know what they say about mine.
He hadn’t seen that one coming considering she looked nothing like Tucker. Fox

extended his hand. “Jon.”

Tucker’s grip was firm and the pad of his thumb caressed the back of Fox’s hand

briefly, an act that seemed predicated by instinct as opposed to intent.

“She’s the one who knows all your secrets, duly noted.” Fox smiled.
“Not any of the good ones.” Tucker mumbled. “You want iced tea with that?”
“Sure,” Fox said, propping his elbows up on the counter. “I understand how annoying

it is getting everything cleaned up only to have some straggler come stumbling in at the
ass end of lunch, so please apologize for me.”

“Spoken like a man who’s been on this side of the counter,” Tucker said, sticking a

large lemon wedge on the rim of the glass he’d just filled with tea.

Fox smiled back at the man who placed the glass in front of him, allowing Tucker to

assume his suspicions were correct. Creating a sense of camaraderie is always a plus
when attempting to build a level of trust with your target. He’d never done anything in a
restaurant aside from eating and drinking, but he’d slept with more than his fair share of
hospitality workers in his day. He’d heard enough bitching over the years to know what
annoyed the hell out of them.

“Despite the fact you look like the type of man who’s used to making apologies, her

piss-poor attitudes not all about you.” Tucker stared down at the condiments as if he’d
sooner jump off the nearest bridge than deal with refilling them. “She’s not exactly
excited to be working here again.”

Fox sat for a moment watching as Tucker drifted off in his thoughts, the typical New

Orleans jazz music coming through the overhead speakers in the background. He decided
to ease in, going for the less intrusive comment first. “Exactly what is it I’m doing all this
apologizin’ for?”

Tucker snapped out of his haze and grinned, as he went about twisting the metal lids

off the saltshakers. “For constantly having your hand in the cookie jar, if I had to venture
a guess.”

“If that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black. You each one look like somethin’ Satan

sired for the sole purpose of sinnin’.” Leigh said, dinging a bell as she placed the
steaming bowl of food under a heat lamp. “Order up!”

Fox winked at her, unable to stop himself after a compliment like that. He noted that

Leigh was now watching him suspiciously, like there was something about him she was
supposed to know, but couldn’t quite remember.

“The kitchen is now closed,” she added, before disappearing from view once again.
Tucker shook his head as he went to retrieve the bowl of gumbo. “It’s that rude

attitude that has you back in Aunt Millie’s kitchen!”

Fox could hear Leigh laughing her ass off. “That’s rich coming from you, Cuz!”
“Writers are supposed to be temperamental, not nurses!” Tucker snatched the bowl

off the counter, muttering something and wearing the stung expression on his face as if
he’d just been effectively put in his place.

Hearing the word nurse come out of Tucker’s mouth, Fox was almost desperate

enough to toss the entire investigation aside and let the old lady murder anyone she
wanted. Any nurse, rude or otherwise, who could help with Savannah, would be worth
their weight in gold as far as he was concerned. It took everything he had to not leap over
the counter and shove Tucker out the way so he could beg the surly cousin to come work
for him.

He felt old all of a sudden, realizing thoughts of healthcare had become topic number

one on his to-do list. Fox straightened himself up as Tucker placed the food in front of
him.

“A temperamental writer, are we?” Fox asked.
Tucker nodded, though the sparkle in his eye had dimmed. ‘’Short tempered to be

more exact.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.” Fox placed the paper napkin in his lap.
“Why don’t we save that story for another time,” Tucker said, folding his arms.

Fox grinned, picking up his spoon. “Another time, huh?”
Tucker’s face flushed revealing he’d spoken out of turn. He shrugged. “It’s not like

we both didn’t know where this was leading.”

Fox laughed, shoveling in a mouthful of food. He chewed thinking the man had

certainly not lied about the gumbo. This put Virgil’s to shame. He washed it down with a
large drink. “That mean you’re gonna go out on a date with me?”

“That’s cute.” Tucker winked, going back to filling the saltshakers. “You pretending

like you don’t already know the answer to that question.”

He experienced a slight euphoria accompanied by the usual self-assured cockiness

that came over him whenever another man said yes to him. He laughed and went back to
his food.

Fox was usually pretty good, if not downright gifted, when it came to reading people.

His initial instincts were often dead on. Not always, as evidenced by his recent exploits
with Delta Deveraux. He hadn’t seen that in her until she showed up at De la Fontaine
that fateful evening ready to shoot him and burn the remnants of his family to ground.

Some people were obviously better at masking their true nature than others. He’d

succumbed to the worst part of who he was for many years, so he understood having a
dual natured personality. The difference was that the man he used to be wasn’t the real
Jon Fox. That guy was selfish and weak, self pitying even. All of those things were part
of who he was, but they weren’t all of him and they didn’t make up the greater whole of
who he was, even when combined with one another. He knew that much now, at least it’s
what he told himself each time he looked into a mirror.

Tucker, on the other hand, didn’t read that way at all. Nothing came across that led

one to believe the man held anything back. While he rightfully enjoyed the bravado he
possessed, he didn’t seem full of himself so much as comfortable with who he was. That
surprised Fox, considering men who looked that good were usually cocky as all hell.
He’d been expecting Tucker to be a bit of an egomaniac, discovering instead a self-
confidence that came with a take it or leave it attitude that was much more laisez faire in
nature than it was facetious or malicious.

He was finding it more and more difficult to believe Tucker Wilder was involved in

any of this mess with Betty. While they seemed like the unlikeliest of alliances, they had
both shown up in New Orleans around the same time. Tucker at least had ties here, while
Betty had appeared out of nowhere, like an apparition. Their frequent visits, which took
place three to four times a week for roughly forty minutes, were still suspect. Fox knew
in his gut there was a connection there, somewhere. He just couldn’t figure out what it
was. He was getting desperate to get a beat on Betty Black, knowing until he was able to
figure out who the hell she was he’d remain stuck in the dark.

Since he knew there’d be plenty of time to extract information from Wilder in a social

setting that would certainly involve some alcohol if he could swing it, Fox kept the rest of
the conversation light. Romancing information from a source was a much more delicate
dance, requiring finesse, something he wouldn’t have much of if he didn’t relieve himself
of some of the sexual tension that had been building up for weeks on end.

He’d tried to eat slowly, but the food was too damn good and before he knew it

they’d made a date to meet for dinner two days from now, which was Tucker’s next
evening off. He left the restaurant, stuffed from eating so fast, and crossed the street to
get to his Jeep. He could hear the phone ringing before he even got the door unlocked.

Sliding into the driver’s side, he unlocked the glove box and grabbed it.

“Fox here,” he said, after hitting the speakerphone.
“It’s Rick, I have some information for you. You have time to meet up this

afternoon?”

“Sure, what time?” Fox asked, knowing that the answer would determine whether or

not he’d receive more than information.

“After four, maybe closer to five good for you?” Rick asked.
Fox smiled, suddenly quite happy to hear those words come from Detective Rick

Ford.

“My office?” Fox asked.
“Perfect,” Rick added.
“Looking forward to it,” Fox said, disconnecting the call before turning the key in the

ignition, bringing the rumble of his Jeep’s engine to life. “You have no idea how much.”

Chapter Three

Detective Ford let out a grunt when Fox bent him over, forcing the man’s lean upper

body against the top of his desk. He held him there, pinned down as Fox roughly spread
some lube over his hole.

They were each in varying states of undress as Ford mumbled muffled, nonsensical

pleas to be fucked. He was completely naked, minus his boots and the pants and briefs
still tangled around his ankles. His wrists were bound behind his back, the metal
handcuffs catching the light as Fox tugged on them. His own shirt was unbuttoned and
hanging open, jeans and briefs pooled around his ankles as well.

He took a moment to appreciate the hard lanky Oklahoma-native’s body; the muscles

in Rick’s legs were bulging, prepared for the assault to come. Smiling as Rick groaned in
pleasure, Fox began pressing the head of his dick inside the man’s ass.

“You were able to follow her undetected?” Fox asked, his eyelids fluttering as he

slowly inched deeper inside the slick, hot hole.

“Oh, fuck yeah…I mean yes,” Rick said, doing his best to control his breathing.

“Placed a tracker behind her bumper…ah, Jesus, Fox.”

Rick sucked in a deep breath as the palm of Fox’s hand landed against his ass with a

loud smack.

“She drove to a small house…outskirts of town...met with a younger man…mid-to-

late- thirties. Big guy. Not exactly pretty-lookin’.”

Fox settled into a steady rhythm feeling Ford’s ass relax into the assault. This was the

only way the supposedly straight detective could manage taking it up the ass—bound and
from behind. For some reason that allowed just enough separation from the responsibility
of the act, as if he’d been unable to stop it due to the extenuating circumstances.

Never mind the fact he nearly cuffed himself each time in a panic to get plowed.
“You get a name?” Fox asked, slapping the opposite cheek, watching the pink

handprint form across the pale, white skin.

“Oh God,” Rick breathed, laying his forehead onto the desk. “Not yet…plates traced

back to used car lot in Shreveport…fuck my ass.”

“Yeah, you like that?” Fox slapped his ass again, roughly squeezing as he fought to

keep himself distracted from the sex. “Interesting, the same set-up she used for her
vehicle but she went all the way to Mississippi for this car. You talk to the owner of the
lot?”

“Said the old lady was paying him cash, and a lot of it to not ask any questions.”

Ford’s legs were now shaking. “Fuck…me.”

“You like my cock in your ass, boy?” Fox gripped him roughly by the waist and

continued to take him hard and fast.

Fox smiled when Rick said nothing, aside from letting out a grunt. While they shared

a mutual affection for sex without the threat of further attachment, each time Fox took it
as a challenge, getting the man worked up to the point he’d verbally admit to enjoying it.

Ford had relocated to New Orleans several years back amid rumors of a homosexual

scandal that busted up his engagement to the daughter of some Oklahoma City big wig,
back when Fox was still getting his feet wet with the PI business. Aside from the whole
double life thing—dating women publicly while fucking men in private—Rick Ford was
a simple, uncomplicated man whose beliefs and values run straight down the middle.
“You’ll keep on it for me…see if you can’t get a name for Betty’s mystery man?”

Rick looked back, the signs of pleasured-strain all over his face.”You mean when I’m

not doing the job the good people of New Orleans are actually paying me to do?”

“I’d do it myself, but chances are—”
“If he’s working with her, the guy will know exactly who you are,” Rick interrupted.

“I get it. Oh fuck, do I ever get it.”

“I’d owe you one.” Fox could feel the sweat running down the center of his back,

watching Rick biting down on his lip. Fox knew Ford was getting close, so he reached
down between his legs and began jacking the man off.

“The guy doesn’t appear to be all that smart,” Rick said, in between his moans, which

had begun to get louder. “Shouldn’t take too much effort…to get his prints.”

“You’ll run that other name for me, Clay Shaw?” Fox asked, slapping his ass once

more for good measure.

“Yes!” Ford screamed his orgasm. “Fuck…yeah!”
Fox slowed down, gently pumping, working the friction as Rick’s ass tightened

around his cock with each shot of seed, no doubt now hosing down his desk and the wood
floors underneath.

After Rick emptied his nuts, Fox pulled out, discarding the condom so he could jack

himself off. The raw, red skin around Ford’s wrists from the handcuffs sent him quickly
over the edge, shooting across Rick’s back and across his ass.

His entire body relaxed, and he placed a hand on top of the desk to prop himself up.

Both men were still attempting to get their wind back as Fox’s vision came back into
focus. He fumbled for the keys to the handcuffs, once again admiring those wrist burns.

He’ll be wearing long sleeves tomorrow, Louisiana heat be damned.

***

Tucker rounded the corner onto Esplanade. The noise level immediately decreased,

the houses lining the street creating a buffer from the late night partying that was still in
full swing farther down Bourbon. Hearing that annoying tone informing him he had an
unanswered something waiting for his time and attention, he dug his cell out of his apron.
Cursing under his breath, He was too exhausted to give a shit, but was equally annoyed
by the timed interval alarm that continued to harass him. He’d forgotten how much work
it was waiting tables, or perhaps he’d merely blocked that out after moving to L.A. three
years ago.

“Fucking humidity.” Tucker wiped the sweat from his forehead, realizing it wasn’t

the only thing he’d gotten used to living without. It had never bothered him before
California, but it was tough to take after. He knew he’d adjust soon enough; hell, he’d
thought he might freeze to death at night when he’d first moved to the City of Angels. It
was sunny, southern California alright, but the wind in February coming off the Pacific
had a teeth-chattering bite.

He slowed his stride, sliding the screen back to expose the keyboard on his phone,

conscious of the condition of the broken sidewalks thanks to the tree roots, age, and utter
lack of upkeep. He tapped away, bringing up the text message from Leigh.

Bitch u need 2 call me the minute u get this…got some durt on your new bf…you slut

– L

He couldn’t keep himself from grinning. His cousin had been the thing he’d missed

most after leaving Louisiana. Tucker hadn’t made many friends in Los Angeles. Half the
time people heard the accent and assumed he was an ignorant hick, which often times
worked to his advantage. He’d been consistently underestimated, something that had
chapped his ass at first. He’d decided to let it go considering his opinion of most of the
men he’d met out there had been less than kind.

He heard a noise and stopped to listen. It was muffled, and he wasn’t able to tell

where it had come from. He began tapping away on the keyboard, his thumbs moving a
mile a minute, cursing each time he punched the space tab as it stuck incessantly. He was
thinking how much he needed a new phone only to pause once more, though still typing
the message to Leigh that he’d call her in the morning. Tucker’s head cocked to the side,
hearing what sounded like crying or whimpering.

Tucker took a few more steps, pressing the send button. He heard a gruff voice telling

someone to shut up. He turned to his right at the sound of a loud pop, his entire body
stiffening as he watched the scene unfold in horror.

Down a long narrow alley alongside the Creole bungalow, on the other side of the

locked wrought iron gate that led back to the private courtyard, a body lurched backward
before crumpling over onto its side. The man had apparently been down on his knees and
shot execution style in the forehead. Tucker could see smoke still billowing out of the
barrel of the gun.

His gaze slowly travelled up the arm of the man holding the gun who’d stepped out of

the shadows and into the light from the fixture hanging from the neighboring home. He
was ugly, brutish, without an ounce of humanity in the expression on his face. It was no
wonder the shooter had attempted to cover up his face with the tattoos that appeared to be
some sort of script or writing across his face and forehead. Tucker would’ve shivered had
he not been too frightened to move.

His stomach churned as he noticed the light reflecting off the dark pool of liquid

spreading across the pavement from underneath the victim’s head. Two other men
stepped from the shadows looking equally menacing now that all three were staring in his
direction. He wondered who was coughing, only to realize it was him gagging as the bile
threatened to wretch from within.

Sparks, followed by something whizzing past his ear, shook Tucker out of the haze.
“They just shot at me?”
He said it aloud, noticing the three men were now running toward him.
His legs sprung into action as he heard another shot fire off. All of his senses came

back together as he turned the next corner, hearing another shot followed by the wood
siding splintering off only inches away from his head.

Pushing his body to move faster, Tucker felt the panic settle in. A sickening, cold

sweat broke out all over his body, but he didn’t stop or dare turn around to see how far
behind him they were. He knew they were there and that was enough. He hadn’t run like
this since high school track, but easily pushed himself into a full sprint.

It sunk in that he’d seen all three of their faces, the shooter’s in particular. He knew

they weren’t going to stop until he was dead. Hearing another shot, he weaved in between
two parked cars, the sound of glass shattering echoed from behind him. He veered left,
leaping over a pile of trash on the sidewalk, turning the corner at the next block. He
crossed the street, picking up speed as he cut across Cabrini Playground in an attempt to
reach the cover of the buildings on Dauphine.

His foot went out from under him and he lost his balance, having stepped into a hole

he’d been unable to see in the dark. He hit the ground, grunting from the pain in his knee
and hip. He rolled back up onto his feet and kept moving. Several more shots rang out
and he could feel the tears running down his cheeks as he rounded the corner of a
building. If he could just make it back to Bourbon and the crowds, he thought.

He didn’t want to die; he wasn’t ready. There was still too much he wanted to do and

experience.

“Not without my Oscar, you mother—”
He screamed out of shock more than anything as someone grabbed him by the arm

and began to pull him into a darkened alley. He kicked and scratched, desperate to get
away, but was swiftly subdued. A hand clamped over his mouth while his arms were
forcefully pulled back.

Tucker tried to scream, helpless as he was, pulled further back into the darkness

behind a large grouping of banana tree plants.

“If you want to stay alive shut the fuck up and remain completely still,” a hushed

husky voice whispered from behind him.

But Tucker’s entire body was shaking and he couldn’t seem to make it stop, able to

feel the man’s breath on the back of his neck.

“You’re going to be alright, I’m not going to let anything happen to you, but you need

to do exactly as I say. Can you do that?”

Tucker nodded, his chest heaving as he attempted to regulate his breathing. His body

went rigid once more, seeing the three men run past, guns in hand. He still couldn’t move
and his captor’s hand remained firmly over his mouth preventing him from calling out for
help. Tucker could feel that hard body pressing into his back.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Tucker. I promise you’re safe.”
Tucker was still terrified, but whoever had a hold of him knew him, which probably

meant he knew them as well. He tried concentrating on that fact, forcing some of the
tension from his body.

“That’s it,” the man whispered, before going silent as they saw the three men coming

back their way through the thick stalks of the plants.

Tucker could hear their voices but not what they were saying. He held his breath

when he heard his fucking cell phone signal that Leigh had texted him back.

Where was it? The sound of it seemed far away!
Tucker heard himself whimper as the men stopped, holding up a phone and reading

the text.

His phone!
Dammit, Tucker didn’t even realize he’d dropped it. Now that killer had Leigh’s

message—her number—in his hands.

Tucker tried to move as the thug began typing something back, but his captor refused

to let go.

He could feel the tears coming once more, now worried they’d somehow find Leigh

or his aunt and kill them. He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to his girls.
They were all he had in the whole world.

Tatt-face said something gruffly, barking some sort of order, no doubt, as he shoved

Tucker’s cell phone back into his pocket. The men began walking once more, quickly
moving out of Tucker’s line of sight as they went back in the direction from which they’d
come.

“I take it that was your phone?” Tucker’s captor asked, his hand still covering

Tucker’s mouth.

Tucker nodded, still unable to speak as he sniffled back his tears.
“Don’t panic. We’re going to hang out here for a bit until I’m sure they’re gone, but I

have a phone on me we can use to text whoever that was and warn them, okay?”

Tucker nodded again.
“I’m going to let go of you now but please keep still; they may still be out there

watching and waiting to see if you come out of hiding.”

Before he could nod his acknowledgement, the man let loose of his arms and

removed his hand from Tucker’s mouth.

Tucker turned slowly still unable to make out who it was behind him in the dark. “Do

I know you?”

“It’s Jon. I met you earlier this afternoon. You served me lunch.”
“How—”
“Let’s save the questions for later,” Fox said, running his hand down Tucker’s arm

and placing his cell phone in his hand. “If you want to text whoever you were
communicating with earlier and warn them; for now just tell them that your phone was
stolen. Tell them not to communicate with whoever has it as they may be dangerous.”

“Th-th-thanks,” Tucker whispered, reaching out and placing his hand on Jon’s chest.

“Thank you, Jon.”

Tucker heard the smile in Jon’s voice as he whispered his reply, “My pleasure. I’m

going to go take a peek while you do that. Stay put.”

It took all the strength he had to not reach out and beg this man he barely knew not to

go anywhere without him. Tucker was still half-frightened out of his mind. He forced
himself to concentrate on the phone in his hands. It didn’t take him long to navigate the
different brand of smart phone, but much longer to recall his cousin’s phone number from
memory, considering he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had to actually dial it.

He went about typing in the message exactly as Jon had instructed, or at least as

closely as he could remember it. He was still in a panic about Leigh’s safety and knew he
wouldn’t feel completely satisfied until he spoke to her directly.

***

Fox lay down on his stomach before poking his head out to peer around the corner,

knowing he’d be less conspicuous from that vantage point. He knew exactly who these
thugs were and that they could be hiding as well, but the fact they weren’t actively
searching up and down every nook and cranny had him thinking they believed Tucker
had simply outrun them. Tucker was definitely fast on his feet. Fox was parked about a
block away from the restaurant. God knows why, but he’d followed Tucker to the bank
where he’d dropped off the night deposit and then headed back toward the direction of

his apartment. Fox wasn’t sure what had possessed him, as he knew damn well that he
was needed out at De la Fontaine, not to mention he’d ignored three booty calls from
Bryan. Virgil would be fit to be tied by now—that was an argument just waiting to
happen.

At the moment though, Virgil was nothing compared to the whole heap of trouble

Tucker had just stepped into. Regardless of his connection with Betty, Wilder—along
with anyone else he was close to—was now in imminent danger.

Slowly crawling back behind the building, Fox was fairly certain they’d moved on.

The men had Tucker’s cell phone, so it was only a matter of time before they knew who
he was, where he lived, along with anyone he’d ever cared about. Wilder was screwed six
ways to Sunday—the witness-protection-and-relocation kind of screwed.

Fox looked up to see Tucker standing a few feet behind him.
“Are they gone?” he asked.
He could tell, despite Wilder trying to put on a brave face, that he was still terrified.

He decided to keep the worst news to himself for the time being. “I think so. I’m parked a
few blocks away. You ready to make a run for it?”

Tucker nodded, chewing on his lip as he handed the cell phone back. “I did exactly

like you said, told her not to respond to whoever has my phone.”

“Good.” Fox glanced down at Tucker’s leg where a tiny stream of blood had run

down from somewhere under his pant leg. Feeling a drop of rain on his shoulder, he
glanced up into the sky. “You been shot?”

Tucker bent over slightly only now aware he was even bleeding. “No, I fell…I think.”
It began to downpour without so much as a roll of thunder. That single drop had been

the only warning of the torrential downpour that was now upon them.

Fox held out his hand and yelled, “Come on!”
If nothing else, the rain made for added cover. Tucker took Fox’s hand and they

darted out of the alleyway and onto the street. The rain was so heavy it was difficult to
see and the drops were big enough to sting the skin.

From sticky and sweaty to soaking fucking wet in two point four seconds.
Welcome to Louisiana.

***

Betty Black sat behind the wheel of her black Cadillac, the heavy rain pouring down

and making quite a racket pelting against the top of her car. Through the distorted water
running down her windshield, she watched Jon Fox and Tucker Wilder dash out of the
alley and head in the opposite direction from the gun-toting men who’d vacated the area
only moments before.

She rummaged through her handbag, retrieving her cell phone.
Betty pursed her lips in frustration as she punched in the number. She scowled,

hearing the loud noise on the end of the line.

“You better not be in one of those filthy, disgusting, titty bars.” She fanned her face

like the very thought had given her the vapors. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with
you. Your poor dead mother is likely turning in her grave.”

She bit her lip, then rolled her eyes listening to the response.
“Just get yourself back home and don’t leave the house unless I tell you to.” She

huffed. “That damn Wilder boy nearly ruined everything tonight.”

As the person on the other end of the line responded, Betty nodded and smiled. “Yes

dear, the one that dresses like a rent boy, that’s the one.”

Another remark had Betty tossing a hand into the air. “Goodness me—no, I don’t

need you running loose and making things worse, Junior.”

Her head cocked to the side for a moment and then she smiled sweetly. “Thank you

dear, I feel better already. Now I can concentrate on how to keep these two alive long
enough to implement my little reunion.”

Betty glanced back once more, making sure the three goons had truly vacated.
“You go home now and let your Auntie Bee put on her thinking cap, dear.” She

sighed, nodding, deciding it was safe to start the car. “I know, but not everyone does what
I want them to, which is I why I love you most, Junior. But don’t you worry. We’ve
waited too long and worked too hard to let anyone get in our way now.” With that, she
disconnected the call and tossed the phone back into her purse, grinning as she pulled out
a large, shiny, Smith & Wesson Magnum revolver.

“Like my father always said…” she muttered, as though she was still on the phone

talking to someone. “Those with perseverance always prevail in the end…and no one
wants to succeed more than Momma.”

She replaced the gun, smiling still, before firing up the headlights and looking up

through the windshield as the rain piddled to a stop, as if someone had turned off the tap.

“Oh, good!” she said aloud, genuinely thrilled as though a freshly baked Louisiana

Crunch Cake had just turned out perfect. “I do hate driving in the rain. Makes me a
Nervous Nelly.” She shuddered at the thought, then pulled away.

***

By the time they made it to the Jeep, the rain had ceased, vanished like an apparition

as quickly as it had begun. Fox fired up the engine as Tucker put on his seat belt. The
dash lit up once he turned on the headlights, creating a soft glow. They were both
shivering, soaked to the bone, and Fox was suddenly happy he’d decided to upgrade to
the leather seats.

He passed his phone back to Tucker. “Call whoever you were texting and tell them to

get out of their house. They should go spend a few days at a friend’s if they can. We need
to get you out of the city.”

Virgil was seriously not going to like this. The old bastard was sure to pitch a fit. He

hated new people almost as much as he did the ones he’d known all his life, but it was the
right move taking Tucker to De la Fontaine. It was completely off everyone’s radar.

“Why does she need to stay with friends?” Tucker asked.
Fox could see he was already becoming alarmed and he needed the man to stay

focused. Now was not the right time for the whole truth.

“They have your cell phone, Tucker. They can track it back to where you live, your

cousin’s, anyone whose number you have stored in there. Why were they chasing you?”

“I saw…something.” He turned away, staring down at the floorboard. “They…um…”
Fox reached over, placing a hand on his shoulder and waited patiently for Tucker to

get the words out.

“Killed a man,” he finally finished. “Shot him in the head.”

Fox figured it was something like that. “So they probably aren’t the type of men who

will simply walk away without making the attempt to clean up after themselves, by any
means necessary. You understand what I’m saying?”

Tucker nodded and Fox could see he was trying to hold it together.
“Everything’s going to be fine.” That was most likely the first lie he’d managed to tell

the man. “But we need to take some simple precautions in the mean time to ensure your
loved ones stay safe, okay?”

Tucker nodded again as he began punching buttons on his phone. “My apartment’s

only a few blocks away, down and to the right.”

“We can’t go back there, it’s too dangerous.” Fox pulled the truck away from the

curb. “They might already know where you live.”

Tucker stopped fiddling with the phone and looked at Fox. “Understand this, I’m not

going anywhere without my laptop, Jon. That computer IS my life. If you aren’t willing
to take me back to my apartment, you can stop this car and let me out right here. I’ll go it
on my own.”

“Look, we can get you another laptop—”
“You can’t replace what’s on it,” Tucker interrupted. “I’m a writer, remember? My

whole life’s work in on that laptop. I’m not leaving it behind—end of story.”

Fox wasn’t used to having his clients dictate the conditions of surrendering their co-

operation. He had to remind himself that, in spite of this odd sense of responsibility he
was experiencing over what happened to the man, Wilder was in fact, not actually a
client. Further, Fox didn’t have the heart to inform Tucker that where he was headed,
there’d be no need for that laptop. His career as a writer had ended the second Tucker
witnessed an execution perpetrated by the head of the Delivre o Diab drug cartel.

“These people don’t fuck around, Tucker. This isn’t the time for—”
Tucker started to reach for the door handle.
“Settle down over there, Rambo.” Fox sighed, shaking his head. “Pig-headed and

foolish.”

“Make a left onto Esplanade and my house will be a few blocks up on the right,”

Tucker said, smiling as he went back to concentrating on the cell phone.

Fox sighed, not liking this plan in the least. Wilder was fucked, but with a little luck

Fox might at the very least be able to keep him alive.

***

Detective Rick Ford walked into The Pussy Cat Pit and mumbled to himself, “Well

this place certainly lives up to its name.” For there, in the middle of this dank, seedy strip
club in the heart of Bourbon Street, was a pit full of pussy fighting like cats.

A mud pit, to be exact.
It wasn’t exactly the kind of place Ford frequented. He was much happier with the

more touristy spots that held a greater…diversity of clientele. As an import to the area
himself, Ford felt more at home with those visiting than he did the locals, who didn’t
seem to trust him any more than he did them. Vacationers came and went, allowing him
to sample a wider variety of sexual desires than he could with someone he might have to
run in to over and over again.

Fox being the lone exception to that rule.

Ford forced that thought right out of his head as two plump, completely naked women

wrestled in the mud pit in the center of the club. The Pussy’s patrons watched eagerly
from their barstools and tables, some cheering and whistling, others sitting quietly on
their own. One of the female wrestlers slapped the other hard and a group of college
jocks whooped and chanted “Go, Swamp Slut, go!”

Ford rolled his eyes and scanned the room some more, looking for the only reason he

was here.

Through the dim light, he saw him: the large man with the rounded shoulders and

hunched back, sitting stooped over a table near the far corner talking on the phone.

Ford rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, now drenched after the recent downpour, and

cut his way across the club.

“Hey handsome,” smiled a topless waitress with a tray full of empties, the

appreciative smile on her face indicating that good-looking guys like Ford were a rarity in
this club. “Can I getcha somethin’ from the bar?”

“Bud Light. I’ll be over there.” He pointed to the empty table next to his hunched

target, who appeared to have finished his phone call.

As Ford took a seat a few feet away from the man he was following, Swamp Slut

elbowed her opponent in the tits and another cheer from the college jocks filled the club.

Ford heard a guttural laugh from the man nearby.
It was a simple man’s laugh; the laugh of a man amused by cruelty or violence or

someone else’s misfortune. Ford stole a glance across at him. His grin was toothless, his
nose leaked snot, and when he drank from his bottle he dribbled, spilling half his beer
down his jutting lower jaw.

There was one other thing of which Ford was sure.
This man was without a doubt the same man that Betty Black had visited the day Ford

followed her to the outskirts of town.

“Go, Swamp Slut,” the man muttered now, more as though he was thinking out loud

than trying to show any spectator sport. “Slap that bitch up!”

“God know she deserves it, huh?” Ford added as an aside, loud enough for the man at

the next table to hear. Loud enough to start a conversation.

The man glanced sideways at Ford and decided to ignore him, taking another swig of

his beer instead of answering.

Ford tried again. “You know, last time I saw Swamp Slut fight, she dislocated some

bitch’s jaw.”

That got a snort and chuckle out of the man. “That’s funny.” The man slobbered on

another dribble of beer.

Ford was in. “Mind if I join you?”
The man’s chuckle ended abruptly and he shot Ford a suspicious look. “What are you,

some kinda faggot? I own a sawn-off shotgun you know. If I ain’t afraid to use it on some
squirrels, I sure as hell ain’t afraid to use it on a faggot like you!”

So maybe Ford wasn’t quite in yet. He shook his head and screwed up his face. “Fuck

you, man. Only a faggot would ask another guy if he’s a faggot. If you want a piece of
my ass I’ll show you a piece of my fist first, cocksucker!”

The man shook his head, scrambling his thoughts even more. “No, I ain’t a

cocksucker! I swear! Sure, you can join me. I just thought… you know…”

“Maybe you shouldn’t think so much. Fuck you, I’ll stay right here, thanks. Not sure I

trust you anymore.”

At that moment, the topless waitress delivered Ford’s beer to his table. “Here you go,

sugar. If you need anythin’ else, like a little light relief, you just let me know.” She
leaned over and squeezed Ford’s crotch. He barely flinched.

“I’ll be sure to holler,” Ford told her.
The waitress gave him a wink, then with a bored sigh, turned to the man at the next

table and asked, “What about you, Junior? You want another?”

“Don’t call me that. You know I hate it when you call me that.”
The waitress rolled her eyes tiredly. “Fine. Larry, do you want anything? And don’t

gimme that stupid grin of yours. You know full well I’m talkin’ about another beer and
nothin’ else.”

“Sure, why not?” Larry answered.
There’s half a name; whether it’s real or fake is another question, Ford thought.
With another wink and a smile in Ford’s direction, the waitress sashayed off. At the

same time, Larry left his stool and joined Ford at his table.

“You gonna fuck her?” he asked Ford without taking his eyes off the waitress’ ass. “I

can tell she wants you to fuck her.”

Ford took a swig of his beer and shrugged casually. “Probably,” he lied quite easily.

“I thought you didn’t want any company.”

“That was when I thought youse was a faggot.” He held out his hand to shake Ford’s.

“My name’s Larry.”

“Rick. Tell me, Larry, does your mama know you hang out in places like this?”
Larry shook his head. “My mama’s dead.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
He shrugged and drained the last of his beer. “It don’t matter. Happened when I was

born. I never knowed her.”

At that moment, Swamp Slut grabbed her opponent by her muddy matted hair,

dropped them both to their knees, and rubbed her opponent’s face in the mud. The jocks
went wild again and rushed to the edge of the pit.

“Oh shit.” Larry breathed, excited. “Swamp Slut’s about to feed her to the pussy. I

can’t miss this.”

Larry practically fell off his chair to get to the front of the pit.
Ford was momentarily distracted himself, as four of the beefy frat boys were now

bent over the wall of the pit yelling at the mud wresters, providing an unobstructed view
of their jean clad assets.

As Larry rushed away, he broke Ford’s line of sight. Ford sighed, pulling a

handkerchief from his pocket, and wrapping it carefully around Larry’s beer bottle, which
he then removed from the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the waitress
approaching with Larry’s next drink. Quickly and carefully, Ford unzipped his trousers
and shoved the handkerchief-wrapped bottle inside his pants, thankful that he’d decided
to wear his rather loose-fitting chinos tonight instead of his snug old Levis.

He barely managed to zip himself back up as the grinning waitress put Larry’s fresh

beer bottle on the table. She eyed Ford suggestively.

“Did I just catch you playin’ with yourself?”
“No. Yeah. I guess so.”
“You leave that to me.” The waitress made another grab for Ford’s crotch, this time

unwittingly squeezing the bottle inside his pants. She inhaled with delight. “Oh, so thick,
so hard! Don’t you dare think about leavin’ here tonight without seein’ me first.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ford lied again. The waitress winked at him as she returned

to the bar.

While Larry cheered on the mud-splattered mayhem in the pit, Ford slipped through

the crowd and out into the chaos of Bourbon Street, holding his crotch the entire time,
making certain not to let his evidence slide down his trouser leg and smash on the
cobblestones of the French Quarter.

Chapter Four

Despite his best attempts otherwise, Tucker was unable to quell the fear building in

his gut. He was scared shitless, slowly crossing the street toward the gate, which led back
to his bungalow. The narrow walkway that led alongside the much larger house had never
seemed so dark and ominous as it did post cold-blooded murder.

They stopped momentarily, and he forced a smile as an older gentleman out for a late

night stroll passed by.

“Evening,” the gray-haired man said.
Tucker was doing his best to maintain control over his faculties. Flashes of the blood

spraying into a mist as the bullet passed through the man’s skull, washed through his
subconscious. The house where the man had been murdered was only a block down the
street and now had several patrol cars parked out front, illuminated by the flashing lights
of an ambulance.

Everyone he now saw was a potential villain ready to turn on him with a gun, even

the handsome older man who had since stopped to watch all the commotion down the
street. Jon used the key Tucker had handed him to unlock the gate.

It struck Tucker odd all of a sudden—this older man out this late, all alone and

dressed in all black. There was something familiar about him.

Why had he stopped walking?
Oh shit. Why the fuck was he turning back around?
Fucking hell, his hand is in his pocket…Jon was right, they shouldn’t have come back

to his apartment. He’d just gotten them both killed!

Jon turned, having gotten the gate open. “You’re squeezing the life out of me.”
Tucker hadn’t realized that he’d all but climbed up Jon’s back, arms wrapped tightly

around his waist.

The old man smiled at them, giving a knowing wink as he went back in the direction

from which he’d come, retrieving a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“S-sorry, thought that guy was…” He swallowed hard, unable to finish his sentence.

“Must be a neighbor.”

They both went through the gate and Fox latched it behind them.
“We’re okay, remember?” Fox asked. “It’s why I called the police. If those men are

around they’ll be less likely to try anything with the cops just a few houses down.”

Tucker nodded, feeling a cold sweat pass over him. He felt his eyes watering and

knew he was going to puke. Shoving past Jon he barely made it to his neighbor’s
bougainvillea bush before he lost the fight. Bent over and trying to hold back the
gagging, his body twitched, shaking until feeling the warm, firm hand slowly moving up
his spine. Tucker spat, closing his eyes briefly, concentrating on the sensations created by
Jon’s hand, which was quickly settling his nerves.

“I’m sorry,” Tucker said, spitting once more in an attempt to get the taste of bile out

of his mouth.

“You’re alright,” he heard Jon say, no hint of impatience in his tone despite knowing

the man wanted to be anywhere else.

“Thank you for not leaving me,” Tucker whispered.
“Come on,” Jon said, helping him stand back up straight. “Let’s grab your gear and

get out of here before the police start coming door to door looking for witnesses.”

Tucker hadn’t considered that. “Maybe I’m not the only one who saw it, you know?”
“Maybe,” Jon said, taking hold of his hand as they made their way back to the

bungalow.

It was dark enough and Jon was facing away from him so Tucker couldn’t get a beat

on whether or not the expression on his face matched the hopeful, positive tone in his
voice. Something told him Jon was merely attempting to placate him.

“That’s no good,” Jon whispered, stopping a few feet away from the apartment.
Tucker’s stomach cramped up at seeing the door slightly ajar.
“Don’t suppose you simply neglected to shut it all way, huh?” Jon asked.
“Nope.”
He took a few steps back when Jon knelt down and pulled a small gun from an ankle

holster.

Jon answered the question before Tucker had a chance to even ask. “I’m licensed to

carry. I want you to stay here while I—”

“No way are you leaving me out here alone!” Tucker was already starting to panic.
“Damn it all to hell, Wilder,” Jon said in a heated whisper. “Not everything is up for

debate, so shut the hell up, do not move from this spot and for God’s sake, at least
pretend to believe that I know what I’m doing. You’re a writer; you should be pretty
good at make-believe.”

Tucker stood there, stunned into silence for the briefest of moments before his anger

kicked in and his mouth opened, ready to object.

Jon cut him off before he could get a word out. “If nothing else, I am the one with the

damn gun, which means you have to do what I say. Now stay put.”

He was more than a little pissed, mainly due to the fact he was somewhat aroused by

that entire exchange. Jon quietly slipped through the door, not making a sound aside from
the slight creek of the door objecting to the entry. The instant Jon was out of sight,
Tucker’s nerves returned, every sound around him now suspect of the imminent danger to
come.

What was likely mere minutes felt like hours, and he did his best to distract himself,

thinking back over his all too brief conversation with Leigh.

“Why the hell are you witnessing murders?” she’d said, the anger and fear evident in

her voice. “You’re from New Orleans; you know to keep your eyes forward at all times.
We don’t go messin’ around in other people’s business. What the hell am I gonna tell
Millie?”

“She’s going to need to go into hiding for a few days as well, Leigh,” Tucker had

replied. “They have my phone, Jon says they’ll eventually trace it back to her.”

“This is all his fault. I knew that man was trouble! You know he’s the one—”
“I know he most likely saved my life tonight, Leigh.” Tucker had interrupted,

glancing over at Jon as he had steered the car around the corner. “Thank you, by the
way.”

“I have an idea, but I need my phone,” Jon had said while Tucker was still on the line

to Leigh. He held out his hand as they drove past the house where Tucker had witnessed

the murder.

“Just get Millie and go anywhere,” Tucker said quickly to Leigh, wrapping up the

conversation. “Baton Rouge perhaps, I don’t care. I have to go, but I’ll call you as soon
as I can.” He’d disconnected the call before giving Leigh the opportunity to chew his ass
any longer.

Now, standing out here alone in the dark, Tucker was questioning everything while

missing the familiarity that came from family.

In that moment, family seemed the only place he might feel safe.
“Running home to mommy,” Tucker muttered, looking down the alley to make sure

no one was headed in his direction. Despite his own longing for comfort, Tucker knew
the safest thing for both Leigh and Millie right now was keeping them far away from
him.

Jon opened the door and signaled, motioning for Tucker to come in. “There’s nobody

here, though it’s apparent someone has been.”

“How do you know someone’s been here?” Tucker asked, pushing past Jon to get

inside his place.

“You don’t seem like the messy type, I guess?” Fox flicked on the overhead light as

Tucker stood in the center of the long narrow living area, slowly turning in a circle.

Everything had been ransacked, not destroyed but drawers had been dumped, books

and DVDs knocked off shelves, and walking into the kitchen, Tucker saw that the frozen
meat had been taken out of the freezer and unwrapped from its foil and zipper baggies.

“What the...they get peckish from all their rummaging?” Tucker asked.
Fox smiled slightly, like he might actually be happy to see Tucker’s inner smart-ass

returning.

“Drugs or jewelry, maybe,” Fox said. “I don’t think this is related to the murder you

witnessed. The men who are looking for you would have shredded furniture and broken
everything, going for an all-round message that nothing less than pure destruction was
headed your way.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tucker raised his arm, signaling his surrender. “I say uncle already,

damn it. No one could be this unlucky.”

Fox hesitated before asking, “A fact that has me wondering if there isn’t anything else

I should know?”

“You think I’m involved in something that would bring this type of shit to my

doorstep?” Tucker asked.

“Let’s table this for now,” Fox said, snapping back into boss mode. “The point I was

trying to make is that the murderous men chasing you with guns earlier have not made it
here yet.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. “Right, so we should grab and go, I get it.”

Tucker pointed to the stairs. “My computer and stuff are up in the bedroom.”

“Hop to, then,” Fox said, following once Tucker took off running.
He was distraught seeing the bedroom had been equally violated, clothes dumped out

of the drawers and the armoire emptied, and there on the bed, in the middle of all the
mess, was the laptop. Tucker rushed over, seeing it was open. That wasn’t how he’d left
it.

It had also been turned on. He tapped on the mouse and the screen lit up. “I turned

this off. I never leave it running when I know I’ll be gone all day.”

“So someone accessed the files?” Fox asked, coming up next to him.
Tucker smiled smugly. “Tried to, couldn’t get past my password.”
Fox crossed the room and snatched a duffel bag off the floor. “That’s good news.

Grab the computer, and may as well fill a duffel with some clothes since someone had the
forethought to dump it all out for us.”

Tucker choked back his irritation at Jon’s cold commentary over what Tucker already

considered his crap-tastic life becoming even more of a nightmare than it had been
before. He looked around, spotting his laptop case a few feet away. He rummaged
through it, realizing something was missing after all.

“My backup drive is gone.”
“How often do you back up?” Fox asked, bending over and grabbing some underwear

off the floor.

“Every few days, sometimes more if I manage a decent word count.”
“So they may have whatever they were looking for after all.”
“Guess so,” Tucker said, closing the lid and shoving the computer and power cord

into the leather case. “Holy shit.”

Tucker took off across the room, falling to his knees in front of the open armoire. He

pressed down on the back of a wooden panel which popped up revealing a false bottom,
and carefully removed a metallic steel briefcase.

“What’s that?”
Tucker jumped, not realizing Jon had come up behind him.
“Nothing…well…notes mostly and research for the various screenplays I’m working

on.” Tucker stood up and turned around, noting the disbelief written all over Jon’s face.
“What?” Tucker asked innocently.

“If that’s drugs, dammit.” Jon tossed the duffel onto the floor. “So help me you’re on

your own. I’m not getting involv—”

“I don’t do drugs, asshole.” Tucker was furious, seeing Jon open his fat mouth yet

again. “Nor do I sell drugs… sheesh.”

Jon folded his arms. “Open it.”
“Are you serious?” Tucker was livid, but he could see it in Jon’s eyes that he wasn’t

joking. He would leave him here to his own fate unless convinced. “You’re going to feel
really fucking stupid.”

Tucker walked over to the dresser and set the briefcase down, rolling the tumblers

until the correct combination was set. He popped the latches and stepped away. “Be my
guest!”

Jon reached over and flipped open the lid, staring down at the stack of Dollar General

wire bound notebooks inside. He scratched his head. “So you hide this in a hidden
compartment inside a fire and bullet proof briefcase while leaving your backup drive out
for the taking? People never cease to amaze me. We don’t need your notebooks, leave
them here.”

Tucker noticed one of his jock straps dangling from Jon’s hand. “And exactly what

will I be needing that for?”

Fox glanced down at his hand and his face went slightly pink as he rolled his eyes and

tossed it into the duffel bag at his feet. “I didn’t mean to…it was totally random.”

“Sure thing, stud.” Tucker waited until Jon acquiesced.
“Christ, fine…bring the damn briefcase.”

“Things would go much smoother if you’d just let me have my way.”
Jon closed his eyes for a moment, like he might be counting to ten.
“You look a little constipated,” Tucker commented, his lip curling. “Not a good look

on you.”

“For fuck’s sake, grab any important papers—I mean the real important stuff,

passport, things like that—and let’s get out of here. Before I decide to shoot you myself.”

Tucker scowled, retrieving his passport and birth certificate from a cedar jewelry box

as Jon went back to snagging clothes off the floor.

Tucker nabbed a couple of antique watches and some miscellaneous jewelry and

dumped them into the briefcase. He paused, looking at a framed photo of he, Leigh, and
Millie from when he was a little boy.

“What are you doing with that?” Fox asked, shaking his head as Tucker tossed the

photo into the briefcase as well.

“Grabbing important stuff, like you said.”
“Just any old thing? What are you going to do with this?” Fox took the small frame

out of the case.

Tucker shrugged. “I love that picture?”
“Your apartment isn’t going to self destruct, you know. In all likelihood you will be

able to come back.”

Tucker took the photo and tossed it back into the indestructible silver case, slamming

the lid closed and latching it. He snatched the duffel bag away from Jon, slung the strap
of his laptop case over one shoulder and picked up his briefcase. “Let’s go, asshole.”

Fox shook his head and sighed. “It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long.”
Tucker was grinding his teeth as he exited the bedroom with Fox hot on his heels,

unsure what irritated him more: the fact he’d actually considered having sex with this
control freak in the first place, or the fact he still wanted to.

He glanced back over his shoulder and grumbled under his breath, wondering if he’d

ever had any sense whatsoever or had merely never been in a situation which highlighted
the fact he didn’t until now.

They turned off the lights and locked the door behind them, quietly and quickly

running down the long walkway toward the street. The police and other emergency
vehicle lights were still flashing and Tucker noted several more of his neighbors had
stepped outside onto their porches trying to ascertain what was going on.

Jon took Tucker’s hand as they came through the gate. He stopped, taking one of the

bags from Tucker, then leaned in and kissed him, taking his time with it as Tucker found
himself slowly opening up for Jon’s tongue. He’d just begun getting into it when Jon
pulled away.

Jon turned casually, looking toward the commotion of police and rescue workers as

they wheeled a body toward the waiting ambulance.

He pointed, then whispered, “Trying to make it look inconspicuous. We’ll stand here

for another minute watching, then head for my Jeep, okay?”

“Just another set of nosy neighbors. I get it.”
Fox cleared his throat. “Many of whom are out watching everything that’s going on.

We want to be seen but not draw any undue attention.”

“Understood,” Tucker said, smiling and whacking Jon in the side as if he’d just said

something inappropriate.

Fox laughed, rubbing his side and giving Tucker a peck on the cheek as if apologizing

for the imaginary offense. “That felt slightly more aggressive than necessary.”

“Just trying to sell it, sweet cheeks.” Tucker was unable to hold back a smile.
With that, Jon tugged on his arm and they crossed the street toward his vehicle. Jon

tossed the duffel into the back seat of the Jeep before they both climbed inside. Tucker
looked out the rear window as they pulled away, wincing as the paramedics loaded the
body bag into the back of the ambulance. The image of the dead man’s lifeless body
hitting the concrete played out in Tucker’s mind. The guy hadn’t appeared to be much
older than he was, but perhaps he was merely projecting?

A life half-lived, he thought, wondering why they’d killed him.
His mind raced, unable to stop himself from pondering who the dead man was, had he

ever been loved and whether or not anyone had been left behind who would miss him.
Tucker was vaguely aware his sanity was likely hanging by a very delicate thread as he
looked over at the man sitting next to him, driving them away from the scene of the
crime.

He thought back over that fake kiss, wondering if they’d have the opportunity to

experience the real thing?

It seemed terribly important all of a sudden. He was safe for the moment; Tucker

believed that much to be true, but one thought plagued him, playing over and over again
on a loop in the back of his mind.

I’m not ready to die.

***

Tucker stumbled clumsily about the oval antechamber, turning in circles as he looked

up into the helix staircase that twisted and curled up much like a coil spiral toward the
eye-shaped glass dome three stories above. Several burnt-out bulbs in the large crystal
and brass chandelier made the room seem hazy, like his eyes couldn’t quite adjust to the
light. He could feel Jon’s eyes on him, a fact that strangely made him feel safe, not
threatened.

He couldn’t believe he was standing in an actual plantation. He’d avoided this kinda

shit like the plague all his life, never having found this old way of southern living
something to celebrate. The inside of the place wasn’t as creepy-looking as the exterior,
though he could see the plastic tarps up over the doorways of the two front rooms. A
work in progress, he thought, unable to keep himself from making comparisons to Gone
With The Wind and Tara…after the Civil War.

His fingers grazed the top of the table sitting in the center of the room, empty except

for one of his bags. Tucker pulled his hand away, seeing the tracks he’d left in the layers
of dust.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, trying to pat the dust back around so as not to draw attention to

the fact someone needed to clean.

“It’s fine, plaster dust gets everywhere,” Fox said. “In the process of renovating.”
Tucker focused in on two holes on either side of the doorway leading toward the back

of the house. Heading in that direction to inspect them further, the closer Tucker got the
more uneasy he became. They were a little too perfectly round, the plaster blown out
around them.

Tucker’s head cocked sideways. Almost like a bullet…
“Are those—?”
“Mice,” Fox interrupted, a smirk forming.
“Six foot tall mice?” Tucker’s eyebrow hitched, questioning the validity of the

bullshit now coming from his very confusing new…friend?

Date perhaps, or trick more likely.
Savior?
“You sure we’re safe here?” Tucker asked.
“You know what they say about these good old plantations: rich with colorful history

and all,” Fox said, throwing in a playful wink for good measure.

“Rich with crazy-ass white people most of the time,” Tucker muttered nervously.

This kinda shit was the reason he never ventured outside of the city. “What the hell do
you intend to do with me now that we’re out in the middle of Swampville-nowheres,
Louisiana?”

When Jon didn’t answer right away, the two glanced at one another.
“I won’t be attempting to force myself upon you, if that’s what you’re worried

about,” Fox said, arms folded as he leaned against the doorjamb.

“Please.” Tucker scoffed as if truly unimpressed. “After the night I’ve had, fending

off your possibly unwanted advances would seem like a trip to Disneyland.”

Tucker watched as the corners of Jon’s mouth curled up ever so slightly. He

obviously amused Jon – that much he could tell – when he wasn’t infuriating the man,
that is.

With Tucker’s particular brand of sarcasm, reactions usually went toward one

extreme or the other, but never straight down the middle. His acerbic personality aside, it
seldom deterred most men from still wanting to sleep with him, an idea Tucker didn’t
exactly hate at this precise moment. He didn’t want to be left alone, though he’d be
damned to hell and back before admitting it.

Still, there was something about this man that was gnawing away at Tucker, but he

couldn’t quite figure out what. Something was off about all of it, yet he was either too
exhausted or suffering the effects of stress to suss it out.

“What’s with the sly smile?” Tucker asked, taking the few steps required get him face

to face with this evening’s hero.

Jon had that plump, sexy bottom lip and Tucker found himself wanting to suck on it.

He was aware he wasn’t simply horny; it was physical contact he desired, to be close to
another body right now—the comfort and familiarity that the routine of sex would
provide.

“You said possibly unwanted advances.” Jon stood up straight, his arms falling to his

side as Tucker took another step closer. “Gives a boy reason to hope.”

Their breathing had begun to deepen, that dangerous excitement of sex with a near

perfect stranger raising the temperature of the room, making the air seem denser as time
moved at a slightly slower rate.

“Hope is a mighty fine thing.” Tucker leaned in a little more, prolonging the

inevitable as their lips continued to get closer, unstoppable, like two magnets.

Yes, this was exactly what Tucker needed, for someone else to take control of his

body for a while, allowing him to retreat into the heat and distraction of a good, hard
fuck.

“Goddammit,” Fox muttered, looking just over Tucker’s shoulder.
“Or not,” Tucker said, taking a step back, confused.
“Fuck,” Fox sighed, momentarily looking Tucker up and down longingly.
Tucker was struggling to decide if things were back on after a needy look like that.
“Regrettably, you’ll have to excuse me.” Fox placed a hand on Tucker’s waist before

slipping away, cursing under his breath as he headed down the hallway and out the
backdoor.

Tucker watched, still confused as Jon paused just outside the door which slammed

shut, shaking his head in disgust or irritation before heading out of view.

Tucker turned, hearing muffled yelling from outside. He made his way over toward

the window, his mouth falling open upon seeing a pale, frail, older woman off in the
distance running and skipping through the trees in her bra and panties. She was being
chased by an even paler, frailer, ghost of an old man madly waving a white nightgown
through the air.

“What the…” Tucker saw Jon heading toward the two of them at breakneck speed as

Tucker fumbled with the window, lifting it open. He leaned over, resting his hand on the
sill and yelled to Jon. “Need any help?”

Fox turned, running backward.
Tucker could barely make out the lady’s singing and giggling while the older man

yelled at the top of his lungs for her to stop.

“I…no…got it all under control,” Fox said, turning back around and sprinting into the

darkened shadows of the trees that blocked out much of the moonlight.

Suddenly Tucker’s mouth opened even wider as he watched, in disbelief, a huge

white alligator lumber across the lawn in Jon’s direction.

Tucker panicked. “Jon, look out! There’s a gator after you.”
Fox turned, not appearing the least bit alarmed. “No worries; that’s just Snowy.”
Tucker blinked, more shocked than ever. “Snowy?” he whispered. “Who in the hell

are these people?”

Chapter Five

Fox watched Tucker out of the corner of his eye, unsure why he gave a shit what the

man thought of his insane home life at De la Fontaine, but despite any inner denial to the
contrary, Fox wanted him to not hate this place. He put no extra meaning behind it,
understanding that his feelings were a bit juvenile when it came to this particular bit of
land and the people who lived on it.

Virgil was still hovering in the background, along with Savannah who’d positioned

herself against a wall, staring at Tucker intently. Jon couldn’t decide if it were merely
curiosity, but Savannah was definitely intrigued by their new houseguest. She wasn’t
frightened, in fact quite the opposite—an eerie calm had taken over her usual jittery
demeanor.

Virgil’s thoughts, on the other hand, were a bit more transparent. Fox had seen him

warily eyeing Tucker, still dressed in the form fitting t-shirt and worn cut-offs the man
had been wearing since they’d met earlier that day at lunch.

To say Tucker had dressed to be noticed would’ve been an understatement. The

denim was worn in all the right places and Fox knew Virgil was just waiting for the first
opportunity to lay down accusations that Fox was using the wrong head to think with.

As if I’d never lift a finger to help anyone for any other reason.
Fox felt his face rush with heat thinking about the kiss that almost was, before being

forced to abandon lust in favor of his half-naked crazy mother. A better sexual deterrent
he’d had yet to discover.

Virgil was now grinning defiantly, noticing Fox had blushed, assuming he’d been

right all along.

“Beau,” Savannah said, finally breaking the silence, “we should offer our guest some

sort of refreshment.”

Fox went to her side, resisting the urge to pick the grass and night-blooming jasmine

petals out of her hair, thinking it might only draw further unwanted attention to her crazy.
“It’s me, Momma… Jon. Remember?”

She stared into his eyes, confusion marching across her face as she attempted to sort

things out in her fractured mind. The vacant stare soon returned as she glanced back in
Tucker’s direction. “You’ll have to forgive us. We’ve spent so much time in the country
lately our manners have left us completely.”

“I’m fine really, thank you for thinking of me.” Tucker smiled warmly, his gaze

briefly meeting with Fox’s.

Savannah’s hand went to her slightly disheveled silver hair as she smiled

unabashedly. “I must look a fright.”

Tucker winked at her. “You look lovely.”
Fox tried to hold back the smile, realizing Savannah was smitten…and flirting as a

result. For an instant she appeared to be herself once again, a fact that made it all the
more painful when she called Jon by his father’s name a second time.

“Beau, darling. You need to prepare me in the future if we’ll be receiving guests.”

She was playing her moonlight and magnolia’s routine to the hilt, unfazed by all the

talk of murder, foot chases, gunshots, and burglary as Fox had brought Virgil up to speed
on everything that had led to him bringing Tucker back to De la Fontaine. It was almost
as if Savannah was able to filter out the world, hearing only the bits and pieces that fit
into whatever delusion she happened to be suffering from in the moment.

Virgil wasn’t pleased. “Jesus, Johnny,” he said to Fox, while Savannah began giving

Tucker a history lesson full of nonsense. “We’re still trying to put the place back together
after you nearly burnt it down a few months back and now you start draggin’ in strays
who got people tryin’ to kill ‘em?”

Fox let it go unanswered, not wanting that information bantered about until he’d had

a chance to figure out the extent of Tucker’s involvement with Betty. If Tucker overheard
Virgil, he didn’t react.

“I think we should all go to bed,” Fox finally said. “Mr. Wilder is no doubt exhausted

and I’m not exactly firing on all cylinders at this point either.”

When no one objected, Fox signaled Virgil to help Savannah as he and Tucker

gathered up the bags of belongings they’d managed to collect from his apartment earlier.

“I could use a shower,” Tucker mentioned, looking himself up and down.
Even dirty, he looked good enough to eat.
“My room,” Fox nudged his head toward the stairs.
Tucker’s eyebrows arched over the insinuation, which led Fox to believe attitudes had

most certainly changed in the last thirty minutes or so.

“It has one of only two bathrooms that are currently operational, smart ass,” Fox

grumbled, wishing they could rewind time back to the pre-almost-kissed and needy,
lustful version of Tucker Wilder.

***

In the bedroom, Fox tossed his cell onto the side table and took a seat on the edge of

the bed. He stared off into the distance, allowing his mind to wander in an attempt to
distract himself from the fact his new houseguest was currently in a state of undress in the
adjoining bathroom. He’d waited for Tucker to head in for his shower before calling Rick
Ford, informing the detective he likely had the only witness to an execution committed
by none other than the head of Delivre o Diab drug cartel. He wasn’t looking forward to
that conversation with Tucker. Ford wanted him to bring Tucker in, but he’d refused, not
trusting anyone in the NOPD aside from Rick. Fox didn’t exactly have the best
relationship with the long arm of the law. He did agree to a meet the next day on the
condition Rick said nothing to his superiors for the time being.

“I can talk about all that with Tucker in the morning,” he mumbled, trying to

convince himself it was exhaustion not procrastination that motivated that decision.

Fox heard the pipes start clanging, signaling the shower faucet had turned on. He

caught a glimpse of skin through the slit in the door.

It wasn’t helping matters that Fox had practically memorized each curve and the cut

of every muscle in Tucker’s body during the past week, creating a now torturous game of
fill-in-the-blanks in his subconscious.

Wilder had a much appreciated penchant for lounging around naked while alone in

his apartment.

“God bless him for that.”
He laughed under his breath as he began to unbutton his shirt, still finding it amusing

that he continued to persist that had been all about surveillance.

Fox had always considered himself a fairly pathetic excuse of a homosexual when it

came to all stereotypes save one: the sex. As he glanced around the room, he wished that
wasn’t the case, still unsure what the hell he was supposed to do with regard to the
interiors of this mausoleum, post renovations. He was at a loss. If there were any design
theme at the moment, it would appear to be history, displaced by the present and ever
changing future.

It was disturbing enough that Fox now slept on the very bed he’d been conceived in.

Forced to switch rooms with Savannah who all but refused to enter this one, he’d once
again adapted. Fox couldn’t seem to make himself get rid of the bed, fearing he’d be
breaking some cardinal southern sin by discarding the past. That confusion and
indecision had turned this room into a time capsule in transition.

The massive four-poster bed remained the centerpiece, but looked strange in

conjunction with the flat screen bolted to the wall—a travesty of epic proportions, no
doubt. The gun safe had been placed on the nightstand without much consideration,
sitting on a lace doily next to a brass alarm clock and an antique lamp with hand-painted
floral glass globes. The upholstered chair Fox vaguely remembered his mother reclining
in when he was a boy was now covered with paint chips, carpet samples, the still unpaid
invoice totaling a whopping forty grand for the new commercial grade air conditioning
system, and a plain, brown paper sack filled with the latest assortment of porn rags.

Toeing off his shoes, Fox noted the worn wood floors, making yet another mental

reminder to get someone in to bid on having them refinished.

The bedroom and small bath were pretty much done, minus the floors. Yellowed

wallpaper gone and cracked plaster repaired, he could still catch the faintest scent of fresh
paint from the walls and wood trim. The brass and crystal mini chandelier dangling from
the center of the ceiling already featured a new cobweb. Fox groaned, slipping the shirt
off before tossing it toward the closet door across from him.

De la Fontaine had already begun to wear him down, realizing he’d taken on a never-

ending battle he was destined to lose. Attempting to pull this place back from the rotting
claws of time was futile.

“Insanity really does run in the family.” Fox grinned, remembering Tucker’s wide-

eyed shock upon seeing the condition of the place.

“It needs a lot of work, I know,” Fox had said earlier when they had pulled up behind

the house.

Tucker had corrected himself in response, as if realizing he’d said too much with

merely a look. “No – its…great!” He cleared his throat and muttered under his breath, “If
I were three sheets and squinting.”

“We should be safe here, if nothing else,” Fox reminded.
Tucker nodded, opening the passenger side door. “Sorry, you’re right; I apologize for

being such an ungrateful bastard.”

“Likely still in shock,” Fox offered up as a convenient excuse.
Tucker grinned. “You’re being kind, not sure I’m deserving of it, though.”
“You’ve had a rough night, Tuck, I think you’re allowed.”
They’d stared at one another, the light from the cab in the truck illuminating the

darkness. Fox was able to sense his newest client was still rattled by what he’d witnessed
earlier that evening despite doing his best to put on a brave face. He’d resisted a peculiar
instinct to reach over and touch Tucker in an attempt to soothe his worry in some small
way.

“Most unusual,” Fox said under his breath now, recalling his urge to do so.
“What is?” Tucker asked.
Fox stood up from the bed, staring at the still wet Wilder hovering in the doorway. He

was wrapped in a thin white terrycloth towel that clung ever so enticingingly to the man’s
narrow hips and thighs.

Note to self: do not purchase newer, thicker towels to replace the old ones after all.
“Thanks for the shower, by the way,” Tucker said, a cocky half smile forming as Fox

continued to stare. “You’re pipes might need some tending to, though.”

Fox did his best to recall if anyone he’d ever known looked that good – wet – while

doing his best to not read anything illicit into the pipes comment.

He cleared his throat, pointing at the red spot leeching through the fabric of the towel.

“You’re bleeding.”

Tucker glanced down at his upper thigh, nodding. “Musta scraped my leg when I fell

earlier…you know…back when I was trying to dodge the bullets flying past me.” He
shook his head, appearing dazed once again. “Never even felt it at the time.”

“Have a seat on the bed,” Fox said, brushing past Tucker in order to get to the first aid

kit under the sink. He’d made regular use of it after all the cuts and scrapes he’d received
from his brush with death at the hands of Delta Deveraux. He noted Tucker hadn’t
moved, staring at the bed instead.

“I think I’ll stand, thanks,” he finally said, taking pains to avoid making actual eye

contact.

Fox snickered shaking his head slightly as he knelt down while digging through the

old leather bag to retrieve the antiseptic ointment and an oversized bandage.

“If you wanted to get me on my knees, you could’ve just asked as opposed to going

through all the trouble of getting yourself injured.”

Tucker smirked. “Like I know you’d even be worth the trouble at this point.”
“Oh, I’m well worth the trouble.” Fox ignored the man’s scoff to the contrary and

motioned toward Tucker’s leg. He paused for a moment looking up. “I’m gonna need to
actually see the wound in order to dress it.”

“I realize that.” Tucker rolled his eyes, pulling the towel open enough to provide

access while keeping all his treasures hidden.

“This might sting.” Fox ripped open an antibacterial wipe and gently dabbed at the

bloody scraped skin.

Tucker hissed, biting his lip as he looked up toward the ceiling. “Burns.”
Fox slipped his hand between Tucker’s legs, holding him still as he leaned in and

softly blew over the area. He knew Tucker was watching him again.

Funny how a hand between the legs can bring a man’s focus back around.
Tucker sniffed, like his eyes might be watering. “That doesn’t feel so bad.”
Fox glanced up and their gazes locked for the briefest of moments, dead silence aside

from the sound of their breathing. Finally, Fox winked, breaking the intensity and the
smart-ass smirk returned to Tucker’s face.

Using his teeth to assist him in removing the cap from the tube, Fox laughed,

squirting some antiseptic cream onto Tucker’s leg just above the cut. He dropped the
bottle before gently spreading the salve over the wound with his middle finger.

Fox could feel the muscles in Tucker’s leg flinching, surprised but not disappointed

when the blond boy-wonder grabbed him by the shoulder for balance. He had to give it to
the guy, Wilder held up quite well under pressure, only losing it when Fox grabbed him,
pulling Tucker into the dark alley between buildings back in the Quarter.

He finished up with an oversize band-aid that just barely managed to cover the

wound. “Good as new.”

Fox gathered everything back up into the kit before getting back up onto his feet,

already missing the other man’s touch after Tucker’s hand clumsily slipped away.

“Thanks,” Tucker said, barely more than a whisper as he glanced down, checking out

the handy work. “Again. You seem to keep rescuing me.”

Fox stood there, allowing his gaze to wander over Tucker’s lean, hard body. The man

looked even more enticing up close. All he could think about was how much he wanted
to reach out and touch.

“Welcome,” Fox’s voice sounded weary and crackly.
Tucker was eyeing Fox’s naked upper torso, lightly licking his lips. “I should really

go sleep on the couch…or something.”

Fox waited, painfully hesitating until all the reasons he shouldn’t faded away. When

Tucker made no move to leave despite his previous objections, Fox leaned in, barely
managing to force a swallow before their lips came together.

Their mouths opened for one another instantly, tongues invading enemy territory with

no regard for the danger they were most certainly racing toward.

Fox was never more excited to discover that southern hospitality was indeed alive and

well. Tucker jumped slightly when Fox roughly snatched the towel from his frame before
carelessly tossing it to the floor. As tempting as it was to take a nice long look, he
couldn’t manage to rip his lips away. Having Tucker’s tongue down his throat was
creating a weakness in his knees he found difficult to resist.

Realizing his hands could easily serve as his eyes; Fox slowly began to feel his way,

loving the hard pliability of the muscles along Tucker’s abs.

Tucker took him by the neck as their kiss intensified. The shortness of breath created

a tingling sensation accompanied by bouts of dizzying delirium. Fox could feel the
erection pressing into his jean-clad thigh, loving the way Tucker’s body responded to his
wandering fingertips now sliding over that perfect round ass.

The sound of Tucker’s husky whimper of approval when Fox squeezed was all it

took. Their kiss broken, Fox had Tucker on his back within seconds, the man’s hands
clumsily fumbling with Fox’s belt attempting to undo his jeans. Fox crawled over him,
feeling every bit the predator, no longer giving a damn what happened on this bed before
tonight.

It was like looking through a thinly veiled red haze, the heat of his need was all

consuming as their hands wandered. Tucker took a nipple into his mouth, sucking and
biting roughly as his hand made its way inside Fox’s briefs.

“Fuck,” Fox whispered, closing his eyes for a moment, enjoying the tactile

combination of teeth and touch.

Tucker moaned, responding to the thick fingertips rubbing against his opening,

desperately shoving the jeans and briefs further down Fox’s hips.

Biting his lip, Fox slipped a digit inside Tucker’s tight ass, enjoying the slight gasp

that accompanied the intrusion. He allowed his gaze to run all the way down from
Tucker’s newly closed eyes, over those full lips slightly parted, breath heated as Fox
pushed deeper. Tucker’s fists were clenched, straining the muscles in his arms; his chest
heaved, nipples hard with a thin layer of sweat creating a light sheen across his flesh.

Tucker’s legs spread further as if attempting to ease the dry assault. Fox leaned down,

taking Tucker’s cock in his mouth as he continued to finger fuck his tight ass. Taking an
exceedingly high amount of pleasure from Tucker’s groan as the head of his cock hit the
back of Fox’s throat, he felt Tucker slowly jacking him off.

When Tucker’s hips bucked and the amount of pre-cum increased, signaling he was

close to blowing, Fox pulled away. The agony on Tucker’s face had Fox rock hard and
close to losing control over his own senses. He removed the finger from Tucker’s ass and
rolled him onto his belly. Spreading open those perfectly round cheeks, Fox spit onto his
hole before thrusting his tongue inside. Tucker began grinding his ass into Fox’s face,
muttering and near delirium. The soft, wet heat and taste of him on his tongue had Fox
fighting to kick his pants and briefs the rest of the way off.

“Fuck me, Jon,” Tucker pleaded in a breathy whisper.
Fox swallowed hard as he got back up on his knees and stared down at the pale white

ass arching up into the air, begging to be taken. He rolled across the bed and snagged a
condom and lube from the bedside table. The condoms he’d placed there as an
afterthought more than anything else. He’d never truly imagined himself having sex in
this house; the thought of it once seemed ludicrous. Fox repositioned himself between
Tucker’s legs while rolling on the rubber. He had two lives, compartmentalizing his life
in the city separate from the one at De la Fontaine.

Tucker moaned, protesting the cool lube that Fox drizzled over his hole. Fox smiled,

inserting his thumb inside Tucker’s ass, hearing the intent behind that moan change from
mild irritation to greedy lust.

The southern gentleman hiding inside wanted to ask once more if Tucker was sure,

but his inner southern slut won over and he forced the head of his cock inside.

Tucker gasped, fisting wads of bedding in his hands as Fox ventured deeper.
He was well-enough endowed to know to take things slow at first. Tucker tried

spreading his legs a bit more, evidence that he wanted more but knew it wasn’t going to
be an easy ride.

“F-fuck,” Tucker muttered, keeping himself still, trying to regulate his breathing.
Fox stopped once he finally worked himself all the way inside, massaging and

kneading the muscles in Tucker’s back as he allowed the man to acclimate to the
invasion.

“Come here,” Fox said pulling on Tucker until he was also up on his knees. Fox

breathed through the incredible heat and pressure while resisting the urge to push for
friction.

Fox slid his hands around Tucker’s waist, finger’s digging into hard muscle and

velvety, pliable flesh. His hips lightly thrust out of pure instinct and Tucker gasped, his
breath hitched in his throat.

He knew what the man in his arms needed and Fox intended to deliver.
Twisting the hard nubs of Tucker’s nipples, Fox licked and sucked on his ear lobe, his

warm breath brushing across Tucker’s ear, causing him to shiver. “Wanted you like this

the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Oh yeah?” Tucker reached back, running a hand through Fox’s thick dusty-black

hair.

He forced Tucker’s head to the side and bit seductively into his neck while slowly

sliding his cock out, only to push back in.

Tucker’s entire body tensed as he moaned in pained-pleasure. Fox rubbed, licked, and

sucked the man anywhere he knew Tucker might enjoy it as he cautiously increased
momentum.

They kissed, tongues violently warring for control as Fox placed one hand on

Tucker’s hip while the other continued to torture a nipple. Fox was already becoming
addicted to the taste of him, fucking Tucker harder, pushing his ass back to meet the
thrust of Fox’s pelvis.

“Fuck me,” Tucker whispered between greedy, wet kisses, his voice husky,

demanding.

Fox complied, letting himself go now that Tucker was ready. He broke from the kiss,

feeling Tucker jacking himself off, his moans becoming louder and more frenzied. His
finger dug into Tucker’s hip, fighting off his own orgasm, waiting until Tucker had his
fill.

Their bodies were wet with sweat as Fox continued to take him, bringing Tucker

close to edge, then pulling back, getting off a little more than he should, enjoying the
control he now had over Tucker’s body.

“Please, Jon…” Tucker begged, so close his body had begun to shake.
Fox bent him over, pushed all the way inside and lightly thrust over and over, his eyes

rolling back into his head as Tucker screamed his orgasm into the mattress.

Tucker’s ass milking his cock with each shot of cum sent Fox over the edge.

Breathing shallow as every muscle in his body went taut, Fox finally came, holding back
his screams, once again cognizant of the fact they weren’t alone in the house.

After several minutes, attempting to get his wind back, Fox carefully pulled out, his

body twitching from the friction against his still sensitive dick. He hissed under his breath
as he removed the condom.

“Jesus,” he whispered, giving Tucker’s ass a firm pat before getting up to dispose of

the used rubber.

By the time he’d washed up and headed back with a wet cloth for his bedmate, he

found himself running into the man at the doorway. They exchanged a quick smile as
Tucker eyed the hand towel. His head cocked to the side, processing the gesture, then
gave Fox a quick thank you peck before thumbing back toward the bed.

“You’ll need that for the bedspread, sexy,” Tucker said, his face going slightly pink.

“I’d apologize, had you not helped.”

Fox grinned, nodding he had indeed played a part, leaning in to steal one more kiss

before leaving Tucker the use of the bathroom. Fox licked his lips, savoring the taste.

He just finished scrubbing the come off the floral bedspread when Fox realized he

hated the ugly ass thing to begin with. No longer sure why he’d bothered, he shrugged,
beginning to pull it off the bed.

“Kinda girly taste you got there,” Tucker said, taking the other end to help fold the

coverlet. “Felt a little like a teenager again, getting fucked on my Nanna’s bed when you
bent me back over face first into this floral bonanza.”

Fox burst out laughing. “I haven’t had time to go shopping for linens, thank you very

much. And you shouldn’t have been doing something so depraved on your Nanna’s bed
to begin with.”

“She wasn’t home or anything.” Tucker shrugged, not seeming too phased as Fox

tossed it aside.

They each headed for separate sides of the bed.
“Am I being presumptuous or were you planning to kick me out into another bedroom

now that you’ve had your way with me?” Tucker asked, helping Fox peel back the sheet.

He’d said it in a joking manner, but Fox could tell it was Tucker’s way of making

sure it was okay if he stayed.

“I don’t want to be a distraction or anything,” he added when Fox didn’t jump right in

with an invite.

“You make for a lovely distraction,” Fox finally said, nudging his head toward the

bed. “I’d like for you to stay, you know, if you wanted to. There are other bedroo—”

“No,” Tucker interrupted, eyes widened, appearing younger than his years all of a

sudden. “I’m good here.”

His body language was nonchalant, but the mildly panicked expression on his face

had Fox believing it might have more to do with Tucker not wanting to be alone than it
did some undeniable desire to be near him.

“You’re probably one of those ready-to-pass-out after kinda guys, I reckon,” Tucker

said as they each slipped underneath the sheet. “I get kinda wired, you know…takes me a
bit before I’m able to crash.”

Fox watched him, one eyebrow arched, propped up on his elbows. Guess this means

we’ll be having a chat, he thought, already feeling the pull of sleep burning behind his
eyes.

Tucker sighed, unable to hide his disappointment. “Yeah, I figured. Most guys are.

No problem, I don’t wanna keep you up. I’ll just lay here till I pass out. Kinda used to
that.”

Fox started to open his mouth.
“Seriously, do not worry about me in the least.”
Fox shrugged, willing to take the man at his word considering he was beat and had no

desire to get Tucker worked up further by explaining that life, as he’d known it, was over.
He was definitely dreading that conversation, reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp.

“Pretty damn lucky all in all,” Tucker said, “meeting you today…you stumbling

across me tonight.”

Fox rolled his eyes but couldn’t hold back the smile as he gave up on the light and fell

back into the pillow, realizing his patience was about to be tested.

Sleep is totally overrated. Who needs it?
Finally settled in and ready to listen to the man ramble, Fox glanced over, acutely

aware the room had gone silent. Tucker was staring at the ceiling, his forehead crinkled
up in deep thought. Fox recalled the last thing he’d said and realized Tucker was
probably considering the likelihood of such a coincidence for the very first time.

“What were you doing hanging around a dark alley that late at night anyway?”

Tucker asked, still not appearing to have accepted that something was off.

Tucker’s eyes widened and he slowly sat up in the bed as Fox did the same. His entire

body tensed as Fox opened his mouth to explain.

“Jesus!” Tucker hopped out of bed like someone had slapped him, yanking the sheet

off with him, leaving Fox exposed. “Were you following me?”

Fox held up a hand to indicate he was no threat. “It’s not what you think.”
“That I just had my ass plowed by some sick, pervert, stalker freak?” Tucker asked,

screaming in a hushed whisper as he rose up onto his toes. “What I must’ve done in a
past life to have deserved everything that’s happened to me this evening? Who the fuck
was I—Hitler!?”

“Past life?” Fox asked, sneering. “That’s California talking. Did that Shirley

MacLaine do something to you?”

Tucker was not amused.
“Murderous executioners…dodging fucking bullets…”
Fox was shaking his head, now trying to get a word in edgewise.
“…home invasions…” Tucker’s eyes suddenly bugged out even more. “Oh shit man

— please tell me it wasn’t you that broke into my place?”

Fox rolled his eyes. “No, of course—”
“That’s why you didn’t want me going back for my computer?” he asked, chest

heaving up and down as his apparently hyperactive imagination went into overdrive.

“Damn it, no, listen Tuck—”
“What were you doin’, sniffing my jockey’s?” One arm was waving wildly through

the air and the other kept the sheet clasped tightly around his waist. “Sick bastard!”

“Will you please settle yourself down?” Fox asked, pulling his weary body up onto

his knees.

Tucker’s eyes flitted from the bed to the door as if he was getting ready to bolt.
Fox rubbed the palm of his hand over his face. “I’m a private detective, you wing

nut.”

“Huh?” Tucker’s forehead scrunched up, confusion settling in yet again. “Detecting

my privates, perhaps.”

Fox rolled his eyes over the idiotic accusation.
“Wait…private investigator?”
Fox sighed, seeing Tucker straining to recall the inevitable.
“What’s your full name?”
“Jon Fox.”
“No way, the guy involved in all that Senator Deveraux business?”
“That would be me,” Fox sighed, still trying to decide if being referred to as the one

involved with Senator Deveraux’s wife was better or worse than some of the other things
he’d been known for over the years.

“Didn’t you murder her or something?” Tucker asked. “My friend is a reporter, and

she says you mur—”

“I did not,” Fox interrupted through gritted teeth. “Delta Deveraux tried to murder

me.”

Tucker’s eyes were now wide as saucers. “Self defense…sure thing, pal.”
Frustrated, but resolved to no longer having a choice, Fox calmly went about filling

Tucker in on his experiences thus far with one Betty Black.

The initial meeting.
The polite chatter.
The absurd proposition.

And that calm admission that she intended to commit murder.
Fox watched the tension bleeding away from Tucker’s body in the process, replaced

by confusion and doubt.

“You think I’m involved in some plot to murder someone?” Tucker asked once Fox

had finished.

“Not anymore.” Fox shook his head in disgust. “So will you please get back into

bed?”

“That sweet little old lady wouldn’t hurt a fly?” Tucker said, more to himself than

anyone else. “I’m helping her try to locate an old boyfriend for Christ’s sake, a long lost
first love.”

Fox had already figured it was something like that. “She’s not as sweet as she appears

to be, running around New Orleans using an alias and hiring PIs to find people so she can
kill ‘em.”

“I don’t know, man.” Tucker seemed genuinely torn. “I just can’t picture it.”
“Well, you can either trust me,” Fox pointed out, “the guy who saved your life…or

believe her and go on thinking you just allowed some crazy, dirty underwear-sniffing,
pervert to fuck you stupid. Besides, something tells me you weren’t just helping her out
of the goodness of your heart either.”

“Okay…fine,” Tucker sniffed, lying back down on the bed. “Should I happened to

have obtained a nice, sappy, heartwarming screenplay outta the deal, so much the better.”

“Infuriating.” Fox shook his head. “Crazy-ass writers.”
“Do you have any idea how much money The Notebook raked in at the box office?”

Tucker asked, as if that might serve as an explanation for everything.

Fox grumbled, reaching over to turn off the light before collapsing onto the bed.
It was dead quiet and pitch black in the bedroom, but somehow Fox could feel Tucker

staring at him through the dark.

“What is it?” Fox asked.
“I…nothing,” Tucker sighed, sounding frustrated.
Fox rolled onto his side, straining to stay awake. “Jesus, man, out with it, already.”
“Just…thank you, that’s all,” Tucker said, “you know, for saving my life and all.”
Fox smiled, half dead to the word but pleased to hear him say it. “My pleasure,

Tuck.”

Chapter Six

Tucker poked his head inside the door to the kitchen, smiling sheepishly, finding Fox

and Virgil sitting around the picnic style table. He stepped inside, wearing a t-shirt, a pair
of gym shorts, and tennis shoes.

“Good morning,” Tucker said, sniffing the air like a deer in the woods. “You do know

that big-ass gator is masticating some sort of bloody hunk of meat out in the middle of
the courtyard?”

Fox nodded, clearing his throat. “Just a piece of the guy I brought out here and had

sex with last weekend.”

Virgil coughed, choking on his coffee and looking none too pleased.
“Part of the sacrifice to the swamp,” Fox grinned.
Tucker nodded, knowing he deserved that after his freak-out the night before. “That

coffee I smell?”

“Cups are in the cupboard there next to the stove,” Virgil offered, not bothering to get

up from the table.

Fox sighed and began to get up.
“Keep your seat, Jon.” Tucker headed toward the stove. “I’m not an invalid; I can get

my own coffee.”

Fox pointed to the plate on the counter. “There’s eggs and sausage covered in the

skillet there and biscuits are in the oven.”

“Smells good, I’m starved,” Tucker said.
“I imagine so after the ruckus you two made into the wee hours of the morning,”

Virgil snapped.

Tucker turned, still spooning mounds full of eggs onto his plate. “That what they

called it back in your day, Grandpa?”

Fox choked on his coffee this time, coughing and fisting his chest.
“You struck me as the type who’d not be too shy about things.” Virgil shook his head

as if he was disappointed by that fact while mumbling something about hiding the
sausage. “And I ain’t nobody’s grandpa! We don’t need any more excitement round these
parts, neither.”

“Are you done?” Fox finally asked when it appeared Virgil might have gotten all the

negativity off his chest.

Virgil shrugged, reserving the right to jump back on the you suck bandwagon should

the need arise.

“You don’t like me much, huh?” Tucker asked, amused by that fact as he placed his

coffee cup and plate on the table before taking a seat next to the old man.

Virgil just grunted and shot Fox a nasty look when Fox said, “Virgil hates people;

don’t take it personally.”

“As long as you aren’t trying to kill me, I can live with that.” Tucker shoveled in

another forkful. “Damn good food.”

Fox laughed at the expression on Virgil’s face, which had softened slightly from the

compliment over his cooking.

“You ain’t so bad, I guess,” Virgil said, before taking another sip of his coffee.
Tucker smiled but kept on talking, his mouth full. “Where’s your mom?”
“Still asleep.” Fox glanced down at the tabletop and brushed a few crumbs off onto

the tile floor. “Some of the medication the doctor prescribed knocks her out.”

“Thank god for that. She don’t take it half the time.” Virgil sighed. “That woman is

more than I can handle. Always was too spirited. Tried telling your father that but no one
listens to a word I say.”

“Because you never shut the hell up, old man,” Fox said, shaking his head. “Your

voice has a tendency to turn into white noise.”

Virgil laughed a little, appreciating the insult. “You’ve got to hire another nurse,

damn it. Or a warden. She’ll be the death of me, you’ll see.”

Fox started to apologize once again but Virgil only rolled his eyes, getting up from

the table and leaving the kitchen mumbling under his breath.

He sighed, feeling Tucker’s gaze boring into the side of his head. “He’s not wrong. I

have no right expecting him to cover for me when I’m not here.”

“Your whole life’s a little slice of hell, huh?” Tucker asked. “My cousin’s a nurse,

you know?”

Fox hadn’t forgotten, but at this point it seemed pointless to hire her, considering

Tucker and his entire family would most likely be in WITSEC by the time it was all said
and done.

“She’s called three times this morning,” Fox said. “Your cousin and your aunt have

both kindly ripped me a new one for getting you into trouble. Threatened to call the
police and report me for kidnapping if I didn’t let them see you.”

Tucker cringed. “Sorry about that.”
Fox glanced at his watch. “They should be here anytime.”
Tucker cringed again. “Then allow me to really express my heartfelt apologies in

advance.”

“I’m sure I’ll think up some way you can make it up to me.”
They both smiled, Tucker looking away for a moment before nodding he might be

amenable to some such arrangement.

“They may as well stay here for the time being,” Fox said. “Wouldn’t hurt for you to

have a support system here to lean on.”

“I’ll be blowing you from now until the end of time after a favor of that magnitude.”
Fox’s eyebrows hitched. “See there, you’re already making the sacrifice on my part

seem well worth it.”

Tucker scoffed. “You haven’t met Millie.”
“I’ve had a lot of experience being disliked, Tucker, so you can tell Millie to bring it

on. I’m immune to outside judgment at this point. It makes me good at my job.” Fox
made sure he maintained eye contact as Tucker continued to examine him like a lab
specimen. “Speaking of my job, why don’t you tell me a little more about the story Betty
Black’s been feeding you?”

“Well…she started coming into the restaurant a month or more ago.” Tucker finished

off the last of his eggs and sausage, swallowing it down with a mouthful of chicory
coffee. “Usually after the lunch rush had come and gone. We started talking, and before
long she was telling me stories about the man she’d come back to New Orleans fifty

years later to try and find. The proverbial first love that got away, a man named Clay
Shaw.”

“That’s how you came upon the name? She actually gave it to you?” Fox asked.
“Yeah, I mean, not at first I suppose. When I think about it now I guess she held that

back initially, just telling me stories about the summer she spent in the city with her
family before being shipped off to college at an all-girls school.” Tucker started to smile.
“The way she talked about Clay, though. The most handsome man she’d ever known.
Took her breath away with a charisma that rivaled anything Marlon Brando managed on
film. Talked her out of her panties in no time at all.”

“Oh jeez,” Fox’s stomach went sour. “Exactly how detailed did her recollections

become?”

Tucker laughed. “Not very, and to be honest it was nothing she said so much as the

way she said it. People don’t fool me often. I have a tendency to see right through
bullshit, but I found myself getting lost in her tales of summer afternoons lying naked in
the sun with this man; this guy that she was willing to do anything for, just to be with
him. If she was lying about all of that, then Betty missed her calling as an award winning
actress who could’ve given Meryl Streep a run for her money.”

“If it’s all the same, let’s side step all the lust and angst and skip to the end.”
Tucker shook his head. “That’s the best part; the juicy goodness!”
“Don’t make me toss those homemade biscuits back up,” Fox pleaded, placing a hand

on his stomach. “It’s way too early in the morning.”

“Nothing that you wouldn’t expect about the way it ended. Her daddy figured out

what was going on and put an end to it. Sent her away and she never heard from Clay
again. She’d tried contacting him, but he seemed to have vanished, making her fear that
her father dumped his body in the swamp.”

“That’s when you went sticking your nose into it?” Fox asked.
“Pretty much,” Tucker said, finishing off the rest of his coffee.
“Did your friend from the paper manage to scrape together any information about

Clay Shaw?”

Tucker’s face went blank. “And here I’d almost forgotten the creepy fact you’ve been

following me around for god knows how long.”

Fox grinned, turning on the charm. “It was most certainly not creepy from where I

sat.”

Tucker tried to force back a smile. “It is wrong on so many levels that I find you

attractive right now. I’m must be way more sick in the head than I’d originally feared.”

“One can only hope,” Fox said, winking. “But getting back to the topic at hand?”
“She couldn’t find any references to the name Clay Shaw during the time Betty

would’ve been staying in the area, other than the famous New Orleans businessman
rumored to have been involved in the Kennedy assassination plot, who was too old…not
to mention a homosexual. She found two other Clay Shaws. One who’d died in the early
seventies who popped up in the obits, and another from the early eighties whose name
was mentioned in a few of the society columns. Both were approximately the right age,
but from the wrong decade, to have been the man Betty is looking for.”

“Interesting. Will have to look deeper into that later.” Fox was scratching at the

stubble on his chin. “Once we figure out who he is we might finally be able to discover
why she wants to kill him.”

“So bizarre.” Tucker shook his head and pushed his plate away. “Still can’t picture

that sweet old lady wanting to murder anyone.”

Fox decided not to waste any more time trying to force Tucker to see behind the mask

of Betty Black. One fact, however, still amazed him. “It’s really worth the time and
trouble for you to go looking for a mystery man from an old lady’s past?”

“Hell yeah.” Tucker sat back in his chair. “If I could’ve found Clay Shaw and brought

them back together again? Shit. It would’ve been so much better than The Notebook. All
the angst with a true life happy ending? That would’ve made for an awesome payout as a
film.”

“And you being the one to reunite them-”
“They’d never say no to allowing me to tell their story after that,” Tucker cut in.

“Then I’d be back on top in Los Angeles…back where I belonged.”

Fox nodded, even smiled, though he didn’t like the idea of Tucker running off to

California again. It irritated him slightly, hearing it in Tucker’s voice, how badly he
wanted to go back.

“I called a detective friend of mine last night,” He said, changing the subject. “We’ll

need to meet with him today so he can take your statement.”

“It’s bad, huh?” Tucker’s face went serious all of a sudden.
“Had they not spotted you, you might have been able to keep quiet and no one

would’ve been the wiser.”

“What kind of person would that have made me?” Tucker asked.
“The human kind,” Fox said, reaching across the table and squeezing Tucker’s hand.

“Unfortunately they did spot you, which leaves you no choice.”

“What’s gonna happen to me?” Tucker asked, though something in his eyes said he

already knew the answer.

“Let’s just say you won’t be forced to pay off that whole blowing-me-till-the-end-of-

time, debt you threw onto the table before.”

Tucker smiled, shaking his head, but the light behind those bright blue eyes seemed to

darken.

“They can keep you and your family safe,” Fox said. “That’s the most important

thing. The Diab cartel are particularly nasty, Tuck. The ‘find you hacked up into tiny
pieces’ kind of bad news. It’s not the sort of thing you get to walk away from without
paying a price. I know that’s not fair, but staying alive has become your new singular
mission in life.”

Seeing Tucker’s jaw clinch, Fox sighed, walked around the table, pulled the man out

of his chair, and took him into this arms. He couldn’t blame the guy for losing it. As
shitty as Fox’s life had been, he realized a long time ago he’d hate to lose it.

“I hate to break up your girly moment, but there’s an ugly-ass, bright purple ’63

Caddie pulling up the drive,” Virgil said, stomping back into the kitchen.

“That would be Millie,” Tucker said, wiping his cheek onto his shoulder.
“Does the woman not understand the concept of incognito?” Virgil asked.
“Blending in hasn’t exactly been her main focus in life.” Tucker said, smiling when

the car screeched to a halt just outside the small kitchen house.

“We’ll need to do something about that car,” Fox said.
Tucker gave him a few quick pats on the chest. “I’ll let you be the one to break that

news.”

“Thanks.” Fox sneered, none too happy.
“You just got through telling me staying alive was supposed to be my only focus,”

Tucker reminded him.

Fox stared blankly out the screen door, watching the women get out of the car.

“That’s not comforting me in the least.”

“It wasn’t meant to,” Tucker informed him, heading out the door to greet his aunt.
Fox had dealt with all manner of people throughout the years, with personalities great

and small, and temperaments as wide as the mighty Mississippi was long. When it came
to his line of work, there was nothing more volatile than a mother protecting her cubs.
Combine that with the fiery temperament and unpredictability of a southern woman, and
you had all the ingredients on hand for an explosive natural disaster that rivaled anything
the planet could throw your way.

They don’t call her Mother Nature for nothing.
Watching Millie nearly strangle the life out of Tucker as she hugged the man within

an inch of his life, Fox was certain a storm was brewing. As much as he already detested
the meddling that was sure to come, there was a part of him, buried deep down inside
under all his inner darkness, that was envious. He missed having someone who cared for
him in that way and was unfortunate enough to remember what it had once felt like.

“You don’t look too much worse for wear, Mô shou,” Millie said, her inventoried

inspection of Tucker already underway.

Tucker gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re okay. Sorry for dragging you

into all this.”

Fox held onto the screen door to the kitchen, not allowing it to slam shut as he

normally might have. The cousin came around the front of the car wearing a child-like
expression that screamed, My momma’s gonna whoop your ass!

Despite his best efforts, Fox couldn’t manage to keep the smirk from his face.
Millicent Delacroix was a full-bodied woman with more cleavage than any one

woman ought to have. Though, judging by the look on Virgil’s face, it was clear that he
was not of the same opinion. She had plenty curves, and Fox could tell from the way she
moved that Millie knew how to use them—not in an overtly sexual sense so much as the
way in which she dressed herself. The woman made the clothes, not the other way
around.

Tufts of dark auburn hair poked out from around the colorful silk scarf tied into a

knot under her chin. Her makeup looked flawlessly applied, but the combination of
yellow blouse, wide legged linen pants, and tennis shoes betrayed her otherwise confidant
demeanor. It was obvious she’d left her home quickly the night before.

Her round, black plastic sunglasses prevented Fox from knowing whether or not she

was sizing him up.

“Now, if it’s not too much trouble, perhaps someone might explain to me why my

daughter dragged me out of hearth and home in the middle of the godforsaken night like
some sort of fugitive?” Millie asked, exerting a dramatic sigh as she looked up, surveying
the exterior of the manor house. She peered over her sunglasses long enough to inspect
the charred damage to the yard and side of the kitchen from when Virgil’s distillery
exploded months ago. “Paint is relatively inexpensive as far as home improvements go,
Mr. Fox.”

“Joyful blessings, sarcasm must run in the family,” Fox muttered, motioning toward

the main house as he smiled. “Shall we head inside and get out of this heat?”

Before tempers climb any higher than they already are.
Millie made a sassy little hmmpf noise before doing a double take. Fox followed her

line of sight over toward Snowflake, who was still making a bloodied mess of whatever
animal he’d managed to catch out in the yard. Snowy was snarling, and they could all
hear a bone snapping which had both Leigh and Millie gasping in horror as they each
began ‘clutching the pearls’.

Fox rolled his eyes, praying Savannah really was out, as things needn’t look any more

frenzied than they already did.

Millie’s mouth fell open and she was about to issue some sort of protest, no doubt, so

Fox jumped to, ushering everyone inside. “Virgil, could you grab a pitcher of iced tea and
some glasses?”

Millie allowed her gaze to slowly run up and down Fox’s frame before she shoved

her sun glasses back up her nose, closing the curtains on the supposed windows into her
soul.

“Exactly as I feared,” Millie said, sharply before turning on a heel to head for the

back door.

“His ass ain’t looking quite so irresistible now, huh?” Leigh winked, still smiling like

the cat who ate the canary as she, too, passed by.

Tucker gave her a nasty glare before issuing a sideways pleading apology via the

pathetic gaze he shot in Fox’s direction.

“It’s fine, really,” Fox muttered, his hand patting Tucker’s back for reassurance.

***

Fox walked through the open pocket doors into the parlor, simultaneously dialing

Mason’s number and eyeing his three new guests intently. He couldn’t help but notice
that none of them looked anything alike. A family plucked right out of central casting,
anyone who didn’t know better would assume they’d been manufactured based upon the
fractured opinions of a focus group. Tucker was blond and tan, as if he’d stepped out of
the pages of a vacation guide for sunny California. Millie was so pale, she would’ve
passed for the undead had it not been for all the makeup, and Leigh’s father must have
been either Spanish or perhaps Creole with her darker, nut-brown coloring.

When the first call went to voicemail, he frowned and hit redial.
Two commonalities did jump out at Fox though, listening to the phone ring.
The first was that they obviously all dressed to be noticed, despite the fact they

apparently didn’t shop in the same stores. Between Leigh’s sporty bare midriff and
painted on jeans, Millie’s figure-hugging vintage Hollywood glam, and the fact Tucker
didn’t seem to own a shirt that wasn’t at least one size too small, this threesome had zero
problems being looked at.

The second thing came to him the instant Millie removed her sunglasses. The family

resemblance became quite clear as the three of them watched Fox pacing back and forth
in the adjacent parlor: three identical pairs of large, blue eyes were all scrutinizing him.

He’d sat them all around the large formal dining room table and laid everything on

the line, holding nothing back. It wasn’t any information Tucker hadn’t come to realize
already, but seeing the devastation on his aunt and cousin’s faces after hearing their lives

were about to be uprooted in the most violent of ways was an added burden that visibly
weighed upon Tucker, who seemed to shrink slightly.

This family moved fast, Fox thought, having just witnessed both Leigh and Millie

tear through the first few stages of grief. The initial shock and denial wore off quickly
and they jumped right over pain and guilt—where poor Tucker appeared to be stuck—
jumping right into anger and bargaining. The fireworks had been epic as they’d argued
and protested each and every fact presented to them. They were now stunned into silence
as the reality that having a strong will didn’t always equate to there being a way, after all.

Tucker had apologized a number of times, though Fox was certain the apologies had

gone mostly unheard. It would take time. It was basic human nature for a hint of
selfishness to come before acceptance and understanding. In this particular case, there
wasn’t really anyone to blame aside from the men who were now trying to kill them. That
fact would eventually unite any family who cared for one another as much as these three
obviously did.

Virgil had sensed iced tea wasn’t going to cut it and despite the early morning hour,

Millie accepted his offer of a drink, taking her bourbon straight. She was a woman after
Virgil’s own heart, no doubt.

The ringing stopped and he heard a familiar voice.
“Mason Wilkes, here,” his uncle said plainly and without emotion.
The greeting seemed odd to Fox. He was fairly certain Mason had his number

programmed into his cell. It was impersonal, the way you’d expect someone to address a
stranger, not a member of the family, even if it was by marriage alone.

“I’ve stepped into a bit of a situation, Mason.” Fox said, speaking low enough not to

be overheard in the next room. “New client who stumbled into the wrong place at the
wrong time. Trust me, it’s better if you don’t ask any questions. Just… trust me.”

There was a pause down the line.
Jon Fox had asked his family to trust him before, back when he was younger. Back

when things hadn’t turned out so great.

Trust me, I’m okay.
Trust me, I don’t have an attitude problem.
Trust me, I didn’t mean to put that guy in the hospital.
“You can trust me this time,” Fox said to the silence on the other end of the phone.

“You know I’ve changed.”

Another pause.
“How can I help?” Mason asked.
Fox smiled, pleased to hear his uncle uttering those words. Regardless of how many

times he’d fucked up over the years, Mason had always been there for him, whether he’d
wanted the help or not.

“I need to bring my client back into the city today so he can give his statement to the

police. He’s safe with me for the time being, as no one knows I’m involved, so
precaution is key.” Fox could feel Tucker hovering in the doorway behind him. “I’d like
to pick up some cash, maybe five or ten thousand to have on hand in order to stay off the
electronic grid.”

“You need me to bring this to you?” Mason asked.
“If you could,” Fox said. “I’d do it myself if I were going in alone, but I’ll have him

with me and would prefer to keep out of sight if possible.”

“Say no more, son, just tell me when and where.”
“Thank you, Mason, for always having my back.”
“Just…you know…try to keep your face and the Fox name off the evening news. The

company and my impressive staff of magical Voodoo spin doctors could use a break.”

Fox chuckled. “That is most definitely the plan, I assure you. I’ll call when I’m

headed that direction and we’ll go from there.”

He shook his head when his time-is-money uncle disconnected the call without so

much as a goodbye. Fox headed toward Tucker who was leaning against the doorjamb.

“That’s quite a bit of cash just for little ‘ole me,” Tucker said, appearing slightly worn

down.

“Not for all three blind mice,” Fox said.
“Well, hello dear,” Millie said, sounding surprised from the other room as she peered

over at them. “And who might you be?”

Fox placed a hand on Tucker’s waist momentarily, which he noted caught both Millie

and Leigh’s attention. The two ladies gave one another a look of disapproval as Fox came
back into the room, eyes nearly bugging out of his head at seeing Miss Savannah.

Smelling her might have been the first thing to hit him. The pungent combination of

perfume and mothballs made his eyes water. She’d attempted to doll herself up, but the
end result was more What Happened to Baby Jane than Raintree County. Her dark red
lipstick had gotten a little off-track and one false eyelash was crooked while the other had
either already fallen off, or never made it on to begin with. Her eye shadow and rouge
had been globbed on. It had likely been no easy feat for her to get that much done with
her shaky hands.

“More company, how delightful,” Savannah said, the look of shock slowly melting

away. “Beauregard, you are a devil of a man.”

Millie and Leigh were understandably confused as Virgil came stumbling back in,

fingering multiple glasses of bourbon for everyone in the room.

“Jeez-us, what sort of mess have you gotten yourself into now?” Virgil huffed.
Savannah’s face lit up when she saw Tucker come up beside Fox.
“Good morning, Miss Savannah,” Tucker said, that slightly flirty tone creeping back

into his voice. “What a lovely frock.”

Fox was amazed by the man’s ability to shrug off all the shit in order to placate his

crazy mother. It was a quality Fox both appreciated and envied.

Savannah had apparently been digging through the trunks and wardrobes in the attic

and found some of her old things. Fox was surprised at how well the lavender and cream-
colored, gauze-like dress still fit her not to mention that something so delicate hadn’t
disintegrated over time due to heat, moisture, or insects.

Fox gently took her by the arm, pulling her attention. “This is Mr. Wilder’s Aunt

Millie and his cousin, Leigh, Momma. They’re going to be staying with us for a little
while.”

“Wh-what…fun,” Savannah stuttered, glancing around the room. “I do adore

entertaining.”

Millie rose from her seat and came round the table, pausing long enough to take one

of the glasses of bourbon and sucking it down before placing the empty glass on the
table. “As it just so happens, I simply adore being entertained, Chè.” She winked a thank
you to Virgil for the drink and took Savannah by the arm. “You have the loveliest

complexion, Miss Savannah. If you wouldn’t mind indulging me, I’d love to give you a
little makeover. It’s sort of a hobby of mine.”

“More like a religion,” Leigh muttered, still seated at the table.
“That would be alright,” Savannah said, patting Millie’s hand. “I haven’t had time to

get myself to the beauty parlor in ages.”

“You can come with us, Leigh, seeing how you have nothing better to do with your

time than sass your momma.” Millie shot Fox another glare of disapproval, as did Leigh,
once she’d pulled herself up from the table and followed begrudgingly.

“In that case, I’m taking a god damn nap while I can,” Virgil sputtered, setting the

remaining glasses down on the table. He paused, picking one up and sucking down the
liquor before doing the same with a second one. “Waste not, want not.”

Virgil belched so loudly, he shook his head as if the belch might have dislodged

something up there. He looked both of the younger men up and down with disdain before
exiting the room.

“They love you,” Tucker said, oozing sarcasm.
Fox turned to face him, noting the worry hiding behind the smart-ass demeanor and

those baby blues.

“Can you blame them?” Fox asked. “I am irresistible.”
Tucker stared into Fox’s eyes as if searching for answers in a crystal ball. “Perhaps

they can’t help themselves, after all.”

They both smiled, taking a breath and enjoying the simplicity of that singular moment

where nothing was more complicated than two guys who were interested in each other.

When Tucker kissed him, Fox was taken aback, and opened his mouth for Tucker’s

tongue. It wasn’t the kiss itself so much as the dichotomy of the man currently in his
arms. Surly and sarcastic one minute, mistrustful of everyone around him, only to turn
around and do something like this the next. The one commonality that tied each piece of
his varied personality together was an underlying thread of earnestness that accompanied
everything Tucker did and said.

The lust was evident on his face as they pulled away from one another. Fox was fairly

certain a degree wasn’t required for anyone watching to ascertain his own illicit thoughts
in that moment, either.

“I’ll head upstairs and get changed.” Tucker smiled, patting Fox on the chest before

leaving him alone in the dining room.

Perhaps it was merely the situation Tucker was in—that he literally had nothing else

to lose at this point—but the man’s ability to open himself up in the midst of these
scattered and fractured moments was mildly intoxicating. Years ago, after sobering up
long enough to think coherently, Fox discovered he was a bit of a sucker for a lost cause.
He’d been assumed one himself for a very long time.

Tucker was about as lost as anyone could be.
“Exactly how much of your appeal is due to that fact, Mr. Wilder?” Fox asked,

thinking aloud.

One thing was certain: the end of their affair was imminent, already a fixed point on

the horizon, that was likely an added subconscious bonus, surely making Tucker more
irresistible than he might otherwise be. Unfortunately, Fox would never fully know for
sure since the theory could never be put to the test.

At some point, Tucker Wilder would be removed by the long arm of the law and

safely tucked away from those who might wish to do him harm.

Fox reminded himself of that fact once more.
“Some truths we hold to be self evident.”

***

Having already given his statement to Det. Ford over what he’d witnessed the night

before, Tucker now sat at a small rickety table in a cheap motel room just outside the
city, scrolling through mug shots on a laptop. He was looking for the two associates
who’d accompanied Tatt-face the night they murdered Christopher Bloom.

That had been the victim’s name. Bloom had been a research scientist for Fox

Pharmaceuticals, no less.

The coincidences just keep on coming.
It had seemed like a bad dream when he’d woken up earlier that morning, curled up

in the arms of a nearly perfect stranger. Hearing the victims name made it more real,
knowing he’d left behind a wife and daughter.

“More collateral damage left in the wake.” Tucker muttered.
Tatt-face was shockingly not the man’s real name, though Marcel Santiago didn’t

seem to fit the satanic creep any better. Tucker brought up Santiago’s picture once more.
He stared blankly into the eyes of a cold-blooded killer.

Each time he shut his eyes, Tucker re-lived the horror of Bloom’s body hitting the

payment. It sent chills straight up his spine, causing him to tremble. The vacant stare in
the man’s eyes and the feeling of dread that came over Tucker as the killers stepped out
of the shadows…it haunted him.

Fox’s cell phone rang again, ripping Tucker out of his own horrific thoughts. It was at

least the third call he’d received since leaving the plantation. Like all the other times, Fox
checked his phone, and then ignored whoever was calling.

Praying for some sort of distraction, Tucker decided to concentrate his attention on

his two chaperones, and the instant irritation that followed quickly did the trick.

It was a whole other issue that had piqued his interest: what sort of relationship Jon

Fox shared with this Detective Ford. From where he sat, they seemed a bit too familiar
with one another for things to be strictly professional. You didn’t need to be a psych
major to pick up on the tiny clues, the all too direct eye contact, a touch on the arm that
lasted too long to have been merely an accident, and the overheated way in which they
were currently discussing the best way to handle him.

He watched them talking a few feet away, and was only able to make out a word here

or there. It was if they were attempting to keep him from overhearing the conversation, as
if he were some child who needed to be protected from the truth. It pissed him off.

“Any luck?” Ford asked, as soon as he noticed Tucker was watching them.
Tucker shook his head.
“That’s alright,” Fox said. “Take your time—there’s no rush.”
Tucker smiled sweetly, but he wanted to punch Fox in the face. “Suddenly he has the

patience of a saint.”

“What was that?” Fox asked.
Tucker waved his hand, shooing them away to discourage their continued analytical

examination over his current state of being. He was aware Jon worried that a nervous

breakdown was eminent, and Tucker couldn’t make any promises the man was wrong.
Despite all the discussion about witness protection, Tucker was still running scenarios in
his head, trying to work out some way his entire existence didn’t need to be ripped away
from him and his loved ones. He had no desire to be anyone else. What the fuck was the
point of living if he couldn’t do the one thing he loved most? On some level, he was
aware it was futile, but he also thought it might be the only thing keeping him going:
hope.

He went back to scrolling down the page, looking for Satan’s sidekicks while kicking

himself for having the bad luck of becoming a fucking witness in the first place.

“Stupid thing to do.” He tapped the mouse forcing the page to jump down to the next

picture and his heart nearly jumped out of his chest. “Found one!”

Fox and Ford came over and glanced down at the screen.
“Yeah, I remember seeing him as well,” Fox said, placing a hand on Tucker’s

shoulder, “Definitely one of the three who were chasing Tuck.”

Tucker noticed the detective paying more attention to the hand on his shoulder than

the perp on the screen. He congratulated himself over the use of the word perp, never
imagining he’d have the opportunity to utilize it in a real-life setting.

“What are you two discussing so vehemently over there, anyway?” Tucker asked.
Fox and Detective Ford straightened up slightly.
“Nothing,” Fox said as Ford simultaneously blurted out, “The Saints.”
Tucker required no mirror to know his face was now locked into an expression of

disbelief.

“How long have the two of you been fucking?” Tucker asked, surprised by the fact

they both now seemed nervous.

“I’m straight,” Ford said, his voice sounding earnest yet all too rehearsed.
“Sure thing,” Tucker said, making sure both men knew he wasn’t buying it.
“Keep looking through those mug shots,” Ford finally said after an uncomfortable

silence had settled amongst them.

“Only one more to go,” Fox added.
With that, they each moved back to the other side of the room and started to whisper-

argue once again. It was infuriating for them to discuss his future and what to do with
him now, without bothering to ask his opinion.

In the back of his mind was the nagging realization he didn’t like the idea Fox was

screwing the good detective one bit. Part of it was ego, how dare Fox ignore him, treat
him as if his thoughts and opinions were less valuable—in front of some other guy Fox
was obviously screwing on the side, no less. It felt like somewhat of a betrayal even
though Tucker understood the situation was extreme.

Pissed or not, Tucker couldn’t turn off the desire he continued to experience for the

man. There was a certain added cache Jon Fox had that no other man in the world did:
he’d saved Tucker’s life. There was no doubt in his mind he would most certainly be
dead by now had Fox not intervened. That gratitude had attached itself to the desire and
attraction that had been present from the first moment their eyes met, mixing and
morphing into something unlike anything Tucker had ever experienced before. He didn’t
fool himself into believing it was love. They hadn’t shared enough of themselves with
one another for anything that intense to have developed, but Tucker couldn’t deny there
were actual feelings developing.

It wasn’t one sided, either. He was entirely too attuned to the way men looked at him

to know the difference at this stage in his life. Despite the fact Fox had been following
him around for god knows how long and had lied about or omitted that fact, Tucker
trusted him…perhaps more so than anyone ever before. It was both exhilarating and
disturbing. Intensity with regard to his work was a given. He’d long since accepted the
fact he’d likely have willingly sold his soul to the devil in exchange for success had the
offer ever been extended. Tucker was driven, no big revelations there. He was less
comfortable experiencing so much as a hint of that for another man.

“For the record—not that either of you have bothered to ask what I wanted—” Tucker

pointed at Fox and smirked to show his lack of appreciation. “I go where he goes.”

Fox folded his arms and smiled, looking like a smug little bastard all too happy to

have gotten his way.

“That would not be my recommendation,” Ford snapped.
“I don’t doubt it,” Tucker snapped back.
“The police can do a much better job protecting you, no offense to Fox.”
“You don’t really believe that,” Fox said, shaking his head. “I sure as shit don’t trust

the NOPD outside of you, Ford.”

Ford started to object once again and Tucker cut him off, raising his hand into the air.
“This is a useless argument as he’s the ONLY one I trust in this whole wide world

anymore. If you expect any future cooperation from me, you’ll do best to remember that.
For the time being at least, my life is still my own and am therefore allowed to make my
own decisions. Where he goes, I go. End of discussion.”

Ford raised his hands in surrender, but the stiff jaw and rigid body language betrayed

the fact he was anything other than happy about it.

Tucker scrolled down to the next picture. “That’s the last one.”
The stringy shoulder length hair on this particular no-necked meathead was

unmistakable. Tucker stared at the photo as Ford scribbled notes down in his leather-
bound tablet.

“How do people get that way?” Tucker asked, unable to look away from the screen.

“There’s no trace of humanity behind those cold, dead eyes.”

“It’s all in the lighting,” Ford said, flatly, the corner of his mouth turning up into a

slightly crooked smile.

“You sure this one’s trustworthy?” Tucker asked, eyeing Ford suspiciously.
“Not for his ability to put over a joke, apparently.” Fox laughed, shaking his head.

“But he won’t sell your ass down the river in exchange for a bag of cash.”

“It is a nice ass,” Tucker said, nonchalantly.
Ford was now staring down at him, as if he was attempting to discern how serious

Tucker had been.

“You disagree?” Tucker asked, puffing himself up as if ready to defend his ass.
“NO!” Ford said, visibly concerned over the attitude. “You have a very nice ass.”
Tucker smiled, winking at Fox who shook his head. The straight detective smirked,

no doubt realizing he’d just admitted he liked the look of a man’s ass.

“You get points for leading me into that one, Wilder.” Ford went back to scribbling

down notes in his pocket pad. “But I’m still not gay.”

Tucker opened his mouth to argue until he noted Fox shaking his head, indicating to

Tucker not to waste his breath.

“Whatever you say, Pussy-meister,” Tucker added, unable to rein in his last ounce of

sarcastic defiance.

“Charming,” Ford said, looking none too pleased over the direction his interrogation

had now turned.

“Just wait till you meet Aunt Millie,” Fox said.
Ford’s eyebrows arched as he glanced up from his notebook. “Aunt Millie?”
“She’s a real peach,” Fox said. “Then there’s the acid-tongued cousin.”
“An aunt and a cousin?” Ford asked.
“We’re a package deal. Of course, you, being straight and all, could probably have

‘em charmed and eating out of your hand in no time at all.” Tucker said.

“Still want to take him into police custody?” Fox asked.
Ford cleared his throat. “Perhaps not.”
Tucker smiled, somehow proud over the fact his family was hard to handle. The

Delacroixs didn’t do anything half way. Hell, even his mother, the drug addict, went for
it, committing whole-heartedly to the thing she loved most. They damn well weren’t
anybody’s doormat and Tucker would go down in a fiery ball of flames before he
allowed anyone to take that away from them.

Fox’s cell phone rang again, the third time since they’d arrived at the trashy motel

from hell. Tucker heard him mutter something about an Eva, as Fox walked over toward
the opposite side of the room and answered the phone.

Chapter Seven

“Fox here.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Jon Fox, where the hell have you been?”
“I’m fine, thanks Eva. Sorry it’s taken so long to call you back, but I got your

messages. All ten of them.” Fox smiled back at Ford and Tucker, both of whom were
quietly watching as he walked to the other side of the hotel room.

“Save your breath and your nasty sarcasm for someone who gives a shit, honey. Call,

don’t call. I don’t care. What the hell have you gone and gotten yourself into anyway?”
Eva asked down the line.

Fox sighed, noticing Tucker once again sizing up Rick, realizing the honeymoon

period was likely over. Soon it would be lots of screaming and jealously. “Heard any
rumors or talk going on around the Quarter about Millie Delacroix and her family?”

He could hear the disgusted sigh; apparently she’d heard something. “Boy, how is it

you are perpetually up shit creek without a paddle.”

“What have you heard, exactly?” He now had Tucker’s full attention.
“That the entire family will soon be taking an extended holiday in the marble orchard,

along with anyone caught helping them.”

“No one knows I’m helping at this point, Eva, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“Don’t get me started on all your good intentions, Jon Fox. There’s not enough time

in the day. Are you gonna get your ass down here and check out what I found on that
Clay Shaw guy.”

“You found something?”
“Uh-huh. And it looks like it’s got somethin’ to do with your daddy.”
Fox turned his back on his audience, not enjoying the feeling in his gut that things

were just about to take a turn for the worst. “We’ll be there as soon as I finish up here.”

“We?” Eva asked. “Who the hell’s we?”

***

Fox made his way swiftly along Chartres, his stride long and purposeful. He couldn't

forget Tucker's comment about the criminals’ cold, dead eyes. That empty stare was very
familiar to him. For so many years, each time he'd stepped in front of a mirror, that same
lack of humanity that had frightened Tucker had stared back at Fox through his own
reflection. Those parts of him were still inside, kept under theoretical lock and key for as
long as Fox could maintain control over himself.

It was the reason he'd stopped drinking, which had been surprisingly easy for him in

terms of the physical withdrawal. He'd not been addicted to the alcohol itself so much as
the license it gave him to do whatever he wanted. It was never his fault so long as he was
under the influence. He'd skipped the twelve steps and simply walked away from it, cold
turkey, only drinking occasionally at this point as if to continually test himself, making
sure he could stop after one and once again walk away.

Fox was well aware it wasn't the doctor recommended way, and he never shot off his

mouth over his ability to do so, nor did he recommend anyone else try to do things the
Fox way. He wasn't even convinced he'd ever completely kick that particular demon to
the curb, just that he knew himself to be strong enough to abstain if he set his mind to it.
That being said, he never allowed himself to be fooled into believing he wasn't an
alcoholic. An ability to stop wasn't the same as having no desire to start.

Weaving in and around the other people on the sidewalk, Fox kept his head down and

his face shadowed by the peak of one of the Saints caps he and Tucker purchased at a
bead-filled souvenir stores on their way into the Quarter.

With the other cap low and tight on Tucker’s head, Fox could tell he was struggling

to keep up with Fox. Occasionally he’d reach back and grip Tucker’s arm and yank him
up to pace.

“Stay close, would you?” Fox snapped. “One more block and we’ll be at the office.”
“You’re not a very good private detective, you know.”
Fox scowled at Tucker. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, Bogie would never rush through the streets like he’d just robbed a bank.

You’re supposed to be discreet. Casual. This is the Big Easy, not the Big Hurry.”

Fox tightened his grip on Tucker’s forearm, not slowing his stride for a second.

“Sometimes you blend in. And sometimes you get your ass off the street as fast as you
can before it gets shot at. The movies are seldom realistic, you know. You can’t depend
upon them for the answers.”

“You’d be surprised.” Tucker objected. “There’s a lot you can learn from a good

script, Jon Fox. Plotting, motivation, set-ups, pay-offs, twists.”

“Are you kidding me? They just make shit up.”
“Are you calling movie-makers liars? We enhance, thank you very—”
Suddenly Fox disappeared through the door to his office, yanking Tucker off the

pavement before shoving the man through the door to his building. He glanced back,
scanning the crowd, satisfied they’d managed to remain unseen.

***

“Jesus H. Christ, Jon Fox, what the hell’s going on now?” Eva asked, a hand over her

chest, startled by the ruckus they’d made entering Fox’s building.

“I’m fine, thanks Eva.”
“That wasn’t my question. And who’s this?” Eva raised one eyebrow and glanced

between the two men. “Is this the we you were talkin’ about?”

“Tucker, meet Eva. Eva, this is Tucker. And no, it’s not what you think.”
“Well, it is a little what you think.” Tuck shrugged matter-of-factly, pointing in Fox’s

direction. “But Handsy, the one-man-horn-dog band here started all that.”

“I don’t buy that for one minute, honey-child. It takes at least two to make it a band,

and you look like you’ve been itchin’ to play since you first figured out how to pluck
your string.” Eva held up both hands. “But I don’t wanna know.”

“Good. At this stage, the less you know, the better, and I mean that on so many

different levels.” Fox ignored the disgust that soured the expression on Eva’s face. “It
might not be the worst idea if you were to pack some stuff and get outta town, Eva.”

By this time, Ford would’ve made it back to the precinct and placed APBs on Marcel

Santiago and his two drug-running buddies. He had a bad feeling shit was about to hit the
proverbial fan.

“For how long, exactly? I mean, if you want me to pack a bag, how many pairs of

shoes are we talkin’ here?”

“It’s just a precaution, a few days perhaps, until things cool off here in town.”
“While what cools off? Jesus, Jon, who have you pissed off now.” She threw an

accusing glance at Tucker and added, “Whose boy is he and what the hell does any of it
have to do with Millicent Delacroix?”

“I ain’t nobody’s boy,” Tucker asserted.
Fox moved in close, taking Tucker by the shoulder. “You’re my boy till we get you

out of this mess, so just stay close.”

“Good lord,” Eva muttered, noting the hint of a smile on Tucker’s face.
“I’m not saying you have to go, Eva, just that I’d feel better were you to make

yourself scarce for a few days. I have an uneasy feeling things might get worse before
they get better.”

Eva sighed, shaking her head as she slipped a manila envelope out of the top drawer

of her desk. “I did like you asked and researched the two Clay Shaws and found
something interesting. This is a copy of Clayton Shaw’s police record. Nothing that’s
gonna put him in league with the likes of Charles Manson, just a couple of petty crimes, a
bungled attempt at some sort of charitable based fraud, a suspect for a string of low rent
burglaries, solicitation… And then there’s this.”

She turned over a page and pointed to something she had highlighted on the report.
Fox shook his head. “Clay Shaw was brought in for questioning after my father’s

suicide? Why?”

Eva shrugged. “This is just the report. Who knows? No arrests were made, as you

well know. I suggest if you wanna dig any deeper, talk to that detective friend of yours. I
suspect your relationship with Rick ain’t exactly based on deep conversations, but this is
one you might wanna have.”

Tucker looked away and fidgeted with his Saints cap.
Eva looked pleased with herself. One of her favorite hobbies was making life

awkward for Fox.

Fox rolled his eyes, glanced from Eva to Tuck and back again, then closed the folder

and gestured for her to start packing as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

“Who you calling?”
“My uncle. Need to tell him when and where to meet so we can pick up the cash and

get you and your family outta Dodge for a while.”

“Get outta Dodge?” Tucker smiled excitedly. “We’ll be on the lam? Just like Butch

Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Bonnie and Clyde. Thelma and Louise.”

Fox shook his head. “Please don’t start designating us film characters.”
“He always waste time asking for the impossible?” Tucker asked Eva before glancing

back over to Fox. “You can totally be Thelma—sheesh.”

Fox rolled his eyes.
“You’re a few fries short of a Happy Meal, huh?” Eva asked, once again eyeing

Tucker.

Tucker winked at her and Fox noticed she didn’t exactly hate it, which was a fairly

huge compliment coming from Eva.

At that moment, he was saved from their bantering when Mason answered the phone.

“Mason? It’s Jon.”

“I got you twenty thousand, just to be on the safe side.”
Fox smiled and let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks Mason. I know I can always count on

you.”

“I can meet you at the abandoned Mardi Gras costume warehouse in the old industrial

estate by the river. Nobody will see us there.”

“Sounds good.” Fox looked up at the clock on the wall. “Wanna give it a couple

hours, wait for the cover of night?”

“Fine, son.”
Mason hung up the phone.
Fox put down the receiver.
“So where are we going, Daddy Warbucks?” Tucker asked.
Fox made sure Tucker knew he didn’t appreciate the insinuation. “I’m thinking

Mexico.”

“I’m thinking Beverly Hills,” Tucker said with a hopeful shrug.
Fox grinned. “Did you know there’s a Beverly Hills in Mexico City?”
Tucker shoved him. “You’re lying.”
“I’m enhancing.”
Tucker laughed and Fox grinned, visibly proud of the way he’d taken Tucker’s

bullshit and shoveled it back at the man’s feet.

Eva sneered. “If you two don’t stop staring all googley-eyed at one another I may lose

my lunch.”

“I don’t googley…anyone.”
“Puh-lease, you’d googley everyone if they’d let you.”
“That’s rich coming from the original man-juggler. Perhaps you could impose upon

one of them for day or two?”

“Is that really necessary? If you had any idea how difficult it is for me to decide

which shoes to take or leave you wouldn’t ask me to go anywhere.”

“Then be fair and don’t take any for all I care; I just want you safe.”
Fox could tell she wasn’t happy with that solution, but she was now distracted by

Tucker, whose face had gone pale as a ghost as he stared out the front window and across
the street.

“What’s wrong with him now? He looks like death eating a cracker!”
Fox followed his line of sight to the man across the street, instantly recognizing him

as one of the Diab thugs Tucker had indentified earlier that day. His eyes widened at
seeing the guy reaching into his pocket.

Fox grabbed Tucker by the scruff of his shirt collar, pulling him down as he dove into

Eva, knocking her to the ground right before the first bullet pierced the large pane of
glass.

He held Tucker close, climbing over him as the sound of shattered glass quickly

followed the screams of panicked tourists outside. Several more shots rang out as Fox
reached down, removing his gun from his ankle holster. Releasing the safety, he quickly
sat up and fired off several rounds, sending the gunman running for cover.

Fox sat perfectly still, his gaze locked onto the street outside as pedestrians ran past

the storefront, screaming. His finger remained on the trigger, ready to fire the instant the

goon showed his face. It was several minutes later when the sound of sirens cut through
the eerie quiet that had fallen over the street that Fox realized he wasn’t coming back to
try and finish the job.

Eva sat up, eyes wide as saucers while Tucker’s shaking hand came to rest on Fox’s

shoulder.

“Still worried about your fucking shoes?” Fox asked, irritated with all her nonsense

now that they’d all nearly been killed.

“Yes,” Eva said in a breathy whisper, “but I’ll go nevertheless.”

***

The sun was setting when he and Tucker slipped out the door. They began making

their way cautiously through the streets of the French Quarter to the old Mardi Gras
warehouse by the river. Fox had already called Virgil and told him take the girls far the
hell away from De la Fontaine. Santiago and his crew definitely knew Fox was involved,
which meant no place he frequented was safe.

They hadn’t waited around for the police, grabbing up a black backpack Fox filled

with a second gun, extra rounds, a few burner phones, and the file Eva put together on
Clay Shaw. He’d left her with the gun from his ankle holster, knowing full well she knew
how to use it. She’d promised to have the police escort her home after she was finished
lying to them during their interrogation. Fox needed to get Tucker out of there, and
leaving the scene wasn’t exactly legal, therefore it was decided they’d never been there to
begin with.

She had been on the phone with their handyman when they headed to Fox’s Jeep. Eva

was sweet-talking the man, asking if he could come by and put up the plywood they
placed over the windows during hurricanes. Fox knew the police would be there any
second and believed she would be safe until they arrived. He’d purposely parked on the
outskirts of the Quarter, as it was almost always faster to get in and out on foot.

Tucker’s sweaty palm was now clamped onto Fox’s, hanging on for dear life after

having been shot at for the second time in two days. This experience would no doubt
change him, either breaking his spirit or making him stronger, more fiercely independent.
Fox was hoping for the latter of the two.

***

The grim figure in a dusty, old, bowler hat led the huddle of terrified tourists along

Royal Street in the French Quarter before stopping under the streetlamp on a particular
corner. He turned, tall and gaunt, his eye sockets shadows in the night, and the crowd
following him stopped dead in their tracks with a collective gasp.

“Do you believe in pure evil?” the tall tour guide whispered in a voice that would

have made the Devil’s skin crawl.

A young girl clutched her father’s hand and started crying. “Daddy, I’m scared!”
“Me too!” The girl’s father panted in fear before he and his daughter broke from the

crowd and ran away in terror.

The tour guide smiled, his lips thin and pale. “It’s never a job well done until I make

someone cry.”

With a dramatic sweep of his arm he suddenly turned. “Behold, the infamous

LaLaurie Mansion, the scene of New Orleans’ most monstrous murder case.”

He’d pointed to a three-story mansion on the corner of Royal and Governor Nicholls

Street, his finger long and knobby, little more than a bone covered in pale white skin.

“It was in this house that Dr. Louis LaLaurie and his wife, the truly diabolical

Delphine LaLaurie—a well-to-do couple back in the 1830s—tortured and murdered more
than a dozen of their servants. They poked out their eyes. They stitched up their mouths.
They drilled holes in the top of their skulls to stir their brains.” With a devious grin of his
own, the tour guide made gestures with his spindly fingers. “And when they were done,
they bricked them inside a room with no windows, and left them mutilated, waiting to
die. They say the souls of the dead haunt the LaLaurie house to this very day. And that
evil still lives and breathes inside the very walls, waiting to claim yet another.”

Stunned and horrified, the small group looked from the wicked smile of their tour

guide, up to the haunted mansion, and back again.

The tour guide eyeballed them all one by one, as though studying their faces.

Remembering them. Several of the tourists gulped nervously.

“Are there any questions?” the tour guide whispered, daring any of them to speak.
Timidly one man raised his hand and said, “Can we go now?”
The guide straightened sharply and nodded. “Why of course. This concludes tonight’s

Gruesome Graves tour. My name is Mr. Graves. Please be so kind as to leave your tips in
the hat,” he said, taking the bowler from his head and spinning it upside down before
adding, “otherwise I’ll be so unkind as to leave a curse upon each of you.”

Several ten, twenty, even fifty dollar bills were hastily tossed into the hat before every

last member of the group scurried off in multiple directions, running for their lives.

As he watched them all disappear into the dark, Mr. Graves tried to laugh, although it

was more like a smile with a cough. He pocketed his money with glee. Indeed, he loved
to frighten people then watch them hand over their cash. It was one of his favorite ways
to earn money.

Pocket money, that is.
Earning real cash was even more fun.
As Mr. Graves stood across the street from New Orleans’ house of horrors, the cell

phone in his jacket pocket rang. He answered it with his a single word. “Graves.”

The voice on the other end was stern. “This is Mason Wilkes. I have a job for you

worth twenty thousand dollars.”

“When?”
“Tonight, just after nine. Down by the old abandoned Mardi Gras warehouse. The

target is my nephew, Jon Fox. Six foot one, dark hair. He’ll be carrying a silver briefcase.
The money will be inside. I take it you’re still in the business of…what’s the proper term
for it? Body snatching?”

“You make it sound so morbid, Mr. Wilkes. We in the business prefer to think of it as

more of a ‘resurrection.’”

“Just so long as it’s untraceable, I don’t care.”
“Untraceable is what I do best, Mr. Wilkes. No blood. No body. No clues. Nothing

left for a crime scene investigator to collect and take back to a lab.” He glanced at the
third floor of the LaLaurie mansion and grinned. “Why, I’ll brick that crime up like a
room with no windows.”

With that Mr. Graves hung up his cell phone, turned, and vanished into a fog that

suddenly sailed down the streets of the French Quarter off the mighty Mississippi.

Chapter Eight

The fog was rolling in from the river so fast that Tucker was almost convinced he was

watching a special effect from a horror movie. He gripped his silver briefcase a little
tighter, having discovered he’d left it in the back seat of Jon’s Jeep the night before. He’d
been kicking himself for leaving it there, all the stress and confusion the night before no
longer seeming like a sufficient excuse. It was the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose, his
precious ticket back to L.A.—

—assuming he managed to discover a way out of this mess. At the moment he was

merely terrified, not enjoying the creep factor of their current location and wishing he had
a hand to hold, too. Hell, even if Betty turned out to be a murderess, there was cinematic
hit in the making, Tucker could feel it. So the script ended up more along the lines of
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil than The Notebook?

One thing was certain: Tucker refused to accept the fact it would end up becoming a

tale he'd not ever be able to tell.

In the darkness he turned, glancing from the approaching fog to the dilapidated old

warehouse in the distance. There was a rusted old ‘Mardi Gras Magic’ sign featuring a
creepy clown’s face sitting on top of the three-story-high warehouse. It looked like it had
been a while since anything magical had happened in that place.

Frustrated, he decided to hug the case to his chest for reassurance instead, not feeling

comfortable grabbing hold of Fox anymore, wondering exactly how many guys like Det.
Ford there were throughout the Quarter.

Looking for a distraction from that thought he asked, “Are you sure your uncle

wanted to meet us here? Any minute a phone’s gonna ring and some demonic voice is
gonna ask us what our favorite scary movie is!”

“Tuck, this is serious; someone’s trying to kill you.”
“Uh…my friggin’ point exactly…so why are we hanging out on the dead-ass end of

Murder Avenue?”

“Mason knows as well as I do that we needed to meet someplace out of the way.

Where nobody’s gonna see us.”

“I won’t be able to find you soon,” Tucker commented, referring to the fog that had

now swept in off the river, covering the night in a silky veil.

“Here,” Fox said, reaching through the mist. “Take my hand.”
Tucker did so, feeling Fox’s warm, strong fingers entwine with his, and suddenly he

didn’t feel quite so frightened anymore.

In the distance, headlights appeared through the fog. The hum of an approaching car

accompanied the lights.

“Is it your uncle?” Tucker asked apprehensively.
“I hope so. Why don’t you go hide behind those old containers and stay outta sight.

Just in case.”

“Just in case of what?”
“In case it’s not Mason. In case I need to get us both outta here in a hurry.”

“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine. I’m better on my own.”
“Oh,” Tucker said. “I see.”
Fox shook his head, reaching back to pull the gun out from the waistband of his jeans.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I didn’t take it like that,” Tucker shrugged nonchalantly, acting badly.
He let go of Fox’s hand and took one step backward, then another, then disappeared

behind the stack of old cargo containers a short distance away.

“Dammit, Fox, maybe if you put in a little extra effort, you could be an even bigger

insensitive asshole,” Fox whispered.

The car made its way toward him on the pothole-filled road that ran alongside the

warehouse, illuminating Fox in the bouncing headlights.

The car came to a halt and dust mingled with the fog in the headlight beams.
The driver’s door opened and the silhouette of a man stepped out.
Fox tried to shield his eyes from the glare, not recognizing the car—a large black

BMW—as his uncle's. At least not at first.

“Jon? Are you alright?”
Fox sighed with relief at the sound of his uncle’s voice and shoved the gun back into

the back of his jeans. “Yeah,” he nodded, watching as Mason hurried toward him, a silver
briefcase in his hand.

Mason stopped in front of his nephew, put down the case, and embraced him. “Thank

God. I was worried that something terrible had happened to you.”

“We’re not out of the woods yet.”
“We?” Mason asked. “You’re not alone?”
Fox almost turned and called to Tucker to come on out. But he realized once again

that the less Mason knew, the better. So he lied. “No, there’s no we. Just me.”

“Oh, good. Here,” Mason said, handing Fox the silver briefcase. “There’s twenty

thousand dollars cash inside. It should take care of you.”

Fox took the case. “Thanks again. I really owe you for this one.”
“Don’t mention it,” Mason smiled in the harsh beam of the headlights. “We’re

family.”

With that, he patted Fox’s shoulder and turned back toward the car. Before he slid

behind the wheel, Fox called to him. “I’ll call you when I can. To let you know I’m
okay.”

“Please do. I’d hate to think anything bad had happened to you.”
Mason climbed into the car, shut the door, and turned the car around.
As the red taillights trailed off through the fog, Fox knelt, unsnapped the briefcase

locks, and opened the lid. Bundles of cash were laid out neatly inside. He took one of the
bundles and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans and called, “Tuck, come on out.”

As Fox closed the lid on the case, he quickly reset the combination on the locks,

slowly realizing there was no sound, no sign of Tucker from behind the containers.

Fox gripped the briefcase and stood. “Tuck, I said come out. My uncle’s gone.”
Nothing.
Fox took a deep breath and let out a frustrated sigh. “Look, if you’re pissed off about

what I said, about being better off on my own. I told you, I didn’t mean it to sound like
that. I only meant—”

Suddenly Fox caught sight of a tall shadow moving between the rusted containers, too

tall to be Tucker.

“Tuck?”
Fox dropped the briefcase.
He ran as fast as he could toward the tall ghostly figure as it materialized again

between the containers. This time Fox realized the man was carrying something over his
shoulder.

Something that looked like a body.
Fox’s heart hammered with dread.
He raced after the figure only to stop once it disappeared into the darkened mist

again. Panicked, Fox ran behind two stacked containers that made a makeshift wall and
realized as he rounded the corner there were hundreds more of the giant steel boxes,
stacked haphazardly throughout the old industrial yard.

Fox turned left.
Right.
He scanned the darkness, looking for any sign of movement at all.
Darting between more of the containers, he kept moving and listening for sounds of

life, getting lost deeper and deeper within the metal maze.

Then suddenly he caught sight of something up ahead.
A body slumped on the ground.
He recognized Tuck’s t-shirt.
“Oh God,” Fox breathed in panic. “God, no.”
He bolted as fast as he could, knowing it was Tucker lying there. He skidded to his

knees next to the motionless body. He took Tucker in his arms, wanting to be gentle yet
trying to shake him awake with all his strength. Wanting desperately to hug the life back
into him.

“Tuck! Wake up! Can you hear me!”
But Tucker was heavy in his arms.
Almost a dead weight.
Almost.
As Fox squeezed him and shook him, slowly Tucker’s eyes opened.
Just a little.
Just enough.
Enough to mumble something.
At first Fox couldn’t make out the words at all.
He took Tucker’s face in his hands, his head limp in his hands, and leaned in close.

He pressed his ear against Tucker’s lips and whispered, “Say it again. Talk to me, baby.”
Fox was trying to keep himself calm, but not being able to see where Tucker was hurt left
him feeling helpless and unsure whether or not it was okay to move him.

Maybe Ford had been right all along, he wasn’t capable of keeping Tucker safe,

wasn’t strong enough to protect the man from all the darkness snapping at his heels.

Fuck, if my ego has impaired my better judgment and he dies here in this horrible

place I will never forgive myself.

Then he heard Tucker’s words, faint and hot against his ear, just before Tucker slid

into unconsciousness once more.

“Behind you.”

Fox spun around.
He caught a single glimpse of a gaunt, ghastly figure grinning down on him.
He felt something sharp stab him in the neck.
He felt the cold rush of poison swim through his veins.
Instantly his limbs went limp.
His eyes fluttered and closed.
And Jon Fox’s body melted onto Tucker’s.

***

Wiping his brow, Mr. Graves stepped down from the chair, which he then proceeded

to kick across the room. It had taken him nearly thirty minutes to get both men inside the
warehouse and up the flight of stairs into the large kitchen. He checked his watch,
realizing another twenty had passed getting them each trussed up so he could complete
the process. He was cursing Mason Wilkes under his breath. The deal was for one victim,
not two, dammit. If there was one thing Mr. Graves despised more than anything else, it
was surprises.

He stood back now and surveyed his work.
Both men were handcuffed to one another, each by one arm, and were dangling from

a pipe running along the ceiling. They were both attractive and despite the inconvenience,
he was at least compensated by the thought of having more than one offering for the good
Sister.

“Then again, she is only expecting one,” Graves said, taking a step closer to evaluate

his subjects more closely. “I do need a new playmate, as the time I have left with my
current one is coming to a close.”

They were each ruggedly handsome, but something about the unexpected blond

caught his eye. Yes, he thought, running his thin, long fingers along the man’s jaw. He
was both handsome in the masculine sense yet also borderline pretty.

“Such fun I could have with you.”
He was just beginning to lift up the blond’s t-shirt when Jon Fox groaned, his eyes

fluttering open.

Graves cursed Mason again, hissing as he crossed the room to his leather medical

bag. He’d had to split the already light initial dose of the tetrodotoxin between the two of
them as he’d only had the one hypodermic on him at that point. A mistake he wouldn’t
have made had he known ahead of time there would be more than one subject.

Digging out a black case, Graves carefully opened the lid revealing nine other needles

filled with an icy-blue looking serum. The Zombification process was a slow one,
requiring several smaller doses over a five to six hour period. Try going too fast and you
risked frying the subject’s brain, turning them into a vegetable. A risk Mr. Graves didn’t
mind, however the good Sister would not be at all happy with him should that occur.

If managed properly, the beauty behind the long-term process was that you could

keep the subject alive for years in a mindless state of total obedience.

Graves spun around, hearing Fox groaning louder and beginning to rustle about. He

slid one of the needles from the case and headed straight for the man, worried that Fox
seemed to be more resilient than most against the effects of the drug.

“This could be a problem, in which case I’ll be forced to kill you now, Mr. Fox,”

Graves said, seeing the man’s eyes pop open and widen as Graves moved swiftly toward
him.

A loud bang caught Graves’ attention and he stopped, needle only inches away from

Fox’s neck. His lip curled, quickly crossing the room to peer through the grime-covered
window that looked out over the parking lot.

“Damn it,” Graves cursed, his jaw clenched, immediately furious upon seeing

Santiago and his men climbing out of a large SUV. There were four of them, too many
for him to handle on his own, and there wasn’t enough time for him to escape with either
Fox or the blond. Quickly he scanned the kitchen and saw the old stove.

Fox was now mumbling full words, coming down off the drug at an alarmingly rapid

rate. Graves rushed to the stove and held his breath, hastily turning all of the knobs and
listening intently for that familiar hiss. At first, he wasn’t positive, and then he caught
whiff of that familiar rotten egg scent. Only one burner appeared to be working, and was
barely seeping at that, but it would have to do.

There wasn’t time for anything more.
He smiled, realizing he may be able to escape this situation without incurring the

Sister’s wrath. He would have to leave the offerings intended for her, but he could take
out Santiago in the process, possibly garnering some leniency.

Graves rushed to his bag across the room and pulled out a candle and a lighter. He

quickly set the flame to the blunt end, dripping the hot wax into a small pool on the
rickety wooden table, which he then used to keep the candle upright. It was far enough
away from the stove not to do any immediate damage, and would let the room slowly fill
with gas, giving Santiago and his men enough time to stumble across Graves’ rather
impromptu trap before—Kaboom!

Mr. Graves giggled with delight, then lit the wick and quickly gathered his things

before slipping quietly out the door, closing it behind him.

***

Dangling from the ceiling pipe, Fox blinked his bleary eyes, feeling like he was

suffocating, stuck under water with no way to escape. The weight of his eyelids opening
and closing was like an iron door slamming down on his head.

Despite the pain, he stirred as quickly as he could, blinking madly, trying to wake

himself up. His gaze came in and out of focus and Fox slowly realized he was in a smelly
old kitchen. He’d been halfway aware of his surrounding the entire time, trapped inside
his own body but unable to scream, fight, or attempt to run. He glanced up, noticing one
arm was hoisted above his head, his wrist bound to something.

No, not bound. It was cuffed.
And it wasn’t just cuffed to something, it was cuffed to Tucker’s wrist.
The handcuffs hung over a metal pipe that ran along the ceiling, suspending the two

of them off the floor, leaving them dangling from the pipe by their cuffed hands, their
feet hanging mere inches above the ground.

He struggled to shift his weight, his arm now feeling as if it were being ripped from

his shoulder.

Tucker was still asleep or unconscious or whatever the hell you’d call the effects of

whatever that freakish man had shot them up with.

“Tucker, wake up!”
“I’m ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille,” Tucker mumbled in his semi-conscious

state.

Fox rolled his eyes, cursing under his breath while quickly sizing up their

surroundings. The kitchen wasn’t huge but it was all open, with grimy windows along
one wall and a big gas stove in the middle of the room with six stovetop burners. Along
the ceiling were several dusty, bare bulbs hanging from old wires and glowing brightly.
Above the stovetop were pans, skillets, and a selection of rusty knives hooked to a pot
rack. And across the kitchen was a closed door. He could only assume they were now
inside the old warehouse; he could still smell the musty stench of moldy stuffing and
rotting foam from decades of abandoned Mardi Gras floats and costumes.

He also caught a whiff of another scent.
Fox smelled gas.
He glanced down at the stovetop and listened, eyes widening at hearing the faint hiss.

A moment later, something else caught his eye—the bright flicker of a flame. Fox’s wide,
horrified eyes stared at the candle burning on the far side of the room.

“Oh fuck. Tucker! Wake up!”
“Everything’s as if we never said goodbye,” Tucker slurred dreamily through a sleepy

smile.

“Listen to me! We’re gonna be saying goodbye real fuckin’ soon if we don’t get outta

here!”

Tucker smacked his lips. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
Fox growled, desperation creeping over him yet again as he slapped Tucker across the

face with his free hand.

Tucker spasmed in shock and confusion and Fox took the opportunity to slap him

again, thinking he’d enjoyed that a little more than he should’ve in that precise moment.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Tucker screamed, suddenly wide awake, glancing

around him with a giddy, wide-eyed stare. “And where the fuck are we? And why the
fuck are my feet not touching the ground?” His voice fell to a whisper. “Damn it, are we
dead? Am I flying?”

Smack!
Fox slapped him again.
“No we’re not dead. But we will be in a few minutes if you don’t snap out of it.”
“Smack me again, and one of us won’t last much longer, asshole.” Tucker snapped.
Fox growled, reaching over and grabbing Tucker’s chin, forcing his face in the

direction of the candle. Then he jerked his chin toward the stove and Tucker sniffed
carefully at the air.

“What is that, gas? Are you trying to kill me? I’m not Sylvia Plath, you know!”
Fox raised his hand but clenched his fist instead of actually hitting the man. “Would

you stop with the jokes!”

“That wasn’t a joke! Haven’t you seen The Bell Jar? No, of course not, you’re too

busy dodging bullets and exchanging money in the dead of night.”

“Correction! I’m too busy saving your ass!”
“Well I’m sorry to be a burden, sue me for having had the audacity to walk home

from work at night!” Tucker spluttered again. “I didn’t ask for any of this you know!”

They were each struggling to pull which was getting them nowhere.

Fox reached up and grabbed the pipe with his free hand, trying to lower Tucker

enough to get his feet on the ground. Tucker stretched, but only the very tips of his shoes
scraped the floor.

“Not enough,” Tucker said.
“You try,” Fox said, letting go so Tucker could repeat the action and pull his body up,

lowering Fox.

Fox was taller, but not tall enough, unable to get any real footing.
As Tucker dropped back down and Fox’s toes lifted off the floor, they were once

again face-to-face.

“You couldn’t save the kinky shit for later?” Tucker gestured to his left hand cuffed

to Fox’s right hand above their hands. “Christ…take me to a goddamn leather dungeon
next time, daddy.”

“I’m going to slap you again, so help me,” Fox muttered, glancing around the room,

trying to come up with some way to get them out of here.

“I’m trying not to freak out here, okay?”
“Well, can you do that quietly, so I can think?” Fox said.
“Who the hell gave you that hickey on your neck, anyway?” Tucker asked, looking

irritated.

Fox touched his neck with his free hand and felt the swollen lump. He gestured to

Tucker’s neck. “I’m guessing it was the same guy who gave you yours.”

Tucker touched his own neck, then blinked at the vague memories filling his head.

“There was a guy! Hiding behind the containers! Jesus, he was scarier than a bunch of
Christian campers staging a tent revival! He jabbed me with something nasty… right
after I heard you tell your uncle ‘there was no we’.”

Tucker glared at Fox accusingly.
“I was trying to protect you!” Fox shouted.
“Maybe so. But I’m starting to think that deep down, everything that comes out of

your mouth is to try and protect yourself from any threat of actual feelings.”

“Right now, everything that comes out of your mouth is gonna get us killed! You’re

chewing up air. If we don’t get outta here in the next ten minutes, you and me are gonna
go boom, at which point we won’t be feeling anything.”

Tucker glanced down at the gas-seeping stovetop, then up at their cuffed hands, then

back at Fox. His focus of conversation instantly shifted. “Okay, okay. Tell me what to do.
How can I help?”

“Been waiting to hear those words for two days now.” Fox surveyed the terrain once

more, ignoring Tucker’s grumbling. He looked up at the pipe, then over at the saucepans
and utensils dangling from the pot rack above the stove. His eyes settled on a long sharp
carving knife.

“That knife,” Fox said, pointing with his free hand. “See if you can reach it.”
“Way over there? I’m handcuffed, if you hadn’t noticed. To you!”
“I know! Which is why I’m gonna pick the lock on the cuffs with the knife that

you’re gonna get for me. Simple.”

Tucker took a deep breath. “You really are nuts! What did you have in mind,

teleportation?

Fox smiled. “I’ll let you figure that out.”
“And Plan B is?”

“I yank this fuckin’ pipe clean out of the ceiling.”
“Let’s make that Plan A and the knife Plan B.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just try your best while I’m workin’ on this pipe, would ya?”
They each took hold of the pipe with both hands, lifting their weight to free one

another from the give and take pull of the handcuffs. As Fox started jerking at the pipe
above their heads to try to loosen it, Tucker turned his attention to the knife hanging from
the pot rack above the gas-seeping burners on the stove. He blinked at the glare of the
light bulbs dangling between him and the knife. With one hand holding onto the pipe
above his head, Tucker reached his free arm out as far as it would stretch.

He had no hope of reaching that knife that way.
He glanced down at his feet suspended a few inches above the floor.
“Scissor-legs!” he thought aloud, a little excited that perhaps he might be able to help

out after all.

Yes! If a lifetime of crunches and lunges was ever going to pay off, let it pay off now.
He toed off a shoe, and used the rubber sole of the other to roll off his sock, figuring

he’d have an actual chance of retrieving the knife with his toes.

He took a deep breath to hoist his legs high, but spluttered against the drugs still in his

system. His head spun for a moment, but he blinked back the giddiness and with a
strenuous grunt, he raised both legs, pointing them up toward the pot rack.

His hips and thighs burned almost immediately.
He tried using one leg for balance, his foot pointed and his toes wriggling, as if

beckoning for the knife.

His legs began to shake.
One foot hit a light bulb, which started to swing back and forth.
Tucker’s muscles spasmed in pain.
“Come on,” he whispered to himself. “You can do it!”
But the strain turned his stretching legs into swaying, sweeping limbs.
Scissor-legs became spaghetti-legs.
He knocked a second dangling light bulb.
It swung through the air and smashed straight into the first swinging light.
Both bulbs exploded.
Splinters of glass showered over the stovetops—
—as did the red-hot glowing element of one of the broken bulbs.
Tucker gasped.
Foomp!
The gas erupted into a huge, flaming plume that swept up from the stovetop and half

way along the ceiling.

Tucker had felt the heat blowing past his face and was now dangling wide-eyed,

glancing over his shoulder back toward Fox.

“What the hell was that?” Fox asked—still yanking as hard as he could on the ceiling

pipe—concentrating so hard he didn’t even notice the stove light up.

He was more concerned about the sound of something smashing and the noticeable

loss of light in the room.

“Tuck? What did you do to the lights?”
“Ah… nothing?” Tucker said with an unconvincing quaver in his voice. “How’s that

Plan A of yours coming along?”

He didn’t bother listening to Fox’s answer. Instead, he tried blowing at the fire

fountain still burning on the stovetop several feet away. He stopped, realizing that since
they weren’t dead, it was actually a good thing. No more gas fumes meant no more
chance of going boom.

“I think I’ve almost got it,” Fox said, still concentrating on the pipe, jerking at it with

his cuffed hand while pushing on the ceiling with his other hand, trying to force the two
apart.

The pipe rattled.
Several rivets and bolts shuddered loose further along the pipe where it turned down

from the ceiling and ran down a wall of the kitchen.

Tucker began to help pull on the pipe, seeing that Fox was getting close, deciding

there was no point in telling him about the insignificant fire he started.

They both hauled even harder on the pipe, and with a clunk and a clatter several rivets

snapped free.

The pipe jolted, and although the ceiling brackets only gave an inch or two, a joint

connecting two sections of the pipe to the wall snapped away completely.

The two parts of pipe in the wall separated.
And began shooting gas into the air, again.
“Oh fuck,” Fox breathed. “It’s a gas pipe.”
He finally turned to Tucker, only to see Tuck smiling weakly while trying to block

Fox’s view of the stovetop.

Fox’s eyes widened as Tucker’s body swung back and forth revealing the blaze.

“What the fuck is that?”

Tucker stopped grinning. “Um… it’s a teensy… you know… just a little fire, baby.”
“You started a fire in a room filling up with gas?” Fox asked using an, are-you-nuts

panicked tone of voice.

“Well, you broke a gas pipe!” Tucker pointed out accusingly.
“Yes, I broke the gas pipe!”
“Well…there’s a fire in here! You shouldn’t have done that, damn it!”
“And there’s gonna be an explosion in here any second, so shut up and help me get

this pipe off the ceiling! Now!”

“Oh God, we’re gonna die!” Tuck yanked on the pipe with all his might.
Together they gave the pipe a hard pull.
Several ceiling brackets shot through the air.
With another jerk, a long section of the pipe buckled and cracked.
It took one more jolt and a loud grunt from both men to snap the pipe clean off the

ceiling.

Still cuffed together, the two men crashed to the ground.
Tucker covered his head as pipe and plaster crashed down on top of him. He

scrambled to get his sneaker out from under his ass.

But before he could even push the debris off him, Fox jerked Tucker to his feet, and

they sprinted to the door.

As Fox pushed through the door, Tucker heard the hiss of gas turn into a lightning

crackle, as the flame from the stovetop suddenly shot into the air—

—and the entire kitchen erupted into a ball of fire behind them.
The force of the blast launched Fox and Tucker across the vast interior of the

warehouse.

As Tucker sailed through the air, his scream drowned out by the roar of the explosion,

his vision filled with bizarre and grotesque images, illuminated by the bright yellow flare
of the blast.

The giant, blood-red head of a grinning Satan.
The white-robed figure of a halo-crowned saint.
The huge nightmarish faces of menacing, mocking clowns.
It was into one of those faces that Fox and Tucker crashed, slamming into its round,

red, plaster, and foam nose before rolling down the side and smashing to the floor of the
warehouse.

Chapter Nine

With a shake of his head, Fox sat up.
He turned to Tucker, who was struggling to slip on his shoe with only one hand. “Are

you okay?”

“What?” Tucker shouted back, trying to wring out his ear with one finger.
“I said, are you okay?” Fox shouted back.
“Of course I’m gay!” Tucker yelled. “For a detective you pick the strangest times to

ask the most idiotic questions.”

“Yeah, you’re okay.” Fox surmised. He helped Tucker to his feet and glanced over

toward the fire that had now consumed the entire warehouse kitchen, threatening to do
the same to the entire warehouse. “Come on, we gotta get outta here.”

With Tucker in tow, Fox weaved his way through the maze of oversized caricature

heads and moldy props and costumes that filled the warehouse. He looked up around the
cavernous space. There were three levels of suspended gangplanks and metal walkways,
along with several pulley and chain systems used for lifting and positioning the heavier-
set pieces. The entire space glowed in the light of the kitchen fire, and smoke was rising
quickly to the ceiling.

Every muscle in his body tensed as Fox spotted three shadows moving through the

labyrinth of oversized heads.

He stopped dead in his tracks.
Tucker bumped into him and took a breath to say, or rather, shout something.
Fox quickly covered Tuck’s mouth.
“Shhh. We’re not alone.”
The click of the gun being pressed to Fox’s head confirmed it, along with the gruff

voice announcing, “You can say that again, sweetheart.”

Fox’s eyes shot open. He tried to see the large man standing to his left, holding the

gun to Fox’s head. Out of the corner of his eye, Fox could make out the merciless glint in
the man’s eyes, and the intricate, script-like tattoos all over his face.

“I ain’t your sweetheart.”
“Oh, really?” Santiago grinned. “Word around town is you’re everyone’s sweetheart.

Now why don’t the both of you take a step back. We’re going for a little walk outside.”

Slowly Tucker and Fox did as they were ordered as Santiago pointed the gun at one,

then the other.

That’s when Santiago saw something else in the glow of the fire.
“What’s that on your neck?” Santiago asked Tucker, his voice shifting from curiosity

to fury in five short words.

Before Tuck could answer, Santiago’s large hand seized him by the throat and glared

at the bruised lump and puncture mark there. “What the fu—?”

Santiago finished the question with a clatter of teeth leaving his head, as Fox

slammed his free hand into the large man’s cheek so hard it made Santiago wish he was
on a better dental plan.

Santiago’s teeth scuttled across the floor like loose change.
A second later, his semi-conscious body crashed to the ground on top of his bloody

teeth.

And with another yank on the cuffs, Fox and Tucker were again running as fast as

they could. They bolted away from Santiago, away from the fire, until they slammed
headlong into one of the barrel-chested henchman.

Fox threw a punch as the goon lifted his gun.
A mouthful of knuckles sent the henchman into a backward stagger as Fox reeled

right, pulling Tuck up a set of grid-metal stairs that led to the first suspended walkway.

As they clambered fast up the steps, rising up above the abandoned Mardi Gras maze

below, the entire warehouse came into view. Fox saw the fire rising from the melting
kitchen and engulfing the entire south wall of the warehouse along with several
dilapidated old floats. Football-sized chunks of flaming fluff, foam or stuffing had begun
to float through the air, glowing like those rice paper sky lanterns. Pretty to look at, but
Fox knew they’d only serve to help spread the fire even faster.

He counted one, two, three of Santiago’s men spreading out across the cluttered

warehouse floor. One of them was charging up a staircase adjacent to the one they were
on, heading for the same walkway.

Fox and Tucker hit the gangplank and clanged their way up the next set of stairs,

heading to the second level of walkways.

Suddenly a gun fired from below them.
A bullet ricocheted off the railing next to Fox.
He and Tucker ducked before Fox dragged Tucker along behind him in a low-

crouching dash.

“Where are we going?” Tucker shouted in panic as he peered down through the metal

grid beneath his bare feet.

“We’re getting the hell out of here!” was Fox’s only answer.
“Up is not out!”
“And down is not alive!” Fox argued back.
Tucker glanced back down through the grate. Far below, he caught a glimpse of

Santiago getting back up and wiping his bloody chin before taking aim.

Another bullet sent sparks flying off the metal inches from Tucker’s running feet.
They reached the second walkway and Fox quickly sized up the smoke-filled upper

levels of the warehouse. He saw a ladder at the end of the gangplank he was now on. It
led up to the roof.

Fox grinned.
Immediately he started sprinting along the gangplank toward the ladder, a stumbling,

panting Tucker in tow.

But halfway along the gangplank, suspending high above the warehouse floor, he

stopped dead.

The henchman from the adjacent staircases appeared twenty feet in front of them,

grinning, gun in hand, finger on the trigger—

—standing between them and the ladder out of there.
Standing behind Fox, Tucker said, “Go punch him!”
“Are you crazy! He’s got a gun!”
“He’ll miss. Bad guys always miss in the movies!”

Suddenly the henchman aimed his gun and fired.
A bullet shot through the air—
—sparks flew just to their left.
“Ah fuck!!!!!” Fox screamed, doubling over in pain.
“Christ, are you okay?”
“Of course I’m not okay, the fucker just shot me!”
“Well, that’s not supposed to happen!”
“Well, clearly it did! Fuck!” Fox put his hand to his side and it came away liquid red,

though he was fairly certain the bullet had bounced off the railing first.

Twenty feet away, the henchman started laughing and walking toward them, his

trigger finger ready to take another shot.

Fox knew this was a battle they weren’t gonna win.
He glanced behind Tucker and knew that retreat would only get each of them a bullet

in the back.

He looked down.
Saw the gangplank below, too far to jump.
He caught sight of the metal winch wheel connected to a pulley, midway between

them and the first level gangplank.

He shot a glance at the approaching henchman, then looked at Tucker and quickly

asked, “Do you trust me?”

And for perhaps the first time in his life, Tucker didn’t have a single quip or joke or

dramatic remark in his head. All he wanted to say was… Yes!

Unfortunately, he didn’t get a chance.
Because Jon Fox wasn’t waiting for an answer.
With a hard shove, Fox pushed Tucker over the railing of the gangplank.
With a surprised scream, Tucker fell into the air—
—then snapped to a halt, his fall saved by the cuffs on his wrist.
Fox grunted hard, his side burning with even more pain as he leaned as far as he

could over the railing, holding all of Tucker’s weight by the cuffs that dug deep into his
wrist, drawing blood.

Closing in fast, the henchman took hasty aim at Fox and fired, his bullet bouncing off

the railing.

With all his strength, Fox moved his cuffed arm left and right, sending Tucker into a

pendulum swing.

“What the fuck are you doing!” Tucker shouted, looking down in fear, then up in

panic as he saw the henchman through the metal grate take aim at Fox once more.

Another bullet bounced off the metal in a blast of sparks.
“The winch wheel! Grab the winch wheel!”
Tucker looked desperately around.
He saw the winch wheel as he swung toward it.
Then swing away from it.
Then reached as far as he could.
On the gangplank above, the henchman charged at Fox.
He fired another shot, this time at close range.
But Fox was already flipping himself over the railing.
He plunged through the air.

Tuck caught the wheel.
He held on as tight as he could with one hand—
—while the other snapped tight, saving Fox’s fall, sending Fox into a pendulum

swing that Tucker simply couldn’t hold.

His fingers slipped from the wheel.
A second later, Fox’s ass slammed onto the metal grate of the first level gangplank.
He groaned in pain, but not as much as he did when Tucker crashed on top of him a

moment later.

“Fuck!” Fox cried in pain.
“Fuck!” Tuck screamed in panic.
For standing over them was a second goon, his gun pointed straight down at Fox and

Tucker.

Despite his pain, Fox kicked at the henchman’s shin—hard.
Tucker heard a bone break and winced just as the henchman howled in pain and

dropped onto the walkway so hard the entire gangplank rattled. He dropped his gun to
clutch his broken leg. His weapon clanged along the grated metal, heading for the edge.

Fox made a dive and grabbed it just in time.
“Behind you,” Tuck shouted.
Fox turned to see a third henchman running along the walkway toward them. He fired

off a shot. The bullet thumped straight into the goon’s chest, killing him instantly.

Tucker gasped. “Holy shit…you just killed that guy? And here I was thinking the leg-

break was harsh!”

Fox ignored him, listening instead to the sound of more boots thudding against metal.

He looked up and saw the henchman from the second level clambering down the stairs
toward them.

Fox looked around for a fast escape.
He saw a pulley suspended above them, positioned just on the other side of the

railing. A chain was looped around the pulley wheel; one end of the chain ran all the way
to the floor of the warehouse, a hook attached to the last link, while the other end of the
chain hung only a few feet below the pulley, an arm’s length from the walkway, with a
second metal hook attached.

Fox suddenly slammed his and Tucker’s cuffed hand down on the metal grate. “Look

away and don’t move!”

“What do you mean, look away and don’t—?”
Tucker screamed again as Fox aimed the gun at the handcuff chain and pulled the

trigger.

The links shattered and Fox and Tucker’s hands separated in a burst of sparks.
“Jesus, man! A little warn…” Tucker trailed off, feeling the goon from above jump

onto the same walkway that Fox and Tucker were on, Fox hoisted Tuck to his feet and
nodded toward the hook dangling from the pulley.

“Grab that chain! Now!”
“And do what?” Tuck asked, climbing over the railing.
“Hold on for dear life!”
As soon as Tucker grabbed the chain, Fox pushed him off the railing.
The chain clattered into motion, and with a scream that echoed through the crackling,

burning warehouse, Tucker plunged toward the ground—only a tad slower than if he had

jumped.

When he hit the ground, he did it ass first and with a very loud grunt.
“You’re supposed to tuck and roll when you land!” Fox shouted down to him.
“Thanks for the tip!” Tucker screamed back, staggering to his feet and nursing his

bruised tailbone with one hand.

Unfortunately, his other hand—the hand with the cuff still wrapped around his waist

—was caught on the hook. The broken links from the handcuff had become snagged.
Tucker tried to pull and shake his hand free, but he was snared.

“Looks like you’re stuck, my pretty sitting duck.”
Tucker recognized the voice and looked up to see Marcel Santiago coming toward

him. He gulped in terror and called, “Fox!”

But up on the walkway, Fox was busy with problems of his own.
While the goon with the broken leg continued to howl and roll around on the

walkway, the henchman from the second level moved toward Fox, his gun drawn.

He took a shot at Fox that ricocheted off the pulley beside Fox.
Fox returned fire, his bullet hitting a steel beam just above the henchman’s head.
It set off a round of hasty shots from both men.
One bullet smashed into the metal grate at Fox’s feet.
Another whistled passed the goon’s ear.
Another ripped through a rope near Fox’s head, causing a heavy sandbag to drop next

to him on the walkway.

Then suddenly—
Click!
Fox stared at his gun. The chamber was empty.
The goon laughed, squeezed his own trigger, and—
Click!
With an angry growl, the henchman realized he was out, too.
He hurled his weapon at Fox who ducked the flying gun, then stood in time to see the

huge henchman ball up his fists and charge at him with a loud, guttural roar.

“Fox!” Tucker shouted on the floor of the warehouse.
All he got back was “I’m kinda busy right—” followed by a heavy thud.
Tucker jerked as hard as he could on the hook and chain, but the cuff wasn’t coming

loose. He had no choice but to stand and fight.

“Alright you stupid, ugly bully! Why don’t you say hello to my little friend!”
With that, Tucker bunched up his one free hand and swung his fist back and forth

through the air.

Santiago stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. He looked at the gun in

his hand and from the look that shot across his eyes, Tucker could see he thought about
using it for second. But then he tossed it to one side, rolled up his sleeves and grinned,
“This is gonna be fun.”

“Oh shit,” Tuck breathed.
They each seemed slightly surprised when Tucker’s fist slammed into Santiago’s jaw,

causing the man to shake his head a little.

The effect didn’t last long.
Tucker could tell Marcel was even more pissed off now. “Okay Marcy…I think we

both realize now that violence isn’t the answer, right?”

With a confident step forward, Santiago slammed his knuckles straight into the

middle of Tucker’s face.

Tucker’s head snapped back, then rolled forward on his neck, nose bleeding, eyes

blinking back the spinning stars. “Sweet fuckin’ Jesus, that hurt!”

“Is that any way to talk to your Christ if you want him to receive you?”
“Oh, he’s not my Christ,” Tucker said, snorting up blood, trying to make conversation

to delay the next blow. “And trust me, I’m not ready to be received by anyone.”

“I suggest you get ready.” Santiago smiled again. “By the time I’m through with you,

you’ll be headed to the morgue.”

Tuck pulled on the chain again but to no avail.
With a gasp from Tucker, Santiago’s fist landed hard in the center of his gut.
Up on the walkway, Fox took an uppercut to the chin, a blow to the chest, and a right

hook to the jaw that knocked him against the railing. As he tried to blink away the pain
he glanced down—

—and saw Santiago turning Tucker into a punching bag.
He saw Tucker’s hand dangling from the chain, his wrist caught on the hook.
“Oh fuck,” Fox breathed. “Don’t just stand there, shit!”
Fox ducked the next intended blow, kicking his attacker in the gut.
He knew he had to get Tuck outta there. And fast!
He threw a punch at the henchman’s chest, doing more damage to his own hand than

it did to the goon.

Fox stepped backward, cradling his fist.
The henchman rubbed his stomach with one hand and scrunched up his big fist, ready

to deliver one almighty blow with the other.

He threw all his weight at Fox.
Suddenly Fox dropped to the floor of the walkway.
The momentum of the henchman’s fist carried him forward, straight over the top of

Fox—

—and clear over the railing, screaming.
Down below, Santiago pulled his fist back ready to deliver another blow when a

blood-curdling scream filled the warehouse. Both Santiago and Tucker looked up to see
the henchman plummeting through the air towards them.

Santiago leapt out of the way just as the goon went splat on the floor of the

warehouse.

Tucker stared at the lifeless broken body, eyes wide, and nose bloody. “Not so big

and tough now, you piece of —!”

Santiago began to pull himself back to his feet.
Tucker’s grin quickly vanished. “—shit!”
He stared down at his dead goon then glared up at Tucker with nothing but rage on

his face.

He lunged at Tucker, who grabbed hold of the chain using it to swing out of harm’s

way.

Up above, Fox looked around for something heavy.
He saw the sandbag that had dropped on to the walkway.
He grabbed it, knowing the combined weight of him and the sandbag would outweigh

Tucker.

He leapt for the end of the chain hanging from the pulley.
As Santiago came back at Tucker with a king-hit that was sure to finish him once and

for all, Tucker was suddenly yanked upward into the air like Peter fucking Pan.

Santiago’s blow missed him by inches and the thug stumbled forward, lost his

footing, and slammed his face into the warehouse floor.

As Tucker flew up into the air, Fox passed him by on his way down, shouting, “Grab

onto something heavy at the top!”

Fox hit the floor as Tucker reached the walkway above—
—just in time to come face to face with the broken-legged goon who had managed to

pull himself up and who was now swaying unsteadily on his one good foot.

On the floor of the warehouse, Santiago pulled himself up on all fours, his own nose

bleeding profusely now. He shook his head to try to clear it, then turned to see Fox
standing behind him, hook and chain in hand.

With one swift move, Fox snagged the back of Santigo’s belt with the metal hook.
Up above, the goon drew back his arm to throw a punch at Tucker.
Tucker hauled off, using the bottom of his foot to kick the goon’s injured leg, driven

by desperation to avoid any further physical abuse himself. The huge man screamed in
response as Tucker reached out and grabbed hold of him, wrapping his arms and legs
around the guy like a spider monkey.

The thug was genuinely shocked as Tucker quickly kissed him and then said, “You

look like something heavy.”

Tucker used his foot to push away from the railing, pulling the goon off the walkway

with him.

As Tuck and the henchman plunged downward, Santiago flew into the air by the seat

of his pants like an oversized pantomime fairy.

As he took to the air with a furious cry, Tucker and his own screaming human

sandbag came crashing toward the floor.

Tucker let go of the man, minus the steel-like grip he had on his shirt. The goon hit

the ground first—hard—snapping the bone in his other leg before he squealed, effectively
breaking Tucker’s fall.

Tucker was pulled back up from the weight of Santiago but still clung to the

unconscious man’s shirt. Fox grabbed the chain in one hand and Tucker’s cuffed wrist in
the other before jerking the snared cuff off the metal hook with such force that the broken
links shot through the air like loose shrapnel.

Before Santiago could drag the other end of the chain down, Fox snapped the hook

around the ankle of the goon with the broken leg.

With a scream of pain, the goon was hauled into the air by Santiago’s now

descending weight, until the two men balanced each other out—one suspended by the
seat of his pants, one by his ankle—swinging helplessly through the air.

Instantly Fox wrapped Tucker in his arms. “Are you okay? You got hit pretty hard.”
Tuck gave a light-headed nod. “You should see the other guy.”
Fox glanced up to see Santiago swinging about overhead, waving his fist. “Wait till I

get my hands on you again! You don’t know what pain is! I will decimate anyone you
ever loved!”

Fox grabbed Tuck by the hand. “Let’s not hang around for that.”
Fox hauled Tucker toward the nearest exit and hurried out of the burning warehouse

into the warm night air.

“Should we really leave them in there?” Tuck asked, his humanity getting the better

of him despite his bloody nose and bruised face.

“Do you really think if we help those guys outta there, they’re gonna thank us for it?

Don’t worry about them—assholes like that have a way of taking care of themselves.
Now let’s get outta here before more of them show up.”

With Tucker in hand, Fox started into the night.
Suddenly Tuck stopped him short, pointing across the gravel parking lot. “The

briefcase!”

Together they hobbled over toward the silver briefcase lying next to the rusted

containers.

Tucker picked it up and sighed with relief, happy all the research and notes for his

would be screenplay was safe.

Fox took the briefcase from Tucker, knowing the cash was safer in his hands. “Let me

carry it,” he said.

“How gentlemanly of you!” Tuck said, impressed by Fox’s chivalry despite his own

wound.

“Are you kidding? What’s in this case is gonna get us outta here.”
“I’ve been saying that for days now!” Tucker nodded.
As they headed off into the night, neither of them realized that the other silver

briefcase—

—the one containing either the money or the screenplay—
—was long gone.

***

Graves was seething, pacing back and forth inside the empty building currently being

renovated on the southwest corner of the French Quarter. He dialed a number on his cell
and stopped alongside the workbench covered with a plastic tarp where all his shiny
miscellaneous tools were still laid out. The steel blades and handles caught the light from
the single bare bulb hanging overhead. The sight of them calmed him while he waited for
an answer on the other end of the line.

“Wilkes here.” Mason said upon answering.
“You said there would only be one.” Graves began stroking the cool metal with his

long bony fingers. “I was forced to improvise, Mr. Wilkes. I loathe improvisation.”

“I told you to never call me on this number.” Mason’s voice was cold.
“I wasn’t able to do the job to my satisfaction, Mr. Wilkes.” Graves ran the tip of

finger over the sharp groves in the bone saw. “I was ill-prepared, and that is very much
your fault.”

“Don’t try putting your failure off on me, Graves. And this better never trace back to

me or I swear you'll—”

“Don't threaten me, Wilkes, lest you wake up one day and find yourself the subject of

my particular brand of intense scrutiny.”

“I suggest you take a deep breath and remember that I know where the bodies are

buried, Graves.” Mason’s voice was now as cold and intimidating as Graves. “Fuck with
me and you'll live to regret it—behind bars for the rest of your life.”

Mr. Graves eyes widened, his hand balling onto a fist.
“Locked away where you’ll no longer have the opportunity to toy with and dissect

your victims, you sick fuck. Threaten me again and you'll discover exactly how
vindictive I can be.”

Graves hissed, his lips quivering in anger. “You can’t take me down without

incriminating yourself.”

"You think I won’t turn you over to the authorities?” Mason laughed. “That I would

ever do business with a rabid dog like you and not prepare for the possibility I might have
to put you down?”

“I’ll bury you, Wilkes,” Graves spat. “Tell them everything! You’ve got more to lose

than I do.”

“I can picture it now…your word against mine...the psychopath and the upstanding

member of the community? I am truly terrified. With your naturally warm and fuzzy
appeal? The jury won’t be able to resist–"

Graves growled.
Mason laughed once again, adding, “—frying your ass in the electric chair.”
Graves screeched, tossing the cell phone against the nearest brick wall. He slammed

his fist against the top of the wooden table, seeing the silver briefcase with his twenty
grand.

At least he had the money, he thought. That’s when he heard the muffled scream.
He smiled with glee, rushing over toward the brick wall, still able to smell the gritty

dirt scent from the grout as he pressed his ear up to the wall. He laughed, listening to the
petrified cries of his latest victim who was now sealed forever behind the freshly-laid
bricks. “Enjoy eternity,” he chuckled.

Chapter Ten

Fox pulled the Jeep sharply over to the side of the road. They’d made their way so

damn fast from the warehouse to the swampy outskirts of Jean Lafitte, south of New
Orleans that Tucker had spent most of it holding his breath, which was a good thing since
his nostrils had now clogged with dried blood and his throat hurt from all the smoke, so
much so that breathing had become somewhat painful.

As the Jeep slid to a halt on the dusty shoulder of the road, Tucker was about to make

a smart-ass remark about Fox’s driving, adding whiplash to his list of injuries, when
suddenly Fox himself winced. And when Fox leaned forward in his seat, Tucker could
hear the squelch of coagulating blood.

Fox’s side was sticky with blood.
“Jesus, are you gonna die?” Tucker asked bluntly, but genuinely concerned.
“Fuck. I hope not,” Fox said. He dug one hand into his pocket and pulled out a

hundred-dollar bill before gesturing for Tucker to run into the General Store across the
street. Mosquitoes the size of bees buzzed around the store’s porch lights. He handed the
money to Tucker and said, “We need supplies. Pain killers. Bandages. Needle and
thread.”

“Needle and thread? Are you kidding me?”
“And whiskey. Lots of it. And don’t settle for the cheap shit. Make it good.”
“Like that shanty-shack hell hole will have anything BUT cheap shit?” Tucker

gulped, trying to stop himself from gagging.

Fox gave him an unmistakable look that once again said now was not the time for any

smart-assed colorful commentary.

Reluctantly Tucker climbed out of the Jeep.
“And Tuck! If they’ve got any clothes, I could use a new shirt.”
Inside the General Store was a twenty-year-old kid behind the counter, leaning back

against the cigarette display, arms crossed, watching a game show on an old portable TV
that sat on the counter.

“Can I help you there?” he asked as Tucker set off the bell above the door.
“No thanks,” Tucker said, trying to hide his bloody nose with a wave of his hand.

“I’m just browsing.”

The kid took that as a good excuse not to leave his game show.
Tucker quickly made his way through the small store whose interior appeared every

bit as old and forgotten as the outside had. The metal shelving was rusted along the
corners and dented from the abuse of continued use over the years. He found a first aid
kit and bandages. The plastic packaging had yellowed, like it had been sitting on the shelf
for a decade or more, but it was all they had.

“Beaten and bloody beggars can’t be choosers,” He muttered, taking the items off the

shelf.

He found a sewing kit with several different colored spools of thread on the next dust-

covered aisle and yanked it off the metal rod. He rolled his eyes after several seconds,

fretting over which color they would use to stitch Fox up.

“It’s going to end up blood-colored anyway,” he mumbled, quickly grabbing the

strongest painkillers available. He rushed back to the front, pointing at the most
expensive bottle of whiskey they had sitting on the shelf behind the counter. Hastily, he
dumped everything on the counter before remembering. “Oh, do you have any shirts?”

“There’s some souvenir t-shirts over in the corner,” the kid pointed, although he was

looking at Tucker’s nose. “Say, did you know your face is bleeding?”

“It was bleeding,” Tuck corrected him. “It’s stopped now. Thanks for caring, not for

sharing.”

The kid nodded, Tucker’s sarcasm going over his head. “You’re welcome. Should I

ring these up?”

“Yes, please. I’ll be back in a second.”
Tucker found a display with a handful of t-shirts hanging from it. He picked up an

extra large Moustache Rides Free t-shirt that dangled from its hanger like a potato sack.
“Dear God, it’s the land that time forgot,” he grimaced, swiftly putting the shirt back
where it belonged.

He plucked a smaller, tightly tailored t-shirt off a lower rack on the display. It was

white and had an illustration of an alligator with a wicked grin on his face about to snack
on an unsuspecting fisherman in a tiny rowboat. Above the illustration were the words
Gone Fishin’!

“Not perfect, perhaps, but I know he likes alligators.” Tuck smiled happily, thinking

it would also highlight Fox’s well muscled bod in all the right places.

His gaze drifted toward the large sports bottles of water in the fridge and his mouth

began to water, more thirsty than he could ever remember having been before. He yanked
open the glass door and removed two, then paused before grabbing two more.

Grocery bag in hand, Tuck hurried back to the Jeep.
“Did you get everything?”
Tucker nodded, impressed with his bargain shopping. “That and more! The whiskey

came with two free Ragin’ Cajun shot glasses.”

He pulled the two packaged glasses out of the grocery bag, each with a cheesy

cartoon crawfish on the side.

“Just what I always wanted,” Fox muttered. “But I think I’ll drink mine straight from

the bottle.”

Tucker frowned as Fox pulled the Jeep back out onto the road.
When they pulled up beneath the blinking neon sign of the rundown old Barataria

Motel a few minutes later, Tucker peered dubiously through the windshield and said,
“Please tell me Barataria isn’t Creole for Bates Motel.”

“Laugh it up, funny boy. But this is the kinda place that’s known for its strict don’t-

give-a-shit policy.” Fox cringed, hissing in pain as he pulled himself out of the seat.
“You’ll just have to suffer without the creature comforts tonight.”

Tucker scoffed, getting out of the Jeep. “Like I’m precious?”
They stepped into the motel’s office to see a large, slovenly man slouched in a chair

behind the check-in. He wore a sweat-stained singlet and suspenders, and had a large
cigar stuffed in one corner of his mouth. Like the kid at the General Store, the motel
manager was watching the same game show, staring at the TV screen like he was one of
the Undead. His face remained expressionless, even as the TV audience cheered and

several bells rang out as another lucky contestant raced onstage. A bare fluorescent tube
in the ceiling of the office illuminated every fraying strip of wallpaper, every burn-mark
on the carpet, and every cockroach on the floor, dead or alive.

“Are you sure we’re not gonna get stabbed to death in the shower here?” Tucker

whispered, carrying the grocery bag while Fox carried the silver briefcase.

“Trust me, this guy couldn’t be bothered scratching an itch on his ass, let alone

picking up a butcher’s knife.”

As Fox and Tucker reached the check-in counter, Fox tapped the bell on the desk.

Only then did the manager acknowledge he had guests.

“We’d like a room for the night,” Fox said as the manager slowly turned his glazed

face away from the TV and stood with some effort from his chair.

“That’ll be eighty dollars,” the manager mumbled, his lips and cigar barely moving.
“Eighty dollars for this dump?” Tucker said as indignantly as he could with dried

blood blocking his nasal passages.

Fox rolled his eyes, the pain in his side not nearly as punishing as the one standing

beside him.

The manager simply turned his head slightly, and looked at Tucker with that same

blank, unwavering, expression on his face. “Eighty dollars.”

“Man, you’d be good at poker,” Tucker thought aloud.
“Shut it,” Fox whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
The manager ignored Tucker and his dull eyes looked Fox up and down. “Is that

blood on your shirt?”

“Maybe.”
“Do you need me to call a doctor?”
“No,” Fox said vehemently. “No doctors.”
“Then that’s an extra ten.”
“What?” Tuck asked incredulously.
“What about police?” the man asked in his monotone voice. “You need to report an

incident?”

“Definitely not,” Fox shook his head.
“That’ll be another extra twenty. Cash up front.”
Fox laid his cash on the counter, took the room key the manager offered him, then

grabbed an enraged Tucker by the arm and turned to leave.

“Oh, and by the way, if you bleed out during the night and die, your boyfriend there’ll

have to pay to have the sheets cleaned. Have a nice stay.”

Tucker stopped just inside the door to their motel room as Fox flicked on the lights.

“Is that a bullet hole in the headboard?”

“Who the fuck cares? There’s definitely a bullet hole in my side, and if we don’t fix

it, and soon, I’m gonna pass out. Now would you quit bitchin’ and give me a hand?”

He hauled Tuck into the room, slammed the door, and took the grocery bag from him.

He threw the briefcase onto the bed, turned his pockets inside out and let the remaining
cash fall onto the bed, emptying the contents of the grocery bag onto the bedspread.

He unscrewed the lid off the whiskey bottle and hesitated for a moment before taking

a long, hard swig. When he was done, he blinked and shook his head as though someone
had just slapped him, rasping, “Woooo, that’s good.”

Fox heeled off his shoes and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth before

offering the whiskey to Tucker. “You want some?”

“Oh, no thanks. My nose is kinda numb now.”
“I don’t mean for your nose. I mean for the operation.”
“Operation? What operation?”
“I need you to get the bullet out.”
Tucker stared in horror at Fox’s nodding face, then down at his bleeding side, then

back up to Fox’s face. He snatched the bottle off him and drained even more of the
whiskey from the bottle than Fox had.

“Pretty sure it’s not very deep, looked like a low caliber handgun, bullets probably a

9mm Short and it wasn’t a direct hit, must’ve ricocheted off the railing.” Fox glanced
down and could tell by the look on his face that Tucker either didn’t give a shit about the
particulars or had no clue what any of it meant.

Inside the dingy bathroom, Fox leaned his ass against the basin and peeled off his

sticky, bloody shirt. As soon as the material pulled away from the wound in his side,
fresh blood began to seep from the bullet hole.

“Here, use this,” Fox told Tucker who took Fox’s bunched up shirt and pressed it

against the wound.

“It’s getting all over your jeans.”
As Tucker’s shaky hands pressed the shirt to the wound, Fox winced and carefully

unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans. He slid them down his legs and kicked them
across the floor toward the bathtub. There he stood in his briefs and socks in the grimy,
broken-tiled bathroom of a motel in the middle of nowhere, bleeding from a bullet wound
to his otherwise perfect body. Why, it was enough to give Tucker a—

“Is that a hard-on in your jeans?” Fox asked. Perhaps it was the whiskey kicking in,

but he actually couldn’t help but grin. He took another swig and said, “You do realize I’m
in pain, don’t you? And that your chances of turning me on are less than—”

Tucker interrupted him by clearing his throat and pointing down at Fox’s bulging

briefs. The shape of his hardening cock and swollen head were more than evident.

“That ain’t me, that’s the whiskey,” Fox shrugged innocently.
“Keep drinking asshole, because Dr. Wilder has just been called into surgery.”
Fox grinned, wincing slightly when Tucker pressed too hard. He glanced down.

“Pissed is good; at least your hands have stopped shaking.”

Tuck rolled his eyes and took a deep breath for courage before checking that the

bleeding had stopped enough for him to lift the scrunched-up shirt away from Fox’s
bloodstained skin.

“It should be okay,” Fox said, looking down at the wound. “Nothin’ vital there, just

muscle. Another inch and it would’ve missed me altogether.”

“Well, you’ll forgive me if I end up tossing my cookies, here. I’m kinda new to this.”

Tucker tossed the bloody shirt on the floor and knelt on the tiles, opening the first aid kit
on the floor beside him. “Okay, what would George Clooney do?”

Fox laughed, pretty much well on his way toward drunk at this point. “I dunno. You

tell me. What would George Clooney do?”

Tucker shook his head, noting Fox’s still hardening cock. “George wouldn’t do that.”
Fox laughed under his breath and Tucker was a little amused with himself, mostly

impressed by the speed with which Fox was becoming intoxicated. Of course, neither of
them had eaten since breakfast that morning.

“I was referring to George’s early career. Two words: E.R.”
“Those are two letters, writer boy,” Fox corrected with another swig of whiskey.

“You wanna another drink, Dr. Wilder?”

“Why not?”
Tucker took a swig off the bottle.
Fox started to sway a little above him, so Tucker quickly steadied him with one hand.

He handed the bottle back to Fox. “Here, take another sip, the emergency room needs
straightening. Then tell me what to do first.”

Fox did as the doctor ordered, his words beginning to slur the slightest bit. “Well, first

you gotta check to see the bullet’s still in there. In which case you gotta get in there with
the scissors in the first aid kit and dig that fucker out.”

Tucker burped and pressed his fingers to his lips, certain he could taste a little bit of

vomit. He swallowed it back down. “But what if it’s not there.”

“Then maybe it went right through. Which is great, that means all you gotta do is

stitch me up.”

“Then I think you’re fine,” Tucker said, quickly reaching for the needle and thread

he’d brought into the bathroom with him. “Let’s get sewin’, every Susie and Sal!”

“Are you sure there’s no bullet?”
“Well, I can’t see one when I look real hard at the hole.”
“How many holes are there?”
“Well… One! How many times did you get shot?”
Fox laughed again. “Numbers aren’t your thing, huh?”
“I’m a writer! Geez…how many screenplays have you read full of nothing but

numbers?” Tucker rubbed at the center of his chest. “Aside from A Beautiful Mind, and
really…did anyone understand that film?”

“One hole is the entry wound. A second hole would be an exit wound. If there aren’t

two holes, that pretty much means you’re gonna have to dig out the bullet, kid.”

“Oh, take another swig, W.C. Fields!” Tucker grabbed the pair of scissors out of the

first aid kit and eyed Fox’s wound with terror. “I don’t wanna dig.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Fox’s hard-on straining in his briefs. “And

could you please do something about that? It’s distracting me!”

“You started it! I can’t help it,” Fox said with a whiskey belch. “You look kinda sexy

down there.”

Fox laid a hand on Tucker’s head, running his fingers through Tuck’s hair.
Tucker shook his hand off.
“And you’re drunk…fuck man…this is stressing me out.” He sighed, closing his eyes

for a moment as Fox ran the back of his fingers across Tucker’s cheek.

“So damn beautiful,” Fox mumbled.
“Please let me concentrate…post stat! Otherwise you’ll de-fib and I’ll need more cc’s

of…something I don’t have anyway.”

Fox smiled, a little proudly. Possessively. “You’d make a great TV doctor, you know.

Kinda dreamy.”

“That role’s already been taken. So has ‘steamy.’ Now quiet, patient Fox, there’s a

bullet in your inebriated body that needs to come out.”

“Oh shit, yeah. I forgot about that.”
Tucker gulped as he opened the rubbing alcohol and poured some over the tips of the

scissors before approaching the wound. Fox braced himself by clenching the rim of the
basin with both hands. “All you gotta do is push inside the hole and feel around till you
hit something hard.”

Tucker’s gag reflex forced his body into a quick dry-wretch jerk once more before he

steadied himself—and slowly pushed the point of the scissors into the hole in Fox’s side.

The flesh—already trying to heal itself—made a squelching sound as the scissor

blades pushed inward. Fox hissed from the pain, and took another drink.

Tucker grimaced. “Oh God! Penetration used to be so sexy!”
His face contorted in a look of sheer agony—as though he were the one with the

gunshot wound—as the blades disappeared about a quarter of an inch inside Fox, trying
to follow the path of the bullet.

Fox gritted his teeth.
“I’m so sorry; I know I’m hurting you!” Tucker said in a rush of guilt.
“It’s okay, just keep going. Do it, quick.”
Tucker panicked. “No! I can’t do this!”
He let go of the scissors, effectively leaving them protruding from Fox’s torso.
“You can’t stop now!”
“Why not?” Tucker was trying to shake the tension from his hands.
“Because there’s a pair of scissors sticking out of my side!”
“I’m sorry, but right now this is freaking my shit out!”
“And I’m sobering up with every breath I take! Now get the fuckin’ bullet out before

my brain figures out just how much pain I’m really in!”

Tucker sucked in another deep breath and groaned, taking hold of the scissors once

more. After a bit more gagging, Tucker pushed the blades in a little more, the squelching
causing his stomach muscles to spasm even more. He didn’t have to go much farther
before feeling the tips of the blades connect with something hard.

“Either that’s a bullet or you’ve got a bone in a weird place.”
Fox glanced down at his side. “Not very deep, that’s good. Pry open the blades and

get hold of that fucker.”

Tucker did as Fox instructed, cringing when Fox’s entire body flinched in pain.
“So sorry, baby,” Tucker whispered, biting down on his bottom lip, feeling the blades

clamp down on the bullet. Carefully he withdrew the scissors as Fox groaned, huffing and
puffing through gritted teeth until the bloody blades came free with the bullet clenched
tightly in its tips.

Like a brand new father, Tucker started laughing and shouting with joy. “I did it! I

did it!!”

Fox panted with relief and patted Tuck on the shoulder. “Well done, doc. Now pass

me the shirt, would ya?”

Still holding the scissors in one hand, Tuck passed Fox the shirt from the floor. Fox

held it under the wound and leaned back, carefully dousing the bloody hole with whiskey,
biting down hard on the cry of pain that wanted so badly to escape him.

“There’s actual rubbing alcohol in here, you know?”
“Screw it,” Fox muttered. “Grab that needle and thread quick, before one of us passes

out.”

“Damn it.” Tucker placed the bullet and scissors next to the sink. He grabbed the

rubbing alcohol and rinsed his hands before dousing the bullet hole, sending Fox into

another growl of pain.

Once Tucker had thoroughly cleaned the wound he threaded the needle and sterilized

it the best he could.

He was ready to begin.
Dabbing at the blood with a wad of gauze, Tucker slowly pierced the skin and began

sewing the wound shut, trying to convince himself it was no different from sewing a
button.

Fox’s toes were curling under as he swallowed another mouthful of bourbon.
Tucker nudged his head toward the bullet lying next to the sick. “What should I do

with that?”

“Toss it down the sink. That thing coulda killed me.”
“But it didn’t,” Tucker said almost finished as he made another loop. It was amazing

something that made such a relatively small hole could be so life threatening. “You’re
alive. Don’t you wanna keep it, you know, like a good luck charm? So you always
appreciate the fact that you’re still alive?”

Tucker made one last loop, tying it off before picking up the bloody scissors and

cutting the thread. He climbed off his knees and took the bullet, wiping off some of the
blood with the gauze he still had, analyzing the bullet with a look of wonder.

“Are you being serious?” Fox asked.
Tucker nodded. “Sure I’m being serious.”
“You’re not just teasing me; this isn’t sarcasm?”
Tucker shook his head. “It’s a rare moment, I know. But no, I’m not. I think you

should keep this. So you can always remember what you have and how lucky you are.”

“Lucky?” Fox locked eyes on him. “What exactly have I got?”
Tuck answered as honestly as he could. “You’ve got you, Fox. You’re that confident,

self-sufficient guy. You know, the one who gets things done better on his own. Except
when he needs something, something he finds in the arms of Detective Ford or who
knows how many other guys in New Orleans. They don’t call it the Big Easy for nothing,
do they?”

There was no venom, no jealousy, or spite in Tuck’s voice. Fox could see he was just

calling things the way they were.

So Fox did the same.
“I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
He grabbed a gauze and bandage out of the first aid kit and left the bathroom.
Tucker glanced down at the bullet clamped in the scissor blades and held it over the

sink.

Sitting on the bed, Fox concentrated on applying the gauze to his wound while

wrapping the bandage around his torso.

Tucker emerged from the bathroom with a sigh of regret. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t

mean to be so…”

“Honest…blunt?”
“Preachy, I guess?” Tucker looked as if he wasn’t really sure what he meant, which

seemed to further frustrate him.

It irritated Fox as well, suspecting there was some sort of lifestyle judgment headed

his direction. He certainly wasn’t in the mood for this shit.

Tucker moved to help Fox with the bandage. “Here, let me—”

“No don’t,” Fox said sternly, holding up one hand. “I do this kinda shit better on my

own, remember?”

“Jesus, I get it, already.” Tucker said defensively, any regret turning into annoyance.

“Message received. Don’t go picking out any china patterns, Tuck. Jon Fox needs no
one.”

“Fuck off, Tucker. I’m trying my damndest to keep you out of harm’s way, and quite

frankly at this point, all I want to do now is walk away from this in one piece. I don’t
want your useless apologies. I don’t even want a thank you. And I sure as hell don’t need
a goddamn boyfriend, certainly not one who sniffs out trouble like a bloodhound. If you
spent a little more time on your knees and a little less time running your mouth, who
knows?”

“Well, don’t let me keep you from walking away.” Tucker shook his head. “That’s

what you’ve been doing all your life, right?”

“It’s got me this far.”
“This far from what? Anything to love? Anyone to care about?”
“Back off! You fuck a guy once and suddenly they think they know you.” Fox tied

off the bandage and stood. “I care about my family. Savannah and Virgil and hell, even
Eva! We might not make the perfect family portrait, but they’re all I got and I will do
anything to defend them.”

Fox could tell from the pissed off yet semi-wounded look on Tucker’s face that he’d

likely strayed too far, allowing the booze to take hold of his tongue. That pissed him off
even more.

He suddenly turned to the bed, grabbed a pillow and the bedspread, and stormed back

into the bathroom.

Tucker followed him to the door and watched as he tossed the pillow and bedspread

into the bathtub. “You’re not sleeping in the bath, are you?”

“No,” Fox said, grabbing the nearly empty bottle of whiskey before pushing past

Tucker and heading for the bed. “You are! Goodnight!”

Tucker stood in the bathroom doorway, visibly shocked and furious. “Fine!” he

shouted back before stepping back into the bathroom and slamming the door shut.

Fox swore through gritted teeth and the spray of spit. “Fuck!” He paced the room like

a wild cat in a cage, his stride unsteady, his head swirling with rage and alcohol, his side
—his entire body—numb with the whiskey.

He didn’t want anyone inside his head.
He hated that.
Feeling the fury but not the pain.
He wanted to hurt, he needed to hurt, just to justify the fucking anger.
Yes, the old Fox was rearing his hate-filled head like an old enemy.
He grabbed the crumpled cash off the bed and headed for the door.
He didn’t give a shit that all he was wearing were his briefs and a bloodstained

bandage.

He slammed the door as he left the motel room and stormed toward the office. He

strutted inside, his legs and torso wet with sweat, his face set square with his clenched
jaw and deep-etched brow. He slammed his bunched up cash on the check-in desk and
said, “I’ll pay you anything you want for whatever you got to drink around here.”

The motel manager didn’t blink as he turned his head like a turtle away from yet

another game show to look at Fox. He’d likely seen just about everything over the years.
“You ain’t talkin’ ‘bout a pitcher of lemonade, are you,” he mumbled through his
flapping cigar.

“Fuck, no. Do you got anything?”
“Fuck, yes.”
With a grunt, the motel manager stood from his squeaky, old swivel chair and

plodded into a back room behind his check-in desk. A moment later, he returned and
plonked an unlabelled bottle full of clear liquid in front of Fox. “Best moonshine this side
of a gator’s grin. Make it myself.”

“Is it good?”
The motel manager finally pulled his cigar out of his mouth and smiled, revealing all

four of his teeth. “Son, one sip of this and you could throw yourself on the ground and
miss.”

Fox took the bottle in his fist and left the cash.
He staggered back along the length of the motel porch, zigzagging to the drone of

swamp insects like he was dancing some drunken Southern waltz, swigging from the
bottle and shaking his head at the shine’s bomb blast as it slid down the hatch.

It was good.
No, it was fucking great.
It was his license to do whatever he wanted.
Nothing was his fault.
Drink.
Fight.
Fuck.
Yes, the old Fox was back.
The man who wanted to hurt someone else as much as he wanted to hurt himself.
He burst back into the motel room and took another long gulp of moonshine before

slamming the bottle down beside the bed and shouldering open the door to the bathroom.

Tucker, now dressed only in his underwear, was already curled up in the bathtub,

squirming to make himself comfortable on top of the bedspread.

As the door sprang open, Tucker sat bolt upright in the tub, staring at Fox as he stood

in doorway, chest heaving, face seething, cock hardening inside his tightening briefs.

“Jon? You okay?” Tucker’s emotions were evident in his voice. Concern, unease,

even a little fear.

“You’re not sleeping here,” Fox told him.
Roughly he grabbed Tucker by the wrist and yanked him out of the tub. Tuck almost

slid on the floor as he was hauled out of the bathroom, into the bedroom and thrown on
the bed on his back.

Tuck sat up quickly. “Jon, slow down…”
But Fox was already stripping off his own briefs, pulling them down so fast that his

huge stiff cock slapped against his abs with a loud smack.

“…or not,” Tuck continued, his eyes bulging.
“Shut the fuck up,” was Fox’s only reply.
He seized Tucker by both wrists and jerked them forward, and with his own still-

warm briefs he began twisting and looping the elastic in the underwear, binding his hands
tightly together before tying a tight knot that made Tuck gasp, a sound that was part pain,

part exhilaration.

Tucker was already hard when Fox took his bound wrists and shoved them under

Tucker’s nose, who inhaled as deeply as he could with a busted nose, filling his lungs—
his entire body—with the scent of Fox’s sweaty balls. It was sharp, sweet, and no doubt
as intoxicating as the bottle of booze from which Fox took another long swig.

With another forceful shove, Fox pushed Tucker flat on the bed again.
Tucker bounced on the mattress with a grunt, beside the briefcase.
Before he could so much as look down past his tied hands and quivering stomach,

Tucker felt Fox’s fingers grip the waistband of his briefs at both hips and rip them down
his legs.

Tucker’s cock flew upward, long and hard, flinging a sprinkle of pre-cum onto his

belly. Tucker threw his bound hands over his head and grabbed hold of a post in the
headboard as Fox clenched Tucker’s dick in one fist and his balls in the other.

A loud cry escaped Tucker’s heaving lungs.
It wasn’t loud enough for Fox’s drunk liking.
He squeezed Tucker’s cock and balls even harder, forcing the veins in the young

man’s dick to swell and pulsate, and his ballsack to stretch thin and tight around his
bulging testicles.

“Fuck, oh God,” Tucker gasped. “That hurts so good.”
“I barely started.”
Fox released Tuck and pushed the briefcase off the bed. It landed with a hard thud.
“Careful, that’s got valuable stuff in—”
Before he could finish, Fox grabbed him forcefully by the hips and flipped him over

onto his stomach. Tucker grunted again before Fox seized him by the ankles and yanked
him half off the bed.

With a thump, Fox dropped to his knees.
He hoisted Tucker’s legs up over his shoulders and buried his face between Tuck’s

thighs.

“Sweet Jesus,” Tucker gasped into the sheets, then moaned loudly as Fox roughly

parted Tucker’s ass cheeks with clawed fingers and started licking and biting at the tight
pink ring. He licked and gnawed at the soft flesh, his tongue flicking in and out of
Tucker’s hole, wetting it, teasing it open.

With one hand still prying open Tuck’s clenched cheeks, Fox reached beneath and

felt for Tuck’s stiff cock, now pressed against the side of the mattress. Fox pulled on it
hard, dry-jerking it with a twist and pump of his tightly-gripping fist.

Tucker’s moans turned into ecstatic, pain-filled cries.
He bit the sheets to keep from screaming out as Fox’s tongue slid out his ass and his

lips wrapped themselves around Tucker’s swollen balls. Fox sucked one ball, then both
balls into his hot, salivating mouth. He mauled on them hard, crushing them between his
sucking cheeks.

Tucker released the sheets from his teeth. “Oh God, Fox, I’m gonna cum. Slow

down.”

With one rough, last tug Fox let go of Tucker’s cock and slid his balls out of his

mouth.

Tucker heaved with relief, but it was short-lived.
As Fox stood, he hooked Tucker’s elbow with one hand and pulled him to his feet, his

legs quivering. Fox spun him around to face him, Tucker’s hands still bound in front.
Tucker’s breathing was jagged, nervous, excited. Fox grabbed his jaw in one hand and
planted a hard kiss on him that took Tucker’s trembling breath away.

Their tongues jousted.
Tucker could taste the whiskey and moonshine, the sweetness of his own ass, the

sweat of his own balls, the potent flavors lingering and swimming inside Fox’s mouth. It
turned him on even more. His cock bounced and slapped against Fox’s stiff, thick meat.
Tucker thrust his hips forward and the two hot shafts rubbed hard against one another.

Tucker felt the bulging head of Fox’s dick slide up his stomach, the slit wet with pre-

cum.

At the same time, Tucker’s cock jabbed into Fox’s large balls.
For the first time in their heated exchange, Fox was the one to let out a moan.
He forced it into Tucker’s mouth, their lips still pressed tightly together.
Suddenly Tucker realized he wasn’t getting any air into his lungs—couldn’t breathe

with his mouth locked against Fox’s and his nostrils choked with dried blood.

He tried to pull out of the kiss, but Fox wouldn’t let him. He held the back of

Tucker’s head tight, fingers twisted in his hair.

Tucker was getting dizzy, his eyes rolling back into his head. He squirmed and finally

bit down on Fox’s bottom lip.

Fox flinched and broke the kiss.
Tuck gasped for air.
Fox wiped his lip with the back of his hand, checking for blood and grinned.
“I didn’t know you played so rough,” Tucker panted.
“You want me to quit?” The question was not one of concern. It was a dare.
Tucker raised one eyebrow to the challenge and shook his head.
Fox kissed him hard once more, briefly, then placed his hands firmly on Tuck’s

shoulders and pushed him down onto his knees.

Instantly Tucker came face-to-face with Fox’s hefty stiff cock, its length pulsing up

and down, its slit gleaming.

Fox twisted the fingers of one hand through Tucker’s blond hair once more, gripping

the back of his head, while he gripped the base of his shaft with his other fist and pointed
his dick straight at Tucker’s mouth.

Tucker parted his lips, licking them hungrily, before Fox moved his hips forward and

thrust his engorged dick inside Tucker’s beckoning mouth.

Tucker let out a muffled groan as Fox slid his cock deep down his throat.
At the same time, Tucker grabbed for his own cock with his bound hands. With both

fists, he started pulling and squeezing his shaft, his cock rubbing against the tangled
twisted briefs around his wrists. Tucker began jerking himself up and down, harder and
faster, as strained cotton and elastic met sensitive flesh.

Tucker’s head bobbed forward and back with the help of Fox’s forcefully guiding

hand. He sucked in what air he could through the corners of his mouth as his swollen lips
moved up and down the impressive length of Fox’s dick. He felt the plum-sized head of
Fox’s dick ram against the back of his throat. He could taste more and more of Fox’s pre-
cum on his tongue.

Above him, Fox’s chest began to swell.
His hips worked faster, plowing his shaft in and out of Tucker’s hot, sexy mouth.

Tucker was starting to suffocate on Fox’s cock. His shoulders shuddered as his fists

pounded his cock as hard as they could, the twisted briefs beginning to bunch and tear.
He knew he couldn’t last much longer, either passing out or cumming…maybe both.

Delirium was rapidly approaching.
At that moment, Fox threw his head back, plunged his dick all the way down

Tucker’s throat and released a fury of cum.

All Tuck could do was swallow—swallow as hard and fast as he could.
The torrent of hot semen surging down his throat was all it took for Tucker’s balls to

explode. The orgasm pushed Tucker up onto his haunches as several jets of cum spilled
across the carpet and filled Fox’s tangled briefs. He felt the hot sticky streams rush over
his still thumping fists and ooze between his fingers.

With one more grunt, Fox shot the last of his load into Tucker’s mouth, his fingers

squeezing Tucker’s hair as tight as they could before finally releasing him.

As Fox’s hard, spent cock slid from his lips, Tuck gasped loudly, filling his lungs

with air as several strings of cum and saliva sparkled between his lips and Fox’s
throbbing, wet dick.

Fox took him by the shoulder and helped him to his feet.
He took the tangled, cum-drenched briefs in his fist and tore them loose, freeing

Tucker’s hands.

With that, he laid another kiss on Tucker. There was still some force behind it, but not

the aggression, not the need to dominate. Perhaps he was exhausted. Perhaps the
moonshine had caught up. Or perhaps—

“I’m gonna throw up!” Fox announced as he hastily pulled out of the kiss and

clutched at his side in pain.

Naked and still halfway hard, he bolted for the bathroom.
Tucker winced as he listened to the sound of chunder coming from the bathroom,

before sitting himself down on the bed.

“Like being back in fucking college.”
Tucker cringed as a second wave hit, followed by coughing and a long groan.
“Think I just blew my stitches.” Fox called out. “Damn it.”
“Aw man!” Tucker sighed, closing his eyes, attempting to take a moment as he stood

back up, mumbling. “Barely made it through that the first time.”

He listened to Fox gag a third time and his lip curled before heading toward the

bathroom. “I’m totally sleeping in the fucking bed, asshole.”

Chapter Eleven

Tucker was right—that Gone Fishin’ t-shirt really did bulge in all the right places.

But for Fox it was possibly the most uncomfortable thing he’d ever worn. It pinched his
bandage and rubbed hard against his nipples and when he raised his arm to wipe the
perspiration from his brow, he ripped the seams around his sweaty armpit.

The sun was just up, but the day was already hot.
The nearby swamps and bayous of Jean Lafitte were alive with the drone and growls

of a thousand different species of predator and prey. Fox dug his fingers into his temple,
attempting to relieve the throbbing in his head.

He felt like hammered shit.
Everything ached, yet he found himself oddly comforted by that fact—to feel

anything as opposed to the emptiness that had taken him over the night before.

Across the road from the Barataria Motel, Fox stood alone staring at one of the burner

phones he’d picked up from his office the day before. He’d left Tucker in the shower and
come outside.

He needed to make this call in private.
When you’re about to call a cop and tell him you were responsible for the deaths of

two men the previous night, the last thing you need is someone like Tucker freaking out
beside you.

Fox dialed the number. He knew it by heart. Detective Ford picked up after three

rings.

“Rick, it’s Fox.”
“How did I know I’d be hearing from you today?”
“Does that mean you know about the fire at the warehouse?”
“Fox, it’s all over the news.”
“And I guess you found the two dead guys inside, huh?”
“You mean the ones that the coroner has already examined and determined that they

were dead long before the fire got to them? The same two dead guys that were working
for Santiago? Yeah, we found ‘em. But that’s not all we found.”

“I’ll take that to mean Santiago and his third goon never made it out of warehouse?”
“No, we found them somewhere else. We’re bringing them in now.”
“You mean you caught ‘em?”
“Not exactly. Fox, we’re not bringing them into the station. They’re going to the

morgue. At least, the parts we found.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“Old Mac Crawford who runs the gator farm south of town reported a break-in last

night. He heard a commotion down by one of the gator pens and went to investigate.
Turns out the alligators were having a little midnight snack.”

“Someone fed Santiago and his goon to the gators?”
“Yep, every last morsel. Except their heads. Someone decapitated them and stuck

their heads on the palings of the fence to the gator farm. Had their mouths and eyes sewn

shut with some sort of crude black thread.”

“What the fuck?”
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself all morning. This kinda thing is usually a

warning shot between rival gangs. Here we were thinking Santiago was some sort of king
pin, but it turns out he was further down the food chain than we thought.”

“He’s sure as hell at the bottom of that chain right now.”
“The good news is, looks like that boy of yours won’t have to go into any witness

protection program after all. All the men Wilder could’ve testified against are dead.”

“How convenient.” Fox muttered.
“My thoughts exactly, Fox.” Ford sighed. “We’ll still need Wilder to come in and

I.D. what’s left of them.”

Fox thought he sounded tired and perhaps a little stressed. “Sure thing…you need that

sooner rather than later?”

“Doesn’t matter; take a few days if he needs it. There are plenty of other unanswered

questions to occupy our time down here at the moment. Speaking of, I never got a chance
to ask yesterday, with Wilder there, but I don’t suppose you knew the man Santiago
executed, Christopher Bloom—the guy worked for Fox Pharmaceuticals?”

“No, you know I don’t have much to do with that side of things. You should talk to

Mason.” Fox noticed the curtains moving from inside their motel room just before
Tucker’s head poked through. Fox waved, to let him know everything was cool.

“I’ve got a call in to your uncle, just hoping you might save me the hassle.”
“I’ll take your asking as a sign you still don’t know why they killed Bloom?”
“We do not, which leads me to the conclusion that whoever is running things behind

the Diab cartel has bigger problems to worry about than Tucker Wilder.”

“I’m sure he and his family will be happy to hear it.”
Ford paused for a moment, then added, “The bad news, at least for me, is it looks like

I got bigger problems, too.”

“Quite a nasty problem at that, if this Diab crew is willing to kill their own in order to

protect their interests.”

“Don’t remind me,” Ford said. “I’m not even going to ask you what happened in that

warehouse.”

Fox cringed, chewing on his lip for a moment. “Probably best you don’t.”
He listened to Ford cursing under his breath.
“You can sleep easy at night knowing anything I might have done…had I been there,

would’ve been entirely in self defense.”

“Jesus, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t fucking hear any of that…sleep easy at night, my

ass.”

With that, Ford slammed down his phone, leaving Fox alone once again with the

sights and sounds of his new neighbors living in the swamp.

***

Tucker sat on the edge of the motel room bed, the damp towel dangling loosely from

his hands as Fox informed him that the men who’d been trying to kill him as early as the
day before were now all dead. As unimaginable as it seemed before, knowing he’d been a
hunted man, the news he was now off the hook felt unreliable to him, like some sort of

trick meant to get him and Fox to drop their guard.

“At some point they’ll likely want you to come in and I.D. the bodies,” Fox said,

softly. “Or their heads, as the case may be. I’m assuming the bodies will never be…fully
recovered.”

“Right…sure,” Tucker said, like he’d just asked Jon to pass him the salt. “No bodies.”
“You okay?” Fox asked.
“Huh?” Tucker asked, looking up and finding it odd that Jon wouldn’t maintain eye

contact for very long. “Yeah, I’m great, I guess. No longer in danger. Millie and Leigh
should be safe as a result.”

The only thing he didn’t bring up aloud was the fact that none of them would have to

go into witness protection as there was no one left for him to testify against.

No more easy out for either of them.
“So…guess you can take me home then?” Tucker asked.
Fox stood up. “Well, I mean, sure…I suppose I could. I can’t say you appear to be in

any imminent danger, Tuck, but there is the matter of who broke into your apartment, not
to mention we still have no idea why Betty attached herself to you.”

“Okay, I get that, but what does that mean?”
Fox sat back down, resting against the top of the rickety pressed wood desk sitting in

front of the motel room window. “I’d feel better if you stuck with me for another day or
two at least. See if we can’t figure what the old lady’s up to together.”

He nodded that would be okay with him, and went back to drying his hair with the

towel. “Are you alright?” Tucker asked. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

“No, why do you ask?”
Tucker got up and crossed the room, snagging his underwear off the floor. “You’re

acting weird, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know exactly what I’m doing…but I’ll try to stop?”
Slipping on his briefs, Tucker decided to spell it out. “It’s not real great on the ego

when the guy I had sex with the night before won’t even look me in the eye.”

Fox opened his mouth, but said nothing.
Tucker began looking for his jeans. “Great! No response from the pissy peanut

gallery.”

“I’m just hung over, that’s all,” Fox said, seeming instantly irritated.
“No shocker there, it was like an evening with Johnny Cash in here last night.”

Tucker growled, remembering he’d left his jeans on the bathroom floor the night before.

Fox sighed, pressing two fingers into his eye socket as he leaned back, rummaging

the bottle of ibuprofen out of his pocket. He pried open the lid and shook an
undetermined amount directly into his mouth, watching as Tucker hopped across the
floor on one foot slipping on his pants.

“So where too, Captain?” Tucker snatched yesterday’s t-shirt off the bed. “The

NOPD?”

“No, I bought you a couple of days on that one—friends on the force and all.”
“Yes, please don’t remind me,” Tucker snapped.
“We’ll head back to De la Fontaine, regroup, rest up, perhaps. Lord knows I feel like

I’ve been hit by a Mack truck between the booze and the bullet.”

“Should we call everyone else and give them the good news?” Tucker asked, slipping

on the shirt.

“Jesus, no, let’s hold off till at least tomorrow.” Fox stood back up, grabbing the

black duffel from his office off the floor with one hand and the silver briefcase with the
other. “Make sure it’s safe first, right?”

“Right.” Tucker wasn’t convinced that had so much to do with it as he followed Fox

out the door of the motel room. Millie was gonna have a friggin’ cow the instant she saw
Tucker’s bruised up face. Probably try to put a second bullet in Fox herself.

***

Tucker took a few quick strides ahead in order to get to the back door first. He held

out his hand signaling for the keys.

Fox begrudgingly handed them over. “I’m not an invalid.”
“Will you shut the fuck up,” Tucker said with a frustrated sigh. “Christ on a cracker

you piss and moan worse than anyone I’ve ever known.”

He unlocked the door and pushed it open before moving out of the way so Fox could

pass.

“I was just shot, for crying out loud.” Fox said, stepping inside. “Saving your ass, no

less.”

“Please, allow me to amend. You whine more than anyone I’ve ever known…with a

bullet hole.”

“Knowing you as little as I do, I wouldn’t be the least bit shocked to discover you’d

known plenty of people who had been shot,” Fox said as Tucker breezed past him.

He took Tucker by the arm, stopping him in his tracks before backing him up against

the wall. Fox kicked the back door closed with his foot before crushing his lips into
Tucker’s. He was in no mood to be polite about the fact he wanted to kiss the man and
Tucker responded as if he were equally fed up. It was an odd combination—lust and
irritability— one Fox was discovering to be a running theme when in the presence of
Wilder.

Their tongues danced and fought one another for control, the wet heat and unique

taste of Tucker’s mouth had him instantly hard.

“You keep…that up,” Tucker said in between wet smacks and lip sucking, “and so

help me…we’ll rip your stitches again.”

Fox moaned begrudgingly, slowly pulling away, deciding it may not be worth going

through that particular discomfort a third time.

They stared into one another for several moments, each breathing heavily. Tucker

reached up, letting out a sigh as he brushed the hair off Fox’s forehead. Fox frowned,
noticing the redness around Tucker’s wrist and took his hand, lightly massaging the red
skin.

Tucker was watching him intently.
“I didn’t hurt you last night did I?” Fox asked.
“No, sir,” Tucker grinned, looking particularly sinful. “Wait, is that why you’ve been

acting so strange all morning? I thought you were just hung over?”

“I am hung over, but there’s a reason I don’t drink anymore aside from that. I have a

tendency to lose control.” Fox leaned in and kissed Tucker again. “I’d never forgive
myself if I hurt…anyone, that’s all.”

“You weren’t exactly gentle,” Tucker began, only to pause for a moment. “Did I

seem like I didn’t enjoy myself?”

“Honestly, my memory is a little fuzzy.”
That wicked grin appeared once more. “You did nothing I didn’t want or at the very

least nothing I didn’t enjoy immensely.”

Fox could feel the heat rushing to both heads as Tucker kissed him, soft and

sensuously at first, quickly digressing into heat and pawing hands.

Tucker pulled away first, his eyes slightly glassy. “I think we do that a little too well.”
Fox groaned, pressing his erection into Tucker’s thigh, dry humping him.
“I’m hard as rock too, asshole,” Tucker finally said. “So you can put those sad, lonely

hound dog eyes away.”

“You drive me slightly insane, I think.”
“Don’t put that off on me.” Tucker pushed him back far enough to slip out from in

between his arms and took Fox by the hand, leading him toward the stairs. “You were
fucked in the head long before I entered the picture.”

Fox laughed, allowing himself to be dragged along as they clomped their way up the

steps. “That may very well be, Tuck. But you certainly aren’t helping matters.”

“What idiot told you I was helpful?” Tucker asked, hitting the second story landing

and stepping over an old hat box.

“No one said as much.” Fox kicked the same hatbox out of his way, stopping to

inventory the mess Savannah had made the day before. “I guess it was merely wishful
thinking on my part.”

There was a trail of destruction leading from his mother’s bedroom all the way across

the hallway to the opened door that led up into the attic. Random mismatched shoes, lace
and silky undergarments yellowed from age, hosiery still sealed in the original
manufacturers plastic, and bits and pieces of costume jewelry and old make-up littered
the floor.

“Will you look at this mess?”
“Come on, Jon,” Tucker’s voice was slightly softer than before, “leave all that until

later. You should lie down for a little while.”

“Might as well deal with it now.” Fox sighed, leaning over and hissing in pain as he

picked up a frock. “If I lay down with you I’ll try sticking my dick inside you or, at the
very least, lay there wishing I could. This mess looks as good a distraction as any other.”

Tucker was smiling as he scooped up Savannah’s old wardrobe. He watched as Fox

stopped long enough to pull the bottle of Ibuprofen out of his pant pocket, shoving the
dress under his arm and wrestling off the lid.

Fox shook several into his mouth and swallowed, not bothering to get any water.
“Those aren’t Tic Tacs, you know?” Tucker shoved his armload at Fox so he

wouldn’t attempt to bend over again. “And it wouldn’t hurt as much if you bent at the
knees instead of the waist.”

“We aren’t married yet, so how ‘bout you try not to concern yourself with what I put

into my mouth,” Fox said, irritably attempting to readjust all the crap Tucker had forced
upon him. “While we’re at it, let’s try to refrain from making any comments about knees
and bending over?”

“Yes, sir,” Tucker gave a little salute.
“And stop calling me ‘sir’ while you’re at it, damn it. Keep getting images of you

strapped into leather harnesses and that’s not helping.”

“I’ll just be quiet then,” Tucker said, visibly amused as they made their way closer to

the attic stairs with ever-growing armloads of stuff.

“You even capable of quiet?”
“Only when horny assholes stop asking me fucking questions.”
“Alright, simmer down.” Fox laughed. “Point taken.”

***

The attic was fairly tidy as far as attics go, minus the boxes and packing containers

Savannah had violated with the help of the butcher knife Virgil had mentioned was
missing from the kitchen the day before. Fox had shivered off all the horrific thoughts of
could’ve-beens that raced through his mind, realizing his mother had been running
around in a manic state with a large knife.

“Virgil was right, things have to change around here and fast,” he’d mumbled to

himself as they made quick work of repacking his mothers old things.

“You’ll figure out a way to make it work,” Tucker reassured him scooping up

handfuls of panties and placing them back into an overturned box.

Tucker reminded Fox to have a little more faith in himself by adding. “I don’t need to

know you well to believe that much to be true, Jon. You’ve risked life and limb for me
and you barely know me.”

“Think your cousin would like a job?” Fox finally asked, helping Tucker with the few

remaining boxes.

“I think she’d love one,” Tucker said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back

of his hand. “Not sure you’d survive the cure, though. Leigh isn’t exactly the demure,
fade into the background type. She is a damn good nurse though.”

“I’m not exactly in the position to be picky,” Fox said. “Between my reputation and

all the innuendos following the Delta Deveraux mess, I’m not on the top of anyone’s
most desirable employer list. Dealing with a surly-ass Virgil day in and day out isn’t a
plus either.”

Tucker winked. “I think you’re well worth suffering three, maybe even four surly-ass

Virgil’s…in my humble opinion.”

Fox walked over and picked up a stack of envelopes tied together with a yellowed

pink ribbon that had fallen down in between two boxes.

“You certainly know how to turn on the charm when you want to.” Fox glanced down

at the envelope on top addressed to a Miss Cathy Earnshaw.

He looked up realizing Tucker had gone quiet only to discover he’d wandered over to

the far wall of shelving inspecting the rows upon rows of file boxes his father had
meticulously organized back in the day.

Sliding one of the letters out of the stack, Fox slipped the single sheet of paper from

inside and opened it. More confused after reading the letter that seemed like gibberish
and was signed by someone named Heathcliff.

Now that I have found the secret passage to your heart, I will rescue you from your

prison and keep you safe in your crystal palace of petals.

Heathcliff

“I can’t believe how organized all this stuff is.” Tucker was wandering along the

shelves of boxes. “Some of this is really old, records dating back to the late seventeen
hundreds.”

Fox folded the paper, shoved it back into the envelope, and opened a second letter,

only to find the same sort of nonsense written inside. “My father was big into history,
especially when it came to De la Fontaine. He did a lot of research on the property and
kept meticulous records. His big contribution to the world, preserving the deeds and
records of an antiquated way of life that people could care less about these days.”

“Wow, no daddy issues going on there, huh?”
Fox rolled his eyes, irritated after reading a third letter from Heathcliff to Cathy. “The

man hung himself, Tuck. Not exactly the sort of action that did much to endear himself to
me. He was probably driven to it after years of tedious boredom from organizing all that
crap.”

“There goes that vein in your forehead,” Tucker mumbled.
“These letters make no sense; who the hell is Cathy Earnshaw?”
“Must be a friend of your mother’s, right? They were packed with her stuff.”
“Yes, but my mother wasn’t named Heathcliff, Tucker.”
“When are they dated from?” Tucker asked. “And why do Cathy and Heathcliff

sound so familiar to me?”

“I can’t help you with the later,” Fox said, walking around the boxes toward Tucker

who was now bent over reading the labels on the boxes. “But the letters are dated from
the summer of ’82.”

Tucker followed the rows and stacks, reading the dates aloud until he got toward the

end of the row, which stopped coincidently with the last set of boxes dated from July to
September of 1982.

“It’s all arranged quarterly and by year. This is actually pretty impressive, Jon. Love

him or not, your father was every researcher and historian’s wet dream. There’s an entire
shelving unit full of records over there dedicated to your grandfather’s business dealings.
The origins of your family fortune are collecting dust in this attic.”

Fox stared at him blankly, forcing himself not to blink. He waited just long enough

for the silence to become uncomfortable before saying, “Wow!”

Tucker sneered, apparently not appreciating the sarcasm.
While he understood the significance, Fox had trouble anytime it came down to

finding anything positive to say about dear old Dad. Cantankerous old Virgil and Mason
had both been more of a father to him than his old man ever had, and the two of them
weren’t exactly ringing endorsements…even when combined.

“Seriously, I’m thrilled to have finally discovered my birthright.” Fox placed a hand

on Tuckers shoulder as he surveyed all the shelving stuffed with boxes. “Way better than
having the actual man around as I was growing up…alone…without any family after my
mother went mad and my very sweet Aunt Linnie passed away.”

Tucker shrugged his hand off and muttered under his breath, probably something very

unkind, as he grabbed one of the boxes and carried it over to the old wooden table that sat
in the exact same spot, most likely unused since the last time Beauregard Fox had been
up here judging by the amount of dust.

“At least you have something nice you can say about your father,” Tucker said,

flipping the cardboard lid off and watching it fall to side. “I don’t even know who mine

is.”

Fox coughed away the dust Tucker sent flying into the air and began helping him

remove the contents. “You should try viewing that fact as a blessing in disguise. Your old
man is probably a real prick.”

Tucker laughed, nodding his agreement. “Difficult to argue considering he never

came looking for me.”

They’d carefully removed ledgers, photo albums and manila envelopes all labeled in

the same block-print lettering as the boxes they came from, minus this last box. Fox
noted the label for this box was scribbled in much sloppier handwriting, likely Virgil’s.

He must have intended to keep up with all this after my father offed himself, Fox

thought.

Tucker lifted a collapsible folder from the box that had the words Stupid-ass parties

written across the flap in black marker.

Fox grinned, trying not to laugh as it made his side hurt. Definitely Virgil.
“What were the stupid-ass parties all about?” Tucker asked, peeking inside the

envelope and thumbing through the papers inside.

“Traditionally, De la Fontaine played host to two large parties or balls each year, one

in late October, celebrating La Toussaint or All Saints Day and the other in June for the
Carnival of Santiago coinciding with the beginning of the sugar cane harvest. The later of
the two was in honor of the first mistress of De la Fontaine, Alandra Escalona, a Cuban-
born beauty with ties to Spanish nobility.”

“Jeez, he really did save everything; there are receipts in here for catering and hooch,

sample menus even.”

“Ridiculous,” Fox muttered. “Alandra was the first lady of De la Fontaine, married at

sixteen and seventeen years younger than her cradle-robbing pervert of a husband,
Antoine Beauchene”

“For a guy who claims no interest in the history of this place you sure seem to know a

lot.” Tucker said. “Perhaps you’re more like daddy than you thought?”

“You can shut up now, smart ass. Nobody yanked your chain.” Fox had half a mind

to knock that smug grin off the man’s face, but decided better of it. “For god’s sake,
please stop saying the word daddy. It’s distracting, and is disturbing to me on so many
levels.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Tucker said, laughing when Fox backhanded him in the arm.
“You’re severely twisted, you realize this?”
“Back to the history lesson then, please,” Tucker said, cracking open the photo

album.

“The parties had been long extinct traditions by the time my grandfather purchased

the plantation but he decided to revive them. It was more about showing off his wealth
and prosperity than anything else, but for some reason my father continued to host them
even after old Granddaddy died.”

“Hey look,” Tucker interrupted, pointing to an engraved guest list. “What was that

lady’s name again? Cathy something?”

Fox snagged the letters off the table. “Earnshaw?”
Fox followed Tucker’s finger down the list, which was alphabetized by first name.

“No Cathy or Catherine’s.”

“Figures,” Fox said, tossing the letters back down.

“Holy shit, Fox,” Tucker said, grabbing at his arm. “Look at this.”
Fox glanced back down, scrolling down the list of names till he landed at the one just

above Tucker’s finger.

Clay Shaw.
Their gazes met briefly. Tucker was smiling and visibly excited at the prospect that

they’d stumbled across something new.

“I’m going to ignore the bad feeling I get seeing that expression on your face.” Fox

began tossing everything back into the box. “For I have no doubt it’s the one that usually
leads to you getting yourself in trouble.”

Tucker laughed, though he looked confused as to why Fox was putting everything

away.

Fox nudged his head in the direction of the shelves. “Start pulling boxes, gorgeous.

I’m not staying up here in the heat to go through all of it.”

Tucker jumped to as Fox carried the first box across the attic, this time bending at the

knees when he went to set it on the floor next to the door. He was cool and collected
despite all the sweat from the dry heat, but inside, he too was excited, thinking they might
finally be close to getting some answers.

Chapter Twelve

The formal dining room at De la Fontaine had seen more action in the past few days

than it likely had in twenty-five years or more. It currently looked as if something had
exploded, having been turned into command central for sifting through his father’s boxes.
They’d started with ’82 and then gone back dragging down everything from ’81 as well.
After sifting through all of it, they’d discovered the very first mention of Clay Shaw had
popped up in the months leading up to the All Saints Day Ball in October of 1981
between a letter from Savannah to Beau, requesting Clay’s name to be added to the guest
list.

Fox’s eyes were now crossed, and his head felt like it might be ready to split in two.

He was quite impressed with Tucker, though. The man appeared to be energized by all of
it, like an archeologist on the hunt for the one artifact that might explain why an entire
civilization had vanished off the face of the earth.

Had this been one of his cases, Fox might have been equally excited. However, the

lost civilization in this instance was that of his family, and Fox couldn’t shake the
foreboding sense that whatever they uncovered, he wasn’t going to like.

From the first mention of Clay in that initial letter, it seems the mystery man managed

to worm his way into the inner circle of both of his parents. On several occasions, Clay’s
name was discovered among those of the guest lists from several of his father’s hunting
weekends at the plantation. They’d sorted through the photographs taken from those
elaborate parties during that time, only to realize after removing a few from the albums,
that his father had conveniently hand written the last names of each person in the picture
onto the back.

They now had a face to go with the name. It hadn’t been lost on either of them how

attractive that face was. Fox had a horribly sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach that
his mother had been a very bad married lady. What he didn’t understand for the life of
him was how any of this tied to Betty…or Tucker for that matter. Why involve him at
all?

If there was one person alive who’d know whether or not his mother was diddling the

incredibly sexy Clay Shaw, it would’ve been her best friend, Eva. He was fairly certain
what the answer was going to turn out to be, but Fox was hoping he was wrong. If he was
right, he was going to be really pissed that Eva had kept that fact from him all these
years.

Fox was nervously fiddling with the stack of letters crudely re-tied with the same

piece of yellowed ribbon that had bound them together for god knows how many years
before now. His patience had thinned to the point of snapping altogether as he held up the
phone with his free hand—it was on speaker, ringing over and over again waiting for Eva
to pick up.

Staring at Tucker was the one thing that seemed to have any sort of calming effect on

him, and that made Fox uncomfortable on a whole other level. His head still didn’t feel
right due to the effects of his hang over, and his side hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. The

second set of stitches were holding, but his entire side ached.

Her voicemail kicked in again and he sighed.
“You have reached Eva DuBois. You best leave yourself a message if you expect a

call back.”

Fox rolled his eyes, irritated by her voice recording.
“I do, however, reserve the right to not return your call, either way,” she’d added at

the end.

Fox took a deep breath to count to ten, but only made it to two. “Call me back, damn

it!”

With that, he disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto the dining room table.
“Dude, you need to calm down.”
“I can’t, damn it,” Fox said. “I feel like the people closest to me have been keeping

secrets from me all these years and it’s pissing me off. Add to that the mysterious Betty
Black has apparently been playing me from our very first meeting and it’s not creating a
very Zen-like atmosphere for me, Mr. California. I’m stuck in the dark, Tucker. That is
not okay with me.”

Tucker sighed and nodded, which Fox took as an admission he’d be the same were

the shoes on his feet.

“I still can’t figure out why she dragged me into it.” Tucker said.
“I was just thinking the same thing. She probably knew I’d not be able to resist a

piece of man-ass as hot as yours,” Fox said, now slightly more agitated.

“Thanks…I think. Not sure how I feel about being relegated to little more than an

orifice for your dick, but I’ve never been one to turn my nose up at a compliment.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, just that I have a bit of a reputa…tion…” Fox trailed off,

noticing the frown lines forming across Tucker’s forehead. “Well…you know…”

“That I’m merely one stud in your vast stable?” Tucker asked. “I do remember that.

Ahh, sweet, sweet memories.”

“Let’s try not to forget you weren’t exactly a virgin when we met. I distinctly recall

you saying something about being fucked on your Nanna’s floral bedspread?”

Tucker laughed, sliding another picture out the photo album and reading the back.

“And fucked quite nicely, as I recall.”

“I can do without any extra commentary, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Of course, I wasn’t juggling god knows how many other boys on the side while

being fucked on Nanna’s bed, but hey…details right?”

Fox could feel his lip curling slightly, mainly due to the fact he didn’t have a snappy

comeback for that one.

“Isn’t this guy your uncle?” Tucker asked, effectively changing the subject by passing

him the photograph that showed Mason standing with his arm around Clay Shaw’s
shoulder.

“It is,” Fox said, noting the men appeared to know one another.
“Here’s another,” Tucker passed him a second photo.
This one included his father and Virgil along with Mason and Shaw, all standing

along the steps of the front porch holding rifles. Fox grabbed his phone and opened the
camera app, getting the lens as close to the photograph as possible before the resolution
got fuzzy. He snapped the pic and then began tapping on the screen again, sending it in a
text to Mason along with a message asking if he remembered the man.

He started to do the same with the second picture, stopping only to examine the

demeanor of the men that had been captured there for all eternity. They all appeared to be
happy, accept for Virgil. No real surprise there, it seems the man had always been uptight
and cranky.

“That the same Virgil you live with here?” Tucker asked.
“Huh?” Fox asked, distracted by the way Virgil was sneering at Mason. “Oh, yeah it

is. He was my father’s oldest friend.”

“He was a good looking man back in the day.” Tucker leaned back into the dining

room chair, placing his hands behind his head as he grinned. “Guess all that solitude and
incessant meanness really took its toll, huh?”

Fox sighed, catching his meaning all too well as he took another picture with his

phone and texted it to Mason. He’d opened his mouth to tell Tucker to mind his own
business when his phone started to ring. One glance at the screen and he saw it was
Mason. Fox put him on speakerphone, but signaled Tucker to stay quiet.

“Jon?”
“I’m here,” Fox answered.
“Wasn’t sure it was you at first, not your phone number that popped up.”
“Yeah, I…lost my phone.”
“I can’t seem to place the man, son. He looks vaguely familiar, but that was a long

time ago. Where in the hell did you even find these photos anyway?”

“Here at De la Fontaine in some of my father’s junk.”
“Well, I wish I was more help, but honestly, a lot of the people who came to those

shindigs your parents used to throw were small timers, looking to climb the social ladder.
Mostly wannabes and hangers-on, you know the type.”

That made some sense, considering Clay seemed to come out of nowhere only to

disappear the same way. The look on Tucker’s face said that he wasn’t convinced.

“You still there?” Mason asked.
“Yeah, I’m here. Just thinking.”
“Well, don’t go straining anything, son.” He chuckled over his own joke.
Fox did a double take—Mason didn’t make jokes; it was completely odd behavior.
“I wish I could give you a name or something else to go on, but I’m drawing a blank.”
“We have his name, Mason. It was Clay Shaw. I was just hoping you might

remember some details about the man, that’s all.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that’s good at least. You have a name, and knowing you, that should

be all you’ll need to figure out the rest.”

“It usually is.”
“You are tenacious, Jon. I must give credit where credit is due. As much as I dislike

the particular profession you’ve chosen, you are single minded when it comes to ferreting
out the truth.”

“Thank you,” Fox said, able to hear the slight disappointment in his own voice. He’d

been counting on Mason for something, anything they could use as a lead on what had
happened to Shaw.

“Look here, I’ve got a meeting I need to get to, but you call me if you need anything

at all. I’ll help any way I can.”

He once again disconnected without any of the usual formalities.
Fox stood back, surveying all the photographs, letters, scraps of paper and evidence

as Tucker finished spreading them out across the dining room table. There was bound to
be some answers in all of this mess.

“This is everything we have, right?”
“Think so,” Fox mumbled, his gaze slowly moving from one item to another,

attempting to piece it all together and make some sense out of the chaos. “What the hell is
Betty Black really after, and how the hell is she connected to my family?”

“The one-hundred million dollar question.” Tucker looked momentarily confused

himself, until he sighed, slapping himself in the forehead. He gently shoved Fox out of
the way before rummaging through his computer bag on the floor, retrieving a stack of
note cards bound with a yellow rubber band along with a fistful of different colored
markers.

“So simple, I should have thought of it before.”
“What are you seeing that I’m not?” Fox asked.
“Probably nothing, however, not being a mind reader I couldn’t say for sure.”
Fox took a deep breath, trying to keep himself from imploding. “I need more fucking

ibuprofen.”

Tucker laughed under his breath, yanking off his t-shirt and tossing it over the back of

a chair.

“Are you warm?” Fox asked, his eyes drawn to the man’s hard pecks and rapidly

hardening nipples.

“No…well a little.” He toed off his sneakers and kicked them under the table. “Just

making myself comfortable.”

He turned in a circle, surveying the room before pointing at the largest open span of

wall unimpeded by furniture.

“We’re gonna need to take that big-ass mirror off the wall.” Tucker surveyed the

room again. “We can stick it over there for now, prop it up against the china cabinet. You
got any scotch tape?”

Fox’s eyebrows hitched, unsure exactly where he was going with this. “I’m sure we

do…somewhere.”

“We’re gonna need it.” He picked up the stack of note cards. “We’re going to treat

this as if it were a film script that we’re writing. Take everything we know and write it
onto these cards and tape them up here along the wall in the order we think they occurred.
Each piece of evidence will be like a plot point. We stick it all up here and see where we
have holes in the story.”

Fox nodded. “Like a crime board?”
“Sure.” Tucker shrugged and Fox could tell he had no clue what a crime board was.
It was fine, he had no idea what Tucker called whatever the hell it was he was doing,

but he could see the value in it. Even though they’d be speculating on the what and why
of those missing pieces, by stepping out of it and looking at everything impartially, as if it
were fiction instead of fact, it might lead them in a new direction, point out new avenues
to investigate if nothing else.

“Well, go find us some tape, sexy.” Tucker was smiling from ear to ear. “And some

more iced tea wouldn’t suck.”

It was that megawatt, leading-man kind of smile that would have normally made

Tucker seem out of reach, like some perfect Hollywood fantasy from the pages of a fan
magazine. His ruffled, unkempt hair and half naked state of dress, however, made him

feel real and tactile—something Fox could indeed grab hold of and never let go should he
chose to do so.

With the Diab drug mess out of the way, things had changed. Their worlds had been

jumbled around once more, like the pull of a lever on an old-fashioned slot machine; the
pieces had been sent spinning and had now landed into a new alignment. Standing there
in the center of the formal dining room at De la Fontaine, Tucker Wilder seemed both
available and attainable for the very first time.

As he left the room to go collect all the items Tucker needed, Jonathon Fox admitted

to himself for the very first time that he didn’t exactly hate the idea of having Tucker
around.

***

It was dark outside as both men stood back, inspecting the wall after hours of work

double and triple checking they hadn’t forgotten anything. The empty glasses of iced tea
sat on top of the table, the ice cubes slowly melting into water.

Tossing his cell phone onto the table, Fox sighed. He’d checked his voicemail and

found thirteen messages. Nine had been hang-ups, two others from Eva and Virgil letting
him know they were safe, one from Mason checking to see if he was safe, and one from
Betty. Apparently, he’d missed their scheduled meeting and she’d called to remind him
of that fact, along with inquiring why the windows to his office had been boarded up and
the door covered in crime scene tape.

“I do hope that everything’s okay, Mr. Fox, and I do hate to be a pest, but you did

agree to teach me how to find the man I need to murder if I gave you two weeks to
convince me otherwise. It’s been two weeks and I’m afraid he still has to die, and a
promise is a promise,” she’d said, using her sweet granny-knows-best tone. “So if you
aren’t dead yourself, dear, would please call me back to reschedule?”

It was almost more than he could take at this point in his day.
Fox yawned, stretching until he felt the painful pull of the gunshot wound. He’d also

stripped down to nothing but jeans as they’d gone about scribbling information onto note
cards and taping them onto the wall. Fox had taken things one step further, adding the
photographs, envelopes, and any other scrapes of paper up with the cards where they fit
into the timeline, which stretched from 1981 to the present. At the very top, above all the
rest was one note card that read, Betty Black with a big black question mark underneath.

She was the piece that didn’t seem to fit in with anything else. Fox wondered how

Rick was coming along with his search into the identity of the younger man Betty was in
cahoots with. He glanced down at his phone, tempted to call Ford, then thought better of
it. He knew Rick would be in touch the minute he had anything solid to share.

He glanced over and caught Tuck rubbing his weary eyes.
“We should try to catch some shut-eye while we can, huh?”
Tucker nodded, now yawning as well, the muscles in his back and shoulders going

taut as he stretched like a cat.

He’d already called Virgil and told him it would be okay to bring everyone back by

morning if they made it through the night without incident. While it still bugged him,
Santiago and his cronies having been beheaded and Voodooed that way, he couldn’t for
the life of him see how Tucker could be a threat to them any longer. They should be out

of danger.

He looked down, feeling Tucker’s hand on his chest, leaning into a quick kiss.
“Take me to bed, lover, before I decide the stairs are too much to take and curl up on

the floor.”

Fox nodded, yawning himself as he took one last look over the timeline. He was

hoping he’d get lucky for once and wake up in the a.m. with the answer he’d been
waiting for all day to come to him.

***

Mason Wilkes had been sitting for hours in the luxurious dark, red leather chair

behind the massive mahogany desk in his home office which was located in the Garden
District. The opulently-decorated, 4,000-square-foot Victorian was vacant of any of other
sound, the few servants he kept on staff both at night and on weekends knew to leave him
be unless summoned.

He fiddled with his cell phone, lost in thought for several moments before pressing

the button that once again lit up the screen highlighting the old picture Fox had sent him
earlier that afternoon.

He’d always known this day might come, but as the years went by the reality of it

seemed less likely.

He surveyed the room, taking in all the refinery that surrounded him: the leather-

bound first editions of the many classics lining the bookshelves; the imported crystal
chandelier that hung above his head; the built-in bar hand-carved out of Caribbean
Rosewood with African Blackwood accents, and that held the rarest selection of
bourbons and single malts money could buy.

Mason had spared no expensive when it came to indulging himself.
The life he’d risked to build all of this for himself was being threatened for the first

time in a very long time.

Mason should have had the boy killed long ago, and had there been a will naming

him sole heir to the company and the Fox family fortune, he would have. He should’ve
taken his chances in court with regard to his control over, and possible inheritance of,
Fox Industries. Mason had been greedy, willing to gamble on waiting it out until he could
finagle some sort of a will from Jon. It seemed like a nonissue at the time. Jon had never
shown any interest in the company, and for nearly a decade the spoiled little prince
blundered about too drunk, partying his way from one arrest or lawsuit into another.

There’d never been any threat at the time.
The minute Jon began to pull his life together, Mason had known deep down this day

would come. It was the reason he’d been so adamant Jon get involved in the Senator
Deveraux case. Rid himself of two obstacles in one event that could in no way be traced
back to him.

It had almost worked.
The good Senator had become miraculously soft on offshore drilling ever since the

BP disaster, with all future plans for more offshore oil put on hold indefinitely, including
Fox Industries interests.

It was perfectly logical for him to step in and try to protect his good friend, the

Senator, by recommending his nephew handle the investigation into his wife’s alleged

extramarital affairs. Mason had known Delta for years. The woman had been walking the
tightrope of insanity for a very long time. He’d fucked her himself back in the early
nineties, a short-lived affair that nearly blew up in his face after she went crazy when he
cut her off. He’d had his own personal flashes of Fatal Attraction at the time with her
stalking and breaking into his home.

Delta did not take rejection well, and became easily unhinged.
He knew she’d become enraged to discover her husband was having her investigated,

and he’d made sure she found out.

He’d carefully placed each domino in place before knocking over that first tile. The

only thing Mason had underestimated was Jon’s tenacity for survival. The last and final
Fox heir had proven himself to be a worthy—albeit unknowing—advisary.

“Surely his nine lives are close to running out?” Mason asked to no one in particular

considering he was alone.

That boy had been a thorn in his side for too long, one Mason was ready to rid

himself of once and for all…assuming it wasn’t already too late. He’d planned for
multiple contingencies over the years in the event the truth ever came out. Now might be
the best time for him to cut his losses and disappear with as much money as he could
manage. There was certainly enough for him to live out the rest of his life in the comfort
to which he’d become accustomed.

***

They’d come full circle, as Tucker was now down on his knees, redressing the bullet

wound on Fox’s side. There was no longer any modesty as they were each butt-naked and
fresh out of the shower. Fox was currently about half-hard, trying not to think about the
fact that Tucker was down on his knees before him once again.

His mouth was unfortunately preoccupied, biting on his own lip as he cautiously

pressed down on the bandage, aware of every twitch Fox made from the pain and
discomfort.

“Sorry, trying to be gentle,” Tucker mumbled.
Fox glanced down at Tucker’s leg. The scrape had scabbed over and soon there’d be

nothing left; no reminder other than possibly a light pink scar that would inevitably fade
over time.

“Think that’s it,” Tucker said, satisfied with his work.
Fox noticed his eyes now focused on his dick.
“I must say, you do know how to make a boy feel good about himself.”
Fox was trying not to smile, his erection getting thicker. “I do seem to suffer a

disappointing lack of self control when you’re around.”

Tucker grabbed him by the hand and yanked, signaling he wanted Fox to join him on

the floor. “Get down here with me.”

“You make me a little dizzy, if that helps at all,” Fox said, slowly getting down onto

his knees.

“Well sure, you’ve lost all that blood due to that monster between your legs.” Tucker

took his dick by the head, twisting his hand, creating the friction that had Fox’s eyes
rolling back into his head.

“Fuck, that feels nice.” Fox swallowed hard. “What do you plan to do with me now

that you have me down here.”

“Make you scream,” Tucker said, laying down onto his back and motioning for Fox

to straddle him.

“I don’t like to bottom, Tuck,” Fox said, doing as instructed but sitting just below

Tucker’s cock and balls.

Tucker moaned, seductively as he began jacking Fox off. “I want you to come on

me.”

“Why you gotta say stuff like that?” Fox shut his eyes for a moment, his mouth

falling open slightly. “Fuck yeah, Tuck…that feels incredible.”

“Twist your nipple for me, Jon.” Tucker reached under with his other hand and

wrapped his fingers around Fox’s balls, pulling down. “I love how much pre-cum you
have.”

Fox did as he was asked, twisting and pulling on his nipple, his breath already

beginning to become difficult to catch.

Tucker was keeping the pace slow and torturous. “If you only knew how much I

crave having you shoot your seed all over me.”

“Yeah?” Fox asked, his voice quivering slightly.
“Bending me over and spreading my ass open.”
Fox groaned, unable to tear his gaze away from Tucker’s.
“Fucking me hard, till I’m unable to concentrate on anything other than your cock

forcing its way inside me over and over again…so hot, so hard.”

“Jesus,” Fox whispered, his entire body beginning to shake as Tucker picked up

speed while tugging harder on his nuts.

“To have you pull your thick cock out of my ass and hose down my red ass cheeks

with your come.”

With that, Fox lost the battle, screaming as the first shot of semen sprayed across

Tucker’s abs and chest. He kept up that steady rhythm, milking every last drop from Fox,
only stopping when Fox reached down and made him. He wasted no time scooping up a
handful of his come from Tucker’s stomach and using that as lubrication, jacking Tucker
off.

Fox readjusted his position so Tucker could spread his legs. He was so turned on by

his own dirty talk that he came before Fox could get an entire dry digit inside his hot little
hole. Writhing on the floor, Tucker called out Jon’s name several times, his hips thrusting
upward, fucking Fox’s slick wet fist.

“Most people call me Fox.” He said, thinking no one had ever looked better covered

in semen. He could tell instantly that might not have been the smartest comment to make
at this precise moment.

“You really think this is the best time to refer to me as most people?”
“Not exactly what I meant by that. Just not used to hearing my first name, that’s all.

Certainly not during…” Fox trailed off deciding that was another road best left
untraveled. “I should probably—”

“Man, you sure know how to piss all over a moment,” Tucker said, calling out in

pleasured-pain, his entire body clenching as Fox continued to massage his swollen prick.

“I just meant…that I liked hearing it…hearing you screaming out Jon.” Fox shrugged,

finally relinquishing Tucker’s cock. “Sorry; that’s a stupid thing to say.”

Tucker watched him intently for several moments, like he might be trying to

determine if and what Fox had meant by that. “I’m gonna need another shower.”

“Seems a shame to me, you look awfully good like that.”
“It’s just like an etch-a-sketch, babe: you gotta clear the canvas before you can turn

around and do it all over again.”

Fox smiled, looking over the man still trapped underneath him. “I foresee a whole lot

of showers in your near future.”

***

The light from the tiny attached bath shut off and Fox turned, watching Tucker cross

the room and crawl into bed. A slight sheen lingered on the man’s tight, hard body from
the humidity caused by the shower, making him even more enticing, like he’d been
sugar- coated or glazed in honey. His instinct was to touch or lick, and the smug smile on
Tucker’s face told Fox the man knew every last indecent thought currently racing through
his mind.

“You mind a question?” Tucker asked, rearranging the pillows he now used to prop

himself up. “There’s one thing I don’t quite get about you.”

“Only one?” Fox nodded as if he was truly impressed.
Tucker ignored the insinuation. “Why do you even doing this?”
“Do what, have sex?” Fox asked, not following and newly concerned as he propped

himself up on his elbows. “This your way of telling me it wasn’t good for you?”

Tucker rolled his eyes. “Difficult to sell that, what with all the screaming and blowing

my wad all over myself.”

Fox sighed his relief, allowing Tucker’s sarcasm to fall by the wayside. “Not really

the best question to open with right after, baby.”

“It’s been at least five minutes,” Tucker offered in his defense.
Fox pointed at his body. “The sweat hasn’t even had time to dry.”
“This is Louisiana. The sweat never has time to dry.”
Fox laughed, lying back down now that his panic had been relieved.
“I was referring to the whole private investigator gig?” Tucker’s forehead crinkled up

like the mystery of it had left him irritable. “You’re a considerably wealthy man, Jon.”

“My family has money, not me.” Fox knew that wasn’t exactly the truth, at least not

in legal terms.

The look on Tucker’s face said it all. “You kinda are your family at this point though,

right? Or am I missing something?”

“I’m not a part of all that—the Fox multi-million dollar industry—never had any

connection to it, really. My uncle handles that, and a helluva lot better than I ever could.
Don’t get me wrong Tuck, legally speaking it does belong to me and the money and
prestige has gotten me out of plenty of scrapes in my day, likely more than it should’ve. I
haven’t always been so warm and fuzzy, you know.”

Tucker laughed at the absurdity of that prospect, in spite of the sarcastic delivery. “I

find that difficult to imagine, Mr. Sandpaper-man, but let’s table the topic of your past
and get back to the still unanswered questions about your present.”

Fox frowned over the attempted forced intrusion into his motivations for doing

anything. “I’d never have pegged you for being this interested.”

“Again with the avoidance?” Tucker was now watching Fox all squinty-eyed, like he

now suspected the worst. “I’m a writer, buddy. I’m interested in everything.”

Fox attempted to hold back a grin, thinking an excuse to be nosy was more like it. He

sighed, watching Tucker staring back at him waiting for an answer. Something told him
Tucker wasn’t going to allow the subject to die gracefully.

“Why do you do what you do, Mr. Writer-man?” Fox asked, wondering if Tucker

would be so inclined to answer his own questions.

Tucker shook his head, like he was somewhat disgusted.
They had that in common, both stubborn, determined, a sure sign of multiple

arguments on the horizon should they end up continuing to see one another once all this
was over.

Sighing, as if resigned to the fact he needed to show his underbelly in order for Fox to

do the same, Tucker nodded. “Okay, fine. I’m man enough to not cower away from a
simple question.”

“That’s good to know,” Fox said, rolling onto his side, smiling like he wasn’t the least

bit bothered by the crack about his manhood.

“I suppose I’ve always had a penchant for daydreaming.” Tucker stared up at the

ceiling for a moment. “If I were being completely honest, a lot of what I enjoy, aside
from getting lost in someone else’s life, is being able to write a proper ending when I can.
Real life doesn’t usually do that.”

Fox watched him, aware Tucker wasn’t making eye contact for a reason.
“Things growing up for me weren’t horrible or anything. Millie always treated me

real good, like one of her own. But never knowing my parents, having been abandoned
by a mother who preferred heroine to her own child…that has a tendency to stick with a
boy, you know?”

Fox nodded when Tucker finally did look his way.
“Perhaps I should be thankful— had I never longed for anything other than what I

had, perhaps I’d have never become a writer.” Tucker went back to staring at the ceiling.
“It feels shameful to admit, even. Makes me seem ungrateful to Millie, I suppose.”

“I’d have to disagree with that last part,” Fox said. “Your first instinct when we were

hiding back in that alley after you noticed those men had your phone was to rush out
there and stop them from texting your cousin. I had to hold you back and keep you quiet,
remember? You had no regard for your own safety in that moment.”

Tucker shrugged, then nodded slightly like he might not disagree.
Sharing his personal woes wasn’t part of his usual M.O., then again, he recognized

there was something different about the man stretched out next to him on the bed. There
was a sadness hiding there, just underneath that rather enticing exterior that Fox found
himself strangely attracted to. It went deeper than the loneliness Fox most often
discovered in the men who shared his bed. This was something else, like looking in a
mirror to a certain degree.

They were each damaged in the same way: brothers in search of a missing piece to

the puzzle of their past. Clawing through life, waiting for something tangible to come
along that might explain how their lives had brought them each to this breaking point.

“I like helping other people discover the truth.” Fox shrugged, realizing it actually

was as simple as that as he rolled onto his back. “There’s so much I don’t know about my
family history and there doesn’t seem to be anyone left who’s either willing or capable of
filling in the blanks for me. No one should have to go through life that way, you know?

Never knowing where or why their life went to shit. Doesn’t seem fair to me. That’s what
drives me to do what I do.”

Fox found himself now staring up at the ceiling intently, like he expected some sort of

answer to float down from the expansive white field of nothingness. He didn’t necessarily
blame anyone for their reticence to open up to him about his family. He’d done little to
endear himself to the community as a whole throughout much of his youth. He’d left
plenty of scars throughout the city and the people of New Orleans had a very good
memory.

Tucker seemed to be taking it all in, his gaze searching Fox’s face like he might be

attempting to determine whether or not Fox was being truthful.

“See there,” Tucker finally said. “Was that so damn difficult?”
“You’re referring to me as difficult?” Fox was shocked over the man’s choice of

words. “Coming from the man who, within the span of a few weeks, has gotten himself
mixed up with a murderous senior citizen, witnessed an execution perpetrated by the then
presumed head of a local lethal drug cartel, and had his home broken into for some
unknown reason?”

“Thanks for the reminder that my life is in ruins, Sunshine. I never went out searching

for any of that!”

“My point exactly! My mind reels over the possibilities should you ever decide to

actually go looking. You’re like a walking totem for disaster and mayhem.”

Tucker started to laugh, rolling onto his side while playfully tweaking a nipple.

“Danger must really turn you on then, huh?”

Fox groaned. “Don’t confuse me taking my frustrations out on your ass as anything

other than a celebration over my survival, and an attempt to teach you a lesson about
where you continually decide to go sticking your nose.”

“You might wanna find yourself some other way of getting your point across, if that’s

the case. ‘Cause your technique for negative reinforcement isn’t eliciting the desired
effect.”

Fox felt his eyebrows slowly arching before letting out a yawn. He rolled over,

forgetting about the wound in his side as he tried to turn off the lamp.

“Fuck me, Christ,” he whispered, his breath briefly taken away.
“If you’d sit still for five minutes, Tucker began, getting up onto his knees and

straddling Fox so he could turn off the lamp, “you might stop inflicting further pain and
injury upon yourself.”

“Son of a bitch, that hurt.” Fox placed his hand on Tucker’s leg, who was still sitting

on top of him, staring down at him in the dark.

Tucker carefully leaned over, propping himself up with a hand, and softly kissed Fox

for several minutes before pulling away and rolling off of him.

Despite his exhaustion he was half way hard again. “You wear me out.”
“The feeling is fucking mutual,” Tucker added. “Go to sleep, already, and for Christ’s

sake, please don’t rip those stitches, I’m begging you.”

Fox sighed, his mind already becoming hazy with want of sleep as he tried to let go of

his annoyance over having his bossy bedmate constantly on his case about something. He
started making a list of all the reasons he’d never wanted a steady, but quickly fell asleep
before making it past the first few.

Chapter Thirteen

Fox groaned, feeling someone shoving on him from one side while his cell phone

rang on the other. It was early, judging by the low hazy light filtering in from the widows
on either side of the bed.

“Fonna da phone,” Tucker mumbled, shoving on Fox again.
He shook his head sitting up and reaching for the cell, slapping Tucker’s hand away

in the process. “Okay…getting it, grumpy.”

He managed the phone up to his ear. “Llo?”
“First you tell me to leave town, then you call and harass me incessantly?” Eva

snapped. “What the hell do you want?”

“Eva?” Fox asked, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.
Tucker whimpered, trying to shove his head under a pillow.
“Yes, it’s Eva. How many other women are calling you this time of night?”
“I need you to pack up wherever you’re at and head out to De la Fontaine. We have

some shit to talk about.”

“That’s gonna be difficult.”
“Why come? How…how come?”
“I’m in Vegas, and like the slogan says, what happens here, stays here, and right now

I am most certainly happening, so I suggest you make it quick.”

“Jesus, Vegas? I never said you had to leave the fucking state.”
“Why?” Tucker muttered from underneath the pillow like he might be weeping.
“Damn it.” Fox got up out of bed and crossed the room toward the door.
“Where going?” Tucker asked, his head popping up.
“Trying not to disturb you.” Fox said.
“It’s too late for that, Jon Fox.” Eva said.
“Not you!” Fox snapped.
“I’m already awake, now.” Tucker snapped back.
“You got that hot piece of ass in your bed, I take it?” Eva asked.
“Wanna hear what she has to say…unless you prefer I didn’t.” Tucker said.
“Yes, Eva, Tucker Wilder is currently in my bed, and no, Tucker, I don’t care for you

to hear anything Eva has to say...so long as she sticks to the questions and doesn’t start
offering up random bits of useless intel that have nothing to do with the topic at hand.”

He could hear Eva laughing.
“Such as?” Tucker asked, now looking irritated.
“Never you mind, Tuck,” Fox said, standing naked in the middle of his bedroom,

scratching his ass with one hand while fucking around with the phone until he had it on
speaker so Tucker could listen to both sides of the conversation.

“As much as I enjoy hearing you two squabble, perhaps we can skip to the point?”

Eva asked, her voice broadcasting through the phone’s speaker.

Fox watched Tucker cross the room into the bathroom, his dick distractingly half-

hard. He left the door open so he could hear.

“Let’s start with my mother. Did she, by any chance, have any friends named Cathy

or Heathcliff?”

“What? No. I mean, well…her favorite book growing up was Wuthering Heights?”
“Well hell, of course,” Tucker grumbled from the bathroom as he peed. “Knew they

sounded familiar.”

Fox sighed, afraid it was something like that. Those letters were probably some sort

of code she used to communicate with Shaw. “How long was she having an affair?”

He heard the toilet flush and the sound of running water had him itching to go now as

well. It wasn’t lost on him that Eva had yet to offer any sort of response.

“I don’t know what you’re talking abo-”
“Don’t bother denying it, Eva. Jesus. I want the god damn truth or so help me, I’ll be

on the first plane to Vegas to ensure things stop happening for you.”

She sighed, and Fox knew her well enough to understand she was plenty pissed off

now. If Eva hated anything, it was being forced to do anything she didn’t want to. She
also knew Fox would follow through on his threat if he didn’t get what he wanted from
her.

“Things between your parents weren’t as perfect as they’d seemed to everyone on the

outside looking in. Savannah never would give me all the details, but I knew she was
frustrated with the marriage. She was a proud woman, Jon, not the type who was quick to
admit to anything that might make her look bad.”

“That’s great. If she’d been a little more worried about her child than her pride and

ego, things might have turned out differently.”

“Oh, settle yourself down. Why you kids always assume the instant you’re born your

parents become single-minded zombies with only your happiness in mind is beyond me.
Your parents were still people, with all the same baggage, desires and insecurities they
had before you violently pushed your way into this world.”

Tucker came stumbling back out, kissing Fox on the shoulder before getting back into

bed.

“Thank you for the extra, unwanted commentary, Eva.”
“She was always a high maintenance woman—we had that in common—and your

daddy was a busy, busy man with many outside interests. I honestly assumed Beau
simply didn’t dote on her the way she expected him to so she went looking for someone
who would. Savannah needed to be someone’s everything, Jon. In the end, I don’t believe
your father had that in him. He was obviously much more troubled than any of us knew.
You really need to talk to Virgil. He was your daddy’s best friend. If there is anyone alive
who knows what was going through your daddy’s mind back then it would be him.”

“Was it just the one, Clay Shaw, or were there others?” Fox asked.
“I do not know, Jon. I suspected the affair but she never discussed it with me. She

knew better. It would’ve given me the opportunity to say I told you so, and she would’ve
never invited that, I promise you.”

“What does that mean?” Fox asked.
“I begged her not to marry your daddy. I could see it a mile away, how wrong they

were for one another, but she wouldn’t listen to me, too caught up in the fairytale of the
rich, handsome prince whisking her away into a life of glamour.”

Fox sighed, not happy she didn’t give him more.
“She froze me out after that, Jon. No longer confided in me. I knew her well enough

to suspect certain things were happening, but that’s all I had, my suspicions.”

“She doesn’t know anything more,” Tucker said, as if he were a human lie detector.

“Let the poor woman go.”

“I knew I liked that boy,” Eva said, muffling the phone with her hand as she spoke to

someone. “Virgil is your best bet if you can get the old coot to tell you anything.”

“Fine,” Fox said, disappointed and realizing she was right about that last part. Virgil

had always been a tight-lipped son of a bitch.

“I won’t be back for another week or so,” Eva added. “Just so you know.”
With that she disconnected the call.
Frustrated, Fox cursed under his breath, tossing the phone onto the bed. “That was

borderline seless.”

Tucker watched Fox head into the bathroom, muttering something to the extent that

Eva only confirmed what they’d already suspected.

At an ungodly hour, no less. Tucker rolled over onto his side to check the time. It was

5:40 in the morning, which meant that woman was up partying pretty god damn late
considering Vegas was an hour earlier. He could’ve gone back to sleep were it not for the
hard-on that had managed to rear its ugly head.

As if on cue, Fox came strolling back out into the bedroom, his hand rubbing his hard

tummy as his soft dick and balls swung around between his legs.

“I’m too irritated to go back to bed,” Fox said, hovering at the edge of the bed.

“Might go put on some coffee, take another stab at the crime board.

“I think you should lay down,” Tucker suggested.
Fox shrugged. “I honestly think I’m too wired to sleep.”
Tucker let out a frustrated sigh, whipping the sheets back and rolling onto his side

revealing his boner. Fox’s eyes widened, looking pleasantly surprised for a flicker of a
moment before lust reclaimed his senses.

“Good morning to you, too.” Fox mumbled as he crawled back onto the bed.
Before Tucker could utter another word, Fox was on top of him and had a mouth full.

He reached out, getting his hand on Fox’s rapidly growing erection as he groaned,
thrusting his prick down Jon’s throat.

Fox stopped sucking and started giving his balls a tongue bath, inhaling deeply as he

went about licking and nibbling. “If you had any idea how badly I want to fuck you right
now...”

Tucker grinned, spreading his legs, eliciting another groan fuelled by need and lust.

“Why don’t you lay back, Jon.”

Fox looked up, his face slightly pink from the heat, his mouth and lips wet with spit.

“Really? You don’t think we’ll rip my stitches?”

“Not if you shut the fuck up and do exactly as I say.”
Fox was visibly surprised, but he smiled, rolling onto his back and watching as

Tucker walked across the bed on his knees, retrieving a condom and the lube. Within
minutes Tucker had straddled him, taking care as he nabbed one of the goose down
pillows and wedged it between his leg and Fox’s side.

Tucker tossed the condom onto Fox’s stomach and opened the lube, squeezing some

into his hand. “Give me your hand.”

Fox did so, watching intently as Tucker jacked off his middle and index fingers,

getting them lubed up. He then sat up and said. “Finger me.”

Hesitating only briefly, Fox reached between Tuckers legs and did as demanded.
“So beautiful,” Fox whispered, witnessing the expression on Tucker’s face as he sunk

first one, then both fingers deep inside. Fox worked over his hole as Tucker hastily
readied Fox’s cock.

As he pushed Fox’s hand out of the way and lined up the head to his hole, their gazes

locked on to one another and never let go. Tucker rode him slow and steady, always
conscious of Fox’s side, snapping at him each time Fox began trying to thrust up to meet
Tucker’s ass as it came down, swallowing his thick cock.

Tucker’s breath shortened and his face began to contort, the sweat running down the

center of his chest as he took Fox inside him again and again.

“Fuck Jon...so good...gonna cum.”
Fox took him by the waist, ignoring Tucker’s warning to stop. He held Tucker down

on top of him and slowly pumped his ass until Tucker screamed his orgasm, shooting Fox
in the face, just nearly missing his eye. Tucker’s ass clamping down on his dick sent Fox
over the edge and he filled the condom buried deep inside with his own seed.

Neither of them said another word, just stayed like that, frozen in time for what felt

like hours, though Tucker knew it had been mere moments. At some point during their
mutual orgasm their hands had come together, fingers intertwined, so strong when locked
together; seemingly unbreakable.

Deep down Tucker knew something had just shifted and a part of him wished he’d

gone home the day before when he’d had the chance. Despite knowing it was definitely
something mutual happening between them, Tucker understood that eventually this crisis
that had brought them crashing together would eventually be over. He tried to tell himself
that this wasn’t going to last, tried to prepare himself for yet another disappointment
before it was too late.

He could feel Jon softening inside him, and the emptiness that came as a result made

one thing painfully apparent to Tucker Wilder.

It was already too late.

***

It was almost seven before Fox called Virgil to ask where they were and when they’d

be back. The tension between them flared up instantaneously, not aided much when Fox
demanded Virgil be ready to start talking truth once he did get there.

“Don’t you threaten me, Johnny.” Virgil spat over the phone. “You ain’t too old to

turn over my knee!”

“I’d like to see you try, grandpa,” Fox had snapped back, further working the old man

up.

The fighting over the phone had done little to improve his mood, but he and Tucker

managed some breakfast and another go at discussing the crime board before Virgil made
it back with Savannah, Leigh, and Millie in tow.

Millie nearly had a cow the instant she saw Tucker’s face, both eyes now a shade of

black and purple. But it was Leigh who spoke first. “Jesus, where you been? Fight Club?”
She looked him over quickly and declared, “Well, at least your nose ain’t broken. “

As they filed into the dining room, bitching about how exhausted they all were, Fox

snapped at each of them, telling them to shut up. Millie in particular looked as if she

might rear back and slap the hell out of him for speaking to her that way, but in the end
she took a seat and didn’t say a word, other than to criticize the mess they’d made.

Leigh tried getting Savannah upstairs, but Fox squashed that idea as well. Crazy or

not, his mother was going to sit there and listen to the truth. She may find some way to
ignore or pretend like it wasn’t happening, but she was damn well going to hear it either
way.

“What the hell’s crawled up your butt and died?” Virgil asked. “I’m too tired to be

grilled by you, and I damn sure ain’t telling you nuthin’ I don’t wanna tell you.”

“The hell you aren’t, Virgil, so help me.” Fox could tell he was close to snapping and

the expression on everyone else’s faces said they feared that as well. “It’s time, damn it.
You’re either my friend or my father’s, but you can’t be both. You tell me the whole truth
or you clear out of here and never come back. Your choice.”

Fox could see Virgil was seething, his mouth pursed into a tight soured pucker as he

fought an inner war with himself over what he was gonna do. “If you had any respect for
his memory you wouldn’t be asking me to do this.”

“Well, I don’t have any respect for his memory. The son of a bitch killed himself,

damn it.” Fox said. “All this family has ever done is ruin your life, Virgil. I may not
remember everything, but I damn well recall the way my daddy treated you.”

“You best hold your tongue, Johnny, 'cause you don’t know shit.” Virgil straightened

his stance as best he could, considering time and age had taken its toll. “Your daddy
wasn’t a perfect man, but I ain’t never met another like him.”

“You were always there, like some goddamn man-servant.”
“You shush it, I won’t sit here and listen to ya disparagin’ your daddy. There’s plenty

you don’t know which has ya talkin out your ass.”

“Please do us all a favor, Virgil, and enlighten me.”
Virgil glanced over at Millie, chewing on his lip like it was a chunk of fat he intended

to get every last bit of flavor from.

Fox shook his head. “Jesus, whatever it is, just spit it the fuck out already. I’ve had it

with all the secrets. My entire life I’ve been stumbling around in the dark while a past
that I know nothing about continues to dictate my future.”

Millie looked Fox up and down. “You don’t need to get nasty about it, boy.”
“Nothing can possibly be worse than the fact that he committed suicide…leaving

everyone else to pick up the pieces.” Fox looked at Virgil, waiting for an explanation.

“I don’t know why he done that,” Virgil said. “The guilt musta just become too much.

But Beau was the best damned friend I ever had, and for a very long time he was my only
friend. I come from a much less wealthy family. My daddy ran the sugarcane plantation,
or what was left of it at the time your grandfather purchased De la Fontaine. That man
was a real son of a bitch, always belittlin’ someone or another.”

“What the hell does that have to do with why my father killed himself?”
Tucker took Fox by the arm. “Jesus, Fox, just…bring it down a notch and let the man

tell his story…please.”

Fox took a deep breath, the pleading in Tucker’s eyes made him feel like a first class

heel. He nodded his compliance and headed over to a window to stare out across the
porch toward the back end of the property. He could spy bits of the broken frame of the
greenhouse through the trees and shook his arms, trying to rid himself of some of the
tension. “Sorry Virgil. You can go on with your story, I…didn’t mean to snap at you, but

I need for you to tell me the truth. No more lies or trying to protect me from the sins of
my father.” Fox turned, looking back at Virgil. “Can you do that, for me…please?”

Virgil nodded, the confusion across his face had Fox believing he might finally get it,

keeping these secrets wasn’t helping anyone, not anymore. Virgil cleared his throat and
stared at the floor, like he was trying to figure out where he’d left off.

“Grandaddy was an asshole,” Leigh offered.
Fox noted that her voice was soft and the expression on her face oddly caring, as

opposed to the typical hard-ass, tough girl persona he’d seen up till now.

“Oh yeah.” Virgil nodded. “Never seen me as a good enough companion for Beau—

having no class and all. I was always shootin’ off my mouth, a real wild one. But Beau…
he was more quiet-like, always curious about everything but most often fading into the
background whenever he could. I think that musta been why we became friends. He kept
me outta most of the trouble I’d have likely gotten myself into otherwise, and I had him
doin’ some things he probably never woulda had I not bullied him into it.”

Virgil smiled, like some particularly happy memory had just popped into his head. It

faded just as quickly as it had appeared, like a cloud passing overhead; there one instant,
gone the next.

“I don’t wanna get into all the details as it’s personal to me, and you’ll just have to

live with that, Johnny, but back when we was young men somethin’ happened to me. I
was accused of something I didn’t do.” Virgil rubbed at his chest for a moment, like it
might be giving him an ache.

Fox already knew what he was referring to. Eva had mentioned once that Virgil had

been accused of raping and beating a local girl back in the day, and Fox had looked into it
himself as a result. From what he could tell from the papers at the time, things had gotten
ugly. It had been the victim who accused Virgil, swearing up and down he’d done it. He
was only exonerated after the girl popped out a baby eight months later, which turned out
to be black.

“People turned on me so fast, it was bad, had death threats and everything. Thought I

might have to leave at one point for my own safety. Beau was the only one who stuck by
me. Never, not once did he even ask if I’d done it, he just believed in me. Even stood up
to his daddy…only time I ever seen him do that, and Beau took a beating, something
awful, for it.”

Virgil stopped and Fox glanced back once again, thinking the man seemed older,

more frail as he stood in the center of the room. Tucker had taken a seat at the table, next
to Millie who looked like she might be ready to burst into tears as she stared at Virgil.
Leigh was standing behind Savannah who was sitting in a dining room chair, rocking
back and forth as if she might be trying to shut all of this information out.

“People were so bad, that even after the girl came clean, admitting she’d lied ‘cause

she’d been runnin’ around with a colored boy…it was like no one could stand to look at
me anymore…like I reminded them of the worst parts of themselves for the way they’d
treated me.”

Fox took a breath, thinking it was nice that his father had some good qualities—that

he had principles and was loyal, even when it wasn’t in his best interests to be. “I am
sorry you went through that, Virgil.”

“Me too,” Tucker said, a sheepish half smile forming. “Though people don’t say

colored anymore…it’s kinda offensive.”

Virgil nodded, though Fox wasn’t sure he’d heard any of it.
Most of his own personal recollections of Beau were more like impressions than

actual memories. Fox had to struggle for that much and he was never sure what was the
truth versus the addled make-believe perceptions of a toddler.

“I never laid a finger on that girl,” Virgil said under his breath, as if he still felt the

need to say so all these decades later.

Virgil glanced around the room, angry with himself for having said that out loud. Fox

could tell he carried the shame of it with him, even now, in spite of the fact he’d never
done anything wrong.

“After that, there weren’t nothin' Beau could’ve done to make me turn my back on

him. He never wanted to get married; his father never let up on him. For years, the old
bastard went on about dynasties and keeping up appearances.

“How long had my mother been having an affair with Clay Shaw?” Fox asked.
Virgil was surprised by the fact Fox already knew about that, as was Millie and

Leigh, judging by the look on their respective faces.

Millie shot Miss Savannah a sideways glance, like she was trying to decide for herself

if it could possibly be true.

“That what Eva done told you, I guess.” Virgil wasn’t pleased.
Fox wasn’t either, turning toward his mother as he headed for the dining room table.

He reached over, picking up the Cathy and Heathcliff letters before tossing them back
down in front of Savannah. “We actually figured that out for ourselves, but Eva pretty
much confirmed my suspicions, yes.”

“I don’t know when it started and I wished I’d never discovered it was going on in the

first place. I confronted her though, and she swore to me she’d put an end to it.” Virgil
sighed, walking to the nearest dining room chair and taking a seat. “I believed her, too.
Savannah was very convincing and quite charming when she wanted to be. Could make
you feel like you was the only man in the world that mattered.”

Virgil looked over at Savannah who glanced his way. Her hand was resting on top of

the letters as she absently toyed with the yellowed ribbon.

“It was during the Carnival of Santiago ball when everything came boiling over. That

was June of 1982, Johnny.” Virgil looked up at Fox. “I tried with all my might to keep
everything separate, make sure nobody found out anybody else’s secrets. I failed you that
night, Johnny. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

Chapter Fourteen

June 15th 1982
De la Fontaine

Virgil was already puffing and panting, trying his damnedest to snatch the little devil

by the collar of his shirt or the heel of his shoe. But that naughty little five-year-old was
just too damn slippery.

“You’ll never catch me,” Johnny giggled as he raced between the legs of the hired

help and under the preparation tables that had been set up in the kitchen for the party.

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Virgil shouted, scurrying after the little boy. “I always catch

me a Fox when there’s one on the loose. Now come here, ya little varmint!”

He made a lunge for Johnny’s shoe, but the little eel slipped out of his grip once

more.

Bustling wait staff carrying starter trays of Louisiana crab cakes, Cajun fried chicken

wings, bayou spinach dip, and individual pots of Jambalaya tried to duck and weave
around the excited little boy and the frustrated older man as they turned the busy kitchen
into a potential disaster zone.

Yet somehow, Johnny managed to scurry out through the kitchen door without

causing a single cook or waitress to spill a dish. Virgil on the other hand wasn’t so lucky.
As he bowled out of the kitchen chasing Johnny on the lavish grounds of the house,
several plates and glasses could be heard smashing to the kitchen floor behind him.

“Johnny, you come back here right now!” Virgil demanded.
But the little boy was already disappearing into the crowd of arriving guests. With

one last turn, he called backed to Virgil and announced, “I want to stay up for the
fireworks!” And with that he was gone, vanishing in a dazzling array of frocks and gowns
of beautiful women and dapperly dressed men, all greeted by waiters with trays and trays
of champagne cocktail glasses filled to the brim with Old Cubans.

One after another, limousines circled the dazzling fountain of the plantation’s

forecourt. It was a magnificent bronze structure, stretching all the way up past the second
story veranda, shooting water high into the hot summer’s night before cascading over the
winged angels and handsome harp-playing youths that adorned it.

Unapologetically, Virgil pushed his way into the crowd looking for the boy.
When he couldn’t find him, he grabbed a glass off a passing tray and threw the drink

back—before his eyes popped at all those sweet damn bubbles.

“What’s in this, anyway?” asked a woman next to Virgil as she sipped on her

champagne cocktail.

“How the hell should I know?” shrugged Virgil. “Tastes like asparagus piss with

bubbles in it to me!”

From the other side of the woman, a handsome young man, no older than eighteen,

stepped forward. “It’s an Old Cuban,” he said with a confidence beyond his years. No, it
was a cockiness. And what made Virgil sick was, he was so good looking he could get

away with it. That’s what Virgil really hated about Clay Shaw.

That and the fact that the cocky little bastard could never take his eyes off Miss

Savannah.

“What’s an Old Cuban?” the woman asked, already falling under Clay’s spell as all

women seemed to do so easily.

“Well, let me see,” Clay said, taking a sip as though distilling the flavors. “Mint

leaves, syrup, lime juice, rum, bitters… oh and of course, champagne. Speaking of which,
there’s a flood of it happening inside. If you’ll excuse me.”

With a condescending wink at Virgil and a light kiss on the back of the woman’s

hand, Clay disappeared through the crowd, heading into the house.

Virgil promptly followed.

***

The game was on.
The cheers inside the house were getting louder and louder.
And as Clay stepped up into the antechamber of the mansion, the floor was already

sticky with spilled champagne.

For there in the middle of the huge antechamber, on a large round table positioned

directly beneath the glass dome high above, was a tower of champagne cocktail glasses.
There was a crowd of partygoers gathered around the table, already drunk, and two
topless waiters willing to hoist the next brave game player onto their broad shoulders to
see just how much higher this tower of Old Cubans could go to celebrate the Carnival of
Santiago.

Beneath the laughter and cheers, a jazz quartet and seductively sexy singer were

midway into So In Love. As Clay stepped into the room, a woman squealed excitedly as
the top waiters lifted her onto their shoulders. Perched on high, she somehow steadied
herself, her glass of Old Cuban in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.

Gently, slowly, the waiters approached the table and the woman leaned as far over to

the precarious tower as she could. With trembling, drunk fingers, she placed her glass
down with a clink and clatter.

For a moment, the room went silent.
Then confidently she took her hand away.
The glass remained in place.
The woman screamed triumphantly and the whole room cheered as she poured

champagne from the bottle into her glass, which flowed all the way down the champagne
tower, over the edge of the table and onto the floor.

As the woman was helped down from the waiters’ bare shoulders, Clay noticed a

young girl, perhaps ten or twelve, playing under the table, trying to lick the champagne
that dripped over the edge.

From his left, the girl’s angry mother approached, shouting over the drunken cheers.

“Miss Delta, you come out from under there immediately! If you’re not careful you’ll be
killed from a piece of glass crashing down on your head! Should be ashamed of yourself
chasin’ after that poor Deveraux boy all day. Why don’t you try behaving like a lady?
That’s it, I'm taking you home right now before you cause any more trouble in this
house!”

As the girl protested, her mother scooped her out from under the table and dragged

her away, muttering something about the price of humiliation.

Yet it seemed that only Clay had noticed the girl’s embarrassing behavior. Everyone

else in the antechamber was still cheering over the last glass added to the tower, until—

“I can top that!”
The voice came from across the room.
A voice that Clay Shaw recognized oh so well, either loud and clear… or soft and

close.

And for the briefest of moments as he looked up, Savannah Fox was looking straight

at him with that ever-confident smile of hers, her blonde hair beginning to drape a little
over her face as it usually did the drunker she got. Her eyes sparkled with courage,
defiance, and the thrill of danger as she tossed down a glass of champagne, and snagged a
new one from a passing tray.

And then, as quickly as he caught her gaze, it was gone.
For the eyes of the rest of the room was on her. And Savannah had an audience.
“My turn!” she announced, as the bare shouldered waiters scooped her up and

someone thrust an open bottle of champagne in her free hand.

Like a prom queen on a carnival ride, Savannah laughed and whooped as she was

hoisted up high, daring to look across the room every few seconds. Making sure Clay was
watching.

He was.
With pleasure.
Enthusiasm.
And other things on his mind.
The crowd hushed into a soft whisper as Savannah’s arm swayed toward the peak of

the ever-growing tower, ready to add her glass.

As the stem of the glass neared the pinnacle of the tower, the entire antechamber fell

completely silent.

Savannah strained her arm.
The bottom of the glass sang as it touched the one beneath it.
Then suddenly, with all the confidence she possessed, Savannah placed the glass

down and let go.

It sat precisely in place.
Atop the tower.
And the entire room erupted in cheers and applause.
Still laughing with triumph, Savannah glided down to Earth, helped by the waiters,

and threw the challenge to the crowd.

“Does anyone dare top my tower? Or at least are you brave enough to send the entire

thing crashing to the ground?”

Again the drunken crowd fell a little silent.
And amongst them stood Clay.
For a moment, he pondered the challenge.
And, as if to encourage himself, he took the note from his jacket pocket—the note

that had been so discreetly slipped into his hand an hour or so ago as he entered the party
—and read it again.

Meet me in the garconniere at 10pm. We have unfinished business.

He replaced the note and looked through the crowd, across the table, at Savannah

Fox.

“I’ll do it!” he announced before stepping forward as brashly and defiantly as ever.
He saw her blush.
She did it on purpose, a calling card, the dance of a mating bird. Yes, Clay Shaw, as

young as he was, had worked out this southern mistress quite well by now.

As he stepped up to the edge of the table, the foundation of the champagne tower, he

began walking counter-clockwise toward her.

Opposite him, Savannah walked in the same direction, toying with the boy, keeping

her distance with every step.

“You don’t have a glass,” she observed.
“I don’t need one,” Clay commented for all the room to hear.
He stopped and faced the champagne tower.
Carefully his fingers wrapped themselves around one of the many stems from the

very bottom on the tower.

A collective gasp filled the room.
Everyone stepped well away, expecting the tower to come crashing down should he

attempt to do what they all knew he was about to.

Everyone except Savannah.
Her lips twirled upward, as did one eyebrow, and with all the stupid courage inside

her, she stayed standing beside the table. Waiting for Clay to pull the glass.

His fingers gripped the stem.
He looked up at the tower, and saw the mere touch of his hand had sent the slightest

of ripples up the tower.

Once again, the partygoers fell completely silent.
Savannah held her breath.
Clay tightened his grip.
And with one swift move—like a magician whipping the tablecloth out from under a

dining room table full of crystal and china—Clay pulled the cocktail glass free.

A tiny quake shook the tower, but nothing moved. Nothing collapsed.
A roar erupted from the crowd.
Across the table, Savannah clapped for him with a slow, savoring applause. “Oh, well

done,” she announced as the cheers filled the room. “You have claimed the bottom, Mr.
Shaw. But if you don’t mind, I’ll stay on top.”

The crowd laughed.
And as they did, Savannah made an exit.
With her slow ascension up the staircase, Clay noticed her cast a single glance back

down at him.

As the waiters moved through the crowd topping everyone up with Old Cubans, Clay

was already backing his way toward the wall panels below the stairs.

He backed up against one of them.
He felt for a rose on the wallpaper pattern, raised slightly higher than the rest of the

panel.

And when nobody was watching, Clay Shaw simply vanished into the wall.

***

Virgil entered the antechamber in time to hear Miss Savannah being hoisted onto the

shoulders of the bare-chested waiters, in time to see her shoot the discreetest of glances at
Clay Shaw who stood on the opposite side of the room.

His blood started to boil and his fingers bunched up in fists. Any day now—hell, any

minute now—he was gonna clock that young son of a bitch smack in the mouth just to
wipe that cocky grin off his face, followed by a sock to the eye, just to give him
something to look at other than Miss Savannah’s ass.

Suddenly a hand fell on Virgil’s shoulder, as if someone had read his thoughts and

intended to hold him back.

He turned to see the one person he didn’t want witnessing Miss Savannah’s drunken,

flirtatious champagne challenge—

—her husband.
“Beau!” Virgil’s mind raced, thinking of excuses to get Beau out of the antechamber.

“Did the fireworks guy find you? He needs you to sign some indemnity forms before he
can let the crackers off at ten tonight.”

But it was too late. Virgil could see that Beau had spotted those sexually-charged

glances shooting back and forth across the crowded room between Savannah and Clay.
Virgil could see the cool emptiness in Beau’s eyes as Clay fanned his feathers for all to
see and triumphantly plucked the cocktail glass from the bottom tier of the tower.

Beau’s jaw clenched visibly as he watched Savannah glide up the staircase.
His fingers tapping against his thigh as Clay backed away into the crowd.
Beneath the laughter and raucous chatter of the partygoers, Virgil heard Beau cursing.
Quickly, Virgil grabbed Beau by the elbow. “Not now, Beau. Not tonight. I know you

wanna tend to this, but if there’s one thing these people love more than a party, it’s a
scandal. Promise me you won’t do anythin’ stupid tonight.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Beau said with a shake of his head. “I need some air.”
With a hard yank, he pulled his arm out of Virgil’s grip and vanished outside.
Virgil watched him leave.
And decided to take matters into his own hands, before Beau had a chance to do

something he’d regret forever.

***

Upstairs in Miss Savannah’s retreat, Clay pulled off his jacket, dropped it to the floor.
She gasped when he took the lady of the house in his arms and planted a kiss on her

lips.

She panted into his mouth, desperate to have him, her thoughts ablaze with visions of

his young naked body, a body she had come to know well.

“If my husband ever found us together,” she panted as Clay’s lips moved down her

neck, “I wonder which one of us he’d shoot first.”

Clay stopped kissing her and gave her a concerned look.
Savannah laughed. “Oh don’t worry, I’m just kidding. Beau wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Besides, there’re no guns in the house. I won’t allow it. He stores them in the garconniere

locked away from Johnny’s ever wandering hands.”

She melted back into Clay’s strong arms as he eased her backward onto the velvet

chaise lounge that Beau had bought for her on their last wedding anniversary. She began
unbuttoning his shirt, her hands clawing their way inside, yearning to touch his flesh,
when suddenly there was an urgent knock on the door.

“Did you lock it?” Clay whispered, alarmed.
Savannah nodded as Virgil’s voice came calling through the door.
“Miss Savannah? Are you in there?”
Clay placed a finger over Savannah’s lips and shook her head, gesturing for her not to

reply.

“Miss Savannah,” Virgil called. “I know it’s none of my business, but I feel the need

to talk to you in private about somethin’, if I may.”

Clay was already easing Savannah off the chaise lounge. Tiptoeing as quietly as they

could, he led her to the far wall where he pressed against a wood panel.

A section of the wall opened to reveal the secret passage.
A passage built long ago—to hide rebel soldiers during the war; to smuggle alcohol

during prohibition; and to grant lovers access to the house without anyone else knowing.

“Where are we going?” Savannah whispered.
“To our favorite place. Our crystal palace of petals.”
“Someone in the antechamber will see us exit.”
“Then we’ll go this way, through Beau’s study. We can climb out the window.”
As Virgil continued to knock on the door, Clay began pulling Savannah in a different

direction to the one they normally took. “How do you know the way to Beau’s study?”

Clay shrugged. “I took a wrong turn once. Come on, before the old coot finds a

master key and breaks in.”

***

Mason Wilkes had spent most of the night on the outskirts of the party. For some time

now, he’d slowly grown more impatient with his sweet and overly earnest new bride and
her incessant need to be with him every second of every day.

He’d have strangled the life out of her himself had he believed he might get away

with it. Unfortunately, that might take many more years to accomplish and likely need to
be done in a much less satisfying manner. Once again, he’d managed to get Linnie drunk
enough to pass out on her own, leaving him some peace.

The truth was, the man was busy watching. Observing. Manipulating.
And one of his favorite places to do that was by Savannah’s greenhouse.
In the black shadows of the giant oaks.
Where the darkness concealed him completely, letting him watch, observe, and make

plans in solitude.

As he did tonight.
While the noise and frivolities of the party drifted across the grounds of the

plantation, Mason stood watching a different act of pleasure.

As the moonlight streamed through the glass panes of the greenhouse, Clay Shaw

stood with his trousers around his ankles, his legs spread, his firm ass clenched tight, and
his hips thrusting against Savannah’s naked body.

Clay moaned and Savannah clutched his ass tightly as he pushed himself inside her

one last time.

“That-a-boy,” Mason muttered before slinking out of the shadows.
He decided to return to the party the long way, along the edge of the swamp, before

circling back to the house from a different direction. As the greenhouse disappeared
behind the trees, something up ahead caught Mason’s eye.

At first, he could barely make it out.
But as he neared, the moonlight illuminated a small boy lying on the ground at the

edge of the swamp.

“Johnny?”
The boy looked at him, startled, then held his finger to his lips. “Quiet, Uncle Mason.

You’ll frighten it.”

“Frighten what?”
As Mason stepped closer, he saw what held the young boy transfixed.
In the reeds at the edge of the swamp, mere inches from the boy’s wide-eyed face, a

baby alligator was hatching from its shell.

“I ain’t never seen anythin’ like it, Uncle Mason. It’s as white as a snowflake.”
Indeed the boy was right. The tiny gator stretching and clawing its way out of the

shell was lily white, an albino, and by the looks of the other broken shells in the nest of
reeds, it was the last of its litter.

“Why does it look like that?” the curious little boy asked.
“Because it’s a freak of nature,” Mason answered somewhat coldly. “It’ll never

survive. Abominations like that aren’t supposed to live. We best put it out of its misery.”

Before the little creature could even climb out of its shell, Mason snatched the egg out

of the nest and dropped it on firmer ground. He raised one foot and was about to crush
the baby gator under his heel when Johnny screamed out, “No! Don’t hurt it!”

Mason stopped, foot poised in the air, and realized his nephew was about to start

bawling. The last thing he needed was for the little brat to go running back to the house,
screaming that his uncle was a killer. Mason Wilkes could ill afford his name being
associated to any act callous or cruel, let alone murderous.

“Fine,” he grumbled, opting instead to kick the baby gator out of its shell and far into

the swamp where it landed with a distant plop! “It’ll be dead by morning anyway.
Something out there will eat it, trust me.”

As Johnny stood staring into the dark of the swamp, eyes watering at the thought of

the helpless white gator being devoured by some monster of the deep, Mason grabbed his
nephew by the arm. “Now come on, let’s get you back to the house before something out
here decides to eat you, too.”

With that, he dragged the small boy back to the party.

***

Clay and Savannah left the greenhouse separately to avoid any suspicion.
Clay left first, leaving Savannah to make her way back to the party by herself. The

night was warm, the breeze gentle, and it took all her will power not to stroll leisurely
through the moonlight, her body spent and her limbs relaxed after her sexual encounter
with Clay.

But she knew she couldn’t be absent from the party for too long. People would start

asking where she was and with the fireworks about to begin, it would be suspicious for
the hostess not to be present for the display.

So she walked briskly, her mind still filled with thoughts of Clay.
She thought about the way he liked to fuck her with such youthful power and force,

with the hunger of a young man almost unable to control himself, yet at the same time
there was a tenderness, a boyish innocence, to his love-making. She thought about the
way he had taken the cocktail glass from the tower with such confidence, and moments
later how he had emerged from the secret passage into her retreat. His handsome face
smiling. His jacket dropping to the floor. His—

“The jacket!” she suddenly whispered to herself.
It was still on the floor of her retreat.
Savannah’s brisk walk abruptly became a dash for the house.
As discreetly as she could Savannah moved swiftly through the guests, faking smiles,

dodging invitations to chat with a quick “I just have to go check on something.” She
pressed her way through the crowded antechamber and swept up the staircase.

The door to her retreat was already open.
She felt sick in the pit of her stomach.
She rushed into the room.
Virgil was standing in the middle of the room with Clay’s jacket in one hand. He

must have found his master key, Savannah thought.

Her first instinct was to berate him, send him away right this instant for breaking into

her room.

But then she saw the note in his other hand and the look of alarm on his face.
“Where’s Beau?” he asked urgently.
Savannah shook her head and instead of smacking him, all she could do was plead.

“Virgil, please don’t tell him.”

“Where is he?” he said. “This is Beau’s handwriting.”
Savannah was confused as well as panicked now. She stepped up to Virgil and took

the note out of his hand. “Meet me in the garconniere at 10pm. We have unfinished
business.” Fear sank in. “Oh God, he keeps all the guns in the garconniere.”

“It’s almost ten now,” Virgil said. “The fireworks! Nobody would hear a gunshot

over the fireworks.”

Savannah dropped the note and ran.
Virgil let the jacket fall to the floor and raced after her.
She was much faster than he. She flew down the stairs, her summer dress flowing

behind her. She ran through the tide of partygoers who were now making their way
outside in anticipation of the fireworks. But as the crowds spilled out over the plantation
grounds, Savannah turned and ran around the side heading straight for the garconniere.

It was a small, two-story structure as old as the house, constructed a hundred yards

from the main building. Downstairs was a living area, with a bedroom upstairs.

As she ran, the first of the fireworks crackled through the sky over the main house.

Savannah’s heart leapt in her chest and her legs poured on the speed. She reached the
garconniere and burst inside.

Halfway between the house and the garconniere, Virgil sprinted as fast as he could.
In the glow of the fireworks, he saw Miss Savannah disappear into the garconniere.

His mind raced with terrible possibilities.
What if she startled Beau and he turned the gun on her?
What if a struggle broke out?
Virgil flinched with every exploding firework, thinking that someone had been shot,

someone was dead.

Then suddenly Savannah came stumbling out of the garconniere.
“Miss Savannah?” Virgil called, terror filling his body as he continued to run toward

her.

But Savannah didn’t answer him.
She was weeping, wide-eyed and stunned, staggering away from the garconniere as

fast as she could.

That’s when Virgil saw Beau come running out of the garconniere after her.
Shirtless.
His trousers undone.
And behind him, emerged Clay Shaw, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs.
Virgil skidded to a halt.
Beau ran to catch Savannah, but when he did, she fought him off with a fury Virgil

had never seen. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed, scratching and slapping and punching
until Beau was forced to let her go. “I hate you! Do you hear me? I hate you both! Don’t
ever touch me again!”

With a sickened gasp, she stumbled toward Virgil who caught her in his arms.
All Virgil could do was stare at Beau, bewildered, not able to say a word.
And as the fireworks streaked across the sky, he could see the tears streak down

Beau’s face.

Chapter Fifteen

Present Day
The dining room at De la Fontaine

“Oh, hell no,” Millie whispered, her eyes wide as saucers.
Everyone else sat perfectly still around the long dining room table, all eyes on Fox,

waiting to see how he’d handle the news Virgil had just delivered.

“Damn boy,” Leigh said, staring at Fox. “You never had a chance in hell at a happy

childhood with all that mess going on.”

“I knew he was like that, with other men…but he kept what was going on with Clay a

secret.” Virgil still sounded shocked. “Up till then I thought I knowed everything there
was to know about Beau.”

Fox closed his mouth, which had been hanging open for an undetermined amount of

time and focused his full attention on Virgil. “All that time and you were the only one
who knew my father was gay?”

“I never understood it, but I swore to Beau I’d protect his secret, take it to my grave.

After what he’d done for me…it didn’t change the way I saw your daddy. Seein’ how
you turned out the same way makes me think it’s nothin’ out of the ordinary after all. He
was just born with it same as you.”

“You’re damn right it’s nothing out of the ordinary,” Millie said, as if to intimidate

Virgil into submission should he decide otherwise at some point. “Nothing pisses me off
more than ignorant people calling one of my babies unnatural.”

“I made damn sure no one else ever found out. I got rid of more than one scalawag

blackmailer over the years.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Fox asked, wide eyed.
“I nearly beat one or two of ‘em to death with a threat to finish the job should they

ever return, but ain’t never killed nobody so cool your jets.”

Fox sighed his relief over that.
Virgil glanced over at Savannah and sighed, shaking his head. “Your momma was

something else, a true beauty. The prettiest gal I’d ever set eyes on. But she was more
woman than your daddy was equipped to handle. The first and likely only one he’d been
able to feel something for, you know? She put some wind in his sails, if ya get my drift.”

Fox cringed, not caring for the mental images that accompanied that turn of phrase.
“It sure made your granddaddy happy. The old bastard thought Savannah was a real

showpiece, a feather in the family cap. He was dead within a year of the marriage, right
after your momma got pregnant with you. Your parents made quite the impressive couple
and as much as I hated the man, your granddaddy kept all the wolves at bay. No one
dared mess with Beau while he was alive, but left to his own devices, every leech within
three states came out of the woodwork looking to suck the blood out of this family.”

Virgil laughed, looking a little smug. “Beau was smarter than all of ‘em.”
Fox could see the devotion on Virgil’s face. There was no doubt he was proud to have

Beau as his friend. It was difficult for Fox to imagine, his own memories being so
limited.

“Beau really tried, I think. He stopped having relations with men after marrying your

momma, but it weren’t natural for Beau to be with a woman. That’s about the time
Mason came along, slithering his way in and marryin’ my Linnie. That’s when things
started to go bad.”

Virgil looked mad enough to spit, his hands balling up into fists. “I know I’d have

never been good enough for her, but I loved your aunt more than any woman I’d ever
known. Broke my heart when she married that pompous ass.”

“Mason?” Savannah said, piping in out of nowhere, her face lighting up. “Such a

charmer he is. Haven’t seen him or Linnie in a long while now…”

The happiness drained away, the smile fading from her face as she leaned back in the

chair as if she’d just remembered something unpleasant.

“Your momma’s the one who found Beau…you know…when he hung himself. It did

something to her. Miss Savannah slowly started to forget things—rambling about this old
place for days at a time. She quietly slipped away, like a whisper. No one could reach
her, not even having you around helped. It was like she forgot she’d even had a child.”

Fox still stood next to Savannah. He placed a hand on her shoulder and she reached

up covering his hand with hers. He was conflicted, not sure what to think at this point, but
his heart went out to her a bit. None of it was fair. Fox understood why his father had
married her, but it wasn’t fair to have ruined her life just so Beau could protect his own.

Fox knelt down beside her, keeping hold of her hand.
Savannah looked into his eyes, her forehead creasing as if she was trying to work

something out in her head.

“I’m sorry, momma.” Fox kissed the back of her hand. “Daddy shouldn’t of done that

to you.”

It startled him when Savannah reached over with her free hand and lightly caressed

his cheek. “You were always such a sweet boy, Johnny.”

Her eyes glassed over and she went back to staring at the letters.
“Such a sweet, sweet, boy,” she mumbled.
Fox sighed, looking at Leigh. “Don’t suppose you’d be interested in a job?”
Leigh froze, glancing back and forth between Savannah and Fox. “You mean as a

nurse? For Miss Savannah?”

“I do indeed.” Fox said.
“Hell yeah,” Leigh said, all but leaping out of her skin.
“Oh, hell no!” Millie said. “You ain’t staying here, Bé, too many people end up dead!

This place is cursed with nothing but bad juju.”

Leigh ignored her mother completely, but settled herself back down rather quickly

before saying. “I don’t come cheap, though.”

“Besides, she’s awful mouthy!” Virgil piped in, none too pleased with Fox’s choice.
Fox grinned, relief washing over him in waves knowing someone would be around to

take care of Savannah. “Can you start now?”

Leigh shrugged, now playing things cool. “I suppose, it’ll cost you extra for the

inconvenience, of course.”

“Would you please stop extorting money from the man, Leigh,” Tucker said,

sounding pissed.

“Damn you, Jon Fox,” Millie said, getting up from the table. “You have to drag both

my children into your cursed life?”

Fox stood; what she’d said stung, but he couldn’t rightly defend himself considering

she had a bit of a point. “Millie, I promise you I will keep you and yours safe. You have
my word.”

She was still fuming, looking unconvinced as she shook her head.
Fox lifted his shirt, exposing the bandage. “I already took a bullet protecting one.”
“I will reign down a hell unlike anything you’ve ever known, so help me,” Millie

said, so mad she was now shaking. “If anything happens to…”

She couldn’t finish that sentence and Fox felt like shit for upsetting her, that hadn’t

been his intention.

Tucker seemed to recognize that.
“Millie, you’re being unfair,” Tucker said, softly.
“I can leave now, yes?” Millie asked curtly. “It’s safe to do so?”
Fox nodded, lowering his shirt and feeling a bit stupid for attempting to use a bullet

hole as proof he was safe to be around.

“I know there’s not a damn thing I can say to get you to come with me, Tucker. It’s

plain as day you’ve fallen completely under this man’s spell. You mind my words,
though boy,” Millie pointed at Fox. “There’s darkness in this one. Eventually it’s gonna
come out, and I hope and pray you won’t be around when it does, Chè.”

Fox felt a chill running up his spine and a cold sweat across his forehead. He was

used to being treated this way, but something about the fierceness with which Millie was
willing to defend her kids made him feel isolated all of a sudden. He found himself
wishing he had her approval.

“Leigh, I’m begging you to leave with me right now,” Millie said. “You don’t need to

be here.”

Leigh shook her head at her momma, running her fingers through Savannah’s thick

grayish blond hair. “I am needed here, and it’s here that I may actually be of some use to
someone again.”

Millie leveled one more cold glare at Fox before kicking her chair back and walking

around the table.

“Please don’t leave like this, Millie,” Tucker pleaded as they watched her stomping

through the dining room.

As she passed the wall covered in post cards, post-it notes, and photographs,

something caught her eye. Millie froze, slowly taking a few steps back.

Fox peered over at Tucker, who shrugged.
“Oh my god,” Millie said with a gasp.
Tucker looked concerned. She began shaking her head in horror as her hand covered

her mouth while gawking at the makeshift crime board that was scotch-taped to the wall.

“I know this man, Chè…” Millie’s voice was soft and quivering, like she’d gone and

seen herself a ghost.

She plucked one of the photos of Clay Shaw off the wall and turned around. “…and

his name isn’t Clay Shaw.”

“Who is he?” Tucker asked, excitedly.
Fox smiled, watching him, loving that thrill in Tucker’s voice over the prospect

they’d stumbled across some new information. He’d caught the bug, addicted to that

feeling you get just before discovering the truth.

Millie stared blankly at Fox, almost apologetically, before turning to Tucker. “I’m so

very sorry, Chè, but…this man is your father.”

Chapter Sixteen

Savannah made her way over to the open window of the sitting room, both the

curtains and her dressing gown billowing in the warm breeze. “Gonna get stormy,” she
said quietly.

She watched Virgil pace back and forth outside, muttering to himself in frustration.
Setting a tea tray down on the coffee table, Leigh nodded emphatically. “You can say

that again. I’ve seen Tucker make some dramatic exits in my time—hell, it’s in that boy’s
DNA to make a scene with almost everything he does—but that…that was somethin’
else.”

Savannah was talking about the storm clouds gathering on the horizon, just above the

canopy of trees in the distance. The Spanish moss swayed in the growing wind. An eerie
whistle sounded through the branches.

Savannah jumped despite how gently Leigh laid her hand on Savannah’s shoulder.
She pointed at Virgil. “He’s gonna wear himself a trench if he isn’t careful.”
“It’s gonna be okay,” Leigh said. “Come, drink some tea. It’ll calm your nerves.”
Leigh guided her back to the coffee table and sat her down in a chair. She poured tea

from a pot into an old ornate cup. “Cream and sugar?”

“Honey please, dear. Thank you so much.”
Savannah sipped her tea and Leigh poured one for herself before getting up and

exploring the room, looking for something to keep Savannah distracted. She spotted the
old record player in the corner and excitedly made her way over to it. “Wow, I ain’t seen
one of these since… maybe ever!”

Savannah looked at her strangely. “You don’t have them where you’re from?”
Leigh hid her smile. “I guess not.”
She found a record next to the player and slid the vinyl from its sleeve. She placed it

on the turntable and quickly figured out how to turn the player on. With a clunk, the
needle automatically moved over the spinning warped record and slid into the scratchy
grooves. The first few notes of a piano played softly before Ella Fitzgerald began singing
“Get Out of Town.”

Savannah put her tea down as the music filled the room, and murmured, “Oh the

parties we held in this house. The music we played. And the secrets… oh the secrets…”

Leigh sat down beside her and placed her hand on Savannah’s. “What about them?”
“This house is filled with them. The affairs. The lies. The love lost. The things we

kept hidden. I know everyone thinks I’m a little crazy. But I remember, you know. I
remember it all.” She looked at Leigh and her eyes were glazed with tears, but no tears
fell. “Can I show you something?”

Leigh nodded. “Of course you can.”
Savannah squeezed her hand, then led Leigh out of the sitting room, down the hall to

the antechamber with a glass-domed ceiling. Leigh glanced up through the glass at the
low, dark clouds beginning to roll across the sky.

Savannah didn’t notice.

She had already stepped up to the wall of the antechamber and began trailing her

fingers along the floor-to-head-high panels of fraying wallpaper. She passed one panel,
then a second, and stopped at a third. Her hand moved down one side of the panel, over a
white wallpaper rose with its petals now wilting off the wall. Savannah pressed her palm
flat against the flower and pushed on it.

The flower popped out from the wall a half-inch or so, just enough for Savannah to

grip it in her finger and turn it—

—just like a door handle.
Sure enough, the entire panel was a secret door.
It opened inward.
With a glance over her shoulder, Savannah said, “Follow me,” and stepped into the

darkness.

Leigh looked around as though to make sure nobody was watching them, knowing

full well they were alone in the house, but still unable to stop that human instinct, that
childhood reaction to make sure nobody else would discover their secret.

Curiously, keenly, she followed Savannah into the darkness.
In the next moment, she heard a match strike.
A flame ignited.
Savannah was reaching into a small alcove dug out of the opposite wall, where an old

candle lamp sat. She lit the candle and hooked her fingers around the handle of the lamp.
With her other hand she took Leigh by the arm.

“What is this?” Leigh asked, following close behind Savannah. “A secret tunnel?”
“Tunnels are used in war. Passages are used for lovers. This, my dear, is a secret

passage, which means one thing above all else.”

“What’s that?”
“Tread carefully.”
At that moment, Savannah stepped upward, the flame from the candle like a breath of

air blowing the cobwebs out of the way. Despite the warning, Leigh stubbed her toes on
the steep stone step at her feet.

“Mind your step, dear. And your head. The stairs are steep and the ceiling low.”
Leigh hoisted herself up the high stone steps, impressed at how well Savannah

navigated her way, weaving around the jutting brickwork, ducking at a particularly low
beam here and there. “You’ve been in here before,” Leigh commented.

The steps ended and the passage leveled out. They were on the second floor of the

house. Savannah turned and nodded. “Many times. When Beau was working late, when
Virgil was busy making midnight sandwiches in the kitchen out back, I’d sneak down
this way and make sure the front door was unlocked for him.”

“You mean Clay.”
Savannah answered with girlish giggle.
They turned a corner and shafts of daylight poured into the passage from a battered

hole in the roof. Ceiling beams merged with the rotting beams of the broken walls, now
covered with nests, and startled pigeons. They sat wide-eyed on their perches, staring
alertly at Savannah and Leigh as they passed quietly by, careful not to disturb the birds.

After a few more feet, Savannah ran her hand along the wall once more and stopped

when she felt a round wooden handle. She turned it, and another panel of the wall opened
inward.

The two stepped out of the passage and into a bedroom.
Savannah’s bedroom.
“This is how you kept your affair a secret,” Leigh said.
Savannah nodded. “Yes. But sometimes even secrets have their secrets.”
“What do you mean?”
“The passage doesn’t end here.”
“Where does it go?”
Savannah sighed, thinking about all the times she had made love to Clay, completely

unaware that she was simply his first port of call in the house. “Beau’s study,” she
answered.

***

Speeding down the highway heading north, away from the plantation and New

Orleans, the late afternoon sun pierced through the trees, creating that frenetic flashing of
light that gave Tucker’s tension headache even more of a bite. They’d been driving for
about an hour now, and the silence was deafening. Difficult to believe the announcer on
the radio forecasting severe thunderstorms later that evening considering there wasn’t a
fortuitous cloud in sight at the moment.

Fox was begging for a ticket, going fifteen to twenty miles over the speed limit,

further stressing him out while white knuckling the handle on the passenger side door.
There was nothing worse than these back-woods sheriff departments; they could be real
pricks out of sheer boredom or due to some maniacal power trip. Like being a cop in
nowhere Louisiana was such an awesome opportunity.

Another wave of nausea swept over Tucker, an affliction he’d been suffering ever

since Millie uttered the words, Tucker, this man is your father.

It had been almost instantaneous, the barrier that went up between he and Fox like a

wall of glass. Tucker could see Jon on the other side but knew he’d never be able to break
through. Not now, not after this. Jon would never again look at him the same way, and
how could he, really? It didn’t matter that Tucker had nothing to do with the destruction
of Fox’s family. He’d been just a baby at the time. But in this neck of the woods, who
you were, was everything, and that all began with family. The sons of the South most
definitely suffered the sins of the father, and to borrow a phrase Fox had used the day
before, Tucker’s dad had indeed, been a real prick.

It was killing him inside, because as much as Tucker had tried to both ignore and

prevent it from happening, he’d developed feelings for Jon Fox. The fact this was eating
him up inside was all the proof he needed.

It was like torture, some sick fucking joke at his expense, and his alone.
Fate had turned him into its bitch and there was nothing he could do to fix it.
He’d lost so much in the past few days only to get it all back, along with a little

something extra, or so he’d thought. Who knew that losing the something extra would
end up souring all the rest?

As Fox slowed the car, now approaching the gravel road that would take them to their

final destination, Tucker glanced over at Fox, who refused to look back. His face was
hard, jaw set and clenched in anger. He wanted to reach over and touch him, soothe his
frustration in some small way, yet he feared Fox might recoil from it were he to try.

If things were truly over, that wasn’t one of the final moments with Jon he wanted to

be stuck reliving for the rest of life.

Tucker would definitely be leaving Louisiana. To stay here, be this close to the man

he was so obviously falling in love with and not be able to be with him, was more than he
could bear.

They were now headed down a gravel road of no return that snaked through the trees

toward a man Tucker once fantasized as a child, would mysteriously come back into his
life, forever changing it and him in the process.

Wish fulfillment at its worst.
The forest was thick, with massive oak and hickory stretching up into the sky with

large canopy’s that snuffed out most of the daylight, forcing the smaller pine trees to
grow tall and skinny, sickly looking, struggling in order to survive. They came upon a
small clearing with a modest yet obviously well-built cabin sitting right in the middle. To
one side sat a detached oversized, one-car garage and a huge stump that had an axe
sticking out of it. Why anyone needed firewood this time of year was beyond Tucker,
who assumed it was there to strike fear in and intimidate unwanted visitors.

He’d caught Fox looking upward out the windshield as they drove in, noticing several

small cameras up in the trees that had likely filmed their approach.

No sneaking up allowed with this asshole.
Nothing he’d seen at this point, was in keeping with the worst that he’d been

imagining ever since reading his father’s rap sheet. The man also known as Clay Shaw,
Curtis Blackwell and several other miscellaneous alias’s had spent a few years in prison,
for crying out loud. Nothing about this place screamed lair, aside from maybe the
camera’s which came off more paranoid than criminally insane.

Not the way Tucker assumed people such as his father would live.
Both the house and grounds were immaculate. It seemed odd behavior for a man who

had done all the evil things Clay Shaw had.

Yard work? Really? It was too…domestic, forcing him to view this person as an

actual human being as opposed to the monster he had to be.

They’d both exited the Jeep without exchanging a word and Tucker reluctantly

followed Fox toward the house, now wondering if he should’ve come at all. There was
nothing this person could give him, nothing he could do to make things right.

Tucker had to keep reminding himself that Clay Shaw wasn’t even his real name.
Edward Clayton Dupree. Tucker repeated it over and over again inside his head,

waiting to feel anything other than disgust. Eddie Dupree was what Millie called him…
that and little bastard, along with one or two other choice words.

In reality it was Tucker who was the bastard, as Eddie never bothered to marry his

mother, Loretta, not that Tucker could blame the guy on that one. Loretta was a real piece
of work: manipulative, conniving, and willing to do anything when attempting to score a
fix. Even Millie at one point had been forced to cut off all ties, accepting the fact that the
girl she remembered growing up with was gone and never coming back.

Tucker Dupree.
No way, he thought, watching Fox knock on the front door, while deciding a legal

name change to Wilder was most definitely on the near horizon.

Desperate for any sort of distraction, he glanced over at the substantial and solidly-

built porch swing, thinking how comfortable it seemed, picturing himself lounging there

with Fox. There was an ashtray with a few cigarette butts sitting on a small side table
along with a lighter and pack of smokes. Again, not something that was part of his lair
vision, but there was certainly evidence that someone made good use of it.

A chill ran over him, listening to muffled voices on the other side of the door. Fox

looked him dead in the eye for the very first time since they’d left De la Fontaine and for
only a flicker of a moment, Tucker could see the disappointment there, like Fox had also
accepted that anything they might have had with one another was now impossible.

The front door opened and a much younger man with coal black hair and fair skin

was staring back at them. He smiled nervously, scratching at the soul patch under his lip.
“Been expecting you, please come in.”

Fox and Tucker shared a quick glance that warned him to stay alert and ready to bolt

if it came down to it. Fox had two guns on him, one strapped to his ankle and the other in
a holster under his jacket. A third was strapped to Tucker’s ankle, something Fox insisted
upon, despite his objections.

“You…knew we were coming?” Tucker asked, before making a move, as if the right

answer would make the thought of going inside less frightening. “And while I’m asking
questions, who the hell are you?”

“Wasn’t sure when you’d come, just knew you would eventually.” He tried on an

awkward smile. “Name’s Frank Farmer, I’m a…friend of your father’s.”

“Fabulous.” Tucker smirked, walking through the door while muttering. “A

stepdaddy who hardly looks any older than I am.”

Of course the live-in fuck buddy is hot…typical gigolo.
Channeling Millie, he added under his breath. “Très tragique, Bé.”
“Actually we were cellmates in prison,” Frank said, shutting the solid wood door

once Fox was inside. “Eddie took care of me in there, got me through it in one piece.”

On this episode of Lifestyles of Sick and Demented we travel to the backwoods of

Deliverance-ville, Louisiana, to meet a deadbeat daddy and his back door whore.

“How romantic, I Found Love on Cellblock H.” Tucker could hear the bitterness in

his own voice, but was unable to keep himself in check.

He could sense Frank didn’t appreciate the commentary much either.
“Where is Dupree?” Fox asked.
“He speaks,” Tucker mumbled, again more wounded than he would’ve liked.
Fox didn’t seem to appreciate it any more than Frank had.
“He’ll be down momentarily,” Frank reassured.
Fox glanced up at the ceiling, hearing a noise from above. His entire body tensed.
“I assure you, Mr. Fox, Eddie has no intention of attempting to flee.” Frank pointed

over to a flat screen on the wall displaying multiple video feeds from the six different
cameras filming various points along the road in. “He would have been long gone before
you ever made it to the front door if that’s what he wanted.”

He and Fox exchanged another quick glance, and despite knowing how on edge the

man was, Tucker could see him relax a tiny bit.

“Neither of you will be needing the heat you’re packing either.” Frank motioned

toward the sofa. “Unless you’ve come here with the intent of murdering us? We certainly
mean neither of you any harm.”

Tucker felt his face flush but noted Fox wasn’t the least bit surprised or intimidated.

In times like this, he had to struggle to recall those moments when Jon hadn’t appeared

hard. Frank was still standing there, awkwardly motioning for them to take a seat, yet no
one moved a muscle.

Frank nodded, as if he’d finally accepted the fact they hadn’t stopped by for tea.
“Can I get anyone anything to drink?” Frank asked, looking hopeful for a moment

before realizing he was wasting his time.

“They aren’t here for a reunion, Frank,” A voice said from a stairwell behind them.

“Stop trying to turn this into a social call.”

Frank held up his hands in surrender as Tucker and Fox turned. Eddie strode

confidently into the room, stopping only when he reached Frank’s side, placing a hand on
the guy’s arm as if to set him at ease.

Tucker couldn’t deny there was some sort of recognition, some sense that he knew,

should know, or had known this man. It was unsettling.

“Should I…?” Frank pointed toward the stairs, then to the floor at his feet. “Or you

want me to…?”

Eddie smiled, it appeared both warm and sincere, but it was gone within a flash. “You

can go upstairs.”

As Frank left the room, Tucker assessed the sperm donor standing before him.
Eddie Dupree had aged well and was still quite handsome, especially for someone

who was nearing his fifties. He was thin and appeared to be in pretty good shape, as
much as Tucker could tell due to the jeans and baggy navy t-shirt that highlighted the
same hue of his eyes. What he could see of Eddie’s arms appeared well muscled. His full
head of silvery-grey hair was cut short on the sides, but slightly longer and curly on top.

He looked like an actor who’d be cast as the hot dad to a couple of plucky teenagers

in some sort of ABC Family dramedy where the children spoke more like adults than
they did kids, all while dealing with the typical run of the mill issues facing young people
these days. Drugs, bullying, psychopathic con men who cheat people out of all their
money before disappearing into the night…you know…the usual.

“You seem…familiar to me?” Tucker didn’t understand why, but it wasn’t sitting

well.

Fox was watching him intently, as if he might be attempting to judge whether or not

Tucker was getting soft on him already. “He should look familiar, Tuck. He miraculously
happened to be lurking outside your apartment the night it was broken into.”

Eddie smiled, though it wasn’t out of either embarrassment or discomfort. “That

reminds me.”

Eddie walked over to a cabinet across the room as flashes of the older gentleman

strolling along the sidewalk all dressed in black filtered through Tucker’s mind from that
night.

“What wer…?” Tucker stopped, glancing between the two men. “You were the one

who broke into my apartment?”

“Guilty.” Eddie said, coming back with Tucker’s back-up drive, which he handed

him. “Don’t tell my parole officer.”

“What were you looking for?” Fox asked.
“For the person who was looking for me.” Eddie sighed, taking a seat on the arm of

the leather sofa. “I’m retired from my life of crime, but I still have friends in low places
who’ve got traces on all my known aliases. So the instant someone from New Orleans
began looking for a Clay Shaw, I was alerted. Started with the newspaper where the

search originated. As luck would have it, I happened upon an extremely helpful young
man by the name of Bryan? Works in the circulation department?”

Eddie smiled at Fox in a way Tucker didn’t enjoy in the least, nor did he appreciate

the discomfort that came over Jon.

“Seems like Bryan was a little miffed, something about a guy who hadn’t returned his

phone calls all afternoon after making certain promises, the kind that were sexual in
nature.”

Eddie laughed when Tucker muttered a few curses under his breath. Fox had already

replaced the mask, his face like stone.

“No worries, Jon, I had your back.” Eddie smiled coyly. “Bryan’s, too, for that

matter. Who knew you and I would have so much in common? How many men do you
have stashed around the quarter exactly? All of whom are likely in some sort of unique
position to be of service to you outside of the sexual, no doubt?”

Fox was still as a stone, but the fury behind his eyes was something he couldn’t

manage to hide, at least not from Tucker, who wanted to leave, run for the door and never
look back.

“Bryan was so grateful after I stepped in and filled his gap, that he told me all about

your reporter friend, Sara Harding.” Eddie switched his gaze to Tucker. “Couldn’t seem
to recall your name, though he did continually refer to you as fucker…which isn’t too far
off from Tucker.”

“You’re very clever, Dupree.” Fox finally said, drawing his attention away from

Tucker. “I don’t suppose there’s a point coming anytime soon? This story goes on any
longer, I might insist on roasting your marshmallows over an open fire until you’re
finished.”

Eddie laughed, thumbing in Fox’s direction as he looked at Tucker. “This one has

quite the violent side, son. Best be careful lest you end up getting yourself burned.”

“While I appreciate this apparent newfound concern for my safety, I try not to take

advice from hypocrites.” Tucker said.

“Point made, son.” Eddie glanced back at Fox. “It took no time at all to find Ms.

Harding, swipe her phone, and swap out her SIM card, which is how I found my way to
your apartment that night. Your number traced back to your place, both of which are
listed under the name T. Walker.”

Tucker frowned, it was an L.A. thing. The instant he sold his first screenplay, every

wannabe he’d ever given his number to began calling in hopes he could get them an
audition or a role on the film.

“I ransacked most of the place, planning to take your computer and your back up

drive before I noticed the photograph of a young woman standing outside a restaurant
with two kids. I’d recognize that bitch, Millie, anywhere.”

“The bitch who was responsible enough to step in and raise me after being deserted

by my parents?” Tucker asked. “That the bitch you’re talking about?”

Eddie almost looked proud, witnessing Tucker puff himself up. “That’s the one.”
“You son of a…” Tucker all but leapt across the room at Eddie, only to be caught

round the waist and held back by Fox.

“You aren’t fit to clean that woman’s toilet, you fucking asshole!” Tucker was so

angry he was shaking. The only thing keeping him tethered to sanity was Fox’s arms
around his waist, those big hands across his chest and on his hip.

Eddie just laughed. “When I realized who you were, I decided to leave the computer,

but I took the back-up drive, curious I guess, to see what if anything you’d found out
about me.”

Tucker was barely listening; somewhat ashamed to admit that having Fox touch him

in that way was better than not at all. Suddenly all he wanted to do was cry.

They both jumped when Eddie stood up quickly from the sofa, pointing at the TV

screen hanging above the rough-hewn, stacked stone fireplace. “What the hell is he doing
here?”

They both turned to see Virgil’s beat up old pick-up truck bouncing along the gravel

road on the TV screen, leaving one cube as he sped past that camera only to be picked up
by the next popping into a new cube a moment later, captured on film once more.

“You invite the entire family along?” Eddie asked, looking peeved at first, before that

expression melted away revealing the first hint of fear Tucker had seen behind his
father’s eyes. “For fuck sake, you didn’t tell Mason you found me, did you?”

Tucker was disappointed when Fox let go of him, taking several steps closer to Eddie.
“Not sure what Virgil’s doing here, and I haven’t said a word to Mason. But the more

interesting question is how you know that’s Virgil and why you’re so afraid of my
uncle?” Fox had Eddie pinned under that gaze, examining the twitch of each and every
muscle in his face.

Tucker could hear the pick-up screeching to a halt outside the front door, Virgil

already screaming his fool head off before ever cutting the engine.

“We’ll be getting to that momentarily.” Fox turned, heading for the door and opening

it just in time to see Virgil hobbling up the steps.

“What you doin’ in there?” Virgil snapped, pushing past Fox like he expected to

stumble across some sort of gruesome crime scene.

Virgil stopped, seeing Eddie, and they both stood perfectly still for several moments

as Virgil puffed and wheezed, attempting to catch his breath.

“I’ve had many years to think about what I’d do if I ever saw your good-for-nothing

face again!” Virgil yelled.

“I’ve no doubt, Virgil.” Eddie said, folding his arms while sitting on the arm of the

sofa again. “There’s quite a line forming, so feel free to wait your turn, old man.”

“Still just as glib, I see,” Virgil said, disgusted. “Wouldn’t be so quick to toss around

that old man nonsense neither as time seems to be scratchin’ at your door these days, you
son of a bitch.”

“I’d like to say it was lovely seeing you again, but I’ve turned over a new leaf.” Eddie

grinned, attempting to bait the man.

Fox slapped a hand onto his shoulder as Virgil started to toss out yet another no doubt

colorful insult.

“Is there a reason you came?” Fox asked. “Miss Savannah? She’s alright?”
Virgil shrugged the hand off his shoulder. “I came to make sure your fool ass didn’t

do something stupid.” He took a few more shaky steps shuffling forward. “If anyone’s
gonna shoot this prick and go to jail for it, it’ll be me.”

“You couldn’t hit me with a bullet if I was standing dead in front of the gun,” Eddie

remarked, sending Virgil’s face blood red.

“You’re as bad as the devil himself,” Virgil shook a finger at Eddie. “Beau was

carryin’ a real torch for you and you were screwin’ ‘em both. If I had the strength left I’d

strangle the life outta you myself.”

For a moment, it looked as if actual remorse crossed Eddie’s face, and when no

smart- ass retort came flying back, Tucker became confused.

“I’ve never been the type to form bonds or friendships with people, not the genuine

variety at any rate. But Beau was one of the few I actually became fond of. Likely the
only person I’ve conned and felt remorse over after the fact. There’ve been so many it’s
difficult to say.”

Tucker scoffed, shaking his head in disgust.
Eddie smiled, as if he found the reaction amusing. “Your father was different, Jon,

never wanted or expected anything from me. Never treated me like I was less than or an
object that could be bought and paid for. I think I may have even cared for him, in my
own way.”

“And you repay that by running off with everything you can carry?” Tucker asked.

“Who does that?”

“Your father does that, Tucker.” Eddie reminded him, his voice flat and cold, as if to

remind him there was a very real monster inside.

“I don’t care to hear what you felt for whom, Dupree.” Fox stepped in front of Virgil

the second he opened his mouth to offer a comment. “Everyone’s going to shut the fuck
up until I’m satisfied I’ve gotten all the answers I came here to get.”

Tucker had been dreading this part. Having to hear first hand from the man who

helped bring him into this world, what he’d done in the past that had ruined Tucker’s
future.

“I’m assuming you’ve kept an eye on Virgil and Mason both, over the years, but why

are you so afraid of Mason, Eddie?”

“What’s this about Mason?” Virgil asked, already suspicious.
Fox glared at him and Virgil shrank slightly, shaking his head as he headed for a

rocking chair nearby, muttering about the fact you couldn’t trust any of them.

Eddie sighed before turning his attention back to address Fox. “The man you know as

Mason Wilkes—though I seriously doubt that to be his real name—found me back in ’81.
Caught me running a charity scam on some unsuspecting tourists in the Quarter. I was
strictly small time back then. Having a guy like Wilkes approach me with an offer to run
a long con on a wealthy newlywed couple with secrets so dirty they’d pay big money to
keep them hidden, I decided to listen.”

“Please tell me a charity scam isn’t what it sounds like?” Tucker asked, cringing.
“You want me to start lying to you at this point?” Eddie asked, dryly.
Tucker’s lip curled into a snarl and Fox cleared his throat, attempting to bring

everyone’s attention back to the topic at hand.

“Mason explained his position, married to the sister and not in a position to extort the

money himself without jeopardizing his new position within this very wealthy family.
That he needed a professional, someone with enough charisma who was willing to go
deep inside and seduce both the husband and wife.”

“That son of a bitch,” Virgil mumbled. “I shoulda trusted my gut on him and fought

harder for Beau to really look into that one’s background.”

“Said he’d become Savannah’s confidant, and could teach me all I needed to know in

order to seduce her. Told me the husband was queer as a three dollar bill, had seen him
sucking off some local farm hand with his own eyes so he knew it was true.” Eddie

stopped for a moment, staring into the floor. “I didn’t say so at the time, but I wasn’t
exactly a stranger when it came to sex with men. I’d been fairly equal opportunity at that
point, fucking whoever struck my fancy, regardless of what they had between their legs.”

Tucker felt dizzy, looking around for a seat and wishing he’d taken Frank’s offer for

something to drink.

“You alright over there, kid?” Virgil asked.
“Just sick to my stomach. I’ll survive it, thanks.”
Fox watched him for a few moments as if trying to judge how honest Tucker was

being. It gave him a tiny glimmer of hope that Jon still might care, and if he did, that
might mean at some point…

“What intrigued me more than anything else about Mason’s proposition,” Eddie said,

putting an end to Tucker’s hopeful rant, “was Mason’s offer to teach me everything he
knew, to be like his apprentice. For someone who’d been born poor as dirt, considered
nothing more than trash in the tiny ass hick town I came from? I couldn’t resist.”

Eddie looked over at Tucker. “Same shit town Millie and your momma are from.

Their daddy was a real mean son of a bitch to me, always looked down on me and my
white trash whore of a momma. His words not mine. My momma was an angel, whose
only sin had been allowing herself to get knocked up by some drifter. Whole town treated
her like shit, but your granddaddy was the worst of them. From the moment I got my first
erection and figured out what to do with it, I planned on doing the same to one of his
girls. That bastard was going to pay for the way he treated me and my momma.”

“And from that I was born?” Tucker asked the question but not to anyone in

particular.

“Nine months later, and I was, of course, nowhere to be found.”
“He don’t look so good to me,” Virgil said to Fox while pointing at Tucker.
“Like all good cons, if it seems too good to be true, it’s because it is,” Eddie went on,

not appearing to be worried much about Tucker. “Mason made good on his promise to
teach me everything he knew. From proper manners, how to speak and what to say. He
spent a fortune on an entire wardrobe for me, all to set the scene for my infiltration into
your parent’s world. By the time I was ready for my debut into New Orleans society, I
was drunk on all of it. It took no time at all to get to your mother, but for Beau I had to be
patient, all the while becoming more and more seduced by the luxury and refinements
now being heaped upon me first by Mason, then Savannah.”

“You should be ashamed for what you done, Shaw,” Virgil said, getting more upset

the longer Eddie went on.

“By the time I figured out what Mason was up to, I was in it up to my eyeballs.”

Eddie didn’t bother responding to Virgil, which had the old man even more pissed.
“Having sex with both your parents and too selfish to let go of this new world to walk
away. I knew Mason was waiting until they were both in love with me before he made his
move. It had never been about blackmail for him—he was after something darker: had
intended on making sure Savannah found out and having the entire situation explode in
Beau’s face.”

“How can you sit here and say all of this to his face?” Tucker asked, truly shocked.

“It’s like you’re reading from the newspaper or something.”

“It’s the truth, Tucker,” Eddie said plainly and without emotion. “It’s what he came

here to hear.”

“Its fine,” Fox said, calmly, though his voice seemed flat. “Please continue.”
“I don’t mean to offend you further, but your father was the best quality kind of man,

Jon. He confided in me about the guilt he carried around over marrying your mother.
Done it to get your granddaddy off his ass, only to have him pass away less than a year
after doing so. By then Savannah was pregnant with you, he felt as if he had no choice
but to stick it out. He was aware she’d had a few affairs, didn’t blame her for that. I
honestly believe Beau knew she and I were also having an affair.”

“But not the other way around?”
“God no,” Eddie said. “Your mother was wild, but it would have never even occurred

to her, and Beau was very careful. He never said he knew about me and Savannah, but he
insinuated once or twice as if letting me know he didn’t mind.”

Fox fidgeted for a moment, visibly uncomfortable. “That’s not at all fucked up.”
“He was gay and a prominent, wealthy man at a time when that kinda thing was

strictly taboo. Perhaps he didn’t feel he deserved more?”

“He did deserve more than what you gave him,” Virgil said.
“I’m surprised you never gave it to him,” Eddie said, not making any attempt to hide

his meaning. “You were always right up in his business.”

“You fucking cock sucker! Always knew you were nuthin’ but trouble and I told

Beau that. ” Virgil was up out of his chair. “I ain’t like that, but I loved that man like a
brother! For you to insinuate otherwise is plain sick!”

Eddie laughed, all but ignoring Virgil. “I never started out wanting to ruin their

marriage, just wanted to make a quick buck and move on. It was all very intoxicating,
and I kept getting sucked in deeper, Mason baiting the hook with promises of more
money while I became more and more addicted to the attention.”

“Mason made sure Savannah found out?” Fox asked.
“I think it was his plan the entire time, I just didn’t figure it out until after the fact. I

have no proof, Jon, other than my gut, but I don’t believe for one second that Beau killed
himself. He’d already accepted his life for what it was. There was no bitterness in him, no
depression over the fact he loved men. When we had sex, it was pure joy on his face, not
shame over what we had done. Mason is a killer. He’s had a hit out on me ever since I
fled all those years ago, luckily the son of a bitch never knew my real name.”

Fox looked like he might cry for a moment, and Tucker couldn’t blame him.

Everything he’d spent his entire life believing was a lie. He took a few steps, wanting to
go to him, but stopped when Fox glared back at him. It embarrassed him slightly as both
Virgil and Eddie seemed to notice.

“I believe he killed your father. I also wouldn’t be surprised if he murdered your aunt.

Savannah would likely be gone as well had she not gone mad, and as far as you’re
concerned…I’m not sure. I can only assume that there’s something he must need from
you. It’s the only reasoning I can come up with for why he hasn’t had you killed.”

“Perhaps he’s already tried?” Fox finally said, glancing over at Tucker. “The creepy

guy who injected us with whatever that drug was outside the warehouse? Never made any
sense to me why the drug cartel goons showed up if they knew we were about to burn up
in a fire.”

“You think he was after you, not me?” Tucker asked.
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“About as much as anything else.”

“You think he killed Linnie?” Virgil asked quietly. “She worshipped him, would’ve

done anything he asked. Why would he do that?”

“My best guess would be he didn’t worship her,” Eddie said.
“She was merely one more pawn in Mason’s play for the Fox family fortune.” Fox

looked as if someone had slugged him in the gut. “I signed the will Mason had drawn up
years ago, Virgil, remember? After I took all that company money to start the renovations
on De la Fontaine?”

“In effect, removing the final obstacle, making you obsolete,” Eddie remarked. “He’s

a manipulative psychopath, but he’s a patient man.”

“I’ll kill him myself,” Virgil muttered. “Not my Linnie.”
Tucker didn’t doubt he’d meant it in that heated rush of a moment, but the anger

quickly dissolved from his face

“Mason is a powerful man.” Eddie reminded everyone. “His tentacles are far

reaching. I stay out of New Orleans for that very reason, even all these years later.”

“That’s the wonderful thing about a bullet. It kills indiscriminately.” Fox said in a low

cold voice. “Doesn’t care who you are or how much money you have.”

“No one would blame you,” Eddie said.
“What?” Tucker asked. “Have you lost your mind? People will blame him. He’ll go

to fucking jail, you moronic monster. You wanna stop hiding out here in the sticks, then
go shoot him yourself.”

“The kid’s right, Fox,” Virgil finally jumped in. “He ain’t worth wastin’ a bullet on

no how. Now that we know the truth, we can start collecting that evidence, like you do
for all them other people you helped. We’ll have him locked up some place he ain’t never
gonna get out of.”

“Yes, do that!” Tucker was desperate to see any evidence that Fox’s sanity had

returned. “I’ll even help, damn it…if you want it.”

“You’re both being a little naïve,” Fox said. “Mason will kill me and anyone else I

care about before he ever gives up control. Sadly, he has the money and the power to do
it, thanks to the very family he’s methodically worked at trying to eradicate over the
years.”

“I’m willing to give a statement to the police about what I know, my part in all of it,

but really…it’s my word against his; I have no actual proof.” Eddie shrugged
apologetically. “I’m not sure the word of a convicted felon is going to amount to much
stacked against a prominent member of society’s.”

“Then we’ll get him to confess!” Tucker said, taking a few steps closer to Fox.

“Record him, wear a wire? Trick him into admitting it?”

Fox said nothing, just stared blankly at Tucker, like he was waiting for everyone to

tire trying to talk him out of doing something that none of them could.

Tucker could tell he was wasting his time. Nothing he said mattered to Fox anymore.

There was no more light, no attraction, or even recognition behind those eyes. Anything
they once had was as dead as Mason was about to be. He couldn’t stick around and watch
it all blow up in his face. If Jon didn’t end up dead or in jail, he’d still never want to see
Tucker again once the dust settled, and in all honesty, he’d no longer be the same man
Tucker fell in love with if he wound up doing all the things Fox was currently
contemplating.

Tucker sighed, defeated, nothing left inside but heartache. He started walking toward

the door.

“Where you going?” Virgil asked.
“I can’t stick around for this,” Tucker said, shoving his hand into his pocket. “I…

hope everything works out for you, Jon.”

Tucker fished out the mangled bullet he’d dug out of Jon’s side two days before,

grabbing Fox’s hand and forcing him to take it.

“Here, you can have this back. I never let it go down the sink, but it’s something that

doesn’t belong to me. Maybe it’ll remind you of all you’ve got. Or at least, what you
almost had. I hope you’ll think long and hard about that before going off and doing
something stupid.”

His insides felt as if they were being ripped out as he walked away. Tucker opened

the front door and stepped out onto the porch. As soon as he pulled the door shut, he
turned everything off inside. After walking down the steps and past the cars, he kept
going, wasn’t going to stop walking until he got back to New Orleans, packed up
anything he could carry and catch the first bus back to California.

Chapter Seventeen

“You gonna just stand there!” Virgil snapped, staring at Fox in disbelief.
Jon Fox was staring at the floor, one hand on his hip, the other, rolling the bullet

Tucker forced upon him in between his fingers.

His mind was racing.
Fox forced any thoughts of Tucker to the outskirts of his mind. He didn’t have time

for that now, he thought, slipping the bullet into the front pocket of his jeans. He needed
to focus on what the hell he intended to do with Mason.

Dupree hadn’t said another word, but Fox could feel his examination; he simply

didn’t care to understand what the man was attempting to work out. Eddie may not have
pulled the trigger, but he had been the weapon Mason had wielded when destroying his
family. He wasn’t free of guilt or blame. Even though Fox understood, on some level,
that his childhood would never have been completely free of angst as his parents’
marriage had been a ticking time bomb due to his father’s lies and secret life,
nevertheless he knew that having both his parents growing up would have been
preferable to the alternative he’d been left with.

The more he thought about all that had been taken from him, the angrier he became.

Fox paced the floor, listening to the disgusted sigh Virgil added as Fox had ignored his
question. Mason had to pay…was going to pay…even if it was Fox alone who declared
the verdict and decided what his sentence would be. Mason had already had a lifetime of
ease and luxury while Fox had suffered, struggling to make sense out what had happened
to his family all those years ago. He’d looked Fox in the eyes all this time, a smile on that
sick bastard’s face as he worked out the best way to rid himself of the final piece that
stood in his way.

The rage was building inside and the extent to which Mason was going to suffer

became more gruesome with each and every second.

“I’m going after him,” he finally announced, his face twisted in fury.
Virgil sighed, throwing his hands into the air. “Finally! If you hurry you can catch

him fore he has a chance to get back to the highway.”

For a second Fox seemed confused. “What? No. I don’t mean Tucker. I’m going after

Mason!”

Virgil hauled off and punched him in the jaw. It barely registered as more than a

sting, but it startled Fox who started to rub his chin.

“I’m damned disappointed in ya!” Virgil headed for the front door. “You’re a damned

fool…gonna get yourself killed. Your father wouldn’ta wanted none of this for you and
what the hell’s gonna happen to your momma when you’re in jail?”

The room was still as the door slammed shut. Fox had half a mind to chase after the

old fool and snap him in two, but he had bigger fish to fry.

Dupree shook his head. “I don’t know if confronting Mason is such a good idea.”
Fox turned, hearing Virgil’s truck roar to life and spin out, kicking up dust and gravel

outside.

“You do not get to tell me what is or isn’t a good idea. Understood?”
“I know I deserve that, likely much worse, but listen for one second. Mason is not the

man you think he—”

“Right now I think he’s a murderer and a monster! Am I wrong?”
Eddie stood silent for a moment, then shook his head. “No, you’re not. But he’s also

dangerous.”

“Oddly enough, that’s exactly how most people describe me.” Fox wrestled his car

keys out of his pocket. “

He headed for the door as Dupree called out, after him.
“You’re angry, Jon Fox, fueled by rage. Mason will be calm, collected and on the

lookout for any opportunity to take advantage of that fact.”

Fox kept going, not bothering to respond as he walked out into the hot wind building

outside.

Some things you have to fix yourself.
Fox made a promise to himself in that moment, stomping down the steps, his feet

crunching into the gravel. Not one more night would pass where Mason Wilkes would be
allowed to enjoy the life he stole by murdering the people Fox had loved. The father he’d
never had an opportunity to know and his sweet Aunt Linnie, who’d entrusted her heart
to an evil bastard that murdered her in cold blood…their deaths would be avenged before
the sun rose on a fnew day.

Mason Wilkes would talk, would tell him everything, all while begging for his life.
Fox rounded the front of his Jeep and froze, jaw clenched in anger. “Goddamnit,

Virgil!”

He strode over and jerked the pocketknife out of his rear tire. “I’ll kill you myself, old

man.”

As he rounded the back of his Jeep to find his tools and remove the spare bolted onto

the tailgate, he thought about what Eddie had said, that Mason was dangerous.

Fox was angry, his blood was boiling, there was no denying that. But he wasn’t

stupid. Going to Mason had mistake written all over it.

No, it was better if Mason came to him, if Fox could confront his murderous uncle

not on Mason’s turf, but his own.

De la Fontaine.
He’d call Leigh and tell her to get Savannah out of there so no one else could get hurt.
There’d be no witnesses.
Nobody but Fox, Mason… and a swamp full of secrets.
Fox stopped what he was doing and pulled out his cell phone.
He dialed the direct number for Mason’s office.
The phone rang before clicking over to the answering machine. Fox heard his uncle’s

usual pleasant, almost cocky recording, asking him to kindly leave a message.

“Mason, it’s Jon. I’ve found Clay Shaw. We need to talk. Meet me at de la Fontaine.”
He hung up and started to shove his phone and the pocketknife into the front pocket

of his jeans, when it started to ring.

Fox sighed, muttering as he crammed the knife into his pocket and answered the

phone. “I don’t have time to talk right now.”

“You’re gonna want to hear what I have to tell you,” Rick Ford said. “Unless you no

longer care who Betty Black really is?”

“Damn it,” Fox muttered, yanking his jack out the car. “I can’t believe I’m about to

actually say this, but I’m gonna have to call you back.”

“Seriously?” Rick asked.
Fox glanced down at his flat tire, gritting his teeth and thanking god that Virgil was

nowhere close by.

“Seriously,” he said, hanging up on Ford and tossing his phone.
Fox dropped the jack onto the gravel and glanced up at the sky.
A storm was coming.

***

Mason stared at the answering machine, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, as Fox’s angry

words filled his office.

“Mason, it’s Jon. I’ve found Clay Shaw. We need to talk. Meet me at de la Fontaine.”
Mason let out a string of muffled cries and screams, as though trying to communicate

to Fox, although knowing full well the sound on an answering machine only went one
way. His nostrils flared even more, his breathing labored from the duct tape over his
mouth.

As Fox disconnected the call, Betty Black walked around the large mahogany desk to

the swivel chair in which Mason Wilkes was now tied. “What was that, Mason? Were
you trying to say something, dear?”

She glanced up at her nephew—the hunched, dribbling, giggling Larry Crane—and

said with a gentle smile. “Junior, would you mind removing the tape from Mr. Wilkes’
mouth?” She looked back at Mason and added, “Or should we call you, Mr. Sutton?”

The next cry that came from Mason was far from muffled as Larry ripped away the

tape along with half the skin on Mason’s lips.

“Let me go, you crazy old bitch! Who fuck are you, anyway?”
“Don’t you remember me? We met ever so briefly in Jon Fox’s office the day I hired

him to find you.”

“You hired Jon to find me?”
“Not to find you. To kill you. Of course, he didn’t know it at the time. But my,” Betty

smiled excitedly, “did you hear the anger in his voice just then?”

“Let me go! You’re fucking crazy!”
“No,” Betty said patiently. “Fox’s mother is fucking crazy. His father is dead. And

they’re not the only ones you destroyed. It’s time to pay for your sins, Mr. Wilkes.”

Ripping a fresh length of duct tape from a silver roll, Larry laughed with delight. He

was about to slap it over Mason’s mouth before Betty stopped him.

“Oh, one more thing,” she said. “Would you mind telling us where you keep your

gun? A man like you always keeps a gun close by.”

“What? Do you think I’m stupid?”
But his eyes betrayed him.
An instinctive, split-second glance at the second desk drawer on the right told Betty

all she needed to know.

“Yes, I do,” she nodded sweetly before turning to her nephew. “Now shut him up. I

don’t want to hear a peep out of him the entire way to De la Fontaine. Not one—”

She tapped Mason on the nose with her finger.

“—single—”
She tapped him again.
“—peep!”
Larry slogged him with a right hook to the jaw, sending a tooth across the floor and

knocking him out instantly, his unconscious body swiveling in the chair.

Betty looked from the tooth to Larry. “Best pick that up. We don’t want to leave

anything for the fairies.”

“Yes Aunt Bethany.” Larry stooped before the tooth and picked it up. For a moment

he examined it before opening his mouth and jamming the root up into his own gum,
filling in one of his many gaps, Mason’s perfect white tooth standing out alongside the
remainder of Larry’s rotting yellow stumps.

He turned to Betty and showed off his new smile.
“Oh, Junior,” she beamed, most pleased. “How handsome you look!”

***

In the distance, black clouds churned, expanding high into the sky, quickly forming a

menacing storm cell. What was left of the rapidly fading daylight had become mostly
obscured by the front moving in across the western horizon. Virgil’s pickup rattled along
the highway toward New Orleans, Tucker sat slumped in his seat, arms crossed as if to
protect his breaking heart as he leaned against the passenger side door staring off into
space.

Virgil caught up to the kid right before he’d made it all the way back to the highway.

Hadn’t said much, even when he climbed into the truck, aside from, Take me back to
New Orleans.

Virgil kept trying to make conversation. He nodded toward the darkening sky. A far-

away splinter of lightning lit up a pocket of clouds. “Looks like a storm’s comin’.”

“I guess I’ll be watching it through the window of a Greyhound bus…on my way to

L.A.” Tuck grumbled.

“You wanna sulk, that’s fine by me. But runnin’ away…are you sure that’s the right

thing to do?”

Tucker turned to Virgil with an incredulous look on his face. “I just met my father for

the first time, only to find out he’s an evil asshole of the highest order. What he did drove
Jon’s father to suicide and his mother insane.”

“No sir, that was Mason Wilkes that did that, Tuck, of that I have no doubt, and he’s

gonna pay.”

“He sure as hell helped. Mason couldn’t have destroyed that family without my dad.”

Tucker sighed, looking more defeated by Virgil’s attempt at a pep talk. “Some things you
just can’t come back from. You should know that. Jon certainly knows that. It’s how
things work down here. Once you’re tainted with that stink, it never washes off.”

Virgil sighed, peering out as another impressive display of lightning crackled across

the clouds off in the distance. “You ain’t wrong there, Tucker. But there’s a difference
between what all them assholes out there think and what Johnny does. Johnny ain’t like
all of them. That boy is far from perfect, but he’s got a good heart in him. You running
off like you’re guilty of something ain’t gonna solve nuthin’.”

Tucker scowled, like he hadn’t appreciated being put in his place too much.

“You could give him a chance, that’s all I’m sayin’.” Virgil added, thinking he might

be making some headway.

“Like you did?” Tucker said.
Virgil looked confused. “I stuck around, damn it. I didn’t run out on him when he

needed me most.”

“You also lied and kept secrets from him his whole life, so don’t try telling me what’s

right and what’s wrong, because I don’t think any of you know the answer.”

Virgil said nothing.
There was nothing he could say, until eventually, he sighed. “When I was just a little

12-year-old runt, that sweet little Norma Jackson from down the street lead me behind a
willow and said she wanted to kiss me. I was so darn scared I took off like a skinny little
rooster with my tail feathers on fire.” He laughed at the memory. “That was stupid.
Couple years later I’d have given anything to have her ask me that again. She never did,
and I never forgot it.”

Tucker shrugged impatiently. “What’s your point?”
“Regrets are tough to live with, Tucker. I got enough of ‘em to know. Not tellin’ Jon

about his family was stupid of me. But when a family gets destroyed like that, you
struggle and fight just to keep what’s left of it alive. You mark my words, you leave now
like you're plannin’ to, slinking away in the night on a bus to L.A., and you will regret it.
May not be tomorrow or even next month, but eventually the road not traveled will start
to eat away at you.”

Tucker’s brow suddenly creased.
A penny dropped.
“L.A.! Jesus, you gotta turn around!”
Virgil grinned and slapped Tucker on the knee. “Atta boy! I know you’d change your

mind!”

“Change my mind?” Tucker was shaking his head. “My new screenplay, all the Betty

notes. The briefcase…my laptop. I left it all back at De la Fontaine. I can’t leave
Louisiana without it.”

Virgil’s smile slid down his face. “But what about—”
Tucker looked at Virgil resolutely and shook his head. “The briefcase is the only

thing I’m not leaving without. Everything else will stay right where I found it.”

Virgil sighed once more.
He took his foot off the gas and pulled the truck over to the shoulder of the highway

and hauled that heavy wheel into a U-turn.

In the western sky, the darkening storm clouds churned. highlighted by the flashes of

lightening. Virgil felt his heart sinking as he struggled to think of something he could do
or say to keep Tucker from making the biggest mistake of his life.

He needed Tucker, Jon needed Tucker, without him there lord only knew what Jon

might do.

He wasn’t giving up, that was for damn sure. He never gave up on Beau, and Virgil

wouldn’t stop fighting for Johnny till he took his last dying breath.

***

Eddie Dupree was still sitting on the arm of the sofa, arms crossed, though he’d

allowed his guard to drop the instant he’d been left alone. Unsure exactly how much time
had passed since Jon Fox stormed out the door. Eddie blinked a few times, coming out of
the haze of his own thoughts. From the corner of his eye, he’d seen Frank quietly come
out of the stairwell, and could now feel the judgment without even needing to look the
man in the eye.

“I don’t get you, Ed,” Frank said.
The kid only called him Ed when he was pissed. He’d used Ed a lot over the past few

years, but this was his business, not Frank’s.

“Butt out, Frank.” Eddie said, still making no attempt to move from the spot he now

occupied, despite no longer having any feeling left in his ass. He couldn’t feel much of
anything at all, as a matter of fact.

Nothing but emptiness.
“Why’d you act like that with your kid?” Frank said, apparently having decided the

whole butt-out comment was merely a suggestion. “It was ugly, and not true.”

“It is true,” Eddie said. “Everything I told him was the truth. I did all those things and

I didn’t feel guilty for most of it. Still don’t.”

“Not everything was true,” Frank said. “You’ve checked up on that boy a lot over the

years. Been to L.A. how many times?”

“Don’t matter.” Eddie sighed, standing up and walking toward the door, needing a

cigarette. “My son is in love with the man whose family I helped destroy. Maybe, just
maybe so long as they can both hate me, they'll have a chance at being together."

“You really fuck that Bryan guy, or that just a little added dramatic flourish you threw

in to bait that Fox boy and further disgust your son?” Frank asked.

Eddie stopped, his hand on the doorknob, but he didn’t bother to turn around. “I

didn’t fuck him.”

Eddie opened the door and went outside, turning before closing the door. “But I

would have had it been necessary to get the information I needed.”

As their gazes met briefly, Eddie could see that Frank wasn’t very happy with that

answer. He smiled at the man, an attempt to set Frank’s mind at ease as he pulled the
door shut.

Chapter Eighteen

The first rumble rolled through the low-hanging clouds, like the drum section of an

orchestra just starting to warm up.

Leigh was in the kitchen at the back of the house heating up another pot of tea. The

afternoon was hot and she took a step away from the flames on the stove, wiping her
brow with the back of her forearm. As she did so, she heard it—the sound of a car
coming down the drive of De la Fontaine.

They’re back already, she thought to herself and took in an anxious breath, somehow

anticipating the worst from their encounter with Clay. She took three more cups down
from the shelf, hoping that the tea might calm everyone’s nerves this time.

As the kettle whistled to a boil, she stepped out of the kitchen.
She saw a car she did not recognize, a large BMW, pull up a short distance from the

house.

She saw that elderly woman Tucker is always chatting with at restaurant climb out of

the passenger seat.

And from the driver’s side, a huge, hunched man stepped out of the car.
In one hand was a sawn-off shotgun.
Oh shit! Leigh gasped when the man started to turn her direction. I shoulda listened

to my momma.

She backed into the kitchen so fast she tripped, falling backward with a thud onto the

hard tiled floor.

The whistle of the kettle was rising into a high-pitched squeal.
Leigh jumped to her feet, grabbed the handle and shifted it quickly off the heat.
In one move, she turned on her heel, sprinting to the kitchen door. She peered around

the edge of the frame to see the man and the old woman talking to each, not looking in
her direction.

If I live through this, I’ll have to listen to Millie and all her, I told you so’s. I hate

that!

Leigh cursed Jon Fox under her breath before making a break for the house.
In the sitting room, Savannah stood before the record player. The first side of the

record had finished and she turned it over. The needle sank into the groove and the
violins of “So In Love” began to play.

Savannah closed her eyes and remembered that night, so long ago.
The hurt.
The hate.
The broken hearts.
Suddenly she gasped.
From behind her came a firm arm, a hand pressing against her mouth, silencing her.
“Miss Savannah,” came Leigh’s voice in her ear, quiet and desperate. “We have to

hide. Now!”

Leigh released Savannah and grabbed her hand.

She hurried her to the door.
Halfway across the room she looked back at the record playing.

***

Standing by Mason’s BMW—which they had needed to steal to make the story

convincing—Betty and Larry both looked at the closed trunk, listening to the frantic
thumps and muffled shouts from inside.

“He’s awake again,” Betty sighed.
“Should I shut him up?” Larry asked.
“No. Leave him there for now. He can wear himself out all he wants. Let’s check the

house first.” Betty glanced at the shotgun in Larry’s hand. “And please, if you’re going to
kill anyone, do it with Mason’s gun. Not that damn bazooka of yours.”

Obediently Larry leaned back into the car and fetched the handgun they had found in

the second drawer of Mason’s desk.

Betty nodded her approval, turned to move toward the house and stopped, her ears

pricking up at the sound of music drifting through an open window.

Larry heard it too. “What is that?”
“If I’m not mistaken, that’s Ella Fitzgerald.”
Abruptly the music stopped with a loud record scratch.
Someone was in the house.
Without a second’s hesitation, Larry and Betty hurried for the porch steps.
As the front door of the house burst open, neither Larry nor Betty saw the wall panel

of the antechamber glide shut.

Inside the secret passage, Leigh and Savannah stood as silently as they could, holding

their breath and each other. It was almost pitch black. Only a sliver of light from a thin
crack in the panel gave any kind of illumination. Leigh let go of Savannah and edged her
way toward the splinter of light, putting one eye up to it.

“It came from this direction,” said the woman sternly, waving the large man—now

carrying a shotgun and a handgun—down the hallway toward the sitting room.

Leigh’s lungs finally released a trembling breath of air.
The candle.
Where was the candle?
Leigh spun around in the dark, her hands feeling blindly along the dusty brickwork

until she found the small alcove where the candle lamp had been kept. Only now, there
was nothing there but the box of matches.

They’d left the lamp up in Savannah’s room.
Leigh snatched up the matchbox in her shaking hands and whispered, “Miss

Savannah, are you alright?”

She struck a match and spun about—the weak little flame struggling to stay alive with

her quick movements—only to discover Savannah was no longer with her.

“Savannah?” Leigh whispered, a little louder, then louder still. “Savannah?”
Suddenly the sliver of light in the panel vanished as a shadow blocked it.
Leigh held her breath, eyes wide as she backed away from the crack. Through it, she

could see the eye of the old woman, moving back and forth, trying to see into the dark.

“I know you’re in there,” said the old lady in a sweet, singsong voice. “Don’t make

me come get you.” She shouted down the hallway, “Junior! They’re in here! Bring me
the gun!”

Leigh gasped as the match burned down to her fingers.
She dropped it in pain and panic.
At the same time, the old woman started banging on the wood panels trying to find a

way in. “Junior! Hurry!”

Leigh heard Junior’s heavy steps thumping back down the hallway toward the

antechamber.

The old woman’s fingers began scratching at the panels.
In the dark, Leigh turned and raced along the narrow passage.
She felt a cobweb wrap itself around her face as she ran through it. She felt the legs of

a spider scurrying up her cheek, her forehead, into her hair. She tried to shake it out,
gasping in terror, before hitting the first stone step of the stairs upward. The stone cut into
her shin and she grunted as she fell into the steep stairs.

Behind her she heard a click.
The old woman had found the door handle.
Light poured into the other end of the passage as the secret door opened and the

shadow of the old lady appeared.

Then suddenly, from somewhere upstairs, came a loud voice.
“Fly! Fly!”
It was followed by a cacophony of frenzied, flapping wings.
The shadow of the old woman turned away from the passage just as Junior thumped

into the antechamber.

“Upstairs,” ordered the woman. “Whoever’s in here, they’re upstairs. Go!”
Eyes wide in the half-light, Leigh turned back to the stone steps and started climbing

as fast as she could. As she clambered desperately upward, she was no longer whispering.

“Savannah! Savannah, run!”
Leigh could hear the pounding of Junior’s elephant footsteps echoing through the

house, rattling floorboards, heading up toward Savannah’s bedroom.

Leigh hit the top of the stone steps and raced through the passage, scraping her arms

and legs on the jagged bricks until she saw the shards of light from the hole in the roof.
Dozens and dozens of panicked pigeons were fleeing up into the storm cloud sky, their
feathers raining softly down on Savannah as she waved her arms frantically, telling the
birds to “Fly! Fly!”

“Savannah! What are you doing?”
“A distraction,” she said simply.
BANG!
Suddenly a bullet ripped through the wall just behind Leigh.
Leigh screamed and covered her head, but Savannah already had her by the hand.

“Come on.”

As two more bullets splintered the wall, filling the air with puffs of plaster, Savannah

ran further into the dark with Leigh in tow.

They reached a turn in the passage and were back in complete darkness. After a few

more feet, Savannah stopped and turned to Leigh. “There’s a ladder. Here, can you feel
it? Follow me down.”

Savannah guided Leigh’s hand to the side of the ladder before stepping quickly down

the creaky rungs.

Leigh followed close behind. Her foot slipped on a rotting rung. She almost screamed

but gasped sharply instead. They could hear Junior’s heavy steps through the house once
more.

Savannah reached the bottom of the ladder.
She guided Leigh down the last few rungs and pulled her swiftly along the passage

before stopping again. Hurriedly, she felt up and down the wall until she found a small
lever. She triggered it and the wall opened outward, only it wasn’t a wall; it was one of
the bookcases in Beau’s old study.

“Quickly,” Savannah whispered, spotting the open door to the study and making a run

for it with Leigh’s hand still in hers.

They almost made it, but as Savannah reached the door her escape was suddenly

blocked by the huge, hunched form of Junior.

He raised Mason’s handgun.
Savannah and Leigh both gasped and ducked, Savannah dropping to the right, Leigh

to the left, just as a bullet cut a path between them and smashed into Beau’s old desk.

Savannah was on her feet in a flash. She lunged at Junior’s arm, the one holding the

gun, and sank her teeth into his forearm. He growled more out of anger than pain, and
threw her off him so hard she flew across the room and slammed into another bookcase.

The blow knocked her out instantly, her unconscious body crashing to the floor.
As Junior turned to deal with Leigh, the young girl already had a vase in both hands.

She brought it down hard on Junior’s skull and it smashed into a million pieces.

Junior roared with rage and staggered forward.
Leigh dropped what was left of the smashed vase and laid a hard right hook into her

attacker’s face as he stumbled toward her.

The punch simply angered him even more.
With a swipe of his arm, he clocked her across the face, the snout of the handgun

smashing against her cheekbone.

Leigh landed against the desk, hard, crying out in pain as she felt a rib crack.
She crashed against the floor, clutching at her side before glancing up to see Junior

standing over her, the gun pointed straight at her.

He chuckled as he told her, “You woulda made a great Swamp Slut. Pity I gotta kill

ya.”

His finger found the trigger.
Leigh squeezed her eyes shut.
And then—
“Don’t shoot!”
Leigh opened her eyes quickly to see the old woman standing in the doorway. Hastily

Betty moved to the billowing curtains. She stood at the edge of the window and peered
out.

Through the trees lining the driveway, Virgil’s pick-up came bouncing toward the

house.

“Someone’s here,” Betty breathed.
Instantly Leigh started screaming. “Help! Someone help us!”
With a hard thump, Junior brought the butt of the gun down on Leigh’s head.
Her body thudded back down to the floor, out cold.

***

The blackening sky was pushing down on the earth. The heat from the ground was

trying to rise. A pressure-cooker was building, so hot that the air was hard to breathe.

Tucker wiped at the sweat on his brow. The air blowing in through the open window

was making him even hotter. “Goddammit, when’s that sky gonna crack open.”

As if to offer him hope, a rumble of thunder echoed through the clouds.
“Take it easy,” Virgil told him. “You’re just in a bad mood.”
“I just want outta here,” Tucker corrected.
“Fine. We’ll be two minutes. You get your goddamn computer and briefcase, I’ll

check on Miss Savannah, and you’ll be at that Greyhound station in no time. Hell, I’ll
drive you all the way to L.A. if you really want.”

“And spend God knows how many days listening to you tell me what a mistake I’ve

made? No thanks. I’d rather shove cockroaches in my ears if it’s all the same to—”

“What the—”
Virgil was no longer listening to Tucker. He was leaning forward in his seat now,

staring through the windshield as they cleared the tree-lined driveway and neared the
house. “Is that Mason’s car?”

Virgil pulled the pick-up to a halt next to the mystery car.
As the two climbed out of the pick-up, the first thing they heard was something—

someone—banging and hollering inside the trunk.

Virgil shot a panicked look at Tucker. “Something’s wrong.” He looked quickly back

at the house and breathed, “Savannah.”

“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispered, then called out, “Leigh!”
In the next instant both Virgil and Tucker bolted for the house.
The younger man reached the porch first and jumped the steps, sliding through the

front door while Virgil raced after him, panting and frantic.

“Leigh! Savannah!” Tuck was already calling.
“You check the bedroom,” Virgil panted. “I’ll look down here.”
Tucker bounded up the stairs three at a time.
Virgil ran down the hallway.
He stopped in the dining room and found nothing.
He moved quickly to the sitting room and saw two cups of half-finished tea.
“Savannah!”
He charged into the study.
Pieces of broken vase crunched under his shoes.
He saw the crumpled form of Leigh in front of the desk.
He gasped, then turned to see Savannah lying motionless at the foot of one of the

bookcases lining the walls. Virgil hurried to her and dropped to his knees.

“Savannah! Oh God!”
He took her head in his trembling hands.
He brushed the hair away from her face.
He searched desperately for signs of life.
Unfortunately, the only sign of life in the room was the one he did not see.
The secret bookcase on the opposite side of the room swung open silently.

Larry emerged, holding his sawn-off shotgun like a baseball bat.
He gripped it by the barrel.
He walked quietly up behind Virgil.
And raised the weapon high over his head.

***

Upstairs, Tucker found Savannah’s room.
Framed pictures of Jon as a young boy with his father, propped on a mantle.
A candle lamp on the bedside table.
Bullet holes in the wall.
Tucker turned and ran back downstairs. “Virgil, she’s not upstairs!” There was no

response. “Virgil?”

Tucker slowed cautiously as he made his way along the hallway, pushing open the

door to the dining room, the sitting room… the study.

He took a terrified breath at the sight of a huge man holding a shotgun, standing over

the still bodies of Virgil, Leigh, and Savannah.

Suddenly he heard a click behind him.
It was the sound of gun’s hammer cocking.
“Golly,” said a sweet voice of an old woman behind him. “What a turn out!”
Tucker knew that voice instantly. “Betty?”
Instinctively he moved to turn around, but he was stopped in his tracks by the snout

of the gun pressing into the back of his neck.

“I wouldn’t move if I were you, Tucker. We’ve got a lot to do before Jon gets here,

and cleaning your brains off the ceiling just isn’t something we have time for right now.”

The old woman directed her voice at the large man inside the study. “Junior, tie up

Virgil and the girl. Throw them inside the wall. We’ll deal with them later. Meanwhile,
take Miss Savannah and Mason away.” At that point, she pushed her gun harder into
Tucker’s neck. “And let’s take this one, too. In case Jon Fox needs any more convincing
to finish the job we want him to do.”

Inside the study, the half-witted Larry looked from one unconscious body to the next

and scratched his head. “We’re gonna need more rope.”

“Well find some!” Betty ordered angrily, before adding sweetly, “Dear.”

Chapter Nineteen

Fox listened as Rick finished giving him the rundown on what he’d discovered thus

far about the mysterious Betty Black and her lackey, Larry Junior, as thunder broke so
close to the ground that the trees along the driveway actually shook. It was late afternoon,
but the impending storm was quickly turning day into night.

“Jesus!” Ford said. “Sounds like quite a storm brewing out that way.”
He didn’t have time to deal with Betty Black right now; she’d have to wait for

another day. Fox flicked on his headlights as he sped along the drive.

“It’s looking like it,” Fox said. “I’ve just about made it back home, but thanks again

for getting back to me with this. I owe you one.”

A huge raindrop hit the windshield and splattered. It was accompanied by a second

and third drop before the sky opened up.

As the heavens poured down, Fox turned on the wipers.
“You be careful out there, Jon.”
The lights of De la Fontaine smeared and streaked across the windshield.
“You know me.” Fox answered
“I do, which is why I offered the reminder.”
Through the downpour, Fox caught sight of Virgil’s pick-up…
“And Mason’s BMW,” Fox muttered.
“You sure you’re alright?” Ford asked, sounding more than a little suspicious.
He took a deep breath, feeling the storm of fury raging inside him as the storm

outside unleashed its own form of hell.

Lightning flashed across the sky.
Thunder shook the ground.
“I’m great, Rick. I gotta go, I’ll give you a call next week.”
Fox tossed the cell onto the passenger seat.
In the rain, Fox slid the Jeep directly in front of the porch steps.
He had the door open before the car had even stopped.
He stumbled out into the sizzling air and hammering rain, drenched in seconds, and

bolted up the steps of the porch and into the house.

He heard the pounding of the rain outside and on the glass of dome ceiling of the

antechamber. But he heard no voices. No other sounds at all.

“Mason!” he shouted, his lungs full of anger. “Where are you, you son of a bitch?”
Slowly he made his way down the central hallway, through the antechamber and the

helix-staircase that wound its way upstairs. He was about to head towards those stairs, his
concern for Savannah’s safety overshadowing even his rage. But then he smelled it.

Smoke.
The kind that came from expensive Cuban cigars.
A sickening feeling of déjà vu overcame him as he turned to look down the hallway

toward the study door.

It was open, ever so slightly, and a tendril of smoke drifted out into the hallway.

Soundlessly, a flash of lightning lit up the antechamber, followed soon after by a

crack of thunder that sent a tremor through the glass panes of the dome ceiling.

Slowly Fox made his way toward the study door.
He reached it, almost expecting to find the ghost of Delta Deveraux inside.
Indeed, as he pushed the door open, he saw the silhouette of a woman sitting in the

same chair that Delta had sat in the night she died. Fox could see the cigar in the
woman’s fingers, embers aglow, trails of smoke rising into the hot air.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Fox,” said the woman in the chair, “but your

taste in cigars is a little… how shall I put it… effeminate.”

Lightning flashed outside the window and lit up the room briefly.
Fox’s eyes narrowed, almost in disbelief at what he saw. Or thought he saw. “Betty?”
The woman leaned across and snapped on a lamp, revealing herself.
Indeed, it was Betty. She took another puff on the cigar that she had obviously found

on the side table next to the chair. They were Delta’s, still sitting where she had left them.
Dead women tend to forget to remove the evidence of their intrusion.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Betty said as she exhaled a puff of smoke, “they’re wonderful.

I haven’t smoked in a long time, I gave up when I had to raise a family, so to speak. But
these cigars are so delightful, I may well start up the habit again.”

Fox was too angry for games, too confused not to demand questions. “What the fuck

are you doing here? You have to go, now. I have family business I need to tend to.”

“Oh, but that’s why I’m here,” Betty smiled knowingly. “To help you tend to your

‘family business’.”

Fox suddenly realized she knew more than he wanted her to. But his patience was too

short to start second guessing. “What’s going on, Betty? Tell me now!” He made a move
toward her. “I don’t have time for your bullshit!”

That’s when Betty pulled Mason’s gun on him.
Fox froze a few feet short of her.
“Hold onto your anger, Mr. Fox. You’ll need it tonight. You see, I didn’t hire you

because you were smart. I hired you because you’re angry.”

With the gun trained on him, Fox took two steps back. Whatever Betty was doing

here, her intentions were serious. And if she wanted him to be angry, well, she sure as
hell got her wish.

“Where’s my mother?” he demanded, keeping his distance. “Where’s Virgil?”
“They’re alive. Along with the girl, whoever she is. Oh, and your boyfriend, too.

Tucker’s such a sweet boy, though I must say he does seem to have some trouble finding
clothes that fit. I enjoyed my chats with him; he was always so enthusiastic, so ready to
listen to my lies. I was surprised how good I was at telling them. At first, I put it down to
creativity. A spark of the imagination. Then I realized what it really was. Revenge.
Justice. Survival.”

Fox clenched his teeth together so damn hard that Betty could hear them grind. His

jaw was so tense he had to spit the words out. “What the fuck have you done with
Tucker?”

“Oh, you’ll see him soon enough. But first, you need to unlock that jaw, young man.

Don’t bottle up that rage, it’ll only do you harm. You don’t want this whole thing to end
in tragedy, do you? Hasn’t your family seen enough tragedy?”

“What the hell do you know about my family?”

Betty pondered the question playfully. “Well, pretty much everything. Certainly more

than you know about me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Betty.” Fox decided to pull the one ace out of his

sleeve early. If he wanted to disarm her, it had to happen early, and while she had a gun
in her hand. “Or should I call you, Bethany? Bethany Crane. Only remaining daughter of
Lawrence Crane, the shipbuilding magnate from Norfolk who died of a sudden heart
attack just before his business was declared bankrupt decades ago.”

Betty tried to smile, tried to keep her calm façade solid, but suddenly her own anger

was beginning to build. “My, oh my, you have done some homework, Mr. Fox. Of
course, I expected you to follow me. In fact, I wanted you to. However, I wasn’t
expecting you to dig quite so deep. But I’m glad you did.” She smiled. “Do you have
time for a story, Mr. Fox?”

Fox glanced at the silver bar trolley standing against one wall. “Can I at least fix

myself a drink first? It’s hotter than hell.”

Betty smiled. “Why, of course. I wouldn’t say no to a spot of bourbon myself.”
With her gun still trained on him, Betty allowed Fox to cross the room to the trolley.
“Have you read Mahabharata, Mr. Fox?”
Fox shook his head as he began pouring the bourbon. “All I read is police reports and

gay porn, so I guess that’s a no.”

“I may seem sweet and naïve, but I’ve become very well-read over the years. When

you spend as much time as I have in libraries from one state to the next, poring over old
files and newspaper clippings and Dewey Decimal files long forgotten in cold archive
rooms, you tend to take in a lot. You might be surprised at how much I know.”

With his back to her, Fox knew he had a good chance of dealing with this crazy bitch

just as he did the last one. With a glass of bourbon to the eyes. He gripped both tumblers
firmly in his fists. “Oh I don’t doubt you’re full of surprises, that’s for sure. I think we all
are. What’s your point?”

“Mahabharata is an ancient Hindu scripture. It’s a study of life and purpose, of

wisdom and war. And everything beyond.” Betty quoted from the scripture, “Now I am
become Death, the destroyer of worlds.” She looked at Fox as he turned, drinks in hand.
“Dr. Robert Oppenheimer quoted Mahabharata the moment he witnessed the first
successful test of his atomic bomb, his own destructive force. Do you understand what
I’m trying to tell you, Mr. Fox?”

“That you’re well-read?” Fox turned, glasses of bourbon in his hand. He took a step

toward her. “I got that.”

Betty shook her head. “No. I’m trying to tell you, that you and I have both met Death,

the destroyer of worlds. And there’s only one world left to destroy. His.”

Fox stopped. “You mean Mason.”
Betty nodded.
Fox raised a glass toward Betty.
In that moment, he could hand her the glass—
—or toss the drink in her eyes.
Take the gun.
Run.
Find Savannah, Tucker, Virgil, Leigh.
For a moment, his hand trembled and the bourbon rippled in the glass.

Then suddenly Jon Fox gave into his life-long rage.
He stopped shaking—
—and offered Betty her drink.
She took it with a welcome smile.
“Tell me more,” he said, his teeth grinding together once more.
Betty took a sip of her drink. “Before he destroyed your world, he destroyed mine.

His name wasn’t Mason Wilkes back then. It was Sam Sutton. He was handsome,
charming, attentive. My little sister Lily fell for him like a rock in the sea. She was a
dreamer, an angel… and his first victim. He married her, got her pregnant, and just days
before Lawrence Junior was born, Sam Sutton took everything from me.”

Betty took a long drink from her glass of bourbon.
“What do you mean, everything?”
“Precisely that. My father was a very successful businessman, but he was also a

generous soul. A trusting man. When Sam Sutton married into our family, my father
offered him a job as his Chief Financial Officer. Mere days before Lawrence Junior was
born, Sam vanished—along with every last penny of my family’s fortune. My father had
a fatal heart attack when he found out. The next day, my beautiful baby sister put a gun in
her mouth and pulled the trigger. Only she didn’t die, at least not straight away. I was on
the phone when it happened, making arrangements for our father’s funeral. I heard the
gunshot, ran upstairs, and called an ambulance. She died in the hospital, but not before
giving birth to my nephew, Larry. There were…complications…but he lived.”

“Look, I’m sorry about what Mason did to your family, but where the hell is my

family? What have you done with them? I wanna see them, now!”

“You’ll see them soon enough. And don’t be sorry about what happened. It’s not you

who should apologize. After all, look at what Mason has done to you. I know how much
you loved your Aunt Linnie, a girl who from all accounts was not unlike my Lily. It
would seem that, after causing my sister to kill herself, Sam Sutton changed his name, but
not his agenda. Marrying Linnie was his ticket into the Fox family. Another fortune to be
had, another wife to kill. Tell me, did you know Linnie was diabetic?”

“No,” Fox whispered, his fury building with every word that left Betty’s lips.
“She hid it from her family. She was too embarrassed to tell anyone. Too afraid of

being a burden to anyone but her trusted husband, the man in charge of her insulin. He
told her how much to take and when, but she always administered the dose herself.
Accidental suicide, the doctors said. How many angry fists did you throw at the wall
when you heard that news, Mr. Fox?”

He didn’t answer. His nostrils flared like an angry bull’s as his chest heaved

furiously.

Betty nodded as though approving his rage. “It’s okay to be angry, dear. This must be

hard to hear. But of course, Mason didn’t stop there. What good is a foot in the door if
you can’t use it to kick that door wide open. That’s when he introduced your mother to a
cocky young man named—”

“Clayton Shaw,” Fox breathed so quietly, his voice so smothered in rage, the words

were barely audible.

Suddenly the tumbler exploded in his angry fist.
Glass shattered and bourbon splashed onto the floor.
Fox looked down at his hand, at the blood that began to flow from his palm and

fingers. Yet he felt no pain. None whatsoever.

All he felt was hate.
Betty put down her glass and stood from the chair, smiling like a broker who had just

clinched a deal.

“Do you remember the day we first met, Mr. Fox? I told you I wanted to hire you, so

that you could teach me everything you knew. So that I could find someone. Someone I
wanted dead. But he wasn’t the only man I was looking for. The other man I wanted to
find… was you. The one deep inside you. The man whose blood is full of fury. The man
whose heart beats purely for revenge.”

“What are you talking about?”
“I found Sam Sutton, or should I say Mason Wilkes, long ago, sitting in a doctor’s

waiting room. I turned the page of a magazine and there was his picture staring back at
me along with an article on Fox Pharmaceuticals. So began my obsession with the Fox
clan. Until it was time for our destinies to cross paths. You see, Mr. Fox, Mason Wilkes
must die. Before he destroys your world again. Tell me, if you die, who takes control of
the Fox Empire? Savannah? Virgil?”

A trembling whisper escaped him as he answered, “Mason.”
“Every crime deserves a punishment,” Betty said, taking one step closer to the man

trembling with anger before her. “Every murder must be avenged. And every execution…
needs its hangman. This is why I came to you.”

Fox felt his blood burning in his veins.
His hands trembled, blood still dripping to the floor.
He fought to stop his knees from buckling under the weight of his wrath.
“Why me? Why not some hitman? Some stranger?”
Betty shook her head. “Because this deed belongs in the family. That’s what he made

us. Now we are the ones he must answer to.”

Lightning lit up the room once more and a drum roll of thunder shook the house.
“It’s time to face that storm, Mr. Fox.”

Chapter Twenty

A bolt of white lightning ripped through the sky and the giant skeleton of the

greenhouse—buckled and warped and disappearing inch by inch, year by year, into the
swamp—lit up against the black stormy night. Through the pounding rain, the flash
illuminated the steel beams of the domed structure and reflected like the pop of camera
bulbs in every last remaining pane of glass. The enormous oaks along the swamp’s edge
cast terrifying shadows over the structure, like giant, moss-covered monsters guarding
their decrepit lair.

Fox wiped the matted hair from his forehead and kept walking, his clothes already

completely drenched in the short distance from the house toward the edge of the swamp,
his shirt clinging to his body, his pores suffocating in the heat and the deluge.

Behind him walked Betty, gun still in hand and aimed straight at Fox’s back.
She, too, was drenched, but the hammering rain didn’t faze her, nor the mud or the

lightning or the thunder, so loud it almost tore open the night.

No, Betty was a woman on a mission. Her life’s mission. To remove Mason Wilkes

from this world, once and for all.

As the greenhouse loomed large before them, Fox knew exactly what was in Betty’s

head. The moment they left the house and turned toward the greenhouse, he knew. His
hands were trembling, not with fear or doubt, but with anticipation. With the adrenalin he
knew he needed to do this.

To become his uncle’s punisher.
His executioner.
“Why me?” he asked without turning around, the rain running down his face. “Why

not your nephew? Mason’s the man responsible for his mother’s death, just as he is my
father’s. Why not let him do it?”

“Larry’s a good workhorse, I couldn’t have done any of this without him. But he’s

not the sharpest tool in the shed. If I let him take care of things, he’d find some way to
screw it up and get caught.”

“And I won’t?”
“Trust me, Mr. Fox. I’ll make sure nobody ever catches you.”
As they reached the dilapidated entrance to the greenhouse, rain sliding down the

glass walls and cascading in waterfalls from the steel beams stretching up into the sky,
Fox asked, “How can you be so sure?”

He turned to her as a bolt of lightning lit up Betty’s smile. “Because I’ve provided a

little incentive for you to do the perfect job.”

Thunder rocked the night, and as it trailed away into the dark sky, Fox heard it.
The sound of a voice—his mother’s voice—from inside the greenhouse.
Desperate.
Fearful.
Pleading.
“Jon, don’t listen to her.”

As panic gripped him, Fox spun and ran into the enormous, rain-filled dome. His feet

skidded to a halt on the broken, sunken boardwalk just inside the door as his eyes filled
with terror.

To his left was Savannah, tugging frantically at a rope tied tight around her neck,

strapping her to the railing of a set of metal stairs leading up to the upper gangplank.

To his right, tied by his hands to the railing of a boardwalk that dipped down into the

swamp at its far end, was Tucker, pulling angrily at his bindings with all his strength.

And between the two, atop a makeshift mountain of broken pots and rotting benches

and snapped beams, was Mason. His feet danced precariously on the steep mound of
debris. Around his neck was a noose. Already the rope was pulled tight, tied at the other
end to the beam from which Fox’s father was found hanged all those years ago.

Mason’s fingers were locked around the rope of the noose, trying futilely to pull it

free, to give him more air, to give him a chance at getting out of here alive.

But the only thing stopping Mason Wilkes from swinging right now were his toes,

teetering on that unstable mountain of broken rubble beneath him.

One toppled pot and the whole thing would come crashing down.
One slip and he was as good as dead.
One false move and Mason would be the second man to hang from that beam.
Right now, Fox didn’t give a damn.
He leapt from the leaning boardwalk and splashed knee-deep through the swamp to

reach his mother. “Mom, oh Jesus, did they hurt you?”

He started tugging at the rope around her neck, but all Savannah could do was beg

him, “Don’t listen to her, Jon. Don’t—”

Suddenly two huge hands fell on Fox’s shoulders, picked him up, and hurled him

through the air. He landed with a splash ten feet away.

Thunder rattled the chipped and cracked panes of the greenhouse.
The rain battered the dome even harder.
Fox leapt up from the shallow swamp water only to be seized by those giant paws

again, this time by the scruff of his shirt.

Larry lifted Fox off the ground and was about to toss him across the half-sunken,

water-spouting greenhouse once again before Betty’s voice cut through the drumming
rain.

“Junior! Put him down! I told you before, nobody gets hurt tonight except Mason.

Mr. Fox is not to be harmed.”

Larry gave a disgruntled hmmph and dropped Fox back into the swamp water. He

took a step back out of the shallow swamp water and onto the boardwalk which groaned
under his weight.

Fox pulled himself up and demanded of Betty, “Untie them. Let Tuck and my mother

go.”

“As soon as we’ve dealt with Mason,” Betty answered calmly, as though the subject

was not negotiable. “Once he’s out of the way, we’ll all walk out of here together.”

“Fox, don’t listen to her,” Tuck said from the half-submerged boardwalk on the right

of the greenhouse, still yanking at his ropes. “She’s lying. She’s nothing but a goddamn
liar. She lied to me. She used me to get to you. Now she’s using you to kill your uncle.”

“And what’s so wrong with that,” Fox asked in a voice so cold it sent a shiver through

Tucker. “After what your father did, after what he did,” Fox gestured to Mason, teetering

atop the tower, “Mason deserves to die.”

“Maybe he does,” came Savannah’s trembling voice, strained against the ropes

around her throat from the opposite side of the rain-filled dome. “But are you the one
who deserves to live with his blood on your hands? This family has been through too
much pain and regret already, Jon. Don’t listen to her.”

From above, Mason said with a choked cough, “Your mother’s right! Don’t do it!

Don’t let them kill me, Jon!”

“Shut up,” Fox shouted up at Mason. “You of all people don’t get to talk right now!”
Another bolt of lightning lit up the greenhouse, followed even closer now by the

thunder. The center of the storm was upon them.

Fox splashed determinedly through the knee-high water, heading for the pile of

broken debris supporting Mason.

Another flash!
Another crack!
Fox reached the tower. He laid one foot on a large smashed pot at its base, ready to

kick it out from under the weight of the other rubble and send the entire mound tumbling
down.

“Wait!” Mason screamed desperately. “Jon, listen to me. All those times I’ve baled

you out of trouble… all those years I’ve looked out for you… that’s what I’m trying to do
right now. This woman will kill you! Why do you think she took my gun? So she can
make this whole thing look like I murdered everyone in this family before hanging
myself. Jon, think this through. Once she’s made you do her bidding, she’ll kill you.
She’ll kill you all.”

Fox stood poised at the foot of the mound, his foot on the broken pot, ready to send

Mason to hell.

But he knew Mason made sense. He’d known it all along on some level, but

everything she’d said up until this point had been exactly what Fox wanted to hear.

He turned back to Betty, the gun still in her hand.
Betty looked at him sweetly and laughed incredulously. “So it comes to this? Who’s

the better liar? Look at your choices. The sweet old lady who lost her father and sister at
the hands of a murderous swindler? Or the man responsible for the death of three
innocent people including your father, not to mention the lives he’s destroyed in the
process?”

Fox took a deep breath, started to kick the pot loose, yet hesitated once more.
Betty let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. Let me ask you a different question. If on the

day before your father’s death you knew Mason Wilkes would be the one responsible,
would you have done something about it? Would you have stopped him? Would you
have chosen your father to be the one who lived?”

“Of course,” Fox answered over the rain and thunder. “What son wouldn’t? But how

was I to know?”

“You couldn’t have. But tonight you do,” Betty answered confidently. “Mason knows

his lies, his crimes, are no longer his secret. If you let him live tonight, do you think he’ll
let your mother live to see tomorrow? How many parents will you let him take from you,
Jon?”

The rage seized hold of Fox’s chest as he heaved with anger once more.
Mason saw it take hold of him and pleaded desperately, his neck straining against the

noose. “Jon, you know I wouldn’t do that. I love your mother. I’m sorry for what’s
happened in the past, I truly am, but I would never hurt your mother. Just help me down.
Help me down and I promise everything will be okay.”

“Just like you promised my mother everything would be okay the night before my

father killed himself?” Fox seethed. “Just like you promised to love, honor and cherish
Linnie for as long as you lived? Tell me Mason, do you still love Linnie?”

Fox positioned his foot firmly against the broken pot at the base of the mound. “I’ll

help you down, alright.”

Suddenly Tucker shouted to him. “Jon! Don’t!”
Fox turned.
Were those tears in Tucker’s eyes? Or was it just the rain?
“Please, don’t do it,” Tucker begged. “I want to love you. I do love you. But if you do

this…”

Tucker couldn’t finish his words.
Fox swallowed hard, hesitating for one last second, before saying to Tucker, “I’m

sorry. But this isn’t your family…it isn’t your decision to make.” As he turned his back
on Tucker, all he could utter was, “Shut your eyes.”

Mason cried out one last time. “Jon, don’t! Please!”
“Shut your mouth!” Betty shouted at Mason. “Don’t listen to him, Jon!”
“I won’t,” Fox said, clenching his teeth.
“Then listen to me!”
The voice was Savannah’s.
“Let it go, Jon. Let all the anger go. Mason robbed a mother of her son all those years

ago, and he robbed a son of his mother, too. Don’t let him do it to us again.”

Fox didn’t say a word.
He couldn’t speak, he could barely breathe.
All he could see was his mother.
Now his own tears were lost in the rain. Tears of pure rage; of a lifetime of hurt; of

hatred not only for the man hanging from the noose above him, but for himself. For once
more, Jon Fox had let his lost, out-of-control soul overwhelm all that was good inside
him.

Could he walk away now?
Or should he be the one to make Mason pay?
Suddenly the decision was not his to make.
With a deafening CRACK! the sky lit up and a giant oak on the edge of the swamp

exploded in a shower of sparks.

Like an axe falling from heaven, the lightning bolt ripped straight down the center of

the tree.

The ground shook.
Everyone inside the greenhouse ducked and turned, terrified and confused, as the

enormous tree split in half, one side crashing into the swamp while the other half of the
cleaved-apart giant teetered and swayed for a few more seconds before its roots ripped
themselves out of the earth and the tree began to fall—

—directly toward the greenhouse.
“Oh no,” was all Fox could breathe as the mighty oak smashed into the top of the

dome.

Metal and branches snapped.
Most of the remaining glass panes shattered and fell with the pelting rain into the

greenhouse.

And the entire structure broke loose of its rotting foundations.
Like a newly launched ship sliding into the sea, the greenhouse lurched twenty feet

into the swamp.

The sudden jolt knocked Fox, Betty and Junior off their feet.
Savannah screamed, clinging to the rope around her neck and the railing behind her

head.

Tucker let out an “Oh fuck!” as the railing of the gangplank to which he was tied, slid

deeper into the swamp, the black water rushing up around his waist.

And Mason’s eyes widened in horror as the mountain of pots under his feet came

crashing down.

“No, no, no—” was all he managed before the tower of debris toppled beneath,

leaving him swinging like a pendulum from the beam.

Fox leapt up from the water, gasping, looking frantically around him.
Betty was pulling herself onto a section of walkway still above water, coughing up a

lungful of swamp.

Tucker was trying desperately to free himself while Savannah was slowly choking,

struggling against the rope.

With a loud groan the weight of the tree pushed the greenhouse deeper still into the

water. Metal supports began to buckle and crack.

Fox raced toward his mother, shouting over his shoulder, “Tucker? You okay?”
“I’ve been better!”
“Hold on!” Fox told him, splashing through the water toward Savannah. But before

he could reach her, the hulking shape of Larry Junior erupted from the waters directly in
front of Fox.

One punch sent Fox staggering backward.
Another dropped him back into the water.
Fox pulled himself back to his feet.
Larry laughed and bunched up his fist, ready to break Fox’s pretty face wide open.
Suddenly the tree dragged the greenhouse another ten feet into the swamp. One end

of metal beam high above Larry snapped free, the bolts shooting across the greenhouse,
while the other end of it remained fastened.

With a loud whoosh the broken end of the beam swung through the air behind Larry.
Fox saw it coming and dropped into the water.
Larry looked at him, confused, then turned to see what Fox had seen.
CRACK!
The beam slammed into Larry’s face, sending him flying through the air over the top

of Fox and splashing into the swamp water where he sank like a rock.

“Junior!” Betty screamed.
She dropped the gun onto the walkway and jumped into the water as Fox waded

frantically toward Savannah.

The walkway she was on lurched and tilted, making it hard for her to try to keep

herself up. The stair railing behind her head bent with the movement of the greenhouse,
twisting even more as the dome caved in even further, groaning and sliding deeper and

deeper, foot by foot.

Fox reached Savannah just as more glass panes popped and shattered, showering

glass upon them. He shielded his mother as the shards fell all around them, on the tilted
walkway and metal stairs.

Fox seized the longest shard he could find and started cutting at Savannah’s ropes.

But as he did so, more lightning lit up the greenhouse, casting the kicking, struggling
shadow of Mason over Fox and his mother.

In a strained, choking voice, Savannah said to her son, “Mason. Save Mason.”
“No,” Fox said, slashing at Savannah’s ropes. “I’m getting you out of here first.”
But Savannah shook her head and looked her son in the eye. “Jon, I’m okay. Come

back for me. You need to save Mason now. While you still can.”

Fox glared at his mother before turning to see Mason swinging, clinging desperately

to the last moments of life.

Reluctantly Fox gripped the glass shard, his own blood running down his wrist, and

raced up the twisted metal stairs to the upper gangplank.

Below him, Betty emerged from under the water, pulling her unconscious nephew to

the surface with all her strength. She started hauling him through the water toward the
walkway.

Tucker fought with his ropes, the twine cutting deep into his wrists. The water was

around his chest now as the walkway beneath his feet continued to shift and slide deeper
into the swamp.

Her neck tied to the stair railing, Savannah turned her head as best she could to see a

sliver of glass on a metal step just behind her. She reached around, bending her arm back
as far as she could without the rope strangling her, her fingers a mere inch from the shard.
She stretched her arm farther and the tip of her finger touched the piece of glass, but she
just couldn’t grasp it.

On the upper gangplank, Fox climbed over a railing. From here, he could jump to the

beam from which Mason was hanging, his uncle’s fight for life growing weaker and
weaker by the second.

Shard of glass in hand, Fox made the leap.
His feet landed on the narrow beam.
His arms waved about frantically in an effort to steady himself.
He quickly gained his balance and crouched on the beam, hacking desperately at

Mason’s rope. “You don’t deserve this, you son of a bitch,” Fox muttered. The rope
began to fray quickly.

Below, Betty managed to pull her nephew onto a walkway, submerged only a foot or

so beneath the surface so she could roll him onto it.

On the metal step, Savannah tapped the shard of glass with the only finger that could

reach it, trying to flick it closer. She almost had it.

Almost.
As Tucker’s walkway sank even deeper, the loud moan of metal filled the

greenhouse. He looked up to see the few buckled beams still supporting the giant fallen
tree about to give away. Frantically, he wrestled with his ropes even harder.

But it was too late.
With a sharp SNAP-SNAP-CRACK, one, two, three beams supporting the half-fallen

tree broke under the weight of the oak. The metal shafts spiraled and spun through the air

like severed chopper blades before the entire split-in-half trunk of the mighty tree came
crashing all the way inside the collapsing greenhouse.

The brunt of it smashed into the upper gangplank.
Branches crashed upon the hanging beam, sending Fox diving into the swamp below.

Yet the falling trunk itself missed the beam.

Instead, it pulverized the upper gangplank, snapping it in two, sending both ends up

into the air as the tree took the middle of it down into the swamp.

As it did so, the metal stairs to which Savannah was tied were ripped out of their

bolts. In a twisting, seesaw motion, the top of the stairs were pulled downward by the
falling tree, while the bottom of the stairs—where Savannah was bound by the neck—
was launched up into the air.

Savannah’s scream turned into a choking gasp for air as her feet left the walkway,

kicking and thrashing while the rope around her neck began to strangle her.

As the tree brought half the greenhouse crashing down, Betty shielded her

unconscious nephew while the thick trunk landed with an almighty splash only three feet
away.

At the same time, the crash dislodged Tucker’s already sinking walkway altogether,

sending it plunging into the water. “Oh God. Fox!” he shouted before taking the deepest
breath he could.

The walkway dragged him under.
Fox broke the surface once more, grabbed the branches of the half-immersed tree and

hastily climbed onto the trunk.

Tucker was gone.
And Savannah—
“Oh shit!”
Fox leapt from the trunk onto a branch and scrambled onto the walkway beneath his

mother as she tried desperately to pull at the ropes tightening around her neck.

He looked all around, for anything he might use, panic filling his chest until—
“Virgil!”
Fox dug into the front pocket of his jeans, retrieving the pocketknife Virgil left in his

tire earlier that afternoon.

He began scaling the tipped-up stairs to reach her. “Hold on! I’m coming!”
As Savannah’s legs flailed, as her lungs cried out for air, Fox climbed toward her, the

stairs groaning under his weight.

He reached the railing.
He sawed at the rope around Savannah’s neck, the blade making fast work, all the

while whispering to her, “It’s okay. I’m gonna get you down.”

As the rope started to give, Fox glanced over his shoulder at the still collapsing, still

sinking ruins of his mother’s greenhouse. “Tucker!” he shouted over the thunder that
continued to rock the sky. “Tucker where are you!”

There was no answer.
Suddenly the rope around Savannah’s throat snapped.
With a gasp of air she fell.
She hit the sinking walkway below with a splash.
Fox leapt after her, scooping her in his arms. “Are you okay? Ma, are you okay?”
Slowly she nodded, her lungs filling with air.

Suddenly another section of the dome’s ceiling came crashing down a few feet away,

all jagged glass and bent steel. Fox shielded his mother once more before pushing her
under the tipped-up stairs.

“Stay here,” he told her. “Don’t move.”
She nodded, her hands rubbing her bruised throat.
Knife still in hand, Fox jumped to his feet and leapt onto the trunk of the tree once

more, heading for the opposite side of the greenhouse where Tucker had vanished.

As Savannah managed to regain a steady breath, a flash of lightning lit up something

a short distance away on another dislodged walkway.

Mason’s gun.
Her eyes locked on it.
But so had Betty’s, a few feet on the other side of the weapon.
Both women knew if they wanted to get out of here, they needed that gun.
“Don’t even think about it,” Betty warned, looking from the gun to Savannah.
Thunder followed the lightning.
And in the next second, both Betty and Savannah charged for the gun.
Still hanging from the beam, Mason’s struggle was almost over.
His legs stopped kicking, merely twitching.
His arms sank by his side.
And he made his last effort to draw the tiniest breath of air as the noose sealed off his

airways. Until—

—Patwang!
The rope that Fox had almost severed, snapped.
Mason’s motionless body fell from the beam and splashed into the swamp water.
“Tucker!” Fox shouted over the rumble of the sky before diving into the water.
Flashes of lightning lit up the swamp as Fox swam through waters. In a swirl of

murky dark currents, he saw Tucker, his wrists bound to the submerged railing while
precious bubbles of air escaped his lips.

Fox propelled himself through the water to reach him.
On the rickety walkways above the surface, Savannah and Betty both dived for the

gun.

Betty reached it first, snatched it up, and gasped.
Before she had an opportunity to pull the trigger, Savannah’s fist swung through the

air and slammed straight into Betty’s jaw.

Betty landed on the walkway with a thunk.
The gun came out of her hand and scuttled across the boards.
Savannah made a desperate dash for it, but Betty grabbed her ankle in a vice-like grip

and sent her crashing to the walkway. She hit the boards, the gun mere inches out of
reach. With a glance over her shoulder, she saw Betty holding onto her ankle, grinning
maniacally.

It was a grin that Savannah kicked off the old lady’s face with one sharp snap of her

leg.

Betty moaned and let go of Savannah’s leg.
Savannah scrambled for the gun, grabbing for it too fast, too frantically—
—and accidentally knocking it over the edge of the walkway and into the water.
“You stupid bitch!” Betty shouted from behind her, seeing what she’d done.

But Savannah was already in the water, determined to retrieve the weapon.
Something that Betty was equally determined to do.
In deeper waters, time was running out for Tucker.
He was unable to hold the last bubbles of air in his lungs any longer. Fox watched in

panic as they burst from Tuck’s lips and escaped to the surface.

With knife in hand, Fox began cutting at the ropes as hard as he could.
Suddenly Tuck’s body convulsed. His empty lungs demanded to be filled. Fox knew

that in the next few seconds, Tucker’s body would force him to inhale, and when it did,
the only thing that would fill his lungs would be swamp water.

Fox stopped cutting at the ropes.
He swam to the surface, bursting from the water with a huge gasp. He inhaled as

deeply as he could, his chest expanding with as much air as he could take. He dived
beneath the water once more, seizing Tucker’s jaw in his hand.

Lightning lit up Tucker’s eyes, full of fear. Faith. Love.
Fox planted his lips on Tucker’s and kissed the life back into him, filling his air with

lungs once more.

His own chest empty now, Fox quickly returned to the ropes.
The blade sliced through the twine.
Tucker pulled his hands free.
This time Tucker took Fox’s face in his hands and laid his lips on Fox’s mouth.
And with one kiss, the two of them shared the same air.
Across the greenhouse, another section of roof collapsed, splashing into the water a

few feet away from Savannah. It didn’t stop her from searching for the gun in the black
swamp. She ducked beneath the water, her hands running through the silt and mud and
reeds.

Suddenly a hand grabbed her by the hair and yanked her up out of the water.
She gasped as Betty hauled her to her feet.
“That gun’s mine. I won’t let you find it!”
With Savannah’s wet hair bunched in her fist, Betty slammed Savannah’s head

against the side of the walkway. Savannah grunted and collapsed into the water.

“Actually,” rasped an angry deep voice a few feet in front of Betty. “It’s my gun.”
Betty froze at the sight of Mason standing before her.
The gun was in his hand.
And it was pointing straight at Betty.
With one swift move, she pulled herself onto the walkway.
With one shot, Mason fired a bullet into her shoulder.
Betty crumpled onto the walkway.
Mason turned his attention to Savannah.
He seized her with one angry fist.
As Fox and Tucker broke the surface, the first thing they heard were Savannah’s

screams.

“Savannah?”
Fox swam to the nearest broken walkway jutting out of the swamp several feet away.

He climbed up onto it, leapt across to the fallen trunk, jumped down onto the sunken
boards on the other side and skidded to a halt at the sight of Mason holding his mother
captive.

He had one arm wrapped around her throat.
In his other hand, he held the gun to her head.
“Stop right there or I’ll kill her.”
Fox raised his hands in the air.
He saw Betty lying on the walkway, bleeding, unconscious, maybe even dead. “Take

it easy, Mason. Just let Savannah go.”

But Mason only laughed, easing backward along the busted walkway, away from

Fox. “What on God’s Earth makes you think I’m going to let any of you go after you all
tried to kill me!”

Tucker appeared behind Fox, having climbed over the fallen trunk. He, too, froze at

the sight of Mason holding the gun to Savannah’s head and the motionless body of Betty
on the walkway.

“I tried to save you,” Fox argued.
For a second his eyes caught sight of something in the dark waters behind Mason.
A swirl.
A tail.
“No you didn’t,” Mason argued back. “All you wanted to do was save yourself.

Cleanse your soul. Well, I’ve got news for you, Jon. Nothing’s gonna save you now.
You’re gonna die in this godforsaken greenhouse, the same place your father died.
Although killing you with a bullet is gonna be a helluva lot easier than it was to string
your old man up and make it look like suicide.”

“You son of a bitch,” Fox spat through clenched teeth.
Mason simply laughed, knowing Jon couldn’t do a damn thing right now without

getting his mother killed as well. In his arms, Savannah gasped and tears flowed.

Mason twisted his head to look down at her. “Oh save it, Savannah. Don’t pretend

you loved him when all you could do was open your legs for Clay.”

“Beau and I had our differences. But I never wanted him gone. I loved him. We loved

each other in our own way.”

“Well, it’s time to join him.” With a hard push Mason shoved Savannah at her son.
Fox caught her and quickly positioned his mother behind him, his eyes flicking from

the gun—

—to the swirls of water behind Mason.
Getting closer.
Moving swiftly.
“At last you’ll be one happy family, together forever.” As Mason aimed his gun

straight at Fox, he pressed his finger against the trigger and smiled. “It’s finally…time to
say goodbye.”

Something huge, something white, something that Mason almost killed the day it was

born, erupted from the water behind him.

Yes, nature had its freaks.
And its freaks would have their vengeance.
With a terrified gasp Mason spun about. He tried to fire his gun at the giant white

beast that lunged for him from the swamp, but the bullet shot wide just as the enormous
alligator’s jaws snapped down on Mason’s arm. Mason’s howl turned to a sickening,
gurgling scream as the reptile dragged him into the water, the alligator thrashing and
rolling as Mason’s legs kicked and flailed uselessly. For one moment his face appeared

above the water, eyes and mouth wide open in utter terror, before the gator took him
under one last time in a final splash of blood and swamp water.

Above them, the remaining beams of the roof began to groan and snap.
Metal and glass crashed into the water all around them.
“We gotta get outta here,” Fox declared. He turned to Savannah and told her, “Go,

now!” before hurrying over to Betty.

He turned her over and groggily the old woman opened her eyes.
“Are you okay?” Fox asked.
Betty winced and touched her hand to the wound on her shoulder. “That motherfucker

shot me,” she announced, a little stunned.

A beam speared through the walkway and short distance from them. “We have to go,”

Fox told her.

“What about Junior?”
Fox quickly looked around. He spotted the unconscious body of Larry on a section of

walkway near the fallen trunk. “I’ll get him. Tucker, help Betty outta here.”

“Do I have to?” Tuck asked, ducking as more debris fell from above.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
While Tucker lifted Betty up and quickly carried her from the collapsing greenhouse,

Fox grabbed Larry by the arms and dragged his limp, heavy ass along the slippery broken
walkway and out of the greenhouse.

As they reached the edge of the swamp and hauled themselves to safety, Fox, Tucker,

Savannah and Betty watched as the greenhouse that Beau had built for his wife all those
years ago, gave one final groan and caved completely in on itself, sinking with a splash
and a sigh to the bottom of the swamp, leaving only a few twisted beams jutting out of
the water to mark its final resting place.

As the storm began to weaken, the rain let up, and Fox pushed his wet hair away from

his forehead and stared out at the swamp. “Rest in peace now, Dad,” he said quietly to
himself.

From the driveway of De la Fontaine came the sound of a siren and the sight of

flashing lights. Detective Ford’s car pulled up at the house, two patrol cars just behind.

Fox stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled, and Ford came running toward the

swamp, unholstering his gun.

“Well, Betty,” said Fox. “Looks like your ride’s here.”
Betty looked at him innocently. “You wouldn’t send a little old lady to prison, would

you Mr. Fox?”

“Oh, give it up!” Tucker finally snapped. “You’re about as evil as little old ladies get,

and you know it! Time to go bake cookies in San Quentin, psycho.”

Betty smiled sweetly, confidently. “Oh, come now. There’s not a jury in this country

that would put me away, and you know it. You’ll be seeing me again. That I promise.”

Fox sighed. “Somehow, I don’t doubt it.”

Chapter Twenty One

Sirens blared with red and blue lights flashing as the first of three ambulances sped

off toward the highway with Savannah now on her way to Interim LSU in New Orleans.
Best Tucker could tell she was going to be okay, but they wanted to check the bruising
and swelling in her neck. The crime scene investigators were already on site, picking over
the place like a greedy flock of scientific vultures. Leigh and Virgil were still being
assessed for injury inside the main house, but Tucker had been informed both would be
alright, each suffering only minor injuries. The number of police on the scene had
doubled as officers yelled commands back and forth.

Betty was cuffed and stuffed into the back of one of the squad cars, sitting quietly and

calmly, with an eerie sort of complacent smile upon her face. The only crack in her
façade came as they wheeled an unconscious Larry Junior down from the swamp in the
gurney and loaded him into the second ambulance.

Another group of officers were bantering around the best possible options for

retrieving Mason’s body, or what was left of it, from the bottom of the swamp.
Apparently, the one piece that had floated to the surface on its own wasn’t enough for
identification purposes.

Tucker hoped Snowflake either made a run for it by heading for the gulf, or burped

the son of a bitch back up. Preferably, the latter of the two as attempting to digest pure
evil was likely to cause awful indigestion.

It was borderline mayhem with flares burning bright by the edge of the swamp and

along the drive as the cloud cover blocked any moonlight there might otherwise have
been.

Tucker sat on the floor of the ambulance, legs dangling over the back bumper and the

tips of his mud-caked shoes barely dragging the gravel underneath. He was squinting
from the overhead light in the cab as the EMT worked him over, cleaning and dressing
the cuts and scrapes he’d received after very nearly drowning inside the giant glass coffin
now collecting silt at the bottom of the swamp.

“Your blood pressure’s a little high,” the guy had just said, more like reading off a

statistic than showing any actual sign of concern.

He didn’t look at the man when he commented, “A common symptom of surviving a

near death experience, no doubt.”

“You may be right there,” the EMT said, his voice sounding mildly amused.
“I’m up to about one near death experience a day this week.” Tucker tried on a smile

that felt less than genuine. “At this point, I consider anything excluding death or a coma a
personal triumph.”

The EMT looked at him strangely for a moment before stopping what he was doing to

make eye contact. “You sure you’re okay?”

Tucker could practically feel the concern smashing into him as he nodded,

maneuvering his head to see around the paramedic whose body was now blocking
Tucker’s view of Jon.

“Right as rain,” Tucker said.
He sighed, that sensation of safety wafting over him in waves as their gazes locked

onto one another once again. Fox was still giving his statement to Det. Ford along with a
uniformed officer standing in between, who was also taking notes. Tucker was well
aware Ford was periodically looking his way as well, following Jon’s line of sight.

Tucker cringed, sitting up and paying attention when the guy cleaning him up got a

little too overzealous. The guy apologized, and Tucker nodded that he was okay, leaning
back once again. Fox had stopped talking altogether, and watched Tucker intently, having
noticed him flinching in pain.

Tucker smiled, watching Jon sigh with relief when he saw that Tucker was going to

be alright. He continued giving his statement, never taking his eyes off Tucker, who was
dying on the inside. He’d never been in love like this before and now understood how
powerfully dangerous it could be. As frightened as he’d been trapped underwater while
struggling with all his might to hold his breath, this was more terrifying, like being left
just on the brink of drowning with no idea how long it might last.

There was no antidote for love.
Only ache.
Only need.
And in this case, no one willing to provide or relieve, either.
He didn’t even make an attempt to stop the tear now running down his cheek.
Jon needed to know, needed to see it…to bear witness to how much it was killing

Tucker that they could never be together.

It was there all over Fox’s face: recognition.
Tucker stopped breathing when Jon placed a hand on Ford’s shoulder before walking

away…walking his way…heading straight for Tucker like a man who was most
definitely on a mission.

Fox offered no apology when he nudged the paramedic out of the way, taking

Tucker’s tear-stained face in both his hands, pausing for only a breath of a moment
before kissing him in front everyone, for all the world to see.

Tucker slowly stood, his arms dangling lifelessly at his sides, hearing the low, painful

groan that crawled out of him from somewhere deep inside, swallowed up by Fox as their
tongues intertwined. It was as if Fox had tried to valiantly sacrifice himself by attempting
to take Tucker’s pain into his own person, absorbing all of the bad, leaving only the good
behind for Tucker to take away from it all.

It was an amazing kiss, nearly painful as they each tried in vain to hold on; a kiss that

had Tucker struggling to hold himself together, as if one strong breeze might otherwise
shatter him into a million tiny pieces.

“Jon,” Ford said from somewhere behind Fox. “That can wait, damn it. We need to

finish getting your statement.”

They separated, each struggling to catch their breath as they stared intently at one

another. Tucker could see the struggle going on behind Jon’s eyes, knew he was now at
war with himself over everything that had happened from the time Millie had announced
that Clay Shaw was Tucker’s father earlier that afternoon, until that one moment in the
greenhouse when Tucker had pleaded with him to not act on his desire for revenge.

To that one, defining moment when Tucker had declared his love for Jon.
A love that, had it truly meant anything to Fox, would have forced him to stop—to

leave Mason be and allow him to suffer his own fate at the hands of Betty or her
deranged nephew.

But no, Tucker thought, frozen in place, staring intently into Jon’s eyes. Everything

Tucker had offered in that moment hadn’t been enough. He could still hear the words Jon
had spoken in reply, banging around in the back of his mind like the ringing of a bell that
refused to go away, the ice-cold tone in Jon’s voice as he told Tucker to ‘shut your eyes’.

There was no coming back from that.
“I’m so sorry, Tucker,” Fox whispered as Ford and the other officer took Fox by the

arms and dragged him away.

Tucker slowly sat back down, resigned to the blackness and misery of it all as he held

out his arm so the paramedic could once again go about the business of treating him.

He felt empty, his gaze never parting with Jon’s until they pulled him around the side

of the ambulance and out of sight.

“So much to be sorry for,” Tucker mumbled to himself. “So much.”

***

Ford was certainly not pleased, if the look on his face were any indication. “This is

serious, Fox. It’s the second time in not that many months someone’s been killed out
here. That doesn’t exactly bode well for you in terms of suspicion.”

Fox glanced at the younger female officer standing next to Rick and decided to censor

himself. “I came close to losing my mother tonight, Tucker almost drowned, hell we all
nearly died out there, damn it. So forgive me if I don’t happen to be all that concerned
with what you or anyone else fucking thinks at this precise moment.”

Ford jerked his head back, visibly surprised, but still persistent. “Well, you’re not

dead, neither is your mother or Wilder, so get the hell over it so we can wrap this shit up.
The reporters have already descended, Fox. This circus is just getting started and you
don’t have the most stellar reputation to begin with.”

Fox sighed, watching the squad car that held Betty pull away. “What do you think her

chances are?”

Ford shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be too quick to celebrate her

incarceration. She has no record to speak of, never had so much as a speeding ticket. You
on the other hand, have your word, which any trial attorney would label iffy at best; you
have the word of your mentally challenged mother, and Wilder’s. Considering everyone
just witnessed you playing tonsil hockey with the son of a bitch, it doesn’t exactly bode
well for his motivation to lie for you. And let’s face it, Jon. Your motive to murder
Wilkes is every bit as strong as hers.”

“There’s also Leigh and Virgil.”
“Who can’t testify to a damn thing that happened out there.” Rick pointed toward the

swamp.

“Oh come on! They can testify to having the crap beat out of them by that nephew of

hers, who was Mason’s abandoned son might, I remind you.”

“You asked me what her chances were and I’m giving it to you straight. I never said I

didn’t believe you. But there’s a hell of a lot of self doubt any good defense attorney has
at their disposal here.” Ford shook his head in disgust. “Even with my word backing you
up with regard to everything she’s been up to prior to this evening, the DA will not be

dancing down the aisle chomping at the bit to try this one in court. She looks like a sweet
ole granny, for Christ’s sake. A jury will eat her up and come back asking for seconds.”

“She tied a rope around my mother’s neck, Ford.”
Even the lady cop seemed to concede to his right to be upset over that.
Fox turned around hearing a woman yelling, “Get your damn hands off me. Tucker!”
Leigh was running down the stairs with Virgil not too far behind.
“Where the hell is my cousin? Tucker!”
“Jesus,” Rick muttered in disgust over her outburst.
“You okay?” Leigh asked as she passed by.
Fox nodded, pointing toward the last ambulance. “He’s okay, just around there.”
“You coppers leave that boy alone!” Virgil snapped, coming down the steps with his

arm in a sling and lit cigarette dangling from his lips. “Sons a bitches! He ain’t done
nuthin’ ‘cept save all our behinds from that cracker lady and her meat headed lackey! I
won’t stand for it, I tell ya!”

Detective Ford’s eyes were wide as saucers as Virgil came rushing over. “Can’t wait

to see him on the stand.”

The female officer chuckled, but quickly corrected herself.
“Why don’t you just settle yourself down, Mr…” Rick started flipping through the

pages of his notebook. “Laffoon, is it?”

“Don’t you try placating me, asshole,” Virgil said with a curt nod.
Ford laughed off the insult. “No one is harassing Mr. Fox. He’s perfectly safe, I

assure you.”

Fox could feel Rick’s eyes on him as he watched Leigh and Tucker pass by.
“Detective Ford,” Tucker said, commanding Rick’s attention. “Don’t suppose you’d

give us a lift back into New Orleans?”

Fox looked down at the ground. He’d been hoping to do that himself, but wasn’t quite

sure what sort of difference it would make, merely prolonging the inevitable.

“Sure,” Ford said, looking slightly confused. “I guess we’re done here, for now?”
Ford looked at the female officer next to him who nodded her agreement.
In addition, just like that, Leigh and Tucker were once again on the move. Ford and

his co-worker headed the other direction toward the cars.

Fox had to strangle any desires he had to follow them into the house. It was the one

constant he’d maintained since he first began following Wilder weeks ago—his desire.
There was no cure for that, apparently, as even now, he wanted to take Tucker up to his
bedroom and shut out the rest of the world. To kiss him again, make love to him, hell—
just to lay there naked in his arms if nothing else. The two of them all alone with none of
the baggage that had been unfairly heaped upon them over the past few days, weighing
them down to the point it threatened to suffocate any life or love out of them both.

Fox knew Virgil was about to blow his top; he could feel the anxiety coming off the

old man in waves.

Tucker and Leigh came out of the house carrying the duffel, his computer bag and the

silver briefcase. Fox started to object, then remembered Tucker had one as well, the one
with all those silly notebooks inside.

They stopped briefly, Det. Ford now waiting next to his unmarked as Tucker gave a

quick hug to Virgil, who pissed and moaned but accepted it anyway. Fox heard him
whispering in the old man’s ear to take care of Fox for him.

He didn’t want Virgil taking care of him; he could take care of himself.
He could take care of Tucker as well, for that matter, but he didn’t think he had the

right to ask anymore. Wasn’t sure if he even should considering all the conflicting
feelings he had over Dupree and the roll he’d played in the ruination of his family.

It was all he was thinking about as Tucker stopped in front of him and smiled,

nodding that it was all okay, like he fucking understood when Fox hadn’t had time to sort
it all out himself.

“I…thank you, again,” Tucker said, briefly placing the palm of hand onto Fox’s

chest. “For saving my life…again.”

Fox smiled, nodding. “Anytime.”
Tucker laughed a little, catching what the snarky little innuendo implied, that Fox

wouldn’t be surprised to discover Tucker needed to be rescued again at some point in the
near future.

“Goodbye Jon,” Tucker said, his hand falling away from Fox’s chest as he turned and

walked away.

“I’ll see you later at the hospital to check in on Miss Savannah?” Leigh asked,

waiting for Fox to nod his head before she followed after her cousin. She paused for a
moment, but didn’t actually look at Fox. Leigh opened her mouth but nothing came out.

“Coming?” Tucker asked, before climbing into the back seat of the squad car.
She sighed, visibly frustrated before she ran to catch up with Tucker.
“Goodbye Tuck,” Fox muttered under his breath.
“Boy, you are letting the one good thing you got left get away,” Virgil said.
“Don’t be silly,” Fox said, with no particular feeling in his voice. “I have you,

peaches.”

“Stupid ass,” Virgil spat. “You care about that boy, don’t give a damn how much you

try denyin’ it. I know the truth. He’s done got under your skin.”

Fox said nothing.
“You’re a fool.” Virgil muttered. “You wait too long and you’ll be sorry, ‘cause that

one ain’t gonna stick around. Was planning to take the first bus back to California
tonight, before all this shit went down.”

Fox turned sharply upon hearing that, and, noticing the satisfaction on Virgil’s face,

he clenched his jaw.

Virgil wasn’t wrong, he did feel something, but what the fuck did he have to offer

anyone? Why the fuck didn’t he stop and think about what he doing—what he was
saying—in the greenhouse earlier, instead of choosing his anger over Tucker’s plea?

But that wasn’t the case.
Tucker had offered him everything he’d had to give and Fox tossed it aside like it

meant nothing.

Fox shoved his hands in his pocket as the car started to pull away. He could see

Tucker turning to look back out the rear window one last time as Fox felt something
small and hard pressing against his knuckle. His brow furrowed, the curiosity too much.
He pulled the item from his pocket and glanced down once the car was too far off in the
distance for Fox to make out Tucker’s features any longer.

There in the palm of his hand was the bullet.
Fox started to raise his hand, taking a few steps forward to signal for Ford to stop,

only to realize it was too late. The unmarked police vehicle was nowhere to be found.

The last of the squad cars turned off their flashing lights as they, too, made a hasty exit
toward the highway, leaving Fox all alone in the darkness.

He heard Virgil clearing his throat from up on the porch, and wished the old man

hadn’t just witnessed that. The porch light flicked on, washing across the lawn where Fox
now stood in a pool of light.

Glancing down at the mangled bullet, Fox closed his hand into a fist, squeezing it

tight. He needed time to sort it all out in his head. And Virgil was wrong—Tucker
wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon. He’d have to testify. Have to give his
statement to the police several more times. Leigh was, surprisingly, still planning to stay
on to help with Miss Savannah based upon what she’d said right before leaving. There
was another lifeline to Tucker right there.

“Everything’s gonna be fine.” Fox shoved his hand back into his pocket, along with

the bullet. “I got time.”

Chapter Twenty Two

Time was slipping through his fingers.
The last thing Detective Ford had said to Tucker was, “Don’t leave town, we’re

gonna need you to answer some more questions at some point.”

At some point.
That was kinda vague, and after the conversation Tuck had with his agent, Natalie

Boxer, he decided that ‘vague’ would be his own defense if and when push came to
shove. He had called Natalie from a pay phone because he was still paranoid that
someone was following him, that someone wanted him dead, despite the fact that he
knew everything was over.

Betty was in custody.
Mason was dead.
And Jon Fox—
Tucker sighed, for he had all but decided that Jon Fox was gone now. A memory that

would forever open up a door to nowhere in his heart. A lifelong regret, someone he
wished he’d never met because of the pain, the heartbreak, those words: “Shut your
eyes.”

And yet the face of Jon Fox would be forever burned on his brain.
The touch of his hardened hands, yet soft fingers.
The scent of his skin, that sweet, summer sweat.
Yes, Tucker needed to talk to Natalie Boxer. He needed a distraction, and there was

nobody on the Earth who could distract someone faster than Nat.

“Cookie! Where the fuck have you been?” Natalie practically screamed at him on the

phone.

Tucker sighed, wanting so desperately in that moment to cry his heart out. “Oh Nat, I

really need to—”

“Shut up! You need to stop talking! I’ve left a thousand messages on your phone and

you haven’t returned any of them? What’d you do, lose it?”

“Kinda, yeah, it’s a long story but—”
“I said shut up! I got news for you, cupcake! Your goddess of an agent has managed

to open the doors to your dream factory, honey!”

“Are you on drugs?”
“No, sweetie. This is the most natural high on the planet. It’s called success.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you sitting down?”
“No, I’m standing next to a pay phone.”
“Well, just promise me you don’t fall down and hit your head, because I need your

brain intact and your ass in L.A. as soon as possible!”

“What the hell for?”
Natalie took a deep breath and exhaled so loudly the phone crackled. “Tucker Wilder,

you and me have a meeting with the greatest producer in Hollywood. The one, the only,

Mr. Spiel—” Nat suddenly coughed.

Tucker gasped.
“Are you serious?”
“Honey, I’m as serious as a haunted house full of hot teenagers!” Natalie laughed

triumphantly. “Now get your cute caboose and your best ever pitch on a plane to L.A.
pronto! The meeting of your life is in three days time!”

***

Time. Tucker was going to steal three days of it to get to Hollywood, then maybe

another three to get back and pray Detective Ford didn’t come looking for him in that
time. Of course, Tucker would have loved nothing better than to get on a plane to L.A.,
order a glass of champagne, and make a quiet toast to hope, to dreams, to the future. But
he was terrified that as soon as he bought a plane ticket, a red flag email would go
straight to Detective Ford notifying him that a key witness was leaving town. Tucker’s
head filled with visions of an airport surrounded by cop cars, a grounded plane, and him
being escorted off in chains. Not to mention his precious silver briefcase being ripped
from his grasp and confiscated forever.

And so instead, he paid cash for the Greyhound ticket he had intended to buy the

moment all hell had broken loose at his asshole-excuse-of-a-father’s house.

With an overnight bag in one hand and his silver briefcase in the other, Tucker

stepped on board the coach bound for Los Angeles.

It was a journey filled with sunrises over wheat fields and sunset shadows over the

desert.

He pushed thoughts of Fox out of his head with every passing mile, only to dream

about him as the coach pushed through the night, the guards of his conscious mind
slumbering as the man he truly loved slipped into his subconscious with the kind of
confidence and ease that Jon Fox would possess as he broke into someone’s house
looking for clues.

Righting wrongs.
Solving mysteries.
Untangling the truth.
As the coach pulled into the L.A. depot at dawn, Tucker woke, uttering. “It’s true.

What I said was true. I do love him. No matter what he did.”

***

“I don’t think I should be here,” Tucker announced with nothing but Jon Fox running

through his head.

He and Natalie had been striding swiftly along Sunset Boulevard on their way to the

most important meeting of Tucker’s career when he made his announcement.

Natalie abruptly pulled him to a halt, spun him around to face her and slapped him

across the face so hard his silver briefcase nearly came out of his hand.

“Ow! That hurt!”
“If pain is what it’ll take to knock some goddamn sense into you, then suck it up!

What the hell is wrong with you?”

Tucker stood rubbing his cheek sheepishly. “I’m in love.”
Natalie’s shoulders slumped. “Ah shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! If you tell me you’re

in love and heartbroken, I swear to God I’ll slap you again. And don’t even think about
nodding like a sad puppy dog!”

“Why not?”
“Because puppy dogs don’t nod! Unless they’re the talking animated dogs in a huge

blockbuster movie, the writer of which is lazing by the pool in his multi-million dollar
mansion in Beverly Hills sucking chocolate-covered raspberries out of the ass-crack of
his hot Brazilian cabana boy… who he’s not in love with… but doesn’t care because his
life is all he’s ever dreamed it could be!”

“Did you really mean to use chocolate-covered raspberries as a metaphor, because

that kinda brings to mind—”

“I said shut up! You’re missing my point! What I’m saying is, you could be the next

big thing in this town, so leave your love-luggage at the door! Love is for people who
don’t know how to succeed in life any other way! Trust me on this, buttercup! I’m as
serious as an outbreak of Ebola in a school full of orphans!”

Tucker took a deep breath.
To his right, a woman with a well-bandaged face was wheeled from a plastic

surgeon’s office to her waiting car by several beautiful surgical assistants.

To his left, a cute twink leaned into the open limo window with a giggle.
Tucker squeezed the handle of the briefcase holding his notes and scripts and a world

full of dreams as tightly as he could in one hand.

While his other hand—
—just wanted someone to hold.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Natalie rolled her eyes. “Oh God, is it gonna make me puke?” She sighed, seeing her

client’s pain, and mustered up enough to say, “Okay, ask.”

“Do you remember the first time you ever fell in love?”
“Oh geez!”
“Nat, answer the question. You promised.”
She grunted, slumped her shoulders again, then said, “I was sixteen. He was bad. He

was an asshole. All men are, but at sixteen you don’t know that. Hell, I’m sure that’s
something you never learn.” She smiled at the memory for a moment and added, “But
Jesus, he made me weak at the knees. I used to wait by the phone, hoping it would ring,
hoping it would be him. Just hoping for… something.”

Nat looked up to see the sad, lost, longing look on her client’s face—
—and promptly slapped him again.
“Why do people keep slapping me?” Tucker asked no one in particular.
“Snap out of it, Sweetcakes! Do I need to remind you, you don’t have a phone

anymore! Besides, you’re about to present the pitch of your career and I need you on
your game. Whoever that boy is, forget about him. You’ve got bigger fish to fry right
now. You hear me? I’m as serious as—”

“Please don’t. Those analogies always make me sick up a little in my mouth.”
Natalie stopped and smiled. She straightened his collar. She brushed down the front

of his shirt. “Crumbles, our lives are only just beginning. All you gotta do is sell your
pretty ass off.”

With a slap on what Natalie called Tucker’s tush, she guided him to the revolving

door of a large building a few feet away.

“Destiny awaits!” Natalie announced dramatically. “Come on, sweetie. This is it. This

is what you’ve waited your whole life for. Time to make your dreams come true. Are you
ready to make it happen or what?”

She was right.
Goddammit he knew she was right.
With a deep breath, Tucker nodded. “I’m ready!”

***

“So you must be the infinitely talented Tucker Wilder,” said a man in a slick Italian

suit, shaking Tuck’s hand with a firm, confident grip before leading Tuck and Nat into a
swish art deco boardroom. “Nat’s told me a lot about you. My name’s Stanley Spielman.”

“Spielman? Oh I’m sorry, I thought you were—”
The man waved his apology away before he could finish. “Don’t worry about it. I get

that all the time. The fact is, there’s room for anyone in this town so long as they have
talent. Or looks. Or money. I hear you have talent, and if you don’t mind me saying,
you’ve got the looks, too. So tell me, are you ready to go for the trifecta and make some
money?”

Tucker smiled. He was already feeling his dreams come true, ready to buy what this

man was selling. “I certainly am.”

“Take a seat next to me. Show me what you got.”
Excitedly Tucker sat at the boardroom table beside Mr. Spielman while Natalie sat on

the other side of Tucker, equally as thrilled.

With the briefcase on the table before him, Tucker started his pitch. “I think you’re

really gonna like this. It’s got everything: lovable characters, chase scenes, a mystery full
of twists…”

“Romance?” Spielman asked. “Everybody loves a happily ever after.”
Tucker paused a moment as thoughts of Fox filled his head.
Natalie jabbed him in the side to keep things moving.
“I’m still working on that,” was Tucker’s answer.
Spielman shrugged accommodatingly. “Hey, it depends on the movie you wanna

make. Sometimes a love story works. But then again, so does a head in a box.”

Tucker laughed nervously. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”
With a click of latches he opened the briefcase.
And there before them—
—sat twenty thousand dollars.
Tucker’s nervous laugh turned to a gasp. “Where’s my screenplay!”
Natalie’s eyes opened as wide as saucers. “Oh cupcake, what have you done?”
Spielman’s brow creased with anger. “What is this, some sort of bribe? Looks like I

was wrong about you, Wilder.” He stood abruptly. “It’s not money you’re short on, it’s
talent! This meeting’s over. Now get out of my office.”

“No, please. I swear, it’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it? Tell me what I’m looking at here!”
Tucker took a moment, then uttered in a terrified tone. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re

looking at a head in a box!”

Nat clutched his forearm. “Whose?”
Tucker gulped. “Mine.”
Spielman grinned and started laughing as he sat back down. “Goddamn, if that’s not

the best pitch I’ve heard all year. Now I’m interested! Tell me more, and don’t you dare
leave me hanging.”

Chapter Twenty Three

The night that Fox and Tucker had escaped the Mardi Gras Costume Warehouse, Mr.

Graves had fled with the fog. He had the briefcase that Mason Wilkes had arranged for
him, but thanks to the unexpected arrival of Baptiste Santiago’s brother and his men, he
was forced to leave the ‘merchandise’ behind.

The Sister would not be happy.
The journey to the old jetty in the murky, misty middle of the swamps took Mr.

Graves well into the dead of night. He decided to take the briefcase with him. Leaving
twenty thousand dollars sitting in his car was a risk he was not willing to take. As he
walked carefully from the dirt track where he had left his car along the splintering boards
of the jetty, he could hear the creatures of the swamp splash and swirl in the black waters
beneath him, just waiting for him to put a step wrong or lose his balance.

But this was a trip that Mr. Graves had made countless times.
He knew this jetty well.
As he knew that at the end of it there was a bell to summon the boatsman.
The bell was brass and hung from a post.
With the briefcase in one hand, Mr. Graves rang the bell with the other.
Its sound echoed through the emptiness.
It was not long before the light of a lantern appeared through the fog, gliding slowly

across the swamp. It sat at the bow of a small canoe. The shadowy figure of a man stood
at the rear with a large pole in his hands, pushing the boat through the mist like some
ghostly gondolier.

Neither the boatsman nor Mr. Graves said a word as the canoe arrived at the jetty and

Mr. Graves climbed aboard.

As the canoe moved almost silently through the water, the skeletal fingers of branches

reached down from all sides, dripping with moss and slippery with poisonous serpents.
Soon, through the silhouettes of the swamp’s trees, the candle-lit structure appeared.

The lair of Sister Sacrifice, the Voodoo Queen.
It was a series of ramshackle shacks built on rotting pylons and joined by low, rickety

bridges. Positioned along the bridges and outside the doors of the shacks were the figures
of several large, shirtless men. They were dressed from the waist down in rags and stood
completely motionless, each holding a burning candle in their hands.

The canoe docked and the boatsman helped Mr. Graves out of the boat.
The planks of the bridges creaked under foot as Mr. Graves was led toward the largest

shack. As he passed the figures lining the bridge, he saw that the boiling wax from the
candles was dripping and drying over the fingers of the motionless, wide-eyed men
holding the candles. These were human lanterns of Sister Sacrifice, unable to feel the
pain of the hot wax.

Unable to feel anything at all.
As he walked by them, each of the human lanterns gently swayed from side to side

moaning softly as they did so.

Mr. Graves had never quite figured out if the haunting gesture was a welcome… or a

warning.

At the end of the bridge, the boatsman led Mr. Graves up a short set of steps to a large

wooden door. A human skull was fixed into the wood, a large brass knocker clenched in
its teeth. The boatsman knocked once.

From inside came a woman’s voice. “Bring him in.”
The boatsman pushed the door open, and Mr. Graves was met by the glow of dozens

of candles. He stepped inside warily, as he always did.

Inside the shack, every inch of floor was covered in gator skins and every shelf was

lined with the skulls of humans and animals alike. Voodoo artifacts hung from the rafters.
Necklaces made from teeth and fangs were draped from nails and hooks in the wood.
Dolls stuffed with Spanish moss sat on the shelves between the skulls and burning
candles, waiting to be taken down and turned into an instrument of pain and torture.

And in the middle of the room, in a large armchair made from human bones, sat Sister

Sacrifice, a beautiful Haitian woman wearing a top hat and black lace wedding dress. Mr.
Graves had once asked why the bridal gown. She said she wore it because every day was
a celebration of her marriage to the dark spirits. In front of her was a low table, and on it
was a round fish bowl containing several fat puffer fish, all circling nervously.

She smiled now as she looked upon Mr. Graves, although he knew she was

displeased. The fingers of her right hand drummed against the bone arm of the chair. Mr.
Graves kept his eyes trained on one finger in particular. Her index finger, with its five-
inch nail that had been sharpened over the years into the shape of long deadly needle.

“You promised me merchandise,” Sister Sacrifice said through her full-lipped smile.

“What happened to him?”

“Him became them. There was only supposed to be one victim, but it turned out there

were two. Not only that…” Mr. Graves paused, knowing he was about drop a bombshell,
“…Santiago’s men turned up.”

Sister Sacrifice’s fingers stopped drumming the bone.
Her smile vanished.
“Why?” she demanded, sternly but quietly.
“I don’t know. But I had to get out of there. I had no choice but to leave the

merchandise behind.”

“Did you inject them?”
“Yes. As much as I could. I had to use one dosage on two men. I thought I could

quicken the effect by knocking them out.”

“With what?”
“Gas. I know the rules. No marks on the merchandise.”
Slowly Sister Sacrifice stood. “Yet you fled as soon as Santiago’s men appeared. And

left the merchandise at the scene. With the potion still in their bloodstreams. Am I not
wrong?”

Mr. Graves said nothing. He was aware of the boatsman still standing behind him,

next to the open door.

From a nearby shelf Sister Sacrifice took a mud-clay cup. “Tell me, Mr. Graves.

What’s in the briefcase?”

Graves gulped, hesitated, then answered. “My payment.”
“How much?”

“Twenty thousand dollars. For the transaction.”
“A transaction left incomplete,” Sister Sacrifice said, standing over the table and the

fish bowl now. “Not to mention that you have defaulted on the delivery of my
merchandise.”

“But Santiago’s men—”
“—will be dealt with appropriately. But what about you?”
Suddenly Sister Sacrifice stabbed her right hand into the fish bowl, sending the puffer

fish into a panic and impaling one of them on her spike-like fingernail. She lifted the
skewered fish flapping and floundering out of the water and held it up.

The fish’s blood and deadly toxins began oozing from the wound.
Sister Sacrifice held the clay cup underneath and began collecting the poison.
“Tell me something else, Mr. Graves. Have you ever drunk pure tetrodotoxin?”
Graves shook his head, eyes wide with panic.
He knew he had to go, just get the hell out of there, now.
But before he could so much as move, the boatsman seized him from behind.
Graves dropped the briefcase and struggled to free himself, but the boatsman held

him fast with a strength that was beyond human.

Sister Sacrifice flicked her right wrist and the dying fish slapped onto the floor. She

laughed as she approached Mr. Graves with her cup of poison. “First you lose your vision
and the ability of speech as your vocal chords become paralyzed. Your limbs seize up and
your motor skills slow down. That’s zombification in its most basic form. But as you
know, the potion needs a little more love and care than that to turn it into a profitable
business. Don’t you agree?”

Mr. Graves tried to nod, but the boatsman already had his head in his firm grip and

was tilting Mr. Graves’ face upward, ready to receive the cup in Sister Sacrifice’s hand.
She laughed even louder as she approached, seeing the anguish in his normally dull eyes.

“Please don’t. You need me. I can help you.”
“How?” She put the cup of poison to his chin and began tipping it toward his lower

lip.

“I can help you stop Santiago,” he mumbled, trying not to move his mouth too much.

“You haven’t exactly proven that tonight.”

“I’ll finish the job. I’ll get you the merchandise I promised you. Not just one. Both of

them.”

The cup was about to dribble poison onto his lips.
Graves shouted desperately. “They were handsome. Both of them. Good quality

cargo. The best merchandise I’ve ever seen. They can make you money, I promise.”

This seemed to please Sister Sacrifice.
Just as the first drop of toxin dripped onto Mr. Graves’ lower lip, she pulled the cup

away.

The boatsman released him and Mr. Graves spat the drop of poison onto the floor.
“Very well,” Sister Sacrifice smiled. “I’ll take your word. And I’ll take your money,”

she added, picking up the briefcase from the floor. “And if you fail me, I’ll take your life.
In the meantime, Santiago’s men need to be taught a lesson.”

She turned to the boatsman and with a quick swish-swish of her pointed nail back and

forth in front of her throat, she gave the order. The boatsman promptly left to do his
queen’s bidding.

While Mr. Graves continued to cough and splutter up any trace of poison, Sister

Sacrifice sat down in her throne of bones and laid the briefcase on the table.

She clicked open the latches and lifted the lid.
And once more she began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Mr. Graves spat, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
“I have good news and bad news for you Mr. Graves. The bad news is, you still owe

me twenty thousand dollars.”

“What do you mean?”
“There’s no money in this briefcase.”
“What! Who the hell’s got my money?”
“That’s the good news.”
Sister Sacrifice turned the briefcase so Graves could see the contents. She removed

the passport sitting on top of the pile and inspected the framed photograph. “Mmmm,
pretty,” she cooed, looking at Tucker’s passport picture. She showed it to Mr. Graves. “I
dare say this perfect specimen is one of the men you left behind tonight, am I correct?”

Graves nodded, angry yet still unsure of his fate. He took a small step backward

toward the door knowing the boatsman was no longer there to impede his escape.

“And the other? You said there were two.”
“The other man was the intended target. Jon Fox.”
“Lovers perhaps,” Sister Sacrifice’s eyes lit up at the thought before she continued to

examine Tucker’s headshot inside the passport, the tip of her long pointed nail tracing the
outline of his lips. “I’m sure he and Tucker Wilder will be quite popular with our
clientele.”

Graves took another step backward, making no noise, when suddenly Sister Sacrifice

glanced up.

Graves gulped loudly and froze, too terrified to make a move while under her direct

examination, but she had already noticed the distance between them.

“I suddenly feel compelled to ensure you understand one thing, Mr. Graves.”

Plucking the Voodoo doll off the table next to her chair, she then removed a large pin
from the shelf on her right.

Graves shook his head as if pleading for mercy, recognizing the black cloak around

the doll to be representative his own coat.

He understood it was a doll she’d made for him.
“There is nowhere you can run…” She drove the pin through the leg of the doll and

Graves fell to the floor shrieking in pain as he clutched his thigh. “There is no place
where I can’t get to you.”

Sister Sacrifice threw her head back and laughed as she withdrew the pin.
Graves slumped into a sweaty heap onto the floor, his voice raspy and barely more

than a whisper as he said, “I understand.”

She laughed a bit more before her face went dark and became even more menacing

than it had before. “Now go find me Tucker Wilder.”

Graves crawled toward the exit, still unable to use his leg, which felt as if it were on

fire. He glanced back over his shoulder and asked, “What shall I do about Jon Fox?”

The good Sister leaned back in her seat and absently petted the Graves doll while

glancing at Tucker’s photograph. "You bring me Tucker Wilder and we won't need to
chase the Fox in a hole...he'll come running to save the one he loves…”

She stabbed the doll again, the needle piercing the leg and forcing Graves to writhe

and scream in agony.

“...and we'll be waiting."

The End…of the Beginning…

Coming Soon

A Fox in the Hole

Book Two in the Knight and Day Fox Mystery Series

Document Outline

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three

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