Page 1 of Lord Have Mercy Part Four: Big Son

One

Alex met Agent Isabella Duet beneath the fluttering, green and white striped patio awning of Café du Monde. He hadn’t slept – none of their party had – and he was too gritty-eyed and loopy to experience more than a passing twinge of annoyance that she wasn’t alone.

Alex swayed to a stop next to the rail-side table and squinted – ouch – down at her. “Why’s he here?”

At her side, Carl Patterson crammed the last bite of a beignet into his mouth and glanced up at Alex skeptically, lips white with powdered sugar.

“He’s my partner.” Duet’s voice was clipped, as it had been over the phone an hour ago, when he called her from the hotel. Her blue eyes were cold and hard as marbles in the morning sunlight, fixed on him with the intensity of an agent, rather than a friend.

Alex should have been immune to that look, after spending the last twelve hours with Ava, but, somehow, he wasn’t. “Yeah, but this is…” He gestured vaguely.

“What?” she asked, all faux innocence. “Special circumstances? Illegal? If you want to talk to me, you can talk to Carl, too.”

Alex huffed, but was too tired and desperate to put up a fight. He dropped down into the chair across from her and took out his phone. When he’d pulled up the photo of Remy Ava had texted him, he placed it down on their side of the table, between their plates.

They traded sideways looks, and then leaned in together to peer down at the screen. After a beat, Duet frowned and reached to pull the phone closer. “This is your nephew?”

Alex had told Ava to be sure to text him a recent photo, to which she’d rolled her eyes and said, “No duh.” He wasn’t sure if she’d simply selected the most recent, or if she’d selected this one in particular for maximum, heartbreaking effect. In it, all three Lecuyer kids were lined up on a picnic bench – he’d spent enough time, by this point, at the clubhouse to know that was where it had been taken, though only a corner of gray siding gave away the location – with Remy in the middle between his brother and sister. A box of doughnuts sat open in front of them, and Cal had chocolate frosting on his nose. Ava must have told them to “squeeze in” before she snapped the pic, because the younger two were pressed in tight to Remy’s sides, so that he’d had to lift his arms to accommodate them. The little ones were beaming, Cal in a manic way, Millie with girly bashfulness. Remy’s smile was subdued by comparison, a little crooked, a lot shy, and the expression reminded Alex startlingly, painfully, of one of his own old school portraits, before he’d had braces and hadn’t wanted to flash his snaggled teeth. Alex’s chest had squeezed tight a few minutes ago, when he opened it, and he watched something similar, if more removed, happen on Duet’s face.

She lifted her head, brows notched together, lips downturned, and Alex nodded. “Yeah. That’s Remy. He’s eight. Tall for his age, about here.” He held his hand out beside the table in rough approximation. “His hair was a little on the long side the last I saw him a few days ago.” He nodded to the phone, where the kid was sporting a rather fantastic mullet, hair as black and slick and thick as his dad’s, as Colin’s, as Alex’s. “But, obviously, if Boyle’s trying to hide him, he’ll have cut it. Brown eyes. In Knoxville, he was pulling charms off a keychain and dropping them like breadcrumbs.”

Carl’s brows lifted. “Smart kid.”

“Yeah, he’s sharp. As far as eight-year-old kids go, I’d say he’s not super sheltered, and he’ll know to play it cool in this situation…but he’s also an eight-year-old kid, and Boyle’s a psychopath, so we need to find him as soon as possible.”

Duet chewed at her lip and looked back down at the phone a long moment. “Can you send this to me?”

“Yeah, of course.” Alex took his phone back and did so. There was a ding from somewhere near Duet’s jacket pocket.

A waitress happened past, an older woman of the sort who always paid Alex a little extra attention. Harmless flirting; usually flattering, annoying in his current state. “Hey, hon, getcha anything?” She cocked a hip and smiled.

“Uh, yeah. Café au Lait. And beignets, please.” He wanted about a gallon of strong dark roast, hold the damn chicory, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He managed to scrounge up a smile that felt rusty – he swore his cheeks creaked like unoiled hinges – and only then did she move on.

As he watched to make sure she was out of earshot, he caught a glimpse of the couple sitting three tables over. Ava was leaned back in her chair, legs crossed, arms folded, mouth a tight, flat line as she scanned the patio and the street beyond it. Across the table from her, Tenny was leaned forward, resting on his elbows, demolishing a plate of beignets like he was in an eating contest, and somehow not managing to spill powdered sugar all over his black hoodie.

Both of them had insisted on tailing him, to ensure Duet wasn’t followed, to search for any suspicious parties around them, and, probably, because neither of them were going to ever trust Alex.

He shook his head and turned back to his own table. A large hunk of grit broke loose from the corner of his eye and slid across it like the sharp scrape of a nail. He reached to rub at it, exhaustion bearing down on him like a freight train. Theall-day travel, the lack of sleep, the constantly looking over all their shoulders, would have left him beat regardless, but the adrenaline crash of the shootout in the theater parking lot had left him feeling like he had the worst hangover known to man.

“Look,” he said, voice going rough, and impatient. “I know this isn’t your case, and you don’t owe me shit, but I’m just…” He let his hand thump down on the table, eye watering where the piece of grit was still lodged up under his upper lid. “This is a kid. Boyle’s – he’s fuckinginsane, and I don’t even know where to start–” He cut himself off when he realized his breathing had gone unsteady, and swallowed down the rest of what was fast becoming a desperate, embarrassing plea for help.

Across the table, both agents had gone still. Duet sat up straighter in her chair. She looked startled. “Alex–”

“We’re going to conduct our own search, and follow our own leads.”

“We?” she asked.

“Who’swe?” Carl wanted to know.

Alex continued, “I don’t have my badge on me.” Ava still had it, somewhere. “I’m not here for your case. I don’t give two shits about those bodies in the swamp, and I won’t interfere with whatever you guys are still doing here. I only care about the kid. If you know anything that might help me find him, I’d really appreciate it.” He tried to make his face do beseeching, but didn’t think he succeeded.

They traded another glance, during which the waitress returned with Alex’s coffee and food. He nodded his thanks, too distracted to bother with anything flirtier, and heard the woman sniff to herself as she walked off. He picked up the coffee, drained half of it in two big gulps that singed his tongue, and wrinkled his nose at the taste of chicory.

Finally, Duet faced him again. “Alex, I’m sorry about your nephew. I really am.” She seemed sincere, but Alex sensed abutlooming on the horizon. “But.” There it was. Fuck. “Kidnappings have to be reported to, and investigated by the proper channels.”

“Right.”

“You know that,” she chided. “Civilians don’t ever find missing children. If you have a credible belief that Boyle’s in New Orleans, you need to report Remy missing to the local police and–”

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