Hall, Jessica Read Free

up at the ceiling.
    Sable wiped the blood from her hand on her blouse before she
pressed her fingertips to the side of his neck. His skin was clammy and cool,
and she could feel no pulse.
    He was dead—had been dead for some time.
    "Please, God, no." She scrambled to her feet, but her
knees were shaking so much she nearly went down again. Bile rose in
her throat and she choked it back down, looking wildly around them.
    Did he fall? What did this to him? Who —She
glanced up at the lights and slowly backed away toward the stairs. The smell of
fish and gasoline grew stronger.
    Whoever did this turned on the lights. He called me up here.
    Something swung out of the dark at her, glancing off her head,
knocking her back down to the floor. She slipped in the blood, trying to push
herself up. The stench of fish and gasoline and death smothered her. "Stop
it—don't—"
    A second blow sent her
hurtling into the dark.
     
    This had gone straight to hell in a hurry.
    Billy Tibbideau reached down and adjusted his crotch. His balls
felt like they were curdling, and sweat made a wide streak down the back of his
green Gantry Charters T-shirt. He'd never hit a woman before, and the bad feelings
were knotting up his chest.
    You don't put your hands on a woman in anger, Billy, Caine
had told him, over and over. You're a man. You're strong. They're weak.
    "I had to do it." Billy Tibbideau paced a circle around
the unconscious woman and the dead man. "She ain't got no business comin'
here, snoopin' around."
    Damn women are God's curse on men. That
was what his daddy always said. When he was a boy, his father had about killed
himself trying to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table, but had
his mother ever appreciated it? Had she ever let the man have a moment of
peace? No, sir, she'd harp on him from the minute he stepped foot in the house,
whining about his drinking or money or Billy, until his daddy had to give her
the back of his hand, just to shut her up.
    William Tibbideau Sr. said that was all women were good for
anyway—walloping or screwing—and you had to give them plenty of both to keep
them in line. Caine might not wallop them, but he screwed plenty.
    The tightness in Billy's chest made him want to kick the woman,
but he crouched down to look at her face, and saw it clearly for the first
time. "Aw, shit."
    It was her—Isabel, Remy Duchesne's girl, the one who'd stirred up
half the bayou with her do-gooder nonsense. Remy should have beaten some sense
into her years ago, but the old man never had been able to control his women.
    You don't hit women, Caine's voice echoed inside
Billy's skull.
    Had she seen his face? Had she recognized him?
    Billy tossed aside the culling pole he'd used to knock her out and
went to the window to look down into the back alley. No one in sight, but he'd
have to get a move on if he was going to finish the job. Not that he had to—he
could wash his hands of this and walk away. But that wouldn't get him the rest
of his money.
    He'd earned that money and then some.
    The pint of Jack he kept in his back pocket was half empty; he
drained the rest before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The bad feelings
receded an inch or two. First place he was stopping on the way home was a
liquor store, get him a couple of fifths. His wife wouldn't like that, but
unlike his mother, Cecilia knew better than to open her mouth to him when he
was in a mood.
    "Nothin' to it. Torch the place, Billy, that's all." He
grabbed the box of bottles he'd brought and carried it to the stairs.
"That's all, my ass."
    The bodies changed things—they'd have to burn along with the
building. He wasn't taking a murder rap just because Remy's girl didn't have
the sense to keep her nose out of other people's business. He used his lighter
to ignite the strip of rag stuffed in the top of three bottles and then threw
them into the corners of the loft. The rags ignited the gasoline inside the
bottles as soon as they shattered.
    Gotta