Quinn took a deep breath. “Well, it sounds like the entire weapon has leaked and is in the wind. I doubt Scuric’s rudimentary knowledge posed much of a threat.”
“Not any longer,” she said, her lip giving the slightest of quivers.
“We could easily find ourselves up against this weapon of yours,” Quinn said. “I would have liked to hear a little more about it.”
“I can tell you what you need to know,” she said. “An overabundance of knowledge could get you killed.”
“I can see that,” Quinn said. “But what about the Fengs? Hard to question a man with two .45 slugs in his chest.”
“It does not matter.” Song stooped to pick up her pistol, apparently satisfied Quinn wasn’t going to shoot her — though he hadn’t quite made up his mind. She waved a hand toward the trees where the motorcycle was hidden. “If they are going to see Big Uncle, I know where to find them.”
Chapter 33
Camille Thibodaux was in the kitchen, surrounded by two bushels of green beans, when the doorbell rang. She ignored it, focusing instead on the sound of the pressure cooker with her first canning batch, hissing and rattling on the stove. Glass quart jars packed with fresh beans lined the counter space on both sides of the stainless-steel sink. A cloud of steam rolled out of the dishwasher when she opened the door to take out a load of newly washed jars. She pushed a lock of dark hair out of her eyes with her arm, and removed the rack of jars, flipping the dishwasher door shut with her foot.
She didn’t wear a watch, so she glanced at her cell phone that lay on the counter beside a thick wooden cutting board to check the time when the bell rang again, wondering who could be dropping by at this time of day. Government agents and the homeowners’ association Nazis tended to knock, apparently feeling the sound of their fists on the door was more intimidating than a wimpy chime. Church folk or salesmen rang the doorbell. It was that time of year again when the bug boys and security system installers descended on the DC area like locusts. They were mostly harmless, clean-cut young men from the Rocky Mountains, but it wouldn’t hurt them to wait a little minute.
The bell rang a third time, bringing shouts of “Door, Mama!” from the younger boys, who knew not to open it themselves under penalty of a swat on the butt with a Hot Wheels track.
Beads of sweat trickled down Camille’s back as she hoisted the jars onto the counter, wetting her green Marine Corps T-shirt. She’d still not lost all her weight from the last baby so T-shirts and loose sweats made up most of her wardrobe. Canning pole beans was far too hot an undertaking for sweats, so she’d slipped into a pair of basketball shorts and some well-worn Saucony runners. The older boys were out playing and the younger three were watching cartoons in the basement — giving Camille some much needed time to work.
With the special pay addendum gone that Jacques had been getting before the administration change, she had to pull out all the stops to feed seven hungry boys on a Corps salary. One of the guys at the Spotsylvania Farmers’ Market was a former Marine and knew the drill of making ends meet. He’d given her a killer deal on pole beans. Camille spent a good deal of each summer canning produce to feed her boys — and Jacques whenever he decided to come home. Always a worker, she enjoyed the industry of home production. It gave her something to take her mind off the worry over her husband, who was, it seemed, always trying to find the most dangerous people in the most awful places on earth to spend his time with.
The doorbell rang again, followed by a soft, civilized knock. She felt a pang of guilt for not answering sooner. Looking at the buckets and jars of beans, she did some math in her head as she dried her hands on a dishtowel and made her way down the hall toward the door. According to Jacques’s grandmother’s canning recipe book, she had enough beans to make twenty-eight quarts — four canner batches — with maybe a few left over to make a couple of jars of her pickled beans. Jacques loved pickled green beans.
She was thinking of how much Jacques loved pickled beans when she opened the door.
Camille tensed when she recognized the IDTF agent with greasy black curls from the day before. She slammed the door in his face, half expecting that he’d kick it in. Instead, he gave another soft knock.
“Mrs. Thibodaux,” he said. “Please listen to me. I’m a friend of your husband.”
She stood behind the closed door, considering making a run for the pistol. “I’m listening,” she said.
“I’ve come alone,” the man said, “without my partner. I’m here unofficially, as a friend.”
She looked through the peephole. “What about my husband, Mr…?”
“Benavides,” the man said, smiling. “Joey Benavides. I did some work with the Gunny.”
Jacques had never mentioned a Joey Benavides, but that was not unusual. He’d worked with Jericho Quinn for several months before she’d even heard him say the man’s name out loud. Now you’d think the two had grown up together.
Sighing, she pulled open the door. If he was not what he said he was, he’d just kick it in anyway.
“What is it you want, Mr. Benavides?”
“I need to get word to your husband,” the tubby agent said, glancing over his shoulder, up and down the street. “Look, I’m taking a big risk. If my boss finds out I came here like this, it could cost me my job… or worse. Could I please come inside for a couple of minutes?”
Something about this guy still raised her hackles, but he had asked permission. Even when he’d come the day before with his partner, he seemed more bark than bite. Against her better judgment she stepped back. “Come in then,” she said.
The timer on the stove began to beep as soon as she’d shut the door. “I need to get the pressure cooker,” she said, nodding up the hallway. “We can talk in the kitchen.”
“Sure,” Benavides said, smiling. He seemed extremely interested in their family photos, pausing here and there, as an old friend might to catch up after a long absence.
Camille turned down the heat under the pressure cooker and picked up the stubby paring knife to cut the ends off the green beans before stuffing them in the hot jars from the dishwasher. Doing something with her hands helped her focus. “I’m all ears.”
“I don’t know how much your husband has told you about our present situation,” Benavides said, sidling up next to her at the counter.
Camille noticed right off that Joey Benavides was what Jacques called a “close talker.” The man’s idea of personal space was measured in single digits.
“You want some water or sweet tea?” Camille asked, taking a half step away.
“Sure,” he said, stammering as he tried to get back on his train of thought. “Tea… that would be great. Anyway, I’m not sure who to trust anymore. That’s why—”
Camille held up her paring knife, using her elbow to gain back a little more of her space as she pointed toward the fridge. “The pitcher’s in there. Help yourself.”
“Okay,” he said. “Thanks… I mean, sure, that’d be good. You want some?”
“Sweet tea,” she said, “In the blue pitcher.” She told him where the glasses were and continued to cut beans from a seemingly endless pile.
“Your husband and I thought we could get things back on track.” Benavides filled two glasses with tea as he spoke, then returned the pitcher to the fridge. “With Ronnie Garcia in custody, I need to get word to him ASAP.”
Camille nearly dropped the knife at the mention of Ronnie’s name, but kept cutting beans as if it meant nothing to her. She glanced up in time to see Benavides reach into the pocket of his slacks and bring out a small pill, which he dropped into one of the tea glasses.