Thibodaux took her gently by both shoulders, cocking his head to one side to try to make sense of what she meant rather than what she said.
“Of course, I give a damn,” he said. “I give lots of damns. In fact, I give more damns than anyone I ever even heard of. You know that.” He tilted her chin up with a crooked finger.
She put her arms around his neck and pulled him close. “I’m just tired,” she whispered. “You being followed everywhere, creepy men watching us like this — it’s a lot for a girl to take in. You know?”
Arms around her waist, he lifted her off her feet. “I hate it too,” he whispered, pulling her body against his and giving her back a little crack the way she liked.
He put her down and gave her a peck on the forehead.
Camille sighed, semi-appeased. “I’m sorry for the hissy fit.”
Thibodaux glanced at his watch. “I got an hour till I have to start making the rounds to go pick up the little bougs. We hardly ever get any time alone. What say you and me play a little game of Naked Twister?”
Camille took an elastic band off her wrist and looped it around her hair, pulling it up into a thick ponytail. “I guess I could pencil you in,” she said. “If you help me put away these groceries.”
“Sold.” Thibodaux grinned, opening the refrigerator door to put in all his plastic shopping bags at once.
“I see where our boys get their behavior,” Camille chided.
“I know,” Thibodaux said. “I was just foolin’ with you.”
“Not until you unpack these groceries, you’re not.” Camille turned away, carrying a carton of Minute Rice to the pantry. He gave her a little swat on the butt as she walked away, keeping up the illusion that he was the one in charge.
Five minutes later, Thibodaux followed his wife into the bedroom, hopping on one foot and then the other as he peeled off his socks.
Camille sat on the edge of the bed, swinging her legs and watching him undress. He rarely told her what he did when he was out of town, but she made it a habit of checking him over for new wounds and scars when he came home.
“When is the last time you heard anything from Jericho?” She asked.
Thibodaux shot a glance toward the window. He put a finger to his lips, and then leaned in closer, whispering. “There’s a good chance the guys in that van have listening devices. They might able to pick up some of the things we say, even inside the house.”
She raised an eyebrow, giving him a slow nod as she considered that information. “That being the case…” She looked down at the bed. “We should probably be careful then.”
“Hang on, now.” Thibodaux held up both hands, trying to salvage a few minutes with his wife before he had to pick up the boys. “I ain’t saying they can really hear us. I’m just thinking we should be careful when we mention you know who.”
“I see,” she said, not moving.
“Does this mean…?”
“Of course not.” She peeled off her shirt and fell back on the bed, giving the mattress a playful bounce. “Remember that crap hole apartment we rented when we were stationed at Camp Pendleton?”
He nodded, dumbly. After seven boys, the sight of her body still took his breath away.
“Well, do you recall how the neighbor’s TV was always so loud and how we could hear them talking about what to have for dinner?”
Thibodaux shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“If I worried about people listening in on us, I’d never have gotten pregnant with our first two boys. I think the neighbors left their TV turned up all the time so they didn’t have to listen to you jumpin’ my bones every minute of the day.” She patted the bed, talking out loud now. “Get your ass up here, Gunny Thib—”
The smaller of the two cell phones next to their bed began to chime. Jacques gave an exasperated sigh, but picked it up immediately. He rolled his hand in the air, motioning for Camille to make more noise to help camouflage his conversation.
Dressed in nothing but her grin, Camille began to jump up and down on the bed, squeaking the box springs and driving Thibodaux crazy in the process.
“Speak to me, beb,” the Gunny said, eyes locked on his bouncing wife.
“It’s happening,” Jericho Quinn said. “They’ve found me.”
“You okay, l’ami?” Thibodaux had to turn away so he could concentrate. The two men had known each other just over two years, but they’d bled and spilled blood together and were closer than brothers — even if Quinn happened to be a member of what he’d always considered the “pansy ass” Air Force.
The Cajun listened while Quinn ran down not only an attack on him, but on his wife and daughter.
“What can I do?”
“You know that thing we discussed?”
Thibodaux found himself shaking his head. “I remember,” he said. “But you might want to rethink that, Chair Force.”
“It’s already in motion.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“Dead serious,” Quinn said. “My dad and brother are with them now. Would you mind heading over and giving them a hand? You know, looking outbound. They need all the security they can get.”
“No problem,” Thibodaux said. “I just… I mean… Are you sure about this plan of yours?”
“I’m sure,” Quinn said. “Listen, I have to go. Sonja will have the particulars.”
“Okay,” Thibodaux said, “I’ll talk to Sonja then.” He made a face when he said Ronnie Garcia’s code name. He hated all the code names and beating around the bush. If something threatened him, he much preferred to walk up and shoot it in the face.
He ended the call and turned to catch his wife around the waist in mid bounce.
“What was that about?” She leaned forward off the edge of the bed to nuzzle his neck.
“It was Quinn,” he whispered. “Sorry, Cornmeal, but I gotta run.”
“Okay.” She stuck out her bottom lip. That was the great thing about Camille. She might pout a time or two every year, but then she sucked it up and did the Marine wife thing, supporting her man when he went off to fight.
Thibodaux pulled on his socks and stepped into a pair of jeans, wondering how much of this he should tell his bride. He decided on anything that might make the evening news.
“Some guys tried to snatch Mattie,” he said. “It was very likely an effort to lure our buddy out of the woods.”
“That’s awful.” Camille knelt on the bed, hugging a pillow to her bare chest. “Is she okay?”
“She’s scared,” Thibodaux said, “but safe. Bo’s there… and Quinn’s dad.”
Camille gave a low whistle. “I was just thinking…” Her voice trailed off.
“What’s that, cher?” Thibodaux stretched a gray T-shirt over broad shoulders and monstrous arms.
“I was just thinking that if they really knew Jericho, they’d know it’d be better to let him stay on the run.”
“You got that right,” Thibodaux said. He left out the part about Quinn sending his daughter and ex-wife to Russia in order to keep them safe.
Chapter 18
Ronnie Garcia set her leather backpack on the kitchen counter and activated the alarm on the panel inside the front door. She usually didn’t do it until later, when she was about to go to bed, but things were getting weird. Standing at the kitchen counter again, she stared at the lone goldfish swimming in the bowl near the cordless telephone. A crusted soup pan sat nearby where Ronnie had spent last night’s dinner watching, and sadly, chatting up the little bug-eyed fish while she ate on her feet.